Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 12

The Rearview

18.

It's the chrysalis. The pupa.




18 still remembers endless summers where fun is interrupted only by sleep. 18 can still feel the slip-and-slide on its belly, the cook-outs and late night games of Hide-n-Seek. 18 remembers snuggling on the couch when it was sick, having soup delivered in front of the TV. 18 remembers laughing so hard it farted.

18 sees these things in the rearview.

To see the road ahead, 18 has to look away. 18 will see the potential that lies in winding roads and steep mountains. 18 will know there are views at the tops it has never seen. 18 will feel the thrill of riding to the bottoms and the labor of climbing back up. 18 can't see the butterfly that lies ahead until it lets go of the rearview.

Knowing that, every once in a while, it can look back. Because it was fun.

Great fun.



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  Foreverland is DeadThe Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin

The Fat Skinny Girl

I speak English. Just can't always write it.



I just released Foreverland is Dead. It's my 10th novel, I think. It's a good sign when you can't remember how many you have out, but then again I can't remember a lot of things. I keep in touch with the indie publishing (formerly known as self-publishers) community, which is invaluable. Some indies are killing it, rolling in 6 figures annually. The fact that I'm making ANY money is wondrous.

But all things are relative.

One indie, Elle Casey, is like a writing machine, cranking out 20+ novels in less than a couple years (again, run those stats through my memory filter, they're ballpark). I generate about 3 books a year. I'm a slacker. My wife says:

You sound like the skinny girl that thinks she's fat.

She's right. The fact I can even write 70,000 words is an accomplishment. And they're coherent. And people like them (some, not all; no fiction writer wins them all, not even Rowling).

Here's why indie writing has a place in the world. I suck at English. I'm not the worst, I know some big words and when to use them, most of the time. Incorrigible, see? I just used that. However, it became abundantly clear just how far I am from professional writing when I had Foreverland is Dead edited. It's clear I don't know:

When to use lay/lieWhen to use farther/further (didn't even know I was screwing that up)Once my character "shuttered" (instead of "shuddered")Once my character walked down an "isle" (that would be "aisle")I don't care about dangling participles (but dangling is funny)I don't care about semi-colons or ems because I'll never know how to use them properly (that doesn't stop me from using themI don't care about font treatment (larger font, all caps; evidently this is frowned upon)
Here's the deal. I'm a decent storyteller. I've got some tales to spin, but I don't care about proper English etiquette. That bothers some readers. They have every right. The English language is a craft some hold close to their heart. It doesn't bother other readers (I couldn't care less).

I'll never win a Hugo Award or impress an English professor. I just want to tell the story. My editor can have it pressed and ready for the dance.



http:bertauski.com

  Foreverland is DeadThe Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin

Don't Kill the Buddha on the Trail

I met Jason at a Zen group, 24 years ago.

I wasn't even interested in Zen, at the time. I was just looking for a group that did spiritual stuff, i.e. meditation. They'd do their thing and I'd do mine. I'm not sure what I was doing except sitting still for 30 minutes at a time. Eventually, I found Zen.

I haven't seen Jason in 17 years. He was at the birth of our son, but then I went one direction to start a family, he went the other. Next thing you know, 17 years go by.

In the turbulence, so still. So present. (Linville Falls)
A week ago, we got together to hike the mountains in North Carolina, a halfway point between our homes. I arrived at the campsite first and have a couple hours to kill so I hit the trails of Linville Falls. The weather is beautiful and the views glorious. I'm an hour up the mountain when I pass a small contingent of folks, one of which is a Buddhist nun decked in full regalia: orange robe, shaved head, eyes thoughtfully downcast.

Okay. All right. A Buddhist nun, hiking. A Buddhist... when do you ever see a Buddhist nun... hiking? EVER?

I think that odd.

Jason arrives. I'm quickly reminded 17 years has passed. His beard half gray, eyes aged. He still flashes the contagious smile, but now one tempered with years of living. Experience. It's clear he's become a skilled counselor. We spend the next 3 days hiking. At night, we return to the camp for a cigar, talk about family, Zen practice, and all the years between now and then. The space in-between our words rests easily, contentedly.

In the morning, I drink coffee. He, tea. Then we climb into his tent for a half hour of zazen before hiking. The men camping in the lot next to us form opinions about what we're doing in there. At least, that's my thoughts. Can't say the proof doesn't seem a little dodgy.

