Wow. My laptop arrived an hour ago and I’m already on line and cruising. This thing is freekin’ amazing! I just downloaded the safari browser from apple. It makes netscape look like a clay tablet. heehee! I’m like a kid! I’m going to go play now…
Every friday I’ll be posting the next chapter of my novel, The Tragic Circus. At least, I’ll be trying to post it every friday. I don’t see why this will be a hard thing to do since I’ve already gotten in the habit of posting every day anyway. But just in case some particular friday comes along and there’s no chapter, you’ve been warned.
I’m still workingon getting a coments button which I really want for the novel excerpts as I’d very much like critical feedback, analysis, interpritations, dirty lymrics invovling characters names and likenesses, that sort of thing. So, hopefully, that will be up soon. But without further ado… Chapter One, of The Tragic Circus….
It is our expression that the flux between that which isn�t and that which won�t be, or the state that is commonly and absurdly called existence, is a rhythm of heavens and hells: that the damned won�t stay damned; that salvation only precedes perdition. The inference is that some day our accursed tatterdemalions will be sleek angels. Then the sub-inference is that some later day, back they�ll go whence they came.
�Charles Fort, Book of the Damned
Simon Said descends the staircase into the parlor, a scarf of some dubious tartan thrown around his neck; otherwise he is dressed quite dapper in pinstripe pants, scuffed wingtips and a red vest embroidered with gold Chinese dragons, which he wears over a black button down shirt. Over one arm he carries a lightweight black jacket suitable for this cool October night.
Someone once said of Simon, �You can almost see the gears turning in his head.�
This he overheard on his first day of kindergarten, whispered by someone�s mother to the teacher who nodded in agreement. And it�s true, under the unruly cowlick and behind the black-rimmed glasses there�s something alive and prismatic. Moving. The remark stuck with him since children at that age are little sponges. He remembers it every so often and when the mood strikes, tries to provoke the same gear spinning in others. Which is taking the long way around the barn to get to the point that Simon Said is a poet. That�s saying a lot of course, what with the deplorable state of contemporary poetry but everyone knew it from the moment he was born. Simon Said came out of his mother eyes wide open. Instead of screaming, he had a thoughtful look on his face. He was taking everything in. Making notes. Composing himself.
As if to dispel any doubts about the matter, when Simon was ten, he painted himself red and wearing nothing but a loincloth, raced through the streets of his neighborhood on his BMX bike, the one painted Haint blue with ceramic eyes attached to the front reflectors and a pair of antlers affixed between the handlebars. From a bow he launched arrows bearing cryptic poems written in a language of his own devising. Over rooftops. Into yards. Through windows. He nearly hit Misses Leary�s cat and elicited a smile from miss Elsie Samathrace, aged eleven and a half. She winked at him just as he strung an arrow and let it fly with a whoop and a war cry into the trellis of old Man Halibut�s prized tomato garden.
�Why�d you do it?� His father, Frederick Said, asked later as he escorted the young poet around the neighborhood to replace his arrows with apologies.
�To bring a bit of wonder to life,� said Simon. He did not elaborate.
On his twenty-first birthday Simon became a devout follower of Dionysus. While he dabbled a bit before, he baptized himself with a twenty-dollar bottle of French merlot at 8:23 A.M., on the 18th of May, the exact time of his birth. He spent the afternoon drinking Lady Saturnine, the old woman who lives at the top of the stairs, thoroughly under the table.
This evening, he�s on his way to a poetry reading at a caf� downtown (hence the vest of oriental design) when an existential shudder creeps up his spine. He pauses on the seventh step and looks over his shoulder at the Moon seen through the window on the second story landing. By the look on his face, you�d think he could almost hear the sound that satellite makes as it revolves around the Earth. A needle on a record, scratching out its orbit.
A soft breeze, warm for this autumn night, rushes in through the window, which stands open. Simon follows the breeze to the Fourier. He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and whispers, �He�s here!� Just as the front door flies open.
Clouds scratch their ghostly finger across the full Moon�s face. Trees moaning, mingle their voices with a stiff breeze. Leaves race through a dark wood. A Jack o� lantern glowers as a toad plops into a pond, disappears.
Out of the unanimous night and into the parlor strides a bedraggled man. Long beard, head as bald as a melon, he wears a fur coat, despite the prevailing social opinions and a ragged pair of canvas sneakers. Strung from his jaw is a grin the size of a summer sausage.
Simon and the stranger stare at each other for a long moment.
�Can it be real?� The stranger exclaims. �Have I been away so long that you�ve gone and grown up and don�t even recognize me?�
Simon just shrugs. �Could be. Anything�s possible these days.�
�Soren!� Comes a muffled yelp from the direction of the kitchen.
Standing in the Dining Room doorway, Frederick Said dries his hands on the apron tied around his waist and grins. He shuffles across the parlor, nearly trips on the antique throw rug and wraps his spindly arms around the man, laughing and says, �Simon! Say ahoy-hoy to your Uncle, Soren!�
The last time Simon saw his Uncle Soren was that fateful night, twenty years ago. Although so long since and he at such a young age, Simon recalls the scene in vivid color.
Simon, age three, sat on these same steps contemplating whether or not his head would fit through the banister rails when through the parlor stormed Uncle Soren, just barely thirty-five, wearing his big fur coat, muttering and twisting his jaw (still clean shaven at the time) into a wrinkled emotion that Simon would later know all too well.
Uncle Soren, in a fit of pique, announced, �I�m going out for a bottle of milk!� And slammed the front door behind him.
The family did not see him again that night or any night afterwards.
After one year, there were still no post cards, no letters, no voice on the other end of the phone confirming one thing or another. Just long sleepless nights.
