Saturday, August 30, 2008

Saturday Scribes: August 29, 2008

Theme: Five Senses

Words: sympathy, error, fraction

No title

It’s a mistake to read some really good fiction before you write. So have some sympathy for me. I made a mistake. It was an unfortunate error. I just finished one of the best hard-boiled mystery novels ever written. I turned over the last page, felt the eeriness of an ending that inspired Camus into writing ‘L’Etranger’, and the sat down at my big almost-clunky old computer and expected to write something.

Hah!

It’s five o’clock in the morning, and my mind is filled with images of green water, a shark and two specters on board a ship. An Ancient Mariner illusion.

Where does this take me? If I could have a fraction of the morning back again, I might take it. I’d make my coffee all over again, avoid reading that ending, and let myself begin feeling. Tasting. Smelling. All those good ways of getting into a new story.

A story about...... where is my ‘l’etranger’?

I know that I’m not meant to write an existentialist novel. I can be moved by that tradition - Coleridge, Conrad, Camus ..... not the usual names yoked together - but I don’t have to write in it. I may live in a post-existentialist world, but most of the time I don’t feel irretrievably cut off or lost at sea. I feel loved, happy secure, which is not an ideal state of mind for writing.

Hand me a bottle - hand me over some new sorrows - perhaps that would help.

You can choose to live in your head. Perhaps this is one of the biggest dangers that humans face. Live in your mind and not in your body and you literally cut yourself off from experience.

If your hide from your pain, then it is easier to commit all kinds of scandalous crimes. But the pain comes back to you. You murder, drink and vomit. And the vomiting reminds you of your humanity. Your body rebels against the crimes you commit.

But if you allow yourself to taste the bitterness of coffee, feel the cool smoothness of the grey mouse under your right palm, experience the pain of a sore back, then you can’t feel entirely cut off from your own pain or that of others.

We take pain-killers to avoid the experience of something unpleasant, but perhaps that very experience is what can bring us back to ourselves and others.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Saturday Scribes August 23, 2008 - Fragility

Fragility



I hadn’t talked with him in a year or two. Ward and I were like that. He’d get busy. I’d get busy. Mandarin took most of my time - learning Mandarin. It wasn’t a task for the faint-hearted. I was always doing warm-ups, reviewing the basic characters, never seeming to get to the nitty-gritty conversational side of the language. If I continued to learn this slowly, then I wouldn’t be prepared for my upcoming trip to China.

Ward was busy also. He was a freelance writer and claimed that he could write a $40 article in an hour. Ward worked eight or more hours a day. He could make a living on it, he said. He was disciplined, hard-working and full of brilliant ideas.

We hadn’t seen each other in a long time, but the friendship was always there. I knew that I could always phone Ward up, mention that I was in town, and he and Stacey would whip up a great meal. Usually fish, rice, salad and white wine. Those visits were wonderful. Stacey would put the kids to bed, and we’d all relax. Stacey would bring out the desserts, a delicious home-made cake or some wonderfully decadent treat.

It was March. I needed a break from my Mandarin studies, and decided to phone Ward. I planned to be in town next week and felt that I could use the warm companionship, the evening chats, and the desserts. I phoned and got the answering machine. “Hi, Ward and Stacey, Dylan and John are out right now, but feel free to leave a message.” It was Stacey’s voice, welcoming, cheerful, and I did leave a message, explaining that I was coming to town and would love to see them.

Strangely, there was a delay. Ward usually got back to me right away. Within a day, I would receive a call back. But I wasn’t worried. It was only Monday, and I wasn’t planning to visit till Friday. I could wait. Likely Ward was working under a deadline. I understood what his life must be like. If he didn’t work his eight hours, he wouldn’t make any money. I wondered briefly what it must be like to work independently, like Ward. There would be a lot of pressure to discipline yourself, to force yourself to sit at your computer and work for so many hours a day. But Ward could handle anything. He had drive and could create within himself a sense of urgency for projects.

Another day passed, and still no word. This was strange. Maybe my message got lost. It was Tuesday now, and I wanted to know whether it was worth the trip to Phoenix. I didn’t have any other real reason for going. After some deliberation, I decided to wait till Wednesday. If there were still no word, then I would phone on Wednesday evening.

I spent Wednesday avoiding my Mandarin study. My teacher had given me hundreds of characters to memorize and I was tired of trying to think of memory tricks to keep them all in my head. Part of me began to worry if I was capable of learning this near-impossible language. Of course Chinese children learned to speak Mandarin. It was their mother tongue. But for a Western the process was like an arduous ordeal. I felt that the Herculean task was beyond me.

