Sorry y'all. It's been awhile.

Ok, I know I've kept rather mum for the past few months. I'm at the point where I'm not even really pretending to be a writer anymore. Still, Will has a point when he told me that the question "what do you do?" really is a bullshit question, so it's just best to answer it on your own terms. He's a writer and a filmmaker, not just that snarky guy at the video store.

Sure, I identify as "office girl extraordinaire," or "wannabe writer" when asked, but in all truth, I don't know what the hell I am anymore these days.

I attempted to write a comic book script for ScriptFrenzy 2009, where the minimum requirement was 100 pages in 30 days. I got to about 60 pages and ran out of steam/interest near the end. Still, this is an idea I'd love to see other people (especially illustrators, writers, bicycle enthusiasts) pick up and help me build this wacky supernatural bicycle Portland universe.

I won't lie. The Flat Fairy is basically a snarkier, bi-racial version of me if I died and had to redeem myself by helping fix flat tires in SE Portland and earn my bicycle to ride to heaven.

Here's a couple of snippets:

Part I: The Flat Fairy


PAGE THREE

PANEL

1. Silhouette of BIKE COMMUTER going along Waterfront Park with the sunrise and Mt. Hood in the background.

2. Broken glass on pavement.

3. Other garbage strewn on empty street.

4. BIKE COMMUTER attempts to go around broken glass.

5. Closeup of tire. Blurry images in background indicate motion.

6. Almost microscopic closeup revealing tiny fragment of glass embedded in tire.


PAGE FOUR

PANEL

1. Transition "That evening." BIKE COMMUTER is making his way back home, more or less the same route as before, but with more cars on road. He's wearing a brown suit, but with a raincoat and his pant legs rolled up and bound to prevent them from snagging in his chain/gears.

2. Closeup of BIKE COMMUTER's face getting concerned look on face for a moment. He is an average bland looking white dude.

3. Look of concern gone while weaving through traffic.

4. BIKE COMMUTER weaving through pedestrians and other bikers carefully on Steel Bridge pedestrian walkway. (sfx: whumpa-whumpa-whumpa)

5. BIKE COMMUTER now on Eastbank Esplanade this time instead of Riverside Park.

6. Closeup of tire, visibly squishing against the pavement as it turns.

VOICE
You really oughtn't do that.

PAGE FIVE

PANEL

1. Dark silhouette beneath overpass by Hawthorne Bridge, clearly female in a dark trenchcoat, toting a large *something* over her shoulder. It could be an axe, it could be anything potentially dangerous.

2. BIKE COMMUTER stops his bike suddenly. (sfx: screeeee!)

3. Closeup of BIKE COMMUTER shielding face from rain, trying to peer at the figure.

BIKE COMMUTER
What? Who are you?

4. FLAT FAIRY steps out, smoking a cigarette.

FLAT FAIRY
How long you been ridin' on that?

5. BIKE COMMUTER and FLAT FAIRY face each other. He is taller than she is by at least a head.

BIKE COMMUTER
(scratching his head)
I dunno, I just noticed it a few minutes ago.

6. Front view, mid-shot of FLAT FAIRY, with eyebrow raised and what is clearly a floor pump slung over her shoulder. The floor pump is very nice, complete with pressure gauge and has both presta and schraeder adapters. She is also another mid-20s character, pick a race, any race. Then pick another and combine the two. She is not necessarily beautiful or striking, but still looks "interesting." Young, gifted and mixed indeed.

FLAT FAIRY
Uh-huh. Then why did you keep riding?

PAGE SIX

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER has dismounted from his bicycle, scratching his head sheepishly. The bicycle is a nice commuter bicycle, black and complete with panniers. Faint remains of daylight visible in the sky. FLAT FAIRY stomping out cigarette with her shoe.

BIKE COMMUTER
I dunno... I figured I could make it home.

2. FLAT FAIRY places a hand on the frame of the bicycle, staring at it intently. Only her face, hand and the bike frame are in this panel.

FLAT FAIRY
Where do you live?

BIKE COMMUTER
Over on 60th.

3. FLAT FAIRY scowling. Both of her hands are gripping the frame. Her hands are rough-looking and covered in grease.

FLAT FAIRY
You're a freaking idiot.

4. The bicycle is now upside-down. The FLAT FAIRY is kneeling before it, eyes closed in reverence, like a pilgrim at an alter... or something.

BIKE COMMUTER

What? Hey, what are you doing?

5. The FLAT FAIRY has her hands in the brake release of the back tire.

6. The tire is now off of the bike, cradled on her knees. Both of her hands, now dirt-covered, are at 10:00 and 2:00 like she's driving a car.

PAGE SEVEN (or right about when things look like an instruction manual)

PANEL

1. Close-up of the tire, FLAT FAIRY's hands inserting a plastic tire lever between the rim and the tire.

2. Closeup of the tire, lever now almost all the way around one side, tire halfway off rim like a peeled orange. (sfx: vvvvppppppppt!)

3. Closeup of tire, other side half-way peeled. (sfx: vvvvppppppppt!)

4. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY peering at the tube, holding the tire at the same place.

5. FLAT FAIRY runs hand inside tire thoughtfully.

6. Closeup of "eureka!" look on FLAT FAIRY's face.

FLAT FAIRY
Bingo!

