yeah whatever: January 2007

Victory in Najaf

When your air force kills hundreds of tribesmen, and you're not really sure just who you've killed, you maybe need to think about what you're achieving.

The Najaf "victory" over Al Qaida, which mutated into a "victory" over a Shi'ite cult, now seems to have been a massacre of pilgrims (armed pilgrims, yes, but few groups in Iraq travel unarmed these days. The story is very confused -- part of the problem with Iraq is that the government there lies and information sources, including our own troops, often conflict because they lie too.

Read Healing Iraq for discussion of the fucked-up politics involved in this particular disaster. What is happening in Iraq is that a huge patchwork of bad boys are fighting each other. It's chaos.

This kind of story should be borne in mind when you hear Bush or Cheney telling you that we did this or did that against Al Qaida or "insurgents". They are not just lying. They don't have a clue what's going on.

Sick of thinking

I am sick of thinking about S. It's both painful and pointless. I have so much of my life already wasted on things that are both painful and pointless that I can't escape, I do not need to add more.

I have painted too pretty a picture of her. She has not actually been any of the things I imagine her to be, at least not consistently, for some time. She changed, and my view of her didn't change. I did not want to surrender the old picture.

I cannot resolve how someone can be into you one day, and you can enjoy talking to them so much, and it seems that they are enjoying it too, but the next they are just too busy to bother with you. (We all get busy. I know that. But busy has limits: somehow, even at my busiest, I don't turn aside the people I care for.) It is frustrating to feel that something has changed, that there is a new story, but no one has sent you the script.

I liked the script in which she cared for me. I liked that we seemed to have a future. I do not like "you are just shit that I can treat as badly as I do the people I hate". I do not mind contempt from those I do not care for; they usually have no right to it in any case. But when it is from someone who means something to me... She was never forgiving. If you cross her, she isn't able to just let it go or make allowances. (But I don't want or need her or anyone to be perfect; having flaws is what makes people people. Without them they are simply icons, blanks that you have to impress with character, cyphers.) But there is a difference between having a thin skin and having no heart. It is much harder to find the latter loveable.

Worst of all, I feel like I am 14, a schoolboy yearning for his crush. I remember another S, who I did have a crush on when I was 14. I adored her but she would not even look at me. I had no idea what the interior of her life was like, what she did, who she did it with, because she would not open the door even one inch. (My crush was, however, almost entirely secret. When eventually I plucked up the courage to ask her out, she did not even say no. She simply turned and walked away.)

I need communication. I am stuck a million miles away from home with no one to talk to. The worst thing you can do to me is not bother talking to me. Even the most banal of phatic communication is better. Sigh. But what is the use of thinking about that? If a person doesn't get that, or worse, gets it but doesn't care, I can't think them into getting it or caring. I just have to don my armour, turn away and say well, let it bounce off me; just more I have to allow to bounce away and become nothing.

Classic cuts

Joe Queenan finishes his witty classical primer (an A to Z) this week. If you don't know much about classical, and want to read someone who does, and has opinions that he is not afraid to share, this is for you. Actually, there may yet be a Y and Z, but anyway.

Me, I'm an unreconstructed Philistine, I'm afraid. I knows what I likes and I likes what I knows. I tend to prefer the more cerebral but simple to the florid, so a lot of what Queenan loves is wasted on me. Still, he's very right about Faure.

Classic cuts

Joe Queenan finishes his witty classical primer (an A to Z) this week. If you don't know much about classical, and want to read someone who does, and has opinions that he is not afraid to share, this is for you. Actually, there may yet be a Y and Z, but anyway.

Me, I'm an unreconstructed Philistine, I'm afraid. I knows what I likes and I likes what I knows. I tend to prefer the more cerebral but simple to the florid, so a lot of what Queenan loves is wasted on me. Still, he's very right about Faure.

Brava

Isn't the web sensational? It brings you things you would never have a taste of without it. Here is one of those secrets that isn't a secret. Every day Mary Anne puts up a new song and her fanbase grows. It doesn't hurt that she's beautiful and mysterious either. I am loving The look of love. And seeing her pussy in Love will be waiting at home is very special.

Bark your Shins

Run, don't walk, to MySpace and have a listen to the new Shins album.

If you are not woo-oo-oo-ing along with Phantom Limb after a couple listens, arrange for your burial.

This is how pop should be! Tell your brother, your sister and all your friends. They need this. You need this. Woo-oo-oo-oo.

Discarded boots

The world is full of people who do not think I am significant. I don't mind it. I am after all just a number, an ant, a small man in a big world. I realise I have to impress myself on it if I want it to recognise me, and mostly, I do not want it to, and do not mind that it doesn't.

But people insist on saying they care about me, then proceeding, well, not to. To treating me with the same disdain they would a number, an ant, a small man. But I am thinking, I have impressed myself on you. That's why you say you care about me. Don't say it just because you think it will please me. If it means nothing, it doesn't.

It does the opposite. It makes me intolerably sad. And I have enough intolerable sadness already.

***

Two weeks ago, I was feeling positive, energised. I felt I could change things. A lot of that had to do with feeling personally valued, loved even, by someone who means a lot to me (I should say someones, because it's not just one person who has made me feel down, but this one has hurt me the most). I felt that my positivity, reaching out, trying to make things good, had had a good outcome. I felt that a light that had more or less been extinguished in my life had been rekindled. But I have been seduced into overrating myself again (not for the first time). I have once again confused wanting for being. I want her to look at me and see gold but I am made entirely of rusted, useless iron.

I know. Get over it. Suck it up. I should resign myself to it, confirm my desperation, accept that the mermaids were not singing to me, and drown.

Ruminations

K has some questions that are pointless. My favourite kind. So I'm going to answer them.

Why do they only make movies about bleeding heart Caucasian teachers who work at inner city schools? Surely there are Black, Asian, Hispanic, India, (insert your favorite race or nationality here) teachers who have effected kids in a positive and life changing manner.

Because the audience for films is predominantly white and whites' image of nonwhites does not include being "positive" and "lifechanging". Most films that try to portray them that way bomb.

Why will films show full frontal nudity of woman, but you never get to see a man’s penis?

Men make the rules. All this talk of equality has blinded us to our world's not being equal. You get silly sods like Don, who think we are marching to an equal opportunities wonderland, when we are actually just shifting the battlefields, switching the hatreds, living in the same shit, just throwing it in different directions.

Why does our society listen to the opinions of celebrities when it comes to social issues and politics?

This seems at first glance a difficult, although seemingly central, question, until you answer the deeper question that lies behind it: why do we listen to the opinions of anyone? A hundred years ago, the answer might have been: because they have authority or learning. Now the answer is: because they have a platform. People demand authority because of their relation to you, not because they deserve it. Take the work environment. A hundred years ago you would have had a boss and a ganger. The boss was the guy who owned the factor; the ganger the guy who directed your work. The boss had authority because he could readily fire you. The ganger had authority because he had his position because of his experience and ability in the task he performed. Now you have a ton of "bosses". Competency is not a requirement, nor generally do they have much affect on you. They have their authority solely on account of their job title. Contrast this with the stereotypical Muslim community, in which the thought leaders are older men who have demonstrable learning. (I'm not going to argue here about how unacceptable it is that the role is not open to women.) Is it any wonder they can't understand, and do not want, Western-style thought leadership?

In a modernist world, expertise counts; in the postmodernist world, only being able to insert yourself into another's headspace does. We know that celebrities' views are no more valuable than anyone else's. But we are looking for thought leadership and will take it from wherever we can get it. We are social animals, not great thinkers, after all.

Why do American’s only want to vote for politicians that seem to have perfect lives?

It's solely a way to distinguish one from another. American politicians do not differ sufficiently politically for it to be feasible to vote for them on that basis. So you set them the test of irreproachability as a means of winnowing out at least some of them. Empathy and understanding for your fellows is not in the slightest bit useful to someone whose job is to serve the interests that propelled them into power.

If we got rid of drive-thru windows, would obesity decline?

No, it wouldn't, I'm sorry to say. Obesity is an outcome of the cheapness and ubiquity of crap food -- and of course removing driveins would make the crap slightly less available, but you would not suddenly start eating carrots.

Into it

So this guy, he's a producer for Nova FM, and he's there with his dancer girlfriend, a Kiwi who doesn't seem to have any lips. (I'm not exaggerating. It's like God just drew two lines instead of using flesh; it has the effect of making her seem vicious, as though she might be on the verge of biting someone.) I am asking the woman what music she likes, because she says she likes alternative music, and I nod politely as she reels off a list of coffee-table "leftfield" stuff like the awful Lenny Kravitz (do not write to the editor; that's utterly nonnegotiable here), Seal, some U2. It's curious how these people, who excoriate formulaic pop (they always mention Britney for some reason) and think it's cool to like Sade, for fuck's sake, love the truly formulaic, push-the-buttons rock that people who don't really like music like. So the guy says, what do you like? And I say, well, here's my iPod. He says aloud a couple of things he notes -- the more mainstream stuff like Coldplay (only a couple of songs but you can't tell that from the artists' list) -- and he fnaars at Nelly Furtado. Dude, I say, Nelly's new album is different; it has the Timbaland magic. Who? says the man who claims to know enough about music to programme a music show. Ah, he says, Ocean Colour Scene.