After five years, the Family did not even wait to be dragged from a fitful dream in the middle of the night by a gruff, deductive voice on the other end of the line asking them to come down to the station to verify this tooth or that finger bone.
After ten years, the Said family slept with a reluctant soundness, thinking about him on obscure bank holidays, which were Uncle Soren�s favorite.
�He did so love Armistice Day,� remarked his older brother, Frederick, with a great sigh one November eleventh. But that was some years ago now.
Time, moving like an arrow across the face of the universe, arranges moments into meaningful patterns that always seem to move forward�
And now, here he stands. A few more wrinkles, a lot less hair up top and far more on his chin, offering a lopsided grin and a handshake to his nephew.
From the top of the stairs come knocks that rattle sleepers within rooms into a fitful shuffling of eyes towards a conscious light.
�Who is it at this ungodly hour of the night?� Bellows Lilly Said, youngest of the household. She then crosses herself and from the corner of her eye casts glances at the gilt crucifix hanging over her bed. She mutters a prayer and throws open the old oak door, prepared to scowl at Simon. Probably it�s all just some infernal bit of poetry, she surmises. Like the time when he was fifteen and set the dead bush in the front yard on fire, claiming it was Tetragrammaton, the voice of God come to inform them of the impending destruction of the Brazilian Rain Forest. Instead when Lilly throws open her bedroom door she finds a bald lunatic grinning at her from the dimly lit hall, her father trailing after, sputtering incomprehensible syllables.
�It�s, It�s Uncle� Uncle!� Sputters Dad. This makes little sense to Lilly, as she was born three years after Soren�s fateful departure and hence, never met the man.
Lilly slams the door and falls face first back into her sheets where she lets a prolonged scream seep seventeen-year-old frustrations into her pillow.
�What�s what now?� Lady Imogen Saturnine, bedecked in her snow leopard print housecoat, leans against the third floor stairs as if the whole house might fall to matchsticks if she were to take a step forward or back.
Simon follows in the wake of the two jabbering brothers trying to collect the meaningful bits they have spilled all over and erect some semblance of a thought.
�Uncle Soren�s back from the dead?� He intends this statement to be imperative but it curls in on itself and by the punctuation, pops out as a question. He weighs it in the air between himself and the crone in the hall then shakes his head, deciding it makes about as much sense as anything.
After the hullabaloo subsides, they gather in the dining room, each in their place around the table. A chair left open all the years suits Soren and he flops into the space, right beneath a portrait of his younger self.
Lilly does not appear for several minutes. �In order to make a dramatic entrance,� Simon whispers in Uncle Soren�s ear. Just then young Lilly, wrapped snugly in her gothic housecoat fringed with black lace and red velvet lining drifts down the stairs, her blond curls pulled tight behind her.
Lady Saturnine lounges in her usual place, left side of the head of the table.
The Said Family had, many years hence, converted the third floor into an apartment to be rented out on a temporary basis. Lady Imogen Saturnine was the first occupant and liked the arrangement so much; free run of the house, a homely familiarity that is almost tangible and reasonable rent that after eleven years, she has yet to leave. Not that anyone would even think to ask such a thing of her as by now, she�s an adopted member of the Said Family. After all these years though, no one is quite certain how she acquired her title or if it is a professional honorific at all. As far as anyone knows she lives off the sale of her paintings, which are intricate, fabulous scenes, �Reminiscent,� according to her agent, Elmer Caspian, quoted in the most recent issue of Art in America, “of Remedios Varo or a medieval witch with an alchemical paint brush.”
Though Frederick notices that every month, her rent check arrives in the mail from Horwitz, Feinstein and Horwitz, the attorneys who manage the inheritances she has collected from her numerous dead husbands.
She simply introduces her self, �Lady Imogen Saturnine, charmed,� and offers a hand to Soren who wiggles his eyebrows and dutifully kisses her rings. Frederick bustles in from the kitchen with a tray of lemonade and cookies and they all listen as Soren illuminates his travels until dawn.
��Oh, Japan is lovely in the fall. The cherry blossoms on the ponds�� Soren�s voice drifts off in a haiku of recollection.
�I�ve always wanted to see Japan in the fall!� Frederick remarks, munching on an oatmeal raisin cookie.
When Soren gets to his travels in Africa, Lady Saturnine perks up all the more. �My second husband, the Colonial had a thing for Rhinoceros! We went on safari; oh it must have been half a dozen times! This was back in the sixties, when that sort of thing wasn�t yet illegal. Did you perchance see any whilst on the continent?�
�Yes, as a matter of fact I did see one once. I was walking across the Savannah. I won�t tell you how I got there, as it�s a rather long and embarrassing story involving a rabid baboon and a canteen filled with whisky, however, ahem. There I was in the Savannah, trekking across the plains. Now I had been warned at the outset by the natives to watch out for lions so I was scanning the horizon for the slightest swish of tawny tail when all of a sudden I hear this grunting noise beside me.� Soren pauses, imitating surprise and grunting like a pig. �Though it was lower then that and much, much louder. Anyway. There he was, the biggest damn Rhinoceros! Just standing at a shade tree, doing that thing they do with their horns, scraping off the bark. He looks at me and I look at him and for a moment we just stand there, eye to eye. Then we both decide to go about our business.� Soren sips his lemonade.
�I tell you one thing though. The beauty of the savannah at sunset is nothing compared to this!� He makes a sweeping gesture, taking in the dining room, the house, the whole world.
