The Tower

Dreamed on the night of Thursday, May 12, 2011

This was an unusual dream for me. I don’t usually remember dreams. And when I do, they are not really worth remembering as they are normally without much action--just as boring as real life. Needless to say, I've never had the inclination to blog about one. Until now.

Obviously the town officials would ask me for help, knowing my expertise. We surmised, by using some computer models, that the killer’s target destination was some old forgotten tower. So our plan now was to get there before him, and use it against him, as he had intended to use it against who knows how many innocent citizens.

This tower was at least 20-30 stories high, and getting to the top would not be easy. Many of the handholds had become sunken into the concrete, and it was difficult to get a grip. But after a very difficult climb, we were finally able to make it to the top.

The top of the tower was much bigger than we had originally thought. It was as big a city block, if not bigger. And the terrain was extremely varied, with alcoves and outcroppings and a mass of electrical equipment rising in the middle of all of it. To make matters worse, we discovered that there were quite a few people who were living there. Obviously homeless people with nowhere else to go, they had made for themselves quite a little community up there. They couldn’t stay, since they would only get in the way of the mission, or worse, might get shot or killed in the crossfire. So they were told to leave. They were not happy about this, as this had been their home for quite some time.

As they were grumbling amongst themselves, it occurred to me that once down, they might tell everyone we were up there, and then the killer would get wind of this, and our mission would be compromised. Nothing was more important to me than eliminating this killer, and I would do anything to see it through. So I suggested throwing them off the tower, but quickly retracted that as the killer might see their bodies on the ground and deduce something was amiss. So then I proposed we just eliminate them. This didn’t go over too well with the officials, and it was decided they would be escorted off the tower.

As this was being done, I figured I’d better start surveying the area. It quickly became apparent that the original plan would have to be altered. Due to the layout, there was no way I could see him before he got up the tower. So I decided I would scale up the power equipment to give myself a better vantage point; once he was up there, I could just pick him off.

It was difficult fitting through all of the struts, beams and power lines. And the power lines were buzzing with electricity—one wrong move, and I would be fried. Luckily, in my dream, I was much thinner than I am in real life, so I was able to safely squeeze through.
When I got to the highest point I could, I discovered that I still could not see much of the top of the tower, plus I was pretty much wedged in and couldn’t move around. If he saw me, I would be a sitting duck. I carefully began working my way back down.

On the way down, I saw the killer. But he was not alone. He was surrounded by a group of very well-dressed people, and it was as if he were happily giving them a tour of the place. They looked to be very important people, and were laughing and joking, obviously oblivious to my presence.

But the mission was the mission, he had to be stopped. So I started shooting indiscriminately amongst the throng, hoping to get him. They began to panic, screaming and running around. I could no longer tell who was who, so I started trying to pick them off one by one, and hopefully the killer would be one.

Where in the dream did I become the villain? My original intent was to help the town rid themselves of a terrible monster, but as the dream progressed, he became respectable, and I was now the monster.

Happy Blahday

Another birthday. Another year older. I remember birthdays as a kid were so exciting. It wasn't so much the gifts, it was more about just having a special day all to yourself. Your one day a year you could call your own. May 12th. That date used to have such meaning. Such power. Now it's just another day. But the power I always associated with that date never completely went away. There's still a slight residue there, a niggling feeling something special should happen. But it never does anymore.

I had taken the day off from work, to spend it at my daughter's school. Today was their track and field day. She was very excited, and I was excited for her. She means everything to me. But it was rained out. We needed the rain, no doubt about that. But it meant I spent the day accomplishing nothing.

But I have had some time to think. And I have resolved to myself that before I see another birthday, I will have finished writing my book. Goddammit, I have to accomplish something in my life! Because if I don't, what was the point of it? I don't want to look back on a string of wasted years. Wasted years of dreaming of doing something, instead of just doing it.

When I was a kid, all I thought about was being a writer. I figured that by 35, I would have at least one good thick novel out. Now, 35 seems like a lifetime ago. And aside from a handful of poems published in some small publications, I have nothing to show for it. I need to focus all of my attention on my writing.

