An Accomplishment

One of my vacillations that I've come to recognize is my inclination to be very restrained or to be over-exuberant. I prefer restraint. Yet, I often find myself biting at the bit to laud whatever it may be that has given me great thrill, or now stimulates my imagination. Such is my too-often unrestrained admiration for most things Google. On this subject I know I can drive friends and relatives running for the cover of forgotten chores. I can go at length on the value of the concept of personality structure as theorized by Jung and Meyrs-Briggs. And I can be very enthusiastic about writing for expression; that is, others' writing, or otherwise pursuing their passion. And so its awfully satisfying for me when I can find such interests as these, coming together in one place. And that satisfaction is ever greater when the confluence of such efforts results in something new and pleasurable.

I belong to a group of friends that for thirty-five years now has put on a Christmas season dinner early in December. That's a commonly shared tradition in this country, and probably around the world. For variation on the theme, we alternate between the women, and the men, grouping every other year to produce this evening meal. If I do say so myself, and -you guessed it- I do, each year, men or the women, its been a feast. We did that again this year. The men cooked, and again, it was a feast. And this this the first year I've been moved -"moved", mind you- to write about this tradition. Why?

I don't cook, but each year that it has been the men's turn, I help with the shopping and the chopping; and I'm really quite good at clean up. You might know. Now, when I say I don't cook, that's true; but ... I do pancakes weekly, I can do peanut butter and jelly, and sandwiches that, really, only I would eat. So, I don't cook. Remember my vacillation between restraint and exuberance I mentioned above? It has taken me a week and a half since this year's dinner to write this. I can hardly wait. I've been biting at the bit for a week; biding my time. Stewing, if you will. I cooked! Successfully.

We men, as do the women, get together for a meal-out shortly before this dinner so as to determine and plan the meal. This year, over BBQ burgers and a beer, we quite quickly came to decision on the main course: Beef stroganoff. We almost as quickly came to a simple green salad and a tomato-basil bisque, sans crustaceans. What about dessert? Why, I can only guess, I suggested a chocolate-cake-or-something-like-that. Amongst the others there was a strained pause. Socially intuitive as I am, I just knew they were waiting for something more specific in that suggestion. Before I could suck it back into my mouth, I impulsively -and very casually, I might add- said, "I'll come up with one; I'll do it". These guys are my friends, and indeed socially intuitive, and said, "ok, sounds good". Yikes!

Later I realized that only few days before I'd had a piece of my daughter-in-law's very good chocolate cake. I'm sure I had some undigested notion that included me getting the recipe from her, and/or, asking her to do the cake. Oh, that's not fair! I thought and thought; I mulled, and then I knew. We have a friend who cooks, writes, and posts on Blogger! I've had her desserts. And I've read her blog (Jan 9 2009). And I remembered -not a small feat for me, some would say- that one of her blogs included a chocolate cake. I was wrong about what was chocolate. It was a torte.

One crucial item was using a removable-bottom torte pan. My wife, Anna, cooks and bakes like a pro, and has so many tools. But no torte pan. On a cold winter day, I went shopping. I shopped JC Penny's and Target in an effort to avoid ..... Williams-Sonoma where I would surely be embarrassed. Neither Penney's nor Target had a torte pan, though in ignorance, I almost bought a spring-form cake pan. I swallowed, walked into the wind and went to ...."W-S". There, I was greeted by a respectful sales person who recognized me as a "man on a mission". In ten minutes I was out of the store with a pan that I was confident was the one Domenica called for in her recipe.

On the afternoon of the dinner, as the stroganoff, salad and bisque were being prepared, I occupied a space at the kitchen counter, with full focus on the recipe. That recipe was so good, and more than that, so well written, the tore went together like magic. No sweat!

Once again, a long-standing, newly accepted vacillation worked in my favor. It all came together. The dinner was again a feast, perfectly topped by a touted chocolate torte. And just to "prove it" -as we used to say shooting baskets- I proved the recipe and the doing again today for Anna to take to a gathering of her friends for dinner. And a third is in the planning. So, to you, Domenica, I say Thank You for your recipe, and your writing. Thank You Very Much.

