The View From This Knothole

The Red Bicycle

2010-04-11T12:11:00.001-07:00

From the series.....The Red Bicycle

Why I love New York.

2010-03-19T07:52:00.001-07:00

Self Portrait: Ollie's eye

2010-03-12T07:56:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait: Night train

2010-03-11T09:33:00.001-08:00

Self Portrait: Chelsea Cobble

2010-03-10T03:34:00.001-08:00

Self Portrait: Vintage Truck

2010-03-09T05:22:00.000-08:00

Another dab of fiction.....

2010-03-07T06:57:00.001-08:00

At Christmas time Happy closed down his doctor’s office for two weeks, having arranged for his mentor Dr. Emmanuel Stevenson to handle any emergencies in his absence. Dr. Stevenson managed to listen with proper concern andseriousness as young

Doctor Hunley outlined in great detail all of the potential disasters that might be befall his patients. Hap provided Dr. Stevenson a painstakingly detailed typed list of his most serious cases with a synopsis of each, including the treatment thus far and his speculation about what treatment could be required if they needed assistance. Amid assurances that he would take care of Dr. Hunley’s patients as if they were his own, and that, yes, he would cable Dr. Hunley if he had any questions about treatments, the patient older man eventually succeeded in allaying the worst concerns of his young protege. Hap’s parting comments were a promise to make a long distance call to Dr. Stevenson halfway through his time away to see if there were any matters needing his attention. Dr. Stevenson said that he would be delighted to hear from Hap any day, but that hadn’t Hap better see to his travel plans to make sure he wasn’t going to miss that train?

Hap wandered away from Dr. Stevenson’s office with an empty brief case and a hollow feeling crowding his heart, wondering if he should have done more to prepare for his absence.

Asking himself for the thousandth time how his patients would get on without him…and was it right for him to leave? Fortunately those ponderings were thwarted because he was to catch a train that very morning, and his packing was as yet incomplete. So as his footsteps led him away from Dr. Stevenson’s they led him toward the unbridled excitement of preparing for time with Martine. By the time he reached the door of his boarding house, the bounce had returned to the young man’s step, and lightness to his his heart.

~ ~ ~

A dab of fiction....

2010-03-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

(From the "works in progress" library.....)

It was accepted as no coincidence, but as mere celestial confirmation, that Doc’s initials were HAH - “hah!” - anyone who met him knew Howard Arthur Hunley was born to laugh. From the time he was a fleshy baby he had a laugh that burbled like a brook in cool woods. His merry,

brown eyes were enough to make anyone stop and press a finger into his chubby cheek, eliciting more merriment and cheer from the happy baby.

As a young boy he had been nicknamed Hap - short for “Happy.” He was known by his family and friends as Hap his whole life. And all his life, the world around him conspired to assist - his laugh was an unexpected gift that could polish the grey off the dullest day in Jackson. Men at the drugstore would save their best jokes, thinking how much Hap would appreciate them. Even when he was a boy, his classmates had all outdone themselves to be the one to make Happy break out in laughter during class. And all but the strictest teachers turned a deaf ear to those occasions, for not only was Hap the sunniest but he was probably the kindest child P.S. #3 in Jackson had produced in their memory.

~ ~ ~

Thaw

2010-03-01T06:28:00.000-08:00

I have loved the snow this winter.

I've loved those dramatic snowfalls which leave no choice but to acquiesce to nature and admit that I am not omnipotent, that my will takes a back seat.

I've been awed by the magical beauty of the snows that silently transform the very world around me - everywhere I look.

I've even appreciated those snow days that have stripped me of my typical day to day distractions, and provided ample opportunities for me to come face to face.....with myself.

But I think I've gotten the lessons for this year.

I'm ready for the thaw.

A Valentine

2010-02-12T11:24:00.000-08:00

Red.

Soaking up the raucous

profusion of people,

vegetables, souvenirs,

sidewalk stands, tiny

storefronts, and other

stimuli that is Chinatown

recently, what popped

out to my eye from

among the cacophony

was the presence of red.

I saw red scarves, red silk dresses, decorations the shape and color of firecrackers, flowers, fans, signs, decals, lots of bright paper things I couldn’t identify.

Red everywhere.

This wasn’t surprising since the celebration of Chinese New Year’s begins this week, and the color Red has become a symbol of good luck, good fortune, and celebration.

The impact of the experience inspired me to notice the resonance of red. And I wanted to post a Valentine, in the form of an eclectic celebration of red from various spots over the last year.

