The question of my notes continues. So far, I've divided some of the stacks of paper that I've taken upon myself to go through into pre-existing categories. There were letters from a few people who I was strongly influenced by, growing up. This includes the letters between myself and my jazz teacher in high-school via printed-out e-mails. This includes the later letters in my twenties between myself and my audio teacher in my twenties via e-mails. I have a file including letters to/from Danielle, my best friend growing up who is now in prison (hence the letters). I have a file including correspondence notes between myself and a particular writer who strongly influenced me to decide to pursue writing. Furthermore, I have letters that have recently begun between me and the Deputy Cultural Attache for the Consulate of France, Ivan Bertoux, via e-mail. Thus, one category, that I must consider for the stacks of paper that I keep in my files is LETTERS or CORRESPONDENCE. This could become a key component of my future assimilation or regenerative use that I prescribe for these notes.
I think the reason I'm going through these stacks of papers is that by categorizing, I'm cultivating a better understanding of the difficulty of text for both ARCHIVING purposes and knowing how to make sense of them, when my own past selves were the authors. This is another key component: PAST SELVES as AUTHORS.
I suppose more than anything, this is an attempt at literary criticism in a somewhat meta-fictional manner, or perhaps even meta-autobiographical. Because I don't understand or know enough about those terms, I'm going to attempt to learn more, before going too far in using them to describe this project. To do so, there is a Metafiction class that a class-mate of mine set up online to use. But I would like to explore this further in relation to how I'm perceiving my own texts. Thus, METAFICTION is of importance to me.
Another realization that I am having is that I have used the medium of writing to conjure up very hybrid formats of writing that are perhaps part of the reason that my writing has very little consistency. In looking at many of my past projects, it seems that I am somewhat of a diarist, somewhat of a critic, and somewhat of a collagist in both my fiction and non-fiction writings. The nature and use of COLLAGE is of particular interest, because it suggests a dissatisfaction with singular mediums as a means to express. The question of medium is interesting to me, as well. There are many mediums that appear to be cropping up in my creative projects including textual mystery that results in NONSENSE in Medication for Saltambiques; SHORT FICTIONS in Vignette Fictions which are conducive to including another medium to make them more robust (which I used a blog format to allow people to expand or change the existing fiction in a collaborative model); because we were doing so much editing of people's papers in my short fiction class, I also began to make a play of this idea and I used the idea of making notes and turned it into a conceptual joke by writing three comments on papers that I kept for my own mimicry. Thus, with all of the stacks of edited stories I have sitting on my floor, the EDIT is a textual form that I would like to explore further. I have the workings of a NOVEL which is part narrative, part extended metaphor, and part that I don't have a word for, which is taking a recurrent theme in artworks and mimicking the cultural changes by reflecting it in my characters, as a progression. Basically, I want to use a historical progression in the way that art-critics describe it, following a subject that a limited set of artists have created in the synthesis of their work and openly mimicking the change in the narrative of the story between my characters. Another place that I found this form was Sophie's world, in which the main character is woven through the history of philosophy. I'll call this textual form, a PROGRESSION MIRROR.
I like the idea of borrowing from the existing forms of work that lay in the stacks of paper on my floor and making them undergo further permutations that progress from the state they are currently in. For example, I would like to do something with the feedback I received for a number of my stories in school. I would like to view them with regards for how to make use or fun with the style the EDIT. This could do a number of things. It could either demonstrate the flawed translation between the Editor and the Editee. It could also demonstrate the optimistic improvement cycle. It could even demonstrate the contradictions between various edits, by following different pieces of advice in full, leading the story towards a nonsense-like result.
There are plenty of notes that don't have a simplistic framework of genre, like some of my pieces do. Some of the easiest to perceive are those which I would classify as STORY or STORY HYBRID. The difficulty is to decide whether to salvage or to scrap an INCOMPLETE STORY or INCOMPLETE THOUGHT. My methodology of taste, standards, or purpose comes up when the question of salvage or scrap comes up. Or for that matter, to even decide to what extent it is actually complete or incomplete. Similarly, if I were to continue them along a line of progress, it is difficult to say whether they should or should not still aim for the perfection of the story genre. Instead, they could become more of a conceptual hybrid, that would perhaps be more satisfactory for me because it does not involve the validation of publication, but rather the personal validation of my 'calling' or a more honest kind of experimentation or creative pursuit, because it does not involve the simplistic and degrading needs of aspiring to be 'like others' who 'get published' for 'writing stories'. I don't really see myself as one of 'them' in my authorship. Instead, I see myself as more of a conceptual artist in print. Or perhaps even a hybrid diarist or self-conscious critic.
Some of my notes are not even stories at all. Some of them are LISTS, REMINDERS, ART PROJECT DESCRIPTIONS, RULES, BEHAVIORAL SUGGESTIONS, QUESTIONS (to myself), CONVERSATIONS (with myself), descriptions of DREAMS, LAMENTATIONS, LEXICONS, ETC. Some of them are hand-written, some of them are type-written, and to bring them to a finished state, I think it matters what the material is. Some writings are like objects, books are lovely art-works even with their mass-produced appeal. The medium of text is going digital, so I wonder if I should put effort into creating documents that have a particular kind of physical appeal, or even if I should format them in a particular way, to convey a style or intent. Someone I know who even does this in his text-habits on the computer is Janey Smith. In fact, my use of CAPS is derivative of his, but I think we use them in a different way. He is a lot more interested in humor than I am.
The large number of dedications 'to-myself' indicate a question of the mirror, the reflection of the self, the self-conscious dilemma, the inward spiral to the deep abyss. This is something to question and explore further.
What has come of this brief rumination is a list of potential ways to conceive of my writing as a textual habit:
LETTERS or CORRESPONDENCE, PAST SELVES as AUTHORS, ARCHIVING, METAFICTION, COLLAGE, NONSENSE, SHORT FICTIONS, THE EDIT, PROGRESSION MIRROR, STORY, STORY HYBRID, INCOMPLETE STORY, INCOMPLETE THOUGHT, LISTS, REMINDERS, ART PROJECT DESCRIPTIONS, RULES, BEHAVIORAL SUGGESTIONS, QUESTIONS (to myself), CONVERSATIONS (with myself), descriptions of DREAMS, LAMENTATIONS, LEXICONS
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
In Preparation for a Study of my Notes
The problem of my notebooks extends beyond archiving. The scraps of information, anecdotes and the upstarts of blind stretches into poetry or artistic representation compiled within these texts lend themselves to either an extensive unfolding and expansion, or a reductive extinguishing, via the trash-can. I'm caught between these two options and more options are presenting themselves to me as a solution, everyday. I could follow an archival method and simply file them away in a chronological order for future biographers to collect and unravel to piece together my persona using evidence, but I'm afraid that my life will not lend itself to further investigation and that with my death, these notes will be reduced to garbage, at last. Perhaps I should simply toss them, myself, to be free of them, free of self-obsession. And while this obsession over my own notes certainly depicts a need to resolve some kind of mystery, I also feel that the mystery extends beyond myself. My obsession with the notes involves a notion of time, and these notes are evidence of time passing and leading further from a starting point and if the meanings compiled in the notes suggest anything, they sort-of chart my own change, a process of change, a mathematical segment of a life and by proxy, the web-of life that each individual life reaches out to. This gives me the idea that perhaps I should try to chart and create parameters of the meanings of the small creations that bloom from the notes, to create a more organized and translatable study of my own reflective obsession. Perhaps the problem of these notes is not simply a problem of self obsession, but the problem of mirrors, mazes, and reduplications that transpires within the ongoing folding and unfolding that occurs within this obsession.
