Hedgehog in the Blog

The female African elephant has the longest gestation period —22 months. At birth her elephant calf weighs 230 pounds. He will grow into the largest land mammal during his 50-70 year lifespan. Let’s name him Babar.

A human baby— Francine, weighs 7.5 pounds at birth. Francine’s beginnings will consist of sleeping, feeding, crying, and staring at faces and objects, preferably shiny ones with contrasting colors. After she learns the basics of being a human, she will enter the pre-spawning adulthood phase. It will consist of detaching from parents, first round interviews, graduate school applications, and dates with men who talk about business intelligence tools. Granted this is if she’s lucky enough to be born into a middle class and above habitat.

Babar will face his own challenges as he’s gently pushed out of his mother’s herd. Babar will have to find and eat 450 pounds of vegetation daily on account of an inefficient digestive system that absorbs only 40% of the food he ingests. He’ll need to get big and stand his ground if he wants to mate. His pre-spawning phase will consist of waiting his turn to mate as the older bulls get first dibs. Francine will have to wait until both her and a suitable male are ready for a relationship.

Unlike her mother’s generation, when the median age of first marriage for women was 20, Francine will marry some time between 26 and 32. Some of Francine’s friends will warn her that she’s buying into an obsolete institution that is both stifling and provincial. She’ll think about having a child. It will be perceived more as a choice and less as a biological imperative. She’ll hear a few stern words to the contrary from her old world grandma on the subject.

Francine’s brain and curvaceousness will prove her most vital tools of survival. For Babar it will be his trunk, which will serve as both an upper lip and nose with two finger-like nippers at the tip, sensitive enough to pick up a single blade of grass. During courtship and child rearing, his trunk will intertwine with affection. In conflict it will be raised in dominance or lowered in submission. Swiveling his trunk like a periscope, Babar will sense the location of friends, enemies, and food sources. Francine will use the Internet, other’s opinions, and intuition to form her judgments of friends, lovers and sources of personal satisfaction.

Babar, unlike Francine, will be very thick skinned. The one-inch thick skin and low surface area to mass will require a great deal of wallowing in mud to cool off. Mud baths will serve him as a tool for socialization, sunscreen, and protection from insect bites. His large ears will help with cooling as well. When overheating, he’ll flap his ears to create a slight breeze cooling the surface blood vessels. Francine will take yoga classes and drink red wine to cool down. While she may have a more agreeable surface area to mass ratio, her high ratio of worries to thoughts will require a personalized set of cooling strategies.

Young male and female African elephants live in family units of ten. The herds are made up of closely related females and their calves. All the mothers take care of all the calves. A childless single female elephant of a certain age is not automatically perceived as a barren spinster.

Babar’s brain will have as many neurons as Francine’s. Babar and Francine will share an ability to grieve, learn, mimic, produce art, play, joke around, show altruism, use tools, be compassionate, cooperate and be self-aware. On her travels around the world, Francine will visit cultures that venerate the elephant as a symbol of wisdom. Babar will observe hairless, upright apes riding around in Range Rovers. He won’t think much of it, unless they are in his path to delicious Baobab pulp.

Narcissist: a person who derives gratification from admiration of his or her own physical or mental attributes —at times, this gratification is erotic!

Making Lists

What are the methods and types of tools used for listing what you must do? You can use a paper calendar with a stringy bookmark, a phone calendar with vibration functionality, or a computer calendar that shoots pop-ups. There are also post-it notes, spreadsheets, journals and napkins.  It’s often advised to use a combination of methods and tools. Telling my cousin Anne’s story is a bullet on several of these.

OCD

Nervous people often tell their more bohemian friends they are afraid of passing things by, so they fill their nights with openings, cocktails, readings, and dates.  Between the bullet points are dreams much more difficult to chunk into “digestible, executable bits.” I have phases of being a highly nervous person.

