The Whirlpool
"The Waste Land" - a metaphoric volcano
Hello! I’m excited about this entry, as I start discussing how The Waste Land helped my writing about my brother turn into a full-fledged memoir.
But first …
Editing Progress - Update
In two weeks, I will attend the Atlanta Writers Conference. Back in January, I was going to take my chances with my memoir at 168,000 words. I quickly learned of my foolishness. So now I’m making another set of cuts. My goal is 98,000 words, inclusive of notes, but if I have trouble making that, at least exclusive of notes, which are running about 6,000 words now, about 10 pages of end notes.
With 8 chapters (out of almost 50) left to edit (43,000 words), I’m at 119,000 words. I still need to cut 21,000 words. Tall order. I’ll get close. My cuts have been running about 30-40%.
My process: I cut scenes that don’t further the main point/plot. Then I go over the chapters again on a paragraph and sentence level three or four times from beginning to end, tallying up the cuts and the percentage. Each session yields a better text overall, as measured by my Internal Objective Object-O-Meter(TM)!
The Sucking Vortex
In my polyamorous relationship after my divorce, my girlfriend was taking psychology classes with a new class and instructor every month. My girlfriend returned from class one night excited to share something with me. One professor introduced herself and said, “I work with the lowest of the low in prisons and the criminal justice system, rapists, child abusers, and the like. But there’s one population I won’t work with - those with borderline personality disorder. They are sucking vortexes of personality.”
My girlfriend knew of my previous long-term marriage with a partner with borderline personality disorder and the totally insane things that happened and the fact that the counselors and psychiatrist never told us she had BPD! So BPD played a huge role in my life, relationship, and divorce. While I didn’t agree with the professor’s lack of compassion for people with BPD, “sucking vortex” had a ring of truth to my experience.
My Brother and the Whirlpool
For some reason while writing about my brother, I pulled The Waste Land off the shelf. I hadn’t really looked at it in years. My brother jumped from the Fremont Bridge in Portland, Oregon. Part IV of The Waste Land is “Death By Water.” In that section, is the stanza,
A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.
The Waste Land was the formative text of my literary studies, introduced to me by the professor (Louis Owens) who got me into English in the first place, a man who also committed suicide. I knew, of course, that my ex suffered from mental illness, as did my long-suffering brother, but I didn’t ever put them together. I found out about my ex’s diagnosis years after my brother had died.
As I thought about the whirlpool, it connected with the “sucking vortex,” and all the metaphors in The Waste Land began to pop out at me, like stars in the night sky. Everything in the poem took on a significance that served as a strong analogue to my real-world experience.
The trick became, how to turn that lived experience into something akin to art.
I printed The Waste Land and taped it to my wall by my desk, much to my girlfriend’s displeasure. I highlighted all of the metaphors that had some connection to my life, until almost the entire poem was highlighted and I had to start over.
My Brother and the Canoe Trip
My brother and I took a canoe trip with his friend Bob when I was about 12 years old. My brother and Bob were in their early 20s. We were on the Skagit River, I think, headed toward Puget Sound and our destination of a cabin in LaConner, WA. My brother was always in back, in charge, with a watchful eye.
There was a big bend in the river to the right. As we approached, I saw my brother stiffen, like he saw something. He took his paddle out of the water. All of a sudden he said, “Paddle!” We paddled hard and he steered us to the right.
In the elbow of this bend in the river was a huge whirlpool. From the surface it was very difficult to see. We just nicked the edge of it and it tipped us to the gunwale and spun our canoe 180 degrees on a dime. We had to paddle hard to right our direction and escape the swirling monster. I checked our packs in the bottom of the canoe, fortunately tied tightly to the ribs. We were lucky it didn’t toss us overboard.
Once we passed the whirlpool, looking back over our shoulder it was easier to see it swirling counter to the flow of the river. It took up almost the entire width at that bend.
When I reached the appropriate section in my book, I wrote about that whirlpool. This is the first writing I’ve shared from my memoir, so go easy, but feel free to comment below. As of now, that short piece is not included in the final draft. I’m not sure if it’ll find its way back in or not, but I’ve kept it to use elsewhere.
Enjoy! Have a great week! Next week - discovering more metaphors in The Waste Land
16 – The Maelstrom
When I was twelve, Lynn and I took a three-day canoe trip with his friend Bob, a lazy idyll down the Skagit River into Puget Sound near La Conner, where Lynn’s in-laws had a cabin.
We camped on a narrow island, wide enough to pitch a tent, not big enough to be out of sight of each other for even a second, the whole world on one sandy spit. We fished passively while setting up camp. The pole bent with the strike. The salmon fed the three of us. We cooked it in foil under the sand among hot coals. Bob carefully sliced out the cheeks, pale creamy pads, a delicacy.
The next day we headed for a wider expanse of river. Ahead, in a great bend, an eddy swirled on the far side a couple hundred yards ahead of us as the river swept to the right. Ever the eagle-eyed scout, Lynn saw something as we got closer.
“Paddle faster,” he commanded.
The canoe spun 180 degrees and tipped at the same time. My pack was securely tied at the bottom of the canoe.
We stroked forward to regain control and slowly turned again as far from the left side of the river as possible.
A massive whirlpool.
From our vantage point at the surface of the water, we couldn’t gauge the size or speed of this swirling giant. We could barely see the depression in the middle. From the river’s surface, it looked flat, but it was definitely turning, and it had spun us with enough force that we could only guess as to the force of the currents below.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
April 22. Lee introduces “the vortex” (quoted from an unnamed psychology professor speaking about patients with BorderPersonalityDisorder) and “the whirlpool” (taken from Eliot’s “The Waste Land”). In amazement, he is startled to find numerous correspondences to his personal life in Eliot’s text. Suddenly, life - in the form of the poem - is opening its arms to Lee. To the dismay of his girlfriend, he copies the poem and pastes it on the wall nearby his desk. He highlights the relevant passages, images, metaphors. The paper turns into a mass of fluorescent. Lee has to take it down and start the process again. The girlfriend’s reaction is not recorded.
Finally, Lee recalls a childhood canoe trip during which he encounters a whirlpool he will avoid by mere inches. This episode will prepare him for the current stage in his life, some fifty years later.