Ghosty Updates

Good news, friends of the spectral!

Ghosty: This Fenceless World has (finally) been uploaded to Smashwords, meaning that those of you with non-Kindle reading apparati, as well as those who simply would like to read said novel as a PDF on your computer, can now do so.

Ghost: White Cloud, Blue Mountain continues swimmingly, having topped 71,000 words over the weekend while its author fights offs emotional issues, back pain, and the consequences of inadequate preparation for his work week. I expect to be done before NaNoWriMo commences in November. Might invite students to tag along as a substitute for their research paper. Have to think about that one, though.

GWCBM will probably weigh in at about 80K, about 8K less than GTFW. Not sure what to make of that. It is probably what it is.

Alright. Off to work.

From the archives...a video of Carl Orff's "In taberna quando sumus" from "Carmina Burana." For those of you who don't habla Latin, it is a drinking song. A translation of the lyrics is available here.

48th Time's the charm!

A literary agency actually asked me to send in a manuscript today.

I am more than a little pleased right now.

Granted, the fellow who asked for it may decide, upon reading it, it's not for them... but hey! Doesn't change the fact it was asked for.

At least I know I can write a serviceable query letter.

It's something.

Certainly enough to keep me in the game for another day.

Back to the writing desk! :)

How to Get Rejected in 10 Minutes

I'm sure there's a way to talk about this without sounding all sour grapes, snarky, or [insert callous remark here], but in the course of my pimping Ghosty: This Fenceless World, I recently suffered this e-mailed defeat:



Thanks, but not for us.

[name redacted],
Author of [TITLE OF BOOK redacted] (Writer Digest Books)
[name of agency redacted]
(718) 555-5344
[blog address redacted]
visit [website address redacted]

Twitter:[account redacted]

***

Why did this one get to me?

This wasn't my first rejection, by any means, but as I read it, I realized that the agency spent more time pimping its products than rejecting my work.

Not enough we're shooting you down, but while you're reeling, how about purchasing some of our fine products? It's like I've been bumrushed out of a fancy restaurant, but I've been encouraged to buy a t-shirt on my way out. Try to avoid eye contact with anybody, though. You might infect them with your mediocrity. (Okay, I am being a little sour grapes and snarky here, but the wound is fresh.)

I honestly would have been less upset by a three-word "Not for us."

Seriously. I know I'm one of thousands of petitioners, but please don't try to sell me crap while you're shooting me down.

Speaking of which?

Time elapsed between submission and rejection? 10 minutes.

Actually, I had the AOL window up and it said it was sent 3 minutes before I opened it, but I'll be generous and go with the inbox time.

Either way, a personal record. Suck it, fellow losers!

The Return of Ghost Dogg

DWCC dropped off the radar a few months ago, but if only 5 people follow a blog, who cares? On the other hand, when you think that we manage to be pretty self-involved as a species with the billions of stars in the billions of galaxies out there, my words among the mere millions of blogs out there are a hell of a lot weightier. So suck it.

Anyway, to catch up:

Back problems popped up this spring. I was in a pretty bad car accident at 16, and I broke my back in the Army, so I guess it was only a matter of time before it settled accounts with me. I've been moving around like a 60-year old for about 6 weeks now, and it's no fun. It's not like I want to train for the Chicago Marathon or join the French Foreign Legion any time soon, but when it starts sapping my energy for writing, then the line gets crossed. I went to the VA, and anyone who knows me can infer a lot from that.

School is over for a couple of months. It's my fourth year of teaching, and I'll admit that this one, for a variety of reasons, was the hardest yet. I've come to the conclusion that I'm not a lifer, though, and with that a number of adjustments will have to be made. I wish I could go into more detail about this, but discretion forbids me. For now.

