Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 45
April 23, 2017
Mr. Clausen and the Half-Explained Harry Potter Addiction
Imagine for a moment that you're a 35-year-old adult male. You tend to think of yourself in serious terms. You had career ambitions, dreams of becoming a writer. There was a time when you divided up your day into 20-minute intervals to make sure you got the most of every moment.
Now, you find yourself ‘Pottering away’ your future.
Snape looks at me from the front of the room as I type this out on my Wizardo-laptopium 1000. He sneers at me. "Are you even paying attention, Mr. Clausen?" His disgust is undeniable.
"Yes, Professor Snape. Writing down every word you're saying."
"Lack of sincerity. Five points from Gryffindor."
The fact that I know words like Gryffindor, muggle, and Hogwarts may be a sign of my abject failure as an adult. I could of been someone...a lawyer, a doctor, a person who doesn't read Harry Potter.
Why am I not reading material on international relations? Why am I not nose deep in the classics trying to tease out the mysteries of good writing? For that matter, why couldn't I find a better way to Potter away my adulthood? Perhaps a drinking or gambling addiction. Those are the respectable ones after all. At least people plan interventions for those.
Snape is lecturing about the difference between wolves, werewolves, and muggles in their mid-30s with too much body hair. I stroke the fur on my hand as he lectures.
I raise my hand. I don't even wait for him to call on me. "Professor Snape, why is that I'm a 35-year-old man reading ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’?"
He sneers at me again, but before he can squeeze out some snide comment I zap him with my wand while reciting this simple spell.
"Pointless Blog Post Satisfactory Conclusorium!"
Snape smiles a ridiculous smile and says, "If you want to know the answer to the mystery of 'Mr. Clausen and the Half-Explained Harry Potter Addiction,' you'll have to read on!"
And that's when it hits me -- even in literature, we want to move on.
We come back for the promise, not the delivery. Telenovelas, soap operas, episodes of ‘Lost’, pulls of the lever on the slot machine -- we come back because of the potential that is teased, not because of any rational belief about the payoff.
Maybe I should start promising a bit more than I can deliver. Maybe I should embrace the cliffhanger!
"The next blog post will certainly be more compelling than this," I say out loud.
Snape is about to deduct five more points when suddenly he falls to the floor, grasping his chest. "Mr. Clausen...you...must...."
To be continued?
April 20, 2017
Tokyo Year Zero - Review
I itch. I scratch. I write a review. Gari-Gari.
In the smoke-filled bar, in a dark corner of cyberspace, where people are too interested in noir novels to care about the real world, I tell the man across from me that the book is one part mood, one part madness, one part stylized crime novel.
What does it all mean in the end?
One year after the end of the war, at the height of the US occupation of Japan, everything is still too broken to be meaningful. And yet something called life goes on. Wrapped in a warped, twisted world, there is a fairly standard crime story based on fact. But the devil is in the details. And the details lead to mood. They lead to repetition. They lead to doubt. The narrator is a broken man, so meaning comes in shards of broken glass.
The man seems unimpressed. Yes, he says. But what does it all mean in the end?
I itch. I scratch. Gari-Gari.
Some parts are easily understood. I hand him the pieces of glass.
Other parts don't come so easily. As easily as war-memory battered sleep. As easy as the stains come off the mugs of this smoke -filled bar in the dark corner of cyberspace. As easily as...
Enough, he says. You know what I want.
I itch. I scratch. Gari-Gari. I hand him the pills.
And this will take me to sleep? he asks. This will take me to your book review.
I smile. I bow. I itch. I scratch. Book-review. Book-review.
April 18, 2017
Speed Date the Universe (The Underground Novel)
The Underground 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 at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
*
Axiom: Good luck is about maximizing your opportunities for good luck -- or, speed date the universe.
In the last three months my friend Pierce Williams has tried several jobs. One was perfect. He went to New York, found a job in the marketing section for a book publisher. He wants to be a writer, so this is a good fit for him. The problem was that his boss was a prick. Couldn’t stop telling him what to do and how to do it. Desperate Pierce quit his job and started doing telephone sales. Terrible job, but good boss.
Who would’ve thought?
So he calls me up and asks me what he should do next. My monkey and business partner, J.P., is sitting next to me by the pool in some rich condo complex. We’re condo-sitting for one of our clients. He’s smoking a lot of weed, trying to come up with ways to reinvest a windfall of money I recently came into. I half-wanted to invite Pierce to come work for us and figure out what to do with all this cash.
“Hey, you still here?” he asks.
“Always here for you bud.”
