Renee Marlow's Blog

Do What the Man with the Gum Says

renee — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 21:01:42 +0000

I was working, listening to a story without really realizing I was listening to one. And actually, it was a song (on Pandora Radio), but one of the ones that’s a story. I was multi-tasking. As of late, that includes sitting in front of my PC (I use it mostly for research, but also for background music and the occasional round of spider solitaire–it helps to reset my brain when necessary); with my laptop to my right (novel revision); and my old manual Royal to my left (half-finished short story). I swivel from one project to the other on my adjustable rolling pneumatic biker stool (wasn’t sure if I’d like it at first, but it’s pretty cool).
Anyhow, I wasn’t paying much attention to the story/song that was playing until I heard someone say, “Do what the man with the gum says.” I glanced at the screen, intrigued. Seriously? The Man with the Gum? Who is he? And is it a big wad of gum, sort of like a wad of chew tucked in his cheek? Or perhaps a stick of sugarless, dentist-approved breath-freshening gum? More importantly, what did the man say to do? To whom? And why–what’s the back story here?
Long story short, I looked up the lyrics and found I’d heard wrong–the line was the old stand-by, “Do what the man with the gun says.” I deflated like a leaky balloon. That was simply no fun. No fun at all.
At first I was bummed the song didn’t address the questions for me; now I’m glad it didn’t. Because the idea of the “Man with the Gum” is caught in my imagination. Even now, days later and when I least expect it, his image flashes up in my brain pan: Humphrey Bogart with a fedora pulled low over his brow, a bulge in his left cheek. (I don’t know why the left cheek, but it’s definitely his left.) When I see him, he’s outside, at night, on a darkened street (sometimes in an alleyway). His face is heavily shadowed: a grimy street lamp in the background provides the only illumination. A mood of cynical gloom coupled with grim expectancy hangs in the air. Sometimes he’s holding a gun in plain view; at others, his hand rests on a piece in his coat pocket. At times I catch a glimpse of shadowy figures–bad guys?–coming up behind him. It’s unclear whether he’s the hero or the villain–although I lean toward hero because, hey, it’s Humphrey Bogart. (If he were Robert Mitchum I could more readily picture him as the baddie–albeit a really sexy one–and I’d probably still root for him.)
But it boils down to, every time I see him, I’ve got to know: Who is this guy? And just what did the Man with the Gum say to do?
Sooner or later, I will know what he said, because the Man with the Gum will likely serve as fodder for lots of warm-up writing exercises; and eventually, I’ll nail it.
Questions, and searching for answers, make life fun; they keep things interesting. I realize that minds greater than mine are at work on issues of much greater significance. My needs, at least for now, are simpler. Right now, I’ll settle for getting to know the Man with the Gum.

