9 February 2013
Oh Vey!
"That was not an 'Oy Vey' moment," said Abraham. Abraham was 24, but seemed much older. Even as we sat on the couch of his apartment, exchanging hits from a bamboo bong as wide and thick as a bassoon, he seem more substantial, patrician. It was like sharing bong hits with Abraham Lincoln. He'd even started growing a beard like that.
"What do you mean?" I said, taking huge hit and holding it my lungs.
"You were in a brawl with those Eagles fans--that's not an 'Oy vey!' moment. You don't say 'Oy vey, jackass!' when you are in a fight in the Candlestick Park parking lot."
"Oh," I said, expelling a huge cloud of smoke into the room. "What's an 'Oy vey' moment?"
"It's like when you've just visited some friends and you walk out to your car and step in a dog turd."
"Oh wow," I said. "I thought that was an 'Oh shit' moment."
Abraham, who held the bamboo bong in his hands but hadn't taken a hit, started laughing. A little at first, then more and more. Like a small fire, the laughter engulfed him and then spread to me. In a moment we were both gripped in a full-on cannabis-induced laughing jag.
"You know," I said between snorts and guffaws. "This is like laughing with Abraham Lincoln! Like taking bong hits with Abe Lincoln!"
I was rolling on the couch holding my gut when I noticed Abraham was quiet. "What? I said, still laughing. "Are you offended? Four score and forty years ago?"
Abraham stared past the bong to the floor. "You know, I wish my parents hadn't named me that."
I stopped laughing and listened.
"A name is a big thing," he said. "It marks you for life. Labels who you are. Who you're supposed to be. Your name is Scott. It's light and easy and likable. . . Abraham? Father of the freaking Jews? Savior of the United States of American? I'm a Jew and I'm an American and I'm supposed to live up to that? What were my parents thinking?"
Abraham stared at me intently, then he fired up the bong and took a slow even inhalation, gathering power as the smoke entered his lungs.
"Jesus," I said. "Oh wow. . . I wonder what guys named Jesus are feeling?
Abraham gasped and the sudden inhalation pulled bong water deep into his lungs. The foul liquid exploded from his lungs and a geyser-like gusher of burnt marijuana, gray water and lung juice burst from his nose and mouth across the couch, table and me.
"Jesus, Abraham, Jesus!"
"Oy vey!" he said dissolving into laughter, "Oy vey!"
Showing posts with label Greg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greg. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Friday, October 21, 2011
What is the Sound of the End of the World?
10 Oct 2011.
When her mother remained silent she continued. "When Earl yelled and screamed and pushed me, that was the end of my world. I took my baby boy and let him do whatever it is that men do when they get bored with their wives."
"Or vice versa," said her mother softly.
She turned on the old lady, her anger and complex feelings about her mother's divorce from her own father flaring up. She started to speak, but let it go. "Whatever," she said.
"Earl didn't wanted to abandon Andy," said her mother.
"You could've fooled me, Mom. He wasn't the one who woke up every morning schlepping him off to day care. I don't remember him rocking him to sleep late at nights when he was sick with the flu. I did everything for Andy. And all I got from Earl was a monthly check and what? Having Andy visit a few times a year to his home in New Orleans? What kind of father abandons his son like that?"
"He might've done more," said her mother, "if you'd asked."
"I didn't want to ask, ok? He left me and my son. His son."
"You kicked Earl out of your life, honey."
"He kicked me out of his! And now Andy is kicking me out of his life. Where's the justice in that?" She began weeping. "Where's the justice in that?"
Her mother walked to the stove and began stirring the soup, her daughter inches away. "Maybe Andy is kicking you into your own life, dear."
Friday, April 1, 2011
What is it inside you that needs to die?
Jumpstart 8 May 2010
Inspired by Trisha Lachman's writing group In Hocking Hills, Ohio.
The last time I saw my wife, she was walking from our house to her car in tears. My apologies followed like petals in the wind, but did little to assuage her hurt. Minutes earlier we'd had an argument. She said something which penetrated deep into the hidden, off-limits, high-security, do-not-enter chamber of my mind. Her words challenged my self-image as a generous, trustworthy, compassionate person. Because she did this, I verbally tore into her. Toward the end of the argument, my mouth smoking like a German machine gun and she in the room weeping, remorse backed into my consciousness and began unloading all my sins in our marriage. In my mind that all-too-common refrain reverberated : "Idiot! Why did you do that?"
My apologies were better than nothing, but the damage was done and she left shaking and shattered in the way that only a very close loved one can shake and shatter another.
* * *
We figured out many years ago that our marriage was not of the forever and death-do-us-part variety. We knew it was not a matter of if, but when we part and go our separate ways. There would be no waiting for a diagnosis and prognosis. We could dispense with the heroic marriage-saving Hail Mary gestures. Could skip the fruitless effort keeping a terminal marriage on life support. We each knew our marriage had an expiration date, and only two questions remained: When do we allow it to pass? How to live in joy and integrity as it passes? Well, there was one other question, which seemed to answer itself organically over time, and that was "How/when do we tell our two daughters who were about 9 and 11 at the time?"
While neither of us found much joy or skill in our marriage, we did find joy and profound meaning in being in family. Our decision was simple choice, if complex in carrying out: we would remain married as long as it made sense--as long as there were no abuse, as long as there was a commitment to respect, as long we could pursue our happiness within its structure. For an additional ten years we stayed married, creating and deepening our sense of family, while also working and often struggling to maintain an useful and loving sense of marriage. After our youngest left off for college in Illinois, it made sense for the marriage to die and so to see would happen next in our lives.
And so Bea found a new place to live and started her new life, and I, though living in the same house where my daughter's would return during college breaks, did the same. We visited the mediators, drew up and signed the papers, amicably divided the assets, and then waited for the six month waiting period before the death of our marriage would be recognized by the state.
But I felt something else needed to die. Maybe it was my idea of what our marriage was supposed to be. All the expectations I held about what our marriage, about her. The expectation that marriage partners are supposed to behave a certain way and even feel a certain way--things neither of us achieved in my mind. All these things had to die so I could see ourselves differently. Not as ex-21 year marriage partners, and not as roles upon which we would confer our love depending on some standard of behavior. I needed to see her and myself as only one thing: as a beloved child of the divine.
Somehow none of that came out in the argument we had. Like all of our arguments, I really don't recall the details of it. She said something I didn't like, so I said something that she didn't like and then escalation. In any case this argument was different for the simple reason that neither of us had to deal with the other. We could each walk away and not deal with the other person living in the same house, eating at the same dining room table, using the same driveway. She could go, I could go, and that could be that.
A week later I called her at work. I felt afraid and shy, feelings I hadn't felt toward her since the beginning of our meeting 30 years ago. Before the call I took a deep breath and asked Spirit that I treat her as someone to be loved and cherished regardless of all else. She answered after a few rings, apprehensive and cool. Then we talked. We talked of kids, of her new church, and began to fall into the easy rhythm of friendly conversation that we had lost some many years ago. We talked of a mutual friend at our old church who'd had a stroke. The last thing that this friend had told me was, "Did you say hello to Bea? Tell her I think of her all the time." It took me a minute to say this as I choked back tears.
It was sad about our friend, it was sad for us, it was sad for the marriage that had died after 21 years. It was also one of the best conversations of my life. And when I hung up--a wonderful lightness.
It was almost one year ago when I wrote this. Bea is in a long term committed partnership. I too am in relationship. And today we share a deep abiding friendship that is 30 years in the making.
Jumpstart 8 May 2010
Inspired by Trisha Lachman's writing group In Hocking Hills, Ohio.
The last time I saw my wife, she was walking from our house to her car in tears. My apologies followed like petals in the wind, but did little to assuage her hurt. Minutes earlier we'd had an argument. She said something which penetrated deep into the hidden, off-limits, high-security, do-not-enter chamber of my mind. Her words challenged my self-image as a generous, trustworthy, compassionate person. Because she did this, I verbally tore into her. Toward the end of the argument, my mouth smoking like a German machine gun and she in the room weeping, remorse backed into my consciousness and began unloading all my sins in our marriage. In my mind that all-too-common refrain reverberated : "Idiot! Why did you do that?"
My apologies were better than nothing, but the damage was done and she left shaking and shattered in the way that only a very close loved one can shake and shatter another.
* * *
We figured out many years ago that our marriage was not of the forever and death-do-us-part variety. We knew it was not a matter of if, but when we part and go our separate ways. There would be no waiting for a diagnosis and prognosis. We could dispense with the heroic marriage-saving Hail Mary gestures. Could skip the fruitless effort keeping a terminal marriage on life support. We each knew our marriage had an expiration date, and only two questions remained: When do we allow it to pass? How to live in joy and integrity as it passes? Well, there was one other question, which seemed to answer itself organically over time, and that was "How/when do we tell our two daughters who were about 9 and 11 at the time?"
