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Quote of the week: "When the author finishes a book he has told the reader all about himself, though happily in a code that few can read. You cannot write well and shield your innermost self from scrutiny. Your writing -- good writing -- is all about your innermost self." – Victor Banis
The following information was brought to my attention through an online writers group that I belong to, and it was interesting enough that I wanted to pass on the key discussion points.
Word on the street is that Crossroads Market, the LGBT bookstore, in Dallas is closing. Unfortunately, this is a trend that has been going on for some time and still continues. Not so long ago there were 300 gay and lesbian-owned bookstores in the country -- today there are fewer than 75. The reasons are easy to understand -- Barnes and Noble, Borders and Amazon all sell gay and lesbian books at discounts they can obtain because of their volume buying power, whereas in the seventies and eighties only a few mainstream bookstores sold gay oriented books. Add this to the skyrocketing rents that brick and mortar bookstores are facing today, and the independent bookstores are being screwed from both ends.
The fact that the big names are finally selling gay books might seem like good news, both to gay authors and readers, but there is also a down side. These big corporations are not interested in promoting gay authors like the independents are. It is very difficult to arrange book signings and readings, and browsing through Borders is definitely not the same experience as browsing at GLBT stores for gay readers.
Many of us old-timers remember that the first place we went after coming out was to an LGBT bookstore, stores like Outwrite in Atlanta, Obelisk in San Diego, and A Different Light in LA and the Castro. It is up to the gay community to keep these places alive and flourishing by frequenting these store and buy merchandise. So what if it's $1.39 cheaper at the mall or easier online? If we allow the big chains and Amazon to gobble up all the independent GLBT bookstores, then we will have lost something valuable to our community, and something we probably will not be able to bring back.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
A short story written 15 years ago.
Saying of the week: "In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the niche of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line." -- Henry David Thoreau
The following short story I wrote fifteen years ago, back when people were still making quilts for people dying of AIDS. Hope you enjoy this short read.
An Empty Room
I move as if in a dream, but each sharp detail, combined with the pulse beating at my temple, makes it all too utterly real. The house is still, the only sound are my heels marking time with a tap, tap, tap on hardwood floors. Once again I walk down the long, somber hallway and stop before the solid wood door, knock softly, then hold my breath as I lean forward, listening. How silly. Turning the brass knob and pushing forward, I am announced by creaking hinges and greeted by a cold draft that rushes up my bare legs. No wonder. The window on the far wall stands half open, and its white curtains flutter into the yard as a breeze flows through and out of the house. Crossing the floor, I close the window; but not before the room has lost its warmth. I need to be more careful with winter coming on.
Outside, glossy yellow and fiery red leaves swirl around the yard in a kaleidoscopic chaos. The wind's cold fingers press against the glass, as if to gauge its strength. The old tire swinging from the lowest branch of the gnarled oak that veils the yard has a hypnotic effect. It drags me back to a time of summery joy and I hear his fearless voice, 'Higher, push me higher'.
Pulling away from the window, I break the trance. The room is shrouded in shadows, the only light an amber stream from the setting sun flowing though the glass panes. I don't turn on the lights; the dim will do.
Everything is neat and clean and never changing, like a museum showcase. The single bed, the dresser, the rocking chair, the full length mirror hanging on the door and the drab circle of home-spun rug are all old and rundown but still serviceable. Things - hard, solid objects - can be counted on.
Stepping to the rocker at the foot of the bed, I stoop to pick up the brightly colored quilt and my sewing basket lying on the hard varnished seat, before easing my body into its place. The chair groans with the burden of my weight and I begin to rock.
Spreading the quilt open across my lap, I note the progress I've made over the past weeks. I shake my head from side to side as I pick up the needle and thread and continue working on the 'i' in David.
Working with painfully slow, deliberate movements, my fingers pass the needle from one side of the fabric to the other. Each crossing fills in the pattern and sparks my memory. I struggle with unwanted images, keeping my thoughts in a stubborn grip, here and now.
My eyes meander over the room's faded blue walls. I had suggested wallpaper with yellow daisies. What a mistake that would have been. Sky blue was right. Like lying on your back in tall summer grass and looking directly up into lustrous, sapphire heavens. A perfect reflection of his soul.
Familiar sports paraphernalia hangs on the wall, including a Notre Dame pennant under an autographed poster of a smiling Joe Montana. Football. On top of the dresser in the corner, next to the blimp shaped ball and scarred helmet, his varsity class picture is encased in a heavy wooden frame. Strange that he loved both football and ballet. Rachmaninoff and Guns And Roses, for that matter.
A flash of memory makes me chuckle. I almost forgot. Years after college, he finally confessed what it was about football that he loved most; all the training and punishment were worth it when, after the games, he would shower with Joe. My tongue makes a clucking sound, which echoes in the silence of the room.
My hands move over the brightly patterned quilt to the ballet slippers sewn into the cloth, next to a figure dancing on cotton clouds. Perhaps I should also sew his jersey number into the lower corner, and a tight-end dashing across the goal line. Yes, that would be lovely. First I must finish the 'id'.
But not today. The light is now too dim. Also, the room has warmed and with the heat comes the faint, sour smell of decay. I lay the quilt aside for another day and rise to my feet. The chair continues rocking as I walk to the window, open it a crack, then cross the room once again to leave. I reach for the knob, but the mirror hanging on the door stops my hand in midair. My reflection stares at me. Its gray-framed face has dark patches under red eyes -- like the jet black smudge that football players wear to keep the sun's glare from shining in their eyes.
The following short story I wrote fifteen years ago, back when people were still making quilts for people dying of AIDS. Hope you enjoy this short read.
An Empty Room
I move as if in a dream, but each sharp detail, combined with the pulse beating at my temple, makes it all too utterly real. The house is still, the only sound are my heels marking time with a tap, tap, tap on hardwood floors. Once again I walk down the long, somber hallway and stop before the solid wood door, knock softly, then hold my breath as I lean forward, listening. How silly. Turning the brass knob and pushing forward, I am announced by creaking hinges and greeted by a cold draft that rushes up my bare legs. No wonder. The window on the far wall stands half open, and its white curtains flutter into the yard as a breeze flows through and out of the house. Crossing the floor, I close the window; but not before the room has lost its warmth. I need to be more careful with winter coming on.
