05/18/2012

Is a story action and adventure?  Activity?

We fight.  Mainly to kill each other over what we want.

But a cemetery is so calm.  Grass grows over a memorial granite stone and birds sing in a wood surrounding a quiet sun-dappled clearing featuring an ornate eight-sided gazebo which is lighted at night.

Stately firs, oaks and maples stand sentry in this pleasant-looking glade.  A high-ceilinged, gable-roofed, single-level library rests on a hillside opposite the wooded gazebo background.

Ants toil in their nests below volcano-like mounds in the mortar cracks around the octagonal stone set in the center of the gazebo.  This writer walks to the steps leading down, stepping over different-sized black ants to squat down to read the date on the memorial stone.  Sept. 30, 1979.  A couple had paid to build the gazebo, it seemed.  The writer wondered if they lived yet.

Small red maple tree & other nice accent plants adorn the gazebo.  Mulch.

Three millstones-turned tables are situated around this shaded tree-populated place off the side of the library’s asphalt parking area.

One unused picnic table rests under a large pine.  “I sit on the second millstone,” the writer writes, looking around at the agreeable surroundings.  Two mail boxes-turned-book drops stand alongside the entry drive, in front of the sidewalk to the library front doors.   The writer checks his cheap cell phone for the time: 2:32 p.m. Salestarts at three.

Bird sounds.  Briefly, breeze in the moving leaves, then stillness again.  Distant traffic sounds.  Insects fly around the writer’s head.  He removes his hat to discourage any biting insects.  The library condensing unit kicks in, fan blowing hot air at tender shoots of a nearby tree.

Two birds in the sky, up there, seen through openings in the trees.  Not one cloud.  Mid-seventies in the shade.  Mid-80s in the sun.

The writer walks to his car to put away his spiral notebook and grab his things for the book sale.

*

Sitting on the second millstone again, the writer says, then writes, “Greedy pickers.”  My guess, he continues to himself, is that they got in beforehand, somehow.  Oh well.

One Queen Picker, a giant, bespeckled woman, has just driven away from the back door to the sale.  She’d loaded her bunch of books out the side and took off.

“This is where I dump my books.” She said in line, five minutes before the sale started.   “It’s where I unload my inventory I don’t move,” she explained.  She boasted that her husband had last taken 100 books to this library.

The writer is at his car now, finishing the last couple sentences in the half-shade before his car.  A fly kept pestering him at the millstone.  He’s sworn, after swatting with his hat for the fifth time.

“I don’t smell that bad,” he’s said aloud to the fly.  Standing, he looked around and saw a black fly-covered bundle at the base of the fir tree near the millstone, less than  ten feet away.  Dead crow, covered with crawling flies.  “I bet that does, though,” he said and walked off, somewhat disgusted, thinking of what the flies had been eating before landing in his hair.

We’re all in this aquarium together, he thought, swatting dead a flying beetle that had landed on his right chest front.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

This is from a friend who ordered my book when it first came out.  I told her a few days ago in an email that I hadn’t sold a million copies yet and she replied:

“It is a rather large book Dave.

What is your main objective in writing it? For you own benefit, as a road map for others, as a teaching tool on spiritual ways and means??”

My answer (what I actually said to my friend is different) would have been:

I don’t think I’ll prune any more branches from my epitaph.  I haven’t found many people to relate to in this life, but I have found them.  This book is for them.  My mind is an unusual tree, but it’s me.

Portrait’s title is as close a description of what this book is about as I can make it: the portrayal of a person who sought life’s meaning.  A portrait is not any single blob of paint.  So my book is all of the things you mentioned; it is for my own benefit, of course, as well as a roadmap for others and a “teaching tool” on spiritual ways and means.

I don’t think people need others like they think they do.  Many people seem to need an example.  Monkey see, monkey do.  When we see something that matches us…

I wanted to show how I was inspired to follow the beat of my own drum and offer encouragement to others who are seeking their ultimate answer.

Portrait is absolutely imperfect because it reflects something eternally susceptible to improvement—me.  Yet I think these prints of mine in the snow are also perfect, because they tell my story.

If I ever find I want to write something blatantly instructive, I’ll put together one or two pages and post it.  Better yet, I’ll invite anyone to email me and this is what I would invariably say to them:

This is your life.  None of us matter in the end to you, and none of us are right about your life, but you.  I know an answer exists for me; and because this is true for me, I suspect it is possible for you.  I hope that you will try to find out.

I wanted to make Portrait a reality while I could; too many years had gone by with just the idea of this book bobbing around in my head.  This can become terminal; I know that most books, like the proverbial captain, go down with their ship.  Steer your own boat.