Watermelon

It wasn’t on a list, but it happened. My cousin Anne took me to the market when I was six. At an outdoor fruit stand she taught me how to pick out a good watermelon. She brought it up to her ear and tapped it once on each of its hemispheres.  She examined the color and shape with heightened presence.  Not until it was in my mouth after dinner, did I realize all the preliminaries at the market were only witchcraft.

Ouch

Before breaking off the engagement, Anne told her fiancé Albert she could no longer bear being forced to care about him. They had been together for five years and there wasn’t anything really wrong. They helped each other get through graduate school. They went on vacations as a couple with groups of couples. Anne was a teacher and a bit messy. Albert had very nice things, cashmere sweaters, Austrian skis and an Italian sports car: his rewards to himself for caring deeply without questioning. He was a management consultant. The day of the breach, he sang to himself.

Rose

Some say love it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love it is a flower and you it’s only seed.

Forbearance is withholding a response to provocation.

Sensible Middle

In her April 15, 2012 NPR interview Christian Amanpour shared a memorable insight: “Most of the world is in the sensible middle.” With all this talk of dichotomy – profit vs. nonprofit, left vs. right, religious vs. atheist, fiction vs. non-fiction, emotional vs. rational.

How could this be? thought Albert to himself. The report was followed by a recap of international news, but Albert was having trouble digesting Amanpour’s claim. Him and Anne had trips, dinners, and family gatherings prepopulated in their calendars. Anne ran from the sensible middle.

“There are worse things happening around the world to better people that I, there are worse things happening around the world to better people than I, there are worse things…,” Albert repeated to himself.

Anne

Maple Beach is a natural port about six kilometers to the west of Udupi, Karnataka, India. Anne ends her days there with Abhinav, a local fisherman she met at the market while she was travelling through the South. She was dying of thirst when she passed Abhinav’s stand. Without a word, he handed her a slice of watermelon.

I

English is the only major language in which “I” is capitalized.

One Room, Two Beds

The small room she shared with her parents had two beds divided by a meridian of exposed linoleum and a two-tiered table at the foot of the larger bed. On the bottom of the table were several books and envelopes. On the top shelf was the imported TV. With its two antennas and VHS slot, it was a permanent resident. The white walls were bare. The comforters and curtains, shades of brown, orange, yellow, and red were it for decoration. The neatly layered secret stuff they didn’t want her to reach lived in the top section of a brown armoire. The deep window sill, where she’d spend hours looking outside daydreaming and running her small hands through the moist dirt of the potted plants was her favorite part of the room.

Red Seal = Really Important Documents

A standard A1 envelope with foreign letters and stamps appeared on the bottom shelf of the table at the foot of the larger bed. She had seen her father place it there after he came home. He thought she was napping and took extra care to be quiet. He balanced the envelope with an open palm so as not to bend it. He took a pocketknife from a toolbox under the bed, slipped the tip into the gap in the fold, and gently pulled up. With measured force he made a clean rupture. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took out four pieces of paper. They were blank but didn’t give to gravity. A red seal rose from the bottom right corner of each sheet. He examined each one, pausing his eyes on the seal.

The Opportunity

The envelope was already opened so examining the paper wouldn’t be risky.  She checked her hands for stickiness and ink before proceeding. She knew her grandfather, the only one home, was deep in a newspaper article. As long she kept some of her attention on checking for the crinkle of newspaper, she’d be safe. Her chest tightened. A strong urge to doodle had to be kept in check.

The Break-in

She placed the envelope on her palm as she’d seen her father do, but it was too hard to balance it on her small palm. She put the envelope back down and sat on the edge of the smaller bed placing it on her lap instead. She opened the top and gently pulled out the top sheet. The paper was heavy and textured. The seal was read with two flags on it. This was the most distinguished thing in the house. She knew she loved that paper and wanted to be part of a world paper like that was the norm. She loved it the same way she loved the pens behind the counter at the supply store. It was different from loving her parents. Maybe it was love of the world these things seemed to represent. A love unburdened by explanation.

