Monthly Archives: July 2013

Drive Like A Man

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I’m really not a very good driver.

It’s once a week at least that I get that sour-stomach, adrenaline-blood-tingle reaffirmation of the Buddhist precept that death comes suddenly and without warning (let alone a courtesy honk). I drive a minimum of 80 miles a day on the 101, so I’d like to say these things are just par for the rush-hour course, but most of them are my fault.

I first suspected this conductive ineptitude around age ten, when I sensed Big Al’s reluctance to let me drive the boat, even in the open, calm, deep-water back bays of Lake of the Woods. It became painfully obvious (literally) the next summer when I slammed the Grumman into the dock because its imminent approach freaked me out and I couldn’t let go of the throttle on the 10hp outboard. I’m clumsy at best on a John Deere Gator, a liability on a jet ski, and a veritable threat on a forklift. I can ruin a hedge and make onlookers scatter just by climbing into the seat of a ride-on lawnmower. Snowmobiles flee before me of their own accord.

Pic: www.midamericaauctions.com

Deceptively death-trappy. For reals.
Pic: www.midamericaauctions.com

And forget about dirt bikes – my friends all kicked ass on them and I couldn’t even shift out of first. Seriously. And I’m talking 90cc Hondas that like blind eight-year-old girls get around on just fine.

I’ve been in stupid wrecks and dumb fender-benders and gotten hit turning left in front of people and sticking too far out into traffic. I’ve knocked side mirrors and crushed my passenger door against a telephone pole taking a corner too tight. Hiding beer at 17 (the worst possible time to do something stupid), I three-point-turned my way into a bush and every Austin-Powers-point-turn-attempt after that to extricate myself just wedged me deeper and deeper. I’ve even rear-ended my own mother driving like a reckless jerk.

A lot of this has to do with my serious spatial awareness problems, for one. Not “serious” as in I have some advanced neurological deficiency, but as in I’m just plain bad at knowing where cars or other objects are and how fast they’re coming or going. This contributes to an already high level of anxiety over the fact that I’m hurtling a ton.5 of metal around white and yellow lines that seem more or less arbitrarily scrawled across expanses of slick black pavement – or whatever the vehicle at whatever speed on whatever surface.

But I’m also competitive, and impatient and retaliatory, which can make me forget my anxiety altogether and pretend I’m Ayrton Senna (great biopic of him, by the way) — like I did Tuesday evening through Decker Canyon.

I mean, if anything's gonna bring out your Niki Lauda, this is gonna bring out your Niki Lauda. Pic: flickr user digammo

If this don’t bring out your inner Niki Lauda, you ain’t got no inner Niki Lauda.
Pic: flickr user digammo

Despite this overwhelming evidence of my crappy-driverness, it’s not an easy thing to admit.

I’ve been thinking about the implications of this admission, though, and it seemed worth writing about.

For most of my life, I’ve believed that one’s masculinity was linked to what proportion of one’s blood was gasoline. Driving’s a skill, and a super-macho skill, and I wanted it. Bad. I grew up on Steve McQueen movies, and that image of Bullitt in his 1968 Mustang GT fastback is about as Marlboro Man as they come for me.

But, Q.E.D., my blood-octane levels are actually pretty low, so this Steve McQueenism is actually responsible for 83% of my lifelong feelings of inadequacy.

bullit

Thanks, Steve.
Thanks a lot.

The incomparable Jim Blaylock once told a group of us that his father used to say, “The more letters a guy has behind his name, the less likely he is to be able to change a tire.”

Now, despite having bought a Chilton AND a Haynes for every car I’ve owned, I’ve yet to loosen so much as a single nut under the hood of my own car, and I know what Jim and his dad mean by that. (I do change my own tires, though. Really. They’re, uh, not under the hood.) I’ve mentioned this before At The Wellhead, but it’s apropos here, too, so I’m repeating it: Tom McGuane, author of Nothing But TomMcGuaneBlue Skies and Ninety-two In the Shade and liver of the outdoors life described in his essay collections The Longest Silence and Some Horses, said in the intro to the latter that he never wanted to be “one of those writers with soft hands,” and he obviously accomplished that and set the bar about nine times as high as I can reach on a stool.

Plenty has been written about the legacy and pitfalls of this mantle of American Literary Macho, a primogenitor of which was ole Papa Hemingway himself, so I’m not going to belabor that point any more than to say this whole driving/cars thing fits into a much bigger fucking massive morass of expectations and preconceptions that I don’t remember picking up but that I’ve clung to and that has influenced my behavior and worldview for as long as I can remember.

