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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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.
gorging on short stories.
Last night after playing Saints Row 2, which has for me become for the past few nights equatable to evening prayers to a devoute Catholic, I decided to read a short story before bed. All day I had bee carrying around an anthology I was required to purchase in my first year of the creative writing degree. Actually, it was in the creative writing introductory course that was used to cull the "writers" from the english majors who felt they could write.
I ended up reading from 11 pm to 2 am. I'm not what you'd call a fast reader. I can blow through things if I'm just looking for symbolism for use in those scavenger hunt-slash-essays that I used to write to appease the demi-gods of university otherwise known as professors. When I read for me I read with my writer's eyes and mouth. The eyes throw the words down my optic nerves and into my mouth where I roll them around and taste them. I taste how the syllable of the words the author chooses creates different sounds and shapes in my mouth.
I remember hearing somewhere that if you read and your lips moved you weren't very bright. I sometimes read and move my lips to the words if a particular passage moves me to. I think the statement about lip-readers is akin to phrenology, the study of the bumps on the skull to determine personality traits.
I used to care that people might see my lips moving. I love reading and I love it more when I'm into a story. I especially love short stories.
A couple weeks ago A and I went to Kitchener to visit her friends Julia and Manny. They are expecting a child. Julia is ready to pop.
We went and had dinner at a Greek restaurant in Waterloo, and at the next table a man was speaking very loudly about writing. He said, "I used to love writing, but I could never write a short story. I always had too much to say." He said it with this tone that, now I could be wrong, sounded like writing a book was more impressive than a short story.
Writing books are about stamina. They are about being able to shift your vision from the real world and to the world you are creating or recreating. Writing short stories are, well, short. They are about sprinting, getting it all in as succinctly as possible, using what the reader already has in their head to your advantage. There are many tricks that author use in short story writing. In a wave of a pen a skilled author can change a regular sentence like, "he was the best baseball player I had ever seen." into a piece of dialogue such as, "he was the best ball player they is." that can reveal so much more about the character than merely their opinion of baseball greats.
Last night I read a story about a stripper, another about a woman with a cervical cyst, another about 3 children and their grandparents surviving a trek across the African Savannah to get away from bandits, and another from the perspective of the writer of Roget's Thesaurus. Amazing stories. How do they do it?
I've written what I thought were short stories, but really they are novellas. I want to write something short. I want to write something that will say something. I want to write.
I ended up reading from 11 pm to 2 am. I'm not what you'd call a fast reader. I can blow through things if I'm just looking for symbolism for use in those scavenger hunt-slash-essays that I used to write to appease the demi-gods of university otherwise known as professors. When I read for me I read with my writer's eyes and mouth. The eyes throw the words down my optic nerves and into my mouth where I roll them around and taste them. I taste how the syllable of the words the author chooses creates different sounds and shapes in my mouth.
I remember hearing somewhere that if you read and your lips moved you weren't very bright. I sometimes read and move my lips to the words if a particular passage moves me to. I think the statement about lip-readers is akin to phrenology, the study of the bumps on the skull to determine personality traits.
I used to care that people might see my lips moving. I love reading and I love it more when I'm into a story. I especially love short stories.
A couple weeks ago A and I went to Kitchener to visit her friends Julia and Manny. They are expecting a child. Julia is ready to pop.
We went and had dinner at a Greek restaurant in Waterloo, and at the next table a man was speaking very loudly about writing. He said, "I used to love writing, but I could never write a short story. I always had too much to say." He said it with this tone that, now I could be wrong, sounded like writing a book was more impressive than a short story.
Writing books are about stamina. They are about being able to shift your vision from the real world and to the world you are creating or recreating. Writing short stories are, well, short. They are about sprinting, getting it all in as succinctly as possible, using what the reader already has in their head to your advantage. There are many tricks that author use in short story writing. In a wave of a pen a skilled author can change a regular sentence like, "he was the best baseball player I had ever seen." into a piece of dialogue such as, "he was the best ball player they is." that can reveal so much more about the character than merely their opinion of baseball greats.
Last night I read a story about a stripper, another about a woman with a cervical cyst, another about 3 children and their grandparents surviving a trek across the African Savannah to get away from bandits, and another from the perspective of the writer of Roget's Thesaurus. Amazing stories. How do they do it?
I've written what I thought were short stories, but really they are novellas. I want to write something short. I want to write something that will say something. I want to write.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
shit talking.
We went to Thanksgiving dinner on my side of the family last night. It was more like lunch. My cousin is very wealthy, so she had us come over to the castle and we had a catered dinner. It was nice to see everyone and since the weather was nice mostly everyone was outside.
The thing about my family is that you always want to be at the parties. You want to be there because if you aren't, your ears will burn at all the shit-talking people will do about you. A and I sat outside and listened as they roasted my cousin's girlfriend, they even tried to get A to say something mean about her. A never has a bad thing to say about anyone, with the exception of people who drive like jerks.
I understand how fun gossiping can be, how it makes you feel like part of the "cool" group, but I also understand shit like "cool" doesn't and shouldn't matter after you reach the age of 20.
What I don't understand is how my cousin's mother could through his girlfriend under the gossip bus when I see them talk and get along when its just my cousin's mom and my cousin's girlfriend? It all stems from my wealthy cousin's disdain for for this young lady in question.
