Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

Promoting Non-Self-Promotion–Whitman, Dickinson, (Jim) Joyce and Armando Galaragga

June 3, 2010

Self-promoter?

Yesterday, I wrote about stress and success, but what I really wanted to write about was my antipathy towards self-promotion.

Self-promotion is a major currency in our culture.  Many believe that fame, celebrity, translates into wealth; that notoriety is an achievement of its own.  (See e.g. Richard Heene, father of balloon boy.)

I personally have an exceedingly hard time with self-promotion.  I don’t mind it so much in others;  I well understand that a certain kind of self-touting is necessary to get attention in our culture, and that, for all my wish to deny it, attention can translate into a kind of power (book sales, ticket sales, advertising and endorsement contracts, appearances on “Dancing With the Stars”).

But, the idea of my self-promotion, that is, my own self-promotion, seems acutely, horribly, embarrassing.

What can I say?  I was raised as a Lutheran (which seems to instill, in its adherents, an overwhelming sense of inadequacy), admire Buddhism (which finds triumph to be illusory in any case), and I’ve been formed (culturally) by the stiff upper lip of English literature.  Besides all that, I am a woman.  (In my generation, feminine modesty did not just mean keeping your clothes on.)

(When I think of historic restrictions on women’s self-promotion as compared to men’s, my mind turns automatically to Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman ; while Walt, sounding his “barbaric yawp,” openly identifies himself as “Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,….Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from,” Dickenson writes, “They shut me up in Prose–/As when a little Girl./ They put me in the Closet—/Because they liked me “still”—”)

Agh!

Putting me aside (thankfully), I have been heartened by the recent hubbub around two wonderful non-self-promoters—Detroit Tiger pitcher, Armando Galaragga, and supremely penitent umpire, Jim Joyce.  Nothing could have been more graceful than the rueful smile of Galaragga when his perfect game was blown by the wrong call of Joyce, umpire at the first base line during the critical 9th inning third out.   Joyce’s open and sorrowful admission of his mistake was equally refreshing.   (Even the reporters listening to Joyce’s apologies were taken aback, one of them actually telling the ump that he was only human.)

Given our culture’s quest for both celebrity and happy endings, both men will probably get more fame and fortune from Joyce’s wrong call and Galaragga’s acceptance of unfairness than they would have gotten had the perfect game been achieved without incident.  (Society loves a story!  Society loves meaning!  Maybe the whole incident will result in the use of instant replays!)

Still, that doesn’t diminish the men’s grace and sincerity, and the wonder of a modern, heartfelt, and very public, apology.   A pretty perfect interlude no matter how the game is ultimately classified.

Stress and–TaDa!

June 3, 2010

 

Bridge over River Kwai (Sort of)

I’ve written a lot on this blog about creativity and stress, and also about just plain stress. I’ve also written a fair amount about rhyme.  But what about something that rhymes with stress (sort of)?

Success!  (TaDa!)

Some people consider stress and success as opposite sides of the coin; some (particularly those who have good physical health) even seem to believe that success—I mean here, financial success, or, its great proxy in our culture, fame—will solve major problems.  We all know this isn’t really true;  we all know many successful people who are neither relaxed nor happy.   Still, if you are a creative person, success can feel like one sure way to reduce stress, especially if it means that you no longer need to hold onto your “day job”  and can, instead, devote your energies totally to your creative/artistic endeavors.

It’s certainly true that time, as well as acknowledgement, interest, praise, are great goads to creativity.  But if you do not have success, there are a few compensatory factors which it may help to keep in mind–factors other than a sense of martyrdom and/or the illusion that truly original art is never recognized in its time.

First, of all, day jobs (other than, perhaps, those that involve the postal service), often keep people sane. They tend to get you out of the house (unless you are a housekeeper), put roses on your cheeks (unless you are an office worker), keep your feet on the ground (unless you work for the airlines.)  Most people’s “day jobs” also involve some accommodation of others on a relatively frequent basis.  This interaction with people makes one more human (if more frustrated), and (unless you work for an investment bank) less grandiose.   The skepticism, impatience, and sometimes downright contempt, of co-workers, customers, students, can promote deep self-examination, always a useful pastime for the artistic.

Creative work, on the other hand, is often both solitary and unstructured, which can lead to real head-aches by late afternoon when you either simply have to (i) stop working, or (ii) get working.