The sequel to Ghosty: This Fenceless World is at about 17K words. Its working title is Ghosty II, but hopefully a better title will come along soon. I've sent out about 15-25 queries so far, received about 4 form rejections, and have been trying to keep my spirits afloat, to mix metaphors. When I see the river of crap that's been published out there, I tell myself: "It's not about talent, clearly. So even if your stuff stinks, eventually you will get published." At the very least, I'll self-publish by the end of the year.

I've been trying to rid myself of my negativity by rereading my Alan Watts and Zen books. I recently finished The Way of Liberation by Watts and am now rereading Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. This summer I'm going to take up meditation again like I was doing about 10 years ago. Can't hurt.

Bought a scale a couple of days ago. I'm weighing in at a hefty (for my frame) 182. The wife and I have struck a deal that for every 10 lbs. I shed, a reward will be forthcoming. So I've been batting some ideas around: an air pistol, a complete set of the Jeeves and Wooster DVD's, a set of cigars?...more to follow. The back will be helped by the lightened burden, I'm told, and I can definitely use the exercise.

I've got a couple of ideas for short stories I want to write this summer. When I finish them, I'll post them here. One involves Henry David Thoreau. Another one is just a title: "Man vs. Totleigh Towers"--basically, how would Bear Grylls handle among Betram Wooster's horrific relatives and acquaintances.

This afternoon, a trip out of town. More on that later.

6 days until the A-Team movie comes out.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part IV)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

Stephen Cannell took the podium to speak. Next to him was an easel with a montage of his different productions, including a photo of him and Mr. T. (Insert "I pity the fool" joke here.) He spun some stories about his life and his beginnings as a writer, many of which can be found here in an excellent interview on "Unscripted." I sincerely urge you to watch it; I found it so inspiring I showed it to my students at school. He talked about the importance of teachers not giving up on their students, as an influential one of his didn't. He also gave a very succinct and intriguing teaser for his book, "The Pallbearers." Having tried my hand at query letters this week, this is a lot harder than it looks. I had the feeling that these stories were not ex tempore (he is on a book tour, after all), but they were delivered with a compelling freshness and earnestness nonetheless.

20 minutes later, it was time for the Q & A. I thought I'd hang back and see if other questions I may have wanted to ask were asked, and I thought the majority of the group's queries were sensible ones.

Jonny asked a primo question--"what makes a good story?"--and Stephen gave a brief explanation of the three-act structure, and also a caveat that the writer should be interested in what he's writing.

Another fellow asked for a Peter Graves anecdote. Someone else asked about the 21 Jump Street movie, and Stephen related that Johnny Depp had been in communication with him about making a cameo. The A-Team movie is going to be released June 11 (and you best believe me and Jonny will be there...book!)

Finally, Stephen called on me, and I asked:

"I'm an aspiring writer, and I know I should ask about writing, but my wife would kill me if I didn't ask this. Ice Spiders. Last winter I was at my mother-in-law's house, and we were saw it on the SyFy channel, and I was like 'Oh my god, it's Stephen Cannell! I watched it to the end just to make sure."

"That wasn't me," Stephen said. Then, immediately, chuckling: "Yeah, that was me."

A quick word about Ice Spiders. Skiiers, a nearby military base, and...and it's the SyFy channel. If you actually require more information, click here.

Why would I ask such a question? I thought he'd enjoy it--I thought it might be a change of pace from the typical questions he received...but I will say this, he handled it with poise and good humor. He talked about how he thought it was a decent script, and if the ice spiders were high quality, it would be a good movie.

"The spiders weren't high quality," he said, which is as negative as he got. I joked that I was afraid he had gambling debts, and that was why he decided to do it. He took it in stride, and related a story about how he basically became a taxi for actors flying back to L.A. (it was filmed in Utah) each weekend of the shoot.

He could have ridiculed the project, or expressed regret at having done it, but he did neither. I didn't think he'd throw anyone under the bus, but he was a lot more charitable than I expected. I even felt a little bad for having put him on the spot, to tell you the truth.

I defy anyone not to like this man, having met him. Impossible not to like him.

