Archives for March 2009

“Nerd Humor”

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That, according to Wikipedia, is how comedian Demetri Martin’s humor is “often referred to.” Hmph. That’s as may be.

Whatever you call the genre, I’m hugely enjoying his new show, Important Things, in which he takes a single topic and just riffs on it for a half-hour. His “important thing” this week was safety. In the excerpt below, appearing as a commercial pitchman for a nursing home, he assures us there will be no more lying about Tony Bennett (among other things). As soon as possible convenient.

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Being Here (Today)

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Pogo: Churchy's paraskavedekatriaphobia (click for full strip)

From whiskey river (first 3+ lines not included there):

from The Ninth Duino Elegy

Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely
in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all
other green, with tiny waves on the edges
of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze)–: why then
have to be human–and, escaping from fate,
keep longing for fate?. . .

Oh not because happiness exists,
that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.
Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which
would exist in the laurel too. . . . .

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some
strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.

(Rainer Maria Rilke, c. 1922 [source])

…and:

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then one of them looks over at the other and says, “What the hell is water?”

(David Foster Wallace, 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College [source])

[Read more…]

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A Hrooom of One’s Own

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'Taos Hum,' by pingting on Flickr (click for original)I know a fellow I’ll call Guy, although that’s not his real name. (He’s no longer a Boy, but not yet — not consistently– a Man, either, except in the most literal and least important sense.)

Guy recently took a weekend trip with his wife. It was a long six-hour drive in a rented car, of a US make and model which Guy knew of but had never even ridden in, let alone driven. They finally arrived, with relief, at the hotel — a chain which he had never before patronized — and unpacked their stuff in the fourth-floor room before heading out for a bite to eat.

The restaurant to which they’d been directed was farther from the hotel than they’d been led to believe, and the traffic heavier, so he was behind the wheel another half-hour before he and his wife could sit at a table, have a couple of drinks, and relax over dinner with the fellow they were meeting.

Then it was back to the rental car, back to the hotel, back to their room, and time indeed to get ready for bed. Guy’s wife wasn’t tired, and she’d be involved in a conference over the next 24 hours so wanted to prepare some materials and wind down before going to bed. But Guy himself looked forward to it after all the driving. He thought he might read for no more than a half-hour before drifting off.

He was standing in the living area in the room as his wife flipped through the channels on the big flat-panel TV. He was unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt sleeves before getting undressed, when he felt the floor vibrate, subtly, beneath his feet:

…hroooom…
…hroooom…
…hroooom…
…hroooom…

[Read more…]

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Saving the Criminal Justice System from Itself

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The name of the fellow over there at the left is William (Bill) Dillon. At the time this picture was taken, in November, 2008, Dillon was 49 years old.

An unremarkable photo, really. A man in middle age, playing a guitar in what appears to be a kitchen of a suburban house or apartment somewhere.

But the circumstances surrounding that photo: remarkable indeed.

Until earlier on the day when that picture was taken, Bill Dillon had been imprisoned by the State of Florida for 27 years. His sentence, for the crime of murder in the first degree, had been life imprisonment.

Tsk, tsk, you may think. Once again, the bleeding-heart criminal justice system sets a murderer free to kill again. Perhaps you wonder how the people around Dillon could possibly seem so relaxed. They must be accomplices, you imagine.

Er, no.

For it turns out that Dillon did not commit — could not have committed — the crime for which he was convicted and imprisoned.

[Read more…]

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Call Me Unreliable

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My fairly regular posting schedule here at RAMH — averaging a post a day — is about to run off the rails.

This is a good thing, as it happens. See, I’m just about ready to start spending my morning writing sessions in writing, all over again, the book I refer to as my Work In Progress. Since August or so, I’ve been plowing through the three earlier drafts (written over the course of almost 15 years) — getting my head wrapped around the characters, and the twisty plot, and the background (real) history and how the WIP’s story line weaves in and out of it, and… and… and…

Now the time has come to put aside the tools of critical reader, of careful researcher (if you will) into the mysteries of a story much of which I’d forgotten. It’s time to face again a blank screen, tremble just a bit, and start hammering at the keyboard.

I’ll still be posting here, from time to time. In the first place, I’ve still got something like a couple dozen draft posts in the pipeline (including one to appear later today), and plenty of ideas for others. And, for sure, I’ll continue to post the Friday whiskey river-driven meditations. For those of you with blogs of your own, I’ll still be stopping by to lob comments over your transoms. And for those of you on Facebook (and, to a lesser extent, on Twitter), I’ll still be around there as well.

Finally, I’ve done this kind of thing often enough that I know I will need distraction every now and then.

But, well, duty beckons. :)

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Going; Gone.

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From whiskey river:

There will come soft rains

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

(Sara Teasdale)

…and:

Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

(Mary Oliver)

[Read more…]

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A Half-Dozen Words to Bend Your Writing Mind

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[Last in a series of posts involving six words. Part 1 asked you to define your life in a half-dozen words; Part 2, your life’s work. This one is much narrower in scope.]

Hex Presse specimen jar poetry puzzle (click for more info)This isn’t normally the way I’d start a post — with poetry. (That typically happens only in my regular Friday whiskey river-triggered ruminations.) But I wanted to open with something useful to non-writing site visitors, as well as the writers who stop by.

