The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

I had, in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
Imagine that, like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, after having been waiting for it so long, when a muse came to  inspire you.  A silent plea, I flung to Heaven, but a prayer, then an answer came just like that, on time, at  last, after having had all time rejects, after rejects_ and that someone finally is telling you:

Your story isn’t calm.
The road has been chaotic at times,
Filed with detours, and rains,
and loss so sudden, and soon.
Sometimes the bliss was so elevated
Your heart could hardly hold it.
Sometimes it was maddening to have,
And then to lose it. You learn soon enough
that it is hardly ever goes as planned–
gently, easy and smooth.
But that my friend,
is what makes fascinating
You have something to tell.
Something you walked through.
Something valid.
Something courageous,
Something true.
You’re made of stories
Within stories, even
more stories. Those
quiet depths of you.

_Victoria Erickson

Before that, I was reading a blog of Longreads, it was about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road

Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson , on Pinterest, I read it. So, I let  my gaze wandering through the boards for sometimes, untill I got a glimpse of something  what I was looking for and that was burgeoning in my mind for quite some time to  until lately. So, to stay in the clime of thoughts, it is something that looks frutescent down the road, and that’s the thing with a quick jesting you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from the nest in which it was nestled under for the longest .

So, I just wanted to give it a try, and see what happens…

So, If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be Greece, the amphitheaters… or it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, there, it’s where they sleep for the eternal rest, all those writers, poets, artists, and all the admited academicians, personalities entitled of that honorable degree of reconnaissance for posterity. But that place is too quite for inspiration, imagine, to hear their tumultuous fights and oratory jolts, so I prefer just to return to my muse to get inspired.

I  wouldn’t imagine  being stories-teller , one day, I didn’t take it seriously thence. Perhaps as a hobby no more,  or only than as a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, surely it was the easiest one to fail in, anyway. There was no further success in the future of being a writer on those times of old Alger.

Back then, I preferred reading to writing, and it was_”my violin of Ingres”_my passion, so to  speak as my favorite pastime went for drawing then, and since the early childhood, it’s my father who initiated me to it. And I read a lot of books also, the illustrated books, the amount that one can fill shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, back then ) so you can imagine that , and besides that , having at reach of hands all the books you can read, you never get bored. People was more readers then, and were movies goers all times too. There was only one program TV, by the way, when the night came, and a body once get home, it was black and white, and the broadcast was more or less for five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and that ended with the last news journal, at 10:30. Basically, that it is was an entertainment for the working class_Metro, work, eat and sleep cycle. Nonetheless, for the élite one, or the riches class; they  have mensclub,  and tea rooms for ladies , for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, but by snobbism, to only sit and watch  TV, it was none of it, they have plenty of time to spare idly.

So, back to earth now, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, _”taking the slow road”, a few days lately, it came from reading as I said, I get enticed by writing, slow motion, little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing nor by the criticism, but mostly by choice. And again, a maladive instinct for being ridiculous, since, some professionals activities were ill regarded Then. So, taking the risk, I said to myself, just sit down and gave it a try, and see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all,  just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages thrown in the waste bin. But then, if it doesn’t work, before  tossing them away, make sure I haven’t thrown the baby–(you dream  would be-writer) — with the waters of the bath.

Paolo Coscelo wrote the Alchemist, 13 years ago, a million books best-seller now. The story, it starts with a dream, so believe in your dream, that’s all.

The story started something like this; ” one day…”_ or one night?…I don’t remember, I have read the book 13 years ago, since then, you know. If you haven’t read the book:_ A shepherd fell asleep, he made a dream; an encounter with a strange character; the master of the world told, he told him something like, one has to make his one’s own history, or the sort. When he woke up, he found himself with a solemn urge for peregrinations, that he must pursue  his dream in order to get rich ; if he want to be married one day to the girl he loves. He had to make a choice; if he stayed around  and became a seller of popcorn  with his a cart instead of conducting  a herd to pastures, it’s more a respectable profession than a shepherd, and the father of the girl will look at him with more respect, he would travel also, not a lot, but he will see people, villages, and even could go to the city, but at the end of the day he would be back home to find the girl he love. She would be waiting for him, had cooked diner for him, they would sleep under the roof of a warm house, a small one for the beginning, then they  will move to a  bigger one, for that he need money, and while he was thinking about it, thence he fell asleep… His journey started in Spain, crossed the sea, Rabat where he got his job, then followed the caravans route across the Sahara desert and after a multitude of rellantendo, and peripeteias, he  finally reached Fayum, an oasis in the south of Egypt, to finish in to a monastery, the end of the trip.  Then, back home.

This a dream, it’s in a book, that came true. For a writer, it was the hit. A jackpot,  to win the Lotto, for the common of us. What about yours; mine, it was…

                                                                                 To be continued…

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http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5997/the-art-of-nonfiction-no-3-john-mcphee?src=longreads

I have read  the book, “A Sense of  where you are”, an example manifest of  presence  of the author, and the effect of his presence, his voice, totally in view to the reader, while his personality remaining indistinct. Here is an excerpt of it, where McPhee,  in a brief scene , that he wrote in book-lengthy   profile of the famous   baseball player Bill Bradley, that is,  before the star became senator. McPhee is watching The Star practice , and then Bradley misses a shot: …the ball curled around the rim and failed to go in…

"What happened then?" I asked him.                                                                                                                  " I didn't kick high enough," he said.                                                                                                               
 "Do you   always  know exactly why you've missed a shot?"                                                                       " Yes," he said, ...missing another one.                                                                                                                    "What happened that time?"                                                                                                                               "I was talking to you. I didn't concentrate. The secrecy of shooting is concentration."

Mr. McPhee wrote it in the first person, in a casual and natural tone, to make the reader see it in the characteristically  way he wrote the story, he wanted the reader to be present,  not as sitting back only but like a confident, some sort.

Encounters with the Archdruid“_John McPhee’s, another book, l have read lately_I never get tired of reading those excerpts of the author encounters, and interviews_also; it  shows a pattern of extreme complexity, the way it was written, and, with more explicitly,  in a passage where he concluded, after a peripheral itinerary, back and forth, like flash-back with different sittings, between the past and the present:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/01/14/130114fa_fact_mcphee?currentPage=all
The story is told in three parts, initially, it is an extended profile of the most prominent personalities of that time, between the different antagonists of the story,  dam builder, environmentalists, and people who represent the forces  of environment destruction, that is to draw them  in to a debate, where the writer  was a pursuit for of a series interviews through different, places and times, until the moment, it took place in a raft trip down the Colorado River. Then the writer takes the reader in aparte _ when he pull aside, in a confidence, a confessional tone, to tell him: after he took the initiative, to embark you  in a journey, of less than few minutes where you got almost wet: the high-speed of the river, with the slow motion of the raft:

What seemed  unimaginable beside the river in the canyon was that all that wild water had been processed , like pork slurry in a hot-dog plant, upstream in the lightless penstock of a dam.

The  last I discovered is this article below: see  link

“At one point I said, Mr. Shawn, you have this whole enterprise going, a magazine is printing this weekend, and you’re the editor of it, and you sit here talking about these commas and semicolons with me—how can you possibly do it?”

I stay speechless, as if I was standing , in the presence of  the writer  in person , when you hear  his voice through reading the books, and finally this item above.

Modestly speaking, did you hear me? when I say:

” thank you for reading”