The Living Steinbeck

renee — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 23:39:27 +0000

John Steinbeck was born in 1902 and died in 1968. The latter fact saddens me because I am in love with him. And obviously, nothing within my power will alter any of it. I can’t wish and have it true that he was born instead in 1968, and still alive and writing (although, for the record, I am open to time travel should anyone have a spare working machine). So I did what I could: I read and collected his works. And, because he was an honest writer, fine and true, I came to know the man.
I have to admit it wasn’t love at first reading with John and myself. I met him while in high school when required to read The Red Pony and Of Mice and Men. I wasn’t brave enough then to suffer with the red pony, or to accept the unjust, black-and-white approach to justice that George and Lenny faced. Especially when I had The Outsiders, and Dorothy Parker was such wicked fun; Alice Cooper’s lyrics kept me laughing and I wallowed in Aerosmith’s awesomeness; I read and memorized the history of the Marx Brothers (and Groucho’s letters); for a while I was busy going to a university library to do research for a Sir Francis Drake essay contest. (I came across my entry in a box of papers a while back, and it truly was pitiful; it didn’t occur to me at the time that poking fun at English history wasn’t likely to win any points with the British judges of the contest. Besides, the point of the essay was to theorize where the Golden Hind’s money had gotten off to and I had not a clue, just as I’ve never known where my own money got off to. I only remember I had a lot of fun writing the essay.) With all these things and more to distract myself with, I was dazzled by the glittering cocktail party of youth. After meeting John I proceeded to work the room.
But then, one day in a thrift shop small and dark, I came across a paperback copy of Tortilla Flat. Best twenty-nine cents I ever spent. I laughed so hard reading that book tears ran down my face. I found John utterly fascinating.
So I guess Tortilla Flat was like our first kiss. Oh, and what a kiss! Our relationship progressed. The Wayward Bus made a strong impression on me; The Moon Is Down did also (Steinbeck portrayed a German as having the same feelings as anyone else; the book was banned during WWII). But East of Eden was the clincher. After Timshel I was ruined for other men.
My best friend and I drove to northern California and visited the Steinbeck Museum in Monterey and the Steinbeck house in Salinas. She tried to get me to pose by John’s old headboard, saying she wanted “a picture of Renee in Steinbeck’s bed.” (I’d say Vicky says what everyone else is thinking, but in reality she says what everyone else thinks before ever they think it; Steinbeck would have loved her. If I actually do any time travel I’ll have to keep those two apart.) Anyhow, I botched it, ran from the camera (a phobia for which there is no specific Latin term), and so I have a shot of the headboard by its lonesome in my photo album. Curse the cowardice!–I mean, come on, we’re talking Steinbeck’s bed!
And then the fateful day came when it dawned on me Steinbeck was dead. It was more than the actual fact: I already knew that, 1968 and all. No, this was more of a paradigm shift. Instantly a mantle of depression swept down and settled upon me. Steinbeck was gone. I already had all his works. There would be no new observations from him; no new stories.
Once again I found myself in a thrift shop when a particular book caught my eye: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. (I have a working hypothesis that, my spending habits in Barnes and Noble notwithstanding, all great discoveries are made in thrift shops.) I thought, “What the–?” and plucked it up, curious, yet prepared to toss it back on the shelf. I examined the cover: a picture of the Lone Ranger and Tonto duking it out in a cloudy sky, and below them, a house afire, a basketball backboard, a salmon flying through the air, and a pickup truck with its headlights on. Still not sure what I held, I flipped the book over and read the blurb on the back. Intrigued, I opened the cover and checked out the copyright date (1993), and began reading. Within seconds, perhaps a moment or two, I knew the book would not leave my hands until I had read it cover to cover. And I had a crazy thought.
“Steinbeck lives! I’ve found the living Steinbeck!” I cried inwardly, and then added, “–Whoever he is.”
That book was the best seventy-nine cents I ever spent. Once I’d finished it, I vowed to obtain everything to be had by that author. The first thing I did was to look him (Sherman Alexie) up on the internet.
I found out Alexie was born in 1966 on the Spokane Indian Reservation in the state of Washington. He was born with hydrocephalus and odds were he wouldn’t survive; if he did, doctors expected him to be severely mentally handicapped. He suffered something awful as a child, but long story short, he not only survived, he’s brilliant. And as I read his works, my depression vanished. I was as crazy happy as our basset-mix is when he gets to come in the house and snags a piece of taffy.
But my favorite part was when I read that at a very early age (I want to say 5 or 6, but I can’t locate the exact reference) Sherman read The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Also, Alexie has said that Steinbeck was one of his earliest heroes and has had a big influence on him. Now how weird is that? I mean, considering my first–first!–thought upon reading Alexie’s words was “I’ve found the living Steinbeck!”
Alexie writes poetry, short stories and novels. Two movies have been made from his works (Smoke Signals and The Business of Fancydancing, which he produced himself). He also has a book called The Business of Fancydancing, and the story where Thomas Builds-the-Fire has the idea of a gun is every bit as hilarious as Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat. But my absolute favorite, at least so far, is his novel Flight. That book blew my mind. I remember reading the last few pages while on break at work, and–I am not kidding here–I could have sworn the conveyor belt I was sitting on lifted straight off the ground and hovered, me sitting there with the tears of my soul all over my face and not giving a care who saw me. I’ve not looked at the world in quite the same way since reading that book.
That’s really all there is to it: the story of how I met my true love, and then lost him, and then got him back (sort of). It’s nothing like the romances on the bookstore shelves, but it’s mine and I’ll keep it.
But I wonder…maybe–just maybe–if you read Sherman Alexie, you’ll fall in love, too. After all, when it comes to books, it’s okay to share.