I wonder if obsession is even the correct word, with all of its negative connotations, of disorder, disease, addiction, and a lack of will-power. In actuality, it is possible that I should consider the study of my notes a project. Within this project, I would like to categorize and generalize the various strands of thought and modes of representation that come out of the notes, like a structuralist. But, of course, I would like to resist the impulse of the structuralist and make claims to a different sort of analytical stance, in part because of the emotional and intuitive direction I must inherently take towards the physical pages which are mere remnants of the self. Perhaps it extends into phenomenological or even psychoanalytical realms, but as an individual living in the post-modern world, I would even like to take it further and critique the outset, if I'm even able to pull the frame back far enough to understand what this problem solving encompasses in terms of not only my structural standing, but my metaphorical bearing and the meta layer of the notes. I would like to know how to be a post-structuralist for this project, not for the complexities that arise, but simply to belong to the time that I am in, and to fit without anachronism into my own history, but perhaps this is where philosophy or religion kicks in, because the element of chance comes into play, and when it comes down to it, I feel that I am a victim of history, caught in a trap of fate, that I cannot properly represent myself as a human being to others, because of the overwhelming forces that impose themselves upon my life, in relation to grand history. I'm caught in a dilemma of either breaking down my notion of grand history, by cultivating the traces of a history via circumstantial evidence, my notes, or tossing out the notion of history altogether and overcoming my neurosis once and for all.
There are many complexities that I haven't done well to address with adequate explanation, but to simplify the difficulty of approaching the notes, I guess I see them as sacred texts, generated by a me that is ephemeral and has already since passed with only linguistic traces to account for the passing. My present self will approach the past self, or the ghost of a self, through language. The inherent difficulty with language is the same as the difficulty of mirages, convincing images fade into thin air, the closer one approaches them, because they are brought into being through a process of illusory representation, the difficulty of placing any conviction into the outcome of my study into the meanings of my notes is that the meanings link up to nothingness, the past that is ephemeral, and only in the doing, the act of creating, is anything really accomplished. Thus, the ongoing reduplication and re-categorization of all of the meanings I have collected in notes is an act of fiction. The vestiges of philosophical and ethical epiphany are merely patterned flares that contradict the strain of life that actually produces them, because they are the shadows of a reality that is the self. They are the void of meaning, using the guise of communication. Only in the act of appropriating and continuing the investigation do we find life, because life is not life, life is living. It is an invisible activity that passes unseen with every turn. Language competes to reveal the living thing, but for its lack of unfolding, without the present speaker, it merely reveals the only truly active participant, the reader.
I wonder if obsession is even the correct word, with all of its negative connotations, of disorder, disease, addiction, and a lack of will-power. In actuality, it is possible that I should consider the study of my notes a project. Within this project, I would like to categorize and generalize the various strands of thought and modes of representation that come out of the notes, like a structuralist. But, of course, I would like to resist the impulse of the structuralist and make claims to a different sort of analytical stance, in part because of the emotional and intuitive direction I must inherently take towards the physical pages which are mere remnants of the self. Perhaps it extends into phenomenological or even psychoanalytical realms, but as an individual living in the post-modern world, I would even like to take it further and critique the outset, if I'm even able to pull the frame back far enough to understand what this problem solving encompasses in terms of not only my structural standing, but my metaphorical bearing and the meta layer of the notes. I would like to know how to be a post-structuralist for this project, not for the complexities that arise, but simply to belong to the time that I am in, and to fit without anachronism into my own history, but perhaps this is where philosophy or religion kicks in, because the element of chance comes into play, and when it comes down to it, I feel that I am a victim of history, caught in a trap of fate, that I cannot properly represent myself as a human being to others, because of the overwhelming forces that impose themselves upon my life, in relation to grand history. I'm caught in a dilemma of either breaking down my notion of grand history, by cultivating the traces of a history via circumstantial evidence, my notes, or tossing out the notion of history altogether and overcoming my neurosis once and for all.
There are many complexities that I haven't done well to address with adequate explanation, but to simplify the difficulty of approaching the notes, I guess I see them as sacred texts, generated by a me that is ephemeral and has already since passed with only linguistic traces to account for the passing. My present self will approach the past self, or the ghost of a self, through language. The inherent difficulty with language is the same as the difficulty of mirages, convincing images fade into thin air, the closer one approaches them, because they are brought into being through a process of illusory representation, the difficulty of placing any conviction into the outcome of my study into the meanings of my notes is that the meanings link up to nothingness, the past that is ephemeral, and only in the doing, the act of creating, is anything really accomplished. Thus, the ongoing reduplication and re-categorization of all of the meanings I have collected in notes is an act of fiction. The vestiges of philosophical and ethical epiphany are merely patterned flares that contradict the strain of life that actually produces them, because they are the shadows of a reality that is the self. They are the void of meaning, using the guise of communication. Only in the act of appropriating and continuing the investigation do we find life, because life is not life, life is living. It is an invisible activity that passes unseen with every turn. Language competes to reveal the living thing, but for its lack of unfolding, without the present speaker, it merely reveals the only truly active participant, the reader.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Midnight Gas Station
I sat down to write about an hour ago. I guess the feeling I was chasing in this little piece of writing was something like a missed opportunity, but one that is not fully formed. I wanted to capture the way opportunity is just a malleable thing that will come and go with the slightest change of wind. This is a chance encounter between two people. A girl who feels, but can't voice her attraction to an almost caricature of a man. I also couldn't help but notice how with each word and phrase the passage leaned further and further towards caricaturization for both of the characters, as if these people were two jokes forming in my head, but not jokes directed on the page for a particular laugh, just sort of a joke that is a riff on emotions I have felt, including the joke and ambivalence of fate, time, and the way people get trapped into the fixtures of their own lives, including gas-stations, cigarettes, and even manners of speech.
I stood beside my car in the gas station. I had come from Reno on my way to Los Angeles. This was somewhere near Bakersfield. It was late. I was holding the nozzle, staring at the price, $2.89 per gallon, about to insert the nozzle into my '91 Camry. He pulled in, with one headlight that placed a spot-light on the ice-box. He was driving a Chevy pick-up that sounded like it had some kind of belt malfunction, or maybe it was an issue with the alternator. The night was cool, dusty. I could hear crickets. I could have driven another seven hours.
Then I was in line. There was a line. I eyed the chewing gum, looking for something I'd never seen before, but they only had the classics. Spearmint, JuicyFruit, Big Red, Wintergreen, Peppermint. Trident, Dentyne, Orbit, Wrigley's. I knew them all by heart. He walked in and his jeans were faded, like really old jeans, but they didn't have any holes. He cut in front of us, the family of three, and the two young boys who were being carded for their beer. The hands of the clock veered closer and closer to midnight.
"Hey, can I get a pack of Marlboros," he said with a southern accent. Marlboro man.
"There's a line," said the old lady behind the counter with purple hair and roots of silver.
"Oh." He said. He turned and looked at me, the last in line, then sauntered back, closer to me. I turned towards the chewing gum at my side and I noticed how he planted his boots apart from one another, the distance from one side of a horse's belly to the other. His tan arms were crossed, revealing the line separating the white from the tan, just below his Nascar shirt. His eyes looked up from under his camouflage cap.
"Did you know that one of your lights is out?" I asked.
"Yeah, its been out for the last 350 miles," he said and he winked. He winked! He smiled.
"Well, how did you make it that far without getting pulled over, then?" I asked.
"Not sure. I guess the coppers didn't notice."
"350 miles is a long way. Where're you headed?"
"Hollywood. I'm headed there for a movie-gig. All of the way from Kentucky."
"Oh yeah? What kind of movie-gig?" I asked.
