My collection of empty wine bottles is screaming to know their fate—a bottle tree or a whimsical room divider or what have you—but I allow the bottles to sit, abandoned, in the workroom. It’s simply for want of the right tools, the right ideas, the inclination, and energy to begin. And, then, the discipline and stamina to finish.
That’s what’s keeping those wine bottles in a constant state of angst.
This morning, I read a report on technology device ownership in 2015; it is published by the Pew Research Center and based on the Center’s research. If their data on changes in device ownership can be relied upon as forecast tool, smart phones will largely overtake e-book readers in the near term.
In early 2014, the percentage of U.S. adults who owned e-book readers was about 32%. The research just reported shows a sharp decline to just 19%. At the same time, smart phone ownership has climbed from 35% in 2011 to 68% today, with 89% of 18 to 29 year olds owning the devices today.
I am, at times, a research junkie; I look at such data and attempt to forecast the future. Yet my attempts to use data to make predictions inevitably leads to looking for more information. So it is this morning. After reading the study I mentioned above, I sought information on trends in the format of book consumption. While e-readers seem to be losing their prominence to smart phones among those who consume books electronically, print remains the primary format for books; at least it held primacy in 2013, according to the Pew Research Centers report on the subject, released in 2014. According to Pew, 76% of Americans read at least one book during 2013; out of that group, 69% read a print version, while 28% read an e-book.
If I look strictly at data, I might assume the future of print books is bleak, but that future will play out more slowly than others have suggested. The changes from print to electronic books are taking place, but they are not taking place at the blazing speed I once imagined. Yet the figures for older people skew figures for the whole population. The younger readers, ages 18 to 49, were much more likely to have read an e-book in 2013 than younger readers; between 32% and 37%, versus 28% for the population at large.
I was a bit surprised that youngest readers (ages 18-29) were a little more likely to have read at least one book during the year than were the next most voracious reading group, those aged 50 to 64, 77% of whom read at least one book.
The bottom line? Hell, I don’t know! The data can be interpreted almost any way I might want; but the truths buried in them are hard to uncover. My sense is that readership, in general, is falling and will continue to fall in the U.S.A. Of those who read, most will continue to prefer print books for a while, but the convenience of, and improvements in, technology, probably will make e-books more and more attractive to larger and larger numbers of readers. The shift to print-on-demand, which has already taken place, will continue to reduce high-volume print runs of all but the most popular best-sellers. Authors will increasingly rely on royalties from electronic versions of their works, versus royalties from print sales. I expect electronic versions of books to increase in price, though not substantially; the reason is this: the almost infinitesimal royalties from e-book sales cannot sustain a writer, even a popular writer (unless I misunderstand electronic royalties, which is entirely possible).
It’s all speculation. That’s all it is. I’m a speculator. At least it causes me to think.
There’s a chill in the quiet early morning air; the trees warm themselves under a patchwork quilt of their few remaining leaves. Later, when the sun rises and brings a light breeze, I imagine the rustling of leaves and branches is the trees shivering, the way I do when I cast off the comforter and feel the goose-flesh on my skin.
When do we know it’s time to move on, time to shed our attachment to an idea that, though magnetic and alluring, isn’t realistic or achievable? If the idea were a relationship, it might make sense to follow the wisdom that “when it hurts less to leave than it hurts to stay, it’s time to move on.” But if the idea is not a relationship—if it’s a longing for something that never grew beyond desire—those words of wisdom are not applicable…or are they? Some people might carry the concept over to their yearnings. They might say, “if the pain of hoping for something that has no chance of happening is greater than the anguish of recognizing its impossibility, it’s time to move on.”
But that really doesn’t make sense, does it? The time to move on is not at the point at which there is imbalance in the pain; it’s at the point at which one recognizes the unalterable truth that a dream or desire is unattainable. Allowing oneself to wish for the impossible is tantamount to giving oneself permission to be willfully insane. And that, I think, is self-inflicted pain. I’ll have none of it. Time to move on.
My penmanship is not up to the task of handwritten letters; I’ve long since lost the ability—if I ever had it—to write notes pleasing to the eye. But I continue to hone my capacity to express my thoughts through my fingers. A note or letter I type carries with it thoughts equal to any I would place on a page with a pencil.
Leaves on the massive oak tree outside my window labored to stay horizontal on their stems, struggling to shed heavy beads of dew. The fog, not opaque but nearly so, distorted my view of the trunks of trees, even those nearest me, behind branches that reached almost to my window. The sun had risen over an hour earlier, but it remained hidden behind the thick, wet, grey blanket that blocked my view of the road. Dim, filtered light made its way through the haze, casting a pall over the tiny part of the earth I could see.
