In Search of Beauty

I had promised the thief that I would search for beauty. It was a homework assignment that I have not as yet been taken to task for not fulfilling. I have reported back no findings. So much pain and sadness and shit all around me, that has been what I notice. I thought when I took the assignment that the beauty was out there, eluding me only for the time being. The thief I could tell was certain of it (and that was almost beautiful in and of itself, in fact, might be - but if wrong, if beauty is but illusion, then the cruelty of that face might never be described).

And so it came to be that I stopped looking and like all things lost it was now available to be found (an aphorism! bring on those that argue!). And so it is that beauty has visited, (re?)appeared like the burst of a wave or the spastic giggle of sweet Jocelyn when she finally decides that I am worth her attention in between naps and feedings and general crankiness. The little ones beauty is so unmeasured, so inexact, so perfect (I am thinking of you Max and Sophia, trying to tackle your Uncle in tic-tac-to and hangman).

And I have seen more. I have felt new connections that are both uncertain and promising (what is more beautiful then what might yet be?)

But do not be so fast to count me a believer. I have been tricked before. But perhaps at last the game is afoot.

The Courtesan, The Goddess, The Poet, and a Thief of Kisses

It seems that there are things that show up and those one must show up for. And those that are yet to come, perhaps Now in a cosmic thread, but otherwise over there, just over there or way over there (the illusiveness in measuring exactly how far is a source of great distress for many, I suspect - myself included).

She has a PhD and looks me dead on when she corrects me. And she is correct so I nod. We have banished "I think," and so certainty is not only preferred but insisted upon. The additional rigor does tire. And I napped in the hammock by the woodpile, the book unopened in my lap.

To label it is tempting. Assign it a box to place it in, which leads to a definition - "It means this ...," will follow, and there is nothing wrong with that. Really, who doesn't like to know what things mean? Particularly if a sleight is performed, a piece of magic that surprises with its suddenness. But I am feeling compelled to resist and instead play this sudden game. It should be assumed that The Thief will again pilfer, it is a thief's nature. Then let us see how successfully, and what might follow.

I mocked her curiosity, gently. Promised a poem. That will put her back on her heels (who ever is offered poetry as either compliment or bribe or recompense?), the failure of that enterprise ending this dalliance. The pause between disappointments. She writes with a joy that would be minimized by calling it a twinkle. (she actually mentioned sealing a letter with a wax seal - I know someone who would be most enamored with that, might fall in love)

The talk of food and strangers and accents and noticing life was exactly what this outpost needed delivered. Not mentioned were the struggles and we might get to that another time when my strength is fully returned, my resolve reinforced. At present I will cherish the thoughtful gift. Pull some amusement from it. Try to keep back tears.

Up to my Old Tricks:

It started with this column (now premium content at The Globe; I am on free trial by giving my email address): http://www.bostonglobe.com/sports/2012/05/02/paul-pierce-may-belong-among-five-best-celtics-all-time/aDoVsRI9h6euOc8YVyZ4AP/story.html

The last sentence in the column had a word choice error in it and if I could have figured out how to make the comments section work I would have noted the error there and been done with it. But I could not make it work and I did notice the writer's email address so I sent him and his editor a short civil note via email:

From: james allen [mailto:scrivener001@hotmail.com] 
Sent: Thursday, May 03, 2012 9:32 AM
To: Shaughnessy, Daniel E; Chinlund, Christine S
Subject: No Editor?

Dan,

End of today's column should read: "an NBA championship ..." vs. "and NBA championship ..."

This is how it will go (sloppy) for premium content?

James

Ok, so a slight dig thrown in. But, as Sol Stein extolls: Read what you write! And it is the last sentence and all. 


And I think Dan appreciated the heads-up because he quickly wrote back:

From: DShaughnessy@globe.com
To: scrivener001@hotmail.com
Date: Thu, 3 May 2012 10:53:50 -0400
Subject: RE: No Editor?

Wow, James. That’s huge. What do you think, should the writer and editor should both be fired?

Dan Shaughnessy

Sports columnist/Associate editor

Boston Globe

135 Morrissey Blvd.

Boston, MA 02125

617-929-2584

That was not the type of response I was expecting. And frankly it rankled me. Ungrateful. I replied:

From: james allen [mailto:scrivener001@hotmail.com] 
Sent: Thursday, May 03, 2012 11:23 AM
To: Shaughnessy, Daniel E
Subject: RE: No Editor?

A bit thin-skinned Dan? 

What I think is that a professional writer should read his copy before posting it for consumption and catch his own errors. Failing that, his editor should read the writer's work closely enough to catch any errors. Failing that, one or the other ought be graceful enough to thank the reader kind enough to point out the mistake.

