I apologize one and all for this, but I will not be posting my novel on this blog. I realized that parts of my story could be misconstrued by some individuals, and so I’ve decided to delete the posts I’ve made so far. Thus far will be other tid pits I write on the side.
Sorry,
Alix
My dear avid readers,
I am writing you this letter to inform you all of the travesty that I have committed, I have left you all hanging on the edge of your seat. My dear readers, as you are aware, it is NaNoWriMo. That being the case, I was under the impression that I was not allowed to prepare anything for the contest in advance and so all day I have been scrounging up ideas for my novel. To be sure, my dear readers, that the ideas for a novel are as near difficult to muster as trying to find the right words explicating those ideas. But fear not, I will not leave you all left on the edge of your seats for long.
I discovered this morning, to my surprise and elation, that I was pregnant with a novel. For the past several weeks I have been carrying this immense weight upon my brow. And this morning, while contemplating my coming novel, I was left breathless upon stumbling upon the exact way in which I was to write. This discover left me absolutely wordless for a minute or so before I started pouring ink down on paper.
Tomorrow night, my dear readers, after an afternoon of research and writing, I will post the first four pages of my novel. In the meantime, I have a poem I’d like to share with all of you. I had penned it to a red, fallen leaf I had stolen from a friend. It is a sonnet made from a mixture of Shakespeare, Plutarch, and a hint of Court. Please enjoy:
A leaf to a rose: a sonnet
You, rose, are a lot like I
when nature’s course does run.
Round tree boughs do we lie,
Blushes of the summer sun.
Even still, rose, am I like you
after nature’s course is done.
From lover’s hands I’m given too
after soft red hearts are won.
But different, rose, you are to me.
I, a gift with no pricking clause,
an autumn leaf fallen from his tree,
have been sent to make breathe-pause.
For I carry with me awkward poet’s rhyme,
penned to her after too many sunsets of time.
Thank you, my readers, for following. Tomorrow we begin our journey to fifty-thousand words.
Your Writer,
Alixander Ian Court
Hey everyone,
I haven’t been writing these past few days because I have been prepping for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I am really excited to start this nonsense and get my first novel done. My plan is to follow a system for getting to 50k known as the reward system. It looks something like this
Day 1: 3,346 words
Day 2: 3,216 words
Day 3: 3,101 words
Day 4: 2,986 words
Day 5: 2,872 words
Day 6: 2,757 words
Day 7: 2,642 words
Week 1: 20,920 words.
Day 8: 2,527 words
Day 9: 2,412 words
Day 10: 2,298 words
Day 11: 2,183 words
Day 12: 2,068 words
Day 13: 1,953 words
Day 14: 1,838 words
Week 2: 36,199 words.
Day 15: 1,724 words
Day 16: 1,609 words
Day 17: 1,494 words
Day 18: 1,379 words
Day 19: 1,264 words
Day 20: 1,150 words
Day 21: 1,035 words
Week 3: 45,854 words.
Day 22: 920 words
Day 23: 805 words
Day 24: 690 words
Day 25: 576 words
Day 26: 461 words
Day 27: 346 words
Day 28: 231 words
Day 29: 116 words
Day 30: 1 word.
Week 4: 50k
I have faith that I can do it. It’s going to take a ungodly amount of time and dedication. I will try to write something on Monday in the spirit of halloween, but we’ll see. So happy halloween everyone, I hope you are all getting some sweet stuff this weekend.
“You are no longer my son.” I wasn’t expecting those words out of my father’s mouth when I told him that I was leaving the church. You see, I hadn’t been to church in a long while. So, when my father came into my room to tease me about it, I had to be honest. “Actually, Dad, I am leaving the church.” No boy should see his father cry, I saw my father weep that day. Between sobs he asked me, “When did you make this decision, huh?” To be frank, I don’t think I was. But being the smart ass nineteen year old that I was, I said, “Yeah, Dad, I do.” I mean, when you’ve got The Harvard Classics Five-Foot Bookshelf Collection, and a propped open journal on you desk, what else do you need? But I guess that’s getting ahead of myself. I should explain how this all started.
