Excerpt from "Yesterday and Today" Part 2

Ok, here's part 2. DO NOT READ IT. Unless you have read part 1. Otherwise it's just not sensible, you know?


       One second.
       His eyes met her face. He perused it, explored it. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? She had those small lines of concern, of worldly experience. She surely must have been a bit younger than him!... but she looked tired, worn-out. Is this the same girl who had been doing the dance? he thought. How strange, how…
       But suddenly he could think no more. The ringing in his mind grew fiercely loud and the barriers between the mind and senses crumbled, flooding his whole being with feeling. His skin burned, his tongue was dry, a storm exploded in his head. He could not think. A thunderous grayness enveloped his mind. The words which had flowed so airily through his mind were buried in the flood. He could not hear, he could not feel, he could not smell.
       He could still see. He could do nothing but see, and watch; his whole being numbed with a buzzing paralysis. Everything now unfolded like a movie. His vision narrowed, flattened, focused only on her face, her face which seemed inches from his now, turned so that he could see both eyes.
       One-half second.
       Her eyes filled his vision. Her eyes did not meet his. He watched as they widened, staring at something far beyond him. The pupils dilated into large, black holes. He could see the blood vessels around them, shooting out into the whites, pulsating. He could do nothing but watch.
       One-quarter second.
       Her eyes grew dull, the lids relaxing together in surrender. Rolling lazily to the side, they met his. And stopped. He was awash in sensation. This was it. Everything froze. They held the stare.
       Zero seconds.
       The square-paneled mirror cut into his field of vision from the left, gradually blocking her face from view. One eye. No eyes. The stare interrupted, his focus released. He now saw everything. A body. A mirror where a head should be. A truck attached to the mirror. Sirens. The buzz was unbearable.
       Pop.
       It was one noise, a single moment of contact. No complexity. Shattered bone, smashed tissue, horrifying, gruesome, tragic – everything left to imagination. Just a simple pop. A faint pink puff appeared to the right side of the mirror. Her hands jerked. Her feet lifted from the ground. She flipped like a doll, arms flung overhead. The truck had passed. As she spun, he caught a glimpse of what had been her face. There was no more face. The nose was gone, eyes were buried behind flaps of raw red-and-white tissue. One more flip. This time her extended arms brushed the pavement and the continued rotation of the strung-out body brought her legs smashing to the ground. She crumpled, falling forward onto her knees, chest, and finally her face. What had been a face. The hands hit the ground last. The fingers on the right one twitched.
       The roar in his head subsided, his mind was released and his senses returned to something near normal. The stale air in his lungs tumbled out and he began to breathe again. He could think again. I feel nothing, he thought, testing his emotions...



The guy goes on to an interesting philosophical crisis, and other stuff happens. Hopefully, it's all quite compelling. That was my intent in the writing of the book, of course.

Excerpt from "Yesterday and Today" Part 1

All right! Here is part of the book I wrote (Yesterday and Today may seem like a lame title, but there are layers...). The book is a novella, about 34,000 words, and one might describe it as a sort of various-themed essay clothed in narration. One might. Yeah.

But there is some action, and this scene, which happens near the beginning of the book, contains it. It does not stand alone, and really only works as a part of the whole, but I think it is perhaps at least interesting to read.

Copy, paste:

...Restraining his thoughts, the young man looked up. The city street was cool, channeling softly the hazy red-orange glow of a rising sun. Everything was fresh, as fresh and lifelike as the city would allow, and the man was pleasantly surprised (for he had not before traveled the sidewalk at this early hour) by the sharp impression of cleanliness brought on by swept walks and potted plants, colorful awnings over empty entryways, the coolness of the dew. The finest of all hours, he mused. Safe, clean, and almost – almost pretty.

And quiet. In an hour Broad Street would be full of cars, the city would hum, the haze would be scattered, and contemplation could cease. Only the task ahead.

Of course, the task ahead had never been so…

He broke off again, interrupted by the noise of a lone vehicle speeding loudly up from behind. He instinctively took a step to his right, away from the curb.

How long till rush hour...

And this is what happened: up ahead, maybe thirty feet, a young woman stepped – skipped, really – from an alleyway. It was bizarre: not the clothes, not the movements, not even the wild spontaneity (morning after in the city, after all…), but in the whole of the scene he clearly perceived some indefinable strangeness.

Only one word worked: twirling. Ten to seven in the morning and this girl was twirling, performing some ridiculous drunken happy dance directly in his path. Well. He slowed his step and cast his eyes down to her feet, refusing to offer any gaze, any invitation. No invitations, not to early morning twirlers.

She was wearing heels, but she danced lightly on her toes. For a few steps, at least. It could not have been more than just few steps, a few seconds of silly, meaningless lighthearted movement. Only the aura of incredible excitement in her motions (again, the bizarreness of it all…) somehow created a sensation of greater significance. That was all, so he thought later.

Regardless, the dance came quickly to an end. With a leap and one final twirl she landed delicately on her toes before planting her high heels emphatically into the pavement. One heel did not stop.

It was an old story, the sidewalks of the city. The papers would not let it rest – dangerous crevasses, hazardous pedestrian potholes…one must be careful when stomping around, especially in the uneven drive of an alleyway. What could she have been thinking, he thought amusedly (knowing full well that a person in such a condition as hers would not bother with foot placement, nor be bothered by any consequences thereof). Well, it would be safe for him to look up – her attention was surely distracted now by the task of balancing.

Two seconds.

His eyes rose to her middle as her middle slid to his left. He stared into her clothing, but did not see it. He took a breath. Time slowed. Why did time slow? he thought, clearly and calmly, musing as if his mind were an island, floating somewhere away from everything – which it was, suddenly, as his senses had become saturated, had filled up and fallen away from his conscious. He could feel the cool misty haze brushing against his skin, the hair on his head twitching as particles of the dead-still morning air flowed softly through it. The air slid through his parted lips and against the underside of his tongue, which was lightly pressed against the back of his front teeth. He could feel the groove between them, could taste the single grain of sugar stuck there by the pastry he had just finished. Everything was distinct, every sensation was perfectly packaged in the body; distilled and perceived from afar by the mind. A thunderous cloud of sound and smell invaded his nostrils and ears. It was rich and powerful, like mighty rushing waters, engine oil, asphalt, the roar of the speedway, the odor of the city, hints of smoke, burning…and into the thick brew a faraway siren cut sharply.

One and three-fourths seconds.

How strange, he thought. What could possibly be happening? he thought, with detached curiosity. His mind was quiet, empty, clear and silent, almost ringing.

His eyes had become fixed on her hands, hands that swung wildly around as she flailed to maintain balance. Suddenly they became clear. He could see the soft outline of veins on the back of her right hand, the hard outline of tensed tendons. Her fingers were frozen, extended. He saw them vividly and distinctly, as though she stood five feet away, offering her hand in greeting.

One and one-half seconds.

His eyes rose to her neck, which was lined with delicate sinew as she pulled her jaw tight. Sparkles of sweat or dew shone at the edges of her neck as beams of sunlight reflected around its profile. She was so close. His mind was so clear, so apart. Her neck was like a picture, which he could gaze upon for hours. He felt his eyes as they moved in their sockets. How strange, he thought, again, for the there was so much time to think. He listened hard to the silence, the hollow ringing. It was immensely quiet. His sight was not affected by depth – everything was in focus. He watched as the sharp outline of a streetlight post slid across his field of vision, disappearing behind her neck and reappearing on the other side.

She was still stumbling, still trying to regain balance. Stop trying, he thought, allowing concern into his mind for the first time. Take the fall. You don’t want to fall out in the dirty street; I can help if you get a little banged up (he had taken a first-aid class once); who are you? He formed the words completely, deliberately. His mind was so clear...

Wow, this is longer than I thought, SO how about a "part 2" tomorrow? Yes, how bout it. Hope you're on the edge of your seat. All you loyal followers.

Ok, now I do this...

I will make lots of posts over the next few weeks +. 3 things:

1. I have finished the 3rd (and at least very nearly final) draft of a novella. Now I have to figure out how to get it published. It is supposed to be serious. Most of the content does not make sense without context, but I will try to figure out an excerpt that can stand alone and post it.

2. I made a long poem that I think is decent but will become increasingly irrelevant to me (except for the end. The end is a rush!) So I will post it soon, in sections.

3. I have to write something dedicated to this person who I don't know who doesn't know me whose blog entries I read. Why? The thought processes evident in this person's writing are...fascinating? That sounds cliche - which is why I have to make a proper post to explain.

In wake of last post...

Looks like Andy Roddick kind of upstaged the Blake/Fish story.

The singles final exuded a very strange feeling, even as the 5th set went on and on. The audience was very nonpartisan, seeming to empathize more and more with the looming agony of the inevitable loser of such a long match - whereas last year, there was the Roger camp and Rafa camp, desperately wanting their player to win at all costs. Two wildly different moods, given the similarly epic matches.

Only thing that bugs me is that you could tell in the aftermath that Roger Federer didn't NEED it, not like last year; he was more intrigued by the historical significance of the moment than truly elated by the win itself, and wouldn't have been more than merely disappointed had he lost. A win would have meant SO MUCH MORE to Andy - and by the same token, the loss hit clearly hit him very hard.

Oh well. Sport is real, which is good.

Wimbledon - Blake/Fish get the shaft

So, [pretend] you've been paying attention to Wimbledon; watching the bigger matches (e.g. Andy Roddick's fantastic semifinal win over Murray) on television, checking the paper to see who's left, that kind of thing.

If someone asked you about the performance of the Americans so far in the tournament (so far = through Friday, 7/3/2009), this is what you might know:

1. Venus and Serena are playing each other in the singles final and playing on the same team in the doubles final.
2. Andy Roddick is in the men's singles final against Roger Federer.
3. The Bryan brothers are in the doubles final.

And here is what you would almost certainly NOT know:

1. The slapped-together doubles team of James Blake and Mardy Fish, both known almost exclusively as singles players, stormed to the semifinals of Wimbledon, the furthest EITHER ONE OF THEM has ever made it in a Grand Slam in either singles OR doubles. In the semifinals they played an epic 3 1/2 hour match, losing 10-8 in the fifth set to defending champions Nestor and Zimonjic.

Now that's a great story, isn't it? That's something that would be fun to be part of, to follow it as it unfolded, right?

Here's the thing: watch enough tennis and you will notice that broadcasters commonly lament the lack of American men in the second week of Grand Slams, and they complain about not having "big-name" singles players in the doubles draws. This second complaint often goes hand in hand with a lament for the lack of popularity of doubles in recent years.

So, what do ESPN and NBC do when a perfect opportunity arrives to address ALL of the issues above?

They ignore it. Completely.

At one point, during a women's singles match, an NBC announcer mentioned in passing that the Bryan brothers had made it to the final - opponent "YET TO BE DETERMINED."

Are you kidding? Could they do any better if the instruction had been to "keep this Blake/Fish business quiet"? (The answer: NO)


To pull it all together, here is my complaint: Guys, you SAY you wish doubles was more popular. But when the chance arises to latch on to a uniquely compelling story, to drum up interest for the sport, you pay no regard. And guys, you say you wish there were more American tennis success stories. But you apparently don't consider an improbable CAREER-BEST run by a team of two American mostly-singles players a legitimate success story or worthy of even the slightest bit of coverage. Furthermore, in all of this you reinforce the idea that doubles tennis is somehow a second-tier sport.


Men's doubles, especially at Wimbledon where they still play real 5-set matches, is by no means a second-tier sport. It's a highly entertaining, fast-paced game that has had its share of unbelievably competitive contests. Doubles is something that anyone who has ever played tennis can relate to - it's not some fringe event. It's also something in which the United States can claim the number one team in the world (the Bryans).

Yet instead of showing reliably competitive men's doubles, you can count on the networks to replay the day's earlier singles "action" (i.e. some 6-0 6-0 Williams beatdown of a deer-in-headlights 17-year-old with no business being on Center Court).
What a joke.

"Big names" are what you make them, guys. By continuing to treat doubles like JV, you will neither make "big names" nor attract them. And we are all worse off for it.