Tweet for your Life

I heard someone who admitted to never having been a member of the 140 character wonder that is Twitter talking about the inanity of the social network.  Others talk about how pages like Facebook are ruining our social skills.  I say that our social skills are all but nonexistent as it is.  Everyone I know (including me) is oh, so busy with their lives that we no longer have time for friends or family.  We have cursory relationships with our spouses and children, at best, and—even though we spend twenty-four hours a day with ourselves, we barely take care of us.

Maybe things like Facebook and Twitter are the scraps we let ourselves have of human contact.  We joke about those who post ad infinitum about what they’re eating for lunch or the fact that their genius child ate all of his veggies.  But I think we secretly devour even the least of our friend’s posts.  We vicariously feel the humor and excitement of that moment they found worthy enough to type out for their small circle of friends to see.

We’re obsessed with reality television shows because, perhaps, we don’t fell like what we have around us is reality.  We thrive on stories of foods we’ll never eat and out of control men and women we can pretend are a part of our lives to make us more interesting, whether we dislike them or not.  I pray that one day it won’t be enough again.  That we will crawl out of the selfish hidey-holes we’ve cocooned ourselves in and actually give a damn about relationships once more.

I’m hungry.  I’m hungry for someone to sit around, smoke a pipe (what?  I could take up pipe smoking.  You don’t know!) and talk about art, music, and the longings of our souls.  I think sometimes a social network is just a social network, to co-opt Freud, but I also think it may signify a hidden hunger in us for human contact that we (yes, we) and our current society has told us is nigh impossible to have.

So… I’m hungry.  How about you?

The Gift Everyone Will Want…

Ever wanted a plush version of the always cute MRSA or Flesh-eating virus microbe? Me too.

The White Museum by George Bilgere

My aunt was an organ donor
and so, the day she died,
her organs were harvested
for medical science.
I suppose there must be people
who list, under “Occupation,”
“Organ Harvester,” people for whom
it is always harvest season,
each death bringing its bounty.
They spend their days
loading wagonloads of kidneys,
whole cornucopias of corneas,
burlap sacks groaning with hearts and lungs
and the pale green sprouts of gall bladders,
and even, from time to time,
the weighty cauliflower of a brain.

And perhaps today,
as I sit in this café, watching the snow
and thinking about my aunt,
a young medical student somewhere
is moving through the white museum
of her brain, making his way slowly
from one great room to the next.
Here is the gallery of her girlhood,
with that great canvas depicting her father
holding her on his lap in the backyard
of their bungalow in St. Louis.
And here is a sketch of her
the summer after her mother died,
walking down a street in Berlin
when the broken city was itself
a museum. And here
is a small, vivid oil of the two of us
sitting in a café in London
arguing over the work of Constable
or Turner, or Francis Bacon
after a visit to the Tate.

I want you to know, as you sit there
with your microscope and your slides,
there’s no need to be reverent before these images.
That’s the last thing she would have wanted.
But do be respectful. Speak quietly.
No flash photography. Tell your friends
you saw something beautiful

Haiku Review: The Walking Dead, Season 2 (so far…)

Since I haven’t done a haiku review on this iteration of my blog, I feel a short explanation is… wait… this explanation is becoming longer than an actual haiku.  Okay, people, the name is explanation enough.

The Walking Dead, Season 2 so far…

Oh, the betrayal,
after the child has been shot.
Thinking man’s zombies.

Rejection

I just finished what I hope to be one of the later drafts of a book I’ve been working on for the last three years (way too long, even for a Graduate student).  It’s at the stage that I am finally willing to let it hobble out of the nest I’ve so carefully cared for it in for so long a time and into the hands of others to read.  Beta readers, they call them.  (Me being the Alpha, which I like, because wolves are cool… and also, I’m hairy.)  I have yet to hear from one of these Betas, (nor do I expect to as it’s only been a few days) but I hope when I do I hear truth.

As people, we are both afraid to give truthful feedback (therefore producing those non-talented people on American Idol whose parents told them they had the voice of an Angel, no doubt) and we do not like to receive it (see those self-same people after they are told the truth, although not always in the best of ways.)  To be a writer you’re going to have to accept that there’s going to be a lot of rejection and that some of it is even going to be from people who know what they’re talking about. So forget everything Barney told you about wishing making it so and all that positive thinking nonsense that disavows anything having to do with hard work and challenges.  That’s called life.  Not just the writing life–Life.  It isn’t always easy.  It doesn’t always go your way.  But there is love.  There is friendship.  There are sunsets everyday, like clockwork, and for those so inclined, there is that wonderfully fearful blank page that so much joy can be derived from.  That page that we can use all of that rejection, pain, joy and peace that life throws our way to tell stories that are more real than real and more truthful than true.

