i give up

I really don't have the energy to write tonight. I will relax and let myself relax and tackle "First/Third" tomorrow.

Back on this hoss

I am not pleased that I have to reference previous posts to remember how I styled the other 3am exercises I posted. (Even though the answer is "not consistently enough for this one to matter".)

Today's post that I started, uh, more than a week ago, comes from the prompt regarding unreliable narrators. Unreliable third person narration, to be specific.

(Quick note on why it took me so long: it started out as a difficult exercise, then I had a week away from home, the first two days of which were so eventful that it took me 3 miles to tell my mom the story.)

In any case, unreliable narration is a tricky thing to pull off without it looking like poor continuity or sloppy editing. The book doesn't say this, but when tacking each of my two attempts (plus a third that isn't written), I had to come up with a reliable voice of authority in the story that would point out what is unreliable.

The abandoned story, that looked like it would at least triple the required 500 words, had an authority in a pair of police officers that would be the sensible counterpoint to a main character who is lit by a Mary Sue lamp with a 150 watt bulb. I'd like to finish it at some point.

Story 3 (not written) also uses cops as the authority to reveal the flaws in the narrator's story, but breaks away from my frequent use of female leads with an ensemble cast, and a primarily male one, to boot. But, again, it's a concept that would have greatly exceeded the 500 word suggestion.

Instead of either of those, here's 585/500 words that did get written, hopefully fulfilling the letter and spirit of the Unreliable Third assignment.

The dogwoods were flowering the last time Shirley held hands with her best friend. Hunter took her to Greenstead Park for a date that day. He left their house just before noon with a wink and drove around the block twice before knocking on his own front door.

"Just a minute!" Shirley hurried around the living room, looking under chairs and cushions for a missing sandal. The man outside knocked again, but she didn't give up; the wayward shoe went best with the yellow sundress she had picked out.

"Anybody in there?" Hunter called, and his date replied with a wordless call as she rushed to the front door, both feet finally shod.

Shirley opened the door and exclaimed "Daffodils! My favorite!" at the bouquet Hunter offered her. When he took her arm to lead her down the path, Hunter kept Shirley on his left side, hoping she wouldn't notice the empty, broken stems in her flower bed.

Hunter escorted his lady to the car, opened her door for her, and shut it gently one she was inside. Shirley shivered with the pleasure of being treated so well and inhaled the deep scent of the car's leather interior.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise." Hunter smiled, with his lips, with his eyes, with his soul, and put the car into gear.

As the breeze, smelling of tender growth and apple blossoms, pulled at her hair, Shirley watched the streets roll by as though for the first time. The picket fences were fresh and white. The neighbors, testing out their porches after months of hibernation, have the look of friendly strangers.

Hunter pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car in a space that knew its drips and tires well. He got out, walked around the hood to Shirley's door as she leaned forward to peer through the windscreen to the grassy fields ahead.

"Ooh, this looks lovely!" She took the hand he offered and squeezed it tight as she climbed out of the car.

She wobbled on his arm, wearing impractical shoes on unpaved paths.
He named all the children playing in the sandbox.
They doubled over laughing at the innocent humor in the outdoor puppet show.
He sweated through his shirt, pulling their rowboat across the pond.
She paid for two ruby-ripe apples when his back was turned, to stave off their hunger until they returned home.

The phone was ringing when they came through the door, wrinkling the image of Hunter carrying his lady over the threshold.

Shirley was shaking the last leaves out of her hair when Hunter returned from the den.

"I have to go to the office, Shirling. I'll be back soon." He kissed her cheek.

Shirley pulled her face into a tight smile; she understood and didn't want to make it harder for him to leave.

This time, when Hunter left, he closed the front door quietly. The click of the bolt sliding back into place echoed back and forth in Shirley's mind until it merged with the ticking of the wall clock.

It seemed like only a moment had passed when the phone shrilled for her attention, but looking around for the receiver, Shirley was surprised to see i was already dark.

