I Am the 3%: A Highly Political Post from the Apolitical Hinterlands

Either no one should listen to anything I have to say about politics, or everyone should, because I have not been watching the news.

I am among the 3% of Americans who don't own a television, but I used to be among the 1%.

TV ownership is down in America. Why? According to the reliable-looking Internet source I just googled, it's the “persistently rocky economy,” which sounds about right.

The persistently rocky economy is not news to me.

No, I didn't lose my TV because of the big bank bailout. I haven't had access to a television in my home since 1992, which was the year I left my parents' house (unless you count the TV set relegated to the corner of the living room during the 4 months I lived in a furnished apartment in Copenhagen, but I didn't understand Danish, and I never watched it).

For most of my adult life, I could have afforded to buy a TV. A really good one, even, with a gazillion channels of cable and five different remote controls, but I chose not to, and as a result, I have been out of the media loop for almost 20 years.

I have never watched a single episode of Survivor or Lost or CSI or American Idol. It took me a full two and a half minutes to retrieve the words “American Idol” from my memory bank, actually: I was like, what's that show with Paula Abdul and someone else, the guy everyone thinks is snarky, and they judge these contestants whose songs sometimes end up on the radio?

But it's not just the fluff I've missed out on.

Know how many times I saw that endlessly-replayed footage of the planes crashing into the twin towers? Um...once, I think. I'm pretty sure there was a clip of it in Fahrenheit 9/11, which I watched in a packed Oakland theater the first week it came out.

I'm not bragging. Oh, okay, maybe I am a little smug about my American Idol virginity. But I'm not particularly proud of my political ignorance.

What's my excuse? Well, there's the whole disaffected-with-politics thing, that malaise that settled on those of us who voted for Al Gore, and were dismayed to learn that “majority vote” didn't mean what we thought it did.

I'm the whatever-percent who endured four years of Bush malapropisms (I'm an English teacher, not a math teacher, okay?) and who then, spurred on by something akin to panic, actually walked door-to-door canvassing for Kerry, even though he was kind of a douchebag, but still, not Bush, and therefore better, right?

I'm the whatever-percent who said, “What, you've got to be frickin' KIDDING me: four MORE years of W?” and promptly gave up.

Oh, and let's not forget the whole disaffected-with-the-media thing, because there was that time I was in that peace march in San Francisco, back when it seemed like maybe there was a chance of staying out of Iraq if enough people took to the streets, and then I made the mistake of reading the newspaper coverage of the event.

“A few thousand protesters took to the streets of San Francisco,” I read, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because it wasn't a few thousand protesters, it was backed up on BART for hours, it was everyone I knew plus their cousins from Boondock City, it was shoulder to shoulder marching for miles, no room in the square with the catalpa trees, biggest-public-event-ever, and I was thrilled, because there was NO WAY that kind of demonstration could go unnoticed.

Wrong. Apparently, our united voices did not matter. Not only that, but I was moving from California to Arizona, where the political climate was decidedly...wackier.

So, during Bush's second term, I dropped out of political discourse altogether.

I read the pamphlets issued by Pima County, the lists of pros and cons for various initiatives on the Arizona ballots, and I voted. I went over to a friend's house to watch the presidential debates, and I voted. That was just about the extent of it.

Meanwhile, I watched my neighbors lose their jobs, and then my husband lost his job, and then my children lost their health insurance, and then Arizona decided to cut funding to the program that would have provided them with health insurance, and, since we were starting up a small business, and knew we would therefore be poverty-stricken for at least a couple more years, we decided to move a state that had some kind of social services safety net.

Ergo, Oregon, where my children not only have medical care, should they ever need it (knock wood – Ravenna hasn't so much as had an ear infection, and she's almost four), but they get dental care, too. It's almost like being back in Denmark again.

Maybe that's why I'm starting to feel more hopeful, even though my family has never been poorer.

Maybe that's why, last night, cutting up carrots for dinner, I was suddenly seized by a desire to take that bag of carrots over to Occupy Portland's community kitchen, because, according to the Willamette Week, they need fresh vegetables over there.

Oh, I know that half the people living in those tents in the park blocks are homeless guys and street punks who don't know any more about politics than I do. I know that, if I donate carrots to Occupy Portland, half the people who eat them will be drunk or stoned or tweaking so hard they'll look like they've been dipped in Crisco.

When you start giving out free food, freeloaders come flocking.

But I think I have seen enough of what's going to happen to this country if we keep worrying about the freeloaders among the poor.

