The Week of Living Dangerously

A week without reading is like a week without sunshine. Actually, it's more like a week with a sister from another planet - and that would be moi. So no newspaper, I can live with that. Or without that. Or can I? No stock market reports - that's good. But no Sally Forth? It ain't fittin'. It just ain't fittin'. No NYTimes online. No really good book that I was just getting into. Most of my reading these days has been scripts of plays, and I was just allowing myself the joy of getting into a good book when that b!tch, Julia Cameron started getting all bossy on my @ss. Focus, Laura. Focus.

So Monday morning is the most beautiful morning in the world for any season. Clean sparkling blanket of snow. Clear blue sky and trees that are glazed and gleaming with the frozen-ness of it all. Frozenly-solid as Aunt Carol used to say. If I didn't get out the door fast, the tree gleam would be gone. No time to think or to argue with myself over the injustice of not being able to read anything. I grabbed my to-go tea and my low-tech digital camera and did my best to carpe the diem in my neighborhood. A sample of which I share here.

Without reading

Reporting in: first day of "Media Deprivation" - an entire week without reading for pleasure.

Without reading . . . there are books on the nightstand, papers on the newsstand, reading material everywhere waiting to be read. Without reading there’s life without headlines, news breaks, and media alerts. Without reading there's little to review or preview. There are no opinions, no editorials, no finer points to place into context. Without reading there’s only navigation along the terrain of a quieter mind. Without reading there’s only searching, reaching for a pen and notebook, connecting the dots.

Without reading there’s harder work. Fewer pastimes and electronic distractions. Fewer desktop stops at the electronic water cooler to check email, newsmail, junk mail, chainmail, admail, linked mail, twittermail, ebaymail, misc mail and missed mail. Without reading, there’s little to do with trivial pursuits, facts to check, weather to watch. Without reading there’s real need for motion, physical activity, exercise for the brain, a walk around the block.

Without reading, there’s forgetting: to not read.

Without reading . . . there’s acute awareness of the daily grind (without caffeine breaks). Without reading, there’s the noise of employment: a day that begins with the droning of traffic, the din of heavy machinery, the whine of an air compressor, the scream of a power drill, piercing metal through metal, the sounds of industry and production. Without reading, there’s tuning out, then noticing the cold shoulder of colleagues similarly tuning out as brain fatigue sets in. Without reading, there’s a limit, imposed by the clock. Time to come up for air. Food. Exercise. Balance.

Without reading, there’s today’s post . . . that no one will read

Recaplets

Hello all, since I am being Artist's Way agnostic and wimpy, I am posting some recaplets I sent to Ann as a Public Service during Media Deprivation Days. This is just a snapshot of what I watched this weekend, not including everything else:

... There was this girl growing up on the moors and heaths of Yorkshire named Cathy, and her Dad brought home an urchin boy, whom they called Heathcliff for some reason, though he looks more like a Benicio to me …

or: David Gregory was talking to these 2 guys named Hank Paulsen and Alan Greenspan, and they both looked pretty worried, but rumor has it that when Hank gets really really worried he gets the dry heaves, and he didn’t look like he was going to barf on the desk in front of David Gregory or anything, so maybe things are sort of OK…

…and then there was this lady Jenny Sanford and she was all married to this Prince Charles lookalike named Mark, and he was governor but he forgot or something because he took off for Argentina to see his girlfriend but he didn’t even check his iPhone or anything because no one knew where he went, even his wife, so when he got back he was all tears about how he had to say fare-thee-well to his Soul Mate, the chick in Argentina, meanwhile *HELLO!* we presume your kids can read and they know everything you sent her in e mails and then Jenny grabbed their butts and moved to the beach house, but god only knows what the schools are like down by the beach, and Barbara Walters tried to make her cry but she totally didn’t, and she’s the only Republican I ever sort of admired…

anyway, I'll keep TV going for all of us so it doesn't just go away like newspapers have- cheers!

Reading ahead

Week Four on the Artist Wayfarer path, I find myself at a curious crossroads. With two books in hand, which one to follow? According to The Artist Way , first published in 1992, week four is dedicated to the experiment of Reading Deprivation.

Seems hard enough.

With the proliferation of electronic reading material, The Artist Way at Work , written in 1998, expands the concept to include all media. No TV, no NPR, no music with lyrics, no net surfing for pleasure, no email! Furthermore, Media Deprivation is introduced in week six in a chapter on solitude and meditative techniques entitled “Pearls of Wisdom.”

I could take the easier fork in the road, stay with the agenda of the second book, postpone the Media Deprivation for another two weeks, when coincidentally I will be out of town on vacation anyway. But, no in the spirit of our communal effort here, I’ll take on the challenge this week. I have a writing assignment at work where I find myself foot-dragging and procrastinating. I am indeed familiar with he detours and distractions of online drifting with its guilty pleasures of junk reading and window shopping, -- so here goes, 10 minutes to midnight. I'm posting my declaration for the week: no media!. Ouch. Will see how it goes.

