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Ouroboros R Us
Aug. 4th, 2005 04:36 pmBeing back in late sixties-era Venice, California has me surfing the web again to verify what I think I remember from my research, et al. Which means I'm coming across some interesting stuff.
Read about my home town here:
http://www.virtualvenice.info/writings/ghost.htm
My reaction to this is, "It wasn't that bad, but yeah, it was that bad."
I guess, objectively, if you weren't raised there, it would seem freakier. Having cops chase perps through our yard, having the police helicopter circling low overhead, identify the sound of gunfire vs. fireworks weren't all that unusual. Just part of the background. I'm not being ironic or having false bravado here. Raised where I was I "didn't know no better." I'm hopelessly middle-class now, but there was a time...
One thing I'm really glad about is that I didn't grow up surrounded by white faces. My neighborhood was heavily diversified and I learned early that skin color doesn't tell you anything about what's inside a person, that what's inside is far more important, that good and evil come in all colors. That probably sounds hopelessly naive and hippy-dippy in this ironic age, but that's the way it was in the Venice of my memory.
Which isn't to say there weren't plenty of people trying to apply those stereotypes—I just learned better at an early age not to take them seriously.
Writing business of the day: On the actual writing front, I've hit a patch of the story where I can link up some scenelets I wrote in anticipation of this patch of the story, which is cool. I'm always writing ahead of where I'm at as things occur to me, as scenes bubble up. Sometimes these scenelets get overtaken by events, become obsolete, are discarded. Other times I can incorporate. But unless and until I incorporate, they aren't part of the Official Story. They aren't real events in the characters' lives yet. They may have happened, they may not have. Except sometimes I think I've written the story a certain way and I've only fooled myself because I'm remembering an unincorporated scenelet.
Although the end is a ways off, I can feel it starting to move through the story now. The snake is closing in on its own tail and opening its mouth...
I hit 107,000 words today.
Bucket brigade of the day: There was no water pressure at work for a large chunk (if you'll pardon the expression) of the day, so in order to flush the toilets we had to dump buckets of water into them.
Only they aren't regular buckets, but ice buckets from the Executive Suite that they use for meetings. Which I find highly symbolic. And hilarious.
"It's not the building's fault this time!" said one of the building folks defensively. And, indeed, it wasn't. Someone ruptured a pipe in the city of Santa Monica.
"Reminds me of that year I spent in Uruguay for the Peace Corps," I joked as I hauled my bucket back from refilling it in the sink. Then I had to explain to the earnest person with me I was just being a smart aleck and hadn't really been in the Peace Corps.
Something in here about snakes closing in on their own tails, too, but I'm not going to reach for it.
Picture of the day:
This is a close up of Lanyon Quoit, the monument seen at a distance in the panorama I posted with my July 27 post.
Read about my home town here:
http://www.virtualvenice.info/writings/ghost.htm
My reaction to this is, "It wasn't that bad, but yeah, it was that bad."
I guess, objectively, if you weren't raised there, it would seem freakier. Having cops chase perps through our yard, having the police helicopter circling low overhead, identify the sound of gunfire vs. fireworks weren't all that unusual. Just part of the background. I'm not being ironic or having false bravado here. Raised where I was I "didn't know no better." I'm hopelessly middle-class now, but there was a time...
One thing I'm really glad about is that I didn't grow up surrounded by white faces. My neighborhood was heavily diversified and I learned early that skin color doesn't tell you anything about what's inside a person, that what's inside is far more important, that good and evil come in all colors. That probably sounds hopelessly naive and hippy-dippy in this ironic age, but that's the way it was in the Venice of my memory.
Which isn't to say there weren't plenty of people trying to apply those stereotypes—I just learned better at an early age not to take them seriously.
Writing business of the day: On the actual writing front, I've hit a patch of the story where I can link up some scenelets I wrote in anticipation of this patch of the story, which is cool. I'm always writing ahead of where I'm at as things occur to me, as scenes bubble up. Sometimes these scenelets get overtaken by events, become obsolete, are discarded. Other times I can incorporate. But unless and until I incorporate, they aren't part of the Official Story. They aren't real events in the characters' lives yet. They may have happened, they may not have. Except sometimes I think I've written the story a certain way and I've only fooled myself because I'm remembering an unincorporated scenelet.
Although the end is a ways off, I can feel it starting to move through the story now. The snake is closing in on its own tail and opening its mouth...
I hit 107,000 words today.
Bucket brigade of the day: There was no water pressure at work for a large chunk (if you'll pardon the expression) of the day, so in order to flush the toilets we had to dump buckets of water into them.
Only they aren't regular buckets, but ice buckets from the Executive Suite that they use for meetings. Which I find highly symbolic. And hilarious.
"It's not the building's fault this time!" said one of the building folks defensively. And, indeed, it wasn't. Someone ruptured a pipe in the city of Santa Monica.
"Reminds me of that year I spent in Uruguay for the Peace Corps," I joked as I hauled my bucket back from refilling it in the sink. Then I had to explain to the earnest person with me I was just being a smart aleck and hadn't really been in the Peace Corps.
Something in here about snakes closing in on their own tails, too, but I'm not going to reach for it.
Picture of the day:
This is a close up of Lanyon Quoit, the monument seen at a distance in the panorama I posted with my July 27 post.