As I peered behind the small opening in the floor, I could see the doorway in the distance. The entire family would be peacefully resting now in the warmth of the fire. I wanted to be warm too.
I didn't care much for the family. They were far too clean never leaving any scraps of food out. I had to forage always in the alleys at night. However my existance in this house was worth it in the freezing month of January because their house had to be the warmest house on the block. I protected this place fiercely because behind the door of the living room was immense and soul affirming heat. A warmth that would guarantee that I could sleep tonight. Even an animal cannot live healthfully without rest.
I looked left and right and in the darkness tried to detect the family housecat. I didn't see anything but it didn't mean she wasn't there. Every night I try this I am shaking with fear. One good pounce and my entire life ceases to exist. I breathe deeply and press my small ear to the floor above me. Perhaps, if I listen close enough I could detect the cat's movements through the vibrations in the floor.
Nothing.
Damn this cat.
I looked again at the doorway. My whole body ached and I knew I would have to make the decision soon. I make this dash quite frequently so I usually know when I am ready. Everytime, for a few seconds, my body tenses up and I think to myself I just have to run for it. 1-2-3 GO! But then a pause for a second with fear and out of nowhere as if propelled by a force bigger than myself I quickly climb out of my watch post and slingshot myself across the floor, under the door and quickly behind the couch to rest.
Ok. I listen one more time to the floor. Still nothing. I ready my haunches and in one moment I bolt out of the crack and across the floor. As I run I can see nothing but the doorway. I am strictly focused and adrenaline is pumping through me causing my heart to beat quickly. However, still I am focused.
I have heard of death, that one can sense that this might be the last run. I felt something I had never felt before for one moment. An acknowledgement that the cat was going to win this time. Right as I became aware, my life was over.
The cat had hooked me with her claws just inches before the door. As I looked up at her, soaked in my own blood, I did not have fear. I felt a strange amusement that I wasn't going to just die. Instead, the house cat was going to eat me. Probably while I was still partially alive.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thinking of something to write this morning.
I should be totally free to write about anything just as I go about my day feeling free to go anywhere or to do anything. I like this ideas of being alone and knowing that the creative process comes forth when one is truly alone to think and feel without judgment from the outside world that I can write whatever I please without worry that it might not sell someday. Doesn't matter because if I worry about money I am letting something beside myself dictate where these thoughts should go and who they should be received by. What do I really love and what do I really want to write about. Granted I don't always want to write about self reflection but rather infuse bits of myself into writing about something larger than myself. The long walks that I take really do help as I am exposed to much bigger than my bubble, this tiny room. Like seeing the small mexican boy climb down the steps from his gray adobe like house to the street, leading the rest of his family to a shopping cart below filled with what seemed to be decaying fabric. He was totally unaware that I looked at him with pity. He latched the dirty H&M bag he was carrying to the cart and looked behind him to his sister who was running to catch up. I remember thinking loudly in my head but of course not saying anything aloud, FUCK. I felt sadness it was true sadness but also a little bit of manufactured sadness like I knew Anglo Saxon society would want me to be sad for this boy and run home to my new imac and type in google volunteer organizations in the city so I could save this poor mexican boy from pushing around a shopping cart on one of the dirtiest streets in LA. However, do I really want to save him from that and what does it even mean to push around a shopping cart. Maybe the family doesn't have a car and the shopping cart is an efficient way to transport their items. I also noticed the family was all women except for the little boy and even then my mind went to, where is the father? The father must be absent from the family but he could be at work. However, it seems obvious that stereotypes are so prevalent because they were found to be true on more than one occasion. Something has kept the societal averages hanging around or more truthfully maybe I am just an asshole to even as much. There are so many interesting parts of my 8 miles walk through Highland Park, Mt. Washington and Cypress Park. The great feature of this 8 mile walk is that there is one prominent hill that I must walk up and then glide down and as always in Southern California, it seems the further up the hill I walk the nicer the homes are and the whiter everyone becomes. This must be their version of white flight. The gangstas at the bottom of the hill won't bother to make the effort to come up because of the concentration of neighborhood watches and ADT alarms. I have to admit that since I have moved here I have longed to live on the top of the hill and I always ask myself what those people must do for a living to get where they are. Most often I assume its the entertainment industry but not everything in California makes its money on a Fox studio lot. Anyway, the walk starts from my house which sits on Ave 42, a dead end. The avenue picks up again in Mt. Washington but on the other side of the light rail track that runs by my house. I go north on Figueroa and continue north past the park and the mural there. I think they just finished it last week. It's basically a visual breakdown of the neighborhood, features plant life and local characters like the guys that walk up and down the street selling fruit and some kind of sweetened candy. Not really sure what it is. Actually with offense to myself but describing this walk in painstaking detail just seems like an exercise in boredom because I really don't care about that part of the walk. I know that area too well now and I just ignore it as I pass by. Probably the most interesting park of the walk is through Mt. Washington and that is only because if I remember to look behind me as I go up the hillside I can see the 134 freeway in the mountainside and the beauty of eagle rock.
