Author's Note:
This posting is a bit of a two-for deal. I wrote the office dialog in an airport lounge two days ago, while the personal narrative came up today while I was writing my Writer's Journal entries and staring at snowdrifts this afternoon.
"Look, I just don't know what to make of this," the agent said.
"What can't you make of it? It's my memoirs," I replied.
"It's just… this doesn't really fit into any category that I'm comfortable dealing with," the agent said, running his hand across his bald head.
I looked around the office. After months of sending out my pseudo-manuscript, I'd finally been given an audience with a literary agent, only to have him tell me he was unsure of my work.
What is this guy doing? If he doesn't think he can sell this, why the hell did he call me down here?
I began to think that perhaps I should just call it quits. I'd been trying to get my story out there forever. I started my quest with a screenplay. It received a couple of interested nods from the movie making crowd, and I'd had some meetings to discuss it. As part of the process, I needed to develop my tale into storyboards: rough, cartoon-like sketches to represent different scenes. I spent quite a lot of time coming up with my storyboards, but I just couldn't close the deal.
"Your work doesn't seem all that visual," was a theme that seemed to come up constantly when producers would turn my storyboards down. "It all seems like something that would be better represented in a book than a movie."
Every time, in the end, I wound up at home, staring at my storyboards. I'd spent so much of my time over the past few years trying to relate my unique life story to be represented in film. Now I was being told that my representation was not visual enough for Hollywood. Soon, after a healthy dose of marijuana and the movie 300, I got the notion that I would shop them around to literary agents, hoping that I could get them published as a "graphic novel".
"Ever since that damned swords and sandals movie with all the man-ass and dudes running around looking like cut-up show cats, everyone's been thinking they can pass anything off as a 'graphic novel' and make millions of dollars publishing it," the agent started in.
"Truth is, graphic novels are a niche item that tries to bridge two worlds and ends up as little more than a series of cartoon notes. It's like Kurt Vonnegut once said about semicolons, 'They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing'," the smartly-dressed agent said, his voice rising.
"You might be wondering, why have I brought you here if I'm not interested your graphic novel? Well, because I think your story has promise. I think your sketches are worth something, but not the use you think they are worth," the agent was talking and walking across the room towards my large drawings set upon an easel in the corner.
"I think you need to decide which way you are going to go with this. The way I see it, you've got three options. First, you can focus on your drawing skills, and learn to create works of visual are that stand on their own. Second, you can carry on making cartoons, like you're doing here, and find sub-moderate success working a niche market. Third, you can focus on developing your story from the boards and beyond the mere guttural sounds that the captions of this form afford you and really write something," the agent was looking at me with pure excitement in his face.
"I like your story, I really do. I just think that this form of expression doesn't allow you to truly convey a message with any strong significance. You're limited in both the amount of visual and written expression you can convey in each cell. I think you would be better served to write your story, and perhaps, use an image here or there to show a more difficult to describe concept."
I was starting to feel what the agent was telling me. I think I had been more excited about being able to put "graphic novelist" by my name than anything else. In reality, all I was trying to do was sell my old storyboards. If I came to see things his way, that the graphic novel tries to bridge a gap, but falls short, leaving the reading stuck in the middle wishing he was on either side, anywhere but the middle.
--------------------
"Graphic novels" make me feel like I am being cheated out of something. What is that something? It's the experience of soaking up pages of words that describe something. It is something I must visualize in my mind. It is the joy of reading
I can see why this form of expression has become popular. It's just a part of our overall culture of instant gratification. The journey is no longer what's appreciated, only the destination.
When I read line after line of prose, my mind imagines real people and real scenarios, vividly. When denied this beautiful process, I will always imagine the two-dimensional world of the childish drawings that are presented to me.
Like text message shorthand and expressions limited to one-hundred and forty character "Tweets", graphic novels represent a laziness that is leading to a wholesale erosion of the written word.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
45. Over the Road OCD
Truck driving taught me compulsion. For the most part, my private and professional lives have always been a scattered mess. There was very little, if any, organization or structure in my world. One look at the pile of clothes scattered on my bed would be an indication of things. I had enough presence of mind to wash my garments, but lacked the discipline motivation to put them away properly.
All that changed when I was granted a Class A Commercial Drivers License. There may be some truth in the stereotypes about the people that operate the biggest vehicles on the road, but one thing they aren't is disorganized. Lazy disorganization in this particular line of would, at best, result in an incorrect delivery or a fine from the DOT. In the worst case scenario, it could lead to a catastrophic accident, possibly resulting in death. People that can't keep organized don't keep jobs driving trucks very long.
I learned the attention to detail at my first driving job, delivering beer for a Phoenix-based distributor. Everything had to be accounted for, right down to the plastic pallets the product was stacked on. Coming up short or making paperwork errors meant losing out on bonus incentives, losing money. When the base salary is only twelve hundred dollars every two weeks, the added four hundred a month in possible bonuses is more than just a luxury, it's a necessity. Say what you will about the inherent unfairness of taking food off someone's table based on just one clerical error, it's still legal in Arizona. I had to learn really quick to make sure my paperwork was in order after every shift.
Paperwork doesn't just apply to cargo, there's also a strong regulatory element. Show up at a scale house with the wrong set of permits, registration, or insurance cards; have a nice fine. Forget to fill out a pre-trip inspection, enjoy watching the DOT man fill out a ticket. Make a mistake on your hours of service logs, enjoy getting shut down for a few days and pay more money in fines. Carrying hazardous materials, better have the right manifests and placards on your vehicle. Not only will you face a big fine, but if you truck runs off the road and spills a mislabeled load, people could get hurt or killed responding in the wrong manner.
