Fragments From Floyd

Overwhelmed? Yes. But this is a day, a week in which I know what it is I need to do and will know when it is done. One doesn’t always have that kind of clarity of obligation or potential satisfaction of accomplishment.

Now flow the slack waters that come before the current builds and cataracts loom in April and May. Slack, indeed, not even leaving the house for a handful of patients twice a week, that chapter if not ended, trailing off toward nothing. And I am not driven to go back to it if I can fill my days with this work I at last see clearly that I must do, that I am able to do.

I’m encouraged to find a potential publisher–a long shot as they all are–a top tier recipient of this manuscript in process that wants 20 pages and will give notice in 8-10 weeks. I can invest those pages and those weeks to this hope. And then…

Once packaged for export, I’ll be looking at other choices down the list–choices I don’t have in mind just now. May be I’ll have to spend some hours in Writers Digest to learn how to do the dipping and cooing courtship dance particular to each suitor in a half-dozen publishing bowers. I’d prefer my first choice simply open the door when I appear ardent and sincere with flowers.

Now your part: if you’ve read this far, you are probably one of a few good men–or ladies–the Fragments Marines. You might have been along during the year of similar gestation for Slow Road Home, even be one of the 40 or so editing contributors to that work that was one time where this next book is now.

I don’t think I’ll post this widely just yet, but If you’d be interested in seeing a little of how “Bridging the Nature Gap” (current working title) is coming along, just leave a comment–if I know how to find you, or email me (fred1st over on Google’s mail) and I’ll send you the link where the dozen pages open in a nice page-turning display over at issuu.com.

I’d be pleased to have your comments, critiques and corrections as I approach my deadline of next Tuesday for sending this package off. Mostly, I’d just be comforted to know you’re out there riding the currents with me toward whatever delta we’re heading toward this time.

I’m really very sorry that accounting for my daily computer hygiene is about as interesting as describing trimming the toenails. But the PC to Mac transition is what consumes me in the recent past and especially in the near future, and this daily slice of life is what has filled these pages in Spring 2002, so why quit now?

UPS shows the Mac (tower, monitor, and InDesign upgrade software) in Knoxville since Saturday morning. Just sitting there. Still scheduled for delivery tomorrow. Drumming fingers….

Just to prove I’m not totally geekly, I did attend the Roanoke Writers Conference on Saturday and found it worth giving up a day of my so-called life. I met Cara Modisett for the first time (after numerous emails)–editor of Blue Ridge Country Magazine, and we tentatively arranged for lunch and the grand tour of Floyd’s recent changes.

Also I met fellow radio-essayist Janice Jacquith who lead a session on–guess what?–doing radio essays. She inspired me (once I get used to the mac-ish way of doing things) to put more of my stuff online in audio format AND to get some stuff back to WVTF who stopped their regular Friday essays some months back but do them now on an irregular and unpredictable schedule.

I spent some time chatting with Gene Marrano, who among many other freelance involvements hosts “Studio Virginia” on the ROA NPR station and also writes for the Star-Sentinel.

I met Darrell Laurent, owner of the Writers Bridge who told me I looked just like he thought I would (is that a good thing?).

First and last sessions of the day were on blogging and on internet research, conducted by Keith Ferrell, former editor of Omni Magazine; we’d met a couple of times at coffeehouse readings in Rocky Mount. He still makes his living from writing, and has been significantly impacted by the shift away from printed books (like Britannica for which he once wrote a lot.) So there. I do get out some.

Oh, and I traded chain saws last week, so after more than 25 years of owning Stihl, I now will be hefting a somewhat smaller and easier-to-start Echo 400. I haven’t had much chance to use it, what with the ice and snow. And given my recent woodlot mishap, I’m not as carefree traipsing off into the woods alone. But next year’s woodpile isn’t where it needs to be, so I’ll have to pull myself away from the Mac long enough to tend to creature comforts and necessities. Hey, this new hardware and OS is a necessity too!