Even after hanging up, she didn't reach to turn on the lamp at her elbow. Shirley lacked the strength; all her reserves were needed to keep her upright as the trunk of the many-forking, far-reaching tree that had to spread the word that Hunter's car had slipped on a patch of black ice, black as the abyss that Shirley faced.

So how obvious was it that I finished this more than a week after I started it?
And last thing before bed so I wouldn't be able to slack off with diminishing guilt for another day?

Don't get too comfortable, though. I'm on the move again starting tomorrow, so it will take a lot of effort to keep up the posting.

Some, but not all

I'm only on the mountain as long as I'm climbing. As soon as I turn my pack towards untread trail, I'm "home" again, all business, the romance of the woods lost on me.

But since I went farther and faster than any previous hike (much farther), I got a bad headache once I came home. Not my worst ever, but bad enough to prevent anything interesting from being accomplished.

I did manage 300 of today's 500 word exercise, but even still I'm only 1/4 done with what I mapped out, so not gonna finish or post it tonight.

This post has no point. But the practice is good.

I can't wait to get a new scanner.

Proof but no proofing

Another 3am bit of fiction done! Today I'm well outside the suggested word count, and, again, I'm not sure if I'm doing it "right". The exercise was (surprisingly enough) to write a fragment of a story made up entirely of imperative commands. The language of the prompt seems to suggest that I should not have used "you" so liberally, and I should not have been so detailed with my storytelling.

In any case, 937/500 words it is.

How to Win Me Back

Realize that the door I left open on my way out is a symbol, not of the gaping hole in your heart, but I didn't fully shut the book on us when I said "It's over" and left. Heave yourself out of that sticky leather chair, and don't even bother to fix the skirt that's clinging halfway up your thigh. Wander towards the door, still in shock, jaw as wide as the doorway. Look towards the street where I usually park my car. Look, but don't notice I'm still there, watching your silhouette on the porch.

Close your mouth, at last, and feel the dry rasp of your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Take a gulp of the wine that's still in your hand; it tastes better now that it's had time to breathe. Go back inside before your eyes fully adjust to the darkness I left you in.

Kick off your shoes after you close the door, steadying yourself by holding the knob. Leave them there, in tilting disarray, instead of nudging them into their cubby hole, lined up with all the other. Hear only buzzing in your ears, louder than the TV you'll forget to turn off, louder than your own thoughts (if you could form any coherent ones right now).

Pull at the zipper at your side; you may have to glance down for a moment to see the button still clasping the fabric to your hips. Let the fabric swirl and fall to the floor. Take two more unsteady steps; set the glass on the coffee table. Don't spill. Reach down and pull off your blouse, over your head, tossed on the sofa. Ignore your glass of wine as you keep moving, grab mine from the counter and stumble seamlessly to your bedroom.

Don't turn on the light, just tilt towards the bed and drain the last of the wine before gravity has a chance to pull the glossy liquid into your precious area rug. Let the glass roll one way as you twist the other way, onto the bed, away from the light still invading your sanctuary from the other room. Grope the nightstand for the phone, and place it on the pillow that used to be mine. Wonder if it's meant to be dialed or answered.

Will yourself into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Wake up focused, no more laziness or pity. Look yourself in the eye in the mirror as you wash your face. Tell yourself, "No more fooling around." Mean it.

Triple check everything in the hall mirror before leaving for work. Make sure every line and crease, every tooth and nail is razor sharp; god forbid anyone crosses you today. Forget the files you pulled out of your briefcase last night before our "chat". Walk so quickly to your bus stop that you reach it too early. Pace until the bus arrives.

Ride the bus. Ride the elevator. Ride your damn fine legs over to his desk and stand your ground. Ask if you can speak somewhere private. Don't take no for an answer and don't let him lead you anywhere. Keep in control, my love.

Take him to an out of the way corner and tell him it's over. Tell him it was mistake, tell him you are in love with me. Say "I'm sorry", if you must. Leave him hanging. Walk away without another word. Make sure he knows it's not up for discussion.

