Lost in the Forest . . .

Something David said about being in the woods- this is a good one by Neruda


Lost in the Forest . . .
-Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Some Good News

(Doesn't the above title sound like the name of a Christian rock band? Except the members aren't Christian at all but they're all named Christian- even the girl who plays the tambourine . . .)

Just got an email from SHINE! (online journal) editor Pamela Griffin notifying me that she liked the flash piece I submitted and that she'd like to publish it in the August edition.

Wow! This is getting fun.

The story is Old Diego- the last story I wrote in David's class. I wanted to try flash fiction and because David is a cool guy I knew he wouldn't slam me for not turning in a full story. I've worked on this story here and there, debating on making it longer, fleshing it out, but I really like it just the way it is.

SHINE!, August, Old Diego.

Swing batta batta swing!

We went to a Silverhawks game last night and I ate 3 hot dogs and had 2 Mountain Dews. I had a great time (we left before the end of the game- the Hawks were losing 3-1) and I'm trying to narrow down why. At first I though it was because it was Dollar Monday and I was all swept up in Dollar madness- but then I realized that a can of pop and a hot dog should really NOT cost a dollar a piece.

I'm not even a baseball fan- I can't watch it on TV, I can't tell you who had what stats in whatever year. But there's something so . . . tranquil? peaceful? watching a game move so slow with spurts of action. Almost like reading a sentence with an exclamation point at the end of it.

As I sat on the bleachers I was overwhelmed by everything really. The people, the grayblue clouds rolling in silently over us, the noise, the heat and the breeze, the falcon gliding over the old Studebaker buildings, the crack of the bat.

Serenity.

I even allowed myself to enjoy those things I would have found annoying and intrusive like the cheesy games between innings (racing vegetables, dancing chickens), I may have even stood up for the Chicken Dance and the YMCA, but I'm not telling.

Something about last night reminded me about church- standing and sitting, collective simultaneous responses as if on cue (a hit! a steal!). Everyone communing under one roof (or sky).

Maybe I've found a new house of worship.

June's a Goin'

The first fabulous summer month that we call June is almost over and I haven't posted a thing. There have been many almost posts such as. . .

Gloria and I went camping together for the first time ever at Turkey Run and it was awesome! We didn't realize there was this whole camping culture: people walk up and down the campsite roads, just strolling or riding their bikes. We even saw people cruising through the campsite! Campers and RV's decked out with all kinds of crazy lights, strolling troubadours (really!), dogs everywhere. I'm not trying to down the experience, I just wasn't ready for it. Everyone was so friendly, I didn't know this until someone told us before leaving town for Turkey Run, but you can leave all of your stuff set up on the campsite and NO ONE WILL STEAL FROM YOU.

Turkey Run State Park is a beautiful place. Gloria and I tackled their toughest trail (ladders, steep inclines, wading, rock crawling, etc.) on the first day and we fell in love with the place. Some people get turned on by nature and they want to write poems or paint or take pix or whatever, I on the other hand, turn off that creative part of me. The urge to create disappears, and the desire to be kicks in. I don't know why, maybe it's because I want to create a certain image of whatever, but when I'm faced with something so grand or awe inspiring, I'm happier just to be a part of it. I don't think about stories I could set there or stories based on my feeling of being in such a great environment. I haven't really wanted to write anything or even review some of my old stuff, mostly I just think about Turkey Run.

Another post would have gone something like this:

We have decided to end the placement of our current foster child. We let the MAN get to us and we don't feel we're in a situation to beat the system. It sounds so cold doesn't it, to sacrifice the livelihood of a child because we can't handle the bureaucracy that is as much a part of her as the rest of her baggage. So many people, upon hearing our decision, have reacted differently but the same:

"It's all for the best"
"Things happen for a reason"
"You're doing the right thing"
"Where will she go"
"What would you have done with your own child"
"You're probably wouldn't be able to handle any child"
"You've done alot for her in two years, more than others"
"Later on she'll realize just how much you did for her"

I am no Mother Theresa and it's taken me nearly 30 years to shake off Catholic guilt: you have to look out for yourself first and make sure you're the best you can be BEFORE you should even attempt to help someone else. Again, it's a cold and selfish statement, but it's true and I've seen too many people hang on to marriages, relationships, jobs, because they worry what will be thought of them. I don't care really what others think, negative or positive, all I know is that I tried, I failed, and now it's time to grow and move on.

