Slow Brain Food

It has always amazed me how I will read something at one point and then, in what seems like moments later, will read something else that reaffirms it.

Yesterday I came upon a post by a friend of mine that talked about how her writing style could never really fit the Twitter format. I myself used to utilize Twitter as something to text when it seemed that my friends weren't listening, but now I feel as though Twitter is just a bigger silent audience for me. I feed to it on my blog as something that changes even when I haven't posted an in-depth blog post for some time, but I have found that I can't, like my friend, keep to the 140 characters either--what usually happens is I'll post about five "tweets" at a stretch that are all of the same theme. Why five? Because five shows up on the feed on my blog.

Still, even with five, the venue seems to be lacking. Five sentences and there's my day? When just last year I was working to post on this blog daily? It's the fast food, the fast junk food, of my own production. I seem to try to perfect THAT format because who is going to read a whole BLOG POST, for Pete's sake? Lord knows this is an abuse of a LOT more than 140 characters. If a majority or all of my readers prefer, only have time for, or only have the attention span for "tweets," then blogging on a full-blown scale is a bit arrogant, right?

But isn't writing itself a strong belief in oneself to start with? Aren't I being arrogant to assume that someone will even read the tweets?

Later on yesterday I picked up an August edition of the Oprah magazine at the supermarket and leafed through it on the way home. In each issue they have a celebrity talk about their favorite books, and in this issue they talked with "Mad Men" star Jon Hamm. Hamm is a guy all strong jaw and authority and brooding on the show--I know this because sadly enough for this reader I am addicted to another frickin' television show. I feel guilt when I say I like a television show, even if I try to temper it by saying "it's well-written." Remarkably, Hamm sort of addresses that in the article, as he also addresses Twitter and attention span:

I know that reading isn't as easy to do as turning on a television or
getting on the Internet or twittering or whatever else you have ot do in this
modern society, but it's way more rewarding. It's calming. It's
edifying, and even as it has become less popular as the options have grown for
instant-gratification entertainment, most of the books that appeal to me...take
a while to have their effect. Once you give them that time, it's paid back
times a million...when you've got 500 pages to explore something, you're going
to go deeper into it than if you've got 23 minutes and commercial breaks.

Gutsy for a guy who makes his living off of 48 minutes and commercial breaks, but he is a man who seems to recognize all forms of the culture, all wonders of the universe and not just the high intellect ones. My friend and Hamm solidified something...that even though Twitter is there and fast and wonderful and I'm not giving it up, I don't have to be good at it or even give up my long conversations on the blog. Someone wants the 500 pages. Maybe less so than before, but someone does.

Read on, dear reader.

Avedon

Yesterday at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SF MoMA) a new show opened with a crowd. I don't know why I was surprised by a crowd according to logic--the show was an exhibition of the work of photographer Richard Avedon, who is a phenomenal artist--but I WAS surprised because Avedon isn't so much a "household" name like Ansel Adams or Annie Lebowitz. Still, there I was, fighting to see a photo in full frame uninterrupted, like the fight I had to see Frida Kahlo's work without two or three heads in front of it.

My introduction to Avedon was, of course, the New Yorker magazine pages, although I would be pressed to tell you what photograph hooked me. Regarding Avedon, I think it was more of a growing interest, although his work is striking enough to grab one in a single glance. I got to the point where I would look for Avedon's work and feel relief when I would find it in an issue. He had a way of making ugly notariety attractive and making beautiful notariety realistic, like HD tv meets black and white photography. Facial or body hair suddenly became remarkable distinctions. Photographs of filthy settings or subjects suddenly roared through in a clean focus at the center, like the developing in the darkroom had washed out the dirt. (I give you the elephant picture, above...the elephants are chained and dusty and dancing and the model is pristine and soothing...)

I don't have a favorite Avedon portrait--they all are mesmorizing to me with their preference for a white background and dark brooding. My least favorites are when he experiments with action (he has a very blurry and creepy one of a choreographer that I walked past in a hurry at the exhibit)--Avedon represents clarity, and any blur in his photography puts him in a category of no longer Avedon for my taste. He is most effective stock still, unshaven, insisting on the camera's attention, lined and worn. And so are his subjects.

