The Perfect Song Blog

I’m looking through some remaindered books at Barnes & Noble.  It’s November and dark outside.  I scan the customers in the cafe because I’m a writer can’t help myself.

On the wall up next to the ceiling are blown up likenesses of Hemingway, Raymond Chandler, Amy Tan and Faulkner.  Beneath them in wrap-around sunglasses is a middle-aged man sitting up as straight and motionless as a pine tree on a still day.  He’s so still I wonder if he’s dead and nobody has noticed yet.

I watch.  Finally he moves his left hand but the rest of his body remains still.  His fingers are long and smooth.

I realize he’s blind.

The phrase comes to me: “As out of place as a blind man in a bookstore.”

The writers above him stare out over the customers who are meandering, thumbing through books, flipping through magazines.  The man remains still as a three-dimensional portrait.

Is he here for the ambiance? The smell of new books? The warm sound of quiet voices of the men playing checkers to the right of him? The smell of strong, fresh cafe coffee and the perfume of passing women?

Does he long for the time when he could see, when he could read?

Then I wonder self-consciously if he can sense my focus on him.  Many studies show that blind people develop their remaining senses beyond which most others can.

Another man enters the cafe, walks over and sits down with the blind man.  My intrigue is gone, my questions are no longer important.

The blind man moves now, leaning forward, smiling, talking.

He is no longer out of place.  He has a friend and they are engaged in something that has a much longer tradition than books.

Humans have been reading for a few centuries. We’ve been talking, sharing thoughts and emotions, for thousands of years.

The blind man sips his coffee, leans forward and talks to his friend as Hemingway, Chandler, Tan and Faulkner stare with fixed expressions into their own worlds.

I continue past the loaded shelves where a million conversations are aching to begin.

I mentioned in my last blog that I spent an hour with my son, Nathan in the Barnes & Noble cafe.  He pointed out that I hadn’t written anything on my blog in a long time.  The observation stayed with me and shook me out of my self-imposed writer’s block.  He said something else that made me think.  “I don’t know how you keep up the energy to do two blogs plus all the other stuff you do.”

I thought about that all day in relation to little writing I’ve done lately.

First, I don’t often get writer’s block. I don’t believe in it.  But I do run out of energy and when that happens I’m not as in tune with things around me.  I’m not observant and therefore wind up with little to say.

I do think that on a regular basis the creative well runs dry and when it does, I don’t waste time fretting about it. I think if you force yourself to do one thing too much, you drive it into the ground.  You get as stale as old coffee grinds, and creatively just as useless.

So, when the writing isn’t coming I do other things — read, play with the dogs, take pictures, study sound recording.   All the while, the “writer” is on a fishing trip, half asleep, listening to the chickadees in the trees above and the lapping creek water below.

Sometimes I just study the clouds and marvel at the huge work of art above me that changes every second and is always perfect.

I clip my Dwarf Japanese Juniper and study the shape of its trunk and the branches and visualize how I want them to grow.

Creative energy quietly flows in and when the time is right, when the right feeling is felt, or something is said in a conversation, the energy, words and thoughts start flowing again.

I’m sitting in Barnes & Noble Cafe with my son, Nathan, sipping Chinese Flower tea which has a delicate aroma and flavor. He’s drinking a latte which is too sweet and strong for me. We talk about the pros and cons of Facebook and Myspace. He likes Myspace. I like Facebook, though I don’t use it much.

“I went to your blog site and you haven’t posted anything in a long time,” he says.

I nod.

When September hits at Mansfield University where I’m the PR director, my life isn’t my own. Watching school open is like staring at an oncoming train rushing forward at 80 mph. I reach out, grab it and hang on for dear life and get dropped off the following May. One of the most time consuming things for me is the Fabulous 1890s Weekend, which I cochair. The first night football game in the world was played at Mansfield by Mansfield University in downtown on September 28, 1892.

The event was lit by General Electric which was then six months old. When I found this out in 1990, I contacted GE officials and told them they lit the first night football game. They didn’t believe me. Later they called me back and said I was right. We worked together for the next two years. GE produced a very lavish and expensive commercial about their role in night football. Mansfield University nearly disappeared in all the edits, but we did get a mention at the beginning of the spot.

We’re also celebrating the 150th anniversary of the university and the borough. I’m one of the cochairs. Coordinating all the events, the website, and publishing two books has also taken a lot of time.

And I’m creating a five-year strategic marketing plan.

So,for the first time in a long time other things got in the way of my blog.

Nathan brought me back to blog reality.

Thanks, son.