No Dull Topics: Quiet Sunday Afternoons

“There are no dull subjects, just dull writers.”

– said your pick of five writers

As they say: challenge accepted. Once a week, as intrepid writers and readers, we will test the limits of boredom and the meaning of dull. We will establish whether, indeed, there are No Dull Topics.

How? With your help! Each Sunday, head over to the Skeleton At The Feast Facebook page to submit your dullest topic idea. What does dull mean? PG, and no more than three words including hyphens. The last comment as of 8 a.m. CT Tuesday morning is next week’s No Dull Subject! My role? To turn it into an entertainingly readable post.

Special thanks to Kasey Ann Khaghany for this week’s topic, “Quiet Sunday Afternoons.”

“School night.” It’s that dreaded blight of childhood, death knell of the fun that is somehow always just getting started when the announcement is made. On the far side of a “school night” lurks a…School Day. (Please, imagine Cerberus.)

Children are smart, so it doesn’t take long for them to realize: when “tomorrow” is the place you want to avoid, “today” is the best place to stay. And of all the places or times to practice this slowing-down of time, this temporal clinginess, Sunday afternoon is the pinnacle.

Let us start by considering its features. It is its own unique creature within the week, at once both weekend and prelude to a “school night.” Sunday afternoon begins when lunch is finished and the adults look around for places to nap. Depending on the time of year and the century, this is the cue for children to a) escape outside or b) escape to their rooms. Once everyone under 18 (or still enrolled in an educational institution – whichever is still in effect) is safely in position, the Temporal Deceleration Campaign can begin. 

Certain activities are more conducive towards slowing time. One of the great classics – The Cloud Watcher – requires little more than a comfortable outdoor spot devoid of fire ants. One sits; one leans back; one gazes skyward. Traditionally, practitioners begin by looking for shapes in the clouds, but the experienced Cloud Watcher can gain equal enlightenment from an empty blue sky. As one’s mind drifts upwards, away from Earth’s gravity, one begins to see the laws of time and nature as illusory. Mortality and eternity are both sides of the same coin. There is no “today;” there is no “tomorrow.” There is no “school” – for what can be taught that does not lead to greater truth than this? 

The Cloud Watcher may eventually transition into The Napper. The Napper requires the same form as The Cloud Watcher, except the eyes are closed. If the gaze is instead transferred to contemplation of a book, the form becomes The Bookworm. 

Another classic activity is The Hide & Seek. This performance-based form requires a minimum of two practitioners, but there is no upward limit on the number who may participate. One practitioner takes on the guise of Tomorrow (“It”). The other participants enact Today’s Fleeting Seconds. The contest depends on Tomorrow finding all remnants of Today. The allegorical nature of this form quickly becomes apparent to the perceptive observer. 

The objective observer may wonder – what is the point of this struggle? What is the point of willfully slowing the transition of today into tomorrow, when tomorrow will always come? 

It is true that tomorrow will always come. It is also true that children will go to school, a year here and a year there. One quiet Sunday afternoon, they will find themselves staying with the adults after lunch. They will say, “another quiet Sunday afternoon,” though it is just the first of many for them, and look for a place to take a nap. 

All children know this. They understand the meaning of “a school night” is more than “tomorrow is a school day.” The point of slowing time is to make just a little space, a little extra time, to make peace with that destiny. By experiencing the slowness of time with determination and focus, one creates memories. 

And memories, as the adults know, are the best part of a quiet Sunday afternoon. 

Artist Glen Baxter clearly understood the allure of the quiet Sunday afternoon. I do not own this image, all credit belongs to the artist.

Your Name is Nightingale

My child, nearest one to my heart;
Beloved, the one I never knew. 
Your name is Nightingale – 
Your name is Dove.

I saw you in stillness.
Your eyes were closed, bruises spread and spent
You were tired, so tired, my love.

You were silent
But you were still singing
Where small feathers flutter, small beaks peck –
Quick small movements amid small twig nests.