PAGE EIGHT

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER is standing, leaning against the concrete wall of the overpass, looking at his watch in amazement.

BIKE COMMUTER
Holy crap, that took seconds!

2. FLAT FAIRY still on knees in front of bike tire with what appear to be a pair of tweezers.

FLAT FAIRY
That was the easy part. Now's the hard part.

3. Closeup of sweat beading on FLAT FAIRY's brow.

4. Closeup of tiny shard of glass cradled in the shiny tweezers, gleaming in the dim light.

FLAT FAIRY
Looks like we've got the culprit.

5. She puts the shard in a tiny plastic vial

6. and puts the vial in her coat pocket. (sfx: clink-clink-clink)


PAGE NINE

PANEL

1. The FLAT FAIRY attaches the tube to the floor pump.

2. She pumps it up quickly (sfx: pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa!) to an almost cartoonish size.

3. BIKE COMMUTER is moving forward with look of shock on his face.

BIKE COMMUTER
What are you doing?

4. FLAT FAIRY has the tube in one hand next to her ear, the other one out hushing him. Intense-looking panel with frenetic looking background, maybe something stripey or swirly.

FLAT FAIRY
Hush.

5-6 in sub-panels. Closeup of tube, moving along FLAT FAIRY's ear, her eyes are closed. Last subpanel has (sfx: hsssssss) and the tube going back to a more normal size.


PAGE TEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY'S eyes open wide.

2. Another intense-looking panel series: where a hand comes out of a pocket with a patch kit.

3. (sfx: POP!) The patch kit comes open, shooting out a patch with a green heart on it and a piece of sandpaper.

4. The FLAT FAIRY seizes both in one hand.

5. The FLAT FAIRY sands the tube right over the tiny hole. (sfx: scritch-scritch-scritch)

6. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY's thumb pressing the patch down onto the tube.

FLAT FAIRY
Va-BAM!

PAGE ELEVEN

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER's stares on in amazement.

2. FLAT FAIRY deflates tire a bit. (sfx: kssssssshhhh)

3. Close up of hands working a tube around the rim.

4. Close up of hands working the tire back onto the rim.

5. FLAT FAIRY fully inflates tire again (sfx: pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa!)

6. FLAT FAIRY re-attaches tire to bicycle.


PAGE TWELVE

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER is on his knees, jaw agape, nose bleeding.

BIKE COMMUTER
Marry me.

2. FLAT FAIRY has eyebrow still arched, one hand grasping the floor pump like she's about to pummel him with it.

FLAT FAIRY
Heh. Well, that's definitely a first.

3. FLAT FAIRY looks sheepish, resumes sitting on feet in kneeling position.

FLAT FAIRY
Hey there, think you can settle
for giving me a hand up
instead of a hand in marriage?

4. Closeup: Their hands meet. Hers is covered in grease. His is still in its attack glove.

5. They are standing face to face again. He is grinning like an idiot schoolboy, still holding her hand. She is clearly uncomfortable. A row of sleeping bags and shopping carts can be seen beneath the overpass in the background.

FLAT FAIRY
I'm gonna want that back.

BIKE COMMUTER
What? Oh, sorry.

6. He has released her hand, which she is wiping with a grease-covered rag.

PAGE THIRTEEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY is walking away facing the reader. BIKE COMMUTER is standing in background.

BIKE COMMUTER
Wait! You never told me who you are!

2. From perspective of BIKE COMMUTER. FLAT FAIRY is walking beneath the overpass past the bike racks.

BIKE COMMUTER
But what about your bike?

3. FLAT FAIRY turns around momentarily, putting on a pair of sunglasses despite the evening cloudiness visible in the background.

FLAT FAIRY
I haven't earned it yet.

4. BIKE COMMUTER still stands there in awe, touching his rear tire.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
You should earn yours...
Always maintain tire pressure.
Never ride on a flat, you'll
ruin your rims.

5. BIKE COMMUTER looking reverently, sunset barely visible in clouds behind him in the West Hills/view of Downtown from the East bank.

BIKE COMMUTER
(thought rectangle)
I never forgot her parting words.
(spoken)
Will I ever see you again?
Where will you go?

6. Silhouette shot of FLAT FAIRY toting her floor pump over her shoulder.

FLAT FAIRY
Wherever I'm needed.

PART V: Flat Fairy vs. the Gear-Nixies

PAGE FORTY-FIVE

PANEL

1. Back to 6 panel format in full color. FLAT FAIRY at her usual afternoon haunt, the Eastbank Esplanade beneath Hawthorne Bridge, floor pump in tow. She is wearing her usual trenchcoat, tshirt and jeans. (sfx:musical notes to indicate whistling)

2. FLAT FAIRY looking down toward river, surprised expression.

3. GEAR-NIXIE sitting on a rock with a bicycle lying on its side, looking forlorn. She is blonde with long wavy hair and eyes as green as the Willamette, but not as cloudy. She wears a white billowy shirt and green pair of pants. Basically, she looks like she is celebrating Pirate Day a bit too early. Strangely enough, she is barefoot.

GEAR-NIXIE
Please help.

4. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY'S face, characteristic eyebrow arched.

FLAT FAIRY
No.

