the poetry of madness
Name: Lord Malinov
driven by curiousity and an intense need for understanding, I strive to learn and express in every step of the marvelous journey that life is providing
anita
bluematrix
Brainwave Generator
catdancer
duckpower
Euclid's Elements
geekgirl
indigo4963
jackal
Journal of Desire
Malinov's Romances
moonglow
no one tell my dad
Potentials Unlimited
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Someone cut a telephone line, trying to fix a sprinkler. ATT sent a dude out to do the repairs. As I hear it, he then cut another line and fixed that one too.
In the course of conversation, Cats learned that he had been dating a teacher, one with a familiar name. Fascinating fellow. ;)
What are the odds? The karass is in motion. Busy, busy, busy.
enjoy,
M
A company in Jakarta wants me to take charge of their IP. Capital of Indonesia. I have to talk to a woman in Melbourne to make arrangements. I need to send out more resumes. This is fun.
I dropped by the local watering hole for a drink. Having been inexplicably and silently generous on several of my last visits, I had unwittingly generated a mystery, full of suspicion and fantasy. As I stepped out of my car, one of the cooks banged the back door and announced my presence. Every eye was upon me as I sat down. "That's the guy," whipped around the room. Some eyes fixed on me, some smiling, some less approvingly. A leathered tough looked at me so steadily that I began to wonder if he was gay.
When I left, several of the regulars and staff shuffled out the back door. I put down the top on my car - seventy-seven degree, no way - and cranked my Santana. They waved good-bye as I rolled away.
Some think I'm a pimp-daddy, cruising for new talent. A rich eccentric. A tender rocker. A bad husband.
The interesting lesson here is that although some doubt my motives, everyone is fascinated. Unexplained generosity drives people wild. They want to know what evil I am up to while hoping I begin peeling off Franklins for no reason at all. Conflicting tensions create power.
I'm tempted to tell my new friends to buzz off after the stiff reply, but I might as well see what happens. Formality is inappropriate at this point. Bad vibes.
Besides, I can always go to Jakarta. I wonder what languages I'll have to learn. Funky time.
Music is a very funny language - musical notation, I should say, for the language of musical notation includes information that only vaguely translates into the music. I'm eager to discover how the grammar of musical notation will permit intellectualization of music. I'm already getting hints.
another day to live and play
enjoy,
M
Zeppelin Rox
http://users.wolfcrews.com/toys/vikings/
enjoy,
M
my message seems to have vanished . . . double hmmm
Kristy sent me a rather formal reply - referring to the boss guy as mister and diplomatically explaining that while they wanted to further pursue discussions, they were not ready for me to meet the associates.
Last I checked, I can talk to whomever I want. Trying to interfere with communication is rather controlling. Litigators can be more paranoid than most, but I don't need an interview to steal associates and I can't imagine what they might know that we must wait to disclose. Hmmm.
Perhaps I scared the girl with my suggestion of a drink. This could be the initial retreat that results in a subsequent advance. Perhaps no reflection on the firm at all. Taking her off balance is a good way to achieve insights into the relationships of the group. It has occurred to me that there may be an underlying romantic relationship within the staff - my behavior should expose that, if true. Seeing people in conflict is seeing people as they are, in their worst cases.
The formality offends me, wherever it comes from. A formal statement in pursuit of a relationship more intense than marriage. What a frigging mixed message.
Which brings us back to a confused girl. Let's see where the chips fall.
I must trust the people I decide to join. I'll need to discover ways to test their mettle.
I'm going to double my prices and market myself to my peers as a hired gun for specialty work. Twenty thousand minimum for a patent filing. You want the best, get out your checkbook.
I'm such a whore. I can't help it. I really need the money. And after my needs are fulfilled, I'm pretty sure I'd really enjoy the money. I spent four decades and four figuring out all this shinola. Might as well use it.
I'm going to write a novel about them. They must be exposed before it is too late. I don't trust them at all. You know how they are. They're up to something. They are trying to bring us down. They're such nasty people.
If someone refers to some one person, I think we should have a word noone to refer to no one person. And if they won't authorize it, I'll use the rogue word anyway. Come and get me, grammar coppers. I ain't coming with you, no ways, no hows.
I remember reading a scottish book that phoneticized the brogue so that it was virtually unreadable. Speaking of the short life of an audible vocabulary. No one alive has heard anyone speak that way. It makes it rather challenging to determine the underlying English text.
Chinese may soon over-flood English, except to the extent that English is already a mutt language and will absorb Chinese as quickly as it has absorbed everything else. Bill Murray for President.
enjoy
M
enjoy,
M
According to my text, "the way we spell a note determines its musical meaning." Now isn't that a kick in the teeth. Notes can be designated by many names - the selected name is the spelling of the note. A C is a B sharp. So C has a different musical meaning than B sharp. What will they think of next?
One of the best musical books - books with musical language, something of that nature - is Mann's Dr. Faustus. Cool words. Wish I could read German. Too brutal for singing.
In Strange Interlude - loosely based on the evolution of relationships between O'Neill, Louise Bryant and Jack Reed - includes the thoughts of the characters in indented text. Of course, this invites an incredible variety of performance variables, all a joy to imagine as the story unfolds in O'Neillian style. Damn good word man.
I've been hanging out at the bookstore, letting myself become familar to the people who frequent the place. Book sellers get to know a great deal about us, seeing the books we buy as well as the books we peruse. I have always enjoyed buying some incrediblely obscure literary gem from a bookseller who understands the value of those words. Its a rare moment, but always fun.
In high school, I had a crush - one of so many - on a tall germanic blonde working in my bookstore, who always wore her hair up, leaving golden strands in a glimmering cloud over her long neck.
When I stood up from my seat at the restaurant, twenty people turned to look at me. Sometimes I want to say "what?" but I know there is no answer. People are often wondering if I'm a celebrity. I think my aristocratic aloofness contributes to that aura. Bob Dylan was overheard recently - they often whisper their guesses to each other. I'm old, but I'm not Bob old. I'm Prince old - Madonna old - Robert Smith old.
John Travolta has become my favorite mistaken identity. With my curls, most assume I am an aging rock star. I can be whatever you want me to be . . .
If I can put together the shop I have constructed in my head, resources will flow generously. I like that idea. Things are coming together, at least within my view.
enjoy,
M
The figure strikes a resonant chord. I am not a materialistic person by any means, but five hundred thousand american dollars annually is not money. It is a fortune.
If we were talking about a corporate job - if TI offered me such a salary, I would already be working there, collecting my sweet salary while we determined what to try next. This is an opportunity to move into an existing structure and use those resources to enrich us all. Particularly me. The money only comes if I can pull it off.
