David McGee's Journal

6:56pm: Today, I finished listening to an audio recording of Michael Frayn's novel Headlong, and began listening to Haruki Murakami's novel Kafka on the Shore. These are both authors that I adore-- Frayn for his brilliance writing plays (Copenhagen, Noises Off), Murakami for his always thrilling fiction (Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle). I greatly enjoyed Headlong, and listened in rapt attention for over four hours to Kafka on the Shore.

Any audio-book recommendations? Particularly good recordings, or just particularly great books? Good rule of thumb here is the longer the better, because my job is very boring which gives me ample time to listen.

Also: is there any reason why I shouldn't listen to (rather than actually read) Ulysses? Discuss.

10:40am: In? On? Around and about?
Here's some syntactical oddness: when discussing actors' work, my preposition changes depending on the medium. For instance, I would say that Terry O'Quinn was in The Rocketeer, but that he is on Lost. Does this have to do with the fact that we say that programs are on television, where we tend to day that they're in movie theatres? How did this distinction develop anyway? We also say on radio. At least I do. Is this just me? No, it can't be. Is this worth my first blog post in six months?

10:25pm: How to Make an American Solo Show
I'm amused. I wrote this in early 2005, and rediscovered it today. Ha.

I'll also do that lj-cut so as not to take up more than my fair allotment of your so-called "friends" page. Gosh.

( Read more... )

9:54pm: Oh, yeah.

I read three books during March. I forgot one. Which, despite the fact that I forgot that I read it, I actually rather enjoyed.

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami

My first Murakami; 'twill not be my last. I enjoyed this book muchly, though there was this slight concern-- there are a lot of really clever wordplay puns.

Except the book was written in Japanese.

So...

I don't really know what to make of that. There are creatures called INKlings, with the capitals, and they're sort of... look, there's also a group called the Semantecs... I don't get it. Are they puns in Japanese? Are portions of the book written in English? It actually weirded me out because it worked too well. I have been told that while this book is good, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is life altering. It shall be read, for this Murakami can write himself a book.

I feel better now. Two seemed too few to have read. I changed that sentence just to get the two/too/to trifecta. Twofecta?

8:33pm: March Reading Log
Did I only finish two books in March?

Well... I guess that I spent much of my possible reading time listening to A Storm of Swords on audiobook. I also spent much of my possible reading time looking for things to do that weren't reading, how badly did I hate one of these books. Guess which one. I'll give you a hint: it's

Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte
I thought that the first 50 pages of this book were brilliant, and called Jenn to thank her for recommending it. Here's a transcript of the conversation.

"Hello?"
"Jenn? It's Dave. Oh. My. Jesus. Wuthering Heights is the funniest book of all time. Seriously, this is transcendentally funny. I'm holding my sides. Wow."
"Umm... Dave? It's not supposed to be funny."
"..."
"..."
"You are shitting me. She's serious?"
"She's serious."
"..."
"..."
"Ouch."

Wow, I hate this book. I'm not even going into it. I am simultaneously proud of and disgusted by myself for finishing it. Yooch.

The Courtier and the Heretic: Leibniz, Spinoza, and the Fate of God in the Modern World, by Matthew Stewart
This book was fairly rad. I knew nothing about Spinoza, and now I think Spinoza's super cool. It would probably be a good idea to read a book about Spinoza *not* written by somebody who clearly loves him, but maybe everybody who studies him loves him? Nah, probably not.

Anyway, I was thinking all deeply and whatnot whilst reading this book. I have long claimed that 'twould be impossible to believe in an omniscient God and also believe in free will (the problem being that if God knows what I'm going to do before I do it, then it's not truly my choice; and if God doesn't know what I'm going to do, then he's not omniscient. I'm also confident that there are many, *many* smarter people that have covered this topic, only I went to theatre school and claim this point as if I just thought of it). However, this book made me realize-- thanks, Spinoza!-- that it's also not really logically possible to believe that the aforementioned omniscient God himself has free will, for the same reason. If he knows what he's going to do, it's not ever his choice. He's powerless to change it &c. The obvious rejoinder is "God works in mysterious ways." The obvious re-rejoinder is "That is a total cop-out." The obvious post-joinder (?), then, is "Yeah, well your mom is a total cop-out." And the debate proceeds from there.

So. I enjoyed reading this book. I also enjoy Mom jokes.

I am now in the middle of Thoreau's "Walden." Which I have never read, and which we will get to in April's entry. This should be a big month. David Mitchell has a new novel coming out in six days. I am on the edge of my seat.

6:51pm: Hey, davemcgee.com is back!

9:21am: There was something very fitting about listening to the new Pearl Jam song while walking past the John Lennon memorial this morning.

I realized that it's March 9th, and I hadn't yet done my February reading journal post. Horrors! This list will also look, I think, a little... light. Both in actual number of books read and in the whole 'reading classics' department. But I have an excuse (of course): 1/4 of February was spent on vacation in California, and I needed 'airplane reading.' And Emily Bronte does NOT qualify as 'airplane reading.' Whatever. On to the list.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (completed from January)
Truly beautiful. Must be heartbreakingly lovely in Spanish.

Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro
Umm, this was one of the five best English novels of 2005? Were there only six novels published or something? I did not enjoy this book.

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
OK... so... I loved this book. Don't tell anyone. Please. I loved it. I really, really wanted Elizabeth and Darcy to end up together. Don't tell.

Rats Saw God, by Rob Thomas (not the singer from Matchbox 20)
I purchased this 'young adult novel' by the creator of Veronica Mars because that show RULES and one of the episodes was named after this novel. Damn, I wish I had known about this book when I was in junior high. It would have been one of my favorites. It's still pretty good. It's just written for 14 year olds.

Pipsqueak, by Brian M. Wiprud
This 'crazy, funny mystery' was not particularly crazy, funny, or mysterious. Not that good. Damn, we need to get Maple published.