But anyway, this post was supposed to be about getting beyond all that,

and I’m happy to report that I’m starting to see the benefit of copping to my sanguinary-octane deficiency. Driving and fixing cars is simply not my path to rough-hand macho-sleek-chic masculinity.

In fact, maybe – just maybe – über masculinity of any kind’s not what I’m after, after all.

Which is probably another not-shock to people who know me, but let’s all take a second, shall we, to remember that most of the time we’re the last ones to know the most obvious things about ourselves.

Practically speaking, this awareness may keep me from spending an absurd amount of money on, say, a Bugatti. Because despite how amazing it’d feel to have a thousand-and-one horses under my feet, I’d not double-clutch or whatever you have to do with that ridiculous of a car and drop the tranny, or hit the gas like it was my Jetta and bury the thing in a brick wall fifty yards away before I could turn the wheel (à la Grumman), or try to take curves like Jeff Gordon and end up Misty-flipping off that bend by La Piedra.

Alright, alright, it’s probably not only awareness that’ll keep me out of a Bugatti, or any other $1.6MILLION car. But it may keep me from thinking, say, a $200k Jaguar, or anything over 400 horses, really, is a smart buy. I just don’t have the minerals for that kind of car, and while I’m as susceptible as the next guy to the incessant luxury-is-better consumer-culture McLaren Group onslaught, I know that it’s an ultimately vapid juggernaut, and maybe I can avoid being crushed by it by bowing out of this particular leg of the Macho Race.

I’ll do plenty of stupid things in my life, make plenty of bad decisions based on insecurity and fear and vanity, but hopefully it won’t be the car that’ll get me.

Beyond practicalities, giving up an entire set of criteria by which I’ve measured and found wanting my masculinity is a taste of freedom. It probably never should have been a part of how I saw myself, a metric by which to measure my inadequacy, but it was. I know a lot of people get and make a lot of meaning out of cars and driving – some of my best friends have rebuilt cars from the ground up. They take great pride in it and it’s part of who they are. I think Brent’s amniotic fluid was 91 octane.

But it ain’t me, babe.

To have the fact that for me it’s empty and has no actual bearing on my life or who I am dawn on me is pretty amazing. It’s energizing and motivating and rewarding and makes me feel like I’m connecting, somehow, to What Really Is.

I know it's a Socrates quote, but check out Cornel West

I know it’s a Socrates quote, but check out Cornel West‘s take on it if you have some hours to spare.

This chink in my faux-masculine suit of armor is an example of the kind of preconceptions I’ve been reexamining of late. It’s an example, but it’s not actually one of the things I’ve been actively picking at. Which is also indicative of this Examined Life process – most of the time, whatever insights or breakthroughs or satori or whatever you want to call them I have are not things I’ve been looking for. I don’t choose which walls I end up tearing down. If I try to, it’ll never come.

What I do is just do the work. I read and study and sit and practice dharma –

and I wait.

For what or how long, I never know, and I’m constantly wondering if I have missed or am missing something. And then when something finally does happen, it’s not what I expected at all, and sometimes the dawning of it takes a really long time.

I met Swami Vidyadhishananda a few years ago, and the one thing I asked him was how best to make reparation for harms done. His advice was not to seek people out, but instead to

“prepare your heart to be spontaneous.”

He didn’t tell me how to do that, and I wasn’t about to sign on to the S.E.L.F.’s 90 minutes of mantra practice a day every day for the rest of your life to find out, but that advice has become something of a guiding light, and these mini-satori along the way – like this whole driving thing – are sustenance, like cups of Gatorade on the marathon route.

They’re also proof that you’re laying the groundwork, priming the cosmic pump, so to speak, so that you’re ready to recognize and receive the lessons when they do come at you – spontaneously or otherwise.

At the same time, I realize this one realization isn’t anything all that special. A lot of people don’t give a shit about cars or driving or anything like that, and it doesn’t affect their sense of self and never did. It’s certainly nothing new to redefine masculinity or reject it altogether. Mick’s been singing about men and their different cigarettes for 50 years.

And yet, this discovery process has to be repeated forever anew because no matter how many times you’ve read about it, it’s not the same as experiencing it. And each of us has to grow up on his own, right? And write his own manual based off trial and error.

Which is what this blog has become in a lot of ways. The narration of my own coming-of-age-story.

So file this one under Get-Over-Yourself-Turning-Points, I guess, or Sunday Afternoon Satori.

What’s one of yours?

When did you realize things weren’t quite the way they seemed?

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Family of Origin

FamilyOfOrigin

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Odd phrase, that.

