January 28, 2012: You Blew Me Off

Letter: Soundtrack

CD Number: 10

Track Number: 26

Song: “You Blew Me Off” by Bare, Jr from Cruel Intentions

Listen to it here

 

(Picture taken from http://www.crane.com/)

Dear Chelsea,

I am Jake. I sit behind you in five of seven classes.

I would not be surprised if you do not even know who I am. You have treated me with such rudeness this past year that I can only imagine that you view me as little more than a wad of gum on your shoe. Annoying, kind of gross, but largely inconsequential and forgotten once gone.

While I have cataloged each offense you have visited upon me and could share them all with you, I will limit myself to but a few of the highlights.

-          Repeatedly “forgot me” when distributing test sheets and pencils.

-          Nicknamed me Greasy McFartstein. Yes, I had some acne at the time, but it’s gone now and I assure you it was Ryan that broke wind that day, not me.

-          Shoved me out of the way during that fire drill we all thought was really a fire.

-          Wore that low cut blue shirt, bent over a lot, then said, “I’m up here,” really rude-like to me.

-          Did not share your birthday cupcakes or your Christmas Chex Mix with me. Shared it with everyone else.

-          Volunteered me to help the creepy substitute got a projector from storage

-          Hit an old tuna fish sandwich in my lunch bag

-          Told everyone I got pink eye from letting Mrs. Hederson lick my eyes when we made out. I assure you Mrs. Hederson and I have never made out.

-          I’m fairly certain you’ve been terrorizing my dog on your way home from school every day.

You have been unctuous to me. Rude, nasty, and casually cruel. You have picked on me without hesitation or remorse. You’ve delighted in the privileges being pretty have given you without any sense of what others might not have. I would not be surprised at all if you actually enjoy this letter as a reminder of some of your “best” work.

All that said, what are you doing two weeks from today? I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat and go to the end of year dance. I don’t know what your curfew is, but a bunch of people are going to diner after so that might be fun to do too.

Let me know,

Jake

P.S. I really liked your skirt today.

P.P.S. Also I know that you told Mr. Christie I cheated on the History test. I worked it all out with him, so don’t worry about that.

P.P.P.S. Your hair’s looked amazing lately too!

 

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Numb

On Post: Numb

Date: January 18

Find it here

Honestly, what else could I do with the song Numb? It’s a list of overreaching rules set to a thick electronic beat and spoken by the Edge. It is also the second weirdest song off that album—behind Lemon which I also had to use for the this year’s Project—and one that does not lend itself well to a lot of different things. Or, at least, it didn’t seem to me that it did. You may feel differently.

My initial plan was just the back and forth on their being so many rules. I added the bit at the end about them giving themselves over to it anyway to gain access to…wherever that door was for because a.) they piece needed an ending, in my opinion, as opposed to a smash cut to credits on the “You asked” line, although as I look at it now, I don’t hate it as much as I did at the time and b.) it was a little bit of commentary on the human condition that we often complain about things but do them anyway out  of an inherent trust of authority and/or a belief that runs something like, “I want to do this. If these are the rules, I may not like them, but what can I do? I accept my powerlessness and will do what they tell me to do this thing I think I want to do.”

I am as guilty, if not even more so, of this as anyone which is how I know that we do this sort of thing all the time. Sometimes it is accurate—TSA is not going to crumble and change their minds if you, by yourself, freak out about body scanners in that moments—but sometimes it fails to take a long view of things—see SOPA where, sure one person complaining would not have changed anything but multiple sites and internet personalities picking up on it and feeding off one another, derailed the bill.

Anyway, my high falutin’ reading of my own ending.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 27, 2012: Believe in What You Want

Letter: J

CD Number: 24

Track Number: 4

Song: “Believe in What You Want” by Jimmy Eat World from Clarity

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://susops.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html)

 

THEO sits astride on a large amplifier noodling around with a guitar. He strums, tunes, repeats. He begins speaking without looking up.

THEO

I’ve always wanted to sell out.

He looks up at the audience.

I don’t mean sell out like make a Kidz Bop album or let some bank use my song for a commercial. I’m not that easy. But make a ton of money, go to all kinds of wicked parties, make a cameo in a comedy movie, sleep with some groupies? Sign me up.

I think any singer or band who tells you otherwise is full of it.

THEO stands up and begins to walk around very loose legged and exaggerated. He throws his hands in the area and does dramatic air quotes.

“Oh, it’s just about the music for me.” “I’m SOOOOOOOO uncomfortable with the attention. This was never a goal for me.”

He thumps his fist on the amp.

Bullshit!

Music is great, sure. But it’s a lot of work and the rate of failure is tremendous. If there wasn’t the promise of gobs of cash and loose easily influenced birds at the end of the rainbow, we wouldn’t have music.

So, yeah, I’ve always wanted to sell out. To read that accusation on message boards…mmm, it would be divine. In part because I’d probably be reading it at a pure gold laptop while luxuriating in a 5,700 square foot apartment and having a robot clean the excess cheese dust off my fingers from all the gourmet Cheetos I’ll be eating.

Right now, it’s just a dream. My band has one self produced album and a bar/club tour that’s doing alright, so that’s good. And I like playing music on its own merits. Song writing can be fun. But you just gotta know that it is going to be so much better when everyone knows me and hates me even as they hum my songs because they can’t help themselves.

