Book Soul, Book Heart

Field notes, 08 May 2014. Alone, expectant, waiting. For what?

Where resides the heart and soul of a book? Not the story inside it, perhaps, but the thing in itself. I cannot imagine the devoted reader that I am, cozying up to an ebook or tablet. 

There is no life in the machine. 

Digital pages do not rasp under the fingers, nor does the light reflect from them with any warmth. Silicon, glass and aluminum react to the fingertips and the blood running through them. But that blood does not carry logos on its way back to the heart. Ultimately, electronic readers seem not tactile enough to satisfy me.

Wind outside. There is no music or television chatter, so the rustling of leaves I hear through the walls. My mind loses its place. The book is replaced by the voice of Marcus Aurelius, speaking softly in the temple of my head.

"Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one."

The book I set on the nightstand before it slips from my fingers. The wind stirs the trees again, sounding for all the world like a dead emperor whispering from the yard. I roll over, turn out the light, hoping to dream of that good man to be.

Magpie Tales 154: We Are Made of Books

Central Library, Manchester, U.K., by Robin Gosnall via Magpie Tales

Cleverness fled, I think, when I saw the prompt image for the week. It is not fair for others to know of a weakness of mine. A weakness not only for books, but for the structures that house them. Buildings are what I mean. Edifices. Repositories built of wood, brick and stone, concrete and steel. Not the soulless silicon hearts of server banks and tablet computers. Such barbarities are convenient, even necessary, but they do not hold my imagination or reverence.

The first thought in my head was of the "Library of Babel", the interlocking, infinite hexagonal halls described by Jorge Luis Borges in his short story of the same name. His exploration of the idea of a Library I find by turns to be fascinating and disturbing. Fascinating and disturbing also being apt descriptors for the universe, which Borges aptly equates to the library in the opening sentence of the story. I do not recall ever having been so startled by the "shock of the familiar" upon reading such a statement. The universe as library, ah, how did he know?

The second thought was of the main library in the city where I grew up. The library was downtown, a short drive for us and one we visited often until a branch opened up much closer to our house. I spent many a sojourn there as a lad, in tow to my mother, happy to browse amongst the books that fired my imagination and captivated me. Little did I know then that it was the universe itself writ small, and somewhat like that described by Senor Borges.

I drove past that old building multiple times on a recent visit to my hometown. It has been decades since I last was in it, and I am not sure that it is still a library. I think the institution moved elsewhere.The memories, however, are still there. I felt them stir in my mind and heart. I longed to go back there to sit on the floor and pull slices of the universe off the shelves, losing my self in the infinite. I know this is not possible, exactly. But like the narrator of the story, I feel I will forever wander those halls while searching for that single volume of infinite pages...which is really, quite possibly, my heart.

Not The Bed For Me

It happened again.  That thing, with the word.  You know, a word that just pops up in your head, maybe you don't know what it means, maybe you do, but the point is, it won't leave you alone until you do something with it.  My most famous example to date is lachrymose, meaning "given to tears or weeping" or "tending to cause tears".  That humdinger seized hold of my brain in the depths of an all-nighter I pulled in my college days.  It looped and looped until I had to go look it up, and say it out loud.

Well, a similar thing happened today.  This time the word was catafalque.  It means "an ornamental structure sometimes used in funerals for the lying in state of the body" or "a pall-covered coffin-shaped structure used at requiem masses celebrated after burial".

Whew.  That is a big one.  This one came to me as I was working through my lunch hour, sandwich in one hand and the other shuffling papers and pecking at the keyboard.  It had nothing to do with the tasks at hand, nor was it a descriptor for any projects I was working on.  In my career as an architect, I have never once designed a catafalque.  Probably never will.  I have no frickin' clue why I thought of the word.  I was unsure if it was even a real word, until I arrived home and looked it up.  It was then I realized I had more than likely read it somewhere, possibly years ago, and it decided to come back. Now I have to do something with it.  Write a poem or a story.

Because if I don't, it will nag me until I do.  

(sigh)

Why is my brain so weird?

Comfortable In My Obsolescence

Wandered the bookstore the other day, tracing the strands of my divergent memory, trying to find not my lost shaker of salt but the riding crops for the horses that are my thoughts.  I tell myself to stop buying books until I have read the books I bought the last time I told myself to stop buying books.