When the fog gets that thick, the scent of seaweed and salt and fish fills the air. It’s the same aroma I smelled the first day after I moved to Christian Bay, twenty years earlier. That seaport perfume had carried me back to my first days on the water when I heard the muffled “crack!” of a rifle shot. My nearest neighbor, Sharon Clutcher, often shot at critters infringing on what she felt was her personal space, so I wasn’t particularly surprised by the sound, but it did seem a bit odd, shooting at something in this pea soup.
Sound plays funny tricks on you in heavy fog. The foghorn of a ship docked at the port right in front of you can sound like it’s a mile away, but a car backfiring on the highway bypass ten blocks away can seem like it’s just behind your ear. So I wasn’t sure the gunshot was Sharon, but I assumed it was, until I saw a man stumble up the walk to the front door of my house, right below me.
“Help, I’ve been shot!” I could barely make out the words, though I could see that his left shoulder was awash in blood.
I ran down the stairs and flung open the front door as the guy collapsed into a heap ten steps away. I ran to him but, just as I reached him, I heard another report from a rifle and saw the man’s body jerk as a bullet ripped into his mid-section. At the same instant, I heard a voice to my right, very close by. “Don’t you even try to help that sorry son-of-a-bitch, mister!”
My heart raced as I wheeled around toward the voice, just as the face of the man it belonged to appeared inches from my own. He smelled of stale beer and day old sweat. His salt and pepper hair, wet and uncombed, clung to his forehead, which dripped with beads of sweat. He was unshaven, inconsistent clots of whiskers dotting his round face, and his eyes were large and dark and bloodshot. He held a gun in his left hand, his right hand clutching the stock, his right finger inside the guard, resting on the trigger.
Sharpen your fingers and carve an arc of your initials in the sky.
Take it all seriously. Every smile, every frown, every eyebrow raised in surprise at your audacity. But don’t take it personally. And don’t let it ruin an otherwise remarkable lifetime.
Watching the world drift by from a comfortable place on the periphery seems to me a waste of opportunity. It’s not as dangerous as engaging in action, but neither is it as fulfilling. Opportunities to fail aren’t available to everyone; we need to take seriously those offered.
Dreams sometimes tease me with possibilities that do not exist. They must be thrust beneath the pillow and starved of the oxygen necessary to survive.
It won’t be long before I depart Hot Springs Village with three friends and colleagues for a three-day experiment in productivity. We’re driving to Eureka Springs to spend three days and nights at The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow in an attempt to set fire to our creativity and productivity as writers. Each of us will have a private room and writing space. We will gather for meals and, perhaps, for evening libations, to discuss our work and our progress. And, I hope, we will talk about our successes and our failures and what triggers each. Above all, I hope we share what motivates us to write; whether it’s pain or desire or regret, I want to know what spurs my fellow writers to write. I think I’m about ready to reveal more of me in my writing than I’ve ever done before. It’s probably nothing of much import to most; I won’t reveal anything truly earth-shattering; I’m not gay, I’m not a transvestite, I don’t practice cannibalism, I’m not a pedophile, I’m not addicted to crack cocaine, etc., etc. My truths probably are evident in my writing; just not to anyone else but me. Hah!
My wife will have a breather from me in general while I’m away. My sister-in-law will have a breather from my silliness and from the wound-up-guy who tries to fake mellowness while I’m away. Other people, the few with whom I regularly interact, won’t notice.
The great American novel is not just a few days away, but a better version of what I’ve been writing is…I hope.
The reality that some dreams and desires are unattainable is among the hardest to face. Whether we view our response to that pain as an adjustment or a defeat says more than words ever could about our wisdom and our bravery.
Six of my oldest sister’s birthdays have passed without her here to celebrate them. Today is number six without her. The first one without her was about eight months after her death. I guess that was the hardest, but each November 2 presents its challenges. When confronted with grief, we go on; the options are few and unthinkable.
The wise ones among us temper certainty with doubt, anger with compassion, and confidence with humility.
I sometimes think the visual arts can say far more than words can hope to express. Painting and sculpture and photography, when executed with creativity and skill, offer insights into ideas and emotions that, if explained with words, seem dull and lifeless.
Last night was a joy.
Friends from Dallas arrived and we enjoyed good food, marvelous libations, great conversation, and camaraderie. My sister-in-law was thrilled, as was I, that our friends’ arrival meant the delivery of three cases of wine not available in Arkansas.