Artistic integrity is fine. Great, even. For artists. Me and my buddies? We’re musicians. And that means we’re just here to be loved and hated in equal measure, get paid the GDP of a small country every time we open our mouths, and behave without any consequences.

The quivering, cowardly record execs? Bring ‘em on.

The syncophants and hangers-on? Yes, please.

The ridiculous riders full of stuff that we’ll end up ignoring or leaving behind anyway? Oh, you know that’s a gotta have.

I want our first major record album to be all about our struggles to make ends meet and do right by our “art.” By our third though, we better be singing a different tune. Songs about what a bummer it is when my teenage pop star girlfriend borrows the Benz that I promised my 20-something supermodel wife she could drive that day? A must. And there should definitely be one bemoaning what life is like now that people recognize me and try to tell me they love me.

There should be hot tubs and limousines. Hot tubs in limousines!  I want tour buses with stripper poles. Self congratulatory award shows that I can simultaneously pretend I am better than and still be endlessly bitter about not being honored! The ability to lecture others about spirituality while leading a life of debauchery such that Caligula would blush!

I’ll admit it is a small dream. But it’s mine.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Danger! High Voltage

On Post: Danger! High Voltage

Date: January 18

Find it here

This is actually a continuation of a piece from last year’s Project “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” in which a killer proficient in poisons falls in love and decides to enact revenge for his figure of obsession by torching most of the city and, in doing so, theoretically killing people like her ex, her mean boss, her lazy, exploitative super, and so on. This part, of course, shows us how that worked out for him.

The choice to go in this direction was an easy one with Electric Six’s repeated invocation of “Don’t you want to know why they keep starting fires? It’s my desire” as a clear parallel to the passion of the murderous central figure.

I only wish I wasn’t so tired when I wrote it. I was literally nodding off and had to circle back and rewriter sentences multiple because they’d end in a nonsense strings of letters, repeats of the earlier clause, or just words that did not go together in any manner that made sense.

So, sadly, I think this is a case of a good idea leading to diminishing returns. Had I been more able to function, I imagine it would read better to me. Part of the “fun” of having to write everyday regardless though, I suppose.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- I Have the Touch

On Post: I Have the Touch

Date: January 17

Find it here

This was one of those entries that is almost a literal reinterpretation of the song. Once I realized what the song was about, I just couldn’t not (yay for double negatives!) go in this direction.

Okay, perhaps the sexual disorder frotteurism, which involves rubbing against people for gratification without their approval and/or knowledge (frottage), is not literally what I Have the Touch is all about. But it sure seems like it. If you are confused, look at the lyrics. For years, I thought it was about ego (“I have the touch.”) and a very 80’s interpretation of life (“I like the rush hour because I like to rush.”) but it turns out “the touch” here is feeling other people and the reason rush hour is appealing is that there are plenty of people to feel as they walk past. Reading the lyrics completely changed my vision of this song.

So it was not just a mere transcription of the lyrics though, I wanted to be a bit less facile about it. In the song, the POV seems entirely at ease with what he does. I want to scratch a bit deeper and show a man who is desperately trying to convince himself he’s ok with what he’s doing, that he’s in control of the disorder. Thus, the glib celebration of it—and I don’t think Gabriel is celebrating it, just that he’s writing a character who is—gives away to a reality of fear and need to reassure that this is something to be celebrated not disgusted and horrified by. This is a man very much trying to be fine with himself and the entry lets the mask slip a bit to see the panic underneath.

At least, that was the goal.

This is all day 2 of the three day Amoral/Mentally Ill-a-thon that just happened. Of the three this is the one I have the most empathy for and feel is probably the most in touch— despite his denial—with the reality of what he’s compelled to do being wrong. He’s not a sociopath like the other two arguably are, his statement of “this isn’t wrong” is a shield, not a real feeling.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 25, 2012: Puzzle Pieces

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 29

Track Number: 2

Song: “Puzzle Pieces” by Saint Motel from This is the Mix

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://cheapcosmeticplasticsurgeryprices.com/2011/02/the-world-renown-plastic-surgery-institute/)

 

The woman wheeled the full length mirror into the center of the bare room.

It was four PM, time for self assessment.

Four PM, you see, she had determined to be the best time of day during this season in terms of ambient light to take herself in and be able to make accurate, well informed judgments.

Satisfied with the mirror placement, she disrobed, letting the black silk furisode drop to the floor behind her.

She first began with her legs, inspecting the scarring around her calves, feeling the implants below.

Then, it was on to the Brazilian butt lift where fat from other parts of her body had been purified and injecting into her to give her, if she did say so herself, a gluteus most maximus. 

She took time to give homage and praise to the areas where the fat had been lipo’d appreciating their new lean firmness.

There were the breasts, of course, the thin white lines underneath each breast from the first surgery, the almost impercitible one near her navel for the second. She lifted each and dropped them, noting their rigidity and smiling.

Her neck’s skin was tightened thanks to a lift, the La Jolla method. She has a facelift as well, obviously, but felt the neck needed just that little bit extra.

The chin was augmented via mentoplasty to give her a more appealing joyline.

The nose shrunk.

The upper eyelids rendered less puffy.

Lips plumped.

Cheeks permanently made rosy.

The ear pinned back because who could like, never mind love, someone with satellite dishes, right?