Up to now, I've just been tinkering around with it, working on the outline, trying to flesh out some characters, but haven't done much real writing. It's like I keep finding excuses not to write it:

• I haven't found my voice.
• I haven't completely figured out the storyline.
• What should the narrative structure be?
• The characters are still too ambiguous.
  
• I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

When what I really need to do is just write--and not give a shit what it looks like.

Reader's Block by David Markson

***Spoilers***

When it comes to experimental fiction, no one outshines David Markson. David Foster Wallace revered him, and in a 1999 article for Salon.com, said of Markson's “Wittgenstein's Mistress:” a novel this abstract and erudite and avant-garde that could also be so moving makes "Wittgenstein's Mistress" pretty much the high point of experimental fiction in this country.

Much the same could be said of “Reader's Block,” written eight years later, as well. It is comprised of a disjointed mishmash of cultural and literary quotes and anecdotes. Interspersed with these entries is a running commentary on the nature of the book itself, as well as “Reader” trying to work out the details of a book he is having trouble writing. “Reader” is how the narrator sometimes refers to himself, which is explained by the introductory quote from Jose Luis Borges: First and foremost, I think of myself as a reader.

However, it is not all as simple as that, as narrator = Reader = Protagonist (main character of Reader's book.) This trichotomy of Markson's is exploited and explored thoughout the book, making for a fascinating conundrum of who is who.

With respect to what is what, as in what this book actually is, the narrator is not exactly sure.

Nonlinear? Discontinuous? Collage-like?

An assemblage?

And later:

A novel of intellectual reference and allusion, so to speak minus much of the novel?

Many of the entries have to do with isolation, mental illness, death, incest, the Holocaust, etc… However, the frequency of two particular categories far exceeds any others:

1. So-and-So was an anti-Semite

2. So-and-So committed suicide (sometimes going into detail, sometimes not.)

With respect to the first category, it is not altogether clear what Markson is striving for. Those he brands as anti-Semites run the gamut from Saint Thomas Aquinas to Dostoevsky, with scores and scores of writers, philosophers, artists and scientists in between. It is never stated why they could be called as such; all we have is just the statement that So-and-So is.

In addition, there does seem to be a preponderance of entries that deal with the Holocaust. So, is Markson saying that anyone he classes an anti-Semite would have approved of the Holocaust, thereby making them as much of a monster as the Nazi’s actually responsible? If so, this would in turn nullify any contributions they might have made (which, by the sheer number of those “outed,” would be a very large percentage of the Western canon—i.e. all of the books that narrator/Reader/Markson has enjoyed reading over a lifetime.)

However, not all is Holocaust and suicide. Many of the entries are just little tidbits he has picked up among the books he has read, and he often creates interconnections between them, sometimes playing them against each other to great comic effect. For example, in one entry, it is revealed that Mallarme learned English for the specific purpose of reading Poe. Then, five entries later, there is a quote from Henry James, who said, “an enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection.”

As for the book Reader is contemplating writing, he does not yet have a name for his main character, Protagonist, so starts trying on names of characters from famous books: Raskolnikov, Bloom, Mr. Kurtz, Mersault, Harry Haller, Molloy/Malone/Estragon, etc… He constantly shifts back and forth between them and others, and then back to just plain Protagonist as Reader tries to make up his mind. He never does.

Also changing constantly is the setting of the novel. Does Protagonist live in a house in a cemetery or in an isolated house on the beach? Both are explored, making up storylines to go with each, but again, he never settles on one.

What is Protagonist’s background? Having trouble creating a world for protagonist, Reader starts giving him scenes from his own life (having a son and daughter, having written books, etc…) Also, the statements of isolation (nobody comes, nobody calls, etc…), which are pervasive throughout the book concerning narrator and Reader are also projected onto Protagonist, further blurring the lines between narrator, Reader and Protagonist.

