I just watched Super 8, literally, it ended 10 minutes ago. Super 8 is an excellent, excellent film. The story of a group of middle schoollers trying to make a movie for an amateur film competition. In the course of the filming they witness an epic train wreck and a military secret escapes. One of the boys, Joe Lamb, is living life in the shadow of his mothers death. The girl of the hour, Alice, also lives alone with her father after her mother left. Alice's father works in the local steel mill, Joe's is the sheriff's deputy. It is revealed, as the movie moves forward that it was Alice's father's shift that Joe's mother covered on the day she was killed in an industrial accident.
There is a distance between Joe and his father, his mother, Elizabeth, had always been the bridge between the two of them, the compassion and the outlet and the soft, affectionate rock upon which they could build a family. In her absence a wedge takes her place as neither Joe or his father know how to reach out to one another so they go on being who they are: different.
I heard a commentator say something to the extent of Super 8 is a collage of The Goonies, E.T., and Transformers (the collective minds behind the film are J.J. Abrams and Steven Speilberg) and they are right. There is all of the visually striking action that Abrams is known for but, as well, a gripping and compelling story about the bravery of children faced with hard choices and real life. The story is excellent in it simplicity and the characters are as deep as the plot line is simple.
Super 8 is authentic and I found myself relating, at different times, with each of the characters as they struggled with misunderstanding, fear, loss, abandonment, and hope. It is a heart warming adventure story compelling to the end and absolutely entertaining.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
The Riders, a Novel by Tim Winton
Some time books can capture the nature and experience of edgy pop culture and still retain a modicum of literary integrity. Authors like Chuck Palahnuik and Charles Bukowski exemplify a gritty paradigm of writing and literary prowess as their work is exceptionally strange-evocative-offensive-intentional and authentic. Others write powerful works that fuse metaphysical and spiritual symbolism to with the characters experience in order to show them in the presence of a life greater than themselves, Leif Enger's Peace Like a River and Cormac McCarthy's All The Pretty Horses are works of this nature, the characters experiencing life changing events in the context of a world outside of their control. These are, obviously, not exhaustive lists and I could go on and on and on about the successes of gritty, spiritual, authentic writers who achieve something exceptional in their work. When the components come together and the reader is able to experience the characters world the works of authors like those I've mentioned is profound and effective. However when they fail, even slightly, the work becomes self indulgent prattle. The Riders by Tim Winton is self indulgent prattle.
The novel is about an Australian, blue collar, expatriate, Scully, who has recently finished a two year stint living, working, travelling Europe with his beautiful wife, Jennifer, and their young daughter, Billie. The opening chapters of the novel are about Scully remodeling an ancient gardener's cottage in the country side of Ireland, preparing a place for his family to finally settle. Jennifer and Billie are in Australia wrapping up wrapping up their affairs before they join him to start a new life. In anxious anticipation Scully works, drinks, and befriends a couple of locals, in the process he sees the spirits of a group of horse riding warriors who inhabit the ruined castle on the hill above his new home. When his family arrives it is just Billlie, en route to Ireland Jennifer abandoned her daughter and disappeared. The novel is Scully's quest across Europe to find his wife.
Winton doesn't ever take the time to flesh out the spirits of the riders who haunt the castle, they appear as gypsies in the middle of the novel and again as warriors at the end but nothing about them is ever resolved. Scully is an "everyman" character with whom it is easy to identify but he becomes at one to resourceful and to stupid and by the end of the novel I was completely indifferent about him bordering on contempt. As a reader we should really become endeared to his daughter Billie or have something beyond "great legs" for his phantom wife but they become static and lifeless as the book degrades into an author writing for the sound of his own voice, as it were, and failing to be authentic to his story.
The novel is about an Australian, blue collar, expatriate, Scully, who has recently finished a two year stint living, working, travelling Europe with his beautiful wife, Jennifer, and their young daughter, Billie. The opening chapters of the novel are about Scully remodeling an ancient gardener's cottage in the country side of Ireland, preparing a place for his family to finally settle. Jennifer and Billie are in Australia wrapping up wrapping up their affairs before they join him to start a new life. In anxious anticipation Scully works, drinks, and befriends a couple of locals, in the process he sees the spirits of a group of horse riding warriors who inhabit the ruined castle on the hill above his new home. When his family arrives it is just Billlie, en route to Ireland Jennifer abandoned her daughter and disappeared. The novel is Scully's quest across Europe to find his wife.
Winton doesn't ever take the time to flesh out the spirits of the riders who haunt the castle, they appear as gypsies in the middle of the novel and again as warriors at the end but nothing about them is ever resolved. Scully is an "everyman" character with whom it is easy to identify but he becomes at one to resourceful and to stupid and by the end of the novel I was completely indifferent about him bordering on contempt. As a reader we should really become endeared to his daughter Billie or have something beyond "great legs" for his phantom wife but they become static and lifeless as the book degrades into an author writing for the sound of his own voice, as it were, and failing to be authentic to his story.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Misfortune, a Novel by Wesley Stace
Misfortune, a novel by Wesley Stace, is set in late 1700's and early 1800's England. It is a story about a boy, found on a trash heap -- discarded by a frightened mother abandoned by the death of her husband -- and rescued by Lord Loveall and raised as a girl (until puberty and family ruin and corruption) in vain attempt to reincarnate the spirit of the young lord's deceased sister, killed after falling from a tree at the age of five.
I am not usually one to go in for novels dealing with gender identity and, in truth, references to classic Greek myth and literary tradition go straight over my head. However, Stace brings to life a novel of incredible clarity; tasteful and daring in his language and the unfolding characters as they all fumble from deceit to revelation to metamorphosis to revenge and death. He portrays so clearly the frustration of puberty magnified by the gender confusion, the sexuality of an adolescent boy conflicting with the reality of being raised a girl.
Stace's novel is clear and sprawling and he takes his time in letting the novel unfold without becoming self indulgent. Until the end. Sometimes the story requires the end a chapter earlier than the author allows and some time epilogues are a tedious waste of space and time. If the ending does not infer what the author had in mind without further explanation the ending needs to be fixed, not added to. But to be fair to Misfortune this is nit picking as the novel is well written, wholly engaging, and thought provoking. The evocative nature of gender confusion aside, Misfortune is well worth the time.
I am not usually one to go in for novels dealing with gender identity and, in truth, references to classic Greek myth and literary tradition go straight over my head. However, Stace brings to life a novel of incredible clarity; tasteful and daring in his language and the unfolding characters as they all fumble from deceit to revelation to metamorphosis to revenge and death. He portrays so clearly the frustration of puberty magnified by the gender confusion, the sexuality of an adolescent boy conflicting with the reality of being raised a girl.
Stace's novel is clear and sprawling and he takes his time in letting the novel unfold without becoming self indulgent. Until the end. Sometimes the story requires the end a chapter earlier than the author allows and some time epilogues are a tedious waste of space and time. If the ending does not infer what the author had in mind without further explanation the ending needs to be fixed, not added to. But to be fair to Misfortune this is nit picking as the novel is well written, wholly engaging, and thought provoking. The evocative nature of gender confusion aside, Misfortune is well worth the time.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The History of Love, a Novel by Nicole Krauss
The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss, is a post modern reflection on the end of one life lived quietly, in the absence of love, and the beginning of a young girls journey into adolescence that could be a life of love or a life without. The novel is told in interchanging first person narratives that reflect, examine, and define moments the "now" moments in each of their lives by colliding with events of life that have put them where they are.
Leo Gursky is an aging writer/locksmith who lost the only woman he would ever love when she was enabled to flee their small Jewish village in Poland on the eve of the Nazi invasion. Leo's part in the story is that of an author whose great work went lost and unfinished, whose son (he does not know) grows into the writer Leo hoped to be, whose only friend is a school friend who is as much a ghost of the past as a catalyst for the present.
Alma Singer is a precocious Jewish girl growing up in the shadow of her father, lost to cancer, and watching her mother exist in a haze of loneliness and work and isolation and Alma wants to know what it is to know love and happiness for her mother, for her self, for her brother who believes he is a chosen Jew whose life will alter the course of history and bring blessings on those who he knows.
I am typically reticent about young, modern, American authors with sweeping titles on their sophomore novels like The History of Love but I was surprised and moved by the authentic voice Krauss lends to the Alma and Gursky and Bird (Alma's brother) as they search for the thing it is they are missing: a history of love.
Leo Gursky is an aging writer/locksmith who lost the only woman he would ever love when she was enabled to flee their small Jewish village in Poland on the eve of the Nazi invasion. Leo's part in the story is that of an author whose great work went lost and unfinished, whose son (he does not know) grows into the writer Leo hoped to be, whose only friend is a school friend who is as much a ghost of the past as a catalyst for the present.
Alma Singer is a precocious Jewish girl growing up in the shadow of her father, lost to cancer, and watching her mother exist in a haze of loneliness and work and isolation and Alma wants to know what it is to know love and happiness for her mother, for her self, for her brother who believes he is a chosen Jew whose life will alter the course of history and bring blessings on those who he knows.
I am typically reticent about young, modern, American authors with sweeping titles on their sophomore novels like The History of Love but I was surprised and moved by the authentic voice Krauss lends to the Alma and Gursky and Bird (Alma's brother) as they search for the thing it is they are missing: a history of love.
Friday, November 11, 2011
"The Long Goodbye", by Raymond Chandler
Books are the way I make small escapes out of the dreary monotony of the daily grind. At coffee breaks and lunch I typically have a book on hand, the fifteen odd minutes it takes to slurp down scalding coffee at 10 and three and the half hour I have at lunch are filled to capacity with reading. I read from most every genre but have found a collection of authors that suit my scattershot reading schedule to a tea. Authors like Ivan Doig and David Mitchell and Sebastian Faulks and Hemingway and Cormac McCarthy write engaging, occasionally powerful, stories that can be taken in small doses. But occasionally I need a bit of pulp. Not trash, smut, or hollow baseless filth. But gritty, abrasive life. Recently I've gotten my fill of pulp from Raymond Chandler.
Chandlers books center on a blue collar private eye, Phillip Marlowe, who works out problems for a white collar crowd. He drinks, smokes, carries a gun and generally associates with loose women and tough thugs. But there is something redemptive about Chandlers work and as he fleshes out Marlowe there is a bit of human decency that filters through the cracks and no amount of papering can cover it completely.
The latest of his books I have read is "The Long Goodbye". Typically he starts off writing about one mystery, diverts to another, and brings them together in the end. In "The Long Goodbye" Marlowe befriends a British war hero cum alcoholic and "lap dog" for a spoiled, rich, wife: Terry Lennox. As the novels unfolds Lennox's wife is found dead, Lennox flees the country, and the case is closed by the influence of the dead wife's father. Marlowe goes about his business of taking on clients, pestering the police, and generally not minding his own business.
