Various Lies

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Hi-fibre writer's diet

I don't claim to be any great shakes in the writing department. I like to tell stories and I enjoy writing. Most of my writing is (pseudo-)confessional and the disclaimer on the right (under my avatar) should tell you all to need to know about the truth:invention ratio I employ.

But right now I'm working with my brother on a short story. We've spent a couple of weeks bouncing ideas off each other and then he wrote the first draft. I edited and returned. He started working on it and hit a wall. I said I'd take over. I've been writing for years, both professionally and in other contexts. He hasn't, he's a recovering artist and creative writing is new to him.

So the ball is in my court. But...when it comes to any writing we know it's hard to get started, hard to get focused. Once you're going it's usally fine, but getting going is tough. And when you're re-writing someone else's work, even if it is mostly collaboratively, all of it is 'getting going'. What does this paragraph need? What does this thread/arc need?

I am in the depths of imaginative constipation right now. I spent a week writing in my head, developing the story arc (as much as you can with a very limited word count). I developed the character a little, added some details, worked on a little depth.

...and now I'm in front of my computer none of the ideas will come out. I'm so full up with old ideas, they've formed a stiff and tight blockage and now I'm all bunged up. I need a mental laxative that keeps me cogent and my fingers working... suggestions?

Sunday, January 23, 2011

who is that in the mirror?

When do you say enough?

She is divorced 2 years now, and has earned a reputation as the village bicycle. We all go through it after a break up, but the judgement on women is far harsher.

but after 2 years it's not the same thing. You're on a destructive streak a country mile wide. You stay in bars to get drunk, get high and fuck strangers. All. The. Fucking.Time.

every night. your kid got sick and you co-opted the sympathy to make sure your bills were paid and your coke habit was fed. Who is that person? Who do you see in a mirror? No one, I think. You don't want to die, you're to fucked up to know you're still alive.

Me and my girlfriend drag you out the bar to try and make sure you're safe. You try and fuck me as soon as we get home and her back is turned. What the fuck is wrong with you?

she has her eye on a guy in the bar. We pointed out that she doesn't know him, anything about him. She's a predator. She's sharking him. She's now trying to talk Kali into driving her to the bar, because after she found her car keys we then had to explain that her car wasn't here.

And now she's bad mouthing me. I can hear her, telling how I made a move on her, so as to manipulate Kali to her side so she'll drive her back to the bar. To try and fuck a stranger. And more likely to get some blow.

I'm live blogging a woman going to hell, because I'm hiding in the attic staying away from her. If I go downstairs she'll sexually assault me again, "thinking" that pointless sex fills the void of companionship she needs, and also by doing so she'll make Kali upset at me and get driven back to the bar.

Now she's crying crocdile tears about her son with cancer. But I know it's lies now. It's not just about him. It's another fucking addict trying to get what she wants. A free ride to some blow. But she's also my friend.

So tell me. When is it enough?

Monday, January 17, 2011

Where to go...

Happy Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. day, Dear Reader. In Memphis, we had the day off work so we could do something...uh...for the cause, or something. Not sure. I mean, our city (downtown) is 52% African American. We have a black mayor, have for over 20 years in fact. Dr. King was actually, totes IRL assassinated, or (even murdered!) right downtown, at the Lorraine Motel. I know dudes who worked for the city and like went on strike and stuff when that shit was going on. Marching and everything, cos they damn well cared. I've read about how the Black Power movement came out of those days, the militant branch giving up on Dr. King's message of peaceful progress. He was like the black Ghandi or something and it wasn't fast enough.

Thankfully the world is a better place now, and we all have a equal voice.


This time last year a 'friend' of mine called my girlfriend a nigger. Because she was rear-ended by an ambulance and is looking to do nothing more than get her medical bills paid. But because she's black she's nothing more than a typically money grubbing nigger. Go figure. She's probably enjoying keeping Whitey down at the same time. Fucken white cracker ass motherfuckers keeping the black (wo)man down.


Thankfully, the world has moved on a lot since Dr. King was murdered, but it hasn't moved nearly far enough. If I was posting this on my grown up blog I would stick a whole bunch of links to research on the neuroscience and psychology behind inter-racicial hate and fear. But we're not on my grown up blog. We're here. So I get to be pissed off and you can just read it, or leave.

I started dating Kali when we lived in Washington, D.C.. She's a musician, and I often went to the clubs she would play at. There was one, Bar None, a basement bar on U-Street and 14th. She would play at the open mic night there. Mostly it was spoken word poetry, but she would step up with her guitar and perform her music for the crowd. It was awesome to see my brand new, shiny, fresh out of the box girlfriend captivate a room, and I was so fucking frightened that someone was going to hurt me or beat me. Because I was white.

Of course after a couple of weeks I stopped thinking that every black man is Ice Cube in "Boyz in the Hood", and out to kill a white motherfucker. TV educated me. Real life re-educated me.

I was usually the only white in the room. Sometimes maybe one of two or three. Only once, out of a couple of dozen times, someone stepped on my foot and gave me the shoulder. I was curious why everyone was fine with me being there when it was clearly a Black Club.

"Oh, well you're not white. You're English."

That gave the lie to the whole ecumenical vibe I thought we were sharing. Turns out I wasn't welcome as a White. I was welcome as a foreigner.

Maybe it was just his perspective. I don't know. I've been through a lot of shit as a White dating a Black, and nothing has been any fucking easier since we moved to Memphis. 99% of it has been snide remarks, or comments, or judgement because she's black.

I'm not dating a lazy ass bitch. I'm not dating a fucking nigger. I'm not dating one of then dirty spear chuckers. I don't think it's funny when you make an off hand comment about "them". Who the fuck is "them"?

Dr. King believed in his cause. I think I believe in it too. It's a simple enough damn cause. The color of your skin shouldn't predicate anything but the fact you may or may not need suntan lotion. We have to work harder at this. How we do that? I'm just keeping about my business, treating my fellow humans like humans. I don't expect the world to change, but one thing we can do is make some small changes at home. Don't make stupid "Hug a N***** Day" jokes. Don't judge me on the color of my skin. Judge me on the actions I perform, the tone of my voice when we talk and how I treat you. America is a multi-cultural society but it will never, ever survive if we can't treat each other as equal humans first, and different cultures second.

Friday, January 7, 2011

New Geek on the Block

It has been brought to my attention that some dude who used to blog at Nature Network is now blogging at Scientopia. It's like trying to keep track of johns in a brothel runnng a "buy one get one free" offer in the science blogosphere at the moment.

Anyway, if you like the grown-up(ish) more career based writing, be sure to visit A Meandering Scholar, over at Scientopia Blogs.