inreaction

This is all I’ve typed so far, more to come as the week progresses. Critiques appreciated. Are the characters dynamic? Does the voice come through? Is it ambiguous what the narrator knows / feels (I hope so)? UPDATED BELOW with parts III – V

Guy’s Life

I.

Guy’s body is growing old. Each day he wakes up, pours coarsely ground Italian roast into his one-cup French press, almost scalding himself as he pours the boiling water from the kettle over the grinds. ‘Just off the boil.’ What does that even mean?

He’s out the door now, heading on his Schwinn to the Los Angeles University Undergraduate Library. From 10:00 to 4:45 (the terms of his schedule – an hour later than the students and fifteen minutes less than even the insane boss – are a note of great pride fo Guy) he sits behind a slightly outdated white iMac and does as little as possible.

But as he maneuvers his mornings and days, his body grows increasingly fatigued. His wrist cracks audible as he tilts the morning’s whistling kettle. His back clenches as he leans over the bike, knees harmonizing with each jarring gearshift. I really need a car, each morning as he throws one hip over the ball-bashing seat.

So Guy – a symphony of discomforts at just 44 –sits at his white Mac and drifts from one manufacturer to another. Ford? Not what it used to be. Kia? Never buy Korean.

He has been pooling his library paychecks for 12 years now, and though his TV set him back, he is ready to pull the trigger.

But he can’t. Like a young man eyeing the object of his clandestine affection, he approaches the very idea of owning a with such a sense of intimidation that it is unclear if he will ever feel the ownership that a new automobile’s mere aroma imparts upon its proud driver.

The late 70’s Schwinn was not so bad. Biking was, after all, making quite a hipster return to LA’s streets. But its steel frame is too much for Guy. Last week, he was crossing Wilshire when a shiny black BMW decided it needed to make a right before Guy’s red rocket could pass (this happens in many places – Santa Monica’s behemoth parking lot exits become honker’s havens at the first sight of delay). Guy tried to turn to the right as the Bavarian beauty cut him off. The remaining forward momentum he had built up did not yield, and he was thrust into the car as the bike’s chain tore. The driver kept going on its busy path, leaving a humiliated and scratched Guy to hitch a ride from a Korean LAU student. Read the rest of this entry »

“but what is art? it is the expression of thought, and it is best done without paying heed. in essence, half-assed art is the best. write with the heart and you will be amazed by your own power. draw without looking and your strength will overwhelm you. art is the impluse that is best uncovered by a lack of conscious effort.”

maybe i wrote that once.

going to be typing up the five chapters i’ve written thus far on the life of guy.

“Dorooghgoo, shast-o-sehdarsadet koo? Ey Mahmoud-e bichaareh, baaz ham begoo FOOTBALLEH!”

- “Liar, where is your 63 percent? Poor, pathetic Mahmoud [Ahmadinejad], keep saying it’s like football.”

[the iranian "president" had attempted to dismiss the protestors opposing the election results as no more than the dejected emotions of sore losers supporting a football team that had come up short.]

save columns for the paper, i don’t usually write about politics. but lately i’ve found myself surprisingly overwhelmed with a melange of sentiments regarding the current situation back in iran. i’ve never been to iran, and i’ve never considered myself closely aligned with the people there. sometimes it takes tragedy to awaken old bonds.

but lately i’ve been feeling a lot.

anger: it’s hard to understand what a disgrace a fraudulent election is (although the 2000 election was arguably fraudulent, though this is a case i find annoying when brought up by liberals eight years later so i try not to). it is even harder to understand what a fraudulent election feels like in a nation where suppression extends to nearly all corners of life, where the ballot box is perhaps the only focal point of free expression. then, despite the sensation that something truly amazing, truly generational was occurring, the ballot box disappears – only to exist as a fragment of  your now foolish idealism. but such is the situation in iran now.

disappointment: i’ve long harbored a disappointment in my own people. when i ask what happened during the revolution, all i hear are charges of western involvement. when i am told of our great history, i am invariably lectured on the perils of arab invasions. and when i hear of the pasadars (the masked faux-police that comprise the revolutionary guard that is beating people senseless), i am told they are foreigners, that “no iranian” would do such a thing. it’s the same guarded reaction i receive when i recount a failure of an iranian boy or girl at ucla (dressed like a nightworker to go to class? caught stealing? iranian? impossible!). and though i understand that the iranians that left their country during the revolution almost need to believe that their people cannot be capable of such things — as though the infallibility of iranians they are surrounded by can convince them of the goodness of a people that has made some epically lamentable decisions throughout history, a people represented by a monkey president with no redeemable qualities — i can’t stomach it. it disappoints me that my people cannot come to terms with their mistakes, cannot collectively grow from individual failures.

grief: i heard today that a baby was killed at a rally. youtube and thedailybeast.com are rife with videos and images of men and women (some younger than me and some far older than my father) being beaten by cowardly, masked men wielding batons, shot by these hyenas from afar, and even dragged through the streets by their hair. i see regret and hope (perhaps unwarranted hope) in the eyes of the elderly iranian-americans standing with candles and flags of the shah’s era on wilshire boulevard, and i wonder what they’re thinking. are the students dying today victims of our generations silence? did our involuntary reaction – to flee and protect our families – result in 30 years of bloodshed and oppression? will things ever change?

conflicted: what can i do? all these words i’m reading, thoughts i’m thinking. to what end? is it wrong of us all to expect the people in iran to lose their lives so we can breathe free knowing that we come from a nation that is now more “democratic?” what do we want from iran? why isn’t the economy the issue, when no one can afford to feed their children meat? is ahmadinejad the problem? is mousavi really a reformist? he certainly looks kind, but didn’t he oversee the deaths of millions during the iran-iraq war? wasn’t he to khomeini as ahmadinejad is to khamenei? will my children come into a world with the same questions?

regret and shame: that this has occurred throughout the world on so many occasions, but for some reason it has not affected me nearly as much as when it occurred in iran. why can’t we see all people the same?

alex left for the summer today, and i have more papers to write before tonight’s fun. overall i feel a bit tired and down. anna can’t make it tonight and that sorta saps a bit out of the night but i’m looking forward to making it to a sorta pad related event featuring graduated folks.

there is an empty parking spot in front of the apartment, but a four to five year old convertable white bmw keeps coming in and out of it. i am tempted to place my temporary no parking side in front of it.

maybe the week home will refresh.