Nothing to See Here, Folks

The Pinchbeck Anthemion is on extended hiatus. (It happens.) Feel free to drop by Big Ink for a more recent project on politics and the media.

Tommy: "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?"
Hedwig: "No... but I love his work."

It's the Big Holiday morning and I'm following an old tradition of trying to go easy on the old folks, spending some personal time before going upstairs, downstairs (wherever the shiny action is) and extorting cinnamon rolls and an official Red Ryder pump-action BB gun with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time.

What I'm really wishing for, of course, is another three months here to keep writing in an artificially unfettered environment. Actually, I want the same three months to do over again, but knowing what I know now. While I'm at it, I'd like to revisit a number of decisions I made, here and there, going back to 1986. Plump on hindsight and perspective, rife with savvy, steeped in wisdom, I'd tell my younger, less alert self to start choosing art over commerce sooner. "If you've gotta go there, go there," I'd say. "It's going to be a hard road no matter what. It might as well be the right road, and you might as well have some fun."

It's been an amazing time here and I'm glad to say that I achieved many of the goals that I had hoped to achieve. I got a few stories written, learned about the next level of work and what it takes to get there. I submitted an article or two, to warm up the freelancing muscles (now that the industry's waking up after the dotcom sucker punch). And I had the time and space to move a little further down the road in processing my personal Big Bads of the last two years. If you know me, you've probably heard me say that, despite everything, I have to admit I'm one of the luckiest people I know. It's still true, but now I don't feel the "despite everything" part so keenly. I can hardly tell you how important that is, how good it feels.

So I'm coming back to the city more established in my creative life, highly motivated to find a (non-lethal) job about which I can care heaps. I'm lighter and snappier of heart and, slung shoulder-wise, I'm packing an extra bandolier of silver-plated bullets of optimism. One thing I have to do is figure out what becomes of the Pinchbeck Anthemion. Has it served its purpose? Is there an Anthemion 2.0? I think I know, but feel free to chime in if you have an opinion.

In the meantime, this image is offered up for a little Christmas laugh. If I were to go back to 1986 (or maybe a bit earlier), here's the skinny kid I'd be talking to, enjoying an old-school holiday mid-morning. What would you tell him? What would you say to yourself at that age? Ah, me. Well, in any event, you'll have to excuse me. It's time to go get some cinnamon rolls.

Next!

Sorry that it's been several days since I posted (I keep saying that, but it's always the same thing; I post only once or twice a week here and I feel like I'm shirking my blogger duties; I hope I make up for it in sheer unreadable volumes of text). In any event, I've been tied up with an intriguing job application that's kept me offline, in a state of semi caffeinated panic, waiting for the phone to ring. It's difficult to manage your coffee intake in such a way that you stay alert and ready to be charming, without tipping over into frenzied incoherence. I can't take much more of this. I was actually pacing the other day.

I don't think this job will break my way, but it's been a good experience going through the application process. I've remembered that I really am a good editor (even if I don't have years of it on paper). And I remember what it meant to be part of a group of people doing something important. My heart's still wounded over the way the last (serious) job ended. But I look forward to whatever's next.

[For the record, I'm looking for editorial or writing work, but I can also (for the right cause) drag out the old marketing and advertising gear. My primary personal interest over the last couple of years has been environmental and progressive political issues. I think I could also happily work in a small community bookshop. Or be Emily Watson's valet. So if you know of any such work -- or if you're Emily Watson and you need a valet -- drop me a line.]

I'm Blown Over

It's been persistently gorgeous on the coast this autumn: ridiculously mild weather. Glorious sunsets. Gentle summertime breezes... in December. Last weekend, we had pancakes and coffee on the deck in the late morning, then drinks and snacks in the early afternoon. The tradition of having a Manhattan and watching the sun go down outside has persisted far beyond its normal conclusion. It's the driest November on record. Which would be nice, if the record hadn't been broken six out of the previous seven years (or whatever it is). The skiers are all twitchy about snowpack in the mountains, but the rest of us have an eye on next summer and what looks to be a very dry year. Water issues are just fascinating out here in the West; twenty years from now, with the population growth, there really won't be enough to go around.

Just at the moment, however, a good winter storm has finally blown in, and the house is creaking and popping around me. (It took a little getting used to; when the wind blows it sounds enough like someone's walking around upstairs to give you the genuine creeps.) The waves are stout and furious today, battleship gray and peaked with whipping froth. The rain is shooting horizontally across the windows, blazing through the rifle barrel created between this house and the one next door. A few minutes ago, in all seriousness, a bitter-looking seagull stalked across the neighbors' lawn, grounded by high winds. You could practically hear him muttering, "Freakin' blustery damn rain up my beak What Does a Bird Have To Do To Get A Little Friggin' Respect In This Town lousy no good rotten...."