Next Time: Talking to The Man

For the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part III)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

Stephen sat up on one of those thick Barnes and Noble tables, and his Sigma Ki brothers gathered around. His store contact offered to fetch him something from Starbucks, which he accepted, and an impromptu Q&A took place. I wasn’t part of this group, but if words of writing wisdom were being dropped, I wasn’t going to miss out. Jonny must have been thinking the same thing, and we soon edged in on the periphery.

One of the perks of being short is that you can finesse things like that.

To be honest, I can’t remember a lot of what he said. I was a little too amped. He talked about how when he started out, he wrote 5 hours a day after work every day for 6 years, and did not sell a thing. I had heard him say this before, and I think this has inspired me more than anything else he’s said. His wife would hold dinner until 10:30 for him. Wow. That’s dedication, and I can’t believe that anyone who is willing to be that committed can but succeed.

And it is a choice. I tell my students all the time that people find the time to do the things they want to do.

And I’ve done it in my own life. When I had it in my mind to play piano professionally (I was a piano performance major at Ball State), I was practicing 5-6 hours a day during the week, on top of my classes, assistantship, and homework. I told myself that other people may have more talent, but they will not outwork me. When I entered competitions, it was always in the back of my head that one of my competitors was out there practicing, right then. That right there motivated me to get my ass to a practice room.

I became very good. Yeah, my priorities changed when I met my wife, and I realized that I didn’t love the piano enough to make it my career, but what the experience taught me was that a person’s ceiling is far higher than they ever suspect, given enough work. People are really bad judges of what they’re capable of. Better just to assume no limits.

I guess that’s why what Stephen was saying resonated so much with me. Because I knew it was true. And if I’m not where I want to be, a large part of it must be that I simply haven’t worked hard enough yet. It’s not going to come to me. I have to go get it, like he did. Plus, unlike Stephen, I’m not fighting dyslexia, so what’s my excuse? Exactly.

After the event, my buddy said that the amount of work he put in after a full day on the job made him feel like a pussy. Ditto, Jonny, ditto.

Gustave Flaubert said that talent is a prolonged patience. Dorothy Parker said the secret to writing is getting your ass in the chair. It’s all true.

About twenty minutes before seven, Jonny suggested that we find a seat. It was a good thing he did, because mentally, I was swimming. As fortune would have it, there were two seats available right in front of the podium. I had a fleeting thought that we should take a pass on them so someone elderly, hard of hearing, or disabled could sit there, but it was only a fleeting thought. The idea of being less than 10 feet away from one of my few living literary heroes made me grab that seat like it was the last one in a game of musical chairs.

I started thinking about the question I would ask.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

For the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part II)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

The day went by quickly, and at the end of school I was gone as if I had been shot out of a cannon.

On to Chicago, normally two hours away. I am an idiot, and it took me three.
Why? Sleep deprivation is the most likely culprit. I can’t begin to justify the route I took, although at the time I thought I was going to save money on tolls. (The last time I went to O’Hare, I think I wound up spending about $10, but that’s a different story.)

Have you ever pulled an all-nighter to write a paper? Sure, when you’re writing it, all jittery from No-Doz, you’re thinking, “Hey! This shit is brilliant!”

Then you wake up, read it again, and wonder what six-year old hijacked your paper.

My wife had to guide me in via cell phone and internet. As it turns out, I could have taken I-294 basically all the way to the Barnes and Noble where the book signing was being held. For the whopping cost of 80 cents.

Hitting the B&N with an hour to spare, I ran into my old college roommate Jonny, rocking his black motorcycle jacket pretty hard. He’s a little stouter these days, as am I, but he’s a guy who’s never been ashamed to like what he likes, and the perfect wingman for an adventure like this.