We end the weekend at the top of Wiseman's Pass, smoking our last cigar and laughing until our guts are sore. He asks, a bit demurely, if I'd like to end with a session of co-counselling. He's told me about the process, but I'm not clear. He starts by asking to hold my hand. So here we are, two men, sitting in the grass, holding hands, talking about feelings. Cars passing.

We get in our cars. He turns left. I go right.

Maybe it'll be another 17 years. If it is, we'll pick up right where we left off.

Sometimes, time seems so irrelevant.




More on Practice: Joko Beck, AH Almaas, and Bruce Tift




http:bertauski.com

  Foreverland is Dead (Coming soon!)The Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin

Dharma Bummed

Meetings. Not my favorite.

This one, however, has potential. I'm part of a small group applying for a month-long trip to Japan. Expenses paid. You have my attention.

The minutiae of grant writing, however, takes the shine off. It's not like they're handing out money to whomever is standing in the Japan line. We need 40 pages of why and how and where. In that order.

At some point, Zen temples are mentioned. One member, sitting across from me, says, Would you like to sit meditation? Sit on a cushion facing a wall?

I said, Yeah. Yeah.



He doesn't take me serious, doesn't believe me. Figures I'm just going along. And why not. I'm probably the last person that looks like he practices Zen. I'm not sure what a Zen practitioner looks like, it's just not the guy with a Chicago Cubs ball cap, I'm thinking.

Wait till I tell you about Mindfulness. He raises his eyebrows. It'll change your life. 

Here's where practice starts. The first step is to notice thoughts, notice the ever-present inner dialog, the contents of our beliefs that continually go unnoticed. Joko Beck taught to label thoughts, as in,

Having a thought [fill in blank]
For instance, having a thought...

...I already know about mindfulness.
...I already know how to sit.
...I probably know how to sit better than you.
...dude, I'm pretty sure I'm more mindful than you.

The more we pay attention to our inner dialog without judging, just observing, the more absurd and irrational and, often times, childlike some of our beliefs appear. It becomes apparent we're clinging to systems we learned as a child or toddler. Perhaps even an infant. As AH Almaas once stated, We see everyone and everything as a giant boob.

So labeling is the first step, thoughts are just thoughts. The second step is the work: being present. Paying attention to bodily sensations, experiencing subtle tensions, where and what they feel like, allowing them to unfold. Hell of a lot harder than it sounds. Be fully present with the experience we label embarrassment, shame or fear. Arrogance. In some cases, we're going against instinct ingrained in our DNA. It can be terrifying, earth-shattering. Feel life-threatening.

Joko Beck described emotions as a thought connected to a bodily sensation. Expressing anger is not the same as experiencing it. This distinction, or lack thereof, is what gets most of us in trouble, makes our lives messy. Hurts those around us.

It's painful, sometimes, to see how infantile my beliefs still are. How absurd my systems still operate. Case in point, the story in my head before the meeting ended:

Our entourage ascends the steps of a Zen monastery at the peak of Mt. Everest (Yeah, I know, Everest isn't in Japan). The teacher sits at the head of the temple and, with eyes closed, senses there is one among us that is further along the path than the rest. He opens his eyes, gestures to the cushion. I take my place next to him. 

Having a thought... I want to punch myself in the face.

More on Practice: Joko Beck, AH Almaas, and Bruce Tift




http:bertauski.com

  Foreverland is Dead (Coming soon!)The Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin

A Smile That Won't Fade

Death is inevitable.

It fascinates me that none of us will avoid it. It is the one certainty. I suppose if it's boiled down, death is change and change is the only guarantee in life. As someone once said, change is good, and I hate it.

Death is a stranger in my house. I'm 46 and I've only lost 3 of 4 grandparents. I know people that have lost that many people in less than a year. I'm lucky, I suppose. I'm also completely unprepared for it. I mean, I'm in my mid-40s and haven't dealt with real loss. If God deals one of my loved ones the Ace of Spades, how will I face that?

I'm not ready.

Recently, Mike Smith passed, unexpectedly. A high school friend, he was known as Smiley. He was, arguably, the nicest person you could ever meet. Thus, the nickname. Smiley and I didn't keep up. We probably spoke once in the last 20 years. However, it seems apropos to share my favorite memory.

