Poetry (take 2)

Fall storms forecasted
Sure to be foreboding
Darkness before night promised


Or,

Blackened sky, light stikes
Sky promises but removes
Fall lands heavily

More about all of this but I am tired.  Sleep was elusive last night, and I presented at a conference on my peers today.

First snow

For so many of my years, I went chasing for a "first snow of the year" photo, and that is a hard tradition to give up.  Today it snowed, and is snowing still, and I had to get out and take some photos.  I am "up north" at a conference, so time was limited as was editing equipment and software, but you get the idea.  The snow (I am not sure if this is the correct word) inspired small poetry slam with a person I know.  The prompt was

Huge mean flakes

My poem was:

Huge mean flakes
blind my view
of the dark visage of late fall
Hiding those remaining flashes of color
Presaging months of white, gray and brown

Their version:

Huge mean flakes

sting my skin and blind my view.

Dark clouds swarm overhead, swallowing the last drop of light

choking a final flashing of color. Of hope.

A sinister omen.

White gray nothingness awaits...

Of course, you know me, Mr. Glass half full...though today drained it fast so here is my response

With apologies to T.S.

Is this the kindest month?

With soft snows covering life and mistakes of the past?

Innocence reborn though only temporarily 

A respite

A pause

And false

And deceiving

 

Deceiving

Should be, could be...

I should be running.  I should be sweating by now on the treadmill, getting rid of toxins and worries and stress and helping my aging body make it a few more years longer.  Every intellectual fiber knows this and the moral fiber feels more than a bit guilty because I am not.  Instead, I am sitting here with a (large) glass of impossibly good wine, with a full tummy, and listening to Brandi Carlisle and Alison at a volume that can't last in a housing unit that I share with 200+ people.

But that is where I am, genteelly burping an almost perfect meal.  I had pan-sautéed salmon that was gently kissed with a dill cream sauce with truffle butter highlights.  The green beans were roasted with garlic and sea salt and were crispy tender.  The pasta was fresh, from Italy, and lightly dressed with butter from Ireland and herbs.  The salad, eaten last, of course, was four kinds of lettuce with a dressing that was even better for the cherry tomatoes and the aged Italian parmesan cheese and the dash of 15 year old Balsamic vinegar.  The wine was a Cab, and while I don't normally like Cabs, apparently the answer to that is to buy a 30.00 bottle of it...this is so smooth.  The snob would talk about shadows of cherry and currants with sherry flavored oak barrel reflections, or something like that.  Or, I would say, "better than that Moscato stuff."  And most amazing about all this is that I made it all myself!  While I know I should be running, I do have a hard time substituting running for a meal for this.  That may be why I have had to give up being a professional beach volleyball player and why I am cute, but slightly pudgy... I think only salmon and leeks would be better, but I couldn't get the recipe from my friend Steve.

What is a bit hard is that I would trade every bit of this meal for a mac and cheese meal with someone, but that is a bit complicated right now and I realize that.  But strides were made, or rather, baby steps were made today.  I am kind of at peace in that area so that is good.  It is amazing what can happen sometimes when people drop their guard and think about what they want and need and what is important.  Certainly nothing is easy, but perhaps some things are possible.

You know, with my photo block and total confusion about what I want  to do and what I even  liked about photography, I have been thinking about past assignments and things that worked.  One assignment that I remember that so moved me was as simple of an assignment as I have ever written.  I asked a kindergarten teacher  to ask her class "what made the leaves change color?"  Wow, out of the mouths of babes...  And you know what?  As I look at leaves in their fall glory, I wonder what makes them change too.  I know all about the scientific why they change and fall off, but what about the aesthetic reasons why they are so arresting and beautiful before they do complete their death spiral down to the damp nothingness of the ground?   I know leaves need to fall, but why do they do it in such a blaze of color and beauty?  Why are we so lucky to see it?  There is a tree at SCSU that is obviously sheltered from the frosts and the winds, and it is pictured here as it fights the forces that will strip it of its leaves.  I've photographed it before from my office and it is no less arresting this year as it stands alone as a last sentinel of glory, or of fall.

Making yourself do things

I have talked about struggling with photography right now and nothing has changed on this front.  I literally have to make myself take photos and I still don't completely know why this is the case. It is frustrating and honestly, sad for me.  Probably one more thing to add to the list for extensive therapy. Or not.  Maybe it isn't that important, that I am struggling just because that is what I expect I should do.  I don't know.  I guess I will settle on the frustrating sentiment.

In the absence of vision or goals or audience or creativity or whatever is this block, I am making myself take photos.  No people photos--heaven forbid!  Those are complicated and difficult and fraught with challenges and well, people!  Though I have to admit that I miss that process most of all. No, I decorated my house with flowers this weekend, and I picked up a camera to document that.

