Literary Nonsense

Damn, June has just sped on by. 


It's been a deluge of activities from most sectors of my life: as a father (the endless end-of-the-school-year events); as a brother (my sister's wedding, which was so beautiful and magical we felt we were in a Nora Ephron rom-com); as an actor (hosted a party for the Kung Fu Panda folk--hey, we won four daytime Emmys!); as an Alien aficionado (I liked "Prometheus"—shut up!); as a writer—


Uh, in that sector, not so much. 


Because of my scriverly neglect, I thought I'd offer you a little smorgasbord of academic fun, something for the intelligentsia in all of us. Don't worry— no "Prairie Home Companion," I promise.


First off, from The Onion, an apocalyptic warning from the poets of America. The printed version may actually be funnier than the video, but you can get both here (I tried to embed the video but it's being cranky—sorry). I cringe and laugh at the same time while watching this.

Next up, something for you "Fresh Air"fans, a side of Terry Gross you may not have seen before:





Have you tried "Wordle" yet? It's a website where you can upload the entire text of whatever writing you're working on, and it'll generate word art based on the words you most frequently use. The program disregards the small words, so you don't end up with an image full of prepositions and conjunctions. It only takes a second to work, and you can spend HOURS adjusting the colors, the format, the orientation of the words... you wonder where my time goes. I put in my manuscript of "This is How It Begins" and here's what came back:

Besides looking super cool (especially printed up on photo paper) I like how it makes you view your writing by condensing all the 84,000 words you've written into just the top 100 (or 150, or whatever you designate). For instance, I knew Emily would figure largely in the design, but I thought Liberace would be a bit more prominent, given how much he figures in the story. I love how the accordion is nestled right above Emily's name. 


For those of us forging ahead with their writing projects, my sister Susan found a great site which offers up a marvelous list of writing tips from famous authors: http://www.openculture.com/2012/01/writing_rules.html

The authors include Neil Gaiman, Henry Miller, George Orwell and Margaret Atwood. I especially liked Miller's #3, 6 & 10:

3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.

—And Atwood's last two:

9. Don’t sit down in the middle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.

10. Prayer might work. Or reading ­something else. Or a constant visual­isation of the holy grail that is the finished, published version of your resplendent book. 

Walking the dog yesterday morning, I came upon a young coyote nestled in the leafy ground of a front yard one house away from me. The front yard! He was supremely unconcerned that a man and his slavering dog were coming towards him; indeed, he didn't even get up from the little bed he had made for himself. I thought at first that he must be hurt, he was letting us come so close, but then, when Rowdy made a sudden lunge towards him, the coyote got up, walked two steps further, scratched, and then settled himself down again. He was six feet from the road! I imagine he knew I have not been working on my coyote book for a few weeks now, and was telling me, "If you're not going to make an effort, I certainly won't!"

He's right. It's back to work. Joyously!

Monk-y Business

Many of you know my deep and abiding ambivalence towards on-camera acting (what? being in front of the camera is not an ideal career for an introvert? Imagine!), as opposed to the almost-constant pleasure of voiceover acting. I say no a vast number of times more than I say yes to TV auditions. And yet, there is sometimes the case where I've got to go. There is a kind of role that I have a particular affinity for: Buddhist monks. I played one for "Family Law" about seventy years ago and have always hankered to put on the saffron robes once again. I maintain that it's because it puts me in touch with an inner stillness; Doug insists it's because it gives me license to shave my head. Both, I must admit, are correct.

This monk was of the Shaolin variety, for a  tween TV sitcom (rather foreboding non-disclosure rules prevents me from being more specific). You know, one of those after-school shows, ubiquitous on the Cartoon Network, Disney and Nickelodeon featuring a uniformly pretty and/or geeky cast genetically designed to make you feel REALLY REALLY OLD. Luckily, I was auditioning for one of the higher-up, senior monks, which on this show meant I was over thirty.

I had a good laugh at myself driving to the audition because of a particularly egregious oversight I had made. I was going over my sides— I had a really good voice for this elder, all gravelly and crusty— when I happened to look into the rear-view mirror. Ten blocks from the studio, I remembered: this isn't a voiceover audition. You can't sound like a 65 -year-old wizened sensei when you look like you're in your 40's. Oops. I adjusted accordingly. Ten years younger!

When I got there, there was the usual panoply of Asian men, all shapes and sizes. A few  of them were wearing full martial arts regalia, some had on the traditional Chinese frog-buttoned jackets. I had opted for a simple T-shirt and white pants because, well, Doug had made me change out of a more character-driven yoga pants and peasant-brown sweatshirt. I have to admit (yes, get out your scorecard, Doug) that he was right: if you get too costume-y in these general auditions, it tends too look a little... desperate. I don't know where everyone else stands on this issue; certainly I've known some experienced people to pull on a lab coat when making the "CSI" rounds...

The auditions were run by kids who I swear were not much younger than my son Benjamin. They seemed amused by my character, or, to put it more exactly, they liked my eyebrow-arching, which pretty much sums up my character. It was silly, and it was fun.