I will confess that the stories, while not exactly predictable, follow a fairly obvious pattern and Marlowe, for his gruff, gritty lifestyle, is a little too tidy as a character. But Chandler is perfectly candid and authentic as an author bringing out the street language of L.A., a call it how i see it portrait of racial and gender roles of the time, vivid sociall paradox, and the rugged, enduring condition of the human spirit to survive.
A person could do much, much worse than taking a gamble on Raymond Chandler for a bit of escapist reading.
Chandlers books center on a blue collar private eye, Phillip Marlowe, who works out problems for a white collar crowd. He drinks, smokes, carries a gun and generally associates with loose women and tough thugs. But there is something redemptive about Chandlers work and as he fleshes out Marlowe there is a bit of human decency that filters through the cracks and no amount of papering can cover it completely.
The latest of his books I have read is "The Long Goodbye". Typically he starts off writing about one mystery, diverts to another, and brings them together in the end. In "The Long Goodbye" Marlowe befriends a British war hero cum alcoholic and "lap dog" for a spoiled, rich, wife: Terry Lennox. As the novels unfolds Lennox's wife is found dead, Lennox flees the country, and the case is closed by the influence of the dead wife's father. Marlowe goes about his business of taking on clients, pestering the police, and generally not minding his own business.
I will confess that the stories, while not exactly predictable, follow a fairly obvious pattern and Marlowe, for his gruff, gritty lifestyle, is a little too tidy as a character. But Chandler is perfectly candid and authentic as an author bringing out the street language of L.A., a call it how i see it portrait of racial and gender roles of the time, vivid sociall paradox, and the rugged, enduring condition of the human spirit to survive.
A person could do much, much worse than taking a gamble on Raymond Chandler for a bit of escapist reading.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Black Swan Green, by David Mitchell
Typically David Mitchell's novels tend to be post mordern epics spaning generations and continents, laced with relational themes and threads of interconected characters and experience. These novels, like Cloud Atlas, Number9Dream, and Ghostwritten and surreal and captivating stories that read like a car wreck where everthing is twisted metal and burning cloth and the smell of gasoline promises an explosion. But some of his work follows more traditional boundaries and tells a lineal story in a masterful and authentic voice. But all of his work brings it main theme to bear on human fraility and flaw and how individuals rise to overcome insecurites and fear.
Black Swan Green is almost a collection of short stories that span a year in the lif of Jason Taylor, a 13 year old boy in a small village in Worchester, England. Jason has a stutter, an older sister, and parents struggling through a rocky marriage. From January to January Jason has to overcome insecurities surrounding his stutter, stand up to bullies at school, and deal with hard life experiences -- war, death, disability, bigotry, drunk and sometimes abusive fathers, first kiss, divorce, moving.
But the story is, ultimatly, about Jason growing up and entering adolesence. At the begining of the novel he is hindered by a mythology that explains the world around him and gives reasons for the way people are what/who they are. But slowly his mythology is altered and dropped as layers of the people in the small farming village are stripped away and he has opporitunities to see beneath the surface and recognize that people act tough for a reason, act stupid for a reason, hide behind feined ignorance for a reason.
I think that Black Swan Green illustrates that life is not surface deep, people struggle for breath behind closed doors and often just keeping thier mouths above to the surface of the water is all they can do. Mitchell's novel is rich, colorful, and deep and told with the complex voice of an honest boy in a crazy world. It is well worth your time.
Black Swan Green is almost a collection of short stories that span a year in the lif of Jason Taylor, a 13 year old boy in a small village in Worchester, England. Jason has a stutter, an older sister, and parents struggling through a rocky marriage. From January to January Jason has to overcome insecurities surrounding his stutter, stand up to bullies at school, and deal with hard life experiences -- war, death, disability, bigotry, drunk and sometimes abusive fathers, first kiss, divorce, moving.
But the story is, ultimatly, about Jason growing up and entering adolesence. At the begining of the novel he is hindered by a mythology that explains the world around him and gives reasons for the way people are what/who they are. But slowly his mythology is altered and dropped as layers of the people in the small farming village are stripped away and he has opporitunities to see beneath the surface and recognize that people act tough for a reason, act stupid for a reason, hide behind feined ignorance for a reason.
I think that Black Swan Green illustrates that life is not surface deep, people struggle for breath behind closed doors and often just keeping thier mouths above to the surface of the water is all they can do. Mitchell's novel is rich, colorful, and deep and told with the complex voice of an honest boy in a crazy world. It is well worth your time.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Craftsman
The sun has set on another weekend, Sunday has slipped away as quickly as dusk fades to darkness of night. My body retires inward on itself and the whiskey from my glass, a generous pour, clouds my mind as though it were tendrils of smoke gathering beneath a canopy of leaves, slipping out where it can but generally filling the space it has, causing vision and voice and senses to fail entirely before I close my eyes and drift to sleep, letting the smoke find its own way out.
The sun will rise on a new day tomorrow and I will hang my tools bags from my shoulders and hips and fill them with tools and nails and go about my day in a fashion that befits a professional carpenter in the company of other professionals, with due diligence to the task at hand, frugal with my motions and cuts and precise with my measurements and decisions. Comfortable in the world in which I work. Unremarkable in my quality and technique but efficient and pragmatic and effective towards a finished product that meets and exceeds the expectations and demands set forth. Tight with my joints and miters and precise with my nailing, a craftsman in his element doing what he is trained to do.
At the end of the day a craftsman is what I am, really, skilled and trained and having an eye for detail but without the flare of the artists or visionaries who share my trade. It has become quite clear that I lack the qualities of the woodworkers and tradesmen that make their trade an art, the small details that separate the artist from the craftsman. There is little to discern in quality or technique but the artist finds the details that bring out something new and different in the often mundane details of framing and finish and separate themselves from the pack in this way. I am comfortable to admit I lack the qualities of a the tradesman as artist and plateau graciously as the craftsman instead.
This isn't to say I don't take a great measure of pride in my work or put in the effort it takes to create a visual pleasing and well crafted end product, au contrair, I do. I want my work as a carpenter to with stand the test of time function for the needs of homeowners today and stand for posterity so that in a hundred years, when the houses I have remodeled or built are remodeled again, the workers can look at what I've done in much the same fashion I have looked at what builders from a hundred years ago have left me -- a look of wonder at the care and quality that had come before, houses and barns and office buildings and warehouses built by hand, using hand tools, carefully fitted together with attention to detail...the work of professional craftsman.
The sun will rise on a new day tomorrow and I will hang my tools bags from my shoulders and hips and fill them with tools and nails and go about my day in a fashion that befits a professional carpenter in the company of other professionals, with due diligence to the task at hand, frugal with my motions and cuts and precise with my measurements and decisions. Comfortable in the world in which I work. Unremarkable in my quality and technique but efficient and pragmatic and effective towards a finished product that meets and exceeds the expectations and demands set forth. Tight with my joints and miters and precise with my nailing, a craftsman in his element doing what he is trained to do.
At the end of the day a craftsman is what I am, really, skilled and trained and having an eye for detail but without the flare of the artists or visionaries who share my trade. It has become quite clear that I lack the qualities of the woodworkers and tradesmen that make their trade an art, the small details that separate the artist from the craftsman. There is little to discern in quality or technique but the artist finds the details that bring out something new and different in the often mundane details of framing and finish and separate themselves from the pack in this way. I am comfortable to admit I lack the qualities of a the tradesman as artist and plateau graciously as the craftsman instead.
This isn't to say I don't take a great measure of pride in my work or put in the effort it takes to create a visual pleasing and well crafted end product, au contrair, I do. I want my work as a carpenter to with stand the test of time function for the needs of homeowners today and stand for posterity so that in a hundred years, when the houses I have remodeled or built are remodeled again, the workers can look at what I've done in much the same fashion I have looked at what builders from a hundred years ago have left me -- a look of wonder at the care and quality that had come before, houses and barns and office buildings and warehouses built by hand, using hand tools, carefully fitted together with attention to detail...the work of professional craftsman.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The End of the World
According to Harold Camping, in Oakland, the world was scheduled to end today. But it appears the the sun will rise on a new day tomorrow and I will wake up with the same worries and concerns, blessings and joys, frustrations and stresses, commitments and obligations that I have today. On the surface of his fanatical pronouncement I want so badly to deride him and his followers, lay ridicule at their feet, and allow my cynicism and sarcasm to land firmly on their fanatical devotion to an event that is impossible to predict. As I prepare my barrage I find that I can not bring myself to make fun, in fact, I can hardly bring myself to dignify them with a response of any sort except a measure of pity at their desperation. I can only believe that people would succumb to such madness out of a desperate need to escape lives of poverty, shallowness, or lies and therein we, who believe to have our feet a little more firmly on the ground, should show a little grace and ask ourselves the last time we acted on devotion and principal contrary to popular wisdom of our culture and peers.
For me it is easy to see where blind devotion comes from, the rise of fanatics and idealists. I feel that people are desperate for peace in their lives, blindly devoted to literal readings of scripture and eager for judgment and vindication for their beliefs and lives of devotion. Look out the window the next time you are driving through a urban sprawl, the freeway is littered with lewd posters and promises of vice. T.V. is ripe with sex and violence and messages of self-indulgence. The world around us is an anything goes world and is contrary to nearly everything a person like Camping or his devotees would believe.
To the mockers and doubters and cynics, myself included, is there anything wrong with believing something so deeply? How about us, Christians, doesn't this compel you so look a little deeper at your beliefs? These people are devoted, how ever misguided, to what they believe, whole heatedly. Their devotion is misplaced and their focus on the the end is contrary to the call, I believe, of Christ. However, their devotion has to be admired to some degree and their longing for a better life can not be overlooked.
Our culture is a collage of lies and empty promises and we lead lives of compromise and fear. We travel through life alternately believing in peace and hate and love and war and darkness and light and at some point we are confronted by our demons and comforted by our angels.
I don't believe in Camping's prediction and I pity his followers, to place so much hope in something so obviously flawed is the epitome and desperation and ignorance. Tomorrow will bring a new day and I fully expect to wake up in my bed, next to my wife, by my children to rise again to the challenges of life and to do the best I can with what I have at hand. That is all any of us can do. There is no predicting the end of the world, there is living today, living tomorrow, living the day after that and so on.
For me it is easy to see where blind devotion comes from, the rise of fanatics and idealists. I feel that people are desperate for peace in their lives, blindly devoted to literal readings of scripture and eager for judgment and vindication for their beliefs and lives of devotion. Look out the window the next time you are driving through a urban sprawl, the freeway is littered with lewd posters and promises of vice. T.V. is ripe with sex and violence and messages of self-indulgence. The world around us is an anything goes world and is contrary to nearly everything a person like Camping or his devotees would believe.
