September 13: Duck Pond, Writing Life, Stephen King

When I'm up to my knees in honeysuckle, I beat a retreat, and visit the duck pond.  The duck pond is a small eutrophic pond on cleared land near Carvin's Creek . . .

Dillard has many places to which she beats retreats.  There's the log at Tinker Creek.  A cabin located near a dam.  The woods near her own house, where she finds snake skins and cocoons.  And, of course, the duck pond, "choked with algae."

I'm not sure what else Dillard does with her life besides beat retreats and write astounding reflections on life, the universe, and everything, to life, the universe, and everything, if I may borrow from Douglas Adams.  Her existence, at least for the duration of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, seems very . . . unrushed.  A year-long meditation.  And I envy her for it.

Indeed, from what I've read, Dillard was living the life of a full-time writer at the time she published Pilgrim.  She basically took her journals and transformed them into a book.  The closest I've every come to living the life of a full-time writer was when I was in graduate school, getting my degrees.  Even then, I was teaching all the time.  There were no beating retreats in my life.  Ever.

I'm not complaining.  I'm dreaming.  There are some people who somehow live the writing life.  Getting up in the morning, sitting at a desk with a journal or notebook or laptop, and just writing for four or five or six hours.  That's their job.  I've read that is exactly what Stephen King does.  He sits at his desk every day, taking only his birthday (September 21--don't ask me why I know this) and Christmas off.  Other than that, it's all possessed cars and time-traveling English teachers.

I'm not saying that Dillard or King don't have their share of troubles.  I'm sure they do.  However, I would like to try the writing life for a while.  Fully commit myself to writing something that I wanted to read.  That would make me really happy.  That's my dream.

My reality is that I'm the primary income-earner in my family.  One of my jobs provides health insurance.  My weekly checks are sort of necessary, even though they don't always pay all the bills.  Almost, but not always.  I can't live the writing life because my family needs me.

So what is the compromise?  I already rise at quarter to five in the morning every weekday so that I can get to work by 6 a.m.  I can't see myself getting up any earlier in order to write.  I'd probably end up falling asleep at the wheel of my car and becoming a dead writer.  I already stay up late, but that's to grade papers and create lesson plans (you know, the stuff that I can't get done during the rest of the day).  I get between five (on a good night six) hours of sleep every night.

At the moment, the writing life remains a lovely dream for me.

Maybe, some day, Saint Marty will join Annie Dillard at the duck pond.

February 8: Duck Pond, Dance Competitions, Snow and Dead Frogs

All this comes to mind at the duck pond, because the duck pond is rapidly turning into a landfill of its own, a landfill paved in frogs. There are a million frogs here, bullfrogs hopping all over each other on tangled mats of algae.  And the pond is filling up.  Small ponds don't live very long, especially in the South.  Decaying matter piles up on the bottom, depleting oxygen, and the shore plants march to the middle.  In another couple of centuries, if no one interferes, the duck pond will be a hickory forest.

It's not a very beautiful picture Dillard paints.  A pond being eaten by the bodies of frogs.  Bullfrogs.  Piling up like snow during a blizzard.  The water dies, depleted of oxygen, and vegetation takes over.  Imagine the stink.  It's a story of decimation and reclamation.  Death and rebirth.  Rebirth and death.

I have had a bad day.  In the coming two months, my daughter has two dance competitions, one in March and one in April.  I will not be able to go to these competitions with my family as in years past.  I can't get the time off from work.  That means, for the first time since my daughter has been dancing, I will not be there to see her dance.

This morning, I shoveled my driveway.  Tonight, I shoveled my driveway again.  The snow will pile up again overnight, and I will have to shovel again tomorrow.  The frogs pile up, and the pond dies.  No matter how hard I work, how much I love my wife and daughter and son, I will be alone during those dance competition weekends in March and April.  There are things I simply cannot change.  Like snow in winter.  Dead frogs in a duck pond.

If you can't tell, my mood is a little fatalistic at the moment.  My life has not turned out as I planned.  I try to be a good person, hard worker, loving husband and father.  I treat everyone I meet with kindness, never act in anger.  I'm not perfect.  Far from it.  But I am not an asshole or abuser or Republican.  Yet, disappointment follows me around like a stray cat.

That's all I have to say.  The snow is falling already.  I will have to get up early tomorrow to shovel.  Probably have to shovel tomorrow night again.  Because that's life.  Or that's my life, anyway.

Saint Marty is tired of dead frogs.

I laugh because it's true