While neither of us found much joy or skill in our marriage, we did find joy and profound meaning in being in family. Our decision was simple choice, if complex in carrying out: we would remain married as long as it made sense--as long as there were no abuse, as long as there was a commitment to respect, as long we could pursue our happiness within its structure. For an additional ten years we stayed married, creating and deepening our sense of family, while also working and often struggling to maintain an useful and loving sense of marriage. After our youngest left off for college in Illinois, it made sense for the marriage to die and so to see would happen next in our lives.
And so Bea found a new place to live and started her new life, and I, though living in the same house where my daughter's would return during college breaks, did the same. We visited the mediators, drew up and signed the papers, amicably divided the assets, and then waited for the six month waiting period before the death of our marriage would be recognized by the state.
But I felt something else needed to die. Maybe it was my idea of what our marriage was supposed to be. All the expectations I held about what our marriage, about her. The expectation that marriage partners are supposed to behave a certain way and even feel a certain way--things neither of us achieved in my mind. All these things had to die so I could see ourselves differently. Not as ex-21 year marriage partners, and not as roles upon which we would confer our love depending on some standard of behavior. I needed to see her and myself as only one thing: as a beloved child of the divine.
Somehow none of that came out in the argument we had. Like all of our arguments, I really don't recall the details of it. She said something I didn't like, so I said something that she didn't like and then escalation. In any case this argument was different for the simple reason that neither of us had to deal with the other. We could each walk away and not deal with the other person living in the same house, eating at the same dining room table, using the same driveway. She could go, I could go, and that could be that.
A week later I called her at work. I felt afraid and shy, feelings I hadn't felt toward her since the beginning of our meeting 30 years ago. Before the call I took a deep breath and asked Spirit that I treat her as someone to be loved and cherished regardless of all else. She answered after a few rings, apprehensive and cool. Then we talked. We talked of kids, of her new church, and began to fall into the easy rhythm of friendly conversation that we had lost some many years ago. We talked of a mutual friend at our old church who'd had a stroke. The last thing that this friend had told me was, "Did you say hello to Bea? Tell her I think of her all the time." It took me a minute to say this as I choked back tears.
It was sad about our friend, it was sad for us, it was sad for the marriage that had died after 21 years. It was also one of the best conversations of my life. And when I hung up--a wonderful lightness.
It was almost one year ago when I wrote this. Bea is in a long term committed partnership. I too am in relationship. And today we share a deep abiding friendship that is 30 years in the making.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Yellow Pants
Yellow Pants
Jumpstart for 3/20/10-4
Ian just doesn't the the idea of flying under the wire," said, John, my thoughtful, but hyperactive co-worker. Ian was his 10 year old son who was having troubles at school. "He keeps wearing yellow pants to school." The three of us, John, Scott and I trekked through San Francisco's 10-block high-tech district on the prowl for a lunchtime burrito. We were technical writers for a software start-up housed in a glass and steel building overlooking San Francisco's only canal. A block away, the SF Giants battled the LA Dodgers at ATT park.
John used the expression, "flying under the wire," to describe the high-tech corporate work we do, translating the arcane technology of computer scientists into instructions comprehensible by customers. To fly under the wire is to come to the office, do your work quietly and no draw attention to yourself. "You gotta lay low," he would say, "so you don't get hit by a stray bullet." Then he would list the names of people at the company who didn't lay low, and ended up getting RIF'd--Reduction in Force--laid off.
Start-ups are the glamour companies of high technology. Every Google, Apple, Microsoft, Youtube and Facebook began as a start-up. The Grandaddy of them all, Hewlett-Packard, invented the concept of the start-up concept in the 1930s and became the early paradigm. The Palo Alto garage where Bill and Dave--names known by every technology worker in Silicon Valley--started the company is a shrine to technology companies everywhere.
The glamour of start-ups is the idea that with a good idea, hard work, generous stock options and luck, not only can a young college graduate (Steve Ballmer, Jerry Wang) or college drop-out (Steve Jobs, Bill Gates) can become a billionaire, but many hundreds of the early hires can become millionaires. This dream of high-tech lucre drives young employees to work 60 to 100 hour weeks and give up huge swathes of their twenties. However, with the long hours and high-pressure, start-ups, especially those not immediately successful, experience a lot of employee churn--the hiring, firing, quitting and replacement of its skilled workers.
The place where the three of us worked was old for a start-up. It had been founded, like most start-ups, by three graduate students from Stanford. The company had some interesting technology--software that analyzed software--but never got over the hump and went public with their stock so that workers could cash in their options. It spent its history on the cusp of success, toiling as if, just over the horizon, IPO Valhalla lay if everyone could just work a little harder and smarter.
Though the dream of IPO riches drove many through the long soul-crushing work weeks, and equal number of us, John and I among them, just wanted a decent job. In any case, this little company made enough money to pay its employees well and rent a sexy office building on the San Francisco Bay. The work environment, however, was infused with tension and a very high employee churn. Unless you were a technical superstar or a 60 hour a week true believer, flying under the wire was a decent strategy for keeping your job.
Our burritos were still a few blocks away, and John was still rolling. “Ian likes to wear yellow pants,” he repeated. “The girls like it too. They think it shows style. But the 7th grade boys throw basketballs at him when he rides his bike to school. They call him 'piss pants.' I don't want to quash his style, but I told him if he just wore blue jeans he could just fly under the wire. He hears me, but he just doesn't get it.”
Yellow pants. In September 1968 my mother bought me a pair of yellow pants when I was in 7th grade. I hated them. Over the summer, a growth spurt had rendered all my old grade school pants impossibly small. My thrifty Mom, who no doubt purchased the pants at a 50% off sale at JC Penney's, brought them into my room and laid them on the bed. I was speechless, and, unfortunately, pantless except for the yellow disaster that lay before me. It was Monday morning and school was ten blocks away. I pulled on the yellow pants and ran out he front door. First flak came from my best friend across the street with whom I walked to school every day. “Hey! Look at those pants! Are those your dancing pants? Cool fancy dancing pants, man!” He began dancing an absurd middle school dance that mocked my yellow pants. I had no retort and walked to school in dread and silence.
In the hierarchy of childhood traumas, the humiliation of a 7th grade boy forced to wear yellow pants to his middle school is not very high, but unlike Ian I was not aware enough to notice if any girls liked those pants or not. As soon as I could, I ditched the yellow pants, and they remained only in the dust heap of bad adolescent memories.
At the time of our burrito excursion, I was a contractor at the start-up. Each day I rode the train into the City, laid low in my fox hole for 8 hours, then rode the train back home. Contractors are non-permanent employees and are the most expendable and easily laid off. We don't get the perks of regular employees--stock options, insurance, matching 401K plans--but we do get a high hourly pay rate. Still, all contractors have a relatively short expiration date. As the completion of a crucial deadline approached, along the inevitable end of my contract, I asked my boss if I could continue working part time “as long as the company needed me.” It wasn't a great job, but I needed the money.
“Ok,” she said. Then she promptly forgot the conversation.
On the day after the deadline she said, “I guess I'll need to get your badge and computer today.”
Whaaat?!?! “Um. You said I could work part-time until you didn't have any more work.”
“Oh,” she said, “I thought you meant part time up until today.”
“Um. No.”
A couple of palm-sweating hours later she returned and said that she had talked to her boss and that I could stay until there was no more work. “Great!” I said, relieved. Then I left for the weekend, thinking I'd fly under the wire for at least a couple more months.
On Monday I arrived at the office prepared to work, but without the pressure of a deadline there was nothing or urgency. I shuffled electronic papers for a while, but by mid-morning a slow realization began to sink in: I had no work to do. I left the office and took a walk around the canal to think: if I asked my boss for work, and she couldn't think of anything, then we would each be looking at each other knowing there was no reason to keep me around.
In mid-afternoon I stared blankly at my computer screen while my boss, who sat 3 feet away separated only by a small fabric-covered press board divider, clicked busily on her keyboard. My strategy of flying under the wire sputtered like a dying airplane engine. I took another walk along the canal and watched part of the Giant's game on the jumbotron that could be seen outside the stadium. At least those guys have work, I thought glumly. At 5 o'clock I left in a hurry to get to the train station.
The next day I returned to the slow inevitability of getting canned from my job. After another walk around the canal, I realized that in addition to dread, I felt bored. No one likes to sit in an office chair pretending to do work--do it too long and you lose your soul and become a working zombie. When I returned to the office, for the hell of it, I started reading the oldest fattest technical manual in the company. It was as incomprehensible and as inscrutable as a Zen koan. Like many technical manuals, it was so old and unexamined that its existence had been taken for granted and its unreadability had become ignored. "What a pain for new customers to have to read this," I thought.
I paged through the manual shaking my head and jotting down questions: What does this mean? How does it work? Why do I have to know this? Obvious questions, but questions not asked unless you analyze this stuff for a living.
I told my boss about the book. "This manual sucks," I said, then I listed its problems.
