i got really upset about the whole colorado shooting. i posted messages on facebook expressing my anger at the inability of this country to see that there is a problem when an average civilian can assemble an arsenal LEGALLY. i still am incredulous at how- i'm sorry- idiotic people are regarding this issue... i eventually removed my postings, along with the associated comments, which i felt were getting a little heated for my tastes. i know, it's now common sense that you don't get political or religious on facebook. but jeez, to me, that WAS and IS common sense, and i was truly incensed, and shouldn't my friends WANT to know how i really feel? rather than stupid platitudes and to-do lists or just-did lists or pictures of food and places, etc... BUT I GUESS NOT. our country is just a patina of "politeness" concealing a lot of rust and decay.
ANYWAY. here's a comment i read off of charles blow's article in the times called "mourning and mulling". i think it largely expresses some of my own sentiments:
***
We can all by now repeat every argument that has ever been used in the gun control "debate" by either side during the last 25 years.
I mourn those people and their families.
But may we speak honestly? Our country, as a whole, has made an explicit political decision to accept the almost unregulated possession of firearms and, with that, to tolerate a certain number of periodic massacres of innocent people so long as each massacre is appropriately condemned, piously mourned and thoroughly forgotten after two weeks. I am no longer willing to be complicit in that process by participating in the shame and mourning rituals that are an explicit part of this decision.
Unless gun control advocates can figure out a way or summon the will to get a lot of other people in this country to support gun control then I will no longer participate in "national conversations," great debates or mourning rituals. There is no debate. Sometimes the decision gets made. It's been made.
If someone can suggest to me a political strategy to get gun control passed in both Congress and the state legislatures, I will be there. If not, then I will use my time and energy to support another important cause. But I will not participate in this ritual anymore.
***
there you go.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Kipapa: rewritten beginning
Read some Neil Gaiman, so decided to begin the Kipapa story from a different angle, i.e. first-person retelling of a story. There is something much more natural about telling the story from the first-person perspective, something more conversational about it all. Third-person narratives, it's hard to decide where to be, or how omniscient to be (i.e. can I report how this person feels? Am I allowed to poke my finger into this character's brain?)... So, despite the fact that this will throw a wrench into the ending which I just wrote, let's see, yesterday (already having second thoughts about that ending anyway), here goes: REWRITTEN BEGINNING.
You wouldn’t believe it, if I told you. How a couple of kids survived the Night Marchers.
Heck, I hardly believe it myself, especially after all this time. It was like a dream, or a nightmare, fading away after years of waking up. But it happened to the both of us, and even though we’ve never openly talked about it afterwards, we both shared something terrifyingly real and unforgettable that night.
In fact, it’s what brought us together, if you can believe it.
It was early October of my sophomore year. Things were going fine. In fact, it felt like something great was sort of coming together, not quite there yet, but on its way. Just like a cherry blossom in springtime, right on the verge of blooming (don’t mind me- never saw a cherry blossom, and I know it’s the wrong season, but I just like Japanese-y imagery). While the academics had always been easy and comfortable for me, my classes were actually starting to engage and interest me in a deeper way. My second cross country season was well under way, and our team actually had a decent set of runners; at one race, five of us placed within the top ten. And there were a few girls at the school who actually had a personality, and I was on comfortable speaking terms with at least one of them. It felt like a- what’s the word- a confluence. Like a bunch of things were all joining up and merging, and carrying me somewhere wonderful.
I guess it was just about when I started being aware of this feeling of optimism, on, let’s see, October the 12th, to be exact. That’s when my dad came home with the news. He received orders that, by the end of the month, we’d be packing up and leaving our home on Wheeler Air Force Base in Hawaii, and moving to some place in Nevada.
So there you go.
It wasn’t all that bad, in the large scheme of things. And, being in a military family, you learn to take these sorts of things in stride, no complaining. It’s all about sacrifice, right? The whole military way of life is founded on it. So my mother and my younger brother and sister, we eat a little bit of that sacrifice that my father so willingly gives, so that we all stay strong together.
