I Had a Journal When It Was Still Cool to Have One

I had a journal when I was eight years old. 1981. The first entry talks about my parents buying a color TV. Not the first people in the building but thankfully not the last. The second entry talks about a phone call in the middle of the night and my father telling us his uncle was dead. I cried myself to sleep.

Then comes this little fun story. A few of us were playing soccer for a while. Then, a young couple sat on a bench overlooking the field, and started making out. One by one, we left the game and moved to the bench next to the couple. I don’t remember that but I’m sure it happened because I made a drawing of two stick figures on a bench, and the man’s thin stick-figure hand reaches out for the two circles in the middle of the woman-stick-figure’s body.

Then I have a movie review. My mom took my sister and me to see Les Miserables (the Anthony Perkins version), and for about ten pages I retold the story of Jean Valjean. The color TV was a page and a half, my first encounter with death was about a page, and so was my first encounter with the glory of boobies. And a retelling of Les Miserables was ten pages. I needed an editor.

I probably still do.

The diary lasted a month, and then, like in so many other instances, I moved on. Maybe my parents bought me the Commodore 64, or maybe I ran out of pages and didn’t think of asking for another notebook, but there end my written childhood memories.

Finally

I worked in construction for the summer when I was sixteen. My first job.

A year later, I lasted two weeks in a Ben and Jerry's. I was fired for wearing my hat backwards.

I was a soldier for three years. I was a bass player. A buss boy. A bartender. I worked at Marks and Spencer for a while, taking plastic off hangers, getting electric shocks every few seconds. Some people have been doing that for years. How insane is that?

I was a temp. A warehouse worker. I was a security guard. I worked on the queen's security team once. She was riding in a chariot and doing her back-hand wave like on TV. Even though I was supposed to face the crowds with my back to her, I just had to see that frickin' wave. You only live once.

I was a mover. A phone salesman. A relocation consultant (they have a name for everything nowadays). Worked in retail for a few years. In a horrible bookstore managed by pseudo Liberals who wore a "International Terrorist" with a picture of Bush t-shirts but were also arrogant, ignorant, and of course, one doesn't have to be anti-Semitic to be a proud lefty, but so many are, so I guess it helps.

I was a state employee, working in a booking station. Saw some crazy shit there. Then, I became a stay-at-home dad. It breaks my heart when he cries, but when he laughs, I feel happiness I never knew existed.

And now, I can finally call myself by another name.

Because after... I don't even want to think how long... After years of postponing and procrastinating and delaying and giving up and knowing at the back of my head that I should, but still didn't... After years of going to sleep angry because I didn't and waking up the next day and--see, it's so easy to postpone it for another day... You know what I mean. It's easier to read than to write. It's easier to play, to watch Lost, to eat, to sleep, to surf the web, to have sex, to surf the web and have sex at the same time, to clean the house, to organize the bookshelves, to play with the dogs, to play with the baby, to download music, to rate movies on Netflix, to jog, to collect how-to-write books than to actually write.

But finally, after all these years, I have a first edit.

Finally, I can call myself a writer.

I Want a Blogjob

Anyway, they moved me from evening to morning shift, which has some advantages, one if which is that finally I get to be home on Sunday nights, stopping the friends who come over from playing Trivial Pursuit. Speaking of feeling stupid and inadequate (the only thing I do in TP is roll the dice. Never answered a question), we have all these pregnancy classes coming soon. I protested being dragged to breastfeeding class but Honey insisted.

What was I talking about?

If I survive being surrounded by all these boobies, it’s probably time I started looking for a new job. With the crazy cost of daycare we’ve decided the best thing will be for me to stay home. At least for a while.

I looked around a bit and saw some job notices for freelance writers. I’m going to start applying soon, but I'm not very optimistic. I find it hard to believe I would be able to stand out. Most of these notices look for someone who specializes in particular stuff. Not much demand for someone interested in nothing and everything and all that's in between.

I’ll keep looking, but if you see a good writing job anywhere feel free to put in a good word for me. I have a BA in creative writing, and I already stand out from that crowd because I’ve never used the phrase “nodded vigorously.”

Wish me luck.

A Post Inspired by a Book I'll Never Read

When you write fiction and have a writer’s block, that’s fine. But if you have nothing to write about in a non-fiction blog then you’re just boring.

Just look around, see what inspires you… Here you go, that wasn’t hard:

On the bookshelf, I have a non-fiction book by Roddy Doyle, something about his parents falling in love.

Here’s my Roddy-Doyle-non-fiction-book-inspired post:

My name-dropping creative writing teacher, Howard Norman, was on a train once with this Doyle fellow, on their way to a writers’ conference, and from the train window they saw an interesting billboard or a hotel sign or whatever, something that made the writer in them get excited, and Doyle said he had to get out at the next stop to investigate, so they got off and walked toward that billboard or that sign. I wasn’t really listening, to be honest.

