Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 37
December 6, 2017
Introduction to Pure Writerly Moments (Part 1 - About Writing)
[This is the introduction to the first part of my book in progress "Pure Writerly Moments". I hope you enjoy.]
I planned to write a book that was unplanned. I wanted my writing to be something different. I wanted it to be whimsical. I wanted it to be always in progress. I wanted the very bookness of it to be a lingering question mark.
Will anyone read this?
That is the eternal question.
I can't answer that.
I can only surf from word to word and hope that each word finds a mark.
This book is not just about words. It's also about moments. Like the moment I was in high school and found myself scribbling a story about vampires in between episodes of Conan O'Brien and old episodes of Star Trek. My eyes strained to stay awake. This was not a story, it was only a moment. The story was about vampires, but the story about vampires takes me back to that moment.
What is this book? Will anyone read it?
I'm a man lingering into his late 30s, thinking about life and growing older. I need adventure. I need these words to hit the mark. I pull on my necktie and try to find the right pull that will automatically rip off my dress shirt and turn me into a superhero.
Instead, I just find my body stooping. The necktie chafes.
A character from a novel-in-progress calls to me, "We need you writer-man!"
And I need writer-man to appear, too. I desperately need good stories to be written.
A thing told simply and truly is the purest thing in the world. It has the ability to suck the badness out of the air and restore vitality.
This first part is my journey into questions of what it means to be a writer. You will find meditations, stories, and love letters all about writing.
This book is always in progress.
If you look away, don't be surprised if it changes.
It has already changed me.
To continue reading, just click here:
https://www.wattpad.com/467104269-pur...
I planned to write a book that was unplanned. I wanted my writing to be something different. I wanted it to be whimsical. I wanted it to be always in progress. I wanted the very bookness of it to be a lingering question mark.
Will anyone read this?
That is the eternal question.
I can't answer that.
I can only surf from word to word and hope that each word finds a mark.
This book is not just about words. It's also about moments. Like the moment I was in high school and found myself scribbling a story about vampires in between episodes of Conan O'Brien and old episodes of Star Trek. My eyes strained to stay awake. This was not a story, it was only a moment. The story was about vampires, but the story about vampires takes me back to that moment.
What is this book? Will anyone read it?
I'm a man lingering into his late 30s, thinking about life and growing older. I need adventure. I need these words to hit the mark. I pull on my necktie and try to find the right pull that will automatically rip off my dress shirt and turn me into a superhero.
Instead, I just find my body stooping. The necktie chafes.
A character from a novel-in-progress calls to me, "We need you writer-man!"
And I need writer-man to appear, too. I desperately need good stories to be written.
A thing told simply and truly is the purest thing in the world. It has the ability to suck the badness out of the air and restore vitality.
This first part is my journey into questions of what it means to be a writer. You will find meditations, stories, and love letters all about writing.
This book is always in progress.
If you look away, don't be surprised if it changes.
It has already changed me.
To continue reading, just click here:
https://www.wattpad.com/467104269-pur...
November 22, 2017
The Proposal (a short story)
Samantha had trouble keeping a straight face. In the hustle and bustle of the university coffee shop, on a Sunday afternoon a little past noon, the question had come like a whisper. At first, she hadn't even heard it. She'd been thinking about getting a boob job. And then she had looked over at Tom with his soft, almost feminine features and then it registered.
"'Will you marry me?' Is that what you asked?"
She thought about it a second longer and was about to laugh, but then she held back. She was sure that if she had she would have seen him fall apart.
"No. No. No. Sorry, what? Why would you even ask that?" Even that had been a bit harsh. His face showed a few cracks, but he held up.
"Listen, Tom. You know me. I like to do things my own way." Harley Davidsons on Saturday, never with Tom. "I'm a career girl." Sales. Hence the boob job. "I'm independent. I also borderline hate men. Sometimes, I think I'm a lesbian that dates men for sadistic purposes. Don't you think so, too? Why would you want to marry someone like that?"
Tom nodded his head very seriously. He was always doing that even when she spewed shit from her mouth and rained fire on those beneath her.
Finally, he responded. "I don't know what that means. I mean for you and me. You don't hate me. At least I don't think you do."
Now there was food for thought for poor Samantha, Sam to her friends. No, she didn’t hate Tom. She may have even loved him in her own way. After all, he was nothing like her stepfather. The over-sexed womanizer who'd put his hands all over her and had cheated on her mom with no less than a dozen other women.
The first time she had had sex with Tom she was pretty sure he'd been a virgin. She had asked him a day afterward and he had said no, but the way he said it made her think that he was lying.
"Should I go? I think I should go." Tom said this with a look that was equal parts thoughtful, stoic, and defeated.
"You do whatever you want, but I think we should just forget you asked the question and get the fuck on with our day."
He considered this deeply. A typical Tom move. He could think deeply, but he couldn't penetrate deeply. That last thought made her smile a little too cruelly.
"Now, time for the real question." She pointed to her boobs. "Time for an upgrade?"
"What?"
"I'm thinking of getting a boob job."
"Are you making fun of me?" And there was that dour face again, so gentle and ready to cry.
"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not. This is a serious question for me. I'm in sales. My looks are my currency, just like your brain is when you're studying your physics shit. Think of all the money you're going to make."
"Actually, physics professors..."
"Honey, stop trying to tell me how poor you're going to be in the future. Not a turn on at all...anyway, how did we get off the subject of my boobs?"
Tom was getting up to leave. He looked now like he really was about to cry. She thought about how shy and clumsy he'd been the first time they'd had sex. Shy and careful Tom. Where would she find another one like him? Who else could she have dominated so easily?
He was almost out of the coffee shop when she shouted. "Wait!"
