צבר

cmp.2009.07.21
ed.2009.08.30.01(Fifth Draft)

Sunlight bent and twisted in the sweltering heat above the desert city street. A cadence of voices coursed through the Bedouin market, punctuated by buses, cars and mopeds. An American man stopped in front of a small falafel stand. He looked at the man behind the counter, and to the walls inside; scripts, numbers, and certificates filled the empty spaces. The American gestured, pointing incomprehensibly, his words fumbling as he looked through the short glass partitions. He kept one hand low in front of his waist, holding a single red rose.

“Lo, Matbouka.” The man behind the stand corrected. He may have been a Bedouin, Arab, or Jew; the American had no way of knowing for sure. The man hoped that the American had some idea of what he wanted to eat. The American mumbled something in English and then something in what may have been Hebrew. Holding a stainless steel spoon, the man shook his head again, and a bubbling stream of Hebrew followed, and then after seeing the blank look on the American’s face, he tried Arabic; both languages poured with the fluidity of the ocean, black under the midnight stars, both cultures spiraling like burning galaxies in a brilliant dance.

“Shakshouka,” the girl behind him helped. Her voice rang in his heart, and he turned towards her, nervously hiding the rose so she couldn't see. The man with the spoon nodded and then turned in understanding, relieved to be over with the frustration; he wondered if the American knew how to count shekels. Her dark hair fluttered across her face in the desert breeze, and she smiled—trying to see what was behind his back.

Her dark eyes were ageless; God sculpted her cheekbones, her eyes—her lips—in perfect harmony with heaven, longing and mystery. Her eyes shattered everything she noticed, searching, always searching; her beauty raged against the piercing wisdom held in her gaze, her soul ensnared within brambles of passion and sorrow. The American had noticed—almost everything.

He had first seen her a month before, in another awkward moment; she helped him pick the right bus when he realized he had been going in circles. He had never spoken to her with any ease, and couldn’t hope to. And so he had found what he knew she would understand; he offered her the rose, her lips reflecting the delicate silk held captive within its petals. Hope, then fear flashed in her eyes. She looked away from the American and to the man behind the stand—he had seen everything.

She turned and ran into the market where the American would be hopelessly lost; she ran past the grocer stands, and then she turned. The man handed the American his order, a pita filled with two poached eggs and tomato sauce. To his surprise, the American correctly handed over twelve shekels without question. The American stared into the clutter of shops, into the knots of clothing racks where the girl had disappeared.

She ran through the Bedouin Market; she knew the American would be confused. A tear nearly fell from her eye before she caught it with the back of her hand. She kept running. Through the cacophony of little shops, then past a small parking lot, and finally she crossed the street. She leaned against the wall of an electronics shop, and looked back into the market; her fingers traced the stucco texture of a plastered wall.

Her first memories were of when she had started to go to school, when she was five. Her home in Morocco was like the home she shared in Israel, small, flat roofed, and painted in a sandy mud colored plaster. The inside floor was usually concrete covered with shiny white, lightly patterned linoleum, making it easy to sweep out the dirt that got tracked in. She would follow her mother around the house with a blue mop bucket; she always laughed when she got to throw water onto the floor without getting into trouble.

On every Friday before Shabbat, her mother would leave work early and pick her up at school. They would hurry to the store and then home to get everything ready. Her mother’s hair would be pulled back showing her face, her neck, her laughter. And when all of the cooking and cleaning were over, they would wait for sunset to light the candles and sing her favorite song.

She didn’t remember her baby sister or when she had died, only that at first her mother stopped coming home for Shabbat. But still, on Shabbat when she was alone, she would sing their song alone. Eventually, he mother had left altogether, and her father would have the neighbors keep an eye on her.

It was years later when she was fourteen that the men came and took her to Israel. She had never known if her father had even asked for money, he certainly hadn’t needed it. She knew that he could still find her and pay to have her back whenever he wanted.

She looked towards the market, and then to the voices coming down the street. She wiped her eyes, and stood straight, a cactus whose limbs were full of life, protected by hardened and forbidding leaves. She started towards a group of men coming down the street; one of the girls she knew was walking with them. The other girl held onto the upper arm of one of the men—evidently the wealthier of the group. When the girls reached each other, they gave each other a quick hug and kissed the other on the cheek.

