Hello! I am just chiming in to say that I am super busy. I am currently in a stretch of restful days, the likes of which have been spent sleeping, eating, and hopefully recording some music.
I think you are all great and don't have the time to update the blog this very moment. I will soon.
Much love.
p.s. did you guys know today is July 1st?! Summer summer summer!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Empire Falls- Richard Russo
Blog-dom, I have another book report for you. I typed it up and printed it out and brought it to class.
I am reviewing Richard Russo's "Empire Falls." This is a first for me in terms of the author. I had never heard of him before I received a large stack of excellent books from my uncle and aunt (thanks!!!), and now, post read, hope to delve into his literary repertoire.
So, I think I'm just going to hit this one head on. No big subtitles or anything, just a meandering flow of words which convey the river that was this book. Funny, a river (The Knox, to be specific) was actually a central catalyst in the novel. And the river, in classic literary fashion, is again a metaphor for the journey of life and death we all boat through daily. I am getting ahead of myself, maybe some boundaries are needed. Maybe a few less literary analogies pertaining to Siddarthian lore. Lets start....
Here:
The setting is rural Maine. Prologue: Backwater town, once a thriving little gift of life and land, booming with industry. The introduction of semi-main characters. Chapter 1 (and on): cut to present day (maybe 2000?) and the main character is an in-the-process-of-getting-divorced, heavy, humble, simple man named Miles Roby. He has a daughter whom he loves, he is smart and witty, and he has an intensely dysfunctional lifestyle. He is morose about it, but too much seated in inaction to move forward.
Miles' wife is divorcing because of his lack of manly appeal and well, bluntly, sex drive. She is on the road to further discovery. His daughter is early high school, a standout mind and a bit of a loner. There are the Whitings (particularly Mrs. Whiting and her cripple daugher Cindy) and the Robys (the father, the sons, the daugher, the distant relatives) and the priests and the past and the resturant, Empire Grill. Then there's Martha's Vineyard and the effects of old money on small populations, river pollution, mystical magic moments in Mexico, and a murder mystery. And...and.....and.....
.....and I could go on and on. (Through editing I actually covered most of it) What this means, people, is that this book is about characters. Each character is crafted like the statue of David. Russo chisels away, slowly but surely, at the history, job, education, and most importantly mindset of each of his characters. (Counting in my head now...of which there are eight or nine.) He chisels for almost 500 pages, and by the end you feel like all these randomly screwed over screwed up people in rural Main are distant relatives. Russo takes his time to create an intimate setting in a quiet place, gives little shoves to each of his protagonists (they are all good guys when it comes down to it) and then shifts his fictional world in such slowly stuttered filtered effects that it feels like real life.
You may be getting the impression that it was long, which it was, but this is not a complaint. I just want the potential reader to beware that it is a character piece, a languid study in the actions of humanity. And, historically, that has never been a quick process.
The plot of this book is like the tectonic plates. They shift always, they are movin' and a-groovin' to a deep earthy rhythm we cannot hear, and similarly, the little threads of life that Russo writes edge forward until they collide. I would say the uniqueness of this book lies in the collision. No, I won't spoil the ending or anything like that. But, I will say that the monumental discovery and emotional transformation of the main character (Miles Roby) is hinted at and hoped for, and when it does finally happen, it is small. What I mean by this is that, objectively, his discovery of self is pint-sized, there is no reshaping of human future (think Ice-Nine Vonnegut) or religious transformation including horns (Satanic Verses), but instead a simple fact. A simple fact that flips Miles' entire world upside down--much in the way our lives can be so altered by small realizations.
Overall, I don't really understand how one writes a book like this. So much is about building the world, not about what is happening, and yet the further you read the more all the pieces come together. There are adventures and stories, ridiculousness old world oddities and a strong tie to the modern man and his plight. Russo impressed me, which is always a plus. Read it!
-----
Just so you know, I love character studies. The building of a character is sort of the mindset I have been in for some time as a writer--how do I create a character worth reading about, regardless of what he/she is doing--and I have found it to be quite hard. Russo does it easily, and for that I am both jealous and proud.
A quote from the mind of Tick, the daughter of the main character, on this slowness of which I speak:
"And that's the thing, she concludes. Just because things happen slow doesn't mean you'll be ready for them. If they happened fast, you'd be alert for all kinds of suddenness, aware that speed was trump. 'Slow' works on an altogether different principle, on the deceptive impression that there's plenty of time to prepare, which conceals the central fact, that no matter how slow things go, you'll always be slower."
p.s. a lot of this post was about speed...it is nice to feel time having slowed a bit. Typing that I currently think about how the weeks fly by. What is time? Where is time? Why is time? Help??
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Dawn
Hello all. So, it's not Sunday, it's actually past Sunday and there is no post for Sunday. There are three main reasons for this: I am lazy, I went to a rockin' concert on Sunday night (thereby taking up all my lovely Sunday-night blog time), and I GOT A JOB!!! No, I didn't work on Sunday (man Sunday is starting to sound like a fake word...), or the day before or the day after, but my mental preparation was in full effect and it's hard to find the time to blog when concentrating so seriously.
New things in my life:
1. Well, the job. I am now a Barista at Starbucks. No joke. I got a job in coffee...I got a job at a major corporation...and I got a job where I have to sell the crap out of stuff. Had my first shift today and I think it's going to be really fun. Seriously. But even more seriously, the money should start rolling in and maybe mayybe we'll find some independence sticking to me. Oh also, people at coffee shops do weird things and talk to strange people, they overhear tales of the world and can, like, talk about them and stuff. Hopefully some epic masterpieces will come of my 9-5.
