On the Topic of Writing

My thoughts and reflections are written in blank books. I am a journalist. I have been doing this off and on for years. There are times when I have been very faithful in my writing and times when I have gone for weeks, months and sometime years without writing. Some of what I write will be as short as a sentence or two. Other times I will write for pages. Sometimes I will simply make a note about a quote I discovered or a passage from a book I am reading. It may be a list, a piece of music I want to remember or some other random note to myself. Recently I have started adding doodles and little bits of art to accompany the writing - creative journaling.

This blog, this forum, is another avenue for me to write. About mid-week I begin thinking about what I want to write about. I will turn it over in my mind and perhaps jot down a few notes. Then early Saturday morning, I’ll pour a cup of coffee and come upstairs to my office and begin cobbling together my thoughts for that week. I am not certain what you call this type of writing. I look at it purely as an online extension of my journal. Though it is personal, it is not as personal as one would think a journal or diary to normally be.

I have written other things. In my life I have written the music and lyric for a few songs. There are a few poems that I can look to and take a small amount of pride. I have composed dramatic sketches for reading or performance and once wrote the accompanying script for a church Christmas musical.

Still there is something that I wish I could do that I have trouble doing. It is a type of writing that escapes me. 

Fiction. Fiction in a long form, a short form, any form. I can not seem to manage it. This frustrates me. 

I feel that there are three things that hold me back, three for sure, maybe more. One is that I do not not know how to begin. What is the story? Who are the characters? Where is the setting? What is the conflict? Why did it occur? How is it resolved? Did the characters grow through the experience? Did they change? I feel that I have a few questions to ask but I can’t determine who or what to ask them about.

This leads to the second thing; the idea. I seem to draw a blank on ideas. That’s it. Plain and simple.

Third, it is easier to write about life. As hard as it can occasionally be to frame what I write here, it is much easier than trying to come up with a suitable piece of fiction. And for that reason it is easier to simply not make that much effort.

It would be easy if I could just leave it at that. Simply recognize that creative writing is perhaps  something I am not able to do, or not meant to do, and just move on. After all, there are already so many things in my life to occupy my time: journaling, drawing, photography. These are all things that I enjoy and I wish to become better at doing. Why take on the headache of trying to accomplish something else?

It is one word, creativity. God is creative and He created us to be creative. He gave us our five senses so that we can fully experience the creation He has placed us in. He gave us our intellect and our abilities to communicate. Some choose to communicate through the spoken word while others communicate with their pen. Their product may be prose or poetry, fiction or non-fiction, but it is their creative outlet. There are those who share their experiences through painting and sculpture. Others compose and perform music. Some make film. Some see the world through the lens of a camera. The expressions of creativity are endless; as many expressions as there are people to create them.

This is why. This is why I write in blank books and doodle. This is why I continue to try and take better photographs. And this is why I wish to write a piece of fiction. It is another avenue of expression that I wish to walk down.

Greg

Margins I

As I began this blog I wanted to limit the number of labels that I would use. I have seen other blogs that are cluttered with labels; my other blog being an example of that, and I wanted to avoid that with this blog. I have been intentional in keeping things clean and crisp. I began wanting only nine labels. So far, I have used eight of those nine labels. The ninth, writing, has yet to be used.

However, beginning today I am increasing my number of labels to an even ten. The tenth label will be Margins. Margins is short for "in the margins."

From time to time there are things I want to post here that do not require a complete piece being written. For example, I love quotes. I make lists. I collect things. These are things that I  may want to share from time to time but they don't really fit in to any of the other labels. So they appear "in the margins." Most likely, I'll post these on Wednesdays as a mid-week whatever.

With that said, let's begin.

____________________

I love this quote from Helen Keller. 

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

I began 2012 trying to break out of old habits and rekindle some of the things that I have enjoyed in the past. This, from Ms. Keller, is a sort of motto for this new endeavor.

Inspirations from Paris

Early on I wrote about seeing the Woody Allen film, Midnight In Paris. I mentioned too how love Paris and an “affinity for the artistic, bohemian lifestyle.” How did this begin? 

It has been decades since my first trip to Paris. It was during the Spring of 1975. I went as part of a leadership study group from school and it was sort of a graduation present from my parents. When the plane landed at Orly I could not see the ground until I was  half way down the stairs from the plane; it was that overcast. After getting my bags, I boarded a bus to make my way into the city and to the hotel.

