Thank you for dropping by, especially after this has been dormant for so long.

I have migrated to a new site and will be retiring this account in the coming months.

Please visit

www.kevinsmoul.com
www.kevinmoul.com

for my new blog account and the slow evolution to a full fledged website.

www.tootallmoul.com will continue to be my focus (pardon the pun) site for photography

KSM

It was long abandoned and dead. Pushed to the back of the shelf, the palm sized digital camcorder had not been used in over a year. The tangle of wires promised a remedy, the charger and device had not been separated.

In search of refreshment, I stop halfway to the kitchen to observe my ten year old daughter. In a cartilage induced slump, she has flayed herself half on, half off the couch, her pony tail brushing the area rug.

“Bored” she said. Then her eyes came to rest on the natural wood chest that doubled as a side table. With a twist she flopped onto the floor and rose up onto her knees. Carefully picking up a pillar candle by its iron base, she continued with the wire basket of sparkling paper-mache apples until the hinged top was clear.

My journey to the refrigerator momentarily resumed before asking. “What are doing?”

“This used to be full of games, might be something to do.” She said. Her head already bowing into the cavity.

Reaching for the juice container, I am infused with a slight pang of guilt. I should offer to play with her.

Turning back from the fridge, she stood at the granite topped island that separates the kitchen from the great room. She looked at me and held up a rectangular wooden box. The contents clicked as she slid it onto the counter. “I am going to build one of those falling down things.” She then proceeded to unpack the box of dominos.

My thoughts drifted to just moments before. “When you’re done, let's video tape it.” The game had become a production and my daughter’s sense of showmanship ignited.

She finished building the domino fence long before the orange light stopped blinking to indicate a full battery charge. Impatience consumed another hour and the filming begun, complete with dramatic commentary and even a song.

Later that day the camera was pointed at one of our dogs during a run in the desert, the guinea pigs ‘popcorning’ (strange vertical jumps in their pen), and our cat’s lazy gaze. All of these simple domestic moments were captured onto the tiny video cassette. I was participating in a day in my family’s life.

The use of the video camera had an unexpected result. Looking through the tiny 3 x 4 lcd monitor, the gentle moments came into focus. In these days of stressful pre-occupation about the economy, difficulties in the workplace, friction with my children, family finances; I was aware of how much I have to be thankful for. All the other distracting and draining thoughts were momentarily off-frame where they belonged. Even behind the camera I was more engaged than I had been in months.

Only now, a week later as these thoughts tumble into a journal entry do I realize that the day I picked up the camera was US Thanksgiving.

As a Canadian living in the United States, I have always felt detached from this favorite American holiday. I admire the family focus it engenders but I recoil at the connection to shopping.

I often wonder about the salutation “Have a Happy Thanksgiving.” To give thanks is an outward gesture of compassion. It always feels more appropriate to wish “Have a happy holiday.”

The dominos splatter across the shiny granite surface, each pushing the next one down. The fallen henge silent as the camera moves in on my daughter’s smile.

Ultimately I found my own way to be thankful. Through the serendipity of closet, camera, daughter then family I give thanks and had a most Happy Thanksgiving.

“So what are your plans for the weekend?”

This is a polite and innocuous question that on Fridays relieves the need to talk about the weather. In the employee dining room of my employer, 200 diverse individuals come in waves at lunch time to congregate at communal tables. On this particular Friday, already a few mouthfuls into my salad I was more into my own thoughts than the repartee around me. I was about to respond “I need to get Gorman away from the village market and in front of Thederie to find out if either of them recognizes the other”. There would have been silence around the rectangular blue laminate tables and more than a few sideways glances -- this is not a group that knows about my writing pursuits. Out of context they might imagine me as a part time social worker.

The situation with Gorman and Thederie is a key plot point in a young adult novel that I am writing and it had been on my mind all week. I really don’t know how the scene is going to play out. This happens a lot. I become a spectator at the keyboard as my characters do what they are supposed to, somehow without my intervention.

In a different environment, for example at a communal table at a writing retreat or a conference my response would be understood. Writing is not my day job but it is never far from my thoughts. My characters poke at the psyche and occupy the gaps in my busy days. I do not outline but try and set goals that are like push pins on a road map. Natalie Goldberg in one of her books spoke of this technique. She was discussing the routine she used to write her novel Banana Rose. Natalie knew as she sat down with pen in hand that she had to get her character Nell to Denver (or something similar). I do most of my writing on weekends so perhaps I am less social on Fridays with a growing preoccupation of what the writing goal should be.

Natalie also recommends carefully planning a writing schedule, even if for only a short period. Make a commitment and show up. I block time to achieve four hours each week for writing practice and current projects. Saturdays are typically one of the blocks of time, sipping loose leaf tea while my daughter dances.

