It's been awhile since I wrote a post about books and, since there are few things that thrill me more, I think it's time I write another. I've covered a good amount of ground in my personal library and there are quite a few books I'd like to comment on. I can't remember which books I talked about last time, nor do I care to go back and look, so I'll just pick up where my fancy takes me.
It never ceases to amaze me how many fantasy authors not only can, but often do, develop completely new languages before writing their books. Knowing how difficult it is to even begin to learn a language, I find myself wondering if most of these authors were linguistics majors in college. I'm sure that at least a few of them were. Molly, Mandi's sister, loaned me an incomplete series written by an Australian (I think) woman, who's name I can't remember, but who's first book was titled "The Naming". It was good, as were the subsequent two, and I look forward to the next one. The amount of planning that the woman must have done is astounding. Aside from new languages, she developed support literature, fictional bibliographies, along with the usual maps, characters, magical theory, etc. This has to be one of the most daunting aspects to writing fantasy as opposed to contemporary fiction. It must be so much easier to write a story about North America in 2008 as opposed to just starting from scratch and developing all the details necessary to understand what you're writing about much less to make it believable and entertaining. (Run-on?)
This brings me to Science Fiction. (Not the same thing as Fantasy! Stop grouping them!) How much more difficult must it be to do all the things previously mentioned with the additional requirements of understanding advanced/theoretical physics/astronomy/technology? My mind shudders at the thought. If you ever see me write science fiction there will be lots of lasers, explosions, and weightless antics. String Theory there will not be. Unless, that is, my character says something like "Computer! Do stuff based on String Theory!" All joking aside, I just finished a series by Alastair Reynolds, a British astrophysicist, and it was incredible. He reminds me a lot of Carl Sagan, although a little less serious. As far as I can tell, which is obviously not very far, all of the science in the story was at the very least theoretically possible. He also went to great lengths to explain it to the reader while managing to make it seem like he wasn't explaining it at all. Very impressive and I'd imagine hard to do. I still felt dumb and there were more than a few points at which my mind was definatly bending in ways it's not used to. I think this is impressive if you keep in mind that I quickly and easily fall into stories about dragons and swords. My mind apparently has no trouble with that.
Over the past few years it seems like I've been hearing non-stop about Bill Bryson. Everyone, and I mean everyone, seems to be reading or have read Bill Bryson. This Saturday I found out why. While visiting the old bookstore I went through almost every section, as I usually do, but this time, surprisingly, Bryson kept popping into my vision. He was in Science and Nature, Travel, General Fiction, Writing, Classics, and everywhere else I'm guessing, though I stopped there. Apparently the man sits down once a week and thinks something like "Deep sea jellyfish? Why not!" More surprisingly, he seems to do it well. I think they've all been best sellers, they've all been suggested to me by at least one person, and no less than three people have loaned me a book by him. (I'll read and return them soon. I promise!) I've almost finished "Notes on a Small Island" a book about a solo trip he took around England and he manages to make it interesting and funny, even though you have no idea what he's talking about most of the time. It seems that the voice inside his head sounds a lot like the one inside mine. Take from that what you will. Let's just say that I look forward to reading the rest of his books.
On a sadder note, for those of you who haven't heard, Michael Crichton passed away a week or so back. For those who have only seen his movies/tv show, don't judge him based on those. If you've only read his most recent 3 novels, don't judge him on those either. Everything that came before "Timeline" was, in my humble opinion, impressively well done and interestingly unique. No one else wrote like he did, at least not that I've found. I was hoping, and he had hinted, that his next book would be more of a return to the type of novel he was writing 10-15 years ago. Sadly we'll never know. Regardless, he was one of my favorites and respectfully, he was one of the authors that made me love reading early on. I still remember reading "Congo"(I even made a diorama) in Mrs. Reagan's 5th grade reading class when I was supposed to be reading "Shiloh" or something along those lines. He will be missed. Also, if anyone wants to buy me the rest of the books he wrote under John Lange, you can find them on Barnes and Noble's used and out of print section. That would be greatly appreciated as they will now be exponentially even further outside of my price range. All interested parties can shoot me a comment and I'll let you know which ones I have. Predictably they're the three cheapest and easiest to find. Maybe we'll get lucky and his publisher will bring them out of retirement with a new printing like they've done with every single journal, note, thought, and doodle of Tolkein's. The market is obviously there.
That's all I have for now.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Mountain Night
The wind fell like an avalanche down the slope of the mountain, winding its way through the rustling Aspens that sounded, to the discerning ear, of the roar of a far off applause. As this tumult reached the valley it began to swirl the remnants of last year's fall in gusts and eddies, some of which found their way to, and their demise in, a small campfire burning youthfully against the force of the encroaching darkness. The fire burned in a small meadow carved by the spring in wetter times and surrounded by the slowly quieting Aspens as the fuel for their encouraging wind finally set over the mountaintops. In the plains beyond it would be light for hours yet, but here, up in the nest of the gods, night had always settled early. Up here, in the realm of the beasts of the darkness, life begins to stir from it's slumber. The noises of their awakening, hunting, dying, can be heard by anyone who will listen, but there is only one nearby. He sits by that campfire, slowly feeding it fuel, clad in the black of the night and the spidery blue tattoos that mark him for what he is. For him this is a place of rest, nothing will break his peace here. Sometimes the larger of the nights hunters will stop to consider, if only for a moment, this solitary man who seems such easy prey. But even the most deadly, with their hearts full of menace, pause at the edge of this man's vision. There is a warning there, not seen, nor heard, but felt in the marrow of their bones. This one is off limits. This one is not to be hunted.