I decided not to tell anyone at school. Not my classmates, my teammates, the girls I had set my eyes on. Not even my best friend. I’m not good at goodbyes, see. I don’t know how to act. I decided to keep it a secret, leave abruptly without a word or a trace.
You wouldn’t believe it, if I told you. How a couple of kids survived the Night Marchers.
Heck, I hardly believe it myself, especially after all this time. It was like a dream, or a nightmare, fading away after years of waking up. But it happened to the both of us, and even though we’ve never openly talked about it afterwards, we both shared something terrifyingly real and unforgettable that night.
In fact, it’s what brought us together, if you can believe it.
It was early October of my sophomore year. Things were going fine. In fact, it felt like something great was sort of coming together, not quite there yet, but on its way. Just like a cherry blossom in springtime, right on the verge of blooming (don’t mind me- never saw a cherry blossom, and I know it’s the wrong season, but I just like Japanese-y imagery). While the academics had always been easy and comfortable for me, my classes were actually starting to engage and interest me in a deeper way. My second cross country season was well under way, and our team actually had a decent set of runners; at one race, five of us placed within the top ten. And there were a few girls at the school who actually had a personality, and I was on comfortable speaking terms with at least one of them. It felt like a- what’s the word- a confluence. Like a bunch of things were all joining up and merging, and carrying me somewhere wonderful.
I guess it was just about when I started being aware of this feeling of optimism, on, let’s see, October the 12th, to be exact. That’s when my dad came home with the news. He received orders that, by the end of the month, we’d be packing up and leaving our home on Wheeler Air Force Base in Hawaii, and moving to some place in Nevada.
So there you go.
It wasn’t all that bad, in the large scheme of things. And, being in a military family, you learn to take these sorts of things in stride, no complaining. It’s all about sacrifice, right? The whole military way of life is founded on it. So my mother and my younger brother and sister, we eat a little bit of that sacrifice that my father so willingly gives, so that we all stay strong together.
I decided not to tell anyone at school. Not my classmates, my teammates, the girls I had set my eyes on. Not even my best friend. I’m not good at goodbyes, see. I don’t know how to act. I decided to keep it a secret, leave abruptly without a word or a trace.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
writing from the ending: kipapa
Here's an attempt at a strategy I once used a long time ago: writing from the ending, backwards... This is the possible ending for a new version of "Kipapa."
After a long walk in silence, the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway appears before them. Blinking as though he were finally waking up from a long sleep, Cliff mutters, “My stop.”
“So,” says Erica, in a sing-song voice, lightly swinging Cliff’s arm, “What’s next?”
“What’s next?” Cliff glances at Erica. He takes a seat at the bus stop, and pulls her gently down beside him. He flashes a smile as he turns away in thought. The smile fades swiftly, carried off by the sound of the cars on the road beside them. “Nothing changes. In a couple of days, I’m leaving this place, for good.” He exhales slow and long through pursed lips, a low whistle. “And you?”
“I’m going back home,” Erica says, in a grey voice. Sensing Cliff’s reaction, she turns to him, eyes steely and bright. “Just to get my stuff.” She turns away to look at the road, her lips set and resolute. “I’ve heard there are places you can go to. Safe houses. At least it will be a step, right?”
“...Yeah.”
“After that, who knows? Guess I’ll decide what to do from there.”
Cliff smiles a half-smile, to no one in particular. “Sounds like a plan.” He nods. “Do you need me to go with you?”
Erica laughs loudly, but there is a hint of a tremor in it, just at the end. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Next time I’m in a pinch to do Shakespeare for a hostile audience, I’ll call you. But this? I can handle this shit myself.”
Cliff nods, and keeps nodding, like a bobblehead. He turns at the sound of a big engine revving up the road. It’s only a dump truck. He inhales, sharp. “Erica?” he says abruptly. “Just what are we? I mean, to each other.”
The sound of cars passing. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
Erica squeezes his hand. “Don’t you know? We’re Hamlet and Ophelia, after the curtains are down and the play’s over. We’ve no audience to please, and no lines to read. Hamlet and Ophelia.”
