duSmesh

I'm a boy who likes food, plain and simple. I'm a little fat boy at heart. When I was thirteen, I went to a Chinese buffet, then returned when I was fourteen, and the waiter remembered me. The actual story involves countless trips to the buffet line, going to the bathroom for five minutes to make room, and then doing it all over again. Apparently it'd been a sight to see, because half the staff seemed to remember me. This story is humiliating, so let's move on... All this to say, Indian buffet on Saturdays is quite literally the one thing that excites me the most about the weekends. I'm not sure if it says more about the food or more about me as a person, but it doesn't matter: it's one of the highlights of my week (the highlight some weeks), and don't worry, because I never have more than two plates of food. This koala's *somewhat* self-disciplined now. I'm thinking about their different dishes, the spicy samosas, the dipping bread, fried or baked. I'm already craving it again. This could be a new addiction, put it on the list.

Oh, and in any previous posts, I called the restaurant "Dumesh." 

But there's an oddly-placed "S" in it. Just got that today.

11.11.11: nailed it

This is a good first step, but there's more to be taken. The inaccuracies in this movie can drive a man (or at least a man like me) mad. Stephen Spielberg may have a dromaeosaur named after him, but at this point, I'm not sure if he deserves it. I mean, for God's sake, the only reason he got the honor in the first place is because he took liberties with Velociraptor mongoliensis from the outset. But it's a damned good movie, so I guess that makes up for it.

on writing

Writing a story is always invigorating, but it's really not as easy as people think, especially when you know your story, if followed through, will span somewhere around 3000 pages. Half the bear is character development and plotting; and once you get that somewhat figured out, you've still got to actually write it and write it well. The last couple weeks have been spent writing and rewriting, adding and deleting. I wrote 150 pages, winnowed it down to 100, and then wrote another 50 pages (which I'm actually mostly content with). The story is, on the surface, about zombies; but, delving deeper into the characters, the whole zombie thing almost becomes peripheral to the "real issues" at stake here. The story's not so much about zombies as it is about the characters, and even more-so, it's not about the characters (plural) as it is about the main character (singular), and the way that his perception of the world is inevitably changed by the events and how this works itself out in his life. Not surprisingly, the tension between Cynicism & Hope isn't untouched. At this point in my life, such tension will sprinkle, if not douse, anything I write. 

When I wrote the first act months and months ago, I didn't like the main character. I didn't like the way he operated, I didn't like his worldview, I didn't like who he was. And, really, that's a success for me: I constructed him in such a way that he's a complete dick, a manipulative asshole, a guy who uses and wants to be used by girls. It felt so surface-level, like a cardboard character, and I knew I couldn't keep running with him as is because, to put it quite simply, I didn't like writing a first-person narration from the point-of-view of a douche bag. So I scratched it all, completely deleted it, and then regretted it. Why?

(1) The character was well-done. The fact that I hated him is a testament not only to how we're total opposites when it comes to these things but also a testament to how well I portrayed him as he is. Part of creating characters--and, hell, writing in general--is not being afraid of the tough stuff, not shying away from a character simply because the character's modus operandi makes you sick to your stomach. The reality is that people are like this character. 

(2) Characters are never--or, in my opinion, shouldn't be--static. Characters must continue changing, evolving, adapting, reacting to the circumstances as the circumstances influence their worldviews. And when we're talking about something as worldview-shifting as a zombie pandemic, there's a lot of room for character development. I found the document in my email (when I had formerly sent it to myself) and looked through it all again, realizing that with the advent of zombies, the potential for radical character-development in so many different directions skyrocketed with this character. 

(3) On top of that, I knew it'd be fun to figure out why the character is the way he is and utilize that in the story. There's always more to why we are the way we are, and even douche bags can have pretty damned good stories. Most people who are jerks weren't born that way; they became that way because of something, and exploring these things and fleshing them out in the story offers not just future character development but also a past-tense character development that, like we find in real life, influences and affects the way the character swallows all that's happening and let's that change him. 