Most intriguing, however, is that I can easily visualize how to accomplish such a sum, rather easily. Doing things I do well or believe I can do well and using associates to do the things I would rather not. If I can do it so simply, it should be done. What fun.
Qualcomm has assigned me a staffing specialist to help me through their interview process. This is a sophisticated bureaucracy. I remain curious, eager to find out more.
I'm still waiting to hear from Finland. Probably too much Vodka. Not enough sleep. I have to admit, however, that talking about the 500000 has made 135000 sound rather unfortunate. It would require more travel, but I could buy a lot of travel for 365000, and I can always push my practice internationally if I need a reason to junket. DC will remain my second home, no matter how this plays.
I asked to meet with the associates. I want to see if these are the kind of guys I can lead.
"Where have you been?" the hostess asked kindly, a reasonable question after a year's absence.
"Taken hostage. This is the first place I've been since I escaped."
She noted that my hair was shorter and that I used to wear glasses. I can't even lurk anymore. People say," who is that lurking over there? Is that Merv Griffin?" I am remarkably memorable, it seems. No Merv Griffin, mind you, but in the same gang. The Men's Great Hair Club for Men with Great Hair.
I explained the Illuminati to my younger son yesterday as we perused the bookstore. He produced a dollar bill and discovered the Sign on the backside. Yesterday, some dude on television, some political dude, said that the Mexican government is trying to conquer the United States by importing a constant stream of illegal aliens. Not a comedian, a real . . . something.
Whenever someone says New York City in Texas, someone says "get a rope." Salsa providing cultural direction. We are a strange species.
I read yesterday the observation that nothing in evolution selected brains capable of understanding nuclear reactions - it was not essential to surviving encounters with lions, tigers or bears. We are using excess accidentally evolved mental abilities, a side-effect of the pressures that created self-consciousness.
Our adaptability, however, is founded on the principle of anticipation of changes. In this simple adaption we have the basis of our intellectual abilities.
My eyes gleam bluely. Power is beginning to illuminate me.
enjoy,
M
I bought a textbook on music theory today, the result of a year of looking for the right text. I am fascinated by the intellectualization of tonal fabric.
The notes, like the colors, are arbitrary divisions of a frequency spectrum. An octave is a doubled frequency and our scales are generally based on fractional divisions of the audible spectrum. The actual frequencies are not delineated in nature. The math is more real than the music itself.
Yet there are unquestionable effects upon humanity when tones, tone sequences and chords are rendered. Where does the reality lie in this biological response? Do we project the musical structures on an undifferentiated reality, a statement of the mind rather than the world?
Fascinating Captain. My right shoulder is cramping as I lean over my guitar excessively. I've had to adopt a strapped standing position to keep my body from leaning left as I strum and finger. My pinky is very sore, being forced to participate in extended riffs.
the beat goes on . . .
enjoy,
M
I arrived at Lincoln Centre early, hoping to calm myself and make the most of the interview. I called the woman at the coffee shop "beautiful" and she immediately recognized me from the past when I rarely bought coffee but walked past her shop daily. Compliments often spur conversation. People typically like to talk to people who say nice things to them.
I ascended to the twelfth floor to find myself in an elegant foyer, completely deserted. I sat down and took in the distant view of the Dallas skyline and lavish artistic decor. A limestone wall stood behind the reception desk. I studied the bricks, looking for the pattern that would reveal the facade, but there was none. Real limestone bricks in a pattern at least larger than the wall.
I wondered if they had problems with mongols.
Enter a lovely young lady - Kristy - some kind of assistant or office manager or something of that nature, far more important to the practice of law than actual lawyers are. I had corresponded with her briefly, amusingly, setting up the interview. I learned today that the entire encounter was her idea. A twenty-six year old who earned her business degree on August twelfth. She had tried a semester as an engineering physicist but changed course. Now she wants to go to law school.
Something in the Universe is drawing very small women to me. Cats is pretty small at five feet. Jo is significantly smaller. Kristy is not much shorter, but amazingly small-boned. Invasion of the tiny women.
Rarely have I connected with someone so quickly - one of those conversations that takes thirty turns without a pause or misstep. We talked for about a half-hour while Russ worked out some major crisis with a client. Litigators are enslaved. She was simply charming. I sent a thank-you letter and asked her out. Not exactly proper form for a job applicant, but I am not applying - I am meeting a suitor. We shall see.
I would be one of four partners in a two million gross firm. Russ has a handful of associates who help him with his litigations and he wants someone to manage their prosecution, which would give me most of my billing and a quarter of theirs. He works on a set divided overhead payment, to avoid many of the conflicts created by a percentage system. I like that.
The team would have to be created and managed - not as simple as joining a team, but an interesting prospect given my experience. I haven't thought much about client development, but I suspect I could overflow the coffers in no time, using what I know now. I love being old. It is so much fun to know things.
The eX had a delayed doctors appointment, so I picked up the boys for dinner. I like the fluid nature of our current arrangement. I'll take them home soon. Next adventure, please.
Enjoy,
M
all the gin joints . . . dust off the defender machine . . . prepare to contemplate Plato's platonic relationships . . . cursed Spartans . . . what would Pythagoras do . . .
I regale my younguns frequently with tales of my first job, flipping burgers for Smaky the Seal. For two years, this mall-top fast-food stop was the epicenter of imaginative madness. My partner-in-crime at the time was spotted. Like a leopard, except more Irish.
He was always the honorable one, trying to put a stop to my experiments before . . . not honorable enough to counter-act my fierce amorality, but enough.
I took the clan to the bookstore yesterday and dropped more than one hundred on paper products. I spent about six dollars on a book for me. Martin Amis, Yellow Dog. He slipped that one by me. The divorce must have hit me harder than I thought, leaving me unconscious of literary events.
My daughter's middle name is Nicola. She is named for Nikki Six, a character in Amis' London Fields. Martin is a first generation Nabokovian and a second generation Amis. Ha.
Nabokov primarily wrote novels about writing novels, using poetry to enable the metaphors. Pale Fire is one of the five great novels ever, in my ever-evolving list. Amis is the first writer to develop entirely in the wake of Nabokov's brilliance, taking Vlad's work to the next level, where possible, in the same Nabokovian manner.
Nikki represented the irrational forces of creativity that leads and torments an author as the story evolves and devlops. If Tess is a tragic figure, Nicola is a fierce goddess. Beauty arises in balance.
The Information by Amis the Younger is one of the greatest perspective shift stories told. Babel Tower was good too, but Information was more fun. I like fun.
The interviews begin tomorrow. I must focus my center and relax.
Enjoy,
M
In act one, Romeo is ready to die for Rosalind and soon dies for Juliet. Once again, this is not the emotional turmoil of a mature man, prepared to deal with the problems of life in Venice. This is the fountain of hormonal youth, ready to rage in joyous madness.
