Proto-Proposal

The Container in Contemporary Postmodern Metafiction

It has been said by those who know what they're talking about that metafiction is a response to a worry that the world of literary fiction has grown stale—and one might be tempted to point to some of the books of the last decade as evidence that this has occurred. One could further say (if one were so inclined) that if books grow stale as a platform for narratives, then Amazon.com president Jeff Bezos will be happy to see we have become a paperless society; the container does not matter, according to Bezos, provided the narrative survives¹. This is of course completely untrue: the container can (and does) provide crucial interpretive information that can hinge upon the shape of the book itself. In other words, the shape of the book and the shape of the text² can influence the meaning of a text. The shape of the text can be replicated in other forms, but the shape of the book is something else altogether. Using the works of Mark Z Danielewski (House of Leaves, Only Revolutions), the following questions will be addressed: What is the relationship between the structure of a text and its meaning and how does Danielewski address this relationship in his novels (or in other words, why is the container important)? What role has emerging technology played in the experiments seen in contemporary metafictional novels? Finally, why is any of this important?

There are a few ways to tackle these questions, but as metafictional authors are notorious for allowing their texts to tell stories while commenting on the act of storytelling I see no better method than allowing the books to speak for themselves. After laying down a firm critical framework—describing just what sort of literature Danielewski has been writing, for example,³ as well as explaining the sorts of theories that he is working off of in the creation of these novels—the real analysis of the texts can begin. A close reading of the texts will not only reveal the theories of the relationship between structure and meaning, but are themselves examples of that very same relationship. In the case of Only Revolutions, for example, the book's structure not only emphasizes the circular nature of the narrative, but it gives the two protagonists something to struggle against—a structure without which they could not be free in the first place. House of Leaves mimics the labyrinthine nature of the house on Ash Tree Lane through the very way in which the text is presented, a dizzying maze of footnotes that lead to dead ends, contradictory evidence, and voices arguing for dominance. Most importantly, both books allow the reader to approach the text in multiple ways.

Bibliography

Aarseth, Espen, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature, (London: Johns Hopkins University Press) 1997

Benzon, Kiki, 'Revolution 2: An Interview with Mark Z. Danielewski,' Electronic Book Review, (03-20-2007), <http://www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/wuc/regulated> [accessed 03 December 2009]

Brick, Martin, 'Blueprint(s): Rubric for a Deconstructed Age in House of Leaves,' Philament 2 (Jan 2004), <http://www.arts.usyd.edu.au/publications/philament/issue2_Critique_Brick.htm>, [accessed 03 December 2009]

Danielewski, Mark Z, House of Leaves (New York: Pantheon, 2000)

• Only Revolutions (New York: Pantheon, 2006)
  

Derrida, Jaques, Writing and Difference trans. Alan Bass (London: Routledge) 2001

Hamilton, Natalie, 'The A-Mazing House: The Labyrinth as Theme and Form in Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves,' Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, 50:1, (Fall 2008) 3-15

Hanson, Mark, 'The Digital Topography of Mark Z Danielewski's House of Leaves,' Contemporary Literature 45:4 (Winter 2004) 597-636

Hayles, N. Katherine, 'Saving the Subject: Remediation in House of Leaves,' American Literature 74:4 (2002) 779-806

• Writing Machines, (London: MIT Press) 2002
  

McCaffery, Larry and Sinda Gregory, 'Haunted House—An Interview with Mark Z. Danielewski,' Critique 44:2 (Winter 2003) 99-135

Rapatzikou, Tatiani. 'Print Novels and the Mark of the Digital: Mark Z. Danielewski's Only Revolutions (2006) and Media Convergence,' Interdisciplinary.net, <http://www.inter-disciplinary.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/rapatzikou-paper.pdf> [accessed 3 December 2009]

Waugh, Patricia, Metafiction, (London: Routledge) 2003

1 'Outbooking the Book: Jeff Bezos, Chairman, President and CEO, Amazon.com' All Things Digital, (28 May 2008), <http://d6.allthingsd.com/20080528/bezos/> [accessed 28 November 2009]

2Font choice and font size

3It has been described as both a work of ergodic fiction and a post-textual novel, two terms which are not, perhaps, mutually exclusive.