Her shout was loud enough to get the attention of the entire shop. All of them turned to face Samantha, including Tom. His face had this look like it might break out into tears at any moment.
"Don't go! Maybe not marriage...but...but...I'm ready to discuss matching tattoos."
***If you liked that story, why not check out another one right here: https://www.wattpad.com/411931783-pur...
"'Will you marry me?' Is that what you asked?"
She thought about it a second longer and was about to laugh, but then she held back. She was sure that if she had she would have seen him fall apart.
"No. No. No. Sorry, what? Why would you even ask that?" Even that had been a bit harsh. His face showed a few cracks, but he held up.
"Listen, Tom. You know me. I like to do things my own way." Harley Davidsons on Saturday, never with Tom. "I'm a career girl." Sales. Hence the boob job. "I'm independent. I also borderline hate men. Sometimes, I think I'm a lesbian that dates men for sadistic purposes. Don't you think so, too? Why would you want to marry someone like that?"
Tom nodded his head very seriously. He was always doing that even when she spewed shit from her mouth and rained fire on those beneath her.
Finally, he responded. "I don't know what that means. I mean for you and me. You don't hate me. At least I don't think you do."
Now there was food for thought for poor Samantha, Sam to her friends. No, she didn’t hate Tom. She may have even loved him in her own way. After all, he was nothing like her stepfather. The over-sexed womanizer who'd put his hands all over her and had cheated on her mom with no less than a dozen other women.
The first time she had had sex with Tom she was pretty sure he'd been a virgin. She had asked him a day afterward and he had said no, but the way he said it made her think that he was lying.
"Should I go? I think I should go." Tom said this with a look that was equal parts thoughtful, stoic, and defeated.
"You do whatever you want, but I think we should just forget you asked the question and get the fuck on with our day."
He considered this deeply. A typical Tom move. He could think deeply, but he couldn't penetrate deeply. That last thought made her smile a little too cruelly.
"Now, time for the real question." She pointed to her boobs. "Time for an upgrade?"
"What?"
"I'm thinking of getting a boob job."
"Are you making fun of me?" And there was that dour face again, so gentle and ready to cry.
"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not. This is a serious question for me. I'm in sales. My looks are my currency, just like your brain is when you're studying your physics shit. Think of all the money you're going to make."
"Actually, physics professors..."
"Honey, stop trying to tell me how poor you're going to be in the future. Not a turn on at all...anyway, how did we get off the subject of my boobs?"
Tom was getting up to leave. He looked now like he really was about to cry. She thought about how shy and clumsy he'd been the first time they'd had sex. Shy and careful Tom. Where would she find another one like him? Who else could she have dominated so easily?
He was almost out of the coffee shop when she shouted. "Wait!"
Her shout was loud enough to get the attention of the entire shop. All of them turned to face Samantha, including Tom. His face had this look like it might break out into tears at any moment.
"Don't go! Maybe not marriage...but...but...I'm ready to discuss matching tattoos."
***If you liked that story, why not check out another one right here: https://www.wattpad.com/411931783-pur...
November 18, 2017
Aphorisms and Reflections on a Literary Life (Part 2)
These reflections represent my thoughts on literary life. They have been written down as they occur to me. These reflections were influenced significantly by the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I highly recommend this book for every writer.
On Where to Write.
The place you write should feel magical. It should make you feel part of a great tradition of romantic writers who struggle against anonymity and their own limitations. For me, this is anyplace but alone in my room. Libraries, small coffee shops, parks...these places work for me. I also like to keep a small pocket-sized journal and go for long walks. Most of my best ideas come when I’m doing something. You might think of this as “defocused concentration” or thinking without thinking. However, for editing, proofreading, or other mundane tasks, you should have someplace like a sensory deprivation chamber. The goal should be complete focus.
On the Moral Value of Frivolity.
Part of the essence of art is frivolity. The artist needs to develop a deep distaste for things that are too instrumental. A great many aspects of corporate life and military life, such as top-down management, are meant to squeeze frivolity in the service of rationality. These should be deeply distasteful to writers and artists. You should love screwing off at work, you should love goofing off on vacation, you should love coloring and randomly dancing for no reason. Most of the true value in the world comes from things that are discovered as a result of frivolous adventures.
On Kicking It.
Can you get off junk? By junk, I don’t mean drugs, I mean writing. Like all addicts your stint in sobriety is bound to be short. But you can kick it for a bit with some of these substitutes. Performance art! Working with your hands! Think up stories in your head (but don't write them down)! Sex, of course.
Can Writing Make Your Life Better?
Read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The point is Quality. In your life, your goal should be to put in good time -- minute by minute, second by second -- with a special focus on good. Often, I find I make the best time when I’m writing. I often feel that my time outside writing is made better by writing. But the point should be to put in good time.
On Time.
For this novelist and writer, at least, time moves slower than for normal people. It takes three or four years to finish a novel -- maybe longer. In the meantime, people get married (and often divorced), technology changes, fads come and go; in short, life moves on. Those around me feel neglected when I take long sojourns into imaginary worlds. I stay the same, or change in subtle but wonderful ways, meanwhile the world rushes on. I am often a man out of time. You probably will be too.
On Gumption and Resourcefulness.
Who knows how they are learned? Who knows how to even define them? They seem to be the most necessary qualities for a writer, but if you cannot know what they are or how they should be defined, then why do they even bear mentioning. Print this out and try to subsist on the paper for several days. Then maybe you’ll learn gumption and resourcefulness. Or, maybe you’ll just become really familiar with the taste of paper. (Is there a difference?)
Ego-Success.
Ego-success is the worst reason to go into writing - go into anything really! Money. Awards. Adoration. Fan letters. What’s the alternative? Telling a really meaningful story. Write stories that are absolutely necessary. Being happy. Treating people well. Writing a quality book is the best way of treating people well.
