Seattle, Washington - the end of February, 2010

REFRAMING THE WATER HOLES -
Three notions and a conclusion.

ONE:

I read somewhere that in some nomadic tribes in sub-Saharan Africa the singers, poets, dancers and storytellers have an essential practical responsibility within the life of the tribe.

It is they who are keepers of the memory of where the water holes are.

In the hot, dry desert land in which the tribes wander, water is life.
And the tribe’s continuing existence depends on these who remember well.
Memory, in this case, is preserved through art.

That metaphor struck a resonating chord in my mind.
It’s the way I feel about poets and songwriters and storytellers, of whose tribe I am a minor member.
It may be said that in any culture an artist’s job is to remember and put that memory to use in the commonwealth.

On reflection it seems to me that the artist must himself return from time to time to the water holes to determine if they remain and contain water.
The artist must keep his own experience up to date and his memory current.

TWO:

Recently I spent an afternoon in an atelier where paintings are framed.

Whatever the statement the artist makes, the framing is meant to give it a boundary and a context - not to compete with it, but to enhance it.
Laying several different L-shaped samples alongside a painting invites a different feeling about the painting.
Some frames work - some don’t.
But you won’t know if you don’t explore the possibilities.
For example, a plain black edge around a Rembrandt would not compliment the painting, but a fine old frame enriched with gold leaf declares its value.
The frame says, “This painting is worthy of respect.

The title of a book is also a frame.
To test the notion, try changing the name of a novel that has stood the test of time. For example, “War and Peace” vs. “Conflict and Tranquility.”

One’s self image, one’s philosophy of life, one’s religion, and one’s expectations are also artistic frames.
Some frames work. Some don’t.
But the possibilities must be tested or else you won’t know what’s best. 

If a work of art is badly framed it may be restored to life when reframed.
Reframing is always a possibility.

THREE:

When a film is being made a director often employs a simple viewing device unique to the visual arts.
He looks through a two inch square hole in the center of a sheet of black plastic as a way of focusing on the details of a scene while eliminating the visual clutter all around what he wants to see.

I have one of these devices.
Last Sunday I sat for awhile on a bench at the Ballard Farmer’s market, held the viewing device still, and focused just on the feet of people walking by as they moved through my frame of reference.
Where once I saw a rambling crowd, now I saw a film of people dancing.
And thereby reminded myself of how much I miss when I don’t pay careful attention.

______________

These notions are an oblique way of pointing at something - an existential need I’ve been slow to recognize and acknowledge.
For the last year I’ve worked intensely on a new novel and a new book of essays, while keeping both a personal journal and writing a more public journal for this website.
A lot of writing.
An exhilarating but creatively exhausting period in my life.
With mixed results.

Thirty-two people read and critically reviewed the work of fiction.
The response was not positive. The opinions were sharply divided.
And the reaction to the book of essays and stories was equally confusing.

While I’m not defeated by the feedback, I don’t have the clarity I need that suggests what to do next.
Stalemate is the applicable word.

I ask myself, “Has this ever happened before?”
I answer, “Yes. And now it’s happened again.”
I ask, “Did you find a way out and on?"
I answer, “Yes, and that, too, will happen again.”
I ask, “Do you remember how you found a Way?”
I answer, “Yes, and I will do that again.”

So.
The time has come again to go out and revisit the water holes - to make sure they are still there and contain viable water.
The time has come again to reframe my expectations, thinking and writing.
And the time has come again to sit still and refocus on what I look for in the world and in my life.

To that end I’ll take a three month sabbatical from wrestling with writing. I’ll resume experiencing the provocations that come from travel and thinking and reflecting without demanding an immediate translation into words and sentences.

This is the last journal to be posted here for awhile.

I’m returning to Greece - to the island of Crete - to be there for the great Orthodox celebration of Easter, which coincides this year with western Easter and Jewish Passover.

It will be good to be again where the human enterprise has been underway for seven thousand years - where human history is deep and wide and long.

I want to participate in the Paschal feast, take part in the village celebrations, join the dancing, listen to the music, and watch the red poppies slowly rise up to carpet the landscape in spring. And walk out at dawn, not to find something to write about, but to be there in the day - not to speak, but to be spoken to.

I’ll return in June.
By then I will have something new to say - a reassured memory of where the water holes are - and a better frame around the words I’ve written and still will write.

Meanwhile, don’t forget me, as I will not forget you.

The first words of the first June journal are already written and saved:

“Hello. It’s me, Fulghum. I’m back.”

Seattle, Washington - Friday, February 19, 2010

Where have I been? What happened to me?
Well, for one thing, there was a four-day bout with the explosive kind of gut- bug assault that keeps one very still and quiet and anxious and not far from the bathroom. Being one of the chicken-hearted who had rather have a root canal than throw up, it was a tense and exhausting time.
Also there were two weeks of being kept inside by steady rain, fog, and cold that invited baleful stares into the gloom but not much creativity.
And helping a friend hang a gallery show of paintings leaves one limp with the tension of making aesthetic decisions and coming to consensus on whether a piece is really level or not.
Finally, getting the mostly negative returns on the manuscript of a new novel from twenty readers was discouraging.
A lumpy stretch.
Mental and physical dormancy was the result.
One can crawl in a hole or return to the fray of life.
And today was clear and sunny and warm. An afternoon out in the yard urging on the growing things makes my own juices rise and flow again.
Onward!

