Time for Endings: Interview #2

It's good to see you again.
Why?

It just is.
Okay. I'll accept that.

When we left off last time, we were talking about why you write.
I've decided not to answer that. It's an unanswerable question.

I don't agree.
It doesn't matter.

Okay. I'll accept that.
Nobody likes a smartass.

Let's move on, then. What do you hope to accomplish with this project?
I believe that I told you before that I have no expectations. I also have no hope.

Perhaps you're simply trying to find a way to be creative.
That could very well be. I like that answer.

And if you don't have any readers, why even write?
That sounds suspiciously similar to asking why I write. You're clever!

But don't you want readers?
[sighs] I suppose I do. At some level, anyway. But when I go fishing, I don't have to catch a fish to be happy. Sometimes standing in the river is enough.

But catching a fish feels good, right?
It does. But the older I get, the more I identify with the fish. All they want to do is live, eat, procreate, and die in perfect water. That seems like a perfect way to live one's life.

I have to say that you seem especially morose this evening.
Morose? No. I like to describe myself as a practical realist.

Maybe that's why you're focusing on endings--they seem more real than beginnings.
So, it's an age-thing?

Could be. As we get older, we see fewer beginnings. Or, we've seen enough to...
...make us happy?

I was going to say "make us understand that how we end is as important as how we begin."
Where do you come up with this drivel?

You're mood is contagious.
You're wrong about my mood. Perhaps your the one who is feeling morose. And I don't like how this is going, by the way. I don't need therapy.

Do you think that's what this is?
You sound like a therapist. You don't have much time left; ask me relevant questions.

Okay. Do you like to write?
Mostly, yes. Mostly I feel as though I have no choice, however.

Like you're driven to write?
You could say... Oh! Wait! You circled right back to the question about why I write, didn't you! You're good!

Have you ever thought that you might have readers at some point, and that those readers will want to know your motivation?
I've thought no such thing.

Let's get back to your project. How would readers know they're reading fiction?
I'll tell them.

You'll tell them?
Yes. 

Oh--I remember you wrote something about that in your introduction to the project. You'll use "end" or something like that.
Yes. Somewhere at the start or the end of the piece.

So, it'll be obvious.
Yes.

What if the readers don't get the hint?
Frankly, in the end, what does it matter?

Time for Endings: Introduction and Interview #1

That is, it's time for fictional endings. If there were readers here, this is what they'd find out tonight.

The next fiction project here will be endings; maybe we'll even call them epilogues, which sounds more literary and sophisticated. The idea? Oh, it came to me on a bike ride, which is a good place for ideas to find me. They'll be labeled as fiction, of course, and I figure they'll be short enough endings to consume in one sitting. Somewhere in the start or the finish, the verb "end" will be conjugated in some form or another (or perhaps in its infinitive), or there'll be an adjective form of the word. Here's a short interview about the project that I recently took part in.

Why endings?  
Good question! Feel free to ask questions. I like it when you ask questions.

Why not write something profound?
At heart, I'm not a profound person; I've probably never had a profound thought. I blame this on all of the Top 40 music I listened to as a kid, before I discovered the serious stuff. Some things a person just can't go back and fix.

Have you ever written beginnings?
Oh, I've written many! Here's one of my favorites: "I knew the nature of my marriage had changed when I walked into the house and found that my wife had packed her clothes, killed the cat, and moved out of my life. " Ha ha! Isn't that a nice way to start a book? 

Did your wife really kill a cat?
No. It's a work of fiction, entitled The Golfer's Wife. It was a fun book to write. My wife would never kill a cat even if she packed her clothes and moved out of my life.

Have you written other books?
Yes. I have completed three novels, none of which is particularly good.

Do those books have endings?
Yes, they do. Didn't I just say that I've completed three novels? Your questions are starting to annoy me.

Will all of the endings be happy?
That's a trick question, isn't it! This isn't a massage parlor! Ha ha!

Why is that a trick question?
I'm not going to fall into that trap. 

Did The Golfer's Wife have a happy ending?
At some level, yes--the ending was happy.