I have three writing deadlines for the end of this week and they are all done, just have to send them in. I anticipated the crunch and finished one on “the story of stuff” for the FLoyd Press, one on Geothermal Energy and another on the PC-Mac Conversion Experience for the Star-Sentinel. That gets me through til the middle of February when I’ll have to come up with other topics–these, perhaps the first assignments done on the Mac.

Speaking of which, I’m wondering what to do about “office” programs. I didn’t get iWork from MacMall with the hardware purchase. I’m thinking I don’t need much in the way of spreadsheet and there are online and open source versions I could use. I don’t need Powerpoint so much either. But I DO and WILL need a word processor capable of saving in *.doc format. I’m looking seriously at SCRIVENER  with an eye toward doing longer pieces in the future. I like the outline function too since that is the way my brain works.

So I’m clucking around here getting the nursery ready for the new baby, alien life form that it will be. I’m so obsessive I even vacuumed and dusted off my desk! Dear me, fatherhood will make a fella just a little wacky.

Working this morning for text to go with something like the image for the BTINY–the Book That Is Not Yet. (You saw this collage last autumn here.) Here’s part of the narrative so far.

I grew up with television’s Wild Kingdom and Disney’s frequently-staged nature depictions. To a young boy of the times, those dramatized revelations of what goes on in the living world of animals and plants were extraordinary. How much more dazzling are the visual encounters of nature available to today’s audience of virtual field trippers. There’s much to be learned from sophisticated digital visits to exotic landscapes where, without moving a muscle, you watch unusual creatures do what they do where they live.

But through the monitor screen, you are spectator in the bleachers, an inert voyeur separated from the game. When the show is over, you’ve been entertained, but you are unchanged.

Watching nature through screen-media is no substitute for touching, smelling, feeling; for being a participant in the learning space, all senses engaged. As they say, the map is not the territory.

Get up from your LazyBoy and take your kids out into the territory beyond the screen door and learn with them to be amazed by the landscape and creatures in the real world around you. This is the where of your life, the soil and oxygen of your own nature drama.

And if you learn to see them, the ordinaries close to home can be extraordinarily rewarding. (But you probably remember this from your childhood, don’t you?)…

Text will mostly be on the left hand page, image on the right, with prompts for activities, elaborations–in this case, to the natural history and lore of these four creatures in the picture.

I’m shooting for some 35-40 of these “spreads” for a book total of maybe 80-90 pages, full color, probably hard cover. Target date: fall 2008. Gulp.

And if there are any publishers out there looking for a companion for the Richard Louv book, Last Child in the Woods, I’d like to think this might be it. I’m interested in talking. But not quitting my day job.

In April I will celebrate the second anniversary of my 30th birthday–an historic event which, at the time, hung heavy with the portent of passage from youth into the responsibilities of full adult life. Doubled now, another threshold looms. Near 60 and on the cusp of codgerdom, I’m inclined to look both ways in time before going on.

I will ask your indulgence to ramble. Isn’t that is how us old guys in our golden years are cast-maudlin, sentimental, all gushy and teary with nostalgia? I might as well play the part for a few minutes.

In 1978 we lived in Wytheville in the drafty, rambling house on Withers Road. Our daughter (who a few weeks back visited us from South Dakota with her two daughters) was five. Our son would be born in December of that year, and he, alas, will have his own milestone #30 to celebrate or lament later this year.

A few pair of button-fly bellbottoms hung in the back of my closet, but I was most comfortable in my Levis and plaid flannel. The floppy-collared pastel polyester leisure suits spawned by the Bee Gees, “Grease” and “Saturday Night Fever” that year were appalling even then. But by 1978, married-with-children, I was no slave to fashion or the top-40.

It had been eight years since the first Earth Day, a 1970 happening that coincided with my entry as a Zoology major to graduate school at Auburn. The energy of consensus and good will toward the planet was infectious and hope for a healthier, more sustainable world for our children ran high. The greening of America, then the world, was surely at hand! By 1978, I was teaching in the biology department at the Community College, wildflower field-tripping with the earth-children, stalking the wild asparagus, feeling the love.