I need live plants in my room. My mother used to keep a lot of plants. I am sure she misses that now that she lives with my aunt and then soon my grandfather. I wonder if I am being creative or if I am just writing as if I would talk to someone. Maybe I need a break to get inspired. I want writing to be my job but I am going to have to get more creative than this if I expect anyone to ever pick up something of mine. This is a dear diary if anything. Ok, I'm out I think I might try to write a poem. You know actually think instead of just talk to this typewriter like a fool.
-And so I took a break.
I need live plants in my room. My mother used to keep a lot of plants. I am sure she misses that now that she lives with my aunt and then soon my grandfather. I wonder if I am being creative or if I am just writing as if I would talk to someone. Maybe I need a break to get inspired. I want writing to be my job but I am going to have to get more creative than this if I expect anyone to ever pick up something of mine. This is a dear diary if anything. Ok, I'm out I think I might try to write a poem. You know actually think instead of just talk to this typewriter like a fool.
-And so I took a break.
August 14, 2010
I spent most of my day writing and as I am wrapping up, cleaning my workspace, and putting away my typewriter I though I should look back on something I had previously written. I found a piece from August, which was not very long ago according to the calendar, but seems so far removed from the person I am today. I guess that means in a couple more months I will have survived more growing pains but those pains will have resulted in personal progress and some small accomplishments.
So it goes...
It’s tiring to carry so many people and so many memories in my heart and probably more so in my mind. I feel like I carry eight people, dead weight, fully clothed soaked in water. One day I am going to walk out of a mundane place and just leave them there to die and never feed them again. I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than my previous brushes with success. It seems like changing a part of your life should be as easy as switching off one light in the house then turning on another. Seems like there is a wall of concrete reinforced with steel holding me back and trapping myself in my own head. I let society dictate me constantly.
“I can’t do something because of you…I can’t do something because you aren’t sober. I can’t do something because you don’t take yourself seriously…I can’t do something because you are too jealous… It’s hard to live with you…My social life suffers…You drink too much…You work a dead end job…You don’t have any hopes or dreams.”
Have you ever wanted to shrug off all doubt and call it a day and give all the money away you have ever made? Walk into a clear night with the moon out and the cornfield crunch beneath your feet, drop to your knees and slit your wrists and provide the very thing everyone has wanted your whole life.
Your blood
Your heart
Your soul
Spill in onto the ground…
Your dreams
Your desires
Everything you hate about yourself
Belongs to no one. Nobody gets a piece of it.
This is just a tidal swell of anger and resentment built up over years of neglect and abuse of my own self. I will give myself a chance and I will allow myself to express creativity in my everyday life. I am learning about myself everyday and taking the time to appreciate how my life is changing and the changes I am installing and orchestrating and the plans I choose to follow through.
How many times have I sat by a window.
Starring out into the darkness
Questioning myself and my motives
Bored
I could literally peel the paint off the walls
Looking onto the street
And so I marched into the city
And the bikes along the Heorot inspired me.
I dread going home. The other day I fantasized that the plane would experience engine trouble and the other passengers and I will fall to our deaths. I am such a coward though and could never entertain these thoughts seriously. I don’t want to open the front door of my house and walk into my parents divorce. Only six months ago I walked into a familiar setting. My parents watching television together, my mom on the loveseat and my dad on the sofa as they both drink beer, talk to me and talk to each other. My mom would talk about the politics playing on the news while filling the house with cigarette smoke. Usually mom and dad would talk about the news but mostly the weather. The setting was very boring and the air almost toxic but at least everything was harmonious.