When I left the world of nice and neat palletized goods, I was introduced to a whole new world of compulsion: flatbedding. Where the man or woman pulling a box trailer or a tanker has the fortune of having their load secured by the vehicle itself, the flatbedder has to come up with a acceptable means on the spot. Chains, binders, straps, tarps, decking; these are the flatbedder's paint, brushes, chisels, canvas, and marble by which he conducts his art.
It is a compulsive art trying to finagle one's way through a sea of codes to make sure something as simple as a warehouse forklift is correctly secured to a deck. What's the weight of said forklift? If it's under ten thousand pounds, it only needs to be secured with two chains, otherwise it's four. But wait, what grade are those chains? Grade 70 three-eights inch? No problem then. Anything in a lower grade or size, and it's gonna be a lot more than four. Are the forks strapped down? If not, that's a ticket. Are my binders the proper grade for the chain? Nope, well that's a ticket too.
Compulsion, attention to detail, these are things no commercial vehicle operator can do without.
All that changed when I was granted a Class A Commercial Drivers License. There may be some truth in the stereotypes about the people that operate the biggest vehicles on the road, but one thing they aren't is disorganized. Lazy disorganization in this particular line of would, at best, result in an incorrect delivery or a fine from the DOT. In the worst case scenario, it could lead to a catastrophic accident, possibly resulting in death. People that can't keep organized don't keep jobs driving trucks very long.
I learned the attention to detail at my first driving job, delivering beer for a Phoenix-based distributor. Everything had to be accounted for, right down to the plastic pallets the product was stacked on. Coming up short or making paperwork errors meant losing out on bonus incentives, losing money. When the base salary is only twelve hundred dollars every two weeks, the added four hundred a month in possible bonuses is more than just a luxury, it's a necessity. Say what you will about the inherent unfairness of taking food off someone's table based on just one clerical error, it's still legal in Arizona. I had to learn really quick to make sure my paperwork was in order after every shift.
Paperwork doesn't just apply to cargo, there's also a strong regulatory element. Show up at a scale house with the wrong set of permits, registration, or insurance cards; have a nice fine. Forget to fill out a pre-trip inspection, enjoy watching the DOT man fill out a ticket. Make a mistake on your hours of service logs, enjoy getting shut down for a few days and pay more money in fines. Carrying hazardous materials, better have the right manifests and placards on your vehicle. Not only will you face a big fine, but if you truck runs off the road and spills a mislabeled load, people could get hurt or killed responding in the wrong manner.
When I left the world of nice and neat palletized goods, I was introduced to a whole new world of compulsion: flatbedding. Where the man or woman pulling a box trailer or a tanker has the fortune of having their load secured by the vehicle itself, the flatbedder has to come up with a acceptable means on the spot. Chains, binders, straps, tarps, decking; these are the flatbedder's paint, brushes, chisels, canvas, and marble by which he conducts his art.
It is a compulsive art trying to finagle one's way through a sea of codes to make sure something as simple as a warehouse forklift is correctly secured to a deck. What's the weight of said forklift? If it's under ten thousand pounds, it only needs to be secured with two chains, otherwise it's four. But wait, what grade are those chains? Grade 70 three-eights inch? No problem then. Anything in a lower grade or size, and it's gonna be a lot more than four. Are the forks strapped down? If not, that's a ticket. Are my binders the proper grade for the chain? Nope, well that's a ticket too.
Compulsion, attention to detail, these are things no commercial vehicle operator can do without.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Reflections of A Once and Former Randian
This last hitch at work, I saw a combination of two items that alarmed me quite a bit. On one of the bulletin boards for general communication in a BP camp, there was a piece of pure propaganda from that company's "Team Alaska". The flyer essentially said that BP and other oil companies were seeking to develop new resources in places where oil companies received more tax incentives and lower rates to produce. They flyer then encouraged employees to contact their elected representatives to lower tax rates and provide incentives to BP or else face the specter of more lay-offs. Essentially, BP would be taking it's ball and going somewhere else if the State of Alaska didn't stop taxing them so much.
All of this wouldn't have struck me so much, had it not been for the second piece of the combination. On a white sheet of letter sized paper were the four words that have become synonimous to me with Elitism, Narcissism, and all around Assholiness: "Who is John Galt?"
When I was a younger man, I became enamored with the philosophical views that espoused the ideals of merit, and that reward should always be payed to those who were able to achieve the most. I bought into the American illusion of upward mobility based upon hard work, skill, dedication, sacrifice, etc. Like Mom, apple pie, and all the other pieces of Americana; the rags to riches stories of the talented and dedicated insert random lowly position here who possessed some great skill that led him to take his rightful place among America's powerful elite, are second nature to those of us who grew up in this land.
I found this ideal played out best in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. While most of the main players in the book are established members of the nation's industrial elite, the question "Who is John Galt?" lingers over the first half of the book, until he's finally revealed.
In John Galt, I found figure that encompassed all of the ideals of the meritorious American man, who takes his place among the natural aristocracy of elites.. Galt is born the son of a mechanic, who through talent and hard work, goes on to "better" himself through an elite education, making friends with very powerful young men of the industrial aristocracy, finally becoming a great inventor.
