Have Dog, Will Travel – Planet of the Blind

The Dog Who Loves You

It’s always seemed to me that adults, by which I mean most adults, by which I mean many of those I’ve met, have difficulty giving thanks. I don’t mean just saying “thank you” when the barista hands you a latte, but worshipful thanks. I suppose I’m talking about praise where creation is concerned. If you’re agonistic or an atheist you’ll see straightaway the predicament I’m in. I’m now standing on the thin ice of religious devotion and some might stop reading this because of it. But you see, what I’m really talking about is the love of dogs. Everyday I give thanks to creation for dogs.

(Image: Young 10-year old boy, Stephen Kuusisto’s step-son Ross, is lying in the grass. Yellow Labrador and guide dog “Corky” is standing above him and is about to “kiss” his nose.”)

Tenderness, dog spirit, moves beside and within me. She has me talking to myself in the street. Stranger I am well. My hands, so often clenched fly open. I am loved by dogs.

This of course sounds ridiculous. The great dog spirit, Canis Tempus is walking me straight out of the profane world.

But this is so.

Shortly after I was paired with met first guide dog, a yellow Labrador named “Corky” I rode the subway to Coney Island. It was April and cold but the famed Boardwalk was a great place for a brisk walk. Hardly any people were about. We pounded over the wood planks fronting the ocean and I talked to Corky softly. She held her head up, very high, to scent the Atlantic, and it was easy to imagine she was experiencing delight.

Aristotle defined happiness as “human flourishing” which he said involved activity and exhibiting virtue, and both should be in accord with reason. “Corky,” I said,“you are my virtue.” I wasn’t entirely sure what this meant.

“She can’t be my full virtue,” I thought. “She can only be the agent of my honor.” “But it’s lovely, Corky, walking this boardwalk with you and the ghost of Aristotle,” I said half aloud.

A policeman approached us and said, “Are you OK?”

“He’s seen my lips moving,” I thought. “He probably thinks I’m lost.”

“I’m just happy,” I told the cop who was taken aback.

“That’s a first for me,” he said. “I mean, no one ever says that, even at Coney Island!”

“You know,” I said, “I grew up blind in the middle of nowhere and never learned how to travel. Then I got this incredible dog! I just can’t tell you how happy I am.”

Of course I was more than happy. I was thankful. Now, 24 years later, I’m still mindful and full of praise for the dogs in my life.

The dog who loves you turns up in your dreams. Last night she was a woman on a train who said her name was “Evensong” (I kid you not) and she was old and dignified.

The dog who loves you is part of your soul (I kid you not) and she insists that mirth never dies. That is, as they say, how things stand.

Carl Jung had it wrong: the anima or animus is not the man or woman inside you but the dog who loves you; the one who first loved you; who loves you now. Sorry Yeats, here’s how the poem should go:

“Young man lift up your russet brow,

And lift your tender eyelids maid,

And brood on dogs and dogs who love…”

ABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
IndieBound.org

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger

It Takes a Village to Sell a Book: Tips to Help Your Favorite Author

If YOU know an author, or if you have a favorite author you’d like to support (hint, hint) what can YOU do to make a difference? Here are some ideas for meaningful things you can do to help spread your enthusiasm for any author dear to you.

Help! It takes a village to sell a book

By C. Kuusisto

Now that books can actually be published online with a few key strokes (compared to bygone days) chances are you know someone who has written a book. Or an eBook. Think about it for a minute. Browse the shelves of a library or your local bookstore or on Amazon.com and you’re looking at exceptional efforts made by some extraordinary individuals, each with a passion to share his or her message with the world. Granted, some books are better than others but that’s another story. Story – get it?!

Not everyone has the inclination or ambition to make such a mark on the world. For those of us who don’t, unless you know an author personally, it is very easy to take their efforts for granted. A book, just one book, represents hours, months, sometimes years of toil and trouble. While some consider it a labor of love, others may consider their book the worst “assignment” ever.

I know; I’m married to an author.

So if YOU know an author, or if you have a favorite author you’d like to support (hint, hint) what can YOU do to make a difference? If you’re reading this post, I’m assuming you have an interest in doing so. Well then, here are some ideas for meaningful things you can do to help spread your enthusiasm for any author dear to you.

• Check out the author’s web site and buy a book! Buy another one and gift it to a loved one. Or a friend. Or both.

• Buy another copy and donate it to your local library.

• TALK about the book. Word-of-mouth advertising is priceless!

• Follow his/her Virtual Book Tour. But don’t just read the introductory blog posts. Click the links! Visit the hosts’ blogs; write comments. Show some love! Bloggers LOVE comments! Internet search engines love links. Follow an author on a virtual book tour, participate, and you’ll help make “noise” online.

