January 29, 2008

Dreaming ...

It is a well known fact to anyone who knows me at all well, that I hate winter with a fiery passion. That, in fact, I proclaimed in CCD (think Catholic Sunday School) loudly and frequently that hell was not hot, but cold. Naturally, the parents who'd volunteered to teach were scandalized but hardly knew what to do with a child who simply out-logic'd them about the issue. (Well, we say "left out in the cold" when someone leaves us ... or "turns a cold shoulder," right? And if hell is the absence of God ... then God has given those in hell the cold shoulder and therefore, OBVIOUSLY, hell is cold. These poor volunteer teachers just kind of blinked at me and ignored the issue all together.)

Come to think of it, this is the way most adults tended to deal with me. Anyway.

I talked in an earlier post this month about when I first moved to Arlington and began attending Butler Elementary. There was one area we used to stage our Pretend games of Hardy Boys ... Nancy Drew when Tracy got upset and put her foot down about us playing at being boys. Sometimes Star Wars and sometimes we just made stuff up. There was a tree that was our front door ... another that helped delineate the "rooms" of our "house." Another that I climbed incessantly despite the fact that tree climbing was expressly forbidden. (And it's a measure of how invisible I felt ... and possibly how much the teachers knew what "being in trouble" meant to me ... that they sometimes walked right underneath the tree I was in and never said a word ... despite the little ratty tattle-tales.)

But this place ... this place was for dreaming and the photo does not even begin to do it justice.

If you click through, a desktop wallpaper version will pop up ... 1680x1260.

That rock, that's flat to the ground, mostly buried ... yeah, over there on the bottom, kind of to the right. We used to sit on that and look down into that little "valley" below us and just dream. We were always quiet and serious there. Some places just ask that of you and even grade-schoolers can sense it. Later, when recess was a little less about games of Let's Pretend and a little more ... for me, anyway ... trying to figure out life, the universe and everything, I can remember laying on my back, watching the sky ... trying to find a way to watch the sky and my little valley at the same time ... and, of course, solve all the issues in the universe. All in a 30 minute recess.

For me, the small pathway entrance into the woods represented so many different things. And that clearing you had to pass to get to it. Completely exposed ... except because it was a "valley" ... the teachers couldn't see us if we went down there.

I know my love of that spot drove most of our teachers crazy. It was at the very, very edge of our "safe" playground area. Going down to that valley, or worse, into the woods, was strictly forbidden. The kind of forbidden that kids hate because you can feel the adults' fear behind the edict ... when they are honestly scared that "bad things" will happen to any child who disobeys. It's a very different feel from the arbitrary, we're-imposing-order-upon-you kinds of rules.

And, to be honest, the entire time I went to Butler, at least once a year there were reports of "flashers" in raincoats just waiting to show off for some kid. And, there was a creek which ran through the narrow strip of woods ... home to the ever-lovely cottonmouths (water moccasins).

For me, the woods represented something else completely. Some flashes of a special place. Tinged with hints of fear. Coloured with a need to explore and discover and learn. A need to know and put an end to something that I couldn't name ... and at the same time I was terrified that I was not ready to know what answers the woods might hold, what they might unlock.

Our teachers took small groups through the woods on science expeditions from time to time. And I could see where the older kids ... the neighborhood kids had set up BMX bike ramps and obstacles. A rope swing to get across the creek.

The magic of the woods danced on the unknown edges during these excursions, as if the mere presence of adults ... of a gaggle of other children ... forced the things I needed further away into the undergrowth ... dancing up the vines into the treetops ... lurking in the gaping wounds of some of the tree trunks.

A couple of times, when I was near the end of elementary school ... when I had started junior high and was playing one summer, I went into the woods alone, hoping to unlock this thing that kept teasing me. Nothing bad ever happened. I saw a couple of other kids, playing. No adults. No snakes.

And no answers to my mystery, either.

Despite the fact that the woods taunted me from my recess perch ... when I was finally able to explore them, I was left with one conclusion:

These were the wrong woods.

Beautiful and interesting in their own right. Mysterious and captivating.

But these woods were not, after all, my woods.

And my woods ... Balcones Woods ... back in Austin ... those had been torn down.

I would have to find my answers another way.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:23 AM | Comments (5) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Struggles | Vacations and Photos | Stumble

January 24, 2008

Writing

Dan Leone over at Cafe Leone was wondering if other writers prefer to write their stories longhand or on the computer. After I'd typed in two paragraphs in his comments and was getting read to start a third, I decided that perhaps I should make a blog post about this instead of leaving poor Dan a novella of a comment.