5. GEAR-NIXIE looks clearly taken aback.

GEAR-NIXIE
What?

6. FLAT FAIRY holds her floor pump in a defense position, braced in front of her with two hands.

FLAT FAIRY
You heard me.
I said no.

PAGE FORTY-SIX

PANEL

1. GEAR-NIXIE starts weeping, face in her hands as she curls up on her rock.

GEAR-NIXIE
Please, my bicycle is broken!

2. FLAT FAIRY lighting a cigarette, one foot possessively planted over the floor pump on the ground.

FLAT FAIRY
Stop it. You ain't foolin' anyone.

3. BIKE COMMUTER from earlier pulls up with look of indignation on his face.

BIKE COMMUTER
What is going on?
This is all wrong.

4. FLAT FAIRY looking toward reader, hand cupped slightly over mouth.

FLAT FAIRY
Except him, apparently.

(cap that wraps around the panel: Is she allowed to do that? I mean, break the fourth wall. Fuck. She's got me doing that now. Damnit!)

5. BIKE COMMUTER tries to grab floor pump.

BIKE COMMUTER
Aren't you supposed to be
helping people? Give me
that thing!

6. With a deft stroke (arc of different locations of floor pump), FLAT FAIRY knocks BIKE COMMUTER to the ground with the floor pump.


PAGE FORTY-SEVEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY, cigarette still at corner of her mouth. BIKE COMMUTER breathing heavily (sfx: pant-pant-pant)

FLAT FAIRY
Yes. I help people,
but only when they
need it. Also, never
touch the pump.

2. GEAR-NIXIE reaches out in supplication, eyes heart-meltingly wide and brimming in tears.

GEAR-NIXIE
But my bicycle is broken.
Please help.

3. FLAT FAIRY scowls, cigarette between fingers on left hand and floor pump slung over shoulder.

FLAT FAIRY
Help yourself. I'm gone.

4. FLAT FAIRY walking away. BIKE COMMUTER chasing after her, trying to pull himself to his feet.

BIKE COMMUTER
Wait!

5. BIKE COMMUTER running at FLAT FAIRY'S side. (sfx: huff-huff-huff!) She is still very much annoyed. They are walking beneath Hawthorne Bridge. The GEAR-NIXIE continues waving down pedestrians.

FLAT FAIRY
What do you want?

6. A man passes the GEAR-NIXIE while jogging, headphones on and completely oblivious to her presence. (sfx: more musical notes coning from headphones)

PAGE FORTY EIGHT

PANEL

1. Two bicyclists chatting, riding side-by-side pass the FLAT FAIRY and the BIKE COMMUTER walking in the opposite direction. They are in sight of the GEAR-NIXIE.

BIKE COMMUTER
Let me get this straight,
you'll help a cute guy
in distress, but not some
poor woman? Double standard!

2. FLAT FAIRY pointing accusingly backward. The cigarette is falling out of her mouth as she yells at the BIKE COMMUTER.

FLAT FAIRY
That is not some "poor
woman." Get your facts
straight before you start
making wild accusations!

3. BIKE COMMUTER still looks angry. FLAT FAIRY still looks annoyed, but eases up a bit in her expression.

FLAT FAIRY
Besides, you ain't
even that cute.

4. BIKE COMMUTER looks over his shoulder as he walks with FLAT FAIRY.

BIKE COMMUTER
Ok then, what is she
supposed to be, if not
some "poor woman?"

FLAT FAIRY
Good question. Here's
a cookie.

5. FLAT FAIRY hands him what looks like an Odwalla/Cliff Bar.

BIKE COMMUTER
This isn't a cookie.

FLAT FAIRY
Don't argue semantics.
This was my lunch,
but I grabbed the wrong one.
I don't like raisins.

6. BIKE COMMUTER taking a bite and looking at FLAT FAIRY warily.

FLAT FAIRY
As I was saying,
she's not human.
She's a Gear-Nixie.

BIKE COMMUTER
A wha?

PAGE FORTY-NINE

PANEL

1. GEAR NIXIES playing in Willamette River at night beneath moonlight. Ruins of old bicycles poking up from the banks, rusted and covered in slime.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
A Gear-Nixie. They
dwell in bodies of water
near bike-dense cities.

2. GEAR NIXIE looking coy on the shore by Waterfront Park. A broken bicycle sits at her feet.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
They lure unsuspecting
good Samaritans close
to the water.

3. A smiling young man in spandex cycling gear with a bicycle of his own crouches near her bike to see what the trouble is.

FLAT FAIRY
And that's the
last anyone ever
sees of the would-be
bicycle savior.

4. Spot of water as seen from the shore of Waterfront Park. Nothing but a ripple is seen, a series of wavy concentric circles in the murky water.

5. BIKE COMMUTER stuffs the food bar wrapper in his pocket. FLAT FAIRY is tying her left shoe, firmly planted on her floor pump.

BIKE COMMUTER
You've got to be kidding me.

FLAT FAIRY
Serious as a blown out tube.
I never joke about important things.

6. Another jogger passes the forlorn GEAR-NIXIE, also wearing headphones, sunglasses and plenty of lycra.


PAGE FIFTY

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER rolling up his sleeves and walking back toward shore.