Bones of the Moon, by Jonathan Carroll
I've now read three Carroll novels, and they're all pretty good, except that... well, he's very adept at thinking up cool situations in a Gaiman-theme, and then writing compelling characters, but then his books sort of just end. Like he's put all his thought into tone/world/theme and didn't really figure out a complete story. Good books to read in between Gaiman novels, I guess. He's far more prolific, so there's a lot to read.

I also reread Book 1 and Book 2 of The Sandman series, and listened to A Clash of Kings on Audiobook. And then, despite Elizabeth's urging, I started Wuthering Heights... but we'll get into that at the end of March update.

12:27am: In the city...
In the city...
In the city...
In the city that is my foster home, in the city they called New Amsterdam. I walk the streets and marvel at the flow of humanity coursing around me. Rivers not of water, rivers of people in breadth wider and in current stronger than the delta at some imagined confluence of the Nile and the Mississippi.
Back in the city now, back on sure footing. Away from the winding miasma that they call Brooklyn. Back among the straight and narrow of the island of Manhattan. Its siren song as enticing to me before I came from the west as it was to my ancestors before they came from the east.
Back within the city I feel electric with the possibility of possibility. The calm serenity of that which I long for in nature replaced by an almost hyper-kinetic desire to know motion and movement and action and time.
On foot in the city, this city that is my home and my life and my provider. Its architecture that assures me that life existed long before me, and that life will exist long after I am gone. On days of self-importance, this reminder humbles me. On days of self-loathing it inspires me to walk upright. The knowledge that the city lives on makes me, makes me, makes me know something. I can’t say what. Not yet.
On the bridge I am dreaming of the city, and in the city I am dreaming of rivers.
My dreams are filled with light and heat. I dream only in color.
In my dreams, the streets are filled with trees, the canopy of leaves dwarves the tallest buildings. In my dreams I am climbing the trees. Sometimes I can’t be sure when I’m awake and when I’m dreaming in the city.
In my dreams I am dreaming of being awake, and as I wake I am dreaming of dreaming.
At the intersections of major roads I cannot move for my excitement, and each step takes effort and each step takes its toll on me. Looking down I can see the street is a river and the people around me flow about. I am a rock. I step, I leap, I cross or maybe...
I think often of the place that was my home, the wide-open spaces. In the parks I find for a moment that I am there, and I long for the city. Back in the city I long for my home. The logic is circular, and the language highlights the circuitousness. When I am home I call the city home. When I am in the city, I call my former home home.
I climb the stairs or the trees to the rooftops I cry from the rooftops. The treetops. The bottom of the sea and the lengths that stretch before me the whirring, the spinning, the chaos. The noise and the light of my dreams in daylight marked with frenzied fury my calmness, my patience, my outness inside pulled beyond capacity. The dream is of this of this knowledge and this thirst that defies description but feels red, shallow, and turgid. A call echoing from the darkest places, the echo twisted and deformed the opposite of the original, I shake and press to be free and I am flying the city beneath me or probably under me.
I am losing my sense of safe
And here, at the corner where I stand and watch the sunset over the trees in the park I am suddenly moved to the fullest...
I am losing my sense of safety. Of safety.
To the fullest, the fullest what. The fullest beauty. Beauty is not an emotion, and so my attempt to justify the feeling recoils, backfires, and I am left with the same problem. I am suddenly moved to the fullest the fullest.
No, I am losing my sense of same. of sameness.
How can you lose your sense of sameness.
So I am trying again to define the emotion. The sun is setting over the trees the sunset is beautiful but beauty is not an emotion. Beauty is… is… is a state of being and I cannot feel a state of being so I am standing here wondering how to proceed. I have a feeling a feeling so massive that I am rooted to my spot, a feeling I cannot entertain with naming because naming gives it place and place means I can place it.
No, I mean my sense of self. My self is dreaming.
Your dreaming self can be your same safe self.
That isn’t the problem.
What is the problem.
So back with me, back to me, back to me, here to me. At the corner of the park, beautiful sunset without name an emotion that threatens to go nova. Expand until I cannot stand the pressure, collapse in on itself myself and create me a black hole. My fury is palpable, not at the beauty itself but at the inability to name the response to the beauty.
Fight it and never name it.
Rage against it.
Embrace it.
I cannot speak for fear of mis-stepping. I know that leaning this way or graining that will lend credence to a name that is not natural but prescribed. I will not prescribe this name, I will wait for the name to name itself. My various futures before me I can see as I fight it and never name it. I can rage against it beating my fists against the trees
The trees that fill the streets I walk
Against the trees in rage and rage or embrace the beauty and fall into a fit, of sobbing of knowledge that my embrace means nothing because I don’t know what I’m embracing this cold white heat
Heat is never white, heat is colored. Heat is liquid.
Will leave me standing here until I can know for until I can know for certain.
That moment will come I know I know that moment will come when standing where I’m standing on this bridge I will have to consider my desire to jump.
Like a dream that wakes you the moment before you strike the ground.
The sensation of falling, the freedom of flight.
I will have to consider it I must consider it. To deny the desire to jump is foolish, the movement must be to pass beyond the desire to jump.
There is never desire to jump and fall, but desire to fly.
But there is a desire to jump and fall, not for the end but for the moment before the end. Glancing at my watch and the hand hasn’t moved then I know that I am dreaming. I check again in a moment and the watch hand is moving now I may be fooling myself but I believe I am awake.
Is it rage you feel.
Or is it acceptance.
Or is it beauty.
It is it is it is same or sense or safe or self I must be dreaming because I cannot name it. I stand my arms outstretched, I can feel the second hand moving against my wrist I can feel the water beneath me pulse against the posts I can feel the wind about me rushing through my body I can see the sky above me breaking into rain I can feel the water pounding through my scalp and clothes I can tell that time is moving in the present toward the future I am dreaming of the city but my dream does not distract me I know that I could fly if I were dreaming but the sense that I am dreaming never stops me from believing that I am flying anyway. A burst. A light. A noise like an explosion and in that moment I have to wonder for that moment if it was me there now or maybe only I was dreaming and the decision now is easy I place my foot atop the rail I pull my body up to meet it I catch the scent of change in gusts I raise my leg first one then the other and for the first time I am standing not on the bridge but on the sky itself the space between water and bridge made real in my acceptance of it and falling I know for sure that it’s the time before the end that makes the biggest impression and necessitates the rest but before I can name for sure what this means I see that it’s the moment before I’m going to break and I am certain that this next moment will reveal whether I am awake or dreaming.
Or both.
Or neither.

