Archive for May 2010

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Shrink-free Ways To Shrink Inadequacy

May 13, 2010

Stuck

A chronic issue for ManicDDaily types is how to handle gnawing (as in ravenously persistent) feelings of inadequacy and imperfection–not how to address the reasons for such feelings (whether temperamental or circumstantial), but how to lessen them.  This is a subject upon which I’ve done much research, and I’ve developed  the following four more or less, do-it-yourself methods; methods that do not require professional help.

Four Shrink-Free Ways To Shrink Inadequacy

1. Be perfect at all times.

2.  Failing that, think of yourself as absolutely perfect at all times.  (I hate to sound sexist, but this seems to be an easier method for men than women, or at least for baby-boomer women.)

3.  If you can’t be perfect, and you can’t think of yourself as perfect, own up to the imperfection; resign yourself to it:  you made a mistake; you have certain failings.   So what?

Try not to get stuck in a mire of analyzing, denying, justifying, defending, self-mortifying, not to be a tire in mud, spinning spinning spinning the same old muck around.  Yes, you may have made a mistake; no, you may not have.  Whatever.  The fact is that skillful conduct and good intentions don’t always translate into happy results, no matter what.  (Think of all the times you organized a picnic and then it rained.  Don’t, like me, be the kind of person who apologizes for storm clouds.  And then to storm clouds.)

4.    Maintain old friendships.   When you are chewing the rawhide (your raw hide) of a failing, an old friend is probably the best person to help you digest it.    Family members may also help, but they are more likely to veer between the overly candid, as in “why in the world did you do that?”, to the solicitously duplicitous as in: “of course, it’s not your fault: it’s never your fault.” Husbands or wives can be particularly difficult;  they will often give advice on how to resolve whatever is troubling you instead of just listening to you go on (and on and on) about it.

Old friends, in contrast, will listen, cluck with true, but discerning, sympathy, and then move on to the next topic.  Which is exactly what you need to do.

What about new friends? It’s a bit harder to trust them.  Oh, they probably will not spill your confidences—but will they like you when they know how imperfect you are?!?

While old friends… old friends… they have known that you were imperfect for a very long time, and still will take your call.

Categories: Stress, Uncategorized
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Elliptical Thinking ….errr….Writing

May 12, 2010

Gym Blogger

The other day I blogged about learning to write wherever–not, in other words, using one’s lack of a writer’s cabin as an excuse to put off work.

Today, I’m putting that admonition to the test by blogging at the gym.  Right now, I’m writing as I walk down the stairs to my gym, now I’m writing as I swipe my gym pass, now as I walk past the yoga class (writing there might be considered anti-Om). The place I’m heading is the elliptical machine, a machine which is dull, repetitive, and has a good ledge for my notebook.

And now I’m on the elliptical machine, and, in fact, I am already experiencing a slightly uncomfortable burn in my upper thighs and a definite twist in my lower back.  (One problem with writing on the elliptical, or perhaps any exercise, machine is that it’s hard to keep your body symmetrical.  I should note here that I’m writing in an old-fashioned composition notebook and not in an iPad or other electronic device which would perhaps allow one to jog and blog in perfect two-handed symmetry.)

Ah.  (It’s working… I mean, I’m working,  sort of.)

Though there are a few caveats to writing on an elliptical machine:

1.  Take care not to press your notebook into the electronic display or you will completely lose track of your time, strides per minute, calories, distance and heart rate.  Actually, forget about heart rate.  You are not holding to the hand bars and those heart rate measuring strips never truly work in any case.

2.  Do not expect to reach your maximum speed.  Maybe, in fact, it’s best not to even try for your maximum speed.

3.  Do not expect to write the great American novel.  At least not on the elliptical machine.   Frankly, if you wish to avoid disa—

Oops!  Just pressed the display  and the whole machine is rearing up, meaning that I’ve not only lost my time and calories, but all my resistance settings have plummeted and I’m suddenly going about a mile a minute.  No, only 141 strides per minute, but that’s still a bit fast for good sentence structure, and it also feels–

As I was saying (I’ve reset the settings now), if you want to avoid disappointment, you may be wise to let go of expectations of writing the Great American Novel, whether on or off the elliptical machine.