I have no idea what I am going to face now. Will they be shouting at each other? I have this vision that they will start fighting, screaming in each other’s faces and I will have to panic and step in. I might say something about respect and in fear stand up to both of them.
The fox, the mole, the beetle and the bat by sweet reserve and modesty get
Fat.
Spend too much time trying not to be creative that I have almost spiritually killed myself. Seems I am just letting myself get fat and dumb by not doing what makes me happy. Thoreau was happy flying solo.
To be honest, most of the time I think ill of people and spend a lot of my day pondering how to keep away from people so they don’t see me and how to keep very quiet so they cannot detect me. That I can pass through the day without too much mindless distraction. Even if no one else notices me I know myself and I know that I am not doing enough for my craft or for myself.
So it goes...
It’s tiring to carry so many people and so many memories in my heart and probably more so in my mind. I feel like I carry eight people, dead weight, fully clothed soaked in water. One day I am going to walk out of a mundane place and just leave them there to die and never feed them again. I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than my previous brushes with success. It seems like changing a part of your life should be as easy as switching off one light in the house then turning on another. Seems like there is a wall of concrete reinforced with steel holding me back and trapping myself in my own head. I let society dictate me constantly.
“I can’t do something because of you…I can’t do something because you aren’t sober. I can’t do something because you don’t take yourself seriously…I can’t do something because you are too jealous… It’s hard to live with you…My social life suffers…You drink too much…You work a dead end job…You don’t have any hopes or dreams.”
Have you ever wanted to shrug off all doubt and call it a day and give all the money away you have ever made? Walk into a clear night with the moon out and the cornfield crunch beneath your feet, drop to your knees and slit your wrists and provide the very thing everyone has wanted your whole life.
Your blood
Your heart
Your soul
Spill in onto the ground…
Your dreams
Your desires
Everything you hate about yourself
Belongs to no one. Nobody gets a piece of it.
This is just a tidal swell of anger and resentment built up over years of neglect and abuse of my own self. I will give myself a chance and I will allow myself to express creativity in my everyday life. I am learning about myself everyday and taking the time to appreciate how my life is changing and the changes I am installing and orchestrating and the plans I choose to follow through.
How many times have I sat by a window.
Starring out into the darkness
Questioning myself and my motives
Bored
I could literally peel the paint off the walls
Looking onto the street
And so I marched into the city
And the bikes along the Heorot inspired me.
I dread going home. The other day I fantasized that the plane would experience engine trouble and the other passengers and I will fall to our deaths. I am such a coward though and could never entertain these thoughts seriously. I don’t want to open the front door of my house and walk into my parents divorce. Only six months ago I walked into a familiar setting. My parents watching television together, my mom on the loveseat and my dad on the sofa as they both drink beer, talk to me and talk to each other. My mom would talk about the politics playing on the news while filling the house with cigarette smoke. Usually mom and dad would talk about the news but mostly the weather. The setting was very boring and the air almost toxic but at least everything was harmonious.
I have no idea what I am going to face now. Will they be shouting at each other? I have this vision that they will start fighting, screaming in each other’s faces and I will have to panic and step in. I might say something about respect and in fear stand up to both of them.
The fox, the mole, the beetle and the bat by sweet reserve and modesty get
Fat.
Spend too much time trying not to be creative that I have almost spiritually killed myself. Seems I am just letting myself get fat and dumb by not doing what makes me happy. Thoreau was happy flying solo.
To be honest, most of the time I think ill of people and spend a lot of my day pondering how to keep away from people so they don’t see me and how to keep very quiet so they cannot detect me. That I can pass through the day without too much mindless distraction. Even if no one else notices me I know myself and I know that I am not doing enough for my craft or for myself.
John Steinbeck and Advice for Beginning Writers
Dear Writer:
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all - so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher's side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn't, and maybe it's because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic '20s, and I was going out into that world to try and to be a writer.
I was told, "It's going to take a long time, and you haven't got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor."
It wasn't too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time - a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn't.
1963
http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/steinbeck/steinbeck.html
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all - so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher's side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn't, and maybe it's because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic '20s, and I was going out into that world to try and to be a writer.
I was told, "It's going to take a long time, and you haven't got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor."
It wasn't too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time - a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn't.