On Where to Write.
The place you write should feel magical. It should make you feel part of a great tradition of romantic writers who struggle against anonymity and their own limitations. For me, this is anyplace but alone in my room. Libraries, small coffee shops, parks...these places work for me. I also like to keep a small pocket-sized journal and go for long walks. Most of my best ideas come when I’m doing something. You might think of this as “defocused concentration” or thinking without thinking. However, for editing, proofreading, or other mundane tasks, you should have someplace like a sensory deprivation chamber. The goal should be complete focus.
On the Moral Value of Frivolity.
Part of the essence of art is frivolity. The artist needs to develop a deep distaste for things that are too instrumental. A great many aspects of corporate life and military life, such as top-down management, are meant to squeeze frivolity in the service of rationality. These should be deeply distasteful to writers and artists. You should love screwing off at work, you should love goofing off on vacation, you should love coloring and randomly dancing for no reason. Most of the true value in the world comes from things that are discovered as a result of frivolous adventures.
On Kicking It.
Can you get off junk? By junk, I don’t mean drugs, I mean writing. Like all addicts your stint in sobriety is bound to be short. But you can kick it for a bit with some of these substitutes. Performance art! Working with your hands! Think up stories in your head (but don't write them down)! Sex, of course.
Can Writing Make Your Life Better?
Read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The point is Quality. In your life, your goal should be to put in good time -- minute by minute, second by second -- with a special focus on good. Often, I find I make the best time when I’m writing. I often feel that my time outside writing is made better by writing. But the point should be to put in good time.
On Time.
For this novelist and writer, at least, time moves slower than for normal people. It takes three or four years to finish a novel -- maybe longer. In the meantime, people get married (and often divorced), technology changes, fads come and go; in short, life moves on. Those around me feel neglected when I take long sojourns into imaginary worlds. I stay the same, or change in subtle but wonderful ways, meanwhile the world rushes on. I am often a man out of time. You probably will be too.
On Gumption and Resourcefulness.
Who knows how they are learned? Who knows how to even define them? They seem to be the most necessary qualities for a writer, but if you cannot know what they are or how they should be defined, then why do they even bear mentioning. Print this out and try to subsist on the paper for several days. Then maybe you’ll learn gumption and resourcefulness. Or, maybe you’ll just become really familiar with the taste of paper. (Is there a difference?)
Ego-Success.
Ego-success is the worst reason to go into writing - go into anything really! Money. Awards. Adoration. Fan letters. What’s the alternative? Telling a really meaningful story. Write stories that are absolutely necessary. Being happy. Treating people well. Writing a quality book is the best way of treating people well.
November 15, 2017
Miki on the Frictionless Rail
*The following is an excerpt from a work-in-progress novel entitled "Statues in the Cloud"
When Miki arrived in Fukuoka from Nagasaki, she transferred to the frictionless rail.
On her way to her train, she'd stopped to watch some Fukuoka bizarro-pop (Bpop for short) troupes do their odd, eccentric renditions of 1990s pop-songs using synth recorders, body paint, and foot-pedal light displays.
Perhaps long ago she had heard Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.” But the horror-stricken screams that punctuated every line by the man in blue made the hair on Miki’s arms stand up. The girl in pink weeping on the floor also lent to the horror of the rendition. On the wall behind them, she could see the play of light and shadow the produced something like a mushroom cloud.
When she boarded the frictionless train she felt on edge. It was more than the Bpop artists. It was also the knowledge that she was leaving home. That she might have made a terrible mistake.
The train departed and she was left to her own thoughts. Her compartment, which could accommodate three other people, was empty except for her.
In the underground frictionless rail there was nothing to see. No trees, no mountains. Just endless miles of tunnel. Even if they had been above ground there would have been little to see because they would have been going too fast.
The rail company had decided not too long ago to give passengers the illusion of being in an old-fashioned railway. If you paid extra for the window seat you could choose whatever landscape you liked. If you were lucky, like Miki, and got a compartment by yourself, you could also choose. You could take a trip through the old Japanese countryside. You could go to Edo Japan, or Japan of the 1960s, or even a trip through Europe before the nuclear accidents. But you had other choices, impressionist art, a trip through the cosmos.
Miki had lived so long with these comforts that she easily took them for granted.
She tried her hardest to take her mind off having just left her parents. At first, she chose things she thought would interest her -- she did famous painters from the 20th century; she did a trip through Italy; she tried a trip through popular movie landscapes. But now, feeling a little anxious with thoughts of what her new life might be like, she was pressing the random button to see what scene she might discover.
Eventually, she saw some futuristic landscape, mechanistic in parts but also alive with green. Where was this from? she asked herself. She checked the source. It was from a novel published only 20 years ago. An SF novel of some sort, she thought.
There were lush valleys with small domed cities. Inside the cities, she could see small, slender androids moving and working. Outside the domes, wildlife of all kinds flourished, including gigantic winged creatures, not unlike butterflies, but with the long necks of giraffes.
Suddenly, she felt a kind of calm. Beautiful, she thought. This looked like something Aya would have drawn. And soon, before she knew it, she was drifting to sleep.
You can read another excerpt from "Statues in the Cloud" right here:
https://www.wattpad.com/423942034-pur...
When Miki arrived in Fukuoka from Nagasaki, she transferred to the frictionless rail.
On her way to her train, she'd stopped to watch some Fukuoka bizarro-pop (Bpop for short) troupes do their odd, eccentric renditions of 1990s pop-songs using synth recorders, body paint, and foot-pedal light displays.
Perhaps long ago she had heard Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.” But the horror-stricken screams that punctuated every line by the man in blue made the hair on Miki’s arms stand up. The girl in pink weeping on the floor also lent to the horror of the rendition. On the wall behind them, she could see the play of light and shadow the produced something like a mushroom cloud.
