“So, what did you think?” the director asked the executive producer.
“It’s changed a lot from the original script,” the EP said.
“Yeah, after talking it over with John, we went back to his original concept,” the D said. John was the writer for the film. He pitched his idea to the EP, who gave the thumbs up and after choosing the D, gave the D a few million dollars. That’s how it works in Hollywood: thumbs, money, passing the idea from one person to the next, regrets.
“It’s rather pathetic,” the EP said.
“What’s that?” the D said.
“The protagonist, he’s pathetic,” the EP said. “In the script I read, he was a positive and a happy influence on his family. When the aliens. . . .”
“Did you like the aliens?” the D interrupted.
“Oh, yes,” the EP said. “I liked them very much. Your effects guy did a wonderful job. I was afraid they would take away from the realism, but I stopped thinking it strange that the town didn’t realize that half its population was alien. The purple antennas took me a really long time to get over. As I said, though, I forgot about it three-quarters of my way through the movie.”
“We had a great editor,” the D said. “On the first cut, I was a little nervous about how the aliens were portrayed, but I think we moved in the right direction.”
“Yes,” the EP said. “That was the right direction for the aliens. But let’s get back to the protagonist. Maybe the editor should take a whack at this. Let me draw for you what I’ve been thinking. Do you remember when John first pitched the movie?”
“I wasn’t involved yet,” the D said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” the EP said with a dismissive wave. “John came to my office three years ago to pitch his idea. After he pitched, I knew it would be an important day, and I had my assistant take notes on my feelings. I don’t normally do that, take notes on what I feel, but I knew I had to document it. I’ll read you what I wrote.”
The EP picked up a printed page from his desk and held it at arms length. “Notes on meeting with John Bappins, writer. November 16, 1997, 11:37am, blah, blah, blah. Here’s where it starts: Gulf,” the EP said, emphasizing the word and pausing to look at the D before continuing. “The family weeps, heartache. Child dying in the protagonist’s arms, strength comes from within. The withered mother. Sadness. Prostituted daughter. Creeps. Emptiness in pursuit of a new angle on relationships. Aliens explain everything and nothing. Death. I wept. Joust. Buy.”
The EP’s eyes were moist, and the D handed him a tissue. The EP waved him away. “The first thirty minutes that John spent describing the movie, he didn’t even mention the aliens,” the EP said. “He focused solely on the family: the protagonist, his wife, their sick child, the town’s support, the family’s downfall. These tears,” the EP pointed dramatically at his glassy eyes, “were real. If he had left it at that, the family story, I would have thrown money at him. When he pushed the aliens’ angle, I took a step back. I was worried he was messing with the integrity and beauty of the family relationship. What the aliens added, though, was hope in a twisted form. Then he got into it. He described what he was after, what the aliens meant to the family, how they helped it transcend death. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Very much,” the D said. “And that’s exactly what I was after.”
“You still don’t understand,” the EP said. He stood and started pacing around his office. “When I watched your cut, I didn’t feel for the family. I didn’t like the father because he was weak. I wanted him to be more. I wanted him to be the rock that supported that family. At the end, when he picked up the M-60 and started shooting the aliens, I wanted that to mean something. I wanted that to take away the audience’s pain at his child’s death, and I understand that death must be in quotation marks. The film didn’t do that. It didn’t do any of that because I didn’t like the protagonist, which means I barely liked his family. I would go as far as saying that I was almost glad when his child died. Listen to me: I’m happy when a five-year old dies a terrible death. I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”
“The preliminary test audience responses have been good,” the D said.
“Yes, they’ve been decent,” the EP said. “But with a script like this, they should have been phenomenal. They should have blown them away. Have you seen the notes the test audiences gave? They wanted to like the story. They wanted to have a connection with the father, but they saw right through any possible connection. Don’t you see that as a problem?”
“It’s still an early cut,” the D said. “I’m sure once we get in there, maybe reshoot a few scenes, you’ll see a marked improvement in the audience’s responses.”
“You’re still not understanding me,” the EP said. I wanted you to make the movie that John wrote. You took that movie and turned it into one of your pathetic outlooks on society, on the weakness of man. Why did you do that? You promised that this time you would not do that. That this time you would tell the story like it was written.”
“That’s how I tell my stories,” the D said. “I never promised you that I would change my film sensibilities. I only promised I would be true to the script. You knew my voice when you picked me for the film. Why did you choose me if you didn’t like what you saw in my other films? I brought the characters to life in this movie. I told an impossible story and I made the aliens real. People felt for the family at the end, even when they understood the payout.”
“An end to spirituality?” the EP said. “A disliked family? I didn’t even understand the ending in your film. The twist was there, but what was the point? What happened at the end? You left it hanging. It’s like you lost the energy necessary to finish telling a real story. What happened?”
“It’s all there,” the DP said. “And people seem to understand it, even, if you let me go so far and say, they appreciate it. It’s art, my art. John has had nothing but good things to say about this cut. If you’d give me real notes, I’d try to change things. But you’re just throwing out broad strokes as if I could read your mind.”
The EP breathed audibly and sat down behind his desk. “Okay,” the EP said. “I got a little carried away. It’s just rereading my notes from the day I first heard the pitch, I remember what I felt, and I didn’t get that feeling when I watched your cut. I’m a believer in this story, a real believer. And I’m a believer in you and John. I think what you both do is phenomenal and important work. I just want you to make happen in the film what I felt when I heard the pitch and read the first draft. I want you to reach deep into yourself and tell the story in a way that brings hope and life to the characters.”
“I’ve done that,” the D said.
“I’m not done,” the EP said. “When the protagonist realizes that life is a training ground for service to the aliens, that the entire push of the family story, that the death of their child, that the protagonist’s fall into alcoholism, his wife’s abuse, his daughter’s prostitution, all of it, all of it relates to the aliens’ creation of the human condition. When you drop the hammer, when you hit the audience in the head with the big twist, that death is a figment of the alien’s creation, I want it to be so powerful, so real, so life changing and affirming that when the audience looks through the family’s eyes, they’re not sure if it’s real for a moment. I want them to have that same thought, that, is it real, that they forget that it’s a movie, that if they took a step back, they would realize that the realness is irrelevant because it’s just a movie. That’s the moment I want you to recapture, the moment where the movie transcends the family’s difficulties, transcends the aliens’ existence, transcends the very question of life. Now do you see what I see? When at the end the protagonist decides to end the human condition with the machine gun, I want them to understand why he did it. I want them to appreciate it at a subconscious level. The cast of horribles has to stop somewhere for the audience to understand the story like John pitched it.”
“Cast of horribles?” the D said.
“The pathetic protagonist has to go away,” the EP said.
“Don’t you see?” the D said. “The protag ends the human condition because it’s horrible. His life was horrible. His family was horrible. It’s not pathetic, it’s horrible. It’s not a cast of horribles, it’s a story of horribles, it’s a world of horribles. You hit it right on the head: horribles. That’s what the protag solves. This is the beauty of the story. I’ll go back and see if I can tweak the family a bit, recut some of the other footage, but the aim is going to be the same. I can’t change my vision on this. I can try to reimagine parts of it to fit into your vision, but I won’t sacrifice John and my views.”
The EP studied the D through his teepee fingers. “I’ve had my say. You continue working and get the film ready for release. We’ll talk after your next cut. We should do lunch with John. I want to get his views on this as well.”
The D nodded. The EP never scheduled the lunch. He cut the advertising funding, and when his studio released the film, it flopped. Because it was a great film, over the years, it developed a cult following. The D continued directing movies, and the EP continued producing movies, but they never worked together again. When the movie failed at the box office, John fell into a depression. He killed himself five years before the video sales would make his movie one of the best-loved feature films of the twentieth century.
Here I sit waiting for my fingers to make something happen. I’m getting used to this waiting. Over the last few days, I’ve waited out inspiration in a proverbial battle of wills. The silent echoes in my brain were the clear winner as I sat, staring at the screen, writing little except pithy statements like:
from yesterday’s entry (not posted):
It’s late and I’m lying in bed wondering why I didn’t write today. My rut continues. Fuck ruts. I’m going to write something. Anything. And that is why you fail. I must meditate first. (Har!) That should help me.
My bones ache and my muscles scream. I have no stories.
or Monday’s brilliance (not posted):
I’m afraid of silence. I attempt to fill each moment with distractions and unremarkable remarks to hide from my thoughts. I speak in luscious description to hide that I don’t have anything to say. In reading an article about Edward Albee, playwright of, among many other plays, the 1966 play, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” the author describes Albee’s writing methods: he allows his subconscious to do most of the heavy lifting. Albee doesn’t write until he feels his subconscious has finished with the characters and story. He uses an exercise to determine when it’s finished: he’ll imagine a scene with the characters outside of the story he wants to tell. If he can create the dialogue with little effort, then he knows he’s ready to write the play. If only my subconscious wanted to work that hard.
My writing feels incomplete because it is. I know almost nothing about any aspect of the character, except, I’ll pretend, the narrator, who is always me at some stage in my life. Even writing what I thought would be an essay on my writing is turning out to be nothing, since there is nothing here I want to talk about. Talk about frustrating!
I talked briefly about a Yogurt story I was working on. I’m no longer working on it. I’m not working on much of anything. I had a story idea as I drove into work today. I wanted to write a story about a lazy man, his lazy family, and his decision, at the end, to get up and do something to rid himself of his laziness. Naturally, the thing he does is rob a bank. It is this twist that makes it a story, as opposed to another, in a long line of boring, David’s life stories. Of course, now that I put it in synopsis form, the chances I’ll write it have dropped asymptotically to zero.
Last night, as I tried to sleep with my eyes open, I thought about Kurt Vonnegut’s short stories. He uses lots of characters and an interesting (if somewhat repetitive) setting. His stories aren’t much longer than mine are, but he manages to say something in them. I want to say something as well. And I want to introduce more characters, more complexity, more something.
My initial try at writing the bank robbery story was a failure. I had the idea, I even dreamed up some of the interactions between the main character and his family (which would form the first layer of laziness). When it came time to put some of those thoughts into words, I balked (balking is to stop short or refuse to deal with something; it’s not just a baseball term as I thought).
New paragraph starts here. What I figured I’d do today is throw down lots of words. This is something I’ve not done in a while. I’m not worried about the word count (although I am checking it for this entry). I’m more worried about the time I spend tapping away. I don’t think that I’ve given myself enough time lately. I’ve described this feeling before. When I get in a funk (and this is, by at least my definition, a major funk), I feel like there’s a large wall in front of me, and as I throw myself against it, I run against it and bounce off, or fall as I try to scale it. Unable to get over or through, I give up, throw down a few paragraphs to give the illusion of pain, and forget about writing for the day, satisfied that I did something to justify my writing aspirations. None of it—the justification, that is—is true, of course. Giving up on writing after a feeble fifteen-minute effort, even if I’m not inspired, is not helping me in my Quest.
After writing that last paragraph, I slipped on a peel. The distraction didn’t last long, but my butt still hurts from the fall. Hell, if it wasn’t for the shot of yummy caffeine I drank before sitting down to write this entry, I would have pulled another two paragraphs-type entry. And, for the record keeper, this still doesn’t qualify as a story. It’s more a consternation about consternations. Ain’t this a hoot?