The Turn On; a feeling of what happens

When I was in about 6th grade at about age 11 or 12, and just beginning to socialize with my Catholic grade school peers in our neighborhood, but blocks away from home, my mother one evening gave me "the talk" as I was drying dishes before going out. Since I was drying the dishes, that means that my sister, just younger than me, the oldest child in the family, was washing dishes. We alternated the chores. But that my mother would give me "the talk" in the kitchen while I was drying dishes and before I would go out, meant also that my "little" sister was done and out of the kitchen. Looking back on it now I can see that it was a pre-planned ambush.

What my mother told me as I dried that drinking glass -and I do recall that it was a drinking glass- was, "... just remember to keep your zipper closed ..." and, something blurred about "respect". I have never been able to recall what went before, or came after, that phrase. But the phrase stuck, and to my mother's credit, had good effect. Now this "talk" lasted, perhaps, all of 30 seconds, but I seem to remember my feet feeling bolted to the floor. I suppose there was some sort of short preface, and a following promise, but I cannot recall either. There for sure was no eye contact. I do recall be dumb-struck. And then, out of there.

In social conversations, recollections of "the talk" often are followed by unbelieving notions of what our parents couldn't, wouldn't, didn't tell us. In my case, the only snide remark I might make is that my mother's talk, advice perhaps, didn't help me do any better with my own children. But that's about me, not my parents. Still, with my wife, we've raised five children, and now look lovingly at nine grandchildren. Our grandchildren's parents didn't get a "talk" at all, unless that one got more spaced-out than my mother's to me. And my mother's talk hasn't dampened my interest through the years.

Though the years of my college education was through the uproarious late 60s, I was a Navy veteran, and a married man with two children and a job. So I was pretty much one-foot-in-front-of-the-other as I completed my degree in sociology. But I do believe that that degree helped hone my natural inclination to want to know the "how come" of things; including, "where did we come from?" Sort of a depth beyond "What's it all About, Alfie?" My interest was sparked again this month as I read two book reviews in the Spring 2009 edition of The American Scholar. Two books, two separate reviewers, both books appealing to interest in evolution, and both referring to the peacock.

This being the 200th anniversary year of Darwin's birth, and the 150th year celebration of his ground-breaking "On the Origins of the Species", we might expect a rash of writing on evolution. And indeed there has been. But here are just two: The Genial Gene; Deconstructing Darwinian Selfishness by Joan Roughgarden, and The Art Instinct; Beauty, Pleasure and Human Evolution by Denis Dutton. "Gene" is reviewed by Priscilla Long, and "Instinct" is reviewed by Alexander Nehamas. By the presentation -both positive- of the reviewers, I'd say that neither account is convincing, though both interesting for different reasons.

(This last point sidetracks me. You know how, when you finally get that yellow VW Beetle you've wanted since way back; and how after you get it, how you then start seeing yellow VW Beetles all over the place? I've recently come to start knowing William Empson's critique theory of poetry in particular, and literature in general. His focus is on resolving the various ambiguities that are presented by poetry, and one type of ambiguity is that of two meanings that resolve into one. This is brought to my mind by seeing two quite different takes on the matter of evolution, and seeing how they resolve into one provocation. This writing is the result of that provocation.)

Roughgarden apparently wants to upset the notion of sexual selection, and replace it with her own notion of "social selection", in which she suggests that it is choosing a mate for the greatest "infrastructure" stability for the successful rearing of offspring that is operative in furthering a species. In the course of refuting Richard Dawkins' The Selfish Gene -oh, how could she!- she refers to newer studies that disparage the idea that peahen selects the peacock on the basis of his presentation purporting to show himself as "most fit" for continuing the species. To her credit she cites many other such studies in support of sexual selection that she considers for alternative explanations.

Dutton, on the other hand, uses the standard peacock theory to demonstrate that we carry within us, from our evolution during almost two million years through about ten thousand years ago (the Pleistocene Era), an instinct for art. Presumably, as the peahen of the standard theory has an appreciation for the "fittest" peacock, so too, we "know" art, "good" art deep down within ourselves. To be fair, by Nehamas' review, Dutton also draws on more than the peacock for his support of an instinct for art.

