Movie Musings: Looper and Expendables 2

So this past week was a bitch.  I'm recovering from a nasty sinus infection and feeling very low energy.  Work was super busy.  Yesterday evening I decided to ditch my plans for the a productive evening at home and saw Looper and Expendables 2 back to back.  Ah yes, nothing like a super smart, probably ground-breaking sci-fi thriller and an over-the-top nostalgic action flick to help blast away those don't-fuck-with-me-anymore end of the week blues.  I marched straight to the snack counter and got my medium popcorn with extra butter along with a large Cherry Coke and plopped down in my theater seat.  Bliss.

LOOPER

Bruce Willis and Joseph Gordon-Levitt have a tense conversation

What can I say about Looper (see trailer here) without giving it all away?  It's a time-traveling movie set in the near future.  A Looper is an assassin who kills people sent back through time.  Issues of free will, destiny, how people are affected by the past, and whether personal choices really exist figure prominently in this film.

It's ultra violent and the plot can be a little confusing at first but that's only because it's a time-traveling movie.  Director Rian Johnson, who also directed a favorite film of mine called Brick (see trailer here) which I've mentioned before on this blog, goes all out with this film.  He managed to shock and surprise me, make me jump, and make the action sequences feel fresh.  The sound, editing, and lighting in this film are particularly excellent.  A really interesting story.  Probably warrants at least one more viewing.

THE EXPENDABLES 2

This movie was everything I hoped it would be (see trailer here but do you really need to?). Ultra ultra violent, cheesy one-lines and jokes flying around, action stars, big ass knives, super loud shotguns, other guns, explosions, plane crashes, tanks, martial arts, a whole lot of bad guys, and The Muscles from Brussels doing his signature roundhouse kick.  Oh yeah, and Arnie and Bruce Willis mocking each each other with back and forth one liners.

I had really, really a good time.  Sure, the body count is crazy high, sometimes you can't understand what Stallone is saying because his trademark mumble, the testosterone addled macho shit goes overboard, the story regularly veers off into impossible territory, the editing is a bit too enthusiastic, and there are plot holes big enough to drive several tanks through but who cares?  I was there to be completely entertained and I got what I came for.

I think figured out why I love action movies so much:

1. I'm an adrenaline junkie and action movies are the best way for me to get my fix.
2. Since I'm a writer I'm always taking everything in like a sponge.  I'm always looking for the story in art, music, movies (of course), books, in our day-to-day lives.  The writing mind is always on and can be difficult to turn off.  ACTION movies are the one place, the one kind of story where I don't have to think about these things.  Who needs to think about story or characters when you're watching two guys kick the shit out of each other?  I don't. Who needs to think about dialog or even depth when all the characters are firing at each other? Not me. At an action movie, I can completely relax and allow myself to be entertained.
3. They're evidence that I'm not a snobby, high-minded, elitist movie bitch.  At least not all the time.
4. They're super fun.

I'm sure you all know I take movies very seriously.  I watch film surveys and have seen my share of "deep" movies but it's nice to relax for a couple of hours; it's nice not to have to THINK about being entertained for a little while.

UPDATE:  Oh yeah, just so we're completely transparent, I did get a thrill from seeing Arnie back with a big shotgun.  Back when he was making all those action movies in his prime, he was my favorite movie star.  I will confess I have seen something like 99% of all his movies, including movies he only made cameos in and Pumping Iron.  I could qualify this confession by stating that one of my exes is a bodybuilder but fuck that.  The truth is I enjoyed Arnie while he was making action movies and I still own a few from those days (Terminators I, II, and III, Predator, Total Recall).  As for my views about his tenure as the governor of my state, well, I'll just say the dude is a republican and I'm not, BUT that's not going to stop me from going to see his upcoming movie, The Last Stand.  In addition to being Arnie's "debut" movie it's also directed by one of my favorite Korean directors, Kim Ji-Woon.

All right.  I'm sure there are going to be some people who won't like these views.  *gets into combat stance*  Come at me with your offended ass, I'ma ready for ya.

Writing Life: The Long Sentence

One of my friends from my writing group posted the following article on Facebook:

The Point of the Long and Winding Sentence, by Pico Iyer (L.A. Times)

Since it was after midnight when I read this article, I just had to try my hand at a long sentence.  My writing has been described as having short sentences, to the point.  Here's what I came up within a few minutes time:

We went out with a bang, with a squeal or a big noise but regardless of the noise and the clamoring and tripping over stones and piles of neatly cut two by fours, we paused, over-awed and amazed, staring up at the sky at the impossibly perfect vision, an inhuman light shining above us, otherworldly, occult, insane to some eyes, for there above us, by only a few feet above our heads, hovered someone in ghostly white shimmering robes of almost fiery intensity, glaring out from its own light source, spreading and pooling itself into the diamond-laden midnight sky. (99 words)

Writing in this way for me feels unnatural.  I can't tell you how many times I wanted to lay down a period but I kept going linking words and phrases.  Commas too.  I like the sentence and I like that it could be used for the opening of a novel or story.  As I read it now I wonder about it.  Who is "we"?  And why are "we" making so much noise?  What is the "impossibly perfect vision"?  Ghost, UFO, Angel, something else entirely?  Are these people even on our planet and does Earthlogic even apply?

Maybe I'll write about it someday.

Writing Life: The Wrong Novel

The backstairs at Fembo House in Nuremberg, Germany

I'm using this house, the City Museum, as a model for the house in my story

I'm flailing again.  This is not a surprise.  Another story is out being reviewed by a friend right now and I've happily turned to my historical novel again.  Well, I happily turned to it last week but I'm feeling unhappy about it now.

My usual refrain:  I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

I've been working on this novel for years.  I crossed the Atlantic to research the setting and I have laid out scene after scene.  I've also written back stories for the two main characters...and the back stories are more cohesive than this huge mess of a novel I've been staring at.  On the bright side, I have an embarrassment of riches will which serve me well later.  But it's not later, it's right now, and I have to figure what to do with the current story.

In a way this is a really good place for me.  The historical novel was my first real novel and the first draft was a complete story with character development, a comprehensive plot with twists, and a story arc.  It was also the wrong story.  How does that work, you ask?  How do you write at least 125 pages of a novel where everything fits and there's plenty of suspense and character development, and it's a complete story?  How can that story not be the right one?  Another writer (most likely an inexperienced one) might also say "But you have a novel!  What's wrong with it?"

Here's the thing, at least for me:  just because you write a story with characters and setting and stuff and you manage to write a story (beginning, middle, end) with some decent elements doesn't mean it's the right story.  What's important to note is that this particular story, the wrong one, isn't wasted time.  You've learned something about your characters and the world you've built and hopefully you can take some story elements and use them when you draft the right story.