"Interesting," she said. "Andy mentioned the same thing in a meeting I was at today."
Andy was the Chief Technology Officer of the company. He was a Big Deal. "Maybe," I said, "I could write up some of the problems and see what he thinks." Like many underlings in the company, my boss tried to shield the CTO from interruptions, but to my surprise she said, "Ok."
I had an ulterior motive for sending an email to Andy. If I could articulate an interesting significant problem--computer programmers think in terms of interesting problems and their counterpart, the elegant solution--maybe I could scratch some work out of this. But to do this, I had to come out of my foxhole and wave a red flag over the problem. I had to convince the technical guru of the company that this interesting problem required an elegant solution by a true visionary—me. That was the first part of the problem. The second part involved deep diving into the guts of excruciatingly esoteric technology and capture it in elegant and clear prose. The creators of this software were computer science PhDs from Stanford. I was a creative writing major/casino card counter from a little college in Lake Tahoe Nevada. To pull this off I had to believe that I was as smart as them--albeit in a different way--and a far superior writer. There would be no flying under the wire for this project. I had to wear the yellow pants.
That evening I composed a long email to Andy outlining my thoughts and ideas. People don't read long emails in corporate America. They don't have time, or they think that the writer has not taken the time to be concise. This, however, was a complex issue that required my best and most persuasive writing. The first draft was many hundreds of words. Then, like Michelangelo sculpting David, I took my editorial chisel and removed everything that wasn't my vision. After a couple of hours, my David of a technical email was finished. I sent it off.
The next day, Andy read it and responded! He agreed with my findings and suggested I consult with a couple of software architects. I wrote them immediately.
In the world of high-technology, the left brain rules. Everything of value--things that make money--start from the brains of extremely intelligent and creative engineers. Near the top of the engineering pyramid are developers, engineers who design and create the features and products you use in, say, email, Adobe Illustrator or the Google search engine. Higher up the pyramid are the software architects who, like exalted Egyptian priests, deign to look at someone's technical problem and/or solution, then render a judgment (elegant solution). Above them are the Distinguished Engineers, who have reached such an elevated level of technical genius that they are seen as Christ-like technical figures who have come to this earthly to show regular engineers the Technical Way. Think Steve Wozniak.
On the other hand, a company cannot thrive on only left brains. Silicon Valley is littered with dead companies that were controlled by left-brain types who couldn't see the forest because they were focused on a single technical tree. It takes a good right-brained marketing guy to make a company work. Think Steve Jobs.
The position of technical writer is a weird hybrid between the creative and the technical. On one hand you had to be somewhat creative to figure out how to capture technology in elegant structured prose. On the other hand, you often had to understand extremely complex left-brain technology to capture it. Because of this weird position in the industry, technical writers, often become the kicking dogs of high-tech engineering world. Not technical enough to run with the engineers and not ambitious enough to to kick with the marketing geeks, it's where liberal arts majors go to get a job. The technical writing world has become a computer ghetto of poets, novelists, musicians, painters, activists and lit majors. Many of us do our time, fly under the wire, then go home and try do our own art--make music, take photographs, write poems, do volunteer work, be a great parent.
Normally software architects ignore email from technical writers, but with Andy's name on the cc line, they paid attention. They argued with my premise, my findings, my grammar, but eventually found salient points on which they could latch on to. Other engineers were drawn into the discussion which soon turned into a company-wide technical debate.
High tech companies work like that. Once an interesting and useful problem in introduced, the engineering brains of the company argue over the best way to solve it. The best argument prevails and that solution is developed. The key is to articulate an interesting and useful problem. As a writer, however, I was not in the position to argue for a solution. Instead my position was to mediate and gather arguments from various solutions and weave them into a singular useful solution. As arguments ensued, I took the best ideas and integrated it into a compelling vision.
One morning as I sat at my computer, I nodded to John who just arrived. Before he could settle himself in for a day of work, his manager and his manager's manager called him into a meeting. Ten minutes later he returned to his desk, shaken, and picked up his things. "See you later," he said.
He quickly walked out the door, but I chased after him and caught him outside. "What's going on?" I said.
"Got laid, off, man" he said, not looking at me. "It's ok. I'll see you later." Then he walked off.
The rest of the day was lost. John was right, you could get shot at any time at that place. But it didn't matter if you were laying low or not. I sat at my desk in a daze and left work early.
The next day, however, I got back to it. I wrote emails, called meetings, walked into engineers offices to gather information. New thoughts and ideas came forth, and I layered them into the vision. At any moment, I felt like I could catch a bullet. No matter, I stood up for my ideas and argued forcefully for them, integrated new ones. Soon I was given time and resources to make the vision happen. A few weeks into the project, my boss, the one who carried my bullet around with her at all times, said, "Hey, good job."
I don't want Ian to get basketballs thrown at him, but I also don't want to to quash his style for 40 years. Sometimes, a man just has to wear the yellow pants.
Jumpstart for 3/20/10-4
Ian just doesn't the the idea of flying under the wire," said, John, my thoughtful, but hyperactive co-worker. Ian was his 10 year old son who was having troubles at school. "He keeps wearing yellow pants to school." The three of us, John, Scott and I trekked through San Francisco's 10-block high-tech district on the prowl for a lunchtime burrito. We were technical writers for a software start-up housed in a glass and steel building overlooking San Francisco's only canal. A block away, the SF Giants battled the LA Dodgers at ATT park.
John used the expression, "flying under the wire," to describe the high-tech corporate work we do, translating the arcane technology of computer scientists into instructions comprehensible by customers. To fly under the wire is to come to the office, do your work quietly and no draw attention to yourself. "You gotta lay low," he would say, "so you don't get hit by a stray bullet." Then he would list the names of people at the company who didn't lay low, and ended up getting RIF'd--Reduction in Force--laid off.
Start-ups are the glamour companies of high technology. Every Google, Apple, Microsoft, Youtube and Facebook began as a start-up. The Grandaddy of them all, Hewlett-Packard, invented the concept of the start-up concept in the 1930s and became the early paradigm. The Palo Alto garage where Bill and Dave--names known by every technology worker in Silicon Valley--started the company is a shrine to technology companies everywhere.
The glamour of start-ups is the idea that with a good idea, hard work, generous stock options and luck, not only can a young college graduate (Steve Ballmer, Jerry Wang) or college drop-out (Steve Jobs, Bill Gates) can become a billionaire, but many hundreds of the early hires can become millionaires. This dream of high-tech lucre drives young employees to work 60 to 100 hour weeks and give up huge swathes of their twenties. However, with the long hours and high-pressure, start-ups, especially those not immediately successful, experience a lot of employee churn--the hiring, firing, quitting and replacement of its skilled workers.
The place where the three of us worked was old for a start-up. It had been founded, like most start-ups, by three graduate students from Stanford. The company had some interesting technology--software that analyzed software--but never got over the hump and went public with their stock so that workers could cash in their options. It spent its history on the cusp of success, toiling as if, just over the horizon, IPO Valhalla lay if everyone could just work a little harder and smarter.
Though the dream of IPO riches drove many through the long soul-crushing work weeks, and equal number of us, John and I among them, just wanted a decent job. In any case, this little company made enough money to pay its employees well and rent a sexy office building on the San Francisco Bay. The work environment, however, was infused with tension and a very high employee churn. Unless you were a technical superstar or a 60 hour a week true believer, flying under the wire was a decent strategy for keeping your job.
Our burritos were still a few blocks away, and John was still rolling. “Ian likes to wear yellow pants,” he repeated. “The girls like it too. They think it shows style. But the 7th grade boys throw basketballs at him when he rides his bike to school. They call him 'piss pants.' I don't want to quash his style, but I told him if he just wore blue jeans he could just fly under the wire. He hears me, but he just doesn't get it.”
Yellow pants. In September 1968 my mother bought me a pair of yellow pants when I was in 7th grade. I hated them. Over the summer, a growth spurt had rendered all my old grade school pants impossibly small. My thrifty Mom, who no doubt purchased the pants at a 50% off sale at JC Penney's, brought them into my room and laid them on the bed. I was speechless, and, unfortunately, pantless except for the yellow disaster that lay before me. It was Monday morning and school was ten blocks away. I pulled on the yellow pants and ran out he front door. First flak came from my best friend across the street with whom I walked to school every day. “Hey! Look at those pants! Are those your dancing pants? Cool fancy dancing pants, man!” He began dancing an absurd middle school dance that mocked my yellow pants. I had no retort and walked to school in dread and silence.
In the hierarchy of childhood traumas, the humiliation of a 7th grade boy forced to wear yellow pants to his middle school is not very high, but unlike Ian I was not aware enough to notice if any girls liked those pants or not. As soon as I could, I ditched the yellow pants, and they remained only in the dust heap of bad adolescent memories.
