Anxiety & Anonymity

My inspiration this week (and yes, this season, since I have neglected Nuances since February) comes from one of my favorite places: Bookends from the The New York Times. The article is "How Do We Judge Books Written Under Pseudonyms?" By Francine Prose and Daniel Mendelsohn. November 12, 2013. I would recommend giving the article a quick glance before attempting to understand my mad ramblings and ruminations. Because, well...I ramble and ruminate. 

Click Below! I'll take you to the article too!

http://mobile.nytimes.com/2013/11/17/books/review/how-do-we-judge-books-written-under-pseudonyms.html?partner=rss&emc=rss&smid=tw-nytimes

My two favorite insights from this:

"Pseudonyms are especially attractive to fiction writers, whose work (inventing people and seeing the world through their eyes) requires an impersonation, of sorts. Writing under a pen name is like doing an impersonation of someone doing an impersonation...A friend who did something like this says he needed his alter ego, not to conceal his real name but to 'be' that fictitious person, who wrote a scene in which a father cannibalizes a family pet." ~Mendelsohn

"The critical urge to see family resemblances in an author’s work arises from a psychological insight: The creative mind is, like all minds, coherent, even if its coherences aren’t apparent. Like a psychotherapist, the critic looks for patterns, themes and repetitions not only within a work but across an artist’s career in order to uncover the hidden unities." ~ Prose

It's very true: analysis can become stale and lazy when a reader has already put significant effort into understanding an author's work—ask them to read another piece, and 7 out of 10 times, they will find similar "conclusions" about the author's intent or influences. You cannot unlearn something that you have learned through self-tutelage. Well, not without a lot of rewiring and maybe some amnesia!

If you look to Harold Bloom's "Anxiety of Influence", he asserts [my modest set of conclusions after that self-taught principle I just described]  that every generation is at creative war with itself.   We attempt to outdo the literary achievements of our ancestors, living in the constant fear that we will not surpass the innovation of the "greats" who wrote before us. And so one of two things will happen: a writer will try a technique and approach that deviates as far as possible from his or hero, OR a writer will first try to master and then elevate the very techniques of his or hero hero. It occurs to me now, that the argument Bloom made supported the notion that a constant comparison between the new and the old ends stifles new and innovative approaches to written expression. Anxiety for achievement distracts from the work at hand. That somehow we fixate on the past to try and inspire the new, which would hinder growth. I think looking to the past CAN hinder new achievements and voices, but it can also inform the historical canon, and push writers to invest in technique, and leave the changing world to continue to inspire new plot lines, dramatic and tragic twists and character flaws, and all those other little goodies (aka the story itself)!

So, the idea of an author using a nom de plume to escape (I infer) the anxiety of HIS or HER name being judged repeatedly in the literary canon, as he or she makes these adventures into technique, tale and talent, makes sense to me! To generate a fake identity so that he can write from a perspective not entirely his own, and thus be free to craft crazy, horrible plot lines that he (or she) would never otherwise attempt—in deference to the past generation's written achievements and homage to "good taste"—certainly speaks to the writer's love of  the craft. The nom de plume is a loophole; it provides the writer freedom to step beyond the constraints of literary study, the tastes and trends of the day, and even the expectation that he may have had for his illustrious career. In anonymity or alternative identities, we are free to write about "what we know" through a lens and with a style unique to a time, place, and perspective. It stands alone ready for analysis and comment but ripped away from an author's preceding body of works. It's a relationship between a reader and a writer that stands outside of preconceived expectations.

It's rather tantalizing when you think of it that way, no? 

~Written, shockingly enough, by a devoted follower of New Historicism (oops!)

Romance.

The most important lesson a couple will learn in 2013:

Romance can exist between ordinary people who live ordinary lives. 

Kind of a great quote, isn't it? Simple and beautiful. Reminds us all that grand gestures aren't the only things that make up a love story—the little ones are just as significant. I don't even remember on which program I heard it, just that it prompted me to leap from the couch in search of a pen, and then scribble fiendishly on a used Post-It Note. You know, much like any other day.