But seriously, the points of all this are:

1.  You can write anywhere.  Granted, the writing may not be always that great, but it can help you keep your writing muscles toned.

2.  We (I) seem to have this need to both multi-task and communicate.  Yes, it might be better to quell these needs, but sometimes there can be real comfort in just accepting your predilections–your fullest, most manic self (if you are not actually hurting that self or others).

Sure, people may view your truest self as being a bit strange–for example, the people around me right now may think I am a pretty poor excuse for a gym rat.  But, who cares?   There are plenty of empty machines to my sides.  In fact, my whole little section of this fairly crowded gym is completely unoccupied….

Hmmm……

Categories: Blogging, elephants, Uncategorized, writing
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Brain Teeming? Try Rhyme!

May 11, 2010

Locust Leaves

What to do when your brain is teeming too much to think straight!  Write a poem, especially a rhyming poem.

A rhyme offers a wonderful thread away from fretful pre-occupations;  it can take you somewhere quite magical.   So, in the stress of mid-week, even though I no longer have the excuse of National Poetry Month, I am posting a draft poem written this evening, made up of rhyming quatrains.  (I don’t think it qualifies as magical, but it was a fun exercise.)

Behind the Locust

She tiptoed under the locust trees,
their shade bared earth, her shorts bared knees.
Their bark was rough, as rough as you please,
though the wood is soft in locust trees.

Though the wood is soft, the thorns are not;
sticks fall down, and leaves on top.
She tiptoed through the thorny plot
of earth and stem and leaf and rot.

The trunk was thin but she was small
and stood at angles–so, and so,
shifting from tip to the other toe,
to hide from all who’d come and go.

No one was looking, but still she hid,
looking herself at all they did.
She watched them walking, watched them sit,
keeping close the tree’s close fit.

What mystery to be lost and found
beneath the slightly rustling sound
of leaves like grapes; inside, the pound
of a heart that’s longing to be grown.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, writing
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Blocking Writer’s Block: Don’t Worry About the Where

May 11, 2010

Writing IN Your Notebook

I am returning to my series of posts on blocking writer’s block this morning at one of my favorite secret places for writing—the New York County Supreme Court building at  111 Centre Street.

Yes, the downstairs lobby is a bit tacky.  From the outside, the place looks dark, shut down; you feel almost certain from the sidewalk, that the main exterior doors will not open when you push.  (In fact, they do not open–much.   They squeak, scrape, and stick; with a lot of force, you can just wedge yourself through.)

But when you do get inside the building, past the metal detectors, beyond the dingy elevators, up to a highish floor, a sea change occurs—the main corridors here are lovely, with granite floors, marble (or faux marble) walls, and tall windows edging the South, West and East exposures, looking out over lower Manhattan.

I’m not saying that these corridors are particularly posh—there’s a definite utilitarian cast to the white plaster-board of the dropped ceilings.  Even the granite and marble look as if the colors were chosen not to show dirt.  (These are public buildings, after all.)

But the wooden benches that line the windowed walls are smooth and comfortable,  sunny and light, and, if you are not on a floor of bored and disgruntled jurors, the corridor carries such a serene hush that when, in the midst of muted steps, you hear a murmur about “what street informants want,” you are definitely taken aback.

I have to say upfront that I’ve never gone to New York Supreme just to write—I’ve always had some official purpose, and had to sit there waiting to fulfill it.   But it is nonetheless a very good place for writing.  (If you haven’t been sub poenaed, virtually no one bothers you.) Important caveat:  I think that coming in here just for a quiet place to work might actually constitute some kind of crime; it’s probably best not engage in it in a place filled with cops.  (They tend to be big cops, their hips bulging with handguns and, well, hip.)

