How Not to Critique

One of my favorite scenes in Whit Stillman's marvelous moviefilm Metroplitan begins with the protagonist, a Mr. Tom Townshend, launching into a full on assault of the works of the celebrated author, one Jane Austen. You may have heard of this woman, on account of her novels being Emma Thompsoned or Gwyneth Paltrowed to death. Not that I'm complaining.

Because my memory is old and full of holes I can't remember the specific thrust but what the Internet helps me remember is this exchange at the end of the conversation:

Audrey Rouget: What Jane Austen novels have you read?

Tom Townshend: None. I don't read novels. I prefer good literary criticism. That way you get both the novelists' ideas as well as the critics' thinking. With fiction I can never forget that none of it really happened, that it's all just made up by the author.

I just wanted to pat old Tom on his cute little head and give him a lollipop the first time I heard that.

I am never opposed to criticism when it's valid, meaning not used as a forum to launch a personal attack. I don't believe that criticism should be unemotional and analytical either. I would expect that every good critic is incorporating their life experience, their taste into what makes something work for them which is really all a critic can express albeit, against what one would hope is a solid cultural framework for context purposes.

Criticism is one of the tools that historians, curators and the like use years from now to reflect upon our culture and decide what kind of idiots we were.

Howevah (as Stephen A. Smith would say.) You can't review something by proxy. Past experience may shape a future opinion but you can't say for certain your opinion of something until you experience it yourself.

Have you ever had two friends that you thought would be perfect a love match for each other, and surprise they didn't like each other for the same reasons you thought they would? Has your BFFFFFF in the whole world showed you something that they were absolutely sure that you'd love and you found yourself less than enthused when you got to experience it for yourself?

Have you ever gone to see a band with someone and they fell in love with the opening act even though you (yourself) were in love with the headliner?

Have you ever gone to a film that you were absolutely certain you would love/hate and come out with the exact opposite reaction?

If you answered no to all of those, Congratulations, you're a robot and your secret decoder ring is in the mail.

Think about it like this. Would you rather have someone form their opinion of YOU based on what one of their friends says about you or would you rather let yourself and your own actions speak for themselves?

Now apply that to art, music, movies, food and the like and tell me how you really feel, robot.

I will have more on this later, I hope.

It's "Finished"

She said to me as she walked out the door. Thinking about it now, I'd thank her if I could find her but I know: There is no finding her. Not where she went.

A funny thing happened to me on the way to writing my novel. At approximately 45,000 words I reached the pivotal scene. My original plan was to use that scene as a launching point to create a maelstrom from which I'd hammer down the rest of the subplots and tie a bow around the fucker.

Well, it didn't go like that.

As I wrote more and more of this scene and believe me I labored, we're talking days of staring at the monitor and coughing up a single sentence then deleting that sentence or one before it on the next day and writing something else.

As I wrote more and more I had hard time removing this excellent question from my brane.

As I wrote more and more of that scene, I realized that I was essentially writing the end of my novel.

It was a somber moment, there was no shimmying in the chair or anything like that, instead just an overwhelming numbness, a realization that I truly had nothing more to say on the subject. Between my beginning, middle and end I have enough to revise this thing into something truly workable.

I didn't hit the word count I wanted but the thing about journeys is that the destination is just another a mile marker. For me the journey isn't so much about writing "a novel" but becoming a full time novelist. I want to write many novels. Every piece that I write leads me closer to that goal and so I do feel a sense of accomplishment. Also, I learned a lot about how I work so I'll be better equipped to work with myself in the future.

Besides, I've read books (you may have noticed this) and am highly critical of writers that jam a story together and cobble on some wacked out ending that could've come 50 pages sooner. I wouldn't hold myself to a separate standard when I want my work to be on the same shelves as these guys/gals.

So it's done. I'm going to sit on it for a month before I print it and get to the editing/revision. 45,000 words @ 250/pg works out to about 180 pages. Paola pointed out that The Stranger is only 120 words. I can't decide if that makes me feel better or worse.

I've already started the next one. The inspiration came to me last year, I saw a bus parked on the side of State Route 99 during rush hour, hazards flashing. I can't remember if I saw or imagined a woman getting off that bus and into a grey Nissan truck behind it but that's what happens in my mind.

And that's where we go next.

Lazy Reading

I hate when someone takes my or another writer's fiction at face value and reaches the conclusion:

HE IS EXACTLY LIKE THAT.

Who are we to decide anyone is like anything?

It is safe to say if someone is writing about it then yes, they've probably thought about it and I think that's about all you could ever discern without additional information from the writer.

Which may or may not even be true, if you really want to know.

Names

I'm going through a rough patch with my reading, these days. Seems like the books I've read since The End of Mr. Y take these great premises and bury them underneath other things that I don't care about. A sleight of hand where they lure you in with one thing and the next thing you know you're the proud owner of a three humped camel and a future stake in the Brooklyn Bridge. Or they just mail in the ending. A mediocre ending can totally destroy everything else that happened before it.

Up until recently, I'd never been the type to abandon a book, no matter how bad and I've read some crap, mind you. A Confederacy of Dunces, though... I couldn't separate the prose from what came off as a never ending fart joke, Pulitzer winning fart joke, mind you. Had to set that one down and the odds of picking it up again are about as likely as Patricia Highsmith cranking out another Ripley book. (Famous last words)

So I decided to bring in the big guns and go for an open and shut case. The Glass Key came to mind because whether or not Hammett's plots make sense have nothing to do with the enjoyability of his prose. Supposedly the book inspired my FAVORITE MOVIE EVER, Miller's Crossing, and I've been dying to read it since finding that out. I read the first few pages at a bookstore and was hooked instantly but I'd already blown my wad on other things on that particular visit. I was also in a bit of a crash crunch after spending my savings on a new motherboard and cpu (YAY for new computer shininess!) so that was another wrinkle.

My next option, and just to be clear, I have a bunch of self-imposed restraints that prohibit me from basically reading things by the same authors over and over. I want to write well and I think part of writing well comes from reading well. I don't believe that limiting myself to a handful of writers that I adore will accomplish that, considering the plethora of voices that are out there. You just never know when you'll discover your new favorite writer if you don't go out and look for them.

So my next option became Anna Karenina, a highly regarded novel that you may have heard of.
It was selected as the best novel ever written by one group of authors and it's considered one of the best to come out of the 19th century. I dug the book up from my library, where it sat on a stack of Dostoevsky works: Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment and House of the Dead, flipped it open and proceeded to read the foreword which is something I never do. Stupid lit scholars never bother to tell you there may be spoilers in the foreword.

After reading how Tolstoy came to the decision to write the book, I was hooked. I brought it downstairs to my desk, put my feet up, skimmed the rest of the foreword and got to a part, right before the prose that said: "Besides being more direct than earlier translations and closer to current speech, it has the great advantage of simplifying the Russian names, so that the reader is no longer confused by all the -evnas and -oviches an can give his full attention to the story as Tolstoy wanted us to do."

