I must admit, being in this class cost me a lot of money. I'm not talking about the cost of schooling itself or of buying the books required...
I'm talking about how now, I often visit the nature writing section of the bookstore and purchase book after book that seems interesting. Can I make a list? Oh yeah. I can make a list [which may prove useful to other students who are just as interested in nature writing as I am].
And keep in mind, these were all purchased after attending the first class.
1. A Passion For Nature: Thomas Jefferson and Natural History by Keith Thomson (non-fiction)
2. Turtle Island by Gary Snyder (poetry)
3. Second Nature: A Gardener's Education by Michael Pollan (non-fiction)
4. Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams (non-fiction)
5. Death in the Woods and Other Stories by Sherwood Anderson (fiction)
6. Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver (non-fiction)
7. A Private History of Awe by Scott Russell Sanders (non-fiction)
8. Leap by Terry Tempest Williams (non-fiction)
9. Deep Play by Diane Ackerman (non-fiction)
10. Field Guide to Birds: Eastern Region by National Audubon Society (non-fiction)
11. Jaguar of Sweet Laughter by Diane Ackerman (poetry)
It's a good thing I have an employee discount at a bookstore.
This list does not count the numerous books I've checked out from the library.
I am very interested in writing about nature, but at the same time, I am so perplexed by it. I can tire of it easily if I'm not reading the right stuff. In class, we read a lot of personal accounts with nature. We read about people's personal relationships with nature and place. Face to face. One on one. But I just realized (literally, just now) when looking at my list that I tend to like writings about nature that are not TOO personal. I like it when a writer writes the reader into the work. Where nature teaches us about humanity rather than nature teaching a self. Ackerman does that a lot. And so does Tempest-Williams. Ackerman, moreso. The woman has a molecule named after her. But anyway, writing about nature to write about the self seems selfish to me. It is done a lot, and done pretty well by plenty, but it is no longer original in my opinion. I enjoy reading nature writing that teaches me something about me and us. Not just about the writer. And that's what I aim to do with my nature writing, when it is nature that I am writing about.
I enjoyed the class very much and liked how not only did we experience the class in the classroom, but we went out and worked the land, as well. I thought it would have been interesting if we read a few pieces that were more scientific. We read a little and I understand that the class is focused on creative writing, but I must admit that I love to read science in a creative essay, if it is placed in the essay seamlessly. And I also understand that the MFA program is trying to get a science-writing class put together. That is a great idea. It is always wonderful to read lyrical or glorious writing that is based mostly on aesthetic, but I absolutely love it when information is involved. I think that makes it all the more beautiful and insightful. And it says a lot about the author, as well. There is a deep passion on both sides of the brain.
I will continue to write about nature. This isn't some promise that I'm hoping to keep. I am always out and about in the woods or exploring something that is abandoned or condemned. It is a passion of mine that I love to put into words. And therefore, I will continue.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wild Spot
Last night, I sat on my roof to look at the full moon. The light it gave off was very bright in my yard...brighter than the white Christmas lights we put up along the picket fence. As I sat on my roof in the cold, I thought about how beautiful this spot must have been in the silver air. I've seen it in the dark before, but last night, I felt that there might have been a different look to it with that moon being so bright and the air being so cold. The colder the air is, it seems, the more clear it is. I like to think that these woods, with that type of night-moon, is sharp and cuts. I imagine it like a blurry photograph that when put through several photoshopping tricks, becomes more stark and gains more contrast. All the images I imagined last night when I sat on my roof are becoming negatives in my mind.
It is really cold. Fall is gone, or so it feels. It technically is still around, merely a shadow of itself. On one of my first posts about this place, I examined a patch of lichen on the wall above the cave. I mentioned that it was shaped like a fat angel. I wondered if it would change shape through the passing months. It did. Much like I did. I feel like something has happened to me. I won't go into detail. It isn't bad, it's a really good thing. But it's a solitary thing, as well. And coming to visit this place only makes the feeling more intense. And ironically, I began reading a novel today that sort of relates to this feeling. Nausea by Jean Paul Sartre. The feeling isn't really existential, or maybe it is, but I don't want to say it is. I guess it's more one of solitude. And being here just makes me feel connected with that feeling even more. Although all these different elements--the trees, the mineshaft, the dead reeds, the bricks, the litter--compose an environment that I have enjoyed for over the past decade, they are all elements that stand alone by themselves. And that no matter how much or how often I visit this place, I will never capture it. Nor do I desire to capture it. I like mystery and I like change. I like surprise. I like what Baca said about how we need to re-create, re-visit, re-do things. I don't ever want to grow nauseous with a place. I want it to always be new, exciting. And another odd thing. Today is the anniversary of Philip Larkin's death. I read this poem of his today:
THE WINTER PALACE
Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.
I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had at university
And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints,
And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I've never been in certain places.
It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.
Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.
*
This poem is very withdrawn. I like it a lot. I like its solitude.
I am going to continue visiting this place. Choosing it as my wild spot for this class was not a spontaneous choice to re-visit an old spot that I haven't seen in a while. I've been re-visiting and re-visiting without there being any itinerary or agenda. That's because I'm drawn to it. I'm drawn to the dark places. I find this place in other places, as well. In places that most people don't find as dark. It's interesting and hard to explain. The same ill-ease I feel when I visit this place sometimes is the same ill-ease I feel when I enter my closet at home or walk under the New Kensington bridge. I want to keep this ill-ease, though. I like being uncomfortable. I like the threat.
It is really cold. Fall is gone, or so it feels. It technically is still around, merely a shadow of itself. On one of my first posts about this place, I examined a patch of lichen on the wall above the cave. I mentioned that it was shaped like a fat angel. I wondered if it would change shape through the passing months. It did. Much like I did. I feel like something has happened to me. I won't go into detail. It isn't bad, it's a really good thing. But it's a solitary thing, as well. And coming to visit this place only makes the feeling more intense. And ironically, I began reading a novel today that sort of relates to this feeling. Nausea by Jean Paul Sartre. The feeling isn't really existential, or maybe it is, but I don't want to say it is. I guess it's more one of solitude. And being here just makes me feel connected with that feeling even more. Although all these different elements--the trees, the mineshaft, the dead reeds, the bricks, the litter--compose an environment that I have enjoyed for over the past decade, they are all elements that stand alone by themselves. And that no matter how much or how often I visit this place, I will never capture it. Nor do I desire to capture it. I like mystery and I like change. I like surprise. I like what Baca said about how we need to re-create, re-visit, re-do things. I don't ever want to grow nauseous with a place. I want it to always be new, exciting. And another odd thing. Today is the anniversary of Philip Larkin's death. I read this poem of his today:
THE WINTER PALACE
Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.
I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had at university
And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints,
And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I've never been in certain places.
It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.
Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.
*
This poem is very withdrawn. I like it a lot. I like its solitude.
I am going to continue visiting this place. Choosing it as my wild spot for this class was not a spontaneous choice to re-visit an old spot that I haven't seen in a while. I've been re-visiting and re-visiting without there being any itinerary or agenda. That's because I'm drawn to it. I'm drawn to the dark places. I find this place in other places, as well. In places that most people don't find as dark. It's interesting and hard to explain. The same ill-ease I feel when I visit this place sometimes is the same ill-ease I feel when I enter my closet at home or walk under the New Kensington bridge. I want to keep this ill-ease, though. I like being uncomfortable. I like the threat.
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