In case you missed it, what happens is rampant corporate freeloading, less and less trickle-down, rising rates of joblessness and homelessness, and a bunch of disenfranchised folks who are willing to sleep in tents in our public parks, even if it means dealing with the hordes of homeless who show up hoping for a free meal from the makeshift community kitchen.

Unless I've missed something (and I suppose that's possible!), we still live in the richest country in the world. There's still enough to go around. I, for one, would like to keep it that way – but not by pawning off our dirty work on other nations, or stealing their resources, or bankrupting all of our children and grandchildren by borrowing recklessly from their future to fund our present excess.

I'm beginning to think it might be possible. Maybe there's a will, and maybe there's a way.

Don't expect a lot of political commentary from me in the months and years to come. I've got a lot of other things on my mind – for example, how to feed my family, how to be a better friend, how to find fulfillment in the work I do, how to live each day with gratitude for what I have...you know, that kind of thing.

But this morning, I am jumping on the bandwagon to make an important announcement:

I am the 3%, and I am now paying attention.

Proper Reviews of Katherine Ramslund's Bliss and Nancy Slonim Aronie's Writing from the Heart

I'll lead with the confession: I was just kidding about that “proper review” thing. What is a proper review, anyway? I wouldn't know one if it left its dentures in my derrière.

I'm tired. I stayed up late last night, writing, and I woke up at 6 this morning to get some writing in before everyone else woke up.

I'm listening to Pink's Funhouse, which means I couldn't think straight even if I weren't tired, and no, I'm not going to turn it off, so we'll just have to deal with body distortions, assuming I ever get to the body of this entry.

Do I really have to write these reviews? I mean, I've already written entries about both of these books – Ramslund's in “Finding My Bliss Means...” and Aronie's in my last post, “Bloviation Encomium”.

Oh, okay, fine. I have now read both books in their entirety, and I have formed an opinion.

I feel kind of bad about saying this, but Nancy Aronie's book is better than Katherine Ramslund's book.

Reading Aronie's Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice was a more enjoyable experience than reading reading Katherine Ramlund's Bliss: Writing to Find Your True Self.

Someone else might have a different experience and come to a different conclusion, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I think most people would enjoy Aronie's book more than Ramslund's book.

Why? Because Aronie is funny, and Ramslund is not.

Don't get me wrong. Katherine Ramslund says a lot of interesting, insightful things. I underlined some of them. For example: “Just let go and have faith that, once we're on the track, things will happen to help us along. We need to believe that our true purpose is in our best interest.” Or how about, “When consciousness feels harmonious in the pursuit of some activity, people pursue that activity for its own sake rather than for some extrinsic reward.” Good stuff, but a bit fibrous for my taste.

Here, just for some contrast, is something I would have underlined in Aronie's book, if it weren't a library copy: “Culturally, we Westerners have a much harder time with change because we are raised to think everything should stay hunky-dory, and when it doesn't, we are convinced we are just the one unlucky slob that the fickle finger of dumpage has found.” Or, wait, how about this: “I would be the wrong one to diminish the role of ego, since it's been a helluva motivator for me. It didn't let me sleep until there was applause....I know myself. And I know it's only when my ego gets lodged between my heart and my work that it presents a problem. But if I acknowledge that ego has been the origin, the genesis, the instigator, then I thank the little maniac and move on.”

The fickle finger of dumpage. I thank the little maniac and move on. These are memorable lines, because Aronie's got a way of saying things. She's got a real voice.

No, I don't think you have to be a stand-up comic to have a voice. But if the subject of your book happens to be something like bliss, I think you might want to do what you can to help your readers experience a little bliss while they're finding out what you have to say about finding it.

The real problem I had with Ramslund's book was that it felt like a slog. It felt heavy. It felt like a lot of work. Maybe I would have gotten more out of it if I had done all the exercises (which she insists are CRUCIAL), but I couldn't make myself do more than the first few, because the vibe I kept getting was color-by-numbers. Ramslund has very definite ideas about how to do things. She doesn't just give writing prompts. She gives a detailed set of instructions, and you get the sense that you'd by-golly better follow them to the letter. Or number. But get it right, okay? Which makes me want to do just the opposite, of course. When I completed her “following my bliss means...” sentence, I didn't exactly follow her instructions, which may be why I actually got something out of that exercise.

