Tonight, in my Readings in Fiction class, we talked about metafiction. It was defined as self-aware, self-critical, and self-reflexive. In other words, the author is very much present in the work, letting you know you are undoubtedly reading a novel while not allowing you to think you are reading anything real. In other words, this is a metafictional text. I had not heard of metafiction before coming here to UTD, and now that it has been defined for me, I’m surprised to learn I am currently writing metafiction. Of course, once I learned who were considered metafictionists: Milan Kundera and Don Barthelme, I guess it’s not too surprising I’m writing that kind of novel.
The fact that this is metafiction has all kinds of potential consequences. For example, not only can I do what I have been doing, weaving my own story loosely into the text and admitting that my characters are fictional constructs, but I could also directly enter the text itself as an actual character and interact with them.
Now, since Sarah has just broken up with Michel and this story is (more or less) about him, there is a danger of losing such an interesting character as Sarah (or at least I hope she is interesting to you). I think I’ll meet Sarah personally, talk to her, see how she is taking what she learned about Michel. But first, I’m going to have to find her.
I’m not sure where she hangs out. I hadn’t thought about that -- it was never an issue. Maybe she’s at a bar here in town. I could wander around town, see if I could find her. The only problem is, she doesn’t know me, so I have to be careful. I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of stalker.
But what am I thinking, looking for her? I’m the author, after all. I’ll just put her someplace and walk in, sit next to her and talk. So she is at a bar. She’s at Le Marquis, which I don’t think is really all that nice a place, despite the name. Not that it’s seedy. Hardly. More of a college-kid hangout. She’s sitting at the bar, drinking a beer, crying, ignoring everyone else’s inquiries. I sit at the bar, on the stool beside her, and order a beer, ignoring her crying. I know she doesn’t want me coming right out and saying something about it. I’m a stranger to her. I drink my beer and ask for another. Now, she’s stopped crying. She’s looking at me, wondering why I haven’t said anything to her. Minding my own business is far more irritating than making an inquiry. I look at her and ask, “Would you like another beer?”
“Sure. Thanks,” she says, putting her empty bottle onto the bar. I order her a beer, and let her take a few drinks. “Thanks,” she says again. “I’m Sarah.” I introduce myself and ask her what’s wrong. She shakes her head, then tells me about finding Michel fucking his roommate. I tell her he sounds like a real dick, and that she’s bound to find someone new who’s a lot better than him. She thanks me and smiles. I buy us both another beer. She says she’s tired of sitting in the bar, would I like to go for a walk? I’m always up for a walk, especially with someone as attractive as Sarah, so we finish our beers and are out the door, walking down the block, away from her apartment.
“My grandma just found out she’s dying of cancer,” I say. She says she’s sorry, then asks me about her. I tell her what I told you a few chapters back. “I really love my grandmother, though I know I’ve disappointed her lately. She thinks she and grandpa wasted all their money on my college since I'm now getting my Master’s in Creative Writing. I’m thinking about going to UT-Dallas someplace else for my PhD. They’re also disappointed because I’m living with my girlfriend, and they think that’s living in sin. They’re real strict Christians.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” She looks disappointed.
“I guess you could still call it that. She won’t go out with me anywhere, she hates it when I touch her, except to have sex with her, and she hasn’t even had sex with me in three weeks. If you want to call that a girlfriend, then I have a girlfriend. She’s acting more like a roommate I kiss and say ‘I love you’ to occasionally than an actual girlfriend.”
“Don’t even tell me about roommates. That’s what happened with me and Michel.”
“Yeah, but I’m at least being honest about her still being my girlfriend. If she’d let me, I’d fuck her in a minute, but she won’t let me. Well, that’s not entirely true. She was going to let me, but she let me know she didn’t want to so strongly I told her never mind.”
“Most guys would have just fucked her.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“I can see that. Makes me wish you weren’t attached.”
“You’ve only known me for a half hour.”
“Still, I can tell you’re decent. Than counts for a lot right now.”
Well, I don’t know how decent I am. I do think about cheating on Donna quite a bit, especially now that she won’t fuck me. I fantasize about her friend, Maddy. I hate that about me. I thought I was better than that. I’ve always been a strict monogamist, philosophically. But now that I’ve actually had sex and Donna won’t let me have sex with her, I’ve discovered that, yes, I am human, and, yes, I do want to fuck other women. So much for being better than anything. To quote Nietzsche, I guess I’m Human, All Too Human, or, to quote the singer Rob Zombie, I’m More Human Than Human. What can I say? I can only point to myself and say, “Ecce Homo!”
I walk Sarah home, and watch her walk in, staying out on the front step. Still, I cannot cheat on Donna, even in a fictional space. Sarah says good-night before shutting the door behind her. I really have no place to go in this world, so I wander off into the night, out of the world, right off the very page.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Chapter 22
It has been three weeks since I’ve fucked. Admittedly, the end of last week put us both out of the mood, considering the news about my grandmother. Still, three weeks is a very long time -- especially considering my libido.
When Donna and I first got together, she told me she was a nymphomaniac. She said she wanted to fuck three or four times a day, and I told her I’d see what I could do about that. In fact, when we first got together, we did just that. At least twice a day for a while, though eventually slowing to once a day. That was fine. Passions cool. But then once a day became once a week, and once a week became twice a month. Now its been three weeks, and I’m about ready to go out and find someone just to fuck them. I never thought I’d end up being that kind of person, someone who will do anything to get some pussy, but I have. I would be happy to only sleep with one woman the rest of my life, but Donna is making it hard.
The other day, I told her I was horny, so she came into the bedroom and plopped down on the bed, rolled her eyes, and laid there, looking at the wall above her. I asked her, “What?” and she said, “I’m not horny, Vance,” so I told her to forget it. I don’t want to fuck someone who is unwilling.
Donna’s passion for me has all but evaporated. I can tell, even if she won’t admit it. She says she loves me, but I don’t believe it. Actions verses words.
I just got finished eating. While I was writing this, Donna came in and asked me to go to Qdoba. We talked, or I tried to talk, before I left. She seemed unhappy. I understand. So am I. She said she talked to our friend Maddy, someone she hasn’t talked to much lately because Donna has been mad at her for her tendency to forget when she promises to be places. I asked Donna what was wrong, but she refused to talk to me about it. She said she talked to Maddy about it. She jumps on my case for writing stories about our problems instead of talking to her about them, then talks to Maddy about them and won’t talk to me. I think her refusal to have sex with me is a consequence of everything. She won’t talk to me or touch me or show me she loves me, so what else could the end result be? Donna has always said she separates sex from love, but I don’t believe her any more. I can’t help but think if we decided not to be a couple any more and that she could still stay here as my roommate that our sex life would return to normal, since then she really could separate the two like she says she does. Not that I plan to break up with her to find out. Still, I can’t help but think I’m right.
But we have left Sarah, Michel, and Jackie alone for too long. We can’t forget about them, even if my life is falling apart around me. Their lives, as mine, must go on. I cannot leave them, and you, in continual suspense.
As I’m sure you know, Michel cannot go on having sex with Jackie without Sarah finding out. She already suspects he does -- the question is, how is she going to find out? I say she suspects he is having sex with Jackie, but she is still enough in love to disregard those feelings. How, then, is she going to find out? As her passions cool, the barrier of being in love crumbles, and she begins to trust her senses, the smell of sex on Michel (it’s not just his being horny which makes that smell, but the mixture of his and Jackie’s fluids on him), Jackie always walking around half naked (Sarah came over and saw Jackie completely naked once. Typical female reaction: jealousy -- not directed toward Michel, but at Jackie’s body, with was thin and perfect. How could she not think Michel was fucking someone who looked like that?), the time she came over and Jackie was in a house coat, smelling like she’d just had sex, and she said Michel was in the bathroom and Michel came out in a towel, obviously having not taken a shower yet, though he said he was getting ready to. They argued for hours over that, and her feelings for him waned, but he convinced her (how bad she wanted to be convinced!) she was reading more into the scene than was actually there, that he really was going to take a shower, and that she knew Jackie walked around the apartment half-dressed all the time anyway.
But after a while, being in love can only be so blinding. Truths trickle to the surface. The person you imagined you were in love with turns out to be nothing like the person they really are. When that happens, and it will happen, always happens, you have to decide if this new person who has bubbled to the surface is someone you want to continue being with. Most people do eventually find that person, someone you can love even after the first year of being in love (where the pleasure-producing chemicals secreted by the brain are replaced by pain-killing chemicals, an apt metaphor for any relationship, I think, and one cleverly created by nature). No longer blinded by brain-chemical-induced happiness, you start expecting the one you were in love with to actually make you happy. If they do not (and mine does not. She’s so unhappy, how can she be expected to make me happy?), then you start looking for faults, problems, any excuse to leave.
It didn’t take Sarah a full year to realize Michel was having sex with Jackie. Since she suspected, her barriers were already unsteady. Her brain kept the pain-killing chemicals poised for release, knowing (so to speak) she would need them, even if she was not completely aware of it herself.
Her pain-killing chemicals were finally released when she decided to stop by Michel’s apartment unannounced. She gently knocked on the door, but received no answer. Both Michel’s and Jackie’s cars were out front, so she knew they were home. She tried the door knob. She was surprised to find the door unlocked. Since she was Michel’s girlfriend, she decided she was tacitly invited in. She heard groans and grunts coming from Jackie’s bedroom. Michel was not in the living room. She called out, “Michel!” and the moans and groans stopped. Rustling came from Jackie’s bedroom, then Jackie came out.
“What the hell are you doing in here? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“I did. Where’s Michel.”
“He’s not here.”
“Bullshit. I know Michel. He’s too lazy to walk anywhere. You in there fucking him?”
“Fuck you. You’re not going to come barging into my house without being invited in and accusing me...”
“I’m not accusing you. I could care less what you do, bitch. I only care if Michel’s fucking your skanky ass...”
Jackie smacked Sarah across the face. “You’re not going to come into my apartment...”
“He’s in your bedroom, ain’t he?” Sarah shoved Jackie out of the way, sending her to the floor, her housecoat open, exposing her beautiful body, now at ungainly angles. Jackie sprung at Sarah, grabbing her by the hair, and jerked her away from her door before she could go in.
“Damn it, bitch!” Jackie said, dragging Sarah by the hair toward the door. “Now get the fuck out!” She opened the door, ignoring Sarah’s scratching and fists, and pushed Sarah out.
Sarah turned around in time to see Michel standing in the hall, naked. “Michel! Don’t you ever come over again. We’re through. I can’t believe you were fucking this bitch!”
“Sarah, please, let’s talk about this.”
“Not here,” Jackie said, slamming the door on Sarah’s face.
Michel grabbed his shorts and pulled them on and ran out to catch Sarah. She was halfway across the street by the time he was in the door. “Sarah! We need to talk. I’m sorry!”
Sarah turned on the center line. “Fuck you! Fuck you, you goddamn asshole! I can’t believe you’ve been fucking that bitch. There’s no telling what you gave me, what you caught from that slut. I’m sending you the bill for the AIDS test, and then I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“Like fuck you are. You would have happily kept fucking her if I hadn’t caught you. I should have known better. I knew what you were like, what you thought of women. I’m some kind of feminist, huh? God...!” She turned to finish walking for her car, stepping out of the way of an oncoming pickup.
Michel stared at her, shaking his head. The door opened behind him. “You going to come in here and finish fucking me?” Jackie asked.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood any more,” Michel said.
“You knew this was going to happen. You expected you could keep fucking us both without her finding out? If you had cared about her, you wouldn’t have asked to start fucking me when you knew you were going to start seeing her.”
“Nothing’s certain.”
“Fucking lame excuse. I’m still horny. I’ll get you back in the mood, just get back in here.”
Michel turned, still shaking his head, and followed Jackie into their house. Who was he going to get to read his novel now?
When Donna and I first got together, she told me she was a nymphomaniac. She said she wanted to fuck three or four times a day, and I told her I’d see what I could do about that. In fact, when we first got together, we did just that. At least twice a day for a while, though eventually slowing to once a day. That was fine. Passions cool. But then once a day became once a week, and once a week became twice a month. Now its been three weeks, and I’m about ready to go out and find someone just to fuck them. I never thought I’d end up being that kind of person, someone who will do anything to get some pussy, but I have. I would be happy to only sleep with one woman the rest of my life, but Donna is making it hard.
The other day, I told her I was horny, so she came into the bedroom and plopped down on the bed, rolled her eyes, and laid there, looking at the wall above her. I asked her, “What?” and she said, “I’m not horny, Vance,” so I told her to forget it. I don’t want to fuck someone who is unwilling.
Donna’s passion for me has all but evaporated. I can tell, even if she won’t admit it. She says she loves me, but I don’t believe it. Actions verses words.
I just got finished eating. While I was writing this, Donna came in and asked me to go to Qdoba. We talked, or I tried to talk, before I left. She seemed unhappy. I understand. So am I. She said she talked to our friend Maddy, someone she hasn’t talked to much lately because Donna has been mad at her for her tendency to forget when she promises to be places. I asked Donna what was wrong, but she refused to talk to me about it. She said she talked to Maddy about it. She jumps on my case for writing stories about our problems instead of talking to her about them, then talks to Maddy about them and won’t talk to me. I think her refusal to have sex with me is a consequence of everything. She won’t talk to me or touch me or show me she loves me, so what else could the end result be? Donna has always said she separates sex from love, but I don’t believe her any more. I can’t help but think if we decided not to be a couple any more and that she could still stay here as my roommate that our sex life would return to normal, since then she really could separate the two like she says she does. Not that I plan to break up with her to find out. Still, I can’t help but think I’m right.
But we have left Sarah, Michel, and Jackie alone for too long. We can’t forget about them, even if my life is falling apart around me. Their lives, as mine, must go on. I cannot leave them, and you, in continual suspense.
As I’m sure you know, Michel cannot go on having sex with Jackie without Sarah finding out. She already suspects he does -- the question is, how is she going to find out? I say she suspects he is having sex with Jackie, but she is still enough in love to disregard those feelings. How, then, is she going to find out? As her passions cool, the barrier of being in love crumbles, and she begins to trust her senses, the smell of sex on Michel (it’s not just his being horny which makes that smell, but the mixture of his and Jackie’s fluids on him), Jackie always walking around half naked (Sarah came over and saw Jackie completely naked once. Typical female reaction: jealousy -- not directed toward Michel, but at Jackie’s body, with was thin and perfect. How could she not think Michel was fucking someone who looked like that?), the time she came over and Jackie was in a house coat, smelling like she’d just had sex, and she said Michel was in the bathroom and Michel came out in a towel, obviously having not taken a shower yet, though he said he was getting ready to. They argued for hours over that, and her feelings for him waned, but he convinced her (how bad she wanted to be convinced!) she was reading more into the scene than was actually there, that he really was going to take a shower, and that she knew Jackie walked around the apartment half-dressed all the time anyway.
But after a while, being in love can only be so blinding. Truths trickle to the surface. The person you imagined you were in love with turns out to be nothing like the person they really are. When that happens, and it will happen, always happens, you have to decide if this new person who has bubbled to the surface is someone you want to continue being with. Most people do eventually find that person, someone you can love even after the first year of being in love (where the pleasure-producing chemicals secreted by the brain are replaced by pain-killing chemicals, an apt metaphor for any relationship, I think, and one cleverly created by nature). No longer blinded by brain-chemical-induced happiness, you start expecting the one you were in love with to actually make you happy. If they do not (and mine does not. She’s so unhappy, how can she be expected to make me happy?), then you start looking for faults, problems, any excuse to leave.
It didn’t take Sarah a full year to realize Michel was having sex with Jackie. Since she suspected, her barriers were already unsteady. Her brain kept the pain-killing chemicals poised for release, knowing (so to speak) she would need them, even if she was not completely aware of it herself.
Her pain-killing chemicals were finally released when she decided to stop by Michel’s apartment unannounced. She gently knocked on the door, but received no answer. Both Michel’s and Jackie’s cars were out front, so she knew they were home. She tried the door knob. She was surprised to find the door unlocked. Since she was Michel’s girlfriend, she decided she was tacitly invited in. She heard groans and grunts coming from Jackie’s bedroom. Michel was not in the living room. She called out, “Michel!” and the moans and groans stopped. Rustling came from Jackie’s bedroom, then Jackie came out.
“What the hell are you doing in here? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“I did. Where’s Michel.”
“He’s not here.”
“Bullshit. I know Michel. He’s too lazy to walk anywhere. You in there fucking him?”
“Fuck you. You’re not going to come barging into my house without being invited in and accusing me...”
“I’m not accusing you. I could care less what you do, bitch. I only care if Michel’s fucking your skanky ass...”
Jackie smacked Sarah across the face. “You’re not going to come into my apartment...”
“He’s in your bedroom, ain’t he?” Sarah shoved Jackie out of the way, sending her to the floor, her housecoat open, exposing her beautiful body, now at ungainly angles. Jackie sprung at Sarah, grabbing her by the hair, and jerked her away from her door before she could go in.
“Damn it, bitch!” Jackie said, dragging Sarah by the hair toward the door. “Now get the fuck out!” She opened the door, ignoring Sarah’s scratching and fists, and pushed Sarah out.