(The Avedon exhibit is open until November of this year. Contact the SF MoMA for details, as this is a timed entry show--unless you're a member I wouldn't recommend just "dropping by".)

Seemed to Fit

For some reason, when I heard a cover of this song for the second time today in the movie "Waitress" the lyrics said something...about me.

No One Is To Blame

You can look at the menu but you just can't eat
You can feel the cushions but you can't have a seat
You can dip your foot in the pool but you can't have a swim
You can feel the punishment but you can't commit the sin

And you want him and he wants you
We want everyone
And you want him and he wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame

You can build a mansion but you just can't live in it
You're the fastest runner but you're not allowed to win
Some break the rules
And live to count the cost
The insecurity is the thing that wont get lost

And you want him and he wants you
We want everyone
And you want him and he wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame

You can see the summit but you can't reach it
It's the last piece of the puzzle but you just can't make it fit
Doctor says you're cured but you still feel the pain
Aspirations in the clouds but your hopes go down the drain

And you want him and he wants you
We want everyone
And you want him and he wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame.

Coming to the Surface...A Night At the Herbst

I roamed the Park on Saturday, June 6th, spending the morning at the deYoung, spending the afternoon at the Conservatory. I was feeling grey and heavy because two of my employees had not been paid, and I had no idea of how to solve this problem quickly, since it is out of my hands far away in Chicago. We changed our payroll to be more self-sufficient for the employee the week of Memorial Day. Naturally, there are going to be people who aren't going to do it right. And because I hold up the whole works, those people got left behind when I went home early on Friday, May 29th. (Remarkably, that's also the day the phone service levels crashed. I have to live at work or things collapse. A lot of things collapse, at times.)





So two people didn't get paid Friday, and I walk around wearing that guilt like a hot, damp, wool blanket that I can't shed. Then I came home, my stomach gave out, and I was about 10 lbs lighter in 100 seconds. I cleaned up, dressed, and went out to gather my ticket for "77 Love Sonnets," a performance by Garrison Keillor sponsored by City Arts and Lectures. I left a little early, to look for a collection of Lorrie Moore short stories and the poems from Keillor in book form.





I got off the Number 6 at the Van Ness and Market stop. I walked up Van Ness with my cream-colored scarf blowing about me, and giving myself a break from worry with each step and the traceable wind from my scarf. I planned to stop in Books, Inc., just north of the theatre, to look for Garrison's collection and to look for another story collection by Lorrie Moore. I walked into Books, Inc. I took a leisurely walk around, picked up the Moore collection, and found another pair of reading glasses. Fancy. Then I still had time, nearly an hour, so I thought maybe a drink and a nibble at Max's Opera Cafe, next to Books, Inc. I had heard wonderful things about Max's.



They're all true.



So I ordered at the bar--it was half-empty, and I don't like to take up a table by myself in a crowded cafe unless it's the only option. I hoisted myself up on the high chair, placed my jacket and bag in the chair next to me, and ordered a Grey Goose Cosmo and an appetizer called "Shrimp and Steak Bites with Potato Croutons."



Keep in mind, when you walk into Max's you walk past the counter where you would see the pastry selection and where the kitchen lines up the plates of warm food to the wait staff. Above this counter is a long billboard of several pledges that Max's makes to their customers. One of them, my favorite, says this:

"If we ask you 'Just one?' we'll buy you a drink."

No one asked me just one, and I found myself refraining from it when I approached the hostess. "Would it be possible for me to order food at the bar?" "Absolutely." And I perched at the bar and read the rest of the billboard--"We fresh brew iced tea at your table--let it steep for the perfect glass of iced tea." "We will buy you a slice of Niagra Falls cake if we ask you if you want change with your check." They even have a piano player, and occasionally the wait staff sings with him. My drink and nibblies were delicious, and I even got ideas for next time--potato latkes and the lamb patties. There looks to be a wealth of a menu.

