March 26, 2003 - B
"Science Fiction Versus Horror"
I've been pondering the nature of various writing genres lately. Thanks to Al Schroeder of Nova Notes, I have some clarification:
''I once long ago defined fantasy as this: a literature that searches for beauty, as science fiction searches for plausibility, and mainstream literature searches for truth and realism.''
But he did not mention horror. I've noticed Anne Rice's books are grouped at the used book store into the section for 'horror'. I used to wonder why, but now I understand. Obviously, horror is the literature that puts a spotlight on that which creates a reaction of horror in the reader.
Rice writes of immortal bloodsuckers and now I write of immortal bloodsuckers, but I've discovered the genres into which each of our vampire fictions belongs are entirely different.
I wondered at many of the Ricean conventions: vampires that cry blood tears, sweat droplets of blood, turn to stone as they age, and fall as the dead when the sun rises, necessitating secure casing, such as a snug coffin during daylight hours.
They did not make sense to me, and so I envisioned immortal bloodsuckers who only have blood in their tears if they fail to drink enough water. Turning to stone is also easily prevented by adequate water consumption. No demons were involved in the creation of my vampires, but symbiotic beings who live in the hosts circulatory system, who in exchange for their room and board, do repair work on the host's cells. But what makes these beings able to last forever? The keepers themselves have keepers, in the form of extremely long lasting generators which occasionally have to be replaced.
Falling dead at sunrise seems 'illogical', but there is a plausable explanation for extreme sun sensitivity. The original planet upon which the first host beings live has a dying sun. The extreme sensitivity to the sun there was merely part of the rest of the blood beings' enhancements upon the host. However, on planet Earth, this is only a hindrance.
Everything in my fictional world has to be logical, has to be plausable. It hadn't occurred to me why the Ricean mode is the way it is. I assumed it was only the evolution from the Bram Stoker view of the immortal bloodsucker. But that's not it. These conventions have their existence because they enduce in the reader a sense of horror.
That image of a pale being shedding blood tears creates a shudder in us. The concept of these beings in a suspended 'dead state during the hours of the sun creates a feeling of unease. That they gradually turn into statues is also unsettling.
But horror has a lurid appeal. It excites and entices us. It is this exquisite thrill that the millions of Rice's readers have come to expect.
On the other hand, a logical world may seem more comforting, but does its more cerebral appeal have the same level of attraction?
There has to be something else going on to make these equally fantastical, but logic-driven, worlds appealing. I must discover what that is and impart it to my fiction. Certainly, engaging and vivid characters are necessary to both genre. And a plot that builds in intensity until a satisfying conclusion is another necessity for both.
But there are other factors, and I will be pondering them.
March 26, 2003 - C
"Remaining Open"
"Every beauty suffers." -Makoto Fujimura
(Quoted at Mute Troubadour
Why is this? Beauty requires opennesss, which creates vulnerablility, which invariably creates suffering? I have answered my question. It is the price we must pay. We open ourselves to the beauty, and we get along side of it its deplorable opposite. Is this ugliness unavoidable? Yet to see the beauty, with our open eyes, we see its contrast. It hurts our eyes, with its sharp realizations.
Yet, the opposite, the shut eye, is unthinkable. It is the unthinkable, anesthesed life which seeks numbness. But numbness equals death. I can't have that, I who detest death so much.
So where to, then? I'll take the deep breath, and brace myself for the ugly bits. That we have so much ugly bits these days causes me to cry. But that we have so many brave people shining their lights in the darkness causes me to cry, too.
All that I am shall remain open. I can not be otherwise.
March 27, 2003
"My Mother In Sunlight"
No words today, I will instead share a colored pencil portrait. You may remember the original photo.
March 28, 2003
"I Must Remember That"
Forty thirty five am and the persistant cricket still sings. I awoke after a beautiful dream. I dreamt I'd created this massive web house of amazing art, full of different rooms, each piece rich with color and line and life.
That dream could become reality. I must believe it possible. If I regard each new piece as 'an experiment', perhaps I can let loose of the fear which holds me back. I must never forget this dream.
It is wonderful, now in middle age, to have those artistic seeds germinated so long when I was in my teens at college, now flower. The other day, when the two names whispered themselves in my mind on awaking, and it set off an exploration, tells me all that study has not gone to waste. Something here, there, anywhere, might suddenly spring itself into memory.