Or another post would have been:

I just caught the biggest fish I've ever caught out of the St. Joe River. I was fishing for Rock Bass and Bluegill and Pumpkin Seed when a Smallie decided to go after the bubble bee like bait I was using. I've got photos of it and will post it later, sorry I take horrible fish pictures, but it was a couple of pounds at least. To understand why I'm so excited, I've fished out of Howard Park for a couple of years now and never really caught anything to get excited about, most of my success came from fishing at Potato Creek. This year Potato Creek seems to be a waste of gas for me and Howard Park is golden.

So these are the things I've been wanting post and so now I have.

Gone Fishin'

Okay, this little guy is all I caught during two hours of fishing at Potato Creek today. Went out with my brother Sal and nephew Estevan. I normally go for the blue gill and other pan fish, bass fishing is too complicated? for me. I want to cast, let the bait float under a bobber and chill in the shade of a tree until I get a blue on the hook. This young large mouth is the 2nd or 3rd I've caught at the Creek only after I get bored and start casting with Bass Stoppers just to get the blood flowing.

However, I was happy for the rest of the morning.

I've been tagged

Um, took me a while to figure this out, I guess I'm supposed to list 5 songs that knock my socks off- at this very moment in time it's the following:

"Passionate Kisses" Lucinda Williams
"Telephone Song" B.B. King (SRV song)
"Anselma" Los Lobos
"Let's Stay Together" Al Green
"Jambalaya" Hank Williams

Some more Paz

Motion- Octavio Paz

If you are the amber mare
I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
I am the spike burning in your mind
If you are the morning tide
I am the first bird's cry
If you are the basket of oranges
I am the knife of the sun
If you are the stone altar
I am the sacrilegious hand
If you are the sleeping land
I am the green cane
If you are the wind's leap
I am the buried fire
If you are the water's mouth
I am the mouth of moss
If you are the forest of the clouds
I am the axe that parts it
If you are the profaned city
I am the rain of consecration
If you are the yellow mountain
I am the red arms of lichen
If you are the rising sun
I am the road of blood

Henry Darger Images

Read more about Henry Darger here or here or maybe aqui!

I've only recently cracked open the book I found at the library about Henry Darger. I'm still not sure what to make of him, I only know that I'm intrigued by his work and his life. Why did he paint what he painted or write the things he wrote? Maybe this isn't the correct question.

Homes and Gardens and Bestiality- and more memoirs/biographies

The house has been on the market for about 4 weeks now and we will have our fourth showing tomorrow. It's the same response over and over again: It's cute! but the neighborhood sucks!

However, if the house does sell soon, there is a nice old house on Lilac on about 1 1/2 acres that really could be a forever house. The house was built in 1860 and would take a lot of elbow grease to get it where we want it. But, there's alot of room to roam both inside and out and it's close to the river.

Gloria and I were working on the yard yesterday and we decided to let the dogs hang out with us. They were catching rays and we were working when some weirdo drove by and said "Can I fuck your dogs?". It took me a second to realize what he said because I was listening to the Blues Revue on 88.1 but I could tell from the look on Gloria's face that she was disturbed. What does it take for someone to say something so ridiculous?

I can't get away from reading memoirs. I'm currently reading "Bento Box in the Heartland". It's Linda Furiya's take on being Japanese and growing up in Indiana and how she uses food to understand her situation. Pretty good so far!

Also checked out a huge artbook about Henry Darger. He was this outsider art/ folk art guy from Chicago. He was a janitor by day and painted watercolors and made collages by night. Really interesting, intriguing stuff. I can't wait to read it.

And we're back

Thanks to all of the new folks who've been checking out the blog- Bienvenidos!

Just turned in my final portfolio- I want to give those stories one more lookie before I start submitting again. I think they're pretty good, but I find myself, now that I finally understand revision (to a small degree- something is better than nothing) wanting to gut my stories. That's too much like starting over. I have to learn to curb my cravings and allow any new ideas I get for old stories to become new stories. But I believe I now know where books, novellas, and really good short story collections come from and no it isn't from having sex with the computer. Those things come from asking questions and more questions and then more questions until there are no more honest sincere answers to give or you run out of questions. But I can truly see some of my characters really coming to life in a book. No book attempts however until I publish a couple of short stories.

Damn, writing is hard work.

Anyway, I expect to start blogging here once a week and be more disciplined about it.

Oh yeah, I gradute on Tuesday, May 8 from Indiana University-South Bend with a degree in English- writing concentration.

I plan on staying on at the Library and hope that a better position will open up. I have been asked to job shadow at the reference desk and I hope this is a good thing/sign.

Why I write

Here's the essay I wrote for my personal aesthetic assignment. I don't think I quite fulfilled the requirments, but I really like what I wrote (or maybe my caffiene goggles are on too tight!).

