Writer's Commentary- The Go-Getter
On Post: The Go-Getter
Date: January 31
I’ll be honest, I more or less plagiarized myself with this entry.
When I was in middle school we had to write something every week. It could be a short story, a book report, movie reviews, a journal entry…whatever. Truth be told, I think my teacher was really just looking for journal entries and book reports. Instead, I turned in short story after short story after short story. I even wrote serialized stories for a time, awful, awful sci-fi things.
Anyway, one thing I particularly developed an enjoyment of was—and I don’t think I realized this is what they were, but I do now—O’Henry and Twilight Zone-esque endings. I just loved me some irony, evidently.
One story was all about me…pause here a sec for more backward.
I also went through a stage where I was often the lead in my stories. Not like a thinly veiled version of me. Just straight up me. Tim Stevens. I have no idea what I was doing. Alright, back to the explanation.
In it, I wake up in a triangle box—I distinctly remember making it triangular was important to me; I think it was because it was DIFFERENT and also, possibly, Superman symbol-esque. So I woke up in this box on the shore of the East River. No idea how got there. Wearing some kind of silver jumpsuit.
For the majority of the story it was like pure capitalism porn as imagined by a 12 year old. I also found a ton of money in my wooden triangle box and took it and bought cool clothes, went to what I guess we’d call a comic book convention now but I had no concept of that then so I think I described it as a big tag sale with comics, and generally spent my way through New York City. My teacher had emphasized early on the need for elaboration in writing so I described in aching detail every comic I bought, every piece of clothing, every crumb of food.
Then, the story took a weird sideways turn when I called my Dad to tell him where I was. He insisted his son was at school and that he did not appreciate the crank call. I reasoned that whatever had happened that brought me to New York in the first place no one else knew about yet: the school assumed I was home, my dad assumed I was at school, so I bought a bus ticket to Berlin, CT and headed back to the Constitution State. It took all night, but finally I arrived. I called my house and asked him to pick me up. This time he told me his son was home and hung up angrily.
Finally, I took a cab over and was stunned STUNNED to see me coming down the stairs to eat breakfast with my family even though I was outside looking in the window. Then I awoke…it was all a dream. Except as I came downstairs for breakfast, who was that crouching in the bushes.
Now, in that story, it just ended there. This one I took it a bit farther. But, as you can see, same basic idea: dreaming of an other who is you but not you who then turns out to be real.
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- Go Go Gadget Flow
On Post: Go Go Gadget Flow
Date: January 30
This is, basically, a two-joke script. Joke one is the very idea of determining the better city in this way. Joke two is the treatment of the Beantowner. The entire piece is in service to those gags.
As such, I don’t think it “reads” well. It seems long on the page. In practice though, spoken by competent actors, I think it would move along at a good clip and actually prove quite rapid fire. If it would work though, is not necessarily answered by that. It really comes down to how the humor was sold. It probably would play well here on the east coast and in the area around Chicago and, I assume, almost nowhere else. Californians, in particular, might resent not even having a Boston sized piece of the conversation.
On a side note, I was initially going to try something with the “go go gadget” part, but I couldn’t get past an anecdote I have about someone I dated really liking Inspector Gadget. I’m not even sure if it’s true so much as she once said she liked it when she was younger and in my head through the vagaries of memory I’ve elevated her childhood enjoyment of it to “I LOVE INSPECTOR GADGET!” And, in any case, it is not an anecdote one can build a decent story around.
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- Possum Kingdom
On Post: Possum Kingdom
Date: January 29
So this song is about vampires, right? Or a serial killer? That’s pretty much the only read I could get on it. Either way, weird.
So, I guess it should be no surprise that it prompted this kind of entry.
And yes, it is pretty much an allegory for sex. Like a 1950’s, sex will ruin you forever kind of allegory. Even if the song didn’t have the “be my angel” and “be my lover, be my lover, yeaaaaaaaah” lyrics, it pulls for that sort of dark interpretation of losing one’s virginity.
I think it works as a straight horror story too though. I was going for that sort of Lovecraftian (and yes, I understand I am nowhere near a Lovecraft here, just saying that’s the realm I was shooting for) tale in which the POV confronts a thing so vast, so bizarre, so alien that her mind literally breaks because of it.
