Monthly Archive for June, 2008

At night they go walkin’

Published
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cdeagle
on June 9, 2008
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Till the breakin’ of the day.

 

Music plays a big role in what I do, every day.  I’m enjoying the new coldplay album, and this specific song, “Cemetaries of London” really makes me want to go on a trip.  I think I’ve talked about my vision of Old London at night, in the past…a dense fog, rain slicked cobblestones, light shining from impossible angles.  Occasionally the sound of footsteps echoing from side alleys, and from somewhere off in the biting cold, a rhythmic tapping.  Every door, locked and barred from the inside, every window shuttered.  I’m trying to figure out how this fits into any story.

Is our hero being pursued?  Running, panting and sliding down the street in terror?  Perhaps, falling hard to his knees, he bites his tongue.  Tastes the blood like iron spill from his lips.  Feels the shadows closing in, the tapping seems to speed up.  In the moment before it closes in, before the black cloud devours him, he turns to the darkness, raises his hand, and…Light.  Shadows rear back, clawing over one another to escape the flame, anathema to darkness.  What if that man isn’t our hero at all?

Maybe our hero stands with his back to a strong oak door, as the creatures of the night appear out of the maze of dusky streets before him.  Increasing in courage as they increase in numbers.  Growling, spitting curses, prepared to rip him apart, take what he defends.  The rhythmic tapping of his cane against the cobbles is the counterpoint to the chaos embodied at the bottom of the steps.  The denizens grow bolder as the fog steals in, sealing these odd fellows together, sealing them in their own world, a tableau, the anticipation of violence.  The pregnant pause before the storms fury is unleashed.  Finally, by some means unknown even to them, the mob elects a leader, and he speaks. 

“We want it.” he sputters, half crazed.

“You shant have it.” replies our hero.  And how they howl.  Howl to raise the dead.  Howl all of their rage to the night.  And our hero, who is versed well enough in history to understand human nature, knows what will happen next.  What will happen, no matter what he does.  But he would do no less than what he must, even if doing less could save his life.  So he raises his cane, draws something silver and glittering from his tweed jacket, and settles on his last words.  Dante Alighieri’s words, in point of fact.

“Observe in me the contrapasso, for all that you have ever done.” 

And they come, in full force.

It’s due

Published
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cdeagle
on June 8, 2008
in Writing
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I have to sort of think of this like homework.  What I want to avoid right now is using a “journaling” voice; that’s not my goal here.  Anyway, I used my notebook last night and I feel like I should go for 20 minutes if I’m doing longhand because I write so slowly.  What about tonight?

I don’t like literature.  I love good writing, and I love good stories, but I hate writing that feels like it’s trying really hard, and I hate stories that seem to exist for no greater reason than to exist.  Ayn Rand, in her manual on art, said that a story must include a theme.  She described theme as “an idea about human existence”.  Some stories (I’ll cite “The Catcher in the Rye” here) seem to be very weak on Theme.  Sure, there’s a plot, events happen that correlate to one another, but they express no overarching idea about human existence.  They leave me with the sense that I’ve just read something very self serving and ultimately meaningless.  I shouldn’t be offended; isn’t all art, by its very nature, self serving?  It exists only to please the artist, after all.  Or, it should exist only to please the artist.

In any event, those sorts of novels, which are often described as “literature” and which can leave the reader with a vast sense of hopelessness do nothing for me.  I know it’s incredibly pretentious to call great works crap, so I won’t, but I wouldn’t read them.  Really.  Who would want to?

Here’s the rub…I have to overcome a great deal of psychological resistance to want to write what I want to write.  I need to stop taking myself so seriously.  And the other rub is, what I want to write, I have no ideas about.  What I don’t care to write, I can easily think of several plots for.  Should theme develop out of plot, or vice versa?  I need t read more.  Enough!  Should I doodle?  I need to do something “fictitious” to make his time spent worthwhile, and believe me, it took 20 minutes of procrastinating to get this 10 minutes of writing to happen.  Alright, Lets talk dogs.

When I open the garage door the first thing I see are their crates, because that’s what I’m looking for, I guess.  I slide my toe to the edge of the first step, the lip is made of wood, in contrast to the rest of the kitchen floor which is tile.  The second before I put my weight on that piece of wood, I always imagine it snapping off, sending me sprawling into the garage, accompanied by the sound of my body slamming into concrete, the baying of dogs, and, undoubtedly, a fair amount of cursing.  But when I get my weight onto this wooden flange I’m instantly reminded of how sturdy it is.  It doesn’t even tremble, not just a little.  Impressive craftsmanship.  Reaching the floor of the garage I always take a minute to survey the situation.  Both of their food bowls are empty, Noah is low on water.  To my left, the door between them and sweet freedom stands, secured by a metal slide bar no thicker than a pencil.  I unlatch it and open it, because what follows is barely controlled chaos.

