Jonathan Fields published a post this week that hit home for me. In fact, I recently had a similar revelation. I spent last week in south eastern Pennsylvania, enjoying a family reunion and some outdoor fun, but no Internet or AT&T access. I was cut off from Twitter, email, blogs, etc.
At first I was aggravated. “Well, this will be a long week,” I thought. At the end of the third day I hadn’t even thought about trying my iPhone and by the next morning the desire was gone.
Then something amazing happened. I had an incredible dream. I saw a huge book open, and on the first page were song lyrics. The page turned, and there was the next line. It turned again, and the third line appeared. While the pages flipped, I heard the full score: Guitar, bass, drums and melody. “I’ve got to write this down,” I thought, and began to run.
The dream house was huge and I kept running and running. Finally I remember thinking, “I’ve got to wake up for real and write this down.” And that’s what happened. I woke up, grabbed my iPhone, opened the Notes app and wrote 24 lines of lyrics. I also remembered the music.
That hasn’t happened since I was a songwriting major at Berklee College of Music (I left Berklee in ’91). But it gets better. Later in the week I got a full short story. The idea stared with a “What if…” musing. I wrote down the premise and now I’m working on the full story. Again, that hasn’t happened in a very long time.
What changed? You could argue that I was on vacation, and free of the typical day-to-day stress. But I don’t believe that was it.
Empty a box of junk and you’ve made room for more stuff. As a blogger, I spend all day every day reading posts, articles, comments and tweets. I listen to audio books and podcasts whenever I’m in the car. In other words, I was keeping my box full. There are times when I sit down to work and think, “What am I going to write about?” There’s so much stuff in my head, like news, opinion pieces, tweets and so on that I’d like to comment on, that I can’t get started.
By removing that stream, I made room for the good stuff. In this case, my own thoughts. Social media (God, I hate that term) is wonderful but it’s like drinking from 10 fire hoses. Yes, it’s cool to monitor your friends and receive up-to-the-second news updates, but it’s not necessary. In fact, it’s detrimental. Step back, log out and let your mind rest for a while.
When Jonathan says, “Step away from the screen and live a little,” you best take that advice. You’ll be amazed at what shows up.
Update: On 8/16/09, this story came to its inevitable conclusion. My only consolation is that the miserable indignity has ended. Our nations’ health care system — and attitude towards the elderly — must change. Dramatically.
– Dave
Sometimes life lets you down in an incomprehensible way.
Followers of my Twitter stream undoubtedly noticed that I was in Oneida, NY this weekend. My grandfather, now 92, has moved from his house to a nursing home and frankly isn’t doing well. My sisters, mother and I went up to see him for what was likely the last time. Already, I wish I could remove this memory from my brain.
Let’s back up. My grandmother (his wife) died about 12-15 years ago. She received Hospice* care at home. I visited during her illness, but not when it was bad. My selfish reason was simple: I wanted to my last memory to be of the incredible woman with the aqua blue ’58 Plymouth Fury who drove us kids to Niagara Falls, served bologna-and-butter sandwiches on antique bone china, hosted my sister and I for two weeks every summer so my parents could get a break and otherwise loved us as her own kids. I wanted her gravel-y laugh, curly hair and giant glasses to stay with me, and that’s what I’ve got.
By contrast, my last memory of my great-grandmother is of her withered face in a hospital bed, little more than a skin-wrapped skull with tubes protruding from her nose. Speaking with her, I knew she had no idea who I was and it was awful for both of us. She was uncomfortable and confused, I was a wreck. Sure, I remember her cooking for us when we were kids and picking figs off of the tree to toss at my great-grandfather, but any memory I recall mutates into the hospital scene and I hate it.
Back to my grandfather. Other than my immediate family, he is by far my favorite relative. To keep a long post short: Exceedingly kind, very quiet and private and the most talented artist I’ve ever known.
He hand-spun sliver and pewter. For decades, he worked for Oneida, Ltd. designing flatware, bowls, serving dishes and so on (here’s one of his patterns). His work was terrifically intricate and sold all over the world. He also painted in oils, pastels and charcoal. He made copper busts of his children which are incredible. He wrote short fiction. He designed and built his house (a boxy, Mid-Century Modern affair that I absolutely love) and local church. And, as we learned while cleaning his house, he sketched endlessly.
My aunt uncovered hundreds of sketches and blueprints on velum, cardboard, paper and so on for lamps, flatware, furniture, homes … on and on. We had no idea how much work he had done. It was amazing and will take months for us to catalog.
A mere portion of the work we found
Among the stacks were some gems. For example, there are two ornate lamps in the livingroom that I’ve always admired of cast bronze that he designed. We found the early sketches, adjustments, presentation materials and finally detailed measurements and instructions for the workers who actually built them. Incredible.
He and my aunt — his daughter — have a volatile relationship. Always have. She inherited the artistic ability but squandered it. She started painting at 12 and, by the time I was old enough to notice, was very good.
Not in her eyes.