The “loss of virginity” piece kind of developed as I wrote. I noticed and figured, “eh” a lot of horror has that kind of element to it, so why not? For the record though, I am far more sex positive that this story would indicate. Just be safe, share it with someone you care about, and know that it can mean both a lot more and a lot less than you expect.
(Sorry…just would feel bad if I left the impression that losing one’s virginity is similar to gazing upon an ancient evil).
Someone dropped me a note and said that “townies” were kind of taking it on the chin in the Project. A cursory glance gives me a direct townie mention in “Good Morning,” one here, and I guess the kids in “Dashboard” could be labeled townies. In the first, nobody was in the right, but I can agree that it was not a flattering portrayal. In the third, the kids were the heroes, if you will, so I don’t think that’s so bad.
With this one, yes, our townie may be evil. He might not be. He might just want to connect with our POV and didn’t realize what the “secret” would do to her. But let’s assume he’s evil. The reason I made him a “townie” was I wanted to add to the sense that this was his world she was visiting. That he knew the ins and outs and that he had been here for a time before her. It was less a “boo, townie” choice and more a “why, I’ve been here all along.”
If that makes a difference, I do not know. I hope it does.
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- You Blew Me Off
On Post: You Blew Me Off
Date: January 28
Is there any better time to be infatuated with someone who treats you poorly than middle school/early high school? I’d submit to you that no, no there is not. For one thing, the stakes are relatively low. Middle school/early high school relationships of any length or substance are few and far between so it is not that odd to be single. Plus, everyone treats everyone else terribly at that age, especially in middle school, so it is not that odd at all to fall for one of the many who mock your shortcomings and/or pretend you do not exist.
When you leave that age range, it starts to get disconcerting. Low self-esteem, the possibility of exploitation, and just generally bad partner picking become very real things. So, to do a fun approach to this kind of “love” I had to put it into that age range. The note from one classmate to another felt very apropos and indicated the time this was taking place without me having to waste many words setting it up.
I do not recommend this kind of romance for anyone. You all deserve a respectful kind partner. Except for you, sir. You…get nothing.
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- Believe in What You Want
On Post: Believe in What You Want
Date: January 27
I respect musicians and bands. I really do. They do many things I know I can’t do. They play instruments that people want to hear in such a proficient way that people want to hear them being played. I never really was able to achieve that with trombone or tuba. They also sing, which I am fairly certain I can’t do. And many of them song write which, given my track record with poetry is not something I’d lay money on my ability to do.
That said, I’ve never understood the obsession that people, artists and fans, pay to selling out. Artists should want to be successful. They should want to put their art in as many hands as possible and have it listened to and studied and discussed. There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with wanting to reap some of the benefits of that attention, be it monetarily, in prestige, or whatever.
Of course, the success discussed in this piece is obviously insane and over the top. Which is, I think, what people worry about when they talk “selling out.” And that’s worthy of being worried about. The problem is that any step towards that, making money, getting a hot girlfriend, making a silly appearance on TV, is interpreted as being akin to spending money like water, having sex with boatloads of groupies, and completely throwing away credibility by making all kinds of commercials, TV appearances, and plastering your face on bottles of water. They are not equivalent. Money does not equal selling out. Rising in prestige does not equal selling out. Or, it shouldn’t anyway.
Also, we totally need a song about what a bummer it is to have your teen girlfriend take the car you promised your model wife she could drive. I think that’s a really relatable 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.
Writer's Commentary- If I Could Give All My Love to You—or—Richard Manuel is Dead
On Post: If I Could Give All My Love to You—or—Richard Manuel is Dead
Date: January 26
This is an entry that is based almost entirely on the first sentence of the first verse and the writer, Adam Duritz, description of what inspired the song. Richard Manuel is, of course, a real person. A musician, in fact, with the band The Band. When Duritz read that Manuel had died, he says he suddenly became totally wrapped up in the idea of impermanence to the point that it kind of dislodged his sense of the world and uprooted him from the earth.
When I heard the first line, I just went to the idea of an alternate world Richard Manuel as notorious criminal. Not sure why, but that’s where my head went. So I wanted to write about how those co-conspirators left behind might react. I also wanted to incorporate that experience of being smacked in the face by something so huge and unexpected it completely derails your perception of the world, your organization of your life. Since criminals are generally a cynical hardened lot (please know, this isn’t really true, but at the level my fictional Manuel was operating, I expect they would be) I thought it’d be hard to completely gobsmack them. Hence, the “civilian” POV who, in one fell swoop, witnesses his best friend kill a man and is forced to go on the run with him.