When she boarded the frictionless train she felt on edge. It was more than the Bpop artists. It was also the knowledge that she was leaving home. That she might have made a terrible mistake.
The train departed and she was left to her own thoughts. Her compartment, which could accommodate three other people, was empty except for her.
In the underground frictionless rail there was nothing to see. No trees, no mountains. Just endless miles of tunnel. Even if they had been above ground there would have been little to see because they would have been going too fast.
The rail company had decided not too long ago to give passengers the illusion of being in an old-fashioned railway. If you paid extra for the window seat you could choose whatever landscape you liked. If you were lucky, like Miki, and got a compartment by yourself, you could also choose. You could take a trip through the old Japanese countryside. You could go to Edo Japan, or Japan of the 1960s, or even a trip through Europe before the nuclear accidents. But you had other choices, impressionist art, a trip through the cosmos.
Miki had lived so long with these comforts that she easily took them for granted.
She tried her hardest to take her mind off having just left her parents. At first, she chose things she thought would interest her -- she did famous painters from the 20th century; she did a trip through Italy; she tried a trip through popular movie landscapes. But now, feeling a little anxious with thoughts of what her new life might be like, she was pressing the random button to see what scene she might discover.
Eventually, she saw some futuristic landscape, mechanistic in parts but also alive with green. Where was this from? she asked herself. She checked the source. It was from a novel published only 20 years ago. An SF novel of some sort, she thought.
There were lush valleys with small domed cities. Inside the cities, she could see small, slender androids moving and working. Outside the domes, wildlife of all kinds flourished, including gigantic winged creatures, not unlike butterflies, but with the long necks of giraffes.
Suddenly, she felt a kind of calm. Beautiful, she thought. This looked like something Aya would have drawn. And soon, before she knew it, she was drifting to sleep.
You can read another excerpt from "Statues in the Cloud" right here:
https://www.wattpad.com/423942034-pur...
November 11, 2017
Harbinger of Horror
The kanji for peace (heiwa) is spray-painted in the underground walkway that connects the main street in the tourist area of Fujisawa by the coast with the walking bridge to Enoshima Island. In the daytime, it's a bright, lively area where people do and say pleasant things, and there is even a little book exchange stand where strangers are free to drop off and take books at their leisure.
But now, it's late.
The tourists have left or are asleep or never bothered to come in the first place. The shops are locked and the little book exchange is shuttered. But in the underground area that connects the main street with the bridge, there is a homeless man doing Vudu of some kind with hands that fly, flap, and dance without reason.
His gray and scraggly hair points in all directions, Tokyo, Hell, prisons of the mind, prisons of the soul, and yes, even Enoshima Island. His clothes are dirty, torn, and in places non-existent -- but beyond this, I don't know the man, because I don't look at him directly. The smell of shit hits me even though I give him the widest possible birth. I walk briskly and cautiously as I make my way to the other side, but I can't help but see out of the corner of my eye that there is something in front of him as he sits Indian style.
It could be something dead or it could just be two-week old dinner. But there are flies. It's late at night and the cops won't be coming for him. And then I pass under the spray-painted kanji for peace and I realize that it is dripping in just the right way to make it seem like its reverse -- a harbinger of horror. And then, the man in the underground walkway connecting the street to the bridge lets out a wail that can’t wake up those who temporarily don’t exist. The cry echoes on and on into the night and reminds me that there is a deep and horrible underside to peace and beauty.
And then I'm out the other side of the underground walkway on the bridge to an island that is dead as night.
If you liked that story, you might also like "A Splash of Red". You can read that story, right here:
https://www.wattpad.com/482829099-pur...
But now, it's late.
The tourists have left or are asleep or never bothered to come in the first place. The shops are locked and the little book exchange is shuttered. But in the underground area that connects the main street with the bridge, there is a homeless man doing Vudu of some kind with hands that fly, flap, and dance without reason.
His gray and scraggly hair points in all directions, Tokyo, Hell, prisons of the mind, prisons of the soul, and yes, even Enoshima Island. His clothes are dirty, torn, and in places non-existent -- but beyond this, I don't know the man, because I don't look at him directly. The smell of shit hits me even though I give him the widest possible birth. I walk briskly and cautiously as I make my way to the other side, but I can't help but see out of the corner of my eye that there is something in front of him as he sits Indian style.
It could be something dead or it could just be two-week old dinner. But there are flies. It's late at night and the cops won't be coming for him. And then I pass under the spray-painted kanji for peace and I realize that it is dripping in just the right way to make it seem like its reverse -- a harbinger of horror. And then, the man in the underground walkway connecting the street to the bridge lets out a wail that can’t wake up those who temporarily don’t exist. The cry echoes on and on into the night and reminds me that there is a deep and horrible underside to peace and beauty.
And then I'm out the other side of the underground walkway on the bridge to an island that is dead as night.
If you liked that story, you might also like "A Splash of Red". You can read that story, right here:
https://www.wattpad.com/482829099-pur...
November 8, 2017
Strictly about the Hair (Short Story)
She looked him up and down. She wanted to touch his hair. It was beautiful, straight and just perfect. She'd grown up in a small town in Montana and she had never met a guy with such perfect hair. In fact, she was sure that she had never met a girl with such perfect hair.
So there she was, admiring it, when he said, "It's okay, you can touch."
It was impossible to tell where he had come from. His voice was urbane like vanilla soft cream. It could have been any voice in any city. And besides, she was too distracted by his hair. She'd been out of her small Montana community for some time, but there she was with cheeks turning scarlet red.
She did as he said and touched it. It was smooth and fine to the touch, like horse hair. She could see that he was in love with his hair too. Whatever happened from here on out, they at least shared that.
