Books Without Pictures

Years ago I sold an old manual typewriter at a garage sale. It was a reaction to a familiar need—the need for more space. That is by no means a modern dilemma, but it is what filled the space that makes it modern, and, now that I look back, suspect.

Who could have dreamed what was to fill that space? For where once sat that manual typewriter, came a ‘word processor’. Then the internet. Then social media. And the white space of Instagram posts. (white space, white background, natural light—de rigueur)

The typewriter I sold was an early sixties era manual Smith Corona. It had belonged to my father, and when he passed away I took it with me. Along with it came the memories of sounds, the sensations of a vibrating table as he typed, and smells, strangely pleasing, of fresh inked cartridges. Images in my mind of my father sitting at his desk, all muttering concentration and stubby, work roughened fingers tapping out words, words, words….

Today, with the aforementioned lighting and spatial requirements, perhaps a rose sitting atop the typewriter for textural contrast, or a cup of steaming coffee (where steam is captured actually moving) that typewriter would have made a fetching Instagram post, harvesting a stream of reactive emojis and comments like ‘amazing’. But that is not the missed opportunity I am thinking of.

A ‘word processor’ sounds like a funny term now, but that is what we called it then. Processed words make one think of Spam—‘is it really meat?’ but in the end what we had was a fascinating new machine that now goes by the name of device. By this device we could process words and ideas with dizzying speeds. No more little jars of whiteout to clutter up your desk. That slow painting action with the brush, the absolute concentration, the dexterity needed to not get a drop on your keys—all a thing of the past. Now, those sub par chapters that represent the work of an evening? You can wake up with a fresh perspective and delete it all in a second! Done, with the click of a button. Destructive power begins to swamp creative power.

I dreamed of the ease with which a word processor was going to help me create miles and miles, as it were, of stranded sentences, ideas, and stories. What comes to mind are factory workers, perhaps in a garment district, sitting at hundreds of machines, all humming with industry, while regular, even stitches flow on into infinity; becoming garments, sheets, towels, bed linens and prom dresses. While we may now think this is a negative comparison, at the time industries like this were springing up, it was considered progress. It took years to assess the human toll.

In the symbolism of space that was once occupied by my unassuming little typewriter, what exists there now is like a hole in space. Enormous space, vacuous space, as it turned out. A black hole of inimitable power that eats stars and burps radiation. (descriptive terms borrowed from actual science websites, google ‘black hole burps’ if you don’t believe me, but then again, don’t, pour yourself a cup of coffee and write that haiku on cherry blossoms you keep thinking about.)

I want my old stodgy typewriter back. It doesn’t need to stream, burp, or teach me how to felt a woolen toque. It doesn’t need to produce pictures for me. It doesn’t need to take me to the Himalayas for stunning views of Gurla Mandhata.

It will be okay if I don’t have access to a Polish university, and the digitalized diagrams of Copernicus. I’m ashamed to say I still get the accomplishments of Copernicus and Galileo confused, even after all this time. (sorry, Nicolai, I had such hopes)

And speaking of regions near the Gulf of Gdansk, I can willingly cut back on my virtual streaming of shipwrecks as they find them. Fascinating, of course, if you like old shipwrecks. As the website says, ‘there is no need to dive to the depths of the Baltic Sea…’ (Oh, really? That’s too bad. I would have enjoyed that.) You see, adventure is as close as your device. Adventure IS your device.

As to google…I wring my hands in despair… how can something that changed my life be called GOOGLE?? Ah, but can I live without it?? I might. Just. Maybe.

I can’t remember the last time I needed to know the difference in pronunciation between the Hebrew word ra’a for sheep and the Hebrew word ra’a’ for evil, although at one time I found it interesting and remembered it, and there was a story idea involved where the girl needed to know how to say ‘sheep’ and not say ‘evil’. (story not finished to date)

I will be okay with not being able to watch real time footage of a dog being rescued from a flooded ravine in Belgorad. Such a feel-good story at the time, the sort you later find out was staged. Or that Facebook story that circulated ‘a mother cow’s desperate wish comes true’… (you want to know, don’t you?)

