Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 239
February 19, 2015
50 Greatest Films...
Every 10 years,
Sight and Sound Magazine
takes a poll to find out what films are the greatest ever made. The last poll was in 2012, and a big surprise was that Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo beat out Orson Welles' Citizen Kane.
Surprised me, too, because Notorious is my favorite Hitchcock film, followed by Shadow of a Doubt. That's not to say Vertigo isn't great; it's like a slow-building dream wrapped up in a nightmare and sprinkled with the heartbreaking perfection of Kim Novak and quiet decency of Jimmy Stewart...but it doesn't make a damn bit of sense. Which is not a complaint. Dreams never make sense once you've woken up.
I've seen 31 of the top 50 films, and would rank some of them differently -- I prefer Ozu's Late Spring to Tokyo Story, for example, and think The 400 Blows and La Dolce Vita belong much higher in the rankings -- but that's my opinion, and this is more of a fun exercise than anything else.
A short run-up to Oscar night.
Surprised me, too, because Notorious is my favorite Hitchcock film, followed by Shadow of a Doubt. That's not to say Vertigo isn't great; it's like a slow-building dream wrapped up in a nightmare and sprinkled with the heartbreaking perfection of Kim Novak and quiet decency of Jimmy Stewart...but it doesn't make a damn bit of sense. Which is not a complaint. Dreams never make sense once you've woken up.
I've seen 31 of the top 50 films, and would rank some of them differently -- I prefer Ozu's Late Spring to Tokyo Story, for example, and think The 400 Blows and La Dolce Vita belong much higher in the rankings -- but that's my opinion, and this is more of a fun exercise than anything else.
A short run-up to Oscar night.
February 18, 2015
Robert Frost on writing...
The Figure A Poem Makes
by Robert Frost
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life-not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion. It has denouement. It has an outcome that though unforeseen was predestined from the first image of the original mood-and indeed from the very mood. It is but a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the last. It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and sad-the happy-sad blend of the drinking song.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I am in a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad recognition of the long lost and the rest follows. Step by step the wonder of unex pected supply keeps growing. The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of and so made no note of at the time when taken, and the conclusion is come to that like giants we are always hurling experience ahead of us to pave the future with against the day when we may Want to strike a line of purpose across it for somewhere. The line will have the more charm for not being mechanically straight. We enjoy the straight crookedness of a good walking stick. Modern instruments of precision are being used to make things crooked as if by eye and hand in the old days.
I tell how there may be a better wildness of logic than of inconsequence. But the logic is backward, in retrospect, after the act. It must be more felt than seen ahead like prophecy. It must be a revelation, or a series of revelations, as much for the poet as for the reader. For it to be that there must have been the greatest freedom of the material to move about in it and to establish relations in it regardless of time and space, previous relation, and everything but affinity. We prate of freedom. We call our schools free because we are not free to stay away from them till we are sixteen years of age. I have given up my democratic prejudices and now willingly set the lower classes free to be completely taken care of by the upper classes. Political freedom is nothing to me. I bestow it right and left. All I would keep for myself is the freedom of my material-the condition of body and mind now and then to summons aptly from the vast chaos of all I have lived through.
Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields. No acquirement is on assignment, or even self-assignment. Knowledge of the second kind is much more available in the wild free ways of wit and art. A schoolboy may be defined as one who can tell you what he knows in the order in which he learned it. The artist must value himself as he snatches a thing from some previous order in time and space into a new order with not so much as a ligature clinging to it of the old place where it was organic. More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a petal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
by Robert Frost
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life-not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion. It has denouement. It has an outcome that though unforeseen was predestined from the first image of the original mood-and indeed from the very mood. It is but a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the last. It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and sad-the happy-sad blend of the drinking song.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I am in a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad recognition of the long lost and the rest follows. Step by step the wonder of unex pected supply keeps growing. The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of and so made no note of at the time when taken, and the conclusion is come to that like giants we are always hurling experience ahead of us to pave the future with against the day when we may Want to strike a line of purpose across it for somewhere. The line will have the more charm for not being mechanically straight. We enjoy the straight crookedness of a good walking stick. Modern instruments of precision are being used to make things crooked as if by eye and hand in the old days.