But, really, the best part of this song coming up is that I go to write that ridiculously long title as a header. I mean, it is only 14 words, but it just looks SO long. I love inappropriately/unnecessarily long song titles.
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- Puzzle Pieces
On Post: Puzzle Pieces
Date: January 25
Sometimes your first idea is your best idea and you know it right away and you never question it. That was the case here.
The only regret I have, if you can call this a regret, is that I do not know all that much about plastic surgery and I didn’t have a lot of time to investigate complications, mistakes, and so on, so the descriptions of what the POV has done to her body were a bit limited and not as horrible as they might otherwise have been.
On the other hand, that might have been to the benefit of the piece as it firmly puts the attention on the true factor here is the sheer amount of surgery she had done in search of perfection, not just in what the surgeries look like. In other words, if you make it too horrible, the reader may end up thinking, “That poor woman getting all that bad surgery in search of perfection,” when it really should’ve been, “That poor woman, feeling like she had to get all that surgery and be perfect.”
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- Capitalism
On Post: Capitalism
Date: January 24
The sheer amount of internet commentary that buys into this song at face value, that its lyrics have no meaning except exactly what they say, was sort of startling to me. It was kind of like finding out that there are people out there who think Stephen Colbert’s character Stephen Colbert is who he really is all the time.
Officially, Danny Elfman, the lead singer and writer of this song describes it as “serious satire.” Yes, he is down on suburban liberals—perhaps you’d know them as the limousine liberal set—and his critique of them here seems to be meant authentically. However, his glorification of capitalism via conservative talking points is pretty clearly tongue in cheek.
So I wanted to write something that did that as well. Except everything I wrote ended up like “Capital G.” I had already mocked each side’s take on the other while showing how easily it breaks down when people know each other behind their identified political identity there via the brothers and it felt repetitive to make that same point by satire again.
So, instead, I wrote what would was a fairly heavy handed bit of political theatre. I have no regrets.
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- Blackout
On Post: Blackout
Date: January 23
“Blackout” was a fun one.
The song itself was obviously a love gone wrong tune, but I didn’t want to go there, especially as I was still cooking my idea for Breaking Up to a Beat at the time and I knew it was mining similar material. (Check out that link, by the by). So I made the choice right away: I will not make this entry in any way, shape, or form about relationships or love.
When you strip that out of the song, you are left with a lot of body trauma issues.
“Can’t feel my hands.”
“I won’t blackout.”
“Inhale to the top of my lungs.”
And then there is a reference to a chase and not stopping. That part gave me the idea of, well, someone chasing someone else down a street. The repetition of “This won’t stop til I say so,” and “going and going and going and go,” became the basis for the “Keep the Rhythm” mantra the POV character keeps returning to. The body trauma stuff was brought to bear in the POV’s nerves about trying to fire his guy (the “Can’t feel my hands,”), the burn in the lungs of running, and, of course, the tumble he takes.
I just really liked recasting a song that is clearly about one thing as about something entirely different. I feel like I did that more in last year’s project and was definitely missing it so it was gratifying to be able to do that again 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 31, 2012: The Go Getter
Letter: B
CD Number: 20
Track Number: 22
Song: “The Go Getter” by The Black Keys from Brothers
(Picture taken from http://www.ohmidog.com/2009/11/21/john-the-man-in-the-window/)
Theo Guerin sat on the couch, eyes red, lids dark and bloated. He clicked his tongue against the lid of his mouth compulsively, without knowledge that he was doing so.
This was the eighth “specialist” he had been to in as many days.
There was the psychiatrist who prescribed him the drugs that made the dream last longer, bringing that homunculus even closer.
There was the psychologist who told him it was stress related. Yeah, no kidding. That money on your degree was well spent, Doc.
There was the hypnotherapist who Theo was convinced made him cluck like a chicken. And, if she did, it was the only thing she was successful in doing that session.
There was the sleep doc who fitted him with a breathing mask and, yes, prescribed more drugs.
