ever-fixed mark

Do you think maybe it’s time for me to go back to work?

I would not say that I quit my job to write a novel — how flaky would that be? — but rather that, having quit, I would be remiss if I did not attempt to fulfill a life-long dream by finishing a novel. In other words, I’m going to devote hours and hours to creating something that will not earn me money, further my career, or get me laid. No, that doesn’t sound flaky at all!

Here’s the thing, though: It’s summer, and sitting on my porch exploring the farthest reaches of my Wi-Fi connection is getting lame. Typically, when the weather is this good I would be beachside, or poolside, or in a kayak. Near some body of water other than condensation of an air conditioner. How to reconcile my desire to write with my love of the great outdoors?

I had a radical thought: I could write longhand! But how would this work? I would need some paper, but what if the pages blew away? I would need a pen, but what if it ran out of ink? I could bring two pens, but what if I wanted to erase something? A pencil was a possibility, but what if it broke or wore down? And I frequently find that I need to refer to an earlier part of the text; how would that work? I spent a good fifteen minutes working out these seemingly intractable problems, and ended up by packing a notebook, two pens, some printouts of my existing text, a beach umbrella, a chair, lunch, drinks, and sunscreen for a writing jaunt to the beach.

I found that my handwriting has deteriorated to a shallow sine curve. For example, I would write the word “Pennsylvania” as “Pen~~~~~~~~~,” willing some kind of magical Autocomplete and, when it didn’t appear, thinking, “Ah, I’ll know what I meant.” Also, my hand hurt, really hurt, with a cramp that eventually extended all the way up my right arm to my shoulder and neck.

The good news? I have always wanted to introduce someone as “Jeeves, my amanuensis,” and now I have a perfect excuse to hire one.

Bill Cunningham New York, a documentary about the New York Times society and street-fashion photographer, was playing at our local art house this weekend, providing me with some unlikely insight into this mid-life crisis that recently led me to quit a perfectly good job without having another position lined up.

Cunningham, who is 83 (!), still bicycles around Manhattan to his various assignments, but that was not the inspiring part. Nor was I impressed by his award from the French Ministry of Culture, his friendship with Lady Astor, or the praise heaped on him by Anna Wintour. (Was I the only person in America who read The Devil Wears Prada and rooted against the beleaguered assistant? Honestly, if I were Anna Wintour, I would have kicked Lauren Weisberger’s ass to the curb the first time she pulled a mopey face about fetching coffee.)

No, it was Cunningham’s strong point of view that won me over. He did one thing, and he did it so well that he had the fashion world at his feet, without (seemingly) kowtowing, publicizing, self-marketing, or otherwise promoting himself. Not that I’m against self-promotion, but it was a good lesson that when you’re at the top of your game and immersed in your art, you don’t need to be so concerned with your rank.

And then…you’re free to be nice. Cunningham was so gosh-darned nice. It truly was the feel-good movie of the year.

(There was also some impressive fashionista footage. I don’t really, shall we say, participate in the world of fashion, but I do like to look at pretty dresses or, alternatively, at Go Fug Yourself. My favorite scene in the whole film was when a former diplomat, modeling a hideous suit printed with a GIANT acid-yellow glen plaid, deadpanned, “I’m not sure what clan it’s from.” Dude, all of Scotland is wondering the same thing.)

My problem is that I don’t have that point of view, that one discipline, that immersion. I manage a department of people who perform six different roles, and a lot of my time is spent marketing those roles to other groups in the organization, convincing people that they, essentially, should let us help. Management is a worthy discipline, and marketing is a worthy discipline, but I don’t feel either is what I was born to do.

Husband — who was beyond supportive through my decision process; it was actually his idea that I should just quit and take the summer off — was a bit alarmed to hear my insight. “You do realize,” he said, “that you’re a little…old…to start a career in the arts?” Well, I had been thinking about going back to project management, but now that you mention it, Julia Margaret Cameron didn’t even start taking photos until she was forty-eight!

There is a something front stalled over the Northeast, hemmed in by a whatever flow and depressed by a blah pressure system. Translation? RAIN. Rain for the past few weeks; rain in the forecast for the foreseeable future. The mood in the region is palpably suicidal.

Southerners always ask how we Yankees can stand the winters, but frankly, in New England it’s not the winter that gets you. IT’S THE SPRING.

Recently the two old iPods I was using to satisfy various needs — an early Shuffle for running, and an ancient Mini for listening to podcasts on the commute — committed synchronized suicide, and I assuaged my grief by purchasing a shiny new Nano. Although it’s postage-stamp sized, like the Shuffle, it holds my whole music collection, unlike the Shuffle or the Mini, and it has a cool touch-screen to boot. Unfortunately, when I tried to hook the thing up to my Mac, I discovered the reason that my two old iPods died at the same time: it was actually the interface with iTunes that has broken down. I switched my collection to another computer and was soon enjoying a much wider variety of music and podcasts than previously on my runs and commutes. I was able to repurpose the old devices for my kids (luckily, the number of kids matches the number of iPods; the dog is out of luck).

After hearing a few songs I hadn’t heard in a few years, I was reminded of how much I dig songs with unusual time signatures. One of my favorites is “The Comedians” by Elvis Costello. It alternates 5/4 with 6/8. There are a number of songs in 6/8 (essentially waltz time doubled), but not too many in 6/4, which is more like 2/4 tripled. My favorite is “Fell on Black Days,” by Soundgarden. Every time I hear it I find myself counting out “1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE, SIX” just to reassure myself that there are in fact six beats to a measure.