Sarah turned around in time to see Michel standing in the hall, naked. “Michel! Don’t you ever come over again. We’re through. I can’t believe you were fucking this bitch!”
“Sarah, please, let’s talk about this.”
“Not here,” Jackie said, slamming the door on Sarah’s face.
Michel grabbed his shorts and pulled them on and ran out to catch Sarah. She was halfway across the street by the time he was in the door. “Sarah! We need to talk. I’m sorry!”
Sarah turned on the center line. “Fuck you! Fuck you, you goddamn asshole! I can’t believe you’ve been fucking that bitch. There’s no telling what you gave me, what you caught from that slut. I’m sending you the bill for the AIDS test, and then I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“Like fuck you are. You would have happily kept fucking her if I hadn’t caught you. I should have known better. I knew what you were like, what you thought of women. I’m some kind of feminist, huh? God...!” She turned to finish walking for her car, stepping out of the way of an oncoming pickup.
Michel stared at her, shaking his head. The door opened behind him. “You going to come in here and finish fucking me?” Jackie asked.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood any more,” Michel said.
“You knew this was going to happen. You expected you could keep fucking us both without her finding out? If you had cared about her, you wouldn’t have asked to start fucking me when you knew you were going to start seeing her.”
“Nothing’s certain.”
“Fucking lame excuse. I’m still horny. I’ll get you back in the mood, just get back in here.”
Michel turned, still shaking his head, and followed Jackie into their house. Who was he going to get to read his novel now?
Monday, November 14, 2011
Chapter 21
After receiving a $564 phone bill, I told my girlfriend I wasn’t going to pay it. She said if I didn’t, she was going to leave. I started helping.
I suggested places she could go to, we discussed what was hers, what was mine. I got to keep two of the cats. She kept the two she came with. And after two hours of such discussions, she said maybe we just needed some time away from each other. Maybe. I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know how I could spend any more time away from her than I do now. She stays up when I sleep, I work and go to school full time, and in the three hours between when I get off work and go to bed, she stays on the computer, talking in chat rooms. She's in class when I'm not, and often she's hanging out with Maddy. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think we could spend more time apart. If she left, I wouldn’t miss her, I’d miss the car.
I find this very disturbing. Somehow, our relationship has in many ways become like that of Michel and Jackie’s, only with far less sex. Also, neither of us are trying to sleep with other people. I feel like I’m just someone to fuck once a week (if I’m lucky) and support her. Why should I want to live like that? I want to go somewhere else for my Ph.D., but if I can’t save enough money to leave, I’m going to be stuck here in Richardson.
I don’t know how many other Americans feel like they are stuck where they are, but I’m sure it’s a common phenomenon. Why else would Americans move so often, more than any other people? I at least have the excuse of school. Not that being on the move is necessarily a problem. Who wants to be stagnant? Far too many, I’m afraid. But a nation needs those people too, people who can stay in one place and provide stability, a constant work force. That’s why socialist nations always restricted the movements of their people. With movement comes instability, and socialism is supposed to make society work like a machine. But we have since learned that society, like people and the universe, is not a machine. It is an organic being that cannot be contained like a machine. It must be given space to grow and expand. That, perhaps, is why so many Americans feel stuck. We often feel like we don’t have the room to grown and expand. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say all the characters in this novel feel this way. They feel like they are stuck (though none in truth are -- they only have to give themselves time to gain the ability to move. They only have to wait for the great mover, money).
Probably the one who comes closest to being stuck is Pat. She grew up in the same town she was living in when Michel moved next door to her. She never had any prospects of going anywhere, and did not have the money. She could not find happiness by leaving the community, so she tried to find happiness within it, with as many people as possible. She thought she could sleep her way to happiness. So strong was this belief, she even transferred it to her daughter. If happiness could be found through sex, what was wrong with her daughter having sex? Didn’t she want her daughter to be happy? With no other prospects open to her, she was left with this one perverse thought.
Michel, Sarah, and Jackie were far less desperate. They all felt stuck now, but they also knew they would be able to move on in the future, sometime after graduation. They saw their educations as tickets out of the city, out of the state, away from their families. The future gave them hope, the hope of movement, of life, even though Michel came to be trapped in Pat’s web of despair. She made it psychologically difficult for him to move, though he still had the material means to do so. Sarah and Jackie held onto their freedom, though, and never let it go.
And what of Michel’s characters, Bernard and Marcus? What was their relationship to movement and freedom? How did they join the chaotic dance? Marcus was the strange attractor around which Bernard moved. Stationary, Marcus was happy, playing on his computer, staying with Bernard, never going anywhere or wanting to do anything. But Bernard was not a stationary man, despite the stationary nature of his chosen profession. When he wasn’t writing, Bernard was moving, going places, visiting friends, traveling. He gave up asking Marcus to join him on his trips, and learned to enjoy himself without Marcus. The only time Bernard was unfaithful to Marcus was on his trips. He did not want to hurt Marcus, but the temptation when he traveled was often too great, and he rarely chose to resist it. Marcus never traveled, and he was afraid word would get back to Bernard if he was unfaithful to him in town, so he became unfaithful to Bernard in the chat rooms. No one there knew he had a boyfriend. His spirit was less faithful to Bernard than Bernard was to Marcus in reality. Some would argue that what Bernard did was worse, but at least Bernard always came back. Marcus, on the other hand, was always leaving.
All of this about Bernard and Marcus will eventually come out in Michel’s story, but I don’t want to keep including chapter after chapter of Michel’s novel, interspersed throughout this one. Some simply must be summarized, though I promise not to leave you hanging with their story. I’ll try to include at least occasional excerpts as Michel finishes them.
I suggested places she could go to, we discussed what was hers, what was mine. I got to keep two of the cats. She kept the two she came with. And after two hours of such discussions, she said maybe we just needed some time away from each other. Maybe. I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know how I could spend any more time away from her than I do now. She stays up when I sleep, I work and go to school full time, and in the three hours between when I get off work and go to bed, she stays on the computer, talking in chat rooms. She's in class when I'm not, and often she's hanging out with Maddy. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think we could spend more time apart. If she left, I wouldn’t miss her, I’d miss the car.
I find this very disturbing. Somehow, our relationship has in many ways become like that of Michel and Jackie’s, only with far less sex. Also, neither of us are trying to sleep with other people. I feel like I’m just someone to fuck once a week (if I’m lucky) and support her. Why should I want to live like that? I want to go somewhere else for my Ph.D., but if I can’t save enough money to leave, I’m going to be stuck here in Richardson.
I don’t know how many other Americans feel like they are stuck where they are, but I’m sure it’s a common phenomenon. Why else would Americans move so often, more than any other people? I at least have the excuse of school. Not that being on the move is necessarily a problem. Who wants to be stagnant? Far too many, I’m afraid. But a nation needs those people too, people who can stay in one place and provide stability, a constant work force. That’s why socialist nations always restricted the movements of their people. With movement comes instability, and socialism is supposed to make society work like a machine. But we have since learned that society, like people and the universe, is not a machine. It is an organic being that cannot be contained like a machine. It must be given space to grow and expand. That, perhaps, is why so many Americans feel stuck. We often feel like we don’t have the room to grown and expand. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say all the characters in this novel feel this way. They feel like they are stuck (though none in truth are -- they only have to give themselves time to gain the ability to move. They only have to wait for the great mover, money).
Probably the one who comes closest to being stuck is Pat. She grew up in the same town she was living in when Michel moved next door to her. She never had any prospects of going anywhere, and did not have the money. She could not find happiness by leaving the community, so she tried to find happiness within it, with as many people as possible. She thought she could sleep her way to happiness. So strong was this belief, she even transferred it to her daughter. If happiness could be found through sex, what was wrong with her daughter having sex? Didn’t she want her daughter to be happy? With no other prospects open to her, she was left with this one perverse thought.
Michel, Sarah, and Jackie were far less desperate. They all felt stuck now, but they also knew they would be able to move on in the future, sometime after graduation. They saw their educations as tickets out of the city, out of the state, away from their families. The future gave them hope, the hope of movement, of life, even though Michel came to be trapped in Pat’s web of despair. She made it psychologically difficult for him to move, though he still had the material means to do so. Sarah and Jackie held onto their freedom, though, and never let it go.
And what of Michel’s characters, Bernard and Marcus? What was their relationship to movement and freedom? How did they join the chaotic dance? Marcus was the strange attractor around which Bernard moved. Stationary, Marcus was happy, playing on his computer, staying with Bernard, never going anywhere or wanting to do anything. But Bernard was not a stationary man, despite the stationary nature of his chosen profession. When he wasn’t writing, Bernard was moving, going places, visiting friends, traveling. He gave up asking Marcus to join him on his trips, and learned to enjoy himself without Marcus. The only time Bernard was unfaithful to Marcus was on his trips. He did not want to hurt Marcus, but the temptation when he traveled was often too great, and he rarely chose to resist it. Marcus never traveled, and he was afraid word would get back to Bernard if he was unfaithful to him in town, so he became unfaithful to Bernard in the chat rooms. No one there knew he had a boyfriend. His spirit was less faithful to Bernard than Bernard was to Marcus in reality. Some would argue that what Bernard did was worse, but at least Bernard always came back. Marcus, on the other hand, was always leaving.
All of this about Bernard and Marcus will eventually come out in Michel’s story, but I don’t want to keep including chapter after chapter of Michel’s novel, interspersed throughout this one. Some simply must be summarized, though I promise not to leave you hanging with their story. I’ll try to include at least occasional excerpts as Michel finishes them.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Chapter 20
I’m sitting in front of my computer, an hour before work, and I don’t know what I’m going to write. That’s a nice way to start off a chapter. Maybe you’re sitting there thinking, “If you don’t know what you’re going to write, then what makes you think I will want to read it?” I can understand that, but please have patience - I’m sure I’ll come up with something...
I’m trying to peer into the lives of the three main characters, to see what’s happening to them, only my lens is fuzzy. I can see Michel returning home, unlocking the front door. He’s sure Jackie is there. Her car is parked out front. He opens the door to the sounds of two people grunting, breathing hard. When did Jackie get a boyfriend? Her door is closed, so they must be attempting a triathalon or something. He slams the door. The sound echoes through the apartment. He walks past the bedroom to get something to drink. He’s not really thirsty. Remove glass from cupboard. Clunk on table. Slam cupboard shut. Pour water. Put water back in refrigerator. Drink. Slam glass in sink. Walk heavily past bedroom door to living room. Turn on television. Watch the latest political nonsense with the sound up too high. After a few minutes, Jackie walks into the living room, wearing only a long shirt. “You want to turn that down?”
“Oh, is it bothering you?” Michel asks.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make so much noise.”
A man walks out of the bedroom. He has long hair to his waist, his arms covered in tattoos. His eyebrow is pierced, as is his lip and ears. With his shirt on, Michel could not see he had his nipple pierced as well. “Who’s this,” he asks, nodding at Michel.
“He’s my roommate,” Jackie says.
“You didn’t tell me you had a roommate. Where’s he sleep?”
“In here. On the hide-a-bed. I think his girlfriend would object if he slept with me.”
“I could see that. Has it stopped him?”
“No,” Jackie says. “You have a problem with that?”
“When was the last time he fucked you, and I’ll tell you.”
“This morning.”
“This morning! I fuckin’ ate you out!”
“I took a shower, Doug. Chill out,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.
“Do you kids want to be left alone to discuss this?” Michel asked.
“Fuck no,” Doug said. “If she wants to keep fucking you, she can keep fucking you...”
“Doug, when was the last time you fucked someone?”
“That don’t matter...”
“Yes it does, you goddamn hypocrite. What makes you think you can fuck one woman one night, then a different woman another night and that’s all right, but it’s not all right if I do the same thing? Hell, you knew I wasn’t a virgin...”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were a...” Doug was smart enough to stop himself right there.
Jackie raised her eyebrows. “That I was a what?”
“Fuck. Never mind.”
“You’re right, never mind. Fuck you. You can get the fuck out of my apartment. You’re not going to treat me as less than human because I’m acting the same way as you. You can fuck off.”
“Jackie, listen...”
“You heard her,” Michel said. “Now be a good little boy and fuck off.”
Doug spun toward him, his mouth turning cruel, his eyes hot. Jackie stepped in front of him. “Doug, you heard me. Get out.”
Doug turned and walked into Jackie’s bedroom. He returned with his shoes on, everything put back in place, and left without saying anything to either one. As the door shut behind him, Jackie turned to Michel: “I hope you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Jackie said. “Stomping through the house, slamming things around, watching the T.V. full blast.”
“You’re the one told him we were still fucking. Nice way to keep a secret.”
“Next time you hear me fucking someone, do me a favor and take a walk. If I’m fucking him, he’s on his way home. It won’t be fifteen, twenty minutes at most.”
“If that’s all they can do, what you need them for anyway?”
“They’re usually not thinking of other things while they’re fucking me, so it doesn’t take them as long, Michel.”
“So, you still horny?” Michel asked.
“What? Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but I just got me some dick.”
“And?”
“And, if you want to fuck so bad, get in here...” Jackie turned toward her bedroom. Michel stood to follow. “He may have finished, but I didn't. Oh, by the way,” Jackie said. “Sarah called. She wants you to call her back. I’m sure it can wait until we’re done, though.”
Pulling his shirt over his head, Michel said, “Yeah, I’m sure it can.”
I’m trying to peer into the lives of the three main characters, to see what’s happening to them, only my lens is fuzzy. I can see Michel returning home, unlocking the front door. He’s sure Jackie is there. Her car is parked out front. He opens the door to the sounds of two people grunting, breathing hard. When did Jackie get a boyfriend? Her door is closed, so they must be attempting a triathalon or something. He slams the door. The sound echoes through the apartment. He walks past the bedroom to get something to drink. He’s not really thirsty. Remove glass from cupboard. Clunk on table. Slam cupboard shut. Pour water. Put water back in refrigerator. Drink. Slam glass in sink. Walk heavily past bedroom door to living room. Turn on television. Watch the latest political nonsense with the sound up too high. After a few minutes, Jackie walks into the living room, wearing only a long shirt. “You want to turn that down?”
“Oh, is it bothering you?” Michel asks.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make so much noise.”
A man walks out of the bedroom. He has long hair to his waist, his arms covered in tattoos. His eyebrow is pierced, as is his lip and ears. With his shirt on, Michel could not see he had his nipple pierced as well. “Who’s this,” he asks, nodding at Michel.
“He’s my roommate,” Jackie says.
“You didn’t tell me you had a roommate. Where’s he sleep?”
“In here. On the hide-a-bed. I think his girlfriend would object if he slept with me.”
“I could see that. Has it stopped him?”
“No,” Jackie says. “You have a problem with that?”
“When was the last time he fucked you, and I’ll tell you.”
“This morning.”
“This morning! I fuckin’ ate you out!”
“I took a shower, Doug. Chill out,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.
“Do you kids want to be left alone to discuss this?” Michel asked.
“Fuck no,” Doug said. “If she wants to keep fucking you, she can keep fucking you...”
“Doug, when was the last time you fucked someone?”
“That don’t matter...”
“Yes it does, you goddamn hypocrite. What makes you think you can fuck one woman one night, then a different woman another night and that’s all right, but it’s not all right if I do the same thing? Hell, you knew I wasn’t a virgin...”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were a...” Doug was smart enough to stop himself right there.
Jackie raised her eyebrows. “That I was a what?”
“Fuck. Never mind.”
“You’re right, never mind. Fuck you. You can get the fuck out of my apartment. You’re not going to treat me as less than human because I’m acting the same way as you. You can fuck off.”
“Jackie, listen...”
“You heard her,” Michel said. “Now be a good little boy and fuck off.”
Doug spun toward him, his mouth turning cruel, his eyes hot. Jackie stepped in front of him. “Doug, you heard me. Get out.”
Doug turned and walked into Jackie’s bedroom. He returned with his shoes on, everything put back in place, and left without saying anything to either one. As the door shut behind him, Jackie turned to Michel: “I hope you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Jackie said. “Stomping through the house, slamming things around, watching the T.V. full blast.”
“You’re the one told him we were still fucking. Nice way to keep a secret.”
“Next time you hear me fucking someone, do me a favor and take a walk. If I’m fucking him, he’s on his way home. It won’t be fifteen, twenty minutes at most.”
“If that’s all they can do, what you need them for anyway?”
“They’re usually not thinking of other things while they’re fucking me, so it doesn’t take them as long, Michel.”
“So, you still horny?” Michel asked.
“What? Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but I just got me some dick.”
“And?”
“And, if you want to fuck so bad, get in here...” Jackie turned toward her bedroom. Michel stood to follow. “He may have finished, but I didn't. Oh, by the way,” Jackie said. “Sarah called. She wants you to call her back. I’m sure it can wait until we’re done, though.”
Pulling his shirt over his head, Michel said, “Yeah, I’m sure it can.”
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Chapter 19
Yesterday was an interesting day.
Monday, one of the graduate students was found dead in his apartment. It was later determined he committed suicide. Everyone in the department liked him, he had a fiancée who everyone agreed was wonderful, and he was beautifully handsome (everyone said he looked like Elvis) and a great writer and teacher, who all his students loved.
