Yak Back

I have been living in Europe for the last few years, and upon return, I’ve noticed a few things of irkish nature, things that seem more resolutely “American” than ever.  I’ve become aware of these things through interactions, but also in the re-emergence of old habits and patterns that run rather deep within myself (although I’m having a hard time convincing myself that being caught red-handed (by myself) halfway through shoveling a jar of crunchy peanut butter into my face is society’s fault). 

First—my propensity towards consumption has been disconcerting.  Not just food, but technology as well.  Hashtags ‘n shit.  Specifically, the quality of my consumption—namely how I consume.  What’s the point of checking my email 5-10 times a day if I’m not going to sit down and really answer them?  What about eating food while standing up, which contradicts my scoffing at drive-thru goers?  Being constantly available to texts and emails has led to an anxious ambient tension; an unconscious concern for missing out; a frenetic radar for stimulation, constantly scanning all horizons.  

I wouldn’t consider myself unhurried or calm by most measures (aforementioned peanut butter binge—case in point), but I’ve noticed that this hunger for consumption has altered the way that we—yes, I will risk generalization here—interact significantly.  What struck me most immediately upon return was Conversation, and namely the lack thereof.

Growing up in America, I guess I’ve been hardwired to shoot breeze, to la-tee-da it with one and all, to keep up with the Joneses (and Clintons, and Bushes—wait, did big money just get into small talk?!?! Sorry, had to…).  To Talk Small.  

Small Talk is Uncle Sam’s bread and butter.  It’s what we’re known for—gregarious openness, saying “how are you” and not meaning a lick of it.  For the collective effervescence of getting along, that lighthearted demeanor that most foreigners construe as superficiality; or, as some might have it, “friendliness.”

[Digression: I can’t help but think of that scene in The Italian Job—which I watched countless times as a teenager, for reasons still unbeknownst to me (let’s just say it’s hard to forgive yourself for at some point or other truly believing that Mark Wahlberg was cool)—where Donald Sutherland asks Charlize Theron how she’s doing, and she responds with, well, what else—“fine.”  

“You know what “fine” stands for?” he counters.  “Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional.”  

Shitty movie, but a good point.  End, Digression.]

Friendliness is the great American social virtue.  But in being tainted by our penchant for consumption, social exchanges have felt wildly A.D.D. and random to me—simply anything but a pause, god forbid silence.  Since I’ve been back (I was living mostly in Germany), conversation has felt, at times, like escapism.

I never knew the quality of speaking slowly until I could speak German at a proficient level.  Somewhere amidst my progression towards fluency, desperately grasping for words in order to translate the images in my head became a steadied and measured feeling of pace, of allowing for space between words, and larger silences between sentences—space for thoughts to begin materializing into language.  Intention became more than a buzzword.  And in learning another language, I’ve intuitively begun recalibrating my relationship to my mother tongue.  I like when conversations stay on topic, and can test myself to see if there’s something hiding in me that I didn’t realize I thought.  More than anything, I relish when people take a moment to consider what they’re to say next; it reminds me of what makes music interesting—the tension of the space between the notes.  

Venting and Pontificating aside (oh…wait, there’s more of that…), Small Talk stunt doubles as context and the ultimate human lubricant (yes, that is the only word I can use there)—humor.  The exchange of X’s and O’s.  Valuable grease, really—good stuff.   Not just for networking/connecting, but especially when leveraged as fertile ground for Big Talk.  And in the grander scheme of things, Small Talk is beautiful in that it might be our most accomplished democratic tendency—breeze can be shot between most anyone.  

If anything, this is a declaration of a desired way of being; a reminder, and an affirmation: if this is the type of conversation I’m seeking for, pointing my finger at gross American culture isn’t going to help me get it.  

Guess I’m going to have to take this spoon out of my mouth first.

I Thought to be Slow

Capped like an electric wheelchair

whining to consume more parquet tiles

racing down the hallway

I'm counting until the moon--

there are no more numbers now

just a brow scrunched like vacuum sealed packaging.

Mr. Penny used to ride his bicycle

while we were shooting hoops,

baggy shorts, the newest shoes,

six out of ten from the free throw line.

Forgive me, Lord of my Childhood,

for peeing at the roots of the tree that

hoisted us away from Mom's

calls for supper.

Forgive me—

Down in my meadow, knee-deep in the

weeds of this mind.

Why and I Watching MarieTV?

