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barton cole :: veni, vedi, vero scripsi
 Saturday, January 03, 2009
A good friend tells me of “morphic resonance” – I won’t explain it as he does (he’s an intellectual), but you’ll get the idea.
For instance, he says, let’s say you’re walking along, and spot a rubber band on the ground. You pick it up, but not after making a conscious decision – not, “Hey, I might need that.” No, you just pick it up and put it in your pocket.
And sure enough, he explains, in a short time, you encounter a situation that requires a rubber band. And you have one.
Morphic resonance.
He told me of this little concept a month or so ago, and I’ve been eager to investigate the phenomenon… which might be a bit tricky, since it seems key to not engage with the object you find, you just pick it up with no agenda or expectation.
Today, just as I was leaving to go work on an outdoor project for a client in my neighborhood, I went into my office and fetched a piece of paper. I thought it was an obsolete printed document from a stash of scrap paper, but it was a virgin sheet of 8 ½ x 11. I folded it in quarters and put it in my pocket.
Not long after, I was working away, and hear, down the hill, my friend – who happens to live next door to the client for whom I was working – calls out and asks if I can help him pick up some furniture from a friend here in town.
I walked down the hill and into his house.
He needed to write a note, but couldn’t find a piece of scratch paper. I had one in my pocket, so I gave it to him. He tore off a quarter of it and handed me the rest.
We got the furniture; a bit later, I headed down at his house for hot tea, but wrote a note for my client, telling her I would be back in half an hour to discuss the project, and tucked it in the window of my truck. Then I headed down the hill.
During our brief visit, my friend was telling me about a Bob Dylan tune he thought I should know, and wanted to write the title down. He remembered that I had the paper.
Now I had a quarter of it left.
When I left my friend’s house, his wife offered me a cookie, a gluten-free Pfeffernuss (don’t laugh, it was a killer cookie). She wanted to roll it in the confectioner’s sugar, and after doing so, said, “Oh, now I need a napkin to put it on for you, so you can take it away.”
“No problem,” I said, and whipped out the last of the paper.
I had used it all, and without planning it.
Morphic resonance.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Here we are, on the first day of a new year.
Among many interesting conversations last night at Tom Bombadil’s house at the end of a road in my little town, a bit outside space and time, we talked of the arbitrary nature of our calendar. New Year’s Day? Just another day.
And yet – when we collectively embrace turning a page, wiping the slate clean, you can’t escape it – it’s like planting peas on President’s Day in my part of the world – that’s the day to begin the Spring Garden, and that’s all there is to it (to reduce it to a protocol an amoeba could comprehend).
I don’t go in for the New Year’s Resolution bit, though, but prefer to generate a “Manifest List.” I write down the things I want to bring into my life in the new year, and even try to examine things and determine what ballast I should jettison.
Five years ago today – 1 January 2004 – I again attempted to develop the habit of writing daily. I had always had determination to be a writer, after having learned that my mother, who died when I was a wee boy, was a writer, and not only that, but a good one. I wanted to fulfill her legacy.
Lots of people want to be writers, but it’s like wanting to be a gardener (two samples, now, of my favorite source of metaphor and aphorism) – you don’t talk about it, you clear a plot of ground, plant seeds, and water them!
Want to be a writer?
You write.
So although I had tried the discipline of daily writing, I would peter out after a month, or maybe two – that’s a lot of work.
But five years ago, it stuck. I started on the first day of the year, and kept it up, and kept it up, and never looked back (not true – I read the crap occasionally). I kept typing, and in a sense, learned some things about being a writer. Learned how to type, for one.
[My philosophy, really, is that you don’t tell people what you do: “I’m an actor,” or, “I'm a poet,” [hearing that is like nails on a chalkboard] or, “I'm a ____.” No, what you do, instead, is what you do, and if it matters, people will catch you in the act of doing it – as a wise friend put it to an extreme example of this that he’d encountered, “Who you say you are is speaking so loudly about who you think you are that I can’t hear who you are.”]
But yes, I’m a writer, because I write every fucking day.
I haven’t missed a day in the last five years. I track my word count, occasionally (it will take me a week or two to get caught up on the last quarter of 2008), and discovered last year that if I kept up on my current word count average, I’d hit over two-and-a-half million words in the last five years – which counts all but email and incidental text… take a look at that subtitle up above: “confessions of a compulsive typist;” may you be able to handle being an email correspondent of mine).
In 2005, I spent a couple of weeks in Europe in the winter. I wrote every day. Didn’t have a machine, so I wrote by hand, all the time, everything. Thirty thousand words in two weeks, by hand. That felt like an achievement.
Then, after returning to my island off the northwest coast of amerika, I had to be my own emanuensis and type it all into a file, so I’d have it in the archives.
Last year (summer of 2008), I was in Europe again, but this time, I had a laptop. Not only that, but I had a handsome and ultra-durable (and mildly chunky) Pelican Case – as I have described that to friends, “You can put the computer in it, throw it off Seattle’s Aurora Bridge (a historic destination for suicides, once upon a time, who didn’t mind ending life in Lake Union far below), go down and fish it out of the water, open the case, and get back to work.”
My companions complained, once, about the imposing laptop case – I didn’t have it in a slender neoprene sleeve, as is customary, it seems, but in this sturdy case.
“You might find my laptop case a burden, but don’t you think the Secrets of the Universe should be kept safe?”
It was a bit easier to write daily with a machine along. In fact, I’m fond of this photo of me typing away on the train from Amsterdam to Paris. Now, having completed five years of that gig, I want to diversify a bit, so we’re cranking up this weblog. I don’t intend to be attached to posting daily, but frequently, at least.
Now, I just installed the blog software at the domain a couple of days ago, in anticipation of today’s embarkation, so don’t be alarmed if the appearance is altered now and then – I haven’t had a chance to modify the theme, but I will. The interface might change, but the content will truck on, and right steadily.
Care to join me?
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