January 7 - Macbeth (the conculsion)

I now realize that the formatting gets a little screwed up when I copy and paste from word.  More likely than not, that will continue to be a problem for the life of this blog.  In any event, this is as far as I went with Macbeth for my Sophomore English class, so enjoy the "conclusion"...

Chapter 3

“Ladies! What brings you to 77^th and Lex?”

“Hecate’s message.  Is this where you were sent?”

“Yep.  Don’t you think it’s nice, Arian?”

“Very.  Have you seen Kendra?”

“No, she’s up to some wickedness I’m sure.  Oh!  I saw a woman walk by the other day – furs and all don’t you know – some trader’s wife anyway, she scoffed at me, called our kind the principal problem of the city – to her children no less – and said that giving us money only encouraged our laziness.”

 “Have you sent a message to the others?”

“Of course, of course.  They’ve all promised they’d seek her out especially to beg.  But moreover they’ll seek her husband.  Drain his change purse and his spirits with their begging.  We can’t do much more, but to see her husband give to transient upon transient – for the others in this station say he’s generous, even around his wife with enough pleading – will certainly wear down the wife.”

“Give me a copy of the message.  I’ll keep my eyes out too.”

“So kind Arian.  But look, here’s Kendra.  Kendra, where have you been?”

“Here and there.  I’ve been at Wall and William.”

“Oh very nice.  Arian’s been at Rector.”

“And you’ve been here I suppose?”

“Oh yes.  But look, there’s the man Hecate said to look for.”

Two men ran down the steps of the subway station, trying to get out of the rain that had sprung upon them.  Both were dressed in suits, although one looked as if he had been in the process of taking his off when he had been called back to the office and had to put it on again.  He was adjusting his tie as the two darted out of the rain.  The other looked back at the downpour from the overhang of the subway station, adjusting his cufflinks not out of necessity but out of compulsion.  He seemed out of place in the graffitied halls of the 77^th and Lexington station, as though he normally traveled above ground but couldn’t catch a cab in the weather.

 “Look at that.”

“Not exactly weather to match your success today, MacBeth.”

“Not my success, our success.  I couldn’t have held down the currency trading without you working on the bonds.”

“Knowing you, you probably could have done it anyway.  Look at the gaggle of bag ladies, I’ve never seen three so clearly together.”

“Banquo, give them some change for me.  We have to be on our way; Duncan calls.”

“Ha!  Hand over the change then.  You’ll get my ticket today?”

MacBeth nodded.  He walked over to the ticket machine and stood for a moment, contemplating how the machine worked.  Banquo walked over to the three transients.

“Good evening ladies.  You look half dead.  Here’s some change; stay dry.”

The three women peered around him, acknowledging his presence but not heeding his greeting.  They stared intently at MacBeth, until he turned around, conscious of the three pairs of eyes on his back.  He bent to get the tickets and walked over to Banquo, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder to pull him away from the three women.

“Come on, Duncan calls.”  He waived goodbye to the three and turned to the turnstile.

“MacBeth.  MacBeth.   Currency Trader.  Trade some more currency to us.” The first woman stood and shuffled towards the two men shaking a cup of change in front of her.

“MacBeth.  MacBeth.  Partner of Forres and Scone.  Who’ll soon have plenty of change to spare.”  The second too rose and followed her friend.

“MacBeth.  MacBeth.  Who soon shall be as Duncan.” 

The third too rose and joined her friends.  MacBeth looked back at them, startled and afraid.  Banquo too turned to his friend.

“MacBeth, why look so scared.  They only bring good wishes.   Ladies, rant a little on my behalf.  Your minds create such a wonderful future for my friend, what do you think of Banquo?”

The three turned to each other and began to mutter.  One turned out of the huddle and spoke.

“Banquo?  Lower than MacBeth, but may be higher.”

“Banquo?  Unhappy, yet happier shall be than MacBeth.”

“Banquo?  Never shall you be CEO, but your children may.”

“So thanks to you MacBeth and Banquo.”