We don’t know why he killed himself.
Yesterday, Thursday, there was a memorial service for him at the chapel on campus. His parents were there. After hearing people say lots of good things about him, we went and planted a tree in his memory, then went over to the head of the Arts and Humanities Department’s house for a party. His parents were there. It would have been hard to tell why.
I don’t see anybody in this novel committing suicide, nor do I think they know anyone who would commit suicide, so I don’t know why I brought it up. Perhaps it was because it was such a strange day, moving from sorrow to hedonism within two hours. At the party, I think I heard the dead man’s name mentioned twice, early on, then nothing afterward. By the end of the party, everyone was drunk, except my friend Steve, who doesn’t drink. At the end, he was sitting at a table, reading everyone’s tarot cards, which is funny, because I know he doesn’t believe in them (just as I don’t believe them), though everyone is always talking about how good and accurate he is.
Steve read my tarot cards too. Every time someone reads my tarot cards, I know a few things are going to happen. One, I will get the death card. Two, the person reading my cards will look surprised and say something to the effect that this is the strangest thing he has ever seen. Three, in addition to the death card, I’ll have at least two other major arcana. This time, I got the devil card in conjunction with the death card, indicating my next year or two will be full of chaotic change. Nothing new there. My life has been in the grasp of chaotic change for years, since I started college.
He also said my life would be affected by someone else’s health problems. Currently, my grandmother is very sick. She was supposed to have surgery on her lung to remove part of it because of the presence of what appears to be a tumor. My grandmother is a hypochondriac, and I made the mistake of saying, when she first got the flu, that she had to get well, because so long as she was sick, they couldn’t do the surgery. Since my grandmother is also scared to death of having the surgery done, I don’t doubt she decided to stay sick. I would like to go see her, but I’m in Texas, and I have no money to go see her.
Steve also said that I had made the right career choice, but that my choice would be put into strong question. However, I should resist these pressures. Also, he said my career will be essentially stagnant over the next three years (let’s see, one more year for Master’s, at least four more years after that for PhD...).
I told Donna all this last night in bed, and she asked if he had said anything about us. I told her no. That, of course, was a lie, because Steve did mention something about a woman. He said I would be involved with a woman by the end of the year who I either already know or will meet this year, and who is in a position of authority over others. He did say this did not exclude Donna, because she could perhaps get a supervisory job, but I could tell, because of the way he said it, that he didn’t believe it was going to be Donna. So technically (and I know this is a big technically) I told Donna the truth. He didn’t say anything about us. When he did mention her name, he didn’t believe it. Of course, right now I couldn’t think of anyone else he could be talking about, since I wouldn’t want to date any of the women I know who are in a position of authority over others.
This reminds me of something interesting Donna said to me in bed last night. She has been on to me about marrying her for months -- almost since the first moment she moved in with me. But last night she said she didn’t want to get married again, that she would live with me and fuck me forever, but she didn’t think she was going to marry me. Personally, this doesn’t sound very good. This tells me that our relationship is breaking down -- though currently at a glacial pace. I think she has decided to leave me, but she knows we cannot afford to send her anywhere, and she cannot afford to move out, and other than that little Freshman girl, Maddy, she doesn’t know anybody she could move in with here, so she’s sticking around. She has been talking to this one guy from Birmingham on the phone quite a bit. She says he’s not very attractive (or so she’s heard -- I don’t think she’s actually ever seen him) but I still think she’s interested in him -- most particularly because he is bisexual, as is she. One of her fantasies is to be in bed with two men while the men have sex. She knows she won’t ever get that with me, but with this guy there is more than a distinct possibility. She spends hours on the phone with him, talking about lord knows what, and when our phone was turned off because the phone company was sending our phone bill to the wrong place (not that I minded that it was turned off, since that meant she could not stay on the Internet all the time, which meant she actually started spending time with me), she started making me take her to the phone booth to talk to him, leaving me sitting in the car for over an hour. I took a book last night, but I was too drunk to read more than two short stories. I think I dozed off a few times, then realized it was 3:30 in the morning, and sat up, buckled my seatbelt, and started the van. When she opened the door to ask what the hell I was doing, I told her I was going home, and that if she wanted to go, she’d better get in. In a surprise move on her part, she wasn’t angry (her most common emotion). She said she was trying to get off the phone, but he wouldn’t stop talking.
Again, I have no idea why I decided to put all this in the novel, since I can think of no way it relates to the book -- at least, in a direct way. Yesterday was just a full day, a day I guess I needed to talk about, get off my chest, out of my head. Some strange implications for me, that’s for sure - things that, as they change my life this year, will inevitably affect what I write in this novel. Maybe that’s why I included it. Maybe yesterday was the first day of a series that will cause my life to change. In that respect, I don’t see how it is any different from any other day, since one could say that about any day. Everything affects our lives, so we might as well appreciate everything that happens. But sometimes you know that certain events, certain realizations, certain things said are going to affect you in more profound ways than the activities of a more typical day. This, I think, is the prologue to a change in my life, and, therefore, a change in the book. I don’t know what it is going to be. We’ll just have to discover it together.
Monday, one of the graduate students was found dead in his apartment. It was later determined he committed suicide. Everyone in the department liked him, he had a fiancée who everyone agreed was wonderful, and he was beautifully handsome (everyone said he looked like Elvis) and a great writer and teacher, who all his students loved.
We don’t know why he killed himself.
Yesterday, Thursday, there was a memorial service for him at the chapel on campus. His parents were there. After hearing people say lots of good things about him, we went and planted a tree in his memory, then went over to the head of the Arts and Humanities Department’s house for a party. His parents were there. It would have been hard to tell why.
I don’t see anybody in this novel committing suicide, nor do I think they know anyone who would commit suicide, so I don’t know why I brought it up. Perhaps it was because it was such a strange day, moving from sorrow to hedonism within two hours. At the party, I think I heard the dead man’s name mentioned twice, early on, then nothing afterward. By the end of the party, everyone was drunk, except my friend Steve, who doesn’t drink. At the end, he was sitting at a table, reading everyone’s tarot cards, which is funny, because I know he doesn’t believe in them (just as I don’t believe them), though everyone is always talking about how good and accurate he is.
Steve read my tarot cards too. Every time someone reads my tarot cards, I know a few things are going to happen. One, I will get the death card. Two, the person reading my cards will look surprised and say something to the effect that this is the strangest thing he has ever seen. Three, in addition to the death card, I’ll have at least two other major arcana. This time, I got the devil card in conjunction with the death card, indicating my next year or two will be full of chaotic change. Nothing new there. My life has been in the grasp of chaotic change for years, since I started college.
He also said my life would be affected by someone else’s health problems. Currently, my grandmother is very sick. She was supposed to have surgery on her lung to remove part of it because of the presence of what appears to be a tumor. My grandmother is a hypochondriac, and I made the mistake of saying, when she first got the flu, that she had to get well, because so long as she was sick, they couldn’t do the surgery. Since my grandmother is also scared to death of having the surgery done, I don’t doubt she decided to stay sick. I would like to go see her, but I’m in Texas, and I have no money to go see her.
Steve also said that I had made the right career choice, but that my choice would be put into strong question. However, I should resist these pressures. Also, he said my career will be essentially stagnant over the next three years (let’s see, one more year for Master’s, at least four more years after that for PhD...).
I told Donna all this last night in bed, and she asked if he had said anything about us. I told her no. That, of course, was a lie, because Steve did mention something about a woman. He said I would be involved with a woman by the end of the year who I either already know or will meet this year, and who is in a position of authority over others. He did say this did not exclude Donna, because she could perhaps get a supervisory job, but I could tell, because of the way he said it, that he didn’t believe it was going to be Donna. So technically (and I know this is a big technically) I told Donna the truth. He didn’t say anything about us. When he did mention her name, he didn’t believe it. Of course, right now I couldn’t think of anyone else he could be talking about, since I wouldn’t want to date any of the women I know who are in a position of authority over others.
This reminds me of something interesting Donna said to me in bed last night. She has been on to me about marrying her for months -- almost since the first moment she moved in with me. But last night she said she didn’t want to get married again, that she would live with me and fuck me forever, but she didn’t think she was going to marry me. Personally, this doesn’t sound very good. This tells me that our relationship is breaking down -- though currently at a glacial pace. I think she has decided to leave me, but she knows we cannot afford to send her anywhere, and she cannot afford to move out, and other than that little Freshman girl, Maddy, she doesn’t know anybody she could move in with here, so she’s sticking around. She has been talking to this one guy from Birmingham on the phone quite a bit. She says he’s not very attractive (or so she’s heard -- I don’t think she’s actually ever seen him) but I still think she’s interested in him -- most particularly because he is bisexual, as is she. One of her fantasies is to be in bed with two men while the men have sex. She knows she won’t ever get that with me, but with this guy there is more than a distinct possibility. She spends hours on the phone with him, talking about lord knows what, and when our phone was turned off because the phone company was sending our phone bill to the wrong place (not that I minded that it was turned off, since that meant she could not stay on the Internet all the time, which meant she actually started spending time with me), she started making me take her to the phone booth to talk to him, leaving me sitting in the car for over an hour. I took a book last night, but I was too drunk to read more than two short stories. I think I dozed off a few times, then realized it was 3:30 in the morning, and sat up, buckled my seatbelt, and started the van. When she opened the door to ask what the hell I was doing, I told her I was going home, and that if she wanted to go, she’d better get in. In a surprise move on her part, she wasn’t angry (her most common emotion). She said she was trying to get off the phone, but he wouldn’t stop talking.
Again, I have no idea why I decided to put all this in the novel, since I can think of no way it relates to the book -- at least, in a direct way. Yesterday was just a full day, a day I guess I needed to talk about, get off my chest, out of my head. Some strange implications for me, that’s for sure - things that, as they change my life this year, will inevitably affect what I write in this novel. Maybe that’s why I included it. Maybe yesterday was the first day of a series that will cause my life to change. In that respect, I don’t see how it is any different from any other day, since one could say that about any day. Everything affects our lives, so we might as well appreciate everything that happens. But sometimes you know that certain events, certain realizations, certain things said are going to affect you in more profound ways than the activities of a more typical day. This, I think, is the prologue to a change in my life, and, therefore, a change in the book. I don’t know what it is going to be. We’ll just have to discover it together.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Chapter 18
The Novelist
Chapter 2
Bernard stared out the window, not typing. From the window, all he could see through the trees were rooftops. Squirrels ran from branch to branch, making a tightrope out of electrical lines when the trees were separated by the road. He wondered how they weren’t electrocuted. He supposed it was because they weren’t grounded or something, but what did he know about electricity? He thought if he was going to be a successful writer, he should learn about things like that. Maybe he would write about an electrician. Ha! What a joke. Him, writing about an electrician.
Bernard listened for sounds from the ground floor of the house. He heard nothing. There had been no front door slam, only one inside the house, so he knew Marcus was still in the house - probably doing what he accused him of doing. Damn computer. He would have liked them if they didn’t steal Marcus from him. He shook his head. He didn’t understand men. He thought it would be so much easier if he were straight. Women, he understood. All his friends were women. Men got on his nerves. Marcus especially.
Bernard shook his head again. He had to get these negative vibes out of his head. Nothing productive was going to come from them. Then, it occurred to him what he could write about that would prevent him from slamming on Marcus: his main character could be heterosexual. A woman. He understood women. That would keep the ghost of Marcus out of his story. If his main character was heterosexual, then she would have a boyfriend, and her boyfriend would necessarily have to be completely unlike Marcus, who was the gayest man Bernard had ever met. What would he have her do? He didn’t know. The heterosexual thing was a lot as it was. He would have to really stretch his imagination to create heterosexual main characters. He thought about drawing on the one time he had slept with a woman, but decided against it. Obviously heterosexuals didn’t feel that way about fucking each other or else they wouldn’t do it. He had found it disgusting, unnatural, and he swore he would never have sex with a woman again.
Bernard stood, focusing on his reflection in the window. He stared at himself staring at himself, absently playing with himself. He stepped away from the window and walked around the room. He looked in his closet. Maybe he would get redressed. Maybe a blouse and nice skirt. That would put him in the mood to write a good heterosexual female. Bernard rarely cross-dressed - he never cross-dressed in public, not even for Halloween. But when he was writing a female character, he always put on a skirt or a dress, something to put him in a more female space. Panties especially put him in that mood, so he went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. There lay a half dozen pair of panties, cotton and silk, different shades of pink, one with white daisies. He wore the daisies when he was writing young girls. That put him in a little girl mood, and made him think like one. He’d only worn those for a few short stories.
Bernard grabbed a pair of pale pink panties, silk, and slipped them on. He chose silk because his protagonist was going to be beautiful and sexy. People loved beautiful, sexy women. There’s a selling point. But she was a beautiful, sexy what? Maybe he would discover that as he wrote. He thought, as he went back to his closet and pulled out a miniskirt, he should start the story with her at a party. A glamorous party. Bernard grabbed a white silk blouse from the closet and put it on. He loved the feel of silk against his skin, tantalizing his sensitive nipples. He was definitely in a sexy mood. He just had to be careful to avoid becoming pornographic or overly sentimental. Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again and started writing.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Chapter 17
I’m torn today between writing about what is really important, or what only seems really important. Several weeks ago, I saw a show on (I think) the Learning Channel about the biological basis of pleasure, and the consequences of the pursuit for pleasure at all costs. Also, we are involved in wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya. In the short term, this is obviously a problem, both in the real world, and in this novel - because, after all, Michel is the right age to be drafted, and though I had not planned on this being a war novel, since I am following the events of 2011 in helping to construct this novel, it could very well become one.
But wars are temporary, sporadic. The problem of pleasure is something that will be with us always, something which we have to deal with every day. The show I watched talked about addicted gamblers and addicted athletes, both of whom overdo their gambling or exercising for the pleasure it brings - the gamblers through losing (surprise, it’s not winning that keep gamblers gambling, but losing!) and the athletes through pushing themselves until they feel pain, causing the body to produce morphine-like chemicals called endorphins that bring pleasure to the body. However, none of these characters are gamblers, nor do any of them exercise excessively. I don’t see Michel as the exercising type.
But each of these people are interested in maximizing their own pleasure, some more than others. Sarah finds her pleasure in writing -- secondarily through sex, if she has a competent lover. Michel is interested in both sex and writing in equal measure. Freud would say Michel’s writing was a manifestation of his sexual desire, and for Michel, I could see how Freud would be right. Since he cannot have sex quite as often as he would like -- despite having sex with two different women -- he has to release his sexual tension in other ways. He chose to do it through his writing. As a chronic dreamer, writing seemed the most obvious choice, since he could create his dreams on paper. Jackie’s search for pleasure is almost exclusively sexual, as is Pat’s and Jessie’s. But Jackie’s differs from Pat’s and Jessie’s, who are both sex addicts (much like Donna's friend Maddy, making this another strange episode of fact mirroring fiction), in that she, like Michel, has found an outlet for her sexual energies in her academic work. Her source of pleasure is in discovery.
To follow Jackie through her day is to follow peaks of pleasure chemicals flowing through her body. Jackie wakes most mornings horny, and so goes into the living room to wake Michel, pulling back the bed covers, telling him to wake up and go take a piss so he can fuck her. Michel never objects, just complies.
After cleaning herself up after sex, she makes breakfast. She loves cooking, loves the work, the smells, the slow taste of things as she tries what she’s making, making sure it tastes just right. She makes enough for both her and Michel, not because she particularly cares if he eats, but because she’s making something anyway, and it’s just as easy to make for two as for one.
A warm shower after breakfast brings pleasure to her skin, the warm water rolling over her, the gentle sting of water shooting in small streams at her, the joy of feeling clean.
One of the few things she dislikes is getting dressed. Were it up to her, she would go everywhere naked, out in public, to the store, to restaurants. She doesn’t because it’s illegal. She wonders why it is obscene to show her breasts, but not for men to show theirs. The only difference is in size and, occasionally, the amount of hair on the men’s chests. She wonders what is obscene about the female body -- she finds it beautiful, curvaceous. She understands why painters want to paint women. There is nothing more beautiful in nature. She finds it a shame there are people who find something so beautiful obscene.
After dressing, she goes to class. She loves learning, sits in rapt attention, leaning forward, as if proximity to the teacher could make her learn more. After class, she goes to the library, reads articles, learns more than the teacher teaches, learns the latest advances, cannot wait to see the professor in two days to tell him he was wrong.
After lunch, another time of joyful cooking, she returns to the biology department to do her research. She is trying to prove triple-stranded DNA is used biologically for gene regulation. At first, she was discouraged from doing this work by a professor who did not believe triple-stranded DNA actually existed in the cell, since it required such a low pH to be created in the test tube, but when she read an article that said antibodies were used to show the existence of triple-stranded DNA in cells, and another that showed triple-stranded DNA could be made in a pH of 7.0, close to the pH of the cell, through the use of high concentrations of magnesium, she decided to do the project anyway. The professor, who was being contrary to get a rise out of her as much as anything, was happy to let her do her project, warning her he would be her harshest critic. She told him that would only ensure her work would be as close to perfect as possible. Her research gave her the dual pleasures found in the search for knowledge and in the potential of proving someone wrong who was more educated and more experienced.