Worldy Wanderings

I do not travel for the cities, or the sights, or the food; I travel because I know that a friend is waiting somewhere on the other side of the world, and I must make my way to meet them.

2012 held many travels for me: I started the New Year in Houston, on a multi-person pilgrimage to visit my college roommate, and ended the year in New York City, reconnecting with two ladies who  shared a magical half year with me in Paris many, many years ago. The extreme differences between the locations, the experience, and most importantly, the people, cannot be overstated.

Over the years, I have been blessed to cast a "wide net". I have been given opportunities to see new places and try new things. My memories have become a kaleidoscope. Colorful, rich, ever moving.   Several of my friends claim to recall a particular chapter in their life through music they loved, others through a favorite t-shirt they wore. One guy even told me that he thinks of his past in terms of which watch he was wearing (the rubber, water proof, colorful rock climbers' favorite, no less). The watches defined his sport obsession of the moment.

When I think of a year in my past, I inevitably characterize it in one of two ways:

1. Where was I working?, or
2. Who was I visiting?

This probably says a great deal about my personality, and I won't pretend to know what exactly that might be. Worst possible interpretation: workaholic with an occasional Skymiles problem. 

There are worse things.

I firmly believe that sometimes you are pulled--by a spontaneous desire, or fateful coercion--to certain places, and all to experience one particular event. If my normally controlled, planning-oriented self had waited the responsible 6 months before running across the pond for school, I would never have met or bonded with two incredible women. One from Florida, the other from the bustling mayhem of New York City.

Similarly, if professional dissatisfaction hadn't set in during 2010, I might never have spent months living in the tundra of Minnesota, half-hiding in the guest bedroom of one of my best friend's home. Without that experience, our friendship would have never reached the sort of complex state that allows us to communicate in simple texts, over the divide of continents, time zones, and life experiences.

I travel to build bridges--not to places, but to people. To encourage the sort of friendships that will likely define my life; to meet the friends whose influence will change the way I participate in the world around me. And when I return home, I create a new bridge for them to travel across. Together, the planes, the trains, the automobiles take us further into ourselves, rather than farther away from our roots.

 So, why do you do the things you do?

Proof that the Author is indeed alive.

I owe more visits to my online oasis that I can count. It has been a rough few weeks--but let's not go into that.

I would rather--in an obvious attempt to avoid actually writing a real post--share a few sources of inspiration that others have pointed me to. Enjoy! (Credit to the sources I stole them from...I put in links...you know, so no one will sue me this year.)

The type of invention only pseudo writer would love. 

Bookshelves to transform your life: 18 Insanely Cool Bookshelves

Croquet at St. John's College in Annapolis. Courtesy to Photojournal.

The Working Woman's Soundtrack to Surviving the Rough Day

7 AM - Wake up call

 

9 AM - Walking into the Board Meeting

1:15 PM - But then the presentation falls flat

4:45 PM - Quittin' time is comin' late but ... I can do it even better in 'broken heels'.

7:15 PM - Lullaby for a Lover

If This Moment Had a Soundtrack

Monday.

This moment tells the tale of a mismatched pair...featuring some tight jeans.

Tuesday.

This moment is changing gears and changing attitudes.

Wednesday.

This moment of joy-inspired choreography (and Joseph Gordon Levitt) should happen every damn day.

Thursday. 

This moment marvels at the audacity of the entitled.

Friday.

This moment is scandalous and powerful.

Saturday.

This moment is all about a low key rhythm and a surprising sound.

Sunday.

This moment feels like Sunday.

Shameless

It has never been one of my ambitions to make history by breaking all the rules.

I respect the men and women who have. In their rebellion, they have overhauled systems of law and commerce; these warriors have lived passionate lives, full of heroics, and they carry the torch of the "American Rebel" spirit into every new generation. Our pace of progress rests on their shoulders. Where would we be--in this modern age--without those individuals?

Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Carnegie, and J.P. Morgan (for better or worse) would never have pushed the envelopes of business and created the trust culture which financed our greatest industrial age. Nor would they have been the giants whose fall ushered in the rise of the middle class.

Carnegie looks cuddly, doesn't he?

