Notes from Maine - 2023/01/15

In my attic, I have a Roland Juno-106 keyboard. I bought it in the 1980s, with money that should have been spent on food or cleaning supplies. One time, my sister visited the house where I lived in college. She took tons of pictures of the dirt in that house. I wonder if she still has those photos. We used to buy 8-packs of Coke in glass bottles and they would stack up in the kitchen before we returned them. Those stacks were a whole ecosystem of crud.

I used that keyboard (the Roland Juno-106) along with a Fender Rhodes electric piano. In the 90s, I was in a couple dozen bands. We would play parties, bars, and small shows, practice endlessly, and make demo tapes. With our friends, we would huddle around a tape deck listening to the recordings and say things like, “It sounds good, but is it, you know, GOOD, good?” (it wasn’t)

An appropriate amount of distance from the material have given me perspective. That music was no good. Some of it was a decent approximation of music in the air at that time, but it was a shallow reflection. The melodies lacked distinct themes. The chord progressions were either mundane or unsettling. 

I was thinking about that Juno-106 because it’s a pretty popular retro keyboard right now. There might be one or two things wrong with it at this point, but over the last couple of years I’ve gotten really good at repairing electronics from the 80s. I’m going to bring that keyboard down, restore it to working condition, and then put it up for sale. Someone else might be able to coax greatness from it. 

When I started writing seriously, I stopped playing in bands. Spending every weekend in dirty bars, playing music to people who probably just want you to turn it down, is a young person’s game. With writing, I was able to communicate my thoughts clearly. I wasn’t relying on the listener to parse lyrics and juxtapose those against the mood of the music, I could set the tone with descriptions, dialog, and actions. Writing a book is a long effort, but delivers a deep satisfaction when it’s finished.

Sometimes I come up with ideas that I don’t feel like I can effectively write. I’ll give you an example. A couple of days ago, I was imagining an interaction where “we” (the main character) go to town to get some supplies because the power is out. We need a new spark plug for the generator (better get two, just in case), some fresh gas, and a can of that ether stuff to spray in the carb just in case the engine is being stubborn. This is going to be embarrassing because Roger (of Roger’s hardware), always looks down his nose at people who aren’t prepared for a crisis. We can already imagine the way he’s going to frown and narrow his eyes when we plop our stuff down on the counter.

“Having a dinner party?” Roger might ask. He always says something like that—taking a quick jab at the customer.

Anyway, we’ve girded our loins as we step into the store. There’s Roger, behind the counter. We raise a hand to greet him, but he just stands there, smiling back. We tilt up our chin in another quick greeting and then push forward, hoping to get lost in the rows of tall shelves. It’s dark back there. Roger’s power is out too. A few emergency lights at the back of the store provide minimal light. Outside, Roger’s own generator is running, but it only gives power to the essentials—heat, refrigerators, registers, and pump. We find the stuff we need and return to the front of the store. Let the mockery begin.

Ten feet away from the counter, we stop. Roger is standing there, but he has moved. He’s standing motionless, but he must have moved because he’s facing us. We break eye contact and head up to plop our items down on the counter. Still looking down, we say, “With any luck, this will get the Generac back up and…”

The words dry up. Without a sound, Roger has moved again because he’s right on the other side of the counter, facing us again. His arms are at his sides. His lips are smiling, pulled back to expose his teeth, but his unblinking eyes show no emotion as they stare. We take a step back. 

“Just that stuff,” we say.

Roger doesn’t move. 

The bell on the door rings.

A young woman is standing in the door way. The door tries to close but comes to a rest against the toe of her sneaker. With her arms at her sides, she’s facing us, unmoving. She has the same eerie smile as Roger. The decision to break the law comes naturally, although we’ve never shoplifted before in our lives. We’re just going to grab the stuff and bolt. When we turn back to the counter, Roger is no longer at his station. He’s off to the right around the end of the counter. Still facing us, he stands like a statue—like he hasn’t moved in a month. He has always been right there, except he got there in a fraction of a second and without making any sound.

Anyway, I think that idea might make a better movie than a book. I’m not sure I can efficiently portray the menace of unmoving (always facing you) antagonists. In a movie, the unnatural images will convey automatically. When I have ideas like that, I think that it would be fun to dive into screenwriting, but that would be a difficult transition. I’m accustomed to throwing words at a subject until I can get it across. Screenwriters have to keep paring things down to fit the time constraints. Sounds frustrating.