To the mockers and doubters and cynics, myself included, is there anything wrong with believing something so deeply? How about us, Christians, doesn't this compel you so look a little deeper at your beliefs? These people are devoted, how ever misguided, to what they believe, whole heatedly. Their devotion is misplaced and their focus on the the end is contrary to the call, I believe, of Christ. However, their devotion has to be admired to some degree and their longing for a better life can not be overlooked.
Our culture is a collage of lies and empty promises and we lead lives of compromise and fear. We travel through life alternately believing in peace and hate and love and war and darkness and light and at some point we are confronted by our demons and comforted by our angels.
I don't believe in Camping's prediction and I pity his followers, to place so much hope in something so obviously flawed is the epitome and desperation and ignorance. Tomorrow will bring a new day and I fully expect to wake up in my bed, next to my wife, by my children to rise again to the challenges of life and to do the best I can with what I have at hand. That is all any of us can do. There is no predicting the end of the world, there is living today, living tomorrow, living the day after that and so on.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
New Work
It feels quiet outside this morning. Dark rain clouds hang close to the earth, the streets and driveways that I can see are wet standing puddles are littered about. The grass, I cut yesterday, is saturated with rain today and the pink and red apple blossoms are in stark contrast to the grey that surrounds them. This has been a wet, cold, spring with more days of rain than sun and more days of mud than dust and it seems that I am not quite ready to give up my rain coats and heavy boots just yet. The skin on my fingers is taut from getting wet and drying out so often and my tool bags seem to be constantly damp, as do my tools and the air in my truck. The nature of a carpenter, in wet weather, I suppose, but I do not like it and I long for a stretch of comfortable sunshine in which I can revel.
Tomorrow I start work with a new contractor, I hesitate to say I've found a new job. I feel as though I am just going from one job to another, one day after another, a carpenter staying busy in a slow economy. I can not look at the work ahead and believe in a year, or two years, or more of steady work for the same company. I can only take in the project at hand, that is all my hope will bear. But the project at hand is significant and I do look forward to knowing where I will be working for the next two months. There is none of the niggling doubt and anxiety of finding work day to day or week to week.
But as is my want, in keeping with the fashion of my personality, the advent of steady work comes with a degree of sorrow and sacrifice as well. The days of writing and riding are gone and, having not utilized my time as well as I had hoped, I feel the past weeks and months, when I had time available to work at other things and have not, those hours available have been wasted and lost and I look back with a degree of sorrow and regret. The reality is there comes a point, in a lengthy unemployment, wherein the need for a job clouds all other needs or desires and the job search becomes a soul sucking process of rejection turning to mental anguish and a constant state of desperation. This becomes the mental identity of the unemployed -- searching failure. To have found a job, and to be on the cusp of starting, defeats that identity and the time it absorbed comes to stark focus as a mental purgatory and I wonder what could have been with the strength to utilize those lost hours in productive writing, riding, reading, exercise, family time... But I do not want to dwell on hindsight for to long.
Tomorrow I begin work, formally, as a carpenter once again. The latent identity of carpenter re-emerges and the dreams of writing are gently moved to the wings, to be realized in small steps, through my blog and moments of time I coax out of the day for such a purpose.
It has started to rain, again, and I look forward to a ride and some leisure as the day goes on. Tomorrow I join the ranks of the employed, putting to practice my occupation as a carpenter. Hopefully, soon, I can realize my vocation as a writer.
Tomorrow I start work with a new contractor, I hesitate to say I've found a new job. I feel as though I am just going from one job to another, one day after another, a carpenter staying busy in a slow economy. I can not look at the work ahead and believe in a year, or two years, or more of steady work for the same company. I can only take in the project at hand, that is all my hope will bear. But the project at hand is significant and I do look forward to knowing where I will be working for the next two months. There is none of the niggling doubt and anxiety of finding work day to day or week to week.
But as is my want, in keeping with the fashion of my personality, the advent of steady work comes with a degree of sorrow and sacrifice as well. The days of writing and riding are gone and, having not utilized my time as well as I had hoped, I feel the past weeks and months, when I had time available to work at other things and have not, those hours available have been wasted and lost and I look back with a degree of sorrow and regret. The reality is there comes a point, in a lengthy unemployment, wherein the need for a job clouds all other needs or desires and the job search becomes a soul sucking process of rejection turning to mental anguish and a constant state of desperation. This becomes the mental identity of the unemployed -- searching failure. To have found a job, and to be on the cusp of starting, defeats that identity and the time it absorbed comes to stark focus as a mental purgatory and I wonder what could have been with the strength to utilize those lost hours in productive writing, riding, reading, exercise, family time... But I do not want to dwell on hindsight for to long.
Tomorrow I begin work, formally, as a carpenter once again. The latent identity of carpenter re-emerges and the dreams of writing are gently moved to the wings, to be realized in small steps, through my blog and moments of time I coax out of the day for such a purpose.
It has started to rain, again, and I look forward to a ride and some leisure as the day goes on. Tomorrow I join the ranks of the employed, putting to practice my occupation as a carpenter. Hopefully, soon, I can realize my vocation as a writer.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Excuses
Another return after another long absense from writing here at King St. Industries, the blog. I can't really explain why I am so hot and cold, most often cold, when it comes to blogging. It is my inability to remain wholly committed to anything in life that is not directly related to survival and takes a measure of personal sacrifice and effort and reaps limited, at best, rewards. There is nothing in blogging for me, really, except the personal satifaction of putting thoughts into words and words into publication no matter how low a form of vanity press it may be. But truly, my failings as a writer are not new or unique, I am plagued with excuses of my own design and I rely on them to keep me from realizing what little potential, at anything, I have.
It seems that excuses are the baneof my life, a blatant procrastination that seeks out mindless fulfillment as opposed the mental (or physical if I am avoiding exercise) exertion. But sitting here, at the computer, for 20 minutes a day to stream thoughts into type is not so big a sacrifice to make and I long to write here if for no other reason than to stay attuned to the practice of writing. For a man who longs to realize his vocation as a writer/reader I have a painful aversion to making those things life practices and spend my time browsing craigslist or watching mountain bike videos on http://www.pinkbike.com/ in lieuof pursuing what I have passions for -- written word.
I hesitate to call this a human condition, there are so many writers who write daily and are affirmed (or not)in their calling to do so and they are productive and may or may not get paid for it but have the discipline and presence of mind and spirit to write on and on and make the sacrifices necessary to do so. They wake up early, stay up late, are able to tune out the noise and demands of their children until they have fulfilled the daily writing goals laid out before them. How I long for their discipline, writers who write daily and whether the writing of the day is shit or not it is still a days writing and there in they are serious and devoted writers.
For my part I would rather read or watch a movie or wile my time in the presence of friends or the pretext of family, whom I love deeply, but also whom I use as a crutch to prop up excuses and procrastination.
I long to pursue a graduate degree in writing or English literature and go on to make my vocation my occupation, let the passions of my life determine the nature of my career but I am hindered by my inability to find a daily discipline and use the unavoidable demands of life -- parenting, husbanding, working -- as the penultimate excuse to avoid the pursuit of writing and reading and talking about writing and literature as my life's work.
It seems that excuses are the baneof my life, a blatant procrastination that seeks out mindless fulfillment as opposed the mental (or physical if I am avoiding exercise) exertion. But sitting here, at the computer, for 20 minutes a day to stream thoughts into type is not so big a sacrifice to make and I long to write here if for no other reason than to stay attuned to the practice of writing. For a man who longs to realize his vocation as a writer/reader I have a painful aversion to making those things life practices and spend my time browsing craigslist or watching mountain bike videos on http://www.pinkbike.com/ in lieuof pursuing what I have passions for -- written word.
I hesitate to call this a human condition, there are so many writers who write daily and are affirmed (or not)in their calling to do so and they are productive and may or may not get paid for it but have the discipline and presence of mind and spirit to write on and on and make the sacrifices necessary to do so. They wake up early, stay up late, are able to tune out the noise and demands of their children until they have fulfilled the daily writing goals laid out before them. How I long for their discipline, writers who write daily and whether the writing of the day is shit or not it is still a days writing and there in they are serious and devoted writers.
For my part I would rather read or watch a movie or wile my time in the presence of friends or the pretext of family, whom I love deeply, but also whom I use as a crutch to prop up excuses and procrastination.
I long to pursue a graduate degree in writing or English literature and go on to make my vocation my occupation, let the passions of my life determine the nature of my career but I am hindered by my inability to find a daily discipline and use the unavoidable demands of life -- parenting, husbanding, working -- as the penultimate excuse to avoid the pursuit of writing and reading and talking about writing and literature as my life's work.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Sky Fisherman, by Craig Lesley
![The Sky Fisherman [SKY FISHERMAN -OS]](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51%2B-jYgvC-L._SL500_AA300_.jpg)
There are some books that identify who you are, where you've come from, the world from which you've grown out of and away from. Often these are works of fiction that cut candidly and deeply into the authentic struggles of people. The novel The Sky Fisherman, by Craig Lesley, is such a story. Rich in its humanity and honesty, the book drew me out of my present and into the settings of my past, a world with which I identified very closely.
The Sky Fisherman is set in the rural Northwest largely in a booming lumber town flanked by a reservation and haunted by the subtle racism that can only be understood if you've read Lesley or experienced the setting for yourself. The main characters are Culver Martin, a 16 year old boy hungry for identity and a father, his mother, Flora, a woman of opportunity who longs for a better life for herself and her son. Culver's uncle, Jake, fishing guide and owner of a sporting goods store, and Culver's stepfather Riley, who drifts in and out of the periphery of the story offering subtle, menacing, overtones. Many other characters take stage throughout the novel, bringing to life the rich, and often diverse, range of people found in the bars and cafes of the blue collar towns littered across the Pacific Northwest.
I love the novel for its authenticity. The simple way Lesley writes about the complex nature of the relationship between residents of Gateway (the town from the novel) and the Native Americans on neighboring reservation is absolutely brilliant. He offers no apologies on either side and is unabashed as the rich cultural tradition of the Indians collides head on with their white neighbors. Nor does he try to play down the tension in the white perception of life on the "res", the not so subtle racism, and the institutionalized bigotry.
Part coming of age story, part journey of healing for a broken family with bitter secrets, part expose on the ongoing struggle of blue collar life and long climb Native Americans have off the reservations. The Sky Fisherman is a rich and powerful novel.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
A Brave New World...of youth sports.
We have entered the world of organized sports. Groups of kids signing up for games that are coached and refereed. My son is on a U-6 soccer team (six and under), they play three on three games and sub every five minutes. There is no goalie, no score keeper, and the games are loosely refereed. They practice once a week.
