On Flash Fiction

So, I've been thinking for a while that I really ought to develop my prose writing a bit more, as well as my control of language. In the midst of these thoughts, I discovered that I really enjoy the challenge of writing flash fiction: a short story usually of somewhere from 100 to 300 words, maybe 500 at the most. I really like the 200 word mark. Creating a story and characters with so brief a space can be a lot of fun, and it leaves a lot to be created by the reader as well. The genre is also really appealing to our instant-info culture that might not want to take the time to read a fifteen page short story, but can stomach a page's worth of story. I started writing some, and I'm thinking that if I can write a bunch of them over the summer and maybe start another blog posting them in instalments. Here's one of the first that I wrote, inspired by a scene in an Oxford street.

Hold

The alley was wide, but few people used it. It may have been because the tall stone buildings on either side kept out the sun most of the day except for around 12 o'clock. That’s where they stood, surrounded by murky shadows while strangers passed by on either end of the manmade ravine.

“Are you sure?” he asked. He bowed his head to look at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Are you sure?”

She nodded slowly.

A breath of wind wound its way down the alley and swept up a few of her golden hairs, coaxing them to flutter before her face and land on her moist lips. His dark, gentle hand brushed those strands aside, tucking them behind her ear and letting his palm rest for just a moment on her warm cheek. She might have been blushing, but the half-light around them made her almost expressionless face appear more serene than he had ever seen it.

He felt her jaw tighten.

“Come on. We should be going.”

Her heels clicked on the cement footpath as she walked. But he lingered ever so briefly, saying goodbye to the air where her perfume and his hand still hung.

On the World

"The crisis started with the end of the seventeenth century, after Galileo. The eighteenth century has been called the century of reason, le siècle de la raison. I've never understood that: they're all mad, ils sont tous fous, il déraisonnent! They give reason a responsibility which it simply can't bear, it's too weak. The Encyclopedists wanted to know everything . . . But that direct relation between the self and - as the Italians say - lo scibile, the knowable, was already broken. Leonardo da Vinci still had everything in his head, still knew everything. But now! Now it's no longer possible to know everything, the tie between the self and things no longer exists . . . One must make a world of one's own in order to satisfy one's need to know, to understand, one's need for order. There, for me, lies the value of the theatre. One turns out a small world with its own laws, conducts the action as if upon a chessboard . . . Yes, even the game of chess is still too complex"

--Samuel Beckett

On Oxford (part xi: A Diversion)

I am well overdue in reporting my recent trip to Ireland. A week overdue in fact. I'm not sure how it happened, but I just haven't been able to work myself up to writing it all down. I think a part of it is still living in me and writing it down would be imprisoning it, hindering its growth somehow. But perhaps not. I will do my best to give a good description without smothering the experience.

We started in Belfast, which is in Northern Ireland, the region that is still a part of the United Kingdom. We got there early in the evening, checked into our hostel, and then just wandered around until we found a good pub, and when we did, we found a good one. There were five of us, and we all agreed that it was the finest pub food any of us had ever eaten.

We got up early the next morning so we could have a full day. Our first stop was a walk along the river, and what should greet us on our first morning in Ireland, but an Irish rainbow. No sign of leprechauns or pots of gold, but we did find our way to the oldest covered market in Ireland where we bought bread and cheese and fruit to get us through the day. From there, we set off to see the Ulster Museum. It was interesting because it was not a huge museum, so it didn't focus on any one area in particular, but instead it was filled with art, sculpture, history, anthrology, science...basically anything you could imagine. There was even a fashion art section. It was an incredible museum. After that we lunched and then wandered around in the botanic gardens next to the museum.

When they started closing the hot-houses, we left and started heading into some of the more historic areas of town. Belfast has been a pretty volatile region both politically and religiously, and we walked through some of the neighbourhoods that have been the centres of the conflict in the region. It was eerie being there and feeling the tension. They had these murals painted all over the place, and a lot of them were signs of remembrance for people who had died in the Troubles. There was a lot of anger in them, and some of them even seemed to glorify paramilitary activities. It was surreal, especially for my friend Kate who had been studying Irish political history for the whole term.