And Ward didn’t get back. It was 8.00 Wednesday night. I wanted to know, make my plans, enjoy the conversation and good friendship I could only get from Ward and Stacey. At 8.30 I phoned again. This time, Stacey picked up.


“Hi Stacey! How are you doing?”

Stacey recognized my voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry we didn’t get back.”

“That’s all right. I was just wondering about Friday. I was thinking about driving into Phoenix...”

“I know. We got your message.”

Stacey didn’t sound like herself. Her voice hesitated. I felt that something strange was going on.

“Is everything okay? Can I speak to Ward?”

“Ward’s not hear right now. I’ll get him to call you. Okay?”

“Fine.” I felt like asking her again. ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’. But I didn’t. I let her be. I liked Stacey too much to grill here when she was feeling uncomfortable. Ward would get back to me soon enough.

It turned out to be sooner rather than later. An hour later, Ward pulled up in his little blue Pontiac. I couldn’t be more surprised. Ward had never visited me before, never driven out of Phoenix without Stacey.

I ran out to the car to greet him and saw that Ward looked nothing like his usual self. Normally Ward, a bit of a control type, was clean as clean could be, in informal but immaculate clothing, scrubbed red face, neatly ironed shirt under a well-fitted sweater and well-fitting pants. But here he came out of the car looking positively scruffy. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. His glasses looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in days. His shirt was wrinkly and even dirty looking.

“Ward. What’s going on, man?” I grabbed him and gave him a big hug. He looked like he wanted only to climb into this shell, like a snail that was tired of viewing the world and only wanted to retreat and possibly die.

I made Ward some tea. Normally he drank hot coffee. It helped his writing. But today, he wanted tea, and I brewed up a strong pot. Waiting for the tea, Ward sat uncomfortably on my sofa, like he was afraid of dirtying it.

“You want to take a shower?” I asked. But Ward didn’t even take my words in. When I gave him the hot cup of tea, he just stared into the distance. The only time I remembered staring blanking out like that was when my mother died. I was so shaken up that I spent many, many lonely hours by the river of my old hometown, looking out at the river, mindlessly - unconsolable.

Finally Ward spit it out. “We’re finished.” He whispered it out as if the words were physically painful to say. “Stacey and I. It’s all over.”


I suddenly felt lost. I was reeling. Stacey and Ward. Wine and desserts. Put the kids to bed. What could possibly have happened? They were the perfect couple, the perfect family. They seemed so stable.

But looking at Ward, unhappy, broken, barely able to choke his tea down, I wondered what I meant when I said the word stable.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

saturday scribes august 9, 2008

A meditation session


Tania’s mind was always full of thoughts. She realized this when she first started meditating. As she tried to focus on quiet breathing, thoughts came to her unwarranted, unwanted, unwelcome. Initially she tried to drive these thoughts from her mind. A thought would come. I’ve got to finish cutting the potatoes for potato salad. I still have to take the recycle out. I wonder when Dave is going to call. What is he doing right now?

But driving the thoughts away didn’t seem to help. She would drive one thought away, and another cluster of thoughts would arrive to replace it. Again, Tania brought her mind back to her ingoing and outgoing breaths. In....out....in.....out........ That interview didn’t go as well as I wanted. I messed up those spec. ed questions.. ........Tania noticed that her mind had wandered. Again. If only she could catch her mind at the precise moment that it wandered from conscious awareness into an all-consuming thought in which she lost her awareness.

The best meditation book she’d tried suggested that during meditation you identify thoughts rather than try to drive them away. The second you became aware of a thought, you identified it as “thought,” and then you moved back to the breath. This was easier said then done. Tania kept missing that crucial moment when she lost track of her breath and became immersed in a thought. It was a difficult moment to pin down .

Tania again focused herself. In....out....in....out......in.....out.......she was doing well now. Three breaths. Uh-oh. Conscious awareness gone again in a moment of self-encouragement. kay. It was time to focus. Tania felt a need to glance quickly at her watch. What time was it anyway? She’d given herself 20 minutes to mediate, and probably ten had already passed. She wasn’t feeling peaceful yet. But the peace would come if she continued for months. She’d being meditation a few weeks now, and she’d noticed subtle changes in her everyday life. Nothing she could pin down easily. But she felt calmer, more centered.

