Random Thoughts From a Nonlinear Mind, Volume 2: The Athena Chapters, Chapter One:
Athena From Athens
I am sure that every mom in this country learns early on to check the pockets of her kid’s clothes when she is doing laundry. I am confident that the same holds for all the dads out there, even though my guess is they forget to check more than the moms do. As for us single guys who do our laundry, well… that might just be a different story. I must admit that until today I had done a stellar job of making sure that anything that wasn’t supposed to find its way into my washing machine didn’t end up wet and ruined. The key phrase in that sentence is “until today.”
My story begins in my living room; the plot began a few days ago. I recently learned that there is a big difference between story and plot; they aren’t nearly the same thing. A few weeks ago, I took a course on how to be a more thoughtful reader (yes, that is pretty much indicative of the state of my existence these days), and I am happy I can apply a little of what I learned. A story is simply a bunch of events recorded chronologically; the plot is something altogether different. A thoughtful author can go backward and forward through time for dramatic effect. Maybe one author will do it to create mystery, and another will offer up a nonlinear story to develop an emotional context for the reader. Perhaps another author simply isn’t paying attention because he is too drunk to remember what he wrote five minutes ago. The possibilities are nearly endless.
E.M. Forster described the difference between story and plot in the following way in his classic 1927 work entitled Aspects of the Novel. I recently discovered this book, and it is highly recommended for anyone who wants to be a better writer. The following example is taken directly from Forster. The first line is an example of story, and the second one is an example of plot:
1. The king died, and then the queen died.
2. The king died, and then the queen died of grief.
I think that Forster’s distinction is sublime, and there is no reason to try to improve on it. His insightful example is simple and clear. In the first instance, we are only told of two deaths; in the second, we are given a context. I do think this nicely sums up the difference between story and plot.
I am feeling in a bit of a Quentin Tarantino mood (there is a phrase I never thought I would use to describe myself), so I guess I will be nonlinear and start somewhere in the middle of my incredible tale. I don’t know where in the middle of the rollercoaster ride I am, as the old cliché goes, only time will tell. My guess is that because of extreme circumstances; I am already near the end.
The other day I had just finished watching a few music videos on the internet when I decided that I should go into my laundry room and get to work. OK, I have decided to be honest, it was one particular video that I found myself watching again and again. As the images from the video began to make permanent etchings in my memory, I made my way into my laundry room, the same one that Natalie Portman was living in, at least in a dream of mine she was. While I was sleeping, she told me that she sold my washing machine because she didn’t like it. I asked her if she got me another one, and she just stood there smiling at me. I woke up before she answered. (Sidetracked by a Natalie Portman story, what are the odds? Anyone who knows me will immediately know that those odds are pretty high. Some might be shocked that she wasn‘t in bunk beds with Danica Patrick.)
Back in the real world, I took off the sweatshirt I was wearing, a big, bulky hoody with one of those pseudo – marsupial pouches, and topped off the load. I then proceeded to do one of the jobs that I hate; I folded and put away the clothes that were already dried.
Folding laundry and putting away groceries are jobs that require a partner; they simply were designed to be done by more than one person. Ask most any single person, and they will tell you that. There just seems to be something unnatural about folding laundry by yourself. When you also consider that there is no chance of finding something novel and exciting in the load, then you get a sense of the extent of my dilemma. If I see women’s clothes in my laundry, then I know I have more significant issues than I am prepared to handle, and I had better call on a professional. Groceries are not quite as bad simply because I eat out nearly every meal. When you live alone, and you don’t like throwing out half the food you buy, it’s just easier that way.
After I put away the laundry, I decided to go to my favorite Chinese restaurant. I collected all my stuff; reading material, wallet, phone, and keys and headed out to my car. I didn’t see my mp3 player, but I thought I might have left it on the shelf under the dash of my Honda. It wasn’t there, so I went back to the house. There are only a few places it could be, and I didn’t find it at any of its usual resting places. I immediately attempted to clear the fog from my brain, a complicated process in these highly erratic times. It was then that I realized that my three-year-old mp3 player, the one that had never failed me, was already out of the washing machine and was in the dryer. I just started laughing because I immediately knew how it ended up in there—an unusual occurrence with a simple explanation, one that we will get to in a bit.
