Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 46
March 4, 2017
Don Quixote -- A Book Review in Three Sallies
The First Sally
The story of Don Quixote is one that plays itself over and over again. In real life and in literature, to the point where it is hardly clear where one story ends and another begins.
Manager: Customer renewal rates!
Me: Señor, are you referring to those windmills.
A story of a person fighting metaphysical monsters only he can see. At this very moment, I’m typing this review as if it’s the most important thing in the world. Meanwhile, a mere ten feet away, my boss in contemplating other things – operating expenses, renewal rates – that to me seem fantastic, the ramblings of a lunatic.
Don Quixote is raging against the death of chivalry. My own quest is to preserve that which is beautiful and sacred in the written word.
The book does bring up uncomfortable questions about the nature of one’s reading life to one’s real life. What happens when the stories you read become more real than the real world? (These days, people tend to worry more about kids playing video games or becoming absorbed in social media).
It’s fitting that the book begins with Don Quixote neglecting the matters of his day on account of books. Books are what draw him into his fantasy world and into the ideal life of chivalry.
Toward the end of the book, especially, we see Don Quixote, the fan-boy of chivalry and adventure, on full display with his knowledge of history and chivalric know-how. So much so, that I want to abandon my suit and tie and don full armor just like Don Quixote.
The old question – who is to say who is the lunatic and who is the realist? For me, the fantasy of books is necessary to validate the mundane lunacy of an office environment.
The Second Sally
The tale of Don Quixote has gotten me interested in other reality/fantasy hybrids – Joe the Barbarian, I Kill Giants, Tough Girl, The Wizard of Oz. At the foundation of these stories is the idea that there is something fundamentally wrong with the world as it is presented. Their stories are one of redemption by a lonely outsider. (Think Batman! You will see many similarities between Don Quixote and Batman!)
When I was growing up, there was an oil painting in my living room. It showed Don Quixote with his brilliant lance and shining armor facing a field of windmills. By his side was his trusty Sancho Panza (Alfred Pennyworth!). My thought was that this was “classical” romantic literature.
I actually had no idea what classical literature was. I also wasn’t very romantic. I was only in third grade at the time. But that Christmas I received a box set of illustrated kid’s versions of classical literature. And there my adventure began! Huck Finn, Wizard of Oz, Oliver Twist…
My mom, being from Cuba, had of course read Don Quixote many times in its original Spanish. That was why the picture was on our wall. And that’s also why – and this I kid you not – in an earlier house we had a suit of knight’s armor. (I don’t know what happened to it. And we didn’t have it long enough for me to grow into it.)
I wanted to read this book partly for my mom; partly to make my workday feel normal. It’s fitting that I stole 10 minutes here, 15 minutes there to read this book. It’s fitting that I neglected adult life to do this.
My mom would be proud.
Jason, a reviewer on Goodreads, writes: “I’ve discovered that Don Quixote is not a bumbling idiot – far from it, in fact. He is highly intelligent, highly perceptive and observant, and most surprisingly, and in spite of all his delusions of being a knight-errant, he is actually self-aware.” This makes me feel better about the lunacy that is my life. After all, I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m unmarried; have cultivated a romantic anti-career, and have fed my book addiction in a way that would make Mr. Quixano blush.
And yet, I am self-aware. I realize that books have driven me further and further to the fringes – like other lunatics of fantasy. And without the crutch of a Sancho Panza or Alfred Pennyworth.
If I am a lunatic, I am a self-aware lunatic. And while my writing and reading habits have made me quite poor and circumspect to managers who look at renewal rates and other such seemingly realistic fantasies, they also make me better.
Of his chivalry affliction, Don Quixote said, “For myself I can say that since I have been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, well-bred, magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have learned to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though it be such a short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not, to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able to show the gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart.”
And now I find myself a king! These words – found on the Gutenberg digital library – have given me a kingdom to myself.
The mad king in his mad kingdom finds willing participants in the manufacture of passages such as these: “the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;” and, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves.” Yes, I know why Don Quixote donned the armor.
To what other kingdom can these treasures be exported?
If these passages sound so beautiful in translated English, to think what they must sound like in the original Spanish. As I say these words, I am happy to read this book and think of my mom, who came from Cuba loved this book and read it frequently in Spanish.
Not Dulcinea. No, her name was just Dulce.
The Third Sally
The history of the third sally to this book review could not be found. It is thought that there were many historic deeds done during this third attempt at a book review. However, due to poor historical records, the writer of this actual book review has only hearsay. Some say that he developed a callous on his right middle finger from all the typing he was doing and had to apply for worker’s compensation or some other such fantastical concept that could only exist in the 21st century before the rise of Literary Society as we know it today.
Epilogue
The book ends with Don Quixote apologizing for all the harm he has caused and forswearing anything to do with chivalry or knighthood. It is an ending decisively against the idealism and fantastic adventures that the reader has indulged in with Don Quixote. One wonders what to make of it.