That�s when Simon sees for the first time the long sad look behind his Uncle�s eyes. He isn�t sure if it was always there, the way some people always where a slight smile even when depressed, or if that melancholy is a recent addition, the thing lurking in his brain that made him just disappear one night and not return for twenty years. Or maybe it is something else altogether. But in a moment, the look fades and Soren smiles. �It�s so great to be back home!�
On Monday I ordered my laptop for grad school, a nice shiny new 12.1 inch titanium powerbook G4. I also ordered a printer, USB cable, adaptor and a new optical mouse for the desktop (a creaky old-but- reliable G3 Power Mac). I have to say I�m impressed with the Apple Store�s speed. I received the printer yesterday, the adaptor this morning and just now Fed Ex delivered the Mouse and cable. Now if only the laptop would arrive, I�d be set�
I just hooked up the optical mouse to the G3 power Mac and oddly, it seems that the computer now runs faster. I suppose the USB connection through the newer keyboard we bought last summer responds quicker then the old mouse, which was connected to the back through the old port but even on screen, the graphics respond quicker. Not that I�m complaining. As we upgrade the hardware on the G3, piece by piece it gets better and better. Not bad for a six year old machine. But then it�s a Mac not a clunky old PC that is obsolete the moment you take it out of the box and can only be upgraded but so far. We added a new memory chip and a USB port last summer when the old keyboard died and the only available one was the spiffy black and clear keyboard that matches the imacs.
So we have this sort of hybrid now, with a massive tan monitor and big old tan hard drive case, an external modem rigged through the printer port with a shiny new keyboard and optical mouse, running OS 10.0.2. The printer, alas was the only thing we couldn�t patch through when we upgraded the OS to 10. For some reason we have the only model Epson they never made a patch for. Go fig. Anyway, I think I�ll take this new mouse for a spin and maybe when I get back the laptop will be here!
Typewriter vs. Computer
I�m quite the anomaly as writers go; most seem to write lengthy long hand drafts before handing them off to an assistant to be typed. At least the famous ones do. The not so famous ones then type them up themselves on a typewriter of course, the older the better. Just watch any movie with a writer in it and his soundtrack is usually the clack, clack, zip of a typewriter.
I write on a computer. Shocking, I know. Hemmingway would bitch slap me if he knew. Whatever. I�m way to schizoid to even touch a typewriter.
The taboo against word processors is slowly dying out but you�d think by the twenty first century, writers the world over would have embraced the computer. (I can hear some of the Old school mentors of mine grumbling how in their day it was all pencils and typewriters). But seriously, it�s so much faster and easier to spell check and cut and paste then to laboriously retype every time I want to move a word or cut a fragment. Writers should embrace the tools of change and make them work for them. Other artists in film and graphics are allowed but somehow, we writers are supposed to remain mired in the nineteenth century? I don�t buy that. I think it�s just fear of change, fear of the machines doing the writing while we sit back and stare in horror at that which we have wrought. Or something to that effect.
Though I have recently been trying to write rough drafts longhand, just for the exercise. But it�s still a bit of a chore. My mind, mediated by Television and film tends to zip ahead or back along non-linear paths. It�s a rare day when I write a sentence all the way through without having to go back and adjust a word, add a clause or fix my dog awful spelling. But I have noticed that having a few handwritten bits of dialogue or at least some notes takes the edge off, gives me a spring board to work from. No more sitting there at the computer, starring into the infinite hall of ones and zeros like at the beginning of the Matrix.
But I�d be screwed if some terrorist detonated an EMP device and fragged all the world�s hard drives. I�d probably turn to selling lemons from a roadside stand.
Some can only write in a vacuum. No one around. A boastful silence that is still and clear and absolute. Some writers leave their wives and children, rent a canoe and paddle out to a secret island to write in a cabin in the woods. No telephones, editors or squirrelly onlookers.
Ray Bradbury famously wrote Fahrenheit 451 in the basement of a library in Venice Beach because his children would come to knock on the windows of the family garage and honestly, what father would be able to resist chasing his children around instead of starring at the typewriter? The typewriters in the Library rented for a nickel a half hour, which encouraged Mr. Bradbury to get down to work. Silence, seclusion and the tick, tick, tick of the timer.
Other writers work best while in the midst of some bustling coffee house, tapping laptop keys or draining pens, keeping pace with conversations and cups of coffee.
Chuck Palahniuk wrote Fight Club one line at a time, whenever any spare moment arose while at work. He turned out pages while in the same corporate unthink tank sessions that Ed Norton�s character sits through in the film version.
George Lucus claims to have written the screenplays for the Star Wars films while listening to classical music. I�d believe him better if he said Opera. Episode I�s plot comes across as some bastard operatic offspring, the Phantom of the Opera having its way with Carmen.
I write best when slightly distracted. Music in the other room usually does the trick, something mellow or poppy or energetic. But not too energetic. Skinny Puppy or System of a Down are a little too forceful as background music. Stephin Merritt, however works well. I can turn out a solid couple of pages while listening to 69 Love Songs.
Too much distraction however is not very conducive to writing. At least for me, which is why I get very little writing done at work, even though I have ample time. I manage a snack bar and pro shop at a friend�s gym. Shelly teaches gymnastics to little kids so there�s always screaming children, gossipy parents and squeaky gym equipment rattling around me. But it leaves me plenty of time to catch up on my reading, which as any decent writer will tell you is just as important as the art of putting one word after another.
…a paranoid incompetent has schemed his way into the White House and convulsed America in a vicious war against imaginary internal enemies.
