Real Joe

We had my mother come to our house for dinner last week, prior to her attending a talent show hosted by the Northfield Youth Choirs in which my daughter has sung for many years.

Her visit was yet another sign that the family therapy (me, my wife, her) is progressing nicely. We’ve got a few issues yet to deal with, both around my dad’s death, and her revelation to us that he’d beaten her up at least ten times over the course of their marriage — the first on the way home from their honeymoon, the last approximately six months before he died. She took a photo of her bruises after the latter and wants to show it to me. I’m not afraid to see it but I’ve declined thus far because her initial motivation seemed to be to just make me feel bad for neglecting her all these years while trying to establish a relationship with him.

After some chiding and prompting from the therapist, I told her that nobody deserves to be hit and live with the daily fear of being hit, and that I felt sad for what she went through with him for 50+ years. Hearing that, she sobbed hard. Later, she indicated she was going to initiate seeing the therapist on her own.

It’s definitely weird to find myself being interested in getting to know my mother better as a person. And to consider letting her “mother” me at times.

Here’s a scene I wrote for my writing class, based on therapy session #2 a few months ago. The assignment was “Rendering character” in which we were to “write and copy-off a fully developed scene where character just bleeds through the page… Prompts: describe your character by showing the character doing something; make a few statements about your character, show us your character through clothing styles and dress, possessions; put your description in motion.”

My mother sits down in the chair clutching her purse. “And how are YOU Carol?” she says to the therapist, leaning forward in the chair and crossing her legs.

Taut neck muscles and swolen bags under her eyes offset the vestiges of her youthful beauty — petite body frame, high cheekbones, dyed dark blond hair, smooth complexion.

“Oh, I found these same adorable robot characters of yours at the Guthrie Theater gift shop and I decided to take my daughter-in-law’s advice and buy them for my three grandsons,” she says in her sing-songy voice. She tilts her head and flashes her eyelashes at my wife.

“So what’s happened since we met last month?” Carol asks.

My mother slides back in her chair and turns her body away from my wife and me. She picks some lint off her sweater, looks down at the floor and says, “Very little as far as I’m concerned.” She shoots a wide-eyed look at me, jaw thrust forward, lips pursed, her left leg swinging rapidly now in concert with her drumming fingernails.

I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do — the actual act of writing — turns out to be the best part. It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward. - Anne Lamott

I hope to eventually get some of my essays published, of course, but I’m trying not to focus on it. Maybe I’ll adapt Larry Brilliant’s quote to read:

“You’re entitled to the joy of writing, you’re just not entitled to the results.”

I’m glad I’m taking this creative non-fiction writing class. Weekly homework, reading assignments, class discussion, critiquing each other’s work, the whole bit. It’s like school should’ve been the first time around. I probably could learn much of this stuff on my own, working with a writing instructor privately, but the structure of a weekly class and assignments makes it easier to stay on task. And critiquing other people’s writing actually does help me learn… something I initially doubted.

I presented draft three of the “Why Women Don’t Want Sex with Us” essay two weeks ago. I was strangely not nervous when it came time to read it out loud. Maybe it’s because I’m not worried about performing to impress — my usual problem. I know much of my stuff sucks but I’m confident in my ability to learn. I’m an enthused novice. And already, it’s making writing more enjoyable.

I’m a sponge, soaking up the criticism which is making so much sense to me. I’m just jazzed up about learning the craft. I’m also a bit amused at my ignorance and arrogance. I should have done this long ago, but for some reason, I just had it in my head that I could write well enough and hiring someone to lightly edit the essays after I was done with them was enough. Now that I know a little more, I can see that I don’t know shit from shinola. Ah, the hubris. But amusement seems a more helpful reaction than self-doubt, which several other people in the class are struggling with.

I’m having trouble keeping up with my Real Joe blogging, though, and I’m not sure what to do about it, other than to report it here. I thought about posting my writing class notes and homework assignments but that’s not exactly what people read Real Joe for. I’ll do it if it’s an assignment that meshes closely with what Real Joe is about. But otherwise, expect less quantity over the next two months. And hopefully, higher quality after that.

I spent about 9 hours with Kent Nerburn and his family on Monday. (Details to come.) But since I had to get back to St. Paul on Tuesday morning, I left Bemidji at about 9:30 PM and drove an hour/slept an hour all night long. I didn’t get back to Northfield till mid-afternoon and by then, I started coming down with a cold… typical for me when I get overly tired. I’ve been wasted since, working just enough to get stuff done for clients. Hope to get back up to speed this weekend.