Despite this finale, I like to imagine the book hanging on a razor’s edge between proselytizing the virtues of idealism and warning against its dangers. I also imagine it questioning who the realist is and who the madman.
But first, dangers! For there are many dangers in our age. For every benign lunatic like me, there are other idealists, some of them rulers of real kingdoms living in bizarre fantasy worlds denying some realities (climate change, electoral results) while extolling their favored fantasies (media conspiracies); these people would reverse the usual order of these words as we know them and claim us of the literary society as the lunatics.
An appreciation of the relativism of lunacy, truth, fact, and other not so trivial things (artistic or otherwise) only works in their favor.
The battle is not new.
Manager: Look at these renewal rates. What do you see?
Me: Nothing. Nothing in comparison to the heartfelt tale of this man of La Mancha (Don Quixote / Miguel de Cervantes). Nothing in comparison to the tale of Joe and his trek amongst the barbarians (Joe the Barbarian / Grant Morrison). Nothing in comparison to the epic story of the girl and toughness (Tough Girl / Libby Heily). Nothing compared to my own adventures in the land of literature.
The story of Don Quixote is one that plays itself over and over again. In real life and in literature, to the point where it is hardly clear where one story ends and another begins.
Manager: Customer renewal rates!
Me: Señor, are you referring to those windmills.
A story of a person fighting metaphysical monsters only he can see. At this very moment, I’m typing this review as if it’s the most important thing in the world. Meanwhile, a mere ten feet away, my boss in contemplating other things – operating expenses, renewal rates – that to me seem fantastic, the ramblings of a lunatic.
Don Quixote is raging against the death of chivalry. My own quest is to preserve that which is beautiful and sacred in the written word.
The book does bring up uncomfortable questions about the nature of one’s reading life to one’s real life. What happens when the stories you read become more real than the real world? (These days, people tend to worry more about kids playing video games or becoming absorbed in social media).
It’s fitting that the book begins with Don Quixote neglecting the matters of his day on account of books. Books are what draw him into his fantasy world and into the ideal life of chivalry.
Toward the end of the book, especially, we see Don Quixote, the fan-boy of chivalry and adventure, on full display with his knowledge of history and chivalric know-how. So much so, that I want to abandon my suit and tie and don full armor just like Don Quixote.
The old question – who is to say who is the lunatic and who is the realist? For me, the fantasy of books is necessary to validate the mundane lunacy of an office environment.
The Second Sally
The tale of Don Quixote has gotten me interested in other reality/fantasy hybrids – Joe the Barbarian, I Kill Giants, Tough Girl, The Wizard of Oz. At the foundation of these stories is the idea that there is something fundamentally wrong with the world as it is presented. Their stories are one of redemption by a lonely outsider. (Think Batman! You will see many similarities between Don Quixote and Batman!)
When I was growing up, there was an oil painting in my living room. It showed Don Quixote with his brilliant lance and shining armor facing a field of windmills. By his side was his trusty Sancho Panza (Alfred Pennyworth!). My thought was that this was “classical” romantic literature.
I actually had no idea what classical literature was. I also wasn’t very romantic. I was only in third grade at the time. But that Christmas I received a box set of illustrated kid’s versions of classical literature. And there my adventure began! Huck Finn, Wizard of Oz, Oliver Twist…
My mom, being from Cuba, had of course read Don Quixote many times in its original Spanish. That was why the picture was on our wall. And that’s also why – and this I kid you not – in an earlier house we had a suit of knight’s armor. (I don’t know what happened to it. And we didn’t have it long enough for me to grow into it.)
I wanted to read this book partly for my mom; partly to make my workday feel normal. It’s fitting that I stole 10 minutes here, 15 minutes there to read this book. It’s fitting that I neglected adult life to do this.
My mom would be proud.
Jason, a reviewer on Goodreads, writes: “I’ve discovered that Don Quixote is not a bumbling idiot – far from it, in fact. He is highly intelligent, highly perceptive and observant, and most surprisingly, and in spite of all his delusions of being a knight-errant, he is actually self-aware.” This makes me feel better about the lunacy that is my life. After all, I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m unmarried; have cultivated a romantic anti-career, and have fed my book addiction in a way that would make Mr. Quixano blush.
And yet, I am self-aware. I realize that books have driven me further and further to the fringes – like other lunatics of fantasy. And without the crutch of a Sancho Panza or Alfred Pennyworth.
If I am a lunatic, I am a self-aware lunatic. And while my writing and reading habits have made me quite poor and circumspect to managers who look at renewal rates and other such seemingly realistic fantasies, they also make me better.
Of his chivalry affliction, Don Quixote said, “For myself I can say that since I have been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, well-bred, magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have learned to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though it be such a short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not, to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able to show the gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart.”
And now I find myself a king! These words – found on the Gutenberg digital library – have given me a kingdom to myself.
The mad king in his mad kingdom finds willing participants in the manufacture of passages such as these: “the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;” and, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves.” Yes, I know why Don Quixote donned the armor.
To what other kingdom can these treasures be exported?
If these passages sound so beautiful in translated English, to think what they must sound like in the original Spanish. As I say these words, I am happy to read this book and think of my mom, who came from Cuba loved this book and read it frequently in Spanish.
Not Dulcinea. No, her name was just Dulce.
The Third Sally
The history of the third sally to this book review could not be found. It is thought that there were many historic deeds done during this third attempt at a book review. However, due to poor historical records, the writer of this actual book review has only hearsay. Some say that he developed a callous on his right middle finger from all the typing he was doing and had to apply for worker’s compensation or some other such fantastical concept that could only exist in the 21st century before the rise of Literary Society as we know it today.
Epilogue
The book ends with Don Quixote apologizing for all the harm he has caused and forswearing anything to do with chivalry or knighthood. It is an ending decisively against the idealism and fantastic adventures that the reader has indulged in with Don Quixote. One wonders what to make of it.
Despite this finale, I like to imagine the book hanging on a razor’s edge between proselytizing the virtues of idealism and warning against its dangers. I also imagine it questioning who the realist is and who the madman.
But first, dangers! For there are many dangers in our age. For every benign lunatic like me, there are other idealists, some of them rulers of real kingdoms living in bizarre fantasy worlds denying some realities (climate change, electoral results) while extolling their favored fantasies (media conspiracies); these people would reverse the usual order of these words as we know them and claim us of the literary society as the lunatics.
An appreciation of the relativism of lunacy, truth, fact, and other not so trivial things (artistic or otherwise) only works in their favor.
The battle is not new.
Manager: Look at these renewal rates. What do you see?
Me: Nothing. Nothing in comparison to the heartfelt tale of this man of La Mancha (Don Quixote / Miguel de Cervantes). Nothing in comparison to the tale of Joe and his trek amongst the barbarians (Joe the Barbarian / Grant Morrison). Nothing in comparison to the epic story of the girl and toughness (Tough Girl / Libby Heily). Nothing compared to my own adventures in the land of literature.
February 27, 2017
Road Warriors
“Road Warrior,” he said. “When I drive along this road, I like to think I’m in the movie ‘The Road Warrior’ with Mel Gibson. You know that one?” He doesn’t stop to wait for me to answer. “At any moment, I’m going to see people on top of cars shirtless with flamethrowers and shotguns and shit. I’ve been here four years now, and one of these days, swear to the good Lord, I’ll see some shirtless Arab with a flamethrower.” He spoke like he had chewing tobacco in his mouth. But he didn’t. Claimed he had quit many years ago.
We were driving in a brand new SUV down Al Karais. I watched as cars darted in front of us with reckless abandon while others were inching along the highway, their drivers trying to master the task of driving while playing games on their cellphones. The random barrage of slow moving cars and cars racing and darting in front of other drivers created a tightness in my chest. My colleague gripped the steering with two hand tensely, his eyes alert. Apparently, four years hadn’t made driving any easier.
“Always on their f*** phones,” he said pointing one out to me. Sure enough the driver’s eyes weren’t even on the road, nor were his hands on the wheel. Instead, his car was guided by elbows and what appeared to be sheer luck and belief. At intervals my colleague would yell, as if a mantra to relieve stress, “Get off your f**** phone!”
Off to the side of the road there were piles of rubble -- bricks, stones, trash. At first, there was a random quality to this rubble, but then, as I looked closely, as I saw them in neat piles, it seemed as if there were a pattern to the piles of rubble.
“Does someone organize the rubble?” I asked.
“What? What kind of question is that? Does someone organize the rubble? No one organizes shit here. You see this clean SUV? The only reason it’s so clean is because our company REQUIRES it to be clean. If it were up to me, I’d smear as much dirt and shit as we could on it to help us blend in.”
My new colleague was playing the part of the callous oldtimer a little too well.
I looked off and saw dirt and rubble. Just beyond the dirt and rubble though I could make out the silhouettes of two skyscrapers. King Tower and Faisaliah Tower -- the two symbols of irrational modernity in what my new friend called ‘The Road Warrior’ world.
“Where can I get my flamethrower? That’s what I want to know. I’ll put you up there tomorrow with a flamethrower. How would you like that?” Again, he didn’t stop to wait for my answer. He just kept talking and talking, filling the void of the desert and our oh-too-clean SUV with words upon meaningless words.
Then I started seeing the abandoned cars on the side of the road. I started counting...one abandoned car...two abandoned cars...abandoned pickup. .
Then I was distracted suddenly. A car was coming right for us, driving the wrong way on the highway. My new colleague expertly dodged him and another car that darted in front of us just as the other car coming toward us narrowly missed.
“Barbarian! Definitely ‘Road Warrior.’ God, I got to watch the movie again. Mel Gibson is such a badass in that movie.”
We were driving in a brand new SUV down Al Karais. I watched as cars darted in front of us with reckless abandon while others were inching along the highway, their drivers trying to master the task of driving while playing games on their cellphones. The random barrage of slow moving cars and cars racing and darting in front of other drivers created a tightness in my chest. My colleague gripped the steering with two hand tensely, his eyes alert. Apparently, four years hadn’t made driving any easier.
“Always on their f*** phones,” he said pointing one out to me. Sure enough the driver’s eyes weren’t even on the road, nor were his hands on the wheel. Instead, his car was guided by elbows and what appeared to be sheer luck and belief. At intervals my colleague would yell, as if a mantra to relieve stress, “Get off your f**** phone!”
Off to the side of the road there were piles of rubble -- bricks, stones, trash. At first, there was a random quality to this rubble, but then, as I looked closely, as I saw them in neat piles, it seemed as if there were a pattern to the piles of rubble.
“Does someone organize the rubble?” I asked.
“What? What kind of question is that? Does someone organize the rubble? No one organizes shit here. You see this clean SUV? The only reason it’s so clean is because our company REQUIRES it to be clean. If it were up to me, I’d smear as much dirt and shit as we could on it to help us blend in.”
My new colleague was playing the part of the callous oldtimer a little too well.
I looked off and saw dirt and rubble. Just beyond the dirt and rubble though I could make out the silhouettes of two skyscrapers. King Tower and Faisaliah Tower -- the two symbols of irrational modernity in what my new friend called ‘The Road Warrior’ world.
“Where can I get my flamethrower? That’s what I want to know. I’ll put you up there tomorrow with a flamethrower. How would you like that?” Again, he didn’t stop to wait for my answer. He just kept talking and talking, filling the void of the desert and our oh-too-clean SUV with words upon meaningless words.
Then I started seeing the abandoned cars on the side of the road. I started counting...one abandoned car...two abandoned cars...abandoned pickup. .
Then I was distracted suddenly. A car was coming right for us, driving the wrong way on the highway. My new colleague expertly dodged him and another car that darted in front of us just as the other car coming toward us narrowly missed.
“Barbarian! Definitely ‘Road Warrior.’ God, I got to watch the movie again. Mel Gibson is such a badass in that movie.”
February 22, 2017
ReejecttIIon - A Number 2 Free on Kindle (5 days)
Daniel - What’s the matter Harry? Why are you boo-hooing like a toddler that’s just seen his favourite teddy bear go through a shredder? You shouldn’t be such a cry baby, you know.
Harry - It’s nothing, Daniel. Don’t you worry about me.
Daniel - Alright, I won’t. But do stop crying. I can’t hear the plot to The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’re getting tears and snot all over the T.V remote.
Harry - Isn’t that the same remote control that took us on a crazy trip into the television where we met Danny Zuko and The Fonz?
Daniel - Hm? Yeah, I think it is. Why do you ask? And why the hell have you started crying even more? Here, rip a page out of this poor-selling poetry book of yours and use it as a handkerchief. You’re dripping snot everywhere!
Harry - Boo-hoo-hoo…
Daniel - Whatever is the matter man?
Harry - It’s just that… You forgot.
Daniel - Forgot what? What are you drivelling on about?
Harry -It’s our anniversary! And you forgot!
Daniel - Anniversary? I don’t remember us getting hitched. And even if we did, we can’t be legally wed ‘cos I’m still married to that Albanian hooker who robbed me of all my money and ran away to Hawaii with some bloke called Disco Derek.
Harry - Don’t be daft! It’s not our wedding anniversary!
Daniel - What is it then? Our first kiss? I’ve told you a million times that I was drunk and that was just a one off thing.
Harry - No, no. It’s our anniversary of publishing our book ReejecttIIon – a number two.
Daniel - You mean the book where we get sucked into the T.V and waterski with Arthur Fonzerelli and try to keep up with Danny Zuko’s disco moves?
Harry - Exactly!
Daniel - Well, why didn’t you say so? And don’t worry Harry, I hadn’t really forgotten. In fact, I’ve just set up a giveaway on Kindle to celebrate ReejecttIIonbeing one year old.
Harry - You have?
Daniel - Yeah, it’s my present to you Harry.
Harry - Damn. I wanted a My Little Pony.
FREE ON KINDLE FOR FIVE DAYS: 23RD – 27TH FEBRUARY
Links:
Amazon.com: http://a.co/2zot8qi
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01CF3MK4I
Harry - It’s nothing, Daniel. Don’t you worry about me.
Daniel - Alright, I won’t. But do stop crying. I can’t hear the plot to The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’re getting tears and snot all over the T.V remote.
Harry - Isn’t that the same remote control that took us on a crazy trip into the television where we met Danny Zuko and The Fonz?
Daniel - Hm? Yeah, I think it is. Why do you ask? And why the hell have you started crying even more? Here, rip a page out of this poor-selling poetry book of yours and use it as a handkerchief. You’re dripping snot everywhere!
Harry - Boo-hoo-hoo…
Daniel - Whatever is the matter man?
Harry - It’s just that… You forgot.
Daniel - Forgot what? What are you drivelling on about?
Harry -It’s our anniversary! And you forgot!
Daniel - Anniversary? I don’t remember us getting hitched. And even if we did, we can’t be legally wed ‘cos I’m still married to that Albanian hooker who robbed me of all my money and ran away to Hawaii with some bloke called Disco Derek.
Harry - Don’t be daft! It’s not our wedding anniversary!
Daniel - What is it then? Our first kiss? I’ve told you a million times that I was drunk and that was just a one off thing.
Harry - No, no. It’s our anniversary of publishing our book ReejecttIIon – a number two.
Daniel - You mean the book where we get sucked into the T.V and waterski with Arthur Fonzerelli and try to keep up with Danny Zuko’s disco moves?
Harry - Exactly!
Daniel - Well, why didn’t you say so? And don’t worry Harry, I hadn’t really forgotten. In fact, I’ve just set up a giveaway on Kindle to celebrate ReejecttIIonbeing one year old.
Harry - You have?
Daniel - Yeah, it’s my present to you Harry.
Harry - Damn. I wanted a My Little Pony.
FREE ON KINDLE FOR FIVE DAYS: 23RD – 27TH FEBRUARY
Links:
Amazon.com: http://a.co/2zot8qi
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01CF3MK4I
February 16, 2017
The Politician (Sketch Writing for “Statues in the Cloud”)
*The following is sketch writing for the character of the politician in a novel-in-progress tentatively entitled "Statues in the Cloud"
The salt still clung to his suit. The politician had ignored their advice and continued to wear the salt covered suit. He couldn’t get past the idea that he wasn’t just a few steps away from his office. He was sure that if he stepped back into the ocean, he would magically reappear in his office and he would wake up as if from an afternoon nap.
“What is this place?” the politician asked. “You seem to know something the other one doesn’t.”
The young Japanese girl didn’t even want to answer him. She wanted to continue on, to find the other four and forget about the politician altogether. He was the one that didn’t belong. But she couldn’t think of a way to convince of this.
The young author stood aloof from the young girl and the older Japanese man. None of it made sense, but he knew better than to try to make sense of it all with one conversation. A young Japanese girl maybe a year or two younger than him, seventeen or eighteen, and a Japanese politician, maybe in his late forties all of them soaking wet, having just stepped out of an ocean onto an island.
No, a single conversation wouldn’t make sense of it.
The politician, however, didn’t have the writer’s instincts.
“Where was I? I was going outside to have a smoke. I’d just given an interview to the reporter from the Asahi Newspaper and then, I lit a cigarette...there was something in my pocket, something heavy.”
The young girl was silent, but she wanted to scream, What are you doing here?
“Listen, you’ll just have to believe me when I say that we’re on a larger mission. There is much at stake. We’ll have to find the others. They should be washing up on the beach pretty soon and they’ll be just as confused as you two are. You just have to be quiet for a moment.” Of course, he was going to ignore her. She knew this because she knew him.
The politician pointed at the young writer. “And, you. You’re American, right? Do you know anything about this?”
The young Japanese girl turned to the young writer. “You don’t have to answer him. He doesn’t run anything here.”
“Oiy, young girl,” he said in Japanese. “Who made you in charge?”
“I am in charge. You’re not. Here you’re small. In fact, you’re the smallest most pitiable thing that lives on this island. And you’re a danger to all of us. Your racism and selfishness...everything about you could get us killed here. But this island knows something that I don’t. For some reason, it chose you, just like it chose us.”
“Stop talking this nonsense. Start making sense. Speak in concrete terms. How did I end up here? Who are these people you are talking about? How do I get back to my office?” He stopped as if suddenly struck by something. The brain hemorrhage that killed his father. He was dying. That was it. Something had happened to him and he would wake up in a hospital bed...or not wake up at all.
The sun was shining but there was the sound of thunder in the distance.
“What was that? I can hear something.”
The writer and the young Japanese girl exchanged confused glances.
“It’s calling to me. You don’t hear that.”
“Young girl. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t listen to it.”
“It’s my father’s voice. He’s seen the light. He’s calling to me.”
The writer came the politician’s side. He put a light hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s time we rested for a bit. If she’s right there will be more people with more questions. Maybe when we’re all together and safe we can start trying to figure out answers.”
The politician wanted to slap the American’s hand away from his shoulders, but then he saw the young Japanese girl and decided again to smile. “Yes, of course. There are people that need our help.”
The young writer suddenly realized what the Japanese girl knew. The politician was a snake.
The salt still clung to his suit. The politician had ignored their advice and continued to wear the salt covered suit. He couldn’t get past the idea that he wasn’t just a few steps away from his office. He was sure that if he stepped back into the ocean, he would magically reappear in his office and he would wake up as if from an afternoon nap.
