After Troy - Hektor Karl

Celebrations and IWSG

2012-07-04T14:57:00.002-04:00

The dogs celebrating an escape from the heat.

For my IWSG entry this month, I offer an aphorism, inspired by the holiday.

All great writing is a celebration.

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Kitten update: I have not seen them today. (And thanks to everyone who offered advice, support or just an ear.)

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How will you be celebrating?

Cat Lovers, Can You Help?

2012-07-03T13:05:00.001-04:00

Those who read this blog know I'm mostly a dog person. Well, when I got up this morning to let the dogs out, I noticed three kittens on the back porch. They ran away when they saw me and I haven't seen them since (or before). I assume this means they're living under the porch/house.

I know very little about cats, so am in search of people with more expertise.

INFO:

-- I borrowed a trap from the vet, but they've had over 20 kittens dumped on them recently, so cannot take them if I do catch them.

-- It's been well over 100 degrees in Georgia, and they survived that, so they must be able to find some cool place.

-- All shelters are packed and overflowing. The same is true for all rescues around here.

-- There is always water on the porch for the dogs. This might be why they were on the porch this morning. I've also put out other water bowls. Is there anything else I should do?

-- I have no idea whether my dogs are aggressive toward cats, though I had noticed them sniffing around the porch with interest in recent days. Since I heard nothing, I assumed it was probably rabbits.

I'm pretty much a complete novice when it comes to cats, so any basics you want to tell me would be beneficial. I'd really love it if anyone has experience with something like this before. You can also email me at hektorkarl at gmail dot com or send me a note on Twitter (@hektorkarl) if you prefer.

If I see them again, I will try to get a picture.

Thanks! And Happy Holidays to all. :)

Peer Pressure Made to Order (IWSG)

2012-06-06T15:16:00.002-04:00

It's the first Wednesday of the month, which means it's time for IWSG, the Insecure Writer's Support Group, and I've triple checked this month to make sure I've got the letters in the right order.

I've been around the blogosphere less this past month and the blame falls mostly on one source: Twitter (@hektorkarl if you want to find me). I know Twitter gets bashed as a waste of time, and it can become flooded with spam, but I actually find it a great place to connect with other writers/people. And whereas as blog time tends to eat into other types of writing/reading/creating, Twitter can be fit into the cracks in one's schedule. It constantly flows. Surprising conversations erupt. Sometimes news breaks.

Finally, no matter the time of day, there's always someone on Twitter eager to write. It's peer pressure made to order. Just find a favorite hashtag (I like #1k1hr, but there are many out there), and someone will keep you honest with your goals.

So there's my excuse for the lack of blogging. (The blogging will likely pick up again when I get in the mood to get mythical again, but feel free to search me out on Twitter in the meantime.)

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Anyone else find themselves drifting toward Twitter? (Twitter haters are welcome to pipe up as well.)

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Oral Literature (Beyond The Iliad)

2012-05-18T09:47:00.002-04:00

There's a project underway to get a collection of African Oral Literature reprinted. It will be distributed worldwide, including to many libraries in Africa (where it is a popular item). For as little as $1 of support, you can get a copy of the e-book. Details at unglue.it.

A few details, from the site:

First published in 1970 by Oxford University Press, this classic study has been hailed as "the single most authoritative work on oral literature”. It traces the history of story-telling in Africa, and brings to life the diverse forms of creativity across the African continent. Author Ruth Finnegan is thought to have “almost single-handedly created the field of ethnography of language” with this book, and it continues to be a go-to text for anyone studying African culture.

However, despite its enormous scope and popularity, Finnegan’s book is now out of print. It is particularly hard to find in Africa, where its original retail price was beyond the budget of most university libraries.

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Sounds like a cool project. Any fans out there of these types of anthologies?

How to Win Awards and Attention

2012-05-16T10:16:00.000-04:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that all bloggers write for attention and accolades. And though blog awards take us back to the cruel days in which kids did not bring valentines for the whole class but only for a select few, they also provide convenenient content inspiration, so I'm accepting this one bestowed by the brilliant Veronica Sicoe.

As per the rules, I have to share 7 things about myself. (For all my claims to oddness, this was not that easy, which much mean I'm not as abnormal as I like to claim. "And after all this time to find we're just like all the rest.")

THE LIST

1. Growing up, I had pet snakes (very plural) and a Bearded Dragon. Now it's just the dogs

2. For most of my youth, I was much better at math than English. I was even on some sort of math team in middle school. In the end, I pretty much stuck with the math when it was socially ostracizing and then quit right before it became a gateway to wealth, wisdom and the ability to cast spells on others with statistics.

3. I like jalapenos in almost everything.

4. I've never lived in the same place for more than four years. (Yes, I have boxed A LOT of books.)

5. As a kid, my bikes got stolen multiple times. As an adult, I have almost no interest in biking or cycling or whatever it's called. This might be related, though it probably isn't.

6. I wrote songs long before I wrote fiction.

7. John Elway was my favorite #7 and I even had a bright orange Elway jersey. (I also like the color orange, so there's a bonus detail. I especially like orange when it is on a tiger. So please do not contribute to the killing of tigers.)