This too shall pass (I hope)

The Lindy Hop

Dance, you mad whirling bastards!  Kick up your heels thusly!

Dancing is just one of those things

I cannot do (sober) unless it is a full moon.  Lycanthropy and coordination are

remarkably similar conditions...  So why do I sometimes

think that

I should

dance

with

you?

New thought:

Where were you when Michael Flatly became intolerable to watch?  I don't remember, myself,

not when there are other things to never forget remembering.  Never remember.

Yell up the stairs saying hello for the first time or the

most recent time (time being what it was, it will be impossible to have been recalling)

did they actually know just what is/couldbe/wouldbe/won'tbe/am?

Thump.  Thump.

The dancers jump.

Twist. Twist.

Methinks they're pissed.

Flop, flap.

The people applaud.

In Which I am not a Poet

This does not make me a poet

There might be some temptation you see to say that now, now that I haven't written anything that

isn't poetry

isn't essay

isn't anything like a lie

for a while that I have stopped being author to become a poet.

I never thought much of the machinations of the universe (university)

not when it came to what it did to me (not free, that's the solution for—getting head of myself).

There are only a few times a month when I am write.

Savor this one.  Cleverness offset by a writing mistake.

Yin and yang.

I stole that from a conversation we had once.  Originality is a grand thing.

This is stolen too:

Do you want to become a lonely grumpy smartass?

That's implying I'm not already.

I made this poetic by saying it was poetic.  Don't you agree?

Line breaks wear down returns.  There is an ancient mariner, and he refuses to pay his fee.

Fi.

Fo.

Fum.

We done here?

Yeah, we're done.

What is Language and Why does it Matter?

  Language, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is difficult to pin down.  Even this concept has multiple meanings; “The system of spoken or written communication used by a particular country, people, community, etc., typically consisting of words used within a regular grammatical and syntactic structure,” “the vocal sounds by which mammals and birds communicate,” “A means of communicating other than by the use of words,” (emphasis mine) and even “The style of a literary composition; (also) the wording of a document, statute, etc.”  There are more meanings to the word, which is perhaps the problem in a nutshell: Language cannot be described without the use of itself.  That is to say, one must use language in order to describe language.  Any discussion of the use language must, therefore, begin with the acknowledgement that language is itself as nebulous as any other term.

  It is not the intention of this essay to gaze too deeply into the abyss that lurks behind the assigned meaning(s) of a word, but it illustrates an inherent instability in the practice of language that has been noted by other writers and will continue to be noticed and commented upon; it will be the case that writers and indeed anyone who speaks (any) language(s) will forever have to wrestle with language in order to convey the meaning they want to convey, or at least a meaning that can be called close enough for comfort (or government work, or your own phrase of choice).  This still does not come any closer to saying what language is, though it does come closer to saying why it's important; language is perhaps the best possible (though imperfect) method for transmission of thoughts short of telepathy.

  Language allows the world to if nothing else make slightly more sense than it would otherwise, and allows the people of the world to make a kind of sense of one another.  Language makes sense of things, categorizes things, expresses what could not be otherwise expressed.  This is the importance of language, this is why language matters.  Language's rather nebulous nature, however, means that using language to communicate complex ideas takes a special amount of care and precision.  True mastery of language comes from being able to communicate one's ideas clearly and effectively.  To say what needs to be said in a way that the meaning is left to little doubt, to utilize all the tools which have been created for the management of language over centuries of practice (metaphor, allegory, etc.), to use the rules of style and form that had been agreed upon for forms of fiction and essay and poetry—that is what separates a writing novice from a true craftsman, so to speak.  In the beginning, anyway...

Time, Space, Other Stuff

"I wish to travel through time," the old man said, sitting on his stoop.

"That's easy.  Just keep sitting there and you'll do it without much trouble."  The dapper-looking man stood leaning on his cane, the obvious 'I-have-lots-of-stops-to-make-today' pose.  He seemed to be resisting the urge to check his watch.  "You may even make it all the way to tomorrow in but a few hours."

