Book Worm: a Sort of Autobiography

The Cross of Redemption

James Baldwin, I think, is as relevant now as he was in 1960, and given the political landscape I think it improves our perspective if we see that these words could be brought forward in time to address the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, the increasing divide between urban and rural communities, the increasing militarization of police forces, and a pandemic that discriminates based on age, and belief, and the colour of one's skin. In an interview, he once said that racism is not a black problem, "it is a national problem." And just as Frederick Douglass said long before him, and Dr. Ibram X Kendi said long after him, racist beliefs are corrosive to the spirit of the individual who holds them and the nation that endures them. If people could only see how these beliefs run counter to their own interests, they might be inclined to abandon them. We are indeed stronger together in all our diversity. As I've heard it said, one person may run faster, but the group is needed to run farther.

This is, however, not why I wanted to share James Baldwin's book here. It's a collection too rich to contemplate in a single essay. Instead, I have to draw attention to the one piece in this book that drew my attention to James Baldwin in the first place. In fact, it wasn't even in the book where I stumbled upon it. That came later. I felt compelled to order a copy of this collection for the sake of a single piece of writing, one I'd heard spoken aloud in a recording.

The Artist's Struggle for Integrity.

Mr. Floyd's death and the resulting protests led to a sort of wave of reflection on racism in our society, hypocritical and past due as it is. I found myself seeking out sources of information that I hoped might bring understanding on some useful level. Edmonton, Canada is far removed from Minneapolis. I find that the more I read about or listen to the issue, the less I know. 

In lockdown, I had a great deal of time on my hands with nothing else to do and nowhere to go but padding lazy loops through my neighbourhood. Some routes are marked by large, overhanging, green trees, offering a sort of dappled sunlight that feels comforting, despite the silkworms that bungee jump from branches in search of a free ride. I walked and walked and attempted to manage blood sugars that were increasingly unmanageable with pills, diet, and exercise. I would learn in November, after a brief hospitalization for ketoacidosis that I am not a type 2 diabetic, and insulin was necessary to keep me level.

While I walked, I listened to podcasts like Behind the Bastards, and Running From Cops. These were intriguing and enlightening, and I absolutely recommend them. At the time, I also began listening to recordings of speeches by civil rights leaders from the past century and that's when I stumbled across James Baldwin. His debates were powerful and it disturbed me greatly to hear him speak about issues that could easily be mistaken for the present day.

By the time I heard The Struggle, I had already developed a great respect and admiration for Mr. Baldwin. 

Walking alone, the sun warm on my head and Baldwin's voice in my ear, I found him saying all the right things about what it is to have this compulsion to create art. 

He says, "the artist's struggle for his integrity must be considered as a kind of metaphor for the struggle, which is universal and daily, of all human beings on the face of this globe to get to become human beings. It is not your fault, it is not my fault, that I write. And I never would come before you in the position of a complainant for doing something that I must do..."

It feels obsessive, just about every time. Not something that I think will ever "pan out" in terms of money or career or anything else. It seems to be something I have to do because it demands to be done. Not like taxes or breathing, but frustratingly necessary in its own way.

In the interviews I've read or heard of artists I admire, a popular question posed by journalists and fans is this - Where do you get your ideas?

It's a reasonable enough question. I suppose for most people, skills and interests are things that we develop over time, that we can trace back, perhaps, to some event in our lives. A book that turned us on, or a teacher who inspired us. What got you into dance, or hockey, or rap, or oil painting? I've tried to trace the origins of my interests and ideas, and it seems to me that the question is deceptively simple in that the answer is always decidedly complex.

I love reading, I think, because my grandma read the story Indian in the Cupboard onto tape cassettes and her love and warmth was something I could feel when listening to them. But that's not it. Truly, I have always loved the power of story and books, movies, songs, conversations, and even a few good lies have always held me captivated and unable to or unwilling to ignore them.

I picked up a violin because I saw Braveheart when I was a teenager and my teacher in grade 11 was Irish, and it seemed like a good identity to wrap around myself and slightly less cacophonous than bagpipes. Years later, I picked up a guitar because of a student I've spoken of before in these chapters.

I draw and paint because it's something my family always did. My Grannie, my uncle, my parents, certainly my brother whose art is brilliant and beautiful and consistently makes me stare in awe, both at how it looks and how he creates it.

I wrote Jas. Hook, Captain after hearing the song Lost Boy by Ruth B. I wrote Sleep Tight, Monster after seeing a band t-shirt with the album title Sleep Well Beast by the National. But to understand how I got from that seed to the end of a story is a bit muddled and harder to trace.

Essentially, these ideas are always swirling around in my head. A lot of whispering spirits trying to tell a story, and once in awhile a connection is made that makes certain whispering spirits increase in volume till they're practically shouting. Then my brain picks up the thread of a story and tugs at it. Sometimes that thread leads to a great thing waiting to be unraveled and sometimes I drop the thread.

When the spirits of a story are loudest, I feel the most anxious that if I don't get the words down, I'll lose them and those spirits will haunt me forever. This is when my life can get a little dysregulated. This is when I'm most likely to drop the ball on important shit and forget to show up for my family. This is where I trip over the threads of creativity and fight with my wife. This is how I forget to pack my kids' lunch bags in their backpacks, forcing my wife to leave work to get them a lunch when she should be in important meetings.

Writing has long been a struggle for me, as it demands attention and causes anxiety and feels like an addiction more than any other creative path. My wife tells me I should be able to do both, create these things and manage all the other moving parts of life and relationships and expectations.

The problem as I see it is that when I get into a rhythm of slinging words, the blinders go on, and my irritation at interruptions leads to ignoring the details. By details I mean all the little routines and demands of life. When you attend to them, the details make life run smoothly, but ignoring even one can have a snowball effect, causing chaos in other areas till you have a real mess on your hands.

James Baldwin says in The Struggle that, "most people live in almost total darkness... which — if you have that funny terrible thing which every artist can recognize and no artist can define — you are responsible to those people to lighten..." and I feel that's just it, because in all my darkness, the thing that has consistently brought light is story.

That, and actual light, which I suppose makes sense. As I write this, I am aware of two things: first, the lights are the thing I look forward to above all else at Christmas, more than the turkey or the Mariah Carey or the tree with its decorations; and second, it has been a year and a day since I wrote anything at all. It was a bit of a flashpoint in my relationships last holiday season, and in an effort to show up for my family, I stopped cold turkey, if you'll pardon the pun.

I'm writing this now, because I feel I must. There's no better way to put it.

I would very much like to continue to write, but it will take somewhat longer to complete this series as I wrestle with the sometimes competing spirits who often whisper and occasionally shout for attention.