At the time of our burrito excursion, I was a contractor at the start-up. Each day I rode the train into the City, laid low in my fox hole for 8 hours, then rode the train back home. Contractors are non-permanent employees and are the most expendable and easily laid off. We don't get the perks of regular employees--stock options, insurance, matching 401K plans--but we do get a high hourly pay rate. Still, all contractors have a relatively short expiration date. As the completion of a crucial deadline approached, along the inevitable end of my contract, I asked my boss if I could continue working part time “as long as the company needed me.” It wasn't a great job, but I needed the money.
“Ok,” she said. Then she promptly forgot the conversation.
On the day after the deadline she said, “I guess I'll need to get your badge and computer today.”
Whaaat?!?! “Um. You said I could work part-time until you didn't have any more work.”
“Oh,” she said, “I thought you meant part time up until today.”
“Um. No.”
A couple of palm-sweating hours later she returned and said that she had talked to her boss and that I could stay until there was no more work. “Great!” I said, relieved. Then I left for the weekend, thinking I'd fly under the wire for at least a couple more months.
On Monday I arrived at the office prepared to work, but without the pressure of a deadline there was nothing or urgency. I shuffled electronic papers for a while, but by mid-morning a slow realization began to sink in: I had no work to do. I left the office and took a walk around the canal to think: if I asked my boss for work, and she couldn't think of anything, then we would each be looking at each other knowing there was no reason to keep me around.
In mid-afternoon I stared blankly at my computer screen while my boss, who sat 3 feet away separated only by a small fabric-covered press board divider, clicked busily on her keyboard. My strategy of flying under the wire sputtered like a dying airplane engine. I took another walk along the canal and watched part of the Giant's game on the jumbotron that could be seen outside the stadium. At least those guys have work, I thought glumly. At 5 o'clock I left in a hurry to get to the train station.
The next day I returned to the slow inevitability of getting canned from my job. After another walk around the canal, I realized that in addition to dread, I felt bored. No one likes to sit in an office chair pretending to do work--do it too long and you lose your soul and become a working zombie. When I returned to the office, for the hell of it, I started reading the oldest fattest technical manual in the company. It was as incomprehensible and as inscrutable as a Zen koan. Like many technical manuals, it was so old and unexamined that its existence had been taken for granted and its unreadability had become ignored. "What a pain for new customers to have to read this," I thought.
I paged through the manual shaking my head and jotting down questions: What does this mean? How does it work? Why do I have to know this? Obvious questions, but questions not asked unless you analyze this stuff for a living.
I told my boss about the book. "This manual sucks," I said, then I listed its problems.
"Interesting," she said. "Andy mentioned the same thing in a meeting I was at today."
Andy was the Chief Technology Officer of the company. He was a Big Deal. "Maybe," I said, "I could write up some of the problems and see what he thinks." Like many underlings in the company, my boss tried to shield the CTO from interruptions, but to my surprise she said, "Ok."
I had an ulterior motive for sending an email to Andy. If I could articulate an interesting significant problem--computer programmers think in terms of interesting problems and their counterpart, the elegant solution--maybe I could scratch some work out of this. But to do this, I had to come out of my foxhole and wave a red flag over the problem. I had to convince the technical guru of the company that this interesting problem required an elegant solution by a true visionary—me. That was the first part of the problem. The second part involved deep diving into the guts of excruciatingly esoteric technology and capture it in elegant and clear prose. The creators of this software were computer science PhDs from Stanford. I was a creative writing major/casino card counter from a little college in Lake Tahoe Nevada. To pull this off I had to believe that I was as smart as them--albeit in a different way--and a far superior writer. There would be no flying under the wire for this project. I had to wear the yellow pants.
That evening I composed a long email to Andy outlining my thoughts and ideas. People don't read long emails in corporate America. They don't have time, or they think that the writer has not taken the time to be concise. This, however, was a complex issue that required my best and most persuasive writing. The first draft was many hundreds of words. Then, like Michelangelo sculpting David, I took my editorial chisel and removed everything that wasn't my vision. After a couple of hours, my David of a technical email was finished. I sent it off.
The next day, Andy read it and responded! He agreed with my findings and suggested I consult with a couple of software architects. I wrote them immediately.
In the world of high-technology, the left brain rules. Everything of value--things that make money--start from the brains of extremely intelligent and creative engineers. Near the top of the engineering pyramid are developers, engineers who design and create the features and products you use in, say, email, Adobe Illustrator or the Google search engine. Higher up the pyramid are the software architects who, like exalted Egyptian priests, deign to look at someone's technical problem and/or solution, then render a judgment (elegant solution). Above them are the Distinguished Engineers, who have reached such an elevated level of technical genius that they are seen as Christ-like technical figures who have come to this earthly to show regular engineers the Technical Way. Think Steve Wozniak.
On the other hand, a company cannot thrive on only left brains. Silicon Valley is littered with dead companies that were controlled by left-brain types who couldn't see the forest because they were focused on a single technical tree. It takes a good right-brained marketing guy to make a company work. Think Steve Jobs.
The position of technical writer is a weird hybrid between the creative and the technical. On one hand you had to be somewhat creative to figure out how to capture technology in elegant structured prose. On the other hand, you often had to understand extremely complex left-brain technology to capture it. Because of this weird position in the industry, technical writers, often become the kicking dogs of high-tech engineering world. Not technical enough to run with the engineers and not ambitious enough to to kick with the marketing geeks, it's where liberal arts majors go to get a job. The technical writing world has become a computer ghetto of poets, novelists, musicians, painters, activists and lit majors. Many of us do our time, fly under the wire, then go home and try do our own art--make music, take photographs, write poems, do volunteer work, be a great parent.
Normally software architects ignore email from technical writers, but with Andy's name on the cc line, they paid attention. They argued with my premise, my findings, my grammar, but eventually found salient points on which they could latch on to. Other engineers were drawn into the discussion which soon turned into a company-wide technical debate.
High tech companies work like that. Once an interesting and useful problem in introduced, the engineering brains of the company argue over the best way to solve it. The best argument prevails and that solution is developed. The key is to articulate an interesting and useful problem. As a writer, however, I was not in the position to argue for a solution. Instead my position was to mediate and gather arguments from various solutions and weave them into a singular useful solution. As arguments ensued, I took the best ideas and integrated it into a compelling vision.
One morning as I sat at my computer, I nodded to John who just arrived. Before he could settle himself in for a day of work, his manager and his manager's manager called him into a meeting. Ten minutes later he returned to his desk, shaken, and picked up his things. "See you later," he said.
He quickly walked out the door, but I chased after him and caught him outside. "What's going on?" I said.
"Got laid, off, man" he said, not looking at me. "It's ok. I'll see you later." Then he walked off.
The rest of the day was lost. John was right, you could get shot at any time at that place. But it didn't matter if you were laying low or not. I sat at my desk in a daze and left work early.
The next day, however, I got back to it. I wrote emails, called meetings, walked into engineers offices to gather information. New thoughts and ideas came forth, and I layered them into the vision. At any moment, I felt like I could catch a bullet. No matter, I stood up for my ideas and argued forcefully for them, integrated new ones. Soon I was given time and resources to make the vision happen. A few weeks into the project, my boss, the one who carried my bullet around with her at all times, said, "Hey, good job."
I don't want Ian to get basketballs thrown at him, but I also don't want to to quash his style for 40 years. Sometimes, a man just has to wear the yellow pants.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
BEING UNMASKED
I want to throw off this face
that pretends that I am cool.
Toss these shoes that think
they protect me from movement into life.
I want to burn these gloves
that try to warm me from the cold
calculations of my hands.
And this shirt I want to tear from my breast
so my heart no longer
hides beneath the veneer of fashion or choice.
Even this bodily container is too much to bear!
I want to flay the skin from my flesh,
scrap the flesh from my bones.
I want to dance the flamenco
on the sidewalk before friends,
my sun-washed heels clacking
on concrete like a pair of dancing hammers.
I will dance across the harsh earth
until the powder of my bones blows
across the Kalahari desert.
There, a lone hyaena, exiled from his tribe,
finds my frowning bleached skull laying in the dust.
Taking pity on a fellow traveler,
he cracks the plates
of my skull into thin shards
strewing them over the parched sand.
Then I’ll wipe my brow and notice it’s
still there.
My mask.
Maybe I’ll laugh until I cry,
the tears seeping out the latex holes
of my eyes,
running down latex cheeks.
I’ll cry for 52 years
or until I stop.
Then, one day, like any other,
I’ll go to work and
sitting in my office find the mask washed away.
I want to throw off this face
that pretends that I am cool.
Toss these shoes that think
they protect me from movement into life.
I want to burn these gloves
that try to warm me from the cold
calculations of my hands.
And this shirt I want to tear from my breast
so my heart no longer
hides beneath the veneer of fashion or choice.
Even this bodily container is too much to bear!
I want to flay the skin from my flesh,
scrap the flesh from my bones.
I want to dance the flamenco
on the sidewalk before friends,
my sun-washed heels clacking
on concrete like a pair of dancing hammers.