Then I was joined by another woman at the bar. She was in her 50's and was also going to see Garrison. His performance was to benefit 826 Valencia, and I got to talk about that organization to the point of getting myself excited again about volunteering next school year. Then I departed at 7 to pick up my will call ticket, and walk into the lobby of the theatre, where a long table stacked with his books stood stretched between the doors. People were milling around, and there, mere feet to my left, was the great man himself, signing books and greeting, a stately tall man in frumpled linens, faded denim, and red running shoes. I purchased the book of sonnets and stood in line, feeling my mother come to the surface of me. When it came my turn, I was so nervous that I could barely speak. "Do you want me to sign this for you, dear?" he asked gently. "Yes." "To you?" "Yes. Sarah..." "With an 'h'?" "Yes. Thank you for asking." I walked away nearly weeping. Did you see that, Mom? We got to meet him, Mom.

Here was the inscription:
To Sarah.
love.
Garrison Keillor
All in neat, softly curved, blocked letters.

The theatre was ornate and intricate, like the Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto. On the stage a grand piano was parked off to the left, like a casual car, and the motif against the back of the stage was of a trolley car turned into a diner. Garrison's stool was center stage, with a microphone in front of it, a music stand to his right, and to the right of the music stand a small, square, white table with a glass of water and a little orange mantel clock on it.

Half the sonnets he sang (accompanied by Rich Dworsky), some were spoken, some commented on, and toward the end he told how he came to write sonnets. Some of the sonnets were about his daughter, some on things he loves, one on Obama, and the rest were varying shades of sex.

There was the remembrance of love. Love of the female form and of lying with the female form, and all was washed away--everything everyone else wants me to be, everything I'm supposed to be at the stage of. That song, that series of songs, that's the kind of man that I desire. He exists. He is possible.

Post Script: As with any other California experience, one of the homeless, mentally derranged, or rude members of the population does deflate the ecstasy a little and brings me back to earth, and this experience was no different. But those details don't belong here. I won't give those details creedance beyond mentioning that they occurred.

Baby Love

A long time ago in a land far away a forty-year-old housewife decided to take her life in her own hands and open a business out of her little farmhouse. From the cramped, green house she toted a small floral tin out every morning to the greenhouse close by. That greenhouse was made from old picture and storm windows, and sat on wood runners. It was filled with tables, covered in flats of bedding plants that the housewife called babies. She started the babies in the basement of the green house, under flourescent lighting, and then moved the babies to the greenhouse when they were bold enough to keep their heads up. She talked to them, and strung a power line out to the greenhouse to play music for them when she couldn't be with them, and they thrived. Her mere touch made them strong and sure of their climb in height.

The housewife began this adventure when her children were leaving the baby stage and were deep in their own roots, exploring the air around them. She began raising new babies specifically for that reason--the old ones would be wandering away shortly. And she loved to nurture, to feed, to give to something that would go out and nurture again.

Not so long ago, in a land closer to here, a thirty-one-year-old spinster decided to take her life in her own hands and move to a magical land of silicon, surf and fog. She moved from apartment to apartment, ever closer to the biggest body of water she had ever seen, asking her muses for inspiration just from the wonders around her. She read from great muses as well, but everything she touched did not thrive--it escaped. All the tales and wonders faded with the wind from her fingertips, and the spinster began to doubt that they ever truly existed. She flew too close to the sun from the mountains, and the sun's rays burnt her tender, easily bruised to the touch. Everyone wanted to touch her, to feed from her, to drink the last of her wonder. Her love of words faded to gray newsprint over the years, and increasingly she lived to work for the betterment of things that didn't bring her wonder.

I wonder how the fairy tale ends.

Sweet dreams, dear reader.