In most of these essays, I try to weave two or three themes together into a coherent story that hopefully sheds some light on an evolutionary process or illuminates some point or topic, obscure or overt, that I am interested in at the time. When I realized I destroyed the mp3 player, I knew instantly why it happened, and that got me thinking about the circumstances that led to my apparent lack of attention to detail. The next section of this essay will address those issues.
Many years ago, I ran into an old college friend of mine, and we caught up with each other. You know how it can be with some old friends, even if you haven’t seen each other in years you just pick up right where you left off. That is what happened to us. One of the things he told me that I found incredibly insightful was his reasoning as to why he hadn’t experienced more success in his life. He thought he would be in a different place at 40. He said he loved his wife and family, but he wished his wife had pushed him more, that she had inspired him more, that she had expected more from him. I knew exactly what he meant. I told him he was looking for wind beneath his wings, and he immediately agreed. I told him that the major theme of my life, despite everything else, was the fact that I never found someone, that I had never been married. We talked for a while more, and then we went our separate ways. I am sure I will see him again sometime in the future, and we will pick it up right where we left off.
As I talked to my friend, I remember thinking of Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite novelist. Vonnegut wrote a lot about relationships and the human need for companionship. He wrote about alienation and the needs all humans have as social animals. Vonnegut, my buddy, and I have different takes on this, but I would guess that having a little wind beneath your wings is better than none at all.
I have read everything Vonnegut wrote. His books are in the upper left-hand corner of my first bookcase. Most of the other books are classified by subject and then alphabetized by author. Vonnegut and Stephen Jay Gould are the exceptions. It just doesn’t seem right to me to throw them in with all the others. They have influenced me and inspired me way too much for me not to immediately know where any single volume is. There are times I need them for reference, and I guess that extra 30 seconds of searching is the difference between a readable essay and one that even my friends and relatives can’t make their way through. At least, that is my working hypothesis.
So, I guess I have finally made my way back to my mp3 player, the one that is exceptionally clean and totally useless (I have a few friends like that even though they tend not to stay clean for long). A busted electronic device is not something that would usually inspire me to write, but these are rare times, and I am living under exceptional circumstances. What I am getting at is that I found inspiration recently in a most unusual place and in a most unexpected way. The particulars aren’t essential, if they mattered, I would include them. The point is the muse wasn’t an old guy who appeared to me in the form of words on a page. This one was real flesh and blood, at least that is my recollection. There is a remote possibility, I guess, that the whole thing was a dream. I say this even though I have witnesses and physical evidence to back up my story. Deep down, I suspect all those people might be an illusion too, but that is a different essay for a separate volume.
I have thought about it, and I can’t remember when I have had a better or more confusing night than the one I had a couple days ago. Inexplicable, bizarre, amazing, incredible, and totally unexpected are just a few of the qualifiers I can use to describe what happened. I know that other people have been hit by freight trains just like I was, and, therefore, I probably need to find a support group. Maybe I should google “guys who were just minding their own business when out of nowhere an ethereal being came up beside them and hit them in the head with a hammer (some kind of Thor – esque hammer, not one of those carpenter or ball-peen things) and then the poor slob becomes undone and remains that way for who the hell knows how long.” I don’t think Google’s algorithms are yet up to the task, but hope springs. Actually, I just tried it, and I couldn’t muster a single result of any intelligible significance. Who would have guessed?
I have decided that additional disclosure is necessary on my part to make this essay more personal, if not a little less intelligible. I wasn’t entirely honest when I said there was just one ethereal being; actually, there were two. One was a working woman who was busy doing her job, and the other one was a woman from Athens who is educated, funny, smart as a fox, and charming as hell. She is the one that hit me over the head; the other one, the one busy working, couldn’t possibly carry such a hammer because her hands are full, it would severely interfere with her work, and it would cramp her style in a most unusual way. The one who was simply a woman from Athens floored me with what is between her ears, not the contours on the outside that connected them. Ultimately, it was a most unusual experience, one that I will file away in a unique cabinet. The fact that I have written about it speaks for itself. I tend to need cyclonic wind beneath my wings for that to happen.