As I get closer to my departure date, I become simultaneously more excited about going back to New York and more attached to this wonderful little corner of the world. Weather-wise I've had an incredibly forgiving winter so far. I guess I'll appreciate it all the more when I'm under seven layers, trudging to the subway through goopy frozen slush. But hey, I'll take New York's goopy frozen slush over anyone else's any day.

In between yawning bouts of waiting for this phone call, I've been doing more sleep experiments (not enough, not enough, not enough, too much, too much, not enough, too much) and working on the third short story during I've done out here. Doesn't sound like much, does it? Well, to tell the truth, it's the work around the outside the paper that's been the heavy lifting. Actually, considering where I was when I started this trip -- "Now, where do I point this thing?" -- it's gone quite well.

And I must admit, it's true what they say: things do get easier with practice. After adopting the techniques I've talking about, I've found that - when I can get myself working -- things actually flow in a way that feels right. Not only do I finally know what it is I *haven't* been doing, I now know what I need to do. How cool is that? If I can just get this job, it'll have been an utterly brilliant move.

The Wayback Machine

One of the great strokes of good luck about this trip, of course, was a recent visit I made on the way back to the coast from Thanksgiving in Portland. You remember (I'm sure I hardly even have to mention it) that I was talking, via email, to one of my intermittently long-lost friends from elementary school. You know, my best pal from first to third grade, Gina, who is now living in London with her husband and their preternaturally lovely young daughter Margot.

Well, the whole fam was back in the states for T'giving, just an hour or so down the road from Portland. So instead of zigging, I zagged (zug?) and popped in for a visit. There are only a few people who I can say I've known for more than 25 years. (Not true for everyone, of course; to this day, some of my best friends' best friends are people they met in line for the bathroom in third grade.) But it was quite a treat to find the new house in the new town, ring the bell, and have the new door opened by Gina's mom, Carol, just like it was in Eugene, Oregon, when I was nine. I had a very distinct flashback -- albeit from a noticeably different height -- of the very same thing, circa 1976.

In one of the first instances that illustrated to me the fact that "things weren't always going to stay the same," Gina and her family moved away after third grade. We'd been good pals for a long time. My parents trusted her more than they trusted me (probably wise, given my enduring knack for getting turned not around but 90 degrees off course). We'd go see movies (I think we saw a double feature of "Go For It" and "Citizen's Band" on our own downtown), or go to the County Fair, or cause other kinds of ruckus around her house or mine. We were both St. Louis Cardinals fans (going back generations) and for at least those few years, we both had the estimable Mrs. Toll as our homeroom teacher. (Hello, Mrs. Toll. I know I owe you an email. As soon as this nice lady calls me about the job, I swear I'll get online and write you.)

You let a quarter century slip by and, as it turns out, whole families spring up where there were none before. Gina has a whole passel of younger siblings, as well as her own pink-cheeked cherub. It was suitably chaotic for a holiday weekend, with lots of family coming and going. Sitting in one spot on the sofa, I got to have conversations with a rapidly rotating cast of whoever-was-in-the-living-room-at-the-time, which actually worked quite well. After a while, Gina and I popped outside, reminisced a little, and I headed off toward the coast. Thanks again, Gina, for tracking me down. I recommend it highly to anyone who hasn't seen their best friend from third grade in a while.

The Age of Aquarium

Well, you have to take a break sometime, so Gracious Host and I took Perfect Dog for a car trip up to Newport's "Oregon Coast Aquarium," three words that promised a lot... and wow, did they deliver. The Aquarium is the former home of Keiko, the poor beloved dorky Orca who just loves people too much for his own good. That wasn't what they called him when he was here, of course. But he's gone now, and the place is in terrible financial trouble. (Anyone want to buy a brick? With your name on it? That's what they do out here to raise money. We figured they're hard up enough we could put snarky anti-Bush comments on a bunch and they'd look the other way.)

When I win the lottery (see below for the latest official position on that), I'm going to make sure the Aquarium has all the money it needs, because it's an absolute treasure. They currently have a bunch of different "Australian seahorses" on display. The "Leafy Sea Dragons" are so beautiful and fascinating to watch that I was literally slack-jawed. Truly unbelievable... and yet, there they are. Evanescent jellyfish and medusas pulsed exquisitely, luminous and perfectly lit. (Did you know they have no heart, no spine, and no brain? They could run for Senate in Texas!)

One exhibit, a free-standing tank fifteen feet long and six feet wide, recreates (with some artistic license) the underside of a pier, complete with sharklike dogfish, gliding rays, huge white basket anemones, massive multi-pronged starfish, and strange twiggy little critters who peer out at you as if to say, "Hey, bub, you know a way out of here? It's nice and all, but, hey, fish gotta swim, am I right?"

They have fantastic underwater viewing windows for their seals, sealions, and otters. There's an open pool in the center where the kiddies can poke at starfish and anemones. ("Gently, Chase, gently! Chase! Gently! Chase!"). The coup de grace, though, the real chamber of horrors, is "Passages of the Deep," a thirty-foot tunnel through a massive tank brimming with sharks. Gah!

