Archive

32 Hours Earlier

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 24, 2008
in Writing
. 4 Comments

Alistair stepped out of the train as soon as the doors opened. He threaded his way through the crowd and found himself blinking in the midday sun outside of the tube station.  A black sedan pulled out of the stream of traffic and came to a stop directly in front of him.  As he slid into the backseat, the smell of cigarettes and oranges washed over him.

“Morning, sir.”

“Yes,” Alistair said, “you know where you’re taking me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, he relaxed into the leather seat. He ran his thumb over the lions’ head engraved on the handle of his cane, as he considered his situation. The family had called him. He thought he was done with all that boyhood nonsense about princes and lords, Houses and kingdoms, all the machinations of their perverse world, but when they said that he was needed, he found himself incapable of denying them. He assumed that he was going to regret this either for a long time, or for a very short, painful time.

Outside the window, trees and sidewalks slid past. Compared to the speeds he’d traveled at earlier that same day this was nothing. The chunnel…now that was a modern wonder. There wasn’t a soul that could’ve dreamed of such a thing, when he was a boy. And that didn’t even come close to concords, or mag-levs, or any of the ridiculous technologies of the last 80 years. He shook his head. All this modernization came with a heavy price. There were few alive that remembered what the world was like when Alistair was young, and the history books he’d read in the past few years were remarkably…sparse.

“We’re here, sir” the driver said, bringing him out of his reverie.

Alistair nodded. “Here” was an opulent townhome, and as he stepped out of the car and up the steps the front door swung open. Inside stood a woman he hadn’t quite expected, and because old habits die hard, Alistair bowed.

“I’m glad you came, old man.”

His face remained impassive, despite his growing sense of unease. His host turned, retreating into the house, and he followed her.

–

Alistair didn’t inhale, he knew the smell would steal the breath from his lungs. He lifted the glass of scotch, tasted it, and set it down. After the burning had subsided he spoke.

“I assume you didn’t bring me two thousand miles to share a drink?”

“No, of course not.  We have a job for you.  There’s something that needs retrieving, it’s proven impossible for my Coterie to get.  I’ve read the briefs on your past work, and I think your skillset is a good match for this problem.” Carmella said.

“How many of your Coterie did you send?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Only eight came back.  You understand that I cannot afford to do that again.”

Alistair nodded.  People with the abilities required to be of service in a House Coterie were extremely rare, and the serviceable number was always drastically reduced by the rigors of training.  There were all sorts of dangers involved in that training, and none of them were minor.  The few who passed carried scars for the rest of their lives, and of those who didn’t pass…the lucky among them died excruciating, but relatively quick deaths.

“For how long would my services be required?” he asked.

“Perhaps only one night.  The object is a key, it’s in a certain place in Old London, that seems…closed to us.” she said.

Alistair frowned. He looked around the room.  The wooden paneling was red, rich in color, and the leather furniture was its perfect compliment. The mood was dark and masculine, with an inviting warmth.  That it had been designed and furnished by Carmellas’ father, he had no doubt.  He sighed, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last three days.

“You seek a key?  One that’s hidden in one of the oldest and most malignant places on earth, for reasons that I cannot fathom.” he said. “I admit to some curiosity, but going alone into that dark…I’m not interested.”

“You think I’m offering you a choice?” she laughed, and there wasn’t a shred of humor in it. She leaned towards him, locking her eyes on his face. “How old are you, Alistair? You served my father. And his father. And his father? And yet, you look not a day over 60. You may have left Family and House, but it’s clear you’re still benefiting from the terms of your…contract. As far as I’m concerned, that means you’re still bound by it. Bound, to me.”

He considered his glass. It had found its way back into his hand and he took another drink before meeting her gaze. “I never liked you.”

“I’ve prepared a file with all the pertinent details. If you have any material needs, that phone will ring the butler. He can procure anything. You may take the rest of the day and start in the morning, if you like. You’ll find that I’m not a cruel master.”

Alistair drained his glass and reached for the folder. By the time he’d opened it, he was alone.