• If he or she is offering a reading at a local bookstore or other venue, GO! And buy a book! Ask him/her to sign your book.

• Bring a friend with you! Treat him/her to a copy.

• Help arrange for a reading at a local venue.

• Write a book review.

• Visit Goodreads. “Like” the book. Add it to your bookshelf. Recommend the book. Leave a comment/review.

• Visit Amazon.com. “Like” the author. Like the book. Recommend the book. Leave a review. Same goes for any other online book seller site…

• Are you a Twitter user? Connect! Then borrow the link from either Amazon or Barnes and Noble and share with your followers. Or share your favorite quote.

• Are you on Facebook? “Like” the author and/or the book and tell your friends why you like it. Important: Leave Comments! SHARE!

• Are you a blogger? Ask your favorite author if he/she will provide a guest post.

• If you are a blogger, offer to interview your favorite author and publish it to your blog.

• Make a video of your interview and post it to YouTube and to Facebook.

• What other social media platforms do you use? Google+? Pinterest? Instagram? Use them to help spread the word.

• Share the book with your book club. Ask the author if he/she will do a virtual online meeting with club members to discuss the book.

• Start a book club!

• Contact your favorite author and ask “what can I do to help spread the word?”

You may have some other ideas. Please feel free to share them in the comments.

Oh, and just for the record, Stephen Kuusisto’s new book “Have Dog, Will Travel” is now available for pre-order on both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It will take a village to sell his book, too. No doubt he would appreciate YOUR help. Share the news, will you? Steve’s book “Planet of the Blind“, a NY TIMES Notable Book of the Year (1998), touched a lot of lives; this we know. The hope – the expectation – is that this one will, too.

Have Dog, Will Travel: a Poet's Journey by Stephen Kuusisto

Notes:

First Image: The word HELP spelled out in red by a hand holding a pen. Underneath HELP it says “It Takes a Village to Sell a Book” in black letters.

Second Image: Cover of author Stephen Kuusisto’s new book. Light blue background with white lettering: Have Dog, Will Travel A Poet’s Journey. Included is an graphic image of a gold-colored dog wearing a harness and at the top of the cover is a testimonial by poet Billy Collins.

A Dog Loves Me

A dog loves me. The cleansed skins of the apple trees darken with morning sun. A dog loves me. Before the first light of day Venus appears from behind a winter cloud. A dog’s love is not presumptive: it is no mere wish.

There are mythical scenes in human lives—light bulb moments, the college kid understanding Emerson for the first time, and, as a friend of mine would say, he “bumps along the ceiling of his skull” for myth is one of the lauds, the oldest prayer.

But a dog loves me. She wakes me early. We stand beside the Asian Maple tree, its hydra branches dusted with snow and we talk.

When a man or woman talks to a dog its not always a spoken thing.

My dog scents the new snow, putting her snout deep in a snow bank. She snorts like a horse. Snow magnifies the delicate scents of mice. The man says nothing but sees inwardly expanding circles on water—smells broadcast in snow—and as he thinks it, he sees what his dog sees. Forget your occupation or ideas of sensible success. The man and dog stand in the cuneiform world of things unseen.

But forget poetry. This can be diverting, this business of man and dog moving together in subordinate thought. In a business meeting I hear my dog sigh from under the table. She’s heard the grey voices above her, voices so monotonous she is asking: “who among the humans besides my good man is happy to be alive?” I know this is what she’s saying.

In an elevator she smells one man’s fear and another’s sorrows. We’re just going down two floors. It’s an ordinary day. “The people,” she thinks, “are passively borne by dark emotions.” I know this is what she’s saying.

Riding an escalator in Macy’s (the original flagship store in New York) she knows the false symmetry of human occasions, thinks the place needs a thousand wild birds. I know this is what she’s saying.

We move to and fro. Swiftly.

She loves me. There is never a moment she does not love me. We move to and fro. All day, every day, we have light bulb moments.

We talk.

We ride uptown on Fifth Avenue and for once the cab driver is friendly. He likes dogs. He’s from Egypt. His sister back in Cairo is deaf. He knows a lot about struggle. My dog smiles at him. Honestly. She smiles. He asks if he can pet her. I tell him he can. He smiles. I know he’s telling her to keep up the good work. I know she’s telling him about her fleet footed life. She’s telling him life is life and we can go places.

We move to and fro. A dog loves me.

Once upon a time, years ago, long before I got a guide dog, I climbed to the top of a ski jump tower in Finland. I was with a friend who thought this would be fun. The skiing season was over and the tower was deserted. We climbed a ladder that seemed to never end. Up and up. I’ve never been good with heights. My stomach felt green and cold. But I didn’t want to appear cowardly. I kept going. The top of the ladder met a platform where the skiers line up. The mighty drop beyond was a terrifying thing. We stood there for a time, right at the lip. I remember thinking as I stood there, that truth and love will always go astray but visceral fear—that you can count on.

