Emotion and a Writer's life.

"The sharing of deep emotion - the sharing of those feelings - between two people is much more important to the survival of the collective human soul than moving the masses with a popular song, poem, or a book."

I hit upon this quote from my notes. I am cleaning up my desk and this is part of the detritus. What tripe. I mean, yes, it is important to love and to be loved, but it is also important to pursue your dreams. I had dreams, years ago.

My daughter is watching "good will hunting" in the other room. I remember when the movie came out years ago. I stumbled across a discussion group online about the use or non-use of God-given gifts. The question asked at the time was, 'was it a sin not to use the gifts from God?' I started to think about that. I have a gift. I didn't know it at the time but I have a gift. When I found out about this gift, that was all I wanted to do with my life. I want to write. But it is not that simple. There are demands, time, money and companionship.

I remember my parents 50th wedding anniversary. My brother asked me to offer a toast. He asked me if I needed some time to come up with something. I told him I was already working on it. Such is a writer's life. If you see a writer sitting quietly in a corner, with the lights off (or on), chances are he is thinking. He IS working. People don't seem to understand that. My mind is constantly working. I am always thinking, always working. The problem I have is in writing those thoughts down on paper. I don't always have the time.

So, years later, I find scraps of paper on my desk. I find little quotes, ideas, nice phrases and I have no idea of the context. Maybe I should just collect them all and publish them and let the reader decide. Yeah, that might work. I have read Vonnegut.

But back to my original topic and the use of gifts. That reminded me of a Springsteen song. See, these ideas are not new, and have haunted artist for a long time. Springsteen wrote:

"Now those memories come back to haunt me
they haunt me like a curse,
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse..."

So, is not using your God-given gifts a Sin? I have tried to get published. I have tried to become a better writer. I have not succeeded. That begs another question, is success the measure of success?

I leave that to my fellow ponderers.

D.

Forgetful Me

A funny thing happened to me today. I got laid off. I was told to go ahead and finish out the day. So I dutifully stayed at my computer until it just didn’t make any sense sticking around for the “rest of the day.” All the rest of us unlucky souls had already left the office.

I started to input my hours into the online time keeping system. I am a telecommuter. I usually work from home. I was asked to come to the office today. Never a good thing. Especially when your boss starts out the meeting with “Bad News.” Anyway, I went into the office today. I forgot my password at home.

I tried to do my time card. I was really nervous – never been laid off before. And I screwed up my password. I hate corporate America. It seems that no matter what program you use you need a password. Can’t they make it easier? I couldn’t for the life of me remember my password. Between all of my personal accounts and my work accounts (former) I must have 25 passwords. Well, I was nervous, I just wanted to go home and drink. On the third try the system kicked me out.

I had to call the help desk for my password to login for the last time. How pathetic is that? (Don’t answer that.) I really don’t need to know. So the guy picks up on the other end. I have to answer some security questions. First he asks me my name. I tell him.

I am already depressed by being laid off but he has to ask me my security questions. I feel awful about forgetting my password for my last official act as an employee. But he has to ask me a question about what high school I went to. I went to high school in New Orleans. My high school was destroyed in Hurricane Katrina, and, like my most recent job, it doesn’t exist anymore. Thanks man.

Then he has to ask me about my dad’s middle name. My dad, I love him, but it is hard watching him grow old. It is kind of depressing. Thanks man. Then he asks me my mom’s birthday. “Hey, knock it off, we are all getting older, ok.”

Well, he reaches the conclusion that I am who I say I am. I tell him that it is reassuring that I am who I say I am because on Mondays and Fridays I sometimes forget. We both got a mild chuckle about that one. He said he always remembers who he is on Fridays. Me, I am not so sure. Especially this “Friday”. This “Friday” (the end of my week was Thursday) I wasn’t too sure who I was. Two hours ago I was a gainfully employed, tax-paying citizen. But now…? I just don’t know who I am.

And so, I sit here tonight. Wondering if I should continue on this path, trying to be someone I am not sure I am, or if I should veer off on another course to see what is on the horizon. Who am I? What shall I do?

My daughter, bless her heart, found some jobs online that she thinks I should apply for. She is right. She knows who I am. Better than I do, I think. She chose some interesting jobs. Jobs which will allow me to pursue other options. Jobs which will allow me to grow. We shall see. Next week I might know who I am. Next week I may be a different person.
Wish me luck.

