I'm not here much anymore

Due to time constraints of my new job, I seldom have a chance to be here and at my primary blog.

So, if you came here looking for Dan, you'll find him at: http://larsneuffeldt.livejournal.com/

Thank you,

Lars Neuffeldt
aka
Carl Holiday
aka
Dan

The Last of the Quince Jelly

They never got along. It was as simple as that. The boy knew the old man didn’t like him because he was from the city, he was scared of his own shadow, and he’d refuse to do some of the things the old man asked of him. They were never big things, just little tasks that any normal, likeable grandson would be willing to do if asked.

Yet, they tolerated each other. Years later the boy would admit to admiring the old man for his unending doggedness at beating life at its own game, never failing to push the envelope to test his ability to get things done his way.

Their last time together as grandfather and grandson before the boy took the last step into manhood was a disaster for both, and more so for the boy who was after all still a boy who thought as a boy, saw himself as a boy.

The day dawned clear and brisk, the previous night’s snow still encasing the power lines along the road. The old man didn’t work any more, having given up the farm’s responsibilities to his son, but he still tried to be involved in everything, needing to keep his mind active, his body fit. The task was meaningless, actually. Something thought up on a whim, contrived over a bowl of oatmeal.

“I’ll need you to help me today,” the old man said tightening the laces on his boots.

“You know I’m on vacation,” the boy said buttering the last piece of toast.

“I have some lumber down in the barn that needs to be moved to the shed.”

The boy wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to decide if strawberry jam would be better than quince jelly. Strawberry jam could be bought anywhere. Quince jelly only came from his grandmother’s kitchen. He took more than he needed spreading the clear, golden jelly to the crisp crust of the bread.

Over the mountains

I remember a little boy who lived in a big city over on the other side of the mountains. He was a timid thing who rarely got along with his cousins who lived on the other side of the mountains. He was, also, and probably more important than anything else, an only child. Without brothers or sisters, he had few skills on dealing with other children, especially those who were older and enjoyed to no end pestering the little boy with crawly bugs because he was deathly afraid of anything that might turn out to be a spider.

The little boy came out of the city with his parents when they journeyed over the mountains to see their families. Of course, his parents had brothers and sisters, lots of brothers and sisters who had lots of children, so many children that the only child from the city was always very, very alone whenever his parents took him over the mountains.

Being an only child, the little boy played best when he played with no one but himself. So he was mostly unhappy when he saw his mother packing clothes into his little suitcase that was only used when they journeyed over the mountains.

"You like your cousins and you certainly don't see them enough," the little boy's mother always said whenever he protested about leaving his bedroom where most of his toys were kept.

His toys never, ever went over the mountains so he could have something familiar to play with. There were toys at the house where his mother grew up. The family who lived there, his mother's parents and two younger sisters, always seemed sorry he couldn't bring something to play with, but his mother never, ever allowed one of his toys to accompany them over the mountains.

"You'll lose it, or one of your cousins will take it from you and you'll never, ever see it again," the little boy's mother always said whenever he asked her to pack a small car, ball, or coloring book.

So, the little boy would sit on the little chair in his bedroom and look at all his toys in the box his father built out of old lumber. He kept his toys neatly arranged so that nothing was ever on top of something else. He imagined sneaking something into his father's car, something small that couldn't be noticed, but all his toys were too big for something that sneaky.

"You didn't bring a toy with you, did you?" the little boy's mother always asked as she put him in the backseat with his suitcase, pillow, and a quilt because it always took a long time to go over the mountains and the little boy always fell asleep.

Been away too long

Have you ever strayed away from life's path and purposefully delayed going back. I felt like that for the past couple months.

I've embarked on a new path, leading I know not where. This blog, meant for the fictional side of myself, has suffered in the process and I've delayed getting back, plus I've delayed getting back to the original purpose of this blog.

. . .

They've been friends since high school, since the day Damon first offered to suck Bobby's dick. They aren't friends because Damon is gay and Bobby isn't. Their friendship is worth more than the sexual relief Damon offers and Bobby keeps refusing. After all, a friendship that lasts over forty years and two marriages on Bobby's part has to be worth more than just sex.