Though these two authors have different objectives in mind, they ironically both appeal to the peacock example -amongst other things to support their theories. I could accept that a social selection process occurs in conjunction with sexual selection, or, even, sometimes instead of sexual selection. And I have no doubt that, as a species, we have a developed appreciation for beauty and pleasure. Both are insufficient for my interest as neither penetrates deeply enough. Unlike Daniel J Levitin (2006), in his theory of music, neither of these writers make appeal to brain conditions or neurological development. Perhaps others have too, but I am aware of some of the work of Nicholas Humphrey (1992) and that of Antonio Damasio (1999). Both of these theorize a neurological condition that demonstrates what may be called a neurological indicator of hunger, and a neurological indicator of satiation. Both compelling, and both convincing to the laity.

Science has demonstrated the evolution of the brain -D. Falk (1992)- giving rise to the capacity for language. Neurology has demonstrated the evolutionary developmental cognition capacity of the human brain. It is true that the concept of consciousness remains elusive. But what you and I both know is the feeling of satisfaction when it ripples through our body, whether it is the craft of Flannery O'Connor, Richard Wright or Ted Hughes; whether our bones are shaken by ZZ Top, or Bach, Beau Soliel; whether our senses are gratified by Picasso or Van Gogh. We know that longing, hunger, for what will satisfy us coming from deep within, wending through long-established neuro circuits. And we know, too, the feeling of satisfaction. We sense it. We're sated.

What mom didn't tell me, couldn't tell me; what wasn't being asked of Alfie; and what neither Roughgarden nor Dutton have told me, is how did the first "they" know what to do once the zipper was down? Thank goodness for evolution.

Thoughts on Writers About Writing

It's a dark, windy and cloudy night in Minneapolis. Its dark because its after 9:30pm. Its windy and cloudy because, at least, finally, we have some warm air.

I wouldn't be here doing this if I did not have some inclination to write. That inclination, like probably, your own, inclines me as well to read. When it comes to the subject of my reading, relative to writing, I'm particularly interested in the genre of the personal essays. Not diaries; for crying out loud, anyway, hey, I'm a guy. We journal. And I do journal, and personal essays are pretty close to the matter of journalling. But often my reading goes off into essays in general. Three places I like to read essays from include The American Scholar, The Atlantic, and volumes from the public library. The Best American Essays I find satisfying. But, oh, that paths you can travel.

Recently I became aware of the essayist Edward Hoagland. So I trudged off to the library -I actually drove because we're in Minnesota and the weather was not yet seasonable for biking- and I picked up three volumes of his writing and editing. Now Hoagland is -I've learned- a highly regarded essayist, and he writes mostly about matter or events pertaining to nature. Somehow or another he always is able to figure-in elements of nature. But he often also grouses about being called a "nature writer", and then he goes on about the "business", the "work" of writing. And, yes, it is work.

But in this recent set of reading, I became aware of two things: much of my focus in reading in recent years, I now realize, has been less on the subject matter at hand, and more on the skill, craft and technique of the writer; the other thing I came to notice while reading Hoagland -and others in BAE- is that they write an awful lot about, writing. Sometimes its just insinuated into the piece, off-handedly, and sometime it occupies great space and, always, much passion.

Now I might have just let those observations go except for the matter of sychronicity presenting itself again in my life. I almost always see sychronious events as instances of "a small world". In this instance I had gone to read Fresca's blog wherein on about the same day, she too was writing the very same observation. For me that was just the validation I need to know that I wasn't just making things up.

Then on top of that instance, two occurred today. A certain reader-writer-blogger had posted her concern about the obligations to relationship that accrue to those of us who agree to review and comment on one another. The issue she was addressing is an element of "writing" upon which writers make comment much in the vein that Fresca had blogged and I had read. In this case its an element that, indeed, is work.

The other instance occurred during brunch today with yet another blogger of some note, and a former colleague. As we addressed life matters we were on about the aging process and how aging, literally, takes a toll on one's relationships. To which Domenica noted the side value of maintaining many mixed relationship such that will sustain, in a reciprocity, in years to come. In this group I did not say it, but it did occur to me that "virtual" relationships too are important and over time accrue both value and commitment.

All of that is, one the one hand, all lot of synchronicity, while on the other hand, its a lot of affirmation through relationships such that the world and life keep making sense, and presenting those of us who would do it, something additional to write about other than, writing.

