Taste of Death

Don’t know that much of transcendentalism, but from my Highschool class I’ve been told it’s about how we’re all connected. Given enough imagination we can discern what it’s like to be a Roman citizen praying at an altar; a Japenese emperor tending his country.  

I’m moving in two weeks.  It’s given me a new perspective on death. What it’s like to settle my debts, to help my friends set up a life without me and to manufacture my last waking moments. And if we pretend that each act towards moving is the equivalent of one cough, one bleeding stomache, one tank of oxygen, than I can discern what it’s like to manufacture my last moments as my body begins to shut down. And you know what I’ve found…?

I’ve discovered a new awareness.  The details become vital, yet there’s no time for worry.  I’ve discovered that my relationships with people have dissolved into pure love.  From a taste of death, I’ve discovered I’ve never felt more alive…

But what is this fire, this power, this energy that burns through my veins? A passion. A drive.  An anticipation for the death to come. Ashes to ashes, and the Phoenix shall rise again. The answer is birth...

Strolling through the bookstore...

http://books.google.com/books/about/The_Believing_Brain.html?id=i_ihCeNpcaQC

Harvey Dent

Let's play find the word! Here's an easy one...

http://www.rlclaw.co.uk/advice/harvey-dent-fiction/

 Whether its a bat, a white knight, Gotham's salvation or simply the importance of believing in the goodness of people, Nolan's Batman saga is a story entirely driven by the importance of believing in a symbol, an idea.

Antidote

After reading my last post, someone asked me: How do you combat Writer's Block?
The good news: There's easy medication for it, and it tastes like strawberries!

1) Read a book.

I don’t mean read and forget the main character’s name. I mean analyze it, suck it dry. Criticize it as four men would standing around a poor man fixing a heater.

2) Read the world.

Read it as you would a good book.
Magic of the World

3) Read the soul.

Ninety nine percent of all story (even Thomas the Train) surrounds the human soul. Every great literary artist, Coelho, Shakespeare, Lawrence, Dickinson, all, in some form or another, obsessed with our humanity, our human soul.

4) Be fearless.

The most painful part of the writer’s block disease is that blank page shouting at you to write something awesome. Kick it and write.

5) When all is said and done, there should be so much bubbling in your heart that all you have to do is “Write the truest sentence you know.” (Hemmingway, a survivor of writer’s block).

Kerouac's rules to writing.

The Writer's Curse.

There's a little rumour about the writer’s curse: that it’s a disease called writer's block. It's a curse romanticized by the media, (and consequently writers) because of the irony, the tragedy, the intrigue, the emotion. It’s the equivalent of a pianist who has lost his hands.

The writer’s true curse however is that he has too much to say.  He messes with periods, font sizes and line breaks not to reach the minimum but to fit the maximum requirement. 

The real curse is sifting through months of favored BS to buy the thirty seconds the reader has to give.  

Belief.

"We humans hope when there is no hope. We believe when believing is idiotic. And sometimes, in spite of everything, we prevail." -Andromeda, Wrath of the Titans. Epic movie.

 uploaded from wikipedia.

I don't know about other places but, belief is an underlying theme in American culture. Everywhere you look, someone, somewhere, somehow is preaching it. Just look around and listen for that word... 

Breakfast with the Cooks.

            One sunny morning at the Cook's residence…

“Don’t just sit there. You’re turtling up in that puny shell again. You always do that, leave all of our relationship problems on that stupid table, unspoken, untouched, unresolved,” said Emilia Cook.

“What’s wrong with that?” said Roger Cook, putting his red flip flops on her table, leaning back in his chair and popping a cheerio in his mouth. He wore a wife beater and plaid pajama pants. “By the way, we need milk.”

“Because they’ll never go away, we’ll never be happy, and they’ll come right back to eat us. Besides, it’s like stopping the movie right in the middle. It’s annoying.”

“You’re still upset about that aren’t you? It was just a movie. Anyway, who cares about the ending? I mean who even cares about the problems? I like you angry.”

“Ughh," she dug her nails into her hair. She slammed her hands to her side. She dug her nails into her palms. Then, while continuing to pace around in her bunny slippers, jabbing her finger at him, she said: "You know what? You’re a coward, that's what you are. You just don’t want to face the fact that we have problems here. You’re too chicken to deal with them. All you want is what's happening right in front of you.”

“Sticks and stones love,” quoted Roger. Crunch went a Cheerio.

“Look it! You’re dropping cheerios all over my carpet! The maid just cleaned! What about the party!! What're are the Johnsons gonna say when their little baby starts eating cheerios off the floor? Yippee!! Free floor infested breakfeast? What? Stop staring at me like that!! It's your fault. Do this, do that, Stop it, Stop that. clean this, clean that. I'm always the bad guy around here. What am I!? The broken doll of Stalin?! The broken record!? Just listen every now and then. Is that so much to ask?!! A broken record, I tell you. Uggh This all sounds so frequin' cliche!! I can't take it!!"
"One minute, 47 seconds. Getting better," he said, looking up from his watch. 
 "Stop it!!! I'm tired of all your...your..your... Uggh!!”

“I’m surprised you haven’t left yet,” said Roger, smiling.

“It’s my house!!!!” said Emila. She stormed off, tripped over her bunny slippers, and caught herself on the door handle. There she stood up and paused. With her back to him, her body settled into place as she put a hand over her mouth, breathing, thinking.
"You know you're terrible at being angry. Needs more cussing." Crunch. Roger leaned forward and really got into it with big hand gestures. "And you're supposed to storm out.You know leave me in peace? Storming out should be more of like a really fast brisk walk, like your trying to get somewhere besides the floor. All the way out, like you're walking down a catwalk. And slam the door real hard. As hard you can. Just like that. Come on, your turn. Try it. You've got this. Just like you ran over that cute little squirrel, remember? What did you name him?" He couldn't help hiding his smile now.
Long after he finished, she stood still and thought, fighting back tears. Then a smirk crept up from beneath her ring laden fingers. She turned back and said, “I’ll call your Mother.”

“Sure go ahead.”

She smiled, noticing how the cheerios paused for a moment, before he plopped them in his mouth,

“You know. The reason it’s annoying when you stop in the middle of a movie is that you never see the results. But you probably don’t care about whats gonna happen do you?”

            “You and your movie metaphors.” he said. Crunch. She smiled. She turned and left the room, muttering to herself, "Perhaps you do care...You know. By talking about this script we're creating for ourselves, I'm making it really meta arn't I. Or am I making things up again?"  

             She picked up the lime colored landline.

             Ring. Ring. 

"Hi. Mrs. Cook? Yes. No. Yes. Hey um...Yeah, it was really great. Listen. No. That's tonight. Hey, um...Yeah, I'm excited about it too. No, we're not ready yet. Almost though. Hey listen, I'm calling about Roger..."