And so it had gone. Obvious diagnoses, solutions that did not work at all or made it far worse. Reiki, acupuncture, acupressure, he had even tried the ol have lots of sex with a stranger method…no dice on any of them.
Now he sat in the office of a faith healer. He knew the guy, Brad, from college. Their sophomore year, Brad went off the rails and disappeared for months. He returned only to drop out of the university and announce his epiphany. Theo had written him off like most of the class but now, years later, Brad was rich, the author of several books, and Theo’s last shot at diverting this nightmare from becoming reality. Things change.
After twenty minutes of pacing, mainlining some awful pink colored liquid that was supposed to give him energy, and slapping himself to stay awake, Theo finally was able to see Brad. Brad’s office was a wash of colors. Red, yellows, and oranges swirled over the walls, while the ceilings and floor were a medley of greys, blues, and greens. Brad sat crosslegged on the floor and insisted on being called Guru. Theo bristled at it, but was too desperate not to play by the rules, no matter how dumb.
And so he related his story, as he had some many days in so many rooms before this. The dreams that seemed inconsequential and rare but that rapidly became nightly. The realization that it was him “waking up” in the dream amongst trash and old newspapers. That it was his chapped hands, his dirty fingernails. How they quickly became nightmares of a poverty stricken future. Then, how he oddly realized that his nightmare self, his dreamatar if you will, was perplexed by how this had happened, this abject poverty. That the dreamatar could not place how he had gone asleep in his big bed and woken up in trash.
He paused here because this is where things really began to unravel for him. He took several gulps of water and suppressed the panic rising in his throat like bile. Brad, sorry Guru, nodded sagely but said nothing. After a few moments, Theo got up his courage enough to lay the rest of the story on his last hope.
He explained that about a month ago he realized that the him/it in the dream was moving closer and closer to his home. A block here, a block there. At first, Theo had ignored it, written it off on a trick of his subconscious. But he/it kept coming. The dreamatar would not quit. And Theo became convinced he/it was coming to take back the life it believed to be his/it’s own. In the last dream, the dreamatar was crouching in the pachysandras outside the living room window. Theo though, nay knew, that if he could not stop the dreams now, his life would be stolen from him by this empty vessel wearing his face.
Guru stood then and began to chant. Theo was taken aback. Everyone else had further questions and concerned looks and barely concealed, “Wow…you are CRAZY” blinks. Guru, on the other hand, just went right to work. After about eight minutes of chanting and dancing Guru froze in place and shook violently, falling to the ground. Theo felt rooted in place, unsure what to do. Then, Guru sat straight up and smiled. He assured Theo it was done, handed him a trinket to place on his bedside table for the next month, told him to go right asleep when he got home and bid him adieu.
Theo left feeling oddly calm. He did not believe anything he had seen, he remained sure this was the end, but now accepted that. At least, he allowed, Guru had given him that.
So when he arrived home, he placed the trinket by his bed, slid into the crisp cool sheets, and slumbered. Deep, deep slumber. Dreamless. He awoke, 13 hours later, alive and rested and hopeful. There had been no dreamatar, no sense of imminent end.
The next night, again, all was well. And so on. Until the days became weeks and Theo was moved to celebrate. A big party. Lots of guests. He told them it was just because, but for him it was a celebration of a life restored.
He had fun. He drank, he danced, he offered an impromptu serenade, singing alone in public for the first time since high school choir. It was glorious. He was reborn.
And so, when Trish cuddled up to him at the end of the night and tossed him a wink and a purr, he did not hesitate to drunkenly take her to bed with him, the two of them tumbling this way and that up the stairs. They crashed into furniture as they undressed, knocked things off walls and surfaces. Objects fell and broke, others were crushed beneath feet. Theo knew he was going to have to do some cleaning up in the morning but he was carefree about it. He had gone through too much to curse having to sweep up.
At 3 in the morning, he woke thirsty and neck achy. Half asleep he stumbled downstairs to fetch himself a glass of water and another pillow. He hummed a tune and considered waking up Trish for a little “reunion” when he got upstairs.
He never noticed the set of eyes gazing at him through the window. And then the crash, sharp and loud…
Trish stirred, sure she heard a noise. In the doorway, Theo assured her it was just him stumbling about in the dark. She smiled sleepily and cuddled back into the sheets. He joined her a moment later, wrapping her in his arms and burrowing into the bed with her. She cooed contently and slipped back into sleep.
