June 30: Felt Nothing, Editing an Episode, Half Ass

Santiago talks to the fish . . . 

"Come on," the old man said aloud. "Make another turn. Just smell them. Aren't they lovely? Eat them good now and then there is the tuna. Hard and cold and lovely. Don't be shy, fish. Eat them."

He waited with the line between his thumb and his finger, watching it and the other lines at the same time for the fish might have swum up or down. Then came the same delicate pulling touch again.

"He'll take it," the old man said aloud. "God help him to take it."

He did not take it though. He was gone and the old man felt nothing.

It takes patience to practice any kind of skill, whether it's fishing or skiing or writing.  Santiago knows this.  That's why he doesn't despair when the fish seems to have disappeared.

I spent most of the day editing the audio of the podcast I host for work.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining about that.  I enjoy piecing together each episode.  In fact, it's one of the things I look forward to most in my job each week.  But, like anything, it takes time.  A lot of time, if the recording is lengthy.  

Of course, I got other things accomplished during those eight hours, but the bulk of my day involved headphones and listening.  While I was doing that, my officemate was working on a new design for the library's social media sites.  And she spent the bulk of her time performing that task.

We were basically doing the same thing, really.  Trying bring into the world a new creation.  If either of us were less particular, it wouldn't have taken as long.  However, both she and I really don't believe in doing anything half ass.  And we're both pretty stubborn when we have a particular vision.  That's why we get along so well.

By the time we both left the office this afternoon, our projects were complete and scheduled for release on social media.  And we were both really happy.

Now, come Monday, when someone listens to that podcast episode or views that weekly calendar, they won't realize the hours and hours it took to create them.  That doesn't matter.  I think the best art, whether a podcast or poem or Facebook post, should seem simple and beautiful at the same time.

That's what it's all about.  Some of the last lines of my poems take weeks or months to write.  Because it has to fit just so, like a new shoe.  That last line should seem completely organic.  None of the struggle it took to arrive at that line should be visible.  People aren't interest in the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel.  They're interested in the ceiling.

Now here comes the last line of this post:  good fences make good neighbors.  

(Okay, it's Robert Frost's last line, but Saint Marty is tired.)