Barrel Magic

BARREL MAGIC

Thursday, December 19, 2002 05:19 p.m.

The best job Philip France ever had was as a model when he was much younger. He was discovered by a Greyhound Bus Company film crew. They were in town looking for locations and liked the quad. They shot Philip and some other students lounging there. When the brochures were distributed someone from a Richmond agency scoped him out and asked if he wanted to do some commercials. The best and highest paying was for Hershey's. They did all kinds of shots with him and another cute woman--kind of Eartha Kitt lookalike--small, pert nose and big eyes (when she opened them). They shared coffee and a Special Dark bar. They watched Johnny Carson over a Special Dark bar, the both of them in one recliner and a bite out of the bar. One shot had them in front of a fireplace with a glow lighting their profiles and a Special Dark wrapper on the fire--crinkled but still readable--and all these shots superimposed over the legend, 'Black Is Beautiful.' Now, Philip didn't, at the time, think this was exploitative or anything. He was glad to have a couple thousand for each shoot. Later, he got a bit more contemplative about it. Wondered why they had to capitalize on the 'black is beautiful' phrase. It sounded too close to irony in the context of a chocolate ad. Were they shooting for irony? Tongue-in-cheek stuff they would never try with other models?

"Can you just see a Hellman's mayo advertisement," he told his dad once, "with 'White Is Beautiful' beneath the photo?"

Philip figured it wouldn't make any sense, but his dad wasn't so sure. "Two really white models are hard to find nowadays."

Philip's dad had direct experience since he was a son of mixed marriage and had somehow passed on an even darker complexion to Philip. "You know, all those Hollywood types are trying to darken up a little too much to be more like us without actually being us. God, but George Hamilton looks like he'd crack if you dropped him."

Tuesday, December 17, 2002 07:52 p.m.

When Allison sat on the dining room table in the lotus position, it drove Philip France crazy. They never argued about it though. Philip would come into the room and leave immediately because he felt that it would be worse to interrupt Allison than to be intolerant. What after all was wrong with sitting on a table? His mother wasn't around to disapprove. What drove Philip crazy was the thought that Allison was able to fake successfully a deep spirituality. Not that anyone noticed Allison in her lotus position except Philip.

And Allison was naked.

Allison and Philip were in training for some high level shenanigans. Allison was disciplining her mind and programming skills. Philip was focusing his skills on remote sensing. They were living in a house outside Camp Perry--nice white clapboard with blue shutters. One bedroom was furnished for each, but no living room furniture. The dining room table served as a place to relax and in Allison's case a place to squat or meditate. There were chairs, but Allison had an aversion to chairs and beds. She slept on the floor in her bedroom. She even pulled the rug up so that she could sleep on the bare pine floorboards.

Philip asked her one time about getting splinters and Allison said pain served to concentrate the mind.

Allison said, "The Prophet-peace-be-upon-him says, 'consider any area of your present form as limitlessly spacious.'"

Philip asked Allison why their trainers hadn't furnished the living room.

Allison said, "Suppose your passive form to be an empty room with walls of skin-empty."

The blond hairs on Allison's arms would fluff in the draft of Philip entering and exiting the dining room. Allison's blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her blue eyes, and seraph like smile as she meditated made Philip want to stay--Allison's eyes were closed anyway--she wouldn't even notice Philip being in or out of the room. But Philip's thoughts clouded a little when he saw that he was taken by Allison's appearance. Not that Philip was afraid he was homosexual. He could live with that if it were true. . . Unhappily, but he could live with it. No, it was the idea that he could be drawn to a woman so base, so superficial, so preening, so sure of her supposed depth. One day, Philip got into a serious discussion with Allison about their beliefs--what they shared and didn't share--they had only been at this retreat for three days and both must have thought it was about time they talked to one another--since they shared a cottage on the grounds of the institute--anyone else might have had discourse on the first day, but evidently Philip and Allison shared space physical without needing to share space intellectual. The discussion hinged on one of Philip's specialities, the Bhagavad-Gita.

"I think it's fair to say that most of the writers on the west coast have borrowed from Krishna. Even the screenwriters-like, you know, the speech that Yoda makes in The Phantom Menace, 'fear leads to hate, blah blah,' that one sounds awfully similar to Krishna."

"Uh hunh," Philip said. "What does that prove? You think Californians are easternized? That would be ironic wouldn't it--the Left Coast looks to the Far East for inspiration."

"You ever read any books by Shirley Maclain? She's as Californian as you can get. She's into the Far East and ghosts and the unexplained."

"She and her brother are Virginians."

"Yeah, but she left that behind."

"You can't leave where you grew behind."

"You can't go home again."

"That's what some people believe," said Philip. "I think you spend most of your life trying to leave your home behind, your parents, your school, your . . ."

"Prison."

"That, too."

"How long were you in prison?"

"Two years four months before I was paroled."

"You haven't lost your social skills." Allison smiled.

"Yeah, well I was in privately run facility in the Catskills. They're under contract with the Defense Intelligence Agency. Once I agreed to the plea bargain, the Justice Department handed me over to the Army, and they inducted me then promptly threw me in the brig, so to speak."

