Although, of Course, You End up Becoming Another Dead White Author.

My posts have been sporadic at best, I know, but every now and then inspiration will hit that's slightly larger and weirder than a typical facebook post, and then low and behold, I'm provided another brief Sabbath moment to capture that inspiration in blog form. Maybe next time, I'll write about Bernie Sanders, but I like having the few friends I still have on both sides of the political spectrum, so I might have to pass. So instead, I'll play it safe and write about Hollywood movies, literature and racism.

I  finally saw The End of the Tour, a film that is based on David Lipsky's book-length interview with David Foster Wallace which I haven't read. This is fine, because prior knowledge of the book or David Foster Wallace is not required to appreciate this quietly moving film. Far from a biopic, Tour captures a starstruck/jealous small time author simultaneously trying to interview and befriend a rising star on the literary scene. Jesse Eisenberg sells his role competently,and Jason Segel defies criticism with a complete transformation and vulnerable performance. The writing, direction, and acting make simple, quiet scenes come to life in a film that is composed of mostly two men talking. What they are talking about and the meaning behind it sells the tension and pathos. This should take home several Oscars, especially for Segal, but even as I type that I feel guilty. Yes, this is another movie about two white authors, giving the male whiteout of literature and Hollywood an almost poetic intersection. So maybe it needs to step aside and make way for more diverse pictures that are just as deserving of praise for their craft. Too bad it's so well made.

It's not like the movie is unaware of this, or at least DFW in the movie. When Lipsky asks him who he thinks his primary audience is, he says something to the effect of "probably other nerdy white men". Earlier, he speaks of the loneliness of being a writer and wishes he had someone to share his time with who is not a dog. "Please tell your readers my relationship my dogs is platonic," he tells Lipsky. Even when there's not much at stake, there is for DFW, who doesn't want to give his readers the wrong impression (a concern sustained through the film). A white male superstar writer tells an insecure white male worshiper to be conscious of the  insecure white male audience who will be judging him. Some might consider his admission of his audience as an aside: I see it as an interrogation of literary fiction itself. I know that the names are factual, but both men being named David shades this picture of men basically writing to themselves for approval (think about Lipsky's desire to share his book with DFW and receive feedback from his hero/rival) and in effect feeding their own loneliness. There could be a solution, but their egos won't allow it.

As a white male who appreciates much of what DFW has written (although, good as it was, this film captures what DFW was saying about loneliness and addiction more concisely and possibly better than Infinite Jest) I also can't escape the truth that there are other voices out there who deserve to be heard, and the more voices that I listen to, the less lonely I feel in relation to the world as it stands. Once I read the Achebe's, the Morrisons, the Angelous, the Marquez's, the Murakamis, and, heck, even the Welty's and O'Connors, I feel connected to something larger than myself. I'm not longer trapped in a staring contest with myself, but I'm participating in a much larger conversation. It's freeing, and I'm also convinced that it's much more productive than the alternative. I can set aside my pen and listen, and wait until I have something to say. In the meantime, I can point others towards the wide selection of voices  worth listening to. The theme is universal: we're not alone.

I'm not sure how this connects to the movie. Whether this subversion of "another man story" was intentional, it's still another white male story. It's a well-crafted one, and worthy of praise, but is that enough to justify the continual silencing of diverse artists who are just as deserving? I can't say, but I do think that if the hidden critique makes its way into the collective conscience of both fans of literary fiction and movies, it might not be that much of a waste after all.

The Failed Novels that Haunt Me

I'm a firm believer in storytelling and its potential to convey even the ugliest of truths in beautiful ways. Stories, even the ones we admit are made up and not the kind we pass as fact, have the power to subvert our senses and open our minds to questions we wouldn't even dare ask otherwise. This is why I felt compelled to share an excerpt of a story I failed to tell well.

I wrote a novella, which I recommend everyone try once, especially if it's a poorly made one. I tried twice. I abandoned the second attempt after I realized it just didn't know what it wanted to be. This is what writers do. We pass the responsibility on to the story. Anyway, I wrote a lot of unpublished fiction that I'm proud of. In Good Conscience, the novella ,doesn't fall into that category.

Why, then, am I sharing an excerpt? Simply put, because it haunts me. Something about it, especially the scene on the subway, reminds me of what is happening to our collective reading and thinking, at least in the U.S. I wrote this before I was aware of the push towards nonfiction informational texts in education, but the more I see art and beauty pushed out of our lives, the more Jack's subway commute haunts me. I stand by the opening--I only wish I had figured out the rest of it. Be that as it may, I hope this haunts you as well.


The walk to the subway station was silent and uneventful as usual, a good sign which reassured him. He had a good ten minute wait ahead of him, but that’s the way he liked it. He gazed across the tracks at nothing in particular as he felt the cool morning air against his face. The daydreams would have started next, but for the habitual interruption.

“Morning, Jack.”

“Good morning, Warner,” Jack greeted the man beside him. Soon another commuter would join him, suited, like his companion, in gray, and then another. Within moments a solid gray line would form in front of the track, ready to board the train as a single unit. No pushing, no arguments, just a silent relocation from here to there.

“The crowd’s here earlier than usual, I see,” Warner observed.

Jack nodded as the air became warmer around him. Besides the occasional obvious statement, no one said much. Today however would be different.

An unimpressive thud a few feet in front of him caught his attention, not because of the sound, but the murmur that followed it. Jack heard a scream, and he gently pressed his way through the crowd to see the tracks. A young man sat on the track holding his ankle, crying out in pain. Jack heard a whistle and noticed Warner stood next to him.

“Must have been a nasty fall.”

Something unsettled Jack at times like this, like he wasn’t sure how to react, so normally he kept his silence. Curiosity got the best of him, however, and he had to ask.

“How did it happen?”

“How? Same as always, he slipped and fell. That’s the only way for it to happen.”

Warner’s response and expression put Jack on the defensive. “Of course.” He immediately wanted to kick himself. Of course he slipped and fell. What else would have happened? Accidents happened, and sickness. If harm came any other way…what? His mind couldn’t even begin to grasp it. To consider any other pain, whatever it was, would be ridiculous. And looking more ridiculous was the last thing he needed.

Warner’s gaze returned to the man on the tracks, and Jack soon saw why. The train would arrive shortly, and the kid could barely move. He scrambled up to one leg and soon discovered the other was caught on part of the track. He moved the injured foot toward the crowd and the climb to safety, but the cuff of his pants was attached to the track. He tried to free it, but it wouldn’t move. He paused to listen as the faint rumble of a train started, then went back to work on the pants leg.

“He’s not going to make it,” a bystander observed.

Someone should , Jack thought, then trailed off. What someone should do, he couldn’t say. Not knowing how to react, he agreed with a grave nod.

With a final burst of energy, the young man tugged, ripping the bottom of his pants halfway around his leg. Still, the cuff was caught, and him with it. If he had one more chance, if the train saw him or waited one more moment, he could make it. He gathered up his strength and managed one last tug.

The train arrived on time, taking the man’s remains with it. Unflinching, unaware of incident, it continued to its destination with typical efficiency. The train’s trademark screech drowned out all other sound, and was instantly gone.  

Jack joined the crowd in staring silently at the tracks in front of him, now mostly bare. For a moment or two, no one spoke. Finally, Jack heard a low “Wow,” followed by an “Unbelievable.” Jack tried to find a better word, but it wouldn’t come.

“Those things are sure built to last,” someone observed.

“What?” Jack spun around, surprised as the observer at this sudden confrontation. The other man looked startled and Jack noticed his fists were clenched and pointed threateningly at the poor fellow. He unclenched his fists but receiving no reply demanded, “What did you say?”

“Well, look at it. There’s pretty much nothing left of that poor guy over there, but he didn’t leave a scratch on that train.” The observer no longer looked threatened, only puzzled at this unusual display of behavior.

Jack couldn’t talk, because he couldn’t describe what he felt next. He wanted to punch this man, but he had no idea why. He was right, after all. It was a well-made train, and he did acknowledge the unfortunate situation. Why was he angry at him?

Warner interrupted Jack’s thoughts with an arm around the shoulders. “Take it easy, friend”, he muttered. “This sort of thing rarely happens, so he doesn’t know how to react. It’s hard for all of us. To be honest, I was about to say something similar.”

Remembering he had no way to explain himself, Jack softened and forced a light chuckle. “It is true, those things are made to last.”

“That’s quality,” Warner agreed.

            They nodded, and Warner released his friendly grip as they returned to their place in line. The train arrived soon after, and the crowd moved as one from platform to train. There was an empty seat in front of Jack, and he took it. Around him passengers began to take out their electronic books, doubtless filled with practical advice for the day. Each passenger had a title to fit his or her individual needs. For some reason, this unsettled Jack. He glanced out the window and looked away one second later, but it was too late. The image was there to stay.  The not quite decimated remains of the would-be-survivor disappeared into the distance, in the glance and in his mind.

He looked for Warner, but his neighbor had already moved to another car to find a discarded newspaper according to routine. Jack looked for any other familiar faces, but none could be found and he began to feel somewhat sad as he realized he was as good as alone. Dozens of books made dozens of good points and dozens of intent readers nodded their agreement. Left with no other material, Jack read the blank seat in front of him, still, even after long having passed the corpse, refusing to look out the window.  However, he remained surrounded in a sea of calm faces, all prepared for a normal day. Jack wasn’t so sure anymore.

He reminded himself that while accidents like this were rare, they still happened, and life went on as normal. Of course, it went on as normal because most people didn’t have thoughts like his, but he tried not to think about it.

The crowd nodded to their material again, which soothed Jack somehow. This time he offered a nod of his own.  This would likely be a normal day, like any other, but it wasn’t off to a good start.   

Redeeming the Time, or, Here are some Poems

To make a long story short, I've been given the gift of some extra time this week. I've tried to make good use of that time, cleaning, reading, etc., but after the dust should have cleared but instead scattered from all that cleaning, and my eyes reminded me mid chapter that I could use a nap I didn't have time for, I felt the urge to share some writings. So below I've included some short poems I hope one of us gets something out of, even if something is the truth that I shouldn't write any more poetry. If it's you who get that, please let me know by message. If you don't know how to message me, just keep trying to eat those goats that cross the bridge you live under and move on. Anyway, here's my first attempt to do the opposite of wasting time through poetry. Please enjoy.

This Is Not a Poem

I am not a poet.
A poet would view this pasture
Take it in
And articulate more than
"Man, those cows look delicious."
This is not a poem.
Call it something else.

Baptist Church
It is not blasphemy to claim
"Christ plays in ten thousand places",
A truth I've internalized since birth.
But it surprised me all the same
I could still find His sweet traces
Inside the doors of this baptist church.

Treason
Walking to the library
Can be an act of treason
In a world thriving on waste.
I say things like this
To sound less boring.

Let me know what you think, because there's more where that came from. Have a good one, all.