Larry Gibbons
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life and death themes

7/7/2016

1 Comment

 
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Baby Evening Grosbeak on our Deck
A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine passed away. Terry Phliger, who lived in Michigan, died only days from his 69th birthday and only hours before his scheduled resettlement in Ontario.
PictureTerry Phliger--R.I.P.
Terry was an artist, professor, humourist, practical joker, story-teller and a compassionate and highly intelligent human being. His mind and spirit were powerful, which was obvious in all he did and said. He was also a person who continually encouraged me, whether in my personal life or in my creative one. His humour and laser-sharp, insightful responses would usually leave me chuckling and encouraged, while sending my problems fleeing to some decrepit corner, where, safe from Terry’s iron-clad diagnosis, they could sulk and suck their miserable thumbs away.

I’ll miss Terry. As astute a man as I have ever known and one who, I’m sure, if there is an afterlife, is already planning some heavenly prank or is busily becoming a pain in the devil’s ass.

“On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world.”
                                                              H.D. Thoreau, Thoreau On Man & Nature

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Larry, Grace and Sue on our Knotty Pines Patio in Ingonish
Maritime Mac, who likes to hang around train stations, was hanging around the front door of the Truro train station one grey, humid day . He was there because he had to drive a friend to the station.

While hanging out by the heavy doors he also enjoyed the delicious odour of Murphy’s Sea Food which drifted around the corner and into Maritime’s nose.

Three young lads approached on their bicycles. The oldest boy might have been twelve while the other two were younger. Maritime only heard part of the conversation and he didn’t hear the names of these characters, nor that of the character they were talking about, but what he did hear made his loitering worthwhile.

I’m going to make up the names, all for the sake of security and quality, so you can enjoy the conversation.

“Tod kissed Rebecca,” one boy said.

“I’m going to kiss her,” said the second little boy.

“You already kissed her. It’s my turn to get one,” responded the third little fella.

Then the three cycling smooch bandits rolled on down the concrete plaza sidewalk and out of Maritime’s life. Leaving Maritime Mac chuckling and with a wee story he knew he’d just have to tell to some Cape Bretoner when he got back to the mountains.
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Sue, Grace and Buster enjoying a morning walk in Ingonish
***
And now a brief note to Marianne. Never fear, I have been keeping my eyes open for the angelica plant and have already filled two big plastic bags with their shrivelled up bodies. I think, however, now that I recognize what they look like in their infancy, that next year, I’ll walk my grounds in the early spring and pull them up when they’re in their babyhood.

Thought you’d like to know.
***
I think comments on the language in my book, ‘White Eyes’ are a good example of democracy at work. For every person who doesn’t like the swear words in my book, there is at least one other who doesn’t mind those nasty words or may even find them cathartic.

I’ve mentioned this profanity issue in another blog, but because it has been brought up again and because I try to respond to comments from folks who read my blog, I’m discussing it here, once again.

I think profanity can make the dialogue in a story more authentic and not too sugary sweet, when used appropriately. However, the longer I continue to write, the more careful I am about when and when not to use these big-bad-wolf words.

The strange thing is, I don’t, for the most part, swear. However, when I’m writing, and I have the dialogue bouncing around in my mind, the words are there and I simply type them out. Later on I may edit out some of the little buggers.

My hope is that folks who don’t swear, can read through, over or under the words and still enjoy the stories.

Like the fella who read my book and then congratulated me on capturing the insanity in this world. I appreciated his kind words. He’d apparently found this theme in my stories and as in many stories in many books, the messages aren’t always so easy to discover.
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Moon Peering Through the Trees

“The voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It comes from thought above the will of the writer. That is the best part of each writer which has nothing private in it: that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his constitution and not from his too active invention; that which is the study of a single artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many you would abstract as the spirit of them all.”

                                                                         Emerson, Selected Essays

One thing I’m trying to say through my stories, is that we aren’t as important as we think we are. Our actions, philosophy and status on this small, rotating, egg-shaped ball of immense diversity, aren’t as solid, momentous, or as superior to ‘the others’ as we believe they are. Intrinsically believing that an idea or opinion is rock solid does not prove anything.

HOWEVER, BEWARE! Our creative muses, like wind or spirit, once tamed or fully understood, lose their power. Sort of like when Delilah cut off Samson’s long hair. He couldn’t pull down a pillar, a post or a two-by-four and maybe that’s why, in the original Hebrew, the word God was written without vowels. Impossible to utter and therefore out of our taming and diminishment-of-awe reach.

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Heavy Mist at Ingonish
Anyway, no matter how I try to convey it, I’m really not very good at verbally expressing what touches and affects my soul. That’s why I write stories.
***
When ‘White Eyes’ first came out, I found myself walking around town with my head down as I waited for the criticism - negative and/or positive - to begin. I found that both kinds of appraisals filled me with all kinds of emotions and often not the feelings I expected.

Not too long after ‘White Eyes’ was published, I was walking along the lake shore in Baddeck. It was only a few days until Christmas and the snow hadn’t yet come to Baddeck with any vengeance. While hiking along the shoreline I came upon a  friend who was sitting in his vehicle, looking out over the lake, teary-eyed. Not because of having read my book, but because the memories Christmas brought to him were stirring his heart.

We chatted and, at one point, he told me he’d read one of my stories.

Then he said, “I didn’t like it.”

He apologized for not liking it.


I told him not to apologize, because I took negative criticism better than positive. Maybe I’m more used to it, I don’t know. But funnily enough, he has since become one of my best ‘White Eyes’ promoters. However,  I found his negative criticism easier to handle coming from a non-Aboriginal than the accolades coming from non-Aboriginals. At least during the first year.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I genuinely appreciated receiving positive comments from non-Aboriginal folks. However, what I really needed was to hear the Aboriginals respond positively to ‘White Eyes’ and therefore, being congratulated by non-Aboriginals would often cause me to feel, at some level, emotions of guilt and sadness, even though I appreciated their kind, supportive words.

I think it was because I knew that the stories only existed because I’d had the chance to spend time with the Aboriginals. Therefore, I needed to know what the Aboriginals thought about my book. Because, if I didn’t hear positives from them, then I knew I’d feel like just another exploiter, as so many White people were before me.

‘White Eyes’ wouldn’t have existed had I not been able to live in their community, taste their food, drink their drinks, experience their customs, share in their joy, feel their pain, be sad when they were sad, laugh at their humour and a whole lot more that I will probably never be able to properly represent. 
That’s why, on the first page of ‘White Eyes’, you can find an appropriate verse which is taken from the Bible. “I was a stranger and you took me in.” Matthew 25:35
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One cold night, a Native fella and his daughter dropped around to pick up some toilet paper. Notice I didn’t say borrow toilet paper, for obvious reasons.

It was after midnight. The Aboriginal fella’s daughter, about twelve years of age or so, picked up a copy of my book from the coffee table. She opened it, quietly read a little bit, looked up and then told me she liked the book, specially when it talked about eagles and she told me all her friends were passing the book around and enjoying it.

That was the best critique I could hear. And then as time went on and other Aboriginals commented on White Eyes, I came to realize that the Aboriginal folks around here enjoyed the fact these stories were written about them. They found the stories funny and ‘White Eyes’ had also allowed the non-Aboriginal world to take notice.

Also, many of them visualized me as being the main character in most of the stories. One fella talked about when I fell under a truck in the story called, ‘Mountain Iris Spirits’. It wasn’t really me and that specific incident never happened to anybody I knew. It was made up. However, I did get my thumb wrapped up in a rope as a load of logs shifted on the back of a wagon.

I may, from time to time, include in my blog the beginning of one of my stories. Just a page or two, in the hope that it may whet the appetite of some blog readers to read ‘White Eyes’.

Oh, and many of you might be wondering what bits of Busterness Buster is up to. A lot, so stay tuned. I’m sure you’ll hear more about Buster, but for now, please read the first very small section from one of my stories in ‘White Eyes’.

MOUNTAIN IRIS SPIRITS
We were up on Owl Mountain.  Both of us frustrated up to our yin yangs with Denise’s extended family. We live with them, on the reserve, in the family home. Three bedrooms and fourteen people. Us sleeping on the living room floor. Everybody else sleeping in bedrooms, except for Uncle Charlie who, with his fat tabby cat, slumbers half his day away in a tent on the front porch. Denise’s ex moved in last month and Denise gave him our small basement bedroom. A piss-off but she felt sorry for him. Red alert to our relationship, as we couldn’t sleep or do anything personal until the last member of the family had decided to turn off the television. Phony anger fits and antics were on almost the whole goddamn night, and in the morning we’d awaken, our eyes swollen from lack of sleep, to find the kids dripping their breakfast all over our bed sheets while they watched cartoons, or tiny Tod-alias Batman during the day-soaking us in everything from thirty-five S.P.F. sunscreen lotion to his cereal milk.

According to Denise, this mountain we had retreated to is also the home of spirits. She said they were everywhere, but today it was quiet and peaceful, as a bald eagle circled over the spruce forest. I hadn’t seen many eagles in Ontario but there sure were a lot of them in this part of Cape Breton.

“My stomach’s all jittery. Means there’s spirits hanging around,” Denise said.

“I get that with a hangover.” I laughed. She didn’t.

“Yeah, right. Most of you white people couldn’t see the spirits if they were plastered to your nose.” She swept her long black hair up into the mountain air, looking like an ancient mountain fairy queen.

“Maybe I can. I’m just not around people who talk about them all the time. You’ve been drenched in ghost talk. People always going on about spirits. Everywhere. Cripes, your sister ties her blankets down so the ghost won’t yank them off her bed, and you’re always hearing about somebody finding Mary or Jesus or some saint on a window or somebody’s toilet seat.”

I was sounding skeptical. Denise didn’t care for skepticism.———-

***
There, that wasn’t so painful, was it?

Thanks for reading my blog and you all take care.
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1 Comment

Organic Writing

16/12/2015

1 Comment

 
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View from our neighbour's deck this morning
When I’m working on something I consider serious, I usually go into my tiny office and shut the door. This isolates me from Sue and Buster. Which makes me feel a little guilty and a tad lonely. Stephen King suggested doing this in his book, 'On Writing'.

I have music playing when I’m writing in my office. It adds a little pleasure to the sometimes hard grind that writing can be. It also dampens some of the sounds coming from the rest of the house. But not totally. I can still hear the vacuum cleaner or Buster sniffing under the door, sighing, or making other doggie noises. Which lets me know he’s oh, so lonely and misses me oh, so much.

I usually work on my book or on revisions of other work in my office. However, if I’m beginning a blog or a short story, I often do it in the living room where I can be with the rest of the family.

You see, one of the tricks for keeping my writing fresh and spontaneous is to make the writing feel like play. This is hard for me to do if I get caught up in worrying about such things as being published, the rules of the craft, why I can’t write as well or as much as some other writer, whether I will be able to finish or start a story - those sorts of things. The office seems to be a place for doing serious writing.

However, writing in the living room, where other activities are going on, makes the writing seem less serious to me. For example, I’m forced, from time to time, to pull an old hockey glove or the bottom of one of Sue’s rubber crocs out of Buster’s well-armed yapper, which I then toss a few times until he gets tired of fetching it. Or Sue asks a question or needs help with something - those sorts of things. The hubbub makes my writing activity feel like an organic part of the whole domestic scene and not as if I’m doing micro surgery on words.

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Sue and Buster being domestic
However, as I said, once I get into the serious revision stuff, it’s best I go into my vault.

But even while I'm in there I try to keep it somewhat light. I say I try, not that I always succeed. In my case, the harder I try, the less I get done.

There’s a story about James Joyce. He was struggling with getting his daily quota of words down on the page. Later on he met with his friend, who asked him how his writing was going. I’m not sure of the exact number of words he mentioned, so forgive me if I’m not accurate, but he said something like, “I was only able to write ten words this morning.”

“Well there you go,” says his friend. “That’s ten more than you had before you started.”

James Joyce replied, “Yes, but I don’t know what order to put them in.”

Now that’s getting right down totally serious.
***
If you have read my collection of short stories, which are lurking between the covers of a book called ‘WHITE EYES’, you’ve probably noticed there are a fair number of profanities in the stories.  The thing about writing is there are so many ways to do it and there are so many folks who have ideas about what should or shouldn’t be in a novel, a story, a paragraph - you name it.

One fella I met in a gas station and who is from a fairly conservative church, told me my book would be more popular if I took the profanities out of it. Like maybe they could use the book as a Sunday School text.

However, I mentioned to another reader, who enjoyed my book, that some folks I knew were saying I had too many profanities in it.

"Oh $%^&*", she said, "that’s the way people talk.”

Anyway, I have tried to milksop my profanity down. Now, when I sit in my cloister writing my stories and one of my characters starts to swear too much, I stop writing and slam down the computer screen so as to give the offending character a time out. While he or she is cooling off, I go into the washroom, dig out some soap, go back to my tiny office, sign in again and then wash the heck out of the character’s tongue.

But seriously, there are just so many ways of approaching writing that it can be scarily daunting if you think about all the techniques and time and plot problems and what-nots that you’re going to have to deal with before you are finally finished.

However, if you stick to it, keep the playful feeling and have some talent then you are likely to find some degree of success.

***
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Oh yeah, and while I’m on this writing thing, there is the part about selling your book or stories. Many writers are loners so that can be difficult.

A little over a week ago I was taking part in the launch of a new anthology of short stories, of which one was mine. The launch was being broadcast by CBC, so I was a little extra nervous when I read my story.

There was a microphone and a lectern and the host of the show told us to avoid dead space in our readings because it was being broadcast live.

I was the fifth reader. I thought I did a good job. I often don’t. I thought the folks there, about fifty of them, were enjoying the story and I thought that the general Cape Breton populace were out in their workshops, on their fishing boats, in their living rooms, their cars and trucks, all over the place listening to my story.

I don’t think they were. I think I was talking into a dead Mike. Mike did not exist. Mike was tits up, dead as a door knob, full of rigour mortis, gone, mort; Mike was shit out of luck.

However, if you'd like to know more about the book, check it out here:
http://capebretonbooks.com/products/local-hero

Will life ever cease to be amazingly confusing and unpredictable?


***
Something I just thought of. If Jesus were a carpenter, as I think he was, and if he built a house, would it be absolutely perfectly measured, straight and true? Just wondering.

               “You have seen the house built, you have seen it adorned
               By one who came in the night, it is now dedicated to God.
               It is now a visible church, one more light set on a hill
               In a world confused and dark and disturbed by portents of fear.
                                                                      T.S.Eliot, The Rock


***
Stress can throw my brain into the dumpster. It can confuse me and make me come up with solutions that are dog-eared with fallacies.

An example, maestro. A few weeks ago, just before we went back to Ontario to deal with the hard business that followed the passing of my mother, I was asked to participate in a story-telling event at the Sydney Library.

I entered the library with a fresh, right-out-of-the-oven story. Written in two days and was I proud of that!

Before we left for Sydney I had pulled out an old canvas book bag that a friend had rescued from the dump and given to me. I put my still hot story into the bag and off we drove to Sydney.

At the event, I found out I had to sit on a chair at the front, with two other story-tellers. That meant that the forty or so members of the audience would have a good look at us all. Could check out if my beard was evenly trimmed, my laces were tied asymmetrically, my hair was top notch... and on and on did my wee mind race.

However, I eventually got to read my story and it went over well. I can even say that I was pleased.

In the next days we rushed down to Ontario and then we rushed back. Once back home, I received an email from a friend. He wanted to read the story that I had written. Which got me thinking about the hard copy version.

So, still in my rushed state of mind, I went to my office and pulled out the book bag. It was then I remembered that this bag had a trick compartment. I’d found this out earlier. You see, the side pocket had no derriere. It was bottomless altogether.

I searched through the bag from bow to stern and finally had to assume that the story had escaped through the bottom and was now blowing around Sydney for all to see. So, I wrote the fella and told him my sad lost story story.

Well, after having a few days to settle my mind down, I was walking the dog. I got thinking about the story and the pieces of my stressed facts all began to re-organize themselves into the correct places.

I had taken my story in my canvas book bag. I had looked for my story in my computer bag. I went back to the house, looked in my canvas dump bag and there the story sat. Almost as fresh as the day it was born.

Stress can kill and it can also turn you into an idiot, in less time than it took for me to write this blog.
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Ferns still green in the snowy woods
1 Comment

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