So, longhand or computer for writing? Well, it depends on my thinking process, actually. There are times when I want to move more slowly and deliberately and think through things - that's when I write longhand. I'm usually still getting a feeling for the characters at that time and possibly the plot (at least the beginning details) as well. Often I haven't fully built the world in my head yet.

Once I'm rolling, I certainly prefer the computer for writing. I can type much faster than I write and my handwriting, particularly since I have ADHD, is beyond atrocious. I have a terribly tendency to write with a .5 or .3 mechanical pencil and begin writing smaller and smaller as the story goes on. This makes transcribing it later a nightmare.

The first novel I wrote in high school, Lichtman's Bluff, was based on a dream I'd had which really, really captured my imagination and I knew I had a great storyline and great characters. School that day was a torture - I wanted to write, not listen to boring classes. That evening, I had to babysit my favourite family. As soon as the kids were in bed, I found some paper, pulled out my trusty .3 pencil and commenced. The first draft was about 30 or 40 pages, light pencil scratch on baby blue paper ... no margins to speak of. Then I began transcribing it into the Commodore 64 word processor. I could not touch type then. It took forever. A year later, I had my own word processor, a Magnavox Videowriter, and was working on the third draft. At that point I was closer to touch typing and the story went a lot faster. Not to mention, the action on the C-64 keyboard almost required me to two-finger type anyway. The action on the VideoWriter was much easier and less stressful on my li'l ole fingers.

(I was going to post a scan of that draft ... but I can't find the original draft any more. :( )

Most of what I write today begins life on the computer. Not everything, though. I have been known to grab scraps of paper and begin a character outline ... or a bit of plot ... just to capture the moment. Even I don't have my laptop with me every moment of the day. (I know this is hard to believe, but it's true. Of course, when it's not with me, I go through withdrawals, but that's another story.)

However, the biggest drive to using the computer to write fiction today ... has less to do with the feel of paper and pencil versus keyboard. It's much more practical than that. You see, I prefer to write in the dark. I can, to quote Adam from MythBusters, "reject your reality and substitute my own" far more easily with the lights off. And since I have a happy MacBook Pro with the light up keyboard ... writing in a dark room with just the glow of the stereo and the computer, I can more easily transport myself into the world about which I'm writing.

So, the short answer to Dan's question is that I use both ways of writing at different times and for different purposes.

* Photo of the Magnavox Videowriter is from Joe Schumacher's EXCELLENT photography site. If you have not been there, please check him out. There are just some stunning shots there.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:00 AM | Comments (0) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

January 16, 2008

It

In high school, I wrote my first complete novel. I'd been attempting novels since the sixth grade, but I had this amazing dream early in my senior year of high school and spun it into a novel. It turned out to be a horror novel, which surprised me. I'd never read any horror books and thought they were probably all lame - scandalous elitism (hush, cabal) from someone who loved science fiction and fantasy books. So, I decided to read Stephen King to see how I stacked up. I found Carrie interesting and appalling both. It was interesting enough ... too short ... definitely a writer's "early" work ... and great googly moogly, but I could write that well. Sheesh, if that was the bar for getting published ....

And then I read Stephen King's It. I was hooked on Stevie-Boy for life at that point. My friend Andy dragged me to go see Stand By Me. Again, I was mesmerized. Stevie-Boy and I thought a heck of a lot alike.

What hooked me the most was his ability to write characters and to understand them so very well that not only do you get deep insight into many of them, but the interplay between characters, particularly in "The Body" and It, is almost to be one of the gang. What was particularly poignant for me was a line near the end of chapter 32 of "The Body" novella in the Different Seasons collection:

Friends come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant, did you ever notice that?

We moved so often when I was little, friends were hard to come by for me and they were precious. So while I understood that you lost friends and made new ones when you moved, I was searching for stability in my friends ... and I didn't understand how they could move in and out of each others' lives and mine so "easily."

A fast breakdown for those who haven't read the blog long:
born in Amarillo, Texas; moved to Houston, another place in Houston; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Oklahoma City; Carmel, Indiana; Austin, Texas. Then I started kindergarten in Pillow Elementary. Second grade at St. Louis Catholic School. Began third grade back at Pillow, but after the first six weeks of the year, we moved to Arlington, Texas. Out of six possible semesters of junior high, I had 3 at Nichols and 3 at Shackelford. High school was blissfully the same all three years.

Despite having both a mother and a father, a "stable" family unit ... my life was anything but stable. I was always waiting for the next time I would have to move on. I was terrified to make friends and too lonely to not make them.

