| angel rat |
[Jul. 15th, 2009|07:51 pm] |
They call him Angel Rat and no one knows how long he (or she, or it) has been leaving gifts. The gifts always come when the house is empty of occupants, whether that time is day or night. The gifts are needed things--a new light fixture to replace the one that no longer works, your child’s favorite flavor of yogurt that you forgot to buy the last three times at the store, an external drive, socks, a piece of trim to replace the broken one in the hall. There are whispers that Angel Rat once left money for a family that couldn’t pay rent that month, but this has never been verified and most don’t believe it. They do all believe that Angel Rat is what Santa Claus would be if Santa Claus: a) existed, and b) was practical in his gift-giving.
There are, of course, many theories about Angel Rat’s identity. A humble person with money to spare (but how is it Angel Rat always knows just what to get?) is the most frequently cited. A vocal if small segment thinks Angel Rat is an alien, but no one pays attention to them. A Mr. John Dierks proposed setting up cameras in all the households of the neighborhood, in hopes of catching Angel Rat on film. This proved to be too impractical--it is a poor neighborhood, after all, and a number of folks are squeamish over the idea of twenty-four hour cameras filming in their home. They could, of course, just turn them off when they are away since that is when Angel Rat always comes, but there is a fear of forgetting to do so, and something that just doesn’t feel right about the idea anyway. So the idea never got off the ground. That’s not to say a few people didn’t set cameras, but as of yet, no one has successfully filmed Angel Rat. It’s especially difficult as no one has figured out Angel Rat’s pattern of appearance yet. For all intents and purposes, it appears to just be random. People in the neighborhood always need something--Angel Rat has no shortage of potential targets.
Then there is the matter of the name. No one knows who first called him/her/it Angel Rat, or why. Jenny Bell claims credit, but she’s a braggart so full of hot air she might just float away one day (many wish she would, in fact, do just that.) No one believes her, of course. What everyone does agree on is that the name fits, though not a single one could explain why. (The theory involving a rat named Stuart who accidentally switched bodies with an angel one rainy Saturday afternoon never gained traction. The story came to Eric D’Amour in a vision. What he always neglected to mention is that it came after he’d watched that movie with the Crocodile Dundee guy, Almost An Angel, six times in a row while drinking twelve cans of Mountain Dew.)
Idle musings aside, the neighborhood is thankful for Angel Rat. They feel they have someone watching over them as they battle through lives that are often quite hard. This is the greatest gift that Angel Rat gives. |
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| summer night |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|09:31 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | gene loves jezebel | ] |
Tonight I miss the hot sensual city summer night of age nineteen; gazing out at a sky of stars hanging over the sweltering air. Owning nothing, owed to nothing, open only to the first real love of my life, the colors--reds and blues and greens, everything full of creativity. Lying naked in bed with her, tracing the curves, watching how the starlight fell on them.
I’ve written a lot of the misery of my life at that age, and too little of the beauty.
Never again would I be so naively open to every experience. How I long sometimes for the colorful blankets draped on the wall, for the belief in the Muse, for a life given to dreams. There is nothing more sensual than a hot summer night in the city, in a run-down apartment in a shady neighborhood, in a city too hot to move, able to just breathe. To paint bodies, draw figures on the skin. To taste skin.
Sometimes it all comes back, even though it was long ago. The echoes inside me still. |
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| colors that flicker in water |
[Jul. 8th, 2009|08:04 pm] |
There are certain things you never want to hear at work. One of them is an employee handing you the phone, saying, “It’s J., D’s ex, and he’s taking D to the hospital.” D being one of your employees who, at that moment in time, is about twenty minutes late. And now you know why. Not the D hasn’t called in sick before, and you were aware that she has long-standing health issues—the cane and limp would have tipped you off to that even if you hadn’t been told previous to your hiring. No, all that you knew, but you weren’t prepared for taking that call, for the bad cell phone reception and J sounding pretty freaked out (though you don’t know J; perhaps he sounds like this all time) and saying that he’d call and let you know when they knew something. Nor were you prepared to find out the real story about D’s health later that day, that she’s already lost a foot and hip to cancer and that she’s on a lot of medication and knows that at any day, the cancer could really strike, and you’re definitely not prepared for the possibility that today may have been that day. You’re just a manager, just a guy, you don’t know much, much of anything, really. And now the day is winding down and you still don’t know, how serious it is but you definitely didn’t like the sound of J’s voice. So you are restless, and thinking about a lot of things, and none of them are really coherent, just fragments.
It has been a day of clouds.
Sometimes I have an urge to turn myself into a bargain basement Howard Hughes, lock myself away in a basement of my own design, writing things, punching holes into drywall until I create a work which transforms God. Or forces answers. Or silences the voices.
I would be better served to be in the woods. Talking to the gods and goddesses.