I didn't even have to read the next part to know it was coming but the main character's name Karenina is a patronymic: daughter of Karenin, I believe. Someone more familiar with Russian feel free to correct me. The translation uses a simplified naming convention that effectively breaks the title of the novel.

Um... what?

Because I don't speak Russian and will probably never learn it, I like to hope that when I'm reading something translated they're adhering to the rules as much as possible. To me, simplifying an established naming convention doesn't do that. It makes me think of Ellis Island immigrants giving their names to the Yankee gatekeepers, uncultured and unfamiliar with anything un-American, if they couldn't pronounce it they changed it to "to make it easier."

Pardon me for not believing names should be easy.

This isn't an original thought (its' touched on in Percival Everett's Glyph at least) but if you think about it your name is as inherited from your parents as much as your nose or any other genetic condition. In most cases, parents have decided what they're going to call you before they've even seen you, when you're nothing but a dream to them. In the case of my name, I share it with my Father and many members of my extended family. I don't know if this makes me more sensitive because of that, but I think you have to give the proper respect to what a name represents. Most of us do not choose them, they are given to us by people that have been on the planet longer than us.

But it's just fiction right?

Well yes, artistic vision aside, you could say that about any piece of art and that would end the argument.

But I think that art is much more important that and if Tolstoy had chosen to call his characters something easy, something non-Russian, then that's what he would have done. He didn't do that though.

It took me awhile to understand Russian names, and how a single character could have like 6 different names (if you include all the nicknames etc.) but it's really not that hard to piece together if you pay attention. Plus, I like the conversational familiarity provided by people fluidly switching from one affective name to another. It gives me the "This is how they really talk" over there feeling. It would be a big turnoff for me to pick up a book with a different time and setting than my own that sounded just like people talk here and now. Isn't the goal of most fiction to transport you to another time and place?

Anyway, long story short, I need a better translation of Anna Karenina for one and for two I decided to punt and I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Rum Punch because I know I'll enjoy it. Then I'll head back to the bookstore when this holiday madness dies down to grab Middlemarch and see what this Eliot chick is all about.

Us realists need to stick together and so forth.

Technology

Douglas Coupland was on APM's Marketplace discussing his new novel Generation A, a book that takes place in a future without bees.

In the interview, Coupland talks about the early theory of hive collapse being linked to possible cell phone use. Luckily (or so we think) that hasn't turned out to be the case. I say luckily because I agree with him; if the choice came down to saving bees or using rollover minutes I think, given some time, governments would collaborate to design a nice thoughtful memorial to the species.

Sorry honeybee, #speciesfail.

Not that I endorse this line of thinking but let's be realistic people. How many of y'all would give up your handheld wireless internet access to save a species that most folks consider a nuisance?

Now I'm not the type of person that keeps the phone attached to my ear and most of the time I don't even answer it when it rings unless I'm expecting a call (secret's out!) so it wouldn't be a problem for me to do that, but don't think I'm approaching this from a holier than thou position.

I have a commercial grade espresso machine installed in my house. One of the drawbacks (as if there could be drawbacks to having espresso or boiling water whenever you want it, lol) is the unit has a drain that over time gets clogged with coffee residue, the super fine granules that manage to sneak through the portafilter or come out of the brew valve at the end of the shot.

Basically, it requires regular maintenance to keep rancid water from overflowing onto my (wife's) counter top.

There are a couple of ways to do this. One involves disassembling the line and running a wire hanger snake to push the (now) living coffee clog out.

The other way involves filling the little drain box with drain cleaner and waiting.... waiting.... waiting.... until the cleaner eats through the clog. Then I pour a little more in, wait again, flush with hot water, voila.

If you have to guess which method I prefer I'll give you a hint: I don't like taking things apart unless there is absolutely no choice e.g. Asteroid headed toward the Greater Seattle Area = No choice.

Paola wanted to try an enzymatic drain cleaner so we did and it was a disaster. We picked a powdered kind that needed to be mixed in a gigantic volume in order to be effective. This posed a huge problem because the physical limits of the drain would never allow for anything close to that volume to occupy it. This meant me spending three days nursing the cleaner into the drain box and waiting.... waiting.... waiting... for nothing and cleaning off the counter top to start over.

Finally at the end of the third day, I disassembled the drain to find that the coffee clog was gone but now there was a pasty globule of cleaner that I had to clean out to make the drain operable.

At this point, I just wanted a homemade double tall latte so I did the only thing that made sense: Went to QFC and bought the old industrial stuff. I explained all this to Paola, when she woke up and she concurred. As much as I want to SAVE THE PLANET I can't tolerate having drains back up into my home.

For me, indoor plumbing is the thing I wouldn't give up and by that I mean all the peripherals that are assumed to come with it, like a free flowing drain, BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

If it would have taken a mix of napalm and DDT to get that thing open again I don't think I would've hesitated, so sorry other species.

What do other species care anyway? The only thing that stops most of them from eating us is the part where we can't fit into their mouths.

So what is the one technology you couldn't give up, no matter the circumstance?

Envy

I've been trying to organize an Algonquin Round Table style elitist lit group where we would gather at certain snooty establishments, sip the finest cognac out of gilded snifters, discuss and more importantly deride the current state of literature. Except for the good stuff which (of course) would all be written by us. That would be universally praised, ad nauseum and so forth.

I would be the Edna Ferber of the group, obviously. So far no takers. I'm serious about it too. Most days I want to suck the creativity from other writers' brains and set it in a jar for my own personal use at a later date. This would be a convenient way to surreptitiously accomplish the task, like herding sheep. Not that I'm generally surreptitious but supposing I were I certainly wouldn't be advertising it, if ya know what I mean.

I'm kidding...

?

She reminds me

...of how the wind blows.
The wind is never concerned with obstacles.
The wind never asks if it’s helping or hindering.
The wind never waits to move.
It sees a place it wants to go and it goes there without begging the question.

Like her: Un-embraceable.

The wind embraces you and your arms flail to grab that which it cannot.

Halfway There

To where you ask? Like I'm supposed to know. I'm just the guy putting the words on the page. 40,180 of 'em to be somewhat precise.



After close to a year of beard wringing, alcohol induced typistry I hit the halfway point of my book. Wordcount wise I'm shooting for 80,000ish. These things are constantly evolving so who knows what the final will be. We have a plot, we have characters doing stuff, we have words on multiple pages, some of which by mere circumstance are actual sentences.

Looks like I'm running out of excuses to finish the dern thing.

If you're writing fiction or considering to do so, I want to recommend Self Editing For Fiction Writers by Renni Brown and Dave King. I picked it up because I'm slowly working into the editor's mindset for when I have to go back and reread this monster from scratch.

Ugh.

Usually after I finish something I can't bear to look at it. Don't know why. Maybe it's the closeness to the project and emotional immediacy. I find it hard to not become attached to whatever I'm working on but it never feels right when it's fresh. Not until I set it aside and look at it a couple of months later. Then I can edit without prejudice.

I'm thinking this will be wrapped up early next year if things continue as they have.