What the fuck? Let me assure you that no OCS sullies my iPod or is ever likely to, unless they suddenly transform from plodding subFaces rockers into the new Velvet Underground, which, let's face it, is very unlikely. So this guy has looked through my iPod and concluded that I'm into Coldplay, Nelly and Ocean Colour Scene. I can only conclude he had to ignore everything he hadn't heard of.

I am on the verge of a spirited defence of Britney (who is unfairly bundled in with her imitators) when the lipless chick slags Justin Timberlake as the epitome of this formulaic pop.

Now, I'm no fan of Timberlake, and certainly his most recent single was no better than generic urban, but to suggest that he is run-of-the-mill, manufactured pop is ridiculous. His music is clearly not just the cynical mishmash of what will sell that his previous band indulged in. It's generally sophisticated fuck music, carefully crafted, interesting and passably intelligent. (Timberlake could most closely be compared with George Michael, not Britney. This doesn't prevent Timberlake's music from being "turgid shite", as I accurately described it, because George Michael's entire output since Careless whisper could be described in the same way, but no one would claim Michael is not a songwriter, even if a pisspoor one.) Not to know this, simply to dismiss him altogether as a manufactured poppist, shows a lack of any real knowledge of what goes on. (Which is not in itself a terrible thing but ought to preclude you from suggesting you're really "into" music in a way most people aren't.)

Anyway, the guy is feeling nervous. He is used to people's thinking it's really cool that he's a music producer, and he's beginning to worry that I, or the other guy talking to us, a fan of indie, might expose him as a knownothing or as having no taste. He smiles and turns to the woman. I like world music, he is saying. He has found a way to be "cool". You know, he mutters darkly, people slag them off, but I really like Enigma. What? she says. Yes, he says, Enigma.

He has struck pre-emptively. There is no way to make this man feel bad about lack of taste. He has claimed the worst of it up front. Nothing can make him smaller. He sips his beer, triumphant.

U who?

Bono, visionary saint or greedy hypocrite who makes demands on governments to spend in particular ways the taxes that he himself avoids?

You decide.

***

Yesterday, someone was saying to me, people should work. They shouldn't just get something for nothing. He was of course talking about the dole.

So I said, but Paris Hilton doesn't work. She won't ever do a day of it. David Beckham mostly doesn't work. He plays football. I'd do it too if someone would pay me for it! Bono doesn't work. Prancing around singing is not work.

What the guy meant -- what these people always mean -- is that the poor should work. The fortunate do not have to and that is okay. We believe -- I mean the big We not the royal We -- that it is okay to expect the poorest to work hardest. When one says, it is terrible that we use third-world workers in maquiladoras, getting a dollar a day to make our clothes, etc, people don't say, yes, we should be prepared to pay more so that they get more. No, they say, well, it's better than having no work. What they mean, of course, is better for them. Were we in their shoes, we might think differently.

Bono is not on the whole a bad man. He's much lauded because hypocrisy is so common that we barely recognise it. The problem with Bono is that he legitimates other hypocrites: the leaders whom he is photographed with. Like him, they can pretend to be doing something just by being seen. They don't have actually to change a thing because the perception is created that they care simply by meeting Bono. Oh, people think, he must care because he gave an audience to a mere rock star. That's how seriously he takes it. It's almost as though he would meet you or me, were we to demand that he do something about Africa. (This is not the place to discuss Bono's prescriptions for Africa, which are poorly considered.) All politicians care about so far as we are concerned is our perception. Our thinking that they are fixing something is vastly more important than, you know, actually fixing it. I don't claim the same of Bono (after all, he's not trying to get elected; although it can't hurt his record sales to a/ be seen as a crusader on issues that vaguely trouble his likely customers and b/ be seen on TV and in papers alongside iconic political figures); I'm sure he's sincere about his concern.

In any case, Bono wastes his platform because he does not want to alienate the leaders and have them stop welcoming him. He is not so much the rebel now that he is a celebrity. Because the message he should be delivering to world leaders is not "double the paltry amounts you give to the third world" but "cease pursuing policies that make it necessary to give money to the third world" and "cease empowering the bad guys at the expense of the people that I want you to help". Fat chance though. Bono isn't in it not to win it. Ask for more aid and if it comes, you have succeeded. Ask for real change and it will never come, and you are doomed to failure, however glorious.

Me, I prefer the dream. I've never understood those who want to move by inches. I prefer the great leap forward and consensus be damned. I'm more impressed by the Russian Revolution than the parliamentary committee; by Marx or Rawls than by the many "thinkers" who tinker with political systems but don't dare to think big.

U who?

Bono, visionary saint or greedy hypocrite who makes demands on governments to spend in particular ways the taxes that he himself avoids?

You decide.

***

Yesterday, someone was saying to me, people should work. They shouldn't just get something for nothing. He was of course talking about the dole.

So I said, but Paris Hilton doesn't work. She won't ever do a day of it. David Beckham mostly doesn't work. He plays football. I'd do it too if someone would pay me for it! Bono doesn't work. Prancing around singing is not work.

What the guy meant -- what these people always mean -- is that the poor should work. The fortunate do not have to and that is okay. We believe -- I mean the big We not the royal We -- that it is okay to expect the poorest to work hardest. When one says, it is terrible that we use third-world workers in maquiladoras, getting a dollar a day to make our clothes, etc, people don't say, yes, we should be prepared to pay more so that they get more. No, they say, well, it's better than having no work. What they mean, of course, is better for them. Were we in their shoes, we might think differently.

Bono is not on the whole a bad man. He's much lauded because hypocrisy is so common that we barely recognise it. The problem with Bono is that he legitimates other hypocrites: the leaders whom he is photographed with. Like him, they can pretend to be doing something just by being seen. They don't have actually to change a thing because the perception is created that they care simply by meeting Bono. Oh, people think, he must care because he gave an audience to a mere rock star. That's how seriously he takes it. It's almost as though he would meet you or me, were we to demand that he do something about Africa. (This is not the place to discuss Bono's prescriptions for Africa, which are poorly considered.) All politicians care about so far as we are concerned is our perception. Our thinking that they are fixing something is vastly more important than, you know, actually fixing it. I don't claim the same of Bono (after all, he's not trying to get elected; although it can't hurt his record sales to a/ be seen as a crusader on issues that vaguely trouble his likely customers and b/ be seen on TV and in papers alongside iconic political figures); I'm sure he's sincere about his concern.

In any case, Bono wastes his platform because he does not want to alienate the leaders and have them stop welcoming him. He is not so much the rebel now that he is a celebrity. Because the message he should be delivering to world leaders is not "double the paltry amounts you give to the third world" but "cease pursuing policies that make it necessary to give money to the third world" and "cease empowering the bad guys at the expense of the people that I want you to help". Fat chance though. Bono isn't in it not to win it. Ask for more aid and if it comes, you have succeeded. Ask for real change and it will never come, and you are doomed to failure, however glorious.

Me, I prefer the dream. I've never understood those who want to move by inches. I prefer the great leap forward and consensus be damned. I'm more impressed by the Russian Revolution than the parliamentary committee; by Marx or Rawls than by the many "thinkers" who tinker with political systems but don't dare to think big.

Brutal callousness

Here is a curiosity. Some ugly motherfucker tells the Live Journal world that he was HIV+, knew it and fucked people unprotected. The meth made him do it apparently.

And a ton of people queue up to say that the people he fucked are responsible for any outcomes because they didn't insist he protected them. Some poor poster tries to give them a lesson in morality, but this corner of Live Journal attracts people who believe in "alternative morality" (trans: whatever suits).

Just so we're clear: fucking people unprotected when you are HIV+ and know it is murder. Getting fucked unprotected is stupid. It's not immoral to be stupid.

It's not immoral to put trust in another either. Although you're probably better off not.

Workshop: Stalemate

Now I loved this. Witty, cleverly constructed, well paced and neatly written, this piece is something the writer can be proud of. I would only make minor corrections.

What I particularly liked was the sense of unhurried unraveling, and the sheer viciousness of the protagonists. Here is man’s hatred for his fellow man in miniature.

I thoroughly commend this and thank high in the sky for submitting it.

Stalemate

The cup had an endless pattern in mid-blue glaze running around the bright white china; hills and lakes and floating clouds, bamboo huts on little rocky isles with solitary trees, soaring birds above curly-ended boats whose occupants wore pointed hats and stood with sticks or sat and let themselves be sculled along. As I turned it in my hand

Comma.

one hill or island would start to vanish but another would appear from the opposite side, first higher and then lower, and in between them the birds and boats bobbed up and down to keep to their respective places.

I used my other hand to turn the cup completely round to see if

Prefer “whether” here.

one hill might be higher than the others, or one boat have

Possibly too much elided, and “might have” might be better. Best of all would be “had”, I think.

a different set of figures. I paused, wondering why it should be important to me.

This doesn’t seem to have become clear to the reader either.

I took a sip from the cup. "This tea's cold!" I exclaimed.
"Mine is too",

The comma precedes the quotemark.

said my companion. He was sitting in a chair to my left, dressed in faded blue pyjamas under a tired brown dressing gown. He held his cup in a shaky hand, leaving the saucer on the tea-trolley in front of him.

