So I'm migrating (eventually) all the poetry I have on here over to here:
Collecting the Days
That is also where future National Poetry Writing Month items will be posted. Even if it's only once a year, having several poems, etc. posted (where I would rather have Bay Area things) seems a bit much. I may also add older pre-internet things there as well as a back-up to the hard copies I have filed away.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, April 15, 2016
Sunday, April 27, 2014
On Leaving the House to Write (when there's coffee & an outlet at home)
Sitting in a local Berkeley café trying to find another 800 or so words to concisely, yet accurately, answer questions given me and my classmates for a school paper, I find the words are not coming. Perhaps it’s the cold I seem to have acquired standing around in the cold, wet Berkeley night. If I were honest with myself, (and I usually try to be) I would say it’s because the words just won’t come. This paper should be the easiest thing for me. I’ve read the material; I’ve looked it over twice. I’ve even asked a friend who knows about these things, and he seems to think I’m on the right track. So I'm sitting here in this cafe wondering why I'm still here.
Maybe I should go home, but then I think. If I'm a writer I need to write. If I can't write my assignment, I should still write. I'm here, in my perfect little space (if not my favorite table.)
I took a bus up here because I didn’t feel the energy to walk. Now all I want to do is lay down.. But there’s other things I want to do. So I’m left with the decision, do I just give up writing anything all-together or do I just write for the pleasure of writing? Why do I even come to this café or any cafe, several times a week, when I could be writing at home? I could easily be passed out on the couch with my laptop asleep, my cat poking me in the face with his claws, oh yeah! That’s why.
The reasons I leave our airy loft on the edge of Emeryville to trek on foot or by bus (like today) is many-fold:
First and foremost is the furry love of my life, Alexander. He is not as calm and mellow as his namesake. No, his mindfulness only extends to his need to be the center of attention at his whim. I don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t, when the time is ideal, want the undivided attention of someone endearing to them?
Alexander Bunny (alias "Stinky" or "A Bun" as my friend Ed Branley calls him) sitting on me while I try and use my laptop..
Secondly, despite our having a large loft, we are forever in a state of moving in or moving out. The walls start to close in on me. There’s no door to shut and get away from anything. Referring to a book I'm reading for my current class, I find myself wishing for my own quiet place to hide away in and get away from the noise energy. Yes I could go into the bathroom and shut the door but that would only solve so much. There’s still the neighbor’s baby.. The barking dogs that bark at EVERY thing. Also there’s the fact that our bathroom just isn’t ideal for writing anything; definitely not a school paper.
Thirdly, the next thing to decent writing ambience for me is the silence. The right tone of silence depends on the individual. I like the sound of a few particular cafes. Not too loud, not too quiet, music that plays but isn’t overtly noticed. Other people like myself writing but not talking, the occasional cough or sneeze, or sound of the barista. There’s no constant grinding of beans. Occasionally, a glass or plate will rattle and remind others of the fact that real labor is going on in the background, behind the scenes. No one is taking conference calls. The local sports game is not being blasted from every available television screen. If a game is on, it’s muted.
Lastly to a lesser extent, is camaraderie of the pen. I may not know anyone in the café with me but if you come often enough you see the pattern. There’s the older gentleman working on his research. Maybe he’s writing a book, and is making scads of notes. Highlighting and writing into the margins. He orders the same coffee every morning. There’s the returning students sitting in the windows, occasionally one of their tutors will come along and help them with their calculus. There are the writers working on whatever paper that’s due, or perhaps the Great American novel. You’ll see totally unrelated people sharing a table all working in silence, all understanding that their mind is somewhere else, in various realms of academia, of fantasy, or literate passion; there’s no need to feel bad about asking one of your table-mates to use a random outlet, they get it. There’s the handful of older patrons, most likely professors or lecturers, pouring over their readings, journals, or working on their presentations while having their bagel. These are the folks that work alone, are uncomfortable putting their own sugar and cream in their coffee, the ones that puzzle over a table not properly bussed. These are the guys that worry themselves before turning and asking a nearby patron, “do you know computers?”
There’s usually no gushing teens making a fuss or having loud conversation. If a random couple come in and talk too loud, someone invariably looks at them. Not to say it’s a library, but if we all talked in outside voices, the ambience for working and writing would be shattered. We’d have to find another café. Berkeley has tons of cafes. However, once you find the "right" café for what you’re doing, and you’ve come to appreciate the mix of patrons, sound and coffee, it’s hard work to find another place. Best to keep going and support your local and your neighboring regulars of whom you may never know their names, but have come to appreciate in silent companionship.
Maybe I should go home, but then I think. If I'm a writer I need to write. If I can't write my assignment, I should still write. I'm here, in my perfect little space (if not my favorite table.)
I took a bus up here because I didn’t feel the energy to walk. Now all I want to do is lay down.. But there’s other things I want to do. So I’m left with the decision, do I just give up writing anything all-together or do I just write for the pleasure of writing? Why do I even come to this café or any cafe, several times a week, when I could be writing at home? I could easily be passed out on the couch with my laptop asleep, my cat poking me in the face with his claws, oh yeah! That’s why.
