Personal

Personal reflections, comments about things I've been doing, etc.

Writing Prompt

I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody comin' over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about

Yeah, I should probably write something about Rick Perry, Mitt Romney or Michele Bachman. Or maybe I should write about some recent meta-discussions on Facebook about when it is appropriate or not to read Facebook messages or who you should friend or unfriend.. Then, there is technology. I could write more about Empire Avenue, or maybe Google and Motorola. On the other hand, I could just not put up a blog post today. I’m pretty tired. I could channel Joni Mitchell and blow this damn candle out.

Yet just today, I was telling people about putting up a blog post everyday, even if it is merely the discipline of working on my writing. So, that’s what I’m ending up doing this evening.

I looked around the house. The last light of day was fading, but I could still see the rocks and trees out the window; nice, but not enough of an image to motivate me this evening. I’ve been very interested in reflections recently, those reflections that seem to float out of context; the reflection of a reflection, the reflection of my face on the cellphone as I’m bringing up the next app. This evening, it was the reflection of the stairs on the office window.

I started picking songs out and playing them on Spotify on my cellphone. “The Summer Knows”… “Dancing Cheek to Cheek”… and then it came to me. “The Last Time I Saw Richard”. I’ve been thinking a bit about Joni Mitchell recently since there was a segment about her on one of the NPR weekend shows. The person spoke about the cafes she mentioned. It struck me that cafes have changed a lot. Joni Mitchell sang about some dark café. Now, we’ve got twenty-first century entrepreneurs sitting in a Starbucks typing on their laptops in hopes of finding that next big deal.

The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café

My house guest this weekend left me a bottle of Jura Scotch. Isle of Jura Scotch is a rich smoky single malt scotch. The sort of scotch I used to enjoy a lot when I lived on a sailboat back in New York City a few decades ago. I pour myself a small glass and sit down to write. Hopefully, I haven’t gotten too cynical and drunk and boring you with this blog post. Probably I should stop before I reach that point.

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Reunion

It was over thirty years ago that I moved to New York City in search of fame and fortune, or at least to figure out what I should do after college. I wasn’t really that much different from thousands of other kids heading to the city each year. I moved in with some friends from school and started off on my career. I explored the city and sought like minded people to hang out with.

I found my community at Grace Episcopal Church in Manhattan. Not only would we get together for church and coffee hour afterwards on Sunday mornings, but we would attend services in the middle of the week and meet in small groups afterwards. Large groups of us would go to the New Jersey shore together during summer weekends, or to retreats at an Episcopal summer camp at other times of the year.

Many people met, became couples and eventually husband and wife. Some headed off to become priests, monks, or missionaries. Others developed their craft as actors, dancers, musicians, and other forms of artists. Years passed and people moved out of the city, but we still stayed in touch. This weekend, a bunch of us gathered in Connecticut.

We attended the church of a woman who had become a priest and then went over to her house for a potluck dinner afterwards. We caught up on stories of each others lives. Many of us now have children the age that we were when we first met at Grace Church years ago. What will become of our children? Will they find meaningful jobs and communities?

The stories were not all happy. There were marriages that had failed, careers that had gone off course, children that were struggling, or worse. In all of this, there was openness and authenticity. There was no competition to paint a misleading image of a more successful happier life than others, as I’ve seen too often at reunions of other groups.

It brought me back to the Great American Novel, or at least the great American collection of short stories. I haven’t written my magnum opus, yet I continue to live out moments of it, and some of those moments were at the reunion. Maybe someday, a thought, a feeling, a glimmer of one of the discussions will make it into something I write. I watched my friend pay rapt attention to others’ stories, and I expect to see some feeling from the weekend emerge in the character of one of the actors that was there, in the voice of one of the singers there, or in some other marvelous creation.

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along

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Writing from an Empty Space

There are times when I write, that the words just flow, gush actually. It is when I feel like I come closest to bypassing the keyboard altogether and simply connect a USB port to my mind. When I am done, I am drained. I set my draft aside, to come back and revise it later, to make sure that everything that poured out still makes sense. I felt that way when I wrote a recent blog post for work, Ice Cream for the Homeless. Other times I spend a bit of time researching, organizing, and finally putting together the blog post, as I did for my comment about obesity. Then, there are the times when I write from an empty space. This is often the most difficult. I have to force myself to write, but it is an important part of the process, sort of like working out when you don’t feel like it, but you know you should.

Today is more of an empty space day than normal. At work, different people are coming and going from vacation. Online, the social networks seem a bit slower as I imagine many people are out enjoying the fine day. I scan through various social media sites, but find nothing to engage me. Perhaps the most interesting is that someone has added me to Michele Bachmann’s mailing list. So, I’m getting urgent messages today about the Iowa Straw Poll. While I abhor just about everything that Bachmann stands for, I can understand the feelings of excitement and urgency her supporters must feel as they work for their candidate. It is, perhaps, not all that different than Democrats supporting one candidate or another in the 2004 and 2008 primaries.

