Ein Haus ohne Bücher ist arm, auch wenn schöne Teppiche seinen Boden und kostbare Tapeten und Bilder die Wände bedecken.
(A house without books is poor, even if beautiful carpets cover its floor and expensive wallpapers cover the walls.)
Hermann Hesse (via germanheit)
Author: coffeehousejunkie
Confessions : 09
00. It has been many moons since my last confession.
01. I awoke at 5 a.m.
02. A few years ago Janely (janely.blogspot.com) inspired me to write confession posts.
03. My blogging has been on autopilot (thanks to scheduling features on WordPress and Tumblr) during the last couple months…
04. due to a change in policy at the office that restricts access to social media sites (like Twitter) and webstreaming sites (like Youtube).
05. The transition from audio production to graphic design and back is more challenging than I anticipated.
06. I have yet to turn on the home’s heating system despite the fact that outside nightly temperatures have dipped into the low 40s.
07. I finished designing a poetry anthology book…
08. and sent it to the printing press yesterday.
09. I’m listening to the The Wall Street Journal This Morning podcast.
10. I’m currently reading The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter as well as a dozen other book titles.
I believe in coffee
Poetry at the Pulp presents feature poet Landon Godfrey
About a month ago I visited the Orange Peel’s private club PULP for an open mic event. The event featured Keith Flynn and the Holy Men followed by an open mic. This weekend I read on the Asheville Poetry Review Facebook page:
POETRY AT THE PULP open mic night on Wednesday, October 6 at 7pm. Sponsored by Wordfest and The Asheville Poetry Review. Feature poet: Landon Godfrey, whose book of poems, “Second-Skin Rhinestone-Spangled Nude Soufflé Chiffon Gown,” selected by David St. John for the Cider Press book award, will be published February 2011. Come join us and share your work with one of the best crowds in Asheville. The Pulp is located underneath The Orange Peel on Biltmore Avenue. See you there!
If you are unfamiliar with Landon’s work, I recorded on of her readings at the Flood Reading Series, Sunday March 29, 2009. Should be another fine evening at PULP tomorrow night. I look forward to seeing you there.
Field notes
with the clutter of today’s music, i find it refreshing to listen & sonically soak in the sounds of gregorian chants like Kyrie & Gloria…
Can an autumn morning really evoke a song?
The chilly 39°F weather reminds of the first time I heard ‘Today’ by Smashing Pumpkins. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the innocent sounding tune married to the dark, ironic lyrics. Maybe the song reflects the weather–beautiful, but with a chilly bite. Maybe it’s the fact that the song first hit the mainstream radio like a throat punch about this time of year almost two decades ago. Maybe I just need another cup of coffee.
Field notes
anyone remember 1994? how about live’s ‘i alone?’ for some reason that song haunts me this morning…
Statistics are like a bikini
“Statistics are like a bikini. What they reveal is interesting. But what they hide is vital.”
–Aaron Levenstein, former Baruch College business professor
Link: Brand Autopsy http://ping.fm/Lh6cr
Knowing important from unimportant tasks
If instead I see my value as separating the important from the unimportant and making good decisions on the important, then I can go home at a reasonable hour, spend time with my family, ignore my email and phone messages all weekend long…
–Peter Norvig
Link: Knowing important from unimportant tasks
* * *
For those about to sip their caffeine elixir… Java-Inspired Jazz: http://ping.fm/wVldP
* * *
[scene one]
Asheville may be the only place I know that can turn a hula hoops event into something slightly tamer than pole dancing. Walking to the Transit Center earlier this week, I observed quite a large crowd of people with hula hoops at Pritchard Park. A deejay whipped up some trance vibes and the crowd responded with hips and hoops. For the most part, the event seemed quite family friendly with the exception of a few women whose performance with hula hoops approached the idea of *ahem* public art.
[scene two]
The next evening I walked along Patton Avenue — again heading toward the Transit Center. A guy leaning on the rail outside the Asheville Yacht Club with a Pabst Blue Ribbon can in his right hand stared across the street as if watching a tired rerun of That 70s Show. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had a lousy day and was trying to unwind. Maybe he was waiting for someone to join him and was just killing time. When the signal lamp changed I crossed the street and realized that the guy outside the Asheville Yacht Club was watching two young women making out at one of the tables on the street outside Thirsty Monk’s Pub. Who needs a television? or an iPhone? Just grab a seat at the rail outside the Asheville Yacht Club, order a PBR, and watch the wildlife at Thirsty Monk’s Pub. The whole scene made me feel oddly lugubrious.