As I start to write part of the story, an external distraction hits me. I’ve pushed through the low energy part, and while I have lots of energy, the jury is still out on whether I’ll be able to use that energy for anything besides this discussion of energy use. And, yes, I know ‘the jury is still out’ is a terrible cliché.
I managed to create a first scene for this awful robbery story before storming home for a quick bike ride. I’m now back, showered and fed, and hoping that I have a bit left in me for more storytelling. Okay. I wrote the first part. Kind of. I won’t provide any excuses or an explanation. As too many people at work say, it is what it is. I’ll get back into this writing one of these days.
And, yeah, I got a laugh out of the 'part 1' part, too.
Albert pointed and clicked. He had been surfing through the television stations for the last hour. Johnny made feint sounds when an interesting show appeared, but he knew better than to expect his dad to stop clicking.
“Can’t you pick one show, Al?” Janice said.
“You told me to get off the couch and do something, and, here, I’m doing something,” Albert said.
“When I said something, I wasn’t thinking about television,” Janice said. “And you’re still on the couch!”
Johnny wormed closer to the television, holding his head up with his palms and elbows. Dad had never been good at doing two things at once, and while he argued with mom, Johnny focused his attention on the television, which had stopped changing channels.
“I had to get off the couch to get the remote,” Albert said.
“I meant maybe gardening,” Janice said. “Or you’ve been promising me that you’d fix the closet door for the last two weeks.”
“I never promised anything,” Albert said. “I told you to call someone.”
“Why can’t you do it?” Janice said.
“I am doing it,” Albert said. “I’m paying for you to call someone to fix the closet door.”
Johnny couldn’t have been more pleased where the television stopped. He watched a nature show about wild tigers. The camera followed three tiger kittens as they made their way during their first year of life.
“Dad,” Johnny said, interrupting his parents. “Can I have a tiger kitten?”
“Whatever you want son,” Albert said.
“Al, what are you saying to Johnny?” Janice said. “Are you even listening to what your son asked?” Janice turned and sweetened her voice. “Johnny, what have I told you about interrupting mommy and daddy when we’re having a discussion? Just watch your show and we’ll talk about kittens later.”
“Where were we?” Janice said
“You were about to call a repairman for the closet,” Albert said.
“I can’t believe how lazy you are,” Janice said. “You won’t replace the screws for a single shelf? It would take you, what, five minutes?”
Albert sat up on the couch to look at his wife. “Do you ever have need of anything?” Albert said.
“No,” Janice said.
“And why is that,” Albert said.
Johnny watched as a hyena stalked a tiger kitten. While the tiger kitten was cute, part of him wanted the hyena to kill the kitten. The suspense was almost unbearable for Johnny.
“Because you are a great provider,” Janice said.
Albert harrumphed. “If the clicking is bothering you that much,” Albert said. “Get me a beer.” Albert switched the channel and Janice went to the kitchen. Johnny watched the changing channels hoping to catch a glimpse of what happened when dad surfed passed.
I’m exhausted. I spent the day working myself into a lather about the new bicycle. Have I mentioned how obsessed I become before I buy a new toy? After test driving (test cycling is probably the more accurate term) a number of bikes, I fell in love with one but somehow resisted buying it—I convinced myself that I needed more time to research and speak to Scott, my local biking hero. (I’m still not sure which word I prefer: ‘bike’ or ‘bicycle.’ ‘Bike’ makes it sound either more manly (“look at that guy on the Harley with the big-boobed chick”) or more childish (“Now, Charlie, get your bike and put it into the garage). ‘Bicycle’ makes it sound either sporty (“Lance Armstrong, on his bicycle for his last Tour de France, is sure to be talked about as the best bicycle rider in history”) or old-fashioned (“Looky, looky, the whole gangs here: we have Audie on the unicycle, Rupert on the bicycle, and Konrad on the tricycle—look at the size of the tricycle’s wheel; isn’t that amazing?”). I’m going to have to give this much more thought.)
Getting back to the bike, after work today, I headed back to the bike shop (notice that they don’t call it a bicycle shop, or do they?), and plunked down my credit card to make the purchase. For those interested in this type of stuff, the bike is a 2005 Litespeed Firenza with an Ultegra 9spd (18 gear combinations) package. As is my curse (or weakness or advantage, depending on which way you look at it), it’s a fancy bike, lightweight and built for speed. I spent thirty minutes picking out all the necessary biking gear (it’s amazing how much gear I buy for my hobbies). I bought and installed the bicycle rack on the back of my car, a very time-consuming process, and spent the entire drive home staring into my rearview mirror to ensure that my sparkling new bicycle didn’t try to run off into traffic.
After arriving home (and a quick run to the PCC for fuel), I took the bike for an hour ride. It was glorious. Sure, the bike shorts made my already chicken-looking legs look, well, chickenier, and I couldn’t for the life of me get used to the shoe clips (note to self: when breaking at the bottom of the hill, disengage the clips before coming to a complete stop and tipping over), but the speed (according to the trip computer—a necessary biking accessory—I topped out at 32.4 mph, road 10.4 miles over around 50 minutes (I forgot to turn off the computer, so I don’t have an accurate time), leaving me at an average speed of 12.4 mph.)—what was I talking about? Oh, yes, the speed, when I got myself going, was amazing. Now, my numbers are not incredible, even for a first ride, but, remember, I’m working toward my goal of riding to work, a 30-mile commute, in about 1:15. I’m still a wee-bit off that pace.
The ride would have been perfect except for the ending. A huge hill (it’s actually three hills with large spikes sticking out of the concrete and Hun warriors chasing me and poking my legs with big pole arms) leads up Orcas Avenue from Seward Park to my street. After riding a wide circle along the lake—not the entire lake, just a small piece of it, at a point of which I turned around and retraced my steps—I made it back to the park, switched to the lowest gear, and cranked up the hill. I made it around three-quarters of the way up before I gave up. That was a mistake. Had I continued pedaling and fighting the hill (and the Hun warriors), I would not have had the horror show that was my attempts to get my feet clipped back into the pedals on an incline. It took me many false starts and countless slipped shoes before I managed to finish the hill. I’ll beat Orcas. It’s just a matter of time. It’s quaking in its mountainous shoes as we speak.
I’m not sore yet. I figure it’ll hit me tomorrow or perhaps the next day. It doesn’t matter much. Assuming the weather holds, I’ll continue riding during the evenings and weekends. I love goals. I would post pictures of my new bicycle, but I’m too comfortable (and lazy and tired) to get my camera. For the record, it looks sort of bike-y.
Switching gears (do the puns ever end?), many people have commented that my writing has been suffering as of late. Julie believes that physical activity will get me back into the swing of things. I’m hoping she’s right, because I’ve been frustrated over the last week. I doubt I’ll get much more writing done today, but I’m hoping this week I’ll put a few words together and post something substantial.
I am working on my yogurt story, but I grew frustrated rewriting the first three paragraphs countless times. I know I should move on but I haven’t found the hook yet. I’ve managed, over the course of a lazy Julie Sunday, to write another three paragraphs and not move the story one iota past where it was on Friday. I’ll keep working on it in secret, so I can spring it on you and you can bask in its unmitigated beauty. Wouldn’t that be great? For now, I’ll share random tidbits that are not related to yogurts. As you will tell, it was a difficult day.
Humming along the darkened paths, the eyeballs riveted to the frames looking through cloudy streets to what wasn’t there. My words find constipation in the form of tight black balls behind eyeballs that haven’t found anything to look at in weeks. Where did the words go? When did the imagery of twilight decide to hide during the weekend? I think only of days past and look at the growth of trees during springtime as if shot by a mutant ray. I breathe deeply and search for serenity and find only hard walls and layered dirt.
What is wrong with my mind that my focus is gone from the light? I have nothing to say and no way of saying it. That should be my mantra for days like this, perfect days, where the summer awaits.
Nothing is going on in there. I’m too anxious. Where is my inspiration? My dedication? My, let’s get this going because I have somewhere I want to get going to? This is enraging me. I’m enraged.
My brain’s gears grind and squeak relentlessly through the night, almost as if the mechanic forgot to replace my oil during an oil change. I spend what should be my sleep time replaying past video games, recalculating virtual moments in vivid, bright flashes of intense and inane concentration.
I go to lunch with Julie’s family in Dallas. A fortune-teller lady, an old friend of Julie’s parents, joins us, and grabs my wrist to read my palm. She doesn’t speak English but Julie translates. She has a grandmotherly look but I don’t like her because Jennifer, Julie’s younger sister, is her favorite, and I’m partial to Julie. I forget most of what she says—partly because I don’t believe much in fortune telling, and partly because I have a bad memory—but I remember she says I spend too much time thinking, and not thinking in a good way.
We stand near the water-cooler and Larry discusses a new lawnmower. I mention that I am procrastinating calling a gardener to take care of the Castle’s garden. Larry looks at me as if I’m from Mars. He says gardening is one of his favorite activities because it gives him a chance to get out of the house and perform mindless, satisfying, and guilt-free work. He says I’ll understand when I’m an older family man the satisfaction inherent in mindless activities.
My mind is constantly in motion. I’d like to say that it spends its time pondering big and important questions, formulating theories about life’s deeper meaning and my place within that meaning. I’d like to say that it spends hours forming logical arguments about topics of interest, thinking through the building blocks and tying them together with anecdotal yarns. I’d like to say that I have some control over my mind’s activities; that I can direct it to the questions that interest me, and focus its attention on working out particularly knotty issues that make up my life. But I don’t. None of it. At best, I can show it the direction I want it to go, and hope that it will get there, eventually. As it is now, it spends most of its time spinning in the dirt and rerunning embarrassing, stressful, or poorly actuated moments. I’m recast as the hero with at times tragic results.
My friends, Julie, and I played video games for a relatively fun two and a half hours last night. Toward the end, my head started pounding and I knew I was in for a bad night. As I discussed above, my brain has problems getting past too much concentrated effort, especially if that activity occurs in front of a computer. (This isn’t an issue with writing. If anything, I feel more rested after a long writing session, and while my mind may dwell on a plot or characters, or a particular nasty turn of phrase, it never does so in an anxiety-filled way.) As I tossed and turned in bed last night, I thought of giving up the video games, something I’m sure The Nameless One would welcome. I’m not willing to go that far (just one last drink, I swear), but I am going to try to further limit it by playing only when Erik, Will, and Julie can find available time. This should decrease my video game time to around four hours a week—a good, in my mind, amount of time to waste on a fun if unproductive hobby.
I find myself again racing against the clock to write this musing. I think the time pressure helps me concentrate. When I think about it, there are three things that help me concentrate: (1) yummy caffeine; (2) time pressure when I have something to say; and (3) being locked away somewhere (e.g., airplanes) with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
I’m looking forward to Julie’s visit this weekend. After this weekend, however, we’re not going to see each other for a very long month. We’ll next see each other when we celebrate Julie’s birthday in June (chief—i.e., to remember her birthday, I use the mnemonic I learned in The Memory Book: CH=6, F=8, and vowels are ignored, reminding me that June 8th is Julie’s birthday) with a trip to Vancouver.