“What is this place?” the politician asked. “You seem to know something the other one doesn’t.”
The young Japanese girl didn’t even want to answer him. She wanted to continue on, to find the other four and forget about the politician altogether. He was the one that didn’t belong. But she couldn’t think of a way to convince of this.
The young author stood aloof from the young girl and the older Japanese man. None of it made sense, but he knew better than to try to make sense of it all with one conversation. A young Japanese girl maybe a year or two younger than him, seventeen or eighteen, and a Japanese politician, maybe in his late forties all of them soaking wet, having just stepped out of an ocean onto an island.
No, a single conversation wouldn’t make sense of it.
The politician, however, didn’t have the writer’s instincts.
“Where was I? I was going outside to have a smoke. I’d just given an interview to the reporter from the Asahi Newspaper and then, I lit a cigarette...there was something in my pocket, something heavy.”
The young girl was silent, but she wanted to scream, What are you doing here?
“Listen, you’ll just have to believe me when I say that we’re on a larger mission. There is much at stake. We’ll have to find the others. They should be washing up on the beach pretty soon and they’ll be just as confused as you two are. You just have to be quiet for a moment.” Of course, he was going to ignore her. She knew this because she knew him.
The politician pointed at the young writer. “And, you. You’re American, right? Do you know anything about this?”
The young Japanese girl turned to the young writer. “You don’t have to answer him. He doesn’t run anything here.”
“Oiy, young girl,” he said in Japanese. “Who made you in charge?”
“I am in charge. You’re not. Here you’re small. In fact, you’re the smallest most pitiable thing that lives on this island. And you’re a danger to all of us. Your racism and selfishness...everything about you could get us killed here. But this island knows something that I don’t. For some reason, it chose you, just like it chose us.”
“Stop talking this nonsense. Start making sense. Speak in concrete terms. How did I end up here? Who are these people you are talking about? How do I get back to my office?” He stopped as if suddenly struck by something. The brain hemorrhage that killed his father. He was dying. That was it. Something had happened to him and he would wake up in a hospital bed...or not wake up at all.
The sun was shining but there was the sound of thunder in the distance.
“What was that? I can hear something.”
The writer and the young Japanese girl exchanged confused glances.
“It’s calling to me. You don’t hear that.”
“Young girl. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t listen to it.”
“It’s my father’s voice. He’s seen the light. He’s calling to me.”
The writer came the politician’s side. He put a light hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s time we rested for a bit. If she’s right there will be more people with more questions. Maybe when we’re all together and safe we can start trying to figure out answers.”
The politician wanted to slap the American’s hand away from his shoulders, but then he saw the young Japanese girl and decided again to smile. “Yes, of course. There are people that need our help.”
The young writer suddenly realized what the Japanese girl knew. The politician was a snake.
February 4, 2017
Tequila, 4:20
His arms on the cheap wooden table work hard to keep him upright. He looks across the table at her. She’s impossibly young and beautiful.
“What am I drinking?” he asks.
“Tequila.”
“What time is it?”
“4:20 in the morning.”
“Who are you?”
This is complicated. Too complicated for her to explain in his current state. She wants to explain how she had once dreamed of a future together, of wandering the globe as two lovers on a spectacular journey. In this bar, at this time, it’s all she can do to hold out hope that a future together is still possible.
She wants to explain all of this, but can only manage, “Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”
He looks down again, disoriented.
“What am I drinking?”
“Tequila.”
“What time is it?”
“Still 4:20.”
“What am I drinking?” he asks.
“Tequila.”
“What time is it?”
“4:20 in the morning.”
“Who are you?”
This is complicated. Too complicated for her to explain in his current state. She wants to explain how she had once dreamed of a future together, of wandering the globe as two lovers on a spectacular journey. In this bar, at this time, it’s all she can do to hold out hope that a future together is still possible.
She wants to explain all of this, but can only manage, “Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”
He looks down again, disoriented.
“What am I drinking?”
“Tequila.”
“What time is it?”
“Still 4:20.”
January 29, 2017
Splashes
I wake up because I hear a splash and think someone has jumped in the lake.
It’s not someone jumping in the lake, it’s my dad throwing up into a toilet. Sick for weeks now with something blocking his intestines, he refuses to leave the apartment. He throws up instead of shitting. Why he doesn’t go to the hospital: it’s all a technical and long process to explain and it happens more abstractly than realistically. Something about a gap in his insurance coverage.
The infighting that would develop in my family, very similar to the tribal disputes T.E. Lawrence dealt with while leading the Bedouin. Get him to go; let him make his own choices. The choices T.E. had to make during WWI would haunt him his entire life. I don’t want to sound like a narcissist or anything, he dealt with his problems during wartime after all. No one’s died. Not yet.
What to do? Read Seven Pillars of Wisdom and wait for the splashes.
Want to read another one?
Check out this blog post -
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
It’s not someone jumping in the lake, it’s my dad throwing up into a toilet. Sick for weeks now with something blocking his intestines, he refuses to leave the apartment. He throws up instead of shitting. Why he doesn’t go to the hospital: it’s all a technical and long process to explain and it happens more abstractly than realistically. Something about a gap in his insurance coverage.
The infighting that would develop in my family, very similar to the tribal disputes T.E. Lawrence dealt with while leading the Bedouin. Get him to go; let him make his own choices. The choices T.E. had to make during WWI would haunt him his entire life. I don’t want to sound like a narcissist or anything, he dealt with his problems during wartime after all. No one’s died. Not yet.
What to do? Read Seven Pillars of Wisdom and wait for the splashes.
Want to read another one?
Check out this blog post -
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
January 23, 2017
Statue in the Clouds - Tease # 2
Intro
I'm still hard at work on a new novel, tentatively titled “Statues in the Cloud”. My best guess is that it will take me until 2020 to write (if life doesn't get in the way, which it always does).
I thought it was time for another tease to prove to myself and the world that progress is actually being made.
If you're interested, the first tease is right here:
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
And now for the second tease. This one comes from Chapter 3 of the novel.
Tease # 2
“When I was in middle school, I stumbled upon this play,” Aiya explained. “It was about all these Christians. It’s called 'The Head of Mary.' The Christians have to go around collecting the pieces of the statue. If they can assemble all the pieces of the statues, then the statue would come to life and grant the wishes of the believers.”
“It’s a beautiful story,” I said.
“There are seven pieces we need to find,” she said.
“Aiya, that statue is made out of wood.”
Then it occurred to me. She wasn’t talking about the Virgin Mary statue I’d just seen. She was talking about another one.
“You can see it in your mind?”
“I’ve seen it in my dreams. The rock I found was a sign.”
“How are we going to find these other pieces?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Maybe Tommy Donnelly knows,” I said, referring to the character in the story I'd just written.
I'm still hard at work on a new novel, tentatively titled “Statues in the Cloud”. My best guess is that it will take me until 2020 to write (if life doesn't get in the way, which it always does).
I thought it was time for another tease to prove to myself and the world that progress is actually being made.
If you're interested, the first tease is right here:
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
And now for the second tease. This one comes from Chapter 3 of the novel.
Tease # 2
“When I was in middle school, I stumbled upon this play,” Aiya explained. “It was about all these Christians. It’s called 'The Head of Mary.' The Christians have to go around collecting the pieces of the statue. If they can assemble all the pieces of the statues, then the statue would come to life and grant the wishes of the believers.”
“It’s a beautiful story,” I said.
“There are seven pieces we need to find,” she said.
“Aiya, that statue is made out of wood.”
Then it occurred to me. She wasn’t talking about the Virgin Mary statue I’d just seen. She was talking about another one.
“You can see it in your mind?”
“I’ve seen it in my dreams. The rock I found was a sign.”
“How are we going to find these other pieces?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Maybe Tommy Donnelly knows,” I said, referring to the character in the story I'd just written.
January 17, 2017
Short Story - One Hell of An Interview
Cheers to Black Petals for publishing this weird bit of black humor.
Read the entire story right here:
http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/black...
The first two paragraphs can be read below:
There I was in my mid-40s, out of work for a few months, dressed in my finest threads, ready for the interview of my life. I was being interviewed (I thought) for a manager’s job at one of the major ad agencies that dealt mainly in breakfast cereals and soaps. Clean living, as they say, or as clean an advertising job as you could get. So there I was when who should appear but the Devil.
As nice as I looked in my custom-made Italian suit, the Devil looked better—Armani from what I could tell. It was just the two of us in the waiting room. The other guy who had gone in just a little before was a little too young probably for the job, which boded well for me. As far as I could tell it was just between me and this guy.
Read the entire story right here:
http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/black...
The first two paragraphs can be read below:
There I was in my mid-40s, out of work for a few months, dressed in my finest threads, ready for the interview of my life. I was being interviewed (I thought) for a manager’s job at one of the major ad agencies that dealt mainly in breakfast cereals and soaps. Clean living, as they say, or as clean an advertising job as you could get. So there I was when who should appear but the Devil.
As nice as I looked in my custom-made Italian suit, the Devil looked better—Armani from what I could tell. It was just the two of us in the waiting room. The other guy who had gone in just a little before was a little too young probably for the job, which boded well for me. As far as I could tell it was just between me and this guy.
January 15, 2017
A Kiss
She still seemed tall to him.
She rubbed her stomach ever so slightly and the fabric of her shirt pulled against her. The way she did it made her look vulnerable and undeniably feminine in the pre-dusk desert landscape. It was neither hot, nor cold, but dry. Instinctively, he moistened his lips with the slight movement of his tongue.
In the space between the two apartments, everything seemed deadly quiet like a murder was about to happen. There was no one there and the empty desert behind her made it seem as if they were the only two people still alive. The blue sky had turned light gold giving an orange hue to the world.
He approached her with one step. The rocks beneath his shoe made a crunching sound and he became taller as she became shorter.
“Stomach ache?”
“Yeah,” she said.
He took another step. Another crunch in a silence that was growing around them. She kept her hand on her stomach like that, the dusk approached ever so slowly.
Just behind her, past the two apartment buildings, was the outline of the desert, a vast landscape of dry shrubbery. A landscape of eyesores that made the sight of her a relief. Then his eyes focused on her stomach again. The soft hand there and the slight pull it made.
Between the two apartment buildings there was no wind, just the rocks used in desert landscaping instead of grass. The concrete walls of the two apartment buildings squeezed them together and made the space private.
Another step. Another crunching. Now they were undeniably close and he was as tall as he’d ever been in front of her. She automatically leaned closer to him. Without thinking, he reached a hand to her cheek and then their lips were together.
**Want another short story? Try "The Exalted Fogie" here: https://www.wattpad.com/305473890-pur...
She rubbed her stomach ever so slightly and the fabric of her shirt pulled against her. The way she did it made her look vulnerable and undeniably feminine in the pre-dusk desert landscape. It was neither hot, nor cold, but dry. Instinctively, he moistened his lips with the slight movement of his tongue.
In the space between the two apartments, everything seemed deadly quiet like a murder was about to happen. There was no one there and the empty desert behind her made it seem as if they were the only two people still alive. The blue sky had turned light gold giving an orange hue to the world.
He approached her with one step. The rocks beneath his shoe made a crunching sound and he became taller as she became shorter.
“Stomach ache?”
“Yeah,” she said.
He took another step. Another crunch in a silence that was growing around them. She kept her hand on her stomach like that, the dusk approached ever so slowly.
Just behind her, past the two apartment buildings, was the outline of the desert, a vast landscape of dry shrubbery. A landscape of eyesores that made the sight of her a relief. Then his eyes focused on her stomach again. The soft hand there and the slight pull it made.
Between the two apartment buildings there was no wind, just the rocks used in desert landscaping instead of grass. The concrete walls of the two apartment buildings squeezed them together and made the space private.
Another step. Another crunching. Now they were undeniably close and he was as tall as he’d ever been in front of her. She automatically leaned closer to him. Without thinking, he reached a hand to her cheek and then their lips were together.
**Want another short story? Try "The Exalted Fogie" here: https://www.wattpad.com/305473890-pur...
January 8, 2017
Ghosts of Nagasaki -- Free to Download from Kindle
My novel, The Ghosts of Nagasaki, is free to download on Kindle for the next day or so. Here is the link:
https://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Nagasak...
Download, share, enjoy!
Here is the first page of the book
The long backward perspective one gets from the angle of a word processor some years later is a tricky one. As a connoisseur of biography and autobiography I know that there is nothing less reliable than someone writing about his or her own past from his or her own perspective. And for the general welfare of those who look for the bare facts of the matter, I am obliged to stamp on the very first page, in the very first paragraph, in bold italics: All fact-seekers beware.
But if the skewed vision of someone determined to live out their ghosts through words is permitted, then perhaps we may leave the world of pure facts behind and look for an ounce of truth, perhaps the only ounce that matters. One thing is certain, however: I cannot tell you with any great certainty where I am from, what I do, or what I did, for as soon as the telling begins the things that happened change. The only thing I can tell you reliably is that soon I will be dead. The fact that I am not already dead, that I have lived on years after my heart stopped, is indeed a miracle. Perhaps this silly bit of narrative will put the matter to rest.
To sleep, to dream, but to dream of a life past twenty-six, my age at the time of these words... well, that seems a fantasy beyond imagination.
https://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Nagasak...
Download, share, enjoy!
Here is the first page of the book
The long backward perspective one gets from the angle of a word processor some years later is a tricky one. As a connoisseur of biography and autobiography I know that there is nothing less reliable than someone writing about his or her own past from his or her own perspective. And for the general welfare of those who look for the bare facts of the matter, I am obliged to stamp on the very first page, in the very first paragraph, in bold italics: All fact-seekers beware.
But if the skewed vision of someone determined to live out their ghosts through words is permitted, then perhaps we may leave the world of pure facts behind and look for an ounce of truth, perhaps the only ounce that matters. One thing is certain, however: I cannot tell you with any great certainty where I am from, what I do, or what I did, for as soon as the telling begins the things that happened change. The only thing I can tell you reliably is that soon I will be dead. The fact that I am not already dead, that I have lived on years after my heart stopped, is indeed a miracle. Perhaps this silly bit of narrative will put the matter to rest.
To sleep, to dream, but to dream of a life past twenty-six, my age at the time of these words... well, that seems a fantasy beyond imagination.
