Monthly Archives: October 2007

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Those talents are not meant to be buried.

Sunday, October 14th, 2007

In Bluebeard, Vonnegut writes:

A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but world’s champions.

Yes, how many of us moderately gifted people would second this? How many times in this blog alone have I moaned about being good at something but not great? I’m not a champion writer, painter, cartoonist, musician, conversationalist, poet, critic, or philosopher, though I may have some amount of skill in any one of those things. And how often I find myself resentful of my mediocre status, wishing to excel in one thing–in any one thing. But do you know what? This is greed. I’m given a portion of talent and it’s not enough. I want more talent, I want better talents, and I focus so intently on my lack of “championship” (as defined by the world, no doubt) that I neglect to realize that a gift is a gift and how greatly I’ve been blessed to have been blessed at all. To have any amount of talent is a gift from God!

I wrote about this very thing just a few days ago. I mentioned how I’d like to play the drums, but since I’m not a gifted musician by the world’s standards, that I should stick to something in which I stand a chance of being acknowledged. I was wrong. Since modern communication has alerted the world to talent like Paul McCartney and Bob Dylan and Sufjan Stevens I will never be considered a world class musician, but dang it, I like writing a song every now and then. And ironically, that modern communication which Vonnegut referred to has, since then, increased to such a degree that I can put my songs up here and here and, amateurish though they may be, they are out there for the entire world to hear. I can put my paintings, however unrefined, here, and my stories and essays here in this blog or wherever. I can put my comics in those papers who graciously oblige me, I can take part in an art show when the opportunity comes up. And I can be grateful and humbled by the fact that I have even an ounce of talent at all. To be labeled a “community treasure” feeds the prideful part of our nature, after all. To be spared such an ugly beast as pride is just another gift. I will joyfully embrace the talents I’ve been given, in precisely the magnitude they’ve been given to me.

You, reader, should think about this as well. I know you have talents.

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Now we’re learning, now, unlearning.

Thursday, October 11th, 2007

It appears my name was not drawn in the Michael’s “Win a Trip to France” Sweepstakes. (Yes, I entered). I really felt like I was destined to win that. I have this entire high school level French education that is quickly receding into inky nothingness. This is what I would say if I were in France: “Bonjour! Je m’appelle Domonique! Ca va bien? J’ai vente cinq ans et je suis une femme Americaine. Je t’aime. Q’est-ce que tus va faire pendant le week-end?”

When we were kids we used to play school. Rather unimaginative, I know. Usually my older sister would be the teacher, and my brother and I would be the students. On one occasion she gave us students the assignment of writing a letter. Wanting so desperately to appear grown up and world-wise, I wrote an imaginary thank-you letter which opened with “Thank you…” and closed with the words, “Thanks again.” I remember really loving that phrase, “Thanks again,” believing it to be my ticket to adulthood. It was casual, compact, flippant even, and it just rolled off of adult tongues like so many cliches in correspondence (that have long since lost any significance). I remember being so proud of myself.

So now I really am a grown-up–no faking it. I don’t play school anymore, and in fact when I step inside a school these days I feel a bit like a Martian wearing electric blue hot pants. I don’t play office anymore (another fond past time), but I do work in an office. And do you want to know how I close just about every email that I send out? “Thanks again.” I noticed that today. And I don’t think it’s always appropriate. “I’m sorry to hear that your Great Dane passed away. I know it is very difficult losing a pet. Your sorrow is my sorrow. Thanks again!” But how do we shed these obnoxious patterns?

Friends, I do not have the answer.

Thanks again.

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Take a look, it’s in a book.

Thursday, October 11th, 2007

I’m not well-read. Probably you have already reached this conclusion based on my sloppy abuse of vocabulary and illogically meandering sentence structure. The fact that I can rarely think of something to write about beyond the actual practice of writing might have tipped you off as well. There are masters to study, word smiths to idolize and emulate, and at the very least there are basic instructors to pay heed. There is a very big literary world out there, and for the most part I am not engaging with it. I was reminded of this fact today when I read about the Wisconsin Book Festival (held annually in Madison) and barely recognized a single participant. Authors, publishers, critics, librarians, and 2nd grade Reading teachers, and everyone else that a blogger (a writer) SHOULD know. But I don’t, because I don’t read. Hardly.

Towards the end of this summer I finished a book cover-to-cover, and the celebration which ensued far surpassed what is respectable. But for me, it was a joyous thing, because it had been that long since I had finished a book. Shortly after that, I finished another, and I’m currently working on my third, Bluebeard, by Kurt Vonnegut (probably the only author that I have a perfect track record of finishing). It’s kind of exciting, this new sense of accomplishment, of betterment.