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PASSING ON THE AWARD

Some of these people have probably already received it, but that's usually how awards work.

Kelly Barnes at Words Have a Way, whose posts range from science to myth to writing to beyond. I think there are multiple dimensions and alter-egos as well.

Caitlin Niccol at Logically. Her A-Z posts covered an ambitious chunk of world history and mythology.

Aimée Jodoin at A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman. She hosts Peace Blogfests, posts Hamlet essays, dissects characterization and more.

Mira at Mira's Corner, a new blog that has already shown impressive versatility in her first month.

Finally Sommer Leigh, who may or may not be my benevolently evil twin. She's the go-to source for YA, superheroes, spec fiction and more.

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After A to Z: Reflections and Lessons Learned

2012-05-07T09:55:00.000-04:00

Last month, I ran through the alphabet guided by the loose theme of mythic moments. Now the organizers of this challenge have organized a series of reflection posts. So I'll discuss both the specifics of this challenge and some larger points that can apply to anyone's creative process.

1. Structure: I didn't meticulously plan ahead, and I liked how each letter nudged me into unexpected places. Only with X did I feel a bit trapped. Writing under some restraints encourages creative solutions. I liked the narrowing of possibilities (which paradoxically expanded the number of interesting ideas.) I also used a lot of alliteration. That was pretty fun.

2. Theme: Finding a theme that will fit for 26 posts is difficult. A lot of people went on the 'lighter' end, knowing that people would be reading a lot of posts and would appreciate brevity. So I'll explain my decision to go the other way.

- First, I couldn't think of a series of light posts that would capture the spirit of the blog (though something like 'influences' might have worked).

- Second, the communal energy pushed me into some posts I might otherwise not have attempted.

-Third, that's what interested me that month.

-Fourth, I try to write/explore things that aren't already floating out there. It might be why I've been called 'odd' more than once. (I usually take this as praise.)

3. Difficulties:

- All words are not created equal. I found the types of posts I did more draining than, say, writing 500 words about e-books or commenting on another's article. It was more like creating fiction than just tossing out my opinion. (At the same time, my other writing didn't really suffer, so I think the posts were generative to some degree, like core training and squats to the athlete.)

- Balance. I tried to strive for (emotional) balance and dynamics with my topics, but there were times in which I felt like two posts of this type rather than six in the week might have been more effective (for both the reader and the writer). I also noticed this when reading other blogs.

- Visiting scores of new blogs is very exhausting. I found some great new people, but it felt almost like a month-long party does for an introvert.

4. Double-Edge Swords

- Just as communal energy is tremendously invigorating, when the overall motivation level starts to dip, that can also be contagious.

- By pushing ourselves and trying new things, we can better understand what works for us. At the same time, I'm skeptical of non-sustainable approaches. The dangers of backlash, burnout and regression are real.

5. End on a High Note

- It was fun to see what everyone came up with.

- I now have a tab with a clearly organized series of 26 mythic moments, if anyone wants to revisit.

- I did a lot of valuable re-reading. It was interesting to see where my memory differed from the actual text.

- Hope to see you all around in the coming months.

They propose an A-Z series on treats. Starting now.

So You're Probably Going to Lose (IWSG)

2012-05-02T18:10:00.000-04:00

IWSG (Insecure Writer's Support Group) is the brain-child of Alex J. Cavanaugh, who I'm pretty sure is the glue that holds together this corner of the internet universe.

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak.

A lot of my posts fit this theme (here's one, for example), since I tend to propose a 'screw the fates, screw the odds, create something great' approach. For this one, I'm dipping into The Iliad again.

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Last month, I gave the stories behind how the blog mascot and Argos got their names. Today I am going to use Hector of Troy as a metaphor for the writer. In this way, I will retroactively mythologize my own name.

In the Trojan war, the Greeks launched an attack on the Trojans. The Greeks had most of the firepower when it came to the heroes: Achilles, Agamemnon, Ajax, Odysseus, Menelaus. The Trojans pretty much just had Hector. (They also had Aeneas, but he became more famous for what he did after the war, and Paris, but he was more of a pretty boy than a warrior.) As usual, the gods were split. In short, like the modern creator, Hector had to take on much of the known world.

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Hector knows that he's good. He also knows that he's probably not good enough. His is not a tragedy of outrageous arrogance -- Homer rarely gives us such simplistic dilemmas. When his wife Andromache, the voice of reason, pleads with him not to fight, he does not simply dismiss her.

She tells him:

Your own fiery courage will destroy you!...

Yes, soon they will kill you off...

He admits:

in my heart and soul I also know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die

Later:

So in his house they raised dirges for the dead,
for Hector still alive, his people were so convinced
that never again would he come home from battle

Hector concludes:

Why so much grief for me?
No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.
And fate? No one alive has escaped it,
neither brave man nor coward...

He fought for the world he believed in, knowing his body might be dragged through the streets, knowing he'd likely be thrown to the dogs when he failed. Rage-filled Achilles was particularly cruel, but defeat is rarely appealing.

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So why Hector?