1987. My future wife lived in Florida. I lived in Illinois. Smiley and Red (another high school buddy) planned to move to Florida because we were 20 years old and moving to Florida seemed fun. Why not. They planned an exploratory excursion down to the Sunshine State and I would tag along, help with gas, see my future wife and fly back. You can do that when you're 20.

Days before we leave, they deliver the news. We ain't going.

"What do you mean you're not going?"

Can't see it. 

No use in playing out the argument. They're not going. End of story. But screw that, not the end. I got a future wife waiting. I can take a bus. Danny and Coady drop me off at an East St. Louis bus station sometime close to midnight. I remember it clearly because there was steam coming out of the storm sewers and I was scared shitless.

30 hours later, I arrive at Sanibel Island.

Day 2-ish after arrival, my future wife gets a call. It's Smiley. Or Red. Maybe both, I don't remember. They want to know what her address is. Like exactly where she lives because they want to send her something. It's a PO Box.

No, what's your address? 

"Why?"

Just cause. Like where do you live exactly. 

Sonofabitch.

For next week, Smiley and Red slept on the couch. Of course we let them in. They were supposed to look for a place to live, for work. Instead, they sat on the couch quizzing each other with random questions to prove who was smarter. Yeah, I was pissed the first day. But truth be told, that trip never would've been the same without them. It was a hell of lot more fun with them on couch.

Smiley warmed a lot of lives. I was not immune.

He will be missed.

The Plight of the Caterpillar

Six legs. Ten prolegs.

The caterpillar climbs a stem, finds foliage at its tip. Green, tasty. He perches beneath it, filling his mouth, filling his stomach. The moon illuminates his striped body. The wind cools it. He eats until the leaf is whittled down to skeletal veins and the framework of a leaf remains. He finds another. The caterpillar eats all day, stilling only when a moonlit shadow passes or the flutter of wings warns danger is close.

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At sunrise, the caterpillar crawls down into the litter, curls into the soil, Mother Earth's embrace. Safe from the sun. Away from predators. He sleeps until the sun sets, then returns to the branch to fill his belly again.

Life is good. It is full.

As the nights pass, he sheds his exoskeleton and swells larger. Still larger. Where once he was the size of a staple, he's now as thick as a pencil. The twigs bends against his weight. The tree has become a collection of foliar skeletons splayed like skinny fingers. And the caterpillar eats and sleeps. And life is good.

Until the suffering.

It's slight, at first. His skin begins to itch. His body fits more like shrink-wrap. Even the cool embrace of Mother Earth is painful, his nervous system sensitive. No matter how many bites, his stomach will not settle. He searches the ground for cooler soil, another branch for soothing leaves.

But life has betrayed him.

He wants to go back to the way it was, when there was just the branch, just the leaf. Just the sweet slumber in day's shade. This isn't fair. It isn't right. He has been forsaken.

All that is good is no more.

He endures days of struggle, no longer eating, no longer plump and vital. Shrunken and sluggish, his color is lifeless and dull. It's too difficult. Too hard. He can't go on, not anymore. Not like this.

He lacks the strength to find shelter, lacks the will to hide from things that fly and things that peck. And when wings flutter nearby, he looks up to see the soft scales of a majestic moth. The underwings are pink. The forewings are dark and soft. The moth remains still, the moonlight revealing the antennae plumes. And then it lifts away, wings patter like a kiss of wind.

If only, the caterpillar thinks. If only.




http:bertauski.com
  Foreverland is Dead (Coming in April!)The Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin

Evolution of a Vampire

I'm not a vampire fan.

I don't hate them, I'm just saying I don't love them. Why do I feel like I have to even explain myself? Honestly. They're not real.

But what if?


See, I had this minor epiphany at a local theatrical production of Dracula. IF there was such as thing as a hypnotic, immortal being that lived on human blood, would he continue the eternal savagery? Or would he evolve into something more sublime?

Along comes Drayton.

He doesn't remember being born. He's not sure what he is.

His memories of the early days are quite savage: tearing open throats, wolfing down hearts, that sort of thing. What vampires do. But now, not so much. He's young and unassuming. Cultured. His skin is black, not because of heritage; 8000 years in the sun will do that to a person.