When I very young, shortly after I had my eighth birthday, my family was throwing a party. I believe it was my baptism party. If you didn’t know, a Mormon’s baptism is the day he becomes a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Needless to say, my whole family was there, extended family included. I especially remember my grandmother being there. She gave me a black leather bound book; the front, in gold letters, read, “Journal”. Kneeling down, insuring my eight year old attention was all her’s, my grandmother told me that I could write anything in it that I wanted. “You can write about Jesus, and how he loves you. Or you can write down what you learned from the Scriptures. Or you can write down important lessons that you learned from your Heavenly Father…” Those softly spoken words were the beginning of my story. From that day on I intended to write everything in my journal. I guess that’s when it all started, the day I became a writer.
Now, no writer is anything without the books he reads and pleads from. And if there is something Mormons can teach you, it’s how to plead from a book. You see, there is a common adage that goes around the Mormons, “Everyday,” as the saying goes, “look to your scriptures for the answers to your questions.” And as a knowledge hungry ten year old, I attacked my scriptures. I would hunt through page after page trying to find answers to questions. Until I found something that looked like an answer, I would hunt for hours. Then, after I bagged the answer out of the jungle of words, I would pen my prize to my Journal. Pretty soon I had an exotic beetle collection penned to my Journal. Big blue Questions. Small, scribbled-green Scriptures. Little black Thoughts. And then there was red. Red was for after I would pray. Red was for the real answer. Red was for what god had to say about my life problems. Sometimes he’d talk. Most times, he didn’t. That’s why I started reading other books.
My decision to leave the church had been itching at the back of my skull ever since my father handed me Atlas Shrugged on my eighteenth birthday. In my family, it’s customary to give books as presents. My aunt was the one who gave me the Harvard Classics Collection. My grandmother, bless her soul, gave me a Book of Mormon for every birthday since I was baptized. We take books very seriously in my family. So it was no surprise that my father would give me a book for my eighteenth birthday that, as he said,“changed the very groundwork of how I thought.” Now, I don’t think he foresaw that my entire life was to change the day I finished that book. I don’t think he expected he would ostracize a son over not wanting to read The Book of Mormon any longer.
It’s hard to describe the anguish that comes when learning that you don’t believe in a religion any longer. How do you explain how it feels to have your heart melt when praying? Or, how do you explain the hours of rigorous study dedicated to finding the truth? Or, how do you explain to your parents and friends that you don’t want to read the book that they base their entire lives around? You don’t. You have to just walk away. That’s just what I did. I kept reading and writing every day, trying to find the truth.
I’m no longer a part of a Mormon community. I left my old scriptures and childhood scribbles a long time ago. I replaced them with Greek tragedies and tragic journal entries. What else was I supposed to do? My leaving the hive presented a whole new host of questions to answer. (Q: “Is getting wasted on a weekday a good idea?” A: “More trials are needed.”) Even so, I can’t even imagine where I would be now if it wasn’t for all the reading and writing I’ve done. But I guess that isn’t important. Right now I am here, somewhere between reading Tropic of Cancer and writing an essay for my ten-thirty writing class. I wish people could understand how beautiful the words of great authors are, I wish they knew how important they are. Every word that I find, every word I have written, each so carefully calculated, each so carefully read. At least, I wish people could understand how important they are to me. I mean, that is what I learned right? That by discovering, exploring and recording life, each and everyday, I get the chance to come to a more unique understanding of the world? If that’s the case, then I’ll be just fine. Right?
According to my schedule, I will be participating in this event. My plan is to write one chapter a day for thirty days. That translates into one 2000 word document everyday for 30 days. While I recognize that this is going to be an infuriatingly brutal task, my aim is to post each chapter on this blog every day. I hope for the support of my peers. I hope for the support from my friends. And I hope to be able to do this. Please show your support in anyway you can. Time to break a finger.
