Mark Kerstetter – Letter from a Friend

My dad used to call me Albert A, a nod to Mr. Einstein. It wasn't a compliment. Usually he dissed me with the name at suppertime when we were arguing about politics and I was being a smartass know-it-all. Lately I've realized I'm not that smart. Well, not intellectually. I've got enough smarts to do what I've gotta do but a scholar, I ain't.

Geez, that Mark Kerstetter, though. He's one of the smartest people I know. He's so into the process of learning, of expressing himself, of thinking – man, it's just incredible. I lurk at his blog, The Bricoleur. I used to comment and I still do occasionally but I have to say most of what he talks about is miles over my silly head. I feel like he is a Great Master and I'm this dopey cocker spaniel dancing around his heels.

He would argue with me about this because he is truly one of the most modest, genuine people I've ever come across. While I had an easy time of it growing up in a wonderful family, he struggled. I was spoiled. He spent time on the streets. My brain stopped filling up the minute I walked away from college. Mark's has continued to grow and expand in the most exciting ways – to the point where he is one of the most respected artists, poets and art writers on the web. He has a devoted following of the like-minded at his blogs, The Bricoleur and Fridge Soup, and the popular web-zine he's strongly involved in, Escape Into Life.

I met up with Mark through Friday Flash, that fantastic community of writers who post a short story, of 1,000 words or less (flash fiction, they call it), every Friday. Anyone can do it. Beginning writers. Experienced writers. Anybody who feels the urge to tell a story. The best thing about it is everyone is SO supportive. You write, you post, you read other people's work, they read yours, you get and give encouragement, you become a better writer. I encourage everyone who visits this blog to give it a try. If it wasn't for Friday Flash, I wouldn't be writing a novel. I wouldn't have written 50 or more short stories. And I surely wouldn't have come across Mark Kerstetter.

You know? The best thing about Mark? He is the last person who would ever lord his smarts over anyone. He is so down to earth that even the earth must take an elevator to greet him. He is humble, and nice – really darned nice – and over the last few years he has become one of those small circle of bloggers who honestly feel like family.

bricolage |ˌbrēkōˈlä zh; ˌbrikə-|noun ( pl. same or -lages)(in art or literature) construction or creation from a diverse range of available things : the chaotic bricolage of the novel is brought together in a unifying gesture.• something constructed or created in this way : bricolages of painted junk.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, from bricoler ‘do odd jobs, repair.’

bricoleur |ˌbrēkōˈlər; ˌbrikə-|nouna person who engages in bricolage.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, literally ‘handyman.’

Dear Cathy,

I’m lucky to be counted among your internet friends. Especially since it’s perhaps not easy to know me from my online presence. You show us life on the Muskoka River. We see Dave and the kids, the cabin, we learn about blackflies and yurts. People don’t see the bricoleur’s workshop so much as his finished products, my good face. But more than that, I’m different in conversation than in writing. I can be a lot funnier, for one thing.

Throughout the '70s and '80s the neighborhood I live in had the reputation as one of the worst in our city. When Victoria and I moved in the whole neighborhood was a shambles, with only a handful of people, like us, trying to build it back up. They were investors. We couldn’t afford anything better. They fixed up their houses and flipped them. We stayed. They had no investment long-term, no interest in doing the real dirty work. We did. Today it’s a good neighborhood, and I can honestly say that Victoria and I had a hand in making it so, with a whole lot of luck of course (we could not have predicted nice folks would want to move here).

It’s a porch culture. People often tell us they’ve never seen another neighborhood (even within the city) where neighbors say hello and offer each other glasses of wine on their porches. To give you some context: in the '80s all of the porches had been enclosed. The neighbors hid from each other. One of the first things we did was tear those walls down, open up the porch the way it was intended to be. Don’t get me wrong, I like it when people mind their own business, but I also want to know who my neighbors are, to be able to talk to them about important matters if necessary, to back them up and know they have my back. I feel safe in saying that if you and Dave lived next door we would love having you as neighbors, that is, unless you get into loud arguments late at night or allow trapped dogs to yap endlessly or set up a meth lab in your house – then we’d have to talk.

So, I really mean it when I call myself a bricoleur. It’s not just my art that’s made out of whatever is laying around. My whole life is like that. I fix up my house with salvaged wood. All our furniture came from alleys and dumpsters. The bike I ride was somebody’s reject (even the cap and jacket you see me wearing in the photo were giveaways). My whole life is about striking a balance between what I need, have to do and want. It’s about mastering minutes. This is the moment I have to write, this is the moment I have to work on the house, this is the moment I have to make money, this is a second for twitter…. and now a nap. I often think of how precarious life is and how good I have it. All my adult life I’ve been among the working poor, yet in the important ways I’m rich and I never forget that.

The main thing about me that you can’t see from my blogger face is Victoria. She’s my heart. I’d be worthless without her, no doubt about it. If you saw us together you would see it. I wouldn’t have to say a word.

Cheers, Cathy - Now go work on that book!

Your internet porch buddy,

Mark