If it turns out I cannot access a tutorial on 1,000 ways to crochet a granny square, that will be okay, too. I just might have to get creative on my own and figure it out.

I do love my family history research—was that ever an eye opener that perhaps I could have done without—but the truth is I often find myself reading about other people’s families, usually so much more interesting than my own. Consider Thomas Brown of Old Dominion, Virginia, born 1770…. his mother was Elizabeth Black, and he married Martha Green, and they named their first son Green Brown. At some point a gentleman named Pinkney enters the picture. This is heady stuff for me. I have a thing for interesting names, and remember odd bits like girls named Kissy Simpleton or Keziah Snively, and I want to write their story, because I love a good story. Sometimes I just hear a name, and a character pops into my mind, almost fully formed. Or I start to imagine a character, with a story line, and the name suggests itself almost immediately.

Writers are a funny lot. Does any branch of the creative world agonize as much over blank white space and block?? So while I reminisce fondly of the old manual typewriter days, the reality is that I thought I would write more when I had ‘the word processor’. And, it happened—for a time. Now, it seems like the modern gadgets are sucking away the creativity. Is that it?

Counterbalance time out. There is also a new burst of creativity—of a different sort—based on the fast-paced stream of content now available to us. It’s exhilarating, thrilling, and exhausting. I’ve learned so much. But sometimes I just need to stop the flow of learning and DO. This is just my own journey. Controlled portions might be the key, if I can say that without sounding like a nutritional coach wanting to take away my Scotch, which would make me not like her.

I still read, but differently. I still write, but a fraction of what I used to. Pictures have taken up the space words used to occupy. My books (those real, tangible things with pages, and most without pictures) are still here, and taking up a great deal of space. On my bookshelves, white space does not exist. There is no spatial harmony. There is not even trinket space. Emojis are not welcome. No shelves are given over to objets d’art. Just books—double stacked, triple stacked, vertical stacks and horizontal towers. A paradise of tactility. They will have that space, will continue to have it, and I will freely give them that space, as long as I am living in something slightly larger than six feet under.

Books without pictures, and old typewriters that don’t stream live media share a charming trait—they encourage use of the imagination.

Postscript: If you’ve been following this blog, glad to have you! If you are new, then welcome.
This blog is a quiet space for readers. In it I like to explore forgotten authors, and hidden gems of writing. If that is your thing, I’m happy you’re here. There may be fewer pictures in the future… we’ll see. I like books with pictures (and certainly blogs with pictures are more popular) but I just want to get back to what started this all for me—the words.

No Made Up Tale

As usual, when I sit down to write upon a topic, that topic immediately becomes much vaster than the ‘brief paragraph or two with accompanying picture’ will give justice to. I am a long-winded writer because…well…things are just interesting. Right?

cloudwalking2

Or not. You see, ‘portion control’ is what I have been striving to achieve with my blog. Most people relate portion control to food, if they tend to overeat. For me, it is related to what I choose to read and write. Some reading is just downright depressing, even if they are classics. Or perhaps the fact that they are classics and have survived this long with that much baggage is enervating to think about. I don’t know, actually. I just know that portion control in reading is a must for me to keep my psyche running lean and fit.

As to that, long-winded blog posts that I tend to write need portion control. I so love interesting side trips and digressions. All too often, though, they don’t fit the appetite of today’s reader.  So, if you have been following this blog for awhile, you may have noticed that my blog posts are shorter, and more infrequent.

Today’s post is a classic (pardon the pun) example of what I fight constantly as a reader and writer. It was to be about a simple parallel between a classic story—the Iliad—and an old-fashioned story set in Kentucky that I believe is one of the finest stories I’ve ever read.

