Tag Archives: Writing

Tales of Despair: Standing on the Edge, and Daring to Jump

There is a game I played on my iPhone. It’s called One Single Life and I didn’t play it again. The game’s concept is very simple: you run, you jump, and you land on the next building. There is just one catch: if you die, you die. You do not get a second chance. This is one of the most thrilling games I have ever played; the knowledge that my quarter-inch avatar is about to leap quite possibly to his tiny death sends tremors to my fingers. My heart beats fast, and my palms are as dry as dust. I am terrified.

I know this sensation well, and it is the pause before the leap. In my youth, I spent a great deal of my time rock climbing, mostly at indoor rock gyms since the weather was usually bad. Some of the long routes were scary; one curved wholly over the ceiling of the gym, some sixty or seventy feet off the ground. Still, there was always a sense of safety, of a second life: the floor was cushioned, you were roped in, your climbing buddy had you.

But there was a time when a friend and I went walking in the Swiss Alps. I say walking, but we were young and foolish, and couldn’t resist the temptation to race each other up small cliffs here or there, quite proud of our budding climbing skills. This naturally delayed us, and we found ourselves quite late in the day still on a glacier, not even close to where we needed to be, and so decided quite wisely to take a shortcut over a low peak to the north. The peak had looked innocent enough on the map, but when we arrived at its base, we realized we were faced with a hundred-foot cliff face that was not quite vertical…and of course we just had to climb it. After all, it would surely be faster than going around.

I won’t speak of the abandoned Swiss military base at the top of this mountain – that is for another time – but it was halfway up this ridiculously foolish ascent that I first truly realized that I could die. Despite my confidence, the rock was loose, and in grasping for a handhold, the stone simply came free in my hand. For a single, endless moment, I wheeled slowly, sickeningly away from the cliff, releasing the rock and knowing it might hit my friend below me, and all the while grasping in utter desperation at the cliff with the two remaining fingers that attached me to it. Somehow – I have no memory of it to this day – I did not release my grip from the wall. I believe I was in tears when we finally arrived at the top.

The free fall in the stomach, the dryness of hands, the hypersensitivity to every touch and sound, are the hallmarks of standing on the edge of death. Sadly, my experience in the Alps was not the only time this sensation came over me. Countless times since then, I have found myself on that edge, often with a blade to my wrist. I have lived with people who have stood on that edge with me, and we would stare into the darkness together. The sensation, as the steel bites into your skin, or the rope rubs roughly on your neck, is not of pain, or of comfort, or even of anguish: it is the dusty, gliding feeling of standing right on that edge, toes over the abyss, and deciding to leap.

In the end, I never leapt. Some I know did, but were caught, and survived. Some leapt and we never saw them again. I could never overcome the sensation, the thrill of death that had saved me that day in the Alps, and fell back from the edge each time. I was crushed, dismayed, guilty and furious, and all this would collapse into the deadness that I was doomed to live for yet another day; but I was nonetheless alive.

This was all some time ago, and though I still see the edge each day, I keep my distance. I wouldn’t want to fall off by mistake. I can’t convincingly say that the fear of the leap has taught me anything, but I am glad of it, for had I jumped I would not know my wife, and I would not know our son, and the world would have been a darker place.

Still, I wonder at the thoughts of those others, at the moment they chose to make the leap. I imagine it was release – the final decision they would ever need to make was done, and there was no need to look back.

Rediscovering the Lost and the Forgotten

My wife and I have moved several times in our life together (four times in the last eight years), including the most recent move which was overseas, when we returned to the United States. As anyone who’s moved house before knows, a year between moves sounds like a lot, but it isn’t. We still have boxes from our first move (all the way back in 2003) that we still haven’t unpacked. I’m a little worried now to discover what’s in them.

One of the effects of this is that you quickly learn what it is you can and can’t live without. Pots and pans and food end up being useful, and so end up getting unpacked pretty quick. Those old summer clothes you really thought you were going to slim back down into but never quite got around to it – they get unpacked second, of course. The kid’s toys are way down on the priority list (depending on who’s writing the list).