There was talk of going in to Hot Springs today to partake of Superior Brewery’s newest offerings of beers and stouts and ales.
The most alarming conversation was the one involving partaking of the thermal baths. In spite of my bravado, I am moderately uncomfortable shedding my clothes in public places. Would that it were not so. I am a proponent, intellectually, of widespread nudity as a means to change society’s fear of the human form; my emotional capacity to carry out that theoretical advancement probably falls far short, though.
But, we’re not talking about actually wandering about nude; we’re talking about shedding our garments so that attendants can scrub our bodies and allow the hot water to sooth our souls and make our bodies weak with happiness.
We shall see how this wet, sloppy day plays out. The rain is falling, hard, and the fog between the raindrops is thick as pea soup. I have yet to see any signs of the sun. God, I do hope nothing happened to it overnight!
The title of this post is just a tad reminiscent of the title of the book a member of my writers’ club is having published soon; Beer, Bait & Ammo. But reminiscent does not mean identical.
Now is as good a time as any to be happy, better than most. Many things are going my way. Some are not. There’s enough uncertainty to add dimension and depth to the value of goodness when it comes.
I’ve been up for two hours, long enough to develop a hunger for breakfast and to fuel renewed daydreams about creating a Third Place. But I’m not having breakfast yet; that will wait for a couple more hours until my wife arises from her slumber. In the interim, I’ll focus my attention on the Third Place. If you’re not familiar with the Oldenburg concept and my fantasy, here are some links to relevant posts I wrote:
Despite having not written about the concept much since 2013, it has been continuously on my mind ever since. Since moving to Hot Springs Village, the idea of creating such a place in or near the village has been on my mind. I envision a place where people can gather for casual breakfasts, perhaps incorporating my desires for a “breakfasts around the world” concept—breakfasts from different countries on a rotating basis. The same place would transform into a pub late in the day and into the evening, where Arkansas craft beers and locally sourced pub food would be served. Writers and musicians would share the open mic in the evenings, while people enjoy the beer (and wine and coffee and so on). During the day and into the evening, adjacent studio space would be available for groups of artists and musicians. There would be a large pottery/sculpture studio, as well, complete with kilns and throwing wheels. And there would be space and equipment available for metal artists; welding gear, plasma cutters, and the like. The place would not be limited to artists and musicians; people who simply want to come watch and listen would be welcomed and there would be comfortable seating for them.
All I need is money and space and enough people who support the concept to join me to make it happen. I recognize, of course, that others may not share this personal dream of mine. I’m not much good at generating enthusiasm for my Third Place ideas; maybe it’s because they’re too grandiose or maybe it’s because my ideas of the desirable elements of the ideas are unique to me. Or, maybe, I just haven’t seriously tried. And that may be because I think the money and support required to bring them to fruition are just unattainable. None of that stops me from dreaming, though. And so, here I sit, just shy of 6:00 a.m., dreaming with my eyes wide open.
If a professional editor had proofed the English language before it was ‘published,’ we would not have homophones. The words ‘flour’ and ‘flower’ would have been caught and corrected with, perhaps, ‘flour’ and ‘prungle’ or ‘bludge’ and ‘flower.’
Sometimes it’s important to capture the moment because the moment represents one’s life the way it ought to be; not just on occasion, but always. Therefore, I’m capturing the moment.
I made dinner tonight, which included grilling some vegetables (squash, onions, and jalapeños, if you must know) and warming some meat I’d cooked earlier. As I was getting ready to serve, I walked outside to the grill and succumbed to the spell cast by the sky. The only appropriate place to eat dinner tonight, I said to myself, was right there, outside, on the deck. I plated the meals, then called to my wife to come out. “Would you like to eat on the deck?” I asked. She agreed. And we did.
As we finished our meals, I noticed the first bright star appear just as darkness fell. That, my friends, is a moment. That represents the way life ought to be lived.
On December 5, six weeks will have passed since I had my left ear pierced. After that date, according to the piercing-person, it will be safe for me to remove the surgical steel stud she placed in my ear and replace it with something else: I’m thinking of another stud, perhaps, or a small hoop. Whatever I decide, I’m confident the replacement will be low-key; something subtle. My wife pointed out last night that a ‘small’ hoop may be impossible, inasmuch as the hole is a bit high on my ear; if I want a hoop, I may have to sacrifice my interest in the unostentatious.