The man behind the falafel stand set down his spoon and walked out to the American. He rubbed his fingers together; he wanted to sell something else. At first the American didn't understand. The man mentioned two numbers, the first the American understood—three hundred shekels. He took the rose from the American, threw it in the trash, and then mentioned the number again and smiled—that lurid smile that leaves no room for interpretation. The man looked at the American, and considered again. He proposed a different number, but the American didn’t understand; the man wrote it on a napkin—twenty-five thousand shekels: the price for the girl’s passport. Sure he was American, but he didn’t have that kind of money—she wouldn’t understand.

“Very good deal,” the man said in broken English, pointing to the rose. The American smiled politely, pointed to his wrist, at a watch that wasn’t there, and walked away as though he hadn't understood.

Laughing with her friend, the girl chose the gentler of the remaining men; she flinched when he wrapped his arm around her waist. With a quick smile, she moved his hand down to the middle of her back. Her ribs were still bruised when another girl had tried to run away three nights before.

As the two girls and the group of men turned off the busy road into a neighborhood, she saw the American again. She knew he couldn’t try to rescue her; there was no telling what would happen to the girls left behind—he wouldn’t understand. Though, he could afford to ransom her. She smiled. Anything would be better than this.

Pages

cmp.2009.07.14
ed.2009.08.28.04 (Third Draft)

Heavy tattered curtains smothered the living room window; a heavy gust slammed the screen door against the mountain cabin. Hiding from the lightning, a small boy huddled in the corner behind the bed. He wondered when the daylight would be stolen by the storm. Am I afraid of the light? He closed his eyes in the thunder, and then faded into nothingness as his page was thrown away.

A black, cold iron wood stove stood isolated in its corner; a small ash bucket and a spilled wood cradle spotted the clean wooden floor. A young man watched from his stool, peering between the curtains with his rifle in hand. He slid a round into its chamber, turned, and then closed the bolt. Lightning tore through the mountain top, sundering soul from body—a page torn in half; the clouds crumpled, and then he was gone.

Oil paintings and acrylics hung on the cabin's only wall separating the bedroom from the kitchen. The doorway to the kitchen opened to small stacks of dishes—pots on plates, those on bowls; a few glass perched on top. And there he was, an elderly man, with a frying pan in his hand. He lifted the cast iron frying pan, for a moment surprised by its weight; grease spattered his forearm. Lightning flashed through the kitchen window, and he leaned over to close the curtains; the eggs slid into the bacon that had curled itself up along the side. Get a grip, He told himself. He shook his breakfast to the middle, and set the pan down again, wondering at a wine glass perched perilously on top of a breakfast bowl—inside of last night's bean pan, on top of two heavily chipped ceramic plates still covered with steak sauce and grease. His heart weighed down with sorrow, and emptiness rubbed his life away. The bacon popped, and the eggs hardened under speckles of black pepper and salt. Thunder rolled through the mountain; the dishes rattled in its wake.

His orange poncho pulled in the wind as he tried to look into the kitchen window; steam rose fogging the square fitted glass panes of the dull green mountain cabin. Black, freshly dropped shale stretched in a path around the cabin; the little rocks crunched and compressed beneath his boots as he shifted his weight. Two water pipes ran from the house, one pipe reached to a drain further downhill along the back of the cabin, the other along the shale path to the water pump. Electrical wiring had been laced from the pump to a tall wooden post, and then to a collection of chained down dry cell marine batteries; several cleanly wound wires were tacked to another post and drooped to the solar panels on the roof. Tornado weather slung misted rain from the cedars; droplets danced through the heavily mulched lines of mint. For a moment, he turned his head towards the wind, his short greying beard and wild hair collecting the mist into small beads of water.

Before the front door, he leaned over the three wooden steps trying to look into the cabin. He raised his large thickened knuckles to the metal frame of the screen door; but the screen door bounced out, slammed against the frame, and then bounced out again in the wind. His hand caught the door, and he stepped up onto the top of the stairs. The smell of bacon and eggs turned him towards the kitchen where a cast iron pan popped softly; grease dotted around the pan as he took it off the burner. Whose place is this supposed to be? He asked himself.

Lightning flashed through the windows, and he waited for the thunder—I wonder if there is a storm cellar, he thought absently. He felt his form shift, his consciousness going blank. Wait, do I get a choice? Can I choose this place to be mine? Don't I have the freedom to choose to live?