So I've re:opened the document and continued the story. Of course I went back through the document and tweaked it significantly in light of the direction I want to take the character, but most of the things that made me uncomfortable are kept intact. Fifty pages later, I've enjoyed taking these bits and pieces of the character and investigating them fuller. Reading Act I, we come out of it with a certain preconception of the character's nature. And then, in Act 2, we begin seeing that things aren't always as they seem, and though we hate this character, we can understand why he is the way he is, and even sympathize with him. I like the idea that the protagonists are never completely good and the antagonists are never completely evil (just like life), and I've really been enjoying redoing the story and fleshing-out this character. I think it's going somewhere good, but we'll see.

Of course, as an addendum, there's fear, and let me tell you why: when we pick up a novel from the library or buy a book from the bookstore, and when we get lost in it, we don't let the story--which is fiction--affect our perception of the author. We're not reading the story wondering what this tells us (or doesn't tell us) about who wrote it. We simply enjoy the story. But when we read a story that someone we know writes, without even realizing it, we let the story affect our perception of the writer. We make judgments about the author based upon the story, as if we've forgotten that it's fiction. This is why, for instance, Stephen King never let his kids read anything he wrote until they were much older: he knew that, because he was their dad, they'd start making judgments about him based on his stories. Because this story is told first-person, people who know me can very easily read it and start making judgments, and that's something that scares me. But the number one rule in writing is to "not worry what mother thinks" (i.e. don't let your writing be dictated by what you want, or don't want, your friends to think about you). So though I'm plunging forward with this character, there's a bit of trepidation thrown in there: I don't want people reading this story and then thinking I'm actually the main character, and that it's a sort of autobiography. 


A risk? Definitely. 
A worthwhile risk? For this story, yes (I hope).

january wedding

There are moments in this poor koala's life when the darkness weighs heavy as a sopping-wet thermal blanket. There's really nothing I can do about it, really. The biochemicals in my brain do their own thing from time-to-time, and there's no way around that. Last night was such a night: overwhelmed with a deep sense of lost-ness and wandering, overcome by the absence of purpose as well as the question of purpose, and pretty much drowning in my own head, I went to bed around 9:30, knowing that (maybe) sleep would help the situation. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. Thankfully last night it did, and though there was a residual sadness in the morning, it went away quickly as I got into my work day working with people I love. Once upon a time I would ask Why such sadness has marked my life; and once upon a time I would question what I'd done--or hadn't done--to deserve it. People with mental issues (we're talking about 90% of the world here, folks) tend to ask these questions, thinking that maybe finding an answer will pave the way to a solution. But there's no answer other than misfortune, and there's no solution but to endure it when it strikes. It's a part of my life, and it forever will be. I'm not going crazy, not losing my mind or my temper, I'm just sad from time-to-time for no reason. 

Today I was listening to some Avett Brothers and really loving one of their songs, entitled "January Wedding." One of the last stanzas, the one about darkness and reconnecting, really stuck out to me. If I don't over-listen to it (which I will) I'll want it to be one of the dance songs at my wedding. That'd be something different and totally legit. Here's the song: 

the 19th week

This past week's been filled with its highs and lows.

I'm not sure if there were more highs than lows, but looking back... It wasn't bad.

And I got some good writing done. Moving forward!

Monday. With Jon gone and the store understaffed, my Monday shifts are now regularly 6:30-3:30 (which I don't really mind). After work I spent the day writing, and when it was all said and done, I felt sad and empty. How strange that the very thing that makes me feel alive also gives birth to sadness. Perhaps that's just the nature of things. Brandy and Jake came over, and everyone was hanging out, but I stuck to myself. Isolation: it's what I do when life weighs heavy on this koala heart. Rob made some Congo coffee and I had some, and then I went for one of my drives: out to Eden Park and back again. A drive I've made too many times. I don't know why, but driving through the park at night with the city sleeping in the valley makes me feel better. It's a ritual, something I can control. And I've been dreaming about losing teeth again, and I always have those dreams when I feel trapped and powerless to break free. Trapped in what? Hell, in my own head 1/2 the time. But, no, I think I'm trapped in this unending cycles of daring to let hope breathe only to be reminded, over and over, that there's a reason I've been suffocating it all along. I've buried hope in a shallow grave only to resurrect it at the first taste of something good. Maybe I just need to dig the grave deeper this time around, or muster enough calloused self-control to not pick up the spade when I see hope stirring. Never-mind all this, the grave's been opened and now it's time to fill it in again, time to clean up the mess that's been made.