Outside, glossy yellow and fiery red leaves swirl around the yard in a kaleidoscopic chaos. The wind's cold fingers press against the glass, as if to gauge its strength. The old tire swinging from the lowest branch of the gnarled oak that veils the yard has a hypnotic effect. It drags me back to a time of summery joy and I hear his fearless voice, 'Higher, push me higher'.
Pulling away from the window, I break the trance. The room is shrouded in shadows, the only light an amber stream from the setting sun flowing though the glass panes. I don't turn on the lights; the dim will do.
Everything is neat and clean and never changing, like a museum showcase. The single bed, the dresser, the rocking chair, the full length mirror hanging on the door and the drab circle of home-spun rug are all old and rundown but still serviceable. Things - hard, solid objects - can be counted on.
Stepping to the rocker at the foot of the bed, I stoop to pick up the brightly colored quilt and my sewing basket lying on the hard varnished seat, before easing my body into its place. The chair groans with the burden of my weight and I begin to rock.
Spreading the quilt open across my lap, I note the progress I've made over the past weeks. I shake my head from side to side as I pick up the needle and thread and continue working on the 'i' in David.
Working with painfully slow, deliberate movements, my fingers pass the needle from one side of the fabric to the other. Each crossing fills in the pattern and sparks my memory. I struggle with unwanted images, keeping my thoughts in a stubborn grip, here and now.
My eyes meander over the room's faded blue walls. I had suggested wallpaper with yellow daisies. What a mistake that would have been. Sky blue was right. Like lying on your back in tall summer grass and looking directly up into lustrous, sapphire heavens. A perfect reflection of his soul.
Familiar sports paraphernalia hangs on the wall, including a Notre Dame pennant under an autographed poster of a smiling Joe Montana. Football. On top of the dresser in the corner, next to the blimp shaped ball and scarred helmet, his varsity class picture is encased in a heavy wooden frame. Strange that he loved both football and ballet. Rachmaninoff and Guns And Roses, for that matter.
A flash of memory makes me chuckle. I almost forgot. Years after college, he finally confessed what it was about football that he loved most; all the training and punishment were worth it when, after the games, he would shower with Joe. My tongue makes a clucking sound, which echoes in the silence of the room.
My hands move over the brightly patterned quilt to the ballet slippers sewn into the cloth, next to a figure dancing on cotton clouds. Perhaps I should also sew his jersey number into the lower corner, and a tight-end dashing across the goal line. Yes, that would be lovely. First I must finish the 'id'.
But not today. The light is now too dim. Also, the room has warmed and with the heat comes the faint, sour smell of decay. I lay the quilt aside for another day and rise to my feet. The chair continues rocking as I walk to the window, open it a crack, then cross the room once again to leave. I reach for the knob, but the mirror hanging on the door stops my hand in midair. My reflection stares at me. Its gray-framed face has dark patches under red eyes -- like the jet black smudge that football players wear to keep the sun's glare from shining in their eyes.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
A cool explanation of Buddhism
Saying of the week: "All of life builds up to and then radiates from a single
moment." -- Milan Kundera
One of my loves in this life is the study and practice of Zen philosophy. While reading from Beyond The Sky and Earth, by Jamie Zeppa (a beautifully written book about living in Bhutan that I highly recommend to everyone) I came across the following description of Buddhism and was impressed at how she expresses complex ideas simply. Hope you like it.
The first of the Four Noble Truths taught by the Buddha claims that life is suffering. The second truth explains why. We suffer because the self desires, grasps, clings, is never satisfied, never happy, never free of its many illusions; we desire what we don’t have, and when we get it, we desire to hold on to it, and when we are sure we have it, we lose interest in it and desire something new. In our constant, blind striving for something more, something better, something new, something secure and permanent, we act in ways that hurt ourselves and others, and create bad karma, which leads to rebirth and therefore more suffering. Even if we manage to be content with what we have, we are still subject to old age, sickness and death, and so are our loved ones. The third truth says that we must end this ceaseless wanting and grasping if we want to end suffering. The final truth explains how – through th Noble Eightfold Path of Right Understanding, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, Right Concentration.
The Buddha did not claim to be a deity. When asked about the creation of the universe and the existence of God, he refused to speculate. He was not offering a new religion but a way of seeing and living in the world. For me, though, one of the most interesting things about Buddhism is not that there is no all-powerful God who we must fall down and worship, but that there is no permanent self, no essence of self. It isn’t even clear among scholars if Buddhism accepts the idea of a soul, an immortal individual spirit. Separateness is an illusion. Nothing exists inherently on its own, independently of everything else, and a separate, permanent, inherently existing self is the biggest illusion of all. There is nothing we can point to and say, yes, this is the self. It is not the body or the mind, but a combination of conditions and circumstances and facilities. At the moment of death, these conditions and facilities break down, and only the karma generated by that life remains, determining the circumstances of the next rebirth.
This is a principal tenet of Buddhism, but the Buddha tells his disciples not to take his word for it. They are to analyze and search and test what he says for themselves. On his deathbed, he reminds them, “Decay is inherent in all compound things. Work out your own salvation with diligence.” I am struck by this spirit of independent inquiry, by the fact that enlightenment is available to all, not through a priest or a church or divine intervention but through attention to the mind. In Buddhism, there is no devil, no external dark force – there is only your mind, and you must take responsibility for what you want and how you choose to get it.
moment." -- Milan Kundera
One of my loves in this life is the study and practice of Zen philosophy. While reading from Beyond The Sky and Earth, by Jamie Zeppa (a beautifully written book about living in Bhutan that I highly recommend to everyone) I came across the following description of Buddhism and was impressed at how she expresses complex ideas simply. Hope you like it.
The first of the Four Noble Truths taught by the Buddha claims that life is suffering. The second truth explains why. We suffer because the self desires, grasps, clings, is never satisfied, never happy, never free of its many illusions; we desire what we don’t have, and when we get it, we desire to hold on to it, and when we are sure we have it, we lose interest in it and desire something new. In our constant, blind striving for something more, something better, something new, something secure and permanent, we act in ways that hurt ourselves and others, and create bad karma, which leads to rebirth and therefore more suffering. Even if we manage to be content with what we have, we are still subject to old age, sickness and death, and so are our loved ones. The third truth says that we must end this ceaseless wanting and grasping if we want to end suffering. The final truth explains how – through th Noble Eightfold Path of Right Understanding, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, Right Concentration.