Sometimes the Magic Works

Ok, so I stole the title for this essay from Terry Brook’s excellent memoir based on his writing life. However, I’m pretty sure that I heard somewhere that if someone else has said something you’ve always wanted to say, but they said it better, than it’s ok to say what they’ve said. And so, this leads me to the purpose of this essay. My literary aesthetic and purpose for writing are deeply informed by my grandfather. I inhabit the same storytelling place as he does, mostly because it’s the first one I ever visited, and consequently, it’s the one I feel most comfortable in. I try to use the same paintbrush as my grandfather, just not the same paint. Where his stories approach life’s teachings using the spoken format, my stories seek life’s teaching’s using the short story. And in this format I seek to use what I’ve learned from him: I draw on the power of a strong image conjured by simple words to ensconce emotion and knowledge into the mind of the reader in the hopes that my themes will resonate deep inside.

I can still recall, with vivid memory, sitting at my grandfather’s elbow at the kitchen table on any given Sunday, and listening to him tell stories from his life in Mexico. I remember his massive brown hands moving like a conductor’s baton keeping time over his gruff voice: loud, dissonant, silent, tender, etc. He told adventure stories, fantasy stories, ghost stories, work stories, death stories. He told them as though they were true, as though they happened yesterday, and I took them as such. Sometimes his stories happened to him, sometimes to an uncle or a cousin, but always there was a lessoned to be taught and a lesson to be learned. His stories created a certain space in time where beauty sprung forth from horror and wonder could birth wisdom. As a child his stories held me in a trance from which the powerful magic of images could work into my soul and later be drawn upon when needed. My literary aesthetic comes from this place.

In my writing, and more obviously in my grandfather’s stores, there exists what Joseph Campbell would probably call the “hero’s journey.” What appealed to my grandfather, I believe, and to myself, is the idea that these “heroes” could teach the listener/reader truth. These truths reveal themselves as the character commits trials and errors in an attempt to quell some desire or nagging feeling; a journey of self discovery. After the hero gets to know himself better and is aware of his needs and society’s demands, he is then able to negotiate a path for himself. Joseph Campbell gained much attention for his work after he discovered this basic story telling element in the diverse myths of the world’s cultures.

But why is this “truth” so important? Personally, it’s my own hero’s journey that I am on when I write. This is a journey that I must take to discover who I am in a world where my insides don’t match my outsides. I cannot recreate the life my grandfather lived: cowboy, railroad worker, farmer, laborer, etc. My grandfather had the luxury, if it can be called that, to act and make mistakes and to learn out in the open world. I, on the other hand, have the luxury of sitting on my ass to read and write and not worry where my next meal is coming from or if someone is coming to steal my land out from under me. I search for my truth’s then in the open world of my mind and in the shared knowledge of all those storytellers who have come before, and I struggle to make their hard earned lessons fit my modern psyche.

The themes that my “heroes” tend to explore include culture clash/mash, familial obligation in a self-centered society, class structure, and the divided self. Growing up with a foot in two cultures (Mexican and American), I was in a position to feel the effects of two places struggling to invade my senses; one world was internal and the other external. The internal world was created by my Mexican family: the food I ate, the language I spoke, the traditions I followed. . . and the external world was created by American television, public school, white and black childhood friends and their families. This created a dichotomy within me that, at any given moment, seemed to battle for control. Octavio Paz once said that the Mexican-American was like a pendulum swinging back and forth between two worlds; he insinuated that we would never be at rest, never find peace. However, much like the Chinese idea of Yin-Yang, I tried to get both sides to coexist; the tortillas next to loaf of bread at the dinner table. But this was a Herculean task and in all of the negotiating and peace making I developed strong powers of observation as I witnessed my two worlds collide over and over again.

The protagonists in “A Season for Bears” (ASB) which I wrote last year, and “Juice and Kookies” (JK), are both young Latino males growing up in the Midwest, far from the influence of their homeland. Mijo from ASB is gifted student who feels the obligation placed on him by his Mexican family and white teachers to use his talents to “save his people” as an oppressive sensation. He feels that the world is “pressing down on him.” Mijo’s black sheep Uncle Gonzo arrives at a critical point to allow Mijo to shed the weight of obligation and to allow himself the freedom to be who he wants to be. Junior, from JK, also tries to discover who he is as he clears mud from his eyes that is placed there by his family (work hard, measure of a man, help your family, etc) and the American world of privilege and adolescent sex.