Nothing he did would matter at all, except for the parents. They set the stage and they reap the anti-rewards.
Enjoy,
M
Juliet, as I recall, is twelve years old. Now, in olden days, girls married when they became fertile, so Juliet's talk of marriage is not condemned as such. At this tender age, she is prepared to begin assuming her familial responsibilities. She is, in a very real sense, grown up.
But the fact remains that she is twelve. I have known urban women who lived rough and began interacting sexually by Juliet's age, taking, facing and enduring far more responsibility than a typical suburban twenty-something encounters in modern days. Even so, these street-wise youths remained twelve at the age of twelve. Their ideas are juvenile. Their emotions are unshackled. Hormones course their innocent veins.
Shakespeare portrays a child, incapable of understanding the games she plays. Notice that when Juliet considers her affection for a boy, knowing that her affection will cause trouble, she laments - in some rather nice poetics - that her problems would go away if she could simply change his name.
This is not the thought of a mature woman. This is the analysis of a child. Shakespeare is not trying to show us the magical beauty of love - he is showing us how ridiculous a child's conception of love is. Recall Shakespeare's sonnet - My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun. Shakespeare was mocking in roles that have often been taken seriously.
Put a twelve year old in the role. See how seriously an audience takes the poetry coming from a child.
Most literary analysis ignores the writer's perspective. Readers can't really understand where a writer comes from until they have learned to write themselves. Every word has a reason and a feeling.
Enjoy,
M
My newest take on Romeo and Juliet is that it is a story of parenting. Romeo and Juliet are children and none of their decisions should matter a tinker's cuss. However, the over-active parentage combined with determined hostility to create a situation where the decisions of children lead to their self-destruction.
Listen to the childish poetry they proclaim. Their innocence is our sin.
Anyway, just a random thought before I go retrieve my daughter. Tess is named for Theresa Derbyfield. I have a terrible weakness for tragic women. My Tess, however, is anything but tragic. Having spent her entire life listening to my spews of analysis, she is smart beyond her years. I never knew she was listening until lately. I take her incredible beauty for granted - a man's daughter is a woman of an entirely different type than any other, and her beauty is just another positive reflection, an observation to keep in mind, something to deal with when the inevitable issues arise.
The children are my best witness. I have done well.
Enjoy,
M
I have told the story of the second pizza girl several times and no matter how carefully I tell the story, women conclude that I am disappointed that the girl is married. My amazement arose because a girl I thought was sixteen was wearing relationship jewelry, forcing me to re-evaluate the woman at a ninety degree angle. I had seen her innocence and came to see her experience.
Be that as it may, we have already established that I don't consider other people's relationships to be any of my business and definitely not my problem, but the conclusion is off-base for an entirely different reason. When I meet an interesting woman, there are two things I do not think:
First, upon meeting a woman, I don't think to myself "I want to have sex with this woman." I might indulge myself with visions of beauty while I look upon her, but the idea of having sex with anyone is a rather longer road - at least a week's worth of interest and typically on the order of months. Since I am not angling to have sex with the woman, I am certainly unconcerned by her marital status, relationships or anything else, other than finding out if there is something interesting about this person, something that warrants further inquiry.
Secondly, when I meet a woman, I never think to myself "I want to become involved with this woman." I particularly never say to myself "I want to marry this woman." That would be insane, by any measure. Since I am not thinking of the possibility of getting involved, I certainly wouldn't consider the implications of her relationships, especially since I have no clue who she is, much less the complex circle of relationships that govern everyone beyond the age of twelve.
Love at first sight is a lack of impulse control. I suggest medication.
At what point, then, does my interaction with a married woman become illicit? Not for months, by my measure, at the earliest. I don't mingle fluids with strangers.
There are couples that struggle nearly every time I see them - the husband becomes passively hostile while the wife sneaks peeks and dodges. I have never done anything to warrant the suspicions he obviously harbors but I'm guessing that she has. Since I can't help seeing them and since I don't have anything to add, I indulge myself with amusement. People are so funny.
Another bright, bright sunshiny day. Time to break out the Stevie Ray to get us through another Texas scorcher.
You'd better leave my little girl alone
Before I get evil and do something wrong
Enjoy,
M
I awoke early, hungry. I'm not very good at remembering to eat meals and yesterday proved especially unnourishing as I skipped essentially all my meals. I had a bowl of cereal. I feel better.
I met a new pizza girl. When I arrived one evening, the place was swamped and the ready-for-pick-up pizzas far lagged behind those ready to pick them up. She told me it would be five minutes, which stretched into fifteen.
During this rush, the pretty girl grew flustered, unable to do anything but make excuse and apologize for the pizzas that were still cooking. She apologized at least three times before she gave me my pizza, apologizing once more. I paused and she looked into my eyes.
"Thanks, beautiful. You're doing great." Her attitude ignited with a smile.
I've seen her a few times since. Last night as I handed over my cash, she lamented that it was always busy when I was there, implying that she would like the chance to talk to me. I like her attitude.
However, when I first saw her, I figured she was reasonably close to being underage, warranting a less than close approach. Somewhere between sixteen and twenty-four, my ability to gauge a woman's age is unreliable. Looks tell little at that stage, for there is much variance. Likewise with wisdom, experience and smarts - I have known fourteen year old girls who could make me blush and I know women my age who seem to have just emerged from the cradle. Who knows. If she buys a drink, she's probably over twenty-one. Otherwise, I have to wait for signs of middle age to know for sure.
I noticed the young lady was wearing a silver ring on her left hand. Not so young, in someone's eyes, anyway. Closer inspection revealed that she is probably in college. Soon I will need a pizza when things aren't so busy. Perhaps we may talk.
Even weirder, hormonically, is seeing very young women pregnant. Pregnancy arouses me wildly but girls - youths - do not. I hardly know how to feel.
Adventures surround. Enjoy,
M
My favorite manager greeted me warmly, making a quick allusion to my seductive letter and speaking openly about her situation. As she scurried about, no opportunities arose to press my interest further, although her incredible cuteness was intoxicating. So was the mango margarita. Such a beauty.
I pressed her to respond to my letters. We shall see.
I'm learning to understand, anticipate and ride the waves of other people's emotions. Sometimes people are most cold when they like you most - extremes frighten people into caution, even extremes of good. Time calms, at least until the next episode begins.
Social success depends on two simple things - be interesting and don't frighten. The most interesting people are mysterious, so don't talk so much. Because induced fear depends on the subject as well as us, this element is an art that requires empathetic understanding. Being afraid is the easiest way to cause fear, so calm is the most important step we can take to prevent fear.
Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear and when I do, it is usually something special.