The Buddha did not claim to be a deity. When asked about the creation of the universe and the existence of God, he refused to speculate. He was not offering a new religion but a way of seeing and living in the world. For me, though, one of the most interesting things about Buddhism is not that there is no all-powerful God who we must fall down and worship, but that there is no permanent self, no essence of self. It isn’t even clear among scholars if Buddhism accepts the idea of a soul, an immortal individual spirit. Separateness is an illusion. Nothing exists inherently on its own, independently of everything else, and a separate, permanent, inherently existing self is the biggest illusion of all. There is nothing we can point to and say, yes, this is the self. It is not the body or the mind, but a combination of conditions and circumstances and facilities. At the moment of death, these conditions and facilities break down, and only the karma generated by that life remains, determining the circumstances of the next rebirth.
This is a principal tenet of Buddhism, but the Buddha tells his disciples not to take his word for it. They are to analyze and search and test what he says for themselves. On his deathbed, he reminds them, “Decay is inherent in all compound things. Work out your own salvation with diligence.” I am struck by this spirit of independent inquiry, by the fact that enlightenment is available to all, not through a priest or a church or divine intervention but through attention to the mind. In Buddhism, there is no devil, no external dark force – there is only your mind, and you must take responsibility for what you want and how you choose to get it.
Monday, October 8, 2007
What makes a good protagonist, and script outline
Saying of the week: "It has been said that "Common souls pay with what they do, nobler souls with that which they are. And Why? Because a profound nature awakens in us by their actions and words, by their very looks and manners." -- (unknown)
In reading an essay this week on the life and meaning of Jesus, by Lewis Mumford, I came across the following passage that made me think of what goes in to the make-up of a great protagonist. According to Mumford's interpretation of Jesus' lessons, a poor miserable sinner has a greater chance to attain righteousness and glory than the law abiding man with an unblemished virtue, because the very act of sinning causes, through humiliation and self-criticism, a change in behavior, which catapults one to higher states of grace. So a good protagonist is not without sin, without the ability to hurt others, but through internal strife, he grows from it.
Mumford:
Jesus undermined the knowledge of the learned, the pride of the powerful, the morals of the virtuous: he saw that sin and imperfection, with their self-humiliation and self-criticism, were far less dangerous to life than complacency; for sin might pave the way for an inward change which raised life to a higher pitch than unblemished virtue was capable of reaching. This inward change, the grace of the Holy Spirit as it was to be called, was all-important: repentance must precede regeneration. Mere willingness, mere rational efforts in themselves, could not bring about such a change: it needed the encouraging example of a living image, and that image was the personality of Jesus himself.
To know oneself, from his standpoint, was to realize the miserable failure of one's successes and the redeeming success of one's failures. The capacity to recognize one's inevitable shortcomings, to profit by every occasion of disintegration, was the only guarantee of continued self-development. That was a salutary doctrine for the heirs of a disintegrating civilization.
In the online writing group I subscribe to, there has been much discussion lately about form and whether writers plan out their stories (outline them) before writing them. Apparently many do not. They define an initial set of characters and a setting, and then give them a push (very much like the creation myth where God created the universe, Adam, and Eve, then stepped back to watch the fun evolve.) Still others fall on the opposite end of the spectrum, planning out every last comma before putting fingertips to keys. I fall in the middle, making a character sketch (1 to 3 pages) for each main character, and a loose outline (2 to 3 pages) of the general path they will take, what they will learn, and how they will change along the way. That freedom (to let the story just evolve) is the beauty of writing fiction novels and short stories. According to a scriptwriter friend of mine, script writing is much more ridged (if you want to sell it, that is.) The script should be no longer that 110 pages (1 page = 1 minute of film) and certain events must happen on or by a certain page number, or it is simply rejected because it doesn't follow the formula. He gave me the formula, an outline written by Blake Snyder that spells it out. I sometimes compare this to my novels to see how close I come to this plot outline (in a three hundred page novel I multiply the following outline page numbers by 3.) I don't use it to change my story, but I find it interesting to see how close I do come to the "Formula", and also to insure I have included all the elements of a good plot. The following is the outline exactly as it was given to me.
Blake Snyder's Beat Sheet:
Opening image (pg. 1)
· First impression of what the story is
· Sets the tone, mood, style
· Before and after snapshot to show thing that will change
Theme stated (pg. 5)
· First impression of what the story is
· Sets the tone, mood, style
· Before and after snapshot to show thing that will change
Set Up (pg. 1-10)
· Introduced or hinted every character
· Character tic (exhibit every behavior that need to be addressed later on)
· Show six things that need fixing
· Story thesis ….. before world, calm before the storm
Catalyst (pg. 12)
· An external event that changes everything - a call to action
· Often comes disguised as bad news
Debate (pg. 12-25)
· React to catalyst
· Pose a question of some kind
Break into 2 (pg. 25)
· Define Action
· Proactive choice made
· Introduce story antithesis
B-Story (pg. 30)
· Introduced subplot, carries the theme of the story
· Booster rocket helps smooth obvious A-story break
· New characters, fun-house version of act one
Fun and games (pg. 30-35)
· The promise of the premise
· What does this story have to offer me?
· Heart of the story
Midpoint (pg. 55)
· "up" - where the hero seemingly peaks (false victory)
· "down" - where the world collapses around hero (false defeat)
· stakes are raised (where fun and games are over)
Bad guys close in (pg. 55-75)
· getting serious
· all seems fine - bad guys are temporarily defeated
· We must be beaten and know it to get the lesson
Break to 3 (pg. 85)
· Solution, thanks to characters in B story
· External (A-story) and internal (B-story) meet and intertwine
· An idea to solve the problem has emerged
· The world of synthesis is at hand
Final (pg. 85-110)
· Where a new society is born
· Not enough for the hero to triumph, he must change the world
· Wrap it up - lesson learnt and applied
· Character tics are mastered
· A and B story end in triumph for the hero
· Turning over of the old world, creation of the new
· Hero leads based on what he experienced in the upside down world (antithetical world of act two)
Final image (pg. 110)
· Often opposite of opening imageProof that change has occurred and it's real
In reading an essay this week on the life and meaning of Jesus, by Lewis Mumford, I came across the following passage that made me think of what goes in to the make-up of a great protagonist. According to Mumford's interpretation of Jesus' lessons, a poor miserable sinner has a greater chance to attain righteousness and glory than the law abiding man with an unblemished virtue, because the very act of sinning causes, through humiliation and self-criticism, a change in behavior, which catapults one to higher states of grace. So a good protagonist is not without sin, without the ability to hurt others, but through internal strife, he grows from it.