"Stunt-man."
"No kiddin'?"
"I jump off of buildings and what-not."
"Well shit, I don't think I've ever met a stunt-man. That's impressive." I smiled at him, with my full attention. He smiled again.
"It ain't nothin' special. I just rolled around in the dirt growing up all of the time, and then one day a movie producer met me at a bar when the Kentucky Derby was going on. I bet him that I could jump off of a three story building. He put in $50 and then other people at the bar started to get interested in our little bet. No one believed me, but I convinced them to let me try, and sure enough I made $350 and got me a movie-gig."
"Dang. That's not bad. What's the movie?"
"I believe the working-title is Dangerous Fiascoes. Its an action thriller about the Napalm industry."
I batted my eyelashes, in awe. I felt a was of heat climbing up through my collar and impulsively, I reached for a pack of Big Red.
"You're up," the stunt-man said.
I looked forward and realized that the line had disappeared and there was a gap of about ten feet between me and the counter. The old lady with purple hair and silver roots had sunk below the counter to re-fill the cigarette display and the hands of the clock now veered toward a quarter past.
"Oh, goodness," I said, and skipped forward. I paid for two Red-Bulls, a coffee and a packet of energy pills. And a pack of Big Red.
When I was done, I waited outside the door, to have a smoke. The stunt-man came out to join me. Outside, the bright lights of the Shell station lit up his green eyes and I could see why the movie-producer had been drawn to him.
"You know, I'm heading to L.A., too," I said, while the smoke exhaled from my lungs.
"No really?" he said.
"Yeah, I'm going out there to see my cousin. She just had a baby. I've never been there before, but I hear that Venice Beach is a trip."
"I've never been there either," he said. "Looks like you might be planning to go the rest of the way, tonight. Judging by your purchases, anyhow." he said, nodding to my paper bag.
"Yeah, I was hoping to. I've got to be back to work on Monday, so I don't have much time."
"Oh, that's too bad. I thought maybe...well never mind."
"Never mind what?" I asked. He didn't answer. We just stood there, looking out into the black emptiness beyond the lights of the Shell station. A string of images unraveled in my head. I grew dizzy. I saw caravans, camels, remote tents in the desert, dancing by fire. But this was Bakersfield, not the Sahara. I was not a bejeweled whore, he was not a prince.
"Maybe I'll see ya," he said. That was all.
"Yeah maybe," I said. He walked off, unlatched the door, swung his legs in and fired the engine. He stuck his arm out his window, with a big wave, too big, with his whole arm. It was like he was parading away on a float. I let my cigarette die out and I drove off into a ditch on the side of the highway, without a sip of coffee. I slept the whole night through until 7am the next morning when the sun had ignited the sky long enough to make my car feel like a furnace.
I stood beside my car in the gas station. I had come from Reno on my way to Los Angeles. This was somewhere near Bakersfield. It was late. I was holding the nozzle, staring at the price, $2.89 per gallon, about to insert the nozzle into my '91 Camry. He pulled in, with one headlight that placed a spot-light on the ice-box. He was driving a Chevy pick-up that sounded like it had some kind of belt malfunction, or maybe it was an issue with the alternator. The night was cool, dusty. I could hear crickets. I could have driven another seven hours.
Then I was in line. There was a line. I eyed the chewing gum, looking for something I'd never seen before, but they only had the classics. Spearmint, JuicyFruit, Big Red, Wintergreen, Peppermint. Trident, Dentyne, Orbit, Wrigley's. I knew them all by heart. He walked in and his jeans were faded, like really old jeans, but they didn't have any holes. He cut in front of us, the family of three, and the two young boys who were being carded for their beer. The hands of the clock veered closer and closer to midnight.
"Hey, can I get a pack of Marlboros," he said with a southern accent. Marlboro man.
"There's a line," said the old lady behind the counter with purple hair and roots of silver.
"Oh." He said. He turned and looked at me, the last in line, then sauntered back, closer to me. I turned towards the chewing gum at my side and I noticed how he planted his boots apart from one another, the distance from one side of a horse's belly to the other. His tan arms were crossed, revealing the line separating the white from the tan, just below his Nascar shirt. His eyes looked up from under his camouflage cap.
"Did you know that one of your lights is out?" I asked.
"Yeah, its been out for the last 350 miles," he said and he winked. He winked! He smiled.
"Well, how did you make it that far without getting pulled over, then?" I asked.
"Not sure. I guess the coppers didn't notice."
"350 miles is a long way. Where're you headed?"
"Hollywood. I'm headed there for a movie-gig. All of the way from Kentucky."
"Oh yeah? What kind of movie-gig?" I asked.
"Stunt-man."
"No kiddin'?"
"I jump off of buildings and what-not."
"Well shit, I don't think I've ever met a stunt-man. That's impressive." I smiled at him, with my full attention. He smiled again.
"It ain't nothin' special. I just rolled around in the dirt growing up all of the time, and then one day a movie producer met me at a bar when the Kentucky Derby was going on. I bet him that I could jump off of a three story building. He put in $50 and then other people at the bar started to get interested in our little bet. No one believed me, but I convinced them to let me try, and sure enough I made $350 and got me a movie-gig."
"Dang. That's not bad. What's the movie?"
"I believe the working-title is Dangerous Fiascoes. Its an action thriller about the Napalm industry."
I batted my eyelashes, in awe. I felt a was of heat climbing up through my collar and impulsively, I reached for a pack of Big Red.
"You're up," the stunt-man said.
I looked forward and realized that the line had disappeared and there was a gap of about ten feet between me and the counter. The old lady with purple hair and silver roots had sunk below the counter to re-fill the cigarette display and the hands of the clock now veered toward a quarter past.
"Oh, goodness," I said, and skipped forward. I paid for two Red-Bulls, a coffee and a packet of energy pills. And a pack of Big Red.
When I was done, I waited outside the door, to have a smoke. The stunt-man came out to join me. Outside, the bright lights of the Shell station lit up his green eyes and I could see why the movie-producer had been drawn to him.
"You know, I'm heading to L.A., too," I said, while the smoke exhaled from my lungs.
"No really?" he said.
"Yeah, I'm going out there to see my cousin. She just had a baby. I've never been there before, but I hear that Venice Beach is a trip."
"I've never been there either," he said. "Looks like you might be planning to go the rest of the way, tonight. Judging by your purchases, anyhow." he said, nodding to my paper bag.
"Yeah, I was hoping to. I've got to be back to work on Monday, so I don't have much time."
"Oh, that's too bad. I thought maybe...well never mind."
"Never mind what?" I asked. He didn't answer. We just stood there, looking out into the black emptiness beyond the lights of the Shell station. A string of images unraveled in my head. I grew dizzy. I saw caravans, camels, remote tents in the desert, dancing by fire. But this was Bakersfield, not the Sahara. I was not a bejeweled whore, he was not a prince.
"Maybe I'll see ya," he said. That was all.
"Yeah maybe," I said. He walked off, unlatched the door, swung his legs in and fired the engine. He stuck his arm out his window, with a big wave, too big, with his whole arm. It was like he was parading away on a float. I let my cigarette die out and I drove off into a ditch on the side of the highway, without a sip of coffee. I slept the whole night through until 7am the next morning when the sun had ignited the sky long enough to make my car feel like a furnace.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Mantra of Decomposition
Last month I became obsessed with this idea: A novice Buddhist monk encounters a dead body in the woods and proceeds to meditate on it instead of telling anyone. Day after day he returns, but the body doesn't appear to be decomposing...
I wrote a 3-page rough draft of the first half of the story (the monk finding the body, and the first few days watching). The following are rough sketches and notes for the rest of it. As with all my note-taking, they're a patchwork mess: right sentiments, but most likely the wrong order.
