Turn Up The Volume

An old professor of mine used to say, "Let's turn up the volume on that" and then take a line and push it.

I just finished reading through Chapter Three. I've made comments on what needs to be fleshed out and where to turn up the volume. The amp has been on since Chapter One and I've made some noise, but in this chapter I begin to play with the distortion knob.

Have you ever played electric guitar with distortion? Oh how sweet it is. U2's "One" was the first song I tried it out on. Lately, I've done the same with Radiohead's "High and Dry." It's kinda like learning an 8-count swing out after only dancing 6 count; like watching your first curveball break through the strike zone after throwing a lifetime of straight-balls; like meeting someone who constantly makes you constantly say to yourself, "Damn, I never thought of it like that." It's refreshingly nasty and that's what Chapter Three'll get a lick of.

Put on your headphones.

Does size matter?

In Billy Collins' poem, "Workshop" he writes:

"In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none."

I finished a rough draft of Chapter Three yesterday. In the third to last paragraph I made a note to self: This is all happening too fast. And so it is. At this pace, the book'll be done in five chapters - maybe 90 pages. While I appreciate an economy of words - especially those that carry heavy if not multiple loads - this chapter feels like someone's just come by in the middle of the night, spilled their guts and then ran off while I sat on the stoop smoking.

Fortunately, I can invite this person in, pour drinks for us both and let the story unwind in more depth through future revisions. Bits that are in this draft will be pushed into subsequent chapters so that this one is tight. Other parts will be expanded. There are squirt guns. Kinda proud of that one.

In the past I've written novellas of 90 and 120 pages. Some of my favorite books (Franny & Zooey, To The Lighthouse) have topped out around 200 which is where I'd like to be. I'd also like to be 6' tall, but that ain't gonna happen. It'll end where it will end; if I force it to be a specific length quality will suffer.

As in the past, writing's been therapeutic. A number of things I've written in the past have also foreshadowed future personal events, but I reckon it may be years before this batch bears that kind of fruit.

Good night. Good morning.

Chapter Three: Enter the A&*hole

After receiving some encouraging words from a pro, I've doubled my efforts of late and have made great strides on Chapter Three. This includes introducing the story's first villain, a slimy old reporter.

But back to the soccer/football poll. I'm curious to hear people's thoughts on the matter (Dr. Z., I'm looking at you...among others).

Legit!

A while back I mentioned some pending good news. It's now official: The Mochila Review has published my poem, "The Birds". I'd like to thank the good people of Mochila in Missouri for publishing an absurd poem about birds who take over NYC's subway system. You all rock!

They say football, we say soccer, let's call the whole thing off

United Staters: Why hasn't soccer caught on here the way it has around the world? Is it the players' hairdos?

Rest of the World: What makes football the beautiful game? Why's the game so special to you?

On deck: Baseball.

Going Good In That Gentle Night

I've lived in a brownstone in Harlem for the last five years now. Shortly after moving to this neighborhood from the Bronx I witnessed a few street jazz musicians performing their version of the Police's "Every Breath You Take." I walked by thinking this would be a normal occurrence. Haven't seen or heard 'em since.

I also thought I'd spend more time on the stoop of my building. That too hasn't happened...until tonight. I'm a night pastry baker. I typically hit the sack between 4 and 5 AM. So with chapter 2 awaiting comment, the recent heatwave broken and a few hours to kill, I outlined chapter 3 tonight on the stoop accompanied by a cheap cigar.

The next chapter introduces the first local that the main characters will become close with; a young female reporter who's tired of covering uber-local news while a presidential campaign sweeps the rest of the nation. That is, of course, not including local baseball which she'll introduce to them firsthand.

I don't typically write much in the summer because of baseball, but with games usually over by 11pm, a cool breeze running the length of my block after midnight, a bowl of ice cream never too far away and a handful of stogies to go, I reckon the stoop will call again.

Hotel Rwanda: Hope or Aberration?

I just followed The Last King of Scotland with Hotel Rwanda. Like The Last King of Scotland, Hotel Rwanda shows the beauty, affluence and appeal to Western tourists that African countries can possess. Unfortunately, it also shows the impact of mass-killings and the lack of intervention by those same Western countries.

