Archive for the ‘elephants’ category

What to do when the Dark Cloud descends….

June 13, 2010

Pushing Away Dark Cloud With Cold Water and Interpretive Dance

A week or so ago I announced that the long-term, if slightly, obscure focus of this blog has been stress and creativity.  (I could not quite steel myself to call it the interface between stress and creativity, which, I admit, would sound a lot more zooty.)

One follower of the blog suggested that the true sub rosa topic was something more obvious—the issues associated with being manic-d daily.   This suggestion brings me to today’s particular topic:  what to do when the black mood strikes.

By the black mood, I mean, that cloud, ache, depression that sometimes forms because of very specific sadnesses, other times because of a more generalized sadness (a sudden, deep, awareness of non-specific suffering).

This cloud may also simply result from a quirk of your personal chemistry, some habitual combination of molecules and electrical impulses that arises from your genetics, conditioning, and whatever you’ve just ingested.

Those with a more religious bend might considered this type of low to be a swerve in one’s tilt towards the universal, God, the Self, with a capital S.

Whatever the cause, when the black mood descends, a very practical question arises: how to get rid of it.  Frequently, the sad circumstances, whether specific or general, are not things that can be changed; what can sometimes be changed though is your chemistry, and, possibly, your spiritual or psychic tilt.

Perhaps the initial most important tool is to try to keep in mind that the black mood, no matter how deep and murky, will not last forever.  (Nothing does.)   So, even when you don’t know how to make it go away, tell yourself that it will go away—at some point—perhaps even if you do nothing.

Once that’s understood, you may as well try something.  If you tend towards the spiritual, you might go for meditation, prayer, a solitary walk.  If you tend towards the chemical, there are plenty of different choices.

Or, if you are like me, and tend towards the manic, you may like to try cold water (as in jumping into rather than adding to scotch.)  A pond or swimming pool is best—but if you don’t have one of those, and you do have a lot of grit and faith—an ice cold shower or bath may do the trick.

The point of the cold water is to get the blood flowing, the skin to stand on end;  to shake up all those teensy-weensy nerve endings.   Once that has been done, a certain hectic frivolity usually becomes possible.

Hectic frivolity may not be the right words for the state I am urging you towards—how about a certain loss of physical dignity?    By this, I am suggesting that you simply move, in silly unusual energetic ways.

In setting out on these movements, I would suggest an initial focus on the upper body.  Silly leg movements (“silly walks) are fun but can be dangerous.  (You don’t want to trip.)   But even a relatively straightforward walk or two-step can become quite silly, and correspondingly uplifting, if combined with strenuously interpretive arm motion, and curious body swings.

Think Isadora Duncan here—not strangulation but angulation, as in bold, possibly rhythmic (possibly not)  gestures.

I do understand that the black mood may constrain your interpretive dance.  The trick is to try to separate your conscious mind (the depressed part of your brain) from the coordination piece, the silly “why-not-just-let-go-a-bit?” piece.

It may not be possible.  Or, what’s more likely, your dark mood may only be alleviated while you are actually waving your arms about, and then fairly rapidly descend again.

In that case, you will at least have gotten some good exercise.  And anyone watching may find their spirits lifted considerably.

ManicDDaily’s Favorite Soccer Players

June 12, 2010

Check out this BBC video to see my absolutely favorite soccer players.

Question:  should they be allowed to use their trunks?

(For a picture of elephants watching soccer instead of playing it, and for other rules for picking favorite teams in the 2010 World Cup, check out today’s earlier post.)

(And if you only like elephants, forget about soccer, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson, on Amazon.)

ManicDDaily Guide To Picking 2010 World Cup Teams

June 12, 2010

Elephants Watching World Cup

You will find below the ManicDDaily guide to rooting for teams competing in the 2010 World Cup.

Correction:  this is not a guide to actual rooting.  I do not include instruction in drumming, kazooing, dancing, cheering, and swinging “revenge-of-the-angry-bees” noisemakers.  This is a guide to choosing teams to root for, written for those, like me, who have absolutely no knowledge of any of the teams or current players.

  1. Determine which team’s country will be made happiest by the win;  factors to be considered include number of prior wins, perception of national commitment to the game, and recent national hardships such as flood, financial collapse, coup d’etat, etc.
  2. Determine which team will be made happiest by the win, and, in your one-hour-or-so appraisal, is most deserving.    Factors to consider include team spirit as measured by hugs, bottom pats, tears.  Modesty, as measured in determined faces/sheepish grins.  Are there any particularly cute players?
  3. Factor in your personal experiences of the team’s country, i.e.  how’s the food?
  4. Assign points.

Here’s how the system would work for a game like this morning—ARGENTINA v. NIGERIA.

1.            Your college-age daughter has a boyfriend from Argentina who spends a fair amount of time at your apartment.  Nigeria – 1.

