My Quest For Power

Please admire the cheesy title that makes it sound like I'm a knight of the round table headed off to fight dragons and find the holy grail, except I won't return a year and a day from now but in about fifteen weeks.

So I'm in Wales, I've met most everyone, heard everyone's name, can list most of the names but I can't put too many faces to names other than the three people I knew already. And I wanted to write a little something yesterday (initial reactions, similarities, funny words, etc) but I didn't have a converter yet and didn't want to waste what precious power I had left over from America. This meant my phone was off most of the day and was on airplane mode when I was using it as a clock and alarm.

And this post won't cover any of those ideas either.

After Tecwyn dismissed us in his funny accent, most kids followed him for a tour of the academic buildings scattered around town. There is no campus, but there are groups of buildings here and there with bagel shops next to them. But I didn't follow. I went to my room to map out where the nearest electronics store I&H Griffiths was. It was on High St. (the Welsh equivalent of Main St.), and I knew where that was. I memorized a few landmarks like before Cob's Records, after Deinol Centre and after KFC then I was out the door in the rain.

At first it drizzled but even with my hood down it wasn't bad. My shoes were broken in and my pants were hiked up so the legs didn't drag on the wet pavement.  I headed down towards Morrisons. I'm not going to use street names other than High St. since I can't pronounce them or remember if there's one f or four, and most aren't marked clearly like ours. I pressed the button for the cross walk and it beep-beep-beeped telling me to cross (that's how they do it here). Then I went down a road that was marked for cars but that I haven't seen a car driving on since arriving.

Then I made it to the hill Alt Glanrafon. I looked up the name on google and still misspelled it three times. It's only about two hundred meters but it's steep. You have to lean back and stomp your heel into the pavement to resist gravity's insistence that you run down it. And it has two types of pavement. Cement bricks where I've been walking and this red rock on which cars have parked, but I haven't seen them drive on it. So it's all very confusing.

At the bottom, I wasn't sure which way was High street. Tecwyn led us there yesterday and someone else led us back and I missed the landmarks, so I headed down the sidewalk next to a busy street. I passed a cross walk signal by about 100 meters before I saw the sign pointing to Deinol Centre on High St. I didn't want to turn around because I figured there'd be another cross walk.

There wasn't for a long while and while looking for it, a man in a car pulled up next to me and in his funny accent asked "You know where the stadium's at?" I told him I didn't. Then he thanked me for being unhelpful and drove off without splashing me. It was very polite of him to do both. And I realized after that he meant the station and not the stadium, but I couldn't give him any directions that way either.

Ahead of me was an Asian woman in the middle of the road. There was concrete medium and a sign that I assume meant it was a cross walk without signals, so you should only run across when it's clear. It was a T-intersection with the new drivers yielding to those continuing straight. One lane was clear and I ran to the median. Then a man stopped and I thought he meant for me to go so I started but the car turning was too busy thanking the other driver for the wave forward, that she didn't see me and nearly smashed me against her headlights.

After taking twenty steps down that road, I felt lost. The end of the street didn't look like High street so I turned around and went looking for that sign pointing towards Deinol Centre. I went that way, then turned left and I was looking at all the stores and all the people and down every intersection and couldn't find my other landmarks. So I kept forward and saw Cob's Records so I turned at the street before it, like I thought I was supposed to. And what I saw was that the street I felt lost was this street and that I had backtracked for nothing.

I went looking for I&H Griffiths. I turned down one street and thought it might be on the street behind it and Google's maps had just been unclear. But I kept turning until I was back on High St and at the corner of the street I felt lost on and the High St. was the small shop I was looking for. Through the windows were plasma TVs and stereos, like their sign advertised. It also advertised Hi-Fis, but I don't know what those are.

I stepped in and no one was manning the counter. The door didn't close on its own, I had to shut it and I tried to do so quietly. I didn't want to be rude on my first visit in a Welsh store. It was small inside and crowded with merchandise that if I kneed or kicked by mistake would cost me as much as the plane ticket here. A man stepped out of the back room and I said "Hi" and walked towards him. Though I was drenched, he didn't look at me accusingly as if I was ruining his carpets or a real sore to look at.

"I'm American and we have different electrical plugs from you guys. Do you have a converter?"

