Things Get Better

Sometimes only a minor tweak is needed. A gap in logic must filled. Maybe it requires an entire scene. Or maybe just a few lines.

Full moon last night as I struggle to find words this morning without caffeine. It's a health thing. The moon was glorious, blotting out many stars, and even more so on waking. It hung low in the western sky, craters beckoning on a cloudless day.

Predicted high is 88 degrees, which is scorching in these parts. People in other places, confronted with temperatures 30 degrees higher, are less impressed. Wish I could help them.

Watched a basketball game last night, which is a thing I rarely do. Once upon a time, yes, but that was many full moons ago. It was entertaining, with many lead changes. The wrong team won, but I'm happy for them. They fought hard and persevered as the opposition self-destructed. Sometimes just hanging in there is the best strategy.

Feeling aimless, probably because I am. By definition I must be headed in a direction, but I have no idea which one or whether it's correct.

Keep writing and hope stuff works. Sometimes just hanging in there is the best strategy.

Today's goals are simple: read, write, and stay cool.

Maybe it's not even about the writing of words, maybe it's about the living of a life. Could be why I don't know what direction I'm headed. Where is my lighthouse or my compass? I only have pen and paper, but that's enough for now.

I can write myself clear of those looming rocks, trace a path around the curving coastline and on to safety beyond the point. I can remember the light of a full moon and hold it with me in times of darkness, as a reminder that things get better.

My Walkman

I spent some time at my old school yesterday afternoon. So much has changed—the tennis courts are now a lecture hall in front of which wedding photos are taken, the soccer field with a dirt track around it where I used to run at night while listening to my Walkman (yes, my Walkman) is another lecture hall that hosts fancy receptions—and yet much has not.

Despite the gaps being filled in with proud edifices made possible through the contributions of people like me, reminders of the place I knew remain strong. There's no money in liberal arts, so the library and classrooms I inhabited are largely unchanged. The names have mostly changed, but a few of the minds I studied under are still there.

Walking through the halls, trying to remember which class I had where, sparked additional memories. There was the first place I ever voted in a presidential election (my guy lost, as he or she always does), there was the first place I ever spent the night in a girl's room (she was an RA, no less), there was where I used to play piano at odd hours.

Is this what being a ghost feels like? Some people say that ghosts haunt places because they are unable to move on to some other place, but maybe they just like to visit once in a while, to be reminded of how things once were before returning to the here and now. Visiting a place is different than dwelling there.

It's not just my old school that has changed. I've changed. The world has changed—for better and for worse. Things we worried about back then seem quaint now. Things we worry about now would have seemed impossible back then. We keep going. I wonder what ever became of my Walkman.

Maybe It's Okay

The sun keeps rising earlier, as will happen in the days and weeks leading up to the summer solstice. With it, I keep rising earlier. I'm off caffeine at the moment, which makes the days feel strange. It's like I'm walking through a fog that never lifts.

We spent time at the library yesterday, writing. In a humorous coincidence, I am writing a scene that takes place at a library. So I studied the architecture, the people, and so forth.

One good thing about writing in a library is that if you need a prompt, it's easy to walk over to one of the stacks, open a book, and steal a line. I chose something from a Billy Collins poem. It had to do with a gravel road, I forget exactly what.

Today's plan is exciting. Revise an article, work on a few scenes for the novel, transcribe an interview, deal with the electrician, walk the dog, go out for a walk, watch a ballgame, read a book or two. It's a quiet existence, which suits me well.

I mentioned the caffeine, right? I forget because of the whole fog thing. My mind refuses to clear, everything is fuzzy. It's a strange sensation.

Next week I am meeting friends I haven't seen in too long. It will be good to catch up with them. The next day I'm going to a concert.

These sentences suck. I'm far less interesting without coffee. Or do I flatter myself by believing that I was far more interesting with coffee? Sunny outside, foggy inside.

I was looking at Clayton Kershaw's stats this morning. They make no sense, in the way that this entire attempt at narrative makes no sense. Everything is disconnected and hardly seems real. Maybe that's a problem; then again, maybe it's okay.

To Ask and to Answer

I am in the process of reading two books—one fiction, one nonfiction—and both are proving difficult in their own way. The novel is translation, and I wonder how much is lost in shifting from one language to another. It's a strange narrative, very literary (as opposed to the genre fiction which I have been in the habit of reading lately). It reminds me of stuff I read in college, which is the sort of stuff I've avoided since college.

The nonfiction piece is a travel memoir that I'm coming to believe requires the reader to be from a certain place and have spent time in a certain other place. In other words, it's not so much an invitation to enjoy something unknown as an opportunity to reflect upon shared experiences. Those who have done so will chuckle to themselves as they relive said experiences, while the rest of us keep turning pages in the hope that this seemingly charming narrative will soon reveal its charm and/or narrative.