This could be any one of the Great American Success stories, except it doesn't end there. Galt leads a revolt of the modern bourgeoisie against the masses who they see as parasites, unfairly feasting off their success through taxes and the like. Instead of choosing to contribute a greater share of their disproportionately high wealth, Galt's followers instead go on strike and disappear. Like any good piece of elitist propaganda, the world falls apart without them.
I bought this line of reasoning hook, line and sinker for many years. It lead me to believe actions which were against my interests and favored rich elites were right and fair. I praised George W. Bush's tax cuts for the wealthy because they eased the "punishing of productivity".
"Why champion actions that are against your interests?" one might ask. Simply put, because the illustrations presented to me of people like John Galt, coupled with a healthy dose of narcissism, led me to believe that I too would someday be ultra-rich and would like to have the benefit of keeping my hard-earned wealth.
When the illusions started to unravel with the economic meltdown of 2008-2009, my perceptions of Galt changed. As I watched the über-rich of this country line up for handouts from the government, I began to see that it was they who were the parasites, not the unwashed masses. Through all their so-called "free trade", they had devised a system in which all of the wealth could be sucked up into the hands of few. When that wasn't enough, they created games to invent wealth to exploit. Finally, when the game couldn't be prolonged anymore, it was they who came begging to the public for more corporate welfare. All the while, they maintained an air of arrogance about how they were "too big to fail" and if they were allowed to fail, the country would collapse. Just like Galt and his followers, our modern day equivalents thought the world needed them more than they needed the world.
All of this wouldn't have struck me so much, had it not been for the second piece of the combination. On a white sheet of letter sized paper were the four words that have become synonimous to me with Elitism, Narcissism, and all around Assholiness: "Who is John Galt?"
When I was a younger man, I became enamored with the philosophical views that espoused the ideals of merit, and that reward should always be payed to those who were able to achieve the most. I bought into the American illusion of upward mobility based upon hard work, skill, dedication, sacrifice, etc. Like Mom, apple pie, and all the other pieces of Americana; the rags to riches stories of the talented and dedicated insert random lowly position here who possessed some great skill that led him to take his rightful place among America's powerful elite, are second nature to those of us who grew up in this land.
I found this ideal played out best in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. While most of the main players in the book are established members of the nation's industrial elite, the question "Who is John Galt?" lingers over the first half of the book, until he's finally revealed.
In John Galt, I found figure that encompassed all of the ideals of the meritorious American man, who takes his place among the natural aristocracy of elites.. Galt is born the son of a mechanic, who through talent and hard work, goes on to "better" himself through an elite education, making friends with very powerful young men of the industrial aristocracy, finally becoming a great inventor.
This could be any one of the Great American Success stories, except it doesn't end there. Galt leads a revolt of the modern bourgeoisie against the masses who they see as parasites, unfairly feasting off their success through taxes and the like. Instead of choosing to contribute a greater share of their disproportionately high wealth, Galt's followers instead go on strike and disappear. Like any good piece of elitist propaganda, the world falls apart without them.
I bought this line of reasoning hook, line and sinker for many years. It lead me to believe actions which were against my interests and favored rich elites were right and fair. I praised George W. Bush's tax cuts for the wealthy because they eased the "punishing of productivity".
"Why champion actions that are against your interests?" one might ask. Simply put, because the illustrations presented to me of people like John Galt, coupled with a healthy dose of narcissism, led me to believe that I too would someday be ultra-rich and would like to have the benefit of keeping my hard-earned wealth.
When the illusions started to unravel with the economic meltdown of 2008-2009, my perceptions of Galt changed. As I watched the über-rich of this country line up for handouts from the government, I began to see that it was they who were the parasites, not the unwashed masses. Through all their so-called "free trade", they had devised a system in which all of the wealth could be sucked up into the hands of few. When that wasn't enough, they created games to invent wealth to exploit. Finally, when the game couldn't be prolonged anymore, it was they who came begging to the public for more corporate welfare. All the while, they maintained an air of arrogance about how they were "too big to fail" and if they were allowed to fail, the country would collapse. Just like Galt and his followers, our modern day equivalents thought the world needed them more than they needed the world.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
29-A: Reckless Youth at South Point (Read First)
Author's Note:
Here's the first-person perspective on my experience. It takes place on the cliffs of South Point, on the Big Island of Hawaii, sometime during my original Sophomore Year in college, when I attended the University of Hawaii. There's a youtube video at the the end that I found for a little perspective. It's the same exact place where this even took place, but I have no idea who the people in the video are, nor who took it.
The creaking and groaning made it seem as if the platform was going to detach itself from the top of the cliff. While cliff jumping was my reason for being here, I certainly didn't want to do a tandem jump with a couple thousand pounds of decades-old lumber. That would certainly be a recipe for disaster.
I imagined myself falling foreword, with a white knuckle grip on archway on the ocean side of the platform. Falling face down towards my fate, eyes and mouth agape. It's a vision that immediately reminds me of the Nazi going over the cliff in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, a head and shoulders poking out of the top of a tank as it does a Thelma and Louise to it's fiery end at the bottom of the cliff.
The image makes me chuckle. "If this thing's been here this long, it'll hold long enough for me," I once again mumble.
"Huh?" Bracken asks me.
He's standing ten feet to my left at the lip of the cliff. His look is one of confidence. He's been here many times, made this jump countless times. Not that he needs experience to look confident. Bracken's a gym-rat. He's the type of guy that gets up in the morning and puts in two hours at the gym before the sun comes up. The visible result of that dedication is something which, deep-down, I'm a little envious of.