Excellent, instant scene-setting. We know exactly what we’re dealing with.

"Why didn't you say so? Now you've made me have to find out for myself".

"I was going to, but you said it first".

Love it. These are the small unkindnesses that “friends” visit on each other.

I put my cup and saucer down on my end of the trolley, and he replaced his cup with a slight tremble that made the saucer chime. They floated languidly upon their reflections in the polished wood like water-lillies on a silent pond.

Only one “l” in “lilies”.

"I suppose one of us will have to go and get some more",

Comma first.

I grumbled, reaching for the walking stick that leant against the trolley. "I'd better do it, you're not properly dressed, are you?"

Semicolon, not a comma, if you want to avoid the run-on sentence.

A sudden snatch of birdsong rippled through the room, and then, almost as an echo of the echo, was repeated note-perfect once again, and died away.

Just “then”, which means “and then”.

"A song-thrush", I exclaimed, but he raised his hand and said "A blackbird".

The comma goes before the quotemark in the first quote, and there should be one after “said”.

"You don't know the one from the other",

Same issue.

I replied, then saw in his face that yes, he did know, and cared deeply about knowing it.

"A song-thrush would not have sung the same tune twice", he answered, "but a blackbird only sings a single song".

Write punctuation inside quote marks in these cases. You don’t when it is a quoted word, but always do with dialogue.

I glanced towards the source of the sound. White lace curtains fluttered quietly, like clouds that would be going if they only had a helping breeze to move them on their way. Behind them, the french windows waited, opened wide to the next sounds that might want to enter.

I like the feeling of tension at this point.

"The doors are still open", I said accusingly, turning back to him. "Don't you know how to close things after you?"

"But I thought it was you who came to see me", he said as he looked around him. "Isn't this my room?"

Brilliant! I love the picture you have painted of two doddery old guys, a bit confused but still sharp enough to batter each other.

"I don't think so. It would be in a terrible state if it were yours. And what makes you think that I would come to see you?"

"I'm not dressed", he sighed, and straightened slowly in his chair. "Alright, I'll close them. Give me my stick".

“All right” should be written as two words.

I picked up the stick that leant against the tea-trolley and felt the smoothness of the light brown wood. "This isn't your stick", I said, 'it's mine".

"But why isn't my stick here?", he said in a puzzled tone. "It must be here somewhere, I couldn't have come in without it". He looked around and then began to fumble in the pockets of his dressing gown as though it had somehow managed to hide itself in them.

I’d prefer “as if” here, because it’s not possible for the stick to be there.

He gave up. "You'll have to close them, I'm afraid. I won't be able to get there and back on my own."

"Oh, very well", I said, handing him the stick, "you can borrow it just this once. But don't you lose it or put it somewhere I can't reach. It is mine, you know".

He accepted it, and looked at the handle with a puzzled frown, as though aware that he should have recognised that it wasn't his. He made a movement to get out of the chair, but found that the trolley would be in his way. Sitting back down, he leant the stick against the trolley.

"Here", he said, picking up his cup and saucer, "You just pick up yours, so we can move this out of the way".

I reached out and picked up the stick. "I'll hold this so that it doesn't fall to the floor, shall I?"

"But you won't be able to pick up your cup and saucer, will you?" he asked, putting down his own and holding out a hand for the stick.

"You're doing this on purpose", I said, handing him the stick.

This section possibly ran a little long, but that’s a minor criticism.

I picked up my cup. A fragrance drifted through the room. I sniffed, and said "Jasmine".

"Isn't that a jasmine tree, there, beside the lake?" he asked, putting down the stick against the trolley.

I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. He had picked up his cup, and was looking at it. I looked back at my own. I could just see the part of an island where a tree sprang out from a rock and stooped to kiss the surface of the water.

"I don't think so", I said, "I'm almost certain it's a willow". I picked up the cup and studied it carefully.

Ther-wack! Chalk up the draw. Excellent conception and beautifully realised. This is my idea of a good short story. And it stuck to the rules!

The copyright in this story belongs to its author, whose right to be identified as the author I respect by affixing his name, and the story is posted here with the author’s permission, their rights reserved.

Stalemate

The cup had an endless pattern in mid-blue glaze running around the bright white china; hills and lakes and floating clouds, bamboo huts on little rocky isles with solitary trees, soaring birds above curly-ended boats whose occupants wore pointed hats and stood with sticks or sat and let themselves be sculled along. As I turned it in my hand one hill or island would start to vanish but another would appear from the opposite side, first higher and then lower, and in between them the birds and boats bobbed up and down to keep to their respective places.

I used my other hand to turn the cup completely round to see if one hill might be higher than the others, or one boat have a different set of figures. I paused, wondering why it should be important to me. I took a sip from the cup. "This tea's cold!" I exclaimed.

"Mine is too", said my companion. He was sitting in a chair to my left, dressed in faded blue pyjamas under a tired brown dressing gown. He held his cup in a shaky hand, leaving the saucer on the tea-trolley in front of him.

"Why didn't you say so? Now you've made me have to find out for myself".

"I was going to, but you said it first".

I put my cup and saucer down on my end of the trolley, and he replaced his cup with a slight tremble that made the saucer chime. They floated languidly upon their reflections in the polished wood like water-lillies on a silent pond.

"I suppose one of us will have to go and get some more", I grumbled, reaching for the walking stick that leant against the trolley. "I'd better do it, you're not properly dressed, are you?"

A sudden snatch of birdsong rippled through the room, and then, almost as an echo of the echo, was repeated note-perfect once again, and died away.

"A song-thrush", I exclaimed, but he raised his hand and said "A blackbird".

"You don't know the one from the other", I replied, then saw in his face that yes, he did know, and cared deeply about knowing it.

"A song-thrush would not have sung the same tune twice", he answered, "but a blackbird only sings a single song".

I glanced towards the source of the sound. White lace curtains fluttered quietly, like clouds that would be going if they only had a helping breeze to move them on their way. Behind them, the french windows waited, opened wide to the next sounds that might want to enter.

"The doors are still open", I said accusingly, turning back to him. "Don't you know how to close things after you?"

"But I thought it was you who came to see me", he said as he looked around him. "Isn't this my room?"

"I don't think so. It would be in a terrible state if it were yours. And what makes you think that I would come to see you?"

"I'm not dressed", he sighed, and straightened slowly in his chair. "Alright, I'll close them. Give me my stick".

I picked up the stick that leant against the tea-trolley and felt the smoothness of the light brown wood. "This isn't your stick", I said, 'it's mine".

"But why isn't my stick here?", he said in a puzzled tone. "It must be here somewhere, I couldn't have come in without it". He looked around and then began to fumble in the pockets of his dressing gown as though it had somehow managed to hide itself in them.

He gave up. "You'll have to close them, I'm afraid. I won't be able to get there and back on my own."

"Oh, very well", I said, handing him the stick, "you can borrow it just this once. But don't you lose it or put it somewhere I can't reach. It is mine, you know".

He accepted it, and looked at the handle with a puzzled frown, as though aware that he should have recognised that it wasn't his. He made a movement to get out of the chair, but found that the trolley would be in his way. Sitting back down, he leant the stick against the trolley.

"Here", he said, picking up his cup and saucer, "You just pick up yours, so we can move this out of the way".

I reached out and picked up the stick. "I'll hold this so that it doesn't fall to the floor, shall I?"

"But you won't be able to pick up your cup and saucer, will you?" he asked, putting down his own and holding out a hand for the stick.

"You're doing this on purpose", I said, handing him the stick. I picked up my cup. A fragrance drifted through the room. I sniffed, and said "Jasmine".

"Isn't that a jasmine tree, there, beside the lake?" he asked, putting down the stick against the trolley.

I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. He had picked up his cup, and was looking at it. I looked back at my own. I could just see the part of an island where a tree sprang out from a rock and stooped to kiss the surface of the water.

"I don't think so", I said, "I'm almost certain it's a willow". I picked up the cup and studied it carefully.

Workshop: Stalemate

Now I loved this. Witty, cleverly constructed, well paced and neatly written, this piece is something the writer can be proud of. I would only make minor corrections.

What I particularly liked was the sense of unhurried unraveling, and the sheer viciousness of the protagonists. Here is man’s hatred for his fellow man in miniature.

I thoroughly commend this and thank high in the sky for submitting it.

Stalemate

The cup had an endless pattern in mid-blue glaze running around the bright white china; hills and lakes and floating clouds, bamboo huts on little rocky isles with solitary trees, soaring birds above curly-ended boats whose occupants wore pointed hats and stood with sticks or sat and let themselves be sculled along. As I turned it in my hand

Comma.

one hill or island would start to vanish but another would appear from the opposite side, first higher and then lower, and in between them the birds and boats bobbed up and down to keep to their respective places.

I used my other hand to turn the cup completely round to see if

Prefer “whether” here.

one hill might be higher than the others, or one boat have

Possibly too much elided, and “might have” might be better. Best of all would be “had”, I think.

a different set of figures. I paused, wondering why it should be important to me.

This doesn’t seem to have become clear to the reader either.