It is becoming difficult to write both a personal narrative for my blog, and a personal entry for my journal. It has been nearly two weeks since my last entry and I feel rather ill in having left so many pages blank. My hope is to correct this awful travesty. Not that I’m going to attempt to fill those lost pages, but that I hope to fill soon those last forty pages of so long a year. Granted, I recognize that it will be tricky to compile the necessary time for journal writing; but in these soon darkening days, time well spent on a friend most dear are the words that wise men tell fools to hear.
Yes, it is true that Logan is fast approaching its always ill-fated grey gloom sky. And yes, it is true that I have been taking the appropriate measures to combat the coming winter. Even so, I know that there will be calamities amidst the pressing cold. Casualties also to the mountains and their gods. The least that I hope, or much care for, is to come out a stronger man. So mottos I’ve taken as a sword in hand. Hold responsible the world in which I enhabit. Make accountable those oft nauseating turns that make calamity of so long life. These, and more, do I grapple my fists upon with a choke hold of knuckles white. So is the writer’s plight.
And lo (the irony of poets words), a woman has grabbed my attention. If I could be but free of my human biology and venture for those hidden paths of life, I would live life with utmost content. Yet, woman so well holds our hearts with their desire and contempt. Oh, how they have taken hostage so many hours of our days’ endeavors. If only we could be rid of them, the whole lot of them, “what dreams may come”? Alas, so rich a dream-coat we call life could only be stitched with nightmare’s thread. For so oft I’ve said that life has but one story: man in his search for god; so too have I said that there is but one twist: a woman crossed his path.
And so, what paths I’ve lost to my fool-hearted eyes so tricked by snakes wearing woman’s disguise? What hisses of truth have I heard amid mouthfuls of lies? None I dare say, but even that would be foolish. Soft words have made me stand and soft lips have made me fight; not so as to win the skin of sin, but so as to see how I ought hold my me with proud responsibility, with diligent dignity. That’s what woman has taught me, even if it was learned betwixt their vile cruelty.
Yet, what words are these? Subtle rhymings amidst alliteration? How typical of a writers hand to write words of twisted flattery. If I could but write one true word in my life, would all the ink I’ve spilt be justified? Or, must we wait until I’ve died to see if it was I that lied? I guess we’ll see. I guess we will see.
God DAMMIT! Nearly thirty hours of work lost. Gone. Deleted. A short story worth the effort lost in a mouse click. Had I known. Had I known! Capturing an episode in my life with all the patience and slowness that I could muster, lost. What now? Do I veture forth in trying to capture my work. To try and reinvent the story of a Sunday Bluntday: A Middle Man. Oh, so much lost. These kinds of errors, errors of omission, cannot be tolerated:
And still.
They are everywhere.
A whole world of the lost, omitted, forgotten, and left behind.
Hidden behind the world, & behind my head.
Caught in the corner of mirror gazing eyes,
are the thoughts, words and images of the dead
their graves in rows are out-stretched a mire.
How do I veture from this point? or do I?
You feelin stormy? You feelin foamy? You not the only.
The tumbling double decker, machine-dryer in my room is buzzing and tumbling away. Fump-a-fump-a-fump: round the clothes go. Tsch-tick-tsch-click: buttons crashing on iron walls. Alix sat in his burgundy rose patterned chair. Another morning of typing. Exercise. Exercise these little fingers. One day they’ll be strong. Real strong. Volumes long strong. Alix dug between his finger nails. God. Would you look at that. How on earth did I do that? Must have crushed my finger somehow. The bloodclot has made it halfway through my nail. Fingernails tell time: two weeks. Can’t recall what happened that far back… Oh yes! That’s right.
Soren’s bike.