No, it wasn’t time yet. A bookish man with the steady habits of a farmer. He had to learn what I’d gotten through my thick head at the old age of 22.
“Life is random, cheap, sometimes sweet, often cruelly arbitrary. You’ll only learn this by speed-dating?”
“Speed dating?”
“Speed date women, jobs, anything that will allow you to speed date it. I don’t know, Pierce. Who the fuck am I? Some 22-year old kid who’s watched Risky Business once too often and has dumb luck on occasion. But I think dumb luck is a skill that comes down to knowing how to speed date the universe.”
I’m waiting for Pierce to tell me that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.
“Well...it’s not the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Good, cuz I have to go. My monkey business adviser looks like he’s the right kind of high to churn out a good business idea.”
And before he can tell me THAT’S the dumbest thing I’ve ever said, I hang up the phone.
**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...
*
Axiom: Good luck is about maximizing your opportunities for good luck -- or, speed date the universe.
In the last three months my friend Pierce Williams has tried several jobs. One was perfect. He went to New York, found a job in the marketing section for a book publisher. He wants to be a writer, so this is a good fit for him. The problem was that his boss was a prick. Couldn’t stop telling him what to do and how to do it. Desperate Pierce quit his job and started doing telephone sales. Terrible job, but good boss.
Who would’ve thought?
So he calls me up and asks me what he should do next. My monkey and business partner, J.P., is sitting next to me by the pool in some rich condo complex. We’re condo-sitting for one of our clients. He’s smoking a lot of weed, trying to come up with ways to reinvest a windfall of money I recently came into. I half-wanted to invite Pierce to come work for us and figure out what to do with all this cash.
“Hey, you still here?” he asks.
“Always here for you bud.”
No, it wasn’t time yet. A bookish man with the steady habits of a farmer. He had to learn what I’d gotten through my thick head at the old age of 22.
“Life is random, cheap, sometimes sweet, often cruelly arbitrary. You’ll only learn this by speed-dating?”
“Speed dating?”
“Speed date women, jobs, anything that will allow you to speed date it. I don’t know, Pierce. Who the fuck am I? Some 22-year old kid who’s watched Risky Business once too often and has dumb luck on occasion. But I think dumb luck is a skill that comes down to knowing how to speed date the universe.”
I’m waiting for Pierce to tell me that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.
“Well...it’s not the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Good, cuz I have to go. My monkey business adviser looks like he’s the right kind of high to churn out a good business idea.”
And before he can tell me THAT’S the dumbest thing I’ve ever said, I hang up the phone.
**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...
April 12, 2017
Bed Sleep, Netflix, and other Aspects of the Good Life? (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 at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
*
Generally Good Idea: Enjoy bed sleep while you still can. Enjoy the martinis while it lasts. Enjoy Netflix. Enjoy air conditioning. Enjoy food a short walking distance away. Enjoy appliances, carpets, DVD players, swimming pools, etc. You never know how long it will last.
*
Bed sleep is good. I forgot for a little while what bed sleep was actually like. It’s been a few days since my dad's funeral, and I have my crew situated. The law firm is running well, and my other operations are running equally well from my dad’s mansion.
My mom doesn’t seem to mind that we have three homeless people with us, and she’s always loved J.P.
“What up, Monkey?” I say when I get downstairs after some serious bed sleep.
J.P. gives me a high five and pours me a bowl of cheerios.
“Thank you, my good man.”
We sit around and eat cheerios.
“I tell you what, this is the life. I didn’t know how much I missed all this crap until I came back. Food close to where you sleep, cable television, air conditioning, fully stocked mini-bar, swimming pool….oh, and, of course, the best part: bed sleep. Yeah, nothing beats bed sleep.”
J.P. shakes his head.
“Awww, come on. You don’t miss any of this?”
J.P. shrugs.
“Really?”
I think about it. It’s strange, but there is a little bit of nostalgia for the vagrant’s life: waking up to the sunset, hearing the ocean at night, playing Donkey Kong, and strangely, living dubiously.
Even that is missed.
“You’re scared that you’ll get too used to this? That next time you’re thrown into a tough situation by the Inconstant Fates it will be harder to let go?”
He eats his cereal in silence.
“Yeah, me too.”
**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...
*
Generally Good Idea: Enjoy bed sleep while you still can. Enjoy the martinis while it lasts. Enjoy Netflix. Enjoy air conditioning. Enjoy food a short walking distance away. Enjoy appliances, carpets, DVD players, swimming pools, etc. You never know how long it will last.
*
Bed sleep is good. I forgot for a little while what bed sleep was actually like. It’s been a few days since my dad's funeral, and I have my crew situated. The law firm is running well, and my other operations are running equally well from my dad’s mansion.