Most of them, thankfully, are on the moderate to small size (three to four feet), but there are a pair of six-footers who patrol the joint in tandem, like prison guards ready to eat anyone who gets out of line. These have to be the best fed predators in the world, as they don't seem to be eating each other. There must be sixty or more of them in the tank. And of course they're all moving all the time, because that's what sharks have to do. Jeez. There are even long glass windows in floor so you can see them twitching along the sandy bottom beneath your feet (now, really, what sadist thought of that?). It was gloriously awful.

Phyllis tells me that schoolkids can actually have sleepovers -- you heard me, sleepovers -- in the tunnel. Like, overnight. With sleeping! Can you imagine? Sleeping in a tank of sharks?! Let me say that again: sleeping... in a tank... of sharks. When I'm a parent, I'm going to use the Oregon Coast Aquarium "Passages of the Deep" Sleepover Program to keep my kids in line: "Don't you test me, young man! I'll make you sleep in the shark tank! You know I will! Chase! Gently, Chase!"

Are You Feeling Lucky, Punk?

So, I've been mentioning, off and on, this whole "winning the lottery" strategy I have. And I don't want anyone to think that I'm out here doing pull-tabs and selling blood to get money for scratchers. But, I'll admit to buying a lottery ticket or two (okay, I've bought six, but I won another lottery ticket with one of them). And you know what? I'm not sorry. Here's why.

Personally, I subscribe to the old theory that "the lottery is a tax on people who can't do math." Any individual ticket's chances of winning are, of course, ridiculously low. Which is fine. The lottery commission, by law, has to give back 65% of the money they make in winnings and can't spend more than 15% administering the games. In Oregon, at least, they give back more (76%) and spend less (4%) than they have to, and the rest goes to places (education, environmental work, gambling addiction programs) that the public votes on. In the last fifteen years, the lottery's brought in 3 billion dollars for these programs.

Now, I certainly don't think education should be exclusively funded this way (and, come to think of it, why are schools in such terrible financial condition?). But as long as you're not gambling away your kid's milk money, there are worse ways to spend an extra dollar at the grocery store. Because here's what you get for that dollar: a window into your own soul. To explain...

There's an old "Life in Hell" Matt Groening cartoon describing the "64 Moods of the Workday," or some similar number. It's the grid of little portraits of Binky the Rabbit (the proto-Homer) at various intervals throughout the day. Of course, he starts in high spirits, rapidly becomes over-caffeinated (see above), and then goes through a series of tortures that are all too familiar to anyone who's worked in an office, including, most dramatically, "Churning of the bowels." Well, anyway, around about 2:30 in the afternoon, Binky gets "Lottery Fantasies" and has little dollar signs on his eyes. That always made me laugh out loud. "If I could only win the lottery," Binky and I used to think, "I'd never have to come back here again." (This was before I had that one job I liked.) Of course, you never really think about the fact that the lottery seems to be won almost exclusively by retired people. But whatever.

Of course, this leads to a lot of selfish daydreams and greed-inducing angst. Which is an inherent flaw of the lottery; one person gets a million dollars, everyone else gets bitter. But after a long time of trying to repress my lottery fantasies, it occurred to me that I could do a lot of things for other people if I won that money, too. The family, of course, gets taken care of and I've got a rough plan sketched out to walk into the Sallie Mae offices and pay off my student loan in pennies. But I also set up, in my mind, the "Colin Lingle Grants," and began distributing them anonymously to my friends. (Many of you have already received one and should be wishing me luck next time I go buy a ticket.)

Then I started thinking about what causes I'd support. I thought about the places at which I'd like to mysteriously show up one day, to write a generous check and disappear. I thought about the women's shelter in my neighborhood, the kids who need extra help learning to read, people who don't get to go to the college they want to go to because of money (one of the scariest things that never happened to me). Now, I think about people who get diagnosed with cancer and don't have anyone to help them find a good hospital. About the long-lost computer camps for girls that my mom ran, no doubt changing a couple lives, almost certainly for the better. And not to get too melodramatic, but, about the children who, despite what the man says, are going to be left behind in the coming decades of the Conservative Drought. 

Now, in all likelihood, I'm not going to win this here lottery. But on the rare occasions when I do buy a ticket, I'm reminded of the things I wish I could do, the people I wish I could help. And instead of practicing selfishness, I get to practice generosity. It's a reminder to give what I can (which I do) and to volunteer (which I don't, but I plan to). And I've been able to watch, over the years, how my desires for myself grow less desperate and clingy, even as things get harder; how my wishes for others grow stronger, even if I can't make them come true right now. All in all, not a bad way to spend a buck.

Speaking of Which...

