The Painted Word #82

For example, say you want to riff on the theme of shrubbery. One context in the entire history of our half of the universe dominates all others with respect to this word, so avoid it. Everyone automatically thinks of it anyway, so it’s there whether you mention it or not, so don’t mention the primary context, and it will still work for you as the substrate. Mention a secondary context instead. Bob Ross seems suitable, and now you get a bit of surprise working in your favor.

But don’t mention anything that immediately comes to mind in the Bob Ross context. Catch him on a bad day when the shrubbery brings clouds that are dark and angry, mistakes set him brooding, full of self-doubt and artists block, and the devil beats the bristles out of him!

Now and then weave in a famous punchline without the original setup and twiddle it to suit your needs. Like Delving did with “How a flat Phrygian got into her pajamas, she’ll never know.” And keep on truckin’.

There are no rules, but the only other exception to the rule that there are no rules (being its own exception as well as the exception that proves the rule) is don’t ever, never, ever call attention to your puns and references. Let sleeping dogs lie and lying dogs sleep. If you find yourself writing “No pun intended,” then stop. Go get a spoon full of peanut butter. Eat the peanut butter while basking in the glow of your glorious pun. Come back. Delete “No pun intended”. Move on. If you need to mention a reference because you feel self-conscious about possibly overstepping the boundaries of fair use (but really you really really want readers to know you’re as clever as you really think you are), then mention those references later, and as ironically as you can muster.

Monty Python, Bob Ross, and Groucho Marx walk into a bar. Groucho said, “Who put that bar there?” Bob Ross said, “The devil made me do it.” Monty Python would have said something about the violence inherent in the system, but the credits had already started rolling, and they only had time to squeeze in a few more clips of the Spanish Inquisition skit, so they left on screen a still of Harpo and Chico putting the dish rack to Mrs. Teasedale–to Groucho’s partial chagrin.

Other quivers full of arrows include stating the obvious when euphemisms run rampant; repeating repetitive repetitions repeatedly (next week we delve into variations on a theme of Rachmaninoff’s variations on a theme of Paganini’s variations on a theme of Rossini’s variations on a theme for clarinoboe and five and a half small orchestras playing variations on a theme of Rachmaninoff); and, finally, extending an idea long past its expiration date as if it were a loaf of bread with a bit of butter churned from a herd of arctic cows fleeing feral chickens unleashed by a flu of ancient pilfered conundrums developed by a government lab (secret by birth) in the bosom of a heart-rending rendering of an oratorio of prepositional and participial phrases by which you can extend any sentence off into the horizon of eternal eternity. Ad infinitum and imbroglio.

Sprinkle in a dose of ill-fitting adjectives and non sequiturs, to your partial chagrin, to feed the second stream of particles on the third loop of the large hexagonal collider of minds, rinds, and definite winds. Hints of new meaning lurk in the mist like the darkness that lurks in the heart of my cat.

Avoid the urge to dedicate three lifetimes to enumerating a complete catalog of such tricks (that’s what graduate students are for). Git while the gittin’s good, and let the partial list of chagrins speak to the monumental moment of your meandering existence (and theirs!).

  • Avoid first things that pop into your mind. (Shrubbery)
  • Negate common tropes. (Bob Ross)
  • Crop and graft famous punchlines. (Groucho’s elephant)
  • Swallow your punny pride. (Hemingway’s iceberg theory of short story writing)
  • State the obvious when least expected. (Explode euphemisms)
  • Repeat repetitively. (Again and again)
  • Circumlocutionate. (Like Tolstoy’s peasant)
  • Dash your lists off quickly and then dash yourself off to have fun storming the castle. (As you wish!)

It’s time for my morning spoon of peanut butter, so go and do likewise in as likely and wisely a manner possible such that your cat might not notice the improvement.

Cityscapes, Country Roads #63

The hearse arrived early the day she died.

She sat up in bed and craned her neck at the window. Her first lucid words in months were: “Have they come for me?”

Sitting in the chair beside her bed, where he had waited eons for her to wake up, he said, “They’ve come for your family.”

She laid her head back softly on the pillow.

He took her hand.

She suddenly opened her eyes wide and said, “My family?”

“I sold the farm. They’ve come to move your family’s graves into town. The backhoes and bulldozers are already here.”

“But this is my farm,” she said. “My family’s farm.”

He released her hand and sat back in the chair.

She looked out the window again. “Why is there snow on the ground?”

“You went into a coma when we were watching fireworks on the Fourth of July.” He stood and went to the window. “Next week is Christmas.”

“You sold–you couldn’t wait till I was gone?”

He wouldn’t disturb her with the details of the insipid cliche–the overused narrative–they found themselves in. The crop had failed that year and he hadn’t been able to pay the back taxes. The bank would have bought the tax lien, but a white knight made an offer for the farm that covered the taxes and most of her medical bills–in addition to moving her family cemetery into town.

He simply said, “Don Dickson made a fair offer that keeps the farm from the coyotes.”

She closed her eyes and murmured, “Don Dickson.”

He approached the bed and rubbed her dying arm. He adjusted her stocking cap and pulled it down over her ears. Her hair had never grown back after chemo ended in the spring.

She slapped his hand away, and, flashing an angry smile full of teeth, said, “Don Dickson was the only man I ever cheated on you with.”

Leave a comment with your choice for his response.

A. He says nothing. He sets his jaw and listens carefully to the cold coyote calling in the distance.
B. He says, “I know. Me too.”
C. He picks up a crochet-covered throw pillow and says, “It’s medication time.”
D. Invent your own.

The Painted Word #14

The unobtrusive character of place.

The role of background in a picture–in a movie. In a piece of music (written or performed). In writing. Story. Can you write about a place unobtrusively? Give it character–make it a character–without imposing a story? What kind of story emerges in a place–in a description of a place? A place–its presence–has a story, but it is not the dramatic story of human characters and human conflict. It is dramatic, but not explicitly dramatic. But its drama informs the human drama. It’s the substrate–the medium in which the human drama resonates and comes to life.

A place has a story. The story of a place grounds the humans stories that emerge in that place.

But a place is not just background. A place includes the objects in that place. Any two objects in a context have a relationship. That relationship over time is a story.

Human readers are uninterested in just any group of objects relating across any time in any place. But a human writer, photographer, filmmaker, painter, creator finds the human heart of the story–of any group of objects relating across any time in any place. Long ago, the heart of the story was called a conceit. Imposed conceits are clumsy. Conceits that emerge from the place, objects, and humans in that place over time have heart.

The heart of a place is the heart of your story. Place is the unobtrusive lead character of drama.

(reflecting on the Wim Wenders school of seeing the world–of creating the world)