Damon never considered himself to be gay, even after moving to New York for three years instead of going to college like his mother and Bobby kept bugging him to do. Later, after he returned, after he knew what being different was all about, even then he thought some day, some where, he would meet a girl, a woman, who would allow him to give his mother grandchildren. All his other brothers, and sisters, had done that. After all, was fucking a girl all that different from doing it with a guy?

He was average, for the baby of a family. The last of nine children Doris and Reg Palsi brought into the world. Unlike all his brothers, Damon didn't excel at any sport, but just got by, doing enough to get a passing grade in Physical Education. As far as he was concerned, the only benefit from going to high school was meeting Bobby, everything else was simply fluff that would blow away in the slightest breeze.

When asked, even at an early age when every boy wanted to be a fireman, policeman, or cowboy, Damon would simply respond, "I don't know, maybe, an artist." Except, even becoming an artist didn't raise Damon's aspirations enough to devote the time necessary to become anything more than an average artist of untested abilities. He floated through life. Even in New York where he thought he'd find the talent necessary to overcome his mediocre life, all he found was other people who wanted to use him for their own needs, desires, or, most often as not, momentary sexual gratification.

Now, after spending a life far from the edge, never attempting to extend his abilities, Damon lived in the beat up Corolla Bobby bought for him three years ago.

The Gods Gather to Celebrate a Cleansing

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

13 Nibs 435—Palace of War, Hurlshome. On a snowy outcrop of methane ice, forty foot high, yellow granite, crenellated walls enclose War’s palace on the home planet of the Argottean Gods. Today War and his select minions, Courage, Bravery, and Honor, are hosting a party to celebrate their imminent departure to Belenda for a possible civil war.

The Belendans, recently freed from ’xrsc control, are divided along a definite educational line. The common workers, i.e., bricklayers, sweepers, carpenters, technical module exterior cleaners, steelworkers, privy muckers, etc., and their supporters are gathering under the Star Base Workers Party (SBWP) banner held by shop steward Loora Kird. The opposing forces, represented by inventory control specialists, file clerks, assistant systems engineers, document control specialists, general programmers, and other graduates of Belenda’s Academies of Sufficient Education, are gathering under the Belendan Programmers Union (BPU) banner held by Beezös Snirl.

“I think we’re in for a real blood and guts, kill ’em and wound ’em, kind of war,” Honor said. “When you look at the blue collars under Loora Kird holding hammers, pruning saws, toilet plungers, and many other implements you can’t but hope they will prevail over the pink and white collars supporting Beezös Snirl. I mean what are they [the pink and white collars] going to do, staple their opponents to the bulletin board?”

“I know if we can get in there early enough, we just may have a chance to stir these humans into a good tizzy so that they’ll go out and actually carve somebody into a pile of bloody mush,” Bravery said.

War, for his part, sat on his horse and quietly smoked his corncob pipe, refusing all questions and directing reporters to his assistants.

“He was really bummed over those Argotteans and their silly dance thingie,” Courage said. “You know, I think he would have called in Pestilence just to show them the error of their ways, but, you know, they haven’t had a decent word to each other since that awful spitball incident three eternities ago.”

Is Belenda Finally Free?

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

29 Voomb 435—Nits Circle, Blooply Valley, Belenda. Officials of the newly organized Belendan Programmers Union (BPU) announced that yesterday, Beezös Snirl, average second class graduate of the Blooply Valley Belenda Academy of Sufficient Education with a third class certificate in Inventory Control, and, now, an 3.3 degree inventory programming specialist at Steel Foundry Z.38.92, used his innate systems abilities to access ’xrsc system code and effectively isolate Belenda from ’xrsc central control.

Further, BPU announced they were assuming control of Belenda since only they had the key to the Nits on Parade Spaceport entry gate lockout control program.

There are reports coming out of other areas on Belenda that resistance to BPU is mainly centering around Nits on Parade Spaceport where members of the Star Base Workers Party (SBWP) say that their shop steward, Loora Kird, is encouraging common workers to rise up against those educated fools in BPU.

Requests for interviews from ’xrsc central control on went unanswered.

