Day four in a row working at home alone. The days can tend to run together. Morning finds me waking up as usual at exactly 8:03. J has been up for an hour. We have coffee together and I get chatty. We feed the dog, the cat. Then there's a little breakfast and watching last night's Colbert Report on the computer while J gets ready for work. My getting ready for work consists of putting a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and checking my email. I also make the bed. I can't write in a house with an unmade bed. As we say our goodbyes, I mention something about cabin fever, but I'm not sure that's exactly what I have.
I have always enjoyed long stretches of hours alone. It's necessary for a writer and natural to me anyway. Sometimes I can't believe that I actually have this life. It feels like a daydream I had when I was twelve. I sit on the porch in the cool morning light and watch the progress of my mind. I sure can sit and stare. The creative, the mundane, the revelatory, the anxious, the worried, the doubtful, the meditative, the curious and sleepy progress of a mind with time and space to wander.
This morning it goes like this:
Do I have cabin fever? No, that implies a desperate feeling. I am not desperate, only slightly worried. There was an email yesterday from the landlady. She wants to sell this house in the spring, much sooner than we expected. Could we buy it? I'm used to thinking there's no way, but maybe there is. I guess we can try. And if it doesn't work out, we'll move again. What a nightmare. When will we get to feel settled?
Alan Alda was on the Colbert Report. He has always reminded me of my mother. Not just because she loved Hawkeye from MASH when I was growing up. He actually reminds me of her, personally. In Jungian psychology, we all have a contra-sexual figure who makes up a significant part of our psyche. The anima for men, animus for women. Mine takes the form of Bruce Springsteen sometimes, sometimes Sherlock Holmes. My mother's animus must be like Alan Alda. This thought is comforting. On television he played a doctor. My mother is a healer, untrained but in possession of natural healing gifts. Also, she is funny.
Are we really going to have to think about moving in ten months? Why have I never established good credit? When will I start acting like an adult? Why did I take out so many student loans? Did I have a choice? What is choice, really? Isn't every decision just a combination of necessity and self- or societally-imposed limitations on the possible?
How do things work? I mean, like real estate things and mortgages and filing taxes as an independent contractor? These are all things I have to find some way of understanding soon, this year. But just looking at the words overwhelms me with a yawn. A deep internal sleepiness. Is this normal? When threatened by a predator with spoilage of home and safety, does a nesting cardinal simply yawn, overcome with boredom? Wait, I know the answer to this. I've seen it! She doesn't yawn, she chirps loudly and puffs up to make herself look bigger. What is the metaphorical equivalent of that for me?
Does my brain function properly? Why do so many things make me feel sleepy? Is it because I'm biologically intended to spend a greater portion of my time lounging, like a chimpanzee? What kind of evolutionary madness is responsible for real estate and mortgages and student loans and taxes?
They can make holograms now, just like on Start Trek. I saw the Tupac hologram on YouTube. A dead man made of light performing on stage with a living man, looking almost equally substantial. The line between the real and the simulated blurs and blurs and blurs, but still the simulated gives itself away in unnatural flickers. My business is metaphor but all I really want to do is dig in the dirt with bare hands.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
ghosting
My dad was a writer too, a journalist. He told me recently that the reason he was a sports-writer for so many years was that being a real reporter in a small town ensures that you have no friends. Eventually, he said, nobody likes you. Sports are neutral, in their way. It's just a matter of what did or didn't happen at the basketball game and nobody to blame for it.
I always thought it was odd that my dad wrote sports, considering how little interest he had in them. He didn't really care to watch the football game on Sunday afternoon, nor did he relate to the kind of guy who did. He'd rather watch an episode of Star Trek or the Twilight Zone--by far. And then meditate out loud for an hour or so to his small children about what the meaning of it had been.
I guess I learned logic from him, and a love of story, and a curiosity about culture and various ways of life. I never picked up his Spock-like ability to deliver complicated sentences perfectly articulated, with no hesitations, in an emotionally neutral tone of voice. Or his steel-trap memory, a vast catalogue of names, dates, numbers, faces and facts on topics as wide-ranging as Chuck Berry's discography to Napoleon's defeat in Russia, arranged with encyclopedic sobriety and available to him at will. The only thing he can't seem to remember are the names of the people his children are dating, generally, and I suspect that's a matter of choice.