Unique Perspective

The conversation always works out better in my head. When it comes to executing what I imagine to be a witty remark, the words decide to take a detour at the last minute and instead of saying what I want to say I end up saying something like what I wanted to say.

"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." -Mark Twain

See the dilemma? With mere mortals this isn't an issue, well not that it shouldn't be but I can shrug off the disproving stare of a fellow steerage class yokel without a thought. Just as I'd imagine they're likely to forget the words no sooner than they've left my mouth and collided with their ear. I think most people aren't really listening to 80% of what I say anyway and that's fine since I don't talk to most people.

There are writers that I like, writers that I love and writers that make me wring me hands in despair, tear at my beard and wail things like: "I will never be able to write like that!!!" Luckily, most of the last group are dead so I don't have to face the stomach turning experience of meeting them in public.

I'll pause so you can fix your hyperbole detector.

It's not jealousy, I don't think so anyway. Writing fiction to me, is a way to document your world view, a method of transforming your interior dialogue into something tangible. Taking an idea and giving it your own distinct voice. To be jealous of the way someone else perceives the world is a little insane don't ya think? Even with 6 Billion people covering the planet it's plain to see that differing degrees of perception are limited.

This is why I can read novels written hundreds of years ago set in places nowhere close to mine and relate to the characters and principles within. This is why music by Bach, Beethoven, Mozart etc. stands the test of time. Why Rodin's The Thinker isn't going to ever stop being a great piece of art. This is why the story of Romeo and Juliet has been retold a million times with a million different variations and will never stop being told until Forbidden Love is driven out of humanity's conscience.

The external shininess of the human experience might change but if you rip away all the I-Phones, interwebs, cable television and the like, have our hopes and dreams really changed that much from the days of people drawing pictures on the walls of caves? Isn't happiness forever the goal, no matter the definition of happiness to the person?

Occasionally I'll read a phrase, sentence, story, whatever and be reduced to a trembling wreck because someone will express an idea that I've been turning over an over in my head more or less since I could walk.

Then the beard tearing, hand wringing and self flagellation begins until I'm so numb with pain I can't remember what it was that upset me. Recently it's this line by Scarlett Thomas from The End of Mr Y.

"'Fact' is a word. Science itself is just a collection of words. I'm guessing that truth exists beyond language, and what we call 'reality.' It must do; well, if it exists at all, that is."

I'm in a constant crusade in this belief, that there really aren't any absolute truths contained within the human experience. We haven't reached a point where we're able to quantify them and even the ones that we assert as absolute we have no way of knowing where the truth actually lies.

Why? Because we're the ones coming up with the methods of discerning this truth and people, to a large extent are incomparably flawed. Why wouldn't our methods be as well?

Don't take it personal, humanity but you are and it's no jab either, it's just something you need to learn to accept.

When it comes to ideas, personal philosophy, innovation and the like, I'm of the opinion that there's only a finite amount of the stuff out there more or less recycled and reinterpreted since antiquity.

This isn't a negative by any means. Understanding that you may have reinvented a rounder wheel shouldn't come with stigma because of the lack of uniqueness attached to the idea. The only thing that matters in the end is whether or not the idea works and has validity outside of the "creator".

I propose that people need to take a step back from themselves and instead of worrying about their own creativity and how special they are, look at the world around you and see how you relate to it and it to you.

Instead of saying someone has a stupid idea because you don't believe it, try to understand why that person came to this conclusion and rationally explain your position. It can be done.

Lastly, before you condemn an idea at least have an actual understanding of why you are condemning it. Maybe I'm wrong for thinking this but I do believe just about every idea has merit. It may not to me but if it does to someone out there than who am I to question it on that scale?

All I can do is a agree or disagree with it and move on. I don't feel I'm in a position to tell people how to think about things, just as I don't want anyone ever telling me how to think.

That doesn't mean that I won't tell people that they should think. By all means think, all the time, NEVER STOP and if we reach different conclusions let's hash it out and maybe we'll both come away from it a little more learned even if our positions stay exactly the same.

The Hunt and Peck Diaries (Continued)

We're doing a little dance now. 36,064 words only one instance of the word 'hurried'. That is certainly worth celebrating.

'Point' and 'pointed' however will need to be phased out in revisions. Guess I'm fond of characters that hand-talk.

On to other things.

A couple of Fridays ago, talking to my homie on IM about the new Quentin Tarantino movie... actually it wasn't a real conversation. It had some elements of conversation; more than one person involved, dialogue, etc. but mostly I berated him about getting to see Inglorious Basterds first.

SO THERE.

Have you seen it? Don't tell me you're one of those people that hates Tarantino because of something he said or did one time or his excessive use of violence and the N-word, THE EAR SCENE, etc.

You might want to stop reading here.

I was probably an average Tarantino fan until Kill Bill Vol 1. One of my all time favorite scenes in a moviefilm involves Beatrix Kiddo (funny that Tarantino triggers the spell check and Beatrix Kiddo doesn't lolz) dispatching 88 crazed NINJAS with a samurai sword, even plucking the eye from that one idiot stupid enough not to wear goggles that day. Not to mention all the other elements of uber stylized coolness in that film.

Also, when it comes to suspense, especially of the Hitchcock kind, he's on a whole nother level with that. I squealed and grabbed Paola's arm during the diner scene in Death Proof. The camera does a slow pan and low and behold, Stuntman Mike is sitting at the bar, enjoying a coffee apparently listening in on the ladies' conversation. The camera finally pans back around and he's gone making you wonder if he was even there in the first place. Foreshadow much?

QT happened to be on Tavis Smiley doing the standard movie promotion tour. Didn't get a chance to see the whole thing but I caught this little snippet in which he talks about the art of storytelling.

Hold that thought for a second.

In constructing my epic novel in lyrical prose, Man Loses Hat, Man Finds Hat, I've discovered that I'm the type of writer that really likes to wander in the woods. Writing fiction, some say is an exercise in problem solving. The writer asks a question that they don't know the answer to and creates the prose to discern a solution.

I create situations for my characters sometimes that completely stymie me and spend days agonizing over how to resolve them while moving the plot forward. I have a general idea of where I'm going. Now that all the major players are in action it's just a matter of moving the pieces around until I reach the desired outcome.

Easy like Sunday morning?

Having a general idea is nothing compared to taking that same idea and stretching it out over the span of 80,000ish words. Which is where the clip comes in. As I muddle along through this thing, allegiances and motivations change, certain characters become superfluous and the plot becomes more convoluted. I know when I'm finished there will be a lot of stuff stricken from the original draft and scenes will be ordered in a manner more conducive to plot development.

QT talks about coming into the theater in the middle and sticking around after the movie to watch the beginning until the rest of the movie makes sense. This is what writing the novel feel like to me.

The beginning isn't really the beginning. All the important back story that makes the characters who they are constitutes the beginning and we're not going to dwell on that. We're going to dwell on the story which is what's happening NOW and in order to do that I've realized that writing everything in a chronological order is to my detriment.

It is small epiphany but one that I think will really help me down the road. Write the scenes worry about the chronology and plausibility later. This I can handle.