A SOHO official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that Argottean officials are analyzing the situation on Belenda, but without input from the ’xrsc there is very little that can be accomplished. It was reported that attempts to contact the latest group of vacationers visiting Belenda’s beach resorts have been returned without answer. Officials at Argotte Tourist Board referred all questions to ’xrsc central control.

The Results Are In: Argotte Loses Civil War

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

19 Nirk 356—Solar Orbiting Habitat 3, Argotte system. After twenty-six years of a tightly controlled and strictly administered Civil War, Bubi pnu’Boo’psi’mi, Grand Hurlsboyo of Argotte, prostrates his naked body before Snotto pna’Muph’kappa’sooli, Grand Burpidottir of SOHO, accepting defeat of the Home combatant action groups to the ultimately superior SOHO combatant action groups.

Bubi, along with members of the current Argottean dynasty out to the eighth heir and their spouses, and children, where appropriate, waited patiently while corresponding members of the pna’Muph dynasty noisily sharpened their cattle prods.

Vri czi’Bri’phili’tuun, Third Degree Novitiate, Excretory Disciples of Hurl, went to each victim, accepted their confession of faithful sins, and placed a dollop of Hurl’s holy snot onto heads, centered in a small shaved area where the cattle prod will be driven. Each member of the pna’Muph dynasty will be assisted in the execution by a member of the Church of Blüd to ensure a bloody, yet nearly painless death to Blüd’s greater glory.

Since this was the first mass killing of a royal dynasty in nearly 750 years, bishops of the Execretory Disciples of Hurl, senior bureaucrats from SOHO and Argotte, and Viki xy’Thu’buzi’bi, Senior Dean of Bureaucratic Theory and Practice, Nits Rock University, vociferously debated the various rules, exceptions, exemptions, revisions, and interpretations related to today’s auspicious event.

Snotto was brought before the assemble advisors numerous times to state and restate her awareness that her dynasty was now assuming control over all of Argotte, not just her familiar territory on the Solar Orbiting Habitats. The advisors kept insisting that Snotto needed to understand what this meant. After the fifth recall, Snotto finally appeared to understand what was being thrust upon her shoulders of purest alabaster. On the seventh recall, Snotto broke down into an ecstatic display of Hurl’s holy affirmation of the day’s event and peed abundantly on the green linoleum floor. Lesser members of the assemblage had to be visibly held back, less they offend the Grand Burpidottir by lapping up her personal offering to Hurl.

Upon returning to the execution arena, Snotto and the advisory team took their places before Blüd’s victims. Vri czi’Bri’phili’tuun said a short prayer acknowledging those members of the pnu’Boo dynasty who made their own offerings to Hurl. Then the members of the pna’Muph dynasty, along with their Church of Blüd assistants, took their places at the head of each member of the pnu’Boo dynasty. When Vri screamed Hurl’s holy words of disgust towards Blüd, the cattle prods were shoved with sufficient force to send the victims to Hurlshome where they will peacefully live with the gods for eternity.

Survival at sea

When I first came across the idea of reading The Life of Pi, by Yann Martel, I was intrigued by the title, thinking, before seeing the cover, it had something to do with π. Then I read a brief description of it and was immediately reminded of an earlier reading of The Island of the Day Before, by Umberto Eco, which also uses surviving at sea after a shipwreck as the foundation for explorations into the further reaches of human existence. Interestingly, there are a few threads that seem to connect Pi and Roberto, but not enough to draw any parallels between the two books.

My decision to buy The Life of Pi was also influenced by its winning the Man Booker Prize, which is, to me, reason enough to read a novel, having enjoyed many of the previous winners, plus later works of the authors.

According to some reviewers, The Life of Pi is about the basic meanings of life and belief in the Divine, which was another reason for me to read the book, as I have explored the reaches of human belief in my own philosophical pursuits. This is a flimsy reason to buy the book if only because purposeful fictional explorations of human relationships with religious beliefs tend to hold little substance, giving little sustenance to the mind.

And, so, I jumped in and ran with Pi and Richard Parker as far as I could. Knowing Pi survives to tell the tale to the person “writing” the story seemed at first to have little bearing on whether I would continue or stop. The more I read, the further I went into the amazing tale of survival at sea in a lifeboat, and the more reminders that Pi survived, seemed to build sort of a barrier to my achieving The End.

Honestly, I really tried to read further than where I stopped. I even skipped ahead to read from the end backwards, but nothing seemed to get past whatever was holding me back. Maybe the lack of trepidation in the narrative injured my ability to digest the material. The need for suspense in any novel drives the tale forward demanding the reader turn the page to find out what comes next.

Mostly, though, I think my problem with The Life of Pi is the constant reminders throughout the book that Pi survives to tell his tale. No matter how horrendous the physical suffering due to starvation, dehydration, and fear of being eaten by the tiger in the boat or the sharks prowling in the water, the author keeps reminding the reader that everything turns out okay, that the reader shouldn’t worry about anything, because Pi gets to wherever the boat is going and that whatever Pi’s mind devises to survive works. I really didn't care to find out because in the end Pi comes across as normal as the rest of us, which maybe the whole point to the novel, but I wasn't intrigued enough to turn the next page to find out.

No, I haven’t been working on the suicide novel, but thank you for not asking.

Basically, everything is on hold because I was getting off track, again.

As I see it, the problem was, as always, that I was more concerned with the solution than the cause and effect of the situation.

In this novel, I wanted to explore what nearly occurred to me a year ago when I was suffering so badly from depression. I devised a plan to commit a fake suicide as a means of “terminating” my current life and starting life anew somewhere else. Sort of like killing yourself, but not dying. After all, what is life, but a series of interrelated existences with other people? Change the people you relate to, change your life.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately, I was about as sane as a rubber nail and everything that could go wrong with my plan did, which seems to be the case with plans devised by crazy people.

When I started writing the novel the main character, Arne Karlsson, was developed to be as far from me as I could get, but he ended up being a lot closer than I expected. Also, as I worked out the narrative, Arne came into some situations where I was unwilling to explore fully and simply stepped over them as if they were freshly dropped cow shit.

Now, my new work situation is not conducive to writing as I’ve been used to. In my former employment, I had a lot of time to write and, at the time, had time available on weekends to transcribe my handwritten material into the computer. Now, I have little time at work to write and even less time at home. Weekends are busily wasted on everything other than what I should be doing.

So, the book sits in the back of my mind simmering on low heat as I get up enough courage to delve into the dark reaches of my mind. Arne Karlsson needs to do the same thing, but in Arne’s case there is a hidden secret that is trying to get out. A little childhood memory so significant to his very being that it is unwilling to linger in forgotten corners of his mind anymore. A little memory devised by a devious author who once enjoyed pushing characters to the limit of their being as a means of exploring the human life experience.

Luckily, I’m still in the development stages of this novel and have the time to dilly-dally for a little while yet; not a long while, just long enough to reconfigure the time structure of my life.

Argotte Wins First Civil War Event 31.478 to 11.342

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

15 Nits 330—Hurlsburg Royal Palace. Government officials proudly announced today that combatant action groups from Argotte were successful last night in the first officially sanctioned civil war event on Solar Orbiting Habitat 4. The three teams were transported to and from Habitat 4 free of charge on Hreeli Consortium Garbage Scow 83-15-3.G.32A that visits Habitat 4 under a Waster Removal and Recycling Contract negotiated by Hreeli Consortium contract negotiator first class Buti bnu’Tun’snuf’ti and SOHO Central Waster Control administrator second class Stivi kri’Ten’juli’pi.

The junior varsity combatant action group from Taardi’velt Plain, making their first appearance in the civil war, scored 18 deaths to 5 within the first three minutes of play in their match against an obviously lesser trained combatant action group for Solar Orbiting Habitat 4, Spoke 5. Sisi phi’Buk’titi’tu led all dancers with 4 consecutive cranial deaths and 7 deaths total.

“On the first death, Sisi performed a near perfect right to left pirouette followed quickly by a deep squat with genitals exposed to his intended victim, who at that very moment was performing a rather ragged right turning quick step with left swish to one of Sisi teammates and, therefore, didn’t see Sisi rise up in an almost flawless pne’Bum swirl that ended with a quick jab with Sisi’s lentil fork into his victim’s left temple,” said Cumph mni’Bded’goosi’di, command sergeant, for the Taardi’velt Plain group.