It’s now.

11:04am: It's, uh, snowing. A little.

6:36pm: Reboot
Hello.

It's been a while. Nearly two months. Here I am.

The past two months have been extraordinarily busy; The play that I'm assistant directing opens in less than two weeks. It's been an occasionally rewarding, occasionally frustrating experience. Perhaps I shall do a greater evaluation after some time has passed. At this moment, I'm far too involved in the process to comment accurately.

After the show opens on February 12th, I'm heading back to CA to spend a week with the family. A much needed vacation. Then, back to New York on February 21st to try to find some way to pay my March rent, as I'll be out of a job. I do not relish the prospect of going back to office-type work, despite how well it pays. We shall see.

I've made a rule for myself that I'm going to read more "classic" literature this year. I read almost exclusively modern fiction, with a non-fiction book thrown in every now and again. That means that I'm hopelessly ignorant when it comes to the pillars of Western literature. I've not read any Austen, Bronte (either of them), Defoe, or Fitzgerald. I've not read any novel by Mark Twain. I've read a ton of William Faulkner (thank you Mrs. McCreadie!), but no Nabakov. So. I've decided that every other book I read has to be something that I wouldn't pick up as a matter of course. In conjunction with this decision, I want to keep better track of what I read this year, so that I have a record of my reading year. As January comes to a close, I suppose it's time to put that in my journal. My livejournal.

Here's what I read in January, 2006
The People of Paper, by Salvador Plascencia
Consider the Lobster, and Other Essays, by David Foster Wallace (nonfiction)
How to Be Alone: Essays, by Jonathan Franzen (nonfiction, abandoned -- too much whining)
The Russian Debutante's Handbook, by Gary Shteyngart (the worst titled novel ever, but exceptionally good)
The Meaning of Everything: The Story of the Oxford English Dictionary, by Simon Winchester (nonfiction, self-congratulatory)
Ghostwritten, by David Mitchell (wow. double wow, even. Mitchell is now one of my three favorite writers alive)

So as you can see, January was heavy heavy heavy in modern fiction, with some modern nonfiction thrown in. Well, I've reversed course! My first choice for "classic" is

One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I'm just over 100 pages in, and HOLY COW it's good. Wow wow wow wow wow. I also realize that a book published in 1967 is really pushing it as far as "classic" goes, but I think it counts for several reasons including

a) I'm also going to try to get over my discomfort reading translated books;
b) If I didn't read it soon, my friend Sofija was going to garrote me with a length of string.

I'd be happy to take recommendations along the lines of "Move "Jane Eyre" to the top of the classics list!" or "Avoid Hawthorne like the plague!" or "Why the hell do you only read books written by white men?"

Hope everyone's well.

9:44pm: It is late autumn and the weather is unpredictable. Three days ago I wore a coat, scarf and gloves, and bundled I walked for hours through Manhattan and discovered every single dead end in the city. When finally I spoke I had difficulty forming vowels with my frozen face. I rubbed my cheeks. I arrived at The Cloisters. They are always always playing Hildegard in the gift shop there which makes it the absolute best gift shop in the whole world. The art there is heartbreaking and beautiful and awesome and sad. From the balcony on the west side you can look across the Hudson River to the cliffs that make up what just has to be the most beautiful portion of New Jersey. Sunlight sparkles off the water. This all used to be forest land, you know.

The weather, unexpectedly, becomes warmer. It might not be unexpected to meteorologists, but I always forget to check and they're always wrong when I remember. I wear too many layers and have to lug a useless scarf and gloves around. On the subway my coat is suffocating but it's too much trouble to take it off, and then the train stops for five minutes for what appears to be no reason in the heart of rush hour and the train keeps filling and filling and filling until is Tokyofull. I get out two stops early and walk from there in the morning air that is not cold but crisp. I like the thought of air being crisp. I should always get out two stops early, it gives me to time to calm down before I get where I'm going. I have a great desire to eat gingerbread. Cocoa always tastes better than I remember it tasting which is weird because I remember it being fantastic and it still manages to exceed expectations. Right now, even as I type, I am listening to Hildegard which makes this the absolute best post ever. No contest.

The weather's about to shift. I wish I could say that "I feel it in my bones," but it's actually just an educated guess based on the fact that it, yes, tends to get colder at the end of the year. November is leaving us, and December is fast approaching. I will bundle. It will begin to snow. It will be very beautiful and the world will be quiet and I will stand in the middle of a snowbound street looking up into the glimmering sky and I will stick out my tongue and taste a snowflake, but before I do so I will look around to make sure that nobody is watching me. I will be annoyed at having to get undressed every time I walk into a building. My glasses will fog up uncontrollably. Gingerbread never tastes quite as good as I remember it tasting. The snow will freeze and get mucky. December will give way to January and February and then it will feel like I haven't seen a leaf or grass in like forever. Daylight will come and go in a matter of hours and it will be so obnoxiously cold and I'll forget that the snow makes everything quieter and calmer and more peaceful. And Central Park will be full of trees that seem like they'll never come back to life. But maybe, just maybe, just maybe.

Here are three winter poems that I like, in case you were in the mood. Thanks to Anonymous, Robert Frost and, uh, Kelly R. Bennett.

6:05pm: An interesting expedition of sorts: I decided to see what I was up to in the first few weeks of November in years past, by looking at the archives of my online ramblings.