With that the first turned away, still shaking her cup, and began to shuffle back to the place where she had crouched before.  MacBeth, as if shaking himself from a trance, jumped forward to drop a dollar in the woman’s cup.

“Please, and that should help, tell me more.  How do you know my job?  How do you know where I work? I know I am a Currency Trader – I got Bert Sinel’s job when he left to work at another firm – but how can you call me partner, or even CEO, if that’s what you mean by calling me Duncan?  These things are impossible; there are many others who’d make partner before I would.  How did you find us here and how did you know what to tell me?”

The second woman cackled and, grabbing her companions by the hand, darted down a dark, unused tunnel.  Macbeth started after them, but stopped and watched them fade into the darkness.

“Hey, come on.  As you say, Duncan’s waiting.”

“Banquo, they vanished.  Listen.  You can’t even hear them anymore.  I must be going mad.”

“What, you mean you hallucinated them?  Then you and I both are going mad.  And anyway, lighten up, our hallucinations bear good tidings!”

“Humph. Always optimistic aren’t you?”

The ping of MacBeth’s Blackberry cut through the echoes of Banquo’s laughter.  As he read, his expression became more and more incredulous.  Finally, Banquo looked over at his friend.

“Hey, who’s it from?”

“Ross, and here’s another from Angus.”

“What do they have to say?”

“Ross says Duncan’s elated with the news of our success on the floor today.  And both congratulate me on making partner.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah.  I’ll BBM them back.”

“The bag ladies can’t have any knowledge we don’t, even if they are hallucinations.  How could they have known?”

“Look, they’ve replied…”

The two men huddled around the phone and read. 

MacDonald was fired for working with Sweno (bastard deserves it).  He’d be finished here anyway, no one would work with someone tainted by Buckley and his crew.  Duncan’s given you his place at the table as a reward for today.  But don’t take it from me, that’s why Duncan called you back.  Hurry.

“Text them back.  Thank them for the news.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.”

The two men hurried past the turnstile and hopped on the train.  Banquo spent the ride from 77^th and Lex to Fulton St. in conversation with his Blackberry getting more information from Angus and Ross.  MacBeth, on the other hand, spent his ride in contemplation.

“They were right.  Well, they were right on two counts.  But to have Duncan’s position?  CEO?  This can’t be a bad course.  Nor can it be good.  I am now who they said I’d be.  Partner.  I have MacDonald’s seat in the Lennox room, maybe even his invitation to the Inverness meetings.  But how to get to Duncan’s position? There’s the fast way, the easy way.  How can I be more afraid of the prophets than the prophecy?  Prophecy?  MacBeth, get a hold of yourself.  They’re transients, hobos, probably schizophrenic.  But how did they know so much?”

“Hey, MacBeth! Get off the train!”

MacBeth looked up and darted through the doors at the Fulton St. station just as they were about to close.  Clearly shaken, he looked around, gathered himself, and walked briskly towards the Line 2 interchange.  Banquo grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him.

“Hey, you’re not still harping on them?  Shake this daze!  If they’re right, you’re on your way to CEO; if not, you’ve still made partner.  That’s something to tell the lady about, right?”

“Yeah.  What will be will be, I suppose.”

“That’s the sprit.  You’re just not used to the new title.”

“I suppose not.  But still, coffee tomorrow?  We should still talk about all this.  The transients promised your little boy the same title they promised me.”

“Ha!  I wish I could see that.  Little Fleance playing with his little, green solider men on the oak board table, running an international investment firm.”

Laughing, both men made their way to the next train.  As MacBeth alighted, he thought:

“What will be will be.  I did nothing to make partner; maybe I won’t have to do anything to make CEO.  But still… my fantasies get out of hand.  To think of killing Duncan… I hardly thought I could.  But as I said, what will be will be.  Let chance work it’s magic.”

            The two exited the Wall and William St. station and looked up at the darkening sky.  The rain had stopped, but thunder clapped in the near distance as they entered the foyer of Forres and Scone Investors, lit only by the fading natural light though the great windows of the entrance hall.