Mumford:
Jesus undermined the knowledge of the learned, the pride of the powerful, the morals of the virtuous: he saw that sin and imperfection, with their self-humiliation and self-criticism, were far less dangerous to life than complacency; for sin might pave the way for an inward change which raised life to a higher pitch than unblemished virtue was capable of reaching. This inward change, the grace of the Holy Spirit as it was to be called, was all-important: repentance must precede regeneration. Mere willingness, mere rational efforts in themselves, could not bring about such a change: it needed the encouraging example of a living image, and that image was the personality of Jesus himself.
To know oneself, from his standpoint, was to realize the miserable failure of one's successes and the redeeming success of one's failures. The capacity to recognize one's inevitable shortcomings, to profit by every occasion of disintegration, was the only guarantee of continued self-development. That was a salutary doctrine for the heirs of a disintegrating civilization.
In the online writing group I subscribe to, there has been much discussion lately about form and whether writers plan out their stories (outline them) before writing them. Apparently many do not. They define an initial set of characters and a setting, and then give them a push (very much like the creation myth where God created the universe, Adam, and Eve, then stepped back to watch the fun evolve.) Still others fall on the opposite end of the spectrum, planning out every last comma before putting fingertips to keys. I fall in the middle, making a character sketch (1 to 3 pages) for each main character, and a loose outline (2 to 3 pages) of the general path they will take, what they will learn, and how they will change along the way. That freedom (to let the story just evolve) is the beauty of writing fiction novels and short stories. According to a scriptwriter friend of mine, script writing is much more ridged (if you want to sell it, that is.) The script should be no longer that 110 pages (1 page = 1 minute of film) and certain events must happen on or by a certain page number, or it is simply rejected because it doesn't follow the formula. He gave me the formula, an outline written by Blake Snyder that spells it out. I sometimes compare this to my novels to see how close I come to this plot outline (in a three hundred page novel I multiply the following outline page numbers by 3.) I don't use it to change my story, but I find it interesting to see how close I do come to the "Formula", and also to insure I have included all the elements of a good plot. The following is the outline exactly as it was given to me.
Blake Snyder's Beat Sheet:
Opening image (pg. 1)
· First impression of what the story is
· Sets the tone, mood, style
· Before and after snapshot to show thing that will change
Theme stated (pg. 5)
· First impression of what the story is
· Sets the tone, mood, style
· Before and after snapshot to show thing that will change
Set Up (pg. 1-10)
· Introduced or hinted every character
· Character tic (exhibit every behavior that need to be addressed later on)
· Show six things that need fixing
· Story thesis ….. before world, calm before the storm
Catalyst (pg. 12)
· An external event that changes everything - a call to action
· Often comes disguised as bad news
Debate (pg. 12-25)
· React to catalyst
· Pose a question of some kind
Break into 2 (pg. 25)
· Define Action
· Proactive choice made
· Introduce story antithesis
B-Story (pg. 30)
· Introduced subplot, carries the theme of the story
· Booster rocket helps smooth obvious A-story break
· New characters, fun-house version of act one
Fun and games (pg. 30-35)
· The promise of the premise
· What does this story have to offer me?
· Heart of the story
Midpoint (pg. 55)
· "up" - where the hero seemingly peaks (false victory)
· "down" - where the world collapses around hero (false defeat)
· stakes are raised (where fun and games are over)
Bad guys close in (pg. 55-75)
· getting serious
· all seems fine - bad guys are temporarily defeated
· We must be beaten and know it to get the lesson
Break to 3 (pg. 85)
· Solution, thanks to characters in B story
· External (A-story) and internal (B-story) meet and intertwine
· An idea to solve the problem has emerged
· The world of synthesis is at hand
Final (pg. 85-110)
· Where a new society is born
· Not enough for the hero to triumph, he must change the world
· Wrap it up - lesson learnt and applied
· Character tics are mastered
· A and B story end in triumph for the hero
· Turning over of the old world, creation of the new
· Hero leads based on what he experienced in the upside down world (antithetical world of act two)
Final image (pg. 110)
· Often opposite of opening imageProof that change has occurred and it's real
Sunday, September 30, 2007
A look back from 2057
Saying of the week: "All sensible people know that vanity is the most devastataing, the most universal and the most ineradicable of the passions that afflict the soul of man, and it is only vanity that makes him deny its power. It is more consuming than love. With advancing years, mercifully, you can snap your fingers at the terror and the servitude of love, but age cannot free you from the thraldom of vanity....vanity cozens you with a hundred disguises. It is part and parcel of every virtue; it is the mainspring of courage and the strength of ambition; it gives constancy to the lover and endurance to the stoic; it adds fuel to the fire of the artist's desire for fame and is at once the support and the compensation of the honest man's integrity. It leers even cynically in the humility of the saint...sincerity cannot protect you from its snare nor humour from its mockery." -- W. Somerset Maugham
Have you ever wanted to look back on the events of today with the advantage of hindsight? I often do. The following is a little tibit from my imagination of what today could look like from 50 years out.
At the beginning of the twenty-first century A.D., the United States of America lay dying. Death permeated the stagnate air: never more visible than when the Christian families painfully pretended to keep alive their faith, as though by rouging the face of a corpse they could somehow bring it back to life. The frequent visits to sterile, well lighted, immaculate churches, the loud chants of brotherly love and family values and freedom, above all freedom, the heart-felt Amen to sermons on the Christian channel, had become purely decorative: a senile grimace before a cracked mirror. Death was in the air, and even though the Trade Towers no longer reached upward through the smog-filled air, the crowds in Dodger Stadium, and Madison Square Gardens, and at the Super Bowl still roared with pleasure.
