Echoes in a Hollow Space

Food poisoning Friday/early Saturday; going through old boxes in the garage, the detritus of my life, and throwing big chunks of it away early Sunday; a skeery earthquake Sunday afternoon; driving to work this morning through torrential rain...I think it's time to inflict my existential poem on ya'll.

From the notebooks, December 29, 1999:


So this is it?

So this is it, the rest of my life?—
the dog barking distantly
at what he does not know;
the drainpipe outside the bathroom:
tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-ing;
the toilet whistling all night
that high, lonesome sound,
longing like the wind, but for what?

For an answer to the mystery
of why we want this incessant existence?
Or is the toilet's song about life itself:
the wanting of it as only inanimate objects
want, deep in their atomy souls?

The late night slamming of doors;
a disturbed thrum of distant plumbing
running hard, through the wall, up a floor;
a hollow thud of footsteps somewhere above.

Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut.
Yes. This is it.

Quote of the day:

"I awoke this morning and attacked my play with a vengeance. A stabbing need to create something out of this madness. To stand art up in the face of it. Maybe it's a redemptive act. Maybe it's this belief in the power of art to construct, to inform us of the nobility of our humanity, to bring us closer to our kinship with the gods, and, armed and armored thus, through will and daring, bring about an increase in our humanity."

—August Wilson

Moving news of the day: Yes, stacking all my possessions into a huge pile, dousing it with gasoline, and lighting it does sound like a good idea. Why do you ask?

One week from today.

Weirdness of the month: My neighbor likes to smoke on her balcony late at night. Sometimes when I'm trying to sleep, I smell it wafting through my bathroom window and clear on into the bedroom. Once when I had a cold it even woke me up coughing.

One night about a month ago, I sat on the edge of the bed reading just before turning out the light for the night when all of a sudden the room filled with the scent of sweet pipe tobacco—so strong it was as if someone sat next to me puffing away. At first I thought my neighbor had someone over who was a pipe smoker. But I peeked out the window and didn't see anyone. My next thought: "Who do I know who's dead who used to smoke a pipe?" My thought after that was, "Oh Christ! X's father just saw me naked!" Which made me somewhat queasy.

I live in a strange little universe.

It wasn't until later that I realized the smoke could have been cannabis, and perhaps came from one of the balconies above me (a fairly likely scenario). But why be logical when it's so much more fun to go to the extreme edge of imagination right off the bat?

Of course, if it was cannabis and it wasn't someone living nearby, I have plenty of dead friends who might have seen me naked that night. Some who have seen me in that state before, some not. Not sure how I feel about that.

But I will certainly be glad not to smell that woman's gacky cigarette smoke when I'm trying to sleep at night.

Irony of the day: I was blocked from getting out of my garage this morning because a Parking Enforcement guy had parked across the driveway so he could jaywalk across the street and give a ticket to a car parked on street cleaning day.

Interesting sight of the day: Last night a brown mama duck and her little bitties decided to cross the intersection of Venice Blvd. and Ocean Avenue during rush hour, from the Venice Library lawn to the parking strip across the way. No doubt they were on their way back to roost for the night on the Venice canals which are only about a block from there. People in Venice are very protective of their ducks—one girl leaped from her SUV and left it blocking the lane so they could get across, then inserted herself bodily in the opposite lane to block traffic coming in that direction. That is not at all uncommon around those parts. And no one who saw the reason for her blocking traffic even honked their horns. It was only as traffic piled up and the people behind could no longer see the ducks that the honking started. They waddled across in a relatively quick manner, but it took the little bitties awhile to hoist themselves up on the high curb there. Only then did the girl get back in the car and drive away. We missed a couple of lights—but like I said, no one who saw what was going on seemed to mind.

Mama was accompanied by her handsome husband, a fine green-breasted, black-headed fellow. I've seen this mated pair and their brood several times in the last couple of weeks.

One day last week, one of the sprinklers on the fine, broad line of the new Venice Library broke and flooded the grass. There must have been twenty or thirty ducks on that lawn chowing down on the bugs that were coming to the top of the grass to escape the flood—a fine smorgasbord. Mama, papa, and their brood were there, as well as other mamas, papas, and ducklings. The ducklings alternated between feeding and playing splashy swimmy games in the water.

