FollowFirstly, an excerpt from a poem I memorized in fifth grade at Maple Avenue School in Newark. The poet was John Greenleaf Whittier, “Snowbound”
“The sun that brief December day rose cheerless over hills of gray, and darkly circled, gave at noon, a sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky its mute and ominous prophecy. A portent seeming less than threat, it sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, of homespun stuff could quite shut out. A hard, dull bitterness of cold that checked, mid-vein, the circling race. Of life-blood in the sharpened face. The coming of the snow-storm told. The wind blew east; we heard the roar of ocean on his wintry shore and felt the strong pulse throbbing there. Beat with low rhythm our inland air.”
I just recited one of my favorite poems, memorized fifty years ago (that hurts to say) and which is still floating around my synapses. There’s worry about the synapse thing. Have I remembered too much inconsequential minutia and is it physically taking up a lot of my free gig space? For whatever reasons, I have not been able to remove this poem to trash. But that’s alright, I love snow, purity, silence, and sometimes, the aftermath of a solid meteorological Northeaster event is getting out of school or work the next day, and laying around with hot chocolate and a copy of Casablanca
Back to the synapse– cerebral thing. Since I’m a real writer; my novel now published and being sold, I realize there is so much more to learn and write about, so I keep shoving things into all sections of my cerebral zone (perhaps a good name for a boutique book store). The zone seems to be expanding, absorbing and retaining. And there’s new research to help explain intellectual growth. Long telomeres (the tip of chromosomes are called telomeres and they’re like the tip of a shoelace). The older cells get, telomeres are shorter and offer less protection and cells die. Research suggests massive amounts of exercise keep them long. I do my thinking and proof reading on an exercise bike constantly. Enough said.
Snowstorms yield cabin fever time which for me means introspective thinking. I love the song “Feast of Stephen.” I’m back in Newark, fifth grade, Eisenhower was President and I thought remembering Pearl Harbor Day meant thinking a woman named Pearl was brutally attacked. My mother’s best friend was a Pearl.
This morning I whispered to myself, “I really am a writer now.” Last year I went to a lecture at a local University. This amazing political science genius, who writes, commentates and advises lectured, while in the back, copies of his book were being sold. Afterwards, I stood in line with just a program, hoping to get an autograph and ask a powerful question. I was next in line. He looked at my program and realized I did not buy his book so he walked away. I realized what I had to do and ran to the back, bought a book, jumped back in line, and I got my autograph and answer to the question, “If you advise and commentate, how come you never ran for President?”
I got a brusque (nice word for a snowy day) answer. “Never, not for me.” The fact that this multi-millionaire omnipresent personality wouldn’t sign an autograph unless I bought his book bothered me for a year until this morning. Now I understand. We’re both writers now. Although early on in my authorship, it seems there are folks in my world who expect my giving them a novel without payment(for a variety of reasons). I’ve been writing for ten years, longer than doctors need to be in medical school and residency for a specialty.
So in my mind and heart I’m comfortable seeking payment and grateful that it snowed today, giving me introspective time, although I just got that sinking intestinal discomforting feeling that someone is going to have to deal with removing two feet of snow in the morning. ‘Someone’ has been me since I memorized that poem back in fifth grade.
Happy Merry Healthy Holidays and New Years.