We fight even when victory seems unlikely. All interesting individuals waffle with insecurity. Jesus praying in Gethsemane. Joan of Arc recanting. Virgil asking that The Aeneid be burned (Kafka doing the same with his works). Finally Hector, believing he was doomed, but also thinking maybe, just maybe.... a tip from the gods, the right flicker of sun, a convenient slip from Achilles -- and Troy could still stand.

We are the only defenders of the worlds we create. We take on everyone, from Shakespeare on down, knowing the chance of victory is small, knowing they may drag our souls over parched ground, but nevertheless stepping outside the walls, chin to the sun, feet skipping through the dust.

Somewhere, if only in dreams, Troy is still standing, now prospering in peace, still singing of their heroes and more. May we birth one of those Troys. We don't create because we anticipate victory; we create because we're willing to challenge fate, and that's one heck of a tale.

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Do you find more inspiration in darker or lighter works? Can we draw inspiration from our Hectors, our Hamlets, our Michael Corleones?

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The lines of Homer come from the Fagles translation.
The image comes from Wikimedia Commons.

Zeus, Zoos, and Zzzzz...

2012-04-30T08:31:00.000-04:00

(26th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

Julien de Parme, Zeus and Thetis

We opened the month with Argos, now we close it with Zeus. From dogs to gods. That could almost be a tagline for this blog, so it seems appropriate.

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I've heard a lot of whispers of blogging burnout. Okay, some of them were less whispers than direct proclamations. It's hard to steal fire from the gods on a daily basis. It's hard to do anything productive on a daily basis.

I've praised rest before, and I'll note that even Zeus, in the midst of what (to the gods) was the greatest show on earth, needed rest. From Book 14 of Fagles' The Iliad translation.

"Why hurrry, Hera?"--
Zeus who gathers the breasting clouds replied,
"that is a journey you can make tomorrow. Now--
come, let's go to bed, let's lose ourselves in love!...

"I will wrap us round in a golden cloud so dense
not even the Sun's rays, the sharpest eyes in the world,
will pierce the mist and glimpse us..."

And so, deep in peace,
the Father slept on Gargaron peak, conquered by Sleep
and strong assaults of Love...

So wrap yourselves in a golden cloud, and then do what you will.

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What are your goals for May?

(For those who like communal challenges, they're running a National Novel Writing May challenge at the Bransforums.)

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One year ago, I woke up on May 1 to find the car stolen. So there's a very good chance this May will get off to a better start!

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Yawps Barbaric

2012-04-29T10:40:00.000-04:00

(25th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

Walt Whitman Bridge

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The excerpt is from Leaves of Grass by New Jersey's great Walt Whitman. (There's now a bridge named after him, so that's mostly what I knew him for when I was kid. Leaves of Grass was also the book Bill Clinton gave to Monica Lewinsky. Whitman's yawps sprawl in odd directions.)

I admire works that can still seem odd years later, works that retain that 'x-factor' even after countless imitators have scraped their nails at the same chalk board. I speak often of things like rest and silence, but the most powerful moments of quiet are those that balance ecstatic creation, unforeseen energy and barbaric yawps.

The great works howl at us and linger there. They are not without rules, but they seem to follow their own. Like the most interesting heroes, they forge their own codes.

We'll scream in celebration at another's song or goal. We'll scream in anger at put-upons and tedium. Many will scream metronomically in the name of self-promotion. These are the sounds of the modern world, like car engines, cooking shows and construction. They're not without value, but the soul longs for more than spare change.

Yes, it's true that overwriting sinks many-a-book, but often this is more lazy revision than excessive ambition. Yes, we sometimes grab for a world-too-large that topples from our feeble fingers. There are corpses of all kinds in the wars of art, commerce and creation.

So in a burst of Sunday enthusiasm, I'll say: 'Let them hear that barbaric yawp.' They may still shoot you in the gut, they may still mock you in the halls, they may still taunt you on the web, but the world is a big place and there's always another roof to shout over. It would be nice if the self-promoters had more of a self to promote.

That's my yawping for the day. Not quite barbaric, no. But that has to be worked towards.

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Any Whitman fans out there? Is he another one ruined by assigned reading? (I don't think he was ever assigned to me, or if he was I didn't really pay attention and don't remember it.)

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X Factors and Readers

2012-04-27T10:27:00.000-04:00

(24th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

Many readers have very clear ideas on what they want out of a book. A YA dystopia with a bit of romance. A crime novel with a tough, jaded protagonist. A romance set in the Renaissance. An epic in which the good guy wins. A book with a lot of buzz. Any book on the craft of writing. Or the history of rock and roll. Or the redemptive qualities of dogs. A little knowledge of keyword searches, a glance at the reviews, and one can do quite well with this approach, only tumbling into occasional disappointment.

I get myself into trouble because I tend to like things that are less tangible. Things that cannot be found easily with an Amazon search or summary review. I seek out books that have 'x factors,' books that do something (extraordinary) that no other book does. (I realize this is partly an attempt to mythologize my own tastes, but I think there's a deeper point, and I needed a topic that began with X.)

