Unfolding

"Everything eventually unfolds..."

I have been happily exploring podcasts from YogaDownload.com. Towards the end of a recent lunchtime practice, the podcast instructor guided me, her invisible student, through Figure Four. This pose is a challenge for me, as my hips are always tight, but I was inspired by the instructor's gentle encouragement: "Everything eventually unfolds."

As I focused on opening up in harmony with breath, I immediately latched on to a wisdom within these words.
Everything eventually unfolds.

I love the implication of the word "unfold." It suggests a moment of struggle, confusion, or discomfort. Why can't I touch my toes? Why don't I know all the "facts" about a certain situation?
Why aren't words filling this blank page in a satisfying way? Unfolding hints that these moments may eventually be followed with ease, enlightenment, or release.  Unfolding suggests patience. Not be confused with stagnant inactivity. Continue practicing. Keep stretching, seeking, writing. But don't force it.

A balled up piece of paper, carefully uncrumpling. An opening fist. The meticulous unfurling of a palm frond. Unfolding suggests measured purpose, inevitableness. Seasons ending and beginning again. Lives passing to the next stage. So many possibilities in a simple phrase.

Musings on Observing via DFW

"Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers."
A true lurker, I snapped this photo of two strangers posing for another photographer's lens

My brother loaned me his copy of David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and this is what I’ve been reading for the past month. This is the first work from DFW that I’ve read. The combination of being an extremely slow reader, and doing the majority of my recreational reading right before bedtime, has made this a drawn out process. 

I just started the third essay/argument, and I’m still on the fence about his writing. I think he was obviously wildly smart – probably one of those people too smart for their own good – and his brain may sometimes have got in the way of his ability to solidify his ideas for the reader.

But there have been glimmers throughout the pages. Like this quote from his “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” essay:

                                        Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers. They tend to lurk and to stare. 

                                        They are born watchers. They are viewers. They are the ones on the subway 

                                        about whose nonchalant stares there is something creepy, somehow. 

                                        Almost predatory. This is because human situations are writers’ food. 

                                        Fiction writers watch other humans sort of the way gapers slow down for car wrecks: 

                                        they covet a vision of themselves as witnesses.

This is a nice reminder of a trait most of us would likely associate with creative types. I do enjoy observing people, but it seems to stem from an interest in human nature, rather than a concrete “I’m going to watch a bunch of strangers until I get an idea for my next story” goal (And of course we have to subtly spy, as our social grooming taught us that outright staring is rude/weird/creepy). But maybe the urge to observe stems from the same place that generates the urge to write?

In my experience, very rarely does observing lead directly to an immediate this-could-be-worth-writing-someday moment. More often the attention wanders to the next person, out the window, back to my own hands, and the observed detail wafts gently downstream. Falls soundlessly in line with the endless marching of thoughts, memories, hopes and anxieties parading around. And then much further down the road (perhaps while staring at the ceiling, thinking what to write next; maybe while folding laundry) something observed comes back to life – seemingly without any effort on my part, almost without recollection of having observed it in the first place. And it seems to fit perfectly with my character or the scene unfolding on my half-written page.

We notice the things meant for us...

I’m of the belief that we only notice the things meant for us. Not to imply that we should maintain a passive float through life (we could all stand to be more present, more observant), but if we imparted every detail around us with the utmost importance, it would be too overwhelming. However, what I love about photography – about bringing a camera with me on outings and trips – is that it forces me to open my eyes a little wider. I’m more on the lookout for moments, so I can capture them on film. Of course, you can’t force these things, and sometimes there are no pictures snapped.

Or I don’t have a camera on me, or it’s not practical to take a picture as the moment unfolds. On a bus in England, whizzing past a field where two people kiss on top of a large roll of hay. Walking behind an impeccably dressed old man, hunched with age, as he ducks below the trailing branches of a weeping willow. A yellow convertible pulls up in the next lane on a late summer afternoon, a wrinkled white bulldog leaning out the passenger side. Moments observed, saved to mind film, waiting to come back to life someday.

Monster Mash

In college, I took a fascinating course called Monsters: Imagining the Other.  We watched monster movies each week; read novels, as well as texts by philosophers, psychologists, theorists, etc.; and explored the cultural significance of monsters. Our amazing professor bound up each class members' required monster journals and papers, and this artifact has been with me since its creation in 2002. In the spirit of the season, I found my section in the class book and pulled out some sentences here and there to stitch together a Frankenstein of monster musings. Happy Halloween!
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Once the pod people invaded the body of a human,
they retained the appearance and memories of the former individual.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers was allegedly made to address the Communist paranoia of the 1950s. By studying the way people are drawn to invasion stories, it becomes evident that, even when removed from the issues of the Fifties, invasion stories play an important role in today’s culture. Not only do they help relieve modern concerns, they also tell us about the function of monsters in general.

