Archive for the ‘dog’ category

A Pearl For the Blocked Writer: Let Go of The Bad News; the Grandiosity; Just Do What You Do.

October 9, 2010

I woke up today feeling terribly depressed.  Yes, it’s probably my chemistry (the down side of the m-word), but, as I browsed through the online New York Times, I also felt that I had every right to blame my hopelessness on the world in general.

Everything seemed to bring up Reagan’s old (deficit-producing) supply-side economics;  they seemed not just to have been swallowed by the American people but to have become an integral part of the body politic–its eaten-out heart (as in “eat your heart out’);  the idea that compassion is bad while greed is good (for society as well as the greedy), almost a moral imperative.

There was the article about the refusal of politicians to support improvements in infrastructure despite the terrible need both for the improvements and the jobs the improvements would provide.  Then the negativity towards healthcare (in one, a Florida politician whose company was indicted for massive medicare fraud.)

Then there were the  little children bullying other little children, seemingly egged on by parents who are happy, primarily, that their kids are at the top of the popularity heap.

I don’t want to detail the stories of truly horrific brutality, stories where even the words “lack of compassion” can’t be squeezed in.

Normally, I try to spend Saturday re-writing one of my old children or teen novels.  (I have a few that for years have seemed sort of finished, and yet still aren’t quite “done.”)  But, suddenly, my little fictional tales seemed ridiculously trivial.   Sure, they all promote compassion; but they are also, due to my lack of talent and vision, not particularly life-changing, society-changing.  Not even, perhaps, life or society-nudging.

Of course, one would like to write life-changing books!  But what if you just don’t/can’t.

Feeling grandiosely whiney, I looked over at my very conveniently located muse–that is, my good old dog Pearl, snoozing at the bottom of my bed.

Talk about a lack of grandiosity!  Talk about forging ahead!

Pearl might very well like to be a noble dog, a celebrated dog (a Balto!) even just a big, strong dog. But she was born cute and fluffy and a little bit clownish.

Pearl might even like to be young again, with fully functioning limbs.

Nonetheless, Pearl presses doggedly through life each day, doing what she does as best as she can.   And not doggedly just in the sense of persistently and dutifully–but with a joy us non-canines (and blocked writers) can only wonder at.

Seasons Collide – The Clogged Gears of the Organizationally Blobby

October 8, 2010

 

Pearl luckily doesn't mind "C" things.

 

Blog plus job plus dog, and even adding in yoga, can make you feel a bit of a blob sometimes–not a physical blob so much as an organizational blob.  (“S” could probably substitute for the first letter of that last word.)

It’s not a lack of external neatness; it’s what’s behind the external neatness — i.e.  clutter, chaos, catastrophe (looming).  Enough “C” things that your Consciousness begins to feel like a Computer Clogged with Cookies (Commercial); a Closet Clotted with Clothes (Crumpled);  a Cupboard Clustered With Cups (Chipped).

This kind of Clutter becomes especially Complex as seasons Change, and one set of expectations Collides with another.  (All that summer Cotton; all that autumn….um….non-Cotton.)

One approach–don’t Care so much.

But wait–you’ve already tried that one.  And even though you say you don’t Care–so much–you’re getting really tired of looking for that paper, that sweater, that thought–

Alternative approach–Care a little more.  Take the time to make more time.

Do a little less of all the frenetic, what-you-tell-yourself-is-productive, stuff and a little more of the slow, steady, sorting, supportive stuff, i.e. Clear the decks.

P.S. But don’t spend too long setting up systems you’ll maintain.  (I think you know why.)

More on Writer’s Block, Yoga, Pearl–Weaning Yourself From the Dependence on Acknowledgement i.e. Pats

October 6, 2010

 

Writing Beside Pearl (Only She Usually Maintains A Slightly Bigger Private Space.) (Also, sorry for Apple plug...)

 

Yesterday, thinking about yoga and my dog Pearl, I wrote about blocking writer’s block through finding a seat in your blank page.  Mulling over these issues further made me think about the time, some years ago, when I stopped going to yoga classes.