Isn’t there a silly old song that goes something along the lines of “sad songs say so much?” Why is it that the sad songs are the ones so loaded with meaning? I tried to explain what I think about this in a letter to my sister and I fear it just came out as semi-pretentious mush. Which is why I’ve spent a lot of my years on this planet never saying anything. Because I know I sound like an idiot. And words are so cheap…the concepts aren’t devoid of meaning but the words are overexposed and jaded eyes are jaded eyes. In the same letter I made the even greater mistake of trying to explain what art means to me, what the beautiful songs and books and movies and meals do, and I cringe to think of how that must read, but I sent the letter anyway.
I’m not sure there’s ever a moment that I’m not aware that I won’t be here at some point. It makes things feel urgent, like there just isn’t time to waste. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten a couple of second chances I don’t think I’ve earned, and I need to make them count. Meditating on mortality—on real mortality, not the fake death and drama that’s around us everywhere we turn, but real mortality, real loss—it’s illuminating but some days I’d be happier if my brain would just shut up. Perhaps more than anything I fear dying without having said anything meaningful. That everything locked inside me goes to the grave with me. Maybe that’s the way it is meant to be. You can’t live in the extremes of emotion and expression all the time, it’s exhausting, you’d lose all perspective, and you’d really drive people away.
I’m concerned about my employee, about D. I worry about shit far more than I reveal because life is meaningful, every battle counts, and I can’t even imagine the inner strength it takes to fight something like cancer while living in near constant pain. Did I mention she has a teenager? Yeah. See, the shit we think is the drama of our daily lives isn’t really much. All around me there are big battles going on that I never see, people facing things with tremendous courage that I can’t even fathom.
I light a candle tonight and pray to whatever spirits are out there for her. I hope they are listening. |
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| read a book |
[Jul. 5th, 2009|05:34 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | espn sunday night baseball | ] |
Re-read Joe R. Lansdale's "On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with the Dead Folks" this afternoon. Truly a superb short story. There's just something about Joe...I don't read him that often, but when I pull him down, he hits the spot, like a cold cheap beer on a blistering hot afternoon. He makes the whole writing thing look so simple. The great ones do that.
The story is one of many in The Book of the Dead, one of the (if not the very) first zombie anthologies ever published. Sounds funny to say now, but zombies were pretty radical back in the eighties, they certainly weren't as ubiquitous as they are now, at least in horror lit. O bought Book of the Dead when it was brand new. At the time it was the most extreme fiction I'd read. Nearly every great horror writer of the 80's is in there--King, Campbell, Lansdale, etc. etc. Not every story works, and you can make an argument that last year's The Living Dead is a better sampler of the genre, and I'd likely recommend it if someone were foolish enough to only want one book of zombie stories in their collection. But Book of the Dead was very important, and the best stories in it still read wonderfully, twenty-odd years later.
So I'm finally getting around to reading The Illuminatus! Trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson. It's been on my "to read" list for years and years. It's definitely something you have to be in the mood for, but it's fun, and this seems like the correct time to read it. It makes a nice balance to some of the more "serious" reading I'm doing.
Finished Harlan Ellison's Strange Wine yesterday. Ellison is, for me, a bit of an uneven writer (not surprising for one so prolific)...but at his best, he's like no other. And Strange Wine features some of his best, including "Crotoan", which is, hands down, the scariest story I've read in the last year. The last three paragraphs of that story are what horror writers strive for; in clumsy hands, they ruin everything, but in the hands of a master, your life is changed. Horror writing attracts me because it's pretty damned hard to be so-so. Either you nail it or you fail. And the ones that can nail it--Campbell, Ligotti, King and Ellison at their best--their works will live in you, and stay with you, in a way that most fiction never will. That feeling--that's religion, my friend. That's religion. |
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| this. |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|08:42 am] |
| [ | music |
| | sonic youth--the eternal | ] |
A short entry about yesterday before I do some writing. Have you ever had a day where you just woke up and said, "Today is gonna be a good day?" and then it was? That was yesterday. A brief list:
• Made shish-ka-bobs and bbq’d them. Marinated the chicken all day and added yummy veggies. They turned out well.
• Made cupcakes w/the kids. My mom sent them a cupcake-making package (mix, plates, napkins) because we couldn’t be in Chewelah this year. A great idea and it was lots of fun.
• Did a crossword puzzle. When was the last time I could say that?
• Cleaned off the deck furniture and hung out outside when the house got too hot.
• Read several more stories in Ellison’s Strange Wine.
• Watched the last X-Files movie, I Want To Believe. I thought it was good. Not great, but good. Felt like an episode of the show stretched out a bit. I just have a soft spot for Mulder and Scully so it’s all good.
• Bought lots of yummy fruit for a fruit salad today, potatoes for a potato salad, and corn on the cob to go with the hamburgers I’ll grill tonight.