I attribute this "write an entire novel but not the right one" as a combination of my formidable imagination, innate ability for telling stories, and simple writerly inexperience.  I will note that I have not had this problem since.  Usually my first draft is pretty much on par with the story I want to tell.  I may have to do some major expanding of certain story elements or add some scenes to flesh things out but I'm generally right there with the story.  The current novel is not right there. I knew the story I drafted wasn't right but I didn't know why and tried many things (and many tangents) to figure out what was wrong with it.  I wandered around in the desert of my novel for a good long time before the characters did something to scare the hell out of me and everything came to standstill.  I was so freaked out that I didn't know what to do and attempted to write myself out of that particular situation but that didn't work so I finally made peace with things and moved forward in that direction.  Or rather I ran to catch up with my characters.

And it's the right direction BUT I now have all these bits and pieces from laying down so many earlier scenes.  Some might work, some definitely won't but I don't even know how to start the clean up.

***

I signed up for a revision writing course online (Holly Lisle - How to Revise Your Novel) which is comprehensive and a ton of hard work.  This past week I've been debating about whether I should continue to work on this novel by working my way through Holly's course or if I should continue to flail.

Right, so I've obviously answered my own question there.  By the way, the course costs money but in my opinion is money well spent.  I recommend checking out her website for tons of free writing articles.  Her methods may not work for you but I like her nuts-and-bolts approach.

***

I made a comment earlier about this being a good place for me.  What I meant is I can see that I've progressed in my writing because I'm not writing entire novels where the story is completely wrong anymore.  This is a gratifying thing to notice about yourself as a writer.

So what am I going to do now?  How am I going to stop wringing my hands and wondering where to start?  I suppose I'll get my money's worth and finish Holly's very intense but I'm sure exceptionally useful course.  All six months worth of lessons and more of actual work.  I keep telling myself I can do it faster on my own but that's just bullshit.  I can barely write a 100 page story in less than a friggin' year much less something that's more than double that page count.

Everything takes so damn long.  Oh well.  I guess I better get cracking...

Old Blog: All That A Person Can Remember

Note:  This is from my old blog.  I published it on 16 March 2006.  I thought I posted up here for you guys to enjoy but can't find it anywhere.  Here's the original post, unaltered.

******

My opinion has always been that memories make us who we are. Without them, we are no one.

(i am on my first plane ride. i am looking out the window and staring in amazement at the scene below: manhattan. the sun is blazing and bright and i am wearing my purple dress, little white socks and my black patent leather mary janes. i am something on the order of 2.5 - 3 years old.  other than the dinosaurs at the natural history museum, i don't remember much else about NYC, not the subway, not the statue of liberty.)

In the movie Blade Runner, Deckart makes the discovery that replicants have a four year life span because of the accumulation of memories. With that accumulation, replicants tend to develop minds of their own, specifically the desire to control their own destinies and to think for themselves.

(i am sitting on a cold linoleum floor in a bedroom. my brother is on his bed. the light on his nightstand is the only light in the room. it seems unnaturally dark, probably because I am around 3 years old and sitting on the floor. against the wall, there is a cardboard box. my dad is there and he and my brother are laughing. inside the box is a duckling whom we christened "goose goose." she is small, yellow and fuzzy. she is peeping. there are some old rags in the box with her so she stays comfortable. i am fascinated by her.)

What happened next, I don't remember, but my Dad tells me I reached out and grabbed the little duckling by the neck. She passed out because she couldn't breathe. My Dad thought for sure I'd broken her neck. She regained consciousness and was fine. I do not remember almost killing her.

When I was four years old, we moved into the house where my parents live now in San Jose. I remember Goose Goose was full grown. All perfect, white with orange feet and bill. She lived a good long time. I never tried to grab her neck again.

I read somewhere that if you can go back to the house you grew up and you crawl around on your hands and knees all these memories you forgot about will come flooding back to you.

(i'm wearing a white dress with red checkerboard trim and leggings. i seem to be trying to stand up and feel very unsteady on my feet. my brother's dog, who is a year older than me, is standing next to me. i reach out my hands and grab his fur to steady myself. i stand up, tottering against him. he is huge with his comforting white fur and trademark brown spot on his backside.)

As I finish writing this last paragraph, I realize with a small shock that this is probably my earliest memory. I've gone through my life thinking that looking down on Manhattan from the plane window and going into the Dinosaur Halls at the Natural History museum while being carried by my Dad are my earliest memories. This one, however, takes the cake for it is here that I am learning to stand up and walk.

My brother's dog, Tinkerbell, was part cocker spaniel, part poodle. He looked more cocker spaniel than anything. He always seemed so big to me until I got older and I realized he isn't much bigger than my current dog is now: medium size. He died when he was 18 and I was 17. Although he was my brother's dog, we had a special bond since he was there when I was born and during all my growing up years.

(the door to the garage in my parents' house had this curious spring loaded feature which caused it to slam shut. we haven't been living in the house for very long when i get my finger caught in the door. the pain was so bad that i don't remember the rest.)

My mother tells me that my finger broke and they took me to emergency room. She tells me that I had stopped crying and had actually watched in fascination as the doctor put a couple of stitches in my finger. My mother got sick and dizzy and had to leave the exam room. I still have the scar from that incident. I do remember being at home later with a splint on my finger and watching my Dad angrily remove the spring from the door.

During our first phone conversation, a friend of mine asked me what my happiest memories were. I couldn't tell him because they involve two people I haven't seen in over two years who were very dear to me. I can't pinpoint one memory. There are several and they all run together as my favorites. They involve watching three movies in one day, the Tactile Dome, A Midsummer Night's Dream, watching The Ring and reenacting the Fish Slapping Dance. Sometimes when I look at my friend he reminds me of them. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the hair color or his eyes that bring them to mind.

Last night I dreamed of these two people. I was so happy I was finally seeing them. I recall hugging one of them and I could smell her skin for a moment. When I woke up, I was heartbroken that it was only a dream.

The human search for immortality or at least the desire to make an impact and/or leave a legacy in the world is immensely strong. For some people, leaving behind a family who will continue on is enough. For others, making an impact is the only way to go. For me, all I want is that the people I love and the people who move and shake me to my core remember that I feel that way about them. This is all I have ever wanted.

Pray for Shackleton*

I labored through the cold, clutching my scarf closer to my neck.  Why I ever thought that snow would be flat is anyone's guess.  I am crawling in and around sharp hills and soft valleys of deep snow.  Cold. I stood outside the Castro Theatre the other day, line wrapped around the corner, and my friends bitched endlessly about how cold it was.  They don't know cold.  And I don't know endless.  Not yet.

The sun tinged everything blue and clean.  My eyes are either in a state of white blindness or immersed in oily darkness.  Either way, I can't see clearly.  As I labor along I wonder if I've ever been able to see at all.  What have my inadequate eyes beheld?  My eyes could never be a scientific instrument, precise and objective.  The damn things don't even work on a normal basis, take too long to focus.

My breath drifts before me in milky clouds.  The tip of my nose hurts.  And my quads are screaming.  None of this matters.

I am walking away from this place and I don't look back.  Not at my previous companions, not at the place where I came from.  I'm moving forward with my blinders on, reaching out with both arms for something not in this world.  Ahead of me the orange sun, which looks so warm and restful, sits on the horizon.  The sun is the pause, the nanosecond before the nuclear explosion.