Here is what I found:

2001

It's been a really long time since my last post. Sorry about that... life has been unfathomably busy.

Enjoyed the World Series. The best I've ever seen... and the Yankees lost, which makes it even better.

Basketball season has started, and I'm most happy about that. My Lakers are still undefeated, my Clippers are struggling (but they'll pull it together). I'm going to see them play each other on Tuesday, the 20th. Woopie!

Regarding the last post that I wrote- [my roommate] Aaron would like me to alert you that he was going to make the same joke that [Black] did, but [Black] cut him off. Aaron would like me to give him credit. I'm not going to, but at least I'll voice his request. Aaron also objected to the "not very sports savvy" comment. I humbly apologize for this mistake. I meant to classify him as "entirely sports illiterate."

Trotsky closed... it was quite successful, but I'm still pleased that it's over. I am now focusing my attention on "Faust," a full-length play that I am stage-managing.

I am also looking forward to being home... ten day vacation for me back in SoCal. I can't wait for Friday.

Video-game stuff- a better review to follow, but Grand Theft Auto III (PS2) is INCREDIBLE. Tony Hawk 3 is out, Metal Gear Solid 2 comes out this month, NBA 2K2 is coming out soon... I'm a happy little gamer.

2002
I attended the opera last evening (well, you know, the first half. but we'll get to that) because it's important to be a worldly, cultured person.

I did, however, find it necessary to leave at halftime, or whatever they're calling it these days, because boredom became not so much a side-effect as a full-on tumor gnawing at my psyche. While a man standing at the edge of the stage and repeatedly yelling "FIGARO!!!!!" (this actually happened. the opera was "The Barber of Some Shit or Other" I think it may have been in Italy, because I think they were yelling in Italian) may pass for entertainment for, you know, cultured people, I decided I'd rather not experience any more. So I left, having lost only $25 and several hours of my life, but did escape with most of my sanity intact.

I think next time I'll opt for experimental theatre where, at least when they're yelling Figaro, there's a chance of somebody flying or eating Rice Krispies or something. [Note: More on this in a post to come-- I've found some opera I can get down with]

2003
I am on the Hungerford Footbridge. Is it the Hungerford? I know it’s not the Millennium Bridge. The Millennium Bridge is that one over there that looks like somebody dropped a fucking hunk of scrap metal over the Thames. I don’t know what the hell they were thinking. Anyway

restart

OK, so it is Guy Fawkes Day. I am walking over the Thames on some Bridge

shit some bridge

I am walking on this bridge over the Thames. It may or it may not be the Hungerford Footbridge. It is Guy Fawkes Day. There are fireworks in the distance

holy shit

In the distance there are fireworks. And off to my left

no, asshole

Off to my RIGHT is Parliament. It glows like the fireworks

fucking asshole that’s really good “it glows like the fireworks”

OK, so I am on the bridge. Parliament is lit up, but this night it is put to shame by the fireworks in the distance. Maybe. I don’t really know, cause they are mostly hidden behind buildings but I know they are there. I hear them. I can see some of them. I want to smell them. Well, sort of. I don’t really want to smell them. The British Airways London Eye

stupid fucking name like anyone really calls it that

The London Eye is across the river on my right. It glows white and blue. It turns slowly.

Half an hour of hell if I were to get in there. Nothing like locking myself in a box for thirty minutes. Yeah, that’s fun.

I am walking on this bridge and in my head

OK... there is this song going through my head

OK OK there is

OK

Ghost ghost I know you live within me feel as you fly in thunderclouds above the city into one that I love with all that was left within me ‘til you tore in two now wings and rings and there’s so many waiting here for you

It doesn’t read like it sounds. Sort of. You can’t really understand you sort of have to hear it.

OK, pretend you’re hearing it. OK now

OK, that song is in my head. And I am on the bridge. We think it is the Hungerford Footbridge. It is Guy Fawkes Day. He tried to blow up Parliament which is off to my RIGHT. And there are fireworks. They are in the distance, but I know they are there even though they are hidden. And the river. Oh, the river sparkles. Reflects all of this other stuff. The river, in the daytime brown-ass-ugly, all this is reflected as beautiful as Monet would have done it. And the (British Airways) London Eye glows beautiful blue and white. And this song is still in my head. And I start to sing it to myself. And suddenly we cut to...


INT. COMPUTER LAB – NIGHT
Dave sits at the computer slamming his head against the keyboard.

too dramatic OK

INT. COMPUTER LAB - NIGHT
Dave sits at the keyboard... I don’t know... smacking himself in the face and yelling “STUPID STUPID STUPID”

yeah, that’s good crazy people at keyboards are exciting

OK, different tack. well, actually same tack. OK, well, anyway we cut to

EXT. HUNGERFORD FOOTBRIDGE – NIGHT
And nothing happens. Really.


Like it is time to be done it is like disjointed like in my head like it is reading like it’s reading a like

I’m fucking saying LIKE like I’m my ex-girlfriend, what the fuck is that about.

OK, it’s in my head it’s disjointed but it’s hopping all over the place it’s like

fuck LIKE

OK, it is AS IF I’m inside some Faulkner monologue, Benjy from Sound & Fury, I am Benjy I am Sounding I am FURIOUS and I can’t keep time straight and it’s so

I mean, I’ve been trying to write another update I really have been trying

but it’s difficult to read

well, shit

I mean, it’s difficult to both read AND write 600 unfinished sentences. But unfortunately, that’s all that’s in my head right now.

600 unfinished sentences.

Well, that one ended. But that one’s really a sentence fragment.

Technically.



I called Briana and we sang Tori on the phone together because somehow we missed it


This is somehow oppressive.


This is like being yelled at constantly.

I don’t mean this update, I mean this city. Well, this update might be like being yelled at constantly I don’t know.

Anyway

I need New York unique New York I know I need unique New York.

Not quite the same ring in the first as in the second person, really. Oh, I miss speech exercises.