Being followed

The page follows me.  It’s there even when I’m not staring at my computer screen.  It peeks around corners and intrudes in my thoughts and conversations.  The blank page beckons to me to be clothed with words, for its life as a terrible, blank nothing to be taken so that it can be reborn into story.  It doesn’t even mind if it’s covered with bad prose or a simple outline or even words that never make it to a final draft, it just wants to be used.  It won’t leave me alone.  So, I’m here.

You’re probably out there too–something following you; stalking you until you stop, turn and take it in your arms.  Whatever it is, you might as well give in, because that thing usually doesn’t give up.  Besides, if it ever did you’d feel like something important was missing.  So, follow my advice and just give in.  Embrace the frustration of creation.  Perhaps we can even sate the beast long enough to relax and have a chat.  But, truth be told, I won’t stay away for long.  Turns out, I want it just as bad as it wants me.

Without Words

It’s strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words, T.S. Eliot said. So true is this that my heart quickens at just reading it. I have always found words inadequate at important times in my life.

Words have won hearts and ended relationships without even trying. The thing about words is that they aren’t realities, and sometimes there are realities which cannot be broken down into any meaningful form of conveyance. We can say something as profound as I love you and still have it be chopped off at the knees. Because we love peanut butter and we love our pets. The word itself has become so muddied and in dire need of a return to its original depth that it’s near bereft of actual meaning. Words, words, words.

I had an elderly woman tell me fairly recently that something was keen, “or at least that’s what the kids are saying these days,” she finished. Words. Sometimes we lose touch with them like we lose touch with the heart of a lover. Having been both a writer and a public speaker I have seen firsthand how a wrong word, or sentence can have devastating effects. Just the same, sadly, a perfectly worded sentence can also be taken a thousand different ways by a thousand different people. We all have experiences and knowledge (or lack thereof) that we filter words through, making them our twisted own. So, are there any hope for words? Does the speaker have a chance?

Shakespeare has written that when words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain. It has also been said that words should be used as a tool for communication and not as a substitute for action. Words divide us, actions unite us. Words may show a man’s wit, but actions his meaning. Ben Folds sang, “I love you more than I have ever found a word to say to you.” And to sum up this quote-a-rama, Mark Twain said that words are only a painted fire; a look is the fire itself.

So, maybe words aren’t enough. They can never convey what we truly mean; our hearts true intent. But, perhaps that’s okay. What are words, as much as I love them, without actions? I can describe to you in the most vivid terms the most exquisite sunrise, but it is only by taking your hand and leading you to it that you will truly understand and experience the intent behind those words. Words, then, are fine, but it is our actions—whatever form they may take—that define them for the listener. So, and perhaps this is a mind-boggling suggestion, maybe we should stop talking so much, writing so much (without experience what are our stories but guesses at what reality might be?), and simply act. It may not be enough (to refer back to the first part of this piece) to say that you love someone. In fact, it is not. The fire, to borrow from Twain, is in the look. Our lives, dear reader, are in the look.

What I’m reading: Story

This is one of the best books on writing that I’ve ever read.  Yes, it’s about writing screenplays for the most part, but the information is universal. (Also, if you haven’t discovered the 3 or 4 Act process for writing your novel you are a lot more frustrated than you have to be, boys and girls.)  Seriously, I think this is one of those books that has enough talented people saying its good stuff that little ole me can’t expound too much more on its usefulness.  So, I’ll just say you most likely won’t regret this purchase if you’re serious about the craft of writing.

Things other people said…

“Your problem is how you are going to spend this one and precious life you have been issued. Whether you’re going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.”

— Anne Lamott

The Walking Dead Compendium One

Yeee!

The Dead Have Never Been So Alive!

Collecting issues #’s 1-48 (that’s right, FORTY… EIGHT) of TWD, this is the biggest chunk of rotting goodness you can get for thirty-seven bucks. This sprawling tale, which is really more about the emotional and psychological toll an apocalyptic event has on Rick Grimes and the somewhat revolving cast (mu-ha-ha!) than the titular zombies. But, do not fear if it’s zombies you’re after. Even if they aren’t there (and when they are, watch it, bub, because, chances are somebody’s gonna die!) their presence looms like the gathering dark over anything that’s happening in the story–whether it be marital unfaithfulness or crazed survivors. The AMC show has been really amazing, but nothing beats the original series by Robert Kirkman with beautiful art by Charlie Adlard, Cliff Rathburn and Tony Moore. Take my advice. Read it, see it, have nightmares about it.