Suddenly, the #52 bus to Wahiawa is there, breathless and impatient. The doors squeak open, and the driver is looking down at the two of them through tea-colored sunglasses. Cliff releases Erica’s hand. There is an empty, needly numbness in his palm and fingers. He sticks his hand into his pocket, fumbles for change. “My bus,” he mumbles absently, not looking Erica in the eye, as he gets up from his seat.
Not good at goodbyes.
“Sure you’ll be alright?” he manages, without turning all the way.
“Sure you can’t stick around forever?” Cliff doesn’t look at her, but he can almost imagine that brilliant smile of hers, a smile that almost pushes you away.
Almost.
At the threshold, Cliff yells a “Sorry” over the din of the restless, fuming engine, and waves the irritated driver on. The bus pulls away, kicking up a cloud of red dirt and swirling black smoke.
Cliff turns back to Erica, still sitting there at the bus stop, huddled beneath his oversized grey sweat-shirt.
“Not good at goodbyes,” he mutters with a shrug.
After a long walk in silence, the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway appears before them. Blinking as though he were finally waking up from a long sleep, Cliff mutters, “My stop.”
“So,” says Erica, in a sing-song voice, lightly swinging Cliff’s arm, “What’s next?”
“What’s next?” Cliff glances at Erica. He takes a seat at the bus stop, and pulls her gently down beside him. He flashes a smile as he turns away in thought. The smile fades swiftly, carried off by the sound of the cars on the road beside them. “Nothing changes. In a couple of days, I’m leaving this place, for good.” He exhales slow and long through pursed lips, a low whistle. “And you?”
“I’m going back home,” Erica says, in a grey voice. Sensing Cliff’s reaction, she turns to him, eyes steely and bright. “Just to get my stuff.” She turns away to look at the road, her lips set and resolute. “I’ve heard there are places you can go to. Safe houses. At least it will be a step, right?”
“...Yeah.”
“After that, who knows? Guess I’ll decide what to do from there.”
Cliff smiles a half-smile, to no one in particular. “Sounds like a plan.” He nods. “Do you need me to go with you?”
Erica laughs loudly, but there is a hint of a tremor in it, just at the end. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Next time I’m in a pinch to do Shakespeare for a hostile audience, I’ll call you. But this? I can handle this shit myself.”
Cliff nods, and keeps nodding, like a bobblehead. He turns at the sound of a big engine revving up the road. It’s only a dump truck. He inhales, sharp. “Erica?” he says abruptly. “Just what are we? I mean, to each other.”
The sound of cars passing. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
Erica squeezes his hand. “Don’t you know? We’re Hamlet and Ophelia, after the curtains are down and the play’s over. We’ve no audience to please, and no lines to read. Hamlet and Ophelia.”
Suddenly, the #52 bus to Wahiawa is there, breathless and impatient. The doors squeak open, and the driver is looking down at the two of them through tea-colored sunglasses. Cliff releases Erica’s hand. There is an empty, needly numbness in his palm and fingers. He sticks his hand into his pocket, fumbles for change. “My bus,” he mumbles absently, not looking Erica in the eye, as he gets up from his seat.
Not good at goodbyes.
“Sure you’ll be alright?” he manages, without turning all the way.
“Sure you can’t stick around forever?” Cliff doesn’t look at her, but he can almost imagine that brilliant smile of hers, a smile that almost pushes you away.
Almost.
At the threshold, Cliff yells a “Sorry” over the din of the restless, fuming engine, and waves the irritated driver on. The bus pulls away, kicking up a cloud of red dirt and swirling black smoke.
Cliff turns back to Erica, still sitting there at the bus stop, huddled beneath his oversized grey sweat-shirt.
