Public and Private

I prefer to write with pen on paper. There's no way for corporations, governments, or individuals to know what I write that way. But I'm typing this on the computer, my data tracked, and I'll publish this to the blog. So much for privacy.

For 3,802 days straight, I've written three Morning Pages by hand on paper. Thats' 11,406 pages no one is likely ever to see. What's the point of keeping that private?

My writing group sometimes ask if I'm going to gather my poems, find an agent, and try to publish. I suppose I should. More than Morning Pages, the poems are meant for others. But the work to publish feels like time away from other things and I'm focused now on writing and shaping of them, on the craft. For once, I don't need to put them out into the world and be told I'm a good boy.

Private writing focuses my attention on my motivations. I don't want to brag about the streak of Morning Pages as I did for years. There's nothing noble in the streak any more than getting out of bed and making coffee each morning. It's just a thing I do for me. I've gotten past needing to impress anyone else with it or even to explain the motivation to myself.

I may someday move to publish my poems. That may be what I want to do. I'll wait until I'm not chasing approval, until it's not about my ego. That's no way to overcome the habits of trying to satisfy others. I can overcome my traumas mostly in private and then see what I'm ready to do.

As for this switch from private pen and paper to public blog, I wanted it available for others to read. I'll likely never know if it has been read and so that can't be the motivation for me any more. It's enough to feel good without understanding all the reasons behind it. It's enough to accept the tension between private and public and know that I live somewhere between the two and moving back and forth as need be.

Sore Must Be The Storm

I was writing at my desk. The window o the left lets in good writing light. Behind me, the big living room window gives a view of the immediate world. As I wrote, I heard a hard thunk on that front window and knew what had happened.

Two tiny feathers stuck to the glass. On the patio below lay a small bird. My heart sunk. Things have been weighing on me more than usual.

In the opinion section of Sunday's paper a guy writes that the orange maggot is his president and mine too. Talk about making my heart sink. I worry our democracy is doomed and may have already died. I didn't think it was as fragile a thing as the hollow bones of a small bird, but there it lies.

Burdened by this sadness, I made some lunch and ate by myself wondering what to do about all these things. Feeling, despite my thoughts otherwise, that I have to do something.

After lunch, I came back to the living room to read. Just before sitting down, I looked at the window. The two tiny feathers have come unstuck and blown away. Dreading the sight of it, I looked down at the patio.

The bird had flown away.

Turns out that this thing I thought dead was only stunned. Had I watched, I would have seen its eyes open and its wings returning it to the air. I didn't have the patience for that, nor the faith.

Still, the bird flew away. Twenty minutes removed from despair, I find hope, the thing with feathers, has taken wing and my heavy heart along with it.

Republicans, Take It Away!

There's a great Looney Tunes cartoon in which Bugs Bunny, trying to create trouble, saws Florida off the continent, sets it afloat, and shouts, "South America, take it away!" It's a thought I've had often about Florida, but I'm taking a larger view post-election and am ready to give most of the country away.

In 2016, I was angry, ready to fight and save the republic from those silly Republicans.

Today, I'm angry again, but ready to give up. It's clear that I'm out of step with most Americans. About all I can say is I don't claim it was all rigged. We lost, fair and square.

As for fighting to save the republic, like Bugs Bunny, I'm giving the country a push and shouting, "Republicans, take it away!" It's their country now and they have to run it. I'll disagree with a lot of their ideas, but instead of fighting, I'll keep score and boo from the cheap seats.

I bet a lot of folks voted out of anger and maybe against their self-interests. I'm not mocking that, but when one of those folks complains about some change, I may smile and say, "it's your country now, I just live here."

A coward's way forward? Mostly, I'm just beaten down. I'm joining the new party of no. After having lost this badly, I need to rethink all my strategies and learn what the winners have to teach me. That includes the folks on the right and, much more importantly, that cartoon rabbit. He never loses.

Hamlet in the Litter Box

Talking with friends about cats, of all things, I said, I kind of enjoy scooping the litter box. This raised doubting eyebrows. No, really, I said. It's like a Zen garden.

One of my friends told me, "scooping litter is not like a Zen garden" full stop.

I didn't protest, didn't know how to press my case, and was in no mood to argue with friends. But tonight, Hamlet came to me: "for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." I felt immediately better though not about litter.

I was scooping litter, but I was thinking about the big project my work partner and I have taken on. The number of people who have told me I'm crazy, I might as well be Hamlet tearing pages from the books. "Words, words, words."

This afternoon, I believed them. Madness for sure, a project simply too large. Impossible. Hopeless. I'm not making any progress. My conclusions have been off the mark. I don't deserve the trust others have invested in me. I was almost set to pack it in, declare it a failure, declare me a failure. I could have called the whole thing a prison were I thinking of Hamlet then. But it didn't come until I was sifting the litter.

That's when the words came. Some of them. I've memorized less Shakespeare than I'd like. Scooping litter, my mind remembered, nothing either good but thinking makes it so.

I smiled at a clump of litter. Shook my head and laughed a little thinking what my friends might think watching me. I scooped the litter clean, smoothed it, drew a curve in it with the edge of the scoop, and smoothed it away.

Thinking makes it so. Nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so.

Perhaps the work project will prove more than I'm able. This afternoon, thinking made it seem so. Tonight, the litter box clean, a small grin still at play on my face, I'm thinking it otherwise. Denmark may have been Hamlet's prison. A litter box may not be a Zen garden. But the wind has just turned southerly and, mad as I may seem to have taken this project on, I just may yet know a hawk from a handsaw.