Housing Choices

I have the issue of housing running round and round in my brain. Let's untangle the strands:

--One reason I have housing on the brain is because of the Oklahoma tornado.  A colleague at work did a lot of clucking about houses that didn't even have a basement or a storm shelter, even though most structures were built on land that wouldn't support a cellar.  I've heard other people talk about shoddy construction.  But honestly, most structures don't stand a chance against an F5 tornado.  And do you really want to spend that kind of money to protect against something that won't likely happen?

--Another reason I have housing on the brain is that we're looking to move to a different neighborhood.  We need a chunk of cash, which means liquidating some assets to transfer them into real estate.

--Those of you living in other parts of the country may think we've lost our minds.  But the housing market here is heating up. Not my neighborhood, alas.  But the neighborhood where we want to live?  Well, here's an example.

--I've been perusing real estate online, and I recognized one house as one I had seen months ago.  I assumed it had been sold.  Yet here it was again.  It seemed offered at a much higher price to me.  I did some investigating and sure enough.  Earlier in the year it had been listed at $375,000.  Now it's listed at $425,000.  You could argue that the sellers are stupid--they couldn't get $375,000, and now they're looking for $50,000 more?  But to me, it shows people's expectations.

--Like I said, I've been considering assets.  I can't imagine ever getting a better interest rate than I can get right now.  We're trying to figure how far we should stretch.

--Part of me wonders if we should stretch further.  I still dream of land in the country, something communal, in the not-too-distant future.  Now would be the time to buy.  Actually, 4 years ago would have been the time to buy, but my finances were less secure then.  Me and the rest of the nation.  I think about communal choices as I grow older, as my friends grow older.

--I'm not the only one.  I listened to this story yesterday on NPR, about aging Baby Boomer women who have decided to live together.  It made me miss my own communal days.  They may come again.  The story concludes this way:  "So if you're a boomer and you liked that group house you shared in college or just after, good for you. The United States is one of the few developed nations that have no organized public policy for providing long-term care — so group living may be in your future as well as your past."

--I was listening to this story as I drove in flooded streets in the neighborhood in which we'd like to live.  Some streets were high and dry; some were impassable.  I'm not sure what accounts for that, but it's good to know.

--I think of my parents who moved around a lot.  Their housing search was much easier in some ways.  They went on a house hunting trip and looked at the 4-8 houses available in the school district in which they wanted to live.  They chose the one which seemed best.

--I think my hesitation around housing is rooted in their experiences.  Some purchases seemed disastrously wrong in hindsight.  Like the house on a steep hill in Charlottesville:  wonderful in the summer, difficult in ice and snow.

--And so I drive the streets, looking for something to let me know that a house should be marked off the list or that it's a fabulous choice.  I forget the basic message of housing:  every choice has charms, and every choice contains some element that will drive me barking mad.  I can love the neighbors, but they could move away. 

--All we can do is make the choice which seems best right now.  And if we need to make different choices in the coming years, we will.

Collaborations: Spin Class, Rock, Poetry

Today at spin class, our spin instructor had put together a tribute to The Doors ride--what fun!  In some ways sobering, thinking about Ray Manzarek's death on Monday and Jim Morrison's death decades ago.  But it was great to hear that music, lots of it, song after song.

It was not the mind altering experience that my younger self might have expected, even as we spun in the near darkness under the purple glow of the black lights.  But I did come away with a poem idea--hurrah!

I thought about Jim Morrison who began life as a poet before he met Manzarek on that beach in Venice.  I thought about the book of Morrison's poems that my dad gave me one year for Christmas.  I liked his lyrics better, but it occurs to me that I might have simply been more familiar with them.

As I listened to the lyrics today, I was struck by how much I liked them.  I love "Soul Kitchen" for many reasons, and today I realized that Morrison had rhymed minaret with alphabet!

"I got home and looked up the lyrics.  Here's that verse:
Well, your fingers weave quick minarets

Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette
Learn to forget, learn to forget
Learn to forget, learn to forget"

How many other poets went on to become rock heroes?  I'm thinking of the lead singer for Rage Against the Machine.  I can't come up with many others.  Folkie singer-songwriter types, yes.  But not many folks who create powerful rock with great lyrics.  I'd give you U2 in that count, although in a way I'd have to leave them out, since I don't think any of the members was a poet first (but I could be wrong).