You only really hear disgruntled or dispossessed family members say it, about the people they came from biologically and at one point definitively left. It rings with a certain finality, a sense that after leaving their family of origin, people who say “family of origin” were Cain-like wanderers upon the face of the earth.

You don’t hear people saying, “Oh, I just love my family of origin.”

They usually pause right after origin to sneak in a silent clause. “My family of origin,,, was dysfunctional.” Which you get the feeling means something like, “My family of origin [may they rot in hell], was dysfunctional.” You usually don’t hear orphans use it – “My family of origin was killed in a car wreck.” When a tragedy’s involved, people stick with more familiar monikers – “My mom and dad and my sister Shirley.”

Norman-Rockwell-ThanksgivingMy dad has a family of origin. He’s never said those words and I doubt he ever would and he’s hardly a Cain-like-wanderer-upon-the-face-of-the-earth type of guy, but what family was left by the time he took off as a kid was not exactly the white-picket-fence nuclear-family post-war Norman Rockwell dream. I don’t know his family of origin at all, and have heard very little about it over the years.

When my mom came along, he adopted her family. And this is the good news about families of origin – you’re not stuck with them. There’s all kinds of families out there, and so many of them will take you in. And even if you have a good family, you can always use another good one. I feel lucky – people who believed in blessings would say I’m blessed – to have the number and quality of families I call my own. And this is what I was thinking about when I thought about writing this post.

I’ve seen this – we’ve all seen this – countless times, but it never fails to impress me as one of the great things about life and the human spirit. It’s one of the great tropes of storytelling for a reason – taking someone in, being taken in, providing for another, being cared for and supported by others are the things that remind us what matters in life.

So my dad adopted my mom’s family, and was convinced his kids would have something more than a family of origin, and we have. My family of origin is my family. Period. All our weirdness and dysfunction is preeettttty minimal in the grand scheme of things – we get along and talk and say “I love you” and mean it. They’re there for me in everything. (I didn’t always know this, but it was always true.)

WestinBoatShopGreatSouthBayChart

The Great South Bay. Home of the in-laws-to-be.

Come May, I’m marrying into another rock-solid family. I’ve lived with this family before, so they’re family already and it doesn’t seem like a huge deal that I’m officially becoming an in-law, but way back when, when I first started coming around, they took me in immediately, no questions asked. Well, I think maybe a few questions, but they were things like,”Wanna go for a boat ride?” and “Can you use a Sawzall?” After that, golden.

And best of all, of course, is the idea that Erin and I are making our own family, together, for some other little people to one day come from. (And never never never never never leave. Ever.)

DinoUVaSwimDive

Dino.
Paterfamilias of 35 families.

Anyone who’s been on a serious sports team knows what additional or surrogate families are all about. You do together the hardest things you’ve ever done and (unless you go into the military afterwards) probably the hardest things you’ll ever have to do. You spend an inordinate amount of time together, during most of which you’re exhausted and not at your best and in your sweats and eating. (Especially swimmers – always with the eating.) My UVa swimming family is a lot like a large extended regular family, because I didn’t always like everyone I swam with, but I loved them and would to this day do anything for them. One of my teammates, a guy I really love and respect a lot, told me about a year ago, after listening to me describe the novel I’m writing and my pilgrimage to India and my SoCal routine and a few other things that are just simply outside of his Virginian sports-watching lawyering lifestyle, “You know, Prichard, there’s no real reason we’re friends. If it was’t for swimming, we would never be friends. Never.” Kinda funny, the way he said it, but probably true.

JonesSliver

Jones with a decent turnout.

After college, I worked as a Jones Beach Lifeguard, and let me tell you, that is a crew. Teachers, firemen, artists, cab drivers, musicians, computer programmers, soldiers, businessmen, businesswomen, some cops – some robbers, too, probably – who spend their summers at the beach saving lives. And at Jones Beach, that’s no macho I-save-lives bs posturing. You’re running rescues constantly there. Constantly. People getting scared, getting swept out, getting saved, barely living – sometimes dying. Hundreds of thousands on the beach. (Seriously – there were 275,000 there July 4th, 2005.) Tourists, Long Islanders, Indians in saris, guys from the Bronx in Timberlands – in the ocean, in Tims – who’ve never seen the ocean before. And these lifeguards take care of all of them, and they depend on one another to help them keep the hordes safe. And they’re New Yorkers, so it’s a tough kinda love they share – and not one they frivolously give away. But those guys and gals let me into their world and their hearts and it was an experience and a group of people I’ll never forget.