At least I will be warm again even for a few moments.

The water, all frozen (ice)bergs, stretches out around me.  I feel the ice shift as the bergs move.  Winter is here so everything should be frozen solid and there should be no danger of falling into a crack and into the watery grave of the Weddell Sea, or rather watery grave for me.  It's not a grave for the creatures that live there.  I think about this for a while.  One person's grave is another creature's heaven and home.  Perspective?  Natural History?  I don't know.

The most important part of this post is not the next paragraph.  The important part is the end.

Sometimes the only way changes are going happen is to have your goddamn heart broken.  And sometimes, sometimes nothing happens.  Your life just keeps going on with you as a speck and even with all that insignificance, your heart breaks anyway.  Sometimes you feel like you're dying from pain (and maybe the cold) but maybe that's the time you feel most alive.  Maybe that's when you feel like you have the most clarity.  In your insignificance.

Of course, there's a fine line between masochism and awareness but truly that line and the places where I regularly cross over are my business.  I chuckle as I stumble around some ice.  This little mental exercise would probably fall under the pain-lover side of things.  The ice is both soft and jagged in places.  I should pray for Shackleton but I have gone on alone and left both man and beast far behind.  I am exposed and it's getting colder.  The sun is almost gone and the deadly night will come.  If it starts to snow I am done for.

Hell, I'm already done for and I'm glad about it.

***

*On 14 July 2012, I saw the silent film "South" which is a documentary of one of my favorite true  stories, The Endurance Expedition.  I've read "South" and seen many of the photographs but had never seen the film.  Sir Ernest Shackleton and his men went on an expedition in 1914 to become the first team to cross Antarctica from one end to the other but their ship, The Endurance, got stuck in the ice and had to be abandoned.  The men, having been marooned on the ice in the middle of winter, had to work together to survive.  One of the centerpieces of the story is when Shackleton picked five men and made a 800 mile journey by sea from Elephant Island to South Georgia Island to get help.  The men used a 22 ft wooden lifeboat from The Endurance to make their voyage.  When the sea water hit the boat, it was so cold that it froze.  It took them four weeks and during the voyage, they were caught in a gale with massive waves.

"Scott for scientific method, Amundsen for speed and efficiency but when disaster strikes and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for Shackleton."  -Attributed to Raymond Priestly.

Since I first learned about this true story, I have literally at times in my life prayed for Shackleton for the most amazing thing about this survival story is no one died.  These men were marooned in the most inhospitable environment possible and managed to stay alive.  And Shackleton, nicknamed the Boss by his men, never gave up.

Five Tom Waits Songs That Always Make Me Cry

Tom is one of my top three favorite musicians.  Many people don't like his gravely, just-swallowed-a-broken-beer-bottle voice and some of his music can be difficult to pin down but he's a superb songwriter and storyteller.  His lyrics are rich with descriptions of down and out people, seedy places, and the night, just to name a few of his favorite subjects.

There aren't many songs that make me cry, much less cry every time I hear them.  Below is a list of such songs:

5.  Invitation to the Blues - Small Change (1976).  This song doesn't make me cry each time but it's one of the few songs that when I hear it, I can't believe I'm alive.  It's about a man who walks into a drug store/diner while on his way out of town and falls in love with the beautiful waitress working there.  The song is an entire story capsulated in little over 5 minutes.  This isn't a sad song but it's marvelous storytelling and the narrator is a wonderfully fleshed out character who comes up with a comprehensive backstory for this woman who looks "like Rita Hayworth" as he watches her go about her job.

4.  Jersey Girl - Heartattack and Vine (1980).  I know, I know.  This song is strongly associated by Bruce Springsteen but Tom wrote and performed it first.  I like The Boss' version but it doesn't come close to this one.  Tom perfectly captures all the longing and tenderness that goes with being so much in love with someone that he can't help but shout it out to the world.

3.  Soldier's Things - Swordfishtrombones (1983).  The meaning isn't entirely clear in this song.  It's about a yard sale where a soldier's things are being sold.  Some people think the soldier is the one selling the items but I've always thought the seller was his mother or wife and the soldier is deceased.  A quiet song, very moving, with a beautiful piano accompaniment.

2.  Martha - Closing Time (1973).  Tom was in his mid-twenties when this debut album came out but Martha is one of the truest, most perfect love songs I've ever heard.  An old man, Tom Frost, calls up Martha and asks to meet her for coffee.  They haven't seen each other in 40 years and spend time getting caught up, talking about their spouses and kids, and their lives in general.  Tom and Martha were lovers all those years ago and he is still desperately in love with her.  You can practically feel the old man trembling as he sits at that tiny wooden table in some coffee shop, staring at the women who has haunted his days and nights for so long.

1.  Fish and Bird - Alice (2002).  Alice is my favorite Tom Waits album, not surprising for its Alice in Wonderland elements.  This song is a KILLER!  It's about a small seabird and a whale who fall madly in love but can't be together because of their inability to live in each other's environment.  The story is told by a sailor.  The first time I heard it, I bawled my head off and after the second time I couldn't listen to it for a long time.  This little fable of a story consistently grabs my heartstrings and practically tears them out.  Obviously, it speaks to me on a very deep level.

Whew!  *wipes eyes*  Really enjoyed writing this post.  Hope you enjoy reading it.

Art Post: The Merode Altarpiece

The Merode Altarpiece from the Workshop of Robert Campin, The Cloisters, 

Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC

How about an art history lesson?  The above piece is the celebrated Merode Altarpiece by Robert Campin (or more accurately, his workshop).  Painted in 1427-1432, this rather small but thoroughly captivating masterpiece is my second favorite Annunciation.  Robert Campin is one of my favorites of the so called Flemish Primitives, that is painters from the low countries (in and around modern day Belgium) who were active in the 15th and 16th centuries.

Let's start with the subject.  Paintings were commissioned and the only folks who could do that were wealthy patrons (individuals) or institutions.  Consequently, many of the paintings depict religious scenes or were portraits.  This altarpiece was commissioned by the two wealthy individuals on the left side panel called "donors."  Donors would commission works of art as a way to increase their chances of getting into heaven.  No lie.  Hmm.  Makes me think of Martin Luther and his objections to indulgences.

Right Panel - Joseph

The central panel is, of course, the Annunciation.  An Annunciation depicts the archangel Gabriel showing up at Mary's house to tell her she is going to bear the Christ child.  In most Annunciation scenes, Mary is seated in a domestic setting, often reading a book.  There are usually lilies, which represent her purity, sometimes Gabriel's wings are rainbow colored, and there's usually a tiny crucifixion near the window to symbolize the immaculate conception.  Sometimes Gabriel's speech is shown as latin phrases upside down, a kind of early speech bubble, but not in this painting.

The panel on the far right is very, very cool.  That's Joseph and he, being the carpenter, is building a mousetrap.  The mousetrap symbolizes how Christ will "trap" and defeat Satan.  This kind of symbolism isn't used very much and we are very lucky that Campin chose to include it.