Tuesday. I treated myself to a vegetable omelette at The Anchor and did a hefty amount of writing. I tried keeping my chin up at work, but we were understaffed and super busy and Amos and I missed training and got out an hour late, and I tried not to be frustrated but couldn't help it. Amos and I got home after dark, and Kassie came by to roast some coffee for the Jam Friday. 

Wednesday. Crazy day at work: three catering orders, out of product, super busy... Really, just like any other Wednesday, I suppose. By the grace of God I got out on time (even five minutes early!). Mandy and I hung out for a while back at the house, and Rob brewed some coffee. He went to do training at 600, and Mandy and I went to Roh's Street and got a pot of herbal tea, and she did homework while I wrote about zombies. Afterwards we went to Kroger and I got fixings for toast and cereal. We hung out with Amos in the kitchen for a while, and then Amos and I shot zombies. Mandy came running through my room when I was going to bed, ecstatic about how skypaing works. "It's like he's RIGHT THERE!" Ha, just like a little kid.

Thursday. I didn't sleep well last night, so I woke early and went to The Anchor to write. Work wasn't bad at all. The evening was cold, wet, and windy. The basement's flooding, and it's hard to stay warm. For four hours I literally lied unmoving on the sofa. No energy, no passion, no vitality. Not one particular thing, really. I'm betting it's seasonal depression. Winter: I hate it. And we're supposed to have a long winter. The wind and the rain, the biting cold, it's like my heart's looking in a mirror. I feel gridlocked in a state of suspension, going nowhere. All my striving and struggling, it's just me kicking my legs in open air. No real promise, no hope of anything changing. There's just me, and this: a life giving birth to and fed by disappointment. It's like I'm stuck in a revolving door, people going in and out of my life, actually going somewhere and making strides, and I'm no more than a passive observer to it all. Ams quipped, "We were both supposed to be miscarried, maybe we're not even supposed to be here so God doesn't know what to do with us." Heh.

Friday. Worked 7:30-3:30. It wasn't a crazy day, but I was certainly "off" and people noticed. "You okay?" Cat piped; to which I lied, "Yes." But, no, I'm not okay. Not right now. I'll be okay again, I know that much. But right now, no, I'm not okay. I'm disillusioned, shutting down, isolating myself. I'm a wanderer, and though all who wander aren't lost, this koala certainly is. I'm not sure of anything anymore, especially not sure of myself. I just keep seeing people happy and laughing, and maybe they're faking it, but I crave that. I hate how hopeful I am, how I give meaning to everything, how I can't just sit back and enjoy life but must deconstruct everything so that in the end there's not goodness but monsters charading as human beings. All those things I rant and rave against, they're things woven deep into the fabric of who I am, and I hate that. To make the day better, I dropped my IPOD in the toilet and it stopped working (after-note: it's working again), and I was stuck in traffic for two hours on my way to Dayton for the night. But talking to Mandy K. made the stop-and-go more than bearable. We talked for an hour, and it felt like 15 mins (which is saying something, 'cause I generally hate talking on the phone). I was supposed to watch Sky 'cause Mom and Dad are outta town, but Grandma was there so we grabbed China Cottage and watched a movie. Sky and I passed out around midnight.