A "Daily" Camaraderie

Elsewhere I have a blog, Write Everyday, where I try to exercise this portion of myself on a daily basis. Like many intentions, especially those that commit one to "everyday", I don't always get there; I don't always get that exercise in. Normally, this is just the sort of a write for which I'd use that blog. But today, I'm not. I'm not because of camaraderie.

For years, I've played racquetball with with a group of guys (evolutionarily, four different groups in my time), and from the beginning, we all trusted that, baring work, one another would "be there". When I go to the "Y" for my workout routine I engage with no one usually. But there are nods of acknowledgement, and, perhaps, short weather-related conversations. At church on Sunday, despite encouragement beyond, I am satisfied with nods of acknowledgement. There is an expectation -and a satisfaction in acknowledgement- that goes with camaraderie.

I've recently had conversation with a fellow, a peer, who spends very little time on the Internet except to receive emails and forward jokes. He had a hard time grasping why people would want to spend their time in "virtual" connection. He is, himself, a very gregarious person. At the time the only explanation I had at hand -and he was courteous enough to accept- was that it is suitable to those of us who tend to be introverts. But since then it has occurred to me that wherever one gets engaged with others, a camaraderie develops, and with it, the concomitant expectations, obligations and satisfactions in the assurances of routine connections.

Over the past couple of years I have been preoccupied with other aspects of my life, and only recently have I re-entered the sphere of writing, such as I do. I have found changes in both myself and in the "places" I write, wrote. When I had first thought I might do personal essaying in blog format, I had landed on Gather as the place where I would write. It was at that time promoted -and was- a place where one could submit writing and expect to have it reviewed. There was the concomitant expectation the you would also read and comment on the work of others. Upon return to Gather, it was clearly become a place of virtual social networking akin to Facebook. In fairness, I should say that I have not returned yet to the "Writing" group where, perhaps, that is still going on. Perhaps the social networking is just an additional aspect of Gather now, whereas originally it seemed to be a side aspect without the prominence that has now.

I had said that I had also found changes within myself. I have determined that I can and will do my essaying in blog format, and that I will chance the virtual social network. And I will try to review and comment on the work of others as I find it. That's a commitment to social interaction, virtual though it may be. And so it is here, where I blog, where others blog; where "even" virtual relationships are made, "even" here where camaraderie develops, that I will post my letters.

The question, asked of me, "So what are you learning from Empson, ...?" is so apt. Befitting my personality -INTP- I subscribe to Dennett's notion of epistemological hunger. I do indeed try to learn, whether and what I do -or not- is always the question. [Related to that is my own assessment of myself as a slow reader -and, no, I'm not about to take a test to certify that. As it is, I am slow typist also -hunt & peck- and if I were going to undertake any self-improvement, it would be to learn touch typing. In any case, being a slow reader, and trying to learn, I always have this sense that Time (you know what Time I mean) is catching up to me, and may catch me before I've learned whatever it is that I'm trying at the moment.] But in this case I do believe I'm learning something of value, at least to me.

There are preliminaries. First of course is how I came to know of William Empson, and why I bothered to inquire about him. I won't reiterate that tale again here, suffice it to say that as a preliminary I researched him at Wikipedia where I learned that he is an acclaimed critic. Of course, not having been an English major, and at the time, scooting by with as little of the English program as was allowed (what good would it do me, after all; I'm going to be a Sociologist!), I then knew nothing of Empson, and of poetry only that it was a fancy way of writing, soulful, we may have called it in the late 60s. Being who I am, I get awfully impressed by the credentials of Authority, initially. I was immediately impressed that William Empson was an authority on poetry, and it was about poetry that I went seeking.

I had just recently focused myself on again taking up essay writing, when in a virtual space on the Internet I became "networked" with a real writer, who invited me to join in at yet another virtual site where there would be opportunity to for writing and critique. I learned quickly -that's a bit unusual- that my host was well-into poetry writing, and promoted it well. New to the group, I felt it a challenge and begin to toy with the idea; the idea of writing poetry. But I need to know how and why something that I will be engaged in works, so I latched on to Empson. I accepted him as an authority from whom I might learn. And what I learned initially was that he had a primary critique on poetry in general: "7 Types of Ambiguity". It was small and inexpensive, and I bought it.