I will dance across the harsh earth
until the powder of my bones blows
across the Kalahari desert.
There, a lone hyaena, exiled from his tribe,
finds my frowning bleached skull laying in the dust.
Taking pity on a fellow traveler,
he cracks the plates
of my skull into thin shards
strewing them over the parched sand.
Then I’ll wipe my brow and notice it’s
still there.
My mask.
Maybe I’ll laugh until I cry,
the tears seeping out the latex holes
of my eyes,
running down latex cheeks.
I’ll cry for 52 years
or until I stop.
Then, one day, like any other,
I’ll go to work and
sitting in my office find the mask washed away.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Hate/Love - Greg
Prompt 12/30/2006: Think of a person you don't like and describe what you don't like and what you might say if you had to share an elevator ride.
I hated him and he hated me, and when I stepped into the elevator we looked at each other and knew what had to be, even before the doors thumped closed.
I stood to one side and he the other, but we could feel the animosity rising like noxious air in a small container. He whispered under his breath, and I turned threw a wild punch that skidded off the top of his head. He rolled with the punch then countered with his own punch which hit me on the side of the face. Then I hit him in the mouth, and I could feel with satisfaction the splash of something warm on my fist. But then he hit me in the nose and my eyes watered and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.
We grabbed each other’s shirts, but it was unnecessary because neither would run away even if we could, and so we traded punch after punch like two hockey players in the middle of the rink. Now his nose was bleeding and now his mouth. I was bleeding over the left eye and both nostrils. Still we kept pounding.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. Two well-dressed old ladies stood at the door and froze, their mouths ajar and silent. We continued whaling on each other ad the door closed.
After a while the velocity of our punches slowed, our arms tiring. Blood splattered over the walls, but we did not stop. It was glorious! Soon we stopped punching, but I grabbed him and threw him against the wall, then he me. We danced about the elevator in a violent bloody dance macabre. The elevator door opened again and we fell to the floor in front of the two ladies who stepped back. The door repeatedly closed and opened on our two writhing bodies until we rolled back in.
It closed once more and in a moment we stopped and held each other in our grips breathing in each other breath, lost in exhaustion. “I hate you,” he said, but with not much conviction. “And I hate you,” I said, but realized, right then, right now, that I may have also loved him.
I hated him and he hated me, and when I stepped into the elevator we looked at each other and knew what had to be, even before the doors thumped closed.
I stood to one side and he the other, but we could feel the animosity rising like noxious air in a small container. He whispered under his breath, and I turned threw a wild punch that skidded off the top of his head. He rolled with the punch then countered with his own punch which hit me on the side of the face. Then I hit him in the mouth, and I could feel with satisfaction the splash of something warm on my fist. But then he hit me in the nose and my eyes watered and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.
We grabbed each other’s shirts, but it was unnecessary because neither would run away even if we could, and so we traded punch after punch like two hockey players in the middle of the rink. Now his nose was bleeding and now his mouth. I was bleeding over the left eye and both nostrils. Still we kept pounding.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. Two well-dressed old ladies stood at the door and froze, their mouths ajar and silent. We continued whaling on each other ad the door closed.
After a while the velocity of our punches slowed, our arms tiring. Blood splattered over the walls, but we did not stop. It was glorious! Soon we stopped punching, but I grabbed him and threw him against the wall, then he me. We danced about the elevator in a violent bloody dance macabre. The elevator door opened again and we fell to the floor in front of the two ladies who stepped back. The door repeatedly closed and opened on our two writhing bodies until we rolled back in.
It closed once more and in a moment we stopped and held each other in our grips breathing in each other breath, lost in exhaustion. “I hate you,” he said, but with not much conviction. “And I hate you,” I said, but realized, right then, right now, that I may have also loved him.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Being Misunderstood - Greg
1 Sept 2007
Prompt: Being Misunderstood
When he told her,“I love you!” what he really meant was, “Right here, right now, in this moment falling into the sea of ecstasy, I love this bed, those curtains, the redwood forests, the ocean, the tundra, the stones in the yard, the microwave oven–-everything–-even your wretched annoying cat.”
But no, the only blunt inarticulate utterance his stupid mouth could say was, “I love you,” as he fell into the great abyss.
But even has he fell, he knew he would regret the words which had carelessly tumbled from his mouth. He knew misunderstanding had entered the room, especially as she moaned and cried out louder. He wanted to soar into his momentary heaven, but the words nailed him to the earth like a crucification. Three words–-three deadly words! She would not understand. He already didn’t understand. But maybe it didn’t matter. Not right now. All thought slipped from his mind. Maybe only this mattered . . . Only this.
Prompt: Being Misunderstood
When he told her,“I love you!” what he really meant was, “Right here, right now, in this moment falling into the sea of ecstasy, I love this bed, those curtains, the redwood forests, the ocean, the tundra, the stones in the yard, the microwave oven–-everything–-even your wretched annoying cat.”
But no, the only blunt inarticulate utterance his stupid mouth could say was, “I love you,” as he fell into the great abyss.
But even has he fell, he knew he would regret the words which had carelessly tumbled from his mouth. He knew misunderstanding had entered the room, especially as she moaned and cried out louder. He wanted to soar into his momentary heaven, but the words nailed him to the earth like a crucification. Three words–-three deadly words! She would not understand. He already didn’t understand. But maybe it didn’t matter. Not right now. All thought slipped from his mind. Maybe only this mattered . . . Only this.
Ransom Note - Greg
25 Aug 2007
Prompt: Write a story that begins with a ransom note.
I typed out the first ransom note on my mother's old Royal Typewriter and brought it to The Rat who sat hunched over the wooden coffee table covered with maps, diagrams, scenarios and plans for the kidnaping. He glanced at the note and began talking about an old episode of Mannix where the forensic scientist had told the iron-jawed private eye that every typewriter was as unique as a human fingerprint. Then he crumpled up the note and told me to do it over again.
I returned later with a new note, from my Mom’s new Epson Inkjet printer. He took one glance and pointed, “Look, there’s a black mark in the upper left hand corner. This can still identify us. Do it again,” he said, tossing it in the garbage with the other.
I drove to the local library and printed a new copy and brought it back. “It’s from the library?” he asked, annoyed. “They’ll know what town we’re in. Do it again.”
This happened several more times. Ink pen: “They’ll identify the handwriting.” Ink pen with block letters: “The can identify the pressure from the pen tip.” Ink pen left handed: “Will you get off handwriting thing!” he said.
I picked up some old magazines I had subscribed to, cut out words and letters: “You cut these out of Poet’s & Writer Magazine?” he said incredulously. “Yeah, so?” “So who subscribes to that? They’ll identify the font, they’ll go down the subscriptions list and they’ll be knocking on the door in 10 minutes. Use your damn head!”
I went to the supermarket and bought a Time magazine. I put on plastic gloves and meticulously cut and pasted together the ransom note before bringing it to him. I explained my precautions and he began to read nodding his head in approval. Then it stopped. “You freakin’ spelled ransom wrong! It’s not ‘random!’ You don’t demand a ‘random’ of $25,000, you stupid moron! Are you retarded? Do it again!”
The Rat returned to his plans on the table and I pulled out the snub nose and shot him in the back of the head. The kidnappee, who sat tied and gagged to a wooden chair, jerked and his eyes filled with terror. I dragged him and the chair behind The Rat, cut loose one of his arms, and shoved the snub nose in his hand. “Shoot him” I said, and the man grunted and shook his head. I grabbed his face and repeated seriously, “Shoot him.” The man, his eyes filling with tears raised the wobbly gun and fired, hitting instead the television across the room. The gun dropped to the floor. “Good enough,” I said picking up my bag and the collection of crumpled ransom notes. “You escaped from your bounds, grabbed the gun and shot the kidnapper in the head. You’re a hero.
"And I," I said walking out the door, “am out of the kidnapping business.”
Prompt: Write a story that begins with a ransom note.
I typed out the first ransom note on my mother's old Royal Typewriter and brought it to The Rat who sat hunched over the wooden coffee table covered with maps, diagrams, scenarios and plans for the kidnaping. He glanced at the note and began talking about an old episode of Mannix where the forensic scientist had told the iron-jawed private eye that every typewriter was as unique as a human fingerprint. Then he crumpled up the note and told me to do it over again.
I returned later with a new note, from my Mom’s new Epson Inkjet printer. He took one glance and pointed, “Look, there’s a black mark in the upper left hand corner. This can still identify us. Do it again,” he said, tossing it in the garbage with the other.
I drove to the local library and printed a new copy and brought it back. “It’s from the library?” he asked, annoyed. “They’ll know what town we’re in. Do it again.”
This happened several more times. Ink pen: “They’ll identify the handwriting.” Ink pen with block letters: “The can identify the pressure from the pen tip.” Ink pen left handed: “Will you get off handwriting thing!” he said.