After spending most of her day in the lab, she went home and, on weekdays, did homework. On weekends, though, she goes to bars, enjoying an occasional beer, the loud music, the feel of men brushing against her, flirting with her, touching her. She loves picking up men, hoping they want to sleep with her that night, rarely disappointed, the smoke and haze and beer gaze making men try to pick up any woman -- let alone someone as pretty as Jackie. Some shy away from her with her tattoos and piercings, but others are even more attracted, men she would rather go out with anyway. The beer brings on a lightheadedness that is pleasant, fun. The thrill of the hunt adds to that -- the potential for sex only more so, even more than the sex itself sometimes. On those weekends, she ends the day with the pleasant feel of someone’s arms around her, holding her with a comfortable warmth that makes her feel secure. On weekdays, she hopes Michel doesn’t have a date with Sarah, so she can have sex with him before she goes to bed.
This is what Jackie’s days are like, excepting the occasional surprise or impulse, which also bring Jackie pleasure, since she loves the unexpected and embraces change. To Jackie, life is joy, pleasure, the most wonderful thing that could exist. She has a joy in existence Michel, or even Sarah, who also loves life, though she doesn’t celebrate it like Jackie does, cannot understand. Perhaps that is why she and Michel broke up, why they could not work together as a couple. Michel spent too much time complaining about life, while Jackie spent too much time (in his opinion) loving it.
But wars are temporary, sporadic. The problem of pleasure is something that will be with us always, something which we have to deal with every day. The show I watched talked about addicted gamblers and addicted athletes, both of whom overdo their gambling or exercising for the pleasure it brings - the gamblers through losing (surprise, it’s not winning that keep gamblers gambling, but losing!) and the athletes through pushing themselves until they feel pain, causing the body to produce morphine-like chemicals called endorphins that bring pleasure to the body. However, none of these characters are gamblers, nor do any of them exercise excessively. I don’t see Michel as the exercising type.
But each of these people are interested in maximizing their own pleasure, some more than others. Sarah finds her pleasure in writing -- secondarily through sex, if she has a competent lover. Michel is interested in both sex and writing in equal measure. Freud would say Michel’s writing was a manifestation of his sexual desire, and for Michel, I could see how Freud would be right. Since he cannot have sex quite as often as he would like -- despite having sex with two different women -- he has to release his sexual tension in other ways. He chose to do it through his writing. As a chronic dreamer, writing seemed the most obvious choice, since he could create his dreams on paper. Jackie’s search for pleasure is almost exclusively sexual, as is Pat’s and Jessie’s. But Jackie’s differs from Pat’s and Jessie’s, who are both sex addicts (much like Donna's friend Maddy, making this another strange episode of fact mirroring fiction), in that she, like Michel, has found an outlet for her sexual energies in her academic work. Her source of pleasure is in discovery.
To follow Jackie through her day is to follow peaks of pleasure chemicals flowing through her body. Jackie wakes most mornings horny, and so goes into the living room to wake Michel, pulling back the bed covers, telling him to wake up and go take a piss so he can fuck her. Michel never objects, just complies.
After cleaning herself up after sex, she makes breakfast. She loves cooking, loves the work, the smells, the slow taste of things as she tries what she’s making, making sure it tastes just right. She makes enough for both her and Michel, not because she particularly cares if he eats, but because she’s making something anyway, and it’s just as easy to make for two as for one.
A warm shower after breakfast brings pleasure to her skin, the warm water rolling over her, the gentle sting of water shooting in small streams at her, the joy of feeling clean.
One of the few things she dislikes is getting dressed. Were it up to her, she would go everywhere naked, out in public, to the store, to restaurants. She doesn’t because it’s illegal. She wonders why it is obscene to show her breasts, but not for men to show theirs. The only difference is in size and, occasionally, the amount of hair on the men’s chests. She wonders what is obscene about the female body -- she finds it beautiful, curvaceous. She understands why painters want to paint women. There is nothing more beautiful in nature. She finds it a shame there are people who find something so beautiful obscene.
After dressing, she goes to class. She loves learning, sits in rapt attention, leaning forward, as if proximity to the teacher could make her learn more. After class, she goes to the library, reads articles, learns more than the teacher teaches, learns the latest advances, cannot wait to see the professor in two days to tell him he was wrong.
After lunch, another time of joyful cooking, she returns to the biology department to do her research. She is trying to prove triple-stranded DNA is used biologically for gene regulation. At first, she was discouraged from doing this work by a professor who did not believe triple-stranded DNA actually existed in the cell, since it required such a low pH to be created in the test tube, but when she read an article that said antibodies were used to show the existence of triple-stranded DNA in cells, and another that showed triple-stranded DNA could be made in a pH of 7.0, close to the pH of the cell, through the use of high concentrations of magnesium, she decided to do the project anyway. The professor, who was being contrary to get a rise out of her as much as anything, was happy to let her do her project, warning her he would be her harshest critic. She told him that would only ensure her work would be as close to perfect as possible. Her research gave her the dual pleasures found in the search for knowledge and in the potential of proving someone wrong who was more educated and more experienced.
After spending most of her day in the lab, she went home and, on weekdays, did homework. On weekends, though, she goes to bars, enjoying an occasional beer, the loud music, the feel of men brushing against her, flirting with her, touching her. She loves picking up men, hoping they want to sleep with her that night, rarely disappointed, the smoke and haze and beer gaze making men try to pick up any woman -- let alone someone as pretty as Jackie. Some shy away from her with her tattoos and piercings, but others are even more attracted, men she would rather go out with anyway. The beer brings on a lightheadedness that is pleasant, fun. The thrill of the hunt adds to that -- the potential for sex only more so, even more than the sex itself sometimes. On those weekends, she ends the day with the pleasant feel of someone’s arms around her, holding her with a comfortable warmth that makes her feel secure. On weekdays, she hopes Michel doesn’t have a date with Sarah, so she can have sex with him before she goes to bed.
This is what Jackie’s days are like, excepting the occasional surprise or impulse, which also bring Jackie pleasure, since she loves the unexpected and embraces change. To Jackie, life is joy, pleasure, the most wonderful thing that could exist. She has a joy in existence Michel, or even Sarah, who also loves life, though she doesn’t celebrate it like Jackie does, cannot understand. Perhaps that is why she and Michel broke up, why they could not work together as a couple. Michel spent too much time complaining about life, while Jackie spent too much time (in his opinion) loving it.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Chapter 16
Today, it is raining. No, that is an understatement. I’ll rectify it by saying I nearly drowned today when I went to K-Mart to get some oil for my worthless, oil-leaking car. The truth (about the rain) is somewhere in between.
I am sure some critic (assuming this novel is worthy of the time of critics) in the future will look at meteorological data to learn if it really was raining on October 13, 2011 in Richardson, TX at 2:00 P.M. -- as if that would give him some sort of insight into the novel. It won’t. It is a simple statement of fact. It is raining, I came home soaked, and Donna saw me and laughed. I pretended to pout. Now that’s something that might be more interesting for critics to think about. Either way, I think I’ll write about rain today.
It was raining and lighting flashed every few seconds, so Michel had his computer off and unplugged (I am only writing now because there is no lightning). He had been on the phone with Sarah, but the lightning scared her, so she hung up. She was afraid the lightning would hit a phone line and kill one of them. She said she had heard of it happening to someone. Michel had not, but decided not to argue.
He sat, looking out the window, watching the rain cut the gray sky into lines, watching the world burst yellow with every lightning flash. Thunder crackled, boomed, rolled. Jackie came up behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching the rain.”
“I love it when there’s lightning, cutting through the air, fusing oxygen into ozone. It smells so good, so sweet.”
“You’re weird.”
“Maybe, but I’m also horny. Wanna fuck?”
“Why? Ran out of things to do?”
“Don’t piss me off, or you won’t be getting any pussy.”
“I get all the pussy I want off Sarah.”
“Apparently not. You’re still fucking me.”
“Your rule, remember?”
“Yep. My rule. So, you gonna come in here and fuck me, or what? What else you have to do?”
“That’s always an incentive. ‘I’m bored. Wanna fuck?’”
“Works for me. I’m bored. Wanna fuck?”
“Gee, since you put it so nicely...”
“Just get your clothes off and get in here.”
Michel stood. Jackie turned and walked into her bedroom. Michel followed. She thought she was in a power position because he had a girlfriend and was still fucking her. But she was the one always asking him to have sex with her, so who really had the power? Michel was not completely aware of the new position he held between them, but he was beginning to. That’s why he smiled. That’s why he followed her into the bedroom every time she asked.
I am sure some critic (assuming this novel is worthy of the time of critics) in the future will look at meteorological data to learn if it really was raining on October 13, 2011 in Richardson, TX at 2:00 P.M. -- as if that would give him some sort of insight into the novel. It won’t. It is a simple statement of fact. It is raining, I came home soaked, and Donna saw me and laughed. I pretended to pout. Now that’s something that might be more interesting for critics to think about. Either way, I think I’ll write about rain today.
It was raining and lighting flashed every few seconds, so Michel had his computer off and unplugged (I am only writing now because there is no lightning). He had been on the phone with Sarah, but the lightning scared her, so she hung up. She was afraid the lightning would hit a phone line and kill one of them. She said she had heard of it happening to someone. Michel had not, but decided not to argue.
He sat, looking out the window, watching the rain cut the gray sky into lines, watching the world burst yellow with every lightning flash. Thunder crackled, boomed, rolled. Jackie came up behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching the rain.”
“I love it when there’s lightning, cutting through the air, fusing oxygen into ozone. It smells so good, so sweet.”
“You’re weird.”
“Maybe, but I’m also horny. Wanna fuck?”
“Why? Ran out of things to do?”
“Don’t piss me off, or you won’t be getting any pussy.”
“I get all the pussy I want off Sarah.”
“Apparently not. You’re still fucking me.”
“Your rule, remember?”
“Yep. My rule. So, you gonna come in here and fuck me, or what? What else you have to do?”
“That’s always an incentive. ‘I’m bored. Wanna fuck?’”
“Works for me. I’m bored. Wanna fuck?”
“Gee, since you put it so nicely...”
“Just get your clothes off and get in here.”
Michel stood. Jackie turned and walked into her bedroom. Michel followed. She thought she was in a power position because he had a girlfriend and was still fucking her. But she was the one always asking him to have sex with her, so who really had the power? Michel was not completely aware of the new position he held between them, but he was beginning to. That’s why he smiled. That’s why he followed her into the bedroom every time she asked.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Chapter 15
Michel watched Sarah over the table. She was looking at his first chapter. She looked up.
“Well?”
“Well, they’re colorful characters. Sort of stereotypically gay, though.”
“First chapter. Plenty of room for character development.”
“Not a very long first chapter.”
“Faulkner has short chapters in As I Lay Dying.”
“Well, you’re no... anyway, let’s deal with what we have here . . . All things considered, I kind of like it.”
“Really?” It was the first positive thing Sarah had said about his fiction.
“Yeah. So far, no women -- though one was mentioned -- so I have nothing to complain about. Interesting choice of characters, though. Why gay?”
“Trying to go for as eclectic as possible.”
“You’ll end up alienating a lot of readers that way -- though you will also pick up another distinct group.”
“Fine with me. Most of the people who read are educated and have money. That’s a perfect description of gay men.”
“Well, it’s a definite market. Still, I think you need to get away from stereotypes.”
“I will. Admittedly, these two are sort of like Jack on “Will and Grace,” only stranger, as you’ll soon see -- especially Bernard. But I’ll try to have some other characters who are more “normal” - more like Will in “Will and Grace.” That’s what I had in mind, anyway -- to balance things out and set up a contrast to Bernard and Marcus.”
“Okay. Good luck. I hope you do that. It should be interesting to see how your book comes along.”
Michel smiled as he took his chapter from Sarah. “Thanks. I appreciate the help and feedback.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I hope that’s not all you’re here for.”
“Oh, do you have something in mind?”
“Sure. You want to go rent a movie tonight?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
Michel feigned surprise. “Or did you have something else in mind?”
Sarah smiled at him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Just thought you should know. So, are you going to fuck me or what?”
Michel looked at his watch. “I think I could fit it into my busy schedule.”
Sarah leaned forward. “You better or else you won’t be getting any for a very long time.”
“As much as I like it, I’m not dating your pussy, Sarah.”
Sarah sat back, surprised. “Oh? What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Michel said. It was the truth. Nothing had happened to him. As far as he was concerned, he was dating her pussy. All the dinners and movies and entertainment were merely ways of making her pussy more accessible - though he did also appreciate her help with his fiction. But he was getting that before he started dating her. So where did the comment come from? Michel was a misogynist, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sarah well enough to know what she wanted to hear -- and that it was the surest way to continue having sex with her in the future.
Sarah was pleased. She thought she had finally made some progress with Michel. She would have to think of some way to reward him for it.
“Well?”
“Well, they’re colorful characters. Sort of stereotypically gay, though.”
“First chapter. Plenty of room for character development.”
“Not a very long first chapter.”
“Faulkner has short chapters in As I Lay Dying.”
“Well, you’re no... anyway, let’s deal with what we have here . . . All things considered, I kind of like it.”
“Really?” It was the first positive thing Sarah had said about his fiction.
“Yeah. So far, no women -- though one was mentioned -- so I have nothing to complain about. Interesting choice of characters, though. Why gay?”
“Trying to go for as eclectic as possible.”
“You’ll end up alienating a lot of readers that way -- though you will also pick up another distinct group.”
“Fine with me. Most of the people who read are educated and have money. That’s a perfect description of gay men.”
“Well, it’s a definite market. Still, I think you need to get away from stereotypes.”
“I will. Admittedly, these two are sort of like Jack on “Will and Grace,” only stranger, as you’ll soon see -- especially Bernard. But I’ll try to have some other characters who are more “normal” - more like Will in “Will and Grace.” That’s what I had in mind, anyway -- to balance things out and set up a contrast to Bernard and Marcus.”
“Okay. Good luck. I hope you do that. It should be interesting to see how your book comes along.”
Michel smiled as he took his chapter from Sarah. “Thanks. I appreciate the help and feedback.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I hope that’s not all you’re here for.”
“Oh, do you have something in mind?”
“Sure. You want to go rent a movie tonight?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
Michel feigned surprise. “Or did you have something else in mind?”
Sarah smiled at him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Just thought you should know. So, are you going to fuck me or what?”
Michel looked at his watch. “I think I could fit it into my busy schedule.”
Sarah leaned forward. “You better or else you won’t be getting any for a very long time.”
“As much as I like it, I’m not dating your pussy, Sarah.”
Sarah sat back, surprised. “Oh? What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Michel said. It was the truth. Nothing had happened to him. As far as he was concerned, he was dating her pussy. All the dinners and movies and entertainment were merely ways of making her pussy more accessible - though he did also appreciate her help with his fiction. But he was getting that before he started dating her. So where did the comment come from? Michel was a misogynist, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sarah well enough to know what she wanted to hear -- and that it was the surest way to continue having sex with her in the future.
Sarah was pleased. She thought she had finally made some progress with Michel. She would have to think of some way to reward him for it.
Chapter 14
Recently, I have been doing a lot of writing. Not on this novel, obviously, but on short stories. I have been reading from a collection of Donald Barthelme’s short stories, and they have been very inspiring. I’ve noticed that the truly great writers have the ability to inspire other writers. Thus, Milan Kundera, Andre Gide, and Andre Breton (who gave me automatic writing) contributed to this novel. Donald Barthelme now joins this list, since I have written several short stories this week while I have been reading his stories. He, as Gide and Kundera, has actually given me a new way of thinking about how to write stories, which has opened the gates of my creativity.
I don’t doubt this happens with other writers. Homer inspired Virgil, who inspired Dante. Thus, we can expect Sarah and Michel to have inspirational writers as well. I think Sarah and Michel are both influenced mostly by modern writers - writers of the Twentieth Century in any case. They both have in common Kundera, James Joyce, Faulkner. But the differences are interesting as well. Sarah likes Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Toni Morrison. Michel prefers William S. Burroughs, Nabokov, Andre Gide, and Oscar Wilde.
It was during the time he was seeing Sarah that Michel decided to start writing a novel. He decided, between having the time, and having a girlfriend who was a writer and who could help him, that it was a good time to start writing his first novel. He didn’t know what it was going to be about, but he decided if he was going to make money as a writer, short stories would not do it. He had to write a novel. He decided to tell Sarah.
“Well, you have to know what you’re going to write about before you start it,” Sarah said. She sat forward on her couch, looking at Michel. He had come over quite unexpectedly, so she had clothes on the floor that had previously been on the couch -- moved when she offered Michel a seat.
“Why do I have to do that?” Michel asked. “Why not just start it?”
“You have to have a plot. You have to have characters.”
“So I’ll make up characters. I’ll let them decide where the plot’s going once I make them up.”
“This is stupid. It’ll never work. What will hold it together?”
“Character. Plot doesn’t have to be the only thing holding a novel together. Kundera uses his own experiences to hold some of his novels together.”
“But he still has a plot. Even Gide has a plot in The Counterfeiters, no matter what his intentions.”
