Two-Bit Grin

New Digs

2008-12-08T09:08:00.000-08:00

I've moved this blog to my coaching website - Opprecht.net. Thanks for your support - I'll see you there.

The Sine of the Wave

2008-10-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that people seem to be on edge these days? Over the past week I've twice found myself in the middle of a shrieking group of people hugely worked up in a dispute over something that mattered very little. One was at a poker game, the other in a restaurant. Both times I was surprised at what seemed to be some mysterious doubling of pugnaciousness in friends of mine.

I'm not sure what's causing the acrimony, but I'm feeling something, too. Is it that our "leaders" have been adding to the already harsh yellow, orange and red states of terrorist fear by telling us that if we don't immediately do something drastic and expensive about our banking world then the economy itself will surely crash around our shoulders. All this, of course, in the midst of all the brouhaha of the presidential election -- compounded by the frightening thought that roughly half of America seems to think that a person like Sarah Palin is the kind of person we want to have one step away from power.

The sky is not falling. Most of us have jobs and homes and food. Everything really is OK. But the psychological atmosphere is highly charged. It can be easy to disregard, or not even notice in the first place, the stress all of this brings. After all, there actually is no flashing red light. But it's probably a good idea to set aside a bit extra quiet time for meditation, or exercise, or cuddling or prayer or whatever it is that you do.

It's like...

2008-07-31T19:26:00.000-07:00

The metaphor, the image, the story. Funny how you can philosophize all day long, analyze an issue until you’ve taken it down to the bare bones, and then still be no closer to wisdom, no closer to acting more wisely. But then call on a metaphor, and everything opens. “I see you as a rock in the middle of a river.” “This is like the closing hours of a bloody battle.” “Just be the ball, Danny.”

What is it about a metaphor that makes it such a powerful tool in coaching and personal growth? I think part of it is that there is a rich and durable truth to an appropriate image that doesn’t easily succumb to second-guessing and over-analysis. It’s hard to talk yourself out of the rock in the stream. But also, an image is clear and simple enough for the more primitive parts of our mind to get ahold of it. And it’s so often these undercover parts of our minds that are evading the influence of our high-minded analysis and philosophy and talk talk talk.

Compare “I think my colleague is acting out his oedipal instincts on this project and the best response is to assert my own desires at this point,” to “He’s a dog with a bone and it’s not his bone.”

“Kurt needs a hug”

2008-04-03T08:29:00.000-07:00

I took a screenwriting class this weekend. It was only the second writing class I’ve taken since graduating college, a fact I’m embarrassed to admit. Our excellent teacher, Ela Thier, showed several video clips to illustrate her points, and one of them was shot by a team that used that drunken camera effect that causes the subjects to dance slowly in the frame until I’m seasick.

“I LOVE it when they move the camera like that,” I said when it was over. “Why don’t they just shake it until there isn’t even any focus anymore?”

“Sarcasm!” Ela Said. “Looks like Kurt needs a hug.”

I was taken aback. Ela had a point. Sarcasm can have a corrosive effect on esprit de corps and often it needs to be pointed out and kept in check. I know this all too well because I’m a teacher, too. So when she called me on it, I chastened myself and resolved to keep my negative thoughts to myself. Besides, she was right, I did need a hug.

But I’m a writer and I care about my craft. I wouldn’t still be doing it if I didn’t. Watching a film brings up all kinds of emotions in me, often including anger - of course - at a director or writer.

So, when is it appropriate to express it, and when is it appropriate to just keep silent? I don’t want to ruin someone else’s enjoyment by dumping on art that he or she happens to love, especially when my opinion isn’t solicited. I hate it when other people do that to me. But the alternative, to sit and smile and hold my emotions in like a dog on a leash is not an option. In fact, the more I hold them in, the more cutting and explosive they become.

Ela had no intention of bottling me up. Being an excellent writer, she’s a fan of expressing one’s emotions. And, I doubt she believes that all sarcasm is the symptom of a need for human contact. But I reflexively put a lot of power behind her simple comment, and I think we all do that, especially when the person making the comment is in a position of authority.

Society is constantly making little comments on our behavior, in one way or another. It’s our job to put them in context and to act on our own needs, within reason. And my thoughts at the moment are thinking, “Not too much reason.”