I tell how there may be a better wildness of logic than of inconsequence. But the logic is backward, in retrospect, after the act. It must be more felt than seen ahead like prophecy. It must be a revelation, or a series of revelations, as much for the poet as for the reader. For it to be that there must have been the greatest freedom of the material to move about in it and to establish relations in it regardless of time and space, previous relation, and everything but affinity. We prate of freedom. We call our schools free because we are not free to stay away from them till we are sixteen years of age. I have given up my democratic prejudices and now willingly set the lower classes free to be completely taken care of by the upper classes. Political freedom is nothing to me. I bestow it right and left. All I would keep for myself is the freedom of my material-the condition of body and mind now and then to summons aptly from the vast chaos of all I have lived through.
Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields. No acquirement is on assignment, or even self-assignment. Knowledge of the second kind is much more available in the wild free ways of wit and art. A schoolboy may be defined as one who can tell you what he knows in the order in which he learned it. The artist must value himself as he snatches a thing from some previous order in time and space into a new order with not so much as a ligature clinging to it of the old place where it was organic. More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a petal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
February 17, 2015
CK's the one...
Carli's Kills is the next thing I'm working on. She's begun her tango with Zeke, and he's open to it, so I'll be plotting out the new version. I have a first draft of the script, but it was really more of a placeholder till I could figure out the story. Now that I know what's going on with Zeke and how he fits into Carli's life, I can dig in. Everything else is cascading from that.
Hmm...his revelation has changed the story more than I thought. I mean, I sort of had an idea about what was going on between those two, but it never really made sense to me. Too arbitrary and Hollywoodish. Plus, having Carli as a sniper just didn't work. It was more of an excuse to show her ability to shoot a rifle...and there are better ways to handle that. More honest ways.
I'm going to be too busy the next couple of days, getting ready for the Lisbon trip, to do any serious writing. At least CK is a manageable size as a printout, so I can deal with it on the plane trip. Right now I'm trying to get packing material set up for the job, and Staples Portugal is being a pain in the ass. They won't take a credit card, and the info they sent us for a monetary transfer isn't correct. Dammit.
I'm holding off on OT till I get back because I want to go through it in detail, distill what's in each chapter down to its simplest form, and have that to cross-reference what's happening when, why, how, and to whom. I've already worked out how to combine two characters into one, and I'm looking at another pair as a potential combination. Plus there's a secondary character I either need to do more with or get rid of...and I halfway think I may know how to manage that.
Maybe I should have started out knowing this story's details before I wrote it; mysteries are far more demanding than mere novels. You've got to have the clues set up without them being obvious or simplistic. You've got to have your red herrings. And once the thing's explained, it has to make sense. So far, I've either got too much of it all or not enough; can't decide.
Except for the ending -- that's now exactly like I want it...finally...
Hmm...his revelation has changed the story more than I thought. I mean, I sort of had an idea about what was going on between those two, but it never really made sense to me. Too arbitrary and Hollywoodish. Plus, having Carli as a sniper just didn't work. It was more of an excuse to show her ability to shoot a rifle...and there are better ways to handle that. More honest ways.
I'm going to be too busy the next couple of days, getting ready for the Lisbon trip, to do any serious writing. At least CK is a manageable size as a printout, so I can deal with it on the plane trip. Right now I'm trying to get packing material set up for the job, and Staples Portugal is being a pain in the ass. They won't take a credit card, and the info they sent us for a monetary transfer isn't correct. Dammit.
I'm holding off on OT till I get back because I want to go through it in detail, distill what's in each chapter down to its simplest form, and have that to cross-reference what's happening when, why, how, and to whom. I've already worked out how to combine two characters into one, and I'm looking at another pair as a potential combination. Plus there's a secondary character I either need to do more with or get rid of...and I halfway think I may know how to manage that.