Putting your name on something you have written is hard. My dad and I agree on that. Neither of us cares much about praise, and we're too tender for blame. I used to act on stage, and thought I loved getting attention. I don't like attention anymore, positive or negative. I just like to get a job done and relax at the end of the day.
So I write out the ideas other people have in their heads, and I try to get it right. I pretend to be them, like I used to pretend to be other people on stage. I'm having a hard time today, because the book I'm supposed to be working on doesn't interest me that much.
I suppose my dad felt that way once or twice.
I always thought it was odd that my dad wrote sports, considering how little interest he had in them. He didn't really care to watch the football game on Sunday afternoon, nor did he relate to the kind of guy who did. He'd rather watch an episode of Star Trek or the Twilight Zone--by far. And then meditate out loud for an hour or so to his small children about what the meaning of it had been.
I guess I learned logic from him, and a love of story, and a curiosity about culture and various ways of life. I never picked up his Spock-like ability to deliver complicated sentences perfectly articulated, with no hesitations, in an emotionally neutral tone of voice. Or his steel-trap memory, a vast catalogue of names, dates, numbers, faces and facts on topics as wide-ranging as Chuck Berry's discography to Napoleon's defeat in Russia, arranged with encyclopedic sobriety and available to him at will. The only thing he can't seem to remember are the names of the people his children are dating, generally, and I suspect that's a matter of choice.
Putting your name on something you have written is hard. My dad and I agree on that. Neither of us cares much about praise, and we're too tender for blame. I used to act on stage, and thought I loved getting attention. I don't like attention anymore, positive or negative. I just like to get a job done and relax at the end of the day.
So I write out the ideas other people have in their heads, and I try to get it right. I pretend to be them, like I used to pretend to be other people on stage. I'm having a hard time today, because the book I'm supposed to be working on doesn't interest me that much.
I suppose my dad felt that way once or twice.
Monday, May 21, 2012
country moments
1. Carnage.
A few nights ago, kicking back by a blazing fire with a couple of cold ones, J and I heard what he now refers to as "the massacre." A deep, sinister, rumbling snarl followed by the agonized screeching of some helpless prey.
At first, I thought it was my cat and a chipmunk. Then I realized that the predator's growl bespoke a much larger animal than my fifteen pound tomcat. Upon which realization I suddenly feared that my tomcat was in fact the squeaking victim. I ran inside to look for our pets, finding both of them on high alert near the front door. Clearly, they heard it too, but--clever with self-preservation--made no attempt to go outside. They both knew that whatever this thing was, it was bigger than them. And it must have been much more vicious, because normally our sixty-pound dog doesn't hesitate to tear out after any moving thing, including deer, SUVs and tractor-trailers. Size normally doesn't figure into his calculations.
Without a flashlight handy, we didn't see much. So we went back to our fire and conversation. Twenty minutes later, we heard it again. Closer, this time, just around the corner of the house. Something big, snarling and tearing at something crying, high-pitched and desperate. I thought of werewolves. The crying stopped, followed by a dragging, scuttling. Sickening.
We never actually saw anything. Too dark, too lazy to fetch a light, too fearful of what we might see, in truth. For days now, death has felt a little closer. Not in a threatening way. Just in a way that is. That is, that death is happening. Not just death, but carnage. Hunter destroying prey. A violent, a tragic, a necessary thing. Around us, in the yard. In the woods. Next to the lilies on the western side of the house.
Incidentally, the Roman Polanski film, "Carnage," was a great rainy Sunday afternoon experience a couple of weeks back. Watching it, we were reminded of a more metaphorical kind of massacre--that of the human need for companionship in a society which has managed to "civilize" itself away from any hope of closeness.
I'll take this country carnage over that any day.
2. Cradled.
J has two hammocks strung up in the woods now. He cleared out a gorgeous swatch from the tangled mass of thorny vines, poison sumac and dead tree limbs in the acreage behind the house. Three tall, slender trees in a triangle begged for a pair of twin hammocks. The sun filters down through the leaf canopy during the day and the stars arch brightly overhead at night. We spent as many hours as we could this weekend, cradled there.