At this time of year, I like to promote an organization that seems to have its heart in the right place and a good knack for marketing. Seva helps provide a range of different services tailored to specific populations of people in Latin America, Tibet, and elsewhere. They have a nice selection of calendars and whatnot, reasonably priced, most of the proceeds of which fund specific programs like clean-water development, cataract surgery, micro-loans, and so on. You can also give a "Gift of Service" online in someone's name and they'll receive a nice card for the holidays. It's a great way to give a gift to two people, both of whom would appreciate it, I'd think. (If you want to give me one, you're welcome to.)

Watch This

So I'm back in my coastal perch, plump on holiday laziness but already feeling the gravity of the New Year and all that entails. Since this is supposed to be a work day for me (and basically all I've done so far is blogging frivolousness) I'll keep this short. But I thought it would be worth reporting on the films I saw over the holiday weekend (besides "Far From Heaven" covered below). It's a good warm up for my own stuff, as long as I don't get too carried away.

Here Comes The Sun King

"Solaris" is an excellent, spare space oddity by perennial innovator Stephen Soderbergh. As with "FFH," it's helpful to know what to expect before you go, to manage your expectations in order to extract the most from the experience. "Solaris" is not a traditional "space movie." It's a remake, of course, of the Russian sci-fi film based on the Stanislaw Lem story. The Russian movie was itself a response to what the director and writer perceived to be the cold, technical, inhuman mode of Kubrik's "2001," which is, in turn, based on the Arthur C. Clarke novel. Accusing "2001" of being cold and technical seems rather to be missing the point (and perhaps a bit ironic coming from a Russian), but there's plenty of room for all these works to coexist. Space is awfully big, after all.

Like other (but not all) Soderbergh films, "Solaris" is contemplative and compact. In this case, he uses the genre to accelerate the exploration of Big Questions (God, self-destruction, modes of human perception and reality) rather than simply to dazzle the eye. Though it does that, too, in, of course, unexpected ways. Clooney does a fine job at projecting a quizzical hollowness that grows into a fundamental human yearning. And yet, the media won't stop talking about his ass. Which is a shame, but there you go. Jeremy Davies, lately of another of my favorite films of 2002, has a superb small part as the traumatized crewman Snow. And Viola Davis acquits herself admirably in a role so fully different from Sybil the maid in "Far From Heaven" that I didn't even recognize her. (Soderbergh and Clooney, by the way, produced both films, so they can go straight to the head of the class, as far as I'm concerned.) Natasha McElhone has a spooky sexuality that's well-suited to the interplanetary-booty-call theme.

I'm afraid it probably won't do well in the theaters, since people won't necessarily be expecting their fundamental conceptions of intelligence and humanity to be challenged in a movie that also features George Clooney's ass. (The really affecting part of his anatomy in this movie is the dark hollows of his eyes, but they're not covering that on "E!") It will probably do well on video, however, and it will probably take its rightful place of honor in the small group of science-fiction films that are about more than they're about. I rented "Out of Sight" again, to round out my Clooney/Soderbergh weekend and to hook back into my mystery genre thread. If I see any patently obvious correlations, I'll let you know. (Do you want me to call you directly or shall I just send an email?)

Watson, Come Here, I Need You

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Paul Thomas Anderson has been challenging our fundamental sense of reality by extracting an extremely deft and nuanced performance from Adam Sandler in "Punch-Drunk Love." Anderson, like Soderbergh, makes such distinctive films that you could identify him as the director after only a few minutes. This quirky love story features a certain sprawling unpredictability (as in "Boogie Nights") but also demonstrates the power of narrative restraint (as in "Hard Eight"). Throughout the film, you worry that Sandler's character is going to go completely off the rails (and he gets a couple of wheels up on more than one occasion). But it never quite happens. Anderson, in "Hard Eight," showed himself to be what I think of as the Anti-Tarantino. Everybody might have a gun, but things don't necessarily end in showers of lead and blood. In "PDL," actually, the violence and tension is more affecting by its mundane plausibility. Phone calls and credit cards are weapons; people come after you with a Ford, not a Glock. Sleazy salesmen preying on human weakness, as it turns out, are scarier than Bond villains because you know they're really out there. (And full points, by the way, to Anderson for pulling Sandler's blue suit out of musical classics "The Bandwagon" and "Singin' in the Rain.")

The film is driven by that question of weakness, of our ability to struggle against the ceaseless torrent of life, toward something better. Sandler's Barry Egan will be called "strange" (and he is) but, more pertinently, he's a victim of the indignities that can -- by birth, by one's nature, by simple bad luck -- rain down on us and seemingly poison the world. Recognizing early on that Anderson's characters and situations don't fit into normal movie conventions, we're never sure just how events are going to play out. As you learn more about Sandler's character, your assumptions about him change, and, with them, your wishes for his success. (Sandler, though he's playing a subtle version of the character he always plays, gives a fine performance by holding back, by doing less. He did the same thing in "The Wedding Singer," his other watchable film.) At first, he seems quite convincingly to be some kind of cretin. Before long, his response to the world he lives in comes to make perfect sense. The pudding-collecting half-wit becomes an eccentric hero struggling to find and hold on to something worth living for.