My mom doesn’t seem to mind that we have three homeless people with us, and she’s always loved J.P.
“What up, Monkey?” I say when I get downstairs after some serious bed sleep.
J.P. gives me a high five and pours me a bowl of cheerios.
“Thank you, my good man.”
We sit around and eat cheerios.
“I tell you what, this is the life. I didn’t know how much I missed all this crap until I came back. Food close to where you sleep, cable television, air conditioning, fully stocked mini-bar, swimming pool….oh, and, of course, the best part: bed sleep. Yeah, nothing beats bed sleep.”
J.P. shakes his head.
“Awww, come on. You don’t miss any of this?”
J.P. shrugs.
“Really?”
I think about it. It’s strange, but there is a little bit of nostalgia for the vagrant’s life: waking up to the sunset, hearing the ocean at night, playing Donkey Kong, and strangely, living dubiously.
Even that is missed.
“You’re scared that you’ll get too used to this? That next time you’re thrown into a tough situation by the Inconstant Fates it will be harder to let go?”
He eats his cereal in silence.
“Yeah, me too.”
**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...
April 5, 2017
The Gentle Hand
A gentle hand touches his face and he wakes up in his small second-floor loft. The narrow space is like a tomb and every night he commits to sleep as if he is committing to death. He drifts back to sleep and waits for the gentle hand to touch him.
In the silence of the darkness, he feels a presence.
“The world is becoming an angrier place,” he tells the darkness. As soon as he says it, he knows in his heart that he is the one who has become angrier. The gentle hand holds his eyes shut.
“What is this?” he says to the darkness. But something inside himself trusts the gentle hand. Then, there is an absence.
“My legs,” he says. “I have no legs.” He starts to cry.
The gentle hand releases his eyes and he is able to feel his legs again.
He crawls into a ball and lets his bedding curl around him, protectively. He’s not sure he trusts the gentle hand anymore. He closes his eyes and sees something. The ashes of a small house. Suddenly, he reaches to his face instinctively. His face is a lattice of scars and charred flesh. He opens his eyes and uncurls his body.
His face is not charred. It is wrinkled.
“One wrinkle for every failure. That’s what my father used to tell me. He went to work in a coal mine. Went down into a pit and never came back.”
The gentle hand places its fingers over his eyes.
“No, please. I can’t take anymore.” But he relents. There is no reason to fight anymore. The world is an angry place that has etched sorrow into his skin.
The world goes dark. He is in a pit with a dim light off in the distance. His heart is racing. And he sees a clear image of himself as a boy. His father’s last thought.
The gentle hand uncovers his eyes and reveals the world to him. He comes out of his loft, rubs the morning fog from his eyes, and temporarily says goodbye to the gentle hand.
Do you like short stories? Check out "Something to Stem the Diminishing"
In the silence of the darkness, he feels a presence.
“The world is becoming an angrier place,” he tells the darkness. As soon as he says it, he knows in his heart that he is the one who has become angrier. The gentle hand holds his eyes shut.
“What is this?” he says to the darkness. But something inside himself trusts the gentle hand. Then, there is an absence.
“My legs,” he says. “I have no legs.” He starts to cry.
The gentle hand releases his eyes and he is able to feel his legs again.
He crawls into a ball and lets his bedding curl around him, protectively. He’s not sure he trusts the gentle hand anymore. He closes his eyes and sees something. The ashes of a small house. Suddenly, he reaches to his face instinctively. His face is a lattice of scars and charred flesh. He opens his eyes and uncurls his body.
His face is not charred. It is wrinkled.
“One wrinkle for every failure. That’s what my father used to tell me. He went to work in a coal mine. Went down into a pit and never came back.”
The gentle hand places its fingers over his eyes.
“No, please. I can’t take anymore.” But he relents. There is no reason to fight anymore. The world is an angry place that has etched sorrow into his skin.
The world goes dark. He is in a pit with a dim light off in the distance. His heart is racing. And he sees a clear image of himself as a boy. His father’s last thought.
The gentle hand uncovers his eyes and reveals the world to him. He comes out of his loft, rubs the morning fog from his eyes, and temporarily says goodbye to the gentle hand.
Do you like short stories? Check out "Something to Stem the Diminishing"
March 29, 2017
Harry Potter and the Magical Grapes of Wrath
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
The Grapes of Wrath
So there they were, staring me in the face at work – a full collection of the Harry Potter books. A student had donated them. One of my coworkers was also a fan. So there they were at work, on the book shelf, unread – a challenge of the fun, slightly-retro, popular culture kind.
