Month: September 2012

You may or may not be familiar with Paul Auster. He’s on the NPR station. If you hurry you might catch him.

The whole thing is about this guy’s greatness and prolific body of work. From the interviewer’s perspective, anyway. I imagine the eager interviewer as skinny, white, wearing thick-framed glasses and a sweater. His body language is of a young Greek boy before Aristotle. Paul’s got a more modest sensibility about him that I like, which means I listen to him.

“I haven’t learned anything,” he says. “The experience hasn’t taught me anything. I have to learn everything all over again when I write a book.”

I paraphrase, but it jives with my way of doing things. That’s something else I heard on the NPR station: everyone wants to be validated. They want to know that what they think and feel and do is alright by someone else. Someone like the great Paul Auster.

To be honest, I haven’t read anything he’s written. That is a list that extends to the death bed.

If I tell you I’ve skipped English class (the only class, the only place to nurture writing) four times, it’s alright to be a marm about it. Scold me, perhaps.

A pause for a secret: the thrill I get from taking over during sex is only multiplied by the thrill of a woman being equally aggressive and demanding. If it is untoward to segue all writing into sex, well then.

I skip the class because I respect the teacher and the students too much to show up with nothing, which is all I produce these days.

Affairs are the sort of thing I understand now. Cheating, too messy for me. But to be on the receiving end of a lonely woman’s unfulfilled state of being. Mercy.

When asked, “have you been writing?”, I respond, “I’d rather fuck.” And that is a problem that can only get worse before it gets better. When a wife is alone at a bar she understands what this means. An animal is an animal is an animal.

I’d like to hear someone on the NPR station talk about it.

You may or may not be familiar with Paul Auster. He’s on the NPR station. If you hurry you might catch him.

The whole thing is about this guy’s greatness and prolific body of work. From the interviewer’s perspective, anyway. I imagine the eager interviewer as skinny, white, wearing thick-framed glasses and a sweater. His body language is of a young Greek boy before Aristotle. Paul’s got a more modest sensibility about him that I like, which means I listen to him.

“I haven’t learned anything,” he says. “The experience hasn’t taught me anything. I have to learn everything all over again when I write a book.”

I paraphrase, but it jives with my way of doing things. That’s something else I heard on the NPR station: everyone wants to be validated. They want to know that what they think and feel and do is alright by someone else. Someone like the great Paul Auster.

To be honest, I haven’t read anything he’s written. That is a list that extends to the death bed.

If I tell you I’ve skipped English class (the only class, the only place to nurture writing) four times, it’s alright to be a marm about it. Scold me, perhaps.

A pause for a secret: the thrill I get from taking over during sex is only multiplied by the thrill of a woman being equally aggressive and demanding. If it is untoward to segue all writing into sex, well then.

I skip the class because I respect the teacher and the students too much to show up with nothing, which is all I produce these days.

Affairs are the sort of thing I understand now. Cheating, too messy for me. But to be on the receiving end of a lonely woman’s unfulfilled state of being. Mercy.

When asked, “have you been writing?”, I respond, “I’d rather fuck.” And that is a problem that can only get worse before it gets better. When a wife is alone at a bar she understands what this means. An animal is an animal is an animal.

I’d like to hear someone on the NPR station talk about it.

For Sale: A Dream Fulfilled.

I come from a car family. Few buses, less trains, annual planes. Transportation that was not one’s own was to be practically shunned unless absolutely necessary. This included dreaded monthly car payments. This was the stuff of chumps. You could afford it or you couldn’t.

No half-measures, as I’ve said before.

Some people recall their childhood dreams and fantasies with great relish. They fetch them from their archives as if they were children yet. Me, I had only three: become a airplane pilot, that the ground would crack open and swallow the neighborhood and school in the year 2000, and drive a Jeep. My first attempts with the latter were feeble, given the meager retail earnings I had during college. Old, busted, near-dead cars were all I could afford. A near-dead Jeep breaks your heart when you see it. They’re not meant for it.

Later, after being convinced that an old mail carrier Jeep was not a wise option, it was time to seriously buy a car. I was earning good money for the first time, saving well, and I seized the opportunity to buy a car when the time had come. A Jeep was the only option. I scoffed at suggestions of buying a sensible car, or even worse a sedan. A sedan like every other chump on the road, making payments.

I searched for a few weeks before I found this one, nicknamed Ellie on account of those tusks in the front. She only had a oil small leak and 60,000 miles on the odometer. I got him to knock $500 off the price and drove her home that first day. Since then I’ve driven from San Diego to Victoria and all points in between. The memories I have of this Jeep are far more potent than anything remembered in a house or apartment. This was my freedom and rite of passage. I owned it, I drove it, and the responsibility was entirely on me. The decisions made were my own.