Gas mileage was going up, CFCs were coming down, and Ohio rivers no longer caught fire. Computers made the cover of Time Magazine that year. Technology was going to make us more efficient, more globally integrated and cooperative–more informed, for sure. Wiser, even. Things were looking better in the Middle East; the Camp David Accord offered hope of new civility in that unsettled cradle of civilization.

Perhaps just being a healthy thirty years old in those prosperous times imbued us with a passion for positive change. There were slippery slopes in world politics, the environment and in our personal and cultural indulgences, sure, but there was also a confidence that collectively, we could overcome the devils of our day.

Even President Carter espoused ethical stewardship toward a sustainable future for all. Think globally, act locally. What could stop us? “Go home and love your family” Mother Theresa answered the next year when asked what we could do to promote world peace.

And in the end, I’ve found her words perhaps the best advice to give my son-and all our children-as they confront the demons and slippery slopes of their second thirty years.

Do as we say, not as we do. Be rather than seem. Think generations ahead. And never wear polyester.

We’ll check back with you in 2038 and pray you will have succeeded in those places where my generation has not yet learned well enough how to care through time for the earth and for each other.

Published in Roanoke Star-Sentinel for Jan 3, 2008 / Fred First

I was talking with a would-be writer last week who told me that if he expected to ever get any writing done, he would have to find a far off desert island where he could hear his own thoughts.

I told him with a little swagger that I wrote every day from a desert island and it was on Goose Creek in Floyd County. I half-believed at the time that this metaphor was true, but since then, I’ve had second thoughts.

Yes, I do feel at times the kind of serenity and isolation it takes to write from this sheltered place. We do live in secluded spot where outdoor sounds consist of the babble of creeks and wind on the ridges and an occasional jet descending into Roanoke.

But inside, to be honest, this is rarely a desert island of writerly tranquility. In this room where I would join word to word rumbles a train station of clanging ideas, a raucous airport of criss-crossing trails in the sky of imagination, a corporation switchboard of neglected phone calls, and a stratified desk of white noise.

Bank statements half-reconciled shout to be resolved; packages plead for mailers and addresses; ignored receipts multiply like rabbits. And hey, look at that browser page—what a great topic for a future blog post. I’ll just make a few notes and…

The phone rings. The wife returns from town. And oh dread! I run the risk of losing hold of the thread I followed with such passion three minutes ago at the shore where desert island meets inner metropolis. I have to do better at organizing my domain.

• Clean off the desk of visible distractions.
• Let the phone ring and turn off the answering machine; if it’s important they’ll call back.

(Yes, dear, I’m in the middle of making a list…)

• Set a timer and only get up to stretch. Return to center. Prohibit mental intruders. Reward yourself if you succeed.
• Keep a clear focus on the prize; know what it is, what it will take to get there, steel yourself.

(Yes, I’m coming. Be just a minute…)

• Find and stick with a consistent organization method that keeps me from having to reproduce steps.
• Ask for help when others can do something more efficiently and expertly than I can.

(No I’m not ignoring you. I’m just concentrating…)

• Keep a checklist of tasks completed to let me see I have made progress.
• Take out the screens and clean the windows in my junky room that I should be ashamed of
• Vacuum the rugs, bathroom and kitchen floors (can’t I see the dog-hair tumbleweeds? Am I blind or just a slob?)
• Throw out those empty boxes from the new addition that started out being the ANNex but has recently morphed into the FREDex.
• Sweep the front walk and dust off the porch furniture before company comes this afternoon for dinner.

Oh never mind. Paradise lost. How is that possible here on this tranquil desert island? Did I mention that I am not the only person marooned here, and that instead of palm trees, the beaches are infested thick as Kudzu with the dreaded invasive Honey-do vine?

This little tale appeared in the Roanoke Star-Sentinel on 13 December 07.

When winter comes, our morning walks don’t end, but they are no longer a casual tiptoe through the woods. Winter walks are a deep-sea dive into cold and dark, in a submersible of wool and down. Peeking out from stocking hats like diving helmets, we trudge heavily against the stern and biting currents of polar air that wash over us like waves. Without our swaddling spacesuits, our frail pink flesh would turn blue and brittle as December leaves, and our expedition would never be heard from again.