So now, I’m on the subway writing.  It’s also not bad.  Yes, an unseasonably cold day makes the seasonal air conditioning drafty; the mechanized voices jabber nonstop, and there is the constant loud whir, bing, squeal of the engine, wheels, track.  Still, I have a seat.   (It’s not a rush hour train.)

More importantly,  I’m not just writing on the train right now—I’m mainly writing in my notebook. Which is about as quiet and uncluttered and spacious as lined white paper can be.

The point of all this:  don’t worry about where you are doing your work.  Don’t put it off because you don’t have the right space (a writer’s room, cabin, desk, even computer).  Don’t put it off even to wait for  the right moment.   I know it sounds clichéd, but the fact is that the only place you ever have to write is the place you are right now;  the only moment you ever have is this one.

To some degree, the same reasoning can be applied to drawing and painting. Again, of course, it’s wonderful to have a lovely studio, easel, table, but your drawing is not made only in your studio.  The place it truly inhabits is the page (or napkin or envelope.)

Of course, some places are genuinely more inconvenient or conducive than others;  if you have access to a convenient, conducive place, take it!  But the factor that most quickly makes a space workable is simply working in it.  Engagement is a great architect/decorator.

I don’t write this to be annoying, or to tout my own powers of concentration.  (They are not very good–when I write in a public space, I sometimes just follow my mind’s meanderings.)  I write to help counteract the many forces that lull one into procrastination.

If you want to work, then get to work!  Wherever!

(P.S. For more on blocking writer’s block, check out the writer’s block category on the ManicDDaily home page.)

(P.P.S. Computer problems delayed the posting of this post beyond my daily deadline, drat!  Sorry!)

Categories: Uncategorized, writer's block, writing
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Mother’s Day Evening

May 9, 2010

Hiding in Lilac Bush

The post below, for mothers and infants, was originally posted in the springtime, for Mother’s day evening, but I am linking it to Bluebell Books Short Story Slam.

 

It’s a poem for mothers–though I suppose it doesn’t so much express appreciation of mothers as of motherhood.  (Happy Mother’s Day everyday!)

Going In to Look at My Daughter Asleep

When I walk into your room,
I try to sneak
beneath your soft
small breaths like
hiding inside the
lilac bush, trying not to laugh, like
the dreams in which I
sit with my dead
grandmother, so happy to
have her back.  It’s a rebirth
each time I see you after
not seeing you; it’s
as if, you miracle, made
the dead rise.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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V-E Day (Back in My Mother’s Day)

May 8, 2010

My Mom's Favorite Flower

May  8th.  Anniversary of V-E Day.   Mother’s Day tomorrow.   Anyone who knows my mother (my wonderful mother) knows that this is a thought-provoking juxtaposition.

It seems to me very difficult for young, or even middle-aged, Americans today to conceive of the impact of World War II on the generations who lived through it.  There’s so much tribute paid to the War at this point—the stern stone eagles at the World War II memorial in Washington, D.C., the heavy Samuel Barber music that accompanies so much WWII footage (at least on YouTube), even the high-flying term the “Greatest Generation”.   The bunting of commemoration makes it very hard to see the truly memorable; the grandiosity somehow diminishes the greatness, both of the effort and the suffering.

The magnitude of loss is also something almost impossible for Americans today to understand.   Most of us know a little about the millions of lives lost.  Sometimes smaller numbers are more comprehensible: I read today, for example that the two and a half months of the Normandy Invasion cost the lives of nearly 20,000 French civilians.  As a comparison (not intended to diminish the level of suffering there), it is estimated that 90 Afghani civilians have died since the beginning of this year.

Which brings me to my mother.  (Hi Mom, if you ever read this blog!)