He grunted some thi

Literary Criticism

You can't escape English classes without being gnawed to death by literary criticism. It is slow and boring and before the end, you want to find a rock and bash your head in with it. Let me give you some particularly humorous quotes:

"Donne's erotology typically combines the former with the latter kinds of obscurity, which, as this essay will argue, helps to explain the long controversy not only over major love lyrics such as "The Extasie," but also over what would later be known as the metaphysical style."


If you didn't ask, "What did she just say?" and reread it, you've spent too much time around this foreign language. If you did not look up the definitions for metaphysical or erotology, either you've come across this essay before or you're lazy. I looked up erotology because I have to and I just did a basic google search. What's the first result? This essay. I'm pretty sure she made it up. It's the study of sexual stimuli and behavior. It makes sense but not in context. Did Donne study sexual behavior? Or stimuli? He was certainly cunning in his womanizing. He had to be. He had a reputation and the women knew it and so he had to learn new levels of sleaziness and sweet-talking to woo these girls. But then do frat boys have a degree in erotology? While Donne was much smarter than most fraternity members, he had the same goals and motives. 


So anyway, what she's saying isn't particularly difficult here. It gets worse but this is her thesis. She practically says that. It might not make sense out of context, but it does make sense. However, the way she says it is hilarious. She's talking about obscurity in John Donne, who is a relatively straight-forward writer. He might be cunning in his innuendo and puns and double-entendres, etc, but he's very clear. You don't have to read him ten times over to understand him. You might need two or three times if you're unfamiliar with 17th century speech but is "Why must we rise because tis light? / Did we lie down, because twas night?" obscure in meaning? No. Like most great writers, he's understandable. The lady writing that essay I quoted is not and never will be a great writer. She is a failed writer. So she turned to criticism and wrote in her obscured ways there. She thinks she's so clever using the words "former" and "latter" and then pairing them together. You can tell if you read closely and have experience with these kinds of people. They revel in their "cleverness." It's actually something I did in high school before I knew how to write. She uses a negative to emphasize something that doesn't seem relevant to the essay, in this sentence or the rest of the essay. She also misunderstands metaphysics. 


Metaphysics is part of philosophy that questions existence and what the real world is like. Meta means to go beyond, and physics is from the Greek word for nature. It does not question if we really exist or if the world is real. That is left for Nietzsche and other syphilitic crackpots. I'll give you an example with the ship. Every year the ship breaks down a little so they replace it and after seven years the old ship's parts have been completely replaced by the new parts. Is it the same ship? Some people say yes. Others say no. You can make a good case for either and people often do and while there is a right answer, no one can prove which is right. 


So now that you see what metaphysics is, " Even the most disharmonious imagery (like for instance that found in such poems as Shakespeare's "The Phoenix and the Turtle") may lack true metaphysical violence if its paradoxes are not "contaminated" with a riddling logic that produces metaphysical doubt," is a bit ridiculous.


How can metaphysics be violence? Metaphysics can question violence but it violence cannot have the property of questioning the real world and existence. She uses metaphysical twice in the same sentence, which makes me think she is just tossing it around when she can't figure out the real word she wants or when she wants to meet some daily word count.


This lady is awful but she's one of the better critics. She proves a point by saying her goal is D then she does A, B, C, hesitates, moves onto E, F, G. She gets near her topic but never addresses it straight-forwardly. Most critics talk about M and start with A, B, C then skip to X, Y, Z and you're left wondering why you just wasted your time. And they're so wordy. If I could edit their papers, I'd squeeze 10,000 words to 7,000. And then I'd tell them it was a weak argument because they don't once refer to the original text they're talk about. They don't cite evidence. They cite other people who have written on the same topic. 


And universities encourage this practice! Don't worry about what your author says. Worry about what his critics say. They can explain him better. They're how you'll understand him. Don't even bother reading the original text. Just read the critics. They'll explain him so well that he'll be up in heaven or down in hell saying, "Oh, so that's what I meant." 


Literary critics have psychology envy I think. 


p.s. I'd give you more than two quotes to laugh at, except I'm not reading any further in her essay than what I've already read and I won't go back through to find laughable examples. I am not that eager to poke fun. 

One of those weeks

My birthday is Sunday and I feel old.