A snort of impatience escaped the old man's nose.  "You know that's not what I meant, sir, and to pretend you didn't is a waste of time for the both of us."

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong, Mister Creely."  The dapper-looking man's smile could have stretched across the street and blocked traffic.  "Time is only a concern for those who can't move around it, and that is a talent which I possess.  A talent which, if I'm not mistaken, is what caused you to contact me in the first place."

"So you do know how to get around time."  Mister Creely looked smug.  "I knew you did, even if you wouldn't come right out and say so over the phone."

"Of course not!  Phones are not to be trusted with this sort of information."  The dapper-looking man's smile stretched even wider, though it was clear from a slight twitch that he clearly felt as if he'd lost the last exchange.  "Nor, I should add, are front lawns especially the best area to have this sort of conversation."

"Too bad.  I've heard all about you, so I'll thank you to stay exactly where you are while we conduct our business."  This statement was punctuated by a glint of gunmetal in Creely's hand.  The blanket over his legs concealed the rest.

This provoked laughter from the dapper-looking man.  "Very good, very good!  It wouldn't do you any good if I intended to do you harm, but I'm glad to see that you're the clever sort of fellow who knows to do his homework nonetheless.  Well then, I'm all ears, Mister Creely.  What do you propose to offer me in return for my secrets?"

Strange Happenings

I have, of late, become rather discontented with Barry Macsweeny.  We didn't get along from the get-go, and I find his poetry trite and boring.  It is small wonder to me that his book is out of print, because he sucks.  But what use is my opinion?  You won't have to read him unless you happen to be taking postmodern poetics as well, which you aren't.  Probably.

But I am, and it has made me hate the man.  Well, not the man, but certainly I don't like his poetry very much.  There's no playing around in it!  It's all the same sort of images and themes we've seen before, or maybe I'm just getting cynical.  Which is possible.  Of course.

And now I am in a strange place, brain-wise.  I find myself reading him and thinking that I want to be reading something else, something that isn't Macsweeny's poetry.  So I turn to my shelf, and consider it closely, and (instead of a novel) I take down a collection of Bernstein's poetry I got from the library and haven't had the chance to read, and I think what the fuck just happened here?

I wanted a break from work, so I pulled down a book of poetry?  I am reading this poetry for pleasure, rather than to feed any sort of research, or because I have to, or anything so strange as that.  I pulled the book down because I enjoy reading Charles 'motherfucking' Bernstein and no other reason.

At some point, I became
incredibly
fucking
pretentious.

Oh Come ON.

It's been some time now, and I hate that fact.  I hate the fact that things can only be kept going while I'm more or less depressed or bored or exhausted.  Why do I have to be good at complaining but absolutely lousy at explaining why things are awesome and, I should add, are likely to remain awesome for the foreseeable future?

The hell of it is, I love a happy ending.  I want everyone to get at least one story that ends happily, but for whatever reason every time I end happily I have this voice saying "it didn't last, you know.  Snow White got old or her people realized how brutal she'd been to the previous queen and threw her out on her ass; the prince got poisoned by a bad bit of fish and died, and life was nasty, brutish, and short.  Which is an outright lie, of course.  The bit of me that enjoys writing, that secretly hopes that something happens in 2012 (not the end of the world, but I'm quite partial to the thought that magic will return and we'll have wizards and dragons again) and is generally happy in the world wants to tell a story, goddammit, and it will probably never get the chance because I come up with happy endings when I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tend not to be able to write.

Until today, which finds me not thrilled but certainly less angry than usual, making a post about not being able to write.  Writing about writer's block.  Confessing, here and now, that I need very badly to stop reading so much poetry because every time I do I get the urge to try writing it again.

I'm not a fan of the poems I write.  I resist the urge whenever possible, but the Language poets seem to have their hooks in me, if only because I cannot help but like the idea of just throwing words together because they sound neat rather than because of any great meaning they may have.  That's the sort of thing that makes me think strange thoughts, and having never (at least not in recent memory) written anything that rhymes consistently or at all it's got me rather intrigued.  We'll see what happens, but I warn you that it could all come to nothing.  In fact; it probably will come to nothing, and that ain't just the cynicism talking.  That's good old fashioned common sense.