Wait. I miss fucking SPEECH EXERCISES. How bad is this getting?


It’s not that I don’t like it... It’s just that I don’t....


I watched Finding Nemo to remind me of the night that I was with Lauren and Jessica and we laughed manically and we ran into Bri and Gerritt and Brad on the way back and they were on there way

no, wrong their

they were on THEIR way there. like that. they were on their way, I mean, to see Nemo and it was a good night. We had drunk wine, I forgot to mention that. Actually, I’m fairly convinced that Jess brought wine into the theatre.

awesome.

It’s all these nights of this summer in that apartment

that apartment that, shit, almost burned down did you guys hear about that what happened was

well anyway

these nights. and these places. in this apartment. and these people. and something in the Life Café and my birthday and people were there and some balloon tied around my wrist and calling my brother on Wil’s phone and my brother telling Wil he would gladly pay for the minutes I used on his phone

and that moment of connection to the world when Wil told me that wow

and then something about walking through New York and then something about Owen saying he spent all night at Marla’s and I said “I know, Owen, I was there” and he said “Seriously?” and I said “Yeah, we talked for like an hour and a half”

or well

not “Orwell” I mean “or (space) well”

like that apartment. and ps2. and people being over. dylan and his girlfriend. that bastard house-mate we had Matt and how I wanted to kill him. and Scraps making fun of him. and watching Homestar on my computer. and Deena scared their bed was going to collapse.

and something else about something, I don’t know it’s all a little hazier than I want it to be

it’s all a little hazier than I mean it to be

it’s just

well, it’s just...


it’s not long now, he said, looking at his watch

2004
I sat right here, five years ago this month. The chairs in here have changed. Actually, all the decor has gradually shifted toward some sort of faux-art-deco. The street outside has new, bigger, brighter stores. Coffee costs more than it did then. Just a little bit more. But more.

I sat in this exact spot practicing my monologue from Picasso at the Lapin Agile, hours before my audition for NYU. I arrived way too early, just wanting to be in the same neighborhood as this place that had become my dream. I ran the words over and over in my head, making sure I knew them perfectly. And at one point amidst the nervousness, the fear, the tension, and the giddiness all rolled into one uber-emotion, I looked up at the world around me and knew with all certainty: I'm going to live here. Soon.

It was so clear that I didn't question it. I just knew it was true.

A girl-- almost certainly a freshman student-- just stopped me on the sidewalk outside and asked me which way uptown was. And I remembered when I wasn't so sure, either. I remembered when I walked halfway across town in the wrong direction, and I remembered the first time someone asked me for directions and I knew how to tell them. I remembered how I used to need a subway map, and how I never went above 14th St. unless it was absolutely necessary.

It's five years later and I'm back here again. The certainty of that epiphany I experienced replaced with uncertainty about nearly everything. I think that my outward calm belies a deeper turmoil that I never quite allow myself to get at. Five years and $200,000 later and I'm done with school and clueless. Terrified. Unmotivated. Likely unemployable. I have a piece of paper that I worked for so hard, proving that I spent that much time and money to study drama. And I have a special gold tassel proving that I did it better than some other people. And looming over the inner turgid rapids within, the future of our world hangs in the balance tomorrow, and I am trembling with anticipation.

I sit right here, now, contemplating new applications to yet another tour of duty in school. There are good reasons why I should return to the classroom and learn more. But I really shouldn't kid myself about the biggest reason: I'm terrified of doing anything else.

I sat here the first time filled with certainty and joy at the knowledge of what was to come. Less than a month before I had gone on a tour of colleges with my father, visiting this one first, and thinking that we should just cancel the rest of the trip. Less than a year later and less than two blocks from here I watched my mother and father, both crying, get into a taxi and leave me here for good.

Five years and so much has changed. My worry is what worries me most. My dad pretended like he was calling the leaves blowing around in Washington Square Park, and we laughed together, and I knew. I pointed uptown for her and smiled to myself as she thanked me.

The outright joy I felt is dimming, replaced with a certain longing for what was and a certain trepidation of what is to come. I never expected to grow up. It's caught me a little by surprise, is all.

(written Monday, Nov. 1st)

2005
Hello, there. I'm here.

10:44am: Hmm.
My brother-in-law-in-law (this is the term I have created for my sister-in-law's brother. I am sure that many languages actually have words for this relationship, but English does not seem to) posted this meme, and so I shall pass it along. I like this one. Memory is fleeting. Perhaps you can remind me of something I've forgotten, or let me relive something I could never forget.

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want--good or bad. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.

12:54pm: Villanelle
Sometimes, I enjoy writing poetry. There, I said it.

I used to imagine myself a poet... misunderstood, lonely, brilliant. Ah, the life of a suburban white fifteen year old male. I would write really, really bad poetry. Thank goodness I can't remember specifically (I'm sure I have copies sitting around someplace that I can find and burn), but I can get the general sense:

I awoke in an empty room
A whitewashed room
A room with many doors
And every single door I opened
Revelealed another whitewashed room

Some crap like that. It was many, many steps down from the first poem I ever wrote, which was in second grade, which was entitled "Spooky Room."

Spooky, spooky, spooky.
My room is a spooky room.
Ghosts dwell there. Goblins too.
Spooky, spooky, spooky.

Pretty good grasp of poetic devices for a seven-year-old, right? Damn! Give that kid a book deal.

Anyway, in recent years I attempt to write some sonnets. With varying degrees of success. This week, I decided that I wanted to try another form. That way, the poetry might still abjectly blow, but at least I'm practicing new (well, old) ways in which to structure it. I decided to try my hand at a villanelle.

It was hard. With such an incredibly rigid structure, it's hard to believe that even talented poets can make full use of it. I mean obviously they can.

This is a first try; I would ask you to be gentle. I would also ask myself why in hell I chose "earth" and "mirth" as my main rhyming words, since nothing in the damned language rhymes with them. Silly me. My assessment is that it ain't so bad for a scribble on a subway ride home, but then again I used to like that whitewashed room crap too.