The hotel was at the end of a narrow street called the Cité Bergère. It is not far from where Blvd. Montmartre meets Blvd. Poissonière and not far from the Opera National de Paris. An old sign hanging near the archway reads “Les Hotels de la Cité Bergère” but it gives me no reminder of what the name of our hotel was. There were a few hotels along the street.

What I remember about our hotel was a grand staircase leading from the lobby that was carpeted in a dingy burgundy colored carpet that smelled like old sour wine. The wallpaper was faded. It has a old lift to service the upper floors. The hallway leading to my room leaned just a bit and the floor boards creaked as I walked down the hall. I had a small room. Dark colorings and dimly lit. There was twin sized bed along one wall and wardrobe on the other. A sink was fixed in the corner. Next to it was the bidet. The toilet was down the hall. 

My window overlooked the narrow street. I kept the window opened so that I could hear the noise coming from the street. When I had a bit of time I would lean out the window to watch the activity below. It was not too busy, but busy enough to hold my interest for a while.

I was only in Paris for a short time, but it was long enough to fall in love with the city! During those two days my imagination was fueled with thoughts of what life must be like in Europe. I didn’t know much about it, just enough to be dangerous perhaps, but my curiosity for this place had taken root. It was a idealized vision of life could be. A romantic ideal of living and studying abroad; enjoying, appreciating, indulging in a centuries old country with its art and architecture, its music and history, and everything else in between. 

But for me was a ideal that would only be played out in my dreams, but never fully realized. I was never bold enough to give full rein to this ideal, this dream. Instead, the thought of what I thought this lifestyle may have been was played out in my mind through arts and literature.

Is it any wonder that Puccini’s La Bohème became my favorite opera? Many times I have listened to the story of the young bohemian lovers. My emotions are still stirred with the final cries of Rodolfo over the deceased Mimi.

I revisit my old friend Somerset Maugham, I have twice read his The Razor’s Edge. The first was when I was in a particularly difficult time of my life. Maugham’s main character, Larry Darrell, had reached a point in his life where things have lost there meaning and he sets off on an odyssey of self-discovery. A portion of his time was spent in Paris where he embraced a lifestyle that was unlike the one he came from. We find him eking out a living in a menial job, living day-to-day with the Parisian locals and  living in what some would call squaller in the most basic of living accommodations. Yet,  he seems happy and fulfilled. His life was rich with discovery. 

He left the life he’d known to discover the life he was to have. “He is without ambition and he has no desire for fame; to become anything of a public figure would be deeply distasteful to him; and so it may be that he is satisfied to lead his chosen life and be no more than just himself.” I feel that too often we are asked to be, or are expected to be, something that we are not. Larry Darrell walked away from that and became Larry Darrell. What a wonderful notion.

Maugham’s character was fictional. Ernest Hemingway was not.

Hemingway was part of group that became known as the Lost Generation. Coined by Gertrude Stein, the term referred to a generation of young people who settled in Paris following World War II. Notable to group was, in additional to Hemingway and Stein, was F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and others. In his book, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway tells some of the story of these people in this time and in this place.

It does not take much for me to imagine a similar life. Of mornings spent pouring over the paper while having a too-strong cup of coffee. Or perhaps an early evening meal at a sidewalk cafe with friends discussing a book or the latest film. Later, we’d wander the streets for hours enjoying each others company and talking about meaningless and meaningful things. In my ideal I would have a place that I would frequent and there I’d spend time writing or reading. Maybe I’d have a pen and Moleskin book to sketch in.

I once had this in London; a small place that was “my own.” I’d spend afternoons at the Angel & Crown, where I’d set at a small table in the back room. There I’d sit nursing a pint of ale and read. Sometimes I’d write in my journal. What I wrote would be special to no one, but it was important to me. And there were sometimes when I’d simply visit with friends.

This is all fanciful thinking. I know this. It is sitting here and giving flight to a life that was once dreamt of but never was. Or was it?

What we read, what we see, what we hear; they all become a part of who we are. I am still that teenager walking the streets of Paris and dreaming of what it would be like to live and be creative in such a great city. The Spring in 1975 still inspires the Spring of 2012. The young man who wanted a life in the arts, has lived to a small degree, a life in the arts. That 18 year old wants to experience a renaissance in the older man he has become. 

The older man still desires to draw, to paint, to write, to create. He still desires to explore and think about what could be. He is still on this journey and literature inspires the journey. It inspires him to become what he is meant become. It inspires him to not stand on the sidelines of life, but to seek new things, new adventures, new places. As idealistic as it may appear, as romanticized as it may be, he wishes to see the world he wants to see, and not that one that is served up to him.