Fucking Charles Bernstein and his Klupzy Girls.

It's shit, right?

"Love," he says, deep into his drink by this point and just about ready to get philosophical, "is a lot like shit."

"Bravo," remarks his drinking companion dryly, unimpressed by this seemingly cynical statement.  "I doubt very much, my friend, that what you have just said can go any further than a slightly more vulgar way of saying that old standby 'love stinks.'"

"That is precisely, my good man, where you are completely fucking wrong."  He takes a moment now to stifle a belch just in case there are any ladies present and continues, occasionally pausing to sip from a glass of something or other, he can't really remember anymore what it is.  "Both shit and love can come upon you suddenly, or slowly.  You may spend all day with a slow need to shit building, or you can eat the wrong thing and have to shit immediately.  Likewise, love is something that can take its time building up, or in some cases it can be almost instantaneous.  It depends on the person, and the circumstances."

"And the spiciness of the dish, of course."  A wag calls out from the small crowd that has gathered, shortly before realizing that he really should have thought of a better joke to make than that.

"Perhaps so," the speaker says with a beatific smile that lets the wag know that he could embarrass him right now, but will choose not to do so out of the depths of his merciful nature, "but there is more to it than this."

"Pray tell, enlighten us then."  The speaker's drinking companion smiles with a trace of humor.  "Let's see how far you can take this ridiculous simile."

The speaker smiles again, and wags a finger at his friend.  "A challenge that I shall rise to, though it be laughably easy.  For love, sir, like shit, can be very messy as well.  Not in the literal sense, I suppose, though it can involve its fair share of property damage when it goes ill, but it is a very complex thing for some, and can, like a bad shit, make one feel as if death would be a mercy."

A hush has descended over the crowd now, as each listener privately recalled such a moment in their own lives that had in fact perfectly proven the speaker's point.  There was also a break as the speaker realized he'd been holding an empty glass for the last few minutes and made an assault on the bar to remedy the situation.  His empty glass having been exchanged for a full one, he weaved his way back through the maze of tables and patrons and sat down, fully aware of the expectant looks of those seated nearby, and fully committed to milking it for as long as possible.

"So," he finally says with a smile, after he has taken a few long draughts, "shit, and love.  You may find that forcing the issue with either love or shit will only cause unnecessary strain and even physical pain.  You may get out alive, of course—and it may even all work out in the end for you despite your rash haste—but you'll know deep down that it could have been better than it was, and that will eventually make everything that you've done seem foolish and eat away at whatever enjoyment you get like a sinister canker.  A good shit will happen with very little physical effort, just like love will develop quite naturally (provided, of course, one doesn't do anything stupid).  Sometimes one must admit that one must give up and merely get off the toilet while things develop a little further."

Even the speaker's drinking companion is slightly impressed now, leaning closer and even occasionally raising an eyebrow to show surprise at a particular point.  The speaker himself is feeling slightly confused as to where he is getting these ideas, they seem to flow from some hidden part of his mind that has, he assumes, always known these things to be true and only now had the opportunity to spread the world.  Idly he wonders if perhaps this is how the great philosophers felt when they gave their talks.

"We all act differently when it comes to our shit.  Some will trumpet their successes, urging people to come in and observe what they have wrought with only their digestive system and some food.  Others cannot bear the thought of it being widely known they shit at all, and will in fact endeavor to cultivate an image of being a shitless being, waiting until in the privacy of their home to do the deed.  And so it is with love:  some choose to show their love to the world, and others deny they have ever felt the emotion.  But know this:  Everyone shits, and everyone loves."

The entire bar erupts into spontaneous applause, men and women embrace, and a few people stand up and stride into the bathrooms with a new sense of purpose.  The speaker's companion rolls his eyes and nudges his companion.  "Well, I suppose I must confess to being impressed.  Did you have that speech planned beforehand, by any chance?"