By the way. I did outline this thing, heavily and it's not even close to what I'm ending up with. Think I'll send a copy of it to the brave souls who volunteer to beta read for me. Just for giggles.

Death by a Thousand Epiphanies (on Macguffins)

While watching the dreadful movie Push with Paola this weekend I asked her, about midway through, "Do we really need to know what's in The Case?"

She said, "For the purposes of this movie, yes."

Which in my mind is an instant fail.

The existence of The Case should be enough. If you have to stop and explain to people what is going on and why something is important then it means the supporting elements surrounding the central theme aren't doing enough on their own to convey this message.

As a viewer/reader, I only need to know The Case is important, the protagonist and/or antagonist desire it enough that they're willing to make each others lives hell in order to get it. Or some variant of such. Pick your trope.

Getting inside the case presents the problem of building up to a gigantic anti-climatic moment. Once the stakes are raised too high, opening The Case may at best please some of the audience but you ain't gonna get them all, especially me. If a tangible, physical value is attached to the items within then the questions start: "You're kidding me! I don't know if I would've done all of that for that."

The Case represents our deepest hopes and dreams, a solution to the meaningless drudgery of our everyday situation, an escape from the normal, a new beginning. The Case, in order for it to be important to everyone needs to be all things to all people. The Case is only a means to an end, not the end itself. It is how we get the ball rolling, how we nudge the protagonist forward to make sacrifices and to change. Make your story good enough and nobody will care what's inside that case.

More on Epiphanies later.

Breaks are for the Broken

Beginnings are easy, endings are hard, middles are tedious.

This is all you need to know about writing a novel. Those darn middles are where good ideas go to wallow and become mediocre.

WALLOW.

If you add an s to that it becomes swallow, which could either be a graceful bird or action that one does when confronted with explaining what their idea is about (or when consuming a beverage(s) that makes you forgot about said idea).

I don't feel like anything I've ever worked on is so irrevocably broken that a healthy dose of editing couldn't fix. Even my first novel attempt, that I cringed at the idea of rereading for 13 whole years isn't that bad in retrospect. I would never do anything with it but it sure is nice to look at that thick sheaf of words and say "Holy crap, I wrote this and it doesn't make me want to puke."

That doesn't do anything for finishing though. In fact, a lot of what I read about the art of writing novels suggests that it's a bad idea to go back and reread, period. In the first draft portion, the writer should be focused with burping words onto the page, not even pausing to correct obvious grammatical and spelling mistakes. The first draft is for the writer to tell the story to themselves. Then go back and write the darn thing, already.

This is all conjecture of course. Lawrence Block says no one can really tell you how to write a novel, no one except you of course and you only learn by completing one.

So where does that leave me? 33,000ish words in but I need to take a break. I have a short story idea that won't go away and it must be indulged. It's about... well go read that older post if you don't know because it's always about love. I think this should take about a week or two to hash out, probably leave it in draft form and hop back onto the horse. Besides, I don't feel so bad when hearing about first time novelists that took more than 3 years to get it done.

In the meantime, finally got around to reading Scarlett Thomas. Loving the End of Mr. Y, the whole thought experiment thing is kind of cool. Gave me all kind of ideas.

I have a thought experiment involving money. Give me some. Now.

Discuss.

Context

If you meet someone, for the first time in life, as in never spoke a word to this person before and the second sentence that comes out of their mouth is: So, what have you been up to?

Is there a proper non-sarcastic way to answer that other than a shoulder shrug?

Discuss.

The Thing About Apples or Two Ideas Collide

My blog dashboard is about as cluttered as my desk. There are 20-30, 200 word starts that have fizzled out in mid sentence. How's that for inspiration? The problem for me is that I don't want to fact check or put up something erroneous when I'm in the middle of making a grandiose assumption about human nature. This is why I prefer to write fiction cause I can just make the shit up as long as it's logical within the rules of my universe.

Those of y'all that manage to stay on top of your blogs should know that I envy you. There's some good content floating around on these interwebs, a lot of it free, a lot of it very entertaining, so I advise you, dear reader, to take a look at some of the links over thattaway ------->

...after I lull you to sleep with my diatribe. Or before. Either way. I'm easy like that.

There are few things I enjoy on this earth more than a crisp Granny Smith apple. It's a lunchtime ritual for me that always starts with peeling the origin sticker off, taking the first bite then deciding if it's worth it or not to continue. I did say crisp, see. I know a lot of tricks to determine an apples worthiness beforehand but you can never rule anything out until the actual taste test. Until your teeth break the skin it's just a guessing game.

The thing about apples is that a lot of stuff goes on under that skin, one of which is pesticides. I'm too lazy to source the article but apples are one of the worst offenders when it comes to retaining pesticides. Not that this is the apple's fault. It just the nature of their design. Unless you're fully kitted out with the latest testing gear, the average consumer doesn't stand a chance of knowing what they're putting into their body.

So what does one do? If you're concerned about turning your body into a toxic waste receptacle you can go organic, which is what I did. Organic apples don't keep as well though, go figure. When nature has its way and they're allowed to degrade as they should, it leads to a shorter shelf life. This is fine, it just means that the end user needs to be a little more selective and not ignore the little voice warning you that a ball of mulch lurks underneath that green skin.

On Monday, I sat down to lunch and peeled the origin sticker off, shocked to see that it said "New Zealand/Organic." Maybe I wouldn't have been shocked if I didn't live just on the other side of Stevens Pass from the Apple Capital of the World.

So I'm munching on my apple, feeling a bit like Paul McCartney might have the first time he laid eyes on his hybrid Lexus. Okay, not quite. I'm sure Sir Paul didn't feel even a minor twinge of guilt but I did. It got me to thinking about a speech I heard by Arundhati Roy about the EVVVVEEEELLLLSSSS of globalization. I'd recommend listening it to yourself (and her other stuff because she's a freaking genius) but I'll pharaphrase: Globalization has absolutely nothing to do with the consumer and everything to do with the profit.

Seriously, please explain to me how an apple that comes thousands of miles via container ship, offloaded at the port by union longshoreman, then delivered to a wholesaler by a truck be cheaper than one that's only a hundred miles away still on the dern tree?!

Well, I'll tell you how. The only way that apple could be cheaper would be to reduce the production costs, which means paying the workers less. Considering their competing against migrant farm workers in America, imagine how much less that means they're getting paid.

I can't stomach that, organic or no. I don't want to eat New Zealand apples when I could drive to Wenatchee and load up my car with crates of apples. I don't want apples from halfway across the world when they may as well be in my backyard already.

Is there a solution? I don't know. Maybe it's time to buck up and wander down a Farmer's Market to see what they're all about.

Paola vs. The Drunk Lesbians

No, that is actually the post title.

The last time I saw the Aggrolites, it was in Portland at Mt Tabor Legacy. My wife almost got into a fight with a drunk skinhead girl that wanted to wild dance all over the place. They didn't fight but she stood up to her and didn't back down before people intervened and things cooled off.