Literature inspires. It can inspire dreams. And sometimes, when we’re lucky, those dreams inspire action. And on some occasions, those actions cause a change in our reality and we begin to live our dream!

Greg

____________________

Photo notes:  the photos of Cité Bergère in Paris and the Angel & Crown in London are screen captures from Google Maps. The photo of the window at night is taken in the French Pavilion in Epcot's World Showcase and was taken by the author. I do not pass this window without thinking about what life might have been like living in Paris. And I certainly hear Rodolfo crying over Mimi.

The NSO

“God is a beautiful symphony, and we are blessed to play a note in His composition.”

                                                       ~ paraphrased from an overheard conversation

I am not always successful at it, but I do make a sincere effort to not look back on my life with regrets. My faith encourages me to try and understand that the decisions and choices that I have made, be they right or wrong, are for a purpose. They are all part of the journey that I am a part of. Sadly, sometimes, my resolve is not that strong and I am reduced to confronting a few regrets. I do this, then I move on.

This month has given rise to a particular regret. I’ll write about it here, then, I’ll move on.

I regret that I waited so long to regularly attend the Nashville Symphony Orchestra! 

Nashville is a mecca for music; all types of music. In our performance halls, bars, honky-tonks, arenas and even our street corners, you’ll hear some of the best music in the world played by some of the best musicians in the world. And in the heart of city stands the Schermerhorn Symphony Center, home of our Grammy award winning symphony.

I knew they were there. 

Through my years of living in Nashville I would occasionally attend a concert in the park or at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. In fact, Gerrie and I were there to hear the last note of the last piece the symphony played at the Center prior to moving to their new home. I enjoyed these times and would say, “we need to do this more often.” But then, life would go on as usual and the thought would soon pass away.

This began to change on Friday, January 8, 2010. We attended our first concert in the new Center. That evening we were thrilled by violinist Hilary Hahn’s performance of Jennifer Higdon’s Violin Concerto. But the highlight was the Saint-Saens Symphony No. 3 in C minor, Op. 78 “The Organ Symphony.” This is perhaps among my favorite orchestral pieces. As the final movement progressed, I teared up. The music soared and it took my spirit with it.

But as before, when the music ended, we collected our programs, stepped into the cold night air and resumed our life. A year passed, but the gears were turning a little quicker now.

My wife’s favorite classical piece is the Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47 by Jean Sibelius.  I learned that Stefan Jackiw was to perform the concerto with the NSO as part of their 2010-2011 season. On another January night we found ourselves at the Schermerhorn and this time it was Gerrie’s turn to soar.

Once the piece ended and the ovations were finished, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You know, if you were to give up your Titan’s season tickets, we could be doing this more often.”

Being quick in my response, I said, “Honey, you know, I have already been thinking about that.” And I had.

Fast forward to now.

We have just finished our first season as subscribers and have purchased our season subscription for 2012-2013. This month alone I have enjoyed the brilliance of our hometown symphony on four occasions including one magnificent performance at Carnegie Hall in New York. We’ll also be in attendance on Friday evening for the season finale of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. Each time I leave the hall I think, how glad I am to have finally made the decision to attend the symphony regularly. It has been one of the best decisions I've made in the last few years.

____________________

Our world moves too fast. Times that once seemed simple are now so complex. Each day is met with good and bad; positive and negative. It can be chaos. We are in a hurry for something. But as I’ve grown older I sense that God desires us to find the beauty in each day. What is beautiful to me may not be to someone else. This is alright. The point is that we each find what is beautiful to us about each day. It becomes our personal beauty. And we celebrate it!

The evenings that I spend listening to the Nashville Symphony is my beauty for that day. I celebrate as I walk up the front steps into the Symphony Center. I know that I am about to be inspired and transported. I am about to be given wings that will enable me to transcend whatever the day wrought on me. I know I will not be disappointed.

Regrets, I’ve had a few. One is that it took me so long to appreciate this precious gift of music. Now having gained that appreciation, I no longer need to look back, but ahead to hours of enjoyment. My years ahead will be filled with great music.

Greg

In One Month

It has been just over a month since Gerrie and I boarded a plane for Los Angeles. Now that we’re home and looking ahead to the long hot summer there will be many times when we’ll think back on this month. We’ll think about the visits and time spent with family and friends. We’ll think about the cities we visited and the landscapes and cityscapes we were a part of.