"Nothing," I say. "Just thinking out loud."
"Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!" From behind me, I hear what can best be described as the noise Private Joker makes when Sargent Hartman asks him to "show me your war-face!" upon arriving at boot camp in Full Metal Jacket. It's Kevin. He's running at a full sprint across the basalt plateau, running straight for the edge. It's almost a comical picture he paints. Short, awkward, a bit nerdy; his image is nothing like the near-Adonis Bracken. He runs right past Bracken, and I watch as he glides out into the void.
"Gerrrrrrronimo!"
I watch as he flails his arms and legs on the way down and at the last minute tucks his arms around his chest, brings his feet together, and looks up with closed eyes as he enters the water below.
Bracken and I wait a moment, and sure enough, Kevin's head emerges from the calm waters below.
"Wahoo! That was awesome!" Kevin screams back up. Soon he is swimming towards the old rusty iron ladder hanging off the side of the cliff. It is the only means of escape from the water below.
I take a few steps back, off the platform and onto the ground. Bracken turns and faces me, his back to the ocean.
"See you down there," he says, jumping backwards. His head snaps back, he grabs his knees to his chest and does a complete back-flip, suspended in mid-air. It's almost like a cartoon, as soon as he is right-side-up and vertical again, he plummets to the water below. I cautiously rush to the ledge and am relieved to see his smiling face looking up at me.
"Your turn," he says up to me, and makes a quick swim to the ladder.
I have one of those paralyzing moments. I want to go, but my feet don't want to move. It's a fight in my head: my conscious mind wants to do this, but my subconscious is holding me back. The human inclination towards self preservation is putting up a fight against this action that seems downright suicidal.
I look to my left and see Kevin cresting the lip of the cliff on the ladder.
"Dude, you gotta do the run and jump the first time. It's the only way you can keep from pulling back," he encourages.
I walk back from the ledge about thirty feet. My heart is racing, my palms sweating. I am about to jump off a sixty foot cliff into forty feet of deep blue Pacific Ocean. Aside from the rickety old ladder, the next nearest place to safely get out of the water is the beach a mile up the coast. I'd never make it if something went wrong with the ladder, and this weighs on my mind.
"Come on Matt, you can do it!" Kevin forcefully encourages.
I put one foot in front of the other, then another, and another. I'm at full speed when I step off the ledge into the air.
The fall is amazing. In an instant, I have tunnel vision. My focus is on the ocean below, and the spot where I will break into the blue. As I fall, my stomach finds a new home somewhere around my Adam's Apple, in the middle of my throat .
Surprisingly, the fall was not one of those adrenaline-fueled moments that seems to last forever. It was quick. So quick that I almost don't have the presence of mind to prepare myself for the force which will overcome me when I break the surface tension of the water. At the last possible fraction of a second, I bring my arms in close to my body, bring my feet together, close my eyes and tilt my head back.
I feel my body enter the water violently. The resistance of the water, coupled with the position I entered the water in makes me shudder back and forth somewhat violently. When I finally come to rest, fifteen or so feet deep in the water, I'm almost flat on my back and looking up. I start swimming for the surface, exhaling air as I pull myself up. Soon I am rewarded with the sensation of broaching the surface, and take a gigantic breath of air.
Turning my gaze back up from whence I came, I see Kevin's smiling face peering over the lip at me. I see him raise his hand and give me a thumbs-up. A salute for my successful jump.
To my right, I see Bracken, climbing the ladder to safety. He looks down over his shoulder at me.
"Was that fun?"
"You know it!" I exclaim. "Get your ass up that ladder, I'm right behind you and I want to go again!"
29-B. The Old Man, The Boy, and The Sea (Read Second)
Author's Note: This is the third-person imagining of my scene.
The old man was enjoying his lazy afternoon fishing with his grandson. He had chosen to take the boy to a very special place on the island, South Point. A place very much dear to him, South Point was the place the old man went to when he wanted solace. Today, he was sharing that solace with someone very dear to him.
The two of them had driven all the way from their home in Kailua-Kona. They past South down the coast past the famous Kona Coffee plantations, past the quiet town of Captain Cook, and down the lonely ten mile stretch of road that led to South Point.
The road from the highway to South Point is one of a kind in the Hawaiian Islands. It feels more like a trip across Midwestern farm country, with the exception that the horizon is graced with blue ocean on one side, and Mauna Loa volcano on the other. It's slowly rolling hills, covered in grassy cattle pastures.
The boy pointed as they drove past one field, "What are those grandpa?" he asked.
"Windmills. The government put them here a long time ago, when Jimmy Carter was president," the old man answered, not taking his gaze from the road.
"Who's Jimmy Carter?" the boy quietly thought aloud, his grandfather not hearing him.
The two drove on, the old man's 1980's Nissan compact pickup creaking and groaning as they made their wave up, over, and down the endless rolling hills. Soon they were pulling up to the parking area by the cliffs. The old man looked at the boy.
"Stay close to me son. Don't go near the cliff until I have everything ready. If you fall in, it will be very bad," he cautioned his only grandchild.
"Okay grandpa. I won't," the boy complied.
As the two of them sat about removing their fishing tackle, the boy surveyed the new surroundings. He could tell that to one side of him was a massive set of cliffs that dropped off into the water. To the other side, there was rolling grasslands, with some dirt trails cutting their way across the landscape. He could see a peak rising in the distance next to the coast in that direction.
"What's over there grandpa?" the boy asked while pointing at the peak.