In the dark, she couldn’t see how raw and cracked Theo’s hands were, how dirty his nails were.
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- Everyday is Yours to Win
On Post: Everyday is Yours to Win
Date: January 22
This one was a bear to write and I’m still deeply unhappy with it.
The problem is I think I was too close to the idea. More on that in a sec though.
As far as doing a letter from father to son, the song itself is written as a veteran looking back and offering advice to the newbies in his field as they come and/or just an older guy talking to younger people. It is not grizzled or cynical but an optimistic kind of “it’s tough but worth the effort” perspective. It just felt very parental to me.
And I’m a new parent. So you start to see the problem, yes?
I did not want to write what I might write to my still new to me (6+ months in) daughter if I had to write such a thing because I was going off to war. That felt cheap and, honestly, a bit too soul baring. But every friggin’ draft, I’d start to bleed in about paragraph two or three. Realize it, delete all of it except the intro and start again. The story the Dad tells at the end is my essentially giving up and abandoning to idea of “this is what life is, this is how to live it, son” letter and doing something similar but still different.
Like I said, it’s still pretty problematic on the whole and I’m disappointed with my delivery on the idea but in retrospect it probably was too raw for me to really tangle with and try to maintain some kind of distance from. I had to either accept it and make it semi-autobiographical or thinly veiled non-fiction or chuck the idea and start again. I could not bring myself to do either and so the piece is kind of a failure.
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 30, 2012: Go Go Gadget Flow
Letter: L
CD Number: 7
Track Number: 3
Song: “Go Go Gadget Flow” by Lupe Fiasco from Lupe Fiasco’s The Cool
(Picture taken from http://www.masterfile.com/stock-photography/)
ELI and Brian sit opposite one another in an airport food court. They are clearly in the midst of an argument.
ELI
Empire State Building. Classic. Everyone knows it.
BRIAN
Sears Tower. Taller.
ELI
Isn’t it called the Willi—
BRIAN (interrupting, insistent)
It’s the Sears Tower! Anyone who says otherwise is from out of town.
ELI
Fine. Bronx Zoo.
BRIAN
Shedd Aquarium. Next.
ELI
Grimaldi’s Thin Crust. Pizza how God intended.
BRIAN
Pequod’s Deep Dish. Pizza how man perfected it. No offense to God, of course.
ELI
Of course.
BRIAN
Millenium Park.
ELI
Pfff… Central.
BRIAN
The Kapoor Sculpture.
ELI
Really? Art? Fine. The Met. Guggenheim. MoMA. The Bronx Museum of Art. The Brooklyn Museum of Art. The New Museum. Dia. Whitn—
BRIAN
Yeah. Fine. I get it.
ELI
Jay-Z.
BRIAN
Kanye.
ELI
Without Jay-Z, there’s no Kanye.
BRIAN
Without Kanye’s production, you wouldn’t know Jay-Z enough to reference him.
ELI
The New York Yankees.
BRIAN
The Chicago Cubs!
ELI (arching an eyebrow)
The Cubs?
BRIAN
Anyone can root for a winner. Supporting a team like the Cubs proves how serious our fandom is.
ELI
Maybe...winning’s better though.
BRIAN
Hey, at least the teams that have my city’s name actually play in my city.
ELI
What’s that? A Giants and Jets crack? Oh, by the way, two teams in every sport that matters. Three in hockey. And have you ever been to East Rutherford? It may be in Jersey, but that’s a New York City suburb, my friend.
BRIAN
The E.
ELI
Subway.
BRIAN
Graham Crackers Comics.
ELI
Midtown. And Forbidden Planet. Also, the books you collect? Made in my city.
BRIAN
O’Hare. Most airplane traffic in the world. And we also have Midway.
ELI
La Guardia and JFK. Both majors. Not major and one minor.
BRIAN (rolls his eyes)
President Barack Obama.
ELI (crossing his arms over his chest)
President Bill Clinton.
BRIAN
Oooo, good one.
ELI
Blagojevich.
BRIAN
Spitzer.
ELI
Ryan.
BRIAN
Weiner.
ELI
Blagojevich.