For a six year old, the game is an extension of school yard play. A collection of boys playing together at a common goal. Generating a little competition as boys are want to do but friends irregardless and smiles all round. I played soccer for a great deal of my school years and I loved it a great deal. The game has always been a source of enjoyment and fulfillment for me and win or lose playing soccer always makes me smile. In truth I was blessed with some pretty good coaches, not perfect, but they generally cultivated a love for the sport within teaching technique, tactics, positioning, etc. After watching three practices and one game as a father I can see within my son's small team some fathers doing their best to create a future of non-athletes.
There will be a lot of time, too much time, for serious competition. A time for scores to matter a bit more than they do now and the game is taken to a higher level. It won't be too long before my son comes home from practice pissed off at his coach or the other players or slams the door to his room after a tough loss in front of the home crowd. It won't belong before we are expected to take the game a little more serious. But for now, for a team of kindergartners, soccer is just a game. It is fun to be on the field, kicking the ball around, learning to dribble and pass and score goals. It is too fun to ruin with criticism and coaching from the sidelines by the parents.
I am doing my best to let my son figure out the game on his own. I show him things, we play soccer in the back yard (and the living room), and kick the ball around as the situation offers. At this age, he is quick to pick up tricks and flicks and the general ideas behind carrying the ball at your feet and for now I am content to let him figure it out on his own through play. Just playing. The kids on the field don't need any advice from their parents, just encouragement. It is easy to get exasperated, especially for parents who have a history with the sport but, parents, IT ISN'T ABOUT YOU RIGHT NOW! It is about your kids having fun and developing a lifestyle of exercise. Whether or not my son is the next Zinadine Zindane or Theirry Henry is not important to me, what is important is that he engages with the sport for as long as it makes him smile, in my case, despite the frustrations that arose, that has been always.
For a six year old, the game is an extension of school yard play. A collection of boys playing together at a common goal. Generating a little competition as boys are want to do but friends irregardless and smiles all round. I played soccer for a great deal of my school years and I loved it a great deal. The game has always been a source of enjoyment and fulfillment for me and win or lose playing soccer always makes me smile. In truth I was blessed with some pretty good coaches, not perfect, but they generally cultivated a love for the sport within teaching technique, tactics, positioning, etc. After watching three practices and one game as a father I can see within my son's small team some fathers doing their best to create a future of non-athletes.
There will be a lot of time, too much time, for serious competition. A time for scores to matter a bit more than they do now and the game is taken to a higher level. It won't be too long before my son comes home from practice pissed off at his coach or the other players or slams the door to his room after a tough loss in front of the home crowd. It won't belong before we are expected to take the game a little more serious. But for now, for a team of kindergartners, soccer is just a game. It is fun to be on the field, kicking the ball around, learning to dribble and pass and score goals. It is too fun to ruin with criticism and coaching from the sidelines by the parents.
I am doing my best to let my son figure out the game on his own. I show him things, we play soccer in the back yard (and the living room), and kick the ball around as the situation offers. At this age, he is quick to pick up tricks and flicks and the general ideas behind carrying the ball at your feet and for now I am content to let him figure it out on his own through play. Just playing. The kids on the field don't need any advice from their parents, just encouragement. It is easy to get exasperated, especially for parents who have a history with the sport but, parents, IT ISN'T ABOUT YOU RIGHT NOW! It is about your kids having fun and developing a lifestyle of exercise. Whether or not my son is the next Zinadine Zindane or Theirry Henry is not important to me, what is important is that he engages with the sport for as long as it makes him smile, in my case, despite the frustrations that arose, that has been always.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Heart of Recession
One of the hardest aspects of unemployment is dealing the lingering expectancy of prompt response to job inquiries and applications. I always come back to my email with the expectancy of response, that out of the 10 jobs I contacted last week or the six the week before or the forgotten number the week before that will reply to my resume/cover letter packet and offer the chance of an interview. But instead I'm left with an inbox full of junk mail and the latest sale at http://www.pricepoint.com/ and the nagging suggestion in the back of my mind that I'm being rejected...again.
Rejection is the feeling of being ignored, looked over, or failing to meet the qualifications. Rejection is looking for a job in a recovering economy where people are still making money, buying cars, building houses, creating industry, and going to war, but not hiring. It filters down like sifted flour and covers over life, everything I do has the flavor and texture of rejection because I am painfully conscious that everything I do now is because I can not find a job. Trying to fill the long days, while easy enough, is still dusted with the knowledge that tomorrow there is no work, nor the next day, nor the next and rent is paid and bills are paid by the grace of welfare (lets call it what it is) and rejection becomes a source of shame and frustration that infects the very core of being human.
Until you have lived this experience there are very few comparisons to be drawn, and, honestly, none that I can think of.
It is a pattern of ups and downs as I earnestly try to reinvent myself and my identity and cope with the struggles of poverty. Of all the consequences of poverty, in my opinion, the worst is the social feeling of shame. Standing in parks while the kids play, making small talk with other parents or friends at parties, the gross majority living a middle class life born out of hard work, discipline, and perseverance, will cast thoughtless judgement on the plight of the poor. Implying that the fault of the poor is on the shoulders of the poor and their eyes glaze over with a removed pity condemning them to the life they've "chosen".
The poor are not poor because that is the choice they've made. The poor are poor because they are poor.
Very few would choose this life.
But the social response to impoverished neighbors is to pile shame on their situation, albeit indirectly. Schools in low income neighborhoods are castigated as inferior and the result becomes an inferior school. The welfare they depend on is seen as something paid for by someone else (perhaps rightly so) in this regard it is always viewed as a hand out by those who don't need it and there for looked down on because someone else is "paying" the way. Society is framed with rags to riches stories of kings and queens of industry, art, and thought, clawing their way out of the holes into which they were born or cast by their boot straps and we are indoctrinated by the notion that hard work and sweat will see us into the American Dream, fenced in by white pickets, off street parking, two cars, an iPhone, and a blazing fast Internet connection. The fence is to keep people out and may as well be an erection of razor wire charged with electric currents and guarded like a prison because breaking into the American dream is like breaking out of a maximum security prison full of life sentences -- it can be done but no matter the work, sweat, and toil, unless their already there, most will never make it out.
This is my view from the depths of a recession, as my oldest son prepares for first grade in public schools, as unemployment insurance is paid each week and food stamps are filled each month. Rejected by the only profession I have (carpentry) and castigated--unintentionally--by the only society I know
Rejection is the feeling of being ignored, looked over, or failing to meet the qualifications. Rejection is looking for a job in a recovering economy where people are still making money, buying cars, building houses, creating industry, and going to war, but not hiring. It filters down like sifted flour and covers over life, everything I do has the flavor and texture of rejection because I am painfully conscious that everything I do now is because I can not find a job. Trying to fill the long days, while easy enough, is still dusted with the knowledge that tomorrow there is no work, nor the next day, nor the next and rent is paid and bills are paid by the grace of welfare (lets call it what it is) and rejection becomes a source of shame and frustration that infects the very core of being human.
Until you have lived this experience there are very few comparisons to be drawn, and, honestly, none that I can think of.
It is a pattern of ups and downs as I earnestly try to reinvent myself and my identity and cope with the struggles of poverty. Of all the consequences of poverty, in my opinion, the worst is the social feeling of shame. Standing in parks while the kids play, making small talk with other parents or friends at parties, the gross majority living a middle class life born out of hard work, discipline, and perseverance, will cast thoughtless judgement on the plight of the poor. Implying that the fault of the poor is on the shoulders of the poor and their eyes glaze over with a removed pity condemning them to the life they've "chosen".
The poor are not poor because that is the choice they've made. The poor are poor because they are poor.
Very few would choose this life.
But the social response to impoverished neighbors is to pile shame on their situation, albeit indirectly. Schools in low income neighborhoods are castigated as inferior and the result becomes an inferior school. The welfare they depend on is seen as something paid for by someone else (perhaps rightly so) in this regard it is always viewed as a hand out by those who don't need it and there for looked down on because someone else is "paying" the way. Society is framed with rags to riches stories of kings and queens of industry, art, and thought, clawing their way out of the holes into which they were born or cast by their boot straps and we are indoctrinated by the notion that hard work and sweat will see us into the American Dream, fenced in by white pickets, off street parking, two cars, an iPhone, and a blazing fast Internet connection. The fence is to keep people out and may as well be an erection of razor wire charged with electric currents and guarded like a prison because breaking into the American dream is like breaking out of a maximum security prison full of life sentences -- it can be done but no matter the work, sweat, and toil, unless their already there, most will never make it out.
This is my view from the depths of a recession, as my oldest son prepares for first grade in public schools, as unemployment insurance is paid each week and food stamps are filled each month. Rejected by the only profession I have (carpentry) and castigated--unintentionally--by the only society I know
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Welcom to My Future
I've been waiting for an event, novel, movie, experience, thought, or the perfect arrangement of the stars to write here again. None of that happened, although I have been reading some great novels, most recently I finished The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier and Clay by Micheal Chabon and enjoyed it a great deal. Currently I'm reading David Mitchell's first novel, Ghostwritten, and it is an engaging, compelling, read. On deck is Tinkers by Paul Harding and then I'm not sure what is after that, any suggestions? But my reading list is not the reason I've sat down here this morning.
Last year I turned 30, leaving the 20's behind me was at once the painful departure of the perception of youth and the relief to finally be 30. A relief I'm not sure if I can explain entirely except to say that turning 30 seems to have fit and make since to me. I was ready for that transition. I don't want to make to big a deal of it, because its not, really, but next week I will turn 31 and make the final step into my 30's, into permanent adulthood. Another year doesn't bother me, it won't change who I am in any measure. As long as I'm riding my mt. bike, staying fit age is not a worry. As it was in the run up to turning 30, I am once again struggling to find work, provide for my family, and define my identity.
To be constantly looking for work, in an economy that is as close to a black whole as I will ever, most likely, come, is an exercise in continuing futility and shame. It comes at a time when, I feel, I should have my proverbial shit together and be locked in the budding beginnings of a career. Yet I have been cut loose from the only profession I know (carpentry) and left high and dry by a company I expected a great deal more from -- more on so many levels. This is how I usher in my 30's, struggling to find my place in a world that seems to be crumbling around me. But for the grace of God and the love of my family I am propped up, given strength, and find something in the tank to go into the day with my head up looking for work.
So, next week I will turn 31, face another spring of unemployment, and work hard at writing, as I've been doing this winter. When I rise from the ashes and wreckage of being unemployed I will be a different than I was -- older and debatable wiser. So, welcome 31, welcome to the chaos and calamity and struggle, welcome to my life, my family, and my future.
