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Inspired.

It’s been seven years now since I took that picture. I keep returning to it because it’s the first picture of graffiti I took, and while I’ve seen a lot that’s definitely better there is something special about it. I have no idea what the story behind it is. Maybe someone was practicing, warming up, or just bored and felt an urge to do something pointless. That’s just speculation. When I saw it I thought there was something funny about the way it just trailed off with a series of wave shapes. That made me think about how fickle inspiration can be. There have been times when I’ve been suddenly energized, feeling like I can do anything. Then, as soon as I sit down to write I come up with…nothing.

The conventional wisdom about inspiration is that you can’t force it. In classical literature poets often began by invoking one of the Muses, asking for help. At the beginning of The Amores Ovid acts annoyed that he planned to write a serious epic but Cupid interfered so he’s stuck writing love poems instead. Hey, take whatever you can get.

Anyway, while inspiration can’t be forced, sometimes it can be coaxed out. Several years ago I got a job writing about local art. My first assignment was to write about an exhibit by a visiting artist named Margo Kren. I wasn’t able to get in touch with her and there’d never been a formal opening so all I had to work with was the pictures themselves and a small pamphlet with a biographical blurb. I sat and looked at the pictures for a long time, unsure what to say about them. And I also thought a lot about the term deadline. I’d asked for the job, had been prepared to beg for it, and now I was faced with the terrible possibility that I’d miss my first, and possibly only, assignment. Unsure of what else to do I started describing the paintings. Though it happened slowly—I might even say painfully—I suddenly hit a nerve. Or an artery. I had pages and pages, but my hand couldn’t keep up with my head. In the end I had to cut it down significantly, and while I would use the same technique to write two more articles the magazine folded before they could be published. It was still a valuable lesson, though, and when it comes to writing I’ll take whatever I can get.  

Morning Light.

The change to Daylight Saving Time this weekend meant that for the first time in months I left for work in the dark. Because my morning commute takes me almost due east there were a few days when I was driving right into the sun. Maybe that’s why this morning I was so conscious of the artificial lights I passed, still aglow in the rising dawn. If there’s an advantage to the time change it’s that it makes me more aware, although I may be unusual in that. While waiting at a red light I saw two guys in the middle of the cross street standing by a white pickup truck; there was a dark blue pickup truck right behind it. The blue pickup’s front was touching the white one’s back fender. They were both laughing about it and before the light changed they pulled into a parking lot, presumably to exchange insurance information, though from my vantage point I couldn’t see any damage.

It’s strange that I’d see an accident on my way to work. For one thing I don’t see many accidents anyway, and I’m grateful for that. But also at least one study has found that there’s a drop in accidents following the spring change to Daylight Savings Time, with an increase in the fall.

Seeing a small fender bender made me even more conscious of the road ahead as I drove into the dawn, streetlights winking out and lights still on in businesses and apartments dimming as I got closer to work, the sun still not over the horizon after I parked and walked across the roof of the parking garage.

Like A Surgeon.

Earlier this week I was walking across a college campus and passed by a poster offering help to students who are preparing to take the MCAT—the Medical College Admission Test that would-be doctors have to take, and pass, to start their real medical training. And it reminded me of a time from my own college days when my friend Jen took the MCAT. The day before she took it a bunch of us gathered in someone’s dorm room and made posters expressing our support and cheering her on. Most of the posters were the standard “GO JEN!” type, and they were really fun. One of our friends was an art student and hers were really good. She drew the MCAT as an actual cat, a supervillain with an “M” on its chest, being punched pour by Jen. I, however, am not an artist. I like to doodle, sketch, and even made a brief but disastrous attempt at oil painting, but that’s another story. However I was an English major so of course I’d taken Anatomy 101, not only to get that science credit out of the way but because I was, and still am, interested in science. I think that’s the nature of English majors, though, and writers generally: we’re curious about everything because anything can be material.

Jen, by the way, not only aced the MCAT but has had a long and successful career as a doctor. To celebrate that, and to cheer on all those preparing to take the test, and just for fun, I decided to recreate the posters I made. These aren’t too far off from the originals. Like I said I’m not an artist but a little knowledge can be a funny thing.

I Feel Like A Dip.

Bobbie’s Dairy Dip is open again. It closes every November and the owners used to put up a sign that said, “Closed for the season. Reason? Freezin’!” Maybe they stopped because they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that they were closed, but I liked that sign. There was something bittersweet about it, knowing that, like migratory birds or hibernating animals, the ice cream stand was gone but would return with warmer weather. Well, it’s still not exactly warm. They reopened on a very chilly March 1st and when I passed by I didn’t feel like waiting in the very long line for a caramel milkshake, or even their special black bean and avocado burgers, though one of those would have been a nice way to warm up.