The man sits and waits, as he has many times before, for the watcher of these mountains to come and meet him. In her own time, as always, the watcher enters the circle of light cast by the fire and seats herself across the fire. For a time they are silent, each reveling in the beauty of the night. Their spirits are kindred, if not their races, and they find it difficult to talk of the things they must, that they've always known were coming, in a place such as this. But necessity looms, as is often the case, and their pleasantries come to an end.
"Wanderer, why have you come?" she asks.
"To seek council with the Watcher." he replies.
"Your heart was conflicted in its purpose when you first arrived here. What now are your intentions?" This is not exactly a question, and they both know it, but in his answer she will find hers, and it is here he must be careful.
"My thoughts remain conflicted, though less so, but the battle in my heart has been resolved. I have accepted my task and I intend to complete it in the manner expected of me. I have chosen to start here because I have an affinity for you and for this place. I will need your help." His eyes, black as the night all around them remained fixed on the fire as he spoke. For a time there was silence as she considered his request. On the surface he did not ask for much. It was not his way. But over the many years they had known each other she had learned to hear the words he didn't speak. She could see that this quest would go further, by far, than even he suspected, and that he was afraid. She decided to grant him his request, in her own way.
"Place your hands in mine, Wanderer." As she spoke she moved her hands, palms up, into the heart of the fire. It was proof of his faith in her that he did so without question. As her hands closed on his the flames roared and the fire grew until their arms were obscured by flames up to their elbows. Out of the corner of his eye he could see shadows, great hulking shapes moving through the woods, circling the pair at the center of the circle. The roar of the flames increased and he could see droplets of sweat forming at the Watcher's brow just before a flash, bright as day, erupted between them. A moment later the fire went out, now only a mass of burning embers, and the Watcher slumped over with exhaustion. The Wanderer examined his arms and found them unharmed, not a hair was singed, and yet they were different. The blue tattoos were now a blood red and the shapes had changed. New lines intersected the spirals and swirls creating symbols that looked like glyphs or some kind of ancient scrawl. He could make no sense of them but knew there was a meaning to each one. He looked up from his arms to see that the beasts had gone, all but one, which was now seated on its haunches ten paces from the pair. He still could not make out what type of animal it was. His gaze returned to the Watcher who had seemingly recovered from her draining effort and now sat up straight to gaze at the Wanderer.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I have given you a mark that bonds us together. It emanates from you a sort of call to the beasts of the mountain to aid when help is needed. It is merely a request, not a command, and will work only in the mountainous areas." she glanced over at the beast and spoke in a language the man had never heard before. The creature seemed to understand and, through a series of growls and barks, spoke to her in turn. "This is Darkfoot. He is a mountain wolf and has separated himself from his pack to ask a boon of me, and you."
Confused, the man replied "what could he want of me?"
"His race is more intelligent and perceptive than the common wolf, and as such they seem to have a, knowing, of things that even most humans do not. I believe that he sees a need in you, or perhaps in your path, that he feels he is needed for. He has asked to join you on your quest. His kind do not normally ally themselves with humans. Quite the opposite honestly. Regardless, I believe he could be a great help to you if you will accept his offer."
"I believe at this point that I'd be a fool to turn down any offer of help. Please tell him I accept."
Instead, the Watcher leaned over and touched the man lightly on his temple. "You can tell him yourself. I think you'll find that you'll now have no problem communicating with each other."
She was correct. Whatever she had done, words spoken by man or beast seemed to translate themselves in the opposite's mind. The noises were the same, but the meaning was clear. Soon after his conversation with Darkfoot the Watcher took her leave and disappeared into the forest. The Wanderer curled up to sleep for a few hours with the mountain wolf standing watch. The next day would begin a long journey, the end of which was unclear. The Wanderer did not sleep well.
The man sits and waits, as he has many times before, for the watcher of these mountains to come and meet him. In her own time, as always, the watcher enters the circle of light cast by the fire and seats herself across the fire. For a time they are silent, each reveling in the beauty of the night. Their spirits are kindred, if not their races, and they find it difficult to talk of the things they must, that they've always known were coming, in a place such as this. But necessity looms, as is often the case, and their pleasantries come to an end.
"Wanderer, why have you come?" she asks.
"To seek council with the Watcher." he replies.
"Your heart was conflicted in its purpose when you first arrived here. What now are your intentions?" This is not exactly a question, and they both know it, but in his answer she will find hers, and it is here he must be careful.
"My thoughts remain conflicted, though less so, but the battle in my heart has been resolved. I have accepted my task and I intend to complete it in the manner expected of me. I have chosen to start here because I have an affinity for you and for this place. I will need your help." His eyes, black as the night all around them remained fixed on the fire as he spoke. For a time there was silence as she considered his request. On the surface he did not ask for much. It was not his way. But over the many years they had known each other she had learned to hear the words he didn't speak. She could see that this quest would go further, by far, than even he suspected, and that he was afraid. She decided to grant him his request, in her own way.
