Ambient Sounds
Working on a new novel. Thought I'd share a rough draft of the first chapter.
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs forth. Shall you not know it? Do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and rivers in the wasteland.”
He isn’t, thinks Declan McCaslin, peering at the computer screen, not really. A new thing? No. It’s just an old thing being done differently. Oh, well. His eyes return to the paper in his hand and he continues to read aloud.
“Ambient Sounds, June the eighteenth. As of today I am no longer hampered by that epitome of two fingered and one thumb aggravation, the computer keyboard. As one whose mind has long moved faster than his fingers, I'm thrilled to tell you I am dictating this. Yes! I have recently been introduced to what is called Open Word. To use it, I open a blank document, I click on Home in the top menu and expand the screen so that the toolbar is shown. I click on Dictate and then – I speak! Taa-daa! How is it, you ask, I didn’t know about this simple tool before? Answer? At the age of 71, I know far too little about far too much in this modern world, the dictation of words being high on the list. However, I am never too old to learn.”
The fact that he’s reading words out loud that have already been typed and printed out on paper suddenly hits Declan. Is this actual dictation? Perhaps not. Something to consider in the future. At any rate, back to the words in hand.
“Open Word can, and I quote, turn talk into text three times faster than typing. It can send email, search the web and more - exclamation point. It is, and again I quote, just great for students, businessmen, grandparents, and individuals with accessibility issues. I would like to report that as I speak - ” Declan glances towards his computer screen. It’s on the wooden table in front of him, keyboard, and mouse in front of it. “ - I'm watching words appear as if by magic. Remarkable. And a thoughtful suggestion from a former student, now a lawyer, who says he found the program unusable thanks to a nervous stutter. Ahhhh – exclamation point! - technology.”
And now, having read all this in a semi-assured rush, Declan McCaslin finds himself oddly exhausted. Again, he glances at the computer screen. Yes, there they are. Words. His words. Or something to that effect. Cogent sentences that now seem like total nonsense. Or were they – he – ever cogent to begin with? Probably not. Well, this will be a first draft, nothing more. He’ll do the rewriting, the real writing, with the usual slow keyboard hunt and peck. Oh, but to what end? For what earthly reason? No, stop, don’t go there. Clearing his throat, Declan starts to say something but hesitates as a group of convoluted letters, the translated equivalent of phlegm, appeared on the screen.
“Well... apparently Open Word has no un-do for creative constipation.” Much to Declan’s surprise, the spoken words immediately appear on the screen. “No, no, don't write that, I --” As if by magic, these do as well, “No, I -- not that either - I - oh, for goodness - ”
Flustered and not a little bit annoyed, Declan turns away from the worktable. Ridiculous to feel so done this early in the day. Perhaps he needs more coffee. There’s a thermal pot of it, fresh brewed for Macy, waiting in the kitchen. But no, he’s already several cups over his limit. What then? Some food to eat, some errand to run? Declan sighs. When you’ve been awake since four in the morning by nine you feel it’s time for lunch, wine, and a long nap. Oh, but he has a tennis game at one. If he can somehow keep focused until then. What do do, what to say….
“I fell into a burning ring a' fire.”
Declan glances at the screen. No, Johnny Cash doesn’t quite come through in translation. Open Word is obviously tone deaf. Declan certainly is.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”
Hmmm. Somehow John F. Kennedy doesn’t translate either. Not that he ever did to some people. Staring at everything and nothing, Declan turns and ponders the living room. Yes, it was a good decision, coming in here to work. The open light. Space to get up and move around. The bookcases close at hand. Not that anyone needs books anymore, what with the sum total of the world’s collective knowledge a wireless mouse-click away. Oh, but Macy’s furniture. Solid antiques, most of them. They give one a feeling of permanence. This is a salon, not a guest bedroom converted to a makeshift office. The mirror over the fireplace is a problem though. Declan occasionally catches himself in it and it’s like being surprised by a stranger. He finds himself staring back, not out of any kind of vanity, but rather out of curiosity. How has it come to this, the graying hair, the pallid, lined face in the mirror? Hmm. Perhaps he’ll jettison the creativity this morning and just go for a swim. Oh, but that would leave him too tired for tennis, wouldn’t it. Well, he can always go to Costco and join the mid-morning brigade of other bored geriatrics looking for a cheap hot dog. Then he can peruse the wines, contemplate the athletic socks, sample the free samples if they have any, buy some fish oil supplements for the dogs and then come home. Yes, he could do that. But no. No, he can’t. Discipline and focus are important when you’re his age. When there’s free time on one’s hands, one needs a determination to get things done. A breath of fresh morning air and he’ll get back to work. Breathe, thinks Declan, breathe. Be in the moment.
