(quote: Faulkner, video: Chimpanzee Problem Solving")
The woman that lives next door to me sometimes goes out on her back porch and screams. She screams at god, her children who do nothing for her, some entity that strikes me as The Man but she probably understands as misfortune. Today I was in the backyard enjoying the sunset, sitting on a cooler, having a smoke and a beer, reading. I heard her sliding door creak open, watched through the slats of our privacy fence as she sat down on her step. Heard her beer crack open. And for a moment we just drank together. I read a page of my book. And then she starts to cry. A stifled cry like a war widow. And then the vibrato of sob pooled, where the cry starts to make a whining sound. And then she says something. Then says it louder. Then yells "Why doesn't it work?". The question Camus would have asked had he been an Engineer. And then she scolded her grown gone children, they never help. And then she demanded of god to know why he did this to her. And then she cried, the way we don't think people cry; with that 'huh-uh .. uh-oh" getting loud in the black trees and pink darkening sky. Her shouts lasted longer than my tolerance. I went back inside. Finished my beer. Cracked the window open so I could just hear her. That inconsolable grief. I don't know what a person is to do with that.
Reclusive as the days get longer. Habits developed in winter now wincing at the sun, now demanding some middling interval. Punctuation that let's me breathe. Dwindling social interaction somehow makes every one of them more valuable. But it's only half on purpose, the other part the circumstances of grinding. I've got these two classes that demand a novel of reading and two days of writing per week. And my every opinion in them is contrarian, apparently.
I've been rejected by the University of Pittsburgh. I think that if I get rejected ubiquitous, I'm going to take the survival money I've socked away for grad school and move back east. Not Michigan, but closer; somewhere I don't know anyone. Get a job there working part-time (as much to meet new people as anything. Something physically demanding.) and write. Take two years working on the thing that I plan on doing as my thesis. The Ex Nihilo Creative Writing Program. Sign up now.
(quote: Wale, video: Katie Couric interviews Lil Wayne)
According to Malcolm Gladwell, the heaviest factor determining tremendous success (this is Nabokov-greatness, Ali-greatness, Beatles-greatness) is sweat. 10,000 hours this loose threshold by which one can become actualized in their field. And not 10,000 hours spread across one's life, or engaged in something unstimulating, but dedicated, self-motivated industry in whatever it is one is pursuing. This can be influenced by parents, culture, etc, but the pen-to-pad work needs to be done in earnest. So, 10,000 hours breaks down to three hours a day over a decade. Six hours a day for five years. It is not really even that much time. I have already worked more time than this frying chicken, cutting grass, driving around in vans, writing reports and studies, attending meetings. And I have nearly that much time in academia. But I have to admit . . .I haven't spent that much time committing text. But in six months?
(btw: I've been waitlisted for the Ohio State University Creative Writing Program. If a couple people refuse offers, I may get one. So I guess that counts as what, a tie?)
I'm currently working on a story idea that I would like to eventually (finally?) put into graphic form. The gist is that there is a band of interdimensional time-traveling drug dealers that get caught up in retrieving the organs of historical figures as a favor for an immortality cult. Doesn't really sound like the kind of thing I would normally do, but I'm really excited about some of the subtext at work in it. And I'm starting to define an interesting time-travel narrative mechanism that I've never seen before. Anyway, if anyone knows anyone who can illustrate fairly well and would like to work on a project of unknown duration, and little anticipated rewards beyond working on something interesting . . . lemme know. I want to write some comics (which, oddly enough, is like coming full circle for me. I wrote comic books in third grade).
I had to give up on utopia. There was a time when I thought there was some ideal circumstance for humanity. Some arrangement of resources and talents in which everyone could be happy and at peace. I never really described it to myself, or tried to think my way through all of the logistics and politics. There is just this idyllic scene that I think gets conditioned into us. It's almost like a religious belief, but I don't think it comes from the church. It comes from television and stories, the desire for one's children to be happy and the idealization that is generated by parenting in that direction. The very attempt at a cohesive political process suggests that it could arrive at some perfect orchestra of legislation and strictures, that we could somehow design an ever-growing system that seamlessly reproduces the means of its continual reproduction. But there is no utopia. And this is not the bleak statement it sounds like. It does not mean that a person can't be happy, that we can't hope for things better than whatever situation we are in. It means that there is no perfection to drive towards. There is no Atlantis or Pala or Land of Milk and Honey. And I don't know that we really want it. Because the one thing that defines us more than anything is how we, individually, handle conflict. And as much as I am given to complain about my job, about neoconservatives, about the various ancillary rackets of academia, about the law, about the religious influence on our common culture . . .I desire a fight. I thrive on the fact that there is something that nearly everyone believes in and that I don't. I am a proud contrarian, and if that utopia is built I'm planting charges at the joints in the plexiglass dome over our global greenhouse. We are not made for peace, and while I would like an undisturbed meal as much as the next prole, any time I'm handed what I need I understand that in the long run I am indebted. All of this is relevant to the current discussions about our economic situation. The only real answer is to divest yourself. You didn't design this bullshit, you are not responsible. And the only way you will ever know peace is to take responsibility for your decisions. And the only way you can take responsibility, is if you are in control.
