Bringing meaning back to words

One Writer's Words

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

And the Mountain Lions will Provide the Entertainment

 Entry 3

Law school
I embarked on this 'Esso Esquire' voyage so that I might get my writing legs seaworthy again after a long hiatus living in the land far far away from literature (i.e. DJ'ing, law school). So I put together a couple poems, added introductions, slapped on some pictures, and posted my first two blogs. But over the two weeks that followed I wrote next to nothing. Okay, save for text messages, Facebook chats, and a few nerdy emails to my brother about our respective fantasy hockey league teams, I wrote absolutely nothing. My voyage had stalled. Did my ship's engine die? Did the wind stop blowing from the northwest passage? Did I run into an iceberg off the coast of Greenland? Had the ocean run out of water? Why no writing? For one, I didn't feel like it. For another, I had nothing to write about.

The first reason is legitimate. But the second is just moldy fruit from ye olde forbidden tree of excuses. And so I'm writing now. Did I find something deep and meaningful to discuss? If so, what am I writing about? And what is the point? If indeed there is a point, will I ever get to it? And will the point be worthwhile? All legitimate questions, all of which I've heard before, but it is my entry and I will not be held hostage by an imaginary reader asking pesky questions. And since when did something have to be about anything? Seinfeld lasted nine seasons and enjoyed critical and popular acclaim based precisely on the self-aware smirking premise that nothing could be something, or even that nothing could be everything.
Yes, it's possible to do an entire episode in a parking garage.

Several summers ago I began writing a novel largely and loosely based on my experiences over many summers spent working on my uncle's ranch in Montana. I had written three chapters and gotten the project out of the door and on the road. The trip's purpose and character had been established: an adventure novel about a boy/young man's summer of self-discovery on a cattle ranch high in the mountains of big sky country. But many questions remained. What would be the main adventure of the story? How much of my own experiences would I use and how much would I make up?

I did not want to write a purely personal memoir of one of my summers or a summary of all the times I spent out West; I wanted the story to have intrigue and action within the friendly timeline of one summer. A fictional story enhanced by the non-fiction of my countless experiences working on the ranch. You see, I had no stirring adventures, battles, intense chase scenes, or gripping conflicts between good and evil during my summers driving cattle, mending fences, stacking hay, driving tractors, and killing weeds. I needed to make things up and be the creator, the progenitor, the auctor I discussed in Entry 1, and at the same time seamlessly combine the real experiences with made-up dream land characters and twists, as discussed in Entry 2.

I should be herding the cattle,
not scattering them....

Ball so hard
Workin' in Big Sky Country


Me: I choose to enter the arena!
May I do so for its own sake?
And may I be my own critic?
Teddy: Shut up and enter...
but don't enter and shut up.
Writing things you already experienced is one thing, but tossing in fake things into the mix is quite another. Shouldn't it be easy making things up? No it's not easy. But yes, making up imaginary readers posing questions clearly is no problem for me. Take the critic and the critic's subject. The critic reacts to the experience of a movie, music, or a performance, while the producer of the movie, the musician, or the actor actually creates or performs where once there was no movie, no song, no performance. The maker and the doer must believe in and commit to his or her work, while the critic too easily "points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better." This is not to say the critic cannot add instructive value. Nor is it true that a critic cannot be or is not a part of the creative process. The critic can create a whole work of his (or her) own in parody, satire, or homage. The point is, one should never be among "those cold and timid souls who neither know victory or defeat" but instead should enter "the arena" for a worthy cause and make, create, perform, write. And when you can produce anything, you should want to produce something of quality, something lasting, something meaningful... something great (read: The Great American Novel). What excuses could you have? You can choose any subject, any plot, any character, any setting, any line, any sentence, and any word. And so it is with a creative writer. The universe of non-fiction writing is finite, the universe for fictional infinite and the choices endless.
There are TV shows for everything

Some ideas are better left unexplored.

My Montana summer could include cowboy and Indian fights, a shootout between rivals, bear attacks, wild fires across the ranch, discovered dinosaur bones, or crazy eccentric mountain men. Or my summer could have crossed the next threshold of reality into the realm of werewolves from the woods, ghosts haunting the night, supernatural spirits taking hold of animals, or even long lost dinosaurs roaming the mountains of the west. See where I'm going with this? Exactly, me neither. After getting my project out of the driveway and onto the road I didn't know where to take it.

Enter the mountain lions.

A mountain lion entering
Chapter two currently features a pounding rainstorm which caused one horse to disappear into a wooded mountainside during wrangling. It ends with the lost horse galloping out of the woods into the field after the fictional version of me hears piercing cries of a mountain lion and sees a shadowy figure on a horse in the distance. The shadowy figure and the piercing cries foreshadow their prominent role in the plot's adventure. The shadowy figure serves as the mysterious mountain man whose true identity is slowly revealed culminating... Wait... I can't tell you the whole plot!