With the moment in mind, Declan rises and walks across the living room and out the open door onto the terrace. He stands, taking it all in. Sunshine, a cloud splashed blue sky, and beyond the waist high wall, the trees, the top of houses, and then the ocean in the distance. Macy’s potted flowers close at hand, chrysanthemums, or whatever. A beautiful day. A day to enjoy. A day to get things done. Light. Let there be creative light. Who makes this kind of malarkey up?
As Declan turns back, Macy’s painting catches his eye. It’s on an easel off to the side, half done, a paint box, and brushes on the wooden chair next to it. He hesitates, the moves to it. It’s of the view, of course. An evening sunset framed by the twin palms, a green smear of vegetation at the bottom, a stratum of pink-red clouds towards the top, the ocean in between. Amateurish at best. The perspective off. The color of the clouds is all wrong. Declan peeks towards the living room, and then, turning back to the painting, he picks up a brush, dabs some paint and begins to make a correction. A small one. Suddenly, like the sword of Damocles rising, there is the sound of a door slamming inside the house and of dogs shuffling and barking. And then, Macy’s voice.
“Stop, you two, stop it. Breakfast is coming. Quiet down!”
Declan quickly drops the brush and hurries back across the terrace and into the living room. Moving to his table he sits, picks up a pencil, reaches for a legal pad and begins to scribble with an industry far exceeding anything he’s shown in the last half hour.
“Declan!? Declan, are up!?”
Of course, he is. She knows he is. “Yes, working! In here!”
Declan listens as Macy moves out of the kitchen and into the adjacent dining room. “Good morning.” he calls, still scribbling, as she enters. He knows without looking that his wife is wearing loose, comfortable, unfashionable clothes and sneakers and that she is make-up free, her long, greying hair pulled back. He also knows, regardless of what she wears, that she is confident and elegant.
“Morn-ning.” Macy’s voice going up an octave on the second syllable. Not a good sign. Does she know he’s been fiddling with her painting? No, how could she? Impossible.
“I made you coffee. It’s back in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
Declan surreptitiously watches as Macy, not so much as glancing in his direction, begins to tidy up what is, apart from his worktable, an already spotless room. Though she has never mentioned it, he knows she didn’t like him working here. His clutter offends her esthetic sensibilities. She is a fluffer of pillows, a smoother of towels, napkins, and sheets. Clothes and dishes, when washed, are immediately put away, cups and glasses, when brought into the living room, demand coasters. So it has always been, so it will always be.
“You were out early.” Still scribbling.
“Mmm. I took the dogs for a long walk.”
“Not to - ”
“Yes, Declan. The beach.”
“Oh, Macy, no.” No longer scribbling.
“Oh, shush.”
“We can't afford any more fines.”
“Oh, pooh.” Declan watches as she plumps a couch cushion for emphasis. “I refuse to be intimidated by some person in uniform who won't stop people from scattering their beer cans and trash but thinks it's just fine telling me to keep my dogs on a leash. The dog walkers are the ones who pick up those beer cans. At least, I do.”
“And I'm the one who pays the fines.”
“We do. And it's the principal, Declan.”
“Last time it was 250 dollars. Each.”
“Mmm.” Meaning conversation over, anything else regarding the subject will fall on deaf ears.
“You were up during the night,” says Declan. A change of subject. Always good.
“Fritz had to pee, and Toad started retching and so, yes, I was up.”
“I didn't hear them.”
“Yes, you did, you just rolled over.”
Maybe not so good. “I never heard a thing.”
“You heard enough to know that I was up.”
Macy, finished with pillows, is now peering around the room as if wondering what else there is to do. If it was winter, she’d have started opening the drapes by now. She closes them at night because she says it keeps the house warm. So do heaters, he likes to remind her. And now, thinks Declan, you’re going to go out onto the terrace, aren’t you.
“Newspaper’s here, if you’d like it,” he says quickly. It’s neatly folded in the chair next to him, an anachronism, still delivered daily. “Interesting story. Seems scientists found some human bones in Kenya, ten thousand years old. Apparently one group of hunter gatherers slaughtered another. A pregnant woman was killed by a blow to the head.” Macy, he notes, is now staring at him as if he’s received a blow to the head.
