The tales of Being

[Ramona Tudor]

Hello :) I will share some of my short stories with you, if it please you. I named my thread ”The tales of Being” because it comes close to my personal blog's name, and it also outlines what I'm actually concerned in while writing something. I hope you enjoy my short stories, and I am thankful for any comments and feedback you can give.
Good day!
_

november 14th, 2014
The tale of Bernard Hutcher

There is nothing left in me. Nothing I can use anymore. Nothing I can trust, nor desire. I feel forever lost in the clutches of my own miserable soul. I wish I could spare my shamefulness by spading my body. I wish I could put a knife to my throat and say goodbye to everything there was, to everything there is. But there is no such thing as escape. Wherever you run, nowhere is far enough. You cannot hide from yourself. And there is no point in running when the enemy is right beside you, when the enemy is your own bloody and sick self. I am my own enemy. The fate I cannot escape.

What can someone do when there is nothing left? When there is nothing to look back to ? (to raise your hand and catch the glimpses of a past you were once part of).
There is nothing left for me, but the darkness of my own present self. There is nothing left of the person once called by my name -my name, whatever that is, whatever that might have been, is now permanently deleted from my brain. For there is no reason to keep going on by this name. From all the things that seem to be, nothing is. Everything is a huge, stupid lie. The world we live in. The desires we think we have. We all wake up one day and see the Matrix. We shall all wake up one day and realize food has no real taste. We will realize there is no such thing as we call beauty. Everything around us is artificial. Sometimes, the moment of comprehension is the moment of death. What is tragic about it, is that you don’t know. And maybe that’s beautiful. But be aware, stupidly-smiling-face, ignorant-butt, be aware because we do not know what death may come. We do not know if we know and what we know.

I might have been afraid of death. I might have ignored it all this time. However it is, it doesn’t matter anymore. For there’s nothing left in myself that could possible feel fear, nor indifference. The sole pursue of my present miserable self is pain.
Everything one needs to be woken up is …pain. Everything I needed to realize the cinder that covered my life, was suffer. Once you have your heart broken up into 10.000 pieces, there is no coming back. There is no coming back to life, yet you cannot die. You keep yourself in an unnamed place. All you feel is pain. You begin getting used to it -there it is, it deeply lies within yourself and you cannot remember if there was another Time: suppose a time when you were happy, or a time when you didn’t know what meant to have your body and soul chained by yourself.

The only enemy a human has is himself. I, myself, am the enemy of Bernard Hutcher. That was my name before I met nothingness. Do you want to permanently delete Bernard Hutcher from your brain? yes/ no. And you press the yes button. Are you sure? Somebody asks. Yes, you press the button again, I am sure. For when you suffer, there is no such thing as trying to over-think your decisions. First of all because there are no decisions. Only frugal matters. Everything is superficial. Even the pain you feel in your chest. Your body is a sculpture. A bloody sculpture. A living sculpture.

You yourself are nothing but the puppet of your inner self. And when you wake up, you realize the pain is not gone. You don’t understand anything anymore. Yet, everything is more clear today than it were before. My name is not Bernard Hutcher anymore. I am the nothingness of my own being, pleased to need you… Pardon me, pleased to meet you. I don’t need you, dear stranger. I have the shadow of the so-called Bernard Hutcher. We drink vodka every night and think about the past. Bernard Hutcher was incredibly stupid and naive. Today, in the hole of a verminous pain, we celebrate, by cutting our veins, his 2 years of pleasantly suffering. He marvelously survives.

I wonder what means this verb, to survive. I suppose is something that one does in order to keep up; that is to say, in order to be able to catch up with Tomorrow. If that’s what survival means, then I must submit to the top. I am surviving; for the pain in my chest -a huge hole made by an invisible bulldozer -makes me feel the existence flowing through ever day of Tomorrow. I know, when I go to bed, that there is no such thing as the disappearance of Bernard Hutcher in the darkness of the night. For he slept with his light on from when he was 6 years old, when his mother left home for the night shift. Bernard Hutcher was a coward.

I now sleep with my lights off to defy Death. But Death is so truly not overwhelmed by my courageous comportment. The manifestations of self are quite boring in the eyes of Death. She still awaits for the sensible boy that cried at night, she still expects him to scream by nights while seeing the monsters she sent to scare the scary, stupid boy. Elle est une jolie Dame.
Only that Bernard Hutcher is gone -cowardice left him the moment his other features left his side. When his life ended, the shadows and horrible external spectres, also disappeared. All that remained out of the Bernard Hutcher we all knew, is the incredibly unpolished self.
His parents are gone. His mysteries are gone. His best friend, his first girlfriend, his wife, his children, his first house, and even the rat with whom he has been quarreling for 10 years : they are all gone. They left him alone is a senseless Paradise. It is full of colours: the streets are clean and the people are young.
But there is nothing remaining out of the old Bernard Hutcher. He is 80 years old. Yet, death would not come visit such useless participants to the trial of it. Because Bernard Hutcher has committed himself by vow not to fight the moment of his death. The old Bernard Hutcher that once, as a very sensible and piker boy, fought everything he feared… came not to fear anymore. Nothing to fear, when nothing to lose.

The bus is yet full of people. And people talk as if the importance of the entire universe lies within their words. Bernard Hutcher wouldn’t get tired. Yet, I am so tired I would like to sit down. Never did Bernard Hutcher accept a seat offered to him in the bus. Yet, he did it today. For he felt as if his feet couldn’t take it anymore. Three more stations. The market didn’t seem so far away 10 years ago. Years pass, years have passed.
I am tired, dear Bernard Hutcher, and I tell you this because there is no one else here with whom to talk to. You see that my hands are shaking. Those hands are yours… because, let me tell you a secret: I am you. You have remained my only one distraction. What was I about to say? Oh, forgive me, my brain suffers of amnesia. Don’t worry, it always had. You know you’re not to be trusted, dear Bernard Hutcher.

