Walking Over Facebook

Facebook, ah Facebook, one of our modern most devilish distractions. I should leave it alone, but I'm driven by curiosity and the desire to look inside peoples' half-open curtains. Can any writer really ignore the possibilities that might be revealed through the flimsy folds or beneath the blinds in the beacon of that yellow-white light, in the flickering strobe of a TV, or in this case, computer screen.

Still, I find that nothing can take the place of a good old-fashioned walk. A million, jillion stories are taking place just a few yards from where you are striding down the sidewalk, supposedly minding your own business. Comedy, tragedy, violence, love, lust, family reunions, family dysfunctions, loneliness, sadness, joy, every "ism" or addiction you can think of are being played out on the small, unintended public stage of a living room, kitchen, bedroom where someone forgot to close the blinds. I look. I always look. Don't you? But I try not to look like I'm looking.

I'm listening, too, trying to hear the story, fill it out with what has led up to the present interaction. Is it another man, a woman, a bully at school today? She says her mother is coming for a week. He says "the hell you say" and a door slams, the volume to the TV rises like a wave into the street. Punk rock, hip-hop, folk songs, Bach stretches between houses like an old phone party line where one voice overrides another until you're not sure which one is speaking to you; or if they all are.

This is what facebook used to look like. Where would we have gotten songs like "Pretty Woman" or "The Girl from Impanema" if writers hadn't been out walking, looking, paying attention? Walt Whitman, Steinbeck, Mary Oliver, Stephen King (he's the only one I know that got hit by a car so don't let that stop you), Thomas Wolfe, Lucille Clifton, Thoreau, Robert Frost, Raymond Carver, O. Henry. All these great authors and many, many more have been walkers and voyeurs. How many stories, poems, even novels got their start from a writer who passed an open window, or from a stranger simply tipping their hat to a lady who strolled down a boardwalk across the street?

Yes, now we have facebook and think we need not go for our story-seeking walks any longer. Why waste the time and energy when we can, with a wave of our hand, bring up a whole community of people and their stories, the ones they're willing to tell, along with the ones who tell too much? Remember, though, most people put on their best face before they write--they don't call it facebook for nothing.

Some, it's true, like my friend, Sue Ann from Maine, are just as much themselves on fb as they would be if you were to run into them on the street on any given day. For this reason, and the fact that she is without a doubt one of the most honest and interesting human beings I've ever met with a thousand great stories to tell, would make a stroll through facebook worthwhile. Occasionally. But she is herself too busy shoveling snow off the roof, driving her tractor, drinking beer with her friend boys, or running the pet squirrel out of the homemade apple pie to spend all her time on face book.

Remember, too, these are your "friends." They are your friends for a reason; mainly because you share interests in common. It's like trying to learn some new style from the people you grew up with--you already know what they'll be wearing and will probably be dressed a lot like them to boot. No, you've got to get out in the streets, travel to a new part of town, or a different town entirely to be inspired. Get out there and go walking, gang! Not only is it good for the creative spirit in you, it's good for the body and clears the mind. Oh, yeah, and it makes you realize you are vital part of a big, diverse world that can't be contained within the four sides of a computer screen, no matter how many friends you may have on facebook.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the poetry collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here. Or, if cookbooks are more your style, get a copy of Mendy's family cookbook Across the Arklatex at www.twopoets.us.

Apprenticed to Poetry: Part Three

(This is part three of the "Apprenticed to Poetry" posts. If you missed the others, you can read part one here and part two here.)

How will we make a living while we are still apprentices to our passion? Who can help us learn, be the mentor or master tradesman that sets the example? What will we do with the children while we practice our art or our writing or our music? Understandable fears block our way. If we get some gestalt on the picture of our lives, however, we may very well see that we are more afraid of ignoring what calls us, than of giving into the call. We have been graced with the gift of life and blessed with certain talents. We are wasting some of the finest parts of this gift when we consistently tell it no. This denial can lead to depression and despair, even if its expression is oh-so-quiet that nobody knows. We suffer though, and we are aware that we do.