When it started getting late we headed to the bus station and bought tickets to Dublin. While waiting for our bus, we finished off our supplies from the morning shopping spree. It was a two-and-a-half hour trip from Belfast to Dublin, and we spent it in quiet conversation, and possibly a bit of dozing off (we had done a lot of walking). By the time we got to Dublin, we were pretty beat, so we just tracked down our hostel and crashed. That night was when the British isles moved the clock forward for their daylight saving time, which one of our rooms forgot, but still got ready a half-hour early, while the other remembered, but slept in a half-hour, meaning we started the day late, but together. This hostel had breakfast provided, which was nice, and set us off for a good day of exploring. There are memorials and monuments all over Dublin. It seemed like every corner had its own famous person to visit. One of the first we saw was a statue of James Joyce, which was cool.

We made our way through these icons of history to Glasnevin cemetery in the north of Dublin, where almost every famous Irish political figure is buried, including the likes of Charles Stuart Parnell, Daniel O'Connell, and Michael Collins. We wandered through the packed cemetery (over a million graves) for quite a while and eventually met a charming old Irish fellow named Freddy Daly who took us around and showed us some of the less well known figures and told us their stories. He actually knew some of the people buried there. It was a startling juxtaposition of living and dead history, but in a completely different way than we met with in Belfast.

After the cemetery, the five of us sat down for a splendid Chinese feast in a local buffet. By that point, we had been on our feet for about four and a half hours, most of which had been spent walking, so we took full advantage of the "all you can eat" invitation. Perhaps not the best choice with all of the walking left, but these are the choices that fill our lives.

The rest of the day was just seeing the sites: political centres, cathedrals, a park (which just so happened to have plaques commemorating some of the great Irish writers including the likes of Shaw, Synge, Joyce, Wilde, and my personal favourites: Yeats and Beckett). My favourite thing we saw in the afternoon was definitely the Famine Memorial on the banks of the River Liffey. It is one of the most moving sculptures I have ever seen in my life. I could have studied it for hours. As evening approached, our group split, and the three of us going back to Oxford in the morning drifted back toward the bus station to catch a return bus to Belfast. It was another two and a half hours of good conversation, and good rest for our feet. Once we got to Belfast, we had a short while to gather provisions for dinner and the inevitable fourth meal we had planned to eat while staying awake in the airport (to save money, we hadn't booked any accommodation for that evening) and for breakfast. Then we caught the shuttle to the airport and camped out. We got on our flight at 6:00 am. When we landed in London, we came straight back to Oxford. It was so weird to be sitting in a lecture with everyone else when we hadn't slept that night, and we still had the smell of Belfast streets on our clothes. Another very surreal experience.

Since then, I have mostly been catching up on work. We have been going on field trips with our program seeing different cities and old churches. However, we are coming to the final stretch and there are just a couple of massive papers looming between me and a week visiting three of Europe's greatest capitals: London, Paris, and Rome. After that, it will all be done. Strange.

On Oxford (part x: Taking a Break)

A week ago, I was at the peak of Snowdon, the tallest mountain in Wales. The group of us semester abroad students had arrived the night before and to make this Spring Break trip a true vacation (or holiday, as those Brits prefer) there was nothing scheduled the first full day so that we could relax. Of course, how did I respond to this? I accompanied two other brave (or crazy) students, Blair and Mia, and set out to climb a mountain.

Most of the way, the ascent wasn't that bad, a long winding path through the beautiful hill country. It was a bit easier than the last serious hiking I did in the Smokies. All that changed at around 850 meters above sea level. It's not that the trail got more difficult. Rather, it disappeared. We hit the snow line, which happened to be at cloud level too, so that suddenly we were immersed in an utterly white world. At around 900 meters, Mia had to fall back because her shoe were not cut out for the conditions. That left Blair and I to finish the ascent. It was a strange world at the peak. Black rocks clawed their way out of the snow and the wind felt like it was going to pick you up and carry you away, but we had made it, and we celebrated with handfuls of chocolate covered peanuts.

From that point on, my trip could only get more relaxing, especially since that evening set the precedent of reading, playing games, or watching movies to unwind each night. The next day was Sunday, and we got to go to a dual language service in English and Welsh. That was very cool, especially since it was my first time hearing Welsh. It is a beautiful language. After that we visited our first castle, Caernarfon, which is pronounced nothing like you would think. It was an incredible castle, easily the strongest in Wales, and had never been taken. It is also the site where the British heir apparent's title of Prince of Wales originated when Edward the First's son was born there.

