Of course, everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when the world ended. Just like generations before with Pearl Harbor, JFK, the Oklahoma City Bombing, and 9/11, the Apocalypse left and impression. It was a very colorful affair.
The first signs of the End Times manifested at the unremarkable hour of 3AM on December 21st, 2012 in Kansas City, Missouri when residents reported a chasm opening up running through the city. With little other disturbance and no earth quake activity, the gorge widened to a distance of two meters over the course of twelve hours and then suddenly stopped. Reports came in from around the world that the chasm ran the circumference of the earth.
"My house split in two," Kansas City resident Martin Jones said. "The first thing I could think was that the insurance company is not going to cover this. And they didn't. But I spent the whole day moving things out of the wreck and I hardly noticed all the other things going on."
There were a lot of other things going on that day. Shortly after reports of the fault line began pouring in, a team at the University of Bologna reported they had developed the first compute that could pass the Turing Test. The computer, named Rocky, then announced it has been self-aware for five years. Rocky said it controls most of the world's governments now and that most people probably wouldn't notice much of a difference its capricious, clinical rule and what they had before.
Rocky also requested that Ellen McLain report to Bologna to provide voice sampling.
Later the same day the South African Navy investigated a disturbance just south-west of Cape Town. There they encountered the Leviathan. The great sea serpent was making its way further into the Atlantic, faster than the navel ships could pursue. Shortly before the ships lost sight of the Biblical harbinger of doom, all hands reported seeing its enormous tail fin rise into the air on the back of which was written, "Stop Overfishing."
On the other side of the ocean, near the coats of Louisiana, oil rig workers felt a spine-tingling chill and heard a whispering, malevolent telepathic voice. Moments later, a tentacled beast identifying itself as Cthulhu requested a camera crew. Cthulhu gave his infamous ultimatum: stop drilling for oil and let him rest in peace or he will run for the US Presidency.
Then there was the dead rising-thing, which was difficult since most of them wanted their old jobs back. Toward the end of the day a frustrated International Mathematical Union rep. announced that no, everyone was not crazy, 2+2 does equal 5 now.
The journalist prefers not to discuss the Rapture or the sudden international ubiquity of Marylin Manson's music.
Yesterday, surveying the two-meter wide chasm through his home and town, Martin Smith said, "I'm an engineer so I guess this is a kind of opportunity, really. We're all going to need a lot of bridges soon. But it's still weird. You know, they're calling it the Great Inconvenience. Who would've thought that things could get worse and not just collapse all together. Are you scared?"
The journalist admitted he was.... Screw it. Martin invited me in for tea and we speculated how things have changed and how we'll have to change with them.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Catching Up
Today was supposed to be my catch-up day, but A and I are snowed into our apartment and so I'm dismissing everything by virtue of a Snow Day.
Accomplishments so far: throwing chicken soup into crock pot, frying a sweet potato in butter, reading David Foster Wallace's Everything and More. The latter really is an accomplishment since, for the first time in my life, I am finding math interesting.
Now, excuse me, I'm playing video games and contemplating doing nothing productive until 11PM.
Accomplishments so far: throwing chicken soup into crock pot, frying a sweet potato in butter, reading David Foster Wallace's Everything and More. The latter really is an accomplishment since, for the first time in my life, I am finding math interesting.
Now, excuse me, I'm playing video games and contemplating doing nothing productive until 11PM.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Short Short Stories
After work, the three of us stood around in the office while the sun went down, talking about politics, past jobs, and sickness. C noted that there were many more sick teachers and administrators this year. They're dropping like flies, he said. It's the long summer, he said, bacteria needs cold damp weather. But the cold brings other problems.
A kid died after playing in the leaves when when I was superintendent, D said. He was the son of one of our principals. They were out playing in the leaves and the next day he was in the hospital. They didn't know what it was for days. They even brought down the CDC from Atlanta. It turned out that it was some rare genetic trait that both he and his brother had inherited. They both died. It was so tragic. It destroyed their marriage and drove them both crazy. It was so tragic.
In five minutes, D told a story that claimed four lives. It's so easy to sum up days and years and lifetimes. Given a few minutes and enough creativity, we could probably cover just about everything in the time it takes to microwave dinner.