We asked each other cordial questions about each other’s lives and families, the kind of things adults do when they get together, but if I’m going to be honest, I was pretty distracted. I’d like to think of myself as a fairly focused, heady guy—-not the kind of person who gets star-struck—-but frankly my radio was all over the dial. I started noticing the oddest things:

This Barnes and Noble is huge!

I wonder if they carry Strategy and Tactics here, and if so, if they have the version that comes with the game.

Why does my finger hurt so much?

Yeah, that last one…about ten minutes after I arrived, I mindlessly put my hand in my pocket. My debit card was in there, and I bamboo-chuted myself with it. I pulled a bloody finger out of my pocket. It hurt like crazy.

Idiot.

We found the corner of the store where the shindig was to take place. I hadn’t known what to expect. Perhaps a rope line. There was a podium, a heavy rectangular table, and maybe a dozen rows of chairs. There were some older people already seated, and a number of well-dressed gentlemen milling about near the back. We settled in over by a post, standing and watching.

Then it happened. Quickly.

I turned, and there he was in front of me. This is not hyperbole. It was as if he had beamed in right next to me.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, shaking my hand vigorously.

Stephen Cannell is a tall guy. Or I’m a short guy. Probably both are true. He’s seen a lot of California sun, and has grayed, but is still good-looking for his age. He was wearing a jacket, which Jonny would shortly afterward describe as “pimping.”

“Great, great,” I gushed, responding in kind.

“You Sigma Ki?” he asked.

Click! Now I understood who all these people were. He had come early to meet and greet his Sigma Ki brothers.

“Uh…no?”

Well, that’s me. Always there with the mot juste.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

To read the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part I)

The alarm went off at 6 a.m. This was a concession, an unhappy one, to the fact I couldn't get to sleep the night before—and I didn’t want to be dead on my feet for the big day. I had gone to bed at midnight and…

Hold on! Not midnight! Magically, 1 a.m. What?

Yes, time change. In northwest Indiana, spring forward, fall back. I was born here, and it still takes me by surprise.

I lay there, thinking, staring at the red numbers. If I blinked, I knew that it would suddenly say 6:30. The alarm was set for 6 a.m. Not 4 a.m., the time the ideal me got up. Not even 5 a.m., the compromise time.

I am one of the faceless millions in this country who have an alternate identity.

I call myself a writer.

In my vainer moments that’s what I do, anyway. I think it was Faulkner who said, “Don’t be a writer. Always be writing.” It’s good advice. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Anybody can string sentences together (although as a high school teacher, I can attest that that number is sadly diminishing). Still fewer can do it effectively. Fewer still get recognized for their ability, and a very small number can make a living off it.

That is my dream, my hope, my fervent wish. It’s the canker sore in my mouth.

Compared to a lot of people, I have a good life. I have a job, which in these economic times, is not insignificant. I try not to complain about things that go on at work because it seems people are queued up to tell me that at least I have a job. My wife and kids are provided for, admittedly not in the manner I’d like for them to be, but adequately. At least for now.

Whatever.

It’s not enough. And I don’t care who it offends.

And believe me, it's not about the money. I love to write. I love to see my words on the page. I love to see other people see my characters as real as I see them. And I would love nothing more than to have the freedom to do it full-time.

So I’m lying there, and as my familiar, depressive thoughts--the chasm between my dreams and my reality--start crowding in on me, I start my mantra: “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening…” I’m one of those people who think the Universe can be commanded. Whatever ye shall bind on earth and all that Mathew 18:18 business. Maybe it can, maybe it can't. But if it can, and I'm not trying to command it, then shame on me. Today, it’s especially important that I think positively, because I am horrifically nervous. Just stultifyingly, pit-in-the-stomach on edge.

It’s a big day.

I’m going to go see Stephen J. Cannell.

More than once today I will think to myself, “After school, just go home. You can lie and say that you went. You have a fertile imagination. There’s all kinds of things you could say. Going to Chicago on a school night is a big deal, and you’re not twenty anymore. People will understand. Go home. Play Madden on the PlayStation. Roughhouse with the kids. Watch reruns of The West Wing.”