“Blüd be praised, the blood from Sisi’s first victim squirted onto my face and broke my reverie at actually participating in a civil war event,” said Sisi’s teammate Duub tha’Piz’bubi’banz. “I quickly shook off my concrete slippers, pirouetted left to right, I have to admit it was a very bad pirouette and I’m sure I lost style points, and did a quick up thrust with my cattle prod directly into the heart of the dancer next to Sisi’s victim. Blüd be praised my victim bled all over the linoleum or I’d probably be walking home tonight.”

The final results of the junior varsity team were 20 deaths to 7, giving a combined kill score of 0.875; the combined team style score was 8.32 against their opponents 5.37, giving a final score of 7.375; their technical expertise score of 9.31 against 4.74, resulted in a final score of 11.425; calculated to a final combined score of 7.87.

The final results of the varsity team were 18 deaths to 11, for a combined kill score of 2.444; the combined team style score was 9.13 against 8.78, for a final score of 1.4; the technical expertise score of 9.67 against 9.59, for a final score of 0.320; calculated to a final combined score of 1.041.

The senior varsity team results were 19 deaths to 3, for a combined kill score of 1.105; the combined team style score was 9.89 against 9.14, for a final score of 5.25; the technical expertise score of 9.76 against 9.83, for a final score of –0.49; calculated to a final combined score of 0.838 (rounded).

Individual achievement awards include Sisi’s 4 consecutive cranial kills for an unprecedented 16 points, Sisi’s total kill score of 2.8; senior varsity team member Hub ni’Binz’thi’pi who performed a flawless three turn death spiral with self-emasculation for 1.429 (rounded) style points; and, varsity team member Cob pni’Cunz’slub’niss who scored a personal high of 6 unassisted deaths, for a total kill score of 1.5.

In accordance with approved formulae established by official enumerators of the Committee for the Prosecution of the Argotte-SOHO Civil War, the final results were tabulated and registered as Argotte 31.478 (rounded) to Solar Orbiting Habitat 4, Spoke 7, 11.342 (rounded).

33K and holding

Okay, so I didn't write that much during my first week working at the Really Big Coffee Company. Actually, I did get some writing done—I'm back to writing on lined tablets like I did for the first two novels—but only half of it was transcribed into the computer.

The other half is a new story line/character. Denise, Arne's daughter from his first marriage, is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University where Johnny, Arne's youngest son from his second marriage, goes for his freshman and sophomore years. Yet, back when Arne first went AWOL from his second marriage, Denise had only just started at the University.

The piece I wrote was Denise discovering her father in a small, quaint, touristy town on the opposite bank of the Hudson River. Arne is on his way away from New York City, away from the serial killer his been living with and who he recently killed in a fight for his life.

The problem is: The stuff I've been writing about Johnny occurs nine to fifteen years later. This means it has too occur earlier in the book, but that changes the structure I've been working out in my head. This isn't a major problem, just an inconvenience considering the timeline of the entire novel.

Yet, the timeline is a major concern as it starts when Arne is five years old and his parents and older sister die. It ends when Arne and Johnny meet twenty years after Arne supposedly commits suicide. Johnny is nine when Arne supposedly jumps off the ferry. He is twenty-nine when they meet.

Arne is developing into a problem. When I first conceived the story Arne was my age when he ran away, not resurfacing until twenty years in the future. Although I am in a sense a "futurist", I didn't to have to carry the narrative into an unknown time. As a result, I moved Arne's age back so that he could leave twenty years before now, give or take a couple of years. This way Johnny is attending school in the Nineties and finding his father in the present time.

Also, each character's narratives are written in first person because I'm interested in how they react to each other. In Denise and Johnny's case, I want to get down inside them and see how they react to the world their father creates to meet his psychological needs. In Arne's case, I want him imagining he's in control of his world, while at the same time everything around his is totally screwed up because of his skewed world-view.

