Incite Full

Sometimes you read something, and it resonates within you. Cake would call this a bowel shaking revelation, or something similar. I can’t begin to describe how spot on the following paragraph is at many times in my life:

Her work was all she had or wanted. But there were times, like tonight, when she felt that sudden, peculiar emptiness, which was not emptiness, but silence, not despair, but immobility, as if nothing within her were destroyed, but everything stood still. Then she felt the wish to find a moment’s joy outside, the wish to be held as a passive spectator by some work or sight of greatness. Not to make it, she thought, but to accept; not to begin, but to respond; not to create, but to admire. I need it to let me go on, she though, because joy is one’s fuel

I’d say more about this, but either you get it, or you don’t.

Well it’s been an interesting few days. I’ll start off by saying that the Celtics had better win tonight (or their next game, I suppose) or else I’m going to be getting a little bit antsy. After 2 softball games tuesday, I headed out to the bars with some friends to catch the last quarter or so of the game, and it was just an ugly slugfest. Only the slugs weren’t baskets, they were blatant fouls and flops- not exactly the historic and marquee matchup that the NBA wanted.

Regardless, I will watch. Speaking of watching, the Top Chef finale aired yesterday. If you don’t want to know, leave now-

Ok, so Top Chef finally has a female winner. And I shit you not I honestly thought Lisa was going to win it all. I felt dejected when Richard admitted he choked, and sick to my stomach (which was full of delicious pho) telling my roommate that Lisa was going to win- neither of us wanted to hear that. So imagine my decadent delight when Stephanie’s name was called. Oh Padma, that news coming from you makes it all the better. It was interesting to me, the initial challenge, which allowed the contestants to choose their sous chefs from a trio of culinary all-stars. I knew this season pretty well, and could predict exactly who would take what chef- obviously the show knew this as well, and went ahead with it. That’s cool.

Watching the individual courses was akin to tying my shoes with bloody fingers. It was messy, nerve-wracking, and often times painful. Oh Blaze- why dind’t you sear the shit out of that pork? You would have made me so much happier. Sigh.

Anyways, There is much more in my world than Top Chef. I’ve been working on a project at NASA for almost the entirety of my time here (no small feat as I have 10 different “projects”). Unfortunately earlier in the week we got confirmation that our funding has been cut. When I first heard of this, I felt like shit- it’s my favorite project to work on currently, and now no one will ever see it. But it’s gone now, and I’ll have to find some work to do (not hard) that I hopefully enjoy (a lot harder).

I’m saving my revelation for last, and I guess that’s now. I’ve been up to my balls in writing lately, between class and writing down all of those little things you think about during the day that you never remember. It’s fun, and after reading my ‘classmates’ samples, I am even more convinced that I can do this. But it’s hard to write something so… big, sometimes. And that’s where reading and learning comes in.

Think of famous works you’ve read. That author didn’t sit down and write that bitch out in a sitting. Hell, Atlas Shrugged took 7 years of writing for Ayn Rand to figure out. Granted it’s 1000+ pages (that’s less than half a page a day), but the idea still stands. Writing a great work, full of symbolism and imagery is a lot harder than it is made to seem.

In high school, we pull apart pieces to find the symbols the author used. We extrapolate meaning, and assign intention to it as if it were plain as day, black and white truth. This is not how books are written. Writers write down something, anything, and don’t stop. After a while, they read what they wrote, and get rid of most of it. Maybe a line in 6 sheets gives some direction to the author, who the hell knows- I’m not there yet. But anyways, they keep doing this, and subconsciously, themes start to emerge. Hopefully the author is quick enough to recognize this and start to use it, flesh it out, outline the important parts of the sketch he’s created, and allow us to see a glimpse of what his mind is trying to say. That’s all you can do.

It makes me feel a lot better about writing without knowing where I am going. All I need is the next 6 feet in front of me and I’ll get somewhere, I just have to trust myself to get there.

“Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.”

I just spent that last hour and a half writing a description of a candle. It, at first, seemed like a silly exercise. And i kind of wanted to say that. But then i got an idea- Why not write my description of the candle in such a way that i can get that point across? So i give you, Candle:

I would say it’s orange, but that’s not what Ikea would call it. Sunflower? Citrus Salmon? It’s the last candle you use in a power outage- the kind of candle (an entire bag full, no less) a man gets for his first apartment, striving for class and warmth. Lighting the candle, my nose reels from the sulfur in the match. It’s been so long since I used one. But no Sunflower or Citrus Salmon flavor saves me. Small at first and staying that way, the flame is bored. Standing around like a teenager next to a wall, uncomfortably shifting positions from time to time. I get closer to the candle, the kind of close that would unnerve a mother- a yawn here would put out the flame. But I’ll wait for the small pool of wax now formed to do the job for me. The warmth I feel on my nose is slight- the kind you’d get from your girlfriend or boyfriend breathing on the back of your neck while you sleep. But it’s enough to make me notice my hands are cold. Soon, the wick will be blackened and cold, but for now the end of the wick is a burning ember- bright orange, even Ikea can’t argue with that.

A lot of other’s in the class took the assignment differently. I was frustrated with all those who used the “dancing” metaphor, especially when we were asked not to. Directly. And most people fused the description with so much more. Most people used it as a memory, something small to talk about something big. Another guy went way out there and talked about the futility of life and how it’ll extinguish itself. It’s just a candle, man. You’ve got to make it important first.