The woman moved her hand a little to the left, blocking the sun glare pouring into her monitor; her right hand twirled a pencil between her fingers while flipping the worn pages of her journal. She sighed, closed her laptop, and pushed her chair away from her glass desk. Her chair rolled smoothly across the bamboo laminate flooring. Beach front sunlight poured through the blinds of her third story studio; she winced in the afternoon heat as she slid the blinds to the side and walked onto her wooden deck. Her flip-flops smacked against her feet, and then she leaned over her balcony, supporting her weight with the palms of her hands. She swung herself up and then straddled the railing and looked down the waterline of the beach. She tucked her felt tipped pen behind her ear, and ran her fingers through her short, highlighted, frenetic beach blond hair. She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes and set her notebook onto the wide cherry stained railing. Blue ocean waves ran to play with sand castles always battling over their territory.

What would you choose if you had free will? She thought.

Perhaps I really do long for the quiet and the power of the mountains, he replied.

So, I will make it your cabin then.

But this really isn't my desire if you made me with this desire, he retorted. If I take this cabin, will it be something you have taken, or something that I have taken? Whose will, will it be a part of?

What does it matter if you share some of my desires? She challenged.

He reached into the pile of dishes, and pulled out a white spotted, blue metal bowl with chunks of chili hardening along the bottom, perhaps the cleanest in the stack. He flung the bits into the trash with a tomato sauce stained wooden spoon and then scooped the eggs and bacon into his bowl—he kept the wooden stirring spoon.

The screen door was still banging every so often, and he pushed the front-room's door closed. He lifted the wet poncho over his head and onto the door hook, careful not to spill his breakfast. Drops of water spilled onto the wooden floor from his hood. Fine, I'll take it; its really not that bad, he chuckled.

He sat on the double bed, and brought the bowl under his chin. He picked up an entire fried egg with his spoon and quickly tossed it into his mouth; yellow orange egg yolk warmly dripped onto his beard. What action can I take, that is free from cost? Where—or how—can I make a decision that doesn't really affect me any more than any other decision would?

He reached over to the bed-side table, and took a small pad and a stubby charcoal pencil. With his spoon in one hand, and the stub in the other, he slowly chewed the egg while he stared at the first blank page that he could find. And then, he began to write:

A frail main listened from within his cell under a barred and open window; outside, the fishermen quietly set their nets before the dawn, and the river rolled gently along its banks. Hurried hands slid sheaves of paper and two pens under the heavy wooden door; the man ran from the window, his trembling, gnarled fingers grabbing in compulsion. With the paper and pens in his hands, he sat with his back to the wall—Will there ever be a time at the river? He wondered hopefully. A rat ran across the stone floor of the candlelit cell, and the morning air coolly washed the sadness away. And then, he thought about what to write—

Oh good grief! She said, as she dismounted the railing. No way are you going to make this—that—obvious. She gazed over the ocean to the storm clouds off southwest of the island. She tore the page from her journal, and the breeze tossed the ball of paper as it danced along the empty but castled beach. Lightning forked out among the rising waves; thunder marched defiantly to the shore.

The man sat in his cell looking at where the rat had ran under his cot. For a moment he tried to run his fingers through his long dark, matted hair. He gazed at the sheaves of paper on his lap, and while he considered the woman's destiny, he massaged his back against the rounded edges of the cell's stone wall. He smiled, then tore the page in half; two crumpled balls of paper danced off the cobbled floor and then into the darkness under his cot. In silence, he looked and considered the brand new page. Then, with a well practiced flourish, he picked up his pen and began to write once more:

After the storm clouds had faded, the man had left the cabin in the morning before dawn; a well worn and familiar path had led him through the mountain woods. As he tried to straighten some stray tangles in his beared, he gazed at the fading morning stars. Then, with a fish stringer hung from his waders, a fly rod in his hand, and a few extra flies stuck to the brim of his cap, he turned, and walked into the stream.

Sufficient and Necessary Conditions

cmp.2008.08.17
ed.2008.08.27.01 (Made this into a simple logic post.)

A sufficient condition is a condition that is enough to imply the truth of another condition. If the preceding, (antecedent) condition is true, then it must also be the case that the following condition, (consequent), is true. If "A", then "B". (A is the sufficient condition). It is also understood "B" could be true even without "A". But, if "A" is true, then "B" necessarily follows.

