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Heading north - one more time. . .

8/29/2009

The inevitable is near. . .

When you grow up in Minnesota, you can't help it. The end of summer means one thing only. The future is predictable here; eventual and obvious.

And so, before the inevitable becomes the day-to-day, we make a run for it.

I'm off to the Northshore, one more time.

Earlier this summer, I went north. North west, however, is not north shore. No loon call, no gulls.

This time, I'm taking due north - snaking the roads that parallel the highways to get my fill.

The leaves, they say, are beginning to turn.

The sky here, in this sleepy little city, promises the end of my summer.

Bring it on - - and in the meanwhile, I'll chase it down.

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Recession, writing, and keeping it real. . .

8/27/2009

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Writing the real life. . .

The cafe where I do my creative work is on an empty little street in the center of my lost little city. St. Paul scrambles through this recession with the heart of a street fighter; fierce in determination to make it through the night - committed to keeping the lights on, the traffic moving, the appearances upbeat.

Before the lunch crowd descends, I make my way to the corner table by the window.

It's a privilege to live like this - unfettered by the nonsense and worry other assign to "security." Those of us who write and fend like this are not entitled to worry. The life is a good one; simple and clear. And so we don't.

Instead, we take our mornings in bright sunshine, filtered through dusty windows in shabby cafes around this struggling town - and when the muse assaults, we roll over, play dead and write for a living.

Before I was old enough to know how hard this would be, I imagined writers as one considers Fitzgerald, Hemmingway - or even Sinclair Lewis.

Celebrated at every stage of their artistic lives, living as a Steinbeck or a Salinger, in beautiful country homes, attended to by a doting, adoring spouse, unfettered and free to think, create and thrive.

It took me a long time to get over that fantasy. Assisting in the death of that idea was the experience of warching August Wilson, morning after morning, slouch at the bar at W.A. Frost, writing "The Piano Lesson."

Poor as a church mouse, his face was lit with a beacon of iconic insight. A genius, I suppose. Still, like all the rest of us, Wilson wrote, one word at a time.

The late Paul Gruchow once whined to me about the few spots he could identify for publication of his odd brand of writing. Paul wrote about trees, prairie, farmland - and there were, and are, multitudes of others writing the same thing, seeking a venue for their work. How, oh how, would Paul ever sustain his energy? Why didn't everyone get out of his way and let him be published?

When he finished his rant, I reminded him that creativity is not a competitive sport. Nor is it a team effort. Writing requires concentrated attention to the solitary investment of time, agony and self-indulgence.

"Then why does it feel like that?" he asked.

I don't know, I replied. And I realized - once again, I am alone. Because it does not feel competitive at all - not to me.

I'm not in this to beat anyone. I'm in this to beat back something - the vague, unsettling haunt that life might be, without my energy infused at every moment, meaningless.

Writers write to bring order, meaning and agenda to the vague, random assaults of reality.

Here, light breaking through dust, things fall, like early autumn death, into place.

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The senator is dead

8/26/2009

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And now a Kennedy has died of old age. Gray hair, legislative legacy, and the crowds pouring forward to call him blessed; it's a beautiful thing. I haven't seen this happen in my lifetime.

I remember where I was when John F. Kennedy was announced assassinated - my eighth grade Spanish class with Senior Saucedo - sitting next to Joy Nedoff and giggling about Loren Gilbertsen's steady stare.

Robert F. Kennedy died before our eyes on national television - and John F. Kennedy Junior was taken from us long before we had the opportunity to test his fitness for public life.

But Ted? He went on and on. Past Chappaquiddick, beyond divorce, alcoholism, the sex-abuse scandal of the nephew in his custody -past the rumored misconduct with a wide variety of young women - all the way to marriage with a young wife.

Teddy missed the bullets - dodged the scandals, and outlived the negatives that assailed his life.

The good he has done will be with us forever. The evil with which he gambled and bartered his immortal soul will haunt forever the families of those he personally injured and neglected.

Reinhold Niebuhr wrote a study on the human condition titled, MORAL MAN AND IMMORAL SOCIETY. His thesis was that the individual righteousness of a person cannot survive, nor can it prevail in community with other moral agents.

Kennedy proved this to be so. A man who prevails will be redeemed. Irrespective of his sin. Irrespective of his crime. His good deeds will follow him as his children rise and call him "blessed."

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Building the future by honoring the present

8/26/2009

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The economy is on the rebound; still, in some parts of the nation, unemployment is creeping into the double digits. How are things where you are? What has this economic downturn meant to your personal life, your business, your hopes for the future?

I'll be posting daily here, and letting you know how the economy affects the people around me. Share your perspectives, and let's keep in touch.

As all of this repairs, our national complexion will be more open, caring and decent. Our shared values and common ground emerges as we join together and look forward.

I look forward to hearing from you!

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Heading north - one more time. . .

The inevitable is near. . .

Recession, writing, and keeping it real. . .

Writing the real life. . .

The senator is dead

Building the future by honoring the present

My blog and welcome to it!

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