I took a sip from the cup. "This tea's cold!" I exclaimed.
"Mine is too",

The comma precedes the quotemark.

said my companion. He was sitting in a chair to my left, dressed in faded blue pyjamas under a tired brown dressing gown. He held his cup in a shaky hand, leaving the saucer on the tea-trolley in front of him.

Excellent, instant scene-setting. We know exactly what we’re dealing with.

"Why didn't you say so? Now you've made me have to find out for myself".

"I was going to, but you said it first".

Love it. These are the small unkindnesses that “friends” visit on each other.

I put my cup and saucer down on my end of the trolley, and he replaced his cup with a slight tremble that made the saucer chime. They floated languidly upon their reflections in the polished wood like water-lillies on a silent pond.

Only one “l” in “lilies”.

"I suppose one of us will have to go and get some more",

Comma first.

I grumbled, reaching for the walking stick that leant against the trolley. "I'd better do it, you're not properly dressed, are you?"

Semicolon, not a comma, if you want to avoid the run-on sentence.

A sudden snatch of birdsong rippled through the room, and then, almost as an echo of the echo, was repeated note-perfect once again, and died away.

Just “then”, which means “and then”.

"A song-thrush", I exclaimed, but he raised his hand and said "A blackbird".

The comma goes before the quotemark in the first quote, and there should be one after “said”.

"You don't know the one from the other",

Same issue.

I replied, then saw in his face that yes, he did know, and cared deeply about knowing it.

"A song-thrush would not have sung the same tune twice", he answered, "but a blackbird only sings a single song".

Write punctuation inside quote marks in these cases. You don’t when it is a quoted word, but always do with dialogue.

I glanced towards the source of the sound. White lace curtains fluttered quietly, like clouds that would be going if they only had a helping breeze to move them on their way. Behind them, the french windows waited, opened wide to the next sounds that might want to enter.

I like the feeling of tension at this point.

"The doors are still open", I said accusingly, turning back to him. "Don't you know how to close things after you?"

"But I thought it was you who came to see me", he said as he looked around him. "Isn't this my room?"

Brilliant! I love the picture you have painted of two doddery old guys, a bit confused but still sharp enough to batter each other.

"I don't think so. It would be in a terrible state if it were yours. And what makes you think that I would come to see you?"

"I'm not dressed", he sighed, and straightened slowly in his chair. "Alright, I'll close them. Give me my stick".

“All right” should be written as two words.

I picked up the stick that leant against the tea-trolley and felt the smoothness of the light brown wood. "This isn't your stick", I said, 'it's mine".

"But why isn't my stick here?", he said in a puzzled tone. "It must be here somewhere, I couldn't have come in without it". He looked around and then began to fumble in the pockets of his dressing gown as though it had somehow managed to hide itself in them.

I’d prefer “as if” here, because it’s not possible for the stick to be there.

He gave up. "You'll have to close them, I'm afraid. I won't be able to get there and back on my own."

"Oh, very well", I said, handing him the stick, "you can borrow it just this once. But don't you lose it or put it somewhere I can't reach. It is mine, you know".

He accepted it, and looked at the handle with a puzzled frown, as though aware that he should have recognised that it wasn't his. He made a movement to get out of the chair, but found that the trolley would be in his way. Sitting back down, he leant the stick against the trolley.

"Here", he said, picking up his cup and saucer, "You just pick up yours, so we can move this out of the way".

I reached out and picked up the stick. "I'll hold this so that it doesn't fall to the floor, shall I?"

"But you won't be able to pick up your cup and saucer, will you?" he asked, putting down his own and holding out a hand for the stick.

"You're doing this on purpose", I said, handing him the stick.

This section possibly ran a little long, but that’s a minor criticism.

I picked up my cup. A fragrance drifted through the room. I sniffed, and said "Jasmine".

"Isn't that a jasmine tree, there, beside the lake?" he asked, putting down the stick against the trolley.

I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. He had picked up his cup, and was looking at it. I looked back at my own. I could just see the part of an island where a tree sprang out from a rock and stooped to kiss the surface of the water.

"I don't think so", I said, "I'm almost certain it's a willow". I picked up the cup and studied it carefully.

Ther-wack! Chalk up the draw. Excellent conception and beautifully realised. This is my idea of a good short story. And it stuck to the rules!

The copyright in this story belongs to its author, whose right to be identified as the author I respect by affixing his name, and the story is posted here with the author’s permission, their rights reserved.

Stalemate

The cup had an endless pattern in mid-blue glaze running around the bright white china; hills and lakes and floating clouds, bamboo huts on little rocky isles with solitary trees, soaring birds above curly-ended boats whose occupants wore pointed hats and stood with sticks or sat and let themselves be sculled along. As I turned it in my hand one hill or island would start to vanish but another would appear from the opposite side, first higher and then lower, and in between them the birds and boats bobbed up and down to keep to their respective places.

I used my other hand to turn the cup completely round to see if one hill might be higher than the others, or one boat have a different set of figures. I paused, wondering why it should be important to me. I took a sip from the cup. "This tea's cold!" I exclaimed.

"Mine is too", said my companion. He was sitting in a chair to my left, dressed in faded blue pyjamas under a tired brown dressing gown. He held his cup in a shaky hand, leaving the saucer on the tea-trolley in front of him.

"Why didn't you say so? Now you've made me have to find out for myself".

"I was going to, but you said it first".

I put my cup and saucer down on my end of the trolley, and he replaced his cup with a slight tremble that made the saucer chime. They floated languidly upon their reflections in the polished wood like water-lillies on a silent pond.

"I suppose one of us will have to go and get some more", I grumbled, reaching for the walking stick that leant against the trolley. "I'd better do it, you're not properly dressed, are you?"

A sudden snatch of birdsong rippled through the room, and then, almost as an echo of the echo, was repeated note-perfect once again, and died away.

"A song-thrush", I exclaimed, but he raised his hand and said "A blackbird".

"You don't know the one from the other", I replied, then saw in his face that yes, he did know, and cared deeply about knowing it.

"A song-thrush would not have sung the same tune twice", he answered, "but a blackbird only sings a single song".

I glanced towards the source of the sound. White lace curtains fluttered quietly, like clouds that would be going if they only had a helping breeze to move them on their way. Behind them, the french windows waited, opened wide to the next sounds that might want to enter.

"The doors are still open", I said accusingly, turning back to him. "Don't you know how to close things after you?"

"But I thought it was you who came to see me", he said as he looked around him. "Isn't this my room?"

"I don't think so. It would be in a terrible state if it were yours. And what makes you think that I would come to see you?"

"I'm not dressed", he sighed, and straightened slowly in his chair. "Alright, I'll close them. Give me my stick".

I picked up the stick that leant against the tea-trolley and felt the smoothness of the light brown wood. "This isn't your stick", I said, 'it's mine".

"But why isn't my stick here?", he said in a puzzled tone. "It must be here somewhere, I couldn't have come in without it". He looked around and then began to fumble in the pockets of his dressing gown as though it had somehow managed to hide itself in them.

He gave up. "You'll have to close them, I'm afraid. I won't be able to get there and back on my own."

"Oh, very well", I said, handing him the stick, "you can borrow it just this once. But don't you lose it or put it somewhere I can't reach. It is mine, you know".

He accepted it, and looked at the handle with a puzzled frown, as though aware that he should have recognised that it wasn't his. He made a movement to get out of the chair, but found that the trolley would be in his way. Sitting back down, he leant the stick against the trolley.

"Here", he said, picking up his cup and saucer, "You just pick up yours, so we can move this out of the way".

I reached out and picked up the stick. "I'll hold this so that it doesn't fall to the floor, shall I?"

"But you won't be able to pick up your cup and saucer, will you?" he asked, putting down his own and holding out a hand for the stick.

"You're doing this on purpose", I said, handing him the stick. I picked up my cup. A fragrance drifted through the room. I sniffed, and said "Jasmine".

"Isn't that a jasmine tree, there, beside the lake?" he asked, putting down the stick against the trolley.

I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. He had picked up his cup, and was looking at it. I looked back at my own. I could just see the part of an island where a tree sprang out from a rock and stooped to kiss the surface of the water.

"I don't think so", I said, "I'm almost certain it's a willow". I picked up the cup and studied it carefully.

Workshop: Untitled

I don’t know much about efflux, except that he’s an intelligent sometimes commenter on my blog, so I was able to approach his work fresh, without preconceptions. Alongside his entry, he sent me a couple of other pieces of work, which were interesting (but I won’t go into them here).

I thought efflux made a brave stab at the assignment, for which I thank him for trying, and I commend him for achieving a nice mood piece. It had its failings – mainly technical faults that are easily remedied but importantly I felt that he missed the opportunity to create a good character. I could really feel the edginess and tension (and it hit home because I’ve been standing in these shoes so many times!) but I didn’t know the character. It would make a difficult tradeoff not to lard the piece with too much “interior monologue” (particularly given the constraint of not referring to the past over much) but a bit more flavour would have been good here.

Two major technical points, which efflux must remedy, and others should note. First, it’s essential to keep a tight grip on tense. If in doubt, use the simple past throughout. You’ll rarely be wrong. Mixing past and present will nearly always be wrong, as it was on every occasion here. Second, one should prefer “more xly” to “xer” when one is using a comparative adverb. For instance, “hotter” means “more hot”, not “more hotly”, so that “The sun shined hotter” is a solecism. We say it, that’s true, but we should avoid writing it. I’ll note the instances in the text and give the correct version.