Nancy Aronie also includes writing exercises in her book. They seem like they'd be great, but I haven't done a single one yet, so what do I know? I will say, though, that I want to do them – so, in view of my very limited time (I'm currently deep into Essay #2, and there are only so many writing hours in the day!), I have chosen five exercises that seem like they might be of particular benefit to me right now. I will probably post these as I complete them.

Now, time for another confession: it wasn't much fun writing this entry, because I really hated doing the whole comparison thing, and yet for some reason I felt compelled to go there. Yeah, if I had to choose between the two books, I'd definitely go with Aronie's. But I'm glad it wasn't about choosing. I'm glad both authors took the time to write what they wrote. So thank you, ladies – both of you.

It's later now, and I'm even more tired than I was before.

Pink Floyd has succeeded Pink, and wow, The Wall is so NOT Funhouse, you know? Apples and Oranges, people. Apples are better for making apple pie. Oranges are better for making orange-wedge smiles. Bananas are better for going bananas. And that's just about all the fruitcake wisdom I can dish out for tonight.

Bloviation Encomium (a.k.a., Why I Love Big Words)

“Readers don't need commentary. They don't need detached description. They don't need big words. They don't need imitation Alice Walker. They need you, with your language, your rhythms, your story. They need your heart.”

So says Nancy Slonim Aronie in her terrific book Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice, which I started reading yesterday on the recommendation of my friend Virginia (thank you, daaaarlink!) and which I shall review properly in another entry, very soon I hope.

This morning, however, I have to get something off my chest, which is that I had a huge reaction to that section I just quoted, particularly the one sentence I emphasized, the one about big words.

My knee-jerk reaction went something like this: You got a problem with big words? Then you got a problem with ME, lady.

I was on the defensive, ready for an offensive. I was in a bit of a tizzy.

Your nefarious plot will never succeed! Animadversion. Pyrrhic. Confabulation. Neener, neener, neener!

Why were my knickers in such a twist? The author didn't say, “Don't use big words.” She didn't say, “Big words are bad.” All she said was that readers don't NEED big words. Yes, there's the implication that commentary, description (if “detached”) and big words are not only unnecessary, but may even be undesirable, from a reader's point of view – but I'm guessing that's only true to the extent that these things interfere with “heart,” which is what Aronie thinks is most important.

Here's a little history, a sort of “Me & Big Words” romance, in three parts.

Part I: Little third-grader Tanya comes home from school and complains that the other kids always run away from her on the playground. (I had told everyone the myth about Medusa and the Gorgon sisters, claiming I could turn people to stone if they so much as looked at me, and the other kids responded – sensibly, I now think – by shrieking and running away. The problem was that I'd grown tired of this game, and the other kids hadn't.) My dad's solution? Vocabulary cards. He had a whole box of them. If I ever needed to tell someone off, he said, I'd be able to do it eloquently. A few weeks later, one of the girls in my class said something mean at recess, so I told her she was superfluous. This was a girl I was very much afraid of, and I don't think I'd have dared if I hadn't been standing on top of a huge pile of snow, ten feet above her head. Agatha squinted her eyes up at me and demanded, “What you call me, bitch?” I nervously backtracked: “Nothing.” Before I knew it, she had scrambled up that mountain of snow and was chasing me down its icy spine toward the school parking lot. I was terrified. She landed a good kick to my posterior, told me never to disrespect her again, and, to my relief, that was the end of that.

Part II: When I was sixteen, I wrote down a list of 200 big words, just off the top of my head, and told my high school boyfriend I'd give him a kiss for each one he could define correctly. No, I am not kidding. I actually did that, said that, was a complete snot like that. He cooperated with good grace, and seemed pleased enough with his eleven kisses.

Part III: A couple of years ago, I taught a class on memoir writing for my Stone Curves Cohousing neighbors. As part of the course, each of the participants, myself included, had a personal essay workshopped by the entire group. My friend Caroline responded to my essay in a way I'll never forget – except that I've forgotten every word she said. The gist of it, though, was this: It's been interesting to read this essay, since you're the teacher, and to watch you execute all the techniques you've talked about in class – but sometimes I find myself feeling like you're not letting us in, that it's all too seamless, too crafted, that's it's all about the words and not about the real you.

My take on the bloviation (bloviate: to speak pompously) situation is this: I'm all mixed up.

On the one hand, I love words. I love small words and big ones. I like their sounds and their meanings, their connotations and denotations, their rhythms, their personal associations – mine, and other people's – and the endlessly fascinating things that can be done with them. My love of words is as genuinely me as it gets. If the writing gods & gurus want to declare big words taboo, then I guess I'm just out of luck as a writer.

