Writing

Finding Inspiration in Nabokov

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

So there’s not really any secret in me saying that I’ve been floundering for words lately. I’ve been uninspired, depressed, and basically just loafing around my apartment doing a lot of nothing. I’ve spent a decent amount of time and money crocheting so I can feel like I’ve accomplished something after spending the finding what Jon Stewart has to say about the Pope’s twitter.  Because apparently a scarf added to my pile will make me feel good about not reading or writing anything worthwhile in weeks. I was wrong. Completely wrong.

I don’t know that I blamed my lack of inspiration on anything. I didn’t think about it. My writer’s block was just there, weighing down on me, every time I climbed into bed after yet another day of doing nothing. I thought I needed something to jumpstart it. I hadn’t gone out since Halloween, and I figured a good night of drinking, meeting new people, and feeling fun, charming, and fabulous would make me feel better. So last weekend I told Andrea that I needed to go out once she was done with finals.

Well, we went out last night. I hosted a small Christmas party with a few of my friends. We drank sangria and ate some pretty decent food, some of which I was able to have for breakfast this morning. The menu was surprisingly satisfying, so good that I have to share: ever-classy mini wieners in crescent rolls, gala apple slices with prosciutto, and an apricot-almond cheese, blackberries, nutella and sea salt fudge, jordan almonds, chips with pineapple and peach salsa, mini pastries, honey-drizzled cheese with apples and crackers, and holiday sangria (white wine, sparkling apple wine, orange slices, cranberries, and crushed mint). By the time Andrea and I got out, it was around midnight, so we just went to Jekyll’s – a bar that has a reputation for being a hipster bar.

I realized I was surrounded by people far cooler than me – guys in studded jackets who could name 50 Descendents songs at the drop of a hat, svelte girls with pixie haircuts and dangly earrings, and about 40 pairs of ironic glasses. As impressed as they would be, I decided not to disclose the fact that I know the words to most of Taylor Swift’s songs. I made myself feel better by reminding myself that there’s a slim chance any of them have a 401k.

I had imagined the night to be similar to my last nights out – all-out benders that force me to spend the next day in recovery. Because I figure that’s a good relationship to have with alcohol – binge-drinking once every few months.  I just thought I needed a night that allowed me to feel outside of myself since I’ve spent so much time stuck in my head, not allowing it to get out via socializing or writing – the two things that help me most when I go through a depressive period.

Andrea and I ended up leaving around 1:30 and talking and eating cheese and apples till 3am. That ended up being what helped most – it was a reminder that I can, in fact, be honest and open with another person, and that I don’t need to have four drinks and witty quips with unfamiliar faces to feel like my night was a success

When I walked Andrea to to the door, I saw my stack of Nabokov on my shelf and decided I needed to spend the next day with a good book. I needed a paper book too – not my Kindle with its distractions of Pinterest and Facebook. At that moment, I was glad that I finished the night chewing the cherry of a whiskey old fashioned and not chugging five glasses of water in hopes of re-hydration to thwart a hangover.

Gods With my depression gone, I needed to do something about my lack of inspiration, so I pulled out my volume of Nabokov stories and decided to reread my blog’s namesake story – Gods. I honestly think it was the best thing I could do for myself. This post would probably be more apropos for my 100th post (this will be my 95th), but I’m not one to prolong satisfaction. I hadn’t read the story for a few years, but I remember it being a core-shaking story. I remember the language being exquisite in an expressly Nabokovian way.  I remember being moved by the passage I share in my “About” section. But what I didn’t recall was how the story just explodes with color and emotion.

You can read the story in its entirety here, but I recommend reading it in a floppy bible-thick paperback. The story is essentially about a couple – the male trying desperately to comfort his wife over the death of their son while they make their way to the cemetery to visit the grave. He tells her a fable of a hen that was placed in an air balloon contraption, soaring in a gondola by the sunset, and landing in a field, later found by a peasant beneath a heap of silk, having produced golden eggs from the colors of the sunset. Nabokov describes this more beautifully than I ever could: “And no wonder. At the wind’s mercy, the hen had traversed the entire flush of the sunset, and the sun, a fiery cock with a crimson crest, had done some fluttering over her.”

The story is absolutely exquisite. I don’t know how else to describe it. I literally found myself in tears reading the last page. I can’t remember the last time a story affected me so strongly. It should be required reading,

My heart, too, has soared through the dawn. You and I shall have a new, golden son, a creation of your tears and my fables. Today I understood the beauty of intersecting wires in the sky, and the hazy mosaic  of factory chimneys, and this rusty tin with its inside-out, semi-detached, serrated lid. The wan grasses hurries, hurries somewhere along the dusty billows of the vacant lot. I raise my arms. The sunlight glides across my skin. My skin is covered with  multicolored sparkles. 