Last year I turned 30, leaving the 20's behind me was at once the painful departure of the perception of youth and the relief to finally be 30. A relief I'm not sure if I can explain entirely except to say that turning 30 seems to have fit and make since to me. I was ready for that transition. I don't want to make to big a deal of it, because its not, really, but next week I will turn 31 and make the final step into my 30's, into permanent adulthood. Another year doesn't bother me, it won't change who I am in any measure. As long as I'm riding my mt. bike, staying fit age is not a worry. As it was in the run up to turning 30, I am once again struggling to find work, provide for my family, and define my identity.
To be constantly looking for work, in an economy that is as close to a black whole as I will ever, most likely, come, is an exercise in continuing futility and shame. It comes at a time when, I feel, I should have my proverbial shit together and be locked in the budding beginnings of a career. Yet I have been cut loose from the only profession I know (carpentry) and left high and dry by a company I expected a great deal more from -- more on so many levels. This is how I usher in my 30's, struggling to find my place in a world that seems to be crumbling around me. But for the grace of God and the love of my family I am propped up, given strength, and find something in the tank to go into the day with my head up looking for work.
So, next week I will turn 31, face another spring of unemployment, and work hard at writing, as I've been doing this winter. When I rise from the ashes and wreckage of being unemployed I will be a different than I was -- older and debatable wiser. So, welcome 31, welcome to the chaos and calamity and struggle, welcome to my life, my family, and my future.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Faith in God, Defeating Fear.
It is frustrating to live in a world of fear. As a rule I do not worry about the horrible things that can happen to people as they move through out their days and weeks and months and years but occasionally there is a catalyst to fear that works its way into the very fiber of my being. This fear is usually associated with the safety and security of my family.
In the face of being unemployed there is stress enough. The constant nagging that fires in my brain about living -- covering rent, putting food on the table, paying the bills, cloths on our backs -- is ever present. The fear aspect, the questions of what if it doesn't work out? can generally be laid to rest, or at least used as a spring board to success. This is fear I can control and do something about--exercise determination, discipline, and a solid work ethic at finding work to bring in cash and thus providing and exorcising the fear of failure and poverty. It is enough to combat these fears without letting the fears I can not control take hold on my life.
But recently a level 3 sex offender moved into our neighborhood--neighborhood nothing, onto our block sharing an alley. This has given rise to a whole new level of fear and anxiety. The safety of my wife and children suddenly becomes a direct focus of my life. My families safety is always one of my chief concerns but with a predator directly behind our house it suddenly becomes less of a warm concern and more of a burning fire of anger and a protective, defensive spirit. Recurring dreams of tearing him limb from limb haunt my dreams and the cold rush of anger fueled adrenaline pumps through my body at the very thought of seeing him much less catching him trying to interact with my children.
This is a stark reminder of the presence of evil -- for I can call him nothing less than embodying a spirit of evil to destroy of the innocence of children -- in our world. Evil we interact with and live beside and brush shoulders with on a daily basis and often ignorant of its physical manifestation. And suddenly my world is shrouded by fear and it is a fear for which I can do nothing but be diligent, protective, and wary. All I can do, suddenly, is trust that God will be the ultimate protector and provider. It is a lesson I am slow to learn and prone to forget but in the immediate context of my life it is all I have, all we have: faith in God.
I am not a man prone to talk of religion, despite my Christain faith, nor am I inclined to spiritual discipline, study, or bouts of quiet time and prayer. By and large I am content to offer to God what is God's and live my life as best I can, quietly and introverted by my nature. But today I am filled with the overwhelming sense of divine presence around the spirits of my family, as though a protective aura has settled up us. My prayers last night were that God would make our house a fortress of protection and today those prayers are realized.
In the face of being unemployed there is stress enough. The constant nagging that fires in my brain about living -- covering rent, putting food on the table, paying the bills, cloths on our backs -- is ever present. The fear aspect, the questions of what if it doesn't work out? can generally be laid to rest, or at least used as a spring board to success. This is fear I can control and do something about--exercise determination, discipline, and a solid work ethic at finding work to bring in cash and thus providing and exorcising the fear of failure and poverty. It is enough to combat these fears without letting the fears I can not control take hold on my life.
But recently a level 3 sex offender moved into our neighborhood--neighborhood nothing, onto our block sharing an alley. This has given rise to a whole new level of fear and anxiety. The safety of my wife and children suddenly becomes a direct focus of my life. My families safety is always one of my chief concerns but with a predator directly behind our house it suddenly becomes less of a warm concern and more of a burning fire of anger and a protective, defensive spirit. Recurring dreams of tearing him limb from limb haunt my dreams and the cold rush of anger fueled adrenaline pumps through my body at the very thought of seeing him much less catching him trying to interact with my children.
This is a stark reminder of the presence of evil -- for I can call him nothing less than embodying a spirit of evil to destroy of the innocence of children -- in our world. Evil we interact with and live beside and brush shoulders with on a daily basis and often ignorant of its physical manifestation. And suddenly my world is shrouded by fear and it is a fear for which I can do nothing but be diligent, protective, and wary. All I can do, suddenly, is trust that God will be the ultimate protector and provider. It is a lesson I am slow to learn and prone to forget but in the immediate context of my life it is all I have, all we have: faith in God.
I am not a man prone to talk of religion, despite my Christain faith, nor am I inclined to spiritual discipline, study, or bouts of quiet time and prayer. By and large I am content to offer to God what is God's and live my life as best I can, quietly and introverted by my nature. But today I am filled with the overwhelming sense of divine presence around the spirits of my family, as though a protective aura has settled up us. My prayers last night were that God would make our house a fortress of protection and today those prayers are realized.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Number9Dream, by David Mitchell
I wish I could understand, more clearly, the writings of David Mitchell. His novels span geography and time and explore deep rooted themes of friendship, loyalty, and family. He does not pull any punches and he is not afraid of letting the characters have their way. I've seen it written by writers on story telling that no character should be bigger than the story and I think that is true to Mitchell but he allows his characters to push the extreme limits of the stories he writes. His novels are sprawling post modern commentaries on everything. I am three novels deep into his repertoire. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, Cloud Atlas, and most recently Number9Dream.
Number9Dream, a Booker Prize Finalist, is set, for the most part, in Tokyo. A young boy, left by his mother with his twin sister, with relatives in a rural village, Yakushima, grows up feeling an orphan. Eiji Miyake and his sister Anju grow up, until Anju's untimely death, relying on one another for support, comfort, friendship, and family. Raised by relatives but never really belonging to a family. Abandoned by their mother, shunned by a father they had never met, their lives were wrapped in superstition and they were left to order the world as they saw fit based on their observations and experiences.
The novel opens in Tokyo with Eiji, close to his 20th birthday, staking out the only connection he has to the father he's never met, a lawyer in a law firm based in the Panopticon building. I don't know if it is a real place or not, Mitchell paints such a vivid image of Tokyo and captures the dream like qualities a city has on rural kids (I should know!). Immediately the story enters Eiji's fantastic imagination of daydreams as he infiltrates the law firm that connects him to his father. From there Mitchell takes readers on an amazing journey with Eiji Miyake as he finds his father, connects with is mother, and allows the memory of his twin sister to be laid finally be laid to rest.
Number9Dream is a powerfully written novel that is in equal parts thrilling, frightening, and tender. A post modern coming of age story told through dreams and imagination and pushed forward with Mitchell's direct and powerful prose. Perhaps not the best novel ever written but a damn fine one to add to your reading list.
The novel opens in Tokyo with Eiji, close to his 20th birthday, staking out the only connection he has to the father he's never met, a lawyer in a law firm based in the Panopticon building. I don't know if it is a real place or not, Mitchell paints such a vivid image of Tokyo and captures the dream like qualities a city has on rural kids (I should know!). Immediately the story enters Eiji's fantastic imagination of daydreams as he infiltrates the law firm that connects him to his father. From there Mitchell takes readers on an amazing journey with Eiji Miyake as he finds his father, connects with is mother, and allows the memory of his twin sister to be laid finally be laid to rest.
Number9Dream is a powerfully written novel that is in equal parts thrilling, frightening, and tender. A post modern coming of age story told through dreams and imagination and pushed forward with Mitchell's direct and powerful prose. Perhaps not the best novel ever written but a damn fine one to add to your reading list.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier, is a epic saga based loosely on the Odyssey of Homer and set in the American south near the close of the Civil War. It follows Inman, a soldier in the Confederate army as he heals from a neck wound in an Army hospital, his brief struggle with whether to heal and go back to the fighting or to leave then and go home to the woman waiting for him, Ada. Inman chooses to go home, slowly makes his preparations for a long journey on foot and slips out of the hospital just before morning hoping to leave the war behind him forever.
Paralell to Inman's journey is a process of development that Ada undergoes on the small farm her, largely, city raised father had purchased in which to recover from consumption and live out his days preaching in a small, liberal, country church. At the beginning of Ada's journey she is alone after the death of her father and the farm was on the verge of crumbling under missuse and neglect. A young girl, Ruby, comes to her aid and with her direction and knowledge Ada finds the strength and energy to rebuild the neglected farm.
The novel is a story of two people struggling to survive for one another. Ada becomes the sustenance Inman relies on throughout his long adventure home. Inman, in turn, becomes part of the reason Ada survives and builds up the farm. A place for them to live out their lives together. She is afraid of being along as an old woman, a bitter spinster ripe with regret of losing the man she knew she could love.
Cold Mountain is in equal measures beautiful prose and grotesque humanity. As both characters face the consequence of war in remote areas they have to over come great obstacles in their quests for survial. Raiders, roving gangs paid to collect deserters, near-do-wells searching for hand outs. Inman faces both base humanity -- caring nothing for others and looking out for only themselves -- and the generosity of humble souls willing to share their meager belongings, maybe the last food they have in the cupboard.
It is a beautiful novel that captures the rich and compelling landscape of the south in all its variances and oddities. Frazier makes it accessible to all readers and draws us in to his story.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Honest Days Work for an Honest Days Wage
Job searching is a frustrating way to fill your day. In Bellingham, at least, it is an exercise in perseverance in the face of continued rejection, non-replies, and people out to hire skill for nothing. Additionally there is no cross over in this job market. Cross-over meaning, for my purposes today, the chance to take applicable skills from one profession and apply them to another. For every non-carpentry job in which I could utilize effectively and skillfully a lot of the logistics, organizing, project management, and customer skills I have developed and honed as a carpenter there is a focused professional right behind me or right in front of me with their resume, cover letter, and tie -- I don't even know how to tie a tie -- applying for the same job. But the truly frustrating thing about looking for jobs in Bellingham is the nature of potential employers trying to take advantage of desperate people by offering pathetic wages for skilled positions.
Since I was laid-off the first time, four years ago for the better part of a summer (and that has been the pattern since then) my wage has fluctuated dramatically in a negative fashion. And it is isn't just my wage but wages for nearly every job I see, employers demanding certifications, permits, licenses, and training but paying at an entry level wage.
It isn't right to take advantage of desperate people and no amount of social help (welfare) can replace the rich, accomplished feeling of an honest days work for an honest wage. Cliche, I know, and undoubtedly relative to people in different situations. But it is an arrogant, conceited, and selfish way of thinking to set low wages in the mindset that at least a job is being provided.
I believe we are people intended to work. As a husband and father a crucial role in my life is that of provider -- worker. When I have no work my identity is ripped apart, my sense of worth and responsibility is shattered, and my family suffers on a variety of levels not the least of which is sacrifices the material comforts that we grow so reliant on but the disruption of routine and schedule and focus day in and day out. I need to work, it fulfills my duty, my identity, and a key part of my intended purpose in this life but I will not be taken advantage of. Nor should anyone be expected to.
Skilled workers are skilled workers and should be paid accordingly. I do not see a great deal of difference between a highly skilled/accomplished waitperson and their carpentry counterpart or anyone in between (baristas, bartenders, plumbers, etc...) as all fill a key role we depend on a great deal. Good service should be rewarded with a living wage. The old adage "you get what you pay for" is proven again and again and again and we should all take notice.
Since I was laid-off the first time, four years ago for the better part of a summer (and that has been the pattern since then) my wage has fluctuated dramatically in a negative fashion. And it is isn't just my wage but wages for nearly every job I see, employers demanding certifications, permits, licenses, and training but paying at an entry level wage.
It isn't right to take advantage of desperate people and no amount of social help (welfare) can replace the rich, accomplished feeling of an honest days work for an honest wage. Cliche, I know, and undoubtedly relative to people in different situations. But it is an arrogant, conceited, and selfish way of thinking to set low wages in the mindset that at least a job is being provided.
I believe we are people intended to work. As a husband and father a crucial role in my life is that of provider -- worker. When I have no work my identity is ripped apart, my sense of worth and responsibility is shattered, and my family suffers on a variety of levels not the least of which is sacrifices the material comforts that we grow so reliant on but the disruption of routine and schedule and focus day in and day out. I need to work, it fulfills my duty, my identity, and a key part of my intended purpose in this life but I will not be taken advantage of. Nor should anyone be expected to.
Skilled workers are skilled workers and should be paid accordingly. I do not see a great deal of difference between a highly skilled/accomplished waitperson and their carpentry counterpart or anyone in between (baristas, bartenders, plumbers, etc...) as all fill a key role we depend on a great deal. Good service should be rewarded with a living wage. The old adage "you get what you pay for" is proven again and again and again and we should all take notice.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Getting Sick
I'm in the final days of recovery from a sinus infection, after two or three days of throbbing headaches radiating through my sinus's I was hit by a fever and head full of orangish-yellow snot. An antibiotic course, lots of ibuprofen, saline, and rest saw me overcome the worst of it and I'm slowly regaining energy and strength. I was down for four days, not a tremendous amount of time, but I still feel physically and emotionally sapped and drained, the amount of work a body has to go through to expel an infection is tremendous and takes a heavy toll.
It is not often that I get sick. Once a year, maybe, I'll have the 24 hour flu or a lingering cold but these are passing ailments, uncomfortable, but a footnote in the course of my month. Being bound to a bed for four days is, to me, a significant chunk of time and offered an extended chance or reflection and retrospect.
I was struck at how close a metaphor getting sick is to getting laid-off -- running through life in a constant upward direction, putting a little aside, and slowly getting ahead. But when you get laid-off all of that comes to a screeching halt what little is held aside is sacrificed and the long road up is a short fall down. Likewise, getting sick seems to interrupt a strong flow of fitness (riding, working out, etc...) and, in the case of being down for a handful of days, if it doesn't set you back it certainly takes a great deal of will and strength to bring your body back to where it was. It is a few days of pain and hard work after undergoing a few days of pain and hard work.
Life for, for my family, seems to be season after season of driving forward as best we can to be stopped cold by things out of our control, namely getting laid-off as the season slows to a halt. It is easy to lapse into a fatalistic view of life and become trapped in a static a horizontal status quo. A way of living that does not sit well with me at all.
Being sick makes me frustrated and depressed, it feels as though my body has let me down and the strength and energy I depend on to draw strength from is sapped and I am empty, crest fallen, and broken for a time. Loosing my job is like getting sick and it takes time to recover the shattered confidence, the broken expectations, the crumbling security... But slowly I begin to recover, put the pieces back together, and step outward, forward, onward.
It is not often that I get sick. Once a year, maybe, I'll have the 24 hour flu or a lingering cold but these are passing ailments, uncomfortable, but a footnote in the course of my month. Being bound to a bed for four days is, to me, a significant chunk of time and offered an extended chance or reflection and retrospect.
I was struck at how close a metaphor getting sick is to getting laid-off -- running through life in a constant upward direction, putting a little aside, and slowly getting ahead. But when you get laid-off all of that comes to a screeching halt what little is held aside is sacrificed and the long road up is a short fall down. Likewise, getting sick seems to interrupt a strong flow of fitness (riding, working out, etc...) and, in the case of being down for a handful of days, if it doesn't set you back it certainly takes a great deal of will and strength to bring your body back to where it was. It is a few days of pain and hard work after undergoing a few days of pain and hard work.
Life for, for my family, seems to be season after season of driving forward as best we can to be stopped cold by things out of our control, namely getting laid-off as the season slows to a halt. It is easy to lapse into a fatalistic view of life and become trapped in a static a horizontal status quo. A way of living that does not sit well with me at all.
Being sick makes me frustrated and depressed, it feels as though my body has let me down and the strength and energy I depend on to draw strength from is sapped and I am empty, crest fallen, and broken for a time. Loosing my job is like getting sick and it takes time to recover the shattered confidence, the broken expectations, the crumbling security... But slowly I begin to recover, put the pieces back together, and step outward, forward, onward.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Reinvention: A New Identifier
This has been another season of life relearning how to cope with unemployment. The emotional toll and mental stress invoked on men and women who are generally dependable, hardworking, honest people doing their best to contribute to society and provide for their families is dramatic. As we, the unemployed, comb the job market for prospects it is with the knowledge that for every job we see and assume we can do, there are dozens of other people looking at the same job with the same assumptions, motivations, and qualifications. The job search is a taxing and frustrating process made even more so by desperation and, often times, and undeserved sense of humiliation and rejection given rise by virtue of the situation. It is, however, also a chance to begin to re-invent identity and purpose, pursuing some of the things en masse that otherwise are weekend hobbies or passions shunted to the back of the mind collecting dust and atrophying from disuse and neglect.
I have written before of the way I identify myself with my job/occupation. This identity isn't, necessarily, something I've longed or dreamed for, but it gives purpose and title to the long hours spent away from my family in pursuit of financial gain and, to some extent, justifies the work I pursue. For a while now I've identified myself as a carpenter and secondary to that is the rest of my life but as the way I provide for my family and align with society, it has been who I am: Carpenter -- wood worker, framer, finisher, craftsman. It is fair to say that embraced this title/identity and became what I did, letting go of the aspirations of a potential writer and avid reader. The necessity to provide for my growing family took precedence and I committed fully to being a carpenter, a craftsman, in pursuit of whatever excellence I could find therein. I don't regret my career path, I have learned a tremendous amount about the industry and I can speak with authority to the process and craft of building and construction. Carpentry has been a fair way to make a living and provide for my family but recently it has been a casualty of the "great recession" and opportunities to advance and get ahead have been limited and sparse and the great majority of local contractors have let their true colors show with questionable business practices, poor wages, and a cut throat approach to employees and margins.
(I am not a small business owner so it is easy for me to criticize and condemn from where I sit. It is important to clarify that they have to make their living as well and it would be unfair to say that they are only out for their benefit. It isn't necessarily true and I appreciate their need to make a living the same as me. That said, it has become common practice, at least locally, to treat employees as dispensable and to cheapen the value of skilled tradesmen to such an extent that when those of us who are unemployed find a job we are often taking a dramatic hit on what our labor and experience is worth to the point that working as a carpenter is rapidly loosing its viability as a way to raise and provide for a family.)
It is in this context that I find myself with a little time and a chance to pursue some of the lost aspirations of my life. So, for now, I write and I ride and I spend time with my family.
With my identity in flux and the structure of a steady job eliminated I have experienced, in the past, the detriment a block of time with little or no focus can have on my mental state. So it was important to me to establish a routine early in my most recent lay-off. That routine starts in the morning, getting everyone ready for the day and helping my wife maintain her routine but still being available to help with the boys as I was able and was necessary. My routine has remained in tact for four weeks now, leaving the house around 9 a.m. to write (at least 1,500 words a day or three pages and more if I can, but my daily minimum is 1,500 words) then home for lunch and job search in the afternoon and a spin on Galbraith with my mt. bike every other day or so. Remaining rigid to my writing schedule but flex able in everything else as to spend time with the boys and my wife and, as much as possible in the growing stress and financial anxiety, enjoying the opportunity to pursue writing and riding and family.
Once I find a job each of the things I'm able to give focus to, now, will take a hit and my structure will have to be re-vamped to accommodate work but I hope to maintain a newly invented identity as writer, husband, father, rider and not simply carpenter. I am no longer content to be simply carpenter, life is so much more complex and engaging than that. I have done some writing that I am truly excited about, seen my level of riding take a big leap -- in fitness at least -- and spent some quality and purposeful time with my wife and my kids. So much more important than a life of work.
I have written before of the way I identify myself with my job/occupation. This identity isn't, necessarily, something I've longed or dreamed for, but it gives purpose and title to the long hours spent away from my family in pursuit of financial gain and, to some extent, justifies the work I pursue. For a while now I've identified myself as a carpenter and secondary to that is the rest of my life but as the way I provide for my family and align with society, it has been who I am: Carpenter -- wood worker, framer, finisher, craftsman. It is fair to say that embraced this title/identity and became what I did, letting go of the aspirations of a potential writer and avid reader. The necessity to provide for my growing family took precedence and I committed fully to being a carpenter, a craftsman, in pursuit of whatever excellence I could find therein. I don't regret my career path, I have learned a tremendous amount about the industry and I can speak with authority to the process and craft of building and construction. Carpentry has been a fair way to make a living and provide for my family but recently it has been a casualty of the "great recession" and opportunities to advance and get ahead have been limited and sparse and the great majority of local contractors have let their true colors show with questionable business practices, poor wages, and a cut throat approach to employees and margins.