But then there are things that you actually never needed in the first place, and of course this realization doesn’t hit you until you drag a box out of the basement corner, scrape off the dust and mold, and then marvel at the things inside that you’d forgotten ever existed. For us, this tends to mostly be old papers, tax records and files; all the stuff they say is important and then is never needed again.

And then, there are the things that you can’t live without, use day to day, and still never come out of their box. These are the things that have insinuated themselves into the glass and metal of my iPhone and Mac, and left their earthly shells behind to wither with the spiders. For me, these are music, movies and books. I have genuinely not noticed the lack of my CD collection, since I still listen to every song each and every day. My DVDs are old, and looked a little mournful as I pulled them out of their box, as though they really just wanted to roll over and die. And as for my books…

Well, that felt like a different matter. For the past few years, I have been almost exclusively reading books on my iPad, and whilst it has certainly had its benefits (the carry-on luggage is ten pounds lighter!), I do find myself missing the feel of paper under my fingers, and the satisfying sense of progress that comes from holding more pages in your left hand than in your right. None of this exists in the digital world – one of the reasons I’ve immensely enjoyed reading Harry Potter with my son from the actual ‘books’ his grandfather gave him for Christmas.

And so it was with a deep nostalgia that, the other day, I pulled the top off a box and rediscovered the hundreds of books that had followed me around from home to home and country to country, and had never been looked upon once in all that time. There were a lot of Stephen King novels in there; in fact, it felt like half of them by weight were his vast tomes, though it was certainly less than half by numbers. I was forcibly reminded of my long-passed Star Trek addiction: ultra-nerd sci-fi pulp fiction brain fodder. I even unearthed the complete Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which is fortunate because I had been considering buying it on my iPad.

But, hidden amongst the trite and the trash, I found a few, small gems: works of beauty, intricacy and genius that had completely slipped my memory until I held the torn cover in my hands and felt the memories come rushing back into my mind. Of these, there were five that I had loved so much, and and since forgotten, that I wanted to share them.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Richard Bach – 1970

What a magical book this was. There really is nothing like it I can think of; it tells the story of a young seagull (yes, seagull) who is taken by the art of flying, and becomes scorned and shunned by his fellow gulls. Eventually, he finds solace as an outcast, and the tale traces his life from his youth to old age…and beyond. The writing is pure poetry, and coupled with the stunning black and white photographs that are dotted throughout, this book is simple a marvel.

The Big Sleep

Raymond Chandler – 1939

For me, this is the original and ultimate detective novel. Everything, ever, that has come since – whether it’s Patricia Cornwell or Stieg Larsson or just film noir in general – came after this. I know this isn’t actually true, but I don’t care. It has guns, girls, sex, drugs, violence, hard-boiled attitudes and plot twists every three pages. I don’t think you could really ask for more.

Garfield Thinks Big

Jim Davis – 1997

Um…yep. Exactly what it sounds like.

Dinotopia

James Gurney – 1992

A more beautiful book – in both story and illustration – does not exist. If Tolkien had written a tenth of the words, added talking dinosaurs and lush, extravagant color pencil illustrations, he would have created something like this. The story is pure fantasy, in the most lyrical of ways; a tale of shipwreck and isolation, of wonder and discovery, of coming-of-age and eventually of redemption. They made a TV series that frankly wasn’t all that good at all, but this is a story I would love to see rendered in Peter Jackson CGI on a fifty-foot screen. Oh, yes please…

Goodnight, Mr. Tom

Michelle Magorian – 1981

This is possibly one of the most depressing and disturbing children’s stories I have ever, ever read, but it is beautiful nonetheless. Willie, a world war two evacuee and son of a neglectful and abusive mother, is sent to live in the countryside with old Mr. Tom, who never wanted to have him anyway. To be honest, there’s little else to say – the story grows wonderfully from there – but there is a twist of the darkest, darkest nature and if you haven’t read the book, I wouldn’t dare spoil it for you. All I will say is I still get misted up to this day simply thinking about it.

Anyway…wow. What a trip. If you haven’t heard of or read some of the books above, I would whole-heartedly suggest you do so now. If you must, read them on your Kindle or iPad – all but Dinotopia. Do yourself a favor there and go out and buy (do not borrow this book from your library, you will not return it) a real, hardcover untouched copy of this book and read like a priceless work of art.

