Morning Pages: Why & How

I begin writing at 9:15 in the morning, about four hours later than usual, but in every other way I'm right on schedule. Morning Pages don't follow clock time but are synced to when my morning begins. I get out of bed, use the bathroom, come down to the basement nook with coffee, turn the heater on, plug my phone into the speakers, and start the music. I date and number pages one, two, three, take a sip of coffee, and write the first words. I write in no great hurry, just fast enough to keep ideas coming and be surprised. 

There's only one audience for these pages; it's me as I write them. I don't share them and rarely look back myself. Sometimes they come out as drafts of pieces (such as these), but that's not the plan. Writing for myself with permission to do whatever with the pages when I'm done encourages me to go deep into places I might not go with someone looking over my shoulder. It shows me that the depths aren't always dark and gives me more courage in public. 

Morning Pages have an element of therapy for me. The time is about an hour and I focus on my needs and thoughts as an essayist and poet should. It used to bother me to do therapy instead of producing finished work, but it's not a choice of one or the other. The practice of writing three morning pages fuels my writing even though it seldom leads directly to published pieces. 

Like meditation it's a daily practice that I don't believe it would work if it was sporadic. For reasons I can't yet articulate but feel absolutely, I need to do Morning Pages every single day first thing. The effect is cumulative. I no longer need discipline to keep up the practice. My morning wouldn't work without them. 

I wrote my first Morning Pages thinking only of those three pages. The next morning I woke curious and wrote three more, again without thought of the next day. This may be why it has worked. 

I write on loose pages, used copy paper onto which I have printed lines. There's a bountiful, free supply at my job and I don't want Morning Pages to cost much. I certainly don't want to work in a pretty notebook that discourages writing ugly things. Loose pages can be scanned, stored digitally, and then recycled. I rarely look back and no longer need the trophy stack of pages. I needed that the first year, but no longer. 

There are specific things I practice. For a while I focused on commas. I've worked to avoid beginning sentences with "so" which had become a tic. Last year I worked to stop ending sentences in prepositions because it clunked in my ear. Currently, I focus on holding the pen loosely so as not to hurt my shoulder and neck. I'm also working to avoid the lazy "you" that refers to no one in particular. Other things come about by happenstance. I'm writing about a quarter smaller than I was last year in part because I'm writing slower (45 mph instead of 70) and I have more to say. Practice hasn't come close to making perfect, but it surely is growth. 

Morning Pages are a way to begin each day alone with words on a page. I go to a secluded place in the house and in my head, follow a routine that bounds and frees me, and I add another day to the practice. It makes me feel writerly first thing and that feeling lingers. It also primes the pump of ideas. 

Where do ideas come from? For me, they come from practice, the regular movement of thought from brain to paper. They come from the act of writing words one, two, and three, allowing them to inspire the next dozen, and going on for three pages. Ideas are a byproduct of writing, of being a writer, and of having that practice. 

I can't imagine a better way to begin each and every day. 

Three Years Pretty Much To The Day

Mom asked if I could believe it has been three years. We were at Wegmans, having breakfast on the third anniversary of Dad's death. She stared off past my left shoulder. It was clear she couldn't believe it had been that long or maybe that short, I wasn't sure which. I waited a moment before saying, in what I hoped was an apologetic tone, yeah, I can. It feels exactly like three years. I'm sure it wasn't the answer she wanted, but it's really the case for me. 

Dad was a funeral director and every so often we would about the job. He showed how he kept his banking, sent out bills, and ordered caskets. I liked this and liked having him show it to me. Sometimes I asked about the point of funerals and calling hours which seemed awful to the living and pointless for the dead. Dad explained that they help the living go into and maybe through some of the grieving. It's not about the dead. 

When Dad died, we went to the guy who bought his old funeral home and did the arrangements. We met the nun at Cathedral who set up the service. We put the obit Dad wrote for himself in the paper. (Writing your own obit is the kindest thing any of us can do for those we leave behind.) I remember every moment of calling hours. I remember the funeral beginning at the funeral home, proceeding to Cathedral, and ending at the cemetery in a February cold that still lingers. 

What doesn't linger is most of what I felt. I remember those feelings but don't feel them much any longer. On the anniversary of his death, on his birthday, at Christmas, or any old day of the week I have moved to a new place. 

