The Aerie
The Blue Moon Writing Group met last night, sans Terry, who was inexplicably absent.
We received a copy of Tam's screenplay and worked on a writing
exercise that I made up.
We had a prior writing exercise that we had been using for some time.
Basically we all wrote down a basic person or character (i.e. "a young
boy"), a plot type ("a mystery") and a setting ("a canyon"). Then
we'd mix up the slips and draw one from each category, and write for
thirty minutes. The results were sometimes hilarious.
Yesterday's practice was a bit different. I came up with three
categories: Transition; Internal Conflict; External Conflict; Then I
drew up four slips for each, and we drew one apiece, receiving a
random set, for example "Birth or First Day of School," "Fear of
Authority," and "Peer Pressure," respectively.
Then we applied this by writing for thirty minutes about any of our
characters, from whatever projects we were already working on, as a
means of getting to know them better. I drew, "Death or Divorce,"
"Fear of Authority," and "Shunning." Here's what I wrote about
Curtis, a protagonist from the novel I'm working on:
Curtis splashed across the muddy parking lot towards the anonymous
face of a 1970s office-building. He bustled into the office of his
wife's lawyers to find them flocked around the death-mesa of a
mahogany conference table, condors waiting for the kill. Christine
pointedly did not look as he came in, her back stiff.
"Mr. Baker," her lawyer half-rose and extended a disingenuous grin
along with his hand. He was a tall man, taller than Curtis' own
six-foot-one; but he was graceful, thin and dry as a branch, where
Curtis was all bulk and stumble. His thousand-dollar suit was a stark
contrast to Curtis' jeans and damp gray sweatshirt. "Thank you for
coming," he smiled.
Curtis mumbled, "no problem," as if he was doing the man a favor by
getting a divorce. On second thought, he supposed he was. Ignoring
the others gathered around the table Curtis plopped himself down
across from Christine and said, "Where's David?"
Christine did not look up from the paper and pen in front of her, "At
my mother's."
A moment of rage passed through Curtis but he stuffed it back down.
He looked for the first time at the people around him. In addition to
her lawyer at the head of the table, Andersen or Anderson, there were
two people he hadn't met before. On Christine's right sat a small
middle-aged woman with short dark hair and a nice dress with a floral
print that straddled the line between "feminine" and "take me
seriously." She met Curtis' gaze with a polite but distant smile. On
Christine's left sat a young woman with a yellow legal pad, whose
demeanor of stress and boredom practically shouted "intern."
"Hey, isn't one of the conditions of the divorce that David doesn't
stay with them?" Curtis asked the group.
"That's certainly one of the items we can discuss today," said
Christine's lawyer, "although we should probably wait until your
counsel is present."
Curtis felt the heat rising up in his face, "My lawyer's not coming,"
he blurted, his voice rising. He turned on Christine, "You said all
we had to do was sign some papers. I can't afford to have him at
every single meeting."
Anderson looked embarrassed, "Well, certainly, if there are no further
questions about the custody we can sign the document as it stands."
"Well, I don't understand the point of this. If the custody says that
her parents aren't supposed to have David, how can we sign the papers
while they have David?"
"God, you just hate them, don't you?" Christine whispered. "I suppose
I should have just left them with my sister." Christine's sister was
a drug addict, who lived with a succession of dealer/pimp "boyfriends"
in houses held together by condemnation notices.
Curtis threw his hands in the air, shouting with exasperation "Your
parents fucking MADE your sister!"
Mrs. Floral-Print looked down at the table, disapproval expressed in
her pursed lips and tiny handwriting as she made notes on a small memo
pad of her own. Ms. Intern simply looked surprised, a wicked gossipy
grin flitting about the edges of her face.
"You're shouting," Christine said quietly.
"But!" Curtis began, but stopped. He was alone here, four against
one, and further outbursts would win him no sympathy. He slumped in
his chair.
After a moment's pause, Anderson began again, "The condition regarding
Ms. Kinkaid's parents is one we were hoping we could discuss before we
signed the custody papers. Mr. Baker, this condition appears to be an
onerous and prejudicial stipulation, which would unnecessarily hamper
Ms. Kinkaid's ability to select appropriate care for your son."
Curtis interjected, "I don't care. I'm not negotiating the point.
Mr. and Mrs. Kinkaid look like the perfect parents, but they're
abusive. I've seen it with my own eyes."
"You've witnessed physical abuse, Mr. Baker?" Mrs. Floral-Print asked,
speaking for the first time.
"No, not physical abuse," Curtis admitted, "but they're manipulative.
They, they screw with their kids' minds. Why do you think Catherine
turned out so f... so screwed up?"
"I'm sorry," Anderson spoke up, "Mr. Baker this is Sharon Felberg,
she's the court-appointed guardian ad litem for your son in these
proceedings."
Curtis looked at her again, a man reassessing the vine by his hand
which turned out to be a viper. She sat comfortably close to
Christine, and her studiously-controlled face let leak the slightest
hint of concealed skepticism.
"Then you know what people like that can do," Curtis began, pleading.
"They look perfect. They run a perfect home. But they're
mind-fuckers! The get in, and they twist people's minds."
For a moment a glimpse of understanding broke through the clouds of
her demeanor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Baker, but without evidence of severe
mental or emotional abuse, something demonstrable, I'm afraid your
position sounds prejudicial and possibly vindictive."
Curtis looked at the group arrayed against him at the table, and
realized he'd been tricked. The reason he was here alone was because
Christine had tricked him, and her lawyer had helped. And now he was
the unreasonable one, holding things up, making "prejudicial and
vindictive" accusations, and unreasonable demands.
"Mr. Baker, if you wish we could reconvene with your counsel present
at some later date," Anderson offered obsequiously.
Curtis toyed with the idea, but he realized it would make no
difference. Next time they would come back with more angles, using
his words against him. He was not going to get his condition that
Christine keep David away from her parents, her brick-chinned father
in his three-piece suit, her dowdy simpering mother with the venomous
tongue, and their nightly brandy in their perfect mahogany home.
Curtis sighed, and reached for the papers.
As you can probably tell, I ran out of time at the end there. Still,
I thought it turned out all right...
Hell of a dream last night.
I woke up from one of those dreams which seems so significant. An
important dream, with a profound message that will change everything.
Most interesting of all, I had had this profound insight into the
psychology of Batman... so at 3:45 in the morning I scribbled it
down.
I dreamt I was fighting Batman, and also Joker. I surprised myself
with my own ending.
I was in an apartment ten stories up, a big old-fashioned apartment
with sash windows and wood trim that had been painted over. I fought
Joker until I pushed him out the window.
Meanwhile some of his henchmen were trying to get in, climbing up big
ladders to the window. I ruthlessly pushed the ladder away, and saw
the henchman -- a muscular blond-haired fellow -- tip backwards on his
ladder and smash against the roof of another building.
Meanwhile Batman arrived, because even if my opponent was the Joker I
wasn't supposed to be throwing people out of tenth-story windows. We
fought for a while, while tried to convince Batman I was one of the
good-guys.
During the conversation I told him that Joker was not even hurt, that
he was probably waiting right outside the window for Batman to leave
before he attacked me again. So saying I dashed to the window, and
poked my head out. There was Joker waiting on the window-ledge,
pressed up against the building, holding a gun. I reached out
quickly, pushed on the back of his knee, and he fell ten stories
again, screaming.
That was enough for Batman, who rushed me. I whirled and threw him
out the window, too.
Having vanquished all my foes and secured my position, I went down to
the street. Joker was waiting and attempted to attack me.
I evaded him and dodged his blows and tried to convince him to stop,
telling him that Batman would soon arrive. Then I saw Batman hiding
in a doorway where Joker could not see him. Batman was angry with me,
but knew Joker had to be stopped, so he handed me a Bat-gun a
crescent-shaped bat which you held with the top curved back towards
you. It had a lever dropping from the top "wing" towards the other
wingtip that one could squeeze.
I held it and pointed it at Joker, who taunted me and Batman with the
cliche that good-guys don't shoot. I fired, and a stream of liquid
squirted him in the chest.
He flinched in surprise and looked down at his wet jacket. I whirled
around and shot Robin in the face as he ran up behind me, only
realizing that my weapon was merely a water pistol at that moment.
However, I caught him in the eyes and he fell to the ground, blinded.
Whirling back around, I squirted the last of the water in Joker's
eyes. His makeup began to wash off and run and he too knelt
screaming, powerless.
I woke up with that "profound" realization. You cannot talk to
Batman. Batman is in his own way as insane as those he fights. The
same rage that they direct against society, he directs against them.
He has redirected the same rage at them for being lawbreakers, but he
is a vigilante, a lawbreaker. He rages against himself. Anything you
might say which might stem his effectiveness he assaults, so he cannot
be comforted and he cannot be healed.
Anyway, that's the profound dream and the profound realization. Much
more banal by the light of day, but pretty complex and interesting for
a dream.
What I want to know is, why didn't Robot Wars succeed? The web site is dead, and the stuff on the air is five years old (or so). I can't believe a show like this wouldn't catch on in the U.S.
