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Navel Gazing About Learning to Use Public Transportation

September 7, 2017 Leave a comment

So yesterday I used SEPTA for the first time. Route 40, starting at the corner of Lombard and 9th, disembarking the bus at 36th in West Philadelphia. I found myself outside of University of Pennsylvania’s Perelman Quadrangle.

In Michigan I didn’t live in a place that made public transportation practical. I got everywhere by by driving myself around. I have used public transportation in other cities: Chicago, New York, Paris, Washington, D.C., and Toronto. But I’ve never used it before in the city in which I live.

It’s seems like there’s some kind of unwritten rule about traveling on buses and on the subway. Don’t talk, don’t make eye contact. That could be me. Back home, in the Midwest, everyone was unbearably friendly. Meet someone on the street? Say hi. Maybe even give them a high five. All in good fun, right? I find the silence and public transportation introversion weird, especially because Anastasia says that Americans tend to be loud and garrulous.

It’s a small thing, but I think that this is a big step for me. Getting around without a car is actually a learning experience. Case in point: after dinner at Landmark Americana (in which I ate a scrumptious chicken dish), Anastasia and I had to get back home in the rain. Okay, so we took the Market Street subway line, the entrance of which was a short walk from the entrance of the restaurant.  We took the train to the 8th and Market Street stop, but to get home required a bit of a hike.

If I had my car I could have just driven from West Philadelphia to Queen Village, and then to our place in Bella Vista. And now that I think about it, I totally got the geography of the city wrong. Queen Village is past Bella Vista, where we live, when coming from West Philadelphia. Typically, Anastasia and I stroll over to Penn’s Landing, which is on the eastern side of the city. The gallery below are a few snapshots I took on a trip to the Delaware River.

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And this touches on why, for me, public transportation and walking is better than driving with a car. I am learning the layout of the city, the bus routes, and the boundaries of the neighborhoods in a way that I couldn’t if I were merely following the disembodied voice of my GPS. I am learning how to live in a city, and the learning curve is steeper than I thought. I wonder if there will ever come a time when living here becomes “ho-hum,” and I get so used to it that it fails to impress.

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If You Ever Need Anything…

August 7, 2017 Leave a comment

About a year ago I found an old phone of mine. A black Blackberry Style, the last flip phone I ever owned and one which I reluctantly traded-in for an accursed iPhone 5c. The blasted thing had to be replaced a few months after I got it because the battery shuffled off it’s mortal cathode and expanded, destroying its guts. I still use the replacement 5c that Apple sent, which is itself starting to fail now.

Anyway, a micro SD card occupied the slot for the Blackberry’s memory card, and it contained pictures and files that I thought lost. Among them I had stored a profoundly important message from my mother, sent to me in a vulnerable time. I received it shortly after I had returned to the University of Michigan after I had taken a medical leave, and I hadn’t yet regained firm footing.

The message itself boasts naught but silliness; it had a picture of a dog, morphed by the magic of digital jiggery-pokery to appear as if it could speak. A robotic voice translated the text of my mother’s message to speech: “Hi there, Joshua. I love you, honey. I’m always here for you. If you ever need anything I’m always here.” I downloaded the file onto the phone’s micro SD card and kept it with me for as long as I possessed the phone.

I lost track of it sometimes after the bedeviling iPhone replaced it, and I made peace with that loss. My grandfather likes to collect old electronics, so it may have found its place betwixt a vintage Motorola Digital Personal Communicator (aka, the Post-Reagan Grey Brick) and some forlorn rotary telephone. Strangely enough, I found it in its original packaging, wedged between a box for a Canon SLR tripod and a stack of old magazines in the computer room closet.

I essentially tore open the box, hoping to find the phone and micro SD card inside, like some mediocre pirate treasure. To my great relief, and no small amount of astonishment, I discovered both. I pulled the micro SD card from the phone, set it into an adapter, and plugged it into my XPS M1330. I crossed my fingers and uttered a chant to whichever passing deity cared to notice, hoping that the tired, worn computer would recognize the card.

Good fortune smiled upon me as the computer recognized the card, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, the XPS had to ruin the moment and demand what in Hades it should do with the card. “Duh. Open it, you caliginous pile of replacement parts,” I said, perhaps a skosh more vicious than the laptop deserved. In fairness, it did call to mind the Ship of Theseus. I may have melted the motherboard once.