Quote of the day:

" 'Tat twam asi,' say the scriptures—'you are That.' You are the divine light playing with itself, always creating, always molding, always seeking shape and form and expression. Therefore, you see, we must honor desire. Without desire there is no creation. That is why we tell stories about desire and love."

—ancient East Indian creation myth, quoted by Jalaja Bonheim, Aphrodite's Daughters

Things I won't miss about my apartment of the day:

The kid next door (maybe six or seven) who is being pimped to Hollywood and is constantly singing and rehearsing lines. Apparently, he's been told it's important to sing as loud as he can. I can't say he hits sour notes, but there's very little that's musical about them. They are loud and on pitch, but practically atonal.

One day he was out on the balcony with the woman who is either his mother or grandmother (I haven't been able to determine the relationship and am not all that interested). I was working on my computer in my bedroom with the bathroom window open. I heard her ask him a question, but didn't hear what she said. "I have!" he said quite indignantly.

She made another sotto voce comment, and he snapped, "Oh, all right!"

Then his peeved tone turned almost sappy: "Dear God, I'm really sorry about what happened to my brother. I didn't want it to happen, and I didn't mean it to happen, and I'm really, really, sorry. So, please, God, please take care of my family and make things okay."

His peeved tone returned: "How's that?" followed by another sotto voce comment from granny and the opening and closing of their sliding glass door.

Either he was rehearsing some lines or that was one of the oddest conversations I'd ever been forced to eavesdrop on.

Picture of the day:

( Adieu )

(and the loud mariachi music my neighbor is playing and singing along to off key)

Things I thought of blogging about today: My latest plumbing problems here at Apartemente Doome.

Why I didn't blog it: I think everyone's bored of the topic by now. I know I am.

Other thing I thought of blogging today: The fact that several of my friends are going through terrible crises right now.

Why I didn't blog it: Because their crises are not about me. I was afraid of using their misfortunes.

Yet another thing I thought of blogging today: Being honest in reviews.

Why I didn't blog it: It seemed disingenuous.

Most beautiful sound of the day: The water draining free and clear down my drain. Well, that and the birdsong outside my window when I woke up.

Surreality of the day: Communicating with my Russian manager. "Paymela, cannot call plumber now. Too late. Cost company much, much money. You watch. We call Monday."

Irony of the day: That my upstairs neighbor starting her usual early morning dishwasher run that usually wakes me up and causes me to curse her freely finally cleared the clog.

Best lyrics of the day: ...keep you doped with religion, sex and TV... (Working Class Hero) or ...I don't believe in Jesus, I don't believe in Kennedys...I don't believe in Elvis, I don't believe in Dylan, I don't believe in heroes, I just believe in me, and that's reality... (My Mummy's Dead)

Strange thought of the day: Lennon still brings out the rebellious side in me and still has the power to make me temporarily believe things I don't believe. And Yoko Ono's voice still makes my teeth ache.

Cliche du jour: n/a - I only wrote reviews today. Although it could be argued there were some cliches in there, too.

Darling du jour: n/a

I may be the last person on earth to do this, but melinda_goodin finally got me.

1. Total number of books owned?

sigh I wouldn't be surprised if it was 2000—or more. And no, none of them are in storage. I have six bookshelves in my one bedroom apartment. I think a visual aid may be in order (since I'm camera obsessive these days):

Visual aid.

[broken link]

This is my combination dining/office/library area and it's a scandal. In addition to the three and a half bookshelves shown here, I have two more 4x4 bookshelves elsewhere in the room. The books stacked sideways are my TBR books. I stopped counting them at around 400. Please note that behind the TBR books the shelves are full of other books. I am a book junkie. I'd hang my head in shame...but I'm not ashamed.