A summer breath, outdoors or in, is little different. But with the first breathing in of winter air outdoors, you know that you have stepped out into a world that is remarkable for things missing. Winter outdoors is a play on a stage vaguely familiar, from which most of the props have been temporarily removed. Heat is only one of the absent characters. Diminished too are color, smell and the sounds and motion of living nature. Even molecules move with lethargy.

Come the play of winter, all the best lines have been spoken by autumn; and, except for the wind, there are no words.

Summer is soft, yielding and supple. Winter is hard, unyielding and brittle. You feel winter through your feet and hear it in your steps. Cold dry air has its own smell, and there is a sound that belongs to the cold of winter. It is the sound of breathing, ears muffled, holding the beat of your own heart in wool like an echo in an empty shell. No birds call; insects sleep frozen solid under bark and sod.

Winter smells of wool and of wrapped humanity inside. From beyond the thick shroud of winter clothes there is only the near-fragrance of frost. No motes of aroma escape on warm currents from spicebush, sassafras, white pine, from dank soft creek mud or pasture clover. There should be an olfactory adjective, like monochrome, to describe the lunar-stark aromasphere of winter.

from Fred’ Slow Road Home in the hope that we will have winter this year

Oliver Sacks is going blind. And he’s writing a book about music. If you don’t know him, you might want to.

As a writer, Sack’s work and method is a model to aspire to. His is one of those rare scientific minds that does not dissect the life out of his subject. His soul shares in the sufferings of his patients and takes every loss as a path to knowledge. The following excerpts are from a Seed Magazine piece about him called “The Listener”.

Sacks has used the broken brain as a point of entry into the mind, so that readers learn about the perception of colors from a color-blind painter, or about the structure of memory from a man who has none. But the real lesson of Sacks’s work goes far beyond the confines of scientific knowledge. His case histories are essays in empathy, sincere attempts to enter into the experience of someone else, to know the individual and not just the disease. Sacks wants the kind of knowledge that can be known only through love, through listening.

Sacks also describes the case of Martin, who developed uncanny musical talents after contracting meningitis as a child. While the affliction impaired many aspects of Martin’s mind, it left him with a limitless auditory memory. And then there’s Mrs. C., who was besieged by musical hallucinations after becoming deaf. She couldn’t stop hearing Christmas carols.

Blogging has changed, this blogger’s life and world have changed in the past five years since Fragments began. I miss the way it used to be those first years. I look forward to the way it will be next year and the next, as small voices join in the growing sea of self-expression, information and ideas that is the expanding world of internet self-publishing.

Yes, I feel cut off from an energy that once existed on both sides of this computer screen back in the early and uncertain days of exploration, experimentation and innovation. I remember the Ecotone–a collaborative group centered around writing about place, for which I was a founding member. I remember the first bloggers’ Carnival of the Vanities (first among the aggregating carnivals and father of subsequent themed postings on trees, birds, nature, cats…) where the first “issue” had maybe a dozen contributions of which mine was one. I remember the first meeting of another “live” blogger on my front porch, while that list has grown to more than a dozen now.

And while I feel “left behind” in many ways online (I haven’t caught on to Twitter or Facebook yet) I also sense the ways that the medium is changing for the better. I have three examples from just this week, and since they include me in some small way in their efforts and activities, I feel included in this evolution towards whatever it is that blogs and blogging will become.

First, I was happy this week to learn of Whorled Leaves–a site that is “an experiment in blogging book communities, web-based friendships, and more inspired by a common love for the natural world.” That group has chosen for this month’s selection to read my book. So our words do live on, and even when they have grown faded and distant to us, those reading them for the first time can make the moments, places and sensations they depict live again.