My mother was neither a WAC or WAVE, but had the curious experience of working as a civilian in both the U.S. occupation of Japan and Germany, closely following the end of the War in both theaters.   She is rightfully proud of her experiences.  And she truly was intrepid—she came from a small town in Iowa, a farming family, which was very very far from post-War Japan.  Her dad actually drove her by horse and buggy to catch the train that would take her to San Francisco where she would embark for Yokohama.

While she is proud of her own grit, and the grit of her generation, my mother does not believe in the greatness of war.   When the subject comes up (even sometimes when it doesn’t come up), she speaks passionately of her memories of cities flattened, whether by the Atom Bombs, or incendiaries—she visited both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as well as Tokyo and Dresden.  She talks too of the massive fields of white crosses in France, the large mass grave sites in Russia, the grim, death-scented, ovens in Dachau.   Her visits to these places impressed her beyond measure, and she is anxious to pass on her memories, to somehow make them as vivid and meaningful to others as they are to her.  Even though she is absolutely certain of the horror of the Nazis, though she loved FDR, though she is very proud of my father, a veteran of both the European and Pacific War, she has no faith in war’s value to solve conflicts; it all just seems like killing to her, killing until people are sick and tired of killing or being killed, something to be avoided at all cost.

I don’t always know what I think.  I consider myself a pacificist, though I’m not completely certain of peaceful solutions in a irrepressibly violent world.  Still, it seems to me useful to pay attention to voices of experience, and, of course, the voices of mothers, even though listening to one’s own is almost invariably a little bit hard.

Categories: news, parenting, Uncategorized
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Tchaikovsky And Raccoon

May 7, 2010

Prima Raccoon

May 7, 2010—Tchaikovsky’s 170th birthday.  Noted all over the world today because it inspired Google to put up an icon depicting Swan Lake.

(In my mind’s ear, I hear a young voice saying in a few weeks—Tchaikovsky?—isn’t he that guy Google did the ballet picture about?  If the young voice remembers at all.)

I hope it does, as Tchaikovsky is a composer who is particularly appealing to the young.   At least, I always loved him as a child.  (Since I seem fixed in perpetual childishness, that also means now.)  His mix of soar and sentimentality, the accessible and the exotic, really excited  me.  I had an LP (a big black record!) of his “greatest hits” that I used to play repeatedly in our basement—this was a particularly good place to dance around as there were no mirrors, and few visitors.

I loved dancing to Tchaikovsky’s ballet music—it seemed to call up grace (or, at least, imagined grace).  It is music that extends and curves one’s arms, that supports an uplifted spine, that points the toes, twirls the body, makes one feel correspondingly light and beautiful.

One does not usually group Tchaikovsky with those composers that died at a crazily young age–Mozart and Chopin—but Tchaikovsky was only 53 at the time of his death.  He came to his own as a professional musician relatively late (at least compared to Mozart, ha!  Who didn’t? ), spending his school years at the Imperial School of Jurisprudence in Saint Petersburg (poor guy!)   Though his musical genius was well recognized after he began composing,  his life was tinged with melancholy and crisis, many suspecting that his sudden death resulted from suicide.   This is hard to believe based on the music alone.  Tthough it does have a minor or somber quality, it is also often embued with a sweet and enthusiastic cheer.

Changing the subject—abruptly—I saw a raccoon in Central Park this evening.  Seriously!   With mask and ringed tail, scratching its way up the bark of a Central Park Tree.   Stopping to stare down at us with typical New Yorker attitude  (meaning we felt that we shouldn’t stare back too long)

It was my husband who truly sighted the raccoon—telling me that he’d been watching it for a while but hadn’t wanted to say anything till he was sure of exactly what it was.  (I have a phobia of r–s.  Hint–another animal that begins with  “R”  more common in Central Park.)

I thanked him for his restraint.

When we listened to Tchaikovsky later, he mentioned that I must have had a really hard time with the Nutcracker Ballet.

It took me a while to understand what he was getting at.  (I’ve blocked all those big grey saggy dancers out.  Especially their tails.)

