Paper for Creative Non-Fiction Class

To Die: An Essay of Death and the Mind and Things

“To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...” –William Shakespeare, Hamlet

“We are the naturalists, the collector of specimens.” I’m paraphrasing Aldous Huxley’s words.  To him, the human mind was our last remaining “Darkest Africa”. Sixty years after Huxley wrote “Heaven and Hell” things have not changed much. We are still scratching around in the dark, still looking for the door handle to the inner recesses of the mind. I’m there alongside the rest; I am the collector of specimens within this realm of the subconscious. No, not the subconscious; deeper still; as Huxley puts it, “The Antipodes of the Mind”.

In “Heaven and Hell” Huxley proposes that Heaven is within our own minds. I cannot agree or disagree with him. However, if he is right or wrong, the search may yield fruit regardless. And so, I go into the mind hoping for God or Heaven or both and preparing for some dram of enlightenment even if God or Heaven is not to be found.

 There is a point in a man’s life when he thinks of death and of what lies beyond the doorway. It is at this time when life takes a back seat, when the bags are packed and he contemplates the journey ahead, into the unknown. I’m sure I’m not dying, not anytime soon, I thought. But who can say, really? Life is so fragile; this bag of meat and bones is so… “mortal” that we can never be certain when it will expire.

It's Not Yet Over

I can finally put quotation marks around "Dreams in Ebony" because, though I missed my 50,000 word goal (NANOWRIMO) I did reach 44,000 and I consider that a good size novel. And being a novel, as the rule dictates, I can now " " it.

"Dreams in Ebony" Excerpt: Gentle Thoughts

I want to say something important but every time I write all that comes out is filth. I suppose that’s because my life is full of it. I have thought many times to quit this novel, to delete it, to throw it out and forget about it, but I can’t. I know there is something here.

This is the scene and this is where it starts and this is where it ends and everything in between is rubbish and I hate myself for wallowing in it.

  I don’t want to say something important, I want to say something profound but what is profound? I could tell a story and you wouldn’t realize I’m telling you a completely different story than the obvious one.

Girls of "Dreams in Ebony"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Excerpt Time

Except from "Dreams in Ebony"

“If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“A quote from some woman named Lewis Carroll.”

“Lewis Carroll? Lewis was a man.”

“Oh no. I’m pretty sure she was a woman.”

“Alicia, believe me, he was a man. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was his real name.”

“Well, she looks like a woman in her picture.”

“Don’t you have anything more important to do? I’m trying to work.”

“It’s raining out and I’m dreadfully bored.”

“Dreadfully? I never thought I would say this but I think you read too much.”

Alicia sneered. “If you don’t know where you’re going… I don’t think any of us really know where we are going. Do you know where you’re going?”

I looked up from my work. “To hell,” I wanted to say but I didn’t. “Is something bothering you, Allie?”

“No way! I’m just thinking about what you’re gonna do when I’m gone.”

I tossed my pen down and took a drink. “Okay. So, where is it you’re going? And why are you leaving?”

She didn’t answer right away; she just dug at the crotch of her jean shorts, involuntarily swaying her foot back and forth. Finally, she said, “I don’t think I can just explain it to you that easy. I don’t think you would believe me if I did.”

“I want to believe you,” I said. I really meant it too. While Alicia could be frustrating at times, her mind fascinated me and if she was willing to open up and show me what was going on up there I wouldn’t argue.

“I have been dreaming about death.”

“What about it?”

“About ‘me’ dying.”

“You’re twenty three. If anyone around here needs to worry about dying it’s me.”

She got to her feet and walked to the window. “I really, really like fall time. So, pretty. I like leaves but they don’t live very long, do they? They’re dying and falling from the trees. I wonder if the tree is sad when its leaves die. I would be if I were a tree. It must be sad being a tree.”

“Are you sick or something?”

“No. Not yet.”

NANOWRIMO

Nanowrimo starts tonight (or tomorrow for people in other parts of the world). I decided this would be a good time to actually finish something I started and so I am going to write a novel: Dreams in Ebony.

Here's a bunch of philosophical garbage concerning this impending work:

In the case of Dreams in Ebony there are many unbelievable characters who engage in some rash and unbelievable acts and therefore, like fantasy, the author must work harder to legitimize the characters and their actions or risk losing the reader or worse: misguide the reader down a path the author did not want the story to go. This is, as stated before, not fantasy, not erotica, not a dime store romance, but rather a dark drama of sexual deviants. And despite the dark nature it is imperative that the end result of the work bring the reader to a good place where this chaotic world somehow settles into something more palatable; or at the very least, a return to normalcy, a cool breeze that hits the face of the movie goer as he steps out of the theatre.

Furthermore, or perhaps, deeper down the rabbit hole, a writer is bound by the oath of morality to create a positive message, regardless of how antipodal that message may be, for his reader due to the inherent dangers of parables woven into all stories and their ability to effect the moral compass in the subconscious mind of the masses. Think of the effects of violence in television or the rise of sexual promiscuity, a product of the expanding porn industry thanks to the Internet. These things are excellent examples of writer’s oath (or the oath of any artist) ignored. Gun don’t kill people, people don’t kill people, the media, the writer, the artist, the musician, the photographer, they kill people.

-D. Gage

Remember When? A Manifesto of Sorts.

What is important in life? Is it material gain? Is it friends and family? Is it hard work with a good harvest? When it’s all said and done, when you’re dying of whatever disease or ailment that fate should curse you with, when you have nothing left but a few moments to look back and ask yourself “was it all worth it” or “did I do my best”, will you have regrets? Isn’t there a girl you didn’t kiss but should have, a hamburger you wanted to eat but didn’t, a trip you could’ve taken but you were too afraid to leave home?

I have always believed that having experiences is the purpose of life, the “remember whens”, the funny anecdotes, the pain and pleasure, the friends and enemies. If I pursue this mode of thinking, if I focus on experience alone with no regards to sowing and reaping; and if I one day find myself alone and homeless, sleeping under a bridge, hacking out my lungs and lighting another cigarette, it will have all been worth it to have been part of the experience of life. I will have my memories. As muddled and vague as they are or will be, I will have those memories and that’s more than I can say for someone too afraid to live.

I remember back in the mid-nineties when I was high on magic mushrooms, lost in an airport parking lot in the dead of winter. I remember working for a printing press in Tyler, Texas, helping to produce tracks for YWAM, and witnessing to sinners on the streets of downtown Dallas. Once I lived in a tiny, cockroach-infested apartment in Reynosa, Mexico and I hiked through the boreal forests, muskegs and wild lands of Alaska when I was a boy. I was friends with Pastor’s sons and drug dealers, harlots and saints, geniuses and morons, shallow jerks and deep philosophers, hopeless poets. In the seventh grade I spent an entire semester playing chess and an entire summer getting drunk and stoned.  I have been a painter, a musician, a film maker and a dishwasher at a resort sixty miles out of town. I have been in love, found a soul mate and lost her, found her again and lost her again. I have been married and I have watched the horrors of chemotherapy tear apart the woman I love. I have been deep under the ocean in a warship and jammed in the back of a bush plane in inclement weather bound for Russia. I have seen the crumbling of communism first hand and the poverty of our Mexican neighbors. I have been a prince and a pauper, a god and the most mortal of men.

It’s these memories that keep me alive. It’s these stories that help me get up in the morning. I want to never have regrets. I’m sure I will. However, I can’t help but try my best, to make the decisions good or bad, regardless of the outcome and to be willing to live with the consequences. I only have one life to live, if Western theology is true, and I owe it to myself to live it as best as I know how.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not condemning hard work or success but I am saying that you can’t take it with you and I’m sure you don’t need a PhD to get into heaven nor will it keep you out of that other place. However, your experience, the love and loss, pain and pleasure, is more immortal than your fancy cars and I-phones, your degrees or even other people’s opinion of you. All you really own is your soul and your conscious self. Feed it with experience. 