I told Mom that when I think of him, I smile a little. I smiled just now., the left side of my mouth curled, my eyes squinted a little, and I felt warmth in my chest and behind my eyes. 

A friend says the dead are still here, available if we tap into the right line. She's no crackpot. I believe her, but I'm unable to access that line if it exists. Maybe someday, but for now my line is driving his pickup, looking at photographs, and memory. It's enough to help me feel that it has been three years pretty much to the day.

Grief was a place in which I lived, moving there shortly after my short stay in shock. I remained there wandering the streets lost and cold until I found a room for rent and got comfortable there long enough that the place became something else entirely. I still live in grief, but the sun shines there most of the time.  

I miss Dad. Sometimes I long for him to just come back already. He's not coming back. He's gone. I don't disbelieve his death and no longer so keenly feel his absence because I'm still here. I understand more of what he did in his life and what I might do with mine. 

Yes, it has been three years almost exactly since Dad died. A day before that, we spoke on the phone. At the end, I said, goodnight, Dad. And he said, goodnight, Bri. 

Three years is about a thousand days and nights and some nights I hear him tell me goodnight. I smile a little, feel a touch of warmth, and wonder how far away he is. I wish him goodnight, whispering, see you in the morning, Dad. Some mornings, more with every passing day, I do.  

On The Shelf

In the mid-nineties I sold my records and turntable at a garage sale for a pittance. I wanted them gone. The record collection was large and heavy and I had almost all of the albums on CDs. The turntable hadn't been hooked up for years. The records were in a closet. I sold them knowing we would be moving soon and not wanting to have to pack them in a truck. 

The CDs made it easy to let go of the records. The turntable had been a Christmas present from Mom and Dad and the records had come from Spectrum Records and Desert Shore as well as Record Theater and all the crappy mall shops, so I was a bit reluctant but not much. I missed the album art and lyric sheets but traded for ease of play, quality of signal, and reduction of noise. I was happy to never hear crackle and pop. 

I moved from analog to digital in a big way and kept going as Napster was born (a gift from the gods) and then died (at the damned hands of Metallica). I ripped my CDs and uploaded them to iTunes. Around then I gave CDs to the library's annual sale. They were taking up space and I hardly ever pulled them down. I hadn't ever loved CDs and so it was easy to let them go. 

This all seemed like an upgrade, but while music was available to me anywhere, my interest was diminished. I still loved music, played it all the time, but I enjoyed it less. There were problems, the was finding something to listen to. 

A record or CD collection is a delight to browse. I get a bang out of flipping through records or running my eyes across a shelf of CDs. At friends' houses, I look at their books, CDs, and records. It helps me feel close to the person. Hey, look, they listen to Steely Dan too. More and more I get to do this less and less because none of us have these things on shelves. 

On the computer and phone I have access to almost every song I could wish to hear, but it's tough to choose. Making a choice out of such a large pool is difficult, but there's just no good way to browse. I can display my music by artist, genre, album, song, or number of plays, but looking at a screen isn't natural or even pleasant. There's no there there. I usually give up and just play what I listened to yesterday.

This bothered me from Napster through iTunes and Google Play Music. No one is interested in making browsing work. It's not part of digital living. The music is arranged for the machine not the listener. I have to know what I want to hear or let the machine pick. It's a bad situation. Still, I've been willing to put up with it because I thought it was just me, that I was the problem. That and the music was so clear, plentiful, and inexpensive I figured there was no point in arguing. This had to be better than records, right?  

Damon Krukowski, in The New Analog, talks about signal and noise. Digital media is pure signal without noise. As a kid I wanted better and better equipment to reduce noise and boost signal. The greatest thing about CDs was the absolute lack of noise. It didn't matter if the sound was colder or whatever complaints audiophiles had. I was grateful not to hear a crackle or a pop. Noise was an enemy and if I had to sacrifice browsing to beat it, I was happy to give up records. 

It turns out that noise is more than crackle and pop. The digital stream the bad noise as well as the noise of album covers, personnel, liner notes, and so on. It takes away the noise of physical media on the shelf and the noise of shopping for music in a store. It strips away the noise of the friend who went with me to the record store and the person there who said, "you should hear this" before playing something cool. The digital stream is pure signal compressed for earbuds. I miss the noise. Even the crackle and pop.