Satisfied that those two characters would add enough adventure and force to the storyline, I knew that I would have to research and learn a few things about mountain lions in order to write about them (although I'm really tempted to turn the lion into a sabre tooth tiger, an undiscovered living relic from the ice age. Extinct animals are legit).

Mostly wondering whether or not mountain lions actually made screeching noises, I began my research. I soon learned that mountain lions often kill for the sake of killing, and that in places with wolves (like Montana) mountain lions kill more frequently because wolves will steal their spoils. With the deer and elk population on the rise out West, the mountain lion population in turn is increasing. One brilliant researcher listed the pros and cons of such an increase: "The short-term benefit is that with more lions around, perhaps more people will have the pleasure of seeing them. The long term problems are: ...attacks on humans. (emphasis added, but not needed)" That's right folks, if more mountain lions are around, you get the amazing benefit of seeing more and more mountain lions in person. But... and here's where it gets interesting... the long-term problem is that you will be attacked. And killed. And maybe just for the fun of it. And wolves might fight over your remains after you've been brutally attacked. BUT you would have had the pleasure of seeing one up close and personal.

Researcher: "Nice to see you Mr. Mountain Lion."
Mountain Lion: "Rawrrrr."
Researcher: "What a beautiful day it is!"
Mountain Lion: "A beautiful day to eat you."

After a swift pounce that short-term benefit quickly turns into a rather serious long-term problem.

Using predatory cats for entertainment purposes
The researcher went on to describe in somewhat macabre detail numerous mountain lion attacks on humans, while pointing out that one family sued a state park because they let mountain lions roam around and that another family complained to the school board because of the school's perceived failure to take into account the threat of wildlife coming onto school grounds. As utterly horrible the tragedy of an attack would be (cue debate regarding violence and entertainment), can you imagine chewing out the ranger or the school teacher for failing to prevent an attack? "Who let wildlife into the state park??? Ranger Bob, you know better than to let wild animals in! Don't let in any mountain lions unless they promise to behave!" And "Ms. Teacher, why didn't you know a mountain lion was coming yesterday? Don't you know all visitors must check in with the Principle's office??" And so my research naturally became what to do in the event you come across a mountain lion. Should you: A) take a picture and enjoy seeing one up close; B) freeze and play dead; or C) run as if your life depended on it, because it does? Can't you see the Hiking Weekly article headline? 8 Things to Do If You See a Mountain Lion -our answers might surprise you!  The advice of the science researchers amounted to the conclusion that neither A, B, or C really made any difference. Thanks for the help!

Jokes and short-term benefits of hanging out with mountain lions aside, I concluded that in real life mountain lions were more entertained by humans than humans entertained by mountain lions. Much much more. The thought of powerful limber creatures stalking their prey from slowly waving tall grass paints a troubling scene if you are the hunted. You wouldn't even have time to enjoy "the pleasure of seeing [a real mountain lion]" if you were preoccupied fending off one of these giant angry cats. Luckily for my story and potential readers, the mountain lion would only exist on the page, a danger only to the story's loosely fictional characters. For that reason, mountain lions could provide some adventure and entertainment, just enough of a thrill for the reader to keep turning pages, and enough of a challenge to the protagonist to make him a worthy combatant in Roosevelt's esteemed arena. In the meantime, perhaps their presence added some color to a blog entry desperately lacking a topic, even if I never found out whether or not mountain lions actually screech. Hmm... what if I wrote a book about a mountain lion's coming of age/self-discovery? Now that is a novel idea.
It's a big world out there!
Once there were two cats named Doc and Wyatt...













Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Entry 2 - Deep Thoughts

Thinking about the mind requires a level of comprehension our minds can't handle. If it is true that we only use 10% of our brains, then a mind might be able to comprehend itself, but we -the 10%- could not possibly comprehend the mind. Let's just hope the 10% isn't staging an occupation anytime soon (or has that already happened?).

Icy Treat
Don't worry, years of living haven't slowly eroded at my sanity and I'm not writing a Psych term paper. But I had a rare chance to really think, a chance afforded by a week spent recovering from a fun trip to the doctor's office (my tonsils had overstayed their welcome and had to go). I didn't think about my own mind -after all, I wouldn't climb Everest without grappling hooks, a parka, and the good sense to turn around. Nor did I think so much about the chalky taste of otherwise amazing foods (like pizza and icy treats), the 10,000 movies I watched, which ranged from the typical comedy, drama, sports, and superhero action genres to the Ryan Gosling collection my friend provided (no I didn't watch The Notebook and yes I would've watched pretty much anything), nor did I think about the resentment and scorn I should have felt towards my evil tonsils -the root of my prior week's discomfort and the source of so many disagreements in the past. I didn't even think so much about the pain I felt in my throat, although that would be close.
Movie I watched the most (tied
 with Wedding Crashers at 3 times)
Movie I was disappointed
I had purchased
Movie I was most surprised
I really enjoyed

Instead I thought about how I felt while dealing with the pain during recovery -how I felt experiencing the cocktail woozy combination of anesthesia wearing off,  happy painkiller pills, movie action, soothing dance beats, and pain giving away to it all. I am not a hippie and don't do drugs (although I did love Pink Floyd back in the day). So perhaps my feelings could easily have been induced by a regular dream or a placebo -a high school boy drunk from O'Doul's or a college freshman high from plain chocolate brownies- but even so, my experience was nevertheless real to me, real to my mind, real to touch, feel, and remember.