• Listened to the Mariners beat the Red Sox in 11 innings. On the radio, on my deck, a drink in hand, while doing the aforementioned crossword puzzle.
Days like that make my universe right. Going for another one today. Happy 4th, everyone! |
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| aske |
[Jun. 29th, 2009|06:53 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | faith no more--angel dust | ] |
Yesterday I spent a couple of hours working in my garden. It wasn’t much, this couple of hours, but it was perhaps the most satisfying thing I’ve done in…well, at least several weeks. I’ve neglected my garden a bit this year, and that breaks my heart. As always, intentions were good, and as always, life gets in the way. Yesterday I put the breaks on and breathed my yard once again. I performed surgery, and hopefully all is not lost.
Things are coming together, connecting, in a way that I can’t quite gasp. I have a sense of where I’m trying to go with my work--writing, job, life--if not an insight of how to get there. Spiritually, things are happening, things breaking into the light and dark a certain way, one of those periods where you re-evaluate what is important without necessarily being consciously aware you are doing so.
And then you go garden for two hours.
I wrote this weekend as well, particularly yesterday morning. Getting the writing back into my M-F workweek is still proving difficult but it is a part of my weekend again. I am terribly behind on letters owed to friends. But in my head, a lot of things are dancing, a lot of sparks are being flung, and my sense of self (or, more accurately, selves) is acutely strong. There are things I need, and things I must build.
Is it complicated, with the kids and marriage and career and the endless need to do five things at once? Yes, but really, this is not something one should ever complain about. I simply must make it work, and it is on me to do everything with integrity, with heart, and with an openness towards the universe. It is the dance. |
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| as embers dress the sky |
[Jun. 21st, 2009|09:51 am] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--pale folklore | ] |
Three days in a row writing again. It brings a sense of normalcy back. What I’m working on is not clear to me, but simply slogging through is sometimes the most important thing. Found myself thinking of the novel I wrote a couple of years back. I find it creeps into my consciousness semi-regularly. I’d like to go back to it someday, if I ever have the bandwidth. At the moment, I’m just happy to be getting some words on paper. No matter how justified by life, multiple week periods with no writing depress me.
Random things floating through my mind these past days:
• Woodsmoke. I miss the bonfires.
• Ritual and its place in my life
• Kelly Link is the most important writer, in terms of my creative development, I’ve discovered in the last decade. Ligotti is a close second.
• Agalloch and Wolves in the Throne Room bring nature back to me when I’m stuck in the city. The concept and scope of their music is a driving force in my spiritual and creative life.
• I want make little rock monuments in the dirt.
• Turning off all electrical light every so often is important.
• I do not have a clear sense of my goals and ambitions.
• I need to get to Wolf Haven soon and see the wolves again.
• I really don’t like “stuff” and want to simplify. Not quite sure how to get there. Rather, I know what specific “stuff” is important but I have accumulated a lot that isn’t. I think.
• Last night I had three distinct, separate dreams about death. In only one of them did I actually die.
• Even when I’m not writing, I’m always in that frame of mind. Dry spells (regardless of the cause) are difficult because the gap between what I’m feeling and trying to express and the reality of what I’m capable of creating seems so wide.
• My spirituality, like my creativity, is unique to me, and needs tending just like all other important aspects of my life (fatherhood, marriage, and to a lesser degree career.)
• It’s an amazing gift to be alive.
And now, back to work. |
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| chaos a.d. |
[Jun. 19th, 2009|04:08 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | ulver--shadows of the sun | ] |
LJ, I know I never call or write, but I haven’t forgotten you, really. Don’t wither away just because I don’t drop by as often as I once did. We’ll always have 2006.
At the moment, I am overwhelmed by…everything. I wouldn’t even necessarily call it a bad overwhelming, but the feeling is there. Work is very time-consuming, very chaotic--it goes well, but I’m very drained at the end of the day, as is inevitable with a new position. I don’t have any tangible yardsticks to measure how good I’m doing, so I hope I am doing well. No one has punched me or told me I should never have been born, so that’s a good sign, I think.
The house is a mess. I’m ready to just torch everything in here. I’m disgusted that I apparently can’t live simply enough, that I’ve accumulated all this crap. My children have so much stuff, yet they use so little of it. Do I want a bigger house? Yes, but we simply shouldn’t have all this stuff. The shape our house has been in since we brought everything back--a complete, utter mess--has me not wanting to come home at the end of the day. I get depressed when I walk in the door. And I fear that I’ve become a nag to my children--but their inability to pick up after themselves, to deal with anything without it being a crisis, is endlessly irritating. I love them dearly but they could be more responsible and helpful. Which suggests I’m setting a bad example. And that thought doesn’t help my frame of mind.
