So, Part II is here. I left you with the lies we all tell, our half-white-truths that get us a couple grand closer to the richness each one of us deserves. This second post will cover a couple topics: the used car salesman, his comparative glory days during the recession, his death via Arthur Miller, etc; my own covering of the two cars that define America is today (hint, only one is American...); finally, the definition of the American Dream and how and why it currently resides in a small bunker 10 feet under the desert of Arizona.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The American Dream- Part I
It was said by someone very dear to my heart and mind that you can't cover the American Dream in an un-American car. The American Dream is a noholdsbar grab on life, hands on the throat and groin, a steady sure climb to the top. This can't be said with a Nissan. It has to be a Cadillac. It has to be bold, it has to be manufactured right here, and it has to break down frequently. This person (Hunter S. Thompson) said something like this in his infamous book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I can't find the exact quote on the great black void of the internet right now). No, this is not a book review, just some parallell lines to get my point rolling.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Middlesex- Jeffrey Eugenides
Now here's a modern classic. For those that haven't read, this is essentially the story of a hermaphrodite telling the story of him/her-self from a gleam in the grandparental eye up until his/her late forties. So that I can stop doing the him/her thing, I'll let you wonderful readers know that the name of the protagonist in Middlesex is Cal. Or Calliope. Or Calli. Identity, I think, becomes quite complicated when you have a penis and a vagina. That, in basic terms, is what the book is about. Who we are, and why we are, and how all parts of ourselves merge together over time to create an individual that has some semblance of a modern man or woman.
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Genetics- Now a big part of the hooplah about this book was its genetic bent. Eugenides writes often like a scientist (another profession?) in describing the physical and genetic disposition that Cal has. This makes little sense to me. He explains it well, as you would read in a journal on modern science, and I tend to blow by this. I'm sure (the back cover tells me so) that many people enjoyed this aspect immensely (I think Eugenides covered his bases by being a historian, a scientist, and a novelist; we all had to love it). I did not connect scientifically, but rather Biblically. I felt his categorizing and serious use of genetic history to mirror the awfully long sections of our beloved Western dominant paradigm: the lists and lists of genealogy. Blank begat blank begat blank. Now, yes, dull it seems, but I feel Eugenides used an old idea and brought it to life. He traced the life of his narrator back before his narrator was born, and in doing so, much like the Bible, gave us all little lessons from a multitude of times, helping us along our own way.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
Bloggers! Hola. Sawadee-kap. Oy. Sup. I am greeting you more than once because I have been away too long, and also because languages are interesting when transliterated. So, my internet is finally up. Huzzah! I can, again, waste hours a day looking up random facts and, well, blogging. I took too long of a break. I should have gone to a coffee house and ordered a tea with little bits of milk and honey, sipped and typed and let you all in. But I didn't. I've actually been a little bit out of the writing habit, which is a shame because I was doing a pretty good job for me. So this is the first step (again) of getting into a habit. Hit me with your literary nicotine patches, cover me like that pretty man from that smoking movie, give my blood something to scream about.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man-James Joyce
So I'm trying out the book review thing. This is for a number of reasons, but the main one is because I have spare time and I love to read. My thoughts, of which I have many, usually come from books. And, believe it or not, I have an opinion about the books and authors I read. Thought I'd share. Thats what blogging is right? Sharing? Caring? Anyway...
James Joyce. For some reason I always thought he was a she. Not like a pen name or anything, but because the last name Joyce seems feminine to me, I just skipped right over the James. So I picked up the book on an old bookshelf, saw lots of notes scribbled inside (thanks Lelah) and decided that yes, I now have the time to read a classic. And it's not that long, so why not give it a shot?
Mind equals blown, ladies- and gentle-bloggers. How did I not know about Joyce? He's coarse and cryptic, his words slip and slide across the page and through the mind of the reader, but he is so incredibly savvy with the English language, it astounds me.
Here is a book about his infamous character, Stephen Dadelus, growing up and discovering himself. He goes to Irish prep school as a younger boy-confused and bossed around by priests-, then as a teen among fellow Irish teens-still confused and slowly turning into a priest-and then as a college man by the end-confused in an enlightened sense and renouncing all he's ever known (sounds like college). "Portrait" is the story of a young, self-conflicted, mildly depressed, incredibly smart soul growing up in the early part of our last century. Ireland is painted in grey and blue hues, the deep green of the countryside usually overshadowed by an impending cloud bank reflecting across a morose pond, all of which mirrors the mood of our young protagonist. Dedalus is said to be an image of Joyce himself, and so as I read I felt as if I were connecting with the author, always a great pleasure.
Some interesting writers techniques: Joyce combines words. He throws them side by side and they are brilliant: "cricketcap" "drinkingbout""gasflames." It goes on but I can't find any more examples at the present. From a writer's perspective, it is always loveley to see an author make up his own language. Joyce does this with specific attention to detail, and all of his combinations seem to have always made sense, as if they were supposed to be that way in the first place.
Another technique: Stream of thought. This book is so hard to read (objectively speaking) because of it's haphazard storytelling. Sometimes you are an omnipotent reader, sometimes inside Stephen's head as if this were always his world. And sometimes, thanks to Joyce, you are just floating on a drift of words. He seems to want to write, simple as that is. He loves words and wants to put them down, the way he sees his homeland and his people, and so there are vast passages that have little to do with anything plot or character or even book related. This, I feel, is refreshing. I write like this too sometimes, and because I have now seen Joyce do it, I feel that there is some precedent for my reigning bouts of confused word play to skip across the page of a novel as well.
A quote, read it aloud: "It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal."
We see Joyce employing a great amount of repetition, something I try and avoid, but he does it with diligence and therefore builds recurring moments or revelations that follow us as we read. He also blends all of his lavish wordplay with simple, understood physical description, such as the wall in a urinal. I guess people were doing that then, too.
The last part of this book I want to comment on: the religion. Being as interested as I am in this subject, "Portrait" was a goldmine of information and delectable imagery. A large section of the book occurs when Dedalus attends school to become an Catholic priest, and in doing so we hear the vast array of description given to young impressionable men in that time period. Hell is weaved through our mind, the repentance of sin and the feeling of unlivable guilt. He tells it all with such passion that it reminded me how religion is alive and well, good or bad, and that everyone should know a little more about it.
Overall, this book opened my eyes. Joyce caressed me with his words and left me actually wanting to read Ulysses, and so I recommend this to all who dare.
p.s. this is my first book review, and I have read a book and a half since reading Portrait, so spare me the lack of examples.
James Joyce. For some reason I always thought he was a she. Not like a pen name or anything, but because the last name Joyce seems feminine to me, I just skipped right over the James. So I picked up the book on an old bookshelf, saw lots of notes scribbled inside (thanks Lelah) and decided that yes, I now have the time to read a classic. And it's not that long, so why not give it a shot?
Mind equals blown, ladies- and gentle-bloggers. How did I not know about Joyce? He's coarse and cryptic, his words slip and slide across the page and through the mind of the reader, but he is so incredibly savvy with the English language, it astounds me.
Here is a book about his infamous character, Stephen Dadelus, growing up and discovering himself. He goes to Irish prep school as a younger boy-confused and bossed around by priests-, then as a teen among fellow Irish teens-still confused and slowly turning into a priest-and then as a college man by the end-confused in an enlightened sense and renouncing all he's ever known (sounds like college). "Portrait" is the story of a young, self-conflicted, mildly depressed, incredibly smart soul growing up in the early part of our last century. Ireland is painted in grey and blue hues, the deep green of the countryside usually overshadowed by an impending cloud bank reflecting across a morose pond, all of which mirrors the mood of our young protagonist. Dedalus is said to be an image of Joyce himself, and so as I read I felt as if I were connecting with the author, always a great pleasure.
Some interesting writers techniques: Joyce combines words. He throws them side by side and they are brilliant: "cricketcap" "drinkingbout""gasflames." It goes on but I can't find any more examples at the present. From a writer's perspective, it is always loveley to see an author make up his own language. Joyce does this with specific attention to detail, and all of his combinations seem to have always made sense, as if they were supposed to be that way in the first place.
Another technique: Stream of thought. This book is so hard to read (objectively speaking) because of it's haphazard storytelling. Sometimes you are an omnipotent reader, sometimes inside Stephen's head as if this were always his world. And sometimes, thanks to Joyce, you are just floating on a drift of words. He seems to want to write, simple as that is. He loves words and wants to put them down, the way he sees his homeland and his people, and so there are vast passages that have little to do with anything plot or character or even book related. This, I feel, is refreshing. I write like this too sometimes, and because I have now seen Joyce do it, I feel that there is some precedent for my reigning bouts of confused word play to skip across the page of a novel as well.
A quote, read it aloud: "It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal."
We see Joyce employing a great amount of repetition, something I try and avoid, but he does it with diligence and therefore builds recurring moments or revelations that follow us as we read. He also blends all of his lavish wordplay with simple, understood physical description, such as the wall in a urinal. I guess people were doing that then, too.
The last part of this book I want to comment on: the religion. Being as interested as I am in this subject, "Portrait" was a goldmine of information and delectable imagery. A large section of the book occurs when Dedalus attends school to become an Catholic priest, and in doing so we hear the vast array of description given to young impressionable men in that time period. Hell is weaved through our mind, the repentance of sin and the feeling of unlivable guilt. He tells it all with such passion that it reminded me how religion is alive and well, good or bad, and that everyone should know a little more about it.
Overall, this book opened my eyes. Joyce caressed me with his words and left me actually wanting to read Ulysses, and so I recommend this to all who dare.
p.s. this is my first book review, and I have read a book and a half since reading Portrait, so spare me the lack of examples.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Home Sweet Home
Blog viewers! I am back, sorry for the painstaking delay. No, I was not delayed on account of weather or terrorism; I moved. And so I am currently piggy-backing on a local corporation's unprotected wireless internet. Oh the things I do for you.
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Friday, February 25, 2011
How many more times?
Makin' me feel the way you wanna' do. This is the first of possibly many posts that begin with Led Zeppelin. Bow down to the glory of, please, everyone. This is also possibly the first of many posts that begin with Led Zeppelin but don't actually have anything to do with them. Sorry bros and bras, mangs and melons. This blog is, instead, about how many more things I can fall in love with that are about writers.
Let me list a few, in no particular order of greatness or incredibility: Californication, Mad Men, Bored to Death, The World According to Garp, Dead Poets Society, Shakespear in Love, Castle....my mind begins to lose steam, wheels slowing. Funny how an idea can seem to incorporate every little thing you do and see, and then when asked to list it on a blog just a few atoms come up. My point, and I will elaborate a few of these to make my completely random claims, is that as a writer, I absolutely LOVE media that has to do, specifically, with writing.
The first conscious awareness I had in this realm was Californication. Here's a show about a lot of things (sex and David Duchoveny mostly...wait are those different? ZING!), but it is, at its core, about writing. I stick to that honey laden Showtime wonder like a bee eaten by a bear. The first season is an endless amount of Saturdays wasted for me. And then, round two, season two, they cut the writing. It is dramatic and sexy and lewd, but Hank the writer does not do all that much writing and doesn't seem to care that his book was stolen. I realized as this second season fell into an abyss of suckiness what the writers (ironic no?) had forgotten. A novel. A new book. Not a memoir of a rockstar. Hank is almost literal fiction, an excellent genre, and they moved on.