I'll continue to be intrigued by artistic collaborations, like amongst musicians and poets.  This Saturday, I'm part of an event at Into the Woods Gallery and Body Art Studio (138 N. Federal Highway in Dania Beach).  They're launching a show with the theme of Twisted Fairy Tales.  So, I've been asked to come read some of my fairy tale poems.  I'm not sure what to expect.  I'm fairly sure it will be different from most poetry readings I've done.

Now it's off to write my poem. My brain swirls with images of dark and swimming to the moon. I have a vision of a woman who watches comets in her youth but now can't see much in her light polluted sky and doesn't drive through the night anymore anyway--one of the prices of having a house, after all.

Cleansing the Doors of Perception

When I'm not thinking about the horrifying tornado in Oklahoma, I'm thinking about The Doors, what with the announcement of the death of Ray Manzarek.  Cue the appropriate music, maybe "Riders on the Storm," "Strange Days," or "The End."

In my brain, those 60's artists are perpetually in their 30's.  How strange to hear that Ray Manzarek was the same age as my mom and dad!

I heard Ray Manzarek interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air, long ago, at the beginning of this century.  I can't find the interview archived at this point.  Maybe Fresh Air will rerun part of it on Friday.  They often do that with the death of famous artists.

It was a great interview.  Manzarek comes across as such a normal guy.  And why wouldn't he be?  If Jim Morrison had survived another 30 years, he might have seemed fairly calm in an interview.

I was impressed with Manzarek's wide ranging knowledge of music and his skill at the keyboard, as well as other instruments.

The piano was my first instrument.  I wish I had stuck with it longer.  Perhaps I'll return to the piano in the fall.  I have a 5 octave keyboard which would serve my purposes well.

I'm also thinking of The Doors and their influence on me as a poet.  There are worse influences.  Morrison had poetry interests, Rimbaud and folks like that, which don't embarrass me, but which I no longer share.  I loved the surreal settings, the sense of both forboding and longing, the symbols of all sorts, from the desert to the swamp.

I'll never be the kind of person who experiments with heavy drugs--I've seen too many people with their brains burned out by those kind of experiments.  But zoning out, listening to The Doors, writing poems late at night--that seems to be a special kind of mind-altering experiment/experience of its own sort. 

I remember one night doing my radio show in college, listening to "The Wasp" with its lines about Texas radio and the big beat and something swampy and humid and writing a poem about a Central American refugee.  I felt like I was channeling something that I couldn't quite control.

My inner apocalypse gal also loved The Doors.  Their music was perfect for the end of the 60's, but it was also a good soundtrack for the end days of the Cold War.  Of course, we didn't know it was the end, in the way that it was.  I expected mushroom clouds, not the crumbling of the Soviet empire.  Choose your favorite song by The Doors--chances are good it will fit an apocalyptic mood.

When I got to grad school, I had a Romantics professor tell us that The Doors took their band name from William Blake.  Oh, William Blake, what would you make of our current time?  So many doors of perception, waiting to be cleansed!

It's an interesting question, what can best do that cleansing, and different generations and people have given different answers:  drugs, sex, exercise, alcohol, poetry, staying up late, poetry, good food . . .

I've spent the morning listening to interviews, reading the memories of others, listening to music.  But now it's time to head off to the office, where there are many cloudy doors of perception. 

For a great interview with Greil Marcus, a music philospher who wrote a book about the Doors, go here.  I may stream this interview this afternoon.  It makes me feel my poetry self stirring.

Sunday Sorting

After my nap yesterday, I spent much of the afternoon doing tasks I wouldn't have had to do if I had just stayed on top of them from the beginning.  So, on the one hand, I feel like I accomplished a lot.  On the other, it's difficult to keep from saying, "If you had just shredded these retirement account documents when they first came in 2008, you wouldn't have to do that now."