2.              Stop that!  He really is a good kid.  Argentina – 1.

3.              His folks are nice too.  Argentina – 2.

4.            One the other hand, he’ll crow all day if Argentina wins.  Nigeria – 2.

5.              Besides that, Nigeria will be so happy is Nigeria wins.   All of Africa will be happy.  Nigeria – 3.

6.             But Argentina will be so upset, and their economy has had a very hard time over the last several years.  Argentina – 3.

7.            But African countries rarely win, and Argentina wins all the time.  Nigeria – 4.

8.            He may be really upset….

9.             But Argentina does make wonderful wine.  Argentina – 4.

10.           But Africa has elephants.  Nigeria – 5.

11.            Red wine.   Argentina – 5.

Hmmm…..   What was that cute player/deserving team thing?

Prom Season (With Elephants)

June 4, 2010

June Prom

The skies take a short break, waiting for the hair.
In one case, it is fine, sleek hair
which will only stay up till
the photo’s click, less than the time
I’ve stood behind the girl, working with
bobby pins.  “Wispy is good,” I say as
she fumbles in the back for smooth.
The make-up is smooth; two-toned
eyes converge with Egyptian directness
onto the shade of dress’s shine.

Skies grumble.  “Maybe
you better hurry,” I say.
“Why did I squeeze it?” one wails.
I palpate tint and powder onto a spot on
her breastbone, repeating a mantra
of don’t worry, it won’t show.

Another wants to keep the price tag on, tucked
inside the dress’s backless back
because it’s the most expensive she’s
ever owned.   Mid-twirl, she cries, “oh no!  It smells
like smoked fish.  Why does it smell like smoked fish?”
I tell her it’s fine, but offer perfume.  The one with the squeezed pimple
leans in supportively:  “I can’t smell it.”
“Oh God,” the twirler moans, “I
can smell it from here.”

Lips stretch shimmer
onto smiles perfected
over eighteen years.   And then, the camera
down, they really smile, not bemoaning
their lack of dates, only—and that less
and less–the possible scent
of smoked fish.

Darkness greets them with what sounds like applause.
I chase down a cab, then, umbrella in
each hand, ferry them one at a time,
hovering over hair, shoulders, skirt.
Slippered feet glisten through the tarred, watery drumroll,
as if made partly of glass,
the other part celluloid.
I laugh with the doorman as the taxi pulls away,
taillights as bright as Christmas in this storm,
the mother, the friend’s mother,
the one left to put away
the little jars, hangers, bobby pins,
to scoop from the floor the finally cast-off
tag, happy to be needed
by these large, beautiful, creatures,
happy to be out of the rain.

Blogging, With Elephants?

May 28, 2010

More Elephants

I am bemoaning today the lack of subject matter of this blog.   Actually, it’s not completely fair to say that there is no subject matter.  The subject matter is whatever comes into my ManicDdaily head.

I am bemoaning today the lack of consistent subject matter.

People like subject matters, just as they like a certain predictability.  It’s bred into the species, I think, maybe into living itself.  Babies with clear naptimes tend to nap  more easily and more cheerfully; dogs want to stick to their routines, marking the same old spots on their same old walks; horses find their way back into their stalls; and adults (human adults) like to get the same kind of bagel with the same kind of cream cheese, with the same kind of coffee, with the same amount of sugar and milk in it, every single morning.

As part of this preference for the routine, I am pretty sure that people tend to prefer a blog that has a theme.   Something they might even learn from, or at least, feel uplifted by.

But I don’t really know anything well enough to teach it.  Further,  anyone labeling their blog ManicDDaily may not in fact be so uplifting, so….

Hmmm…..

What can I write about?  Consistently? (Or draw?!)

Elephants?

(But shouldn’t it be meaningful?)

More elephants?

Hmmm….

Any and all suggestions are welcome .

Fleet Week – Where are you, Horatio?

May 26, 2010

Fleet Week in New York (See Statue of Liberty in background!)

It’s Fleet Week in New York!   It corresponds, oddly, with my current personal absorption with Horatio Hornblower, the mythical hero of C.S. Forester, who through a series of eleven books makes his way through the ranks and at least some of the depredations of the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars.

It’s an interesting testament to the power of narrative that I had a very hard time tearing myself from the printed page of Forester’s Ship of the Line this morning to watch actual battle ships course down the Hudson, right next to my apartment building.   (So much for living in the moment.)

I just wanted to stick with Hornblower, even though the ships were hugely impressive, and lined with living, breathing human beings.

Much has changed since Hornblower’s time.  The U.S. Navy ships seem inordinately plain compared to Hornblower’s schooners, frigates, ships of the line, with their top gallants, topsails, reefed topsails, mainmasts, mizzen masts, jury masts, rigging,  netting, and long nines.  There are a few small towers of gizmos, presumably related to radar, but for the most part, these new ships are large slightly curved trapezoids of painted grey.