Tonight at the Crocodile, it eclipsed surreal. Two drunk girls elbowed their way to the front so they could make out and roll around the crowd. Seriously. I doubt they had any idea what band was playing. I'd go a step further and say they probably had no idea where they were.

Things settled down for a moment when they disappeared for three songs or so but then they popped up again tongues in each others' mouths, desperate to let everyone know that they were gay and here to stay. Or something. For the life of me, I have no idea what was going on. All I know is that they kept bumping me and getting all up in my minuscule dancing space. The place was packed, yo.

Paola offered to switch places with me but I wanted to grit it out. I'm tough, right? Wrong. The next thing I know, the woman I married pushed past me, patted one of the girls on the head like a doll and said "It's all right, it's all right." She shoved the girls away from us towards the middle of the crowd. One of them cried out "There's only so much you can do!" but resistance was futile. Within a song they'd vanished and I didn't see them again until the show was over.

It was awesome. Women started coming up to Paola and thanking her for getting rid of them and I'm just sitting there beaming thinking, "Yep, that's my wife!"

In other coolness, one of those women happened to be Lynval Golding's wife June. I can't even make this shit up.

The Idiot (Copied from elswhere)

Hello Blog,

I have nothing new to put into you other than this review of The Idiot. Why am I so remiss? well, let's say as a writer you only have a certain amount of words that are worth producing on a daily basis. Between real life, the internet, my epic masterpiece in lyrical prose (Man loses hat, man finds hat) that leaves a scant few for you blog. Sorry. This is the way the cookie crumbles.

Discuss.

Few writers can transpose humanity like Dostoevsky. I marvel about the man's ability which almost seems supernatural, to dissect the WHY in people. He understands it and is able to take those insights and transfer them to paper like no other.

The Idiot is his masterpiece in that regard. The plot, a mere shell used to draw the unusual characters into interaction, reveals that at the end it's all about the way people are. People are wont to feel a certain a way and many go out of their way to spout those feelings from a mountaintop but how we act is who we are. The Idiot conveys this with Dostoevsky's masterful use of prose and characterization.

An uncorruptable man serves no place in society other than a laughingstock... but is this the case? That is what The Idiot asks and the answer is best left to the individual reader.

Dostoevsky is never easy going for the timid. This novel will always have a special place in my heart even more so than the Brothers Karamazov because it's not an easy read. The questions asked probe humanity's core. The questions and content will make you uncomfortable but that is the nature of good art. It should never be easy.

If you want a cookie cutter plot with the answers thrown on top than this book is not for you.

This is why

Some guy said, "You can never go home."

I spent a week in Anchorage disproving that numb-skull but not without enduring a significant amount of "OH SNAP".

Let me tell you a little secret about people, lean in close cause I'mma whisper it in yo' earhole: If you are living your life trying to change other people than you are wasting your life.

Friend, i suspect that most of us come out of the womb fully formed, our likes and dislikes already pre-established, only dependent upon whether or not we experience them to cement our beliefs.

I find it comical to hear some folks express how worked up they get over a person doing a thing but if you ask them if they were ever to be influenced by a singular person they'd say no.

What this person is saying is that they possess a supernatural ability that allows their worldview to prevail at all times. Newsflash: FAIL.

People, seriously get over yourselves. The only thing that you have power of in this world is how you feel about you. Everything else is a coin flip. You can spend hours working on how you want to be presented to others but if one person perceives you differently than how you've wanted, then you've wasted your time.

And if you are living your live trying to make other people see you a certain way then again, you are wasting your time. People will see you how they want to see you.

Happiness comes from within. Happiness is an approach to a situation that is entirely not dependent on how others approach the same situation. The only thing that ever matters is whether or not you can look yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and be happy with your choices.

As sure as everything, when you are on your deathbed the only other person there with you will be you, not those other people that have judged you from afar.

Stop judging people, stop living for other people, live for yourself and judge yourself. Don't tie your happiness up into what other people want of you.

Or ignore all of this shit. Personally I don't give a fuck. I'm doing me, you do you. Just keep it off of me.

The Process

During the week, I try to write when I get home. This usually fails especially if I'm in the middle of a good book. Right now it's Filth by Irvine Welsh. Imagine Notes From the Underground except the "protagonist" has a tapeworm and you'll kind of get the idea.

I've found that I can crank out about 250 words without blinking. That equates to about a page which means at least a page a day. On the weekends I can do anywhere from 700-1200 a day depending on what else I have going on, depending on how my mind is oriented. Whether or not any of this is good we'll determine come revision time. Lazy math suggests a completed first draft by the middle of 2010.

Fiddlesticks. Maybe I'll know my plot by then.

Lately there's been an onslaught of writerliness. Jonathan Goldstein read at the University Bookstore on Monday. I met him, showed him the one magic trick I know (it involves putting a size 10 1/2 boot in my mouth) and got my copy of Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bible signed. Not bad.

Then Sherman Alexie sat in on Tuesday's Weekday. He reduced me to a quivering ball of fear after saying, no repeating something he'd said earlier about not making it as writer by the time you turn forty. No pressure.

On the Wednesday ride home, listening to All Things Considered, Sarah Pekkanen spoke about the three books that helped her land a book deal. I have one of the three and I'm aware of the other two. I suppose that's a start but I'm growing tired of reading books about writing. I never finished Plot and Structure either. What I read was good and I'd recommend it to all of y'all that aspire. Books on writing only make me want to write more. At this stage of the game I think the only way for me to get better is by doing, not dreaming about doing.

I keep Lawrence Block's Telling Lies For Fun and Profit under my pillow in case I'm wrong about that.

Ana Castillo will be reading at the Seattle Public Library Thursday 4/23. Hoping to come up with a new magic trick by then. I except to break down into a puddle of blathering nothing, going on and on about how So Far From God helped me realize what I want to do with my life.

It's okay though. I'd much rather leave it on the table than in my heart.

I love you; You smell gross

I'm an early riser and every morning on my way out the door to work, I go back to the bedroom, fumble around in the darkness (or semi-darkness depending on the season) find my wife, usually buried under the comforter, and give her kiss to say goodbye.

She'll say things like, "Bye", or "I love you" or "Have a good day" in her barely awake voice. Today she said, "I love you." and as I left the bedroom she added, sounding somewhat disoriented, "You smell... gross."

It had been one of those mornings where I had trouble putting one foot in front of the other so I took it on the chin.

This is why one should strive to take their garlic supplement before brushing their teeth especially if kissing someone is on the immediate menu.

But you probably already knew that.

Progress

The significance of the 25,000 word mark didn't occur to me until I read a post on the AW forum recently. Consider the average page has 250 words, that works out to 100 pages of prose.

Let's not got too excited cause I ain't there yet.

I hit 20,000 words early last week after going on a straight out binge the weekend before. According to Ms Word 2007 I've completed 21,225 words of my epic masterwork in lyrical prose: Guy Loses Bet, Loses Hat, Loses Girl.

I was more concerned with the magical 20K number. Goals are a strange thing though. On the one hand they can serve as a constant motivator, on the other the finish line looms and I imagine a gigantic guillotine suspended above it.