Suddenly, Tchaikovsky did not seem quite so cheerful.

Categories: music, New York City, Uncategorized
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Loaded Lawyer v. AK-47

May 6, 2010

Suspect with Loaded Lawyer

I’ve always found the age-old male/Freudian question “what do women want?”  irritating.   I don’t particularly like the way it lumps women together.  But what really annoys me is the undercurrent of exasperation–the idea that the answer to the question is just too irrational or illogical to be discoverable.

Even though I don’t care much for this formulation, but a variation seems appropriate for tonight’s post:  what do Congressional Republicans want?   What, especially, when it comes to reconciling issues of anti-terrorism and gun control?   Here’s a place where the undertone of illogic and irrationality seems appropriate.

(Sorry, to any of you who thought this post was going to be about women.  Or Freud.  You’re stuck with Lindsay Graham.)

On the one hand, the Republicans in Congress, as exemplified by Graham, are very upset at the idea of offering suspected terrorists access to lawyers (as in Miranda rights); on the other, they are perfectly willing to grant such suspects access to automatic weapons of all types and calibers.   As Gail Collins describes in a wonderful Op-Ed piece in the May 6 New York Times, “I think you’re going too far here,” said Graham, in opposition to a bill that would keep people on the F.B.I. terrorist watch list from buying guns and explosives.

Distrust of governmental intervention and power are a watchword with many congressional Republicans.   Except when it comes to torture.  Many urge the government to take on that power–as long as people who are water boarded have a right to purchase a handgun before submergence.

Part of the problem, of course, is limited imagination and memory.  Many can’t seem to conceive of someone who may be labeled “right-wing” being arrested for terrorist activities; they don’t seem to remember names like McVeigh and Hutaree.

What they do seem certain of (whether rightly or wrongly) is the power of the NRA.  Which, as Gail Collins notes, gives one answer to my question—what do Congressional Republicans want?  To get a 100% score in the NRA grading system.

Call me naïve.  Call me (those of you who know I’m an attorney) biased.   Even call me a woman who knows at least some of what she wants.   If I have to be confronted, I would rather face a terrorist armed with a lawyer, than an AK-47.

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Kept Awake By Meditation and Sookie Stackhouse Novel (“Dead” The Next Day)

May 5, 2010

Meditation and Vampire Novels

As some followers of this blog know, I’m a longtime devotee of Astanga yoga (sometimes, unfortunately, known as “power yoga”).  Astanga is a relatively active form of yoga in which the practitioner jumps from pose to pose;  each pose in turn is held for a relatively short set number of breaths.  Because I do “self-practice,” meaning that I do Astanga yoga at home by myself, my practice has somewhat deteriorated over the past few years.  I do it, sure, but the requisite number of breaths has shortened to second hand levels (as in, about one second per pose) and my focus has become increasingly… diffused.

Great returns rarely come from casual investments (i.e. no pain, no gain).  Meaning that my rushed, unfocused yoga, does not yield a significant amount of inner peace.  (Sigh.)

One possible remedy would be to simply give more time and energy to my existing yoga practive.

But that’s not really the ManicD way of handling an issue of this kind.  Instead, what I’ve tried is to add in something else, something which I can also pursue in a slightly desultory way:  meditation.

Ah, meditation.

Meditation is probably harder for the Manic personality than Astanga yoga, as it involves minimal jumping.

But unlike my self-led yoga-practice, I’ve tried to meditate in a mediation session, at a meditation center, with a teacher and pillows, and other, sincere-looking people, and one of those beautiful bells in a bowl.   This structure, given my achievement-oriented personality, actually inspires me to sit still.

Ah.  (Meditation.)

I really do like the sessions.  When I’m in one, I feel more aware, more tolerant, more wise, more balanced.  The problem is that after I come home from one of these sessions, I seem to be driven to some form of extreme behavior. I don’t rent a race car, or go out on the town–I just do things that are, as they say in Buddhist terminology, unskillful.