I was unsuccessful.  I ended up buying Seeds and Thoughts In Solitude, both by Thomas Merton, and a paperback copy of Meditations, written by Marcus Aurelius as translated by Martin Hammond.  I already have one version of the Marcus Aurelius work, but (flashes his geek credentials) I wanted to compare the two and see how the different translators interpreted the work.

I hear some of you saying "Gumbo needs to get a life".  A fair cop, I suppose.

I worry sometimes that I do not have a life, outside of the tesseract that is my head.  I love to read, mentally tasting words, chewing on them, delighting in the tang and savor.  I know that writing and reading are integral to the way I view myself and my station in the world.  Words and language and ideas are sinew, bone and blood...the air in my lungs, the beating of my heart.  The page and the book (especially the book) are avatars of what I want to be.

And I am so afraid they will soon be obsolete.  I had the chill settle on my heart, standing in the bookstore and reading passages from Merton and Aurelius.  Their words reached across decades and centuries to grab me by the heart and jolt my mind with electricity born of the pen across the page.  I felt the chill of obsolescence in the middle of a bookstore, because there are so many pages, so many books in me, and I have not yet begun to write.

I hope I am not too late

On Not Writing Fiction

Looking back over the last two months or so, I see that I have not been writing much fiction on this here Post-it pad of my mind.  I mused on that today during some idle moments without a firm conclusion to explain the data.

The poetry, I think, does not count.  Insofar as I have a theory of poetry, it is my belief that it in its own way is always speaking truths or seeking to illuminate truths.  Or even facts about our overlapping realities.  I agree the language can be elliptical, even solipsistic, but the goal seems to always be a 'Truth'.

Fiction, on the other hand, illuminates truths through plausible lies we as readers want to be told.  Some of the fiction I have written has been very thinly disguised examinations of real life situations or happenings.  Other examples of my fiction, well, they are just plain made up.  Pure unreality.  But prose fiction for me has often been a simple matter of exercise for the mind, the joy of running through a mental forest and up cerebral mountains for the sheer hell or joy of it.

I have to say I enjoy it all.  Yet, lately, the fiction has been scarce.  The reasons elude me.  Vague notions and suppositions seek to fill the void, but none seem satisfactory.  Some of this may stem from my recent reawakened interest in reading fiction.  You read that correctly: reading.  Amazing, innit?

Work and personal matters have me so tied up that I've struggled to keep up the blog writing, the blog reading (sorry, my lovelies; if only I had a time distortion device...) and correspondence.  This vexes me.  I have been advised by more than one source, though, that I need to make sure I set aside some personal time to engage in things that give me juice.  This, as a matter of personal preservation.  Reading is one of those things, and good fiction is the cats' PJ's as far as I am concerned.  So I've made it a point to spend at least a few minutes each night, no matter what, reading something I truly enjoy or something new, that isn't fodder for my geek-based information sensorium.  Maybe it is a reawakened desire to imbibe fiction without the worry of having to produce it.

A side effect has been, as you see, that I am writing less of it.  Which may be a good thing, maybe this is the time to recharge and revive.  After all, conventional writing wisdom says that to be a good writer, one must above all, be a good reader...

Magpie Tales 66: Bibliosopher

 Photo: Courtesy of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales

His hands trembled slightly, this old man who shuffled close to peer at the shelves laden with treasure.  He resented the small failure of nerves and muscle, these erosions of time abrading the strength he used to be.  He resented in silence.

The old man was never one to waste energy on zero sum games that failed to advance the cause of the mind.

In the middle of the row of bookcases hung an antique lamp.  A cage of copper bars riveted to a curved sheet acting as reflector, perched on the end of a burnished walnut handle.  A cord wrapped in cotton the shade of emeralds trailed away to a porcelain receptacle recessed in the saddle-colored walnut baseboard along the floor.

The old man gripped the lamp handle and flicked the switch.  Warm, golden light flared out over the spines of the books facing the man, eager faces of linen and leather adorned with tattoos of gold and silver turning to the sun.  He allowed himself a smile.  The metaphor never ceased to amuse him; he took great pleasure in imagining the library to be his personal garden, watered with attention and interest, bursting with blooms of words, glorious words written on petals of muslin and rag, linen and vellum.  He drew a deep breath inhaling the deep scent of old paper and eternal contentment.

