The Well Of All Things That Remain To Be Known

From December 2001:
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The Well Of All Things That Remain To Be Known

I stumbled across The Well Of All Things That Remain To Be Known while walking around an airfield in Lakehurst, NJ. There was a woman guarding it. She called herself the well keeper and was really quite attractive. I asked her if I could look into the well. Of course, she said no; if I could just go and look, she wouldn’t need to be there. I suggested that she allow people to look into the well for a modest fee. She said no. I asked if she had ever looked into the well. She hadn't. She had been curious many times in the several centuries that she had been standing there, but was told not to look into the well and obliged. I asked how she knew that it was indeed The Well Of All Things That Remain To Be Known. She said obviously I had missed the sign next to the well. I apologized for my ignorance; there was indeed a sign that affirmed the well's identity. I asked her what she thought the well contained. Again she pointed to the sign. We stared at each other for about a minute without saying a word. At this point I asked her if I could make a bold conjecture as to the well's contents.

She said sure.

I suggested that the well was empty, or simply full of water. Continuing, I started what should have been a long diatribe about religion and mysticism being like flossing. Before I could get very far into my harangue, she stopped me to ask about the floss thing. I skipped to the point: maybe people don’t think about this stuff. Similarly, people won’t admit to not flossing…but most don’t. She asked how this was relevant to the well's contents. I told her that even if I were confronted with all that remained to be known I probably wouldn’t be able to comprehend it and, truth told, didn't really care about the deeper secrets in life so long as the price of gas didn't increase. As a matter of fact, the only reason that I wanted to look into the well was because I thought she was attractive and it was a reason to come over and speak to her. She paused for a long pondering and then looked me directly in the eye and asked if I wanted to go out for tacos.

I said okay.

Rant Rant 5: How to never finish writing a novel

Hang yourself up on the unattainable word. That always helps. I myself am looking for a specific word that means “a cabin that you sleep in whilst on a train.” It is out there. I know it. Everything has a name but not everyone knows the name. My suggestion for all the writers out there is to pick a very vague concept. When your friends ask, try to explain it but not very hard. Agree with them when they try to clarify it in their own words. When they suggest up a word, and they will, tell them “No, that’s not quite right, something is missing. I don’t think we’re on the same page.” The great thing about this is that you can reuse it over and over. Vagueness is the key; it has worked in every election. It has worked to fill in plot holes. It’s a good sedative. Vagueness is an ally. Choose carefully, people know more than you.

Circular logic is always good. What I mean by this is never try to move ahead in the novel. Make August Mobius proud. Find a problem with your story line and try to resolve it within the pages that you have written. Then, re-evaluate the beginning and find that the end doesn’t really match. Retell the beginning to match the end. During this retelling, you will change the entire story all the way through and then the new beginning will not match the new ending that you have created. Repeat. See the beauty of this? This assures that you will be hung up endlessly on the same four or five pages.

When you reach a critical juncture in the novel, start writing something different. That’s right, walk away from what you have written. You find that you have sent your main character to the doorstep of his lover. He rings the doorbell. She answers. Their eyes meet. He has been a bastard and has known it for sometime. She accepts him for all his flaws. Her anger falls away from her like down sprinkled from an upper story window at the sight of him. The softness is apparent to him. It makes him feel sorry for everything that he has ever done to her. How could she still love him, but she does. He knows he doesn’t deserve her. He knew it the day he meet her. He was a fake, a sham. Everybody at the circus knew it. He hadn’t been to clown college. He had been lying the whole time. She knew from the beginning that he was lying; lying to impress her. She liked the attention and the fact that she could make such a seemingly important man nervous by her presence. And he, the droll clod had her. Had her in the palm of his hand. They could have had many years together, happy, in an overgrown Conestoga wagon going from town to town with its metal fry pans and skillets banging loudly against its wooded sides with every bump in the road. Instead, he cheated on her with a woman who could whittle miniature feet out of poisonous mushrooms. While he was in Vermont smoking mushroom shavings with the hairy adulteress, his love was stuck in a shabby brownstone near Central Park, toiling endlessly over spring fashions and imported Brie on Melba toast. It had been thirty-seven years since their three-day romance, and not one day had gone by without her thinking of him and what could have been. Sometimes she would walk the parks checking for people under benches, or sleeping in their own filth, in case he would turn up. She had just about given up hope and here he was. What would he say … Once upon a time, Myrtle liked vegemite. But not since he actually tried it. Do you see how that works? That critic juncture was reached and we were all eager to see what would happen. We wanted to see the love rekindled and the story end happy with what should have been. But, instead, I turned to the amazing story of Myrtle and his unexplainable cravings. And when we get to the point where Myrtle is going to finally discover the ingredients to Kim-chi, I will start another story. In this manner, we will leave a wake of endless unfinished stories. For supplementary reading on this, consider reading my related text, ‘How to Avoid the Climax At All Costs.’ Apparently, this title sold well until people realized it was about writing, not masochism.