I didn't even touch him yet that first day. It seemed inappropriate to leave. He seemed so alone. An inchworm landed on my finger. I placed it on his shoulder, watched as it crawled in his ear.
The odd thing was on the third day when it began to scab. It seemed impossible, unnatural even, that this should happen. But I was certainly no expert. Pigs are not humans. It could be common for the organs to be dead but the chemicals to still b working. What does a platelet care if the heart is stopped? Wouldn't it still collect? Wouldn't the air harden it? After all the gases and bacteria inside are still active. If decomposition is an active, not a passive process, then other processes must continue unaware that the organism as a whole is dead. That must be it. That was the only explanation. Tomorrow I would get to see the tides turn.
"Bob," I said, and then corrected myself, "Bobu-san, sumimasen," and sat. I named all my animals Bob. Most popular name in Queens at the time, back when I was a butcher, the name of the deliveryman who first installed my freezer, then the animals. It was a sign of respect, my dad was a hunter, one day he brought home a bear, my brother the bear. It was the respect that you knew you were eating a life. This Bob deserved no less. It seemed wrong to refer to it simply as a body. Would naming him be a gesture of attachment? Aoki-sensai might think so. This dead man, this Bob, was obviously not a monk, and not working for a monk. Perhaps he was disgraced, a thief, a failure. This was my test. When I was a child a dog caught its leash on a tree in the woods behind my house.
Day 4 ~ Bob's shirt was white, but has been graying, becoming sun-bleached. It looked now like the cotton was absorbing the ink as the earth took his body's fluids. His shirt had changed and the wound certainly, but I was disappointed with how slowly the rest was decaying. It wasn't bloating yet. Maybe the cool of the forest helped? Maybe the time of year had few microbes? I was agitated that it wasn't going faster, but quickly felt ashamed at my impatience. I resolved not to hope or expect. But then, oh, the horror of the sixth day when I thought that maybe the wound was healing!
I counted the days and hours. Eight days later it looked different, of course, but not different enough. I was a butcher, so I've seen what dead things look like when they decay and I did not see it here. Insects fed on the blood, the spray of brain and skull, maggots coated the exposed area, but there was no smell aside from the wound. And it was starting to heal. A scab was starting to form, the edges crusty, green and blue sure, but there was activity, more than just microbial. There were platelets, which meant there was oxygenation, which meant there was respiration and circulation. Which meant there was life! Of course, I could be mistaken. It might have been just the insects, or just the effect of drying in the hot days and the wind of the cold nights. Could I tell the difference between drying and healing? Not yet. And the lack of predator, scavenger certainly indicted he was still dead (not dead, still dead, as if once dead but now come back). There would be many more noses and teeth interested in fresh, oxygenated, injured flesh than dead. They could smell it. For a moment I wished I could too, but what if I smelled life? If there was life there might be consciousness and then imagine the torment I had put this poor man through. It was more than not helping him. I had studied him. We had spent time together. He might have watched me watching him, mind moving as fast as his body was stationary, wracking what was left of his brain as to why this person, this monk, what kind of person he would be to sit and watch and inflict this torment? Imagine the hate fuming from him for me, justifiably, despite my best of intentions. Any just God would see through such opinion, but in the absence of one, with the greater possibility of a larger comprehensive consciousness existing as a compilation of all of our individual ones, the spiritual currency could be held to the sway of opinion, and could the hate of this man weigh more than a thousand mediocre likes and loves. What good was intention in the face of such torment and torture?
I don't know.
I leaned close, up from my stone, and smelled the wound, and gagged, gagged, fought it, and then vomited. I covered his head in vomit. No, there was no way he could be alive. It would be too horrible. I had done nothing so strong as to allow such a farce into the reality of my life. This was imagination, horror, fear, just a challenge of mind fighting the training. If I told the monks and brought a doctor after ten days and he was alive they'd think me a monster, though it would be worth it. If he was confirmed dead though, they would laugh and I would be a failure, confirming I am not meant for this work. "Go back to your bars and malls and dentist offices," they'll say in their sandals and scarves sipping tea on their long wood tables. And what if the doctor says he died only hours before. Would I be complicit? And imagine viewing the vomit, and maybe they'd smell the beer in it, the meat. I might surely bring the carnivores now, though I have no idea what kind are here. No, it is best to let things be as they will be. If he is alive he will be that way without my interference. If he is dead, as assuredly he is, then tomorrow I will see the next sign of rot. Of decay. Of transition. Of emptiness. Of form. Of nothingness. Of everything.
Did it move? If I could confirm that it moved, would I pick up this rock and hit it? Would I help it remain dead?
Watch how it crumbles, how it eats itself from the inside and creates life. Can you imagine the billions of universes contained and released. How active, death! You need only smaller eyes to see it. You see what a sloppy and poorly designed mess we are, unless we are designed only so that we may die appropriately for the maintenance of all these other organisms.
Think of all he would see, all those brain cells working as fast as these lies, imagine what he might be imagining. The memories being reviewed, the horrors imagined.
I stole a mirror. I stole a stethoscope. I checked his breath. I checked for a pulse. How long can someone last without water, without food? He was dreaming at least, resting. Did his chest move? I pressed my foot against him, pressed down, and I swear he gurgled.
They would exile me, send me back to wander Queens, but where would I go? Who would take me in? Would the think me a murderer? Oh, the hue and cry!
He had stubble. His fingernails. I drew a line on his face where his hair fell and the next day checked against it. I couldn't tell, but other hairs looked longer so I drew more marks.
I was not without the need to study, to exhaust all reasonable efforts.
Yes, I served the Turks the lesser meats. Yes my hand drifted over the cash register when the kid with their beanies came by. Yes I harassed the Jehova's when they came knocking, taking my learnedness too seriously. Yes I paid for my dog's surgery yet I was too late to save that one in the woods.
It was when I shaved my beard that my wife became frightened and realized our time was done. We were holding on to only archetypes, but there are no real things as archetypes. They are only approximations that reduce us from what we are to the least common denominator of a much larger set of associations we have utterly no control over. It is unfair to think of each other that way. We loved each other enough to not want to do that anymore.
And so ten days later I am here waiting for him to die so I may see him finally he released from the torment of my watching him. Yes, now, I can see the bloat start. Now I will begin my learning. One more day. I am a butcher. I deal in meat. The meat becomes the earth becomes the meat becomes the thought becomes the meat. This is not abstraction. The thinker is abstraction. The sitter is meat. I am a butcher. I am a student. I am a human. I deal in meat…
I wrote a 3-page rough draft of the first half of the story (the monk finding the body, and the first few days watching). The following are rough sketches and notes for the rest of it. As with all my note-taking, they're a patchwork mess: right sentiments, but most likely the wrong order.
~
I didn't even touch him yet that first day. It seemed inappropriate to leave. He seemed so alone. An inchworm landed on my finger. I placed it on his shoulder, watched as it crawled in his ear.
The odd thing was on the third day when it began to scab. It seemed impossible, unnatural even, that this should happen. But I was certainly no expert. Pigs are not humans. It could be common for the organs to be dead but the chemicals to still b working. What does a platelet care if the heart is stopped? Wouldn't it still collect? Wouldn't the air harden it? After all the gases and bacteria inside are still active. If decomposition is an active, not a passive process, then other processes must continue unaware that the organism as a whole is dead. That must be it. That was the only explanation. Tomorrow I would get to see the tides turn.