Anyway:

My precious words mean nothing to this Earth
However I might shout, and shake, and rage.
What else to do but sing a song of mirth?

Mere longing to imbue these lines with worth
Empowers not the frail and tiny page.
My precious words mean nothing to this Earth.

Though suff'ring long of mighty words a dearth,
The world seems to insist that I engage.
What else to do but sing a song of mirth?

I've sought in vain to give my voice a berth
On paper, or upon a meager stage.
My precious words mean nothing to this Earth.

Our struggles to escape the ancient girth
Of uselessness can rattle not this cage.
What else to do but sing a song of mirth?

Searching from the moment of my birth,
The truth and the solution found in age:
My precious words mean nothing to this Earth.
What else to do but sing a song of mirth?

3:08pm: When people ask me what my day job is, I offer the disparaging reply, "I put paper in a drawer." While snarky, this is also the truth. I take papers and I put them in drawers, and if a properly labelled folder does not exist for a certain piece of paper, I'll go ahead and produce one. Then I can put that piece of paper into its rightful drawer.

I understand the necessity of "paying one's dues" when one is young; the possibility of instantly vaulting into a position of any prestige is negligible. My friends file papers and wait tables, they take drink orders and cut checks. They debug computers for people who are paid more than them. They play guitar at clubs on the weekends, rehearse their devised shows until 1 AM, write in notebooks bits and pieces of great American novels on trains between jobs. Sometimes we meet. We ask what everyone is working on, and these little bits and pieces are summarized and discussed, and we try not to mention these other jobs that pay the bills, because none of us can quite believe that we are move valuable as paper-pushers than as thinkers, artists, and creators.

December 9th is my last day here, and my first day ever being paid to direct, even if I am only the assistant. I will get to sit at a table with an incredibly accomplished, brilliant director and an amazingly vibrant, talented writer. Seated in the room will be a cast of dynamic performers, and together we will create a show that is based upon ancient myth and performed with modern flair. Jokes will be cracked. Coffee consumed. Tempers will flare. A show will open. There will be press there, and champagne, and congratulations, and, yes, I will have to look for a new job.

But I offer an early toast: to our papers, may they never be hidden in drawers.

Six more weeks.

I think I can I think I can I think I can.

12:45pm: My roommate (identified on the internets by the name "Blackey Fontaine") recently linked to this list of the 100 Best English Language Novels from 1923 to the Present (here's his take on TurboAwesome.com). I thought I would get in on the listing action. I'm not going to do hyperlinks with all of these books because it would take far too much effort.

Read

Atonement (Ian McEwan)
This book is so well written it's actually surprising. I read this over the summer, picking it up *completely* at random from the shelf at the Borders in Arcadia, CA, because we were leaving on vacation and I didn't want to be stuck in the mountains without reading material. Holy Jeez, did I guess right. I do actually have a little problem with this book, but I'm not talking to you about it until after you've read it. And you should. You should read it. Seriously.

Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
One of my all-time favorites. Used to be definite top 3, not I've read a hell of a lot more books. Still quite possibly the funniest book I've ever read in my life, and incredibly upsetting as well. Purchased the sequel ("Closing Time") and returned it to the bookstore 20 minutes later without having cracked the front cover. Don't care what Heller thinks happened after the book was over.

The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
Read in one sitting during the middle of the night my sophomore year of high school. It's the perfect (and maybe only) way to really read this book. My guess is that if you're older than 16 when you read this for the first time, it won't have the same effect.

The Corrections (Franzen)
Excellent novel. Not much to say. Was on Oprah's Bookclub but don't let that dissuade you.

The Grapes of Wrath* (Steinbeck)
Another one of my all-time favorites. Especially good because it's the origin of the phrase "getting kicked in the neck," which I've used more times in the past six years than maybe any other phrase. Certain sections of this book gave me the most visceral reactions I've ever had to literature. I swear I could *smell* this book sometimes. And in a good way.

Infinite Jest (D.F. Wallace)
Probably my all-time favorite novel. It's like getting kicked in the head for 1100 pages and laughing about it the whole time.

The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe* (Lewis)
Enjoyed this book when I was very young, don't think I'd enjoy it as much now since I'd be upset by the transparency of the Christ metaphor, will definitely see the new-jack CGI film because it looks astonishingly beautiful. Also, this is not the best book in the Chronicles of Narnia (The Last Battle, anyone? The Voyage of the Dawn Treader?)

Neuromancer (Gibson)
Wow! Cyberpunk on a Time magazine list! Well done, sirs!

Slaughterhouse-Five (Vonnegut)
Not the best Vonnegut (Mother Night, in my opinion) nor my personal favorite (Cat's Cradle), but still remains one of the most distressing, poignant, laugh-out-loud-then-smack-yourself-for-laughing books ever written. Highest recommendation.

Snow Crash (Stephenson)
Ran into the author in the bookstore while purchasing this book. Was shocked. Enjoyed book very much (very similar to Neuromancer, methinks... the editors of this list know what they like). But this book has no business on this list if Cryptonomicon isn't on here; the latter is a far superior book (which is also in my top 3). For those of you keeping score at home, the top 3 is now Infinite Jest; Cryptonomicon; and The Broom of the System, giving D.F. Wallace two out of the top three. Congratulations.

The Sound and the Fury (Faulkner)
Mmm, top 5 list definitely (is anyone keeping track of what I'm calling top 5? (I am, no worries)). So marvelously well-written that if you're planning on ever writing anything maybe you shouldn't read this book because you'll think you should just get the hell out of the business.

To Kill a Mockingbird* (Lee)
The only book on this list that I also starred in a stage version of. Well, "starred" is a bit much, I guess... but I was in fifth grade and in a college production. Whatever. The kid playing Dill was a total jackball. Actually, come to think of it, I may not have ever actually read the book. Better move on.

