Tag Archives: writing process

Life Isn’t Fair (Thanks, Mama)

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Okay, here is what I have gotten all wrong until now: humans are in search of fairness. I really did always think that. It seemed so obvious. I delved into the life of MLK, the Trail of Tears, anything I could find on this quest.

And then I realized, just now, older and all, that none of this is part of any goal. To vanquish. That is it. There is just this. The victor, smiling, lying, everyone else justifying. So simple. And sad. In other words, my mother was right when I cried foul. “Life isn’t far.” Nor will it ever be.

Doubling Down on Anger

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I am angry not because it’s the first step in any program but because no one is honest about who they are. Not one of us. The pandemic has made this clear.

After all of the drivel about finding oneself in the quiet of the lockdown – talk which lasted all of three days – the only thing that anyone did was consume and bitch and consume and consume and consume.

Worth saving? Why? We are fucked. And good riddance to us. Btw, I have a book about that, called Anori. It’s about leaving this planet so we go fuck up another one.

Baller Scene Expunged

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I did get back to it today. And a scene from Baller was expunged.

INT. INSIDE MAX’S ROOM – NIGHT.
Dark room, dim light through a gap in the curtains. A gecko clings to the stalk of a mangled plant. Max lies under clothes and covers in the corner of what used to be a water bed. Baz walks in the doorway.
BAZ
Hey, Max. We got to go.
The light turns on. The gecko scurries to the bottom of the plant. BAZ pulls the blanket off the ruined bed, revealing Max lying against the wall in his boxers.
BAZ
You can sleep in the car.
(Pause)
We got to go.
Baz leaves the room. There is a long pause. The gecko peeks over the planter edge and then vanishes as Graham’s voice comes down the hall.
GRAHAM
Max!
Max moans, his arms draped over his face. Graham stands over him, arms crossed, and then raises his hand, holding a Roman Candle firework.
GRAHAM
Last warning, Max.
(Lighting a match)
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Max opens his eyes and peeks around, almost like the gecko. The Roman Candle firework flares to life. Graham points it at Max, and a fire ball launches just above his head. Graham aims the tiny fireballs, one after the other, at Max. The sheet begins to smoke.
MAX
(Scurrying off the bed)
Are you crazy!?
A pile of papers catches fire. Baz appears with a bent pail of water and douses the room and bed. Max jumps away, knocking over the plant.
GRAHAM
(Jamming the Roman Candle into the pail)
Let’s go, Max!
Graham and Baz leave. Max, still gasping, stands still for a moment and then picks up his pants and goes after them. It is silent for a moment and then the gecko finally crawls out of the planter and perches atop the mangled plant.

Writing Process: Best Laid Plans

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I was all set to have a big writing day. I was going to do a 2-3 hour final draft of Baller, my tree-planting script, and get it ready to submit . And then, after an inspiring workout, I would hammer out 4-5 hours of Fuck Pedagogy, getting out all the nasty details of the year-long arbitration with a former school.

But it was not to be. I didn’t get into the work until late and then realized the opening to Baller needed serious work which stalled everything. From there it was a bad house of cards, finishing up bits of cheese from the fridge and moving plants to more ideal locations on the windowsill.

And then I decided to write this blog and see if that got me on my merry way. I’ll let you know. (Odds are against.)

Update: No.

Fuck Pedagogy

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After spending a strange fifteen months applying to schools – 100+ rejections in the end – and a temporary contract online, I’m back in the classroom. It’s a good place to be, not only for me but for my book, Fuck Pedagogy.

As I have mentioned previously, the book is my autobiographical take on education, how many in the industry have no idea what they are doing or if they do, not giving a shit about the students.

I’m not a pedagogical person – “listen to the students and offer what I know” sums up my practice neatly – and I have had my issues with the powers that be. That’s what I’m working on now – the drama of my three dismissals – so that I can focus on what the book is really supposed to mean.

Lost It or Losing It Again

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Don’t speak. Or when you do, don’t say anything. That’s the maxim of this age. Or a code for something somebody said, got liked and then deleted. The point is to live your life and not be kept in a burrow. Unless that’s your life. The burrowed one.

Things get broke and then come alive again. It’s a dead thing. And then it’s something else. Profound and fecund. And fuck all of that. The point is to not bow down. No genuflection and all of that. Say what is hard and true, look back in anger and say it right.

The detritus is just that. Clean out. Move on. Grow up or out. And then die. Yeah, that happens which is the point. Jimmy.com. Waking up remains the best part of the day

The Elitist Anarchist

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He sits across from you, one earplug in, as he espouses on the failings of the world – and you – and begrudgingly takes your five dollars. “You are wrong. Nobody has said anything dumber.” He’s out of tobacco and would like to squat your living room for the winter.

He rambles on, first about the barter system, then on the meaning of work until he starts a full tirade on the failure of representational government, everything you need to know and how you can change, all that just by being like him. He ambles off, briefly holding back the subway doors just for the fuck of it, and vanishes up the stairs.

Commuter Blues

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I don’t have a clue who I am, where I am going or what I’ve done. It’s a meandering thing that goes out the door and comes back in. I know something about nothing and that is about all. I am fascinated for a time. People too. There is a moment. And then not. I know it is about nothing, nothing and nothing again and almost take solace in that. Not quite.

The fact is that I hate the look-at-me dissolution of our world, the babies that never grew and think people cares about their childish discoveries. That is where we have lost everything. While the barbarians culled these ones, we’ve decided to let them run the show.