Good morning. I accidentally sent an email earlier this week, which is just as well. I’ve been away and still am reeling from the travel and the backlog. I technically was on vacation, visiting my daughter in Washington State, but I still did some writing. I worked on my books and also did some writing for work.
I haven’t really had a satisfying vacation in journalism. I like to notice stuff and to write about it. It isn’t something I need a break from. I’m not going to lie, having one less deadline, even for just a few days, is all the rejuvenation I usually need. What’s tough is hitting that first deadline back.
I’m sure you’ve read this in a thousand places, but writing is rhythmic. Some people are always in the rhythm, I think of them as good writers. I have to work every day to stay within shouting distance of the rhythm and, having gotten out of it, work like hell to get back.
This week for me has been more about anticipation. Anticipating today, to be honest. I know how this afternoon is going to go. I’ll start writing “for real” this morning and build up a head of steam. By this afternoon I’ll be approaching a groove. I’ll burn what’s left of that creative energy to compensate for being behind, run on empty tomorrow and recuperate Saturday.
We’ll see how it goes.
I do want to tell you a vacation story that has to do with rhythm, though.
I grew up in Union Beach, N.J., just across the Raritan Bay from New York City. For all of my youth, Independence Day celebrations were pretty epic. We would walk down to the beach, grab a spot, and watch the town fireworks.
Union Beach juts out at such an angle that we can see the fireworks of the surrounding towns, as well as most of the New York City fireworks. I think we learn to like the Fourth of July because it’s one of those holidays where staying up late is required when you’re little.
Since moving away, the fireworks have been a little less joyful. It wasn’t until I moved to Maryland that it even occurred to me that some municipalities don’t have water over which to shoot their fireworks.
Here, we had them at the mall. They seemed dumb and small.
I was in Pullman, Washington, for the holiday this year. The AirBnB I rented gave us an obstructed view of the fireworks through the 200-foot-high evergreen across the street. My wife, who is a fireworks fan, walked the 30 feet to the corner to get a better view.
I did not.
I sat on the house’s front deck, drinking whiskey and trying to entertain myself and my daughter.
The disconnect between the sight and sound of fireworks intrigued me when I was a kid. It still does. They’re like dozens of light-travels-faster-than-sound demonstrations.
This year I found myself clapping along, trying to time my claps to when the boom came based on when I saw the lights. The third or fourth try, I got it perfect and felt my ears pop, as if I had broken the sound barrier or something. I waited until the pain subsided, and checked to make sure I didn’t get some sort of sound superpower.
I didn’t.
My hands and my head hurt from all the clapping, so I switched to just saying “CLAP!” to save my discomfort while continuing to challenge my timing.
CLAP! CLAP! CLA-CLA-CL-CLAPPPP!
As barrages went off I’d get lost and have to start over again, but I was pretty well into the zone, timing many if not most of my CLAP!s perfectly.
Then the neighbor across the street closed his upstairs windows.
I can’t imagine what he thought, but I know sure as hell what I would have thought if some goon was standing outside my house shouting CLAP! for so long that I had to get out of my chair, walk upstairs, and close the windows to drown him out.
It’s hard to admit, but his anger amuses me even as I write this. Also, my own cartoon anger had our roles been reversed amuses me as well.
I picture him looking out the window, as I would have, expecting to see some four-year-old yelling CLAP! while his parents tried to shush him. You judge those parents, right? If you can’t get your kid to be quiet, the least you can do is stop trying, otherwise it seems performative. The judgment isn’t that your kid is loud or that you don’t have control, it’s that you’re putting on this stupid little play to show the rest of us you’re a good, concerned parent doing your best.
Instead of a recalcitrant four-year-old, though, you see a well-fed, red-faced middle-aged man yelling CLAP! while his daughter (or caregiver) looks patiently on. Under normal situations, you might ask him to keep it down, but you’re not sure whether he can. You suspect he may be differently abled and the last thing you want to do is go be a jerk to some person who genuinely doesn’t know any better.
Instead, you close the windows, surrendering the night breeze to the chaos, and stomp back down to watch Jeapordy! and sulk.
Anyway, I’ll be back on track next week. I promise.
Keep the Faith,
Tony