Moreover, while a day job may involve a certain amount of self-discipline (i.e. getting there), it often (once you’ve held it for a while) requires little self-promotion.  Achieving and then maintaining even a modest artistic success, in contrast, seem to require vigilant self-aggrandizement; the image must be burnished; the door to opportunity propped open; staleness stubbornly refuted.   While the embarrassing failures of the unsuccessful can just sink into oblivion, the failures of the successful are known and mocked by all.  (Note, in this regard, Sex in the City 2. Even someone like me, who has never seen a single Sex in the City show ever, is making fun of it).

All of which goes to say (as was said in The Bridge Over the River Kwai, a really great film about the conflicted nature of achievement), be happy in your work.  Be glad of what you don’t have (yet.)

Stress and Creativity–Making Choices (Arranging the Lives of Characters Not Family Members)

June 1, 2010

Space

My newly discovered focus on stress and creativity has energized the part of me that loves to give advice.  The one caveat I would make to those reading my advice:  “do as I say, not as I do.”  It is infinitely easier to dish out good counsel than to follow it.

Life is stressful, particularly in the modern world where many play multiple roles; there are the stresses of all that must be done to maintain a job, home, family;  then, there is the added stress of distraction, so many possibilities for avoidance.  Right at the tips of our fingers are the means to while away huge amounts of time—email, Facebook, worldwide news services, horoscopes, blogs, video clips, even favorite TV shows.

In my experience, creative people find it extremely easy to justify giving in to distraction.  We characterize it as “inspiration,” “research.”   We persuade ourselves that it is necessary “keeping up,”  important “networking.”

Some of these justifications may be valid, up to a point.  But the problem is that creativity needs space, a bare spot in the brain to flop around in.  Sure, a brainstorm can arise during a tumult of activity and distraction, but accomplishment (that is, finishing something) generally needs a bit of concentration; time; solitude.

Even if we can restrain our fingertips, nipping computer distraction at the knuckle, there is also the problem of … people; the real live human beings in our lives.  Creativity thrives on people; it wants to speak to people, to impress people, entertain them, awaken them.  Even the most narcissistic artist usually has some genuine sensitivity and empathy.

Still, usually you can’t actually make something (other than perhaps a baby), if you do not cultivate a certain reserve.   By reserve, I do not mean coldness or apathy.  I mean, once again, time, space, quiet, focus.   Given such needs, you may sometimes have to distance yourself from people, to make a choice not to be involved in every family or community drama; to try not to “fix” people (other than your characters).

I should step back here: creativity comes in many different forms.   Some people find their creative expression in mediation or entertainment, in, for example, preparing the perfect family reunion or dinner party.  I had an aunt like this who expressed herself through her elaborate celebrations; I have a cousin who manages to send cards to a wide variety of people not only for their birthdays, but for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Mother’s Day, etc.

But if you want to focus on something more egotistical– poetry, writing, painting—and you are not making a living from this work—then you simply have to make choices.  Arranging other people’s lives, or even the perfect dinner party, may not always be possible.  Accept that.   (And you may just find that the other people in your life benefit from this choice as much as you do yourself.)

Longterm Focus – Stress and Creativity – Pearl!

May 31, 2010

Pearl - Habit and Engagement

The other day I worried that I really didn’t have a focus for this blog; something to orient  both me and any readers I may be lucky enough to snare.   What have I been I writing about?  What subject do I even have to write about?

Then I suddenly realized that the general subject of this blog has been stress and creativity.  If I wanted to sound official, I’d say the interface between stress and creativity, but since I can’t say that with a straight face (or interface), I won’t.

What does this mean?  I guess the question for me is how one, in this manically depressed stressful modern world, maintains some kind of creative effort?  How can one use stress as a source for creativity rather than as a wet blanket for its termination?  (How, also, can the manic avoid using creativity as a further source of stress?)

For my first conscious exploration of this subject, I turn to the teachings of my old dog Pearl.  Pearl was struck by a sudden spine problem a couple of weeks ago that paralyzed her from the dog-waist down, rendering her hind legs both insensitive and immobile.  Amazingly, with the help of steroids, she has recovered some use of her legs: she can wobble along now, though she moves like the proverbial drunken sail—dog.  (BTW, after reading several Horatio Hornblower books last week, I now feel enough “expertise” to understand that the unsteadiness of a drunken sailor is archetypical because it arises from at least two sources—(a) alcohol and (b) sea legs, i.e. legs accustomed to the sway of waves that are suddenly posited upon dry land.)