For example:
1. If it rains, then the streets will definitely get wet. Though, the streets could get wet in other ways, like water gun fights. Rain is a sufficient condition for the streets to get wet.
2. Cutting a tree down is a sufficient condition to kill that tree, (all that is needed to kill that tree is to cut it down, there may be other ways to kill it though).
3. Burning a tree down to the grown is a sufficient condition to kill that tree, (all that is need to kill that tree is to burn it down, there may be other ways to kill it though).

A necessary condition is a condition that must be met in order for something else to be true. "B" MUST be true in order for "A" to be true. If "B" is false, then "A" must be false.

For example:
1. It is a necessary condition for me to be breathing in order to live.
2. It is a necessary condition for me to be hydrated in order to live.

TPCS: The Building Blocks of Storytelling

cmp.2009.07.30
ed.2009.08.11.02

The building blocks of every good story are its themes, plots, characters, and scenes, (think "Topics" to remember all four--without the vowels).

Too much Theme, and you get a lecture.
Too much Plot, and you get an outline.
Too much Character, and you get a biography.
Too much Scene, and you get a geological survey.

Craft Themes, Plots, Characters and Scenes in the appropriate balance and harmony, and you will have the foundation for sharing your story.

TPCS: A Journaling Excercise

cmp.2009.08.09
ed.2009.08.10.01

Organization
1. Introduction
2. The Exercise
3. Examples

Introduction
The backbone of every story are its themes, plots, characters, and scenes, (think "Topics" to remember all four--without the vowels).

Here is a short journaling exercise to help reinforce the distinct building blocks of storytelling. Alternatively, instead of generating your own ideas, try to identify these components in a story that you have read and how they contributed to the overall quality of the story being told.

Disclaimer: These building blocks relate to the art of storytelling. The art of storytelling is much different from the "writing craft". In other words, just because you can write a good story, doesn't mean that you can write well. Also, just because you can write well, doesn't mean you can write a good story.

Exercise
Step 1: Themes
Think of a theme, or two! Racism, love at first site, the legal and moral definitions of marriage, climate change, crazy Republican/Democrat Nazi polemic morons, (sorry, its in the news), student voice in Iran, whatever.

Just pick a theme you CARE about, this is one of the molecules of your "ENERGY" formula. The more things that you are passionate about that go into the story, the more interest you have for the story, and more energy. Just be careful not to try to get too much into a short space.

Step 2: Plots
Think of a chain of events, (A plot or story), that you are passionate about. Maybe pick a couple to increase the pace. Is there a chain of events occurring in the world, or in your past, or in the past, present or future of one of your friends that you can't forget or get out of your mind?

What about the chain of events needed to make a fried egg? Tie your shoes? Painting an acrylic portrait of someone you love? Installing a Nitrous Oxide system to your car? Baking Bread? Just pick something that you know and care about. Never pretend you know about something when you write; actually know it, and know it well.

This will be your "outline". Change names, dates, places, whatever. If you happen to be using the shoe tying outline, you can substitute, "Go around the ears and bite the leash" with "He held her dangling earring in his lips, moved a little closer, and softly nibbled on her ear. He turned her away from the door, and traced her necklace line with his fingers ..." Okay, so I should never write a romance--moving along... Use your outline as an "Abstraction", (it doesn't tell you exactly what to write, but it gives you a base reference, a framework to work from!).

Step 3: Characters
Casting Call! If this were a painting, a movie, a poem, a stage play, whatever, and you were the director, (you are the author after all), what kinds of actors would you have act this "play" (story) out? What kind of characters would make this the most interesting? Better yet, what people in your life, or in pop-culture, do you know that would be really interesting to have act those parts out? Do you have a friend that should be shot if they ever became a politician? :) Change names, etc, to protect the innocent. :)

Step 4: Scenes
Location, location: Where would these characters likely meet? What is their common ground? Find a place that you, (the author), AND your characters would be passionate about. Why do they go there? How is the place NECESSARY to further the plot and define character?

Examples
Theme:Human Trafficking
Plot: Failing to Ransom, Redeem, or Rescue a girl
Characters: American, Moroccan girl, "Human Broker"
Scene: Bedouin Market, Be'er Sheva Israel

Theme: Socialize Health care, Right or Privilege?
Plot: Person doesn't want it, but needs. Person who needs it, is bound by it.
Characters: 1. Business Owner goes broke, child has leukemia - Rural family has limited access to hospitals/care - family member has rare disease.
Scene: Both families go to amusement park, for some fun and relaxation to de-stress.