By the end of the book, all of the dark ruminations on isolation, suicide and death have built up to a deafening crescendo. The Protagonist is gone, being replaced by an elderly man (Markson?), and it is asked what if the elderly man in the house at the beach were to walk unremarkably into the ocean? Or if the elderly man in the house at the cemetery were to turn unremarkably to the gas?

The last line of the book:

Wastebasket

Wastebasket. What does it mean? Is the wastebasket where all of this nonlinear, discontinuous, collage-like assemblage should go? No, I don't believe so. I believe another conclusion has been arrived at: The world is a bleak, hopeless place where even the so-called giants of literature are really just monsters in disguise. For someone who has built his life around books, this is not a welcome conclusion. And so now all of the entries concerning suicide finally make sense.

Wastebasket.

Stand on the wastebasket and hang himself. Have I misread it? I don't think so. And what makes the ending even more of a punch in the gut is knowing that David Foster Wallace would certainly have read this book.

scribble scribble scribble

So, the story goes something like this. After finishing his first volume of the Decline, Edward Gibbon gives the Duke of Gloucester a copy of it. When he finishes the second volume, and presents him with a copy of that one as well, the duke replies "Another damned, thick, square book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr. Gibbon?!"

And why am I sharing this? Well, aside from still deluding myself into thinking I'm actually going to finish that work one day--but dammit I will! I just keep getting distracted. It's not that I can't get into it. Hell, Gibbon's prose is a delight to read. No, it's that damned Oliphant Smeaton! Why did I have to get the Modern Library version, with that little sniveling twerp editing it? And having to endure him putting his own annoying, footnotes into it? And right alongside Gibbon's footnotes! You cannot choose to ignore the footnotes, because Gibbon puts some of his best lines in them. But you never know "whose" footnote you will accessing when you go to one. And when you go to one, and then find it is just Smeaton taking a jab at Gibbon (Gibbon was mistaken on this point....Gibbon errs here...), it's annoying as hell! The little bug! I've got to find another copy of it, there's just no getting around it.

Okay, where was I? Ah yes, it's not about the book, but about the duke's snide remark. And how I so wished that could be applied to me. I have such a hard time trying to keep at my writing. I'll have stretches where I get going pretty well, but all too soon, nothing.

The best time for me to write is in the mornings. Early morning. But the latest little ploy I have found is telling myself I should really be using that time to go to the gym. And I really do need to lose some weight, you know. And when else am I going to do it? But do I actually go to the gym? No, I end up doing neither. Result: still fat and no words.

But at least I think I know why I keep defeating myself. As long as I just fantasize about it, I can be the most brilliant and sought-after writer on the planet. My prose is so creative and groundbreaking, everyone who opens one of my books is amazed at my skills. And how many interviews have I done in my head? So many that Terry Gross and I have become good friends, and periodically meet for drinks. Cosmopolitans. I bet she drinks cosmopolitans.

The hard truth I am presented with, is when I actually sit down and start to write, all of those flowing lines aren't there. In my fantasy world, I'm a wonderful writer. In the real world, I'm just a hack.

Frontier Wolf--Rosemary Sutcliff

This book is part of the Dolphin Ring Series, the same series that starts off with “The Eagle of the Ninth”, which the recently released movie, “The Eagle” was based on. I don't know if the movie is any good, as I have yet to see it. But I do know that Ms. Sutcliff's books have been flying off my library's shelves. I haven't been able to snag a single one. My boss, who enjoyed reading her books back when he was a pup, felt sorry for me and left me this book on my desk the other day with a post-it note saying, “Enjoy!” So with all of the hype for the movie, plus Ancient Rome being one of my favorite subjects, I was anxious to crack it open.

First of all, the research she did for this book, and I'm sure the others as well, was amazing. She really went above and beyond to get all of the details (scenery, names, food, clothes, etc...) just right, and I really appreciated that. She even has an author's note prefacing the text stating she was reluctant to publish this book because there had yet to be any evidence of Roman occupation found matching the area (environs of Edinburgh) and the date (343 AD). She had the same misgivings for the first book in the series, but published anyways, and 25 years later they were digging up remains of the Second Legion all over where it was set (Exeter).