Slippery anxieties find solid form in invasion films. Invasion of the Body Snatchers features pod people who suck emotions and individuality from their prey. Even if the monster shares the same appearance and actions as us, something dangerous may lurk beneath the surface. Fearing a Communist take over, some 1950s Americans worried they were next in line.

While Invasion of the Body Snatchers examines the nature of the “enemy,” Independence Day shows the country coming together in a time of crisis. A stripper rescues the First Lady, dissolving boundaries that separate social classes. Before the final fight with the aliens, the President addresses the crowd - urging everyone to forget differences in race, gender, status – and instead focus on saving the world. Indeed, the man who ends up destroying the Mother Ship is a drunk from a trailer park – not the typical hero we so often see in films.

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In his monster theses, Jeffery Jerome Cohen

states that the monster can act as

"an alter ego...an alluring projection

of (an Other) self."

Fight Club can be considered a monster movie. In his monster theses, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen states that “every monster is…two living stories: one that describes how the monster came to be and another, its testimony, detailing what cultural use the monster serves” (13). Tyler Durden fulfills the Narrator’s psychological need, and carries a cultural message.

Tyler appears when the Narrator’s apartment explodes. The Narrator can no longer define himself with possessions and material objects.  “The monster’s body…incorporates fear, desire, anxiety, and fantasy, giving them life and an uncanny independence” (Cohen, 4). Tyler isn’t disgusted by living in a broken, dirty house with rusty running water. He doesn’t desire money or fear the corporate system. Tyler wears clothes the Narrator could never wear, is sexual in ways the Narrator never dared to be. Tyler doesn’t let others walk on him. He lives in the moment and acts to satisfy himself. As Tyler states, “All the ways you want to be…that’s me.”

"All the ways you want to be...that's me"

Although Tyler is created by the Narrator’s desperation to improve his life, Tyler serves as a cultural message board. This is also the role of the monster; they “demand a radical rethinking of boundary and normality” (6). Tyler’s message is simple: start thinking for yourself, stop surrounding yourself with meaningless items.

The power of Tyler’s cultural message is both liberating and frightening. Through Project Mayhem, the Narrator sees how impressionable society is. Instead of truly integrating Tyler’s lessons of independence, the members of Project Mayhem behave as if in a cult. They lose all ability to think for themselves, and eagerly await Tyler’s next orders. Instead of liberating others, Project Mayhem creates mindless drones. When something as strong as Tyler comes along, the weakness of the system is revealed, as it easily crumbles under his influence.

Although they share one body, Tyler and the Narrator are two personas. Tyler can do whatever he wants, since he exists outside society’s boundaries. The Narrator is the voice of reason, we often see him standing cautiously on the sidelines. Tyler asks us to look inside and see if we are truly happy. "Monsters ask us how we perceive the world, and how we have misrepresented what we have attempted to place. They ask us to reevaluate our cultural assumptions" (20).  The Narrator needed to realize that Tyler's ideals were a part of him, and that he could act upon them - without completely losing his voice of reason - when necessary.  At the end of the film, the Narrator symbolically shoots himself, and thus Tyler, who drops to the floor.

But Tyler isn't dead. He has been drawn back inside the Narrator's mind. He has been integrated. The Narrator has urges for both a domestic life and a life of revolution.  Two conflicting beings lie within him, making it hard for the viewer to ultimately separate one from the other. He won't easily fit into a category of "good" or "bad" because he is both. And this is a terrifying aspect of monsters - the realization that we all have similar capacities for both preservation and destruction.

Creating Possibilities

One of my main reasons for starting this blog was to hold myself accountable for writing on a more regular basis. Thanks to these posts, and an inspiring writing group that recently welcomed me into their midst, I returned to my Laura piece (excerpts found here and here) after a year of ignoring it within the depths of my writing desk. After polishing up some old bits and laboring over new sections, I felt comfortable enough with my work-in-progress to use Laura’s story to apply for a fellowship. Although I wasn’t selected, I did receive a nice email back stating that I was one of the top three finalists, and I received feedback specific to my submission.