The specters people witnessed in places like Iraq, the Sudan, Myanmar, all from the comfort of their cozy living rooms, was all too real: they were the projections of their own tortured souls. But the vast majority of people whose souls were already dead saw nothing, and therefore had no premonition of the terrible changes that were already in play.
With the fall of the Trade Towers at the beginning of the century, there had come a sharp change in the political climate. Politicians still boasted of the of the country’s military might, the benefits of technology, and increased corporate wealth; CNN still claimed the country was the land of freedom; but outsiders asserted, on the contrary, that the U.S. was dying, as did Rome, of iniquity and pride and vanity. People were more concerned with Paris Hilton’s latest embarrassment than how many people were killed in order to keep the nation’s troughs full. But events began to confirm the darker suspicions. After all, a predatory economy can only flourish so long. The wars bled the country into feebleness and debt while parasitism ran rampant, eating into the countries vitals: the blinded vulture could neither seize new prey nor remove the maggots that feasted on its own body.
Countries that were once allies turned hostile. The very people who profited most from the crumbling culture were the first to cut and run: the rich gathered their wealth around them like a cloak and fled to other countries, engrossing themselves in their private amusements rather than their public duty. Overburdened by their debts (from the wars, the astronomical cost of raw materials, the need for Hummers and a flat-screen TV in every room), the American middle class, who had once made America great, defaulted to their creditors, causing a collapse of the world banking system. Desperate people on the fringe became homeless, forming lawless bands of marauders roaming the countryside, who took what they needed to survive. Inside the cities alcoholism and drug addition became the norm; outside the cities it was every man for himself. Farmlands went fallow; the cost of food skyrocketed.
Many who could afford to leave the country did so, and in 2020 when the Congress sought to forbid the further exodus of the population, they were talking to empty air.
The engineering works were stable for many years, and indeed, large-scale expenditures for new public works were visible in the colossal municipal buildings, shopping malls, power plants, the Christian cathedrals, sports arenas, military spying technology, and monuments to the heroes fallen in war. These new projects were paid for by budget cutbacks in infrastructure maintenance, which hastened the decay, and the country began to crumble.
In the face of this steady deterioration, the remaining population’s belief in the “American way of life” and “a benevolent God who loves and protects them,” the opium of the self-centered masses, remained incorrigible. They were convinced that there would always be a United States of America, and that technology and Christian ideals would keep them at the pinnacle of human culture. So they thought until the blows of their conquerors came raining down on their heads.
Have you ever wanted to look back on the events of today with the advantage of hindsight? I often do. The following is a little tibit from my imagination of what today could look like from 50 years out.
At the beginning of the twenty-first century A.D., the United States of America lay dying. Death permeated the stagnate air: never more visible than when the Christian families painfully pretended to keep alive their faith, as though by rouging the face of a corpse they could somehow bring it back to life. The frequent visits to sterile, well lighted, immaculate churches, the loud chants of brotherly love and family values and freedom, above all freedom, the heart-felt Amen to sermons on the Christian channel, had become purely decorative: a senile grimace before a cracked mirror. Death was in the air, and even though the Trade Towers no longer reached upward through the smog-filled air, the crowds in Dodger Stadium, and Madison Square Gardens, and at the Super Bowl still roared with pleasure.
The specters people witnessed in places like Iraq, the Sudan, Myanmar, all from the comfort of their cozy living rooms, was all too real: they were the projections of their own tortured souls. But the vast majority of people whose souls were already dead saw nothing, and therefore had no premonition of the terrible changes that were already in play.
With the fall of the Trade Towers at the beginning of the century, there had come a sharp change in the political climate. Politicians still boasted of the of the country’s military might, the benefits of technology, and increased corporate wealth; CNN still claimed the country was the land of freedom; but outsiders asserted, on the contrary, that the U.S. was dying, as did Rome, of iniquity and pride and vanity. People were more concerned with Paris Hilton’s latest embarrassment than how many people were killed in order to keep the nation’s troughs full. But events began to confirm the darker suspicions. After all, a predatory economy can only flourish so long. The wars bled the country into feebleness and debt while parasitism ran rampant, eating into the countries vitals: the blinded vulture could neither seize new prey nor remove the maggots that feasted on its own body.
Countries that were once allies turned hostile. The very people who profited most from the crumbling culture were the first to cut and run: the rich gathered their wealth around them like a cloak and fled to other countries, engrossing themselves in their private amusements rather than their public duty. Overburdened by their debts (from the wars, the astronomical cost of raw materials, the need for Hummers and a flat-screen TV in every room), the American middle class, who had once made America great, defaulted to their creditors, causing a collapse of the world banking system. Desperate people on the fringe became homeless, forming lawless bands of marauders roaming the countryside, who took what they needed to survive. Inside the cities alcoholism and drug addition became the norm; outside the cities it was every man for himself. Farmlands went fallow; the cost of food skyrocketed.
Many who could afford to leave the country did so, and in 2020 when the Congress sought to forbid the further exodus of the population, they were talking to empty air.
The engineering works were stable for many years, and indeed, large-scale expenditures for new public works were visible in the colossal municipal buildings, shopping malls, power plants, the Christian cathedrals, sports arenas, military spying technology, and monuments to the heroes fallen in war. These new projects were paid for by budget cutbacks in infrastructure maintenance, which hastened the decay, and the country began to crumble.
In the face of this steady deterioration, the remaining population’s belief in the “American way of life” and “a benevolent God who loves and protects them,” the opium of the self-centered masses, remained incorrigible. They were convinced that there would always be a United States of America, and that technology and Christian ideals would keep them at the pinnacle of human culture. So they thought until the blows of their conquerors came raining down on their heads.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
9/11 -- A Short Story
This week, in remembrance of 9/11, I'm posting a short story I wrote shortly after the tragic event. Hope you enjoy it.
911
He struggles up the bridge's inclining sidewalk towards the center of the span with tiny, yet purposeful steps. The tap tap tapping of his bamboo walking-cane measures out his pained progress along the concrete walkway like a metronome marking time. Still wearing his lavender terrycloth bathrobe over thin-striped mustard yellow pajamas, he feels the sting of cold concrete on his bare feet and the morning wind biting into his flesh. The strong breeze blows his thin strands of hair wildly in the direction of the city below; he turns to see San Francisco shimmering like an iridescent pearl under the cobalt-blue autumn sky. To his left, beyond the lines of morning commute cars waiting at the toll-plaza, spans the Pacific, spreading out like a heavy cloak to that point of infinity where water merges with horizon.