Today You ask for pieces I don’t have,
In the rustling of bushes and the flowering of trees.

Today You ask for pieces I can’t give,
In the pecking of crumbs and the storming rains.

In the city streets and gates, in the city walls and windows, 
I leave a trail, though it’s swept away.
Breadcrumbs to birds, and wisdom of the broken for my Beloved.

Sometime between 2001 and 2008, the New York Times ran a story, and I acquired a ghost. 

I don’t know if this ghost haunts anyone else. I don’t remember his name or his country. Here is what I remember.

He lived in an occupied city. He kept a small shop of nightingales, and spent all his time in his shop with his birds.

The neighbors said he was quiet, absent-minded, gentle. One girl remembered him caring for his nightingales each day. She said he talked to them as he cleaned and watered and fed them. 

He happened to be on the wrong side of some line of rage, in a city full of pain and soldiers and more pain. Someone decided his life was worth more as a message. A group of people beat him to death.

I remember the small grey picture of his face. He didn’t look dead, exactly. He looked infinitely tired. His eyes were closed with the sad innocence you sometimes see on the faces of sleeping children.

My friends. What shall I say?

For some things words are useless. For some pain, there is no cure. But I can’t be silent. The wisdom of the weak is only news once they’re broken beyond repair. So here are the two things I say, though they may not be right.

First, everyone is called to be strong. Your strength may surprise you, if only for a second. Sometimes a second is enough. 

Second, everyone is called to be weak, broken, tired, maimed. This isn’t the truth anyone wants to hear. But strength alone is an isolating experience. Weakness is a chance to learn others’ lives and needs. Weakness is a chance to learn wisdom, the kind that wells up and heals.

I have more experience in weakness than in strength. Life usually only needs strength once, but it always needs wisdom. I don’t yet have wisdom. But I have a ghost; I have a pocket full of crumbs for the daytime sparrows who flutter and beg; and somewhere in the night, nightingales are singing.

Special thanks to Havoc of IHaveKungFuPhotography.com for the featured image.

A Case of Arsenic

Years ago, I took a chemistry class. It was a strange affair, very short on the explosions on which I’d pinned my hopes. However it had one redeeming virtue. One of the assignments was to “creatively discuss an element of the periodic table, including its relevant properties.” The resulting fiction resurfaced yesterday; in honor of #ThrowbackThursday, here it is.

The detective and sidekick leaned against the bar, smoking and thinking. They were silent for a minute until their drinks arrived, then started to talk over the case.

“Well, before he gets here: he’s been implicated in a lot, but do you think Arsenic is responsible this time?”

“Hmmm…it’s hard to say. After all, there is the whole question of mistaken identity: with 8 different isotopes to chose from, all going by As, its much more difficult to find the perpetrator than if it was, say, helium. On the other hand, the low solubility guarantees that he won’t try to go on the run in water when we start asking questions, and his tracks are everywhere; trace amounts resulting from natural environmental sources should make tracking easy. “

“Assuming they decided to cooperate? “

“Well, yes. If all else fails we know the I.D./Atomic Number of 33. That’ll count for something. “

“What, you think we should just look him up by atomic number? Won’t he be aware of that?”

“Perhaps, but he’s reasonably dense – 5.7 g.cm-3 at 14’C. Not bad…and when we find him, of course, we can use that in our questioning session. We’ll need to – we’ll need to really pour on the pressure, because otherwise it takes 814’C at 36 atm to make him melt. Provocation won’t be much of an option, either. With a boiling point of  6158’C, well…like I said, pressure. That’s the key: Pressure. Raise pressure in the questioning process, and the temperature required to bring about boiling goes down.”

“Mentioning his track record might do it. He’s well known for many poisonings.”

“Yes, well, the lethal dosage is about 100 mg, so it doesn’t take much at all for some minor overdosing to become serious.”

“What about possible working relationships? Are we likely to have to worry about more than just him here?”