Go to your desk, unpack your bag. Discover your papers are not all there, and smile to yourself. Lean over to Debbie, or Marsha, or Alexis, whatever her name is, and interrupt her call. Apologize profusely, explain the missing files. Leave your attache behind and make your escape.

Daydream about freedom as you ride down eight floors in a stuffy box. Imagine bursting onto a rooftop, sun on your face. Wish for a trolley to hang from dangerously, wind tugging at your hair. Step out of the box and wade through the stream of tailored suits hurrying towards the beige maze you just left.

Eschew the plodding schedule of the bus and hop a cab to the travel office. Stand in front of the window we skimmed past on many a date. Plant your feet in the tide of pedestrians and search the giant world map for the perfect answer. Let your eyes slide along jet-streams and latitudes, across borders and over mountain ranges. Waste an hour and ignore two offers for help from the travel agent before stepping into the storefront. Hand over your card to pay for the elegant, obvious solution.

Cross the street to the florist and pick out a simple arrangement. Choose violet flowers to match your eyes. Choose blue flowers to match your mood. Choose yellow flowers to remind me of the roses I brought you when we first met. Tuck the tickets from the travel agent into the envelope. Watch a handful of customers come and go as you decide what to write on the card. Help an older gentleman decide what to get his wife for her birthday. Ask the florist for a new card; you wrote something silly on the other one. Ponder how to best express yourself on a two by three bit of paper. Write "Take me back" on the outside. Finish the thought with "to our future" inside. Giggle to yourself, then pay to have the flowers delivered.

Catch another taxi. Wait nervously for me to appear and sweep you up in our favorite cafe... across the street from my office building... in the lobby... near the elevators... in my reception area...

I imagine this probably falls a little flat as text-fiction (when I started I wanted it to be a little more romantic), but I'd like to see it done up as a little film (or I could do it as a comic? :D ). It would start a tad before this text, with the actual break-up on camera. Then the narrator would depart and begin his voice-over. All would go as planned for the first section, perhaps even until the dumped character gets to work the second day*. But instead of breaking up with the man in her office, she says "he dumped me! we can be together!" Except we don't hear her say that, it's all in her body language/actions. The voice-over drones on, but the woman enjoys her day and her other man, finally FREE of the awful control freak.

(*one hint otherwise is that she mouths something else to herself in the mirror the second morning, probably "it's really over".)

And then the comic/film ends with the other guy leaning out of his office to ask his secretary something like "you're sure nothing's come for me?" or "Nobody's waiting for me?", unable to fathom that the woman he just dumped isn't crawling after him.

But, as I said before, when I first started typing it was the woman who left and was commanding the guy to do a bunch of romantic (but reasonable) stuff for her. When I got to the bit about getting out of the leather chair, though, a messed up skirt was a compelling image and I stuck with it.

hum de dum. time to draw.

I really did it!

I got myself this book for my birthday. It arrived on Friday, and I arrived this afternoon, and got to work straightaway.

The first prompt was to write a story in the first person but only use 2 personal pronouns. I somewhat skimmed the rest of the assignment and only saw "600 words" before getting to work.

It took two sittings, but I came up with this (680 words):

The view from up here, tucked against the ceiling of the abandoned cathedral, is amazing.

Most of the pews are gone, either looted during the Days of Silence or broken down for firewood in the nameless cold months that followed. The few that remain were blessed by saints who prayed from them. Priests deemed those slabs of wood more valuable than their own lives and wrapped their bodies around the pews when the armies of Voiceless soldiers and, later, mobs of destitute peasants stormed and swarmed this castle of God. These pardoned pieces of holy furniture have been pushed away from the cathedral's main floor. They now line the walls of the vast room, and where the pews once stood, a few dozen people now tread rhythmic circles and switchbacks.