And as for the plot, it really moved along. She could definitely spin a good yarn, and I could see this book being really popular with younger readers.

But there was one area where I thought she was lacking: character development. And for me, that's pretty much the most important aspect of a novel. You could write a book where all the main character does is sit on the couch and drink beer all day, but if I feel like I have been made privy to his innermost thoughts, desires, regrets, etc... I will come away feeling like the book was worthwhile.

Now, as this is categorized as a young adult book, I was hesitant to say anything negative about it. But then I remembered that the Harry Potter series, as well as Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series, were geared towards a younger audience, and I couldn't get enough of those. And why? Fascinating characters who I will always remember.

The Poems of Exile - Ovid

Why was Ovid banished to Tomis? No one really knows for sure. Augustus’ daughter Julia had already been banished for her over-the-top promiscuous lifestyle, and we know that Ovid’s poetry definitely promoted that sort of thing. He was even asked by the emperor to clean it up. Of course, he refused. Was his refusal perceived as treason? Did Augustus ultimately blame him for his daughter’s behavior? Or did it come out that he had been one of her paramours? Who knows.

Some have said that banishment from Rome during its flowering age was worse than being executed. At least when you’re dead, all of your trials and hardships are dead with you. But they are only intensified when you ponder that all of your friends and family are still in the bosom of Rome, enjoying all it has to offer, and you’re stuck in some faraway hell hole. It would seem Ovid was of this mind.

Tomis, modern day Constanţa, Romania, on the Black Sea coast, is now a resort. Look it up. It’s gorgeous! Nice beach, great weather, what’s not to like? But did Ovid see it like that? No, he hated it. And he despised the yokels he was now forced to live amongst. To him, they were little more than animals.

But to them, he was a celebrity. They felt honored that he was now living with them, practically worshipped him, and wanted nothing more than to cater to his every whim. Yet he barely tolerated them and ran them down every chance he could in his letters. They weren’t aware of his true feelings about them until someone happened to read one of his outgoing letters to his wife, where, as usual, he is running them down. Word quickly gets around about how he really feels about them, and from then on they want nothing to do with him. He then finds out what it really means to be banished.

The stereotypical Roman was supposed to be stoical, practical, tough, etc.. These letters reveal Ovid to be anything but. Instead of accepting his fate, and trying to make the best of his situation, Ovid whines and complains to no end. He begs his wife, who remained in Rome, to plead with Augustus for forgiveness. Did she? I doubt it. She was probably glad to be rid of him.

Although I did enjoy reading it (the dude could write, you know), I sometimes found myself shouting at him to just shut up and stop whining already. Just accept your fate and deal with it! You call yourself a roman?! You’re worthless and weak! It’s a pity that someone who possessed such poetic talent was ultimately reduced to being a pathetic, miserable little man.

The Know-It-All by A. J. Jacobs

The Know-It-All is a wonderful book that charts the progress through the author's life one year of reading the entire Encyclopedia Britannica set. Aside from imparting some of the knowledge he is picking up from the books, he lets us into his life as well (a lot happens as he works his way through the alphabet.) His sense of humor is self-effacing and infectious. I haven't laughed so much in a while (I need to get out more, apparently.)

A couple of years ago, my wife talked me into giving away my set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. I really hadn't touched them since high school, but did have an emotional attachment to them. My parents bought them for me when I was a kid, to help me out in school. That was when EB had door to door salesmen peddling them. I guess they represented my parents' support for me, their willingness to do whatever it took to help me out, because the set wasn't cheap. And we weren't rich.

I actually had the idea of reading the whole set at one time. I think I must've gotten the idea from the movie, Dr. No, when the character of Honey Rider, played by Ursula Andress, told Bond that she had started reading the encyclopedia from A-Z when she was 8. But of course, I never did. There aren't too many goals in my life that I have actually followed through on, so no surprise there. But reading this book makes me wish I had.