It seems like I haven't posted in just about forever, as last week was incredibly busy -- started my writing class (yay! thanks to all my great students!), then next day left for a long weekend at the Lowell Folk Festival. If you have never gone to the Lowell Folk Fest, indeed if you have never heard of it, I am here to testify that it is one of the best music festivals in the country, if not the world. And I've been to a few, here and abroad. First of all, it's free (volunteers schlep donation buckets around, and you get lovely Mardi Gras beads when you contribute, but you don't have to. Although I highly encourage it, as we want this grand tradition to continue). Second of all, you can hear fantastic music from all over the world -- this year some of the samplings were a kick-butt rocking Irish band, Brazilian Forro (kind of like Cajun music), Cajun, of course, Laotian, Afro-Cuban, and an amazing practitioner of Gypsy Jazz, a guitarist a la Django Reinhart, and his band and guest artists from France. Thirdly, the city of Lowell turns into one giant street fair, with great food, all the cool mill museums open, and just a great scene.
But maybe the very best thing about the folk fest for me is that I can indulge in perhaps my most favorite activity of all time, which is to be outside on hot summer nights. There are so many ways to do it, for so many reasons. You can lie on a blanket at a night concert, listening to great music. You can take a telescope out to star-gaze. You can round up your friends and go for a forbidden midnight swim in a resevoir, and have the cops chase you through the woods, dripping, and carrying rather than wearing most of your clothes (I wouldn't recommend this one unless you are under 25). You can simply sit on your back stoop and watch the fireflies. Sometimes, I set up my tent in the backyard and lie reading far into the night by lantern-light, with all the tent windows and sky lights open so whatever breeze there may be finds my skin. I read summer books then. Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine is one of the best, as is the great Eudora Welty's Losing Battles. Or I read books set in cold climates, in winter. A wonderful book I call the mukluk book (it's real title is Ordinary Wolves, by Seth somebody). Or the amazing His Dark Materials trilogy by Phillip Pullman, which includes The Golden Compass, The Amber Spyglass, and The Subtle Knife. Right now I'm reading a fairly new Stephen King called Lisey's Story ( I'm not normally into Stephen King, but his books really are good reads, I'm discovering). But enough of the summer reading list.
The exercise today is really a night-based exercise called, naturally, Summer Nights. Find a reason to hang around outside tonight. Take a walk through suburban streets, look in the houses. Maybe you can even see faces illuminated by the blue TV light, or older couples sitting on their porches. If you live in the country, sit in the nearest field and look for shooting stars. In the city, sit out on your porch, or on your roof, and listen to the parties going on around you, or the kid next door practicing his sax, or the dogs a few streets down calling to each other mournfully. Or take a walk on city streets, as everybody is out walking around too, eating ice-cream cones, instead of sitting in their hot apartments. Whatever you choose to do, commit an Act of Attention to it, then write it, draw it. And enjoy it, as summer is all too fleeting.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Who's Your Harry?
I suppose I can't ignore it anymore. Potter-mania has taken over the world. Since the latest movie and last book burst onto the scene, nearly every form of media has been infiltrated 24/7 with Potter related stories. And that's OK. I, too, love Harry. I admire him for his basic decency, his humanity, his ability to (mostly) do the right thing in extreme circumstances. I admire J.K. Rowling for creating him, and for continuing to use her amazing imagination to move the story forward, for making leaps of connection to the past books and the past of the Wizarding world. I am impressed that these leaps work, if sometimes a little creakily.
Perhaps there has been nothing quite like it in the history of children's literature, or indeed literature in general, so many people waiting, desperate for A BOOK. To follow their hero's next adventure.
I am trying to remember my heroes and heroines, when I was at the tender age of Harry's younger readers. I can't think of many, literary or not. I enjoyed the tales of C.S. Lewis, but didn't really identify with any of his Narnian characters, even Lucy. I think horses were my heroes. The Black Stallion, the Blood Bay colt, Man O'War, the Pie from National Velvet. Then, when I was twelve, I read Jane Eyre, and she became my favorite literary heroine. Still is.