These types of religious paintings are packed with other symbolism which I'm not knowledgable enough to write about but most everything depicted in the painting usually has some kind of meaning or reference.

When I was in NYC last time, I was by myself and determined to see many of the things I missed on previous visits.  One of them was going to The Cloisters, a branch of the Met, which is located at the north tip of Manhattan in Fort Tryon Park to see their splendid collection of Medieval art.  I was really looking forward to seeing this painting in person and doing some sketching.

When I saw the painting for the first time I was struck by how small it is.  Barely four feet across and only 2 feet high.  The second thing is all the marvelous details in the painting.  Flemish Primitives are known for their almost microscopic details and this lovely domestic scene is packed full of them.  I was also struck by how fresh the painting the looks.  The paint still looks like it's wet!  Shimmering, luminous colors with layers of depth.  The photos don't do it justice.

After staring at it for a while, I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw.  I was intimidated as hell about drawing anything from this incredible piece but had settled on her hands.  I'd never drawn hands before but I was determined to do it anyway.  Sometimes great art inspires you to try crazy things.  You can see my efforts below.

A screen shot of the original so you can see what I was aiming for.

Drawing The Virgin's hands was not easy.  See that small but exuberant note on the bottom left of my sketchbook page where I mention how happy I am?  I was so excited to be seeing this piece of art and I was excited that my sketch actually looked okay.  I mean, it's not anything close to the original but it kind of looks like it.

The other thing I was learning to sketch during this trip was folds of fabric.  It took a while to get comfortable with drawing heavy drapery but I enjoy such drawings now and sometimes fall back on drawing folds of fabric when I've worn myself out at the end of a museum/sketch visit.

Sketching parts of paintings has been really instructive.  When you try to copy a masterpiece you learn so much about the artist and yourself.  You have to really look at it and you learn about line, shading, and color.  You can sometimes spot small details that aren't immediately apparent such as this one:

See her eyes?  You can see how they've shifted ever so slightly because Gabriel has just landed in the room.  This is the moment of transition which symbolizes the shift that's coming.  In her life, in the world, and in most religious lives.  A monumental moment captured so subtly by this master.

I spent a long time staring at this altarpiece and pondering what it would be like to be able to see it all the time.  Must be amazing.  As it is, I have my sketch to remind me, and now this blog post.

Movie Musings: Opening Sequence to The Testament of Doctor Mabuse

How about if we spend this post taking a look at one of my favorite film opening sequences of all time? Opening sequences are a lot of fun to look at and can set the stage for a great film.  Some other favorites:  1) Raiders of the Lost Ark, 2) The Matrix, 3) The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, 4) Star Wars, and 5) A History of Violence.

About the Film

The Testament of Doctor Mabuse is a 1933 German film directed by Fritz Lang and was the penultimate film I watched during my Weimar Cinema film survey.

The film was scheduled for release in March 1933.  Hitler acquired power in January and appointed Joseph Goebbels the Reich Minister of Propaganda.  Goebbels viewed the film and banned it, stating the film "showed an extremely dedicated group of people are perfectly capable of overthrowing any state with violence." (Wikipedia)

The story is the police inspect a series of crimes that fit the m.o. of Doctor Mabuse, a criminal mastermind who is in a catatonic state in a mental hospital.  Trouble is, he's in solitary confinement so they don't know how he's able to communicate with the criminals to carry out the nefarious deeds. Inspector Karl Lohmann, who was also the inspector in Lang's brilliant film M, must wind his way through insane asylums and the criminal underworld before finding out the disturbing truth behind the crimes.

The first time I saw it I was struck by how timely this film was. 9/11 was still fresh in my mind and this film is not only about the difference between criminal violence and violence for the sake of inflicting fear and subjugating people for a specific purpose (terrorism), it's also about how the ideology behind such acts can be kept alive and, therefore, continue on even if the originator of that ideology is no longer part of the equation.  Powerful stuff.

The Opening Sequence

Hofmeister (Karl Meixner), who isn't even the main character in this film, is trying to get out of a dangerous situation:  He's been found out and is trying to exit the building without being seen. There's no speaking in this part; the only sounds are the very loud, regular percussive sounds of printing presses making counterfeit money.  We don't see the machines at all.

I love the way he moves through space with a kind of deliberate grace that belies his scruffy appearance. There's a slow-fast rhythm and echos in his posture that tie the sequence together which are  further enhanced by the regular pounding of the unseen machines. The camera moves into the room, taking care to move slowly enough so we can see the objects shaking from the vibrations of the presses, runs smack into the wall then shifts suddenly to the floor where we see him hiding behind the large wooden box (1st picture). After some men come into the room, notice he's there, then leave, he slowly comes out from behind the wooden box (2d picture), walks deliberately to the door (LOVE his slumped posture! 3d picture), quickly turns and leans against the door in one motion to listen (4th picture), pauses for some refreshment before quickly opening the door and pausing in case someone is standing there (5th picture), then looks to his right, steps forward to look to the left around the door, walks out, turns around to face us, then leans very slowly over the side of the banister (6th picture).  Contrast his slightly slumped posture in the third image with the upright, foot forward, shoulders back posture in the fifth image, and the leaning against the door in the fourth image with the leaning over the banister in the last image.

I'm a big fan of parallels and enjoy using them in my writing as well.  This opening sequence shows the movement parallels that Hofmeister goes through, all without saying a word.

You can watch the entire sequence here.  It's over four minutes long.

The DVD and the Images

I have the two-disc set from Criterion which is marvelous.  The film has been beautifully restored as you can see from the images above.  The commentary is outstanding and the documentaries are excellent.  I created the images above by taking screenshots and then painstakingly arranging them in my Notebook program.  I then took another screenshot of the entire sequence and uploaded it here.

Art Post: My First Canvas!

My department had a work-related event put on by Art Uncorked which involved all of us going out and learning how to paint a picture.  The medium was acrylic on canvas.  I've never painted before with the exception of adding a touch of color with a watercolor pencil to some of my sketches.  We started with a literal blank canvas and the instructor taught us how to find measure it out and find the horizon line.  From there we followed him as he explained how to do each part of the picture.

What a blast!

The group had picked Morning on the Seine Near Giverny by Claude Monet.  I'd wanted to do Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh but I was glad we did this picture because it was fun to play with the effects of water, sky, shadow, and light.

My version of Monet's masterpiece.

The instructor asked me if I'd painted before as he watched me paint the background trees.  I told him no, but I do sketch and I have looked at a lot of art and enjoy learning about it.  He kept saying I had to have watching a painting show on tv because I was using some good brush techniques.  I haven't since I don't watch television.

We learned to mix and layer colors and learned how to overlay the picture with some white to give it that misty, impression-y look.  He taught us about how to paint reflections in the water and how to paint trees.  I struggled to some degree with painting the right shapes but I found the acrylic to be easy to work with as long as it's still wet.  It also helps that Impressionism is inherently forgiving since nothing really has to be that precise.

