Miscalculating the stars with 'Nosferatu'

I saw "Nosferatu" last night in the theater. What I expected: Maybe a beautifully shot retelling of the 1922 silent film “Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror,” maybe a remake of “Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” I expected vibes. I expected sexiness. I expected … not horror or terror, but creepyness.

What I did not expect: to get a bunch of ideas for poetry.

Professor Eberhart, played by Willem Dafoe, at one point says “I miscalculated the stars.” That might be a paraphrase, I can’t be sure unless I rewatch—which I should certainly do because, for the next few minutes, I blacked out in utter delight of that phrase: I wondered what I thought it meant. The unexpected beauty of the word “miscalculate” and how I might use it in unexpected ways. What else can I miscalculate? The length between his breaths, the number of times Mom says “I’m worried,” the number of times he’s taken my hand, the number of pen strokes in his last drawing, or his first, or all of them combined. How much sleep I need to fill the tank when it’s so empty, it’s inside out. 

And then there was the liminality of Ellen, played by Lily-Rose Depp, and all the ways I might try to figure out what I think about that. It’s a topic that has hung out in the back of my mind for years, since I first learned it. If “liminality” is a new concept for you,  it’s about the space between, the borders. It’s not here or there, but a no-man’s-land of inbetweenness. Here was my introduction to it: A few years ago, a colleague described her city, located in Texas on the boarder of New Mexico and Mexico, as a liminal space—a liberal city in a conservative state.

My curiosity about this state of being took root in my head back then, a little seed waiting to get poked and watered and played with. It was rousted a few days ago, first by a call for submissions I found about the topic. And then again by "Nosferatu"’s Ellen, a woman who lives in the liminal space between happiness on earth with her husband and a supernatural craving for a spirit that claimed her years ago.

I love inspiration. I love tracking where it comes from. I love letting it marinate. I love seeing what gives it a little airhole, a trickle of water, a deluge of sunlight.

And I love taking something as ephemeral and unknowable as inspiration and trying to science it. Figure it out. Beakers and graphs and whatnot. I think it’s why the process of publishing—learning how to find an agent, putting those lessons to practice, the business stuff that is as far from poetry and prose as possible—is so fascinating to me.

I’m planning to share some of those wonderings and curiosities and a-ha’s in this space, this Musing Ramble. I like that you can ramble on with words, as I tend to do, and you can go on a ramble, a wander, an I’ll get there when I get there vibe. I like that it implies a nosing around.

Which is sort of what I want this to be. I’d like to have fun here, and I want to share some of what I’ve learned and what I’m thinking about. I want this wander to be a good time, and I hope you have one, too.

I’ll wrap this up with one of the many unexpected things to come out of publishing a book: when someone tells me that I’ve inspired their work. Like … what? WHAT??? 

Jenni is a friend from high school, and she’s a beautiful artist. I love when she shares her paintings because they’re gorgeous, primarily. I also love that she shares photos of her work—of any work—during various stages. It’s beautiful to see a rough outline, followed by the shape of trees, the shade of sky, all eventually capped with a landscape or still life that gives her subjects depth and personality.

A few days ago, Jenni shared this writeup:

Started this sunset over the Golden Gate a couple days after Christmas when I started listening to @jyogarver’s book Then, Again. I finished the painting before the book, but it’s really a wonderful book to paint to. I think the tone of the book really translates to the painting. What feelings does it make you feel?

When you’re in the throes of writing a book, all you’re focused on is the story. At least, that’s how I do it. I can’t think about the finished product or I’ll get overwhelmed. It’s just about this scene, this line, this word choice. I have to use a microscope; to zoom out and think about the societal place of a novel that doesn’t exist anywhere but my laptop is to get totally stymied, irreparably stuck. Too much pressure. And besides, when you’re in the work, the point is the work—nothing else.

Jenni's finished painting

Anyway, to now be on the other side of that work, to realize that my art can inspire art, when so much art has inspired me … good lord, how completely shattering is that??? It’s as beautiful as a night sky with no light pollution, and then you look up and see hundreds of pinpricks you’ve never seen from your suburban backyard.

It’s enough to make you realize that, for all these years, you’ve been miscalculating the stars.