Easter

Spring                                                                    Bloodroot Moon

It is, astonishing as it is to me, Easter.  In days past this was an important, the important, moment in the year.  The annual celebration of the resurrection of the God who died.  Now it’s another day in a 365 day a year celebration of the earth that lives.

Were Christianity a dead religion, we might look at this day with mythic interest, a holy day reminding each of us that the divine within us, the sacred trust given to us all with the breath of life, might seem to die, but will always rise up victorious.  In ancient days that was what the peoples of Western Europe believed.  But, of course, Christianity is still much alive and spread out now far beyond its Middle Eastern and European concentrations.

Life triumphing over death is a powerful message, perhaps the most powerful message humanity delivers.  Osiris.  The early Chinese emperors.  Even Orpheus and Eurydice, Demeter and Persephone.  It’s a story that needs to be out there, available as a hope, a promise.  Whether the matter goes beyond mythic power into the ontological?  Doesn’t seem likely, but then…

As pesach and Easter come in these months when the season of renewal approaches, so do Chinese new year and the former European Lady Day new years, their vitality meshes well with the orbit of the earth and the power of the vegetative world to bring us hope after the fallow seasons.  This is enough for many of us, but if you require the extra hope that it means something more, well, I hope you had a happy, glorious Easter.

Leaving Circe’s Island

Spring                                                                            Bloodroot Moon

Scott Edelstein says every writer should have a sign near their desk that reads:  Book Publishing Is Crazy.  He told us we could call him up and ask him questions, but he advised us that if what we had to ask was something like “Why is this weird thing happening?” he’ll say, “Look at the sign.”

A cousin-in-law, an ex-navy specialist welder turned metal sculptor, told me about another  sign, one that I had up for a while:  I’m an artist; I will not quit.  Related thoughts for sure.

In most areas of my life persistence has been a real strong suit, doggedly pursuing things even if they seem like long shots.  I did, however, make a fundamental mistake relative to writing.

A book I had written made it through the editorial process to the editorial board of Bantam Publishing. This was several years ago.  On this board sit the publisher’s sales and marketing executive, their subsidiary rights executive, publicity person and the editor who pitches your book, the business people plus the editor who champions your book.  4 out of 5 books don’t make it past this meeting.  Mine didn’t.  They had, I was informed, already bought too much Celtic fiction.

Listening to Scott today I realize I took the wrong message from this.  It was really a sign that the stars hadn’t lined up for this book at this publisher.  The smart move would have been to recognize that it spoke well of my writing; then, to take the book back and get it out, right away, to other publishers.  I didn’t.  I moved on, started writing another book.

In retrospect I put my persistence into writing, not into marketing.  I know that, but especially in this instance I could have taken a different route and I didn’t.  Not long after that I got discouraged and went on a long dry spell.

A year, maybe two years ago, I woke up again, as if I’d finally left Circe’s island.  That was when Missing began to take shape.  Once it’s revised I now know how to get it in the hand of agents.  If that doesn’t work, I know how to get it in the hands of publishers.  If that doesn’t work, I have learned the rudiments of self-publishing, a very viable option in the rapidly changing publishing world.  Scott called it the wild west because nobody really knows where publishing will end up, but a lot of different things have conspired to give writers many more options than used to be available.

Hawking Books

Spring                                                                       Bloodroot Moon

56 today.  At this rate we might see the bloodroot bloom under this moon.

Class today from Scott Edelstein on marketing and selling books.  Very good.  Lots of good information.  Publishing had gone and is undergoing major changes.  Made me feel hopeful, always a good thing.

In A Dark Wood Wandering

Spring                                                                               Bloodroot Moon

Another Latin session with Greg finished.  We went once a week for about two years, perhaps a little less, then shifted to every two weeks, the pace we continue to follow.  At first we followed lessons in Wheelock, the grizzled Latin classic, updated, but following in the original’s historic pattern.

(Ovid)

About midway through it Greg said he felt I was a global learner, more like himself, and we switched to work with the Metamorphoses itself.  I translate as best I can then we go over my translation when we meet.  By phone.  All of my lessons, every one, has been done over the phone, not skype, but over the old fashioned landline telephone.  At least in my instance.  Greg uses a cell phone.

It was my passion for learning what lay behind the English translations of Ovid’s masterwork that started me on this path and Greg felt I’d learn best following it.  He’s been right.  It means I encounter things I don’t know from time to time, but that provides an opportunity to learn and not only that but to learn in context, not in the abstract as a textbook does.