"Bob," I said, and then corrected myself, "Bobu-san, sumimasen," and sat. I named all my animals Bob. Most popular name in Queens at the time, back when I was a butcher, the name of the deliveryman who first installed my freezer, then the animals. It was a sign of respect, my dad was a hunter, one day he brought home a bear, my brother the bear. It was the respect that you knew you were eating a life. This Bob deserved no less. It seemed wrong to refer to it simply as a body. Would naming him be a gesture of attachment? Aoki-sensai might think so. This dead man, this Bob, was obviously not a monk, and not working for a monk. Perhaps he was disgraced, a thief, a failure. This was my test. When I was a child a dog caught its leash on a tree in the woods behind my house.
Day 4 ~ Bob's shirt was white, but has been graying, becoming sun-bleached. It looked now like the cotton was absorbing the ink as the earth took his body's fluids. His shirt had changed and the wound certainly, but I was disappointed with how slowly the rest was decaying. It wasn't bloating yet. Maybe the cool of the forest helped? Maybe the time of year had few microbes? I was agitated that it wasn't going faster, but quickly felt ashamed at my impatience. I resolved not to hope or expect. But then, oh, the horror of the sixth day when I thought that maybe the wound was healing!
I counted the days and hours. Eight days later it looked different, of course, but not different enough. I was a butcher, so I've seen what dead things look like when they decay and I did not see it here. Insects fed on the blood, the spray of brain and skull, maggots coated the exposed area, but there was no smell aside from the wound. And it was starting to heal. A scab was starting to form, the edges crusty, green and blue sure, but there was activity, more than just microbial. There were platelets, which meant there was oxygenation, which meant there was respiration and circulation. Which meant there was life! Of course, I could be mistaken. It might have been just the insects, or just the effect of drying in the hot days and the wind of the cold nights. Could I tell the difference between drying and healing? Not yet. And the lack of predator, scavenger certainly indicted he was still dead (not dead, still dead, as if once dead but now come back). There would be many more noses and teeth interested in fresh, oxygenated, injured flesh than dead. They could smell it. For a moment I wished I could too, but what if I smelled life? If there was life there might be consciousness and then imagine the torment I had put this poor man through. It was more than not helping him. I had studied him. We had spent time together. He might have watched me watching him, mind moving as fast as his body was stationary, wracking what was left of his brain as to why this person, this monk, what kind of person he would be to sit and watch and inflict this torment? Imagine the hate fuming from him for me, justifiably, despite my best of intentions. Any just God would see through such opinion, but in the absence of one, with the greater possibility of a larger comprehensive consciousness existing as a compilation of all of our individual ones, the spiritual currency could be held to the sway of opinion, and could the hate of this man weigh more than a thousand mediocre likes and loves. What good was intention in the face of such torment and torture?
I don't know.
I leaned close, up from my stone, and smelled the wound, and gagged, gagged, fought it, and then vomited. I covered his head in vomit. No, there was no way he could be alive. It would be too horrible. I had done nothing so strong as to allow such a farce into the reality of my life. This was imagination, horror, fear, just a challenge of mind fighting the training. If I told the monks and brought a doctor after ten days and he was alive they'd think me a monster, though it would be worth it. If he was confirmed dead though, they would laugh and I would be a failure, confirming I am not meant for this work. "Go back to your bars and malls and dentist offices," they'll say in their sandals and scarves sipping tea on their long wood tables. And what if the doctor says he died only hours before. Would I be complicit? And imagine viewing the vomit, and maybe they'd smell the beer in it, the meat. I might surely bring the carnivores now, though I have no idea what kind are here. No, it is best to let things be as they will be. If he is alive he will be that way without my interference. If he is dead, as assuredly he is, then tomorrow I will see the next sign of rot. Of decay. Of transition. Of emptiness. Of form. Of nothingness. Of everything.
Did it move? If I could confirm that it moved, would I pick up this rock and hit it? Would I help it remain dead?
Watch how it crumbles, how it eats itself from the inside and creates life. Can you imagine the billions of universes contained and released. How active, death! You need only smaller eyes to see it. You see what a sloppy and poorly designed mess we are, unless we are designed only so that we may die appropriately for the maintenance of all these other organisms.
Think of all he would see, all those brain cells working as fast as these lies, imagine what he might be imagining. The memories being reviewed, the horrors imagined.
I stole a mirror. I stole a stethoscope. I checked his breath. I checked for a pulse. How long can someone last without water, without food? He was dreaming at least, resting. Did his chest move? I pressed my foot against him, pressed down, and I swear he gurgled.
They would exile me, send me back to wander Queens, but where would I go? Who would take me in? Would the think me a murderer? Oh, the hue and cry!
He had stubble. His fingernails. I drew a line on his face where his hair fell and the next day checked against it. I couldn't tell, but other hairs looked longer so I drew more marks.
I was not without the need to study, to exhaust all reasonable efforts.
Yes, I served the Turks the lesser meats. Yes my hand drifted over the cash register when the kid with their beanies came by. Yes I harassed the Jehova's when they came knocking, taking my learnedness too seriously. Yes I paid for my dog's surgery yet I was too late to save that one in the woods.
It was when I shaved my beard that my wife became frightened and realized our time was done. We were holding on to only archetypes, but there are no real things as archetypes. They are only approximations that reduce us from what we are to the least common denominator of a much larger set of associations we have utterly no control over. It is unfair to think of each other that way. We loved each other enough to not want to do that anymore.
And so ten days later I am here waiting for him to die so I may see him finally he released from the torment of my watching him. Yes, now, I can see the bloat start. Now I will begin my learning. One more day. I am a butcher. I deal in meat. The meat becomes the earth becomes the meat becomes the thought becomes the meat. This is not abstraction. The thinker is abstraction. The sitter is meat. I am a butcher. I am a student. I am a human. I deal in meat…
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I like to think beginnings are like writing exercise...
But I'm afraid I'm fooling myself, because they shirk the issue of continuation. Regardless, I've written another. This one's about a babysitter who is stuck with a terrible, naughty boy. But we don't know that yet.
The sound of the jets, above. The light of the sky, above. The crest of my vision, above. The things I am under, above. I took his hand and we walked a little ways towards the grocery store, where I would buy the groceries needed to make dinner. He was so small beside me, I towered over him like a mountain, or a lop-sided building. The air-duct on the side of the grocery store had disconnected from the siding and it appeared as if it might crash down on us. The little man was four years old, he was the son of my best friend, who had taken a vacation to the Bahamas.
I remember the way things looked, when I was just a child. I remember how unfortunate it seemed that I could not decide the most mundane things, such as what socks I would wear, and that these mundane decisions were taken care of, for me, by my mother. I hated my mother in my youth, but I didn't realize that one day, all of those things would loom over my head, like this air-duct at the grocery store, each minor decision, another burden to bear.
I decided that we would try to make curry, the same kind of curry one eats in a Thai Food restaurant, with coconut milk. At the time, I didn't know that this boy was allergic to almost every kind of vegetable, with an ungodly reaction that resembled a temper tantrum. I filled my basket with mushrooms, broccoli, carrots, onions, and garlic. I had trouble getting him to speak, although my best friend had told me that he was far ahead of the learning curve with his vocabulary. His attitude appeared to be the result of home-sickness, without any idea how manipulative his behavior really was.
So after I wrote that sentence, I realized that I was creating a monster, with this four-year-old boy. I didn't know what or how he would bring about the demise of his baby-sitter, but she seemed like an easy target, someone who is burdened by simple things.
He let go of my hand for a moment, to scratch his nose. He had the kind of freckles that spread out over almost reddish-skin like a disease. His hair was blond, and his face reminded me of the little boys you'd see in propagandistic posters for the Hitler-youth. And I actually believed that he was an angel. He was quiet, he had followed my orders with utmost care, for the last three days. It was only when he reached for his nose while I pulled carrots from the shelf that a slight hint of malice could be seen. I looked down at him and after a miniscule scratch to his nose, he reached a finger into his nostril and lowered it to his mouth, to chew and swallow a booger.