But the real people who could have been role models for me were pretty sparse when I was growing up. I didn't personally know any writers or artists or musicians, doing the things I loved to do. I've talked to friends who also lament the lack of role models in their young lives, too.
So, I thought, can't we have them now? Can't we strive to emulate the people (or characters)who inspire us in our present lives? I guess we can. I guess we're not too old and shriveled up to strive.
I think my role model now would be, among others: Julia Child, for her love of life and food, and teaching others to do the same. Her humor and uniqueness. She didn't let anything stop her. She just went on merrily chortling through her long and productive life. She didn't really find what she was meant to do (ie, cook) until she was in her late thirties, when she also found her husband, Paul. She didn't publish her best- known tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, until she was nearly fifty, and the TV show didn't take off until some time after that. Then she went steaming along until well into her nineties. She gives all us late bloomers hope. I think she's my Harry Potter, right now.
So Who's Your Harry? Literary or not (and maybe Harry is your Harry). Someone you admire, someone you'd want to emulate? What are they like? How do they affect the world? How are you like them, how would it have changed you to have them as a role model as a child, how could you be more like them now?
Write it, draw it.
Perhaps there has been nothing quite like it in the history of children's literature, or indeed literature in general, so many people waiting, desperate for A BOOK. To follow their hero's next adventure.
I am trying to remember my heroes and heroines, when I was at the tender age of Harry's younger readers. I can't think of many, literary or not. I enjoyed the tales of C.S. Lewis, but didn't really identify with any of his Narnian characters, even Lucy. I think horses were my heroes. The Black Stallion, the Blood Bay colt, Man O'War, the Pie from National Velvet. Then, when I was twelve, I read Jane Eyre, and she became my favorite literary heroine. Still is.
But the real people who could have been role models for me were pretty sparse when I was growing up. I didn't personally know any writers or artists or musicians, doing the things I loved to do. I've talked to friends who also lament the lack of role models in their young lives, too.
So, I thought, can't we have them now? Can't we strive to emulate the people (or characters)who inspire us in our present lives? I guess we can. I guess we're not too old and shriveled up to strive.
I think my role model now would be, among others: Julia Child, for her love of life and food, and teaching others to do the same. Her humor and uniqueness. She didn't let anything stop her. She just went on merrily chortling through her long and productive life. She didn't really find what she was meant to do (ie, cook) until she was in her late thirties, when she also found her husband, Paul. She didn't publish her best- known tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, until she was nearly fifty, and the TV show didn't take off until some time after that. Then she went steaming along until well into her nineties. She gives all us late bloomers hope. I think she's my Harry Potter, right now.
So Who's Your Harry? Literary or not (and maybe Harry is your Harry). Someone you admire, someone you'd want to emulate? What are they like? How do they affect the world? How are you like them, how would it have changed you to have them as a role model as a child, how could you be more like them now?
Write it, draw it.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Do I Have To?
This weekend, instead of going out to enjoy the perfection of summer weather we've been blessed with, I mostly stayed in the house and worked. Being a writer is always fun, but there are times that one must put one's nose to the grindstone and get a project finished. It's really like any job. Of course, I would rather have played outside all weekend, or just hung around reading the last Harry Potter in a hammock, so I could take naps between exciting bits. But it was not to be. It was a little like being a kid and mum telling me I have to clean my room/go to the mall with her to buy socks and underwear/go to the Y's craft class she signed me up for without my knowlwdge (I still hate crafts), before I could go out and play. Only this time, I was in the roles of both the kid and the mom. There was no one but me to ask, "Do I have to?" There was no one to blame. But it was fine, really. I got my work done, I accomplished a lot. It felt good. Kind of like the craft class, where I made lopsided potholders and bracelets from gimp, and once put glue in Theresa Szot's hair, because she wanted me to glue a flower to her head. A big orange sunflower.
