PAUSE

On the days my writing is a megaphone, right here is where I'm saying what I want to say. Loud and clear.

On the days my writing is a metaphor, over there is where I'm implying what I want to say. Circumspect.

Most days I know "what I want to say" thanks to the English Teacher in My Head. The English Teacher in My Head tells me how to write in a wow-inducing way and tells me to mind my commas. The English Teacher in My Head tickles me, taunts me, grants me gold stars, kicks me in the solar plexus. She's moody and flighty. But she's also smart.

Sometimes she just wants me to listen, but I'm not always able. 

Are you able to just listen? 

Maybe you don't want to. Maybe you don't have time and just want to write. You have a goal, a deadline.  You pick up a pen, turn on your laptop. You keep your hand moving. You fill up pages. You say what you have to and want to say. You don't pause, you don't reflect.

Maybe by "you" I mean me. 

The English Teacher is telling me to stop, to sit. To listen.

And maybe by "English Teacher" I mean me.

CHAPUNGU

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BREAKDOWN

When I was younger, sadder, skinnier, and more foolish, an older, wiser college professor sat me down to ask why I had disappeared. It was a blindingly sunny day, the air was still, and one of the few people I respected was questioning my self-destructive behavior. After avoiding him for weeks, we sat in a small garden of pink flowers.

I was completely incapable of explaining myself.

It was my last semester. I was twenty-five. I had stopped going to classes and started sitting on my apartment's wooden floor. I stared at the window. I stared at the walls. Hours zoomed by. Hours crept by. I screened calls, ventured out at dusk, watched hot dog vendors push their carts away. Sunsets were tragic. Showers were overwhelming.

Turning the page of a magazine? Too much.

These paralyzing waves of sadness were not new. They had threatened to drown me for years, but always dumped me, last minute, on a needle-strewn beach. I'd learned, when feeling "well," to work extra hard and be the most model of students. That way if (when?) the inevitable "blues" came, I wouldn't be immediately dismissed as a flake.

As we sat in a garden of pink flowers, I had no idea how to say "I think I'm crazy."
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A NEW AUDIENCE

For whom do I write?

It would be "cool" to proclaim I write for myself.

But it would also sound cool (and less self-centered) to say I write for others.

The reality? Ninety-eight percent of my current writing is informal, handwritten in scattered notebooks, and unintended for others' eyes.

In years gone by, I wrote to impress teachers, editors, and potential romantic partners. (It worked, but took its toll.)

My words helped raise money for good causes, brought comfort, induced laughter. I've had the honor to teach writing, as well as study with talented writers.

I am proud of lots of my work, embarrassed by quite a bit of it, indifferent to most of it.

I wish I hadn't worried so much about my "audience" -- their needs, their suppositions, their judgments. I wish I hadn't censored myself. I wish I had been braver, more passionate, more fun. I wish I had been honest.
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I DON'T LIKE...

This is hard for me to admit but (deep breath) here goes: I don't particularly like novels. I have spent my entire life devouring books; most have been novels. For the past two or three years, though, I've had little interest in fiction.

Yes, I've enjoyed a few novels lately. I've almost finished The Girl Who Played With Fire. It'a good, solid book, as was its predecessor, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I like this series, and will eventually read The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. But..."I'm not gaga."

I read a lot of book reviews, and most can't convince me to give a fictional work a chance. Do I not "relate" to any fictional characters? At some point, they stopped being real, their worlds no more than sound stages.

Novels are a so-so food with too many calories. I will gladly devour a high-calorie snack, but it has to be delicious. Not many novels are delicious.

As a kid, Harriet M. Welch (Harriet the Spy) was as real as anyone I knew. I had no doubt of her authenticity; she was my friend. Every aspect of her life was vivid and I delighted in her world.

Somehow, in my innumerable writerly fantasies, I never saw myself a novelist. Writing assignments requiring characterization or plot were little more than straitjackets. I sought comfort in poetry.

Now I turn to nonfiction when I want to lose myself.

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INCUBATION

A couple of nights ago, I was watching a very early Seinfeld episode. Everything was a little off, and none of the characters were quite themselves. George was extremely spirited (with too much hair); Kramer's kooky-to-charming ratio skewed way kooky (with too little hair). Elaine wasn't in the episode. And Jerry -- Jerry did his stand up routine at the beginning and in the middle of the episode -- for way longer than necessary. His apartment was barren.

