...but Now I See

As I left church today, a woman was sitting outside the door.  I braced myself for what would surely be a request for money.  "Sir," she said as I walked past her quickly, "please buy me something to eat."  My reflexes spit out all the usual responses in my mind:

• You can't help everyone who asks.  (Last night, three people asked me for money, all within as many blocks of the same street.)
• They only want alcohol.
• It will only encourage them to return and make it their post.

But as I continued on my way, her words echoed in my mind: "Please buy me something to eat."  And I heard sincere desperation in her tone.  This was honestly the first time in 30 years of living in DC that someone had asked me for food rather than money.  She was not after alcohol, and she wasn't trying to scam me; she was hungry, plain and simple.  And this wasn't the kind of hunger that makes you blurt out happily, "I'm starving!" on the way to the restaurant on 14th Street that's the new hot place for brunch.  This was the kind of aching, gnawing, all-consuming hunger that is not satisfied on a consistent basis.  We all know what it's like to be hungry, but we also know that it is within our own power and usually timing to ameliorate it.

This was something I could do, and easily.  I was headed to Whole Foods, anyway.  Heck, it didn't even have to be a sacrifice, since I could buy this woman lunch and eat what I had at home instead.  I weighed the time required to walk back and tell her, against the time it would take to just keep going and return.  Even if I asked her to wait, there was no guarantee she would believe me and stay...so I picked up my pace and kept going.

In Acts 9, after seeing the Lord on the road to Damascus, "something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again."  As I neared Whole Foods, I suddenly saw things more clearly.  That I had just bought a lemon-ginger dark chocolate bar for myself, on a whim.  That I was going to Whole Foods to buy white birch firewood because it burns better than standard hardwood in the fireplace in my "luxury condo."  That I could buy lunch for someone else and not even think twice about the cost, and that I would be doing so instead of going to a nice restaurant for brunch with friends - as I did almost every Sunday, again, without even considering what I might spend.  I was astounded and excited in my reset perspective and worried about getting back to church before the woman left.

Unfortunately, she had, by the time I got back.  I shoulda, shoulda, shoulda...and now I have a sandwich and drink for tomorrow.  Sometimes you just have to act rather than overthinking it, to do as the Spirit moves you.  Damn this need to analyze and be sure all the time!

I will hope and pray she returns next week, and if she does, God help me, I won't hesitate this time.

A New Height of Arrogance

People jaywalk all the time.  Everyone knows that.  I myself jaywalk - but only when it doesn't inconvenience any driver, and only when I am responsible for myself and not anyone with me.

Tourists in DC push jaywalking to the extreme, as if they have some invisible force field around them, making them impervious to cars going 35, headed straight towards them.  The larger their numbers, the more they believe in their safety and right to stop traffic. 

But this year's prize goes to the woman who crossed against the signal at the Lincoln Memorial this afternoon, looking straight at me and playing chicken with me and several other fast approaching drivers - while she pulled her small children along with her.  

Can someone tell me what kind of fucked-up thinking makes it worth using your own small children as human shields so you won't have to wait thirty seconds for the light to change?

It wasn't like we were several blocks away (which would still not have made it right); we were less than a block's distance from her when she started across the street.  This was at the northwest corner of the Lincoln Memorial, a stretch of roadway where there is rarely a break in the traffic coming from or headed towards the Memorial Bridge, a major artery across the Potomac connecting Virginia and DC.  After decades of dangerous situations involving tourists coming out of caravans of buses parked illegally on the opposite side of the road, a traffic light was finally installed.  There is no vehicular cross traffic at this light - no intersection exists - so there is no other reason to stop traffic.  Of course, this dumb-shit mother couldn't be expected to understand that that light was put there solely for her safety.