Red: Intimate.

Red: Vibrant. Dramatic. Passionate. Rich.

Red: Irrefutable. Bold. Angry.

Red: The color of attraction, appeal, red lips, red berries.

Red. Irreducible and intense. The simple deep red of blood, tomatoes, embers, roses, ribbons.

Wishing you the best of red. Happy Valentine's Day. Happy New Year

Creativity

2010-02-04T09:21:00.000-08:00

Creativity is a concept on which I expend a lot of energy. Mind you, much of the time it is not positive, constructive energy - not me actually employing creativity. But me worrying about it.

When I’m fully engaged in one of my passions (like writing, cooking, photography), I’m not thinking about being creative, I’m too busy creating to be conscious of it. I might be thinking about how to create or even how to improve what I’m creating, but I’m not thinking “Am I being creative?” Or, more dangerously, “Am I creative?”

I know that once I step into that territory of wondering if I am, in fact, creative, I’m pretty much doomed. Because never, ever is there adequate evidence, once I try to unearth it, that can satisfy the part of me that asks that question.

When I was a bit younger I was very secretive about this shameful secret - (shh!) that I might not actually be creative - but thank god for the perspective of age. I now know I’m not the only one whose identity as a creative being has gotten dinged up as it’s been dragged over the bumps and ruts of life.

My case is not even tragic or dramatic (or even ver

y interesting, for purposes of this post). Most people, I’m sure, can point to a variety of factors that served to pinch and crimp their beliefs about their own creativity - a corrosive school art teacher, a more talented sibling, no outlets, critical parents, ridicule from classmates, maybe even worse, I imagine....pretty much anything can combine with naturally occurring self-doubt and insecurity to torpedo creative identities(here picture a big beautiful ship sinking from the jagged holes blown in its sides).

(Naturally occurring insecurity? I see your eyebrow go up. I have to say that the more contact I have with writers and other creative types, the more I hear that they have all dealt with moments of wondering if they shouldn’t just “get real” and give up their ridiculous pursuit, get a “real” job. So many bright talented people, in fact, that I am forced to believe that the insecurity has to have some innate origin in the human psyche. Psychology majors: I bow to your superior knowledge in this arena,learn me up if you choose).

And so my own love/hate, yes/no, all/nothing, relationship with creativity and agonizing over “Am I creative?” has made me search unceasingly (obsessively?) for signs of creativity in myself. And paying such close attention to creativity has allowed me to see it easily in others. All the time, all around. So much so that I easily slid into the realization that we are just by nature creative beings. You hear a story written by a friend, you see your child draw a picture, you see how someone decorates their home for the holidays, someone gives you a gift that takes your breath away at the imagination it demonstrates.

And so, by default, I determined that since I am exemplary of “anyone” or “everyone” I must, therefore be creative. Hmmn. OK, that seems fairly simple. If everyone is creative - I must be too. (There may be some of you out there who have never doubted or mistrusted your creativity, and for you, I’m happy; I’m glad you conserved the time and energy; you probably were out there being good - if incomprehensible - role models for the others of us.)

So the other question that arises is: why? Why do we create? In my case, for example, why do I write? Is it to be famous, to publish, to be admired? The answer is surprisingly much more simple: it makes me feel good. There is no experience more renewing and stimulating, more deeply celebratory than being fully engaged in my work.

Back in grad school, I first encountered this really interesting work on “flow” state (don’t be thrown by the researcher’s name: Csikszentmihaly)and it comes pretty close to what I’m talking about - a loose summary would be the experience we have when we are engaged in a challenging but pleasurable activity with complete and utter absorption to the extent that we lose track of time, ourselves, anything but the activity itself. This can be artistic pursuits, but it can also be any kind of activity (work, time with friends, exercise) that results in that “loss of awareness of anything but the experience.

And what Csikszentmihaly determined is that the condition of “flow” the ability to be in that rapt, pleasurably absorbed state is available to everyone, and in fact is necessary to having a satisfying life. In fact, the question that Csikszentmihaly sought to answer in his research, having seen many WWII survivors fail to lead normal - let alone happy - lives, was “What makes life worth living?”

So the take away for me is that not only are we each creative (defined as you will), but we actually need to experience that creative process, that “flow” state to be fully alive.