When I was a kid we didn’t eat ice cream in the winter. I don’t think it was ever explicitly stated, and there was no specific reason for it other than no one in my family seemed inclined to combine frozen weather with frozen food. There wasn’t even a specific time period; my mother just stopped buying ice cream once the cold weather settled in. I was aware of it but didn’t really think about why until I was visiting an aunt one January and she scooped up a couple of bowls of mint chocolate chip.

“We’re having ice cream in winter?” I asked. I wasn’t objecting—quite the opposite, really. It was just a very minor part of my worldview being, well, not shaken, but slightly altered. The aunt laughed and said, “Any time is time for ice cream.”

She was, and still is, right, of course, but there’s also something special about a place like Bobbie’s Dairy Dip only being there part of the year. The anticipation makes their ice cream so much sweeter.

Now I wish I had stopped and gotten a caramel milkshake. And I’m going to the next time I go by there. I won’t even wait for the weather to warm up.

A Matter Of Interpretation.

Every time I go to the dentist I pass by these flowers. They’re plastic so they last but they’ve been there at least three years—I’ve written about it before—and someone regularly refreshes them, adding new ones and making other changes. There’s still no note, nothing to explain why they’re there, but I still assume they’re some kind of memorial. I still respect the privacy of whoever put them there. Even though it’s in a public spot their reasons for putting the flowers there are, I believe, personal, and should remain that way.

Still that got me thinking about how we interpret works of art. There’s a deep impulse to find meaning in things and it does seem obvious that if someone made something they had a purpose. At first I thought about how it applies to visual arts. Paintings and sculptures often get interpreted based on what we know about the artist and the time in which they lived, though titles can help too, and some artists are happy to explain their work. Others aren’t. Writing—both poetry and prose—can also have layers of meaning, and there are writers who are happy to talk about their inspiration, their craft, and whether there were deeper ideas they were trying to convey but didn’t state explicitly. And there are others who won’t do that. Cormac McCarthy regularly turned down often large fees to come and speak, saying anything readers wanted to know they could get from his books.

There’s an episode of Sanford & Son that opens with Fred and Lamont in a museum. The tour guide shows them an assemblage of metal pieces and asks, “What do you think the artist was trying to say?” Fred quips, “Stay off the freeway!”

Source: YouTube

It’s a joke and I still think it’s funny but even when I was a kid and saw that episode for the first time I thought, that could be right. My parents regularly took me to art museums, which I think is the source of my interest in art, and I learned pretty early that there’s no one way to interpret anything. Maybe that’s why I’ve remembered it and even as an adult think the assemblage could be interpreted as a statement about the perils of technology and the speed of modern life.

Fred is inspired to build an assemblage of his own, but it’s dismissed as worthless, not a “real” work of art, and he tears it down. Why? I wondered. As a kid I was often frustrated by sitcoms that seemed to get into something really interesting right as they hit the twenty-two minute mark and there’d be a quick, cheap resolution that reset everything just before the credits rolled. That still annoys me and I still ask questions like, why is an assemblage in a museum a valuable piece of art but one built by a junk dealer in a backyard worthless?

There’s no right answer to that question.

Night Watch.

Orion was high in the west last night before I went to bed. Jupiter, the brightest object in the sky right now with only a very thin crescent Moon waning towards new, was up too, and almost directly overhead was Mars. I know a lot of people think of Mars as our next step into the universe now that we’ve been to the Moon, though we haven’t been back in more than five decades now. In so much science fiction Mars is inhabited, or at least habitable, a home away from home for terrestrial life, but last night looking toward the brighter planet I thought about how Jupiter is really the New York of our solar system: if we can make it there we can make it anywhere. Not that Jupiter even has a surface we could land on, and if it did the gravity would crush almost anything we’d send down, but it’s got dozens on moons we could settle on if we could overcome a few challenges like creating a breathable atmosphere, producing food, dealing with the intense radiation—Jupiter spews out more energy than it receives from the sun—and also hauling almost everything we’d need more than a billion miles through space. Getting to Jupiter makes the Oregon trail look like a hop, skip, and a jump.

Then I turned toward Orion, the constellation of the hunter, the second constellation I learned to recognize after Ursa Major. I was never very good at connect-the-dots puzzles but there’s a certain clarity about constellations. After seeing a picture of the Orion constellation in a book I just looked up one night at the right time and there it was, literally right before my eyes, a distinct figure, not quite pareidolia but close.

Winter is hunting season, when herds are culled and freezing temperatures and snow mean meat’s on the menu so it’s fitting Orion is high in the sky. But Orion is at its peak I also know it means winter’s coming to an end, the grass and hibernating animals will be waking up, the spring birds will be coming back. The squirrel nests, big clumps of dry leaves taking up space in the empty branches of trees, will be replaced by green leaves. The horizon I can see now will be obscured by greenery, and the sky directly overhead, so clear right now, will get hazy with humidity.

It was a warm night for late February and I stood out there for a long time thinking about the planets, the stars, and also how all of us, even when completely still, are always in motion.