William Faulkner

All posts tagged William Faulkner

Meanwhile, back on the ranch . . . .

Published May 18, 2017 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

So in addition to the muddle, muck and mire that makes up the end of the school year, I’m trying to see if I can write/create a new genre of fiction.

I have always been peripherally attracted to Southern Gothic {not in the Romantic Vein, (world’s worst adult toy shop.) Isn’t my use of internal bracketing amazing (speaking of bad adult toys)? }

I enjoy Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor; I realize that these two are more Southern Grim than Southern Gothic.  Still, both types make me think of Humidity and Bourbon (I think that’s a new drink at a Hipster bar)

At any rate, one of they key features of Southern Gothic is an element of the supernatural whilst the protagonist, antagonist and others languish in the heat and stupidity of the South.

My second novel (in process when I’m not shepherding sixth graders, apparently for the love of the game and not any fiduciary recompense. Don’t I have a great vocabulary?I’m ever so smart; still a chump, but smart.) The novel is told in bits and pieces from different, fictional secondary prose, such as police reports, recordings etc, is about the aftermath of four adult children of abusive parents wreaking their final revenge.

I’m considering turning it into Gothic via a Deus ex Machina in the guise of a Latina psychic. It’s just a thought. It’s probably transference of my hope for divine intervention to get out of my current set of trials and tribulations. (I wish I could sing the song from  Jesus Christ Superstar, but that musical gives Batman a pyschotic episode, which leads me to another tangent: Why I’m frustrated by the TV show, This is Us,

First and foremost is that fact that I have a blind spot of rage for actor Milo Ventimiglia. It’s because of his character in Gilmore Girls. He was the selfish, slightly oily, Jess, who Rory should never have picked over Dean.

I digress. (What shock!) While This is Us is a good series, it makes me flurb a bit because the whole show is all peaks; it’s all about Grand Gestures, there are precious few valleys and it’s hard to keep a pace like that. Or maybe it’s because I don’t think I will ever get a grand gesture for myself.

I’m not sure what kind of gesture that would be, exactly, but I do know that I may be at that age where most of the people I am close to are just exhausted by life and the grand gestures they performed have kind of fizzled away.

Unless, of course, BatCat, Frances in all of her relentless affection may wander in here to my classroom and throw herself at me; all of her ginger catly glory forcing me to the ground.

Of course how could a cat get 20 miles south, without a car or drivers license, not to mention open three sets of doors. Those are just details.

But wouldn’t it be grand?

How do I tell if this panic is abject?

Published February 22, 2016 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

The weirdness of my conscious brain is only out crazied by my unconscious brain. (Suspend, for a moment, my general understanding that my post-coma brain still can’t determine whether or not I’m in an agreed upon reality or perhaps dead and am I trying to get myself out of purgatory.

When I’m asleep, my brain decides to go all “Eye of the Tiger” and find some weird crap to haunt my waking hours.

The other night I dreamed that my dearly departed friend Steve handed me a fish to give to Anderson Cooper.  We were at a party in a house that often appears in my dreams. The house is an amalgam of I house I lived in when I was first married and of the house I grew up in, spliced together with a house owned by my Aguilar relatives for many years, and the large front room of Steve’s house.

We were hosting a party and for some reason their were many fish, some cooked, some in a display and some just hanging around in a tub full of ice. Steve handed me a fish (raw with head) to take to Anderson Cooper who was upstairs milling around in the parlor.

I have no idea where that came from and as I pondered this I discovered that Harper Lee had passed away.

Now Steve and I often likened our friendship to that of Harper (Nell) Lee and Truman Capote.

It would not at all surprise me if these three got together and gave my brains a gentle poke to influence my dream. I think Faulkner had a hand in that as a fish played a large part in my favorite work of his. In it the fish symbolized death.

While that is, indeed, weird I had an even stranger dream. In this one, my Amanda Friend’s husband, AOG had entrusted me to take care of his 32 foot black python.  (You may be thinking, “Freud much?” But you wouldn’t if you knew him.) Now for some reason I was in the front room of the aforementioned house and I was watching cats gambol about in the backyard. (The backyard was Steve’s)  I got so distracted by the cats that I completely forgot about the python. For days. The python did not starve to death, but did die of thirst and when AOG showed up, I had to find the dried python husk, and for some reason I thought that pouring water on it would help.  AOG was very nice about it but clearly I was at fault.

I woke up with an intense feeling of panic.

Then I read about how well Trump did in the latest caucus. I’m not trying to be funny.   I then went and told my roommate that I would get the vodka if he would find some chocolate cheesecake because apparently the end is nigh.

