The Against the Day Deathmarch, Week 1

Welcome to The Against the Day Deathmarch -- a mass-tackle of Pynchon's latest tome. This is our fifth deathmarch, and I haven't been this excited about an onine mass read of a challenging book since, well, since we tackled Gravity's Rainbow back in January, 2005.

I've read the first few pages of AtD, and I can report from the trailhead that it doesn't start out in nearly as dense a thicket as Gravity's Rainbow. But it does appear to share at least three things with GR: (1) silly names packed with portent ("Darby Suckling"), (2) a new character every 7 sentences, and (3) something particularly startling or amusing on every page. "lavatorial assaults from the sky," "the brighter star-shapes of exploded ballast-bags," "The Great Bovine City of the World"? What's not to like?

Um...OK, but how's this whole deathmarch thing work again?

Here's a quick recap for new folks....

Short version: read, comment, finish, get a prize.

Longer version: comment on every thread from this week till the end, and finish the book, and you qualify for your choice of either an AtDDM mug or magnet. (Capped at 30 winners to protect my children's college fund.) Comments can range from erudite analysis to content-free exclamations. "I've fallen woefully behind" counts as a comment. Not a great comment. But a comment. Try not to get very far ahead. And if you have zipped ahead, be sure not to get past that week's reading in your comments. Every Tuesday I'll post a new thread, and it all starts up again.

Next Tuesday: Let's meet up at the bottom of page 56, where "the temperature" is "headed down."

(In other words, use this thread to comment on pages 0-56. Try to finish reading that part of the book and to comment here by end o' day next Monday)

Merry 'marching,
-Cecil

Legends from My Childhood, #1

Don't forget what'shisname -- Steven?

Really smart.
Played guitar.
Got into heavy metal.
Sort of wavy black hair?
He was a tough little dude.

I think they came in second in that Battle of the Bands.
All covers. Maybe Free Bird. OK, probably Free Bird.
But Blue Öyster Cult too.

He had a girl in his band. Leather pants.

He played guitar.
He got Bs without trying.
He was a tough little dude with a girl in his band.

Don't forget him.

****
Care to add any childhood legends in the comments?
-Cecil

Legends from My Childhood, #1, card art by eb.

Dialogue, motivation, bumpers

Thought for the day: Trying to write dialogue without first getting a bead on your characters' motivation is a little like trying to move a car by pulling on its bumper. Oh sure, you can do it. If you're really strong. At least, some people can do it. But there's an easier way.

The Against the Day Deathmarch Chit-Chat About Prizes

Got my book this week. I'm all excited, and who can blame me? I'm fighting the urge to dive in. I have read the quote that opens the book, and I have read the first line, and I can report that they are both excellent. The second sentence will have to wait till next Tuesday.

Today's post is another spot for chiming in if you're planning on joining the 'march, or for just saying hey to other 'march-types. Based on the response to the launch post, I'm guessing we'll start with something like 20 folks on the trail. A nice number to tackle such a mighty tome.

In last week's post, I mentioned prizes. A few folks are first-timers, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to explain how that works.

Tell me more about these so-called "prizes"

OK. Read and finish the book and comment every week (starting next week), and the AtDDM prize mechanism will release a deathmarch mug or a magnet, your choice, like a mother hen dropping a mug or magnet-shaped egg. (note: prizes capped at 30 winners.)

Here's a look at a couple of past prizes (note: len flares not included):

The "I Survived the 'Gravity's Rainbow' Deathmarch" mug

As you can see, the molecular structure of the GRDM mug is solid enough that all these many months later it can still securely contain a beverage such as milk, or chocolate milk, or orange juice. It calls to you, yes?

The "I Survived the 'To the Lighthouse' Deathmarch" magnet

The TtLHDM prizes should be going out to lucky winners shortly. While you can't tell this from the picture, please take my word when I say that the magnetic pull of these beauties is so powerful that I had to have them delivered to me in sealed lead boxes to avoid adversely impacting the local tides.

Alright then -- I hope the stakes are clear now and your collective mouths are watering as much as mouths can water in response to non-edible objects like mugs and magnets. See you back here next week, when we "single up all lines" and let boots and dust collide....
-Cecil

Were they bats?

Were they birds or were they bats?
Does it matter?

When they drop down in darkness.
When they brush up against the back of your head and nudge you along.
When they flap in your hair.

You want to know.
Feathers or fur? Beaks or black noses.

Were they bats?

Your Warehouse

Looking into your warehouse it's clear that
someone's really good at stacking boxes.

I know they use machines
but it's still a skill
to form
a lattice like that

three stories high

to hold against
the pull top boxes feel

their natural urge to tumble
and tip
to splay and splash

to show the floor their glory.

I Saw It

That tree at night is so beautiful.
I saw it. I saw the beauty.

I claim this vision with my
artist's eye. My eye so
true you crave to see
the beauty I see. You pose
and claim you saw it too.

You didn't see it.

Escobar's Cold

Escobar couldn't hear so good.

His cold -- the same cold he was
complaining about last month --
had taken root now, deep inside
the curly spots that led from ears to brain.

You might think he would open his eyes
wider to compensate, to pull in
extra visual cues.

But he was going the other way instead.

Withdrawing like evening fish.
Letting things happen around him without much fuss.

For example: when that guy flipped him off,
Pablo Escobar (1949-1993) just nodded.

Belated Reflections on the Animated Feature "Happy Feet"

Reflection number 1.

It's just a matter of time before "Happy Feet: The Musical" hits Broadway. So if, like me, your chest starts to constrict at the thought of 100 people tap dancing their hearts out while wearing penguin suits, just consider this fair warning. The time to implant that cyanide capsule in molar #32 is now.

Reflection number 2.

Although I certainly enjoyed the movie and I laughed and laughed when the birdies bumped into each other and went falling down, I was left with the nagging feeling I'd just seen an exceptionally deviant film. (spoiler alert) The message appeared to be that humanity would stop destroying nature if only animals were more...entertaining. Even weirder than that -- it's not enough that the animals sing really well. They need to dance. So dance my fluffy friends! Dance or die!

By request: Carl Sandburg

(It's not every day that someone asks you to write a short poem about Carl Sandburg.)

Carl Sandburg

was a dangerous man
always creeping around
on little cat feet infecting

people with

TB.

Blue coffee

You gotta
let it fly

spread it around
your community

like spilling blue coffee
on your neighbors, the family

a cup of the "things I'm bummed about" grind.

After all,
if everyone has a
blue coffee stain on their shirt

who's going to get all in your face about
that blue coffee stain
on your shirt?

My One-Word Review of Joanna Newsom's "Ys"

Haftarah-tastic.

First, the flash

on the plane ride home
that I might be the one who dies young --
that flimsy-bodied office worker whose organs
gave out.

Then the smiling round
retired banker capturing me at the local tea shop
telling me only the rich are happy

that I don't really know Orange County
that I'm due for a double-chinned heart attack
and what will happen to my wife and kids then?

Finally a voicemail from my doctor saying
hi
my total cholesterol is high
I'm at high risk for cardiac disease.

She hopes it's OK to leave this in a message but she's going on vacation.

And it came roaring out of his eyes, his ears, his nose, his throat

like some kind of pressure-cooked stew where you
can't make out the specific vegetables involved
but it's obvious something's
been mashed.

The Against the Day Deathmarch Pause That Refreshes

Back in January aught 5 a hardy band of pioneer types set forth on what some say was the very first blog-based literary deathmarch -- the so-called "Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch," in which a crew of modern day Lewis and Clark types banded together and managed, over five months, to read an extremely difficult book.

Two years later, we've read Pale Fire by Nabokov At Swim Two Birds, by Flann O'Brien, Don Quixote by Cervantes, and To the Lighthouse by Woolf. And now it's time for perhaps our greatest feat yet. Not only will we read a difficult book, but it will be a difficult book that was published in this century. Specifically: Against the Day, Pynchon's recently released behemoth.

But when's it start?
The spines crack Tuesday January 30th. All are welcome. We'll probably need a thousand people to join this time to get three people through, which seems unlikely, but, ya know, tell a friend. If you'd like to join up, this would be a great time to pick up a copy. But try if you can to hold off on starting it till January 30th so we can all leap onto the trail in synch. The dust cloud's purtier that way.

Dare I ask...prizes?
As ever, we'll be tackling around 50 pages a week. And yep, there will be the nigh magical lure of mug prizes for up to 30 people who finish and comment every week.

So what now?
Well, right here on this very thread would be an excellent place for you to sound off if you plan on marching, with your excitement, your fear, your loathing, all your strongest emotions. We'll need to put that behind us soon. For on the 'march we can only afford ourselves steely resolve. And the occasional donut.

See you on the dirt,
-Cecil

Whiskey plush

He achieves a softer plush with his face
letting the gray grassy mass
accumulate.

Short enough he will not chew
a whiskey growth
a little moss.

Something to rub at during meetings.
that won't come come off
on the fingers.

Dance party tonight

Would you like to dance?

A gazillion years later
would you still like to dance?

Put on high boots and a dangerous skirt?
Are you addicted to garbage
this weekend? Age inappropriate?

Will you shake that thing?

And are you all the rage
again?

The Scooby-Doo Conundrum

I just told my kids that Scooby-Doo has a speech defect. But now I'm not sure.

Even though the dog speaks and functions in a very human way, is he not still essentially a dog? And given that, should we not therefore judge him as some sort of super-freak dog speech genius, relative to the dog-normal-speaking-ability curve???

If I spoke Chinese as well as Scooby speaks English, compared to how most dogs speak English (eg: not at all), let's just say: I'd speak really good Chinese.

Perhaps the so-called "defect" lies not in Scooby's speech, but in our hearts and their collective inability to judge things relative to a dog-normal-speaking-ability curve.

x-post: Future fantasy headline happiness

MSBC.com and I are feeling bullish about the start of the new congress -- read all about it over on edgewise.

The deer liked to race

The deer liked to race around this particular meadow. Maybe it was the grass. Or the smell of the grass. Or the smell of last year's deer. Whatever the pull, the meadow was packed with deer, and they were running.

Across the lake, Spencer sat against a hard rock that didn't quite fit against his back and shoulders. Squinting he could make out individual deer as they sparked in and out of the herd. The echoing roar of their hooves pushed out over the lake surface. He kept waiting for a warm rain to fall. The air was heavy that way. Cozy.

It all reminded him why he'd parachuted down to this lake in the first place. Better to bleed to death hundreds miles from nowhere with a sack of money at your side than to slump your way into old age, clanking trays around some prison messhall.

Of course, that would be great if he actually had a bag of money instead of stolen laundry. Or if he was bleeding instead of just a little bruised on both thighs from where he'd squeezed his way out that window. What a surprise -- to find it so small. It hadn't looked that small.

As it was, no one was hunting for him. And odds were he had several years of hard living ahead. Plenty of time to relax, sort through his bag of clothes, wait for the rain, and listen to the thunder of the deer.