My writing has been dead since my week off. Last Sunday I finally did a bit of work, and I squeezed a tiny bit of time in on Wednesday. But the simple truth is, writing is getting pushed out in favor of everything else. If I can’t at least get this house to where I can walk through it, that won’t change. I just have no creative juice in me right now--I’m drained. I’m barely even reading. I knew this possibility existed when I started the new job, but in truth, I think the job is a small part of it. I think it’s the shape of the household. I severely underestimated how much it would take to sort through and deal with the storage unit stuff. My job, which is by no means bad, I can deal with. This household, I am losing my ability to deal with. Something is going to break soon. Probably me. But I’m good with baling twine and glue, and will put myself back together. |
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| ghosts of grace |
[Jun. 10th, 2009|07:48 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | death cult--death cult | ] |
Someone else was driving my pickup, I don’t remember who. I was choking on the dust, body perched on the cab like a newborn calf, awkward and trying not to lose balance. The whole idea was to stand, stand while the truck sped down the dry gravel road, zigging and zagging with the sharp corners, seemingly pitching itself onto one side or the other, always on the edge of going right off the road and tumbling down the brush-covered embankment. If you screwed up, you were going to get hurt pretty good, flying off the cab into those woods and their gaping jaws, trees like teeth. Those woods, man, they looked scary even in the daylight.
It was a dare, and I never fell.
I never got my balance for long either--most of my time plastered flat onto the cab, grabbing anything I could to not slide off, looking for that opportunity, that one small window of chance to get on my feet. Like everything else I did, there was no reason beyond that it was vitally important in that moment to do so. To run that risk of bodily harm, to be stupid. It was easier than love, easier than trying to get the words to mean anything.
That day--I nailed it that day. I saw my moment--a flat stretch of road just before a wicked left curve (always take the left hand path, I remember thinking), a slight slowdown of the truck. I moved from the awkward crouch to standing straight up in one fluid motion, a rare moment of cooperation from a body I never could figure out how to work. The cab vibrating under my feet, the wind smacking me but not tipping me, the exhilarating feeling of being pure motion--for a second, everything ceased to exist, everything just was. I cared not if I would soon be snapped up by the aching jaws of the woods all around me, if the gravel would soon embed itself into my skin. For that one moment, existence became something far removed from myself, far greater. The particulars of my breathing, the broken processes of my mind, the yearnings and dreams, none of it mattered because none of it existed.
Grace. For one moment, grace.
Just before the curve, I turned and leapt into the bed of the truck, hating myself for not daring just a little more, for not holding on to the grace. For valuing tomorrow over being alive in the moment. For perhaps, on a deep level, fearing the pain. My knees hit the green metal of the pickup bed as if to drive home how silly it is to fear the pain, because the pain will always be there, no matter what choices are made. It is simply the way of existence. I cursed myself anyway. The grace left a yearning, a yearning deep in a black hole I’ve never figured out how to fill. If I could play the guitar, if I could sing, if I could write, if I could disappear…and still, none of can bring grace.
Later that night, drunk, I stared into the bonfire, wondering how it would feel to pitch myself into it, how the people around would react, wondering if that thought even mattered. I tossed an empty beer bottle into the fire, knowing it wouldn’t burn. It was made of stuff more solid than I. Still later that evening, and still drunk, I drove down that same road, looking for the ghost of grace, finding nothing. The stars overhead, far away and sharp like the tips of a hundred hunting knives, like the very knife I had with me, hurt my head. Why was I even carrying the knife? The stars would just eat it too. Breaking my body to hold my bones. |
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| random saturday update ("i'm not dead yet!") |
[Jun. 6th, 2009|08:01 am] |
| [ | music |
| | carcass--heartwork | ] |
Wow, I guess I've really neglected LJ for awhile here. It's a symptom of a larger illness--too busy to write anywhere, save occasional ten word Facebook updates. Faced with another day of unpacking (last weekend spent getting everything back from the storage unit), I'll run a brief update:
--New job going pretty well. I'm happy to be back, there are challenges in the role but at this point they aren't overwhelming. Hardest part is that I'm putting in long days right now. In time, that will change, but the summer is going to be pretty long for me that way. However, I can't state what a different feeling it is to go to work everyday thinking about work instead of whether you are going to get laid off or not. That fear may very well come into play down the road, but I'm fairly certain I'm good for at least a year, and probably longer.
--It has now been two weeks since I wrote a single word creatively. I can't stress how busy life has been. I'm actually ok with it; I think the break my help me recharge. I was starting to feel uncertain about where I needed my work to go, and sometimes a breather from it is not a bad thing. I'm hoping to get back on the horse next weekend.
--Marian has been sick for a week now. That's wearying. Not super sick, but enough that she missed 4 out of 5 days of school and if it hadn't been for the ability of Susan's folks to watch her those days, I don't know what we would have done--neither Susan nor I can miss work right now. It's settled into a pattern of her feeling bad in the mornings and evenings and ok in the day. I remember her having something similar to this about three years ago. It seems like it will never end, but it will.