Wordsworth could think
with the best of 'em
These emotions recollected in the tranquility of a near full recovery deserved reflection and form (boy did that Wordsworth know what he was talking writing about). When piecing together the following poem I began to realize I was trying to capture how my own mind works, how reality and dreams are distinguished, how control over our perceptions can be at one time illusory, the next real, and then at another time both at once. For brief moments I could perceive and enjoy the real and the dream with an awareness as to each that stretched my 10% mind usage rate. Deep stuff? Perhaps, but I suppose there's enough room in the deep end for all of us -regardless of what my title might suggest.


Dreamsville Population One


A trance-filled state where sleep surrounds and colors dance,
Wheels spin on a galloping steed, ungrounded, unbounded...
Reined in only by twisting and turning thoughts,
A tenuous grip on direction, space, and time,
Between slow breathes of bottled air.

A loopland cereal cartoon and baseball in a summer field
Warmly beckon and keep awake my slumber;
The pain is gone and feeling sent to Dreamsville population one,
Where I know that as the pain goes I’ll not return,
Save for words on a simple screen,
Typed to capture the fading memory of a hidden world,
Discoverable perhaps only by the pulling of a dusty book,
The striking of a single key, or retreat into a wardrobe's shadows,
So we might keep a wandering mind from being lost.


-Esso the Esquire

Sweet dreams!

PS
True life: I dreamed of a horse galloping in mid-air with wheels instead of legs, churning up colorful sparks in fast-moving whirls. If I had a large reader base I'd start a contest to see who could draw the best wheel-horse. Actually, I already considered entering that challenge.
And for some reason breathing was hard when I was recovering, I wasn't about to die or anything. I'm not that dramatic.

Monday, January 28, 2013

It took a while to get to the blogosphere -perhaps because of years treating it as the place on the wrong side of the tracks followed by a few years of wrong turns, diversions, and meanders- but I finally made it.

What, you ask, makes my musings so particularly sharable at this time? What value can I add to this thick and clouded world of blog? I guess like much of the purpose behind social media, I am doing this for myself. Selfish as it may seem, I want to express, create, and share. So sue me.

I am DJ Esso and Seth Obed, Esquire. Admittedly, Tiesto and Atticus Finch I am not. But then again, Tiesto was never Atticus Finch nor Atticus Tiesto. I suppose "Esso the Esquire" represents a return to the renaissance, not having a a singular identity but a way of living with a mix of joie de vivre, studied reflection, and an interest in the world and our place in it. A little "Building it up to drop it down" and "Arete" wrapped up in one.

I do not plan on blogging about DJ'ing -although I may- nor do I plan on blogging about lawyering -yawwwnnn. I am perfectly happy blogging about nothing. And I don't actually plan to blog at all. I plan to write, a true "auctor". Death to blogging! Long live writing and bringing meaning to words! But enough talk, let's hoist this canvas and set sail. 
Random picture only
tangentially related
Entry 1 -From MacBook with Love

I have often heard (even often from my author mother) that an author's best writing is of what he (or she) knows best. Because I haven't written much the last few years other than legal memos, complaints, and letters demanding things from non-compliant opposing parties, I figured I'd have to leave important subjects off for another day. Besides I don't know anything about war and peace, crime and punishment, or elusive whales. But as often happens when starting small, bigger themes do emerge. At any rate, no one wants to hear the author talk about his own work. Sheesh.


An Ode to My Laptop

You came with no instruction
No assembly or complex construction.
The laptop hard at work
Just with a simple case, cord, and disc-
An unassuming start to our relationship bliss.

Through the good times and the bad
Through the happy and the sad,
You turned on and off so easily,
Slept quietly and stood by patiently
As I left you to live my life apart,
While you just waited for your next start.

You never envied Facebook stalks
Or felt betrayed by my late night Skype talks.
Laptop leading the party
Instead you let me write and record
All with the media on so I wouldn’t be bored.
Even with heavy loads and long hours, still you flew-
From all this I know you’ve always been true.

Though you be technology, I a man-
I have my own memory, gigs, and ram
Of adventures and late nights of parties we led,
And of wintry days just lying in bed.
Oh laptop, laptop, my MacBook Pro
Please be mine forever don’t ever go.

-Esso the Esquire

And no, my MacBook didn't crash or die. It just deserved a little love.