Do you wish for a simpler time? Do you find you and your bête noire coalescing like two drops of mercury despite efforts to avoid? Are you looking for the real intentions behind why your lover left you to spend more time with a role-playing game, why your boss reprimands you for not gesticulating more firmly while delivering the pitch, or why your uncle gives you funny eyes every time he bites into the turkey thigh at Thanksgiving dinner?

Welcome to our complex marketplace of vagaries and moral hazard, where confusion, misco
nceptions, deceptive glances, and nuanced digital posts reign.  For this is what keeps us up at night, not potential wolf attacks or howling winds of impending storms – real storms, not the precipitation of half-baked semantics.

Allow me to help.

I am the subject matter expert of the non-disclosed disclosed, the masked, and the opaque. My patented, propriety tools and methods are guaranteed to unravel the full story. My nose smells the cigarette cropped out of the photo, the perfume of the temptress after the shirt has been pressed. Like server bots, I see the status updates before sobriety swipes right and deletes.

Let me ride the windy path to the full story for you, sparing you the pangs of jealousy, regret and anger. I will find the fictitious proposals to gleeful blondes signaling future commitment phobias, the sexy Medusa bathtub shots, and the stone face behind the grin holding back pain you’d wish she’d grown out of like chunky heels and low rise jeans.  You will see that although the bathtub is claw-footed and the low-rise jeans are ass-enhancing, there is no excuse for vanity to prevail. You don’t deserve to suffer no other vanity but your own.

The path needs the padding of proven Openteau experience and insight.

I respect your reflex to dismiss my claims as cavernous salesmanship, but I urge you to listen to the bony cavern where once purer instincts played merrily like happy, grass fed cows. Where what I say feels true.

To proceed with your inquiry, visit the Foxy lady espresso stand by the Shell station on Thomson and Washington on Tuesdays from 5am to 6am. Order a double Americano no room with a pump of guava sweeter. Hand me your credit card, a note with her or his name, your objective, and five one hundred dollar bills folded to the size of the card. In exactly one month meet me at Discovery Coffee on Valley Road for your debrief.

What customers are saying:

Openteau helped this man meet the destiny on the road he’d taken to avoid it. U-turn, new road!

Agent Openteau could give me an account of my ex-wife’s intensions, habits, activities, real wishes, and character flaws that my crazed love for her made invisible. I felt Agent Openteau got down to what direction my wife made pigeons fly when she crossed the street. In the end we met and the intel from Openteau made me see my wife remains a royal prick. I made the right choice running away. 

Let’s be real. I value my illusions over the truth, but Openteau made me see I was an idiot. He really was way more into his best friend than he’d ever be into me.

Openteau helped me break the deadlock I was facing with my hyena of a boss – elegantly at that. We discovered he enjoyed Kenny G. It proved powerful collateral.

Becoming a writer is the result of many hours of diligent work and study, and a great deal of impulse control. Our environment, including the distractions in it, influence the work. While working in a cafe or library has its charms, these environments introduce too many ways to get out of the work. I deal with enough internal distractions, adding environmental factors only aggravates the problem. Cafes present additional transaction costs: deciding on a location, switching locations if it’s too loud or there’s not a table available, the drink purchase,  the inevitable consumption of productivity-hindering gluten I lack the enzymes to process, and focus drifting on people and surrounding conversations. Earplugs help, but I have yet to find a sensible pair of blinders.

Solution: The MIR work station.  No disrespect to Richard Wright, Roberto Bolano, Francis Fukuyama, or Milan Kundera intended.  Nanos gigantium humeris insidentes  – my efforts stand on the shoulder of giants, literally. Just not my favorite giants. I used books I’m not likely to reference to elevate my desk so I can stand and work. It’s a cheaper alternative to an adjustable Aeron-caliber chair and a change from the eight hours of sitting at my day job.

The workstation adheres to ergonomic sensibilities. My elbows are at approximately 90 degrees and my eyes look straight keeping my chin level. I use my iPad as a second screen via AirDisplay.  I also spend more time on task because standing is more expensive than sitting for the body. When I get a bit stiff I pace around the room and return. Shifting weight from one leg to another and occasional swaying keeps me moving and alert.

