So true

 

What is a soldier without a war?

All Quiet on the Western Front (All Quiet on the Western Front (2022) - IMDb) won an Oscar for Best International Feature Film last night, among other awards. The film, directed by German director Edward Berger, is about a group of young German soldiers whose experiences of the brutality and hopelessness of war during WWI contrast with their initial eagerness toward going to war to valiantly fight the French on the western front for the honor of Germany. The film is based on the book by Erich Maria Remarque, who described the horror and suffering of war as a German veteran of World War I. The book has been adapted into film several times--in 1930, in 1979, and in 2022. I have not seen the other films, but if they are anything like Berger's film, they are probably quite harrowing to watch. 

It would be hard to say that I liked the film; films about war are too distressing because you know there will be bloodshed and death. Berger's film has plenty of both. There really is no plot other than that young men go to war, have their idealistic expectations of valiance dashed, fight to survive on a daily basis, and learn to deal with the brutality and trauma of watching their comrades maimed and killed. There is no time to process death or the intense emotions surrounding it. There is no time for humanity. There is no humanity in the trenches. Tanks roll over them, crushing soldiers and collapsing the trenches. Bayonets do the job that shootings do not. Grenades likewise. Berger does not spare his audience. But no filmmaker does when he or she makes a film about war. 1917 (from 2019) was another example of a brutal war film. 

Berger is clearly not pro-war. He presents the pointlessness of much of what goes on, and the arbitrariness of some decisions. When a ceasefire is signed, one of the German commanders whose entire life has revolved around fighting and war, sends his troops into battle fifteen minutes before the ceasefire is to take effect. His arrogant decision results in fatal consequences for the main characters. This commander asks the question--what is a soldier without a war? He is really talking about himself, about how he will have no identity if the war ends. But he is not the one fighting it, he is not the one in the trenches on the western front--his soldiers are, and they are dying like flies. Dead bodies are scattered on the battlefield and one soldier is assigned to go around and collect the dog tags after battle. After all, families must be informed that their heroic sons died serving Germany's interests. 

There is very little that is heroic about war, that much we know at this point in time. Most of us would agree that we should avoid war at all costs. The importance of diplomacy cannot be underestimated. But what happens when one of the warring parties does not want peace? What happens when that person is blinded by wanting to win, wanting to be the victor? That person will send his soldiers into battle with no thought of the consequences for them. They are just pawns on his chess board. That's the way it's been for centuries. And therein lies the problem. What do we do when one country invades another? What do we do when no amount of diplomacy helps, when no amount of diplomacy stops an aggressor? It's depressing to admit, but the world will always have wars as long as dictators and tyrants exist. Invaded countries have the right to defend themselves. Imagine if the USA had not gotten involved in WWII. What would the layout of Europe have looked like then?

It's staggering to read the death statistics of WWI and WWII. In WWI there were 10 million military dead and 7 million civilian deaths; in WWII over 60 million people died (World War I vs World War II - Difference and Comparison | Diffen). My husband and I visited Normandy and the D-Day beaches in the summer of 2016 (A New Yorker in Oslo: Visit to Normandy (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). What I remember most about the beaches was that the sand was reddish in color. A reminder of the bloodshed on those beaches. It made me think about all the men who lost their lives there, far from home. It was overwhelming emotionally to be there, but I'm glad I was there. Because it crystallizes the history--it makes it real. There is nothing glamorous about war. Blessed are the peacemakers indeed. There is a special place in hell (if it exists) for the invaders, the aggressors, the dictators, and the tyrants--all those who drag the rest of the world into war. May they suffer there forever. 

"It's not that I have something to hide.....I have nothing I want you to see."

Anon is a futuristic dystopic sci-fi film from 2018 (Anon (2018) - IMDb) where everyone has a digital signature that is available at all times on society's augmented reality grid. Individuals are tracked every minute of the day, every day, on government orders, rendering privacy and anonymity non-existent. The tracking is essentially done by others around you, and is accomplished via ocular implants that record everything individuals see in order to provide augmented-reality displays to them and others.  In other words, the implants overlay this recorded information onto real-life situations almost immediately. If you see a person on the street, the overlays let you see all the digital information that exists about that person because all that information from everyone's ocular implants has been uploaded to the grid. It's almost like having a search engine in your brain. This makes policemen's jobs easier, because they pretty much already know who the criminal is immediately after a crime has been committed or while it is being committed. Policemen can tap into the scene of the crime using coordinates and gather the information that is needed; in principle they don't even need to be present. In practice, they visit crime sites in order to gather forensic clues that confirm their case against perpetrators. 