Oh, Soren’s bike. Just wanted to clear my head. Not a big deal. Went round the block with it just to relax. Let go of the handle bars to put my earbuds in. Left one. Right. The unattached-handle bars slipped from their housing. Check song: not one I want to hear. Scrolling. Spinning the iPod wheel. Oh yeah, this sounds goo. Handle bar slidinto place. Caught its self in the spokes. Locked up on the fork. Superman. Spiderman. Spreadeagleman. A trying to fly on fourth and sixth ladies and gentleman. Let’s watch as the amazing Alixander does his spectacular bicycle performance: look. There he goes. A face a of desperation, his hands outstretched grasping, watch as he hangs belly down in the air. His iPod, tethered to his head, is runningn quickly to the edge of its leash. If he isn’t careful, it’s going to get away. I can’t imagine what he is thinking right now ladies and gentleman.
This is truly a sight.
A flying man. Soren’s bike, now vertical: my catapult. I’m going to fall. I am going to fall, and this is going to really hurt. Pretty certain I ruined his bike. Not the first bike I’ve ruined before. Remember. Red motorcylce. Janelle Ren. What was here last name? Janelle Reynolds. Yeah that’s right. Reynolds. Laid her bike down nearly two blocks from here. Sixth and Fifth. Paid nearly two grand fixing it. Thanks student loans. Oh shit. Alix crashed into the ground. His ipod bounded across the street. OW! Shit! My finger. The bike. Where’s the. Bike. The seat crashed into Alix’s back. Fuck!
It took me nearly five minutes to completely recover. Middle finger torn up bleeding after getting caught on the road. Flesh ripped from my finger tips. The bike was a wreck. Bent fork. Broken spokes. Handle bars: culprit: just fine. Cars slowed to see my ruined gymnastics performance. But no one, no not no one, stopped: typical. I hate people. No sense of respect for us bikers. We throw ourselves all over the street and for what? Do we get applauses and charitable donations? No. We, day after day, get cuts and bruises, lesions and lacerations. I guess that’s what we get. We entertainers of the world.
Alix sipped his coffee slowly. Fucking throat. It feels like I have a goddamn knife pricked behind my uvula.
la-te-da-de-da
Worried about what happened last night after I left The House. Wasted Wednesday always has the best stories afterwards. Alix felt for the bite mark on his neck. Ugh… Asia. Wouldn’t hug you and you decided to bite. Bite mark is the least of any body’s problems. I could walk into The House and find another MIP ticket laying on the counter. Poor Joshua. I can’t believe that kid’s luck. Vomits in the toilet, brushes his teeth, stumbles out the back door and WHAM!
“Whoa, a cop.”
Called in for a noise complaint. Second one in a month. The first one was better: about fifty people in the house, three thirties in the fridge, two handles in the freezer: Captain Mo’, and Sailor Jerry’s. Beer Pong in the kitchen on the wood-table. Kirsten Nelson shouting at Scott Marshell to do better. Austin’s entertainment system making drunk dub-step dancers in the front room. Smoker’s by the bushel on the back steps. Went to join the for a cigarette:
“Whoa, a cop.”
Everyone ran. Through the canal and down the street. Antelope bounding over the neighborhoods. I tried to be counter-intuitive. Nonchalant. Went back inside. I was going for the front door. One thought in my mind: openandrunopenandrunopenandrunrunrunrun. Grabbed the painted gold doorknob. Twist. Swing the door open. Ready? Ready? Go!
“Whoa, three cops.”
Austin was already talking with them. Showed his ID. I strolled right up to the middle cop of the three: Peterson.
“How’sth it going ociffer?”
“It’s going well. We got called in for a noise complaint.”
“Isth that show?”
“We are aware that you may have minors on the premiss. We ask that you…”
From the north side of the house, a stray partier splayed out across the street.
Amidst a chuckle, “We ask that everyone either quiet down, or follow that kid.”
What a cool cop. Didn’t give a fuck.
“I know that it is the first days of school. Everyone excited for the semester. But we still have to do our jobs.”