I think certain people will read Portrait.

 

I saw my friend in the wind-gentled sun’s reflection of the river as I sat on the concrete pier.

A goose honked from a creek’s mouth downstream.

I watched it fly, briefly, while poisoning myself with my next breath.

Finding this paper in my wallet, I started to write my eulogy.

Are you in the sky, or down there, I thought.

I knew the answer.

Hello, I thought to my friend, whose final battle with life I’d been honored enough to witness.

He was so calm.  So shocked into silence.

“No Swimming and No Alcohol,” said a sign facing the water from a banded-together stand of treated timber.

Bill swam and drank—a lot.

I imagined the days of his years on a boat in the waves.

In the pages of his final chapter, he sequestered himself in his block house second floor apartment to “find Ultimate Truth,” he said.

You never could tell if he was joking;

his amused expression never told you the truth.

“I found Ultimate Truth in January,” he said, “while under anesthesia for my broken ankle.”

“Well,” I asked, “what is it?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said.  “You have to find it out for yourself.”

I pause in writing this.

A passing fishing boat has sent rows of waves toward me, rocking Bill’s reflection, dividing it into many.

The wind picks up, then slacks.

Bill’s shining light coalesces back into a single place on the calming surface of the water.

My page is filled.

I will read this to other friends, I think,

but first, I will poison myself one more time… for Bill; for me.

Goodbye.

He’s smiling down there, in the bubbles.

And shining.

In Memoriam:

Meeting of the Minds (M&M) Philosophy group regular, William R. Gates, 67, of Moundsville, West Virginia, has graduated from the school of life.  He attended our Tuesday evening meetings during these past six years at the Ohio County Public Library in Wheeling.  He is a friend, and honored us—those of us who remain—by dying a week ago on Tuesday.  I imagine that he made his exit while we watched and discussed another friend’s recent documentary, Meetings with Remarkable Women in the “board room” meeting place in the library’s basement.

I wish we had known.

I wrote this eulogy exactly where I said I did, at Heritage Port, in Wheeling, the same afternoon I’d heard of his departure.  I haven’t changed it.  That day, I went down to the water and burned tobacco in remembrance of Bill.  He’d told me once of years he’d spent in Southern Florida on a boat.  Bill has a talent for unbelievable tales and always seems mildly amused by something.

Down at the river last Tuesday, I wondered about him, and where he might be now that he’s gone—then I looked down at the sun shining up from the surface of the river in front of my dangling feet.  There.  Here.

Later, three of us regulars ended up our meeting early, drove to the river at sunset and raised our makeshift glasses to a departed friend on the path.

Farewell, Bill.

Portrait of a Seeker: Born to Wonder (by the author of this blog) is in bookstores as you read.  Over the next several weeks, Portrait will be listed in catalogs and you can order it from any brick & mortar or online book seller in the English speaking world and beyond.

You can order a copy on Amazon now.

From Portrait of a Seeker’s description:

“I painted this sandcastle in one long summer day because I’ve watched other ‘books,’ unwritten and unread, falling into holes and thought, ‘What a shame—no one will ever know what they knew.’”

The author of Portrait of a Seeker writes about the meaning of life and thinks he found it. He has a view that he wants to share: “I believe every self-aware creature should be allowed to find its place.”

In Portrait you will find short stories, poetry, journal entries, correspondence with others seeking meaning, accounts of living in America and overseas, anecdotes of idealistic undertakings and a unique love story. This book is an impression left in the soft mud of existence. A million years from now, Weimer muses, an archeologist might uncover its fossilized, unreadable form and wonder briefly…

Thank you for your patience these past few years.  Now that it’s done, I will no longer post excerpts from Portrait as a book-in-the-works.  I’m working  currently on my second short story in an upcoming collection called Beyond Still.

Note: Soon you’ll be able to “Look Inside” when you check out Portrait’s listing on Amazon.

This is the cover of my book, Portrait of a Seeker: Born to Wonder.  As soon as I do a final “Eproof” with the printer, One and Only Press will be announcing the release of its first book.  At long last.

 

Andrée is painting this portrait-in-the-works for the cover, from a photo taken in Brittany, France, 2010.

Portrait of a Seeker: Born to Wonder

Destiny, Idealism, 

Living Internationally

and my Search for Meaning 

                     by David W. Weimer

This book is “done.”  The reason for the quotation marks is that nothing is ever done, I just stop working on it…

A shorter, more focused version of Portrait is considering entering this world in Spring 2012.  More on that later.

For now, I’ve just sent a 575-page manuscript to Cindy, a kind, kind friend, who is helping me typeset this book in preparation for a galley printing of the same, in November, this year.