But one doesn’t just quickly set about doing brief blurbs when it comes to some of the finest words ever put to paper. And one doesn’t just spin off a quick sentence or two about the strangely connected worlds of Homeric Greece and the Southern States without thinking of ‘Oh Brother, Where Are Thou’, the fabulous song ‘Man of Constant Sorrow’, and the generally often shrill insensibleness of epic heroes.

At this point I will just remind myself: Portion Control.

While I can get carried away by the sheer beauty of the poetry, the muscular power of imagery in books like the Iliad and The Odyssey, the weirdness (for lack of a better word) of the ancient mind can get a bit trying. It’s a similar kind of emotionally erratic journey I experience in reading the literature of ‘olden times’ in Appalachia, or the Kentucky hills, with all their quaint ‘dreamy-drunken’ expressions, as I call it. A lyrical poetry in the expressions, a sing-song seduction of narrative carries me along and before I know it I am similarly ‘cloud walking’ or caught adrift amidst the ‘fingers of rosy-colored dawn’.

Odysseus was ‘a man of many sorrows’—his tears became their own sort of character in the narrative, yet it is interesting that Man of Constant Sorrow is also an Appalachian folk song with a heritage that goes back hundreds of years, maybe more. Intense tribal loyalties, coupled with unbalanced vendettas against petty trifles–bringing on a cycle of war and feuds–these also share the same patterns of crazy quilt imagery both from the ancient Greek world to the southern hills of rural America.

These themes can be traced endlessly, and, especially when it comes to the folk songs and those indescribably erratic folk tales…are endlessly fascinating. Yet…for this not to go on for pages (or even be written at all) here is a simple comparison. It’s not even the best one–just the one I could access and distribute the fastest….

The book? Cloud-Walking, written in 1942 by Marie Campbell. As I said, one of the finest books I’ve ever read. I am not sure its unique power would be for everyone–for one thing, it resonates with me because I have a family history that relates to the Appalachian Mountains and Kentucky hills, and all those wild-hearted, stubborn, delightful people. But oh, this woman could write. (more on this book later!)

MarieCampbell

Marie Campbell

The second book needs no introduction: Iliad, by Homer. The tragic tale of heroic deeds and, yes…oh brother killing brother where art thou? (too close to home, I’m afraid).

‘For as long as it was morning and the holy day was waxing, the weapons thrown by both sides reached their mark and the men kept falling. But when a woodcutter makes his dinner in the mountain glens, when his hands are tired with cutting the tall trees and weariness has touched his heart, and desire for the pleasure of food takes over his mind–then the Danaans showed their worth and, calling to each other down their ranks, they broke the enemy line…Agamemnon was the first to spring through and kill his man, Bienor, shepherd of his people…’ [Iliad]

And back to the mountains here…

‘Back in other settlements they was killings aplenty over politics. Way over on Lone Creek five persons was killed and three more looking to die from ‘lection troubles. One place two brothers shot each other over who to vote for, and Uncle Blessing’s woman’s boy killed his woman’s pap and hisself over politics. From the time politics started in the spring to make ready for the primary voting till the candidates was picked and politics settled agin Nelt counted up about thirty persons shot to death in settlements about the country.’ [Cloud Walking’ 1942]

As Marie Campbell says in her forward, ‘this is no made up tale’. Sad but true.


More on Marie Campbell coming soon. (yes I really think it will happen this time!)

For yesterday’s visual of my fanciful Odysseus tears, see here.

 

 

 

Odysseus Was Just Here (plus a haiku)

IMG_1885
That one perfect drop
Shimmers with just a sweet trace
Of yesterday’s sun

Last night I strolled through the garden, enjoying the air freshened from the rain, the golden light of pre-dusk, and the intense scattering of water droplets.

In a fanciful mood, and with a glass of scotch in hand, one might call to mind history’s greatest criers, in fact and fiction. You could imagine, for example, that the mighty Odysseus had just wandered, (brooding) through the garden previous to my own visit, shedding his epic tears; lamenting his lost friends.

