Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Thursday, October 30, 2008
vivid dreams.
Lately I have been having extremely vivid dreams. I can't remember the last time I actually dreamt so vividly and so consistently. I think it has something to do with writing again. The colours that were once in my life, the colours that went away when I stopped writing are slowly finding their way back. Slowly they're flowing into each cracked, dry, and colourless fracture that was left in the wake of the words leaving.
Jean is in the hospital. I visited her 2 weekends ago in the hopes that I could bring some cheer into the room. As she lay there, weaker than I'd ever seen her, she wanted to talked to me about my writing. She wanted to know if I had been, and some how she knew I started again. She said that she could see it in my eyes. She told me that I was in a very dark place for a long time, that not writing is harmful to me, both physically and mentally. She said that when I don't writing there is a price to pay. I understand it.
Last night I dreamt of climbing down a frozen mountain. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. The mountain was covered in snow, but the rocky giant jutted its chin, elbows, and knees out in certain places. It was steep but I had no fear, it was as if I had all the propper gear and skill to make it down; my confidence billowing around me as I sure-footedly talked the mountain.
Its odd that my dream starts at the top of the mountain. But I understand. Jean said that I am a writer, no doubt in that. The problem is in my belief of that fact, I've always questioned it. The dream is symbolic of that, I have the skill and talent to not only make it up the mountain, but to climb down it as well.
Jean is in the hospital. I visited her 2 weekends ago in the hopes that I could bring some cheer into the room. As she lay there, weaker than I'd ever seen her, she wanted to talked to me about my writing. She wanted to know if I had been, and some how she knew I started again. She said that she could see it in my eyes. She told me that I was in a very dark place for a long time, that not writing is harmful to me, both physically and mentally. She said that when I don't writing there is a price to pay. I understand it.
Last night I dreamt of climbing down a frozen mountain. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. The mountain was covered in snow, but the rocky giant jutted its chin, elbows, and knees out in certain places. It was steep but I had no fear, it was as if I had all the propper gear and skill to make it down; my confidence billowing around me as I sure-footedly talked the mountain.
Its odd that my dream starts at the top of the mountain. But I understand. Jean said that I am a writer, no doubt in that. The problem is in my belief of that fact, I've always questioned it. The dream is symbolic of that, I have the skill and talent to not only make it up the mountain, but to climb down it as well.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tattoo
On the back of her neck she had a pink ribbon with the word mummy in caligraphic scrawl tattooed.
—so that I'd never forget her because people will always comment on it, she told the tattooist as she winced during subcutaneous etching.
No one asked her about it because the symbol is obvious.
When her mother passed away she started finding solace in bottles and loud places, the bar down the street provided both. She took to the habit of bring men home, men that never called back, even though she thought she'd mad a connection with them. The tattoo, if the drunken, bleary-eyed sex had been adventurous, gave the men something to talk about to buffer the post-coital guilt.
Sometimes she cry and they'd console her until she'd fall asleep.
She'd always wake up hungover, cold, and alone.
—so that I'd never forget her because people will always comment on it, she told the tattooist as she winced during subcutaneous etching.
No one asked her about it because the symbol is obvious.
When her mother passed away she started finding solace in bottles and loud places, the bar down the street provided both. She took to the habit of bring men home, men that never called back, even though she thought she'd mad a connection with them. The tattoo, if the drunken, bleary-eyed sex had been adventurous, gave the men something to talk about to buffer the post-coital guilt.
Sometimes she cry and they'd console her until she'd fall asleep.
She'd always wake up hungover, cold, and alone.
The Very Short Story.
I just finished reading two very short stories by a man by the name of José Leandro Urbina.
Wow.
Not only are these stories very short (they take their form, but not their content, from jokes) they are also very visceral. The plots lead you backwards before the moment in time you read about, as well as forward, beyond where he pens his last period.
He writes, "Outrageous as it may seem, my notion of brevity in the short story has to do with my understanding and experience of the joke, as a narrative structure and in its social and cultural function." Urbina modifies the joke in that the punch line doesn't make you laugh, it makes you wince at what is happening to the character or what will happen after.
Brilliant.
Wow.
Not only are these stories very short (they take their form, but not their content, from jokes) they are also very visceral. The plots lead you backwards before the moment in time you read about, as well as forward, beyond where he pens his last period.
He writes, "Outrageous as it may seem, my notion of brevity in the short story has to do with my understanding and experience of the joke, as a narrative structure and in its social and cultural function." Urbina modifies the joke in that the punch line doesn't make you laugh, it makes you wince at what is happening to the character or what will happen after.
Brilliant.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I was reading wrong.
For the past two years I have been trying to read novels when I should have gone back to the short stories. Sometimes I feel like I should be going back to children's literature, things like Where the Wild Things Are and The Giving Tree. Well... maybe not that far, but maybe.