I love birthdays; books fall from the sky! I just recieved Albemuth and Cronopios and Famas from Mom Sanchez. (Thanks!) Must go read now. Full report in the coming days. Meanwhile enjoy my Star Wars revision…
Star Wars, a Revision
As someone who grew up watching the Original Star Wars Trilogy (I triple underline the word Original, lest you think I�m referring to that lifeless mess Lucas passes off these days, the Special Edition) I can�t help but feel a little let down by the prequels. While I realize this is a waste of time, here�s how I would have plotted the story, fixing all the holes and characterization. These are merely suggestions of course. I don�t expect anyone to agree with all my changes or any of them. I fully realize that to some I�m tampering with scripture. So put a fatwa on my head and call me Salmon. I simply offer these ideas as an alternative text, maybe one that a filmmaker, fifty years from now will consider when remaking the Star Wars sextology (hopefully taking a cue from Peter Jackson).
Episode I:The Phantom Menace
Qui Gon Jinn and Obiwan Kenobi arrive at the lead Trade Federation ship to negotiate an end to the embargo of Nabu. Who arrives to meet them, not an ambassador but a lowly protocol droid by the name of C3PO. Jinn suspects something is amiss immediately, as does his young Paduwan. But it�s too late. 3PO unwittingly leads the Jedi into an ambush! Lightsabers fly, battle droids fall. Haughty Knut Gunray is scared so bad he pisses himself when he sees the door glowing white hot as the Jedi carve through it. Then the Destroyer droids roll in and 3PO is stuck with the Jedi when they escape (maybe his restraining bolt is blasted off?) Anyway, when they sneak on board the transport to Nabu, Obiwan convinces Jinn that a protocol droid might come in handy so they bring him along.
This shows just how keen Obiwan�s instincts are as 3PO informs them about the disenfranchised Gungans who live under water. Deciding to enlist their aide, Kenobi and Jinn don their masks and head for the underwater city but not before Jinn sends 3PO ahead to Theed with a coded message for Amidalla, informing her of what has transpired.
Upon entering the underwater city, Jinn and Kenobi are captured by Gungan warriors, led by the noble Son of the Chief, Jar Jar Binks. (The Gungans by the way are a proud race of poets and warriors, more of a cross between Sufi and the newts from Karl Capek�s book, War with the Newts). Binks takes them before the council of elders, led by his father who is none too pleased by his son�s refusal to kill these outsiders out right. But Binks argues that they are Jedi and thus are trustworthy and may be able to help the Gungans. Binks is obviously not in line with his father�s isolationist ideals and is looking for a righteous fight. When The Jedi cannot reason with the council and sway them to their cause, Jinn uses his mind trick on their feeble leader to get transport to the city. Binks volunteers his services to guide them through a shortcut that most other Gungans fear to use because it is guarded by a sea monster. Once reaching the city, Binks says farewell and wishes them luck and maybe a word of folk wisdom as advice.
As the Trade Federation take orders from Darth Sidius, 3PO reaches the gates of Theed and makes it past the battle droids because they recognize him. But 3PO has a momentary crisis of conscious: he has to lie to the droids to get them to let him pass. He makes it into the Queen�s room and apprises her of the situation and Master Jinn�s eminent arrival. Slightly impatient, Amadalla curses under her breath, something about Jedi always being on their own schedules. Cue loud explosion. Everyone rushes to the window.
Cut to the courtyard where the two Jedi are making scrap out of a garrison of battle droids. They free the pilots and the Queen and escape in her ship, which is damaged by the Trade Federation ships. C3P0 meets R2D2 when he is the only astromech droid to survive the firefight. 3P0 has to suffer the indignity of cleaning him up.
Jinn decides to land on Tatooine and haggle for the necessary parts to fix their engine. There they meet Anakin Skywalker, age 16 and his mother, Schmi who run a family owned salvage shop. Schmi and Jinn seem to recognize one another while they negotiate for parts. Schmi is about to just give them the parts for whatever money they have when in walks Wattu, the landlord. He works for Jabba the Hutt and is here to collect the rent and Schmi�s monthly installment of her Fathers extensive gambling debts to Jabba (who we find out killed her father and is extorting the money he owed Jabba at a hundred percent interest, meaning she will never pay it off). Thus, Schmi cannot afford to sell the engine parts for a song and some Jedi proverbs, not that Jinn would let her, seeing what a bind she is in.
Meanwhile, Anakin flirts with the Queen. Anakin is a smooth talking, charismatic and impetuous young man, (reminiscent of a young Han Solo) who has made a bit of a name for himself in the pod races. Schmi is afraid he�ll end up like his grandfather, falling in with a bad crowd or worse, smelted by a fatal pod race. If only his father hadn�t run off�
As it turns out, Jinn is Anakin�s father. We find this out during the sand storm when they all hide out in the Skywalker house (where Anakin shows off his mechanical dabbling to 3PO and Kenobi while R2 fixes them all dinner). It turns out Jinn met Schmi while on a mission to Tatooine 16 years earlier. They had one passionate night before he had to leave on secret Jedi business. But now that he�s back, he wants to help her and teach his long lost and heretofore unknown son how to be a good man, and maybe a Jedi. Obiwan obviously doesn�t like this idea claiming that Anakin is too old to start the training. And also because he�s jealous.
They decide to help solve all their problems by riding a long shot on Anakin in the Bunta Eve pod race. He of course wins, but only narrowly by using his instincts and some Jedi advice to overcome the cheating of a rival pod racer, Sebulba. Wattu, who was challenged by Jinn on a side bet to drop the debt to Jabba if the kid won, tries to squirm out of the deal. In walks one of Jabba�s henchthings and claps Wattu on the shoulder, whispering in his ear that Jabba wants to have a word with him.