“He’s a member of the Va group of the Periodic Table – so he combines well with other elements. Also tends to bio-accumulate – when he moves further up the food chain, he builds up in tissues. Could be a problem, but we’ll just have to be prepared in advance. “

“Of course…what does he usually do when not poisoning people?”

“Oh, this and that. Has many connections in business, actually; the glass industry, wood preservatives, semiconductors, microchips, a history of use in artist’s pigments. Very versatile, as long as he’s watched carefully.”

“Hah, the watching part is our job. I guess we’d better get back to it.”

“Yes. Watching and asking questions…Wasn’t he supposed to show up for a meeting with us?”

Both investigators were quiet for a minute, then carefully looked into their empty drink glasses. 

“Wait – maybe we should have discussed antidotes first?”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

NIOSH Pocket Guide to Chemical Hazards. (date retrieved: 11/03/2010). http://www.cdc.gov/niosh/npg/pgintrod.html.

Toxicological Profile for Arsenic – Chemical And Physical Information. (date retrieved: 11/03/2010). www.atsdr.cdc.gov/toxprofiles/tp2–c4.pdf. 

Water Treatment Solutions: Lenntech. (date retrieved: 11/03/2010). http://www.lenntech.com/periodic/elements/as.htm.

Houseguests & Other Fish

Today, I write Frustration. 

More accurately, Frustration writes me. Frustration (in many guises) has been camped out in my living room for a week or so now, pounding away on a noisy old Remington, using a lot of whiteout on my self control and self respect and willingness to be a positively-contributing member of society. 

I’m hoping Frustration is almost ready to shelve the draft. It’s an old story, highly unoriginal, and will likely run into copyright issues since it’s already been written by so many others.

Frustration is a terrible houseguest, you see. It never looks you in the eye. It slouches just out of reach and says things, damages things, mutilates them. The things are always objectively worthless; there are no insurance claims to file. But the damaged goods are also irreplaceable. They are like things you might have collected in a special shoebox as a child. The instant an older child smirked, that beauty burned as surely as if it was acid. 

Besides, there are a lot of other houseguests I’d prefer to entertain. When Anger comes to town, we have a lovely time. Burning bridges keep the house warm and well-lit, and there’s never any washing up because all the dishes are broken. 

Apathy, Sloth, and Laziness are excellent assistants for clearing a calendar. They helpfully bring along Distraction to liven things up, and get right to work ignoring all the penciled-in dates and deadlines. Inertia will take care of any attempts at a schedule change. 

Then there’s the crowd favorite Lust. Lust usually involves a lot of cleanup. The stories more than make up for it – particularly the ones I won’t tell. 

But at some point, it’s time for everyone to go home. If you have ever wondered on what point Benjamin Franklin1, Erma Bombeck2, and Agatha Christie3 all agree, look no further: guests, famously, are perishable goods. Greta Garbo says it best, accent and all: “I vant to be alone.”

This is an exorcism. There is no chalk and no candles. There is no Linda Blair. There is only my intent to reclaim a sense of self against the eroding effect of small inhumanities. 

I bet you have a box somewhere. You may have to look for it. It’s cardboard, and acid-stained. 

Pull it out. You need it – rather, we need it. See, I have one that matches. It’s all I’ve ever had. But I hold it carefully, because sometimes I still remember when it held treasure. I think your box holds treasure too. We’re going to say this together. 

“Those who are just doing their job: gone. Those who make their name by summing up and putting down others: gone. And those who pin the word crazy: gone. Done, banished, fin.”

Forget the houseguests, it’s time to move on. After all, we have better fish to fry. 

1 “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”
2 “House guests should be regarded as perishables: leave them out too long and they go bad.” 
3 You notice who brings the body to the house party? One of the guests. It’s like potluck, only no one asks for their dish back.

“When your world says you’re worthless, how do you name your own worth? Become a trickster.” Check out my post Trickster’s Bouquet for more thoughts on creation and survival – and please share your own in the comments!

Where Am I?

