A Little Bit On Size

I’m concerned with size. No, not that kind. Eyes above the shoulders, please. Size of me writings, that is. Among all the other things I’m working on, I’m reading through a book of Aesop’s Fables I had as a kid, with an introduction by Isaac Bashevis Singer. It’s a printing from the late sixties, with wonderful little drawings every page or so. In reading these little paragraphs that hold so much, I’m reminded of Hemingway in a way (ho-ho), mostly the way he wrote when he was at his best: paring down his words to just the bare necessities, and sometimes even less. The iceberg method of writing, where only a fraction of the story is exposed, fascinates me and frustrates me, as I’m always tempted to wax on and off about some little detail in a Dickensian manner (“the Sofa…”). I’ve recently written a short story that came out around 4,000 words. I think it’d be a damn good piece if I could get it down another five hundred or thousand words. Like Wash says in Knocked Up, TIGHTEN.

A bit breezy in here, ain’t it?

And now, the first fable from the book. I’d like to dedicate this to politicians, past, present, and probably future:

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB
A wolf, meeting with a lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the lamb the wolf’s right to eat him. He thus addressed him” “Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me.” “Indeed,” bleated the lamb in a mournful tone of voice, “I was not then born.” Then said the wolf, “You feed in my pasture.” “No, good sir,” replied the lamb, “I have not yet tasted grass.” Again said the wolf, “You drink of my well.” “No,” exclaimed the lamb, “I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother’s milk is both food and drink to me.” Upon which the wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, “Well! I won’t remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations.” The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

Short, simple, to the point. Well played, Aesop.

Hurry Up!

Often I stumble upon some book that was written by someone younger than me, and I find myself feeling depressed at the state of my writing. It’s in those times that I find myself drifting around the internet, looking up hopeful information like this:

William Faulkner: first novel published at age 29

Anthony Burgess: first novel published at age 39

It’s an obsessive compulsion, like some of the other things I find myself doing. But it has a sort of calming effect on me. While I wouldn’t dream of comparing myself to Faulkner or Burgess (or Cormac McCarthy, first novel published at 32, or Don DeLillo, first novel published at 35), it helps me put things in perspective. Lately I have written a few short stories and several poems. I’m into the thirdish draft of my second novel (well, second novel where I actually got to the end – I’ve got a stack of fizzled fireworks tucked away somewhere), and the last thing I need to do is stress myself out over such a stupid thing as being an unpublished writer at the age of 27.

Reading Status: I finished reading “The House With A Clock In Its Walls” again. Just so damn good, and worth paying the library fines for. Tried to find a copy of the second book in the series at the library but it’s missing, so I got Anthony Burgess’s “Any Old Iron”. Looks interesting, and I’ve been meaning to read his stuff for years (aside from the impossible-to-avoid “A Clockwork Orange”).

Sorry for the boring state of this post, but it's been one of those weeks...

Why am I not surprised?

I’d like this to be a more personal blog than political or anything of that sort, but sometimes a story I read on one of the many news sites I check at work brings back memories. This is a weird one, complete with a shocking headline: Bomb Parts Smuggled Into 10 Federal Buildings During Test.

You see, in 2004, I was a mailman. Officially my title was casual carrier, as I wasn’t part of the union, and thereby only allowed to serve for 6 months before taking time off to apply for full-time letter carrier status or doing whatever until my next 6 month tour came up. I was actually surprised at how much military-official lingo was used, especially when I had to take an oath to protect and defend the constitution of the United States of America. I had the average American perspective of mailmen, which was that they fill up their bags and trucks and go around all day and at the end they go home and play with guns and drink their brains out. Not entirely untrue in some cases, but not entirely accurate. Some of the nicest people I’ve known are from my days at the USPS: hard working, honest, nice people, real sweethearts. Some total assholes, but mostly really nice people. They’re government agents, albeit without any real authority, other than the authority to take your personal letters and packages and open your mailboxes and apartment buildings.

A casual carrier, in my time (it’s been five years, so I don’t know what’s changed), is paid less than a regular carrier (who can earn up to $75,000 if they’re there long enough), doesn’t have a set route, and doesn’t wear a uniform. The regulars have to pay for their uniforms, true, but they actually look like mailmen. I was shown a room with discarded uniform parts (hats, shirts, capes for when it rains and snows but you’ve got to get the mail through) and I took a few items, but for the most part I wore khakis and tee shirts and sweatshirts of my own. This may not seem to be important, but it is.

Depending on the route, I’d either leave the station walking, in an LLV (long-life vehicle, your typical mailman truck), a larger truck for pickups and deliveries (like when I’d go to Phish Dry Goods, if I may casually drop a name), or in a plain white van, where the only identifying marks were the US GOVERNMENT license plates. I had a funny incident once where I delivered a package to a house that housed some college students, and they thought I was the DEA or some other agency. I got out, heard toilets flushing, and when one of the guys came out and saw me handing over an Express Mail parcel he yelled “it’s the fucking mailman!” to his friends, who I’m sure wished they had waited just a bit longer before sending whatever wherever.

How does this relate to the story? Well, I once had to deliver to a government building in South Burlington that housed a division of Homeland Security. I rolled up to the guard gate with my white van and tee shirt and khakis, and there was no one there. I pressed a talk button, and a stammering voice asked “uh, can I help you?” It was Saturday, so it seemed no one official or important was there. I said I was going to drop off the mail and pick any up, and I hadn’t been there before, could I be directed to where I need to go? The voice told me where to go, the gate was raised so I drove into the parking lot, the side door was buzzed open, and before I knew it I was wandering around the offices. I found the mail dropoff point, left the white tub of mail, and as there was nothing to pick up, I simply left.

In summation: I showed up to a government office in an unmarked (except for the license plates) van, showed no identification, interacted with no one other than over an intercom, and was able to walk around their offices. I could have swiped a hard drive. I could have brought a bomb in under the pile of mail. I could have poisoned their coffee. I’m not a terrorist, so I didn’t, but still, I’d like to think that, after five years and billions of dollars, shit like that wasn’t still going on. But as the GAO showed, it does.

Something The Day.

Instead of seizing the day, lately I seem to be just salvaging the day. I’ve been making little headway in my novel lately, but I’ve pecked at and finished two short stories recently, written some poems that I’m not ashamed of, and almost finished planting my garden. That’s the kind of thing that keeps me going, that and my wife and kid(s).

Today I intended on going to the library and cranking on my novel, but stress from work took its toll and by the time I was on my way to the library my brain felt worn and I couldn’t shake the sense of anger and sadness. However, I saw something on my way to the library that I hadn’t noticed before, and I pulled into a random parking lot to write down what I later at the library formed into a pretty damn good poem if I say so myself. After working two drafts of it, I sat in one of their firm, purple chairs and read some Robert Frost with some humble satisfaction before heading back to my place behind the desk and monitor and stacks of papers.

I didn’t accomplish what I had intended to, but I suppose I salvaged the day, and even if that’s all I get, I can’t complain all that much in the end.