Looking Back, Sailing Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.