New Digs

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

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...

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”

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

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

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

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.