The next day we visited another castle in Conwy. This one was filled with all sorts of passages and towers close together. Someone commented afterwords that we were all like prairie dogs popping up in the towers around the walls. After exploring the castle for a while we went on a hike. After the Snowdon experience, this hike was a piece of cake. As we got closer to the top I was running and bounding up rocks. I think part of it was that it was a much clearer day and there was a gorgeous view. You could look out one direction and see the rolling hills and Welsh countryside, then you could look down on the city of Conwy with the castle poking out of the middle, and then you could look out onto the sea coast. It was astounding, and it enlivened me. I kept wanting to clamber up the next pile of rocks and see farther. That was probably my favourite moment of the trip.

And it would prove to be my last hike, for although there was a big hike planned the next day to the dual peaks of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr, I was mysteriously struck by some kind of 24 hour bug that had me vomiting the night before. So, I got my one full unscheduled day of relaxation after all and stayed back with a few other people who weren't keen on spending hours climbing big rocks. It was a very pleasant change. I got to do lots of reading, went on a short walk to a waterfall, and composed the poem in my previous post. All things considered, it was a pretty good day, and I got to finish it off going with the whole group to a delightful Welsh restaurant.

Our final day was mostly spent in the minibus heading home, but along the way we got to stop at one more castle: Harlech. This was the smallest castle we visited, but it had lots of character. It was the sort of castle that every child draws with a mote and a gate house and a central keep. This castle also was the most ruinous, not having been nearly as successful as Caernarfon. The crumbling stones were beautiful. I just love ruins and seeing how decay can still be beautiful. It was great.

Since then, we have begun the second portion of our studies since the traditional Oxford full term has ended. The rest of our studies are organized by the program and will be focusing on the history of Britain and writing long essays in conjunction with a seminar. It is sort of tough after a week off to go back to the rigour of studying, but I'm getting there.

On Stones

I wrote this poem after my first visit to a medieval castle while visiting Wales. More on the trip soon.

Caernarfon*

These stones rest like an old soldier,

watching his visitors come and go.

They'll sit with him, but never long

enough to wake him from his slumber.

These strangers wander through, staring

at the stones staring back. Empty

rooms delight them; they ask, "Who lived

here? Who was born within these walls?"

The ought to ask who died. The old

soldier shudders at the memory

of friend and foe; their final gasps

echoing still in his stony heart.

There are no more voices to speak

from these towers, no more fires to light

these walls and drive away the dark.

There is life, at times, but no living.

*in Welsh, f's are pronounced like v's.

On Discipline (addendum)

I have not written a poem in three days. I am not planning to write one tonight either. I don't know when I will write another poem. This thrills me and terrifies me.

In August of 2008, I conceived an idea of writing a poem every day to try to improve my poetry. I was fairly consistent, usually only missing one or two days a month and sometimes writing more than one in a day. For a long time, it was very rewarding.

I do push-ups every morning. This is something I have done for years. It is also the one of the only work-outs I have ever done with any consistency. I don't remember why I started. Perhaps I wanted big arms to conform to the masculine ideal. Perhaps I wanted to be healthy. Perhaps it was basic self-improvement. That is why I still do it. I believe there is a great deal of merit to discipline. This is something that seems to have fallen out of our culture. I believe in repetition. You may not understand something the first time. You may not understand something the tenth time. Perhaps the hundredth time you will. Perhaps it will mean something because you've done it one hundred times.

The Laban technique used by actors and dancers is based on the repetition of certain movements. These often seem pointless, mechanical, and downright odd. The point is to build muscle memory. It is the "wax on, wax off" mentality. An expressive movement needs to be instinctive, reflexive. As an actor or a dancer, movements must come naturally, so having them already prepped in your body allows them to come without thinking, the same way that an actor repeats lines so that they are prepped and can come without thinking.

There are certain things that develop in babies at around nineteen months. For instance, as language skills develop, their vocabulary grows a great deal. There is a beginning of independence, asserting their own wills. But one of the most interesting is that at around this age, they begin to be able to tell when something is wrong, when something is missing, or when there or inconsistencies in what they expect and what actually is.

Over the past months, more and more of my poems have notes jotted at the end. I will finish writing, look at what I have, and jot a note on it as a reminder.

This could say more

Needs work

With revision, could be better

More?

Good idea, should expand

This could be something

Needs more

Weak ending

Needs developing

One of the most interesting parts of being in England is how old it is. I can walk around and see buildings that have stood since before America was a country, before it was colonized, and even before it was discovered by Europeans. As cool as this is, there are some shortcomings. For instance, there are a lot of things still around that have long ceased to serve any purpose, but they don't remove them. They just take up space.