"Place your hands in mine, Wanderer." As she spoke she moved her hands, palms up, into the heart of the fire. It was proof of his faith in her that he did so without question. As her hands closed on his the flames roared and the fire grew until their arms were obscured by flames up to their elbows. Out of the corner of his eye he could see shadows, great hulking shapes moving through the woods, circling the pair at the center of the circle. The roar of the flames increased and he could see droplets of sweat forming at the Watcher's brow just before a flash, bright as day, erupted between them. A moment later the fire went out, now only a mass of burning embers, and the Watcher slumped over with exhaustion. The Wanderer examined his arms and found them unharmed, not a hair was singed, and yet they were different. The blue tattoos were now a blood red and the shapes had changed. New lines intersected the spirals and swirls creating symbols that looked like glyphs or some kind of ancient scrawl. He could make no sense of them but knew there was a meaning to each one. He looked up from his arms to see that the beasts had gone, all but one, which was now seated on its haunches ten paces from the pair. He still could not make out what type of animal it was. His gaze returned to the Watcher who had seemingly recovered from her draining effort and now sat up straight to gaze at the Wanderer.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I have given you a mark that bonds us together. It emanates from you a sort of call to the beasts of the mountain to aid when help is needed. It is merely a request, not a command, and will work only in the mountainous areas." she glanced over at the beast and spoke in a language the man had never heard before. The creature seemed to understand and, through a series of growls and barks, spoke to her in turn. "This is Darkfoot. He is a mountain wolf and has separated himself from his pack to ask a boon of me, and you."
Confused, the man replied "what could he want of me?"
"His race is more intelligent and perceptive than the common wolf, and as such they seem to have a, knowing, of things that even most humans do not. I believe that he sees a need in you, or perhaps in your path, that he feels he is needed for. He has asked to join you on your quest. His kind do not normally ally themselves with humans. Quite the opposite honestly. Regardless, I believe he could be a great help to you if you will accept his offer."
"I believe at this point that I'd be a fool to turn down any offer of help. Please tell him I accept."
Instead, the Watcher leaned over and touched the man lightly on his temple. "You can tell him yourself. I think you'll find that you'll now have no problem communicating with each other."
She was correct. Whatever she had done, words spoken by man or beast seemed to translate themselves in the opposite's mind. The noises were the same, but the meaning was clear. Soon after his conversation with Darkfoot the Watcher took her leave and disappeared into the forest. The Wanderer curled up to sleep for a few hours with the mountain wolf standing watch. The next day would begin a long journey, the end of which was unclear. The Wanderer did not sleep well.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Move through the darkness as swift as its currents, swirling and spiraling, upward and down, catching glimpses that flicker like flashes of light of the noise and the madness as you pass it by. In the darkness it's safer. No one can see. The raging explosions of life that overflow and spill out of the light are muted, subdued, and drained in the night. It's quiet. You can think in the dark. No one screams in your mind, and your mind won't scream back. The darkness in patient. It breathes. It takes a slow step. If you embrace it you can see more. Your eyes and your mind adjust. People take off their mask at night. The lovers of light will flit around on beams of headlights and streetlamps, fabricated day, on their way to dimly lit bars, fabricated night. Some people don't like the real thing. It can't be controlled like the fabricated. It wasn't designed. It isn't planned. It just is. It doesn't care who wins or loses. It doesn't even care how you play the game, because there is no game. There's only the dark, and there's comfort in that.
Sometimes things just blow up in your face.
Sometimes you do your best, try to be the person you think you should be, and for some reason that's just wrong.
Sometimes the whole day, or week, or month, just doesn't seem right. Something is bothering you and you can't figure out what. Little things take pieces out of you day after day. Work harder. Work faster. Do it better.
Sometimes the mountains seem too far away.
Am I just hungry? Tired? No? Then what the hell is it? What is this itch I can't scratch?
What am I missing? Sometimes I feel like I just keep missing.
Sometimes I feel pissed off all the time.
So that's the way it is. Fine. Take a deep breath and move on.
Try to avoid the same mistakes.
Try not to set yourself up for this kind of shit.
Moving on.
Sometimes you do your best, try to be the person you think you should be, and for some reason that's just wrong.
Sometimes the whole day, or week, or month, just doesn't seem right. Something is bothering you and you can't figure out what. Little things take pieces out of you day after day. Work harder. Work faster. Do it better.
Sometimes the mountains seem too far away.
Am I just hungry? Tired? No? Then what the hell is it? What is this itch I can't scratch?
What am I missing? Sometimes I feel like I just keep missing.
Sometimes I feel pissed off all the time.
So that's the way it is. Fine. Take a deep breath and move on.
Try to avoid the same mistakes.
Try not to set yourself up for this kind of shit.
Moving on.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Broken Record
Do you ever feel like you sound like one?
I do. I feel like it most when I think about writing in my blog because I know I'm either going to write about writing or about my personal beliefs both of which I've already written about extensively. The truth is that what I should be posting is either stories that I'm actually writing or updates on those stories. At least I feel like this is what I should be writing about. The problem is this.
1. Allowing people I know to read what I'm working on has always, in the past, been the fastest way for me to lose interest in that particular story. I have many(you have no idea) philosophies on why this may be true. I'll just share a couple. Writing is very personal. If it is going to be any good then the writer is going to have to put a large part of himself into it. This is a thing that I feel I do. The problem is that I have never been a very open person. Letting people read it, and then talk to me about it, is like sitting down in a group and pouring out my soul to strangers. This is obviously something I'm going to have to overcome but I find that it is not an uncommon problem amongst writers. I will have to publish. I will have to post. I have have to let people I know, and people I don't, read the things that I write. Above all, I will have to be able to do all of this without letting what they are going to think effect what it is I think I need to say. This is a hard thing to do.