I had a very pleasant conversation with my eX, rearranging some schedules and conspiring to press the kids in positive directions. I feel like a huge part of me is being returned. It was disconcerting to discover that fifteen years of my life had suddenly evaporated. Being able to talk to her makes me feel like it wasn't completely lost, just another stage of life that has done its job and left me on the doorstep of today.
Same as it ever was.
Enjoy,
M
I have interviews pending with three major companies, three boutiques and a biglaw firm. Some guys in San Francisco seem interested. The firestorm of attention has begun to rage. Today, I must further feed the flames.
I've laid off my rhythm guitaring to study lead guitar, musically easier in so many ways, and yet more singularly expressive. More than anything, it is a study of scales and technique. As fond as I am of the intricate complexities of rhythm guitar, I can't really emulate Santana, Vaughn and Hendrix without some skills on the BBKing side.
BB King is unique, so far as I'm aware, in his devotion to lead guitar - claiming he simply cannot play rhythm guitar. The thrill is gone, he plays.
The other night at Quarters, a guy covered Folsom Prison Blues, expressing his great admiration for the man in black. Except that he sang an octave above Cash. Aargh. Tenors.
I have added a new verbal concept to my vocabulary - Michael Jackson bad - as opposed to bad, MJbad is good, but in a woosy way. Here is where I begin to do my impression of Michael singing "Born to be Wild."
The SAT tests vocabulary and reasoning. Where is the connection between vocabulary and intelligence, or more accurately, predicted success in college? There is no direct connection, for vocabulary is simple memorization, surely the least of the intellectual skills, while essential. The connection is indirect - vocabulary is no indication of intelligence, but it is an indication of engaging in activities associated with intelligence, particularly reading. Because there are virtually infinite book combinations any given testee might have read, so there is no way to test the actual readings. Furthermore, the actual information read is not as important as the extent of the reading - hence the correlation with vocabulary. People who read extensively may learn nothing in common, but they will develop equivalent vocabulary levels.
Like all logical analysis, I skip lots of steps. I'm not as interested in perfect communication as capturing the thought stream. Hopefully, the missing analysis can be filled in later. No Fermatting permitted.
Fermat noted in the margin of a book that squares can be expressed as the sum of two squares but that it isn't true for any other power and that the proof is simple. Then he died without giving us the simple proof and no one has been able to find it, although it is clear that Fermat's Last Theorem is true for there are complex proofs of the point.
That's how I remember it, anyway. The devil, as always, is in the details.
The kitten is off having his balls lopped off. Better him than me.
Enjoy,
M
Interest from another big firm. Quite the queue of admirers. My favorite - based on very limited information - is Nokia. Interesting possibilities.
Off to dine and wine . . .
Enjoy,
M
coming soon to a Universe near you . . . a telephone interview with a man in Finland for a job mostly not in Finland . . . I'd brush up on my Finnish, but I lack Finnishing . . . eight hour time difference . . . one hundred forty degree farenheit difference . . . and we'll have . . .
Did I mention Qualcomm? San Diego money comes in bigger denominations than prairie money, so that should be interesting. I was one of the first to recognize that Qualcomm would become a powerhouse. I examined spread-spectrum radios just as they emerged from top-secret status. No one pounded the field harder than Q. I became friends with a young patent attorney who was prosecuting for them. I wonder if he is still there. Odds that he is one of the old guys at the interview? Not unlikely.
As Billy Squire often sang, "everybody wants me." Fingers crossed on a trip to Scotland. That would be cool. I love calling people cunts.
Now, show me the money.
Enjoy,
M
One of the major telecomms is considering me for a position as a roving infringement analyst. Unfortunately, my recruiter laments, they don't pay very well - only one hundred thirty five thousand with a full assortment of high-end benefits. Damn - only eleven thousand a month - he said sarcastically, glad to have shed the golden handcuffs that made such fortunes unfortunate.
We should note, however, that my recruiters opinion that this is an unfortunate sum stands as evidence that he believes that more fortunate sums are available to me.
The boutiques have to compete with Greg, my former partner, who would let me rejoin the firm and the generous percentages. I have my problems with Greg, but a known devil is always better than an unknown one and there isn't anything we couldn't work around, if we wanted to do so. I have matured significantly since I first joined the firm. It is the standard all jobs have to surpass, in fact. It was just too much of a solo-practicioner environment and I want to be part of a team.
I can stay up all night to solve a problem. I can't motivate myself for more than thirty minutes with promises of money. I need to find ways to attach cash to the problems I am solving.
The Big Daddy of Dallas, Texas Instruments is also in negotiation. Given their extensive patent programs, I have always known we are a good match. I provide an incredible edge to anyone who engages my help and the bigger the program, the greater the edge I give. Who shall deserve the blessings of my presence.
If only I were modest - then I would be perfect. Ha. Metaphor is similie.
Although I hardly spoke to her, I left Kelly another excessive tip. She looked at me in shock, unable to understand something that can only be expressed by an emotional urge. I took a brief hug, told her thanks and that she should have a good evening and slipped away. I gave her my card with the bills, after much consideration of the positive and negative messages conveyed by my name, number and email address. I don't want to give the impression of making demands on her, but I don't want to perpetuate a sense of complete mystery. Without further instructions, I decided, the card did not make demands and just as well became a silent offer of further assistance.
I don't know why I have an urge to help this girl. I don't even know what her problems might be. I don't know anything except that she is cute, kind and suffering. My urge is perfectly self-indulgent - although my object of concern is someone else, I enjoy the feeling of giving to someone who needs. I don't want gratitude, far from it, for a need for gratitude is a cost forced on the recipient that can only diminish the giving. I give because it makes me feel good to make people feel better. I give selfishly, without any regard for anyone else. Sort of.
My sexuality doesn't associate with this desire to help - if anything, my sexuality disassociates from women I help, not wanting to reduce the effective help by allowing my desires to become a further burden to her. Taking advantage of someone who is hurt, diminished or otherwise reduced in capacity is abhorrent to me. I'm not real keen on taking advantage of the rest of you, either, but a man has to eat, n'cest pas? When I want to help a woman, I may find her attractive and indulge my visual appetite for pretty ladies, but I find it difficult to reframe the situation into something sexual, at least until she is strong enough to take responsibility for her decisions. The only sex I want results from honest self-indulgent desire on her part.
And there is plenty of that, he boasted immodestly. Perfection is still a long ways away.
Enjoy,
M
Whoosh
A punk kid challenged me to a race down one of our more intense hills. Three strokes into our descent, I knew there was no chance - he was already moving faster than I dared to go. I call him a punk because it fits the scene - actually, he was a nice guy.
I drove past the hill again yesterday. I felt confident I could beat his bike in a car, but he wasn't there to take my challenge. Punk kid. Ha.
