Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 42
July 19, 2017
It was the Internet Trolliest of Times
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of abundant data, it was the age of internet trolls and reality TV. It was the epoch of barbarism, it was the epoch of large-scale compassion. No time before had more abundance, no time before had more meanness. Education was abundant, yet no one could be bothered to read a book. We were all headed for easy riches, we were endorsing the destruction of our own safety nets. Hell was coming soon, Hell was every person who didn't agree with your crass Twitter post. It was an age of outrage, and yet nothing was too outrageous. There was a man with a nappy toupee in a government capital, there was a man with a model's face and a boyish smile directly north of him.
In short, it was a time so much like other ages of upheaval, so much like 1790 and 1900 and 1938 and 1945 and 1965 and 1989, that reader could be excused for thinking this blog post a re-run on late night TV, probably the Cosby Show. And years from now they will think I am talking about their own era.
You can read more free stories and essays from the book "Pure Writerly Moments" right here: https://www.wattpad.com/305483251-pur...
In short, it was a time so much like other ages of upheaval, so much like 1790 and 1900 and 1938 and 1945 and 1965 and 1989, that reader could be excused for thinking this blog post a re-run on late night TV, probably the Cosby Show. And years from now they will think I am talking about their own era.
You can read more free stories and essays from the book "Pure Writerly Moments" right here: https://www.wattpad.com/305483251-pur...
July 16, 2017
Two New Chapters of the Underground Novel
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
The Roman Way (Part 1) - Something Something Modern Business
https://www.wattpad.com/441771337-the...
The Roman Way (Part 2) - The Sacred Art of Aristeia
https://www.wattpad.com/441775781-the...
The Roman Way (Part 1) - Something Something Modern Business
https://www.wattpad.com/441771337-the...
The Roman Way (Part 2) - The Sacred Art of Aristeia
https://www.wattpad.com/441775781-the...
July 12, 2017
Sam and Ruddy (a short story)
The tree house had been built sometime after Hurricane Andrew. Sam knew about it because his dad had taken him diving off of the spot many times. From there it was about a forty-minute swim out to where the nurse sharks nested.
Ruddy pointed up to the second floor of the tree house. “That’s where I’m going to fuck Wendy Johansen. I’ve fucked my share, but when I just think of those big milky tits, I swear I get a pretty rough semi,” he said.
Sam tried not to look embarrassed. He was only in Miami for the summers. Since last summer, Ruddy had been going on and on about sex and fucking. Since Ruddy was a year older than Sam and he was maturing faster, it seemed only natural that he would be more at ease with that sort of talk. Sam looked up, though, and saw the spot. He had to admit, it was a nice place to have sex with a girl.
It was strange, a fifteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old talking about fucking in a treehouse. But this wasn’t any ordinary treehouse. It was a treehouse someone had built on Miami harbor in the back of Matheson Hammock. A place that could only be reached after a twenty-minute walk through the weeds. Someplace secluded that, to their knowledge, only a few people had ever discovered.
“She’s something else, huh?” was the only thing Sam could think to say.
“Heaven man. If you went to my school, you’d know. They develop nicely.”
“Not at mine. Shit. I hate New Mexico. Don’t know why my family ever moved out there. The girls there have serious problems with upper-lip hair.”
*
Sam loved the quiet of the ocean. In everyday life, his thoughts were often floating, but in the deep silence of the ocean with only his mask and snorkel that silence became something other-worldly. Images and thoughts came clearly.
Sam and Ruddy were in the water and began rinsing out their masks and snorkels. Sam was surprised that Ruddy even bothered coming. They had been friends for a long time, but every summer he came to visit, it seemed like Ruddy wanted less and less to do with him. Ruddy grew older, cooler, more handsome. Sam seemed just about the same as when he left several odd years ago after his first year of middle school. Sam had grown awkward and inward, and Ruddy grew popular and outgoing. At least that’s how it seemed to Sam.
Ruddy looked at Sam. “I’ll follow you, okay?” he said.
“Cool.”
They were in the water and swimming. They swam through the shallows, the dirty murky parts where it was hard to see. There was about ten minutes before they hit the clear ocean. Until then, they had to lurk through dirty, brackish water.
Ruddy came out of the water. “Hold up,” he said. “I took in a mouthful of that shitty water.”
Sam waited for him.
“Just let me know when you’re ready.”
When they hit the open water Sam began to dream. In his mind, he thought of a science fiction epic. A tribe of lost boys living in houses on stilts out in the bay, away from the zombies, because the zombies couldn’t swim.
He imagined himself and Ruddy with spears, hunting fish for survival. Then one day they see a zombie in the water.
*
The zombies had learned how to swim. One was approaching them. Then another, and another.
“Ruddy,” he said. “The zombies! Since when did they learn how to swim?”
“Sam, what are we supposed to do?”
They couldn’t make it back to their stilt house without going through them.
“Aim for their brains!”
They swam for the zombies, their spears at the ready. When the first one came, they both plunged their spear into its head.
*
He heard something. It was Ruddy. He was calling for Sam. Sam swam to him.
“Where’d you go?” Ruddy asked.
“I was just over there. About fifteen yards away.”
“I couldn’t see you. I think there’s water leaking into my mask.”
Sam took it from Ruddy and examined it. “How are your fins doing?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Here. Let’s switch masks.”
Sam tried out Ruddy’s mask.
“I was calling your name for a good ten minutes but you didn’t seem to hear.”
“Sorry about that. I must’ve been focused on a turtle or something.”
“A sea turtle?”
“Yeah.”
It was harder to get a seal on his mask, but the leakage wasn’t very bad.
“So, this Wendy girl, is she a senior?”
“Junior. Single. Totally getable. That’s where we’ll fuck. Right in that tree house. You fucked many women?”
“No.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Feel bad for you, bra. Just so you know, at my school, you’d get your ass beat for even owning up to something like that.”
“Ready to keep going?”