And I got the part. 

I'm going Telly Savalas, Doug! Who loves ya?

Speaking of monks, here's my contemplation of the Buddhist precept on gossip:

Precept #6: Do not Talk about Other's Errors and Faults

Gossip—

so sweet.

The tastiest morsels dripped

into eager mouths

gaping like baby birds. 

Huddled groups

of two, or three adults

on the school playground

after the kids have left

the playing field.

We're wide-eyed, listening 

to the latest parental downfall: who 

has slipped down the slope this time?

Heads shaking, frown-smiles

like we were saddened,

not delighted, by the news. 

A sharp intake of breath:

"Did you hear?—"

and onto another round. 

"Can you believe it?" we ask,

feeling better about Ourselves, 

for not being Them.

With a friend, I recount

the latest bulletin from Crazytown:

"Wait til you hear WHAT

my mother did THIS time!" 

We bond over the sad state

of affairs known as Family.

I'd like to think it helps,

this sharing, to make sense

of chaos, to make us feel less

alone. 

Our small coffeehouse table

affords a space to release 

woes, make them manageable—

humorous even— with a chance to hear 

a different perspective, lovingly laid out, 

a lesson learned, together. 

Sometimes, though, 

I feel like Homer, trotting out

the same epic saga, again

and again, for entertainment,

never letting it go. 

In the Meditation Hall

we learn mostly by mistakes.

What to chant, how to walk,

where to bow and when.

There's a lot to remember.

In the beginning, I was like

the new dancer, always two steps 

behind the rest of the chorus.

I'd get a lot of corrections:

a tap on the shoulder;

a finger pointing to the spot

I should be standing in;

sometimes a quiet voice

from across the room

cutting through the silence :

"Wait to stand!"

These directions were given,

never sweetly, never angrily,

just given.

At first, I would feel shame rising, 

I thought it was a black mark

against me; now I see it

for what it is:

a correction of a mistake,

a teaching given in the moment,

and then dispersed, 

allowing me to better join

                  the wholeness of the sangha, 

                  contemplating a formless field 

                  of benefaction. 

Next: On the set!

Buddha Head

Last week, I mentioned that I was studying Buddhist precepts at the Zen Center I go to. It's taken a surprising amount of my time, given that we have to write two essays a week for five weeks, each about our reflections on a particular precept. And I wonder why I'm not writing more? 

What are precepts, you may ask? WELL...

"Had an extra copy, and gave it
to that Indian feller
down the street."

There are ten "grave" precepts, given by Buddha to his students, about how one should conduct themselves in life. It's  the Zen version of "The Ten Commandments," without the Red Sea and the Plagues and the Burning Bush. 

What I like about the Buddhist's take on these guidelines is that they're not rigid. You're asked to view them in three ways: Literally ("Do not lie" means don't lie. Ever); Relationally (What is the context of lying or not lying? Will your action cause more suffering or less?); and Intrinsically (in the wholeness of the universe, there is no lying). The interplay between these seemingly contradictory views (absolute, conditional and holistic) makes for some lively head trips. It's kinda like a debate between a Billy Graham, Barack Obama, and the Dude from "The Big Lebowski."

Just Abide, Man.

Since I'm putting a lot of time and effort into these essays, I thought I'd give myself the creative challenge of doing it in free verse. Yeesh. How highfalutin, I know, I know. But the Sensei did say that you could render these essays artistically, if so desired.  I don't know how artistic these will turn out to be (remember, two a week, handed in!) but it's been nice stretching those writing muscles. We're asked to consider each precept from the three perspectives, and also taking into account body, speech and mind. 

Here's my first precept. Enjoy!

Precept #1: Non-killing, affirming life

Breakfast is rife with death.

Pork sizzles in the pan.

Opening a cabinet releases

a cloud of moths, marauders of grain,

too many for capture; instead

I swat, directing towards the defilers

murderous intentions, pellet-sized, 

with the wave of a hand.

My son is upside-down, again, loudly

Enacting a Jedi's demise,

oatmeal untouched.

My hand slaps 

the wood table like a war drum:

"EAT. YOUR. FOOD."

Sharp words 

cut the air,

shattering the morning

into a thousand jagged pieces

clattering down into

Silence.

Breakfast is the most important meal.

He will eat little else the rest of the day

once the meds kick in. 

Animal protein, they say, is important.

It sustains him. His mind. His focus.

His growth. 

Thank the pig.

The farmer's too, who grew the grain,

the grain itself, reaped and threshed,

deserve thanks.

My son is the pig, and the grain.

The moth is grain, too. Sometimes,

if I'm not careful,

we are the moth.

I'll seal the bags of rice, and wheat,

minimize the waste

and insect carnage.

My son bends over his food,

eats the pig, and the grain,

accepts a penitent kiss

pressed against his forehead.

"Don't be so yell-y" he says.

"I know," I say.

Release

from my cupped hands

a moth into the garden,

where it will disappear

in the white air, or join the ground.