Interview with Jazz Drummer and Fiction Writer: Mark Kaufman
Hello! Today I'll be sharing an interview with Mark Kaufman - creative mind, jazz drummer, lover of lore, and flash fiction writer. Mark has been kind enough to share some of his outlooks on the more creative pursuits in his life, along with some photographs and a piece of original flash fiction! Read on to meet Mark then stick around to read his story Bewitched. (It's less than 400 words, you have the time.) Without further ado, let's meet Mark.
P: Hi Mark. Welcome to my blog. To start, can you tell us a bit about yourself? Who are you? Where do you come from?
M: Howdy! Somewhere around thirty years ago I undertook the audacious process of cellular division. Nine months later, and feeling especially bold now that I had grown limbs, I entered society in Los Angeles, where there are lots of faults in the earth's crust, but this is easily overshadowed by lots of great Mexican food. Two decades passed, and then I fell in love with the Rolling Stones.
P: You spend time working seasonally as a park ranger, and you’ve had other interesting jobs – do you think these ‘atypical’, so to say, jobs help bolster your creativity?
M: Without doubt. National Parks are inherently interesting places where one becomes immersed in mysteries, lore, stories----and bears! For instance, we've all heard fanciful tales of ancient dungeons on Alcatraz. But they're true tales. The prison, which housed depression-era bank robbers, was built atop the labyrinthine brick halls of a civil war fortress. I used to take visitors down there. Everyone wore hard hats. Even the ghosts.....
P: You play drums, and I know you’re into jazz. What can you tell me about your musical pursuits?
M: I play furious drums for an hour everyday. Minimum. It's inspiring, therapeutic, and it keeps me real limber. I've played with some special talent: Miss Erma, Tim Hassall, and Charles Darius, and will so again, because although this park ranger life is special, living in the woods is only cute for so long.
P: Favorite drummer?
M: Stanton Moore. A bona fide New Orleans groove and syncopation king.
P: Your story, Bewitched (featured below) is what you call ‘flash fiction’. Can you tell us a bit about flash fiction and about what inspired you to write Bewitched?
M: There's no rigid definition of flash fiction—I'd like to call it 1,000 words or less. It's a whole lot of fun to create a world, or a rich snapshot of someone's life---perhaps a dragon's, and then the story ends! Endings have such wonderful potential. I appreciate shocking and sometimes horrible endings, courtesy of the likes of Roald Dahl, or endings that leave one uneasy, unsure, and left to wonder, courtesy of the singular, the dark, the hilarious, and the unsettling, Franz Kafka.
P: A few weeks ago I interviewed David Bergner, a musician friend of mine. One of the questions I asked him was, How does he balance his ‘real’ bill paying life, and his creative life. Do you struggle with a similar balance? If so, how do you manage it?
M: I escape the uncertainties of a creative lifestyle by writing fiction and playing music. Wait a second...
P: I’ve read two of your stories, both take place in Los Angeles, albeit at very different times. As I’ve told you, I have a weird penchant for fiction taking place in L.A (despite having spent no real time there – does nine hours in a traffic jam count?) Do your L.A. roots inspire you? Do you consider Los Angeles your home, despite all the traveling?
M: Nine hours of traffic! Los Angeles, you should know, once had the most advanced electric railway system in the world. A city of red trolleys. How romantic. That was in the 1920's, before automobiles were considered to be the next big thing. Next time you hit that much traffic, get off the freeway and visit the La Brea Tar Pits. There, in the middle of town, you'll discover the earth's richest collection of ice-age bones. Mega fauna, like mastodons, sloths, and mammoths roamed Los Angeles in the not too distant past. And so did their terrifying predator—the saber-toothed cat. I always seem to find my way back here.
P: What's next?
M: A summer in Alaska's Katmai National Park. A place where brown bears outnumber people. A place where one can get some writing done....
Thank you for your time, Mark! All photo credits go to Mark. Now, for Mark's piece of flash fiction, Bewitched.
Bewitched
The witch jetted across town in the carpool lane. She shrieked hysterically in her rusted black Cadillac as she mocked the rules of the road. Such a derelict car couldn't possibly hit fifty miles an hour—but she found a way to hit a hundred: just add coyote blood to the transmission fluid. Her skin was swampy green, and her warts the size of tic-tacs.
In a matter of seconds she cut across across four lanes of traffic, eliciting curses, raised fists, and near heart attacks. Onto city streets the witch bounced, and with a snap of her reptilian fingers, green lights led her to the base of hill in Sylmar, California. Braking wildly, the witch skidded to a stop between two haunting oak trees. Her brakes smoked and engine sighed.
The witch moved hurriedly under the gaze of the moon - it was nearly midnight, and midnight it had to be. Up, up, up she traveled, following a family of deranged ravens to a perch over a raging river. She dug anxiously into her tattered black robe before pulling out vial about the size of a cigar. It was filled with a glowing red liquid, and when the witch thrust it into the air she let out a shrill demonic cry, and the ravens followed suit.
Eleven-fifty nine became midnight, and the witch poured the vial's contents into the roaring Los Angeles aqueduct. She watched as the mountain waters boiled and cascaded down as they made their final descent to the glowing metropolis below.
* * *
A week later, long time Hollywood resident Steve Hitch steadied a ladder as his son, Nick, covered their porch lights in red cellophane. All down the block, in fact, Steve Hitch's neighbors were removing superfluous outdoor lights, or covering the necessary ones in red. County officials demanded that street lights go dark after rush hour traffic, and even Walmart gave its giant glowing letters a reprieve from luminosity.
And this wasn't just happening in Hollywood: Santa Monica, Compton, Palos Verdes, and Pasadena were all determined to shut out the lights.