In this view, it's the strangeness that sticks with us. The work that does something unexpected, and in doing so does not deceive the reader/viewer but instead makes them feel slightly elevated, slightly expanded, as if their creative worlds are now just a bit larger. Works that make us go, 'Huh, I hadn't quite realized that was possible.' It's hard to order that up, but we all need quests.

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Do you prefer the strange or the familiar? Is there a distinction in the way people approach books, or do we all think that our tastes catch these tough-to-define 'x factors'"?

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Water, Water, Everywhere, and Not a Drop to Drink

2012-04-26T10:23:00.002-04:00

(23rd post in the A-Z Challenge)
(Post title is adapted from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")

Gustave Doré's The Albatross, also inspired by the Coleridge poem.

We're flooded with information. We're flooded with stories. Flooded with revolutionary products that fade with little more than a whimper.

The number of books grows as our number of hours decreases. Yet we still fear that with all that's out there, we won't find what we want or need or hope for. The old guideposts have grown useless with graffiti. We all have to learn to be navigators. We've killed the protecting albatross, and now comes the storm.

It's hard to be heard. It's also hard to hear. They promise salvation via algorithms, but that always seems like a bit of a Trojan Horse. Beware of gifts: they mean that you're the product being sold.

But we find familiar whispers. We find guides among the beggars (the blogger is a verbose panhandler, a street musician of a different sort).

I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!

He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.

They scare the creators with this talk of floods. So the creators learn to swim. Learn to paddle. Learn to tread. Learn to float. Learn to surf.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

These days, there's more out there to find. There's far more out there to evade. This age will make us more elusive. It will make us more effusive. It has changed what it means to be reclusive.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast...

He went like one that hath been stunn'd,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.

The new social media world can often seem sociopathic. But each voice matters, each voice can guide us through the storm and to our own little islands that are somehow also "a little larger than the entire universe."

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When did you last experience the sensation of being surrounded by abundance yet nothing of interest? (Yes, scrolling through my blog archives counts, but that wouldn't be my favorite example.)

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Vivid Dreams and Valiant Visions

2012-04-25T10:38:00.000-04:00

(22nd post in the A-Z challenge)

T'oros Roslin - Joseph's Dream

Dreams have a bad rap in fiction. They're often used clumsily: to provide false tension, to deliver dull exposition, to expose predictable vulnerability, to fling out coded symbolism. The dreams of others easily bore us, fictional characters included.

And yet...

The messages in dreams once moved the world (and our stories). Dreams converted Constantine. Dream interpretation elevated Joseph. Dreams (sent by Zeus) convinced Agamemnon to attack without Achilles. Dreams had power. Dreams drove destiny. Thus they were also fraught with danger. Homer describes Agamemnon upon waking:

With that the dream departed, leaving him there
his heart racing with hopes that would not come to pass.
He thought he would take the city of Priam then,
that very day, the fool.

We can see the negative sting that accompanies the word "dreamer" even back then. What good are uncertain visions? What good are fantastical insights? Not to mention that things like anxiety dreams and nightmares just seem flat-out cruel. So we've dialed down the dreaming and relegated it into that convenient box marked 'brain housekeeping.'

Yes, the Jungians still nobly analyze in dim offices. The bored still recite dreams in the way they recite plots to disposable reality TV shows. Our dreams are wonderfully disposable. Most exit the mind quickly and quietly. Occasionally a discovery is arrived at via a dream: Watson with the double-helix, for example. Still deep down we know he'd have gotten there even if he'd had an espresso rather than a nap that day.

As with all progress, it is easy to say we've banished superstition and moved on to more interesting, replicable and empowering methods of analysis. Perhaps. I don't know.

But upon waking in the night, with the whole body shivering, "as if the top of my head were taken off," it's hard not to feel as if some message was just missed, disposed of, ignored, abandoned. So then we roll over, shake these feelings, scratch the dog's ear, and fall back into sleep.

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I started thinking on this because I've been having multiple vivid dreams a night lately. Any prophet out there to interpret? (Sadly I rarely get the exciting wish-fulfillment kind. Or the insane surrealist kind. Mine tend to unravel like three-act horror movies. Perhaps that needs to be diagnosed as well.)

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Anyone still pay attention to dreams?
How do you feel about dreams in fiction? (I've never much liked them as plot devices.)

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Undone (Or: Valleys of the Blind)

2012-04-24T09:53:00.001-04:00

(21th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

I had not thought death had undone so many.

It's one of the most haunting lines from both The Wasteland and Dante's Commedia. I've become a bit undone myself: not with death but with a nasty red eye that aches and limits my screen time. I must have jinxed myself with my post on rest, though this was not what I had in mind. Or perhaps my post quoting Akhmatova:

Already madness trails its wing

Decisively across my mind;

I drink its fiery wine and sink

Into the valley of the blind.

On the plus side, I'm halfway to Homer, for at least a day or two. Borges also lost his sight (though in old age). Oedipus is less inspiring. I don't expect anything so drastic, but there's something comforting in thinking about far great minds who suffered through far more. (And who am I kidding: I always find comfort in thinking about Homer, Borges and Akhmatova -- ever-deep wells of inspiration.)