I decorated because I had friends over for an evening, something I haven't done in the three months I have been here.  Part of that is that people haven't lined up outside to visit, but also, I haven't successfully asked any one to come over for a meal.  I am not overtly an extrovert and  probably not all that social, so it is hard to open up (and to open up my space, such as it is) to let people in.  I recharge with alone time, and not always with people.  This shouldn't be a surprise to some who read this!

What I am discovering though is that this process is not unlike taking photos when you don't want to or feel like it.  There are rewards for doing so, not the least that you can say you did it.  And that it worked.  There is no doubt that the photos that I am posting here could be a bit sharper and better composed, just as there is little doubt that dinner could have gone a bit more smoothly (honestly, we had cheese and bread and olives and wine.  And just shrimp.  And wine.  Did I mention that we had wine?  That does explain why I didn't cook any of the other things I had planned...) but it was fine.  It was fun, and it was part of the process of getting better at doing this.  And the flower photos are fine, too.  I suppose that I can see what would make them better is just as much of the process.

And I might do both tasks again.

An unexpected day

Today was a fall day of singular beauty, and even more so because it was unexpected.  It surged past its expected highs and cloudless-ness, and it was a gem.  These are shots from my phone as I walked to my office at SCSU.  Except the leftover one from the plane and my trip.  As cliche as it is, I still do love photos from planes.

So while it was an exceptional day, it was also a hard day.  People were butts today.  Three people cried and one person yelled at me while doing so, I inadvertently made someone sad, and well, I was probably the third.   But of no matter.  All of these things made me really really sad, and no less so because of my self-acknowledged  part in causing all these situations.  Some days, I can't seem to say I am sorry enough.

I think that I was so "aware" and sensitive in part because of my nature but also because of nature and the coming fall.  I love fall, I really do.  I hate fall, I really do.  For me, it is such a metaphor of life.  It is so beautiful but it is also fleeting.  It fades and disappears with no regard to your effort or wanting.  It is a harbinger of darker times, literally, but also as a precursor to a more desolate winter or at least that gray, wet, dreary, late fall.  April, that cruelest month, seems a long time away.

I know someone who would flat out say that I am too focused on what might happen than the beauty that is right in front my face, and I acknowledge that this is sometimes the case.  With that in mind, I offer these photos as proof that I sometimes do actually  look right in front of my face, and sometimes even see things.

The long distance runner...

Some of you might be surprised to know that of my two or three favorite teachers that I have ever had that they are not all history teachers.  In this group is an English professor who (finally) successfully nudged me through Freshman Comp, a class that I had failed through non-attendance.  Alan Jackson simply shook his head at the craziness of that, and said let's get you through this.  I learned many things in this class and from him, but most had little to do with writing papers.  He showed me the benefits of living a life of the mind, something I had never even imagined before.  Who knew people could make a living by teaching and writing and reading?  This was a novel idea to someone who was making a living schlumping three cameras and bag of lenses to 90 basketball games a year.

He also gave me the best advice ever for becoming a better writer.  He gently led the class to the realization that better writers simply read more.  And more and more.  For fun and for work and for whatever other reasons you could come up with.  Through seeing words in new (and better) combinations you would be able to write and put your own words in new and better combinations.  He also stressed that you became a better writer, not even a great writer, but a better writer, by writing. Just write more and often.  Maybe that is the genesis of this blog.  It's not to become a great writer but to become a better writer.  Bird by Bird, to quote another writing teacher, but you have to do it to get better.

To push me to become more and better, he pushed me to read things that I normally wouldn't read.  One such book was by Kingsley Amis called Lucky Jim.  It is what they call an "academic novel" not because of its prose but because of its setting on a  campus.  In it about how a new history prof discovers the pedantry and the pretentiousness of a middling college.  There are politics and palace (certainly a small "p" on that) intrigues and egos of tremendous size, and alcohol and other bad behaviors.  Of course, this was in the 1950s so it isn't relevant today, but it's a pretty good read.  Maybe because we all could and can still imagine it.   It did prepare me and give me a sense of humor and context when I was in the same position four decades and a continent away from Jim's life.

Professor Jackson also made/encouraged me to see a 1962 movie, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.  I have been thinking about this movie as I have begun my running.  In this stark and severe black and white movie, the reluctant hero becomes a runner to escape the harshness of a reform school.  Running provide an emotional and physical relief and escape from his life that was ruled by, well, rules and walls.  The movie is an action film in that it shows Colin running through fog and in the  undulating but always gray landscape of post-war England.  You hear his thoughts as he self-narrates and reflects as he runs.  Now,  he comes to a different and extremely self-sacrificing conclusion in his thoughts and as he runs, but still, it is one of the better running movies out there.