Suddenly, I'm impressed with poetry. One guy, albeit, an accomplished guy, can write 265 pages on the matter of ambiguity in poetry?! Who knew! What I had known was that poetry was often difficult to comprehend, and with that I had simply put a pass on it. But now, here in authoritative British English print, I'm learning that, yes, poetry is difficult to comprehend, and furthermore, when you think you do, you may not. But, so be it! So Empson sets out to clarify how and what it is about poetry that is difficult. You know, for some of us, we -me- may be looking at a wall, and not think, barn. At least not until I got my back off it and walked across the yard and turned to look at it with a different perspective. But then, I had come upon this wall in the dark of night seeking a shelter from the wind. It is ambiguity that makes poetry difficult, and Empson has reasoned out seven sorts of ambiguity with which to approach the reading of poetry.

As I conclude this entry, note that -what I have assumed through page 26- is that this approach, almost a philosophical theory of the mind, is aimed at a comprehensive ability to read poetry. At this point, whether one is assisted in writing poetry with this approach remains to be seen. With the next entry I will address the first of the 7 types of ambiguity.

Ambiguous Acquaintances

Seven Types of Ambiguities
February 2009
William Empson (1930/47)
Elliot Perlman (2003)

People collect things; sometimes even things they don't know why they're collecting. Ever think about the things you collect? I collect words. Alright, I collect other stuff too, but most of that is in the garage or the basement, and is stuff I'm slowly trying -for my children's sake- to unladen. But not the words. I collect words that represent, stand in for, concepts. I first became quite conscious of word collection in the early days of my working career when another social worker I was talking with -she was telling a story- told me of how convoluted was a certain situation. I was so struck by the word that I lost the essence of the story as I became aware of what I was doing. I was collecting words. Words like, ambiguity. Originally I collected such words for only one reason: to know. Now I have two reasons for this collection: To know; and as subject matter to essay. I can't say what it was that brought ambiguity to mind recently but I must have crossed it in some reading and was struck by how it describes the situation within my mind as I try to work out a complete thought. So I thought I'd essay ambiguity; I put the word on my list.

Within a couple of weeks of listing this word I was reading through two articles in a subscription journal, one a reminiscence essay, the other a book review of The Letters of Ted Hughes. It was first in the essay, reading of Steven L. Isenberg's memory inadvertently lunching with four literary pillars, that I became aware of William Empson, poet and critic. In the story of his lunch with Empson -a very good story in itself- he made reference to Empson's Sven Types of Ambiguity (1930 and 1947). Ambiguity?! Seven types? Dang! My intent of course would have been to work from a dictionary definition in combination with my own experience. And now I'm learning that William Empson has written a whole book of criticism on seven types of ambiguity! Who needs my notion of ambiguity!

Like all such stories of collections and words themselves, that wasn't the end of it. As I went on to Sudip Bose's review of Christopher Reid's selections and edition of the Hughes' letters, I not only learned of Ted Hughes and infamous stories surrounding him following the tragic death of his wife, Sylvia Plath, but I learned that Hughes had been a contemporary, and subject of William Empson. I am always glad to learn. In this case, I was especially glad to be exposed to the poetry of Hughes as I have recently found poetry insinuating itself into my life, and with no small amount of bewilderment. And that bewilderment further ties me to Empson.

Interestingly, perusal of the local library catalogues did find a copy of Seven Types of Ambiguity (2003), by -Elliot Perlman, an Australian (and New York) lawyer. How can that be? A short trip later and I had Perlman's "Ambiguity", Reid's "Letters", and Hughes' "New Selected Poems". All are a good read. I also obtained something else. In my use of Wikipedia I found a pdf copy of Seven Types of Ambiguity at The Open Archive copy of the second edition, London, 1949. Also an interesting read.

"There and Back Again", wrote the Hobbit.

Some of us who would be writers spend more time in search of voice and subject than we do in actual time writing. I am aware here that I've used the familiar, universal "we", and had better make note at this beginning that I speak for and of myself. So it is I that spends more time reading and mulling than I do writing, despite resolve upon resolve.