I'm not bowing out of the challenge, but the posts might be a little shorter.

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What are your best tips for handling poor health (in the context of creative endeavors)?

Other greats with less-than-great eyesight?

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Time, Training, Talents and Terriers

2012-04-23T15:35:00.000-04:00

(20th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

A Trio of Tiny Thoughts with a 'T' Theme

Time

Time is a trickster, always changing, never moving at the pace we want it to. It's not on our side, but it's not against us either. Time is indifferent-enough. That we age is not so bad. That we waste it seems worse.

They say we never get back lost time, but that's not really the point. We can make the moments-to-come matter more. Redemption through extension. With our stories, we reclaim this lost time. With each new idea, we expand our future time. And with each act of creative kindness, we elevate the present time.

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Training

When I was about 10, we moved into a house in which the previous tenant had been a bit crazy. One of her delusions was that Stephen King was hovering over the house, in some supernatural form, stealing ideas from her telepathically (and then using these stolen ideas to make millions). There were even rumors that she actually tried to sue him for this, but I've never corroborated them. Print the legend and all...

This morning, agent Rachelle Gardner had a post Train Your Muse Like You Train Your Puppy, which hit a few of my major buzzwords and thus drew my eye. Since the Department of Justice has recently proven that everyone in the publishing industry huddles in cabals to devise devious strategies of exploitation, I conclude that this super agent learned the hovering-brain-sucking trick from Mr. King and then used it to steal my ideas.

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Terriers

The blog mascot is a terrier. The blog mascot's playmate, Argos, probably has some terrier in him as well. (Some blog trivia: More Googlers arrive here searching for terriers than anything else, though 50 Shades of Grey is also quite popular.) There was also a short-lived TV show Terriers (now streaming on Netflix) that I caught after it had already been canceled, much like Firefly, and can recommend.

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And a bonus T: A toast to all!

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A tongue for a toss?

Strangers

2012-04-22T13:00:00.000-04:00

(19th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

I quoted Leonard Cohen's "The Stranger Song" earlier this week, perhaps unconsciously priming myself for this post. (It's not only a great song, it also played a major role in McCabe & Mrs. Miller, the great Altman film.)

Strangers. They populate our stories. Populate our lives. Populate our imaginations.

Odysseus spent much of his life as a stranger. The Odyssey captures both the joys and psychological dislocations of being a stranger. The joy of new communities and connections. The reminder that even those we know can become strangers. There are days when only the dog seems to remember who we are.

We need not go far to find strangers. Just this weeked a neighbor was throwing rocks at a friendly neighborhood dog. Another neighbor, with a pistol on his belt, threatened to shoot the dog in the owner's presence if it escaped again. Strangers, to me.

In fairness to them, so is the husky's owner who seemed to think a three-foot chain-link fence could keep in adult huskies. I wouldn't trust the fence to keep in the blog mascot, a 20-pound rat terrier who prefers to be inside. ("Good fences make good neighbors.") The one who's not a stranger in this situation is the dog, an immediate friend to all who offer the slightest attention.

Poor guy has a hit out on him.

As writers, we are (hopefully) more capable of understanding the perspectives of strangers. Whether this translates into valuable action, I don't know. Action is not often the strength of creatives types, who are vulnerable to prioritizing dissection over direction. (Though there are now two huskies hiding in our better-fenced yard... I guess in this instance it's at least useful to have us around anyhow...)

Every stranger has a story. Often they'll challenge what we'd like to believe. I like both strangeness and strangers, but there are no doubt days (weeks?) when it'd feel a lot easier to cluster around people who thought the same as I do.

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Podcasts are another interesting way to 'overhear' strangers. So I'll offer a listening suggestion (these may or may not be strangers to you): Colin Marshall interviews Michael Silverblatt (host of Bookworm, another podcast I've recommended) on his new show Notebook on Cities and Culture.

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Favorite stranger story?
Also an open call to introduce me to a stranger -- writer, blogger, singer, podcaster, icon, etc.

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Rest, Ritual and Radical Creations

2012-04-20T09:49:00.000-04:00

(18th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.

It's easy to forgive resting when the creation is complete, but harder when there are still things to do. Rest can feel like a loss of momentum, even a surrender.

It's hard to hold the hand of anyone who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.

We apologize for our rest and then deplete further resources lamenting that we do not rest enough. Even the word has been dirtied by its connection to restrooms and rest stops. Instead of rest, we embrace distraction, which at least feels like action.

The rest is silence.

A true rest takes more effort. A true rest goes beyond a 'break' and becomes a ritual. A creator's rest must be a sacred action.

A rest in music is not a refusal to play; it's part of the composition. A rest for a character is not a refusal of action; it's a preparation for action. And a rest for the artist is not a pretentious form of laziness; it's work of another kind.

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Then there's that whispering in my other ear:

Perhaps I just wanted to excuse this shorter blog post. Just because we're weary doesn't mean we've reached that seventh day.

Perhaps.

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How do you decide which rest is good rest?