--My ManCave (aka my writing half-room, the other half belonging to the whole family) is coming along nicely. I've taken pictures but haven't posted yet. Two bookshelves and two large CD racks. I can't stress how wonderful it is to see my books again and have them nearby. When all the unpacking is done, I think this will be a good space for me. The new floor really transformed this part of the house.
--On the bottom of the new CD rack right next to my desk (which contains all my metal CDs, along with some favorites that only I enjoy) are all of my old 8-bit NES, Super Nintendo, and Sega Genesis games. It feels oddly good to have them there. The oldest copy, Super Mario Brothers, came with my NES I got in seventh grade (or eighth. I think it was seventh, though.) People, these games are old...and I dearly wish I could easily set up my NES because I love them so. I've managed to keep these games with me through all the strange twists of my life...that's amazing to me. And really cool.
--Tonight is Metal Kommand. Yay!
--I have Nachtmystium tickets. Double yay!
So there it all is in a nutshell, minus whatever I've forgotten. Time to eat some blueberry granola and get busy on the unpacking/sorting. It's not as exciting as moving into a new house, but it looks like we live here again. |
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| endings and beginnings |
[May. 25th, 2009|08:06 am] |
| [ | music |
| | u2-war; sonic youth--sonic nurse | ] |
I feel nostalgic and a little melancholy this morning. Some of it was due to my dreams last night, some due to the subtle realizations of what in my life is still not in balance, some because tomorrow I start my new job, meaning I’m in day 10 of my 10 day break.
10 days. Longest break I’ve had since Madeleine was born, and if you don’t count that, we could be going back to my unemployment in late 2000. I suppose it’s inevitable that at the end of such a stretch you don’t want to go back to the “real” world. While I think I accomplished a lot in the past nine days, there’s so much I didn’t touch. Monday-Friday last week I did produce just shy of 12000 word on two new stories; that feels good. I did get a few movies watched and several books read. Lots of gardening done (though my wife did as much if not more of that than me), one morning of clothes shopping achieved (a chore I hate), some decent cooking/bbq’ing done, golfing with siblings, M’s game with immediate family and siblings. All in all, I did what I was supposed to do, I think, and feel pretty good about how I spent my time.
Today will be spent housecleaning (something I totally neglected over the preceding week) and preparing for tomorrow. I have to get my stuff in order, figure out where exactly I’m going (not quite sure of how to get to the building I need to be at by 7:30 a.m.), and other logistics. Then there are the funny little rituals I feel the need to do with a new job, like erasing all the music on my iPod and selecting a new combination of tunes (funny considering I doubt I’ll even have time to listen to it my first week or two.) I really don’t have a roadmap for this situation; on one hand, I’m going back to a company and place where I know most of the people, and on the other, I’m going in as the person in charge with different responsibilities from when I was last there. Plus, it’s been almost two years, I’ve changed a lot personally and professionally, and it’s reasonable to assume others have as well. Most of the time I’m pretty calm about tomorrow, but I have occasional, random bouts of worry where I’m nervous and worried I’ll totally blow it somehow. I guess that’s probably normal.
Recently I brought my two boxes of comic books back from the storage unit. I haven’t collected comic books seriously since my freshman year of high school, but I kept everything I did collect over those years. There’s something comforting about them; I like having them nearby even if I don’t touch them for years at a time. Like it keeps a certain innocence alive, a certain dreaming, if you will. I’m sure comic books planted just as much inspiration in me to tell stories as books did. What I really like to pull out and read, oddly, is my ¾ complete collection of the The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe: Deluxe Edition. I say oddly because the series is basically an encyclopedia, with few illustrations but tons of text detailing the origins and storylines of characters in the Marvel Universe, circa 1986-87. Reading them is not like reading a comic book, but reading really short stories, sort of. Or: reading an encyclopedia. For whatever strange reason, reading them every few years makes me really happy. Some day I really need to get the four or five issues I’m missing and complete the set. I can remember checking the drug store faithfully every couple weeks for a new issue when they were coming out. I guess that was 23 years ago. How time does go, eh?
I’d like to be able to take it at least a little easy today; it feels like there is so much to do that we won’t get it all done anyway. I’m not sure if I’ll get anymore writing done. One thing that I’m hoping is that once I settle in, this job will mentally free me more for writing than my previous one. I think this is possible, but until I’m in the situation for awhile, it’s hard to know. It was hard to miss how different the creative process feels when you can just sit down for an hour or two at a time, vs. how I normally have to do it. But regardless of circumstance, I’ll figure out a way to keep on working at it. I’m not gonna stop writing, that’s for sure.