The semester ends in two weeks. I have to finish three papers and my book by that time. Next semester is my last one in college and I hope to have found a publisher by then. I'm scared sleepless. I don't get scared about much. Talking to pretty girls in hopes of romance, sure. Coming to Wales, not really. Jumping off a ledge 60 feet in the air, only briefly. Thinking about my book's success? Three nights this week I fell asleep at 6 am after turning in around midnight.

But to quell my fears, I've gone back and edited finished sections of the book while I prepare ideas for the newest scenes (1 long one to finish then updating one I've already written and maybe tacking on an epilogue and DONE! SCARY!). And the work I did over the summer is some of my best writing. Things suddenly made sense. I was organized and diligent. I practiced and read every day. And I've gotten back into the swing of things with my latest chapters. I've been doing good, so I was no longer afraid of failing.

I am afraid of finishing it though. It's a scary thought. Once it's done, it's like being a grown up. I'm still a kid. Anyone still in school and supported by their parents is a kid. That's me! I don't want to grow up and pay bills and worry about insurance and my declining health. That's all grown ups do, too. And if they don't, then they worry that they're not grown-up yet when everyone else seems to be.

Maybe that's not true, but it's how I see it and I'm submitting it as truth.

And as I've gotten to the end of the book, I realize that I don't know this characters motivation! It's always seemed perfectly logical based on his personality to act like this towards Ben. But he's an antagonist/friend. He needs some "complex" motivation (I don't mean something that can be explained in a monologue, but something that has been hinted at for the entire book and is revealed in a very short argument between him and Ben. But I haven't pinpointed how to explain that in an argument. It's one of those things that people don't normally talk about and if they do, they sound whiny and that's not this character. He's foul-mouthed, jealous of Ben, has OCD, teased by his friends as part of the typical high school experience, abused and used by other students as part of the typical nerd experience. He's gone slightly mad and is frustrated that his hard work hasn't brought him any closer to "greatness" than Ben's natural gifts.

And to fix this I'm reading through the other scenes that mention him and this conflict, but it's all described by Ben. Ben's not in his friend's head. Ben is stuck in his own and completely ignorant of how other people feel. And that's how I've written every character. I've described people I've seen. I don't know what their real motivation is. I don't think half of them know it.

I have to be a psychologist, a physicist, a painter, a math student and a storyteller. So much work. And I'm not complaining about the work. I'm complaining about my inability to figure it out instantly and the frustration that comes with struggling through it.





P.S. Were you bothered by the lack of a close parenthesis? :) Now you have to wonder. Is that a smiley or a closed parenthesis? The world will never know.

Ranting about "writers"

My latest printed publication came out today and I was accepted for a second one in a newspaper (instantly mind you. I submitted at 2 yesterday and got the response "Awesome!" within the hour. I had already left for my camping trip so I didn't get to brag in the tipi, but I can do it now and that's almost as good. SHIT this is a long parenthetical side note).

Two complaints though.

1. This next publication is being printed in January and I leave in December. I won't be able to pick up a copy for sentiments sake. Not my sentiments mind you. I have no sentiments to speak of. My parents and friends do, however.

2. Pulp is absolute crap. Trite, boring, free for anyone to submit, hounding anyone to submit, encouraging people to write crap and even teaching them how.

Don't get me wrong; any one can be a writer if they put in the work. Talent means nothing in writing. It's all about cultivated skill, something I've spent two years honing to the point that I'm on average at the professional level. This rag is edited by three people, one who starts her submission titled "Creating Flash Fiction" with "The reasons for writing flash fiction are numerous."

Let's dissect this sentence so I can show you the real mind of a writer. First problem, it's a boring sentence. There's no individual voice. It's how you're taught to start essays in middle school when you don't know any better and are just writing because you have to. An opening sentence ought to grab you, even in an instructional essay.

Second problem, it doesn't say anything. How many reasons? Why do you have to tell us there are reasons if you're about to present these reasons? Won't we be able to tell these are reasons when we read them? It could be combined with two or three sentences in the rest of the paragraph and the one after it and it'd still only say "Flash fiction challenges the writer to find creative solutions to solve the word restraint." That's not the greatest sentence ever, mind you. But it at least tells you SOMETHING.