The crowd behind him surged forward

Can a crowd surge any other way but forwards? Can it surge backwards or sideways? I think the word “surge” includes the idea of “forwards” (or “upwards”) and can be written without it. YMMV.

as the 233 Express pulled into the station. To stopping before such a mob, brakes shrieked in objection.

Oh dear. It is already a sin to write your sentences the wrong way round, as I’ve noted before, but the sense of this sentence is lost because “to” is so far separated from the “objection” it should accompany. Placing an element out of position in a sentence emphasises it. It’s called topicalisation, and it’s an important device in English. There is a difference in emphasis, for instance between “I like ice-cream” and “Ice-cream, I like”. But there is no good reason for topicalising what is objected to here, bar a desire to get fancy, and that is never really good reason for anything in writing. Even were the sentence fixed though, the problem would remain that it doesn’t make much sense for the brakes to object to stopping just because there is a mob. I don’t understand the idea.

I also have an unreasoning hatred of “such”, probably born out of its overuse in the things I edit, which tend to be jargon-heavy. “Such a” often means “this” or even “the”. Always check to see whether you could use one of those for preference.

The crowd was hot and tired and absolutely unwilling to wait--they would rush the train before it stopped.

It’s okay to use the plural with “crowd” if you are considering it as a bunch of individuals, but it is absolutely not okay to use it with the singular and plural both in the same sentence. If the crowd was unwilling to wait, it would rush the train.

I also think “the moment it stopped” would work better. The crowd might surge but it won’t rush the train while it’s still moving. It might feel as though it will. Perhaps it would be better to phrase it that way.

He panicked. He edged his toes up to the yellow caution line stretching the length of the platform

Just say “the yellow line”. We all know that it stretches the length of the platform. Don’t overdescribe.

in anticipation of boarding. He was directly pushed absolutely over the boundary. He didn’t bother to try planting himself firmly in position--to push against a crowd was useless, the only outcome was

would be. “was” means that he actually did spill over the edge, but you mean he would if he did push back.

his spilling over the edge and onto the tracks. Instead, he eased himself over to a looser pocket at his left, still at the front of the crowd, without so much forward pressure. He looked left and right. Behind. It didn’t look as if

I prefer “as though” here. Use “as if” generally for impossibilities and “as though” for this kind of comparison.

he would be pulled backwards

If you use “surge forward”, you should use “pulled backward”. I assume you’re American, so you should prefer no “s” on these words.

--those nearby seemed now more interested in the train than him.

“than in him”. “than him” is colloquial for “than he was”, and is slightly ambiguous. Repeating the preposition removes the ambiguity entirely.

He figured his position safe.

It may be that I don’t like “figured” because I’m English, but I prefer “reckoned” in this kind of construction. “Figured” has the connotation “worked out” for me, and couldn’t be used for the sort of ready guess we are meaning here.

This was a commuter line at the start of a long holiday weekend, but it is

Was. There’s no reason to change tense here. The only time you would use a construction like this would be the case in which you are writing in the present tense and look back. I understand why you were tempted to do it: you feel that the thing you are describing is timeless. You are right but you use the main tense to express this. In an ordinary piece of fiction, that’s the simple past.

like this every day. Just today, in a small degree, he felt it keener.

“more keenly”. “keener” is a solecism here. You would write “he felt keener” if you meant he was more enthusiastic, but you mean that he felt it more sharply. Here’s a test to help you work out which form to use. Does the word in question describe the subject of the sentence or the action the subject does?

He felt keener. “Keener” describes him. He is more enthusiastic. It does not describe the manner of his feeling, or anything like that.
He felt more keenly. “more keenly” describes the action he does.

He was safe because the crowd was too busy guessing the exact moment the train would stop. To this, he also now turned his attention. He hoped futilely--if still all-the-more desperately, as if sheer eagerness might make it likely--that he would not end up caught yet again alongside the car, with either entrance stopped far to the side.

“futilely” does not seem right here. “Futile” basically means “without result” (in a concrete sense) but hoping rarely has a result in any case. I think you may have wanted “forlornly”.

Which leads me to one of my favourite etymologies. A “forlorn hope” is of course a pointless, sad hope. “Forlorn” means “sad, abandoned” in English. But a “forlorn hope” is derived from the Dutch for a small advance guard that is sent forwards before the main body of the army: “the lost troop” (because in the days of musketry, the first guys forward generally were mown down; those following were able to close with cold steel before the enemy could reload).

I don’t see any reason to hyphenate “all the more”. Hyphens are the devil’s business. Eschew them where possible and the angels will love you for it. Again, prefer “as though” because you are not expressing an impossibility.

As a matter of fact, a person who is used to catching the same train night after night will well know whether he will be next to a door when the train stops. They always stop in the same place after all.

If this were to happen,

“was to happen”. This is a clear conditional, not a counterfactual, and demands “was”.

his being at the front of the crowd wouldn’t matter.

I can forgive nearly every sin for a correctly possessed gerund. Top marks!

He wouldn’t have any luck squeezing along the car with the idea that he could come at the door sideways, wedging himself in front of whoever was about to enter. Yes, some people manage do to this.

Whoops! First, write “managed”. Again, even if you want to give the idea of habitual managing, you should use the past tense. Obviously, you have your to and do mixed up.

He knew this. He saw them, too.

No comma. You would not write "he saw them, quickly".

But he never had quite managed--he found his manners prevented him.

You could use a semicolon in place of that dash.

Not entirely, of course. He would move. Forward even. It’s just the distance was always the smallest bit further than he could reach.

First, use “it was”. Again, this should not be a present tense.

Many pedants would like “farther” here. Indulge them. Use “farther” when you are talking unambiguously about real distance; “further” when you are talking about metaphorical distance.

A door stopped in front of him.

“The train had stopped, a door in front of him.”
“The train stopped with a door in front of him.”
“The train stopped and a door was in front of him.”
The key idea is that the train stops, not the door.

A passenger stepped off the train and was lost to the crowd.

In the crowd. To be lost to someone or something means that they have or it has lost you, not that it has swallowed you up.

An elbow jabbed him--a flabby body squeezed by.

Prefer semicolons to dashes if you will not write two sentences here.

He boarded second

Who cares?

, and was pushed deep, deep into the interior of the car. They all pushed and pushed further still.

“still further” is both euphonous and more common. Again you might prefer "farther" anyway.

The seats were full when the train had arrived.

I don’t like this. The pluperfect seems a bit clumsy. Just write “The seats were all taken”.

There would be more than four times as many riding out.

Erm. Where the hell are you getting the train from? I’ve boarded the train at some busy stations, and maybe the crowd has doubled, but four times as many? Only when it was fairly sparsely populated to start with. Too much exaggeration in my view.

A few windows not yet flung open were opened. It heated up the thicker it crowded

First, do not write “thicker”. This should be “more thickly”. And “it” didn’t “crowd”. “it was crowded” is correct.

, all the same. Increasing pressure at a constant volume. Or some other such law.

All one sentence. Maybe consider a verb.

All he knew is

Was. Consider this. You meet Marcel. You know when you meet him he is French. He’s still French today, that won’t change. But what you write is “I knew when I met Marcel that he was French”.

it was damn hot.

Use “damned” in writing.

And crowded. He could not reach the handholds. When the train lurched forward, he found he didn’t need to. The crowd held him upright.
He thought it wasn’t too bad. There were those who were worse.

“worse off”

There were those, he thought, who were among the last on the train

“onto the train”. The last on the train is the last to get off, which is the wrong idea here.

, those who had to step off every stop to let through others who wanted out. It is better not to be one of those. It is better to be swallowed here, in the belly, as it were, than one of those. He pondered what they would be, if he were in the belly. They are they regurgitated.

Be careful to read your work back. If you often leave typos, get into the habit of reading it aloud.

The continually regurgitated. The never quite absorbed. The rancid, half-digested.

I quite liked these ideas.

He decided they were the most disgusting. Yet, he would prefer to be among them, than one needing to ask to be let out.

This sentence requires no commas at all.

He shook all this from his head and panted at the air in exhaustion.

You don’t “pant at the air”. You might “pant at a scantily clad woman”, but air is what you pant, not something you pant at. “He shook all this from his head, panting with exhaustion” is a natural way to express this.

What was the very worst

Just write “worst”. The very worst is the worst. There's none more worst than the worst.

about such crowding, even worse than the not breathing, is

was.

that he had no idea where to put his hands. No matter where he put them, he found they were on someone.
Slowly, he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. Slower still

More slowly still.

, he recognized it was speech.

“he recognized it as speech” would have been better. Or “he recognized that it was speech”. Be careful about eliding “that”, because the sentence you end up with may not be entirely readable. Err on the side of including it if you’re not sure.

The copyright in this story belongs to its author, whose right to be identified as the author I respect by affixing his name, and the story is posted here with the author’s permission, their rights reserved.