The only reasonable explanation for her breathtaking stupidity was arrogance - the belief that her time, even thirty seconds of it, was worth far more than mine or that of all the other drivers around me, and that therefore, she had the right to stop all traffic, regardless of the signal.  This is really the height of arrogance.  Not surprising in this city, though it's not what you would expect from a tourist (which makes me postulate that she was a local.  I think most tourists know when they're being stupid, even while behaving stupidly.)

Should I have stopped?  Probably.  Was it stupid to keep driving right past her as she reached the median?  Probably.  Was it worth the risk of hitting someone just for the sake of making a point?  No.  I'm sure that while I was thinking she couldn't possibly be stupid enough to actually keep walking, she was thinking I couldn't possibly be stupid enough to keep driving.

But let's not forget, she created the situation of her own free will.  This was not like NYC, where every day, masses of working people jaywalk with hostile drivers barreling down on them.  If you're going to play chicken with your own life and assume all personal risk, go ahead.  But don't take anyone with you, especially not children.  And certainly not your own.


 

I'm In!

I just posted my first FotoVisura album and now have my own page as part of the community.

Let me know what you think!
 

Re-Awakening of Spring - Er, Fall

The signs of fall are unmistakeable.  Outside my bedroom window, the Japanese maple is chartreuse, on its way to gold, and the giant cherry tree is tinged with yellow and orange as a prelude to its flaming red glory; the mornings and evenings have turned cool and the days are pleasantly warmed by the slanting sun - and the 2014-2015 PEN/Faulkner Reading Series began last night!

While I have attended the readings for many years, this may have been the first time I went to the season kickoff, and I found myself more excited than usual.  I suddenly realized that for me it was like finally getting to a concert on time instead of arriving late.  And how fitting that the first reading featured four emerging writers hosted by an established name, nascent careers serving as a metaphor for a reading series at the beginning of a season, and vice versa.

Each of the writers read an excerpt of a story just published in the Virginia Quarterly Review, and Ann Beattie, the moderator, then asked each a question about their work.  It was an enjoyable evening, and it whet my appetite both for reading the rest of each story and for attending more of the reading series.

As I was starting to think about these things while walking back to the Metro after the reading, I was struck by the luminous quality of the quiet autumn night on Capitol Hill.  

The Hill takes on a different character at night, one not seen by camera-toting, t-shirt clad people spilling out of a caravan of buses.  The brick sidewalks in deep shadow and streetlight, the quiet streets of Victorian and Federal row houses, the dramatic spotlighting of churches and Government buildings, are all starkly on display when the only sound is one's footsteps.

It was also nice to not feel such a bifurcation between my writer self and my photographer self and to sense an easier fluidity between the two.  They may be different, but they're not oil and water.

 

Having picked up a copy of the VQR at the reception, I did read more of the writers' work before going to bed and again this morning, and I was impressed and inspired.  It was just the charge I needed to jump-start my own writing (starting with this piece) after taking several months off!  Part of this was re-engaging with the literary community and being reminded that even though writing itself is a solitary pursuit, telling stories is not - in fact, it's very much the opposite.

It was a night of great expectations - for these four talented writers, for the reading series ahead, and for my own development in this new year.  Thanks to PEN/Faulkner for doing so much to feed the literary community in D.C.!

This is No Red Moon

Today the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby, which sought to limit reproductive health care coverage of its employees based on religious freedom.  Let's just cut to the chase.  This particular ruling may be about a very specific, "narrow" situation that will only happen on "rare" occasion.  But as we all know, Supreme Court rulings are precedent-setting.  It's a slippery slope that will allow certain "closely-held," "faith-based" companies to pick and choose what laws they will comply with, as long as they claim religious freedom as the reason.

I am a born-again Christian.  I believe Jesus Christ died for my sins.  I believe He rose from the dead and that the way to eternal life with God is through a relationship with Jesus.  I've memorized lots of Scripture, read the Bible cover to cover more than once, and been "slain in the Spirit" several times.  But this is a whacked-out ruling.