What about you? What books are out there that you’ve loved and left? What are the tales of magic that touched you years ago and have faded from your own memory? I’d love to know!

Douglas Adams on Tea

Yesterday, I ate a small chocolate egg and it gave me a throat infection. It isn’t very nice, and put a bit of a damper on the last day of our friends’ visit from England.

In fact, it seemed a little weird that the egg should make me sick, so I consulted with my biologist wife, who confirmed that I likely had a virus/bacteria already colonizing the wetlands of my esophagus, and the sugar from the egg was like rain after a drought – they just ate it all up, and then made lots of nasty germ babies.

Anyway, the upshot of it is that I’ve been eating very little, and drinking lots and lots and lots of tea. I like tea; I usually poison myself with coffee most days, but only because it gives me a swifter kick up the ass. Tea is good at night, and good in the morning, and…well hell, it’s good pretty much all the time.

All this thinking about tea, coupled with our delightful British friend who drank somewhere between five to ten cups a day while she was here, got me thinking of what Douglas Adams had to say on the subject, and since it felt pretty relevant right now, I thought I’d share it with you all.

As a side note, I have no idea how copyright plays into this; I’ll give all due credit, and if someone asks me to take it down, so be it.

Tea

One or two Americans have asked me why the English like tea so much, which never seems to them to be a very good drink. To understand, you have to make it properly.

There is a very simple principle to the making of tea, and it’s this – to get the proper flavour of tea, the water has to be boilING (not boilED) when it hits the tea leaves. If it’s merely hot, then the tea will be insipid. That’s why we English have these odd rituals, such as warming the teapot first (so as not to cause the boiling water to cool down too fast as it hits the pot). And that’s why the American habit of bringing a teacup, a tea bag, and a pot of hot water to the table is merely the perfect way of making a thin, pale, watery cup of tea that nobody in their right mind would want to drink. The Americans are all mystified about why the English make such a big thing out of tea because most Americans HAVE NEVER HAD A GOOD CUP OF TEA.  That’s why they don’t understand. In fact, the truth of the matter is that most English people don’t know how to make tea anymore either, and most people drink cheap instant coffee instead, which is a pity, and gives Americans the impression that the English are just generally clueless about hot stimulants.

So the best advice I can give to an American arriving in England is this: Go to Marks and Spencer and buy a packet of Earl Grey tea. Go back to where you’re staying and boil a kettle of water. While it is coming to a boil, open the sealed packet and sniff. Careful – you may feel a bit dizzy, but this is in fact perfectly legal. When the kettle has boiled, pour a little of it into a teapot, swirl it around, and tip it out again. Put a couple (or three, depending on the size of the teapot) of tea bags into the pot. (If I was really trying to lead you into the paths of righteousness, I would tell you to use free leaves rather than bags, but let’s just take things in easy stages). Bring the kettle back up to the boil, and then pour the boiling water as quickly as you can into the pot. Let it stand for two or three minutes, and then pour it into a cup. Some people will tell you that you shouldn’t have milk with Earl Grey, just a slice of lemon. Screw them. I like it with milk. If you think you will like it with milk, then it’s probably best to put some milk into the bottom of the cup before you pour in the tea*. If you pour milk into a cup of hot tea, you will scald the milk. If you think you will prefer it with a slice of lemon, then, well, add a slice of lemon.

Drink it. After a few moments you will begin to think that the place you’ve come to isn’t maybe quite so strange and crazy after all.

* This is socially incorrect. The socially correct way of pouring tea is to put the milk in after the tea. Social correctness has traditionally had nothing whatsoever to do with reason, logic, or physics. In fact, in England it is generally considered socially incorrect to know stuff or think about things. It’s worth bearing this in mind when visiting.

Taken from “The Salmon of Doubt”, published 2002 by Macmillan

Original text written May 12, 1999

© Completely Unexpected Productions Ltd. 2002

And that’s how I’ve been drinking my tea for the past few days. Thank you, Douglas.