Then take Mad Men, the best (yes Dad, THE best) show on television as of yet. It's about booze and women and secrets, but Donny D, the main man, is at heart a writer. He has a book of creative work, he needs pencils and paper or he's screwed (too bad Iphones weren't around in the '60s), and he takes to heart what the world looks and feels like. They may be working for the man, but the better part of that show is the creative acts of a new generation, and that will always be interesting.
I think the real thing that cemented it for me, even after these brilliances, was Bored to Death. I am now realizing that all of my expanded examples are T.V. shows. I clearly have too much time and an excellent internet connection with which to torrent. Bored to Death is me: it is funny and abstract, it is heartfelt in a random act sort of way, and it is actually about a struggling writer. Hank Moody has his books made into movies. Don Draper...well it's quite obvious how amazing and well-respected that guy is. But in Bored to Death, a young Jewish writer has completed his first novel (soon to be me?? hopeful eyes), works for a literary magazine, and is desperately trying to finish, a.k.a. start, his second great work. He struggles and ends up being a private investigator via craigslist, a career-path I have yet to choose, but all the elements are there. After watching that show I seriously thought about how dope it would be to work for a magazine and get paid enough to live and then try to write the great next thing on the side. Or in the middle. Or wherever, hopefully in New York, just like Ames and his wild antics.
Side note: another serious theme for me and this subject is the undoubtable presence of New York, the city of cities in this world of metropolistic future. I love New York and I want to live there, write in the snowblown winters and dark maroon falls, thunderstorm summers and Central Park. New York is a siren of old.
Anyway, I decided to talk about all this because I watched Wonder Boys the other night. Never heard of it, never saw it, did not blip on my radar. And then suddenly we are plunged into the world of academia and writers and publishing and funny stories that happen with dogs and fake capguns. And I am transfixed for an hour and a half and want to watch it again.
Possibly there is something in the adventures always told in the stories about writers; their lives tend to take random chance, danger, and a lot of substances and come out on the other side with something interesting. It makes me wonder if I should take more chances, if I should go out in the dark night with a gun and flashlight and just see what comes at me. Maybe even without the flashlight. Or get in fistfights or answer weird craigslist ads or talk to strangers. But even more possibly, I am semi-certain that the strange in life does come through me, that it blows and whispers and spikes the well of my creative water, and that my work does reflect this in a way. Sometimes I just feel as if I need more. Travel was good for that.
Oh the stories we all tell ourselves.
p.s. i don't have an idea for this one but I like the tradition of post scripting. It comes from the latin post scriptum and means "that which comes after writing." (Thank you wikipedia, thank you NOT Britannica, viva la revolucion technologica). Isn't what comes after writing just life?
Side note: another serious theme for me and this subject is the undoubtable presence of New York, the city of cities in this world of metropolistic future. I love New York and I want to live there, write in the snowblown winters and dark maroon falls, thunderstorm summers and Central Park. New York is a siren of old.
Anyway, I decided to talk about all this because I watched Wonder Boys the other night. Never heard of it, never saw it, did not blip on my radar. And then suddenly we are plunged into the world of academia and writers and publishing and funny stories that happen with dogs and fake capguns. And I am transfixed for an hour and a half and want to watch it again.
Possibly there is something in the adventures always told in the stories about writers; their lives tend to take random chance, danger, and a lot of substances and come out on the other side with something interesting. It makes me wonder if I should take more chances, if I should go out in the dark night with a gun and flashlight and just see what comes at me. Maybe even without the flashlight. Or get in fistfights or answer weird craigslist ads or talk to strangers. But even more possibly, I am semi-certain that the strange in life does come through me, that it blows and whispers and spikes the well of my creative water, and that my work does reflect this in a way. Sometimes I just feel as if I need more. Travel was good for that.
Oh the stories we all tell ourselves.
p.s. i don't have an idea for this one but I like the tradition of post scripting. It comes from the latin post scriptum and means "that which comes after writing." (Thank you wikipedia, thank you NOT Britannica, viva la revolucion technologica). Isn't what comes after writing just life?
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