The forehead was smooth and rigid, botox holding strong against the expression of human emotion.

The hair she had found a way to improve, coloring and adding extensions.

The eyes wore custom colored lenses to hide that vision correction was necessary to give a sharper hue to her typically pale eyes.

She looked and touched every surgically altered inch of herself to make sure. She appreciated each scar as she knew they made her better, that they were small price to pay for perfection.

She smiled wide and nodded to herself in the mirror. Finally, she had arrived.

She was whole.

She was beautiful.

There need be no further cause for surgeons or injections or days without being able to sit. She was whole.

The perfect merger of organic, synthetic, and chemical.

Although…

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: America's Suitehearts

On Post: America’s Suitehearts

Date: January 16

Find it here

My initial take on this entry was a profoundly stupid poem about seeing the movie America’s Sweethearts starring John Cusack, Catherine Zeta Jones, Julia Roberts, and others. It was so bad I am sort of enamored of it. It will probably run as part of the Special Features in February, an Alternate Take, if you will.

However, when I realized that the song is using “suite” not “sweet,” there was no really no justification at all for the poem as it was based only on the title, so I had to pick a new approach.

The approach came from two lines in the song “Why won’t the world revolve around me?” and “I’m in love with my own sin.” The “in love with sin” put me in the mindset of a person who is utterly fine with the bad they do and thus was born Illusionia. But what to do with her?

The old cliché of “Everybody talk about _____ but ______ does something about it,” (for example, the classic DC Comics house ad for Wilddog read “Everyone talks about Terrorism. He does something about it.”) was rattling around my head, as in “Everyone talks about the world revolving around them, but she’s doing something about it.” The world literally revolving around her was tough for me to organize around. It just felt too small. So the world became the universe and, voila, the monologue was born.

I wanted her to be wholly casual about this gigantic thing she just did so her tone is conversational and at ease. Also, as she is making literal—through science, I will change the focal point of the universe—a cliché of the ego-driven and insecure—why won’t people pay more attention to me—I wanted her to suffer from that very cliché. She’s a super villain, sure, but she’s kind of the Michael Scott of super villains. She’s may more invested in being known and loved then she is in doing her “job” such as it was.

The first line that came to me was the bit about Catholicism thanking her. I loved it enough I knew that I was going to write the rest of it one way or another.

What’s odd, which I’ll mention again in the next two Writer’s Commentaries, is that this kicked off a mini-Amoral People Doing Lousy Things-athon that ran into the next two days as well. Not sure the why of it—coincidence or subconscious—but I thought that was interesting and worth noting.

For those interested, this is sort of a spiritual cousin to an entry from last year’s Project called “Hide Away” in which a “hero” informs the world he’s done in a press conference and tells humanity what jerks they all are. Check it out if you liked the tone of this one.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 24, 2012: Capitalism

Letter: O

CD Number: 30

Track Number: 8

Song: “Capitalism” by Oingo Boingo from Boingo Alive, Disc 2

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.shutterstock.com)

A man lounges on his couch in a dimly lit living room, remote in hand. He absentmindedly flips through the channels.

NEWSCASTER #1

The fallout from the financial institute being pronounced insolvent continues to echo thro—

Click

NEWSCASTER #2

The exchange jumped up 120 points despite news on unemployment numbers remained in mired i—

Click

NEWSCASTER #3

—foreclosures show no signs of –

Click

NEWSCASTER #4

—when asked about his bonus, asserted that he deserv—

Click

NEWSCASTER #5

—while a new study suggests that disparity continues to gr—

Click

NEWSCASTER #6

He promises to continue to fight the bill as long as it includes provisions to extend unemployment ben—

Click

NEWSCASTER #7

—costing close to 17 million dollars and lasting just over two months, the wed—

He continues to flip through as TV continues to drone on.

VOICE OFF-STAGE

Sounds brutal out there. Something’s got to change, right?

Long pause

MAN

Nah… everything’s just fine.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Dominos

On Post: Dominos

Date: January 15

Find it here

When I was in Washington, DC, the DC equivalent of the City Paper—and I apologize for not being able to recall what it’s called—had a Missed Connections-esque section (called something else) in their personals. Several members of my class enjoyed reading them and pointing out our favorites to one another.

During our time there, the paper ran an ad asking for anyone who had successfully reached their in passing crush and had gone on date, started a relationship, got all kinds of nasty, etc with them to write it and share their story. If anyone ever did or the paper did anything with the info, we never saw it. However, it sparked a conversation about it and at the time we all thought that the odd weren’t great that you’d land that handsome fella or pretty lady on the train, but that most Metro commuters probably snagged a copy of this paper and read it on the train and thus, chances were good that your almost would see your entry.

Craigslist seems significantly less likely, to me at least, to go anywhere. Like the near misses in the City Paper, there are of course the questions of is the person single, is the person attracted to your gender, did the person notice you, did they feel anything at all, and, finally, do they even recognize they’re being the one written about. On top of that though, you have significantly less of a captive audience. Your almost might be out of state and thus not read the same Craigslist that you posted on. He or she may not read the Craigslist at all and thus it doesn’t matter what state/city’s Craigslist you post on, he or she will NEVER see it.