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Quests for Quests

2012-04-19T13:05:00.000-04:00

(17th post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

Few have a wardrobe that leads into another world. Few have a mysterious mentor show up with warnings of privileged birth. Only madmen now claim divine parentage or destinies.

In mythic structure, we talk often of the 'refusal of the call.' But these days, we often have nothing to refuse. To quote a more famous bard from Jersey: We waste our summers praying in vain for a savior to rise from these streets.

It's not that 'nothing happens,' a simplistic slur hurled against much of the most daring work out there. It's that we have to quest for the quest. No swords fit magically into our hands. This quest for a quest may be a less noble quest, but we don't chose how much nobility we inherit. We don't chose where to land, at least not until we've grown to the point that we can launch ourselves. Fighting the right fight is difficult. Struggling to see the lines is even more difficult.

We'll gladly fight the dragons, if life can show us where they are. We listen for the flapping wings, but so often it's only the wind again.

We could build a tower from our 'nothings.' April is the cruelest month. But it's also time for pilgrimage... And so we beat on...

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Your favorite pilgrimage?

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Puppy Poop and Painful Pride

2012-04-18T10:34:00.000-04:00

(Sixteenth post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

We have no idea why the furniture is not as nice as it once was. No idea.

Dogs are not for perfectionists, especially not young ones.

The blog mascot, upon entering the previous apartment for the first time, ran crazily in a circle and then pooped on the floor. She is not the only dog to cross the threshold and act as such...

I no longer have dog-hair-less clothes. I feel lucky if I have dog-hair-less meals. The masses of hair gather like tumbleweeds on a California highway. Dogs, like sloppy writers, require constant editing. Footprints appear as soon as they are wiped. We brush away the layers of grit, but they always regather.

Yes, dogs teach us to smile. They also teach us to frown, to throw up our hands, to cover our ears, to break up fights. And that this too shall pass. Most messes are fixable. Most messes are forgivable. Dogs are like a never-ending plot hole, but we enjoy a little problem-solving. Sometimes it's best to call that 'excitement' and draw energy from it.

I started this month talking about Argos, the faithful dog of Odysseus. I told the story of my own Argos, weaving a little mythology into a wow-reduced life. Each, with our own dogs, trace back to these older covenants, as do the faithful with communion, the foodies with the small farm, the athletes with their games. We cannot all match the impact of Achilles, but we can recreate the homecoming with Argos. These are mythic moments we can live, and not merely in metaphor.

And given the way the dogs react upon a person's return, you'd almost think we'd been gone for 20 years like Odysseus. Maybe, with their imperfect perception, they think we have. Maybe they just want something to celebrate. Glory is not the only end worth howling about.

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Got a story of puppy mischief?

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Old Ideas, Old Singers, Old Icons: Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen

2012-04-17T11:46:00.000-04:00

(Fifteenth post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

"If I didn't exist, someone would have to have invented me." (Chronicles: Volume One)

Today we tap into a different mythical vein. A different kind of singer, a different kind of poet. A different kind of icon. I'll be using quotes from his excellent memoir, Chronicles: Volume One. These are the reflections of an older man.

Dylan on Dylan: What this teaches us about icons and art

"I had a gut feeling that I had created a new genre, a style that didn't exist as of yet and one that would be entirely my own." Many hope to inherit an existing audience; icons hope to create a new one, to tap into something people don't yet know they need.
"Spring seemed like a long time to wait, but I can be patient." Patience is not complacence. It's not an excuse to dim one's vision. It's a necessary part of realizing an iconic vision.
"it didn't make sense to me at that time because I needed to strum the guitar in order to get my ideas across." Ideas are nothing without form. Form informs ideas. Icons mold with the medium.

"Folks who are soft and helpless sometimes make the most noise." Icons know how to use silence. Their presence is a calculated presence. Their voice fills a void.
"Things grow at night. My imagination is available to me at night." Dylan knows his sources of energy. He cultivates them. He protects them. He masters them.
"I felt right at home in this mythical realm made up not with individuals so much as... vividly drawn archetypes of humanity." Icons are not only larger-than-life; they also surround themselves with the largeness of life.

"The rebel-without-a-cause thing wasn't hands-on enough -- even a lost cause, I thought, would be better than no cause." You gotta serve somebody...
"The folk music scene had been like a paradise that I had to leave, like Adam had to leave the garden. It was just too perfect." Things have to be left behind, even successes. Every step involves losses. But that's not what counts.
"Each one followed their own vision, didn't care what the pictures showed."

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And a musical break from another old guy, Leonard Cohen, who just released an album Old Ideas.

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Who's your favorite old icon?

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Nothing and Everything Less: The Muses

2012-04-16T08:36:00.000-04:00

(Fourteenth post on mythic moments for the A-Z Challenge)

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course.

Some days the mind feels like it's not quite there. Blame the muses, blame the biology, blame the neighbors, blame the sinuses, blame the politicians -- there are countless paths to this sense of nothing. Calling back the muses can seem just beyond impossible.

The muses are now stained with whimsy and mostly spoken of dismissively. Real writers don't speak of muses. Real writers speak of unit sales, award nominations and conventions, it seems.

