When I’m at work on a story, I never compose paragraphically. I write stand-alone sentences. I might fixate on three or four sentences a day. I’ll enlarge them to at least twenty-six-point type on the screen. I’ll futz around in their vitals, recontour their casings, and work a kind of reverse cosmetology on them to bring out any defining defects or birthmarks or swoonworthy uglinesses and whatnot. Only much later will one such sentence overcome its aloofness or diffidence and begin to make overtures to another sentence, which might be pages and pages away in the draft. The sentences eventually band together into paragraphs. The paragraphs, to me, are nervous little cliques or sororities of like-natured outcasts who put up with each other despite the friction. There’s a lot of rubbing the wrong way and very little mating of a peaceable kind. Getting something that might pass itself off as a story out of these uneasy alliances is in fact a pretty maddening and brutal ordeal. Among my deficiencies is a freaky neurological setup that keeps me from seeing wholes. So all I can see are parts, pieces, flickery fragments. I will never be up to writing a novel. It’s all I can do to even read one.
Tag: writing
Happy Sunday.
Went on a photo adventure with Deleonia.
In case you didn’t already know, The San Francisco National Cemetery is, I think, the only site left in San Francisco for internment of human remains (currently closed to new burials). There is also the famous Presidio Pet Cemetery, of course. Both are for military personel/pets only.
356/365
My pop’s been bitter lately. Disillusioned by his seemingly uncaring (and also bitter) wife, kids who go off and spend their days with their girlfriends, sons who live thousands of miles away and never call. To hear him talk is to realize that whatever lightness was in him is giving way to a stone heart and religion, especially now that my grandfather has passed. He’s confused and doesn’t understand why people aren’t like him, even as he so rationally states “we’re all our own mind.” Part of me thinks he should understand that people behave differently under various circumstances, and part of me wants his family—myself included—to be more compassionate. He lost his father and is emotionally distraught. The rest of us are handling the loss with as little emotion as possible. What the fuck is wrong with us?
There’s a cemetery near our house in Inglewood that we used to drive by regularly on our way back from Burbank or Long Beach via the 101 freeway. It’s massive and probably one of the oldest cemeteries in the area, though not nearly as ancient as anything in films. There are few overly elaborate headstones and the mausoleums are few in number. Later, when I lived in Brisbane (a stone’s throw from San Francisco), I visited Colma often. It was a bastion of peace amid an urbanized landscape. It was even amusing to think of a cemetery designed exclusively for pets. Sometimes I drove through on a whim and sometimes I pulled over somewhere and walked into one of the various cemeteries. The city of the dead is quite beautiful.
Now, pondering death and all, I walk up to the cemetery near my apartment. There are no fences or security to ward off hooligans, as was the case with the previously mentioned sites. It has the vibe of a public park. I read the names and I consider that of all the possible ways to meet death, I’m most interested in head-on. It means youth and old age, the naked body in all its phases, and the certainty that someone’s passed and it isn’t the worst thing in the world.
For now.
Sitting in another uncomfortable airplane seat. Lying in another oversized hotel bed. Staring out at stars above and below. Researching private islands along the equator and the feasibility in my lifetime (quite is the result). There’s a knock on the door.
“Doctor Romero?”
A horny brunette nurse would be lovely. Instead, it’s a bill with “Dr.” in front of my name. A mistake in the paperwork. Isn’t that just life for you? Paying for charges and mistakes.
“Ah.”
I stopped the extraneous gratitude some time ago. Don’t thank for what you ain’t thankful. Not right to let people think you are.
I wish I had whiskey instead.
All the hearts I throttled I did with love. Caressed ‘em slow and suppose I just reacted to them getting further away from me. Clenched a little too hard. That gets to hurting just as much as distance. And, you know, this hearts talk, it’s just fanciful for people. All sorts. A few I got to loving and never stopped. Just kept on, even the one I hated enough to say hate. Betrayal’s what got me that time. Betrayal’s what’s got me since.
It’s about as clear as that. Been hurt, don’t want to be hurt again. Hope I won’t be kicking around from woman to woman for the rest of my life. Not now, anyway. Hope’s still got me, too.
And, God, this low light. I don’t see the switch anywhere for a second one. Something that won’t set a mood I don’t want to be in.
Happy Sunday.
Went on a photo adventure with Deleonia.
In case you didn’t already know, The San Francisco National Cemetery is, I think, the only site left in San Francisco for internment of human remains (currently closed to new burials). There is also the famous Presidio Pet Cemetery, of course. Both are for military personel/pets only.
356/365
My pop’s been bitter lately. Disillusioned by his seemingly uncaring (and also bitter) wife, kids who go off and spend their days with their girlfriends, sons who live thousands of miles away and never call. To hear him talk is to realize that whatever lightness was in him is giving way to a stone heart and religion, especially now that my grandfather has passed. He’s confused and doesn’t understand why people aren’t like him, even as he so rationally states “we’re all our own mind.” Part of me thinks he should understand that people behave differently under various circumstances, and part of me wants his family—myself included—to be more compassionate. He lost his father and is emotionally distraught. The rest of us are handling the loss with as little emotion as possible. What the fuck is wrong with us?