Today, the old man was unsure of what for which he searched.  He stepped slowly, softly to were he last recalled seeing his old friend Borges.  There was a volume there, clad in black leather with the name inscribed in letters of fading silver.  His eyes were unsure, even with the light, but his hands never failed him.  His fingers came to rest, and they knew.  Gripping the spine ever so carefully, the old man pulled the book from the soft embrace of its lovers, and held it to his heart.  Today, he would know if briefly, what it meant to live forever.

On Reading Together

If ever I needed any reminder that I am a lucky man in some ways, it would be this:  I learned to read at an early age, and I still love it.

If I had not received a glowing reinforcement of that reminder, it was tonight.  Her Royal Cuteness wanted to see some funny animal videos before bedtime, so I indulged her.  When I informed her that we would have to cut it short if she wanted to read some books before lights out, I was expecting a little of the ol' "whine and jeez" party.  Much to my delight, she didn't fuss.  She said straight away that she wanted to read, and she leapt off the couch to pick out some books.

Tonight, we had time for two.  Wee Lass said I should read the first one, but that she was going to read the second one, to me.  So she did, in its entirety, with minimal input from myself.

I can unequivocally say that this was one of the greatest gifts I have received as a father.  I can't quite put into words the pride and joy I felt listening to my daughter read.  She did a great job, with some flair, and we had some giggles along the way.

Voices are powerful instruments, and I was blessed to hear a concerto of words.  This is the stuff of life.

On Saying Something Nice

We've all heard the old saying "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all".

It bummed me out to think I am dangerously close to not being able to say anything at all.  This state of affairs calls for a vacation...
(...which I can't afford...)
...or disconnection...
(...which I don't know how to do...)
...or dropping out...
(...which I am too stubborn for..)

So.  That leaves me...where?  Here, of course.  Which is where I always am.

Tonight, I read three favorite books with Wee Lass, at bedtime, handpicked by her because she knows I like these particular stories.  It's the Zen series, by Jon J. Muth.  Wonderful, wonderful books.  Thoughtful, intelligent and illustrated with some gorgeous watercolors.

The central figure in the stories, as some of you may know, is a big panda bear named Stillwater.  He is friend, teacher, sage and roshi all in one.  He makes tea, paints pictures and tells stories.  I want to Stillwater to be a friend to me, as he is to the kids who live nearby.  Mostly, I want to be Stillwater.

I have a lot to learn.

Happy Friday: The Nice Files

Let's just get it out there that this week has been a stinker.  Not catastrophic, not my-house-just-fell-into-a-volcano kind of bad, but a stinker all the same.  A big, greasy wurst of Too much to do, wrapped in a charred pastry Blanket of Angst, topped off with a nasty dollop of Too Many Bills.  Oh, and I was going to be home later than usual.  So it is safe to say that I was all prepared to get home, change into my sweatpants and hide under the pillows on my bed.

Fortunately, there was an alternative waiting for me, times two.

NICE THING #1:  The tea I ordered a week ago, shipped the cheap, slooooow way, finally arrived and was perched on my doorstep.  Hooray!  I likes me some India black tea, of the Assam lineage, and now I have fresh malty/smoky/brisky to warm me up these chilly mornings.

EVEN NICER THING #2:  Earlier this month, I commented on this post by Unmitigated, and made a remark about a book in the background of the photo.  Well, to my pleasant surprise, the lurvely and thoughtful Mary replied to my comment and offered to send me the book if I would read it.  So today, in my mailbox, was the package containing the book*.  How about THAT, dear ones?  That is all kinds of nice, and that made my day.  In New Orleans, they would call that a 'lagniappe', a little something extra, which warms the heart.  If you can, drop by her place and say hello.  Thanks, Mary!

*"The Dymaxion World of Buckminster Fuller" in case you wanted to know.  Yeah, yeah, I'm a geek. 

On Learning Something, Finally

"Poetry is as necessary to comprehension as science. It is impossible to live without reverence as it is without joy."

---from "The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod" by Henry Beston

Yet again, I come to insight as if by accident. I was lying in bed, reading and trying to uncoil, when I read the above passage. It always surprises and delights me. The Outermost House is a permanent resident in my top five or so favorite books. I first had the pleasure of reading it nearly ten years ago. First published in 1928, I had the good fortune to stumble across a second edition copy in an antique bookstore on Cape Cod. It was published in 1933 and was in very good condition.* I had been wanting it for a long time. I am glad I found it.