Gloria Steinem, and her peers, would never have become the megaphones for feminism; and we might still ignorant of how low the "glass ceiling" could hang.

Sandra Day O'Connor might never have brought her brand of justice to that very important bench. 

Harvey Milk would never had changed the political landscape for the LGBT community.

Kathyrn Bigelow's remarkable cinematic storytelling might never have led to the first Oscar for a female director; more importantly, her storytelling in a male dominated world might never have been heard.

All impressive, all noteworthy...the list could go on, and on, and on. The warriors of our collective national history found rule books and they did what unlikely leaders do best: they broke every rule they did not like.

But there is another sort of individual who makes history: the Guileless Innovator.

 

The individual whose pioneering efforts created the incredible, the new, and the desperately-in-need-of-regulation category. And maybe, just maybe, they never meant to start a movement. These are the folks that bring a secret smile of admiration to my face. They never went to "war," or overhauled a system. Their mark on history is unquestionable--but their approach so very eloquent: these men and women did what they did first, and so they predated the rules and regulations of their so-called industries.

Mary Kay Ash, the entrepreneur, needed a business model that could grow while she slept. One that would allow her to succeed based on the quality of effort she put forward, rather than the scale set forth by a corporate culture. So, she launched a cosmetics company that has provided millions of women with financial independence over three decades. A model that is now mimicked by hundreds of boutique American businesses.

Oprah Winfrey, Media Mogul, tackled daytime television when daytime television was a breeding ground for little more than soap operas and appliance commercials. Sure, she knocked down several racial barriers in her career as a journalist, but her unexpected achivement came later. She built a platform on which the feuding (post feminist divide) Domestic Female could connect to her Career-Culture counterpart. On national television. She probably also inflamed a consumerism problem ("My Favorite Things"), but let's share credit where credit is due.

Jimmy Wales, the co-founder of the Wikipedia Foundation, saw an opportunity to create shared knowledge among nations, peoples, and neighbors. His presence in the modern subconscious is certainly as strong as that of Mark Zuckerburg, and his Facebook creation. The difference? Wales invited the world to share in authorship. And created one of the most visited information resources on the planet, with more information kept on its pages than in the lost library of Alexandria.

And, arguably, my favorite woman of cinema: the seductive, guileless Queen of Metro Goldwyn Meyer, Norma Shearer. The first time that I saw the film The Women, I was transfixed by this beautiful, gregarious starlet. Charming, witty and so very present. And I wondered why I had only a vague memory of her name. Well, one quick look into Tinseltown's history and you will find a woman credited with every (though few) brave cinematic roles in Pre-Code Hollywood. She played a naive little divorcee, a royal adulteress, and in The Women, a housewife who refuses to pretend that her husband's infidelity is not cause for a trip to Reno. In pre-code Hollywood there were no rules. Society may have had them, but no one had yet to say that the theater or cinematic world was a place for censorship. This was art. She was the first talkie super star. And, after all, if Shakespeare's crude comedies were still getting stage time, why not a shattered housewife, desperate to maintain her dignity while struggling with love for her husband? Well, Code Hollywood reacted to the lovely Norma with many restrictions. Script content was monitored, clothing choices were scrutinized. The lovely Queen of MGM? She simply took off her tiara, influenced the producer's chair and steered cinema into new waters by her hubby's side (Mr. MGM himself).

So, in the grand tradition of Navigating the Nuances, I bring you a topic from the far left field to consider. If the legacy were to be yours, which would you rather:

Be a rebel who finds victory in the spotlight,

Or be the guileless innovator who makes history before the spotlight has even caught up?

Distance, good sir, is dirty.

I do not run. 

I do not care to run.

And I have been running for weeks now. 

 

If, say, two short months ago, you would have told me that I might be spending my mornings on a treadmill, or my weekends using mountains as an alternative to the stair climber, then I would have [insert appropriately violent terminology] you.

 Or perhaps just glared at you. In what would surely have been a studied impression of Maggie Smith's incredulous "look." You know the one. The one that freezes time on Downton Abbey.