“I’ll think of something. Something will come to me as I write it. You want to see it as I write it?”
“You know I’d love to. Let me see your first chapter if you can pull one out of the air using this method of nothing you plan to use.”
“I think you underestimate me.”
“You forget, I’ve read your stuff. And while I must admit, you have gotten better since that awful story “Reciprocation,” you still have a lot of work to do.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe short stories aren’t my genre. Maybe novels are. Maybe I’ve been thinking too small. I need to think larger. Besides, you gave me the first line of “Reciprocation.” It’s your fault it’s so bad.”
“I’m not just talking about the misogyny.”
“Thanks.”
“Just being honest. That’s the only way we’ll be able to help each other with our writing, remember?”
“You’re right. I just have to remember you’re both my girlfriend and my critic.”
Michel went home, undaunted. He believed he could write a novel without having to worry about the plot. Character development. If you had really great characters, who needed plot? Or, if you have a really cool idea. How about if he wrote a novel about a novelist writing a novel about a novelist, ad infinitum, ad absurdum? Now that would be interesting. You’d still have to have character development in order to drive it - that is, the writers themselves would have to be interesting and quirky and strange in order for you to want to read about them or their books or their characters in their books.
Then Michel had an idea. He went home and began writing.
Bernard Lochs sat in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank page. Nothing. Nothing was coming. He thought if he had a computer, this would not be happening. No. He knew better than that. He hated computers. He was uncomfortable. That’s what it was - he was uncomfortable. It was the damn clothes he was wearing. He stripped. There, that was better. He was free now. Aired out. He sat in front of the computer, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and . . . the insistent pounding on the door made him jump, then stand to open the door. Marcus had his arms crossed, his lips pouting. He looked at Bernard. Marcus had not expected to see him naked.
“What do you need, Marcus? I’m trying to write.”
“Trying to write naked, huh? I’m so sure. Who are you showing off to in the window?”
“Anybody who wants to look. You think I care?”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t think you care. I don’t think you care a thing about anyone or anybody but yourself.”
“What? What’s this all about?”
“Where were you last night? You promised. I was lying in bed all horny, waiting for you, and you never came home.”
“I came home.”
“I was asleep. You didn’t even wake me.”
“You looked so adorable there, baby, I couldn’t disturb you.”
“You know you can always disturb me if you’re gonna give me some dick. Where were you?”
“Out with Megan. We went to hear a band play at Molier’s. You didn’t want to go, remember?”
“Still, you didn’t have to come home so late.”
“You’re always on the computer chatting with every guy who says he’s gay, so I’m surprised you even notice when I’m not here. You never want to do anything or go anywhere with me anymore. How am I supposed to feel? You prefer those people in the chat rooms and Facebook over me...”
“I do not!”
“Oh please. You do so. The only time you care what I’m doing is if I want to go out. Then you go on about how we never spend any time together. It’s so convenient. I don’t know why you want me to sit around the house bored when you’re in the other room with the door shut, chatting with people you’ll never meet.”
“Look, I’m not having this discussion right now,” Marcus said, turning to go down the stairs.
Bernard huffed, and said, “Of course not. You never do. Now I suppose you’ll go sit in front of the computer for the next ten hours...”
“They at least don’t bore me. And you can forget about getting any tonight.”
“I don’t need you, bitch. I’ve got myself.” With that, Bernard slammed the door, sending echos past Marcus, descending the stairs.
Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again. Nothing. It was worse than before. How could he write after getting into a fight like that? If anything did come to him, it would only be vindictive, pure poison aimed at Marcus. Not that he thought Marcus didn’t deserve it. He did. But that was another story for another time, when he was calmer and could see things in a clearer light. Right now, he wanted to start his next novel. He didn’t know where to begin.
I don’t doubt this happens with other writers. Homer inspired Virgil, who inspired Dante. Thus, we can expect Sarah and Michel to have inspirational writers as well. I think Sarah and Michel are both influenced mostly by modern writers - writers of the Twentieth Century in any case. They both have in common Kundera, James Joyce, Faulkner. But the differences are interesting as well. Sarah likes Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Toni Morrison. Michel prefers William S. Burroughs, Nabokov, Andre Gide, and Oscar Wilde.
It was during the time he was seeing Sarah that Michel decided to start writing a novel. He decided, between having the time, and having a girlfriend who was a writer and who could help him, that it was a good time to start writing his first novel. He didn’t know what it was going to be about, but he decided if he was going to make money as a writer, short stories would not do it. He had to write a novel. He decided to tell Sarah.
“Well, you have to know what you’re going to write about before you start it,” Sarah said. She sat forward on her couch, looking at Michel. He had come over quite unexpectedly, so she had clothes on the floor that had previously been on the couch -- moved when she offered Michel a seat.
“Why do I have to do that?” Michel asked. “Why not just start it?”
“You have to have a plot. You have to have characters.”
“So I’ll make up characters. I’ll let them decide where the plot’s going once I make them up.”
“This is stupid. It’ll never work. What will hold it together?”
“Character. Plot doesn’t have to be the only thing holding a novel together. Kundera uses his own experiences to hold some of his novels together.”
“But he still has a plot. Even Gide has a plot in The Counterfeiters, no matter what his intentions.”
“I’ll think of something. Something will come to me as I write it. You want to see it as I write it?”
“You know I’d love to. Let me see your first chapter if you can pull one out of the air using this method of nothing you plan to use.”
“I think you underestimate me.”
“You forget, I’ve read your stuff. And while I must admit, you have gotten better since that awful story “Reciprocation,” you still have a lot of work to do.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe short stories aren’t my genre. Maybe novels are. Maybe I’ve been thinking too small. I need to think larger. Besides, you gave me the first line of “Reciprocation.” It’s your fault it’s so bad.”
“I’m not just talking about the misogyny.”
“Thanks.”
“Just being honest. That’s the only way we’ll be able to help each other with our writing, remember?”
“You’re right. I just have to remember you’re both my girlfriend and my critic.”
Michel went home, undaunted. He believed he could write a novel without having to worry about the plot. Character development. If you had really great characters, who needed plot? Or, if you have a really cool idea. How about if he wrote a novel about a novelist writing a novel about a novelist, ad infinitum, ad absurdum? Now that would be interesting. You’d still have to have character development in order to drive it - that is, the writers themselves would have to be interesting and quirky and strange in order for you to want to read about them or their books or their characters in their books.
Then Michel had an idea. He went home and began writing.
Michel’s Novel
The Novelist
Chapter 1
Bernard Lochs sat in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank page. Nothing. Nothing was coming. He thought if he had a computer, this would not be happening. No. He knew better than that. He hated computers. He was uncomfortable. That’s what it was - he was uncomfortable. It was the damn clothes he was wearing. He stripped. There, that was better. He was free now. Aired out. He sat in front of the computer, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and . . . the insistent pounding on the door made him jump, then stand to open the door. Marcus had his arms crossed, his lips pouting. He looked at Bernard. Marcus had not expected to see him naked.
“What do you need, Marcus? I’m trying to write.”
“Trying to write naked, huh? I’m so sure. Who are you showing off to in the window?”
“Anybody who wants to look. You think I care?”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t think you care. I don’t think you care a thing about anyone or anybody but yourself.”
“What? What’s this all about?”
“Where were you last night? You promised. I was lying in bed all horny, waiting for you, and you never came home.”
“I came home.”
“I was asleep. You didn’t even wake me.”
“You looked so adorable there, baby, I couldn’t disturb you.”
“You know you can always disturb me if you’re gonna give me some dick. Where were you?”
“Out with Megan. We went to hear a band play at Molier’s. You didn’t want to go, remember?”
“Still, you didn’t have to come home so late.”
“You’re always on the computer chatting with every guy who says he’s gay, so I’m surprised you even notice when I’m not here. You never want to do anything or go anywhere with me anymore. How am I supposed to feel? You prefer those people in the chat rooms and Facebook over me...”
“I do not!”
“Oh please. You do so. The only time you care what I’m doing is if I want to go out. Then you go on about how we never spend any time together. It’s so convenient. I don’t know why you want me to sit around the house bored when you’re in the other room with the door shut, chatting with people you’ll never meet.”
“Look, I’m not having this discussion right now,” Marcus said, turning to go down the stairs.
Bernard huffed, and said, “Of course not. You never do. Now I suppose you’ll go sit in front of the computer for the next ten hours...”
“They at least don’t bore me. And you can forget about getting any tonight.”
“I don’t need you, bitch. I’ve got myself.” With that, Bernard slammed the door, sending echos past Marcus, descending the stairs.
Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again. Nothing. It was worse than before. How could he write after getting into a fight like that? If anything did come to him, it would only be vindictive, pure poison aimed at Marcus. Not that he thought Marcus didn’t deserve it. He did. But that was another story for another time, when he was calmer and could see things in a clearer light. Right now, he wanted to start his next novel. He didn’t know where to begin.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Chapter 13
Yesterday I heard from the agent who was reading my first novel, Malthusian Cockroaches. He didn’t like it. He said my characters didn’t sound like high school Freshmen, that he didn’t believe any high school offered Economics (even though mine did, and since it was a rural high school in Alaska, I figured an urban high school in a middle-classed suburb of Chicago surely would, but whatever) and that it didn’t hold his interest. I don’t care if they’re going to an economics class or a history class, so that can change. And I can make them sound less mature. I guess I’ll have to get to work on that.
Still, it was disappointing to hear someone say they have no interest in representing something I have worked three years on and have had many others tell you they can’t wait to see it in print because of what it’s about. I wish I knew more about what the problem was, but the agent said he had a lot of other things to work on and so he didn’t have time for me. I guess that’s what I get for being introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance rather than working my ass off like other new writers. The other explanation is that I sent out the work before it was ready, which is likely, since I’ve only had one person read it. I had planned to get others to read the book and help me with it before I sent it out. Now I definitely will. Still, it’s disappointing.
Writers live in a world ruled by disappointment. We wouldn’t have become writers if we hadn’t been disappointed by something. Life, lost loves, lack of love. And then, when we decide to become writers, we are disappointed to hear in workshops that our characters are too flat, the plot unbelievable, the symbolism too symbolic, the dialogue too stiff, and any number of other problems you would have never thought of outside workshops. Then let’s suppose you have the story “finished.” First of all, you rarely have a story finished, so you are disappointed every time you pick up the story to see it is not as good as you want it. Then you decide it is “good enough” - usually by having a number of people say it’s finished, that it and you are genius, etc. -- and you send it out to a half dozen magazines (if it is a short story) only to receive a half dozen rejections. Then you look at it again, try to figure out what’s wrong with it, fix a word or two, then send it out to another half dozen places. To be rejected. Repeat as instructed.
Then the glorious day comes when you finally get your short story published in a tiny literary magazine that can only afford to pay you three contributor’s copies, and when you get it, your name is wrong in the table of contents, and the editor has revised the story, changing dialogue and dialect, altering description, making the story as much hers as it was yours -- all without your permission, destroying what you perceive to be the integrity of the piece. This disappointment is almost as bad as having never been accepted at all.
That’s why Michel and Sarah both knew about disappointment. They were both writers, and so had experienced all the disappointments peculiar to writers, as well as the disappointments of life. Sarah was disappointed by every boyfriend she had -- except one (forget about Kim -- he’s in the future) -- and she disappointed herself by letting him get away.
She was in love with Robert, but did not think Robert was in love with her. He had never said he loved her, though they were friends and went places together -- dinner, the movies, the occasional bar. She had told him she loved him, and he always smiled, reached out his hand for her jaw, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Frustrated, Sarah began dating other people.
That’s when she met Matthew. He was handsome, went places with her, and told her he loved her. She still went places with Robert, but he never seemed jealous when she wanted to go out with other men. But when she started seeing Matthew, he went to her apartment and told her he loved her.
How could he do this to her? There had been so many opportunities before she met Matthew, and now he had to come over her apartment and tell her he loved her? Where was he before Matthew? She had loved him -- still loved him, though she would never tell him that -- but he was too late. She was with Matthew, and it wouldn’t be fair to him -- especially since she loved him. Robert hung his head, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked out of her apartment. Sarah wanted to run after him, but felt it would be too much like a romantic movie if she did, so she let him go.
A month later, Robert was seeing someone else. Sarah saw him with his new girlfriend at the movies. She was now alone, having broke up with Matthew after he crashed into her parked car while driving drunk to her apartment. Robert smiled and waved. Sarah returned the favor, but didn’t say anything, turning away as she stood in line.
Michel mostly disappointed himself. He didn’t understand women and didn’t care to. He lost every girlfriend he had because of it. He kissed a guy once, to see what it was like -- if he could make anything come out of it -- but the man’s mustache tickled his lips when he kissed him, and that bothered him, so he didn’t go any further. Whenever he was in a new relationship with a woman, he wondered if he should have gone through with it. He was a man. He understood men. Surely he could get along with them better than he did with women. But then, he always heard his gay friends saying how they wished they were straight, because they didn’t understand men, so he decided nobody understood anybody, so you might as well fuck who you like. But most of Michel’s disappointments came in being unable to has sex with someone he was really attracted to. Until he met Pat and Jessie. Until he was given permission to sleep with Jessie, he had never realized he was attracted to little girls. Once he had been with Jessie, though, he found he could not get enough of her. Pat didn’t care. She had plenty of other lovers.
Still, it was disappointing to hear someone say they have no interest in representing something I have worked three years on and have had many others tell you they can’t wait to see it in print because of what it’s about. I wish I knew more about what the problem was, but the agent said he had a lot of other things to work on and so he didn’t have time for me. I guess that’s what I get for being introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance rather than working my ass off like other new writers. The other explanation is that I sent out the work before it was ready, which is likely, since I’ve only had one person read it. I had planned to get others to read the book and help me with it before I sent it out. Now I definitely will. Still, it’s disappointing.
Writers live in a world ruled by disappointment. We wouldn’t have become writers if we hadn’t been disappointed by something. Life, lost loves, lack of love. And then, when we decide to become writers, we are disappointed to hear in workshops that our characters are too flat, the plot unbelievable, the symbolism too symbolic, the dialogue too stiff, and any number of other problems you would have never thought of outside workshops. Then let’s suppose you have the story “finished.” First of all, you rarely have a story finished, so you are disappointed every time you pick up the story to see it is not as good as you want it. Then you decide it is “good enough” - usually by having a number of people say it’s finished, that it and you are genius, etc. -- and you send it out to a half dozen magazines (if it is a short story) only to receive a half dozen rejections. Then you look at it again, try to figure out what’s wrong with it, fix a word or two, then send it out to another half dozen places. To be rejected. Repeat as instructed.
Then the glorious day comes when you finally get your short story published in a tiny literary magazine that can only afford to pay you three contributor’s copies, and when you get it, your name is wrong in the table of contents, and the editor has revised the story, changing dialogue and dialect, altering description, making the story as much hers as it was yours -- all without your permission, destroying what you perceive to be the integrity of the piece. This disappointment is almost as bad as having never been accepted at all.
That’s why Michel and Sarah both knew about disappointment. They were both writers, and so had experienced all the disappointments peculiar to writers, as well as the disappointments of life. Sarah was disappointed by every boyfriend she had -- except one (forget about Kim -- he’s in the future) -- and she disappointed herself by letting him get away.
She was in love with Robert, but did not think Robert was in love with her. He had never said he loved her, though they were friends and went places together -- dinner, the movies, the occasional bar. She had told him she loved him, and he always smiled, reached out his hand for her jaw, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Frustrated, Sarah began dating other people.
That’s when she met Matthew. He was handsome, went places with her, and told her he loved her. She still went places with Robert, but he never seemed jealous when she wanted to go out with other men. But when she started seeing Matthew, he went to her apartment and told her he loved her.
How could he do this to her? There had been so many opportunities before she met Matthew, and now he had to come over her apartment and tell her he loved her? Where was he before Matthew? She had loved him -- still loved him, though she would never tell him that -- but he was too late. She was with Matthew, and it wouldn’t be fair to him -- especially since she loved him. Robert hung his head, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked out of her apartment. Sarah wanted to run after him, but felt it would be too much like a romantic movie if she did, so she let him go.
A month later, Robert was seeing someone else. Sarah saw him with his new girlfriend at the movies. She was now alone, having broke up with Matthew after he crashed into her parked car while driving drunk to her apartment. Robert smiled and waved. Sarah returned the favor, but didn’t say anything, turning away as she stood in line.