Henry Beston was a young man at the time, with the luxury of being able to take a year off, in essence, during which he had a small house built. It was, as the title says, on the beach on Cape Cod. Literally. I am contemplating recreating the plan of it, for myself, maybe as a small vacation cottage somewhere. The title and the thing itself appealed greatly to the architect that I am.

It was the writing that really piqued my interest. It is not the most polished style, and it flirts with being overwrought at times (hmm...sound familiar?) but it was written with enthusiasm and genuine delight in the natural world. He has a keen eye for observation. A prime example is his chapter "The Headlong Wave", in which he attempts to describe the infinite variations of waves hitting the shore. Great, great stuff, and it made me envious and wistful. The sound, the shape, the color of waves...makes me want to be there, to live that life.

Ultimately, I believe that is why I read this book at least once a year, ever since I first bought it so long ago. It speaks of slow time and understanding a place. He describes a life that I dream of having: a small, tidy place of my own, in a place where I feel connected to the earth, with the luxury of near uninterrupted contemplation and rumination.

That luxury means to me: to observe the world around me, to engage in the fullness of life, and translate that into the written word. It is in that fashion that I could truly make my own poetry. I could learn, as I have been struggling to do for so long, to live in reverence and with joy. I know this now. I will find my outermost house in which to live the measure of my days.

Tell me, dear ones, where is your outermost house?

Photo credit and a short history can be found HERE.

*It was also considerably lower in price than the first edition in the same store. At the time, I could not afford it, and it sure did make my brain hurt to pass it up. Still, the second edition I bought is marvelous. It has pride of place on my bookshelf. I dig it.

'Over Which Flies Dinner'

The problem with reading as much as I do is that I often can remember a particularly interesting author without a specific quote, or an interesting quote without the author, or an inkling of both. As a consequence I spend a lot of my chasing my tail when I want to reference said quote or author. This was the case today after my walk around the lake this morning.

Today has been cooling and cold, with gusty winds and a lot of clouds. Everything has that unique shade of silvery-gray that occurs on wintry days. The lake surface had wavelets all over it from the wind. The resident geese, along with their migratory cousins (or siblings or whatever they are), were out in force. There were quite a few bobbing around in the lake, with the occasional group coming in for a landing honking loudly all the time. Watching them swirl around in the sky and swimming in the water made me think of hunting. Hunting isn’t allowed at the lake of course, it is a public park, but still they looked like some mighty fine eating. I don’t hunt, but I know someone who does. Last year, I cadged a pair of the ducks he bagged over on the Eastern Shore of our fair state (motto: The Land of Pleasant Living) and made a mighty fine duck and ‘shroom gumbo out of them. Here’s hoping I can get some more this season!

Pondering hunting lead me to thinking about the terrain. The lake I frequent is in a suburban area, and it is developed with quite a few amenities. Picnic pavilions, playgrounds, ball fields, a boat ramp, concessions and a rent-a-boat dock, to name some. It is most definitely NOT an outlying cornfield or a lonely marsh somewhere. However, there are spots on the trail around it where it does feel far removed from the houses and strip malls and traffic. There are places where you can peer through the leaves and watch a heron stalking fish in the shallows. Or see a turtle poking its snout above the surface. Yesterday, I say two deer trotting along the tree line at the bottom of the hill at the east end of the lake. They were a doe and a buck. It was a young buck with a short pair of antlers sprouting from his head. Almost, but not quite, it can feel like being close to wilderness. So with that in mind I was watching the geese fly in overhead, wondering what it be like to hunt them (for eating, not for sport) when one of those half-remembered quotes came to mind. This is all I can recall, and it probably isn’t correct:

“Wilderness is a cold, damp place
Over which flies dinner”

George Bernard Shaw? Oscar Wilde? I think it was one of those two. But maybe not. I may have really mangled the quote. The memory of it made me laugh nonetheless, and after watching a flight of geese and a few ducks wing their way over my head and down onto the lake, I was getting hungry. Time to eat! So what did I do? The mighty hunter trekked over the cold, damp path on the hill, jumped into the car and went home. To scarf down a handful of Doritos. I’m pretty sure Doritos don’t fly, but if they did, I would be one helluva hunter.