–

Forty-five minutes later he set the folder down and sat back.  He produced a pipe from an inner pocket of his tweed sport coat and began tamping tobacco into the bowl.  The trip was always disconcerting, but he’d been through enough times to know that he’d live…that long, at least.  He did need her, after a fashion.  Bound to her?  Pure hubris on her part, but he could use that.  The flame of the match seemed to mirror a light dancing in his eyes, and for the first time in three days Alistair Hightower allowed himself the barest glimmer of a smile.

## End ##

It was right after reworking the last paragraph for the third time that I decided the whole thing was self serving and trite, and I was going to toss it out.  Before I do, though, I’m going to post it for a few days.  I like the character, and the ideas, but I have no clear definition of their “world”, and I’m not comfortable moving on until I do.  This vignette may completely disappear.  I’m going to bed.

In the Pipeline, and other news

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 20, 2008
in Life, Writing and music
. 1 Comment

I just wanted to let you all know that I haven’t stopped blogging, or writing, or being alive.  It’s been a crazy week, and I’m actually working on something that Tesson asked for, which is a bit bigger than the little blurbs I’ve been posting every night.  Once that’s finished I’ll release it here.

I’m also working on a sermon for Sunday, which is slightly (and only slightly) more important than satisfying Tesson’s desire for gothic content.

I’ve been listening to the new Jakob Dylan album, “Seeing Things“.  Jakob Dylan is the former lead singer of the Wallflowers and son of Bob Dylan.  If you like the ‘flowers vocals, you’ll probably like this album.  It’s a little slower than the Wallflowers stuff, but very good.  He sounds like his dad, but he sings a little more melodically.  Bob Dylan meets James Taylor.  Very nice guitar, solid bass…traditional folk sound.
I don’t know if my next post will be Sunday or Monday, as I’m shooting a wedding on Sunday and will be busy all day.  We’ll see how it goes.  That’s all for now, thanks for stopping by.

-D

Registration is OPEN!

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 17, 2008
in Website
. 3 Comments

I wanted to let you guys know that you’re now able to register a username and password for davideagle.net. Doing so is the only way to comment, and may eventually give you access to User Icons. Lame? Yes. Useful? Probably not.

I hope that doesn’t inconvenience anyone, but I get at least 5 comment spams in moderation every few hours, and uh…I’m really lazy about stuff like that, so I need to nip it in the bud before it turns into 200,000.

I do definitely welcome and appreciate constructive input. Specifically, stuff you hate or stuff you’d like to see more of.
Thanks for stopping by.

Jobs I could never do:

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 16, 2008
in Writing
. 3 Comments

In her hand, the hot cup bordered on painful. The smell of coffee rose in steamy tendrils from the hole in the plastic lid. Her other hand fumbled with keys, and she cursed them quietly, trying to circumnavigate the ring with too many fingers, or too few. She tried several until the bolt finally turned. She paused before pushing the door open quietly, reverently. This was always the strangest time. She entered slowly, looking around. Gray light pushed lethargically into the room, illuminating nothing, only deepening the shadows in the corners.

Her hand flipped the light-switch on, and she sighed. She took out her tally sheet and a rosary. Her mother had been catholic, and so she was as well, in the way that catholicism and Judaism have of recruiting new adherents, all unwilling and skeptical, by virtue of maternal affiliation. The room smelled of old carpet, and dust. She remembered reading that most dust was actually dead human skin, and tried to stop the question, but couldn’t…How much of the dust in this house derived from its most recent owner? She laughed nervously, and it sounded obscene.

The curtains were lace, and yellowing. The linoleum flooring in the entryway was a shade of green popular in the 70’s, and best forgotten. She set her coffee down on the table, next to a coaster that depicted a naked cherub, clicked her pen and went to work. (4) Cherub Coasters, (1) coffee table, (1) sofa…and on and on, cataloguing an entire human life in ruled 8 by 11, notating dings and scratches and items of potential worth independently, for further research. Through the murky morning and into the afternoon she crawled through the house-turned-mausoleum, quickly and efficiently notating everything, trying to push thoughts of the dead out of her mind, even as she was confronted by their most private and personal secrets.