*
The sea was silent. This time Sam made sure to look back and check on Ruddy to make sure he was keeping up. On the way to the shark’s nest, they saw things. A sea turtle, a ray. Sam imagined what Wendy looked like. He imagined some girl with long purple hair and ripe breasts, fitting into a tight tank top with some cool punk band spread across her chest. He would lean over to read the name and ask her, “Are they coming for a concert anytime soon?” Yeah, he was missing out by not living in Miami.
The water suddenly became much deeper. Sam would dive down to see what he could find. Ruddy was a pretty good swimmer, but for some reason he didn’t want to follow him down.
Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. He went up to the surface of the water.
“Did you see anything?”
“Nah, just sponges.”
“That ray we saw was pretty cool.”
“Just wait until we see the shark’s nest.”
They kept swimming and instinctually Sam knew that it was around that spot. Before there had been a branch sticking up. Now, he couldn’t see anything. He looked back and tried to line up the spot using the tree house.
He tried imagining himself as an explorer looking for treasure.
*
There was a glittering in the dirt. Sam dove down and Ruddy followed. As they reached toward the glittering gold, Sam could see the bones of long dead pirates.
Ruddy reached down and grabbed one of the gold coins. As the expert in old Spanish coins, Ruddy was always the first to examine the gold. But just as he was examining it, a bony hand reached up from the dirt and grabbed his hand.
Sam took out his knife and began hacking at the bones. How long would Ruddy be able to hold his breath? Thirty more seconds? A minute at most?
One second...two seconds...
*
Ruddy came up for air again. “Are you sure it’s here?”
“Just keep your eyes open.”
He found it. The branch was submerged underwater so he hadn’t seen it. Instinct had helped him find it.
It began to drizzle a little. Sam found Ruddy not too far away.
“Hey, it’s beginning to rain,” Ruddy said.
“We should be alright as long as there isn’t lightning. Come on. I found it.”
He led Ruddy there. They kept their distance. A good ten or twelve yards away. They swam and watched.
There were three nurse sharks under the tree branch. They were big. One was at least six feet long. The others weren’t much smaller.
Another was circling around the branch. Sam had always been nervous around the larger sea creatures. He could see that Ruddy wasn’t even aware that the creature was nearby. Sam pointed and when Ruddy saw it he was startled. He froze in his spot and Sam watched him.
Finally, when the shark swam back to the nest, Ruddy came up.
“Aw man, that was awesome. I know they’re not dangerous, but shit they’re scary. I think the one that swam up to me was about ten feet long.”
Sam thought about that. Probably no more than seven feet.
They both went back under water. They kept watching from a distance. For a long time, they just watched and none of the other sharks stirred.
The light drizzle was letting up and soon the sun would come out again.
Then Sam saw something, something that made him freeze. It wasn’t a nurse shark. He thought for sure it was a hammerhead. His first thought was that they should bolt. But then, he realized the best thing to do was to keep still. He looked over at Ruddy. He wasn’t sure if he saw it. If he had, it was best not to tell him.
He looked around but didn’t see it.
He swam up to Ruddy very slowly and quietly. They both broke the plane of the water.
“Sorry man, my calf started cramping,” Sam lied. “It’s not such a big deal, but I think we should head back. Slowly, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fuck man, you’re bumming me out. Just when this trip was starting to get good.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s my fault.”
They headed back quietly and Sam kept an eye out for the hammerhead. This time there was no room for imagination. He kept close to Ruddy. On the way, he saw grouper and snapper of every size.
Something in the back of Sam’s mind made him think there was a shadow behind them. Now his imagination was working against him. He was sure there was something behind him, something big. He grabbed Ruddy by the wrist and held him still for a moment. The drizzling had stopped and the sun was out now and whatever was near them cast a shadow. It came up past Sam from behind. Ruddy panicked a little but soon they both saw what it was.
It was a manatee.
“Holy shit,” Ruddy said. “It’s huge.”
“Pet it while you can.”
“Will it let us?”
“I think so.”
They both swam up and put their hand on the manatee. The big gentle giant suddenly wasn’t in a hurry. Sam looked around for more of them, but there were none to be found. It was all alone.
*
The manatee king used its telekinetic powers to communicate with Sam and Ruddy.
“By the grace of my mercy you have been allowed to live. It was I who set the hammerhead shark against you as a test of your virtue. Those who are pure of heart do not run or hide but face its menacing visage directly. You are free to go, but be warned...I am not always so merciful.”
*
Ruddy and Sam reached the tree house and sat there for a good while. In another hour and a half or so the sun would begin to set.
“Sucks your calf cramped up.”
“Well, just glad you were with me. Can’t do these things alone, you know.”
“Glad you took me, man. You know it sucks you’re only down in the summers. Next summer, I’ll introduce you to some girls. If I do that you, you keep taking me snorkeling.”
“It’s a deal.”
Ruddy pointed up to the second floor of the tree house. “That’s where I’m going to fuck Wendy Johansen. I’ve fucked my share, but when I just think of those big milky tits, I swear I get a pretty rough semi,” he said.
Sam tried not to look embarrassed. He was only in Miami for the summers. Since last summer, Ruddy had been going on and on about sex and fucking. Since Ruddy was a year older than Sam and he was maturing faster, it seemed only natural that he would be more at ease with that sort of talk. Sam looked up, though, and saw the spot. He had to admit, it was a nice place to have sex with a girl.
It was strange, a fifteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old talking about fucking in a treehouse. But this wasn’t any ordinary treehouse. It was a treehouse someone had built on Miami harbor in the back of Matheson Hammock. A place that could only be reached after a twenty-minute walk through the weeds. Someplace secluded that, to their knowledge, only a few people had ever discovered.
“She’s something else, huh?” was the only thing Sam could think to say.
“Heaven man. If you went to my school, you’d know. They develop nicely.”
“Not at mine. Shit. I hate New Mexico. Don’t know why my family ever moved out there. The girls there have serious problems with upper-lip hair.”
*
Sam loved the quiet of the ocean. In everyday life, his thoughts were often floating, but in the deep silence of the ocean with only his mask and snorkel that silence became something other-worldly. Images and thoughts came clearly.