So for the exercise today, I'm going to make you ask "Do I Have To?" I'd like you to do something you wouldn't ordinarily do, and try to have some fun. It could be going to a little league baseball game if you don't have kids. It could be going to mall or a museum if you normally hate malls or museums. It could be singing in church. Just something to challenge you, stretch you a little. Commit your Acts of Attention, as many as you can, then write, draw.
So for the exercise today, I'm going to make you ask "Do I Have To?" I'd like you to do something you wouldn't ordinarily do, and try to have some fun. It could be going to a little league baseball game if you don't have kids. It could be going to mall or a museum if you normally hate malls or museums. It could be singing in church. Just something to challenge you, stretch you a little. Commit your Acts of Attention, as many as you can, then write, draw.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Go Outside And Play
If you were born between, say, 1950 and 1970, "go outside and play" was the constant refrain of mothers everywhere in the US. No one was then particularly worried about kidnappers or sex offenders, children roamed neighborhoods in great packs like wild dogs, and mothers just seemed to need a lot of time to bake cookies, hang out laundry, cook the dinner, watch Peyton Place etc., without having to manoeuver around kids draped over the furniture or lying on rugs, playing video games. Actually, back then there were no video games, and daytime TV was not (still isn't) kid-friendly, so what the kids were doing was complaining. "I'm bored," "I'm hungry," "Janey's teasing me," "I can't find my [Malibu Barbie], [GI Joe], [Man O'War model horse]." So mom would get fed up -why does no one ever say they're fed up anymore, anyway?- and tell the kids to go outside and play. Or "go play in the street," if the mom had a sick sense of humor. I loved that, when the moms would say that.
Then the kids would heave big sighs, like it was the worst thing in the world to breathe fresh air, heave themselves out of dad's Laz-y-boy, and shlump out the door, not to return till dinnertime. Well, I have to qualify, here. I was always out the door before mom had to tell me. She actually had to beg me to come in. I was lucky enough to live at the edges of a place and a time that barely exist today, where suburb melted into farm, and farm melted into woods. Almost every day, my friends and I were denizens of forest and field, plucking princess pine vines to wreath around our heads, galloping like horses -we WERE horses, snorting and tossing our manes- leaping into streams, following the trails of animals, just to see where they went, where their hidey-holes were.
It was magic.
I am lucky enough to still have some of those magical places to go. They have not all been swallowed up by housing developments. The place I first rode remains(the horse was kept by a lovely woman who let my horse- crazy friend Holly and I ride and groom her Chincoteague pony - another near-impossibility in this day of liability). It is still a place of wonder, with big cattails growing, and marsh, and the sky always seems to be blue with big puffy clouds. I remember my first gallop there, down the hard-packed dirt paths, though a big field, the saddle slipping, the rough mane in my hands. The dangerous and wild feeling of it. I often try to re-capture that feeling, when going out to play meant that anything could happen, any wonder. Sometimes I can. Today I went out to that same field to collect Queen Anne's lace to press in newspaper for Christmas (when it makes wonderful snowflakes for the tree). As I spread out the paper, started cutting the flat, plate-sized delicate flowers with the sun on my back, I got that feeling, that child-wonder, that feeling of timelessness. I get it when I go rapberry picking in the places they grow wild (I find old sunny graveyards attract raspberries, as the stony tops of hills attract wild blueberries).
So, for today, try to remember that feeling of wonder, try to rekindle it. Go Out And Play, somewhere you have felt that wonder in the past. Take your Happiness Book with you. Plan on spending time to become timeless. Then write it, draw it.