I downloaded the files onto my laptop and sorted through them, like I discovered an ancient archive. Old pictures of erstwhile friends and of my cousin during her toddler years. Pictures I had taken during my time at the University of Michigan and around Ann Arbor. Snapshots of a trip to Chicago and Ohio. I hadn’t realized that I had lost so much, and that loss swept over me like a wave. Old emotions boiled and churned, bubbling to the surface.

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I wonder why we hang on to those feelings, those long, dark winters within ourselves. The pictures inspired rumination of my mistakes, meditations on what I might have done differently, and regret over those that I had lost over the years. Happy memories, buried beneath the rubble of past false steps, only deepened the paroxysms. I stand in awe of a picture’s power to conjure our most powerful emotions, based on the movement of infinitesimal electrons and the translation of patterns of 0’s and 1’s into small squares of color arranged in very specific patterns. These two concepts don’t seem related in the slightest, yet when I see the arrangement of those squares into recognizable images the emotion is triggered.

That tangent illustrates an important truth: our minds, like the pictures we keep, are snapshots of the past. Neurons and chemical composition, not binary, store them. Our minds, however, often fail to accurately capture strands of past events. Emotions, evocative of everything from turmoil to peace, color our memories and bias us. We don’t truly get an exact rendering of reality, but a caricature of it. Pictures represent a paradox in that they both elucidate our memories and cloud them; we see a part of the whole and fill gaps with fiction or guesses.

When I found the file that my mother sent me I downloaded it. I didn’t have any media players capable of properly opening the extension, .32G. They could playback the video, but without sound. I decided to store the file in three locations (I love data redundancy, and you should too) and decided to put off finding a codec or a media player that could handle it. The file, stored in binary, resided in three hard drives, existing but simultaneously not existing. In my mind, pushed aside. In the drives, 0’s and 1’s that bore little relation to my memory of the content of the file.

It stayed in that limbo of existence and nonexistence until last night. I flipped through some old files and found it there and felt a mighty urge to see it. “If you ever need anything…” It lived in my mind, just on the edge of hearing. So I took to the internet, laid some waste with my superior google-fu, and installed VLC media player.

I pressed play and listened to the message spoken by a silly dog. My back straightened and I felt more resilient, as if it had staunched the flood of bad memories. I didn’t ruminate or obsess. The words galvanized me; inspired me to find a better context in which to put these old feelings and recollections. The memories were linked to a depression that had once gripped me very tightly, and that message was a bulwark against it.

I love you too, mom.

Moving to Philadelphia

August 5, 2017 Leave a comment

Despite almost two months of exploration, Philadelphia remains enigmatic. I didn’t really have a clear idea as to what I was expecting when I moved here from Lansing, Michigan in early June, but the city does have a storied reputation. Certain persons familiar with the culture warned me that my special brand of Midwestern charm wouldn’t play well in the land of cheesesteaks and cracked copper bells. This proved to be true in part, but I think that’s just a consequence of large cities with a lot of people (assholes) living closely together.

It’s a city that, in many respects, stands outside of time even as new buildings rise in the skyline. A visit to the Independence National Historic Park is a trip to the past. You’re greeted by actors in period garb who speak in a language fitting the time, and you’re treated to fairly awe-inspiring artifacts of American history. The charm of Revolutionary America is juxtaposed against a modern metropolis, but as you learn more about the city you see the facade slowly drop. If the “historic” buildings weren’t rebuilt based on the originals, they languished for many years in various states of disrepair. And, sadly, this aura permeates the city in one form or another.

I don’t mean to be too critical. I have really enjoyed living in Philadelphia so far, and compared to where I came from in Michigan there’s always something to do or to see. The fact is, however, that Philadelphia is also trapped by time. From the rows of houses that are over a hundred years old to the disrepair of the roads and sidewalks, the city needs a fresh coat of paint. Beyond modernizing some of the older parts of the city, I don’t know what that means. I think that the city would lose much of its character if it were to bulldoze older buildings to rebuild. However, it would be nice not to trip and hurt yourself because the bricks on the sidewalk jut out at odd angles.

The actual move here was a comedy of errors, built on a foundation of inexperience and some bad luck. My fiancee, Anastasia, who is finishing her PhD at the University of Pennsylvania, provided the main motivation to transplant myself. Prior to this move I had never lived in a city as big as Philadelphia, and had never moved beyond the borders of Michigan.

