Creative Non Fiction

Creative non fiction always seemed like a slippery slope since the author can whip up as much creative description and reflection as they can imagine as long as the facts are there, mostly.  Many attempts at creative non fiction of mine failed because they slowly, somewhere, metamorphasized into full blown fiction.  Below is an example that succeeded.  With the guidelines and instruction from class, as well as material from Dan Kwong, I was able to write about an experience I had as a young boy that destroyed Christmas for me.

Solo Play

A dark stage is illuminated by a spotlight on an old, simple wall clock.  It reads 11:35 pm.  At that moment, Jon reveals himself by opening a door obscured by darkness.  Light and the furnishings of a lake house hallway are behind him.  His shadow is cast against the light from the open door across the left of the stage.  As he creeps through, the audience can see he is wearing a red dinosaur onesie.  

At that moment, a pre recorded track of Jon begins to play.  It is an adult looking back on a youthful exploit, ala “The Wonder Years.”

“Have you ever done something you thought was fun but later regretted?”  Jon stops as if despite being a child in the re-lived memory, he is passively aware of the narrator’s voice.  “I’m talking about something you knew was bad, but you did anyway.”

Jon nervously checks behind him  and closes the door.  Lights illuminate the stage showing it is a room of the house that was being utilized as an office that no one used anymore.  The floor is covered in ruddy, oversized ceramic tiles.  Two desks occupy opposite ends of the room with filing cabinets separating them.  There are various end tables and chairs being stored wherever space allowed.  Mid step, little Jon freezes in place.

“Did you ever do something so bad that you actually taught yourself a lesson?”  A blinding spotlight hits Jon in the face, he winces and nods in confession.  “When I was nine years old I found where my parents had hidden my presents weeks before Christmas.”  Little Jon slowly tries to elude the spotlight while the narrator is distracted with exposition.  The spotlight does not follow him as he skulks away.  “I was a clever little deviant and once I had located the innocuous black trash bag under the far desk, all I had to do was wait until everyone went to sleep.  I- wait, where the hell did I...?”  He stops as the spotlight searches the set.  It finds little Jon already half way through the prop trash bag, discarding toys as he digs.

“Damn it can’t you just wait?  You’re getting way ahead of the story here.”  Little Jon stops but does not look away from the presents in the bag.  “Well I guess you can’t wait, can you?”  Little Jon shakes his head emphatically.  “Okay then, since you’re in such a hurry, we’ll skip ahead.”  Men in black jumpsuits storm the stage, moving boxes and turning desks until the setting has changed into the living room complete with twinkling Christmas tree.  The men snatch the toys from Jon as he tries to collect them.  “Oh stop it, you would’ve had the chance to play with them if you hadn’t skipped ahead of me.”  Little Jon looks around for the source of the voice.  Finding nothing, he calls out, “You’re just punishing me you jerk!”  Then flops down on the sofa with arms irrevocably crossed.  

“Yeah, I tend to do that.  So anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, I had sneaked into the office to look at my toys over and over.  Each night, I got bolder and more impatient to play with them.  I tried to remove the tape that held the factory packaging closed so that I might play with then return the toys to their boxes and no one would be the wiser because there would be no signs of forced entry.”  Little Jon smiled wide and nodded again.  “But the wait and the guilt began to torture me.”  Jon leaped from the couch and began anxiously pacing back and forth.  “My fortitude to wait had reached its limit days before Christmas and I began to hate the whole thing.  The toys, the day, my family, myself, the world, I hated it all.”  Green hued lights slowly fall on the stage as one side of the floor begins to raise.  Jon keeps pacing.  His anger and state of mind is represented by the skewed stage tilting and sickly lights.  

“I about had a nervous breakdown by Christmas eve.  We got to open one gift (as was tradition) and as I looked at them, I knew what each and every one was.”  Jon picks a small one, sits on the floor in front of the tree with a thud and apathetically reveals a pack of tube socks from the wrapping.  “Come Christmas morning, I knew I had to act surprised and excited or the jig would be up!”  Jon opens boxes with highly exaggerated movements and expressions of painted-on surprise.

“It killed me.  I knew what they all were.  There was no genuine surprise.  I wasted that in the

dark office long ago.  It hit me,”  Jon stops and looks to the audience with a look of clarity and regret.  “I killed Christmas.  It sunk in.”  The same men in black jumpsuits converge on stage, stripping it of every item like ants deconstructing another large insect’s corpse as played in super fast forward footage.  “ I would go on to have fun with my toys, but  I never forgot how cheated, how cheapened how stolen and empty that Christmas felt.  I resolved to never cheat again. Well except on tests, but that’s a play for  another day!”  Lynryd Skynryd like music begins to play and Jon stands waving to say goodbye for far too long.  He stoops as the curtain falls and continues to look at the audience and wave until the curtain meets the floor.

Prose

I already loved writing fiction, but what I learned about freedoms in style, form and even content enriched my passion, my addiction.  Without any formal training or education up to this point, I struggled with finding my voice, style and confidence to fake any authority on anything.  Through our exercises and dissection of selected works, I've learned how to find the deep voice and that alone is the most powerful tool I've learned thus far in my writing life.

The “J” Cube Writing Assignment

Father had disappeared almost four years ago.  It was while working on his invention down in the basement.  There was a loud boom sound and a lot of smoke.  I found him two years  later.  It wasn’t where I found him that was the mystery, but when I found him.  And I do mean when.  He’d been working on that contraption for longer than I’ve been alive.  He called it his first baby.  Crazy old coot.  Well, crazy, genius old coot I guess.  After fiddling with it for over a year, I got it to work.  It took me where he had gone -er I’m sorry, when he had gone.  You see it is a time machine and he was home, just fiddling with it thirty five years ago.  Mom was still alive, but she didn’t recognize me.  He was right there when I came through.

“Ruttiger,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder with a soldering iron still in his gloved hand, “what took you so long?”

I helped him get the 1978 version of the machine running.  I say “helped” but it was more of him cannibalizing my digital watch and smart phone for their more advanced components.  I couldn’t stay too mad at him, he’d been stranded there after all.  When we got back, he made a few adjustments and left again to visit times he’d always wanted to see.  I haven’t seen him since.  Hope ‘ol Thaddius isn’t dead.  Attending Pasadena City College, doing IT work from home and pretty much nothing else got boring.  So I started using the time machine to screw around.  Some mildly unethical stuff.  Then one day in my creative writing class I noticed a classmate glancing at me then to his notebook over and over.  He proceeded to show it to the classmates around him and they would respond by looking over at me then laughing.  I used the time machine to see what it was.

He had crudely sketched my likeness as an exaggerated caricature and titled it “Hipster Peter Parker.”   While I appreciate the comparison to a super hero scientist, I loathe hipsters.  He couldn't have known it, but he could have done me no greater injury.  So I set to work observing and researching him to find out how I might return the favor.  “Jonathan May,” how pretentious Jonathans always sound.  His floppy, unkept hair and self indulgent writing, I hated him.  So I devoted my immortal, time traveling life to crushing him.

After months of tracking and studying his past pains, I finally found something.  When he was a boy, a girl named Dorothy he liked made him one of those cheap little bracelets that spelled out his name letter by black letter on little white cubes.  A rival for the girl’s affection tore it from his wrist and pushed him down in front of her.  He tried to pick up the little cubes so she could remake it, but the interloper kicked the “J” cube down a nearby drain.  I found another like it and planted it in the classroom today while everyone was in a large circle for an exercise.  When Professor Ogden found it and announced a writing assignment based on the person who had lost it, it was passed to him.  When he held it, his face was the same as when he was a small boy and it had been lost.  I think I might be going too far.  I’ve been running tests using the time machine and reporting to my past self the results. This one was the first success, but too successful I think.  I’ll have to scrap this and keep looking for another method to exact the comeuppance he deserves.

The List

“Hi hun, I guess your not going to answer huh?  I hope you’re having a good day.  Don’t let Bradley get under your skin again.  

Well then I’ll give you the list:

You know its just a few days away now, and we've been planning this for forever, so we can’t forget anything.  I know I keep saying this but, I still can’t believe I got you to agree to this.  Baby, this is going to change everything for us.  It could mean a new beginning.  No cliche BS! Oh yeah, the list, we can’t forget anything, we have to be prepared for everything.  On your way home tonight, pick up the last few things we need.  I’m reading it, lets see:

Two black ski masks - Should be one sizes fits all.

Zip ties  -The big ones.  The biggest ones they have.

Pick up the prop gun.

What next; no, nope, yup okay;

Two janitorial jumpsuits, one large, one extra small

Leather gloves, same sizes.  Get plain, -er like generic looking ones.  You know?

Four large duffle bags, any color.  Although darker is better

Write this all down, we can’t forget anything.  We need it all to stick to the plan.  And remember, if we aren’t believable, aren’t totally intimidating, it all goes to hell.  And I don’t need to remind you what will happen to all of us if this doesn’t go well.  Right?

Oh!  I’m so excited.  I have so much anxiety, but I’m still so excited!  

This is going to be the best Valentines anniversary night EVER!  

I love you baby!  See you when you get home.  Call me if you have any questions.  Love you, bye!

Poetry

Before English 5A with Professor Ogden, I thought poetry was just a way for self indulgent hipsters to assert their creative prowess to anyone who would listen.

I still do.

But having learned quite a bit about finding your voice, identifying the deeper meaning (or "bottom story"), the freedom of personal style & unconventional form and that just about any topic can be the stuff of a great poem, I have developed not only an appreciation for exceptional poetry but the ability to identify it.

It reminds me of a recent trip to Napa for a friend's wedding.  I'm a bourbon and whiskey man.  Wine was for hipsters and poets.  It wasn't until I was dragged to a tasting at a remarkable vineyard that I discovered many of the subtle textures, tastes and aromas of my preferred spirits were also present in wine.  Dry leather, vanilla, fruits and smoky flavors as well as sweet, spicy floral aromas were imbued into many of the wines because they had been aged in old bourbon and whiskey casks.  I came to surprisingly familiar ground and a world away from my expectations.

Poetry is much the same surprise that wine was.  There are so many elements of characterization, observation/ reflection, story telling, writerly presence and style as well as humor, irony, pain and pleasure that I have come to love in prose.

Here are some of my efforts that stand out in my mind.  -Not necessarily because they are great, some were struggles in exploring new concepts while other simply made me think.

Gift from God (Name Poem)

Stressful responsibilities, obligations.  Too many.  Too many.

I’m supposed to be skilled and intelligent

But I’m struggling.

A strong, handsome - even grandiose name like Jonathan Michael May

He must be strong and handsome and intelligent and capable and grand

After all a gift from God who is like God, sure wouldn’t have many flaws, inequities,

weaknesses

So why does he?

Is the name, the responsibility, the dreams too big to live up to?

Is he too afraid of failure?

How could he fail with a name like that?

And yet he has - and does.  And will continue to.

Who could love him in failure?

He cannot love himself, who could?  Mothers do not live forever.

What will it take?  It is possible?  Can he succeed?

Is the name a gift or curse?

Why does he have so many questions and so few precious answers?

Why doesn’t he get it?  Why can’t he get it?  What does he get after all?

Can he do anything else?  Does he want to?

Jonathan: A gift from God.

Michael: Who is like God.

May: … Who the hell knows.  Its a month.  And English.

Anyway, would have “Entry Level May” been a better name?

No pressure there!

Shoot for the stars with that name?

It could be changed, but would a rose fail to blossom by any other name?

Yuck.  That's what I'm talking about right there.

Do the dreams match the name?

The father had a strong name.  Didn’t help him.

I’ve never written a poem before.  This probably doesn’t change that.

Smokes Patiently

Suddenly he exists. I turn behind me to see him already seated, his back to me. The barely noticeable sounds of fabric rubbing, soft-soled shoes stepping, a deliberately audible exhale. My alarm at his instant presence is eased by his slow breaths and his gentle gestures. Transplanted from the shadows of night, he is a lost traveler clad in black and exposed beneath the winter day’s greyer sunlight. A black beanie with messy spurts of black hair like spider legs crawling out to escape. Black raybans concealing his eyes and thus his identity are his mask. His cheeks and neck rich coppery brown skin, then more black. His identity unique but not memorable.

Slowly a cigarette is revealed from some unseen pocket appearing in his hand the same smooth, unwarned way he arrived. He holds it between fingers with confidence and dexterity, like a weapon. Cupping his hands to his face lights the stark white little cylinder. Shattering his silence, he coughs after it begins to burn. Did he cough on purpose? To fit in? So controlled. He spits on the rough, littered cement at his feet. His dry, bitter smoke is carried on the breeze to my face. An unwanted guest who freely imposes on me. I’m not disgusted, to my surprise. I watch him longer. He allows it. Posture and body language betray inner discipline, yet the conservation of his movements dazes my mind. His hand rests on his knee while still holding the cigarette, now with the posture and lazy disregard of a rebellious son enduring a lecture from his father. I forget to care if he knows I’m staring at him while he smokes patiently. We have snared each other. If I turn away and release him from my gaze will he vanish the way he emerged, silently, suddenly?

Indefinitely Tried (Blackout Poem)

He danced until his legs trembled, there was no answer from anyone.

The ship was thundering toward the upper reaches of the universe. It's occupant leaned back.

His name was Indefinitely. He was with not a very good purpose.

Indefinitely wasn’t born immortal. His immortality thrust upon him with a particle accelerator.

The details of the accident are important, no one has ever managed duplicate the circumstances.

People have ended up dead.

His eyes, a grim and weary expression on the ship stereo. He really could've done.

To begin with he had a ball, living dangerously and taking risks.

In the end, he couldn't cope.

When you know you've taken all the baths you can you stare at any given revolutionary.

He stared at the long dark of the soul.

The smiles he used to wear begin to fade, he began to despise the universe and everybody in it.

If there were more directions, would I follow them? (Assembled Poem)

I need more direction in life

I know there’s no smorking here, and some times you can only go one way

We don’t think about life’s exit much day to day, or about breaking glass to pull alarm

But being welcome when the occupancy is far beyond 132 persons and

Crossing when you shouldn't be walking, it makes me want to smork

Even though I don’t like to smork

If I had a horn, I still wouldn’t honk for Jesus or unions or gay marriage

I find myself highly obnoxious as it is -another reason not to smork

When I feel closed when I want to feel open I have a cash only state of mind

I’m like James Dean or Evil Knievel on the 11th minute of my allotted 10

Photosensitive Seizures and Bonding with the Baby

No one knows exactly where or when it started, but a very small percentage of people may experience a seizure when exposed to child rearing. Certain visual images including flashing lights or patterns that appear in parenting describe a father's sense of absorption, preoccupation, and interest in his baby. In one of the earliest studies of father-infant interaction the seizures have a variety of symptoms, including lightheadedness, touching, altered vision, eye or face twitching, kissing, jerking or shaking of arms or legs, disorientation, rocking, confusion, or momentary loss of awareness, or cooing. Researcher Ross Parke made a discovery that might shock the traditionalists: immediately stop playing and consult a doctor if you experience any of these symptoms. The fathers and researchers should watch for the above symptoms. "In sum," writes park, "the amount of stimulatory and affectional behavior depends on the opportunity to fall down or strike nearby objects."

Bio

Motorcycles and sailing, both a way of life for me.  They require balance, sensitivity, control, courage, training, knowledge, strength and commitment.  Each demand presence of mind and focus in order to become adept.  Each can be leisurely or pushed to the edge of a knife.  Both can be relaxing and lethal.  I found and defined myself twice over in these great sports, hobbies, lifestyles.  

My first great love however, was storytelling.  From a young age I began dwelling in the world of my imagination more frequently than the real world.  I gave in so much to the worlds and characters that populated my imagination that soon I realized I did not remain in control all the time.  But fear was not the reaction, wonder was.  I grew older and sought to weave the elements of my creativity into prose.  It is my deepest desire to entertain, thrill, relate, captivate, infuriate and connect with others through writing.

A Liar's Manifesto

Here is my manifesto of lies. Despite a life of learning and honing skills of observation, reflection empathy and language, I could never accurately convey the way the world looks, smells, tastes or feels. The best I can do is try to record how it seems to me and hope the lie is accepted. In writing, truth is irrational because eventually everyone's truths will contradict. But lies, they are universal and free. Toiling in truth is the pursuit of a boring cage. Few concepts as complex as lying come instinctively.  As a child I did not need to learn to tell lies. Entertaining friends, evading punishment, lying to myself, it just came naturally. It is my deepest desire to become a great liar. To succeed would mean that my lies are captivating, relatable and beautiful. Every great liars deepest hope is to be believed.

Lying is critical to life, civilization and basic humanity.  Beasts of the wild can employ trickery and simple subterfuge, but none can imagine like humans can.  We are singular in nature and aside from reason and opposable thumbs, our capacity for lying, fueled by creativity and imagination is what truly separates us from unthinking biological and synthetic creatures alike.  Without lies, humans would be little less than ants in a colossal colony.  I lie to uphold and defend humanity’s greatest treasure, imagination.  We love lying and being lied to so much that we have invented genres of lies; poetry, prose, music, creative non fiction.  All are lies.  Truth is obtuse, abstract and irrelevant.  Facts remain solid, but should not be confused with truth.  Just as there is no such thing as a selfless act, truth is entirely in the eye of the beholder and can never be completely, entirely understood by one another.  Lies can.  Lies are universal.  They bridge the impossible gap of relating and understanding.  Lies are just good enough.  Without lies, we simply couldn't speak to, or understand each other.  I tell lies to relate and to be understood, and remembered.  I hope to inspire, but at the very least, communicate.  I do not lie to harm and that is not what I mean when I say lie.  I want to play in the realm of which belongs to and subjugates me.  Every human is born with their own passport to this realm.  Lying allows us to visit it together.