Tee Box Visitors

Last week it was a moose on the tee box. This week…

Beginnings

I love to start stories, and I’d love to finish some even more. My job entails a lot of driving…A LOT. During the long stretches I get an opportunity to think a lot…A LOT. Much of the time I try to think of interesting stories.

“What would I like to write about?”

“What would make people want to read what I write?”

For some reason I try to come up with good openings. I work them over in my mind. It’s almost like I’m trying to find the perfect opening sentence–something along the lines of:

“I was born in the house my father built.” Nixon

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Dickens

“Call me Ishmael.” Melville

“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.” Hemingway

“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.” Plath (love this one)

The problem then becomes finishing the work. I get 30-100 pages in then POOF- it disappears. The motivation wanes and something else takes over my attention (usually work or marriage related), and my writing stalls.

How do others do it? Everyone has different styles. Some start at the end or have the ending in mind. Others start writing and let the story guide them (Stephen King’s method I’ve read), and others plan everything out from beginning to end.

I’m thinking I need to start scheduling time like a work schedule. Set a goal for X number of words/pages a day and hold myself to it?

Currently reading…

Edward Abbey

My latest book came in the mail today: A 1976 paperback copy of Edward Abbey’s “The Monkey Wrench Gang”.

I’m looking forward to diving into this as I have never read it before, and Neil Peart mentioned it many times in his book “Ghost Rider”.

The research I’ve pulled up on Abbey show him to be a truly original American figure of the Southwest.

post script: 7/11/2010

Loved this book!  Even though it was set in the mid 70’s, I found the themes to be relevant and Abbey’s thought process and style smart and entertaining.

It’s just golf…

I’ve been watching the US Open.  It’s a golf tournament. Plain and simple, a group of men who are really good at playing golf.  Depending on the network that is broadcasting any given golf tournament at any given time, a first-time viewer might think playing golf is paramount to being a soldier, a disease curing researcher, or a military test pilot. The most offending network is, in my opinion, NBC.  Johnny Miller (only two majors under his belt, yet the way he talks, he is God’s gift to golf and knows all) used the words “brave” and “heroic” to describe a 3-wood shot from Tiger Woods.  Really?  Brave and heroic? The same words used to describe the actions taken by a first-responder, police, firefighter, EMS, or a soldier who disarms roadside bombs are synonymous with hitting a golf ball with a 3-wood (and get paid millions of dollars to do it). Hmmmm. It’s also “so moving” to watch the highlights of the tournament being played over and over ad nauseum with powerful movie-music in the background and the over-emotional announcer (Jim Nance and Bob Costas are the pros at this type of hyper-manufactured sports sap) spewing voice-over drivel. To me, the major issue is the total diarrhea of the mouth they all have.  It’s like they can’t leave a moment of airtime unfilled.  There has to be someone talking all the time with most of the talking being the description of what is obviously being watched.  The bullshit banter is also so refreshing… “Huh Rog-?” as the rhetorical questions keep piling up. I know, turn off the volume. I have.

My DREAM house! (a non-writing subject, totally selfish entry)

Here are pictures of a house I got to visit while in Alaska.  I wish it was my house.  It is set up perfectly (in my opinion).  Enjoy…

The beautiful staircase

The artwork is eclectic and wonderful

"Optimist" by Steven Lee Smeltzer

Owl

Turtle

Local artist's work fills the house

animals you won't find in AK

One of the amazing views

Kitchen dining area

Gorgeous kitchen with cork floor

One of the amazing views

Front Yard (neighbors house to the left)

Deck

From reading nook looking into Living room, dining room and kitchen

Dining room and view

Looking from kitchen to living room

The reading nook

“home?”

It is now 1:06am on Thursday.

My flight back to the sweltering heat is over. I have taken two baths today, dined at Taco Bell, and re-bandaged my self-inflicted head wound. I have ignored palm tree trimmers at my door, and used my verbal skills only when I ordered my breakfast, said hello to my mother-in-law (she was leaving as I was pulling into the driveway), ordered my dinner, spoke rhetorically to my dogs, and said hello to the self-serve yogurt guy.

All of this verbose behavior since 11:50pm last night.

All other dialogue has been in my brain.

Previous posts can attest to my mind-speak, so I shall not delve into it here.

Now I sit up in bed, in a dark room; the first actual darkness I have seen since leaving for Alaska a week ago. The only light emanates from the Bose radio’s digital readout, and from the screen of the iPad. The only noise comes from the consistent whooshing of the white noise caused by the ceiling fan, the spacey and calming sounds from the Sirius satellite station called The Spa (it fills my tiny house), my mind’s voice–always there, always present, always talking, and the gentle snoring and groaning of the old labrador retriever beside me.

My mind is making to-do lists for me, most of which will be soon forgotten: My home needs cleaning, my backyard needs tending, my Jeep needs washing, my life needs direction, I have to deliver the smoked salmon I brought home to my father, I need to go to my pen store to pick up some letter writing paper, why haven’t I written anything good or worthy yet, my boss needs an email with book chapter assignments, and I could type on until the battery dies.

I escaped this week in Alaska by finishing “Ghost Rider” by Neil Peart.

He poured his soul into the inkwell of his pen then let his heart guide its flow upon the paper. His soul was shaped, twisted and torn by the experiences he encountered during his time in 1997-1999 and on top of his BMW R1100GS in that time after his life’s tragic turn. His mind was the battleground where his soul and heart fought their bitter war for control, and it was the ink that brokered the truce. That simple yet most complex of personal tasks; writing his feelings, thoughts and soul-wounds onto paper created the healing place where the soul and the heart could finally come to peace. The journey kept the two at bay most of the day (whether that journey be controlling the motorcycle from Quebec to Anchorage to Arizona to Mexico City to Belize then home again, or simply snowshoeing in the Canadian winter) so he could simply survive, heal, and eventually come back from the dead–the world where his only company were the ghosts; the ghosts around him and inside him.