I show off my growing knowledge of the book to my self-described Harry Potter-loving coworker. “A muggle is a person who doesn’t use magic.” I smile. I pretend I care.
I think my coworker cares, but actually, it occurs to me at this moment that she might be faking it as well. This leads to an interesting question – How many Harry Potter fans have been faking it all this time?
I care more now that I’ve entered the Great Depression.
I need to escape the world of “The Grapes of Wrath”, at least for a little bit. The world of 1930s itinerant farmers from Oklahoma is weighing me down. It’s a bitter hardscrabble world of the poor and soon to be destitute. If Tom Joad isn’t doing so well finding work in California, maybe Harry and his friends are doing better in Hogwarts. Do they have plenty of food to eat? Check. Do they own shoes? Check. No threats of getting beat to death with a shovel? Check.
What is a simple rivalry with Malfoy compared to a rivalry with hunger? Oh, and there is flying car, an owl, and a bunch of new words to learn so I don’t have to feel like a muggle.
Harry Potter is the kind of book you read if you want to get away from bitter grapes.
Harry: Pa told me I had to sell my wand. Said if I didn’t get no 2 dollars for it the yougins gonna go hungry.
For all the magic elements, Hogwarts is a school. It feels safe. It feels like the people there are members of a community. It feels like the world has coherence – Malfoy, the Dursleys – these are just background shades of black that help the reader appreciate the beauty and wonder of Hogwarts.
Hog. Warts. Hogwarts. A mashup of two ugly things. But there is nothing ugly about Hogwarts. It might as well be Neverland for all the beauty and color it has. Sure, the writer might convince us it is drab and foreboding. Sure, the California of Steinbeck might look on the surface like a paradise. But in Hogwarts no one has to worry about work.
Hermoine: Last night I done boiled down my books and et dem. I got to et dem. Or I gots to eat dirt.
How good is this book for curing a bout of the Great Depressions? Well, I forgot almost the entire plot of the “Grapes of Wrath” while trying to understand the rules of Quiddich. Girlfriend just broke up with you? Try understanding the rules of Quiddich and then see if you even remember her name. Got angry with your boss about something? Try calling your best friend and explaining to him or her what is going on in a game of Quiddich.
I wonder if I can do this again. I wonder if I can read one book to escape another. Not necessarily Harry Potter, but something like Harry Potter. Basically, the fun blonde of books to help me even out the highs and lows of my brainy, manic-depressive brunette of books. (The last paragraph seems unnecessarily crude – yet I can’t get myself to delete it.)
It occurs to me now that Dobby and the house elves are the closest thing the book has to “Okies” in the Grapes of Wrath. Someday, mark my word, there will be a book about the starving and hungry house elves from Harry Potter.
“Magical Broths of Wrath”
The Grapes of Wrath
So there they were, staring me in the face at work – a full collection of the Harry Potter books. A student had donated them. One of my coworkers was also a fan. So there they were at work, on the book shelf, unread – a challenge of the fun, slightly-retro, popular culture kind.
I show off my growing knowledge of the book to my self-described Harry Potter-loving coworker. “A muggle is a person who doesn’t use magic.” I smile. I pretend I care.
I think my coworker cares, but actually, it occurs to me at this moment that she might be faking it as well. This leads to an interesting question – How many Harry Potter fans have been faking it all this time?
I care more now that I’ve entered the Great Depression.
I need to escape the world of “The Grapes of Wrath”, at least for a little bit. The world of 1930s itinerant farmers from Oklahoma is weighing me down. It’s a bitter hardscrabble world of the poor and soon to be destitute. If Tom Joad isn’t doing so well finding work in California, maybe Harry and his friends are doing better in Hogwarts. Do they have plenty of food to eat? Check. Do they own shoes? Check. No threats of getting beat to death with a shovel? Check.
What is a simple rivalry with Malfoy compared to a rivalry with hunger? Oh, and there is flying car, an owl, and a bunch of new words to learn so I don’t have to feel like a muggle.
Harry Potter is the kind of book you read if you want to get away from bitter grapes.
Harry: Pa told me I had to sell my wand. Said if I didn’t get no 2 dollars for it the yougins gonna go hungry.
For all the magic elements, Hogwarts is a school. It feels safe. It feels like the people there are members of a community. It feels like the world has coherence – Malfoy, the Dursleys – these are just background shades of black that help the reader appreciate the beauty and wonder of Hogwarts.
Hog. Warts. Hogwarts. A mashup of two ugly things. But there is nothing ugly about Hogwarts. It might as well be Neverland for all the beauty and color it has. Sure, the writer might convince us it is drab and foreboding. Sure, the California of Steinbeck might look on the surface like a paradise. But in Hogwarts no one has to worry about work.