I must work on letting loose of the fear and seizing the moment. Too much hope gets put into 'the weekend', and then I am heartbroken if 'the weekend' proves lost, with me in bed sick with sinuses. Any free moment must be a free moment to grab a pencil.
I think I've learned that well enough with the pen used for verbal efforts. Now to have a sketch pen and pencils at the ready, always. But I must overcome the embarrassment I am feeling. ''It will draw attention to me, if I am always seen with a bag containing such. It will draw attention to me, if I ACTUALLY take such items out and USE THEM in a public place!''
So says that small voice which has dogged me all my life. And who says such attention is such a bad thing? It is amazing, in webland I am full of the ''look at me'' desire. In flesh space, I cower nervously ''don't look at me''.
There needs to be a change. What will happen if people 'look at me'? Am I afraid of what they think? If they examine the work and think, ''all such vain delusion on the part of this scratcher''
Am I still hearing the rebuffing voice of that fellow fourth grader when I drew the blue half profile, half front-on face, ''You think you're an artist?'' No doubt that young girl had grown up already in her tenth year with much rebuffing herself, to have such negative comments. A duty to squelch any possible egotistical thoughts implanted itself in her, and she could not avoid following through.
So much emphasis has been placed on other sources of childhood shame, I have forgotten this one.
So maybe I shall learn boldness. Or maybe more easily, I can learn an odd sort of humility that does not care if the world at large thinks me a fool.
Letting loose of the burden of caring what others think is a great relief. I must remember that.
(Small note to self: 'Look at me', 'don't look at me', these are both functions of the EGO. In each case, they bring about striving that only creates suffering, because there can never be contentment. It's small wonder, then, that the wise advise against following into such traps.)
March 29, 2003
"I Did Remember That"
When I readied myself for the meeting of friends at the coffee shop today, I remembered yesterday's promise to myself and I tucked a sketchbook and my box of pencils into a bag and took them with me.
They might not have made it out of the bag, however, if it weren't for another daring young sketcher who also brought his sketchbook and small box of pencils. His box was the same narrow rectangular gray box as mine.
His daring inspired mine, and he was willing to sit for me. His heavy suede leather coat was full of details and interesting draping, which added to the elements.
'Tai', Sketched From Life
March 31, 2003
"I Wish I Had Remembered That"
As I watched Vernon Sears, a thin man demonstrating his camera Sunday morning at the UU meeting, I wished I'd brought my own camera. His old style camera, constructed of glossy laquered wood and shiny golden brass dials and expanding devices, was a work of art. I got up close to look at it. The accordian pleated bellows was of beautiful dark maroon leather. This is an old timey camera, and requires the photographer put a dark blanket over himself as he does the business. Three different cameras are required for three different film sizes. (He never enlarges a small print, for detail gets lost that way. ) The glass plate on the front, which has a slot to hold the film, can be replaced with one that is for smaller film size, but not larger. He had the 5in by 7in frame up on it yesterday, with its neat grid lines.
A small collection of desert scene pictures was brought to illustrate his work, all in black and white.
But now I have only memory. And if I had tried, could I have sketched the man, as he spoke? But I did not. I kept imaging how he would look, frail-thin, sketched. His sparse gray hair, wire framed glasses, narrow neck nearly lost in his dark blue denim shirt collar, except for a large knobby 'adam's apple'. His ivory pants, belted in to his sparse waist. This photographer quit a high paying job fifteen years ago, and now dedicates his time to this nearly lost art of black and white photography. He mentioned Joseph Campbell as his inspiration, in Campbell's urging one to 'follow their bliss'. Photography has become his life. He thought he might need a part time job to meet his expenses, but he's managed day to day without that.
However, now he's getting some recognition. Prints of his were used in a small meditation booklet and he has an art show coming up.
So I felt frustrated, later in the day, not having achieved anything creative. But today is a new day. Yes, Monday, a work day, but my thoughts are mine. Maybe today there will be inspiration.
April 1, 2003
"Disorder?"
I don't know if I will find anything. I am just checking in. I check piles of useless items, all seems disorder.
Is the music too loud? I am listening to 'Desert Roses & Arabian Rhythms'. We watched a movie earlier tonight, ''Don't Say A Word''. A gripping thriller, it starred the younger of the Douglas men as a psychologist whose daughter is kidnapped. Sunday, we saw ''Death To Smoochy'', one of Robin William's recent efforts. I want to see the one with him called ''One Hour Photo'', but each time we go to Blockbusters, every copy is always rented out.