I’m going for a fitting for a new bicycle on Friday. I might attempt commuting by bicycle to work a couple of days a week. It’s an hour and fifteen minute ride to work, and a forty-five minute ride home (thanks to the hills). I might have to build up to it, but it’s a goal for the summer. I figured if I bicycled to work, then I wouldn’t have to go to the gym—not that I’ve been going to the gym lately. But I did take a long jog a couple of days ago, and even though my legs still hurt, I felt great. Driving home today, I came up with an even better reason for a bicycle commute. With a beautiful Seattle day, I was stuck in an hour and a half worth of traffic on the way home. In other words, I would have made it home faster if I had bicycled. And, yes, my commute was very angry, as I yelled at the cars around me, and Julie, who decided she didn’t want to talk to angry David today.
I just drank the last few drops of orange juice. I opened it a few weeks ago, and as I upended the carton, I realized that the orange juice had begun fermenting. It wasn’t the pleasantest of experiences.
As part of our monthly “Wine Down” at work, Larry (the colleague I spoke about above) brought his hot-air balloon. We inflated and tethered (pronounced teh-thered, not tea-thered, as I thought) the balloon, and Larry took people up for a forty foot flight. I was in charge of the main rope that attached the balloon to his car. I was an important person. Below are some pictures of this event.
The inside of the balloon when I went for a ride.
Leonard standing next to the tow rope that was my charge
Larry, the Balloon Master
I’ve been quiet lately. Today will be another quiet day. I started drafting a story yesterday, but my mind has been on other things. Bad things. Namely, video game things. Julie and I have been playing World of Warcraft (WOW). We started playing only a few hours a week, and that slowly built to over ten hours a week. And then, miraculously, we stopped. Julie went off to China (without David, who’s not bitter, not bitter at all), and, after not playing for a couple of weeks, I felt my addiction shrink away like ice cubes kept too long in the freezer. I didn’t want to play. The thought of running the rat race in video game land was gone. NEQID was upon me, and I was a bigger, better person. I used my time to read and write more, and even started keeping the Castle clean.
And then the unthinkable happened. I received an innocent looking email from Erik, a friend from graduate school. It was short and it said he was going to do it, he was going to buy WOW. I had spoken about WOW to Erik before—well, actually, I had spoken to him about Dark Age of Camelot, WOW’s predecessor, and he seemed uninterested. He played video games, but they didn’t involve much online action. He scoffed at my descriptions of MMORPG, thinking only children played such games. So, when he told me about buying WOW, I thought little of it. In truth, I felt bad for him because I knew he would grow addicted as all players do. I was beyond my addiction at that point, shaking my head knowingly at a friend about to fall.
The email chain then expanded to include our mutual friend Will, who I didn’t even know played video games. Erik had somehow convinced Will to buy the game. Will hemmed and hawed, but eventually bought it. He spent the first couple of days struggling to sign in (we had to teach him to turn the computer on before trying to run the game), and in two days, he, too, was addicted. That’s when plans within plans started forming in my brain. Evil plans. Plans involving me reentering the gaming world with Julie at my side, to join Erik and Will in spreading mayhem.
We exchange many emails over the last few days, some describing strategies for working together, others trash talking about respective penis sizes (from what I was able to gather from the conversation, Will, although short in height, towers over Erik in that department). Long email exchanges passed the time at work, and we agreed to log in at 8pm tonight to form the ultimate four-person party and keel (that’s David-video-game speak for killing) unsuspecting mobs (video game monsters).
So, you see, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, with planning for the video games tonight, and leveling up my character (and Julie’s) to the agreed tenth level. I think once we start playing regularly (assuming this works out), I should get back into my normal writing schedule with fewer distractions. At least, that’s my hope.
I’d write more, but it’s almost 5:30pm, and I have to get home and mentally prepare for tonight. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? We’re all going to be rearing to go way before 8pm tonight. We’re addicts after all.
“God damn, I love Kurt Vonnegut,” the writer said.
“What’s that,” his wife said.
“Kurt Vonnegut, I love him,” the writer said.
“That is nice,” his wife said and went back to entering numbers in her spreadsheet.
“You don’t understand,” the writer said, standing up and taking his wife by the shoulders. “You don’t understand. I love Kurt Vonnegut. He’s changing my life.”
“I said that was nice,” his wife said, twisting her shoulders to release them from the writer’s hold. She leaned over and continued plugging numbers into the spreadsheet.
The writer looked at his wife in bewilderment. “Don’t you want to know how he changed my life?” the writer said. “I’ve sat here for the last four hours reading through this book, and I yell out that it changed my life, and you don’t even so much as bat an eyelash. If you yelled out that you calculated the numbers right and they changed your life or even just made your day better, I’d be interested in knowing what, how, and why. You know I would.”
His wife wrote in a few more numbers and turned her shoulders to face the writer. “Okay, dear,” his wife said. “You have my undivided attention. What did this Kurt guy do, how has it changed your life, and why—why did it have to happen now?”
“It’s too late to ask those questions,” the writer said. “I know you’re not really interested. If I were a number in your spreadsheet, maybe then you’d care about changes in me, major changes, life-changing changes. But I’m not, and it’s time I accepted that.” The writer sighed deeply, going as far as saying “sigh” when he exhaled.
“How about I go back and finish the final column I was calculating,” his wife said. “I know this doesn’t mean much to you, but before you interrupted me about Kurt what’s-his-name, I was juggling fifteen numbers in my head trying to complete this calculation. I have to turn this in by tomorrow morning, and it’s going to take me another thirty minutes to find my place and get those numbers back in my head.”
“This is what I’m talking about,” the writer said. “I’m different from you. I know what you do is important, and I try to support you in it. I never said what I’m trying to do is more important. It’s just different—my motivations are different, my inspirations are different. It might take you thirty minutes to get those numbers back into your head to finish your calculations, but my work doesn’t happen that way. I can’t force myself to start writing. I have to find the inspiration where I can find it, and hope it hits me long enough to put it down. That’s why I want to share it with you—it’s because you understand, or, at least, I thought you understood.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” his wife said. “I’m under a lot of pressure. Tell me how this author changed you.” His wife turned her entire body to face the writer. “What is it today?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the writer said.
“Well,” his wife said. “Two weeks ago, you finished a book by that guy who wrote the movie “Fight Club,” which you claimed altered your existence—the book, not the movie, since you never bothered to watch the movie, even though I loved it. And then last Wednesday after you finished reading a book by Rand something-or-other, you turned to me and told me that he changed your life too—something about architecture and great men. You even wondered if you had wasted your life writing when your real calling might have been architectural design.”
“He’s a she, and she did change my life,” the writer said.
“See, dear, I do listen to you,” his wife said. “The thing is, you didn’t write anything afterwards,” his wife said. “Neither time. You didn’t write notes, you didn’t write stories, you didn’t write anything. You talked about the books for days, and by the weekend, you had forgotten about them and started reading your next book, unchanged. I wouldn’t have minded if you at least signed up for an architecture class. That at least would have shown that that book changed something in you.”
“I was changed,” the writer said. ”She changed the way I look out on the world and she changed my writing forever. Writing isn’t like number crunching. Your experiences and knowledge have to ferment deep inside of you. You have no control over the inspiration until it bursts out, sometimes the next day, sometimes years later.”
“How can anything ferment if you never write?” his wife said. “When was the last time you wrote a word? And don’t give me this crock about research. You’ve been researching for three years now, and nothing has come of it. How does this Kurt author fit into your research?”
“He’s taught me about beliefs and values in my writing,” the writer said. “He’s taught me to simplify my voice and tell shorter stories. He’s taught me not to use semicolons in my work. All of these lessons are very important, very life-changing ideas. They will improve my writing tenfold.”
“That’s all well and good,” his wife said. “Why don’t you grab your loose-leaf paper and one of those hand-sharpened pencils, and apply Kurt’s lessons to a story? That way, I can get back to the numbers on my spreadsheet and I’ll make sure we have food for this week. You do like eating, don’t you dear?”
“But he’s a genius,” the writer said. “Kurt Vonnegut is a genius. If I could capture his voice, I too would be a genius. Don’t you see? I am searching for genius, for greatness, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is showing me the way.” The writer held up Welcome to the Monkey House, his forefinger stuck into the closed book to hold his place. “It’s like he’s showing me the first steps on the path of greatness.”
“Genius, huh,” his wife said. “Why don’t you take it one step at a time? First write something worth reading, and then we’ll banter with the term ‘genius.’”
“You still don’t understand,” the writer said. “Greatness is not about creating something worth reading. It’s about exposing yourself and sharing your nakedness, no matter how embarrassing or misunderstood by others. I’m not looking for your approval. I’m looking for a larger truth.”
“Before you can find truth, you have to put yourself out there, dear,” his wife said. “You have to write something. I’m not saying to stop reading. All I’m saying is that if you want to write, you have to write. Stop looking for perfection or inspiration and put your nose to the grindstone. Writing is hard work, like my work on spreadsheets. It takes me hours to fill in each spreadsheet and double check the calculations. But when I’m done and reasonably sure it’s correct, it’s a great feeling of accomplishment. I don’t see why your writing can’t be the same thing.”
The writer saw his wife in a different light at that moment. He felt that she understood writing more deeply than he did. The feeling passed, however, and he blamed his misunderstanding on the setting sun and the shaded windows. His wife was always beautiful when the evening light hit her just so. But she was a number pusher. And he was a true artist. A number pusher can never understand what a true artist was feeling. The best a true artist could hope for was for the support and understanding of the number pusher.
“It’s different, my love,” the writer said. “I love you very much, but you’ll never understand how I feel when I read Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It’s almost a spiritual transformation.”
“Be that as it may, honey,” his wife said and turned back to her spreadsheet. “Now, go finish reading Mr. Vonnegut, and afterwards I’m sure you’ll find inspiration to write a story or two, maybe even finish a bit more research for your masterpiece.” There was no bitterness in his wife’s voice. Even had she shared some of her bitterness, the writer would not have heard it. He leaned back in his chair, opened the monkey book, and read the next story.
***
Story Ideas: Relaxation, Yogurts.
There’s nothing quite like the smell of summer during spring. Glancing through my last few story fragments, I find little worth saving. I have to get out of the funk. It feels like my years of consternation while in Houston, where I’d sit in the bucks of stars and type complaints. I complain too much. It’s the Brooklyn in me, the Brooklyn and the Jew. I haven’t run out of things I want to say, I’ve run out of ways to say it. I keep telling myself that I’m transitioning, moving from one style to another. I like to lie to myself. It makes me feel better.
First step: get over the boredom. I need to accept the boredom as a technique. The fatigue is not helping. I’m tired of writing. I feel like I need a break and I know if I take the break, I might not return. It won’t happen, of course. I’m not going to take the break, only wish I could and continue to torture myself. I have yet to take this beyond my experiences. I wonder if I am capable. I don’t see things in my heads. Actually, I do.
I let the couch surround me. I close my eyes slowly, watching my eyelids cover my vision like window shades. My breathing slows and I enter my room. The room is round with white walls and a spherical ceiling. I walk across the thick black rug and the strands sneak between my toes, massaging my foot with each step. I walk to the black reading chair and oversized ottoman in the middle of the room. I recline in the chair and swing my legs over the ottoman. I reach for the white mug of steaming mocha on the iron-wrought table next to the chair. I suck some of the whipped cream to create a hole through which I drink the mocha. I place the mug back on the table and a thin layer of whipped cream reforms over the hole. I look through the two circular windows on the spherical wall in front of me. The room darkens as I watch the night sky through the windows until the windows become my eyes filling my vision with the nightscape. Calmness descends over me and then everything goes black.