So what in the world does this have to do with me or today?  I have been thinking about what to think when running or fast walking or whatever I am doing.  Honestly, the worry of how to occupy my mind is what kept me from running in the past.  I kind of thought long distance running would be like driving to South Dakota, or worse, driving in South Dakota.  Would I begin to think of mildly subversive things like stopping before winning the race to make a point in the class struggle that we face in America today?  Probably not.  That was Colin's fight and I guess my life is simpler.

My tableau for running is a treadmill with a window (and TV) view, and that seems to be almost enough to occupy my mind.  I tried reading but basically almost killed myself trying to turn the electronic page on my IPad. I never was all that good at multi-tasking.  The other evening on my 4.5 mile run, I watched parts of four episodes of MASH.  Yep, those  medics are still crazy after all these years.  BJ is still missing Mill Valley, Hawkeye is still....well, you get the point.  I would watch a baseball game but right now they seem to last too long.  I watched the Vikings lose today, and the Cardinals start their next series, so sports might  possibly fill my time.

But what I really think of when I run is what to write about and well, nothing.  Tonight I ran (wait--I know what I do is not running--it is simply working out and walking fast) 6.2 miles in 90 minutes.  I know, barely a fast walk but a significant milestone for me.  That I even did that is pretty amazing--one friend told me this weekend that when he reads my blog and it is about running, he scrolls up and double checks to make sure that it is really my blog be is reading.  Since Thursday, I have devoured about 16 miles.  Hardly a marathon, but remember that three months ago it was about 1.6 miles per month.  I really really like it.  It is hard to be mad at someone or frustrated or be stymied by misunderstandings when you are really focusing on putting one foot in front of the other for a long period of time.  It lets me recall a book that I read or a movie I saw or a class I took 25 years ago and makes me not concentrate on other conundrum.  And while I am hardly the lean, Zen-like  long distance runner, at least I can tell the differences in me and they are good.

Is the loneliness of this part of me a good thing?  I think so.  I think I will keep at it, and I might even actually finish this race.

Last Batch

Here are the last of the trip photos.  In previous blogs I tried hard to lower expectations on what photos I might have discovered, and I think I that I quite lived up to those low expectations, thank you very much.  Again, most are self-explanatory.  The Bridge of Sighs is in Oxford (and Vienna, if you want to be really precise) and is a favorite place in Oxford.  The lion is on Trafalgar Square and has St Martin's in the Field in the back ground.  Plus, you are always supposed to take a lion photo on your trips.  There are a few shots of that big clock thing that everyone keeps talking about  and of  the London Eye. The busker is a bass player that I saw playing at several tube stops across London and as he traveled about on the tube.   The stair photos are of the 123 steps down to the Central Line at the Queensway Station--I often took them down, but only came up them twice.  The other stair photo is of the 55 steps up to my garret hotel room--I took them up and down often as there was no lift.  Good thing I have been working out (hey-4.5 slow miles in 60 minutes last night!) because they got to be hated stairs by the end of my stay.  The museum photos, taken illegally of course, show the museum as a classroom.  Can you imagine?  The high school-age girls looked bored as they took art appreciation in front of a wall of paintings by Van Gogh and had to only turn around to see four (4!) Monet's that most people would recognize.  Of course those were next to the Suret's and the Cezanne's and in the room next to the all the Turners and the  and the and the...  Nice classroom space, in my mind.  I was intrigued by the Weight Watcher's wine.  Not enough to buy it and try it, but it was interesting.

One explanation for fewer photos  (and no doubt of the quality of them ) was provided by a viewer, who noted that that perhaps my photos suffered because I was actually doing things, not stopping to take photos ever 20 seconds.  I went to the theater, museums, and all sorts of things.  I suppose that is true on some levels.  But since they had traveled with me, and had (apparently just) put up with that photo taking, that kind of stung.  Way to tell me what you really think!  I thought that I had done things before while taking more photos, but maybe I had missed some things because I was just looking through the viewfinder.  I will have to think about that.  I suppose it is about balance.

Second batch

Most are self-explanatory.  You should be able to tell the ones from Spain.  Two dogs--one is an "English" springer spaniel, and the other is just a pug on a train.  The beach scene with the umbrella shows the flat that I stayed at--it is in the center of the building and on the top floor.  My host reported that when she lived in Zimbabwe or Columbia or Mideast, hardly anyone visited her, but for some reason, she has had lots of visitors!  Love the signs from England--isn't everyone always looking for a way-out?  I also really wonder what authentic American food  would be?