Writing is hard. I'd never trust anyone that thinks it's easy and every sentence, paragraph, phrase, errant punctuation mark that I produce, the nagging feeling that it's JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH never goes away.

I want it to be good. I want it to be BRILLIANT but you just can't want the thing without sweating for it. Most days I'm content not to sweat, procrastinating until the fire is lit under me and my fingers fly at the keyboard unable to keep up with the stream of words forming in my mind.

So what works as a motivator? Striving for an unattainable perfection or tempering the attempt with the knowledge that the odds are heavily waited against attaining your goal? I have no freaking clue.

Do you?

> 1/2" holes through > 1/8" metal

No one tells you to slow a drill but you learn pretty quick
The first time it comes alive in your hands
Ignores what you want it to do
And does what it wants to do
Grabs your wrist and snaps them
In a way human wrists aren't meant to go
Maybe bends your thumb back the other way
If you were stupid and locked the trigger
(No one tells you never to lock the trigger)
It may skitter across the floor
Until you unplug it, or do something foolish like reach for the trigger
An Old Timer might be watching you,
chances are he probably saw the whole thing
Thought about coming over to say something
But you knew better and when you watched him do it
he didn't mar the paint, his holes lined up
BUT IT TOOK SO LONG
and your hands were itching, and you were dying to snatch the tool
From his hands
To show him: How it's done
And now you're holding the drill, thinking
About the way you saw him do it
Comparing it to how you just did it
And wondering how you're gonna get that broken drill bit
Out of that piece of metal

Stupid Pet Tricks

I've become one of those people. You know, the type that post videos of their cat on their blog.

This is Pedro. He is neurotic, super needy, and a total goofball. Basically, we love him to death. We purchased a new rug after he and his partner in crime totally destroyed the other one and he spent a good fifteen minutes making sure this one worked properly.

Ever Feel

Like It's Just Not Good Enough? Really? Me too!

I had the weirdest day yesterday. On the way out of the door THE BOSS asked me if I had a second which is never a good question when you're on the way out the door. The long and short of it was that it came back to the office (fourth hand) that I'd been on a job site undermining one of our products. Someone, I'm pretty sure who it is too and we shall have words if we run into each other, twisted my words to the effect of "The reason why you're having so many failures is because you bought a cheap product."

I work for a sales based company, meaning the continued health, well being and existence of the place that gives me paychecks relies on their ability to SELL STUFF. So I was floored that I found myself in THE BOSS' office defending words that I never certainly said. My biggest fear is that the people that I work with would think I'd actually say something like that... ain't that a trip. All I'm worried about is whether my coworkers think I'm a stand-up guy or not.

Now that that's off the chest I want to give a quick plug to Zee Dropbox.

Dropbox is a nifty little app that lets you store multiple files on multiple computers with ease. You install the software on as many computers that you want and it creates a folder that exists on the other computers. Whenever you drag something into the folder or update a file in the folder, magical interweb tentacles reach into your computer and immediately connect it to the other computers.

It's great say if you're working on an 80,000 word book in lyrical prose about an overweight former mob goon that continually loses his hat. You can start in the morning on one computer switch to another and end up on the same one without having to drag a flash drive around. Not that their heavy or anything but I have a hard time remembering to bring mine home consistently.

I try not to talk about this stuff here, however

This story really got my goat today.

1:06 - A new constitutional right would unfairly burden the state.

2:48 - Deputy Solicitor General Neal Katyal: The US Government thinks there is no constitutional right to make a post conviction claim of actual innocence.

===========

Considering the amount of Black men that have been falsely imprisoned in the Deep South and found innocent decades later, I beg to differ with the above.

There are many reasons why a person might plead guilty to something they didn't do. Fear, ignorance of the law, bad legal advice, threats to their family, or in this specific case as a condition of parole.

If the person is going to pay for the testing out of their own pocket, how does this unfairly burden the state? The only thing I can extrapolate from the two quotes above is that the state doesn't want to be burdened with finding the truth of the matter. You know, justice. They're more concerned with locking someone up and closing a case than making sure they have the right person.

They should have nothing to fear if they'd done their due diligence.

Slightly unique

Never rushing to the stage to turn themselves inside out
Most keep their secrets to themselves
Hoarding their uniqueness
Priding themselves on things that separate

Ask the kid why he smokes
He'll spin yarns about his Father, the coolest cat he ever knew
He leans on the bar and orders a drink
Like how he saw some guy do it in a movie

Ask the kid his favorite color
He'll tell you of a girl, love unrequited
She'd never remember his name
Or spot him in a crowd

But she remembers, just like she remembers her Aunt
Would wear her hair a certain way
When she misses her most, she combs her hair the same
A faded memory her only model

Because the pictures, unbearable to look at
Are tucked away in a box along with the love letters
The old words always fresh
To eyes that never stop changing

People rush to the stage to find that they're other people
There are always other people on the stage
All clamoring with one voice
Saying the same thing to each other

Saying the things people have always said to each other
Seeking individual rewards
For the uniqueness that we all possess

Inspiration

It's a bad feeling to wish it were Friday before leaving the house on a Monday but anything that you're getting paid to do shouldn't be fun all of the time. That's why it's called work.

But I'm tired, like seriously burned out, curl up in the fetal position, toss a blanket over me and turn the light out tired. We're wrapping up a big project and the way these things go, the difficulty level increases the closer you get to the finish line. This has the effect of eating up the motivation and draining the will to complete the various tasks required to push the thing out the door.

I don't want to see it again but it will be waiting for me tomorrow, hungry for a fresh coat of paint.

Weeks (as in the plural) like these present a secondary issue. Coming home, my brain is pile of gelatinous mush that proves resistant to forming complete sentences. So the ideas that I come up with can't be put to the page until my mind is in a better spot.

I'm a morning person and I can usually crank a few words down before I head out for work. Only a few. I spend way too much time clicking on INTERNET SHINEYNESS to be effective. Gotta read my blogs, network socially and news, news, news! This means I do most of my writing on the weekend in a small window of time before my wife wakes up.

Luckily, there's no shortage of ideas for me. It's somewhat problematic because I'm really trying to stop myself from writing short stories and focus on the bigger deal but sometimes an idea gnaws at your insides so hard that it's impossible to let go of. I suppose this is better than being completely dried up.

All the books I've read on novel writing say that it's important to complete The One and focus on only The One until it's complete. On my fifth try (actually started another one in Chicago but that doesn't count!) I'd like to finally get The One finshed whether anyone reads it or not. At least I'll be able to say I've done it. Maybe it'll make the next one easier too.

Inspiration is in everything. I overhear conversations, friends say stupid things, news stories, a line of prose from the book I'm reading. It's impossible to hide from. What I'd like to do is figure out a way to incorporate these things into whatever I'm working on rather than spinning them off into their own little islands. If I can weave them into the theme of my current story I suspect that I may have found the secret, or at least the method that will work for me.

Then there's this thing. It fills me with guilt every time I post in it because I'm always thinking of how these words could have been used to pad the other thing. The other more meaningful thing.