Sam and Ruddy were in the water and began rinsing out their masks and snorkels. Sam was surprised that Ruddy even bothered coming. They had been friends for a long time, but every summer he came to visit, it seemed like Ruddy wanted less and less to do with him. Ruddy grew older, cooler, more handsome. Sam seemed just about the same as when he left several odd years ago after his first year of middle school. Sam had grown awkward and inward, and Ruddy grew popular and outgoing. At least that’s how it seemed to Sam.
Ruddy looked at Sam. “I’ll follow you, okay?” he said.
“Cool.”
They were in the water and swimming. They swam through the shallows, the dirty murky parts where it was hard to see. There was about ten minutes before they hit the clear ocean. Until then, they had to lurk through dirty, brackish water.
Ruddy came out of the water. “Hold up,” he said. “I took in a mouthful of that shitty water.”
Sam waited for him.
“Just let me know when you’re ready.”
When they hit the open water Sam began to dream. In his mind, he thought of a science fiction epic. A tribe of lost boys living in houses on stilts out in the bay, away from the zombies, because the zombies couldn’t swim.
He imagined himself and Ruddy with spears, hunting fish for survival. Then one day they see a zombie in the water.
*
The zombies had learned how to swim. One was approaching them. Then another, and another.
“Ruddy,” he said. “The zombies! Since when did they learn how to swim?”
“Sam, what are we supposed to do?”
They couldn’t make it back to their stilt house without going through them.
“Aim for their brains!”
They swam for the zombies, their spears at the ready. When the first one came, they both plunged their spear into its head.
*
He heard something. It was Ruddy. He was calling for Sam. Sam swam to him.
“Where’d you go?” Ruddy asked.
“I was just over there. About fifteen yards away.”
“I couldn’t see you. I think there’s water leaking into my mask.”
Sam took it from Ruddy and examined it. “How are your fins doing?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Here. Let’s switch masks.”
Sam tried out Ruddy’s mask.
“I was calling your name for a good ten minutes but you didn’t seem to hear.”
“Sorry about that. I must’ve been focused on a turtle or something.”
“A sea turtle?”
“Yeah.”
It was harder to get a seal on his mask, but the leakage wasn’t very bad.
“So, this Wendy girl, is she a senior?”
“Junior. Single. Totally getable. That’s where we’ll fuck. Right in that tree house. You fucked many women?”
“No.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Feel bad for you, bra. Just so you know, at my school, you’d get your ass beat for even owning up to something like that.”
“Ready to keep going?”
*
The sea was silent. This time Sam made sure to look back and check on Ruddy to make sure he was keeping up. On the way to the shark’s nest, they saw things. A sea turtle, a ray. Sam imagined what Wendy looked like. He imagined some girl with long purple hair and ripe breasts, fitting into a tight tank top with some cool punk band spread across her chest. He would lean over to read the name and ask her, “Are they coming for a concert anytime soon?” Yeah, he was missing out by not living in Miami.
The water suddenly became much deeper. Sam would dive down to see what he could find. Ruddy was a pretty good swimmer, but for some reason he didn’t want to follow him down.
Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. He went up to the surface of the water.
“Did you see anything?”
“Nah, just sponges.”
“That ray we saw was pretty cool.”
“Just wait until we see the shark’s nest.”
They kept swimming and instinctually Sam knew that it was around that spot. Before there had been a branch sticking up. Now, he couldn’t see anything. He looked back and tried to line up the spot using the tree house.
He tried imagining himself as an explorer looking for treasure.
*
There was a glittering in the dirt. Sam dove down and Ruddy followed. As they reached toward the glittering gold, Sam could see the bones of long dead pirates.
Ruddy reached down and grabbed one of the gold coins. As the expert in old Spanish coins, Ruddy was always the first to examine the gold. But just as he was examining it, a bony hand reached up from the dirt and grabbed his hand.
Sam took out his knife and began hacking at the bones. How long would Ruddy be able to hold his breath? Thirty more seconds? A minute at most?
One second...two seconds...
*
Ruddy came up for air again. “Are you sure it’s here?”
“Just keep your eyes open.”
He found it. The branch was submerged underwater so he hadn’t seen it. Instinct had helped him find it.
It began to drizzle a little. Sam found Ruddy not too far away.
“Hey, it’s beginning to rain,” Ruddy said.
“We should be alright as long as there isn’t lightning. Come on. I found it.”
He led Ruddy there. They kept their distance. A good ten or twelve yards away. They swam and watched.
There were three nurse sharks under the tree branch. They were big. One was at least six feet long. The others weren’t much smaller.
Another was circling around the branch. Sam had always been nervous around the larger sea creatures. He could see that Ruddy wasn’t even aware that the creature was nearby. Sam pointed and when Ruddy saw it he was startled. He froze in his spot and Sam watched him.
Finally, when the shark swam back to the nest, Ruddy came up.
“Aw man, that was awesome. I know they’re not dangerous, but shit they’re scary. I think the one that swam up to me was about ten feet long.”
Sam thought about that. Probably no more than seven feet.
They both went back under water. They kept watching from a distance. For a long time, they just watched and none of the other sharks stirred.
The light drizzle was letting up and soon the sun would come out again.
Then Sam saw something, something that made him freeze. It wasn’t a nurse shark. He thought for sure it was a hammerhead. His first thought was that they should bolt. But then, he realized the best thing to do was to keep still. He looked over at Ruddy. He wasn’t sure if he saw it. If he had, it was best not to tell him.
He looked around but didn’t see it.
He swam up to Ruddy very slowly and quietly. They both broke the plane of the water.
“Sorry man, my calf started cramping,” Sam lied. “It’s not such a big deal, but I think we should head back. Slowly, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fuck man, you’re bumming me out. Just when this trip was starting to get good.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s my fault.”
They headed back quietly and Sam kept an eye out for the hammerhead. This time there was no room for imagination. He kept close to Ruddy. On the way, he saw grouper and snapper of every size.