(The Young Cicero Reading, Vincenzo Foppa, 1464)

At first I wandered through the Latin like I was lost in a briar patch.  I’d come up scraped and raggedy with sentences to match.  As I have put more reading behind me, it has been more like following an ancientrail through a strange forest.  I can follow it, even if I don’t always know where I’m going.  And, at times, I turn down the wrong path and have to find my way back or, if I can’t do it by myself, Greg shows me the way.

At some point, I think after I finish the story of Jason and Medea, a long one, I will return to the start, Book I, and begin to work my way forward.  At some point, too, I want to read some other authors, follow different trails through the Big Woods that is ancient Rome.  But for now Ovid is enough.

Singapore. Saudi Arabia. U.S.A.

Spring                                                                        Bloodroot Moon

Singapore-Riyadh-Andover.  Skype keeps the family together, once atomized, now a small molecule bonded by the internet.  Today and yesterday are Riyadh based brother Mark’s weekend and it’s Good Friday so Singapore civil servants, including my sister Mary, have the day off.  As most family conversations go, we wanted to know about cousins and Mark’s medical procedure, Mary’s featured role in an Indonesian international education conference and her trip on to Valencia for another conference.  My recent trip to Washington, D.C.

This all has a 1950’s video telephone feel to me.  Formica table tops and background posters for fall-out shelters would fit.  Yet we are in the third millennium after the birth of Jesus.  A lot of  the 1950’s wildest ideas blossoming all around us and a whole raft of unanticipated ones, too.

I especially like the tricycle in the background and the thoughtful, well-dressed housewife showing how easy it is to get below ground when the atomic weapons start dropping.  Makes me feel safer.

 

Sowing A Fallow Field

Spring                                                                                Bloodroot Moon

And the Latin keeps on coming.  I’m sure I’ll reach a plateau here at some point, but I seem to be learning faster and faster.  Of course, it’s taken me 3 years to get to this point, so it’s not like it’s an overnight phenomena.  Still, it feels good. Session with Greg tomorrow.

Jason plowed a fallow field, seeded it with dragon’s teeth and an army sprung up, only to take after each other with weapons grown with them.  Men.

My shoulder pain retreated a good bit while in DC.  That was after the third week of rest, including two before I left.  Today I started back with the same exercise routine, trying to discover exactly what’s going on so I can have good data for my visit with the orthopedist on April 17th.

Kate and I have on our calendars garden clean-up starting April 1.  April fools!  We’d have to shovel snow off it to get started.  We may straighten up the garden shed, clean and sharpen tools.  That we can do now.  Of course, I still have that book and file moving/removal project that’s about half done.  No dearth of things to do.

 

 

The Undiscover’d Country

Spring                                                                          Bloodroot Moon

At times my past bleeds into the present, creating small emotional events, upsetting my inner equilibrium.  Right now is one of those times.  Many of us are heir to understandings of ourselves as malformed in some way, not quite right.  I certainly am.

(Dante Gabriel Rossetti    Hamlet and Ophelia 1858 pen and ink drawing)

These irruptions come in the OMG I’m not doing enough form or OMG I have not done enough or OMG I’ll never do enough forms.  My anxious self underlines and bolds these self-declarations as my mind races back to find the not enoughs in the past–no graduate school, no published books, never made it to Washington, the not enoughs in the present–Missing not revised, Loki’s Children not started, no time for serious in-depth reading, not helping out enough at home or making enough time for friends and then uses both of these information streams to predict a dire future:  no books published ever, no friends, no concrete results of any kind, then, wink out.

If this line of thought continues, I’m going to have to visit my analyst, John Desteian.  In touch with him (and, now, Kate) I’ve been able to dispel these strong phantoms, learn to live with facts not illusion and get on with what is a good life.  This is, I think, as much due to faulty wiring as anything else, my family coming with a strong genetic pattern for bipolar disorder, though I don’t believe my issues rise to that level of dysfunction.  I know, not enough even there, eh?

Not long ago I re-read Hamlet’s speech in Scene I, a scene I had memorized long ago for a dramatic presentation contest.  It’s baldly existential view surprised me, even shocked me. A line from it came to me as I woke up this morning and it captures my feeling tone right now:   “…the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”  This exactly describes me when I get into these episodes.