With this in mind, I’ve always interpreted posting in Missed Connections as less about getting that crush and more about just, I don’t know, doing something. The writer knows there is nearly no chance it will pay off but they can’t not do it. They have to feel active, they have to feel like they’re attempting something. To not do it would leave them feeling weak, powerless, or just…incomplete. It is a sort of existential act. If it works out, great, but, really, the posting is enough for them.

And for others, I am reasonably sure, it is a sort almost fetish-y act in and of itself. It might even be fiction. I favor my above interpretation more though because I like its depth more.

Anyway…this is a long way towards saying the whole Missed Connection thing is fascinating to me. Someday I want to go in, pull a bunch of the ads, and just write stories about them, mapping out the incident or the future of the almost or a wish fulfilled…I don’t know. It seems like interesting fodder to me.

With this entry I kept running into the problem that everything I wanted to do felt clichéd or sexist. The easiest would be to take the “character” of the song and have him convey the story in prose, instead of lyrical, form. But the idea of a man who can’t stay with a woman he loves, who can’t commit, is one of my pet peeve strereotypes. Don’t get me wrong, there are men who cannot commit. But there are also women too. Men whining about stereotypes about their gender are kind of awful so I won’t keep down this road but you get the idea. To swap genders though felt too obvious though and not wholly honest; just implanting male words into a female mouth. After banging my head a bit, the Missed Connections idea came to me. Yes, the man is still an apparent commitphobe or running the weirdest flirt game ever but by taking it out of his mouth and putting it in the ad the idea of self knowledge or insight is removed and the bizarreness of the situation and using Missed Connections steps forward to make it more purely humourous.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 23, 2012: Blackout (Reader's Choice)

READER’S CHOICE 

Song: “Blackout” by Breathe Carolina (Specifically “Something in the Billboard Top 100”)

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.chilloutpoint.com/featured/running-away-from-camera-photography.html)

Keep the rhythm. Keep the rhythm.

I chant it in my head. With each footfall, with each rocketing pain of impact, I repeat.

Keep the rhythm. Keep the rhythm.

Oxygen whistles out of my lungs through clenched teeth. I can feel my insides boiling with lactic acid and carbon dioxide.

Keep the rhythm. Keep the rhythm.

He’s thirty pacing ahead of me and looking like he can run all day. I’m faster, but he’s good for the long haul. This is a war of attrition. Will I be able to go long enough that speed trumps stamina?

Keep the rhythm. Keep the rhythm.

The gun in my hand is light. Bizarrely so. As my every limb seems to grow tired, it paradoxically, seems to lose mass. I should stop, aim, and put the man to the ground. But the adrenaline being dumped into my bloodstream like tea into the Harbor has given me the shakes. I can’t risk the space he’d gain if the shot missed the mark.

Keep the rhythm. Keep the rhythm.

The road drops out below me as I whirr around the corner. A divot in the street sends me cascading in a tangle of arms and legs to the asphalt. The cell phone, a burner, spins across the lane. I ignore it. I don’t need another call from them anyway. However this ends, we’re done.

I can taste the copper wash of blood as my teeth tear an opening in my lip. My stomach turns and I fear I may be sick. I ache, my body goes hot then frigid. My head sounds like a nest of bees. My tongue is thick in my mouth. I could not speak to call this off if I wanted to. This will end by my hand.

Get up. Get it back.

A couple, young, 20ish I’d guess, venture into the road to help me up. On instinct, I dislocate the man’s knee. He crumples alongside of me with a yelp before his body shuts his mind down to protect him from further trauma. His girlfriend or wife screams, an ugly, wailing noise. I start to move to avoid the primal sound of grief a moment longer.

My ankle is resistant but I force it to cooperate as I head into a gallop. The man has befallen his own ill fate and is trapped at a crosswalk as a funeral procession divides the world into where he is and where he needs to be. My lungs sear blue black as I cough in a gulp of fresh winter air. I bring the gun to bear, cock the hammer, and aim. I let fly with a single wish…

Let this be over.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Set Fire to the Third Bar

On Post: Set Fire to the Third Bar

Date: January 14

Find it here

I have some problems with this one. It feels like a missed opportunity to me, an idea that I just couldn’t pull into port.

Problem one is the presentation. I probably should’ve gone dialogue for this one, but I purposely eschewed it because I had just done that the day before. Had I made it more play/screenplay-ie, I believe I could have made had more clearer delineated vignettes and not felt made. Doing it prose style made me feel like I had to connect things and could not just jump around. In retrospect, that’s obviously silly, but that’s how I felt.

Problem one gives birth to problem two which is, to do it in prose with connective tissues I needed to deepen each of the failed bar attempts to bring you into the experience that this guy is living through and I just didn’t. Again, as with World Waits for You, it was a matter of both time and not wanting to write a book as it feels inappropriate—if such a word applies—within the confines of The January Project.

The third problem is dumb, but might bother me the most. The third bar is the one to burn in the song. In the story, Roger and Co. attempt to go to Pyre…second! It’s such a ridiculous error to make, as it being third would be easy and a nice nod to the title. Just really sloppy on my part.

The idea came from my surprise about the fact that the title is actually literal. In studying the lyrics I realized that Snow Patrol is literally referring to the idea of burning down a drink joint. In just listening, I had always thought the “Bar” in question was symbolic, not a literal location. Similarly, I thought the “Fire” was not actually about burning something. But, there you go. So I centered the whole thing on bar hopping to get back to the one you love.