Maybe I should have started out knowing this story's details before I wrote it; mysteries are far more demanding than mere novels. You've got to have the clues set up without them being obvious or simplistic. You've got to have your red herrings. And once the thing's explained, it has to make sense. So far, I've either got too much of it all or not enough; can't decide.
Except for the ending -- that's now exactly like I want it...finally...
February 16, 2015
A revelation for CK...
Zeke and Carli revealed a moment from Carli's Kills that sets up the ending, perfectly. And, as usual, even though I planned to write a simple revenge story/script...I find myself working in a question about morality and guilt, adding a lot more context to the whole situation. Carli's out for revenge, still, but is it to seek justice for what happened to her sister? Or is it guilt over how she did nothing to help her? She didn't realize her sister was suicidal, the last time she spoke with her, but that means nothing after someone's death.
Same for Zeke. He's faced with the harsh reality that a man who saved his life did something vile and vicious to another human being...and he did nothing to stop it. Now he feels responsible for another person's death, even though he had nothing to do with it.
So the story's about guilt, I guess. And how it rips apart common sense and replaces it with the idea that had you done things differently, events would not have gone the way they did. Which is nonsense. Yes, if you had done X instead of Y, then Z might have turned out better. Or...it might have been worse. You don't know. 20-20 hindsight is a fallacy perpetrated by fools who think the world is understandable and operates according to their interpretation of reality.
You'd think that people would catch on -- today's facts are tomorrow's old-wives tales, because no matter how much we know, today, evidence may come along to reverse everything we think is true. Look at what's being bandied about now. "There never was a Big Bang to start the universe; it's just always been." Rather different from the one-time belief that the world was flat and rode on the back of a giant turtle.
But that was once considered fact.
Same for Zeke. He's faced with the harsh reality that a man who saved his life did something vile and vicious to another human being...and he did nothing to stop it. Now he feels responsible for another person's death, even though he had nothing to do with it.
So the story's about guilt, I guess. And how it rips apart common sense and replaces it with the idea that had you done things differently, events would not have gone the way they did. Which is nonsense. Yes, if you had done X instead of Y, then Z might have turned out better. Or...it might have been worse. You don't know. 20-20 hindsight is a fallacy perpetrated by fools who think the world is understandable and operates according to their interpretation of reality.
You'd think that people would catch on -- today's facts are tomorrow's old-wives tales, because no matter how much we know, today, evidence may come along to reverse everything we think is true. Look at what's being bandied about now. "There never was a Big Bang to start the universe; it's just always been." Rather different from the one-time belief that the world was flat and rode on the back of a giant turtle.
But that was once considered fact.
February 15, 2015
Intimidation, extreme...
I've got a printed copy of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor put into a notebook to begin clarifying and notation-ing and all that stuff...and I haven't had the nerve to start it, yet. I want 3-4 days to be able to go through it in one line instead of dealing with bits and pieces, like I have been...because it's massive.
I did work up a first rough of the cover I'm after, using Josh Wald's face instead of Jordan's. Don't want to mess with the karma of that one. It's not quite there...I need a better silhouette and a better image of Palm Springs lights, and the proportions are off for a book...but it's enough for now.
I've separated each chapter -- gray strips are parts 1 and 2, colored tabs are parts 3 & 4. One good thing about keeping it all together is, I can jump back and forth when I see places that need setting up or clarifying. Another good thing? I can now see for myself that it's the same size as Bobby Carapisi's 3 volumes, and that's not good. I'm already contemplating combining a couple of characters to shorten it, some.
Tomorrow I'm driving down to Dayton, OH if the weather will let me. It was about 2 degrees, today. I'll be there a couple days then come back...and Saturday I head for Lisbon. Still a lot to do for that. So I doubt I'll be able to do anything about OT till I get back, a week from Saturday. I'm not taking it with me; the damn thing weighs 10 lbs. and opens out nearly 2 feet. I can just see me trying to work on it during my plane ride.
