Posts filed under ‘Life Preservers’
In the Rye
I had another idea started for today that I will push to another post. But today, I need to pause to acknowledge the passing of J.D. Salinger.
My love of books and stories began as a child. Some of my oldest bits of memory are of my parents making up tales before bed or reading to us. And I am sure they are the ones who instilled a reverence for books: special items to be taken care of, treated appropriately, even loved.
The first book I can remember reading myself—long before Dick and Jane and Puff and Spot—is “Hop on Pop,” by Dr. Seuss. (Although I would suppose that I wasn’t so much reading at that point as repeating what had been read to us so many times.)
When I was a little older, but when doctors (medical not Seussian) still made house calls, I was once diagnosed as sick from reading too much. (I was very into the Mary Poppins series by P.L. Travers at the time.) And, embarrassing to note, one time in grade school, I bored a friend during a play date because I found Nancy Drew more riveting than her company.
After Nancy Drew (by the fictional Carolyn Keene) and the Hardy Boys (by the fictional Franklin W. Dixon), it was Judy Blume (didn’t every teenage girl read Judy Blume?); then, the ghost story/mystery/romance stage (Daphne du Maurier, Mary Stewart, and, yes, I admit it, those Harlequins); then, the fantasy/adventure genre, which I still enjoy as a treat now and then.
Somewhere in that mix, for a book report in 5th or 6th grade, I got a hold of a copy of “Catcher in the Rye” and presented it as my choice for a book report. This was in a Catholic grade school mind you, and I got pulled aside after class. But the wonderful Mrs. Robick only did so to tell me that the book was probably a little old for me but that she’d let me use it for my report. Her motivation was to encourage me to read it again when I was older. She didn’t want me to miss it. She, too, loved books. (And I have read it again, more than once. And likely again in the very near future.)
In college, thanks to the smart, funny, and inspiring Dr. Strojan, I also discovered Salinger’s other works: Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters, Seymour-an Introduction, and Nine Stories (which I re-read just a couple of months ago). All of his books sit top-shelf in my house, the place I put my favorites.
If you have never read any of his work and are curious, I’d recommend one of his short stories (The Laughing Man, Down at the Dinghy, or Just Before the War with the Eskimoes) for starters.
Mr. Salinger was one of the first authors who made me fall in love with the written word. Not just the story being told, the mystery being unveiled, the world being created, or the lesson being taught but the way in which any of those things could be written, the way the words sounded, rhythm, pace, the “perfect word,” some spectacular turn of phrase. Salinger could stop me in my tracks and just make me smile with wonder, savor the wordplay, and, yes, inspired me to be A Writer.
His passing cannot but stop me in my tracks again. To feel a selfish sorrow midway through this not so novel life of mine, but also a nudge toward an old dream.
With respect to this special life preserver, I say, Whatever drew you to a life of solitude, I am forever grateful for that which was shared.
Fare thee well Mr. Salinger. I hope they don’t put you in a cemetery.
Greg Stones’ Art
Every once in a while a total stranger can be a life preserver. Discovering, out there in the world, someone who is living life in a fun and creative way, making (I hope) a good living using a talent and a sense of humor that can only be one-of-a-kind, that delights and inspires me.
Some people, you don’t have to know them well to just be damn glad they are on the planet.
If you have never seen any of the wicked little masterpieces painted by Greg Stones, do yourself a favor and take a peek.
First saw this guy’s stuff at a local arts festival. Stood there and, the massive flow of glancing, mooing bumpers and nudgers be damned, I stayed and looked at just about every print in the booth. And kept snickering. And (agonizingly) selected a few prints out of the many I wanted to remember forever to take home. Looked for him the next year and bought a few more. All but one of the prints have been given as gifts. “The Sheep Don’t Care” (pictured here) 
is displayed on my dresser so I can see it every day. It’s been there for four or five years now, and it still inspires me, still makes me giggle.
The artist has also put together 3 books. The first was “Goodbye, Penguins,” which I purchased with blind anticipation, read (and re-read) with glee, and gifted with joy (while keeping a copy for myself, of course).
I changed jobs and have missed the arts festival for a couple of years, but, while adding some fun links to the blog here the other day, I discovered (and immediately ordered) two new Greg Stones books: “Zombies Hate Stuff” and “The Fort.” (“Goodbye, Penguins” and “Zombies Hate Stuff” are available from the website, linked above. “The Fort” I found on amazon.com.)
