That Empty Inbox Feeling

"The poem has to be saturated with impulse and that means getting down to the very tissue of experience."
— Stanley Kunitz, The Wild Braid, p. 103.





April 2009

Jeff is gone to Florida for an airshow. Left early this AM. He never used to correspond much when away and that always bothered me. But now I don't have that empty inbox feeling. We keep in touch by five word text messages (probably only one a day) and that will be enough.

I remember when I first rented an office on Ballard Avenue in Seattle for my publishing company. The upper floor of a pioneer cabin that had been moved from the Central District. Two identical cabins that had been moved together, relocated to Ballard's historic district, and conjoined. It was an attic, really, with a window on each end; one looked out on the adjacent sloping shingled roof, where rain fell often; the other, down the side street at old buildings and toward the ship canal.

During the first few days I worked there I had no phone & no internet. I had been working out of the house before that, where I had all these things, and a husband, a cat, a garden, and neighbors with whom I was acquainted. Now it was going to be me in a solitary room with its steep narrow stairs. A hermitage, almost.

Part way through the first morning it became overwhelmingly evident there was no loneliness. No one could contact me, I couldn't read my email, so there was never a sense of disappointment, of being forgotten. An email would only take off part of the edge, but the edge would return: that edge of wanting contact with people, of wanting to be known and remembered. Natural human needs partly and often poorly satisfied by technology and therefore never really satisfied.

That experience is part of what drives me this year. Lonely? Go outside. Call someone or go to a café. The depth of satisfaction in seeing a friend in person—or anyone, really—assuages the loneliness so much more completely.

Farewell to a Fine Bookstore...and Place

"As an artist, you are a representative human being—you have to believe that in order to give your life over to that effort to create something of value. You're not doing it only to satisfy your own impulses or needs; there is social imperative. If you solve your problems and speak of them truly, you are of help to others, that's all. And it becomes a moral obligation."
— Stanley Kunitz, The Wild Braid, p. 103


4/24/09

Went to Books, Etc today on Exchange Street. Closing their shop today after 37 years in that spot. The children’s section was nearly empty, few books but still many good ones.

Picked up a book about growing houseplants from vegetable scraps and seeds in the kitchen, Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche, and Last Child in the Woods. Picked up some free demo Putomayo CDs. They had food out on the counters.

There was a bit of a party atmosphere, but the guy behind the counter seemed to be tired of the “we’re going to miss you” comments, which is what I said. Downtown, Longfellow Books is the only retail bookstore still standing that sells new books.

Seeing the bookstore routed does something to my insides that cannot quite be described in normal words. The storehouse emptied. The long-term neglect by the purchasing populace in favor of buying at a discount online 24/7. We can’t replace these places.

Places. We’re always talking about web site addresses. If we were to drive there what would we find?

Analog Book Shopping

"Confined in the dark, narrow cage of our own making which we take for the whole universe, very few of us can even begin to imagine another dimension of reality."
— Sogyal Rinpoche, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, p. 42



April 2009

Stopped at Longfellow Books on the way to the office. Had my birthday card from them worth 25% off a single title. Headed straight for the Buddhism shelf where all the Pema Chodron books are face out, thinking I might pick up another one.

Someone I've never met, in wheel chair facing the other direction, volunteers, “Let me know if you need me to move. I can’t drive and read at the same time.” I said no problem. He immediately offered: “I love to read. I feel sorry for people who can’t read.” He asked me what I like to read. We chatted for a bit. He was cheery and friendly.

What I bought: a Portland architecture book for my mother. The Year of Living Bibically. A children’s book that won the Caldicott. Wild Braid:A Poet Reflects on a Century in the Garden , by Stanley Kunitz.

Book Fest

"Everybody knows the pain of getting what we don't want: saints, sinners, winners, losers. I feel gratitude that someone saw the truth and pointed out that we don't suffer this kind of pain because of our personal inability to get things right."
— Pema Chodron, The Places That Scare You, p. 18

April 2009

Went to a local book festival Sunday. A strong reconnection. Saw a friend who'd been laid off from a local bookstore, the one that inhabited the building where we have our office, and from whom we'd subletted office space for a time. Good people. A good book store. But in order to survive they had to let people go. It was great to be around people whose love of books goes beyond the work of it. He was simply volunteering here.
*
Thought about the Northwest Bookfest when it was still down in the giant drafty Seattle pier building in October. Everyone wearing coats even though we were inside. The thick boards and high windows of the walls and roof. Table after table of books from small presses, letter press printers, the booths of booksellers like Elliott Bay, Open Books, Wessel & Lieberman. Sausage, onion, pepper sandwiches off the grill. Heard Studs Terkel interview a 100+ yo woman who still volunteered for the Audubon Society. A vitality of the spoken & written word, of the art of the book, palpable in the conversations, the readers on stage, the mere passing of others touching & reading books.

Poetry and literature in general were huge in Seattle then (no idea what it's like now!). All that tech money and that dramatic landscape feeding a healthy tapestry of writers, poets, artists, craftspeople.
*
The festival here was much smaller but still had that pulse. There was no small press room. Mentioning this to the ED of the sponsoring organization, I heard her polite words, "Are you volunteering?" Of course, that is the issue--not only human will, but the immense effort and money to make something like that happen.

I thought about Bumbershoot Book Festival, also in Seattle, and what that took to run. For several years in the early nineties I tended the table for Copper Canyon Press, selling hurts (slightly damaged books) for $5. The first year I was there for four days straight volunteering, absolutely saturated in the people, books, letterpressed broadsides. That was where I first met Chris & Jules whose exquisite letterpress work captured my imagination; at the CCP table, I sold beautiful books on the cheap to interesting and grateful people, drank lattes to stay awake through those long four days.
*
Pretty much if I volunteer to help foster a small press component of this local book fest, I can say hello to all sorts of marvelous literary and artistic people, and say goodbye to writing poetry. There is only so much time in a day, a week, a life.

Still, I told her I'd call her in a few weeks.

Package from Cisco Systems? It's Not a New Router.

"Working with obstacles is life's journey. The warrior is always coming up against dragons."
— Pema Chodron, The Wisdom of No Escape, p. 68





Still January 30, 2009

This morning right after the boys left I had an opportunity to visit with a good friend in the neighborhood. She was getting ready to head up to Camp Mechuwana for a winter retreat. We talked for a while.

Walking home I stopped at the Rosemont Market for leek, onion, red bell pepper, domestic feta, tortillas, then headed for home in between the mountains of snow from the plows, shovels, snow blowers. I was feeling a bit frightened and scattered about heading back to an “empty” house.

When I opened the door to the front porch, there was a package for me from Cisco Systems in Seattle. Usually packages from tech companies are for Jeff but this one was clearly addressed to me.

Took me a minute to realize that it was from Julie Wieringa, my former boss at AT&T Wireless, and that she’d probably shipped me a copy of her classical guitar CD.

Indeed. Also included were a lovely letter and two letterpressed books that she made — one a sweet story (illustrated) about a man and his dog, and the other a 6 x 9 letterpressed journal with musical staff pages on the left, lined writing pages on the right. And a letter written by hand in ink — she has a phenomenal fountain pen collection.

If I were in my old life, I would not find the time to write her back, but I’ll probably write her tonight. In my old life I would e-mail her, or Facebook her a reply. Enthusiastically. Lovingly. Instead she’ll get a nice letter, handwritten in ink, on stationery.