Here’s the rub. I value becoming more skilled at the crafts I practice, including writing, so I take classes, read books, talk to practitioners. To be open to learning, to taking in additional information from classes, to view my own writing objectively, I must brush up against or some days, crash heavily headlong into the walls of other peoples’ opinions about my work. Thus, it is very difficult to stay in the flow state and be joyously oblivious to the external world. In fact, when I get blocked, it turns out to be those times I am most aware of thinking about other people interacting with my work. Oriented toward anticipating (worrying, guessing....) how others will react to my work, or what they expect, or what they like or....etc.

These are clearly not “flow” experiences, the kind of experiences which are why I write in the first place. So the dilemma is: how do I manage both - to practice my crafts in “flow” as if my life depended on it, because we know it does, and be connected enough to the world outside my own self to grow?

I’m still working this one out. If I were to be so unconcerned with the response of the world to my work I would miss a lot of opportunities to get better, to gain from the skill and knowledge of others. But I’m confident I wouldn’t write if I never had a morning of utterly losing myself to the world by being fully alive in my writing.

One image I play with is thinking of the challenge as being similar to what it takes to grow a plant from a seedling - how it’s important to protect the conditions around a vulnerable sprout. Sometimes, to do this you have to be tough and rude - elbow others out to protect the space for your charge. Sometimes you just have to keep apart; walk separate from the crowd because that is the only way you can keep that sprout out of the bustle.

Then, sometimes, despite your best efforts, the sprout gets flooded by a rain that’s too hard or it gets jostled, or stepped on, or ripped right out of the dirt, its little albino roots naked on the surface of the soil. Then, the only thing to be done is - as gently as you possibly can - poke those little roots back in, prop up the little sprout, and talk nicely to it.

And have faith.

If you’re interested, you can watch a TED lecture featuring Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi talking about his research into: What makes life worth living?:

http://www.ted.com/talks/mihaly_csikszentmihalyi_on_flow.html

Being Outside

2010-01-06T06:57:00.000-08:00

Outside:

adj.

1) in the outdoors; amidst nature

2) external; not on the inside

Working with these two recent shots started me thinking about the very different experiences I have being outside.

At The Swamp, like other beautiful natural places, I feel that I am in something; that I am a part of something rich and grand and expansive. The natural world invites us to feel connected that way.

On the best days, my sense of awe is triggered and I remember to relish living in such a magnificent world and to notice the perfection of intricate detail everywhere I look.

The experience I had the other night when I took this shot in the West Village was vastly different, but no less exquisite. It was the sensation of being a passerby outside the world of others.

I realized both types of experiences have within them an element of anonymity, a brief detachment from the things that typically define me in my life and a refocusing of perspective. The distance created this way allows me the space to view my life and see it in the context of the larger Life around me.

Being outside helps me define what inside means, where its boundaries lie and where, relative to those boundaries, I choose to be.

Inaugural post, inaugural day

2010-01-01T18:52:00.000-08:00

Well it is New Year's day, 2010, and despite the absence of my traditional preparation: no annual list making, reflection on the year that's been or goal-setting (you who know me, know this is big!), lo and behold, it is still a new year. Ready or not. I'll deal with that.

Happy 2010 to all of you.

What does the new year bode for you?

For me, I anticipate getting mucky in more of NJ's natural lands....I plan a photo shoot in some beautiful industrial wetlands, and of course will basically live in my beloved Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge (I'm a volunteer docent now). I also received several delightful nature guides so have unexplored areas and species to explore.

At any given time I'm sure to be packing my new Canon PowerShot G11, with which I am already in love. It's been a surprising gift the past year to rekindle my passion for photography which I pursued (mumble..mummmble) years ago in college. Back then it was the days of developing the film, then using enlargers to print on paper. Such a different process now, but still the same joy and excitement when you get a shot that really sings.

Another fabulous gift I received and am still circling to size up, is Photoshop Elements 8. The snowy stream picture in this post is my first effort at photo editing with PSE. It is not an intuitive program to learn, and if anyone knows any good sites or user groups or wants to come to my house to give me a tutorial......I'll make (vegan) cookies.

And of course this year, happily, will hold more writing. I get to pursue the commitment I've made to working on my fiction writing. I took my first class a year ago, and have been writing almost non-stop since. It's been glorious, if, yes, at times daunting and even frustrating. But I have good teachers, good support at home, and a special group of writer buddies that ride out the vicissitudes together, with a laugh over a drink or a good meal.

In fact I find that's pretty darn good thinking on any front - the right buddies can get you just about through anything. It's cold out. I say, grab a buddy, go to some cozy spot and have a delicious cup of coffee (ok, tea if you're into that) and have a good, rich chat.

Again, Happy New Year.