"The Green Sand Beach," the old man said. "It's almost a mile from here."
"Green Sand? I thought sand was black or white," the boy half asked, half stated to his grandfather.
The old man pointed way up the coastline to a black sand beach. "You remember how I told you a black sand beach is made?"
"Yes grandpa. When lava flows into the sea it cools down super-fast. When it does that it be hardens and breaks real quick," the junior geologist stated.
"Very good. I'm so proud of how smart you are," he doted on his grandson, "The Green Sand beach was made the same way, except the lava that made it contained a lot of olivine."
"Olivine? How do olives get in the lava?"
"Not olives, olivine. It's a mineral, a rock. But it's typically an olive-green color…"
"So, it shatters when it hits the water as lava, and becomes green sand?" the boy interjected.
"You are too smart!" the old man said, reaching down to pat the boy on the head. "Now lets go fishing."
The two anglers grabbed their long surfcasting rods, along with the rather large tackle boxes that the old man had kept in his shed for years. They contained the tackle that would only be used for this particular fishing spot. They walked to within ten feet of the ledge, and the old man nodded to the boy to place his gear on the ground there.
"I'll set this up, you just sit here and watch. Okay?" the old man instructed.
"Okay grandpa," the boy acknowledged.
The old man started pulling tackle from the boxes, and laying out on the ground before them. As he was doing this, a white Jeep pulled up and three men in their early twenties got out and walked to the cliff, about fifty yards away from the old man and the boy.
"Tell me the story about your grandpa again, please," the boy asked his grandfather.
"The one about the barracuda?"
"Yeah."
"Well, my grandfather used to come out here and fish out of a small boat…"
"How did he get it down there?" the boy interrupted.
The old man pointed over to where the three young men stood.
"Do you see that platform?"
The boy nodded.
"You see the pulley on the arch on the ocean side?"
Again, the boy nodded.
"He would lower the boat down using that pulley, then climb down the ladder to it."
The man continued working as he started in on the story. His fingers working delicately to bait hooks onto yard-long leaders.
"My grandpa would then paddle out just a little ways and tap his oar on the bottom of the boat three times. Sometimes he would have to do this a few times, but eventually a six-foot barracuda would show up.
"Grandpa would throw a little bit of steak or chicken into the water, and the barracuda would eat it. Then the barracuda would kill fish for Grandpa. They would float to the surface, and he would put them in his boat.
"When he had enough, he'd throw another bite to the barracuda, tap the bottom of the boat three times, and head back to the ladder and pull his boat out."
The little boy was wide eyed imagining this tale his grandfather was telling him. He thought it would be amazing to have a barracuda for a friend.
The boy's daydream was cut short when he heard a loud scream coming from down the cliff.
"AAAAHHHH!" the shortest of the young men was screaming and running for the ledge.
The boy cupped his hands over his cheeks and looked in shock as the young man soared over the ledge and down towards the water below.
"Geronimo!" the young man cried, right before he hit the water.
"Oh my gosh! What if the barracuda is down there? Will he hurt him?" the boy asked his grandfather as he turned to him frantically.
His grandfather didn't even look up from his job fixing his tackle.
"I wouldn't worry about a barracuda. That was just a fishing tale my grandfather liked to tell when I was a boy. It's not true. I don't know anyone who's ever seen a barracuda around here, " the old man said to the boy, trying to calm him.
"But don't we have barracuda in the water outside Kailua? Why wouldn't they be here? It's not far."
"Because, if a barracuda came down here, it would get eaten pretty fast," the old man chuckled.
The boy's eyes widened once again.
"Eaten? What could eat a barracuda?" the boy asked, completely bewildered.
"Well, Grandson, the waters off South Point are the biggest shark breeding ground in the entire State of Hawaii."
The old man was enjoying his lazy afternoon fishing with his grandson. He had chosen to take the boy to a very special place on the island, South Point. A place very much dear to him, South Point was the place the old man went to when he wanted solace. Today, he was sharing that solace with someone very dear to him.
The two of them had driven all the way from their home in Kailua-Kona. They past South down the coast past the famous Kona Coffee plantations, past the quiet town of Captain Cook, and down the lonely ten mile stretch of road that led to South Point.
The road from the highway to South Point is one of a kind in the Hawaiian Islands. It feels more like a trip across Midwestern farm country, with the exception that the horizon is graced with blue ocean on one side, and Mauna Loa volcano on the other. It's slowly rolling hills, covered in grassy cattle pastures.
The boy pointed as they drove past one field, "What are those grandpa?" he asked.
"Windmills. The government put them here a long time ago, when Jimmy Carter was president," the old man answered, not taking his gaze from the road.
"Who's Jimmy Carter?" the boy quietly thought aloud, his grandfather not hearing him.
The two drove on, the old man's 1980's Nissan compact pickup creaking and groaning as they made their wave up, over, and down the endless rolling hills. Soon they were pulling up to the parking area by the cliffs. The old man looked at the boy.
"Stay close to me son. Don't go near the cliff until I have everything ready. If you fall in, it will be very bad," he cautioned his only grandchild.
"Okay grandpa. I won't," the boy complied.
As the two of them sat about removing their fishing tackle, the boy surveyed the new surroundings. He could tell that to one side of him was a massive set of cliffs that dropped off into the water. To the other side, there was rolling grasslands, with some dirt trails cutting their way across the landscape. He could see a peak rising in the distance next to the coast in that direction.
"What's over there grandpa?" the boy asked while pointing at the peak.