I need to see things in my head before I write, like the athlete who pictures her performance before beginning. It’s an exercise in imagination and creation, similar to my throwing of words onto the page without thought to warm up.
Try and trial. Imaging the twilight setting. He makes an argument. I foreswore logic years ago. Present reasoning and storytelling. What? Such difficulty, said over the evening capitals. Silence rises over terrifying obstacles. Tell the story. What stories do I have to tell? Research. A how-to on research. I need the tools but I lack them. Silence. Richness. I’ve said nothing and lots of words of fears and consternations. So much wasted ink! Forget original thoughts and cleverness. This hurts—this emptiness hurts. Where is my inspiration? I feel it escaping me. Green round table. Wants. Farts.
I can’t even say it.
I want to say something beautiful. All I say is useless. It’s the saying something that I’m having problems.
Nothing has happened and all the words I throw against the wall slide down and leave a greasy residue.
Darkness crept through the woods and was upon me before I realized. What angers me on days like this? What type of day is it?
I’ve grown scared of my own writing. I approach the brink after an hors d’oeuvre of words and pray that I will say something meaningful. I form each word as a potter forms clay, using my fingers to bore a hole that I hope to fill with significance. I remember a time when this was not painful or scary. My memory was never that good. I brave the crossing and wait. There are days when I fall to the side of bitterness, where uncertainty and longing replace my strength. But I live for the other days.
I didn’t always talk in abstraction. I used to really want to say something. I wonder what happened to those times. I should train myself to press the spacebar with my left hand. It is harder than one would think. It reminds me of when I trained myself to use the mouse with my left hand. My right wrist hurt from too many hours of video games, and I switched the mouse to the left side and introduced my left hand to the mouse.
He was tall. She was short. He had short brown hair, or, better, he had cut his brown hair short, to avoid ‘to be.’ It was nice. She sat. He sat. The sun rose early, it set late. The grass was green. The air smelled of corruption. He cuffed his pants. He wore cuffed pants. He was like his cuffed pants, cuffed. I’m throwing it all out there, all the thoughts that make me feel like I say nothing. All the simple responses when taken alone—and that’s how I consider everything, alone—become meaningless.
I stopped playing chess because I found that there were a finite number of openings, and I hated beginnings. I stopped bowling because I found that there was a way to win, and I hate perfection. I started writing because I never had to worry about beginnings and perfections.
It’s not the words that scare me, it’s my need to say something. Let’s try it. I want to introduce Bob—there’s a Bob in every story. He’s lonely and short and very insecure. He’s also the president of a large company, and his loneliness and shortness and insecurity doesn’t come across with others, only in his own mind.
I walk into the meeting room and everyone turns. A guy with a yellow tie near the door laughs. I could have sworn he pointed in my direction before laughing. What is his name . . . Sam-something. He’s huge. Since when did we start hiring giants? They’re not natural. I’ve spoken to HR many times about this. For their bodies to grow that big there must be serious shortchanging going on. And since their other external parts look rather normal, my belief—and I am planning on funding research in this area to justify the change in policy—is that its their brains that are sacrificed.
The giant approaches me. It takes all my willpower not to shrink away. “Sam Weiner, sir. It’s a privilege to finally meet you, sir.” Sam holds out his hand and I shake it. His hand engulfs mine and I lean a bit to the left to ensure I still have a hand. When he lets go, I say, “Glad to have you onboard, Sam. I’ve heard good things about you.” I leave out the part about his laugh. I know he was expecting taller. Everyone always expects taller. But I’m a quick short man, and I use this quickness to take a chair at the far end of the table before I have to measure up against anyone else.
“Let’s get this underway.” I can’t see who said it. My back hurts. I pat my stomach under the table. It’s growing and straining my back. I lean back in my chair and put my hands on my chin. They start talking and the presentation appears on the wall. I wonder if my growing stomach makes me look shorter. The room is standing room only, and I try to measure the people who are standing to see if their girth makes a difference in the appearance of their height.
Okay, I threw down a moderately uninteresting character with even more moderately uninteresting words. I have to actually do something with that now. This is where I usually crash and burn.
Crashed and burned I did. But now I have more time, flying on an airplane to visit Julies. Short visions of what should be in my head.
There was a time when I thought I knew truth. I would spit that truth into faces and laugh at the ridicule. What is in a ridicule but a fear of truth?
Zonkers. Tried and yellow truths over thick globs of phlegm. Where is the latest of late? When was the last time I made sense? Was there ever such a time? An old man in a small boat fishing against the sea.
Write about what you know. I don’t know much. I know about corporations and video games. I know about moving and traveling on airplanes. I know about families and loss. I know. I know little. I know my everyday happenings, the minutiae of my thoughts, my underdeveloped theories. I know what I see and what I do. I know about depression and coldness. I should feel but I lock up my feelings and let them out only on special occasions when the fisherman’s hook digs deep into my heart. I know about nothingness. Is there a purpose for everything? Tipper tapper. I type words with no hope of meaning. I wander into the deep end knowing I can’t tread water forever. Patience is a virtue, but after four years of patience, it becomes less a virtue than an excuse.
This is where I head and what I know. Learn something new!
The soothsayer approaches the king with nine books of prophecy. The soothsayer negotiates by burning six books. The king receives three books of prophecy for the price of nine. He offers her anything to recreate the other six, but she does not relent.
I can’t even tell myths properly. Dementia must be setting in.
Today is a day of empty thoughts and emptier writings. My mind spins in circles, and only circles appear on the paper as if drawn by sharpened compasses. I have no stories to tell. I cage words and they demand payment. Inflation is a bitch. What if I have no great book in me? I see you Carl, lurking in me these last few weeks. You know you are a lucky demon. If I didn’t love you, I would have thrown you out years ago.
I’m feeling empty. This morning I was depressed about everything. That passed. This evening, as I try to write, I look at the empty words and quasi-depression returns. I’d like to say it was a delicious depression, but if I did, I’d be deluding myself. As I attempt to write parts of stories, I feel a terrible inability to say something. I look back and wonder what value the words have. They are repeated words, words said a million times as filler for something more meaningful. I know I’m consternating and should suck it up, but it’s difficult when I write such words, and when I don’t know if any of my words will ever have meaning. I want to reach beyond this medium, to find someway of saying things that is special for me.
You know that feeling when nothing you do or say is adequate. That’s where I am now. Where every word I write bangs me over the head and I wonder what the use is.
A few stories are spinning through my head, and I’m trying to grab hold of them. It doesn’t provide much of an excuse for my poor output, but I’m hoping a weekend in California will open my clogged pores.
I know, shut up already and write something. I’m getting to that.
Abu slept tucked under the bedcovers. Even in that position, Tara could see how very tall and very thin he was. His head, shaved thirty years before at the first signs of baldness, was too large for his body. His small rounded eyeglasses had left indentations on his nose and face. He had aged gracefully. The loose skin on his face wrinkled only slightly at the edges of his face muscles. The few liver spots on his head looked like artfully placed, as if planned to give Abu a more regal and wise appearance. Abu was thirty years Tara’s senior, and she did not care. She studied Abu as he slept and counted his breaths, which seemed shallower than she remembered.
Tara had watched the thin lines of morning appear framing the three windows. It had been a long night for Tara. Today, she would accompany Abu to his doctor’s appointment. Her stomach groaned at the thought of the appointment, and Abu’s eyes opened.
“How long have you been up, dear?” Abu said with no sleep in his voice.
“Just a bit. It looks to be a beautiful day.”
D: So this is where you’ve been hiding.
S: I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been here the whole time.
D: You can’t go off and hide like that. We were worried.
S: Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about it.
D: What were you thinking about?
S: Stuff.
D: Do you mind taking your thoughts and sharing them with your grandparents. They’ve been looking forward to spending time with you all week.
S: They’ve been watching television all day.
D: You like television.
S: Not what they’re watching. It’s boring.
D: Would you spend time with them as a favor to me?
S: Why?
D: Because I asked you.
S: That’s not that good of a reason.
D: Well, what would be a good reason?
S: Why do you work?
D: If you think I’m going to I’m not paying you to spend time with your grandparents, you have another thing coming, kiddo.
S: …
D: They’re only here for another four days, and after today, you’ll be in school all day. I didn’t want to tell you this, but they might just possibly have your present in the living room now.
S: What is it?
D: You’ll have to go in there to find out.
S: I thought you said you weren’t going to pay me to spend time with them.
D: I’m not the one who bought the gifts.
S: You’re not lying?
D: About what?
S: The presents.
D: I never said they had presents, I said they might possibly have presents.
S: So you’re saying they don’t have presents.
D: I didn’t say that either. Why don’t you go spend time with them and find out? Use some of those detective skills you keep talking about. Sniff out the presents.
S: I don’t want to be a policeman anymore.
D: When did this happen?
S: I’m growing up, dad. I wanted to be a policeman when I was a kid.
D: Why don’t you talk to you grandparents about your more future plans? I’m sure they’re interested.
S: They’re never interested in anything I say. They pinch my cheeks and tell me to keep my voice down. Can’t I give them a picture of me sitting quietly and leave it at that?
D: That’s an idea. Why don’t you show them your drawings? Your grandpa was quiet the cartoonist when he was young.
S: He never wants to talk about his cartoons. They never want to talk about nothing. I don’t know why they bother to come.
D: They’re my parents, and the come because I invite them and because we love them very much. That’s what family does: we love each other unconditionally. Just because they’re not as entertaining as your friends, doesn’t mean you can ignore them. Now, get your butt into the living room and spend some time with your grandparents.
S: Sure. But you owe me one.
D: We’ll call it even for me feeding and clothing you for the last thirteen years of your life.
S: One evening with grandparents for thirteen years of feeding and clothing. Seems fair.
D: I’m glad you approve. Now, get moving before they go to sleep.
S: It’s only four thirty, and we haven’t even had dinner yet.
D: We’re going out for dinner tonight, your grandparents’ treat.
S: They have a coupon or something?
D: Get.
S: I was just asking. You coming?
D: I’ll be there in a moment. And, yeah, buy one get one free.
S: Sounds delicious.
D: Be nice.
Somber lights rise off endless days reaching past and over the shades of night. My wheels spin in a rut. If someone would mind getting out and giving me a push, I’d greatly appreciate it.
The tree flowered pink. Thomas checked the tree everyday for pinkness.
“I just heard. Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone is fine. But my stuff. None of my stuff is fine. I lost it all. My whole life was in there.”
By the time my neighbor Margie called, the fire department had finished their work. It would be another day before the building inspectors declared the remains of the house safe enough for me to pick through the rubble. I grew up in the house and had lived there for the past fifteen years, after inheriting it from my mother when she passed on.
It could have been worse. I could have been in the house when the fire started. The fire department told me that the fire spread so quickly, it was a good thing I wasn’t in the house. The fire followed the wiring in the house, burning in the walls under exploding out into the rooms almost simultaneously. That’s what they told me.
Today is another coffee-free day. I’m not sure why I feel the need to report continuously on my caffeinated state. I think it’s like the weather, an innocent statement to start the conversation, or at least explain why my writing is short or bad (not that my writing is ever short or bad).
As part of NEQID, I’ve been thinking a lot about concentration. Even as those words left my fingers, I felt the pulls of distraction, as if someone tied a rope to my . . . okay, I’ll spare you that imagery . . . and forced me to click Internet Explorer and romp through the blogosphere. For all their talk about content written by millions, there’s rarely anything good on.