(I am not a small business owner so it is easy for me to criticize and condemn from where I sit. It is important to clarify that they have to make their living as well and it would be unfair to say that they are only out for their benefit. It isn't necessarily true and I appreciate their need to make a living the same as me. That said, it has become common practice, at least locally, to treat employees as dispensable and to cheapen the value of skilled tradesmen to such an extent that when those of us who are unemployed find a job we are often taking a dramatic hit on what our labor and experience is worth to the point that working as a carpenter is rapidly loosing its viability as a way to raise and provide for a family.)
It is in this context that I find myself with a little time and a chance to pursue some of the lost aspirations of my life. So, for now, I write and I ride and I spend time with my family.
With my identity in flux and the structure of a steady job eliminated I have experienced, in the past, the detriment a block of time with little or no focus can have on my mental state. So it was important to me to establish a routine early in my most recent lay-off. That routine starts in the morning, getting everyone ready for the day and helping my wife maintain her routine but still being available to help with the boys as I was able and was necessary. My routine has remained in tact for four weeks now, leaving the house around 9 a.m. to write (at least 1,500 words a day or three pages and more if I can, but my daily minimum is 1,500 words) then home for lunch and job search in the afternoon and a spin on Galbraith with my mt. bike every other day or so. Remaining rigid to my writing schedule but flex able in everything else as to spend time with the boys and my wife and, as much as possible in the growing stress and financial anxiety, enjoying the opportunity to pursue writing and riding and family.
Once I find a job each of the things I'm able to give focus to, now, will take a hit and my structure will have to be re-vamped to accommodate work but I hope to maintain a newly invented identity as writer, husband, father, rider and not simply carpenter. I am no longer content to be simply carpenter, life is so much more complex and engaging than that. I have done some writing that I am truly excited about, seen my level of riding take a big leap -- in fitness at least -- and spent some quality and purposeful time with my wife and my kids. So much more important than a life of work.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Lingering Days of Winter
It feels like it has been a long winter. The days and days of rain in November and December, the snow and bitter cold in January feel like we've seen enough. It doesn't help to have this on again off again spring tease as February drives forward. I woke up this morning and the back yard, the neighbors roof, the windows of the cars are covered in ice and frost. Ohm rises from the various chimneys and vents on the houses about the neighbor hood and the cars that drive by leave a long trail of exhaust visible because of the cold winter air.
I don't dislike winter and I prefer the cold, bright, frozen days to the weeks of cold, cloudy, rainy days or the inevitable snow melt when everything is saturated in slush and mud and you can not go anywhere without soaking the slush and mud as though you were dry and crusty old sponge longing for moisture. Winter, though, feels long and cold and even the brightest days fade into an early night and start very slowly.
But I think it has more to do with the pattern that has been established these past three years, as winter crawls into spring I have crawled into unemployment and the early nights and late mornings become a bleak frame for a bleak state of mind.
I am ready for winter to be over -- I am more ready to have consistent, steady work.
I don't dislike winter and I prefer the cold, bright, frozen days to the weeks of cold, cloudy, rainy days or the inevitable snow melt when everything is saturated in slush and mud and you can not go anywhere without soaking the slush and mud as though you were dry and crusty old sponge longing for moisture. Winter, though, feels long and cold and even the brightest days fade into an early night and start very slowly.
But I think it has more to do with the pattern that has been established these past three years, as winter crawls into spring I have crawled into unemployment and the early nights and late mornings become a bleak frame for a bleak state of mind.
I am ready for winter to be over -- I am more ready to have consistent, steady work.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Jury Duty
This week finds me in the first half of my jury duty commitment and already I have sat on a jury and became part of a process that found a man guilty of driving under the influence. The true nature of "innocent until proven guilty" struck me for the first time this week. Having the chance to sit in court and watch a man, whose civil liberties were on the line for a choice he made, react to the prosecutor's case for his guilt.
At one point, true to his plea, the defendant wholly believed his innocence, that his blood alcohol content did not indicate a violation of the law, that he was in the right and should be in the clear. But slowly his countenance changed, over the course of prosecutor's case he crumbled and at the end of the second day he was a guilty man. Not based on evidence alone, though it was irrefutable that his blood alcohol level was over the legal limit, rather his demeanor as his posture failed and his face fell and he could hardly keep his chin up for the tears that threatened to be revealed.
Passing judgement on someone for something I'm sure I have done was a humbling experience.
Realizing that there are liberties he will lose offers some perspective.
Six jurors were chosen (this was district court), people I'd never seen or met before, from a dynamic cross section of life and experience. From these two days we developed a subtle bond of friendship and commitment, believing collectively in the evidence presented brought us together in a way I can not entirely understand. Perfect strangers in unanimous agreement.
By the time the trial was in its closing stages there was little, or no, other option to come too, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the defendant was guilty of the offense he committed. But in retrospect it could have been so different. The defense could have found opened holes in the testimonies of witnesses for the prosecution--as he so nearly did--not revealing lies but developing doubts and minor inconsistencies and that is all he needed to do. If he had been successful the result would have been dramatically different.
I don't, in general, have a lot of faith in people's opinion to think for themselves. I have listened to to many politically charged propaganda spiels from the mouths of friends, acquaintances, and protesters on the street that were lifted directly from their favorite extremist personality or association. But over the course of two days my faith in the human mind to take in and comprehend facts and reason has been restored by some degree.
Jury duty was a terrible inconvenience and the process is littered with wasted time as the logistics and decisions are made on the fly. Yet I don't feel it was a waste--though I am not eager for another trial--rather I have a new appreciation of the dedication lawyers have to their practice, the knowledge a judge relies on to pass judgement and mediate a trial, and the legal process itself with its strict protocols.
When the system works as it is supposed to work then we are a privileged society. When it fails, as I am sure it does, the result is disastrous. I look at the liberties I assume and have taken for granted for so long today differently than I did three days ago. We are privileged to be free and to assume a great deal of freedoms until choice or situation forces us to do something regrettable upon which a jury of our peers will cast judgement.
At one point, true to his plea, the defendant wholly believed his innocence, that his blood alcohol content did not indicate a violation of the law, that he was in the right and should be in the clear. But slowly his countenance changed, over the course of prosecutor's case he crumbled and at the end of the second day he was a guilty man. Not based on evidence alone, though it was irrefutable that his blood alcohol level was over the legal limit, rather his demeanor as his posture failed and his face fell and he could hardly keep his chin up for the tears that threatened to be revealed.
Passing judgement on someone for something I'm sure I have done was a humbling experience.
Realizing that there are liberties he will lose offers some perspective.
Six jurors were chosen (this was district court), people I'd never seen or met before, from a dynamic cross section of life and experience. From these two days we developed a subtle bond of friendship and commitment, believing collectively in the evidence presented brought us together in a way I can not entirely understand. Perfect strangers in unanimous agreement.
By the time the trial was in its closing stages there was little, or no, other option to come too, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the defendant was guilty of the offense he committed. But in retrospect it could have been so different. The defense could have found opened holes in the testimonies of witnesses for the prosecution--as he so nearly did--not revealing lies but developing doubts and minor inconsistencies and that is all he needed to do. If he had been successful the result would have been dramatically different.
I don't, in general, have a lot of faith in people's opinion to think for themselves. I have listened to to many politically charged propaganda spiels from the mouths of friends, acquaintances, and protesters on the street that were lifted directly from their favorite extremist personality or association. But over the course of two days my faith in the human mind to take in and comprehend facts and reason has been restored by some degree.
Jury duty was a terrible inconvenience and the process is littered with wasted time as the logistics and decisions are made on the fly. Yet I don't feel it was a waste--though I am not eager for another trial--rather I have a new appreciation of the dedication lawyers have to their practice, the knowledge a judge relies on to pass judgement and mediate a trial, and the legal process itself with its strict protocols.
When the system works as it is supposed to work then we are a privileged society. When it fails, as I am sure it does, the result is disastrous. I look at the liberties I assume and have taken for granted for so long today differently than I did three days ago. We are privileged to be free and to assume a great deal of freedoms until choice or situation forces us to do something regrettable upon which a jury of our peers will cast judgement.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Tribute To "On Writing"
I am into my fourth week of unemployment. The weight of working for a company I (I realize now) cared very little for has been lifted from my shoulders as well as my first reaction to being unemployed – anger, resentment, fear, disgust, etc. That isn’t to say I’m over the experience, when I dwell to long on my previous bosses or see the Advent Construction van roll down the street the company culture of hypocrisy and double standards rushes back and for a moment I am left standing in a blank space, heart rushing into my chest and my vision turning red. But the episode passes quickly and I am able to continue on in my day with very little trouble.
I have used this time to reread Stephen King’s memoir/instruction manual On Writing. This little book is one of the most insightful books on writing I have ever read. King writes from an experienced perspective with a candid and endearing voice. Beginning as a small child, his experience growing up without a father and moving around the east coast and into the Midwest, from family member to family member and finally settling in Maine so his mother could take care of her mother. The book chronicles King’s journey from struggling short story writer/English teacher to publish author on the rise, right through the accident that hospitalized him in 1999.
Broken into two parts, the first is his life and what made him the writer he is, the second is his insight into writing and how to go about creating a discipline and lifestyle of a productive writer, there is nothing in the book I don’t find to be valuable or helpful. Looking at my copy it looks as though I’ve ear marked the bottoms of nearly a third of the pages in the book to mark a reference or insight I found particularly useful or insightful.
To be frank, I don’t find the works of Stephen King to be particularly intriguing. I struggle the macabre subject matter and the corny situations. There are a few notable exceptions where I feel he has written superb stories – The Stand, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, The Shinning -- nothing that will every win a Pulitzer or National Book Award, but strong, honest, excellent, well crafted stories with powerful characters that we can either relate to or see in ourselves or others. But having read On Writing a few times now I appreciate the man who is Stephen King.
He is a prolific, successful writer who has made piles and piles of money by being honest to the language and voice with which he identifies. He is disciplined and humble and realizes that he has become what he is today with the support of his family and friends. King has overcome dramatic obstacles including substance abuse and a relatively unsettled childhood and later in his life a head on collision – while on a walk – with a van on a back road in Maine. The accident should have killed him.
There are a great number of writers whose works I consider to be far superior to King, some contemporary some before his time and I am never compelled to pick up a King novel or to search one out at the library. But his “memoir on the craft” is one of the most influential books of writing in my life, to this point. As I use my down time to work on writing and try to create a discipline of the craft I have Stephen King to thank.
So, Stephen, if you ever read this: You are a pragmatic, inspiring voice from the wilderness. Thank you for On Writing.