It is 11, September 2001. Seeing the people sitting in their gas-guzzling SUVs and shiny BMWs, one person in each, he realizes that some of them have no idea that the world has changed forever. Several commuters smugly sit behind the wheel unaware that the towers have collapsed. They have not seen the television footage of people falling from a hundred floors up. He pauses to watch a lady behind the wheel applying ruby-colored lipstick to her mouth. Lucky you, he thinks, you still have a few more precious minutes to pretend you are safe and happy, and that your makeup is somehow important.
He turns back towards the city. The crush of tall, white buildings sprawling over seven hills now seems like so many piles of bleached bones decaying under the strong glare of morning sun. He slowly makes his way beyond the immense red-orange south tower - tap tap tap - the images still burned on his retina; unbelievable scenes of bursting flames, bodies spiraling through space, towers crumbling into massive clouds of gray soot. Sobbing again, he pushes his feeble body along, feeling like a criminal. His crime is appalling. The country, the entire world, has tumbled into a war of vicious hate where thousands have already died, and he still lives.
He has left Garrett a note. Only one note and only for Garrett, who should be waking up just about now. Up ahead a group of sixteen or seventeen runners come trotting towards him wearing shorts, sneakers and sweatshirts. They all have that well-fed, clean-cut, military look about them and he assumes that they are all army personnel stationed at the Presidio out for their morning run. How many of you will die on a desert battlefield? How many mothers and children will your bullets butcher? He can not look at their faces as they dash by.
He does, however, study their solid bodies brimming with vitality and he remembers that his own body was once like that. That is, before this disease chewed away his life a mouthful at a time. Yes, he was once strong but his strength has failed him. At thirty years old he is feebler than his grandfather. He was once a brilliant artist but the energy required to focus on a subject, much less hold a steady brush, has faded away. For a decade he was a loving husband and now this new horror will rent that away as well. Who was it, he wonders, that said death is a process of losing everything you cherish, one by one, hour by hour, until there is nothing left.
Garrett is his last cherished thing. He pictures Garrett's head against the white pillowcase, opening his eyes and finding the yellow-paper note on the other pillow. Garrett sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes as he does each morning, takes the note and begins to read,
My Love,
I'm not sure if we ever really get to choose who we love or how we live our lives. But the one choice we always have is whether we continue living within our circumstances. Today, I choose not to live in this world of hate, even if it means losing you. I can't go on minute after minute living with this terrible agony. The world has finally defeated me.
War will surely pull me further into despair and I cannot allow myself to keep dragging you down with me. You're free. I'm giving you a second chance at happiness, and I feel so very gratified to be doing this for you. Live again, love again, follow your dream.
My moments of true happiness in this lifetime of joys and sorrows have all come because of you. I love you more than the ecstasy of life, more than the comfort of death. Everything has slipped away from me now except the certainty of my love for you. The thought of your goodness warms my heart as I write this.
For you, let this war be a genesis, a beginning point, a second chance. For me, it is an untimely ending. A last gasp of horror before death.
Goodbye my love.
Shrill sirens. He pauses and turns back towards the toll-plaza. A police car races towards him, red lights flashing. Did the taxi driver radio 911? Perhaps a commuter using a cell-phone reported a lunatic in a bathrobe and bare feet hobbling along the railing.
He turns back and gazes towards the center of the bridge, which is still a quarter-mile away. He is certain of what he will do but now has less than a minute to do it before the cops stop him. He scrambles over the red-orange railing and crawls down onto a two-foot wide steel girder that forms an outer ledge. The bamboo cane is left behind, it's shiny handle lying against the dull concrete. He had originally imagined that he would leap from the center of the span, but no matter. He is over water and that's what counts. Now they can't stop me, he thinks, but even as this thought floats away he gets distracted. Clouds skirting between the sun and water are causing various shaped shadows to move over the bay's surface. They're mesmerizing from his vantage point, a kaleidoscope of muted colors.
He suddenly hears voices behind him, loud and rough. Are they just in his head or have the police reached him already?
He pulls off his terrycloth robe and it flies off on the wind. He stares wide-eyed at the queer sight of a ragged piece of lavender cloth sailing like a beautiful Chinese kite towards Alcatraz Island. He now understands why everybody who has ever jumped from this bridge, leaps from the city side rather than the ocean side. The wind. A strong wind always blows off the ocean and into the bay. Jumping from the ocean side would blow you back into the steel girders of the under-structure. On the city side, the wind blows you away from the bridge, giving you a clean, unhampered fall to the churning water below. Yes, that must be why, he thinks. The wind bites into his bare neck but he no longer feels the cold. It feels more like a steady pulse, a throbbing against his flesh.
Looking down three hundred feet to the Golden Gate Passage, he sees that the tide is rushing out to sea. He smiles, thinking that he prefers it that way. Perhaps they will never find him in that vastness. He should have worn something heavy to make him sink but it's too late for that.
Again he hears voices close behind him and he feels the sudden urge to turn back and climb over the rail, into the hands of the police who are trying to attract his attention. It is too late to take back the note, too late to pretend it was all a joke, but not too late to live; to continue living as the nightmare of war coalesce with the torment of this disease. Would that be kinder to Garrett? But even as these vertiginous thoughts swirl about his head, he leans forward, beyond the angle of repose.
Now the iron gray water is hurling to meet him. He has seconds left. His body screams something frightening and incomprehensible while arms and legs thrash against the onrush of air, as if trying to stop his fall. Then his body involuntarily goes limp. There is nothing to be done now. His thoughts are that this is exactly what the Trade Tower people experienced and he is happy that he is now one of them. Then he suddenly feels immense sorrow for Garrett, knowing that his lover will not understand. Having to deal with his death and the New York tragedy at once could very well break that magnificent spirit. Can he recover? Please forgive me, my love. This is his last coherent thought.