The Watchmen (Moore)
Astoundingly good, though hasn't held up as well as it might have since everyone's jacked his shit for the last 20 years. The only graphic novel on the list. I would have also included Gaiman's Sandman (The Kindly Ones, if they need a specific collection).

White Noise (DeLillo)
I *HATED* this book. I can't even go into it sufficiently. I almost stopped reading it 47 times. Jesus H.

Started, never finished

A Clockwork Orange (Burgess)
Written in code. Wasn't into it.

Gravity’s Rainbow (Pynchon)
I'm a fan of dense books (see Infinite Jest, above) but this book was like trying to cut a desk with a plastic knife. Tried twice, failed twice, put it to rest.

Lord of the Flies (Golding)
Eh. I'll take "Lost" thank you.

The Lord of the Rings* (Tolkien)
The all-time leader in Dave's "What the hell do people find interesting about this?" bookclub. As my brother once noted "reads like notes from a bad D&D session." Full agreement. Movies kick-ass though. Thanks for editing out Tom Bombadil (for real?).

1984 (Orwell)
No idea why I stopped reading it. Probably should try again.

On the Road (Kerouac)
Eh.

Read something else by author

Death Comes for the Archbishop (Cather)
I read "My Antonia" which I think I remember not enjoying at the time, but which has stuck with me for like eight years. Probably has something to do with the fact that I read it in my sophomore honors English class, taught by Mrs. Marquardt, and I just wanted to jam a spoon into my ear every single day.

Midnight’s Children (Rushdie)
I read "The Satanic Verses" which KICKS ASS. Required reading. Go to.

Money (Martin Amis)
I read "Time's Arrow" and "Night Train." The latter is well-written, but basically forgettable. The former will fuck with your mind so deeply you'll have trouble functioning afterward. No joke. The book takes place backwards (what?) so whenever you put it down, you'll have trouble figuring out if your life is happening in the right order.

The Sun Also Rises (Hemingway)
I like Hemingway. I plan to read more. (for the record, I've read "The Old Man and the Sea.")

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (Blume)
A Judy Blume sighting? Wow. (who even knows how many of her books I've read)

The Bridge of San Luis Rey (Wilder)
Didn't even know he was a novelist; I've read his plays. So have you. He wrote "Our Town."

Seen the Movie
No comments here, since whatever. Also the asterisked ones above I've seen film versions of.

Gone With the Wind (Mitchell)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Kesey)
The Lord of the Rings (Tokien)

Seen the Broadway Musical
Ragtime (Doctorow)
The song from this show "The Night That Goldman Spoke at Union Square" fits so perfectly in my range that I feel like it was written for me. In related news, I need to start singing more.

This is maybe my favorite post of all-time.

10:46am: Katappakins!
It's raining cats & dogs outside, and my socks are wet. This bodes well for a pleasant day, I wager. But first, I wanted to find out why the x (where 'x' is a variable) the phrase "it's raining cats & dogs" went through my head, because I noticed that it doesn't make one darned bit of sense.

A search of the internets (all of them) reveals that nobody has any clue whatsoever. The reasons that are parroted over and over are these:

1) In Norse Mythology, cats represented wind and dogs represented rain.
2) Either the Greek word for waterfall "Catadupa" or the French word for waterfall "Catadoupe" was misheard as "catsanddogs" (huh?)
3) In the streets of ancient towns, floods would wash away dogs and cats and people mistakenly thought they came from the sky.

Let's debunk these in order, shall we?

1) I'm sort of a dork for Norse mythology, and this is the first time I've ever heard or read that cats & dogs represented certain weather patterns. In fact the *only* websites that mention this strange, previously unknown facet of the Norse belief system are those discussing the origins of "raining cats and dogs." Apparently, every single one of these sites steals from the others. I'm not saying it's impossible, I just think it's weird that no primary sources seem to have ever mentioned this fact before.

2) Not that Babelfish is like a beacon of everlasting wisdom, but the Greek word for waterfall is "καταρράκτης" which may be "catadoupe" but may also be "katappakins." And the French word for waterfall is "chut d'eau" so the phrase would have probably ended up being "man, it's raining judo out there!"

3) Have you ever seen a cat or a dog? It seems to me far more likely that our big, dumb, lumbering human bodies couldn't get out of the way of a rainfall (exhibits a & b: my socks) than it does that lots of cats sort of amiably allowed water to approach them. Seriously, try giving a cat a bath. Maybe there were loads of dead dogs and cats on the streets of ancient cities (this seems likely) and that floods would float these around, but this is taking like six steps of justification, and it just doesn't sit well with me.

Ah, so the investigation has yielded only unsatisfying and dubious answers. So barring further evidence, the reason we say "it's raining cats and dogs" is because other people said it, and it's just as likely that the first guy ever to say it was drunk, insane, or speaking gibberish. Next time, I recommend: "Yo dude, it's raining katappakins out there!" Maybe it'll catch on. Until then, stay dry.

5:57pm: I know it's lame to write a post about the weather... but...

The weather for the past three days has just been notably beautiful. The equinox hit earlier this week and wasn't messing around. New York apparently decided that it was autumn and just went for it.

Absolutely lovely.

1:09pm: Last night, I finished reading Neil Gaiman's new novel Anansi Boys. Quick review: Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite authors, and this book certainly didn't hurt his standing. It's excellent. The young man can write. (Especially compared to the book that I tried to start reading--The Traveler by a fellow calling himself John Twelve Hawks (yeah right)--which is maybe--just maybe--the single worst 20 pages of a novel I've ever read. My intense, passionate hatred for all things Dan Brown notwithstanding, Mr. Dozen Eagles puts that wannabe to shame. If Brown was hoping to be the most derivative, bland, boring, vapid writer of all time, he's going to have to step up his efforts.

See, the moment Dan Brown even comes into my head I get all off-topic. Deep breath.

I decided, after finishing the last chapter of Anansi Boys, that I would very much like to meet Mr. Gaiman and tell him that he kicks large amounts of behind. I went to his website to see if he was touring, and lo and behold!