Find a friend who will persistently draw your attention away from your writing. If you don’t have a friend, don’t worry, you can easily substitute friendship with a close range metronome or talk radio. Every time you sit down to write, invite that friend over. Or for those without friends, turn on the radio or set the metronome at a disagreeable tempo. I know, I know, I get the following question all the time: “How do I know which tempo is most disagreeable to me?” Well, I have devised a time intensive method for determining this. First, listen to about an hour of talk radio from each program that is available in your area. Don’t forget the AM radio stations. When you find a program that really irks you, find the meter at which the host of the show talks. Try the match this meter with a set tempo on the metronome. For example, I myself find a particular distaste the malformed brain of Dr. Laura, and her self-righteous cackle lets me know I’ve hit a gold mine. Now, determining the tempo of our fair Harpier can be quite difficult. Dr. Laura in known to take odd tempo-ed pauses to let to righteousness build steam. Dismiss these pauses as crescendos and holds. Try to visualize in your mind the rate at which she would wave her pointer finger while giving the malformed hokum. That, my friends, is the tempo at which you want to set your metronome. But, that isn’t it. Once you have that tempo achieved, write it down. Her pace is usually in the lower limits of a presto. Next, we want to average that out with the tempo to your personal pick for the worst song on Abacab. For me, that track is easily “No reply at all” which has a somewhat allegretto pace. So, I set my metronome at a compromise between these two paces and fwham!, non-productivity a go-go.

Let other writers intimidate you. Everyone is better than you are and you know it. Stephen Crane wrote The Red Badge Of Courage in only two days. How does that make you feel? How can you ever be confident of yourself with people like him easily finding their muse? One time I had several pages of text. It looked like I was going somewhere with my writing. But, I was spared completion by the words of none other than Kurt Vonnegut. In one of his thinly veiled retellings of his life, he mentioned that he had gotten this far in life (by then he was at least seventy-something) without ever using a semicolon. He detested them; they were completely unnecessary. Well, that was it. I had been using semicolons all along. Since they were an accepted part of speech I had no idea that I shouldn’t have been using them. I sank into some low feelings. How could I have been so wrong? I immediately thought of myself as an inferior author and it took days before I approached my writings again. Even when I did finally readdress them, I had to spend weeks telling the story without semicolons.

What’s all the fuss about?

“As I live and breathe…”

Thumbs hooked in jeans pockets,

Pelvis jutting forward.

“There is jazz in the park tonight.”

Sweat glands activated,

Erratic avoidance of eye contact.

“A drink first.”

Backward glance,

A slow gait.

“A drink first.”

A quick flutter of the fingers,

Foot forward to the kitchen.

“You know where everything is”

Arms spread on top of couch,

Ankle on ankle.

“Of course.”

Facial capillaries dilating,

Equilibrium off.

“Well…”

Beginnings of a smirk,

Eyes narrowing.

“You’ve always been better at this.”

Squint, arms folded,

Fingers clenched in a cradle.

“Oh?”

Guffaw and knee slap.

Dismissive whisk of hand.

This whole thing is made of rubber bands

"This whole thing is made of rubber bands, wow."
(I need to find something better to do on the weekends)

"Yeah, I bought a couple of bags of rubber bands. It took me a couple of days to do it." As she said this, she swayed back and forth with her hands clasped behind her back. She was staring at the corner where the wall met the ceiling.

"How did you start it? Is there a ball in the middle to give it a round shape?"
(I really care about your rubber band ball)

"No, it started looking kind of smooshed so what I did was evened it out by having the rubber bands intersect at different points. And I had to do a lot of overlapping."

