Home Run

William Faulkner, 1943

He knew what had to be done. He walked towards the soft glow of the morning sunlight and the warmth that it radiated through the glass doors. The tapping of his worn combat boots reverberated through the silence and commanded the entire room, usurping the space of time and emotion. He basked in this newfound certainty and adrenaline surged through his veins, until he noticed an obstruction – the bright yellow tape that said, “Closed For Construction”. He paused mid-step. His determination wavered. The yellow gleamed against the sun like a jarring stop sign. He wondered if it could be a real divine intervention of the same dramatic fashion as his stories. Her condescending laugh interrupted his head rush.

You can’t even walk to your death with dignity. You truly are a deplorable man, Maurie. What do you have to hold you back?

This was the final push. Not this time. Not anymore. He refused to let her win. This was the end. It had to be. The world had tossed him around, one failure to another, and then finally shunned him into absolute disgrace. He knew shame, he knew loss, even passion, but happiness was alien. It had taken him fifty years to finally see the world for its true worth. He was humiliated by his naïve ambition – the parasitic hope that had devoured his marriage and his writing career, and left him with $200 in the bank and an empty apartment, decorated by dirty dishes and cigarette butts.

The dreams had been crystal clear; more real than any part of his desolate reality. He had known that his next novel would be his masterpiece – the home run. How could it not? This time, the Elizabeth of his novel would be just as real as his dreams, and she would be the puppeteer of her character, instead of his subpar imagination. But reality had reared its ugly head again, and shattered the last of his hope, with Elizabeth’s curt note – “This is the craziest of them all, Maurie. Its over.” It really was over.

***

In his head, he replayed his last meeting with Elizabeth, his agent and his ex-wife. Their love had been exceptional, the kind that lived up to the standards of every Hollywood cliché; the once-in-a-lifetime, we-can’t-live-without-each-other, kind; the magical kind. But since they were just two regular people, living in a society governed by the rules of reality, their marriage had not lasted. 

“No Maurie, I CANNOT give you another chance. I’ve been trying so hard to help you. So much time, all this effort… oh God I’ve lost so much time. Sixteen years, and nine failed attempts to be precise. My career is on the line now.”

“Your job? My entire life is on the line. Why is it always about you, El? Have you forgotten about the five bestsellers I gave you? Why can’t you ever look past our problems and try to walk in my shoes? All I’m asking for is another chance.”

“The world doesn’t need another pair of your ugly boots. You walk around thinking that you’re better than us, that the rules don’t apply to you. But guess what, the world moves on. You were a star and you had it all. No, WE had it all. Until you decided to go ahead, and fuck it up.”

“By ‘fuck it up’, you mean I decided to get off your leash and write about stuff that I actually care about? People deserve to see the world as it is, El. They go on with their busy lives, in their little bubbles, and obsess over their petty problems, like a bunch of hotshots. On their day off, some of them try to read books about fictional characters to feel better about themselves, or to dream about some adaptation of a naïve idealistic life, which they saw in a movie. Meaning, it doesn’t exist. So tell me, El, what’s wrong with me trying to replace those fairytales with some real books that might contribute to their puny moral imaginations?” 

“Maurie, your books make people sad. And not in the ‘oh I feel bad for this character, but I’m secretly happy that I am not as pathetic’ way, the kind of sad that is so hopeless that it sucks out your soul and fills you with complete despair. When will you get off your high horse Maurie, and realize that you are not so much better than them. They all have their own problems, and their own pathologies, and they don’t need you force yours onto them.”

“How– “

“That’s it. I can’t make more sacrifices. I just don’t have anymore to give you.”

“What the hell do you know about sacrifice? I gave you my heart and my life. I became your little pet writer, and made you very rich. All, just with the hope for a little pat on the shoulder. And look, I’m still here. Waiting for you to take me back, because you’re all I’ve got El,” Maurie coughed. He sounded like a man allergic to himself.

“The company is cutting costs for novels, Maurie.”

“And are you cutting costs in your personal life? No, listen. This time I’ll fix everything. You can make all your money back too. I have a new book.”

“Dammit… Do you have a sample?”

I was panting on all fours. My vision mirrored the rhythm of my breath. The brown landscape pulsated before my eyes. The emptiness was oppressive. Life was scarce. Yet she stood there. Waiting in all her glory. Brilliant and incandescent. A Kohinoor in dry sand. More bedazzling than Aztec gold. Pale skin bounded with luminous inky hair. The grace of a gazelle. A mirage. I felt the adrenaline. Urgency. She waited. I staggered.

“It’s going to be the same pathetic love story again. We don’t need another one Maurie, how do I explain to you?”

“Just let me finish this last one. This book is what’s keeping me going. Jeez, you owe me that much.”

“Okay, here’s the deal – send the story, and I’ll see what I can do. But if it’s a flop, the company isn’t covering it.”

“If it’s good, do I get a new contract?”