In the past I had thought about moving. Lansing felt stifling, and though it is the capital city of Michigan, it doesn’t have that much going for it. Back in the day, before Michigan lost much of its car manufacturing base, Lansing was home to many General Motors plants and factories. Several other factories that supported the automobile industry also flourished, and the rails that now sit rusty and unused transported materials through the city and the state. Maybe it’s just time playing tricks on me, but the promise of Lansing seems a relic of the past. It felt so much bigger and alive when I was a child growing up there. If anything symbolizes Lansing now, the corrupt state legislature that finds its home there wins the prize. The legislative body’s infamy brings us such fine examples of healthy democratic debate as the time that they censored a female State Representative for saying the word “vagina” during a women’s health discussion.

Obviously, I needed something more. I didn’t really get the kick in the pants I needed until April of 2016, when I was diagnosed with nonrheumatic mitral valve stenosis. Initially I shrugged my shoulders and threw it into my collection of heart conditions. In late 2016, after suffering from bouts of tachycardia, hypertension, and fairly severe chest pain I started taking the beta-blocker metoprolol. All of this is to say that a black hole spaghettified any doubt or reservations I had about leaving.

Last October I took a trip with Anastasia to New York City, where I proposed next to the USS Intrepid. We had thrown around the idea for a while. I asked her before we took the trip, and I told her about my plan to give her a suitable amount of time to ponder her answer before I presented the ring and asked. Tethering your life to another’s is a huge decision, obviously, and I wouldn’t want anyone to make it on the fly in a situation where they’re put in the spotlight.

My proposal did not go as planned for two reasons: 1) New York City was soggy (as can be seen in the picture on the left) and 2) I do not like to do things in front of other people (which is strange for someone who ran for public office and used to perform stand-up comedy). My plan to propose on the flight deck was scrapped on account of the proposal-hating precipitation. I altered the plan to propose in the Star Trek Academy Experience in honor of our nature as irredeemable geeks. Sadly other people had the impudence to explore the Academy.

So I proposed next to the Intrepid at twilight, under the faint orange glow of light emanating from posts on the pier. I removed a ring box from my pocked with the Starfleet Insignia on the top, and as I opened it I asked “Engage?” The ring I presented was in the shape of the Starship Enterprise. Yes, the weather and the annoying people sharing the museum with us rued the day they tried to foil my plans.

At this point I didn’t have any solid plans about moving to Philadelphia, despite the engagement and the newfound bond I shared with Anastasia. At first we kept the whole enterprise hidden in fear that people would disapprove (I also kept the engagement hidden from everyone but my mother and Anastasia for the same reason, which proved to be entirely unnecessary). As future husband and wife, we conspired together to make the move to the City of Brotherly Love happen sometime within the next year.

Now we’re skipping ahead to early June to avoid boring you with tedious issues. I had given my boss a month’s advance notice of my departure, said my good-byes, and packed most of my junk. I made the trip with my mother and her boyfriend, and despite what I thought was a sufficient plan the trip was plagued with problems from the start. A few days before, I had paid a mechanic to change my oil and serpentine belt and take a look at the engine. Pretty responsible, right?

Wrong. I apparently forgot to ask them to rotate the tires and look at the brakes. Oh, how this would come back to haunt me. Most of the trip was uneventful. Pennsylvania’s splendor suitably impressed me, sure, but it’s a long trip from Lansing, through Ohio, and across the entire state of Pennsylvania. Somewhere outside of Harrisburg I heard a mysterious whine issuing from the front left area of my car. Great, I thought. It’s either the brake or a bearing. I had a definitive answer when the whine turned into a grind just an hour away from Philadelphia. At this point I grew anxious and hoped, vainly, we could get the car to my house before the rotor took any damage.

We had entered Philadelphia, and were a mere half a mile away from my house, but luck was not on my side. Right by Independence Hall the car lurched to a stop as the wheel locked up. A sound not unlike the wail of a moose with laryngitis emanated from the car, attracting the attention of several pedestrians. The stop and go traffic of the city, and the ensuing use of the brakes, had led to the gouging of the rotor. We resolved to drive the car to the house, whether or not it wanted to, and it did not want to go. I had to drive it around the city for a few days while I googled mechanics to have it repaired, and apart from the shrieking protests of the brake grinding against the rotor, the car suffered no additional harm. Total damage: about $735 to have the rotors, brake pads, and calipers replaced.

We manged to get the car fixed before we had to get to a wedding near Boston. Our route took us through New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, and finally Massachusetts and we suffered no incident. Anastasia and I both enjoyed the wedding, a version of a traditional Hindu ceremony, in which we witnessed the joining of a very close friend of mine from the University of Michigan, Nidhi Shrivastava, with her long-time boyfriend. We stayed over night and gorged on delicious Indian food.

