Help Me Up!
Dear faithful readers,
I’ve subscribed to a lot of newsletters lately and they’re piling up my inbox. Forget “Inbox Zero” - I’m going for “Inbox 1000”. How do I choose which ones to actually read? It’s the voice of the author, the writing, and the topic - and in that order. Then much further down the list I may tune in for information, or how-to.
Even a super-smart or famous writer doesn’t necessarily grab me
When my eyes gloss over, I stop reading to scroll down for hits, breaks, highlights, anything that can tap my focus to read a start to a paragraph, or an intermittent sentence or two.
Nope, this one is still being too smart for the room, I say to myself, and then move on. Even bite-sized, some of these are too much to digest, too much mind, no room for my reading. Even though I “should” like it, right?
Seems to me we now live in a general condition of many more writers than readers. I’m a reading writer, and don’t have time. I’m being disingenuous when I blame “time” - that’s not the culprit.
My attention can’t be forced.
I was raised to read things with attention and purpose. Now I swipe, toss out and banish at will. If I can’t just scan and find something that connects, I’m ruthless. I won’t focus for long. With this approach, I know I’m missing some gems but I resent having to hunt for them. I no longer have to read required textbooks for courses that were also required. Back then, against my will, my eyes and mind were forced to engage with information.
Are you like me?
Hold my interest long enough to keep me walking alongside of you, long enough for us to get to know each other. As Picard used to say, “Engage.”
About the Page
Calling Dr. McLuhan, who read scattershot, part pages, all tabs open, mosaic-minded. He’s not in, but I’m leaving him a message. Oh, I forgot, the medium IS the message. And I was going to say “Paging Dr. McLuhan” but are there any pages anymore when we are just scrolling? And what is a “page” - are the two uses of the word actually related?
Well, I’m glad I asked. Googling tells me: Earlier “pagine” (c. 1200), directly from Old French or Latin. The word is usually said to be from the notion of individual sheets of paper "fastened" into a book. A more charming alternative theory: vines fastened by stakes and formed into a trellis, which led to sense of "columns of writing on a scroll."
In the olden times “paging” meant sending a person to deliver a message. A “page” at the time being a young boy from the countryside (ie. pagan) working in service. Here’s a lovely image combining the two meanings, in a way. Looks like he’s got the vines fastened on the stake and will soon form a trellis! The medium is the message after all. I’m sending you a page!
Have you read this far?
Tie a Yellow Ribbon on the Old Oak Tree
Still in the fascination of this time of year and the thinning of the veil between worlds, last week I was happy to see this video of a Clootie Well. It reminded me of a section in my novel, Attars, and shows that this sort of offering in the trees happens in many cultures, not a thing of the past, but still very current.
In the Forest of Offerings
(from Attars)
I am compelled to leave the guardians an offering. In my bag I keep little things that may be of use sometime. Today I have some hard candies wrapped in twisted cellophane, some loose change, lipstick, tampons, a box of pushpins, a scarf, my phone.
I stick pushpins through the candy wrappers, fixing seven candies to the trunks of seven trees. Then I tie my blue scarf on one of the branches, and I say out loud, “Thank you for giving me safe passage. These things I offer to you now are in honour of your sacrifice. May you have peace.”
Wind comes up and the glittering leaves of the trees flash together in sound. The blue scarf waves. I think of people who have died. I look up and now notice that offerings like mine fill the whole forest. Why hadn’t I seen them before?
Cloths are tied to branches, bundles wrapped around the trunks of the trees, high near the crotches where the branches begin. There are all sorts of offerings and most look like they have been here for some time, exposed to sun, rain and seasons. I see an old suitcase rotting in the woods, a faded photograph, coins, sodden stuffed animals, a fresh package of cigarettes. In my body I sense contact from the many others who have been here before me.
A branchy path leads me to the top of the slight hill, where a pile of stones seems to survey the land below. Open to the sky, this mound seems significant. It holds many more simple offerings beneath and all around. A star Christmas decoration, a worn map, a novelty coffee mug, more cigarettes, candies, toys, pop bottles. Crummy stuff, weathered and wrecked, faded, looking like junk and garbage. These are our prayers.
A cloud passes over the sun and its shadow moves over the hill like the wide gesture of a great hand. It is a sacred moment.
Now the pile of stones reveals itself as a mountain of grey skulls: large and small animal skulls, and human skulls, too. Faces, teeth, caverns, forms. For an instant, they shine with an inner illumination. Brilliant blue-white light radiates from within them, they are not granite, not bone, but crystal.
All the offerings around them transform in light, glowing as gold and multi-coloured jewels. This timeless instant flows and extends through the atmosphere as the vision fades away.
"Have you read this far?" Yes, I have now back to continue reading.
Thank you Carol.
Very mythical and intriguing writing.
Yes so much comes to us so quickly and there is so much to decipher and figure out what is worthwhile to read.
I still read books and especially my poetry books.
And read some articles everyday.
I guess I’m an older fashioned girl. I would prefer to communicate through a personal letter and write it out to the person.
But I guess the times they are a changing.
And we have to adjust our mi da and hearts to sing in the times that we are in.💖