She only screamed once, and it wasn’t her fault. No one had told her that there was a cat living on the premises, and when it brushed against the back of her calves she very nearly died, herself. Would that be ironic, she wondered, if she’d died right there? And who would do her estate sale? She thought about the things she had collected in 40 years, and wondered if they would be as beautiful and frightening as the things she always found in these houses.

In reality, it wasn’t the material items that scared her. There was such a strong impression of the newly deceased in these places, around the things they had owned, it was as if they had just set that (1) golf putter down a moment ago, and would be coming back from the other room any second now to claim it. A shiver ran up her spine, then back down, and then up again, for good measure. She clicked her pen three times, closed her tally book, and kissed her rosary.

She hadn’t gone to class long enough to know exactly how to use the rosary, which she thought of as the swiss-army knife of catholicism, but she assumed that if the need arose, Mary would guide her hands.

Returning to the living room she saw her coffee, sitting on the cherub coaster. She swallowed. There was pink lipstick on the plastic lid. Pink lipstick the shade of (1) lipstick “Glorious Grapefruit”. Her back started doing the shivering trick again, and she didn’t bother picking up her coffee on the way out. Didn’t even bother locking the front door. No one would steal from this house. No one.

From her car, she would swear for the rest of her life, she saw a lace curtain fall back into place.

My body is a cage

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 15, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

I keep trying to think of a plot, and I’m paralyzed.  I think about Neil Gaiman, I think about William Gibson and Stephen King and then I throw a few ideas around, and if I’m not directly stealing something then I can only come up with really interesting sort of peripheral ideas.  Whatever.  NaNoWriMo isn’t until November.

Today was my first Father’s day.  I’ve gotten the barest glimmer of what it means to be a father, and I have even less tolerance and patience for men who abuse that post than I had before my ‘glimmer’.  And it was pretty thin to begin with.  The only thing I can figure is that some people are sub-human.  Only animals are supposed to eat their young, but is there a big difference between eating your offspring and debilitating them by discouraging or abusing them?  I can’t even imagine…it’s sick.

Anyway, on to the work.

The sound of a match striking, if slowed down, is almost a tearing sound.  It’s as if the strike pad and the matchhead when combined, work like magical relics.  With the correct degree of force, the right speed, and maybe a whispered incantation, they tear the veil separating our world from a world of flames.  Flame is lured through this rip by the fuel offered in the body of the matchstick, because fuel must be in short supply in the flame-world.  In this way, I think, the match is lit.

That seems like the hard part, but it’s really not.  Next, you have to multiply the flame.  Flame to cigar, and then the barest inhalation…There’s certainly a lot of technique involved.  If you can get the cigar to light, it’s smooth sailing.  Well, not totally smooth, you have to keep it lit, which is a challenge, and get your wife to let you sleep in the same bed that night, which might be even more challenging…I digress.

The old man does all of this in one fluid motion.  Sitting on a bench, in the park, watching the birds fight over something inconsequential.  He motions to them, chuckles, and in the slump of his shoulders there is a truth; these birds are miming the entire human experience.  Here we sit, fighting over the castoffs of greater men, and the greatest of these fight over pieces of a world forgotten by gods who’ve got better things to worry about.  And so we hurtle through blackness, bickering over paychecks, corner offices, nations…scraps of bread.

What else, besides these battles, is there?  What can birds achieve?  They fight for scraps, as do we.  We are twins, both species fighting for sustenance, and perhaps, a little glut.  Trying to live as long as we can on this rock, forgotten by the gods, trapped, with our inherent humanity our limiting factor.

The old man tosses more bread to the birds.  They coo and warble, and he coos, and warbles, and they look at him for a moment, their small beady eyes locking on his, recognizing kindred nature.  He nods, encouragingly, coos again, and they turn away, the moment passed, their frenzy for bread resumed.  The old man leans over painfully and grinds his cigar out on the sidewalk.

"Perhaps tomorrow", he sighs.

Then he rises, slowly, spreading mottled pigeon wings towards the sun, arches his back, and LIFTS .

At night they go walkin’

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 9, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

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
by
cdeagle
on June 8, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

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
by
cdeagle
on June 7, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

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
by
cdeagle
on June 6, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

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
. 0 Comments

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.