Delights & Shadows

I have been writing consistently for the last two days. More than I have in the last year. I’m back in my Ariel stage. Picking a more familiar subject matter has helped my creative fervor.

Today I wrote for a solid hour

They were at it again. They were always at it.

            “What do you mean rap isn’t a serious art form?” said Duke, his knees planted into the seat of his office chair, which he spun to the tempo of his music.

Above his desk hung an obnoxiously large banner of his alma mater, the University of Florida, home to the three-time national football champions and the most universally hated sports fans this side of the Atlantic. Duke was, of course, not one of these fans. However, his mother bought the banner for him so he felt obliged to show it. His mother bought him Gator memorabilia every holiday and birthday since he first got accepted, despite her son’s strong, almost hostile, insistence that she stop. She continued anyways, as she had no other idea of her son’s hobbies, of which he had many.

            “I mean, sure, it can be catchy, but where is the characterization, the moral struggle, the existential crisis?” said Dean on the other line. He loved the phrase existential crisis. He had no idea what it meant. His month long examination of existential philosophy amounted to knowledge of a few entries of Kierkegaard, a re-read of No Exit, and some half-concentrated listen-through of Thus Spoke Zarathustra on audio book. But he knew Duke wouldn’t call him out on it.

            “What the fuck does that even mean, existential crisis?” Duke said.

            “Why do I even need to defend my tastes to you? You like country music.”

            Indeed, he did. Duke at that very moment was spinning around to a single off one of Garth Brook’s old albums. It was nostalgic to him, even if he knew it wasn’t high art. His parents had grown him up on the stuff. Now that he was home, he could indulge his old sentiments, especially since his room had become a veritable dumping ground for all his parents’ junk while he was away at school. Dusty tape adaptors, floral patterned comforters, turquoise tights, torn-open letters, bills, notepads, inkless pens and leadless pencils, bronze candle sticks, and CDs scratched all to hell cluttered his dresser drawer, his floor, his desk, and his closet. Duke’s mother blamed the mess on his father. His father blamed it on his mother and called her a hoarder. Duke didn’t know who to blame but suspected his mother.

            “You’re right. I like classic country. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson. I know you do, too.”

            “Johnny Cash, yes, but I can hear some radio Honky Tonk in the background right now,” Dean said accusingly.

            “Ray Charles made a country album, ya know? He loved country because he said it told the best stories,” said Duke on the defensive. Duke cared about good stories. His shelves bloated with used novels, poetry books, Shakespeare anthologies, and philosophy tracts. He went to school for English literature, specifically fiction writing. He wanted to be a writer but hadn’t written more than a few e-mails in more than six months. He still cared deeply for good stories though.

            “Bob Dylan tells good stories.”

            “They put that asshole in my poetry anthologies. He’s not a poet. He’s a folksinger. He was friends with Kerouac and Ginsberg though. I guess that makes him kind of a writer,” thought Duke, who wasn’t exceptionally complex but nonetheless felt always at odds with himself.

Duke wanted to change the subject fast to avoid looking any more like a fool.

“I’ll be over soon,” he said.

“Please call me when you’re on your way,” Dean said.

“Why would I call you? I’m telling you now I’m leaving soon.”

“All right. Bye.”

I like country music, plain and simple:

If you’re going through hell
Keep on going, don’t slow down
If you’re scared, don’t show it
You might get out
Before the devil even knows you’re there

…And this: “During his years of working different jobs, rearing children, and trying to write, Carver started to drink heavily.By his own admission, eventually he more or less gave up writing and took to full-time drinking. In the fall semester of 1973, Carver was a teacher in the Iowa Writers’ Workshop with John Cheever, but Carver stated that they did less teaching than drinking and almost no writing.” (wiki).

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately: His conversion from a dissolute and privileged society author to the non-violent and spiritual anarchist of his latter days was brought about by his experience in the army as well as two trips around Europe in 1857 and 1860–61 (wiki article on Leo Tolstoy).

I’m going to have $400 in the bank Friday. No matter if I don’t have the scores to make grad school. I’ll make something else.

What should I do with my free time? Listening to electronic music at my desk has become old, and quite frankly, a bit disconcerting. Reading Anna Karenina would probably be a better option; however, “literature bores me, especially great literature…”

Tonight my parents finally admitted that they believe my interests and my studies are useless to society.