Hermoine: Last night I done boiled down my books and et dem. I got to et dem. Or I gots to eat dirt.
How good is this book for curing a bout of the Great Depressions? Well, I forgot almost the entire plot of the “Grapes of Wrath” while trying to understand the rules of Quiddich. Girlfriend just broke up with you? Try understanding the rules of Quiddich and then see if you even remember her name. Got angry with your boss about something? Try calling your best friend and explaining to him or her what is going on in a game of Quiddich.
I wonder if I can do this again. I wonder if I can read one book to escape another. Not necessarily Harry Potter, but something like Harry Potter. Basically, the fun blonde of books to help me even out the highs and lows of my brainy, manic-depressive brunette of books. (The last paragraph seems unnecessarily crude – yet I can’t get myself to delete it.)
It occurs to me now that Dobby and the house elves are the closest thing the book has to “Okies” in the Grapes of Wrath. Someday, mark my word, there will be a book about the starving and hungry house elves from Harry Potter.
“Magical Broths of Wrath”
March 27, 2017
Support "Pure Writerly Moments"
At the moment, I'm gathering my best blog posts, flash fiction, and book reviews into one book project I'm calling "Pure Writerly Moments." The book should be done in 2018 or 2019. I'll continue to add to the book and edit as I go.
If you'd like to help the project, you can read and suggest one of the stories to a friend.
You can also sign up for my blog at ghostsofnagasaki.com or email me directly to sign up for my author list at: ghostsofnagasaki [at] gmail [dot] com
I suggest you start with the short story "Shichirigahama".
https://www.wattpad.com/305479738-pur...
If you like that one, you can continue with "Four Short Works of Prose" here:
https://www.wattpad.com/316080603-pur...
As always, thank you for your support.
If you'd like to help the project, you can read and suggest one of the stories to a friend.
You can also sign up for my blog at ghostsofnagasaki.com or email me directly to sign up for my author list at: ghostsofnagasaki [at] gmail [dot] com
I suggest you start with the short story "Shichirigahama".
https://www.wattpad.com/305479738-pur...
If you like that one, you can continue with "Four Short Works of Prose" here:
https://www.wattpad.com/316080603-pur...
As always, thank you for your support.
March 21, 2017
Statues in the Cloud Tease - The Letter
[Another tease from my work-in-progress novel, Statues in the Clouds.]
Dear Mr. Writer of the One Most Amazing Books Ever Written that Gives Me Hope:
Long ago, you wrote a true story (not a novel as many believe) about a boy who is able to go to an island to get a new heart. He believes his heart is turning to stone. Now, here I sit on my bed, with a heart that is turning to stone (for real, no joke), and other internal organs that are hardening. I need your to help me find something, anything that will save me. Maybe that something is you and your stories. Maybe it’s a person who can show me the island. Maybe it’s one of these things, but I think it’s something different.
I have an idea.
Are you curious? Do you want to find out what the idea is?
Sometimes writers have to be the heroes of their own tales. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything of yours in print. What happened to you? Did your imagination dry up? I don’t think so. I think you’re just waiting for something. Maybe it’s this letter from a sick girl who lives someplace you used to know well. Maybe you need an adventure. I know I do.
Come to Nagasaki and bring all your story-telling power with you. But be warned, it is not so easy to save girls with hearts that turn to stone. It will take more than silly sentiment this time. We must endeavor to learn all we can about evil and virtue.
Oh, by the way, I know that you’re probably very busy and don’t have time for one lonely fan. If that’s the case, just send me a picture of you smiling. I actually have no idea what you look like in real life. Since the book was written many years ago, I imagine that you are an old man by now. If that’s the case, just give me an old man smile to ease the heart of a girl who is slowly turning to stone.
Sincerely,
Aiya Kobayashi
Dear Mr. Writer of the One Most Amazing Books Ever Written that Gives Me Hope:
Long ago, you wrote a true story (not a novel as many believe) about a boy who is able to go to an island to get a new heart. He believes his heart is turning to stone. Now, here I sit on my bed, with a heart that is turning to stone (for real, no joke), and other internal organs that are hardening. I need your to help me find something, anything that will save me. Maybe that something is you and your stories. Maybe it’s a person who can show me the island. Maybe it’s one of these things, but I think it’s something different.
I have an idea.
Are you curious? Do you want to find out what the idea is?
Sometimes writers have to be the heroes of their own tales. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything of yours in print. What happened to you? Did your imagination dry up? I don’t think so. I think you’re just waiting for something. Maybe it’s this letter from a sick girl who lives someplace you used to know well. Maybe you need an adventure. I know I do.