But by and by things changed. The engine started to feel like it wasn’t strong enough. Not enough space in the back seat—or enough space in the back, period. I first considered changing up a couple of years ago but a big move and other expenses later I decided I didn’t need a new car. I continued with Ellie. We did alright.

My situation changed, again. I resumed my search.

A buddy of mine from Oregon also happened to be into Jeeps. All sorts of things mechanical. I told him my tale of the first Jeep and wanting something more. His first suggestion was the type of Jeep he owns.

“A Jeep Cherokee,” he said. “A ‘90 to ‘96. They’re work horses, get decent mileage, and parts are cheap. They’ll take you to the moon and back if you set them up right.”

“How’s the space?”

“Plenty of it.”

I thought on that a while. It makes sense. What I need is an older car. A simpler car. Something I could maintain without the need to stop in at a mechanic’s place on account of overly complex wiring, computers, plastic parts packed into the tiniest crevices. New cars aren’t the same. A new car would kill what remains of me.

Ellie runs fine. We get to the beach and back without so much as a stutter. She’s got a small rear diff leak that needs to be patched. Heavy work, what with the transmission lugging involved. Something I’ll get fixed before I trade or sell her away. If, I should say. The interested parties so far haven’t made a good mark on my seller’s conscience. One spelled and wrote in a tone I didn’t like. The other spoke like he would part her out and junk her.

I’ve encountered several Cherokees already that look promising. Mileage at the low end of 100,000. Generally two or three previous owners. Yes, a Cherokee will do. Older and Jeep is best. Familiar, trustworthy. Ready for anything. Entirely mine.

For Sale: A Dream Fulfilled.

I come from a car family. Few buses, less trains, annual planes. Transportation that was not one’s own was to be practically shunned unless absolutely necessary. This included dreaded monthly car payments. This was the stuff of chumps. You could afford it or you couldn’t.

No half-measures, as I’ve said before.

Some people recall their childhood dreams and fantasies with great relish. They fetch them from their archives as if they were children yet. Me, I had only three: become a airplane pilot, that the ground would crack open and swallow the neighborhood and school in the year 2000, and drive a Jeep. My first attempts with the latter were feeble, given the meager retail earnings I had during college. Old, busted, near-dead cars were all I could afford. A near-dead Jeep breaks your heart when you see it. They’re not meant for it.

Later, after being convinced that an old mail carrier Jeep was not a wise option, it was time to seriously buy a car. I was earning good money for the first time, saving well, and I seized the opportunity to buy a car when the time had come. A Jeep was the only option. I scoffed at suggestions of buying a sensible car, or even worse a sedan. A sedan like every other chump on the road, making payments.

I searched for a few weeks before I found this one, nicknamed Ellie on account of those tusks in the front. She only had a oil small leak and 60,000 miles on the odometer. I got him to knock $500 off the price and drove her home that first day. Since then I’ve driven from San Diego to Victoria and all points in between. The memories I have of this Jeep are far more potent than anything remembered in a house or apartment. This was my freedom and rite of passage. I owned it, I drove it, and the responsibility was entirely on me. The decisions made were my own.

But by and by things changed. The engine started to feel like it wasn’t strong enough. Not enough space in the back seat—or enough space in the back, period. I first considered changing up a couple of years ago but a big move and other expenses later I decided I didn’t need a new car. I continued with Ellie. We did alright.

My situation changed, again. I resumed my search.

A buddy of mine from Oregon also happened to be into Jeeps. All sorts of things mechanical. I told him my tale of the first Jeep and wanting something more. His first suggestion was the type of Jeep he owns.

“A Jeep Cherokee,” he said. “A ‘90 to ‘96. They’re work horses, get decent mileage, and parts are cheap. They’ll take you to the moon and back if you set them up right.”

“How’s the space?”

“Plenty of it.”

I thought on that a while. It makes sense. What I need is an older car. A simpler car. Something I could maintain without the need to stop in at a mechanic’s place on account of overly complex wiring, computers, plastic parts packed into the tiniest crevices. New cars aren’t the same. A new car would kill what remains of me.

Ellie runs fine. We get to the beach and back without so much as a stutter. She’s got a small rear diff leak that needs to be patched. Heavy work, what with the transmission lugging involved. Something I’ll get fixed before I trade or sell her away. If, I should say. The interested parties so far haven’t made a good mark on my seller’s conscience. One spelled and wrote in a tone I didn’t like. The other spoke like he would part her out and junk her.

