ICICLES IN THE SHOWER
THERE’S NOTHING EXALTED ABOUT THE ‘WRITERS’ LIFE’
Not infrequently, fellow bloggers will begin a post by apologizing about not writing for a spell. The fact they feel they have to apologize bothers me. Nobody’s obligating any of us to produce, and we all have regular lives to pursue, or at least lives we ought to engage. After all, that’s where so much of the grist for writing originates.
Besides, there’s no shortage of good reading in the blogosphere. Take a rest or catch up, and feel good about. Heavens! If we need anything regarding the written word, it’s more conscientious readers … ones who will encourage a wider audience for deserving work, especially.
Somewhat related, and just as disturbing, are the giddy proclamations of joining in the “writers’ life,” as if it’s some carefree club out there free of everyday obligations and cumbers. Maybe they’re envisioning the legendary Dorothy Parker and her Algonquin Round Table, or even the martini named after her, or some other crossroads in literary history, but let me proclaim that’s largely an illusion or mirage, especially in today’s publishing reality.
It’s one thing to be a casual writer and quite another to be a serious practitioner, and for the latter, the only shared lifestyle I’ve seen is a dedication to hard, daily work that includes not just writing but research, reading, and correspondence as well. It’s not glamorous, for sure, and in the current literary scene, you won’t get famous. Not compared to any of those so-called celebrities.
So if you must, then write. And then, because you must, revise repeatedly.
And if you aren’t so obliged, then read … for pleasure as much as anything. And maybe that’s where you’ll really find the “writers’ life,” one you might even share with others over coffee or cocktails.
Now, for me, it’s back to work. And thanks for listening.
REMINGTON CORNER
FEED THE BEARS NO MORE THAN YOU MUST … AND THAT GOES FOR MOOSE, TOO
There are good reasons, of course, for the resemblance between bears and people. But it’s smart to respect the difference.
Still, they have their role in the poems of my In a Heartbeat poetry volume. As do moose and whales.
This 35-page echapbook is available free from the Barometric Pressures author series at Kind of a Hurricane Press. The trail to your own copy opens here.
A CLUTCH OF MAPS
One of my favorite passages in all of poetry comes from Howard McCord’s “Longjaunes His Periplus”:
A chest of maps
is a greater legacy
than a case of whisky.
Followed by:
My father left me both.
Like my younger one, I’ve always been fond of maps. My bedroom wall was lined with tacked-up National Geographic charts, which tended to sag in our humid summers.
I was reminded of this the other morning when I was looking for a Boston street map, just in case I lost my bearings. Yes, I could have gone to the maps at Yahoo or Google. Even looked for the satellite views and all of the scary ability to snoop that goes with it. I couldn’t, though, use a GPS, neo-Luddite that I partly remain.
So I opened the drawer and here’s what I found (I won’t give you the years, though many are from the early ’80s):
- Connecticut.
- Pennsylvania (Exxon).
- Seacoast (New Hampshire).
- Idaho.
- New Jersey.
- Sierra Club USA.
- Pennsylvania (official).
- AAA USA.
- Long Island/New York City.
- Saugus Iron Works.
- Maine.
- Historic Bath.
- Delaware.
- Audubon Flyways.
- Walking Tours of Bath.
- Strafford County.
- Dover (0ne of a half-dozen varieties).
- Maudslay State Park in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Has a great stand of mountain laurel overlooking the Merrimack River.
- University of New Hampshire campus.
- Museums of Boston.
- Gonic Trails.
- Doctors Without Borders global view (two copies).
- Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
- Paul Revere House in Boston.
- Manchester, New Hampshire.
- Vermont.
- New Hampshire (one of several varieties).
- National Geographic the Making of New England and another of Canada.
- North Cascades.
- Mount Rainier, including trails.
- New York City subways (two versions, three maps).
- Brunswick and neighboring Maine.
- National Geographic Endangered Earth.
- Virginia.
- White Mountains trail guides.
- Mount Agamenticus.
- Lamprey River.
- Pawtuckaway State Park.
- Trumbull County, Ohio.
- Baltimore (two versions).
- Britain and Ireland.