January 6 - Macbeth (part 2)

Yesterday's adventures continued.  As I re-read it, I realize that it doesn't really make sense.  I would offer the excuse of youth, but this was written in 2010.

Chapter 2

“Caitlin, stop worrying.  You’re bringing him good news.”

“You’re one to talk.  You’ve worked here for longer than anyone else.  Duncan’s never had anything bad to say about you.”

 “I’m his son.  He’s had more bad to say about me than anyone else in the office.”

Caitlin slumped against the wall of the elevator.  A meeting with Duncan might be nothing to Malcolm, but to her it was terrifying.  Not that Duncan himself was a terrifying man, far from it, but he was the founder and CEO of Forres and Scone and Caitlin was hoping to make partner someday.  It had been a long day on the floor and she questioned whether the news that MacDonald had left to work with their rival firm, Sweno, was really good news. 

            The elevator dinged 57, the highest floor Forres and Scone occupied.  As the two got off, Caitlin looked around in awe.   This was the richly decorated fortress of the executives.  The offices of the partners ringed the main hallway, facing out over the city through floor-to-ceiling, plate-glass windows.  The inner ring was comprised of four meeting rooms, all named after properties Duncan’s family held in their homeland of Scotland, as well as Duncan’s own office – the one he lovingly called Dunsinane – which only his sons and the oldest, most favored partners were ever allowed to enter.   As they passed each office, working their way towards the Lennox room, Malcolm greeted every secretary and executive alike; Caitlin couldn’t help but wonder how he knew everyone so well.  Finally, they reached the great, oak double doors of the meeting room. 

 “Hey Marion, I’ve brought Caitlin.  Will he mind if we interrupt?”

“Not at all.  He’s just finished talking about our strategies for the new quarter.”

“Perfect timing then!” Malcolm said as he opened the door.

Every head turned towards the intruders.  Stopped mid sentence, Duncan too turned to look at Caitlin and Malcolm.  Caitlin was stunned.  This was the first time she had seen the man outside of his portrait in the lobby.  His well-kept, white beard testified to his experience with the firm, but the look in his eyes belied the idea that his experience had taught him to judge a situation.  He seemed surprised at the intrusion but welcomed his son to sit by his left side, his right being already occupied by the older son Donald.

 “Welcome Malcolm, glad you could join us.  Who’s the girl in red?”

“Dad, this is Caitlin.  She’s got good news from the floor.  Caitlin – god, don’t look so scared – just tell him what you told me.”

 “Right, um, ok.  Sweno gave us a run for it, for a while it was pretty back and forth.  But MacDonald – you know him I’m sure, he’s in mortgage securities – seemed to have joined up with Buckley and his guys and was making a killing.  Lucky guy on the floor, you’ve always said that sir.  Anyway, MacBeth called him out on the floor, called him a traitor to our group and everything, and, masterfully, sold him out, totally devaluing every purchase MacDonald had made on behalf of Sweno.”

  “Good on him.  And that’s the end of it, we can be proud to report profits –“

   “You’d think right?  But listen to this.  No sooner had MacDonald started to loose money than Buckley and the other Sweno guys cut him loose on the spot and started working their own magic.”

  “So… we’ve lost money to those bastards?”

“I’m not done.  MacBeth and Banquo doubled their efforts and eviscerated the Sweno reps.  It was as if they had a personal vendetta, not just a professional rivalry.  That’s how it stood when I left the floor.  Who knows, they may have made even more than they had when I left.”

“You have brought good news indeed.  Go, go home.  You’ve earned rest.”

Caitlin breathed a sigh of relief and backed out of the room. As the door closed, Duncan smiled and the board broke out in cheers of joy.  Through the jubilations, the ping of a Blackberry sounded. Ross, startled, grabbed his phone from his jacket and read the BBM.

  “Ross, I thought I said phones off at the beginning of this meeting.”

  “That you did sir, but you’ll like this, it’s from one of the underlings.  Sweno began the battle again – the idiots let MacDonald work with them again – and MacBeth’s nearly bankrupted them.  We’ve won. Oh, new one, from Banquo now.  He says MacDonald’s planning on coming back here – he thinks we don’t know about his betrayal – and that Sweno’s looking to make a deal with us.  They’ll take some of the worse mortgage bonds off our hands in exchange for a truce.”