The thing is, I knew that I would be thinking things like this. So, as a precaution, I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what my plan was. Coworkers. Friends. My wife. My kids. Facebook. All the girders and supports I have in my life, I told. If I backed out, there would be a backlash. I would be called on it. Even if I wasn’t, an unspoken contempt.

Besides, I had pressed a friend of mine to meet me up there. It was on.

Fear and doubt is not a luxury I can afford.

So I get up to do my morning routine, and whenever I feel the negative feelings rush in I chant, “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening.”

Next time: Stephen Cannell Beams In.

This is the first installment. To read on, click here.

Confessions with Dr. Reed Robaire

Part III of IV in a series of "interviews" with characters from my upcoming novel, Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls.

Today's interview is with Dr. Reed Robaire, dashing man of SCIENCE!


Your main fault: Remembering that most people are not as brilliant as I am. They can't understand the SCIENCE!

Your idea of misery: Teaching high school SCIENCE!

If not yourself, who would you be? I see myself as Captain Nemo, anti-hero of SCIENCE!

Confessions with Rot Thammavongsa

Part II of IV in a series of "interviews" with characters from my upcoming novel, Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls. (BTW I could use some major help with the title.) Also check out the interview with the novel's protagonist, Bingo Elkins.

Today's interview is with Rot "Rose" Thammavongsa, Bingo Elkins' personal assistant/bodyguard/assassin.

Your idea of happiness: Serving my employer. What else? I dare not speak it.

For what fault do you have most toleration? There's an old Thai proverb, Nam-dtann-glad-mod...krai-ja-ohd-dai. ("Sugar near ants...who can restrain themselves?")

Your favorite heroine in fiction: Moll Flanders.

Confessions With Bingo Elkins

I'm impatient for NaNoWriMo to start, so I've included a preview of some of the characters who will be featured in the novel I'll be writing next month: Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls. (I may tinker with the title.)

The questions are taken from an English-language confession album which was later answered and made famous by French author Marcel Proust. Vanity Fair adopted and adapted the "Proust Questionnaire."

The first interview is with the novel's protagonist.


What you appreciate the most in your friends: Loyalty, old egg! It's a rummy shame when a chum lets you down, what?

How you wish to die: As I've been toddling along in the afterlife for nearly eighty years now, this question gives me the pip somewhat.

Your favorite occupation: Well, I can tell you it's not running my corporation and what not! I have coves that can do that for me. If I had my rathers, I'd be biffing the old tennis ball or having a round of golf. Alas, noncorporeal hands make that dashed difficult, so I have to seek other adventures.

NaNoWriMo in 11 Days!

Only 11 days until NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)! If you don't already know, it's a month-long writing contest to produce a 50,000-word novel...in a month. The prize?

Having written a novel.

I'm extremely excited about getting started. I've written a novel before, but it took me 6 months to write it, and a dozen failed attempts before that. As a writer, I tend to worry too much about things being perfect (why else would it take me a month to write a simple short story?) so I'm going to take Stephen J. Cannell's advice and throw that albatross out. Knowing that what I produce on such short turnaround will largely be crap seems decadently delicious to me for some reason. I'm ready for rock'em-sock'em, freewheeling fun!

My buddy is a 3-time winner as well, so I have to admit...the competitive juices are flowing, too. Unfortunately, he's not entering this year. Too bad! That would have been cool. However, my lovely girlfriend is also an entrant, as well as my little girl (in the Young Writers Program--she's 7).

More to follow.

The Outsider Appendix (Part IV)

This is a continuation. To start at the beginning of the appendix, click here.
To read the original poem, click here here.

V. DUSTY DEATH

Part V recalls the three recurring ages of Roman antiquity: the long-past Golden Age, the Silver Age in which we now live (see Professor Gainsworth’s books), and the coming descent into the soulless Iron Age.