There are no endings. Not really. What was continues on whether we are aware of it or not. There are consequences, reactions, resonances. Even when something new has begun, what has just ended is still with us.

There are points on a line.

There are points in a circle.

I used to do sit-ups with my morning push-ups. But when I hit my last growth spurt, I had some twisting in my spine. My sit-ups were compounding this. I was hurting myself, so I stopped.

At some point, my poetry stopped being work. It stopped working. I got very good at "spontaneous overflow[s] of powerful feeling," but it was never in reflection, never seen clearly, never structured. To be frank, my technique, if I have any, is negligible. My poetry needs work. If I am just vomiting some words on a page every night before I go to bed having forgotten or having been to busy to write earlier in the day, I'm probably not going to develop as a writer. That is the stuff of sincere emotion, but it has stopped being the stuff of good poetry for me.

I am not giving up writing poems, but I am changing the way I do it. I need to learn. I will probably go back to some of those poems with notes at the bottom and see if I can make anything of them. I will probably do a lot of reflection. I will certainly do a lot of reading. I'm sure it won't be that long before I write another poem. It is too cathartic for me to abstain for too long, but when I do write one, I am going to work at it. I expect it to be hard, the way that writing a poem every day used to be hard for me. I expect I will write some bad poems. That happens. Mostly, I plan to learn.

On Oxford (part ix: Discoveries in Learning)

“if . . . you cannot heare the Plannet-like Musick of Poetrie, if you haue so earth-creeping a mind that it cannot lift it selfe vp to looke to the sky of Poetry . . . thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all Poets, that while you liue, you liue in loue, and neuer get fauour for lacking skill of a Sonnet, and, when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an Epitaph.”

Sidney, Sir Phillip. Sidney's Apologie for Poetrie. Ed. J. Churchton Collins. London, Great Britain: Oxford University Press, 1955. pp. 62. Print.

Sir Phillip certainly knew how to curse people back in the 16th centry. And to think: I am assigned such wonderful reading as this. Oxford is great.

On Oxford (part viii: Culture)

This weekend, I managed to do far less homework than I ought to have done. However, I avoided my homework by being very cultured. Something like that anyway.

Saturday, Oxford hosted its International Festival. All sorts of different societies for international students set up booths where they have different foods, and arrange different live performances such as music, dance, and even fight choreography. My friends Carl, Kate, and I decided to check it out. For one thing, it was packed. It was hard to even walk around let alone see the booths, but that gave it a very energetic atmosphere. I got a felafel from the Israel society and some mutton kebabs and rice from the Caribbean society. Both were delicious. We also discovered some fascinating honey jasmine tea jelly (keep in mind that when they say "jelly" in England, they are referring to "jell-o"). It sounds bizarre, but it was so good. Once we had eaten our fill and enjoyed some performances we headed out.

We then went to Frewin Court (the central offices for our program which also has a common room for students) and watched the movie Moon. This isn't quite on the cultural breadth of experience that the International Festival, but there is something to be said for embracing one's own culture. Anyway, Moon is a fantastic sci-fi movie which draws no attention to the fact that it is sci-fi. It is more interested in telling a story. The film is about Sam Rockwell's character who is the sole operator of a solar power plant on the moon coming to the end of his three year shift. Of course, things are not quite as they appear (as is usually the case with such movies) and the story dives into some profound questions about identity and the value of life. Definitely wort seeing.

The day ended with dinner at the Tick-Tock Cafe where Kate and I were accompanied by our friend Hannah. There were lots of clocks. Also, there were chicken pesto mozarella paninis. So good.

The next day, I finally managed to get to the Ashmolean Museum (the first museum in the world). Kate had two friends visiting Oxford while on a European tour and the four of us went out to explore history and culture. First off, the museum is astounding. Secondly, it is huge. We spent three hours there and did not even get through the medieval period. That, of course, just means I have an excuse to go back. I did see plenty of Egyption and Greco-Roman artifacts though, including massive statues of Zeus and Apollo.

All in all, a splendid weekend. In the midst of all of this cultural exploration, I also managed to read The Picture of Dorian Gray, so the weekend was not completely unproductive. However, I am now in the position of having two and a half days to write to essays: one of which I have not yet researched...This will be fun.