Do be do be do

2008-03-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

I’m taking a six-week Shamanism course for which our homework this week was to bring a song to class. Once class had begun, our teacher dimmed the lights and had us sing our songs one by one for the entire group to hear. It wasn’t easy to sing out to the group like that, but it was a powerful experience.

What is a song, anyway? It looks to me like it’s a wonderful piece of work that knits rhythm, melody and meaning together. Look at the birds’ songs. It’s hard to imagine that they aren’t communicating with each other in song. Depending upon the species and the situation, I imagine they say, “This is my territory, bug off.” “Hey guys, I’m over here.” “Danger! Danger!”

If the birds have words to put into their songs, I don’t understand them, but they must be using some sort of language with their songs - perhaps even only via tone, accent and pace. Don’t we do the same? Even a Bach chorale carries powerful mood, and there's surely meaning in that.

If you could sing or play a song right now that would convey your current state, what would it be?

Community, Community, Community

2008-03-02T07:19:00.000-08:00

Monday, February 25, 2008

I’m on the Hudson line, heading North out of NYC. We just rounded the bend at the top of manhattan and the Hudswon River is on my right (I prefer to face backwards) the George Washington Bridge is fading into the horizon. The sun is shining bright on the snow along the tracks and the snow that highlights the Palisades across the river.

Two women are getting caught up on there lives in the seat behind me. Both of them nice people, one of them speaks with an immigrant’s accent. I’m headed into the country to hang out with two writer friends and their toddler son, but the 83-minute train ride is a perfect time to open my laptop and do my morning work on my book.

Times like this I can’t help but notice, this is a pretty nice life. It’s not perfect yet. (What am I saying? It will never be perfect.) It’s still not even sustainable yet, but it’s nice. And I can see that it’s going to work.

I can feel successive stages of relief as I pass through successive stages of preparation for a new income stream. (Switching from ad-hoc freelance writing and contract work to professional coaching and teaching.)

A huge amount of our energy gets wasted on panic and worry and mania. Even when things are going well, it’s amazing how much anguish gets stirred up in a regular day if you don’t pay attention. More importantly, I suppose, it’s amazing how much good it feels when you notice how far you’ve come and how good it is where you already are.

Location, Location, Location

2008-02-23T12:12:00.000-08:00

The snow is piling up in Thompkins Square Park, across Avenue A from the Cafe Pick Me Up. The trees are half and half in that way that appears to be a trick of the light but is instead a trick of the weather. The top half of everything is white, the bottom half depends upon what kind of tree it is. Some are grey, some a toasty green, some appear to be “camouflage” in a nod to the fashion of the hood.

My schedule is to write first thing in the morning for at least an hour. Pure creative writing with my heart, not work writing or anything I don’t want to write. My brain works best in the morning, and if I don’t write first thing then the other things in the day nudge it out and I don’t get to write at all.

The venue is important. I have a nice place to work, the Writers’ Room at Astor Place, which is available to me 24/7 and it’s not expensive. But for my creative writing I prefer cafes. The people coming and going and the music and the coffee being made has a comforting effect on me and I don’t feel the pressure to make a buck with every word I type.

Some days it is obvious where I must work. If it is sunny, I go to a place where I can feel the open clarity of the day through big windows and high ceilings. If it’s cold and rainy, I don’t mind a cozy dark refuge of a place. Some days I’m not sure where I feel like going and I wander a bit, or ride variously on my bike in the morning sun.

This morning I trudged blindly in the snow for a while before seeing that the Pick Me Up is the clear choice for today. I love the snow. It hasn’t fallen often enough for my tastes this winter. I wouldn’t be able to sit in the warm recesses of a bigger place today knowing that it was snowing out and I couldn’t watch it.

Now here I am, and all is good. Thank you. I’ll turn now to Chapter Eight of Playing With Fire.

Wagons, On and Off

2008-02-18T08:50:00.001-08:00

Notice the gap in time between this post and the post previous. What happened? Who knows? Who cares?

“Who cares?” is probably more the answer. If I knew there were hundreds of readers eagerly awaiting my posts, I’d have put them out. But I didn’t feel inspired. I didn’t feel I had the time, and I didn’t feel the need to write them.