Two local boutiques are ready to interview, while the nibbles continue to keep the waters turgid. I have another fifty email responses to prepare. Slow and steady. I need to work on my wardrobe, prepare my costume. How does the most powerful man in Texas dress? Standing tall.
Rain has finally visited us and stayed awhile. C'mon back now, ya hear? Hey, hey, hey, Mama - look at little sister. I'm just looking for some tush.
M
Both Scotland and Tokyo have expressed an interest in my talents. I'd better get my passport in order. I have something like fifty responses to put together, in addition to a few phone calls. I must put my mind into the brilliant patent attorney frame, adapting my perspective to automate intellectual property analysis.
I have lived immersed in patent claim language for more than twenty years now. It is a form of poetry, a funny form that derives its beauty from realms beyond syllabic interplay, a poetic definition that can create billions of dollars of wealth. Inventors invent inventions - patent attorneys spin words into gold. Nobody's funky like me.
In order to sell my importance, I must feel my importance. For me, the challenge is remaining focussed on feeling myself in relation to the world around me. The temptation to slip into analysis and imaginative creation is always attractive compared to the patient attention to detail required by space-matter interactions.
My manager played coy last night, perhaps a bit rattled by my backstage overtures. I expected as much and played it totally cool. Her first fear will naturally be that in my attraction for her, I will become trouble. Rather, I hardly even acknowledge her presence, so far from being a problem that she is forced to reanalyze the situation and determine that, in fact, I am not paying sufficient attention to her because of her coy start. To make up for the coyness, she becomes open.
Everyone should be cautious with new people. Getting past the natural caution is the real hurdle of social interaction. When we express attraction, further caution is usually - let's hope - roused. Patience is the only real cure for these emotional spikes.
I advanced with the attitude that in the worst case, my attention entirely unappreciated, she will still be flattered. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.
It was one of Wilde's.
My guitar playing continues to be excessive. My left hand is in a constant state of almost cramping. A new song has my pinky finger sore. The tips of my fingers are leathery. I don't usually use a pick so that I can use all five fingers for picking and strumming, so I have some tough spots on my right hand, too. I picked up some pedals, which transforms an electric guitar from a loud guitar into the instrument that has fascinated us for the last fifty years. I have been shopping for guitars, particularly an old hollow-body. I love a dirty guitar. I should get a lead guitar instead, but reason is no substitute for desire.
It will be good to be rich (richer) again. Money may be the root of all evil, but it comes in handy nonetheless.
better start interviewing potential money providers . . .
Enjoy,
M
and so the frenzy begins . . . my phone rings incessantly . . . emails pouring into my inbox . . . when can we speak with you . . . where can we meet . . . how much do you want . . .
I've had about fifty responses so far - I added another hundred possible employers - thirty "we'll get back to yous," two rejections, fifteen "tell us more, tell us more" and five requests for interviews. Qualcomm in San Diego wants an interview. Firms in Dallas, Michigan, San Francisco and . . . somewhere. Conneticut said "no way, get out of here." Damn Conneticunts.
Freudian burn.
The hard part will be to resist my urge to help people who need help, to have the patience to discover where I can help best and give myself that opportunity to make the most of my time.
Stop calling me, damn you! The telephone rattles my nerves. It is so demanding.
The urge to put the extroversion to a halt will become difficult to resist. I will have to periodically refresh my introversion batteries, like Ultraman, flying to the sun. His loss of power was more plot dictated than rational. I always dug Ultraman.
Letty's Rule: Some women prefer cash to poetry.
I met a waitress who tends to overdo sampling her own wares. I had flirted with her when I met her, but have stayed cool since, realizing that she drowns in drunken attention. I slipped away with her last night to settle my bill and gave her more than twice what I owed. She gave me a hug when she realized the extent of my generosity, but I didn't even cop a feel - leaving with a muttered "good night" and no hint of expectation. She needs her faith in the Universe restored, and in some way, I am the instrument of that faith. I like seeing people happy. Empath Syndrome.
I just have to know when to quit.
Enjoy,
M
I just applied for eighty-seven jobs all across the planet, each of which I am qualified or over-qualified to perform. Actually, I qualified for one thousand, two hundred and twenty eight jobs, but the remainder do not make bulk application an option, at least not without tinkering. I'll scan the list and see if anything cool begs my attention. Mike is beating the bushes in Dallas while an associate of his beats Houston. Old colleagues - they are all old nowadays - are being roused indirectly to help, hoping to score the diplomacy points available for local matchmaking. Almost like the fuss surrounding political marriages, in a weird way.
Because the recruiters are motivated to find me the highest paying job and because I have warned them that I will not settle for just any job and can certainly accept many times less than my earning potential, the atmosphere is set for a wildfire auction. While I am unlikely to leave the Dallas area, I am willing to consider that the perfect job would include some manner of managing my geographic limitations, and so I am prepared to consider working anyplace where the work is worthy of my attention. I'm also willing to accept visits to the far corners of the earth using other people's money. In fact, I prefer it that way.
Golden handcuffs - who could imagine that success could become a problem? Mine were weakly made and poorly maintained, but I have known attorney who were subjected to slavery because of poor decisions and golden handcuffs. Once you succeed, you can't afford not to succeed. No one expects success to destroy them.
but freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. I'm as poor as I can afford to be without impacting my children and my sense of freedom is incredible. The calm of my achieved perspective has allowed me to prepare myself for the success to come. This time, I know what to expect when I walk out the door. Success is going to be my friend.
I feel second to no one. For me, this is a virginal feeling, something I have never known before. Many people know many things that I have never even dreamed of knowing, yet no one knows more than I do about the world that has surrounded me.
Cynthia asked me if Indians ate beef. I told her that the hindus were typically vegetarians because they believe in reincarnation while the moslems enjoyed a good piece of beef when they could. She asked me how I knew these things, about India and about religion.
"I know these things because I'm old," I explained. She asked my age, again.
"Yeah, you are old. You don't look it. Not at all. That's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Good for me," I agreed.
Judges Posner, Bork and Easterbrook are some of the most intelligent people I have ever encounted in the flesh. They glowed with intellect and I was awed. I would not like to play ball against them on their home field. I could probably take them on mine. It would be a good fight, either way.
Chomsky also seems endlessly amazed at the stupidity of the human race. Well, no duh. Smart people are damn rare and most of them are mucked up with emotional storms that would never even occur to someone of a simpler intellect. Among the smart people who can function for a good portion of their time, they tend to choose something specific to study and understand. Really smart people who bother to function as leaders are rare and usually eaten alive by the dumb but ruthless thugs that populate great portions of our populace.
DC is one of the smarter conglomerations on the planet, but even smart people have serious limitations when it comes to gigantic complicated compromises. Government is irrational from core to crust. For a smart person to implement smart government, they would have to be a first-string government player. Being a player and implementing smart government are counter-indicated.