318-320. Cf. Psalms 77:16-18.

325. Cf. “Song of Myself,” Whitman.

327. The mind, too, is like dead ashes. I heard that somewhere.

335. Hilary’s conquest of Mt. Everest. See line 357. After he and Norgay took pictures of themselves at the summit, the Kiwi unzipped and drained his lizard on the rooftop of the world.

339. From the Dhammapada.

360. Cf. “Self-Pity,” D.H. Lawrence.

389. Christ’s betrayal by Judas.

400. ‘al-Haqq, al-Hail, al-Hubb’ (Truth, Strength, Love). According to Earth, Wind and Fire, all these are written in the Stone. See also 410-415.

403. The spirit gives life, but the letter kills. St. Paul, perhaps, or some such fellow.

410-414. The Eightfold Path of Buddha’s dharma.

417. More about the uncountable Purusha can be found in the Purusha Suktam. Verses 13-14 are especially significant:
From his mouth came forth
The men of learning
And of his arms
Were warriors made
From his thighs came
The trading people
And his feet gave
Birth to servants.
Of his mind, the moon is born
Of his gaze, the shining sun
From his mouth, Thunder and Fire
And of his life’s breath,
The whistling wind
Space unfolds
From his navel
The sky well formed
From his head
His feet, the earth
His ears the Quarters
Thus they thought up
All the worlds

425. I do not know the pen behind this charming little tune. I first heard it from Ryan Charter upon his kindergarten graduation.

426. Cf. Verlaine, Sagesse, Bk. 3, vi.

432. The net of jewels, in which every jewel contains the reflection of all the others. Representative of the ten thousand things.


Whew! That's it! Come back tomorrow for more!

The Outsider Appendix (Part III)

This is a continuation. To start at the beginning of the appendix, click here.
To read the original poem, click here here.

III. THE STARS WOULD BE SHINING

174-176. Cf. Puccini, Tosca:
E lucevan le stelle,
e olezzava la terra,
stridea l’uscio dell’orto
e un passo sfiorava la rena…

191. Cf. “Dragula,” Rob Zombie.

193. Cf. “Ozymandias of Egypt,” Shelley.

195. A unification of “18 Wheels on a Big Rig” by Stuart Mitchell and a website of no small notoriety.

199. Cf. “The Blind,” Baudelaire, 92.

216. Virgil, here neither the poet of the Aeneid or Dante’s hell/purgatory tour guide, is actually the primary character in the poem, central to its meaning. His self-immolation, pitiable and inevitable, will take on a heroic aspect, especially if one considers it in the context of a Ragnorak-like uprising, and with the inexplicable and cruel death of his amour, it is a startling indictment of the ‘divine.’

223. While the thematic repetition was not intentioned, it is interesting to compare imagery here with that of the snowy mansion in Part V, if one is so inclined.

250. Compare to Calpurnia in Julius Caesar.

262-272. Cf. Ovid, Metamorphoses, xi, Orpheus.

273. Cf. Puccini, Tosca, II.

282. Most flowers have a representative meaning, as this one does.

IV. INNOCENCE IS DROWNED

312. The definitive account of Stone Creek’s debt to this semi-mythical muse (who had a flair for Faustian bargains) can be found in Bear Lester’s Essays from Stone Creek (Hardcore Utilitarian Press). Mr. Lester knows more about Classical Greek than I do about Modern English.

316. Cf. Psalms 46:9. The inclusion of so many biblical and Eastern religious passages in this text may puzzle those who know me, but then again God is not without a sense of humor.

For the last installment (honestly!) click here.

The Outsider Appendix (Part II)

This is a continuation. To start at the beginning of the appendix, click here.
To read the original poem, click here here.

II. BRING THE PAIN

75. This happens more than I thought.

91. Cf. The Mabignogion, Owein.

96. Cf. The Iliad, VIII.

101. Cf. Tropic of Capricorn, Henry Miller.

105. Cf. “New York Minute,” Don Henley.

124. From one of Aesop’s lesser-known fables. One’s bag of faults in front is typically smaller than that one carries in back.