My stomach’s imagination runs rampant. Who rises in the evening to understand its gurgling? Its anger streaks across unknown landscapes and I wonder if I ever knew its brethren. Clarity of mind hides and thoughts of a family of cows raised without a bull haunt me. Succor.
Wires send signals over wireless avenues. Sleep waits for me but when I join up with her, she laughs and waves me off. What do you think you’re doing here, she’ll ask, a brightness covering her smile. I’m trying to sleep, I’ll respond, as if my answer is not obvious to an incarnation. You are not ready for sleep. You have yet to accomplish much, she will say. I’ll nod in disagreement but she’ll regard my statement and dance off to pester other wild flowers.
Say what you will about closed eyes, but they tell you much about the insights of kindness. Forgiveness is a virtue of those comfortable in their own skin with their own ideals about what the perfect person is, and can forgive those who fail to reach those exalted heights. For one of the steps up is to look down and forgive all that are below. How else can you achieve bliss?
This is an amazing diary entry of my friend Steve who is traveling Thailand searching for himself. Enjoy.
Today's crap is bad. I try not to give warnings, but if you have anything better to do--like cut your toenails or count the grains in your hourglass--I suggest you do it and not waste time with the following words.
I’m back at it. I sit in a construction area and wait for them to build something. It’s not in me. Foamy inspiration refuses to assault me, and I have no alternate plans. Backhoes push up the earthly remains of earthworms and bugs, and I feel my iron-girded resolve under its shovel. Where is the time for grass to grow? Hoses and soap buds move beyond my reach. I have nothing—that’s a word I’m playing with, tossing it about as if I could create its meaning through dedication, thoughts that make little sense, and words that if I translated would sound more like guttural growls than wishful thinking. Balls of light hang from overhead and I wait for memories to assail me. They will, with a little prodding and a little caffeine, and time. My fingers, moving of their own accord, will begin to think on their own, and images will coalesce before them. I hope to identify with them and want to share those words . . . or not.
A penny sits on its head on the retched green floor. Showing tails, that is.
I’m back downtown. It was a mistake coming here. My coffee smells vaguely of sweat, and I wonder whose sweat. Little is done today except for the monkey’s pushing of keys. If I walk up a mountain, should I slide or jump down?
Who are my influences? Do I know what an influence is? I read about how artists (I almost mistakenly said “other artists”) are influenced by authors, movies, strange people walking down the street. In a way, I am as well, although it is at a lower level of consciousness. I don’t think through what I read. I don’t analyze it for influences or for how it changes me. I appreciate it as all readers appreciate good writing, but I don’t delve deeper. My only depth is jealousy, a jealousy firmly planted in its genius. My writing changes for a moment as my voice takes on the style of the great work. But to say that the changes are for good is laughable.
I need influences and analysis, which brings me back to my needs for original thought. I am going to stop calling it that, OT. There is no such thing as original thought because people have thought all thoughts worth thinking under the sun. What I try to do is pick up their pieces and hawk them as my own.
The danger? I run into a fire sale on thoughts and nobody wants to buy.
And so I struggle. I make out my struggles as if they were epic, as if the whole world waited in balance to see if I could push out a few more words. If only the world revolved around me as it does in my own small mind.
Struggles. A gaggle of monsters walk into the house.
The world spins and I try to slow it with my hand, but the continents scrape my hands raw.
Juggernauts walk the streets. They sit for a spot of tea before they continue to reek havoc on the hard-hat population. I give up and walk the streets.
I’m back from obscurity. I sit in a comfortable leather chair and prepare myself for an epiphany.
Instead of talking, why don’t you write?
I’m drained today, more drained than I thought I would be after yesterday’s efforts. Words come to me but ideas remain out of my reach. Nothing runs through my mind. How about I tell a simple tail about a mouse.
Jimmy the mouse lived in the walls of a brownstone in Brooklyn. He lived with his small family, who chewed through the wall. His ancestors had made a nice home for Jimmy and his family, and he included them in his prayers every night. Living in the house with Jimmy was a young couple and a small boy. When they first moved in, his family had been up in paws, afraid that they would bring with them a dog or cat that would ruin their run of the house. The family didn’t have any pets, and after a few weeks, the mice settled down and chewed contently through the wood, enlarging their home in the walls.
“You have an idea?”
“Yes,” she said. Her face lit, her green eyes grew, and she breathed in small, shallow breaths.
“Well?”
“Peanut butter loves jelly.”
“And?”
“I mean it loves jelly.”
“This is brilliant?”
Why does it say nothing? I’ve had enough in the way of caring, but now I’m in the way of doing. Zilch, there’s nothing here for me. Why can’t I come up with anything to say? I don’t understand where it’s going to take me. It doesn’t make any sense! Why would I come here, spend the whole day pushing at my brain, only to have it push back, as the balloon against the press of a finger? Consternations piled on consternations. Oh, the pain!
I’ve written so many words and said nothing. Where do we go for the night on the run?
She waited for the bus in the brown enclosure. It was late and she waited for the last bus of the evening. It was cold and she wasn’t dressed for it. She held her pocketbook close, and leaned over the curb to search for the bus. A man stood by the bus stop with her.
Since when do horizons rise over the last of the nights? Do we have to put out the evenings gray to hide from where they came? I wait until the night and then I find that we can do it; we can wave gray waves over buses of night. The flag didn’t move. What is my fascination with waving? I waited and could not be here for here we go there I don’t know. Key is in the night. Why do I care if he had something to tell me? The night’s waiting. I waited for it, but I don’t know.
Such senseless words. I’m typing to say nothing and nothing is said. I’m not frustrated, I just hoped for a better outcome, but I didn’t expect one. I’m like that. I know I want something, as caffeine surges through my veins, but I don’t know what I want. This is pathetic.
All stories have less exciting parts. I have to remember that. I think each part of my story must be exciting or emotional. My only requirement should be that the story moves forward in some way, revealing information or setting the scene, or doing something. Nothing more. Without slower parts, there can be nothing exciting or moving.
As part of my weekend explorations of Seattle, I visited Wallingford. This neighborhood, like most Seattle neighborhoods, consisted of a few commercial blocks along a congested avenue lined with shopping and cafes. I ate lunch at a weekend-breakfast place, and sat at the bar watching the short-order cooks. The grill chef—his stubbles length led me to the belief that he used the same razor on his head and face—served the finished plates to the counter, yelling “Alisa Please,” “Tim Please,” and “Samantha Please,” to pick up their respective dishes. I thought of many awful jokes about waiters from the Please family, or the Please Restaurant, but I resisted sharing them with you (well, sort of). The mushrooms in my delicious omelet must have been funky to sketch such absurdities in my Moleskine.
Besides the grill chef, there was an omelet chef, and three kitchen helpers, who chopped up the vegetables, prepared the toast and batters, and washed the dishes. They all wore the white chef shirts and checkered black and white pants that seem standard in kitchens. I wonder who started that. The restaurant smelled of frying butter, and because one table was in the bar area, the hostess asked everyone she placed on the waiting list if they were over 21. The waiting time for all patrons: 10 minutes regardless of how many people were waiting.
After lunch, I walked through Wallingford before settling on a Tully’s coffeehouse as my morning writing place. Tully’s had a nicer sitting area than the next-store bucks of stars. While I would have preferred a non-chain coffeehouse, the choices were slim. I wrote random warm-up thoughts, bad stories, and complaints, all of which I’ll post separately.
I spent the late afternoon in a quaint teahouse with a variety of tea choices and convenient electrical outlets and wireless access. I drank Hantou Dawn Oolong tea, served by the owner, a white man with wild black hair framing his baldhead, and thick, black eyebrows, which jutted out an inch on both sides of his head. He had a definite tea fetish, and served the tea with an almost-religious deference. He was chatting with the customer in front of me—a chat that resulted in me waiting an additional fifteen minutes before ordering my tea—about a former employee at the teahouse who moved to China and married a Chinese woman he met in the first Chinese restaurant he visited. I’m not sure if that was fate or desperation.
While at the teahouse, I tried to organize my thoughts, but my mind, still rattled from a caffeine overload, bounced too fast for me to grab onto. The tea was very tasty, but the service confused me. They provided two teapots, one full of the tealeaves and hot water, and the other empty. I poured the tea from the first teapot into my cup using the strainer. After drinking the whole teapot, I realized by watching my neighbors that I should have strained the tea into the second teapot, and poured my cups from there. At least I reckoned that they gave me an oven mitt to cover the teapot while it steeped.
As I drank the tea, I realized that the caffeine was too much after my morning mocha, and my mind soared miles ahead of the rush. I was comfortable with that, but I knew I’d need to organize these thoughts eventually, and the thought of picking through and finding gems was disconcerting.
After riding out the explosions, I drove home, and stopped at a shady carwash. The owners were adding to the twenty-year old carwash a barbeque shop and barbershop. For twenty dollars, they hand washed my car, even cleaning the inside of the rims, an area that hasn’t felt a sponge since I bought the car. Even though it rained halfway through the carwash, the interesting characters that worked or just hung out there made it a worthwhile stop. It’s nice to occasionally the corporate culture and find such neighborhood places.
I arrive at the bar with friends. They’re talking now, away from me. Smoke fills the bar and the music plays too loud. I try to listen to my own thoughts, but they’re dark and I decide to stay away from them. I’m nursing a drink on a barstool, trying to avoid touching other people. They’re close, the other people, and I don’t like people too close. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m the dark-clad stranger, sitting wistfully in the corner, knowing that my mystery will attract someone.
The fantasy runs through my head. How can a woman resist me? Who is that strange character over there? He’s been sitting by himself for the past hour. He must be thinking strange thoughts, to sit in the corner for so long by himself. I should go over to him and introduce myself. He may turn me away, but I must know what he’s thinking, what dark, important thoughts are running through his head.
I would welcome an interruption like that in my fantasy, but I drink the water-downed alcohol and look around for friends that I don’t want to talk to. I drank too much too quickly. I was engaging for a while, but now I’m depressed. I want to go home but I don’t want to fight through the crowd to find out where home would take me. There are too many people between my friends and me. I would push through them and end up swinging. I can’t think with the music going on. Who plays music this loud? My voice is gone because of the smoke and the music and the screaming. I’m not a good talker. I talk from my throat, which rips it roar before the evening starts. The smoke did not make it much better.
A girl walks over and smiles. I stare, mysterious-like, and she walks by. I replay the encounter in my head, and I say something to her, but I can’t make out her response. She’s gone now. If I had to do it again, I’d say something, perhaps something clever. She probably wondered who I was and what I was thinking, being such a mysterious stranger sitting on the bar and thinking deep thoughts. That’s what I do, think deep dark thoughts as if I had something to say in the middle of the night on an evening like that.
The dance floor is filling up and people are moving, balancing drinks in their right hands and cigarettes in their left. The lights are flashing, sparkling, and blinding me as I begin nodding my head. Girls like that. They can see that I have a beat, that I can move, which they know would translate into bed moves; Not that I know much of those. I do know it’s a matter of time before another girl smiles, and this time I’m ready. I practice my smiles, pushing past my half smile to show teeth. The same girl comes back to the bar. Her friends must drink a lot. I then realize she works here. In her black outfit, I didn’t see where the black apron holding her pad. She smiles again and approaches.