It might be impossible to pin down their exact numbers as they swirl and bob, hand in hand, hand to hand, across the polished floor. Occasionally two or three will slip through the heavy wooden doors. People shuffle in to join the patterned dance, or bow out to take a breath of cool midnight air in the courtyard.

The dance continues for hours, quite a feat with no music to guide them. Occasionally a single voice will be moved by the movement of his own feat and lift up the first words of a song. Others who know the lyrics will join in, and the humming tune will curl upwards to the rafters, but only for a short time. Each song begun is left unfinished, as the end of music, a cappella though it may be, could bring about the end of the dance. The time for that has not come yet.

Some of older folk, white ovals of hair from this vantage point high above, spin out of the group like fractals, faltering on old joints. They make their way to the pews to rest, leaning against each other for support and tilting flushed faces towards the ceiling. Fortunately this hiding place is well chosen, and their eyes fall from the cathedral's peak and trail down the walls, tracing the veils of soot that partially obscure ancient murals.

Only when every face is shining with sweat and every arm is drooping with exhaustion, every shoe scuffing the floor, does Arianna appear. She held her breath for a minute in the back room before entering into the midst of these people. Arianna knows that if she seems to calm and collected after the others have danced themselves to exhaustion, they will not listen to her well. Arianna knows what she is doing.

She moves easily among them, bringing stillness in her wake. The minute without air made her eyes shine and her breath deep. The people see her intensity and gather around, crowding skirt to cloak. Arianna leads them in a wide circuit around the room and they follow like iron filings follow a magnet. She sweeps the full cathedral making sure she commands the attention of every man and woman. At last she speaks.

Her words are low at first. They do not reach beyond the last row of people, and even that outer ring has to lean in and concentrate to hear clearly. All shuffling and gasping subside, and after the lull of Arianna's voice has worked its way into every crevice of the crowd, they breathe in unison.

Her cadence rises slowly, tightening the grip she holds on her audience. Their eyes remain fixed on her as Arianna's voice rises and her movements become more animated. She paces and uses her arms to emphasize the words that are just now loud enough to reach the rafters.

Arianna's rhythm is quick now, quicker than the fastest boots at the height of the dancing. The people are leaning forwards, nodding slightly in time with her speech, mouths agape. With hardly any warning, she turns her back to the assembled people. The crucial moment is here. Arianna speaks the cue, "... mercy from above!"

My hands tighten on the railing one last time, and I propel myself towards her outstretched arms seven stories below.

I'm very pleased with myself for completing the assignment. I even did a tiny bit of editing (tweaking the second paragraph to have tighter sentences)! Two-thirds of the way in I thought I'd have to do a little extra song and dance to fill the requisite 600 words, but that turned out not to be the case.

On the other hand, I might rework this in a couple weeks to add the extra material back in. It expands a little on the "Voiceless Army", what Arianna is, and the state of things. Plus, a rework would let me add in a little more of the narrator, and indicate things like him calling Arianna his sister. Granted, I don't even know what Arianna is, or all of what's going on. It's interesting to write something in which my narrator knows more than I do.

I'm not sure how well I fulfilled the spirit of the assignment. Two bits from the prompt: "The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing" and "It is very important in this exercise to make sure the reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first-person narration." Perhaps the use of "here" in the first sentence, and other hints at the narrator's current location did well to indicate it was first person, but I'm just the author.

All in all, if I had read the full book intro, chapter intro, and prompt intro, the resultant piece might have been very different than the bit of fiction above, but, hell, I'm doing this to help me practice writing, not for a grade. :D

(Wiped out)

(That previous post was from Thursday.)

(I'm almost too tired to lift my hands off the couch.)

(All I really did today was spend three hours on my feet at the wild animal park sketching birds, elephants, and okapi.)

(It seems I can only draw for three hours at a time before I have to do something else to recharge.)

(Or it's just habit after two, count them, TWO sketchy figure drawing sessions this week.)

(The second one was in Encinitas Friday night, hence too wiped to post.)