Even if you're not a Seinfeld fan, you have likely seen the initial episodes of tv shows you like, and been surprised at how under-developed the characters were. Although recognizable and essentially themselves, they are still just a whisper of who they will become.

Work hard enough and long enough to let your creations evolve. It is too easy to dismiss your efforts and cast them aside before you've given them a chance to come into their own.


Seinfeld started out good. It was nurtured and supported and became great.

Keep working. Find that place your work is meant to be. There's no final destination -- but you're not yet where you need to be. There's so much to learn along the way.

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MY FAVORITE POEM

LOVE SONG: I AND THOU

Nothing is plumb, level or square:
the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
any other piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By Christ
I am no carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
for myself, the floors
for myself, and got
hung up in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
at this house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey: rage.
Oh, I spat rage's nails
into the frame-up of my work:
it held. It settled plumb,
level, solid, square and true
for that great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
skewing as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This is hell,
but I planned it, I sawed it,
I nailed it, and I
will live in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
to the left-hand crosspiece but
I can't do everything myself.
I need a hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.

--Alan Dugan

PRACTICE

Observe, respond, translate, report. Approach the world anew: writer, poet, photographer, painter. Fully aware, fully awake. See what you see; create it.


Forget the dusty, dull connotations of who you are, who you were. Find a disturbing, enticing way of thinking. Look sideways -- preserve and transform what you see. Commit to a plan, a product, a goal.

What if our differences lie not in our talents, but in our wholeheartedness?

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TINY ANNIVERSARY

I created things i did and said exactly one month ago. That Monday, I was so happy to have filled an entire journal with my humble words. Today, I am happy to have continued my writing for yet another month.

I didn't start the day knowing it was a mini-"anniversary" of sorts, but it feels nice to know I have "made it" this far. This blog was intended to be "an exploration of creativity lost and found." Haven't been dwelling much on the "lost" years, because I am trying to experience and explore what is happening now.

Wandering last week in New York's art museums, I was lucky to experience many of Picasso's works. What gave me pause was the sheer number of pieces he had created over many decades. Of course, I was seeing but a fraction of his output. How magnificent to be in such long pursuit of your vision.

Speaking of vision, I am not really sure if I have one. Art for me has always been about processes, wanderings. I am discovering if there is a theme trying to reveal itself -- something that needs to be explored. What might it be?

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EYES ON YOUR OWN PAPER

I am really, really nosy. Like a cat who hops on your desk, craning her neck to peer at the computer screen, I need to know what you're up to. What are you doing, thinking, reading, writing, feeling?

This nosiness is well and good -- curiosity is healthy. But my curiosity can take me down a couple of dark paths:

• Path Number One: I find myself making judgments about what you're up to.
• Path Number Two: I start comparing myself to you.

I don't know which is the greater vice -- judging or comparing.

Judging: Seamlessly, I become my grandmother. Undoubtedly the inspiration for Statler and Waldorf, (aka "Old Men in Balcony during The Muppet Show") my grandmother was never at a loss for opinions. Opinions about everything: how you walked, talked, chewed, breathed, and were just like a horse's ass.

Comparing: This one is all me. To put it simply: I wonder why I must be blinded by the dazzling Heavenly light illuminating you. And why, if there's a God, He spat on and condemned me to a life of vapidity.

Perhaps I am a wee bit extreme? My desire, however, to steer clear of these two paths is sincere. I have spent more than enough time in my life watching what you're up to; it's time to put down the red pencil and binoculars and focus more intently on the work before me.

And that's a lot harder and scarier than dismissing you as a horse's ass.
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BACK FROM NYC

My trip to New York City: exhilarating and exhausting. When visiting my old stomping grounds, I am incapable of saying "enough!" My feet pay the price. Almost always slightly incoherent, I tried to be attuned to all the wonderful chaos. I didn't write as much as I'd hoped, and wish I had more photos. One of the "lessons" I learned: I need to sit and observe to take stronger pictures. I found myself always in motion, snapping haphazardly. I will be more deliberate with my camera.