The water below becomes a torrent of foamy waves expanding to encompass the entire universe. Unimaginable pain sears though his being and then the sensation becomes a soothing one, chilly seawater incased within utter silence. Like a gentle lover, the ocean wraps its arms around his shattered body, slowly pulling him into peaceful depths, borne along by the current into the vast trackless Pacific. For a few seconds, a mustard yellow smudge remains on the surface of the sea, which then melts away and is gone.
911
He struggles up the bridge's inclining sidewalk towards the center of the span with tiny, yet purposeful steps. The tap tap tapping of his bamboo walking-cane measures out his pained progress along the concrete walkway like a metronome marking time. Still wearing his lavender terrycloth bathrobe over thin-striped mustard yellow pajamas, he feels the sting of cold concrete on his bare feet and the morning wind biting into his flesh. The strong breeze blows his thin strands of hair wildly in the direction of the city below; he turns to see San Francisco shimmering like an iridescent pearl under the cobalt-blue autumn sky. To his left, beyond the lines of morning commute cars waiting at the toll-plaza, spans the Pacific, spreading out like a heavy cloak to that point of infinity where water merges with horizon.
It is 11, September 2001. Seeing the people sitting in their gas-guzzling SUVs and shiny BMWs, one person in each, he realizes that some of them have no idea that the world has changed forever. Several commuters smugly sit behind the wheel unaware that the towers have collapsed. They have not seen the television footage of people falling from a hundred floors up. He pauses to watch a lady behind the wheel applying ruby-colored lipstick to her mouth. Lucky you, he thinks, you still have a few more precious minutes to pretend you are safe and happy, and that your makeup is somehow important.
He turns back towards the city. The crush of tall, white buildings sprawling over seven hills now seems like so many piles of bleached bones decaying under the strong glare of morning sun. He slowly makes his way beyond the immense red-orange south tower - tap tap tap - the images still burned on his retina; unbelievable scenes of bursting flames, bodies spiraling through space, towers crumbling into massive clouds of gray soot. Sobbing again, he pushes his feeble body along, feeling like a criminal. His crime is appalling. The country, the entire world, has tumbled into a war of vicious hate where thousands have already died, and he still lives.
He has left Garrett a note. Only one note and only for Garrett, who should be waking up just about now. Up ahead a group of sixteen or seventeen runners come trotting towards him wearing shorts, sneakers and sweatshirts. They all have that well-fed, clean-cut, military look about them and he assumes that they are all army personnel stationed at the Presidio out for their morning run. How many of you will die on a desert battlefield? How many mothers and children will your bullets butcher? He can not look at their faces as they dash by.
He does, however, study their solid bodies brimming with vitality and he remembers that his own body was once like that. That is, before this disease chewed away his life a mouthful at a time. Yes, he was once strong but his strength has failed him. At thirty years old he is feebler than his grandfather. He was once a brilliant artist but the energy required to focus on a subject, much less hold a steady brush, has faded away. For a decade he was a loving husband and now this new horror will rent that away as well. Who was it, he wonders, that said death is a process of losing everything you cherish, one by one, hour by hour, until there is nothing left.
Garrett is his last cherished thing. He pictures Garrett's head against the white pillowcase, opening his eyes and finding the yellow-paper note on the other pillow. Garrett sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes as he does each morning, takes the note and begins to read,
My Love,
I'm not sure if we ever really get to choose who we love or how we live our lives. But the one choice we always have is whether we continue living within our circumstances. Today, I choose not to live in this world of hate, even if it means losing you. I can't go on minute after minute living with this terrible agony. The world has finally defeated me.
War will surely pull me further into despair and I cannot allow myself to keep dragging you down with me. You're free. I'm giving you a second chance at happiness, and I feel so very gratified to be doing this for you. Live again, love again, follow your dream.
My moments of true happiness in this lifetime of joys and sorrows have all come because of you. I love you more than the ecstasy of life, more than the comfort of death. Everything has slipped away from me now except the certainty of my love for you. The thought of your goodness warms my heart as I write this.
For you, let this war be a genesis, a beginning point, a second chance. For me, it is an untimely ending. A last gasp of horror before death.
Goodbye my love.
Shrill sirens. He pauses and turns back towards the toll-plaza. A police car races towards him, red lights flashing. Did the taxi driver radio 911? Perhaps a commuter using a cell-phone reported a lunatic in a bathrobe and bare feet hobbling along the railing.
He turns back and gazes towards the center of the bridge, which is still a quarter-mile away. He is certain of what he will do but now has less than a minute to do it before the cops stop him. He scrambles over the red-orange railing and crawls down onto a two-foot wide steel girder that forms an outer ledge. The bamboo cane is left behind, it's shiny handle lying against the dull concrete. He had originally imagined that he would leap from the center of the span, but no matter. He is over water and that's what counts. Now they can't stop me, he thinks, but even as this thought floats away he gets distracted. Clouds skirting between the sun and water are causing various shaped shadows to move over the bay's surface. They're mesmerizing from his vantage point, a kaleidoscope of muted colors.
He suddenly hears voices behind him, loud and rough. Are they just in his head or have the police reached him already?
He pulls off his terrycloth robe and it flies off on the wind. He stares wide-eyed at the queer sight of a ragged piece of lavender cloth sailing like a beautiful Chinese kite towards Alcatraz Island. He now understands why everybody who has ever jumped from this bridge, leaps from the city side rather than the ocean side. The wind. A strong wind always blows off the ocean and into the bay. Jumping from the ocean side would blow you back into the steel girders of the under-structure. On the city side, the wind blows you away from the bridge, giving you a clean, unhampered fall to the churning water below. Yes, that must be why, he thinks. The wind bites into his bare neck but he no longer feels the cold. It feels more like a steady pulse, a throbbing against his flesh.
Looking down three hundred feet to the Golden Gate Passage, he sees that the tide is rushing out to sea. He smiles, thinking that he prefers it that way. Perhaps they will never find him in that vastness. He should have worn something heavy to make him sink but it's too late for that.
Again he hears voices close behind him and he feels the sudden urge to turn back and climb over the rail, into the hands of the police who are trying to attract his attention. It is too late to take back the note, too late to pretend it was all a joke, but not too late to live; to continue living as the nightmare of war coalesce with the torment of this disease. Would that be kinder to Garrett? But even as these vertiginous thoughts swirl about his head, he leans forward, beyond the angle of repose.