Untitled
The crowd behind him surged forward as the 233 Express pulled into the station. To stopping before such a mob, brakes shrieked in objection. The crowd was hot and tired and absolutely unwilling to wait--they would rush the train before it stopped. He panicked. He edged his toes up to the yellow caution line stretching the length of the platform in anticipation of boarding. He was directly pushed absolutely over the boundary. He didn’t bother to try planting himself firmly in position--to push against a crowd was useless, the only outcome was his spilling over the edge and onto the tracks. Instead, he eased himself over to a looser pocket at his left, still at the front of the crowd, without so much forward pressure. He looked left and right. Behind. It didn’t look as if he would be pulled backwards--those nearby seemed now more interested in the train than him. He figured his position safe.
This was a commuter line at the start of a long holiday weekend, but it is like this every day. Just today, in a small degree, he felt it keener.
He was safe because the crowd was too busy guessing the exact moment the train would stop. To this, he also now turned his attention. He hoped futilely--if still all-the-more desperately, as if sheer eagerness might make it likely--that he would not end up caught yet again alongside the car, with either entrance stopped far to the side. If this were to happen, his being at the front of the crowd wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t have any luck squeezing along the car with the idea that he could come at the door sideways, wedging himself in front of whoever was about to enter. Yes, some people manage do to this. He knew this. He saw them, too. But he never had quite managed--he found his manners prevented him. Not entirely, of course. He would move. Forward even. It’s just the distance was always the smallest bit further than he could reach.
A door stopped in front of him. A passenger stepped off the train and was lost to the crowd. An elbow jabbed him--a flabby body squeezed by. He boarded second, and was pushed deep, deep into the interior of the car. They all pushed and pushed further still. The seats were full when the train had arrived. There would be more than four times as many riding out. A few windows not yet flung open were opened. It heated up the thicker it crowded, all the same. Increasing pressure at a constant volume. Or some other such law. All he knew is it was damn hot. And crowded. He could not reach the handholds. When the train lurched forward, he found he didn’t need to. The crowd held him upright.
He thought it wasn’t too bad. There were those who were worse. There were those, he thought, who were among the last on the train, those who had to step off every stop to let through others who wanted out. It is better not to be one of those. It is better to be swallowed here, in the belly, as it were, than one of those. He pondered what they would be, if he were in the belly. They are they regurgitated. The continually regurgitated. The never quite absorbed. The rancid, half-digested. He decided they were the most disgusting. Yet, he would prefer to be among them, than one needing to ask to be let out. He shook all this from his head and panted at the air in exhaustion. What was the very worst about such crowding, even worse than the not breathing, is that he had no idea where to put his hands. No matter where he put them, he found they were on someone.
Slowly, he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. Slower still, he recognized it was speech.

efflux 2006

Workshop: Untitled

I don’t know much about efflux, except that he’s an intelligent sometimes commenter on my blog, so I was able to approach his work fresh, without preconceptions. Alongside his entry, he sent me a couple of other pieces of work, which were interesting (but I won’t go into them here).

I thought efflux made a brave stab at the assignment, for which I thank him for trying, and I commend him for achieving a nice mood piece. It had its failings – mainly technical faults that are easily remedied but importantly I felt that he missed the opportunity to create a good character. I could really feel the edginess and tension (and it hit home because I’ve been standing in these shoes so many times!) but I didn’t know the character. It would make a difficult tradeoff not to lard the piece with too much “interior monologue” (particularly given the constraint of not referring to the past over much) but a bit more flavour would have been good here.

Two major technical points, which efflux must remedy, and others should note. First, it’s essential to keep a tight grip on tense. If in doubt, use the simple past throughout. You’ll rarely be wrong. Mixing past and present will nearly always be wrong, as it was on every occasion here. Second, one should prefer “more xly” to “xer” when one is using a comparative adverb. For instance, “hotter” means “more hot”, not “more hotly”, so that “The sun shined hotter” is a solecism. We say it, that’s true, but we should avoid writing it. I’ll note the instances in the text and give the correct version.

The crowd behind him surged forward

Can a crowd surge any other way but forwards? Can it surge backwards or sideways? I think the word “surge” includes the idea of “forwards” (or “upwards”) and can be written without it. YMMV.

as the 233 Express pulled into the station. To stopping before such a mob, brakes shrieked in objection.

Oh dear. It is already a sin to write your sentences the wrong way round, as I’ve noted before, but the sense of this sentence is lost because “to” is so far separated from the “objection” it should accompany. Placing an element out of position in a sentence emphasises it. It’s called topicalisation, and it’s an important device in English. There is a difference in emphasis, for instance between “I like ice-cream” and “Ice-cream, I like”. But there is no good reason for topicalising what is objected to here, bar a desire to get fancy, and that is never really good reason for anything in writing. Even were the sentence fixed though, the problem would remain that it doesn’t make much sense for the brakes to object to stopping just because there is a mob. I don’t understand the idea.

I also have an unreasoning hatred of “such”, probably born out of its overuse in the things I edit, which tend to be jargon-heavy. “Such a” often means “this” or even “the”. Always check to see whether you could use one of those for preference.

The crowd was hot and tired and absolutely unwilling to wait--they would rush the train before it stopped.

It’s okay to use the plural with “crowd” if you are considering it as a bunch of individuals, but it is absolutely not okay to use it with the singular and plural both in the same sentence. If the crowd was unwilling to wait, it would rush the train.

I also think “the moment it stopped” would work better. The crowd might surge but it won’t rush the train while it’s still moving. It might feel as though it will. Perhaps it would be better to phrase it that way.

He panicked. He edged his toes up to the yellow caution line stretching the length of the platform

Just say “the yellow line”. We all know that it stretches the length of the platform. Don’t overdescribe.

in anticipation of boarding. He was directly pushed absolutely over the boundary. He didn’t bother to try planting himself firmly in position--to push against a crowd was useless, the only outcome was

would be. “was” means that he actually did spill over the edge, but you mean he would if he did push back.

his spilling over the edge and onto the tracks. Instead, he eased himself over to a looser pocket at his left, still at the front of the crowd, without so much forward pressure. He looked left and right. Behind. It didn’t look as if

I prefer “as though” here. Use “as if” generally for impossibilities and “as though” for this kind of comparison.

he would be pulled backwards

If you use “surge forward”, you should use “pulled backward”. I assume you’re American, so you should prefer no “s” on these words.

--those nearby seemed now more interested in the train than him.

“than in him”. “than him” is colloquial for “than he was”, and is slightly ambiguous. Repeating the preposition removes the ambiguity entirely.

He figured his position safe.

It may be that I don’t like “figured” because I’m English, but I prefer “reckoned” in this kind of construction. “Figured” has the connotation “worked out” for me, and couldn’t be used for the sort of ready guess we are meaning here.

This was a commuter line at the start of a long holiday weekend, but it is

Was. There’s no reason to change tense here. The only time you would use a construction like this would be the case in which you are writing in the present tense and look back. I understand why you were tempted to do it: you feel that the thing you are describing is timeless. You are right but you use the main tense to express this. In an ordinary piece of fiction, that’s the simple past.

like this every day. Just today, in a small degree, he felt it keener.

“more keenly”. “keener” is a solecism here. You would write “he felt keener” if you meant he was more enthusiastic, but you mean that he felt it more sharply. Here’s a test to help you work out which form to use. Does the word in question describe the subject of the sentence or the action the subject does?

He felt keener. “Keener” describes him. He is more enthusiastic. It does not describe the manner of his feeling, or anything like that.
He felt more keenly. “more keenly” describes the action he does.

He was safe because the crowd was too busy guessing the exact moment the train would stop. To this, he also now turned his attention. He hoped futilely--if still all-the-more desperately, as if sheer eagerness might make it likely--that he would not end up caught yet again alongside the car, with either entrance stopped far to the side.

“futilely” does not seem right here. “Futile” basically means “without result” (in a concrete sense) but hoping rarely has a result in any case. I think you may have wanted “forlornly”.

Which leads me to one of my favourite etymologies. A “forlorn hope” is of course a pointless, sad hope. “Forlorn” means “sad, abandoned” in English. But a “forlorn hope” is derived from the Dutch for a small advance guard that is sent forwards before the main body of the army: “the lost troop” (because in the days of musketry, the first guys forward generally were mown down; those following were able to close with cold steel before the enemy could reload).

I don’t see any reason to hyphenate “all the more”. Hyphens are the devil’s business. Eschew them where possible and the angels will love you for it. Again, prefer “as though” because you are not expressing an impossibility.

As a matter of fact, a person who is used to catching the same train night after night will well know whether he will be next to a door when the train stops. They always stop in the same place after all.

If this were to happen,

“was to happen”. This is a clear conditional, not a counterfactual, and demands “was”.

his being at the front of the crowd wouldn’t matter.

I can forgive nearly every sin for a correctly possessed gerund. Top marks!

He wouldn’t have any luck squeezing along the car with the idea that he could come at the door sideways, wedging himself in front of whoever was about to enter. Yes, some people manage do to this.

Whoops! First, write “managed”. Again, even if you want to give the idea of habitual managing, you should use the past tense. Obviously, you have your to and do mixed up.

He knew this. He saw them, too.

No comma. You would not write "he saw them, quickly".

But he never had quite managed--he found his manners prevented him.

You could use a semicolon in place of that dash.

Not entirely, of course. He would move. Forward even. It’s just the distance was always the smallest bit further than he could reach.