Something in the back of Sam’s mind made him think there was a shadow behind them. Now his imagination was working against him. He was sure there was something behind him, something big. He grabbed Ruddy by the wrist and held him still for a moment. The drizzling had stopped and the sun was out now and whatever was near them cast a shadow. It came up past Sam from behind. Ruddy panicked a little but soon they both saw what it was.
It was a manatee.
“Holy shit,” Ruddy said. “It’s huge.”
“Pet it while you can.”
“Will it let us?”
“I think so.”
They both swam up and put their hand on the manatee. The big gentle giant suddenly wasn’t in a hurry. Sam looked around for more of them, but there were none to be found. It was all alone.
*
The manatee king used its telekinetic powers to communicate with Sam and Ruddy.
“By the grace of my mercy you have been allowed to live. It was I who set the hammerhead shark against you as a test of your virtue. Those who are pure of heart do not run or hide but face its menacing visage directly. You are free to go, but be warned...I am not always so merciful.”
*
Ruddy and Sam reached the tree house and sat there for a good while. In another hour and a half or so the sun would begin to set.
“Sucks your calf cramped up.”
“Well, just glad you were with me. Can’t do these things alone, you know.”
“Glad you took me, man. You know it sucks you’re only down in the summers. Next summer, I’ll introduce you to some girls. If I do that you, you keep taking me snorkeling.”
“It’s a deal.”
July 8, 2017
Now that Sophie’s Gone (Short Story)
Elizabeth got up and found Tom making breakfast for her. It had been a long time since he had roamed the house shirtless, but now that Sophie was gone it was as if he had rediscovered his love for shirtlessness, the hair on his chest, and the little bit of muscle tone left in his arms.
She was sure that the way he held the spatula was done deliberately to demonstrate his right arm’s bicep. Was this just her imagination?
He was cooking something he referred to as an omelet. “You used to love these when we were first dating. I put extra cheese in it. And bacon bits...that’s fun, right?”
She smelled burning cheese and egg from across the room. It was too early in the morning to have Tom come face to face with the ugly realities of their life before Sophie.
If the fabric of their reality could have been held together in spite of the weight of truth, she would have had the words “Sophie was the reason for the marriage, stupid” tattooed to his inner right arm.
She was about to say something about making herself some cereal when suddenly he broke out into a barrage of pushups.
“3...4...5...6…” Then he was up and stirring the eggs again. Now back to the floor. “7...8...9…” Sprinkle some more bacon bits into the omelet.
She was sure that some of his chest hair had fallen into the omelet.
“I was thinking I’d clean Sophie’s room today,” she said. “You didn’t have any plans for it, did you? I was thinking I could…”
“Sweetheart, sweetheart. In the long years of marriage together, you’ve rarely known me to be so poetic. But let me throw some poetry at you that gets to the heart of the matter -- I don’t give a fuck!” He put extra emphasis and vulgarity into his use of “fuck”.
The way he said it made him sound like some insecure and pretentious frat boy.
The eggs were starting to smoke.
“10...11...12...13…”
She was sure that the way he held the spatula was done deliberately to demonstrate his right arm’s bicep. Was this just her imagination?
He was cooking something he referred to as an omelet. “You used to love these when we were first dating. I put extra cheese in it. And bacon bits...that’s fun, right?”
She smelled burning cheese and egg from across the room. It was too early in the morning to have Tom come face to face with the ugly realities of their life before Sophie.
If the fabric of their reality could have been held together in spite of the weight of truth, she would have had the words “Sophie was the reason for the marriage, stupid” tattooed to his inner right arm.
She was about to say something about making herself some cereal when suddenly he broke out into a barrage of pushups.
“3...4...5...6…” Then he was up and stirring the eggs again. Now back to the floor. “7...8...9…” Sprinkle some more bacon bits into the omelet.
She was sure that some of his chest hair had fallen into the omelet.
“I was thinking I’d clean Sophie’s room today,” she said. “You didn’t have any plans for it, did you? I was thinking I could…”
“Sweetheart, sweetheart. In the long years of marriage together, you’ve rarely known me to be so poetic. But let me throw some poetry at you that gets to the heart of the matter -- I don’t give a fuck!” He put extra emphasis and vulgarity into his use of “fuck”.
The way he said it made him sound like some insecure and pretentious frat boy.
The eggs were starting to smoke.
“10...11...12...13…”
July 6, 2017
Sophie’s Coming Home Soon (a short story)
Tom knew that Elizabeth would be up early to clean out their daughter’s room. The idea of the emptiness had scared him so much that he had woken up early just to give her a piece of his mind.
“Don’t change too much,” he’d said. “Don’t change anything.”
Elizabeth knew her husband as both bold and rash. He had once bought a homeless man an entirely new wardrobe simply because the man had reminded him of a cousin from Kentucky. On one particularly strange occasion, he had come close to selling their house because of some wild notion that they could move to Alaska and become a wilderness family. They had spent a week in winter camping out in the backyard before she had finally put her foot down.
But even for Tom, he was acting strangely.
“Leave the stickers up there above her desk. All of them.”
Elizabeth had hoped to turn it into a kind of meeting room for her book club. But she didn’t know what she would do with the stickers of stars and unicorns over the desk. She had already taken the posters of boy bands and French impressionist paintings down a week ago. Tom, in his boldness had rehung a few of them (the French impressionists).
“Renoir really classes up the joint,” he’d said. “Let’s not give up on being a family of class just because Sophie’s gone.” The way he said it sounded like he was gritting his teeth, but she was sure he had managed a fake smile.
The bed she had hoped to sell in a garage sale. The empty space she would replace with a small sofa. A coffee table in the middle. And…
Now Tom was sitting at Sophie’s desk.
“Let’s give it some time. Too much change never did anyone any good.”
She went down to make some breakfast for the two of them and when she came back up, Tom was filling her bookshelf with things that Sophie had asked for them to keep in storage in the attic.
“Trust me,” he said. “We’ll need the attic space come winter. These old French textbooks of hers really class up the joint. We could use some class right now.”
You can check out more free short stories and essays here:
https://www.wattpad.com/305474122-pur...
“Don’t change too much,” he’d said. “Don’t change anything.”