In this case, it's the love of Emily Watson that's worth living for. How true, how true. (She's an Arsenal fan, in case you were wondering. And a Capricorn. Just a year older than I am. Married to some cheeseball punk she met on "The Boxer." Dammit.) This is at least the second film she's made (the other being "The Luzhin Defense" with my neighbor John Turturro) where her character sees through the tragic failings of a broken but somehow noble loner. In her forgiving embrace, pathos is banished. It makes one wonder why she's drawn to those films. It's not a gaping mystery: both are fine displays of compassion within an unforgiving social structure, a worthy theme for any actor to pursue from time to time. But this quality is so unique, so genuine, that perhaps there's something more, something in her own life. Her characters not only accept the oddballs, but love them. In "PDL," her Lena Leonard becomes the benevolent force that gives Barry a reason to stand up for himself. It's not just pity that she feels, and she's not taking advantage of him. Lena actually sees through the social and personal barriers that separate her from Barry and chooses, very deliberately, to find the best in him, and to help him bring her out as well.

"Punch-Drunk Love" is Anderson's fourth film, Sandler's second good one, and Watson's fourteenth in only six years. An intriguing intersection of their careers. It's an unusual film, which, of course, is a good thing. But it's not quirky for quirkiness' sake. If you're feeling bold, treat yourself. But if you don't like it, beat up the bathroom, not me.

Furry You Should Mention It

So much for not getting carried away. But, when else am I going to spend an afternoon looking for Emily Watson fan sites? (There aren't any good ones, by the way, if anyone wants to get on that.) I'll only mention that I also saw the new Harry Potter and enjoyed it. It includes even more cinematic shorthand than the first, of course, but there's much better Quidditch and it's a shade darker, which is nice. It bodes well for the third film, which I trust is underway. I also caught "A Very Merry Muppet Christmas" which was surprisingly kinky and New York-specific. A lot of fun, though, naturally. The Moulin Rouge send-up -- "Moulin Scrooge" -- was not to be believed, and there was a nice amphibian reference to "A Christmas Story." Oh, and Joan Cusak playing Geraldine Laybourne, that was a nice touch.

For the moment, though, it's back to my own work. I'm deciding which of the stories circling my consciouness is next up. (Maybe I'll write something for Emily Watson.)

Happy Holidays, as they say! It's been another long time since I've posted, but for, generally, good reasons. I've come close to finishing another story, the next step in the progression from here (wherever this is) to there (wherever that is). I promised a little bit about process, but first: spouts!

A Bunch of Giant Blowholes

It was a gorgeous day on Monday (it's a terrible drought, actually, but man was it ever good weather), so I hopped in the old van and motored North to the Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area. I've been out there before, but it's been a while. I went out and huffed up the 160-some steps of the lighthouse. Believe it or not, it was research for the story I'm working on, which is based in New York. There, at the top of the steps, laid into the floor, are plates with translucent glass "crystals" in them (letting light into the narrow stairwell). Printed on them? Something very like these words: Simpson & Sons - 209 Centre St. - New York. One is never, ever far from New York. I learned all about Fresnel and his lenses (pretty fascinating stuff) at the Interpretive Center, which was recently built in the abandoned quarry on the headland. All in all, a fine example of that late 90s civic science exhibit, with realistic-looking plastic driftwood, irrelevantly kinetic Q & A displays for the kiddies, and more than a whiff of responsibly p.c. historicity. Fun stuff. I loved it.

Then, on my way down to check out the wheelchair accessible tidepools (an inspired idea, really), a spotted a bunch of people pointing out toward the water. As you might guess, on the Coast, whenever you see a bunch of people pointing out toward the water, you have to go look. In addition to a pod of furtively spouting whales about a mile out (double and triple spouts!), there was also one right in front of us, maybe a quarter of a mile away, in the bay. A few minutes before I got there, the fellow in the bay had breached -- gah! and I missed it -- but I got one or two good looks at his back as he popped up. It was the best sighting I've ever had by far, a real treat, and a good sign.

Close To Heaven

The other noteworthy sighting I have to report is the new Todd Haynes film, "Far From Heaven." I have to heartily recommend this to people who are serious about film. It's an exquisitely gorgeous film (casting Julie Moore is a good start) and it's as intelligent a treatment of cinematic homage and human tragedy as I've seen in a long, long time. It's worth finding something out about the film before you go, so that you're not surprised by the note-perfect 50s-film environment. It's a pure genre film, meaning it does certain things by certain rules. And, further, it's based on the genre films of the time (Sirk's and others'), so, to our smug, post-Pulp Fiction eyes it's a complete shock. A glorious, breathtaking, luscious, haunting shock.