              “Well, we’ll see about Sweno.   Lenox, get your boys on that.  As for MacDonald, deactivate his ID and tell Marion to meet him with a cardboard box tomorrow.  He won’t trouble us anymore.  And Ross, tell MacBeth MacDonald’s old job is his if he wants it.”

January 5 - Macbeth

It's been grey and dark all day, so I was inspired to dig up a writing assignment from my Sophomore English Class.  The assignment was to reimagine a few scenes from Shakespeare's Macbeth in another setting.  This is the first third of the result of that assignment...

Chapter 1:  Prologue

            “Sisters, when shall we meet again?”

            The three women stood, huddled together in Battery Park.  They were old, and not really sisters; just three women who had happened to find each other when they first came to New York, all living as roommates in Harlem.  They still lived in Harlem, but now in the 125^th and Lexington subway station instead of the apartment they had shared as roommates so long ago.  Another transient had brought them a message to come down to Battery Park from someone who called herself “Hecate” (not that any of them thought this was her real name since many of their kind take on new names when they turn to transience) and she had told them that they couldn’t all stay in the 125^th and Lex subway station since the city was planning on getting rid of them.  They had been given new stations that were, so far, friendly to the transients, but, given the crowd that was already at each, the women had to split up.  

            “When all this is over, when they think they’ve won.  We’ll go back to 125^th and Lex then.  And anyway, our new stations aren’t that far apart.”

            “Then let’s go.  It’s starting to rain.  Arian, call your cat.”

            “Fine, fine,” she replied, coughing, “air’s filthy down here.”

            “Complaining, complaining, Arian.  Do you ever let up?”

            “You’re not always the most pleasant to talk to yourself, Kendra.”

            “Hush, both of you.  The stations’ll close soon.  And I for one don’t want to be caught in the rain.”

January 4 - Mannequins

Written for an online writing contest about two years ago (i.e. I when was 14).  I am proud to say that it won first in the Sci-Fi category and an honorable mention in the Overall category.

“Stephen, are you ok?”  

Lily was standing in the doorway, surveying the wreckage of his once neat one room apartment.  Domino’s boxes and empty cans of Busch carpeted the floor except in a narrow path leading directly to the bathroom.  The blue-green glow of the TV set was the only source of light in the room, slightly dimmed by a layer of dust at least a week old.  Magazine pages and newspaper clippings had spread across the walls.  Notebooks open to hasty scribbles buried the coffee table.  Stephen himself looked as though he hadn’t slept since the dust began collecting.  He had heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes and a beard had grown on his normally clean-shaven face. 

“Get out Lily.  I’m working.”

“Eliza and Harry are worried that you aren’t.  They say you haven’t sent anything in for more than a week.”

Stephen dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. 

“Are you working on anything?”

“I told you I was.”

“What then? “

“Come sit over here, I want to show you something“

Lily closed the door to join Stephen on the couch. 

“Don’t move that!”  Stephen cried, grabbing the notebook Lily had tried to move.

“Where do I sit then?”

Confounded, he shuffled the notebooks on the coffee table to make room for one more.

“Listen to this,” Stephen said, turning on the TV again.

“Stephen, that’s the prime minister’s last speech.  It was a little late after the bombings, but there’s nothing more to it.”

“No, look at his eyes when he’s talking about the actions he’s going to take.  They’re blank, like a mannequin.  He’s not speaking from the heart.  He either doesn’t think war is the right option or he’s on the same side as the terrorists.”

“But he’s taken a similar stance in the past towards similar situations.”

“Right, and I’ve reviewed those tapes.  He meant what he said then, or at least he made it look like he did.  He doesn’t agree with going to war…this time.  Which means someone else is really making the decisions.”

“Stephen, do you have any proof of this?  You’re entire theory is based on a look in the Prime Minister’s eyes on a grainy television set.”

“I know what I saw.  And I know it exists.”