Alternate Dimensions

renee — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 20:56:40 +0000

I had a headache, for many days, that nearly killed me. Okay, maybe not “nearly killed me”. Perhaps not. But then again, yeah. Maybe. It was awful.
During that time, I had not a creative bone stirring. Well, there were a couple hints at movement, but I think it was toasted brain cells settling in the ash.
And then, last night, as suddenly and inexplicably as it thrust itself into my world, the headache wandered off–possibly into one of many alternate dimensions, there to plague another unfortunate soul. I know a lot about alternate dimensions. For the past few days, my daughter has played one episode after another of the anime Noein before my fevered eyes, in an attempt to distract me from my very own skull-ful of ax-wielding firemen. I recall mumbling something about bright screens full of flashing color, seizures and comas, but I was apparently incoherent, as my daughter thought I wanted her to turn up the volume.
I made it through episode 13 or 14 (of 24). There was a lot of fighting between Karasu and Fukuro, who live 15 years in the future but visit the present, where they also exist, 15 years younger, as Yu and Isami. It was confusing and stressful to watch, what with time travels and kidnappings, tumblings and stabbings, vaporizings and lost limbs (not to mention lots of blue snow falling backwards), but right about the time Fukuro dissipated, so did my headache.
This morning, my mind was at last free to return to the world of Six-Pack. Unfortunately, I am also being summoned elsewhere, as I must now know why the insanely murderous Atori, newly bereft of memory, is now overcome with kindness and utter delight at the prospect of taking a little walk outside.
Tomorrow, I must return to the world of secular employment. Today, though, is mine. I juggle the worlds of Six-Pack and Noein. It makes for a full day.

One Foot in Front of the Other…

renee — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 14:25:31 +0000

My niece and Fwin (Vetta and Ash) are in Europe, fulfilling one of their life-long dreams. I admire them for following through. It took a lot of work and planning, but they are there for six full weeks, and they will be able to return in their minds anytime they want for the rest of their lives.
I sure do love those girls.
When I was fourteen, living along the southern coast of California, I seriously considered backpacking my way up the northern coast of California. Sure, I knew social acceptance for that sort of behavior had come and gone, but popularity has rarely been my driving force. I was already quite an expert at camping out with meager supplies: in icy cold; driving rain; hey, once in a while, in perfect weather. I imagined being able to support myself with temporary stints at odd jobs, part of my inspiration coming from places like Neptune’s Net in Malibu. Oh, how I loved the outdoors. Being inside made me a little (lot?) crazy. Actually, more like a pacing animal inside a cage.
Of course, there were other dreams.
One involved living in a tree house. My mother’s side of the family had land back in Arkansas, untended and wild, and I (along with a very loyal friend), decided to go there and “live in a tree”. I had a four-wheel drive truck and camping equipment; my father, who had no intention of accompanying such a wild expedition, was nevertheless a carpenter and full of sage advice. People warned me that winters would be terrible in a tree. I tended to believe them, but figured I would find a way to cope. My mother warned me of the deadly infestation of copperheads on that property, warning me I would need a backhoe and controlled burnings. But what finally dissuaded me was that, quite by chance, I found out spiders live in trees (lots of them). Kryptonite slowed Superman; spiders stymied me.
I’ve never stopped dreaming, although I never quite understood how I ended up married with two babies (I mean, I understood the physical HOW of it, just not why I let go of my dreams long enough to allow that to happen). There can be no mistake, though: those two “babies” (now grown) claim my happiest memories along with my heart’s undying love.
Still, I still sometimes think about the tree I might have lived in, the coast I’ve driven up and down but never walked entirely. I dream of the Maine coast and the state of Washington, rainy and wet and heavenly on the coast of Vancouver Island. I dream of the salt spray of the ocean and eucalyptus and lavender and rosemary and patchouli, some of my favorite scents. I dream of owning an Airstream; I dream of not owning one and striking out on foot. I dream of seeing England and Ireland and Scotland.
I dream of time travel; of being able to flit about between the worlds of long-dead authors and artists, the Pony Express, Robin Hood (in my dreams there was one Robin Hood, not a composite). Yes, reality and fiction blend together in these imaginings: I want visit the world of Sherlock Holmes (author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) and Richard Jury and Melrose Plant (author, Martha Grimes) and Lobelia Falls (author, Charlotte MacLeod).
These dreams may seem silly, but they’re mine and I like them.
I dream of many things. Lately, I find myself imagining more and more what it would be like to leave it all behind: the house, the material things, all of it, and simply start walking.
Of course, I’m not fourteen anymore; the world is a dangerous place; I probably wouldn’t make it far.
But one foot in front of the other, that too, is part of the dream.