Because my brother does!  So... basically, he's the uncool one, but I'm going to cherrypick all the creativity cred and chuck a duce before anyone realizes what actually happened...



CLIFF(bar) NOTES (paraphrasing):

"I'm not interested in conquering fear.  Fear protects us.  But fear doesn't know the difference between a genuinely dangerous situation and a creative endeavor because creativity is such a new part of our brains."

Talk to your fear--"So, thanks for coming along, I know how vitally important you are to my safety, but we don't need you on this one."

Originality vs. Authenticity --"It may have been done before, but it has not been done by YOU.  There are no new stories to tell.  They've all been told before.  We're just borrowing from each other.  But the humanity in an authentic piece of creation is what moves our hearts."

"Helping people is a side effect of creativity, and ALL HELP IS A SIDE EFFECT OF LOVE.  Love where you are, what you're doing, and you'll start radiating, and making everyone better around you.  That's the best thing that you can do for your community."

"Don't murder your creativity by insisting that it will pay the bills.  We're all adults here.  Let's be honest that if you try really hard at something, it doesn't mean that you're going to get everything that you've been dreaming about."

"Perfectionism is a serial killer.  True perfectionist don't even start."

"Done is better than good.  what will make you finish things is not discipline, but self-forgiveness."

"When did inspiration promise you anything other than dancing with it for a while?  There's no better thing to do in life than to say yes to that invitation."

"Your project is not a human baby.  If anything, you're your own project's baby.  That's why you have to let your creativity out, because it has you as a project, it's building you, it's creating you."


Or... you could just watch it yourself.  Please do.

Home

Lips:

Cedar woods that my breath

Ebbs though.

Flow:

Light into the corners of your eyes

Where I see for the first time the colors of the land

We grew up in.

Did you know:

Light has a consciousness of its own?

Me:

Down on my fields.

Love:

Light, as ever,

Conscious of its own.

And no Dream but This---

You are standing on a bridge,
watching yourself go by.

Notes from a Summer, V

I guess this is growing up—the feathers that found themselves in my fingers while weeding, the way the sky triumphantly marched cloud after cloud across the sky but only rained once. Watching my hands hoe the greenhouse dirt as if they themselves were the challenge of staying present; they hardly have to do with it. The days are starting to blend together like watercolors… ah, to know the feeling of a cloud that wants to spread its roots.

Notes from a Summer, IV

I know how midday’s heat

Gnashes its teeth

And how watching the sun burn out

Next to the wildflowers is a religious

Experience if you allow yourself the

Ideleness to watch your own flame

Still and hush beneath the sweat

Dark blanket of your own night:

Solitude.

Notes from a Summer, III

Wind from the west, wind

From the east,

Birds drawing faint

Lines across my vision—

They’re still singing so I guess

It won’t rain too long.

I’ve been trying to lay these

Thoughts down, hold

Their heads and set them

Gently in the dirt,

Let the streaking rain

Pierce through them and shoot

Into the earth like roots.

Being good is hard.

It constantly requires the more

Difficult of two choices

To be made. 

I could keep trying to plant 

These thoughts, or

Take off my clothes and run

Wild in the rain. Slowly,

The clouds are wisked apart--

Swept east, 
Swept west. 

Notes from a Summer, pt. II

A flurry of edges, of outcasts,

Those things seemingly beyond principle—

A rusted tractor gathering color,

The soggy noodles and plain sauce served

Luke-warm to cold on Friday (and “thank you

For cooking, Hauke”), small children

Calling their parents by their first name.

Yesterday, tribes of rain clouds

Parted and twisted slowly

Amongst themselves, incense

After the rain dance that

We didn’t perform.

Sometimes, a day will

Cock its head and look at you

Sideways. When this happens,

Gather your things, and

Go stand on the upper field,

Amongst the whipping heads of wild flowers.

See what doesn’t fly away.

Notes From a Summer, pt. I

These days,

I’ve been learning the shape of

My solitude, it’s bleached and simmering

Horizons, rutted back roads with a wheel

Stuck in the squelch that someone

Gave up on. These days, I’ve been

Tracing the lines of the face 

Of my silence 

With eyes closed, 

With the curiosity of

A first love, a child, an artist.

These days…

The waves I send crashing upon

Your shore don’t know if they’re supposed to

Slap you or lick you clean

Because these waves,

They are learning to disappear.