He was in New York last Tuesday. And I missed him. Grr.

It turns out that he's going to be doing a signing at the Vroman's on Colorado Blvd. in my ol' stomping grounds of Pasadena, CA. I called my sister-in-law (who is also a huge Gaiman fan) to tell her that she should go say hello. Jenn told me that I was welcome to overnight-mail her something, so that she could ask him to sign it for me.

Which got me thinking.

I have very few signed things. Neal Stephenson signed my copy of Snow Crash. My father got me an autographed Edgerrin James mini football helmet for my birthday this year. Umm... my crazy, psycho, batshit ex-girlfriend gave me a "signed" copy of Oliver Stone's film Platoon on DVD that she quite obviously (in retrospect) did herself with a black magic marker. (Let's just say the markings on the box look nothing like his real signature.) I think that about does it for autographed possessions.

Why do we get things signed? Well, in the case of the football helmet, it's because the value appreciates significantly (stop me if I'm wrong, Josh). Without the signature, it's a little kitschy piece of plastic. With the signature, it's an item collectors are willing to shell out cash for. But for a book... does the value go up? If so, I don't think I care, because I don't want to sell my Gaiman books. They're my books you know?

I got Snow Crash signed, because I waited in line at a book signing table, and the author looked at me expectantly, and I thought that maybe he would have thought it was weird that I stood in line just to say "hello" (probably Neal Stephenson encounters twenty people weirder than me before breakfast everyday). But, in truth, I just wanted to meet him-- to tell him that I really enjoyed his books. The fact that he added his name in pen to a book in which his name appears already on the cover, the spine, the back cover, the title page, the copyright page &c. really doesn't make a difference to me. It's not even a good reminder that I met him; I'd remember just as well whether or not he had scribbled in my book.

So, I'm not planning on reselling any of my Neil Gaiman books. My Sandman comics are all late-editions. My novels are not in particularly good shape. I do have a first edition hardcover of Endless Nights still shrink-wrapped... which I wouldn't mind him scribbling in... but if I weren't there to tell him how happy it makes me to read his books, it would be the same thing as that psycho-ex-hose-beast doing it with a marker. I still wouldn't have had a chance to tell him that I appreciate him.

For me, the author's signature is already on the page, and the additional signing is just something expected of me for having stood in line for so long.

I worry that this could seem like I'm mocking people who do want to have things signed. No no no no no. It makes sense, it's just not something that *I* get down with. For some people, I'm sure, signatures are a tangible reminder of a great experience or a great encounter. Or a way to have a piece that hasn't been mass-produced, but has been written in his own hand (even if it's just his name, illegibly). But all that an autograph in a book proves to me is that someone somewhere met an author. Which is not terribly satisfying.

Thank you sooooo much Jenn for offering to take a book for me to have Mr. Gaiman sign. But I think I'm going to wait until his next tour so that I can shake his hand in person and tell him that he has improved my life with his words.

10:26pm: Poem for Morgan
My friend Morgan D.S. Murphey is in charge of space requests at my school, and I enjoy filling out false space requests for her amusement. On the most recent one, I claimed that my show was called "On A Lemon Yellow Morning I Awoke to Chocolate Words."

She liked this line very much. So I wrote a poem using that as the first line, so that she could see where it went in my mind. It went something like this:

*****
On a lemon yellow morning I awoke to chocolate words.
Or expected to, but found false dreams had clouded all my thoughts.
The morning wasn't yellow and my words were all for naught.
Blue electric storms above me sliced the sky in thirds.
With a purple-tonguéd whisper, I tried pleading with the sky.
But the day was green and gray by then, and mocked me, by and by.
*****

This has been Random Bits of Poetry with Dave McGee.

6:02pm: Yesterday, I finished reading Number9Dream by David Mitchell.

Wow wow wow and once again wow.

This novel was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, and is now shortlisted in Dave McGee's most favorite books of all time. I cannot recommend this book strongly enough.

Wow.

This has been Vague but Passionate Book Reviews with Dave McGee

12:59pm: Nothingness and whatnot...
Amazon.com has a bunch of new features. They list a text's "Statistically Improbably Phrases" (very funny), and have stuff like "Average Syllables per Word" and "Words per Dollar." All of this stuff is tres cool. But the one that I like best is called Concordance.

Concordance finds the 100 most used words in a book (excluding incredibly common words such as "the" and "an") and lists them in alphabetical order, with each individual word's font size denoting how often it's used. Tons of fun, in my opinion. While browsing through some concordances, I came across this one, from Jean-Paul Sartre's "Being and Nothingness." And I'll be damned if that doesn't read like one exceptionally beautiful poem. Just really quite lovely.

So there's your bit of post-modern poetry for the day: an alphabetical list of common words from a philosophy textbook. (Seriously, you should read it. It's beautiful.)

9:52am: I've built up somewhat of a reputation for accumulating a lot of loose change. It used to cover every available flat surface in my home or dorm room; small piles of coins were evidence that I had recently been in a room. My sister-in-law once picked up all the loose change in my bedroom in California and it added up to $40, which she used to buy paint supplies to make the room look nicer.

Well, due to tight finances, I decided another change-in (ha!) might be in order. This morning, I loaded all of my coins into a plastic bag, making my backpack quite a bit heavier. I traded them in at a free coin counter at a local bank, guessing that I may have had $12 or even $15 or possibly even $20 in coins.

Umm, way off.

I'm $52 richer.

10:30am: Currently Reading (and wow!)
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell
Occasionally Re-Reading
Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson
Listening
Jeff Mangum Live at Jittery Joe's

I'm willing to offer more substantial reviews, if anyone's interested. My guess: probably not. But if you're looking for something really effing great to read, let me recommend Cloud Atlas. Two word review: It rocks.

11:16am: Wow. Lots of really, really bad news this morning. Stomach-churningly bad.

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