The idea of seeking out a piece of jewelry that won’t draw attention seems a little odd. Jewelry is, after all, an attention-grabber. Didn’t I get my ear pierced to draw attention to myself? No. That wasn’t it; at least I don’t think that was it. The thing is, I can’t adequately articulate my reason without writing an essay on self-image, something I’m not prepared to do at the moment. Suffice it to say my rationale for adding a piece of jewelry to my ear has more to do with how I see myself than how others see me. Yet I know that’s not entirely true. Somewhere in the recesses of my psyche I am making a statement to the world with my display of ear-jewelry: “Look at me (but not too closely), I am not the conservative stick-in-the-mud you might otherwise assume me to be.” Maybe that’s what I’m saying. Or maybe that statement is directed inward.
Perhaps I associate jewelry with creativity; perhaps I look at jewelry as an expression of the creative nature of the wearer. The only jewelry I have ever worn has been my wedding ring, except for my wrist watch (which I don’t necessarily consider jewelry).
This morning, I am trying to name other males I know who wear ear jewelry; only one name comes to mind and I know him only in passing. I’d like to ask other guys why they chose to have their ears pierced; maybe their answers, if they were willing to respond, would be me clues to my rationale. Yet, the more I contemplate this matter, I come to the conclusion that my reasons don’t really matter much; I wanted to do it and finally, with some encouragement, I got it done. I’m glad I did. So that’s it. But still, I wish I could properly understand and articulate the reasons.
Our emotional edges sometimes are not as smooth as we’d like. Meditation is better sandpaper than medication to solve that dilemma. Would that emotions were easier to control; some days, they’re like chaos on steroids.
Last night, I listened to music on my computer, via Spotify. Among other pieces, I listened to Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. The piece I played was an instrumental, performed by Leo Kottke on 12-string guitar. No matter who played it, whether it was performed by a kangaroo on an oboe, it would have brought tears to my eyes. And it did. I was home alone, listening to music to try to clear my mind and take me to a mood suitable for writing.
The tears. Not because of its religious nature; most certainly not because of that. Why, then? I don’t know. Some music strikes a chord (pardon the pun) and causes me to emote. It’s embarrassing. I can be in a grocery store and the right music can trigger a deluge.
And, then, I listened to Kottke with Mike Gordon. Mike Gordon of the rock group Phish. I liked Phish. But I like Kottke better. But I loathe the two of them for messing with my emotions. They are among many, though. Many musicians, writers and performers, enjoy ripping my soul to shreds with their lyrics, in combination with their tunes. Bastards.
That’s what poets and writers are supposed to do. That’s their job. I am involved in OJT; on the job training.
By the way, can love extend beyond the safe, traditional boundaries to the edges where it does not belong? But who’s to say it doesn’t belong there? Not I. I belong to my cohort. We all do.
Some nights, and last night was one, I want to dance. I want to break out of my shell and dance. Not in the spotlight; just alone. Or with someone who can dance without judging my dancing; someone who won’t laugh at an inept amateur. Music can unleash things in me that rarely see the light of day. They’re always there, but they hide, because they’re afraid to come out in the daylight and be seen.
If I had my life to live over again, I’d do it differently. I would have gone with my friend, Paul Williams, on the walk across India after college. But none of us can live our lives over. So, I will adjust and compensate for mistakes. That’s what we do most of our lives, isn’t it? Adjust for mistakes and compensate. If we allow ourselves to be happy in the process, it’s not hard to deal with; but if we refuse to adjust our definitions of happiness to mirror our circumstances, we are destined to be depressed and unhappy. How does one readjust for years of mistakes?
My answer involves forgetting the mistakes and trying to take risks that seem too hard to take. And an occasional vodka rocks or gin martini. It helps immensely to know, from time to time, there’s someone out there cheering me on.
‘Sky’ is an interesting word. I’ve always considered the sky to have no limits, but perhaps the word refers just to the visible atmosphere. Yet, if the word is about the visible atmosphere, we would not talk of the night sky. Are people who circle the earth in the International Space Station in the sky, or is their orbit beyond the limits of the sky? I suppose I should be comfortable with the ambiguity of my understanding.
The discovery of Harper Lee’s heretofore unknown book, Go Set a Watchman, thrilled an audience starved for Lee’s magical ability to embrace the heart and soul of her readers. And then, What Pet Should I Get? was published, giving us yet another Dr. Seuss book, with the promise of at least two more of his unpublished manuscripts set to find their place on Amazon and in bookstores in the not-too-distant future. And J.R.R. Tolkien’s previously unpublished work, The Story of Kullervo, will be out next April.
The discovery and publication of these previously unknown and unpublished works have shaken the publishing world.
I suspect we’ll have several new Shakespeare plays coming out shortly.