The muses have been misunderstood. They were an aid in creation, not avoidance. The poets worked hard to evoke them. Smart people worked hard to study and honor them. Ritual and ceremony were designed around them. The Greeks expected little to come easy. Like the artist, they did not wait for apocalypse; they sought revelation.

The muses are gardens of the mind. Il faut cultiver...

We can chase down the muses' songs. They can whisper worlds in our ears. But we still have to create those worlds. Not out of nothingness, but it can feel just as daunting.

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Got a secret for getting through those nothing days? For calling back the muses, whichever form they might take for you?

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Image Credit: Gustave Moreau, Hesiod and the Muse, 1870, via Wikimedia Commons

Moments of Silence

2012-04-15T10:04:00.000-04:00

(Thirteenth post in the A to Z Challenge)

But he sensed it all in his heart, their fear, their charge, and broke the silence for them. - The Iliad.

Earlier this month, I claimed that a noble goal for all creators was to earn our keep by breaking the right silences. A pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

Silence can encourage evasion; it can also fuel creation. In the Grail legends, Perceval's silence leads to further suffering for both the Fisher King and the kingdom. Heroes cannot abide immaculate manners. No world is saved through politesse. How many have even heard of Harpocrates, the god of silence?

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To broaden the discussion, here are excerpts from a previous post praising silence:

I've praised the sounds of summer, from lightning to fireworks to parties to barking to cheering. All stake claim to our memories, enhance our memories, recall our memories. Old sounds brings new nostalgia, which takes the place of new thoughts.

There's no silence in the city. The only silence in the crowd is momentary anticipation. There's no need to take on difficult thoughts, when we can just move on to the next one.

Silence, like boredom, can be symptom of both good and bad. But a flee from silence is a flee from creativity. Silence challenges us to create better. It forces us to live with our creations, which forces us to improve our creations. Bad sentences and bad plots haunt the silence, like friendly roaches. An inconvenient sign of health.

Isolation can lead to integration. Revision requires vision, and silence develops vision.

The rest is silence. The silence is rest. But not a soothing rest. In silence we must be willing to descend. We must listen to things not yet said. And then we must say them.

**

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you...

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“Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?”
- Lawrence Durrell, Justine

“When truth is replaced by silence,the silence is a lie.”
― Yevgeny Yevtushenko

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It is a complex world when even the silence has dimensions -- when all the swords we're offered are double-edged. We can lodge complaints and count our wounds. We'll surely earn a few and inherit even more.

Or we can start swinging at dragons. We can take some silence on ourselves, so that we can take it back from those who misuse it.

**

What's your favorite kind of silence?

Come winter-time, I'll probably find a way to revisit this and incorporate "Silent Night." Fair warning.

Love Lifts the Leaden Ladder

2012-04-13T10:17:00.000-04:00

(Twelfth post in the A to Z Challenge)

Love seemed an obvious topic for L. The word is cited often. The concept is used to explain almost everything. To defend the good and the bad. The novel and the cliche. The living and the dead.

Dido died for it. Romeo died for the seeds of it. Jesus died with the promise of it.

Dante drew a lifetime of creation from the idea of it. Cervantes established the novel on the back of its folly. It graciously gives poets a second topic to dwell in beyond death.

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! - Robert Browning, "Fra Lippo Lippi"

Countless goddesses claim to embody it. Countless singers claim to capture it. Countless tramps claims to master it. But we never quite believe it's true.

love will find its way through paths where wolves would fear to prey... - Lord Byron

Love is unsuited for the aphorism, and I say this as someone who loves the aphorism above almost anything. I allow for bounties of redemption with a single sentence. Yet love demands more endurance; it negates the truism.

So I'll forgive our inadequate brevity by slightly twisting the words of Jane Austen (from Emma).

If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

A tempting trade for the writer... One wonders how much love has been sacrificed, perhaps unconsciously, on that altar.

Diego Velazquez, Venus and Cupid

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Got a favorite love quote/lyric/line?

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For more L, you can read a post from last year: Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

Keys to Success in a Kafkaesque World

2012-04-12T11:03:00.000-04:00

(Eleventh post in the A to Z Challenge)

Before we fork over our tax refunds to the next self-appointed gurus of life, media, power and the arts, I offer three parables. They are key-related.

ONE

I had locked my keys in my car and was thus in a bit of a pickle. When an older, wiser man walked by, I waved my hand in a tentative greeting. He saw it and strolled over, at a friendly pace that made it seem he might have a moment to spare.

I explained the situation and asked if I might borrow his cell phone. He nodded twice, smirked and waved me off. He then took a minute to root through his pockets before pulling out a set of keys with a Crimson Tide bottle-opener key chain. I complimented the key chain -- I thought perhaps he wanted an exchange -- but he quickly dropped the set of keys into my hands.

"Give it a go," he said.

I didn't know if there was some trick to pick the lock, but I knew I didn't have it. He pointed to the big key in the middle.

"Guaranteed to turn," he said. "I've had my Chevy for 25 years, and not once has this key failed to work."

Most advice is autobiographical or less widely applicable than we're made to believe.