2. The last book I bought?

I bought four at once. This is why my floors are sagging:

♥ One for the Money (A Stephanie Plum Novel) by Janet Evanovich

♥ Found : The Best Lost, Tossed, and Forgotten Items from Around the World by Davy Rothbart

♥ Dead as a Doornail (Southern Vampire Mysteries) by Charlaine Harris

♥ Do You Believe? by Ann Lawrence

3. The last book I read?

Storm Front by Jim Butcher. And I'm about 50 pages away from finishing his Fool Moon. These Dresden Files books are fun.

4. 5 books that mean a lot to me?

As others have said, this is tough and depends on the time of my life...In a way, they all mean a lot to me, even the bad ones, but I'll try to think of 5 that mean a lot to me at this juncture in my life.

♥ Kage Baker's Company series. (Okay, I cheated because that's more than one book, but it's really like one really long novel.) She's funny and profound and earthy and lyrical and a native Californian and I want to be her when I grow up.

♥ The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It meant a lot to me many years back because it helped me out of writer's block of four years duration.

♥ The Damiano trilogy by R. A. MacAvoy. I'm cheating again, but it's really one big novel. Heartbreaking, beautifully written, sweeping historical fantasy ultimately about the redeeming quality of love. I want to be her when I grow up, too.

♥ A Fine and Private Place and The Innkeeper's Song by Peter S. Beagle (How can you choose just one Beagle?) Oh, and I so want to be him when I grow up.

♥ Andre Norton's Witch World series. (I'm cheating again!) These books inspired me so much when I was a kid and made me want to write sff and be just like Ms. Andre when I grew up. (Little did I know I would never grow up.)

♥ To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis. (Oops, appears I've done six books.) (Greedy.)

5. Tag 5 people and have them fill this out on their ljs:

frigg Have you?
maggiemotley If you're around a feel like it.
sollersuk You've already done a version of this. Want another?

I think everyone else has done this. If you haven't and feel the need, consider yourself tagged.

And it's a Friday night debauchery followed by Monday morning guilt kind of morning. I can't believe I bought that camera. It's impulse buying like that which is responsible for me being trapped in an apartment with exploding plumbing. What a schmendrick I am. I thought my apartment was $250 under market value, but I saw a housing report a couple of weeks ago that let me know it's closer to $450. I'm paying Inland Empire prices for an apartment on the Westside of L.A.

All right. Enough chest-beating. I'm a fool—but I'm going to enjoy the hell out of that camera. I already have.

Thanks to Jodi for pointing me to Photobucket. You can't blame her for the misuse I've made of her advice, though.

ETA: Happy birthday, Jodi!!

Some completely stupid pictures here.

These are completely stupid, but they're the only pix that are okay enough to post at this point.

[broken link]

This is my living room. Nobody wants to see my living room, but hey...it was there, so I photographed it. And carefully cropped out the clutter in front of the bookshelf in the foreground. All except the handle of the carpet cleaner which I forgot to move before madly snapping pix.

[broken link]

This is my lace fan from the Jane Austen Museum in Bath and a portrait of me done by my friend Francesca when I had a wild and luxuriant perm. God, can you stand the excitement?

I've been so busy at work I've hardly had a spare thought to myself, and this weekend I had to do an enforced housecleaning. Allegedly, the manager has to do a "air conditioner inspection" today. Last month is was a "termite inspection." Frankly, I think the owner just wants him to do some snooping, but there's this pesky law that they can't enter apartments without 24-hour written notice. My apartment was still cleanish from last time, but I do have an amazing talent for cluttering a space in a short amount of time. And then there's the laundry. I swear it breeds on the floor of my bedroom. Er, I mean, in the hamper, of course. I would never pile laundry on the floor.

I'm woefully behind on my correspondence, so if I owe you an email, it's not because I'm being uppity, I'm just finding it hard to get everything done in the course of a day. I'm behind on crits to one person, but slightly ahead on everyone else, so at least that's not adding to the guilt pile.