"I have a name, you know."
His voice was soft and tender. She noticed that now. She could see why her boss had hired him to wear nothing but spandex undies and angel wings and serve them chocolates during her bachelorette pre-party.
"Actually," she said, and she said it because she knew, and he must have known also, that she couldn't start a relationship with a man in spandex and angel wings. "Actually, I'd rather keep this relationship strictly about the hair."
You can read more short stories right here on "Pure Writerly Moments":
https://www.wattpad.com/411931783-pur...
So there she was, admiring it, when he said, "It's okay, you can touch."
It was impossible to tell where he had come from. His voice was urbane like vanilla soft cream. It could have been any voice in any city. And besides, she was too distracted by his hair. She'd been out of her small Montana community for some time, but there she was with cheeks turning scarlet red.
She did as he said and touched it. It was smooth and fine to the touch, like horse hair. She could see that he was in love with his hair too. Whatever happened from here on out, they at least shared that.
"I have a name, you know."
His voice was soft and tender. She noticed that now. She could see why her boss had hired him to wear nothing but spandex undies and angel wings and serve them chocolates during her bachelorette pre-party.
"Actually," she said, and she said it because she knew, and he must have known also, that she couldn't start a relationship with a man in spandex and angel wings. "Actually, I'd rather keep this relationship strictly about the hair."
You can read more short stories right here on "Pure Writerly Moments":
https://www.wattpad.com/411931783-pur...
November 4, 2017
Who Wants to Meet a Csonkanairre?
The guy sits at the bar and tells me, "This money...it looks so funny with these heads on them!" He almost laughs as he says this. It's clear that the guy is from out of town, perhaps Swedish.
He buys another drink and tells me with that weird accent of his that he hopes that he can find another exchange service that will exchange Csonkas. I figured a Csonka was some sort of strange currency but in the course of our conversation, I come to understand that he's not from our universe.
"Wait...wait..." I say. "You're not Swedish."
"No, no. No nations on my earth. We're all one nation now. The great Larry Csonka united us."
"Larry Csonka! He played fullback for the Dolphins here. He's a legend in Miami!"
"In my universe, he introduced a series of scratch cards that got us to stop going to war. We got addicted to these scratch card games like you wouldn't believe. All the nations just put down their guns and started playing."
"So he never played football."
"What's football?"
That got me in a mood. I order a beer for myself but notice that my crazy friend doesn't have any money.
"It's okay. I'll just go to an exchange and change out some of my Csonkas. Where's a 24-hour interdimensional money exchange?"
"Oh wow, pal. You're gone! I'm not sure you should drink anymore."
He pulls out some funny money with old hags on them. "Who are those?"
"Those are from the Chamber of Nagging House Wives. They rule our planet now that the great Csonka has passed. They're annoying to hear on television, but they balance the budget and we all have to eat our greens and be home in time for supper. Trust me, I'm enjoying this night out quite a bit. Your customs are strange and awesome. Can I trade you some Csonkas for dollars?"
I slap him on the back. "Wow, I've heard some whoppers in my time, but that one takes the cake."
"I don't understand your universe's idioms exactly, but for now I will reject your marriage proposal. But about the Csonkas, what shall we do?"
I shake my head. "Listen, don't worry about your funny money. The next one is on me."
And the next one and the next one as it turned out. I loved this Swedish guy so much that I got him good and liquored up. By the time the night was over, though, I was sad to see him go. He stumbled into a taxi. I even had to give the taxi some money to make sure he got home alright.
My wife cussed me out good for giving that guy money. But what could I do? Any fan of Larry Csonka, the legend of Miami and toughest SOB to strap on a helmet, was a friend of mine.
A funny thing happened afterward, though. I got this strange email on my computer in that same strange dialect thanking me for the evening. Never remembered giving the guy my email.
Had this funny line in it too.
"You may not believe it, but in my universe, I'm a Csonkanairre -- in other words, really, really rich. I'd like to repay your hospitality by taking you to my mega-palace on the top of Csonka Hills overlooking the great Parliament Building of Esteemed Nagging Hags."
There is a strange symbol at the bottom I'm supposed to click. Probably a link to some strange Swedish super-computer virus that will end the world. But I think, what the hell?
"Honey," I yell. "You're about to meet your first Csonkanairre."
*If you're interested in more humor, try "The Underground Novel: An Alternative Guide to Life After Graduation"
https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
He buys another drink and tells me with that weird accent of his that he hopes that he can find another exchange service that will exchange Csonkas. I figured a Csonka was some sort of strange currency but in the course of our conversation, I come to understand that he's not from our universe.
"Wait...wait..." I say. "You're not Swedish."
"No, no. No nations on my earth. We're all one nation now. The great Larry Csonka united us."
"Larry Csonka! He played fullback for the Dolphins here. He's a legend in Miami!"
"In my universe, he introduced a series of scratch cards that got us to stop going to war. We got addicted to these scratch card games like you wouldn't believe. All the nations just put down their guns and started playing."
"So he never played football."
"What's football?"
That got me in a mood. I order a beer for myself but notice that my crazy friend doesn't have any money.
"It's okay. I'll just go to an exchange and change out some of my Csonkas. Where's a 24-hour interdimensional money exchange?"
"Oh wow, pal. You're gone! I'm not sure you should drink anymore."
He pulls out some funny money with old hags on them. "Who are those?"
"Those are from the Chamber of Nagging House Wives. They rule our planet now that the great Csonka has passed. They're annoying to hear on television, but they balance the budget and we all have to eat our greens and be home in time for supper. Trust me, I'm enjoying this night out quite a bit. Your customs are strange and awesome. Can I trade you some Csonkas for dollars?"
I slap him on the back. "Wow, I've heard some whoppers in my time, but that one takes the cake."