In one month we visited Los Angeles, Chicago and New York. We stood on the steps of the Art Institute of Chicago looking across Michigan Avenue and saw where Historic Route 66 begins. And we were on Santa Monica Pier where it ends. Twice, our train ran just beside the route.

We had some very memorable meals with wonderful food. Then, we had some meals  that were memorable solely because of where we ate, though the food was only so-so. Sometimes, after all, it is about the atmosphere.

We walked through canyons of steel and concrete and paused where towers once stood and remembered that tragic day. Yet, in our reflective moments we celebrated the American spirit as we saw men constructing the next World Trade Center. In these canyons we found quiet respites. Places like St. Paul’s and Trinity Wall Street. The Gothic Revival church is a peaceful haven away from the busyness of the streets. The churchyard is the resting place for many a distinguished people. Among them are Alexander Hamilton and Francis Lewis, a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Our eyes enjoyed the natural beauty of magnificent blue skies, sweeping coastlines and calming sunsets. We were mesmerized by the vastness of the Southwest and the  sweeping plains of the Midwest. We delighted in the beauty of the flowers in the mission of San Juan Capistrano. 

The hours spent at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Museum of Modern Art were inspirational. We soaked in the works of Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Seurat, Dali, Cezanne, Gauguin, Degas, Renoir, Rousseau and Toulouse-Lautrec. Then there is Warhol, Ernst, Lichtenstein, Wyeth, Hopper and Pollock. It was a visual feast!

We laughed until our sides hurt, enjoying “Peter and the Star Catcher” on Broadway. The next evening we learned exactly why Carnegie Hall is considered one of the best performance spaces in the world. The music of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra soared in this historic place!

Washington Square Park treated us to an eclectic mix of music and styles. Central Park showed us what a park should be with its mix of activities; people running, people biking, people strolling, people lounging on the grass, people doing jazzercise somewhere in the distance and people sitting on benches simply enjoying the day. The  visit to Strawberry Fields gave us a few moments to be still, to reflect, and to listen as a lone guitarist provided a soundtrack of Lennon and McCartney for those moments. 

In one month we experienced so much! We have added more memories to an already marvelous lifetime of memories and experiences.

In our lifetime together we have visited London, Paris and Rome; living for awhile north of London. I wonder why I waited this long to visit Chicago and New York. It is a regret. There is so much richness these cities. There is so much to be explored, to be experienced, to see, to do. 

Years ago, as an aspiring young actor in community theater, I’d lay awake at night and wonder about moving to a big city like New York. I would ask myself if I had the level of talent and skill necessary to become a professional actor. In time I decided I did not. It was the right choice. On occasion I wonder what would have happened if I had tried.  

But now, in my mind games of “what if”, London or Paris top my list of “where I’d like to live” cities. I do not feel, at this point in life, that I could live in either Chicago or New York. But I do know that I wish to arrange my life so that I’ll visit these cities at least once a year. In my mind I have already began to map out plans for 3- and 4-day visits. This  one month provided a glimpse of what lies ahead for future visits. We’ve only scratched the surface of new experiences and new memories.  

Onward.

Greg

Postscript:  While viewing some of the work that passes for modern art these days, I think to myself, “I can do that.” I believe it is time to clean out and convert the garage.

People on the Train: Part II

The Union Station in Los Angeles opened in May of 1939. It combines Dutch Colonial Revival, Mission Revival and Streamline Moderne styles of architecture. Though it is smaller that other Union Stations around the country, it is considered the “Last of the Great Railway Stations.” Because of its proximity to Hollywood, it has been used as a backdrop for a number of films and television shows. It is on this canvas that we first  observe an extremely unique person.

Gerrie and I had been sitting in two old chairs in the larger terminal hall for the better part of an hour. As the time to board our train approached, we gathered our luggage and moved closer to the hallway leading to the platforms. A few chairs were available so we took a seat to wait. 

     “We saw a very colorful fellow yesterday while waiting at the Los Angeles Union Station. He was dressed in simple shoes and very colorful socks; brightly colored flowers against a black background. He wore a rust colored trouser with the legs neatly rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt was a tight fitting black and white stripe. Though he wore a belt, he had thin black suspenders attached to the belt.

     “On on belt loop he had attached a wooden slingshot and on another was a change purse. On his head he wore a gray fedora with a red carnation. And from his ears dangled long feathered earrings; a black feather on one ear and a while one on the other.

     “He was dark complected - Italian perhaps - with black hair and a well-kept black beard. His mustache curled up at the ends.