But no. No, I would have lived to regret my actions. Why? Because quite honestly, a little running is the perfect excuse to PLAY IN THE MUD! Marine Mud Run, you were a beast. You made me dirty, but I made it through your 5K obstacle course and got this incredible photo opportunity out of it.

   
 Next: We do an Orbitz commerical. And make millions. Yes, yes, I do believe that will work.

Seven Summit Climbs

Let the title speak for itself. Seven mountains. Seven weeks. An experiment in natural endurance and dedication. A work in progress. With comparative images from by gone hikes.

Or an intense need to punish one's own calf muscles. Whichever you prefer.

 

Dragon's Tooth 2011

Dragon's Tooth 2012

Sharp Top 2011

Top Three Above: Sharp Top 2012

Tinker Cliffs 2012

Apple Orchard Falls 2012

Apple Orchard Falls 2012

Buzzard's Rock 2012

Falling into Autumn

I  hardly need share my inherent love of autumn, or of fall and fired foliage; yet,  I leave it to a poet more refined to herald the artful entry of the season.

 

October

By Robert Frost
 

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Painting with light

Via Andy Goldsworthy Online

 

I find it difficult to remember any period of my life which was not, in some small way, punctuated by a romantic attachment to nature.

My grandfather, or "Pa", is most likely the cause of that temperament. Any morning that I woke up on my grandparent's land in Appalachia, was a morning that started with a treasure hunt. Sisterita and I went on a daily mission to find a missing person. Our task was very simple: we had to rescue Pa. Looking back, I can appreciate Granny's genius design to kick us out of the house as she finished cooking. But through the lens of a young girl — a summer vagabond — I relished those early morning hours on the "trails."  Usually, I sported an over-sized No Show George Jones t-shirt, with a walking stick in one hand, and Sisterita riding on the shadow that I cut through the trees. Through brush and bramble, we made our way around the 60 acre plot, secure in our ability to rescue the hero. It never failed — we would (noisily) discover him burning brush or talking to his "damn moles."

In adulthood, the attachment to the mountains brought me back from the palm tree kingdom. It has driven a deep appreciation for hiking into my recently exhausted muscles. But in adolescence...well, it made for one broody, flighty person. There was that time I tried to develop a mythology of my own around the saw palm tree. It is NOT a very interesting tree. There was that other time when I tried to force my poetry into the mold of Georgian ideals. Um, no. Lamentable decision making at its finest. Right there.

I reminisce with a purpose: the attachment that has punctuated my life to this point has resurfaced in a variation of that old treasure hunt. Recently, I played the lucky student in a brief photography lesson. My teacher was patient and, as all good teachers are, determined to take a hands on approach. 

Our outing seemed quite elementary — more fun and whimsy than anything else. In the tradition of Andy Goldsworthy, we were trying to find natural objects with which to create a sculpture, and then photograph it. Make some stones look nifty? Yes, I can do that!


But it became more than I expected. Two reasons: first, I learned a healthier respect for a camera than I have ever entertained; and second, I have been keenly aware of my natural surroundings in the days since. During this odd little assignment — arranging leaves, some acorns, a rock — I became fully engrossed in composing the semi-natural scene.

To begin with, my teacher was no slouch. I learned quickly that he understood the task at hand in ways I could not imagine. The tell tale sign wasn't his effective instruction on aperture, shutter speeds, white balance, and so on; it was the unshaded confidence. It was mesmerizing to watch him. I thought the instruction session had peaked with the setting sun, so as the passer bys made their way off the mountain, I was prepared to do the same.

But then he taught me to paint with light.

Credit to Scott P Yates Photography (click for online access)

It will make you believe in magic. He called it a happy accident — for him, it was probably a pretty run-of-the-mill project. But, as dusk came and went, a tiny pocket flashlight took the "accident" to a rather divine place. I will not embarrass myself by poorly explaining the process (I think we were widening the depth of field by using a slow shutter speed and small aperture?), but it was painting. Or perhaps the slow, deliberate dance of sword strokes? Strokes cast over the desired area in a uniform, but continuously moving, pattern.  He adapted his expectations to fit the changing light conditions. And the shot above was the striking result.