"I don't understand your universe's idioms exactly, but for now I will reject your marriage proposal. But about the Csonkas, what shall we do?"
I shake my head. "Listen, don't worry about your funny money. The next one is on me."
And the next one and the next one as it turned out. I loved this Swedish guy so much that I got him good and liquored up. By the time the night was over, though, I was sad to see him go. He stumbled into a taxi. I even had to give the taxi some money to make sure he got home alright.
My wife cussed me out good for giving that guy money. But what could I do? Any fan of Larry Csonka, the legend of Miami and toughest SOB to strap on a helmet, was a friend of mine.
A funny thing happened afterward, though. I got this strange email on my computer in that same strange dialect thanking me for the evening. Never remembered giving the guy my email.
Had this funny line in it too.
"You may not believe it, but in my universe, I'm a Csonkanairre -- in other words, really, really rich. I'd like to repay your hospitality by taking you to my mega-palace on the top of Csonka Hills overlooking the great Parliament Building of Esteemed Nagging Hags."
There is a strange symbol at the bottom I'm supposed to click. Probably a link to some strange Swedish super-computer virus that will end the world. But I think, what the hell?
"Honey," I yell. "You're about to meet your first Csonkanairre."
*If you're interested in more humor, try "The Underground Novel: An Alternative Guide to Life After Graduation"
https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
October 31, 2017
The Toxic Now
We're all feeding off a toxic carcass of now.
The internet age has made this easier -- every comedian feeds off the buffoonery of our current president. (I'm convinced that the clown is actually quite boring). The latest outrage or media stunt by (insert desperate performer's name) keeps us mildly entertained. It's an arms race to absurdity.
We're all Pauley Shore adopting a child in Africa. We're all looking for our 15-minutes of fame. If we don't find it, we become despondent. The more resilient among us resort to weirder stunts and more elaborate get-rich-quick schemes.
This toxic carcass of now distorts our past and future. The past cannot be what it was but is instead mythologized to fit our present. The 50s is remembered so that "duck and cover" can be forgotten and Soviet paranoia never existed at all. It's given in five-minute sound bites so that we will never have the capacity to read "War and Peace".
You can finish reading the essay here:
https://www.wattpad.com/487939374-pur...
The internet age has made this easier -- every comedian feeds off the buffoonery of our current president. (I'm convinced that the clown is actually quite boring). The latest outrage or media stunt by (insert desperate performer's name) keeps us mildly entertained. It's an arms race to absurdity.
We're all Pauley Shore adopting a child in Africa. We're all looking for our 15-minutes of fame. If we don't find it, we become despondent. The more resilient among us resort to weirder stunts and more elaborate get-rich-quick schemes.
This toxic carcass of now distorts our past and future. The past cannot be what it was but is instead mythologized to fit our present. The 50s is remembered so that "duck and cover" can be forgotten and Soviet paranoia never existed at all. It's given in five-minute sound bites so that we will never have the capacity to read "War and Peace".
You can finish reading the essay here:
https://www.wattpad.com/487939374-pur...
October 28, 2017
Sam (a short story)
I met Sam not long after my girlfriend and I broke up. I had been going through this heartbreak phase where no sappy love song was off limits, so my ears were bleeding Mariah Carey and Boyz 2 Men and all sorts of hideous shit that should be left in the 90s.
Sam was a girl like no other, with grease stains and short, boyish hair. You'd think to call this my post-romantic phase or the start of my life as an amateur grease monkey, working with her on cars on the weekend. But as I found out, romance comes in many flavors, including grease-flavor apparently. At the very least, after a few weekends with her, I had the decency to throw out my Boyz 2 Men CDs. Sam was like that -- her non-smile and love for honest work could inspire you to all sorts of sensible actions you never thought possible. A good example -- I'm thinking of reconciling with my parents, even my good-for-nothing, can't-stop-drinking-and-whoring dad.
Anyway, the Sam I'm talking about is far back, so far back that even the idea of Sam as some kind of fashion model or sex symbol would have seemed like an absurdity of the highest order. Now, though, you look at Sam and you can't even tell she used to be some honest, hard-working gal who'd make a love-sick puppy ditch Mariah Carey to work on cars.
Sam was a girl like no other, with grease stains and short, boyish hair. You'd think to call this my post-romantic phase or the start of my life as an amateur grease monkey, working with her on cars on the weekend. But as I found out, romance comes in many flavors, including grease-flavor apparently. At the very least, after a few weekends with her, I had the decency to throw out my Boyz 2 Men CDs. Sam was like that -- her non-smile and love for honest work could inspire you to all sorts of sensible actions you never thought possible. A good example -- I'm thinking of reconciling with my parents, even my good-for-nothing, can't-stop-drinking-and-whoring dad.
Anyway, the Sam I'm talking about is far back, so far back that even the idea of Sam as some kind of fashion model or sex symbol would have seemed like an absurdity of the highest order. Now, though, you look at Sam and you can't even tell she used to be some honest, hard-working gal who'd make a love-sick puppy ditch Mariah Carey to work on cars.
October 25, 2017
She Can See Them Too (excerpt from Ghosts of Nagasaki)
Description of the Ghosts of Nagasaki:
One night a foreign business analyst in Tokyo sits down in his spacious high rise apartment and begins typing something. The words pour out and exhaust him. He soon realizes that the words appearing on his laptop are memories of his first days in Nagasaki four years ago.
Nagasaki, the non-birthplace of atomic warfare, but instead its brother, second cousin, was a place full of spirits, a garrulous Welsh roommate, and a lingering mystery. Though he wants to give up his writing, though he wants to let the past rest, within his compulsive writing is the key to his salvation.
