A beer that I've been enjoying lately is Franziskaner Weissbier, a lovely Hefe-Weissbier that hails from Munich. On the label is a white monk with a golden apron, holding three keys. He must be smug, bringing hef to the Jews, Samaritans, and Gentiles. This Gentile is certainly grateful.
I'm not sure if Holiday Reinhorn is German, or Jewish, or a German Jew, but I am sure she is from Portland at some point, and that city, that drizzly city with the beautiful Powell bookstore and plethora of bridges and home of the best breakfast on the West Coast, and maybe it's the best because I've only eaten there with my best friend and when I went to use the bathroom found that someone, anyone, had put a plastic shark toy in the toilet, and it touched me so that I could neither bring myself to fish it out, nor pee on it and hope that all ends well. I used the men's room. I left that brave shark for someone else to find, hoping secretly that they would have some kind of moral dillema, as it did, but hoping secret from my secret self that someone would have the guts and reach a bare hand in -- or dare to muck up Portland's game, their pristine air and green tree game, their preserved historical buildings and Edenic Rose Garden with the rows and rows of bees, gorging in their eternal mud wrestle with sticky bud dust, eager to continue the dance of infinity, their enveloping public library with its comfy chairs and meaningful staircase. Oh, Portland's artists -- how you are loved and envied. Where do you get your awareness, your general love, your appreciation for the authentic? And more importantly, Holiday, your large silver earrings?
Oh, I know, I know, she got them because one of her friends is a designer, up and comming, you can read about her in the new issue of InStyle magazine (read -- they're one of a kind and you shall never have them as cool as I have them). Or, I got them when I was in Iraq on business in 2000 -- I think the boutique is blown up or something (read -- I was doing something you will probably never even want to do in a place you will never be able to do it in and which doesn't even exist anymore).
I hope, dear reader, you have noticed that I have been dancing, rather metaphorically, around the issue the ithhhhsuuu. Being. That. Writing. Should be easy. Except. Somehow, I got involved in a great mental debate with myself -- secret and otherwise -- about the validity of writing. The validity of stories. A vortex that, much like that cat of great physiscs fame, only exists if I look at it. The even more annoying and only faintly interesting part is that the vortex exists in my brain, and looking at it in the physical universe is impossible -- so the looking at it is with my mind's eye, which when looking at it sees the more demanding issues at hand. I don't know what this has to do with anything. I don't know if I'm questioning my "path" or my plans, but I love reading. This I believe. I love good stories. I look for truths in stories.
I have this friend, who only (usually) reads non-fiction (so-called) and I think this says a great deal about him and his grasp on the universe, and what I think is a dividing line between people, at least people I get along with. I mean, I read non-fiction, but honestly, usually only about the artists that I love. I want to know something of the official substance of their lives, the ones that create. Todd doesn't read hardly at all, which to me is preferable to a man who only reads non-fiction. I think I find it so reprehensible, because I think there is this arrogance in supposing that there is no truth in fiction -- aside from the obvious, of course. Yet, I'm not sure if there is really any difference. I just know that I tend to puff out like a blow fish when someone suggests that fiction is a waste of time -- not to harm, mind you, but to ward off any potential connections.
In the light of that brilliant thought, I gues what I am trying so very hard to say is that my first reaction is to feel/believe that there is truth, essential truth, in fiction, and that being said, shouldn't feel that when I undertake the task as a writer I am doing anything foolish -- or wasting my time.
Even if it's all rubbish, and let us hope so!! it couldn't be a waste of time. Maybe only the truly gifted write so as to connect with the world, and even if I write only for myself, I will connect with something grand within myself, and therefore shine brilliantly within.
I do admit, if something that I write get's picked up and I am standing in front of a rapt audience, I will not, with scant exceptions, give over the stage to my husband. Even if he has an Emmy, dang it.
4 comments:
My dear, you are already a writer, so to question the validity of writing is a moot point. Keep in mind that I once wrote, "I refuse to call myself a writer for the fear that the arrogance of that claim would keep me from writing" BUT, even given my own hypocrisy, you write beautifully. Your blogs are a thing to behold. I love reading your writing because it reveals the kind of truth that only a deep heart and keen mind can reveal. That said, I agree wholeheartedly about your comments on fiction. I do not believe that fiction is really that, "a fiction." Fiction is truth masquerading as a lie. But it holds the keys to so much. Recently, a friend of mine kind of broke my heart, and I keep hearing in my head, over and over, "Leave Mrs. Pontellier alone....she might make the unfortunate blunder of taking your seriously." Truth, my dear, and a painful one at that. Truth from a short novella that I don't even particularly like! Writers, like all human beings, have different truths....but they are real, and if the writer is any good, deep. I am not entirely sure if I believe Holiday Reinhorn to be such a writer. But I loved "Gabe" and her writing is certainly worth reading. However, I suspect that one day you will write something much better. And you are far, far cooler than any visiting writer that I have ever met. All 10 of them. And I need to try that beer -- I love Hefeweisen, is this similar?
You are so generous to give me such kind words about my writing. A major obstacle for me has been the notions of authenticity and individual truth in our modern world. I think this age is frightfully loud, and there are many voices, backed by the thousands of years behind us, and I get so fatigued trying to keep up. Even when I slow down, I still find myself sitting in a room with Hemingway, and Faulkner, and Woolf, and I look at them and ask, what is my story? What is my truth? And in the end I sort of Zen out and realize that my story is their story is your story is the universe's story. So it's okay. They give me some permission to attempt, and remind me that they were miserable people, and being happy is probably more...oh I don't know, nice, I guess, than being saturated with suffering and drowning yourself, or being riddled with so much anguish that you eventually poach yourself (take that, you big game hunter). There's a line from one of my favorite movies, and David Bowie playing Andy Warhol confesses to Basquiat, "I just don't know what's good anymore." My feelings echo that sentiment all the time, particularly about art and writing.
Isn't it peculiar when you think you're done with broken hearts and then someone comes along...it's funny that you mention Mrs. Pontellier. I really think that story is still very relevant. I like to think of that line in respects to paying too much attention or giving worship to the self. It's not the charming young man that is the real danger, it's the part of Edna that feels the attention/affections of a quirky young man are neccessary for her to be happy. Sometimes the wounds in us are so familiar that we imagine we are rediscovering them when in fact we just don't recognize them. We feel -- oh, this happened, I can't believe I got myself into this situation, etc., when really we were just playing out the old wound. Edna had some pretty serious memories of childhood/youth.
Gabe was her finest hour. I'm with you. As for your suspicions on my future creative output -- we'll see. Can I write stories about my Siamese cat? Her life pretty much sums up all existence. (You might want to take back that "much better" part -- especially since I'm talking about writing about a cat, and her collection was called Big Cats, or whatever. Hm.)
And I'm so stoked on being "cooler"!
You're good to me, darlin', and thanks for reading. It means a lot, I tell you.
As a thinker and literary critic it is good to pack it in and know as close to everything as possible, but as a writer it is best to (borrowing from Salinger here) travel light. Blythe is right. Your writing is really just beautiful and humbling. I said humbling. So just keep it up. You don't need the burden of Hemingway, Woolf, and Faulkner. Not to be a good writer. Read them. Love them. Learn from them. Then, just forget them. Write, damn you! Write. That's all.
Thanks, Brandon. Your teaching is beautiful.
Post a Comment