Let you think I had a huge pile of those kinds of documents, I didn't:  just a stray envelope that somehow made it to the top of my desk where it sat for years.

I sorted, shredded, filed, tossed into the recycling bin, and at the end of the night, I had a straighter desk.  It felt both satisfying and exasperating.

I've also been sorting through bookcases, which means sorting books, but also dealing with the stuff that makes its way to the tops of the bookcases.

Long ago, when my local fabric store had cheaper fabrics, I planned to assemble sewing kits for Lutheran World Relief.  I picked up fabrics on sale, and the other items that were supposed to go in the kits:  thread, needles, and buttons.  Yesterday, I found the unmailed box with unassembled kits.

Since I started collecting, the requirements have changed.  Now instead of 3 yards of fabric, we need 2 pieces of 3 yards of fabric in each piece.  No buttons, no needles, but two spools of thread.

So, yesterday afternoon when I needed a diversion, I headed to the fabric store and bought an additional piece of fabric.  I assembled two kits and put them in a box,, which I sealed and addressed (a step that often goes undone for weeks--or more).  Now they're ready to mail.

Again, it feels like I accomplished something, but it also feels like I should have done it years ago.

Was I just procrastinating on writing projects by doing this cleaning and sorting yesterday?  Or was I getting a jump start on tasks that will have to happen when we move?

The answer to both questions:  "Yes."

Tomorrow, I shall write a poem!  Today, I'll be on the lookout for threads that could be woven into a satisfying cloth.

Fallow Times and Pentecost Periods

I can't remember when I last wrote a poem, although I could easily look it up.  It's probably not as long as I think.

But more importantly, I can't remember when I last felt like a poet.  When did I last make interesting connections of unusual links that would make a good poem?

I've been feeling swamped by many things, all of them good:  a curriculum project that will pay money, trying to think about a different house, visits from family, and some trips.  Like I said, they're all good, but they have pulled me away from creative work, nonetheless.

At these times, it's easy for me to sink into despair.  It's easy for me to slip into self-recriminations.  At times like these, it's important to remember that these fallow times are important.  I may not yet sense the seeds that have been planted, but they have been planted.

Bookgirl has written a great post where she considers the time between Easter and Ascension.  It's the time where Jesus has risen from the dead and reconnects with his followers.  It's a low-key time, in many ways:  "As I thought about the omission [of post-Easter, pre-Ascension stories], I realized how important these resurrection appearances are in my faith. Calling Mary by name in the garden, inviting Thomas to see his hands, offering breakfast on the shore and reinstating Peter, breaking bread with Cleopas and his companion after walking along the road to Emmaus, giving the great commission to the apostles, each of these is personal and specific. They are immediate and urgent and tender. They are all moments that resonate deeply with me, that help me process the rest of it, that guide me in knowing who Jesus is, that are a great part of the substance of my faith."

She uses the word tender.  I would like to be tender with my creative self.

My creative self is feeling a bit scared right now.  She's looking at financial documents and wondering why a bank would agree to loan us so much money so soon after the housing crash.  My creative self is worried that she'll have to work multiple jobs, even though my budgetary self has shown her that it can work out with the current income numbers.

My creative self is wondering if she'll ever write a poem again.  My creative self wants to get back to the memoir.  My creative self worries that the new house won't be as fruitful a space as old houses have been.

I need to cook my creative self a picnic breakfast on the beach.  Metaphorically, I'm saying that I need more poetry to read.  I need to reassure my creative self that after fallow times can come Pentecost times.

What better time than today? 

Today is the feast of Pentecost.  For those of you who have no reference, Pentecost is the day that comes 50 days after Easter and 10 days after Jesus goes back up to Heaven (Ascension Day). We see a group of disciples still at loose ends, still in effect, hiding out, still unsure of what to do.


Then the Holy Spirit fills them with the sound of a great rushing wind, and they speak in languages they have no way of knowing. But others understand the languages--it's one way the disciples argue that they're not drunk. And then they go out to change the world--but that's the subject for an entirely different post.

Today I think about those disciples who had been living in a post-Easter time unsure of what will come next.  They needed time to learn to live in a post-Resurrection time, time to find the signposts in the new world.  They needed time to trust the promises that had been revealed.