But there is a person who is not on the digital grid, a tech-savvy young woman (The Girl/Anon, played by Amanda Seyfried) whose analog life makes her invisible to anyone looking for her. It turns out that she has cleverly disguised herself in the system using algorithms that 'disseminate' information about her. It is impossible to gather a complete picture of her or to get complete information about her. Those who pass her in the street register her presence but get no information about her. She is a glitch in the system, and that makes the detective (Sal Frieland, played by Clive Owen) who is working on a series of inexplicable serial murders, curious. The murders are committed from the murderer's perspective, not the victim's, and the victims' views don't provide any information about the killer. He passes The Girl one day on the street, and when he cannot retrieve information about her, it occurs to him that she may be the murderer for whom he is looking. I won't divulge the plot or provide any spoilers, since I thought the film was a pretty good (albeit a little confusing) sci-fi film. 

But at one point toward the end of the film, The Girl says to Sal, "It's not that I have something to hide.....I have nothing I want you to see." Think about that for a second. She wants privacy for privacy's sake. She wants to be anonymous to the system. She is not doing anything criminal, she just wants her life to remain untracked, to remain outside the digital universe. She wants to be free, to say and do things without worrying that she is being tracked and recorded at all times. Although this is a futuristic sci-fi film, it made me realize how far we have come toward creating this exact society, where all of us are digitally connected at all times. We do not lead anonymous lives, nor is there that much privacy left. For example, our cell phone use provides information about our whereabouts at all times as long as we have our phones with us and turned on, which most of us do. The Alexa devices in our homes listen to everything we say and record our conversations, unless we turn off the recording function (The creepy reason why you don't want to put Alexa in your bedroom | Fox News) and Amazon’s Alexa Never Stops Listening to You | Wirecutter (nytimes.com). If you ask me, the society of Anon has already arrived. It's just that our governments have not mandated that we be on the grid if we don't want to. But we already do most of our banking online, the use of paper money has declined drastically, likewise the writing of actual paper letters. We can order food, clothing, concert tickets, and plane tickets online and never have to leave our homes if we don't want to except to attend the actual events or take the actual trips. But if the day comes when governments mandate having a digital signature, freedom as we know it will disappear forever. But rest assured, some few tech-savvy people will find ways around the system. It would be the height of irony if we begin to pay large sums of money to such people in order to return us to an analog society. We may find that an analog society is preferable if the digital one we live in imprisons us by forcing us to have our digital signature available at all times. 

A daily reminder

 

News reporting and bottom feeders

I don't need a dose of daily news from any source. I can live my life fine without it. But it's impossible to escape the news. Wherever you turn, you are inundated with news from newspapers, tv, and social media, all ready and willing to keep you updated (and get you hooked). Even with the minimal amount of exposure to world news that I allow myself, I remain updated on what is going on. I'm part of the world around me after all. But I've learned to limit my intake of news; I had to, because otherwise it's overwhelmingly depressing to be inundated by it. And being depressed about the state of the world does nothing to help the problems in the world. 

I'm not even sure we can solve the problems in the world; there are too many. I think it's enough that we do our little part each day to be good people, to be kind and generous, to help others when they need help, to guide children in the best possible way, to create a future for them that is better than the present. To do unto others as we would have them do unto us. It really just comes down to that. My parents were good people who lived their lives in a simple, honest and unaffected way. They raised a family and did a good job. They were good citizens who loved their country despite its flaws. All countries have flaws. Our parents could not foresee the world we live in currently, but their good values and ethics were and are timeless, relevant in any generation. 

Those who produce and provide the news for us are like dogs with a bone. They get a hold of a news story and literally worry it to death. They hash and rehash it ad nauseam. If you hear it once, you hear it a hundred times a day if you are so inclined. I am not. The constant presentation of the same news story amounts to a kind of brainwashing in my book. I am not interested in being brainwashed. There has to be a less insane way of dealing with the world. It boggles the mind that people like Tucker Carlson are allowed to lead news programs, insisting that what they report is true when they have verbalized the opposite privately. I think of his insistence that Trump was cheated out of the presidency and his defense of Trump as the victim of election fraud when Carlson knew it was patently untrue. I hope his news channel has to pay out bigtime to Dominion Voting Systems (their $1.6 billion defamation lawsuit against Fox News). I have no use for these kinds of people. Bottom feeders. There seem to be so many bottom feeders now in the world, who have given in and given up their good values and ethics (did they ever have them). And we wonder why the world is in the mess it's in. 