The language I use in both stories purposely seeks the meaningful, profound image that emerges from the observations of the characters. In JK Junior is witness to “plump and purple skies”, “crying walls”, and a painted fragile sailboat in the middle of the sea. In ASB, Mijo sees “shadows dancing on walls”, “eyes that talk”, whispers that hide their speakers, and questions that “disappear into pockets.” By using these images I hope to convey that what the characters are seeking (self discovery and a place in their world that will allow happiness) can be an elusive, abstract thing if you don’t know what you’re looking for in the first place. All the characters know is that they feel like they’re being pulled in a million directions and they don’t know why, and what I hope these images, and the language I use to create them, will create the same sensation in the reader.

Some could argue, I guess, that really the magic I’m describing, and the techniques my grandfather used, are the natural consequences of living in a society that values Magical Realism as a genre. To invoke the powers of the strange and the wondrous for a character to reflect upon can be an easy way to get your point across. However, I feel that, even though I approach that point, I try to not indulge in it. I am happiest when I am able to have my characters create the magic inside of themselves (via language and images), where it is available only to them and the reader. And by allowing the reader to view this magic, I involve them in a way that is intimate, and therefore, hopefully, make the story and its truth meaningful while spanning cultures, gender, beliefs, etc. This internal magic also allows me to find the truth of the character and hopefully the truth that I seek.

Some Neruda

We are the clumsy passersby

by Pablo Neruda

We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,
with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,
we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down
in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.
We are all guilty, we are all sinners,
we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,
this might be our last clean shirt,
we have misplaced our tie,
yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,
sons of bitches who move in the highest circles
or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,
we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,
or in solitude's: we are the poor devils
who earn a living and a death working
bureautragically or in the usual ways,
sitting down or packed together in subway stations,
boats, mines, research centers, jails,
universities, breweries,
(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),
(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).

Another Paz Poem

Between going and staying the day wavers
by Octavio Paz

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Writing. . .ugh!

I've been suffering lately from "Senior-itis" (which should not be confused with "The Itis" which is something totally different). I'm only taking one writing class this semester and it only meets once a week, but I can't seem to focus, or frankly, care much about it.

But here are some thoughts on my process:

I haven't written anything new in a while but I finally have a grip on this whole revision thing. I have learned this semester that I write to help me understand some "thing", not just to be clever or share a story. Previously I thought I wrote because I had something to say, but now I realize I write because I have something to learn. (Sure that sounds arrogant, Welcome to the School of Me: Everything I Write is Law, Dogma, Truth etc.). So I write a story and then it takes on a life of its own. The story becomes a "thing" in and of itself that must be dealt with, wrestled, made to obey. For the story to work successfully, it must be made more fluid, and the Idea that I was chasing/sharing/understanding must be brought into a sharper focus. That's when it's time to take out distractions, filler, other crap, etc.

This extraneous stuff comes from me having a vague idea of the Idea. So as I'm writing and searching I get a vague impression of what I'm truly trying to understand. I've been told my writing has a certain mysterious quality about it and I think this is where it comes from. I don't notice it really until someone points it out, and, hey, I can't help not enjoying mystery since I was raised by a hard core Roman Catholic and indoctrinated into the Great Mystery blah blah blah you get the idea.

So I think I'm closer to understanding my aesthetic. Or am I?

Today's post doesn't contribute much to the greater good, but it gives me a good start for an assignment due today.

One more

Here's another memoir I read last year.


Heat- Bill Buford
An investigative piece for a major newspaper becomes a year long and then life changing experience for Buford. Buford is given an insiders look into the inner workings of a trendy, NYC restaurant owned by Mario Batali. Really strong writing makes Bufords passion for cooking and the history of Italian cooking infectious and, of course, the stories and behind the scenes happenings are fun to read.

Member? You member. You don member? I member.

I've really been enjoying reading memoirs lately, especially memoirs by writers. Real life can be so much more interesting than fiction.

Here's a list of the memoirs I've read during the last year or so:

Native State- Tony Cohan
I came across Tony's memoir after reading both of his Mexico books. He was a Hollywood kid before Gary Coleman or (insert favorite kid actor/musician here) and had a dad who couldn't let go of Radio's Golden Days and a mom who was a drunk. In this memoir he goes back home to be with his dying father and recalls his childhood in Cali and his time in Europe, oh yeah and his time as a kick ass jazz drummer.

Stranger Than Fiction- Chuck Palahniuk
Mostly essays and stuff about his out of the ordinary, true life experiences he's had. I enjoyed this better than Choke, his only work of fiction that I've read.

Somtimes The Magic Works- Terry Brooks
I became a fan of Brooks in high school after reading one of the Shannara titles. Sure, the Shannara stuff is derivative of Tolkiens work but he sort of addresses this point in his memoir, but mostly I like hearing about how he broke into the biz.