Like I said, missed opportunity. Cool to realize that about the song, nice platform for a story, then just a big bobble.

Alas…

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 22, 2012: Every Day is Yours to Win

Letter: R

CD Number: 20

Track Number: 18

Song: “Every Day is Yours to Win” by R.E.M. from Collapse Into Now

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.shutterstock.com)

Dear Danny,

I asked your mom to give this to you after I left. I’d love to be able to say these things to you, but I’m just no good at it. Like I’ve told you before, I was raised to think that men don’t talk about feelings. I got that’s just macho ridiculousness now, but that doesn’t mean I know how to change. At least I can say “I love you” now, right?

Anyway, this isn’t a good bye letter. I’m not going over there to die. I don’t think I will. This is a “Dad can’t always be right so here’s some insurance” letter. I don’t have much by way of wisdom. I think, even at your age, you know that. So I won’t say that this is me passing my insight generation to generation. Just think of it as what I’ve seen, I suppose.

First, do stuff all the time. I don’t mean never rest, I mean you always be trying things. Nothing will kill you faster than shrinking your world down to three things you know you like and five people. You may not always be good at those three things and who knows what can happen to those five people.

This goes double for food. Chicken nuggets are good, but damn, (don’t tell your mom I wrote that) sport, I promise you there is so much more out there. Food’s incredible. The older I get the more I can’t get over that. I hope you discover that for yourself.

Don’t spend everything you make. Don’t save it all either. Buy things for others, crap they’ll like but don’t need. Do the same for yourself. Remember that the stuff is not happiness though, just diversions. But we all need diversions.

Root for one sports team in any sport. Like a few others, but only root for one.

You’re a little young for dating now but when you start here are the rules. 1.) Be respectful. 2.) Be respected. 3.) Have fun. 4.) Understand when it is time to be serious about relationships, you’ll have to endure some rough patches between the fun. 5.) Recognize that that does not mean you should accept misery. Whether you decide you’re gay, straight, bi, or poly, these are the rules. Also, be honest with everyone about who you are. This is your family. We’re on your side.

Jeez, I just read what I wrote. Sorry, Danny, I sound like a jerk, huh?

Okay, okay. Here’s the real deal then. That stuff above is good and helpful but it’s the kind of thing that is sort of meaningless on the page. This is the summary that’s going to tell you all you need to know. Life is great. Life is hard. Both are true, often at the same time. Show up, take your lumps or your kudos, go home, wrap yourself in friends, family, and people you care about enough to sleep with (one at a time, preferably…although maybe, if everyone is on-board, more than one is okay. Seriously don’t show your mom this.) Believe in yourself and your people. Remember you’ll disappoint each other and yourselves on occasion. Try not to but know that it is okay when it happens.

And now a story to close: you were born, as we’ve told you many times, in the middle of a snow storm in April. It hadn’t snowed all year and bam, April 20^th, snow everywhere. And your mom goes into labor. You know all this. I won’t go blow by blow.

Here’s the good part. The part I don’t say. That night, when all is said and done, I go to sleep and I dream. In the dream, I see you, not as my newborn son, but as an adult. 25, probably. You’re sitting at the dining room table, it’s a holiday I think. Everyone is talking and laughing. I see me too, older, and I realize that I am here observing. A traveler from the past with a moment to see the future. I kind of drift through the house. It’s not ours now, but some other place. Maybe some place we’ll live eventually. No one can see me, hear me, feel me. I step out on to the front porch of this house and breathe in. The air is cold, crisp. You step out shortly after me, lean against the wall next to me. I know you can’t see me but I hold my breath anyway.

I see you smirk. You whisper, “I know you’re there.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t seem to make words come.

You continue, reassuring, “We did okay. It’ll get hairy there for awhile but we did okay.”

Then you walk back inside.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see that day from that dream. You know how I feel about psychics and visions and all that. I do know this though. That will be you. You may not look like dream you or sound like dream you. But the truth of that…that’ll be you.

Things’ll get hairy champ, but we’ll do okay. I suspect you’ll do great and pull the rest of us along to okay.

Love you. Will see you soon,

Dad

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- A Feeling of Thoughtful Sadness

On Post: A Feeling of Thoughtful Sadness

Date: January 13

Find it here

So here was process in writing this entry: do the normal picking process, pull the CD, listen to the song. Nod like the intellectual I am, go to the internet to look up lyrics. Realize this artist, Dustin Burley, is just a random self-publishing singer-songwriter who I heard in a local bar one night and bought two of his CDS for 8 dollars and is therefore unlikely to have lyrics on the net. Listen to the song again, transcribing the lyrics. Finish that, look at the clock, realize, “Damn, it’s late.” Panic. Accept this is the way it is. Sit down. Write.

All of this is by way of explaining that, yes, I am aware this is a bit of clichéd interaction. I admit that but I offer this story as, “Sure, but considering I transcribed the lyrics, not bad, right?”

Actually, I don’t think it is all that bad. But yeah, it is really clichéd. I know it and I’m owning it. Albeit while making a plethora of excuses.

Also, I think the piece justifies itself on the basis of “You are the bird flu of my social life,” and the justification of a social life as boosting one’s immunity. I wish I had tried that gambit when I was 14.