I’ve never felt that doing a blog like this is a waste of time. Whether one person reads it or a million, I feel good about it. But I don’t feel the need to post every day, or every work day, or even every week. For the past month or so, I gave myself a break. The way I see it, slacking off is a healthy part of discipline. Sometimes it’s time to let off when you’ve been pushing too hard. Sometimes it’s time when something else is going on. Sometimes it’s just a good idea for no particular reason.

Obviously there are plenty of people who don’t have this attitude to discipline and hard work, and not just Nazis and Fascists, artists too. There are fewer who actually practice what the believe, but they exist. I’m not saying they’re wrong. We all need to do what works for us. We all need to constantly check in and adjust what we do, in the quest to find what works now.

I’m sure I’ll never understand the secret to being motivated and staying motivated. I’m sure there is no secret. But I’m learning more and more of the pieces. Knowing that there’s someone reading and waiting and caring is a big one of them. Not just for artists, but for everyone.

Pick a Color

2008-01-10T12:28:00.000-08:00

We all know what it’s like. Not in the mood for dancing. Not in the mood for capitulation. Not in the mood for love.

What is this mood thing? It seems to be a state of being of the mind. Like an overcast cerebrum or a bright sunny pineal. I picture it as a reflection of our mental fitness at the moment. Our body gets tired, maybe our mind gets tired, too; or pumped up.

Most of us seem to have the ability to adjust our moods. Maybe we don’t have 100% control, but the conscious mind does seem to have some say about the moods that the subconscious brews up. The thing is, there are subtleties to moods. It’s not always storms or bright sun. I know how to deal with the truly foul funk, but how about the mild malaise?

Half the battle for me is recognizing the power of the “mood” to cast my life for me, hour by hour. Last night I found myself at a fun birthday party with music and dancing and pretty women in party dresses who wanted to talk with me and dance with me. But I was just not in the mood. It was only there at the club that I was able to see how much of a drudgery I had concocted in my mind. It probably took me days to get myself into such a state, and I couldn’t see it until it hit me in the face. Sometimes just paying attention and checking in is half the battle.

More Bigger!

2008-01-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

This is the time for grand plans. Small plans take care of themselves. In fact, the year will take care of itself, if we just sit back. Grand plans need some insight and foresight.

We all have big things we’d like to do sometime in the future. Travel to Africa. Find a new career. Take painting classes. For me, like I mentioned a couple of days ago, it’s produce the play, finish the book, make a short film, take a relaxing vacation.

Nice start. But before I move forward, I need to really stretch the ideas. Reality has a way of encroaching on grand goals. But reality doesn’t have to encroach on the ideas. Thinking big doesn’t cost anything. Sometimes you have to go too far if you’re going to find out where the border is.

Produce the play? How about produce the play in ten cities? How about produce the play myself next month? How about recruit Lindsay Lohann to play the lead? She’s probably available.

Short film? How about feature? How about show the film? Have a fabulous screening party, invite everyone I know.

Vacation? How about take three months off? How about stranding myself on an island? How about getting a full massage every day of the vacation?

These aren’t necessarily reasonable ideas, but this isn’t execution time, this is idea time. I need to make sure I’ve made plenty of room for reality.

Gregor Butterfly

2008-01-01T12:38:00.000-08:00

The year is new. Fresh as a baby. It is morning in the world. What are we going to do?

Same as last year? Do the same things, perhaps just a bit better? Is yesterday, last week, last month roughly the same kind of day, week, month we want to have this year?

Most of us want some serious change, but most of us have a hard time making that change happen. What is transformation about? Or better, what brings it about? What has to happen for the fat man to become skinny? The lethargic woman energized. The blocked flowing. The undid done.

Don’t ask me. I don’t have the answers to that one. Of course it’s different for everyone, but that’s not the root of the difficulty. It’s in the power of the pattern, the habit, the rut, the groove.

I have some ideas, though.

One - believe change is possible. Drastic change. Transformation. It happens every day to every kind of person. You don’t have to believe it’s probable, but believe it’s possible.

Two - Make space for it. Open your schedule for new plans, your world to new truths, your head to new possibilities.

Three - Be willing to let go. Some things we want to trash, others we cling to like a teddy bear on wash day.

Four - Want it. Just want it. Don’t be afraid to want it. Let that want soak through your body. Wanting isn’t the most comfortable feeling, but don’t fight it. Wallow in that want. Breathe it in and out. The want has power. It is your ticket, hold on to it, and don’t let the fear stop you.