I practice Astanga yoga and had gone to six or seven classes a week for some years.  Then suddenly, it all got too expensive, and more importantly, too stressful.

It is very easy in a Guru-oriented practice like yoga to fixate on your teacher–to obsess over whether you are pleasing him or her, to (on the inside) constantly beg for approval.  It is easy to fixate on your fellow students too.  (Why are they getting all the assists?  Does my teacher even like me?  Is it the sweat?)

These types of thought patterns can turn one literally into a downward dog, sniffing constantly for a simulated treat.  (Think “spaniel”.)

Now, Pearl, my fifteen-year old dog, is a very different kettle of canine.  She is not averse to pats, but she won’t perform for them.   (It’s cheese or nothing.)   She likes to be quietly near her human; but she doesn’t grovel.  (Except, that is, if there’s cheese, and, perhaps–if you start it–the occasional belly rub.)

 

Perhaps A Belly Rub

 

Doing yoga to score points with a cool teachery type (at least two earrings in one of his ears, one nose stud for the female nostril)  is clearly unyogic, but doing yoga in isolation is also pretty difficult.   Often I feel sluggish and apathetic.  Even so, I generally can make myself go through the motions because of three basic reasons: (i) it is what I do;  (ii) it makes me feel good, and (iii) it is one of my few clear channels to a greater Self.

Writing is very much like that (if you leave out the sweat.)  It is fun to take a writing class; it is fun to write with a buddy–but how do you keep going without the pats of your colleagues; without acknowledgement, and no certainty of an audience.

First, you have to tell yourself that writing is simply what you do.

Secondly, you have to focus on the physical pleasure of writing–the flow of energy through your arms, the dance of your fingertips.  You have to let yourself understand that even writing “tada tada tada” can be a sensual experience.  (Much less the word “sensual.”)  And what about the elation of scribbling off that last sentence?   (Tada!)

Three–you have to let yourself enjoy your greater Self–the mind’s eye that reads what you write before you even get it down.

Finally, find your inner Pearl–that part of you which will not shy from a pat, but won’t perform a trick for it.  This is hard, but recognize that when you just let your self write–the physical pleasure, the verbal company, and the sheer satisfaction of doing what you do–will be enough to carry you forward.

(And, probably, to maintain integrity, you should maintain a safe distance from…cheese.)

 

Cheese!

 

For more on blocking writer’s block, click here or check out the category from the ManicDDaily homepage.

Pearlmydarling! (Video?–Video!)

October 2, 2010

I sometimes think that if I truly wanted fame and fortune, I would start a blog called “Pearlmydarling,” and focus on my fifteen-year-old dog.

Why do people love dogs so much?  There’s a huge variety of answers probably starting with “because they (dogs) deserve it.”  But the facts are also that (i) we love that that we truly take care of; and (ii) we love that which loves us back.

Pearl is, more or less, a loving-back dog.  I mean, yes, she has, despite an absolute hatred of water, plunged into roaring streams and frigid lakes to catch up to us (when we were canoeing or taking a brief dip).

She definitely wants to share our bed.

And dinner.  (She doesn’t mind our germs at all.)

But she’s also very much her own dog.  Meaning that she’ll plunge into frigid streams and all that, but don’t expect her to sit quietly next to you if there’s food happening in the next room.

Pearl is, if not exactly a role model, a survivor.  I won’t go into the mouse poison incident, or the dognapping, or this summer’s semi-paralysis,  but just say that she knows very well how to negotiate her world.  As a puppy, she quickly cottoned onto the fact that she wasn’t going to power her way into treats (not top dog) and developed three alternative tools: (i) cuteness; (ii) persistent cuteness; (iii) persistence without that much cuteness.   (These are, unfortunately, often the tools of creatures in dependent positions.)

I have sometimes thought that she is not super-smart–I’m not sure how well she could figure out a maze, for example, especially in the absence of steak.  She, however, always begs to differ.