I’d love to have a creative family, but writers are by and large not very familial people. Well, they might be on their own, but for the most part they’re not looking to hang out with other writers that much. It’s a more or less solitary pursuit, and except for children’s books and TV writing and the odd movie script, writing doesn’t really benefit from collaboration. It’s not like music, so much more than the sum of its parts. There’s so much doing-your-own-thing. What am I gonna do, sit five of us in a room and write a book? That’s why god created Williamsburg coffee houses. To be honest, I have no desire to sit around talking about what I’m working on for more than a couple minutes, tops. We try (especially us Millennials – we can’t even help ourselves) but even communities of writers are hard to come by, let alone families.

I have this other family, too, this strange assemblage of freaks and misfits and ne’er-do-wells  all trying to get our lives back on track and/or keep them there. I’ve met a few of my best friends in this group, and some of the strongest people I’ve ever known. They’re allies in a weird fight that a  lot of people out there don’t even know they’re fighting. In this group in particular there are a lot of people who come from nobody and nowhere. People who have families of origin – families they left or who left them. These people have discovered in this motley crew the family they never had. And that, man, is something to see.

Who’s your family?

What does “family” mean to you?

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On Creativity

Earlier this week, I was honored to be featured on TreeHouse, An Exhibition of the Arts, a web site put together by my friends Erin Whittinghill and Natasha Ganes.

TreeHouseLogoSquare

Click on the logo or right here to read it on their site, or to just check the site out in general, which you should, because it’s awesome.

Or you can stay here, because I’m I’m also re-posting my TreeHouse guest post here, for my email subscribers and so it can filter down into the aquifer/archive. And cuz I’ve been busy and don’t have a new post. And you know, so you don’t miss it.

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On Creativity

We’re driving through Hollywood when a friend asks me,

“Where do you get your ideas for stories?”

pic from Goodbye Melbourne, Hello New York

pic from Nat Ma’s rad photo blog, Goodbye Melbourne, Hello New York

His phone rings before I can answer, and while he talks, I look around. We’re headed home from a vintage LA evening: sunset dinner atop a Venice hotel, an improv variety show at the Fringe Festival, a nightcap at a French Quarter-looking joint, a dip in the Roosevelt Hotel pool. It’s past midnight and Hollywood Blvd is packed with cars. The line for the Supper Club stretches halfway down the block and it’s packed, too, with bare-backed broads shivering atop their stilettos and fat men in skinny jeans oohing and ogling. Creeping up La Brea to Franklin, I slalom concertgoers wheeling coolers down the middle of the street as they spill out of the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Bowl, laughin and carryin on. A homeless man argues with the parking attendant in front of the Magic Castle. When we finally get to the 101, three cars are backing up the onramp. A shirtless man is standing on the railing of the Pilgrimage Bridge.

Finally, my friend hangs up. “So, about those story ideas,” he says, and I tell him I had about twenty while he was on the phone.

MrMiyagiThis is hardly unique – even to writers, let alone to just me. I think we all make assumptions all day long about where people come from and how we’d act in situations we come across. An image presents itself, and a backstory unfurls behind it. Most of us just immediately let them go. Most of the time, I do. But every once in a while, I pluck an image-packet out of the ether as it whizzes by, like Mr. Miyagi with his chopsticks, and write it down.

If I let it ferment for a while, the general framework takes care of itself and I can write it all out like I’m transcribing something I know. This part – the setup – is sheer fun. And it gets me writing, which is the only way I know how to come up with the rest of the story. What it’s really about. Because a story’s not really about what happens where. (Except it kind of is.)

In the stories I like to read, and the ones I try to write, there’s some ineffable something else in addition to plot and theme and setting and character – not a moral or a point or any kind of distillate you can separate out from the other elements and say this is what this story’s about, but something that, well, gets at the heart of things.

I rarely know what that ineffable something is before I write it. Or, discover it by writing, I should say. Even if the image I first glimpsed is the resolution, by the time the story’s done, it doesn’t carry the weight or meaning I initially thought it would.

Only once has a story come roaring out fully formed. For several years, I thought it was brilliant, and I tried to duplicate that process of starting with the “conclusion,” of describing the whole jigsaw puzzle just as it first appeared, of manufacturing impact. But I never had that experience again, and what’s more, I can finally see that actually, that story is predictable, pedantic, unimaginative, and cliché.

Technically speaking, all impact is manufactured. But ineffable somethings feel less conscious than that. They feel stumbled upon or written into. Uncovered, if I may.

Crushed-Stella-Artois-can-001By way of example: I heard a story on NPR last fall about a handful of people who were going to jail for a very long time for defrauding the State of California by redeeming recycling deposits on cans and bottles they collected out of state. It was irresistible, but I had to carry it around for eight months before I could figure out how to use it. Because a story about the fraud ring would be journalism, and that’d already been done. (Besides, I couldn’t be bothered with all those…facts.)