"Nah," the speaker says, having come down from the initial rush of excitement that comes from being wildly applauded by a room full of strangers (well, mostly strangers).  "I pulled the whole thing out of my ass."

Somewhere, a drummer feels the urge to do a rimshot, and doesn't know why.

Owie.

A sort of stumbling, lurching feeling that starts in the chest and dives downward, burrowing through lungs, stomach, intestines, hips, knees, feet, leaving you wanting to collapse, fall in a heap on the floor (throw out your arms to catch yourself, maybe land on your knees bowing as if before an altar) but no.  No you aren't going to be the one to fall first, have some goddamned dignity for once in your life, thrust a fist into your own stomach or dig your nails into your palms and feel your head knit itself back together into a meaningful order (or meaningful anarchy, thoughts that were rushing outward turn and rush inward, reaching critical mass as another wave seems to come from the left, sending your head spinning stumble sideways into a wall, throw a hand out to wave off offers of assistance, "I'm okay, it's okay, don't worry about me").  Breathe heavily through your teeth and force yourself to stand at attention like some half-assed soldier, try shaking your head back and forth experimentally just to check balance, concentrate on one foot in front of the other.

Neck's gotten uncomfortably hot, blood pounding a little too fast, breath coming in gasps now loosen your collar and keep moving, you don't have far to go here just gotta make it upstairs to the medicine cabinet and then you'll be able to collapse, dissolve into spasms and sweat if you so choose but honestly you'll do a lot better if you

Someone mentions calling a doctor, the critical thing to do is stop them from bringing that into this, you know damn well they can't do anything but use a needle instead of a pill and either way you can't afford it, because needles are scary and fuck that.  Get through the door, grab the pill, take it, collapse against a wall, and there you are.

We have now reached your destination.  Enjoy the ride, such as it is.

Starting and Ending

It begins with water on a shore.  It is not a lake, it is not a river, it is not an ocean.  The sea, perhaps; something like the uncomfortable middle child of bodies of water, unable to be fresh water but unable to call itself an ocean unless in its dreams.  This sea is relatively calm, breakers hitting the shoreline again and again, making something for its own amusement.  Rocks are worn away by the water and time; the footprints of the sea.

The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks.  The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes.  And the rocks, they're predictable too:  he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him.  Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless.  They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that.  He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.

The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is.  It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped.  The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back.  At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.

Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day.  It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again.  But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.

But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles.  Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely.  The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.

Zombies, in Theory

I have a big confession to make.

I don't really like zombie films all that much.  The few zombie films I do like are either patently ridiculous (Army of Darkness, for example, which stretches the definition of what makes a zombie in the first place and what makes a reanimated skeletal army... at what point do you lose just enough flesh to be considered "skeleton warrior" instead of zombie anyway?) or contain zombies that are barely zombies at all (28 Days Later's zombies were not 'true' zombies because they didn't reanimate the dead, they just made you FUCKING CRAZY AND ANGRY).  I would venture to say the only 'true' zombie film I've watched and enjoyed was Sean of the Dead, and I only watched that because of Simon Pegg's presence and the bit where they throw the Batman soundtrack at a zombie.

In short, I like zombies in theory but not so much in practice; or at least not in cinematic practice.  I can read about zombies in books, or look at comics of them, and some of my favorite games involve the killing of zombies—but put a zombie on the silver screen and I'm likely to tune out completely.  I appear to have a very low threshold of icky things, and dudes chewing on  other dudes is apparently where I draw the line.  Zombie movies are almost too real for me, or maybe I just get tired of watching people get bitten and torn apart by ravening hordes of undead.  It doesn't help that most zombie movies are fucking boring, either.

I mean let's face it:  the vast majority of zombie movies fall into one of two categories:  AHH THE DEAD ARE RISING WHAT DO WE DO OH NO THE HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER or WE ARE THE MILITARY AND WILL SOLVE THIS PROBLEM OH WAIT NO WE WERE NOT PREPARED THIS HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER.  You can only see that so many times before it gets old (and very few people can really do it as well as Romero's Night of the Living Dead, which did the first one and did it well enough that it really doesn't bear re-doing over and over again).  I still remember trying to watch... I think it was Day of the Living Dead or something.  I don't remember clearly, just that this guy who I knew kept telling me it was a great zombie movie and I should see it.