I may start plotting out the novel transfer of The Alice '65 or Carli's Kills. I'm leaning a bit towards the latter because it's going to have some serious sex in it (heterosexual, this time, but with Carli the aggressor against Zeke) and I'm feeling the need to be a bit prurient, right now.
A bit? Hell, I want to write something that'll show those 50 Shades of Dull readers what's really hot. I'm not into girls, but the sex scene near the end of Matador jolted me into contemplating them, at least. It's obvious even though Amoldovar is gay, he knows how to make it steamy between a man and a woman.
Of course, he started out directing in porn; I only snuck into writing books with confrontational sex in them.
I did work up a first rough of the cover I'm after, using Josh Wald's face instead of Jordan's. Don't want to mess with the karma of that one. It's not quite there...I need a better silhouette and a better image of Palm Springs lights, and the proportions are off for a book...but it's enough for now.
I've separated each chapter -- gray strips are parts 1 and 2, colored tabs are parts 3 & 4. One good thing about keeping it all together is, I can jump back and forth when I see places that need setting up or clarifying. Another good thing? I can now see for myself that it's the same size as Bobby Carapisi's 3 volumes, and that's not good. I'm already contemplating combining a couple of characters to shorten it, some.Tomorrow I'm driving down to Dayton, OH if the weather will let me. It was about 2 degrees, today. I'll be there a couple days then come back...and Saturday I head for Lisbon. Still a lot to do for that. So I doubt I'll be able to do anything about OT till I get back, a week from Saturday. I'm not taking it with me; the damn thing weighs 10 lbs. and opens out nearly 2 feet. I can just see me trying to work on it during my plane ride.
I may start plotting out the novel transfer of The Alice '65 or Carli's Kills. I'm leaning a bit towards the latter because it's going to have some serious sex in it (heterosexual, this time, but with Carli the aggressor against Zeke) and I'm feeling the need to be a bit prurient, right now.
A bit? Hell, I want to write something that'll show those 50 Shades of Dull readers what's really hot. I'm not into girls, but the sex scene near the end of Matador jolted me into contemplating them, at least. It's obvious even though Amoldovar is gay, he knows how to make it steamy between a man and a woman.
Of course, he started out directing in porn; I only snuck into writing books with confrontational sex in them.
February 14, 2015
Memories...
Once upon a time, I was in the scouts. Started as a Weblo and graduated to regular scout when I was eleven. I joined a rag-tag troop at this Presbyterian church we'd attend, at the direction of my mother and step-father. I think they were afraid I was getting too lost in books and needed more interaction with other boys.
We met every Tuesday or maybe Thursday, and the minister was our scout master. He had an assistant who was in the Air Force, who'd usually handle the meetings. He was married. Had a baby on the way. Seemed very mature, even though I'm sure he wasn't even 21, yet.
We'd do campouts, which I never liked. I'm not the kind of guy who emjoys outdoor living and sleeping under the stars and shitting behind a bush and all that crap. I want a bed, a book, and either a cup of tea or a bottle of some soft drink; I was alternating between Big Red (AKA: Liquid Bubble Gum) and RC Cola, which had a nice bite to it. Of course, those were not allowed on the campouts; just canteens of water or drinking from a brook. Total roughing-it.
I liked the assistant, though I can't remember his name. Abernathy? Anderson? He was patient with me, even though I had two left thumbs and minimal willingness to remember how ropes are tied. Hell, I couldn't even do a square knot until I'd tied it wrong, first (I still have that habit). How I got that merit badge is beyond me.
After about a year, we went camping at Cypress Cove, outside New Braunfels, TX, where Canyon Lake now is. It was acres and acres of tall cypress trees around wide streams rushing over non-stop rocks or into cheerful eddies that tried to lull you into joining them. This trip, I started to enjoy. Not because of the woodsy stuff but because it was just plain beautiful. I hated the idea that there'd soon be a hundred feet of water covering it all.