Massachusetts springtime,
Indiana summer:
My eyes see flowers
And my head swims under
The bridge of perception
(Towards there not here) –
Like koi in a park I remember.

Special thanks to Havoc of IHaveKungFuPhotography.com for the featured image.

Look Up (Parasite)

Green on the rough,
Skin on the bone.
You made your world
And draped your place in it.

They called you parasite,
But you seized this life
Sized it to a space you encompass –
Don’t we all dream the same?

Now, lovers’ breath beneath
And entropy above: life doesn’t thrive
On perfection.

I’ve seen trees before. I grew up around trees and even had what I would call good relationships with many of them. Call it the famed Midwestern friendliness.

But my ideas about trees were not prepared for Texas1. There are live oaks. There are palm trees (not native; they have a fatal tendency towards lightning and drought). Cypress trees lurk in the creeks, and pines cluster in isolated pockets. There is Spanish moss and prickly pear2.

Yet even in the midst of all this wonder, there is still room for surprise. Every now and then, I look up and see a bright green plant orb floating in bare tree branches.

My initial assumption was that this might be a different species of Spanish moss, or perhaps a very minimalist squirrel nest. I was wrong. It took a person – not a tree3 – to set me straight: the mysterious green ball was mistletoe.

Mistletoe! That staple of Victorian Christmases and holiday romantic comedies. I had assumed one bought it, fully formed and conveniently fake4, and hung it strategically in the most awkward location your home afforded.

Instead, I now know the truth. This herbaceous matchmaker is a true opportunist. It is poised to aggressively expand into niches beyond the Yuletide season. Without due precaution, we may soon find ourselves in a seriously complicated romantic situation of unprecedented magnitude – the kind requiring diagrams and flowcharts to solve. These types of situations are currently only allowable during the holiday conglomerate between November and New Years, and again at Spring Break. Aided and abetted by squirrels and birds, the mistletoe is preparing to wreak this kind of chaos during the rest of the year, when we’re committed to acting like somber respectable citizens.

Preparation is the best defense. A botanical identification guide and a tendency to look up are your best options. If that fails, climb.

1According to most people, most things aren’t prepared for Texas.

2Not trees. But still exotic. Then again, if it’s not poison ivy, I probably count it as exotic.

3You didn’t see that plot twist coming, did you?

4To save your pets and small children from the berries.

Character Building

I didn’t give you a story
And I didn’t make you up.
I listened; a lost art
(And I can see why) –
You pulled up a chair,
Pulled up an hour
Or six –
Pulled up your mind
And poured out onto the page.

Anti-Gravity Sequel (Spoiler, It’s Trash)

I must admit I’ve done a terrible thing. 

That got your attention, didn’t it? (That wasn’t the terrible thing. That was just a systems test.)

As I was saying, in a recent post I committed a disingenuity. In Did I Miss Brave New World’s Anti-Gravity Boots, I positioned Mary Shelley, George Orwell, and other stellar sci-fi creators against psychologists’ claims that science fiction is a genre of the delusional. My error? I am guilty of cherry-picking. Specifically, I drew examples only from the so-called “literary” side of the sci-fi family. 

After I hit “publish,” I felt uneasy. Over a few hours it evolved into outright guilt. As I re-read my words, I realized I had fallen into an easy trap. I had avoided the so-called “trashy” side of the sci-fi family, feeling it would play in the psychologists’ favor.

Many commentators have covered the complicated relationship of literature and science fiction. For a great discussion, check out JD Byrne’s post “Another Literary Writer Discovers Speculative Fiction.” Rather than reiterate what has already been well said, today I want to highlight a much less sophisticated topic. 

Here’s a crucial question. Why did I instinctively avoid the pulpier side of sci-fi when making the case that science fiction powerfully (and positively) shapes society? 

What is it about the critical label “trashy” that has the power to condemn an entire genre by association – so that we rush to rescue select works from it, carefully Sharpie-ing “Literature – Not Trash” across their covers and pages? 

What, exactly, is so wrong with trash? 