HERE CAME . . . THERE WENT . . . LOVE

So we have this annual holiday represented by a naked, winged adolescent boy armed with bow and arrow, unreliable judgment, and a vindictive nature. Odd, when you think about it.

It is a tribute to human hopefulness that we continue to have such high and affirmative expectations of the activities of good old Cupid.

The Valentine’s Weekend of Love reminded me of an experience on the island of Bali a couple of winters ago. I searched a traveler’s bookshop for something to read in English, finding only mildewed paperback fiction in the horror, suspense, and crime genres. (Why do people travel to beautiful places to get away from it all and turn to evil and terror for succor? Beats me.)

The only exception I could find was a book of the love poetry of Rumi.
This was a used book - underlined and annotated by several previous readers. The book was therefore deeply discounted in price. But getting an insight into the views of others makes a book more valuable and interesting to me. And I had never read Rumi before.

Knowing he is one of the most respected writers on the subject ever, I spent a month slowly working my way through pages extolling the mysteries of ecstatic love, romantic love, and soul-fulfilling love.
Heavily underlined. Many exclamation points. For example:

“I open and fill with love, and what is not love evaporates.” ! ! ! !

To tell you the truth it was like eating my way through a magnum size box of cream-filled chocolates. Dyspeptic. Too much of a good thing, perhaps.

And then I came to the end pages, where someone had added some anti-dotal thoughts:

“The truth is that Eros now carries a sharp switchblade knife,
and knows how to use it. You never see it coming. And it hurts so good when you bleed. Click.”

“Leonard Cohen is what became of Cupid when he grew old.”

“Love is an incurable disease. It’s an epidemic.”

And someone else had added a page drawn up to look like a Wanted poster.
There was a drawing of the head of a young man.
Underneath, these words:

“LOST - MY TRUE LOVE
A beautiful young man. Brown curly hair, green eyes, freckles.
Tall, slender, athletic, talented, independent. Drives a yellow Ducati motorcycle, and wears a leopard-skin jacket.
If you see him, tell him Anna misses him and is still looking for him.
When he smiles in memory of me, kick him in the groin as hard as you can.”

Seattle, Washington - February 4, 2010

INTERSECTIONS - A Traffic Report

Here’s the picture:

An old Honda sedan was stalled out in the middle of the street.
The young woman driver was wide-eyed with distress.
Aimed at her from seven different directions were four cars, two pickups, and a garbage truck - all restlessly creeping forward toward her.
The oncoming vehicles were themselves being hassled by the stop-and-go creep of the traffic behind them, lined up bumper to bumper.

Miss Wide Eyes had lost her cool trying to navigate a rare form of vehicular vexation - a 7-way traffic intersection - the convergence of seven streets.
She became a temporary hazard that forced other drivers to treat her like a small round-a-about.
When she finally succeeded in getting her old Honda re-started, she crept on downstream like anxious turtle seeking refuge - on through the flow to the relative safety of a one-way street, where she stopped to recover.

She will likely not pass this way again.

Queen Anne Hill, where I live in Seattle, rises above the landscape as an island in the sky. There are only a few major routes up and down. And one of these, on the northwest end of the hill, involves negotiating the 7-way intersection that also happens to be where the hill is steepest.

The intersection is a model for testing human ingenuity and the limits of grace. The movement of traffic at this location relies entirely upon the cooperation, good will, skill and attention of the drivers.

Over the years I’ve become fascinated by the behavior this seven-way intersection elicits. Recently I parked my own car a block away and watched the action for awhile.

I amused myself by trying to put labels on some of the drivers I noticed.

Beside Miss Wide Eyes, I saw The Alarmed Creepers, The Screw-You Speedballs, The Zombies, The Side-Seat Navigators, The Inept Truckers, The Veterans, and The Rookies, as well as the Noble and the Nice.

But all could be divided into two broad categories:

1. Those who stayed inside the bubble of their cars in mind and spirit.
Those who stayed centered on themselves, and seemed to look upon the experience of the intersection as personal inconvenience to their mobility.

2. And those who moved outside their cars in their minds and spirits.
Those who stayed centered on the common experience of navigating a tricky convergence of traffic. They noticed other drivers - looked at them - nodded - smiled, even laughed - gave an “after you” wave - as if they were treating the experience as an intriguing puzzle to be solved in community concert.

I stress and emphasize that this was far and away the predominant attitude.

Despite the fears of Miss Wide Eyes, every driver who passed by her did so slowly and carefully. The garbage truck driver even paused, rolled down his window, and asked her if she needed any help.

Despite the arrogance and idiocy the intersection can provoke, I was most impressed by an almost gallant civility on the part of most drivers who recognized the situation and made it work without incident.

I confess that this was not what I had expected.
My pessimism was the only thing bent out of shape at the intersection.

Being a witness was a pleasure - adding an upbeat mood to my day.
I went away feeling good about what’s possible in human affairs.

It’s true that human rudeness and insensitive stupidity go on existing in the world. In cars or on foot. These traits are pretty well evenly distributed, and may be found if looked for - even sometimes seen in one’s own mirror.
Who has not been an irritable driver in a self-serving hurry on occasion?

But, if looked for and noticed, evidence of altruism, kindness, and alert intelligence are likewise well distributed, and may be found. If it were not so, none of the many intersections of human endeavor would work at all.