Mind you, I don't let my kids watch much TV. I certainly don't let
them watch World Wrestling Federation! But this British game show,
pitting radio-controlled "robots" against each other in duels to
destruction, well. I mean, here's a notion you can sink your teeth
into! Imagine parents and kids all across the nation putting together
robots and entering in competitions, lucky and skilled winners getting
on TV.
And unlike Pro-wrestling, nobody gets hurt. Robots might get broken,
robots might get burned, but they can always be put back together. No
punches need to be pulled, no holds barred.
Of course, there's the downside: there are no silicone-enhanced
females jiggling around the arena as a "Ho' Train," there's no blood,
and nobody swears. There's just innovation and competitiveness.
So I watch this quaint British show with my kids, and we talk about
how much fun it would be to build one of those robots. Mind you, it
would be a lot harder and more expensive than throwing together a 10G
RAID-1 Linux server, but it would be quite a thrill, too.
So the kids and I watch it together, hosted by Red Dwarf's Craig
Charles. And while the Robot Wars website doesn't say anything about
it, Craig Charles' on-line chat from last year mentions that
they're filming (or have filmed) another series -- so maybe it's NOT
dead. Who knows?
The amazing thing about Red Dwarf is that it's still on. Heck, I
think it's been running as long as, if not longer, than The Simpsons! And this with a live cast little changed from the first
season! Imagine such a thing in the U.S.!
Ah ha! Despite the show's insistence that one "visit
www.robotwars.com," it just occurred to me to try the British version
of the name -- http://www.robotwars.co.uk. THERE I found the real
scoop on Robot Wars -- maybe it's not dead after all.
Wow, who knows... me and the kids, in a backyard workshop late at
night, then hustling something into the car... the TV comes on, and
in the arena, low and sleek, painted white with black highlights, with
vicious spring-loaded wings that snap out to pummel its opponents...
its The Albatross...
It could happen!
Woo hoo! Hooray!
It's Back!
Well, I realize I only have an audience of three search-engine robots, but in case any of you automated devices were wondering, we're back after almost two weeks away!
Why? I changed the host where this site resides, building a whole new server from the motherboard up. The timing wasn't exactly my choice, but it was necessary and inevitable, so it was in the end a good thing. I sure have learned a lot in the past two weeks! I even spent
the extra $100 for another 10G hard drive and set the server up with RAID-1 from the get-go.
So, wow, tons of work, and it's not done yet. I still have to export
a ton of stuff off the old server, but at least it's halfway there...
I'd love to go on and post some profound observations on life like
James Lileks does, but it's late and my brain is putty, so I'm off
to sleep...
Boy it's a hot one! Like seven inches from the midday sun!
Woops, sorry! I can't help it, I'm a creation of popular culture!
Seriously, though, this weather is ridiculous! Fun, but ridiculous.
It was over 85 degrees Farenheit today!
The week is passing by like the proverbial rocket-sled to Hell. I
mean, I'm trying to get into the habit of doing these regularly, and
here four days have passed since the last one!
Geeze, two sentences out of seven ended in exclamation points. People
are going to think they're reading 'Judge Parker'! Oh no, that's
three out of nine! Ten! And, no, I'm not providing a link to 'Judge
Parker'. I'd really rather not know whether it's on the Net, although
I'm sure it is.
In other news, I'm going to have to rebuild the whole server I place this on: I've been hosting this server as a backup for a local nonprofit service, and the board has now decided to liquidate the server. Either I'm going to buy it (in which case they can't let me have the operating system, and I have to rebuild it myself) or I'll buy something else and reconstruct the server on that. Either way it's a pain in the ass, and it'll teach me to volunteer my resources!
Another place where I have to stop volunteering is on these on-line
conferences, like the Star Tribune On Line. I enjoy shooting my mouth
off, but the place is the cyber equivalent of Talk Radio. I'd say
seven out of ten people on there are mentally unstable far-right
reactionaries or fundamentalist religious conservatives. While such
forums do provide impetus to write (which is a good thing), they are
as emotionally draining as trying to keep loose a toddler from
crawling over a cliff while you're tied to a tree.
Well, this brief moment of peace is drawing to a close. Soon I shall
have to shower and drive over to M. A. R. Barker's for the Thursday
Night Game. But at least, on my trip, I'll get to enjoy the sound of
my now-completely-installed car radio, WITH ANTENNA! Oooooohhh
aaaaahhhh. Yes, this is the only car radio I've ever bought, the only
one that wasn't factory, and the only one I've owned with pushbutton
channels. The Geo Metro I bought turned out to have no speakers, and
a burned-out radio tossed into the dashboard to throw me off the
trail, so after dropping 'way too much money on a radio, speakers, and
a new antenna, I'm good to go!
So I will!