I believe we are here to shine. No, we may not get to American Idol, win the Noble Prize or a Grammy or even an Emmy. We most likely will not grasp Oscar and take him home. But that’s not why we choose creativity. What’s important is the choice that carries meaning in its craw. It’s the choice that gives our lives purpose and a new found happiness.

We make these kind of choices every day, and every day we are alive, we are given the chance to begin again, to choose differently this time. Each time we choose real life over TV, to cook a new dish rather than eat at McDonald’s, to write a poem rather than write on face book, we are empowering ourselves and those around us. We are taking a step in the direction that creates life rather than denies it. We are choosing to make a difference, to go against the grain of commonality and have a life that is sincere and authentic. There is no better feeling, unless it is influencing someone else to make an authentic choice for themselves.

We have the power to change our lives from mundane to challenging. We have a calling, each of us, and we are lucky enough to know it. That doesn’t mean we have to heed it, though. You are free, as I was, to stay in the least satisfying and most dangerous job in the world because I was more afraid to pick up a pen; to learn that, behold, the pen IS mightier than the sword. Any job that is crazy-making or even boring can kill the human spirit. We are meant for joy. And a joyful person is a peaceful person. A fulfilled person brings meaning to the lives of those they touch. Even if a creative commitment is your avocation and not your vocation, you can find the time to include it in your everyday life. Dedication and persistence for 30 minutes a day can change you in ways you never thought possible. Like the moon, we begin to reflect our lives outward so that it is shared and becomes a light by which both you and others can travel when it’s dark. It’s only scary for awhile and it is so worth the risk.

So give yourself, say thirty minutes this very day, to sit alone quietly and remember what it was you always wanted to do before you got that business degree, before you had a family, before you let go of the dream. Then figure out a way to revive that “dream deferred,” choosing now, to begin again.

Before You Jump

by Mendy Knott

She stands firm in a big old Birch.
Its limbs stretch over the same length of river
her granddad swam when he was just a kid.
She is just a kid herself,
rangy as a boy; thick brown hair
pulled into a ponytail shows off her pixie features,
the brown shells of her ears.
Her face gazes at something no one else can see,
some future far away as college
or closer than the swirling water
flowing past beneath.
She waits for her courage to catch up
to how fast she can climb,
stand alone,
take hold of the rope.
Breathless, she considers how her feet
will leave the sureness of the branch and then...
What happens next?
She can only guess.
There are so many firsts for a girl
green as the leaves which frame her
and she will not be rushed.
No “Ready-set-go!” or “Jump!”
will make her leave her perch.
This girl knows her mind.
What happens next?
We are left to guess.

Thoughts zip past like swallows dip and dive
touch the water, fly.
She is not a swallow, though.
Flight depends on courage, heart,
her willingness to risk
adventure.
Shoulders arch wings aching to be tried.
The thin brown feet shift.
What she can’t yet know, she can anticipate:
rush of wind, the muddy water taste,
mouth full of sunshine as she swings
from beneath the canopy of leaves,
body suspended in mid-air when she lets go
as the rope releases her from all she’s ever known.
Momentum, once begun,
will take us somewhere;
of this we can be sure.

Flight, with all its fear and fascination,
will only be first once.
What she appears to know right now
(how quickly we forget)
is not to rush the moment, let it linger.
Stand a moment in that place where you’re familiar
with the feel of everything.
Appreciate your apprehension.
Realize you’ll never be the same.
Know with every act we’re changed.

Then my girl, let fly and take it in:
all the highs and lows
the swing the fall
the grace that lands us on our feet
or sinks us deep in Mystery
the breath that brings us back
the Self that, if we let it, always rises up to meet
both our victories and defeats.

Remind us how time passes fast
and how much more we need to be
open and alive as this young girl
poised in the widespread arms of a tree,
life flowing past beneath our feet.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the poetry collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here. Or, if cookbooks are more your style, get a copy of Mendy's family cookbook Across the Arklatex at www.twopoets.us.