There were about a dozen of us, and all the other boys went swimming in a pool at the end of a creek that was half rapids and all sun. The minister was down with them. I was sitting on some rocks up the creek, watching them goof around. I had on a pair of cutoffs and was using a bandana soaked in the cold water to keep my blinding white skin wet and cool, trying to cut down on sunburn and freckles, since I'd forgotten to bring sun-tan lotion.
I was really enjoying the solitude when the assistant jumped up onto a boulder across the creek. He had just put on a red Speedo, and for the first time I saw what he looked like, nearly undressed -- which was a lot like this guy, just clean-shaven and no hat. This was back before Speedos became identified with gay men, and his was more like what we'd call a square-cut, today.
Jesus the picture he made, standing on that rock -- his tan golden and his smile bright, like a young cougar surveying its domain. Without thinking, I blurted out, "Mr. Anderson, you're gorgeous." He grinned at me and said, "Thanks."
Suddenly, I had to sit myself in the cold clear water, because I was feeling something I'd never felt before in a place I'd never even thought of, till then, and it spooked me. I was afraid I'd hurt myself, somehow. I spent the rest of the day sneaking looks at him but afraid to say another word. And that night, I couldn't sleep. The next day, we went home, and I rode in the minister's car instead of the assistant's.
Not that my sudden silence or wariness mattered. In that space your voice carried, and my comment was heard by a couple of the other boys. They mentioned it to the minister, and at the next meeting, he asked me to withdraw from the troop. It hurt...until I learned the Air Force was transferring the assistant to Germany, and we were about to live in El Paso for a year. Then I didn't care. I was only two badges short of gaining First Class Scout, but one of the badges was swimming, and I can't swim. Period. So I'd never have made it, anyway.
The memory reared up because the above image was posted on a friend's website -- Yummy of the Day (there's a link in the blogs I follow list, bottom right) -- and for a moment I couldn't breathe. It was like I'd suddenly shifted back to being 12 years-old and getting an honest taste of what my life would be like. Not my first brush with the harshness of the world, and nowhere near my last...just one of those pivotal moments.
Thing is...I still have a thing for red Speedos.
We met every Tuesday or maybe Thursday, and the minister was our scout master. He had an assistant who was in the Air Force, who'd usually handle the meetings. He was married. Had a baby on the way. Seemed very mature, even though I'm sure he wasn't even 21, yet.
We'd do campouts, which I never liked. I'm not the kind of guy who emjoys outdoor living and sleeping under the stars and shitting behind a bush and all that crap. I want a bed, a book, and either a cup of tea or a bottle of some soft drink; I was alternating between Big Red (AKA: Liquid Bubble Gum) and RC Cola, which had a nice bite to it. Of course, those were not allowed on the campouts; just canteens of water or drinking from a brook. Total roughing-it.
I liked the assistant, though I can't remember his name. Abernathy? Anderson? He was patient with me, even though I had two left thumbs and minimal willingness to remember how ropes are tied. Hell, I couldn't even do a square knot until I'd tied it wrong, first (I still have that habit). How I got that merit badge is beyond me.
After about a year, we went camping at Cypress Cove, outside New Braunfels, TX, where Canyon Lake now is. It was acres and acres of tall cypress trees around wide streams rushing over non-stop rocks or into cheerful eddies that tried to lull you into joining them. This trip, I started to enjoy. Not because of the woodsy stuff but because it was just plain beautiful. I hated the idea that there'd soon be a hundred feet of water covering it all.
There were about a dozen of us, and all the other boys went swimming in a pool at the end of a creek that was half rapids and all sun. The minister was down with them. I was sitting on some rocks up the creek, watching them goof around. I had on a pair of cutoffs and was using a bandana soaked in the cold water to keep my blinding white skin wet and cool, trying to cut down on sunburn and freckles, since I'd forgotten to bring sun-tan lotion.