BRIAN
Spitzer.
ELI
New York, New York
BRIAN
Chicago, That Toddlin’ Town.
TOM has overheard most of their conversation and finally decides to sit down.
TOM
You’re both crazy. How about the Freedom Trail. The Celts. The Pats. The Sox. Historic Faneuil Hall. The Common. Harvard. The real Tea Party. The Big Dig.
BRIAN and ELI both look at each other, amused and confused.
BRIAN
Are you talking—
ELI
—Boston?
TOM
Of course. Best city in the whole worl—
The duo from NYC and Chi-town simultaneously push him out of his chair. Both start to laugh.
BRIAN (shaking his head
Honestly...
ELI
I know, I know…Boston.
Both lapse into a fit of giggles.
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- La La Love You
On Post: La La Love You
Date: January 21
As Pixies songs go, La La Love You is fairly lyrically…shallow, shall we say? Ok, as music goes, it’s fairly shallow. In the middle of it though is this sequence that goes “first base/second base/third base/home run.” While not as blatantly about the “deed” as Paradise by the Dashboard Light’s baseball interlude, I think the reason for the reference here is pretty clear.
And that got me to thinking, are “the bases” universal. The four f’s referenced in the entry is what I was raised on (although raised on in this context is just super creepy) but I don’t know if everyone else received the same. Similarly, I swear I was involved in a discussion once with someone about five years older than me and someone about five years younger in which it seemed that our definition of what base meant what had some crossovers, but were not, in fact, the same. And given that norms are always evolving and changing, a free love hippie, for instance, would seem a man or woman with a death wish in the early 90’s when AIDS seemed indomitable. And vice versa, a super contentious 90’s person through back to the 60’s or 70’s would seem wildly overly concerned with STDs and judgmental about the idea of just doing what feels good. So why wouldn’t the way we label “bases” change. Of course, it’s weird to ask someone young enough to tell you what their bases are unless you know them, so there’s that tension between being honestly curious and knowing that to ask makes you very creepy indeed.
As far as why a girl instead of guy…well, for one, I felt like I’ve written a lot of guys this time around in the Project and less women than last time. Also, the first line I conceived, which I confess I now cannot recall—it might have been the Pretty Woman line. I dated someone in high school who used to half-joke that she wanted to be a prostitute after seeing Pretty Woman despite being very serious about saving herself for marriage in real life. I have no doubt she was not the only girl of our generation who saw it when it came out, or just the trailer, or it on TV who came away with the same idea. Anyway, I always felt that it made a sort of sense but it was evidence of what a phenomenally messed up movie that film was at heart. “Girls, girls, girls, come join the sex trade. You wear funny outfits until you meet the man of your dreams whose rich, makes you over, and takes you away from the life just as you tire of it.”
That, coupled with a podcast I had listened to a day or two before in which one of the women discussed her difficulty in finding men who were willing to kiss early in the relationship because it was “so intimate” but had no problem getting down (if you know what I mean) birthed that line.
Anyway, as I was saying before I distracted myself, that first line felt feminine to me. Which is a wildly pretentious thing to say, but it did. So the character flowed from that.
Seriously, though, what are people’s definitions of the bases these days? Anybody?
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 29, 2012: Possum Kingdom
READER’S CHOICE
Song: “Possum Kingdom” by The Toadies
(Picture taken from http://www.flickr.com/photos/luis24/5588151381/)
She had known she should say no the moment he asked her. She knew her parents would not allow it. They’d say she was too young to be traipsing around with a boy at that time of night. It was not a safe choice.
She had known she should say no the moment he asked her. She knew that if she did not ask her parents, there could be dozens of kinds of trouble to pay. If she was found out. If either of them got hurt. If someone else saw them. If they got lost…it was not a safe choice.
She had known she should say no the moment he asked her. But she didn’t. She said yes. With a giggle. She told him she’d sneak out, blushing with pride at her bold, rebellious decision. This was not the way she usually acted. But it was summer, she reasoned. It was summer and she was 16 and if she did not start being her own person now, then when. Besides, he was terribly cute and mysterious, the exact kind of boy she couldn’t find in her hometown. The exact kind of boy she’d always wanted but was scared to find.