“You want something?”
“I’m good,” I say and look away. She’s looking for money. Even had I smiled earlier, she wouldn’t have been impressed. She’s pretty, though, small with dark hair. Twenty earrings pierce one of her ears, and I’m impressed that she endured that much pain to accessorize her ear. I begin to watch her as she walks back and forth. Her clothing is tight and I enjoy it. She smiles but doesn’t come back. She’s probably scared of the mysterious guy.
I begin to have fantasies about her, about how she asks me to stay after her shift to talk. One of my friends, Brian, comes up to me and strikes up a conversation, breaking my fantasy. He says things and I smile and sip my drink. The ice is gone and the water does not mix well with the liquor. I respond in short answers, which I assume will show off my dark nature to the girls around me. None of them seems to pay attention and Brian loses interest. He asks if I want a drink and I wave him off, as if to say, I still have this drink, and that’ll do me for a while.
The waitress doesn’t come back, and I don’t blame her. She has money to make, and she doesn’t want to waste her time with my dark, mysterious look. I’ve held the same drink since I arrived here. A fight breaks out across the dance floor. It entertains me for a bit, but after the bouncers drag out the smaller guy who had his face punched in, I loose interest. I should have brought a book or something. That would make me appear even more mysterious. Who brings a book to a bar, they would say, the beautiful woman, that is. He must be one of those intellectuals who can impress me with his readings and deep thoughts. That’s me, deep and thoughtful.
I’m not the only mysterious man in the bar. An older man, grizzled with a white beard and mustache, sits across the bar. He wears thick, rounded eyeglasses and sits before a line of empty shot glasses. He’s sipping his latest and gesturing outrageously to those around him. He’s created a little space, and I’m jealous because I lack space. The wall I’m holding up is wood and a bit sticky. I lean an elbow against the wooden drink table and study those around me.
A woman in a red shirt looks over to me. She’s chubby but has a cute face. I try out my smile on her and she looks away. I study her for a bit, but there are no more interactions. My friends are dancing now. They wave for me to join them and I point to my drink as if to say after I finish. I ignore their strange looks and keep an eye out for the waitress. She’s wears blue converse sneakers and has a pencil through her hair bun. I think she dyed her hair red, but it’s hard to see in the light. She comes over and asks if I want anything, a drink. I croak out “water,” and she smiles, and goes away. I don’t expect her to return. There’s not much in the way of tips for a water delivery.
The music has changed from hard dancing to slow dancing with a methodical bass beat. The dancers have coupled off, and many drunks are holding onto their conquests, whispering into each other’s ears or kissing on the dance floor. Two girls stand up on the stage in front of the DJ and dance, their drinks held over their head, and their bellies visible as their arms pull up their short blouses. I watch them dance, but the lights annoy me and I look away.
Why can’t I be like these people, I ask myself not for the first time. They seem happy, they enjoy what they’re doing, dancing around the room, drinking and talking and flirting. I could do that, the talking and flirting, and even the dancing. But I don’t want to. If I were drunk enough, I’d be there. But my drunkenness doesn’t last long enough. After drinking for a bit, my throat refuses to swallow more alcohol. It knows better than I do when I’m in danger of puking. Once I stop drinking for a bit, I don’t want to drink again. I’m not a bar person. I go because my friends drag me and I keep thinking this time will be different. This time I’d get into a philosophical discussion with a hot blonde with an amazing body, who will look at me and know in that way you look at a good book and know you’re going to enjoy it. But it has never happened. They’re not looking for that. They’re looking for a fun fling that might turn into something else. They’re looking for a fraternity guy who can introduce her to his friends. They’re looking for someone important, someone who will give them a good time. I can’t give them a good time. I only know how to complain and brood.
The waitress comes back with my water and I pull out two-dollar bills from my black leather wallet. I think how much cooler I would be if a silver chain attached my wallet to my belt, but then I remember I don’t even wear a belt. She smiles when I give her the money and walks away. She’s cute from behind. I should have told her that. Too late now. I put what remains of my alcoholic drink on the small table and hold the water, taking sips to soothe my burning throat. The cigarette smoke is thick, and I smell the unmistakable odor of pot. I should have smoked pot before coming, but I don’t do drugs. I’m too prim and mysterious for pot. What would that teach me anyway?
The bar gets crowded, and many groups eye the small table I lean over. They want my standing room, but I glare back at them, daring them to cross into my space and try to take it. I should have peed along its borders. I don’t want them to violate my space because I found this good space with a wall that needed holding and a view of the dance floor. I haven’t been bothered but that seems to be changing as others place their drinks down on my table, elbowing into my space.
My friends get me at 11pm and say they’ve had enough. I look longingly at the waitress, who delivers drinks to the table near mine, and agree with them, following them out the door and trying to avoid touching anyone with cutting moves and quick footwork.
What did I learn at the end of the night? What was the purpose of my attending to such a dark and smoky bar? I have no answers. I talk little on the drive back to campus. My friends relate their adventures, and I realize one of them didn’t make the trip. I ask, and they tell me he was busy and told us to not wait for him. He had a prospect that lived near the bar, and he would take a cab if things didn’t work out. They say they’re going to finish the night at a party in the dorm, but I decline and walk through the cold night back to my room, a little zig-zaggy as the drinks affected me more than I supposed. I’m alone when I enter the dormitory. The halls are quiet and empty, and I hear music playing in some rooms, sometimes jazz, but mostly soulful music and the squeaking beds, which find a rhythm of their own. I regret my loneliness, but know that it’s making me a darker, more mysterious person.
Upside down, the brown chair appears to sit on me, leaning comfortably against my elbow and back, and hanging onto the ceiling by four clawed hands. I used to believe that the world was meant to be viewed right side up, but I’ve become a nonconformist. I sit upside down and wait for the world to take me by storm. Nobody rides in on chariots to claim me.
Clouds roll over the sky, paralleling my thoughts of rain. Whoever stole the sun should return it and apologize. I don’t mind thieves, as long as they realize their mistake and return the pilfered item. I had hoped for answers and nothing found me. Perhaps I was hiding when they looked. I do that, hide at times when I don’t want the answer because it might embarrass me.
Looking beyond my words to the meaning and then thinking about the meaning is what’s keeping me from writing well. I spew initial thoughts out there, but I’m afraid to reexamine them, analyzing them for more than just pleasing musings, but meaningful and in-depth analysis that will bring me closer to truths.
I know I’ll be sick to my stomach this evening, too much concentrated caffeine in too short a period. But for now, I will abuse the power of that most spectacular of herbs and try to force something out without thought. Thought has kept me away from reaching parts of myself. I’m typing as fast as I can and hoping to break through the barriers by not thinking and analyzing and discovering parts of myself that are hidden in closets and under beds.
“Why do you have so many fears?” she asked. I think she was interested in the answer but I wasn’t interested in the question.
“I don’t fear many things.”
“What about heights and thinking and feeling? Those sound like fears to me.”
“They aren’t fears—they don’t stop me from doing things. I climbed all the highest churches in Europe. And I write, which forces me to think and feel. What else do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you.” She lied. Everyone wants something from me, and she’s no exception.
Nonsense left my fingers as I searched for words. I spent the afternoon puking words with little thought, and I spent the afternoon turning the puke into something less messy.
Little things to say, writing the later of nine. Sunglasses here we go. Why the coffeehouse when the wooden boxes. Where are the wooden boxes? The signs of the universe, you decided to go there. I don’t know. The thoughts of lying. Why do people lie? Strange rugs of boxed coordinates. I don’t know what if anything I’m writing about. I’m floating through mind’s eye and wondering if any words could describe this nothingness. The fat man gazes over his boots and socked feet onto the street where rainbow flags wave.
The coffee goes through me and I don’t think it’s stopping to say anything. Inspiration is miles away from my coddled brain over fried eggs. I’m not seeing where it goes from here. The big game watched on the big screen. Where do I find the huggable character that’ll explain life to me? I don’t even know what he is on this late afternoon day. So here goes everything. What is everything on a day like this? Buy me a frog and I may talk to you. Buy me a cantaloupe and I probably won’t. Isn’t that how life always happens?
All the best ideas appear in showers where writing instruments aren’t available. Why can’t I follow through with good ideas and make them into something. I sit here after a mushroom omelet with all energy sapped away. If you can find the sapper, I’d appreciate it.
Such nonsense.
I want to go home and sleep. I’m willing to admit failure and sleep. Why do I use sleep to cover up my failures? What do I hope to find within the confines of my bed that will push me out to where I don’t want to be? Discipline. It’s what I’m missing and don’t think I’ll ever find with my random wanderings. Such crazy words mixed with pancake batter.
How much easier would it be to put down the keys, to roll over and let life escape through the spaces between my fingers? I think about that a lot. I think about what would happen if I stopped. If this page went quiet, and I ordered cable and spent the evenings and weekends mindlessly escaping from my thoughts, focusing on the tasks and politics of my job, perhaps becoming better at it. This would all disappear: my disappointment in my output, my quality, my stories; my endless search for a voice that probably doesn’t exist; my childhood reveries about a past that I should have had, or thoughts that should have filled my waking moments. It all would vanish into a timeless hole of, “yeah, that was me, back then. I don’t know what I thought back then, but I’m glad I’m not thinking that anymore. You have no idea how much time and battery power I wasted on those thoughts.” I would stop drinking coffee and people would be impressed. I would enjoy what normal people do and leave normal at enough of that.
Of course, there would be moments where I’d glance through a bestseller and grimace, knowing that deep inside myself is a voice that would embarrass the. I would think of stories I would want to tell, and repeat them to those around me for the thirty-thousandth time. They would smile, nod, and think, why does he keep torture himself? I would reach toward my back pocket and try to pull out my Moleskine, only to find the pocket flat. Such possibilities would turn into disappointments at what could have been but isn’t. I would look back to the promises to myself and say, “eh, I’ve failed before and I’ll fail again. What of it?”
Those paragraphs hurt.
I feel all the stories in my empty, lacking in substance and reasons to tell them. I want to say something, to write about anything that will cause people to laugh and feel. I’m drained from saying nothing as if nothingness is itself is a drain on my resources. Try as I might, there is nothing that I want more, or could give up for the last time.
Two-thousand word studies.
I don’t want to hear petty stories about petty lives with adjectives like “petty” strewn along the path. I want to learn about something new or meet interesting people who have something to say about the world around them. I don’t want to read ten-thousand words and find no meaning or answers to a life question. All writings should answer something, even if the reader never thought of the question before. I want to give them something they never had before. I don’t want to write something because I had a clever idea, or something happened to me, and I wondered if I could turn it into a story. I want it to be more than that, more than conveying a moment; I want it to convey an answer.
How can I do any of that? What is it I’m trying to do? At least I’m putting words on the paper and wondering if there’s something valuable about these words. People want to see juxtaposition. They see something in writing that reminds them of themselves, or creates an opportunity to cheer someone on or live in his shoes for a moment. Show the moments. So many words that say almost nothing.
Reach outside yourself and see if there’s anything left, anything you want to say that goes beyond nowhere.
Soap. What’s the question? What’s the conflict? The resolution? The characters? The message? Blankness, existential blankness as if that can have a meaning for me. What is rising from this mess of words? Disorganized, piles of nothingness that I hope will say something but that don’t. Cleverness is left behind and turns of phrases and diction, where do they bring me? Monsters riding on the back of pregnant men.