I can remember the first weeks of third grade at my third new school in as many years vividly. Being introduced to Carrie Thompson, who was to be my "official" friend and show me around the school ... show me the ropes, as it were. We became good acquaintances ... she came over to my house and I went to hers, but we didn't seem to have a great deal in common. And then I stumbled into Tracy and Jill. We seemed to hit it off well at first. Recess games were fun. We hung together in Language Arts class. But, unbeknownst to me, Tracy and I had some similar family issues which made us both bull-headed in different ways. For Tracy, it was a need - and this is totally my interpretation and may not be at all how she sees things - but it seems to me she had a need to be in charge and to not let anyone truly outshine her. I don't think she wanted to be noticed any more than I did, really. But she was determined not to be at the bottom, either.

So for the first week or two that the three of us were friends, Tracy ran our schoolwork with a fist more iron than that of the teacher. Third grade in the 70s consisted of mimeographed purple worksheets. Half the time, the sheets were still damp from the machine and sadly lacking a grape smell that might have made the purple colouring tolerable. Tracy would tell us what number to work to. Maybe to number ten. Then you would stop and wait for the others to catch up. That way, we could all be twinkies and turn our papers in at the same time. I soon learned it was so Tracy wouldn't be the last one to turn in her worksheet, but that we could all three turn them in together.

Our school was "Open Concept" which was, in general, an utterly hellish educational experiment of the 70s and 80s:

Years before the recognition of Attention Deficit Disorder issues, Butler Elementary began as an "open concept" school, with grades one through six in one large "room" of the building. Each grade level was "divided" by rolling bookcases about five feet high and more of these bookcases were used to lightly subdivide each "classroom" within a grade level. Teachers' desks were in a cluster in the center of the grade level area.

I struggled at the beginning of that year. I was put in the second high language arts and math classes at first, despite the fact that at my old school, I was much further ahead in both subjects. When I was finally bumped up, to the "high" classes, they were still behind where I had been at Pillow. So it didn't take long at all before I tired of waiting for Tracy to catch up on the worksheets. And the day I did, despite how much I wanted to make BFF with Tracy and Jill, was the day that I inadvertently started a war.

I remember clearly working on the purple inked paper. Looking over to see where Jill was. And then looking over to see how far behind Tracy was. There was just no way. I couldn't pull out a book and read until I was finished with my worksheets. And I just couldn't sit there and wait for Tracy to catch up any longer. I continued working on the worksheet. When Jill reached the requisite number, she turned to look at my worksheet. The look on her face ... panic. Alarm. And that probably should have been a warning to me as to how Tracy would react. Jill looked over at Tracy's worksheet. Back at mine. I remember her hesitating. Shrugging her shoulders. And continuing her own work.

When Tracy finally got to the stopping point, she looked at Jill's paper. Shocked and betrayed. Looked over at mine. The look of terror and anger both overwhelmed me. I hadn't expected this. I didn't mean for it to be a big deal. I just couldn't wait any more.

Tracy, however, saw it as my attempt to usurp her power. She burst into tears and told the teacher that I had called her a name or some such nonsense. I was shocked. The look of loathing on her face. And from that moment on, the war was on. For the rest of third grade and fourth grade, we did remain friends ... and even added new people to our little group. But from that point on, Tracy was diligent about remaining in charge and largely held that group of four together through high school.

And partly because I didn't see the point in "being in charge" of my friends ... and partly because I was terrified to even attempt to make other friends, I tried not to fight her. Even when she got ticked off and "hired" boys to come beat me up during recess. (Oddly enough, the closest one ever came to beating me up was a boy who fought like a girl, all cat scratches and no good solid roundhouses.) She would always tell me that she didn't do it, but invariably when I asked the boy why in the hell he was attacking me, he'd always say, "Tracy asked me to."

By fifth grade, I had no friends to speak of. Tracy had finally gotten furious with me for something I can't recall and commanded everyone in our group to stop having anything to do with me. For my part, I was tired of fighting with her and I simply stopped even trying to hang out with the others in our group. It was simply no longer worth it. I eventually did make other friends, but it wasn't until ninth grade that I had really close friends again.

And perhaps this is why Stephen King's "The Body" and It speak so poignantly to me. Both books revolve around the concept of friendship, of doing anything for your friends and of knowing them well enough to know their weaknesses not so much to exploit them (although teasing is, of course, perfectly acceptable), but to keep them out of trouble and to protect them from others.