I recently bought another book which I have been reading out of almost daily: The Message. That is, a Bible, but one which I can understand, given my lack of literary muscle. It’s less “Then saith the Lord Almighty: Hitherto dwelleth thine offspring!” and more “God says: Hey, here’s my son!” This is nothing revolutionary–The Message has been around since the 80s (I think?) and there have been plenty of paraphrased editions of the Bible before that–but for me it means the death of the cliche. For me it means I can read the Bible and go, “…whoa, wait, God said that? I don’t remember that!” And the nice thing about this Bible is that it is paralleled with the New International Version, so I can (and do) run my finger across the page to see how this “new” idea translates from the previous version–the one I am familiar with. Maybe this doesn’t sound that interesting, but for me it is kind of a breakthrough, since I’ve never been very good about reading anything with discipline, let alone the Bible.

Well, I think that these are significant baby steps, that’s why I write them down here. I’m reconnecting with that part of my brain that sees black squiggles on a page, then deciphers them as letters, then links those letters and spaces together to understand words, then watches for other squiggles and dots that set apart sentences, and eventually take these ideas and sends them to some other part of my brain which starts thinking critically. “Yes, I think that’s a great concept!” or “Are you kidding me? That is baloney!” or “Hm, I wonder what would happen if I took this idea and pushed it a few inches to the left…” (And of course there are more than three options.) I don’t think that reading more will make me a better writer; I think that reading more will make me a better thinker, and that that will make me a better writer.

Wait and see, wait and see.

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You can type with fingers, you can type with toes.

Wednesday, October 10th, 2007

It’s been a while since I’ve done this! Blogging regularly, that is. I think what it is, is that I really only blog when I’m lonely. I’m not ashamed to admit that—the majority of America is lonely, and probably a good chunk of the global population too. It’s natural. So the skimpy cumulative word count from this past year must mean, if nothing else, that I haven’t been quite as lonesome. That I’ve made a close friend or two. So goes the logic. One could make such a statement and one would probably be right. As much as I enjoy writing, the preference will always be to have that close confidante, that one person who swallows up that loneliness and spits it out like a watermelon seed.

What does it mean that I’ve started writing again? There’s really no need to read too much into it. Even with its melancholy implications, I’ve always enjoyed my mostly anonymous blog audience. Thank you, whoever you are, for grazing these words. You’ll forgive me, though, if I’m out of practice. I don’t quite remember how to do it, but I’m assuming that it never leaves you—like riding a bicycle (not that I was ever terribly good at that). And yes, okay, it means that I’m a little bit lonely. A lonely American. A lonely blogger. (You can laugh at that.)

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Sweet sweet 90s

Monday, October 8th, 2007

We don’t have a DVD player. In fact, now that my cell phone has broken in half I’ve nearly been launched into a quaint little 90′s existance. Fully intending to embrace this vintage lifestyle, the other day I purchased a dozen VHS movies for a total of $1.25. One dollar and twenty five cents, and I’m the proud owner of the following library: Mission Impossible, Annie Hall, Fargo, About Schmidt, The Great Santini, White Oleander, Clueless, Sabrina, Casablanca, Dr. Strangelove (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb), Planes Trains and Automobiles, and The Nightmare Before Christmas (which I gave to my brother.) For less than the price of a cup of coffee (which I don’t even drink)! Cool!

Okay, so I’m easing back into daily writing. Let’s keep our expectations in check.

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If I had a hammer

Sunday, October 7th, 2007

Incidentally, the neighbors downstairs from us have begun playing the drums. I had long assumed this was out of the question, for me, because our landlord stressed before renting to us how quiet our apartment building was (neglecting to mention the trains, airplanes, and nocturnally boisterous neighbors). Even before our landlord emphasized quiet, though, I have always assumed that drumming in an apartment setting was not acceptable. Now, I feel like I might as well go ahead and buy a drum set.

If I had a drum set I would like to set it up on the top of a very tall hill and bang away. I’d like to play for an audience of animals and angels and of course that Creator who keeps popping up in this blog. I would like to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. But I’m not a musician, and although the grass and clouds might not discriminate against mediocre song-crafting, I should probably focus my creative efforts on something which I could potentially share with a more critical group, particularly with human beings. Perhaps it’s optional to share our floundering hobbies, but as for the gifts that were given to us by the great Appointer, I think that those we need to share.

I think it’s time to change the name of this blog.

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Did you know?

Saturday, October 6th, 2007

I used to write. I don’t know what’s happened to me but I used to write, and I used to be halfway decent at it. I’m wasting.

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