‘His eyes never dry, his sweet life flowing away with tears…’ [Odyssey, Book V]

Or that Dorothy Parker had just wafted past, weeping while exuding brilliantly tragic commentary, (she, crying, while everyone else is laughing delightedly at her wit) trailing long, drifty caftan sleeves and drinking gin. The largest, most lustrous rain droplets would surely have been her tears.

In truth, yesterday’s rainstorm left ‘tears’ of the happiest kind. Here are a few pictures I took in the early evening.

A Dweller in Possibility

IMG_1456

“I dwell in possibility.”  — Emily Dickinson

Oh Emily, what would you have said to today’s possibilities? What lifestyle choices would you have made? Your poetic turn of phrase, so ripe with optimism, might have been phrased differently. Perhaps… “I dwell in a multiplicity of distractions…?”

No one dwells more in possibility than a gardener. They say that is what keeps gardeners young–they are always looking to the future with excitement. (it must be said, however, that if a gardener’s heart is young, his/her hands look old!)

FullSizeRender 11

Today’s–and yesterday’s, and tomorrow’s, distractions and lifestyle choices have, for me, to do with a garden. Flowers… tending… cultivation… tree care. Lovely preoccupations. The cherry trees are blooming, the lilac bush is awash with color and fragrance, the old-fashioned peony is just about to expand into a giant billow of bloom…I not only dwell in possibility, I am giddy with potential. Forgive me for posting pictures of flowers for the moment. It is spring, after all!

FullSizeRender 10

‘I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –’
Emily Dickinson
IMG_1743

Wise November

Wise you are
November
your leafy drifts
cluster at the base

of endless trees
they mark where time
has passed
and will pass again 

This silken canopy
you, November

will change into
a dark elixir
falling once again
to another dimension

where roots can draw strength
from your richness
Ah November sky
you have opened
new portals onto mystery

it is at your strong bidding that I see
( your steely skies insistent)

these branching traceries
of stark silhouette
promise green days and renewal 

like breezes, a sweet return 
to where now I stand
yearning, 
gazing up
at November
and wisdom


 

A Mushroom Moment

It takes a squirrel to make me realize, most keenly, how clumsy and inadequate I am as a photographer. That is why you will see no photographs of Gerald here. Or George. They defy me. They exist, in my photo library, as blurs and snippets of taunting shadows. Fluffy tails whisking out of sight.

I can only show you where Gerald just was.

He was just here, eating this mushroom. If you look closely, you can see his teeth marks. That is all you get of Gerald.

img_6394

But I can tell you that this episode sent me off on a frenzy of googling. For, you see, Gerald was very much drunk. Or at least that is how it seemed. He took a few bites of this mushroom (poisonous) and went cavorting off like a crazed jackrabbit.

Google knew exactly what I was frantically trying to find, and finished my sentence for me.  ‘Can a squirrel eat…mushrooms?’…

It would seem I am not the only one who has wanted to save a squirrel from poisoning. And it turns out that, not only can squirrels eat poisonous mushrooms, they actually harvest them, and dry them for future consumption.

(I picture little clotheslines strung between branches, with thin slices of delicate Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca flapping in the breeze. Squirrel not in the picture, because of course, it has just scampered tantalizingly off-stage.)

I was actually quite concerned for his safety, as I watched ‘Gerald’ go careening up hills, rocks and trees, then come tumbling down again in a fluffy tangle of red tail and snowy white chest, and paws akimbo.

So…it turns out that squirrels, in addition to being elusive to capture adequately in photography, are also immune to mushroom toxins. They can get drunk on fermented apples, high on mushrooms, and happily survive both.

If they don’t break their necks.


This is also a good time to mention, no, you’re not hallucinating, I did change my blog around a bit. It is still a work in progress, so please let me know if there is anything you don’t like about it. Some people do spring cleaning in the season appropriate to the name…I get inspired to do my cleaning and rearranging in the fall. Thanks, as always, for visiting!