BIKE COMMUTER
That has to be the most
ridiculous thing I've ever
heard. I'll take care of this...

2. FLAT FAIRY pulling out another bar from her jacket that has the words "chocolate chip" printed on it. She is not looking at BIKE COMMUTER, but at her snack with a blase expression.

FLAT FAIRY
No, don't, stop.

3. The GEAR-NIXIE is smiling up from her rock, gesturing at the broken bicycle at her feet.

4. The BIKE COMMUTER reaches down to place what looks like a fallen chain back onto the pedal gears.

BIKE COMMUTER
(thought)
Pfft. Gear-Nixies. Why
would someone call
them that anyway?

5. The hub gears spinning wildly (blurry), causing the chain to wrap itself around his wrists, cutting deep and drawing blood. The BIKE COMMUTER has a horrified look on his face.

6. FLAT FAIRY chewing thoughtfully on her food bar. Peering at carnage through her right fingers.

FLAT FAIRY
(thought)
Should I...?

PAGE FIFTY-ONE

PANEL

1. Splash panel of FLAT FAIRY walking on Esplanade sidewalk down at the lower right hand corner. She is as indifferent as ever.

FLAT FAIRY
Naw. I tried to warn him.

Behind her, the GEAR-NIXIES are in full form, with the bodies of scary looking women with rows of sharp teeth, fish-like tails with a broken bicycle attached at the end of each tail. They are splashing in the Willamette River with the BIKE COMMUTER. (sfx: graarl-splash-graaarl-splash-splash) A wall of blood-tinged water is up around where the BIKE COMMUTER was dragged.

BIKE COMMUTER

Oh God! I can see
my pancreas!

Neal Stephenson is Awesome

So, after another day in the tech support mines (seriously, we're inside a cave inside an old loft-converted warehouse inside a really nice neighborhood), I walked down Madison and Hawthorne to the Bagdad Theater to see Neal Stephenson, author of Snow Crash, The Diamond Age, Cryptonomicon, The Baroque Cycle (which I prefer to refer to as "The M*therf*cking Baroque Cycle" because it's so hardcore... it's like the Samuel L. Jackson of Historical Fiction). He was there to read a bit from his new book Anathem followed by a Q&A and book signing. I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't more of a formal talk, but it was still fun and interesting.

There's also apparently an actual talk that he had done regarding the ever-changing world of technology and how it's affecting science fiction online. He had brought it up when someone had asked a question regarding this, but his succinct answer to it, other than "linking" us to the talk online (even referring to fora.tv as "a thinking person's youtube"), was to state that science fiction permeates the world more than other genres. We see it in books, movies, video games. Also, he made a rather witty aphorism (perhaps I am not thinking of the right term) regarding technology. I will attempt to paraphrase (albeit badly in comparison to what he probably did say):

"Technology is whatever was invented after you were born and is so new that it doesn't work yet. The buttons on your shirt are not technology to you since you're familiar with them... and they work."

But I'm already sort of getting ahead of myself.

Stephenson (I don't know, calling him "Neal" seems a bit too casual) opened up with the literary equivalent of opening a 40 and pouring some of it on the corner for David Foster Wallace, who killed himself recently. He said that Wallace was "the best of us" and highly recommended that we read his work, especially seeing as how there will no longer be any more of it. I'm not sure if it is a sad or a good thing that when I looked at Powell's Online to find the links for the above books that David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest was in the top five.

After peering around the theater and saying something to the effect of, "You all have beer. I would have come here sooner if I had known that we could have beer at these things." in bemusement, he read a bit from Anathem, which I think was from somewhere near the beginning where the main character Fraa Erasmus (Raz) and Fraa Orolo interact with an extramuros (someone who lives out the math/monastary), called Artisan Quin. It got a few good laughs, particularly due to details that seem like they would fit well in our world, but we take them granted as such. The fact that Fraa Orolo has to have a questionnaire for the saecular world in order to navigate it for apert (the rare time when the math opens and allows outsiders in and when the Fraas and Suurs get to leave for ten days once a year, decade, century or even millennia depending on the math).

I guess I ought to pull over and provide a summary of Anathem. If you were to boil it down to really reductive basics, it's about monks in the future who devote their lives to science as opposed to faith because the world around them is so politically and socially unstable that they have to cloister themselves off. The world is divided into the avout (the science/philosophical-minded) and the saecular (everyone else). This whole premise reminds me of what's going on in our country right now and the tried-and-sadly-true strategem of the GOP of "disparage and devalue intellectualism." Not to mention all the hoopla and "what's the point" regarding the Large Hadron Collider. Would it be all that hard to believe that the world will split off into two such groups?

During the Q&A people lined up and asked their varied questions. Of course, I had expected the sort of crowd that surrounded me, mostly geeks. One of them even came up and plugged an event they were hosting, asking Stephenson if he would make an appearance. I think it was some sort of cyborg-related convention. Stephenson politely declined, claiming that he already had commitments that weekend.

When it came to more literary questions, it ranged from the polite/not-so-polite version of "Why are your books so damn long?" to a really wordy question asking about the effects of the world on his writing or how he thinks sci-fi writing affects the world. The answer to the first question was rather astute, just saying that he writes until he's done. Someone next to me commented that it was the dreaded "ending" question, especially considering how he writes endings that tend to completely screw with people. The answer to the second question was pretty much the one mentioned above, "linking" to a talk online regarding the subject.