Or are you just above it all?

A bit heated but certainly civil enough, wouldn't all agree? Well, Dan would not agree. Flexing his superior columnist's muscles against poor reader me he replied:

From: DShaughnessy@globe.com


To: scrivener001@hotmail.com
Date: Thu, 3 May 2012 11:31:14 -0400
Subject: RE: No Editor?

James – If we don’t respond, we are dismissive. If we respond, we are thin skinned.

I responded. I had it changed on line.

I looked at the original. Which had a different phrase entirely.

The editors save us 999 times out of 1000. I am thankful for them.

We both know your reference to “premium” was a cheap shot meant to provoke. It’s a typo by a human editor. They’re in newspapers and books every day. And of course, it has nothing to do with the 1,000 words about Paul Pierce and the top five. I would have been interested in hearing where you stand on that one.

So I have spent ten minutes of my day engaged with a concerned reader. Does that make me thin-skinned, or above it all?

Thanks for your contribution.

Dan Shaughnessy

Sports columnist/Associate editor

Boston Globe

135 Morrissey Blvd.

Boston, MA 02125

617-929-2584

James

Wow. Where to begin? I decided I either had to be done with him (and let him have the last word) or go all FJM on his ass - what other choices were available for a reasonable person? So I answered in kind: 

From: scrivener001@hotmail.com
To: dshaughnessy@globe.com
Subject: RE: No Editor?
Date: Thu, 3 May 2012 13:18:08 -0400

Dan,

So I have spent ten minutes of my day engaged with a concerned reader. - Shall we make it 15 minutes?

If we don’t respond, we are dismissive. If we respond, we are thin skinned. - Do you actually see it this way? Woe is you, what can we do? The original email pointed out an error in your text but did not, to my repeated readings, encourage such an over-the-top reply (should the writer and editor should both be fired?)

We both know your reference to “premium” was a cheap shot meant to provoke. - This is an awesome reply. What we both know is twofold: that without mind-reading abilities, or, at least, some acquaintance with me, you can't possibly know what my intent was; and, those last five words have been said about you and your columns (and not without some merit) for how many years? Surely the irony was unintended but it was a delight nonetheless.

It’s a typo by a human editor. - Now this is useful. I did not know how the process worked. Editors, unlike national columnists, are overworked and underpaid and deserve to be cut some slack. 

They’re in newspapers and books every day. - Ah, the so everyone's doing it argument? Didn't you feel the least bit embarrassed typing those words? 

... nothing to do with the 1,000 words about Paul Pierce and the top five. - No offense, but not your best work. Just not a compelling topic (PP's "big game" included 8 TO's, less than 50% shooting, and helped his team score 87 points? This might have led to a more interesting read: the mixed bag that is the PP experience). And I can confess to some reader bias as I read Ryan for NBA and you for (deliciously malicious) humor and Red Sox piling on. I honestly believe that you write better than all of the local writers (tone, pace, humor, bite, etc.) which is why I read what you write and take more than 15 minutes out of my day (okay, this is fun; and I'm right and you're not, so there's that).

Does that make me thin-skinned, or above it all? - Definitely thin-skinned (so far) but thankfully not above it all.

Thanks for brightening my day. Feel free to argue or remain silent. 

James

So that's all for now. Seems my health is on an uptick? Or is this evidence to the contrary (and if a certain obstinate pothead were around to argue with then this might not have been necessary)?

Glass Half Empty

Rare is the morning that I make it across Houston street and up to the 4th floor for PT - through the entry doors and down the hallway and through the big tiled square lobby feeding the elevators, sort of a people funnel as there is always a swirl of comings (and in the mornings it seems the people only come, not go, as the building inflates) - without being struck by the enormity of their pains. Little men bent over, the effort they need to push a foot forward. Grown daughters with worried faces, surely with lives of their own suspended, as they wheel mother along, or carry her purse as she tap tap taps the walker along. The obese the poor the ignorant. All the damaged broken people.

Is it depressing stuff? Should I be chastised for focusing on this and feeling troubled, often despondent? Do I imagine what I see? Are their lives so malleable, so responsive to the various hands they have been dealt, so adaptive and accepting, that I should celebrate their capacity to not only endure, but ... what?

Isn't there always a second side to the coin, an opposite position to be considered, maybe argued if one is feeling frisky, and doesn't this practice generally do no disservice to the Truth (if such exists)? Yet here I find myself without the counter argument I have come to take for granted - it seems that they only suffer, nothing else, there is no more, argue if you will, for naught. And of course there is more, there is always more, but the more is so small by comparison to the point of not being worthy of accounting, hence, not existing. Statistically insignificant.