We are home.
I invented our duality because I am bored of the pain I feel every day. The mail gets here at 8 o clock. I sill receive my newspaper, even though I can use a computer with internet. Yes, dear Bernard Hutcher, I thought of understanding technology. But it made me feel nostalgic for all the letters I’ve written, for all the letters I did not send. Handwritten letters, marked with blood at the corner of a paper. Because it felt unbelievably real; and it felt incredible to be alive.
Oh, this pain? Haven’t you got the slightest guess from what it comes? Neither do I. We shall get used to it -pain, that is.
The phone rings -I shall pick it up, shouldn’t I?
“Grandpa! Hello, how are you?”
The voice of a maiden… Oh, sweet memories. My bed is empty, my sheets are white and lifeless. I, myself, am an old, and useless wreck.
The maiden is getting married. “I wish grandma would be there too” she says. “So do I, little flower. So do I.”
For my lady is long dead, and the phone is once again put to its place. Bernard Hutcher, what can we do today? We can’t read much, for our eyes hurt. We can’t think much, for we should once again start crying and that’s quite shameful for such an old man to do. We will listen to music.
Dear Bernard Hutcher, 80 years of life and you can’t yet decide what to do. You can’t yet say what life is, even though life is long gone and you have already experienced it. You are naked, and you are ignorant when facing the idea of it. What is life? A bunch of memories I can’t seem to remember.

Mozart, you think! Yes, Bernard Hutcher, I do remember Mozart.

[DATo]

Salutări Ramona Tudor,

I think you have presented a remarkably accurate description of what old age can be like for some. I have had experience with many older people, and though they may not have been quite as despondent about life as Bernard Hutcher I can recognize from my own memory the mysterious echoes of frustration, loneliness, the realization that there is no time left to mend mistakes or hope for absolution of sins; the profound knowledge that all the friends of their past, those that they once knew and could confide in, are gone; that the only rays of sunshine left to them arrive from distant places by post or phone cables; when their own bodies are cursed by infirmities and betrays them - the Judas who walked beside them each day of their lives and slowly, without their knowledge or consent drained them day by day of their youth, their vitality, their health and now, perhaps, in the case of Bernard Hutcher, even his sanity.

On the day we are born we begin a foot race with Death. We go through life not knowing when it will capture us. For some it comes when Death jumps out suddenly and unexpectedly from behind a boulder on the side of the path, for others it is the moment the race begins - before they have even drawn their first breath. It is a race with no finish line, only the knowledge of the inevitability of its end. For some Death arrives as a murderer, for others as a just avenger, and for still others, as a beneficent friend.

Your writing tells the story of one man's race with Death, but it carries the message that Bernard Hutcher is no longer interested in the race and as he hears Death's footfalls increasing in volume behind him I imagine him smiling.

A dark story, but very nicely written.

[Iain Sparrow]

I'm reading The Tale of Bernard Hutcher as if it's one story in a grander scheme of "The Tales of Being", which is I assume an exploration of consciousness and reality. What I didn't like about the story were the opening paragraphs; they set the tone too quickly for my taste and I felt as though I was being given an impromptu philosophy lesson by a young person on the futility of living without hope or purpose. Most old people I've met and talked with are far more resigned to the eventuality of death, and very often retain some humor about life's final chapter. Also, something that caught my attention in a bad way was this line, "We all wake up one day and see the Matrix", that is a reference no elderly person would equate with existence (it's a generational thing), my generation might see life as the Matrix, but an elderly gentlemen who revels in Mozart would more likely see life as a waking dream. I'll say that I'm not a big fan of soliloquy, and your story has too much of that for my liking.:) Slow it down some, let your character tell his story by actions and indirect internal dialogue. A trip down memory lane doesn't have to be so obvious or dark; let readers figure out Bernard for themselves, that he's a coward and is headed for a coward's lonely death... but perhaps do it in a way that imparts more sympathy, make it bitter sweet.

I think what I would have preferred in your story, is more of a narrative arc.
Bernard Hutcher is lost in his own memories and failing faculties, his regrets and shame, a life less lived... and it seems the overriding theme is of cowardice. I recall it was Shakespeare that wrote “a coward dies a thousand deaths", and that's what I was thinking as I read your story... go with that, and then end with that. And one more thing, I really wish you would have extended the telephone conversation he has with his granddaughter, it just works, but why not make it more intimate? Symbolically it could be his last chance to live in the here and now, and alas he slips back into the past where he dies yet again.
Hope I'm not being too critical :), I do like your writing style!

[DATo]

Greetings Ian Sparrow!

I liked your comment and the insights you bring to light in your critique of this story. I too felt that the beginning was a bit intense, and at first I was having trouble figuring out what was going on. The first person point of view presents limitations to the writer as I'm sure you will agree. We experience the feelings, thoughts, and actions of the narrator only through his own description of them.

I also agree with your comment about the Matrix. That sort of jumped out at me too as I was reading this. In the movie Gettysburg the character of General John Buford makes a comment about troops getting "online" which is a contemporary term associated with the internet as far as I know. He should have said "In line". An 80 year old man would probably not be a fan of movies like The Matrix.

Actually I thought the "coward" reference would be later revealed in the story and that this would be at the heart of the narrator's depression. Perhaps he failed in extracting his family from a burning building as a younger man, or had consorted and given aid to the enemy in World War II out of fear ... something like that. But the "cowardly" attitude he has of himself is never fleshed out in anything tangible to the reader so one must suppose that he is referring to his fear of living each day with nothing to look forward to. I can't shake the feeling that Bernard Hutcher is hiding something from the reader in his references to cowardice. If this is the writer's intent it is a masterful stroke but it requires something which is missing to validate it even if it is only subtly and tangentially introduced, like a reference to a death camp prison guard, the aforementioned fire, or substance dependance which led to some tragedy in the past.

The writer does display talent however. I thought the presentation was very well written.

[Ramona Tudor]

Salutări, DATo and good day, both to you and to Iain Sparrow. Before proceeding into analysing your critique and appreciation, I must thank you for reading and taking your time to give some feedback. I was delighted to see your comments, and surprised you both had so many things to say about it. Thank you :)

There are several things I must say about this story (that also concern my future short stories): I will never guide the reader through a certain path, whether he/she wants it or not, I will either way refuse to do so. I enjoyed reading your insights and believe that every reader should be allowed to see whatever it fits him/her right in a story. Following this scheme, I believe that every reader is right in saying ”something” about the story, because anyone should be able to see whatever he/she wants to see, or is able to see. Therefore, whether Bernard Hutcher was such and such, or whether he was another such and such, it doesn't really matter. What it truly matters is what you believe about him, and about the story. I will never take the lead and tell you ”by this, I meant Bernard Hutcher [whatever character] meant such and such”. Even though I am the writer of the story and should be able to make some clarifications at some points, I don't really wish to do so. My stories, as well as my characters, have infinite independence -as well as my readers. Every reader my stories would be blessed with is allowed and encouraged to believe everything he/she wants to believe about a story.
Oh, I've been kind of long about it.
And the other thing I must add is that sometimes my stories transform without me knowing it -and I have this very sensitive idea about the stories that are born without my rational and conscious consent, I cannot change or transform them. It is true that most of my stories are this way (unforced, written almost unconsciously at times, transforming by themselves -hard to explain), and I find it very hard and hurtful to change parts of them. Therefore, I sort of tend to allow them to exist in their primal form. Which, I know or incline to think, it is not always the righteous thing to do.

Now, before boring you to death, I shall answer some of your critiques, Iain Sparrow.
First of all, you are not being too critical! Not at all, on the contrary, I enjoyed reading your comment and you actually made a lot of sense. I also believe that I lack subtlety in my writings. I sort of serve the characters roughly, brutally - I put them on the screen and call them whatever it fits me, and sometimes I don't explain why they are like that, neither do I let the reader discover his traits by actual facts and behaviour. I am working on it, though, and do hope to manage some subtlety through my stories and characters.


Slow it down some, let your character tell his story by actions and indirect internal dialogue.
I appreciated this advice and I will try to take it into consideration (and by that I mean that I will try to do as you suggested; so I am not being just polite, I mean it).

I should also agree with you both in two aspects, that the incipit of my story resembles something else, not an old man, and that the Matrix reference doesn't really match the Bernard Hutcher who wrote letters and listens to Mozart. I have two reasons for these two mistakes:
1. The incipit of my story is philosophical, and resembles the voice of a depressed young person because this is how the story in itself begun - it should have been about a guy, though I don't really know what happened through my writing, because the guy transformed by itself in an old man (it was as if words were by themselves and were doing their job, even though I was writing them). I like when this happens, but sometimes this comes with unfortunate results. I did not feel like modifying the passage because I've taken a liking to it and I would have felt horrible... so, in the end, I just let it be like that, and supposed people wouldn't really notice. I was pleasantly surprise to see that was not the case. You both are very sharp readers, and I was delighted to see you have pointed out one of the -perhaps- biggest inconvenience of my story.

2. The reference of Matrix has been done involuntarily, and I must confess that I did not see this mistake until you two pointed it out. I should change it, and will soon, with something more appropriate. Now that you have pointed it out, I also believe that it doesn't fit my character and my story at all. Thank you for pointing that out!


I do like your writing style! thank you, I am glad to hear that and hope you will think so in the future as well.

Also, the date ”november 14th 2014” before the story is not part of the story -it's the actual date of when this story was written. Just saying!

DATo, I thank you for your suggestions. Maybe I should have said other things about B. H. I surely should have done so - though the story in itself was meant to be short, and -well, lacking certain details in order to give the reader the opportunity to imagine for himself what he desires to see in a certain passage of the story, etc. In my future writings, I will try to provide the story with more consistent (important) details, and also try to maintain a certain subtlety as it was already (I think) suggested by Iain Sparrow.
Also, you flatter me when saying
The writer does display talent however. I thought the presentation was very well written. and I must thank you for this -it made my heart skip a beat, because I am not used with the word ”writer” (it has been a while from when I last got the chance to read a comment/or have some feedback on my stories), and also because I found myself unworthy of your kind words. I do hope that someday I will have more confidence.

This being said, I apologise for taking it too long to ...say things, but I was pleasantly surprised by your comments and could not help myself but say all these things. You have my most sincere and kind gratitude for your feedback. Thank you, and I hope I will receive feedback from you in the near future as well.

Have a good day :)

[DATo]

Ramona,

I was intrigued by the comment in your recent response to Ian Sparrow in which you mention that you allow your thoughts to flow freely and that you are reluctant to alter them once they are written into the story. You think like a modern artist with regard to your writing and I find that fascinating. In creating modern art today's artists sometimes employ the natural phenomena of nature to generate their work - forces like gravity, the swinging of a pendulum, the ebb and flow of tides or even the free movement of animals. In your case the "natural" effect appears to be in the form of the free-channeling of your unconscious thoughts to the story. I read once long ago that Steven King's stories are inspired by his dreams so he too is including elements taken from the machinations of his subconscious.

The dark, foreboding, and may I suggest surrealistic backdrop of your story reminded me a bit of Kafka - perhaps a cross between his two works, The Trial and The Burrow, but in each of these stories there was always an element of hope. Perhaps a closer comparison would be The Metamorphosis.

Montaigne once said, "All I say is by way of discourse, I would not speak so boldly if it were my due to be believed." I am not a professional literary critic, so please take my opinions only for what they may be worth to you. The style of writing you present (the channeling aspect of your subconscious thoughts) is more often found in poetry, though I hasten to add, that this in no way suggests that it cannot be adapted to prose literature and it often is so adapted, especially in modern writing. In your recent response, if I interpret it correctly, you state your firm position of allowing the reader to form his/her own interpretations. This, once more, is at the heart of the philosophies of modern artists. I'm sure there are many that enjoy this kind of writing and bask in the freedom of all the abstract possibilities offered to them with regard to interpretation. I confess that I too enjoy this to a certain extent, but I must also confess that I would LOVE to know what the artist's personal interpretation is. You are totally in step with with all creators of art who refuse to do this, and I respect your position. One example that comes to mind is the singer / song writer Don McLean's song American Pie. He has steadfastly refused to offer the slightest hint regarding the interpretation of the lyrics to this world-famous song. So the point I want to make is ... SOME people will thoroughly enjoy this "interpret the meaning for yourself" style and others may not. You must ask yourself if you wish to alienate what may prove to be a significant portion of readers by maintaining this style. My opinion, again, only for what it may be worth to you, might be to strike a compromise and include the elements, however subtle, which lead the reader to what YOUR interpretation of the story may be.

One of the most satisfying experiences of my entire life on the internet was a two year long discussion I was involved in at The Internet Movie Database (IMDb) concerning the movie The Red Violin which I consider the finest movie I have ever seen, a movie I would strongly recommend to a lover of books because it plays out much like a novel. This movie presents many unsolved questions but there are logical paths one might take to formulate a valid interpretation of the answers. The discussion involved people from many countries and from many walks of life who each contributed their views and insights of the story. Now what I am trying to say is that this overwhelming response to this particular movie discussion suggests, as it would apply to our current discussion, that the reader does NOT want to be told all the answers but is grateful for hints.

Watch the movie if you can find it and I think you will understand what I mean. I can almost promise that you will not be disappointed.

Now I have retaliated for your long response *LOL* ... I hope I did not bore you too much ! [;- )

[Ramona Tudor]

DATo,

Thank you for your recommendation. I will search the film and watch is as soon as time permits me to do so.
I understand what you say, and I believe you are right to state that some people might not like the way I choose not to say anything about my writings (in means of interpretation). It is perhaps because I am easily leaded upon a certain path when someone creates a perspective, that I do not wish to do the same with my readers. I don't want to go there, pardon me, and say ”no, no, look, this is what I wanted to say!” Well, of course there IS something the writer wanted to say, but it's truly unfair and unprofessional, it seems to me, to cut all openings for the other. When I think about it, and I believe there are some figures who also sustained the same point, a certain story, a book, a creation of art of any sort doesn't say only one thing (not by means of quantity, but quality and perspectives). A book says as much as its readers want to believe/see/interpret, etc. If there will be a day when readers of my stories would really desire to understand/find out what I wanted to transmit, then I suppose I would tell them a bit here, and a bit there of what I actually meant/felt while writing the story.

I suppose my comment seemed rather irrefutable, but what I truly wanted to say is that I do not want to create perspectives. I don't want the reader's thoughts to become a mirror of my own insights... on the contrary, I am fascinated by what the reader can create while reading something (written by me, in this case; this being what makes me feel so excited and fascinated). Meanwhile, if there would really be the case when someone, after interpreting something and ”believing” something about my story, would sincerely and urgently want to find out what I thought/felt/meant when I wrote such and such, then I should most gladly answer the inquiry, and explain some subjective matters. Because, in the end, they are purely subjective, matching the reader's subjective perspective and interpretations. What does it matter that I wrote such and such? It's more fascinating to see the people that read it say something about it - it's an incredible feeling, to see that what you wrote actually meant something for the other. That's what makes me look forward to while writing -not the critiques, not the appreciation, not the reading in itself, but the emotions and interpretations my readers would have while reading the piece. I don't know, maybe I am sort of euphoric and sentimentalist, I don't deny it, but it's part of my writing-dream.

DATo, I absolutely adore (not abhor!) long comments, and cannot get bored by them, moreover when your comments are interesting, and I take pleasure in reading them.

Trying not to be entirely off topic, or whatever, I shall post something else I have written a while ago, this summer. And, for the love of it, I will create an insight (what do you think about it?)

It happened this summer, when I was at my grandma's place (I haven't seen the old lady for almost two years). I found her sick, and old, and a certain relative that I have been in horrible relations with, treated me kindly and interestingly ignorant of past events. Even though she hasn't offended me personally in any way, I still excepted her to treat me differently. However, I found myself in a state of decrepitness that I could not avoid. It was perhaps a slight beginning of depression -I do not know for sure, but I am saying this only because the following piece is extremely important and personal, and it ultimately meant to transmit something about me (even though my stories don't usually talk about my persona).
Also, even though it may seem like it, the following is not a poem. It's written in this particular way because I couldn't write proper sentences at the time. I had this overwhelming, troubling feeling inside me, and could not get past it. It's just the result of some very powerful emotions that captured my soul at the time. Cuddled in a chair, even though it wasn't cold at all, I struggled with the words I wrote on a random piece of paper. I remember using red ink, and my hand wrote without me noticing it. To tell the truth, I wasn't able to stop even if I wanted to, and knew no longer what to do to escape my misery. Because, well, no matter how stupidly insipid it would sound, I probably suffered of some sort of anxiety.

I am only curious what you will say about this! It's indeed very personal, and even though I have posted it on my personal page, I got no feedback on it. I wondered whether it sounded so personal that it couldn't even go ”through” the people that read it.

I called it ”a random journal” and, as Iain Sparrow suggested in his comment,
which is I assume an exploration of consciousness and reality, it's very relevant to The tales of Being. Perhaps because it exceeds ”the tales”, and comes closer to ”Being”. But, as myself, the following piece is nothing close to fancy!


<Dear Someone, please don’t ever leave me alone

Perhaps I’ve been in this state of loneliness

For as long as I can remember

However, I feel that when I’m with you

Time stops and my loneliness leaves me helplessly

In love with your time

-the time you spend with me>



<For someone like me, who doesn’t know who she is

It’s extraordinary to watch his overwhelming confidence

Maybe if I’ll look at him more often

I will become more like him, and less like me

But I know that’s just a taradiddle

Because I can’t possibly look at him more

than I do now
Watch him all the time, that’s perhaps the only thing

I can do with Confidence>



<I cannot possibly renounce

And abandon myself and my beliefs

But it’s a strange, real story

One always puts on stand-by his beliefs

When there’s an unavoidable circumstance.

One doesn’t forget one’s beliefs

One makes them stop for a minute or two

Just to avoid breaking up with everyone else

in this rotten, stupid world

-and that saddens me greatly>



<The words I write today are helpless

it’s been a while

-from when I starved for words.

It struck me one day, when grandma was sick

that boredom cannot be surpassed

and dreariness sometimes commands chaos

- I can’t write coherently

but I can’t stop writing >



< This is like a bad journal

A diary one keeps involuntarily

There are so many worries I cannot express

I want to fall asleep soundlessly>



<Somehow I think that everything one reads

has to be charged with overwhelming meanings

And the author himself, no matter how incoherent or stupid

is capable -sometimes- of shaking someone else’s peace.

It’s great, and scary

how alike we, sometimes disgusting humans beings,

are and can now and again become>



<Someone once said she doesn’t understand Shakespeare’s style

she demanded the alteration of his entire style -converting Shakespeare’s vocabulary into modern language

I say, why not kill Shakespeare entirely, if we are at it?

I used to love Shakespeare’s works -and I still do

-there are so many ways in which you can kill a person

but if you want to murder an author with cruelty

all you have to do is modify or destroy his original works

-or, well, you know, at least those already modified by hard-headed editors>



<I wonder if I will ever remember what I write now

It’s perhaps my first time trying something like this

In my state of decrepitness

-that often comes and destroys bits of me-

it’s the first time I write incoherently

trying to get rid of the emotions I cannot express properly>



<There are times when people know how they feel

But cannot express it in words.

Right now, I am the same

No matter how much I try

I cannot express anything I feel

-it’s like Issa’s blank haiku (the dew drop world)*

that makes one shiver in distress (is just a dew drop world)

It’s stupid -life’s arbitrariness

-it hurts (and yet…)>*



<On a blank page, I wrote words even I cannot understand

-words nobody will ever understand; not even me

or especially not me…>



<I have a thirst I cannot control

It won’t stop

-what can I do?

A fever I caught from nowhere

Should I lie down and sleep?

I feel -and not feel- nothingness>



<Do you understand?

I never understood,

no matter how hard I tried.

Maybe because all I could think of

was going back to him>



<I don’t know what love is

But I feel a certain warmth inside

Whenever I am with him

There’s nothing to worry about anymore

-I believe I am a helpless prisoner>



<Won’t you tell me

that you waited for my return?

Is it too much to ask? -one should never ask to be missed

One cannot ask it

And the other can’t possibly do it, unless the other feels it.

There’s nothing more relaxing

than resting in your eyes.

Easiness -something I desire>



………

<Nothingness -nothingness

That’s a word nobody knows how to use

but we are a few who think about it

Nothing we know about nothingness

only feelings we are deprived of -

Emotions we know not how to call>.


*Issa‘s haiku (inspired by the death of his daughter, after a series of many other tragedies)

<tsuyu no yo wa tsuyo no yo nagara sari nagara>

(the dew drop world is just a dew drop world

and yet, and yet…)

[Iain Sparrow]

I suppose my comment seemed rather irrefutable, but what I truly wanted to say is that I do not want to create perspectives. I don't want the reader's thoughts to become a mirror of my own insights... on the contrary, I am fascinated by what the reader can create while reading something (written by me, in this case; this being what makes me feel so excited and fascinated). Meanwhile, if there would really be the case when someone, after interpreting something and ”believing” something about my story, would sincerely and urgently want to find out what I thought/felt/meant when I wrote such and such, then I should most gladly answer the inquiry, and explain some subjective matters. Because, in the end, they are purely subjective, matching the reader's subjective perspective and interpretations. What does it matter that I wrote such and such? It's more fascinating to see the people that read it say something about it - it's an incredible feeling, to see that what you wrote actually meant something for the other. That's what makes me look forward to while writing -not the critiques, not the appreciation, not the reading in itself, but the emotions and interpretations my readers would have while reading the piece. I don't know, maybe I am sort of euphoric and sentimentalist, I don't deny it, but it's part of my writing-dream.

I think we find you and I at opposite ends of the spectrum; you like to leave the story open-ended and left to the imagination of the reader, and I on the other hand enjoy manipulating the viewer... both approaches have equal merit, but are quite different in application. I'm not a writer, I am an artist that while nowadays doesn't earn a living as a fine artist I did from my early 20s to late 20s earn part of my income painting murals and backdrops for local theatre productions, also designing and building stage props... and yeah, the pay was awful and I was dead broke a lot of the time, but I grew as an artist by leaps and bounds, and that time in my life is still with me... though technically I am now a better artist, my work often lacks the frenetic energy of those earlier days.
I usually worked in collaboration with other artists, and we all worked under an Art Director, so there always had to be a point-of-view and our end result had to be coherent... as if produced by a single artist and not look cobbled together by a team of artist, each with a different perspective. I think where you enjoy the varied responses to something you've committed to paper, I very much want the person who looks at my work to feel a certain way. As horrible as it may sound, I want a certain response from my work and when I get it, it makes me feel good.:)

Back when I was a lad of 8, my parents enrolled me in an oil painting class... the teacher was a very rough-around-the-edges Hungarian immigrant and he preached "don't copy, express!"... I of course copied. When he set up a still life with a wine bottle and fruit for us to draw and then paint, I would simply copy it to the best of my ability, and he would whack my canvas with his paint brush "stop copying!"... even in high school art classes, or the life drawing class I was taking at the local community college at the tender age of 14, I had a difficult time letting loose and being freer with my strokes and brush work. What changed in me, becoming an artist who could "express", was working for those theatre groups and having to produce sketches of ideas very quickly... there was little time to think, I just sort of slipped into a sort of 'free association' mode and went with whatever struck my fancy, sometimes not knowing where the ideas were coming from. It was one play in particular wherein I rounded the corner and understood the concept (finally)... it was an avant-garde production of A Midsummer Night's Dream and the Art Director wanted some sketches for the play later that same day! The previous weekend I had went to an art museum showing of work by Dr.Seuss of 'Cat in the Hat' fame... I used that as my stepping off point and sketched pillars and fountains, greek ruins, forest clearings and whatnot, all very organic and dreamlike, and kept things simple and unadorned... it was the first time my conceptual drawings were used for a production!

The point I'm making, or trying to make:), is that where I needed to let loose, you perhaps need to attempt writing at a more articulate level and not be afraid of dictating more of what the reader feels. I think when we leave our comfort zone, no matter what that comfort zone is, that sometimes we surprise ourself.;)

[Ramona Tudor]

Iain Sparrow,

That's a very interesting, and somehow encouraging story you have there. I must confess that I believe you are right when saying that I ”perhaps need to attempt writing at a more articulate level and not to be afraid of dictating more of what the reader feels”, though I also believe this to be a very hard task, when it comes to me. Maybe because I lack the confidence, and also because I have this strong belief that objectivity, if it exists, it's very rare. I believe people are mostly subjective, and unable sometimes of seeing the ”bigger picture”, what lies after them and their liking/disliking. Maybe this is one of the reasons that makes me feel unsure, and makes me act the way I do. I didn't think of it as my comfort zone, but now that you say it... I think you might actually be right.

I have a short, boring story of my writing. I used to like writing stories and fairytales when I was a child - I was always writing them and reading them afterwards to my mother (and, of course, I'd write her poems for her birthday and so on). I think it struck me at age 15, when I also started reading, that I enjoy writing very much and from then on, I started writing ”a lot”. I used to log in on this Romanian anime forum, which had topics for writings and personal art, and I started to post stories, and other things there. I used to get a lot of reviews, though most were appreciations of the readers, rather than real critiques. I still liked it, because I had the chance to collaborate with different people into making some stories, and I also succeeded into writing ”a novel” in two parts all by myself. I was seventeen by then, and that's perhaps the best memory I have from my adolescence. I can't start to describe the enjoyment and happiness I felt through writing my novel. Even though I find it now rather childish, and can't say it's as good as it seemed to me back then, I am still happy to have wrote it. Back then I did not think about what should I make the readers feel, what should I do about that, or the other, etc. I just wrote from the bottom of my heart, and enjoyed every comment I had, and every sentence I wrote. Those were happy times -and maybe that's what I want to re-create in me. I think that maybe I want to find that excitement again and ”let it kill me”, so to speak. But, well, that mightn't be the wisest way to do things. I haven't wrote any novel lately, and can as much as write short stories at the present moment; maybe because I have to consider many other things right now, and it's harder than it used to be from a certain point of view. Trying to find out my style, trying to understand what I actually like in my writings, what not; trying to be critical about it and extract the negative parts, keeping the positive parts... etc. It's exhausting, I suppose, though I don't dislike it. That's why when I start writing unconsciously, I feel happy, and cannot as much as edit the text afterwards because I feel as if I am betraying something. Which, I assume, it's only me being extremely spoiled.

Even though it will be a difficult task, I will try to write something according to your suggestions, and see how it will work out. I must confess I am afraid, but that only proves that you are in your right when saying that we must live our comfort zone. After all I've said, I realise I am in my comfort zone. But, I wonder, if I won't be able to leave this comfort zone, does that make me a failure? I personally believe there will be some people who will appreciate this type of writing as well, though it's still extremely unpolished and I have still a lot of work to do. If I don't succeed into leaving the comfort zone, I wonder if I'll just parish or not. Well, maybe this is giving it too much thought; I'll see after actually trying it.

To make things straight, your suggestions are (?):
(1) create mystery
(2) be subtle
(3) create insights for the reader(in a subtle way)
(4) have more confidence
(5) succeed into leaving the comfort zone (at least for once -hmm, this is mine)
and I would also say,
(6) think more about the written details (recalling the Matrix mistake)
(7) and don't be afraid of editing your text afterwards.

Thank you very much for your comment, Iain Sparrow. It helped me see things straight, I think, and I was also excited to read your <story>. Thanks for sharing it to me, or should I say us? Anyway, have a good day! :)

[DATo]

Ramona,

Thank you for trusting me with A Random Journal. I think everyone at one time or another in their lives is able to identify with the thoughts and feelings you express in your journal. The writing evokes a sense of loneliness, frustration and the futility of life on the part of the narrator.

In the early 1940's Albert Camus, the French writer/philosopher, wrote an essay called The Myth of Sisyphus which attempted to illustrate the heart of his philosophy, a philosophy which deals with the absurdity of life and existence. Camus makes the point that every man, sooner or later, comes to the realization that existence is meaningless. Schopenhauer also includes this idea in the heart of his own philosophy. This existential realization places an enormous obstacle in the path of our willingness to continue with life. It's like ... "What's the point?"

In the Greek myth, Sisyphus is condemned to roll a huge stone up a hill, but as soon as he reaches the top the stone rolls down again and he must repeat this for all eternity. In the myth, Sisyphus had wronged the gods by trying to evade death and deserved his punishment. The meaninglessness of his task was thought by the gods the worst punishment they could give him. Camus, rather than being unkind to Sisyphus, extols the virtues of a man who is willing to put up with the absurdity and meaninglessness of his task (life) for the very sake of living, and presents Sisyphus as a tragic hero.

In a manner of speaking we are all Sisyphus, because we continue to strive on despite the fact that we are aware of our own mortality and the absurdity of continuing on with life.

Camus makes the statement ...

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Deciding whether or not life is worth living is to answer the fundamental question of philosophy. All other questions follow from that."
- Albert Camus, Le Mythe De Sisyphe

Your journal entry reminded me of this essay and its message: that despite the futility and sorrows that man is condemned to experience he continues to trudge on and to endure ... and in this dedication is to be found his heroic greatness.

[AuntShecky]

In the movie Gettysburg the character of General John Buford makes a comment about troops getting "online" which is a contemporary term associated with the internet as far as I know. He should have said "In line".

The term was around long before Al Gore "invented" the Internet. In the 5 boroughs as well as Long Island and Northern NJ, natives referring to waiting in a queue as being "on line." I'm not sure the phrase was common in the Civil War era, however.

Speaking of the web, somewhere-- perhaps on "Slate"-- a guy has posted ariticles about verb anachronisms in period films and tv shows. This is a pet peeve of mine as well. The production spends millions on actors, sets, music, etc, and then they stint on the script. Very often the dialogue contains expressions not yet in existence for the time frame of the movie.
I thought the dialogue recent version of The Great Gatsby was blatantly inaccurate. And sloppy --unless the producers thought using contemporary (2013) expressions would "relate" to a the youthful demographic of their target audience.

[DATo]

Greetings Auntie !

Thank you so much for the heads-up on the term "online". I remember that it grated severely on my ear when I heard it in the movie though.

One very prevalent expression used in the 1940's and earlier was, "Gee, that's swell!" It was used much the same as we use the expression, "That's cool!" but I can almost promise you that you will never hear that in a movie made today which takes place in that period. They did use it in 50s movies but it is now an extinct expression.

I chose the Gettysburg example because it was the first one that came to mind. I'm sure there are better ones.

[AuntShecky]

Ramona, I forgot to post the comment about your work. Don't have time to critique the technical structure of your prose but regarding the subject matter: I realize that you are attempting to write about "emotions" as experienced by the mind of your character.

The problem with this particular piece is that it hinges on abstractions: pain, death, loneliness, love, and the title theme "being." The trouble with abstractions is that such nouns do not relate to any material object that can be seen, heard, felt (in a palpable sense), smelled, or tasted. Not only that, abstractions are so general that their meanings differ among individuals; their meanings can't be universally defined. "Pain," for instance, can mean one thing to a toddler scraping his knee on a sliding board and another to a batter getting drilled by a pitch. Regarding pain, there are differences in kind, in degree of severity, and especially in the reaction of the person experiencing a certain pain. On the other hand, a rose is (always) a rose; a lemon is a lemon, no matter who tastes it.

Every worthwhile piece of fiction contains philosophical as well as psychological elements, but unless the writer shows these aspects in the plot, characterization, dialogue and setting, the reader is left asea, floundering among massive waves of abstract thought. It makes for difficult reading and easy boredom. Even a story with somber themes needs a hook to capture and maintain the reader's interest.

A piece of fiction is explicit in its showing a picture of a real human being living his life--breathing, actively thinking, talking, listening, moving, making love, raising hell, etc. as opposed to merely "being." The "implicit" part comes in the subtle ways the writer expresses the story. The emotion comes in from the reader, who can-- -as in the cliché--"read between the lines." One thing a good writer never does is "tell" what the character is "feeling." Show us how he happens to have reached that state; trust the story to allow the reader to figure out how the character "feels" by herself.

It's important to remember that fiction is more effective when there are specific, real-life counterparts to the man's emotional responses. Trying to explore free-floating, amorphous, ultimately undefinable "feelings" is like trying to put a jersey on a jellyfish. Rather than attempting to capture emotions, which are frustratingly abstract, try creating a realistic scenario to which the reader can somehow relate.

For a better understanding of what I mean, look up the term "objective correlative." Better yet, read a load of modern and contemporary short stories. Start with the stories in Dubliners.

Finally: Don't forget what William Carlos Williams said: "No ideas except in things." (That goes for fiction as well as poetry.)
And please remember: You can't have sizzle without the steak.

[Ramona Tudor]

You can't have sizzle without the steak.
I quite agree with that! Thank you for your comment and advices.


This is one of my latest short stories. I've written a few in the past weeks, but I didn't feel they were interesting or good enough to be posted around here. I took a liking to this one, though, and I wanted to share it with you.

Around the corner


She was desperately trying to figure out what she did wrong, but could not find the cause of his distress. She munched on her lips quite hard, and forced herself to stop this behaviour just before blood would have sprung out of her destroyed lips.

‘What’s the matter?’ she dared ask, quite nervously, taking a step back. She knew him to be a violent man, especially when he was upset. He did not pay any attention to her, however, and continued to ferret about in a chaotic manner. She didn’t dare to take a seat, but she rather stood there, at the entrance, as if she was ready to disappear whenever she thought it was fit to do so.