Take junk and turn it into sculptures. I’m pressing forward, pushing against the masses and trying to find my niche within the crowd. Will they give me space, can I reach out and push everyone around me out of the way and say this is my small area, get the fuck off it? Random words and thoughts like swords pressed into the bellies of homeless men.
Two-thousand word studies.
Angst forms small piles around me. I try not to step in it, but it’s hard to avoid.
I write this lying in bed, wondering who stole my day. Inspiration struck me at strange times today, and because of that, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to write. That’s not completely honest: I wrote a few bad paragraphs in an aborted story this afternoon; and instead of writing when I returned home (with plenty of opportunities), I spent the evening watching 28 Up, the fourth segment in what must have been the first reality series on television. The series explored the statement: “Give me a child at seven, and I’ll give you the man.” It’s a rather brilliant concept (brilliant in the English sense of the word).
The producers chose thirteen English children of diverse backgrounds, and filmed their stories and thoughts every seven years, starting when they were seven. I finished the fourth film, the aptly named 28 Up. The premise of the documentary has held up rather well. The thirteen followed the path laid out by their economic class and intelligence. It’s interesting how much is decided when you are so young, and how hard it is to break away from where you grow up. In many ways it reminded me of . . . the book’s name escapes me, but it’s about genetically forcing people into groups: alphas, betas, gammas. My only complaint with the documentary is that it grows repetitive when watching it chronologically. The producers used clips from the earlier episodes to show progressions, which if you’ve seen the earlier episodes becomes rather repetitive. As an elementary sociological experiment, however, it provides keen insights.
(Do you see why I can’t write essays? Instead of explaining the keen insights or explaining things beyond the basic plot points, my head grows heavy and I throw clichéd and trite statements onto the page. One of these days, I’m going to attempt to apply original thought to some of these thoughts. Though I’m afraid if I do, the world as we know it might end.)
This week somehow sprinted past me when I wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until I brushed my teeth this morning that I realized today was Thursday. When I brush my teeth, I usually walk over to the full-length window in my study outside my bedroom (which is outside my bathroom). The window provides a view of the lake, the park, and on clear, cold days, the mountains. As I mindlessly brushed my teeth and gazed over the rainy lake, I saw that my neighbors across the street had put his garbage can out for pickup. I thought this weird, since the garbage trucks only pickup on Thursdays, and today clearly wasn’t a Thursday, it was more like a Tuesday or Wednesday. I figured that my neighbor was probably out of town for the rest of the week and wanted to ensure his garbage was removed. As I brushed the lower left quadrant of my mouth, I looked closer and saw that other neighbors had put out their garbage. At this point I grew suspicious. I decided to check my cell phone for the day. I figured once I ruled that out, I could consider my budding conspiracy theory based on my neighbor’s obvious jealousy of the Castle.
My cell phone put to rest any conspiracy theories, and I began hustling to get ready before the garbage trucks passed my house without taking away my overstuffed bag of garbage, which included two weeks of sucked-up ants (I forgot to empty the vacuum last week). There’s a lesson in here somewhere. I’ll let you know when I figure it out. And don’t you worry: I beat the garbage truck, and my house is now garbage-free. That is, except for the boxes and bags scattered in my second bedroom and storage room. The pile has been growing since I moved in, and one of these days a hauler will haul it all away. With my sister and mother visiting soon, one of those days will have to be soon, or they’re going to be mighty uncomfortable.
When at work, I always try to buy my mocha before the Starbucks-brand coffee stand in the cafeteria closes. As I tried to juggle my schedule and meetings to fit in a visit to the stand, I remembered that I had decided today would be a caffeine-free day. When I woke this morning, after the garbage scare, I realized that I’ve had yummy caffeine almost every day this past week. In a test of my will, I made the satisfying decision to forgo my mocha and, more sadly, whipped cream. I am happy to report that today was a caffeine-free day. And I appear no worse for the . . . I bet you were thinking I was going to say wear. Well, you’re wrong. I like to surprise the reader, so, today, I appear no worse for the, oh hell, wear.
“How do ugly people do it? How do they accept other ugly people?”
“This is your important question of the century?”
”I think people are sitting home at night and worrying about this as we speak. I want to help them. Did you know there are more than a million ugly people in Seattle alone? Just think about that, one million ugly people. It boggles the mind!”
“Are you including me in your survey?”
“No. I don’t associate with ugly people. You’re safe.”
“And how do you define ugly people?”
“Well, fat people are automatically ugly. Some of them would probably not be so ugly if they lost weight, but since they haven’t, they’re ugly. Once we remove fatness, ugliness is rather easy to determine. There is a fantastic agreement about ugliness. People tend to agree on ugliness.”
“Are there many ugly people?”
“If you once again remove fat people, then the answer is no. As you might suspect, ugliness exists on a bell curve, like most things in life. There will always be plenty of average-looking people, and a relatively equal number of good-looking people and ugly-looking people.”
***
So many ugly people and so much time not to write about them. This was supposed to transform into a story about how two ugly people find each other and fall in love. Obviously, I didn’t get there. I’m doing that a lot lately: not getting places. Oh well. Why can’t I write about something nice and friendly, like stuffed teddy bears?
Stores selling products with unique designs (to make me feel special):
Urban Peel
I keep thinking about terror. I’m exhausted today. I woke up too early and went to sleep too late. And yet here I am, ready to write something that’s probably not worth writing. I do that a lot, this writing without knowing about what and not knowing its worth. Who needs worth when caffeine struggles against exhaustion? I have three hours of battery time left and I will use almost none of it.
Righteousness rises over the horizon. I like important-sounding words to rise places. Is it rise or raise? Word seems to think it is raise, but I’m not so sure. Where’s Garner when you need him? Answer: he’s at work on my desk with a folded-over sticky note stuck into a page in the A section. I’m working methodically through his Modern English Usage as part of NEQID. On second thought, righteousness isn’t a terribly important word, and it doesn’t sound important, it looks important. I’m waiting for it to hit, for me to brush past these useless thoughts and move on to a too-short piece on nothing.
I feel it.
It’s gone now. It was there for a moment, but now it’s not. A lady sat in the bucks of stars wearing a pair of pink low-heeled shoes, and I thought, this is it, inspiration at its finest. This lady will spark the deluge. And then not. It does that, disappearing when I think I have it, the inspiration. It makes it worse when, as now, I sit here thinking it’s just beyond reach, if I could just lean that extra bit, when, in reality, it’s not only out of reach, it’s out of mind.
Bowlers rise and unite for there are times when even bowlers consider bowlers athletes.
The chocolate is good but I don’t know if it’s going to keep me going today. Life has zipped past me this week. Oh, wait, it’s only Tuesday. Dagonit. (Wow, where did that sound come from?)
I left the bucks, and I’m now sitting on my couch. I edited the above in the spirit of good-humored-crazy talk, and now I have to edit the rest of the stuff that I belted out sometime between arriving home and sitting here in the dark fueled by an apple. Is there a more perfect fruit than the apple? Yeah, I know something can’t be more perfect, just like someone can’t be more pregnant. What’s your point?
Darkness clouds the Castle. Well, almost darkness. The sky is still blue, so I guess we’re still a few moments away from real darkness. Well, almost-real darkness since I live in Seattle where it never gets country dark. I’m babbling now. Let me get back to editing my other babbles before I find myself in that senseless circular editing, where I comment on my edits and edit those comments, only to comment on those edits. You see where that could lead me. (To think what I could have done with this prolific evening if I only applied myself to non-musing babbles.)
I lied about not commenting on the comment. It’s now dark-dark, the sky is black except for the horizon, which is grayish because of the city lights. Everything is quiet. That’s not true. Cars drive by down the Castle’s hill, and my Xbox, which is holds “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” on pause after I finished watching it (the movie provided part of my inspiration for Beautiful yesterday). I should probably turn it off. Oh, and the hard drive on my laptop is clicking. It doesn’t usually click. I wonder what it’s doing. Okay, enough not commenting on the comment, I have to get back to editing the not writing.
“And so the article discussed Bush’s bulldozing of social security in such a way that literal tears came to my face.” “Not figurative tears?” “Oh no, these were real tears, tears of laughter and ridicule.”
Tangents are the lifeblood of the short-attention spanned. Seymour was a tangent.
Flattened. People left my neighbor’s house. He must have had an event or something. I never have events. It’d be nice to have an event because then people would visit me.
When did you get home? Awhile ago. You were busy, so I didn’t want to disturb you. You never disturb me. Then why do you get all pissy when I interrupt your tv watching? I don’t get pissy. Try saying that when you are pissy, and you’ll have a change in your tune. I don’t even play tunes.
My mind won’t focus on anything tonight. I can’t find the hook. I started another essay about shaving. I figured, with all that research out there on this internet thing, I didn’t actually have to learn to shave; instead, I could just write an essay about what I planned to do when I got off my lazy ass and read all the internet articles and tried to shave all traditional-like. The funny part (in the essay) would be that I would have tried none of it. It would all be hypothetical. You get it? Hypothetical! Clearly, I haven’t made much progress, or I would have splattered it against this thing to show off my brilliance. I’m okay with that—the not progressing thing. I’ll get to it or not.
Today was an early morning, which might explain some of these random thoughts. Not that my normal thoughts aren’t random, but today’s are particular out there, otherworldly, wishing I could say something meaningful but accepting that although the caffeine can give me energy, the focus has to be pulled from deep within my guts and yanked up through my throat to be spritzed onto the page. I didn’t realize “spritz” wasn’t a word. I wonder where I learned that from.
I’m leaning more toward this research thing. It hasn’t actually helped me in any of my writing, but I feel that if I could incorporate it into my thinking, I might actually have something to say. Now, if only I could find the time to research and write. I barely have the time to put these silly words on the page before I have to sleep, work, and drink coffee, which are, of course, all very complicated and important activities.
I felt it was time to start a new paragraph. I read this somewhere, but it did ring true: like sentence length, a writer is supposed to vary paragraph length.
I made that last one short to demonstrate the principal. I guess the fear is that the reader will become bored if all the paragraphs are of a normal length. You could take it too an extreme and write really long paragraphs like DFW or not even use paragraphs like that last author I read, W. G. Sebald, an award-winning author that I didn’t get (I notice I don’t get many great authors—I think it has something to do with my public education).
This has degenerated even beyond my measly powers to edit it into writing that makes a bit of sense. More monkey writing—I’m trying to coin that phrase, for those who wonder what the fuck I’m talking about. Think back to those million monkeys on typewriters, and you’ll get the picture.
It’s sometimes nice to write like this. I know I’m not saying anything, but not to worry about saying anything, it’s a relief, you know. It’s a whole bunch of nothing with extra whipped cream. I think whipped cream might be one of my favorite food groups. I like mochas, but what I love about them is sucking the whipped cream off the top. I hate when I’m too late and the whipped cream melts into the mocha. What a waste! I try to arrange my coffee buying so I can immediately take the top off and suck off the whipped cream. So yummy.
Okay, that’s enough. I could go on like this for hours, but I know nobody made it down this far. Hell, I’m not even going to make it this far in the editing process. It’s too painful.
I’m really going to post it. Right now. Stop trying to distract me. My problem is that I’m enjoying the freedom in just writing and knowing I’m going to say nothing. Just typing whatever comes to my mind. You know, using the word just a lot, and the words a lot a lot. You get the picture?
