You only have five days before the Mayan Day of Doom, and it’s time to get angry. 
The world is fraught with injustice, much of it self-imposed. What is wrong with us?! It is exhausting to consider. It’s so stupid! What have we done!? Arghh. You may also need try to bargain with the powers that be for a way out of your despair (“I will never eat Lucky Charms again if this world won’t end”) even if you know that none of it will work. 
It’s a process, one step at a time. There is a lot of angry music that might help get you in the mood, including Nine Inch Nail’s The Fragile and Rage Against the Machine’s The Battle for Los Angeles, but Sinead O’Connor’s The Lion and the Cobra captures this deep-seeded emotion most profoundly. You’re still spitting fire/ Makes no difference what you say/ You’re still a liar! 
There are far too many angry people-with-guns movies, and I am sick of those. Werner Herzog’s Aguirre, Wrath of God is a much better tonic. Aguirre is as angry as it gets, none other than the self-proclaimed wrath of god. 
You should also read Dee Brown’s Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee, a chronicle of the systematic destruction of the Native Indians in the western United States. It underlines the errors of our ways with depressing clarity. 
After that, physical labor will do you good. Burn your anger off. And if it’s still boiling, get a punching bag and have at it. 
Category Archives: literature
Survival Guide: Pain and Guilt
I have to admit that it is hard to write my blog today. I cannot process in any way what happened yesterday in Connecticut. I don’t know how it is possible for someone to kill children one after the other, putting not one bullet into each tiny person, but several into every one of them, every last one. It makes me think that maybe the Mayans were actually right, that this really is the end of us, that the apocalypse has arrived, not with great storms and collapsing fault lines in the earth, but in us, dumb, staring at each other, wondering how we really got to this. And we did. The fact is that there are people – millions and millions of them – that will actually continue to support the right to bear arms as it is stated in the second amendment of the U.S. Constitution. 
They will say that guns don’t kill people, that people kill people, that guns have nothing to do with it. They will actually say that. And they will believe it. They will actually fucking believe it. That isn’t politics. That’s suicide, pure and simple. Guns don’t kill people? Really? 
How would that lunatic have killed 20 kids without his damned guns? How fucking stupid can you be? Anyway, yeah, the Pain and Guilt step of suffering grief, instructs that, as the shock wears off, it is replaced with the suffering of unbelievable pain. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it or escape from it with alcohol or drugs – as tempting as they might appear at the moment. Life feels chaotic and scary during this phase. Does it ever. But to get through all of this insanity, I recommend that you look within as much as you can bear and maybe listen to The Great Destroyer by the American group Low. When I go deaf/ I won’t even mind/ Yeah, I’ll be fine. 
The Deer Hunter (Michael Cimino) is required viewing, reminding us that war kills everything in body, mind and spirit. This one’s nothing but pain and guilt, horribly, beautifully so.. 
I also encourage you to delve into the writings of the great philosophers like Arthur Schopenhauer: They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice…that suicide is wrong, when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person. 
And don’t stop at Schopenhauer. You must keep going. Read as much miserable philosophy as you can bear.
Most important of all, do something. Please. Sign a petition. Write a letter. Speak your mind, damn it! Fight these monsters right to the fucking end. Do it! Really, do it. Or else you have to just watch the world go to its damned and terrible end.
Coping with the Apocalypse
Whether it’s to come by holocaust, super-storm, bio-plague or sheer boredom, Mr. Mayan has predicted that our world is to end in exactly one week: December 21, 2012. 
While the prediction is dubious at best, the exercise of what you might do if this actually were the case, is interesting. You’ve got a week. Now what? Starting today – and using the seven stages of grief – I offer my Survival Guide to the End of the World.
Today is easy. It’s all about SHOCK & DENIAL.You don’t have to do anything really.You’re numb and can deny the reality of this in order to avoid the pain. Shock provides emotional protection from being overwhelmed all at once. This may last for weeks…but you only have the day. Anyway, you just need to deny what’s coming up. Nothing more.
First of all, I recommend some music. A long and involved listening to the Grateful Dead’s Dick’s Picks Volume 16, Filmore 11/8/69 is ideal. No need to think. Just relax your mind and go with it.
After this, you might consider watching the film, Superbad (Greg Mottola). It’s so excellent because it’s so stupid, one of the most genius dumb-ass films ever made.
And, if you are able focus yourself for any time, try and read Joseph Heller’s Catch 22. Everyone’s in denial throughout the story; nothing is as it should be. And that’s good, right? 
And finally, you should do something different. Maybe juggle or kayak. Have your fortune read– Oh, maybe not that. I’m going to see a new band: Grizzly Bear. 