Shoot the moon - Nederlands Dans Theater - Sol León & Paul Lightfoot

Another favorite--Shoot the Moon--by the NDT

Silent Screen - Sol León & Paul Lightfoot (NDT 1 | Scenic Route)

One of my favorite modern dance creations from my favorite modern dance company--the Netherlands Dance Theater (NDT). I was reminded of it tonight when I was at the Opera (Operaen.no) to see three different dance pieces--one classical ballet--Divertimento No.15--choreographed by George Balanchine, the other two experimental modern dance pieces--27' 52'' and Some Girls Don't Turn--choreographed by Jiri Kylian and Emma Portner respectively (Portner/Kylian/Balanchine - at Oslo Opera House (operaen.no). I enjoyed all three, but when it comes to experimental modern dance, my taste runs more toward NDT. 

A book recommendation for my Norwegian readers

I just purchased the following book recently, as I was looking for a book that described the bridges over the Akerselva river (my second favorite river after the Hudson River). As luck would have it, a couple of Sundays ago my husband and I stopped to drink coffee at Hønsa Lovisas cafe, and while we were waiting to be served, we took a look at the books on the small bookstand near the entrance. Akerselvas Bruer og Fosser (Akerselva's Bridges and Waterfalls) by Kjell Egil Sterten was one of them. I'm happy to support anything to do with local history, be it in Tarrytown NY where I grew up, or in Oslo where I live now. The author is a local historian and lecturer who clearly loves Oslo. You can buy it from different online bookstores; here are the links: 

Akerselvas bruer og fosser by Sterten, Kjell Egil. 9788230333198. Innbundet - 2016 | Haugenbok

Akerselvas bruer og fosser | Kjell Egil Sterten | ARK Bokhandel

The Gifts of a Garden

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

Generosity of spirit

I recently published the paperback version of my book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, and have been trying to promote it, along with another book that I published last May (The Gifts of A Garden). Both books are available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, among other online booksellers. 

Publishing a book is only the start of the huge job that looms ahead--marketing a book. Writing a book pales by comparison, although it is the most important job that the writer can do. But getting your book out there, getting it seen and read by others, that's important too. After all, writers write books that they hope people will read, even if the number of people who read them is small. What matters is that you've shared something you wanted to share, with others. There isn't always a huge audience for all books, nor should there be necessarily. But if no one sees your book at all, that can be frustrating and ultimately creates feelings of futility concerning writing. 

I've often written about the challenge of being creative and the internal tug-of-war between wanting to share the results and being afraid to do so. Sharing means exposing yourself not only to normal criticism (which is fine), but to destructive criticism on the part on internet trolls. There are so many of the latter whose sole aim is to tear down, not build up. But ultimately wanting to share wins out over the fear. Don't hide your light under a bushel basket, to paraphrase the biblical saying. I've interpreted this saying to mean that one should not hide one's creativity from others, if you truly have something to share. But goodness, kindness, and generosity can be substituted for creativity. If we are good people, we are asked to step up to the plate. And so it goes with talent as well. If God has given you a particular talent, make the most of it and share the results.

However, even if you haven't hidden your talent, even if you've spent a lot of time marketing your book on social media and personal websites, etc. it still isn't enough. You can't do the job completely alone. Authors need help from readers who liked an author's book and who post a positive comment about it on Amazon or Goodreads or social media. That happened to me recently--a rare and treasured experience of generosity of spirit on the part of a man I don't know who had read my book and who happens to be the moderator of a Facebook page about Tarrytown & Sleepy Hollow. I messaged him to ask if I could post a little notice on the page that I had published my book about Tarrytown, and he wrote back to say yes. So I posted it, and he followed up with a photo of the book's front cover and some amazing words about the book and about me. He wrote that 'Paula is too modest. She is a fabulous author and this book is great'. He also wrote 'Such great memories in your book'.

His generosity of spirit and his words made me happy. If only people truly understood how words can influence your feelings and thoughts, about yourself and others. I have some wonderful friends and loved ones who read my books; Jean, Trond, and Brendan (who passed away a few years ago) are/were my most faithful supporters and have read everything I've written. Knowing that they like my books has given me the motivation to keep writing over the past years. The praise from the Facebook moderator likewise gives me needed motivation to continue writing. 