Unlike The Last King of Scotland, Hotel Rwanda is told from the perspective of a local, in this case, hotel manager, Paul Rusesabagina, as played by Don Cheadle. The local perspective on the Hutu-Tutsi conflict avoids the patronizing white, Western perspective in The Last King of Scotland while showing that individuals such as Paul can successfully fight the good fight while chaos surrounds them.

If Hotel Rwanda were the only point of reference for Africa that you have, what conclusions would you draw? Depending on your experience with civil war, either you understand how two groups of people can turn on each other over time or it may baffle you. The lack of action by Western powers may frustrate you or may make frigidly cold sense. The main character, Paul, should inspire you - giving one faith in the African people to take care of themselves and each other despite their differences. As in The Last King of Scotland, this film probably doesn't do much for one's respect of African governments or armies. And it may even portray Paul as an aberration - that rare leader amidst the chaos - who works for the common good and succeeds.

How can I use Hotel Rwanda? Good question. I need to learn more about the tribal make-up of Botswana first. If there are multiple tribes and if it they get along it would be nice to show that they don't refer to each other as "cockroaches"; that Botswana's radio stations only incite people when soccer scores are given; and that violence is not the immediate and sole answer to the problems in society that arise.

On the Michigan side, a friend has lent me Sufjan Stevens' "Michigan: Greetings from the Great Lake State" which I'll take a listen to and see what I can glean from it.

Thhhhhhhhhe Yankee wins!

Today was my deadline to finish editing Chapter Two and...I made it! What I did not make was the Yankees' game which turned out to be a classic. Damn you, Erin Burns! Anyway, I'll type up a clean copy of the second chapter and if you'd like to read and review it, holla. It's a doozy.

The Last King of Scotland and the White Gaze

I watched The Last King of Scotland this past week - a film about the rise and ways of Idi Amin, president of Uganda from 1971 to 1979. While Uganda is a good distance from Botswana, I'd be naive to believe that all my readers are up on their African geography, culture, history and politics and that they may fudge together the various distinctions into one composite opinion.

And what, pray tell, would that opinion be if you've only seen this film? Hard to say. If one equates Amin with Africa according to this film, then the country is jocular, but also menacing; large and plentiful, but immature and inefficient; loyal, but suspicious. In the end, Amin's regime installed by Western powers bypasses democracy and kills approximately 300,000 of his own people - an all too often told tale for the dark continent so it would seem.

The story is told from the point of view of a young Scottish doctor who has traveled to Uganda to do good, only to become one of Amin's advisers. The story comes to a head when Amin proclaims himself the father of Uganda only for his white Western adviser to call him a child. I wonder how this story would be different if Ngugi had written the script.

I've been skeptical of the West's ability to tell other cultures how they're wrong and what they should do to correct their situation ever since reading Hernando de Soto's The Mystery of Capital: Why Capitalism Triumphs in the West and Fails Everywhere Else. In this book de Soto discusses how the West preached capitalism to former Communist countries (and South America) without taking into account the importance of the proper legal structure to support their new economies. This is kinda like telling someone to bake a cake, giving them pans, food and an oven, but not the recipe. I have a hard enough time with a recipe...

What does this film do for my book? Well, it reminds me that Western audiences still like to buy the African despot story rather than the Western stooge story. How can I use this to my advantage? Drop the occasional genocide joke, you say? Sure. Why not? Always fun to play on the naive assumptions of folks, ie that if you're not a dead African that you're a killer and incapable of being democratic. Then again, what good is democracy when the elected leader sees the vote of confidence as support for his/her will and not trust to do the will of the people?

Kick in the Ass

"Hey Mardus, sure have been dragging on ass on editing chapter 2!"
"Yeah, yeah," grumble grumble.
"I'd understand if your apartment was clean and the Yankees were in first place, but what are you doing? You're cooking boogers."
"They're oysters."
"Whatever. You need a kick in the ass."
"..."
"If you don't finish chapter 2 by 1:05pm this coming Thursday..."
"Yes...?"
"Your paying for your friend's ticket to the Yankee game."
"Fuck."
"..."
"Fine."