Here's Monet's original so you can see what we were going for.  I'm no artist but at least it kind of looks like it.

One of the coolest things was seeing everyone's interpretations.  One guy's painting was darker than the others and he added a white blob in the sky so it looks like the moon on the water at night.  Another painting was more dashes and dots so the entire picture was alive with movement and color.  Still another painting was completely different. She'd used the same color palette and there were some trees and some blue for the sky and water but hers looks like a massive storm with 75 mile an hour winds.  It's a wonderful picture!

Of course as soon as I got it home I could see places where I wanted to do more work.  The water reflections need better blending.  I need to add more pink to the sky.  And I wish I could do the trees over again.  Oh well.

I'm thinking I might take an oil painting class later or at least do another Art Uncorked event though I can just see myself filling my apartment with all these canvases.  Might not be a bad thing, actually.

City Life: 2012 LGBT Pride Weekend

LGBT Pride Weekend is a major deal in San Francisco as you might imagine.  June is Pride month which culminates in the two day celebration Pink Saturday/Pride Parade on the last full weekend in June.  The Parade takes place on Sunday morning/early afternoon.

Usually I only have time to attend Pink Saturday but this year I was able to attend both.  I went with a couple of friends who moved here not too long ago.  I don't think they had any idea of the scale of the festivities even though I told them it would be really crowded.

Dolores Park (that's Mission Dolores in the background)

For me, Pride Weekend starts at the Dyke March in Dolores Park in the Mission.  As you can see many, many people gather here until we line up at 18th and Dolores for a nice stroll to The Castro.  Usually there's a stage in the park but there wasn't one this year.  Lots of people watch us from the sidelines and cheer us on.

Pink Saturday in the Castro.  It's still early so the crowds really haven't begun to arrive.

I look pretty damn happy, don't I?  I always feel that way when "in community."

My friends made these lovely shirts for us to wear which said "Pink Saturday" and had a rainbow on them.  They also made a white shirt for Parade day.  We ended up in a wine bar (to my left in the picture) for most of the evening.  It was a nice way to spend the celebration though I'm usually jumping around to all the thumping DJ music and fighting my way through the vast crowds on street.

Parade Day!  I managed to secure a front row vantage point at Market and Jones.  A good portion of Market Street is closed off, from the Financial District to Civic Center.

The Dyke March, Pink Saturday, and the Parade allow for outstanding people watching including some scantily clad men and women and amazing costumes.  Tutus on both men and women figure prominently as do wings.  And bright colors, of course.

Don't ask me what contingent these guys are from.  There was a long delay between contingents so these guys took a nice stroll down the entire parade route

Every local politician and many corporations and non-profits take part in the parade.  From Willie Brown to our Public Defender's office and their infamous "Getting you off since 1921" t-shirts to Dykes on Bikes (who always lead the parade) to Genentech, Google, Safeway, many elementary schools, PFLAG, churches, banks (and their protestors), animal rescue groups, dance groups, and the Leather Contingent with its iconic flag, all of them have a place in the Parade line-up.

Marvelous dancing and costumes are expected.

The Glide Memorial Church float (preceded by the Rev. Cecil Williams in a separate car).  Glide is one of the most prominent liberal churches in the country, considers itself "radically inclusive," and is known for its wonderful Gospel Choir.  Attending a church service there can be moving experience.

I managed to get a decent shot of Celebrity Grand Marshal Sarah Silverman

It was a cool day in San Francisco which was nice if you're standing for hours in the sun.  By the time I left at 2:30 pm, the parade was still going on.  After the Parade everyone convenes at Civic Center for a massive festival/party.  There are stages, music, booths, demonstrations, food, etc.

It was good to see the Parade after many years of not being able to go.  Hopefully, I'll be able to go again next year.

A Note about "Lucky"

I put up this post then took it down again.  I can't exactly remember why but it had something to do with sharing it on FaceBook.  I think I was afraid some people would be offended by it.

As it is, I don't think many friends on FaceBook read my blog anyway unless I post pictures.  I re-read it just now and I'm still pleased with this post so it's going back up.  Apologies to those of you who have already read it.

Lucky

Lately, when I look back at my life I'm struck by how different I seem to be. I feel like I'm a different person altogether, not that I've turned into someone different but maybe I've grown into something else. Would people from my past who haven't seen me in a long time notice the difference?

My old friends assure me I haven't changed much over the years.

I'm standing in the library staring at a bunch of Federal Reporters. It's late at night, probably sometime after 10:00 pm and I have to pull some cases for the attorneys. We have been working night after night, weekend after weekend on this case, our lives a flurry of document productions, depositions, seemingly endless ex parte motions, and the intricate court rules of the Central District of California. The library light is warm and friendly, the rest of the hallways are dark. I like it here in the quiet. No one else is around except my team and the occasional patent prosecutor. I like this place, this job, and the attorneys. I'm young, naive, and believe completely in the goodness of these people who are all so much better educated than me. In the end, they didn't let me down at least not in the ways where it counted.

I still like working with attorneys so I guess in that way I haven't changed. The people I used to work with have all scattered and I am still trying to find a place for myself. The process of working on litigation cases is so intense that sometimes you bond with people. If you're lucky those bonds will stick.

***

I wanted to say that I'm so much more in touch with my inner life than I've ever been but that's not true. I'm just more in touch with my writing life and have made it a priority.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room. It's late and I don't remember what I was doing at the time. Reading something? I don't know. It's just me and the dogs. All at once I look up from what I'm doing staring into the lovely kitchen then I look to my right into the darkened living room. The two dogs are lounging on the denim couch, looking back at me. Behind me is the sliding glass door. I hear the sounds of the water from the huge turtle tank we own. Something inside is nudging at me and it's so strong that I have to stand up and walk around. I open the sliding glass door to the big deck that runs the length of the back of the house, leaving the door open. The dogs follow me out. I don't look out at dark, instead I'm looking down the deck into the other rooms. I can smell our wonderful redwood trees and the darkness and quiet are heavy like a cozy blanket. I realize everything as it is now can't possibly last, that everything is going to change, and it's not going to be something I'll be able to control. I'm terrified by this thought. I have no idea what it means. Then I think if that were to happen what would I really, truly want to do then? And I think: I want to live and work in San Francisco, become a writer, and be left alone. I got my wish with all the wonders and heartbreaks associated with it. My wish came at very high price.

I don't think I'll ever live in a house with a kitchen as wonderful as that one.

My wish was a terrible source of guilt, a little secret of mine I refused to admit even to myself. It seemed to me that though I wasn't the cause of this upheaval in my life, I made it happen just the same with this one selfish thought. It took me years to come to terms with that little moment and I'm still grappling with the feeling that it was all my fault, even though it clearly wasn't.

***

I still can't shake this feeling that I'm different. When I was younger I felt so much more relaxed and easy. I was very externally oriented and people focused. Now I feel I've withdrawn inside my own world and I feel much more closed off than I used to be. I have difficulty talking to strangers though when I do it's almost always rewarding. Sometimes they even stick, making that rolling, shifting transition to friends.