Still, read Edward Hoagland, proclaimed as "the greatest esayist of my time", (John Updike). It is true that he has written extensively, and written well. His essays, well-crafted and of interest, are compelling. Still, in getting there, accomplishing those writings, Mr Hoagland has travelled the world. And in that travel -though I must admit I do not know this personally- I suspect that a substantial amount of that time was spent in the experience of observation and not writing. I grasp on Mr Hoagland totally out of respect, without hope of emulation, but rather as, at least, a barometer of process. And I am clear that my travels are quite different than those of Mr Hoagland, ultimately with different observation and subject matter.

My most recent excursion has taken me into the treacherous crevices of poetry. I have for some six years wandered the plains of the personal essay, and where I found heights I thought I might try, I haven't seemed to get my footing in the combination of voice and subject matter. It does seem that the two must find a complimentary blend at the risk otherwise of being either pedantic or pedestrian, or both. Interest without passion; passion without insight. The distraction to poetry came by way of the virtual social network afforded through Gather.com where I read and connected with a writer and blogster, and was invited to join the writing group she'd established at My Global Village. It quickly became clear that she was not only the group leader, but that she is well versed and skilled at poetry. Poetry?

Over the years I, myself, have dabbled in small bits of verse, none of which ever came to a conclusion. Of my own, I could sort of get the feel. But of others, those accomplish a conclusion, I would always be lost. Still, it wasn't as though I couldn't make out some of what most any poet had written. One of the things that has come to me in this off-the-beaten-path I've taken has been the awareness that one does indeed have to take time, mull, many of the works offered in poetry. Until this new awareness I had all but assumed that it was just my lack of synapse connections. And I still don't rule that out completely, but that's for a different discussion. My new awareness comes in learning from a poet-critic master, William Empson, that much of poetry is written ambiguously, that is, the poet's choice of expression from imagination may indeed not mesh immediately with the reading public. And that such writing choices may or may not be by design, but in any case can be teased out by critique; time spent. Perhaps, I am thinking, this genre may yet be do-able. I got my footing, and posted to the site.

Through a convoluted matter of synchronicity I came upon the poet, Ted Hughes and his writing. And, yes, I came upon his personal tragedy controversy as well. That remains a matter for another time also. Hughes' poetry, though, presents a good example of ambiguous expression. In his case, the only I have to draw upon at this time, the ambiguity is less a matter of interpreting words that could be meant two -or more- ways, but rather, ambiguity in the metaphor. Coached, as it were, by the critique of Christopher Reid, I could at least appreciate the sense of the poetry as observation on nature with masculine "feel". Well I would need a lot more time at my disposal to make Ted Hughes' poetry a comfortable familiarity, much less, a style of expression I might use. I slipped back down then to the broader, more familiar pathway in the reading of essays. Ed Hoagland essays for now.

In my travel through the American Scholar of Winter 2009, I came across Edward Hoagland as part of that same synchronicity just alluded to above. Here he applies his skill as he takes off from Cormac McCarty's "No Country for Old Men", with his own, "A Country for Old Men", looking at how people -he's focused on men- go from "bursting buoyancy" as children to "about where they aimed" near the end of life. Ed Hoagland, yet another guidepost, one that led me again to the library, and three more of his writings. The first I looked at was the 1999 edition of The Best American Essays, which he edited. There, Hoagland began his introduction to the edition with: "Essay are how we speak to one another in print - caroming thoughts not merely in order to convey a certain packet of information, but with a special kind of edge or bounce of personal character in a kind of public letter". A public letter! Yes, that what personal essays are about. They are a public letter ever since Montaigne. Both personal and public. Consider the Internet.

The Internet, both personal and public; democratization of information and expression. Ahhh, no doubt, there are those not there yet either by choice or by economy. But there's hardly a corner of the globe, a society, a culture, untouched by, unconnected from, the Internet. And if you can get on that highway, you'll find vehicles of expression waiting for you to drive. Elsewhere I've spoken of such vehicles, such sites: Google Documents; Blogger; Spaces Live. Once in gear all you need is your voice and your subject, then enjoy the ride. Once again my exuberance gains a momentary upper hand. Sobbered, I must come back to the question of what shall I write of; what shall be my tone?

My travel early this year did not take me over terrifying terrain, but rather into and out of a domain of enchantment in poetry to which I will return for further learning. Travelling brought me back to familar and satisfying ground in the realm of the personal essay, where no I am convinced of home. Now to build a house.