My coffee cup is nearly empty; it is time to get on with the day. |
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| river euphrates |
[May. 22nd, 2009|01:36 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | pixies of course | ] |
This song melted my brain over and over as a teen. The whole album did, really, but this song...I wanted to run away to a far away place with Kim Deal. While other boys hung swimsuit models on their walls, I dreamed of Kim Deal, Kim Gordon, Exene and Lydia Lunch. I just wasn't like other boys.
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| who knows where the time goes? me, apparently |
[May. 21st, 2009|03:33 pm] |
Damn, but does time fly. My time off is drawing to a close, at least what I think of as my “creative” time off. I have family coming into town Saturday and will be gone from the house a good share of the weekend, so for all intents and purposes my writing time ends after tomorrow. Then come Tuesday, it’s new job time.
I drafted an 8200-word story between Monday and this morning. It felt so freeing, to just be in that space and write, not think of anything but the writing. I finished it this morning, took a five minute-stroll outside, and went back to work, starting another new piece that I had the idea for on Monday. I knocked out 1500 words on it so far; I’ve actually had a 3k word day between the two. It’s not just the volume, though. The writing is loose, natural. I feel like I’d been losing that this winter—good as some of the stuff has been, the circumstances around the stories’ birth was bleeding into the language, making it more compressed, more constipated than I sometimes liked. Relentless and surreal, and I got some great pieces out of it, but the writing I did this week is more like what I’ve done in novel drafts, more expansive, more—well, I keep coming back to free. This will change some before drafts are final, of course, but I really just wanted to spin some yarns, maybe make them a bit more concrete than my last couple of pieces, which have been both nightmarish and surreal—in a good way. I have noticed that I’m writing a lot of ghost stories these days, even when I’m not thinking they are ghost stories. This doesn’t surprise me, somehow.
So, I raved about Let the Right One In a few days ago. The movie kept playing in my mind—the sign of a great film, one that you don’t realize how much it impacted you until several days later. With that in mind, I walked down to the bookstore the other day and picked up the novel the film was based on (same title.) A few thoughts:
• I think there were some translation issues. I’d love to read a better translation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that language was being lost, and sentences/paragraphs sometimes read far more awkward than I suspect they do in the native tongue.
• The author is competent but not a great stylist. He had a great story, but he’s not yet a great writer.
• Overall I liked the movie better, but the book was an enjoyable and fast read. A couple subplots didn’t need to be there, and the book is more straightforward. There is a haunting feeling to the movie that the book only occasionally captures. Sometimes not being able to tell a back story isn’t a bad thing. Although the character of Elie’s companion was fascinating in a way he couldn’t be in the movie.
• The book was more gruesome than the movie, which wasn’t very violent at all, at least to my eyes.
• The book was an enjoyable read, the movie was great art. Though he needed the story first, the filmmaker’s vision is ultimately more powerful. I will be buying this movie, and I will be watching it again. The book I would recommend to someone who enjoys the movie and wants a more detailed take on that world, but it’s no more than that—and no less.
I also read Elizabeth Hand’s Saffron and Brimstone this week. She’s a very talented writer. Some stories were better than others, and she often writes of a New England academia culture that I cannot emotionally relate to, which makes it harder for me to identify with her characters and their reactions. That all said, a couple of the stories were brilliant, and I’d like to read some more of her stuff. I suspect she’ll always be a little hit-and-miss with me, but she’s worth the effort. Next up on the reading list: finishing Palimpsest, and starting either Robert Aickman’s The Wine-dark Sea or Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men (which I was very pleased to find a used copy of yesterday that looks brand new.) For nonfiction, I have Lords of Chaos: The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground. Cheery stuff, that. Actually, I’ve read the book in bits and pieces at various bookstores throughout the years but never the whole thing from start to end. I already know what is good and bad about the book, but I’m much more familiar with the actual music now, so I’m curious what my take will be. Sometimes talented people are quite the morons. But as is often the case, the actual talented ones in this scene aren’t the ones who did the criminal shit. I’m glad that we’ve finally passed beyond the sensationalist aspects of this music and can listen to the best of it as simply music. That said, it’s certainly a fascinating and disturbing story.
I haven’t watched any movies since Monday. Maybe I’ll watch one tomorrow. I don’t know; it’s hard for me to sit in front of a TV when I can be writing or reading. I’m just not a guy that can watch a ton of movies in a week, no matter how many I’m intrigued to see. Also, once a movie casts a spell on me (such as Let the Right One In did this week), I find it very hard to watch another movie for awhile. I just want to go back and be in that world for awhile, you know? I can’t just consume tons of media and move on. Whether it’s movies, music or books, I need to have a deeper connection. The downside of that is I don’t get to check everything out I’m interested in. The upside is that I inevitably have a strong reaction to what I do take in. I think about it and react to it on a lot of different levels. And eventually, like everything else in my life, it feeds back into my work.