'Death To Smoochy' was not bad. It was rather inventive and amusing at points.
I turned the music down. I'm not sure I can think any better. But Khaled does not need to sing to the neighborhood. I note the last words of yesterday's entry, ''Maybe today there will be inspiration.'' Yes, there was. A discussion on one of my lists inspired me to answer the question ''Are Vampires Monsters''. Michael and Gwen quite ably answer that question.
Yes, I am pleased with this short story. I don't know if it will end up as part of 'Book Two'. However, it does take place right after the most recent chapter, 25.
''Inchallah, inchallah, challah,'' sing and dance it, Latifa!
The beginning of April brings to remembrance a lovely day Laura and I had in Prescott. Ah, kisses amid the scent of pine trees!
Yes, a delicious cool spring day that was in Prescott, but here it is only the beginning of desert HEAT! We have not yet turned the house AC on. To do so seems to admit defeat. But at 9:37pm, every door and window is open, and fans are roaring. The house is beginning to get cool.
With this cooling, I might be able to sleep. I might be able to sleep without aid of the lung decongesting medicine that makes me thrash so.
Last night I kept kicking Julia in such constant and rhythmic fashion, I got up and went to the sofa, whose back took the kicks without harm.
Perhaps the 'bug' shall be fully gone. Soraya sings 'I fall apart each time . . .'. I shall be better soon. I shall have order and inspiration. It shall come.
April 3, 2003
"A Fair Fair"
Three forty five am, I am up with the back that needs relief. But I went to bed early. There is nothing like tromping the wide expanse of fair grounds to make one good and tired. It's a good kind of tired. I slept from seventy thirty to three without thrashing, I am quite sure.
All spontaneous, it was. When I called Julia to tell her 'come get me, work is done', she surprised me with a spontaneous decision to see the Yuma County Fair. The weather was perfect. Cool and breezy, and as the evening progressed, it got cooler. This was all good for my still burnt from Saturday skin.
I'd never been to such a fair before. Laura and I had seen brief parts of an over commercialized Arizona State Fair once. This one is not so corrupted, retaining all the traditional old timey charm. I enjoyed wandering the many displays. The photography section was most impressive. Over and over, I kept seeing the name 'Pete Self' on photos I liked. I learned later from a friend he teachs at the college here.
The huge mostly pink pigs were impressive. I never heard so much squalling as came from under their canopied arena. The shorn fur of the sheep, who shared their roof, was still soft to the touch. A few goats added their bleats to the cacophony.
But I liked the rabbits best. They had their own quiet building all to themselves. So many cute little rabbits, each in an identically sized wire cage, with their floppy or not floppy ears and their cute little twitching noses just amused me. I never knew rabbits came in so many colors. There are forty-five recognized breeds!
Floppy eared 'Holland Lops' and non floppy eared 'English Spot'
And I liked the gem and mineral displays. The way one carver utilized the stone spotting as he made tiny statues of bears, lions, pandas and roosters was clever. A phone booth sized display of flourescent rocks was fascinating. Once Julia and I had shut the door and turned off the light, it was the most drab rocks which showed the brightest streaking under the 'black light'.
We met friends of ours there. It was cool running into Darin and a smiling long browned hair girl whose name I don't remember.
A country group named Doo Wah or something like that, entertained us as we ate. They did decent covers of popular country songs as well as original songs. One title was ''Living With You Is Like Living In Las Vegas''. Maybe one has to be a gambling addict to appreciate its full meaning, for I hate Las Vegas. But I enjoyed the expensive but tasty Indian fry bread taco I ate while listening to their music. Julia had a date shake and only a plain fry bread, having eaten something before she picked me up.
My only regret is I didn't have my camera. I would have liked to have a picture of the gigantic hibiscus in the flower display. One bloom was at least six inches across. I'm sure I might have gotten cute bunny shots and images of those scary but colorfully lit ferris wheel rides.
But I've captured a few of the high spots verbally, at least. Yes, it was a 'fair' fair.
April 4, 2003
"Moody, But Hopeful"
Again, an early descent into bed, and a early rising, this time inspired by a sore throat. Am I catching another bug when I haven't gotten rid of the first bug? Moodiness soaks into me. Why am I such a sponge?
I looked at today's horoscopes, expecting the title 'erratic emotions' or some such. Close enough, I did chuckle sardonically at the bold title MOODY. Of course, my moodiness may be also influenced by the time of month it is. Ah, and wasn't I just saying to someone last week my cycle didn't influence me overmuch?