Michel mostly disappointed himself. He didn’t understand women and didn’t care to. He lost every girlfriend he had because of it. He kissed a guy once, to see what it was like -- if he could make anything come out of it -- but the man’s mustache tickled his lips when he kissed him, and that bothered him, so he didn’t go any further. Whenever he was in a new relationship with a woman, he wondered if he should have gone through with it. He was a man. He understood men. Surely he could get along with them better than he did with women. But then, he always heard his gay friends saying how they wished they were straight, because they didn’t understand men, so he decided nobody understood anybody, so you might as well fuck who you like. But most of Michel’s disappointments came in being unable to has sex with someone he was really attracted to. Until he met Pat and Jessie. Until he was given permission to sleep with Jessie, he had never realized he was attracted to little girls. Once he had been with Jessie, though, he found he could not get enough of her. Pat didn’t care. She had plenty of other lovers.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Chapter 12
We live in a political age, and thus we live in an age of lies. So, since lying is now acceptable, I can't make any promises about the truthfulness of anything I may say from now on. Of course, Nietzsche called into question the importance of telling the truth before the turn of the century, since we don't know whose truth you are talking about, but I'm not entirely sure he meant the kinds of political lies we hear all the time. Or perhaps he did. After all, Plato talked about the noble lie politicians had to tell, so there is a philosophical tradition of the "necessity" of politicians lying. Machiavelli also recommended lying to the people. I would argue that many politicians are certainly Platonists and Machiavellians, but not really Nietzscheans. So I don't think they are doing what Nietzsche was talking about in regards to lies. On the other hand, successful politicians are great manipulators of language. But that may also be the same thing Nietzsche was talking about.
In any case, this is a novel full of lies. In fact, what is fiction but one long lie? None of this is true (unless I say it's true), and you wouldn't want to read this if it were true, or you’d have gone out to buy a biography or some other form of nonfiction. We tell our children not to tell "stories," but turn around and spend $20 (for hardback, $7 or so for a paperback) for a novel. We elect the liars whose lies we most want to believe and pay to read a four-hundred-page lie. We want to be lied to. We elect people to do it, and we pay people to do it. So what's wrong with lying again?
Since we now see fiction-writing is really professional lying, we must also realize that Michel and Sarah are both aspiring professional liars. The only difference is, Sarah treats her writing as a purge for any temptation she may have to lie, whereas for Michel, it's only the beginning. Michel's life is so full of lies, he doesn't know what the truth is anymore.
For their first real date, Sarah picked Michel up at his apartment. They were going to a movie - "Shakespeare in Love." It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Sarah was not surprised to see how messy his apartment was, with the couch pulled out to make Michel's bed, but she was surprised to see Jackie standing in the hall wearing only a pair of blue jean shorts and a nipple ring as Michel held the door open for her.
"I'm ready when you are," Michel said. "I'd show you around, but we don't want to be late."
"Fine. Let's go." Sarah was back out the door, darting for her car, a red Nissan. Michel told Jackie bye as he shut the door and turned to chase Sarah to the car.
"Slow down. We're not late."
Sarah opened her car door and slid in, putting her key in the ignition. Michel opened the passenger door and got in.
"What's your hurry?" Michel asked.
"Shut the door," Sarah said. He complied. She turned to him. "What the hell was she doing walking around your apartment topless?"
"It's her apartment too. She pays half the rent."
"What are you doing? You still fucking her?"
"Hell no! I broke up with her, remember? I'm going out with you now. Why would I want to fuck her?"
"I'm not stupid, Michel. I saw her. If I was a guy, I'd want to fuck her. You're telling me you don't want to fuck her?"
"I said I wasn't fucking her, okay? Why won't you believe me?"
"Why's she comfortable walking around topless, then?"
"Honey, we used to date, remember? When we did, we fucked. We lived together. She's used to walking around naked with me there."
"Naked?"
Michel dropped his head just short of the dash. "Shit."
"Can't you see how this looks? You’re still living with your ex-girlfriend."
"I told you why. It's cheaper. And we don't hate each other -- we just don't love each other anymore. But I'll talk to her about walking around half-naked if it makes you feel better."
"You do what you need to do, okay?"
Michel wasn't sure what that meant, but he decided to agree. "Can we go to the movies now?"
Sarah started the car, turned the wheels, and pulled away from the curb.
In any case, this is a novel full of lies. In fact, what is fiction but one long lie? None of this is true (unless I say it's true), and you wouldn't want to read this if it were true, or you’d have gone out to buy a biography or some other form of nonfiction. We tell our children not to tell "stories," but turn around and spend $20 (for hardback, $7 or so for a paperback) for a novel. We elect the liars whose lies we most want to believe and pay to read a four-hundred-page lie. We want to be lied to. We elect people to do it, and we pay people to do it. So what's wrong with lying again?
Since we now see fiction-writing is really professional lying, we must also realize that Michel and Sarah are both aspiring professional liars. The only difference is, Sarah treats her writing as a purge for any temptation she may have to lie, whereas for Michel, it's only the beginning. Michel's life is so full of lies, he doesn't know what the truth is anymore.
For their first real date, Sarah picked Michel up at his apartment. They were going to a movie - "Shakespeare in Love." It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Sarah was not surprised to see how messy his apartment was, with the couch pulled out to make Michel's bed, but she was surprised to see Jackie standing in the hall wearing only a pair of blue jean shorts and a nipple ring as Michel held the door open for her.
"I'm ready when you are," Michel said. "I'd show you around, but we don't want to be late."
"Fine. Let's go." Sarah was back out the door, darting for her car, a red Nissan. Michel told Jackie bye as he shut the door and turned to chase Sarah to the car.
"Slow down. We're not late."
Sarah opened her car door and slid in, putting her key in the ignition. Michel opened the passenger door and got in.
"What's your hurry?" Michel asked.
"Shut the door," Sarah said. He complied. She turned to him. "What the hell was she doing walking around your apartment topless?"
"It's her apartment too. She pays half the rent."
"What are you doing? You still fucking her?"
"Hell no! I broke up with her, remember? I'm going out with you now. Why would I want to fuck her?"
"I'm not stupid, Michel. I saw her. If I was a guy, I'd want to fuck her. You're telling me you don't want to fuck her?"
"I said I wasn't fucking her, okay? Why won't you believe me?"
"Why's she comfortable walking around topless, then?"
"Honey, we used to date, remember? When we did, we fucked. We lived together. She's used to walking around naked with me there."
"Naked?"
Michel dropped his head just short of the dash. "Shit."
"Can't you see how this looks? You’re still living with your ex-girlfriend."
"I told you why. It's cheaper. And we don't hate each other -- we just don't love each other anymore. But I'll talk to her about walking around half-naked if it makes you feel better."
"You do what you need to do, okay?"
Michel wasn't sure what that meant, but he decided to agree. "Can we go to the movies now?"
Sarah started the car, turned the wheels, and pulled away from the curb.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Chapter 11
It's one in the morning, and I left Donna at work so I could come home and work on this novel. We have a new computer, though it's been disappointing so far. It's already locked up, though it was only a few days old and it has a Pentium Processor, and the place we bought it from did not give us the memory they said they would or put the latest version of Word on the computer for us. Hopefully, we'll take care of all that this week.
I'm glad Donna is working. She's doing something at the hospital here in Richardson. To be honest, I already like her a lot better. And it's not just because she's finally working, either. No, her working has helped turn her back into the confident, pleasant, strong woman I fell in love with.
I like strong, confident women. They have character. That's why I like Sarah and Jackie. Both are extremely strong women, although they did fall in love with a very weak man. Of course, Jackie did break up with Michel, which shows she learned enough about him not to want him anymore, though at the same time, she has chosen to keep living with him and start having sex with him again. One could argue, I suppose, that she has simply started using him, relegating him to a sort of Hegelian slave position, but the fact is, as Hegel points out, the slave in these situations can oftentimes gain so much power over the master, who relies too much on the slave's presence, that the roles are reversed. Thus, Jackie is putting herself in a potentially dangerous position by trying to gain sexual power over Michel. While it is true they both said it would not affect their dating or having sex with other people, how could it not? Even someone as strong as Jackie cannot help but look upon every woman Michel brings home as someone who is using her penis. It’s a form of jealousy - a form of jealousy possible because, truth be told, she really did love having sex with him. She did not care much for Michel himself, but she was fond of his penis.
But you know, I'm sitting here writing all this, thinking about the relationship between Michel and Jackie, which is anything but romantic, on a day when I'm feeling far more romantic toward Donna than I have in a long time, and I'm thinking I should write about something more romantic, something befitting my feelings.
I'm thinking, too, that I should probably listen to something far more romantic than Pearl Jam's "Yield" if I really want to write about something romantic, but I don't know if I have anything you could call romantic in my CD collection. I have lots of 90's grunge and 60's psychedelic, but not much romantic music. The closest thing I have is The Beatles, since they did often write about love. Maybe I'll go find something by The Beatles after I finish listening to "Do the Evolution."
I just put on "Let It Be." I love the song "Two of Us." It's such a pretty song, and should put me in the proper romantic mood to write about something more appropriate to Valentine's Day.
I'm thinking, but I don't think it's possible to do anything sweet with any combination of characters I've already introduced -- unless I want Sarah and Jackie to hook up. I don't -- I don't see either of them as lesbians or bisexual (though Jackie would come closest) -- so I'll have to come up with someone else.
I've already said Michel and Sarah aren't going to work out -- or else he would not be living by himself and sleeping with his neighbor and her daughter, so I suppose I could introduce the man Sarah eventually does marry. I told Donna I used to have a male Readings in Fiction professor named Kim, and she told me she used to date a man named Kim too, so I think I'll name Sarah's future husband Kim. It's an unusual name for a man, but there's nothing wrong with that. It will help him stand out in your mind. How many of you will be able to forget a male character named Kim -- at least, one who is white and not Chinese.
I think Kim is a nice-looking man - he wouldn't remind you of a Greek god or anything, but he's not hard on the eyes either. He should exercise, but doesn't, so he has a tummy, not that Sarah cares. Sarah is not the kind of woman who notices things like tummies. No, Sarah is the kind of woman who notices the kindness of his blue eyes, the intelligent smile he has when talking to her, the gentleness of his touch as he comforts her. Sarah notices the joy he has in being with her, the joy he has in talking with her about all the things she likes that he does and even those he is indifferent to (things you would never know he was indifferent to, he looks so interested in them). I can see them sitting in a restaurant - perhaps the same one Sarah and Michel frequented when they were seeing each other - only there is a tangible difference here. Sarah is not questioning why she is attracted to Kim. There is no question why she would be attracted to him. Any woman in her right mind would be. Sarah concludes, therefore, that since she is the one sitting with him, that most women aren't in their right mind. He is leaning forward, listening as she talks, interested in everything she says or thinks or believes. Michel could never show that kind of interest in her or any woman. No one was as interesting as he was to himself. Kim did not hold this opinion of himself. True, Kim was self-confident, but it was never at the expense of others. He felt he could learn from every person he met. He felt he could love whoever was in front of him by simply listening.
It took Sarah a long time to learn to love someone like Kim. In order to love someone who could love you as much as Kim was capable of loving, Sarah first had to learn to love herself enough not to settle for someone like Michel. Kim was the kind of man who could bring her to the point where she could allow herself to love him. His every word was encouragement, telling her she was beautiful, intelligent, fascinating, interesting, everything he could want. It took him three weeks to talk her into loving him. They had been dating for three months by the time we see them.
Kim and Sarah are sitting at the table in the restaurant. The restaurant always had dim lights, but Sarah was convinced they were more romantic now. There was a little candle on the table, flickering against the wall, light dancing up the wall, on each of their faces, a dance of shadows even more romantic than the dim lights. Their drinks were sitting on the dark wood table, making sweat circles around their bases. Sarah was talking about the problems she was having getting published.
"I don't understand it," she said. "I've read dozens of literary magazines, and to be honest, if that's any indication of what they consider to be good stories, there's no reason why they shouldn't be publishing me. I've never seen so much garbage in my life. How can they publish some of that shit?"
"It's all a matter of taste, honey. Publishing is a game. You have to get your story to the right editor when he's in the right mood when he hasn't published or read anything like that recently before it's going to be accepted. That's not very good odds, even if you are the next Chekhov."
"I wouldn't say I'm the next Chekhov..."
"I'd say you're definitely a brilliant writer, and if you haven't been discovered, it's only because the right editor hasn't read you yet. Sometimes the world's not ready for a certain writer, you know, and it takes a while before you're recognized or even published."
"Yeah, but that doesn't get the bills paid."
"You writing for the money?"
"No, but a woman's got to eat."
"I understand. But don't worry about it. You're a genius. You'll be discovered soon enough, and then everything will be easy."
"I wish it were that easy. But enough of that kind of talk. We're on a date, remember?"
"I see nothing wrong with talking about our future over dinner." They were interrupted by their salads arriving. Kim looked down at his salad to discourage a response. He wanted her to think about what he'd just said. He wanted it to sink in.
Sarah looked down at her salad, then back up at him, contemplating his crown before deciding to go ahead and say, "I didn't realize we were talking about our future."
Kim looked up at her, his blue eyes gazing into hers. "Why else would I want to hear about your dreams if I didn't expect to make them mine?"
"Are you asking me something?"
"If I had a ring, I would. But I don't. Would you settle for being engaged to be engaged?"
Sarah giggled. "Are you asking me now if you can ask me later to marry you?"
"Sure. It's safer than actually asking you to marry me."
Sarah frowned. "Why?"
"Because if you say 'yes' now, there's almost a hundred percent chance you'll say yes when I do ask you to marry me. But if you say 'no' now, it won't hurt as much, because I won't have asked you to actually marry me, but to allow me to ask you later to marry me."
Sarah's frown cracked. "I think I kept up with all that."
"So what do you say?"
"Yes. Of course you may ask me to marry you. Shall we set a date?"
"No, let's not set a date. Let's keep it open so I can surprise you when I do ask you to marry me."
"I don't think it will be much of a surprise."
"I don't know. I think I could still make it a surprise."
"Of course, I could just surprise you and ask you to marry me."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Kim said, taking his first bite of salad. "I'm modern and all that. I'm liberated."
"Whatever," Sarah said. "I don't care how we do it, so long as we get to stay with each other."
"We will," Kim said. "I won't let you go."
Sarah leaned halfway across the table. "I love you," she whispered.
Kim met her across the table, kissing her. "I love you, too."
Sarah moved in with Kim three weeks later, before either got around to asking the other to marry them. The night she moved in was the first night they made love. It was the first night either thought of the other as someone sexual, and it made them see each other in a new light, giving their love new facets for that light to reflect from, to illuminate new aspects of being between the two that neither could have known, absent their making love. Sarah was not a virgin, but that night she felt like it was the first time any man had ever made love to her. Kim had literally and figuratively touched her in ways no man had ever touched her before. As she lay next to him for the first time that night, half-covered by his dark blue sheets so her breasts lay exposed to the cool air of the room, running her hand across his chest, she became determined that their mutual pleasure was to become her primary concern. He was the first man she ever loved enough to want to make the center of her world. Kim felt the same way about her.
I can think of no better place to leave Sarah and Kim - lying together in bed, more in love than either had been before. Over the next few months, both fell further in love, until Kim could wait no longer and asked her to marry him. Being sentimental -- and, unfortunately, not very original in this case -- he asked her to marry him on Valentine's Day. Of course, she said “Yes.” Within the year, they were married, and shortly afterwards, they settled into love together. It lost its sharp edges, its brilliant sparkle, its vital turbulence, and settled into something deeper, something that would nourish and hold them together -- not without conflict, of course, since no two people can live (or love) without conflict -- in a way their former love, as strong and beautiful as it was, never could. In addition to being in love, they finally learned, after their first year of marriage, to also love each other.
And so, I finish this chapter at almost 2:45am, listening to Fiona Apple while Donna's at work. I thank The Beatles, Fiona Apple, and Donna, who has become again the woman I fell in love with, for making me able to write this chapter and talk about the most dangerous, most painful, most heartbreaking, most wrenching, most beautiful thing in the world. Thank you, my love, for allowing me to experience love for the first time in my life so I can actually write about it and not just wonder on paper what it's like.
I'm glad Donna is working. She's doing something at the hospital here in Richardson. To be honest, I already like her a lot better. And it's not just because she's finally working, either. No, her working has helped turn her back into the confident, pleasant, strong woman I fell in love with.
I like strong, confident women. They have character. That's why I like Sarah and Jackie. Both are extremely strong women, although they did fall in love with a very weak man. Of course, Jackie did break up with Michel, which shows she learned enough about him not to want him anymore, though at the same time, she has chosen to keep living with him and start having sex with him again. One could argue, I suppose, that she has simply started using him, relegating him to a sort of Hegelian slave position, but the fact is, as Hegel points out, the slave in these situations can oftentimes gain so much power over the master, who relies too much on the slave's presence, that the roles are reversed. Thus, Jackie is putting herself in a potentially dangerous position by trying to gain sexual power over Michel. While it is true they both said it would not affect their dating or having sex with other people, how could it not? Even someone as strong as Jackie cannot help but look upon every woman Michel brings home as someone who is using her penis. It’s a form of jealousy - a form of jealousy possible because, truth be told, she really did love having sex with him. She did not care much for Michel himself, but she was fond of his penis.
But you know, I'm sitting here writing all this, thinking about the relationship between Michel and Jackie, which is anything but romantic, on a day when I'm feeling far more romantic toward Donna than I have in a long time, and I'm thinking I should write about something more romantic, something befitting my feelings.
I'm thinking, too, that I should probably listen to something far more romantic than Pearl Jam's "Yield" if I really want to write about something romantic, but I don't know if I have anything you could call romantic in my CD collection. I have lots of 90's grunge and 60's psychedelic, but not much romantic music. The closest thing I have is The Beatles, since they did often write about love. Maybe I'll go find something by The Beatles after I finish listening to "Do the Evolution."