I picked up some old magazines I had subscribed to, cut out words and letters: “You cut these out of Poet’s & Writer Magazine?” he said incredulously. “Yeah, so?” “So who subscribes to that? They’ll identify the font, they’ll go down the subscriptions list and they’ll be knocking on the door in 10 minutes. Use your damn head!”
I went to the supermarket and bought a Time magazine. I put on plastic gloves and meticulously cut and pasted together the ransom note before bringing it to him. I explained my precautions and he began to read nodding his head in approval. Then it stopped. “You freakin’ spelled ransom wrong! It’s not ‘random!’ You don’t demand a ‘random’ of $25,000, you stupid moron! Are you retarded? Do it again!”
The Rat returned to his plans on the table and I pulled out the snub nose and shot him in the back of the head. The kidnappee, who sat tied and gagged to a wooden chair, jerked and his eyes filled with terror. I dragged him and the chair behind The Rat, cut loose one of his arms, and shoved the snub nose in his hand. “Shoot him” I said, and the man grunted and shook his head. I grabbed his face and repeated seriously, “Shoot him.” The man, his eyes filling with tears raised the wobbly gun and fired, hitting instead the television across the room. The gun dropped to the floor. “Good enough,” I said picking up my bag and the collection of crumpled ransom notes. “You escaped from your bounds, grabbed the gun and shot the kidnapper in the head. You’re a hero.
"And I," I said walking out the door, “am out of the kidnapping business.”
Friday, August 10, 2007
Road Map - Greg
28 July 2007
“The map is not the destination,” the old Indian said, watching me wrestle with the large unfolded road map while the ‘78 Oldsmobile hurtled down the Arizona highway. “Do not be like the dog who stares at the finger that points to the bird.”
The map lay sprawled on my lap and the steering wheel, and the Chief settled back leisurely in the passenger seat, an amused smile on his face, the spectacular Arizona desert racing by. The windows were wide open because I had no air conditioning, and the corners of the map twittered and flipped in the turbulence while the center heaved up and down like a giant pair of lungs.
His name wasn’t really 'The Chief,' it was just a mildly racist nickname I’d given him in my mind, and then to the man himself when I asked him to wash the car windows at a gas station outside of Tucson. I’d picked him up earlier in the day, a lone Papago Indian standing at the side of the highway hitchhiking. He said he was heading up north to Yuma to visit his daughter. “Jump in,” I said.
Almost immediately the man began to annoy me the way all the Papago do. I don’t know what it is about these people, maybe their leisureliness and the way they seem to live outside of time, maybe their equanimity and acceptance of the intolerable: racism, hardship, poverty, devastation of their people and culture. If I was Caucasian, it’d probably be called White Guilt, but I was Asian, and as far as I know, no Asians ever stole Indian lands. Hell, his ancestors came from Asia. They walked across the Bering Strait 14,000 years ago. In a way, we are brothers, I said to myself through annoyance.
A gust of wind blew through the windows and yanked the map irretrievably from my hands and attention. “Listen, Chief,” another spasm of guilt--talking this way to a man 40 years my senior, “you think maybe you could navigate for me while I drive the car?”
“Can’t read maps,” he said, still calm and smiling.
“Well you think you can take the wheel while I read the map?”
“Why not pull over?”
He had a good handsome face, an Indian elder right out of central casting. I wanted jerk the door open and push him out of the moving car. Sweat poured down my frustrated face. “You’re doing, fine,” he said. “We’ll get there.”
The Oldsmobile raced across the highway. I hate this guy, I thought. But where ever he’s going, I’m taking him there.
“The map is not the destination,” the old Indian said, watching me wrestle with the large unfolded road map while the ‘78 Oldsmobile hurtled down the Arizona highway. “Do not be like the dog who stares at the finger that points to the bird.”
The map lay sprawled on my lap and the steering wheel, and the Chief settled back leisurely in the passenger seat, an amused smile on his face, the spectacular Arizona desert racing by. The windows were wide open because I had no air conditioning, and the corners of the map twittered and flipped in the turbulence while the center heaved up and down like a giant pair of lungs.
His name wasn’t really 'The Chief,' it was just a mildly racist nickname I’d given him in my mind, and then to the man himself when I asked him to wash the car windows at a gas station outside of Tucson. I’d picked him up earlier in the day, a lone Papago Indian standing at the side of the highway hitchhiking. He said he was heading up north to Yuma to visit his daughter. “Jump in,” I said.
Almost immediately the man began to annoy me the way all the Papago do. I don’t know what it is about these people, maybe their leisureliness and the way they seem to live outside of time, maybe their equanimity and acceptance of the intolerable: racism, hardship, poverty, devastation of their people and culture. If I was Caucasian, it’d probably be called White Guilt, but I was Asian, and as far as I know, no Asians ever stole Indian lands. Hell, his ancestors came from Asia. They walked across the Bering Strait 14,000 years ago. In a way, we are brothers, I said to myself through annoyance.
A gust of wind blew through the windows and yanked the map irretrievably from my hands and attention. “Listen, Chief,” another spasm of guilt--talking this way to a man 40 years my senior, “you think maybe you could navigate for me while I drive the car?”
“Can’t read maps,” he said, still calm and smiling.
“Well you think you can take the wheel while I read the map?”
“Why not pull over?”
He had a good handsome face, an Indian elder right out of central casting. I wanted jerk the door open and push him out of the moving car. Sweat poured down my frustrated face. “You’re doing, fine,” he said. “We’ll get there.”
The Oldsmobile raced across the highway. I hate this guy, I thought. But where ever he’s going, I’m taking him there.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Mono Lake - Greg
Jumpstart 6/30/07 - Lee Vining Creek, Mono Lake California
There are a number of wonderful benefits to this writing group, but an extraordinary one is the occasional opportunity to share in the passions and callings of it’s members. Maya and her husband, Barry, have a passion for spoken art–poetry and storytelling–and once or twice a year they put on an Oral traditions Salon where friends come for “An evening of ritual, poetry and storytelling . . . LEARNED BY HEART!” Wonderful!
Last week we had the privilege of being invited into share in Anna Mill’s passion for nature (http://onnaturewriting.blogspot.com/ ). Anna organized an incredible writers and families trip to Mono Lake/Yosemite. It’s hard to say what was the best part, maybe sleeping under the stars, which always puts life into context for me. Learning about eh simply, yet powerfully compelling ecology of Mono Lake. Maybe it was Santiago taking us on a tour of the lake by canoe and watching a thousand Phalaropes perform an amazing synchronized aerial show over the sapphire blue waters, or late night poetry readings on the grassy campground, or maybe just hanging around my people (writers). There was a good amount of warmth, creativity and fun out there. It was great. Thank you very much, Anna. Thanks also to our new friend Santiago, who is doing heroic work educating the youth about our environment through the Mono Lake Committee.
(Oh, Bryn took some terrific pictures: )
The Prompt:
Dutifully we did our writing on Saturday or Sunday morning--I forget which. Anna sat us under a poplar tree next to Lee Vining creek which empties into Mono Lake. She did a Mary Oliver reading, then told us about an nature writing class where the teacher said that everything had a consciousness. She then asked us to walk about the creek area and see if something around there opened up to us, spoke to us, and then to write about it. Here is my offering:
= = =
A stone calls to me as Mary Oliver speaks her New England nature wisdom through the voice of our Mono Lake hostess, Anna Mills. Black and smooth, it begs to be touched, and so I do, rubbing its smooth surface until it shines with the oils of my hands, my heart, my spirit.
Anna speaks of a teacher who taught that all things have consciousness, and while she doesn’t know if she believes it, she tells us it is an interesting idea.
My black stone pebble hears this and I hope he is not offended by Anna’s lack of faith. But I rub harder until his annoyance is assuaged. Sometimes, I think, some times it only takes a little attention to bring someone or some thing alive.
The poet David Wagner speaks next through Anna, about being found. Another pebble calls to me. I pick her up. She is mottled and flesh-colored with smoke-black markings. The other stone has scurried away. One of her facets displays a set of symbols--subtle displays of her profound beauty. I admire and rub her smooth curves and lines, falling into her art and beauty. She does not say it, but she has worked on this for 70,000 years, then waiting another ten for someone to admire and appreciate it. Her. I can almost see her tears of joy, of relief, of gratefulness that her art, her stone life has been witnessed and touched by another.
I attend to her a bit longer until a third stone, passed to me by my daughter, Bryn, comes into my hand. Larger, and unapologetically phallic and baroque, he slips into my hand with the panache and confidence of a flamenco dancer. His art is slashes, swirls, and striations–black contrails frozen in white stone. Dark entrances, fissures to universal mysteries.
“Don’t even think about rubbing me,” he says. “I care not a whit of that, but just . . . “ He stops, silent, can say no more.
I say to him: “No need for words, my friend. You are as us all. You need me and I you. Together, today, we complete each other.”