That's an ambiguous answer. Would you care to expound?
It's the only answer I've got. I don't write to make people happy, if that's what you're looking for.

Why would people want to read endings that are not happy?
What is this--an inquisition?

Perhaps people want to escape their own misery and find joy in literature. 
Yes, perhaps they do.

Will your endings contain autobiographic information?
No. But they might.

That's not a clear answer.
Maybe everything, at some level, is autobiographical. Clear enough?

Let's move on. Can you expect people to figure out what happened before the ending?
I have no expectations.

But don't you think your readers need help connecting ideas?
I have no readers. You think anyone actually knows about this?

Still, the point is...
I know what the point is. You're wondering if people have to know the whole story before they can accept the ending, before they can comprehend it. Right?

Close enough. People have trouble with ambiguity.
Do you think I don't know that? Many people, they don't just have trouble with it; they start drooling uncontrollably if they can't come down solidly on one side or another. Let's face it: If we can be dogmatic, it's a lot easier to convince ourselves that we're right. That's why we hang out with people who agree with us, so we don't have to face ambiguity or the fact that our beliefs might be based on total bullshit. It's a lot harder to live--to function in life--if things are ambiguous.

No reason to be crude. Or mean.
I apologize. I've got a lot of my mind, so I'm taking things a bit personally.

I think we're getting away from the point of this interview.
You're asking the questions. If you don't like the answers, ask better questions.

That sounds like something Don Draper says in Mad Men.
Yeah? Well, he's a smart guy.

He's fictional, you know.
Look: I'm often more impressed by the intelligence of fictional characters than I am by real people.

Just a couple more questions...
Good. I'm getting sleepy.

Has anyone asked you why you write in the first place?
Not that I can remember. Maybe a better question is, Why doesn't everyone write?

You're not asking the questions.
I should be. 

Let me ask, then: Why do you write?
In the first place?

In any place.
That's a good question; I can see that now. We'll start there the next time we meet.


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Portland: A couple Weeks of Not Being There

It's a great city....

Checked out of the hotel a night early and checked in with generous family for that night. Hospitality is always welcomed.

Spent much of the last day walking and taking photographs. I'm not much of a photographer. Can't really play guitar, either, but I enjoy doing both. The two photos below involved steam, which in truth is a moving object, kind of like a cat. The first one was easy--nobody around, shooting through a fence. The second was involved a little trespassing and hoping nobody minded that I was creeping around the driveway.

The photo below is of (I assume) a homeless woman just up the sidewalk from Voodoo Doughnuts, where 50 or so people were lined up for their tourists doughnuts. I had to squat between two parked cars in the street, and I like how the dog seems attentive while the woman seems to be nodding off. I also like the juxtaposition of the woman with the painting above her.

The final photo is of a young man who said his name is Spike. This was a fun encounter. Walking along the waterfront, I saw him sitting on the bench. "Happy new year," he said as I got close. "Greatest hat ever," I said. "Everyone likes it," he says. "They want to take pictures of it." With that, I asked him if he'd mind if I did such a thing.

We talked a bit. His girlfriend Rachel, he said, had broken up with him at a New Year's Eve party, and he suspects it had something to do with the woman's ex-husband. Spike has been in Portland for seven years, he said, after living in Southern California. "Why'd you leave?" I asked, and he said it had something to do with...a woman who'd broken up with him. Poor guy. At one point a half-full bottle of vodka slipped from out of his jacket--vodka mean to be mixed with the tomato juice in the bottle between his feet.

He said he's had the hat for a long time. "What's it made of?" I asked. He didn't know, but he thought it was made out of wolf. In one of his ears was a long bone-like thing. The lobe of his other year looked like it had been split--as in, an earring ripped out of it. Ouch! I thought.

Here's the kicker: He wanted me to send one of the photos to the woman who'd broken up with him on New Year's Eve. Specifically, the second photo. "I want her to see what she's losing," he said. I felt bad for him then. If you've ever been dumped like that, you know that all you want to do is sit on a park bench and drink vodka and tomato juice. But it was cold outside, and I felt sorry for him.