On the home front, it feels a little bit like an empty nest. This morning, my eldest daughter, Mairead stopped by to pick up my youngest daughter, Fiona. The two of them are driving up to Boston to visit my middle daughter, Miranda, who has recently gotten an apartment, a couple jobs and is starting graduate school in a few weeks. Fiona will be back Sunday evening and won’t be leaving the nest for good for several more years, yet there is a little bit of the empty nest feeling going on.

So, I’ve put together three paragraphs and am working on my fourth. I’ll return to visiting a few websites, resting, and looking for the next thing to drive my writing.

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An Homage to Home


I knew this place, I knew it well,
Every sound and every smell,
And every time I walked, I fell
For the first two years or so

On Tuesday, we went to a memorial for my Uncle Roger who passed away last fall. It took place out on Cape Cod, a place where Roger and his wife Marge had gone for sixty of their sixty-two married years. My cousins were there, three men whom I don’t believe I’ve seen since they were boys over thirty years ago, yet there we were, family. While our family trips had been mostly to other parts of the Cape, the words of David’ Mallet’s song, I Knew This Place, came back to me.

There across the grassy yard,
I, a young one, running hard,
Brown and bruised and battle scarred
And lost in sweet illusion

My cousin Scott told stories of growing up. My grandfather died when my father was twelve and Roger was thirteen and they both worked hard through out their childhood, so much so that when my uncle joined the navy as a strong wiry young man, he astounded the folks at basic training with his ability to do pushups. The story came back to me as I read an op-ed suggesting that perhaps for lesson in shared sacrifice, we should send Congress to boot camp.

Scott talked about growing up in Waterbury, CT, before moving to Albany, NY. I always thought of my uncle, aunt and three cousins as being the ‘Albany Hyneses’ and hadn’t heard much about the Waterbury days. Scott told stories about how his parents had built a basketball court in the backyard, as well as other things to keep the kids at home, and in many ways, their house became the gathering place for the kids in the neighborhood, as Roger and Marge kept a close eye on everyone. It harkened back to a day when families and communities were stronger.

Scott traced the family’s travels to Pittsburgh as the Steelers ended their winning ways and then to Baltimore when the Colts slipped out of town under the cover of night, watching local meat packers close down with the advent of refrigerated trucks and more centralized packing.

By then the kids were all off on their own, and I suspect the house wasn’t that much like the House in Baltimore that David Glaser sings about,

grew up in a house in Baltimore
We marked our time with presidents and wars
and our days fled like a passing summer storm
In that little house in Baltimore

Yet one of the verses captures some of my memories of being a kid back in those days,

Dad, he worked a lot - we never saw much of him
Sometimes on sunday nights - we would gather round the TV
Widen our eyes - to the Wonder World of Disney
Family night - the Twister mat spread on the basement floor

My mind wanders back to “I Knew This Place”,

And as these thoughts come back to me
Like ships across the friendly sea
Like breezes blowing endlessly
Like rivers running deep

Life was really hard on me when my first marriage fell apart. I spent time talking with a therapist as I tried to make sense of all of it. At one point, she asked if what I was looking for was a “Father Knows Best” type of world. Not being much of a television fan, and being a strong believer in equality, I said I didn’t really think that captured things, but as we explore the idea she was trying to communicate, something about strong families staying together through tough times, it seemed like there was at least something to the idea.

Home is an important idea, not necessarily the fifties home that David Glaser sings about, although that may be closer to my ideal that much of what passes for family life these days. Perhaps a little bit closer is the home that David Carter and Tracy Grammer sing about in “Gentle Arms of Eden”,

This is my home, this is my only home
This is the only sacred ground that i have ever known
And should i stray in the dark night alone
Rock me goddess in the gentle arms of eden

So, how do I tie this all together? Perhaps by pulling in a few other songs about home, like Paul Simon singing Homeward Bound,

Homeward bound, I wish I was homeward bound
Home, where my thoughts escape, at home, where my music's playin'
Home, where my love lies waitin' silently for me

Then, upon returning home, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young can finish it off with “Our House”

Our house is a very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you

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Notes

Been having a lot of intense deja vu experiences lately. Wonder what that's all about.

Big storm last night. Power went out in Bethany.

Got up at 6 AM. Went through typical motions as if I were going to work today. However, we went to Cape Cod for a memorial for my Uncle Roger who passed away last fall. Lot's to write about that.

Weird mixture of feelings. Visiting the Cape is full of much joy. Yet there is sadness at noting the passing of a family member. Nonetheless, it was a great memorial.

David Glaser: House in Baltimore.

1927 - Roger's birth, Lindberg crossed the Atlantic, Babe Ruth hit 60 homers.

Roger and Marge were married for 62 years. ^0 of those years, they made it out to the Cape, that old Cape Magic.

Closing down old meat packing factories as refrigerated trucks start to roll.

Crescent moon on the way home, together with some heavy rain.

Stopping at Newport Creamery.

It was a very long day. Other notes have escaped me. Hopefully they will come back when I am rested.

More tomorrow.

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