And maybe I’ll take a pedi-cab after that. Arggh! (That’s a Grizzly roar.)
The Eternal Complainers
It’s one thing to be self-reflective – what a fine and therapeutic thing that is! – but entirely another to brood and whine so exhaustively that no one is willing to suffer your lamentations nor even bear your presence. That said, it is a great vehicle for a story. Truly, many of our most oft-quoted heroes are little more than bitter complainers who just need to be heard. (Note that they are all men.)
5. Ivanov (Anton Chekov, Ivanov) An overly dramatic fellow who really is a jerk to everyone around him, but he doesn’t know why and he really does seem to care, so much so that he takes it out on himself in the end. 
If an intelligent, educated, and healthy man begins to complain of his lot and go down-hill, there is nothing for him to do but to go on down until he reaches the bottom–there is no hope for him.
4. Josef K (Franz Kafka, The Trial) There is no doubt that Josef K has reason to complain – horribly treated by everyone around him, resulting in his inevitable abandonment and death – but what a depressing collection of thoughts! 
Yes, that’s the conspiracy: to persuade us all that the whole world is crazy, formless, meaningless, absurd. That’s the dirty game. So I’ve lost my case. What of it? You, you’re losing too. It’s all lost, lost. So what? Does that sentence the entire universe to lunacy?
3. Alvy SInger (Woody Allen, Annie Hall) A very funny neurotic to be sure, but it’s not hard to understand why Annie finally moved across the country to get away from him. 
I’m obsessed with uh, with death, I think. Big – big subject with me, yeah. I have a very pessimistic view of life. You should know this about me if we’re gonna go out. You know, I – I feel that life is – is divided up into the horrible and the miserable.
2. Holden Caulfield (J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye) A spoiled, selfish know-it-all who somehow holds the key to decent society. Kill all of the phonies. Indeed. 
It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.
1. Hamlet (Willy Shakespeare, Hamlet) A most moody fellow, profound in thought and discourse, not so great on doing anything – except for royally fucking everything up. 
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Broadway at Night: Canyon of Dreams
Broadway, also called the Canyon of Dreams, is a location for an early morning scene in my novel, My Bad Side:
A flock of small black birds swirled above Bowling Green, hovered a moment, a single organism, and landed in the bare glowing branches of the beech trees. 
Apollo watched, his mouth open, moaning softly. We followed the plaques. 1910, June 18: Theodore Roosevelt, following return from his African Safari; 1926, August 27: Gertrude Ederle, first woman to swim the English Channel. 
Crystal called.
“You’re up early.”
“More like late.”
1950, August 31: William O’Dwyer Upon his Resignation as Mayor of New York. “You remember the Santa Claus Parade?” 
“I was an icicle.”
“I was a workshop elf.”
“They painted my face with silver glitter. I had that crazy hat that pointed straight up.”
I could hear her moving, her mouth muffled, distant from the receiver, and then the tinkling of glass, bottles going into the recycling.
“I sat on a giant wooden mushroom.” I switched the phone to my other hand. 
“We should go on a trip.”
“Where?”
“Las Vegas.”
There was scaffolding on both sides of the street now, the black and silver crossbars, rusted bolts sticking out through broken strands of duct tape. 
“The Galapagos. We could swim with the seals.”
“They would just freak me out.”
“It would be incredible.”
“Rome,” she suggested. “Or St. Petersburg.”
“Really?”
“The Crystal Palace.”
A rat popped out and veered wildly back at the sight of Apollo. “The Winter Palace.”
“Is that what it’s called? The Winter Palace?” There was the snap of her lighter and the intake of another cigarette. “It should be called The Crystal Palace.”
New York City Hall
How many ‘Suddenlys’ are too many ‘Suddenlys’?
I’ve suddenly realized that I’ve developed an obsession with ‘suddenly’. 
There’s too much suddenly happening in the book: He turned too suddenly. She moved across the room suddenly. It was suddenly dark. Suddenly, I realized. I felt that very suddenly. It’s a good word and everything – it really is – but my relationship with it has degenerated into something rather unhealthy. It’s a dependency, a crutch. And so I’ve put myself through a mini-intervention, used the dreaded search function and deleted and replaced. Now I’m suddenly down – damn it! – just down to, just down – no suddenly! – down to 21 for the book. 
I think that’s a good number. I mean, how many suddenlys do I really need? I suppose I could get it down to 15 or even 10, but what’s the point? It’s not like I have to go cold turkey on this. Right? (It suddenly got very quiet.)
Blogging Interference
There might be those of you who are wondering, “What exactly is this damn blog about?” 