Gordie and Chris from "The Body," knew that their families were ... let's say not supportive. Chris' family was outright abusive and the surrounding community simply abused Chris further. Gordie's family ignored him. The boys became family for each other. Teddy's family was also extremely abusive and Vern's was a little harder to read (or I don't remember it as well). Certainly Vern's older brother was not going to win any good brother awards .... But, despite the fact that the four boys were something of a family to each other, Vern and Teddy slipped away ... "like busboys in a restaurant." Chris and Gordie continued to be family to each other.

In It, there is a larger group of children and a definite set of enemies for them to fight. (One supernatural and one set was "mundane.") And again, the children bind together in an exceedingly strong family for the duration of the crisis. (The slipping apart has more to do with the supernatural plotline, so I'll skip that.)

I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12 - Jesus, did you?

Those friends for me didn't come until later, until I was 14 or 15 or so. And that was largely my own fault as I had simply never learned to be human enough to truly let potential friends in. Even still, I found it difficult to let my friends know just how important they were.

And, I suppose, that ruminating on all of this is why I have been trying so hard to hook back up with the people I knew in high school (and some of them even longer than that). It is partly a reality check on my memories (do you remember when we did ...) - but it's largely because to me, my close friends were like family to me then and I've always hated that we let that connection slip away. On my end it was simple fear that I had imagined that connection and that they meant far more to me than I to them. On their ends?

I've no idea.

I love that I've reconnected with some of them. One of them is even from Tracy's little group, although she wasn't part of the fighting from third grade, and, in fact, was friendly with me all throughout school and even college. I'm proud of her like I'm proud of my buddy, Andy. Like I would be proud of siblings. There is still that family connection to me.

I know now that a portion of this is that we do have families of choice as well as families of origin ... and that this is especially true when there was significant childhood trauma involving the family of origin. But I don't know how to express what I'm thinking and feeling at this moment ... just trying to explain what those old friends meant and still mean. I'd hoped by this point in the post, I'd be able to say something meaningful ... but because we do think so much alike, instead I'm left with one last quote from Stephen King's "The Body":

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless...

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:46 AM | Comments (2) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Struggles | Stumble

January 1, 2008

Cheese Circles

The current project ... a page from Cheese Circles: A Children's Book for Grown-Ups.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:13 AM | Comments (4) | Sketches | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

December 25, 2007

Serendipity

First, I'll be honest. I had one of those utterly, I-am-content-with-the-world days that simply don't occur often enough for most of us. I was relaxed, happy ... shoot, I even braved the mall for some last-minute serendipitous shopping. (And yeah, I'm writing this at 4 a.m. on the 25th ... but I still haven't been to sleep yet, so "today" is still the 24th to me)

I know most people avoid leaving their homes as much as humanly possible on the 24th of December. Traffic is horrible. Most people are tense and tired and cranky and feeling sooooo pressured.

And yet, it's one of my favourite days to go out. Maybe it's that oppositional thing that my therapist called me on. Dunno, don't care. I go out, and I feel no pressure. Check this store and that store ... is there something I didn't know about that might just make someone's Christmas that much better?

And ... I like to go and make sure I smile at all the retail workers. I can recalled Christmases whilst I was in college ... working retail ... and trust me, it can be hard to even believe in God at all during the "joyous" Christmas season in retail. I'm pleasant ... I'm smiling ... I'm not rushed, but I'm not moving at OAP speed, either.

In fact ... today I went to the one store people pray to every god imaginable that they don't have to visit on the 24th. I went to a toy store. I discovered some LEGO Indiana Jones sets that I don't think are supposed to be out until January. At least every website I saw after I got back home said January. And considering that this store was selling them for more than the suggested retail price, I'm pretty sure a manager thought these would fill out their empty shelves and sell well. (The $50 kit was selling for $70 ...)

I wandered around, looking for a Humvee toy for my other half. She works for AM General, building the H1 Humvee, and I know she showed interest in one when we were there months ago. They didn't have those anymore, but they did have some old skool G.I. Joe figures that I knew she liked. Snagged 'em. Serendipitous shopping. Neither one of us knew these existed, but her face sure lit up at seeing Scarlett and Lady Jaye.

And when I was through poking around, I went to check out. Short line. Staff didn't look too terribly stressed and frenzied. I noticed there was some stuff on the counter, but I thought they belonged to the woman checking out. Just as I'm about to put my stuff on the counter, a woman rushes up with a toy or two in hand. She's freaking. She's apologetic. "I just need to add these couple of things," she blurted out, terrified I would tell her to head to the end of the line (which, actually, ended with me). The few things on the counter already were hers.

I smiled and told her not to worry about it. She apologized, tried to explain. She was speaking so fast, she was tripping over her words. I smiled again and told her, "Look, it's fine. I'm not on a schedule."