‘What are you looking for?’ She dared ask again, when she saw he hadn’t the least interest of taking his grief out on her.

‘Mind your own business’, he replied indifferently, ignoring her entirely. She wondered why she was so scared of him -oh, why, indeed! She had her reasons for that, and even though she always thought herself to be quite foolish for being so afraid, when the moment came, she could not help it; she could not help it at all. Even from her younger days, she could remember how afraid she’s been of every possible threat (be it physical or mental). She always wished to be braver, but never succeeded into doing so – she asked herself, and not only once, whether it was a choice of her own to change something of the sort. She had this strong belief that there were certain things about oneself that one could surely not change. Whether this was the truth or not, she could not tell, but what truths could people tell, in general? Not many -especially when it came to themselves and their problems. They could not help being rather subjective.

‘I could help you look…’ She added randomly, lost in her thoughts. Things between them were not working splendidly these few weeks, and she found she had more courage to confront him now, than when she was stupidly and madly in love with him.

‘Mind your own business’, he answered again, quite annoyed. She didn’t think it was fit to continue the conversation, and she found she wasn’t that scared anymore either. She decided to stay there for a few minutes and see how chaotic the room will become after his looking around so thoughtlessly. What was it that she loved so much about him, again?

Oh, she remembered how lovely it was when they first meet, when she thought him to be the bravest man on Earth (and there was a great chance he was). It was one o the things she admired more in men, and people in general -given the fact that she was so tired of trying to be brave, and so completely weak when it came to fighting anything (even life, or especially life), she was irremediable drown to brave and ambitious people, and she was desperately captivated by their power, will to fight and confront everything. In other words, she loved and admired everything that she was not -the power, the violence, the ambition, the hardness. She felt soft and week, with no will-power whatsoever. Whenever she saw him, she felt as if her legs would fail her, and she could not stop the trembling of her knees -it was because all her body seemed to shake because of excitement, and whenever he touched her she felt as if nothing, nothing at all could stop the harsh beating of her insane heart. She has never felt that way before, and after meeting him, she felt there was nothing else she could do but fall into his arms and be consumed by those impossible affections and burdensome (equally painful and passionate) sensations.
The fear, and his violent character came to surface only later… Even now, she could still feel attracted to his manliness, to his power of destroying everything in pursuing his goal, to his meanness… However, she did not feel the same love anymore (just a brief realisation), and she wondered where it was gone. Whether she had a part in it or not, she could not say, but she did not dare say she missed that love (even though she did), because she was still too afraid to admit such a bold thing.

He looked at her unexpectedly, and even though she swore there was no fear left in her, she trembled at the thought of being harshly treated by him once again.

‘Why are you standing there?’

‘Where should I stand?’ She asked back, in a low tone, trying to move from the entrance.

‘It doesn’t matter where you stand, just get out already.’

‘What do you mean?’ She asked once again, quite involuntarily, sincerely surprised by his attack. It was not his custom to behave nicely, nor was he a very kind man; however, she could hardly remember him ever mistreating her so evidently.

‘I thought I’ve been clear, but it seems you are too stupid to get a hint. I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore. Just get out already.’

And he turned his back to her as soon as he said that, looking for whatever he did not find once again. She was too surprised to say or feel anything, and in the same state of confusion she went out of the apartment and went down the stairs, forgetting there was an elevator she could take, and that there were a great deal of stairs from the tenth floor to climb down. She was trying to understand what just happened, but could not connect the lines quite correctly, and did not seem to figure it out. Some part of herself wanted to scream out loud (but had no idea what to scream about), and some other part wanted to shrink, and perhaps disappear (though she had no idea where).

Of course she knew Mark had quite a horrible behaviour, and that he was quite violent and harsh, not to mention he’s never said anything kind to her from the day she has met him… But, even so, she’s known all this time, deep inside herself, that he loved her (or, at least, he had done so for a while), and that she was important to him. What is more, his indifference towards her for the last weeks was what made her feel so insecure and fearful. She knew, somewhere deep inside her, that his not paying any attention to her was a sign of great anxiety.

She tried to breathe normally, but did not find the proper power or mental equilibrium to do so.

Calm down, she kept saying to herself, while walking randomly on the street, trying to figure out what happened. She has often thought about this moment, but it was so different from what she expected, that she did not seem to be at peace with it -she could not come to understand it. She has always imagined she would start screaming, crying, pleading, begging -oh, and whatever else! in order to keep him by her side (and she started imagining these terrible things some weeks ago, when he was so defiantly indifferent to her and her deeds). She has imagined him springing with furry, perhaps even hitting her -but none of these came to happen, none of the nervousness and anger came out, and the only thing she could do, quite diligently, was to walk desperately on the street and try to figure out what has just happened.

She had to admit, in the midst of her stupid confusion, that life was the most unfair thing that happened to her. And, what is more, that it was so rudely random and silly, that she did not know what to make of it anymore (oh, but did she ever know?). It is perhaps peculiar, but surely not untrue, to say that once she has gained the knowledge of such a simple fact (but also the understanding of it, which is quite, if not entirely critical), she did not seem to be so afraid of it anymore. Oh, why, one would surely ask? Well, perhaps because she figured out that given the fact that she could not do much about it, it was rather meaningless to trouble herself much with life absurdity. It was still early, and mistakes were only waiting to be made; but she was young, and it is said that youngsters are forgiven everything, and they are entirely entitled to mistakes until they grow more mature and have to answer for their follies.

Walking confusingly and anxiously on the streets, she did not know what to do with her life anymore, but having almost involuntarily renounced her fear of everything, she had a great chance of meeting her new beginning just around the corner.