Random Notebook #6: To Rant or Not to Rant... Not the Question.

I am not at a loss for what to write—it’s simply that most of all of this is taking a lot of energy from me.  Sure, it is easy to blame distraction.  It is easier to blame the stress, and mood, and overall disposition, but I can’t continue to do this and avoid doing this work—the work that somehow keeps me at my desk, at a bare minimum (at least) it keeps me engaged.  And writing kept many other things alive.  I can’t imagine right now where all of this is taking me, but I must (damn that word again) keep writing and putting it all down on paper.  How I wish I could leave my world of worries behind.  All I do here is rant, aside from the sporadic plot that surfaces every now and then.  I have been reading Mailer’s “The Deer Park” with little or no motivation at all.  I think I was influenced by C.I.’s opinion about the book.  Right now, I am a little under half of the book and the motivation to finish it slip out of me as quickly as I am determined to read on.  I am reading, but the pages lag on slowly and I tire of it quickly.  It’s not the book, I am certain.  Every book has its merits, independent of whether or not it is a good book.  I have been inclined to think this way since I began to collect my library.  I feel responsible for finishing a book despite of how “good” or “bad” it is.  Every book has both elements, I am sure.  For example, “Stations of Solitude” by Alice Kohler was a book I read shortly after moving back to Ohio from Washington DC.  I picked up the book used on the strength of its title.  But I kept at it, and if for nothing else, the feeling of accomplishment I get from finishing a book.  Writing should be the same, but I find so many obstacles, most of them, of course, self-imposed.  If and when I do get down to writing like this, it is very hard for me to pass beyond the rant, and most of what I write sounds repetitive as a result.  But I feel good writing nonetheless.  My brain is always turning in so many directions, it is hard to see and evaluate what I should or should not write about; that is why I put it all here.  If I ever become a father, then when I am gone my children will get to keep a piece of my mind here—somewhat more permanent than my own corporeal self.  And, if the end is in fact so near, then all the better to put all of this down.  I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but I have to face the reality of these days and the events that are unfolding as the hours pass.  Perhaps it is a bit ridiculous to think this way, but one must (damn that word again) be open to all the scenarios this might bring.  It’s more than simply coping, but rather the fact that there’s little.  No fantasy world will ever over-compensate for what is going on today, right now, at this very second, while the music plays in the background and I put pen to paper.  But in the interest of leaving this reality and this obsessions behind, I have to construct the fictions that make up the other part of my life.  The world of the imagination is supposed to take over, it is, if for the lack of a better term, an obligation I owe myself for the stress and downright suffering these days have brought me.  I have, for some odd reason, neglected the Visconti and the pleasure of that instrument in my hand, however mundane happens to be what I write about.  A new fascination—the Nixon tapes online at the National Archives site.  Why?  I have no idea.  Right here, right now, Beethoven’s Ninth playing on the CD player.  Nothing matters other than keeping the hand moving and writing about whatever.  I understand all of the emotions; I know where they come from.

What We Write... How We Heal

I read somewhere that most people who write journals often end up writing about the same thing over and over again.  I may be very guilty of this offense.  I've begun the process of typing up my Moleskine notebooks, and have become fully conscious of the cyclical patterns in them (the picture below is an example of the last couple of years worth).  This could feel like an exercise in patience or a colossal waste of time.  There are some bright moments, to be sure, but most of us who write for self-examination/healing know deep inside that most of what we write is both repetitive and in some ways useless.  Yet, something keeps pushing us to do it, to put pen to paper and finish notebook after notebook.  It is not hypergraphia, or at least I do not think so, but the desire to write is real, albeit inconsistent from time to time.  This whole thing is a careful balance between desire, discipline and avoiding the call (to write), and the process can lead to inactivity and frustration.  I'm okay with it, or at least I think I am.

To China...

Ready or not, here I go... Here's a list of books I am taking:

1-"Play it As It Lays" -- Joan Didion
2-"On Duty" -- Cicero
3-"The Emperor's Children" -- Claire Messud
4-"Great Expectations"--Charles Dickens
5-"An Assortment of Moleskine Cahiers"

I will be back on the 27th with new stories to tell and a (hopefully) ton of pictures to share.

Learn to Love Learning...

I said on an earlier post that I was "saving" my "Made in Italy" Moleskine notebooks and using the "made in China" cahiers instead. This morning, at 5 AM, I completed another middle-sized cahier. Of course, the trick now is to type it all up without trying to revise it at the same time. I think that's the most difficult part of the process: typing from what you have written long hand and not get discouraged because your stuff just "sucks" compared to other things you've read. One has to continue reminding one's self that successfully published authors have a gamut of editors and line/proof readers, etc., that do excellent work on the finish product. Keeping that in mind, I will forge forward with the revised and newly written parts.

"The Aeneid" seems to me so much more vivid than the first time I read it. I think the first time I had problems understanding point of narrative view, character development, etc. This time around, the first chapter of the story, "The Coming of Aeneas to Carthage," seems so much more controlled and formulaic. Aeneas' motives appear clearer to the reader of, perhaps, not the best of translations (done by J.L. Mackail), and the trajectory from Troy to Carthage much more vivid in its description of the storms and trials of the voyage. I hope to get into the middle chapters by the end of the week.