As far as the why of how it came to be, the song, which I like, has a…tone to it. Without consulting my transcription notes, I will paraphrase that there is a line in the chorus that amounts to “let me go or keep killing me,” that struck me as very early adolescent. So I took that piece, got the immunity discussion, and wrapped the rest of the dialogue, basically the setup and the close, around that exchange.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 21, 2012: La La Love You

Letter: P

CD Number: 18

Track Number: 25

Song: “La La Love You” by The Pixies from Doolittle

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.visualphotos.com/image/2x3994506/teenage_girls_gossiping)

MATHILDA walks on to the stage and begins to speak to audience as though it was an average everyday thing to do, no nod towards the artificialness of it, no “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” stuff.

MATHILDA

The other day I was at the mall. Enjoying a pretzel in the food court. With a soda. As is my god given right, nay, requirement as a citizen of this grand land we call America. What would you have me do? Wait til I get home to have a snack?

Long pause. Challenging glare.

As I was saying, I was enjoying this pretzel. Auntie Annie’s. I threw my considerable support behind Pretzel Time during the Great Mall Pretzel Wars of the early aughties, but, alas, it was not to be. I am nothing if not humble in defeat.

Anyway, as I munched on this wholesome, arguably patriotic snack, albeit one provided by an inferior vendor, I became aware of a small group of teen girls. Given that they were hanging out at the mall, I’d judge them to be 14 or 15ish. In my experience, the acquisition of a license ends the era of the mall as a mecca of social interaction in a teen’s life.

These girls were talking about boys, as straight girls of this age are wont to do, and one of them brought up the base system. I believe she mentioned she had gone to second with a boy named Tad. This appeared to be a spectacularly bad decision on her part as the picture she and her friends painted of “Tad” was of a burgeoning sociopath. She, however, seemed quite pleased to have hit that double so, perhaps, I am just being a bit presumptive in my feelings towards Tad.

As I soaked up their early adolescent girlie-ness, it occurred to me that I had no idea what her “second base” was. I knew where it was when I was young, but I had also spoken to younger siblings of friends of mine and they seemed to suggest there had been some…drift in recent years. The sibs were plenty halfway between my age and the age of girls seated behind me, so it stood to reason that there had been further…drift in the definitions.

I’m in my 30’s…

Pauses

Yes, you are right. It is surprising. I have incredible skin and the body of a woman between 10 and 14 years younger than me. Good genes, I suppose.

In any case, for us, the bases were easy. They were the four “F’s”: french, feel…and you get the idea. Some things a lady does not say in mixed company, you understand.

However, in accepting an easy summary of the base system, people my age sacrificed nuance. There was, for instance, no room on the base path of oral sex. I’ve heard others try to refer to it as “taking a lead from third” but this seems to give short shrift to this particular form of physical pleasure.

Additionally, a homerun was a homerun if it involved just you and a partner or you and thirty. I guess you could go “grand slam” but a.) that doesn’t start with “f” and b.) how do you choose where line is between humdrum solo shot and standing ovation grand slam? Simplicity begat more complications, not less.

Perhaps the 12-15 year old set of this world right now had worked it all out. Or perhaps it was even weirder for them. Maybe the whole damn thing was upside down. I’ve had friends tell me about guys they’ve dated who had no problem sleeping with my friends but insisted kissing was too intimate.

Body language convey that this is an aside/digression from her main story.

Who knew how devastating Pretty Woman could be to my generation when it came to what intimacy meant? I mean, kissing, really? That’s the holiest of holy? Julia Roberts, this is on your head!

Dragging herself back on topic

I briefly considered asking the girls about it but it occurred to me that that was how people my age ended up on websites and having to go door-to-door in their new neighborhood letting everyone know who they were.

But it got me to thinking, did I even want to know, really? It’s not like I have to describe my various exploits in these terms. I may not have grown up in a lot of ways, but, certainly this was one of them.

On the other hand, with any luck, I’ll be a mom some day. And my daughter will someday be one of those girls like the ones sitting behind me. If I keep up with the evolving standards for base achievement, getting an update every few years or so, maybe I can avoid sticker shock when I find out that second now calls for the use of toys, a spotlight, and a half filled black box theatre of observers.

I don’t really think it’s going to be like that, by the way. I think the bases have changed, but I think it is like…a pendulum. I grew up at a time when the Christian Right had really seized power for the first time and AIDS was a disease that killed you dead, no exceptions, and right quick. We were being told that sex would destroy our souls and our bodies, often simultaneously. It didn’t stop most of us, granted, but I am sure it tamped down when we crossed that line and what range of activities were willing to do upon stomping on home plate. It had, if you will, a chilling effect.

Also, grunge helped no one. Seriously. “You have probably the best body you will ever have right now. Here are layers of flannel to wrap it in to distort and obfuscate that fact.”

Now though, teen fashion is not what I’d call “great” but at least it recognizes that these are the beginning of “if you got it, flaunt it” years and no matter what parents think, shrouds are not a good choice. The Christian Right has overplayed their hand and been found to be rife with hypocrisy and introduced so many restrictions to the national discourse that sex has become even more taboo and thus an even bigger draw for teens. Finally, the boogie man of AIDS has been reduced to a “this is a bummer of an illness,” status. It can still be deadly, of course, but not nearly as total or as quickly as it once was.