I thought she was going to fall over. "You're NOT???"

I just smiled. "No, really. It's okay, go ahead."

She couldn't stop thanking me. And I suppose this is why I like going shopping on Christmas Eve. Random Acts of Kindness ... spreading a little peace around.

And then, tonight at church ... lol

I was more than a little bouncy myself. It had been a good day and a great evening. I spent some time really reflecting how I'd been in such a bad mental space last year. This year, I have no job and I'm getting nervous about the severance running out before I find one ... but still, things are better this year.

Across our round sanctuary sat ... mmm, let's call him Thomas ... so Thomas sat across the sanctuary from me. He'd been on the computer, checking NORAD's Santa site to see where Santa was now every couple of minutes before church started. Running all over the place. All that pent-up Christmas energy. And our 11 o'clock service is a very meditative, calm, peaceful time. How was he going to survive it?

And as soon as I thought that, he looked up at me. I gave him a smile ... not my usual Hey-why-don't-you-and-I-get-in-trouble grin ... but a nice smile. He gave me the sweetest, most genuine smile in return.

Instantly, I remembered a Christmas when I was a few years older than Thomas. Our family tradition was to open our gifts Christmas Eve after we'd been to mass. (Early mass ... my mom didn't have the stamina to stay up much past the evening news.) This one year, Mom wanted me to open one present early. She had a present picked out for me and one for my sister ....

It was the mid-80s and it was a Timex digital watch. It looked so adult, with its black leather band and the gold watch itself. The glass was a bubble and in the center was a small digital bit of circuitry. There was a button to push for light. It wasn't something I'd asked for, I don't think. Wasn't something I'd thought about, really. And it was sooooo adult looking. I was enthralled with it.

I can remember sitting in church, much like Thomas this year. Trying to listen, trying not to bounce. Staring at my watch in awe. In fact, and I'm sure this is simply my "old" person's memory banks using Adobe Premiere and AfterEffects with the images stored in my head, but I can see that dreamy golden glow around the whole image of me admiring my watch in church.

And as I type this, speaking of serendipity ... Green Day's "Time of Your Life" just came on. While the song might have felt like a semi-bitter break up song to its lyricist, the wistful and dreamy quality of the music on this song coupled with the lyrics (which don't necessarily scream break-up) speaks to all of this for me.

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test
and don't ask why.
It's not a question
but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs
and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf
In good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories
and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth,
it was worth all the while.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

Serendipity indeed. Funny how "way leads on to way" ... the paths our memories and our lives weave.

Posted by Red Monkey at 3:55 AM | Comments (5) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

December 8, 2007

Paddington Bear ARRESTED

Prime Minister Brown is set to take on illegal immigration in the U.K. and has served notice by going after one of the most loved and well-known illegal immigrants in the U.K. - Paddington Bear.

"It's an outrage!" claimed Paddington from his home West London after his initial release pending further investigation. "I was a mere cub and was forced onto the boat by my auntie. I knew nothing of immigration papers or applications."

However, a neighbor in Notting Hill recalls a gleeful young Paddington bragging about beating the system. "He was constantly laughing at me and telling me to call the Border and Immigration Agency but that it would do no good. He said he knew someone on the inside and that I was simply a cranky curry to be tossed in the bin and thought of no more."

"I may be from darkest Peru," the angry bear stated early in the day from his holding cell, "but I know this is just a ploy to boost his polls. I don't understand why the government must persecute me in this way."

The Home Office had this to say: "We are taking a robust approach to tracking down people who have no right to be here and removing them from the UK."

However, Mr. Bear's family and friends claim this is all a dark plot to paint Mr. Bear as a terrorist. "We just don't understand why the government would make these claims! Certainly his fur is a sand tan colour, but he is Peruvian, not Middle Eastern. This is racial profiling at its absolute lowest form - because it's not even based on facts, just the appearance of a different ethnicity."

Long-time friend and companion, Pooh Bear of 100 Acre Woods, declared he overheard two bobbies claiming Paddington Bear quite obviously fit the profile of a suicide bearer. "I mean, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Pooh Bear. "Everyone is quite well aware that the phrase is suicide bomber, not bearer. This is simply gross bearism in its most heinous form."

Mr. Bear has resided at 32 Windsor Gardens, Notting Hill, west London since his arrival in the U.K. some fifty years ago.

BBC article regarding the arrest here.

Posted by Red Monkey at 9:59 AM | Comments (5) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | People Say I Have ADHD, But I Think - Hey Look, A Chicken | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble