It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this. The last time was on bad days of the Marathon. It’s now 10:23pm, and I’m typing this entry in bed. I’ve written a few paragraphs before now, but mostly, I’ve slacked off today. If you remember, today was supposed to be a continuation of yesterday’s The Last Great Idea story (how many times have I used words like that in my musings?). I’m sad to say that I’ve failed in the writing. I’ve not given up on it, but I’m just about at the point of admitting defeat for tonight and putting down thoughts that don’t in anyway relate to story. Be warned, the following paragraphs are nothing but excuses, consternations, and utter backtalk. If I were you—and I’m happy I’m not you because then I wouldn’t be me—I’d stop reading right now and accept that David has nothing of value to say today. I would—again, if I was still you—check back in tomorrow to see if perhaps he’s found whatever it was he lost, but I’d chalk up today as a It’s Not Worth Wasting My Time With David’s Pitiful Words day. But that’s just me. You do what you think is right because you always do. Don’t think I don’t notice that about you. And, yes, if you ask me, I wouldn’t mind if you took my words more seriously. I do occasionally have intelligent things to say. Really, I do. (My arguing with myself is becoming very, very sad.)
There are many reasons for today’s failure: the easiest is that today was a caffeine-free day. On CF days, I have to be particularly careful about how I use my time. On ordinary days (i.e., non-CF days), I have only a few hours of Inspiration Time. IT—which is probably not the best name for it—is time during the day where my spirits are high and I’m able to crank out OT and good prose. (Obviously, this, right now, is not such a time.) For me, IT occurs usually in the evenings from anywhere around five to whatever time I fall asleep. I’m not saying that every evening or every hour of an evening is IT; it’s just more likely to occur during that time. I’ll admit that part of the reason is because I’m not working. I’m sure if I managed to make millions and quit my day job (an aspiration which I enjoy dreaming and working towards, but of which I’m not convinced would make me happy if I achieve), I’d find more IT hidden in the earlier parts of the day. The only time I’m sure will never qualify for IT is the three to four hours after lunch. I don’t know what lunch does to me, but that’s the lowest point of my day. As soon as four or five in the evening rolls around, I find new wind. Before that, however, when my lunch digests in my tummy, I want to do nothing and talk to nobody. The Argentineans had it right with their siestas. I can’t tell you how productive I would be if I could nap during the day.
The lack of coffee was not the only reason for the failure. World of Warcraft, my newest addiction, is also a culprit. WOW is similar to my other VG addictions, only shinier and newer. Most of the times, Julie is home and we play together. We try to limit our time to one to two hours five or six days a week, Vacations and Julie’s evening shifts limits our game play even more. I’d like to say that the game has taken no toll on my writing, but I must admit there are days where I come home and all I can think about is playing WOW. Except for today, my addiction has not hurt my writing significantly. Julie is usually there to lay down the rules: no playing before 8pm, which gives me plenty of time to eat dinner (something I barely did tonight) and write my musing. Tonight, with Julie safely working, I was left to my own devices (a strange phrase, I’ll agree). Since I’ve switched characters to a vertically challenged warlock, I’ve been trying to catch up to a certain Amazon hunter’s level. By playing when I first got home instead of eating or writing, I’m a few levels closer to my goal, but many words away from my real goal.
Let’s see, what other addictions have I left out today. I did watch part of “Citizen Kane” on DVD, which is so far terribly overrated. Because of an uncomfortable scene involving Kane and his first wife visiting Kane’s mistress, I turned the movie off after fifteen minutes. That, therefore, shouldn’t count. I spent part of my evening helping Julie’s sister with one of her college paper. She goes to Har-vard. I miss college papers and classes. When you’re in school, you get feedback on everything you do: little gold stars collect in rows with your name on. In real life, you rarely get that immediate feedback. Anyway, the college-paper thing shouldn’t count either.
That’s all I have for today. I’ve met both shame and regret and I didn’t like the looks of either of them. I’m at a respectable 911 words, which I’ll leave it at and try again tomorrow. This writing every day is good for at least one thing: learning humility.
One of my colleagues convinced me that purchasing books was not a good use of my money. I have always bought, read, and stored books on shelves. I’ve filled overweight bookshelves in my homes (both the Castle and my mother’s house in Brooklyn) with books I’ll never read again. My colleague doesn’t have a book club as, say, Oprah has a club. Instead, she knows enough people who read that she collects and distributes good books. I’ve not given up on buying books, but I am trying to use the library and other people to cut down on the size of my library. I’ve bought enough into her scheme that I’m now donating some of my better books to her club. As part of her program, she lent me Austerlitz.
Austerlitz tells the story of Austerlitz, a Jewish boy born in Prague in the 1930s whose parents send him to England before the start of the war. His parents perish in the war, and a cold minister’s family raises him in England before he escapes to university. He has a peculiar understanding of time, seeing his entire life as a massive conglomeration of moments that are not necessarily ordered. Austerlitz tells his story to the narrator in a somewhat broken form. W. G. Sebald wrote Austerlitz, and stylistically it is difficult novel to read. Sebald doesn’t believe in chapters or paragraphs, and the words blur into one another. Throughout the novel, black and white photographs emphasize parts of the story, as Austerlitz is an avid photographer and student of architecture.
After drudging through the first three quarters of the book, I’ve arrived at a more interesting section where Austerlitz tells the story of how he realized he blocked his memories of his childhood and the war. After a nervous breakdown, he begins to trace his life back to Prague and fill in the missing parts. Sebald used wonderful symbolism in this section, which is what I wanted to share with you, and why I bothered to summarize the novel.
When Austerlitz returned to Prague, he found his nanny, Vera, who survived his parents, and they reminisce. Austerlitz walked through a park and saw a squirrel. Until he returned to Prague, he didn’t realize he understood or spoke Czech, but when he saw the squirrel, the word veverka popped into his head and he was overwhelmed. His nanny confirmed that veverka meant squirrel, and she related this story:
And then, said Austerlitz, Vera told me how in autumn we would often stand by the upper enclosure wall of the Schönborn Garden to watch the squirrels burying their treasures. Whenever we came home afterwards, I had to read aloud from your favorite book about the changing seasons, said Vera, even though you knew it by heart from the first line to the last, and she added that I never tired of the winter pictures in particular, scenes showing hares, deer, and partridges transfixed with astonishment as they stared at the ground covered with newly fallen snow, and Vera said that every time we reached the page which described the snow falling through the branches of the trees, soon to shroud the entire forest floor, I would look up at her and ask: But if it’s all white, how do the squirrels know where they’ve buried their hoard? Ale když všechno zakryje snih, jak veverky najdou to místo, kde si schovaly zásoby?
Isn’t that great? The final line reflects his memories, the nuts representing memories, and the snow representing what covered them. At least that’s how I read it when a sleepless fever gripped me during my overnight flight. I won’t be taking that flight again. After arriving in NY (actually Newark, NJ) with about an hour’s sleep, my mother drove us back to Brooklyn, where I fell asleep for another six hours. Since I destroyed most of the Saturday, it makes sense to take the Saturday morning flight, which would get me in to NY in the evening, rested (or as rested as I could ever be after a flight) with a full night’s sleep.
After waking from my nap, I took a walk with my mother to Sheepshead Bay, which is the namesake of my neighborhood. The area around the bay is barely recognizable, with new houses and stores on every corner. I forgot my camera, so I can’t share the incredibly ethnic neighborhoods that have sprung up around the bay. After the walk, I napped for another hour, and then went with my mother, uncle, and his girlfriend to KPD, an old haunt. KPD, or Kings Plaza Diner, is the “Best Diner in Brooklyn,” according to a 1995 Daily News article. Now, putting aside that the Daily News almost died a few years ago (it was resurrected by nostalgic New Yorkers), KPD is a decent diner, as far as diners go. But with the wars my stomach has been fighting against greasy foods, I wasn’t able to partake in its more interesting fare.
My brain is still not working properly. I’m hoping tomorrow will be a better day for thoughts. Eileen and her (very cute) monsters are visiting, and I’ll check in to my hotel tomorrow night. I should have more time to write over the next three days, as I sleep through my CLE classes, and visit the many coffee houses (okay, the many Starbuckses) throughout Manhattan.
If I possessed willpower, you would not see this musing until after April 1. As I’ve discussed before, I find myself writing to post instead of writing to write. Yeah, this is going to be one of those life-changing thingies that will probably result in me altering my ways for a couple of days, only to return to my normal, consternated writings afterward. With that said, it might be safer if you put the computer down and stepped away from the computer.
I am halfway through Jonathan Lethem’s excellent essay collection, The Disappointment Artist. Julie recommended this book because a reviewer wrote that the book delved into Lethem’s psyche and explained his inspiration for writing. Julie knows (because I bitch about it so often) that I’m trying to understand my own inspiration and writing process, and I enjoy reading other writers’ thoughts on this subject. The essays do reach those questions, but are mostly about Lethem’s childhood experiences, and their effect on his development as an author.
His essays leverage his wonderful storytelling to advance his conclusions. They are essays in the traditional sense: applying experience, reasoning, and research to develop an argument. They break down logically and are a decent (although not long) length—long enough to get the theme across without belaboring it. Using his writing as a guide, I’ve decided on an experiment. Instead of posting a day’s worth of barely edited writings, I will write longer essays with fully developed themes and original thoughts. (Yes, Chuck, even from here I see you nodding your head knowingly because you’ve done this on Liminality since its inception.)
Seeing as this is an experiment, I’m not sure how it will turn out. What I do know, however, is that if I post the parts I have written already, I will never finish. For me, posting is the reward. I love the moment where I release my writings into the wild. I wait eagerly for any response (which, except for the Nameless One, is rare). I’m OK with that. Just knowing it’s out there is all the salve I need to keep me going. But when I release it, my need to return to the writing diminishes. You would think that rewriting and making the work better would be rewarding in and of itself. But for me it isn’t. It’s hard to explain the psychology behind it, but from much experience, I know that my broken brain works on a minimalist philosophy: get good enough done and be done with it.
There you have it. I will still post my shorter thoughts (like this one), but I’m going to try to finish the longer works before posting. This will probably result in a decrease in frequency of posting but hopefully an increase in quality (even though we’re talking David quality, don’t hold your breath or you’ll turn red and probably pass out). This will not change my writing frequency, which I will continue to do almost every day for a few hours.
I’ll let you know when I change my mind and return to my old, slapdash ways.
I’ve been quiet lately. Today will be another quiet day. I started drafting a story yesterday, but my mind has been on other things. Bad things. Namely, video game things. Julie and I have been playing World of Warcraft (WOW). We started playing only a few hours a week, and that slowly built to over ten hours a week. And then, miraculously, we stopped. Julie went off to China (without David, who’s not bitter, not bitter at all), and, after not playing for a couple of weeks, I felt my addiction shrink away like ice cubes kept too long in the freezer. I didn’t want to play. The thought of running the rat race in video game land was gone. NEQID was upon me, and I was a bigger, better person. I used my time to read and write more, and even started keeping the Castle clean.
And then the unthinkable happened. I received an innocent looking email from Erik, a friend from graduate school. It was short and it said he was going to do it, he was going to buy WOW. I had spoken about WOW to Erik before—well, actually, I had spoken to him about Dark Age of Camelot, WOW’s predecessor, and he seemed uninterested. He played video games, but they didn’t involve much online action. He scoffed at my descriptions of MMORPG, thinking only children played such games. So, when he told me about buying WOW, I thought little of it. In truth, I felt bad for him because I knew he would grow addicted as all players do. I was beyond my addiction at that point, shaking my head knowingly at a friend about to fall.
The email chain then expanded to include our mutual friend Will, who I didn’t even know played video games. Erik had somehow convinced Will to buy the game. Will hemmed and hawed, but eventually bought it. He spent the first couple of days struggling to sign in (we had to teach him to turn the computer on before trying to run the game), and in two days, he, too, was addicted. That’s when plans within plans started forming in my brain. Evil plans. Plans involving me reentering the gaming world with Julie at my side, to join Erik and Will in spreading mayhem.