The iPad is also useful when I’m on the go, especially when I ride my bike. I take advantage of the endorphins generated by biking and make pit stops at cafes or libraries on my path. The iPad and bluetooth keyboard are lightweight enough to carry around on rides and the endorphins override the usual distractions mentioned above.  The physical exploration on my bike opens my mind to new ideas and infuses a sense of possibility.

Observing the habits of artists, I’ve adopted carrying around a small notebook for jotting down observations, new words, and interesting read or overheard statements. I prefer spiral notebooks because I don’t have to put any effort in keeping them open as I write – efficiency gains are vital with analog tools. I alternate between cheap Staples and luxurious Clairefontaine varieties.

Pens of choice: Pilot Multiball (from Japan) can be found here, and Kaweco ALSport fountain pen (fits nicely into lady pockets)

I use Evernote for organizing reading notes, quotes, articles, lists, research ideas, and outlines. It has a search function, easy to use UI, and most importantly, I can access it on all of my devices including my day job computer. Dropbox is useful in the same way for sharing drafts and accessing files on any computer with an internet connection.

The most important tool of my work station is my guide through this whole process. Jake is a talented man and a great teacher who I can count on for valuable feedback and a stern kick in the ass. He’s enabling me to leapfrog faster over ineffective but common stages of novice writing.

On the left of my computer is a quote from Jake:

“Too much fiction is just about dumb people with dumb problems doing dumb things that the application of some minor amount of logic would solve. Bored with life because you’re a vaguely artistic hipster? Get a real job, or learn some science, or be a real artist, or do something meaningful. The world is full of unmet needs and probably always will be. But so many characters wander around protected by their own little bubles. Get out! The world is a big place.”

Finding the right tools and creating a working environment that limits distractions and promotes focus has been extremely helpful. I still face productivity challenges – Facebook, checking email, looking for my BFF Min Moon or a guy I really like to sign into chat – but having a set, physical space for my work is a  constant reminder of the sustained effort I can no longer avoid. I’ve avoided it too long.

The second goodbye is harder than the first.
It isn’t permanent I hope.
Come back together or alone.

You hand me plants;
I promise to provide a caring home.

Painfully familiar, too bare,
not knowing bareness is the loam.

And as I pull away,
your smell,
your cleanly shaven face-
it lingers on the drive.

Looking ahead, I peek behind and see
shadows of broken plans, unspoken words dance across the seats.

It is the people, smiles, glances,
the smells and cleanly shaven faces.
The homes we build of undetermined places.

A young man well out of youth chewed on his pinky as he faced the window of a train speeding through Brittany. Partitioned fields and sagging power lines passed frame by frame. He held an indeterminate gaze. The visage didn’t matter—its passing did.

I had been alone in the compartment until he boarded in Rennes. He gave a conciliatory nod and asked if he could take the window seat. A beige fixed-hinge tabletop separated our bottom halves. He took yesterday’s Le Monde and Wired out of his black backpack and stacked both neatly in his corner of the table. His heavy lids suggested he would read neither.

I was right. First the pinky would fall out of his mouth and join the rest of his fingers curled into a pale cheek. The head would tilt down as the lids closed. After a few gentle sways of his shoulders and a slight twitch of the knees, he would float away. He was an exceptionally neat and quiet sleeper. As he slept, we’d finally be in each other’s company, free from the compulsion to enforce separation with books and music players. He’d wake to gaze out the window for a few minutes and be back to sleep shortly. At times I’d join him.

Two hours after his arrival, the train came to a stop but not at a station. Instead we were in a field with two barns visible on our side. After twenty minutes at rest the doors opened. Passengers disembarked. Many put down jackets and sat on the grass. Children ran around, some played hide and seek, their parents begging them not to enter the barns. I sat instinctually a few feet outside our window, watching the young man, now more alert, pacing between the more accepting passengers pulling sandwiches and water bottles from their bags. The young man would eventually follow suit and sit down. His knees, unaccustomed to sitting on the ground, pierced the landscape.