Third problem. The rest of paragraph says something decent. It talks about Hemingway's six word story: "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn." With slight problems in economy, it's a worthwhile paragraph. She could get rid of the first sentence and lead with Hemingway.

Fourth problem. It shows how lazy she is and how bad of an editor the other two are. An editor would tell you to cut it because it's a useless sentence. These "editors" are just friends who don't want to hurt the girl's feeling because amateurs always take editing so personally. It's not attacking you and your ideals and politics and religions. The red marks aren't blood; they're just ink. But her friends couldn't tell her this, or they did and she had the power to stick it in anyway so she did.

Most writers would see the problem themselves and know to fix it. You can't become attached to your words. The characters, images and themes, sure. Words, no. No writer cares about his words in a personal, sentimental way.

The second editor wrote an article about her failure at NaNoWriMo. If you don't know what it is, I refuse to tell you because I don't support it. It is the biggest waste of time and effort as a writer. A waste of words, really, and you shouldn't waste those.

I've had friends participate in this blasphemy. I do not condemn any man or woman who does. I condemn the writers who do. I don't consider them fellows. They're people who have nothing better to do that month, but who don't have the interest in writing to go about it over the course of years.

Do you diet for a month then pig out? Do you study a subject you love for a month then forget about it? No. Why would you write for a month then be done with it? The point of NaNoWriMo isn't that, but it's what happens. You get your finished piece of crap and you show it to friends because you're real proud of it (though you swear to god it's not your best writing). You show it to friends. You ask for feedback and they skim through it and say, "Yeah, it's pretty good," because they don't want to crush you and they don't have a clue how you'd go about fixing it. (I'd suggest white-out, a shredder, flames and a shoe-box coffin).

The real flaw in the activity itself, since the one above is more the flaw of people, is that it encourages you to rush. Forget about content, quality, editing. Don't write when you're of sound mind, when you're relaxed and prepared. Don't worry if the characters change throughout. Don't worry if it's a trite plot or if the characters are interesting or if you're delving too much into things that no one really cares about. WRONG.

Writing and good ideas take time to develop. They need perspective. They need to sit and to be addressed at a later date so you can look at them objectively. Characters don't need plotting out, but they need a little consistency and depth. Scenes should be planned so that they show the characters and their developments. Instead, writers are encouraged to use whatever comes to mind so long as they get to the word count.

Hemingway published 10 novels, the first two when he was 27 and he killed himself at 62. His short stories only cover 700 pages. Why are people killing themselves to write 200 pages in a month when Hemingway wrote an average of (I'm doing the math now) approximately 100 pages of fiction a year in his writing career (actually less but whatever). The more prolific Dickens only wrote 20 "novels" (things like A Christmas Carol are included in this) in his 34 years of writing and he did it through weekly and monthly serials. He knew not to rush things.

The final editor stole this list of "Top 22 Creative Writing Tricks You've Never Tried" and then he attached his name to it. I bet he didn't even come up with the title, the goddam moron. He can't even be bothered to create his own trite crap so he steals other people's from the internet.

 Let me transcribe a few of the more ridiculous ones for you. Let me warn you that I hate experimental writing.

"Try tacking large pieces of paper on your walls and go to work with some heavy duty pens, chalk or even paints." While fun, what the hell does this have to do with writing? Are you such a shitty writer and boring person that this is your version of a creative outlet?

"Try
                              Moving
                                                          the
                                                                                   words
around."

Yeah that'll make your shit shine. Make it look good. That's what people want, a pretty picture that they don't have to see in their mind. You know what? Just include a coloring book with your publication. That way the infantile readers won't lose interest.

"Replace every adjective with the one three entries down in the dictionary." Really? This might have good intentions. Adjectives and adverbs from beginners are wastes of words. Most should be cut or combined with the weak verb or noun to form a strong verb or concrete noun. But replacing them with random words is nonsense. Not creative.

Creativity should be defined as recognizing what was important in your life. Not obnoxious bullshit.