Elizabeth knew her husband as both bold and rash. He had once bought a homeless man an entirely new wardrobe simply because the man had reminded him of a cousin from Kentucky. On one particularly strange occasion, he had come close to selling their house because of some wild notion that they could move to Alaska and become a wilderness family. They had spent a week in winter camping out in the backyard before she had finally put her foot down.
But even for Tom, he was acting strangely.
“Leave the stickers up there above her desk. All of them.”
Elizabeth had hoped to turn it into a kind of meeting room for her book club. But she didn’t know what she would do with the stickers of stars and unicorns over the desk. She had already taken the posters of boy bands and French impressionist paintings down a week ago. Tom, in his boldness had rehung a few of them (the French impressionists).
“Renoir really classes up the joint,” he’d said. “Let’s not give up on being a family of class just because Sophie’s gone.” The way he said it sounded like he was gritting his teeth, but she was sure he had managed a fake smile.
The bed she had hoped to sell in a garage sale. The empty space she would replace with a small sofa. A coffee table in the middle. And…
Now Tom was sitting at Sophie’s desk.
“Let’s give it some time. Too much change never did anyone any good.”
She went down to make some breakfast for the two of them and when she came back up, Tom was filling her bookshelf with things that Sophie had asked for them to keep in storage in the attic.
“Trust me,” he said. “We’ll need the attic space come winter. These old French textbooks of hers really class up the joint. We could use some class right now.”
You can check out more free short stories and essays here:
https://www.wattpad.com/305474122-pur...
July 3, 2017
Imagining Dad
Years after he died, I imagine running into my dad at some bar. Perhaps some tiki bar in the Keys with coconut bowls for tropical drinks. He's wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt; he has that weird not-even-trying haircut; and he's dancing with a girl.
After the divorce, I don't think my dad ever dated another girl. Not one other girl ever again. He had married my mom when he was so young. I think he was eighteen. When he got divorced he was then in his forties. He drank a lot. He got depressed. But I don't remember him ever dating anyone.
And then the medical problems started. Perhaps the irregular work had started not too long after that. Too much free time, and then he drank.
I remember crushing beer cans with a big weight out in the back yard. There were always beer cans to crush. When we filled up enough bags with crushed beer cans we could go to the movies. Now that I think about it, going to the movies was expensive. One adult and two kids and maybe popcorn and a drink.
That's a lot of beer cans.
I was probably in middle school when the very serious health problems started. The stomach problems first; bad gas; hearing problems that resulted from him not taking care of his ears; and then later he had to have laser surgery for the cancerous cells on his face. This didn't help his self-esteem. But I don't remember dad ever dating other girls. He used to tease me quite a bit, ask whether I had any girlfriends--but I don't remember him ever having any girlfriends.
Strange thing...I think dad and I got along well enough, but our relationship was complicated. After all, he was my part-time dad. I loved him without hesitation, but things are never simple in life. He must have thought I was a weird kid. I mean he knew that I wanted to become a writer. He knew that I liked Star Trek and science fiction. He must have known that a scrawny kid like me got beat up a lot in school. I had the reputation of being clumsy and not having a lot of common sense.
*
So I see him in the bar and he's dancing with this girl. An older girl to be sure, just like him, but she has sass. I'm not sure what I should say or if I should say anything. If I approach him, will he just disappear again? I'll wake up like it's some sort of lame dream.
But I know this isn't a dream.
What happens if I approach him? He suddenly becomes someone else and my whole fantasy collapses?
I don't go up to him and say anything. I don't acknowledge him but instead cast sidelong stares.
Then suddenly he looks over my way, nods, and then keeps on dancing. In his hand, he has a beer. If he did have another life, it figures he would be drinking again.
*
He quit smoking and drinking. His health depended on it and we were all grateful that he did this for us. It was probably one of the best gifts he ever gave to us.
Life could get complicated. But this wasn't complicated.
He did a good thing.
*
The future is not necessarily a place for my dad. After all, the future has computers, iPods, and other digital crap he wouldn't necessarily be interested in.
But also, it's plausible that there could be a future with my dad in it. After all, there will still be thrift stores, beaches, snorkeling, and lobster season. He would never know what to do with an iPod but he could sure rig a cooler for lobster season.
He would find old stuff nobody else wanted and build what he needed.
He was clever that way.
*
I start hanging out at all my dad's favorite places. I hang out at the bars in Key West, the thrift stores, hoping to spot him. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him. But usually it's the times when I'm not even really looking for him that he appears to me most clearly.
Always I see him from a distance. Always he's just relaxing, and always I feel like if I were to approach him he would disappear for good.
*
One day, I go snorkeling by myself. I don't take the cooler. Perhaps by this time, I've thrown it out. I don't exactly remember. I head out at his favorite lobster spot around dawn. I start swimming. I'm not looking for my dad out here. I try to just be still. I try to find a time before and past iPods and computers, before his divorce and illness but past his death. I try to just swim and see the ocean from his perspective. I try to see things his way for once. I try not to try. It's in these moments, when nothing exists and nothing is real, that I'm most apt to feel him next to me.
This time, in the ocean, he doesn't nod at me or wink. Instead, he grabs my hand. When I feel him I see him in his mask and snorkel. He points vigorously. Real or not, he knows where to find the lobsters.
After the divorce, I don't think my dad ever dated another girl. Not one other girl ever again. He had married my mom when he was so young. I think he was eighteen. When he got divorced he was then in his forties. He drank a lot. He got depressed. But I don't remember him ever dating anyone.
And then the medical problems started. Perhaps the irregular work had started not too long after that. Too much free time, and then he drank.
I remember crushing beer cans with a big weight out in the back yard. There were always beer cans to crush. When we filled up enough bags with crushed beer cans we could go to the movies. Now that I think about it, going to the movies was expensive. One adult and two kids and maybe popcorn and a drink.
That's a lot of beer cans.