The point of the story is not what two authors actually found in a random New Jersey town, but that there is such a thing as an author’s life, and Howard Norman was living it. We had that story, and we had other stories about dinners with Leonard Cohen, and meetings with what’s-her-face who used to go out with Jack Kerouac, and disparaging statements about the interviewing techniques of Diane Rehm. Every class, someone new popped up and became a real person. The man who wrote The Commitments was chasing signs, Diane Rehm asked set, inane questions, and even Tommy Dorsey was there, somehow related to the family, playing trumpet in the basement.

To be honest, when I was trying to be a rock star I was never looking forward to the rock star life. I mean, once you throw the TV out of your hotel room window, you can’t watch TV anymore; the hotel is not simply going to give you another set, after all. But when I heard Howard Norman's literary anecdotes I thought that a writer's life had to be the life for me: writing, teaching, criticizing, meeting Leonard Cohen, and more importantly, telling people about meeting Leonard Cohen. Maybe it’s not so much about writing and getting a novel published, but actually about looking out of the window from a fast-moving train and searching for signs.

Look at that, I just created a metaphor without even trying. There’s hope for me yet.

Thinkers of the World, Unite!

I've been tagged for the first time (thanks, Bill Blunt). It's nice to be recognized for writing. One step at a time. So here I am, using my powers for good and spreading the wealth, tagging five thinkers for the Thinking Blogger Award.

And as for those five bloggers, if any of you decides NOT to do this, you have every right to ignore it. However, my Statcounter knows where you live.

Chronically Sick, But Still Thinking I Think - You don't get forty comments on each post in a relatively new blog just for drawing cute pictures. Some of us pretend we're thinkers by philosophizing for hours but eventually leading our readers in circles. But Sebastien can draw a picture, show a video, and talk about a favorite 15th century painter without pretentious aspirations, yet a whole unifying picture begins to make sense.

durante vita - With topics as varied as modern living is, durante vita treats it all with respect (although when it comes to The View, maybe with too much respect).

Is it Raining? - For those who fear this award will continue to go in circles for What-is-Life-All-About-ers, I give you Spooky. Not many words, but the guy is a genius.

U N L O A D E D - It's as cool and intelligent as a Robert Rodriguez-Quentin Tarantino double-feature. (Now, I know you're busy with the grand re-opening, so I won't be offended if you take your time).

The Peace Tree - The quest for peace. A poetic, inspiring blog.

And apologies to all of you on my link list on the right. If you're there it means I appreciate your writing and believe in you. Cheers. Now, here are the rules. Cut-and-Paste:


The participation rules are simple:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

A Life-Changing Moment

On my twenty-third birthday, five months after I left the army and six months before I was supposed to start University, I received two postcards in the mail. One was from a friend on a trip to India, the other from a friend who moved to London, both telling me I had to join them. I remember holding the two postcards, one in each hand, rereading them and trying to make up my mind.

One postcard described sitting on top of mountains in India watching the sun rise, feeling lonely and complete. The other friend wrote about insane parties and new friends and about a band he had started and about being a part of the London music scene.

A month later I moved to London. I went to the parties and met the new friends. I learned to play bass guitar and joined the band. I dyed my hair purple. I found myself in the first ever “Reclaim the Streets” demonstration, and just before the police came, left to get my ears pierced. I called my parents and told them I wasn't coming back. I went to Glastonbury Festival and saw the sun rise over the green hills. I fell in and out of love. Moving further from the city and forced to commute, I started reading on the Tube. On a trip to Amsterdam, sitting alone in a coffee shop, I wrote my first short story. I danced in a cage in Heaven club, and made out with drunk girls in Camden Town. I found out things. I sat in a room and listened to Mogway and Beethoven and stared at a world map, watching the oceans move slowly with the music until morning came and the world stood still. I met my American Honey and here I am in Baltimore.

What if I chose differently? And maybe even if I had chosen to go to India rather than London I would still be sitting here, with my Honey sleeping upstairs, struggling in her sleep to stretch her legs because Buddy and Ginger are so goddamn needy. Maybe I didn’t have a life changing moment on my twenty-third birthday because no matter what, I would have been sitting here at this exact same spot, writing this exact same sentence.

I talked too much

The vixens at italk2much finally reviewed my site.

I got my ass kicked by the brunette with the robot, who gave me an even 0/5, but for now I'm triumphing in the comment section, where the orange hair cutie wrote "I like this," and the one with the purple hair loves Buddy and wants to give him puppy kisses. I don't know how he'll react to that. After all, he's not a puppy but a 13-year-old Pit Bull who's always struggled with his sexuality.

Anyway, it was fun. I haven't had so many girls look at me since I dreamed of going to school naked. Now I can go back to the regular writing. Next time, What is it like to work for the State? (Hint in the picture below)

My Book of Poetry

There’s a notebook of poems I wrote when I was seven, which, to my eternal embarrassment, my dad insists on reading to anyone I bring home when I visit. The poems rhyme. They’re filled with speaking animals and even stranger humans. Surreal little rhymes about popular culture, my family, and my life as a struggling seven-year-old. They have colorful drawings.