- Mohegan Island.
- Historic New England properties.
- Maryland.
- Lake Champlain Ferries.
- Maine State Ferry Service.
- Ipswich, Massachusetts.
- Portsmouth-Exeter-Hampton etc.
- York (Maine) Water District trails.
- Minute Man National Monument, a series of sites in Massachusetts …
And that’s before we get to the drawer of topographical maps, especially those from my Cascades years. Or the books and atlases. Or the genealogical maps, Guilford County, especially in those files.
Oh, the memories! And you want to tell me they’re obsolete? Fat chance!
HONEY, WE HAVE IGNITION
Finding the perfect fire starter for the wood stove or outdoor grilling has been a challenge. Paper burns too quickly and usually with insufficient heat to do the job, plus it can quickly clog everything and then simply smolder.
Small twigs occupy a lot of storage space, at least during winter. You want to keep them dry, by all means.
Corrugated cardboard leaves a lot of papery ash – nothing you want flying up into the food on the rack.
And so on.
Maybe it was by accident I discovered that using cardboard tubes – those found in toilet paper and paper towels – works much better. Plus, you can crush a few and insert them inside another for extra oomph. They’re firm enough to allow air to circulate while the fire’s starting. And they’re easy to store.
You never do know quite what’s going to turn up in the Barn, do you?
WINTER BLOOMING
STARK APPROACHING NOON
On a hot sunny day in summer, this beach would be jammed with bathers. But that season is short, unlike the cold months and their repeated storms.
Turning around, you get a view of some of the cottages overlooking the beach from the cliffs of Cape Neddick.
ROAD WORK
I’ve spent a lot of my life behind a steering wheel, and that’s where a number of my poems originate.
From this, I can look at a concept. Lines from the road. Basho? Brautigan? McCord?
Flight or escape remains a central theme in American literature. Kerouac’s On the Road and Hunter Thompson come to mind, along with Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Blue Highways. Of course our two greatest American novels also reflect this action, often with its male bonding and fields of discovery – Moby Dick and Huckleberry Finn. It’s not just some vague sense of the liberty of a frontier to resettle, but with wheels, there’s the thrill of speed more destructive than hiking or canoeing or sailing. As for hobos and the rails? Another era. Outlaws more than vagabonds? As for the Gypsy, there’s an entire community to consider. As well as flights with a destination, in contrast to those lacking.
GUERRILLA CHRISTMAS
No other time of the year opposes our testament of simplicity as much as the Holiday Season. Here widespread expectations of generosity and excess counter our Quaker discipline of frugality and moderation. The situation becomes especially complicated for individuals like me who find themselves lacking in gift-giving savvy.
Even when Friends formed a sizeable community, they found standing apart from the surrounding society on these activities became impossible over time. Quakers eventually yielded to giving the children an orange or two the day after “the day the world calls Christmas.” We can see similar struggles among Jews regarding Chanukah, where its essential message from 1st and 2nd Maccabbees – to withstand pagan demands, no matter the cost – instead begins to mirror the activities of the general populace. Add to it our mixed families, coming from many different traditions, and any distinctive witness falls by the wayside. In my case, having a wife with a German mother, I’ve learned just how much compromise is required in these decisions.
Actually, she’s taught me a lot about ways to wage a Guerrilla Christmas. Yes, there’s the battle with consumerism, but most of us – and most of the people we know – don’t need more “things.” We have enough clutter already, thank you. So preference is given to gifts that can be used up – food or tickets to an upcoming cultural event or a promised action on behalf of the recipient. Whenever possible, small local enterprises are favored over “big box” retailers. Some of you know about our family tradition of making gingerbread houses, a bit of silliness that accompanies our observation of Advent. As for Advent itself, when you remember that the Twelve Days of Christmas begin the day the advertising ends, you’re liberated to enjoy a less frenetic round of being with those you love.
It’s not what earlier Quakers would have expected from us, but it’s still a witness. Maybe it’s also a way for us to expand our understanding of simplicity and joyfulness, too.
So here’s to the First Day of Christmas. Remember, the season runs all the way to January 6, so enjoy.
Jnana's Red Barn 