So, of course the bases have changed. Kids think sex is safe again. Either because it is certainly “safer” or teachers will be fired for talking about anything beyond, “hey, abstinence, am I right?”

My parents, the people who grew up in the 60’s and 70’s probably felt the same way. Think about it, our Woodstocks featured 10 dollar water and riots. There’s was all about free love. People may age, bad news for you, your parents did WAY more stuff than you did and it was WAY weirder too.

I can imagine my mom listening to me discuss letting Fred McGaul go to first at a basement party. At first, she is a little worried. Then, she realizes first equals kissing and she walks away shaking her head and thinking, “I’ve raised a prude.” Because, in her day, first was, well…who knows? Probably something involving drugs, the Beatles, and multiple partners.

Of course that means that by the time I have a child and he or she is at the age of bases, we will be back to repressive, strict, simple designations. So maybe there’s no point in trying to figure all this out now.

Long pause

I will tell you this though. That Tad better behave himself. His girlfriend seemed like an absolute delight.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Jane Fonda

On Post: Jane Fonda

Date: January 12

Find it here

I don’t know what “Do the Jane Fonda” means, but it feels like it might be unsavory. It could just be being in a movie with Jennifer Lopez, but it could also mean marrying Ted Turner. So, there’s a fairly significant range of experience options there and I am guessing most of them fall closer to marrying Turner than to movie-ing Lopez.

The dominant image of Fonda I have, even all these years later, is her as 80’s exercise guru. I’m way too young to have an impression of her as the anti-Vietnam War enthusiast that some call “Hanoi Jane.” I’m aware of that history, but I didn’t live through it and I didn’t know it until after I already knew her in her stirrup pants on VHS. For the sake of the story, I figured it was the incarnation must likely to provoke a fetish in a gentleman as well.

As far as why the POV character has such an issue with it, I’m not sure. I kind of figured it was that this man still owned a VCR. Because, really, that’s the weirdest part of the whole thing.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 20, 2012: Not Falling Apart

Letter: M

CD Number: 4

Track Number 9

Song: “Not Falling Apart” by Maroon 5 from It Won’t Be Soon Before Long

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.mygoalsbuddy.com/2011/02/exclusive-rob-yeung-and-art-of.html)

It’s going to happen today

he thinks

But everyday

                is the same

The coffee pour

The slamming door

This is life, crawling toward

                grey on grey

Terminally bored

                nowhere to aim

The petty arguments

The kneejerk judgments

She loved him

                once

Now that’s dim

                passion grown tame

The kisses gone dull

The relationship becoming numb

It’s going to happen today

                he half hopes

Really believing, “There’s no way”

                finally figuring he’s figured the game

But this time it’s true

The note says, “Please know that despite this I do love yo.”

It’s going to happen today

                he tells the empty place

But the door never gives way

                the only company self blame.

 

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- World Waits for You

On Post: World Waits for You

Date: January 11

Find it here

I really like this piece but it also really frustrates me. Some of my ideas benefit from the short quick format because they honestly probably could not stand up if they were carried out further. Wake Up Bomb springs to mind here as to go further with would have required me to really get into the future speak and I’m just not sure I’d be up for the task.

This story, though, I feel like would have benefitted with more time/space to spread. I could deepened the weirdness of it and the sense that this is running down the borders of our world at all times if we could just concentrate enough to see it. I could have shown Glen’s development in his role more, evolved his relationship to Mr. Perez, shown how his new job affected the rest of his life, and so on. But to hit the beats I wanted, the ad, the interview, Glen on the job, I had to sacrifice the richness because I simply couldn’t write a book in the time I had and it would not have made sense in the format of The January Project. But that doesn’t stop me from seeing what could’ve been. And hey, perhaps will be someday.

The idea came purely from the lyrical content and I was locked into that from pretty much line two of the song. I just loved the idea of someone being chosen to break the bad news to the world, but didn’t want it to be big Bruckheimer bad news. And since my bad news is not necessarily yours, I imagined it would be an individual thing, so a team of these guys would make sense. And how would they recruit? Why Craigslist, of course.

Oh, and I was obviously still in the economic inopportunity state of mind from Capital G as I couldn’t help but talk about Glen’s unemployment here.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 19, 2012: Numb

Letter: U

CD Number: 7

Track Number: 23

Song: “Numb” by U2 from Zoopora

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.donteatthepaste.com/2011/07/alaska-i-love-living-here-photos.html)

Claire and Bobby are looking up at a poster near the entrance of a cinder blocked building.

CLAIRE (whistles)

Wow…that’s…a lot.

BOBBY (rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet)

Sure is.

CLAIRE

Don’t you think it’s a lot?

BOBBY

I’m agreeing. It’s a lot.

CLAIRE

Maybe…too much?

BOBBY

I don’t know. If they are there, I assume there’s a reason.

CLAIRE

You think?

BOBBY

Well, if not, it’s an awful lot of rules for no reason.

CLAIRE

Right. Like a ton!

BOBBY

Yup.

CLAIRE

I think some of them might even contradict each other.

BOBBY

Really? I don’t see that.

CLAIRE (annoyed)

I’m not like guaranteeing it or anything. I’m just saying I think so.

BOBBY

Sure, sure. I’m just saying if there is, I haven’t found any contradictions.