I was probably in middle school when the very serious health problems started. The stomach problems first; bad gas; hearing problems that resulted from him not taking care of his ears; and then later he had to have laser surgery for the cancerous cells on his face. This didn't help his self-esteem. But I don't remember dad ever dating other girls. He used to tease me quite a bit, ask whether I had any girlfriends--but I don't remember him ever having any girlfriends.
Strange thing...I think dad and I got along well enough, but our relationship was complicated. After all, he was my part-time dad. I loved him without hesitation, but things are never simple in life. He must have thought I was a weird kid. I mean he knew that I wanted to become a writer. He knew that I liked Star Trek and science fiction. He must have known that a scrawny kid like me got beat up a lot in school. I had the reputation of being clumsy and not having a lot of common sense.
*
So I see him in the bar and he's dancing with this girl. An older girl to be sure, just like him, but she has sass. I'm not sure what I should say or if I should say anything. If I approach him, will he just disappear again? I'll wake up like it's some sort of lame dream.
But I know this isn't a dream.
What happens if I approach him? He suddenly becomes someone else and my whole fantasy collapses?
I don't go up to him and say anything. I don't acknowledge him but instead cast sidelong stares.
Then suddenly he looks over my way, nods, and then keeps on dancing. In his hand, he has a beer. If he did have another life, it figures he would be drinking again.
*
He quit smoking and drinking. His health depended on it and we were all grateful that he did this for us. It was probably one of the best gifts he ever gave to us.
Life could get complicated. But this wasn't complicated.
He did a good thing.
*
The future is not necessarily a place for my dad. After all, the future has computers, iPods, and other digital crap he wouldn't necessarily be interested in.
But also, it's plausible that there could be a future with my dad in it. After all, there will still be thrift stores, beaches, snorkeling, and lobster season. He would never know what to do with an iPod but he could sure rig a cooler for lobster season.
He would find old stuff nobody else wanted and build what he needed.
He was clever that way.
*
I start hanging out at all my dad's favorite places. I hang out at the bars in Key West, the thrift stores, hoping to spot him. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him. But usually it's the times when I'm not even really looking for him that he appears to me most clearly.
Always I see him from a distance. Always he's just relaxing, and always I feel like if I were to approach him he would disappear for good.
*
One day, I go snorkeling by myself. I don't take the cooler. Perhaps by this time, I've thrown it out. I don't exactly remember. I head out at his favorite lobster spot around dawn. I start swimming. I'm not looking for my dad out here. I try to just be still. I try to find a time before and past iPods and computers, before his divorce and illness but past his death. I try to just swim and see the ocean from his perspective. I try to see things his way for once. I try not to try. It's in these moments, when nothing exists and nothing is real, that I'm most apt to feel him next to me.
This time, in the ocean, he doesn't nod at me or wink. Instead, he grabs my hand. When I feel him I see him in his mask and snorkel. He points vigorously. Real or not, he knows where to find the lobsters.
July 1, 2017
An interview with Leo Robertson about Pierce Brosnan
I recently had the opportunity to interview Leo Robertson, the author of “Sinkhole”, about his relationship with Pierce Brosnan. Here is what he had to say:
Question 1: What’s up with Pierce Brosnan and manhood?
I have had a crush on Pierce Brosnan ever since I was allowed to see Goldeneye. I wasn’t twelve when the film came out in cinemas but let me tell you, upon witnessing Goldeneye’s glory on state-of-the-art VHS, I instantly became a man! My brother and I used to have this joke we did where we would pretend Pierce Brosnan was our dad’s friend round at the family home for a dinner party and he’s had too much wine and he starts to let slip all the stuff he’s been up to on location for the films of his prestigious career. It was mostly him talking about his annual trips to Thailand and how he barked loudly at the locals in English and bartered poorly with prostitutes. Can you imagine how overjoyed I was to watch Brosnan’s latest performance in the film No Escape (2015) where he basically plays the guy I just described? It got me thinking that there was something spectral about Piercey, that the combination of time plus Hollywood inevitably allocated actors the roles they themselves had in past lives (Whitewolf’s Theorem).
Question 2: How many Pierce Brosnans does it take to fill in a lightbulb?
I asked him this late at night while he had his arm around my dad and they were both out on the balcony singing Irish folk songs, having finished, it seems, an impossible quantity of expensive Port and cooking Brandy they'd found in sticky bottles at the back of the cupboard. I vaguely remembered seeing those same bottles, used once for a special cocktail my dad wanted to try, and that was Christmas '06. My dad was trying to smoke a cigar but his depth perception by this point was too poor to determine where the lighter needed to go. Pierce answered by telling me a rambling story about the first time he met Madonna. Never mind: if it had been an intelligible answer I fear I would've been lost in his eyes anyway.
So, in short, if we were bound to count on Pierce Brosnan to screw in a lightbulb, we would suffer a thousand years of darkness.
*This micro-short was kindly provided by Leo Robertson.
You can check out his book "Sinkhole" right here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23...
Question 1: What’s up with Pierce Brosnan and manhood?
I have had a crush on Pierce Brosnan ever since I was allowed to see Goldeneye. I wasn’t twelve when the film came out in cinemas but let me tell you, upon witnessing Goldeneye’s glory on state-of-the-art VHS, I instantly became a man! My brother and I used to have this joke we did where we would pretend Pierce Brosnan was our dad’s friend round at the family home for a dinner party and he’s had too much wine and he starts to let slip all the stuff he’s been up to on location for the films of his prestigious career. It was mostly him talking about his annual trips to Thailand and how he barked loudly at the locals in English and bartered poorly with prostitutes. Can you imagine how overjoyed I was to watch Brosnan’s latest performance in the film No Escape (2015) where he basically plays the guy I just described? It got me thinking that there was something spectral about Piercey, that the combination of time plus Hollywood inevitably allocated actors the roles they themselves had in past lives (Whitewolf’s Theorem).
Question 2: How many Pierce Brosnans does it take to fill in a lightbulb?