First, use “it was”. Again, this should not be a present tense.

Many pedants would like “farther” here. Indulge them. Use “farther” when you are talking unambiguously about real distance; “further” when you are talking about metaphorical distance.

A door stopped in front of him.

“The train had stopped, a door in front of him.”
“The train stopped with a door in front of him.”
“The train stopped and a door was in front of him.”
The key idea is that the train stops, not the door.

A passenger stepped off the train and was lost to the crowd.

In the crowd. To be lost to someone or something means that they have or it has lost you, not that it has swallowed you up.

An elbow jabbed him--a flabby body squeezed by.

Prefer semicolons to dashes if you will not write two sentences here.

He boarded second

Who cares?

, and was pushed deep, deep into the interior of the car. They all pushed and pushed further still.

“still further” is both euphonous and more common. Again you might prefer "farther" anyway.

The seats were full when the train had arrived.

I don’t like this. The pluperfect seems a bit clumsy. Just write “The seats were all taken”.

There would be more than four times as many riding out.

Erm. Where the hell are you getting the train from? I’ve boarded the train at some busy stations, and maybe the crowd has doubled, but four times as many? Only when it was fairly sparsely populated to start with. Too much exaggeration in my view.

A few windows not yet flung open were opened. It heated up the thicker it crowded

First, do not write “thicker”. This should be “more thickly”. And “it” didn’t “crowd”. “it was crowded” is correct.

, all the same. Increasing pressure at a constant volume. Or some other such law.

All one sentence. Maybe consider a verb.

All he knew is

Was. Consider this. You meet Marcel. You know when you meet him he is French. He’s still French today, that won’t change. But what you write is “I knew when I met Marcel that he was French”.

it was damn hot.

Use “damned” in writing.

And crowded. He could not reach the handholds. When the train lurched forward, he found he didn’t need to. The crowd held him upright.
He thought it wasn’t too bad. There were those who were worse.

“worse off”

There were those, he thought, who were among the last on the train

“onto the train”. The last on the train is the last to get off, which is the wrong idea here.

, those who had to step off every stop to let through others who wanted out. It is better not to be one of those. It is better to be swallowed here, in the belly, as it were, than one of those. He pondered what they would be, if he were in the belly. They are they regurgitated.

Be careful to read your work back. If you often leave typos, get into the habit of reading it aloud.

The continually regurgitated. The never quite absorbed. The rancid, half-digested.

I quite liked these ideas.

He decided they were the most disgusting. Yet, he would prefer to be among them, than one needing to ask to be let out.

This sentence requires no commas at all.

He shook all this from his head and panted at the air in exhaustion.

You don’t “pant at the air”. You might “pant at a scantily clad woman”, but air is what you pant, not something you pant at. “He shook all this from his head, panting with exhaustion” is a natural way to express this.

What was the very worst

Just write “worst”. The very worst is the worst. There's none more worst than the worst.

about such crowding, even worse than the not breathing, is

was.

that he had no idea where to put his hands. No matter where he put them, he found they were on someone.
Slowly, he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. Slower still

More slowly still.

, he recognized it was speech.

“he recognized it as speech” would have been better. Or “he recognized that it was speech”. Be careful about eliding “that”, because the sentence you end up with may not be entirely readable. Err on the side of including it if you’re not sure.

The copyright in this story belongs to its author, whose right to be identified as the author I respect by affixing his name, and the story is posted here with the author’s permission, their rights reserved.

Untitled
The crowd behind him surged forward as the 233 Express pulled into the station. To stopping before such a mob, brakes shrieked in objection. The crowd was hot and tired and absolutely unwilling to wait--they would rush the train before it stopped. He panicked. He edged his toes up to the yellow caution line stretching the length of the platform in anticipation of boarding. He was directly pushed absolutely over the boundary. He didn’t bother to try planting himself firmly in position--to push against a crowd was useless, the only outcome was his spilling over the edge and onto the tracks. Instead, he eased himself over to a looser pocket at his left, still at the front of the crowd, without so much forward pressure. He looked left and right. Behind. It didn’t look as if he would be pulled backwards--those nearby seemed now more interested in the train than him. He figured his position safe.
This was a commuter line at the start of a long holiday weekend, but it is like this every day. Just today, in a small degree, he felt it keener.
He was safe because the crowd was too busy guessing the exact moment the train would stop. To this, he also now turned his attention. He hoped futilely--if still all-the-more desperately, as if sheer eagerness might make it likely--that he would not end up caught yet again alongside the car, with either entrance stopped far to the side. If this were to happen, his being at the front of the crowd wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t have any luck squeezing along the car with the idea that he could come at the door sideways, wedging himself in front of whoever was about to enter. Yes, some people manage do to this. He knew this. He saw them, too. But he never had quite managed--he found his manners prevented him. Not entirely, of course. He would move. Forward even. It’s just the distance was always the smallest bit further than he could reach.
A door stopped in front of him. A passenger stepped off the train and was lost to the crowd. An elbow jabbed him--a flabby body squeezed by. He boarded second, and was pushed deep, deep into the interior of the car. They all pushed and pushed further still. The seats were full when the train had arrived. There would be more than four times as many riding out. A few windows not yet flung open were opened. It heated up the thicker it crowded, all the same. Increasing pressure at a constant volume. Or some other such law. All he knew is it was damn hot. And crowded. He could not reach the handholds. When the train lurched forward, he found he didn’t need to. The crowd held him upright.
He thought it wasn’t too bad. There were those who were worse. There were those, he thought, who were among the last on the train, those who had to step off every stop to let through others who wanted out. It is better not to be one of those. It is better to be swallowed here, in the belly, as it were, than one of those. He pondered what they would be, if he were in the belly. They are they regurgitated. The continually regurgitated. The never quite absorbed. The rancid, half-digested. He decided they were the most disgusting. Yet, he would prefer to be among them, than one needing to ask to be let out. He shook all this from his head and panted at the air in exhaustion. What was the very worst about such crowding, even worse than the not breathing, is that he had no idea where to put his hands. No matter where he put them, he found they were on someone.
Slowly, he became aware of a buzzing in his ear. Slower still, he recognized it was speech.

efflux 2006

Cheney reaction

Shrieking lunacy obviously runs in the Cheney family. What is a bit scary is that this nutter, who believes America faces an "existential threat" from the Iraqis who are simply trying to make Yankee go home, was once employed by the government to formulate policy on the "Near East".

I note this:

Brave activists are also standing with us, fighting for freedom of speech, freedom of religion, the empowerment of women.

Yes, and if they're lucky, our "allies" just flog them, rather than beheading them.

And this:

We will have to fight these terrorists to the death somewhere, sometime. We can't negotiate with them or "solve" their jihad.

Wrong on both counts. We could just leave their country and stop killing them. And you can always negotiate with people who want something. Furthermore, Cheney makes the mistake, if it's an accident, often made by rightists, of confusing "dreams" for "plans". As I noted in my previous post on the SOTU, what you might like in the ideal world and what you think feasible are two different things. Only the latter is a problem, unless you want to fight a war on pipedreams.

Shite of the Union

President Bush's latest State of the Onion was the usual jokefest, utterly divorced from reality. Time prevents fisking the whole thing -- and I don't really have anything new to say that anyone sane doesn't already think. But I thought this (about AQ) was priceless:

Our enemies are quite explicit about their intentions. They want to overthrow moderate governments, and establish safe havens from which to plan and carry out new attacks on our country.

AQ's primary targets are and always have been Saudi Arabia and Egypt. It's interesting that Bush considers these "moderate" governments. Ascribing wider aims to AQ is dodgy: its operatives have not even been involved in attacks on Israel, let alone anywhere else. Nearly all of AQ and similar Islamist groups' activities have been in Muslim countries, aimed at overthrowing the current regimes or, in the cases of Indonesia and the Philippines, at creating secessionist Muslim states. The US made itself a target for the Islamists: not just because of its unquestioning support -- moral, political and financial -- for Israel but because of its backing for some of the world's most horrible despots: Mubarak, the Sauds, Saddam.

And is that what AQ wants? To overthrow governments and set up safe havens to attack the US from? Erm, no. Where Islamists have succeeded, in Somalia, America attacked them, not the other way round. In Somalia, the Islamic courts brought a measure of peace (at a price). America backed an Ethiopian invasion. (Why Ethiopia would want to invade Somalia is another question but it's connected to having a large ethnic Somali majority in one of its regions, which just happens to have a commodity everyone wants: join the dots and see whether it strikes you why the US doesn't want people who despise it to be in power in Somalia.) The Afghanistani AQ training camps were not all that important to it because it did and still does a lot of its training in Pakistan: a US ally that has another of those "moderate" governments. (So why invade Afghanistan? Clearly, revenge for 9/11 was a motive; as was eliminating AQ members -- although, as I've noted, they were generally active in Middle Eastern nations and in other places in which Muslims have been oppressed, such as Bosnia and Chechnya, not against the US. However, more importantly, the Taliban was not keen on an American pipeline leading from some of our Central Asian friends -- again with those "moderate" dictatorshi^H^H^H^governments that we love so much -- to the sea. Rather than negotiate with them, at some cost, the US decided it would be simpler to change negotiating partners and get the deal done more cheaply. If you think this is too cynical a view of geopolitics, you need to get out a bit more.)