[scene three]
Thursday morning the sunrise bruised the sky with purple and red clouds. The air echoed its coolness and as I walked from the bus stop to Starbucks. After purchasing a pumpkin muffin and a tall bold coffee, I walked across the parking lot toward the office. I noticed a car with all its windows open about an inch or so. It seemed trashed. Piles of plastic bags with clothes, stuffed toys, fast food restaurant bags, and shoes cluttered the interior of the car and seemed to reach the window. As I bit off a morsel of muffin I realized, at second glance, that a woman, man and child were sleeping in the car. What appeared to be plastic bags were black sleeping bags that were unzipped and pulled up to their necks like quilts. The woman was in the driver’s seat with the seat reclined back as fast is it will go. The man was sleeping on his right side facing the woman. His seat was also reclined, but not as much as the woman’s. The child slept in an a car seat with a dark blanket pulled up to the neck. I paused, but thought a third glance would be wrong and might wake them.
The sun still hid behind the mountains to the east as I finished eating the muffin while standing in the parking lot. They’re story must be interesting, I thought to myself as I stuffed the paper muffin wrapping in my pocket. It was still early. No one was in the office yet. I hesitated for a few seconds, looked back at the car in the parking lot with a sleeping family, took a sip of coffee and walked up the steps to the office.
The symbol for recycling
Gary Anderson (right), creator of the recycling symbol, 1970.
Anderson was a 23-year-old USC Architecture graduate when he entered the Container Corporation of America’s design contest to create what would become the universal symbol for recycling.
(via waxandmilk) 1
( via noonebelongsheremorethanyou) 2
(via brocatus) 3
NOTE:
1) Mark Malazarte, waxinandmilkin, accessed September 17, 2010, https://waxinandmilkin.com/post/963308730/gary-anderson-right-creator-of-the-recycling Tumblr account deactivated.
2) noonebelongsheremorethanyou, September 17, 2010, https://noonebelongsheremorethanyou.tumblr.com/post/964604837/anneyhall-gary-anderson-right-creator-of-the Tumblr account deactivated.
3) André Brocatus, André Brocatus was here…, September 17, 2010, https://brocatus.tumblr.com/post/964633674/noonebelongsheremorethanyou-gary-anderson
* * *
Dear twitchy-guy riding the bus and wearing an Iron Maiden hoodie,
Please don’t hit on the young lady in the Slipknot T-shirt. It’s the musical equivalence of incest. Besides, she doesn’t like you and the bus driver is ready to throw you off the bus.
Further, having consumed moderate amounts of Iron Maiden during the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son and No Prayer for the Dying era, your ear-bud induced convulsions are a poor imitation of Nicko McBrain’s thunderous drum work.
Sincerely,
Annoyed-undercaffeinated bus rider
Comic strip artist Michael Jantze and Julie Negron in #AVL this weekend
National Cartoonists Society members Michael Jantze, artist of the comic strip The NORM, and Julie Negron, artist of the comic strip Jenny the Military Spouse, to be featured at the Southeast Chapter of the National Cartoonists Society present a “Shop Talk” this Saturday, September 11, 2010.
The Cartoonist and Illustrator Shop Talk schedule is as follows:
10am – 11am Shane “Shane Hai” Harris and James E. Lyle (comic book artists) present an inking demonstration combined with a brief history of American comic books.
11am – 12 noon Michael Jantze (syndicated cartoonist and instructor at SCAD) speaking on his career as a cartoonist.
Noon – 1pm Portfolio review for the attendees.
1pm – 2:00 pm Julie Negron speaks about “Jenny and 9/11”.
2:00 pm – 3:00 pm Matt Mulder (New Media) moderates a round-table discussion on web-media, featuring the scheduled speakers.
3:00pm – 4:00 pm Kaysha Siemens (Illustrator) demonstrates digital painting techniques.
Hope to see you all at the Skyland/South Buncombe Library this weekend!
Southeast Chapter of the National Cartoonists Society presents Michael Jantze and Julie Negron
Yes, you did read Monday’s Citizen-times correctly. I am scheduled to moderate a round table on new media as it relates to cartoonists, comic book artists and illustrators. Some of the topics I hope to cover during the round table include: Is it a good business model to create cartoons/comic books for iPads (and other digital devices)? Does online cartoons/comic devalue the art form? Is it possible to protect your cartoons/comics from online piracy? What is the future of collecting traditional print comics vs. downloading digital comics?
This Saturday, September 11th, the Southeast Chapter of the National Cartoonists Society presents a “Shop Talk” at the Skyland/South Buncombe Library (260 Overlook Road, Asheville, NC). The program will run from 10 am until 4 pm.
