The best word in the world for "longing" in any language. Not a bad wine either.
(You all see what happens when my wife goes away? I become one of those bloggers).
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Añoranza
The best word in the world for "longing" in any language. Not a bad wine either.
(You all see what happens when my wife goes away? I become one of those bloggers).
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
She's Off Again
Again the dirty bastards from Medicins Sans Frontiers have contracted my wife away; again I must fill the empty spaces of this apartment with smoke, music, television and rough housing with the animals (they have no idea what's gotten into me); again I have to cuddle with a pillow instead of a hell of a Spanish body; again the world conspires to slide oceans in between; again we will have to groan and then sigh and grow stronger and better.
Nigeria. Somewhere nasty. More news as I get it. I'm very proud and very worried.
But she'll be ok (we've been training).
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Shameless Self-Promotion ReRedux
So this didn't work so well before, but my head was made for walls--if it wasn't, I wouldn't be a literary writer. I should clarify, too: the last round at Hugo House was a rousing success for all, I think, I'm just not sure I got any students off my blog-a-mercial. Anyway, banking for re-approach........
Pillaging Genre: Putting the Hip and Sensational Into Literature
Ever felt dusty and hopeless in the face of the colorful burgeoning of genre fiction?
I’ve gotten more than a few “passes” from literary agents who have deemed my work simply too, well, literary. In a marketplace where crime thrillers, sexy vampire dramas, and young adult adventures seem to be the only hot fictional items, we’ve got a choice: crossover entirely or adapt some elements of these genres to our own purposes.
We’ll dig into a few models of thriller and YA works that successfully preserve literary tradition while keeping the masses turning the page. We’ll write and workshop pieces of our own novels with the aim of making them more hotcake and less Cornish game hen. We’ll try to figure out how to sell without selling out, together.
Here's the link if you know anyone who might be interested: Pillaging Genre
One Zillion Thanks.
Pillaging Genre: Putting the Hip and Sensational Into Literature
Ever felt dusty and hopeless in the face of the colorful burgeoning of genre fiction?
I’ve gotten more than a few “passes” from literary agents who have deemed my work simply too, well, literary. In a marketplace where crime thrillers, sexy vampire dramas, and young adult adventures seem to be the only hot fictional items, we’ve got a choice: crossover entirely or adapt some elements of these genres to our own purposes.
We’ll dig into a few models of thriller and YA works that successfully preserve literary tradition while keeping the masses turning the page. We’ll write and workshop pieces of our own novels with the aim of making them more hotcake and less Cornish game hen. We’ll try to figure out how to sell without selling out, together.
Here's the link if you know anyone who might be interested: Pillaging Genre
One Zillion Thanks.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Miracles on 3rd Avenue
As an infrequent throwback to youth, some high school homies (I can’t seem to write “buddies” after “high school,” and “friends” just doesn’t capture it) decided to meet up at the Seattle Poetry Slam and take in a few rounds of the homegrown talent. After a lackluster and wince-producing performance by a couple of rookies and rocksteady ones from a couple of local artists during the open mic, we were treated to a spotlighted rendition of Matt Gano’s brilliance, then quit while we were ahead, and bailed before the Slam proper to find somewhere quieter to catch up.
The Spitfire Grill where the slam is held sits on Fourth Avenue, right about in the heart of the “West Edge” or “Belltown” or “North Downtown” or whatever you might called it based on your demographic. It’s a frantic mishmash of gentrification and crack corners, hipsters and thugs, Vespas and Harleys, tourists and cats that at one point wore flannel 24-7, etc. You get the point. Public policy Bermuda Triangle, land of inalterable contrast, and not a place to wander alone after dark.
We skipped down toward 3rd, veering toward our vehicles and walked through the door of the first bar that presented itself without even giving it the once-over. Once inside, however, we realized we’d scored beyond our wildest hopes: one wall covered in those mirrored domestic beer plaques, rubber flags advertising, yes, more domestic beer, lawn furniture, plexi-glassed TVs with graffiti scrawled scratched across them, pool tables that appeared to have rodent problems, and a cast of characters that would have rendered Jack Kerouac silent: obese Indians with no teeth; youngsters who looked like they’d been scribbled on the chalkboard of the world nodding off on smack; middle aged black single men rocking amazing styles; over the hill hookers flirting like mad but with a playful attitude.
The do-rag sporting bartender loped over and wanted to know what we were drinking. Someone asked what there was beer-wise.
“Man,” he said, sticking out his fingers to tick off the options, “we got Pabst on tap. We got Miller tall boys. And,” here he retired his hand from midair, “we also got Pabst tall boys.”
Two of my homies declined beverages, being purists of some sort, but Isaac and I went for the Pabst cans that ended up costing two dollars—I tipped do-rag fifty percent, we swilled our hops, waved goodbye, sidestepped the Indians who wanted deep philosophical conversation, and went on our way, joking about coming back to make a night of it.
When I realized my wallet was gone the next morning, it was with considerable blue that I realized, also, that it had to have taken its leave of me in that classy Belltown joint. I almost didn’t bother, but I had a full tank of gas and time on my hands and I drove south with my wife lecturing me about the precariousness of back pockets.
