writing, computing, media, thoughts on what it all means…

In central New Jersey, the homes have spread out from the arteries of interstate 287 and 22. The countryside is composed of low rolling hills, dense forests, bubbling streams, old farms, placards commemorating battles of the Revolutionary War.

In recent years the neighborhoods have expanded, climbing up the hills into the groves of maples and oaks. The commute isn’t horrible into New York or Newark, probably only an hour in rush hour, and middle class families have built castles for themselves here.

There are modest homes set back under the trees, a swing set in the backyard and a basketball hoop in the corner of the driveway. Then there are the eyesores, the McMansions. The most egregious of these neighborhoods is cut into one of the tallest hills in the town, adjacent a state park. The lush forests have been carved away, leaving vast swaths of ChemLawned Bermuda grass and faux-European palaces with 25 roof vertexes.

And then the housing bubble popped and the credit crisis deepened and construction stopped. Lots that had been cleared with yellow earth movers sat empty and the grass grew tall. The cheap pine foundations of half-build monstrosities sat exposed to the elements, warping.

Nature has begun to creep back. The earthmovers and bulldozers rust in their tracks. The fields of churned earth and trampled straw are visited only by bored teenagers and herds of young deer.

Dusk is the best time to see them as they forage. They gather in loose clumps, socializing like neighbors at a Memorial Day barbeque. One or two keep lookout. As I pull up they all crane their long necks, twisting their slender heads in profile. A trio of fauns kicks their legs, skittish. I approach for a few snapshots in the half light and they dash off. Turning back to the car, there are a half dozen more, staring me down, led by a four-point buck.

Creeping around the arced neck of a back-ho I trade stealthy steps with them for a better photo. Then I pass that threshold and they all dash off. They disappear, white tails last, into the tree line – that leafy horizon where the exurban encroach has been stopped. For now.

From Bridgewater August

I was reading Milan Kundera’s Art of the Novel in Barnes and Noble today. He said some interesting things – the idea that the purpose of the novel is to reveal new lines of thought that were previously not possible for the human mind. Quite a leap. But really, if you think of the core of the novel: it’s a extended train of thought of a single individual, recorded, persisted and maintained.

He even goes as far as to group the propaganda novels that were written during communist Russia (which I’m sure possessed ample amount of heroism and patriotism and self sacrifice) outside of the “novel”. In effect – nothing. I can only guess his opinion of genre fiction.

What new lines of thought could even be uncovered by the novel? I think one of the latest trends is the meta-novel – where the structure and the storyteller are themselves part of the tale. I think this can be a very useful pattern for painting the way we compartmentalize modern life, with tiered nests of hierarchy and categorization. Even the fact that in modern psychology, we bury the root causes of psychoses under onion skin layers of symptoms and attempts at pharmacological help.

And yet when I think of what modern life entails, even more than any other era – its multitasking. The fact that we have to split our attention into parallel threads, most often enforced by increasingly pervasive and ubiquitous digital gadgets.

I think the mind, at least of the newest generation, has begun to adapt. Even now, I can write this entry while listening to Fleet Foxes on iTunes, browse through the weather and (multiple) emails, switch over to N-Game for a few seconds to pull off an insane ninja stunt, and then jump up, out of the immediate screen and fetch a beer.

If multitasking is the next leap in human consciousness, how can we represent this in the form of the novel and turn it into something meaningful? Something that could be considered art?

Creative footnotes are one way. Danielewski’s House of Leaves and David Foster Wallace utilize footnotes in clever ways, often chaining them through multiple pages. Part of the decision while reading is whether to continue with a section, paragraph or even sentence to completion – or to jump down and fill in the detail elucidated in the footnote. It almost mimics the action of multitasking on the browser.

Another method: Lots of short, discrete sections. There’s certainly something to be said about the long passage with a fine narrative thread, maintained for long pages. But these days, the majority of the text we read fits in the size of a blog post, or worse, a Facebook status or twitter feed.

Flash fiction has begun to accommodate this quick-cut ADD stylistic quirk. And I think flash fiction could integrated into the novel in the form of tangential stories that aren’t completely essential to the immediate narrative, but contribute to the world, the character or even the tone and feel of the central story.

I think for my next project I’m going to experiment with non-sequential and multi-threaded storytelling. Should be quite interesting.

Put up two more short stories. Both are vaguely sci-fi and feature solar panels. Figures, given the soul-searing heat of the last week.

Uploaded – The old man sat and watched the day wane. He knew he was dying. He could barely climb the rickety steps of the brownstone, breathless and shaking. He could feel the press of gravity in his bones. The door to the balcony was beyond his strength.

The Sheikh of Ma’aJannah – He looked to the south, into the deep Gulf. The sun warmed the flat solar sheets on the gentle sea, long strips of metal and white. He breathed in the moist air, fighting back a nauseous urge, the weakness in his knees. Then into scene of the murder.

As always, comments are appreciated. Something feels missing with these two stories but I can’t quite put my finger on it