The dead started popping out of graves, and ate some young punk rockers who were fucking in the graveyard, and grabbed some poor bastard in an ambulance.  By the end of that scene (which was probably like a half hour into the film) I turned the thing off.  It wasn't that I was particularly disturbed; this was late 70s/early 80s film, after all, and the only thing disturbing were the haircuts.  But the film was boring, and in such a visceral way that I almost would have rather been subjected to another viewing of Goodfellas (okay, let's not be too over the top.  Half of Goodfellas, maybe) than endure another second of the film.  Whenever I sit down to watch a zombie movie, it always winds up causing the same sort of visceral ennui, which is a paradoxical feeling I didn't know one could be capable of feeling.

So here I am, a dude who enjoys hunting zombies in Resident Evil even though it makes me wet myself in terror from time to time, and adores Left 4 Dead even though I no longer have the ability to play it, and who did a lot (and I mean a lot) of running around in Urban Dead before I forgot my login information (in fact, I will probably roll up a new Urban Dead account now that it's on my mind).

I am following the development of DoubleBear's ZRPG with the sort of rabid attention that normal people reserve for the development of their own children, and have already decided that if my computer cannot run it upon its release I will just have to get a new one, won't I?  Because it's a zombie RPG that focuses on the actual survival part of the scenario and not just killing zombies (which is enjoyable but to take that extra survival element and add it to the proceedings is just...  I mean come on, I'm a fucking English major specializing in postmodernism.  Yes I do want you to put extra thought into the societal concerns of a zombie outbreak, please).  I spend most of my free time fiddling around with my own zombie world, trying to think of the sort of things that Thomas Pynchon would put into his zombie books if he wrote them.  But put me in front of a zombie movie and my immediate response will be either "fuck this movie" or "seriously I don't need to see that many livers and shit guys cut it out."

So I guess what I am trying to say is that when I see trailers for a movie like Zombieland, which is apparently all about killing zombies in creative/hilarious ways, I feel entirely too conflicted for my own good.  On the one hand, it's about zombies!  And killing them in creative/hilarious ways!  On the other hand, I'm just not a zombie movie fan. I've tried.

But something deep down tells me  that I'm going to wind up seeing that damned movie one way or another.  Maybe it'll be pirated (I do not wish to spend time rotting in an English prison, however, so probably not), or maybe I'll rent it, or maybe I will actually drag my ass to a movie theatre and watch it on the screen.  And more than likely, I'll be disappointed.  But I'll go, because it's zombies, and I keep waiting for the zombie movie that actually holds my attention for more than like thirty minutes and doesn't do so because I have a man crush on Simon Pegg.

The Sea

One of the things that he'd always hated about the house was how out of place it looked sitting there in the middle of a subdivision that had sprung up naturally over the course of several years.  He liked the fact that the subdivision hadn't been a planned thing; no developer had carefully charted out its winding streets into nice, neat grids and dead ends.  But the house itself was so severely out of place that he wondered whether or not it had been built by accident.

The problem with the house was this:  it quite simply looked like it belonged on the sea shore, and not in the middle of a subdivision.  He was never quite able to pick out exactly what made him think that the house belonged on the shore—something about the way the balcony was almost an entire porch, perhaps.  He hated it for reminding him of the sea, because every time he thought of the sea his heart ached and he had to quickly take a drink or turn on the television or have a cigarette or anything that would distract from the memory of those grey waters under an equally grey sky, or of the scent of the air, or the sound of the waves rolling upon the shore.

Sooner or later, he always wound up wondering if he'd made the right decision, leaving the shore like that.  Too much left unsaid, too little closure achieved by such an abrupt departure made in the heat of the moment.  He could smell the wood smoke from the bonfire they'd had the night he'd decided to leave for good and never return, when the inevitable estrangement from her had finally reached its anticlimax and he'd told her that he was glad to be her friend even as he mentally made plans to never speak to her again.