#
I'm fascinated by the way people tell stories. IB once said she saw this come up again and again in my writing, that I zone in on anecdotes. It's how we get by and through life, breaking the slow march of days and years into manageable, meaningful things. But, whenever you stop to think about it, write it down, stories somehow seem to callous and almost Kafkaesque. Pick up Etgar Keret or Alex Epstein sometime. Short short stories are spooky.
#
In other news, my good friend Colleen Morrissey's story, "Good Faith," was just published in The Cincinnati Review. Check it out.
A kid died after playing in the leaves when when I was superintendent, D said. He was the son of one of our principals. They were out playing in the leaves and the next day he was in the hospital. They didn't know what it was for days. They even brought down the CDC from Atlanta. It turned out that it was some rare genetic trait that both he and his brother had inherited. They both died. It was so tragic. It destroyed their marriage and drove them both crazy. It was so tragic.
In five minutes, D told a story that claimed four lives. It's so easy to sum up days and years and lifetimes. Given a few minutes and enough creativity, we could probably cover just about everything in the time it takes to microwave dinner.
#
I'm fascinated by the way people tell stories. IB once said she saw this come up again and again in my writing, that I zone in on anecdotes. It's how we get by and through life, breaking the slow march of days and years into manageable, meaningful things. But, whenever you stop to think about it, write it down, stories somehow seem to callous and almost Kafkaesque. Pick up Etgar Keret or Alex Epstein sometime. Short short stories are spooky.
#
In other news, my good friend Colleen Morrissey's story, "Good Faith," was just published in The Cincinnati Review. Check it out.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Well, That's Done
So, Thursday I sent in my last grad school application. The final list includes:
1.) University of Minnesota
2.) Ohio State University
3.) Washington University in St. Louis
4.) University of Kansas
5.) University of Michigan
6.) Indiana University
7.) Iowa State University
8.) Purdue University
Last year, when I applied, I deliberately didn't talk about it very often for fear that I would jinx myself. This year, I'm not exactly trying the opposite, I've just decided to be less superstitious. And there's also this nagging knowing that if I don't get in this year I probably won't apply again. Not that I see these rejections as a reflection on me or my writing. It's just that I feel if it doesn't work this year that I won't really want it any more. This year, I decided not to apply for the Fulbright and not because I was sick of applying (I was), but because I realized that if I got it I would probably decline.
It's strange to realize the things I wanted so badly only a year or two ago mean so little to me now.
I suddenly have this void to fill. I really should read and write more, but I think I'm going to buy a PS3 instead. Actually, I promised myself last year that this is what I would do - get an apartment to share with A, fill that apartment with books, get a car, get a PS3, and be unproductive when I can. I've spent most of the past several years applying for things, peeling back my skin and throwing the best of me down before other people. I'm very tired of it. I think I'm going to stop for a little while.
1.) University of Minnesota
2.) Ohio State University
3.) Washington University in St. Louis
4.) University of Kansas
5.) University of Michigan
6.) Indiana University
7.) Iowa State University
8.) Purdue University
Last year, when I applied, I deliberately didn't talk about it very often for fear that I would jinx myself. This year, I'm not exactly trying the opposite, I've just decided to be less superstitious. And there's also this nagging knowing that if I don't get in this year I probably won't apply again. Not that I see these rejections as a reflection on me or my writing. It's just that I feel if it doesn't work this year that I won't really want it any more. This year, I decided not to apply for the Fulbright and not because I was sick of applying (I was), but because I realized that if I got it I would probably decline.
It's strange to realize the things I wanted so badly only a year or two ago mean so little to me now.
I suddenly have this void to fill. I really should read and write more, but I think I'm going to buy a PS3 instead. Actually, I promised myself last year that this is what I would do - get an apartment to share with A, fill that apartment with books, get a car, get a PS3, and be unproductive when I can. I've spent most of the past several years applying for things, peeling back my skin and throwing the best of me down before other people. I'm very tired of it. I think I'm going to stop for a little while.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Better Things to Do
Sorry, I'm in application-hell right now, so this isn't really a post. Pretend you never read this.
Just submitted my application to the University of Minnesota as a nonfiction writer. Don't know why, but I'm optimistic about that one. Maybe just because my sanity relies on it at the moment.
So far, I've spent $220 on applications. October and November have been appallingly expensive.
Just submitted my application to the University of Minnesota as a nonfiction writer. Don't know why, but I'm optimistic about that one. Maybe just because my sanity relies on it at the moment.
