Glad You Asked
Elizabeth Gilbert at 2009 TED talk
By Erik Charlton from Menlo Park, USA - Eat, Pray, Love, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8026339
Tim Ferriss’s interview with Elizabeth Gilbert came highly recommended, so I sat for the two hour plus marathon. The first half held my attention, even if cringeworthy at times for the persona she presented, in stories about Gilbert talking to herself in the third person, addressing inanimate objects and concepts even. My takeaway was that she’s been on the talk circuits too long–not because she isn’t interesting, but rather she’s too caught up in the act.
It’s also probable my general discomfort with gurus showing the way and the light is at work here.
The interview leads into a long riff of famous people coping with their notoriety in the public realm–to the extent that being a public figure sounds like mostly a curse with little blessing. Seems Ferriss and Gilbert both have followed paths to becoming–oh, what’s the hot term–influencers.
There’s always been gold in them thar hills. Mark Twain made a nice income on the lecture circuit, even Dickens did. And Gilbert’s a talented speaker, if you’ve heard one of her talks, but… the whole thing struck me as cultish. Like the following she built from Eat, Pray, Love. I’ve not read the book–nor any of her books to be honest, though I might need to, just to see what all the fuss is about. D read it, saying it wasn’t Gilbert’s best work.
“In early 2010, the feminist magazine ‘Bitch’ published a critical review and social commentary called Eat, Pray, Spend. Authors Joshunda Sanders and Diana Barnes-Brown wrote that ‘Eat, Pray, Love is not the first book of its kind, but it is a perfect example of the genre of priv-lit: literature or media whose expressed goal is one of spiritual, existential, or philosophical enlightenment contingent upon women's hard work, commitment, and patience, but whose actual barriers to entry are primarily financial.’ The genre, they argued, positions women as inherently and deeply flawed and offers ‘no real solutions for the astronomically high tariffs—both financial and social—that exclude all but the most fortunate among us from participating.”
from Wikipedia article.
I imagine that one stung.
One outcome from the circuit, Gilbert said she needed to take a course from a guru person in how to say “no.” I’ll let that sink in.
She derives a great deal of heart from taking courses. For someone who identifies as a writer first, why would she spend so much time being distracted? Albeit, perhaps they’re good sessions, but they’re still distractions to doing the work, aren’t they? As a member of the audience I’d be concerned what I took from it would be a watered down version of the original, distracting at best. It seems the more you become recognized as an influencer, the more you engage with other influencers–confirmation of the converted—like in times past being ‘seen about town’ together in the New York Times.
There’s a whole lot of panning for gold going on.
Gilbert is bright and quick witted. She’s also a head case–or so she says–who’s spent a great deal of time working on becoming less of one. Fair enough; her honesty can charm because she’s sincere. But returning to the curse verses blessing thing, sitting for two hour plus interviews has to be distracting; it produces next to nothing of benefit for the interviewee other than wishing she hadn’t said some things and realizing she hadn’t mentioned others. Spilling your guts doesn’t bring on enlightenment, even if it’s cathartic to your followers. An irony in someone who spends so much energy being present in the public forum while diving into self–after which she wants to turn off the phone.
An artist’s date, anyone? Artist’s Way? All this slang, buzz word piled on buzz word, requiring a healthy checking account and lots of personal time. Very much a First World problem.
She talks to herself so frequently, it must strain her practicing ‘being still.’ And studying Marcus Aurelius, that long dead white man of legends. Seems the Emperor is having a resurgence in popularity in the Age of Internet Philosophy. Last century’s dead white men are scorned by the ‘woke’ folk, but go back two thousand years, now those uns are worth listening to. It is interesting to get glimpses of a long departed civilization, but using a Roman Emperor as your tutor could just be a secular substitution for St. Augustine.
In the interview / lovefest, there are fragments about writing between large chunks of nervousness:
“This is what I do... I’m willing to be a diner waitress and a bartender… I’m willing to give up going on vacation to stay home and write… I’m willing to give up everything because this is my source of light.”
from a Read it Forward.com interview with Elizabeth Gilbert
Liz (Tim calls her ‘Liz’) claims she’s discovered writing as akin to meditation, finding a place of stillness like those who meditate seek. “Silencing of the mind” is what she calls it. I took a first course in Transcendental Meditation back in college. I’d heard it was as good as getting high–which sounded meaningful in those days. I can still remember the ‘device’ word I was given by the meditation guide–and even found a few moments of calm–but the thing is, I’ve learned to find calm under all sorts of conditions. First, running in all kinds of weather, through forests and city streets. Exercise is extremely calming – when you’re tired your brain gets to rest. Walking outdoors, avoiding loud events, reading in the morning, reading generally, all can be ways to focus on an idea–provided you don’t find yourself arguing with the author.
But writing? Writing isn’t calming–it’s work. It can be energizing at times, or stressful when your head goes blank, but hardly ever calming. The only stillness comes when I nod off, or take a break to play Solitaire.
Gilbert says in no uncertain terms that it’s all a gift, this creativity stuff. Hmm, maybe… nah… nice metaphor, though. There is something to the active waiting for an idea, waking up to find it handed to you by your subconscious, even if you still need to do the preparation work.
One comment Gilbert makes in the interview struck me as completely original, and I’m paraphrasing: “There are only two certainties in the world, that we have never found an end to the universe and that we have never finished finding new stories to tell.”
The book I need to read is Eats, Shoots & Leaves. I’m a sucker for books on word play, even books by Brits.
Photo by Levi Guzman on Unsplash
Boats in Summer
Last Saturday the country apparently voted to reopen again–or enough people did so it might as well have been the entire population–and the bucolic neighborhood of Lake Barcroft came alive no differently. Americans are constitutionally opposed to being told what to do, but when no one’s around we behave even worse, like high schoolers when all the teachers go on break. With no teacher in the classroom, the students go nuts.