Some things are foolish to run from.  Some things aren't.  He was certain, or had been at least, that his decision was the best option.  That there had been more chance of stopping the tide than of remaining friends.  But the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.

And the house only made it worse.

Problematic

It seemed like such a simple process, at first glance.  Buy the ticket, take the flight, find a train, and arrive in one piece.  I should have known that it would wind up being far more complicated than just a quick trip.

I plan for failure, most of the time.  It's just one of those things that keeps me from being too surprised by the various things that happen to me from day to day.  So when I bought the ticket, I immediately assumed that I wouldn't get clearance.  And when I got clearance, I immediately assumed that I would have forgotten some important paperwork that would cause me to get kicked out before I even got there.  That also failed to happen, or at the least it hasn't happened yet.  It could still be waiting in the wings for me, breathing heavily and holding an unpleasantly large stick.

That I might have to find a place to stay for the first five nights, well.  I didn't expect that.  But that's the sort of thing that makes this whole process enjoyable, in a weird way.  Will I arrive in the city and find myself wandering the streets aimlessly?  Maybe I'll get directions to a hostel, or maybe someone will take pity on me and let me sleep on their couch or in their pub.  Or will I get mugged and lose everything I'll be taking with me?  What if I take up residence squatting in the ruins of a castle?  There are ruins there, I've been to them and I've seen them and I've found places where you could, in theory, hole up for a night if you were desperate.

Maybe people already do; I shall wind up fighting a vicious turf war with the local vagrants until one of us gets arrested or killed or one followed by the other.  Maybe.  It's all possibilities, right now, and that's terrifying and exciting all at once.  I'm terrible at making plans, yet I find that it always is slightly more relaxing to at least have an idea of what's coming next.  I could make a plan right now; look up a hostel, send pleading emails to the administration begging to be let in early, actively hunt down acquaintances and ask to stay on their couches...

But would that be any fun?  As terrifying as it is to contemplate arriving in a city turned suddenly unfriendly by the whims of fate, lost and wandering until the police pick me up and throw me out of the country, I can't help thinking that it would make for a hell of a story.  And stories are kind of my thing.  We'll see.  After the other problems I've had to deal with in preparation for this trip, finding a place to sleep seems like a pretty easy one.

Hm. Dusty.

A year.

It's actually been over a year, I suppose, since I abandoned what seemed like a good idea at the time. Make a website, write on it a lot, and give the public at large a chance to read my work, because odds are high that I'll never quite make it as a published author of fictions. The deck is stacked, so to speak, and I'm not sure I have that special quality of being able to keep trying no matter what that writers seem to need in order to actually become published.

That's not an admission of defeat, mind you. I still plan to be a Famous Author, just like every other bright eyed kid who grows up thinking that books are awesome. But I need practice. Lots of it. And more than that, I need my practice to be public, because that's the only way to know if I'm on the right track or not. I certainly am not objective enough to know that kind of thing just by looking at it. I have written stories that I was convinced were fantastic, only to find out that nobody else seemed to think that. I have written stories that I was convinced were absolute shit, only to find people appreciating them more than I thought they ever would, or could.

And there has been in the back of my brain a constant pressure to get back on the horse, to create things again, because I haven't created things in such a long time.  I'm sure it's been nearly a month, and nothing fictional I've created has been a matter of public record (or if it is, it's been hidden so that only I know I wrote it) for far longer than that.  But now, with the advent of another great leap into the unknown drawing ever closer (17 days, and less by the time I go to bed tonight), I thought it was as good of a time as any to kickstart this thing.

So look at the old stuff, if you like.  I'm actually proud of it, these days.  Not because it's good; some of it is, but some of it isn't.  No, I'm proud of it because when I actually updated this site, I experimented.  I wrote poetry—poetry, for gods' sake!—and I showed it to people out of some almost mad desire to let the world see it, just in case someone would like it.  It's time that I got back some of that mad bravado that even assumed people read this thing, enjoyed this thing.  Starting with this, and working my way on from here.