The Epiphanies Hit Me At Walmart, I am Afraid
A Creative Blackout Installment
The fantastic is right in front of you
In my first installment, I wrote about how we need to mute the virtual noise so we could hear and see the inspiration right in front of us, like when we’re driving and suddenly we’re lost, so we turn down the Waylon Jennings’ song blaring through the speakers so we can see better. (I can almost guarantee that I have your paw paw’s taste in music.)
Turning down the outside noise clears the path to seeing the fantastic right in front of us because it’s astounding how little we actually pay attention.
I’ve long thought that if asked to be a witness in a court case, I’d be the least reliable witness there’s ever been.
“What color was the man’s hat, ma’am?”
“Red? Maybe blue?”
“How tall?”
“Medium-short to tall, probably.”
And just like that, a killer goes free.
You’d think that as a poet paying attention would be easier, but it’s not. The fortitude it takes my brain to slow down and focus after years of screen abuse and short form media is ridiculous and it doesn’t happen as often as I’d like. When I am able pay attention, I’m generally locked in, but man, does it take a while to actually focus on what’s in front of these eyeballs long enough to let my eyes talk to my brain and then catch up with my heart. The three are not always the best communicators, but when they link up…watch out.
Liminal spaces, the in-between kind of places where no one necessarily wants to be but we all find ourselves, are great for this exercise. It’s easy to see the beauty in a field of wildflowers or in the shine of a baby’s eyes. It’s significantly harder to find something breathtaking in the ceiling tiles of your dentist’s office.
My daughter recently started physical therapy to gain strength to support the hypermobility of her joints. After a mix up on my end, I arrived early to pick her up, and I sat in the brightly colored chairs to wait. Desperately trying not to stare into my phone every second my brain is unoccupied, I forced myself to examine the turquoise and navy rug that covered the waiting room floor. Surprisingly, the rug was intricately woven, each strand looped several times, pulling into itself a wonderful mix of blues and greens that reminded me of a certain stretch of beach where I skinny dipped in the Gulf. (If you’re curious, I wrote about this in my book.)
No one was more surprised than I was when the rug at the physical therapists’ office made me well up a bit. (I should clarify, I am most definitely prone to tears, but even I knew this was ridiculous.)
Am I expecting you to sob over carpet?
No.
I am, in spite of the evidence to the contrary, not as unrealistic or insane as I sound, but I do want to inspire a deeper sense of the fantastic right in front of you.
Worlds completely unlike our own open a window into knowledge and personalities
Joy Sullivan, generally amazing woman and fantastic poet, does a series on her Substack Necessary Salt where she forces herself to do something uncomfortable and unexpected. With titles like “Woman in a Rage Room” and “Woman at the Jello-Wrestling Party” it’s an adventure with every new installment. The point is she goes out of her comfort zone to challenge herself to see things differently.
I live in north Georgia, and if I had to bet, Jello-wrestling parties are probably more common in Portland where she lives than near my small town, but that’s not to say that I couldn’t challenge myself to do something uncomfortable in order to get to know new personalities and learn from them.
There are more opportunities than you think to branch out. My town offers a Zumba class in the park on Saturday mornings. There are in-person book clubs that I’ve seen advertised in my county’s Facebook group. Most churches have several ways to connect with new people. There are certainly tamer ways than slipping and sliding in cherry-flavored gelatin with strangers to learn something new, but imagine the part of yourself you’d unlock once you did.
Being uncomfortable, scaring yourself with something new, is a wonderful way to learn about different people, not just about yourself. I am currently scaring myself by teaching a blackout poetry workshop in Jasper later this month. Even though I’ve been asked about doing this several times by multiple people, I still find myself questioning if anyone cares about it at all. I don’t know why I see these snippets of thoughts hiding in someone else’s words, but I’m excited to share it with other people.
I’ve taught other things before, but this is a new experience and I’m learning as I go. I made myself reach out to several studios and shops, hoping someone would see the value in this idea and work with me to make it happen. I’m excited to say that the outcome and the friendship I’ve found in this process was worth the awkwardness of putting myself out there. When this workshop is over, I know I’ll have learned something new about myself and the fellow artists that attend. (If you attend, you are an artist. You don’t have to feel like an artist beforehand, I promise.)
I would like to say that my epiphanies occur to me where the air smells of tall pine, but the truth is the insights hit me at Walmart, I am afraid
When I was in my Introduction to KSU class in college, one of our final assignments was to dress as what we wanted to be after we graduated. My plan has always been to write in some way, shape, or form, so I, embarrassingly, showed up in a tweed overcoat with leather patches on the elbows and a pipe, like I was the ghost of Walt Whitman. Why I thought I needed to smoke a pipe and dress like a man in order to show I was going to be a writer just shows how deep the stereotype of the male writer goes into our collective psyche. It would be a year or two before I realized how ridiculous that was.
So, no, I am not like the old man writers of our high school English syllabus who had the chance to take long luxurious walks through the piney woods while I ponder my next big idea. (Although I would love that, so please send me your best time management tips.) I barely have time to make the grocery list or sit down for lunch some days. Even now, when I go to write, I end up with just enough time to shuffle my papers around, re-read yesterday’s sentence, and write another single sentence before I’m called into an argument about LEGO animals or I have to hose off the porch because the dog threw up in front of the door.
Parenthood is as glamorous as advertised.
Sometimes inspiration has to strike at Walmart or the gas station or the pickup line at your kid’s school because our days are often too busy for anything else. Our daily responsibilities coupled with our inability to focus in our precious downtime leave inspiration floating around the periphery of the self-checkout at Target, when we see ourselves in the security video and realize just how close we are to the hag instead of the maiden of our youth.
Fortunately (unfortunately?), I got a poem out of that humbling experience.
Long gone are the days where writers and artists had a cabin in the woods to squirrel away in while we typed a bestseller or painted our next gallery piece. Did those days even actually exist? Maybe that kind of wishful thinking was always a dream. Even the beloved Thoreau’s mom came by Walden Pond to pick up his laundry. We don’t exist in a vacuum, and neither does our inspiration.
It all comes down to the fantastic in front of us, the people we meet, and paying attention to where inspiration shows up.
Besides, where else will you find a better reason to write a poem than in front of that kiosk where they keep the rotisserie chickens? What a marvelous world we live in where we can just buy a chicken and eat it in the parking lot.
What a dang gift this life is.
Love,
Your local hag and parking lot rotisserie chicken connoisseur,
Tristan
P.S. If you’re interested in my blackout workshop, here’s the information!