I’ve encountered several Cherokees already that look promising. Mileage at the low end of 100,000. Generally two or three previous owners. Yes, a Cherokee will do. Older and Jeep is best. Familiar, trustworthy. Ready for anything. Entirely mine.

I read Kafka’s “In the Penal Colony” for a short story club, and I get it, but it’s not my style. It’s not bad, just… long-winded. And the absurdity whacks you over the head. Makes it obvious. When I write I don’t care for themes and points, but as a reader I always want to come out of it with a boiled-down conclusion. Compartmentalization of some sort.

I’m going to choose “Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story” when my week comes up. I’ve been mired in modern literature for so long that the nineteenth and early twentieth stuff is jarring. Feels too straight-forward.

Love the diversity, if not the style.

‘“It’s a remarkable apparatus,” said the Officer to the Explorer and gazed with a certain look of admiration at the device, with which he was, of course, thoroughly familiar. It appeared that the Traveller had responded to the invitation of the Commandant only out of politeness, when he had been asked to attend the execution of a soldier condemned for disobeying and insulting his superior. Interest in this execution was not really very high even in the penal colony itself. At least, here in the small, deep, sandy valley, closed in on all sides by barren slopes, apart from the Officer and the Traveller there were present only the Condemned, a vacant-looking man with a broad mouth and dilapidated hair and face, and the Soldier, who held the heavy chain to which were connected the small chains which bound the Condemned Man by his feet and wrist bones, as well as by his neck, and which were also linked to each other by connecting chains. The Condemned Man, incidentally, had an expression of such dog-like resignation that it looked as if one could set him free to roam around the slopes and would only have to whistle at the start of the execution for him to return.’

“To begin, then, here is a scene in which I am the man and my friend Sarah Cole is the woman. I don’t mind describing it now, because I’m a decade older and don’t look the same now as I did then, and Sarah is dead. That is to say, on hearing this story you might think me vain if I looked the same now as I did then, because I must tell you that I was extremely handsome then. And if Sarah were not dead, you’d think I were cruel, for I must tell you that Sarah was very homely. In fact, she was the homeliest woman I have ever known. Personally, I mean. I’ve seen a few women who were more unattractive than Sarah, but they were clearly freaks of nature or had been badly injured or had been victimized by some grotesque, disfiguring disease. Sarah, however, was quite normal, and I knew her well, because for three and a half months we were lovers.”

I read Kafka’s “In the Penal Colony” for a short story club, and I get it, but it’s not my style. It’s not bad, just… long-winded. And the absurdity whacks you over the head. Makes it obvious. When I write I don’t care for themes and points, but as a reader I always want to come out of it with a boiled-down conclusion. Compartmentalization of some sort.

I’m going to choose “Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story” when my week comes up. I’ve been mired in modern literature for so long that the nineteenth and early twentieth stuff is jarring. Feels too straight-forward.

Love the diversity, if not the style.

‘“It’s a remarkable apparatus,” said the Officer to the Explorer and gazed with a certain look of admiration at the device, with which he was, of course, thoroughly familiar. It appeared that the Traveller had responded to the invitation of the Commandant only out of politeness, when he had been asked to attend the execution of a soldier condemned for disobeying and insulting his superior. Interest in this execution was not really very high even in the penal colony itself. At least, here in the small, deep, sandy valley, closed in on all sides by barren slopes, apart from the Officer and the Traveller there were present only the Condemned, a vacant-looking man with a broad mouth and dilapidated hair and face, and the Soldier, who held the heavy chain to which were connected the small chains which bound the Condemned Man by his feet and wrist bones, as well as by his neck, and which were also linked to each other by connecting chains. The Condemned Man, incidentally, had an expression of such dog-like resignation that it looked as if one could set him free to roam around the slopes and would only have to whistle at the start of the execution for him to return.’

“To begin, then, here is a scene in which I am the man and my friend Sarah Cole is the woman. I don’t mind describing it now, because I’m a decade older and don’t look the same now as I did then, and Sarah is dead. That is to say, on hearing this story you might think me vain if I looked the same now as I did then, because I must tell you that I was extremely handsome then. And if Sarah were not dead, you’d think I were cruel, for I must tell you that Sarah was very homely. In fact, she was the homeliest woman I have ever known. Personally, I mean. I’ve seen a few women who were more unattractive than Sarah, but they were clearly freaks of nature or had been badly injured or had been victimized by some grotesque, disfiguring disease. Sarah, however, was quite normal, and I knew her well, because for three and a half months we were lovers.”

An idea.