The impetus that's got me thinking I've got to go back and re-read what I've read is that, as I wrote in a previous entry, I started reading an anthology of short stories. When I was in university I plowed through the short stories that were assigned and I took shortcuts to make up for the speed at which I read. I hardly ever ready the short biographies that prefaced the pieces I read. Now that I have the luxury of time, I'm going back now and reading everything. I see now that I missed some important things.
I just finished Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk about Love and in the bio/preface Carver was quoted as saying, in response to a question about the dilemmas his characters face "I think they are trying to do what matters. But trying and succeeding are two different matters. In some lives, people always succeed; and I think it's grand when that happens. In other lives, people don't always succeed at what they try to do, at the things they want most to do... I think most of my characters would like their actions to count for something. But at the same time they've reached the point—as so many people do—that they know it isn't so. It doesn't add up any longer. The things you once thought important or even worth dying for aren't worth a nickel now. Its their lives they've become uncomfortable with, lives they see breaking down. They'd like to set things right, but they can't."
This hit me. Hard. I've been teetering on the edge of giving up the dream. I thought about going back to school for com-sci, to go and grad, find a 9-5. I toyed with the idea of closing the chapter on this life of writing. But it would always be there, I could see myself writing haikus in the code, scribbling notes on post-its, or blogging.
What's got me in a funk is the book. It haunts my thoughts, creeping in like a cold hand up the back. I have been having issues with reality versus fiction, I want to stay true to the story, and that is the road block. Carver says, "A great danger, or at least a great temptation, for many writers is to become too autobiographical in their approach to their fiction. A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best." And there I am, trying to write three lives verbatim. Stumbling when the imagination wants to go one way with the story while the biographer in me says "that isn't how it happened." I need to break away from the life, and pull towards the story. I need to leave my heart outside the room, pull the door shut, and ignore it when it paws at the door asking to come in. I need to close my eyes, rest my hands on the keyboard, and let go.
I don't want to become a character from a Caver story. I so badly do not want to come to the realization that what I've done with my life so far has meant nothing.
The impetus that's got me thinking I've got to go back and re-read what I've read is that, as I wrote in a previous entry, I started reading an anthology of short stories. When I was in university I plowed through the short stories that were assigned and I took shortcuts to make up for the speed at which I read. I hardly ever ready the short biographies that prefaced the pieces I read. Now that I have the luxury of time, I'm going back now and reading everything. I see now that I missed some important things.
I just finished Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk about Love and in the bio/preface Carver was quoted as saying, in response to a question about the dilemmas his characters face "I think they are trying to do what matters. But trying and succeeding are two different matters. In some lives, people always succeed; and I think it's grand when that happens. In other lives, people don't always succeed at what they try to do, at the things they want most to do... I think most of my characters would like their actions to count for something. But at the same time they've reached the point—as so many people do—that they know it isn't so. It doesn't add up any longer. The things you once thought important or even worth dying for aren't worth a nickel now. Its their lives they've become uncomfortable with, lives they see breaking down. They'd like to set things right, but they can't."
This hit me. Hard. I've been teetering on the edge of giving up the dream. I thought about going back to school for com-sci, to go and grad, find a 9-5. I toyed with the idea of closing the chapter on this life of writing. But it would always be there, I could see myself writing haikus in the code, scribbling notes on post-its, or blogging.
What's got me in a funk is the book. It haunts my thoughts, creeping in like a cold hand up the back. I have been having issues with reality versus fiction, I want to stay true to the story, and that is the road block. Carver says, "A great danger, or at least a great temptation, for many writers is to become too autobiographical in their approach to their fiction. A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best." And there I am, trying to write three lives verbatim. Stumbling when the imagination wants to go one way with the story while the biographer in me says "that isn't how it happened." I need to break away from the life, and pull towards the story. I need to leave my heart outside the room, pull the door shut, and ignore it when it paws at the door asking to come in. I need to close my eyes, rest my hands on the keyboard, and let go.
I don't want to become a character from a Caver story. I so badly do not want to come to the realization that what I've done with my life so far has meant nothing.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Heat.
Three men sit in the car as torrential rain pounds the heat of this tropical island into the ashphalt. The wipers intermittently clear the windshield blurred by water. Outside a man passes by on a tricycle, a large sow caged like cargo. The three men in the car watch the waiting shed as the car idles.
Soon a tricycle pulls up and two girls jump from the tricycle to the waiting shed shielding their heads from the rain.
There was no backing out now.
"That's them." The driver said.
The front seat passenger squinted. The back seat passenger said to pull up, he couldn't see.
Key. Ignition. Roll. Stop.
Window down.
"Hello ladies, how are you?"