By the first of December 2011, a long-awaited book will be available for purchase at an Amazon.com website near you!  Hip, hip, hooray!

This is from my upcoming book, Portrait of a Seeker, excerpted from correspondence with a friend.  I printed two sample copies of Portrait today; man is it big–it’s a phone book!  A galley proof will come out next month (after proofreading and typesetting) and a first edition printing is scheduled for the first of December.  Contact me for more information. -DW  

 

I feel that I have lived my potential; I accomplished something that I was born to do. It was accomplished. Not by me. I’m not the director; I’m a bystander observer. I was born to be a dreamer, a wonderer of things. I’m not implying a designer’s intentions in my makeup, although it could be there. It is just apparent that I am a certain shape and color. Fat people are fat, etc. I have always, always looked for the deep, true meaning of everything. I always felt that IT, the answer, the real reality, was there, somewhere, but people seemed contented chasing after stuff that I was convinced they knew didn’t matter.

That’s part of it, she said.  Living to reproduce.  A matter of course.  To have children and a family and to be a parent and grandparent… all part of living.  That sounds so normal, logical, so right…

Super Bowl, morning paper, evening news, the weather, favorite shows on TV, going to the movies, putting gas in the car, paying bills, taxes, beer and pizza, calling family at Christmas and Thanksgiving, birthdays, big breakfast on Saturday morning, corn flakes, coffee, toast, bagel, grocery shopping, snow sledding, diapers, life insurance, check-ups, hospitals, convenience stores, malls, beef jerky, McDonalds, traveling, headaches, feeling angry, guilty, sad, happy, daydreaming, sleeping in, dreaming, going to the bathroom at home, restroom at restaurant, eating out occasionally, reading a book, telling the time, turning on a light in the morning, radios in cars, favorite music groups, cassettes, CDs, radio stations, eggs, milk, butter, lottery tickets, Sunday papers, pet dogs, zoos, recycling, Styrofoam, magazines, snow storms, rain, thunder-lightening, mowing the lawn, flowers, birds chirping, mosquito bites, flies, earth worms, fishing, barbeque, iced tea, Kool-Aid, Band-Aids, wrist watches, painted fingernails, pantyhose, alarm clocks, VCRs, video rental, Chinese food, exercise, football, basketball, hockey, baseball, horse racing, car racing, best seller, TV guide, cable TV, space shuttle, satellite, bright sun, moon at night, crickets, grass hoppers, deer hunting, rabbit, license plates, voting, cigarette butts, beer cans, Doritos, tooth decay, broken bones, cuts, scabs, toenails, haircuts, eyeglasses, contact lenses, baldness, wrinkles, hearing aids, bras, pants, shoes, dresses, coats, boots, gloves, hats, basketballs, quarters, spoons, lighters, matches, fireplaces, electricity, phone booths, vacuum cleaners, pencils, pens, antennae, tools, power saw, drill, hacksaw, crow bar, spare tire, concrete, asphalt, stop signs, stop lights, leaves, snow, wind, rain, bats, safety pins, vitamins, razor blades, tooth brushes, books, paperbacks, hardcover, posters, bookmarks, cardboard, plastic, wood paneling, nails, engine oil, semi truck trailers, blenders, coffee machines, coke machines, vending machines, tests, diplomas, classes, teachers, students, desks, chalkboards, glass windows, screen doors, light bulbs, famous, poor, rich, honor, coward, war, fighting, army, cannons, guns, bullets, shouting, boots, knives, stabbing, eat, sleep, bomb, weight bench, house plants, buttons, zippers, fans, sewing machines, filing cabinet, belt, underwear, neck ties, scarf, car keys, death, crying, laughing, shouting, breathing, hearing, listening, writing, telling, asking, answering, feeling, believing, remembering, wondering, silence, finishing.

David W. Weimer (c) 1992

When I’m walking near the fence line I’m working on, I feel the heat radiating up from the grass, twenty degrees more than the mid-90s air.  It feels like I’m walking in an open oven.  I breathe in, and the air is hot in my lungs.  I pace myself, in order to not drop from the heat.  I feel like I’m a deep sea diver on the bottom of the ocean or an astronaut trudging along the “magnificent desolation” of the surface of the moon inside my spacesuit.  In the 4×4 “Mule” parked up the hill over there, on the other side of the fence, is my water cooler, resting against a chainsaw on the metal floor of the vehicle.  It’s filled with ice and colder-than-imaginable water.  When I get to the hot bench seat and sit, I hold the small blue container over my head, letting the water pour down my throat.  I can stand only three large gulps of the nearly frozen liquid at a time—pouring the arctic into a volcano.