I asked him this late at night while he had his arm around my dad and they were both out on the balcony singing Irish folk songs, having finished, it seems, an impossible quantity of expensive Port and cooking Brandy they'd found in sticky bottles at the back of the cupboard. I vaguely remembered seeing those same bottles, used once for a special cocktail my dad wanted to try, and that was Christmas '06. My dad was trying to smoke a cigar but his depth perception by this point was too poor to determine where the lighter needed to go. Pierce answered by telling me a rambling story about the first time he met Madonna. Never mind: if it had been an intelligible answer I fear I would've been lost in his eyes anyway.
So, in short, if we were bound to count on Pierce Brosnan to screw in a lightbulb, we would suffer a thousand years of darkness.
*This micro-short was kindly provided by Leo Robertson.
You can check out his book "Sinkhole" right here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23...
June 29, 2017
A Review of "The Tyranny of Experts: Economists, Dictators, and the Forgotten Rights of the Poor"
The Tyranny of Experts: Economists, Dictators, and the Forgotten Rights of the Poor by William EasterlyMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I'm not without bias, but I'd like to think I came at this book with an open mind. I have a deep respect for hard-won expertise. But, like most academics, I also have a deep respect for modesty and the careful application of knowledge. This book doesn't argue against that kind of expertise, it argues against the use of technocracy to overlook issues of rights and politics in development.
And in this respect, the book is actually a little late to the party, since these issues have been discussed and examined for more than two decades outside of the economics discipline in the field of human geography, sociology, and more particularly the subfield of political ecology. (You can also read a fantastic book in the area of humanitarian assistance called "Condemned to Repeat" by Fiona Terry.)
Largely, Easterly makes a great argument for "rights-based" development and bottom-up forms of development based on the economic theory of Friedrich Hayek. Some reviewers have argued against the structure of the book. But I actually found its approach refreshing. I found the early use of the "debate that never happened" to be excellent. I like when authors interrogate the historical genesis of ideas. It highlights that ideas are never innocent -- they are always for something (and usually for someone).
As for the case study and long history approach -- fantastic! (Even though it summarizes the scholarship of mostly other authors).
It's bizarre that in a book about the "tyranny of experts" there would be little mention of James Ferguson's "The Anti-Politics Machine" or Arturo Escobar's "Encountering Development". Michel Foucault's concept of power/knowledge would have also been a helpful addition (though it would have turned off some potential mainstream readers). Ferguson gets one paragraph. Escobar is nowhere to be found.
The book is well-written, largely divorced from partisan ideology, and well-researched. It is grounded in the academic ethos of the honest search for truth. One of my concerns is the way this book might be used. Just as the book demonstrates how the knowledge products of experts are utilized for very narrow political interests, I have a feeling this book will (and probably already has) been utilized for various political interests it was never intended to serve.
I could, for example, see the author's ideas being used to argue for drastically cutting development aid. (I haven't looked into this, but such is the problem with mainstream economists).
Additional Notes:
Page 96 has the best quote of the book: "The findings on autocracy having a lasting effect suggest one simple lesson: get out of the vicious circle of autocracy and bad values as soon as you can! The sooner you begin the virtuous circle of democracy and good values, and the sooner you get through the rocky transition, the better".
Mirroring an idea from Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Easterly writes that technocratic actors are worse than market or government actors because unlike these two actors, they aren't held responsible for their actions by either market or the democratic public. (In other words, no skin in the game.)
An idea I found useful "the new growth model" - the number of new ideas increases with the number of people on earth (as well as the number of existing inventions plus the proliferation of rights). Thus innovations can be seen as the simple formula: population + rights + already existing innovation = new innovation.
This then explains the extraordinary factor growth in innovation. This was an idea that was new to me.
Thank you very much, Mr. Easterly, for a fantastic read.
View all my reviews
June 28, 2017
Insuring Against the Apocalypse (The Underground Novel)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Insuring Against the Apocalypse
Axiom: If you know the apocalypse is coming, find insurance.
The sage of Pompano Beach is giving a sermon again. In case you don’t know, the sage of Pompano Beach is an old beach bum who claims to have a PhD in philosophy from Harvard. He’s right in the middle of a lecture on something about the Stoics when his dementia (or something) hits and he forgets where he is and what he’s doing.
I sit down with him on the bench near the showers. He’s a golden brown color from long exposure to the sun with wispy white hairs and a beard.
“I know you,” he says. “We’ve met before.”
“Several times,” I say. “A friend introduced us. A smart friend. Reminds me of you sometimes.”
The sage shakes his head as if to tell me he might have known this. “I could give you a philosophy lecture. I have people who bring me food for philosophy.”
I ponder that for a minute: Food for Philosophy! There was a way to market that. It almost sounded like it should be on a t-shirt.
I hand him a turkey sub wrapped in tinfoil and a bottle of water. “I’m a regular, Roger. But no high-brow stuff today. I believe the apocalypse is coming. I don’t believe any of the really complicated stuff is going to survive what’s to come. I want to know your thoughts for preparing for it. The simpler the better.”
“Modernity,” he says. “Modernity creates efficiencies that push uncertainties further into the future and create the potential for large-scale catastrophes.”
“Yep, that’s what you said last time. You also told me about Progress Traps. Fascinating stuff. Now I need to know how to stay ahead.”
I think I have it figured it out. My portfolio is designed in such a way that it can survive anything -- almost anything. But the apocalypse is by definition a nearly everything killer.
He runs his hands through his weather-beaten hair and says, “Live a full and happy life with no regrets. Don’t put off a single thing that brings you meaning and genuine happiness -- not just pleasure -- that’s something different, but real and genuine happiness.”
“Hold on Roger.” I suddenly get a business call from J.P., my monkey business partner. He’s having some trouble with one of our contracts -- it’s some business venture involving advertising for clubs in West Palm Beach. We’re talking for several minutes when I notice Roger’s dementia starting to kick in. He’s already forgetting things. I can tell by the look on his face that I won’t be able to pick up the thread with Roger once the call is done. I’ll have to start from the beginning.
I might as well give up the apocalypse thought experiment for another day.
Then, it suddenly occurs to me how to insure against the apocalypse.
“Call you back in a moment, J.P.”
I hang up the phone suddenly.
“Roger, we need to hug, bro.”