After last night’s session, for example, I stayed up till about 3:30 a.m. reading the new Sookie Stackhouse mystery from Charlaine Harris—Dead In the Family, the tenth in the series.

With all due respect to Ms. Harris, some of whose work I have truly enjoyed, it’s not a terrifically good book.   The story has gotten very complex, too full of ancillary characters, too dependent on prior knowledge, too rushed, too soap-opery.  If you are not (a) escapist, (b) already addicted to her main characters (Sookie Stackhouse, Bill Compton, and Eric Northman), and possibly (c)  just coming out of a Buddhist meditation session, it is extremely unlikely that you would find it worthy of a virtually all-night read.   (Maybe not even any read.)

But the meditation teacher last night, a very thoughtful and meticulous speaker, had a curiously bloodless quality.  She smiled frequently;she said things that, if not original, were useful; she wore a very tasteful, shawl.  And yet she also left me in a state ripe for self-indulgence, blood–errr—lust, the super-handsome, super- passionate Eric healing Sookie of her post-Fairy-torture trauma.

Ah, vampire novels.

(By way of further excuse, I should note that I’ve only read Sookie Stackhouse novels; I’m not really familiar with the TV series.  Also, to those of you that can’t understand my obsession with these books—umm…..how about ‘it’s a great way, as a writer, to learn how to put action in one’s work.’)

Categories: elephants, meditation, Sookie Stackhouse novels, Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Mysteries, Uncategorized, yoga
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Trying to Think About Pie and Not Faisal Shahzad, Though Perhaps Not Hard Enough

May 4, 2010

Smoking Pie

I wanted to write about pie today—the fact that my mother (now nearly 87) sprinkles sugar on top of the slice she will serve herself, while, if I eat a slice of pie at all, I spoon on plain, unsweetened yogurt; while my daughters will take the time to whip up heavy cream.   All evening, I’ve been wondering, in snatches, whether this is the natural progression of life.

But I live in New York City, and even though I really would rather think about pie toppings, I find my mind taken up by the 53 hour saga that began with the smoking car in Times’ Square, and has led to the arrest of Faisal Shazad, the alleged car owner and bombsetter.

I have to start by saying (and I’m mainly addressing this to you, Mom, if you ever happen to read this blog) that the attempted car bomb has had virtually no effect on my particular New York life.

It seems actually not to have affected many New Yorkers very much.  I noticed the absolute ordinariness of my evening rush hour train:  in the bank of seats I leaned over, the three people front and center of me either had eyes shut below furrowed brows, or eyes shut below a hand shielding said eyes (from the delightful train lighting or, perhaps, my stare).  The next guy was playing solitaire on a electronic game player; the next two were smiling and talking with great animation.

New Yorkers’ natural tendency to put their personal fatigue, or personal conversations, over hyper-vigilence has probably been accentuated by the fact that the Times’ Square bomb does not appear to have been a really well-constructed device.  A sense of security has also been created by the fact that the authorities, amazingly, have already taken the guy into custody.  (Even though it seems that they almost lost him as he boarded a plane to Dubai.)

I congratulate the New York City police force, the New York City bomb squad, the Times Square vendors (!), the FBI, the TSA, Homeland Security, all those authorities who coordinated efforts so quickly.

Still, one very frightening question comes to mind–what would have happened if the bomber had stayed inside the car?   Had, in other words, been a suicide bomber?  Committed enough to his mission (due to political or religious zealotry, bitterness, brainwashing, craziness, drugs, duress, whatever,) to physically see it through?   Would a smoking car with a driver have seemed that extraordinary?   Would vendors have been as likely to question it, even if it did seem strange?

Hollywood tends to depict New Yorkers as “in your face”, but, in fact, New Yorkers are pretty good are minding their own business, the art of non-confrontation rather important when you are all squished together.

So what would have happened?  I, for one, would rather think about pie, but there’s smoke in the background.

Categories: New York City, news, Uncategorized
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