I'm working a little late at the office and there's a party going on for the attorneys. An office friend of mine and I are supposed to see some gallery openings but he's frantically trying to finish a last minute project. We manage to leave at a reasonable hour. This is the first time I've been out with him. He announces that he needs to call another friend and that he'll meet us at the first gallery. He talks about this guy all the time. I see him down the street and we wave at each other. The new guy is a little shy but he asks me if I live in the City. That starts the ball rolling. Next thing I know the three of us are on a crazy adventure. We crash an art gallery opening for a famous ballplayer where no one is allowed in unless you're on the guest list but somehow we get in. My new friend stays with me amidst the crowd of other famous ballplayers, the press, managers, city officials, and minor celebrities. He tells me who everyone is. We lose our friend in the crowd, something that's very difficult since he's so tall. Somehow I lose both of them and wander on my own. Later, my new friend finds me and says we have to leave. The two of them have a show to go to (but in the end I went instead!). He's standing on some steps at the back of the gallery which is being used as a dance floor, smiling, and holds his hand out to me. I take it and thus begins our real friendship. There are plays and musicals to go to, crowds to navigate as we wander through the crush of people in the Castro, there are parties to attend, long, lovely conversations, and the occasional nutty adventure. How did I get this lucky?

A fair question. I did get my wish to live here and write but even though I tried I was never left alone. When I first arrived here, broken and starting over, I thought I deserved to be left alone, that nobody would ever want to be around me again but my friends proved to me that my assumptions about that aren't true. So maybe I haven't changed except to have grown into myself, perhaps. Maybe the only thing that's really changed are my thoughts about what I think I deserve.

***

You never know what you're going to find out. I read somewhere that another person, especially someone you love, functions as a kind of mirror so you can actually see yourself. This is true. No matter how self-aware you think you are it's still difficult to get away from your own view of the world, the lens through which you look at yourself. And if you have a lot of baggage it becomes almost impossible.

I'm sitting with my new friend at Ti Couz, a rather well-known crepe restaurant in the Mission. It's later in the evening, perhaps after 10:00 pm, and there are plenty of people. We met when my tall friend started talking to her while we were having lunch. I'm trying to explain something to her about the writing, something really important, and she knows it. She is patient and lets me stumble around trying to put this important thing into words. Finally, I tell her I don't think my writing is all that good but I love my characters and story so much, so very much, that I can't help but think that love has to be communicated to the reader in some way, on some level. As I'm saying this to her, tears come to my eyes and I can see she is moved. At that moment, I finally see what it means to be a writer. It's not about technique, brilliance, or even talent, all things which which I don't seem to have much of. No, it's all about love and my job is to try to convey that love to you, the reader, as clearly and as simply as possible. I'm lacking in a lot of things that other writers have but love is something inside me that never runs out.

My friend's recognition that I was struggling to say something important and her patience was the most important thing about that exchange. One of my biggest stumbling blocks is the belief that I have to do everything by myself. I don't know where this attitude comes from. Some misguided, twisted childhood belief, no doubt. And yet through my own actions I know I can't do everything by myself. I have all these wonderful people who love and support me and if that weren't enough I have a whole tribe of characters I've created. Looks like I've called my own bluff.

***

It's strange but when I was kid I was lucky. Good things would fall into my lap and sometimes my life seemed to be an endless parade of all's well that ends well. I've lost touch with that feeling. I seem to have retreated from it in favor of hobbling myself so I can go through life with my arms clenched around me. Maybe if I hang onto myself tight enough all these true, real things will finally leave me alone. Maybe my luck will finally run out but...I know that's not going to happen even with my best efforts to make it so.

So I suppose I haven't really changed all that much. The essential part of my nature remains intact. I guess I feel different because I've been able to maintain that lucky core even with all the ups and downs of my life. My focus is different and I've grown more into myself but I'm still the same.

24th and Mission

This time, for the first time, he says nothing.

We are walking.  It's very cold in the Mission tonight.  Something like 45 degrees.  I would say I'm alone and it would look like it but in weird way I'm never alone.  Especially now.

I'm wearing my Raybans.  The people are dark and shadowy particularly where there are no street lights.  I'm grateful for it.  It's about 9:45 pm.

"I want to die," I say.  I don't expect an answer and I don't get one.  I keep walking forward glad to be wearing the ankle bandage on my left foot.  Helps me walk normally.  I'm staring straight ahead, like a horse with blinders on.  I'm moving down Valencia towards the BART station.

"I was unfriended.  I think it's to be expected," I say.  This statement seems to come out of left field.

"You hate FaceBook anyway."

I turn to him.  "Mr. Gryphon, how about if I create an identity for you on FaceBook.  I could give you status updates, post pictures of us, things like that."  He turns to me and barely smiles.  It's been a long time since we've been together.

"All of us...we all miss you, Miss Turtle."

I ignore this comment.  I've made a left on 24th street and am about to pass an alleyway to my right.  The pain wrenches through my heart like dull knife.   I turn towards him to keep my tears from spilling.  "Happy endings, and not those sexual kind either."

"What about them?"

"Think of the concept of living happily ever after.  Certain people can and will do so.  It's inevitable but since I can't."  I stop and lay my hands on my upper chest.  "Since there are no happy endings for Miss Turtle and there never will be then it makes sense that all my characters are guaranteed happy endings.  Don't you think that a fair bit of compromise."  It takes a huge effort to say this and my voice starts cracking.

Mr. Gryphon just stares at me.  "We...miss...you."

I turn away from him and continue to walk towards the BART station.  I am reminded of that time when I was waiting for a BART train at Glen Park years ago and was standing on the platform crying.  Really crying.  Leaning against a pole and how nobody asked me if I was okay.  I wrote about that here.

I get to the BART stairs and pause.

"No, Miss Turtle, you are not going to trip and fall down the stairs."

"I think about it a lot.  I think how tragic it would be if I fell down these stairs and broke my neck.  My ankles are weak anyway."  I smile up at him.  "Just think, you and I will be together forever with all our friends and the other characters.  The stories will continue."  I smile up at him but real tears are streaking down my face.

"You're not going to break your neck," he says.  "Not now.  You're not going to die for a very long time."

"There are no happy endings for me, Mr. Gryphon.  Only the ones I make up for myself."

"Exactly."

"I'm surprised you agree with me."

"That's just it, Miss Turtle.  There will be happy endings and they will be the ones you make up for yourself.  A happy ending doesn't happen like some random event.  It's something you choose for yourself and your ability to imagine and choose is the most powerful thing about you."

"What are you?  My guru?"  I am carefully stepping down the long flight of stairs.  It seems like the damn escalator has been broken for months.

He sighs but doesn't reply.  I press my Clipper card against the sensor and walk through the gate.  He merely leaps over the barrier.  No one notices him though a homeless man does a double take then turns away, shaking his head.

"Did he see you?"

"Not sure.  Sometimes they catch a glimpse, it seems, but only your other imaginary friends and characters can see me."