Write, write, write to create more possibilites

Don’t get me wrong, this post is not about rejection. I want to focus instead on possibility. In a way, the best part of the experience was when I carefully handed the padded envelope containing my submission over to the post office clerk. It was a moment to pat myself on the back for getting my act together, meeting that application deadline in my planner. For sending my words out into the world for critique, judgment, and…possibly…award. Hearing the familiar grind of the mail truck turning the corner of our street every day. Walking up the driveway after the delivery, peering inside the murky mailbox. Hoping to find a promising-looking envelope inside. 

And since we live in a technology-driven world, there was also Inbox checking and email refreshing. 

Waiting for that message with the desired Subject line.

While I was in waiting mode, I started thinking about The Bell Jar. I remembered that Esther had applied for a summer class with “a famous writer” who would read her already submitted manuscript and decide if she was “good enough to be admitted into his class.” It’s been a while since I read the book cover to cover, but I could’ve sworn that even after she returned home from those last empty magazine days in “the dark heart of New York,” the possibility of acceptance into the writing class was the last glimmer of hope keeping her afloat for weeks, months, as she shared a lifeless house with her mother in the dull Boston suburbs.

As I skimmed through the book yesterday, I realized I hadn’t quite gotten the timeline right. She finds out about her rejection right after the train pulls into Boston, before she even sets foot in her house. Behind the wheel of the family car, her mother tosses some letters into Esther’s lap…

“I think I should tell you right away,” she said, and I could see bad news in the set of her neck, “you didn’t make that writing course.”

The air punched out of my stomach.

All through June the writing course had stretched before me like a bright, safe bridge…

Like I said, this isn’t meant to be a post about rejection. Yes, you’d have to be some kind of robot if rejection didn’t set off even the faintest siren of doubt in your mind; but isn’t the best feeling – maybe even better than actually winning – those moments in limbo, after you’ve set yourself up for consideration?

The only way to ride that high of writing possibility is to write lots, strive for more clarity in individual artistic expression, and send more submissions into the ether - all to create a multitude of “bright, safe bridges” to imagine walking over.

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All quotations and italicized text in this post were taken from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

Breathe

"Breathe to the boundaries of your skin."

If we remain receptive, words alight from unexpected sources.

I just recently dipped a toe into the infinite waters known as yoga. Tested the ripples for the first time. This includes a misty, outdoor class to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox, with gentle drumming and Bug Light lighthouse as the backdrop, and a Restorative class.

During this Restorative class, the instructor asked us to “Breathe to the boundaries of your skin.” Instantly my mind latched on to this phrase. Filling with breath until you start to expand, the expansion creating an awareness of the skin holding you together. 

To the edge, into the edge. To the boundary, into the boundary. Skin as a boundary - not to imply limitation, but acceptance. Acknowledgement of the miniscule, which so often goes unrecognized. 

Feel your boundary coming close to another boundary.

Just another reminder that meaningful words are all around us. Evocative language can come from any source – be it a yoga class or a walk down a busy street. 

Stevie's Syntax

Stevie Nicks. She seems to be an artist that people either fanatically love, or loudly dislike. No middle ground. I’m happy to report that I’m on the absolutely-adore-secretly-wish-I-could-be-her side.

When we lived in Boulder, Bart’s CD Cellar was on Pearl Street, and there were several vinyl records I would constantly check on to make sure they were still up for grabs. Time Fades Away by Neil Young was one. Bella Donna by Stevie Nicks was another. Always relieved to re-locate those perfectly faded cardboard sleeves, I wrestled with my wallet and the other stacks of must-have selections to decide if this was the day to finally bring them home. For whatever reason, some other records would win out. But I found comfort in the fact that I still had the option to own those coveted albums some fateful day in the future. After moving from Colorado to Maine – and since returning to Boulder a few times for work, only to discover that Bart’s doesn’t exist in the same capacity anymore – I’ve always regretted not buying those two albums when I had the chance.

So when I stumbled across Bella Donna in a record store a few weeks ago (with a whopping $2 price tag!), I walked it straight to the register.

After listening to it a few times, I started to think about “Leather and Lace.” Particularly the “Give to me your leather/Take from me…my lace” line. I love the simultaneous simplicity and implied complexity of the leather and lace dichotomy. But I think what makes this line stick with me, what gives it a little extra weight, is the syntax. In conversations, most people wouldn’t talk in the way this line is presented. You might say, “Give me your leather, and take my lace.” Which sounds much more casual and not nearly as meaningful.

Maybe poetry and song lyrics are better suited to the type of word arrangements found in the leather and lace phrase. Less of a need to form complete, more "traditional" sentences. When you hear words aloud, without seeing them written down, you are less aware of what goes where. Maybe it's easier to sing, enunciate, and breathe in the right spots when the words are arranged as “Give to me your leather/Take from me…my lace.” Maybe it's Stevie Nicks, who in my opinion can sing almost anything and make it sound good. But even without her voice attached to the phrase, under silent repetition, the words flow. Enough syllables for the internal tongue to skip along, natural places to pause. It just works.