"The Green Sand Beach," the old man said. "It's almost a mile from here."
"Green Sand? I thought sand was black or white," the boy half asked, half stated to his grandfather.
The old man pointed way up the coastline to a black sand beach. "You remember how I told you a black sand beach is made?"
"Yes grandpa. When lava flows into the sea it cools down super-fast. When it does that it be hardens and breaks real quick," the junior geologist stated.
"Very good. I'm so proud of how smart you are," he doted on his grandson, "The Green Sand beach was made the same way, except the lava that made it contained a lot of olivine."
"Olivine? How do olives get in the lava?"
"Not olives, olivine. It's a mineral, a rock. But it's typically an olive-green color…"
"So, it shatters when it hits the water as lava, and becomes green sand?" the boy interjected.
"You are too smart!" the old man said, reaching down to pat the boy on the head. "Now lets go fishing."
The two anglers grabbed their long surfcasting rods, along with the rather large tackle boxes that the old man had kept in his shed for years. They contained the tackle that would only be used for this particular fishing spot. They walked to within ten feet of the ledge, and the old man nodded to the boy to place his gear on the ground there.
"I'll set this up, you just sit here and watch. Okay?" the old man instructed.
"Okay grandpa," the boy acknowledged.
The old man started pulling tackle from the boxes, and laying out on the ground before them. As he was doing this, a white Jeep pulled up and three men in their early twenties got out and walked to the cliff, about fifty yards away from the old man and the boy.
"Tell me the story about your grandpa again, please," the boy asked his grandfather.
"The one about the barracuda?"
"Yeah."
"Well, my grandfather used to come out here and fish out of a small boat…"
"How did he get it down there?" the boy interrupted.
The old man pointed over to where the three young men stood.
"Do you see that platform?"
The boy nodded.
"You see the pulley on the arch on the ocean side?"
Again, the boy nodded.
"He would lower the boat down using that pulley, then climb down the ladder to it."
The man continued working as he started in on the story. His fingers working delicately to bait hooks onto yard-long leaders.
"My grandpa would then paddle out just a little ways and tap his oar on the bottom of the boat three times. Sometimes he would have to do this a few times, but eventually a six-foot barracuda would show up.
"Grandpa would throw a little bit of steak or chicken into the water, and the barracuda would eat it. Then the barracuda would kill fish for Grandpa. They would float to the surface, and he would put them in his boat.
"When he had enough, he'd throw another bite to the barracuda, tap the bottom of the boat three times, and head back to the ladder and pull his boat out."
The little boy was wide eyed imagining this tale his grandfather was telling him. He thought it would be amazing to have a barracuda for a friend.
The boy's daydream was cut short when he heard a loud scream coming from down the cliff.
"AAAAHHHH!" the shortest of the young men was screaming and running for the ledge.
The boy cupped his hands over his cheeks and looked in shock as the young man soared over the ledge and down towards the water below.
"Geronimo!" the young man cried, right before he hit the water.
"Oh my gosh! What if the barracuda is down there? Will he hurt him?" the boy asked his grandfather as he turned to him frantically.
His grandfather didn't even look up from his job fixing his tackle.
"I wouldn't worry about a barracuda. That was just a fishing tale my grandfather liked to tell when I was a boy. It's not true. I don't know anyone who's ever seen a barracuda around here, " the old man said to the boy, trying to calm him.
"But don't we have barracuda in the water outside Kailua? Why wouldn't they be here? It's not far."
"Because, if a barracuda came down here, it would get eaten pretty fast," the old man chuckled.
The boy's eyes widened once again.
"Eaten? What could eat a barracuda?" the boy asked, completely bewildered.
"Well, Grandson, the waters off South Point are the biggest shark breeding ground in the entire State of Hawaii."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
27. Why I Can't Write This Prompt
I'm usually not one who lacks the words to answer any challenge put before me. However, I'm drawing a blank when it comes to this particular posting prompt. I can't bring myself to find a particular belief in myself that I feel I can express in the manner suggested by this prompt.
Why? Why can't I come up with something to write? Don't get me wrong, I can always come up with something to write about, it's just that my nature doesn't lend itself to writing a "persuasive piece that defends a belief in an interesting–but not bombastic or aggressive–way."
Those of you who are familiar with my writing style know that it is full of passion and emotion. Most find my expressions can be very interesting. It's simply that subtlety is not a tool in my literary shed. It's certainly not one in the larger shop that is my life. I'm passionate in my feelings and beliefs, and I have a very loud and somewhat aggressive way of relating those beliefs, from which I cannot divorce myself.
I can tone down the fire on things I feel dispassionate about. That's how most academic writing plays out for me: take facts, then formulate non-prejudicial arguments. But beliefs are different. Beliefs involve faith, and faith requires passion. Beliefs are self-evident truths held dear lacking the certainty of irrefutable proof, which would otherwise make them fact. To remove passion from belief, I would be left with nothing more than fragmented ideas and mere notions. Simple notions cannot possibly be interesting enough to write so that others would be compelled to read them.
I once heard a wonderful description of the true mark of maturity being when a person becomes self-aware enough to know their limitations. This particular prompt has shown me a limitation in myself. I can't write about my beliefs from the dispassionate position required to not have them come out in the sharp tones and heated words this prompting seeks to avoid. To even attempt to do so feels like a betrayal of my self, the catch-all description of who I am, and who I am is very aggressively passionate and emotive.