Then the kids would heave big sighs, like it was the worst thing in the world to breathe fresh air, heave themselves out of dad's Laz-y-boy, and shlump out the door, not to return till dinnertime. Well, I have to qualify, here. I was always out the door before mom had to tell me. She actually had to beg me to come in. I was lucky enough to live at the edges of a place and a time that barely exist today, where suburb melted into farm, and farm melted into woods. Almost every day, my friends and I were denizens of forest and field, plucking princess pine vines to wreath around our heads, galloping like horses -we WERE horses, snorting and tossing our manes- leaping into streams, following the trails of animals, just to see where they went, where their hidey-holes were.
It was magic.
I am lucky enough to still have some of those magical places to go. They have not all been swallowed up by housing developments. The place I first rode remains(the horse was kept by a lovely woman who let my horse- crazy friend Holly and I ride and groom her Chincoteague pony - another near-impossibility in this day of liability). It is still a place of wonder, with big cattails growing, and marsh, and the sky always seems to be blue with big puffy clouds. I remember my first gallop there, down the hard-packed dirt paths, though a big field, the saddle slipping, the rough mane in my hands. The dangerous and wild feeling of it. I often try to re-capture that feeling, when going out to play meant that anything could happen, any wonder. Sometimes I can. Today I went out to that same field to collect Queen Anne's lace to press in newspaper for Christmas (when it makes wonderful snowflakes for the tree). As I spread out the paper, started cutting the flat, plate-sized delicate flowers with the sun on my back, I got that feeling, that child-wonder, that feeling of timelessness. I get it when I go rapberry picking in the places they grow wild (I find old sunny graveyards attract raspberries, as the stony tops of hills attract wild blueberries).
So, for today, try to remember that feeling of wonder, try to rekindle it. Go Out And Play, somewhere you have felt that wonder in the past. Take your Happiness Book with you. Plan on spending time to become timeless. Then write it, draw it.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Back To The Now
The last few posts have been about looking inside ourselves, to see what we find. Although it's important to reflect in these ways, it's perhaps even more important to get back to the now, look outside our amazing minds, and see what's there to enjoy. There is usually a lot, if we look carefully. If we forget about the horrible state of our gardens that need desperate weeding, the horrible state of our world that we feel helpless about, and can't just go out with a trowel and put to rights (oh, if only!), we can most often find very familiar things around us that bring us joy. After all, why are we here, but to find happiness where we can? I didn't make that up. Aristotle said it, the Dalai Lama says it, we're here to learn the habit of happiness. And we can find it now, in inexplicable places, like our kitchen when we make a peach pie, in our dog's faces, in the car when we're driving to work and we see a woman walking down the street wearing a golden sari, or a large purple hat with peacock feathers waving above it. We can find it wherever we happen to be, right now.
So, go Back To The Now. What do you see, right now where you are? (Or wait a little while, and ask yourself this question when you're ready with your Happiness Book and a pen). You don't have to be anywhere special for this exercise. Your backyard or your rooftop or your office or waiting in the car to pick up the kids from day camp. Look around you. There are probably at least ten things to delight you wherever you are in the now.
I am, as usual, at the library. A little girl sits next to me at her computer, playing video games. Her feet tap, her shoulders scrunch with concentration, and every now and then, she nearly jumps out of her seat when she defeats a foe, finds the hidden Barbie, or something equally exciting on the screen happens. I can feel her joy,and although I think video games are mind-numbing pablum, she doesn't. She's just having some fun, and I can appreciate that, and catch some of it, just from the energy she's throwing around. Then the sounds of the library delight me, the hushed voices, the humming of the computers, the sound of the printer printing out book return receipts. It is all incredibly familiar and soothing to me. People walk by with books clutched to their chests, as if they are new lovers, just waiting for the time when they can get home and be transported by their new book, their love. (Why do people do this, this book clutching thing, pressing books to their hearts? We all do it, the book-lovers among us. We don't clutch a head of lettuce to our hearts in the supermarket, or a pair of jeans from the Gap.)
The books on the shelves themselves give me untold joy, in anticipation, expectation of new worlds, new thoughts, and just the colors of them, the textures of their covers and pages...