Plesantries exchanged. One has her hair down, the other pinned back. They look nothing like working girls, you'd expect them, they way they were dressed, to be going to the laundry mat to do a load or two.
Window up.
"So what do you think?"
"Not my type. One looks like my cousin."
Phone call. Send those home. Send two more.
Wait. Tricycle. 2 girls. Pimp.
Phone call. Car door opens. Pimp. Car door closes.
"So, who is from Canada?" Hand shake. "How about these girls?"
"Not my type."
Send home. Can't wait here. Suspicious. Backseat passenger lives close. Meet there.
Key. Ignition. Drive. Stop. Gate open, gate close.
Wait. Sun is out.
Heat.
Knock at the gate. Pimp. 2 girls.
Can't back out now.
Pimp, "How about these two?" he's looking at the front seat passenger suspiciously.
"The one in red."
The backseat passenger says have fun and goes into his house. The pimp hops on his scooter and rides off. The girls and two men pile into the car.
Key. Ignition. Drive. Stop.
Hotel. "Here's your key. Don't worry, my treat cousin. When I come to Canada you can show me a good time."
Walk. Key. Lock.
Alone.
"I don't want to do this. So if we can just sit here until he's done with his girl... you'll still be paid."
"Okay with me, Canadian Boy. You don't think I'm pretty?"
"It's not that, I just don't do this."
"Do what? You some kind of bakla?"
Heat. "No, I just don't fuck whores."
Heat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"You don't know me."
Heat. Cigarette. Lighter. Puff.
Tick. Heat. Tock.
"You want one, Canadian boy?"
"Not my name."
"You think Diamond is mine? We all have other names. Here, smoke."
Cigarette. Toss. Lighter. Puff.
"Why do you do this?"
"Always have."
"What do you mean always have?"
"When I was young my parents taught us to make money any way I can."
"And you chose this?"
"I chose nothing. My body is my bank."
Heat.
"Don't feel sorry for me. That's life here."
Questions. School? Money. Move? Money. Other job? Easy money.
"What do you do in Canada?"
"I write."
"What do you write?"
"Stories."
"You gonna write about me?" Smoke. Puff.
"Maybe."
"You sure you don't want to have a good time? Would make a better story." Bra strap. Smile.
Heat.
Soon a tricycle pulls up and two girls jump from the tricycle to the waiting shed shielding their heads from the rain.
There was no backing out now.
"That's them." The driver said.
The front seat passenger squinted. The back seat passenger said to pull up, he couldn't see.
Key. Ignition. Roll. Stop.
Window down.
"Hello ladies, how are you?"
Plesantries exchanged. One has her hair down, the other pinned back. They look nothing like working girls, you'd expect them, they way they were dressed, to be going to the laundry mat to do a load or two.
Window up.
"So what do you think?"
"Not my type. One looks like my cousin."
Phone call. Send those home. Send two more.
Wait. Tricycle. 2 girls. Pimp.
Phone call. Car door opens. Pimp. Car door closes.
"So, who is from Canada?" Hand shake. "How about these girls?"
"Not my type."
Send home. Can't wait here. Suspicious. Backseat passenger lives close. Meet there.
Key. Ignition. Drive. Stop. Gate open, gate close.
Wait. Sun is out.
Heat.
Knock at the gate. Pimp. 2 girls.
Can't back out now.
Pimp, "How about these two?" he's looking at the front seat passenger suspiciously.
"The one in red."
The backseat passenger says have fun and goes into his house. The pimp hops on his scooter and rides off. The girls and two men pile into the car.
Key. Ignition. Drive. Stop.
Hotel. "Here's your key. Don't worry, my treat cousin. When I come to Canada you can show me a good time."
Walk. Key. Lock.
Alone.
"I don't want to do this. So if we can just sit here until he's done with his girl... you'll still be paid."
"Okay with me, Canadian Boy. You don't think I'm pretty?"
"It's not that, I just don't do this."
"Do what? You some kind of bakla?"
Heat. "No, I just don't fuck whores."
Heat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"You don't know me."
Heat. Cigarette. Lighter. Puff.
Tick. Heat. Tock.
"You want one, Canadian boy?"
"Not my name."
"You think Diamond is mine? We all have other names. Here, smoke."
Cigarette. Toss. Lighter. Puff.
"Why do you do this?"
"Always have."
"What do you mean always have?"
"When I was young my parents taught us to make money any way I can."
"And you chose this?"
"I chose nothing. My body is my bank."
Heat.
"Don't feel sorry for me. That's life here."
Questions. School? Money. Move? Money. Other job? Easy money.
"What do you do in Canada?"
"I write."
"What do you write?"
"Stories."
"You gonna write about me?" Smoke. Puff.
"Maybe."
"You sure you don't want to have a good time? Would make a better story." Bra strap. Smile.
Heat.
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