Does it sound like I’m talking to myself? I hope it does. I am. But I’m talking to you, too. Take what I write with a grain of salt. A handful of salt. But if it points you to wisdom, drop me a line and let me know what that is. I can always use more wisdom.

Happy New Year, fellow traveler.

This just might be an excellent year for us.

Looking Back, Sailing Forward

2007-12-31T08:04:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year’s Eve, comrades. As we face the last of our year-end celebrations, are you looking backward? Is 2007 a big mess that you’d rather forget? Are you anxious to plow into 2008 with optimism and energy? Good.

But you might consider taking a moment to assess your 2007. If it sucked, you’re going to want to do things differently -- which things, in what way? If it was fantastic, you probably want to take a moment to pat yourself on the back. You deserve some appreciation.

Of course 2007 had strong points and weak points for all of us, but memory can be a moody character. I’m anxious to make challenging and fun plans for my 2008: Produce the play, make a short film, take a vacation that’s actually relaxing, plan a new trip.

So before I get into that, I’m going to take one long last look at 2007. What did I do that was great? What didn’t work so well? What habits and patterns are pulling me down? (Patterns and habits only seem to show up in the rear-view mirror.)

I’ve seen this play out before. I accomplished a lot of good things in 2007, but if I don’t take a moment, write them down, and acknowledge what I did, my inner critic will have his way with the record. I want to sail into 2008 with a bigger, better ship. I have that ship, but I’ll lose it to decay and self-doubt if I don’t take some time here at year’s end to do inventory, and some routine maintenance.

More Bitter Pills, Please

2007-12-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

Have you seen Noam Chomsky’s film, “Manufacturing Consent”? I got it through Netflix and it sat unviewed for at least a month. Chomsky is one of our culture’s few intellectuals that are graced with, or suffer under, the public light. He’s a groundbreaking linguist, but more famous now as a political and sociological thinker and writer. He riles lot of people up because he seems to have little respect for authority, but what he says is wise, true, and worst of all, backed up by facts.

A list of his outrageous points of view here would do his work no service, but I will say that he gets the standard treatment that mainstream powers use on iconoclasts: name calling, dismissal, marginalization. “Manufacturing Consent”, a film that was made in 1992, based on the book of similar title he co-authored with Edward Herman in 1988, speaks to the methods and means by which the powers that be, corporate, political and cultural (including the media, of course) so tightly prune the trees of public discourse that they bear only the fruit that those in power want us to eat. The “propaganda model”.

It’s striking and somewhat paradoxical that those with power in a free and democratic society need to be more vigilant about public opinion than they do in a totalitarian regime because in a democracy it actually matters what the people think. One needs taller fences for horses than for rabbits.

Why did I let such an intriguing and well-produced film lie unviewed for so long? By the time I got into it, I was loving it, but it wasn’t as easy as the other titles in my Netflix cueue, “Oh Brother Where Art Thou,” and “Tideland,” to name the most recent. Chomsky is like the brussels sprouts on a child’s plate. But it’s not that I don’t like brussels sprouts, it’s just that their taste is so strong, they don’t go with the other tasty treats I’ve been eating. In fact, this particular morsel makes much of the other fare less appealing.

I’m going to use this as an opportunity to give some authority back to my inner critic. I’ve been beating him back for years, and now that I’m getting him to behave better, giving him some power might be a good idea. His new task -- to keep an eye out for the brussels sprouts in my life, because I actually love brussels sprouts.

Decompression at the White Horse

2007-12-19T11:52:00.000-08:00

Another closure -- this time from the other side of the classroom.

The last day of the travel writing class I teach for Gotham Writers Workshop was last night. We all went out for beers to the White Horse Tavern, the site of Dylan Thomas’s ignominious last drink; ours to be more nominious, and less final.

We had no graduation ceremony, but we raised our glasses to The Road and talked and told stories until almost midnight. The get-together was important to me. It served as a decompression chamber, bringing me from the depths of authority back to sea level, where the oxygen is free and people can communicate.

As I write this, with pen on paper, the L train is surfacing, like a long whale, into this sharp and sunny Tuesday morning. We pull into Wilson Avenue Station, and are “being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher,” according to the recording. The four of us passengers in this car stare out the open doors at the station wall as the cold Wilson Avenue air saunters in and gets acquainted with the warm L-train air. Behind us, a graveyard sits; other victims perhaps, of the train’s dispatcher.

