For some time now, I've been in seclusion, working on a novel that is absolutely apolitical, since the political one I've had making the rounds has gone nowhere. Seems nobody wants any part of a book that puts Jews and Israel in a good light, as opposed to, say, Mel Gibson's movie, which takes an entirely different and new approach. Actually, it's a very old approach. But let's not get into that, for now.
So anyway, what happened was that my old computer went kaput, wiped out all files and everything else, and I took that as a signal that it's time to start all over again; and besides, it all happened at the approach of a new year, all the more reason for a fresh start. My new novel, which I've also sent out to a new agent, is about a man who finally accepts his limitations, his fate, but continues to hold on to his dream. (What did that sage declare? You may not succeed, by that does not absolve you from persisting.)
Just now, then, I'm coming out of a deep sleep, which is what happens when you dig deeply into a novel, for novel writing is like sleep; your subconscious opens up and you write from the dream part of your brain. You discover things, as you're writing, that you didn't know you knew. "How did I know that?" you say to yourself, as when you've just awakened and found that, in a dream, you've spoken Urdu. What fourth or fifth dimension did that come from? In short, I find that, very often, my writing (when it is good) is better than I am. Walking and talking I am simply not that good.
But now, after some three months absence, I am back to the world, back to being a news junkie, even a columnist.
So, now that I am awake again, and catching up, what had I missed while I was in the slumber of fiction? Nothing much, really. Same old mishigass, wouldn't you say?
It is a sad day when you exit the world of fiction and enter the world of fact.
I've just learned that Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez are splits. (Isn't this old news? Did somebody forget to press the Refresh button? Or is all life happening on Rewind?)
In this world of fact, I notice that the nations have still not succeeded; I mean in destroying Israel, of course. But they do keep trying. (It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.) America, I notice, is still standing, though our terror alert keeps zipping up and down, so that each day that is not 9/11 truly is a gift. We bless each day that we are not blown to smithereens.
But the main point is that nothing has changed. Two things come to mind that sort of encapsulate everything.
One: A British MP, Jenny Tonge, is reported as saying that if she were a Palestinian Arab, she'd be a suicide bomber. "I can understand," she said.
Well, me too. I can also understand. I understand that this lady is a hatemonger and an anti-Semite. Now you see? Here I go again. You are not supposed to use that label because anti-Semites don't like to be called anti-Semites. They prefer "humanitarian." But hey, it's getting late. There is no more time to dawdle. They want us dead (this includes the nasty part of the Islamic world as regards Christians), and if we don't fight back, we will be dead. No, it's getting late and it's time to call a? well, you know.
It's not Jenny that is disturbed and disturbing; it's that she speaks for so many. There are millions of Jenny Tonges out there. Remember Tom Paulin? There are millions of him, too. Which reminds me of something else I've just learned. The BBC just fired a guy who disrespected the Arabs. He gets fired, Tom Paulin goes on. Oh well. The BBC, you know?
I've lost my place. (This is what happens when you've just come out of a novel-writing dream.) Right, number two.
Ah yes, Mel Gibson, our Picture of Dorian Gray. I've already written about Gibson, right after I saw him on Fox's O'Reilly. Gibson says his movie is all about love. Oh, come on! We know what it is. Were we born yesterday? This is all about hate, man! You can't spin this. This is about forgiveness, says Gibson. Yeah, right, Mel, baby, like the Protocols are about forgiveness.
Let me tell you. I am very disappointed in myself. This was supposed to be a humor column. My wife said, "Why don't you write about how you talk back to appliances and other inanimate objects?" That's true, I do. When our smoke detector goes off when it shouldn't, I spank it and yell at it and put it into another room to teach it a lesson.
Or, when my computer does something strange, I tell my son, "Help! The computer made a mistake."
My son laughs and says, "Dad, computers don't make mistakes."
Oh really? I insist otherwise. Simply, I don't get along with inanimate objects, like computers and cars, if, indeed, those qualify as inanimate. They do seem to have a life.
But anyway, as you can see, this is not a humor column. This is what happens when you start writing, novels or columns. You never know what will come out.
Frankly, I was happier when I was in that deep slumber of writing a novel. I was unaware of all the garbage going on in the world, like when Mel meets Jenny.
Listen, King David, my hero, thanked God for making us "but a little lower than the angels." This one time, this only time, I think King David got it wrong.
Humanity is millions of miles lower than the angels, like earth to Mars. (I missed Mars while I was into the novel. Tell me, did somebody wave back to us?)