In the lines just before this one Shakespeare refers to death as the undiscover’d country from which no traveler returns and identifies the dread of that journey as producing the pale cast of thought, thus rendering a person unable to act.  To be or not to be neatly summarizes all this.

 

Vacated. Returned.

Spring                                                                        Bloodroot Moon

Vacated, now returned, back in my regular work space.  Feels good. 11th and E street, the Hotel Harrington and the Penn Quarter coalescing into memory.  I doubt I’ll ever travel for a particular art exhibition again, though I’m glad I went this time.

Why?  Crowds.  I like quiet time with art, non jostling, personal time.  Time to dig in and look, really look and not feel like I need to give someone else their turn.  Then, too, I like time in between, away from the art, then going back, looking again.  These big shows actively work against close encounters.  I know this from my work with the Louvre, Rembrandt, Terracotta Warriors.

(Lady of Shallot, William Holman Hunt)

The trip did accomplish its purpose.  Remember my OMG am I doing enough entry a couple of days ago?  My purpose was to get a sense of how my life with art might unfold after I leave the MIA for good.  I see it now, at least a place to start.  It means a study program over several years in the Renaissance, Enlightenment, Romanticism and the whole Modern(-ism)(-ity)(post-) bundle with the occasional excursion into the history of science and perhaps fin de siecle Europe, all with the intention of integrating my interest in the pre-Raphaelites, Aesthetes, Symbolists into the larger movements of cultural forces over the Modern and pre-Modern era.  Ambitious?  Yes, but what’s life for?

The trip accomplished a second, unintended purpose, too.  I gotta go on vacation with no purpose at all.  That’s next.

Right now it’s back to revising Missing and reviewing my Latin for Friday.

 

I Knew Her Right Away

Spring                                                                              Bloodroot Moon

Home again, home again.  The dogs greeted me with unusual joy and vigor.  Vega spun round and Gertie jumped up, biting at me to come play.  Tumultuous.  And wonderful.

Kate came into the Loon Cafe and picked me up from the Hiawatha light rail.  She had on blinking ear-rings.  The server at the cafe, before I arrived, had asked her, “Is that how your friend will recognize you?”  It was.  I knew her right away.

She led us through the maze of parking spaces to the truck, not easy in the mammoth commuter ramps that collect cars from the western burbs.

The trip home had no remarkable moments, a good thing for travel.  I did use, for the first time, a bar code boarding pass on my cell phone.  Felt very with it.  You all have probably done it for years, but it was amazing to me.

It’s nice to use the full size key-board and not the 92%, slick metal keys of the netbook.  Having said that, the netbook has been the best single computer purchase I’ve ever made.  It goes everywhere with me when I travel.  It’s compact, picks up wi-fi with ease and has a 92% keyboard, which is why I bought it.  It’s allowed me to post on this blog from as far away as Cape Horn, south of Tierra del Fuego.

 

And Now, Reverse Field and Head Home

Spring                                                          Bloodroot Moon

Everything’s rolled up and in the bag, ready to check out, then board the metro for Reagan International.

This was a trip where I had to confront some unpleasant truths about traveling.  For me.  My physical stamina, which I rate as pretty good, is still less than it was.  And that matters for my planning.

Also, not new, but apparent during this trip, too, was the easy slide into OMG, what am I doing?  This is a neurotic pattern that I recognize, having largely learned to slip its bonds, but in a foreign place, separated from my regular routine, wife, friends, dogs it can and does easily return.

On the up side I have learned that my new interaction with art will include embedding art history within the larger history of ideas, letting these two large disciplines bump into each other, suggest questions and directions for each other.  One place I know these streams will converge is in Reimagining Faith.

There is, too, a renewed interest in early American history, especially the Revolutionary war period and its immediate aftermath.  Not sure how strong this is, though it did occur to me that it might be a good journey to take with our Western raised grandkids.

(Hotel fire stairs.  1910 vintage)

There is, as well, a definite sense of my own regional identity, an Upper Midwesterner, and the way that identity differs from and could inform the culture of national policy.  This is an odd phenomena since I feel very much a man of the North, of the continent more than the country; yet I feel more and more like a citizen of the planet, also more than the country.  Whether this is a personal experience or a more broadly shared one interests me.

Specifically I wonder if the internet intensifies globalization of perspective while reinforcing local identity.  I wonder if think global, act local and the whole locavore movement might feed this pattern, too, making the local the touchstone not for national identity, but for Terran identity.