Category: writing

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

A copy of Shakespeare’s collected plays wedges itself between bookends and several issues of literary magazines on the kitchen counter. It’s an odd home for literature, but what better breakfast than iambic pentameter in the morning light?

Did you know you can download the complete works of Shakespeare online–for free? You can download it and place the bits and bytes somewhere on your computer’s hard drive. Small ones and zeros represent some of the greatest verse written in the English language. Compare that micro file taking up a fraction of space on a personal computer to the five-pound black clothed volume trimmed in fading gold leaf collection of comedy and tragedy and history.

I try to live a simple life, but I can’t bear the thought of removing a Shakespeare tome and replacing it with a desktop icon that is smaller than a thumbnail. I can’t flip through a digital file—only scroll down through those never ending windows of copy. Even small books I can’t remove from my library. A hardcover reprint of Gibran’s The Prophet from the 60’s rests underneath a Kenny Wayne Shepherd audio CD and Sylvia Plath’s final collection. Plath’s original hardback seems to smell of its survival of the Kennedy assassination and the Cold War. I wrap myself in the yellowed musty pages of a twenty-five cent copy of Tortilla Flats and enjoy a dollar reprint paperback of Hesse’s Gertrude featuring a Milton Glaser cover design. That silly desktop icon looks so feeble and anemic next to Annie Dillard’s slim copy of The Writing Life.

I know the information is the same in pulp as it is in bites. Its pixeled letters converted from Garamond to electronic on and off switches that splash across a computer’s monitor. But page turning is an activity that warrants laud when the final page has been accomplished.

Words should be handled, pages touched, paperback spines broken, hard covers smashed on a table surface with the weight of its literary value. Throw the book at them? You can’t throw a desktop icon. It just blinks at me from a hard drive, pleading to me of its authenticity. Yes, the electronic clone has words and chapters and line breaks like a book. The digital literature has been authored and represents great stories like a book.

But an e-book can’t feel or smell of being read on a beach during summer vacation—grains of sand falling from the pages as a reminder of the event. It doesn’t have the human stain of being held nor can you place a fallen autumn leaf between the pages of a Hemingway novel. There are no inscriptions on a PDF book’s end pages reading “To my son for Christmas 2004.” Not even the sound of being removed from my canvas bag and thumbed open to where the bookmark (an old gas station receipt) reminds me of last night’s reading. An electronic book can never replace the printed page. The word must be tangible to be loved. The digital icon only reminds me of the lovely manuscript on my kitchen counter.

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The Indie, September 2005