It’s hard  to imagine these huge wedges of steel as the descendants of the beautiful, if gnarly, sailing ships of the British Navy.  Though there they were–men (presumably women too) lined up in rows of white (the sailors) and dark blue (the marines), roughly in the same divisions of rank and service as on Hornblower’s ships.

Other similiarities: decks!  Portholes!  (Wait–are there portholes now?) Starboard, port, stern, bow, lee, tack–vocabulary.

Space constrictions–though I expect modern seamen have more than 18 inches per hammock.

Some monotony of food?  But, hopefully, today’s soldiers  do not have to tap their sea biscuits to scare out weevils.  (They only need to be concerned about trans fat and high fructose corn syrup.)

What else do Forester’s sailors and today’s share?  The sea!  The sky!  The horizon!  Occasional seasickness!

Reading C.S. Forester makes one very conscious that conditions of the British navy during the Napoleonic Wars were almost unimaginably severe, especially with so many sailors press-ganged to begin with.  (Hardly a volunteer force.)

Scurvy, disease, amputation, the requirement of absolute obedience at the threat of flogging, court martial, hanging.  Though, actually, the biggest danger seems to arise from the incompetence and/or greed of supervising officers. (Hornblower, of course, excluded.)  And too, less-than-reliable allies.

Hmmm….

Of course, what ultimately makes the books compelling is not the politics, the tacking and heaving of sails, or even the discussions of sea biscuit, but the character of Hornblower himself — outwardly indomitable, inwardly hyper-sensitive, noble (in spirit if not rank), brave, and amazingly quick-witted even when in a near stupor of fatigue and stress.

Did one of his spiritual descendants sail by this morning?

Maybe.   (I, for one, was too busy reading to notice.)

Even Stouter than Hornblower?

Monks At Radio City

May 22, 2010

Monks at Radio City

I was lucky enough to get to see the His Holiness the Dalai Lama again today for two of his final lectures in a series at Radio City Music Hall discussing Buddhist commentary on the Bodhicitta Bodhisattva’s way of life.  The Dalai Lama and Richard Gere both!   One whose bald head was (shockingly) partly covered by a thick maroon visor, the other whose head was (shockingly) totally covered by a thick shock of extremely white hair.

“What a good guy,” someone said as we walked up the aisle at the end of the last lecture.   (Meaning, I believe, the Dalai Lama, and not Richard Gere.)

Yes, a very good guy.   But what struck me as much as his goodness was his simple common sense; for all his idealism, for all of his adeptness at finding great benefit in the arduous and difficult, the Dalai Lama is a realist.  (“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.” )

I had not, before this, focused on the pragmatic aspects of Buddhism–the fact that it doesn’t seem to push truths, so much as accept them..  Okay, I’m not so sure how well karma and reincarnation fit with that last sentence, but certainly the understanding of universal suffering and death, the illusory quality of perception, and the advocacy of altruism as a skillful means to happiness, are pretty clear-cut.  And the emphasis on investigation and acceptance leads to a great openness.  (At one point, His Holiness laughed at some of the astronomic views of Buddhist science, for example, and called them a “disgrace”, a “disaster”–no pushing fundamentalism on that front.)

Neither my eye sight nor my seat were good enough to sketch the Dalai Lama without reference to the camera screen, and the images moved quickly.  (Plus, I actively tried to watch him.)   So I include sketches above and below of various monks and nuns on the stage (all those shaved heads) , particularly those behind His Holiness’s translator.

(Note that the elephants in the very first sketch above are not intended to represent the infiltration of Hindu favorites so much as the infiltration of ManicDDaily favorites.

Have a nice night.

Have a nice night.

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……

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.’)

23rd Day of National Poetry Month – Slant Sonnet About 22nd Day of National Poetry Month

April 24, 2010

Helicopter

23rd Day of National Poetry Month! Here is a sonnet written (oddly enough) about the 22nd day of National Poetry Month, that is, April 22, 2010, the day that Obama came to speak to Wall Street (though the poem is not really about Obama so much, or Wall Street, but just that particular day.)

Although the poem is, I suppose, technically a sonnet (it has fourteen lines), it uses slant rhyme and run-on lines rather than ending the lines with a rhyme or slant rhyme. (A slant rhyme is a “not-quite rhyme.”) This gives the poem an assymetry which tonight (I started late!), may be a function of lack of time, and fatigue; however, this assymetry can also be a useful tool as it avoids the cutesiness that can sometimes plague a rhyming poem.

April 22, 2010, NYC (Day of Obama Visit)

The meteor shower that I didn’t see
was seen yesterday, as was the fox outside
our country shed, painted white and faded green.
It ducked down in the spring grass, only orange spied–
orange-red. (Why they call it a red fox.)
But I drove down the FDR so early
I only saw the police and the blank box
of heliopad, waiting for the whirling
blur of polished light that seems to form
around anyone whose picture is taken
often enough. I saw too my cabbie’s worn
shirt collar (grey with black and white flakes of
contrast.) Wife was from Belize, he’d never
been. We talked of that by the dawn East River.