CLAIRE

Ok. But…there’s so much, you might miss it.

BOBBY (shrugging)

Maybe.

CLAIRE

And some of these…can they enforce these? I mean, how would they even know?

BOBBY

Which ones are you worried about?

CLAIRE

All of them, really.

BOBBY (sighs)

I mean, which do you think they can’t enforce?

CLAIRE

I don’t know.  “Don’t try.” “Don’t theorize.” “Don’t leak.” What would that one even mean?

Anyway, I could do this all day.

BOBBY

Please don’t.

CLAIRE

You asked.

BOBBY

I am all too aware of that. Should we just go somewhere else then?

CLAIRE

Well…like you said, they wouldn’t put them up without reason, right? I’m sure they are necessary.

Long pause

CLAIRE

Just an awful lot of them, you know?

BOBBY

Yup. Definitely a lot of rules. A whole lot.

They glance at each other, shrug, and head inside.

 

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Woodburning

On Post: WoodburningDate: January 10

Find it here



This is a subject that runs very close to my heart, having worked in a group home for a few years. I think I worked for one of the “good” ones but our clients’ files were rife with things like being removed from other group homes just as they seemed to find their groove, multiple foster families, and other wildly disruptive change of locations. In Connecticut, in fact, when I first started at the group home, the state decided to “bring back” as many kids under Department of Children and Family (DCF) care from out of state locations as possible. So, over the course of several months, these children were pulled back into state regardless of how their current placements were working out. In some ways, this was good as it often put them closer to what little family contacts they had.

Similarly, it is often important to “upgrade” kids from one type of group home to another as they grow, physically, emotionally, and cognitively, to prevent stagnation and make them as ready to face the outside world as possible. It is still hard as can be though and often brutal for them.

I inverted gender here—the group home I served at was for trauma reactive adolescent girls, not boys—to just keep myself ethically sound. I don’t plan to violate anyone’s confidentiality, ever, by using their stories in my work, but changing the gender provides an extra barrier to keep my subconscious honest too.

It was also personal for me because I thought Wallace did a nice job of representing what is the kind of dual nature of those who have been offended against who go on to offend. What they’ve had done to them is so monstrous it literally changes the way they process information, view the world, etc. And, what they’ve done is also fairly awful. So how do you reconcile the reality that their brains are different than others with the fact that we simply cannot ignore their crimes? It’s no easy task, but I think it’s important to consider it in those terms as it is far too easy to just “choose” one side or another—he’s a victim! she’s a criminal!—and ultimately harm them further for not addressing both aspects of who they are.

Ok, off my soapbox I go.

Oh, wait…why the story inspired this. Right…sorry. I get wrapped up in the other stuff first.

The song just had that tone to me: the “do whatever you want to me, I don’t give a damn/wait, please help me, I hurt so bad,” that kids in the “system” often exhibit. That mix of hardened outer shell and bleeding vulnerability is another reason they can be very difficult to treat as, once more, you can get lost on either side of the equation.

Seriously, off the soapbox.

Anyway, once I “heard” that tone, that was immediately where my mind went and I though the monologue format was the strongest way to deliver the character to the readers.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 18, 2012: Danger! High Voltage

Letter: Mix

CD Number: 2

Track Number 7

Song: “Danger! High Voltage” by Electric Six from Ms. Sagness Goes Back to Washington (A Celebration of Three Years)

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.ausaid.gov.au/keyaid/hivaids/photoex/2.html)

Things did not go as he had planned. Fire was something different for him, an experiment and it had quite literally blown up in his face. He had mixed everything perfectly, of course. The ratios were exact. But he had not, could not have, planned for the poorly maintained stairs heading into the apartment building’s basement. One step gave way, the barrel slipped from his grip, and the chemicals were simply too volatile not to respond from the jostling.

He survived. He heard the doctors and the nurses marvel over his survival. They seemed stunned that his wounds had been so minimal and were healing so quickly. He wanted to explain to them that it was her, all her. She had inspired the art he was attempting and it was her beauty, her heart, her transcendent kindness that kept him alive, that healed him. He wanted to tell them all this, to make it clear to the doctors and the nurses and the police officers guarding his room how powerful his connection was to her. How much they were meant to be together. But the concussive force of the blast had shattered his jaw and left him temporarily unable to speak. But the moment he could, he’d tell them. He’d tell everyone. Because it was true.

He was certain of it. He had never believed in fate or powers that exceed the physical world, but then he had seen her. And she tore it all down for him so he could see the truth. Yes, she literally pulled him out of the basement that day, but her love, strong and not yet realized, was what had protected him. It was fate that first made him notice her and it was the more than human that she was that shielded him from the flames he meant to spread in her honor. The moment she touched him, he knew he would live. She was like light and healing given human form and she was all his. He knew it as sure as he knew his own name. She was his, he needed only prove himself to her.

He knew this was no easy task. He had failed once to honor her by eliminating those that sought to hurt and disrespect her. He would do better this time though. He would be safer and more ambitious. The tongues of flames would lick the sky, consuming the wicked and the innocent alike. And then she’d see. Then, she’d know. As sure as she had saved him, he was saving her. And their love would know no bounds.

He was sure. He was certain. So as he lay healing, he thought and he planned. Oh, how he planned. It would be magnificent. He would do her proud. And then they would be together. Forever.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.