"Tennis, billiards, darts?"

"Classroom, VR."

"Did they indoctrinate you first, or did they just expect you to cooperate in the training?"

"Well, my father was a pilot, and from what he told me about combat I'd pretty much deduced that Hollywood had been pulling our collective leg. In contrast, VR looked like a great way to fight a battle."

"Hollywood goes to war."

"Uh hunh. Then I was sent to Canada for a couple months to test the machinery. I'm still on call, in the reserve, I guess you'd call it."

"So who invited you to the institute?"

"Suop."

"Did you meet him in prison?"

"He is a linguist at the college where I teach fiction writing. He prepared me for the immersion by using an isolation tank. You know you're in the regime for more than a week at a time, right?"

"No, they didn't tell me that."

"Remember what Krishna says, '. . . a man of inner strength whose senses experience objects without attraction and hatred, in self-control, finds serenity. . .' which is what we strive for in the midst of violence and chaos."

"Amen."

"We all participate in the myth of starting over."

Monday, December 16, 2002 11:42 p.m.
FROM VIRTUAL VENUS TO VENUS:
PAPA!

Once upon a time there was a man from Castle Shannon, named Jove, who had a wife and five daughters. Jove's one heartache was that his wife never smiled and none of his daughters smiled very often either.

Of course, the man blamed himself.

When the oldest daughter, Venus, was to graduate from school, Jove went to find a husband for her. He asked his friends from church, his clients from business, and members of his club whether they knew of a boy for his eldest girl, Venus. Now the man wasn't an idiot, but who knew these people would suggest all kinds of boys. What Jove had wanted from them was the one boy who would make his daughter smile.

Being a systems programmer, Jove didn't want to introduce his daughter to a hundred boys, instead the man wanted an efficient way to tell whether a boy would work this magic before he exposed him to Venus. Also, his eldest daughter had a bad temper and the man could imagine what pain would result from too many bad dates. So Jove paid a call on the old blind sage, Salzman, to get his advice on the matter.

"Don't tell the boys 5h!t," said Salzman. "Let them discover her for themselves. Drop her off at the ice rink with no skates and no money."

Not for nothing was Venus's charm as she unwillingly went to the Ice Castle for Summer Mummer Skate-a-thon.

Jove broke down and gave her two-bits for the call home, but that was it.

Now most would fear their daughter would come home with plenty of money and unmarried, but Jove trusted Salzman's advice and hoped only for the best.

Midnight rolled around and Venus had still not called, so with a heavy heart Jove drove down to the ice rink. He found Venus sitting on the curb.

"Why haven't you called me?" Jove asked.

"I was waiting for the moon to rise," Venus said.

Sunday, December 15, 2002 10:11 p.m.
PARODY

Of course the last poetry workshop of the semester is devoted to our parodies of others' poems. I did this below:

AMERICA DROWNS ITSELF IN GARCIA LORCA

Lament Times Square squares

Who hide certain Declivities of tasseled penises

Behind windows in Westchester and dream

of Todd Oldham, like tazzeled cigars for the smoke of:--What?

You could ask, but being Garcia Garcia, the merciful Is not to be hated!

How much invention has calmed our generation generation

Screens have circumnavigated like shoji over round

Hot hots filled with bubble laughter

We kiss tasseled penises

--Our second guesses, our benedrine and feces handed down as heirlooms,

Smoking shoji belonging to the multitude who blamed God

for Todd Oldham.

Sunday, December 15, 2002 09:33 p.m.
WORKSHOP

AMERICA DROWNS ITSELF IN MACHINERY AND LAMENT

to Garcia Lorca

America drowns itself in machinery and lament

Just as the large screens on Times Square reveal, they hide certain lunar

Declivities of tasseled curtains strung across the eight-paned windows

Of the unapproachable mansions in Westchester like humidors for the dreams

Of the West, like cigars for the smoke of vision:--What vision?

You could ask, but being Garcia the wise, Garcia the merciful, the humdrum

Is not to be hated!

How much invention has calmed our hearts and stilled

The second guesses of our generation (your generation, not mine,

Since the screens have circumnavigated like shoji, over round

Hot tubs filled with bubble bath and laughter)?

We kiss goodbyes

--Our second guesses, our benefices handed down as heirlooms,

Spilled blood belonging to the multitude who blamed God or Spain.

What would a workshop with MacPhail be like? Some fictioneers in the program liked to call him McFail because he was so easily unsatisfied with poems that others might love at first bite. Above is an original poem by a young STUDn’t and below is its workshopped outcome.

AMERICA DROWNS

for Lorca

large screens on Times Square lunar

tasseled curtains eight-paned windows

mansions in Westchester humidors

:--What vision?

You could ask Garcia--the humdrum

Is not to be hated!

our hearts stand stills

round shoji

hot bubble

We kiss (your generation, not mine)

heirloom

spills or Spain

MacPhail was hired to be the poemmeister; France, a hired hand to tame our fictive hosses. Neither intruded in each other’s venue, and we didn’t ask either teacher to look at work outside of class. Visiting professors were another matter, and there was always some kind of upheaval (or lovers’ spat) regarding a visitor’s opinion. Last semester we were blessed with a visiting poet who pictured herself as rap star, and a visiting novelist who wanted to work for NASA. Fortunately, they made time for us, too.

