On April 8, in the entry Inside Moves, I explained the genesis for my memoir. It started as writing about my brother, and over the first year, transformed into my own story.
I wanted to explore what my brother might have felt on that tragic night in August, 2004, as he scaled the Fremont bridge to end his life. Was it tragic? Tragedy is defined from the outside. Maybe for him it was a relief, or inevitable, or maybe it was a wresting of almighty control. According to his note, he felt secure of his place in heaven and looked forward to when he could be there with his family again. His soul would not be damned for his earthly acts.
Inside Moves opens starkly with the main character’s jump from a building, not quite high enough. I imaginatively wondered what my brother felt - it was August, the dog dags of summer in Portland, but was it cold? did he have tears? was it windy that high up? What were his final thoughts?
That version of the opening of my book later gave way as I explored The Waste Land as metaphor in my book. “The Burial of the Dead” became a framework for me to write about the three family suicides.
In short, the revision process has led me down many paths of which I’ve had to choose, constantly refining my approach until it works, tuning it to The Waste Land. Revision makes writing better, rarely weakens a work.
(Drafts of my manuscript, from bottom left, stack 1, 2, 3, 4 to top left 5, 6, 7, 8.)
The final draft - where I’m at now, is completely transformed. The 203,000 word document with multiple appendices and voluminous notes section is now a svelte 98,000 words. As I’m querying, I’m workshopping various sections, and there may be some tinkering yet to do. But on the whole, this work is done - ready for an agent and an editor and a publisher to say - yes.
With that, here is the opening of my book, a poem. As my book is tied tightly to Eliot’s The Waste Land, it’s only fitting that my book open with a poem. As in Eliot’s poem, my poem contains fragments from other sources, namely from The Waste Land itself as well as William Butler Yeats’ “The Second Coming.”
This is the first time I have publicly revealed the opening of my book.
Let me know what you think in the comments below.
I. The Burial of the Dead
1 – Slouching Towards Oblivion
Fremont Bridge arches to the sky,
icon of the Portland skyline,
longest tied-arch bridge in the world,
first in its class, of course.
Far above, a Peregrine falcon soars, 5
its widening gyre turning and turning
over the swift Willamette River.
From the nearby Pearl district,
the road unfurls like a nautilus to the bridge,
175 feet from the roadway, 10
381 feet from apex to river’s surface.
Either height would do.
In this cruel month, the dog days of summer,
from his long narrow room,
not even halfway a house, 15
slouching towards oblivion,
With best foot forward
and passionate intensity,
he scales the steel giant:
ceremony of innocence 20
ritual of despair.
His shadowy figure mounts the scaffold.
Autos “jug jug” on the roadway below.
An anonymous call. He jumps.
No rough beast, nothing but darkness was found. 25
At that height, on that night, surely some revelation was at hand.
What heap of broken images,
what blank card did you carry on your back,
mon frère?
In the morning, they found him floating near the shore. 30
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Notes on My Own Private Waste Land
Not only the title, but a good deal of the symbolism of this book were suggested by T. S. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land (1922) and events in my own life. Indeed, so deeply am I indebted to T. S. Eliot’s poem that my life reads as if it were a recreation of the myths and legends suggested by it. I, of course, recommend the poem (apart from its central location in 20th century canonical literature) to any who may think such elucidation of my own memoir worth the trouble. To other great works of literature of the 20th century I am indebted in general, especially those which were in turn indebted to Eliot’s vision. Anyone who is acquainted with literature of The Waste Land will immediately recognize the pervasive influence throughout my book.
I. The Burial of the Dead
1. Slouching Towards Oblivion
The chapter title refers to both Yeats’ poem, “The Second Coming,” and Joan Didion’s book, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, whose title comes from Yeats’ poem
page 1, lines 1 & 5 Fremont bridge; Peregrine falcon Fremont bridge is the 26th Peregrine falcon nest site, coincidental to the falcons in Yeats’ poem, “The Second Coming.”
Page 1, line 6 widening gyre turning and turning Cf. line 1 in W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming.”
Page 1, line 8 Pearl district The Pearl district is at the base of the Fremont bridge in Portland, Oregon. The reference echoes the pearls in T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land.
Page 1, line 13 cruel month August, the other month that starts with A. Cf. Eliot’s opening line of The Waste Land, “April is the cruelest month.”
Page 1, line 15 halfway a house He lived in a halfway house near the base of Fremont bridge.
Page 1, line 16 slouching towards oblivion Cf. line 22, Yeats.
Page 1, line 17 best foot forward From my brother’s suicide note.
Page 1, line 18 passionate intensity line 8, Yeats.
Page 1, line 19 ceremony of innocence line 6, Yeats.
Page 1, line 23 jug, jug Cf. lines 103, 204, Eliot, The Waste Land.
Page 1, line 25 rough beast line 21, Yeats.
Page 1, line 26 some revelation was at hand line 9, Yeats.
Page 1, line 27 heap of broken images line 22 in Eliot, The Waste Land
page 1, lines 28-29 blank card . . . frère Cf. lines 53, 76 in Eliot, The Waste Land
page 1, line 31 Those are pearls that were his eyes line 48 in Eliot, The Waste Land
We are still exploring our new home and environs in Seattle, collecting all the rain gear and waterproof shoes and clothes that we’ll need, though the weather right now is mild to warm, with an overcast of smoke from neighboring fires.
I had a pleasant reunion with my sister Lisa and her partner Bill after 12 years. It’s the first time I’ve seen family since the major estrangement back in 2010. More on that visit soon. I also learned that my brother and his family are interred at a cemetery in Olympia, though the cemetery is only open Monday through Friday, so I was unable to take a trip to view the gravestones.
Fall is fast approaching. Stay safe and warm.
Until next time, I’ll . . .
Just keep writing!
I was wondering what the noises were inside his head before the jump. Was it a whirring of pain going into relief? I think of it not as a choice, but as a consequence of his disease. Good work Lee, it is not easy to focus on such a painful part of our family's loss.