I’m at the Uptown Cafe in Bemidji, collecting my thoughts before I meet with Kent Nerburn in about an hour.

On the drive up here, I’ve kept trying to answer the question that he might ask me. “Why are you here?” He probably won’t be that blunt, but it’s got to be on his mind. Maybe versions of it, too: What are you selling? What do you want from me?

I can’t always be sure of my motivations, but it’s a combination of things: wanting to get to know better the guy whose books have influenced me and were the initial seeds for Real Joe. I’m not sure why that’s important to me. I really don’t think I’m into celebrity-chasing. I guess I want him to keep influencing me, both for his spiritual writing and his profession as a writer. The former’s important to me as a man and as founder of Real Joe. I want his writings that make sense to me to have continued reverberations through Real Joe. The latter’s important because I’m trying to upgrade my skills as a writer and I figure it’s good to get to know more people who do it for a living. Something he wrote in Letters to My Son was that you tend to become what you do for a living. When he was a taxi driver, he found himself taking on the worldview of taxi drivers. He hung out with taxi drivers, behaved like them, talked like them.

Time to go. Maybe time for a quick prayer. Help me learn, keep my ego in check, see the possibilities, both for Real Joe and for him. And a prayer of gratitude, too. I’m lucky to be here, to be having this experience.

I’m online from the Amazing Grace coffeehouse and bakery in Canal Park in Duluth. Normally I use Browser’s Internet Cafe to get online when I’m in Duluth but they don’t open till 9 on Sundays. The ancient Acer PC here at Amazing Grace has never worked when I’ve been here, but today it is. And it’s free to use, too.

It’s about 30 degrees now, with a stiff wind. But it’s sunny and should be a decent day for day two of the trial at Spirit Mountain. We’re riding the same area where we hosted the USA World Round in June.

Yesterday’s event was extremely muddy as it rained a couple of inches the night before. I generally ride well in mud and finished 4th out of 12 in the Expert class. I’m happy with that but with a little more concentration… ahh, there I go again.

I wrenched my shoulder (rotator cuff) on the final section of the day, so it’s an Ibuprofen morning. Not sure if I’ll have enough yanking power to make it through today’s event, but no matter. I’m lucky to be here. And grateful to US Montesa importer Martin Belair for loaning me a ‘99 Montesa Cota 315R for the season… and for the extra bed in his hotel room last night. I’d planned to camp, and that would’ve been miserable since all my gear was wet and muddy and wouldn’t have dried out for today.

Kent emailed me directions to his house for tomorrow. Turns out that Mapquest was about a mile off. I checked Yahoo’s maps and they’re off, too. Ah well, not too bad for the deep woods of northern Minnesota.

I’m heading to Duluth today for a two-day trial, then to Bemidji on Monday to spend some time with Kent Nerburn. I may be able to get online from Duluth on Sunday evening or Monday morning.

We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world. - Helen Keller

And I would never learn to be a better husband if there were only joy in my marriage. AFOG time.

It was two years ago this month that my wife had her acoustic neuroma (non-cancerous brain tumor) radiated in Rhode Island. The last time she had an MRI, the tumor had shrunk slightly and appeared to be dying. But a preliminary reading of last week’s follow-up MRI indicates that the tumor’s now significantly larger than 6 months ago.

It doesn’t make sense to her, since the facial symptoms (numbness, tingling) have not increased. So she’s having the MRI sent to the surgeon in RI who’ll see if he concurs. But it’s worrisome. We know that the success rate for first-time radiation on this type of tumor is 75%. She may end having to go back there for another round.

I wonder what life’s got in store for us? And I pray that we make the best of whatever happens.

A second reading of Tuesday’s post on romance prompted my wife to elaborate. It wasn’t just the hours we spent walking in the woods, eating dinner at a new restaurant, and watching a movie that put her in a romantic mood, she contends.

“You went grocery shopping with me and participated in buying things instead of reading motorcycle magazines at the store’s magazine rack. And at the video store, we picked out movies together. Usually, you wander around on your own and only get involved when it comes to weeding out my choices.”

Oh.

See, I’m a thoughtful guy.