Saturday. Grandma and I had coffee, and then I headed home. Rob, Amos, T.J., Mandy and I had Indian food for lunch. Oh, how I've missed that. I ran some errands afterwards. T.J. came over after his class at Cincinnati State, and we hung out for a while. I spray-painted and erected a new shelf to hold my speakers above my desk, and Rob installed a new screen door. The parts came in a heavy cardboard tube which we lit up like a smokestack using gasoline and match-books. Isaac and Andy came over, and Rob and I joined them for a trip to Rock Bottom. I had a Manhattan: two shots Maker's Mark with some bitters and vermouth. Definitely got me pretty buzzed, a benefit to hardly every drinking. I polished it off with some brewery pretzels, and Isaac and I smoked out by the fountain. They use blowtorches to clean it, and the Christmas lights are already up. It's not even Thanksgiving! Honestly I like Thanksgiving more than Christmas: eat, drink, be merry and be thankful. It's much easier to count scars than blessings, but life's filled with both.

Sunday. Today is Mandy K.'s birthday. Hooray! I woke around 9:00 and went to The Anchor for coffee and orange juice and was there for about two hours writing. I spent the morning continuing with my writing escapades and then went to the bank. Ams and I had a brother-sister date: we went to Newport and had lunch at Dewey's (I got a 1/2 and 1/2 pizza with Dr. Dre and Wild Mushroom), and then we browsed books at Barnes & Noble without making any selections. Everyone headed off to the Barista Jam at Carew, and I joined them after doing some more writing. I stayed for about two hours, got to see Hartman, Andy, and Amos perform. Amos, Blake, Ams and I hit up Rock Bottom for dinner (but since I was still full from lunch, I just had some of their bourbon barrel beer). It was pretty damned delicious. I headed home and got to talk to Mandy K. a bit, wishing her a happy birthday and all that, and then Amos and Isaac came back from the competition bearing good news: Amos placed first and will be, if I understand correctly, going to the Barista Competition in New York. Baller. 

oh cincinnati

Rob's car was on empty after Indian food, so we stopped at a gas station in Camp Washington to fill up. While there we couldn't help but notice the mural painted on the building behind the gas station. If you can't quite figure out what it is, well, that's the point. Oh, Cincinnati. Apparently we have George Washington wearing women's clothes, riding a she-cow, and flanked by a gorilla on his right and a robot on his left, with flying pigs encircling his head like a halo. "You can't argue against that," Rob mused. 

Have I been slacking in updating my blog? Yes, and I apologize yet again. I've hit a sort of dry spell when it comes to blogging, have become wrapped up in several different writing projects that take up most of my time and energies. I'm hoping to have at least one completed by the end of the year, but let's be honest: that's probably nothing more than wishful thinking. Nevertheless, in my attempt to keep this blog alive-&-kicking, I've been reduced to posting music videos and pictures of silly murals, the dry humps, if you will, of the blogosphere. While I do have some posts lined up, I'm not sure when (or if) they'll end up on here. Keep checking back to see if anything here makes your tail wag.

But in defense of this post, and in defense of Cincinnati, we've got some pretty decent murals. The one to the left may not be top-notch, but check out this one from Northside:

I can get into that one. And, of course, there's always my favorite, the mural painted on the side of my semi-daily stomping grounds, The Anchor:

That's all for now. kthanxbai

after the storm

It's already November. It really is amazing how quickly things change, how you can be in one place at one time, and then at another time be in a completely different place without really knowing how you got there. Sorry the posts on here have been sporadic, to say the least. Much has been happening in my life, within and without, and much of my writing has been focused on this. In the mornings before work I go to The Anchor in Covington, and I get orange juice, coffee, and some eggs; and I write. Half the time I don't know what I'm going to be writing when I walk through that door; but by the end of it, pages upon pages have been littered with words and sentences and paragraphs ripped from the ventricles of my beating heart and transliterated onto paper. I use one type of paper, a college ruled notebook that slides into this leather portfolio I use to protect the pages from rain and egg yolk. In the past month alone I've written somewhere between 160-240 pages. All handwritten, too, might I add. Much of these writings will never find their way onto this blog; some of it's frightening, some of it's revealing, all of it is heartfelt. Sometimes I like to wear my heart on my sleeve; sometimes I realize that's silly and foolish and prevent myself from doing so. Because so much of what I'm writing won't be finding its way here, here's something I like and that I'm really finding to be moving me a lot lately. It's called "After the Storm" by Mumford & Sons. Enjoy.