Also, if you’re interested, the Southeast Chapter of the National Cartoonists Society meets monthly at Frank’s Roman Pizza. The meet up is open to all interested parties and all ages. Regulars include teens, twenty-somethings, thirty-sometings and older-somethings. If you’re interested in hang out with local artists feel free to contact me.
Saturday’s event features two members of the National Cartoonists Society: Michael Jantze (artist of the comic strip The NORM, and instructor at Savannah College of Art and Design), and Julie Negron (artist of the comic strip Jenny the Military Spouse for Stars and Stripes magazine).
More ShopTalk details and schedule to be presented soon.
Link: The Western North Carolina cartoonists group presents ‘Shop Talk II’
Have you ever had one of those mornings where you wish you could hit reset and start over?
Red Green says, “Men need to replace the phrase ‘Hey, watch this’, with ‘Where are my glasses?’ and ‘Where are my other glasses?’…”
Somehow I managed to make it all the way to the office before I realized I left my glasses at home. Usually I’m more organized than this. My book bag is packed the night before. Bus pass, office keys, glasses, etc. are placed next to the book bag. Shoes are placed at the front door. So, the futility of waking up early this morning to get to the office before anyone else only to have to return home, retrieve my glasses and go back to the office was rewarded by a barista who says, “You want a bold coffee, right?”
I’m sure David Allen would have something appropriate to say about the inefficiency of this mornings events. Maybe there was an open loop somewhere I didn’t close. Maybe it has something to do with time or energy availability. Or maybe it has to do with stumbling around the house in the dark while trying not to wake anyone.
All this to say, I can do stupid things just as fast without coffee as I can with coffee.
Are you more interested in coffee or books?
Last night I enjoyed a conversation around the kitchen table with friends from out-of-town. At one point in the conversation a parent told a story about a neighborhood child joining their family for an evening meal. As mastication commenced the mother noticed all her children had a book they were reading while the neighborhood child looked about awkwardly. The mother told her eldest not to ignore their friend, maybe offer the friend a book. Her eldest puts the book down and asked the friend, “Do you like reading?” The friend replied, “Not much.”
This story reminded me of something I read recently regarding “aliteracy” — being able to read and write, but choosing not to — and the decline of reading whole books — in other words, reading a book cover to cover versus reading world literature condensed to 140 characters or less (see Twitterature for an example). In a recent article published in The Chronicle, Carlin Romano writes:
Destructive cultural trends lurk behind the decline of readerly ambition and student stamina. One is the expanding cultural bias in all writerly media toward clipped, hit-friendly brevity—no longer the soul of wit, but metric-driven pith in lieu of wit.
Link: Will the Book Survive Generation Text?
This isn’t a new trend. I recall Socrates faced similar “cultural trends” in his age. When a culture has the immense wealth of knowledge and wisdom but choses to vapid soundbites and emotionalism, the “destructive… trends” are established like a rut society finds difficult to escape. Almost twenty years ago, The New York Times published an educational article with the following lead paragraph:
Illiteracy is primarily a problem of the third world. But it is the United States that appears to be leading the way in aliteracy — the rejection of books by children and young adults who know how to read but choose not to.
Link: The Lost Book Generation
This past weekend I attended a local poetry reading. An Irish poet lamented that a second-hand bookstore closed and now he has to go to Barnes & Noble to purchase books. He commented that Barnes & Noble is a place where people seem more interested in coffee drinks than books.
Best I can tell, The New York Times story may be the first mainstream publication to cover aliteracy (if you find others, please share them in the comments section or email me). George Orwell published an essay in the 1940s on a similar theme (Books v. Cigarettes) and in the 1930s Aldous Huxley presented a society without books in Brave New World. Toward the end of Brave New World, World Controller Mustapha Mond tells John the Savage:
Our world is not the same as Othello’s world… The world’s stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can’t get… But that’s the price we have to pay for stability. You’ve got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art.
I can’t help but wonder what we as a culture trade for happiness?
Early bird gets coffee
It’s a cool September morning. For the first time in over a week, the bus from my ‘hood made it to the Transit Center in time for me to transfer to the next bus that takes me to work.On the way to the office I stop by my coffee dealer who sets me up with a pumpkin scone and a bold Italian blend coffee. To the east, the sun barely breaks the ridge of the mountain at 7:45 AM. The office is quiet as a nibble away at breakfast and sip steaming hot coffee.