Sunday, December 15, 2002 09:21 p.m.
TO KRONOS FROM VENUS:
VIVAS!

Hey, thanks for all the research. I'm covered on points one and two, and last time I talked to agent, I asked him point blank--"Hey, I'm getting full screenwriting credit on this, right? And he answered without hesitation, "Absolutely." Said also that they'd insist in contract that I'm the only writer on project.

Talked to Minerva on Wed. night (she did a reading) and she's like full steam ahead for me writing on spec--no other choice till I sell something and join writer's guild. She was full of Hollywood rip-off stories, but they all ended happily for the writer through litigation. (Writer who pitched the concept for what became Melrose Place under another writer's pen standing in the middle of his mansion saying "Aaron Spelling built me this place" after winning $6.9 million suit.)

So guess I'll keep plugging along. Sent Titans the latest rewrite which I'm way happy with and they e-mailed me back: "Great job on the rewrite! We are all really impressed with your creativity and speed." Which is a far cry from Minerva's descrip of typical producer-writer script conference: "I thought I told you: more boobs and guns!" The Titans are set for another phone conference w/ me Friday, and I'm hoping they're ready to sign off on script with a minimum of additional changes. My agent says I should pleasantly agree to whatever they say then call him. If the Titans are still calling for major changes, he says, he'll play the bad guy, as he's convinced the script is more than ready to draw major talent. But hell, I gotta admit, I thought last draft was finished until Titans got me working on it again and I truly just nailed some scenes they had me return to and wrote three new ones along the way--two earlier ones that help set up the new ending. So chances are these producers really know what they're doing. Hell, I've put so much work into this already, I don't mind putting in some more--as long as the thing sells and "changes our lives in indescribably delicious ways" (quote from Padraic).

Sunday, December 15, 2002 02:48 p.m.

Just then MacPhail interrupted, "I really think we ought to have a party for our graduate students this Christmas."

France looked askance. "The pub council doesn't have that item in its budget."

"Can't we move some money around? What do you think, Tom?"

I exchanged a glance with France. "Jeez, Jack, I think you should ask someone other than Philip or me, you know, cause we're not Christian afterall."

MacPhail guffawed. "Hell, I know that. It's a figure of speech, 'Christmas,' dontchaknow? Nobody believes in the religious part of it anymore. Even the nuns that raised me didn't believe. Their parents made them enter the convent. Well, actually, they would have starved if they hadn't. Christmas, Chanukah, what's the difference?"

"Right, a couple candles here or there? Christ, you can be insensitive. Just because you don't believe in God, doesn't mean that Tom and I don't believe. My grandfather was a rabbi, remember? This season means a lot to me, still."

"We could call it a holiday party," I said. "Hold it in the CRW Lounge"?

"Coffee and doughnuts," said MacPhail.

"Let me check with Don," said France.

"Check with Don for what?" MacPhail asked. "He doesn't disapprove parties. We're not even on his duty roster because we're CRW not LIT."

"Yeah, remember when Don was dating Kate and she sent in some of her Linguistics 630 grad students to our classes," I said. "To count how many syllables we used in our conversations when we workshopped? We thought they were there to learn how to workshop, but they were really there to see if we were smart or not."

"And how many syllables did we average, again?" France asked.

"That's not the issue," MacPhail said. "She abridged our academic freedom. Worse, she lied to us--her colleagues--by representing her students as doing academic research when they were really spying."

"I think we averaged a syllable and a half."

"Why lay that at Don's feet?" France asked.

"Cause he was poking her?" I said.

"You're assuming she wasn't poking him? Why?"

"Enough. Won't this conflict with the department's party?" France asked.

"Philip, I get the feeling you don't want to have a party."

"Can we table this for the moment," France said. "Let's finish our agenda and talk about this at the bar after work."

"As long as I can come along," I said.

"You're buying." MacPhail laughed.

Sunday, December 15, 2002 01:37 a.m.
Where to go TO FIND WHAT you don't know YOU DON'T WANT to say?

Comes a time in every teacher's life when s/he forgets what is supposed to go on the black/white-board. Here are some suggestions (courtesy of Joachim Verhagen):

AT THE SCIENTIST PARTY

Everyone gravitated toward Newton, but he just kept moving around at a constant velocity and showed no reaction.

Einstein thought it was a relatively good time.

Coulomb got a real charge out of the whole thing.

Cavendish wasn't invited, but he had the balls to show up anyway.

Cauchy, being the only mathematician there, still managed to integrate well with everyone.

Thompson enjoyed the plum pudding.

Pauli came late, but was mostly excluded from things, so he split.

Pascal was under too much pressure to enjoy himself.

Ohm spent most of the time resisting Ampere's opinions on current events.

Hamilton went to the buffet tables exactly once.

Volt thought the social had a lot of potential.