“You’ve also been alone in this apartment for more than a week.  I know you.  Your mind runs wild when left to its own devices.  You’re looking at a familiar scene and making it different out of boredom.”

“Listen to the words themselves.  They’re empty!”

“Stephen.  You need to get out.  I hoped we could go out for dinner tonight, but it seems like you need to work this out.”

“It’s night?”

“Yes, Stephen.  It’s Friday and the stars are shining.  Good bye Stephen.”

“Lily, please listen; you don’t understand.  Someone is dressing up the Prime Minister and telling him what to say!  We can’t trust anything he says.  We can’t trust anything anyone says!”

“Good bye Stephen, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Lilly…I… All right then, see you tomorrow.”

As she left, she heard the drone of the TV returning to life.  She sighed and braced herself for the cold walk back to her apartment along the Ouse Embankment.  The only sounds were the click of her heels on the pavement.  She was growing tired of Stephen’s conspiracy theories.  When they first started dating, she had found him fascinating; but now, now she had begun to think he was a madman.  He bombarded her with theory after theory every time she was with him, and it was growing tiresome.

Deep in her own thoughts, Lily didn’t notice the men behind her. 

The black bag made a quiet sound as it slipped over Lily’s head.  She found herself in a small, dark room with nothing but a toilet.  The walls were cold stone.  Groggily, she scrambled to sit up.  As her vision settled, she noticed another huddled mass in the cell.  It was a man.  Dirty and bald, he looked as though he had been beaten a number of times; his face was purple and swollen.

“Sir, are you alr….are you alive?”

He chuckled a dry laugh, “It doesn’t really matter.  I don’t exist anymore.  I’ve been replaced by a doll”

In shock, Lily stumbled backward. 

“Prime Minister?”

January 3 - Untitled Ancestor Essay

This is something I wrote for my Junior English Class.  The project was to write a "Creative Non-Fiction Essay" about one of our ancestors.  I have no ancestors.  Both of my parents were only children and all my grandparents are dead.  So I interviewed someone whom I really respect: my Sophomore English Teacher.  I really respect him as a person, so it was really cool to be able to sit down with him and talk about his life.  I learned a lot...

        I have walked to the Brunswick English Wing many times.  My English Class was there my sophomore year, and, even now, my destination when I make the journey across the pre-school playground has been and will always be the same: Doc’s Room.  And it is his room; others may teach there, but they are his books that populate the shelves.  That makes it his room.  Books have always been central to our conversations, and I don’t think that’s solely because he’s an English teacher.  For Doc, Great Expectations was the first real, adult novel he read.  For a fourth grade Doc, this novel was the first that talked about a child growing up without talking like a child: “It got into the mind of someone who was young, and troubled, and growing up, and dealing with a lot of interesting emotional issues.”  In fifth grade, when he was asked to dress up as his “favorite character” for school, he decided to be Pip.  For my part, I thought Pip was one of the most interesting protagonists I had ever encountered.  I appreciated the fact that he seemed to be a real person, someone I wanted to get to know and would probably like.  I developed a kind of “Lit Crush” on Pip because he was so multidimensional.  When I told Doc about my “Lit Crush” as a joke, responded by loaning me his copy of Jack Maggs by Peter Carey for Spring Break.  It tells the story of Great Expectations from Magwitch’s perspective and shows Pip in a very different light; he seems to be almost the villain.  What started as a talk about a book I was reading for class became a discussion about how to think.  I may not have rethought my “Lit Crush” for Pip, after all, Pip seems so real because he is kind of an awful person at times; this book, in concert with Great Expectations, told a story that echoed my thought process. Both Doc and I were introduced to complex narrative at an early age, and that is reflected in our connection to this character who, while a child, also seemed to think like we did.