I particularly liked his answer to a question regarding how or if he takes "literary" angles into consideration. He basically said that if you think too much about what grandiose aims you mean to prove or how to sell something, you'll never get anything done. This is similar to advice other authors have given to me. The guy in front of me in the signing line was another writer was also a writer, so Stephenson stated that he (and I) should just keep writing. He said to just write, keep going and then throw it away... not throw it away, but just put it down. By the time I had gotten through the line, he had already signed over 200+ books, so I understand how some of the communications wires can get crossed. I sheepishly confessed that I'm not good at revision, to which he replied that even that will get easier if I just do it more often.

It's pretty much what everyone, writer and non-writer has been advising me to do, just to keep trying. Or, more accurately, keep doing. It does me no good just navel gazing and having existential crises. Even shitty writers who do that and still manage to crank out a few novels get paid at least some of the time. In other words, I will not get any satisfaction, let alone compensation for novels or short stories that I don't write.

What is interesting is that Stephenson also recommended writing an hour a day at most. In the back notes for The Baroque Cycle, there are scans of the longhand manuscripts that he had handwritten. It's one thing to write a book that is 1000 pages. It's another to have handwritten it first. So, I may have to be a bit more focused in my approach, as opposed to rattling off a few pages on google documents here and there when I have breaks at work. I suppose it's sort of like how I used to practice the piano every day for at least an hour (sometimes much more than that during festival season).

Well, I don't play the piano anymore (though I did just start the dulcimer), so I'll have to rehone my focus elsewhere.

Also, in the mean time, I have quite a bit of reading to do.

On a closing note, when I get to meet an author or performance artist I admire, I usually go blathering psychotic fangirl. I suppose I went sort of quiet fangirl who was cautious about keeping the line moving instead this time. Maybe I wasn't as giddy as a teenager at a boyband/emo/whatever the hell it is those damn kids are listening to these days concert, but maybe I'm finally starting to see my sort of "heroes" as real people. I mean, I've hung out with enough Guests in Residence at Allen Hall to realize that fate doesn't just tap some people on the shoulder and tell them that they're either going to fight the power, help change the world and/or just tell a damn good story. You (and by "you," I really mean "I") really need to work your ass off, even just to stay afloat.

Also, I think I'm at the stage where I'm not so much in awe of an author like Stephenson for "making it," by being able to draw crowds at readings, sell a good number of books, be relatively recognizable and well-known in the sci-fi/literary world, etc. Instead, I deeply appreciate the fact that he does as previously mentioned, tell a damn good story and tell it well. He creates characters that I would like to meet in person, whether it's someone like Hiro Protagonist from Snow Crash, Eliza or "Half-cocked" Jack Shaftoe from The Baroque Cycle who live in worlds I'd either like to see or worlds that don't seem that much different from my own.

Ok, before I completely go off the deep end of ceasing to make sense, I ought to call it a night, hit the showers/hay/what have you.

I sort of got married...over the internet. I got better though!

For a little context, Jake is my pseudofacebookboyfriend. Yes, that is all one word. I'm pretty sure it will be in the dictionary someday. Perhaps not Merriam Webster will take it, but I'll write my own damn dictionary to accomodate it...damnit.

Anyway, we were talking about the usual mindless repetitive tasks of temp work, writing and losing sleep. This is the end result of one of our mad conversations. That's right, I somehow managed to get married over teh internets.

[18:07] Jake: well
[18:07] Jake: it's bedtime once again
[18:07] Me: ok
[18:07] Me: I won't deprive you of sleep.
[18:08] Me: I've got to get to writing this batshit crazy ending anyway...
[18:09] Jake: both are important
[18:09] Me: indeed
[18:09] Me: :tucks you in and gets you a glass of warm milk...but keeps the cookie:
[18:13] Jake: hey
[18:13] Jake: that's my cookie
[18:13] Jake: i theory
[18:14] Jake: i guess that's presumptuous of me
[18:14] Me: ok...fine...:gets you another cookie:
[18:14] Me: :takes a bite out of it before handing it to you:
[18:14] Me: hm...better be careful...you never know which cultures recognize food sharing as a sort of marriage ritual...
[18:15] Jake: sometimes a cookie is a commitment
[18:15] Me: indeed
[18:15] Me: :offers you choice of cookie with bite taken out of it and whole cookie that has nuts in it:
[18:17] Jake: hurm
[18:17] Jake: i have to go with nuts
[18:17] Me: ha! it was a trick
[18:17] Me: there was a bite taken from beneath the cookie
[18:17] Me: ha! now we're married according to someone's arbitrary ritual
[18:18] Me: (all it means is that you can't marry anyone else unless you reimburse me with a cow or something)
[18:18] Me: haha
[18:18] Me: so sweet! I get a free cow!
[18:18] Jake: okay
[18:18] Jake: or a free me
[18:18] Me: that works too
[18:18] Jake: well, a cookie isn't really free
[18:18] Jake: everything has its price
[18:18] Me: it is if you steal them
[18:18] Jake: right
[18:19] Me: (or steal the ingredients from orphans)
[18:19] Jake: haha
[18:19] Jake: you've got it all figured out
[18:19] Me: but not the ending of this book
[18:20] Me: (or how you're going to sleep with these weird ideas in your head of how we're apparently married now)
[18:20] Jake: haha
[18:20] Me: this conversation has to get posted somewhere (I'll put it in my blog or something)
[18:22] Jake: nice
[18:22] Jake: i'll sleep quite comfortably i think
[18:22] Jake: nice and warm
[18:22] Me: especially after the warm milk and inadvertent marriage cookie
[18:22] Me: good for you...I miss being warm
[18:22] Me: you know what, screw it, I'm getting in that bed with you. it's too cold in my apartment for me to finish my novel.
[18:23] Jake: i'm into long underwear now in a big way
[18:23] Me: ah...I like the flannel jammies, but I'm going to have to invest in the longjohns again
[18:24] Jake: i only ever wore them skiing but now i put them on when i get home from work
[18:24] Jake: they're so comfortable
[18:24] Me: ah
[18:24] Me: well, either way, move over. I'm getting in.
[18:25] Jake: gladly
[18:25] Me: just know that while you're all snuggly and asleep, some part of my brain is there with you while the rest of me shivers over my laptop and tries to end this novel once and for all
[18:26] Jake: good luck!
[18:26] Jake: you can do it!
[18:26] Jake: have a good night
[18:26] Me: g'night
[18:26] Me: and tanks
[18:26] Me: *thanks