 I think of Pentecost, a day that shows that fallow times can burst into fertility very quickly.

I am ready for a Pentecost time when it comes to my creativity.  Heck, I'm ready for a Pentecost time in many areas.  I've been waiting patiently (I have been patient, haven't I?).  I'm ready for fruition!

Photos from the Hemingway House in Key West

My descriptions of Hemingway's house may have left you wishing for pictures.  Wish no more!

Here's Hemingway's writing studio, from the outside:

Here's his writing table with typewriter:

The tropical view as I imagine it would be from the window (I took the shot from the platform where you stand at the top of the stairs to see inside Hemingway's studio):

The porch outside the bedroom:

The front of the house, complete with tourists (none of them me or my family):



We don't see many signs that designate National Historic Landmarks down here in South Florida.  So much has been bulldozed to make room for development.

I'm happy that we live in a country that sees the house of a writer as a site worthy of preservation.  We may not support living artists and writers in ways that I'd like, but I like being able to visit these sites.  I come away feeling inspired in all sorts of ways.

Haunted by Hemingway and His House

Longtime readers of this blog know that Hemingway is not one of my favorite writers, although in this post, I acknowledge the ways in which he changed writing.

On Sunday, we went to the Hemingway house in Key West.  I had been once before, and I remember hearing a lot about life in Key West when Hemingway lived there and hearing a lot about the furniture, but not as much about Hemingway's writing life when he lived in the house.

On Sunday, we heard more about Hemingway the writer.  He lived in the house with his second wife.  I thought of poor Hadley, the first wife, who didn't get much mention on Sunday.  I've written about her in this post after reading The Paris Wife.  Hemingway left her for Pauline, the wife whose fortune made it possible for Hemingway to live in a beautiful Key West location.

While he lived with Pauline, he enjoyed the most prolific writing time of his life.  He had a daily schedule.  He got up and went over to his writing studio which was like a room on top of a detached garage.  He wrote for 3-5 hours a day, and then he went fishing and drinking and amusing himself in all sorts of ways.

His life with Pauline was tempestuous, as she liked to spend money, and he didn't always like what she bought.  As World War II approached, he began an affair with a female journalist he met in a bar.  Because they worked in the same field, and they were competitive, the marriage was rocky and lasted 3 years.

He would have one more marriage and live in Havana.  As he and his wife fled the Castro regime, they left behind art and manuscripts.  I thought of the story in The Paris Wife, about Hadley losing the suitcase that had all of Hemingway's Paris manuscripts.

Our Hemingway house guide claimed that Hemingway would never write as much and as easily as he wrote in Key West, and I suspect that's true.  He was still early in his writing life then, still working to prove himself as a writer of fiction, while getting some acclaim.  As the years went on, he had more obligations and more pressure, even as he had more money.  He also had more health issues, both from the drinking, and the depressions, and the fact that he'd had 9 concussions in his early decades, and I suspect that his brain was suffering from those scars too.

Why does this story haunt me so much?  After all, I think one of the lessons of this time of Hemingway's life is that developing a routine that supports the creative work and sticking to it is perhaps one of the most important things we can do as creative types.  And Hemingway's time in Key West gives weight to this theory.  I've always practiced what I'm preaching in this area, so it's not the issue of developing a routine that nags at me.

I'm struck by the people who supported his writing--but he seems to have been surrounded by those all of his life.  I'm fortunate there too.

I'm also haunted by the house itself.  Was there something about that house that made it possible to write the way that he did?

I know that it's the house that tugs at me most because we've been house hunting.  I worry about what we're setting into motion, what we might gain and what we might lose.  But I've managed to write steadily in every house and apartment I've ever had.  I often look back on situations that seemed shabby at the time and think about how much I miss the tree that was right outside the window or how cozy the space that seemed too small really was.

Maybe I'm also haunted by that house because Hemingway's writing studio would be so perfect for me--well, if we could get it retrofitted with AC it would be.  I'd write, then swim some laps in the pool, then write again, and then spend the afternoon on my sailboat--because if I could afford that house, I could afford a sailboat!