Just because a company is owned by people with certain beliefs does not mean that company should be allowed to cherry pick which Federal laws it wants to or does not want to obey.  Employment law applies to all employees; otherwise, what's the point?

Are we now going to see some extremist group thumb their nose at Equal Employment Opportunity law and keep their African American employees in the mailroom or deny them promotions because they believe that blacks are a lower order?  Are Muslim-owned companies going to be free to hire only men if they believe women should stay indoors?  Is  Hobby Lobby now going to openly refuse to hire or promote gay people?  Or to freely fire them (which is actually perfectly legal, since the Employment Non-Discrimination Act keeps failing to pass in Congress - not that it would matter, now that this ruling can be used to fight any lawsuit over it)?

A spokeswoman (woman!) said that this ruling is a victory for "all" people, no matter what your opinion.  Never mind that that makes no fundamental sense - this ruling is only a victory for straight, fundamentalist men who think their beliefs should trump civic law.  This woman might change her mind over Plan B coverage if her sister - or daughter - worked for Hobby Lobby and found herself pregnant after a brutal home invasion and it took several days wading through government bureaucracy to get alternative coverage.

When people decide which laws should apply only to others - or, as with marriage equality, which laws only apply to them - that is more a sign of the breakdown of democracy (or, dare I say, society?) than anything else in recent years.  And much scarier than anything Ben Percy can think up.  This ruling is truly frightening, because it is real.

Whether He Would or Wouldn't Is Up to Me

Last night at his PEN/Faulkner reading on Capitol Hill, Richard Ford quoted Lewis Lapham as saying, "Nothing necessarily follows anything."  He and Washington Post book critic Ron Charles were "onstage" (in a church) in conversation about whether a character's action can rightly be deemed believable or not.  Ford's position was basically that he was the writer, so he could make the character do whatever he wanted him to do.

What a freeing moment for me as a writer.

At the reception afterwards, standing in front of him at the book-signing table, I said, "It was great to hear you say that, because at the summer writing workshops I attend, someone always says, 'Well, I don't believe the character would do that.'"

Ford looked up and said, "Well, now you know the answer!"

(Allow me a brief digression to share this with you: I'm shaking hands with celebrated novelist Richard Ford, yes, that Richard Ford, who wrote Independence Day, the book that won both the Pulitzer Prize AND the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction - the first time any book had won both - and he is signing that same lauded book, writing a personal greeting to me...and I am nervous, tripping over my tongue, telling him I write fiction, too - how embarrassing, did I just tell him that?! - and he looks up at me and asks where I go for my summer workshops, and I say, "Provincetown, the Fine Arts Work Center," and he says, "Oh, yes!" and then goes back to finishing my inscription.  (He lives in New England, after all.)  He is somewhat intimidating, tall and grey-haired, such a literary luminary, but it's mostly his eyes - those blue-grey eyes that are so pale you can almost see into his head, like maybe you could catch a glimpse of some of his ideas, some of the magic and style of his writing, though it's almost frightening to look.  But I'm completely won over by his warmth, so genuine and patient, the way he looks right at you when he's talking to you, the way he takes his time with you, even though he's never seen you before, and when he says, "It's nice to meet you" and "thank you for coming," he takes his time, and you get the strong feeling he really means it - as if he hasn't already said it to the twenty people before you and as if he isn't going to say it to the fifty people behind you...as if he's not a 70 year-old famous writer who could probably use the rest more than you but won't get to bed until long after you.  Despite his austere publicity photos, Richard Ford is one very nice man.)

Why do writers always challenge other writers in questioning the behavior of their characters?  Sure, actions usually need the support of motivation, but sometimes people do stuff seemingly out of left field.  Would anyone have thought the following plausible?