I have used this time to reread Stephen King’s memoir/instruction manual On Writing. This little book is one of the most insightful books on writing I have ever read. King writes from an experienced perspective with a candid and endearing voice. Beginning as a small child, his experience growing up without a father and moving around the east coast and into the Midwest, from family member to family member and finally settling in Maine so his mother could take care of her mother. The book chronicles King’s journey from struggling short story writer/English teacher to publish author on the rise, right through the accident that hospitalized him in 1999.
Broken into two parts, the first is his life and what made him the writer he is, the second is his insight into writing and how to go about creating a discipline and lifestyle of a productive writer, there is nothing in the book I don’t find to be valuable or helpful. Looking at my copy it looks as though I’ve ear marked the bottoms of nearly a third of the pages in the book to mark a reference or insight I found particularly useful or insightful.
To be frank, I don’t find the works of Stephen King to be particularly intriguing. I struggle the macabre subject matter and the corny situations. There are a few notable exceptions where I feel he has written superb stories – The Stand, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, The Shinning -- nothing that will every win a Pulitzer or National Book Award, but strong, honest, excellent, well crafted stories with powerful characters that we can either relate to or see in ourselves or others. But having read On Writing a few times now I appreciate the man who is Stephen King.
He is a prolific, successful writer who has made piles and piles of money by being honest to the language and voice with which he identifies. He is disciplined and humble and realizes that he has become what he is today with the support of his family and friends. King has overcome dramatic obstacles including substance abuse and a relatively unsettled childhood and later in his life a head on collision – while on a walk – with a van on a back road in Maine. The accident should have killed him.
There are a great number of writers whose works I consider to be far superior to King, some contemporary some before his time and I am never compelled to pick up a King novel or to search one out at the library. But his “memoir on the craft” is one of the most influential books of writing in my life, to this point. As I use my down time to work on writing and try to create a discipline of the craft I have Stephen King to thank.
So, Stephen, if you ever read this: You are a pragmatic, inspiring voice from the wilderness. Thank you for On Writing.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Further to Yesterday
As it relates to yesterdays post, I'm not looking for a pity party. I've come to discover that life is extremely hard but we are rarely honest on this point. There is something to keeping your chin up and looking on the bright side but there comes a point for an honest reflection of the pain and frustration part and parcel to a person's lot in life. I try to keep in mind a quote from Lonesome Dove: "This is a fine world, though rich in hardships."
I am not afraid of the hardships of life, God knows me and my little family have endured our share, but I am daunted with the task of finding work, living in a liquid schedule, and stretching meager resources--again. I am fortunate to have a wife who understands and shoulders this burden with me. I don't look forward to unemployment, the financial stress is tremendous and frightening, but I do look forward to the other things in life. I am thankful for healthy children who seem largely unaffected by the changing routine. I have friends who stand behind me. I have writing, I have reading, I have mountain biking, I have coffee and beer. I have a great deal to look forward to in the lingering days of unemployment.
There are good days and bad and usually the mornings are better than the afternoons. I am able to wake up with the promise of a new day, enter into a long session of writing, search for jobs and go for a ride. As the afternoon fades away to night, however, it brings the stark realization that there was no work this day and no work tomorrow and the stress level rises to a boiling point, then my dreams are shadowed with anxiety... But the sun rises with promise, I have always believed that, and the new morning brings another chance to write, another chance to look for jobs, and another day to ride.
It is good to have time with my children and my wife. It is good to scale back and live a minimal life. It is frightening to not know what tomorrow will bring.
I am not afraid of the hardships of life, God knows me and my little family have endured our share, but I am daunted with the task of finding work, living in a liquid schedule, and stretching meager resources--again. I am fortunate to have a wife who understands and shoulders this burden with me. I don't look forward to unemployment, the financial stress is tremendous and frightening, but I do look forward to the other things in life. I am thankful for healthy children who seem largely unaffected by the changing routine. I have friends who stand behind me. I have writing, I have reading, I have mountain biking, I have coffee and beer. I have a great deal to look forward to in the lingering days of unemployment.
There are good days and bad and usually the mornings are better than the afternoons. I am able to wake up with the promise of a new day, enter into a long session of writing, search for jobs and go for a ride. As the afternoon fades away to night, however, it brings the stark realization that there was no work this day and no work tomorrow and the stress level rises to a boiling point, then my dreams are shadowed with anxiety... But the sun rises with promise, I have always believed that, and the new morning brings another chance to write, another chance to look for jobs, and another day to ride.
It is good to have time with my children and my wife. It is good to scale back and live a minimal life. It is frightening to not know what tomorrow will bring.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
C'est La Vie
Over the course of the odd year I have covered a myriad of subjects on this little blog of mine. Writing on books and movies and feelings and family and memories and writing and after each post or each lengthy lay-off from posting it seems I find myself back where I started: where is my life going? I have become adept at adjusting to waxing and waning of life's changing circumstance and at times I feel that it's a strong pair of sea legs beneath me to keep my balance. There is no depth for the thankfulness I have for my wife and her continued support. But life is fucking hard and even when we're riding the highs there is a part of me braced for the lows.
Two weeks ago I was laid-off from my job as a remodel carpenter. It was out of the blue, no warning, and shrugged off my my supervisor. (I was completely ignored by the owner of the small, small, small company. You would think that with a walloping three employees he could have made 15 minutes to tell me himself.) This is not the first time I've been laid off, every spring for the past three years has seen down time of sorts, with a little side work trickling in, we have made the best of the situation and climbed steadily out. But losing a job you are quite confident you will have for many months to come is a dramatic blow. It mangles my confidence, hammers at the security and comfort of our home, and creates subtle changes in my relationships with friends and family.
Being out of work is not a fun time. I wish there was a way to enjoy the down time more--and I do love the extra time/chance to help out more with the boys, not working opens up lots of activities during the day that I try to make the most of--but I am plagued by the realization that the steady paycheck to which we have set our standard of living is gone and rent is coming due and so are the bills and we have to eat. All of which will happen, I am sure, but that doesn't alleviate a deep sense of failure (failed to keep my job, failing to provide, failing, failing, failing...) or accompanying stress that comes with the situation.
I don't believe that getting laid-off was my fault, I don't believe that I am to blame. That doesn't change the situation.
For the time being I try to take one day at a time, live it as best I can and take the next come what may. C'est la vie.
Two weeks ago I was laid-off from my job as a remodel carpenter. It was out of the blue, no warning, and shrugged off my my supervisor. (I was completely ignored by the owner of the small, small, small company. You would think that with a walloping three employees he could have made 15 minutes to tell me himself.) This is not the first time I've been laid off, every spring for the past three years has seen down time of sorts, with a little side work trickling in, we have made the best of the situation and climbed steadily out. But losing a job you are quite confident you will have for many months to come is a dramatic blow. It mangles my confidence, hammers at the security and comfort of our home, and creates subtle changes in my relationships with friends and family.
Being out of work is not a fun time. I wish there was a way to enjoy the down time more--and I do love the extra time/chance to help out more with the boys, not working opens up lots of activities during the day that I try to make the most of--but I am plagued by the realization that the steady paycheck to which we have set our standard of living is gone and rent is coming due and so are the bills and we have to eat. All of which will happen, I am sure, but that doesn't alleviate a deep sense of failure (failed to keep my job, failing to provide, failing, failing, failing...) or accompanying stress that comes with the situation.
I don't believe that getting laid-off was my fault, I don't believe that I am to blame. That doesn't change the situation.
For the time being I try to take one day at a time, live it as best I can and take the next come what may. C'est la vie.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Birdsong, A Novel by Sebastian Faulks
I recently read the novel Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. This is the second of his novels I have read in the near past (A Week In December was the other) and I am finding him to be a candid, honest, novelist with a unique voice, moving style, and a diverse narrative range.
Birdsong is centered on a young English orphan, Stephan Wraysford, in 1910. The novel begins with him moving into the home of a wealthy textile plant owner in France, at the behest of the English company he works for, to learn the foreign aspects of the textile trade. While in this house he engages in a passionate affair with the his hosts much younger wife that results in them leaving together and settling in another region of France. From there the novel moves forward into World War I in which Wraysford is a Captain in the English army fighting in the trenches of France in "no man's land". He has been left by Isabelle, years before, and faces a bleak life of death and darkness and mud and lice. From the trenches of World War I the book flashes forward to the late 70's where Stephen's granddaughter is living out her own affair and delving into the history of her family.
The novel poses a question in two parts: what is worth fighting for? what is worth dying for? Stephen and Isabelle engage in a passionate and dramatic affair, they fight for their freedom from her abusive husband and she becomes pregnant. She runs away from Stephen without disclosing her pregnancy afraid of his passion and youth and energy and the social constraints that she has so obviously flaunted. Her greatest dream was a child of her own, her deepest fear was a life of love and passion. Subsequently the trenches become a very real experience for Stephen and then a metaphor for his life without Isabelle, the woman he would always love. Faulks' real gift of the novel comes at this point, as soldier's die in the trenches and receive tragic letters from home and try and relate to the world that isn't under the scrutiny of German artillery, he begins to answer the questions posed by the novel. The soldiers in the trenches fight for their lives because lives are worth fighting for. And, in the end, their lives are worth dying for as well.
Birdsong is beautifully crafted. Faulks' writes poetically and passionately about love and sex and war and friendship and the power of a legacy worth fighting for.
Birdsong is centered on a young English orphan, Stephan Wraysford, in 1910. The novel begins with him moving into the home of a wealthy textile plant owner in France, at the behest of the English company he works for, to learn the foreign aspects of the textile trade. While in this house he engages in a passionate affair with the his hosts much younger wife that results in them leaving together and settling in another region of France. From there the novel moves forward into World War I in which Wraysford is a Captain in the English army fighting in the trenches of France in "no man's land". He has been left by Isabelle, years before, and faces a bleak life of death and darkness and mud and lice. From the trenches of World War I the book flashes forward to the late 70's where Stephen's granddaughter is living out her own affair and delving into the history of her family.
The novel poses a question in two parts: what is worth fighting for? what is worth dying for? Stephen and Isabelle engage in a passionate and dramatic affair, they fight for their freedom from her abusive husband and she becomes pregnant. She runs away from Stephen without disclosing her pregnancy afraid of his passion and youth and energy and the social constraints that she has so obviously flaunted. Her greatest dream was a child of her own, her deepest fear was a life of love and passion. Subsequently the trenches become a very real experience for Stephen and then a metaphor for his life without Isabelle, the woman he would always love. Faulks' real gift of the novel comes at this point, as soldier's die in the trenches and receive tragic letters from home and try and relate to the world that isn't under the scrutiny of German artillery, he begins to answer the questions posed by the novel. The soldiers in the trenches fight for their lives because lives are worth fighting for. And, in the end, their lives are worth dying for as well.
Birdsong is beautifully crafted. Faulks' writes poetically and passionately about love and sex and war and friendship and the power of a legacy worth fighting for.
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