I took a week of vacation this week to work on my hobbies: stained glass and carving. I do my carving outside where it's easier to clean up the mess. My glass work is done in a small windowless room in the basement (and yes, I get the irony of making art which celebrates light in a room with no access to natural illumination).



Both arts are highly therapeutic for me. After the initial planning and design of the piece is finished, the thinking is pretty well over. Then it's time to sit back (figuratively speaking) and let the two halves of my bicameral brain talk to each other. This is usually very entertaining, and on occasion presents great insights into the complexity of me.



I won't bother to reveal any of the more specific revelations I've had about myself while pursuing my hobbies. Like most people, there are things about myself that I like, things I dislike, and things which I revile.



Something my left brain pointed out to the right this week is the connection of stained glass to literature, for me anyway. (Stay with us now.)



I am a reader. I always have been. From the early days of chewing through board books to my first book without illustrations, I have loved letters. I loved them so much I knew I had to create my own stories. I think I wrote my first book when I was four. It was written in a very specific language with a script that resembled heavy-handed spirals penned in purple and red crayon. I don't remember the plot, but it met with critical acclaim from my mother.



Lord Byron once described the work of John Keats as ". . . a sort of mental masturbation . . ." I think that's what all writing is. Whether or not the writer  ever shares his product with the public, it is done initially for him- or herself, privately, often in a dimly lit room, and seldom talked about in polite circles.



Just like my hobbies.



And, as my left brain pointed out with a touch of right-brained glee, I've added the kink of combining the different forms. I don't just cut glass and assemble the pieces. I tend to tell myself stories at the same time. I write great tomes of erudite observations on the human condition. I tell myself rollicking adventures where the boy always gets the girl in the end. Good always triumphs over evil, and justice is never avoided.



I love stepping back and watching the interplay between the two halves of my brain. Sometimes they come up with interesting arguments. It was the left side which suggested proper pronoun usage: "it" on second reference to the left or right, "I" when indicating a cooperation for cognizant thought between the two. The right side was enthusiastic in its support of this.



But now I believe I've calmed both halves of my brain enough that I can try to go back to sleep. It's 3:45 a.m. and I'm on vacation.