There were no lights on and I almost drove on, but scoped a flutter of movement and parked illegally. The door was open and it was not a supreme surprise to see that 65% of the clientele had not changed—nor even altered posture—since one a.m. that prior night. One gent was dozing with his beanie pulled over his eyes and his left hand in his Pabst, as if for warmth. It was dead silent till the ruddy faced, handlebar mustached new bartender removed a black toothpick from his mouth and asked how I was doin’.
“Not so hot,” I admitted. “Lost my wallet in here last night.”
He looked at me deadpan and snorted, put the toothpick back. I raised a hand to wave goodbye but he told me to hang on, as
if it were a very big favor indeed to hoist a wilted cardboard box and rifle through it.
“What it look like?”
Brown leather.
“When you in here?”
About 12:30.
“What your name?”
Eli—no, Nathaniel Hastings.
“Well I’ll be a motherfucker,” he says, “here it is.”
By now everyone within earshot is wrapped deep in the narrative and one exultant lazy eyed man claps for my success. My good fortune sings in my chest and my warmth for humanity swells. I grab the wallet with a grin and crack it to offer my savior a twenty—after all, I had some $270 in the billfold.
“Course, there ain’t no cash in it,” he says around the toothpick, eyes on the TV. “You oughta just be glad Sid saved it for ya.”
I tell the man to thank Sid for me, I guess, and walk out as he comments about the miracle of a lost wallet found in that joint to anyone who will listen.
The Spitfire Grill where the slam is held sits on Fourth Avenue, right about in the heart of the “West Edge” or “Belltown” or “North Downtown” or whatever you might called it based on your demographic. It’s a frantic mishmash of gentrification and crack corners, hipsters and thugs, Vespas and Harleys, tourists and cats that at one point wore flannel 24-7, etc. You get the point. Public policy Bermuda Triangle, land of inalterable contrast, and not a place to wander alone after dark.
We skipped down toward 3rd, veering toward our vehicles and walked through the door of the first bar that presented itself without even giving it the once-over. Once inside, however, we realized we’d scored beyond our wildest hopes: one wall covered in those mirrored domestic beer plaques, rubber flags advertising, yes, more domestic beer, lawn furniture, plexi-glassed TVs with graffiti scrawled scratched across them, pool tables that appeared to have rodent problems, and a cast of characters that would have rendered Jack Kerouac silent: obese Indians with no teeth; youngsters who looked like they’d been scribbled on the chalkboard of the world nodding off on smack; middle aged black single men rocking amazing styles; over the hill hookers flirting like mad but with a playful attitude.
The do-rag sporting bartender loped over and wanted to know what we were drinking. Someone asked what there was beer-wise.
“Man,” he said, sticking out his fingers to tick off the options, “we got Pabst on tap. We got Miller tall boys. And,” here he retired his hand from midair, “we also got Pabst tall boys.”
Two of my homies declined beverages, being purists of some sort, but Isaac and I went for the Pabst cans that ended up costing two dollars—I tipped do-rag fifty percent, we swilled our hops, waved goodbye, sidestepped the Indians who wanted deep philosophical conversation, and went on our way, joking about coming back to make a night of it.
When I realized my wallet was gone the next morning, it was with considerable blue that I realized, also, that it had to have taken its leave of me in that classy Belltown joint. I almost didn’t bother, but I had a full tank of gas and time on my hands and I drove south with my wife lecturing me about the precariousness of back pockets.
There were no lights on and I almost drove on, but scoped a flutter of movement and parked illegally. The door was open and it was not a supreme surprise to see that 65% of the clientele had not changed—nor even altered posture—since one a.m. that prior night. One gent was dozing with his beanie pulled over his eyes and his left hand in his Pabst, as if for warmth. It was dead silent till the ruddy faced, handlebar mustached new bartender removed a black toothpick from his mouth and asked how I was doin’.
“Not so hot,” I admitted. “Lost my wallet in here last night.”
He looked at me deadpan and snorted, put the toothpick back. I raised a hand to wave goodbye but he told me to hang on, as
if it were a very big favor indeed to hoist a wilted cardboard box and rifle through it.
“What it look like?”
Brown leather.
“When you in here?”
About 12:30.
“What your name?”
Eli—no, Nathaniel Hastings.
“Well I’ll be a motherfucker,” he says, “here it is.”
By now everyone within earshot is wrapped deep in the narrative and one exultant lazy eyed man claps for my success. My good fortune sings in my chest and my warmth for humanity swells. I grab the wallet with a grin and crack it to offer my savior a twenty—after all, I had some $270 in the billfold.
“Course, there ain’t no cash in it,” he says around the toothpick, eyes on the TV. “You oughta just be glad Sid saved it for ya.”
I tell the man to thank Sid for me, I guess, and walk out as he comments about the miracle of a lost wallet found in that joint to anyone who will listen.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Regression
Most of the time these days I embrace a slowly growing maturity, wisdom, evenhandedness, thoughtfulness, lovingkindness and fair minded worldview. This vision of life is a severe departure from my infantile leftism and tunnel vision of years past. But then there are things that hurl me back down the rabbit hole of youthful rage, fling me down through levels of consciousness, things that make me just want to shriek, "Cowards and Pigs!"
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