Musings

The aforementioned Lazlo Kominksi recently awoke from a dream in which an attractive woman watched over his shoulder as he penned words of great wisdom and humor. (There are, of course, other details to the dream, details I am not at liberty to disclose since they are proprietary to Lazlo himself, and which will undoubtedly appear in one of his stories at some future date.) My initial reaction was that the woman was Kominski's Muse, something that Lazlo had considered before I did.

How lucky, I thought, for a writer to have such a Muse! (And if you were party to the details I have omitted, you too would think the same thing.)

How unlucky, however, are we writers whose Muse has been on sabbatical for quite some time. There was a time many years ago when I needed no guidance, no inspiration; words dropped from my fingertips nearly unabated. I would hear snippets of conversation and in an instant develop an idea for a poem. Or, words, such as "Almost Human," would join in my thoughts and become the genesis of a story.

Then, something happened. Or, maybe somethings. I got older, certainly; I'm sure that didn't help. My wife and I had more children, so I spent less time thinking about writing and more time changing diapers and tending to midnight feedings. I also stopped reading as much as I always had, so I became detached from language and the thoughts of other, better writers. I also left a wonderful job in San Francisco for a job in California's Central Valley, leaving behind lunchtime walks that took me into the city's energy and commotion. And, adding to the list, I no longer was closely associated with other writers, so I had no one to share ideas with.

Yes, Yes, I know--many writers are quite successful writing from rural Nebraska. And I certainly blame nobody but myself for my lack of literary production. For example, as I type this, I am watching the Colorado Rockies losing to the Boston Red Sox in game 3 of the World Series. I should be concentrating fully on these words, for invariably I will re-read this post tomorrow and find typos, illogic, and plain bad writing.

I should also be searching for ways to entice my Muse (male, female, unattractive or not) with promises of.... what? roses, candy, and wine? a foot-massage? No, those will not work. Perhaps what is needed is a promise of dedication--to the ideas that are out there, to the conversations waiting to be heard.

Wow! Some Flutter!

Yes, yes, I know: neither "wow" nor "flutter" apply to either a stereo receiver or a CD changer. But, I defend myself with poetic license.

If only briefly the other day, my SX-950 lived. I powered it up on a whim, and it surprised me (and my HPM-100s) with life--first the voices from NPR, then with commercials from the local "vintage rock" radio station (which, of course, plays more commercials than vintage rock). Soon, however, guitars and voices from the Grateful Dead's "Hundred Year Hall" filled the room, and I realized again what I have missed these last few years will listening to music in my car or through my Koss headphones. As the writer Lazlo Kominski remarked when I announced this glorious event, "Always test the life of your stereo with the Dead!"

I do not know, of course, if the SX-950 will be alive when I again coo and whisper to it. And, because my house is small and my family's ears insulted by my lingering affection for music that literally moves me, I must wait for 2 more days to find out.

The Nest and the Nestegg

Egangirl has been writing about the emptying of her nest. And while I can't assume to know how genuinely autobiographic her posts are, I nevertheless identify with some of her thoughts and ideas.

My own nest has been full for a long time: 3 of my sons are out on their own, leaving just the youngest to prowl through the house long after I've gone to bed. Years ago the house was full of commotion as the 6 of us battled for our turn in the shower, for the last cookie, for rights to the remote control. Now, with virtually no commotion, my son pretty much has claiming rights to nearly everything (especially the remote control).

You would think that having fewer mouths to feed would mean that I've got more money. We used to go through at least a gallon of milk every day. Now, a gallon lasts several days--but I've got no more money than I ever did. You'd think that little things--less milk, less hot water, fewer lunches--would result in my pockets being filled with cash. Not so. You'd think that my pitiful 401k plan at work would be overwhelmed by my increased contributions. Not so there, either.

How to Lose Without Even Trying

I would like to believe that the Cubs tried--I really would. I would also like to believe that these professional athletes are among the best baseball players in the world. Collectively, however, they seem to have forgotten that winning baseball games requires good hitting, good pitching, and good thinking.

My grandmother and I both will have to wait yet another year.

Random Thoughts of Staggering Ignorance

Because something must be written, I will write something....

• I am happy the Chicago Cubs have a (slim) chance to make this year's World Series. I watched them lose last night. I have watched them lose since I was a kid. As is true for pain and pleasure, the line between acceptance and hope is thin.

• My grandmother is 94, and she has been cheering for the Cubs for a long time. She remains hopeful. She was born on Easter Sunday, but her birthday has not fallen on Easter since.

• I am glad the Mets will not play more baseball this year. Refer to The Year in Sports for 1969 for further discussion.

• The book I am half-way finished with is titled Spook Country by William Gibson. Gibson works hard to come across as, I don't know--technology hip? But the plot is, for me, difficult to follow. Not difficult like Faulkner--so perhaps it's just dull.
  

• Next on the list is Moby-Dick, a book I read a long time ago and that recently begged to be removed from its shelf in City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco.
  

• During a visit to the east coast in 2005, my wife and I caught a ferry from New Bedford, Massachusetts, to Martha's Vineyard. As we were waiting for the boat, I spoke with a man working the docks, and he gave me a brief history of the area and Melville's travels in the region.
  

• Beneath Moby-Dick on my nightstand is Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, which I've never read. Dickens may have been paid by the word, but he always seemed to use just the right words.
  

• I visited the Charles Dickens Museum in London in March. I got to see Dickens' snuff box, walking stick, and cribbage board. On one wall was a picture of Sydney, one of Dickens' sons, with this caption: "Sydney joined the Navy as a cadet, got into debt, and died young."