133. Admiral Yamamoto after losing nearly all his carriers at Midway.

139. Cf. “In Flanders Field,” John McCrae.

161. The tenth avatar of Vishnu, who at the end of the Kaliyuga, will appear in person on a white horse named Kalki.

170. Cf. Richard III.

For the next installment, click here.

The Outsider Appendix (Part I)

This is an appendix to "The Outsider." It, too, is "written" by Tedmund Arlen Shinarook.

To read the original poem, click here here.

NOTES

Much of the prophecy, as well as some anecdotes and personal remembrances in the poem were adapted from Professor Charles P. Gainsworth III’s book on Stone Creek municipal history: Stone Creek: Present Iniquity and Future Doom. Incidentally, while I do not recommend trying to read it in one sitting, Professor Gainsworth’s work illuminates brilliantly many of my themes; and his volumes resonate (in the tradition of Gibbons and Trevelyan) with the peculiar energy that makes the citizenry of Stone Creek do as they do. There is another book that has had a profound influence on my outlook, as this poem clearly reveals; On the Heights of Despair; I drew particular inspiration from the essays On Death, On Sadness, and Capitulation. No one familiar with Cioran’s oeuvre will misapprehend my choices regarding references or anything else.

I. QUADRIVIUM

Line 5 Cf. “September,” Earth, Wind and Fire.

20. Cf. Matthew 11:28.

31. Cf. The Consul, II. i.

40. Id. II. i.

41. I of course am referring here to the seven liberal arts of the medieval Western university, whose manifestations have been adopted for my own purposes. Music, strangely one of the sciences back then, would have been characterized in the following fashion: a woman in a robe with twinkling discs at the head of music-makers, a procession of poets, musicians, goddesses, and the daughters of Zeus, the three Graces Aglaia (brilliance), Euphrosyne (Joy) and Thalia (Bloom). Geometry and Rhetoric were accompanied by Pythagoras and Cicero respectively; Arithmetic is portrayed traditionally, but Grammar and Dialectic had many more accessories than were mentioned here. Astronomy of the golden wings (who has much in common with Urania in Part IV) is crucial, Mistress Thomas insists, to any understanding of the future.

58. Verlaine, Mon Rêve Familier, Poèmes Saturniens, VI.
Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime
Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.

72. Ionesco, Rhinoceros, III, Dudard.

74. Verlaine, Sagesse, Livre I, vii.

This is a continuation. For the next installment, click here.

The Outsider (Part IX)

This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.

The girl of auburn locks looks to the night
And whispers in e minor to the moon
And looks for wild geese already flown away
Breathes, and purses her lips
And walks tetchily homeward down a matted trail
And into a field freshly snowed
Meets a blue heron, who stands solid
And motionless recalling map pins and tiny flags.

On this snowy plain near the mansion
In this inverted season, the ice is melting
As stolid glaciers melt, below the surface
There exists a secret fault, the final answer within.
Winter goes, and spring comes,
The dead lie dreaming ever near.
We dip our hands in the same dish
Did not see that one coming
Goog goog goog
Into the lake of fire. And the band
Threw down their instruments

Between the Nahrain the nightmare rouses itself,
Born of the boots, raised by the saw
Nursed by the pear in that banal museum.
The guests loiter, eyeing the prepared table.
She wipes the dry death from the setting
A H
al-Haqq: where are we going?
Citizens, a white cloud falling over my eyes
The killing letters of a fire-breathing text
Proffered to a numbed generation of sleepers
While elders, who go before, paint themselves sages
Needing no mirror to see their own eyes
And dictating spirit terms with their absolving pen
And contemning their heirs with puffy abuse
As their fire flickers and dies
A H
al-Hail: I have seen the stone
Traced the stone with my finger and known
I spoke of the stone, always in my mind
Acting on the stone, the calling in my mind
Purpose I find, aevanescent recollection
Attention means attention
A H
al-Hubb: From his gaze the shining sun
Was formed, his mouth breathed thunder and fire
Even as we breathe, from his navel all space
Was formed, one blood, uncountable heads and eyes
Beyond grasping hands