I had a two-day stall starting chapter 16 last week. One part of me wanted to switch timelines to 1968 again; the other part wanted one more chapter in the 6th century. The thing is, it felt like a change was due right square in my middle where these things usually reside. So I was pretty sure a change was due. But I've got one more piece of significant business to take care of in the 6th c. when Caius is a certain age before advancing him on to the next age bracket. I let it go and concentrated on other things over the weekend (besides laundry). I apparently made some accommodation with myself because today when my writing session started, I went for a return to '68. I'll let Caius age in the next segment.

Who knows if it'll work out or stay that way in the rewrites but in the meantime switching accomplished what I most needed at this juncture: it got me unstalled.

Huzzah.

I usually don't post progress notes because it's always the same story with me: I grind it out day to day, averaging between 500-850 words. Not a blistering pace, but steady and cumulative. Sometimes I write 1000, 1200, even 2-3000, but mostly it's just grinding it out. But I thought it worthy to note that I have just completed seven chapters of my new novel, Night Warrior. Okay, most of that was rewriting and editing old text to make it come up to my present standards, but it does mean that I am well and thoroughly launched on this new novel. I'm in the zone with it, can feel it spinning out ahead of me and delving deep inside me.

Pam's lessons learned.

Recurrent themes emerge from the darkness. Scenes involving transformative experiences, for one. In my novel Shivery Bones I had a scene where a wounded and desperate man crawls through a gap in a hedge and emerges into a place that will thoroughly change him. Apparently, my Backbrain liked that scene so much it copied it from this older work, ten years before. I'd completely forgotten I had a scene with a boy who crawls through a gap in a briar patch and has a transformative experience until I read it again. Too bad. I think the metaphor works even better in this one. Are metaphors like rivers, I wonder? Can you wade in the same metaphor twice or must they constantly be changing? I suppose it's failure of imagination to reuse such a distinctive one, but *sigh.*

But the positive thing about revisiting this old work after a flood of water under the bridge is that even the things that made me despair and abandon it all those years ago are just not that big of a deal to me this go round. Perspective. Learning more about the craft. Water under the bridge.

Having completed three novels now (and countless stories) I think it's finally sunk in to my creative spirit (and not just my brain) that first drafts are not a life and death proposition. You don't have to get it right the first time—in fact, that's virtually impossible. The job of the first draft is just to be there, a repository for the things inside yearning to get out. Writers have the great luxury of revisions and levels of approach. Here are my hard won (and not profound) lessons learned:

● First draft—just get it done.

● Second draft—fix those plot holes and character inconsistencies and pacing issues—the big ticket items.

● Third draft—maybe concentrate on the language this time around, make it pretty and bright.

● Fourth draft—no, don't go there, you'll get stuck in the never ending revision cycle.

Send the damned thing out and move on to the next thing. If it comes back to you rejected, you always have the option of doing that fourth draft, but if you have well and truly moved on to something else, your perspective will be so much better when the old thing returns—and you can do a much better job at revising it. And anyway, all your eggs won't be in one basket and it won't hurt as much if one of them breaks. Only like wrenching off one of your fingers instead of the whole limb. (And now I'm mixing my metaphors which has got to be as bad as reusing them.)

Your order of dealing with revisions may be substantially different from mine, but this is what's working for me now. As W. Somerset Maugham said in the blog of matociquala (as well as elsewhere):

"There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."

Of course, the immortal words of Han Solo are also coming back to me at this moment, too: "Don't get cocky, kid."

On another note: You may recall that the last we heard from Boyfriend and Girlfriend who live upstairs, Boyfriend had filled the back of his truck with dirt which then turned to mud when he drove home in a rain storm and drained all over the garage when he parked it in Girlfriend's parking space. The truck's been there ever since, round about a week and a half I guess, and the mud has dried and turned to stone (lots of clay in local soil). But sometime between 6:45 last night when I got home and 8:30 when I left this morning, someone had moved the truck out of the garage and onto the street. By Imperial order of Yuri? I don't know. And after they moved it, the City of Los Angeles came along and put a boot on the wheel for unpaid parking tickets...

I tried not to laugh too much because that would have been wrong, wouldn't it? I don't need the bad karma. But sometimes, ya know, life is just very funny.

Oh, how I wish this was Shakespearean, but it isn't—unless you count the low farce aspects of his plays.