The motel television featured HBO, but no Food channel. The latter is the only channel I can stand to watch through commercials. HBO is just good about featuring something to which I can pay attention. I settled in bed and set it to the first of three HBOs. A movie called Bad Girls from Valley High was just about finished. I’d watched the beginning of it before I went to shave and shower. It featured three twenty/thirty-somethings in the roles of high school girls. Two of the three girls were dead and trapped in hell with Pinkman. The third cozied up to the perverted nutty professor.

I began to drift to sleep but noticed that the next feature presentation was rated NC-17. Adult Content, Adult Language, Sex and Nudity, etc. That was enough to keep my interest until the opening credits. They showed big name actors and the title—Young Adam—was presented in a thinly sans-serif font over a shot of shimmering blue water.

The story revolves a drifter named Joe who works on a coal barge in Scotland during the 50s or early 60s. It’s quiet from the start and remains as subtle as a quiet dinner with extended family. Joe and his barge pal Les discover a dead woman in the water and drag her up for the police to haul away. Joe is stoic about the discovery, but so is Les. There’s a sense that they’re hardened people who don’t believe in undue reactions to life’s inevitabilities. Joe and Les return to the barge, where they also live with Les’s wife Ella and their son Jim. The seemingly benign Joe rubs his calf against Ella’s bare leg during breakfast and moves his hand toward her crotch until she eventually stops him. He later coaxes Ella outside and fucks her on the dirt path besides the barge, beneath the moonlight. Thus begins Joe’s affair with any female of significance in the film.

It was shortly after that scene beside the barge that I ran some comparisons. There’s a scene at the start where Joe presses his hand against the dead woman’s upper back, and this flashes on screen again at key points in the film. It reminded me of Jindabyne, an Australian film based on a Carver short story called “So Much Water So Close to Home.” That film also features a dead woman found in the water and discovered by a group of men on a fishing trip. The male lead envisions the dead woman’s naked body as he comes home and rubs his hand over his wife’s breasts. Joe’s wanton desire to fuck every woman he deemed present and willing then reminded me of last year’s Shame, which was a personal eye-opener and the same style of gray, subtle film with undertones of entitlement, violence, and dominance.

I connected the three in my head. I decided it was a significant moment, and significant moments are the spark of inspiration. I stood up to look for a pen. A pencil. Charcoal. A nub of food I could rub on a napkin. Nothing immediately presented itself.

Another thought entered as I scrambled to find a writing utensil.

Someone who thinks he knows.

Then more thoughts. You don’t know shit. I can do that. Uh huh. We are steeped in misogyny from the moment of birth.

I was losing focus. Focus. Shame. Jindabyne. Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows. I repeated the note in my head. I paced from the entrance door to the drawn curtain. I repeated it again, and again, and again.

The bed and the film continued as I paced. I said it aloud and snapped my fingers to the beat of my memory.

“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”

It went on for five minutes or until the film called my attention again. I returned to bed and repeated the note as I watched.

About thirty minutes later I received an annoying ring from the room telephone. It was just past midnight.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sir. This is Jeffrey from the front desk. How is your stay with us so far?”

“It’s fine, thanks.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you but we’ve received multiple complaints about loud banging noises coming from your room.”

“My room? 105?”

“Yes. We’ve received complaints from rooms 104 and 106.”

“The TV’s a bit loud I guess. I’ll turn it down.”

“Is anyone in there with you?”

“No.”

“Okay, well please keep it down.”

“Sure.”

I hung up and sat down for a moment, then dialed 0 on the phone.

“Front desk.” She had a distinctly Indian accent.

“Hi. Did someone from your desk call room 105 about noise complaints?”

“No, sir.”

“I just got a call about noise.”

“It wasn’t us, sir. Perhaps a prank call.”

“Probably. Thanks.”

The phone rung again 5 minutes later. It was the same smug white guy voice.

“Sir, I just received more complaints. I don’t know who’s in there, but you need to cut it out. I don’t normally do this but when we get this many complaints it’s ridiculous. We’re going to send someone there. Expect them in the next five minutes.”

I’m no expert on the art of the prank call, but the plot was lost to me. All I could think was someone was physically going to come by, and I was more than willing to meet him at the door with a multitool in hand.

I blurted the most base sentiment I could muster. “You know what? I lied. Your mom’s here, Jeffrey. She came over to suck my cock. She’s a pro. I bet your dad loved it until she started sucking all the strange dick she could find.”

There was silence on the line and then a click.

I returned to bed to wait for a possible knock and continue with my movie. I decided I would need to watch it again anyway. It was a quiet film that required focus on every moment to understand it. I repeated my note.

“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”

It ended much the same way it began. No dialogue and the beginning of another story.

An idea.