2. The problem with posting updates on what I'm writing is similar. The main difference is that I don't really have to divulge the personal parts. But, when writing updates on a particular project, I have created a well documented track record that, when that project fails, is a stark reminder of something I've poured myself into that has amounted to nothing. I believe that this is a much worse excuse than the first one because it amounts, at least in a small way, to not trying for fear of failing. This isn't my main reason for not posting on projects but it would be dishonest of me to not admit to it being one of the reasons. The main reason is that I find in recent years that I have trouble settling on a topic, much less a genre, to write about. There are many I am interested in and I have had a lot of ideas which would probably be good but I am not very good about writing them down when they pop up and so by the time I sit down to write they seem stale and dull. I forget the details that made them exciting to me. I need to work on this.
So, in an effort to change my habits, get over my fears, and produce something in a complete form regardless of how many failures I might have to go though to get there, I am going to start posting stories and updates on projects. For anyone who may decide to read those, this will be my one and only disclaimer. The content may not be suitable for all years. If you find yourself to be sensitive to certain words, acts, or situations, you may not want to read them. There you have it. Everything I write here will be fiction. This means it's not real and should not be taken as real in any way. So there you go. Consider this, or you, or me, disclaimed. (Except for, I guess, that these stories are mine. I made them up. Don't steal them. Gimme.)
This one I wrote over a few hour stretch a few nights ago. It kinda popped out on its own. Not sure where it's going, or where it came from, but I do have a vague idea. Right now I would consider it general fiction but, as I'm sure you will be able to tell, it could quickly morph into almost any other genre. I haven't done ANY editing, so please forgive the typos and, as my mind often creates, fragments. Thanks for reading.
Enjoy.
“I know what you seek.”
Impossible. No one knows. The old man is lying, and yet, I can’t help but listen. Desperation can do that to a person. Who is this guy?
“Say nothing if you wish. Continue to disbelieve me if you wish. But know this. What you seek is in my possession, and yet you do not know that you seek it. It is yours for the taking, and yet you continue to tell yourself that you do not want whatever “it” is. The decision is made. All that you must do is make up your mind.”
That statement has haunted me. At the very least it has joined forces with the mélange of terrors that invade my waking moments and consume my sleep. What decision? Make up my mind about what?
“I will leave you now. Take this card, show it to no one, and when you are ready, dial the number that appears on the back. I will be waiting. The choice is yours.”
Who talks like that? Who hands out business cards with nothing printed on them and says “call me?” Crazy people, that’s who. And let me tell you, if a man living on the street, panhandling for change and talking to himself thinks you’re crazy, then you’re in some serious trouble. White coats with buckles trouble. And yet, I find that I am thinking more clearly than I have in years. About crazy things, yes, but in a coherent manner. This is new.
I remember not living in this alley. I remember a car, a house, my home. I remember…her. My wife. My Emily. Then I start to lose it. Darkness, screams, a sound like my mind shredding, blood, evil, darkness. It’s a nightmare. I have it all the time, whenever I remember her, but I don’t know its meaning. Everything between those clear memories, those bubbles in the murk, and now is like that. Patchy. It’s all patchy. Then the man showed up.
“Sir? Sir!”
My nightmare recedes and my eyes open to a bright light and a shaking box. The wind has stolen my newspapers again.
“Are you awake sir? Yeah? There’s a guy down at the end of the alley, gave me this to give to you.”
“What is it?” I say.
“I dunno man, piece of paper, old man said not to read it. Just take it man. It’s fuckin cold.”
The kid’s hoppin’ around like he’s gotta piss and I don’t see the harm in a piece of paper so I do what he asks. A split second later he’s high-tailin’ it down the alley. I don’t blame him, this is no place for someone with somewhere to go, but now I’m curious.
“Hey!” I yell. The kid stops and turns around. “What did he look like?”
“Movie star maybe. Maybe lawyer. Had on sunglasses in the middle of the night. Pulled up in a limo, the whole nine. Seemed serious. Handed me a fifty, said to take that to you without reading it, and if I didn’t do exactly what he asked then he’d come find me next. Fuckin creepy, but I need the money. I don’t know what that paper says, but I wouldn’t screw with this guy. Seems like a bad idea. Later.”
The kid takes off again. I roll out of the box and look down the alley but there’s no limo. The kid didn’t leave his flashlight so I have to go find a streetlight to read it. It’s too cold to be out this time of night but now I’ve gotta take a piss so I figure two birds. Who carries a flashlight? I don’t know why I focus on that but out of all this weirdness that sticks in my head. Anyway, the little piece of paper, business card size, says to go to a coffeeshop two blocks away in about a half hour. Just like that.
So I go. I’m too cold now to go back to sleep and I figure maybe the guy will by me a cup or maybe hand me a fifty too. Could be a cop, but a night in jail is warmer than a night on the street. Couldn’t hold me long. I haven’t done anything more illegal than trespass in an old shitty alley and who gives a fuck about that? Besides all that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a single cop that passes out fifties from the back of a limo to pass notes. Every bit of this is strange, but what do I care. Rich guy wants to talk to me? Fine. Gives me an excuse to go into a warm shop that wouldn’t let me in otherwise. Could be a fine night yet.