And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: 

“O rainbow-colored gods…”

While I was reading this, I was texting my friend Logan, telling him he needed to read more Nabokov. He texted “I am sitting at a coffee shop trying to be productive but instead I am fucking off and remembering the awesomeness of living.”

And that’s exactly what this story does to me. It describes life in such an intensely sensual way that it’s impossible not to feel compelled to live. And not just live – but to live beautifully. I can’t handle another second of feeling sorry for myself for no reason, because seriously – I’m alive and the world is incredible. The day beyond my patio door looks dim and dreary, but I know that life is flourishing. I know that everything is blooming.  Everything is flying. Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running. Let-down hair. That is all there is to life. 

BlogHer ’13

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

So, I’m just kind of throwing things out here right now. Maybe it’s because I’m out of it, or maybe it’s because I’m leaning so far back on my couch that I might as well be lying down, but whatever. I’m in a sort of ridiculous planning mode. By that I mean, that I’m thinking of all these things I want to do and not seriously considering how to get them done.

For instance, I’ve been wanting to organize my room for the last week or so. It made sense that it was a bit unorganized last week, what with working 60 hours and all. But it’s Tuesday and I’m rolling into another week with three pairs of boots in front of my closet, today’s jeans, yesterday’s tights, and half of tonight’s pajamas on the floor. Will I eventually clean them up? Yes. Probably on Friday night, because that’s what my life has become: WORK work WORK work WORK work CLEAN CLEAN drink drink drink RECOVER sleep FIVE HOURS OF GLEE heat up soup for dinner, repeat. It’s pretty amazing.

But here I’m planning the next year or so of my life. Loosely, of course. My quartet starts our Christmas gig this weekend (Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker music played at least 10 times each Saturday night and Sunday afternoon) – that will run until January. Then I’ll have a major implementation (doesn’t that sound important?!) taking over my life as the year ends. After working a ton, I’ll be taking a vacation in March – some place warm with tropical drinks just a pretentious flick of the finger away. The most recent addition to my plan is the BlogHer convention in July. That’s about as far as I’m looking tonight.

I’ve never been to a convention of any kind, but I figure it will be a great way to jumpstart and motivate me.  Also, it would be refreshing to turn the screen-socializing to actual socializing, right? Anyway, right now there is a discounted rate for bloggers that runs until the end of the year. The whole reason I’m writing this is that if you blog, you should go.

So hey – blogging friends: Meet me in Chicago July 25-27 at BlogHer ’13!

[excuse the random photo of wine and perfume. it seemed to capture the essence of my blogging. or something]

I used to be a nostalgic person.

/ Ashley / 8 Comments

Good god. I love that sentence. For more reasons than one.

It just a few years ago when I furiously scribbled in a notebook about how special I felt the night I wore a swirly boatneck tank and Eric told me, breathless, “You look amazing.” For years, I hung onto a piece of torn neon green paper to remember when Jon taught me to play cribbage while we drank mint juleps at the rented cottage. My heart gets a little sore whenever I listen to disco, because I remember the nights I spent dancing and kissing Bill between sets.

I feel like I’m not investing as deeply into my life right now. Maybe it’s because I’m not forging memories with somebody right now. Maybe it’s because for the first time in my adult life, I’m doing this all on my own. At the moment, I have no perspective on my immediate life, not that it’s possible anyway. But even back when Eric and I lied on our stomachs, watching the rain in the streetlights, I knew I was experiencing a moment I would remember forever. I don’t ache to solidify moments anymore.

My moments are an endless series of facades – like I’m just passing by it all. Life has turned into a collection of muted repeats – the same drive to work, the same cubicle, the same empty bed at night. Weekends offer a bit of variation, giving me glimpses of striking honesty and glee with my friends. Where are the moments that I’ll be able to look back five years from now and tell what temperature it was, what song was playing, how my mouth tasted, or what sounds were echoing off the streets?

I think this is part of growing up. Though the moments I described above happened in the same order, the vividness of the memories is reversed. It was late evening and Eric’s bedroom was filled with this cool amber light. He rarely turned a fan on because he said it made it warmer, so my face was damp with perspiration. The neighbors across the street were talking loudly, but it all seemed to fade out when he looked at me that way. Later that night, Eric would give me a copy of Wuthering Heights and we’d spend twenty minutes saying goodbye, stopping to kiss on the stairs, in the dining room, in the living room, and on the porch.

I know that Jon crushed the mint leaves and the whiskey made me shudder. The windows were open and the air was steady with the hum of boat motors. His breath smelt lightly of cigarette smoke as he jotted notes on the piece of paper he had found in a drawer. We went to bed early, he played sudoku while I read a book – Anna Karenina, I think. The next morning, he brought me coffee and we ate powdered donuts and did a few games of sudoku in bed before we went on a hike.