Each book cost a dollar, so I can't complain, although I just did in the previous two paragraphs. They are not the sorts of works I would have sought out on my own, but the price was right and I'm trying to expand my repertoire. I want to see how other writers grapple with the same problems we all face in telling a story. And to be exposed to some—one a Nobel Prize winner, one praised by an author I admire greatly—that do it far differently from what I'm used to can't be a bad thing.

It's important to know what one likes and why. It's also helpful to know the opposite. Why don't I like this work? What about it doesn't resonate with me? These are good questions to ask and to answer.

Dazzling with Bullshit

I've constructed the first sentence in my head a dozen or more times, and it's never come out like this. It was supposed to be more grandiose, more meaningful. Instead, it's a mere admission that I have failed in my quest.

Using that failure as a starting point I move onto the next paragraph, which should expand upon the themes introduced in the first. But those are hardly worthy of such expansion, so I continue typing words in the hope that something will emerge.

The words are pretty—some of them, at least—but say nothing. I am dazzling with bullshit, and if I'm to be completely honest, I'm not even dazzling.

I think back to what I'd originally wanted to say. It had something to do with inspiration and self-doubt. But I wasn't feeling inspired enough to pursue the thought, which filled me with self-doubt. Why write what I was already living at that very moment?

By the time the fifth paragraph arrives I have proposed no hypothesis, advanced no arguments in favor of or against said hypothesis, or noted anything of substance. This is a good metaphor for writing and life in general, although the realization that it's a good metaphor sinks me further into depression.

Maybe the sixth paragraph will be better. Nope.

At this point I've abandoned all hope, which gives me a new place to start. This is my “fuck it” moment where I decide any movement is good movement. I've had many of these in my writing career, going back to college.

My first such moment occurred in junior high school. I was supposed to give a speech and tried reading from cards. I kept stumbling over the words and was so embarrassed by my ineptitude that I decided to just talk. I dazzled with bullshit.

Syntax and Meaning

“We were talking about the space between us all.” —George Harrison

The place was empty, the sort of joint that was always empty, except for the regulars. They counted, of course, as much as the furniture or the faded yellow wallpaper. The smell of bourbon and dust permeated throughout, as an old jukebox and the dull murmur of old conversations competed for attention and tried to cut through the seemingly interminable thickness.

“Beer,” said the stranger who walked in from outside. Skinny kid from the city, black denim jeans, collared shirt, all the fixin's.

“Beer what?” said the bartender, looking him dead in the eyes.

The stranger scanned the room. The murmur had stopped, only the jukebox kept on with a song that was both familiar and unknown. Guys shooting pool looked up from their tables and held sticks at an angle that was almost, but not quite, threatening.

He sized up the bartender. Too big. He glanced at the door. Too far away. He quickly searched for other exits but found none.

There must be another way.

“Beer what?” repeated the bartender, unflinching.

The air grew even thicker, which had seemed impossible when he'd walked in. Of all the places to stop, he'd had to pick this one. Why?

He contemplated the bartender's question, tried to makes sense of the syntax and meaning. What did the man mean by his words?

Beer what? What comes after beer? Now? Dammit? Or else?

Then it struck him and he laughed. It was so obvious, how had he missed it earlier? Yes, of course.

“Beer, please,” said the stranger.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, son. The correct answer is 'dammit'. You'll have to leave now.”

All eyes stayed on him as he shuffled back outside.

As Good As It Gets

A writer friend, whose work I admire, recently penned a piece on the changing nature of public discourse. Specifically, there's a lot more open hate in the world than there used to be. The hope behind making communication between people around the world was that this would enable greater connection rather than greater antipathy. Alas, the best laid plans...

I had a dream last night that I'd been transformed into some kind of alien species, with various features modified to suit my new environment. This is doubtless the result of a novel I recently read, but it was nonetheless disconcerting. The alienness was less troubling than the way those around me came to perceive what I was. I became something other and was even shunned by certain groups for daring to sit in the wrong seat.

Reading my friend's article after waking from this dream has had a curious effect. We see the world through filters, and I think about his disappointment at how increased access to information and communication tools has decreased our ability to empathize. I think about my own transformation in this dream and what it means to be the so-called other, to exist outside social norms, to be shouted at or ignored for not conforming to some preconceived notion of normality.

The convergence of these two events is coincidental, but their juxtaposition gives me pause. Awareness arises in mysterious ways, and perhaps I needed to be reminded of basic human decency, the way we all do from time to time.

Judging from the open hate that still thrives around us, “from time to time” might not be often enough. Seems we can do better if we try, but maybe I'm too optimistic. As the movie asks, What if this is as good as it gets?