In the meantime, noting that a picture is worth a thousand words (as the cliche goes) I'm posting a favorite photo, grabbed in New Orleans with my little Fuji camera. Photography is my husband’s creative outlet. He takes beautiful pictures. But from time to time, I get lucky -- catch a shot like this one, quite by accident.

Midnight: time to post.

Sucker-punched by The Artist's Way.

A Guest Post from Lynn Lilly, another Liggett-Stashower refugee, freelance writer, and believer in the unimaginable power of words.


You can't escape The Artists Way. Just knowing that it's out there in the Universe asking questions I ought to be answering is something (not everything, not nearly enough, but something).

I'm living my life trying not to look over at you guys who have made the commitment. It's like walking by Pottery Barn and willing yourself not to look at the beautiful things in the window because you're not quite ready to clean the crap off your dining room table so you'll have a place to put beautiful things. Too busy, too tired, too something. Don't look. Maybe later. Don't look.

But you do look. I DID look. I read the blog posts -- intimidating in their own right in their beauty. ( I still "channel" Viv and Ann when I'm writing sometimes…do you feel power leaving the hems of your robes?). And there it was…Artist's Dates.

I live in a farm town now…except that it's a university town, too. 7000 residents, 19,000 students. Think Bowling Green, think OU Athens. If you're not on campus, you're in nowhere. And even with a husband on the faculty, you're perceived as pretty much a townie, need a passport to be on campus…and they never look at you, just your faculty spouse. Plus, you're living in a town painted bloody Republican red…this is tea party central, Fox News-watching country. They still have "safe haven" faculty offices for GLBT students on campus (though, in fairness, I don't think anyone has ever needed one).

I rant. (Now and frequently).

That's why the Universe (in the guise of all of you) sent The Artist's Way to sneak up behind me…and sucker-punch me with Artist's Dates. My first thought was…"it's a good thing I didn't sign up for THIS…where the hell would you go for an Artist's Date in Statesboro, GA? Wal-mart? The pawn shop?

You already see where this is going, don't you? Inner voice -- shit, you're worse than the people you rant about. Tom Case (former boss, mentor and touchstone) -- maybe it WON'T rain. My mom's voice from The Other Side -- Scratch your butt and get glad.

So thanks. Really thanks. Keep posting for those of us still hiding in the shadows at the edge of your campfire. And if you're ever 53.7 miles due west of Savannah, Georgia, I'll take you on an Artist's Date with me. How do you feel about the tattoo parlor?



Lynn

Everything I need to know about life, I learned playing 'Zuma's Revenge.

And you thought it was the zombies who ate my brains....

'Zuma's Revenge is a computer game, devised by the genius-devils at Pop Cap. I worship those people. I want to work there. I could make up more cleverness for the frog to say while the game is loading. (And ask them HOW with a round like THAT I could end up with a lousy 22,000 points.)I bless their ingenuity and creativity so often they probably have permanent earburn.

Anyway, as we approach Reading Deprivation (and, for me, 'Zuma Withdrawal) Week of the Artist's Way, I have been musing about 'Zuma Truth as I have learned it.

Goes like this:


1. Don't wait for the perfect opportunity.

Don't be timid. Don't dither. If you don't shoot right now, your frog will get Horribly Killed.

2. Don't second-guess your previous shot.

Move on! Keep firing. A moment's doubt can cost you big time. You'll just be sitting there going, "Well, that was bad." (Ask Bill and John. I say this all the time.) And while you're doing that, your frog will get Horribly Killed.

3. It doesn't hurt to keep practicing.

If your frog is getting HK-ed all the time, go back to the Challenges and fine-tune. It's not like you know everything, Annie. You can still learn.

4. For mercy's sake: FOCUS, girl.

You snooze? It's HK for the frog. If you get distracted by thinking your score is about to be great. Or awful. Or that you're maybe a complete loser. Or, boy, is George Clooney still really hot. Or is something burning on the stove?

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Pay attention! This is your life which as the man said is "fired" at you, "pointblank." Don't miss it! It'll murder your frog. And in this case, unlike in 'Zuma, you can't get extra lives or return to the postcard and start over. Bummer.

5. Once you get the rhythm, you can dance.

There you are: Not waiting for perfection. Not second-guessing your last move. Skilled through great habits of practice. Focused like Laser Frog. Making that awesome zapping noise. Your heart is pounding. You're scared, excited, you have NO IDEA how it's going to come out. You're dancing. You've WON! Or you've lost in a way you can be satisfied with. And ready to play again.

And in the word of The Voice I can only assume must belong to the Great 'Zuma, "Oooh, Takka Oonga.

Or something like that.

And this is what I'm giving up for No Readie Week. Among many other things, like the O Magazine and serious literature. But I take with me upon the path the lessons I have learned. And share them here with you.

'ZUMA!!!

Leadership

Annie, without saying so much that you'll get embarrassed and turn all milk-toast like (not to be confused with milquetoast, because you are not timid, meek or unassertive), I just want to note what a delightful AW leader you are. You're non-threatening, you're understanding, you're persuasive should someone think he or she is dumb, do-less or drop-out-bound, and you lift us on your tide of fun and humor.

Joe