I don’t enjoy writing; I find it tremendously difficult. I pretty much hate it; it is the hardest thing I do. I struggle and search for the exact word or phrase I need, and when I think everything is just so, I suddenly decide it is terrible, and I throw everything away and start over. My guess is I toss 75% of what I write. The fact that I have nearly a million words down between this book of essays and the novels (three are nearly finished) is a testament to… actually, I have no idea what that is a testament to. My only point is my need for that cyclonic wind that I referred to in the last paragraph.
Since these are my essays, and ultimately, I am responsible for all the content, I feel I have the right to include a personal message. Now that I think about it, this whole essay is more or less a private message, written with only one specific person in mind and indeed written especially just for her. I doubt any random reader will feel betrayed or disappointed because I bet most of us have experienced the same type of thing from time to time. At least I hope we have all met people who blew us away, who seemed to be not of the earth, who floated into our lives for however long and then hopped away. I hope we all have felt that bizarre connection, the one that is so exceedingly rare and powerful that it can destroy electronics. It is my wish that everyone could be able to experience, at least once, the raw energy that two people can create just by talking to each other and seeing, really seeing, each other. I have rambled on for long enough, all the setup is done, now we can get on with my message.
Hey, Athena from Athens,
Meeting you was an amazing experience, one that I will never forget, and I am going to save lots of money on shoes because of it. I have only known a couple people in my life who made me smile from the inside out, and now I know one more. I would never have believed it if someone told me I was going to find myself thunderstruck in the way I was, especially when and where it happened.
We got to talk about a lot of different things, but there is so much more I want to know. What is your favorite novel? Do you even have time to read? Are there any painters or schools of painting that move you? I have been thinking how awesome (not a word I would normally choose) it would be for me to see my favorite painting through your eyes. Do you see the same things I do when I settle in for a long viewing of a Monet? Do you even like Monet?
What is the greatest cover song you have ever heard? Until a few days ago, I thought it was Johnny Cash’s version of Hurt. I have changed my mind due mainly to a very particular earworm that is working its way from one side of my brain to the other. It is a supercharged meme, both destructive and uplifting; its cultural DNA encouraging mutations wherever it lands.1 The video that accompanies this remake is the one directly responsible for the tragic and untimely demise of my mp3 player. I bet you already know the complete morphology of this creepy-crawly, don’t you?
Did you get to take stats classes? Do you know any foreign languages? Why did you choose your particular major? Are you aware of what has been happening in the field of epigenetics since you graduated? These are all compelling questions that I have for Athena from Athens. The answers would help turn what is now a short story into a novel, a novel with a potentially transcendent plot.
The sad part, and there always are downsides to this sort of thing, is that any money I am saving on shoes, and I imagine it is going to be substantial, is a total wash. I am off to the mall right now, and I am using part of my savings to buy myself a new mp3 player.
You and I both know what is getting loaded first. I want to tell you it is not because I have a new favorite band or because I am intrigued by a distinctive voice or an inspiring musical message I had not heard before. Those particular CDs are going on first (and into heavy rotation) because they will always remind me of a woman named Athena, she tells me she is from Athens, and I have no reason to doubt her.
After twenty or so revisions and the passage of some time, I remain undone; totally and utterly hopeless; doomed to my core. My only chance at deliverance, my only shining light under a dark sky, is that if I look real hard, I just might be able to find a waterproof mp3 player.
NOTES
Note 1. I always get interested when I see an asterisk or a footnote in an essay. They are usually inserted because the author wants to make a tangential point and doesn’t want to break the flow of the text. I sometimes find that the notation is there because the author wasn’t clever enough to figure out a way to put the point in the body of the paper. I’ll take a deep breath and then tell you why I have included one here. I was in the woods today, it was hot, and I was near a swamp. I was getting thirsty, and I was starting to get attacked by bugs. I reached into my vest pocket, pulled out the bug spray, and started to shoot it into my mouth. Sigh, I guess my mind was elsewhere.