“And if it isn’t, you will pay the company back with that Indian art heist story.”

***

Her magnetic pull enticed him like an iron ore. They lay with their bodies adjacent to each other, staring at the brazen sun as the world around him disappeared. Even in the sweltering heat, he felt her warmth, and every fiber of his body tensed. She carelessly intertwined their fingers, leaving him tingly in the aftermath of electric jolts. Her scent intoxicated him but his senses remained heightened, aware of every twitching muscle. The jarring softness of her fingers against the desert sand, felt like home. He was safe with her, she was his oasis.

The setting sun made grotesque shadows on the peeling walls, as he realized how long he had been hunched over his table, but his fingers continued to move over the typewriter keys off their own accord.

He scoffed internally because the cynical writer suddenly felt like a vulnerable adolescent. He wanted to reach for more, but he was hesitant to break the spell. He was Icarus.  

He lay down to take a break, but sleep caressed him the instant he lay on his threadbare pillow. He smiled with anticipation – tonight she would be in his dreams. Eleven divorced months and nine failed novels later, he had finally realized the missing ingredient – Elizabeth. Oh, it had always been her. She had hurt him and caged his passion, but she had given him the hope for a better life. The very hope that is impossible to live without. She had reined his madness and given him perspective. Yesterday, he had dreamt of her. Her vibrant beauty had haunted him and inspired him. He had chased her musical laughter in the rain. The clouds had bent lower to join their game, obstructing his vision. He was getting closer; her voice was just a few steps ahead.

He had the same dream again, but this time, she was within arms reach.

He woke up the next morning with a new high; hunger and weariness were things of the past. He rushed to his typewriter, eager to add the promised twist and end their love story, because this was his time to shine. He was the home-run-scoring star of this story, and if he could not have a happy ending with Elizabeth, the pathetic character in the story sure-as-hell did not deserve it.

He advanced to embrace her, ardent to finally possess her. As he struggled to overcome his insecurities, he thought, “Icarus also flew”.

In fact, it was never meant to be a love story. His fiction had previously lacked reality. Happy endings were the stuff of fairytales, and magic did not exist in our world. It could not be perfect because real love stories were built with time and sacrifice. In reality, people got hurt and things seldom ended well. He had had trouble committing to his bestselling thrillers, even though the readers had loved them, just like he had difficulty committing to the cynical premises of his literary fiction. He had held onto the same childish idealism that he criticized, for the sake of his sanity.   

She stood there for what seemed like eternity. Her previously warm, brown eyes were undecipherable, until something flashed in them as her high-pitched laughter resonated around them.

“How could you imagine that I would marry you? You are a pitiable creature, satiated by the mere crumbs that life throws you; incompetent to wrest from it, what you truly desire.”

***

He glanced at the street below and took in the incessant hustle, typical of Madison Square on a weekday afternoon. There were hoards of men and women hurriedly scuttling about, while several others were stationary, crowded together in Madison Square Garden. From the height of his vantage point, they looked like ants. He wondered what sort of demons each of them had, and if they were as insignificant as their physical bodies from his view. He imagined his fall, and wondered how it would feel to accelerate through the 300 ft. expanse between the closed-for-construction balcony and the blissful repose that would undoubtedly follow. He would be able taste the world that he was about to leave. The harsh cold of the air would berate his face but he would welcome the punishment. The toxic New York air would infiltrate his pores and he would probably feel nostalgia, or maybe regret? Would he be sorry? Would he wish for another chance, or would it feel like freedom?

His prized novel had not scored a home run, but maybe death instead, was the accurate metaphor for his home run. Could he commit this time? He realized the absolution of death. He thought of Icarus, again. Icarus had given the world a massive “fuck you”; he had had courage and imagination and had literally surpassed the limits of the world. However, the ignorance of humanity had turned his legacy into a cautionary tale. Indeed, such a world was not worth living in. People decide to die, when they see life at last, without any illusions. But that is what they would do with his story as well. Could he give them the satisfaction of claiming another victim? His death would be seen as proof of the danger in venturing outside the confines of social norms. It would mean a minus one, for those rare minds that threaten to breach the stifling boundaries of acceptability and instead, seek the brilliance of the sun. In the grander scheme of things, this really was bigger than him.

***

Still getting used to the plush sofa in his humble, but new apartment, Maurie fired up the 15” Macbook Pro, which had been a signing gift from his new agent. He wondered how such a small and shiny object could hold so much information, or how anyone felt comfortable even storing all his data on such an elusive machine that threatened to break at the slightest mishandling. The machine opened to a welcome note directing him to the pre-installed ‘Microsoft Word’ application, and urging him to get started on their 500-words-a-day, agreement.

The Deceit of the Taj? … no, The Enchantress of the Mahal?… this was what they wanted.

***

*I do not write fiction very often. I stumbled upon this short on my hard-drive, actually written a couple of years back for a creative writing class, and thought I would share.