(quote: mookfish, video: Moab, UT, 2008. Look for the synchronized shiver)
My good friend is off again. This time for the Honduras. And then on to Turkey to teach English. And though I know he has left before, there is some slightly subtle difference now. Like that was training; neccessary, beautiful, enlightening, but still preparation for what he's into now. He's a teacher, and I don't mean that he has gone through the academic channels and become certified and followed rules (though he has done that as well), but he is a shaman, a sensei, a wiseman to be consulted on big decisions and with big questions. So the regular teaching thing doesn't quite work. He has to travel, meet students in classrooms or beaches or campgrounds or bars. And there isn't always a lesson plan, or some specific gem of wisdom to be passed on. Sometimes he just asks the right question, sheds the right light, helps you to step back and frame your quandary/question/naivete in the large and in the small. Sometimes he does these things without even saying a word. I don't know how he would react to this, because he is as humble as they come, but he has taught me about as much as any one person has. Some of the things only now am I understanding. So, it's so great to see him go. And struggle with the anxiety and excitement, knowing that he has carved out some destiny for himself. Good luck, brother. You ever need anything, look me up.
For my American Realism course I have to write a research paper from no less than 8 sources. The only limitation is that it has to deal with American literature written between the Civil War and World War I. After the paltry class discussion when the professor asked those gathered to define evolution, I decided that I need to examine Darwin's influence on the written word as art form. While he was only partially a philosopher, he presented an idea which fundamentally alters the picture of the world. For those who do not accept his theory, there is still this pausing gap, this rigidly logical refutation of their "meaning" that they must come to terms with. After Darwin, god became obsolete as a philosophical device. And 75 years later, Existentialism questioned whether, in a world without god, does life have any meaning? My research centers around finding 'transitional fossils' that indicate a progression out of Romanticism, via Darwin's findings. Was Realism a rejection of Romanticism at least partially because Darwin changed how we see nature and our place in it? Are the hard truths revealed by Darwin reflected in the grittier aesthetic of Realism? Does the art of the time hint at our collective philosophical evolution, does it indicate the Existential anxiety of casting out mythology and order?
I can't listen to American news anymore. Even NPR has been seized with the Fear. You cannot turn on a television (I'm guessing) or visit a newspaper's website or listen to the radio without dire news about the economy. Thousands being laid-off, millions more underemployed, our collective investments dwindling in value. It is all either a temporary downturn, or the undulating spasms of a false ideology as it crumbles. And the working class can do nothing in reaction but save a little more, leave out a few luxuries, show up to work, try to sleep at night. And I have no lack of sympathy for those who have lost their jobs, or who are going through tough times. But a lot of us made bad decisions, or are stuck in undesirable circumstances, or both. And the lesson to be learned from this, especially for younger people who haven't yet bought a house they can't afford or squirted out one too many lil'uns, is that the whole dream we've been sold is a joke. Buy a house, slave away at a corporate job, distance yourself from reality with television and sports, capitulate to the reproductive urge. All these things and more have been marketed to us as the ideal, as the swift path to happiness. But it isn't. And every second you spend willing yourself to someone else's system, is another inch you drift from the person you are. Not to say that you should never get a job and work for the Man. But never let it fool you that this 9-5 is your life. And never rely on another's enterprise to make you happy. Whatever you do for yourself, can never be taken away.
I've been writing quite a bit so far this year. Though less and less of it is presentable. I'm so much pickier and careful and thoughtful and (un)conscious. And so now I write the first five pages of a story at least three times before I settle into a groove. Write out not an outline but an ever-evolving aesthetic manifesto each time I want a thing to become a story. When I was maybe 20-years old, sleepless, I developed a crude analogy for what a story needs to be. The Bonfire Theory of Narrative Craft. Basically, it is this: A story, at the broadest conceptual level, must have three elements. The first is the flames. Flames are what are seen from a distance, what dazzles, what draws someone in or scares away an animal. This is the story's "gimmick", what you describe a story as being about in one or two sentences (Choke is about a sex-addict who pretends to choke for money and affection). The second aspect is the "fuel". How the fire is assembled, the structure of the wood aligned such that it burns at the desired intensity. This is the story's plot, the causality, what actually happens, how all of the events are tied together. The final element is the coals. The long-burning furnace of the fire, the part you bake hot-dogs on. The part you could take with you in a clay vessel on your pilgrimage and use to start a fire elsewhere. This is the theme of the story. What the story has to say, why the story is important to tell. What from the story can a person take away and add to their own experience? Anyway. Good stories are built like bonfires. And depending on how you want it to burn, you have to carefully consider all three of these aspects.
I'm occasionally opining for the Boise Arbiter now. Check it out.