Why? Why can't I come up with something to write? Don't get me wrong, I can always come up with something to write about, it's just that my nature doesn't lend itself to writing a "persuasive piece that defends a belief in an interesting–but not bombastic or aggressive–way."
Those of you who are familiar with my writing style know that it is full of passion and emotion. Most find my expressions can be very interesting. It's simply that subtlety is not a tool in my literary shed. It's certainly not one in the larger shop that is my life. I'm passionate in my feelings and beliefs, and I have a very loud and somewhat aggressive way of relating those beliefs, from which I cannot divorce myself.
I can tone down the fire on things I feel dispassionate about. That's how most academic writing plays out for me: take facts, then formulate non-prejudicial arguments. But beliefs are different. Beliefs involve faith, and faith requires passion. Beliefs are self-evident truths held dear lacking the certainty of irrefutable proof, which would otherwise make them fact. To remove passion from belief, I would be left with nothing more than fragmented ideas and mere notions. Simple notions cannot possibly be interesting enough to write so that others would be compelled to read them.
I once heard a wonderful description of the true mark of maturity being when a person becomes self-aware enough to know their limitations. This particular prompt has shown me a limitation in myself. I can't write about my beliefs from the dispassionate position required to not have them come out in the sharp tones and heated words this prompting seeks to avoid. To even attempt to do so feels like a betrayal of my self, the catch-all description of who I am, and who I am is very aggressively passionate and emotive.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
25. More Office Hijinx
"Seven-ten, eight-oh-eight. Seven-ten clear in Scottsdale," I said into the radio, announcing my return to my home yard.
"Roger that Seven-ten. Go ahead and wrap it up, call at five for load and start," the voice on the other end came back.
"Thanks Dave, have a great night. Seven-ten out."
I hung the microphone on the dash, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gear. It was two in the afternoon, and I was done for the day. It was time to go home, crack open some beers and watch old music videos on YouTube. Anything to forget Sunstate Equipment Rental for the next twelve hours.
I climbed out of the cab of my Kenworth T-800 and started walking across the yard toward the office, where I would close out the day's paperwork. On my way there, I would pass in front of the large open-air equipment shop. Doubtless, the mechanics would be working like crazy getting machines checked out and serviced in order to be ready to go out on rent as soon as possible.
As I came around the retaining wall that had previously obscured my view, I was not met with a scene of industrial efficiency. Instead, I saw two mechanics, visibly winded and leaning on crowbars, gathered around a fifty-five gallon trash can.
"Hey Matt, come look at this," one of the mechanics was able to gasp upon seeing me.
The two mechanics moved over as I walked up to the can. I peered over the edge. Scattered across the inside of the trashcan was the horribly mangled remains of a four foot rattlesnake. These mechanics were sucking air because they had spent the last five minutes trying to dispatch the snake with the heavy iron crowbars.
"So… how'd that get here?" I asked.
"He brought it!" Richard, the mechanic nearest me said. He was pointing across the shop to the bald-headed field service mechanic. "Son of a bitch had it in a five gallon bucket and dumped it into the trash can! Brought it back from the field with him."
"Why in the hell would he do something like that?" I queried.
"Fuck if I know. You know 'well as I do that he's one weird retard. You saw what he was wearing when he got here this morning."
"How could I forget? Pink spandex and riding a ten-speed. He sure is a different duck," I chuckled.
Richard pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. Out of breath, sweating, hair a mess, cigarette in his mouth; the semi-geriatric Richard looked more like he had just got done fucking his wife than fucking-up a snake.
"Well, Bob's gonna chew his ass here pretty soon. He's on a call to Metro Ops, but he'll be back out in a second. Pull up a seat," and with that, Richard slid a rolling mechanic stool to me.
We huddled around for a minute as Ricard and the other snake-slaying mechanic, Steven, told the tale of their recent brush with death. Apparently it took quite a lot to finally pacify the serpent. These were two stout individuals, and years of turning big wrenches and hoisting heavy iron machine parts left them fairly muscle-bound. What they hadn't had since high school was serious cardio work. The visible results of their five panicked minutes clubbing a snake made me struggle to remember where the automatic defribulator was stored.
"Here comes Bob," Steven said.
Bob walked in the shop, a contrast to everyone else present. He was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans, whereas everyone else was wearing dark work dungarees and coveralls. His face was devoid of any expression that would give away his emotional state. With the exception of myself, everyone else in the shop was pretty shaken up.
Bob approached the service mechanic. "So, why exactly is there a dead snake in my shop Mike?" he asked the bald man.
"I brought it in off a job up by Troon North," Mike said, rather calmly. "It was a residential neighborhood, and there were kids nearby."
"Why didn't you just let the neighbors know where it was at?" Bob asked, still calm as ever.
"I didn't think dispatch would appreciate me taking that much time with the service call I was on."
"So you put it in a bucket and brought it back here? Why didn't you just kill it and leave it there if you were so worried about the kids?"
Mike looked around, a little more frantic looking than before. Like he was trying to justify his actions he himself didn't understand.
"I… uh… I thought someone here might want the meat," his voice wavering.
Bob looked over at the three of us. We were trying our hardest to pretend we were doing anything else but watching the entertainment he and Mike were providing.
"Any of you guys interested in snake meat?" Bob asked. His ice cold exterior was beginning to melt, and there was a half chuckle in his tone.
None of us said anything. We responded with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone here has a taste for it Mike," Bob said, turning his focus back to the company dimwit. Mike was beginning to show signs of fear. He surely must have begun to see how an action like this could jeopardize his employment.