I was really enjoying the solitude when the assistant jumped up onto a boulder across the creek. He had just put on a red Speedo, and for the first time I saw what he looked like, nearly undressed -- which was a lot like this guy, just clean-shaven and no hat. This was back before Speedos became identified with gay men, and his was more like what we'd call a square-cut, today.
Jesus the picture he made, standing on that rock -- his tan golden and his smile bright, like a young cougar surveying its domain. Without thinking, I blurted out, "Mr. Anderson, you're gorgeous." He grinned at me and said, "Thanks."Suddenly, I had to sit myself in the cold clear water, because I was feeling something I'd never felt before in a place I'd never even thought of, till then, and it spooked me. I was afraid I'd hurt myself, somehow. I spent the rest of the day sneaking looks at him but afraid to say another word. And that night, I couldn't sleep. The next day, we went home, and I rode in the minister's car instead of the assistant's.
Not that my sudden silence or wariness mattered. In that space your voice carried, and my comment was heard by a couple of the other boys. They mentioned it to the minister, and at the next meeting, he asked me to withdraw from the troop. It hurt...until I learned the Air Force was transferring the assistant to Germany, and we were about to live in El Paso for a year. Then I didn't care. I was only two badges short of gaining First Class Scout, but one of the badges was swimming, and I can't swim. Period. So I'd never have made it, anyway.
The memory reared up because the above image was posted on a friend's website -- Yummy of the Day (there's a link in the blogs I follow list, bottom right) -- and for a moment I couldn't breathe. It was like I'd suddenly shifted back to being 12 years-old and getting an honest taste of what my life would be like. Not my first brush with the harshness of the world, and nowhere near my last...just one of those pivotal moments.
Thing is...I still have a thing for red Speedos.
February 13, 2015
Jake is too real to me...
I think I've reached that stage in my writing life where my characters are more real than the real people I know. Especially Jake, since I've spent so much time inhabiting his brain...or him inhabiting mine. I honestly don't know which, right now.
I was at CVS to pick up a prescription (I'm on Cipro, again, this time for 30 days because the infection is not completely gone) and it wasn't ready, yet. I couldn't wait so headed out to go to work and I was hungry and I saw that evil row of candy by the register...and forgot what was reality, for a moment. I actually said in my head (not out loud, thank god...at least, I don't it was), "Dude, you want to half a Baby Ruth?" "C'mon, you know I don't do candy. But if you wanna share a DP..."
So I bought a DP, instead. I decided not to buy a Baby Ruth because CVS only had the double-size one and I didn't want that much, but Jake wouldn't eat any of it so I didn't want to waste it. I didn't notice what I'd done till I went back to CVS, after work, to get that prescription and it hit me -- I'd acted like Jake was a living, breathing, body-inhabiting person, and I felt very, VERY much like Daniel in The Lyons' Den, when he's arguing with his fictional character, Ace.
I wonder if other authors have moments like this. Does Stephen King chat with his creepy characters? Did Steinbeck or Hemingway? Did Tolstoy have conversations with Levin or Pierre? Or...am I just plain sliding into serious schizophrenia? Who knows, anymore? I sure as hell don't.
And now Jake is laughing at me, the little shit.[image error]
I was at CVS to pick up a prescription (I'm on Cipro, again, this time for 30 days because the infection is not completely gone) and it wasn't ready, yet. I couldn't wait so headed out to go to work and I was hungry and I saw that evil row of candy by the register...and forgot what was reality, for a moment. I actually said in my head (not out loud, thank god...at least, I don't it was), "Dude, you want to half a Baby Ruth?" "C'mon, you know I don't do candy. But if you wanna share a DP..."
So I bought a DP, instead. I decided not to buy a Baby Ruth because CVS only had the double-size one and I didn't want that much, but Jake wouldn't eat any of it so I didn't want to waste it. I didn't notice what I'd done till I went back to CVS, after work, to get that prescription and it hit me -- I'd acted like Jake was a living, breathing, body-inhabiting person, and I felt very, VERY much like Daniel in The Lyons' Den, when he's arguing with his fictional character, Ace.