• A young boy considered a "normal kid" by the neighbors goes on a slashing spree one day at school, severely injuring many, and gets charged as an adult
• A young couple takes their baby and toddler child on a boat into the open ocean, intending to sail around the world
• A grad student waiting for his wife to travel cross-country to join him in married student housing drops out of grad school and returns home to help her raise the child fathered by his (former) best friend

Though none of these seems particularly likely, all of them did happen in real life.  But workshop people would tear plots like these to shreds, claiming he/they "wouldn't do that."  Is human behavior that predictable?  Do we always know what people are or are not going to do?

And do we want to write or read only stories in which everyone behaves as expected and no one does anything surprising?  ZZZZZZZZZ  Not me!

Thanks, Richard Ford, for giving me the freedom to let my characters do strange, inappropriate, fascinating things that keep the reader turning pages!

PHOTO CREDIT:  Amazon.com

What He Left Me

Down in the basement of the house where I grew up, on the floor of an old grey metal cabinet that stretched far above my head, were supplies that held silent mystery: flat yellow boxes of Kodak Ektachrome photosensitive paper and scary-looking bottles of developing fluid.  Sometimes I would pick them up and just wonder, excited about my dad's occasional mention of setting up a darkroom.

On another grey cabinet, this one large and squat, with shallow drawers for flat storage of blueprints, sat some kind of developer machine.  We never knew how it worked.

Somewhere in my dad's past, he had apparently developed his own photographs, though he never gave us the details.  That remained for us to imagine, especially when it became clear that the darkroom would never happen.

Dad, always the shutterbug!

We all knew he liked taking pictures.  He documented everything, from holiday dinners (every one of them), to how we looked before going off to church, to the trees in our backyard.  I thought it was kind of ridiculous - and that was during the days of film, when every frame counted and cost something.  Weren't all the poses the same, whether around the dining room table at Thanksgiving or in front of the house on a Sunday morning?  Didn't we always look the same?

After he died in 2004, we discovered that this passion went back to his years as a young adult.  We found boxes and boxes of photos going back to the 1960s, World War II, and even as far back as his early childhood - meaning he kept pictures belonging to his father, who died before WWII.  And in an old Army foot locker were hundreds more photos from his days as a young draftee in the China-Burma-India Theater - along with rolls of movie film.

Young Man, as subject

Too bad he wasn't as good at organizing and mounting pictures as he was at taking them.  Since they were all loose - in envelopes, boxes, or simply bound with a disintegrating rubber band - it's hard to know if he meant for them to be passed on or if it was all just part of his general tendency not to throw anything away.

Whatever the case, he showed me over the decades that it was important to capture moments of time that will never be repeated (even if they seem to recur, in a young boy's mind).  That there was value in documenting events, family get-togethers, the seasons.  That even the ordinary was worth photographing.  And this, I have come to realize, was his greatest gift to me, this way of seeing and valuing life, this sense of urgency to capture a fleeting moment.  

From the time I received my first camera as a child - a cube-shaped Brownie, which I still have - I've always loved taking pictures.  I finally realized recently that this passion was hard-wired in me, and I decided to stop suppressing a years-long drive to pursue photography beyond simple snapshots and see where it would take me as an art form.  In 2012 I jumped in with both feet, crossing over to the visual arts side at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA, and taking my first week-long photography workshop.  This summer I will be taking my second one, working with David Hilliard in an exploration of photography as storytelling.  (And in my own full-circle experience, we will be working synergistically with Pam Houston's fiction workshop, which I took three years ago at the Taos Summer Writers' Conference.)

When you're cool, you're always ready

As photography takes up more and more space in my head I feel grateful to my dad.  My friends get impatient with me for "taking 500 shots of the same thing" (that's a direct quote) the same way we would always groan when my dad wanted to take yet another picture of us around the dining room table as the food got cold.  He was on to something and passed a little more of it on to me each time he forgot to wind the camera first and we had to say "cheese" again.

Henri Cartier-Bresson couldn't have summed it up any better.  I've quoted him before in this blog and will likely do so again.  It is so much the reason my dad and I shared a drive to photograph:

Life is once, forever.