Somehow he must finish the story of four years ago—a story that involves a young Japanese girl, the ghost of a dead Japanese writer, and a mysterious island. He must solve this mystery while maneuvering the hazards of middle management, a cruel Japanese samurai, and his own knowledge that if he doesn’t solve this mystery soon his heart will transform into a ball of steel, crushing his soul forever.
Excerpt: She Can See Them Too
Mikey Welsh slams down his beer, his head spins around, and charismatically, with a politician’s grin, he says something inspirational about friendship. Then he drops his pants and starts doing his best Iggy Pop impression.
In a matter of a few weeks, frequenting Japanese pubs, or what the Japanese call izakayas, has become something of a routine for me and several of the expats I work with. And in no time I equate Nagasaki with alcoholism and debauchery. That, and an excruciating pain where my heart should be.
“Are you all right, mate?” the Welshman asks.
“No,” I say. “I think I have heartburn or something.”
“Heartburn. Really? Well no worries. Here, drink some beer. You’ll feel better.”
The pain in my heart is sudden and wrenching. When it’s over, I make up my mind to treat the pain with heavier doses of alcohol.
We are always celebrating something. On the surface it seems as if we’re celebrating both the arrival of new teachers and the departure of old ones, but later I realize that, for many, we’re celebrating the fact that we’re staying, that another night of izakayas and karaoke lay in our future.
We base our small community on shared Lost Boy ideals of frivolous youth, limited responsibility, and impromptu pants dropping. In that vein, we try to fill ourselves with happy thoughts and beer in liberal doses and hook up with as many females as we can find.
“Nomihodai. Nomihodai. Nomihodai,” my Welsh roommate insists.
“Learn this word well, my friend. It means all you can drink. When you come in, you say that word. Then you say ‘nama biru.’ That’s your beer from the tap. ‘Nama’ means ‘raw,’ and if you can’t figure out what ‘biru’ means then you might just be retarded….Beer comes with a lot of head here. Don’t ask me why, it just does. And no matter how hard you try to get them to take the head out they won’t, because that’s like the rule in Japan. And there is nothing worse mate than fucking with a Japanese man’s rules. So don’t even bother trying to get them to take the head out.”
In no time whatsoever, we end up stumbling from this izakaya to another. With us, we drag the spirit of the Roaring Twenties. As much as I want to let this lie, in the graveyard, in the college lit class I never really liked, I had come to believe that we existed as something out of a Hemingway or Fitzgerald novel. As we stumble into another izakaya, I push this Hemingway/Fitzgerald analogy on Mikey, who is having trouble crossing his legs properly.
“That’s odd. I knew how to cross my legs a second ago. Didn’t seem that difficult then.”
He gets his legs crossed and smiles. “Hope it’s not this hard at the next izakaya.”
I once again tell him my insight about Hemingway and Fitzgerald and the Roaring Twenties. He rests a motherly hand on my shoulder. “And that my friend is what foreigners do in Japan: they go on the piss and make pointless analogies based on things they learned in their liberal arts courses. Nomihodai,” my Welsh roommate insists again. “This will be a very important word for you.”
***
In Tokyo, predictably, when the toil of my work-dance is over with I’m back at my desk doing the bad memoir thing. I should give it up and start going to snack bars, I think. Then I can be a true businessman bastard. But no, no reason to swap one pointless venture for another. Instead, I think of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I do what foreigners in Japan do after they have made pointless analogies based on things they learned in their liberal arts degrees―ruminate on them and ascribe more meaning to them than they actually have.
***
Sitting in our third or fourth nomihodai, I try to explain to the Welshman that I think perhaps we are a kind of lost generation or at least Lost Boys. The Welshman, however, is busy staring at one of the Japanese girls we are with.
“What? You mean like Peter Pan?”
He’s drunk now, and seems generally agitated with me for bringing up novels and kids books.
Sitting Indian-style in our little tatami booth waiting for the drinks to arrive, I can’t help but feel a wave of exhaustion―or maybe it’s the stabbing pain in my heart that’s wearing me out. It seems like we’d started our first nomihodai such a long time ago. Now we’re on our third or fourth, and we’d managed to pick up strangers along the way. It’s as if we’d traded in ten of our friends for new ones and wandered into yet a different city―a city within a city. My head is spinning uncontrollably and this makes everything that much easier to cope with.
“This is Randy Andy, all the whore you can fit into an Aussie. This is Makiko the new staff member. This is Jim from Jersey, good for a laugh but a bit on the preachy side when it comes to religion, and don’t get him started on his theories of the Japanese Eugenics Project.”
Who is talking? Does it matter anymore?
My head is swirling with names. I chug more alcohol to scatter them into oblivion.
“You need to lighten up, mate,” the Welshman says.
I’m having trouble understanding him through his thick Welsh accent and often have to turn to Jim from Jersey for help.
Jim from Jersey is on his eleventh month in Japan, and while he doesn’t know much Japanese, he has picked up a whole lot of Welsh banter. So in my drunken state he ends up translating.
“Learn to love it. This is the only country where you can have so many instant friends and none of them want to borrow money,” Jim says to me.
This is true.
In the back of my mind is the view of the countryside as I leave the tunnel on the Shinkansen. The view of farms and farm land, simplicity. Completely and irretrievably lost, I could see myself walking those mountains forever, or stretching out on a beach somewhere, letting the tide take me out to sea.
“See, if I was back home, I would be struggling in some job I hate, trying to make ends meet, not making ends meet, trying to sort my friends out, worried about this fucker or that fucker messing with me, whether I was going to get shot in the back leaving my house. Here all I have to do is show up to work on time, relax, and enjoy Mikey’s rants and pants dropping spectacles.”
Jim from Jersey looks up and points. “See.” And sure enough Mikey Welsh has his pants down once again, to both the embarrassment and joy of the Japanese staff.