I see it is almost time to pick up the girls, and then bbq some steaks. I’m actually going try smoking the steaks with alder chips tonight, this will be a first. Oh, and did I mention that I read out on my deck, in the sun, for an hour this afternoon? I haven’t done that in several years. Do I really have to go back to work next week? Really? See, I don’t need any expensive Disneyland vacation or crap. Just time. Always, time. |
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| day 1 |
[May. 18th, 2009|08:01 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | rain outside my open door, m's game | ] |
Word count: 2,023.
Movies watched: Let the Right One In, The Brood.
Chicken breasts bbq'd just before the rain came: Three.
Albums listened to: Didn't keep count. Many.
Trip to the pet store for cat food: One.
Beers: Three (so far, and that's probably all.)
Ok, so today isn't the "first" day of my "vacation", but it's the first non-weekend day, the first day with the wife and kids out for a chunk of time. I'm very pleased about the writing. Over the weekend, I was thinking of something ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) jtglover said along the lines of how you can really go different places in your writing when you have uninterrupted time. I decided to take advantage of the circumstances and start something new, even though I'm close to done with another story. It felt important to just go freely into something, to maybe not labor quite so hard, to just let it go. It really feels like a long time since I've done that. Today, at least, it was quite successful, and I dig what I have going. Each day I'm going to write and not worry about where it's going. I need to just get into the heart of the Muse, to forget everything and just write.
So, yeah, movies. The Brood was pretty great, but it's Cronenberg, and he's great, what more is there to say? But Let the Right One In...fucking amazing. People who think horror movies are only about gore and terror should be forced to watch it. It was a beautiful movie, amazing, a love story so tender with characters so perfectly written (and acted, Christ, those two kids were just amazing!) You know how when you see a movie that moves you, shakes you, haunts you, you can't say anything? Like all the words don't do justice, they are just trite? Yeah. That's where I'm at. This genre is capable of incredible beauty, but it's still rare to see it achieved. I'm in awe, and deeply touched. I'll be thinking about Let the Right One In for a long time.
What will tomorrow bring? More writing. That's the only thing I'm willing to say for sure. A guy could get used to this. |
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| disquiet |
[May. 12th, 2009|07:29 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | nadja--when i see the sun always shines on tv | ] |
I had a weird, unsettling sensation of a Dario Argento-like presence hovering around me as I wrote tonight. Like I'd stumbled into a giallo film. It was unsettling enough that I had to stop writing after awhile.
So I'll take it to mean the work is, um, working, I guess...
Sometimes the stuff I write disturbs me--which is good, because it's supposed to be disturbing. But, um, milk and cookies once in awhile would be nice. Or to not be alone in the house. Heh. I suppose this Nadja album isn't helping either.
I think I am done writing for the evening. A baseball game on TV sounds like a mighty fine place to go while these unsettling winds dissipate. |
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| speed trials |
[May. 11th, 2009|07:04 pm] |
He's pleased to meet you underneath the horse
In the cathedral with the glass stained black
Singing sweet high notes that echo back
To destroy their master
May be a long time 'til you get the call-up
But it's sure as fate and hard as your luck
No one'll know where you are
It's just a brief smile crossing your face
I'm running speed trials standing in place
When the socket's not a shock enough
You little child, what makes you think you're tough
When all the people you think you're above
They all know what's the matter
You're such a pinball, yeah you know it's true
There's always something you go back running to
To follow the path of no resistance
It's just a brief smile crossing your face
I'm running speed trials standing in place
It's just a brief smile crossing your face
Running speed trials all over the place
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| speed trials |
[May. 8th, 2009|08:14 pm] |
When I do a small thing, a thing to help someone out, and they thank me--quietly, maybe shyly--I feel a sense of gratitude, a sense of quiet peace that I’ve made a small difference, even if just for a moment. And I think, Did Elliott Smith ever feel like this?
Did anyone ever thank him for songs--not the loud, often fake cheering that goes on at a concert, or the scary stalking letter of devotion and “you see my soul.” No, I wonder if ever that shy person, overwhelmed by the world and alone, listening to his songs and getting through one more day despite the world’s best effort to break him or her, did Elliott ever hear thanks from them? Did he know what his songs meant? Did he hear from the ones with no voice, too alone to talk, the ones who felt it inside? The ones for whom his songs were the one thing that made some kind of sense, that gave them a gift of beauty?
I didn’t. I never said anything.
I look inside tonight and wonder, how often have I helped someone? Have I done everything for my own benefit, because that’s what we are taught from the cradle to the grave, or did I ever help someone out that needed it, and if so, have I done such acts often enough? I find myself thinking tonight that all I really want to do is help someone realize their potential or give them a moment to make their day better. What better use of time on this planet can there be? Yet I fear my eye, even when turned outward, looking at the details, is really turned inward, relating those details to me and my perception alone. That I naturally fall into my perception, just as we all do, and that when I’m stripped down I’m found wanting, not measuring up to my potential nor helping anyone realize theirs.