“And how did they know she was pregnant?”
“A fetal skeleton was preserved in her stomach.”
“The point of all this being?”
“The point being that human beings are descended from monkeys who, as we know, are violent, little bastards at heart.”
“Mmm. Thank you, but I’ll pass on the paper today. And every day.” With that, as expected, Macy goes primly out the open doors and onto the terrace. One thousand one, one thousand two, thinks Declan. “We need to sweep out here,” her voice calls. One thousand three, one thousand four. As if she’s been hit by falling bird droppings, Macy strides back into the room. “Declan! Have you been at my paintings again?”
Declan looks up from the legal pad as if he hasn’t really been paying attention – which is all he’s been doing. “Hmm? What? No.”
“I know they're not very good, but I don't need you making corrections to them.”
“I didn’t - I just - I added a little contrast, that’s all.” The excuse sounds lame and decidedly hollow. They usually do. He should know better by now.
“And I’ve asked you not to. How would you like it if I went and started rewriting your - whatever your silly things are called.”
“Blogs.” Declan, now going on the offensive. “And you couldn't rewrite them, you wouldn’t even know how to log on.”
“Do what?”
“There, you see?” Thrilled that the subject has been changed. “You're intentionally hopeless when it comes to technology. You're what's known as a twelve o'clock flasher.”
“What exactly is that?”
“It's a person who can't even be bothered to set the time on their electronic devices. Their microwaves, their stoves, they all go blink-blink-blink, flashing nothing but twelve o'clock.
“Why should I bother when you set them for me?”
“That's not the point.”
“What is the point? I don’t like e-mails, I like letters. And I have no desire to read books off a screen, I’d rather go to the library. And as for all this on-line shopping - ”
“ - why would you do it online when you don’t like to do it at all. Yes, I know.”
She’s close to him now. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she leans down, her voice just above a whisper. “Declan? Mess with my paintings again and I’ll have to kill you.” With that, she kisses the side of his head. It both warms and alarms him which, when he later thinks about it, is Declan’s definition of marriage. Turning away now, Macy starts for the kitchen. “Fritz! Toad! Breakfast!”
“I won’t - ” Declan calls after her, “if you tell the Brewers to trim their oleander.” Oh, God, where did this come from, what is he thinking? He’s not.
Macy stops and turns back. “What’s that?”
“… all that green at the bottom of your painting. You - they – our neighbors - need to trim their oleander.”
“Oh, Declan, we’ve had this conversation before.”
“Tell them we'll pay for it.”
“And what if they take you up on the offer?” They have had this cion versation before, he knows this.
“Why would they? They never have.” He knows this too.
“Which is why I'm not going to bother them about it.”
“No, of course, you won’t. Because there’s hardly any view left anymore, is there. Houses, non-indigenous trees. No planning, no foresight.” He’s ranting now. Why? Is it because he needs an audience? Or a classroom?
“It's still beautiful,” says Macy.
“I'm not saying it isn't. It's just... diminished.”
“Mm. Like us.” Another half-smile now on Macy’s face. “Didn't you tell me once that copper poisons trees?” She’s teasing him now. Declan has no defense against it. He never has. Nor has he ever wanted one.
“Did I? Well, it does.”
“So you could go out some night with a hammer and copper nails and drive them in.”
“You know, I just might?”
“Or you could pee on them. Yours would be especially lethal.”
“All I could do is dribble on them. That's why I'm up at night.”
Macy laughs, deep in her throat. It pleases Declan to no end, and in response, he laughs with her.
“You,” Macy says softly. An endearment.
“You,” Declan replies, more of the unexpected feelings coursing through him, filling him with delight. Yes, all can occasionally be right with the world.
Looking back, Declan will remember that when Macy left the living room to go feed the dogs, the two of them were in a good place, pleased and at ease with one another. The day suddenly did seem filled with undiscovered prospects and possibilities. And then he glanced at his computer screen. “Oh, for God’s sakes – it’s written out the whole damn thing!” Yes, it was a good thirty-some pages of conversation, unexpected but in truth, as he read it, not horrible. In retrospect, what was surprising is that instead of saving and holding on to it as something to be looked at and contemplated in the future like a story or a poem, Declan erased it. But then, he was of a generation that hadn’t yet realized a machine was much smarter than he was.