Book Review: Tear Down the Mountain
This is a book review I do not want to write. In fact, I have put it off for more than six months. Why the delay, you ask. Procrastination? Too busy? Lack of motivation? All of these. And yet none of these. It has nothing to do with the book or its author. For a first novel, the book offers a startling look into the contemporary scene of rural Appalachia. It is clear that Roger Alan Skipper reaches for a story that is close to him like a favorite coffee mug or faded denim jacket or even a place—an old diner where coffee is still served for fifty cents including free refills. The novel is not too complicated, nor too simple, nor too trite to write a review. In a manner of speaking—it is too true to be fiction.
I feel I might be he, Sid, who loves and hates the mountains where he once lived and left—as if the mountains themselves embrace and reject him. I feel that if I write about this book I may be committing myself to its plot. And I am not sure I like how the author left Sid Lore on page 208. The plot is simple and complex like the characters that pass through the pages between the book’s covers. And if I write this review it will be like a rune that once it is carved into stone cannot be withdrawn—the future committed before it arrives—before it is lived. Is that possible?
During the alter call, the girl went forward. A swarm of growed-ups buried her in a mess of sweat and noise. “Give her your Spirit, Lord,” one cherry-faced old bag bellered, and Sid shivered…. She couldn’t get the tongues any better than he could, she said, and in the company of someone just like him, … he’d decided to talk in tongues whether they was the Lord’s or his own, …
The author writes in an authentic voice; placing the reader in a small rural Appalachian mountain town, placing the reader in a small charismatic congregation, placing the reader on a road to tear down the mountain. Sid struggles with his identity, his sense of place and purpose. He sees Janet seeking acceptance in the church and identifies with her desperation, longing, isolation. Sid and his brother try to fit into this community, but Sid feels equally a part of it as he does a stranger to it.
Like the novel’s title, some days I want to “tear down the mountain” in search of a place that has a better job market to match the housing costs. Sid and Janet “tear down the mountain”—a colloquial expression meaning to leave the mountains, not remove them—in a beat up pickup truck with no tags and “FARM USE scrawled on the doors with green spray paint. How were they to know that wasn’t legal outside of West Virginia?”
Once left behind, the mountains change. After fourteen years divorced from the home where Sid and Janet met, they return separately to find the quiet little secluded place in the Appalachians transformed to a tourist getaway.
A sense of the ridiculous swelled as she drove slowly… . Familiar signs that she never expected to see—Perkins and Comfort Inn… made it all a mixed-up dream.
Several themes complicate and populate this novel: personal identity, community, the authentic and superficial attributes of religious life, gender roles in a traditional marriage, and the emotional strain of unemployment in an economically challenged and changing Appalachian town. All these themes resonate with the Asheville, North Carolina experience.
A couple years ago I shared a conversation with an older graphic designer. I asked him how Asheville had changed since he had moved here (because it is rare to find someone in Asheville who actually grew up here). He told me that Asheville resembles Aspen during the 1980s. The older graphic designer had moved from a comercialized Aspen tourist spot to the quiet enclaves of Asheville. This city had the mountain charm and vibe that Aspen had lost. But now Asheville is losing its mountain roots and values—replacing it with tourism. And tourists visit Asheville to see a city on exhibition and do not share the commitment and struggle to maintain a daily mountain lifestyle.
I’ve witnessed families relocate to Asheville, but within 12 to 16 months move to Raleigh or other cities because skilled-labor opportunities (especially for professionals in creative services and high-tech businesses) are rare in this region. Just last week on the bus, Route 13 to be precise, I overheard two women talking about their plans to move to Charlotte because the jobs that pay well don’t exist in Asheville. One of the women said she found a six-bedroom house in Charlotte and a job that can afford the mortgage (i.e. Asheville’s housing is too expensive and the wages too low.) In Tear Down the Mountain, Sid Lore faced the same dilemma.
“May back’s no better. Unless we move where there’s jobs I can do, its up to you. Or we can set here and starve.” [Sid’s] eyelids hung red and water shot like an old hound’s. “You could go to college, learn that stuff.”
Sacrifices must be made if one wants to live in the mountains of Asheville. Sid and Janet decide to move to a city in the valley where there are jobs.
Where Route 50 topped Allegheny Front Sid pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. “What’s wrong?” Janet said. “You want to give the mountains one last look before we fall off?”
“No man, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God. The Bible says that.”
Sid laughed … “I didn’t figure it come from the TV Guide …”
At this point in the novel I begin to dislike the story. They left the mountains. I knew before I left page 176 that they could never return to the same mountains they once knew. No one ever does. Once you leave you lose your ground—your roots. You change. The place changes. That is why I do not want to leave Asheville. That is why I sacrifice a lot to stay in this area. That is why a lot of citizens in Asheville accept low wages and high costs of living. They do not want to tear down the mountain. They accept the hardships and ironies of a mountain lifestyle. That is how I would have ended the novel, but that is not the life the author planned for Sid Lore and Janet Holler. Tear Down the Mountain is a tragic Appalachian love story. And Roger Alan Skipper’s debut novel from Soft Skull Press could have no other ending. But it is not my ending.
(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The Indie, Volume 5, Number 51
Essay: When the lights go out
Many aspects about web ‘zines and journals I enjoy. However, publications that still do things the old way (i.e. print only, no web version) really resonate with me and maybe you as well….
[read more]
UPDATE: This blog post is available as part of an audio podcast.
Listen now:
Or listen on:
PodOmatic: coffeehousejunkie.podomatic.com
SoundCloud: soundcloud.com/coffeehousejunkie
E-book: This blog post will be featured in a forthcoming e-book. More details coming soon.
Interview/Review: Deborah Crooks’ Prayer for the World
It was a cold November night when I entered The Grey Eagle as Deborah Crooks performed her songs for The Traveling Bonfires benefit concert. After taking some photos of her for The Indie, I found a corner spot opposite the bar where I could see half the stage.
I opened my notebook and listened to Deborah finish one of her original songs. She introduced her last song by celebrating that she is a lapsed Catholic, Hindu, Buddhist. Her confession received modest applause from a growing crowd. Deborah closed her set with a prayer for the world.
One of the lines from her last song caught my attention: “Walked alone with all my doubt…” I thought of how heavy doubt can be. The weight of not knowing or not wanting to know or questioning what you already know.
Deborah Crooks finished her prayer for the world and the next act began setting up their musical equipment. More people joined a small gathering in the music hall as others bought drinks at the bar. Over the house speakers a bluegrass number played the lyrics: “bare me away on your snow white wings to my immortal home.”
I noticed Deborah at the bar. She wore a dark brown coat which matched her dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes. She waited for a bit before the bar staff warmed her mug with hot coffee. Slowly she walked back to the “green room” off stage right, retrieved her guitar and again slowly, maybe even meditatively, walked to the back of the music hall and found a seat.
I invited Deborah back to my table and asked her to tell me about the last song she sang. It has quite a history, she told me. It includes the death of her father, a World War II vet, and witnessing the World Trade Centers collapse.
In exploring her roots, Deborah discovered a parallel path between her father’s liberation efforts during W.W.II and her own personal liberation through ashtanga yoga. “Writing and singing is where I find my direction” she told me as she discussed finding faith through the conflicting messages of being in New York City for a yoga event and witnessing the tragedy of 9-11.
Like many fathers and daughters, there were struggles between her and her father which she sought to reconcile before his death. Without out going into personal details she summarized, “The same things that get between people get between countries.”
The next musical act had assembled on stage and begun to belt out their first song. We realized that our discussion about liberation would have to be continued later. She quickly concluded, “We’re all looking for the same thing—a haven, a home.”
(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The Indie, December 2005
Essay: Writing, Painting and Thoughts about Spirituality
Last year, about this time, I contributed to “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. The Grey Eagle Tavern and Music Hall hosted the event. I read some of my new poems at the time and then Philip (guitarist) and Julie (rock vocalist) joined me with a music/performance set based on my book Late Night Writing. Julie contributed an original song to the set while Philip added an original soundtrack. The collaboration between the three of us was inspiring (to me at least). It was kind of weird hearing Julie sing my poems “Fragile” and “Driftwood” back to me and to the audience. In a way it was a relief to hear someone else claim them, own the words, project the ideas. I miss that. There are a few live bootleg recordings of the three or four gigs we did together. Maybe when I find some server space, I’ll offer them as free downloads.
Three paintings represented me at “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. “Fragile,” named after the poem I wrote, was painted last summer. Previously, I had done a series of four paintings inspired by the poet Kahlil Gibran (which was part of the 2003 “Resonance” art show) with bright, dramatic abstractions using a simple palette of red, yellow and black. With “Fragile,” the colors deepened in order to create a stark, lyrical image. A young poet from South Carolina once confessed he didn’t particularly get into modern art, but he liked “Fragile” because it seemed like a place he would like to visit. The poem I wrote that inspires this work includes these lines: “I am naked/ When truth strips me/ Of a lie.” And later: “I am reborn/ When the old shattered remains/ swept away, replaced with/ a new vessel to contain my soul.”
“Among The Myrtle,” named after a passage from the book of Zechariah, was also painted last summer. Most people who view this painting don’t know the passage that inspires this work. The passage reads:
“In a vision during the night, I saw a man sitting on a red horse that was standing among some myrtle trees in a small valley… I asked the angel who was talking with me, ‘My lord, what are all those horses for?’ ‘I will show you,’ the angel replied. So the man standing among the myrtle trees explained, ‘They are the ones the LORD has sent out to patrol the earth.’ Then the other riders reported to the angel of the LORD, who was standing among the myrtle trees, ‘We have patrolled the earth, and the whole earth is at peace.’
Again, as with the painting “Fragile,” I attempt to present a sparse place for the eye and the mind to roam—a place someone would like to sit and rest and visit often. In a way, I was trying to create a sanctuary were “the whole earth is at peace.”
My son, who was two at the time, painted along side me. We would paint outside, on the front deck on Saturday mornings. It became a weekend ritual. At the time he merely enjoyed mixing the colors on an old canvas I had forsaken. He named one dinosaur and the next weekend he would paint over dinosaur and call it puppy. During the winter we stopped the outdoor painting sessions and he began working with pencil and paper. By springtime he graduated to markers. As spring gave way to summer he had developed a curious visual language that inspired me. He began drawing people with arms and legs that didn’t quite fit and dots and lines representing eyes. The smile became his creative signature—it sliced across the heads as if to say “it is what it is.”
One Saturday, after we resumed our painting ritual, I created “I’m Putting on My Socks” in honor of his drawings. Three other paintings were created that day (which I may post at a later date) and a series of twelve drawings. He told me I needed more gray. I told him gray was not a color I liked to use because it’s too bland. He insisted by adding a few strokes of his own. After moving him back to his canvas, I conceded. Gray became the visual language that supported the red, black, copper and white motifs.
I don’t know if there will be a “Resonance” Art Performance this year. Whether collaborating with adults or children, an artist needs support in order to grow. Hearing a poem or viewing a painting from another perspective opens up a world of opportunity. Irving Stone mused that “Art’s a staple. Like bread or wine or a warm coat in winter… Man’s spirit grows hungry for art in the same way his stomach growls for food.” For those who have supported my growling stomach, I thank you.
* * *
A couple weeks ago I had lunch with a friend and I was amazed (again) by his intellectual prowess. I commented to him that I wish I could have time to read more books. “Better to read deeply than to read extensively,” he said as we stood in line to pay for our meal. Coming from a gentleman who reads deeply and extensively, I think I understand what he means—concentrate on one thing and read it well. Too often I find something interesting to read but it turns out to be more of a distraction than a help for my writing efforts.
The writer studies literature, not the world. He lives in the world; he cannot miss it… He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, because that is what he will know.
The writer knows his field—what has been done, what could be done, the limits—the way a tennis player knows the court. And…plays the edges.
—Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
Examining the books I’m currently reading, (Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry, Come to the Quiet: The Principles of Christian Meditation, An Explanation of America (Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets), Handwriting: Poems, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters, The Blessing: A Memoir, Don’t Waste Your Life, Job and Hebrews (from the Christian Bible), A Poetry Handbook, Road to Reality, True Spirituality and Can Poetry Matter?: Essays on Poetry and American Culture) it’s safe to say the concentration is in poetry, non-fiction literature and spirituality. Examining the magazines and newspapers I read reveals more diversity, and the blogs I read regularly are even more varied than that. Play the edges and avoid the mire of the middle. That’s the challenge.
* * *
I attended the Writers at Home Series at Malaprop’s Bookstore/Cafe featuring Brenda Flanagan and Robert McGee ()Sunday September 18th.
Brenda Flanagan was a joy to hear as she read two short pieces. Yeah, I was a bit disappointed. I would have liked to read more. Her lyrical quality to prose simply inspires me. And the fact that she introduced her first short fiction section by singing the first couple bars of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” was the bow on the package.
Robert McGee read from an upcoming book that impressed everyone. It’s a series of short stories based on the personalities in an office. Think “Office Space” without the campy humor. Not that there wasn’t any humor, but the humor was sparsely sardonic—more of an urbane edginess. I look forward to reading his book when it is released.
Afterward: Usually I chat with the authors after the readings or at least thank them for reading their work. But Sunday I felt like I had feasted on the morsels that fell from the table of masters. I didn’t know what to say to them and they seemed to be surrounded by well-wishers or groupies. I couldn’t tell.
I lost myself in between bookshelves trying to figure out what to say, but realized I had nothing to say. Or at least nothing I wanted to say. If I could say or ask something those things had probably already been said and asked: Do you write full-time? Or is it a hobby? Where do you get your inspiration? I love that story you read, but I’ll buy your book online because it’s cheaper than buying here at the bookstore. How can I be just like you? Do you use MS Word to compose your manuscript? Would you autograph my copy of your book?
Idiot, I said to myself in my best Napoleon Dynamite voice. Then I silently left the bookstore.
* * *
What are my goals? Are they in the right priority? Why is there so much clutter? Is blogging a waste of time or an essential part of my life?
I’m glad I’m not the only one considering this. Jennifer Rice of What’s Your Brand Mantra? seems to have re-evaluated her priorities and reinvented her blog.
“After 18 months of writing about branding and marketing, I hit the point of burn-out. So I’m making some changes that I hope will keep me interested and engaged in the blogosphere.”
She drew inspiration from a post by Jack/Zen: “The question about creating simplicity in our life spaces, life styles, relationships, and work is the question: ‘What is the essence of my life?’ “
In the Christian tradition, the essence of life refers to spirituality or spiritual intuition. A Taoist would agree with that. Shen, or essence, refers to the spirit of a man. Yet, the question “What is the essence of my life?” is not complete until the body and soul (mind) are included. Maybe a better question would be “What is the purpose of my life?” In order for the essence to have purpose it must engage the mind (soul). If your mind is anything like mine, it must be disciplined they way the body is disciplined with exercise and diet.
Here’s an example of what I mean. My spirit (essence) is in need of purpose. I read a psalm written by Jeremy Huggins (body in action) that caused meditation (mind in action) which lead to moments of contemplation (spirit in action). As I contemplated (essence) my life and this blog my soul (mind) wandered in many directions. One of those directions lead me to spend almost four hours tonight writing (body).
(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The Indie, November 2005
Essay: Filling My Love Basket
The first time I heard the music of U2 was from a double vinyl release of Rattle and Hum. Before cassettes and CDs and iPods there were vinyl records. The black and white grainy photos and reversed out lyrics (white text on black background) created an experience that’s difficult to explain. I listened to it for days if not weeks and months. It expanded how I saw the world and expanded me a bit too. For those older than I, the musicians may have different names: Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen. For me it was the rebel Irish rockers of U2.
I don’t own a television. So, I was delighted the morning after the Grammys to hear NPR broadcast the results. U2 dominated the Grammys with Best Rock Song, Best Rock Album, Song of the Year and Album of the Year (there may have been more but that’s enough for now).
Here’s something NPR did not cover. The previous week Bono spoke at the National Prayer Breakfast. I know. It is very odd indeed and he thought so too. “If you’re wondering what I’m doing here, at a prayer breakfast,” began Bono. “I’m certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather.”
He continued his introduction at the National Prayer Breakfast by commenting how “unnatural” it seems to have a rock star behind a “pulpit and preaching at presidents.” After a couple more comments he offered this reflection:
“I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was… well, a little blurry, and hard to see.”
He went on to observe how “religion often gets in the way of God” and his general contempt of the “religious establishment.”
“I must confess,” Bono said. “I wanted my MTV. Even though I was a believer. Perhaps because I was a believer.”
I share the same cynicism toward organized religion that Bono confessed in his address. When people are placed in positions of power, whether it be religious or political, there is always the potential for the abuse and perversion of that power. Abraham Lincoln is credited for saying: “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”
Bono also presented a topic near to his heart — poverty — by stating that “It’s not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times… ‘As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me’ (Matthew 25:40).” The Christian Scriptures mention money and possessions over 2,300 times. Heaven is mentioned to over 500 times. I dare say this isn’t something you hear often in an American church service. He concluded his speech at the National Prayer Breakfast on the topic of “a completely avoidable catastrophe” — AIDS in Africa.
I don’t know about you, but I still find it difficult to believe that Bono didn’t drop the f-bomb during his National Prayer Breakfast address. I suppose NPR would have run that story if he had. However, this really got me to think about why I don’t like to go to church. And further, why I still go despite me feelings about it.
Like Bono, I feel disillusioned by organized religion — more specifically, Christianity (or church-ianity). Many Christians become so busy being religious and being political that they completely miss spirituality all together. Also like the stubborn Irish rocker, I’m not going to give up on God even though people can be down right disappointing.
It has been a long spiritual journey for me, and it’s not over yet. I don’t have it all together. I blow it more times than I’d like to admit. Sometimes I think I am more of a curse than a blessing to those around me. But I think that’s exactly why God pursues me. God knows I need help. I guess, like Saint Peter trying to walk on water, God wants me to ask for help and He’s ready to keep me from drowning. I guess that’s why I have a particular interest in Bono’s story. He’s dealing with his Christian spirituality in a very public manner. Sure, he drops the f-bomb more times than is comfortable for television executives. But he’s also known for his intense spirituality and a relationship with the God that listens.