While I may have titled this “a writer’s blog”, I seem to be blogging on everything – music, films, sports, Hurricane Sandy – but the actual writing.
Tatzu Nishi’s “Discovering Columbus”
The idea of this blog is to document my writing process, and that process does come through moments – cultural, disastrous and otherwise. I believe that it can be very effective to focus on what is in these moments – the details and nuances – and build them toward something else related directly to the writing process, along the lines of what might be coming out of the “Prius” posts.
Prius on Maiden: 26 days after Hurricane Sandy
However I have also come to realize that a blog takes on a life of its own. It has certain demands, such as its daily appetite for something new – like now – and this has shifted my focus from my writing to writing for my blog. (I should blog about that. Oh, I guess I already am.)
Flower bulbs ready for November plant
I must also admit to using the blog to get out of the work of writing my book. The drafting process is a slippery one, full of detours and excuses, and I’m pretty good at using them all. This blog is probably the best.
Nick Cave artwork
But that’s about to come to an end. I have given myself eight days to finish my fourth draft. Yes, eight days. I will allow myself to blog, but I can’t blog instead of writing.
Wall Street subway
The writing has to be first and the blogging second. I have to set that straight. Right now. No more blogging. I’m getting back to the book. I am. I mean it. The clock is on.
Primate Exhibit, American History Museum
Okay, that’s it. I’m done. Really. I am.
My Bad Side – The Pitch
The time has almost come to get an agent. The book needs to be pitched…
Crystal and Dee Sinclair started life as a news story.
SACRAMENTO, June16, 1978 Two young girls – one an infant of 14 months – were found alive on Wednesday afternoon, beside their recently deceased mother, Dorothy Keynes, 33. 
Ms. Keynes was undergoing treatment for depression after the father of the children, Mr. Raymond Sinclair, was killed in alcohol-related single-car traffic accident on Sunday, May 4.
Lillian Murton of Sacramento Social Services made the discovery on a monthly wellness visit. Neighbors along the 7400 block of 21st Avenue expressed outrage that Social Services had not been to the home in the past week.
The elder sibling, 3 years of age, is believed to have fed both herself and her infant sister in the days following their mother’s death. The children are currently being treated for dehydration at U C Davis Children’s Hospital; their names have been withheld. Mrs. James Keynes of Pittsburgh, the mother of the deceased, has filed for adoption of the children.
My Bad Side begins many years on. Crystal, now 27, defiant, knows that her life was borne of tragedy and accepts that with a drink. 
I’ll tell you what everyone is like. Ever think about torture? Ever think about what that is? People torturing others, I mean, people actually willing to literally torture another person, strap someone down and torture, tear off their fucking fingernails, put wire through their flesh, burn their fucking eyes out, what the fuck else? These people will watch, just watch, another person freak out and scream. And for what? Because they fucking can. Because they can get away with it. That’s who we are. That’s what this is about. We’re fucked. We’re so completely and entirely fucked. (201)
Dee, desired and adored, was too young to remember, and yet the memory persists. She chases after it like a childhood dream, desperate for contact and pushing everyone away. 
I had a tightness creeping inside. It wasn’t bad. It was more like almost remembering something, not what I had been told; it was more of a biological thing, molecular. It was spinning in my head. Words wouldn’t go together; the sounds were broken apart. I wanted this. I wanted to move into this, whole, that glacial wall of light, the sex, in and out in one pristine act. It was my promise. (157)
The sisters try to understand each other, but they don’t know how to forgive and feast on their addictions instead.
Words IV: In the woods
I did a little more wood-splitting today. My hands are blistered, and my arms don’t work so good. I’ve had enough of that. I’ll offer a few lumbering terms instead:
BRUSH APE: Logger, usually the one who attaches chain to tree.
BULL OF THE WOODS: Person in charge of lumber operation.
PECKER POLE: Small, slim tree.
TIMBER BEAST: Rough, crude logger.
WIDOW MAKER: A precarious loose limb that is about to fall.
For more great lumbering, there’s the biography about lumberman Gordon Gibson from British Columbia called Bull of the Woods. It has a Hemingway feel, but without all the rain imagery.
Words II: Literary Terms
I remember the pretensions of my college days, everyone trying to use high fallutin’ words to outdo each another. I promise not to do that in this, my weekly segment on words. I will instead keep in mind simply that words are great. This week’s installment focuses on literary terms:
cacophony: using words to produce sharp and unmelodious effect.
ellipsis: three periods indicating missing text or a character trailing off. In our lazy times, this can sadly be referred to as dot, dot, dot.
malapropism: misusing or mispronouncing words for comic effect.