“Who are you?” he asks
“Someone who needs to live in the moment.”
I hug Roger and he hugs me back.
As it turns out, in addition to being a world-class philosopher, he’s also a pretty good hugger.
**The Underground Novel is something I have been publishing in installments for a while. You can check out more here: https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
Insuring Against the Apocalypse
Axiom: If you know the apocalypse is coming, find insurance.
The sage of Pompano Beach is giving a sermon again. In case you don’t know, the sage of Pompano Beach is an old beach bum who claims to have a PhD in philosophy from Harvard. He’s right in the middle of a lecture on something about the Stoics when his dementia (or something) hits and he forgets where he is and what he’s doing.
I sit down with him on the bench near the showers. He’s a golden brown color from long exposure to the sun with wispy white hairs and a beard.
“I know you,” he says. “We’ve met before.”
“Several times,” I say. “A friend introduced us. A smart friend. Reminds me of you sometimes.”
The sage shakes his head as if to tell me he might have known this. “I could give you a philosophy lecture. I have people who bring me food for philosophy.”
I ponder that for a minute: Food for Philosophy! There was a way to market that. It almost sounded like it should be on a t-shirt.
I hand him a turkey sub wrapped in tinfoil and a bottle of water. “I’m a regular, Roger. But no high-brow stuff today. I believe the apocalypse is coming. I don’t believe any of the really complicated stuff is going to survive what’s to come. I want to know your thoughts for preparing for it. The simpler the better.”
“Modernity,” he says. “Modernity creates efficiencies that push uncertainties further into the future and create the potential for large-scale catastrophes.”
“Yep, that’s what you said last time. You also told me about Progress Traps. Fascinating stuff. Now I need to know how to stay ahead.”
I think I have it figured it out. My portfolio is designed in such a way that it can survive anything -- almost anything. But the apocalypse is by definition a nearly everything killer.
He runs his hands through his weather-beaten hair and says, “Live a full and happy life with no regrets. Don’t put off a single thing that brings you meaning and genuine happiness -- not just pleasure -- that’s something different, but real and genuine happiness.”
“Hold on Roger.” I suddenly get a business call from J.P., my monkey business partner. He’s having some trouble with one of our contracts -- it’s some business venture involving advertising for clubs in West Palm Beach. We’re talking for several minutes when I notice Roger’s dementia starting to kick in. He’s already forgetting things. I can tell by the look on his face that I won’t be able to pick up the thread with Roger once the call is done. I’ll have to start from the beginning.
I might as well give up the apocalypse thought experiment for another day.
Then, it suddenly occurs to me how to insure against the apocalypse.
“Call you back in a moment, J.P.”
I hang up the phone suddenly.
“Roger, we need to hug, bro.”
“Who are you?” he asks
“Someone who needs to live in the moment.”
I hug Roger and he hugs me back.
As it turns out, in addition to being a world-class philosopher, he’s also a pretty good hugger.
**The Underground Novel is something I have been publishing in installments for a while. You can check out more here: https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
June 25, 2017
Micro-Author Interview Harry Whitewolf
I recently had the opportunity to interview Harry Whitewolf as part of my “author micro-interview” series.
Harry is the author of amazing travel books like “Route Number 11” and “Road to Purification” as well as poetry books like “New Beat Newbie”.
New Beat Newbie
What does being an indie author mean to you?
As far as I can see, there are only two things that make being a professionally published author better than being an indie author: 1) You get a healthy advance and aren’t living on skint street, and 2) You don’t have to get too involved with the whole bullshit marketing malarkey. Whereas there are many things about being an indie author that tip the balance in favour of that. Mostly, it means I have complete control over what I put out: I get to edit the finished book to my own satisfaction, I get control over the book cover and presentation, I get to choose my own deadlines, I get to give two fingers up to the establishment, and I get to be involved with the great community of the indie scene – interacting with both readers and writers. I’ve always been an independent guy in life, doing my own thing, so I like doing the same with my books.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
One of my favourites would be this passage from my debut book Route Number 11:
“A multicoloured, mirrored mosaic clad mannequin sits on the bar with her legs spread open. Her head adorned with silk scarf and sunglasses. Pictures by local artists cluster the walls at jaunty, forgotten angles. Small, splintered stools are sat upon by Chilean locals, drowning themselves in pisco sour.”
The reason I’ve chosen that is because it was the first description I wrote about my South American trip on returning home – long before I decided to write the book it would end up in – and it paved the way for my newly developed writing style that I’d use in Route Number 11, and subsequent poetic writing.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
The question: What question would you not like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
Smoke, wank and pray – not usually at the same time.
Harry is the author of amazing travel books like “Route Number 11” and “Road to Purification” as well as poetry books like “New Beat Newbie”.
New Beat Newbie
What does being an indie author mean to you?
As far as I can see, there are only two things that make being a professionally published author better than being an indie author: 1) You get a healthy advance and aren’t living on skint street, and 2) You don’t have to get too involved with the whole bullshit marketing malarkey. Whereas there are many things about being an indie author that tip the balance in favour of that. Mostly, it means I have complete control over what I put out: I get to edit the finished book to my own satisfaction, I get control over the book cover and presentation, I get to choose my own deadlines, I get to give two fingers up to the establishment, and I get to be involved with the great community of the indie scene – interacting with both readers and writers. I’ve always been an independent guy in life, doing my own thing, so I like doing the same with my books.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
One of my favourites would be this passage from my debut book Route Number 11:
“A multicoloured, mirrored mosaic clad mannequin sits on the bar with her legs spread open. Her head adorned with silk scarf and sunglasses. Pictures by local artists cluster the walls at jaunty, forgotten angles. Small, splintered stools are sat upon by Chilean locals, drowning themselves in pisco sour.”
The reason I’ve chosen that is because it was the first description I wrote about my South American trip on returning home – long before I decided to write the book it would end up in – and it paved the way for my newly developed writing style that I’d use in Route Number 11, and subsequent poetic writing.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
The question: What question would you not like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
Smoke, wank and pray – not usually at the same time.