David Sax, author of The Revenge Of Analog, put it this way:

“my roommate and I decided to upload our entire collection of 600 CDs to iTunes and get rid of the CDs. Our interest in music nearly disappeared overnight — because everything was out of sight, out of mind, on a hard drive. It just stopped being interesting. ”

— https://garage.ext.hp.com/us/en/modern-life/david-sax-interview-revenge-of-analog.html

They lost the noise and signal alone turns out to be less than enough. 

I didn't know how much I wanted back into music, signal and noise, until a friend invited me to a vinyl party. He said, "bring an album and play a song for us." Not having a record, I went shopping for one with the friend who had been with me for most of my music shopping over decades. Searching for an album was a revolutionary experience: I came home with a record and an understanding of all I was missing in my music life. It all became clear. 

This should have happened sooner. It took only six months to realize my Kindle was garbage. I couldn't use it on the plane until after take off. I had to buy books instead of using the library. No one knew what I was reading so they didn't talk with me about it. I didn't even know what I was reading because I never saw the cover. I couldn't tell how far into the book I was. It didn't fit in my hand how a book does. And I loved how books looked on our shelves. I gave the Kindle away and kept the books. 

Last year, after the party, I bought a turntable and began buying records. There are over a hundred on the shelf now. The last few days I've listened to over a dozen records, some with more crackle and pop than others, all picked from the shelf, set on the platter, and spun at 33-1/3 rpm. I have reunited the signal and noise. I have begun to amass the bulk that I shed. I have found, once again, the interest in music I had as a kid. And the happiness too. 

Where I'm At

School is closed. Most of the city, county, and state too. The snow is ridiculous. I've shoveled twice so far. Eight inches have fallen in about six hours. Syracuse, New York in February. 

My neighbor and I took a break from shoveling to talk across the street. "I had the choice to have lunch or shovel. Some choice," he said, leaning on his shovel. He's even more fastidious about hid driveway than I am but nowhere near happy about it. Snow is a bother. The cold too. The driving through all of it. Ugh. 

Our snowblower died and both to save money and be green I decided not to replace it. I've been shoveling and, aside from a bit of soreness, it has been fine. During these storms, I go out often. I'll be out there again within the hour. 

About now, someone says I'm crazy to live here. I understand, but it's not the snow that's toughest. It's the grey skies which I've seen drive people out of their happiness. Still, even under grey skies and feet of snow, I'm happy where I am. 

Really. 

I love snow days and generally like snow even though I don't ski and no longer snow blow (my favorite winter activity). I've begun to enjoy shoveling. The snow is beautiful and I like crazy weather that doesn't involve hurricane winds ripping off the roof or earth suddenly shifting beneath the foundation. Syracuse has tough snow but no disasters. I can deal with tough but try to avoid disaster. 

This is where I have lived. I went away for college and a job, but there was no question where we would raise our children. This is a place where strangers smile when I say hello. They respond, have a good one. And so I have.  

I've chosen where I live, who I am, where I'm going. I chose this city, this life, these friends, this family, this act of writing. I chose all of it and it I've chosen well. When I look closely, I see that it is good. It feels good too. I feel good. 

Friends can't wait until they move to Florida, Arizona, the Carolinas, out of Syracuse. Some sound happy about where they want to go. Others are just sound angry about where they are. I listen and nod. They ask, "where will you go?" I shrug, smile, and say that I'm good here. They ask, really? And I nod. There's not much to say and I've no reason to convince them to stay. It is enough that this is and has been the place for me. 

All of this has less to do with Syracuse, New York than it does with Brian G. Fay. The best thing about getting old is the settling down. As a kid I thought that would be depressing part, but being settled opens doors within me. Knowing where I am, I know better who I am and who I might become. 

It's about time I went out and scraped the driveway again. The snow is still coming hard, another two inches in the driveway. I'll do my neighbors' sidewalks to either side. We help each other out. If someone else is out there shoveling or just walking by, I'll say hello and listen to what they have to say about the storm. I'll smile because I'm standing in my driveway, outside my home, smack dab in the middle of where I want to be. I'll smile because I know where I am right now and it is good. Let it snow. I'll keep shoveling.