In regard to last night, I don’t mean to say that I stepped down from an exalted position. I was merely letting go of the pressure that I felt in my role as teacher. Some of the pressures are welcome: The pressure to be on time for class, to prepare well, to make our time together worthwhile, to make sure every one of my writers feels good about what he or she is doing. It’s the less useful pressures I’m working to let go of, or to avoid piling on in the first place: The pressure to be the expert that I’d like to be, the “expert” that I’m expected to be by some of my students, as their end-of-class evaluations sometimes reveal. Expertise. A tortuous goal, everyone knows, as there is always more to know, and everyone knows at least one thing about your field that you don’t.

The fear of being discovered as an imposter, as unqualified or under qualified haunts at least 98.7% of people in authority positions, be they presidents or playground monitors. (Source - the top of my head.)

(Euclid Avenue now. We’re moving again, and I’ve transferred to the A train.)

I want to avoid the pressure from the start. With my next class, I’m making plans to be more up front with my credentials, so I don’t feel the pressure to be someone I ain’t. But every time I go over my opening speech, I realize it’s not as big a deal as I’ve been imagining. This speech would dispel no illusions. I have in fact done a lot of travel writing. Besides, no one expects to have a full-time Travel + Leisure staff writer teaching their $400 Travel Writing course.

The pressure I want to shake is self-inflicted, and probably ego-driven. My students and clients are less accomplices than eager participants, following my lead. I have to catch myself as I reach for the oxygen tanks. I need to stay on the surface, where my people are. I have a class to teach and clients to coach and I can only do it well from sea level.

Pomp and all That

2007-12-17T07:43:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was my final coaching class and graduation ceremony. We’ve been studying together, some twenty six or so of us, since March in what became a very close-knit group, so it was a joyous occasion with lots of cheering and shouting and all that. There were ritual components of the ceremony, and we brought to it a certain serious attitude, as you’d expect.

Why do we do this? What’s the point? People feel a need for closure and completion, but what is that in essence? To simply receive a certificate in the mail would surely be proof of completion enough for anyone to understand.

But I think there are aspects of ourselves that don’t understand the certificate in the mail, or the idea that we’ve finished. There are aspects of our souls that can’t read, or understand speech. But these parts understand hard work, and endeavoring to do something important. They understand human connection, and also the separation of that connection.

Do these parts of us understand ceremony and ritual? It seems they do. There is a part of us that seems to crave a certain amount of repetition; a part of us that instills ritual in even mundane actions and events. This part of us may be deeper than we realize.

We naturally have ceremonies for certain group events, or powerful single events - deaths, anniversaries, graduations. But there are completions we all have privately, or not so privately; finishing a novel or a painting, the death of a dear companion animal, or breaking apart from a romance. What ceremonies should we have for these?

Lost and Found

2007-12-14T10:31:00.000-08:00

I found that copy of Steppenwolf. Turns out it was in my parka the whole time. How could I not notice a paperback book in the breast pocket? I’m not sure. The fact that I normally keep another paperback book, “Trout Fishing In America,” in the opposite breast pocket probably made it easier not to notice. Still, it’s embarrassing to realize, more so to admit, that the book was with me all the time. I remember now somewhat, putting the book into my pocket and zipping it closed as I talked with Kylie and Mike and his sister.

Of course, now the discussion of the “meaning” of such little things seems all the more relevant. Any significance I attributed to the “theft” of Steppenwolf would have been misplaced. I just forgot where I put the damn thing. That’s all.

Or is it?

Is there yet something to be learned from my having lost track of this important book?

Yes. I’m quite sure there is. But is it a deeply important lesson? I suspect not. There are times to be “present” and times to let your mind wander. Zipping a book into my pocket isn’t high on my list of times I feel the need to be fully present for.

I’ll reassess again. Do I want to be reading “Steppenwolf” right now? Nope. I’m reading “Iron John” now. If there was meaning in misplacing the book, I don’t know what it is. But there are ripples in the pond. Because of that little slip of the mind, I’m on a very different intellectual journey at the moment. One on a tack nearly 180 degrees opposite. Robert Bly would be pleased.

And I’m pleased, too, especially that one supposed thief has been exonerated.