"Hey!" I said to him, grabbing his hand to slap it. He just stared at me blankly.
"No!" I said. I slapped him and let go of his little wrist. He crossed his arms and I could see the slightest crease in his forehead form, from his brow tightening. I looked away, towards the next vegetable bin, looking for onions. They were on sale with a club-card because the harvesting season had just come into full-swing. I still did not understand how or why a club-card was necessary for discounts. The next thing I knew, Jared had disappeared.
I stopped here and came back a few hours later to the story. I thought of some hopefully non sequitur, and indirect details that I wanted to add to it. I guess they were perceptions I had while driving.
Later, we were driving home. He was stiff as a board, and quiet, as though he had won a little game out of spite. I had searched the entire grocery store, only to find him waiting for me by the garbage can outside the sliding glass doors of the Safeway. He waited for me peacefully, with a slight smile. I felt removed from him, but my senses were attuned to his every movement now. Each bump in the road felt like I had killed something under the wheels of the car. I felt like I was driving, murdering and driving on. I looked at the pedestrians standing on the corners of the streets waiting for the little white man to appear and lead them to the other side of the road along the crosswalk. One of these pedestrians had slicked back hair and his dark eyes stared at me. Even as I drove by, they followed me. Our eyes were locked. I didn't know why. He looked at me, the driver, and drilled his steady gaze at me, as though passing judgment. But for what, I couldn't know.
Jared said just one sentence on the drive home. He told me, "I hate vegetables, but I'll eat macaroni and cheese."
The sound of the jets, above. The light of the sky, above. The crest of my vision, above. The things I am under, above. I took his hand and we walked a little ways towards the grocery store, where I would buy the groceries needed to make dinner. He was so small beside me, I towered over him like a mountain, or a lop-sided building. The air-duct on the side of the grocery store had disconnected from the siding and it appeared as if it might crash down on us. The little man was four years old, he was the son of my best friend, who had taken a vacation to the Bahamas.
I remember the way things looked, when I was just a child. I remember how unfortunate it seemed that I could not decide the most mundane things, such as what socks I would wear, and that these mundane decisions were taken care of, for me, by my mother. I hated my mother in my youth, but I didn't realize that one day, all of those things would loom over my head, like this air-duct at the grocery store, each minor decision, another burden to bear.
I decided that we would try to make curry, the same kind of curry one eats in a Thai Food restaurant, with coconut milk. At the time, I didn't know that this boy was allergic to almost every kind of vegetable, with an ungodly reaction that resembled a temper tantrum. I filled my basket with mushrooms, broccoli, carrots, onions, and garlic. I had trouble getting him to speak, although my best friend had told me that he was far ahead of the learning curve with his vocabulary. His attitude appeared to be the result of home-sickness, without any idea how manipulative his behavior really was.
So after I wrote that sentence, I realized that I was creating a monster, with this four-year-old boy. I didn't know what or how he would bring about the demise of his baby-sitter, but she seemed like an easy target, someone who is burdened by simple things.
He let go of my hand for a moment, to scratch his nose. He had the kind of freckles that spread out over almost reddish-skin like a disease. His hair was blond, and his face reminded me of the little boys you'd see in propagandistic posters for the Hitler-youth. And I actually believed that he was an angel. He was quiet, he had followed my orders with utmost care, for the last three days. It was only when he reached for his nose while I pulled carrots from the shelf that a slight hint of malice could be seen. I looked down at him and after a miniscule scratch to his nose, he reached a finger into his nostril and lowered it to his mouth, to chew and swallow a booger.
"Hey!" I said to him, grabbing his hand to slap it. He just stared at me blankly.
"No!" I said. I slapped him and let go of his little wrist. He crossed his arms and I could see the slightest crease in his forehead form, from his brow tightening. I looked away, towards the next vegetable bin, looking for onions. They were on sale with a club-card because the harvesting season had just come into full-swing. I still did not understand how or why a club-card was necessary for discounts. The next thing I knew, Jared had disappeared.
I stopped here and came back a few hours later to the story. I thought of some hopefully non sequitur, and indirect details that I wanted to add to it. I guess they were perceptions I had while driving.
Later, we were driving home. He was stiff as a board, and quiet, as though he had won a little game out of spite. I had searched the entire grocery store, only to find him waiting for me by the garbage can outside the sliding glass doors of the Safeway. He waited for me peacefully, with a slight smile. I felt removed from him, but my senses were attuned to his every movement now. Each bump in the road felt like I had killed something under the wheels of the car. I felt like I was driving, murdering and driving on. I looked at the pedestrians standing on the corners of the streets waiting for the little white man to appear and lead them to the other side of the road along the crosswalk. One of these pedestrians had slicked back hair and his dark eyes stared at me. Even as I drove by, they followed me. Our eyes were locked. I didn't know why. He looked at me, the driver, and drilled his steady gaze at me, as though passing judgment. But for what, I couldn't know.
Jared said just one sentence on the drive home. He told me, "I hate vegetables, but I'll eat macaroni and cheese."
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Crime Scene
I just got back from Seattle. I've been running scenes from Antonioni's Zabriskie Point through my head. I just watched Alice in Wonderland. My dates are incorrect, but I started with these impressions. A couple of days ago, I was in the Hyatt for a pre-wedding, so I have the HYATT on the brain. This is just your typical crime-scene, minus the details. This character, JANE, doesn't know shit. She has a terrible memory (like me) and she's pretty absent-minded (like me). Does that make this auto-biographical? I doubt it, unless it somehow plays out in my future. I give homage to the local bars (SF) The Attic and The Phone-book in this sketch. Hope you enjoy it, although its pretty slippery. It's hot off the press, something that I just rambled about, without a particular direction in mind.
There was an explosion. It was 1982 in Walt Disney's Alice in Wonderland and Alice fell down a rabbit hole. The many commodities flying about looked just like the tornado in the scene of Dorothy spinning about with her house, her bed, and her little dog, too from 1954 in the Wizard of Oz. There was an explosion. It was 1972 and the house on the desert hill blew to smithereens to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd wailing on guitars and we watched, just like Daria, as the Wonderbread blew out of the refrigerator and different bits and pieces flew apart for different rooms of the house. Everything floated, mid-air once again, except for the girl, who was only day-dreaming. Day-dreams, sleep-induced fevers of explosions that send the commodities of the house spinning about, and giving three girls a few moments of uncontrolled, utter freedom. Here's my applause for the day-dreams of Daria, Dorothy, and Alice.
I'm sitting in a hotel room. It is not mine, I'm just visiting. The clock on the night-stand has large, legible numbers that read 4:50 am. I am not sober and neither is he. I suppose he has a perfectly suitable name, but I can't remember what it is. For the last hour I've been calling him Jim. He arrived at 1:37 am to the last bar I was at, having just arrived from Washington D.C. and he promptly invited me, Jones, and Parker here to watch TV. We are all watching info-mercials. He is not tired, Jones is not tired, Parker is not tired, because they are all on east-coast time. I am on west-coast time and I am barely able to keep my eyes open, although I'm discovering new nuances to the way the 1-800 number flashes before my eyes, just before putting the mechanics of the self-cleaning kitty-litter box into simple terms, EZ terms, so that I will want to BUY it. The lights go out.
This is the HYATT, Jim says. This is the HYATT, this should not be happening. They should have back-up GENERATORS for the LIGHTS.
Now worries, Parker says. I've got a light. He reveals a long-handled flash-light.