If there is a silver lining, my physical pain and limitation diminishes by comparison. Whoopee for me, eh? I feel guilty even mentioning it as I am progressing, perhaps even restoring, and many (most?) I see are broken. Or breaking. Declining. Hanging on? Clinging to wisps of life? And I wonder about the series of concessions they made along the way as they felt the reduction of their capacities. I wonder about the limitations they bartered or just accepted and the pain of that train of thought makes me stop. And I wonder about the Creator and wonder if this is as he imagines life should be, wonder was he bargaining with them every step of the way, wonder is he like the shylock who would have his pound of flesh and now I am witnessing the payoff?

I don't know how else to feel about these things. I would prefer not. Bartleby surely had it right. I can not help seeing feeling the pain I walk through daily. Reminds me of a scene from Howard's End; Well the poor are the poor and one wishes it would be better for them, that something might be done but, well, ah, well there you have it. Surely I butchered that but I think the idea is generally got. Well there you have it and nothing can be done. Witness is all.

And so as happens sometimes I find the accompanying sadness. It is quite thick today. Maybe some good food is what I need. A treat for me! Add some exercise. A trolley ride? These are coping devices that I know well and none of which want to catch hold at present.  I find some days are endured only.

The Infatuation

It was an arrogant thing to do, taking Tobias Wolff to physical therapy with me yesterday morning. The first 15 minutes I spend hooked up to the TENS Unit, an electro-stimulation device for the muscles around the shoulder, and there is the hooking up time and the disconnecting time - maybe 20 minutes total that one could read from a book, should they choose. Usually I chat with the therapist or play with my blackberry, sometimes talk with another patient, if he is not reading from his book.

That gets us to the arrogant part: he brings a Cussler or King or Baldacci, popular fiction. I could have penned in advance his response to me bringing a book: What you reading? Who? Haven't heard of him. What's it about? Hmm, okay. What? (Of course take Wolff into some quarters and Wolff = Cussler or King or Baldacci, by comparison. He a storyteller, old school, outdated, irrelevant to what is being written today. That is horse shit I would say, but I know it is there).

Okay, so shame on me. A small self-flagellation and move on.

The story I chose to read was "The Liar," based entirely on which one looked like I could easily read it in twenty minutes. What a great story, and I am not going to follow with an essay on its literary components (although I think one might make a career out of critiquing from different angles/perspectives). Read the story if sufficiently intrigued. No, it is Wolff who has re-got his fangs into me: the areas of mine own writing that I am sensitive to thoughts of inadequacy: tone, wordiness,  amount of detail, velocity (especially this), and there is more, let's not lay me out bare -- he absolutely nails all of it. Spot on. Perfect pace, velocity, tone, detail, description. Point a to point b in 100% correct path.,

We might now argue whether he is a great artist or merely a great craftsman - are they exclusive? I would say the former must include the latter and not vice versa, but that is a quick thought and not important to me at this juncture. What is important is that he can navigate a full story with nary a misstep. That makes this a perfect story in my eyes, a great story. But I would not rank it all-time great, as the limitations of character, setting, etc., limitations imposed by the story itself, minimize its loftiness. But again, he mines every drop of this story that is available and that awes me.

I had a similar feeling when first reading "The Night in Question." Less so about the overall perfection, more so the velocity and direction. It is very good, but I think it might be improved. Maybe not, who is to say. "Venus de Milo," a beautiful little story I came across in a small lit mag ten years ago, is similar in this regard. Almost perfect in and of itself. Perhaps a couple of word choices might have improved it, I thought at the time.  Arrogant thoughts on my part. But can writers help reading that way (I like to think I only think that way after digesting the story)?

Aside: Ricardo Semler, in Maverick, asks the question (paraphrase): What are the obligations of a Corporation? He decides survive and thrive are necessary, but whether to grow larger or not was more sticky and subject to much debate. Ultimately he decided it depends, and decided to keep his company its current size and not grow, fearing the cultural changes that growth would likely bring.

What obligations do writers have, if any? What is inherent, what negotiable? For me I feel I must always be open for improvement, on the lookout for what I might learn. The obligation to the story, the characters, the reader, is enormous. And to answer an earlier question: perhaps it is the artist who finds the story but it is the craftsman who tells it? Then craft is always at issue, no?

So for a while I'll be carrying around Wolff, probably to the point of depression. And I'll get cracking on that Stegner application. Who wouldn't benefit from a couple of years around a guy like that? (Would that count as the balance of my Ashes? More likely that would constitute time in the Garden, under the leaves touched by moist soil. Must get another copy of Iron John. His edicts fade.)

5 years I have been carrying this sign knowing eventually

a home would emerge

A room of her own

 for Brooke, my summer writing partner: