R. Canepa's Blog, page 3
May 19, 2011
Look At Your Past Without Guilt
A friend and I were talking yesterday, and she mentioned how so-and-so had done such-and-such by the age of somewhere-in-the-mid-20s. This, she said, made her feel lame in comparison.
I replied with a few thoughts, and then, as usually happens, thought to myself, wait a minute. That was a Thing. I usually forget stuff if I don't write it down, so I tried to condense what I was thinking into a tweet:
Look at your past without guilt over what you haven't accomplished. If you don't like what you see, use that as fuel to change going forward.
The problem is that we often make the mistake of comparing ourselves to someone else and letting that form into a type of self-judgement, whether that someone is another person or some image of what we want to be or think we should be but aren't. What I was getting at in my responses to my friend and that tweet is that our past has passed, is water under the bridge, spilled milk, and so on. When it comes to the accomplishments of yesterday, there's no room for guilt. Any time spent sighing over what we could have or should have accomplished is a waste.
We also tend to underestimate our past accomplishments, but that's the subject of another post.
What our past does give us, though, is fuel for changing our future. If you look back and find yourself lacking in what you'd hoped you would accomplish, let that drive you to change what comes next.
Did you write that book / run that marathon / start that business? No? Then it comes down to the playground question: what are you gonna do about it?
Do you wish you would have painted more, photographed more, written more, traveled more, or, hell, I don't know, collected more garden gnomes?
Now is your chance.
Our actions speak clearer than hopes and wishes. If you're committed, you can do this. It might hurt to give up whatever has consumed your time (ahhh, but something tells me you might not miss it as much as you think), but that's where the whole fuel thing comes in. Take that "Damnit, I wish I would have ________" feeling, and ride it like a rocket. That "I wish I would have" feeling is what will help you cut loose from whatever holds you back. Direct your efforts ruthlessly to your new pursuit.
Time will go by no matter what. How will you spend it?
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May 18, 2011
On Shaving (LIKE A MAN)
There's some deep part of my psyche/DNA/gooey insides that tells me nothing is more manly than scraping my face with bare, sharpened steel. Perhaps unfortunately, the rest of me agreed–or was too wussy to fight that other part for fear of getting clobbered.
At any rate, that led to me researching straight razors about a year ago, which then got put off, and has culminated so far in my buying a Dovo shavette, which is basically a plastic handle that houses disposable straight blades.
So far, no portions of my face have gone missing. But shaving with a straight razor is difficult at first.
It requires learning a new skill. And using said razor in my left hand. I have to remember that I have roughly 15 years of shaving experience with a normal razor. Combined with a normal safety razor requiring nothing in the way of skill, it's no surprise that shaving with a straight razor has required some adjustments. Much like when I started shaving my head, it'll take time to become proficient and not feel like I'm liable to lop something off at any given moment. By now, shaving my head is routine, and so I hope that, with practice, a straight razor will be, too.
Part of the appeal was to try to reduce the amount of waste I'm producing. I feel guilty every time I toss away a used cartridge and pop in a new one. Granted, my current razor uses disposable blades, as well (no plastic), but I bought it as sort of a trial run before I spend $200 or more on a more permanent razor.
Another part is to hopefully get a better shave. Often it looks like I haven't shaved even when I just finished shaving, and my skin gets too irritated if I try to make multiple passes. So hopefully once my skills are up to speed, the quality of the shave I get will go up as well.
A big reason to switch, too, is purely for the sense of doing something "the old way" and trying something new. We didn't always have these cartridges-on-a-stick. Used to be, men (MANLY MEN?) would strop and hone a metal blade and then rub it on their face. Or else have a barber do it for them. Only in recent times have companies tried to sell us better and better solutions for doing the things we've always done.
Are safety razors easy? For sure. After shaving with a straight razor, I have a whole new appreciation for how easy they make the process.
But easy can be bad. Easy means I don't have to pay attention. I've come to resent the act of shaving, which seems a crime. It's one of the few ritual acts men have that, to me, carries some sense of history and propriety. Shaving with a straight razor also requires that I pay attention to what I'm doing. I can't space out and think about other things, or I'll cut myself. And those things are sharp.
There's another part of me, one that's zen-like, I suppose, that finds the idea of being present and paying attention to the current moment rather fulfilling. And I'd rather not hate something I need to do every day. The manly thing is mostly in jest. It's possible that I'll go back to a safety razor. We'll see. At least I'll have tried. If I can turn around how I feel about shaving by changing the tools I use, so much the better.
In the meantime, my pride leaks out in tiny red rivulets accompanied by stinging and swear words, but perhaps I'll appreciate the process even more once I get the hang of it.
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April 3, 2011
New Fiction – "Number Four" (and excerpt)
Cover image for the novel Number Four
I'm glad to finally announce that my second book, Number Four, is now available for Kindle. Other formats are on their way. If you've been keeping pace with my progress on MOROCCO, here it is at last.
And now, time for an excerpt:
* * * * *
Lin broke from a space-out session when the trucks pulled to a lurching halt. She'd been thinking about the orientation she was missing. Dorm room assignments. How the cafeteria account worked. That kind of stuff.
The soldiers keeping guard over them hopped out of the transport and gestured for them to do the same. Another pit stop.
What a shitty way to spend a Saturday.
Stops came infrequently, probably four or more hours apart. Time was hard to judge when she didn't have a watch and all there was to do was stare at the metal floor of the transport, out the back of the vehicle at the endless spread of bright sand and rock. Or daydream. She hadn't dared take Apollo out of her backpack for fear they'd take him. Each stop was a welcome chance to walk and stretch. Her butt hurt from hours on a hard bench and her back was sore from no support. Long sleeve shirt in hand, she shuffled along the bench to the back.
When she jumped out, she judged her exit from the truck a bit wrong. Her tank top caught on a bolt that protruded from the frame and tore.
Paul stood stretching a few steps away. Lin poked a finger through the hole in her favorite purple shirt and the flap of fabric that still remained. The shirt itself was old and faded and wasn't fit for much other than the mall or hanging out around the house, so it wasn't a great loss. Might even still be wearable—comfort was no slave to fashion.
As she came up next to Paul, she realized that she couldn't even say where the nearest mall was. A hundred miles away? A thousand? Clothing stores and pretzel stands were another world away. If she hadn't been so hell-bent on rocking the boat of life, she might have even been at the mall right then, spending early birthday money. Hell.
No chance yet to talk to Paul about tomorrow. Poor guy had looked so depressed in the last village that she couldn't bring herself to mention it. A little late to say anything now. Pity would only make it worse.
The sun slipped lower in the sky. Bright blue began to fade to purple and red around the edges of the horizon. Looking at the sand was no longer excruciating due to glare, and so she stared down at the sand and rock beneath her feet. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was at the beach, if it weren't for the state of her body and the foreign shouts of the men around her. Strange how sand could be the same so far away.
A breeze picked up, rippling goosebumps along her skin. She ignored the idea that the goosebumps were partly due to the vast emptiness that engulfed them. They were surrounded by nothing, but it hid them all the same. How would anyone ever find them out here?
She pulled her long sleeve shirt on. Earlier in the day, the shirt was protection against the sun that beat down relentlessly. As day slipped into evening, it was protection against the chill breezes that picked up. It'd also help cover the hole in her shirt.
The wad of rolled-up bills and Paul's memory card were an itchy, sweaty mess between her breasts, but she dared not reach in to adjust them. She followed Paul's gaze to a spot on the horizon but saw nothing. Maybe he wasn't even actually looking.
A guard called to her and gestured. She followed.
Another reason for the stops were restroom breaks. If that was what they could be called. One guard would take her somewhere out of sight, then turn around while she dropped her pants and squatted as best as possible. There wasn't too much need, considering the little they had to drink, but her body managed to produce some kind of moisture each time.
Lin was in the middle of just such a thing for the second time that day, more just in case than any real need—not like she could call out for a stop at the next highway exit—when she looked down and saw the tear in her shirt.
She didn't have breadcrumbs, but she could leave something.
Her guard still had his back turned. Her current predicament probably meant he wouldn't turn around until she signaled she was through. Still, she had to be careful. One hand grabbed the little flap of torn fabric, and with the other she grabbed the rest of her shirt. With a fit of fake coughing to hopefully provide some cover, she tore.
A quick toss sent the scrap flying into a nearby shrub. The faded purple fabric looked completely out of place and pretty pathetic, resting as it was in a snarl of brush twigs two inches above the sand, but at least it was something. Any victory was a victory, no matter how small.
She finished up and signaled the guard. Shirt crumbs had little use out here, especially when the first one started in the middle of nowhere, but hope was all she had, and as she climbed back into the truck, it felt good to have done something.
At each stop, she added another scrap.
* * * * *
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February 16, 2011
Books and Guilt–Borders Declares Bankruptcy
Since I have an interest in the book industry (on account of liking books and writing my own), I've been following the news about Borders lately, and found the news that Borders filed Chapter 11 just a few minutes ago as I came back to the surface of the internet after a large push on MOROCCO.
Overall, I'm fairly sad about the whole thing. I never like to see a business close, though I know it's part of the law of the (consumer) jungle: you eat or get eaten. I mostly feel sorry for the employees who will have to go elsewhere for their work. I'm sure the higher-ups will be fine. Seems like they always are.
I've always liked going to their store–it felt the friendliest and calmest of places here on my side of town. Yet as I think back, I haven't bought anything from there in quite a while. Part of the reason is due to finances. Part of it is catching up on a massive tbr pile that I already have, and yet a third part is no longer feeling like I need to own a copy of every single book I've ever read (thus borrowing or library-ing).
So I feel like I have a hand in their closing. But I know it's not my fault. It's a changing industry, is it not?
Yet that doesn't really help the little flicker of guilt. Plus, hey, I like books, so any excuse to buy some, right?
On the other hand, I've been meaning to go spend some time (and money) at my indie bookshop just a few blocks away, too, and haven't. So then it would become a choice: who to support? While I'd love to have the cash on hand to do it, I can't support both.
I need to stop by the store later today, buy something, and mention how much I appreciate the booksellers themselves.
Maybe today needs to be "Hug a Border's Bookseller day."
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January 11, 2011
On The Fate of Paper Stories
Readers are passionate people who care about what they love. As such, the proliferation of ebook readers and ebooks has stirred up the readership side of the publishing industry as well. People seem fairly divided along the spectrum: some have adopted ebooks whole-heartedly, others mix them in, and still others have drawn a line. With the latter, the implication is that you can have their paperware books when you pry them from their cold, dead hands.
But what these people I think are missing–and like I've explained to people who have asked me about my Kindle and what I think of it–is that paper isn't going anywhere. For some books, I read them and forget them, and they stay on my shelf, sometimes shoved into the back or with other, newer books stacked on top of them. These are the books that I can't remember when I read it last, only somewhat remember what the story was about, and can't see myself reading again any time soon. This is one of the sweet spots for ebooks: the joy of reading it, immediately and at hopefully lower cost (here's looking at you, publishing industry), and then it doesn't clog up your shelves.
Then there are the books that I remember very well: those old friends who I've read time and time again. These are the books that ebooks will never replace, the ones with dog-ears, underlined passages, scuffs and scrapes, and so on, memories of buying it in high school or as a gift from a college romance, books where I've taped up the spines just in hopes that they'll last longer.
As the future grinds on, bookshelves will become a showcase. Not like the ones like Michael Nye mentions (bookshelves for show, to project a cultivated image), but rather an honest showcase of the stories and authors we hold most dear. Our homes are full of the things that matter to us and the space we give to our books no less so. The same drive that motivates readers to drive hours to visit an author signing or to locate and buy an old first-edition copy is the same drive that will ensure the acquisition of a paper copy of our favorites. I have books that I would never consider an ebook copy "enough" and will always keep a paper copy. There will always be a market for these paper stories, and where there's a market, there's a profit to be made and a company to fill it. Papers books might just be tomorrow's collector's edition.
After all, I don't own every single movie I've ever watched. But I do own a copy of my favorites.
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January 2, 2011
Excerpt From Norton's Ghost
The following is an excerpt of Norton's Ghost, from Part 3, Chapter 13. Stay tuned next Sunday for a sample of my up-and-coming book codenamed "Morocco".
* * * * *
The officer hit the ground butt-first and tumbled back against the building. His feet and legs came up off the ground like a two year old rolling onto his or her back. My brain had a split-second to toss out a thought
(wow, his shoes are shiny)
before I saw the remaining civilian's arm raise in a smooth arc.
Extended from it was cold, blue steel that looked black under what little light fell into the alley. As the officer scrambled to get up, the conscious part of me hit the manual override switch and I lurched forward, willing myself to get there fast enough, without knowing what I was going to do when I got there.
The man squeezed the trigger as I ran. I knew this because the gun jumped and the briefest flash-tongue of flame slipped from the barrel, followed by the sound, a deafening explosion that bounced off the surrounding walls and made my ears ring. I had time for one last thought—oh my god I'm too late he actually SHOT him—before I crashed into the shooter with my full weight and gathered momentum.
I swung, elbowed and kicked as we both went down, intent on doing as much damage as possible.
I felt something grab my shoulder and it dawned on me that I'd forgotten about the second man, the man who now had me outnumbered and prone and I knew a moment of true fear before I realized it was my backpack strap, still hanging onto my arm. The other strap broke during the struggle, and I had a death grip not on the assailant, but on my own backpack.
I looked up to see both men running away, the first only the briefest white flicker as the heel of his hind sneaker turned the corner. I shrugged myself out of my pack and scrambled on all fours over to the officer.
His eyes were closed when I knelt down beside him. I nudged him with my hand—it touched something warm and wet. My mind flashed back to a day long before when I followed Gareth one night and witnessed the stabbing of a homeless man. Once again, I fought the urge to vomit.
And I would help this time, if I could.
At my touch, the officer's eyes opened. He was much younger than I first thought. Early thirties at most.
"Are you okay?" I asked. Stupid question, I knew, considering I saw him get shot and had his blood on my hand.
"Mmmnnn," he mumbled. I couldn't understand what he was trying to say. His eyes focused on mine for a second and then went wholly white as they rolled up into the back of his head.
* * * * *
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November 26, 2010
Thankfulness and Expectations
Note: Norton's Ghost is the Book of the Day over at http://www.kindleboards.com. I wrote this entry as a little tidbit for the forum and am reposting it here.
I've had people ask me if the story of Norton's Ghost is autobiographical. I like to think that this means I got something right in the telling of it.
Beyond the usual "there's a little bit of the writer in every part of the story," it's completely fiction. I've never hitchhiked through California, have never experienced homelessness, am thankful to still have my father, and though I did leave school a few times, it wasn't so that I could go gallivanting around.
At times, I wish it had been.
In a way, the telling of Kyle Dearmond's story in Norton's Ghost was a way of doing what I myself couldn't: cut loose. Stop doing things just because it's supposed to be a good idea to do them.
It's often said that authors themselves don't know the ending to their book until it spills out onto the page. Oh, sure, sometimes we have an idea how we would like it to end, but seldom do our inspirations and characters march lockstep with our idea of what the story should be.
Kyle Dearmond set out to get away from what was expected of him and to find his own way. I myself felt the pull of the expected as I wrote the story. "You're dumb for doing that," I told him. "That's nuts. Go back to school, get a job, buy a house."
In all: "Be like one of us."
He refused. In part, he was running from the things he couldn't or wouldn't deal with, but I can't say I blame him for that. And so I wrote, all the while wondering myself whether he would come out okay in the end. As the author, my job was to tell the story–not to help the character along to a happy ending.
Today is the day after Thanksgiving. Most of us are probably still full from yesterday (oh, but those leftover potatoes in the fridge still call to us, yes they do) and we've spent time with family and food and reflected on what we're thankful for. We sometimes forget these things during the rest of the year, when the roller coaster of life sends us thundering down the slope or rocks us around a hairpin turn.
But in the end, when the time comes, we remember.
For Kyle Dearmond, Norton's Ghost is a crucible, a stripping away of expectations and an attempt to step off the roller coaster for a while so he can figure out what really matters–and to have the memories and experiences to properly treasure it.
Little does he know that he steps out of one roller coaster and onto another.
Such is the way of stories.
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October 6, 2010
Kung Fu Movies: Mar's Villa (1978)
A much more "classic" kung fu film this time around. Or, at least, what I feel like a classic should be, given my uneducated state. Starting with the previous movie (Circle of Iron) looks like a mistake now that I look back. But part of this whole project is trying to discover the movies in the first place.
So in this movie, we have a lot of the elements that I think should be in any classic kung fu movie: bad dialogue, contrived traps and killings, random acrobatics, jumping off of tall structures, lots of staring and fast/tight zooming into and out of actors' faces, forced marriage, weird hair and eyebrows, twins who fight as a team, and so on.
But the ending was abrupt. Enough so that I went, "*blink* Huh? That's the end?" and skipped back to see if maybe something had gone wrong. But I was streaming it from Netflix, and sure enough, that was it. A very fast, "hero and his wife start walking" and that was it. Cut. No fade, no moment to watch them, nothing. Just bam. End.
So that felt a little lackluster, given the epic fighting scene that took place before it.
There were also a few areas where it seemed as if some important stuff was left on the cutting room floor. Or else it should have just been edited out. For instance, the brother of the wife dies, there's a few seconds of the hero being upset because he didn't get there in time to save him, and then we never hear about the brother again. Not even to get a reaction from the wife whose brother just died! In another scene, the hero and his sidekick talk about how he should leave, it's too dangerous with all the opponents around, and the hero states that no, he will rebuild his school and wealth, you'll see…. oh, and by the way, do you know where they took my wife when they kidnapped her?
A few things I noticed in this movie:
apparently, in kung fu movies, people walk everywhere.
The prime role of a student is to run around yelling, "Master! Master!"
It's a pretty bad idea to walk into a building/temple/field/etc that's completely empty, because by now you should know that a horde of opponents are going to jump out from every nook and cranny (think English muffins, except with weapons and more yelling).
Another thing I noticed is that it's not dishonorable to have a cohort join the hero in his battle against the villian. Maybe villians undergo additional training to handle this.
Oh, another thing: somehow, people can get beat up for 10 minutes without looking worse for the wear, then other people (not just the hero / villians!) can get hit twice and die.
Themes:
quest for patience over violence
challenger of a technique
kidnapping and rescue
uncertain adversary: friend or foe?
vengeful family
training for goal
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September 26, 2010
Kung Fu Movies: Circle of Iron (1978)
The first film in my kung fu film foray was Circle of Iron with David Carradine. I didn't know this before watching it, but the intro screen of the movie told me that Bruce Lee (and two others) wrote this script under the original name The Silent Flute and that he wanted to incorporate some of his (mostly Zen) philosophy into a movie. As such, the movie did have a preachy element to it. It was obvious that the writers were trying to make points, especially in a few scenes where a...
September 23, 2010
Classics: Friday the 13th
I've made a return to classics lately: getting back to those books, movies, and other "stuff" that I somehow missed the first time around, whether I wasn't old enough when it came out or if I somehow dodged the required reading back in high school.
Finally got around to watching the original Friday the 13th last week. I'd initially confused it with Nightmare on Elm street when my friend suggested it, which I'm sure will result in the revocation of my horror honor badge.
I wish I could take...