The reasons I leave our airy loft on the edge of Emeryville to trek on foot or by bus (like today) is many-fold:
First and foremost is the furry love of my life, Alexander. He is not as calm and mellow as his namesake. No, his mindfulness only extends to his need to be the center of attention at his whim. I don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t, when the time is ideal, want the undivided attention of someone endearing to them?
Alexander Bunny (alias "Stinky" or "A Bun" as my friend Ed Branley calls him) sitting on me while I try and use my laptop..
Secondly, despite our having a large loft, we are forever in a state of moving in or moving out. The walls start to close in on me. There’s no door to shut and get away from anything. Referring to a book I'm reading for my current class, I find myself wishing for my own quiet place to hide away in and get away from the noise energy. Yes I could go into the bathroom and shut the door but that would only solve so much. There’s still the neighbor’s baby.. The barking dogs that bark at EVERY thing. Also there’s the fact that our bathroom just isn’t ideal for writing anything; definitely not a school paper.
Thirdly, the next thing to decent writing ambience for me is the silence. The right tone of silence depends on the individual. I like the sound of a few particular cafes. Not too loud, not too quiet, music that plays but isn’t overtly noticed. Other people like myself writing but not talking, the occasional cough or sneeze, or sound of the barista. There’s no constant grinding of beans. Occasionally, a glass or plate will rattle and remind others of the fact that real labor is going on in the background, behind the scenes. No one is taking conference calls. The local sports game is not being blasted from every available television screen. If a game is on, it’s muted.
Lastly to a lesser extent, is camaraderie of the pen. I may not know anyone in the café with me but if you come often enough you see the pattern. There’s the older gentleman working on his research. Maybe he’s writing a book, and is making scads of notes. Highlighting and writing into the margins. He orders the same coffee every morning. There’s the returning students sitting in the windows, occasionally one of their tutors will come along and help them with their calculus. There are the writers working on whatever paper that’s due, or perhaps the Great American novel. You’ll see totally unrelated people sharing a table all working in silence, all understanding that their mind is somewhere else, in various realms of academia, of fantasy, or literate passion; there’s no need to feel bad about asking one of your table-mates to use a random outlet, they get it. There’s the handful of older patrons, most likely professors or lecturers, pouring over their readings, journals, or working on their presentations while having their bagel. These are the folks that work alone, are uncomfortable putting their own sugar and cream in their coffee, the ones that puzzle over a table not properly bussed. These are the guys that worry themselves before turning and asking a nearby patron, “do you know computers?”
There’s usually no gushing teens making a fuss or having loud conversation. If a random couple come in and talk too loud, someone invariably looks at them. Not to say it’s a library, but if we all talked in outside voices, the ambience for working and writing would be shattered. We’d have to find another café. Berkeley has tons of cafes. However, once you find the "right" café for what you’re doing, and you’ve come to appreciate the mix of patrons, sound and coffee, it’s hard work to find another place. Best to keep going and support your local and your neighboring regulars of whom you may never know their names, but have come to appreciate in silent companionship.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
What We Leave Behind
I had an overly emotional moment in an independant bookstore last evening when I found another copy of a certain history book for sale signed in a personal way to the author's uncle dated 1982; I mean WtF people? Don't you have any respect for your own friends/ family?
I know it's just a book, but books have life in them by those that wrote them and those that loved them. There's a reason I call something a 'keeper': the item is worth keeping and cherishing. Certainly not all books are keepers to all people, but there are some, that depending on the person, they hold and cherish and love and read and their finger smudges and dna get all over them and in them (and yes,that sounds gross) but it is so with any object. You are infusing your possession with your energy and emotions, (or cigarette smoke at the least!)
Getting back to this, I couldn't breathe. I immediately thought again of an incident my dearest friend had when he discovered his nephew had sold off some valuable things my friend had given his sister over the years; signed books and art.. whatnot.. why had the nephew not given these items back to his uncle when his mother had passed on?? I don't have an answer for it and I will never know.. except that it hurt my friend very much.
I had just come from another store where I'd found a couple French translations (one my Honorary Uncle had done) and it had made me happy in a bittersweet way, knowing he was still alive through print and relevant.. "When you write you live forever and" what was I babbling this morning? .."your soul is bound through your words", and the works you leave behind as well, I would think.
It was all I could do to just leave the shop and keep from crying in public. I really hate that sort of thing, but I ended up walking down Bancroft, hands in my pocket with my face continually leaking.. I went to the Central Library at that point thinking I might have some sort of luck finding the book I was actually after (nope!) The library actually calmed and centered me so that was something. Maybe Ray Bradbury was right about surrounding yourself with books, sniffing the pages and climbing the stacks, (which I did not do!) I left still unhappy but at least not threatening to leak out my eyes anymore, instead I think I was sadly annoyed. What is that? frustrated? I'm sure there's a better word.
It's had me thinking about what we leave behind. I know most things aren't important. Your clothes, your shoes, most of your things.. everything is replaceable. The 5 or 10 items that are YOU or that you hold dear, however are not and go with you regardless of where you end up, and when you can no longer move on.. those are the things you don't want to end up in some used bookstore or auction or whatever. Give them to someone trusted, that will cherish the item too, and not see it as so much waste. Have some respect for people's things. Don't hold on to what isn't yours, but certainly don't just give it to the next person along the way. Find a home for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)