(There are times when I’m convinced that my aura is indeed a color on the autistic spectrum.)

Then there’s always Pink Floyd’s “Money” in 7/8. I cannot listen to that song and chew gum at the same time, so intent am I on counting.

Here is an excellent resource for the similarly obsessed.

A few weeks ago, my friends Jen and C. and I were talking about albums we had worn out with frequent repetition as kids. We brought up our favorite LPs that were marketed specifically to kids (like Free to Be You and Me) as well as pop albums that we gravitated toward when our taste was relatively unformed (one word: Fanilow).

Then Jen said, “And of course there was The Point.” Met by blank stares, she prompted, “Of course you remember The Point? ‘This is the town and these are the people?’”

Crickets.

“‘Me and my Arrow?’”

Well, that sort of rang a bell.

So Jen made us each a copy of the album on CD, and after one long commute, I was hooked. The Point is an animated musical fable about a little boy, Oblio, who was born in the Land of Point, but without the distinguishing pointed head that features on all the other denizens. The plot outline is standard After School Special stuff (everyone has a point, even if he, you know, doesn’t), but the execution is not at all sentimental, and the music is really something special.

The composer and musician, Harry Nilsson, also narrates the story on the album. (Ringo Starr narrates the animated version, the beginning of a career in children’s media that would culminate nauseatingly in Thomas the Tank Engine voice-overs.) Nilsson’s name sounded vaguely familiar to me, and through the wonders of Wikipedia and the info feed on my satellite radio, I’ve discovered that some of my favorite songs from the ’70s were recorded by Nilsson: “Everybody’s Talking at Me,” “Without You” (which I had always thought was Eric Carmen?) and “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” theme. (No, really; I love that song.) Most of the songs on The Point! became immediate favorites, especially “Me and My Arrow” (adapted for the car commercial) and “Think About Your Troubles.”

There is one song, “Life Line,” about a dog who’s stuck in a well and pleading for someone to help him, that sets me crying every time. I can’t even type this description without getting all choked up. This is clearly a projection along the lines of “it is Margaret you mourn for,” although it may just be that I can’t stand to think of anything bad happening to my own dog. This in turn reminds me of a man I knew in the Peace Corps, a large fellow of about 6′5″ and tough as nails. Whenever he heard “Puff the Magic Dragon” he would bawl copiously. It was something of a party trick in those years for his friends to wait until he was all liquored up and then start singing, “Dragons live forever, but not so little boys…” and count the seconds until his tears began to flow. Good times!

Anyway, if you have school-age children, The Point! will be a sure-fire hit for long car rides, and if you never caught it as a kid you’ll thank me (and Jen) for rectifying that cultural omission.

It’s interesting to me that each long fallow period on this blog has coincided with a significant crise de career. The last one was cancer-inspired, but more about work than mortality. And this one…I don’t know. Let’s just say I’m still struggling with what I want to be when I grow up. Am I in the right position? Am I doing valuable work? Am I poised to get to where I want to be next?

Who would have thought my most profound existential angst would be generated by work? In college, I was the kind of “feminist” who planned to quit work the minute she married her rich husband, not out of any major commitment to homemaking and childrearing, but just because a free vacation sounded like a right treat.

Husband’s friend K. has always been, comme on dit, a very special restaurant customer. Yes, he has questions about the dish; he’d like to substitute risotto for pilaf; he wants the eggs cooked extremely well, but the toast should be more buff than beige; hey, how ’bout we go off-menu here? The last time we dined with K. when the server asked, “How would you like that done?” Husband quipped, “In the most complicated manner possible.” He was not incorrect.

My friend C. is also a difficult diner, but where K. is Baroque, C. is ascetic. She wants it plain, with everything on the side. She can’t eat mushrooms or shellfish and won’t eat much else except salmon, beef, or ice cream. She’s lived and traveled around the world so it’s not like she’s ignorant of more varied cuisines; she’s just not interested.

K. and C. are both single, and I’ve often wondered what would happen if they found themselves on a blind date. Can you just imagine the flurry of special requests being relayed to the kitchen, hastening the harried water to an early, medicated retirement? I can see it now: “When Sally Met Sally.”

Last night, K. stopped by on a business trip, and as we walked downtown to grab dinner we ran into C. I realized immediately that this was a rare opportunity to observe two master practitioners of the fussy arts in their native habitat, so I invited her along. I’m disappointed to say that the waitress’s teeth did not fall out from gnashing, nor did the chef quit on the spot, torching the kitchen as he escaped through the side door. You let me down, guys.

Can you guess which of the incidents, below, is a real-life local news story, and which is the plot of a scary blockbuster movie?

A. A large, smelly, gelatinous, alien-looking life form terrorizes a small town, sending people screaming into the streets.

B. On the eve of a major holiday week, a fisherman in a tourist town claims to have spotted a great white shark, but no one believes him and the beaches remain open.

Yes! You guessed it! Both are local news stories AND movie plots! To wit:

The Blob

Jaws

Just your average summer in New England.

Husband and I talked it over and decided that, of everyone in our social circle, the people most likely to be covert Russian spies are….us. No family in the area, jobs that no one can explain, bizarre social habits…I wonder how long it will take for someone to turn us in?