TWO

A friendly professor liked to stop in a campus bar on Thursdays to get a nice stout and jot down what might someday grow into revolutionary ideas. Exiting the bar one Thursday night, he saw a drunk student stumbling around under a streetlight. The professor had just enough booze in him that he felt an unexpected jolt of camaraderie and decided to see if the kid needed help. (He had not been free of folly in his own student days.)

It turned out the kid had lost his keys. The young man gripped around the lamp post and peered into the grass. He instructed the professor to look by the bench on the other side of the post. The professor did so, even getting an unpleasant amount of dust on his shoe.

After two sets of eyes scouring the base of the post and bench had revealed nothing, the professor concluded they were approaching this the wrong way. The student just kept walking circles around the lamp post, bent over, combing his fingers through the damp grass.

"Are you sure this is where you dropped your keys?" the professor asked, knowing that a drunk man's memory needs a little coaxing.

The student scratched an unshaven chin before admitting, "No. Probably not." He shrugged like a simpleton and leaned against the post.

The professor threw up his arms. This neighborly heroism was turning out to be more taxing than expected.

"Then why are we looking here?" the professor demanded.

The student laughed at his frustration: "Because that's where the light is!"

Many plans are born of convenience. We measure what's easy to measure. We convince ourselves this is a worthwhile form of searching.

THREE

Kafka's "Before the Law," from The Trial. Translation by Ian Johnston

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in sometime later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” The gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try going inside in spite of my prohibition. But take note. I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I cannot endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this first one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud; later, as he grows old, he only mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has also come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body. The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things considerably to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know now?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is it that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.”

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You can surely trust my advice, however; according to the lamppost that is Klout, I'm influential about Branding, Pinterest, Writing and Blogging.

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“There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”
― W. Somerset Maugham

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So what's the key to your success?

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Joy

2012-04-11T09:25:00.001-04:00

(Tenth post in the A to Z Challenge)

Joy is a marvelous increasing of what exists, a pure addition out of nothingness. - Rilke

Myth often takes us into dark places. Drama demands yearning and loss. But even infernos have dynamics. Let us not forget the joy as well.

Oh gather it, Angel, that small-flowered herb of healing. Create a vase and preserve it. - Rilke

Joy does not come to us as easily as it should. A noise distracts. Responsibilities demand. Excuses comfort. This brings resiliency, perhaps, but at a cost.

We cannot command joy, but we can cultivate it. We can emphasize it. We can praise it.

Make a joyful noise... make a loud noise...

We sing to become Idols, but fame is not joy. Or sufficient. Not even for Achilles. Just as well, because fame beckons only a few. Ignored by glory, we instead turn to

light intellectual, full of love,
love of true good, full of joy,
joy that surpasses every sweetness. - Paradiso, Canto XXX

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So what brings you joy?

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Rilke reminds me of the joy of re-reading. The first time I read him, I didn't get it at all. I picked up Sonnets to Orpheus because I was interested in Orpheus and didn't find what I was expecting. His is a subtler, softer mythic mode.

I gave him another try a year later when I found a used copy of Duono Elegies for fifty cents. This time it hit me in a completely different way. Thus my policy: Give up on books that don't catch your interest, but be willing to revisit.

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Some joyful smiles from the blog mascot's chihuahua-mix cousins:

And a (repeat) joyful smile from the blog mascot:

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May your day be joyful. May we disprove that April is the cruellest month...

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Islands, Inward Journeys, Infections, I Don't Know

2012-04-10T08:47:00.000-04:00

(Ninth post in the A to Z Challenge)

"I don't know."

I utter this phrase a lot, and it gets me into trouble. I should probably know better. Socrates said, "all I know is that I know nothing." He was put to death.

No man is an island...

To say, "I don't know" is not taken as open-mindedness, but evasion, or lack of effort. Life come with so many pre-packaged answers. Pick one, please. An open mind is an open wound. Grab a bandage. Disinfect.

Everybody's shouting, which side are you on?

The journey inward demands constant tolls paid outward. Community taxes our time. Our dreams. Hopefully it repays this some day.

never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Love is never selfish, but imagination, curiosity and creativity are.

Imagination expands the choices. We once had oracles and gods to line our paths and explain our fates. Glory and death at Troy, or a long life in the sticks. Now it is 'I don't know,' followed by 'What if?,' followed by 'Let's see,' followed by 'Let's try.'

'I don't know' is the first step into something different. It may look destructive. It may be destructive. I don't know. We can't promise with certainty. To bite from the Tree of Knowledge is not to gain certainty, but to welcome in more unknowing. To be an artist is to let the snake tickle your ear.

Uncertainty is psychologically traumatizing. See poor Ophelia. See mad Hamlet. See Doctor Faustus. Will we encounter the same? I don't know. Imagination lifts our eyes over the horizon, where we hope that paradise is hiding. I think I see hints of light.

But I don't know.

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What's the one things you do know? Or one thing you don't know?

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Image credit: William Blake: The Temptation and Fall of Eve - illustration to Milton's 'Paradise Lost' (1808, pen and watercolor on paper), from Wikimedia Commons