The Span of Imagination

Without pulling punches I will be running a "JuNoReWriMo" (without caps that reads Junorewrimo) as reported on this blog. I have a novel that begs for rewriting. My month's goal is 80K--completely doable as the invisible back-work of my hippocampus has been computing all this for months. It's already June 1 in New Zealand, so here goes--

More on process

While I'm dealing with reality, I need to acknowledge that for me to write personally satisfying work, work that makes me full, corrects my sense of schism, and (from the few accolades I've accrued) is good, I need to drop down to this very obsessive place and then stomp around in it. I don't in anyway believe that writers and good artists require this kind of unhealthy tremble to create. I don't think good writers need to be alcoholics, Emos, or on medication. But I have, in partnering with someone who is so much more 'on the table' about things found that letting the natural process FOR ME take over appears very, very distressful when viewed by someone with a different creativity.

Still, once I'm "inside" a piece it all irons out. But I'm not great company when I'm writing. OK, at moments I am, but I'm disengaged from a lot of things and people.

Who we are

I haven't hidden much on this blog, though I bounce between funny observations from my daily chaos and soulful renditions of my spiritual health. It's finally ocurred to me that that is my true character: this fragile, cataclysmic, emotional creature, and a jester-like reporter of prickled happines. People like me sometimes earn some non-complimentary terms: unstable, emotionally immature, suffereing Peter Pan syndrome, from poor impulse control, and other caustic and unhelpful descriptors. It can be difficult to remember that everyone who does (or might) use such phrases does so because they wish--in some way--for the freedom to be the type of child I remain. No one has called me names recently. But I feel dealing with truth is more effective than sheilding one's eyes and trying to live otherwise. Kindly spoke, I have an artistic and affective temperament.

There are some young teenagers in my life who are entering the whirlwind course of high school/parental/societal pressures. These are children on whom great hopes are pinned. They are their parent's reasons and redemption. They are tasked with doing what we "failed" to do ourselves. No matter how it is communicated and assured, they know. They carry with them the undone and the unborn. Here, in these developed countries especially, while we say we want them only "to be happy" this is no more true than the idea that college is "years away"--it is true as it is said, and untrue as it is lived. What we risk in this translation with these children is that they "fail" on both counts. They never accomplish what we truly gave them as tasks, and they never find how to create happiness and self-satisfaction in their lives.
What will it take to give them the freedom we truly want to? First, be truthful with ourselves, then forgive ourselves, then set ourselves free.

Foundling

Some writers consider the rewriting of a draft the most enjoyable part, and I'll admit that some of those "AHA!" moments in terms of narrative arc, voice, and plot come together are thrilling, but I currently sit among the memories and detritus of three separate book manuscripts. They're all ambitious works. But "Foundling" is the one that needs to be finished first. Sure, I've been busy . . .that makes a marvelous excuse. But let's take stock of what this particular book is about and why it's caused such anxiety and growing pains. 1) It's about racial identity, particularly mine 2)It's about class structure 3)It involves writing the emotional truth about people still living 4)It involves revealing myself in my least admirable era, something akin to those 'naked dreams' everyone has had . . .

So why write it? My answer is in the last three words "everyone has had . . ." And besides, people love reading about train-wrecks. And God knows we need some openers for frank discussion about race and class and love and humanity. I think I'll do it.

Currently reading this book which I think I would've benefitted more from had I read it five or six years ago. It would be intersting to read it alongside this one if we are really to discuss the "landscapes of Western minds".

The Very Hungry Caterpillar

I read this classic book by Eric Carle to my morning group of preschoolers who'd never read it before. Even with their limited attention spans they loved it. The afternoon group is just a little older and most of them had read it before. To enrich the experience for them I like to stop and ask questions while reading. The hungry caterpillar hatches from an egg on a leaf in the moonlight. I asked "What else hatches from eggs?" knowing they'd just finished studying farm animals. The loudest boy in the room shouted "SHEEP!"

Imagine . . .oh, I wish it were true!

Caution

It's really hard not to raise an eyebrow when you get an e-mail from a government 'animal health' agency that begins "We are pleased to inform you that this week's disease information is listed at . . ." You can go to this web clearinghouse and see every foot-and-mouth-avian-influenza-and-on-and-on outbreak from India to Botswana. How did I get on this e-mail list you may ask? In my application frenzy two months ago I signed up to be part of the on-call "elite special force" (another phrase that elicits a hard blink)for these sorts of things. I actually took a Saturday and did some online FEMA training. I wonder if the gov is reading my blog. I wonder if my economic stimulus kickback will arrive now.

Meanwhile, I'm avidly reading Narrative of the Life Of Frederick Douglass. It was originally published in May of 1845. The literate portion of American society had not yet taken up reading the novel; instead, they were enamoured of reading an embellished form of 'autobiography' that would make that million tiny pieces guy seem honest. To verify his story, Douglass mailed a copy of his manuscript to his former master .

And new life for old tires, as you see here, doesn't look pretty yet but should service well. Here is an example of raised bed gardening. The soil temperature stays warmer longer, the soil environment is more managed with compost and weed shields, and--once things grow--is has a kind of aesthetic to it. I'm not yet sure what kind of aesthetic. . .
I also planted giant sunflowers against the wall. We'll see how they do. Nice to know I drove from Alaska to Upstate NY on these tires and back and now they'll grow me some vegetables.

Today's funnies

The Feed Store marquee sign today says "Mothers' Day Sale: 15% off all cattle prods and electric fencing"

The Chinese geese goslings have figured out how to unscrew their brooder heat-bulb with their beaks. At first I couldn't figure out why that light was out each day and always loose in its socket. While I was there for several hours yesterday I caught them in the act. They haven't fledged out yet, but I guess they're warm enough. Or perhaps this is their "rage against the machine" for their poultry brethren down the road under the heat lamps at KFC.

I will correspond with this man before my chance closes. Before we lose him, too.

Ride your yak to work

Bring your yak to work day could become a national event. I suggest we put Nerf(TM) soccer balls on the tips of their horns. They're really only dangerous when they're scratching the sides of their faces on you . . .

Next Sunday I'll be--finally!-- going out to Sawmill Creek Ranch in Delta to see my friend's herd and tame a few calves down. With gas prices as they are I'm considering commuting on one as well.

See other blog today