Strangely, this calmness didn’t translate into her actually meditation sessions, which were regular times of uncomfortable mental discipline. And here she was again, thinking instead of meditating. Tania opened her eyes briefly and saw that only seven minutes had passed. She could never even count the number of thoughts she had in those seven minutes. They flew in as fast as fighter jets. Nasty little things. Or rather harmless things. If Tania could mentally transform those fighter jets into slow, passenger planes with enormous fuselages, then she might ultimately eliminate them. It would be easier to eliminate large planes, she thought logically, then speedy, potentially violent ones. Or would it? Did this really make sense?

Tania again tried to calm down the noise in her head. Where the heck did all these thoughts come from? Why wasn’t she in control of her thoughts? Could she ever control them? Then she reminded herself to stay calm. She again found her breath. In...out...in...out. Tania felt her heart slow down gradually. This time she was doing better. When a thought came, she mentally identified it. Thought. Sensation. Noise. The fan next to her was loud. Too loud. She kept having to identify it. Fan. Noise. Cool Air. Sensation. Tania suddenly wished that she hadn’t put on any lipstick that morning. Her lips were already dry, and the lipstick seemed to dry them out further. Lipstick wasn’t supposed to be good for you. You could pick up more natural stuff at the health store, but it cost more, and Tania didn’t have extra money to fool around with. And beside, this lipstick was supposed to be moisturizing.

Tania heard the timer go off. Twenty minutes was over. She opened her eyes. Her eyes were wet, and she felt like yawning. The hoped-for peacefulness hadn’t come, but she did feel more relaxed. Damn it. Meditation was probably the hardest thing she’d ever tried to do! How did the Dalai Lama do it?

Tomorrow, she’d try again, and maybe one day she’d have an answer to that one.

Saturday, August 02, 2008

Saturday Scribes: August 2, 2008

The words this week: lace, lattice, converter, and the theme is catalyst

Those Two Minutes


The lattice on the apple pie wasn’t working out. The delicate strips of pastry were falling apart. Megan worked patiently, repairing the soft dough. Pastry took a deft experienced hand, and hers was just learning. Making the lattice pastry reminded Megan of the first time she had tried to play guitar. Her fingers had felt awkward and clumsy against the narrow band of strings. Pressing the hard metal strings hurt. Curling her fingers was deeply uncomfortable. Finding the positions between frets stretched her brain to the max. Then, slowly, gradually, her hands became comfortable with the movements, her fingers became nicely callused. It took several years. Megan reminded herself of this. Two years minimum. So why did she expect to be able to make a perfect lattice crust on her second attempt? Because baking was easy, wasn’t it?


Not satisfied with her work, but willing to accept what was done, Megan carefully put the pie in the oven, and poured herself a cup of tea. Her mind returned to the reason she was busy making pies. To forget. To remember and to forget. It as if the forming and reforming of difficult pastry dough allowed her conscious mind to deal with last night. “Sorry,” The voice had called out from above the room. A voice from the dead. It had felt very, very unreal. Matthew had been foaming at the mouth. “Sorry.” the voice had called. Just those words. It was her uncle’s voice. What did he have to be sorry about? It had been years since Uncle Terry had died. Years. Megan had been 14 years old, maybe 15. She could barely remember him.

Yet Uncle Terry’s voice made her cry. Megan had been siting at that table, ready to laugh at the fakery, the hypocrisy, the comedy of these kind of pseudo-spiritual gatherings. Instead, she found herself crying, crying as if her heart would break. After the seance, they drank sherry. Megan stayed long enough to pull herself together. Matthew saw himself as a converter of souls.

“You will be coming back, Megan?” he touched her waist gently. Megan recoiled suddenly and violently.

“I’m not sure.” Megan made for the door. She drove home too fast. Upset. Angry. Why was she crying? She loved her Uncle Terry. He’d been so kind to her.

Megan finished her tea and took a quick peek at the pie. The initial fifteen minutes for baking the top at 425 degrees was almost over. In a couple of minutes, she could put the oven at 350 degrees so that the inside, all the apples she painstakingly cut, would bake through, and turn soft and delicious.

Those two minutes needed to pass, and Megan looked out the little kitchen window near her stove. They had pretty little lace curtains on each side, and, as Megan looked at those lace curtains, she suddenly recalled another pretty lace border. Megan’s bed sheets. The pretty white sheets.

Uncle Terry.


Megan felt like a metal guitar string was breaking inside of her.

Then the buzzer rang.