Sometimes I think that love is nothing but to pay attention. Me to thee, thee to me. In the Orient they have an Indian word that means the Godliness in me bows the Godliness in you. Namaste’, they say, bowing to each other in greeting and parting.
I put the stones in my pocket where they touch and see each other for the first time. They say stones cannot weep, but I have seen them do so.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Crimson - Greg
Mollie stared at the crimson pool expanding around Rocco’s supine body laying neatly on the white tile floor. Smoke wafted gently from the chrome barrel of the pearl handled revolver she held in her manicured fingers.
Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.
Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?
She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.
She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.
On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.
The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.
Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07
Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.
Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?
She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.
She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.
On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.
The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.
Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07
Friday, June 1, 2007
Movie Star Crush - Greg
He had a crush on Raquel Welch since the late sixties, since seeing a photograph of her in a Foster Grant Sunglasses ad, since a striking photo layout of her in Look Magazine, and since the movie Incredible Voyage where she played a crew member aboard a submarine shrunk to microscopic size and injected into the blood stream of a dying diplomat. Now, 40 years later, he needed to see her in person.
If he’d done this 30 or 20 or even 10 years ago, that is, drive down to LA, buy a map of the stars, and then park outside her modest, but immaculate home in Beverly Hills--to do what? Watch her pick up the newspaper? Ask for her autograph? Drive to the grocery store? He didn’t know what he’d do, knew only that he had to see her, and he knew if he was any younger, he’d be called a stalker. But now, in his 50's with a bad heart, how could be a stalker?
He focused the binoculars on her white lace curtains and thought, If this is not stalking, what is this? And quietly his heart said: this is a journey to Mecca, to the center of the universe, to communion with the divine. . .
For the whole of his life, well, at least since age 13, Raquel Welch represented a thing ultimate. The word beauty, but was too small, it was more. When he looked at her, even after 40 years, there was no greater or more full or more complete feeling. And now, at his age, with his failing heart and bad back, he had to see her before it was too late. It wasn’t sexual obsession. That was blasphemous. And it wasn't something crazy like wanting to marry her or be her friend. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he had to see her before he died.
Without warning, the brown chestnut door of her home swung open and she stepped out. He got out of his car and crossed the street, his body being pulled forward. She saw him, but continued toward the newspaper on her front yard, then she stopped and waited for him to approach. She stood erect as a goddess in her white satin robe and thick brown hair pinned up and back.
His heart pounded, as he walked closer. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stopped a few yards away and knelt. The newspaper was by his knee. He picked it up. “I . . .,” he stammered. “I had to see you before. . . my heart . . .”
She stared at him in with hard sultry eyes and he thought he would combust. But then her eyes softened and his heart was filled with warmth. “I know,” she said.
She stepped close to him and he did not move, just stared until the pain of her beauty and presence caused him to look away. “I’m glad you came,” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand. “Thank you for coming.” Then she turned and walked back into her house.
Prompt: Movie Star Crush 4/7/07
If he’d done this 30 or 20 or even 10 years ago, that is, drive down to LA, buy a map of the stars, and then park outside her modest, but immaculate home in Beverly Hills--to do what? Watch her pick up the newspaper? Ask for her autograph? Drive to the grocery store? He didn’t know what he’d do, knew only that he had to see her, and he knew if he was any younger, he’d be called a stalker. But now, in his 50's with a bad heart, how could be a stalker?
He focused the binoculars on her white lace curtains and thought, If this is not stalking, what is this? And quietly his heart said: this is a journey to Mecca, to the center of the universe, to communion with the divine. . .
For the whole of his life, well, at least since age 13, Raquel Welch represented a thing ultimate. The word beauty, but was too small, it was more. When he looked at her, even after 40 years, there was no greater or more full or more complete feeling. And now, at his age, with his failing heart and bad back, he had to see her before it was too late. It wasn’t sexual obsession. That was blasphemous. And it wasn't something crazy like wanting to marry her or be her friend. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he had to see her before he died.
Without warning, the brown chestnut door of her home swung open and she stepped out. He got out of his car and crossed the street, his body being pulled forward. She saw him, but continued toward the newspaper on her front yard, then she stopped and waited for him to approach. She stood erect as a goddess in her white satin robe and thick brown hair pinned up and back.
His heart pounded, as he walked closer. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stopped a few yards away and knelt. The newspaper was by his knee. He picked it up. “I . . .,” he stammered. “I had to see you before. . . my heart . . .”
She stared at him in with hard sultry eyes and he thought he would combust. But then her eyes softened and his heart was filled with warmth. “I know,” she said.
She stepped close to him and he did not move, just stared until the pain of her beauty and presence caused him to look away. “I’m glad you came,” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand. “Thank you for coming.” Then she turned and walked back into her house.
Prompt: Movie Star Crush 4/7/07
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Wooden Buffalo - Greg
Prompt: This prompt was a physical object. A fist-size carved wooden buffalo.
(12/2/06)
He is a wooden buffalo. Male because the carver, in his art, gave it male genitalia. He has one horn. The other broke off.
His wife gave him the wooden buffalo many years ago. There were many possibilities then. This was a long time ago.
In the native American tradition, the buffalo represents abundance. Abundance of love, of joy, of everything. These things seemed possible at one time. The horn broke off.
When she gave it to him, the fur of polished walnut was deep and rich and fairly glowed, the way one imagined buffalo glowed on the Midwestern plains. But now, after many years, the wood is dusty and faded, a bit gray and worn.
His hair is a bit gray and his joints worn.
He wonders if he polishes it with linseed oil the glow would return. If his knees will stop hurting. If his wife will laugh at one of his jokes.
The horn is gone. That will never return. But what about the other things?
He walks into the garage to find the linseed oil and a rag.
(12/2/06)
He is a wooden buffalo. Male because the carver, in his art, gave it male genitalia. He has one horn. The other broke off.
His wife gave him the wooden buffalo many years ago. There were many possibilities then. This was a long time ago.
In the native American tradition, the buffalo represents abundance. Abundance of love, of joy, of everything. These things seemed possible at one time. The horn broke off.
When she gave it to him, the fur of polished walnut was deep and rich and fairly glowed, the way one imagined buffalo glowed on the Midwestern plains. But now, after many years, the wood is dusty and faded, a bit gray and worn.
His hair is a bit gray and his joints worn.
He wonders if he polishes it with linseed oil the glow would return. If his knees will stop hurting. If his wife will laugh at one of his jokes.
The horn is gone. That will never return. But what about the other things?
He walks into the garage to find the linseed oil and a rag.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Warm - Greg
Prompt: Warm Under the Stars 12/9/06
The air was warm, the ground was warm, and even the blades of grass, normally cool to the touch, were warm. He looked over to his honey sleeping next to him under the desert sky, her chest rising and falling with each warm breath. Everything was as warm as his body and the world seemed to extend continuously from the center of his heart, as if he could not tell where his skin ended and everything else–-the ground, the grass, the deserts sounds, the cacti silhouettes began.
He wasn’t naked, but he wished he were. He wanted all of this, the desert, the air, all of creation to touch him without even the thinnest barrier of fabric. He wanted to be wrapped and held by the universe; wondered if this was what they meant by God enfolding you in the palm of his hand.
The stars seemed so bright and beautiful that his eyes hurt. Not from the brightness, but from the utter beauty and miracle of it all. His eyes welled with tears, and he thought of poets who say that one day the stars will fall from the sky, and scientists, explaining further, that entropy will cause them to fade and snuff out to nothing like spent candles. Maybe so, he thought, maybe someday, but not for a long long time.
He stared at a single star. Maybe it was a galaxy–one of a billion stars. He tried to connect to it. Connect to the consciousness, to a being, to a person on that star laying in that desert staring at my star looking at him. “Hello!” he thought smiling. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
His honey stirred and he looked at her delicate face in the starlight. Then he turned back toward his star, then he heard, not a sound, but a felt sense. A voice, a presence, a woman: “Hello,” she said, “I hear you.”
The air was warm, the ground was warm, and even the blades of grass, normally cool to the touch, were warm. He looked over to his honey sleeping next to him under the desert sky, her chest rising and falling with each warm breath. Everything was as warm as his body and the world seemed to extend continuously from the center of his heart, as if he could not tell where his skin ended and everything else–-the ground, the grass, the deserts sounds, the cacti silhouettes began.
He wasn’t naked, but he wished he were. He wanted all of this, the desert, the air, all of creation to touch him without even the thinnest barrier of fabric. He wanted to be wrapped and held by the universe; wondered if this was what they meant by God enfolding you in the palm of his hand.
The stars seemed so bright and beautiful that his eyes hurt. Not from the brightness, but from the utter beauty and miracle of it all. His eyes welled with tears, and he thought of poets who say that one day the stars will fall from the sky, and scientists, explaining further, that entropy will cause them to fade and snuff out to nothing like spent candles. Maybe so, he thought, maybe someday, but not for a long long time.