Now that Schmi is free of her father�s debt and the Jedi have the necessary parts, they�ll leave. Jinn offers to take Anakin with him to Corescant. He jumps at the opportunity, even though he feels bad about leaving his mother. She tells him that he needs to go, to start his own life and fulfill his destiny.
On the way back to the ship Darth Maul engages Jinn and Kenobi in a double duel of both light sabers and words (maybe he could recite a Sith Hymn in praise of the bestial power of rage, and wroth poetic like Ricardo Mauntaban�s Kahn).
After narrowly escaping the Sith, they return to Corescant and present their findings before the Jedi Council. Jinn proposes to Yoda that he teach Anakin. There�s a brief argument between Jinn and Kenobi, left unresolved. Anakin and Amadala have a quiet moment alone, almost but not quite making an emotional connection. Kenobi interrupts them before they can kiss, informing them that they are to return to Nabu. While en route, they discuss possible strategies. Anakin hits on the idea of enlisting the help of the Gungans, whom he heard Jinn Talking to Obiwan about earlier. There is some doubt as to the sense in this but Anakin manages to talk them all into it.
They arrive at the Gungan temple and try to enlist their aide but the elders are still waffling. This is where Jar Jar Binks steps in and passionately argues that they cannot sit by idle while the rest of the planet fights for its safety. His father grudgingly agrees to the pact when Amadala steps forward and on bended knee, asks for their help.
Binks leads the Gungans and the Nabu security guards in a battle against the droid army. The battle begins with just the Nabu security forces facing off against the Droid army. They pretend to fall back, leading the battle droids out of the fields where they have the advantage and into the swamp. There, the Gunagns ambush the battle droids, fighting in their element, Guerilla warfare style. Picture sinewy, black figures rising from the murk of the swamp like an army of Navy seals, only there are thousands of them. They drop bombs from the trees and sneak up behind the droids, severing heads with knives and hanging them from the trees with nooses made from vines. It is a gruesome battle, with swords and energy catapults and droids being mauled by nearly rabid Gungan warriors.
Meanwhile, Anakin leads the pilots on a sneak attack of the Lead Trade Federation ship to capture Knut Gunray. Anakin rushes in with the captured Trade federation leader just in time. The Battle droids, what�s left of them, are called off and so is the blockade.
In the city of Theed, Jinn and Kenobi track down Darth Maul. Maul kills Jinn but escapes, leaving Kenobi frustrated and angry, wanting revenge, despite all his Jedi training.
After this, he agrees to teach Anakin in honor of Jinn�s wishes. Yoda gives in but with reservations that he shares with Mace Windu, fearing that Kenobi�s unresolved feelings will taint the pupil.
A celebratory party is held at the palace in Theed. Amadala is too busy for Anakin as she is being shuffled around to shake hands with ambassadors. He�s miffed. A hand falls reassuringly on his shoulder. Anakin turns around to find that it is not Kenobi as he expected but Senator Palpitane, who introduces himself to Anakin and leaves off with an ominous remark about how much potential he shows as a Jedi.
Episode II: The Clone Wars
Ten years later. After an attempt on Senator Amadala�s life, The Jedi council assigns Master Kenobi and his Paduwan, Anakin to protect her. When Anakin shows up, he blows Amadala away. No longer is he just a brash kid but a smooth, cool-as-a-Summer-on-Hoth stud. But he does have a brooding aura about him, sort of like a Goth Jedi. Right away he�s working the Force on Amadala, much to Kenobi�s disappointment. Several times the Master has to break the two of them apart.
This is Anakin as a young man: a total Jedi bad ass, capable of doing what other Jedi do, without breaking a sweet. His superpower, besides being handy with anything mechanical is the fact that he can talk anybody into doing anything he wants. Anything.
Kenobi chides his young apprentice that night for his forward actions while they keep a watch on Amadala�s door, reminding him that a Jedi is stayed, calm, and collected. Anakin, instead of throwing a hissy fit for being chewed out by his master, spins Kenobi�s words and with a slightly ironic twist, turns them back on him. The argument is left unfinished when they both feel that something is wrong and rush into Amadala�s room in time to squish the giant centipedes and jump out the window after the bounty hunter.
Cue car chase through Corescant by night.
They trail the shape shifting bounty hunter to a bar. Obiwan buys Anakin a drink to calm him down. They catch the bounty hunter off guard, drag her outside only to have her killed by poison dart before she can give up the goods. Back at his hideout, Jango Fett reports to Darth Maul that there has been a slight snag in their plans.
Looking for clues, Kenobi visits his friend and finds out that the poisonous dart could only have come from one place, a little known world out beyond the rim. Kenobi goes to the Library but he can�t find the holocron he�s looking for and visits master Yoda whose pupils help him find the missing planet.
Obiwan sets off to visit the clone factory and fight Jango Fett.
Meanwhile Anakin escorts Amadala back to Nabu (with a stern warning from Kenobi to behave himself). Anakin plays it smooth on Nabu, turning Amadala�s summer palace into their own little love nest, much to 3PO and R2�s dismay and against their warnings. After seducing Amadala into bed, Anakin wakes from a nightmare about his mother. He then convinces Amadala to go with him to Tatooine.
Meanwhile, on Corescant, Ambassador Jar Jar Binks who has taken over for Amadalla while she is away, is strong armed into giving up the republic by a selection of Dark Side-friendly senators. Palpatine shakes his hand with a smile.
As soon as Anakin and Amadalla arrive on Tatooine, they rush to the family store to find Wattu (minus a few fingers) as the new proprietor. Anakin browbeats him into giving up Schmi�s last known whereabouts (he was going to charge them but Anakin gets it out of him for free): after Anakin left, Schmi met a moisture farmer named Lars and sold Wattu the shop. Wattu then makes a vague apology, saying that Schmi was really a good woman and that it was a shame what happened to her. Neither Amadala nor Anakin know just what he is getting at.