But it can't be dismissed a simple 50s-movie knockoff. It's a tribute to the best movies of that era, their rich and subtle subtext, and an indictment of the elaborate traps that mid-century America set for itself (traps in which we're still struggling gracelessly). It's a movie about movies about social repression, as well as a movie about that social repression. Superb performances (from the Dennises Quaid and Haysbert, as well as pure Oscar gold from Ms. Moore) and impeccable writing and direction by Todd Haynes elevate this movie beyond a simple send up or even a loving homage. The film uses genre to transcend genre (which is what it's designed for, of course; more on this later).

Even the moments that seem structurally heavy-handed are woven into the complex, multi-directional arcs of the characters. They're played but not overplayed, and Haynes -- who has perhaps revealed himself to be as fine an artistic director as, say, Scorsese -- moves everything on a quick, controlled pace. Scenes that could easily become sappy or sardonic are clipped and trimmed to perfect proportions, accomplishing what they need to, in elegant succession, until the film's resonant climax. Dismissing the film for what it appears to be is succumbing to the very problem the film exposes. During the end credits, someone behind us said, "It was kind of one-dimensional." The question that begged asking: "Which one?"

I'm worried that people won't understand what's really going on (you don't make a movie like this by accident) and will mistake it's formal shape for something narrow. It's not. My recommendation is go see it, and let go of any post-90s, show-about-nothing attitudes you may have. It's a rare, real film about something. And how.

So, with that inspiring wind at my back, the promised update on the literary state of the state. You asked for it. (Well, not really, but I'm sure you were just about to.)

The Shape of the VBQ

It was an unknown quantity, the Very Big Question, when I came out here. And, for the most part, it still is. But the breadth and freedom of the time out here has permitted me to see many of the underlying influences in my... what? Life? Work? Life's work? It's taken much of the time to sort, label, and defuse many of these influences, or at least to tag and release them. But (just in time for the holidays, of course, when what is there to distract us?), I've started to get a hint of a stride hit. I need another six months, of course, to do the work that I originally thought I was going to get done. But since I don't have it, here's what I think I'm taking back.

Punch the Clock

Here's one of the surprises of the trip: having absolute freedom (or, close to that) in my schedule didn't allow me to spend sixteen hours a day writing. There's a limit to the amount of focussed writing I can do, both a natural one and one that comes from a lack of practice. I always hear about professional writers who "get up in the morning and spend six hours at the desk." I haven't found the way to do that yet. Last year, during National Novel Writing Month, I got a good look at my natural writing rhythm (although that was all pell-mell silliness). On this trip, I've learned how much time I need to do more serious work. That is, work that might eventually be read.

From my time in Vermont, I came to understand what's required in outlining a story. I've undone one of the old barriers to finishing (and liking) a story, namely not knowing what the hell was going on. Every writer uses a different method, I'm sure (and to different degrees). I've started getting a handle on what works for me, which has been a minor revelation. You'd think I'd have figured that out a long time ago, but, you know, maybe that's what I get for working in Web jobs for too damn many years.

So, it's going to be a huge question how to make what I know work back in the City. How do I find the time with a full-time job? (It's simply not possible to cut Buffy out; maybe I can start watching all my TV taped, which would save me 14 minutes per show.) Where do I find the time on exhausted weekends? This is a fundamental concern, the job/writing paradox that I've never been able to solve. I want a job about which I can give the ass of a rat, but that's lead me, in the past, to jobs that consume my entire waking life (and then some). Another Catch-Frigging-22: the job I left to come out here would be perfect, now that I know what I'm doing. I couldn't make it work before, for a variety of reasons. Now that I can... I can't. Irony can bite me.

So, I don't have the work habits sorted, but I can see, structurally, what needs to happen to get a story on paper. I'm taking a class at Hunter in February (where the application process is: "You got a credit card?" "Uh, yeah." "You're in.") That will help organize the time somewhat. I resent the fact that I tend to need some kind of structure around me to get the work knocked off in large chunks. I guess I need to be disciplined. There's probably a service for that I can find in the back of the voice: "Miss Helga: Muse/Top. Will see to it that you get your daily 2000 in... or else. Fiction/non-fiction/memoir. Novel-length extra. No poets, please."

It's a Mystery

For an extended part of this trip, I was working on a "serious" story. It has moody pith. It's formal, as modern stories go, in the sense of striving to restrain an emotional cataclysm within essentially minimalist narrative. It sounds a little like a New Yorker piece (not that there's anything wrong with that... really). But there are two "process" problems I've come to understand with this story.

First, it's not me. It could be, but I'd spend years balancing on one foot, trying to juggle other writers' plates. Second, it's extraordinarily gruelling. I know that there are valuable ideas to be explored in the darkest downs below, and I've found that I can survive that. But, at least at this point, a straight drop into it costs too much. It's not a sustainable system. The work takes longer, and has too great a capacity to leave me bruised. After the last two or three (or six) years, there isn't an infinite capacity to regenerate. I don't particularly want that to be the case. For now, I think it is.