I could go on, but you get the idea. So write your now, draw it, take joy in it, clutch it to your heart.
So, go Back To The Now. What do you see, right now where you are? (Or wait a little while, and ask yourself this question when you're ready with your Happiness Book and a pen). You don't have to be anywhere special for this exercise. Your backyard or your rooftop or your office or waiting in the car to pick up the kids from day camp. Look around you. There are probably at least ten things to delight you wherever you are in the now.
I am, as usual, at the library. A little girl sits next to me at her computer, playing video games. Her feet tap, her shoulders scrunch with concentration, and every now and then, she nearly jumps out of her seat when she defeats a foe, finds the hidden Barbie, or something equally exciting on the screen happens. I can feel her joy,and although I think video games are mind-numbing pablum, she doesn't. She's just having some fun, and I can appreciate that, and catch some of it, just from the energy she's throwing around. Then the sounds of the library delight me, the hushed voices, the humming of the computers, the sound of the printer printing out book return receipts. It is all incredibly familiar and soothing to me. People walk by with books clutched to their chests, as if they are new lovers, just waiting for the time when they can get home and be transported by their new book, their love. (Why do people do this, this book clutching thing, pressing books to their hearts? We all do it, the book-lovers among us. We don't clutch a head of lettuce to our hearts in the supermarket, or a pair of jeans from the Gap.)
The books on the shelves themselves give me untold joy, in anticipation, expectation of new worlds, new thoughts, and just the colors of them, the textures of their covers and pages...
I could go on, but you get the idea. So write your now, draw it, take joy in it, clutch it to your heart.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Amazing Mind
I love the fact that we are all so amazing. Our inner lives are unknown territory even sometimes to ourselves. It doesn't matter what our outward circumstances are, there is such rich stuff going on in our minds. Thinking all the time. Even if it's of hamburgers. All of them different in our heads. You may dream of a huge, juicy home-grilled monstrous burger on a fresh-from-the-bakery roll, gently draped with lettuce and tomato. While my perfect burgers may be drifts of White Castle midget-burgers.
Once, I went to a thing called a re-birthing, with a new agey friend. We went to an apartment complex in a nearby town, and in this very white walled, carpeted, badly glazed apartment was a guy who channelled a spirit of some kind named Eon. He had us all lie in a kind of spoked- wheel shape, with our feet almost touching, and began to chant. I just lay there, thinking this is such a pile of horse doo-doo, when I suddenly went into this altered state. I felt really calm, almost sleepy, but also very awake behind my eyes. I started seeing these images. The first was of a sort of tent, in a winter field, but a strange shape, six-sided, with a hole in the top through which good-smelling smoke wafted. There were also blue designs on the side of the tent. I really wanted to go into the tent, but something was stopping me, something in myself. Then I was whisked away into a cloud of red dust, somewhere altogether different. There were chains on my ankles, and I was connected to other chained people, but couldn't see them because of the dust. We were dancing. Chained but dancing. And I felt a wave of tremendous joy. Then I sort of woke up and the first thing I thought of was going to Burger King for a Whopper. Really.
So, I don't know what it all means, but the images, the thoughts, the movies in our heads are wild and mundane and terrible and joyous and totally unique to us.
We should always appreciate this ability we have to project these pictures in our minds. We can even send ourselves into the future, like no other beings can, that we know of. This is what puts us at the top of the food chain, an even greater gift than opposable (sp?) thumbs.
In the spirit of honoring this great gift, the exercise today is Amazing Mind. Get yourself somewhere comfortable to sit, with your Happiness Book and pen handy. Close your eyes. Let your mind go. Don't care what you think about, just sit and let it happen. First you'll probably think that the car needs an oil change, or repeat the conversation you had with your friend who made you so angry, then you'll think of the last time you went to the beach, then you'll think about your vacation in August and what you'll do on Prince Edward Island, and soon you'll be biking on a flat dusty road between dunes and sea. When you 'wake up,' write all your thoughts. Draw what seems interesting. Let your mind amaze you.