Everything she ever painted, and I mean everything, went into the trash. She found a reason to be unsatisfied with every canvas, every sketchpad, every watercolor. Into the trash can the went. You’ll never believe what we found in the basement.
Every single one. All of them. The only way my grandfather could have collected these would have been to sneak into the trash can when no one was looking, remove the painting and tuck it in the basement.
I could go on but suffice to say my respect for him as an artist and a person has grown a hundredfold. So where is he now?
Sitting in a hallway littered with old people in wheelchairs. Just stuck there, motionless, like potted plants. What a rip-off. What an insult. What an undignified end to an incredible person. That’s what you get? After a lifetime of creativity, dedication and love, that’s your reward? The existence of a rag doll?
Now, that’s my last memory. My proud grandfather, hunched over from years at a drafting table and the workbench, sitting in a hallway filled with wheelchair-bound strangers. Awful. I sincerely hope I die before I get old.
My great passion is travel. I live to experience cultures that are different than my own and see what I can learn. I spent the last 4 days in Paris, France and the experience was life-changing. I kept a diary in a notebook and I’ll share some entires here over the next few days.
Above is a video I shot while riding a bicycle around the courtyard in the Louvre. It was totally surreal. The Louvre is a majestic, regal place of such reverance and importance. It’s colosal in size and scope. I’ve seen some amazing things, but nothing else has elicted the same feeling of respect and awe.
To be riding a bicycle around that courtyard felt like kicking a skateboard around St. Peter’s at The Vatican. Not disrespectful, but fun and giddy. I’ll remember those few minutes always. A man playing the flute under an archway (which you can hear clearly at one point) added to the experience.
Humankind can acheive such tremendous things. From the construction of that building to the treasures inside, it restores one’s faith in his neighbor. While we all don’t have The Mona Lisa inside us, we have the same potential for greatness. That’s an astounding thing.
Part of what I do for a living is write. The other part is read. Much like a red-assed baboon who can’t shower you with palmfulls of shit until it has filled itself with starchy zoo food, I can’t do the writing without first completing the reading.
Years ago, I’d drive the Dodge Dart to the mall, flush with paper route money to buy a novel. Slowly moving from shelf to shelf and aisle to aisle, I’d look at each book in turn. Once I made my selection and paid the patchouli-scented cashier in the Ramones T-shirt, I’d refuse a bag so that I could hold the book itself as I walked back to the Dart.
At home, I’d go into my room and read every word. The cover, the jacket, the reviews on the first few pages. The introduction and the author’s bio.
Mmm, starchy zoo food.
With each chapter completed, I felt smarter. Hell, I was smarter. My vocabulary increased, I considered ideas that weren’t native to Scranton, Pennsylvania. It was lovely to have the time and inclination to do nothing on a Wednesday evening but read.
Today I read in bursts. Press releases are a great example. “Dear iPod vendor,” one might begin. It’s the personal touch that I appreciate. And the fact that I’ve never sold an iPod. Next comes what I call the “parade banter.” This is the type of tripe that’s typically passed between Matt and Willard during the Macy’s Parade. The copy that makes the “Suite Life of Zach and Cody” writers say, “For the love of God, shut the fuck up.” Finally the pitch goes on for at least 1,200 words.
While that’s long-form torture, Twitter is like the spray of a sawed-off shotgun, each pellet a 140-character projectile, and the shooter is the fastest in the west.
Chick-chick, POW! Chick-chick, POW!
The thing is, I love being shot. I love the techy articles. I read them all day and then … well, and then I attempt to have a meaninful conversation. Or I sit down to write someting here and the cursor asks, “Got anything good up there, Davey? Your colon full of starchy zoo food?”
The answer is no. I don’t have 3,500-word thoughts anymore. I have 250-word thoughts. I blame the reading. The reading feeds the writing. I picked up SputnikSweetheart by my man Haruki Murakami and intend to sit on the bed, turn off the tweeting and read something that isn’t a pitch, has more than 2 sentences and maybe, just maybe, generates some new brain cells. Because right now I could really use some more.
As a young Catholic, I learned 3 things: 1.) God is watching. 2.) There’s this thing called a clip-on tie that doesn’t require any tying. You just hide the nubbin corners behind your shirt collar and fold the metal clasp against your Adam’s Apple. Plus, your friends will give you a dollar to wear one of yours when they’ve forgotten their own to avoid detention. So keep a supply in your locker. 3.) You’re no better than anyone else.
Number 3 stuck. When a new idea arrives in my head, my first thought is, “That’s dumb.” Also, “Crap, we’re not wearing a tie.” Then I remember that I’m 38 and not in school anymore.
I am 38, if only in theory. It’s necessary to occasionally remind myself that I’m not the dumb guy in the room, or the 10-year-old who stood with his nose against the chalk board for 30 minutes. It’s my wife’s job to remind me (along with earning the bulk of our income. Occasionally I’ll assert myself, stand in the middle of our home and announce, “I paid for slightly less than one half of all of this.” THAT shows her).
Unfortunately, I can’t carry my wife around all day, and must occasionally remind myself. You’re not the dumb guy in the room, even if Sr. Dolores said so.