I also am noticing my writing is a lot different from others. I don’t use big words, or try and flex my vocabulary muscle very often. It’s fun at times, but i like curt and brutal words. Don’t sugar coat it, just smash my face in it and move on. Other people in the class, for better or for worse, need the perfect word and cliche the hell out of things. see: dancing flames, relating candle flame to life. It’s frustrating that all of these people respond with “Amazing writing!” and praise for things that, while written well, rehash everything that’s been said about a candle before.

“The best thing about getting old is that it doesn’t last that long”

My class started today.

I’m taking a writer’s workshop. not because i’m a writer. or because i like to work. Oddly enough i do enjoy shopping, but for things like power tools and computer hardware. manly things. I’m hoping through all of this to be able to express myself. From talking to my friends there are a few themes that i believe distinguish our generation from the ones prior to us. At least it’s something, anyways. it’s not a war, or a depression, or a movement. We have fractured movements, fractured wars, and great recessions.

I won’t get into it now. it’ll probably be a theme or something. But i will be sharing my writing here. You’ll see a tab soon which will point you at my worthless scribblings. I cannot promise amazing stories, I can’t even promise they’ll be complete. but i can promise you this one thing: I don’t care what you think. Ok, i kind of do, but not enough to stop me from going on with it. I’ve got 2 i’m working on. One is about soemthing that happened a long time ago, the other is a fictional short story. I’ll throw them up there when they’re as done as they’re gonna get.

Chuck P’s new book came out today. I spent $27.01 on a book. A book! I might as well have waited for a paperback for 16, the story isn’t going anywhere. But you know what, I’m ok with it. Chuck’s books are just… different. An LA times review said he has the ability to reach the young male demographic. And you know what, it’s right.  I walk by shelf after shelf of books that don’t interest me. Grandmother’s tales, romance, friendship- these are themes i can read about as long as the romance is shocking, the grandmother’s tale foreboding, and the friendships false and betraying. In short- exciting. Satirical. Something deeper than how i feel.

Snuff, the book, is about a woman who is on a quest to finish her pornographic career with the world’s largest serial fornication. We hear the story through the points of view of 3 members in said event. If you want to borrow it, you’ll have to wait until I’m finished. And it’s the next book up after No Country for Old Men.

Writing is hard. I don’t consider myself brilliant or talented in this regard. Admitting one has a problem is always the first step.

Sometimes when I write entries, such as the one before this, I don’t have any clear reason for writing. For that I apologize. I don’t even care about my day, except for the rare, amusing story of which you will surely hear. But other than that, sometimes I am just writing down, like a laundry list, everything that happens. That’s so fucking boring.  Who cares if i went to a bar. Get to the meat Mike.

With that in mind, I don’t plan on writing putrid or insipid shit in this thing any longer. I want to write things that interest me, and hopefully through that, you. And it’s going to start with a memory that I had from childhood that was recently brought up while walking to Old Town.

I was passing the Pasadena theater with Katie when i saw the play “Of Mice and Men.” Now I’ve never read the book, but i have seen the film with John Malkovich, when I was 9 years old (1992, for those keeping score). Being so young, innocence was plentiful and easy to come by. Things were black and white, right and wrong, and much simpler. People say times used to be simpler; I think that’s just how we remember them when there weren’t 401K’s and bills to worry about. before i go off on a tangent, let me get to the meat.

The movie opens with, if memory serves me right, the two men, Lennie and George, escaping from prison to a small depression era town. This is pretty much where my memory gives way to imagination; I recall they wanted to have there own land with rabbits and other animals. This idea always calmed Lennie down, and in turn I could relate to him. We were both children.

Anyways, the movie continues, and Lennie fatally hurts one of the girls in the town. There is a man hunt and George and Lennie once again escape the city to the country, but there is no safety here this time. So George, to calm Lennie, asks him about the rabbits. As Lennie is finishing up, George shoots Lennie in the head.

And then the flood gates open. I cried louder and harder than I can remember in any other point in my life. I remember it so vividly- salt running from my eyes for hours, my mother trying to comfort me, and my dad being out of town. I might be exaggerating, which we tend to do as children, but I cried for three days straight on this one. That gun shot completely robbed me of my innocence. I still get sad when I think about it; I’m kind of misty right now.

Poor, little Mike.

This is the one story that is as true as I remember it. There are other stories of childhood, like the one where I accidentally hit a friend with a shovel, or throwing snowballs at our neighbors cars- all of them taller tales. Probably more exciting, too. They are the kind of stories that you’d see in a kids movie, not some child crying in the theater.
What’s more interesting about this story is its rawness. Pure emotion - something I really don’t feel anymore - that left a lasting impression on me. Ever since those days it’s been more worries, concerns, and fears. Mapping out my entire life. And I’ve always fretted about that as well. Metaconcerns. Reflexive fear. But, reading something yesterday, made me think of things anew.

Life is like driving. You don’t need to see your destination to get there. All you need is the road and you go. You drive. Sometimes you see no further than 4 feet in front of your car; fog, storms, flat tires: they all happen. But we weather it, forgive the pun, and keep going. Life is the same thing. The destination might be further, we might not know exactly where we are going, but we do know the general direction we should going. All we need to do is drive.

“There ain’t many guys travel around together. I don’t know why. Maybe everybody in the whole damn world’s scared of each other.”