I look up at him.  He's still human.  I wonder what the hell I'm doing to do about that but decide the solution or resolution, as it were, will come in time.

*Note:  This was written several months ago.

My Short Story and its "Problems"

"There's always someone around even if you can't see them."

That's a quote from my short story "Rodney."  I thought about offering it up here for 99 cents as an experiment in self-publishing.  It wouldn't matter if no one bought it.  I'm more interested in the process of getting a story ready for sale on Amazon than anything else.

The problem is I had it critiqued two more times and both times the story was shot down as having problems so I've set it aside and focused on other projects.  I'll work on the story later but this brings to mind how difficult it can be to hear other people's comments about your work.

People keep telling me my character is too emotional.  Hrrumph.  Under normal circumstances I would say fuck it and post it here but I feel like if I really want to do this experiment and offer it for 99 cents then the damn thing better not have "problems."

I had an interesting conversation with one of my friends at a recent writing group.  She said she was no longer interested in making money off her writing and finds satisfaction in sharing.  I have to agree with her.  There is something nice about having a small readership who looks forward to your stories.

I keep thinking I should work on "Rodney" and make it less...problematic so I can get on with the experiment but I love the way it is even if my character is too "emotional."  The first time I had the story critiqued, I got great feedback that made the story way better than when I'd drafted it.  Subsequent critiques have been close to useless.

A couple of weekends ago I had an enlightening conversation with my Mom where we talked about this short story and its "problems."  I read it to her a while back and she thought it was fine even the parts that were gory.  Still, talking it through with her was helpful.  It made me see that perhaps there were things in the story I needed to bring out more.  For example, the early part of the story is gory but it's not clear to the reader why the story has to be that way.

As it is, I have other fish to fry but this story remains on my radar.  Maybe I'll try something radical like do a podcast reading of the story as it is and then redraft it and offer that version up for 99 cents.  We'll see.

City Life: A Quick Post about Strybing Arboretum in Golden Gate Park

I got a Nikon 1 for Christmas, a sexy little white camera with small interchangeable lenses.  I'm still learning how it works, definitely have to do some more shooting.  The pictures below are just a sampling I did after I got the camera.  The light was fading and it was a foggy afternoon.  Even with these limitations, I wanted to see what the camera could do.

Strybing Arboretum is located in Golden Gate Park right near the entrance at Lincoln and 9th Avenue.  It's a lovely contemplative stroll and a wonderful way to take a break.  This expanse of lawn and trees is right near the Arboretum entrance.

I had to push my way through some bushes and and branches to take this shot.  You can see the effects of the fading light and fog in how muted the colors are in these pictures.

"Rocky" and his friends are very friendly.  They run right up to you expecting a treat.  I had fun watching them run and leap around me while I tried for a decent shot.

I like the grayed edges of these leaves.  In bright sunlight they would probably look like they're on fire but everything was soft and quiet that day.

Macro (or so someone told me).  I was trying to get as close as possible to this plant.  The water drops are from the increasing fog billowing in.  It was getting to the point where I was worried there would be drops on my camera lens.  I like how silvery this plant looks.  So ordinary and unassuming until you get really close.

I would have stayed longer but the light was almost gone by the time I made my way back to the entrance.  The camera shoots very well in low light.  I didn't have to use the flash at all.

I'll do another post about the camera after I've played with it some more.

Unfold me, I am small...

Uploaded by AmandaReaBoyd on Oct 28, 2008

Breathe me by sia with lyrics

By the way, this song is spectacular in the finale of "Six Feet Under."

Back to Basics

2012 Circa Calendar
Index cards (3x5 and 4x6)
Some small moleskines (mostly blank)
Small envelopes

The list above is a label on a white box I have on my desk.

Years ago, a guy I used to work with said when things get overwhelming or major changes are taking place sometimes it's helpful to get back to basics.  Just focus on getting all your ducks in a row with the basic things in your life.

I thought at the time this was great advice because it places your focus on shoring up your foundations and gives you solid ground to stand on.

There are a ton of changes going on in my life right now.  Due to many factors, I'm going to have to give up my rent-controlled apartment.  In order to do that and stay here in San Francisco, it means I'm going to have to downsize.  This sounds like a bad thing but it isn't.  I have way too much crap, including things left over from my marriage that just don't apply to me and my life anymore.  I've been wanting to streamline for years and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.

Looking at all my stuff and starting this process is intimidating as hell, though.  I know there's a finite number of items in my apartment (it's not that big) but when I think about it, I get really nervous.  Need to start small, need to start steady.  Plus, the idea of living in another place is also scary.  It's exciting too.  I think I need this little shake up.

I streamlined my schedule even before I heard about my apartment.  After more than 23 years I retired from volunteering with the penguins.  I wasn't doing very much at the end there and I've got a bunch of personal projects I really want to focus on.  Also, I stopped doing the monthly critique sessions for my writing group.  I was the only one doing them and no one wanted to back me up.  Running a critique session is more work than facilitating a writing group.

This evening I've started purging in earnest.  I'm in my living room and worked for an hour while listening to 90s rap tunes.  I tossed a lot of stuff already, consolidated some items, and have labeled some items for storage.  I'm going to finish up with my office supplies (damn, there's a lot of those!) and get ready to do some more work tomorrow.

When I first started writing I read a book on writing by Jack Bickman titled "Writing the Short Story."  It was the first nuts and bolts writing book I'd ever read.  It's a kind of a course where you do a ton of prep work on 3x5 index cards about things you're interested in that could be inspiration for your writing and how to map out your story using 3x5 cards.  I went through the entire book and worked really hard.  At the end I had a nice pile of 3x5 cards with my story, characters, settings, etc. all mapped out and...I took the pile of cards and put them away.  I never wrote that story down.  I even went to where the story was set and drove around, making notes.  The reason I never wrote it down is because the story was done.  There was no need to continue with it.  This was the first time I discovered intense outlining and prep work before writing doesn't work for me.

Well, I found those 3x5 cards in a box a little while ago and had fun flipping through them.  All the things I'd written down for inspiration still apply.  I thought about tossing the cards because I know I'll never go back and look at them but I think I'll keep them a little while longer.

Bickman's book was valuable for other reasons even if I didn't take to the method he was teaching.  Mainly, it gave me a good overview of plot structure and the concept of adding "tags" or characteristics to your characters to give them more depth.

Another thing I found nestled among the 3x5 cards is an outline for a short story I wrote when I first moved here.  The story itself has been lost as far as I can tell.  The setting is in the Southwest and it's an extremely disturbing revenge story.  I mention it in this old blog post (The Role of Extreme Violence in Art).  I went all out with it and kept pushing and pushing, trying to go to places that scared the hell out of me to see what would come out and how much I could take.  I know if I read it now it would be full of beginning writer mistakes but it would be nice to take a look at it anyway.  The story contains some of the most powerful visuals I've ever written and is one of the most violent and gory stories I have ever read.  I still remember most of it and at this point those 3x5s are just about priceless.  I'll probably write it down again at some point.