The Inner Santa

2007-12-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went out in a Santa suit and joined with a few hundred other Santa’s in an annual event called “Santa Con.”

There really is no point to all of this. We go out for most of the day and into the night. We go from place to place. We drink quite a bit. We sing songs. It’s extremely loosely organized; mostly we’re told where to go, but only when it’s time to go there.

I’m sure I don’t need to explain how much fun it is. Santa is just a fun guy. Dressing up is a fun thing to do. This is a Festive thing to do, with a capital F.

It’s a surprisingly powerful event, and I’m not sure exactly why. Part of it is the surreality. It’s just deliciously absurd to have so many Santa’s in one place, so out of context. It’s a huge performance art exhibition, every year.

Santa is a special character. For one, there’s only one of him, just like God, or Dad. It breaks the rules to have two or more Santa’s in one place. (Even though we all know that there are thousands of fake Santa’s ho ho hoing across the continent all this month long.) Breaking the rules is fun. It just is. Especially when it doesn’t really hurt anyone.

Santa is also El Numero Uno. Like a king, Santa rules his space. He’s the most important person wherever he is, and he garners huge respect. People might say bad things about the commercialism of Christmas that Santa may or may not represent, but no reasonable person would suggest that Santa is an asshole.

And here we are, all dressing up as El Numero Uno. “Hi Santa!” “Hey Santa,” we all say to each other, with camaraderie and genuine respect. We all honor the Santa’s that we are all portraying. Yes, it’s a big joke. But yes, it feels great to be Santa.

Santa has huge honor and power, but little authority. Theoretically, he might proclaim your naughtiness, but his punishment is merely to deny you a present. You might say he is an emasculated god image, but we all know that Santa keeps Mrs. Claus happy, and probably has several cute elves on the side.

I’m suggesting that it would do us all good, boys and girls, to stay in touch with our inner Santa’s. Deeper meanings aside, it’s fun and it’s absurd. But that said, there’s something underneath it all, and I salute that. With a pretty girl on my lap, I lift my beer and say, “Ho ho ho!” (And I mean that in a nice way.)

Omens?

2007-12-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

Someone stole my copy of Hermann Hesse’s book, “Steppenwolf” last night. I know I had it with me, I was at a reading in the Barnes & Noble bookstore at 66th and Broadway and it fell out of my coat there. My friend Mike pointed it out and picked it up for me. I put it on my chair, and when I went to leave, it was gone.

Funny place to have a book stolen, a bookstore. I like to picture the culprit lying to the cashier on his or her way out, “No, this is my book, I brought it in.”

Now, what do I do? The book wasn’t mine in the first place, so I have to replace it in my friend Brian’s library, but I could just give him the money to buy it or a different book. Is this a sign? Does the universe want me not to read “Steppenwolf”?

I’m embarrassed to admit that the idea did occur to me. “Steppenwolf” is an important spiritual work. I’m not sure it’s the right book for me right now. The universe might care. Such an event might be a sign that I should reconsider.

I dismissed that idea, but not entirely. I believe in going with the flow of the cosmos, when you’re lucky enough to perceive it. But how do we know when any particular event is a sign to be followed, a challenge to our too-easy path, or just a random event with no “meaning” whatsoever?

Logic would seem to argue in favor of not interpreting events of the world as special messages. But logic also points to the idea that there are valuable sources of information beyond the orthodox channels.

I’m inclined to refuse to be directed by the events of the universe. I really like having a free will. But I’m willing to stop and reconsider my actions when something seems to be snapping a finger at me.

There are millions of events in one’s average day, from dropping an egg, to missing a flight. When one of them stands out from the background and lights up for us, it seems reasonable to take notice. It’s probably just our own mind that’s snapping that finger. A little reassessment can’t hurt, whether it’s about what to have for breakfast, or which plane to take, or which work of literature to digest.

After the reading, I went to the Alabaster bookstore on Fourth Avenue to replace Steppenwolf. They didn’t have Steppenwolf, so I bought Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmund, (which Sam the agent said I should read), and Robert Bly’s Iron John, which I’m reading now instead. (I’m looking for the appropriate men’s group to join right now.)

(It's Friday evening, and my mind is a bit fuzzy. This post took me more than 15 minutes. From now on, I intend to do this in the morning whenever possbile.)