On the other hand, I keep getting the message – from readers, from the universe, whatever – that maybe I ought to think about the way in which I use my words to keep the world at bay. As is always the case when our defenses get questioned, there's a part of me that's dead set against change. As is always the case when our defenses get questioned, the last thing I want to do is put that defense down.

I've spent my whole life perfecting imperviousness. I've freakin' pluperfected it, as a matter of fact, and now I'm supposed to just let it go?

You want heart? Okay, here you go: a big ol' dollop of sentimental glop. MMMMmmm. Coagulation. Yummy.

Transformation: A Visual

 Painting I (after setting it on fire -- see previous entry for the story...)

Painting II (same canvas: yep, all that stuff is under the paint somewhere...)

**Flashy Title HERE!** (Or, A Temporal Ordering of Variables)

With my flashy (and boring) title out of the way, now all I need is an opening sentence, preferably one that contains a sweeping generalization, such as “since the beginning of time” or “throughout history”.

Next, we move on to the analogy. But which one?

I could talk about the mixed-media painting I have been working on – you know, the tried 'n' true ekphrastic thing, where I go on about a piece of visual art in order to make a point about art in general, even though what I'm really talking about is writing, cleverly covered over with collage and beeswax.

Or I could reference a deep moment in the Angelina Ballerina video I was sort of overhearing as I cleaned the bathroom yesterday. That way, I could borrow a moral, and no one could accuse me of naiveté because, hello, I got it from a talking mouse.

Option three would be to reference some ultra-exiting personal drama regarding scheduling issues, in order to make a connection between writing and REAL LIFE.

Of course, there's always “All of the above.” A bold move, yes, but worth the risk, because it's a formal solution to a problem of content. It will serve to demonstrate what I am trying to say, without my having to come right out and say it. (“Show, don't tell” – you've heard that one, right?)

Screw it. I'll just tell you. HERE'S THE THESIS: I'm not sure what to do next.

In this entry. In my painting. In my essay. In my life.

I guess, in order for you to see the similarities I see when I look at those four nouns I just put down, I'm going to have to produce at least two portraits with actual noses, you know? So get ready for some details.

I'm taking an art class on Thursday evenings at Portland Community College. Mixed media. I was initially attracted to the class because it was about “getting over inhibitions” and experimenting, not just with paint, but also with photographs and fabric and wax and found objects. A whole bunch of stuff going on all at once. Exactly my sort of thing, in other words.

Here's what I have done to my first “piece” so far: 1) secured three crushed up pieces of cellophane to the canvas with melted beeswax; 2) painted over said pieces of cellophane, and the rest of the canvas, with multiple colors of acrylic paint; 3) drizzled more wax over everything; 4) melted both wax and cellophane with this special blowdryer thing my art teacher showed us how to use; 5) glued pieces of paper on which I had written poetic things onto the white spaces around the cellophane balls that were produced when the plastic shrank from the heat gun, and brushed over that paper with melted wax....

Ok, I'll spare you numbers 6-29. You should just know that, after gluing on berries and bits of tree bark, I doused the whole thing with rubbing alcohol and set it on fire.

This was done out on the rain-soaked balcony, of course, since even at my most destructive I'm still a practical girl. And of course I also had moistened paper towels handy, to beat out the flames, which, what with all the beeswax and tree bark and paper I had going on, were still keeping steady long after all the alcohol had burned off.

You know what's funny? My painting looked a lot better afterward. Even the bits of paper towel that got stuck to the burning beeswax lent a sophisticated “wallpaper” kind of effect.

To sum up: I've been doing random things to this painting, hoping that if I just do enough different random things, it's all going to work out in the end. I'm enjoying the process, yes. But I'm not liking the product. You see, on the whole, the piece still has the same problem it's had from the beginning: a complete lack of composition.

End of Portrait One. Begin Portrait Two, preferably with a sentence alerting the reader to the “compare and contrast” structure here, which, while formulaic, is preferable to no structure at all.