1963
http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/steinbeck/steinbeck.html
Re:
My neighborhood is very quiet this evening. I took my tea outside and had a quick cigarette on the porch. I have talked so often of my desire to quit smoking and to be honest it is only for vain reasons. I do not want the habit to age me but I do like those rare moments when I am totally alone and able to blow the whispy gray smoke into the air, only myself and the traffic is stirring. During my break, I watch the hillside to west of me. The little lights of houses dot the dark landscape. These hillside scenes are my favorite of LA and I covet most of them. I must have hundreds of mental pictures collected in my brain. As I sat and starred at the scene I could see a small car with its bright headlights moving up the hillside. I then focused my gaze to the stars above. I wondered if there were any constellations up there but I knew that there probably was but I have never been able to recognize them without the help of a friend, or even sometimes lovers.
I felt a great calm in my body. The same calm I used to feel when I smoked outside at my parents house in Indiana. Only there, the darkness seemed much darker and the woods behind my house more mysterious than the faintly illuminated hillsides that surround me now. A sadness comes over me as I write this. I know I will never again sit on that back porch to smoke as my parents site inside watching TV or fixing dinner. That chapter, like many in my life, has closed. If I had only known then what might happen in so few months, perhaps I would have taken more mental pictures and would have cherished that little house instead of feeling trapped by that area the economic circumstances by which I grew up.
I've been running from that scene for most of my life and now that I know the other side of the darkness that came before my small family, I would like nothing more than to sit there again. To take for granted that after spending some time alone with my thoughts that I would rise from smoking take one last drag of my cigarette and know that when I go inside my parents would be talking and I would sit at the dining room table and eat dinner. I remember the warmth of the room and the gross yellow lighting that I could not stand but never knew which light bulb to buy to change the color of the light. As I paint this in my mind, it seems so sweet for me to remember but it also seems so far away that I doubt I will ever trust it. One can never really know what lies in the hearts of people you love. There is always light and darkness but what lies underneath is a secret to you and I and most often seems to be a secret to themselves as well.
I cannot fully unlock my heart because I do not know what is there. I could unlock it and there could be a great force of light that floods from me with happiness to the world. Or I could unlock my heart and it be damp, cold and dangerous like a cave. Either way I feel my soul is not yet developed enough to deal with either extreme. Or if it so happened that I unlock it and let down these walls that I fortified for years, my heart might look and beat with such average emotion that I will let my brain take over, disown, and lock it so tightly that my heart cannot be seen again.
I love when my neighborhood is this quiet and I know that only myself is stirring and bothering to make small noises.
I felt a great calm in my body. The same calm I used to feel when I smoked outside at my parents house in Indiana. Only there, the darkness seemed much darker and the woods behind my house more mysterious than the faintly illuminated hillsides that surround me now. A sadness comes over me as I write this. I know I will never again sit on that back porch to smoke as my parents site inside watching TV or fixing dinner. That chapter, like many in my life, has closed. If I had only known then what might happen in so few months, perhaps I would have taken more mental pictures and would have cherished that little house instead of feeling trapped by that area the economic circumstances by which I grew up.
I've been running from that scene for most of my life and now that I know the other side of the darkness that came before my small family, I would like nothing more than to sit there again. To take for granted that after spending some time alone with my thoughts that I would rise from smoking take one last drag of my cigarette and know that when I go inside my parents would be talking and I would sit at the dining room table and eat dinner. I remember the warmth of the room and the gross yellow lighting that I could not stand but never knew which light bulb to buy to change the color of the light. As I paint this in my mind, it seems so sweet for me to remember but it also seems so far away that I doubt I will ever trust it. One can never really know what lies in the hearts of people you love. There is always light and darkness but what lies underneath is a secret to you and I and most often seems to be a secret to themselves as well.
I cannot fully unlock my heart because I do not know what is there. I could unlock it and there could be a great force of light that floods from me with happiness to the world. Or I could unlock my heart and it be damp, cold and dangerous like a cave. Either way I feel my soul is not yet developed enough to deal with either extreme. Or if it so happened that I unlock it and let down these walls that I fortified for years, my heart might look and beat with such average emotion that I will let my brain take over, disown, and lock it so tightly that my heart cannot be seen again.
I love when my neighborhood is this quiet and I know that only myself is stirring and bothering to make small noises.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