I suppose once I get everything written and layed out is some sense of order the story will make sense, but right now with each character going off in their own direction is getting a bit confusing. And, I suppose I might consider writing each character's story then piece the work together, sort of like someone might make a quilt.

Another 8,557 Words

The suicide novel is progressing very well and I crossed the 30,000 word barrier last week, which also means I’ve passed the 100 page marker.

I suppose if I’d taken more creative writing classes my writing process wouldn’t be so unpredictable. I’d have outlines, research notes, character developments, and all the accoutrements needed to write the modern novel. Except, I have very little of that kind of stuff.

My research occurs as the narrative encounters situations or places I’m not familiar with. If I outlined the story before I wrote it, I could do the research in the beginning. Only, I don’t.

So, I write the characters into dark corners until I need to find a light to get them out. I guess the only problem I have with this process is that it works for me.

I’ve read about writing from an outline. Allowing the story to develop as the narrative expands the outline. I tried it once. I outlined a story from beginning to end; taking a character from Point A to “The End”. The only problem I encountered occurred once the expansion started, I felt constrained by the outline and the characters seemed to be hollow, as if there wasn’t any substance to them.

I suppose I could’ve gone back and practice outlining more, but I’m more interested in developing a writing career, not an outlining career.

And, so, I write as I do.

The current novel is constrained by a period of twenty years between the time the father runs away from home and when his youngest son, the only person who believed his father was alive, finds him in a tourist hotel bar in Rawlins, Wyoming. In the intervening years, the father tries his best to hide from his family while attempting to create a new life for himself, and his son grows from a too normal nine-year-old boy to a piano teacher at a small conservatory in south of Reno, Nevada.

At the halfway point, the father has run away, found his childhood teddy bear, found his younger brother’s gay lover, lived with a knife wielding insane serial killer who repeatedly rapes him, and committed murder. In the meantime, the son has received a cryptic message that his father may be alive, gone off to a fictional college in a fictional town on the western shore of the Hudson River where became friends with a gay jazz pianist who is nearly two years younger and the son of wealthy parents, is seduced by boy’s mother and is forced to live with the boy in exchange for continued access to the mother, and sees his world come to an end in two dramatic scenes of sexual excess.

The second half? I don’t know, other than the son will find his father. Whether he is the father he remembered as a child, remains to be seen.

War Returns to Hurlshome

Excerpts from History of the Argottean Federation

Chapter 4, continued

1 Hurl 312—Palace of War, Hurlshome. On a snowy outcrop of methane ice, the sixty large fireplaces that were laid in for today’s celebration once again warm the forty foot, yellow granite, crenellated walls that enclose War’s palace. Today War and his select minions, Courage, Bravery, and Honor, returned to Hurlshome unhappy they are not needed by the Argotteans for the civil war that has yet to ravage a square inch of either parties territory.

“We weren’t wanted, no one called on us to participate,” Bravery reported to the Gods. “The whole thing is happening on paper. Oh, they’re calling up young men and women to serve in what they call a military organization, but they’re not being taught how to fight, how to shoot, or how to defend against a sneak attack. I couldn’t see where I belonged.”

“They certainly had no need for me, either,” Courage added. “Once I figured out they were learning to dance and not fight, I couldn’t see how I could help. Besides, it was the silliest dances you’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you one thing, the next time I’m asked to vote on giving humans freewill, I’m voting no.”

“And, I can tell you one other thing,” Courage continued, “these Argotteans will put the concept of war back into the far corners of time and space. Personally, I think this whole race is insane. Look what they did to Hurl. She was the most vibrant, provocative god any human would give their eye teeth to worship, but look at her now, she’s got the head of a pig and has a nose that won’t stop running, no matter how many decongestants she takes. We should have seen it coming. Somebody should have done something when they had a chance to change things.”

“But the worst thing about this whole endeavor,” Honor said, “is that they are completely ignoring I exist. They’re going to perform dances amongst each other. They’re going to get their young people to dance for them, but not your ordinary, every day dances. No! These dancers will be given weapons like broccoli flails, lentil forks, shit scrapers, and, I think, yes, those long pointy stick thingies, cattle prods I think they call them. But, these are only representations of the real thing because these have really sharp points and edges for stabbing and slicing the members of the other dance team.”

