paying attention

Anne Lamott kicks ass. And I say that in the spirit of her book "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life," which you should go out, right now, and pick up a copy. Yeah, there's a lot of advice for writers in it, but there's also a lot of good advice for anyone who couldn't give a rip about stringing three sentences together. To wit - check out her angle on the subject of paying attention:

"I honestly think in order to be a writer, you have to learn to be reverent. If not, why are you writing? Why are you here? Let's think of reverence as awe, as presence in and openness to the world. The alternative is that we stultify, we shut down...I think this is how we are supposed to be in the world -- present and in awe."

Amen! But it gets better...

"There is ecstasy in paying attention. You can get into a kind of Wordsworthian openness to the world, where you see in everything the essence of holiness, a sign that God is implicit in all of creation... Anyone who wants to can be surprised by the beauty or pain of the natural world, of the human mind and heart... When what we see catches us off guard, and when we write it as realistically and openly as possible, it offers hope."

Awesome. And the climax:

"To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass -- seeing things in such a narrow and darkly narcissistic way that it presents a colo-rectal theology, offering hope to no one."

I nearly bust a gut when I read the last line. "Colo-rectal theology" - brilliance itself! This is, perhaps, the most compelling explanation I've ever read for being an artist - writer, painter, photographer, musician - it doesn't matter. And it also summarizes what I find so compelling about some of my favorite artists and writers. Not all, mind you. Not by a long shot. Not a lot of hope in Cormac McCarthy's existential Western dramas. But there is reverence - a deep reverence for the universe, if not our place in it. Same for Edward Hopper. Again, not a lot of hope in those lonely souls he painted. But there is definitely beauty. That was Hopper's brilliance - to find beauty where others would only see despair.

On another note, I'm currently listening to Spoon. The band, not the eating utensil. Their music is difficult for me to describe or pigeonhole, but utterly compelling regardless. You gotta love a band that writes a line like, "every morning I pull on them pants/but I don't get out so much since I acquired St. Vitus dance." (That's from The Two Sides of Monsieur Valenti - my favorite song at the moment). I wish I could explain what it is that I love so much about this CD (Gimme Fiction), but I got nothing. Which, come to think of it, is often true when I talk about music. I'm much more at ease writing about books or art. I think I lack a vocabulary to describe and evoke what I love in songs, and bands, and so forth.

Which reminds me...whatever happened to the band Bauhaus? If I recall correctly, I think they wrote a song called St. Vitus Dance. With all of this eighties revival hoopla, I woulda thought that SOMEONE would be taking up the cause of this neglected band. Seems like they were ahead of the curve with the whole Goth phenomenon. But that's what you get for naming yourself after an obscure German architectural style! Strangely enough, there are some fine examples of Bauhaus (or is it International Style?) domestic architecture in Dubuque, nestled away amid the more celebrated Victorian houses. You'd miss them if you blinked - I had to rub my eyes the first time I saw one. They look like little brick ice cubes. Stop by sometime and I'll show you!