Heading South...

I haven't written in a while. The longer I stop posting the more critical and insecure I get of myself when I sit down to write. I don't have anything to write about in particular, so this is purely for the experience of it.

My suitcase is packed and I managed to fit everything into a carry-on. Now I don't usually pack ahead, but for once I wanted to enjoy a quiet evening rather than the mad frenzy I usually find myself in. For those of you interested in my itinerary I am heading to Portland to pick up my 10 year old nephew and accompanying him to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama. Isaac, my nephew, doesn't seem particularly excited about camp so either he is quietly reserved, he's scared, or he has no interest in it at all. Perhaps a little bit of all three. I couldn't be MORE excited for him, but I also realize I may be living out some childhood fantasy through him. Still, I hold out hope he will get something positive out of it.

I am a little worried about traveling down South with a child. I'm only there a few days doing the drop off/pick up and flying to Denver a few days in between, but when I spoke to D--- at the A--- cab company to arrange transportation, his drawl was bigger than his reservation skills. I know this is the 21st century but in the deep recesses of my mind, I still harbor some concern about how many Asians they have seen in Alabama? Perhaps all the Asians that are down in Huntsville are the ones that attend space camp? I guess we will see what happens when we arrive there at midnight. I just hope nobody asks me "Are YOU VIET-MA-NESE?"
By the way, no offense meant to those who live down in AL.

By the way, I've been thinking a lot about tar balls. Perhaps because they keep referring to it in the news when speaking about the BP oil leak. Huntsville is pretty far from the coast, but whatever they are, I hope I don't have to see one. Just in case though I will pack a little 3oz bottle of DAWN in my carry on.

The Tempo of Creativity

There is a speed to all the things that we have squeezed into our space-time continuum. In my case, the creative process is no exception. When my postings are read out loud, I discovered that I convey some excessive amount of urgency into the way I write. Maybe I am not alone in this as we hurl into an even faster society. So even without this intention, I am reaching into my brain to choose those words that send you on a speedy journey.

I like to read classics, however, as with with all classics, I say you have to stick with it for a 100 pages to really get into the rhythm of it. Nowadays, who does this unless it is required school reading? Have you ever tried to speed read "Wuthering Heights" or "Anna Karenina?" It is virtually impossible, and even if some understanding is derived from setting a speed record, the experience is severely curtailed. Language has certainly evolved, but as much as it is attributed to a melding of cultures and classes, it is also a product of our ever quickening lifestyle.

So what does this all mean? We may not all read classics, but I am certain that most of us email. I'm going to try and practice reading my emails aloud (work included) before sending them into cyberspace. I don't want anyone, especially clients, to junk my emails, but I can certainly be mindful of the tempo in which I frame my words.

Poetry is also helping me to return to my quieter roots. Because I am a product of this RIGHT NOW generation, I tend to have to read a poem a zillion times. The first time is my speed read. The second time is my speed read. The third time is also probably a speed read. It is around the fourth time that I allow myself to absorb each word. It is around the fifth or sixth time that some long buried synapses begin to stir and fire. I wonder if something that slows us down and inspires us with revelation could possibly produce more activity in the brain?

I recently practiced such an experience with the following poem

"The Anniversary of My Death" by W.S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
and bowing not knowing to what