At the Lars family farm they meet Anakin�s new stepfather and his step- brother, Owen (and his girlfriend Baru) and learn of his mothers capture by the Sand people. Baru and Owen welcome Amadala in while Anakin goes off to find his mom. His new stepfather warns him not to get his hopes up and at the first sign of sand people, to hurry back.
When Anakin finds his Mother in the hut, tortured and bleeding to death he looses it. But he doesn�t explode with rage. Anakin is detached from his emotions. Always calm and collected. This is where we get the first hint of Darth Vadar, the man who choke�s admirals from a distance while casually planning a ground invasion. You see it in Anakin�s eyes, this is the guy who will one day boss Boba Fett around, reminding him not to disintegrate his prey this time.
Anakin steps out of the hut and methodically slaughters every living thing that comes within reach of his lightsaber. He betrays no emotion on his face as he goes about his gruesome business and when he�s done he simply walks away. He doesn�t go home and bawl his eyes out to Amadala. He never says a word.
Cut to Mace Windu waking from his meditation with the cold sweets. He runs out to find Yoda and they say nothing, merely exchange sad looks.
After burying Schmi on the farm, Anakin and Amadala set off for Nabu. Anakin calmly and almost lightheartedly broaches the subject of marriage. Amadala is unsure of the prospect as his duty to the Jedi forbids love and her responsibilities, as an ambassador requires her to maintain a professional sense of respectability. Everything they are working for would be undermined if she were to just run off and marry a Jedi. But Anakin almost has her convinced when they get the garbled message from Kenobi for help. They relay the message back to the Jedi council and set off to rescue Kenobi who in the meantime has been captured by Count Dooku.
Kenobi is startled to discover that Dooku, former Jedi and leader of the Separatists has as his right hand man none other then Darth Maul. Kenobi tries to reason with Count Dooku but the Count is clouded by idealism and Darth Sidious�s influence. He thinks the Jedi have been led astray and are in cahoots with the Sith. He�s all turned around and confused, and Kenobi realizes this is Maul�s doing.
Anakin, Amadala and the droids arrive and fight gallantly to free Kenobi but are captured and sentenced to the Ring of Death by the Insect King. As they are chained to the pillars, Amadala agrees to marry Anakin (she simply tells him the answer is yes, so Kenobi won�t know). Cue Jedi in the stands. Battle royal with droids, monsters and insects. The clone soldiers arrive, with Yoda at the lead in time to route the battle. Mace Windu takes of Jango Fett�s head. It is retrieved by a young and very pissed off Boba Fett.
Darth Maul battles Anakin and Kenobi. Kenobi is about to give into his desire for revenge but stops just short of killing Darth Maul. Anakin steps in and does it, almost as an after thought. Dooku then steps in and takes on both Jedi single handedly, taking off Anakin�s arm in the process. Yoda arrives and much ass is kicked. Dooku escapes to deliver the plans for the Death Star to Sidious and begins to realize that Maul and Sidius have been leading him to the Dark Side.
Yoda and Windu discuss briefly how the Dark side is growing as the clone soldiers board the star ships and take off. The rest of the Jedi are morose, except for Anakin who tells Kenobi about how he thinks Palpitane will be just what the Galaxy needs to restore order. They exchange cold words and Anakin walks away from the Jedi. Amadala, wearing a hood and robe to conceal her identity, meets him and together they run off, hand in mechanical hand to their secret wedding.
Episode III: Fall of the Jedi
Five years later. The clone wars are coming to a close. With Count Dooku dead, the separatists have splintered into numerous factions, most of which have already been wrangled back into the republic. Only a few remain but they are scattered and disorganized. The Jedi have been reluctantly leading the battles but there is disunity among the Jedi Knights for the first time in a thousand years.
At the coronation of Emperor Palpitane, word reaches the Jedi council that a number of Jedi Knights have turned up dead. This is part of a disturbing trend of Jedi deaths, many of which leave little evidence behind as their bodies are often disintegrated. Kenobi and Windu are assigned by Yoda to undertake a secret mission of the utmost importance: find the Sith who are killing the Jedi.
Palpitane makes several sweeping decrees during his coronation speech, the most shocking of which is to appoint Anakin Skywalker as supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces, over many older and more respected Jedi. Anakin is of course pleased and a little smug. Later he throws it in Kenobi�s face. Anakin accuses his former master of being a traitor, saying that he has grown soft and maybe secretly sympathizes with these rebellious splinter groups. Kenobi tries to reason with Anakin but realizes, to his horror that Anakin has taken on many of the same personality traits that he spotted in Count Dooku: paranoia, distrust and a confused sense of loyalty.
Amadala is very pregnant. Ambassador Binks visits her chambers but she senses that he is there for more then simply a visit, that he feels very much responsible for the state of the Galaxy. She tells him that no one person can bear the weight of the entire Galaxy on their shoulders but Binks, ever the proud Gungan, says that yes, one-person can and will. He leaves, fingering a knife thoughtfully.
Anakin is secretly organizing the hunting of Jedi that he and the Emperor deem traitorous. To keep their hands clean, the actual killing is done by an assortment of the most vile bounty hunters that Anakin can find. The star of this Jedi hunting squad is none other then a young Bobba Fett. This fact is discovered by Jar Jar Binks when he comes to confront Anakin. Enraged, he attacks Anakin but of curse he�s no match for him. Before Binks can even raise his knife, Anakin chokes him with his force power. Binks drops the knife and falls dead.
Count Dooku, present through this whole display is suddenly jarred to his senses. Everything becomes clear to him now and he makes a vane attempt to alert the Jedi Counsel of Anakin�s trickery. But Anakin catches him before he reaches Yoda�s chambers and takes him before Darth sidious. Dooku finally realizes he has been duped by Sidious and led to the Dark side. While the Emperor watches on, laughing, Count Dooku allows himself to be killed by Anakin (in the same manner that Kenobi does in A New Hope).
Amadalla gives birth to twins. Kenobi and Yoda arrive just in time to witness the event. But mother and babies have little time together. At a gesture from Yoda, Obiwan takes baby Luke and runs off. Amadala knew this would happen and Yoda tries to comfort her as best as he can. She tells Obiwan not to tell her ever where the boy is so that she cannot lie to Anakin.
Just as Kenobi leaves by a secret exit, Anakin arrives. He is overjoyed to see his new daughter but senses something is amiss. Yoda plays with the baby and dismisses Anakin�s suspicions. Anakin gives Yoda a dirty look and rushes out to satisfy his curiosity.
Yoda and Senator Bale Organa have a secret meeting to discuss the fate of the twins and the rumors of this new weapon that the Emperor is devising. Organa rushes off to alert his secret contacts on the remaining Separatist worlds of their new plans. The Rebellion is born.
Kenobi and Windu are ambushed at the space port on Corescant by bounty hunters but manage to narrowly escape with baby Luke. The hunters don�t know about the baby. They are simply there to kill the Jedi, a point noted to Windu by Kenobi as they blast their way out of Corescant orbit. Fast on their trail is a brand spanking new Star Destroyer and unbeknownst to anyone, Bobba Fett in Slave I. They manage to elude the star Destroyer but not Fett.
Bobba Fett confronts Windu in a cantina in Mos Iesley. While he acts as a diversion, Kenobi delivers baby Luke to the Lars farm. Owen and his wife Baru agree to raise the child but Owen has some choice words for Kenobi about the recklessness of Jedi and their dangerous lifestyle. Kenobi instead of putting up a fight, agrees.
Meanwhile, Fett and Windu are dueling and through dirty pool, Fett strikes down Windu with a Jedi Lightsaber. Fett surmises that Kenobi must have already skipped out, as he saw him climb aboard a transport earlier. He did not see Kenobi sneak off the ship though. Fett leaves Tatooine to report back to Anakin. In rushes Kenobi in time to find out from Windu�s dying words what has happened. Kenobi rushes off, trailing Fett to the volcanic world where the Death Star is under construction.
Amadala and Senetor Organa, on their way to Alderan with baby Leia are harassed by the Emperor�s newly appointed secret police, the Storm Troopers as they try to board the senator�s ship. Yoda shows up just in the nick of time to cloud the storm Trooper�s minds and let them pass. Yoda gives them some words of advice and encouragement. Amadala wishes that she could have seen Anakin one last time as she wants to say goodbye. Bale Organa tells her that Anakin is no longer the man she loved, he�s been changed by the emperor and that there are others who will help her now. You can tell that Bale genuinely cares for Amadala, maybe even loves her but she can�t deal with this now and instead, quietly boards the ship with her infant daughter.
As Yoda is leaving, Anakin steps out of the shadows and the two have words. Yoda gives Anakin one last chance to turn back from the Dark side but Anakin won�t hear it. He informs Master Yoda that the Jedi are dead and he is just a ghost now and then, mysteriously leaves without another word.
Kenobi tracks Fett to the control center of the construction facility, high atop an active volcano only to discover that it is a trap set by Anakin. Anakin dismisses Fett who doesn�t like being dismissed and comments to this effect but steps aside anyway. Kenobi and Anakin face off over the volcanic crater, which is being used as a foundry to build the Death Star. They finally air all their grievances. Kenobi manages to do so without giving into his anger. He lets it wash over him and offers Anakin one last chance to save himself. Anakin does not see that he needs saving and accuses Kenobi of being the one led astray by archaic traditions and an unfortunate sense of nostalgia for the now deceased Republic. Kenobi tells him he is no longer a Jedi but is now a Sith and they duel.
This is the duel to end them all. Force tricks, blazing sabers, all over a smoldering pit of lava and molten steal. Just as Kenobi is about to fall to Anakin, he delves into the last reserves of his strength, fends off Anakin�s saber attack and severs Anakin�s hand. Anakin looses his balance and topples over the edge but manages to grab a hold of a rock ledge with his cyborg hand. Kenobi reaches out to save him but instead Anakin lets himself fall into the volcano foundry. He is rescued from the slag pit by storm troopers who rush him to the infirmary.
Obiwan and Yoda meet on a Rebellion ship and Obiwan tells him what happened with Anakin. They make their final arrangements and then Yoda is dropped off on Degobah by Kenobi who then returns to Tatooine to watch over Luke from a distance.
Anakin, now mostly cyborg appears before the Emperor as the Darth Vader we have all come to know and love. He tells him that all the Jedi are at last finally dead. The Emperor gives a little speech about the cycle of the Force, how all things corrupt will fall before the grandeur of perfect order and that finally the corrupt Republic will give way to an eternal Empire.
*****
A few other suggestions:
Names. I�m a big fan of Appellation symbolism; where character�s names represent their personality traits. Judging from the first three Star Wars films, one would get the impression that George Lucas wass too at one time. (come on, a loner with the name Solo?) but what�s with all these characters with sci-fi gibberish names like Jar Jar and Dooku? Did Lucus hire kindergarteners as his consulting staff? And why is Dooku a Count? How does this further the story at all? It doesn�t. The fact that he�s a rogue Jedi is enough and he should have a name that reflects that. Maybe something along the lines of Devo Drak. As for Jar Jar Binks, any name would be better. Following the above revision of his character from bumbling, kid friendly fool to tragic noble martyr, I�d call him Ibn Kalil, to reflect the Muslim poet. But that�s just me. I�m all about allusion to source material. And while we�re talking about allusions, Schmi Skywalker is obviously a mother archetype, just go for the gold; Miriam Skywalker sounds better anyway.