I'm not even sure what this blog is most of the time other than a random collection of jumbled mishmash held together by a common thread of directionless shoe gaze.

It's fun though.

Nosy

Forever girls, whether four or forty
One wakes me from the afternoon commute
From lethargic zombie, to eagle eyed seeker
She never fails to have that phone
Pressed against her ear

My imagination needs a ten foot pole
Before it could make assumptions
Why a girl at the bus stop (in business casual)
Who a girl at the bus stop could be talking to
(Sometimes she stands, mostly she sits)

Sometimes our eyes meet, her lips always moving
Making words I can't begin to guess
Words that make sense to the person(s)
She's been holding this dialogue with
For at least a year

Sometimes I think the beginnings of a good story
Involve me stopping the car and walking over
And saying in my most polite voice
Something that I think is witty
Something that will only get me slapped

It's not like that, I just want to know for knowing
She's a reasonably attractive brunette
(I prefer the old hair style to the new one)
A cacophony of phony curls that remind me of
My old unfriendly poodle

But it's not that at all.
Imagine: The same person everyday
The same person rain or shine
The same phone in same person's ear (except for once!)
And wouldn't you want to know?

Or am I just nosy?

Art as Artifice

A long time ago, thousands of years possibly, I took a class called Individual Reading in High School. The class had a simple structure; student reads a book, student logs the amount of time spent reading the book, student discusses the book with the teacher then moves on to the next book.

I enjoyed this class because I love to read and in those days I could probably put away 300 words without so much as a blink. I loved it until I fell into a trap.

I decided to read Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four which as a book I thought was fine but at that point in my life it was safe to say that "The Higher Meaning" in a piece of art was entirely lost on me.

The post-mortem discussions with the teacher had usually centered around plot, characters and whether or not I liked the book but this one went differently. She spent a lot of time hammering on Orwell's motivation for writing the book and The Message, picking apart my answers and suggesting that I'd taken a shallow approach to the book. Ultimately she decided that I hadn't read it and that I'd watched the movie instead. The interview ended with her striking the book from my record. All that time lost, like it had never even happened.

Obviously I was distraught but back then I wasn't equipped to formulate a counter argument to an imposing adult especially one overflowing with literary expertise. Nineteen Eighty-Four has some heady concepts. It's not as if I knew at 16 the differences between communism, fascism and socialism, all of which I feel would help me make my case then or now. She was probably right about my approach as well but I could assure you that in those days I took a shallow approach to most things. I still do, to be honest. I just hide it better.

But you know, if I'd read The Brothers Karamazov then instead of three years ago the odds are pretty good that it wouldn't have become one of my favorite books either. Art is temporal and ultimately personal. When these two points intersect into an individual the meaning is found there, not because someone puts shit in a bag and tells you that it's a masterpiece.

I'm hard pressed to take serious those that tell you the meaning that should be found in something. Nothing means anything to another unless they decide it to. It's not the business of others to suggest the way you should interpret something. This applies to the artist as well. If the artist has to explain "What they were going for" outside of the piece then clearly the art has failed. Any piece should be able to stand on its own without outside interpretation in order to be valid.

This is not a rail against criticism. I welcome all kinds of criticism from construction to creation and I think that artists do benefit from cataloging the observations of others. After all, how could one tell if the mark they were aiming for were true without feedback from the audience? But criticism is not the holy grail. It's another point of view that may or may not coalesce into your own.

What I'm against is Empiricism in art. You can't impose your will on someone to see what you want them to see. We all have different experiences and tastes which lead us to formulate our own opinions. Understanding that gets us closer to understanding other peoples points of view which is really what we should be striving for, at least from a humanistic standpoint. One man's take.

I am humbled if anyone finds any sort of meaning in anything I create whether it is intended or not... up to a certain point though. I'd be pretty horrified if something I created were used as justification for an atrocity of any kind. That's my only disclaimer.

If I create something that makes you feel, I am satisfied. If I create something that makes you think, I am satisfied. Striving for anything more than that is an arrogant approach that I want no part of and those that tell another to feel or think a certain way do nothing but contribute to a know-it-all elitism that has absolutely nothing to do with the enjoyment of art.

The Art of Balancing on a Ladder

Heavy objects, precariously pitched
Pipe wrenches, 180 degree water
Small screwdrivers, even smaller parts
All of this I'm up against
Still thinking of you and that summer dress
Holding hands on the way to the Lion King

Frozen by Madonna, stuck in my head
A never ending loop, can't get this thing apart
Without losing my balance
Can't go home until I get this thing apart
Put this thing back together again
Pray it doesn't leak

Folded into a pretzel between a strut hanger
A hot piece of metal, trying to reach around
Thinking of how I should have said that thing
How I should have just manned up and said
Wishing I had an extra arm, was taller
Wishing for a less wobbly ladder to stand on

Happy Valentine's Day! (Based on a true story)

This actually happened to someone I know!

==================================================

She told me that she wants "To Save the Planet." Her jaw set, determined wrinkle in her brow.

I came home from work and every light in the house was on. Almost every light except upstairs. She won't go upstairs on account of the ghost. That's become my responsibility. She says that the ghost and I have a special relationship. If not believing in a thing makes a relationship with it special then I suppose she's on to me.

Every light in the house. She wasn't even home. I called her name once, no response. Walked from room to room flipping light switches. Then I saw the boxes.

In the bedroom, neatly stacked and taped shut. Labeled with a magic marker. On the dresser, half the items that would normally be there. Her things were gone. I peeked into the drawers on her side. Empty. Took a cursory glance into the closet. I knew what to expect.

I was on autopilot at this point. When she came home later, much later, I'd somehow ended up on the couch, sitting there in darkness. She wasn't alone.

"I didn't expect you to be here." Her face, a beautiful silhouette. My mind filled in the blanks and drew the wrinkle in her brow exactly where I knew it would be.

"I live here," Imagine a paper top made by an uncoordinated toddler, spun on the edge of a table. This is how my heart feels. The other fellow shifts. I smell patchouli.

She turns on the light. There she is, breaking my heart again. The guy with her looks like he was Saving the Whales last week. Birkenstocks, khaki cargo shorts with bulging pockets some kind of a weird dreadlocky thing growing off the top of his head. Some kind of a weird, blonde, twisted thing growing off the top of his head.

Looks like it should be held together with twigs, berries and copious amounts of magic. Not the good magic either. The Darth Vader kind.

"I didn't expect you to be here," she says again. "Thought you'd be at class." Then she notices the heart box and flowers on my lap. She fights the urge to smile ironically, glances at her new beau, then back at me. I'm waiting for the anti-corporate, anti-Catholic, anti-Valentine's Day rant but it never comes.

But I never bought into that Save the Planet jazz. I only asked that she turned the lights off, turn the heat down and use less water because it put money back in our pocket. Money we could use to do things. Money we could use to make our life better.

There is no we anymore.

She leaves me alone with the new guy. The new improved version. I suspect he has a gas mask in the back of that VW Bus that he rode in on. I suspect he has rubber bullet scars, a police record and a lifetime's worth of indignation and hostility built up towards The Man.