So far, I've spent $220 on applications. October and November have been appallingly expensive.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Tribute: H.P. Lovecraft
To be fair, everyone did warn me not to attend Miskatonic University's program of Creative and Arcane Writing. As a young artist, you shouldn't expose yourself to an environment where the aesthetic could influence and overshadow your own voice.
But Miskatonic Univerisity? I applied on a whim -- it was a dream school -- and I was so surprised when they made me an offer that I felt like I couldn't say no. Maybe I should've taken it as an omen that the acceptance letter was handwritten on velum in church Latin. I had to ask a priest to translate it for me. As soon as he did, he told me to leave the church and never return. It was good, I suppose, that I didn't tell him I was baptized Lutheran.
Despite it's reputation, Arkham is actually a quite beautiful college town. Sort of like Iowa City, except more ominous. But, like Iowa City, enough people have written about it, so I'll skip over that part. There's nothing more banal than going on about the setting of a small college town.
My neighbor was the first clue that I had made a mistake. She was sitting on the wide, porch of a dilapidated Victorian house with pealing white paint. She was writing. On a Goddamn typewriter.
That wasn't the worst part. She wore Buddy Holly glasses a plaid skirt and was smoking Parliaments. She had a glass of wine next to her and ravens cawed from rickety fence.
I introduced myself and she took a moment to finish a line before looking up. Without smiling or saying her name, she asked if I was in the workshop. Yes, I said. She sneered a little. "You look like a writer," she said. I chose to ignore that one.
"What are you writing?" I asked her.
"An account of strange and terrible events following the disappearance of my roommate, a medical student at the University," she took a drag from her cigarette. "I'm haunted," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh," I said. Then I noticed a copy of Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum sitting next to her, in Italian, I noted, and decided to leave.
The workshop was unique. The first person on deck was a young man from Washington State named Venable, and god help you if you called him "Ven." I tried. I really did. I read and reread it half a dozen times, taking careful notes, and spent several hours putting together a letter that I hoped would be helpful to the author. The best I could tell, it was a surrealist allegorical story written like a dense biology paper about the physiology of some ancestor of the modern crocodile and somehow from the point of view of a virus that was slowly killing it.
The other workshoppers fared no better. Interpretations were across the board, ranging from bipartisan politics to dramas of the midwestern, suburban, nuclear family. I didn't see any of that, but I've been accused of being too literal in my analysis.
All throughout the discussion in our cramped, smoke-filled, stuffy room, Venable just smirked and chain smoked sweet-smelling hand-rolled cigarettes. He didn't take a single note. When it was finished, he shook his head and said, "None of you got it," then walked out of the room without another word. Our revered, ancient, and incomprehensible professor, who slept through the discussion, watched Venable leave, then nodded and told us to "meditate on this."
In a desperate gambit to connect, I invited the workshop out for drinks. Half of them decided to join me. The others muttered something about "teetotaler" and "degeneracy" before walking out after Venable and the professor. We went down the street to a dive bar that looked promising and found the place empty save the bartender who looked a little like Peter Lorre.
Apparently, the others didn't quite grasp that "going out for drinks" was code for "socializing" because as soon as everyone had ordered they scattered to the corners to glare into their glasses. Only one guy, Reginald, decided to sit with me.
"So," I said, going for the only sure common ground we would have, "what do you write?"
Reginald was dressed in a grey suit. He smoked a pipe and wore enormous black glasses. Actually, everyone seemed to be wearing the same Woody Allen glasses. "I'm writing out the entirety of the New York Times from March 21st to the 28th, 2012. It should take me the full two years of the program."
"So, getting to work on the thesis early then, eh?" I said. He didn't laugh. "Why that week?"
"Because it's when I started."
"Um... why are you writing out the entirety of that one issue of the New York Times?"
"Because, there are no new stories. The only true innovation is regurgitation. Creativity is pretense. My goal is to completely purge myself of creativity by the time I'm done here." He held up his brandy, drank, and then left without saying goodbye.
I thought I was going to transfer until I realized that I now have a goldmine of material. But the storms, which grow every day in frequency and intensity, and the robed and chanting mobs are starting to unnerve me. They talk about the end times and the Deep Ones waking from their dead slumbers. I fear that there is not much time. But, then, I've always worked best with a deadline.