Once, I went to a thing called a re-birthing, with a new agey friend. We went to an apartment complex in a nearby town, and in this very white walled, carpeted, badly glazed apartment was a guy who channelled a spirit of some kind named Eon. He had us all lie in a kind of spoked- wheel shape, with our feet almost touching, and began to chant. I just lay there, thinking this is such a pile of horse doo-doo, when I suddenly went into this altered state. I felt really calm, almost sleepy, but also very awake behind my eyes. I started seeing these images. The first was of a sort of tent, in a winter field, but a strange shape, six-sided, with a hole in the top through which good-smelling smoke wafted. There were also blue designs on the side of the tent. I really wanted to go into the tent, but something was stopping me, something in myself. Then I was whisked away into a cloud of red dust, somewhere altogether different. There were chains on my ankles, and I was connected to other chained people, but couldn't see them because of the dust. We were dancing. Chained but dancing. And I felt a wave of tremendous joy. Then I sort of woke up and the first thing I thought of was going to Burger King for a Whopper. Really.
So, I don't know what it all means, but the images, the thoughts, the movies in our heads are wild and mundane and terrible and joyous and totally unique to us.
We should always appreciate this ability we have to project these pictures in our minds. We can even send ourselves into the future, like no other beings can, that we know of. This is what puts us at the top of the food chain, an even greater gift than opposable (sp?) thumbs.
In the spirit of honoring this great gift, the exercise today is Amazing Mind. Get yourself somewhere comfortable to sit, with your Happiness Book and pen handy. Close your eyes. Let your mind go. Don't care what you think about, just sit and let it happen. First you'll probably think that the car needs an oil change, or repeat the conversation you had with your friend who made you so angry, then you'll think of the last time you went to the beach, then you'll think about your vacation in August and what you'll do on Prince Edward Island, and soon you'll be biking on a flat dusty road between dunes and sea. When you 'wake up,' write all your thoughts. Draw what seems interesting. Let your mind amaze you.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Look Around
Have not posted for a bit, as I have been working on getting a series of writing classes off the ground. I will be teaching the end of July into late August, and the series is entitled Save Your Life Writing -- a kind of spin off of the Save Your Life Project. It will be based on the notion of committing Acts of Attention in order to get a book project started. The classes are designed for the people who always tell me, "I have a great idea for a book, and I love to write, but I'm really not a writer." To which I say, "Hogwash. Anyone who loves books and writing can write a book, and here's how to do it." It will be enlightening, and entertaining, and inspiring and FUN.
To get back to this project: I am posting from Sparky's place, where I came to spend a small town 4th of July (which is my favorite holiday, as it comes at the height of perfect summer weather and there are no big expectations of big meals, big presents, big emotional roller coasters. Only, hopefully, big parades and fireworks displays, and a big cold chicken and potato salad nosh).
Whenever I'm here at Sparky's, I can never help but notice a few fundamental differences between men and women. One is the propensity of men to be huge attention seekers. No sooner do you tell them, "OK, I'm going to work now, and would appreciate a little quiet time," they begin to say "Shit, shit! Ow, ow!" under their breaths, just loudly enough so you can hear, play back their phone messages at top volume in the next room, rustle papers, again quite loudly, saying "Ow!" the whole time, then spill coffee all over the dog, when the "Shit!"s rise to full volume and the dog rushes to you dripping coffee all over your lap and looking for pets and reassurance that you've not left them forever with the crazy person in the next room. It's not just Sparky, either. Probably 78% of men exhibit this behavior. It annoys me.