Our path back to Philadelphia copied the route there fairly closely, but in reverse. Somewhere in New York, Anastasia’s Google Maps app took it upon itself to decide that because the New Jersey Turnpike had a four minute delay, we would need to reroute to bypass it. Anastasia said at the time, “this route takes us closer to New York City than I’d like,” but we essentially shrugged our shoulders and continued to drive. I’m sure that my astute readers can tell where this is going. As we ventured further into New York traffic started to get thicker and slow down. A sign caught my attention: we had entered the Bronx.

Uh-oh.

I turned to Anastasia and I said, “We’re in the Bronx. Why are we in the Bronx?” She looked at the cursed Google Maps app. The damn thing had noted that small delay on the turnpike and decided, “Hey, you know what would be a gas? Let’s route these innocent Midwesterners through the Bronx and Manhattan. That won’t be terrifying at all.”

I dreaded the idea of driving through Manhattan. I fretted as I drove in bumper-to-bumper traffic, next to a guy in some late-90’s convertible who loved his expletives. But Anastasia threw me a lifeline: I only had to drive along 9A by Hudson Heights, get onto the George Washington Bridge, and cross over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. How hard could that be? I need only to go through a small northern chunk of Manhattan, not anywhere near the rage–inducing streets of the island proper.

Let me tell you something, dear reader. I have a head that has more white hair than my youth might suggest. That short drive through that sliver of Manhattan easily added more salt to my pepper. Two problems plagued me, the first of which involved the colossal number cars on the road in an unfamiliar place. I had only been to Manhattan once before, and I certainly hadn’t driven through its hellish avenues. The second problem revolved around my lack of aggressiveness, and I barely made it into the lane I needed for the lower level of the bridge.

I found my spine as I wound the loop to get on the bridge and imposed myself between two cars with what might be construed as a lack of politeness, but definitely comfortably below the threshold for malice aforethought. We crossed Martha with the skyline of Manhattan to our left and New Jersey in front of us, my impolitic maneuvering soon forgotten. Dear reader, I made a promise to myself and to my 2002 Pontiac Bonneville: never again.

I drove easier on the New Jerkey (oops, that totally wasn’t intentional, I swear) Turnpike, and along the way we spotted a Lamborghini. I’d like to say that I was an adult, possessed of a mature outlook on life. But that would be a lie. I pretended to race the Lamborghini, and cheered myself when I pulled into the lead. So now I can say that I raced a Lamborghini with a fifteen year-old Pontiac and won. It’s my personal fish story. “The Lamborghini was thiiiiiiis fast,” I’ll say, waving my hand from left to right as fast as possible. I come from a long line of people who love their fish stories.

Shortly after our hair-raising drive back home from Boston, Anastasia and I took a trip to Long Beach Island, which I wrote about here. The next great adventure, my first trip to Paris, will be documented in a future installment.

For now, I want to thank you for reading my blog. I welcome any feedback in the comments, or by email at arushedjoke@gmail.com.

Long Beach Island, New Jersey

June 29, 2017 1 comment

So today, Ana and I are enjoying the sea breeze in New Jersey on Long Beach Island. It’s very casual. Nice. A pretty good break from the city. And I guess that’s what this is about.

Living in the city is stressful. Philadelphia isn’t really that big, but it feels big. Lots of people. Sometimes you could drown in the crowd. Very noisy, polluted, congested. I love living there; there’s more to do and to see than there is back home.

Just now, a young man asked us for beach badges–$5 a day per person. Ana had to run back to the car because I only have $8 on me. That’s the thing about being from a state like Michigan–it’s so hands-off compared to New Jersey. It’s a weird kind of culture shock. I got gas here and learned well after I started to pump that it’s illegal to pump your own gas in New Jersey.

Cue ranting about being able to take care of my own business. And I thought everything was legal in New Jersey.

The thing I hate about beaches is that sand gets everywhere. Don’t really need to expand on that. It’s just everywhere.

Ana and I are staying at an Airbnb in a town a few miles away called Stafford, run by a lovely couple out of their guest house.

I’m not getting in the water today; I hurt my hip somehow and I don’t think I would fare very well in the waves. But just sitting here on the beach is nice. Calming. The air is cool, the sun is forgiving, and the smell is evocative. Salt on the air is still such a novel experience for me and I revel in it.

I feel an urge to get into the water, but my hip is reminding me that I should take it easy. We’ll be leaving for Philadelphia soon. Back to the city. Back to the people.

I’ll miss the sea air.