Brilliant, lovely and funny

My Creative Writing class has come to an end now that professor Blower is having a baby. She was a good professor, though too kind to others for their average writing. Today I read my setting-focused story out loud for the class, and I stumbled and fumbled and stuttered and coughed through it but everyone had a copy so they could read along. They loved it. Professor Blower, before I read, said she had read it last night and it made her giggle because she recognized the website I used to watch movies. That's how specific I was. Then afterwards she said it was brilliant. Others said they loved it and it made them laugh and we had a hoot discussing the clever end because of its insight into the male psyche.

All of it was intentionally done on my part because I'm that good. Here it is:

Angie and I, both being Americans in Wales, needed a Mexican and Movie night. We shortened it to “M&M night,” to which we brought M&Ms. It was a monthly event with countdowns on Facebook and she’d text me the day of, asking “U pumpd 4 2nite?!!!”

I’d reply, “Of course.”

She cooked tacos and quesadillas, and I ate a bag of nachos while waiting. We complained that nothing tasted right. I told her, “It’s the ingredients, not your cooking.” We’d eat them sitting on her quilt. It was white with colored circles and I’d always sit on the orange one at the foot of the bed. She didn’t have any plates so we ate from paper towels on our laps. She warned me if I spilled I’d better only stain my pants and not her quilt. It was a present from her boyfriend’s nana.

She set the laptop on a purple circle and tilted the screen and asked, “Can ya see alright?” She wriggled closer so our knees touched. I could smell the salsa on her breath.

During horror flicks she’d squeeze her plush bear Jimothy. She’d hold him up when the eerie music signaled a killer or kitten to spring from the bushes. She’d flinch and bang her head on post cards of castles and cathedrals in Edinburgh, Dublin and Cardiff that were taped to the wall. Sometimes Jimothy wasn’t enough so she’d clutch my shoulder. Her fingernails would dig in.

I’d snicker at the cheesy effects or clichés or at the truly scary moments when I didn’t want her to know how desperate my lungs were to breathe again.

The movies were online and we could only watch seventy-two minutes before the website made us wait half an hour.

“Why they gotta do that?” she asked.

“Probably bandwidth restrictions.”

“What’s bandwidth?”

“Something technical,” I said. “Hard to explain.”

During the break she gave me a tour of her room. Seated next to me she’d wave her arm like Vana White and present each spectacle. “Trash bin’s under the desk. That’s also where I study. Over there’s the bathroom. Gotta potty? Do it now. And you’re sitting on my bed.”

“Awful tour. Give me some history.”

“Okay, you’re sitting on my bed and I haven’t had sex in it yet.”

I got up and looked at the photos on her desk. The frames sat on wrinkled and grease-stained syllabi for classes. When I picked a frame up, a diet coke can rolled down the desk and clattered on the crumbed carpet. “Your boyfriend?” I asked.

“That’s my dog.” She snatched the picture from me. “That’s my boo. And that’s Mommy. She looks like me, doesn’t she?”

We were on our fourth movie when we heard her flatmates stumble into the kitchen and slam the fridge. One yelled to the other, “Wer muh crisp-puh?” And the other shouted, “Dunno!”

I got up for the toilet. I had been holding it all night. There was hair in the sink. The floor was still wet from her last shower.

Her room was small, and with the toilet separated only by a plastic door, well, I was kind of shy. I let out my stream slowly, careful not to aim at the water. I drained my bladder as silently as possible and five minutes later I was done. I washed my hands using her raspberry soap that scented the bathroom. I walked out taking a big whiff of my hands.

“I could hear you, ya know.”

Changes?

The point of this blog was to chronicle my adventures so that I or whatever audience I have could watch the changes in me. I already stated at the beginning that I didn't think I'd change much because I went to another country. Psychologically speaking, we're determined by our nature (DNA) and our nurture (environment). I'm in basically the same environment as I am in America. There's more of a slope when I walk, I walk more, there's a better scenery outside of town and there's a lot of old buildings but I don't interact with those much.

My environment can be stripped down to classes and my room. Sometimes the class is in another city where I get to see castles and cathedrals and whatever else. I'm forced to interact with others when we get lunch or dinner on these field trips. I can't just sit in the hostel or in a cafe by myself. But I mostly observe and respond to anything directed at me then hand the conversation back to the others. It's a little different with Cathryn, since I'm more comfortable with her than I am with the others. We even had two movie/talking nights.