 

-D. Gage (alias Nosmo King) 

image from: http://planetsave.com/2012/01/05/the-green-life/

IBS Entry 9-16-12

I think the most important thing that anyone could write down on paper is the truth. I have tried my best to be honest, to be forward, and to be unapologetic for stating my beliefs. But I am not always successful. My failure comes, not from a need to lie but rather from not knowing the truth. This is what philosophy is: you live a life; you organize it; you take the clues you are given and you arrange them in lucid pattern and present them to the world. And it is not from lack of trying or lack of caring that leads those patterns, those theories, those philosophies to failure but rather the lack of clues. I am only one man; I have lived only one life, and it is not unfeasible to think that I only have one view, one voice concerning the universe.

So, how do you reach the truth? If I have failed you and others have failed you, who will not fail you? Aristotle said once: “an unexamined life is not worth living”. And so, I argue that it is up to you to find your truth. You are your own salvation and you will never fail unless you quit trying.

Some people might need a little help along the way. Some people might need a lot of help. But in the end they are responsible for their own soul, their own path, their own philosophy. I cannot tell you how to live your life and I wouldn’t expect you to take what I say on face value. Question everything. Examine everything. Don’t play the fool. Question me!

-D. Gage

Back But for How Long

I have tried my best to be a closet freak. I have tried to cut off ties to the cyber world but I have failed and now I am back. It has been a long year and a tough year and nothing good has come of it. I do have a handful of college credits under my belt, more than I did last year. But beyond that I have nothing to show but a deeper dent in my computer chair and carpel tunnel syndrome from playing video games. My brain is mush, my bank account is drained and all for nothing.

I suppose nothing is lost but time and it's now the day to put pen to paper and drag that great American novel out of my twisted mucked up brain, the "child of my understanding" as Cervantes would call it.

The thing that I'm most afraid of is not failure but mediocrity. Let's say I write this book. Alright, that's a feat not everyone does every day but then what? Let's say I get it published. An even more difficult feat (unless I decide to self-publish but what good would that do my ego or my pocketbook)? And then you stumble upon my book whilst perusing through all the thousands of new books on Amazon. Let's say you buy it and read it. What then?

The world spins on and all I can do is write another one. Your copy of my first book collects dust on your shelf or is deleted from your Kindle and my name is forgotten. Mediocrity.

Here is another word: profundity. Ah, why shoot for the moon when there are billions of galaxies to explore! Why settle for a hamburger when fillet mignon is within reach? Why settle for a good book when you can have a great book or better yet: a profound book?

However, most profound books were written on accident. That's my belief and so chances are good that good is what you'll get. Then again, you'll get nothing if I don't start.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

-D. Gage (alias: Nosmo King)

Abstraction: A Quick Rant about Authorship

Lately my curiosity has drifted towards abstract designs through the venue of storytelling and creative non-fiction. After all, what is image without meaning? And what purpose does storytelling serve if not to create symbol for abstract thought? This is often called theme or moral lesson, yet maybe there is more to it. Maybe there is an aspect of storytelling that is so complex and so abstract we don’t even have a word for it. Maybe even the shallowest yarn can have a deep meaning that, while escaping the conscious mind, cannot avoid being absorbed by the sub-conscious mind. Anything that can affect the sub-conscious mind is a dangerous tool.

Not that I am against a good old fashioned philosophical rant to break up the monotony of fiction (see Melville, Steinbeck, Hemingway, et cetera). These are thrilling to read. These are deep gems I mine up from the dark earth and show them to the world. That’s a good analogy, mining the depths of literature for brilliant gems of wisdom. Of course, the analogy continues. What good is a gem but something pretty to look at? And when it ceases to sparkle it’s no more than an expensive paper weight without application.

Something can be taken away from a story (as mentioned earlier) no matter how shallow the theme. And wisdom is best ingested in subtle bites, like slipping a pill into a dog’s treat, or a virtue within a good story. The medicine is hard to swallow. We connect that thought with the memory of the past, the nasty spoonful of something that was meant to taste like grapes but tasted more like the bottom of a pharmacist’s shoes.