Gumming bananas

I fought for that shoe

The obese woman was now raising her voice at me. “I fought for that shoe, and it’s mine fair and square.” I could tell confrontation was not something she was accustomed to dealing. She stammered a bit. Her face was boiling red. When she pronounced the ‘m’ in ‘mine’ it came out from somewhere deep in her neck, as if the ‘mmmm’ surfaced like deep sea methane from somewhere incidental after a struggle. I was worried she would have a heart attack. No, that’s not true, I wondered if she would have a heart attack. Could I get her that upset over a shoe? In retrospect, no. She could have never had a heart attack over the shoe or her anger. She enjoyed the overreacting. She enjoyed the yelling. She was blowing off steam. Someone took her lunch and cut her off in traffic. She was angry. The outburst was healthy and after it, she would feel great.

5/15/2004 12:20 AM (Rant Rant 16)

Time-stamped   Anti-septic    Pollen covered    Misanthropic    Clean    Sterile    Iron-wrought
   Drafted    Musical    Tight-lipped    Bemused    Passive    Myopic    Invisible    Overlooked    Boorish    Revolutionary    Magical    State of the art    Separated    Boyish    Mannish    Dim    Loud    Tar heeled    Yuppyish    Desperate    Spell checked    Incompatible    Closed    Empty    Wordy    Silent    Sunk    Half in the bag    Self-medicated    Feeble    Empowered    Arrested    Worried    Trendy    Pretentious    Indebted    Vacuum sealed    Faxed    Pasteurized    Fixed    Stray    Circular    Near-sighted    Leathery    Reverent    Time-released    Ceramic    Costly    Meaningful    Sympathetic    Antagonistic
   Set in stone    Somber    Prophetic    Ill conceived    Obligatory    Self-gratifying    Cheeky    Self-serving    Disproportionate    Holy    Passionate    Acrylic    Simple    Bloated
   Bull-headed    Unwanted    Nostalgic    Embarrassing    Spell-checked    Comprehensive    Anthropological    Waxed    Intense    Retro    Essential    Task-oriented    Smarmy    Endearing    Sarcastic    Cynical    Tired    Sallow    Independent    Pumped    Fierce    Old
   Cutting-edge    Nihilistic    Tonal    Asynchronous
   Formative    Contemporary    Self-deprecating    Sunken    Old world    Childish    Naïve    Haunted    In your face    Secure    Sugary    Sensory deprived    Cosmopolitan    Adaptable    Read into    Covered    Ransacked    Assuring    Introductory
   Juicy    Romantic    Well-traveled    Political    High-minded    Weather proof    Theological    Playful    Time-worn    Predatory    Tidal    Pinched    Freudian    Despondent    Pregnant    Clean Shaven    Phony    Transmitted    Post menopausal    Hard boiled    Over heated    Half baked    Filtered    Addictive   Jolly

Misery Loves Company.

Misery Loves Company. They met while completing their prospective PhD's in Astrophysics and Political Science at the University of Colorado at Boulder. On a whim, they decided to go down to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator. On the trip down they noticed that dried yellow grass was now predominant. Maybe ten or more years ago, the landscape was filled with sagebrush. Misery met all the minimum requirements for Company's happiness. Company fit well into Misery's greater scheme of things. The wedding was a laugh-riot. They didn't gamble while they were there. Instead, they hardly ever left their suite. The hotel was visible from ten miles into space thanks to an impossible amount of lumens. Misery knew exactly where space began. Company asked to be sure.

At the Misery Loves Co. satisfaction is their number one priority. Starting back in 1921, a small factory was set up by two brothers with an eagerness to get established in the world. Over 79 years later, the older brother's great grandson is about to take over the grand tradition. Like those before him, he can look forward to prosperity and increased demand. He will retire sooner than his hair will turn gray.

Misery loves company. It is a tired friend and begets and begets and begets...

I see them in the corners of my eyes and then they are gone

I see them in the corners of my eyes and then they are gone. When picking out a yogurt or a brand of peanut butter. Men, with notepads, checking things off on sheets of columned paper. Documenting, I think, the way I move, making operations charts for my hand motions so that they can determine uncertainty by the flick of my wrist or disapproval with the selection with the feeble curl of my hand. Yogurt: left one move through 90 degrees.

Michele's Stomach Ache

I’ve heard a story about a middle-aged woman. She got up one day and made breakfast for the kids. She packed up their lunches. Egg salad today; they would be disappointed. She went into the bathroom, stared into the mirror. Maybe she should be happy. Three kids, suburban living, comfortable income. She curled her hair as she heard her youngest scurry around outside the door. The hallway was covered with chewed bits of tissue. From the dog? Oh god, has Michele been eating tissues again? She picked up the tissues, covered with spit or slobber. She sniffed the tissues. More likely it was the dog. Michele would be complaining of a stomachache by now.