In my writing, I often find myself getting hung up on the syntax. I find the most freedom to play with word order in stream of consciousness moments. It is such a delicate balance to arrange words in a purposeful, innovative, and attention catching way - without creating a mangled mess that no reader wants to wade through.

Until I write that perfect sentence, I’m glad I can now listen to “Leather and Lace” on vinyl whenever I want!

The Stinging & The Shining

Isn’t it great when something happens, and it reminds you of a book? (OK, OK – or a TV show. Because everything in life can be traced back to The Simpsons or Seinfeld, right?)

When we moved into our house, my mom gave us a coconut shell wind chime as a housewarming gift. It hung innocently on the front porch for almost a year. In early summer, I noticed that wasps had moved into the concave top of the wind chime and into one of the dangling bamboo tubes. Each day, as I went out the front door to water the hanging plants, I peered into the wind chime to watch the progress of the hive. As the honeycombed network grew, I vaguely thought about knocking the nest down before it swelled into an unmanageable mess. But the wasps dutifully trundled across their geometric home without paying me any mind. So we struck up a peaceful co-existence.

You see where this is going, right?

Beady face with no discernable eyes, 

abdomen curled. 

Photo Source

A few weeks ago, during a routine watering, I reached into the tangled tendrils of  a hanging plant. Half-sensed a wavering insect body inside - and as the realization formed – a sudden pricking. Quick needle stab, instant throbbing. I was stung.

I don’t think I’ve ever been stung by a wasp before then. Even though I knew the one that got me was simply acting on pure instinct – protecting its queen and the nurturing hive – I felt betrayed by those winged workers. And as my hand swelled to the size of a latex glove filled with water, The Shining popped into my head.

Down to the basement to find our copy of the Stephen King classic (which we bought here, just to make things extra creepy). I flipped to the part about Jack getting stung while working on the roof. Detonating the poison bomb to kill the wasp nest, then giving the now harmless nest to a delighted Danny – despite Wendy’s reservations. Even though it had been years since I’d last read the book, 

I remembered  the wasp nest coming alive in Danny’s room in the middle of the night. 

I eagerly re-read the scene, wondering if my new sting would lend greater intensity to the words.

Putting Danny to bed, Wendy is shaken by the nest in her son’s room. “She didn’t like the idea of that thing, constructed from the chewings and saliva of so many alien creatures…”

After Danny’s episode in the bathroom – where he sees Tony “way down deep” in the mirror – Danny settles into bed with his Snoopy night light, slips into a nightmare, then wakes with a start:

Something on one hand. Crawling.
Wasps. Three of them.
They stung him then, seeming to needle all at once…

After Jack and Wendy rush in and realize what all the shrieking and thrashing is about, I love the description of the wasps as “lumbering” creatures that “rise into the air, droning.”

Jack eventually goes back to Danny’s room to dispose of the pests. The should-be dead nest is inexplicably crawling with wasps. He takes the nest outside, where the 25 degree night chill will surely kill them once and for all. Comes back in and locks the door standing between him and nest, just in case.

Suddenly the hotel seemed full of a thousand stealthy sounds: creakings and groans
and the sly sniff of the wind under the eaves where
more wasps’ nests might be hanging like deadly fruit.

                They had come back.

I swear, I’m normally not freaked out by bugs or insects. But that night after my sting, puffy hand still pulsing and tucked between my pillows, moonlight extra bright and throwing unfamiliar shadows across the room, curtains billowing out from the open windows – my mind started to race. The air whirred with a constant hum. Maybe it was the fan at the foot of the bed. Maybe it was the de-humidifier outside the bedroom door. Maybe it was a cloud of wasps hovering by the ceiling. Beady faces with no discernable eyes, abdomens quivering. Ready to strike.

In the light of day, my momentary panic was silly. I spent a few days obsessively scouring the Internet, looking up tips on how to de-wasp a front porch. Tiptoed outside the door to water plants. Jumped out of my skin each time something whizzed by me. Started to recover my wits as the week passed, learning that wasps are actually beneficial to gardens and help keep away other pests.

Last night, I opened the door to our supply closet and discovered an unexpected guest inside. A live wasp. Clinging to the pile of cleaning rags. Its angular, black and yellow body curled tight against the white fabric.

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All quotations and italicized text in this post were taken from The Shining by Stephen King.