“Not good at goodbyes,” he mutters with a shrug.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
revisioning
i believe i understand something more about myself. i am not someone who can easily "work things out" without at least a general vision of where i am going. i need to see the big picture.
i realized this when i attempted (for the umpteenth time) to write following natalie goldman (sp?)'s advice, as articulated in "writing from the bones." she advocates freewriting, and quick freewriting in particular, as a tool to bypass the internal censor. all well and good. but when i put this into practice, what it turns into is a kind of stream of consciousness drivel full of random sparks of thought, and repetitions of catch phrases ("hate"). i feel a kind of despair as i produce this sort of writing, just as i feel a kind of despair when i dream in this way (i.e., conscious of the meaninglessness of the associations, as opposed to a dream with a secret and therefore meaningful theme). i feel as though i am wasting my time.
don't get me wrong. i do feel as though freewriting has a place, just as doodling and marginalia can have their place. but, for me at least, the presence of some predetermined form, at least in a very rudimentary sense, provides the seed crystal around which creative thought can find structure...
when i recall some of the better works i'd written, i had a keen awareness of structure, of where things were going. although some writers can "write" their way to the conclusion, i find my attempts at such a strategy seriously wanting: like a stand-up comedian who doesn't prepare, and finds himself coming up empty on stage. no can do.
***
not much else going on. i am currently living my life on a cycle basis; that is, i think of all the things i am responsible for, and cycle through them, in either 20 minute, or task-compartmentalized segments. for example, i might write one page of a story, or read a chapter of a story. i am still working out the cycles to keep them even and functioning, but i do feel it's the best way for me to function. although i could be "project-based", that is, work on one thing to its completion, i realize that i am actually stretched across several infinities, and to commit to only one would lead to imbalance and neglect of the thousand other things i need to attend to.
i work with my kids on a cycling basis also. this insures that, throughout a week, i will have touched on each of the things that i feel it is important for them to work on. yes, boring and repetitive, but perhaps at its core, life needs to be this, needs to have this. without this core, like the regularity of a heartbeat, life becomes too chaotic, unregulated, unproductive...
yes, one thing i've realized is this: passion, alone, dissipates. steady, focused, consistent pressure, on the other hand, consciously chosen and regularly applied, leads to results. this is my hope, this is my path.
i realized this when i attempted (for the umpteenth time) to write following natalie goldman (sp?)'s advice, as articulated in "writing from the bones." she advocates freewriting, and quick freewriting in particular, as a tool to bypass the internal censor. all well and good. but when i put this into practice, what it turns into is a kind of stream of consciousness drivel full of random sparks of thought, and repetitions of catch phrases ("hate"). i feel a kind of despair as i produce this sort of writing, just as i feel a kind of despair when i dream in this way (i.e., conscious of the meaninglessness of the associations, as opposed to a dream with a secret and therefore meaningful theme). i feel as though i am wasting my time.
don't get me wrong. i do feel as though freewriting has a place, just as doodling and marginalia can have their place. but, for me at least, the presence of some predetermined form, at least in a very rudimentary sense, provides the seed crystal around which creative thought can find structure...
when i recall some of the better works i'd written, i had a keen awareness of structure, of where things were going. although some writers can "write" their way to the conclusion, i find my attempts at such a strategy seriously wanting: like a stand-up comedian who doesn't prepare, and finds himself coming up empty on stage. no can do.
***
not much else going on. i am currently living my life on a cycle basis; that is, i think of all the things i am responsible for, and cycle through them, in either 20 minute, or task-compartmentalized segments. for example, i might write one page of a story, or read a chapter of a story. i am still working out the cycles to keep them even and functioning, but i do feel it's the best way for me to function. although i could be "project-based", that is, work on one thing to its completion, i realize that i am actually stretched across several infinities, and to commit to only one would lead to imbalance and neglect of the thousand other things i need to attend to.
i work with my kids on a cycling basis also. this insures that, throughout a week, i will have touched on each of the things that i feel it is important for them to work on. yes, boring and repetitive, but perhaps at its core, life needs to be this, needs to have this. without this core, like the regularity of a heartbeat, life becomes too chaotic, unregulated, unproductive...
yes, one thing i've realized is this: passion, alone, dissipates. steady, focused, consistent pressure, on the other hand, consciously chosen and regularly applied, leads to results. this is my hope, this is my path.
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