(Had a great time checking out Studio 2nd Street, artistic home of Ron and Vanessa Lemen.)

(Might want to take classes there this fall.)

(I also finished Castle in the Air yesterday. Fantastic.)

The Tick

I don't think about death often, but when it creeps into my thoughts, it tends to happen in moments like this.

I'm overtired after little sleep and a long day.
I have a husband-contact deficit.
I just finished reading a delightful book.
I hear the ticking of the clock.

That last bit is not meant in any biological way; it's no comment on my recent birthday. There's actually a clock in a corner of this room with a loud tick.

Lately my uncertainty has vastly outstripped my reassurance, and the clock's steady beat reminds me that the time for making decisions is growing closer. Earlier this summer I described the fear of seeing where I was headed, but not the path it would take to get there. Now I have a grasp on the last few weeks (just over a month) left in this separation, and it's becoming more urgent for me to know what I'll do on the other side.

The light at the end of my tunnel, I now see, is a brick wall with a bright beam shining at it, not actually a passage to the next realm.

Wanderer

My car has averaged 9.2 miles per hour for the past 20 hours. That statistic feels a great deal more impressive than it sounds. I attribute that to the fact that I got up very early to drive (a friend to the airport) and stayed up very late to drive (myself to a long weekend in Escondido).

Driving 400 miles in one day is no big deal when you're on a road trip, but my sub-200 miles today were merely packed into a regular day. Airport, then home. Alhambra, then home. Then that long, soaring drive to San Diego County.

I had a number of interesting thoughts on the drive, but none quite compared to the simple magic of listening to Crystal Gale singing "Take Me Home." I might not have been "home" as the last notes guided me into a parking space, but it's always sweet to end a song and a journey at the same time.

After storing this up for a long time...

It's truly a shame I haven't blogged more in the past couple months. If I did, I might have a better grasp of how and why I've reached certain decisions about my future. If I had written about them, I could go back and examine my motivations and judged them, and I would have more confidence in changing my mind or switching directions.

As things stand, I feel like a shallow layer of debris floating on the surface of a great lake, or maybe a bathtub. Scattered and undulating, my thoughts don't have a very good grasp on one another. I'm left with a sensation of forgetting things, and not being able to keep track of what is a core part of myself and what's just passing through.

Right now all of me is just passing through. *cue usual woes of limbo*

A few weeks ago I was very gung-ho about going to university in San Diego. I was going to find a way to go to school! I was really going to do it! The key thing that drove me to such a declaration was the discovery of the John Muir Special Projects Major at UCSD. It's a build-your-own major that requires administrative approval to get into, and a self-directed senior project for graduation. Prior to uncovering the existence of such a program, I was half-heartedly flipping back and forth between Fine Art, Art History, English Literature, or a _____ Studies type of major. Classical Studies was in the mix for a while.

Sometimes I would tell myself, "I can do anything for four years! It would be an adventure to throw myself into the deep end of specialized study for a period of time", but never really saw any of those topics as something to build a life on. Finding the Special Projects Major, it was like the heavens opened up and a glorious solution poured down upon me. From the literature I've read on the college's website, that one option would let me take a mix of classes that not only interest me, but support what I want to do with my life ("after I graduate"), which is write and illustrate graphic novels. Art, history, writing, mythmaking, storytelling, yes, please.

I've known for some time that universities Require(tm) you to submit transcripts from previous colleges for transfer, no wiping the slate clean, but only a couple days ago did I make a first foray into testing how those policies apply to my situation. Of course I got the boiler plate response of "Submit everything! And we probably won't let you transfer as a Sophomore." Though expected, that answer turned me red and green and purple and blue with frustration, anger, and other uncharitable emotions.

While I will go to the school in person and confront an admissions counselor, the wind has been taken out of my sails. I have a hard time getting excited about school if I'm going to have to slog through more time at a community college, contend with the low grades already on my transcripts, and accept credits for courses that I have no internal connection to.