One of the mistakes of the Soviet experiment is the idea that people can learn rationally. Most of our learning is accomplished as the result of emotional anchoring. Competitive situations create the emotional patterns necessary for learning.
The whole reason we evolved our ability to think was to catch rabbits. The struggle to survive adapted us to anticipate and plan. If I chase it right, it will fall into the hole. All predators start here. Our rabbits were just too damn smart to leave things instinctually programmed.
Enjoy,
M
The heat of a dallas august is desert heat, except that things don't cool down much at night. I want to arrange a fantasy concert with Carlos Santana and Sade. The outdoor concert would start at 10pm and last until dawn. Some musicians beg to be listened to in the calm of a dark, hot night.
I once lived in a penthouse apartment - not really, but it was on the furthest corner of the top floor. They numbered the floor sixteen, but since they skipped the number thirteen, it was actually the fifteenth floor. In the DC area, where buildings are strictly limited by the height of the monuments, capital and national airport, fifteen stories is a mega-scraper. I was on the Virginia side of the Woodrow Wilson bridge in Alexandria.
My apartment faced south, away from the Potomac, over a huge wooded valley cut by the perpetual stream of traffic on I-95. My first eX had rented the beautiful apartment and then promptly left me, leaving me an incredible two bedroom apartment with an unbelievable view and no furniture. Most of my pay went to rent, but what else did I need? I didn't need a car. I've never been much of an eater. Books are a self-limited expense, if we actually read the books we buy. I've read most of the books I've bought.
My first eX not only left me with no furniture, she also left me with a mountain of debt. This has been a common thread among my eXs. I get my books and all of the debt.
I always laugh at credit rating crap - only poor people need credit, rich people pay cash. If you have cash, people would love to loan you money, but since you don't need it, that's not a business. They have to loan money to poor people. Making poor people afraid that they won't be able to borrow more gives them incentive to pay debts.
If people spent more time making money, they wouldn't need credit. If you are poor and need credit, they will lend you the money, because thats the only way they can make any money. If you are poor and have maxed credit, of course your credit score will be low because no one will lend you any money because they don't believe you can pay them. If that's the case, who cares what your credit score is? Borrowing money won't help at that point.
A credit score is just a bargaining chip. If it doesn't matter to you, it doesn't matter to anyone.
I started reading some Chomsky - a bit of political talk - and was quickly disturbed by his tendency to anthropomorphize. This is a serious error in my view.
"Americans support Israel." A hypothetical and reasonably relevant statement for analysis. From a global diplomacy perspective, we might say this statement is true. America is not a person who can provide support to anything. America is a concept that includes about 300 million citizens, our government, politicians, political organizations, businesses, business organizations, and a thousand other sub-groups that comprise America in one sense or another. Not one of us agree completely. We do not act in concert. It is meaningless to say that Americans support Israel except in a general metaphorical sense, a bit of information disguised as a broad statement.
The media is not a person. The republican party is not a person. Groups of people cannot be accurately described as though they are an individual. The metaphor is there and is useful, but it is a terrible mistake to extend the metaphor into the basis for analysis.
The government cannot conspire successfully because the government is made of millions of individuals, all of whom are free to conspire and not conspire as they deem necessary. Once upon a time, I was a member of a government agency. It is idiotic to speak of the Patent Office as though it were a person, doing things, believing things, wanting things. If anything, it is a raging river with countless people swimming around pushing rocks in the water. What does the river want?
Take a gang of two and you will create an organization that cannot be accurately described as a functional individual. Group interactions are infinitely - in the Cantorian sense - more complex. First level interactions between a million bureaucrats are already two to the millionth. Add an electorate to the mix and we are drawing fractals. Pretty patterns, totally unpredictable.
Fiction is the non-fiction of the human mind. Preferring non-fiction to fiction is to expose your extroversions. Turning your back on the mysteries of thought, however, is a dangerous denial.
For me to find myself unable to read fiction is no small matter - I have spent thirty years immersed in the tales and poetics of the worlds best writers. The uniqueness of my personal journey and my skill development leads me to fictional visions that simply cannot be satisified by the writings of others. I no longer wish I could do what the great writers do. I just wish I could figure out how to do what I want to do, and far less interested in the attempts made by others. They don't have that much to teach me, relative to other learning opportunities. I'd love to find a book that made me take it all back. It is much easier to read a pretentious masterpiece than write one.
I had a lovely conversation with the pizza girl yesterday. I am far more patient with her than I should be, definitely worlds more than any other random girl would receive, but our long history is worth more than day-to-day girl-boy parties. She continues to amuse and delight me with her worldly innocence. If only I could steal a squeeze.
I suspect that I could simply take Jo in my arms and kiss her, without warning. I might get slapped, but somehow I doubt it. Touching people has never been my style, even in the slightest ways, so it would take a great deal of cool to pull that off. We'll see what the Universe has to say about that.
and the beat goes on
M
One hundred five cut with Stevie Ray - we must be in Texas.
I went and partied hard with the hindus last night - no disrespect to our muslim brothers, but my indian stereotypes are typically hindu. An Indian comedian told jokes, at least half of which involved some measure of punjabi and so were lost. He warned against gangs in India - roving bands of computer programmers who will spam your ass before they delete your sys file. Apparently indian mothers are brutal, using shoes as their weapon of choice. Lots of laughter over coupons. What a culture.
The hindi hip-hop provided better dance music than any club this side of the lizard lounge. Incredibly pretty indian women hanging out with lame-ass indian dudes. Another one of those parties and I may have dates extending well into twenty-twelve. I've set my sights on Jo, the manager, who needs some malinovian comforting to help her through the emotional pains of recovering from divorce. She works too much, giving too much time to think and not enough time to let go. I can help, Jo.
I had absolutely no intention of going to a sub-continent soiree, no idea that it was going on, when I went to the Pit for a drink. Sometimes the Universe presents unexpected opportunities. My first urge, naturally, was to run away. A moment of calming and some reflection helped me realize that such a party was exactly what I needed - I know the entire staff - the cost was insignificant - pretty girls poured into the place - if I left, wouldn't I end up looking for exactly what I had already walked into? Pull up a chair, my friend and have another beer.
At one point, I had six women staring at me simultaneously. I made several boyfriends nervous, leading them to cling to their ladies as the naughty women continued to use their eyes for impermissible flirting. Indian chicks can be as amoral as they come.
The Pit was loud, beyond loud and the patio was still hot late into the night. The noise finally drove me away. I didn't expend any energy trying to mingle, knowing that the best road to meeting people is to hang around until familiarity kicks in. Once I'm relaxed and they're used to me, I can make much better progress. I've also learned that when I encounter someone I know, a sudden widening of the eyes can simply indicate recognition. More interestingly, I have discovered that this non-verbal greeting will cause people who barely know me - if at all - to suddenly begin talking to me. I think the wide-eyed hello is perceived very positively, as the attitudes are always good.