Come to Nagasaki and bring all your story-telling power with you. But be warned, it is not so easy to save girls with hearts that turn to stone. It will take more than silly sentiment this time. We must endeavor to learn all we can about evil and virtue.
Oh, by the way, I know that you’re probably very busy and don’t have time for one lonely fan. If that’s the case, just send me a picture of you smiling. I actually have no idea what you look like in real life. Since the book was written many years ago, I imagine that you are an old man by now. If that’s the case, just give me an old man smile to ease the heart of a girl who is slowly turning to stone.
Sincerely,
Aiya Kobayashi
March 17, 2017
Art of the Hustle (Part 2) - Underground Novel
Series Description (Underground Novel):
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 at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Art of the Hustle - Part 2
Dustin
Now, I'm not going to try to sell you a product. As far as I'm concerned that's bad business. Rather, I'm going to try to sell you on the idea of the possibilities of the kind of services my company can offer you. Take a look at this brochure, and then, once you look at it, you have to give it back, because it's really the only brochure I have on me. No, no, I'm not going to give you my phone number or my business address. Only in special situations do I even give out my email. Rather, you give me your phone number, I'll call you with some ideas.
Anonymous
I have a dead end job. Nobody likes me. I'm uneducated. I have no money. Why are you even wasting time with me?
Dustin
I could answer that question, but wouldn't you rather have a philosophical monkey with outstanding rhetorical abilities answer that question for you?
Anonymous
Alright.
(Dustin dials a number on his cell phone.)
Dustin
What up, J.P.? Yeah, customer. Male. Says he has a dead end job. Nobody likes him. Has no money. Mmhm. Yeah. No, you're right I did like that movie. Thanks for suggesting it. Booty Call with special commentaries by the director? You know it. Yeah, here he is.
(Dustin hands the phone to Anonymous. Anonymous talks to J.P. Quickly hands the phone back to Dustin.)
Dustin
Thanks J.P. Well?
Anonymous
Wow, I guess my life really does have meaning. All this time I've been avoiding my problems. Passing them over so I don't have to deal with my own inferiority, so I don't have to deal with the possibilities of failure. And in doing so, I have let myself slip into that very same tunnel of failure.
Dustin
Now you said that you don't have any money. How is your credit?
Anonymous
Good. I'd say very good. I guess I've been afraid to use my credit cards, and other forms of loans because I'm afraid I might not be able to pay them back.
Dustin
Here's the deal. Give me your phone number and your email. We'll look over your credit report, your resume, contact some former employers and friends, and see if you're the right person for one of our life-changing packages. I'm thinking package A because it includes a heavy emphasis on spiritual growth and self-esteem and the development of a "fuller" lifestyle. Of course, all of this will be catered to your individual needs.
Anonymous
Do I get to talk more with the monkey?
Dustin
Sure . But it's not cheap. After all, J.P. is my Vice President in charge of operations. I'd like to fit you in, but, right now, our customer list is pretty tight, and we only let a select few people into our program. Only special people, but I have to say, Anonymous, I think you've got what it takes. And that's saying a lot.
Anonymous
Oh really?
Dustin
Hell yeah. You radiant winner throughout your body. You perspire winner. You reek of it. I'm not letting that modest veneer fool me. Now, I'm going to let you buy me a drink. And I'm going to let you let me stay at your place for the evening. I know what you're thinking: why would a successful businessman like me need to stay with a complete stranger who I've known for only twenty minutes? Well, as you might have guessed, my neighbor has put a two million dollar bounty on my head and sent a trained ninja assassin after me. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's at that bar right now. No, don't look worried. I've paid the bartender handsomely to drug his drink. He should pass out in a few minutes. We should start heading over to your place just to be safe, though.
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 at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Art of the Hustle - Part 2
Dustin
Now, I'm not going to try to sell you a product. As far as I'm concerned that's bad business. Rather, I'm going to try to sell you on the idea of the possibilities of the kind of services my company can offer you. Take a look at this brochure, and then, once you look at it, you have to give it back, because it's really the only brochure I have on me. No, no, I'm not going to give you my phone number or my business address. Only in special situations do I even give out my email. Rather, you give me your phone number, I'll call you with some ideas.
Anonymous
I have a dead end job. Nobody likes me. I'm uneducated. I have no money. Why are you even wasting time with me?
Dustin
I could answer that question, but wouldn't you rather have a philosophical monkey with outstanding rhetorical abilities answer that question for you?
Anonymous
Alright.
(Dustin dials a number on his cell phone.)