I walk through the door of the coffeeshop and right away I get the looks I’m expecting from the workers and upstanding patrons of the place. One of the cooks even goes so far as to start walking my direction with unpleasant thoughts written all over his face until he sees the well dressed old man wave me over. He doesn’t even seem to notice the angry cook but, then again, why would he. He’s obviously the kind of person who doesn’t have to notice the lower forms of life. Every now and then it’s interesting to step back and think about who notices who and why, but not right now.
The old man is a sight to behold. Charcoal grey suit worth a few G’s at least, black overcoat, platinum white hair and beard and everything’s manicured, trimmed, and pressed. He fits the bill for the kid’s description so I sit down across from him. He’s got two steaming cups of coffee in thick white diner cups sittin in front of him. He slides one over to me and while I’m takin that first sip of black love he pulls two smokes out of a silver case, lights ‘em up with a matching silver lighter, and passes one over to me too. I think maybe he’s waiting for me to break the silence, which I don’t, but I also think that for a smoke and some coffee I’ll at least listen to what he has to say. That’s just common courtesy. So I guess he catches my drift.
“You’ve looked better,” he says.
“You’ve looked worse.”
“How’s the streets.” Not really a question.
“They look worse than I do.” Not really an answer. He smiles, and so I do too.
“I’ve been wondering, Cal, if you think you’re about ready to move on to the next stage of your life.” He keeps on smiling, but I’ve lost mine. My name isn’t necessarily a hard thing to come across in the digital age, but it’s not exactly easy.
“I can’t say that I have, but I’m wondering now is what you think you know about it. I’ll take another of those smokes while you’re at it.” I figure he owes me that much for the bomb he just dropped. I guess he doesn’t disagree cause he slides the case and the light over to me. It’s funny, but since I walked into this place I haven’t felt an ounce of self conscious and then, right when I’m about to pick up that shiny silver lighter, I notice how dirty my hands are. It’s not something I’m going to dwell on, but I do think I might visit the lavatory before I leave here.
“Let me start off by saying that right now there are a lot of things I can’t tell you. That sounds cryptic, I know, but get over it. It’s the way things are. You may be living on the streets, but you’re not a dumb guy. If I were going to tell you everything right now, we would have to assume that at least one of us is dumb. I’ve already said that I don’t think you are, and I can assure you right now that I’m not, so now we’ve gone through the logic for why I’m not going to tell you everything.” He pauses here to take a sip of his coffee, so I decide to jump in.
“That’s a hell of a speech, and not even a bad one. Let’s say I agree with what you just said. If we’re both smart, and we both know there’s things you can tell me and things that you can’t, let’s skip the sparring and jump right over to you telling me whatever it is you’ve got on your mind. I’m not in a hurry, and you’ve gone out of your way to get my attention, so hit me with you’re best shot.” Now it’s my turn to pause for a dramatic sip of coffee.
“Good. I’m glad we agree. So here’s the story. I, like you, am not what I seem. What I am is a man who has devoted my life to a thing which I have in my possession. My beginnings were humble, my path uncertain, and whether I would live or die was not a thing that many would have bet on in my younger years. Then I met with a man, much as you are meeting here with me, that said he had something that he was supposed to pass on to me. I took him up on his offer. The parts that I cannot yet tell you are what that thing is and and happened to me between then and now. The choice is yours.”
Now that’s a load. The problem is that I can’t tell what it’s a load of. It has all the sound of a set up and my first instinct is to tell the old guy to fuck off. But, the truth is, I’m interested. Instincts aside, I can’t help but think that this guy is telling the truth. Either that, or he’s maybe the best liar I’ve ever met in my life. Either way, I’m not ready to leave just yet.
“You just said a whole lot without really saying much at all. Including your name. I may not have much, but I do have my mind and my life, which may or may not be the same thing. The jury’s still out on that one. Point being, what I’m looking for is a little bit of reassurance that what you’re telling me isn’t going to come back and bite me if I take the bait.” I think this is reasonable, and so I sit there waiting for him to spell it out for me.
“There is only one more thing that I’m permitted to tell you,” he says.
“So spit it out.”
“I know what you seek.”
There it is. The statement that taunts me. Shortly after that he takes his leave, but hands m a blank card in the process. I think about our meeting for days as my mind slowly comes out of the slums that I’ve let it sink into over the years. The truth is that I can’t stop thinking about it and the more time that goes by, the more I think that this is one of those things in life that you’re just supposed to do. Stop thinking, and do. This is strange for me because I’ve never been one of those people to have the blind faith or to “take the leap.” Finally I come to the decision that I can at least follow the trail a little further. No harm in that. If things start to get weird I’ll just cut the line and run. I’ve been off the grid for long enough that if I decide to go to ground, no one finds me. The streets do teach you some valuable lessons.
But here’s the thing. The card that guy handed me was blank. I sat in that shop for at least an hour looking at the thing and I couldn’t even find a mark on it, much less a phone number. So I think that maybe the old man was crazy. Maybe he just drives around in his limo having cryptic conversations with bums off the streets, hands them a blank card, and then melts away into the night. Seems like a strange way to get your kicks. I’m sitting in the park on a bench while I think these things over and I realize I’ve got my hand in my pocket and it’s holding onto that card. The mind does funny things all by itself sometimes. I remember now that I had put it into that pocket after leaving the shop but I’d forgotten about it until now. So I pull it out to have another look and I’ll be damned if right there in the dead center of the damn thing there’s a four digit number.