Bill is different. He played so many gigs that most of them blend into one. I would either go to the bar with him to set up, or I’d go later on, joining a friend on the dance floor. I liked to watch him play – he always seemed so focused on the music that I was surprised when he would catch my eye and grin. At the end of the set, he would walk over to wherever I was sitting and give me a hug that stunk lightly of sweat, polyester, and the Dolce & Gabanna cologne we picked out together. I remember feeling this strange sensation – a mix of excitement, affection, and pride – when he came over. I felt most at home when his arm was around me, but my favorite part of the night was after we had loaded his drums into my car, when we finally slipped into my twin-sized bed, our bodies laced together, and slept until 11 the next morning.

The memories are all still there and to illustrate them, I obviously have to fabricate some details, but it’s easiest with Eric and hardest with Bill. Maybe it was the length of the relationships – it’s harder to process two years than three months. Maybe my my brain chemistry was different at 18 than at 23. Maybe it’s self-preservation; I’ve become hardened and have subconsciously decided that shallow memories will hurt less than visceral ones.

I think romance just lends itself to nostalgia. While I’m actually very happy to be writing two nights in a row, it doesn’t make for a very memorable night. Maybe someday I’ll hear an Alison Krauss song and remember when I lit candles and popped off the cap of a hard cider before opening my laptop. And maybe I’ll be filled with a warm contentedness when I remember my apartment smelling like a late autumn rain and a peppermint candle.

For now though, this dreary weather and melancholy music just makes me think of times before. Not in a way that makes me depressed, mind you. I’m appreciative. I’m glad to have such charming moments to recall.

H8rs gon h8.

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

Today something great happened.

I got my first hater.

I was sitting at my desk when the green notification light on my phone started blinking. I finished up a small project before I checked it. Two new emails, 5 texts, and new interactions on Twitter. The emails were from WordPress, informing me of new subscriptions. The texts were from Twitter and a couple friends. Twitter told me of retweets (“Hey bed: I’m gonna sleep on you so hard tonight.”) and one mention.

The mention was simple. Thirty-six characters meant to express a single thought:

My words are stupid.

I was excited. I’ve had a lot of nice feedback about my blog (“It’s so funny!” “I love reading it!” “It’s on my quick links on my browser!”), but nobody has dissed it. While I’d love to think that everyone who reads this thinks I’m the next voice of America, I’m also aware of reality. In reality, I probably appeal to a small segment of the population: those people who are interested in the mildly entertaining thoughts of a twenty-something girl who lives in Wisconsin. I’m not writing to please everyone. To be honest, I write to entertain myself. If other people like it, that’s a bonus. I don’t say this to be a jerk. I say it because if I tried to please everyone (or even just one other person), I’d never be able to share anything.

I don’t write a political blog. I don’t write reviews. I don’t share recipes or crafts. I don’t give beauty advice. I write about growing up – and I don’t even give advice on that. I express expertise in nothing other than displaying my lack of perfection. I write a personal blog and I don’t claim to be anything more.

But this is beside the point, because he didn’t insult my blog. He insulted my Twitter feed. Which is sort of hilarious. It’s Twitter. I have 140 characters to express thoughts. I’m aware that Twitter can be an amazing social tool. It has the capability of connecting people from all over the world like a gigantic cocktail party with 8 million conversations – all of which are begging to be interrupted. Some of these conversations are highbrow and topical. You know like the ones that begin: “Hey bed: I’m gonna sleep on you so hard tonight.”

I’ve never understood why a person would insult someone on the internet. Maybe they just want to take advantage of the internet’s convenient veil of anonymity.

I’m at an interesting point with  my presence on the internet. It’s small – mostly friends and family on Facebook, a few hundred readers on WordPress, and less than 200 followers on Twitter. But I’m owning up to it. A year ago, I was a bit bashful and almost embarrassed to say I have a blog. Now, it’s one of those things I do. I’m not in the business of changing minds. If someone thinks blogging is weird or dorky, I’ll let them continue thinking that. I just know that I’ve found it to be a very rewarding and exciting experience.

The beauty of social networking is that you can make it whatever you like. I suppose I could use my Facebook, Twitter, and blog to educate, but I don’t. I use them to make jokes.

Also, to share the creepy picture I set for my desktop at work.

Anyway, I appreciate the hater. It gives me the chance to be self righteous about my self-indulgence. I don’t get a chance to do that very often.

I have already settled it for myself so flattery and criticism go down the same drain and I am quite free. – Georgia O’Keeffe