And, of course, the best way to meet a sales clerk is to knock over a display. You will talk to them and since you are clumsy, you are not intimidating. Who can be scared of a klutz? Self-deprecation leads to positive strokes, implanting these positive ideas in association with us. Don't knock over fragile items, or knock displays onto children. Negative consequences lead to negative associations.
one hundred five cut with SRV - we must be in Texas
Enjoy,
M
The rewritten story took advantage of the anticipated reading to economize the language and shift non-verbal content to the performance. I used a ticking clock to establish rhythms within my prose, an effect that works much better when read aloud than when seen on a page, especially if the printing is not specifically designed to heighten the visual effect. I used a similar rhythmic device in my final story for the class. That was one of my best early works. Long Night on a Cold Bridge.
The first ticking was an anarchist bomb. Lots of Dostoevsky. The second was a ticking clock, the expensive gift of a controlling wife. Eugene O'Neill.
Interestingly, I still like my eX the same way I have always liked my eX. I think she is a delight, in her own special way. She has her limitations, but I know those as well as anyone could and there is little malice in her soul. I've been crazy since way back, so my analysis of the past is bound to be skewed. I handle our interactions so much better than I have, getting better all the time. When my energies are fading, it can still be a strain to talk to her. More often, it is becoming a pleasure again. I enjoy her happiness, as I always have. One of the hardest things for me is emotionally disconnecting. I am having to learn to care less.
"What is your name, if I may?"
"Robin."
"Pleasure."
"It's about time."
Such was the conversation I had with Robin at my shrinks office. The amount of non-verbal communication that is left out of this simple rendition is incredible. So many things were expressed in the time spent mouthing these syllables.
I have been seeing Robin at least once-a-month for the past three years, mainly to get my Adderol script. Delightfuly cute and quite friendly since the beginning. Two months ago, I called her "beautiful" and she melted severely. Last month, we had a delightful conversation. Today, I hoped to push things further. I arrived amidst a crowd with my shrink standing next to her. I did pretty well, considering the inhibitions.
Flirting with a woman in the shrinks office is a complicated proposition. I think I should advertise the fact that a woman with access to both my shrinks file and my therapists file has flirted with me for several years, more so as time has progressed - if anyone would have cause to be wary, I would think it would be her. I've never seen those files, although I'm sure they say that I'm too sexy and too kind and too smart. My therapist really liked me. The shrink keeps his distance, watching for bad drug effects.
My sprite wrote me a letter of literary stuff and then wrote me a personal literary letter. Just as my hopes began to fade, she reaches out, if only a bit. I continue to try to connect to her, get an interchange of ideas going, feel the beauty of her expressive spirit glow. I don't care and yet I enjoy trying. Who knows where life may lead.
What next? Who knows?
Enjoy,
M
I never asked my writing professor what he had against actors. I understood his point.
He came from the deep south - Alabama or Mississipi, I think. He had married a black woman, an understandably bold move for a southern white boy. The curious thing, however, was that he talked about it constantly. "How can a southern white boy marry a black woman?" As liberal college youths, I'm sure most of us gave it no thought. There are very few african-americans in Kansas, so we didn't have much prejudice to work with personally. He made certain that everyone knew and understood the complicated motives that must have engendered such a match.
I remember learning one thing from that class. Our professor told us of a former student who had written a story wherein a squirrel died. The narrative explained that the dead squirrel sported a squirrelly erection. Asked about this strange detail, the author said that it was true - when a squirrel dies, it has an erection.
Lesson: Details are selected in furtherance of the fiction, not because they are true.
When I worked at one of the biglaw firms, one of the senior partners told me, regarding another senior partner, "he would fuck a squirrel if it slowed down long enough for him to catch hold." I don't know if it is true, but I've never seen a squirrel move slowly around Pete. Just in case.
Most of the authors I know will read their stories aloud during the editing. Primarily, this exercise is performed to remove inadvertant rhyme and alliteration, things that do not rise from a scanned page but become distracting during aural renditions. I don't read my stories aloud to edit them. Reading a story aloud changes the story in significant ways and would suggest serious re-writes.
Poetry is the same way - which is why I have no interest in the poetry slams. Poetry read aloud is not poetry - it is performance art. The arrangement of words on a page affects us differently than the voice of a human being rendering the same words aloud. If a word cannot survive separation from the author, it is not a persistent art form.
The same is true of lyrical poetry - to write the lyrics for a song is not writing poetry. The intention to render the words aloud places us in a completely different artistic realm.
I'm not trying to stratify these art forms - implying that one is superior to another in some esoteric way - but rather to emphasize that they are very different and that the choices made in the formation process are radically different.
Shakespeare, I would assume, was never written to be read from the page. This intention to auralize the work creates word choices that resonate to a greater degree than they infiltrate. Bill spoke to us vocally rather than sliding into the psyche by indirect syllabic intrusion.
I love making up word-strings for non-verbal concepts.
I spoke at length with my newest recruiter yesterday. His excitement is palpable. "This is a really strong resume." Once I gave him the go-ahead, he was bubbling with possible positions.
One of the greatest benefits I have now is that I have escaped my golden handcuffs. When you make a great deal of money - in excess of $200,000 a few years ago - it becomes impossible to earn less without a serious impact on lifestyle. Since I have enjoyed an annual income of less than $10,000 for two years, virtually any lawyer salary will make me feel incredibly rich. I was assured that it was highly unlikely that I will be offered less than $200K, but it is nice to know that I don't have to pursue the grand sums for their own sake.
I'm going to throw my resume out to the national winds, see if I can't score some all-expense paid visits to parts diverse. Who knows - maybe I'll discover some new El Dorado.
I sent the children home yesterday, after the eX asked for a last-minute extension. It isn't hard to remember why I struggled so much in dealing with her. She had gone to San Antonio for a conference, planning to leave early so she could pick up the kids on Wednesday afternoon. At 6pm on Wednesday, she called me to tell me that she was just leaving San Antonio, so it would be another five hours before she returned home and could I get the kids, who had been sitting home alone waiting for her. All sensible, except that she obviously knew much earlier that she wouldn't be home until late. By not calling, she made a simple situation complex. Sigh.
Since our relationship has normalized, she calls me more often than she did when we were married. I inevitably experience a certain amount of stress in talking to her, left over reverberations of the panic she used to induce in me. I would run away from her calls, but I can't and besides, anything is better than the irrational war-chants she used to give me.
A little tequila - a margarita to stave off the cold - sent me spiralling into a deep sleep. The week with the kids was completely exhausting. Friday. I'm in love.