On Writing- Stephen King
Similar to Brooks' memoir, King tells you about his childhood and his obsession with rock and roll, pulp fiction, and writing. He also shares what his life was like after he was hit by a car.

Bird by Bird- Anne Lamott
In her memoir, Lamott is extremely honest about her childhood and college life and her dad- but what I like most are the parts, like in King's and Brooks' memoirs, where she puts on a writing how-to for the rest of us.

I feel so rejected!!!

Got my first real rejection today. Here it is in all of its glory. One down and many hundreds to go!

"Dear Mr. Moya,

Thank you for your submission.  Although this particular piece does
not meet our current needs, we wish you the best in your work and hope
you will continue to enjoy 971 MENU.

Sincerely,
Gregory Napp"

Imitation of Lance Olsen

Went to the Lance Olsen reading last night @ ND with 401 class. I was interested in what he had to say about experimental fiction and I found his writing to be strong and completely accessible. In other words, I was expecting some kind of crazy free form jazz thing but instead found a nice little Miles Davis Kinda of Blue vibe instead. Of course I really did know better, for class we had to read an excerpt (dig around until you find the excerpts link) of his work from nietzsche's kisses, and i was surprised by how easy it was to comprehend even if he did play with POV.

Lance was very approachable and was very easy to talk to. After the reading a small group of us including Neil and Kelcey headed over to Steve Tomasula's house to hang out. Steve and his wife Maria were excellent hosts and even though most of the crowd was composed of Domers it was a great experience and I'm glad I didn't pass it up.

Below is the assignment from class to imitate the excerpt we read for class, no title yet, but the more I read it the more it grows on me.

************************************************************************************

You stand there and try to register politeness and interest on your face as you mask your disdain and try to ignore the pain in your lower back. The Patron talks down to you like a child. You smile and nod and repeat:

“Sir, I’m not sure I understand-“

But he cuts you off. Be nice you remind yourself. Keep smiling. The pain in your cheeks and back equal a 5% raise. You need this money. Your future self needs all of the money you can make now. It’s evaluation time and the boss is watching this transaction from his office. Your eyes begin to wander and you notice just how flammable this Patron is. His breathe is stinging vodka, his hair is matted grease, his skin is white flakes. The heat from the LCD screen that now stares blankly at you would be enough for this Patron to immolate himself. You hope that he will step closer; he would make an interesting sacrifice to the Library Gods.

“Sir, I believe you’ve been misinformed. What you are looking for is on the 3rd floor. Ask the information desk.”

You can’t help but notice he is now wavering. He is now falling. He is now bleeding from the head and peeing in his pants. The liquids run in opposite directions from one another. The security guard rushes over to the Patron while other Patrons gather. Some Juvenile Patrons point and laugh. You stand there with that smile on your face. It is now genuine. You marvel at how wonderful it feels to be honest.

2007 Chicago Auto Show

It was a boys day out and we had a ton of fun. Above you'll find some pics of a couple of concept cars that really caught my eye. There were a ton of cars and spent nearly 3 hours wandering around the place. Jeep had this great setup where people could get a ride in a new Jeep on their indoor track- but the wait was over an hour so we didn't do it. Didn't get to see all of the cars, but there is alway next year.

Fender Bender

I don't want to get too deep into the story, but on Tuesday morning I was involved in a harmless fender bender, in fact the guy that hit me didn't even knock the snow off of my bumper (he did smash up his hood though), but my ANGER was stirred up. Apparently, the young IUSB student driving ahead of me decided she needed to pull over, in the middle of the street, to get out of her car and yell at me. "Stop tailgating me, you're tailgating!" I was dumbfounded, how the hell could I be tailgating her if we had just left the light! We were in the middle of the intersection! We drove no more than 30 feet in bad weather! TAILGATING!

Having been in one other fender bender before, I knew that the guy behind me was financially responsible, however, I was so pissed off I told her that if she left the scene I would accuse her of leaving the scene of an accident. As we waited for the police, she approached my window with her cell phone and said "He wants to talk to you." I asked who. She said "my dad". MY DAD. Are you friggin kidding me! Your DAD!

So anyway, what has me the most pissed off is that she can pull crap like this all day and never be held responsible. Just because we don't have a law against stupidity doesn't mean people can act as they wish. Whatever happened to accountability, responsibility, maturity?? Just because the law says that the person who hit me is at fault doesn't mean that young lady is completely w/o fault . She, and her ridiculous, dangerous behavior are directly at fault.

Working where I do, I notice the public (which means all of us) more and more everyday is doing what it can to shirk responsibility for its actions.

Pitiful, pitiful, pitiful!