After exchanging grumbles with those near me, now sitting in silence, I began to feel my shoulders curl into my chest. I put my head down into the crease of my elbow and intertwined forearms. I was now only half-hearing conversations, rustling bags, and feet crunching through weeds. I’d eventually disconnect. After what didn’t feel like much more than fifteen minutes, with my head still down, I heard pages turning. Peeking through my forearm, I saw the young man. I knew if I raised my head we’d have to speak.

“I’m sorry I should have asked your name earlier,” he said as soon as I looked up.
“It’s Amadeo.”
“Joseph. Nice to meet you.”
“You as well.”
“Where are you from?” He detected an accent in my French, as I did in his.
“Alsace, and you?”
“Canada”
“What brings you?”
“A new job. Well, the same job but at the office in Paris.”
“Same job, new office, new continent,” I pause and think of Mathilde. “I hope you find what you couldn’t at home.”
“I wasn’t exactly home where I was last.” He looks away.“ What do you do?”
“I’m a construction planner.”
“I hope we get going before five. I need to meet my new boss for supper and any longer I’d miss him.”
“I hope for your sake we do. First impressions, you know how they work.”

To ease his nerves, I suggest we walk around to stretch our legs. On his way up to his feet, he rips off a limb from a hearty weed. He peels the young bark revealing the limb’s moist flesh. He rubs it between his fingers as we walk. His nerves make him talk. He tells me he worked in America the last eight years. He becomes playful once he lets go of impressing me with lists of job duties and layouts of offices he’d worked in. I couldn’t really grasp what he did. His parents were divorced. The mother remarried a younger man. The father, long due for retirement, still worked in a law firm.

I asked if he’d left anyone behind. He was confused and asked what I meant. What else: I meant a woman. He said no, and I sensed I was getting closer to the motive for the move. Presumptuously I warned him the les femmes d’ici, though better dressed, were no easier to melt. As he stumbled through reasons of why he couldn’t find himself in America, I grew envious of his hope. I saw Mathilde’s green eyes and red hair.

We heard a whistle in the distance and uniforms waving us back toward the train. The young man thanked me. We returned to our compartment and our gazing-dozing pattern for the remainder of the trip. As I left in Le Mans and he continued on to Paris, I wished him luck and hope that he’d find what he was looking for, and her. I pulled out a folded note from my wallet and handed it to him.

I overcorrected in the quest of melting you.
I wished for the drop that would start it all anew.
I did not callous your hands,
Or push you to rip up your heels on cobbled roads.
I did not have the strength to stretch your heart to hold the blood for two.
See the flesh tones spilling out of the lines.
Find your tribe and call it our own.

Mathilde, 1990

There are reasons beyond reason

why I quietly sit tight

for a world I half belong in

opens willingly at night

at a table full of Russians

speaking frankly full of jest.

Words an English tongue can’t stretch to

to the spirit, sex and games.

I count days until the lore blooms

and the syllables hatch into

clever jokes and wistful tales.

Cup by cup lost in revisions
Dreams smuggled inside excuse mes and yawns
Doubts, and crisscrossing fates
Deciphered to a codex of assumed details and tastes

Abound the reasons to stay mum
To play dumb

Breath for breath in a smoky pagoda
Hide secrets unsoiled, padlocked and armed
Honed by silence,
Honored, so no one is harmed

The bridge from heart to lips immutably drawn

Until
What if
At dawn

Hand in hand in square full of pigeons
Your sidelong gaze, a balm to my legion of lesions
We forget our little secrets

A tailored past of leather soles
Of monuments to lettered wars.
She gave her every drop for tears.
Witness to dust, collisions, pain.

Far below,
In stalls of beige and muted greens
A hardened fist uncoils in her glow.
On rails bound to her cratered skin,
The wish ascends.

She’s heard it all,
Corroborator to it all.
No holy text her absolute
The gnawing absolute.

Chapped, windblown, bruised
By  journeys blazed
Our every tear her arid sacrifice

The moon ascends.