Some treasure hunts simply lead you to unexpected places.

Obituaries CAN can be inspiring

I won't apologize for a brief absence in the blogging world--trust me, my excuses would make you bow down to me and revel in my ability to multi-task over a 3 month period. You might even give me a title. I will accept it--hands waving Miss Universe style, a brilliant smile on my very stressed out face!

But, enough of that. I have to share a little link with the world. READ Mr. Patterson's Tale.

Before you all consider me morbid, READ the obituary all the way through. He wrote his own goodbye to the world; he took the time to reminisce over his youthful pranks, he honored his wife, and well...he inspired me to remember that life is a blessing full of seemingly "random" accidents that shape a person's journey. If there was ever proof of a life well laid and well used, it's this little memoir. I like to exaggerate the obit in my head to something like this Big Fish reminiscent montage:

A-ragged-smiling-man-with-his-life-used-up-to-the-point-of-exhaustion-dressed-in-rags-and-tatters-coming-into-town-on-a-60 MPH-motorcycle-with-a-parade-of-cheering-strangers-there-to-greet-him-and-his-pathos-with-lofty-orchestral-music-in-the-background.

 Nice, right? Am I dramatic. Of course! I like it that way. 

Ultimately, this is a story that shows us that if we can laugh at those "random" accidents, and get away with a few BIG mistakes along the way, those experiences will be all the better ingredients for crafting a truly personal legacy. So, maybe we should stop stressing at our youthful age and just get into a little trouble?

Snowflakes Make Lovely Accessories

This picture tells a beautiful story: of the sheer beauty, and improbable miracle moments, in the world we share.

...I guess it is a good thing I didn't scrape the ice off of my windshield this morning!

Just Sit Back and Enjoy the View



Just another reason to know we live blessed lives. :)



Brain Explosion

I really don't have much to say. Two things really:

For some inexplicable reason I find myself wanting to have dinner and chat with Piers Morgan. Because, well, why not? There has to be something interesting to uncover in that head of his.

And, while I have always hated the show "America's Got Talent" the performance by Team Illuminate just BLEW my mind. (Not a link to tonight's performance, but you will definitely see my point)

I might have clapped. Out loud.

A Not-So-Harrowing Tale of Trespassing

Note: Please, Gentle Reader, do not suddenly indulge the notion of illegal activities as a result of this tale. The truth is, we probably deserve to be caught. Names have been altered to protect the writer. ;)

Before I continue, let me admit that this is not legal, but no more threatening than walking into the frame of a house in the middle of construction (or so I am telling myself)--Sisterita and I visited the House. The one we have idolized throughout our entire youth and adulthood. Every thing you are about to read is 1/3 dreamer, 1/3 planner, 1/3 strategist.

 

Built turn of the 19th century, the House is a majestic, 30+ room mansion, with three guest cottages, a pond, field, barn (stables burned I think?), incredible property that we have been in love with since we were 3 and 5, respectively. In between the local cities, right off the interstate, there is plenty of room for carving running paths, horse trails, a festival area for wine expos, etc. Or just got lost in the beauty of the Blue Ridge area.

We have had probably 80 conversations about wanting to buy the property by the time we are 30 and turning in into a premier resort and B&B. When we were 10, we just wanted to own it and put up a huge Christmas tree. As we got older, the plans evolved! [Though to be fair, that plan still has merit!] 

The location is ideal for a destination style lodging: right on the twin rivers for summer outdoorsy people, hunting grounds everywhere in the fall, historical sites GALORE and Civil War reenactments around, 40 minutes from a metropolis, and 20 minutes to a quaint, historic hamlet. And we have always known that it would take a lot of time to build a reputation for the business, so we have toyed with other on-property ventures that we could tie in with other local businesses ( garden nurseries, renting the grounds to equestrians, holding weddings, etc.). Starting with two easy ones, and adding one on every other year.