Dustin
What up, J.P.? Yeah, customer. Male. Says he has a dead end job. Nobody likes him. Has no money. Mmhm. Yeah. No, you're right I did like that movie. Thanks for suggesting it. Booty Call with special commentaries by the director? You know it. Yeah, here he is.
(Dustin hands the phone to Anonymous. Anonymous talks to J.P. Quickly hands the phone back to Dustin.)
Dustin
Thanks J.P. Well?
Anonymous
Wow, I guess my life really does have meaning. All this time I've been avoiding my problems. Passing them over so I don't have to deal with my own inferiority, so I don't have to deal with the possibilities of failure. And in doing so, I have let myself slip into that very same tunnel of failure.
Dustin
Now you said that you don't have any money. How is your credit?
Anonymous
Good. I'd say very good. I guess I've been afraid to use my credit cards, and other forms of loans because I'm afraid I might not be able to pay them back.
Dustin
Here's the deal. Give me your phone number and your email. We'll look over your credit report, your resume, contact some former employers and friends, and see if you're the right person for one of our life-changing packages. I'm thinking package A because it includes a heavy emphasis on spiritual growth and self-esteem and the development of a "fuller" lifestyle. Of course, all of this will be catered to your individual needs.
Anonymous
Do I get to talk more with the monkey?
Dustin
Sure . But it's not cheap. After all, J.P. is my Vice President in charge of operations. I'd like to fit you in, but, right now, our customer list is pretty tight, and we only let a select few people into our program. Only special people, but I have to say, Anonymous, I think you've got what it takes. And that's saying a lot.
Anonymous
Oh really?
Dustin
Hell yeah. You radiant winner throughout your body. You perspire winner. You reek of it. I'm not letting that modest veneer fool me. Now, I'm going to let you buy me a drink. And I'm going to let you let me stay at your place for the evening. I know what you're thinking: why would a successful businessman like me need to stay with a complete stranger who I've known for only twenty minutes? Well, as you might have guessed, my neighbor has put a two million dollar bounty on my head and sent a trained ninja assassin after me. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's at that bar right now. No, don't look worried. I've paid the bartender handsomely to drug his drink. He should pass out in a few minutes. We should start heading over to your place just to be safe, though.
March 11, 2017
Oxygen Pills, or The Subtle Art of Not Giving Up
Not giving up is the habit of writing the moment in ways that only the moment can be written.
That’s the kind of sentence that sounds awful but gets better with time. It’s the kind of ugly sentence that I might have marked one of my composition students down for with a comment like -- “Embrace concision!”
But the logic of concision doesn’t always make sense, so let’s go back some years to when I was a senior in university.
At 5 a.m. in the morning, in 2004, riding the train to the University of Miami to take courses in early American literature, it’s way too early for concision -- both in terms of time of day and emotional maturity. Concision isn’t a life mantra yet (ever?). At that time, I don’t have a laptop I can bring with me that won’t run out of juice in five minutes. Also, at that time, I remember my laptop being big and brittle. I don’t know why I even bother mentioning this because even today I usually just carry a notepad around with me. (Embrace concision!)
The train isn’t full. It’s hard to ride the train in South Florida. It’s so unreliable. But this time, all it needs to do is get me there at a decent hour. I don’t want the traffic, and I need to write this down. I need to write, not sit in a car in traffic. I’m several months away from graduation. This new novel I’m writing on the train is a way to settle my nerves. The character is a man of action. He is 22, has business ventures, is wildly social and goes on adventures with his monkey sidekick. In other words, he couldn’t be any more different from me.
Not giving up is the habit of writing yourself as a business student with multiple business ventures and a monkey sidekick who goes on adventures with you.
Now, I’m not 22 years old. I’m older. How much older is my secret to keep (at least until you do a simple Google search of me). But that same wild energy runs through my veins. I pull out the pages from the manuscript I was writing at the time and read them. Behind the pages -- ramblings about vampires and social justice, and aphorisms about business -- there is also the smell of the moldy seats of the Tri-Rail in South Florida. The train that is never on time. Its operators don’t follow the rules of concision.
Not giving up means remembering old smells from long ago that make you feel better about your body odor.
I hear bits of conversation from med students just a bit older than me who are sitting a few seats in front of me on the opposite side of the train. They take the train so they can sleep during their commute.
Not giving up is the habit of tailoring your life so you can accomplish a goal that is just a little bit beyond your reach.
“On the Tri-Rail,” one of the med students (the cocky older one) says, “I get to sleep. More energy to study later. See, this is probably the best idea I’ve had in awhile.” The shy girl listens attentively. I later find out that she is taking the Tri-Rail for the first time.