This week is the Standardized Testing Week at the Academy. I am not very hot on those tests, as conventional wisdom dictates (and I approvingly repeat) they prove nothing. Learning at this stage is not about learning for fact, but learning to become a life-long learner... to enlarge our humanity by engrossing ourselves in the best books ever written and the greatest ideas ever collected. Keeping this in mind, then, tests prove absolutely nothing, and, what is more, they are put together by two types of individuals who have little or nothing in the way of "investment" in education. The first of this group is the "life-long administrator," who has "put in" the bare minimum time required in the classroom (the trenches) before moving on to "giving orders about curriculum, etc." The second of these is "the politician," who can only substantiate his "effective" educational policies by the use of some objective, standardized test result. I can hear him/her now: "During my administration, high school students scored higher on the standard battery of tests," etc., etc., ad naseum. If you think I am a little bitter about this, you haven't heard the first or last of it from me, believe me. I am not here to promote "pie in the sky-highly verbose-catch phrase" ideas, but I would love for nothing more for students to come here to learn how to love learning... that's the key to a successful academic life. We mustn't forget the virtuous and humanist twist of things. I hope all of this becomes clear to those in charge.

Classics... round 2

I am presently reading "Wuthering Heights," a novel I neglected to read in my college and post-graduate degree days. While I have had a great number of opportunities to hear and read some literary analysis which made reference to characters such as Heathcliff, the novel itself remained a mystery to me until now. I am in the first few chapters so I have little to say other than I find the overwhelming rudeness of the Heathcliff gang absolutely unrealistic when paralleled versus the long-standing idea of British hospitality and manners. Of course, that is not to say that there aren't people like that in other cultures. Heathcliff makes me think of those absolutely arrogant bastards one wishes not to cross but one ends up doing anyways. Of course, that is central to the plot (from what I have read about it) so I am expecting someone to collect the brunt of his anger.

I won a $20 gift card to Borders Books this week when I took a health screening provided by the Academy. I turned out to be one of the "fittest" people here. Mainly I know this is due to my running, but also to the fact that I eliminated some bad habits from my eating in the last year or so. Weight, blood pressure and other vitals were right on target, and I found out my body "thinks" it is 37 years old. At any rate, I stopped by Borders "Outlet" (a discount division of Borders) and had some great finds, ALL of them under $3. I found Don DeLillo's "Underground," and "Making the Corps" by Thomas E. Ricks (this one is attractive to me for obvious reasons). I also got an anthology of contemporary authors "best works," on the strength that it had sections of "Timbuktu" by Paul Auster. All these riches for under $10.

In order to save my Pre-Made in China "Moleskines," (it is nearly impossible to find the "made in Italy" ones now) I began to use "Moleskines Cahiers" last year instead. I find them easier to handle. What ever is it that I am saving my "original" Moleskines for, I have no idea.... but it is certain that they are now valuable, and even if I don't use them, I might leave them behind for my children to use (I don't have any children, but when I do, I'll make them aware of it). The fact that the cahiers only have 80 pages also helps to feel the sense of accomplishment without having to wait 190 pages for it. It's been a wild ride the second half of "The Silence of This Wall," and I continue to plug away now at a slower pace, looking at small details and carrying on research as the need for it appears. Hot cocoa on a snowy day never tasted better!

David Mamet, Moleskines and Gatsby

I finished "Writing in Restaurants" by David Mamet. I think that most of the theatrical theorizing was way over my head; I know very little about the stage. The strength of his essays, I believe, was in those essays when he "anecdotized" the subject matter. Some passages did catch my eye, and I ended up underlining several to which I will return. There was one particularly about technique that made sense to me:

"It [writing] is especially stultifying when accompanied, as often happens, by blandishment to the effect that there is no such thing as technique; that there is no need to study; that the only way to learn is through doing; and that, finally, pursuit of good habits of work, that is, technique, and good habits of thought, that is, philosophy, are effete."

I also found Mamet's treatment of Chekov's play "The Cherry Orchard" interesting. It was a lit crit treatment and I found it insightful. All the theorizing about the stage craft now made sense once he applied it to a specific example. He also wrote about the writing life and how it applies to age: "The pressure to continually achieve makes [writing] a young person's game, for it is easily tolerated only by the inspired and naive--by those bursting with the joy of discovery and completely, unselfconsciously generous of that gift." If anything else, it reminded me of those day-long writing marathons at Barnes & Noble bookstores cafe. How little did I think about the process and how easily the words came. But then I got to thinking about it too much and somehow lost the gift. But I still see myself as a contender, and try and write and give it still more thought.

The use of the Moleskine for the composition of this blog entry was a success. It took me nearly 20 minutes to formulate the ideas about Mamet's book and about 5 minutes more for what I am about to write next.

The next book I am reading is "Trimalchio." It is an early version/edition of "The Great Gatsby." There's a million things I could say about "Gatsby," really, but I'll keep it to a minimum since I am going to be writing in length this week as I read the book. This morning I discovered an article by Jonathan Yardley on what makes Gatsby a great novel (just about the greatest novel in the American literature canon). I was enthusiastic about the article until I realized that Mr. Yardley purposely and without discrimination bashed Ernest Hemingway. Now, I am not a lawyer defending Mr. Hemingway, but I think it is easy to bash him practically for all the ills of most Modernist American writers. People blame Hemingway for double-crossing Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, etc. And people who engage in this sort of behavior are concentrating on Hemingway as a social person, not the artist he was. But all the Hemingway bashing aside, the article presents Gatsby as the one marvelous book in American literature; a well-deserved place indeed. More on this as I write about "Trimalchio/Gatsby."