Another annoying habit of the male persuasion is the determined inability or sheer unwillingness to look about them. Sparky will say, often, "I can't find my glasses" before he even looks. I will gaze up from my book, and immediately spot them on the coffee table, not three feet from Sparky's nose. I will point this out, and he will grunt and stick them on his face and "lose" them again exactly seven minutes later. Then he'll call from the other room, "Did you move my glasses?" The accusatory interrogatory, of course, is even more annoying than the interrogatory of oblivion. "No," I'll reply. "I've been sitting here reading the whole time you've had them. Have you checked the bathroom sink?" Which is where he sets them down about 67% of the time. I'd say this annoying habit occurs in 94% of males.
So, this is a special exercise, to hone all our short term memories. It was inspired by my encounters with Sparky's oblivion to objects, but we can all benefit from this one, and I'm not trying to single out one particular gender, but, well...It's called Look Around. For five minutes, wherever you happen to be, really look around you. Notice objects. Small objects on surfaces. A note pad, keys, an old cassette tape, the book you're reading, a pen, if you're at home. Cups on tables, a folded newspaper, a display of cakes on a counter if you're in a cafe. Etc. Notice where the objects are in relation to other objects. Make a detailed mental picture of them. Then go do something in another room, or go outside for five minutes. Wash the dishes, hang out laundry, throw a frisbee for your dog. Forget about the objects. Then, after the five minutes are up, still in a space where the observed objects are not, write about them. Draw them. Be relational, be specific about details of their appearance and position. Then when you're done, go look. Did you remember?
To get back to this project: I am posting from Sparky's place, where I came to spend a small town 4th of July (which is my favorite holiday, as it comes at the height of perfect summer weather and there are no big expectations of big meals, big presents, big emotional roller coasters. Only, hopefully, big parades and fireworks displays, and a big cold chicken and potato salad nosh).
Whenever I'm here at Sparky's, I can never help but notice a few fundamental differences between men and women. One is the propensity of men to be huge attention seekers. No sooner do you tell them, "OK, I'm going to work now, and would appreciate a little quiet time," they begin to say "Shit, shit! Ow, ow!" under their breaths, just loudly enough so you can hear, play back their phone messages at top volume in the next room, rustle papers, again quite loudly, saying "Ow!" the whole time, then spill coffee all over the dog, when the "Shit!"s rise to full volume and the dog rushes to you dripping coffee all over your lap and looking for pets and reassurance that you've not left them forever with the crazy person in the next room. It's not just Sparky, either. Probably 78% of men exhibit this behavior. It annoys me.
Another annoying habit of the male persuasion is the determined inability or sheer unwillingness to look about them. Sparky will say, often, "I can't find my glasses" before he even looks. I will gaze up from my book, and immediately spot them on the coffee table, not three feet from Sparky's nose. I will point this out, and he will grunt and stick them on his face and "lose" them again exactly seven minutes later. Then he'll call from the other room, "Did you move my glasses?" The accusatory interrogatory, of course, is even more annoying than the interrogatory of oblivion. "No," I'll reply. "I've been sitting here reading the whole time you've had them. Have you checked the bathroom sink?" Which is where he sets them down about 67% of the time. I'd say this annoying habit occurs in 94% of males.
So, this is a special exercise, to hone all our short term memories. It was inspired by my encounters with Sparky's oblivion to objects, but we can all benefit from this one, and I'm not trying to single out one particular gender, but, well...It's called Look Around. For five minutes, wherever you happen to be, really look around you. Notice objects. Small objects on surfaces. A note pad, keys, an old cassette tape, the book you're reading, a pen, if you're at home. Cups on tables, a folded newspaper, a display of cakes on a counter if you're in a cafe. Etc. Notice where the objects are in relation to other objects. Make a detailed mental picture of them. Then go do something in another room, or go outside for five minutes. Wash the dishes, hang out laundry, throw a frisbee for your dog. Forget about the objects. Then, after the five minutes are up, still in a space where the observed objects are not, write about them. Draw them. Be relational, be specific about details of their appearance and position. Then when you're done, go look. Did you remember?
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