Hmm.  I was supposed to talk more about getting back to basics but ended up talking about writing again.  Oh well.

I have a lot of blank index cards.  I use them in my writers notebook/calendar sometimes and occasionally decide to go back to using them as my calendar.  And who knows, I may decide to try plotting out another story with them.  I'll talk about the moleskines later.  For now, let's just say I have an obsession with them, and blank books in general.

If I find anything else of interest, I'll do another post.

The Worth of Things

"It's late."

"Yes, and I have to get up early.  I know."  I pick up the teapot and pour some Earl Gray into the usual delicate teacup.

"It's nice to see you.  We've missed you."

I nod but say nothing to this statement.

Mr. Gryphon and I are sitting on a smooth white ledge, the tea service on the floor between us.  Our legs are dangling over the edge, and out beyond is the dizzying view of the universe.  We on the observation deck of a vast spaceship.  The deck looks much like giant cake dome.  The transparent substance which surrounds the deck is impossibly thin, only a few atoms thick, and stronger than almost any substance in the known universe.  It feels like we sitting on a white circular platter, suspended in the middle of space.

It has been many months since I've talked to him and even longer since I've been in this strange world I created.  I look down, getting dizzy.  Below me are more stars and the endless blackness of space.  I kick my legs a few times.

"I've missed you too," he says, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes.  I look at him, frowning.  I'm so used to him being big that it's weird seeing him so small though he's still taller than me.

A year ago, Valentine's Day, Mr. Gryphon woke up in the morning and found that he had turned into a human being, a guy around my age.  No matter what he or anybody else tried to do, he could not turn himself back into a gryphon.  Yes, it's true, I just haven't mentioned it to anybody.  I have a draft blog post to prove it.  I wrote the post "Imaginary Friend" and in it he keeps talking about how I have to write a story about us, and how everything has come to a standstill.  I'd figured out how to overlay a gryphon facade on him but it's impossible to maintain for any length of time.  If you're paying any attention in that post, I'm having difficulty looking at him.

"I was uncomfortable," I say, "Still am but clearly the story needs to be written.  I just don't know when I'm going to get around to it.  There's a lot going on."  I kick my legs again and focus on a steady point of light that appears to be directly in front of us.  A planet of some kind, obviously.

"Things seem to have come full circle.  Because you didn't want to write the story down, other things happened."

"Do you really believe that?  You're just a character in one of my stories.  You're not real," I say.  I am very tired but this conversation needs to take place.

"Stranger things have happened."

"You're still stoic, Mr. Gryphon.  How did that happen?  How did it happen that you are stoic?" I say, leaning towards him.  He merely rolls his eyes and picks up his teacup.  "Look at what I've done!  Gryphon and Mock Turtle are always together.  It's built into your nature.  You can't leave, not ever!"

"No, Miss Turtle, that's not true.  You can't leave.  It's your nature," he says.  In the months I've been avoiding him, he has clearly become comfortable with his human self.  He picks up small cake slice and offers it to me.  Our fingers brush.  His hand is very warm.

"Goddammit!" I yell, startling him.  He blinks rapidly for a moment.  His eyes are a very warm shade of light brown with pronounced gold flecks.  I miss his great yellow eyes.  And his wings.

"Sorry, I'll take the cake back if you want," he says.  I carefully put the plate down then I start to get up.  "Please don't leave.  It's been a long time since we've talked.  I would very much like it if you would stay for a little while."  He looks sad.

I settle back down.  I stare back out into the infinite empty space in front of us.  "Ever wonder if certain things are worth it?"

"No."

"Never?" I look at him again.  "Don't you get tired of waiting around for me?"

"Nope," he says, taking a sip of tea.  "I don't mind waiting for you, Miss Turtle, because it's always worth it."

I wince.

"I know what this is about," he says.  "This is a fair bit of self-torture, don't you think?"

"I prefer to think of it as hashing things out."

"We could talk about it directly, you know.  It might be a good thing."

"This is a public blog.  We can't talk about it directly."

"Suit yourself," he says watching me.  "You went through Heaven, Hell, the Garden of Eden, New York City, and Purgatory to find me, your imaginary friend.  You know something about whether difficult situations are worth it."

I ignore this last comment.  "Some people say, Mr. Gryphon, that one shouldn't do something if it's not easy, if you're not going with the goddamn shit flow of the motherfucking universe.  If it's difficult or uncomfortable, you shouldn't go there."

"Yes, and people also say you should just 'be,' exist."  He has taken the small cake he offered me earlier and is eating it with delicate bites.

"Fuck that."

"Yes, Miss Turtle, I believe that's the right attitude.  If everyone just did what was easy, there would be no progress, and there certainly wouldn't be any stories."

"Thanks for your support.  I know it's built into your nature to support me but I appreciate it anyway."  I push my teacup away and draw my knees up, wrapping my arms around them.  "Don't ask me what I'm going to do," I say.

"I wouldn't dare," he says.  We stare out into the millions of stars.  Right now, everything and anything is happening around us, around me.  I ponder the worth of things and how painful these discoveries can be.

***

I posted this last December then took it down again.  I thought it was about a person I was hashing things out with but it isn't at all.  This post is about something bigger and wider.  The story.  My own fears about how I'm living my life and how much risk I want to take.  People to hash things out with come and go.  Friends and family stay.  And my imagination is a constant.  There's a weird kind of comfort knowing that Mr. Gryphon will never fail me.  It's good to have imaginary friends.

Writing Life: Type

A manual typewriter at a winery in Healdsburg.

I learned to type on a typewriter in high school.  I remember sitting in the classroom as a freshman, slowly hitting the keys to learn that QWERTY keyboard.  You had to press the keys really hard otherwise the typebar wouldn't hit the page.  My favorite thing was when we got to the end of the line.  You had to hit the carriage lever return pretty hard and the platen would slide across the paper with a satisfying "thunk."  It was the first time I felt like a writer.

Those IBM Selectrics were revolutionary as was whiteout and correction tape.  Learning to use whiteout properly was an art in itself.  You had to keep the brush clean and glump free.  And to get the best results, you had to slowly paint over the letter while keeping the rest of the paper around the letter as clean as possible.

When I went to secretarial school, I learned about computers.  I learned DOS, that old MS operating system, and we had seven inch floppy disks that were literally floppy.  If the IBM Selectrics were revolutionary, the computer was a miracle, a beautiful thing that crawled out of a science fiction story.  I would stare at the screen of green letters on black expecting it to start talking to me.  The day I learned about deleting, cutting and pasting, and saving documents to be worked on later stand out as one of the most important days in my writing life.  When I realized you could print the document you were working on after it was done and proofed, I thought it wasn't possible for things to get any better than that.

I'm happy I was wrong about that assumption.

While the computer and I are close friends, I do find that good old fashioned typewriter up there to be an exotic, sexy creature capable of performing in almost any situation, including a power outage.  I think how nice it would be to have one.  A writer should have a manual typewriter around somewhere, right?  If only I had the space for it.