Stars, hormones, current events, whatever the cause, I am moody this morning. However, I happened across a hopeful article called CULTIVATION OF COURAGE. I want to quote the entire last paragraph on RETAINING FAITH:
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RETAINING FAITH
What we need to do right here and right now is work to retain our faith.
We can do this, no matter what our religious orientation, or lack of one,
by remembering that everything is changing all of the time. Daily reflection
or meditation will remind us that if we look closely at any painful emotion
or difficult situation it is bound to change — it is not as solid
and inert as it might have seemed. The fear we feel in the morning may
not be present in the afternoon. Hopelessness may be replaced by calm,
or even a little bit less hopelessness. Even while a challenging situation
is happening it is shifting, varied, alive. Once we see the inherent change
in our experience, we see that we are not trapped, that we can have options.
Then faith can arise.
Faith is the quality that allows us to find a way to go on, to feel empowered,
to, no matter what, keep on trying. This is not a sentimental faith that
everything will be just fine, according to our wishes or our timetable.
Rather, it is an awakened faith that gives us the courage to go into the
unknown, the remembrance that nothing is fixed, and the understanding
that as long as we are alive, possibility is alive. It is a power of faith
that inspires us to step forward into the center of our lives —
to participate, to link up, to reach out to others and let others reach
out to us, to work for a better world. And it is a vitality of faith that
tells us, however easy it is to forget or be afraid, that the time for
communicating, for loving, for risking, for trying, has got to be now.
(by Sharon Salzberg, a Buddhist teacher who has studied with Buddhist masters
in India, Burma, Nepal, Bhutan, and Tibet. She is the co-founder of the
Insight Meditation Society, a center devoted to meditation training. Her
most recent book is “Faith: Trusting Your Own Deepest Experience”
(Riverhead Books).)
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Yes, the "fear", or in my case, MOODINESS, felt "in the morning may not be present in the afternoon." I rather think that might be the case. Meanwhile, I found another encouraging story this morning.
The above passage originally came from an interview Salzberg had with a reporter at msnbc.com. In an attempt to find the original, I followed the link but was redirected to their main index page where I saw this headline: Iraqi man risked all for U.S. POW
I'd heard of the missing U.S. Army Pfc. Jessica Lynch, who had been found in a hospital, but not of how she was discovered. The story begins:
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''Mohammed, a gregarious 32-year-old Iraqi lawyer, went by the hospital in Nasiriyah one day last week to visit his wife, who worked there as a nurse, when he noticed the ominous presence of security agents.
''Curious, he asked around, and a doctor friend told him an American soldier was being held there. Something made him want to go see. The doctor took him to a first-floor emergency wing where he pointed out the soldier through a glass interior window — a young woman lying in a bed, bandaged and covered in a white blanket.
Inside the room with her was an imposing Iraqi man, clad all in black. Mohammed watched as the man slapped the American woman with his open palm, then again with the back of his hand. In that instant, Mohammed recalled today, he resolved to do something. After the man in black left, Mohammed sneaked in to see the young woman.
'Don’t worry, don’t worry,' he told her. He was going for help. ''
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Mohammed set out by foot to find some Americans to tell them of the wounded soldier. This was risky, for Saddam's Fedayeen troops often pose as civilians so they can slip in and open fire at short range. At checkpoints, unable to tell the difference, U.S. troops have fired on civilians by mistake. So Mohammed took a great risk. But it was his words 'information about woman soldier' that got him ushered in to talk with officers. Not only did he deliver the message, ''Twice over the next two days, he said, they sent him back to the hospital to gather more information.'' He had to be careful to avoid the large numbers of Fedayeen milling around the hospital.
However, the Fedayeen knew he was up to something anyway and ransacked his house, but earlier he'd wisely sent his family to stay at his wife's relatives. ''With hand-scrawled maps from Mohammed and his wife, the commandos quickly found the injured Pfc. Jessica Lynch and spirited her away to safety.'' If it were not for Mohammed's help, however, they would have never even known where she was.
My heart rejoices because of this brave man who risked all for one human being. Mohammed said, ''A person is a human being regardless of nationality,'' and added that he 'loved Americans'. His CULTIVATION OF COURAGE will be an inspiration to me.
I am still moody this morning, still easy to cry, but I have hope, I have faith. Thanks, Mohammed and a million others whose names I will never know.
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