But now a dog loves me. She stops me at the edge of the railway platform. We talk. She likes her life. She knows a great deal about quelling fear.

We talk. She says fear is not what people suppose—its not just danger, its not knowing what to do. She says dogs know what to do. She likes her life. She loves me.

Dog Schmooze

Professor Stephen Kuusisto is the author of “Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening” and the acclaimed memoir “Planet of the Blind”, a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”. His second collection of poems from Copper Canyon Press, “Letters to Borges“ has just been released. Listen to Steve read “Letter to Borges in His Parlor” in this fireside reading via YouTube. He is currently working on a book tentatively titled What a Dog Can Do. Steve speaks widely on diversity, disability, education, and public policy. www.stephenkuusisto.com, www.planet-of-the-blind.com

Yes, There's a Dog in My Heart…

If there’s a dog in your heart it will do you no damage. While still at Guiding Eyes I’d kept a journal—titled “Dog Man Writes to Parts of Himself”…

Read: Dog in Heart, an excerpt from my upcoming book, as seen on my website: StephenKuusisto.com. Then tell me, is there a dog in YOUR heart?

Professor Stephen Kuusisto is the author of “Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening” and the acclaimed memoir “Planet of the Blind”, a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”. His second collection of poems from Copper Canyon Press, “Letters to Borges“ has just been released. Listen to Steve read "Letter to Borges in His Parlor" in this fireside reading via YouTube. He is currently working on a book tentatively titled What a Dog Can Do. Steve speaks widely on diversity, disability, education, and public policy. www.stephenkuusisto.com, www.planet-of-the-blind.com

Dog in Heart

Dog Man Writes to Parts of Himself

If there’s a dog in your heart it will do you no damage. If there’s a thistle inside you, you’re in trouble. Only weeks after getting my first guide dog, and walking freely on the ordinary streets I met the thistle hearted all around me. They were people who lived in the famine of effect—unhappy inside and projecting unwarranted hostility outside. Meeting them with a dog at my side, and a dog inside me, a protective dog of the heart, well, that was different—to say the least. Standing in line at the bank a thistle-woman caught sight of Corky and screamed quite literally: “You damned disabled with your damned dogs!” She waved her arms like she was on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. There were three or four other customers. They all backed away. She kept shouting her wild gibberish. And Corky wagged her tail. I felt it against my left leg. She was telling me that two worlds described our rewards, we were in tandem, we were in accord. We were a musical chord. Her tail was saying: “each lives in one, all in the other.”

So I smiled. Just smiled. I probably looked like a simpleton. But our dog heart was smiling. The woman turned and bolted out the door. Of course that’s when the other customers began speaking up. “Wow, she was really out of line!” “There must be something wrong with her!” But I had Morse Code dog heart—which was all I needed.

While still at Guiding Eyes I’d kept a journal—titled “Dog Man Writes to Parts of Himself”.

One entry read:

You were always a dog in your heart—you were forced to conclude the matter when, one morning, early, you felt a giddiness, a happenstance wakeful half-assed joy. It wasn’t the electrolysis of sex or the sticky dendritic jazz of chocolate or bourbon that marked your inner life. It was dog, dog-ness, dog all the while. You were standing at the window, still wearing your pajamas. You felt like running into the yard and rolling in snow. You didn’t care what the neighbors might think. A good snow roll in your PJs was in order. You saw that now, saw it was always “the thing”—to be a dog and sharply alive with all your senses in order. No tax forms. No darkness blotting out hope. Dogs are the darkness. Dogs are hope. You saw there was nothing more to be said about the matter.

I was insensibly happy. The person bearing my name had been transformed. He was lighter, like a character in fiction—the fairy tale dog man was walking, running. He didn’t have to explain himself. That was the great thing. He didn’t have to explain the convoluted gears and motors of his brain.

Dog Language 101

The utility of language resides in two questions: what’s upwind and what’s the best way to get there? For all I know dogs may have poetry—sonnets of smell—amusing to think so—but when I took my first solo walk down the subway stairs with guide dog Corky I knew she had a bold and ancient comprehension of our circumstances. When you feel the language of others, even when its silent, you’re sensing competence. Some days a silent language is all you need.

Once, riding a train from Helsinki to Tampere, I sat beside three old women. They knew one another well. You could see it in their postures, long familiarity. One was knitting. One had a book. The third looked out the window. Every now and then one of them would say a confirmatory thing—“snowing again” or “coffee?” It was easy to be in their company. I was a young man writing poetry and starting to understand the delicacies of language and consciousness.

With a dog you don’t have to be all tricky and wild. Trouble free words will do. Heartfelt silence will do. Walking through the subway with Corky I let her guide me and kept my mouth shut.