PS – I enclose a video of Pearl, which doesn’t do her justice.  I don’t have an actual video camera, and she really is fifteen and nearly blind so I didn’t want to derange her too much.  But–a first try- and I hope, sort of fun.

Draft Poem Process – Blocking Writer’s Block

September 15, 2010

Okay (to the regular readers of this blog), I admit that the draft poem posted at about 1 a.m. this morning is blank verse in the truest (and possibly, worst) sense of the word.  I’d like to dignify it with some epithet like Creelyesque, but I’d hate to do that to the wonderful Robert Creeley.

Instead, I’ll explain away the poem by giving it as an example of an effort to block writer’s block.  If you want to write, you have to write.  It really is as simple as that.   You have to do it without being too precious about every single result.  That’s probably an elemental rule for getting yourself to do anything creative.

Waiting for the right conditions, the right mindset, even a modicum of brain power, may put you in a queue of one forever;  if you wait for inspiration, there you might be–in the abandoned mind bakery–holding a ticket that is never called.  (Even if it is called, all those wonderful half-baked goods may have gone completely stale by the time you actually get to the counter!)

Sure, an inner voice may tell you urgently that you are  a writer, an artist, but it’s unlikely to tell you in the hurly-burly of every single day exactly what to set down.

That’s where doggedness comes in (and not necessarily the doggedness of the wiggly happy dog that greets you at the door every evening.)  It’s more like the dog that is pawing pawing pawing at the zipper of your backpack because it is sure that somewhere inside nestles a treat.   Sometimes that treat is the old remains of a bagel; sometimes it’s chocolate!

Which, I know, yes, is terrible for dogs.  (More for us.)

Snuck Dog in A.M. Hotel, Enjoying Fly-Free Ointment

September 2, 2010

After Application of Fly-Free OIntment

I am sitting in a hotel room with a dog nestled against my bum.  She is a great dog to sneak into a hotel room because she is little, quiet, and extremely well-behaved.  She is also very old, which is perhaps what has caused her to throw up twice during the night, luckily with enough warning (i.e. an abrupt standing up) for me to get her into the bathroom in time to avoid soiling either hotel carpeting or bedspread.

Thankfully, she does not seem seriously sick.  But it’s made for an extremely alert night, for me at least, who as sneaker-in-chief, feels responsible for any canine effluviance.

She’s sleeping comfortably now, while I feel a little tired.   But, as is popularly noted, there’s always something. Yesterday, it was a suddenly sick mother (88); the day before, a fallen and head-bruised father (87); and now in a few minutes’ time, the moving of a daughter back into college, a wonderful and fairly independent daughter but one with a great many clothes.  (These are not particularly fancy clothes, but have the advantage of allowing for extended laundry avoidance.)

Each of these events is capable of causing a manicddaily type like myself as much fretting as the neck of a bass guitar.  But this post is not meant to be a litany of woes, tasks,  or even of a zillion telephone calls, but rather, a lesson in enjoyment.

Don’t wait for the unalloyed when there’s goodness in the alloyed (sunny day, delightful daughter, snuggling dog, sweet husband willing to drive.)  Do what you can, more than you can, but don’t hinge your happiness on immediate or right  results.  Forget about rows of orderly ducks, fly-free ointments.

Wait a second.  That’s an idea–fly-free ointment. Conjure up some and rub it all over yourself.  Don’t forget to glom a bunch on the inside/underside of your forehead.  Then let yourself just glide, even for several whole minutes.

Sniff Becomes Her (Draft Poem)

August 24, 2010

Dog Returning to City

A dog newly returned to the city
keeps her nose to the paving stone.
Who cares about loam?
Yesterday’s rural soil proffered
a podge of worm, root, growth,
but the leg of a park bench teems
with personality.

So long even to that grass that, tinged
with deer, she rolled about in
weeks now past; the sidewalk is tinge unhinged==
laced with history–her own and its grey slab–
who passed through–who was who–
she traces it
with the absolute doggedness of the canine.