D.

lost friends

on his way to a doctor's appointment he remembers an old friend. they dated once or twice in college. he met her in a geography class. geography always kept them apart. he had thought of her many times over the years. was it his fault they lost touch, or was it the fact that he married and had kids?

he thought of her today. he often does. her shops are all over town. he thinks he should call her up. but a lifetime has gone by. what is there to say? he thought maybe he would see her waiting for the doctor.

he saw her face in traffic. the driver of a car going in the opposite direction.

Priscilla Herdman

These words are long overdue. I have been listening to her music for several years now. Everytime I hear her voice she lightens my heart. Priscilla Herdman has the purest voice I have ever heard. And she chooses such wonderful, passionate and insightful songs. Such a sweet sound. Her voice has an amazingly calming affect on my troubled soul.

I have been a fan of Priscilla Herdman’s voice ever since I first heard her on the XM satellite radio back in 2003. I definitely have to thank the folk channel for that discovery. My first introduction to her music was through her work with the trio, Herdman Hills and Mangsen. The first song I heard was "More Wood" from their "Voices of Winter" CD. Wow, what a CD that was. Beautiful theme and I was struck right away by the pure artistry of it. These three ladies work very well together. There are about a dozen songs that I look forward to hearing when I put that CD in.

The only name I remembered (I was listening in the car) was Herdman’s. So I went home and immediately looked up her web site (http://www.priscillaherdman.com/) and I ordered the CDs. I was hooked. And I have thoroughly enjoyed the music of the trio and of Priscilla Herdman herself ever since.

Last night I listened again. I couldn't sleep. I fired up the I-Pod and played only Priscilla's music. The music again lifted my soul and calmed my restless heart. I am particularly fond of her CD, "The Water Lily" - 1977. This was the album where she uses a lot of the Australian poet Henry Lawson's words and shares his works with the world. My favorites are the songs "Reedy River"(Henry Lawson-Chris Kempster) and "The Shame Of Going Back"(Henry Lawson-Priscilla Herdman). Amazingly beautiful songs. But her duet with the late Utah Philips ("I Remember Loving You" - Darkness Into Light - 1987) is just sheer artistry.

Priscilla Herdman is a true artist. Her voice is the most pure voice I have ever heard. These words are long over due. Priscilla, you have given me many hours of peace. I thank you for that.

D.

Don Coryell, RIP.

And today I find out that Don Coryell has passed away. The newspaper lists his age at 85. In my post about Don Coryell (http://ponderingdave.blogspot.com/2009/07/don-coryell.html), I wondered why he was not in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I still wonder that.

Don Coryell meant a lot to the city of San Diego. I offer my condolences to his family, the Chargers and the city of San Diego.

Garden Vegetables

Last night we had dinner with my mom and dad. I had made a gift of dinner to my dad for Father's Day. All he had to do was call with the request. I think I still owe him dinner, after all the times he fed me as a kid.

The idea was that we would pick the dinner up and deliver it to his house. He doesn't seem to get around very well these days. And my mom fell on Tuesday and hurt her foot, so she is hobbling, too. So, we would pick up dinner and deliver it to them. We would also sit and enjoy their company. It would be nice.

Knowing that my mom hurt her foot I figured this week would be a great time to take them dinner. When I talked to my mom she said that dad was up to going to the restaurant. It was always his favorite, so we made the arrangements to meet them there.

My dad is an old North Dakota farm boy. I was raised in and always lived in a city, but my dad always had a garden. The victory garden, the vegetable garden, his weekend hobby. I remember he always had one, even the summer of 1968 in Buffalo, New York, he always had a garden. Still does, although his age and ailments precludes the effort he used to put into it. He still has vegetables growing.

And so do I. This year I planted tomatoes, peppers, corn, yellow squash, zucchini and pumpkins. I must admit that my garden isn't doing as well as my dad's gardens used to, but I have been away for awhile and I know I need to water more. Even now, as I look out I see corn with yellow leaves and wilted squash plants. I turned the water on. There, that ought to help.

Even though my garden is not the greatest of gardens it has been producing. So last night I brought two zucchini's for my mom and dad. They seemed very grateful. My dad remarked that this was a first. "This is the first time one of my children has brought me vegetables from their own garden." I could tell that it meant a lot to him. It means a lot to me, too.

I feel extremely grateful to my dad for teaching me the value of fresh vegetables. Indeed, he tried to teach me years ago, but I was too young or too distracted, or whatever, to really listen. Yet now, as I try my hand at gardening again, I find that I really was listening to those words years ago. We really do learn. I am extremely thankful for the gifts from my old man.

D.