Kafka on the Shore

Kafka on the Shore illustration [source - http://bit.ly/1PYOK3w]

While reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami, I came across an excerpt from Plato's Symposium in which Aristophanes describes an ancient world of myth where there were three types of people - instead of just male or female, they were actually built out of the components of two people: male / male, male / female, female / female. This was the way of that mythic world until god took a knife and cut everybody in half; presumably as some sort of punishment because the now male and female humans spent their lives trying to locate, quite literally, their other half.

This is obviously the stuff of myth but Aristophanes' story resonates with our constant need for companionship in various forms. In a recent conversation I had, somebody was musing about the inherent fault in the institution of marriage. It's easy to imagine how a marriage might bring two individuals too close for comfort so I wonder how this convention came to be in the first place - I can only assume that it was / is for the purpose of security. Maybe we want to call someone our own and know that they are [legally] bound to stay by our side, 'in sickness and in health'. Or maybe we want to touch someone's life in a way that truly matters and will be remembered, even if it is only to justify everything else that we must do - "Just one thing ... I want you to remember me. If you remember me, then I don't care if everybody else forgets."

Rousseau described civilization to occur when people build fences around themselves. So it makes sense that we live with the security of monogamy in developed societies. His theory is that most people do not actually want freedom, and although I lie safely in the thick of 'most people' and appreciate strictly traditional / monogamous relationships I wonder what compels us to enter into relationships at all, sometimes even knowing that they are doomed to fail.

Freedom is a major theme in the novel and this quote sums it up nicely - "Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents." We associate freedom with the ability to make our own choices but in reality, most of those choices are tied to our previous experiences / current and future responsibilities / anticipations / and expectations. True freedom is probably nothingness. The novel presupposes its existence and asks, "can nothingness increase?", but I wonder if it can exist at all. It describes a metaphysical place where time / relationships / health / and even food are not factors at all. But this sort of freedom becomes limiting in itself, sort of like limbo. The place also seems to have a magnetic pull to it, almost like a dangerous living entity that might swallow you. So maybe real freedom is an inconceivable utopian concept and we need a specific version of faux freedom to move forwards. However this necessity of 'moving forward' is also a shackle of our own making. At the risk of sounding tautological, I would say that intelligent / creative / imaginative people can never truly be free because like Yeats said "In dreams begin responsibilities", so our responsibility begins with the power to imagine, and with responsibilities we are invariably restricted.

I am also very intrigued by the concept of labyrinths, especially because I run into figurative ones of my own making, within my head, almost everyday. Every time I want to write a blog post I get lost in translation of my own ideas and struggle to tie them up with a takeaway. I wonder if everything worth reading and writing must have a point - probably? But you can imagine why I enjoyed this quote in the novel, originally by Hegel - "At the same time that 'I' am the content of a relation, 'I' am also that which does the relating." Hegel believed that a person is not conscious of the self and object as separate entities, but through the projection of the self via the mediation of the object, is able to gain a deeper understanding of the self. How I understand it is that our self-consciousness depends on not just our experiences but also on our interaction with inanimate objects and vice-versa, our perception of the most basic things is colored by the understanding of our self. Murakami brings this idea home by explaining that - "Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time you're stepping into the labyrinth inside. Most definitely a risky business."

This was my first Murakami novel and I think the best part was its conversational narrative style. Most of its development occurs through dialogue. Despite the abundance of magical realism, the drama lies in the growth and self-discovery of its characters. The two protagonists also partake in a real journey, individually, throughout the novel, which serves as a metaphor for their spiritual one. I didn't want to write a traditional review because there are plenty of those around but thank you for reading my thoughts and here are some of my favorite quotes -
----

"A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert... a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect."

"Schubert's music challenges and shatters the ways of the world. That's the essence of Romanticism, and Schubert's music is the epitome of the Romantic." "People soon get tired of things that aren't boring, but not of what is boring." "Works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that very reason-or at least they appeal to certain types of people. You discover something about that work that tugs at your heart-or maybe we should say the work discovers you."

"From my own experience, when someone is trying very hard to get something, they don't. And when they're running away from something as hard as they can, it usually catches up with them. I'm generalizing, of course." "Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting."

"There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story."

"Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it's important to know what's right and what's wrong. Individual errors in judgement can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive"

"The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory."

"Anton Chekhov put it best when he said, 'If a pistol appears in a story, eventually it's got to be fired.'" The concept is better described in the novel as "necessity is an independent concept. It has a different structure from logic, morals, or meaning. Its function lies entirely in the role it plays. What doesn't play a role shouldn't exist. What necessity requires does need to exist. That's what you call dramaturgy. Logic, morals, or meaning don't have anything to do with it. It's all a question of relationality."

"War breeds war. Lapping up the blood shed by violence, feeding on wounded flesh. War is a perfect, self-contained being."