By the Thames, October 27, 1997

"There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that."

~ Derek Mahon, Everything is Going to be Alright

There will be dying, she said,
spoke softly into the night, where
pigeons burst into flight over silver waters,
and a canid spoke to the source.
Yes, she said, there will be dying.
The tides and eddies of a thousand floodwaters
will tear at the pages of our lives,
and Mankind or will mourn the loss of
their children, our books; words that never gave hope
but in that which fades.
They, too, drowned in the rush of new light.
How is it that we know so much yet understand so little?
But there is no need to go into that, she said,
as southern winds birthed clouds above,
dyed silver waters black.
She drew her jacket close.
No, there is no need.

A Day in the Mind of a Guy who's Losing One

Slept through class again. Not accidental. Woke up at around 10:00 and milled around the apartment for an hour, listened to some music and messed around on the internet until about 11:00. Decided to get some air, so I grabbed my headphones, my writing journal, and a few pens.

I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).

From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.

I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.

It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.

It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.

Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"

He pressed the side of his gun's barrel to his head, letting the cool metal relieve the throbbing in his head.

"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.

"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.

Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.

Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."

"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.

Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.

The Fisherman

As much as I'd like to blame my lot in life on some external force like destiny, we all know that it's only my fault. The fisherman, to attain viability, bust go to where the fish are, no matter the dangers of the waters, the closeness of the rocks, the temperamental skies. This is his trade. This he must do, or do without.

Lannisford

First thirty, and then thirty-one kilometers passed and we were in diving range of the Lannisford. Kreel reared back the engines to a soft purr and Johan, who had been "monitoring" the sonar equipment began to actually pay attention. Lars and I had been engaged in a game of chess--magnets at the bottoms of the pieces held them down against the pitch and yaw of the ship, whose small size caused it to be easily tossed about by the crosswinds. That same size allowed the four of us to share the same cabin space. The company had been nice up until we reached the wreckage spot, at which point the atmosphere took a significant turn for what seemed to be the worse.

They were feeding off of me, I knew, and cursed myself for bringing them out there at all. We stood to lose so much in the expedition. Aside from sailing into demilitarized waters--without sanction or warrant--we had taken liberties even in our use of the vessel. Suffice to say we had put ourselves--I had put us--in a very dangerous situation.

"Your move," Lars said, bringing me back to the chess game.

"Sorry," I said, appologizing for my distance.

"Just relax," Johan said, still pouring over the sonar readings. "I'll let you konw when we see anything. Kreel, can you take me up another hundred meters?"

We continued on in this way, Lars and I with the chess (which, I must admit, I was losing horribly at), Johan and Kreel bouncing coordinates off of one another. There seemed to be a neverending pool from which suspense could be drawn.

Lars took my queen just before Johan got a hit. I tensed up. Lars leaned back, eyes on me. "False alarm," Johan said appologetically. It was killing all of us, and I think he wanted to do anything but increase the tension.

(to be continued...?)

Valentine's Day Thoughts

With Valentine's Day rapidly approaching, a hefty host of us are spending a lot of time thinking of one thing or another. In the case of those with significant others, plans and surprises are likely being put in motion. With any luck, these plans will proceed unhindered, and good times will be had by all.

The rest of us are thinking of quite different things. Maybe someone is planning a winning move. I wish you the best of luck (not that I encourage people 'hooking up' on Valentine's Day just to feel like they're not alone). Others of us (myself included) are watching the day approach like a NEA readying for terrestrial impact. We know it's coming, we know it's going to suck, and there's nothing we can do about it.

As a mechanism of dealing with these considerations, should you share them, I would like to encourage you to realize that we are in a position of strategic advantage. Allow me to explain: for people with significant others, Valentine's Day marks out something special. It'll be an "up" day, a day to look forward to. By contrast, the "unattached" might be tempted to see Valentine's Day as a "down" day, something to dread. A day when things go from bad to worse.

Don't panic.

Look at it this way--Valentine's Day is painful to the unattached for what reason? Because it makes us aware of our detachment? Because we know that others around the nation will be celebrating their love, a love that you currently don't possess or share with anyone?

Both of these, and maybe more. But here's the upswing; is Valentine's Day the only day you're made aware of your detachment? Is it the only day where you realize that others are sharing their love for each other?

It's not. Valentine's Day is not remarkable in the negative spectrum to the unattached, because it's simply no worse than any other day. And really, it's not about being alone on Valentine's Day. It's about being alone, period. This isn't new (unless, you know, it is, in which case I feel for you). We've been weathering this storm some of us for weeks, months, years even. And we're still here. We're still alive. We still function. Yes, at times it may be lonely, and at times it may cause you to question your own value... but we've already got our hands on the short end of the stick. We've had our hands there. And you know what? We can take that short end, and we can go on, and well...