I sat in the nothingness
Thinking, before the all was
Thus I thought up all the world

He screams and he cusses and wrecks all the busses

Qu’as-tu fait de ta jeunesse
Ô toi que voilà pleurant sans cesse―lat be lat be
Dis-moi, qu’as-tu fait?
These eyes have seen across ages
Through every man’s sight. Purusha seith this.
Al-Haqq. Al-Hail. Al-Hubb.

Ji ji mu ge


Not the end!!! Come back tomorrow for the appendix, in true Eliot-style...

The Outsider (Part VIII)

This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.

V. DUSTY DEATH

Within the trembling deep of the great waters
Within the pregnant expanse of the clouds
Within the shaking of scorched earth
The prisoners and the pilgrims
Torches and staves and labyrinths
Of rocks of summer crowning random ridges
I who destroy am about to die
We who about to die walk to our own funerals
We are little men

Only ashes nothing else up here
Dead ashes and nothing and the tall grass
The grasses dying in among the rocks
Stretching along the mountain’s endless broken back
In the end this ash we did banish
Lying in the tall grass he did not vanish
Face in the sky and hands in the shadows
In the bitter end lying in the grass
The ridge ahead not slowly rising sharply falling
Only here you see the vanishing and kneeling and crawling
When you give up victory you can sleep
Fearless dreams under a million stars
When you give up defeat you can sleep
Except for the shrieking hoarse voices night and day
Everyone leave the room except for you
In the end

And there is nothing
Lots of nothing
But dead ashes
Only ashes
The dust
The cinders in your lungs
The end brushes the ash from his face
Their noontime explosion
Nobody in nobody out
But nothing is like the dead ashes
After the sun is put out between wet fingers
Whup whup whup whup whup whup whup
And yet there are no ashes

What is the first thing you will do in Olympus?
When I go, I am going to piss on it
Those longbeards in their white togas
They say three out of every four men are gods
Walking right by the dead birds in the snow, spiteful
I do not know what is earth and what is heaven
—But when I get there I will piss on it.

What noises up here make one forget
Buzz of stony silence
When is that darkness monster coming back
When is he coming, caked with sulphur
Shining like sleek oily metal
In the hay where lovers tossed
Hot wax and riding crops and ribbons of choking silk
Surprise visit
Medina Masif Jibal
Glockington Stone Creek
Strange

For the last installment, click here.

The Outsider (Part VII)

This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.

The cardinal wails
Trees lose leaves
The swollen rivers
With stones they cry
They ask
Why
Heavenward, her dying on the breeze.
Body at rest
Piercing shade
Near Methymna shores
On her way to Hades
Muori dannato
Muori muori muori

Arl and Lizzie
Slender candles
Gentle masque of twilight
An emerald earring
Green and silver
The garden shrine
Sitting and watching
Cyclamen breeze
Stirring the branches
The voice of resignation
Dove and crow
Muori dannato
Muori muori muori

‘Karts and pin oaks.
Eliot sired me. Mara and Soma
Betrayed me. By Mara I was found
Sitting cross-legged under the hickory tree.
‘One leg is in Hell, and the other
Remains here. Through the years
You slept. You thought yourself a bien-pensant.
Maybe she never knew. Why do you ask?’
‘Over in Glockington.
I learned to suppress
Pain and Fear.
The subjugation of pleasant things.
Our neighbors just neighbors who knew
The middle ground.’
muori

To Stone Creek then she came

Digging digging digging digging
O Unjust Father I defy you
O Unjust Father I defy

digging

For the next installment, click here.