Now where did you get that light? I ask, baffled.
I'm a cop, Parker says.
No shit? I ask.
Not a shit in the toilet. Parker says.
Jones and Jim thank Parker for the light, before each finding subtle excuses to use the bathroom. Jim mysteriously grabs something, a thing that I was not previously aware of, from his duffle bag and he retreats to the bathroom. We hear several flushes. Jones goes in next. We hear several more flushes.
What's going on BOYS. Asks Parker.
What's going on, I wonder. I don't want to know. I've got to go. I say, sheepishly.
You're not going anywhere, Parker says. You're a witness.
A witness to what? I ask.
You heard them flushing, he says.
I am not a witness. I say. I do not choose to be a witness. Joe and Jones are looking at me suspiciously. I want the lights to go back on. I want to SEE the situation unfold before me. I want to KNOW what's going on. I've lost control.
Jones pulls out a gun. Jones fires a shot, aiming at Parker. The window is shatter-proof, but soon, its like the sky is falling.
I'm on west-coast time, I say. I've got to get going.
You're not going anywhere, Jones says, grabbing me and tying my wrists together behind my back.
The lights turn back on. I fall to sleep. In the morning I'm signing papers. There is no evidence except for my evidence and five new police officers are piecing together my 'story'. I don't have a story, I say. They look at me with stern faces. You don't have a story? They ask. No. I say. I don't have a story.
They want me to tell a story. So I begin. I was at the bar. I was at the Attic. WAIT. They say. What Attic? The bar, I say. It's called the Attic. Then I went to the Phone-booth, I say. Who did you call, they ask. I didn't call anyone, I say. Its another bar, I say. Go back, they say. No, its really quite simple. Two bars. I went to two bars. One is called the Attic and the other is called the Phonebooth. Then I went to the bathroom. I said. Is that another bar? the Jackass police asks me. No! I say. I had to 'releive' myself. My bladder was full, I said. Alright, let's cut to the chase, one of the men says. When did you go to the HYATT.
I don't remember. I say. It was sometime between 1:37 and 4:50am.
Go back, they say. What happened at 1:37?
I went to the bathroom. I said. And then suddenly you were in the HYATT? One of them asks, chewing gum. And boy, he's chewing. He's got quite a jaw.
No. I say. There was a brief explosion. I went into a dream. It was like a daydream. It looked a lot like a bunch of other explosions involving innocent women, life-chancing explosions, surreal explosions. It was like I was in a movie. And then all of a sudden, I was stuck on the end of the bed, next to Jones, Parker and Jim. We were watching infomercials.
So how did you get THIS in your pocket? One of them asks, holding up a plastic baggy. It's holding a gun. That's not mine. I say. That's Parker's.
Listen, they say. This is EVIDENCE. And furthermore, we don't have a Jones, we don't have a Jim, and we don't have a Parker. We have YOU. A Jane. Now, we found you on the railing, holding this in your pocket. You were tied to the railing. We need to know what happened, because as far as we can tell, it was something IMPORTANT.
Sure, sure. I say. It was probably important. I hear Pink Floyd in the distance. They were probably important, too. I see road-signs to Death Valley outside the window. Is this VEGAS, or what?
There was an explosion. It was 1982 in Walt Disney's Alice in Wonderland and Alice fell down a rabbit hole. The many commodities flying about looked just like the tornado in the scene of Dorothy spinning about with her house, her bed, and her little dog, too from 1954 in the Wizard of Oz. There was an explosion. It was 1972 and the house on the desert hill blew to smithereens to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd wailing on guitars and we watched, just like Daria, as the Wonderbread blew out of the refrigerator and different bits and pieces flew apart for different rooms of the house. Everything floated, mid-air once again, except for the girl, who was only day-dreaming. Day-dreams, sleep-induced fevers of explosions that send the commodities of the house spinning about, and giving three girls a few moments of uncontrolled, utter freedom. Here's my applause for the day-dreams of Daria, Dorothy, and Alice.
I'm sitting in a hotel room. It is not mine, I'm just visiting. The clock on the night-stand has large, legible numbers that read 4:50 am. I am not sober and neither is he. I suppose he has a perfectly suitable name, but I can't remember what it is. For the last hour I've been calling him Jim. He arrived at 1:37 am to the last bar I was at, having just arrived from Washington D.C. and he promptly invited me, Jones, and Parker here to watch TV. We are all watching info-mercials. He is not tired, Jones is not tired, Parker is not tired, because they are all on east-coast time. I am on west-coast time and I am barely able to keep my eyes open, although I'm discovering new nuances to the way the 1-800 number flashes before my eyes, just before putting the mechanics of the self-cleaning kitty-litter box into simple terms, EZ terms, so that I will want to BUY it. The lights go out.
This is the HYATT, Jim says. This is the HYATT, this should not be happening. They should have back-up GENERATORS for the LIGHTS.
Now worries, Parker says. I've got a light. He reveals a long-handled flash-light.
Now where did you get that light? I ask, baffled.
I'm a cop, Parker says.
No shit? I ask.
Not a shit in the toilet. Parker says.
Jones and Jim thank Parker for the light, before each finding subtle excuses to use the bathroom. Jim mysteriously grabs something, a thing that I was not previously aware of, from his duffle bag and he retreats to the bathroom. We hear several flushes. Jones goes in next. We hear several more flushes.
What's going on BOYS. Asks Parker.
What's going on, I wonder. I don't want to know. I've got to go. I say, sheepishly.
You're not going anywhere, Parker says. You're a witness.
A witness to what? I ask.
You heard them flushing, he says.
I am not a witness. I say. I do not choose to be a witness. Joe and Jones are looking at me suspiciously. I want the lights to go back on. I want to SEE the situation unfold before me. I want to KNOW what's going on. I've lost control.
Jones pulls out a gun. Jones fires a shot, aiming at Parker. The window is shatter-proof, but soon, its like the sky is falling.
I'm on west-coast time, I say. I've got to get going.
You're not going anywhere, Jones says, grabbing me and tying my wrists together behind my back.
The lights turn back on. I fall to sleep. In the morning I'm signing papers. There is no evidence except for my evidence and five new police officers are piecing together my 'story'. I don't have a story, I say. They look at me with stern faces. You don't have a story? They ask. No. I say. I don't have a story.
They want me to tell a story. So I begin. I was at the bar. I was at the Attic. WAIT. They say. What Attic? The bar, I say. It's called the Attic. Then I went to the Phone-booth, I say. Who did you call, they ask. I didn't call anyone, I say. Its another bar, I say. Go back, they say. No, its really quite simple. Two bars. I went to two bars. One is called the Attic and the other is called the Phonebooth. Then I went to the bathroom. I said. Is that another bar? the Jackass police asks me. No! I say. I had to 'releive' myself. My bladder was full, I said. Alright, let's cut to the chase, one of the men says. When did you go to the HYATT.
I don't remember. I say. It was sometime between 1:37 and 4:50am.
Go back, they say. What happened at 1:37?
I went to the bathroom. I said. And then suddenly you were in the HYATT? One of them asks, chewing gum. And boy, he's chewing. He's got quite a jaw.
No. I say. There was a brief explosion. I went into a dream. It was like a daydream. It looked a lot like a bunch of other explosions involving innocent women, life-chancing explosions, surreal explosions. It was like I was in a movie. And then all of a sudden, I was stuck on the end of the bed, next to Jones, Parker and Jim. We were watching infomercials.
So how did you get THIS in your pocket? One of them asks, holding up a plastic baggy. It's holding a gun. That's not mine. I say. That's Parker's.