The Portland Literary Salon or, Why Valerie Is No Longer Allowed Near Absinthe

So Steve asks me via google talk while I'm checking my email if I'm going to the salon tonight (it was Saturday) and I had completely forgotten about it despite Heather (not Helen) telling me about it last week.

I am already getting ahead of myself.

For those of you who don't know and actually do care despite perhaps not keeping tabs on this seemingly defunct blog, I am now living in Portland, OR. I have for the past couple of months lived in relative isolation, scrounging up work here and there, getting a bit of writing done. At a National Novel Writing Month-related event, I met Steve, who introduced me to Heather (along with a bunch of other writer/musician/artist types) at his book release party a couple of weeks ago. Heather told us that she was going to read a piece at this literary salon hosted by Jessica (who I met last night). The idea was supposed to be like the French salons and coteries from back in the day (hence the wine and the absinthe...but I'll get to that later).

When I got there, I had my usual preliminary apprehension at going to a social function where I knew nobody except the person I arrived with and had my usual cigarette outside. There, I met Winona and Cari (at least I think she spelled it that way) who were friends with the hostess, but likewise didn't know many other people at the salon.

Once I got in, it was a good time, lots of good company, lots of wine and baguette bread to go around. The readings were interesting, starting from the noise/spoken word combo O'Grady (at least that's what I think they were called). The guy (one of the Mikes?) had a sweet tattoo of a typewriter keyboard which reminded me of Naked Lunch and read pieces about working in a pen factory (with a receptionist who had a nice ass) and going to a strip club. While he read, his girlfriend (?) did interesting things with sound involving a crushed can and some electronic equipment ... experiments in feedback.

One of Steve's friends (I don't remember his name either, so I'll just assume it's Mike) read too, but not from his book "Help, a Bear is Eating Me!" (or was it "Help, I'm Being Eaten by a Bear?") Unfortunately, I'm drawing a blank as to what it was about, especially considering like most of the other pieces tonight, it was funny or intentionally humorous ... Ok, now I remember, it was a satirical commentary on the whole "natural food" trend "Hi! I milk the cows for Sunnyview farms! ... Hi! I'm the person who fucks the cows at Sunnyview farms! ... We put love in everything you eat!" (or something like that).

Another guy (I think his name might have been Mike too) read a short story about a woman talking to a lizard at the side of the road about her relationship/life problems (deadbeat stoner boyfriend), wanting her life to be like a poem, only for the lizard to say "It sounds to me that you just need to grow the fuck up." When I asked him if it was from personal experience, he explained that for awhile, he agreed with the lizard, but his (ex)girlfriend Jennifer actually randomly went to New York to become a documentarian, and things actually worked out, so he figures that it's better to be idealistic. I agreed, but sometimes people do need to grow the fuck up when it comes to relationships (by now one would think I would have learned that lesson at least), but it is better to be idealistic and go after "crazy" dreams when it comes to careers. There was a funny moment when this Mike and Steve talked about the awkwardness of being either the oldest or the youngest person in the room. As soon as Steve told Mike his age, Mike immediately said, "Thank God!"

Jessica's friend Tara sang, projected well in the crowded room with the wood burning stove. When I spoke with her, she told me that she had been singing since she was three, on stage since she was six. I just started piano at six, let alone be at any sort of performance level. It never ceases to amaze me how many incredible people I meet here in Portland.

One of the artists who had work on the walls was there, Jason, a Puerto Rican metalworker who was in the military for awhile. I think I spent the most time with him talking about, of all things, food and the fact that food now not only does not look like food, but actually isn't. He worked in a meat packing plant/warehouse which supplied food for McDonald's. Apparently even in the freezer, while wrapped in plastic, the food smelled like French fries and hamburgers, a scent synthesized in a lab somewhere. How horrifying. We also talked about what our immigrant parents/grandparents in the old country ate and how they got by without having to go to the gym because they worked and cooked their own food.