We exchange many emails over the last few days, some describing strategies for working together, others trash talking about respective penis sizes (from what I was able to gather from the conversation, Will, although short in height, towers over Erik in that department). Long email exchanges passed the time at work, and we agreed to log in at 8pm tonight to form the ultimate four-person party and keel (that’s David-video-game speak for killing) unsuspecting mobs (video game monsters).
So, you see, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, with planning for the video games tonight, and leveling up my character (and Julie’s) to the agreed tenth level. I think once we start playing regularly (assuming this works out), I should get back into my normal writing schedule with fewer distractions. At least, that’s my hope.
I’d write more, but it’s almost 5:30pm, and I have to get home and mentally prepare for tonight. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? We’re all going to be rearing to go way before 8pm tonight. We’re addicts after all.
Yeah, I know. I missed it again. I wrote a few words, but not enough yesterday before video game night, thinking, sure, once we finish at a reasonable hour, I’ll have plenty of time to pound out the last thousand words or so for the Goal. Obviously, that didn’t happen. While I wasn’t too tired when we finished around eleven, my fingers and wrists were killing me, and I decided it best to go to sleep. Having an eight o’clock meeting today didn’t help things (even though I went to the meeting and didn’t say a word—I hate meetings like that. I’m like, why am I even here?).
Our gaming session last night was rather fun. Julie even joined in on our voice chat, which we use to talk during the game. (Julie and I still had our private phone chat for our adoring whispers and baby talk we don’t want to share with the freaks from Syracuse.) I have only a little more work to finish on what is turning out to be a beautiful, if tired, Friday, and I hope to provide more thinking and writing on my story, especially since I’m wasting all my diary words for the morning excuse. I got halfway to the goal with the excuse, not too bad for a video gamed day.
I have to write quickly to prepare for video game night. I received a mail from Will earlier, and I was afraid to open it. I couldn’t bear to read it if it was a cancellation of our game tonight. It wasn’t. Will felt like torturing us by sending a message with hundreds of “WoW…WoW…” written on one line. Obviously, he has too much time on his hands. Unlike me, who, instead of writing teasing mails, daydreams about the game tonight while I sit in meetings.
The life of the intern isn’t always glorious. I’m waiting in line for coffee (as if I do anything else with my time), and the barista asks one of the cafeteria workers to bring her a stack of pastry holders (you know the type: waxy paper bags where pastries spend their last moments of life). An intern, identified by his bright red shirt with the little white “intern” lettering, waits at the wrong end of the coffee bar, holding his money and the stack of pastry holders. The barista takes the stack from him, tsking her coworker in Spanish. “She just gave them to you?” “Yeah, she said I should pay over here and bring these things while I was on my way.”
The internets distracted me as I prepared to dive into more useless notes about my story. I was threatened yesterday with violence if I don’t turn these notes into some sort of story. I will be the first to apply violence to myself if I don’t write this story. I’m excited about it and the world I plan on creating. It’s just a matter of lighting the fire and seeing what erupts, which is so much easier said than done. But you knew that already, didn’t you?
Another rainy lonely day. I'm tired and just want to sleep.
Another dark cool morning. I'm exhausted after yesterday's Naginata practice. I'm an old tired man.
On happier news, Ziggy seems better this morning. We may have two healthy dogs again. A very happy development.
I am in the middle of another project at the moment (regrettably, not a soon-to-fail video game). This explains my complete lack of doodling or writing or doing anything remotely creative (outside of the Project). I'm not sure it will be worth the effort, and I'm very much looking forward to finishing it so I can get back to my other creative pursuits.
Maybe one day I'll even write again. I know, I kid.
The one in the doodle, by the way, was an overehead RPG action game that I may return to one day. The OCI (that's Overly Clever Idea that turns out not to be very clever) was to make the players very small so they can plow through lots of tiny (or large) monsters as they work their way through the dungeons. I even had some rudimentary random map making code up and running (after borrowing the algorithm from the internets), and lots of little monsters making a beeline for the hapless player. Writing about it makes me want to return to it and see why I gave up. After the Project, that is.