Listen, they say. This is EVIDENCE. And furthermore, we don't have a Jones, we don't have a Jim, and we don't have a Parker. We have YOU. A Jane. Now, we found you on the railing, holding this in your pocket. You were tied to the railing. We need to know what happened, because as far as we can tell, it was something IMPORTANT.
Sure, sure. I say. It was probably important. I hear Pink Floyd in the distance. They were probably important, too. I see road-signs to Death Valley outside the window. Is this VEGAS, or what?
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Washer Woman: from Inspiration to Publication
I thought this might be an interesting exercise: taking a story from a couple years ago and compiling all the notebook entries (and these are literal hand-scrawled notebook entries) in order, so that a loose depiction of the process would emerge. Let's see how it goes...
In May 2008, Black Static in the UK published a short story of mine titled "Washer Woman," about isolated soldiers trying to maintain their sanity during an unnamed war.
The story began with a request from artist Dave Senecal. He sent me a painting and asked me to write a myth for it. Here's his request:
Sounds great, liked the idea, but I didn't want to write a myth. It sounded all fantasy-like, which was not my thing. I wanted something more than that. I sat on the request for a couple months, occasionally looking at this painting, but not really doing much about it. Of course, the problem was with my own imagination.
That is, until one day when I received the Spring '08 issue of ZYZZYVA in the mail. For some inexplicable reason the cover image kicked everything into gear.
The idea for a story struck me: a soldier in an unnamed war, stuck with other paranoid soldiers, including one, Minks, who is obsessed with this old Celtic myth of the "washer woman." The more war pressed on them, Minks conflates a local village woman into this myth in his head. People start dying off. The narrator's sense of belief is stretched. War's a bitch, especially when let loose on imaginations. I liked it. That was a real story, with a myth embedded that I could make up, but which was peripheral to a larger conflict and more complicated characters.
I wrote the main heart of a draft on the train. Not a complete draft, but the voice, characters, setting, and much of the language.
Here are images of my notebook at the time.
As you can tell, I was working on more than one story simultaneously, which is common.
Then came needing to make sense of the draft, asking some hard questions, fleshing out some character details from looks to quirks to motivation. I wanted to explain the Washer Woman’s myth through her song, which presented the challenge of writing some lyrics and when in the story to reveal them. This became a bit of an obsession, despite that they would be a very small portion of the text. These notes can be found here:
And here are even more notes on the lyrics to the Washer Woman’s song. Since Minks is the focal character, but not the narrator, the lyrics needed to serve as a window into what Minks thinks of this village woman, the one he thinks is the Washer Woman. The last two notes entries finally contain drafts of the lyrics themselves, instead of just notes about them. They were real clunky until the end, but alas, that's editing.
Once I finished a real draft, I sent it to a few friends for feedback, and if you're curious, you can see PDFs of each of their edits below:
Feedback from Marisa Egerstrom
Feedback from Kevin Lottes
Feedback from Eric Myers
This feedback sparked more edits. These focused on revealing the fear of the characters through little scenes, and then shortening the piece up. I killed a superfluous character (Parker), and trimmed the scenes from three deaths to only two. My last little bit of handwritten notes are here:
The final version of the story was accepted for publication by Black Static. Before publication, I sent the story and news to Dave Senecal again, and he created a different version of his original image so that the magazine could print it in black & white with the story, which they did in their May 2008 issue.
And that's that. I tried to capture about as much of the thought process as is possible to capture.
You can read the final publication here via Scribd.com:
Washer Woman
Another talented artist, Tyler Landry also read this story and opted to do his own version, flattering me so. Unfortunately, this is the first time I've had an opportunity to link it to the story itself. Unfortunate because he's a damn fine artist, and in many ways I think he captured the feel of the story even better with this small sketch. Here it is:
In May 2008, Black Static in the UK published a short story of mine titled "Washer Woman," about isolated soldiers trying to maintain their sanity during an unnamed war.
The story began with a request from artist Dave Senecal. He sent me a painting and asked me to write a myth for it. Here's his request:
So, I was approached awhile ago to do a book of monsters. As in, take legends and illustrate them. As is typical I got about 3 of them done and then realized, dude, this is going to take all year. Plus, it sounds cool but I like making up my own stuff. So, I wanted to take that idea and find people to write stories about the weird shit I made. Like, what is a Promethean? A warrior race of women who stole fire or something? Who knows. There is something that happens when I make the work.. a germ of a concept but it's like hearing snippets of someone else's conversation. Would be nice to hear the whole thing, so what do you think of assembling something from what is already there... take my own creatures and put small histories to them, like a bestiary of sorts? I have one that I have not publsihed anywhere... it is Washer Woman, originally done for the book... but never sent them the high res and I let the deal evaporate.
It is a banshee type, who washes the blood from the armor of the warriors who have or are destine to die in battle the next day. Anyway attached is a smaller version if you think you might want to put some words to it. The moon in it is crap, but I would fix it later. It would be nice to find more artists to contribute to the bestiary too so we would have more variety and a better chance of getting it out.
Sounds great, liked the idea, but I didn't want to write a myth. It sounded all fantasy-like, which was not my thing. I wanted something more than that. I sat on the request for a couple months, occasionally looking at this painting, but not really doing much about it. Of course, the problem was with my own imagination.
That is, until one day when I received the Spring '08 issue of ZYZZYVA in the mail. For some inexplicable reason the cover image kicked everything into gear.
The idea for a story struck me: a soldier in an unnamed war, stuck with other paranoid soldiers, including one, Minks, who is obsessed with this old Celtic myth of the "washer woman." The more war pressed on them, Minks conflates a local village woman into this myth in his head. People start dying off. The narrator's sense of belief is stretched. War's a bitch, especially when let loose on imaginations. I liked it. That was a real story, with a myth embedded that I could make up, but which was peripheral to a larger conflict and more complicated characters.
I wrote the main heart of a draft on the train. Not a complete draft, but the voice, characters, setting, and much of the language.
Here are images of my notebook at the time.
As you can tell, I was working on more than one story simultaneously, which is common.
Then came needing to make sense of the draft, asking some hard questions, fleshing out some character details from looks to quirks to motivation. I wanted to explain the Washer Woman’s myth through her song, which presented the challenge of writing some lyrics and when in the story to reveal them. This became a bit of an obsession, despite that they would be a very small portion of the text. These notes can be found here:
And here are even more notes on the lyrics to the Washer Woman’s song. Since Minks is the focal character, but not the narrator, the lyrics needed to serve as a window into what Minks thinks of this village woman, the one he thinks is the Washer Woman. The last two notes entries finally contain drafts of the lyrics themselves, instead of just notes about them. They were real clunky until the end, but alas, that's editing.
Once I finished a real draft, I sent it to a few friends for feedback, and if you're curious, you can see PDFs of each of their edits below:
Feedback from Marisa Egerstrom
Feedback from Kevin Lottes
Feedback from Eric Myers
This feedback sparked more edits. These focused on revealing the fear of the characters through little scenes, and then shortening the piece up. I killed a superfluous character (Parker), and trimmed the scenes from three deaths to only two. My last little bit of handwritten notes are here:
The final version of the story was accepted for publication by Black Static. Before publication, I sent the story and news to Dave Senecal again, and he created a different version of his original image so that the magazine could print it in black & white with the story, which they did in their May 2008 issue.
And that's that. I tried to capture about as much of the thought process as is possible to capture.
You can read the final publication here via Scribd.com:
Washer Woman
Another talented artist, Tyler Landry also read this story and opted to do his own version, flattering me so. Unfortunately, this is the first time I've had an opportunity to link it to the story itself. Unfortunate because he's a damn fine artist, and in many ways I think he captured the feel of the story even better with this small sketch. Here it is:
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