Wisconsin Death Trip

When Zippy and I lived in Anchorage, we took a black and white photography class at UAA. Our instructor (hey, Bob!), learned I was originally from Wisconsin and asked if I’d ever read WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP. I had not. But I filed the title away in the dim recesses of my brain until a couple weeks ago when I came across the book while doing research.

Wisconsin Death Trip cover

From Wikipedia: “[Wisconsin Death Trip by Michael Lesy] is based on a collection of late 19th century photographs by Jackson County, Wisconsin photographer Charles Van Schaick, mostly in the city of Black River Falls, and local news reports from the same period. It emphasizes the harsh aspects of Midwestern rural life under the pressures of crime, disease, mental illness, and urbanization.”

This book dispels any notions about “the good old days,” with its pages of matter-of-fact newspaper accounts of death and insanity. It boggles the mind to contemplate living in that time and place, and the grim expressions in the photographs make me ache for everything those people endured. It’s not easy to read, yet the book is incredibly compelling; I feel almost obligated to finish it as a sort of tribute to them and their monumentally difficult lives. (One newspaper excerpt mentioned the small town where I grew up. A grave was excavated — the article didn’t say why — and when the coffin was opened, it was discovered the woman had shifted position inside because she’d been accidentally buried alive. As if life above ground wasn’t horrible enough during that time . . .)

What’s the takeaway from all this? I’m very grateful I did not live in Wisconsin in the late 1800s because I’m quite sure there’d be a notice in the newspaper about my admittance to the state psychiatric hospital. Unless I took the attitude of Mary “The Window Smasher” Sweeny, and broke plate glass windows wherever and whenever I had the chance.

In light of all I’ve read about life back then, smashing glass seems like a relatively healthy coping mechanism.

          

On Being a Bad Birdwatcher

I glanced out the window this morning and saw a bird high up on the wire.
It was partially blocked by the bare branches of a red maple and power
lines, feathers fluffed against the cold wind.

Kestrel, I thought.
I grabbed the binoculars and, sure enough, it was an American Kestrel.

American Kestrel 006
© Tracy Abell 2012

I smiled and thought about Simon Barnes who wrote one of my absolute
favorite books HOW TO BE A (BAD) BIRDWATCHER.**

Simon Barnes wrote about jizz*** (I know, such an unfortunate term), defining it as               “the art of seeing a bird badly and still knowing what it is.” The more you watch birds,      the more information you internalize, and as Mr. Barnes points out, “Familiarity        enables you to process scanty information and interpret it in a meaningful way.”

When I see a bird in flight, one moving in a bouncy up-and-down pattern,
I know it’s a finch.  If I catch a glimpse of a bird on the ground, scratching in the
leaves, I identify it as a spotted towhee. If a bird flaps past me, trailing long tail
feathers, I recognize it as a magpie.

This makes me happy. Because no matter what else is going on in my life —
parenting worries, frustrating quest for publication, search for part-time
employment, etc. — I am a bad birdwatcher and I’ve got jizz.
It’s a life-long condition and no one can take it away from me.

** From the opening chapter: “…[that's] what being a bad birdwatcher is
all about. It is just the habit of looking. Born-againers talk about bringing
Jesus into Your Life; this book is an invitation to bring birds into your life.
To the greater glory of life.”

*** Apparently, it’s inadvisable to search Google for the etymology for jizz
so I’m content to accept the one theory suggesting it’s a contraction of just is.
As in: “How do you know the lower bird in the photo below is a northern flicker?”
“Just is.”  

American Kestrel 002
© Tracy Abell 2012

Maurice Sendak on Melville and Diving

  

Herman Melville was always using the image of the artist as diver. 
He loved that word. Having to dive from some height, meaning, of
course, taking a serious risk. Because if you dive and you're lucky,
you'll come up with gold from the bottom of yourself. You dive deep
into the self. But you can also drown, you can smash your head upon
the rocks — there are terrible risks in diving from a great height. But
if you didn't dive, then you were not an artist in his terms. Without
risk you were just a middle-of-the-road type guy. 
               
                  ~ Maurice Sendak from Writers Dreaming by Naomi Epel

I'm afraid of heights
and sometimes I'm afraid to dive deep into myself.
However, I never want to be a middle-of-the-road type guy.

Inviting all my creative friends to join me in taking the plunge 
today and every day.

                   

Friday Five: The Slice of Life Edition

1)  Whenever fifteen-year-old Zebu winks at me, I swing between feelings of admiration and intimidation since I’ve never felt confident enough of my winking ability to do so.

image from morguefile.com

2)  At my suggestion eighteen-year-old Wildebeest is reading Stephen King’s MISERY, and enjoying himself mightily.

3)   Zoey and Coco want me to remember that when I choose to bathe them and
spray them with water, I must be prepared for the relationship to suffer a loss of trust.

© Tracy Abell 2012

4)  Zippy is reading a library e-copy of 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami, a 944-page
novel, and was thrilled to discover even though his copy is overdue he can
still read it as long as he doesn’t close the file.

5)  I’ve been battling flu-like symptoms much of the week but plan to get
on the treadmill in a couple hours for my cardio workout, and hope to feel
those “endolphins” kick in (so I’m, in the words of Zippy, “swimming in the dolphin tank.”)

image from morguefile.com

Wishing everyone a lovely weekend!

Missing Mr. Vonnegut

                 

"Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter.
It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here.
There’s only one rule that I know of, babies-"God damn it, you’ve got to be kind."

                                                                                       
                                                      — Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater)


                                                                                                                   image from morguefiles.com
                                    

                        

My Top 70 for Bob Dylan’s Birthday

Bob Dylan turned 70 years old today and in honor of his birthday, I’m sharing 70 Dylan-related memories:

1) I joined the Columbia Record Club when I was a kid and bought lots of early Dylan records for not much money (because he was a Columbia artist), eventually defaulted on my membership and then had a collection agency after me until they figured out I was a minor and they couldn’t touch me.

2) I kept a harmonica in my car to practice while stuck in L.A. rush hour traffic but never advanced beyond basic discordance.

3) When I was a kid, I took over the care of my younger brother’s gerbils and renamed them Frankie Lee and Judas Priest.

4) After having trash and beer thrown at me for singing and dancing during a Dylan concert in Orange County, CA (otherwise known as Behind the Orange Curtain), I vowed never to attend another concert in the OC, a promise I kept.

5) I once dreamed of ex-wife Sara Dylan and woke up really indignant about Bob treating her so poorly.

6) I used to work for a man who shared a rabbi with Bob Dylan, and contemplated staking out the temple for a sneak peek.

7) I had a class at CSU-Northridge with a young man who was friends with one of Dylan’s sons (Jakob?) and who used to hang out with the son and listen to Blonde on Blonde, an album my classmate described as “Okay.”

8) When I was a high school freshman, I gave a speech on Bob Dylan; the teacher was thrilled but the other kids could not have cared less.

9) The first time I ever saw Dylan in concert my seat was behind the stage but Dylan turned and played to us so it was a great experience.

10) My parents allowed me to miss a day of school to get those tickets.

11) Maybe because I’m not a fan of organized religion, I’ve never been offended by Dylan’s swings between Judaism and Christianity and back again.

12) I’ve logged a lot of miles on my treadmill running to Highway 61 Revisited (although “Ballad of a Thin Man” kinda takes the pep out of my step).

 

13) I listened to Street Legal the other night for old time’s sake but had to quit after a few songs because it made me miss best friend S (who loved the album) too much; I especially wished he was still alive so I could point out the album is highly overwrought.

 

14) At the last minute, I bought a single ticket to see Dylan at the L.A. Forum and got a pretty decent seat but after he played a couple songs, he said he wouldn’t continue until the seats in front were filled so I rushed the stage and spent the rest of the night a few feet from the stage.

 

15) I also went alone to see Dylan at the Filmore in Denver and made friends with some people who, for years afterward, invited me to their birthday parties.

 

16) I named my cat Isis.

 

17) I bought my copy of Desire at the JC Penney’s in Portage, Wisconsin, and took it back because the record skipped.

 

18) Literary agent Edward Necarsulmer IV is a huge Dylan fan and I used to think that meant we were destined be agent and client, but I’ve since deduced that is not true.

 

19) Wildebeest loves nothing more than to disparage Bob and his rhyming ways.

 

20) When I was in high school, Doonesbury included a series of strips featuring Dylan and I taped those strips inside my locker door but was so eager to vacate the premises on the last day of school, I left them behind.

 

21) Zippy used to quietly pooh-pooh Dylan’s talent but now recognizes his channeling-from-beyond genius.

 

22) Let’s face it: Joan Baez has aged much more gracefully than Dylan.

 

23) I was sad on my birthday, November 25, 1976, because I knew Dylan was playing at The Band’s final concert at the Winterland, San Francisco, while I was in Pardeeville, Wisconsin, watching a blizzard out the window.

24) I later went to a matinee showing of Scorsese’s documentary of that concert (The Last Waltz) and smoked cigarettes in the nearly empty theater. I know!

 

25) Sometimes waiting for Dylan tickets was more fun than the actual concert (see #4), even when I burned my ankle on a motorcycle muffler getting a ride across the immense parking lot to the port-a-potty.

 

26) There are few more dull or predictable discussions than those focused on the quality of Dylan’s voice.

 

27) I think the Rolling Stone panel missed the boat by not putting morePlanet Waves songs in its top 70 list.

 

28) I used to be in a critique group with Dylan’s lighting guy who went into instant panic, covering his ears and yelling, “I don’t want to know!”, when I mentioned a friend with a bootleg tape.

 

29) I once spent about three hours trying to get through on a call-in show to ask Dylan who’s saying “Yes!” in these “Isis” lyrics:
“You gonna stay?”
“If you want me to.”
“Yes!”
(See, it’s not clear if it’s “If you want me to, yes!” or “Yes!” as in “I want you to stay.”)

 

30) It’s safe to say that over the years I’ve driven some people away with my Dylan fascination.

 

31) A former boyfriend didn’t believe I knew all the words to “Isis” but after I performed it for him, complete with gestures, he had a (short-lived) light of respect in his eyes.

 

32) Zebu had the chance to see Dylan at Red Rocks a few years back but didn’t have much fun because (1) there was a thick cloud of pot smoke in the crowd and (2) he couldn’t recognize any of the songs.

 

33) The first novel I wrote has an incredibly original storyline about a teenage girl who loves Dylan but is teased by friends and classmates for that love.

 

34) My critique-lighting-guy friend invited me to sit at the light board during a Dylan concert but I declined because it was soon after September 11 and I couldn’t face being in a crowded venue right then.

 

35) In 1982, my sister and I went to PEACE SUNDAY in the Rose Bowl to hear Dylan and Baez (among many) but the concert was sold out so we stood next to chain-link fence while guy inside licked his hand-stamp and pressed it on my hand so I could then lick and pass along stamp to my sister.

 

36) I’m one of two people I know who saw the looong and oh-so-confusing Renaldo and Clara (and the other person is the guy who went with me).

 

37) Zippy and I watched the Dylan flick, Hearts of Fire, which is one of the worst movies made. Ever.

 

38) However, trust me when I say Dylan’s pantry scene from the movie Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid in which “Alias” reads aloud the labels on canned vegetables is hysterical.

 

39) Early on in our relationship, Zippy said the soundtrack to Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid was his favorite Dylan album because it was mostly instrumentals (see #21).

 

40) I strongly disagree with Keith Richards’ statement about Dylan’s “Girl from the North Country” being better suited to a solo than the duet with Johnny Cash.

 

41) When I try to imitate Dylan I always end up sounding like Joan Baez imitating Dylan on her version of “Simple Twist of Fate” which means it’s really me doing Baez doing Dylan.

 

42) A long time ago I told a friend if Dylan ever did a commercial, I’d take all my Dylan albums into the street and destroy them but here I am post-Victoria’s Secret and Bob-knows-what-else, and my albums are intact.

 

43) I went to the record store the day Empire Burlesque was released to buy it and another customer commented on how refreshing it was to see someone so loyal to an artist, but in retrospect, I have to question that loyalty because the album has some definite clunkers.

 

44) I once called information to get Bob’s home phone number.

 

45) I never feel like I’m in the mood to listen to “The Time’s They Are A-Changin,’” but then I hear it and am blown away all over again.

 

46) Sometime in the last decade, Dylan was on the Grammy’s singing a song that everyone later ridiculed as being unintelligible but within a couple mumbles I identified it as “Masters of War.”

 

47) When I was a teen, Dylan was scheduled to be on Soundstage and I talked to my parents ahead of time about watching it when it came on late that night, but in a fit of absolute bullshit parenting, they didn’t let me.

 

48) My father-in-law named his dog “Dillon” after the Gunsmoke character but in my mind’s eye whenever I said his name, it was “Dylan.”

 

49) I was always of the opinion that music class ruined “Blowin’ in the Wind” for a lot of young people much the same way The Scarlet Letter was ruined by high school English classes until a friend told me “Blowin’ in the Wind” holds a special place in his heart due to learning all the words in Sunday School.

 

50) Way back when in Wisconsin, I listened to Dylan’s early song, “Highway 51” but, being the spatially-challenged person I am, didn’t make the connection with the Hwy 51 running past my hometown.

 

51) If not for Bob Dylan, I’m not sure I’d know Woody Guthrie’s work (or Arlo’s!), or Phil Ochs or Dave van Ronk.

52) I’m not usually a fan of “greatest hits” compilations but if not for Dylan’sGreatest Hits Vol 2, I wouldn’t know one of my all-time favorite Dylan songs “When I Paint My Masterpiece.”

53) It was hard times when I lived in a tiny North Hollywood apartment but I remember smiling in the dark as I listened to Bob’s laugh when he messed up the opening to “Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream.”

 

54) Wildebeest just stuck his head in the room to see what I’m working on and when I told him he said, “70? That’s a lot of memories. You really love Bob Dylan, I think Bob Dylan’s a goober.”

 

55) A friend and I went to the Dylan/Grateful Dead concert at Anaheim Stadium and I swear Jerry’s guitar solo on “All Along the Watchtower” was so incredible it flustered Bob into singing the same chorus twice (but I seem to be the only one who noticed).

56) I have another friend who won’t ever let me forget that on the day of a general admission Dylan concert at the Filmore in Denver, I “forced her out of the car on Colfax” because of road work and detours so she could get in line while I looked for a place to park, and then we ended up arriving at the line at the same time.

 

57) We were about halfway back on the floor during that show with the misfortune of standing behind a basketball team, but then “Cold Irons Bound” started and I danced and didn’t care about limited visibility.

 

58) When Wildebeest was a baby he’d calm when listening to Blood on the Tracks except for “Idiot Wind;” he really disliked that song.

 

59) Wildebeest and Zebu just told me something I can neither confirm nor deny: when they were little and would screw around at the dinner table, I’d get pissed off and send them downstairs while I cleaned up the kitchen, “Tombstone Blues” blasting (“I’m in the kitchen with the tombstone blues”).

 

60) All I can say in my defense is “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry.”

 

61) Actress Jenna Elfman reportedly lost her virginity while listening to “Lay Lady Lay” but I can’t listen to Dylan while having sex because, for me, there’s no tuning him out; I can’t write while he’s playing, either.

 

62) Hard Rain is a phenomenal live album, and don’t even try talking to me about the distortion and poor sound quality.

 

63) If it weren’t for the Rolling Thunder Revue, I wouldn’t know about T-Bone Burnett and Mick Ronson and Ronee Blakley and Scarlet Rivera.

 

64) Come to think of it, I started reading Crawdaddy magazine in hopes of finding a mention of Dylan, and was introduced to all sorts of musicians along the way.

 

65) From the very start my attraction to Dylan had as much to do with his use of language as the music and while I never mastered the guitar or harmonica or singing, or anything even remotely musical, I consider him a huge influence.

 

66) I still haven’t landed in Publisher’s Marketplace but it’s cool Bob’s gotten deals for turning songs into picture books; however, it’ll be hard to take if he sells a middle-grade before me.

 

67) I can’t remember ever putting on a Bob Dylan record and deciding it wasn’t what I wanted to hear; no matter the mood, it’s always a good time for a little Dylan.

 

68) And with his catalog, a little Dylan can easily turn into a marathon listening session.

 

69) So many people were outraged when he went electric and, in their minds, turned his back on “the movement,” but Dylan’s Dylan no matter whether he’s singing about a miner or a clueless reporter or the exquisite pain of a breaking heart.

 

70) When I listen to Joan Baez sing about Dylan in “Diamonds and Rust,” I want to weep for her lost love but then “Winds of the Old Days” plays and I’m in awe of her graciousness:
“singer or savior, it was his to choose
which of us knows what was his to lose”

Epiphany!

                 

While on the plane flying to Hawaii, I jotted notes for a new project as I reread highlighted bits from
EMOTIONAL STRUCTURE: CREATING THE STORY BENEATH THE PLOT by Peter Dunne.

And I finally, finally understood what writers mean when they say they have to know the ending
before they can write the story.
I always thought knowing the ending meant I had to know the "plot" ending, the action ending,
and I never understood how writers already knew whether their books would end with a car chase or picnic in the park.

 
But what knowing the ending really means is to know the "story" ending, the book’s emotional ending.
 
As Peter Dunne says:  
The whole idea of beginning at the end is to create a target at which you aim all your action and emotion."
 
I get it now!
 
If I map out the emotional terrain ahead of time, I’ve mapped out the heart of my story,
and the action is just there to support those emotions, whether it’s a chase scene or picnic.
 
Emotions rule!
 
                

Nature Nurtures

         

When I start to panic and worry, I look to Nature for my calm.
Saturday I ran on the trails with Zippy while a Red-tailed Hawk soared above.

Today, I return to last week’s Starling visit for solace.
As long as there are birds in my life, I can find the courage to carry on.

                                                                                                                               © Tracy Abell 2011

And because I’ve been reading THE ANNOTATED CHARLOTTE’S WEB:

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.

                                                                                     ~ E. B. White
                     

Friday Five: The Numbers Edition

              

I’ve invited these big, friendly numbers to help me quantify this week . . .


                                                               image from morguefiles.com

1)  I’m writing my new book 500-words per day. 

2)  I’m reading an incredible book about the 60s: COUNTDOWN by Deborah Wiles.

3)  Wildebeest is shooting for a 3.7 GPA this semester, and thinks he’ll
achieve it by "not screwing around on my elective."

4)  After a three-game dry spell, Zebu scored 13 points in his basketball
game on Wednesday.

5)  Right now there’s sunshine, and we’re supposed to hit 50 degrees later today.

Wishing everyone a numerically- satisfying weekend!

                

Coming Unstuck

             

From WORD PAINTING by Rebecca McClanahan:
When Broadway composer Stephen Sondheim was asked about his creative process, he replied, "If you asked me to write a love song tonight, I’d have a lot of trouble.  But if you tell me to write a love song about a girl with a red dress who goes into a bar and is on her fifth martini and is falling off her chair, that’s a lot easier, and it makes me free to say anything I want."  As we’ve already noted, it’s hard to write effectively about a large abstract subject – grief or anger or love – without first "sweating the small stuff."

I’ve come to the realization that I need to sweat the small stuff 
a bit more before continuing to draft my new project.
I don’t know enough truths about the characters and their lives.
Yet.

So it’s off to my notebook for further discovery . . . 

I’m curious about the rest of you:
how do you know when you know enough about your story to begin writing?