Like a Buddhist achieving one-pointedness,
sniff becomes her, the Aum of all sentient beings
(all sentient beings who leave their mark)
reverberating in one small quivering hide.

Dog Days Of Summer (Any Day Around Now In Which You Have To Do Something)

July 27, 2010

Hot Dog on Summer Dog Day

At a certain point mid-summer, the days become dog days even if not beastly hot.  If, that is, they are work days.

Many, in my generation (boomers), were lucky enough to be raised on summer vacations.  I say, raised “on” rather than raised “in,” because summer was a halcyon time of little supervision; we were hardly raised at all during those hot months, but were out in the street, a back yard, someone’s basement, the pool (or a slow rota of all of the above).  Adults were there but not right there.  They were sort of like life guards  – near enough to be summoned in a crisis, occasionally blowing a figurative whistle, mainly just hovering somewhere vaguely above us, and (on weekends at least) sunning themselves.  Their reprimands could usually be avoided by some judicious tip-toeing or scoots.

There is something magical about unstructured time, especially for children, and especially when screens (other than perhaps sunscreens) are kept, more or less, off-limits.  Unfortunately, today’s kids experience unstructured summer days less and less; school is succeeded by various day or sleep-away camps, summer schools, prep courses, and when all parties (parents and children) have vacation, it’s such a brief, valuable, time that the conscientious working parent feels (rightly) compelled to spend it actively together with their child, doing something planned.

I started to write – what about some good old-fashioned boredom?  But I’m sure modern kids get plenty bored; it just seems to be a more frenetic/passive kind of boredom, a boredom fed by digital or electronic current, or, at a minimum, a current of someone else’s control or content.

Adults suffer too.  We were raised on summer vacations, remember!  Days and days of trying to think up something fun, sometimes succeeding.

On a More Cheerful Note – Dog in Rocking Chair

July 18, 2010

Comfy?

Love’s Offices – Ailing Dog

May 24, 2010

Place of Love's Offices

Those who follow this blog know that our old dog, Pearl, has recently suffered a problem with her spine which paralyzed her hind legs.  Under the influence of steroids (go Floyd!), she’s doing somewhat better, but still not walking.  Nonetheless, we have to be very careful where we leave her in the apartment as, when she is left alone, she insists on dragging herself to her “office”, a cluttered, dark clothes closet.

There are many meanings of the word “office.”  One is Pearl’s closet; another, perhaps more accurate use, refers to duties or functions. pIn a beautiful poem called “Those Winter Sundays”, Robert Hayden writes of “love’s austere and lonely offices,” describing his stern dad’s early rising on frigid Sunday mornings, hustling the house fires back to life with competent, chapped hands, and polishing the shoes of the son (poet.)

I love the poem.  It does make me wonder, however, why so many of love’s offices in my personal experience involve, not home fires, or even scuffed shoes, but plain old bodily fluids.  I’m not talking sex here, but of the effluvial tides of sickness known to almost any parent, pet owner, (woman).  These have poured from a host of sources–from travel with children (at least, my children) on sea, air, or roadway; to shepherding them through flu’s, colds, allergies, nights out, even cuts and cold sores.  In family life, stuff flows.

And now, here’s my little half-paralyzed dog.

I should be (and am) happy that even under her current difficulties,  she has retained pretty iron-clad bladder control (except for the other morning, just as I got her down the stairs into the building lobby).  But the lack of functioning hind legs makes such matters difficult for a dog.

So, now, love’s office involves carrying her down to a small fragrant square of dirt on the Esplanade by the Hudson River, squatting there to hold her up with the help of an old but strong and soft silk undershirt slung under her belly, waiting….waiting…trying, while waiting, not to worry too much about the spindly tree that somehow lives in that besotted patch of dirt.

Since she cannot exactly say what she wants, love’s offices also involve waking up several times during the night to try to figure out why the dog is struggling to a seat or shaky stance, and then propping her up over some folds of old newspaper.

Love’s moist and ignoble offices.