Turn off the brain and find a comfortable place to recline. Tomorrow is here.

15A

The time is 2:03am.

I am sitting in seat 15A, port-side window seat of this Airbus A320. We just cleared 10,000ft and out come the electric devices. My iPad included.

My short trip is now over, and I must admit my heart is heavy for having to leave Alaska again. This place has some kind of hold on me. Even during take off this morning, the majestic and for boding mountains surrounding Anchorage were bathed in the never ending twilight of the June sun; not quite set, not quite rising. Subtle hints and multiple variations of blue, bath the jagged faces of stone. A marbling of snow, present throughout summer, clings amongst the crevasses and crannies of the mountain areas untouched by the warning rays of the sun.

My heart aches for Anchorage; an Anchorage of old.

Although this trip was short, the important things were done. We saw our closest of friends, dined in some of our favorite restaurants, and basked in the glory of 55-60 degree summer highs. I wish I had more time, but life presses on back in Arizona and I must return to face it.

I have “decided” next year to drive up to Anchorage alone. The plan would be to make 5 overnight stops on the drive up, stay in Alaska two weeks, then drive back home over the final five days. I’ve never done it, and I’d like to before I get too old or too unwilling. I would write in my journal and i would write letters. All the way up and back.

My plan is to do it alone.

I’d have to prepare the jeep in the following ways:
– upgrade the air intake with a snorkel
– install an over the top luggage rack with another full size tire on the rim
– pack the food and necessities for the unexpected. (sleeping bag, tent, etc.)
– install a new Jerry Can for gasoline.
– purchase a personal locator beacon
– oil change and tune up
– install cb radio

Anyway- you get the point.

So long Mighty Alaska. I miss you, our friends and memories.

at the airport-ready to board

I absolutely hate airports. As someone who wants to be a writer you’d think I relish the opportunity to observe all these different people. That’s where I need to retrain my brain.

Behind me, on the adjoining row of seats, a young woman has struck up a conversation with the girl beside her. In the brief minutes they have been talking, I/we have found out she is going through a nasty divorce(is there any other kind apparently?), and the reason for the divorce was related to the use of pills, and the ex wants the divorce to be finalized then try again together to make it work. WTF?

I watch people and take in their attire. A middle-aged man walked past me wearing a $100 plus shirt(untucked of course) embellished with all kinds of gold shinies. His shoes were from the Alladin Collection; they were brown, pointed-like, and embellished as well. They looked too long for his height. Well, I guess you know what they say about guys with big feet and big hands–big shoes and big gloves. Maybe the over-sized designer clown-shoes is the middle-aged representation of the metro-sexual, just as the monster-truck is for their redneck cousins.

I have to wonder, as I usually do; do these people own mirrors, and if they do, do the utilize them?

A great example of this is the young girl who just walked by wearing white short-shorts and ultra-warm winter boots of the Uggs variety. What is the statement here?

People are doing their best to be invisible. They walk around with blank-canvas faces. Trying to affix an emotion to them is nearly impossible, but the most common one to identify is frustration disguised as anger (or is that vice-versa?).

I closed my eyes and listened the voices, the sounds and the drone of the busy airport. I heard a rich variation of laughs: the pre-wheeze laugh of the heavy smoker, the nervous-polite laugh of stranger on stranger, the belly-laugh(the result of a truly funny joke…) They are all there as are the soul and calmness gouging announcements from the airline personnel. It’s as if they all try to talk over each other.

Let us not forget the chest-wrenching coughs of those who are so thoughtful to travel ill. The smoker also contributes to that mother of all coughs, but it is difficult to place a label on the originator.

“Will the passenger who just landed from the Minneapolis flight and took the wrong sports coat please return to the gate to return it its rightful owner, and retrieve their coat?” (honest to God, they just said that).

If you can utilize an internal aural filter, you can hear the televisions overhead, the automated paging system, the beeping of the people-train transporting the old, fat, weak, late, delayed and lazy passengers to their appropriate gates, and always, ALWAYS the constant hum of thousands of voices all speaking at once.

The sounds are just the tip of the international travel hub iceberg. Lest we forget the plethora of odors that accumulate in the airport. The originate from fellow passengers and from the place that sells you the three dollar 20oz diet Coke and the four dollar slice of pizza (once you’re past security, they’ve got ya!), it permeates all. This is where the true grit of the seasoned traveler comes into play. You can be sitting on one of the well-cleaned vinyl seats mesmerized by the aroma of a double cheeseburger and fries wafting from the food court area, and suddenly you notice something “off”. What is it? What’s not right in my mind’s happy place? Hmmmm, you think and the synapses fire off digging into memory to find a match like the “true” crime show computers rapidly do while trying to match a fingerprint to a bad guy.

“We have a match sir.” said the young CSI tech sitting in the dark computer room; the only apparent light in the room coming from the monitors.

“What is it?” asked the detective as he looked over the nervous tech’s shoulder.

“Foot odor.” replied the tech, “obese salesman on the starboard side sir. He slipped off his Bruno Magli knock-offs and is rubbing his feet with vigor and associated grunts of exertion.”

I guess the airport is a perfect place to find characters, identify mannerisms, and invent stories and back story. I just wish it didn’t, what’s the word I’m looking for?

SUCK

Who is the most influential American male writer?

a writer in repose