Doc grew up in Essex, Massachusetts on a lake in a neighborhood where there were virtually no other children, and, while he spent a lot of time doing normal childhood things with the neighbors, he spent a lot of time on his own telling stories to himself.  He wandered around through the many acres of woods nearby and created kingdoms.  As a child, he would read a book and act it out in his imagination and in new terrain, twisting and turning the plot in a way that satisfied him.  In his words: “Only children who grow up in a world dominated by adults no doubt end up seeing the world slightly differently.” The other kids he knew simply couldn’t dream of imagining some things.  “It’s the way Tom Sawyer thinks; we’re going to go and we’re going to pretend that this church picnic is a whole caravan of elephants and camels and we’re going to go pretend that we’re going to attack them.”  It is without a doubt that this changes the way one thinks.  Everything can be something else for a child who has had to imagine his or her playmates from an early age.  It teaches you how to tell a story.  Not only that, it teaches you how to tell a story through a story. In the interpretation, the truth of the story is revealed.  One way to interpret a story is through the retelling.  By imagining it in a new world, Doc grew up analyzing what made a story compelling and satisfying to read.  In grad school, he was taught to analyze books as though they were a science experiment. “Let us write a Marxist interpretation of Goethe.” Let us examine the text from every which way possible until we have exhausted it.  The classics, Classical Greek and Latin, taught him to look at the words and what they mean and where they came from; English taught him to look at the text as though it were under a microscope.  But he taught himself the subjective joy of the narrative.  By exploring the stories on his own and in his imagination, he learned to tell the story to himself and for himself.

 “We absorb the love of narrative early on, and because my mother was a story teller everything became in her presentation, from the time I was a small baby, a story. A narrative of her life that she conveyed to me and I think that all along the way as well the idea of interpretation has always been built into this: what did it mean when so-and-so said that?  She was always teaching me to think by using narrative as the tutor.” 

        Narrative as a way to think about truth is very central to what I have learned from Doc.  And I think that’s why we talk about books so much.  It’s a way to check in on how we’re thinking about life.  Doc thinks as he does because of the way he was introduced to narrative and to story telling.  Narratives lived in the forests of Essex, Massachusetts in the manner that he wanted them to live.  He learned how to think from stories.  And he maintains this way of reading and questioning.  Once, when we talked about faith, he told me: “I almost think that if there is a God and if He did create The Bible on some inspirational level, he did so to make people think.”  To accept faith as dogma alone, in his mind, isn’t quite the right way to do it.  Doc had his moment of rebellion in which he threw off the dogma by asking himself “why?”  And, in his words: “If you don’t rebel against all the values you’ve been taught, then you never learn to believe in them for yourself.” Doc’s narrative is essential to his way of thinking.  He thinks as he does because he grew up on a steady diet of stories, both those he created and those he was told by his mother and Victorian literature.  When I walk to the Brunswick English Department, I will always be, in some way, walking to Doc’s room.  And it is his room.  Others may teach there, but they are his narratives, both bound and spoken, that inhabit the place.  I think that makes it his room.

January 2 - The Author's Creed

This was a poem I wrote as a "prayer" for a project in which I had to create my own New Religious Movement.  I had a lot of fun coming up with a religion, and this was one of the prayers I wrote for the occasion....

I believe in the Pen, weapon almighty,

            The maker of story and poem

And in the Written Word, it’s holy Son, our Idol.

Who was conceived in passion,

            Born of a virgin page,

            Suffered under editing and peer review,

            Was abandoned, ignored, and hidden,

It descended into a forgotten file.

On the third day It was remembered.

It ascended into excellence,

            And sitteth at the front of our portfolio, a bible in the true sense of the word,

            From thence it shall come to stir and awaken the joy and the suffering in the reader.

I believe in the lyric of all poetry,

            The holy soul of fiction,

            The communion of metaphor and simile,

            The forgiveness of thinly veiled real people in creative non-fiction,

            The resurrection of the celebration of writing,

            And the everlasting soul of inspiration.

Amen.

January 1 - An Explanation

This post will be a bit of a cop out, but I have to introduce myself somehow.  Hello people of the Internet!  I am Lauren Eames, and it is my New Year's Resolution to write 365 things this year.

Each post will consist of a new piece of writing with the day of the year it represents and the title of the work in the title of the post.  If there's a good story associated with the piece, I'll tell it; but, other than that, this will be a blog of unadulterated writing.

I wish myself good luck...