Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Tag: miles

  • March 7, 2017 Scribble

    March 7, 2017 Scribble

    You can read this if you wish although it consists of thoughts and fragments as I attempt to free write 750 words every day. Some of this may end up in a Story or a Conversation. Anyway, this is how one learn and shapes up The Craft.

    The Big Squeeze is coming to Las Vegas. The Spaghetti Bowl, a large mess of on ramps and off ramps between the US 95 and I-15 will soon be reduced to two lanes. It already becomes two lanes on US-95 under the Bowl, so I’m not sure how this is a squeeze, but through media hyperbole and advertising, I’m to understand this will be terrible.

    This morning, I decided to find an alternative route. On the advice of some friends, I decided to try North Fifth, a new road into North Las Vegas.

    After fifteen minutes waiting for a light to change and let three cars through at a time, I’ve decided I can suffer through the impending peril of the Big Squeeze. Even if I sit for 5 extra minutes, it will surely beat a 55 minute commute to go 20 miles via surface streets. This is ranting I know, but you have to start 750-words somehow.

    We spring back this weekend. Frankly, this just means getting up earlier. Remember to set your clocks ahead. (Don’t think about it too much: Your head will explode).

    Sequoia Strawberries in the flower bed mulch
    Lined up like bare root roses
    Patted safe in the warm soil
    Watered and blessed; a hopeful refrain.

    Spring lasts a few days before summer rays
    Bear down on the garden beds
    Warming the soil to dry dust
    A delicate balance to keep them moist.

    The morning frost reminds spring follows winter
    Breezes as March enters like a lion
    Or sneaks in like a lamb.
    Either way, the garden struggles to bloom.

    A small leaf springs up from the bare root tip
    As roots firmly establish themselves
    And the plant becomes accustomed to its new home.
    It spreads out to take space.

    Small droplets in the morning light
    On large leaves of green vermillion
    Summer sun gobbles up the water
    As ladybugs jump through the delicate flowers.

    “Are you drinking enough water?”

    “I think so.”

    “It’s getting hotter and you need to be refreshed.”

    “I went to the bathroom three times tonight.”

    “You’re diabetic. That’s a sure sign of the disease.”

    “I don’t suppose four tall glasses of water had anything to do with it.”

    In these writing exercises you are supposed to write whatever comes to your head, in any order, without stopping. This came to my head just now.

    S. I. Hayakawa was a U.S Senator from California, and before that he was a semanticist at San Francisco State University. I first read his book Language and Action in high school. The idea Bessie the Cow was an abstraction allowed me to add only those details that made her a cow, rather than endlessly describe all of her features. Abstraction allows writers to write a picture that others fill in. Hayakawa warned to stay at the top of the abstraction tree, otherwise you could lead others into an existential hell.

    Trees have a colored leaf. And the leaf is made of smaller parts from veins to individual cells. Staying at the top allows the reader to fill in the abstractions, without the writer having to describe the color of the veins or explain the arrangement of the cells. However, sometimes a writer wants to describe these things. Knowing when to stop is the art of writing. A writer must be careful not to chase themselves around in circles!

    Hayakawa also addresses the power of words to hypnotize and manipulate. If a person can be convinced a brown cow is really white through powerful descriptions, then a writer can powerfully draw a crowd in with the force of prose. He cautions readers to avoid taking whatever a person says at face value; question them and their motivations. Abstractive communication allows writers to rely on simile, metaphor, irony and pathos to communicate an idea. Abstraction has power as long as everyone agrees on the definition of the abstraction.

    Too deep? Enough philosophy on the mechanisms of writing.

    “I just don’t feel motivated or respected.”

    “You hate your job?”

    “Just the people. Nobody sees my contribution.”

    “So you’re looking for a reward?”

    “I would like to be respected and given a little credit.”

    “For showing up?”

    “For making this place work despite the lack of respect.”

    “You received a paycheck this week?”

    “Yes.”

    “I think you they must like you.”

    I’m running out of words for this session’s writing activity and likely this will end long before I ever get to the bottom of a deep well. There. We now have 750-words!

    Read more: March 7, 2017 Scribble
  • March 2, 2017 Scribble

    You can read this if you wish although it consists of thoughts and fragments as I attempt to free write 750 words every day. Some of this may end up in a Story or a Conversation. Anyway, this is how one learn and shapes up The Craft.

    According to my new writing goal, I am supposed to just write down whatever comes to my head and finish up in 750 words. The whole thing sounds a bit of a waste of time, frankly. I don’t have the luxury of writing nothing; there is so much more to write and get done.

    Yet, here I am just writing. And counting time.

    (more…)

    Read more: March 2, 2017 Scribble
  • Driving Back from Spring Break

    [aesop_image imgwidth=”500px” img=”https://wordsmithholler.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/bokeh-1033539_1920.jpg” credit=”Pixabay” align=”right” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”left” revealfx=”off”]

    Three days earlier I studied all night with a girlfriend for a physics exam and afterward drove four classmates 12 hours to San Diego for spring break. The entire trip the girls giggled and cackled behind me while a Korean kid sat silent up front. I decided we scared Jae. Although, being a confused immigrant might also explain his silence. Either way, he only said thanks when I dropped him off at his house. For that matter, Cindy told me how to find it.

    The rest of the trip to Oceanside I drove in a blur on autopilot. All of the lights merged into a slow motion light show and I doubt I could even tell you about the trip. I arrived at the motel, went to bed, and slept nearly all Sunday despite my mother’s pleas to come to the beach. In the morning, I drove her north to Anaheim where we rode the teacups, stood in a long line for the bobsleds, and paddled a canoe. We ate dinner on the bayou, visited the pirates, posed with Mickey Mouse, and explored the Swiss Family Robinson tree house. Overall, mom had a great time and I played the sweet son. By nightfall, the sky exploded with fireworks and we headed back south. Mom slept pressed into the window missing the nuclear power plant, the Marines, and the moonlit beach. As the tail lights on the interstate blurred into red, I again drove like a drone.

    Tuesday, I left mom in the room sadly wondering why I was heading back to college. I made Spring Break last only as long as a three-day weekend with an irritating baby. At the studio I planned to make a lot of cash in the remaining days of my break.

    Before I left, Cindy called to say she wanted to ride back with me to school.

    (more…)

    Read more: Driving Back from Spring Break
  • A Visitor Awaits

    A Visitor Awaits

    Bolsón de Mapimí, Chihuahuan Desert, Old Mexico

    The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. – Eden Phillpotts

    The desert wind blew warm and dry across his face layering grit on his chapped lips. He dropped the square bottle to his mouth and let the agave drip down his chin. The cold air bit into his bones. He wrenched the long robe tighter around him.

    “What’s that?” he shouted out as he spun into the wind. He cocked his head to the left listening for a voice. The bottle sloshed at his side.

    “Un visitante?”

    He laughed a high cackle and spun around with his arms outstretched as if to collect all the stars in the sky. The bottle swung up in the air and a stream of Mescal sprayed out into the wind raining down on him. The drops bounced off his nose and forehead. He looked up and watched a drop grow larger and land in his eye. He wiped his face and shook his hair. He shouted at the stars.

    “There are no visitors here. Nobody dares come into this hell-forsaken sand trap.”

    He laughed before listening again. There was nothing but the wind blowing past the field of creosote and ocotillo. The wind rubbed the plants together forming a low hum.

    “No me diga?”

    The man cocked a confused look toward the sky. He took a step and stumbled forward to his knees. The bottle dug into the sand. He listened to the wind.

    “You don’t say.”

    (more…)

    Read more: A Visitor Awaits
  • Feel Better, Already?

    Letter to the editor of the Las Vegas Sun, December 2005

    What are they really looking for at Hoover Dam?

    Coming home from Texas after Thanksgiving with a small trailer load of furniture I left Kingman wondering if I should drive through Laughlin or cross Hoover Dam. The signs and the radio messages in Kingman made it clear my trailer would be inspected. Since past inspections were cursory I decided we could move across the dam as usual and put an end to our 1,100 mile journey.

    (more…)

    Read more: Feel Better, Already?