WordWacky

The Bright Forever: A Novel by Lee Martin

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Seldom have I seen an author so skillfully align guilt and innocence, unfold a story with such dexterity as to confound the reader’s own judgment of these usually clearcut qualities.

Our protagonist — if he can be called such — in The Bright Forever is both heartbreaking, almost childish in his innocence, and yet terribly guilty. As lies are told and truths uncovered, we judge and empathize with the character. In the end, we feel nearly as guilty as he does, as we allowed ourselves to love a little bit those we would choose to scorn were the whole story revealed.

Loneliness, shame, and pride are explored in this book — left wide open: the question of redemption.

At many points the main character addresses the reader, daring us to put the book down in condemnation of his actions. While this is not my favorite literary technique, it’s used well here. When we don’t put the book down, read on at times in the story when our worst fears about our primary narrator seem most certain, we give a little bit of doubt away, place a little more trust in him. We collude with him, if you will.

Aren’t we as guilty as he? Aren’t we also the ones charged with forgiveness, if it is to be granted?

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And I guess I did, too, though only until about age six, by which time I was entirely too worldly and jaded to buy in anymore. But my mother could be found watching his show, even in adulthood. I know, strange, but he still makes me cry.

Apparently, Mr. Rogers wrote all his own songs, including “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” the subject of this lovely anecdote:

Once while rushing to a New York meeting, there were no cabs available, so Rogers and one of his colleagues hopped on the subway. Esquire reported that the car was filled with people, and they assumed they wouldn’t be noticed.

But when the crowd spotted Rogers, they all simultaneously burst into song, chanting “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” The result made Rogers smile wide.

Read all of the 15 Reasons Mr. Rogers Was the Best Neighbor Ever at CNN.

Mom, Mr. Rogers, I miss you both.

As a writer, when I call myself an artist, it is always with the suspicion that someone behind me might tap me on the shoulder to remind me, “Um, no, you’re not an artist. You’re just a writer.”

Perhaps visual artists — maybe painters in particular — feel ordinary, old school, unoriginal. They are not bursting from a canvas wearing a bloody apron and a half-burned tutu. Nor are they installing six-foot View Masters that revolve with the pull of a slot machine arm. Flat, bulky, tangible things they create to hang on walls, so much decor.

But to me, visual artists — maybe painters in particular — are the quintessential artists. So when they take their medium and blend it with my own, I’m enthralled. I noticed recently that, coincidentally or not, most of the original paintings in my home have words somewhere in the picture. That I didn’t buy it all myself makes it an even more compelling fact.

Today I visited my friend, Kathryn Daily’s studio in the International District for an open studio event. I love Kathryn’s work, so it was a joy to see what she’s doing. There were many other terrific artists there, with all their wine and cheese and equipment — including a letterpress that I got to work myself!

I was most taken by the work of Edward Ancher Nelson, particularly his watercolors of groups of people. The image is an example of the many on display in his studio and in the hallways of the building. One slim painting traversed the length of the staircase, with myriad portraits of people and their characteristics, fading into the horizon line at the bottom of the stairs. “Scatalogical.” “Cat-like.” “Self-Involved.”

Nothing puts me at a loss for words like a painting. I blame my inadequate art history education for not being able to describe what I like about a work of art. Sure, as I said, I love words in art, but that isn’t all that appeals to me about his work. There’s a feeling of both individual importance and anonymity that Nelson’s paintings create. We are only one character, one trait, one moment, and we are together, standing out and blending in all at once. Next to each other one trait shines brightly, while anything else we may be is eclipsed.

And maybe that’s not it at all.

I talked to one artist in her studio about how difficult it is to know where to begin with visual art. For me, that’s usually not the case with writing. Yet I wouldn’t say writing comes easily, either. It comes slowly, not without pain, and with a tremendous deliberation, analysis, and unending correction. I imagine the painter throwing his or her soul against the canvas, using technique only as a lens. The creation is already there in the mind. Perhaps that’s not how it is.

But for my writing, every moment feels precarious, uncharted. Every word, as it appears on the page, means crap. Crap, crapping crappiest crapness. And later, when I look it over again, sometimes it means more. Sometimes not.

How pedestrian, how droll to trade in meanings, line my ideas up and assassinate them with periods at the end of every sentence. How boring to explain. Quick, someone give me a canvas, and a clue where to begin. There’s a soul here in need of throwing.

I am about to have my first traditional publication credit: two poems in an anthology. I would be lying to you if I said I wasn’t pretty jazzed about it, but the subject matter of the book — if only because it’s my first publication — is a little embarrassing.

The book is called Women. Period. Wanna guess what it’s about?

Why is it that our “time of the month” is taboo? In some cultures, menstruating women are banished from their marital beds during Aunt Flo’s visit.

In our culture we come up with cute names to talk about menstruation, mimic it in television commercials with something that looks like it could clean windows, and charge exorbitant prices for pressed cotton wrapped in something called Dry-Weave — to keep it away from us.

And yes, even though I see right through all these euphemisms and whitewashes, I am still embarrassed that I wrote two poems — one of which I even count among my best — about the subject. Worse yet, they’re not hiding away in a document on my now dead computer. They’re out there, in the world. In a book.

So it is with a familiar mix of pride and shame, and shame of my own shame — metashame? — that I announce this publication. Truly it’s a gift that I get to put something in my artist’s resume. Certainly it’s an honor to be chosen. And someday it will be a funny story.

For now, it’s mine. And damn it, I’m proud of it.

So at my buddy Katie’s suggestion, I joined Paperback Swap today.

It’s a pretty good deal. To start out you post ten books you can part with (they don’t really have to be paperbacks, but keep in mind that you’ll be paying postage, so paperbacks are cheaper), and you get two credits to spend. One credit = one book.

Once I was done posting my books, I immediately had five requests, so half of my books were wanted — and these were the books I knew I’d never read again. I thought for a moment that the site was that active, but it turns out that you can make a wish list, and when the book comes available, you get first dibs (assuming you’re first in line, that is). Pretty neat.

When two of the members who had wishlisted my books confirmed that they wanted them, I promptly went to the post office to mail the books, which was my biggest mistake. I didn’t like the idea of setting up a postage account with them and printing my postage — how would I know exactly how much postage I would need? That would mean that some of my money was always in their hands: add all of that extra postage up, and it’s likely a lot of money. Smells like a racket to me, and I’m careful not to give money to something that feels that way to me, no matter how little money it may be, on principle. Well, as I mentioned, that was a mistake. It turns out that had I printed the postage, they would have considered the book not just mailed, but received. And therefore my two credits would already be available.

As it is, I have to wait until the members receive the books I mailed and go online to mark them received. According to their site, that could take 15 days! Also, at the automated mailing station at the post office (it was closed), I couldn’t buy media mail, only first class or priority, so I spent more than I had to, about $5.35 to mail two books.

The site was down for maintenance when I first visited, and pretty slow moving (and relatively unattractive… just saying) once it was back up. And my wish list is far longer than the list of books I wanted to read that were available. Like me, other readers are probably only putting their least favorites up for swap.

But this is only my first day, and some of my dissatisfaction was my own stupid fault. So I’ll have to keep you posted on how it goes from here on out.

Update: So another person confirmed that they wanted one of my books and I went the pre-paid postage route. It is not cheaper, and I do feel ripped off. I spent $3.50 on the postage, $.50 of which was a fee for using my credit card.

The postage cost $2.41, and I also spent $.43 on the per-book transaction fee of using the prepaid postage service. I did get instant credit, but when it costs 39% of the postage to mail it from home, that’s not a bargain.

Of course, I could have put more money into the postage account, thereby spreading the $.50 over multiple shipments, but even if I spread it over, say, 10 shipments, that would still be $.48 per shipment, or in this case, a 20% premium.

There is a second option I’m going to try next time. This feature prints the mailing label with a confirmation bar code on it — as soon as your mail is scanned in at the post office, you get credit for the trade. It costs something like $.23 (I can’t find the exact price, bad user experience, folks), and of course, since I only have $.16 in my account now, I will have to spend another $.50 to get my account balance up to the point where I can use it. Sigh.

Like many people in the US, I’ve long accepted the definition of Jihad as a Muslim holy war — actual military war sanctified by Allah because it serves Muslim goals.

It turns out that like the Bush Administration, I was wrong. (It may be the only way in which I am like the Bush Administration, but that’s another story.)

This morning on the way to work, I heard this story on my local NPR affiliate, KUOW:

After years of using the word “jihadist” to describe terrorists who carry out attacks against civilians and the U.S. military, the Bush administration has finally realized that doing so actually pays those groups a compliment in the eyes of some Muslims.

Since the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, the Bush administration has relied on terms like “jihadist” and “Islamic extremists.” But jihad has very positive connotations in the Islamic world. It is akin to religious duty: when someone wants to better themselves, they embark on a jihad. Whether it’s to quit smoking, pray more, and in some cases, fight off anyone preventing them from practicing their religion.

Jihad is not, as I have believed, about militarism, but about duty to God. I guess, though I am not much for any of the capitalized deities, I can understand that, if only from the perspective of having the sincere drive to better myself however I can.

Like, for example, being a better blogger, one who posts on a regular basis instead of letting entire weeks pass between posts. I will try harder, I promise, though I am still pretty loathe to call it a blogging jihad.

Oh, wait. Apparently, they could. New research on Neanderthal skeletons proves it, according to Discovery News online:

The researchers analyzed bones from five such individuals that lived at Sima de los Huesos, a cave in Atapuerca, Spain. Using skull bones, they created very detailed three-dimensional computerized tomography (CT) reconstructions of the cave dwellers’ outer and middle ear. CT involves multiple X-ray-like images that serve as thin slices, which gradually build whole body parts or other structures.

The comprehensive model revealed that the Atapuerca human-ish residents had a heightened sensitivity to sounds falling between one and five kilohertz, a range linked to listening to speech that other primates seem to lack.

“Our results show that the audition of hominids of the Sima de los Huesos was equivalent to ours, and clearly different to that of the chimpanzees,” Mendizabal said.

He and his team recently presented the findings at the Acoustics ‘08 meeting in Paris.

The hearing range they detected indicates H. heidelbergensis spent around 90 percent of its time listening to sounds that fall within the bandwidth of speech. Their hearing was best suited to such noises, even though they could also listen to other sounds, just as we can today.

Looks like we were a talkative bunch, even back then. You don’t say.

I bought business cards the other day. They identify me as a writer.

There are many opinions about when you get to call yourself a writer [Ed: see comments]. I like to think that like other parts of one’s own identity, it arises from within — only you know whether you’re a writer or not.

Doubts I have, though this identity has been with me as long as my oldest friends. It’s been a secret. It’s been a title. It’s been a lie. It’s been the only thing that keeps me alive. I have rolled around in the mud with writer, wrestled it and conquered it, only to lose on rematch.

And even when you get over coming out as a writer and you claim the identity, there are other people in the world to think about. Will they call you a writer?

Apparently the late, great George Carlin struggled with this side of the dilemma. He was not just a comedian, but a writer. From his last interview, with Psychology Today:

It sounds like you think of yourself much more as a writer than a performer—is that true? How do you think about performing?

It’s my primary delivery system. I used to, in my early years, when I would do an interview I was always proud to tell the writer that I wrote my own material, if they asked me or even if they didn’t. I wanted to be distinguished from the ones who didn’t do that, and I was proud of it, so I would say I am a comedian who writes his own material. And then at some point, I discovered what I really had become was a writer who performs his own material.

This was a really important distinction for me to notice—it happened way after the fact. I’m a writer. I think of myself as a writer. First of all, I’m an entertainer; I’m in the vulgar arts. I travel around talking and saying things and entertaining, but it’s in service of my art and it’s informed by that. So I get to write for two destinations. The writing is what gives me the joy, especially editing myself for the page, and getting something ready to show to the editors, and then to have a first draft and get it back and work to fix it, I love reworking, I love editing, love love love revision, revision, revision, revision.

Last year a group of us from the little writing school that could, Bent, went to Saints and Sinners, a queer literary festival in New Orleans. Traversing one of those cobblestone streets en masse, we talked about the fear of calling yourself a writer. And we practiced. In turn, we said it, out loud, so that everyone with us could hear. “I am a writer.”

I am a writer.

Those of us who have come out in other ways know how scary – and ultimately liberating – coming out can be. But when I came out as queer, it was just done. From then on I could be. Could love. Could  breathe and smile and curl up in the arms of the person I loved and who loved me, freely.

Calling yourself a writer means that now you must work. Because if you don’t have “something to show for it,” sadly, nobody will believe you.

You may as well tuck that journal back under your mattress and go back to keeping secrets.