There’s a cemetery near our house in Inglewood that we used to drive by regularly on our way back from Burbank or Long Beach via the 101 freeway. It’s massive and probably one of the oldest cemeteries in the area, though not nearly as ancient as anything in films. There are few overly elaborate headstones and the mausoleums are few in number. Later, when I lived in Brisbane (a stone’s throw from San Francisco), I visited Colma often. It was a bastion of peace amid an urbanized landscape. It was even amusing to think of a cemetery designed exclusively for pets. Sometimes I drove through on a whim and sometimes I pulled over somewhere and walked into one of the various cemeteries. The city of the dead is quite beautiful.
Now, pondering death and all, I walk up to the cemetery near my apartment. There are no fences or security to ward off hooligans, as was the case with the previously mentioned sites. It has the vibe of a public park. I read the names and I consider that of all the possible ways to meet death, I’m most interested in head-on. It means youth and old age, the naked body in all its phases, and the certainty that someone’s passed and it isn’t the worst thing in the world.
For now.
Sitting in another uncomfortable airplane seat. Lying in another oversized hotel bed. Staring out at stars above and below. Researching private islands along the equator and the feasibility in my lifetime (quite is the result). There’s a knock on the door.
“Doctor Romero?”
A horny brunette nurse would be lovely. Instead, it’s a bill with “Dr.” in front of my name. A mistake in the paperwork. Isn’t that just life for you? Paying for charges and mistakes.
“Ah.”
I stopped the extraneous gratitude some time ago. Don’t thank for what you ain’t thankful. Not right to let people think you are.
I wish I had whiskey instead.
All the hearts I throttled I did with love. Caressed ‘em slow and suppose I just reacted to them getting further away from me. Clenched a little too hard. That gets to hurting just as much as distance. And, you know, this hearts talk, it’s just fanciful for people. All sorts. A few I got to loving and never stopped. Just kept on, even the one I hated enough to say hate. Betrayal’s what got me that time. Betrayal’s what’s got me since.
It’s about as clear as that. Been hurt, don’t want to be hurt again. Hope I won’t be kicking around from woman to woman for the rest of my life. Not now, anyway. Hope’s still got me, too.
And, God, this low light. I don’t see the switch anywhere for a second one. Something that won’t set a mood I don’t want to be in.
I wake up to things I write and wonder what all I was even thinking when I bolted up in the middle of sleep to note something of importance. Sometimes I delete, but I keep most of it. Future reference and all. Sometimes it’s a sort of flashback experience, reliving whatever it was I’d been so adamant about keeping. The long and short of last night is wanton carnal knowledge. There were rattling desks, echoes of pews, hushed confessionals, moving cars, tight bathrooms, granite countertops, thick shag-like rugs, squeaky tile, bar stools in Illinois. Strangely, none of my usual forays into the woods. The reason for the large variety was I kept getting interrupted by some asshole or another who knocked or otherwise threatened to violate the privacy of one person engaged in being bent over all available furniture and the other trying his damndest to fuck her everloving brains out. The exposition was naturally nonexistent. There was no question about what led up to this or what the climax would be. (Note: erotica and dirty talk. In matters erotic and physical my imagination requires tangible. Fingers, moisture, lips, and so forth. Of interest.)
But the focus is those interruptions, or: the inability to finish. This is perhaps the point of the exercise. Try as I might to have come to my full inside this girl (who went on a hell of a tour), there was no finale. I’m left to wonder what troublesome realities my mind conjured up to keep me from, at the very least, fulfilling my biological imperative. Reflection beckons. Perhaps none of it means a damn thing besides sexual frustration.
I’m also humbled by the fair certainty that during all this humping I was, in fact, thrusting into the mattress, not unlike a dog who dreams of chasing a car and kicks his legs in a fury.
I wake up to things I write and wonder what all I was even thinking when I bolted up in the middle of sleep to note something of importance. Sometimes I delete, but I keep most of it. Future reference and all. Sometimes it’s a sort of flashback experience, reliving whatever it was I’d been so adamant about keeping. The long and short of last night is wanton carnal knowledge. There were rattling desks, echoes of pews, hushed confessionals, moving cars, tight bathrooms, granite countertops, thick shag-like rugs, squeaky tile, bar stools in Illinois. Strangely, none of my usual forays into the woods. The reason for the large variety was I kept getting interrupted by some asshole or another who knocked or otherwise threatened to violate the privacy of one person engaged in being bent over all available furniture and the other trying his damndest to fuck her everloving brains out. The exposition was naturally nonexistent. There was no question about what led up to this or what the climax would be. (Note: erotica and dirty talk. In matters erotic and physical my imagination requires tangible. Fingers, moisture, lips, and so forth. Of interest.)