But remember, King David was a writer, a poet (maybe our greatest, he was). So, possibly, he was also dreaming.
For it is a jungle out there, and fiction is the only cure. I can't wait to get back. Who needs this?
So anyway, what happened was that my old computer went kaput, wiped out all files and everything else, and I took that as a signal that it's time to start all over again; and besides, it all happened at the approach of a new year, all the more reason for a fresh start. My new novel, which I've also sent out to a new agent, is about a man who finally accepts his limitations, his fate, but continues to hold on to his dream. (What did that sage declare? You may not succeed, by that does not absolve you from persisting.)
Just now, then, I'm coming out of a deep sleep, which is what happens when you dig deeply into a novel, for novel writing is like sleep; your subconscious opens up and you write from the dream part of your brain. You discover things, as you're writing, that you didn't know you knew. "How did I know that?" you say to yourself, as when you've just awakened and found that, in a dream, you've spoken Urdu. What fourth or fifth dimension did that come from? In short, I find that, very often, my writing (when it is good) is better than I am. Walking and talking I am simply not that good.
But now, after some three months absence, I am back to the world, back to being a news junkie, even a columnist.
So, now that I am awake again, and catching up, what had I missed while I was in the slumber of fiction? Nothing much, really. Same old mishigass, wouldn't you say?
It is a sad day when you exit the world of fiction and enter the world of fact.
I've just learned that Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez are splits. (Isn't this old news? Did somebody forget to press the Refresh button? Or is all life happening on Rewind?)
In this world of fact, I notice that the nations have still not succeeded; I mean in destroying Israel, of course. But they do keep trying. (It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.) America, I notice, is still standing, though our terror alert keeps zipping up and down, so that each day that is not 9/11 truly is a gift. We bless each day that we are not blown to smithereens.
But the main point is that nothing has changed. Two things come to mind that sort of encapsulate everything.
One: A British MP, Jenny Tonge, is reported as saying that if she were a Palestinian Arab, she'd be a suicide bomber. "I can understand," she said.
Well, me too. I can also understand. I understand that this lady is a hatemonger and an anti-Semite. Now you see? Here I go again. You are not supposed to use that label because anti-Semites don't like to be called anti-Semites. They prefer "humanitarian." But hey, it's getting late. There is no more time to dawdle. They want us dead (this includes the nasty part of the Islamic world as regards Christians), and if we don't fight back, we will be dead. No, it's getting late and it's time to call a? well, you know.
It's not Jenny that is disturbed and disturbing; it's that she speaks for so many. There are millions of Jenny Tonges out there. Remember Tom Paulin? There are millions of him, too. Which reminds me of something else I've just learned. The BBC just fired a guy who disrespected the Arabs. He gets fired, Tom Paulin goes on. Oh well. The BBC, you know?
I've lost my place. (This is what happens when you've just come out of a novel-writing dream.) Right, number two.
Ah yes, Mel Gibson, our Picture of Dorian Gray. I've already written about Gibson, right after I saw him on Fox's O'Reilly. Gibson says his movie is all about love. Oh, come on! We know what it is. Were we born yesterday? This is all about hate, man! You can't spin this. This is about forgiveness, says Gibson. Yeah, right, Mel, baby, like the Protocols are about forgiveness.
Let me tell you. I am very disappointed in myself. This was supposed to be a humor column. My wife said, "Why don't you write about how you talk back to appliances and other inanimate objects?" That's true, I do. When our smoke detector goes off when it shouldn't, I spank it and yell at it and put it into another room to teach it a lesson.
Or, when my computer does something strange, I tell my son, "Help! The computer made a mistake."
My son laughs and says, "Dad, computers don't make mistakes."
Oh really? I insist otherwise. Simply, I don't get along with inanimate objects, like computers and cars, if, indeed, those qualify as inanimate. They do seem to have a life.
But anyway, as you can see, this is not a humor column. This is what happens when you start writing, novels or columns. You never know what will come out.
Frankly, I was happier when I was in that deep slumber of writing a novel. I was unaware of all the garbage going on in the world, like when Mel meets Jenny.
Listen, King David, my hero, thanked God for making us "but a little lower than the angels." This one time, this only time, I think King David got it wrong.
Humanity is millions of miles lower than the angels, like earth to Mars. (I missed Mars while I was into the novel. Tell me, did somebody wave back to us?)
But remember, King David was a writer, a poet (maybe our greatest, he was). So, possibly, he was also dreaming.
For it is a jungle out there, and fiction is the only cure. I can't wait to get back. Who needs this?