Closing Time

February 2, 2017 1 comment

Closing time–or close enough. Quiet. Like it is deserted. A stark contrast to the bustle and sound of a million conversations just an hour before. The clink of Mah Jongg tiles, gone. The loud and rambunctious creative writing club packed up and promised to meet in a week.

I always feel awkward about this time. How long can I stay? I think the quiet is a cue for me to put my books and pens away, too. It’s strange how we respond to such things. The urge to leave grows. Are the employees looking at me?

Or is it me imagining it to give me further cause to uproot myself and move on? I’m not really ready to go. I’d like to see how long I can push it before the cashier throws me nasty looks. But I see another person engrossed in a book check their phone for the time and begin to stir. I finish off my cold Earl Grey and move to put some of my mess away. Pack my book in my Star Trek messenger bag. My journal.

How is it that there’s a pressure for me to act without any positive force for me to undertake the action? It makes me wonder how much of our behavior is based off of these kinds of implanted and often subconscious cues. Humans like to think that they have free will–but is it really “free?” What do we even mean by free?

I’ve always thought that there was no escaping the cause-and-effect nature of the universe, even in our own actions. It’s hard to pinpoint how, though. I know it’s easy to give inanimate objects agency, and I know how tempting substance dualism is. Then I notice a change in the music played overhead and it seems louder and more energetic than it has been.

Or maybe I’m only perceiving that.

Either way, I think closing time is approaching and I see fewer people than when I wrote the first sentence. I feel compelled to leave even though I do not need to.

Cause and effect, I suppose.

Categories: Life, Musings, Navel Gazing Tags: ,

A Christmas Card from My Father

January 23, 2017 Leave a comment

Anger seethes at the bottom of all of the emotions whipping around my mind whenever I conjure a thought of my father. Barry Derke, erstwhile volunteer firefighter, tow truck driver, and county jail inmate. Current struggling alcoholic. I’ve wasted many–too many–hours swallowing the bitter bile of hatred that rises from the sad parade of bad memories I have of him. And that hatred shames me, deeply. What makes a man worthy of hate?

Barry

Was it the physical abuse when I was a child? The times I had to drag him out of a local bar? The many times he let me down by failing in his role as a father? The loss of the house? The money he took from me? Maybe it was all of that, but none of that. When I think about all of that–all of those bad memories–they make me angry, sure. They make me reduce a man to merely the sum of all of his bad decisions. But they don’t make me hate.

It’s the absence. The deep sense of loss. The feeling that something important was taken from me, though I’m not quite sure what that something is. The fact is that I remember having a father, and I remember what it was like to have that kind of guide and role model in my life. He taught me how to read when I was very young, and because of that I had always been ahead of the curve in reading and writing. Every single test put me in the 99th percentile. Barry is probably, more than anyone, responsible for who I am today.

He taught me how to take things apart and put them back together. He coached my basketball team in elementary school, and one year he was my baseball coach. The story of my father is one of contradiction and contrast. He is, under the alcoholism and the problems that stem from that, a good man. Or, at least, I see him as an inherently good man. But that nature was twisted into something that I grew to hate and despise.

I have tried several times to separate him from me–to push him out of my life so that I might have peace. But I’ve learned that underlying all of that anger is a layer of emotion even deeper, and it swallows up everything else. It’s fear, and it is potent. I have written previously that I am an atheist. I don’t believe that there is an afterlife. I believe that this is all we have and all we experience. As such, the only experiences I will ever have will be in the 72 or so years that I’ll inhabit this planet.

So I fear the day that my father dies and all I have to remember him is the hatred and anger.

Sometimes when I sleep I dream of the time he does and the images haunt me. Things left unsettled. Emotions raw and exposed, never healed, and never able to heal. If we are the sum of our decisions and our actions, Barry is a hard problem to solve. And what am I if I don’t even make an attempt? What does the sum of my decisions and actions equal?

Bitterness? Regret? Both of them are ever present in my mind, but I’d like to think that, over the years, they have lost power. And there are so many variables to track. I learned of an older half sister that doesn’t want anything to do with me after earnest attempts to reach out. How am I supposed to factor that disappointment in? Does Barry bear the blame for the intense sense of rejection I felt when it became apparent I had no place in my sister’s life?

Despite all of that, I strive to give him the benefit of the doubt. I try so very dearly to keep the hope alive that he will change. That maybe he can put the bottle down and never pick it back up. Foolish. There’s always some trigger. There’s always an empty bottle with dregs dripping slowly onto the carpet, an indelible stain on my efforts to bridge the divide.