I notice that he is saying one thing and doing another. He’s not sleeping. He’s bragging. Perhaps the mating instinct is taking over.
“Then there is my other secret -- oxygen pills. Oxygen pills mean more oxygen to the brain. That means you can think better.”
Present day! I take my notebook to work. I’m in some strange, far away place from my 22-year-old self. He would wonder about things. He would wonder why I wear a tie, why the place I live in is so cold, why everyone I work with takes themselves so seriously. But he wouldn’t wonder about the notebook.
“Pure oxygen,” the older male med student says to the female (I can’t tell whether she is impressed or not).
Not giving up is the habit of finding a way to stay awake in a world that is sleeping upright. Not giving up means finding your oxygen pills.
What would the version of me who lives ten years in the future say?
Keep writing, young man. Keep hustling. Find little things like oxygen pills and memories that keep you generating sentences that go on and on until the morning hours and offend your charlatan composition teachers but keep your imagination going. And let the word terger be always a backwards spelt word so that it makes the opposite of its meaning forward...In other words, write like you breathe, young man -- oxygen pills aplenty! -- and for terger’s get a monkey sidekick already!
That’s the kind of sentence that sounds awful but gets better with time. It’s the kind of ugly sentence that I might have marked one of my composition students down for with a comment like -- “Embrace concision!”
But the logic of concision doesn’t always make sense, so let’s go back some years to when I was a senior in university.
At 5 a.m. in the morning, in 2004, riding the train to the University of Miami to take courses in early American literature, it’s way too early for concision -- both in terms of time of day and emotional maturity. Concision isn’t a life mantra yet (ever?). At that time, I don’t have a laptop I can bring with me that won’t run out of juice in five minutes. Also, at that time, I remember my laptop being big and brittle. I don’t know why I even bother mentioning this because even today I usually just carry a notepad around with me. (Embrace concision!)
The train isn’t full. It’s hard to ride the train in South Florida. It’s so unreliable. But this time, all it needs to do is get me there at a decent hour. I don’t want the traffic, and I need to write this down. I need to write, not sit in a car in traffic. I’m several months away from graduation. This new novel I’m writing on the train is a way to settle my nerves. The character is a man of action. He is 22, has business ventures, is wildly social and goes on adventures with his monkey sidekick. In other words, he couldn’t be any more different from me.
Not giving up is the habit of writing yourself as a business student with multiple business ventures and a monkey sidekick who goes on adventures with you.
Now, I’m not 22 years old. I’m older. How much older is my secret to keep (at least until you do a simple Google search of me). But that same wild energy runs through my veins. I pull out the pages from the manuscript I was writing at the time and read them. Behind the pages -- ramblings about vampires and social justice, and aphorisms about business -- there is also the smell of the moldy seats of the Tri-Rail in South Florida. The train that is never on time. Its operators don’t follow the rules of concision.
Not giving up means remembering old smells from long ago that make you feel better about your body odor.
I hear bits of conversation from med students just a bit older than me who are sitting a few seats in front of me on the opposite side of the train. They take the train so they can sleep during their commute.
Not giving up is the habit of tailoring your life so you can accomplish a goal that is just a little bit beyond your reach.
“On the Tri-Rail,” one of the med students (the cocky older one) says, “I get to sleep. More energy to study later. See, this is probably the best idea I’ve had in awhile.” The shy girl listens attentively. I later find out that she is taking the Tri-Rail for the first time.
I notice that he is saying one thing and doing another. He’s not sleeping. He’s bragging. Perhaps the mating instinct is taking over.
“Then there is my other secret -- oxygen pills. Oxygen pills mean more oxygen to the brain. That means you can think better.”
Present day! I take my notebook to work. I’m in some strange, far away place from my 22-year-old self. He would wonder about things. He would wonder why I wear a tie, why the place I live in is so cold, why everyone I work with takes themselves so seriously. But he wouldn’t wonder about the notebook.
“Pure oxygen,” the older male med student says to the female (I can’t tell whether she is impressed or not).
Not giving up is the habit of finding a way to stay awake in a world that is sleeping upright. Not giving up means finding your oxygen pills.
What would the version of me who lives ten years in the future say?
Keep writing, young man. Keep hustling. Find little things like oxygen pills and memories that keep you generating sentences that go on and on until the morning hours and offend your charlatan composition teachers but keep your imagination going. And let the word terger be always a backwards spelt word so that it makes the opposite of its meaning forward...In other words, write like you breathe, young man -- oxygen pills aplenty! -- and for terger’s get a monkey sidekick already!