Out With It

renee — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 00:45:00 +0000

I’m often asked why I don’t blog more, Twitter and Facebook more. Honestly, I think there are two reasons, no make that three: One, my brain works funny. It zips around, a wild, untamable thing, and all sorts of things storm through it. You know how some people can’t stand being alone? I have trouble in groups. Because I’m rarely alone with “Abby” up there. It’s lively, it’s tiring. When I get home and sit down before my screen, though, it all leaves me. All “Abby” wants to do then is work on a story, get lost inside the creation of one. And I sigh sadly, knowing full well I am delinquent in my duties, as yet another day goes by without an updated blog/Twitter/Facebook (but I sure do enjoy working on the story!).
Secondly, if you had a sister like Vicky or nieces like Vetta, Jolene and Trevia, you would probably feel intimidated, too. They’re positively brilliant, and are never (ever!) at a loss for something intriguing to say. So I read their stuff instead of posting my own.
And the third reason is that I prefer listening to other people than to myself. I already know what’s in my head, what my opinions are, and I’ve never liked spouting them all that much. I DO enjoy learning, though, opening myself up to new ideas. And I get THAT by reading other people’s blogs/Twitters/Facebooks. Well, and books. Books, movies, stories, music. Lovely stuff!
Inception was an interesting movie. I was grouchy for a little while after seeing it, had to think about it some. And books, so many good ones I don’t know what to mention right now. Three Bags Full by Leonie Swann is proving to be fun/interesting. Garden Spells and Sugar Queen by Sarah Addison Allen. Jesse Stone (Robert Parker) novels. Always, always, ALWAYS, Sherman Alexie. Reading lots about poisons (featured in next novel!). Music: MOJO BY TOM PETTY AND THE HEARTBREAKERS. Bay-bee, is it ever good!
Switching subjects, for any of you reading about the Ashley/Vetta trip to Europe, wasn’t that an excellent feature video they put together? Those two girls have such fine minds, educated voices, beautiful faces, they won’t just visit Europe, they’re likely to conquer it all over again! I wish my mind could tag along on the trip, as it will surely be insightful and entertaining!
And Jolene! I don’t even know how to broach the subject of that girl’s brain! Have you seen her MySpace? It’s only the tip of the iceberg–her mind literally gushes with words and ideas!
Trevia, beautiful Trevia “Misty”, besides being as gifted as her sisters, is the mother of beautiful Scarlet and Indigo.
I surely do miss my three nieces. They got their genius from their mom (Vicky) and grandma (Trevia). Beauty, too.
Let’s see, as for me, I’m still landlocked, hate it hate it HATE IT! Sea spray and eucalyptus, that’s the stuff.
Okay, now that I’ve been sentimental about my favorite (missing)(couple thousand miles away) persons and things, I guess I’ll call it a blog.
Who knows, maybe if I practice, I’ll get better at this.