And we haven’t had a serious principal in three and a half years.
D and I invited a couple–friends we’ve known for a good while–to join us for an afternoon lake cruise. “You can sit at one end of the boat and we’ll take the other end,” but they declined saying ‘though we ‘d love to, not just yet.’ But Saturday was just too beautiful to spend it indoors, so D and I snuck out, Layla at the prow. When the pontoon boats passed us fully laden, ten maybe twelve packed tightly and celebrating liberally, or when three boats tied together in a grand flotilla sailed by, it felt like old times were back. At least for them they were.
One woman, married to an Army officer, was quoted in the Washington Post as shrugging off the Covid, “There’s always risk in life. Our country was founded on risk.” Actually, it was founded by people who were looking to avoid risking themselves for a king, particularly one as cantankerous as George III. Exposing oneself to the Covid for the sake of going shopping and hitting the bar scene seems more like juvenile boys daring each other.
Last night after dinner with the doors facing the lake wide open, close to midnight I was in the living room reading US Grant’s memoirs, but kept hearing what sounded like a continuing house party. Lots of alcohol infused laughter sounding like more women than men. Sounded like a young crowd. Finally I walked out onto the deck, ah, there they were. On a small flotilla of pontoon boats. It’s called ‘rafting up’ and quite popular in the summer. At least in a normal summer, which this one definitely is not. Covid Summer. Most geezers have their teeth in a glass by eleven o’clock. Or they’re reading… so I think these must have been youngsters.
The Army officer’s wife was only rationalizing what everyone else was rationalizing–and risking. The sad part is those of us who think it’s still early to open the country will be paying the same as the partying crew.
Photo by Obi Onyeador on Unsplash
Summer Riot
Dan Balz’s commentary in the Monday edition of the Washington Post points out that the country has endured epidemics before–as in the 1918 Spanish Flu, serious economic suffering as in the Depression of the 30s and the 1968 riots that drove deep wedges through the country. But we’ve never lived through all three taking place simultaneously, and he fears for the country:
“It’s more than the system can bear, and people grieve for the country.”
Dan Balz, Washington Post
Balz may be overlooking that the country went from the Depression, through a time of rising fascism straight into World War II–which I doubt were low-stress times. And he lays blame on Trump for exacerbating the dysfunction and turmoil. OK, however Trump didn’t create the country’s racial wounds, even if he takes advantage of them. Father Coughlin did the same with anti-Semitism leading up to World War II.
Living just a few miles from the nation’s Capitol, I remember what the aftermath of 9/11 felt like, the somber, quiet, the stench from the still smoldering Pentagon, the absence of jets overhead save for the fighters flying sentry. Yet, living in our green oasis, we were removed, protected. This time of the Covid reminds me. I later wrote a poem remembering 9/11 and the buildup to the Iraq war that was going all around us in early 2003, and grieving for my lost son, Ryan. Enough to make you cry.
We lost Ryan to his own sadness. George Floyd lost his life for what? Who stole his life?
Last Sunday’s newspapers were all about the riots in multiple US cities over George Floyd’s brutal murder by a policeman with three more standing by, none stopping it. Four against one. Brave policemen–wanting to make him suffer–for existing? He was no threat to them, already with his hands handcuffed behind his back. They arrested him on suspicion of hawking a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill. It’s hard to conceive of a justification for his death.
When crazies with AR-15s aren’t going after nightclubs, bad cops are losing control of themselves. It’s bound to be a long, hot summer.
Yes, the country has a brutal history, and when something like this happens, it’s hard to avoid believing that dark history is being replayed, especially if you’re African American, but is that what we should be debating? Reparations in this specific incident would be better. Forced to make reparations, over time the four policemen might come to realize the damage they caused locally and how much it’s spread.
When we all become saints, we’ll no longer need police. But meanwhile, when we get carried away, not wearing our face masks and crowding onto pontoon boats and into bars in the face of a pandemic someone needs to be the adult. When we’ve had too much to drink, even when we try to pass counterfeit bills. Living in communities of heavy unemployment, and attendant violence and drug wars, African Americans need the police. But they don’t seem to get the police force they deserve–and now the country is paying for it.
We see it in two opposite ways: racism bringing on the riots, and the riots being their own cause–when they are one and the same. If you cast a people outside the larger culture, why would they support it in the moment’s anger when burning a CVS is much more satisfying?
Way in the lower corner of the Sunday Post’s front page, below the fold as they say, was the story of the successful launch of SpaceX’s manned craft being sent skyward. Elon Musk’s story of another immigrant genius doing good for the country. Then Monday’s edition described how the spacecraft docked with the Space Station, again successfully, this time on page 3. Even realizing the riots are the bigger story, I can’t help but wonder if we’ve not lost in the desert.
A rage of total impotence has gripped parts of our country–the brown parts. A rage against the Covid is sending whites to act out by partying like there’s no tomorrow–a distinct possibility. Rage for and against an absence of accountability for the current White House occupant has been tearing at the nation for his entire presidency.
Rage seems the order of the day. Though in all these cases, we are destroying parts of ourselves.
African Americans were brought to this country in chains and survived (can’t say ‘lived’) that way for two hundred-fifty years–for five or six generations. From 1619 until today, what they have been asking for–arguing for–rioting for when the former efforts fail–is to be recognized as important to the country. While still enslaved, they adopted our religion, yearned to be educated in our schools and colleges, strove mightily to be free. They have fought in all the nation’s wars and paid heavily for it. We play their music, cheer for their athletes, follow their fashions and mimic their slang. Why not love them as well?
Doesn’t seem too much to ask for fellow countrymen.