“The Fort” arrived today. I opened the box, removed the book from the cellophane wrapping, and, with the intention of heading to the couch, ended up just standing, transfixed, in the middle of the room to have my first look through it. (And, I’m real lazy. And the couch was only about four feet away.)
Love it! Recommend it! Want everyone I know to read it! (But, uh, no; there is no way you’re borrowing my copy so don’t even ask.)
“Zombies Hate Stuff” has also arrived. But I have not read it yet. Like the last homemade chocolate chip cookie or the bottle of wine I carried home from Italy, I’m saving it for later. (But also as with those other things, I doubt I will be able to wait too long ’cause I know it’s going to be so good.)
If you’ve got a wicked sense of humor (and/or if you like the idea of supporting someone truly original, funny, and creative in this crazy, conformist, copycat, chew-it-up-spit-it-out, grind-them-down, toe-the-line world we oddballs and secret champions masquerade in), well, then, check him out for yourself. As in, go ahead, you do it, I’ve done as much as I can here and also as in do it for yourself, as a treat.
Happy Friday folks.
Know a great artist or otherwise original being who inspires you? Post them in the comments box.
In the Nutshell
In what seems like a lifetime ago (but is recent enough that the twitching hasn’t completely abated), I worked in an agency.
An agency is a place where really creative brilliant people come up with amazing, delightfully unique ideas and hand them to management (the people who are in charge because of their creativity in lying, manipulation, and sunshine insertion) who place these ideas into a shredder, bag them up, throw them into the trunk of a ridiculously expensive car, and drive to meetings with clients who, if smart (as many of them are) will be disappointed or, if idiots, will say things like, “It’s great. It’s fabulous. I love it. But what if we change the concept, revise the headline, swap out the picture, tweak the layout, and make the logo bigger?” at which point management will grin and nod and say things like, “That’s a great idea. Sure. No problem. May I lick your feet. And we’ll have it back to you by end of day.” because they are too busy imagining the (misguided and mathematically impossible) profitability equation of multiple major revisions to think of anything like project management, common sense, responsibility, or the parameters of the space-time continuum that can make it somewhat difficult to complete 2 weeks of work in under an hour.
And that’s the agency world. In a nutshell.
So, where’s the life preserver here? Ah, I am about to tell you a secret.
Please don’t tell the management monkeys; they believe Their Employees would jump on a grenade or donate a kidney for them because they have rubber-stamped their name on the building, the letterhead, some pens, and the paychecks (which, by the way, they do not consider trade for talent but money they earned all by themselves which would be better spent on a big screen TV for their beach house).
Truth be told we’d rather see the kidney accidentally replaced with the grenade. But I do digress.
Here’s the secret. The only reason creative people stay in agencies (aside from love of the craft and an astoundingly robust hope) (and, paying rent) . . . okay, let me start that sentence over. The only reason you don’t hear about creative people throwing themselves from tall buildings on a daily basis is because of other creative people. Creatives are hilarious and smart and talented, and you will never in your life laugh so hard at the horrible, the absurd, and the searing pain of your soul’s rendering as when you are surrounded by these magnificent goddamn geniuses.
I do not miss the agency life. But I do miss the people. (I would venture to guess that it is not completely unlike how a soldier, home from war, misses the men he served with, fought with, dug latrines with.) I miss the wit; the crazy-awesome brains; and the home-made stuff.
Secret alternative layouts, really intricate practical jokes, costumes for Pez dispensers, etc., helped us survive our daily exsanguination.
One small thing I contributed was “Write The Headline.” If someone found a particularly odd piece of stock art, it would get posted on a wall on a piece of flip chart paper. And the graffiti could begin.
The bosses didn’t like it because the flip chart paper didn’t go with the “look how cool I am” artwork and custom lighting that was placed for aesthetics not for, say, easing the eye strain of dozens of people staring at computer screens 37 hours a day. I also think, like whispers of the emperor’s clothes, the scribbles made them nervous. They didn’t get it, but they can catch the scent of fun quicker than the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang could find a crying toddler in a dirty diaper, and they don’t like it.
So. For Fun. I’ve added “Write The Headline” to my blog.
So, click on the tab above. Look at the picture. Put a headline in the comments section. Be creative. Keep on keeping on. And cheers.
Overnight Fun Night
It’s Saturday and I’m preparing the house for the arrival of Alex and Hannah, my niece and nephew. (Two of my most favorite “life preservers.”)