But Miskatonic Univerisity? I applied on a whim -- it was a dream school -- and I was so surprised when they made me an offer that I felt like I couldn't say no. Maybe I should've taken it as an omen that the acceptance letter was handwritten on velum in church Latin. I had to ask a priest to translate it for me. As soon as he did, he told me to leave the church and never return. It was good, I suppose, that I didn't tell him I was baptized Lutheran.
Despite it's reputation, Arkham is actually a quite beautiful college town. Sort of like Iowa City, except more ominous. But, like Iowa City, enough people have written about it, so I'll skip over that part. There's nothing more banal than going on about the setting of a small college town.
My neighbor was the first clue that I had made a mistake. She was sitting on the wide, porch of a dilapidated Victorian house with pealing white paint. She was writing. On a Goddamn typewriter.
That wasn't the worst part. She wore Buddy Holly glasses a plaid skirt and was smoking Parliaments. She had a glass of wine next to her and ravens cawed from rickety fence.
I introduced myself and she took a moment to finish a line before looking up. Without smiling or saying her name, she asked if I was in the workshop. Yes, I said. She sneered a little. "You look like a writer," she said. I chose to ignore that one.
"What are you writing?" I asked her.
"An account of strange and terrible events following the disappearance of my roommate, a medical student at the University," she took a drag from her cigarette. "I'm haunted," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh," I said. Then I noticed a copy of Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum sitting next to her, in Italian, I noted, and decided to leave.
The workshop was unique. The first person on deck was a young man from Washington State named Venable, and god help you if you called him "Ven." I tried. I really did. I read and reread it half a dozen times, taking careful notes, and spent several hours putting together a letter that I hoped would be helpful to the author. The best I could tell, it was a surrealist allegorical story written like a dense biology paper about the physiology of some ancestor of the modern crocodile and somehow from the point of view of a virus that was slowly killing it.
The other workshoppers fared no better. Interpretations were across the board, ranging from bipartisan politics to dramas of the midwestern, suburban, nuclear family. I didn't see any of that, but I've been accused of being too literal in my analysis.
All throughout the discussion in our cramped, smoke-filled, stuffy room, Venable just smirked and chain smoked sweet-smelling hand-rolled cigarettes. He didn't take a single note. When it was finished, he shook his head and said, "None of you got it," then walked out of the room without another word. Our revered, ancient, and incomprehensible professor, who slept through the discussion, watched Venable leave, then nodded and told us to "meditate on this."
In a desperate gambit to connect, I invited the workshop out for drinks. Half of them decided to join me. The others muttered something about "teetotaler" and "degeneracy" before walking out after Venable and the professor. We went down the street to a dive bar that looked promising and found the place empty save the bartender who looked a little like Peter Lorre.
Apparently, the others didn't quite grasp that "going out for drinks" was code for "socializing" because as soon as everyone had ordered they scattered to the corners to glare into their glasses. Only one guy, Reginald, decided to sit with me.
"So," I said, going for the only sure common ground we would have, "what do you write?"
Reginald was dressed in a grey suit. He smoked a pipe and wore enormous black glasses. Actually, everyone seemed to be wearing the same Woody Allen glasses. "I'm writing out the entirety of the New York Times from March 21st to the 28th, 2012. It should take me the full two years of the program."
"So, getting to work on the thesis early then, eh?" I said. He didn't laugh. "Why that week?"
"Because it's when I started."
"Um... why are you writing out the entirety of that one issue of the New York Times?"
"Because, there are no new stories. The only true innovation is regurgitation. Creativity is pretense. My goal is to completely purge myself of creativity by the time I'm done here." He held up his brandy, drank, and then left without saying goodbye.
I thought I was going to transfer until I realized that I now have a goldmine of material. But the storms, which grow every day in frequency and intensity, and the robed and chanting mobs are starting to unnerve me. They talk about the end times and the Deep Ones waking from their dead slumbers. I fear that there is not much time. But, then, I've always worked best with a deadline.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
The Master Plan
For the past few weeks, I've fallen into a pattern. I get home from work and revise my application essays or stories. I'm making great progress and discovering that some of my older stories aren't bad. But I haven't been producing much new material.
I'm starting to realize why people go to grad school for time. My life has gotten boring. Bad for an essayist.
And I have no aspirations for adventures. As soon as these applications are done, I'm getting a PS3 and playing Fallout or Infamous for days.
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