Now the iron gray water is hurling to meet him. He has seconds left. His body screams something frightening and incomprehensible while arms and legs thrash against the onrush of air, as if trying to stop his fall. Then his body involuntarily goes limp. There is nothing to be done now. His thoughts are that this is exactly what the Trade Tower people experienced and he is happy that he is now one of them. Then he suddenly feels immense sorrow for Garrett, knowing that his lover will not understand. Having to deal with his death and the New York tragedy at once could very well break that magnificent spirit. Can he recover? Please forgive me, my love. This is his last coherent thought.
The water below becomes a torrent of foamy waves expanding to encompass the entire universe. Unimaginable pain sears though his being and then the sensation becomes a soothing one, chilly seawater incased within utter silence. Like a gentle lover, the ocean wraps its arms around his shattered body, slowly pulling him into peaceful depths, borne along by the current into the vast trackless Pacific. For a few seconds, a mustard yellow smudge remains on the surface of the sea, which then melts away and is gone.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Nominations Open for 20th Annual Lambda Literary Awards
Saying of the week: "Pursue not the outer entanglements,
Dwell not in the inner void;
Be serene in the oneness of things,
and dualism vanishes by itself."
--From "on Trust in the Heart" by Seng-t'san (d. 606)
For all you gay writers with books being published this year, check out the following:
1. Nominations Open for 20th Annual Lambda Literary Awards
2. Men of Mystery Tour, New York and Boston
3. Calling all Surreal Queers, Bisexal Lesbians, Poets & Others
4. Lambda Literary at the West Hollywood Book Fair1.
Nominations Open for Lambda Literary AwardsNominations are now being accepted for the 20th Annual Lambda Literary Awards for books published during 2007. New guidelines and a nomination form are available at: Guidelines.A book may be nominated by its author or by its publisher. Each nomination requires a complete nomination form, four copies of the book, and a $20 administrative fee. All nominations must be postmarked by December 1, 2007. Finalists will be announced by March 1, 2008. SAVE THE DATE: Winners will be announced on Thursday, May 29, in West Hollywood, California. Please consult the new guidelines before directing any questions to awards@lambdaliterary.org.
2. Men of Mystery Tour in New York & BostonMystery authors Anthony Bidulka, Neil Plakcy, Chuck Zito and Mark Richard Zubro -- four of the best practioners of the gay mystery genre -- join forces to talk about their new books, their handsome, sexy heroes, and the future of the gay mystery. 6:00 PM Thursday September 6 The LGBT Community Center, 208 W. 13th Street, New York7:00 PM Friday September 7 Calamus Bookstore, 92B South Street, BostonThe four authors can be reached through their websites:http://www.anthonybidulka.com/home.htm
3. Calling all Surreal Queers, Bisexal Lesbians, Poets & OthersWe've been busy adding new listings to our Calls for Submission in the Lambda Literary Resource Center.PLEASE NOTE: All resources are open to changes and additions. If you have suggestions for resources or a project to be listed, please contact us at asklambda@earthlink.net.
4. Lambda Literary at the West Hollywood Book FairMeet Lambda's Executive Director, Charles Flowers, on Sunday, September 30, at the 6th Annual West Hollywood Book Fair. Charles will be staffing a booth from 10 AM to 5 PM, so come say hello and keep him company! LGBT authors featured during the Book Fair include Felice Picano, Fiona Zedde, Perry Brass, Patricia Nell Warren, Christopher Rice, Myriam Gurba, Stuart Timmons, Jeanne Cordova, Tim Miller, Ali Liebegott, Jim van Buskirk, Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Lisa Freeman, and others. For a complete schedule, visit West Hollywood Book Fair.
Dwell not in the inner void;
Be serene in the oneness of things,
and dualism vanishes by itself."
--From "on Trust in the Heart" by Seng-t'san (d. 606)
For all you gay writers with books being published this year, check out the following:
1. Nominations Open for 20th Annual Lambda Literary Awards
2. Men of Mystery Tour, New York and Boston
3. Calling all Surreal Queers, Bisexal Lesbians, Poets & Others
4. Lambda Literary at the West Hollywood Book Fair1.
Nominations Open for Lambda Literary AwardsNominations are now being accepted for the 20th Annual Lambda Literary Awards for books published during 2007. New guidelines and a nomination form are available at: Guidelines.A book may be nominated by its author or by its publisher. Each nomination requires a complete nomination form, four copies of the book, and a $20 administrative fee. All nominations must be postmarked by December 1, 2007. Finalists will be announced by March 1, 2008. SAVE THE DATE: Winners will be announced on Thursday, May 29, in West Hollywood, California. Please consult the new guidelines before directing any questions to awards@lambdaliterary.org.
2. Men of Mystery Tour in New York & BostonMystery authors Anthony Bidulka, Neil Plakcy, Chuck Zito and Mark Richard Zubro -- four of the best practioners of the gay mystery genre -- join forces to talk about their new books, their handsome, sexy heroes, and the future of the gay mystery. 6:00 PM Thursday September 6 The LGBT Community Center, 208 W. 13th Street, New York7:00 PM Friday September 7 Calamus Bookstore, 92B South Street, BostonThe four authors can be reached through their websites:http://www.anthonybidulka.com/home.htm
3. Calling all Surreal Queers, Bisexal Lesbians, Poets & OthersWe've been busy adding new listings to our Calls for Submission in the Lambda Literary Resource Center.PLEASE NOTE: All resources are open to changes and additions. If you have suggestions for resources or a project to be listed, please contact us at asklambda@earthlink.net.
4. Lambda Literary at the West Hollywood Book FairMeet Lambda's Executive Director, Charles Flowers, on Sunday, September 30, at the 6th Annual West Hollywood Book Fair. Charles will be staffing a booth from 10 AM to 5 PM, so come say hello and keep him company! LGBT authors featured during the Book Fair include Felice Picano, Fiona Zedde, Perry Brass, Patricia Nell Warren, Christopher Rice, Myriam Gurba, Stuart Timmons, Jeanne Cordova, Tim Miller, Ali Liebegott, Jim van Buskirk, Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Lisa Freeman, and others. For a complete schedule, visit West Hollywood Book Fair.
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