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August 26, 2008
Compass or Cow?
Apparently now you have a choice - when you go for a hike, and you're concerned about getting lost, you can either bring your compass or a cow. I know - it's not much of a choice: the compass is far less useful than the cow, now that we know that cows tend to point their bodies toward Earth's magnetic poles. Add to that the fact that they are wonderful hiking companions and if fresh, will provide milk for lunch, it's a pretty easy choice. The compass can only mutely point it's little hand. Where's the poetry in that?
Posted by pgutwin at 10:39 AM | Comments (0)
August 19, 2008
Being Together
Nothing beats riding with your friends and family. It's great to just enjoy the ride or chat about life or the condition of the road or impending weather. But if the wind is blowing or the traffic is real bad, it can be hard to hear your companions. If everyone is an experienced rider, you can bunch right up and that's fun too, but with inexperienced riders or kids, it's a little dicey.
A couple weeks ago Becca and I were out for a ride and we passed a family on a quad. Way cool! Of course these bikes are not a causal investment - aside from the cost, just moving the bike can be a challenge. They don't fit on "normal" car top bike carriers, and they are pretty long - you'll have to have a serious van to move it.
That said, I can image for some families this is real boon. The family we passed sure seemed to be having a good time. But you know, just being out and about is a good time too...whatever it is get out there and do it.
Posted by pgutwin at 9:14 AM | Comments (0)
August 17, 2008
Screen Door Slam
I’m working on my second incomplete novel. More precisely, I’m not working on the novel. I’m writing this. Unfinished novels are difficult things to live with: you can’t write, but you can’t not write.
My writing studio is located in my summer cottage in Maine. Sitting here I can see the beach behind a line of trees. My writing career started right here in this room – I rented this cottage for a few weeks years ago, and the uninterrupted time, a decent story idea and the desire to create something real all produced a story that was eventually turned into a script that went on to become a moderately successful television movie. I didn’t become rich, but I earned enough so that money no longer was a concern.
That first movie script was followed by more work in the entertainment field. These aren’t elegant or profound writing challenges, but there was a certain craftsmanship about it that kept me going. I looked for time to sink deep into my own writing, but during those days in the business that never happened. Finally, the work stopped coming, maybe because I started turning down work or maybe my style wasn’t appealing any more. It doesn’t matter – I was done.
Despite all the writing I’ve done, I’m still puzzled by the process. When the writing is happening, it comes from some other place, from someplace outside what I think of as me. Of course there’s a part that’s mechanical, like looking up place names or getting the order of people coming into the room just right. I feel like I’m thinking about that. But the part that makes the writing alive – that’s a mystery.
The Greeks said the Muses provide the inspiration. That doesn’t make sense to me. Even though the Muses were gods, they were people-like and somehow that makes them incapable of creating the livingness of the words. People – and gods for that matter – are too wrapped up in all their tangled emotions - confused and slightly dazed. The liveness of writing is pure, far purer than seems possible to come from people or gods.
For me, the writing comes from some place. Not the description kind of place (It happened on the corner of North and Main officer…) but a real living breathing kind of place with ants and trees, rain, old leaves and scraps of lumber and sidewalks. I don’t mean it comes from the dirt and rocks and dead leaves themselves but what some call the Gaia or the living earth. The living earth contains everything – plastic bags and fire hydrants, rotten banana peals – simply everything.
So now here’s my secret: the place my writing comes from is the little entry way just on the south east corner of the cottage. That little hall is the easiest way to get from the cottage out to the beach, and is usually full of tracked-in sand and cluttered with dropped beach paraphernalia. It’s right next to my studio – through that door right there. I leave the door open a little, so whatever is in there can make it into my studio.
I’ve tried to write in other places. Once I rented a studio in Santa Cruse for about a year. It was absolutely beautiful – I could see the beach, and there was a delightful set of café’s down on the street below where I could go get a coffee or meet friends for lunch. I was able to crank out material, but it was fake. There was no life in it, and I stopped going there to write. There were other places that were even worse. Everything that I wrote there just seemed plastic and dead.
So after a while I stopped looking for another place to write, and came back here to work. It was terribly inconvenient and I had to make excuses to my colleagues in the entertainment business on why I was spending so much time in Maine.
I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out why this little hall is so important. Sitting in the hall and sitting next to it in my studio is about the same – being close seems to be the important thing. When I ask myself too many questions about why, the writing just stops dead. So I don’t think about it much, and have just accepted it.
And one final odd thing: if there are others in the house, and there are comings and goings, and the screen door slams, the writing comes fast and furious. I love having a full cottage. Everything seems to work best then, although when they all leave and the cottage settles down to earth, there’s a wonderful afterglow that also pushes the writing up and out of the hall.
So I sit here and wait for the screen door in the entry way to slam, so I know that the writing will come soon. You can picture me right now, sitting here watching the waves, listening to the gulls and the rain. Waiting.
Posted by pgutwin at 9:06 AM | Comments (0)
August 11, 2008
Final Days for Geneva
Yet another reason to visit Switzerland as soon as possible: There are only a few days left before Geneva Switzerland disappears in a black hole created by the Large Hadron Collider. Actually, the chances of this happening are approximately 1x10-24, about the same chance that the Pope will declare me a Saint in the next 20 minutes.
Other than that, the Collider will generate data over the next few years that will keep physicists busy for decades.
Posted by pgutwin at 7:06 AM | Comments (0)
August 1, 2008
Winging it, April & May
I'm a sucker for outrageous coincidences. Take for example my last airline flight with two flight attendants named April and May. Even more beautiful: April wasn't her actual name, but a nickname for Abigail.
The mind boggles.
Posted by pgutwin at 8:15 PM | Comments (0)
Not So Much Fun
"Some people" complain that the swim section of a Triathlon is the worst part. My experience of this is at a safe distance and on dry land, and while it looks a little chaotic, it doesn't look threatening, just annoying and difficult.
Apparently the swim is not just annoying. Two recent deaths have prompted the New York Times to write an article on the risks associated with the swim section of the Triathlon.
Triathlons are a cool concept, but the mass swim thing just isn't safe. Low in the choppy water with lots of elbows & feet flying is just plain dangerous. Sadly, more will have to suffer and die before this part of a mostly enjoyable sport is reinvented.
Posted by pgutwin at 8:30 AM | Comments (0)