One day, I saw this great big woman in a pink sweat suit standing at a crosswalk, lighting a cigarette. On the opposite corner was a skinny priest in short sleeves, an older guy with a pretty hip haircut (this is LA, after all), polishing his Ray Bans. Looking back and forth between them, I knew I had a way in.

But still – the cans, these characters, this one strange moment…it was enough to get going, but it wasn’t anything to hang an ineffable something’s hat on. Things went here, things went there, and before I knew it, I was up to 25,000 words. I thought for a moment I’d turn it into a novella, but the vast majority of it was superfluous to the real turning point of the story – which only emerged around word 23,000, as an insight into one of the first paragraphs I wrote. Now, at 8,000 words, the fraud ring’s incidental to the main action of the story, but it’s also intrinsic to the main thrust. I couldn’t simply swap it out for cocaine runners or hedge fund managers or used car salesmen. That’s the thing with ineffable somethings – they transcend the story, but couldn’t exist without it.

Whatever ineffable somethings are made of, I’d never have any of them if I didn’t go through the process of building a story up and then whittling it down, saying, this tangled mess is where I think the story is, and then paring things away to find the kernel.

SprucesMatsAlmlof

Photo: Mats Almlöf for National Geographic 2010 photo contest

And that paring away is where the creativity required by writing overlaps with the creativity required by life; discovering what makes a story tick is the same process of discovering what makes me tick. They’re both about removing obstacles to get at something I don’t understand but that I know is right. That ineffable something near the center of things, in life as in fiction, is always already there, waiting to be brought out into the open. There’s always a thrill when I discover it, sometimes even surprise, but it’s the shock of recognizing something that was there all along.

Hemingway famously said, “The first draft of anything is shit,” and a lot of the “shit” I have to revise out of drafts isn’t just superfluities of my own devising, but also – and more importantly – attempts to sound like someone else. It’s only when I can manage to get past my ideas of what kind of writer I want to be, when I can stop trying to manufacture impact by imitating Papa or O’Connor or Bukowski or Gogol or Winton or Porter, and just try to write sentences that sound true, that the ineffable somethings happen.

PrichardInfluencesThat Papaism applies to life, too, for – at the risk of sounding trite – life itself is a process of constant revision. I certainly didn’t come out polished and blemish-free, as those who’ve had to put up with me know only too well, and all these conceptions and notions I have about myself constantly prove to be only flimsy veneers over…something else. If I try to manage my personality or “craft my image,” I come across as inauthentic, feel horrible about it, and act accordingly (that is, hostile). And then that interpersonal magic that we live for – that real-life ineffable something – becomes an impossibility.

There’s a music inside each of us that’s often drowned out by the cacophony of bullshit muzak we’re sold as models of what our real lives should be.

For me, that muzak-model is a Jack London Jack Kerouac Johnny Cash Tim Armstrong fuck-you aesthetic, mixed with a David Foster Wallace David Rakoff Christopher Hitchens edgy intellectualism, and topped off with a Tom Robbins Tom McGuane irreverent joviality.

Seriously, that’s who I think I should be.

To combat this self-propelled onslaught of ludicrous and impossibly-attainable images, I rededicate myself every day to trying to lead a life, on and off the page, that’s a process of picking out the strains that ring true and leaving behind the rest. You want a Bukowski story? I can write you a Bukowski story, believe me. Hell, I can write you a Bukowski story by three o’clock this afternoon. But I’m not Bukowski, so it’d be bullshit.

You want a Prichard story, well, that might take a little while. I gotta find it first.

strataSince we’re getting close to the end, let me try to sum up: creativity is about paring away the layers upon layers of superficial nonsense we pile on over the years, discovering what you-and-you-alone harbor in the hidden recesses where your undiluted magic resides, and making do with what is found there.

It’s creative because it’s new, it’s original and unique, and you’re exposing it to these old-old things – language, pictures, drums, design, whatever your thing is – and throwing that mass up against the newness and nowness of culture and society.

It’s scary, because we’re taught to look elsewhere for meaning and value and worth, that what’s inside is bland at best and probably corrosive.

It’ll cost you – a little torture, probably, maybe some vertigo – to go rooting around in your depths.

But I promise you, the trip down is worth the cost.

It’s exactly as rewarding as you can possibly imagine.

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Where do you get your creativity from?

What things stand in your way?

How do you get over/past/through them?

OasisNatGeo

Photo: Nam In Geun for National Geographic 2010 photo contest

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