My essay isn't suffering from a lack of composition. It's doing waaaay better in that regard than my painting, and even, I dare say, a fair bit better than this blog entry. (My essay even has a real, as opposed to merely place-holder, flashy title: My Life as a Mail-Order Bride.) However, there's a hell of a lot of stuff I'm trying to do with it, and I've had to invent a completely new form in order to get everything in. Nix on compare and contrast, although there are instances of it in there. Nix on a temporal ordering of variables, because I've got to jump not only into multiple different pasts, but also into hypothetical realms that have no time at all. Nix on placing the narrative somewhere solid, setting a scene and staying with it. Nix on a steady narrative voice to carry the reader through the disjunctions that inevitably ensue during so much travel through time and space, because the whole point of the essay has to do with a kind of Whitmanian proliferation of identity. You know, “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

So. Moving from the workable rough draft to a final version that pleases me presents quite a challenge. My skills as a writer, while considerably more honed than my skills as a painter, may or may not be equal to the problem I've set for myself.

The biggest challenge with the essay is that I don't even have recourse to the kind of self-indulgent luxuries I allow myself in my blog. These entries are tutorials, in a way, even if what you take from them is, “Here's what NOT to do!” You get to see what's going on behind the curtain. In my essay, on the other hand, I've got to be all subtle about my technique. I've got to achieve my effects without calling undue attention to all the effort (process) that's gone into making the results (product) seem effortless. Thankfully, this is not an essay, so I can continue to hit you over the head with what we composition instructors like to call meta-discourse: that is, an overt discussion of what I'm doing while I'm doing it. 

Now, if this were a composition of the sort I used to assign to my students, this would be the time to move into some kind of satisfying conclusion. I would gather all those far-flung elements and wrap them up with a purple polka-dotted bow. Unfortunately, I don't think that's going to work with this entry. Once again, I have too much going on. My daughter saying, “Help me find my treasure box.” My son and my husband loudly discussing how to set up the internet connection on the new laptop. A weird twinge beginning in my left elbow, and an itch at the back of my scalp. Thoughts about some kind of snack, which lead me straight into thoughts about how I need to start dinner. Emotional residue from a conversation that didn't go well. Cold fingers. Nagging concerns about how the maintenance guys have been messing with the drain in my bathtub all afternoon and I don't know if they've fixed it or what, or whether they might be knocking at the door any minute with a longer socket wrench. The fact that my son has taken my computer mouse, and I'm having to hit the “up” and “down” arrow keys to navigate through my own convoluted prose every time I want to change something.

Enough already. I quit.

One Draft Down...

So my goal was to finish the first draft of the first of those four essays I keep meaning to write, and to do it by September 30. 

I did finish a first draft before October 1, sort of. I was so impatient to be done that the last couple of pages read kind of like, “If I were to write this more carefully, it might be interesting, and maybe I'd stick an image or two here, and then there's this one good line, and some more filler, and NOW, here are the last two lines, aren't they pretty?”

Then I threw the sort-of-done rough draft at my husband, who basically liked what I'd done, except, you know, that it wasn't really DONE done.

It took me until last night to iron out those last couple of pages, when I finally felt okay about emailing the thing to some of my virtual writing workshop people.

Eight thousand four hundred and nine words. The longest piece I've ever written “just because.”

I can't really come up with a reason why I've subjected myself (not to mention my family) to the past month+ of me getting up early and going to bed late, hogging the computer, and spending an inordinate amount of time in my bathrobe.

My intention was to try WRITING something (besides blog entries & the like) for a change. I'd said, “Someday I want to write an essay about X, Y, or Z” too many freaking times. It was time to shut up and just write. So I did. But now I seem to be on the hook FOREVER, because here's the thing: I'm still not done.

I have completed one rough draft. Whoop-de-doo. That means I MIGHT now benefit from feedback about how to FIX said rough draft.

I'm starting to feel like I'll never be done, and then I remember those ants in The Once and Future King, who had only two expressions in their language: done and not done. Merlin is trying to teach the future King Arthur how NOT to think like an ant, how to set his sights on goals more worthwhile than “done.”

You can live your whole life getting done, and getting done again, and then... you're done, and your ant buddies carry off the husk of your carcass.

Kind of a let-down, I'd have to say, if that's the only point to existence.

I guess the real reward for doing anything must be in the doing, rather than the done-ness.

Oh, who am I kidding – forget all this “it's about the journey, not the destination” business. That's for people who can't afford the five-star hotel on Kauai.

I realize that finishing may not be all it's cracked up to be, but I'm still fantasizing about the day when I will break through that yellow finish line tape and be swooped up by the wildly cheering crowd. They can cart me around on their shoulders while I do fist pumps and occasionally shake my obscenely enormous trophy (which would of course feature a figurine at her computer, her little metal fingers poised above the replica keyboard). Then I'll throw a big party at my private beach house, with sushi and leis for everyone.

Ahhh. That's the way to finish an essay.