I also asked him about the masks he had made, which were quite beautiful. One was based from a photograph of Montezuma's death mask he had seen in his nephew's social studies book, another was the "sister" of another piece (the sister was fire and the brother was water), another one was inspired by the patterning on a motorcycle he had built and painted.

The next morning when Steve and I went to collect my keys (I was a dumbass and didn't make sure my keys were secure in my coat pocket before leaving, thus resulting in me crashing at Steve's), Jessica commented that she would have liked to see more women reading, especially since it seemed a bit unbalanced. So, at the next one in January, I'll try to have something written that I won't be completely ashamed of reading. I wish I had my old blue notebook with the stuff I did from Blue Room, although I had a policy of never reading the same piece twice back then. On another note, the one person we would have known otherwise, Heather (not Helen) wasn't there. I'm trying to remember if she said at some point on Tuesday that she wouldn't make it, but I can't. I think her pieces would have fit in well with the brand of humor prevalent last night.

To think, I was just going to stay in, knit, watch Doctor Who and try to get some NaNo-ing done last night. Crap...speaking of NaNo, I'm falling behind and we're getting to the final stretch.

But yeah...the bit about the absinthe. Jessica got a bottle of "fake" absinthe and demonstrated the process of dripping cold water on a sugar cube rested on a slotted spoon. I made a comment about how I had heard that they sometimes lit the cube on fire before dripping the water. This was to my downfall, as they insisted that I go up (especially since I had my lighter at the ready from having had a smoke earlier) and demonstrate. I tried lighting the cube directly, which only resulted in it being immediately reduced to elemental carbon. Then someone suggested pouring a little absinthe on it. Ok, keep in mind at this shindig, we were all using plastic cups. Usually there are special glasses specifically made for the purpose of drinking absinthe. So, 180-or-so proof alcohol+plastic cup+flame=holy crap! The cube burned nicely, but then the fire only spread to the alcohol in the cup, melting it even as I was trying to blow it out. Then we had to use the pitcher of water to put it out.

Thus I learned a very important lesson: I should never make suggestions concerning fire and alcohol preparation when plastic cups are involved.

The guys up at the podium with me just reassured me that things would be ok. One of them (the beatnik with a hip hop cadence poet whose name escapes me at the moment, something beginning with D) started stroking my back in a way I interpreted (at least in that moment) as being less solicitous than somewhat presumptuous, especially when he joked "well, now your face matches your jacket" (I was wearing a red jacket). So, I immediately freaked out and shouted "Ok, why is everyone touching me?!" He was probably just adding levity to the situation so I wouldn't feel like such an ass, so I can appreciate that. I still felt like an ass though, especially after that outburst.

Ok Valerie, way to make an already awkward situation worse. I immediately headed for the back of the room and got another cup of wine. Things turned out all right in the end and I don't think anyone even remembers their near brush with immolation at my inept hands.

At any rate, I had an excellent time last night. This is pretty much the sort of thing I've always wanted to be involved in, meeting like-minded people and not being too serious all the time. Bleh, I need a shower and to deposit this paycheck. I also need to get more groceries and get more writing done. Look forward to more dispatches ... if I feel like it.

I am a bad daughter

This is just something I wrote, tongue-planted-firmly-in-cheek concerning my relationship with my parents/writing. It's probably been done before, but I still like the idea.

Parents, do not let your children grow up to be writers. No matter how much love, money, or love thinly veiled as money you could throw at them, they will inevitably hate you. This is only because they are "supposed to" hate you. After both you and they are dead, scholars and others who you had never even passed on the street while still alive will speculate numerous abuses and neglectfulness on your part that helped fuel their self-destruction as well as their edge-of-madness brilliance. That is, if your child's work is even worth such notice at all.

You could even be supportive, understanding enough to the point of offering your home "for the time being" during their post-graduation/drop-out doldrums. Of course, this does not fuel rugged dreams of individualism or glamorous self-reliance. Doing the laundry in the basement of one's parents is hardly something to write home about, especially when still living at home. If
you ever want to see or hear from your children in their 20's to 30's, make sure the notion of writing professionally never so much as flashes through their minds at an earlier age.

Even when they're in college, expect listening to mechanized automated answering services over the actual sound of your child's voice. If you have a son, expect him to run around with loose women, drink alone and have a few experimental dalliances which may or may not result in the discovery he is homosexual or bisexual. Even if such dalliances do not occur, be certain that the scholars will speculate on that matter anyway. Do not ever expect to meet any significant others since there are many of the insignificant one-night or three-month sort, but none to take as seriously as his work. If you replace "work" with "drinking, alienating others, and not giving a shit," it makes more sense.

If you have a daughter, expect about the same thing. She will take up smoking as a teenager, but not really be addicted since she only does it socially to be "connected with the other artist-types who have no time to bother with cooking to the point where they solely sustain themselves on coffee or tea and cigarettes with a bit of drinking and pot smoking if they need to "balance" their stimulant diet with occasional sleep(ing around). It goes without saying that she will never bring home "a nice boy" because she knows none. In fact, her relationships, should she choose to become "involved" will be tumultuous and occasionally violent (on her part, resulting in flying half-empty bottles of vodka) and she will learn to hate any man who so much as looks at her. Do not be surprised if she realizes she is a lesbian.