Outside the front window of my writing room, a cardinal mother-to-be has set up a cozy little nest in the bush. She's cradling a number of eggs, and our eyes meet if I lay on the sofa and glance over. I wonder how much of her nest is made up of our dog's fur, which lies in tufts all over the yard, and is often seen hanging from the birds' beaks. A good incubating insulation, I am sure.
3. Country.
Went to the flea market this weekend and came across a treasure trove of old records. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Patsy Cline. Finally, some music to fit the mood I've been in.
4. Cookout.
Last night we had my sister and my brother over for a midwest-meets-southern-style feast. Midwest for sure was the barbecued chicken, but southern the collards with bacon, the vinegary slaw and the skillet cornbread.
My brother seemed calm here, more attuned to those around him than usual. He found his way up to the hammocks on his own and relaxed awhile. This place is good for people.
5. Crawling.
J went into the kitchen for his stash of candy after dinner last night, and there were a thousand tiny ants swarming the Brach's bag. We spent an hour armed with diatomacious earth and cleaning spray trying to put a stop to their mindless stampede. Perhaps mindless is not the word. Single-minded is better, I think. Don't they all just have one giant brain basically? It's something different from telepathy, even more profound. I don't like it. It seems robotic and unnatural to me. Individualism is embedded in my DNA, I suppose. I know I shouldn't judge them, and maybe it's time to drag out the Thoreau and revisit his observations of red ants...
But, really, they somehow got inside an unopened, perfectly sealed bag of marshmallows. That's just gross.
6. Contrary.
Today I'm supposed to be ghostwriting. Something got into me this morning, and I decided to do my own writing instead. A strain of contrariness, of resentment.
But the bills must be paid, so I'd better get back to it. Most contrary of all--I have to now imagine myself as a twenty-something person working in the corporate world, looking for the next rung on the ladder. For this ghostwriting job.
Nothing could feel further from the truth.
A few nights ago, kicking back by a blazing fire with a couple of cold ones, J and I heard what he now refers to as "the massacre." A deep, sinister, rumbling snarl followed by the agonized screeching of some helpless prey.
At first, I thought it was my cat and a chipmunk. Then I realized that the predator's growl bespoke a much larger animal than my fifteen pound tomcat. Upon which realization I suddenly feared that my tomcat was in fact the squeaking victim. I ran inside to look for our pets, finding both of them on high alert near the front door. Clearly, they heard it too, but--clever with self-preservation--made no attempt to go outside. They both knew that whatever this thing was, it was bigger than them. And it must have been much more vicious, because normally our sixty-pound dog doesn't hesitate to tear out after any moving thing, including deer, SUVs and tractor-trailers. Size normally doesn't figure into his calculations.
Without a flashlight handy, we didn't see much. So we went back to our fire and conversation. Twenty minutes later, we heard it again. Closer, this time, just around the corner of the house. Something big, snarling and tearing at something crying, high-pitched and desperate. I thought of werewolves. The crying stopped, followed by a dragging, scuttling. Sickening.
We never actually saw anything. Too dark, too lazy to fetch a light, too fearful of what we might see, in truth. For days now, death has felt a little closer. Not in a threatening way. Just in a way that is. That is, that death is happening. Not just death, but carnage. Hunter destroying prey. A violent, a tragic, a necessary thing. Around us, in the yard. In the woods. Next to the lilies on the western side of the house.
Incidentally, the Roman Polanski film, "Carnage," was a great rainy Sunday afternoon experience a couple of weeks back. Watching it, we were reminded of a more metaphorical kind of massacre--that of the human need for companionship in a society which has managed to "civilize" itself away from any hope of closeness.
I'll take this country carnage over that any day.
2. Cradled.
J has two hammocks strung up in the woods now. He cleared out a gorgeous swatch from the tangled mass of thorny vines, poison sumac and dead tree limbs in the acreage behind the house. Three tall, slender trees in a triangle begged for a pair of twin hammocks. The sun filters down through the leaf canopy during the day and the stars arch brightly overhead at night. We spent as many hours as we could this weekend, cradled there.