Merriam Webster defines trash as “something worth little or nothing,” synonymous with “junk, rubbish.” It is “inferior or worthless writing or artistic matter (such as a television show.)” 

I love trash.

Most of what I write is trash. 

It’s not limited to writing, either. I’m multi-talented. Most of what I think and say is also, objectively, trash. It’s worth nothing, at least from an economic perspective. When it comes out of my head, it’s unfinished, mostly unoriginal, and, frankly, not brilliant. And I love it when I create trash. I know that the best way to make something that isn’t trash is to produce as much trash as I possibly can, each and every day, no excuses and no breaks. When I’m not making trash I’m reading, uh, a lot of things, some of which are … trash1. 

Here’s an apparent non sequitur: art is the playground of the sciences. Here’s another non sequitur: my mother is an artist, and when acquaintances snub “modern art” she insists modern art is essential because it means artists are no longer “a slave to what is in front of them.” 

Here’s a logical leap. Trash and trashy genres2 free writers from enslavement to “good writing.” It’s possible that 99.999% of the trash produced is actually trashy. The remaining 0.001% is an infusion of life – a seepage of completely original ideas that could only arise from playing around in a trash heap, where everything mixes regardless of origin or value. The bookshelf might look like a Superfund site, but sometimes brilliance emerges.

Of course, devotees of not-trash may still reach for the Lysol. But the most enjoyable response to overly hygienic criticism is found in the words of Chilean-born multihyphenate3 Alejandro Jodorowsky, regarding his controversial film El Topo: “If you are great, El Topo is a great picture. If you are limited, El Topo is limited.” 

If you limit yourself to good writing, you’re limited. (Not even to good writing – just limited.) If you spend a lot of time letting yourself write trash, eventually you won’t write trash. You’ll write something great. The one redeeming value of trash is that it makes great soil. All the nutrients from really bad ideas, unfortunate metaphors, bland characters and scrapped sub-plots eventually recycle into rich and valuable experience. You can plant anything in it and watch it grow. 

Given that, I propose we re-label trash. Instead, it now exists as its own new genre: Compost.

Oh, and if anyone has recommendations for a good dumpster company or cleaning service – let me know in the comments. Thanks. 

1 Newspaper comics, for example. They are probably trash (or at least recyclable) – but there are strips from Calvin & Hobbes, Foxtrot, Non Sequitur, Mutts, and Lio which have taken up permanent residence in my mental catalog. The characters and plots – even the colors and visual style – shape reactions and decisions I make to this day. There are plenty of “good” books about which I cannot say that.

2 I know, this started out with science fiction, but trash is bigger than that. It’s a conglomerate of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and sometimes romance. 

3 Alright, he’s mostly a filmmaker. But he’s also a lot of other things, including a writer, “psychomagical realist,” spiritual guru, and sometimes bit of a nut case. I highly recommend this documentary of his never-released film version of Dune.

Did I Miss Brave New World’s Anti-Gravity Boots?

A couple days ago, an article surfaced in my news feed. Its title: Fan of Sci-Fi? Psychologists Have You In Their Sights.

After ducking in case they meant “laser sights” – I was wearing a red shirt, after all – I read further because really, who doesn’t want to dig into a title like that. Submitted for your approval, the highlights are as follows.

Exhibit A: Author Ian McEwan “dismissed science fiction as the stuff of ‘anti-gravity boots’ rather than ‘human dilemmas.'” To which I say: Sir, if you have never experienced a human dilemma while wearing anti-gravity boots, yours is a sad and lonely life. The full range of human emotional is heightened to extrasensory peaks and troughs when one is elevated solely by one’s footwear several yards above the planetary surface. It gives new meaning to the phrase “pulled yourself up by your bootstraps.”