So let’s begin simply. And if you’re a writer looking for a challenge, keep reading!

Sestina
by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Pretty great, huh? Yet a certain type of writer regards this with apprehension (if not outright terror).

[Read more…]

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A Half-Dozen Words Which Say “Your Work”

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Continuing in yesterday’s six-words-about-you vein…

A good number of years ago, now, I started a journal — handwritten, in a plain old spiral-bound notebook. I no longer have it, as far as I know, not even in any of the old, yet-unopened boxes in the garage or our offices which often whisper to me tantalizing hints of their contents.

But I still remember the first entry, which was an attempt to calculate my “lucky number.” The attempt was based on some certainly bogus description I’d read someplace — it even sounded bogus. All you had to do, according to this faux-numerological “plan,” was take all the explicit numbers you knew from your life, and add them up until you rendered them down to a single digit. So you’d take your Social Security Number, your date of birth, your phone number, any street addresses and postal codes you’d ever lived at, your shoe size, and so on, turn each multi-digit number into a string of single digits, and keep adding up the digits. E.g.:

SSN: 123-45-56789
becomes:
1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9 = 45
and then:
4 + 5 = 9

In which case 9 (so went the theory) would be the lucky number based on SSN alone. Of course you had all those other numbers to add in, but the general process was the same.

So anyway, I ran all the numbers I could think of through the wringer. I never stopped to consider the thoroughly arbitrary bogosity of the exercise: Why add them all up — why not (say) multiply them? What about the street addresses you couldn’t remember? If you lived on Third Street, should you add in a “3”? If you were (as I am) the first of four siblings, should you add in 1, and then 3 (for the others), or 1, and then 4 (for all of you as a group), or just 1, or just 4? But I was also the third-born in a family of six — so then…? How about the number of stairs on the way up from the first floor to my childhood bedroom?

It’s easy to get lost in this sort of thinking, obviously, unless one is simple-minded in direct proportion to the Bogosity Index of whatever it is one is trying to achieve. Which, back then, I pretty much was.

The bottom line: my lucky number is/was 6.

To this day, even knowing as I know that the result would’ve been different if I’d just remembered (or forgotten), say, just one more phone number — even knowing that, I’m never surprised to see the number 6 cropping up in my life. Which is why the premise of yesterday’s post (that a life could be summarized in a half-dozen words) didn’t completely catch me by surprise. (I mean, come on, really — why not 7 words? or 5?) (Or, looked at another way: why 6, considering all the other people with different lucky numbers?)

So I’ve continued thinking in this six-words vein. Which leads me to a second, related (but not identical) challenge:

How would you summarize your life’s work in just six words? A few examples:

“Not as good as I wanted.”
“Show time, folks. Day after day.”
Or go the enigmatic route: “Objects in mirror not so big.”

What would you say?

Now, coming at this from a writer’s point of view, my inclination is to think of my “life’s work” in terms of my written works, published or not. But there’s no reason why you need to use the same yardstick. Maybe you’ve got a grander vision, and prefer to consider the question in terms of something like, “Why am I here?” Maybe you’re thinking of work in the everyday sense — what you “do for a living.” Or maybe it’s got nothing at all to do with an objective, material product per se; maybe you think of your life’s work as how your kids or your family in general grow up and thrive.

Whatever criteria you want to use, go for it. (Also whatever timeframe: consider it as of now, if you will; when your life’s work is “done,” if you’d prefer; or just considering what you have left to do — perhaps have always wanted to do, but just couldn’t bring yourself to try. Yet.)

I think mine, by pretty much any standard, could be:

He never stopped chasing his hat.

As with yesterday’s post, give it a try yourself in the comments or just in your head. We don’t stand on ceremony here and we certainly don’t stand on candor, either. :)

[Tomorrow: one more post involving six words. That one is almost guaranteed to drive writers crazy, although the rest of you may enjoy watching the spectacle.]

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A Half-Dozen Words Which Say “You”

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In the spirit of many mothers, my own wishes that I were more of a committed churchgoer, less a dilettante of formless spirituality. She doesn’t bother me about this at all, let alone nag me, but every now and then there’s a little tap on the shoulder just to let me know it’s on her mind.

Over the last week, she gave or sent to my sisters, brother, and me one of those little daily-devotional booklets, spanning the part of the Christian calendar called Lent.

I (and my sibs) thought that today’s item was especially interesting, and I (and maybe my sibs) think so especially for writerly and word-nerd reasons. Shorn of its theological trappings, it says:

How would you summarize your life in just six words? The online magazine Smith asked readers to do just that. [JES: link] It was based on Ernest Hemingway’s response to the same question: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” The result is a book called Not Quite What I Had Planned, a collection of six-word memoirs from folks famous and unknown. A few examples:

“Well, I thought it was funny.”
“I still make coffee for two.”
“Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.”

[…]

So if you were to try to summarize your life in six words, what would you say?

Any takers? (I’m thinking on mine.)

4:50 pm/edit to add: No one noticed (so he thought).*

________________________

* The man does like ambiguity.

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