     “He used his hands, whether he was counting out a few dollar bills or arranging his luggage, like he was a magician performing a slight-of-hand trick.

     “We have seen him twice on the train now; once in the dining care last night and again this morning in the lounge car. He is very outgoing and quite the conversationalist; eager to strike up a discussion with someone, anyone.

     “His name is Mo.

     “Mo and I talked a little this morning about art. He sketches from time to time and went back to his coach seat to bring me some of his work. It is interesting.

     “Mo lives in Albuquerque and he is going to the zoo there this afternoon to draw animals.

     “Mo added a clip on bow tie to his shirt today; a bow tie, a few buttons, and a small safety pin.

     “Mo is a gypsy!

     “If he isn’t, he should be.”

This was from my journal; an entry dated 04.24.12 @ 10:10 a.m. (MT).

I wish I had asked Mo if I could take his photograph. It is isn’t often that I run across a person who obviously has such a carefree zest for life. I would like to have had more of a remembrance of him.

Mo set across from us during dinner that first night on the train. He loved his wine and he loved the conversation. Whichever direction the talk took, he was quick on the trail. He was always so courteous in manners and in how each addressed each person at his table or serving his table. This is true of all his conversations I would imagine.

We saw one last time later that day. It was on the platform in Albuquerque. We were visiting with Gerrie’s sister and brother-in-law who had come out of meet us. Coming across the tracks was Mo. He was dressed as had been since the day before; coach doesn’t allow many changes in clothing I suppose. He had a bag thrown across his shoulder. With one hand he was pulling a suitcase with a Navajo pattern blanket tied to the handle with a length in cord. In his other hand he carried a shopping bag that held two pictures he bought from a street vendor in Los Angeles and a bright blue ukulele adorned with flowers. 

While on the train Mo gave me a postcard of the Union Station. On the back it had his name and address. It is on my desk now, along with a few other postcards, bookmarks, brochures and pamphlets from the journey. I think I’ll write him someday.

Back on the platform, I said farewell to Mo. I returned to visiting with my family. He was heading to the zoo to draw animals.

People on the Train: Part I

Train travel is about people.

There is something “old world” about train travel. It may not be the world portrayed aboard The Orient Express; Hercule Poirot is not sipping his creme de menthe at the next table. Still, there is a certain romanticism about being on a train. 

Train travel takes time. It takes a willingness to have conversations with total strangers during the course of a meal. It is learning that one couple splits their year between the southwest and the midwest so they can spend time with their grandchildren, or that a businessman takes the train to escape the boredom of airplanes. It is sharing a lunch with lady and her husband who are traveling to Washington so that she can receive a literary award for her first classic mystery novel. It is spending time listening to your steward share his dreams of someday becoming a singer. It is civilized. It is choosing to invest your time in a people.

Train travel is passing time. When you’re not sharing a meal having something to do is important. Having a book to read or write in, pens and a pad to draw in, or music to listen to will help to pass the time. Taking a nap or gazing out the window is a suitable pasttime. The world looks different at a few feet versus 30,000 feet.

Train travel requires courteousness. It means patiently waiting your turn to walk down a narrow corridor to the next car. It means watching the passing countryside as you walk slowly to dinner, behind a lady with a walker. It is standing aside while a man with oxygen makes a labored ascent up the stairs. It is returning the many smiles you receive as you make your back to your room. 

Train travel means having choices from a menu during breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Train travel means not being in a hurry. It is taking more than a few hours of your life to relish the scenes through the window. It is enjoying your own thoughts as you move across the country, all the while, looking forward to the next person you meet and the story they have to share. While most flights are to be endured, train travel is to be savored. It is like a fine dining experience. It takes time as you move through the courses; each one adding to the splendor of the meal. When it is finished, you reflect on the experience with great satisfaction.

I fear that long-distance train travel is becoming a thing of the past in our country. This saddens me. It is a simpler and more elegant way to move from place to place. It is slower and more thoughtful. While it still lasts we will travel by train when we can. From our room we’ll marvel at the beauty of the countryside and when it’s time, we’ll have great conversations over a reasonable meal.

Greg

Postscript:  Gerrie and I will be traveling to New York next weekend. We will visit with Peter and the Starcatcher on Broadway, look at a few of Monet’s Water Lilies and listen to the Nashville Symphony Orchestra perform Charles Ives The Universe Symphony at Carnegie Hall. However, please visit Sharing the Good Times next Sunday. I’ll continue People on the Train by introducing you to someone.