Its funny how people in my family act around my wealthy cousin, they treat her with the respect a grandmother should get, that her words are always full of sage advice, and most of all people treat what she says as gospel. Truth is, the only thing she has straight are her finances. The rest of her life is real messy.
I couldn't stand the bashing, it got a little much so I left the circle and went inside to gorge on chocolate. Its funny that they bash her because she's young, and yet they're the ones acting like children. I guess cash blinds you to irony.
The thing about my family is that you always want to be at the parties. You want to be there because if you aren't, your ears will burn at all the shit-talking people will do about you. A and I sat outside and listened as they roasted my cousin's girlfriend, they even tried to get A to say something mean about her. A never has a bad thing to say about anyone, with the exception of people who drive like jerks.
I understand how fun gossiping can be, how it makes you feel like part of the "cool" group, but I also understand shit like "cool" doesn't and shouldn't matter after you reach the age of 20.
What I don't understand is how my cousin's mother could through his girlfriend under the gossip bus when I see them talk and get along when its just my cousin's mom and my cousin's girlfriend? It all stems from my wealthy cousin's disdain for for this young lady in question.
Its funny how people in my family act around my wealthy cousin, they treat her with the respect a grandmother should get, that her words are always full of sage advice, and most of all people treat what she says as gospel. Truth is, the only thing she has straight are her finances. The rest of her life is real messy.
I couldn't stand the bashing, it got a little much so I left the circle and went inside to gorge on chocolate. Its funny that they bash her because she's young, and yet they're the ones acting like children. I guess cash blinds you to irony.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Thanksgiving, the aftermath.
Just finished dinner. My first experience with fondu. I lied and said it wasn't. My forks were blue and clear, and I ate little because I was afraid to move. I've heard horror stories of fondu'd men's luggage.
It was fun and almost filling. I have space in my tummy the shape of a slice of pumpkin pie. Thankfully Cee has made one of her famous pies.
When we finished dinner we sat around the table for a moment of silence, then we went around saying what we were thankful for. I didn't say everything I was thankful for because it would say too much about me and take so long.
A said, "I'm thankful for the good things in my life."
I said, 'I'm thankful for all the things I've gotten, and for all the things I've never had."
And I am. A couple days ago I said out loud, "I hate my life, but love the people in my life."
Sometimes I get tired of living for other people, and sometimes you live only for those people.
Anyway, I want pie.
It was fun and almost filling. I have space in my tummy the shape of a slice of pumpkin pie. Thankfully Cee has made one of her famous pies.
When we finished dinner we sat around the table for a moment of silence, then we went around saying what we were thankful for. I didn't say everything I was thankful for because it would say too much about me and take so long.
A said, "I'm thankful for the good things in my life."
I said, 'I'm thankful for all the things I've gotten, and for all the things I've never had."
And I am. A couple days ago I said out loud, "I hate my life, but love the people in my life."
Sometimes I get tired of living for other people, and sometimes you live only for those people.
Anyway, I want pie.
about me.
People call me vee. My name is Yves. I'm, at the time of my thumbing this out, 27 years old.
I consider myself a nerd. I read a lot of comic books, I play too many video games, I don't read enough books, and recently have come to the stark conclusion that I do not write nearly as much as I should.
People say I have a gift for words. I think I do, too.
I was educated at york university where I spent 4 years +1 victory lap, +1 "okay... you're taking too long to finish" attaining a double major in english and creative writing. I loved my program, but I wish I could remember what I learned.
I think everything I learned from university was learned from listening to the profs when they talked about their lives. One of my favourite profs, a philosophy prof, said in an aside that he only started learning when he started teaching. My girlfriend's mother said something along the same lines the other day, she said, "to teach it is to really know it." Maybe there's something to that.
There's more to say but I'm being rude blogging on my lx while thanksgiving day dinner is being set out on the table. I'll close with something I like to say when people ask me who my favourite author is:
"If I wasn't raised catholic, I would've been a Winterson."
I consider myself a nerd. I read a lot of comic books, I play too many video games, I don't read enough books, and recently have come to the stark conclusion that I do not write nearly as much as I should.
People say I have a gift for words. I think I do, too.
I was educated at york university where I spent 4 years +1 victory lap, +1 "okay... you're taking too long to finish" attaining a double major in english and creative writing. I loved my program, but I wish I could remember what I learned.
I think everything I learned from university was learned from listening to the profs when they talked about their lives. One of my favourite profs, a philosophy prof, said in an aside that he only started learning when he started teaching. My girlfriend's mother said something along the same lines the other day, she said, "to teach it is to really know it." Maybe there's something to that.
There's more to say but I'm being rude blogging on my lx while thanksgiving day dinner is being set out on the table. I'll close with something I like to say when people ask me who my favourite author is:
"If I wasn't raised catholic, I would've been a Winterson."
hello, world.
I've decided to start a new blog. One that I write in only from my sidekick lx. The rules are simple:
1. Blog only from the sidekick.
2. Blog at least once a week.
3. If the sklx can't upload pictures, uploading from a computer is permitted.
Now if I scroll down to the post button, and if it posts when I click, this blog is now open.
1. Blog only from the sidekick.
2. Blog at least once a week.
3. If the sklx can't upload pictures, uploading from a computer is permitted.
Now if I scroll down to the post button, and if it posts when I click, this blog is now open.
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