So, anyway, you may remember that I've had a series of adventures involving my post-Soviet apartment manager and the Boyfriend and Girlfriend who live upstairs from me.  Many times my friends and I have engaged in What If scenarios involving the strange nocturnal habits of Upstairs, often to hilarious effect.  Made for good stress relief, too, when they were seriously getting on my nerves.  You may also remember that some of my adventures were definitely Not Fun, involving as they did my car being broken into twice in two weeks.  This caused Yuri, my manager, to be deeply suspicious.  Perhaps due to a fondness for American crime shows, Yuri concluded that the break ins were an inside job and asked me if I'd had any problems with anyone in the building.  I told him that the only folks I'd had trouble with were the ones who lived upstairs in 207. 

"Ah, 207," Yuri said, nodding and looking appropriately squinty-eyed and contemplative.  "I have had a lot of trouble with him."
"Oh, really?  The boyfriend?"
"Yes, Benny.  He is much trouble.  And she has broken lease.  He moved in after she signed, and he is not on lease, and he's trouble, so I evict them.  They will be gone by end of the month."  (Yes, he really does talk like Boris Badanov.)
"Really?  207?"
"Yes!"
"Great!"

I didn't wish harm on anyone, but as these people have been extremely noisy, spiteful, and inconsiderate for over a year despite my pleas to them to play nice,  I was a happy camper.  My spirits were further bolstered (if you'll pardon the furniture pun), when I saw their couch in the back of Boyfriend's truck and a couple of other furniture items.  When the couch gets packed, that's a significant sign of moveage.  I was somewhat mystified that they left the couch in the truck parked on the street in a neighborhood that is hardly crime free—and in the rain.  And really scratched my head when anything that was loose in the back of that truck had been stolen overnight.  What chuckleheads.  But much hilarity ensued between my friends and I. 

My ebullience was tempered somewhat when the end of the month came and went and Upstairs were still there.  Some of the people in the building moved in on the 15th rather than the first and I thought perhaps that was the case here.  This view was bolstered (again with the furniture puns) by an argument I overhead between Yuri and a young woman tenant.  I couldn't help overhearing since it was right outside my living room window and in the atrium which acts like an echo chamber for the building.  The blinds were drawn and I wasn't going to do the full-on Gladys Kravetz routine and flick the blinds, so I just listened.  She wanted an extension on the time to pack up and move out, Yuri was standing firm, and it got quite nasty.  I was trying hard not to feel glee because it's just so tacky, but these people have given me such grief that it was hard not to gloat just a wee bit.

So imagine my chagrin when I came home from work one day and found a cleaning crew busily scrubbing and a mound of possessions heaped outside the door of apartment...107.  Yes, that's right.  Yuri heard what he wanted to hear and so did I.  Hoist on my own What If petard yet again.

I said to Yuri later, "I thought it was 207 that was being evicted." 
"Yes, that's right." 
"No, insert Girlfriend's name here in 207." 
"Oh."  This would have been the perfect time to clarify the situation, but Yuri just looked shifty, said, "Oh," again and walked away.

The good news is, they've been very quiet and considerate lately.  But they've had quiet spells before.  It never lasts, and this one won't either, I suspect.

So now I'm back to concocting more What If scenarios about Upstairs to explain their strange behavior.  "I guess they got a new couch and were taking the old one to Goodwill," said one of my friends.  "I guess that's why they didn't care if it got rained on and vandalized."

I guess.  And Boyfriend's truck came home the other day with the whole backend filled with dirt, right up to the gunwales.  He'd covered it in black plastic, but since he'd driven through rain and wind to bring his load of dirt back to the apartment building, the plastic had gotten blown around and rather intricately involved with the soft squishy load of mud it covered.  The truck has sat for about 5 days in the garage draining muddy rainwater while the mud dries and hardens.

"Maybe they were going to do a reconstruction of that scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind where Richard Dreyfus's character builds a replica of a mountain on the dining room table," I told a friend.

It makes about as much sense as anything else I could What If at this point.

And people wonder why I'm an ironist.