But the focus is those interruptions, or: the inability to finish. This is perhaps the point of the exercise. Try as I might to have come to my full inside this girl (who went on a hell of a tour), there was no finale. I’m left to wonder what troublesome realities my mind conjured up to keep me from, at the very least, fulfilling my biological imperative. Reflection beckons. Perhaps none of it means a damn thing besides sexual frustration.
I’m also humbled by the fair certainty that during all this humping I was, in fact, thrusting into the mattress, not unlike a dog who dreams of chasing a car and kicks his legs in a fury.
I was an old man. Eighty-some years old. Strong, vigorous, shriveled, and bald as a plucked chicken. Beard of a God—one of those visions. There was a kindly old lady sitting beside me. She was brushing the longest, thickest, shiniest hair this side of the moon. She was also small-looking and wrinkled everywhere. Not that it mattered. She was absolutely radiant. We were both of us naked as the day they cut the cord and still in bed on a Sunday. The church bells were tolling in the distance and I was feeling grumpy. Something about work to do. I wouldn’t be the first to get out of bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling through a haze of myopia. She eventually put her brush down and exited into the hall. I stood after her and shakily put on a pair of loose-fitting gray trousers, a large white shirt, and wool socks. The church bells continued. I walked into a narrow hallway that creaked in response to my every step. I heard the kettle come to a boil. The air was filled by an unseen presence, or perhaps a heavy concentration of steam and orange oil. The old lady, who was now in a long gray gown, walked past me and into the bathroom while I ventured to the front door. When I opened it I saw the front stoop of the house I presumably lived in and a vast ocean that stretched from one side of my poor sight to the other. I realized I forgot my glasses. There was a newspaper at my feet and beside it an old maid cat with long bobcat fur on both sides of its face. I picked up the paper and the cat plodded in beside me. It felt like it was time to sit, so I proceeded to the wooden table near the kitchen. The old lady appeared from the hallway and placed my glasses on the table. I tapped her on the ass when she turned away. She skipped a step. I smelled slightly burned toast. The church bells stopped and I said, “Good morning.”
I was an old man. Eighty-some years old. Strong, vigorous, shriveled, and bald as a plucked chicken. Beard of a God—one of those visions. There was a kindly old lady sitting beside me. She was brushing the longest, thickest, shiniest hair this side of the moon. She was also small-looking and wrinkled everywhere. Not that it mattered. She was absolutely radiant. We were both of us naked as the day they cut the cord and still in bed on a Sunday. The church bells were tolling in the distance and I was feeling grumpy. Something about work to do. I wouldn’t be the first to get out of bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling through a haze of myopia. She eventually put her brush down and exited into the hall. I stood after her and shakily put on a pair of loose-fitting gray trousers, a large white shirt, and wool socks. The church bells continued. I walked into a narrow hallway that creaked in response to my every step. I heard the kettle come to a boil. The air was filled by an unseen presence, or perhaps a heavy concentration of steam and orange oil. The old lady, who was now in a long gray gown, walked past me and into the bathroom while I ventured to the front door. When I opened it I saw the front stoop of the house I presumably lived in and a vast ocean that stretched from one side of my poor sight to the other. I realized I forgot my glasses. There was a newspaper at my feet and beside it an old maid cat with long bobcat fur on both sides of its face. I picked up the paper and the cat plodded in beside me. It felt like it was time to sit, so I proceeded to the wooden table near the kitchen. The old lady appeared from the hallway and placed my glasses on the table. I tapped her on the ass when she turned away. She skipped a step. I smelled slightly burned toast. The church bells stopped and I said, “Good morning.”
I’ve taken to the banjo on weeknights, after all the hustle of planning and writing and keeping things organized. I had my doubts when I first picked it up, it being a more expensive instrument than I anticipated, but I needed something. My time alone was weighing on me and I knew I couldn’t keep on with just the thoughts in my head. So I found a music shop up the street a ways and I looked at the banjos. They had four of them: one backless, three with wooden backs for resonance. “If you’ll be playing with a group,” said the kid at the store. His receding hairline was much higher than mine. “Nah,” I told him. “Just want something nice to play music with.” And I bought it. Early birthday and Christmas present to myself. Something rational.
When I bring it out I don’t play any particular thing. I’m still learning this tabs business. It’s just picking at the strings, tuning this way and that, trying to remember my lessons on notes and scales. Do re mi fa so la ti do, you know. “Moonlight Sonata” is my musical fantasy, resting in the recesses for as long as I can remember. I wasn’t ever a piano man. Didn’t think I could do on a piano what I always knew I’d do with a flute or a stringed instrument. So now I take that banjo and sit in that big padded rocking chair and try to forget for a bit, which is a funny thing because anytime I get to playing music or singing on my own, the real kind, it breaks me up. I don’t know what real musicians feel—or if the ones talking about soul and heartbreak and all are full of shit—but there’s something in that twang of a string and the steady dying of its sound that just really breaks me up. One of the thoughts I’ve had is that if I ever get good enough on the thing I might write songs for people I never get around to being real in touch with. No other words or anything, just instruction to sit down or click a link and please don’t mind if it’s just a bit rough. I’ve been learning something new and I thought I’d share.