What I'm going to try to effect, then, is a two-part solution. First, I need to find and follow a process that generates the energy it uses. At the end, I need to be closer to even. I know that process exists (it must, mustn't it?). The anxiety I attach to this approach is the King/Clancey Entrapment. Writing without friction leads toward 600 page potboilers. Airport books. Doorstops. (The friction I'm talking about here isn't in plotting, which Messr.s Stephen and Tom have in abundance; I mean internal friction, the kind that makes real sparks, that smell of something burning, something changing. You know it when you see it.)

So how to find the balance between emotional destruction and utter claptrap? I'm taking this bet: my way, for now, in is genre. As you'll see when you go see "Far From Heaven," genre -- when used conscientiously -- is a powerful narrative device. There's a pre-existing agreement between the artist and the audience about what's going to happen. Introductions have been made. Fundamental expectations don't need to be established. And, if you're truly smart about it, the charged atmosphere of genre allows the artist to do more (create powerful emotional responses) with less (very subtle bending of conventions).

Genre done lazy (or purposely over the top) is parody. Done well, it's as effective as any mode of narrative. (And really, almost every art has in a core "genre" associated with it: rock music, ballet, still life.) The one that's got me excited now is mystery. I've always been inclined toward it in film (and, of course, the great mystery ballets). But, even though the folks are avid mystery readers, I never really picked up the habit.

If you've been following my "Now Reading" (and how could you not?), you may have noticed that's changed. If you have any interest in the topic, check out the recent Salon interview with Scottish mystery writer Val McDermid; I'll send you a copy. She stands firm on the proposition that she and her colleagues have picked up where literary figures left off, that they're the writers who work in the real world, the world where readers live. And they hew to the natural human inclination for fundamental narrative, a beginning, a middle, an end (I mean, I know you read the Cryptonomicon, but did you likeit? Did it look anything like your life?)

Genre in general, and this one in particular, is perilous. You can so quickly fall into cliche, and those preset expectations can work against you. Color too far outside the lines and you're on your own. This isn't an inherently a bad thing, but beginners need maps. And much as it humbles me to admit it, this trip has made stark and clear just how much of a beginner I am.

But as fresh and wobbly as I may be (both in discipline and in product), at least I've found a forward gear. It should get me down the road far enough to find my own direction when the time is right. In the meantime, it should get me somewhere, anywhere, which is where I need to get.

What's the second part of the solution? The second problem is the emotional burn rate. And genre helps this problem two ways: it provides structure (pacing for the reader, for the writer) and... well, hell, it's fun. I really enjoy the mystery genre. I never thought I'd be clever enough to dream one up, but with the outlining fundamentals and a few good books under my belt (plus a few hundred good films there, too), I know it can be done. That is, I know I can do it. And, knowing that the genre traps are there (even if I don't have a map to every single one), I can keep one eye on the road and one on the subtle torquing of forms.

Don't Look Back

Of course, there's an inherent danger in this, too. (Isn't that supposed to make it interesting?) If I'm simply playing within genre, is it all going to be "worth it"? This trip has also given me a sense of what's involved, the endless pavement of the road I'm on and the yawning chasm on either side. I'm choosing to have faith that there'll be enough discovered to make the trip worth it. The swirling perils of doubt and anxiety will be probably linger indefinitely. But, when things are on the upswing, when I'm bigger than my fears, I can see the negatives for what they are: unchecked imagination. They're based in real concerns, but the concerns aren't the fears.

How to keep on the right side of this dynamic? I really don't know, beyond the strategy I have for the other persistent disasters in my life: keep coming back, let it go, do your best. Loving the work, doing enough work that the benefits are simultaneously broad (meaningful) and personal (enjoyable). Bruce McCall wrote an article in the Times last week about his brother in-law, John Jerome, called, "The Perfect Writer." Jerome was never a "successful" writer -- he wrote eleven tepidly received books -- but he wrote about what he wanted to and loved his life. Focus. It's worth aspiring to. If you want to read the article, let me know; I've got a copy of that, too.

Give Me the Bird

And now, with all that, it's time to tuck into a full table, grateful for what I've got, where I've been, where I think I'm going. Wish I could be there where you are, too. Cheers. Hope you have a great one. Let's talk soon.

Set Yourself Down

Believe it or not, I'm still here. I've been a little out of touch (here at least) and a little under the weather. We had a ferocious windstorm over the weekend and Monday was as dark a day as I've seen here. But the skies have cleared since then, and we're back to this ridiculously warm and sunny thing. I saw perhaps the best sunset I've ever seen in my life last Friday. It snuck up. It didn't look like it was going to be much, but at its height, the whole sky was amber and pink, and behind me, the moon was lighting up the silhouettes of the pines. It was heartbreaking.

Just Lucky, I Guess

I went to the Celtic Music Festival over the weekend, a benefit for the Yachats City Center. It started out with pipers playing at sunset (a different sunset; good, but not as good) on the bluffs over the rocky beaches near town. There were five bands (including the pipers again; much louder indoors), two of whom were actually superb. Setanta is based in Seattle (though they play a lot in Japan) and are absolutely terrific. The guitar player is Irish and has a natural muscianship that's incredibly fun to watch. If you Seattlites are reading this, go see them, just go. Especially if you fancy the traditional Irish music, but even if it's not your thing, they're worth a look.