He stared at a single star. Maybe it was a galaxy–one of a billion stars. He tried to connect to it. Connect to the consciousness, to a being, to a person on that star laying in that desert staring at my star looking at him. “Hello!” he thought smiling. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
His honey stirred and he looked at her delicate face in the starlight. Then he turned back toward his star, then he heard, not a sound, but a felt sense. A voice, a presence, a woman: “Hello,” she said, “I hear you.”
Friday, April 27, 2007
Little Brother - Greg
2 December 06
Prompt: It All Started When . . .
My nine-year-old brother stood next to my bed in the middle of the night and began shaking me. I was dead asleep and when woke up, I tried to hit him in the dark. He easily stepped away, and waited while I roused to my senses.
“Wake up!” he said in an insistent whisper.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“Shh. You have to see this.”
“See what?!”
“It’s outside. You have to see it.”
I thought about going back to sleep, but he was so excited, and when he got like this, there was no stopping him. Plus, in my fogginess, I became curious. I rolled over and threw my feet out of bed. It was a California summer and the air was warm, even at this time of the night. I was 12 years old.
“C’mon!” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward. I stood and jerked my arm away. Big brothers don’t like little ones leading them around. It isn’t natural. Still, I slowly followed him out the door into the dark hallway.
We passed my parent's bedroom door and I could hear my father's dull snoring. We crept downstairs into the tile entryway. Poochie, our yellow dog, wagged her tail excitedly, her nails clicking on the tile. By brother shushed her, then slowly opened the front door.
“This better be good,” I said.
He said nothing, but quietly lead me across the front yard into the neighborhood street. The town was without traffic and utterly quiet, and the night looked and felt different that I’d ever seen it before.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Just c’mon, he replied. “Just c’mon. . .”
Prompt: It All Started When . . .
My nine-year-old brother stood next to my bed in the middle of the night and began shaking me. I was dead asleep and when woke up, I tried to hit him in the dark. He easily stepped away, and waited while I roused to my senses.
“Wake up!” he said in an insistent whisper.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“Shh. You have to see this.”
“See what?!”
“It’s outside. You have to see it.”
I thought about going back to sleep, but he was so excited, and when he got like this, there was no stopping him. Plus, in my fogginess, I became curious. I rolled over and threw my feet out of bed. It was a California summer and the air was warm, even at this time of the night. I was 12 years old.
“C’mon!” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward. I stood and jerked my arm away. Big brothers don’t like little ones leading them around. It isn’t natural. Still, I slowly followed him out the door into the dark hallway.
We passed my parent's bedroom door and I could hear my father's dull snoring. We crept downstairs into the tile entryway. Poochie, our yellow dog, wagged her tail excitedly, her nails clicking on the tile. By brother shushed her, then slowly opened the front door.
“This better be good,” I said.
He said nothing, but quietly lead me across the front yard into the neighborhood street. The town was without traffic and utterly quiet, and the night looked and felt different that I’d ever seen it before.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Just c’mon, he replied. “Just c’mon. . .”
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
End of the Road - Greg
The first Jump-start meeting consisted of Dixie and I. This is wat came out of it.
Jump-Start Writers. 24 Nov 2007
Prompt: It was the end of the road
So this is what the sunrise looks like, Harley thought, feeling the rough gravel press into his cheek as he lay sprawled out in the Mojave desert. The salty taste of blood trickled onto his tongue alongside residual vomit from a night before. He could smell the alcohol on his breath and feel a dull throb in his body from the beating from the night before. His head felt like a brick and he did not want to move, but that was all right because his face was pointed toward horizon.
The sun had not risen, and would not for a few minutes, but for the first time in his life, Harley noticed the sunrise. He must’ve woken up outside like this 100 times, yet had never noticed its beauty. The sky was a pink vermillion with a golden edge rimming the desert horizon. It looked like heaven, or how Harley imagined heaven looked.
His cheast filled with something--gratefulness, love? It will be different this time, he thought. No, he knew. This would be the last time for him. The last time waking up outside in some strange place hung over and bleeding. He knew he could quit, knew how to quit, had friends who had quit who would help him.
I’ve seen hell, he thought staring at the sunrise, and now I see heaven. I’m getting out of hell starting today. The idea seemed to liberate something inside that had felt shackled for so long. It was good he could enjoy this morning, because after today he would go onto the next thing. The next phase of his life. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be reborn.
Harley smiled. Yeah. Reborn. Who would’ve ever thought? The horizon was now ablaze with golden skies and silver shards of cloud. He felt his spirits soar. Lord, I’m coming home, he thought.
Footsteps in the gravel approached, then stopped. “This is the end of the road, Harley,” said the voice behind him. The metallic crack of a bullet chambered into the pistol.
Jump-Start Writers. 24 Nov 2007
Prompt: It was the end of the road
So this is what the sunrise looks like, Harley thought, feeling the rough gravel press into his cheek as he lay sprawled out in the Mojave desert. The salty taste of blood trickled onto his tongue alongside residual vomit from a night before. He could smell the alcohol on his breath and feel a dull throb in his body from the beating from the night before. His head felt like a brick and he did not want to move, but that was all right because his face was pointed toward horizon.
The sun had not risen, and would not for a few minutes, but for the first time in his life, Harley noticed the sunrise. He must’ve woken up outside like this 100 times, yet had never noticed its beauty. The sky was a pink vermillion with a golden edge rimming the desert horizon. It looked like heaven, or how Harley imagined heaven looked.
His cheast filled with something--gratefulness, love? It will be different this time, he thought. No, he knew. This would be the last time for him. The last time waking up outside in some strange place hung over and bleeding. He knew he could quit, knew how to quit, had friends who had quit who would help him.
I’ve seen hell, he thought staring at the sunrise, and now I see heaven. I’m getting out of hell starting today. The idea seemed to liberate something inside that had felt shackled for so long. It was good he could enjoy this morning, because after today he would go onto the next thing. The next phase of his life. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be reborn.
Harley smiled. Yeah. Reborn. Who would’ve ever thought? The horizon was now ablaze with golden skies and silver shards of cloud. He felt his spirits soar. Lord, I’m coming home, he thought.
Footsteps in the gravel approached, then stopped. “This is the end of the road, Harley,” said the voice behind him. The metallic crack of a bullet chambered into the pistol.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Introduction!
Welcome! This is the Blog Site for the Jump-start Practice Writing Group. We meet in Palo Alto, California every Saturday morning rain or shine at 8:30 AM to vitalize our writing, explore creative possibilities and have fun in a supportive writing community. We write for about an hour, and the group is open to anyone interested in writing. All we ask is that you bring a pen, a pad, and a 3 dollar donation. Email here for directions and questions.
Jump-start was started by
Greg Kimura, a California poet, in November 2006, who was looking to spice up his own creative life.
The premise of Jump-start is that although writing is, at its essence, a solitary creative process, you don’t have to walk this path alone and that some company would not only be fun, but productive as well. What we have found was that not only was it fun and productive, but it is extremely healing.
The group has ranged anywhere for 4 to 7 people. Some of us are very experienced writers. Some of us just like to write. If you come with the intention to create and support, you are welcome.
The basics of the group are as follows:
I have found this to be one of the most enjoyable, creative and healing projects I’ve ever done. If you are interested in starting your own practice writing group in your own town, Greg is happy to share his experience and knowledge on how to do it. Email him here.
Jumpstart Publishing
The Jumpstart blog presents work developed from the Saturday morning meeting. The greatest value of creativity is simply in creating. But giving your creation to the world, can complete the circle. If you enjoy the the work read here, please feel free to leave comments.
Thanks!
Jump-start was started by
Greg Kimura, a California poet, in November 2006, who was looking to spice up his own creative life.
The premise of Jump-start is that although writing is, at its essence, a solitary creative process, you don’t have to walk this path alone and that some company would not only be fun, but productive as well. What we have found was that not only was it fun and productive, but it is extremely healing.
The group has ranged anywhere for 4 to 7 people. Some of us are very experienced writers. Some of us just like to write. If you come with the intention to create and support, you are welcome.
The basics of the group are as follows:
- Welcome, Invocation, Introductions
- Thoughts and Suggestions on Writing (From Writing Alone, Writing Together by Judy Reeves)
- An inspirational reading on creativity.
- Pull a prompt from the black bag
- Write 17 minutes (or so)
- Optional reading (no feedback, listeners just hold the creative space)
- Pull another prompt
- Write 10-12 minutes (or so)
- Optional reading
- That’s it!
I have found this to be one of the most enjoyable, creative and healing projects I’ve ever done. If you are interested in starting your own practice writing group in your own town, Greg is happy to share his experience and knowledge on how to do it. Email him here.
Jumpstart Publishing
The Jumpstart blog presents work developed from the Saturday morning meeting. The greatest value of creativity is simply in creating. But giving your creation to the world, can complete the circle. If you enjoy the the work read here, please feel free to leave comments.
Thanks!
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