So a Grasshopper Walks Into a Bar...Or, Skipping to the Good Parts

This past week in writing class we had a discussion about how to hold and keep the reader, albeit a brief conversation. Strangely enough, the other person who was just as passionate about this topic as I was was a man. He is a tall, imposing aging lawyer (and before you get excited and start to set me up, he's married. Not that that should stop me, but I'm not going there with this guy), and when we got on this topic he said, "You know, I spill out this long, drawn out story with too much action and not enough details because I'm afraid my audience will walk away before the end of the story." I was stunned to hear this--someone else feels this way? And he's a GUY? I thought that men kept each other's attention when telling stories because they respected each other a lot more than they respected a women's point of view (I mean, a woman's point of view is going to drift off on some emotional tangent, right? Sort of like this post...). But a man was experiencing waning interest. This blew my mind, and I stated that I often felt the same way, that I made my stories short and that I summarized way too much of the plot because otherwise the reader walks away. Like telling stories in a bar or a coffee shop. He nodded in complete understanding there.

Of course, it wasn't always a male thing with me--I should bring up that exception. There was a friend of mine in Missouri who used to asked me to tell her a story and then cloud over with boredom after the first three sentences. I started responding with "I don't have any stories," when she would request one. I could understand why she asked when she was so bored so quickly. And I started thinking my life was boring.

Fast forward to California. There is very little boring in my life now--in fact it's got WAY too much self-inflicted drama. But I have discovered something in looking at how I tell a story. Throughout my life men have walked away from conversations with me--my father, my brother, guys I was attracted to in high school--and then in California I discovered how to keep them in the conversation, at least until the morning after: go to talk of sex. That tack won't keep my brother and father (I don't go to that subject with them, and they still walk away), but it keeps the rest. And, having problems in this department like I do, I don't even enjoy that conversation. I just enjoy that I've kept them.

Don't get me wrong--I have men friends who don't have to be spoken to in double-entendres in order to have a conversation with them. But if I want to be with them romantically? Hell, we never get to romance. The process is skipped, for fear they will be lost, and I latch on with the hot stuff first. Is it no wonder that I end up with the scum of the earth?

What this lawyer classmate and I need to do is trust ourselves. We need to walk well and strong without trying to catch a fish (reader/audience) and just allow the fish to come to our line. And that's what the professor assured us. I could balk at this--it feels like my life is dwindling and I have to act fast, so I skip to the parts, but that gives me a quick greed fix that has an empty, addictive feel to it. No real satisfaction.

Slow down.

So, dear reader, this grasshopper walks into a bar...

Stay tuned for the rest. :)

Enjoying The Silver Stuff, or, Why Happy Stories Don't Sell

One major thing that I have learned from this writing class is that I am not a good writer. The second major thing that I have learned from this writing class is that I'm okay with that, as long as I keep developing as a writer.

I may never excel as a writer. The devotion to what is left is what I live for now.

Ah, today, dear reader. This week made me mortal, and here, on this Saturday, I became ethereal, like Cinderella, if only for flash of hours. I awoke at 5 am, curled up with the prose of Tobias, fell back asleep in Stanford dreams, awoke again at 7:30, washed, dressed, collected the week's laundry and trash, and stepped out into the sunshine. Sunshine. So basic, a taste like that of sourdough bread, but something I don't get to enjoy all week. Sunshine blushed me. There is a fuscia "V" widespread like wings just below my collarbone, ringing my shoulders at my sleeveless sweater, lighting my face in embarrassed pleasure. I had breakfast, egg and spinach on wheat bagel and fresh juice, at the Music Concourse in the Park. Then a brief wait for the 71, down through the colorful Haight and through Downtown to the Ferry Building, tasting fresh food from the farms of the area. I bought white peaches, tomatoes, sweet onion, mint, strawberries, Sweet William--three big bunches with the thicket of small flowers. Zucchini. Fresh yogurt in a crock. I popped open the crock at the closest pier and dropped the red berries into it like fondue. Pure pleasure in food that wasn't laced with four hundred grams of cholesterol or fat or sugar.

The most basic.

There were other errands, but later in the afternoon there was a nap, and then some favored films, and then the sounds of KFOG's "Kaboom" in the dark as I sipped a Reisling and chopped the savory vegetables for a thick pasta rendition.

I'm not a great writer.

But it's wonderful to find gratitude with words.

Sleep well, dear reader.