After awhile, the binaries will not apply to your children. Boys in tight jeans and long hair, girls with close crops and large overcoats, they switch clothes as often as they switch beds.

"But what of the writing?" you may ask. After moving across country to get away from you and the monotonous bourgeois ideals of your society, they will have to support themselves somehow so as to raise the shackles of middle-class obligation from their wrists. Rejection letter after rejection letter will arrive. A few acceptances with drastic editorial changes will come rarely, but the "published" work will still feel unfinished and ultimately unsatisfying, especially considering the meager scraps awarded for all the toil which went in it.

Sometimes the writer will be discouraged, allowing his or her creative mind to be stifled so as not to go completely mad in their banal day job. After this full-out dejection, they will drink themselves into a stupor to the point where "maybe in a few months, I could be promoted to assistant manager" will be a comforting thought. Then they will stay out less, stop hanging out with their compatriots who resent them for "selling out" (but still anxiously wait the checks from their parents to clear at the bank so they can go pay off their bar tabs). Even worse yet, they may decide that existence is no longer an option and that razorblades, pills and guns are cheaper than playing out the farce of their life. More often than not though, your children will probably fall into a monotonous routine of work, eating and sleeping.

Perhaps then, they will finally come home for Christmas with a nice man or woman they met from work or on some random mundane chance meeting, buy a house and settle down somewhere outside the city they had hoped would foster their creativity. Even if they still write and somehow eventually sustain themselves with it, they will have become exactly like you. In the end, isn't that the greatest tragedy of all?

Further Diversions

So yeah, in case the masochism of NaNoWriMo just wasn't enough for me, I'm doing ScriptFrenzy too. I wonder if they call it that because halfway through, it feels like a school of piranha are feeding upon your brain in a violent orgiastic...frenzy.

Once again, I have the deadline of a month to actually complete a first draft of a project. This time, it's a 20,000 word script as opposed to a 50,000 word novel.

If you consider for a second that I've never really written a script (outside my dalliance with the film noir spoof I did for IFV a couple of years back along with my original conception of Variations on a Theme being a screenplay), things are going to get interesting...

This just in: Nice People Still Exist!

At the behest of my new acquaintance-of-multiple-sexualities Scott, I will take his (along with that of my former writing instructors) advice of just getting home and writing, no matter how drunk/tired/not-into-it I am.

Today, while making my usual run to the Altgeld Post Office, I found a random customer envelope in the outgoing mail slot. It was only after I left the store with it that I realized that it did not have proper postage on it. Just a couple of days ago, a stamp cost 39 cents. Now, it is 41 cents, as per the usual two cent increase caused by increasing gas prices (although postage will probably never go down according to gas prices).

Yeah, you're right. This is pretty boring.

But anyway, I dropped off the things I had with proper postage (as per the upgrade on my computer shipping assistant software) and returned to the store to scrounge 2 cents out of the bottom of my purse for a two cent stamp.

By the time I got back, there was a line (as per usual). I don't mind since either way, I'm on the clock and getting paid, whether it is for being productive back at the store, packing things or shelving things, or just standing in line daydreaming about all the other things I'd rather be doing than working at the bookstore.

The person in front of me noticed my envelope and asked me if I needed a new two cent stamp, to which I replied that I did. She gave me the stamp, but when I offered her the two cents she much deserved (and not in the usual annoyingly opinionated way I usually give my two cents either...mind the pun), she politely declined and gave me one of the best lines I've ever heard:

"Besides, I'd probably just spend it on candy and hookers."

The brilliance of it is in its simplicity. It fulfills two of our most human desires: to eat (even if it's something of little nutritional value) and to procreate (or just go through the amusing acrobatic motions of it, which is much more fun than the end result of procreation...especially if you have to pay for the brat's college education).

I wish I caught the woman's name so I could credit her in my first published novel or something (along with Anida Esguerra, Kristina Wong, and Kelly Tsai: three women who taught me to be both fierce and funny...and you can quote me on that too), because I definitely plan on using that line in something.

But yeah, as it turns out, I did not need the extra two cents afterward...However, if I did not return to the store to get it, I would not have come across the kind and witty soul at all.

Oh, I'd almost call this a karass of Vonnegutian proportions! Or perhaps it's a mere granfalloon. Either way, I felt that this brief connection deserved an entry (even more so than the random stranger I met while smoking out in front of the alma mater when I changed my mind about going out last week, only to end up running into him again after my roommate got me to go out again that same night....although he does deserve at least a brief mention. Thanks, Dan.).

On another note, I randomly went out to hang out with Ben (who got so drunk that I actually worried about him...I don't even worry about myself most of the time, so I think that might say something) and his friends tonight after receiving a text message from Ben simply reading "Murph's?." Granted, I should be looking for an apartment/job for next year, but I figured I have tomorrow off and can do that then (along with finally cleaning my damn room). I ran into Ped from my writing with video class (who I still list in my top five coolest people I know) and met a bunch of other Illini Media people, one of whom suggested I just start writing again and filter out the good ideas that way instead of just waiting for that one good idea.

So maybe I'm not doomed to become a failed creative writing major after all.

Nonetheless, half of my mind is already in Portland.