He wanted to send a note to Rachel along with the photograph. He even gave me her phone number. Here's what he wrote in my notebook:

I'm sorry. Yu knew yu always had my heart yu dumb ass. I'm here for you. xoxoxo.

I asked him if he really wanted to say "dumb ass." He said he did, that they often teased each other in such a way.

And I'm not sure if it needs saying, but I never send the note. I couldn't. If I were Rachel, I might be a bit nervous that a stranger had my phone number. But I hope Spike is okay.

Dispatch: Portland, Oregon #3

We always return to the familiar, even after struggling to find and explore new places and ideas. And once again today I'm in the common experience of Starbucks, a common fleece-wearing man with a Apple laptop set in front of me as though I have something to scribble about. This particular Starbucks seems to be a gathering place for many people who are either (or both) slightly imbalanced and at least temporarily between residences. Even the crazy and the lost need an anchor.

There is a grand, lighted Christmas tree outside the window I'm looking through; it's a healthy looking conifer. The other trees in the area--leafless and deciduous--are also decorated with lights. I perhaps mistakenly find it ironic that the conifer will soon be mulch, and in the near future the deciduous group will be green again.

I woke up this morning and remembered something: today is the anniversary of my first day on the job at my first professional job. A cubicle seemed exciting then, though that it was in San Francisco certainly helped with that excitement. I actually think of that job often--something familiar. It was a good time, those four years in San Francisco, and I worked with some good, creative people. The cubicle I work in now, on the third floor of an office building in a dull suburb, is much less exciting. Or, I'll concede, the problem is that I am less exciting. 

Yesterday afternoon I saw Birdman, a movie that surprised me because I'd forgotten that it incorporates pieces of a Raymond Carver story ("What We Talk About When We Talk About Love") in both plot and theme. I first read that story when I worked in San Francisco, when smart and generous coworkers introduced me to writers of many types. I often return to Carver's stories, and references to him have appeared more than once in this blog. I've seen other movies based on Carver's works, including Everything Must Go and Shortcuts; both are worth watching. 

In a few days I'll have to return to my familiar suburban cubicle just as imbalanced though still not homeless. The stay here has been good.

Dispatch: Portland, Oregon #2

Happy new year. It's an odd-numbered year, so perhaps odd things will happen. I know some of the things scheduled and waiting just over the horizon, but the more new years I encounter, the less apt I am to either predict or count on such things actually taking place. It's a product of age, I suppose.

I spent some time last night trying to recall memorable New Year's Eve parties, but I couldn't come up with much. As a kid I probably stayed up as late as I could; when my children were small I assuredly wanted nothing more than to go to sleep as early as possible. I woke up to a new year in Pensacola, Florida, once, most likely after standing a main gate watch at the U.S. Navy's Corry Station, where I spent half a year getting trained to do what I did for a couple of years afterward. I do not recall if I was an especially good main-gate watcher, though nobody ever told me I wasn't.

And I started a couple of new years aboard an aircraft carrier or at least close by. One year I think I, along with other young men who were allowed to drink, spent a good amount of time in a club in Yokosuka, Japan, trying to name all of the Seven Dwarfs.

Last night my hotel was filled with drinking and over-drinking people who were there for some type of party that I was not invited to. You spend that much money for a hotel room, and you'd think you'd get invited to the parties. The party must have ended just after midnight because hordes of revelers were packed in the small lobby waiting for an elevator just as I was trying to my room for a good night's slumber. And with proper hotel efficiency, only one of the four elevators dropped to the lobby. The seemed to be stuck on the twenty-third floor, and the others seemed to go to the basement and stay there for awhile before rising to floors above the lobby. Based on my own experience, I imagine that many of the loud, happy people who were in the elevator car with me are less loud and happy this morning.

Good for those people! It's okay to let loose every now and then, even if it's only on the final day of the year. After all, for the first time in many years, I ate beef, lamb, and pork yesterday--by choice and not influenced by alcohol. And who could have predicted that?