“8603”
I don’t know whether to feel like an idiot or just plain scared and so I go with the theory that my mind maybe wasn’t up to par that night I just missed the obvious. It seems unlikely, but so does the whole experience. After rifling through the change that I’d panhandled that morning I found enough for the pay phone and so I walked over to the parks’ station to try this thing out. Never mind the fact that there seems to be some numbers missing. I’m not going to let that bother me. I figure maybe this guy’s got the kind of money that lets you pick special numbers like the stupid license plates I see on the fancy cars. “IM GR8” and stupid shit like that.
The number works and after a minute the other end rings and I swear the first ring isn’t even over before someone picks up and a very familiar voice comes through the line.
“Hey Cal, how are things?” It’s the old man, sure as shit. I guess there’s no end to his bag of tricks.
“I’m alright. I guess I’ve decided I’m just curious enough to take the bait. Where do we go from here?”
“Glad to hear it. The answer to your question is that I’m going to stay where I’m at and you’re going to come to me. Walk due north from where you are and when you get to the bus stop at the edge of the park you’ll see my limo waiting for you. Get in, pour yourself a drink, and have a smoke. It’s all waiting. It’s a long drive so feel free to take a nap. Keep in mind that at any point you are free to go. You won’t be trapped or detained in any way. I want you to know that you can relax.”
“Okay. I can’t say that I like the fact that you seem to be predicting my every move, but for now I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Just make sure your driver knows that I may be homeless, but I’m not helpless. If he tries anything he won’t come out of it better than me.”
“Don’t worry Cal. You’ve got nothing to fear. Try to enjoy yourself for a little while. I’ll see you when you get here.” With that the old man hangs up. I am distinctly aware that he forgot to mention where “here” is, but I add that to the long list of things to worry about later. Besides, it’s not like I could even tell anyone if I did know where I was going. I can’t think of anyone that gives enough of a shit about me to be considered a friend and I haven’t got anything that would buy me one either. What’s one more leap of faith.
Five minutes later I’m in a limo drinking whisky and smoking a fine cigarette. I don’t know where I’m going and I find that I really don’t care. I’ve just about decided that if it’s my time to go, I can’t much think of a better way. I think I might even feel a nap coming on. For a stranger who really earns that title, the old man ain’t half bad. He sure does know how to entice a man.
I do. I feel like it most when I think about writing in my blog because I know I'm either going to write about writing or about my personal beliefs both of which I've already written about extensively. The truth is that what I should be posting is either stories that I'm actually writing or updates on those stories. At least I feel like this is what I should be writing about. The problem is this.
1. Allowing people I know to read what I'm working on has always, in the past, been the fastest way for me to lose interest in that particular story. I have many(you have no idea) philosophies on why this may be true. I'll just share a couple. Writing is very personal. If it is going to be any good then the writer is going to have to put a large part of himself into it. This is a thing that I feel I do. The problem is that I have never been a very open person. Letting people read it, and then talk to me about it, is like sitting down in a group and pouring out my soul to strangers. This is obviously something I'm going to have to overcome but I find that it is not an uncommon problem amongst writers. I will have to publish. I will have to post. I have have to let people I know, and people I don't, read the things that I write. Above all, I will have to be able to do all of this without letting what they are going to think effect what it is I think I need to say. This is a hard thing to do.
2. The problem with posting updates on what I'm writing is similar. The main difference is that I don't really have to divulge the personal parts. But, when writing updates on a particular project, I have created a well documented track record that, when that project fails, is a stark reminder of something I've poured myself into that has amounted to nothing. I believe that this is a much worse excuse than the first one because it amounts, at least in a small way, to not trying for fear of failing. This isn't my main reason for not posting on projects but it would be dishonest of me to not admit to it being one of the reasons. The main reason is that I find in recent years that I have trouble settling on a topic, much less a genre, to write about. There are many I am interested in and I have had a lot of ideas which would probably be good but I am not very good about writing them down when they pop up and so by the time I sit down to write they seem stale and dull. I forget the details that made them exciting to me. I need to work on this.
So, in an effort to change my habits, get over my fears, and produce something in a complete form regardless of how many failures I might have to go though to get there, I am going to start posting stories and updates on projects. For anyone who may decide to read those, this will be my one and only disclaimer. The content may not be suitable for all years. If you find yourself to be sensitive to certain words, acts, or situations, you may not want to read them. There you have it. Everything I write here will be fiction. This means it's not real and should not be taken as real in any way. So there you go. Consider this, or you, or me, disclaimed. (Except for, I guess, that these stories are mine. I made them up. Don't steal them. Gimme.)
This one I wrote over a few hour stretch a few nights ago. It kinda popped out on its own. Not sure where it's going, or where it came from, but I do have a vague idea. Right now I would consider it general fiction but, as I'm sure you will be able to tell, it could quickly morph into almost any other genre. I haven't done ANY editing, so please forgive the typos and, as my mind often creates, fragments. Thanks for reading.
Enjoy.
A Strange Encounter
(Working Title)
(Working Title)
“I know what you seek.”
Impossible. No one knows. The old man is lying, and yet, I can’t help but listen. Desperation can do that to a person. Who is this guy?
“Say nothing if you wish. Continue to disbelieve me if you wish. But know this. What you seek is in my possession, and yet you do not know that you seek it. It is yours for the taking, and yet you continue to tell yourself that you do not want whatever “it” is. The decision is made. All that you must do is make up your mind.”