"Look, Mike. I'm not gonna write you up for this, this time. I really don't wanna deal with the headache. The rest of Phoenix Metro looks at us as the company clowns. I don't want to give them anymore ammunition," he paused and turned toward we three, "so we're all gonna keep this one quiet, and there will be no more bringing wildlife back to the yard."
I could see Mike breath a little sign of relief.
"I just want to know one thing. Can you can see how this was a bad idea?" Bob sternly asked.
Blankness returned to Mikes face. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.
"What if someone got bit?" Bob said, with a bit of forcefulness behind his voice.
It was as if all the illusions and forms had been pulled back and Mike finally saw reality through the eyes of a sane person. His jaw dropped, eyes widened. "Ahhh, I see."
"Roger that Seven-ten. Go ahead and wrap it up, call at five for load and start," the voice on the other end came back.
"Thanks Dave, have a great night. Seven-ten out."
I hung the microphone on the dash, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gear. It was two in the afternoon, and I was done for the day. It was time to go home, crack open some beers and watch old music videos on YouTube. Anything to forget Sunstate Equipment Rental for the next twelve hours.
I climbed out of the cab of my Kenworth T-800 and started walking across the yard toward the office, where I would close out the day's paperwork. On my way there, I would pass in front of the large open-air equipment shop. Doubtless, the mechanics would be working like crazy getting machines checked out and serviced in order to be ready to go out on rent as soon as possible.
As I came around the retaining wall that had previously obscured my view, I was not met with a scene of industrial efficiency. Instead, I saw two mechanics, visibly winded and leaning on crowbars, gathered around a fifty-five gallon trash can.
"Hey Matt, come look at this," one of the mechanics was able to gasp upon seeing me.
The two mechanics moved over as I walked up to the can. I peered over the edge. Scattered across the inside of the trashcan was the horribly mangled remains of a four foot rattlesnake. These mechanics were sucking air because they had spent the last five minutes trying to dispatch the snake with the heavy iron crowbars.
"So… how'd that get here?" I asked.
"He brought it!" Richard, the mechanic nearest me said. He was pointing across the shop to the bald-headed field service mechanic. "Son of a bitch had it in a five gallon bucket and dumped it into the trash can! Brought it back from the field with him."
"Why in the hell would he do something like that?" I queried.
"Fuck if I know. You know 'well as I do that he's one weird retard. You saw what he was wearing when he got here this morning."
"How could I forget? Pink spandex and riding a ten-speed. He sure is a different duck," I chuckled.
Richard pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. Out of breath, sweating, hair a mess, cigarette in his mouth; the semi-geriatric Richard looked more like he had just got done fucking his wife than fucking-up a snake.
"Well, Bob's gonna chew his ass here pretty soon. He's on a call to Metro Ops, but he'll be back out in a second. Pull up a seat," and with that, Richard slid a rolling mechanic stool to me.
We huddled around for a minute as Ricard and the other snake-slaying mechanic, Steven, told the tale of their recent brush with death. Apparently it took quite a lot to finally pacify the serpent. These were two stout individuals, and years of turning big wrenches and hoisting heavy iron machine parts left them fairly muscle-bound. What they hadn't had since high school was serious cardio work. The visible results of their five panicked minutes clubbing a snake made me struggle to remember where the automatic defribulator was stored.
"Here comes Bob," Steven said.
Bob walked in the shop, a contrast to everyone else present. He was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans, whereas everyone else was wearing dark work dungarees and coveralls. His face was devoid of any expression that would give away his emotional state. With the exception of myself, everyone else in the shop was pretty shaken up.
Bob approached the service mechanic. "So, why exactly is there a dead snake in my shop Mike?" he asked the bald man.
"I brought it in off a job up by Troon North," Mike said, rather calmly. "It was a residential neighborhood, and there were kids nearby."
"Why didn't you just let the neighbors know where it was at?" Bob asked, still calm as ever.
"I didn't think dispatch would appreciate me taking that much time with the service call I was on."
"So you put it in a bucket and brought it back here? Why didn't you just kill it and leave it there if you were so worried about the kids?"
Mike looked around, a little more frantic looking than before. Like he was trying to justify his actions he himself didn't understand.
"I… uh… I thought someone here might want the meat," his voice wavering.
Bob looked over at the three of us. We were trying our hardest to pretend we were doing anything else but watching the entertainment he and Mike were providing.
"Any of you guys interested in snake meat?" Bob asked. His ice cold exterior was beginning to melt, and there was a half chuckle in his tone.
None of us said anything. We responded with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone here has a taste for it Mike," Bob said, turning his focus back to the company dimwit. Mike was beginning to show signs of fear. He surely must have begun to see how an action like this could jeopardize his employment.
"Look, Mike. I'm not gonna write you up for this, this time. I really don't wanna deal with the headache. The rest of Phoenix Metro looks at us as the company clowns. I don't want to give them anymore ammunition," he paused and turned toward we three, "so we're all gonna keep this one quiet, and there will be no more bringing wildlife back to the yard."
I could see Mike breath a little sign of relief.
"I just want to know one thing. Can you can see how this was a bad idea?" Bob sternly asked.
Blankness returned to Mikes face. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.
"What if someone got bit?" Bob said, with a bit of forcefulness behind his voice.
It was as if all the illusions and forms had been pulled back and Mike finally saw reality through the eyes of a sane person. His jaw dropped, eyes widened. "Ahhh, I see."
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