***
It’s difficult explaining to my children why I go to church because sometimes I just don’t want to go. Why should I force them to do something I don’t want to do? Yet, I remind them to brush their teeth and wash their hands and eat wholesome organic foods and vegetables. Should I make them go to church? After all, Christianity is fubar. It’s a like an auto that is well beyond an oil change and the engine has locked up but the gears are still hammering away as if it will still move forward another inch. It’s like you can’t go to a Christian church in America that isn’t pressuring you to be a good little conservative Republican or insisting Democrats are social saviors. American politics is not what it means to be Christian. True spirituality is what it means to be a Christian.
***
Some days I don’t brush my teeth after breakfast, but I should. Some times I sneak over to a downtown café for confectionary goodness though I know full well that a spinach salad would be better for me. In the same manner, I force myself to go a small church up on a hill. There are a lot of really nice people there. They help the poor and sick and they put up with me — unconditionally, I hope. I’m sure I’m one of those people who show up at church and congregates wonder, “Why the hell is he here? If he is here, then I had better find another church.” I explain to my children that I go to church for God not for the people that show up week after week. It’s like going to get me spiritual car refueled from a week’s worth of travel. A friend of mine calls it filling one’s love basket.
One Sunday I was daydreaming during one of those sermons that included a political rabbit trail that totally pissed me off. I dreamt that I was late for the morning service and there was only one seat available which was not quite in the front and not quite near the back and not quite near the end of a row. I had to squeeze in front of nicely-seated people in order to reach that chair. As I nervously approached that single vacancy I noticed the guy near it was wearing a leather jacket and looked a lot like Bono. I sat down abruptly and didn’t notice his Bible on the empty chair.
“Shit,” I said under my breath and hoped no one heard. But it was clear people did hear me for they all looked in my direction with angry eyebrows.
“Are you saving this seat for someone?” I asked as I handed the Bible to the guy who looked a lot like Bono.
“I was saving that seat for you,” he said and sounded a lot like Bono. “It’s about fucking time you showed up.”
I looked at him again, as did other congregates around us, and, oddly, I felt at home. This must be the right place for me. After all, the guy who looked and sounded a lot like Bono had saved me a seat.
“Perfect people don’t come to church,” he said. “Now quit gawking at me and pay attention to the minister. His homely is about not showing partiality to people whether they are rich or poor, clean or foul. It’s from the book of James.”
I guess the sermon that day must have ended shortly after that point in my daydream. Or maybe I actually said “shit” in church recognizing a political rabbit trail was about to take place and buried my eyes in the scriptures hoping nobody heard me and nobody saw me. But the idea from the daydream is still profound. One doesn’t go to an emergency room if one is healthy. So, if I’m spiritually hungry, then wouldn’t it be the perfect place to fill my basket?
***
True spirituality conveys unconditional love. Maybe that’s the hope I have when I go to the small church up on a hill. I hope that if I sit next to some stranger from Asheville or Ireland that I’ll unconditionally love him rather than love him on the condition that he needs to clean up his life to attend church. Maybe that’s one reason why I keep attending that small church up on a hill — people show up just as they are not as they pretend to be or think they should to be.
I go to church because I’m broken, fragile, hurt, abused or just down right rotten. In fact, I’ve shown up at church in a rather fowl mood a time or two or maybe more than I’d like to confess. And there are times I’ve stormed out of church because of one thing or another. I don’t go to church to impress my neighbors. I don’t go to church to impress the congregates. I sure as hell don’t go to impress the minister. I go to church to because I’m spiritually hungry and need to be feed unconditionally even if I don’t like the taste of the sermon. God looks beyond what I’m wearing or what I drove to church. God even looks beyond why I was late for church or why I was daydreaming in church. God looks at my intentions. More importantly, God knows all about me and still listens and still helps and still loves me. People are people and need, as my friend says, their love baskets filled with wholesome, unconditional goodness. It’s a spirit thing not a religious thing.
(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in Blue Sky Asheville, Volume 1, Number 1
Poem: Reading “My American Body” by W. K. Buckley
Reading “My American Body” by W. K. Buckley
Fireflies sparkle
Outside. I see them through the
Living room window.
It’s the time between
Times as I
Examine a new hole in
My jeans and consider
“Picking up their shreds
To the tangled light.”
Condensation rolls down
St. Pauli Girl who
Makes me sparkle
Inside.
(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in Rapid River Art Magazine, October 2005
Coffeehouse Junkie 