Casting. When it comes to movies, the actors really need to fit their parts. Hayden Christenson, as far as I can tell, couldn�t act his way out of a Death star Detention Block. He�s just not Anakin. Jude Law is Anakin. Any other young actor could be as well. And while I admire Liam Neason as an actor, he never really gave much life to Jinn�s character. This is a radical departure here but given the fact that his name is obviously derived from Chinese, why not go that route? That�s right. Jacki Chan as Qui Gon Jinn. Tell me you don�t want to see him flipping around the screen with a lightsaber in one hand and a folding chair in the other. I dare you. If there�s any man on earth who actually has force powers it�s Mr. Chan. Just picture him and Ray Parks� as Darth Maul, dueling with lightsabers.
Dialogue. Some of the dialogue in these films could only be more stiff if it were carved out of wood. I know, Lucus took the old Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon Serials as his inspiration. I too love those serials and yes, some of the dialogue in them sounds like a four-fingered baboon wrote it with a broken typewriter. But come on! Audiences expect a little more naturalistic dialogue then some of the stiff little gems in Star Wars. Power converters be damned!
So there�s my Star Wars Revision. Pedantic? Yes. Fan boyish? Oh, you betcha. You see, I grew up watching Star Wars. I love science Fiction and it simply pains me to see something with such potential go to waste. Plus, for any of those would be writers out there, replotting a poorly conceived movie or book is a good exercise in stretching the imagination and working on those plotting skills.
A Break in the Continuum
Chapter Breaks are one of those archaic formalities that most authors simply don�t think about. A novel must have chapters, we are told, Miss Dalloway, The Hearing Trumpet and Fahrenheit 451 aside. Or else all chaos will ensue; the marketing team will loose their minds and Ma Kent, her place. But honestly, it is rare that a novel will be serialized these days so why must we all imitate Charles Dickens? A novel is a unit; it should be considered as an artistic whole (or in the case of John Grisham, an artistic hole).
And what with the prevalence of film and television, most readers are savvy enough these days to handle jump cuts and montage. There are some authors and critics who exclaim, �No! Film and the Written Word must remain separated by a mighty wall of verbiage, like Church and State!�
Well, it�s a little too late for that. Movies have conquered the world. We think now in montage, editing our daydreams according to the whims of Hitchcock and Kurasawa; Burroughs and Joyce.
The advent of a-linear storytelling, devoid of the convenient breadcrumbs like chapters is a huge leap forward for literature. I mean honestly, we all know that chapter five comes before chapter six, that chapters fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, etc will be later on and that it all starts at one. And titling chapters is so seventeenth century. Why is it that film can be innovative with its editing but writers cannot? I see no reason other then convention, snobbery and laziness. The three things to be avoided at all costs by anyone who even has a pretense at being a writer.
Tossing the Horses Overboard
I managed to escape from the Procrastination Army late yesterday night. It wasn�t that hard really. They kept saying they were going to do all sorts of dastardly things to me� right after they finished this last round of Play Station Golf.
Then they were distracted for several hours while they argued amongst themselves where to get dinner; whether to order in or go pick up, if they wanted Chinese or Thai or fried chicken. And that�s when I saw my chance. When the pizza guy arrived I slipped him a note scribbled hastily on a wadded up five dollar bill. He was more then happy to give me a ride back to civilization. Thank you, Pizza Man.
* * *
I�ve noticed how good reading material tends to flow in a cycle. For about a month or two, a selection of half a dozen really amazing, informative and amusing books will come m way; either recommended by friends or I�ll simply stumble across them on a web site or while browsing in a book store. It was during one of these prodigious seasons that I found The Hearing Trumpet, which is now one of my all time favorites that I�ve read at least three or four times by now. There are many others of course. I recently read Green Shadows, White Whale by Ray Bradbury, about the six months he lived in Ireland writing the screenplay for Moby Dick with John Huston.
So I�ll read voraciously for a couple of months. And then, I won�t be able to find a decent book to save my life. No matter where I look, all I come up with is ratty old copies of Stephen King thrillers, or books that look like they should be really good but turn out to be just alright.
I was in the doldrums once again. Toss the horses overboard! Lighten the hold! Unfurl the sails!
So I decided to reread 1984, which is great, a classic, one of my favorites but a little too realistic these days. I tried reading Mrs. Dalloway. It�s very well written and I enjoy the language and description but for some reason I really couldn�t get into it. Elvira (el-vee-ra) says that�s because it�s a women�s book, an assessment I�m skeptical of but then, I haven�t finished reading it so maybe she�s right.
I�m just now getting into another bumper crop of whimsy and wahoo, with Kitchen Confidential and In the Devil’s Garden, which are about professional cookery and the history of forbidden food, respectively. Neil Gaiman, on his journal mentioned some time ago The Manuscript found at Saragossa, an old Gothic mind bender that sounds interesting. And Last night, while perusing Amazon looking for a decent translation of the 1000 and one Nights, I found an interesting little book called Cronopius and Famas. They�re both on my Amazon wish list so maybe someone will be nice and get one or the other for my Birthday, which seems to be blowing in on a warm summer wind that smells like ink and musty paper; anyone who appreciates books will know what a beautiful smell that is.