East of STEINBECK!!!!

I have been reading East of Eden by J. Steinbeck recently and, with all the other things on my plate at the moment, I wondered if I was wasting my time. I even went so far as to say to myself that John Steinbeck wasn't really all that people made him out to be; that he wasn't deep enough, profound enough for me right now.

And then I read chapter 13 of East of Eden and then I was knocked off my feet. I have read that chapter five times now and I still can't stop thinking about it. Profundity indeed!

Fan Letter

This is fictional.

Dear World’s Greatest Author,

I never thought I would be writing to you a letter, but here I am. You know, you are my favorite author. I have read every one of your books and short stories. I keep them all on a special shelf right below a poster of that movie based on your best-selling novel.

I wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your son. What a wonderful gift! I bet he’ll grow up to be a brilliant writer like you some day. I saw his picture on your website. What a cutie! He definitely has your eyes. I have two sons myself and they are a joy, most of the time anyway. Isaac is a year old and Henry is three.

I wanted to see you at the writer’s conference last May but my one year old came down with the croup so I had to stay home. I was so disappointed. I wanted to see you so bad! I have only two copies of your books that are signed; both I got off of Craig’s list. They are authentic. I think. Either way, it’s something, right? I was so mad at my son for getting sick. I suppose it wasn’t his fault.  But I don’t think he understands what you mean to me. I don’t think anyone does. I hope you do.

Haruki Murakami

My fiction-writing professor told me this is the most acclaimed writer of our day and that he is coming here to Oahu on the 10th of April. I have been stealing away time to read some of his short stories in hopes to get some idea why this Japanese fellow is 'most acclaimed'. I can't put my finger on it, really. Maybe literary fiction is as abstract as poetry in terms of what makes it good? Maybe good literary fiction is all a matter of opinion (or any fiction!)?

I suppose it would be difficult to write good fiction if you couldn't tell good fiction from bad. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe spotting good fiction is someone else's job? A writer writes, he doesn't judge, he just writes. And if he's lucky...

Between writing and school and worrying about bills, I'm over-taxing myself. My brain is turning to mush and I just need some sleep! I have been in school since January 2011 without a break and I am, after spring semester, going right back in. I can't afford a break; literally. Going to school is paying my bills!

Oh well, that which does not kill us...

-D. Gage

The Tale of the Jack Ass

Here's submission #2 for Fiction Writing Class.
I just thought I would point out something before you read this. My attempt in writing this story was to elicit some sort of emotional response. When it was shared with the class I was happy to find that it did. In fact, one guy was nearly in tears talking about his Aunt who had cancer and, basically, scolding me for being a heartless bastard. I'm not sure he realized that this story, while fictional, is based on events from my own life! Anyhow, if you hate the Narrator, feel sorry for him, love him or whatever, let me know. I'm not pulling punches anymore in my fiction.

The Tale of the Jack Ass
by D. Gage

 I watched her watching people.  

I took a sip of my soda.

The cold AC of the shopping mall eatery made my skin break out in goose bumps, which contrasted with the burning sensation from the hot sauce I had liberally drizzled onto my burrito moments before.  

I was not that far from the girl in the pink Lolita dress. She was probably nineteen, maybe twenty. Her bleached white hair was tied into piggy tails framing a baby doll face that was cluttered with piercings. She had a tattoo of a star on her left cheek. She wore Goth makeup and black combat boots with black and white striped nylons covering her slim legs that disappeared beneath the frilly hem of her pink dress. She was an enigma of fashion yet somehow that drastic juxtaposition between the innocent, little Lolita girl-look and the rebellious Goth girl-look worked for me. She looked like what Alice would look like if she had, instead of falling down the rabbit hole, fell into a tattoo parlor.

She looked at me, smiled and turned back to her coffee. God! I would rip off that dress and make a woman of her if I could just get her alone. But I couldn’t. I took a bite of my burrito. She didn’t notice me. I took a drink of my soda. Her eyes wandered aimlessly towards the large glass wall of the eatery’s terrace; her pale, ivory neck curved flawlessly.

Submersible Fiction

Chlorofluorocarbons
by D. Gage

Under the sea there are no waves. There is no rocking back and forth. No heaving up and down. It turns without you knowing, it sinks without telling you.  There is no up and down or left and right. There is only water and darkness and machines and you.

There is no rocking back and forth, no forward to aft, no side to side. But there are lines that take you to chow, lines that lead to ‘pissing in bottles’, lines for loading number 10 cans onboard, lines to talk to supervisors about work, lines to smoke.  There are lines of metal with compressed fluids and gases, falling waste and rising water to the captain’s stateroom two decks above where God gets his coffee and donut every morning served in and on china.

That Ain’t Working

I could be doing any number of other things right now. I could make an honest attempt at a medical degree with which I could help heal the sick. I could get a high paying job, squirrel money away, buy a sail boat and become a full-time blue water sailor. I could sell dope or get high or make an effort toward increasing my resume of Face Book friends. I could run for congress or run a marathon or open a brothel. I could be just another Nobody from Nowhereville. One in 7 billion.

But I’m not doing that. Instead, I’m writing.

Timmy and the Coin

Timmy and the Coin
Heads I win; tails you lose. That was Timmy’s down fall. He was stupid.

There is this part of me that believes all stupid people are faking it to get attention. I guess it was hard for me to fathom that anyone could be that stupid so they had to be pulling my leg. Timmy was faking it. I have no proof but I can feel it in my gut. As they say, ‘bad publicity is better than no publicity’.

And so Timmy played stupid so that at least he would be one of the gang; the stupid guy who fell for all of the stupid tricks and riddles, who never understood any of the jokes and insisted that you continue to repeat them which drained any humor the joke might have had to begin with. Timmy.

Island of Matrimony

Island of Matrimony
“I never want to see you again,” she shouted.
“It’s a pretty small island. I think that might be difficult to pull off,” he replied.
“Fine, you stay on that half of the island and I will stay on this half.” She dragged her foot in a line across the sand until she reached the palm tree.
“How are you planning to divide up the palm tree,” he asked.
“Well, I suppose when the coconuts fall, whichever side they land on, they belong to the owner of that side.”
“You’re incredible,” he shouted. “A freaking genius!”
“You’re mother thought so. My parents, on the other hand, said marrying you was the worst mistake I could have made. I should have listened to them. I guess I’m not that smart after all.”
“Sharon, you do realize we are going to die out here. We’ve got no drinkable water, no shade and how long do you think these coconuts are going to last us?”
“What, you want me to just forgive you, to run into your arms and die there? What you did…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a pig. I know. Whatever! I just…” He sunk his head down into his hands.
“When the tour guide finds out we’re missing he will come looking for us, Mark,” Sharon replied, her voice growing softer.

What I Got Out of Classical Studies Class

So, I wrote this one act play after finishing the Iliad for my Classical Studies class. I hope you enjoy it.

Greek Orthodox

Hera: Well, now what?
Zeus: Meh. Start over again, I guess. What do you think about Greece?

Hera: For cooking?

Zeus: No, no. As a name for a country.

Hera: Whatever. But promise me no more one eyed giants and harpies and that kind of junk.  Ok?

Zeus: Ah. Let me have my fun! We’re running out of time anyway.

Just for Shits and Giggles

Just a silly little super short story.


Jesus looked around the alleyway. When he saw the coast was clear, he ripped a big fart.
‘Jesus Christ,’ shouted the homeless man who had been hiding behind a pile of rubbish.
‘Yes,’ Jesus asked.
‘Oh, never mind,’ said the homeless man.

-Nosmo King

Thoughts in Writing

"The choice word, the correct phrase, are instruments that may reach the heart, and awake the soul if they fall upon ear in melodious cadence; but if the utterance be harsh and discordant they fail to interest, fall upon deaf ears, and are as barren as seed sown on fallow ground." -Frank H. Vizetelly, 1000 Useful Phrases