The motel television featured HBO, but no Food channel. The latter is the only channel I can stand to watch through commercials. HBO is just good about featuring something to which I can pay attention. I settled in bed and set it to the first of three HBOs. A movie called Bad Girls from Valley High was just about finished. I’d watched the beginning of it before I went to shave and shower. It featured three twenty/thirty-somethings in the roles of high school girls. Two of the three girls were dead and trapped in hell with Pinkman. The third cozied up to the perverted nutty professor.

I began to drift to sleep but noticed that the next feature presentation was rated NC-17. Adult Content, Adult Language, Sex and Nudity, etc. That was enough to keep my interest until the opening credits. They showed big name actors and the title—Young Adam—was presented in a thinly sans-serif font over a shot of shimmering blue water.

The story revolves a drifter named Joe who works on a coal barge in Scotland during the 50s or early 60s. It’s quiet from the start and remains as subtle as a quiet dinner with extended family. Joe and his barge pal Les discover a dead woman in the water and drag her up for the police to haul away. Joe is stoic about the discovery, but so is Les. There’s a sense that they’re hardened people who don’t believe in undue reactions to life’s inevitabilities. Joe and Les return to the barge, where they also live with Les’s wife Ella and their son Jim. The seemingly benign Joe rubs his calf against Ella’s bare leg during breakfast and moves his hand toward her crotch until she eventually stops him. He later coaxes Ella outside and fucks her on the dirt path besides the barge, beneath the moonlight. Thus begins Joe’s affair with any female of significance in the film.

It was shortly after that scene beside the barge that I ran some comparisons. There’s a scene at the start where Joe presses his hand against the dead woman’s upper back, and this flashes on screen again at key points in the film. It reminded me of Jindabyne, an Australian film based on a Carver short story called “So Much Water So Close to Home.” That film also features a dead woman found in the water and discovered by a group of men on a fishing trip. The male lead envisions the dead woman’s naked body as he comes home and rubs his hand over his wife’s breasts. Joe’s wanton desire to fuck every woman he deemed present and willing then reminded me of last year’s Shame, which was a personal eye-opener and the same style of gray, subtle film with undertones of entitlement, violence, and dominance.

I connected the three in my head. I decided it was a significant moment, and significant moments are the spark of inspiration. I stood up to look for a pen. A pencil. Charcoal. A nub of food I could rub on a napkin. Nothing immediately presented itself.

Another thought entered as I scrambled to find a writing utensil.

Someone who thinks he knows.

Then more thoughts. You don’t know shit. I can do that. Uh huh. We are steeped in misogyny from the moment of birth.

I was losing focus. Focus. Shame. Jindabyne. Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows. I repeated the note in my head. I paced from the entrance door to the drawn curtain. I repeated it again, and again, and again.

The bed and the film continued as I paced. I said it aloud and snapped my fingers to the beat of my memory.

“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”

It went on for five minutes or until the film called my attention again. I returned to bed and repeated the note as I watched.

About thirty minutes later I received an annoying ring from the room telephone. It was just past midnight.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sir. This is Jeffrey from the front desk. How is your stay with us so far?”

“It’s fine, thanks.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you but we’ve received multiple complaints about loud banging noises coming from your room.”

“My room? 105?”

“Yes. We’ve received complaints from rooms 104 and 106.”

“The TV’s a bit loud I guess. I’ll turn it down.”

“Is anyone in there with you?”

“No.”

“Okay, well please keep it down.”

“Sure.”

I hung up and sat down for a moment, then dialed 0 on the phone.

“Front desk.” She had a distinctly Indian accent.

“Hi. Did someone from your desk call room 105 about noise complaints?”

“No, sir.”

“I just got a call about noise.”

“It wasn’t us, sir. Perhaps a prank call.”

“Probably. Thanks.”

The phone rung again 5 minutes later. It was the same smug white guy voice.

“Sir, I just received more complaints. I don’t know who’s in there, but you need to cut it out. I don’t normally do this but when we get this many complaints it’s ridiculous. We’re going to send someone there. Expect them in the next five minutes.”

I’m no expert on the art of the prank call, but the plot was lost to me. All I could think was someone was physically going to come by, and I was more than willing to meet him at the door with a multitool in hand.

I blurted the most base sentiment I could muster. “You know what? I lied. Your mom’s here, Jeffrey. She came over to suck my cock. She’s a pro. I bet your dad loved it until she started sucking all the strange dick she could find.”

There was silence on the line and then a click.

I returned to bed to wait for a possible knock and continue with my movie. I decided I would need to watch it again anyway. It was a quiet film that required focus on every moment to understand it. I repeated my note.

“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”

It ended much the same way it began. No dialogue and the beginning of another story.