Pearl’s up in the country this weekend, and her reaction to it is a lesson in the maintenance of creativity under stress.  (For these purposes, I’ll consider Pearl’s outdoor explorations and general cuteness her “expression.”)

Pearl still has trouble even walking, and yet, here, in a country place she has loved since puppydom, she wobbles, skips, trots.  What motivates her, what keeps her going, seems to be two factors:  habit and engagement.

There are certain places (a long dirt driveway), and certain times of day, in which Pearl has always run here.  That habit (plus steroids) is so strong that when I put her down on these spots, and at those special times, her legs just move.

Where habit runs out, engagement takes over.  The scent of a place where a deer has recently bedded down will lure Pearl, sniffing, into tall grass, pull her through reeds, propel her into Heraculean effort.  I can only derail her lopsided enthusiasm by physically picking her up and putting her back on her track, where, out of habit, she quickly wobbles off again.

Which brings me back to the creative human mind dealing with stressful obstacles–all those drags upon the consciousness.  How to avoid paralysis?  How to dart and trot, dig and ferret?  How to just keep going?

This (I think) is this blog’s inquiry.

Thanks so much to those who have been following.  Stay tuned.

Memorial Day Weekend- Liquified Whitman

May 30, 2010

Memorial Day Weekend

Here is a draft poem for Memorial Day weekend.  Did you know that Vitamin B is recommended to ward off bug bites?  Apparently, mosquitoes hate the smell.

On the Grass By the Pond

My Vitamin B-infused pee
blends with the blades of yellow-green
below my thighs, like
liquefied Whitman.
Memorial Day Weekend.
First outdoor pee of the season.

Memories of Memorial Day

May 29, 2010



Memorial Day Weekend

Memorial Day Weekend.

When I was a child growing up in suburban Maryland, the weekend was glorious. It meant the opening of swimming pools for summer; it meant the opening of summer for summer.   It meant that any school days we had left would count for nothing but a countdown, in which the sweat accumulating at the backs of our knees would smell faintly of graphite and the white vinegar used to sponge down the school cafeteria.

The pool was where we spent almost every daylight moment in our summers.  We had no air conditioning,  managed the heat through damp bathing suits, that were kept on even after we came home, darting around the slow darkening of summer yards, kept on even in the blue glare of night TV.

Later, as an adult, Memorial Day Weekend meant a chance to drag my two children to upstate New York, leaving the very momentary green of May city for some real, deep, comprehensive, green.  We seemed to be collecting coolness up there too.   (Air conditioning has not been an easy accomplishment in my life and there is nothing like most New York City apartments for jumping into summer fast, each room its own little microcosm of global warming.)

It was only on these trips up to the country that I glimpsed the true meaning of Memorial Day.  There is one cemetery our route passes; actually the road bifurcates it; drives smack down the middle.

Of course, the cemetery is green in May;  it’s green all summer long, the grass lush, fenced in, mown, lined with small brown and grey headstones that look almost like the class of kids in my old schoolroom, half-asleep.

There were always a few little bouquets, some too brilliant against the rectangular stones to be completely real.  But on Memorial Day weekend, there were more, and, with the flowers, small American flags, prongs stuck into the earth or on small stands

Sometimes, driving by, we’d see a few small groups, women with pale hair scalloped around their faces, the curves made by curlers, or permanents, old-fashioned hair.  Women with pastel pants, sometimes worn under dark windbreakers; upstate New York’s weather changeable in May.

Even watching them, with their curled hair and small American flags, it took me a while to catch on.

(For a villanelle about swimming in summer at the pool, check here.)

Responsibility/Independence…Independence/Carefreedom–Horatio Hornblower Longs For His Wife’s Hand

May 27, 2010

Scale - Responsibility/Independence

My latest hero, C.S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower, makes an interesting observation in the 9th book, (the one I am reading tonight), Commodore Hornblower.

Facing difficult decisions in the Baltic in the period immediately before and after hostilities open between Sweden, Russia and France (led by England’s arch nemesis, Napoleon Bonaparte), Hornblower is suddenly, deeply, homesick.  He finds his command and the many duties and expectations heaped upon his slighting stooping shoulders suddenly overwhelming (those who spend the life in the cramped quarters of ships almost always slouch a bit); he misses his wife, child, and the trivial chores of the land-based life in England that he found almost stultifying at the beginning of the book.