I find scarcity breeds a level of focus, give me a small block of time and I will light up the keyboard. Give me a full day and Monkey mind will have me doing everything but writing. For similar reasons, get me out of the house.

A while back I returned from a trip to Canada. Another very similar question was asked “What did you do on your trip?” For those that know of my ‘hobby’, I enthusiastically respond that I spent time writing in two of my favorite coffee houses. I had a sense of being in a great place and the accomplishment of writing for two hours at a round glass table at the Wired Monk in Crescent Beach BC, or reading the Red Ravine blog before writing at the Snug Café on Bowen Island. Writers enjoy very different landscapes when they travel.

So what are you going to do this weekend? Or tomorrow? Or when you travel? For the sake of clever conversation, there is always the weather, but look around with the pen or the keyboard, was it raining on you or your characters.

I am sitting in a Starbucks, cut from the same die as all of the others, but different.

The floor is wet with melting snow - stomped from boots, humid closeness, I can taste the wet wool. The chafing of nylon ski clothes mutes the house music. Beyond the steamed windows, in the diffuse afternoon light, the gray wash of sky makes the snow capped rooftops bright. It's a long way from my home in the Sonora desert. Whistler, British Columbia Canada.

I set out this morning to find a corner of a cafe to write. This is a very busy place on a wintry weekend. One of the signposts indicated that there is a library at the other end of the village. Certainly a practical choice but how could I explain that I went to a world class ski resort (even if the purpose was work related) only to go to a library. Such is the life of a writer, at least when he is not consumed by his day job. I do plan on experiencing this stunning landscape but not today - a bit too wet for me and my camera.

There is a scene in the movie 'Love Actually' (a favorite film of mine) where a young English bloke, not too clever, not too good looking, heads to the U.S. thinking he will be more attractive as a foreigner. As the world of movies would have it, he is befriended by 3 stunning young woman who ask him if he would like to stay with them, but there is a catch - they only have one bed.

To my right, pinned to the notice board is a wrinkled 8 1/2 x 11 sheet with a fuzzy black and white picture of two young women smiling. The caption reads, "2 in 1",2 persons, Swedish, No Home, Please let us be your roommate....Don't need much space, can even share a bed!...The sign offers no restrictions, eg: Gender, Non Smoking.....maybe the movie wasn't so wrong.

The lineup has grown and curls into this back section. Men stand with hands in pocket or with arms crossed. A few glance casually at the notice board. The younger males snicker and poke each other.

A man in his early 40's lets a smile drip onto his face as he reads about the 'desperate' situation of the Swedes. The woman beside him turns, the tap tightens and the drip, the smile, is cut off and vanishes. She scans the notice board, her reaction is altogether different. About to look at the man, the lineup shuffles forward - thankful the man reaches for his cash and the focus shifts to their coffee order. No difficult questions.

Excerpt from the recently finished short story "Open House"

The day after we met, Tara and I had come upon an artist market while searching for some breakfast. It was September on Cortes Island, we were both attending a workshop on meditation. It was early and our feet were soaked by a heavy dew in the tangle of grasses. While the artisans were in the midst of setting up Tara floated amongst the stalls fingering pieces of jewelry, pottery, and wooden carvings. She felt the density of the silver pieces and the cold of the metal. Her fingers explored the different textures of the rough un-glazed pottery. Her palms slowly rose and fell like a scale, measuring the weight of a carved block of wood. She was more of a tactile person than visual. She held everything, sensitive to texture, weight and form. Once out of her reach much was forgotten, including myself, as I would one day learn.

Just before we left the market, she had purchased a wooden bowl. Highly polished, carved from a block of a Maple. The swirls and imperfections of the wood’s grain pushed from beneath the thick lacquer, a Braille history of the tree. She held the bowl in the upturned palm of her hand, her fingers brushing and circling around the interior. She played it like a monk, turning the hammer of a meditation bell. Against her pale hand, the tones of the wood were dark.

Leaving the craft area, we chose a cafe further down the road. At the counter I paused and turned to her, raising an eyebrow. Modern day intimacy requires that the second thing you know about a person is how they take their coffee. I had no idea. We both had tea.
We sat outside at a cedar picnic table. In the moist coolness the steam rising from our cups quickly dissipated. In search of warmth I wrapped my fingers around the paper cup; we had asked for mugs. “I hate that word disposable,” she said lifting the paper cup to eye level between us. “This concept of throwing something away, when all it really means is somewhere else.”

N. Scott Momaday’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, House Made of Dawn includes the line “a druidic procession”. These were not words that I expected to see in this poetically written and at times brutally violent prose of Native Indian culture. Momaday creates stunning imagery that ground the story in all the landscapes: physical, social, and imaginary. But Druidic? The words stayed with me.