He probably carries a piece of blank cardboard and a sharpie, just in case a spontaneous protest breaks out. He's probably seen the sparkly end of a tazer. More than once.

I need to sit down. I am sitting. I stand up and walk around, follow her into the bedroom. It would probably be a good time to plead my case.

"I bought these for you," I hold out the bouquet of cheap carnations and the paper heart filled with chocolates. I've no use for them.

She's amused. She is beautiful. I've seen this look before. Is it polite to call a woman stubborn? Resolute. Jaw firmly set, brow a slight crease. It makes me sad realizing that this is how I will always remember her.

She takes the gift from me after an internal debate plays out on her face. "I need you to..." she gnaws her bottom lip.

I know where this is going but it's my turn to play games. I raise an eyebrow slightly. Try to look like she just didn't rip my heart out and put it in a waffle iron. I'm concerned.

She looks towards the stairs. Swallows. She mouths the words. A faint bead of moisture on her upper lip. Resolute. Scared of an imaginary ghost.

I nod. I can't pretend that I have the upper hand in something that doesn't exist anymore.

"You need me to go upstairs?" I say. Her winter coats reside there. In a closet next to the guest bed.

She is trembling. I want to hold her. A faint smell of patchouli reminds me that she's off limits now. Forever.

I climb the stairs, leaving the light down below. I know my way around. I don't need it. The climb takes longer than it used to. My knees are weak. I feel old and tired. I just want to sit down. It's cold. We never turn the heat on up here. Maybe the ghost likes it that way. Alone and cold. The ghost...

I'm upstairs with the lights off. There's a guest bed. Warm, inviting me to lay down. I decide to sit on the edge of it for just a moment. Just to get my bearings. Soon I'm under the covers. I'm not alone. I am not scared of being alone.

I fall asleep counting the ways I will miss her.


* * *

When I wake up, every light in the house is on except for upstairs. She never goes upstairs.

I go from room to room to turn the lights off. She is quick though, and turns them back on after me. We never occupy the same room anymore.

I'm beginning to forget what she looks like. Except for the crease in her brow. Sometimes I catch glimpses of it in the mirror. I can no longer see my own reflection.

I only stay downstairs for so long before the heat overcomes me. She figured out how to use the thermostat as a weapon.

I end my day staring at the boxes in the bedroom and the fine layer of dust now obscuring the magic marker labels. The box of chocolates scattered and mixed with the rotted carnations, my nostrils forever filled with the cloying scent of patchouli, hands, fingers twisted into vile instruments that I can't bear to look at.

She will never understand.

I end my day, trudging up the long staircase, back to where it is bearable. Where I can feel again. Allow the thoughts of mourning to wash over me. I can see the lights come on from here, at the top of the staircase.

I can see the lights, signaling the end of my day that never ends.

I will never hold her again. No one will hold her again.

The Story...

I must tell is about love. Love in all things makes the world turn. Love of self, love of another, love of material goods, love of altruism: love is the eternal question for which there is no answer.

How do you define love when people are so different that two of them could argue over a color or a taste? Is it blue or azure? Is love even tangible? Can it be all things to all people? Is love really just a catch-all for something greater than the human experience? No person experiences it the same way as another or do they? How could you tell without being someone else?

All forms of love are not equal. Even in the most committed relationship, there is certainly an imbalance when it comes to what one will or not do for love. I would do anything for love, however...

People love one another, people fall in love with each other, people love themselves and this self love is what keeps a person going from day to day. Is love really just a biological response in order to perpetuate our species?

Why do we love? Do we actually decide to love? Does a person sit down, weigh the alternatives and make a conscience decision to begin loving another? Is it just as easy to stop loving? When we love what do we get out of knowing that we love someone? What do they get? Security? Can we choose who we love? How we love?

Can someone really die from a broken heart?

Why do we try to change the ones that we love? Shouldn't love be unconditional? How does someone know what's better for someone else? Is that love or selfishness? Is it inherently selfish to love someone? Is love really just an attempt to possess another?

These are the themes I want to explore. Even a human incapable of loving another still must love their self if they are to continue to exist. Love is something we are all familiar with whether we understand it or not.

Love is universal, intangible, and unquantifiable yet it exists as surely as the sun rises in the east.

It's all about love and that is the story that I desire to tell.

Eventually.

Trapped in a Cliche

I was out last night sitting at that one place with a tall cup of something or other, taking a swig, staring at an unlit cigarette resting on the bar in front of me.

My phone rang. The number: Unavailable. I don't answer those. Figure if it's important enough guy'll leave a message right? Besides I'm an unpopular sort. Anyone calling me at that hour would be someone I owed money. Not likely to come down to the watering hole and fill my cup a time or two.

Really that's all I'm looking for, at least my eyes tried to say that to the gal at the other end of the bar: "Why don't you sidle on over here and fill my cup a time or two?"

I winked. Maybe I could fill hers.

She turned her back on me, slowly. I assumed she was going for dramatic. Ladies and gentleman we have a winner.

The condensate rolled from my glass now, starting to pool on the bar, spreading towards that unlit cigarette. Guy that gave it to me said it was organic, no chemicals. Think I was supposed to be impressed. Wanted to tell him that cancer was organic too. Figure I'd better shut my mouth since someone was being nice to me for once.

Stupid phone is going batshit now. Still "Unavailable." Bout to drop it in the pint for what it's worth, but that would ruin a perfectly good beer. Maybe ask the barkeep for a glass of water, "Half full, easy on the ice." Yeah that'd do trick.

Raised my finger but he's on me first, cordless phone in hand. "You got a call, chief."

Who the eff is calling me here? I grunt. He slaps the phone into my palm. "Shoot," I spit into the receiver.

"Hello." I know that voice: plaintive, yearning, unambiguously reeking of despair and need. Lots of need.

"You have got to be kidding me." Hackles are up now. Anyone in the bar in on this? Glance around, see a woman's back. Two dudes shooting pool. Bartender drying a glass, watching a baseball game. Uh oh.

"You did it to yourself," the voice says.

Why so snarky? Figure I better play it cool now but my hands are sweating so bad I'm leaving grimy prints on the bar and the man's phone. "Did what?" I ask. I rolled and came up with coy. Hey it's an angle.

"Don't be coy." So I rolled two sixes. Maybe two ones. Either way I'm screwed.

"Look, I'm..."

"Sorry? Do better."

I can't do better though. I'm zapped. Creativity gone. I got nothing, as the man says. I end the call. Pointless. Wave Charley over and hand him the phone back. Watch him wipe the sweat from it.

"Pour me a stiff one, ace." Gonna need something to wash that taste out. Nothing like realizing you're trapped in a cliche.

"Last call, bub. Happened while you were shooting your mouth off." Figures. I size him up. Wondering how he ended up with a thick Boston accent when we're on the other side of the map. Yep, this is bad.

"In that case, make it a glass of water, half full..."

"Easy on the ice?" He starts nodding.

Looks like this ain't his first rodeo.