Working to keep their jobs. That’s noble: men who uphold the Job. Alix sighed and took another sip of his coffee. What ever happened to men of the law fighting for justice and fighting against crime? I guess they got called in for a noise complaint.
“Have a goo nigh ociffer.”
* * *
Sgt. Peterson turned off the engine to his Dodge Charger. Home. Made it home again. At the end of the day, it’s all about making it home. Sgt. Peterson unbuckled his seat belt. Don’t leave your keys in the ignition. Sgt. Peterson slid the keys into his right pants pocket, opened the driver’s side door, and stepped out. Don’t slam the door. click. Man these cars are slick. I am so glad that my tax dollars are going to work for me. Not many people can say they pay for their own salary. Not that it is any good anyway. But it pays: a job is a job. Paying my way.
Sgt. Peterson walked to the front door of his house. Is the car locked? Sgt. Peterson reached into his right pocket for the carlocking-keyfob. Why are these pockets so deep? There it is. Sgt. Peterson pulled his keys out from his pocket. BeepBeep. That’s better. Cycling through his keyring, “Where on earth is that key?” Silver, shallowtoothed. Bent gold, 68 Master Lock. I can barely see in this light. Red&Black, flamepainted. Alright. Sgt. Peterson, with his right hand, inserted the key into the bronze doorknob, twisted. What? Jeanna didn’t lock the door? Sgt. Peterson’s right hand slowly dropped to the gun at his belt. I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit. Jeanna always locks the door. It’s four in the morning. Unclipping his gun from the holster, Sgt. Peterson’s left hand turned and slowly pressed the door inward. Ok, here we go.
All the lights are off. Even the upstairs hallway bathroom. What is going on? Jeanna always leaves that light on for Rachel. Sgt. Peterson reached for his shoulder light. Where’s that stupid button? God. If I would just stop fucking shaking. click. Light erupted across the darkened room throwing shadows across the picture framed walls. What the hell happened? Ohgodohgodohgod. No. Oh god no. This can’t be happening. Everything is knocked over. Pressing the call button, Sgt. Peterson leaned into his shoulder radio and rasped into the reciever,
“Logan Dispatch this Ociffer 45521. I need every officer in the arearight now. Six hundred south and four four three west.”
This can’t be happening.
“Logan Dispatch to Officer 45521. Peterson, what’s going on?”
Fuck that’s too loud. Turn down the volume. Quick.
“Logan Dispatch to Officer 45521. Peterson, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Just get everyone here now!”
Remember you’re training. Remember your training. Where do we start?
“Peterson what the hell is going on!”
Secure the main floor. Clockwise. Then work upwards.
“Peterson!?”
Sgt. Peterson reached for the volume once more. click. Off. Front room on my right? Light from his shoulder crashed against the piano. Framed pictures’ glass glared back. No faces. Toys lay scattered on the floor. Secure. Stairs to the left? Secure. Hallway to the left? Broken glass. Move forward to the hallway bathroom. Sgt. Peterson navigated slowly across the shattered glass and torn pictures. Torn faces. Move to the kitchen. Check the back door. Come back through the dining room. Then up the stairs.
FUMP.
Jeanna’s Room.
CRASH.
Masterbedroom Window. Fuck. Oh Fuck. Sgt. Peterson spun around, grabbed the railing, and flung his self up the stairs. Please God. Don’t let this be happening. This can’t be happening. Sgt. Peterson hurdled the last few stairs. The door is closed. Run. Run James. RUN! Sgt. Peterson rushed for the door. Kick the door James. Keep your gun ready. Sgt. Peterson threw his foot into the door, handle side. The door exploded from its frame. Light scattered into the room.
