Geography is Wrong December 9, 2012Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Geography is wrong. The world has its edges. You first discover this in school, especially if you are a quiet or odd child. Forget Pythagoras. Whatever your teacher said about a circular world you begin to find its corners, in retreat or in escape. Definite rectangles. Less tangible than the globe in the corner but clearly there.
Later, older and out in the world, you discover its edges.
This one is beautiful, indefinite, a faint, prismatic progression from sky to sea blue. You wonder if it has a sound, water falling over the edge like the surf on the rocks below you but steadier, a sound like sunlight on the skin, bound to the edge like the sun to its circuit. I can no more hear it from here than I can sunbathe at midnight, but I can imagine it and for now, that is enough. This is a quiet corner like those you remember from childhood, perfectly suited to lapses into imagination. I have had enough of edges—the crumbling soft rock and plummeting air, the hard mathematical choices, knives like laughter—and prefer this one keeps its distance for now: remote, beautiful and available.
There are two ways down from this rolling hill. One leads through the scrub to a road that leads to a highway that leads to an airport where planes roar backward and tail first in time toward places I have been and will not visit again. The other wanders lazily down until it is it cloven into two forks: left toward town, right toward the beach. Not a complicated choice and one completely out of your hands. You either need to go into town for something, groceries and bit of human company as you sip a beer, or you need nothing and want nothing and so go down to the beach, lay in the warm sand with your head pillowed on a spare towel, and look toward that striated edge-sky in the distance.
I arrived here, passport expired, with just enough money in a distant bank to make myself welcome. There is no need to renew my papers. Dollars are introduction enough and I am in no hurry to go. As long as the money lasts I am greeted at the market, poured my regular beer without asking, and mostly left alone. I ignore my fellow countrymen whenever I can, who arrive here only by accident or worse, driven by a sense of adventure I recognize and avoid. I wear the loose-fitting local clothes and a straw hat and let the sun be my disguise. Cornered, I smile and shrug and hold up my hands to say, not much, then direct them towards the magnificent cliffs further up the road, the explosions of surf, the rugged, sculptured stone, the cliff divers. I recommend a hotel there I have never visited and walk back up the sloping path toward the cottage.
I stop at the fork, select a comfortable rock and watch a liquid sun slowly pour over the horizon, spreading a molten orange line that momentarily illuminates the edge. I wait for the green flash, a signal to proceed, but it does not come. A shadowless twilight illuminates the path. The further I go from the shore the more the surf takes on the steady roar as of water over a cataract. Someday the green flash will come, and I will know it is time to go. Until then the sound of distant water lulls me to sleep.
You Make Shit Up April 22, 2012Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, Fortin Street, New Orleans, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
Tags: creative non-fiction, facts, fiction, journalism, Truth
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Everything has a rational explanation. Those cuts you don’t remember getting until you get blood on something (leprosy or epilepsy). Why organic milk keeps longer in the fridge (irradiation or preservatives). Those mysterious stains on the linoleum that came with the apartment (ritual sacrifice or a blowtorch accident). Why my Kindle locks up two minutes before class (gamma rays or those bad things you said about Amazon on line) (never underestimate the power of Amazon). The problem is, how do you know which? The problem is, why do these things occur in my life? The problem is, why do I think about them so much? The problem is, why do I come up with these possible answers? And why can’t I turn off Comma Use (consider revising) in Word when I like the way I use commas just fine (illiterate code monkeys or those bad things you said about Microsoft online) (never underestimate the power of Bill Gates).
When your rational explanations become increasingly irrational it is time to expand your definition of rational. (Is Mercury retrograde?) Or start drinking. The two things are not mutually exclusive but somewhere this side of pink elephants there are rational explanations for things that appear to defy explanation. They are not, however, half as interesting as the inventive. I was pretty sure that thunk noise my house in D.C. made around ten every night was the building settling from temperature changes and not the story I told everyone about the tenant who hung himself from a transom at exactly that time. Expand the rational. Use your imagination. Make shit up. The entire history of literature can be summed up as: These things happened: to people, to places, to things. These things make no sense. Make shit up. God for example. Q.E.D.
(I do not own a Kindle.)
Non-fiction is not made up shit. It is potentially worse. You pitch an editor, write a book proposal. If you don’t deliver they might to be disappointed, especially if you get paid anyway. Publishing is the manufacture and sale of words, and if you go outside the control lines you are a statistical deviant. This is terribly bad if you are a Toyota, but you are not. They have manged to convince you that you are a Toyota. You can always find someone to feed your preconceived story which is possibly worse. Once you commit yourself to the path of fact you are not allowed outside the lines.
Here on Toulouse Street I am not committed to the supremacy of fact.
(I no longer live on Toulouse Street.) (I am not giving up my Google position ahead of the Doobie Brothers.)
The last time I wrote as a journalist was a few months ago. The last time before that, 30 years, so I took good notes. I brought a digital recorder and listened to it on the way home before I transcribed my notes. I was committed to the path of fact. Someone saw the story online and said I misquoted them. They told me the “real” version of the story. I listened to my recording again with my notes in hand. I got it right the first time.
I think they did, too. It was a better story, and close enough to the original I struggle to understand the desire for a correction. I can only think a dozen years of Catholic school had something to do with it. All that guilt. Please print my act of contrition and three Hail Marys.
The paper ran an online correction which probably no one read. The better story triumphed.
I was given an F in art in first grade because I refused to color inside the lines. My father the architect was furious, and went down to St. Pius and chewed out Sister Timothy, who I think came up to just above his waist. This was not how a past president of the Holy Name Society was supposed to behave. I learned to color inside the lines anyway, but not to like it. Still, I managed a career in journalism and managed a few small awards. I left that for politics, where facts are malleable weapons and control of context and the conversation is everything. I hated it and learned a great deal.
Feeling a sense of relief at being laid off is definitely outside the control lines. I like it out here. I no longer aspire to meanness, the veneration of the average. Fact lives inside the control lines, is quantifiable, measurable, metric. Truth lives outside the control lines, is a failure of controls. Truth is disruptive of process, must be brought under control, inside the lines. Just look what they did to Jesus. He did not die for your sins; he died to scare the shit out of you, your boss Yahweh in front of a flip chart stabbing his finger at your dots out there on the perimeter and having a fit.
To move Truth inside the control lines you must identify it, determine its causes, submit it to metrics and bring it under control. Once it is subject to metrics it becomes fact. And facts are only interesting to me when they fall outside the control lines: the length of a monstrous squid hauled up from the depths, the delightful irregularity of the rings on a plate of calamari.
If you are searching the world for a neat and packaged truth with a t like Jesus nailed to the wall of a room I suggest mescaline because it is a great deal more fun than church. Or a class in Six Sigma. And more honest.
I didn’t finish my Six Sigma green belt.
I don’t have any mescaline.
I don’t go to church.
If you are looking for Truth here on Toulouse Street I will deal you in. I might have all the facts or I may have a hole in my straight. I don’t have to show my hand. I can always smile and fold but instead I will bluff well and you will buy it and never know. Have another beer. It’s a nickel and dime game anyway. The statistics governing poker, betting inside the control lines, is not the point. We play in the land of wild cards and the bluff. The veracity of the stories we tell is not important. As long as you get what you came for–lost less than I spent on beer and snacks, hung with your friends, got something off your chest in front of what is as close to a sympathetic and trusting audience as men get–everybody goes home happy.
(I don’t play poker).