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

Iced latte. 

Rockefeller Center. 

Store Window at Grand Central.

Advice from Jenny Holzer at MoMA.

Louise Bourgeois.

More Jenny Holzer.

Yes.

Advice for city dog owners.

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MOOD, WITH KELLY

PHOTOS OF PHOTOS

IS CORRECTNESS POSSIBLE?

Photos
and the ideas of photos.


Subjects wandering.


A museum full of chatterers 
and that which is chattered about.
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NEW YORK

It was always hard
to write here:
my shadow in the way,
living more important
than words.


The world didn't need
my translation.


It spun.
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LOOKING AT LOOKING

JEALOUSY

The prettiest woman
I have seen all day
isn't pretty.
She wears two purple scarves;
one is in her hair.


She doesn't care
about Picasso.
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THOUGHTS FROM 32,000 FEET

Wear black with bursts of color / Dark denim / Neutral makeup / Matte skin / Hair pulled back / Bangs / Jeans / Flats / A big purse / iPhone / Journal / A good pen / A smile / Curiosity / Feet that don't hurt / Lip balm / Sunscreen /  Wipey towelettes / Big impenetrable sunglasses / The ability to not exhaust myself / Credit card / Cash -- single dollar bills / A plan & the flexibility to stray from it / The ability to just sit and look around / The self-control to not move so fast I miss everything / The wisdom to use a bathroom whenever I get a chance / To not be the scowly person / To be the polite person / To rest well, but not sleep too late / To not get too annoyed by any one thing / To be able to get a little lost and keep my wits about me / To realize that being miserable isn't actually original  / Have a good time.

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WHAT MY COFFEE CUP TELLS ME

Learn to say thank you in ten languages

You'll only be your current age once

Donate blood -- you have plenty

Step 1 -- Rake leaves

Step 2 -- Jump!

Only look back if it makes you smile

Get your hands dirty

Dare to adventure

Marshmallows have no nutritional value, and that's ok

Savor every sip

Be the first to enter and the last to leave the dance floor

Indulge in chocolate therapy

Plant lots of trees

Be the ruler of your own life

Have a favorite charity

Lighten up

Spin the globe and pack your bags

Don't wait for New Year's to make a resolution

Dance in the rain

Pour yourself a cup of karma

Sing out loud

Be the first to apologize

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QUIET

This morning, my heart is with a beloved friend who is in the last days of her life. There is nothing her doctors can do, and she is returning home to be with her family.

When witnessing something so tragic, people respond in different ways. Some are compelled to express their horror and grief. Others turn inward, become quiet.

In these situations I believe it's best, for me, to keep my thoughts private. Words fail.

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DOG IN DOOR

VISITORS

When they get here, it will be late afternoon. Take them into the living room. Sit them by the window. Make sure you offer them a drink, food. Tea, coffee, soda, water – whatever. It won’t matter. Watch their mouths. Don’t stare.

Sit politely across from them in the brown chair and answer their questions as best you can. No need to worry; just don’t overdo it. Chitchat is good. Short. Sweet. Simple. And don’t talk to them like you think they are stupid. Or deaf. Keep your voice calm and steady, like we practiced. Don’t go too fast. Don’t be too loud. Don’t talk about me.

Once it gets a little darker, the room will have some shadows. Before it gets too dark, ask them what they think about the bicycle sculpture on the top of the bookshelf. They will have to look up, to the left. Glance at the shape of their eyes, but really try to figure out the color. See if they are grey, or more than grey. Remember, don’t stare. They will know you are looking, but probably won’t mind if you are gentle.

When they look back at you, focus on the instant your eyes meet. And remember what flashes in your mind. Where do you find yourself? Are you somewhere mundane, buying cottage cheese? Or maybe you will be somewhere beautiful, the beach. Your grandmother’s kitchen. You might feel like you’re a soaring balloon or a sinking anchor. Are you warm? Are you cold? What is it like? Just remember. You have to remember.  

Oh, and before you ask them to look at the bicycle, grab onto the side of your chair. Do it gently. Hold on as tight as you can.  
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MAKING AREPAS

MAINTAIN

I am weak: blistered feet.