I guess that's something.

Love to my family and friends,

Matt

Story Idea 2: Mind Wipe

Okay, so I've been reading The Devil's Eye by Jack McDevitt, and one of the devices he uses in this particular universe is the mind wipe, which is a socially instituted way for criminals and others who want a new stab at life to move on. They're housed in a facility for a few weeks until they relearn how to read, walk, communicate, be a person etc, and are given a fake history and family, then sent off to a distant part of the known worlds as a completely new person. No record exists to correlate between the old persona and the new--the person has effectively died. Memorial services are held, yadda yadda. In many ways, this notion is similar to suicide (which McDevitt always manages to touch on).

That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.

Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.

The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.

Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?

It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.

Story Idea

So a lot of times I come up with skeleton story ideas and they fall to the wayside; I usually don't give them any attention because they're so fleeting and, well, I have a million (3) other stories I'm developing at the moment.

Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.

Enough with exposition: on with the show.

So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.

And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.





I told you it was skeletal.

A Photo Trip around Eastlake and Capital Hill

This building caught my eye, though I'm not sure why. It could be as simple as the fact that it was very cleanly presented, and it was sunny, and the building is an off white so it stood out.

This is the same building a little further up. I framed that small tree to the left hoping it would look cool... it's alright I guess.

This is a doorway in the same building, but I thought it looked really cool. I like taking architectural pictures because they interest me in terms of drawing them (primarily in terms of art that might become part of a graphic novel), and it's the little things that you never think about that really stick you when you're trying to draw buildings or whatever. (I'm not an artist by any means; in fact I rarely draw anything, but still it's the thought process that governs what I take pictures of so I guess that's relevant enough).

Looking down some stepped hills. The roads are super bumpy in these parts, it's like cobblestone but bricks. One of Luke's classmates from his video program told us that the whole city used to be "paved" in this stuff, and if you see parts of the roads in Seattle that are wearing down (on Eastlake Ave near I-5, for example) the bricks show through underneath. The water at the bottom of the hill here is Lake Union.

These two pictures are of the same yard space even higher up, where all the buildings have ridiculous views of Lake Union and even the Seattle Center (Space Needle, etc). Anyway, I thought it was quaint.

Through the Cracks

I am in love with the sound
of rushing air between cracks in a car door
bold and bland as it rocks me to sleep, neck craned
in the back of a Chevrolet on the way to Dent, still
two days out, but I could doze in the car while Dad drove,
listen to spacey music as I looked up,
up at the stars and when I was lucky, the moon,
which held all of my greatest hopes and dreams
suspended in the sky in a beacon of light,
even though I know now it has an albedo of 11%
and it can't hear me through the vacuum of space.

The dog was asleep in the back.
"Like a child," I'd think, and reach out
to touch his soft black ears.
In the back of a Chevy Caprice, almost
midnight now, his eyes open, search out mine.
With a lick of his lips, says "hi," then shifting paws
eyes close again, golden brown suns retiring for the night,
plus we've run out of things to do by now
in the back of a Chevy Caprice Classic on the way to Dent,
Minnesota, where we will certainly swim in the many lakes,
the one shaped like a star in particular, where the dog
will learn to swim too because my dad will carry him
into the water and he'll flail about at first but finally catch on.

My dog does not howl at the moon because
he knows, like me,
that the moon is not listening.
We've stopped for gas, so
I take him around the block, fill his dish
with some water from the outside spout.
Says thank you with his eyes.
Are we getting back in the car now?
Longs to hear the sound of rushing air
through the cracks of a Chevrolet
on the way to Dent.

Adrift

I rowed for a year straight, and so
my arms were sore, my back was sore,
my throat was parched and I needed rest.
Drifted by lands of fantasy, not daring
to face dangers tropical and exotic;
jungles too green; suspiciously green.
Others a green too dark; black rock shorelines
faded in the night like so many landmines.

Water supply running low I took a chance
on a lonely island, solitary yet beautiful,
loving yet temperamental. Footprints in the sand
ran deeply, a heavy tromp, a naval officer perhaps.
They led out the way they came in, and I was
alone there for some time.

A copse of trees surrounded
fresh water, where I slept at night,
made meager meals of the native fruits,
just enough to get by. I kept the waterskins
filled to the brim, kept them in the boat
tied to a tree on the shore, should I need
to depart in haste. Storms came and went,
but I never needed to.

I stayed for a month straight, upon
that land of shifting sands, land of wildflower petals,
land of solitude, until it sank, like shifting island sands sink.
Shed a tear of longing as it bubbled underneath,
out on my own, out with the tide
my own damn tide on my own way out;
restocked, repaired.

Rinse and repeat, reclaim the waves,
patch the leaks that spring
in a heart that has no home.
Drift until you can't anymore.