That statement has haunted me. At the very least it has joined forces with the mélange of terrors that invade my waking moments and consume my sleep. What decision? Make up my mind about what?
“I will leave you now. Take this card, show it to no one, and when you are ready, dial the number that appears on the back. I will be waiting. The choice is yours.”
Who talks like that? Who hands out business cards with nothing printed on them and says “call me?” Crazy people, that’s who. And let me tell you, if a man living on the street, panhandling for change and talking to himself thinks you’re crazy, then you’re in some serious trouble. White coats with buckles trouble. And yet, I find that I am thinking more clearly than I have in years. About crazy things, yes, but in a coherent manner. This is new.
I remember not living in this alley. I remember a car, a house, my home. I remember…her. My wife. My Emily. Then I start to lose it. Darkness, screams, a sound like my mind shredding, blood, evil, darkness. It’s a nightmare. I have it all the time, whenever I remember her, but I don’t know its meaning. Everything between those clear memories, those bubbles in the murk, and now is like that. Patchy. It’s all patchy. Then the man showed up.
“Sir? Sir!”
My nightmare recedes and my eyes open to a bright light and a shaking box. The wind has stolen my newspapers again.
“Are you awake sir? Yeah? There’s a guy down at the end of the alley, gave me this to give to you.”
“What is it?” I say.
“I dunno man, piece of paper, old man said not to read it. Just take it man. It’s fuckin cold.”
The kid’s hoppin’ around like he’s gotta piss and I don’t see the harm in a piece of paper so I do what he asks. A split second later he’s high-tailin’ it down the alley. I don’t blame him, this is no place for someone with somewhere to go, but now I’m curious.
“Hey!” I yell. The kid stops and turns around. “What did he look like?”
“Movie star maybe. Maybe lawyer. Had on sunglasses in the middle of the night. Pulled up in a limo, the whole nine. Seemed serious. Handed me a fifty, said to take that to you without reading it, and if I didn’t do exactly what he asked then he’d come find me next. Fuckin creepy, but I need the money. I don’t know what that paper says, but I wouldn’t screw with this guy. Seems like a bad idea. Later.”
The kid takes off again. I roll out of the box and look down the alley but there’s no limo. The kid didn’t leave his flashlight so I have to go find a streetlight to read it. It’s too cold to be out this time of night but now I’ve gotta take a piss so I figure two birds. Who carries a flashlight? I don’t know why I focus on that but out of all this weirdness that sticks in my head. Anyway, the little piece of paper, business card size, says to go to a coffeeshop two blocks away in about a half hour. Just like that.
So I go. I’m too cold now to go back to sleep and I figure maybe the guy will by me a cup or maybe hand me a fifty too. Could be a cop, but a night in jail is warmer than a night on the street. Couldn’t hold me long. I haven’t done anything more illegal than trespass in an old shitty alley and who gives a fuck about that? Besides all that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a single cop that passes out fifties from the back of a limo to pass notes. Every bit of this is strange, but what do I care. Rich guy wants to talk to me? Fine. Gives me an excuse to go into a warm shop that wouldn’t let me in otherwise. Could be a fine night yet.
I walk through the door of the coffeeshop and right away I get the looks I’m expecting from the workers and upstanding patrons of the place. One of the cooks even goes so far as to start walking my direction with unpleasant thoughts written all over his face until he sees the well dressed old man wave me over. He doesn’t even seem to notice the angry cook but, then again, why would he. He’s obviously the kind of person who doesn’t have to notice the lower forms of life. Every now and then it’s interesting to step back and think about who notices who and why, but not right now.
The old man is a sight to behold. Charcoal grey suit worth a few G’s at least, black overcoat, platinum white hair and beard and everything’s manicured, trimmed, and pressed. He fits the bill for the kid’s description so I sit down across from him. He’s got two steaming cups of coffee in thick white diner cups sittin in front of him. He slides one over to me and while I’m takin that first sip of black love he pulls two smokes out of a silver case, lights ‘em up with a matching silver lighter, and passes one over to me too. I think maybe he’s waiting for me to break the silence, which I don’t, but I also think that for a smoke and some coffee I’ll at least listen to what he has to say. That’s just common courtesy. So I guess he catches my drift.
“You’ve looked better,” he says.
“You’ve looked worse.”
“How’s the streets.” Not really a question.
“They look worse than I do.” Not really an answer. He smiles, and so I do too.
“I’ve been wondering, Cal, if you think you’re about ready to move on to the next stage of your life.” He keeps on smiling, but I’ve lost mine. My name isn’t necessarily a hard thing to come across in the digital age, but it’s not exactly easy.
“I can’t say that I have, but I’m wondering now is what you think you know about it. I’ll take another of those smokes while you’re at it.” I figure he owes me that much for the bomb he just dropped. I guess he doesn’t disagree cause he slides the case and the light over to me. It’s funny, but since I walked into this place I haven’t felt an ounce of self conscious and then, right when I’m about to pick up that shiny silver lighter, I notice how dirty my hands are. It’s not something I’m going to dwell on, but I do think I might visit the lavatory before I leave here.
“Let me start off by saying that right now there are a lot of things I can’t tell you. That sounds cryptic, I know, but get over it. It’s the way things are. You may be living on the streets, but you’re not a dumb guy. If I were going to tell you everything right now, we would have to assume that at least one of us is dumb. I’ve already said that I don’t think you are, and I can assure you right now that I’m not, so now we’ve gone through the logic for why I’m not going to tell you everything.” He pauses here to take a sip of his coffee, so I decide to jump in.