Drayton still feels hunger, yet no longer feeds on blood but rather its essence. He no longer takes it but only accepts it as a gift. Sometimes he appears to people as a savior. Sometimes, as vengeance.

His understanding of the human condition is unparalleled. He's in complete control of his thoughts and emotions, sees with extrasensory perception, feels sensation at will. His body is undying. His mind, clear and uncluttered.

An immortal Zen master.

I wanted to uncork his endless power, really cut him loose, present him with an antagonist that really deserved a good disembowelment. You know, a real scumbag. Always with compassion, the bad guy gets it, just not the bullet-in-the-head kind of gets it. I suppose that's the character I imagined in that theatre.

Suppose I'll have to write some stories about the early years to get bloody.

For now, all five novellas are compiled into The Drayton Chronicles.


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All Grinched Up

The curse.

You find a good book, you're up all night. Get stuck with a bad one, you wonder why words were invented.

Writing books is a different curse.



The characters, they get inside your head. Their lives are fluid. Their actions  and motivations are limitless. It's like developing a 80,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, only you're cutting each piece individually, painting them one at a time.

There's an inner compass that guides me, something tells me when I'm onto something. A certain energy emanates. Think of the proverbial light bulb flicking on somewhere around the solar plexus. I start with characters, think about what they'll do and why. Develop a general idea of the ending. If it feels dry and empty, if it feels lifeless, I keep cutting. Keeping painting. Until--

SNAP. Yeah.

I got something.

This time it's The Grinch, a sequel to Claus: Legend of the Fat Man. Problem is, this isn't Santa Claus. The Grinch is trademarked. How grinchy.

That's all right. I can tell a grinchy story without The Grinch. I've got characters that are waking up, keeping me up at night, whispering what they want to do, telling me secrets, revealing their shortcomings. Like a good book, I gladly watch them dance in the theatre of the mind into wee hours. In the morning, I'll scratch out what I remember, regret the stuff I forget.

The journey is just beginning.



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HalfskinClaus: Legend of the Fat ManThe Annihilation of Foreverland

I Heart My Lawyer

I'm kidding. I don't have a lawyer.

It was just some lady the bank appointed to close on our refinancing.



She plopped down with a folder stuffed with paper, looked like the history of the world. I was thinking we'd have to a sign a paper or two. Turns out, we had to prove we were human, for starters, and work our way up from there.

This paper ensures the lender that you, indeed, are not a zombie and that you have never eaten human flesh nor have you ever been tempted to taste a human brain nor has anyone in your family ever been a zombie. 

Sign here and initial, please.

I wish they were like that. Perhaps I would've listened before signing away the ownership of my soul or whatever was on that document. This is what I heard:

This document ensures mumm mum mum daddada mum dadda mumumm mmm mmmmmm... sign here.

My wife says, "We should read this."

"That's what she's for. Just sign."

On a previous engagement, we were signing 25 trees worth of paper with another law firm. I asked if anyone had ever read one of these. He said some lady insisted on taking them home, reading every word. Then he goofed on her in between passing us documents. I felt dirty. But, still, I signed. I just wanted out of there. Suppose that's the point: pen-whip us until our eyes turn milky.

We trusted the lawyer. She seemed nice. And that's a horrible reason to trust someone with legal documents.

No one has come for the kids, though. So that's good.

Using All the Crayons

My dog eats cat shit. And loves it.

I don't know if I've ever met a dog that didn't salivate over a litter box. You'd think cats were crapping out heroin. I've never tried one, but I'm damn sure I won't like it. And if I did, well, I'd rather not know that about myself.



Who am I to judge? What makes my sensibilities the gold standard of all existence? Maybe beer tastes like moldy cheese to the rest of the universe.

A box of crayons contains a lot of colors. If you're a fan of affirmative sayings, you know that Life is about using all the crayons in the box. That's easy when they're all sweet tasting colors. You know, the fiery reds and deep yellows. Not that silver crayon or the bright green. And where the hell am I supposed to use white?

But sometimes the box is full. Other times it only offers the cat turd crayon. I don't think Crayola named it that, but it's in there.

And my dog would love it.




http:bertauski.com
  Foreverland is Dead (Coming in April!)The Annihilation of ForeverlandClaus: Legend of the Fat ManHalfskin