46 Now

2007-12-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

The snow was falling when I woke this morning. The first real snow of the year. The city is whiter and softer. This is an excellent present for my 46th birthday.

Birthdays are never easy. When you’re young, it’s the pressure, the excitement, having to behave in a manner befitting the guest of honor. Don’t yell, don’t cry, don’t throw cake. Later, it’s an exercise in self-affirmation -- do I have enough friends? Are they good enough to me? Did I drink enough?

Then it becomes a more interior thing. At some point, the haver of the birthday takes the pressure off of his friends and makes the event something of his or her own. He or she might throw a party, or let the spouse throw it, but he or she owns it now.

Then of course, there is the philosophical element. What does it mean? The answer is all too plain, and getting plainer every year. I’m a year closer to my death.

For me, that realization doesn’t bring up the fear of death. It’s worse. I feel my life slipping through my fingers, like a wet vine. It’s not that I’m not living it fully; I think I’m doing reasonably well on that front. It’s just that I have so much to do. Novels and screenplays to write, movies to make, socio-political systems to build. And the frightening idea is that I don’t seem to be plowing forward on those fields at anything approaching a satisfying rate. What accomplishments will I look back upon, at age 80, (should I make it that far)?

I suppose if I make it to 80, I’d rather look back on a calm and present existence, rather than a frantic and pressured one. Let’s hope that one year from now I’m closer to that reality, even if I haven’t published, produced, or harvested.

Happy birthday, Kurt. You’re doing all right.

The Problem Problem

2007-12-01T08:07:00.000-08:00

I start to get into my work, and a thought catches me, like a protruding nail catches a sweater. "I think Erin is upset." Then another, "Sabrina is angry with you." I think about each of them, fret some, realize there's nothing to be done right now. I start to work again, and another comes up, "Where is your income for January going to come from?"

Now just a damn minute. I'm sitting down to write. This is probably the most important thing to me right now. What's this bullshit about Erin? She's not my wife. She can take care of herself. This has nothing to do with me. Maria is an ex. An ex! She doesn't even want to talk to me, so what does it matter whether she's angry? January? Who cares? I have plenty of money to cover my bills.

There is something in my mind that wants me to have problems. Problems to fret over. Problems to solve. Problems to hold me back from moving forward with my art, my work, my LIFE.

But I'm running short of problems. My life is very good. My friends are very good. My problem, if I have one, is most likely dwelling on "problems" instead of living my life.

So why would my mind love to create trouble? What's in it for my psyche? I don't know. But I have some theories. One is that moving forward has risks in it for some parts of me. No matter what I endeavor to do, there are risks. In my profession, my art, my social life -- if I fail, there will be ridicule, loss of self esteem, disappointed friends. Oh no! Heaven forbid. Why don't you just stay home. Leave that play writing for another day. Let's think about this problem.

Enough.

I don't have problems.

I have opportunities, motherfucker.

My life is good. Pardon me while I get on with it.

I'm Not There

2007-11-30T09:30:00.000-08:00

I saw the Dylan flick, "I'm Not There" last night with my friend Virginia. Loved it. It was beautiful and brilliant.

There is an ongoing theme, among many, of whether the main character -- I don't think it's necessarily accurate to say that it's Dylan -- really CARES about anything. They ask whether he once cared and no longer does, or whether he's just an imposter.

I'm not sure Dylan himself knew the answer. But is it necessary for the artist to care? Is it even necessary for the artist to have a message? We can look at Dylan, or any other artist, any other troubador, as a messenger. He or she is a creator, but the message doesn't have to come from the soul of the artist. The artist can be the conduit. The amanuensis, the photographer, the mouthpiece.

I discussed the film and such topics with V until 1:30 AM last night at Cafe Esperanto, on McDougal Street, Dylan's haunts when he hung out in the Village. And I rode my bicycle through the cold quiet streets with a feeling that Dylan felt, and probably still feels more like a messenger than the philosopher. He certainly wanted to rid us of the notion that we should follow him.

This morning at the Writer's Room, discussing the very issue with my fellow writer, Manjula, it occurred to me that not only is it not essential that the writer, poet, artist have a message to tell, it might be to the benefit of all if the artist tells that damn story and gets it over with so that he or she can get on with the art. Our own story might well be getting in the way of the messages we have to convey -- the other stories in this world, no doubt more important than our own, that need to be told. Stories that need us to tell them.