Thus, when night fell and she heard her parents stray to the far side of the house and close their door in the rented cabin, she slipped it out. It had taken oh so long to get as dark as she wanted and her parents had taken oh so long to stop watching TV and retire and so she buzzed with nervous pent up energy. It was born of coiled anticipation and a stubborn resistance to the sleep her body so desperately wanted. She was jumpy and giddy and her clipped along like a rock skipping across the lake.
It was dark. So much darker than she expected. The one other time she had snuck out it was at a sleepover at friend’s. The three of them slipped out the front door and rode bike around the neighborhood at one in the morning. It was never as dark then as it was crossing the meadow to the old boathouse. Street lights were everywhere back home. All she had now were her eyes that resisted adjusting the light and an electric lantern she had pilfered from the garage and hid under her bed in the afternoon while her parents were busy playing croquet with some set of boring neighbors.
She felt cold suddenly. Terribly cold. It made no sense, she knew. It was still hot out, 90 easy. And humid. She felt her cotton dress settling on her like a wet towel. And yet, her teeth chattered. Adrenaline she told herself. Excitement.
She finally found him, just a little ways back from the boathouse, sitting on a rock. He had no flashlight, no lantern. She found it odd but he assured her as a townie, he knew this place backwards and forwards. She smiled at that and he smiled and they both swayed awkwardly, standing two feet apart. A moment became seconds became a minute, maybe more. Finally, she could stand it no more. She had to scream or kiss him and she opted for the kiss.
It was…overpowering. She felt dizzy, like she was falling into a deep pit. She’d kissed others, certainly. A boyfriend, a friend’s cousin, a couple of classmates during a spin the bottle party. But this was different. It scared her. And it thrilled her. She found her want to kiss him growing with each moment, never slaked.
He stopped her though, gently but firmly grabbing her arms, pinning to her side, and moving her away from him. He wanted to show her something, he whispered. She felt ill at ease right away. The sick feeling she had gotten she fell off the jungle him in third grade and lost her breathe, but not just in her stomach. Every part of her felt like that. But she said ok.
He reached into a stump next to the rock he had been sitting on and pulled out an ornate wooden box. She nearly giggled at herself for her feeling of dark premonition. It probably just belonged to his departed mom, she thought. So silly of her to get so scared.
Then he opened it.
She felt the world disappear from underneath her. The air seemed to grow slick, like oil. It was…hideous. Noxious. Terrifying.
She tried to close her eyes and he urged her not to. She tried to look away and he demanded she stare. She was rooted in place, without agency to do anything but take in his secret. She bit her lip but could feel no pain, taste no blood. It was vast, twisting…and his voice. He seemed to almost coo at her to look, look at what he brought. And she did. And she did. Until she could no more and her brain, blessedly, made her sleep.
Her parents found her the next morning on the front porch of the cabin looking exhausted, sweaty, and distant. She told them she could not sleep, that the heat had kept her up. And from what they saw that made sense. They did not question it and by midday and following a shower and a trip to an air conditioned mall, she seemed chipper, bright…herself.
Or so they reassured themselves. In truth, although they never said it to each other or anyone else, their daughter seemed different. Off. They’d catch her sometimes staring at something in a way that was decidedly unusual. She seemed to carry herself differently, talk in a voice just a touch unlike her own. Perhaps it was puberty last gifts, perhaps…well, they did not bother to wonder beyond that. They did not wish to.
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- Not Falling Apart
On Post: Not Falling Apart
Date: January 19
Despite my repeated statements regarding my lack of poetic ability, I did a poem here. As far as why I would do so, I confess I am not entirely sure. I feel like when I first began to conceive of the piece I just “saw” it as poetry. When I sat down to write it, even though I could not bring what in my head was a really good thing to the page, I just couldn’t shake that first impression. Hence, a poem.
As far the text of it, the inspiration is pretty straightforward. In the first verse of the song, Levine is singing about being in a bad relationship, but the chorus reveals his significant other has now left him. The rest of the verses focus of him dealing—or, rather, not dealing—with this relationship rupture. The lead of the poem is pretty similar. He fears the break-up, really wants it, and then moons over its arrival. It’s just the idea of hating the situation you are in, but fearing that it might end because of what would mean for your life.
Best couplet:
This is life, crawling toward
grey on grey
Terminally bored
nowhere to aim
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.