I am neatening up. (Why is it exactly that we adults feel the need to portray ourselves as tidy? Why do we try to set a good example even though, we now know better?) I know the kids don’t care, and they will soon fill this house with messes of their own. Within minutes of their arrival, every surface in my house will be scattered with items unfamiliar to a childless woman’s life. Transformers, Lego, and Star Wars action figures sitting precariously near antique depression glass; stuffed animals among the Pier 1 throw pillows. Tiny shirts, tiny pants, tiny socks flung about. Craft kits. Board games. Model planes. Cars. DVDs. DSi.
The little suitcases they travel with are like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.
They are 10 and 12 now, which is a very cool age. The moments when they talk, act, think like small adults come more often. But, they are still young enough to be giddy with excitement to come sleep on my floor.
I would like to point out that there is an extra bed and a couch for them, but they actually prefer to sleep on couch cushions on the floor around my bed. And I enjoy that, too, because we inevitably fall asleep giggling. And, in the morning, they climb up into the bed and we snuggle and giggle some more–and that’s a pretty darn fine way to start any day.)
Having them here is less like babysitting and more like a slumber party. With midgets.
We’ll play video games, rent a movie, and probably make snow angels. (I’ve been wanting to all week, and the kids are my cover.) We’ll eat stuff like pancakes and hamburgers (instead of Lean Cuisine, canned soup). And we’ll have Lorna Doones.
There will always be Lorna Doones when they come visit. (My grandparents once lived in this house. And when my brother, sister, and I would come visit, my gram would stand near the back door with a cookie jar. We’d file by and she’d hand each of us a couple of Lorna Doones, and we’d go out back and sit in the yard and eat them like chipmunks. Quickly gnawing the little squares of shortbread. )
So the first time that Alex and Hannah came to visit, I bought some Lorna Doone cookies. Their father, my brother, and I smiled at each other as I ceremoniously handed them each a Lorna Doone. I told the story of why they were important to me, why it was the first thing they received upon arrival. You don’t think kids get that stuff. But, about an hour later, Alex (who was probably about 5 at the time), walked up to me and inquired, “May I please have another of the special little cookies?”
They got it. And it is now a tradition for them as well.
Today’s question: What’s your favorite tradition to pass on to the kids in your life? Or. Have you ever had a slumber party with a midget?
Begin Anywhere
There is more interesting stuff on the outside of my refrigerator than on the inside.
Outside there are magnets, quotes, a poem called “Earl” by Louis Jenkins, the warped humor of Happy Bunny and Goodbye Kitty, photos of my family, and a prayer of protection for my little house (provided by a dear aunt after the Ford 350 van made an unplanned left into my bathroom–but that’s another story).
Inside there’s juice, water, condiments, olives (to go with the vodka, which is about the only thing in the freezer), bread, maybe eggs, usually one or two pieces of fruit and/or vegetable that may be fresh or shriveled to an unidentifiable state, and generally some container of odd leftover something.
TANGENTIAL ADVICE. Mac and cheese is one of the truly great comfort foods and may even have magical properties of healing, happiness, and goodwill. But magic has its price. Mac and cheese is also thee stinkiest food gone bad. If you discover a container in your ‘fridge that has lurked beyond its expiration, do not–I repeat, do not–(no really, don’t) open it and smell it. Throw. It. Away. Oh, yes, container, too. I don’t care if it is your best piece of Tupperware. Either it’s a goner or you are. Trust me on this.
Okay, the point I was headed for is the outside of the refrigerator, which is cluttered. I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I need these reminders. Words and pictures. Touchstones. Things to make me laugh. Things to make me think. Things to help me focus on what matters most in life. Bits of inspiration. Colorful, odd, beautiful, quirky flotsam (i.e., little life preservers).
This morning, the thing that caught my eye was the front of a greeting card that I had cut and hung. It says simply and profoundly: Begin anywhere.
It would likely be more profound had I hung this for the New Year. But, to be honest, it’s been hanging there for most of 2009. (Life is rarely logical or all that linear and, quite often, a long and winding road precedes the starting line.)
But. Here I am. Beginning a blog with almost no idea what the heck I’m doing. Note: If anyone actually sees this, tips and suggestions (low-tech, kind language preferred) are welcome.
Today, tell me about the most interesting thing inside or on the outside of your refrigerator.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 