Indeed, AQ wants something arguably a lot less malign than Bush makes out (the "arguably" is important because I don't at all believe that an Islamist state would be a "good thing": after all, I love pop music, dancing and drinking. And women. And I don't like having a beard). Its chief aim remains to remove the dictators that blight the majority Sunni nations of the Middle East. AQ was born in Egypt as a radical movement to overturn the secular government there. It was involved in Afghanistan as part of the fight to rid that country of the Soviets and their puppets. Otherwise, it has fought against the Saudis and other Arab emirates in the Gulf. It's become common to paint AQ as a Sunni extremist organisation (because that is how the neocons are trying to spin it now: not naughty Islam but naughty Sunni, naughty Shia; as if there were a plain vanilla Islam that was okay!) but it does not on the whole target others on a sectarian basis (the power struggle in Saudi Arabia that it is part of is between different types of Sunnis).

And to suggest that its aim is world domination is plain silly. Of course there are people who would like everyone in the world to be Muslim. They think being Muslim is a good thing. There are people who would like everyone in the world to be Christian; they think that you will suffer eternal pain if you are not, so that it's an act of kindness to help you convert. But there's a huge gap between "it would be great if you were all Xists" and "I'm going to bomb everywhere until you are all Xists", which Bush -- who himself probably thinks we should all subscribe to his brand of X -- ignores, or pretends to. Like most of us, AQ is interested in its own shit. It's not very interested in our shit, so long as we keep our shit out of its shit.

It may be that we do not believe we should keep our shit out of others' shit. We might even believe that we have a right to involve ourselves if that is the best route in our view to securing our way of life (and interfering in the Middle East may well be necessary to keeping ourselves rich). But we should know that so long as we do, we will have to deal with these nutters, and pretending that they are the bad boys, when it's us who's bringing the shit, will ring hollow, as it did in this speech and all the others like it.

Just unjust

Here is something so plain wrong that it will make you cringe.

A young man, not a particularly nice guy but still, how many 17-year-olds are nice guys, had his whacker tallied by some babe at a party. The chick was into it: she had just finished blowing some other guy.

Maybe he knew she was 15; maybe he didn't. But he didn't rape, attack or hurt her. Still, he got 10 years for it.

The prosecutor offered him a plea, but if he took it, he could not live at home with his younger sister. The prosecutor is the only person who thinks he should still be in jail, refusing to set aside his sentence until the guy admits he's a sinner and begs forgiveness.

***

Why care?

I believe in the concept of justice. Too much so, because it's to your own detriment to believe in a fair deal if you are equipped to get more than your share, because that belief can lead you not to snatch it. But I do. I believe it should be the shield that protects the weak from the strong, the good from the bad. I believe it should be a kind, protective arm, not a club to batter us into submission.

But it isn't. Not in this world. It is a tool for people to get what they want, whatever it is they want, and only rarely does it serve the mass of us. Of course, the notion that any one of us will be impartial is hopeful at best but that does not mean one cannot look on without wishing that we would try harder.

What I'm asking myself

How am I going to make a living?

I do make a living of sorts. But just barely. Not in money terms: I did okay last year. But in terms of satisfaction, desire to do it, enjoyment: these are all forgotten, hopeless dreams. I have tons of ideas how I could diversify my income, but they all seem like uphill struggles, doomed to failure. This is not the voice of defeatism; I'm just not able to see how I would turn anything I could feasibly do into money -- most markets are already chockers with blaggers and bullshitters, and those are skills I've never mastered.

How can you love someone without nurturing them?

People throw the word around but if love doesn't mean "I want to give you something", what does it mean? The only people who ever love me are those who think that it means they should drain my oil, take what they need and leave me empty and gasping, up to my knees in sand. I am in a wasteland here; but what can I do? If I reach out, I am slapped back; not even slapped back -- the reaching hand is simply ignored.

I know, you think it's me. Anyone reading this will be thinking, it's you though. But it isn't. I am just who I am. If you love me, you are not loving a mirage; I don't shift and change. Maybe you do. If you are thinking this question translates into my whining "why isn't X spending time on me when I need it?" and you might be X, you are almost certainly right. I am strong but even the toughest needs caring for just occasionally.

Where can I hide?

I have acquired a whole life that I do not want and all I think about is digging a hole and hiding. I do everything from a sense of responsibility and nothing from any desire to.

When I was a teenager, I became convinced that I must be from another planet, because everyone was just fucking horrible and no one seemed to mind. I couldn't understand why they didn't mind it. No one was happy; no one was fulfilled; yet they could have been. They could have anything they wanted (if only they knew what they wanted). I wondered whether there was anywhere that I could go that wouldn't be so chockful with these aliens, who minded things that didn't matter and ignored things that did. (But when I went to the Magic Kingdom, aka London, I found that it was the same story, but with added mindlessness.)

Now I've realised. They didn't mind because minding is worse. Minding drowns you, crushes you. You don't become any happier. It's better to distract yourself by minding stuff that doesn't matter because minding what does will kill you quickly.

Should I let my children eat meat?

Zenella has become fat. She doesn't eat anything that would in a reasonable world pass as food. Mrs Zen can't cook and can't learn. (I first wrote "won't learn" but I suppose it's that she is incapable of learning more than that she wouldn't.) It's a real struggle to make a balanced diet for children who snub anything in the slightest healthy. Like all kids her age, Zenella has been seduced by Maccas. Good intentions go for nothing when other parents (including Mrs Zen) take your kids to places you don't want them taken and so they become addicted. I admit that I have been lax. I am no longer anything resembling a good father. I mostly look on in horror at my children. They have too much negativity in their lives. I do not know how to fix that. (Yes, I know. Be less negative. If it were that easy, we'd all be shiny happy whatsits, wouldn't we?)

I am thinking that I should just let Mrs Zen feed them all fish fingers. I should eat them myself. I hate food. I hate eating. I prefer crisps and sweets too. Nothing here tastes very nice. Eating out is a nightmare: anywhere that does bother with a "vegetarian option" (yes, you English types can forget the paradise of restaurants that actually have choices for veggies) doesn't bother making it edible. (Veggie stacks are not food. Aubergines are not meant to be made into pancakes. If they were, God would have arranged for chickens to lay them.)

We are all fat. It's impossible to stay thin. I live in urban sprawl so I drive. Anywhere I want to go is too far to walk. You can't just go outside. Half an hour outside and I'm sunburnt for three days.

Should I start smoking again?

I put on weight when I gave up smoking, which was bad. But what was worse was that I stopped being even close to sane. I spend my whole life on edge. I cannot calm down unless I'm doing something mindless -- so most of my life I do mindless, unproductive things.

And I'm no healthier, because I drink instead.

If I could magically restrict myself to ten a day, I'd start again tomorrow. But I know that I'd be up to thirty before a month was out.

And no, I cannot fix the underlying causes instead. I'd rather smoke than go there. Cheers.

Some stuff

I'm a huge fan of Bjork and this video says it all about her. Brave, inventive and demented.

I have weak web design skills, which I should really boost up, because it's very portable, lucrative work. This resource could be helpful in that quest, but it does go to show how much there is to learn.

More usefully, here are a ton of ways to make things happen in CSS. Come on. You know you want to look nice. If anyone feels the urge to try out their skills on this site, I'll undertake to use any design you come up with.

iPods are the best thing since sliced bread. Almost as good as French bread, actually. One of their downsides though is that the music on them can't be transferred and adding music from more than one source can be awkward. Sharepod provides functionality to do that. I haven't tried it yet but it looks eminently useable.

One shouldn't laugh at foreigners' attempts to render English, particularly if we struggle to learn even the first word of their language, but I was in stitches reading a Chinglish menu on this site. Click on "may I take your order" if you want something surreal to eat.

This is fantastic, a brilliant study of the grammatical structure of "fuck you". It's in the great tradition of academics that might be called "serious parody". A practitioner uses the techniques of his discipline to examine something to comic effect. You probably need some background in linguistics to get the joke but it's still a good read. The man responsible is a legend in linguistics; a maverick who took on the dominant paradigm (and lost) with great verve and humour.

Anyone who surfs the web even a little bit can find pr0n. The place is swimming in it. Dr Zen does not link to ordinary pr0n sites because, well, you can get your own. (If you're struggling to find sites that don't trap you in a nightmare of popups and dumpers, try one of these.) But I will pass on interesting sites if I stumble across them, and this is one. This is very much in the pr0n as art school, so you can rub one out while you're pretending to explore the human condition (tumescent, once you get about halfway down). Some of it is quite stunning (and nearly all is completely NSFW). A question does arise: we all know that pr0nography exploits women, but is that okay when you are creating art?

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Victory in Najaf

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Sick of thinking

Classic cuts

Classic cuts

Monday, January 29, 2007

Brava

Bark your Shins

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Discarded boots

Ruminations

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Into it

U who?

U who?

Friday, January 26, 2007

Brutal callousness

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Workshop: Stalemate

Workshop: Stalemate

Workshop: Untitled

Workshop: Untitled

Cheney reaction

Shite of the Union

Just unjust

What I'm asking myself

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Some stuff

This month's posts