I just put on "Let It Be." I love the song "Two of Us." It's such a pretty song, and should put me in the proper romantic mood to write about something more appropriate to Valentine's Day.
I'm thinking, but I don't think it's possible to do anything sweet with any combination of characters I've already introduced -- unless I want Sarah and Jackie to hook up. I don't -- I don't see either of them as lesbians or bisexual (though Jackie would come closest) -- so I'll have to come up with someone else.
I've already said Michel and Sarah aren't going to work out -- or else he would not be living by himself and sleeping with his neighbor and her daughter, so I suppose I could introduce the man Sarah eventually does marry. I told Donna I used to have a male Readings in Fiction professor named Kim, and she told me she used to date a man named Kim too, so I think I'll name Sarah's future husband Kim. It's an unusual name for a man, but there's nothing wrong with that. It will help him stand out in your mind. How many of you will be able to forget a male character named Kim -- at least, one who is white and not Chinese.
I think Kim is a nice-looking man - he wouldn't remind you of a Greek god or anything, but he's not hard on the eyes either. He should exercise, but doesn't, so he has a tummy, not that Sarah cares. Sarah is not the kind of woman who notices things like tummies. No, Sarah is the kind of woman who notices the kindness of his blue eyes, the intelligent smile he has when talking to her, the gentleness of his touch as he comforts her. Sarah notices the joy he has in being with her, the joy he has in talking with her about all the things she likes that he does and even those he is indifferent to (things you would never know he was indifferent to, he looks so interested in them). I can see them sitting in a restaurant - perhaps the same one Sarah and Michel frequented when they were seeing each other - only there is a tangible difference here. Sarah is not questioning why she is attracted to Kim. There is no question why she would be attracted to him. Any woman in her right mind would be. Sarah concludes, therefore, that since she is the one sitting with him, that most women aren't in their right mind. He is leaning forward, listening as she talks, interested in everything she says or thinks or believes. Michel could never show that kind of interest in her or any woman. No one was as interesting as he was to himself. Kim did not hold this opinion of himself. True, Kim was self-confident, but it was never at the expense of others. He felt he could learn from every person he met. He felt he could love whoever was in front of him by simply listening.
It took Sarah a long time to learn to love someone like Kim. In order to love someone who could love you as much as Kim was capable of loving, Sarah first had to learn to love herself enough not to settle for someone like Michel. Kim was the kind of man who could bring her to the point where she could allow herself to love him. His every word was encouragement, telling her she was beautiful, intelligent, fascinating, interesting, everything he could want. It took him three weeks to talk her into loving him. They had been dating for three months by the time we see them.
Kim and Sarah are sitting at the table in the restaurant. The restaurant always had dim lights, but Sarah was convinced they were more romantic now. There was a little candle on the table, flickering against the wall, light dancing up the wall, on each of their faces, a dance of shadows even more romantic than the dim lights. Their drinks were sitting on the dark wood table, making sweat circles around their bases. Sarah was talking about the problems she was having getting published.
"I don't understand it," she said. "I've read dozens of literary magazines, and to be honest, if that's any indication of what they consider to be good stories, there's no reason why they shouldn't be publishing me. I've never seen so much garbage in my life. How can they publish some of that shit?"
"It's all a matter of taste, honey. Publishing is a game. You have to get your story to the right editor when he's in the right mood when he hasn't published or read anything like that recently before it's going to be accepted. That's not very good odds, even if you are the next Chekhov."
"I wouldn't say I'm the next Chekhov..."
"I'd say you're definitely a brilliant writer, and if you haven't been discovered, it's only because the right editor hasn't read you yet. Sometimes the world's not ready for a certain writer, you know, and it takes a while before you're recognized or even published."
"Yeah, but that doesn't get the bills paid."
"You writing for the money?"
"No, but a woman's got to eat."
"I understand. But don't worry about it. You're a genius. You'll be discovered soon enough, and then everything will be easy."
"I wish it were that easy. But enough of that kind of talk. We're on a date, remember?"
"I see nothing wrong with talking about our future over dinner." They were interrupted by their salads arriving. Kim looked down at his salad to discourage a response. He wanted her to think about what he'd just said. He wanted it to sink in.
Sarah looked down at her salad, then back up at him, contemplating his crown before deciding to go ahead and say, "I didn't realize we were talking about our future."
Kim looked up at her, his blue eyes gazing into hers. "Why else would I want to hear about your dreams if I didn't expect to make them mine?"
"Are you asking me something?"
"If I had a ring, I would. But I don't. Would you settle for being engaged to be engaged?"
Sarah giggled. "Are you asking me now if you can ask me later to marry you?"
"Sure. It's safer than actually asking you to marry me."
Sarah frowned. "Why?"
"Because if you say 'yes' now, there's almost a hundred percent chance you'll say yes when I do ask you to marry me. But if you say 'no' now, it won't hurt as much, because I won't have asked you to actually marry me, but to allow me to ask you later to marry me."
Sarah's frown cracked. "I think I kept up with all that."
"So what do you say?"
"Yes. Of course you may ask me to marry you. Shall we set a date?"
"No, let's not set a date. Let's keep it open so I can surprise you when I do ask you to marry me."
"I don't think it will be much of a surprise."
"I don't know. I think I could still make it a surprise."
"Of course, I could just surprise you and ask you to marry me."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Kim said, taking his first bite of salad. "I'm modern and all that. I'm liberated."
"Whatever," Sarah said. "I don't care how we do it, so long as we get to stay with each other."
"We will," Kim said. "I won't let you go."
Sarah leaned halfway across the table. "I love you," she whispered.
Kim met her across the table, kissing her. "I love you, too."
Sarah moved in with Kim three weeks later, before either got around to asking the other to marry them. The night she moved in was the first night they made love. It was the first night either thought of the other as someone sexual, and it made them see each other in a new light, giving their love new facets for that light to reflect from, to illuminate new aspects of being between the two that neither could have known, absent their making love. Sarah was not a virgin, but that night she felt like it was the first time any man had ever made love to her. Kim had literally and figuratively touched her in ways no man had ever touched her before. As she lay next to him for the first time that night, half-covered by his dark blue sheets so her breasts lay exposed to the cool air of the room, running her hand across his chest, she became determined that their mutual pleasure was to become her primary concern. He was the first man she ever loved enough to want to make the center of her world. Kim felt the same way about her.
I can think of no better place to leave Sarah and Kim - lying together in bed, more in love than either had been before. Over the next few months, both fell further in love, until Kim could wait no longer and asked her to marry him. Being sentimental -- and, unfortunately, not very original in this case -- he asked her to marry him on Valentine's Day. Of course, she said “Yes.” Within the year, they were married, and shortly afterwards, they settled into love together. It lost its sharp edges, its brilliant sparkle, its vital turbulence, and settled into something deeper, something that would nourish and hold them together -- not without conflict, of course, since no two people can live (or love) without conflict -- in a way their former love, as strong and beautiful as it was, never could. In addition to being in love, they finally learned, after their first year of marriage, to also love each other.
And so, I finish this chapter at almost 2:45am, listening to Fiona Apple while Donna's at work. I thank The Beatles, Fiona Apple, and Donna, who has become again the woman I fell in love with, for making me able to write this chapter and talk about the most dangerous, most painful, most heartbreaking, most wrenching, most beautiful thing in the world. Thank you, my love, for allowing me to experience love for the first time in my life so I can actually write about it and not just wonder on paper what it's like.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Chapter 10
A lot has happened since I began work on this novel. One of our neighbors (who was noisy in the first place, always playing her music so loud we could hear it through the walls - and always after midnight, when we wanted to go to bed) got into an argument with her boyfriend at three in the morning. We couldn't hear what was being said, only that it was being said extremely loud. And it continued through the night and well into the morning. When I left to go somewhere (I forget where), my upstairs neighbor said they were outside arguing at eleven that morning. When I found out what it was about, I understood why. In a strange account of real life unknowingly imitating fiction, she had caught her son, who looks to be maybe six or seven, in a similar sexual act as Michel cause Jessie in with man who lives in one of the other apartments in our complex. And her boyfriend knew about it. Donna tells me the cops were at the man's apartment later that night.
I'm sure if you asked the guy, he would claim he wasn't homosexual. And, except for liking little boys, he's probably not. He has probably had several girlfriends. But what possesses him to be into little boys? I'm not going to claim to know. Most homosexuals I know would find him disgusting. So it seems his sexual perversion goes far deeper than homosexuality, which I don't consider a perversion, but a natural desire found in all people, as can be seen from the ancient Greek and Roman cultures, where bisexuality was the norm. In fact, the term homosexual wasn't even coined until the late 19th Century.
But all of this brings us back to the problem of Pat and her daughter Jessie. At the same time Michel was trying to see Sarah and had asked Jackie to start sleeping with him, Pat was fifteen, seeing her boyfriend Mark, and sleeping with every man possible. This is when Pat became pregnant with Jessie, and though she was dating Mark at the time, it is unlikely he was the father.
I learned from the Discovery Channel (or maybe it was the Learning Channel) that when women are unfaithful, there are various mechanisms that work to make a woman more or less likely to become impregnated by any given man. For example, this is what happened when Pat got pregnant:
Pat was unusual in her ability to have an orgasm at a very young age. Three days before she got pregnant, she had sex with a guy she met at a football game. He had a condom, so the only consequence was an orgasm. But having an orgasm make a woman's uterus more acidic, a condition which destroys sperm cells.
The next night, Pat went out with Mark, and as happened with every date they ever went on, they had sex, and she had an orgasm. This, as well as the sex from the night before, caused the acidity of her uterus to increase even more, killing a large number of his sperm. But Mark believed she was unfaithful, so, due to an unconscious mechanism we don't understand, he ejaculated twice the number of sperm into her than usual, though most were either slower sperm that act as a net to slow foreign sperm or killer sperm that killed any other sperm it ran into. Thus, his sperm and her own acidity protected her for the next five days from any other sperm.
But late that night, one of her friends, Jim, came over to her house, snuck in through her window, and had sex with her. Her uterus wasn't nearly as acidic by then, and she orgasmed at the same time he did, pulling his sperm deeper into her before it made her uterus acidic. He, too, produced a large number of killer sperm, which went to work against the sperm from Mark, killing many of them.
The next night, she had sex with yet another of her friends, Robert, again orgasming at the same time he did, pulling more of his sperm into her, where his, Mark's, and Jim's killer sperms tried to destroy as many of each others’ fertile sperm as they could find that had made it past the barrier Mark's sperm had created.
I don’t need to go into any greater detail about the other times she had sex with Mark, or who else she slept with that week, because it was sometime during that day that one of the fertile sperm from one of the three boys (at sixteen, they were all still boys) made it to the egg traveling down her fallopian tube, broke through the protein barrier surrounding it, and fertilized the egg, which continued traveling down the fallopian tube as it began dividing over the next few days before reaching the uterus and embedding itself there to finish developing into Jessie.
Two months later, she told Mark she was pregnant and that it was his. He told her he'd help take care of the child, but he didn't want to get married. They had already broken up and were dating other people. Mark's new girlfriend didn't take it too well, though, and broke up with him a week later. Pat's new boyfriend took advantage of the situation, knowing she couldn't get pregnant, and only broke up with her after he thought she had become too unattractive with her bulging belly.
I'm sure if you asked the guy, he would claim he wasn't homosexual. And, except for liking little boys, he's probably not. He has probably had several girlfriends. But what possesses him to be into little boys? I'm not going to claim to know. Most homosexuals I know would find him disgusting. So it seems his sexual perversion goes far deeper than homosexuality, which I don't consider a perversion, but a natural desire found in all people, as can be seen from the ancient Greek and Roman cultures, where bisexuality was the norm. In fact, the term homosexual wasn't even coined until the late 19th Century.
But all of this brings us back to the problem of Pat and her daughter Jessie. At the same time Michel was trying to see Sarah and had asked Jackie to start sleeping with him, Pat was fifteen, seeing her boyfriend Mark, and sleeping with every man possible. This is when Pat became pregnant with Jessie, and though she was dating Mark at the time, it is unlikely he was the father.
I learned from the Discovery Channel (or maybe it was the Learning Channel) that when women are unfaithful, there are various mechanisms that work to make a woman more or less likely to become impregnated by any given man. For example, this is what happened when Pat got pregnant:
Pat was unusual in her ability to have an orgasm at a very young age. Three days before she got pregnant, she had sex with a guy she met at a football game. He had a condom, so the only consequence was an orgasm. But having an orgasm make a woman's uterus more acidic, a condition which destroys sperm cells.
The next night, Pat went out with Mark, and as happened with every date they ever went on, they had sex, and she had an orgasm. This, as well as the sex from the night before, caused the acidity of her uterus to increase even more, killing a large number of his sperm. But Mark believed she was unfaithful, so, due to an unconscious mechanism we don't understand, he ejaculated twice the number of sperm into her than usual, though most were either slower sperm that act as a net to slow foreign sperm or killer sperm that killed any other sperm it ran into. Thus, his sperm and her own acidity protected her for the next five days from any other sperm.
But late that night, one of her friends, Jim, came over to her house, snuck in through her window, and had sex with her. Her uterus wasn't nearly as acidic by then, and she orgasmed at the same time he did, pulling his sperm deeper into her before it made her uterus acidic. He, too, produced a large number of killer sperm, which went to work against the sperm from Mark, killing many of them.
The next night, she had sex with yet another of her friends, Robert, again orgasming at the same time he did, pulling more of his sperm into her, where his, Mark's, and Jim's killer sperms tried to destroy as many of each others’ fertile sperm as they could find that had made it past the barrier Mark's sperm had created.
I don’t need to go into any greater detail about the other times she had sex with Mark, or who else she slept with that week, because it was sometime during that day that one of the fertile sperm from one of the three boys (at sixteen, they were all still boys) made it to the egg traveling down her fallopian tube, broke through the protein barrier surrounding it, and fertilized the egg, which continued traveling down the fallopian tube as it began dividing over the next few days before reaching the uterus and embedding itself there to finish developing into Jessie.
Two months later, she told Mark she was pregnant and that it was his. He told her he'd help take care of the child, but he didn't want to get married. They had already broken up and were dating other people. Mark's new girlfriend didn't take it too well, though, and broke up with him a week later. Pat's new boyfriend took advantage of the situation, knowing she couldn't get pregnant, and only broke up with her after he thought she had become too unattractive with her bulging belly.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Chapter 9
Last night Donna and I got into a huge argument. The origin of the argument was bizarre. We were over a friend's house and had finished watching this movie called "Pi," which was about a numbers theorist who comes up with the numerological name for God while he's looking for the way to figure out the pattern behind the stock market. Throughout the movie, images of chaos were used, so I made some comments about chaos theory and about how people are using it to try to understand things like the stock market. On the way home, she said she didn't believe there was just one number that could describe everything, so she didn't believe in chaos theory. I said I agreed that there wasn't just one number, but that there was probably a mathematical formula that could describe everything - we just hadn't found it, and that what she described wasn't chaos theory at all.
When I tried to explain that chaos theory said that things that appeared to have patterns were actually chaotic in nature, while things that appeared random actually had strange patterns underlying them, she said she didn't care about chaos theory and didn't believe in it. I wondered how she could refuse to believe in something she didn't understand, and she repeated that she didn't care. So I told her I didn't care to be with someone who preferred to remain ignorant her entire life.
Now, Donna is almost finished with her B.A. in nursing, so she's not exactly stupid, but at the same time, she's never shown much interested in learning anything she hasn't had to. I'm addicted to learning new things. I suspect she feels inferior to me for that reason, so that is a sore spot for her, and she started yelling and I started yelling back and she slapped me and I returned the favor, for which I immediately apologized, explaining if she hadn't slapped me, I wouldn't have slapped her. In the argument, I accused her of being a liar, of misrepresenting herself for, among other things, refusing to get a job after she said she would when we moved down here. (I'm working 40 hours a week and attending Graduate school full time while she sits around the house and watches T.V. or plays on the computer while not keeping the house cleaned or the dishes washed or doing the laundry in time for me to have clean socks (most recent), which is the least she could do since she's not going to work and only going to school). After accusing her of sponging off of me in retaliation against the other men she's had to support all her life, she went through this ridiculous, childish litany of things she "must" be lying about, ranging from past boyfriends to her mother dying, then finally admitted to what I'd accused her of by saying she wanted to see what it was like to have someone take care of her. I told her the truth and said I would love to take care of her, but that I can't. I'm behind on my credit card bills, my phone has been shut off for months, and I'm lucky if I can pay the electricity bill every other month - all because she wanted to see what it's like to have someone take care of her. She's ruined my credit to be spoiled.
By the end of the argument, she had a list of things I had accused her of lying about, and she had only managed to find one thing I had lied to her about: I had promised to never hit her. And I had promised. Because I despise abusive people. But I never expected to live with a woman who would make the Dalai Lama want to hit her. Now don't get me wrong -- I never actually hit her until last night, after she slapped me first, but I had thrown a plastic spaghetti scoop at her when we were cooking and she was mad and throwing the spaghetti in the water like a spoiled child. I was actually throwing the spaghetti scoop to her, telling her to cook the meal herself if she was going to act that way, but it hit her arm instead, and I instantly apologized.