My parochial education tells me that no one knows the time and place of the second coming. I just want enough of a heads up to sip some Grey Goose Orange and have a rich dessert.

I somehow think too much fat and sugar is going to be the least of our concerns in the very near future.

Sponsored by that merry prankster, William Faulkner

Published June 13, 2013 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I bet no one ever called him Billy.

I’m only wondering that aloud (or a-type) because I just finished the first of six stories I am ghosting for pay and one of the character’s is named Billy.

I’m starting to realize that “Freelance Writer” actually means “the Universe’s Bitch.”   ( I know, first world problem,”Oh, my life sucks because someone will actually pay me to write stuff.)  Anyway, the stuff I’m writing right now is not in my genre, but someone is paying me to do it, so there you have it.

I am in no way blaming my headache on William Faulkner. I actually enjoy Faulkner, which is kind of like saying I enjoy drinking terrible bourbon and lounging around in the hot humid summer.  (I do like bourbon, but not terrible, so I don’t see the resemblance.

Today has been fairly productive. I did finish the story that was plaguing me, so now I only have five more to pull out of magic story land.  I decided to use some of my downtime to deepen my pool of knowledge, and not play Candy Crush until my tablet runs completely down, so I decided to check out one of the how stuff works Youtube channels.  Now my mind is officially blown.

There is so much information out in the interwebs and on the Youtube it made my head hurt. The five clips on time travel actually warped my mind. (I think the time weasels got stuck and they are trying to use my sinus cavity to push off and get back to their weasely shenanigans. )

I may have to watch it again. The information flew by me so fast that I think I could hear my brain cells frantically trying to take notes. I think one of them even broke a pencil and freaked out because it couldn’t find a sharpener. (My brain is a very busy place with a limited office supply budget.)

Suffice it to say that there is so much information that is very sciencey. Everyone I know who could explain it to me would come up with at least ten reasons why they believe time travel is impossible creating the need for me to hold back the scream, ” Could you just explain the big words and let me draw my own conclusions?!!”

What I gleaned from it is if you say you believe in Time Travel and may have actually been a part of this phenomena, people will laugh, nod and then back slowly away.

I was following a tangent on a guy who says he is a time traveler from 2034 and is apparently still hanging around in the present. I didn’t get the exact name because I was about to implode from information overload (and other songs by the Ramones)  In my search I ran across this quote:

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

-William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun

Touche’ , Billy, Touche’

unconscious streaming

Published May 7, 2012 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I have no idea what I am doing.  I want to be perfectly clear. I usually flail about willy-nilly, but that’s by accident.  Today I am intentionally just winging it.  It has nothing to do with my sudden chaos in plain sight day.  I am subbing today, but at this point in the year, it’s mostly just riding herd on students and making sure no gets too loud and is at least pretending to do something. I am not the kind of person who can just put their brain on cruise.  In an effort to sharpen skills and possibly right something medium good, because I got inspired/wild hared by Change Me into Zeuss’s Daughter, which won the Faulkner Competition for Creative Non-Fiction, and thus decided that I was going to enter, if possible.  It’s possible, except that the deadline is in eight days.  Okay, can I write a personal memoir essay of 3500 words in eight days? Possibly.  Will it be good? Who knows?

In addition to my obsessive need for constant reassurance, I also have the fear that someone is going to say, “Yeah, she’s a good writer, but who gives a S###?”

Okay, I am the person most likely to say that.

I don’t know where I should start.

So I am experiment with streaming the conscious while things happen around me. I am trying not to look down.  The last time I did this I did it in longhand and came up with a character that told me the story of the novel that I am currently poking along with a stick.

How’s it going so far?

Thanks Ms. O’Connor

Published April 4, 2012 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

Flannery O’Connor said that anyone who survives childhood has enough material to write for the rest of  his or her life. (I think she actually said ‘her’, but I’m being generously PC.)

I do enjoy the somewhat dark and creepy works of Flannery O’Connor.  I know it was a hard time in the world, but really, Faulkner, Hemingway, O’Connor and the like were real downers.   You can quote me on that, you American Lit schools and writers of term papers.

“Childhood” makes me a little sad. I know what she means, but I do think we put a lot of pressure on our kids. (Give me a sec while I pull out my soapbox/stepstool.)

Even though this generation of kids is technologically savvy because of computers, cell phones and iThings, and there are a lot of advantages, but even the privileged kids are falling victim to pressure  both from parents and peers, and I think it has a lot to do with the “warehousing” of education.

It’s not just kids.  We are  blanketing groups of people with stereotypes and not seeing kids as individuals. People don’t like that.

(Down off of soapbox.)

I’m not really sure why I got cranked up by that thought, I was just talking about childhood.