Then he calls himself back to the realities both of who he is and of human nature generally:  “And here he was complaining to himself about the burden of responsibility, when responsibility was the inevitable price one had to pay for independence: irresponsibility was something which, in the very nature of things, could not co-exist with independence.”

Responsibility/independence.  I’ve never heard the words rigged quite so cleverly.

What a wonderful thing it is to call one’s own shots.  Yes, it’s nice to get help; it’s very nice to feel taken care of; to have some prop holding up the idea of self-reliance.  But to be able to say “screw you”has a special satisfaction, which, of course, comes with a price.   If you say, “screw you”, to someone, it’s helpful to be able to live without that person’s financial or emotional support.

Perhaps this is all very obvious.  Perhaps I’m just blinded by my current affection for all things Hornblower.   (He really is a very charming character.)   But I find his direct correlation between responsibility and independence remarkably thoughtful.  The odd thing is that when one is burdened with responsibility, it is hard to actually feel independent;  often, especially in today’s society, independence is equated with freedom–freedom from ties, freedom from responsibilities.  But that freedom, or carefreedom, is different from the strength, the possibility for discretion, that Hornblower sees as independence.  (Hornblower catches this irony too as he describes the envy he feels for the able-bodied seamen, who have the carefree nonchalance of those whose only job is to competently carry out orders.)

Hornblower’s understanding all this doesn’t negate his sharp longing for his wife’s hand, son’s smile.  But, ever the stoic Brit, the Naval officer, he (silently) goes down to his cabin to study the chart of Riga Bay.

(That Hornblower.)

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?

More on Blocking Writer’s Block – Maintaining Bad Habits (Advice from the Dalai Lama?)

May 25, 2010

Rotating Storm

At the Dalai Lama’s lectures in New York City over the last weekend, he advised (naturally) meditation as a means to slowly effect change in one’s life.  “One lecture not enough,” he chuckled.

He encouraged the audience to start a practice even if their beginning steps felt very small.  He advised just “five minutes” every morning, particularly if the five minutes were “quality time;” that is, five minutes spent with some attempt at genuine focus.  A small period of quality time seemed better to him than a longer, more wandering attempt, simply because it helped one avoid bad habits.  In His Holiness’s view, a bad habit was harder to break than a new habit to instill.

All of that sounds right.   And I hesitate to argue with His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  Particularly about matters related to meditation.

So I won’t.  Still, I was thinking this morning as I did my slightly desultory, bad-habit-infected, yet daily, yoga practice that I’m not in complete agreement with these principles, at least not when they are applied in areas other than meditation, such as a practice of daily writing.

Here’s my problem:  of course, quality time writing is better than going-through-the-motions time.  But what if you are faced with a choice between going-through-the-motions-time vs. zero time?  Is a bad habit really worse than no habit? (That is, not writing at all?)

I am concerned that many people when starting any kind of discipline make a good and earnest beginning–then, things bog down, especially as the glow of initial results fades, and the hard slog begins in earnest.

I don’t know what His Holiness would advise for a bogged-down meditator—I’m guessing that it would be a combination of continued effort, and a little less fretting.

I would co-opt that same (surmised) advice for a writing practice.  At times, it is likely that some bad, escapist, habits may creep in;  they may in fact be all that keeps you going–the background distraction of a book on tape; the muddled support of three cups of tea and a glass of wine;  writing on the elliptical machine;  relaxing with vampire novels so as to avoid the schaden freude of more challenging works.   Perhaps it does make sense to scale down during such a period–when you are having a hard time finishing anything, you may be better off working on a short story (or  blog) than the great American novel.   Still, it’s important to keep putting in your five minutes, even a fitful five.

The most important caveat here is not to get smug about your fitful efforts.  Stay honest.  Sometimes you may not feel capable of more than a thread of creativity; but don’t assume either (i) that it’s all you will ever be capable of; or (ii) that it’s enough.

One other suggestion (taken from a yoga teacher, David Life, who was trying to help me with backbends)–if you need to cheat a little to do your work (or pose, in the case of yoga), try alternating your form of cheating.   Rotate your bad habits to avoid letting any single one become the norm.  In the case of backbending, that meant sometimes turning out my feet too much, other times, bending knees.  In the case of a writing practice, that may mean sometimes just writing a very boring journal entry; other times, a very boring prose poem!

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.