Blogs that become books (or “blooks”) is a phenomenon that of course didn’t exist in 2002 when FFF began. Now the list is long and growing, and you may have visited Lulu’s Blooker Prize site where over 100 entries from 15 countries competed for the $10000 prize. (Amazingly, I did not win!) Cheryl Hagdorn has created “Blooking Central: Examining published blooks to discover what makes for a blookable blog and how you can turn your blog into a blook.” She gave a mention this week of Slow Road Home in answer to someone asking “if you can read it on the blog, why have the book?” SRH, she said, is “the sort of thing you want to curl up with on your lap in front of a fire or sitting in your glider sipping lemonade. Hard to do that with your lap top and still smell the pine in the Blue Ridge mountains.”

And finally, from amidst the angst and ire of blog-pundritry and the babel of mundane and quotidian blather that composes no small portion of the blogmatter in the universe, Sheila Cason from Guam has created Beauty on the Web, a site “…all about beautiful things found on weblogs.” Here’s another example of how bloggers, blogs and creative energy can work together for good. She asked for and I sent a contribution. You may have something to share as well. Sent it her way.

My writing life no longer is limited to my weblog. But I won’t abandon it, even in its diluted and enfeebled state, because there is still energy to tap into, to add to, to learn from. I don’t think, even as long-lived as I am among bloggers (and among my fellow seniors, for that matter) I don’t think I’ve seen it all yet. There is more to come in my life as writer and photographer, and this blog will somehow be a part of that growth.

How does your blog fit into your life, past, present and future? Do you think of it as obligation or opportunity? As an inspiration or a drain on your creative energies? Is it time for a change in your voice, your brand, your direction that might enliven your time in the edit-box of your blog platform? Now’s a good time to be considering where to go from here. The New Blogging Year is approaching fast!

Well, this isn’t exactly the quote I was hoping for to go with the picture of a crab spider. But I like the Gary Larsen-ish whimsy in this spider’s-eye(s) view of life.

“Our egos tells us we’re the only ones that have any kind of feelings. We’re the only ones with a relationship. We’re the only ones with family. You know, I think that if you kill a spider, there is a relationship that you’re ruining. There’s a conversation going on outside with the other spiders. ‘Did you hear about Chris?….Killed yeah….Sneaker. And now Stephanie has nine hundred babies to raise all alone. Well, she’s got her legs full I’ll tell you that right now. Chris was so kind, wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s just been tough for them lately. They just lost their web last week. Those humans think they’re so smart. Let them try shooting silk out of their butt and see what they can make.”  Ellen DeGeneres

But hey: I’m actually getting something done, writing-wise, this morning!

Completely free of distractions or roadblocks to progress, I’m totally honed in on the task at hand, fully focused on my mission and objectives. Nothing can stand in my way…NOTHING!

…er, except maybe incoming emails, pointless browser rambles, blog posts about spiders that somehow intrude out of nowhere…Doh! But damn the torpedoes–full (or at least half) speed ahead! (Hmmm. Wonder where that nautical quote is from. Let’s see here…)

How would you describe what a breath of late October air feels and smells like where you live?

A single sentence: that is your task. Write a single sentence that says something about how you experience the smells of autumn.

More is fine, but start with a single sentence. You can do it.

Stop and consider your olfactory memories of fall and the feelings they convey for you. (Ask for contributions from your kids, and please pass the challenge along to others by sharing the link to this post!)

Consider sharing–in comments, including links to your blog post if you put it up for us. Might be fun, should enough folks accept this challenge, to merge all of the sentences together into one collaborative SENSE of Fall. Here’s mine:

Fall smells of wood smoke and fading grasses, of dead leaves that drape the yard in rust and gold, of tomatoes rotting on coiled black vines killed by first frost.

Fall smells of burning oak in the dark morning, the musk of coffee, heat and cold savored for a quiet moment on the front porch in chill air.

The sun slides up through baring branches, each turn rising farther south over the east ridge.

A shaft of light, and warm aromas lift like seasoned spirits; we breathe them in and know our days are numbered.

A day of drizzle and our woods steep to tea–a hundred wet leaves still bright decay along the path beside the meadow, mingle their fragrant deaths in a medley of summer passing.

Fall smells a little like winter.