Did Elliott Smith ever think about these things? Did he know when he was carving those songs out of his very core, the meaning they’d have? Or did he just figure it didn’t matter, that nothing matters, that everything dies and everyone leaves?
Almost all of the sentences in this entry are questions. Because I have no answers, not when it really matters. I can bullshit with the best of them but I don’t know anything, anything at all. When I feel the sun come through the window and warm my back, I think only of how cold my feet are. When I complete a task, I think only that I should have done it better and rail at myself for not being smart enough or dedicated enough to do it better. I think of how one smile changed my day and how my face hurts when I force it to grin, like something ugly and tossed off. You can’t force grins. Earn the smiles. I might forget how.
Maybe I would have written Elliott a letter or cornered him after a show and fumbled, trying to explain something that I’ve just spent 497 words trying to explain and failing. Maybe he would have gotten the “Oh, shit” look in his eyes, or tossed the letter in the garbage. Maybe he would have understood, for a moment. But I didn’t make that gesture. He’s long gone, and I’m still here, with his music. Once in awhile I do something good. But not often enough, not often enough at all. |
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| of movies not seen and books not read |
[May. 5th, 2009|07:58 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | nachtmystium--black meddle | ] |
So yeah, there’s this new job thing, and the response from everyone has been overwhelming. I’m not joking when I say I’ve never received so much positive emotion from so many people, ever. I’m not sure if it’s just because it’s a rarity right now to see someone moving on for good reasons (career growth) as opposed to bad ones (got laid off/company crashed) or if I’ve seriously underestimated both the professional network I’ve built and people’s opinion of the work I do. Probably a mixture of both, but it’s deeply flattering (and a touch emotionally overwhelming, for a guy like me who is quiet and in the background by nature.)
But this post isn’t about that.
No, this post is about the important questions—like what movies am I going to watch in the ten days between leaving this job and starting my new one? Yes, including weekends, I’ve snagged ten days off to recharge a little bit. This will be the longest stretch of time I’ve had off since…well hell, I don’t know the last time I had ten entire days. When Madeleine was born maybe? Does that count? Granted, this isn’t a total vacation—I’ll still have all meal responsibilities, have to get the kids to and from school, chores, etc.—mostly it amounts to a window each day that belongs to me. Which is still pretty cool. So what am I going to do with that time?
Well, writing is the obvious thing. My writing time has really suffered the last month and a half or so. Writing is the only major time commitment I’m making for this week, because—well, I don’t need a reason, do I? It’s writing, for chrissakes. I have a few other things I have to do in this time as well—clothes shopping (something I never do), probably some gardening, and my sister is in town the final weekend, which will eat up those days. But other than that—I’m leaving it as open as I can.
One thing I hope to do is watch a few movies. My Netflix queue has loaded up over time and of course I never actually get a chance to watch any of the movies. For sure I want to see Let the Right One In (it has been highly recommended to me), The Gits documentary I bought a year ago but haven’t watched yet, and at least one early David Cronenberg film (both Scanners and Videodrome are in the queue, but sadly Netflix doesn’t have Rabid! I’ve not seen any of them but I’m really intrigued by Rabid, so that’s a bit of a bummer.) If I see a few more movies than that, all the better. The 16th I’m getting together with L. and we are going to watch The Gates of Hell, which I’ve never seen, though the movie poster freaked the hell out of me when I was a kid. We might watch another movie that night too. I really need to see some of the classic Argento that I’ve missed. I’ve seen some of his works (Suspira, Deep Red, Creepers, Demons 2) but there is a lot I haven’t seen, like Tenebrae, that I really want to.
And of course, reading. I’m currently finishing Poe’s Children (one story left), a Ligotti collection (only a few pages left) and I’m about a quarter of the way through Palimpsest (which is wonderful.) I have The Two Sams by Glen Hirshberg sitting here from the library. I read the title story in Poe’s Children and thought it was the best ghost story I’d read in a long, long time. I recall reading a story of his in an issue of Cemetery Dance and liking it a great deal too. I’m really looking forward to reading this collection. I’ll probably have some of my books back from the storage unit by then (and my comic books!), but I should request some more stuff from the library. But what, I wonder? Any ideas?
So yes, I am looking forward to this time. I hope it can be both productive creatively and recharge my batteries. I don’t feel the least bit guilty in having it; as anyone who knows me will tell you, I’ve pretty much worked all my life, rarely have I had more than a few days off here and there. I entered the workforce at 16 (though I worked on the farm growing up), was full time at 18, and haven’t had a break to do anything like go to school or travel since. So ten days sounds pretty damned heavenly. |
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| unmade |
[Apr. 28th, 2009|04:33 pm] |
I am an unmade bed. An empty grocery bag left on the table. |
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