Continuing on to Exhibit B, which is something psychologists call the “great fantasy migration hypothesis.” Yes, please, read it again. One more time for good measure. Now, doesn’t that sound like something that needs an epic soundtrack? I’m thinking a bird’s-eye-view shot of mountainous tundra. As the camera pans across the majestic landscape, the viewer sees a troop of tiny human figures trudging onward. We zoom in. Their faces are rugged yet noble. Their eyes are fixed on the far horizon. Everything they have ever called home is behind them, everyone they have ever called family is with them, everything they hope for the future is before them in…THE GREAT FANTASY MIGRATION HYPOTHESIS. COMING SOON TO A THEATER NEAR YOU. Sequels definitely included, merchandising guaranteed.

We’ll assume the fandom has already abbreviated the above to GFMH, which is how it will be referred to henceforth. The plot of GFMH runs thusly: a group of young people are crushed beneath debt, underemployment, etc. Unable to bear this harsh world, they “…consequently migrate to a land of make-believe where they can live out their grandiose fantasies.”

Last I’d checked, a living wage and economic stability weren’t considered grandiose fantasies. I’ve probably been frozen in carbonite too long. The hibernation sickness is real, folks.

Ah, well, enough fun. Gavin Miller, the article’s author, is a senior lecturer in Medical Humanities at the University of Glasgow. His overall view is that psychologists were a bit overboard in their criticisms of the science fiction genre, and that science fiction creators’ robust responses to this criticism made science fiction better. He concludes that science fiction has become a “…literature that faces up to social reality” – a development partially owed “…to psychology’s repeated accusation that the genre markets escapism to the marginalized and disaffected.”

Mary Shelly. H.G. Wells. Jules Verne. George Orwell. Aldous Huxley. Begum Rokeya1. All of these writers were expanding science fiction as a literature of the mind, a literature of societal potential and caution, long before the psychologists started to diagnose rampant cases of sci-fi-itis2 in the 1950s.

Psychologists certainly did influence the development of the genre. All the great science fiction writers were broad in their reading and shameless in their borrowing of other fields’ best and brightest ideas. Huxley and Orwell in particular drew from contemporary psychological theories.

But good science fiction has always done more than simply “face up to social reality.” Science fiction isn’t meek. It’s not for the faint of heart (maybe that’s why the accusations of insanity fly fast and heavy around it). Read the authors above, and try not to view your fellow humans (or fellow social experiments, or fellow aliens, as the case may be) differently. Good science fiction shapes the world. It shapes humans, it shapes societies, it shapes technology. It shapes the types of government we’re able to form and willing to accept. It shows us what we could be. It teaches us childlike enthusiasm and critical self-skepticism, both necessary to move towards the future. It paints a path in words and stars. And slowly, the world wakes up, looks around, and rubs the space dust into its eyes.

As for the anti-gravity boots, I admit they’re not all they’re cracked up to be. All it takes is one loose shoelace, that’s all I’m saying.

1 Begum Rokeya was a Bangladeshi author, thinker, feminist and political activist. She is most known to English-speaking audiences for her story Sultana’s Dream, in which the traditional roles of men and women are reversed.

2 Prescription: Take two soma and call me in the morning.

Let The Cat In

When do you write? When you can’t ignore it any longer. When it sits on your keyboard like a determined cat, then trips you up about the ankles when you try to walk away. There is, in fact, no difference between a piece of writing and a cat. Both are utterly convinced of their place in the world. Both are determined; both have nine lives; and neither needs you nearly as much as you need them*. Both have claws. 

Both have that small-universe trick of turning into the thing you’re running to, when you’re running away from them. Just when you get used to having them around, they leave. Without comment, they’re gone for days or years, while you wait and wonder. 

They reappear with no explanation. They’ll never tell you where they’ve been. They reappear with strange dust in their fur, a few more scratches, and maybe one less eye. 

And sometimes, late at night, you hear birdsong. You hear whispers, scratching, sighs or sobs; it doesn’t matter, because there’s no time to wonder. You get up to let the cat in. 

Now if anyone has tips on cleaning cat hair out of a keyboard, I’d be much obliged. 

*Unless a can opener is involved; then all bets are off.