I'm doing it again. I need my coffee, and this'll help me find it.
Free coffeehouse wi-fi in Seattle
My dad rested on the peach picnic sheet, a queen-sized sheet taken from a set used to cover his bed, his old bed, the one he used to sleep in with mom before they made room for the hospital bed. It was early spring and the first warm day of the season, and it was a good day for him. Few days were good for him now.
I was seven. I skipped around the sheet mom had lain over the grass in the backyard. Dad watched me but lacked the strength to turn his head. When I passed in front, he strained his eyes to follow me. I skipped faster when out of view but slowed when I saw his eyes watching me through his brown-rimmed glasses. The glasses looked comically oversized on his vanishing face.
When I tired I sat cross legged before him. He reached over and held my hand. His hand was still huge but his wedding band slipped loosely on his finger. Thin blue veins crisscrossed his hand.
“I can explain everything,” he said. His voice was always deep and strong. No matter how sick he became, his voice never weakened.
“What?” I said, measuring his hand against mine and wondering when mine would grow.
“Life, sweetheart, life is coming for you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I want you to welcome it because life is wonderful, every moment precious. Some more than others . . . don’t bother grading moments because you can’t until much later, and by the time you can the grades become irrelevant.”
I didn’t understand him. He talked like this to me sometimes. For as long as I remember he never talked as if I was a child. He spoke to me as he spoke to mom or Uncle Ben. I didn’t say anything because I was too busy memorizing everything he said.
“Ask me things. I have so much to tell you and I don’t even know where to begin.” He coughed weakly and I looked back at mom who sat on the stoop leading to the house. She waved and dad continued to cough. He squeezed my hand and didn’t let go as he turned his head away from me and spit onto the sheet.
I didn’t know what to do, so I asked, “Why is the grass green?”
He turned his head toward me and smiled showing his discolored teeth. “You might as well ask why the sky is blue.”
“Then why is the sky blue?”
“The sky is blue to look beautiful before the grass.”
“And the grass?”
“To look beautiful before the sky.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
He laughed and his laughter turned into another bout of coughing. He held my hand tight when all I wanted to do was to run away. I forced myself to study his shirt, pinstriped and button-downed. The shirt was huge on him, and the buttons were all wrong. He missed one of the top buttons. I felt his body convulse slightly as he coughed and I swallowed and silently prayed, promising my comic book collection and never to miss a day of school and to give up my computer, I promised everything and anything to make my dad’s sickness go away.
He stopped coughing and looked away from me toward the sky.
“The sky, the grass, they’re both beautiful before the other. All things have beauty. The trick is to really look for it. Just like you’re beautiful.”
I knew I wasn’t beautiful. My mom was beautiful, and my sisters were beautiful, but I was a skinny kid with skinned knees and dirty braces. But I didn’t argue. “And you?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess that makes me beautiful, too, in my own way.”
I looked at his face for what I think was the first time. I really looked. I didn’t realize at the time that I was trying to engrave his face onto my mind. I saw how his eyes didn’t rotate together, and how his stubble was grayer than I remembered. His chin looked pointed, and his jowl was all but gone, replaced by a deep indentation under his chin. But I looked more and I saw that he had my younger sister’s beautiful eyes, and my older sister’s beautiful cheeks.
My dad coughed again and my mom cam over and helped him sit up. I retreated to the corner of the yard and watched them. She walked with him up the stairs and I sat and watched. I stared at the closed door until she returned, sticking her head out the screen door.
“You coming in?”
“In a bit.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I started to cry and she came to me. She bent down and wrapped her arms around me and held me. I didn’t make much noise because my dad’s window was open and I didn’t want him to hear me. Instead I cried softly and shook.
“It’s very hard for him,” mom said. “You have no idea how hard this is for him.”
I couldn’t talk. Tears stole my voice and I sat there holding my mother and crying silently. I couldn’t say anything. All I could think was how beautiful my dad was.
Life is about emotion. Write about what you know. Write about life.
The setup. The conflict. The emotion. The fall.
So much more that needs to be said before I get there. Characters the reader needs to fall in love with, then the knife, the retched wound. That’s what I want to share. How do I share it? How do I say?
Zealotry is for whiners.
She lived. She fell in love. He fell in love. They loved. She died. Anguish. Angst.
Zealously.
Blue. Sight unseen. Voice unheard. Terror. I don’t know what I’m writing here or if anything I write has any or will ever have any value. Why does this involve? Try me. I don’t know.
I’m in a rut. I think single words on the screen equates to depth. I know better than that.
In the quest between writing without thinking and original thought, who the fuck wins?
We’re tiny platforms where crying terror waits as it floats over chocolate. Open mikes over claims of plastic. I see what I write and I write only what I see.
I have yet to find what I am good at instead of what I want to be good at. It’s easy to want and harder to have. Isn’t the fun in pursuing the have? Only if pursuits are achievable and not sad hobbies is it fun.
I greatly fear that I have nothing important to say.
As of late the clocks burned, the black hole questioned, and time travel disappeared. If light is the infinite being then let me live in its stream and watch the universe flow past. Dynasty. Einstein said when an object approaches the speed of light it slows asymptotically to near the speed of light.
Little steps on a long road covered by dreams of failure. Keep going, even if it the steps bring you backwards.
The feelings ride high on ocean ships of spirits. Where did I go wrong? Take what makes you special and specialize. Consternation: does writing make me special? What is special? When is special? What dish am I bringing to the potluck? Jack’s trades? Am I crying over a mother’s milk? Changes and expand.
Random words with meaning only for me. Isn’t that how the world works? What’s wrong with a clichéd world that a hammer couldn’t fix? No skill, raise the rockets and lower the flags. Rhyme and rhythm over meaning: Zap, zap. Brain fried over onions and grease. What to cry. When to dry.
MSNBC article about shaving
Art of Shaving (commercial)
eGentlemen (commercial)
The English Shaving Co. (commercial)
Em's Place (commercial)
I have an awful time shaving (which is why I usually walk around woolly), and I have been thinking of going old school with a real razor for awhile. (These links are research for an essay that I'll probably never finish writing).
At the corner in the city sat a corner store,
covered in plastic from the evening pour.
I held out the umbrella and covered my head,
my girl pouted as her lips dripped red.
She grabbed the umbrella and pulled it near,
I apologized and wiped her lips clear.
A stock boy clipped tulips into a plastic pot,
I tread past but she bent and stopped.
I reached past my coat to pat at my pocket,
“I don’t have enough,” I yelled over the racket.
She sniffed and tweaked each petal with care,
dismissing my call with not even a stare.
I looked through the fruits and Chinese buffet,
And said, “bought you some the other day.”
She lifted a bouquet from its tight quarters,
and handed to me to act as her porter.
The thorns ripped through my leather-gloved hand,
and I bit my cheek and swallowed the strand.
She led me to the cashier out front,
I glanced at the helplessness of her staged stunt.
For what to do with a woman’s demands,
but reach into my heart and fulfill her plans.
I paid for the flowers and bought her sweets,
I learned long ago, she’s a sucker for treats.
I presented her gifts with a flourishing wave,
and she clapped and smiled at my great save.
After many months we filled with small joys,
sadness broke us up like two big toys.
I don’t remember what led me astray,
But I remember her kindness of that wet day.
She taught me to woo and think of my mate,
And never take for granted each and every date.
I’m having trouble writing the essay I spoke about yesterday. I know I should be spending this time writing instead of consternating about my troubles, but I can only stare so long at poorly formed paragraphs before feelings of dejection overtake my fragile psyche. That and today is caffeine-free, never a good omen.
After a rather prolific day writing yesterday, today was slower. Julie left a few hours ago, and she’s on her way back to California after two-bookend weekends in Seattle during her whirlwind (her term, not mine) tour of China and Taiwan. I parked and walked her to security because she had to check her two large suitcases. It’s always harder to watch her leave from there because the pain lasts longer. Better to rip the bandage off and be done with it. The Castle is now empty and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t want to think about my cold bed or empty heart.
After spending the weekend in different neighborhoods in Seattle, Julie and I decided that as long as we’re in Seattle, there’s no reason to move away from the Castle. While there are some cute neighborhoods with better access to dining and coffee houses, any other house we bought would pale compared to the peacefulness, architecture, and views of the Castle. I doubt the cuteness of other neighborhoods would last long. Even the best contains only five or six blocks worth of interesting shops. I keep trying to force Seattle into my mold of New York. I have to accept that this is not New York, and I will have to drive places, find culture spread throughout the city, and accept that neighborhoods contain only a few blocks worth of interesting shops and restaurants.
I have nothing else to say. I didn’t have much to say to begin with, but after cutting my nails (long nails make typing very difficult), I felt I should say something. I decided not to bore you with more chronicles on my essay writing. It’ll come or not over this week. I can rehash it after the verdict is in. Instead, I’ll post what little I’ve written of this non-essay musing, and mope around the Castle. In spite (or perhaps because) of all its peacefulness, the Castle is a wonderful place to mope.
Julie's first visit to China (no Davids)
If I possessed willpower, you would not see this musing until after April 1. As I’ve discussed before, I find myself writing to post instead of writing to write. Yeah, this is going to be one of those life-changing thingies that will probably result in me altering my ways for a couple of days, only to return to my normal, consternated writings afterward. With that said, it might be safer if you put the computer down and stepped away from the computer.
I am halfway through Jonathan Lethem’s excellent essay collection, The Disappointment Artist. Julie recommended this book because a reviewer wrote that the book delved into Lethem’s psyche and explained his inspiration for writing. Julie knows (because I bitch about it so often) that I’m trying to understand my own inspiration and writing process, and I enjoy reading other writers’ thoughts on this subject. The essays do reach those questions, but are mostly about Lethem’s childhood experiences, and their effect on his development as an author.
His essays leverage his wonderful storytelling to advance his conclusions. They are essays in the traditional sense: applying experience, reasoning, and research to develop an argument. They break down logically and are a decent (although not long) length—long enough to get the theme across without belaboring it. Using his writing as a guide, I’ve decided on an experiment. Instead of posting a day’s worth of barely edited writings, I will write longer essays with fully developed themes and original thoughts. (Yes, Chuck, even from here I see you nodding your head knowingly because you’ve done this on Liminality since its inception.)
Seeing as this is an experiment, I’m not sure how it will turn out. What I do know, however, is that if I post the parts I have written already, I will never finish. For me, posting is the reward. I love the moment where I release my writings into the wild. I wait eagerly for any response (which, except for the Nameless One, is rare). I’m OK with that. Just knowing it’s out there is all the salve I need to keep me going. But when I release it, my need to return to the writing diminishes. You would think that rewriting and making the work better would be rewarding in and of itself. But for me it isn’t. It’s hard to explain the psychology behind it, but from much experience, I know that my broken brain works on a minimalist philosophy: get good enough done and be done with it.
There you have it. I will still post my shorter thoughts (like this one), but I’m going to try to finish the longer works before posting. This will probably result in a decrease in frequency of posting but hopefully an increase in quality (even though we’re talking David quality, don’t hold your breath or you’ll turn red and probably pass out). This will not change my writing frequency, which I will continue to do almost every day for a few hours.
I’ll let you know when I change my mind and return to my old, slapdash ways.