I wonder if other authors have moments like this. Does Stephen King chat with his creepy characters? Did Steinbeck or Hemingway? Did Tolstoy have conversations with Levin or Pierre? Or...am I just plain sliding into serious schizophrenia? Who knows, anymore? I sure as hell don't.
And now Jake is laughing at me, the little shit.[image error]
February 12, 2015
More Alex...just for the hell of it...
My favorite shot of him.And let me note -- I've never been big on ink; my stepfather had tattoos and I saw how ugly they can get after a certain age. But on this guy...well, they're not just for self-aggrandizement. Many of them are to cover the scars he was left with. And somehow they add to his bright personality.
He's become the model for Zeke in Carli's Kills...missing leg and all...
A Real American Hero
Alex Minsky was a Marine in Afghanistan when he got hit by an IED. Tore him up. But he was still able to get from this...
...to this...
...and have an attitude that sings. He does everything he can to empower people, even though he lost half his right leg.
But who gets a movie made about him? A sniper who, by some accounts, was close to psychotic.
Talk about f**ked up.
...to this...
...and have an attitude that sings. He does everything he can to empower people, even though he lost half his right leg.But who gets a movie made about him? A sniper who, by some accounts, was close to psychotic.
Talk about f**ked up.
February 11, 2015
Not a minimalist, am I...
I printed up a copy of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, and it's 540 pages long. Over 119,000 words. If I dropped it on someone's foot, I'd break a toe or crush their arch. Wild. I'll let it sit for a couple days then get onto it this weekend for the final polish.
I have to admit, I'm amazed I got to this point, the way the story kept shifting on me. It's still not completely settled down, but my only real concerns are with detail work and whether or not I should cut a sub-plot. My goal now is clarity and consistency; I've got Jake's voice set and the flow of the story works...at least, it does for me. Just need to maintain.
It's funny, but most of my screenplays wound up being just around 105 pages long, plus or minus a few. My longest one, currently, is 135 pages while the shortest one I did was 80 pages, mainly of action. I guess I do like digging into the characters' minds, and revealing their meaning is a lot easier in a novel than in a script. I still think cinematically, but the complexity of guys like Jake and Curt makes up for that in a lot of ways.
I used to think I was just being lazy and scared doing screenwriting, like I was relying on other people to help my work come to fruition. In reality, it was just my shirking my responsibility to the story and characters. I'm still nowhere near as good as I want to be, as a writer, but I can now see a path towards fulfillment. Even if my books don't sell well. At least with these, I can't say I'm shirking anything. I'm whining and arguing and bitching like crazy, but not shirking. How To Rape A Straight Guy and Bobby Carapisi are proof of that. I can honestly say, I write what I want to write and fuck everything else.
Hmm...maybe there is some tiger in me.
I have to admit, I'm amazed I got to this point, the way the story kept shifting on me. It's still not completely settled down, but my only real concerns are with detail work and whether or not I should cut a sub-plot. My goal now is clarity and consistency; I've got Jake's voice set and the flow of the story works...at least, it does for me. Just need to maintain.
It's funny, but most of my screenplays wound up being just around 105 pages long, plus or minus a few. My longest one, currently, is 135 pages while the shortest one I did was 80 pages, mainly of action. I guess I do like digging into the characters' minds, and revealing their meaning is a lot easier in a novel than in a script. I still think cinematically, but the complexity of guys like Jake and Curt makes up for that in a lot of ways.
I used to think I was just being lazy and scared doing screenwriting, like I was relying on other people to help my work come to fruition. In reality, it was just my shirking my responsibility to the story and characters. I'm still nowhere near as good as I want to be, as a writer, but I can now see a path towards fulfillment. Even if my books don't sell well. At least with these, I can't say I'm shirking anything. I'm whining and arguing and bitching like crazy, but not shirking. How To Rape A Straight Guy and Bobby Carapisi are proof of that. I can honestly say, I write what I want to write and fuck everything else.
Hmm...maybe there is some tiger in me.