There was also another thing I told her last night. She asked me if I loved her, and I said, Yes, I did love her. But I didn't like her, and the fact that I loved someone like her was a bad reflection on me and the kind of person I was. That was about the only thing she didn't get mad about last night. I would think most women would have gotten mad if they were told something like that. But it's true. I don't like her. On so many levels she represents the very things I like least in people. So why am I sleeping with her? Why do I love her? I don't know. I wish I did.
So what does this have to do with this novel? I hate to say it, but I can see Michel and Sarah acting the same way if they moved in together. Only, Michel would be the one acting childish.
When I tried to explain that chaos theory said that things that appeared to have patterns were actually chaotic in nature, while things that appeared random actually had strange patterns underlying them, she said she didn't care about chaos theory and didn't believe in it. I wondered how she could refuse to believe in something she didn't understand, and she repeated that she didn't care. So I told her I didn't care to be with someone who preferred to remain ignorant her entire life.
Now, Donna is almost finished with her B.A. in nursing, so she's not exactly stupid, but at the same time, she's never shown much interested in learning anything she hasn't had to. I'm addicted to learning new things. I suspect she feels inferior to me for that reason, so that is a sore spot for her, and she started yelling and I started yelling back and she slapped me and I returned the favor, for which I immediately apologized, explaining if she hadn't slapped me, I wouldn't have slapped her. In the argument, I accused her of being a liar, of misrepresenting herself for, among other things, refusing to get a job after she said she would when we moved down here. (I'm working 40 hours a week and attending Graduate school full time while she sits around the house and watches T.V. or plays on the computer while not keeping the house cleaned or the dishes washed or doing the laundry in time for me to have clean socks (most recent), which is the least she could do since she's not going to work and only going to school). After accusing her of sponging off of me in retaliation against the other men she's had to support all her life, she went through this ridiculous, childish litany of things she "must" be lying about, ranging from past boyfriends to her mother dying, then finally admitted to what I'd accused her of by saying she wanted to see what it was like to have someone take care of her. I told her the truth and said I would love to take care of her, but that I can't. I'm behind on my credit card bills, my phone has been shut off for months, and I'm lucky if I can pay the electricity bill every other month - all because she wanted to see what it's like to have someone take care of her. She's ruined my credit to be spoiled.
By the end of the argument, she had a list of things I had accused her of lying about, and she had only managed to find one thing I had lied to her about: I had promised to never hit her. And I had promised. Because I despise abusive people. But I never expected to live with a woman who would make the Dalai Lama want to hit her. Now don't get me wrong -- I never actually hit her until last night, after she slapped me first, but I had thrown a plastic spaghetti scoop at her when we were cooking and she was mad and throwing the spaghetti in the water like a spoiled child. I was actually throwing the spaghetti scoop to her, telling her to cook the meal herself if she was going to act that way, but it hit her arm instead, and I instantly apologized.
There was also another thing I told her last night. She asked me if I loved her, and I said, Yes, I did love her. But I didn't like her, and the fact that I loved someone like her was a bad reflection on me and the kind of person I was. That was about the only thing she didn't get mad about last night. I would think most women would have gotten mad if they were told something like that. But it's true. I don't like her. On so many levels she represents the very things I like least in people. So why am I sleeping with her? Why do I love her? I don't know. I wish I did.
So what does this have to do with this novel? I hate to say it, but I can see Michel and Sarah acting the same way if they moved in together. Only, Michel would be the one acting childish.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Chapter 8
Michel eventually puts down his story and lies down on the couch. The couch was also his bed, and he had not put it up, so he figured Jackie must have had company over earlier. He wonders who it was, but finds his thoughts turning instead to wondering if he could get Jackie to have sex with him. It had been two weeks since he had had sex with anybody, and that was the day before he and Jackie broke up. He decides he needs to either get together with Sarah soon, or else he and Jackie were going to have to discuss whether they could become fuck-buddies. She didn't have a boyfriend yet. He may be able to talk her into it. He decides to go discuss it with her.
Michel knocks on Jackie's door. The T.V. is on. "What?"
"You busy?"
"I was fixing to watch Babylon Five."
"They’re just DVDs."
"I haven't gotten to see them all."
"Look, I'm horny."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"When was the last time you fucked anybody?"
"I got toys."
"And I've got my hand, but it's not nearly as much fun or enjoyable."
"We broke up, remember?"
"What does that have to do with fucking?"
"So, what? You just want to fuck or something? No relationship?"
"No relationship. Just sex."
"What about your girlfriend, Sarah?"
"She's not my girlfriend. We’re a writers’ group."
"What if that changes?"
"Then we'll stop fucking."
"No."
"No?"
"That's not fair. Why should I stop getting dick just because you started getting pussy? You're the one who approached me, remember?"
"Won't you want to stop fucking me if you get a boyfriend?"
"Not if I can help it. But if worse came to worse, then yes I would. But I didn't approach you with this proposition. You approached me."
"So if I start fucking you, I have to keep fucking you?"
"So long as we're roommates."
Michel thinks for a few seconds. "So when can we fuck?"
"Right after dinner and Babylon Five."
"I'll be in the living room when you're ready."
I can understand Michel's position. If you are used to having sex and are suddenly cut off, you miss it. It's Saturday and I haven't fucked my girlfriend since Monday. Before that, it was the Saturday before, over a week. Most men probably wouldn't complain (well, they probably would, but wouldn’t actually mean it), except that I have an extremely high libido. Most men say they want to have sex every day. I really do. Twice a day, or more, if Donna would let me. I sometimes want to more than I’m able to in any given day. But recently the amount of sex with Donna has gotten less and less, despite her claims before we moved in together that she was a nymphomaniac. If she is, she's the worst excuse for a nympho I've ever seen. Before now, I could not understand how men could cheat on their girlfriends or wives. But after only having sex once in a two-week period, I'm beginning to understand. Before we moved in together, all she wanted to do when we were together was have sex. Now, nothing.
Another thing that has been bothering me is her constantly talking about what her next boyfriend is going to be like. She quickly qualifies it by saying, "If we don't work out," but I'm not that naive. I'm beginning to wonder when she's going to decide she doesn't love me anymore. She won't let me touch her, she won't let me fuck her, she's always talking about other men and what her next boyfriend is going to be like. I'm afraid she's trying to figure out a way to leave me. I wonder if she weren't so far from home if she wouldn't have left me by now. She's been talking about moving in with that girl Maddy she's friends with -- could that be her plan, to move in with her and move out? Then why has she been talking about the three of us moving in together? Donna's always said she was bi, but I never saw any actual evidence of it. Maybe Maddy as a transition out? Is she cheating on me with Maddy even now? I never thought of that until now.
In any case, Jackie solved that problem by breaking up with Michel, but not leaving him. She had started doing the same things to Michel before she finally told him she wanted to break up. It did not surprise Michel that she immediately started dating someone (something I don't fear from Donna), though she broke up with that boyfriend after only a week. Michel and Jackie had agreed to continue being roommates to save on rent, and because both their names were on the lease, and it was not going to be up for another eight months. Neither wanted to lose their deposit. It was not a perfect arrangement, but they mostly stayed out of each others' way. Until they agreed to start having sex again. Avoiding each other seemed ridiculous after that.
Michel knocks on Jackie's door. The T.V. is on. "What?"
"You busy?"
"I was fixing to watch Babylon Five."
"They’re just DVDs."
"I haven't gotten to see them all."
"Look, I'm horny."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"When was the last time you fucked anybody?"
"I got toys."
"And I've got my hand, but it's not nearly as much fun or enjoyable."
"We broke up, remember?"
"What does that have to do with fucking?"
"So, what? You just want to fuck or something? No relationship?"
"No relationship. Just sex."
"What about your girlfriend, Sarah?"
"She's not my girlfriend. We’re a writers’ group."
"What if that changes?"
"Then we'll stop fucking."
"No."
"No?"
"That's not fair. Why should I stop getting dick just because you started getting pussy? You're the one who approached me, remember?"
"Won't you want to stop fucking me if you get a boyfriend?"
"Not if I can help it. But if worse came to worse, then yes I would. But I didn't approach you with this proposition. You approached me."
"So if I start fucking you, I have to keep fucking you?"
"So long as we're roommates."
Michel thinks for a few seconds. "So when can we fuck?"
"Right after dinner and Babylon Five."
"I'll be in the living room when you're ready."
I can understand Michel's position. If you are used to having sex and are suddenly cut off, you miss it. It's Saturday and I haven't fucked my girlfriend since Monday. Before that, it was the Saturday before, over a week. Most men probably wouldn't complain (well, they probably would, but wouldn’t actually mean it), except that I have an extremely high libido. Most men say they want to have sex every day. I really do. Twice a day, or more, if Donna would let me. I sometimes want to more than I’m able to in any given day. But recently the amount of sex with Donna has gotten less and less, despite her claims before we moved in together that she was a nymphomaniac. If she is, she's the worst excuse for a nympho I've ever seen. Before now, I could not understand how men could cheat on their girlfriends or wives. But after only having sex once in a two-week period, I'm beginning to understand. Before we moved in together, all she wanted to do when we were together was have sex. Now, nothing.
Another thing that has been bothering me is her constantly talking about what her next boyfriend is going to be like. She quickly qualifies it by saying, "If we don't work out," but I'm not that naive. I'm beginning to wonder when she's going to decide she doesn't love me anymore. She won't let me touch her, she won't let me fuck her, she's always talking about other men and what her next boyfriend is going to be like. I'm afraid she's trying to figure out a way to leave me. I wonder if she weren't so far from home if she wouldn't have left me by now. She's been talking about moving in with that girl Maddy she's friends with -- could that be her plan, to move in with her and move out? Then why has she been talking about the three of us moving in together? Donna's always said she was bi, but I never saw any actual evidence of it. Maybe Maddy as a transition out? Is she cheating on me with Maddy even now? I never thought of that until now.
In any case, Jackie solved that problem by breaking up with Michel, but not leaving him. She had started doing the same things to Michel before she finally told him she wanted to break up. It did not surprise Michel that she immediately started dating someone (something I don't fear from Donna), though she broke up with that boyfriend after only a week. Michel and Jackie had agreed to continue being roommates to save on rent, and because both their names were on the lease, and it was not going to be up for another eight months. Neither wanted to lose their deposit. It was not a perfect arrangement, but they mostly stayed out of each others' way. Until they agreed to start having sex again. Avoiding each other seemed ridiculous after that.
Chapter 19
Michel returned as Sarah finished the last page. “Where do you want me to put these?” Michel asked, holding up the bags.
“Put the milk in the ‘fridge. Put the rest on the cupboard, and I’ll put it up.”
Michel complied, and asked as he returned, “You finish it?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Good exposition. I learned a lot in this chapter. What are you going to do with the next chapter?”
“I think it’ll be the first chapter of his book.”
“Are you going to just have parts of his novel, or are you planning to have a novel within a novel?”
“I was thinking novel within novel. I think it would be cruel to tease people with only excerpts.”
“I could see that. But wouldn’t putting excerpts of his novel in your novel break up the action?”
“Sure. I think it will create dramatic tension -- you have to read this chapter from his novel to understand what is going on in his head, but reading it causes you to have to wait for the next series of actions from the “real” characters.”
“Won’t that draw attention to the fact that they aren’t real people?”
“I don’t know. Probably. What’s wrong with that? They’re not real people.”
“
But people like to think of the characters as real.”
“Maybe, but they’re not going to get it from my novel.”
“You may not have too many people reading it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll create my own audience. Why would people want to read the same expected things every time? This will be unexpected, fresh and new. Why wouldn’t people want to read something like that?”
“We think a lot of ourselves don’t we?” Sarah said.
“I’m not saying I’ll be able to pull it off like I imagine it. But I think the idea is a good one.”
“I can’t argue with that. But you’re already marginalizing your audience with the gay main characters... why would you want to do it even more with this structure?”
“It’s an experimental structure. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing...”
“Look, if you don’t like it, say so...”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was thinking of marketability...”
“I’m not worried about marketability. You’re thinking of vertical sales, where the book makes a ton of money right away, but then peters off into oblivion. I’m thinking of horizontal sales, where I sell a few thousand this year, then a few thousand the next year, and I sell a steady number of books for decades - or even have the sale of my book go up over the years...”
“Great literature does that. Hemingway and Faulkner do that. Do you really think this novel is that caliber of a story?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No, I’m dreaming big. There’s a difference.”
“Put the milk in the ‘fridge. Put the rest on the cupboard, and I’ll put it up.”
Michel complied, and asked as he returned, “You finish it?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Good exposition. I learned a lot in this chapter. What are you going to do with the next chapter?”
“I think it’ll be the first chapter of his book.”
“Are you going to just have parts of his novel, or are you planning to have a novel within a novel?”
“I was thinking novel within novel. I think it would be cruel to tease people with only excerpts.”
“I could see that. But wouldn’t putting excerpts of his novel in your novel break up the action?”
“Sure. I think it will create dramatic tension -- you have to read this chapter from his novel to understand what is going on in his head, but reading it causes you to have to wait for the next series of actions from the “real” characters.”
“Won’t that draw attention to the fact that they aren’t real people?”
“I don’t know. Probably. What’s wrong with that? They’re not real people.”
“
But people like to think of the characters as real.”
“Maybe, but they’re not going to get it from my novel.”
“You may not have too many people reading it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll create my own audience. Why would people want to read the same expected things every time? This will be unexpected, fresh and new. Why wouldn’t people want to read something like that?”
“We think a lot of ourselves don’t we?” Sarah said.
“I’m not saying I’ll be able to pull it off like I imagine it. But I think the idea is a good one.”
“I can’t argue with that. But you’re already marginalizing your audience with the gay main characters... why would you want to do it even more with this structure?”
“It’s an experimental structure. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing...”
“Look, if you don’t like it, say so...”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was thinking of marketability...”
“I’m not worried about marketability. You’re thinking of vertical sales, where the book makes a ton of money right away, but then peters off into oblivion. I’m thinking of horizontal sales, where I sell a few thousand this year, then a few thousand the next year, and I sell a steady number of books for decades - or even have the sale of my book go up over the years...”
“Great literature does that. Hemingway and Faulkner do that. Do you really think this novel is that caliber of a story?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No, I’m dreaming big. There’s a difference.”
Chapter 22
Yesterday I learned my grandmother has two months to a year left to live. Why does it matter so much to me? She raised me. My mom abandoned me to join some cult, and nobody ever heard from her again.
A few months ago, doctors found a cyst on my grandmother's lung. They planned to remove it, along with the lower lobe of her lung. A minor operation. But shortly thereafter, she became sick, and they couldn’t operate until she became well. She never became well. This month they discovered my mother’s lungs were covered in cancer, a fast-growing sarcoma that would fill her chest cavity. Her body’s already not making any new blood.
It all happened so fast. The last time I saw her was in May, at my brother’s graduation. Admittedly, she was starting to look a little old, but she was, after all, over sixty. Still, she had seemed to age all of a sudden. Then, in a few months, the cyst. Then, the sickness. Now, she’s going to die within a year. I don’t know how my grandfather will survive this news. He’s already had so many strokes. How can he survive it? If he does survive the news, I doubt he will survive her death.
And here I sit in Richardson, TX, a flurry of disappointments. I’m living with my girlfriend, which they do not approve of, I’m getting a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which they consider a waste of their money, and, and this is a disappointment for me as well as my grandmother, she will never get to see her grandchildren. She’ll be dead before any are conceived. But right now, I have to finish the semester. Grandma won’t be home much before then anyway, I don’t think. Then I’ll take some time off from work and fly home. It may be the last time I see her. I know my grandmother. The news of her immanent death (they are supposed to tell her today) alone could kill her. It’s already beginning to kill a little bit of me.
A few months ago, doctors found a cyst on my grandmother's lung. They planned to remove it, along with the lower lobe of her lung. A minor operation. But shortly thereafter, she became sick, and they couldn’t operate until she became well. She never became well. This month they discovered my mother’s lungs were covered in cancer, a fast-growing sarcoma that would fill her chest cavity. Her body’s already not making any new blood.
It all happened so fast. The last time I saw her was in May, at my brother’s graduation. Admittedly, she was starting to look a little old, but she was, after all, over sixty. Still, she had seemed to age all of a sudden. Then, in a few months, the cyst. Then, the sickness. Now, she’s going to die within a year. I don’t know how my grandfather will survive this news. He’s already had so many strokes. How can he survive it? If he does survive the news, I doubt he will survive her death.
And here I sit in Richardson, TX, a flurry of disappointments. I’m living with my girlfriend, which they do not approve of, I’m getting a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which they consider a waste of their money, and, and this is a disappointment for me as well as my grandmother, she will never get to see her grandchildren. She’ll be dead before any are conceived. But right now, I have to finish the semester. Grandma won’t be home much before then anyway, I don’t think. Then I’ll take some time off from work and fly home. It may be the last time I see her. I know my grandmother. The news of her immanent death (they are supposed to tell her today) alone could kill her. It’s already beginning to kill a little bit of me.
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