Apprenticed to Poetry: Part Two

Where I’m From
by Mendy Knott

I am from Dick and Madelyn
Jethro and Jewel
Lillian and John (Jake to his buddies).
I am from deep beneath the tarnished buckle
of the Bible Belt.
Southern states have left traces
all over me like lint:
sweet dark molasses of Big Muddy in my accent
orange dusting of Texas hill country across my cheeks
the wild of a barefoot, small-town Louisiana child.
I’m from a long line of preacher men,
mostly Presbyterian, some Methodist,
all absolutely fundamental to:
my love of language
my tendency to tell a story
the long, lost lonely nights of young lesbians and liars.
I’m from my Mamaw’s front porch swattin’ flies,
Camden street lamps jarring junebugs,
farm ponds catching bream, bass, catfish, carp.
I am from every night a home-cooked meal,
hand-cranked ice cream in the summer
roastbeefriceandgravy on most Sundays.
As I was made once from my Momma’s garden,
I’m now grown up in Leigh’s greenbeans and red tomatoes.
I own the drunk I’m from, the addict born to bear
the brokenness of a woman soldier and big-city cop.
I am living proof there’s a kind of universal grace:
born once, then
born again in AA
born again in creativity
born again in true love
born again each time I open up to hope.
I am from, as much as all of these,
black ink and blank white paper
the will to write, to change, to be.

I was born into a Southern preacher’s family a misfit. But I recognized beauty when I saw it, read it, heard it. I loved poetry from before the time I was able to read it. Mother Goose spoke to me in a sweet enchanting voice. I memorized hymns whose meaning I did not understand and sang them lustfully from my place in the middle pew. I loved early mornings looking out my window at patterns of sun and shade made by the leaves of the backyard fig. I worked hard at learning to read so I could choose books and travel places far away from the restrictions of a religious home.

For a long time, it looked like I would fail. I was a terribly unhappy teen with a tendency to addiction and depression. But I kept reading and writing. I rebelled against everything that smelled even slightly of authority. Much of the time I felt lost, unacceptable and alone. I did not know it then, but I was getting an education. I was learning, as I would for years, the hard way.

Yet, somehow I knew I had a clarity of vision that allowed me to see beyond the surface of ordinary things. But it was painful to me, and lonely, so I blurred the images as much as possible with alcohol and drugs. Because I did not want, with my “tough girl” persona, to appear weak or overly sensitive, I did my best to go against my nature. In my early 30’s I realized that I must get sober or life would soon be over for me. I could no longer stand what I’d become. I joined the police department and stayed until I realized that the job was not helping with my “sensitivity” problem. I had to harden myself or die. For years I didn’t realize there was a third choice: I could quit.

The last year I policed, I began writing a novel, for no other “conscious” reason than to pursue a personal challenge. Once I put pen to paper, some desire long-buried, to be a writer, even a poet, was finally freed. I walked away from my life as a cop and started over again at 37. It was not too late. In fact, the longer I live, the more I realize that it is never too late to begin again. We are surrounded by second chances if we only raise our heads and remember… remember what we loved from the beginning.

When I started writing, I immediately recalled two unfulfilled longings from childhood: I had always wanted to be a writer and to live in the mountains. My first real act of creativity, writing that crazy novel, set these memories free and I was empowered to act. The decision to do what not only seemed improbable, but impossible to my peers, to write that wild first book full of beauty, violence, and sex, set me free. I began, and the answers to those scary questions, like where and how I would live, fell into place. Surely, it’s suppose to be some come-to-Jesus type conversion, but for me it was “Silverwaters: Amazon Adventures for the Stout-Hearted Lesbian.”

We all must face decisions that either free us to follow our forgotten dreams, or bind us to unfulfilled lives of frustration. We know we are called to do more, to do something other than what we are up to at present, to immerse ourselves in a passion that demands the best of us. I think we understand that we could live in an exciting world full of amazing surprises, brought about not only by what we can do, but by what the world will do on our behalf once we have chosen to live by our hearts and creative wits. In this world, the measuring stick has very few markers. Does it bring you joy and does it empower you to share your gift with others?

(Continued in the next post...)

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the poetry collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here. Or, if cookbooks are more your style, get a copy of Mendy's family cookbook Across the Arklatex at www.twopoets.us.