Noah is always first, because if I let Macy out first she will crawl into his crate to attack him.  I don’t know what pleasure she can get out of this, but she relishes it so much that sometimes I consider leting her do it simply for her own gratification.  Once he’s out of his crate he stretches, first front, extending his front paws and lowering his chest to the floor, then back, moving his body forward to rest over the front, lengthening the rear legs.  After this, it’s quick-as-you-like through the door, to turn around and bark (at me, I suppose).  By this time Macy is grumbling, and putting a paw on the door to her crate, as if to remind me that she needs to go as well, as if I could forget.  And this now, is the time for bracing breaths.  This would be the time for a dram of dutch courage.  The time that makes grown men tremble.  You see, a 70 pound, one year old german shepherd’s exuberence is often only matched by the physical power and athleticism of same.  To say that she jumps for joy would be an understatement.  She leaps.  She flings her soul into the air, and her body follows.  There are moments, at the top of her arc, when she is looking down at me and time stops.  I can see her trying to decide which of my softest and least protected bodyparts she should drag a paw across.  Arm?  Chest?  Cheek?  It’s not deliberate, but she is so excited, so happy to see me, to be free, to…well, who knows.  Sniff.  Stretch.  In any event, she must do one full circle around me, and at least two jumps, before she’ll go outside.  Once she’s done that she’s pretty manageable, but those few moments…they’re something.

An Exercise in Reconstruction (2)

Published
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cdeagle
on June 7, 2008
in Writing
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The first thing is the breeze.  It blows in like summer, and before you know what’s happened it’s a part of you.  It carries sounds, and smells, and looking over I see her blond hair blowing around, streaming away from the open car window.  I can’t look at her for very long.  It’s bright these days, the sun seems to be growing.  It knows that this is its time.  So it shines.  It shines through the sunroof, shines through her hair, shines on the dashboard, warming up the music as it comes out.  Inaudible melodies half masked by the sounds of the street. 

On the sidewalk a thousand people are doing a thousand things for a thousand different reasons, their legs in shorts and skirts, feet pointing every-which-way.  The breeze changes directions and the sound of the world fades away, the smell of asphalt disappears, and I can smell her hair, hear her humming along to the radio.  These endless spring afternoons are perfect. 

They are miraculous.  I’m convinced that they belong to Orange County.  New York never sleeps, what happens in Vegas can stay there.  And what’s the spirit of Southern California?  It’s so new, so young, and seemingly soulless compared to places with actual history…The spirit is the hope that the days of our youth might never end.  Flip flops and short-shorts and double-dutch.  Down on the sand, the smell of barbecue.  On days like this, we have no responsibilities.  We exult in our freedom.  We celebrate our immortality with tan legs and pedicures and oversized towels.  Our chapel for this worship is the beach, with cool breezes, surf songs melting into the sound of the waves, of Frisbees, of volleyball games. 

Take possession of moments like this.  It is your job to claim them, to internalize them, and to make them a part of your soul.  And next month, and next year, and three decades from now, that song should remind you of the quality of the light on that day, how her hair floated weightless, how you had nowhere to be and everywhere to go.

Reintroducting

Published
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cdeagle
on June 6, 2008
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It’s a process, to change the way they perceive, and behave, in a place.  To break the habits.  First, you remove them from the place.  This takes time, in days, or weeks, or in months.  However long it takes, is how long it takes.  Once they’ve been thoroughly removed you can begin to reintroduce them, in the way that you want them to be introduced.  Know that everything you do at this stage will shape how they behave in the future.  Your challenge is to mould their behavior without breaking them.

You must exert your will enough to get the proper response, and not so much that they become nervous, or fearful.  This is made more challenging if they are nervous to begin with, or if you are.  A bad experience at this point and you have to start over, so work slowly.  Take small steps, and set them up to succeed.  Don’t become overconfident, and don’t overreact, ever.

Things are usually only a big deal if you make them into a big deal.  Compelling them to behave the way you want is not a matter of emotion, it is a matter of course.  You are not asking them to submit to you, but to an immutable law of nature.  If you hold this truth in your mind, if you make yourself law, they will follow.

The point is this: when you introduce someone to a new way of being, you must show them slowly.  If you correct them for behaving in a way that you have allowed them to behave for months or years, they will be understandably upset.  Model the behavior that you desire…teach them the expectation.  Then show them when they make a mistake.  But correct them when they choose to do wrong.

00:00

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 4, 2008
in Writing
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Good night, America.  I’ve meant to write all night, first an old friend came over, then I was holding Abby, then we were watching the Great Debaters…You get the idea.  I really wasn’t trying to procrastinate here.  Really.

McAlpine was here earlier.  We’ve talked about writing, in the past, as Craft (versus, I guess, divine inspiration) and I know that we are both essentially on the same page.  To wit, we agree that writing (whether literature or song) should be pursued systematically, with discipline.  Not whimsically and when the mood strikes.  I’ve actually written about this specific thing a little bit in the past.

What I’ve come to realize is that I’m deeply afraid.  Some call it “resistance” and others call it “procrastination” but I think it’s all fear.  And so I want to read one more book, get one more tip, watch one more author interviewed…When, what I need to do, is the thing that I alledge to be preparing myself for with all of these guides, tips, and interviews.  Do it every day, until something good comes out.  And after reading a few forums (like the excellent NaNoWriMo forum) I know I’m not at the bottom of the totem pole.  But I need to not care about that.  Bah.

That is, more or less, what I wanted to write about earlier.  No wonder, then, that it came up in conversation with Andrew, who I feel probably understands that part of me the best among all of my friends and acquaintences.  Kindred, if you will, though not genetically.  That’s another wonder of the english language, there are words that convey precisely what you’re going for, you just have to find them one.

 

Now I’m going to sleep.  That’s enough for one night.  Tomorrow, something else.