But all this environment is temporary and it's really not so foreign from my usual life. Boxing is different but I don't interact with the people there. I punch them and get punched by them and tell them good job as they finish a sprint, but there's no bonding between us. They don't shape me.

My mood is better lately, but the novelty of Wales hasn't worn off. I get to do all the fun stuff I did as a teen in scouts again. I get to see castles and live my childhood romance. I'm studying Arthurian literature, and realizing they are really bad stories. I don't have as many hours of class (I'm taking 12 SH instead of my usual 15 - 18 SH) and the British education system is more reliant on my work than on the professor talking at me. This gives me more time to write. I get new material to write about.

So is this improved mood really a change? It's not a personality change. No more than being full is different from being hungry. I still think people are ridiculously stupid and boring with the exception of a person. I'm not suddenly a people-person. I still prefer one-on-one or two-on-one. I'm still impatient, a little careless and unmotivated by things like grades.

So have I changed? I say no. People are the same wherever you go, like I said from the get-go. People from one ethnicity still surround themselves with others of the same language, skin color, culture, etc. People still walk in the middle of the sidewalk so people behind them can't get around them. Drivers don't want to wait for pedestrians. Shoppers still take years to decide if they want braeburn apples or royal gala while some of us know exactly which we want and have to wait. People have a herd mentality where they walk in hoards and block the entire sidewalk. Kids still skip class. Some are good students, others aren't, most are in the middle. Professors like the normal kids more than the others. Everyone likes sugar, alcohol and grease. Corporations are still screwing everyone out of their money.

Basically, life is the same here as elsewhere. I'm no more excited to be here than I was to visit Hawaii or Philmont or any of the dozen exciting places I've been in my life. Everyone looks for adventures on the other side of the map, but you don't even have to drive an hour to find it. 

These Two Mormons

I was studying in the library for two hours today about John Donne and Mannerist art and literature. On my way back to Ffridd site, these two boys in suits stop me and ask if I want to hear about Jesus Christ and the Church of Latter Day Saints. You know, Mormonism.

"No thank you."

"Do you have a belief in God?"

That's how they get you. You say yes, they ask what sect and how long and then continue on with their well-rehearsed spiel. If you say no, they ask something else. They're like telemarketers. They have a script that covers every possible choice and the only way to win is to not play.

So I listen to their speech, being polite and thinking I'd get great material to bombard them with, or better yet, I could convince them of their own lunacy. There's nothing wrong with a belief in God or any religion. But if that religion makes no sense then it is stupid.

They ask me what it would mean to me if there was a living prophet. I said it would mean absolutely nothing to me. If there is a good, then it can be known. If there is a good, whether a person is a prophet or not doesn't change the good. I tell them this and they ask me what Moses did that made him so memorable and historic. He relayed God's messages. They tell me "Good!" like it's some hard question, but really they're just happy that we're back on track with their scripts. If God relates the good to Moses, then Moses tells me, all he's done is save me time in figuring out what is good.

But since the days of Martin Luther, there has been no need for prophets. The bible has been open to study by anyone who wants to. They can read it and interpret it and figure out their own good. It's been going on since before then too. It's called philosophy, ethics, not-being-an-idiot/sheep.

I raise this point to. Instead of answering, I get introduced to the second guy, a massive, blemished boy. It looks as though God put a curse of boils on him and all those boils popped leaving him hideously scabby. The guy doesn't say much but the first guy continues to tell me about this new prophet and how they asked God if this guy was the real thing and not some impostor and guess what? God told them yes, yes he is.

So I accept their premise that God talks to his followers. I asked, "Why would I need to see this guy then? If God is telling me whether or not this guy is a prophet, why doesn't God just tell me the message himself? It'd save everyone some time."

At this point they realize I'm not interested, though I'm sure I stated that at the beginning. They don't give up though. Instead they ask me when a better time would be to learn about this prophet? Or to go meet him? I say look, I told you right away I wasn't interested but you had to keep talking. I'm not interested in meeting him for the reasons I said before. You don't have any arguments that convinced me. I've pointed out the flaws in them all. No offense to your religion but it doesn't make sense as you've presented it."

Then I walked off and wrote this post. This is not a reflection of Mormons, but one of these two boys. I was told, very accurately, that if they took no for an answer then they'd never talk to anyone. That's true, but it's still annoying.