Originality

I'm going to talk about originality. It’s going to be tough- There is much hammering and power drilling and circular sawing right outside my window, which is forcing me to put music on, which plays hell with my concentration.

I think it’s fair to say that a person knows whether they are being original- let’s say in the process of creating something. When you set out to make something, I think it’s important to try to offer something that you perceive as new and interesting- I mean, one way to look at it is that people aren’t really going to pay too much attention to what you have to say (in the language of whatever medium with which you choose to express yourself) unless it’s interesting. There are lots of reasons that something might be interesting to someone, like for example it reminds them of something important they haven’t thought of for a long time or it’s just aesthetically pleasing to them, but I think a big one is that it needs to offer something new, some element of new. Either way it has to offer something worth thinking about.

SO what you are trying to do when you create something original is to catch and keep someone’s attention and ultimately have an impact on their life, which isn’t going to happen if the whole of what you’ve created doesn’t coalesce above the mean of filtered stimuli. What I mean by that is I think our brains get so much information all day long from everything we perceive that it naturally tries to process it all into either things it needs to figure out (meaning discover what its significance, relevance, and repercussions to it might be), or stuff that’s banal and can be glossed over because it’s significance etc. is already understood, and thus can be seen not as information in an of itself but more as a direct path or line leading to a predictable outcome. I see it as the same thing as learning a new instrument, for example. At first, all the notes you want on a piano are difficult to find because the sensations of touching the keys are new, of the way it feels to sit on the bench, of the way your muscles have to move and even the way the neurons in your brain have to fire to move those muscles in order to move from one note to the next, it’s all new. As you continue to practice those initial sensations get filtered out by your brain and you are free to coast right through them to the next new bit that takes your immediate attention, and you are getting better. You are LEARNDING. The more you practice the farther forward you can see- it’s like wearing a path through the weeds. You walk back and forth and back and forth, farther and farther, enhancing your awareness of what you want, which is on the other end of the path, until you can simply zone out and experience the bliss of communicating directly through music because everything in between is automatic. I think writing works this way, and so do all other forms of creativity.

I think that the focus on the immediate moment that comes from needing to pay attention to those first initial sensations always comes with learning new things. I think that living in the immediate moment stretches out time because it creates useful memories. I think most people feel like time passes by like a breeze because they don’t fill their lives up with enough interesting new things, and when they look back on their lives as older people they idealize their youth because things felt new then, and then they fell into a routine that their brain has just filtered out since then. It makes them feel desperate and dead. They crave these new things without knowing why. This is why people like stories and why people join the army. Our lives work the same way as learning the piano.

On the other hand another way to look at the question of originality is whether what is being done is a pastiche of something that has already had an impact or it has simply copied something interesting yet obscure in the hopes that the source will not be found out and associated, in which case it’s just a matter of the size of the audience. This point isn’t as fun to explore because so much of our impact in life depends on the quantity of the audience, which is sad because, like I read once in a Vonnegut essay, there are so many people in the world that are always going to be better than you at what you do, and because of the increased communication that results in modern technology, you are competing with all of them rather than finding a comfortable niche in your own beloved community.

One last thing I wanted to say about originality, is that everything may have already been done that way before in a given medium, but that doesn’t mean the medium can’t be reinvented or combined in new ways with other mediums.

Ta.

Wide Awake

I had a headache but I kept on shoveling. The wood was good, I could feel the tiny rocks in the soil scraping.

My plan was to quit after one day. There was no way I was going to dig graves every day. But just this one, and then I wouldn’t show up tomorrow. Jobs were easy to find.

The sun was hidden and it was chilly, I’d planned it that way. I like the fall the best. It’s when people come home. I’d pictured myself standing under a huge willow tree, all alone for a few hours, working up a sweat in a windbreaker with dead leaves blowing all around. I don’t know why my imagination was that specific, but that’s what I ended up with so I guess it was like a premonition.

My trainer was a black man named Earl. He was 57, and tall, and he talked so quietly I could barely hear him over the sound of the trucks on the highway. Actually it was more like he was muttering to himself the whole time he was there, and only raised his voice slightly when it was important for me to hear him. I found myself opening my eyes really wide when he talked, for some reason.

He seemed to figure I grasped the general concept, and just sort of stood slightly behind me after he handed me a shovel and watched. He pointed out a couple of things, like where to stick my foot on the shovel, and how to keep the sides nice and straight. He sort of pointed with his whole arm, leaving his hand closed. I got the impression that his hands probably hurt him from all that digging. It was a big cemetery.

He left after about two feet, which was good. The plastic zip-lock bag was uncomfortable under the back of my shirt. It made me sweat against the bulk of the gun, and my skin kept catching a chill every time the wind billowed up. He told me to come and get him once it was up to my shoulders or so. “An don’ go too deep,” he said. “You cain’t get out then.”

“Alright,” I said.

Three feet down and I was filthy, but I expected that. My gloves were filled with brown clay and dirt. It smelled strongly like rotten eggs. Every few chucks I’d lean against the side of the grave and sort of sink in a bit. It occurred to me that this would be a good place to lie down and watch the sky, because the earth was so soft and no one could see I wasn’t working. I suddenly remembered that I used to like to do that a lot, lie down and just stare up for hours. But of course that was a stupid idea. Instead of lying down I would shove myself back onto my legs with both elbows and pull the shovel out of the side where I’d stabbed it, and start chucking some more.

After about five feet I had to stop because my headache was really getting harsh. I flicked off the gloves and pinched my eyes into my skull, then pinched the soft spot in between my thumb and forefinger to ease the pain. First the left with the right, then the right with the left after a minute or so. It was okay while I was doing it, but as soon as I would let up the pain would come rushing back into my brain, like my blood was full of tiny stones. It was hard to take. I opened my eyes and closed them again, but there isn’t much difference between the two different worlds, as far as pain goes. You’re stuck with what you’ve got when your eyes are open, and when they’re closed you can only see what you can’t have.

I decided to hurry up and dig the rest of the grave. As it was I could just barely see over the side, and if I stood directly in its center I could touch both sides with my elbows. I started to dig faster, really boring the shovel into the ground. I pulled up enormous clumps of mud and clay and swept them over my head. They swished into the grass. Swing, chuck, sling. Swing, chuck, sling.

Pretty soon the grave was so deep that the bottom was too dark to see my boots. Or they were covered with dirt, I couldn’t tell. In any case there was no way anyone who might happen to walk by could see what I was doing unless they stood right at its edge. I laid the shovel aside, pulled the zip-lock bag out and slipped the gun out, along with my draft card and a flat wad of sterile gauze. The pain in my head was making it difficult for me to focus my eyes, and I dropped the draft card into the darkness at my feet. But that was fine. I’d planned on burning it but I thought that since I was down there I might as well just bury it, and anyway this way I wouldn’t have to fumble with any lighter. I clawed some dirt way from the walls and stamped it down over the card until I couldn’t hear it crinkling anymore.

The gun was an old blue steel .38 snub-nosed my brother gave me before he went overseas. He’d bought one for himself just like it. I told him it was a stupid idea but he thought it would be cool to bring his own gun for some reason. He even went to church one day and had the deacon bless a chamber of bullets. Can you imagine? A deacon blessing bullets.

I gripped the .38 in my left hand and pressed the muzzle against the lowest knuckle of my index finger on the inside of my right hand. My trigger finger. I pressed it into the side of the grave as deep as it would go, and the weight on the pressure-point eased my headache again. “I am wide awake,” I said. It was important for me to say this.

I fired, and shoved my face into the mud of my brother’s grave to stifle the scream I couldn’t hold back, tasting oily earth.