Of course, all of those conversations (we had even drew up a mock business plan of sorts) took place without ever having been inside the main house. Oh, and without having any money of course. So, we are talking a delusion-worthy Flight of Fancy. But the purchase price keeps falling.  And one day it will be low enough for us to get a loan that will cover renovations, and we will have become succesfull enough to make it work! Our uncles painted it and so we knew that it was incredible, with guest suites and a library. After having gotten inside....oh my goodness. 

I must give credit to Sisterita: she indulged a romantic inclination to walk along the property one day. She was alone, enjoying the day, thinking and communing with the animals...because this is obviously a scene from Snow White. The important, LIFE ALTERING, moment came to happen on a whim. She just tried a door .And it opened. To this...

Sorry for the perspective...The Entrance Way.

The opportunity prompted a furious, half-sick run through the enormity of the house. According to her, she then ran through it with her heart in her throat, hoping the cops wouldn't show up but that she would have time to see it all! She related her tale to me. And, well, of course I was green with envy. So, we discussed the risks, and decided to return. Our adventure went something like this:

Backs the Hyundai into some brush on the back of the house. Both occupants scan the horizon for alarm.

::Girl #1, strategically dressed up so as to be able to play the I'm-In-The-Market-And-Successful-Businesswoman-Should-Anyone-Show-Up (me) gets out::

::Girl #2 bounds for the front door. Stealthily listening for alarm bells and watching for Big Brother cameras::

G1: OK, I unlocked this extra spot just in case. Remember, be ready to run. But don't leave me...I locked you out of the car."

G2: OK, I am taking off my heels and carrying them.

Pause for Terror when the door squeaks open.

G1: This is my favorite room...

G2: Oh, My. God.

  

The main and second level are in fairly great condition:

Large sitting area on the first floor

Lower level: Entrance hallway with mirror doors on back and front, front sitting room, large meeting/bedroom, a reading room/office, just room, dinning HALL, bar area room, kitchen (not industrial friendly alas!). You can tell the previous tenant (retired wall street exec) lived on those levels and opened it up to his family (same with one cottage--the other 2 look rough).

Stairwell and Alcoves on the Second Landing

Basement: Needs some work to control dampness, but the walls were in good shape. Old servant style massive woostove/kitchen downthere with work benches, counters, 4 sinks. Could definitely (if electrical work was accomplished) by turned into an indistrial level kitchen. A curved room that opens into a front-of-the-house sitting alcove/garden. You could so rig a pottery workshop in there!

Third level Hallway. Bedroom at the end are mirror images.

Second level: 6 Guest bedroom suites with chimes to summon the help. We also found the cubby cabinet that contains all of the individual skeleton keys for the suites. Almost every room has an operational fireplace, clawfoot tub, it HAS been rigged for internet, though it seems to be on a radiator heating system. Only two showers in the whole house. One drawback for the modern visitor. 

Third level: The third level needs WORK.Set up for the children's nurseries and the servants of the house. There is one split bathroom (shower on one side of the hall, mini toilet on the other) and 6 bedrooms up there.  3 larger, as if for the younger kids, governess, and butler; and then 3 that were definitely for the maids. Small cubes of space. Walls were in rough shape (not holes, just haven't been painted or wall papered in 40 years).  

Three Cottages: 2 level, window air units (ugh), kitchen, bath, screened porches, and at least 2 bedrooms in each. Ideal for onsite living staff (hospitality manager or maintenance), the office (reservations, business center, the recreation center for the place on one side), or for year round renting to help with costs!

Third level, it also...felt lonely. I could feel some vibes up there. Not hostile (I know I sound insane), but like it was forgotten. We keep feeling like if we turned around fast enough we would see a ghost. So, of course, we started to introduce ourselves to the "inhabitants" and tell the house how much we loved it, what we would love to do, etc. And I am telling you, the house seemed to lighten up. Really. The sun roof (on the upper level) suddenly filled the hallway with light and things just lightened up. I don't know. We felt like the house was as sad to see us leave and we were to leave it.

Anyway, that is my not-so-harrowing tale. Kudos to little sister for being brave enough to find it open on her own the first time, and then doubly brave for daring to go back with me! 

....We realized as we were leaving, that the alarm system was blinking "Disarmed Chime: Alert!".....