And that is our life, for a while anyway. With a little bit of drink in us, like a contagion, one would drop his pants, dance in his underwear, occasionally show his penis, then another person would drop their pants, and perhaps another. The girls would giggle (to our credit this was a three or four nomihodai thing), and then we’d be thrown out and off to our next nomihodai.
On this particularly joyous occasion, the usually conservative Jim from Jersey has had way too much to drink and is now holding his wiener in hand using it as a microphone to do interviews.
“And how about you, Makiko? How are you doing tonight? Doing all right?”
“Yada, yada, yada,” (no, no, no) she screams, with a huge smile on her face.
“No, no comment. Anything you’d like to say about the prime minister of Japan or the state of Japanese politics?” He holds his wiener closer to her, which sends her screaming toward the bathroom.
“No,” he says. “Okay, on to our next interview then.”
He turns to Mikey. “So, what’s your story? How do you like your stay so far? Do you feel like you’ve fully assimilated to Japanese culture? Are you feeling any cultural aftershlongs?”
Mikey finds himself staring into the hypnotic eye of Jim’s organic microphone. “To be honest Jim, I haven’t. I find there’s too much head in the beer here. And quite frankly, I find the food a bit flaccid. The rules are too rigid. I’ve been in a few hairy situations. But I feel as long as I stay firm and resolute, I’ll come out on top. In conclusion, we need to hold new erections, so we can erect more upright politicians. Now get that damn microphone out of my face.”
From there Mikey goes into a little bit of song: Monty Python’s
“Isn’t it Great to have a Penis?” with a transition into
“Anarchy in the UK.”
When Mikey has finished singing, he finds himself back in his seat next to me. “See, Jim from Jersey was once a mild mannered, wholesome American cunt like you. All about preaching the book of Mormon or some such thing. Now look at him. In another month, you will have forgotten all about your liberal arts education and have devolved into an utter brute like the rest of us,” the Welshman concludes.
I nod my head in agreement. As I do, the heartburn comes back, and I reach for my chest. The beer and the pain mix together and as I fall backwards my last image is that of the girl on the train with the downcast stare.
***
When I close my laptop, I’m still clutching my chest. It’s not so much a pain as it is a kind of numbness. I’m not sure if I’ve always had it or if it’s something that’s only started recently, a result of the bad memoir business. I steady myself. Nothing to worry about, I think. Take some Tums, eat less meat, stop the writing and the pain will go away.
My brain says this, but there is a voice in my head, eloquent and strong, that says differently.
After a Friday night of drinking in my past four years ago, I now have a Friday night of drinking in my present. How many izakayas and nomihodais in my past? How many izakayas and nomihodais in my future? This particular night I’m meeting some university students. There is a girl among them that I particularly like. She is smart and classy. She is worldly for a Japanese girl, and on top of everything, she likes me.
I’ve forgotten how young college students can be, and how old I sometimes feel sitting with them. Sitting Indian-style, the pain in my knee comes back to me. In a hip little izakaya/ club, we can listen to the techno music while sitting in our private booth. My head is still spinning from the writing process. Nothing seems to happen for a long time. I sway to the music and forget whether anyone has ordered anything. Magically, drinks appear in front of us. I give a “kampai” (cheers), and this gets everyone started.
One of my friends asks me what it’s like to be a business analyst for a major international investment firm. I have trouble speaking. I can understand everything he says and asks me, but my head floats on a different plane, and on that plane I’m unable to answer him.
What? I ask myself. I work for an investment firm?
“Surreal,” I blurt out finally, in English, and my friends just stare at me confused.
I find myself getting drunk rather quickly. There is something odd about this, like a full night of nomihodais is now catching up to me. And without any Welshman or Jim from Jersey to drop their pants, I find myself getting bored very quickly.
One of the guys, Koji, after a superfluous amount of compliments on everything from my Japanese to my hair style, asks me how he can go about getting a job at an investment firm like mine. I end up explaining to him for the millionth time how things work in the universe. That for some strange reason a friend introduces you to a friend who thinks you would be good for a certain job. You help this person get out of a jam once or twice, and just like that you have yourself a stuffy job and a salary, and you spend your days fighting off advances from the office lady who is desperate to get married.
“And that’s life,” I say definitively.
I start to wonder whether I should recommend him for a job at my firm once he graduates, but I think: nah, better to convince him to study linguistics or to spend a year backpacking somewhere, preferably somewhere he won’t get kidnapped. Why? Because that’s the way the world works. You walk the path two steps away from your dream and three steps away from anything that seems remotely rational.
In reverse of that night in Nagasaki, I find that the more I drink the more self-conscious I become. What’s worse is the girl who before seemed so witty and delightful to talk to has suddenly become quiet and brooding. This is a huge bummer. The group picks up on it, and it soon becomes a collective bummer.
When I ask Koji what’s wrong with her, he feigns ignorance.
I feel that this might be the opportune moment to whip out my penis and have some impromptu interviews. As I am the only foreigner in the group, without anyone to share the theatrics, I think that this is probably not the best move.
I’m drunk now, nasty-tasting shochu running through me, and my thoughts turn to Nagasaki. When I go home I know I’ll sit down, drunk as hell, and try to continue on with my foolish writing. My hands will reach over the keyboard and look for the symptoms of the past, hoping to find its disease.
After failing miserably to pee in a urinal, spraying innocent bystanders instead, I show up at the table. It’s clear at this point that I’m nowhere close to scoring. The hip girl’s face won’t even look at me. But it’s not her silence that bothers me, the secrets she keeps, her private frustrations, but rather it’s the angle of her gaze as she looks at the floor. Reflected in the glass of our table, fragmented in disco lights and techno music, she sees something. When I look close enough, looking into the reflection of her downcast eyes, I can see them too.