“That’s a hell of a speech, and not even a bad one. Let’s say I agree with what you just said. If we’re both smart, and we both know there’s things you can tell me and things that you can’t, let’s skip the sparring and jump right over to you telling me whatever it is you’ve got on your mind. I’m not in a hurry, and you’ve gone out of your way to get my attention, so hit me with you’re best shot.” Now it’s my turn to pause for a dramatic sip of coffee.
“Good. I’m glad we agree. So here’s the story. I, like you, am not what I seem. What I am is a man who has devoted my life to a thing which I have in my possession. My beginnings were humble, my path uncertain, and whether I would live or die was not a thing that many would have bet on in my younger years. Then I met with a man, much as you are meeting here with me, that said he had something that he was supposed to pass on to me. I took him up on his offer. The parts that I cannot yet tell you are what that thing is and and happened to me between then and now. The choice is yours.”
Now that’s a load. The problem is that I can’t tell what it’s a load of. It has all the sound of a set up and my first instinct is to tell the old guy to fuck off. But, the truth is, I’m interested. Instincts aside, I can’t help but think that this guy is telling the truth. Either that, or he’s maybe the best liar I’ve ever met in my life. Either way, I’m not ready to leave just yet.
“You just said a whole lot without really saying much at all. Including your name. I may not have much, but I do have my mind and my life, which may or may not be the same thing. The jury’s still out on that one. Point being, what I’m looking for is a little bit of reassurance that what you’re telling me isn’t going to come back and bite me if I take the bait.” I think this is reasonable, and so I sit there waiting for him to spell it out for me.
“There is only one more thing that I’m permitted to tell you,” he says.
“So spit it out.”
“I know what you seek.”
There it is. The statement that taunts me. Shortly after that he takes his leave, but hands m a blank card in the process. I think about our meeting for days as my mind slowly comes out of the slums that I’ve let it sink into over the years. The truth is that I can’t stop thinking about it and the more time that goes by, the more I think that this is one of those things in life that you’re just supposed to do. Stop thinking, and do. This is strange for me because I’ve never been one of those people to have the blind faith or to “take the leap.” Finally I come to the decision that I can at least follow the trail a little further. No harm in that. If things start to get weird I’ll just cut the line and run. I’ve been off the grid for long enough that if I decide to go to ground, no one finds me. The streets do teach you some valuable lessons.
But here’s the thing. The card that guy handed me was blank. I sat in that shop for at least an hour looking at the thing and I couldn’t even find a mark on it, much less a phone number. So I think that maybe the old man was crazy. Maybe he just drives around in his limo having cryptic conversations with bums off the streets, hands them a blank card, and then melts away into the night. Seems like a strange way to get your kicks. I’m sitting in the park on a bench while I think these things over and I realize I’ve got my hand in my pocket and it’s holding onto that card. The mind does funny things all by itself sometimes. I remember now that I had put it into that pocket after leaving the shop but I’d forgotten about it until now. So I pull it out to have another look and I’ll be damned if right there in the dead center of the damn thing there’s a four digit number.
“8603”
I don’t know whether to feel like an idiot or just plain scared and so I go with the theory that my mind maybe wasn’t up to par that night I just missed the obvious. It seems unlikely, but so does the whole experience. After rifling through the change that I’d panhandled that morning I found enough for the pay phone and so I walked over to the parks’ station to try this thing out. Never mind the fact that there seems to be some numbers missing. I’m not going to let that bother me. I figure maybe this guy’s got the kind of money that lets you pick special numbers like the stupid license plates I see on the fancy cars. “IM GR8” and stupid shit like that.
The number works and after a minute the other end rings and I swear the first ring isn’t even over before someone picks up and a very familiar voice comes through the line.
“Hey Cal, how are things?” It’s the old man, sure as shit. I guess there’s no end to his bag of tricks.
“I’m alright. I guess I’ve decided I’m just curious enough to take the bait. Where do we go from here?”
“Glad to hear it. The answer to your question is that I’m going to stay where I’m at and you’re going to come to me. Walk due north from where you are and when you get to the bus stop at the edge of the park you’ll see my limo waiting for you. Get in, pour yourself a drink, and have a smoke. It’s all waiting. It’s a long drive so feel free to take a nap. Keep in mind that at any point you are free to go. You won’t be trapped or detained in any way. I want you to know that you can relax.”
“Okay. I can’t say that I like the fact that you seem to be predicting my every move, but for now I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Just make sure your driver knows that I may be homeless, but I’m not helpless. If he tries anything he won’t come out of it better than me.”
“Don’t worry Cal. You’ve got nothing to fear. Try to enjoy yourself for a little while. I’ll see you when you get here.” With that the old man hangs up. I am distinctly aware that he forgot to mention where “here” is, but I add that to the long list of things to worry about later. Besides, it’s not like I could even tell anyone if I did know where I was going. I can’t think of anyone that gives enough of a shit about me to be considered a friend and I haven’t got anything that would buy me one either. What’s one more leap of faith.
Five minutes later I’m in a limo drinking whisky and smoking a fine cigarette. I don’t know where I’m going and I find that I really don’t care. I’ve just about decided that if it’s my time to go, I can’t much think of a better way. I think I might even feel a nap coming on. For a stranger who really earns that title, the old man ain’t half bad. He sure does know how to entice a man.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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