The beaches were packed full and the freeways empty. The beaches were quiet too, as everyone stared up, embracing each other as much as their own far away thoughts.
Because after quite an absence - and now reaching across a great expanse of sky, the great spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy had returned to Los Angeles.
See original post on www.perrinpring.com
P: Hi Mark. Welcome to my blog. To start, can you tell us a bit about yourself? Who are you? Where do you come from?
M: Howdy! Somewhere around thirty years ago I undertook the audacious process of cellular division. Nine months later, and feeling especially bold now that I had grown limbs, I entered society in Los Angeles, where there are lots of faults in the earth's crust, but this is easily overshadowed by lots of great Mexican food. Two decades passed, and then I fell in love with the Rolling Stones.
P: You spend time working seasonally as a park ranger, and you’ve had other interesting jobs – do you think these ‘atypical’, so to say, jobs help bolster your creativity?
M: Without doubt. National Parks are inherently interesting places where one becomes immersed in mysteries, lore, stories----and bears! For instance, we've all heard fanciful tales of ancient dungeons on Alcatraz. But they're true tales. The prison, which housed depression-era bank robbers, was built atop the labyrinthine brick halls of a civil war fortress. I used to take visitors down there. Everyone wore hard hats. Even the ghosts.....
P: You play drums, and I know you’re into jazz. What can you tell me about your musical pursuits?
M: I play furious drums for an hour everyday. Minimum. It's inspiring, therapeutic, and it keeps me real limber. I've played with some special talent: Miss Erma, Tim Hassall, and Charles Darius, and will so again, because although this park ranger life is special, living in the woods is only cute for so long.
P: Favorite drummer?
M: Stanton Moore. A bona fide New Orleans groove and syncopation king.
P: Your story, Bewitched (featured below) is what you call ‘flash fiction’. Can you tell us a bit about flash fiction and about what inspired you to write Bewitched?
M: There's no rigid definition of flash fiction—I'd like to call it 1,000 words or less. It's a whole lot of fun to create a world, or a rich snapshot of someone's life---perhaps a dragon's, and then the story ends! Endings have such wonderful potential. I appreciate shocking and sometimes horrible endings, courtesy of the likes of Roald Dahl, or endings that leave one uneasy, unsure, and left to wonder, courtesy of the singular, the dark, the hilarious, and the unsettling, Franz Kafka.
P: A few weeks ago I interviewed David Bergner, a musician friend of mine. One of the questions I asked him was, How does he balance his ‘real’ bill paying life, and his creative life. Do you struggle with a similar balance? If so, how do you manage it?
M: I escape the uncertainties of a creative lifestyle by writing fiction and playing music. Wait a second...
P: I’ve read two of your stories, both take place in Los Angeles, albeit at very different times. As I’ve told you, I have a weird penchant for fiction taking place in L.A (despite having spent no real time there – does nine hours in a traffic jam count?) Do your L.A. roots inspire you? Do you consider Los Angeles your home, despite all the traveling?
M: Nine hours of traffic! Los Angeles, you should know, once had the most advanced electric railway system in the world. A city of red trolleys. How romantic. That was in the 1920's, before automobiles were considered to be the next big thing. Next time you hit that much traffic, get off the freeway and visit the La Brea Tar Pits. There, in the middle of town, you'll discover the earth's richest collection of ice-age bones. Mega fauna, like mastodons, sloths, and mammoths roamed Los Angeles in the not too distant past. And so did their terrifying predator—the saber-toothed cat. I always seem to find my way back here.
P: What's next?
M: A summer in Alaska's Katmai National Park. A place where brown bears outnumber people. A place where one can get some writing done....
Thank you for your time, Mark! All photo credits go to Mark. Now, for Mark's piece of flash fiction, Bewitched.
Bewitched
The witch jetted across town in the carpool lane. She shrieked hysterically in her rusted black Cadillac as she mocked the rules of the road. Such a derelict car couldn't possibly hit fifty miles an hour—but she found a way to hit a hundred: just add coyote blood to the transmission fluid. Her skin was swampy green, and her warts the size of tic-tacs.
In a matter of seconds she cut across across four lanes of traffic, eliciting curses, raised fists, and near heart attacks. Onto city streets the witch bounced, and with a snap of her reptilian fingers, green lights led her to the base of hill in Sylmar, California. Braking wildly, the witch skidded to a stop between two haunting oak trees. Her brakes smoked and engine sighed.
The witch moved hurriedly under the gaze of the moon - it was nearly midnight, and midnight it had to be. Up, up, up she traveled, following a family of deranged ravens to a perch over a raging river. She dug anxiously into her tattered black robe before pulling out vial about the size of a cigar. It was filled with a glowing red liquid, and when the witch thrust it into the air she let out a shrill demonic cry, and the ravens followed suit.
Eleven-fifty nine became midnight, and the witch poured the vial's contents into the roaring Los Angeles aqueduct. She watched as the mountain waters boiled and cascaded down as they made their final descent to the glowing metropolis below.
* * *
A week later, long time Hollywood resident Steve Hitch steadied a ladder as his son, Nick, covered their porch lights in red cellophane. All down the block, in fact, Steve Hitch's neighbors were removing superfluous outdoor lights, or covering the necessary ones in red. County officials demanded that street lights go dark after rush hour traffic, and even Walmart gave its giant glowing letters a reprieve from luminosity.
And this wasn't just happening in Hollywood: Santa Monica, Compton, Palos Verdes, and Pasadena were all determined to shut out the lights.
The beaches were packed full and the freeways empty. The beaches were quiet too, as everyone stared up, embracing each other as much as their own far away thoughts.
Because after quite an absence - and now reaching across a great expanse of sky, the great spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy had returned to Los Angeles.
See original post on www.perrinpring.com
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