Once upon a time I was taking Bookkeeping, Advertising, XHTML, and another business class I can't even remember the title of. Once upon a time I failed English 1A. Once upon a time I took two semesters of Japanese, and now can't even remember the full set of basic characters. I want to start over.

But I don't know if that can happen. My academic record may be scarred forever.

My point being: what's the contingency? If I can't persuade the university that they want to take me on for a full 180 units, will I do my time at a community college and go anyway? Could I stomach taking a less-desired major, just to get my diploma? Is it stubborn to say "I'll go to school, but only if I can do it my way."

Discussing this with Reagan on the phone yesterday, I said, "I can always go to Watts". But I did say it in a snide, dismissive sort of way. Understand, while I have a great admiration for the art coming out of the institution, I've often felt it to be several degrees more classical than the direction I'm headed. Technique training couldn't hurt my work, though. I admit that much.

The second layer of all this comes in the form of impersonal wisdom. I speak of Randy Pausch, whose Last Lecture I refer to often, and Jeffery Pressfield's War of Art which showed up in a box on my doorstep this morning.

While I haven't read much of The War of Art, I'm fairly confident Pressfield has a strong message of perseverance, as does Pausch, with his brick wall metaphor. Right now I'm at a point where I'm not sure if, should I fail the first attempt to hurdle the wall that is UCSD admissions, if my course of action should be persevering towards an inferior university plan, or change directions.

Pressfield seems to imply that changing directions would be giving in to Resistance (tm) and ennui.

Oh indecisive, indecisive, inconsistent I.

Midnight miscellany

You can only see me when nothing happens. The pool, the path, the mirror is only clear on the days with no activity, with no disturbance, nothing to throw waves of interference across the sight-lines.

Few days are calm, free of activity to froth the waters of my mind. That froth throws up a spray that fogs my inward-turned eye, and quickens the pace of my heart. In such conditions I am not inclined to sit still and write. True, at the end of those days I am apt to sit still, but I prefer to escape into unreal worlds and forget my own existence.


***

Thank goodness I got that out of the way. I think there's something there, but it requires much brutal editing and re-working.

Contrary to the implication of that passage and what writing now would mean, I didn't do nothing today. I did very little, waking up less than 12 hours ago, but the bits I did were not insignificant; hanging out with Draco is always time well spent.

While I've been much better at thinking about blogging lately, I haven't been much better at doing it. Even today, when I take the plunge and fire up Blogger, I take a two hour break to read things I don't really need to.

Let's try to meet here again tomorrow.


***

Minor addition, because I want to remember.

Im throwing away my favorite skirt today. It's ankle length, tiered, black, and gauzily light-weight. With that ephemeral nature came fragility. Long ago the seam on the lining shredded, and all attempts to repair it have followed suit. Additionally, several seams on the outer layer of the skirt have come undone as well. I used to incorporate those flaws into my comfort-worn aesthetic, but the plurality and placement of the holes is getting inappropriate, especially combined with the shredded lining.

Goodbye, witchy skirt. I'm glad you were there for my 25th birthday. Here's to better days.

Critical response to family reunion

Twice in the past six hours I bemoaned how I have slacked off in my writing practice.

When I asked my mom to give me some sort of prompts to get me back in gear until my natural inspiration takes over again, she suggested I write a personal analysis of the family reunion we took part in this past weekend.

Many of my thoughts went through the initial stages of organization earlier today over lunch with aforementioned mom, but once I got around to presenting them in a format such as this one (in fact, exactly this one), I discovered a blog post to be the perfect reason to get around to processing the couple hundred photos I took during also-aforementioned family reunion. Specifically, I want to use those photos to illustrate my essay. Novel idea, huh?

(And Mom wanted me to take care with my word choices!)

But now that I've taken 40 minutes to pick out my top 117 pictures (that still need to be cleaned up), I decide that there's not enough time tonight to do them justice. And they are needed to do the post justice.

Thus, I escape the vast pit that is introspection for one more day.