Wanted: a strong body in a tiny space,

fewer aches and knees.

A simple nose, smaller thoughts.

This world:

huge puddles, mishaps with spices,
endings.

Life not as I'd imagined 
but I can keep up, 

sleeves at elbows, 
hair tucked behind my ear.

CAR TRIP

TRAVEL

I love to travel. The second I have a suitcase packed, I lose thirty pounds. Until I'm back, there are things I can't do, can't be expected to do. Travel gives me excuses. I love to travel.


Travel exhausts me. My trips are unfocused, structured. Go here, there, uptown, across bridges. Check longings off my list. Add others. Walk avenues. Get blisters. 


I follow my guidebook, I follow my nose. Travel exhausts me. 


Travel is not relaxing. Travel is chocolate concoctions, photos at strange angles, colorful shoes, gasps in quiet museums.

Imagine another life; travel is hard work.
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DIRTY WORD: "INSPIRATION"

The great composer does not set to work because he is inspired, but becomes inspired because he is working.  --Ernest Newman 

Inspiration is a dirty word, a filthy concept. Over the years, I have found myself wanting it, needing it, exalting it, lamenting it. I've waited and waited, my foot rat-a-tat tapping, eyes on the clock, furious for my next fix.

I have yet to fully acquire the skill of Working While Uninspired (WWU).

WWU is so simple; it requires you to

• arrive at your workspace every day 
• do what you do (even though you don't want to do it)

Even though you don't want to do it. 


That's the part that gets me.
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BREAKFAST

Some mornings are for writing and some are for breakfast with a friend. Never underestimate the power of great company! 

Pancakes are good, too.

JUST A PRETTY DAY

PICTURE TAKING, PT. 2 (OR: WHY I PREFER PHOTOS TO POEMS)

Taking photos is the one thing that allows me to be in the moment. It's physically impossible to not be one hundred percent engrossed with what's going on when the scene is being framed, the angle considered, the shot taken.

Click!...(Aaah.)

For a moment, I'm in another place. (There will be evidence of my journey.)

I love the re-visitation of my picture-taking time as I sit and crop, organize and edit -- knowing that I need to take lots and lots of pictures just to get a few good ones. Maybe just one. Maybe none. And even that is okay.

The youngest child knows pictures are so much easier than words; there are many, many spaces between words. Spaces in which too much is considered -- spaces in which the mind races ahead and back, circling like my frenzied spaniel just before I fill his dinner bowl.

My poems were vast, all spaces.

My photos are close-cropped, all now.
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YOGA GOOSE.

EXCUSE ME, EXCUSES...

I never wanted to be "that person" who couldn't function without morning caffeine.

Well, I'm very happily imbibing my morning latte, and will likely enjoy one this afternoon. 

I still take a couple of hours to accept my need. From six to eight am, I wander blearily in a fog, moping, crusty-eyed, unable to manage a coherent thought. I know the solution is always right there on my kitchen counter. 

Why do I make myself wait? lt would be different if I was trying to quit caffeine. But that's not the case; I've decided that one or two drinks a day are fine.

It's not about caffeine, however; it's about having an excuse. An excuse to wander, to mope, to not think. An excuse to not get started on the day. An excuse to think there's something wrong with me. 

It's just a buffer.

Time to turn the old adage around; it's always 8am somewhere!
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ACHE

I took a walk with Courtney Love

and she broke my heart again

SOMEWHERE

TIRED

Even though I am the opposite of a "dance dance dance dance dancing machine," the damn song is ricocheting in my head.

Last night I fretted about everything wrong in the world (and there is so, so much wrong).  I finally slept twenty-four minutes; even then, my brain was dervishing. With no hope of steadying, I gave in to the whirl.

You'd think the Internet would have distracted me from my insomnia. But, nooo; my Facebook friends are lame. What were they all up to on a Saturday night? Living their lives in the actual world? Sleeping? Going on dates? Hanging with Nicole Richie? Holy crap. Don't they know I'm at home, desperate for a few vicarious thrills? What a bunch of bull. If only I were fourteen; I would have partied on Twitter. Yeah, I would run down my iPhone battery for nothing.

Watch my lay down, watch me lay down.
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NOW