In a recent writing group, after we had finished discussing House Made of Dawn, we were tossing different topics around for a free form timed writing practice (see earlier entry for a broader discussion on how this works). Everyone went silent when I offered ‘Druidic Procession’. It was different and our group leader seized the pause to say, let’s write.

Here is what I came up with during the 15 minute exercise during that week in Taos, NM.

When we walk as a group in meditation, single file, stepping in near unison over the flagstone and amongst the tangled roadway grasses, I wonder if the casual observer would take us more seriously if we wore matching black robes with giant hoods. Instead we slip by in shorts, cargo pants and sun dresses. The dust shows imprints of flip flops, sandals, running shoes and loafers: Sperry, Birkenstock, Teva, Nike, Prada and Crocs.


Not that being taken seriously is important to us. I personally knew much ridicule when I was younger. Cloaks and robes, the raiment of Priests and nobleman fascinated me. In particular the enigma of a shrouded face when hidden behind a mask of shadows. The face can peer out without giving away any secrets. I was surrounded by these images in the books of King Arthur, Merlin, or Tolkein’s Gandalf. I desperately wanted to be more than an awkward 6’, 125lb character more likely to be cast as the bean stalk for Jack. I needed mystery.

My brother had this giant army surplus coat that could be combined with a hooded black sweatshirt. A wardrobe staple of most kids, the kind of with a swim team logo on the back and white strings that if you pulled tight enough, would pucker your face with just the nose and the upper lip poking out. When these two items came together with a vivid imagination my costume was complete. I would stand like a gargoyle along the walls of imaginary stone buildings, or bow my head and walk in a slow druidic procession.

To anyone watching, it was a ridiculous sight. My older brothers would shine daylight onto my charade. Where was magic when I needed it most!

So now I walk in shorts and a t-shirt, feeling the balls of my feet press against the still warm and carefully swept flagstone. I feel the smooth hardwood floor while my eyes trace the intricate patterns in the wood. Together with my fellow writers we don’t need a hood or require a false sense of mystery, calming our minds is adventure enough. Each day as we come together to sit, walk then write, we will take our own procession through this sacred place. The sagebrush and adobe our henge, and anyone watching will feel connected with our footfalls as we pass by.

Natalie Goldberg leads a walking meditation in Taos New Mexico

Last night I had trouble sleeping, eventually rising to read, filling a glass of ice water before settling into the green striped wingback chair in my small second floor home office.

Taking a short break from novels and memoirs, I am working through some magazines that have accumulated in a pile behind the chair: Writers Digest, Photolife, American Poet, Tricycle Buddhist Review, and on the recommendation of a writing teacher, my most recent subscription, Poets and Writers. The March/April 2007 issue is the first that I have cracked open. About 1/3 of the way into the magazine I am being reminded how much more I need to read. The magazine provides in depth profiles of authors. On Page 52, a profile by Frank Bures on writer Tom Bissell quotes another author Philip Caputo: “anyone who wants to become a writer will not become a writer. The only people who become writers, are those who have to. You almost cannot do anything else”

While the sentiment in this quote is not completely original – what is important is how it resonated. In the 24 hours since I read that line, the question it raises has never been far from me. Do I need to write, or am I caught up in the perception of wanting to write?

Sitting an outdoor café this morning, I commented to a friend that I had not slept well the night before. She probed if there was something on my mind and I answered truthfully that I didn’t think that was it. I continued to say that perhaps it was just that I was supposed to be up at that hour. In the silence after midnight, beneath a single floor lamp, with only the muted bumps of the dogs shifting outside my closed door, I was meant to read those words, to be pushed by them to pick up the pen with a new level of intensity.

In Buddhism we speak of Karma, and the ripening of Karmic seeds. Karma is action, we are the result the choices we make. At the exact moment that I read that passage, there was a convergence of a receptive mind, the cocoon of a silent house, and an active need to make a commitment. Had I read the profile any other time, I am unsure if the quote would have challenged me?

In a similar way, the choice to go out this morning put me at that sidewalk café, at that little wobbly round table, still thinking about the quote. I wanted to ask my friend if there was something that she felt a deep seeded need to do. A segue to vocalizing my own answer.

Instead I enjoyed the silence as we finished our oatmeal dusted bagel, comfortable without the need to talk. All the while my internal monologue renewing a belief that it is not just our actions, but our thoughts as well that create our karma. Looking beyond our table, a young grill chef with a starched white apron placed pink carved slices of chicken and carefully formed beef patties onto a wire grill. Across from us an older man slid a paper grocery bag to the side of his table to make room for his newspaper. His care with the bag suggested anticipation of its contents. People with diverse agendas slid by, cars like pistons moved in and out of the their spaces, all here at this moment to bear witness to the unspoken energy of my commitment to keep writing.