My daughter has become an avowed curehead. Since her parents have been cureheads since before the beginning, it is no surprise. Listening to her exclaim the genius of Robert Smith is almost funny, listening to echoes of my own youth in her exuberance. I have so much to teach that beautiful, brilliant young lady.
Monstrous heat. People are going to hell, just to cool off.
Enjoy,
M
I find myself struggling to read. I find it particularly difficult to read fiction.
Not because of my complicated schedule and constantly straying attention - I have managed to read tens of thousands of books under more complex circumstances.
I struggle to read because I find the words unsatisfying. I want to say it is because everyone is a terrible writer, but I know that is no more true than it is kind. Writers are failing to write in a way I find satisfying. I read one, two sentences of a work of fiction and I am already rewriting to suit my taste. By the third paragraph of anyone's fiction, I have concocted an entirely different work in my head. Writing my story becomes far more interesting than reading theirs. So I put it down.
I never want to discourage anyone from writing - that would be perfectly counter-productive. But I think my days as a reader are coming to a close. The time has come to spend that time stringing words that do satisfy me.
I could probably cure myself of this dissatisfaction by returning to a few writers that I know will knock me down.
Story is easy. Poetics is the art.
I was again considering some of the Alyssian propositions regarding aural writing. She asserts that documents like the Declaration of Independence were written to be read aloud. A few copies of the writing were made and dudes walked around reading the document to crowds.
The invention of the moveable type press provided the first opportunity for reading to become a general skill, but we must remember that it has taken centuries for even a portion of the populace to be literate. In 1776, most people could not read. If a document wasn't read aloud, it was not generally read.
If I had taken a foreign language in college, I would have a degree in English Literature. My engineering degree didn't require a language. With the language, I would have only needed nine hours for a degree in physics sans engineering, but those nine hours would have been harder than all the rest of my classes combined. I graduated in four and one half years with over one hundred thirty credits. My gpa sucked, but I knew almost everything they could teach me.
Then I went to law school for another four years. Damn, I'm overeducated.
Anyways, to make a long story short (ha) I took a creative writing class. We each wrote five stories, read them aloud for criticism and got As. Classes in creativity are about as silly as life gets, but I loved the class.
All my stories have always been love stories - stories of adult emotional relationships. I think it was the third story when I cast my tale with political males and introduced an almost-sexual intellectual relationship triangle. I still find the story intriguing and I was the first to read mine aloud. After the criticism, I went home and completely rewrote the story , although there was no incentive for me to do so, other than personal satisfaction.
When I read my next version, my professor asked me if I was a drama student. "I don't trust actors," he said when I denied any thespian involvement.
My first story had been written to be read within the mind. I used expository language to tell the tale. The second version was completely aural - I wrote it knowing that I would be reading it to the class.
Alyssa decried the decline of the aural component in our writings. Now I am convinced that she was completely off base - radio, television, movies and computers have come to dominate our communication systems, and they rely almost entirely - or more and more - on aural renderings of information. We are inculcated with aural readings, to the extent of creating a third, generalized aural language.
Damn, I know I've read that somewhere. Credit to whoever taught me that.
Without the written component of the Internet, written language could disappear entirely. It may still.
There is a huge difference in the communication channels of aural and written languages, and they are not completely fungible by any means. Our newspapers do not consist of transcripts of our newscasters, even when they provide the same information. If the newscaster is quoted, the written material provides excesses of parallel information. Writing is not interchangeable with speaking.
Fascinating Captain.
I'm meeting new girls every day. I love to watch the fires of excitement burn within them. I love the joy of a kind smile. One of the recruiters declined to help me, saying that with my credentials, I could find twenty jobs on my own before he found me one. The hardest part for me is dealing with the world. The road into my mind is downhill and so much easier to walk. I must find joys outside these walls.
Enjoy,
M
I have always envied Sam Shepard's writing. He utilizes an economical dialogue that manages to express worlds of unspoken drama and character. As a playwright, Sam uses an aural vocabulary. Only the playwright - and Gaddis - are free of expository needs, so the use of an aural vocabulary will be more naturally understood than a play using an expository vocabulary.
The problem is that our aural language changes with incredible rapidity, so a play written with aural vocabulary has a much shorter shelf-life than one written with the less natural expository vocabulary. Sam's plays may be inscrutable to an audience of the next century. All the non-verbal content of the aural vocabulary is lost when the aural language shifts significantly.
The expository language changes much slower, and so persists for much longer. Although it is an inferior language for performance, the use of expository language creates a work that can endure for centuries.
Take Shakespeare, for example. His plays were written for performance and so we can assume that he used a typically aural language for the time. We, as non-contemporaries, are incapable of understanding levels of his work, the vast majority of the non-verbal elements of the aural language that have not been recorded, as they typically are not because they are non-verbal.
However, Shakespeare persists nonetheless - because he integrated an expository vocabulary into his aural work, providing ample material for enduring enjoyment.
Here we discover a complexity that keeps us searching - the best works would be integrated. How do we accomplish such a weave?
By trying
Enjoy,
M
As I began to craft a story for my son, I reached into my bag of tricks. Modelling the scene in my mind, I began to scan for an opening. Since I would be working with a third-person narration, the opening line would be dialogue.
Narrative is bullcrap in third person. Necessary as fertilizer, but certainly not the main attraction. To lead with narrative is to surrender the audience, build a wall of words to prevent communicative access. Narrative bad.
Let's just say that I am very wary of beginning a story with anything other than a quotation mark. Ninety-nine percent of all exposition should be avoided at all costs. If that much explaining is necessary, we should be working in first person.
My point has always been that dialogue engages the reader in a way that narrative cannot. But the Alyssian analysis has led me to a different thought. By using spoken words to open the scene, I have touched upon an aural vocabulary, as opposed to an expository one. The spoken "uh-huh" can be packed with meanings that the mere sequence of letters will not provide. Spoken words create voice for the characters, implementing non-verbal communications within variations of the voice.
So what does the invocation of an aural vocabulary do to our expository language? One of the best side-effects is that the auralized narration forces character on the narrator. Now the narrative is being spoken, utilizing the advantages of first person in the third person.
Writers should always practice capturing voice. Learn to mimic everything.
Enjoy,
M
As far as I can recall, the only woman I didn't steal from another guy was my first girlfriend. Stealing is an overly strong verb. To the guy, I was probably stealing. To the rest of us, he was throwing her away. I just happened to be
writing practice - did I ever tell you that I invented the blog - my porn is very famous - one of my earliest spanking stories is a contender for spam awards - it has been posted in multiple waves to the Internet every day since it was written in '94 - Malinov is actually a character in that story
sneaky snakes
<where the hell are you?