Outside the front window of my writing room, a cardinal mother-to-be has set up a cozy little nest in the bush. She's cradling a number of eggs, and our eyes meet if I lay on the sofa and glance over. I wonder how much of her nest is made up of our dog's fur, which lies in tufts all over the yard, and is often seen hanging from the birds' beaks. A good incubating insulation, I am sure.
3. Country.
Went to the flea market this weekend and came across a treasure trove of old records. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Patsy Cline. Finally, some music to fit the mood I've been in.
4. Cookout.
Last night we had my sister and my brother over for a midwest-meets-southern-style feast. Midwest for sure was the barbecued chicken, but southern the collards with bacon, the vinegary slaw and the skillet cornbread.
My brother seemed calm here, more attuned to those around him than usual. He found his way up to the hammocks on his own and relaxed awhile. This place is good for people.
5. Crawling.
J went into the kitchen for his stash of candy after dinner last night, and there were a thousand tiny ants swarming the Brach's bag. We spent an hour armed with diatomacious earth and cleaning spray trying to put a stop to their mindless stampede. Perhaps mindless is not the word. Single-minded is better, I think. Don't they all just have one giant brain basically? It's something different from telepathy, even more profound. I don't like it. It seems robotic and unnatural to me. Individualism is embedded in my DNA, I suppose. I know I shouldn't judge them, and maybe it's time to drag out the Thoreau and revisit his observations of red ants...
But, really, they somehow got inside an unopened, perfectly sealed bag of marshmallows. That's just gross.
6. Contrary.
Today I'm supposed to be ghostwriting. Something got into me this morning, and I decided to do my own writing instead. A strain of contrariness, of resentment.
But the bills must be paid, so I'd better get back to it. Most contrary of all--I have to now imagine myself as a twenty-something person working in the corporate world, looking for the next rung on the ladder. For this ghostwriting job.
Nothing could feel further from the truth.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
stand-off
It seemed like the only possible way I could find happiness today would be by giving the dog a bath.
He is coming from the opposite perspective, apparently.
I was over-confident, I think, because I succeeded in giving the cat a bath a couple of days ago. Which tends to be even less likely. And not only that, but it was at 10 pm after 13 hours of moving. And the cat was covered in what I can only describe as "fear fecal" from being transported to the new house in his despised carrier and trapped in a car for half an hour. And, again, not only that, but the cat carrier had also been dropped, so the cat was good and doused, as well as angry.
Yet I managed to give him a bath. And this mild-mannered dog of ours is winning the stand-off by a huge margin today. I'm sitting on the floor in the hallway where I lured him, just feet away from the fully prepped bathtub. And he's just about ten pounds too heavy for me to lift. I had some crazy idea that he would just hop into the tub the way he hops up into our bed when invited. Surely he would, because he's chewing on his paw even now, trying to get those elusive fleas. Which I could wash right off of him if only he would let me.
But, like so many of us, he doesn't know what's good for him. Or, more accurately, he has decided that what's good for him is not as much fun as being just a little bit miserable.
So, I guess we'll hang out crouched on the floor in the hallway. Just gazing at each other over our paws. That's fine. I literally have all day.
He is coming from the opposite perspective, apparently.
I was over-confident, I think, because I succeeded in giving the cat a bath a couple of days ago. Which tends to be even less likely. And not only that, but it was at 10 pm after 13 hours of moving. And the cat was covered in what I can only describe as "fear fecal" from being transported to the new house in his despised carrier and trapped in a car for half an hour. And, again, not only that, but the cat carrier had also been dropped, so the cat was good and doused, as well as angry.
Yet I managed to give him a bath. And this mild-mannered dog of ours is winning the stand-off by a huge margin today. I'm sitting on the floor in the hallway where I lured him, just feet away from the fully prepped bathtub. And he's just about ten pounds too heavy for me to lift. I had some crazy idea that he would just hop into the tub the way he hops up into our bed when invited. Surely he would, because he's chewing on his paw even now, trying to get those elusive fleas. Which I could wash right off of him if only he would let me.
But, like so many of us, he doesn't know what's good for him. Or, more accurately, he has decided that what's good for him is not as much fun as being just a little bit miserable.
So, I guess we'll hang out crouched on the floor in the hallway. Just gazing at each other over our paws. That's fine. I literally have all day.
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