The other band that would be worth catching is The Casey Neill Trio. They're also incredibly talented musicians who do simple and beautiful stuff. Irish music, but also bluegrass. Great vocals, great mandolin player. Actually, the flute player is the same for both of these bands, Hanz Araki. Casey Neill plays in New York with some frequency, I think. Either way, catch 'em both and you won't be sorry.

And, of course, all of Greater Yachats was out in force. It was quite a little community gathering. Very "Local Hero" if you know what I mean. (If you don't, rent it and find out!) The old codger running the tap had a goiter the size of a baseball. And a kilt. You couldn't look at him for too long. But the beer was awfully good! And the two Irish dancers were a sight to behold, i'faith.

Back To The Drawing Board

I'm working on a new short story that I actually like a lot. We'll see what comes of it, but so far, it's fun to be working on. If I'm not posting, no doubt it's because I'm hard at work (and never because I'm standing out on the rocks, watching the winter waves thunder in or combing the sand looking for agates). Why don't you drop me a line and let me know how you're doing? (It's easy.)

Dignity! Always dignity!

Holy smokes, am I wishing I was in town for this! Promise me you'll go down to the Film Forum (at least to see the movie, if not to see Betty Comden)!
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50TH ANNIVERSARY PRESENTATION OF “SINGIN' IN THE RAIN”
STARTS ONE-WEEK ENGAGEMENT ON FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15TH
NEW 35MM RESTORATION! FIRST TIME EVER IN STEREO!

CO-SCREENWRITER BETTY COMDEN IN PERSON FRIDAY AT 8:00!

In honor of its 50th anniversary, a new 35mm restoration of SINGIN' IN THE RAIN opens Friday, November 15 for a one-week engagement. The beloved Hollywood classic was directed by Gene Kelly & Stanley Donen and written by Betty Comden and the late Adolph Green. Betty Comden will make a special in-person appearance at Film Forum on Friday to introduce the 8:00 show.


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-"Call me a cab!"
-"Okay, you're a cab."

Sticks and Stones

I realize it's naive even to say so, but I'm still shocked at what passes for conservative "opinion" these days. Witness the trashing of Nancy Pelosi in various media outlets. (Did you know? These days, just being from San Francisco is baaad.)

Considering the fact that Tom DeLay is about to be majority leader (the man who really dodged the draft, screwed around on his wife, and even committed perjury, then came screaming after Clinton), there are a lot of nasty comments that one could make. But the second you go there, you know Rush or one of his minions will be there to talk about how unbelievable it is that anyone would talk like that and doesn't it just go to show how liberal the media are. Which they're not. Oy.

For the record, Bob Herbert had a good column on the fundamental duplicity of the G.O.P the other day, and a report in the American Prospect (which supports my line which was that the election had major effects but was in no way a landslide) talks about what happened, why, and what can be done next time.

Whedon, Take Me Away

Since I'm trying to avoid sitting around and drinking whisky during the day, I'm allowing myself to watch "my stories" at night. I think for anyone who has devoted time to watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "24" over the last two to seven years (depending), last night's two-hour block of those shows from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. has to be considered one of the Great Nights in Television History. Sheer virtuosity in narrative storytelling from both writing teams. Gripping, engaging, intelligent, and rife -- rife! -- with all kinds of impending doom (the good kind, not the Osama-Bin-Laden-Remember-Him-He's-Still-Here-Even-Though-We're-All-"Saddam-You-Can-Suck-On-This!"-Now kind).

Superb acting, right down the line, particularly Alyson Hannigan and Michelle Trachtenberg on Buffy. If anyone has that Buffy on tape, by the way, save it for me, wouldja? Who knew it would be a high point for the medium? Major, major creepfest, I thought. Officially the scariest TV I've seen in a long, long time, even without the empty house and the dark stormy gale outside the window. As often happens, Buffy is a little wobbly in the first few episodes, then finds her legs for a strong rest of the year. I think this is shaping up to be an all-time classic potentially series-ending season. I can't wait to see what Joss has in store.

One other quick TV note (I can't resist this one). Are you watching "The West Wing"? I hate to say it, because it's so cliche, but you should. I mean, if you care about such things. Anyway, there was a running gag about how the president even won in the Dakotas (all the guys are using that fact in the laying of rap at the party). In any case, during Martin Sheen's little monologue about it (or should I say Ramon Estevez's?), he conspicuously throws in the word "Badlands." Coincidence? Nah, not a chance. Coincidentally, if you haven't seen it, this first feature film by "Thin Red Line" director Terrence Malick, is actually quite good. (Sorry. You don't talk to anyone for 72 hours, little things start to seem more exciting than they really are.)