I've often written about the world of academia and its lack of generosity of spirit. Very few people wish their colleagues well; that has been my experience at least. The competition for grant funding is fierce and those who 'win' are often ignored by those who 'lose'. I used to congratulate those who had gotten funding; after all, they did a good job and were recognized for it. In all my forty-odd years of research work, I've been congratulated perhaps twice when I got funding, once by someone who didn't think I was good enough to get funding, the other by a former boss. Among peers, almost never, and I have no idea why. I stopped caring after a while. It costs nothing to open your mouth to praise someone else and to wish him or her well. But that type of generosity of spirit is rare, at least in my experience.

More generally, how many times have you experienced wanting to share a small success or happiness, e.g. a particularly nice photo that you have taken, only to hear from the other person you showed it to that they have taken photos that are just as nice. They veer the conversation over to themselves or to something that they have done and for which they want praise. They don't want any attention focused on you. It's a spirit-crushing feeling when you realize that you are the recipient of envious and petty behavior. So I am grateful to those people in my life who have shown me that generosity of spirit when I have shared my creative pursuits with them. I am grateful for those who wish me well and who can celebrate the small successes that I occasionally experience without their feeling envious or resentful. I pay it forward and for the most part always have. I can say this much about myself; I am not afraid to let other people know that they've done a great job. So it's nice to hear from others when I've done a great job as well. 

The upsides and downsides of instant information

Another apt commentary on the state of the world and our addiction to cell phones from my favorite cartoonist--Stephan Pastis--and his menagerie of talking animals (and birds) in Pearls Before Swine. 

A Servant to Servants--a poem by Robert Frost

A Servant To Servants

I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine–
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
Cruel–it sounds. I ‘spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shan’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

Some thoughts on life, roads, gratitude, and faith

I was reading through some old Time magazines, specifically one from 2019, and came across a short article--a Quick Talk with Deepak Chopra, who was promoting his book Metahuman, Unleashing Your Infinite Potential. He talked about the importance of becoming 'metahuman' in order to make the world around us a better place, and defined 'metahuman' as 'connecting with our innate beings'. He included four questions that people can ask themselves in order to get started on the path toward becoming metahuman. They are as follows: 

1. Who am I?
2. What do I want from my life?
3. What is my purpose?
4. What am I grateful for?

I don't read this genre of literature anymore, at least not like I did when I was younger and thought that such books were written by people much wiser than I was (am). It's always tempting to think that there is a guru out there who can answer all of the questions that one might have concerning life and how to live it, especially when one is younger and hits a wall of sorrows that threaten to destroy one. But there isn't a cure-all for anything in life, and there is no guru to set us on the path of enlightenment. It is the journey that matters, after all, and you find that out when you get older. The road of life is difficult and we can only navigate it by living life with all its joys and sorrows. 'The only way out is through', as one wise person once said; the quote is attributed to Robert Frost, from his poem 'A Servant to Servants'. 

The four questions are worth asking ourselves every now and then, especially if we feel we have strayed from the paths we intuitively know we'd like to be on. We have to take stock every now and then and ask ourselves if what we are doing in life is what we ought to be doing. Is it good for us? Are we wasting time on things that give us nothing or have no real meaning? For example, are we glued to our screens many hours during the day, wasting time on social media that really doesn't make us or the world a better place. Do we want to take risks or make changes that would be good for us, but are too fearful to do so? 

One of the simplest ways to find our true paths again is to start by being grateful for something in our lives. That has helped me in tough times. There is always something for which we can be grateful. Just the fact that we have been given another day is a gift. I find that gratitude comes easier to me now, perhaps because I am older, but also because I know how difficult life is for some people in my life. They have sorrows in abundance. Yet they plod on. They have faith in God and that seems to help them. I don't purport to understand faith and how it strengthens people. I have faith but I also have dark times where I question it. I do know that it is a solace, albeit a mysterious one. But life gets simpler with each passing year. It's getting easier to say yes, to accept, to let go, to not argue or want to dissect or overanalyze. Perhaps that's one path that will put us in touch with our innate selves and strengthen our faith. Your will, not mine. There is a lot of power in that. I just never knew how much before. 

On writing and why I write

I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)? 

I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter. 

Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative. 

Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus. 

I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose. 

Interestingly, the existence of a  'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived. 

I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:

Confrontation            

Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me 
Talking frenetically the clocks toll

Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable

He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no

How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned

Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores

Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me

Uncover what it is that must be faced
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on

(from Quantum Bloom, published in 2014--Quantum Bloom: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781505211160: Amazon.com: Books) 

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Perhaps it isn't possible to fully know why a writer writes; the writer may not know either. That is part of the mystery of creativity. The results, when they are good, remain in the minds of the people who read the words that make up the fiction, non-fiction, dramas, and poetry collections that are cherished, often for generations.