“Oh god…”
* * *
But of course that never happened. I’ve got an over active imagination and time to blow on writing practices. Cops are just bros with guns and Kawasaki Ninjas. That’s what I always say. I don’t want to pay for that. I’ll withhold my taxes just so I don’t have to see another Dodge Charger fly by. Cops don’t protect people: they’re bullies. We’re told that we need to be careful: murderers and rapists on every corner just waiting to snatch up your women and children. But here’s the thing, cops cause as much harm as the criminals. Joshua’s paid, over three-thousand dollars for being caught smoking a joint and drinking under the age. He’s no criminal. He just wanted to get away from life for awhile. But cops call him a criminal. I’ve lived in Logan for four years and I’ve met criminals. I’ve met them all:
Murderers trying to find a home.
Rapists trying to connect with old friends.
Drug dealers trying to get by,
but can’t because they have dip into their own supply
just to forget that we’re all going to die.
I hang out with prostitutes and crack heads, arsonists and thieves.
Criminals, all of us, as there are autumn leaves.
But, If I don’t get in trouble for telling the truth,
cops are bullies coming to stop the youth
from getting fucked up on a moonlit night
when everyone walks like a soggy rhyme
for the first in too very long a time.
All we want to do is party like everything is alright,
but the cops keep coming to stop the youth
from drinking and laughing away the truth:
We all crack under
too many pressures.
So life is too short not
to live a few pleasures.
We are all dried up
around the edges,
And we have all tumbled off
too many ledges.
So cops, just stop corrupting the youth.
We know you’re like us, all you want is a roof,
good friends, and a hard splitting laugh.
So cops, just get on the right path.
Let us party into saturday. Until one or two.
and hell, if you’re cool, we’ll even to invite you.
Another Burger&BigDog Tuesday at The Owl. Alix reached for his glass. Budweiser. First beer I drank with my father. 32 oz. He bought them at the gas station on the way into Tooele.
-Little liquid dinner, Ben Court said with a glimmer in his eye. Before we go home and have to deal with the Ice Queen.
Sure thing dad. Let’s get drunk together. It’s not a bad idea: an alcoholic drinking with his son. It was the first time. I guess this was your confession. I had mine only a year earlier. The plastic bag rustled under my feet in the passenger seat as we drove up the rock trail. The bottles banged as we bounced up the mountain. I picked them up so they wouldn’t break.
-Open mine up for me would ya?
-Sure thing dude, Alix said.
Dude. That’s what you were after you remarried mom. Just a dude. Just the dude. The dude who lived in my basement. Who fucks my mom: thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. Walked in on you that one time. Scariest thing of my life. Alix slurped from his beer once again. Ran to my room. Two flights of stairs, right into the basement. SLAM Locked the door. Shut off the lights. Didn’t happen. Didn’t see what I saw. I’m not supposed to know that. Unseeunseeunsee. BLAMBLAM BLAM: I’m so fucked. Turned on the light and unlocked my door. There you stood in my doorframe, sweating. You told me I wasn’t allowed in your room ever again.
-God, I don’t know about your mother man. She can be an up tight bitch.
More confessional. Please stop. You’ve been having these little talks with me for years. Just stop. I asked for it though didn’t I? Told you I was leaving the church. You stood in my doorway crying. Yeah, dad, I know what I’m doing. No, you can’t just say I’m not your son anymore. Leave the house? Gladly. Went to college three weeks later. Remember? But even that didn’t stop the confessionals.
-And those fucking kids. I can’t take it much longer Alix. Sometimes I just want to split a vein.
Split a vein. Spilt a vein.
-Sure thing dude, Alix said.
Didn’t understand why you wanted to go up there. Drink. Drive. And always a mountain. This weekend was almost the same. Little different. Higher mountain. More snow. And a box of booze instead of bottles: Franzia. A peace offering: a red dixie cups with red wine. A piece offering: glass pipe full of green. The poisons we pick for peace. Smoke this dad, it’s for your own good. First time you smoked in twenty years. You said it was spiritual. Changed your life. Everything, you said, I am is being washed away. Pot will do that to you. Alix reached for his glass. Empty: how you felt. A bruised apple cleared, cleaned, and cored. Alix looked at his glass. God, I need another drink. Sound like my father. Fuck.
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