“And, they’re going to perform these dances in arenas throughout Argotte and on each Solar Orbiting Habitat,” added War. “They’ll have dances until one side ends up with more people than the other side. Lots of firm young partially clothed bodies prancing, swirling, squatting, turning, high stepping, swooping around with long sharp thingies jabbing at members of the other teams who are doing the very same thing to them. Oh, there will be blood and guts, severed limbs, and untold festering wounds, but they certainly won’t need us. Possibly the Artistic Muses may be of assistance, but not Bravery, Courage, or Honor. No, these Argotteans are the sorriest excuse for humans the Game has ever come up with. I wonder what combination caused this fiasco.”

Women of Wyoming

In actuality the book has more short stories about Wyoming men than women. Wyoming is the kind of place where men ride the horses, tend the cattle, mend the fences, shoot the trespassers, and do a lot of other things that haven’t been done in more civilized parts of the country in a long time. The women are there, not providing a colorful background to the man’s shortcomings and idiosyncrasies, but standing firm against the nearly overwhelming masculine image of a man atop his favorite horse, an animal sometimes thought of in better terms than the person who warms his bed at night.

I finished reading Annie Proulx’s Close Range last night, completing the second half of the last short story, “Brokeback Mountain,” a nearly impossible love story between two men over the span of twenty years. The movie version, directed by Ang Lee (Hulk, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Sense and Sensibility, and others), screenplay by Pulitzer Prize winning author Larry McMurtry, and starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger, was recently completed, whether it lives up to its original remains to be seen. Personally, I doubt we’ll see any of the short story’s sex scenes between the lead characters. Yes, dear readers, the two men have a physical relationship that exists within the mores of cowboy culture where men may fuck with one another, but they certainly don’t fuck each other; and, those who do are often subject to a cowboy “justice” that does not tolerate queers. The story has a philosophical ending with one character learning to live with the loss of a lifetime of impossible love.

Having never read any of Annie Proulx’s work prior to this book, I was in for a shock evidenced by the first sentence of the lead story “The Half-Skinned Steer”: In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled-out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, a so-called ranch on strange ground at the south hinge of the Big Horns. Whew! And, the second sentence has more words and doesn’t end until the end of the paragraph.

This is literary writing at its best. This is the kind of writing I wish would come out instead of the mediocre stuff telling the stories my mind conceives. And, yet, I keep writing, keep focusing on writing better, writing the kind of words that will live on once this mass of flesh is reduced to ash and flung out upon the open sea.

24,692 Words

Two weeks more and another 13K+ words gives me 7 chapters, 24.5K+ words, 87 pages. Output of the suicide novel is speeding up. Theoretically, I’m either one-fourth the way through a 100K word novel, or a little over one-third the way through a 60K word novel. Only time and revision can tell how long this thing is eventually going to end up.

The chapters are bouncing between father and son. The father searching for peace of mind. The son searching for his father.

The father has abandoned his family, is living with a knife wielding crazy man in Brooklyn, and recently went to see his younger brother’s former lover.

The son grew up and went to college believing his father is still alive. He was admitted to a small university in the Hudson Valley, and met the young son of a very rich family who also happens to be a sort of musical prodigy. The two boys become best friends, have a falling out, and are reunited.

The chapters that need major revision are still there and will remain until I reach the end. I’m beginning to see a shift in my early design of the plot line. I wanted to present the end and then show how the two characters reached that point, but now it looks like I’ll do the story in a more familiar format and follow each character to the eventual end. Either way, I already have the ending written, so at least I know where I’m going.

Right now, I’m at a point where the father is returning to the knife wielding crazy man where life’s normal hazards pale in comparison to living with a man who has no qualms about killing you without any reason at all. I see their relationship growing, while at the same time one slowly spirals down into an unbelievable insanity and the other finds a key that might fit the lock in the door to his future.

The son and his friend renew their friendship, while a dark shadow has the potential to destroy that friendship forever. As each grows toward manhood, their differences compound the difficulty they have in remaining friends. At the same time, the son gathers clues leading to the (already written) eventual meeting with his father.