When I ran for State Representative in 2014 he was arrested for a DUI and evading arrest by leading police on a chase. He was in jail for almost a whole year.


And yet, even after all of that I did my best to forgive him and reestablish a relationship with him. Even after all of the indignities of my youth I still saw enough good in him to make the attempt. The feelings are still so fucking raw from all of the failures, and as time goes on they only compound. Every year, after one of our setbacks, I toy with the idea of cutting him out of my life and moving on. Soon the anger starts to subside and I slowly let him creep back in.

I do not, at this point, believe that he can change. I do not believe that, after all he’s been through, he really wants to change in a substantive way. So where do I go from here?

I don’t know. I really don’t know. Part of me wants to just accept the most cynical of my instincts and just take it for what it is, and that’s the part that’s winning my inner struggle. We had made plans for my birthday last year, which happened to have fallen on Thanksgiving. My fiancee and I were to go to his place and enjoy some wine and dessert, but his partner texted me that very day to tell me that he had hurt his back, took a pain pill, and went to sleep.

It was only later that I learned, from my mother, that he was drunk. And this is the pattern that’s so familiar to me, and what makes my cynical nature win out. My father is defined by two things in my mind: his drunkenness and his absence, and he lived up to both.

I ask myself when did the positives become outnumbered by the negatives of Barry? Or, rather, when did the weight of the negatives overcome the weight of the positives? Like so many of my questions surrounding the man, this one is unanswered and I doubt it ever will be. I know I put my finger on the scale to try to balance out the negatives, and I struggle even now with how far I’m willing to press down on the scale.

And I’m putting less and less force into it. I skipped the Derke Family Christmas to avoid him, a move I already regret. It didn’t help that he and I wound up in the same room that night, anyway, and it was extremely awkward. I remove some more of the force I apply to the scale and I’m close to being able to let the gravity of his life win out over my own and separate myself from him.

But then I get a text a week after the new year: “U get ur card?”

To which I replied, an hour later, “Not yet.”

I got the kitschy card a few days later. It was cheap, and it was obviously reused; another name in another place on the card was kind of a dead giveaway. All it said was “Merry Christmas, Love Dad and Brenda.” A $50 gift card to a local gas station slipped out of the card and onto the floor.

I sat on the card for a few more days, turmoil playing out in my mind. Do I respond? Do I let him know I actually got the card? How much do I say before he thinks he can come back in? I do not know and it’s tearing me up inside.

I’m planning to move to Philadelphia sometime around June. This is not to run away from Barry or any of my struggles here–or so I want to believe–but to run to my future with my fiancee. The time for reconciliation with my father feels to be slipping away. As I’m going through the things I want to take with me, or leave behind, I come across an old photo of my father holding me as an infant.

My Father

I stare silently at the glossy slip of memory for ages. At one point I feel tears welling in my eyes.

I put my finger back on the scale and text back: “I got your card. Thank you.”

 

Categories: Life Tags: , , , , ,

Red Ink

January 19, 2017 Leave a comment

Red Ink

I have a love / hate relationship with red ink. That seems really cliche, but the fact is that the red pen sits on the table in front me, and I imagine it is taunting me. See, the red pen is both critic and muse; a force for destruction and creation.

The pen sits on a stack of papers, themselves covered in red ink. Scribbles, symbols, lines, and words speak of the surgery I have performed on it. We don’t like tearing apart that which we destroy create. When I was younger, I built castles made of legos, and I dreaded the time I had to take them down. But that force of destruction is also a way to build.

First drafts suck; there’s no way around that. Typically they are nothing more than idea vomit on paper, at least for me. Sometimes my stories go through several revisions (I label these by letter, and the furthest along I’ve ever gotten in the alphabet so far is “H”). I have binders full of drafts–or rather–the dry bones of drafts that are covered in crimson.

I keep them because they’re instructive. I can learn from them, and I can see how my writing evolves over time. And I come to see that the red ink isn’t my enemy, it’s my tutor. Learning isn’t always a fun process. Often we are asked to unlearn things we thought were true, and more often demanded that we venture outside of our comfort zones.

Creativity is fragile, and it must be nurtured. But it is also prone to stagnation, so it must be challenged, not just by others but by ourselves. Maybe the things we create have no value to anyone but ourselves, but the act of creation itself demands change and growth.

An artist refines her techniques, life evolves from generation to generation, and humans learn from their mistakes. Creation and change are on the same coin, and maybe even the same side of that coin.