“Oh, no, Dad. Please don't,” I say. We were having a good time, talking and laughing and drinking coffee, why did he have to ruin everything with the stupid notebook?

But when I hear him proudly read the words of the young poet I can recall the naïve expressions of an uncorrupted mind and the pleasing simplicity of a life without metaphors, and I know that no matter what I write in the future, I had already passed my prime by the time I was eight.

Maybe in the Future

Where is the life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

T. S. Eliot wrote that.

Maybe in the future I will write something meaningful as well.

Once, I wrote a short essay that made people cry; that’s something. It talked about my dad. Two pages about my dad and about how he reacted when I told him a friend of mine died, and how I suddenly realized I had been expecting too much of him; that he was just a normal, vulnerable, confused person who found himself in a situation where he had to console someone who was expecting him to cure his sadness. Something like that. You can find it here. I was a better writer then.

The Great

I want to discover all the great music out there. I want to read all the great books. And I want to write better music and better books. But maybe more than that, I want to be asked my opinion about these things. I want Jon Stewart to try to understand my world view in five minutes. Sure, a longer interview would be nice, maybe Fresh Air on NPR, or In the Actor Studio. Why not? He had Martin Lawrence so I guess anything goes.

At first, I will get to talk about my book and about the reasons for writing, and about the struggle to publish, and about my doubts, and of course about my future projects. The interview can go anywhere, though. At any point I might make a political statement and the interview will go in an unexpected direction. Really? You think the President should be impeached? You think illegal immigrants are modern-day slaves? You think the two-party system alienates voters? My, oh, my. How could we have lived without these second-hand opinions?

We all want to matter in our all-too-human way. Even the Dalai Lama wants to be recognized. Why else would he sign all his books with the prefix “His Holiness”?

At some point you stop trying. You’ll never be as great as The Great.

I guess I was about twelve when one day I visited my uncle and his family. They were all outside, grilling or something, or talking, or whatever it is people do, and I was sitting on the couch in the living room. By the way, they have a TV set, but not in the living room. They have one maybe in the kitchen or in some other designated room, but not in the living room. That space is supposedly used for more intellectual activities, like mother and son playing classical music together.

So I took out a harmonica they had there in a box and started playing. Anyone who's ever had any musical training (for me, it was about a year of a two-level, big in the ‘80s organ), learning to play the harmonica is very easy. You blow and get a C, breath in and get a D. There’s a trick in the end with the A and the B, but other than that it’s easy. You blow into the first three holes and get a perfect C chord. What could be easier than that? By the end of the day, I wasn’t a good harmonica player; I wasn’t able to play the dreaded Minors or Flats and I had no idea what playing a blues harmonica would be like, but I could easily play along with Dylan. The thing is, that’s still all I know and all I will ever know. There is no future in harmonica for me. It’s not like I felt when I was younger, that any activity on any day could lead me onto an imaginary path. Like the day I learned to juggle: I can juggle, but I can’t do any tricks. Like my understanding of French, like my cooking, like my trivial knowledge, like everything about me—thriving for the average.

This uncle, his eldest son was a great artist. He was also interested in computers. He was the first one I knew that connected to the Internet when it was still some kind of new-age type of truckers’-radio. It took a few minutes to connect to people, and then, if you didn’t immediately get disconnected, you were able to send a message. And that was it. A couple of minutes later you would get a response. So this guy, naturally, was one of the first people to jump onto the Startup boom. He was a graphic designer. I don’t know what he does now, but it has nothing to do with art or with success. He has a kid, though.

The second son was a violin player. For years, through his entire childhood, he would practice the violin eight hours a day with some big shot teacher. He would play us classical music recitals, and we would all nod, admiring our cousin for his dedication and slapping ourselves on the back for vaguely recognizing a classical piece. When he was in his early twenties he joined a Celtic band, playing the fiddle. For fun. People do stuff for fun, there’s no shame in that. So he played in the band, and the crowds did an Israeli version of Riverdance, and everyone had a good time. But his mom knew better, and she told him he needed to concentrate on playing the violin professionally. They didn’t spend all this time and she didn’t spend all this money for him to play fun music.

He’s happy now, I guess, playing for seniors on Saturday afternoons. He, too, has reached the end of his quest.

The third son was the muscles. He was the one climbing the tree in the backyard, the one riding his bicycle all night, the one running, lifting, and hitting. He was the one who played basketball professionally before he joined the army. He was the one that spent time in Gaza dressed as a Palestinian woman as part of an elite unit. He was also the one who fell two floors when the roof of a Gaza building he was standing on suddenly collapsed. He still gets a lot of money from the army, apparently, so at least he has that.

Now, if these people who passionately chased their goals never amounted to much, what can I expect? I, who one day learned to play harmonica like Alanis Morissette, dare to expect anything more than what I’ve got?