2. The second new thing is music related. For those of you that don't know (most of you do, as you are in fact my family and close friends, and therefore know I have lots of awesome, read expensive, gear) I play music. And I have gear, and I like gear, and I go a little bonkers with gear when I get in one of those deeply satisfying obsessive phases of life. Well, I got a pedal board (look it up) and a new $300 effects pedal via craigslist trading (got to love the free market future) and am STOKED. Weird noises count for around 10 points in the game of life. (Cereal? Board-game? Vague wisdom? Who knows...)
Also in this vein, I am playing my first show with my band, Larusso. I haven't played a legit show in about 4 years, so this is pretty darn exciting for me. (Let me know if you want to come...)
3. I have decided to become a hobbyist, but need someone to teach me how to solder. This is new, very very new and I will be curious to see where it goes.
4. Finally, and this is more related to new thing number too, I have not been writing very much. In the literary sense, that is. I did just post clips from a short story, but I wrote that a while ago and needed to appease my eager contingent of young teenage girls in love in my blog. What I have been doing, in terms of creativity, is writing music. Songs, lyrics, chord progressions and funkadelic riffs. But not just writing, I am recording them. Which is a new phase for me-- trying to create something concrete in order to become immortal. (Classic Gilgamesh complex.) As I notice more about myself and the world while life slinks on by, as I watch my mind and body in action over vast periods of time, I realize that I am a very creative individual, but I have trouble burning more than one creative candle. So, right now, it's music. I hope to have some quality beats pretty soon. Ghetto blasta status.
So, I think that is all for now. It is hard to think of cool lessons in writing when I am not really writing. Maybe I'll post some lyrics or something. OH! I am also about to finish the book Empire Falls by Richard Russo. Look for a review...good good good.
p.s. I did not do a p.s last time!! I am sorry, I was very forgetful. I have a reputation to uphold. Trying trying. Sleep tight me hearties.
New things in my life:
1. Well, the job. I am now a Barista at Starbucks. No joke. I got a job in coffee...I got a job at a major corporation...and I got a job where I have to sell the crap out of stuff. Had my first shift today and I think it's going to be really fun. Seriously. But even more seriously, the money should start rolling in and maybe mayybe we'll find some independence sticking to me. Oh also, people at coffee shops do weird things and talk to strange people, they overhear tales of the world and can, like, talk about them and stuff. Hopefully some epic masterpieces will come of my 9-5.
2. The second new thing is music related. For those of you that don't know (most of you do, as you are in fact my family and close friends, and therefore know I have lots of awesome, read expensive, gear) I play music. And I have gear, and I like gear, and I go a little bonkers with gear when I get in one of those deeply satisfying obsessive phases of life. Well, I got a pedal board (look it up) and a new $300 effects pedal via craigslist trading (got to love the free market future) and am STOKED. Weird noises count for around 10 points in the game of life. (Cereal? Board-game? Vague wisdom? Who knows...)
Also in this vein, I am playing my first show with my band, Larusso. I haven't played a legit show in about 4 years, so this is pretty darn exciting for me. (Let me know if you want to come...)
3. I have decided to become a hobbyist, but need someone to teach me how to solder. This is new, very very new and I will be curious to see where it goes.
4. Finally, and this is more related to new thing number too, I have not been writing very much. In the literary sense, that is. I did just post clips from a short story, but I wrote that a while ago and needed to appease my eager contingent of young teenage girls in love in my blog. What I have been doing, in terms of creativity, is writing music. Songs, lyrics, chord progressions and funkadelic riffs. But not just writing, I am recording them. Which is a new phase for me-- trying to create something concrete in order to become immortal. (Classic Gilgamesh complex.) As I notice more about myself and the world while life slinks on by, as I watch my mind and body in action over vast periods of time, I realize that I am a very creative individual, but I have trouble burning more than one creative candle. So, right now, it's music. I hope to have some quality beats pretty soon. Ghetto blasta status.
So, I think that is all for now. It is hard to think of cool lessons in writing when I am not really writing. Maybe I'll post some lyrics or something. OH! I am also about to finish the book Empire Falls by Richard Russo. Look for a review...good good good.
p.s. I did not do a p.s last time!! I am sorry, I was very forgetful. I have a reputation to uphold. Trying trying. Sleep tight me hearties.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hear Me Roar
Blogees! I remembered about two hours ago the promise I made to myself and the internet to post at least once a week. A week has gone by, believe it or not. What did you do?
Anyway, I'm having trouble with topics and inspiration, so I've decided to post some fiction I am working on. Novel concept, right? (Novel, ha, get it??) Anyway I wrote this a while ago and edited it a little less than a while ago, and have dragged it up from the lengthy desktop folder entitled "Creative Writing." I hope you enjoy, and in case you are wondering about my awesome ending, there isn't an ending. It is ongoing, and I am literally leaving you where I have stopped. Let me know what you think!
(Also, it's untitled, so read this parenthesis as a title...)
My jeans are soaked to my thighs, this damn storm, let me tell you. In the early part of the century, back when men wore thick coats and bowler hats, long black garb that cloaked them in the color of death, real men, you might say, well in that part of the history of the world I survived a storm ten times this size, and my jeans, well...no, not my jeans because real men did not wear jeans back then, my pants, they were soaked, right to my thighs.
This was in the big city on the gold coast; San Francisco. It roared, oh boy did it. All curved cabs and ladies wearing gloves; even in the rain (torrential this time of year) they smoked cigarettes, inhaled it like they drank tobacco for breakfast. Top that off with vodka and orange juice, what you have there is one American way to start a day. This was pre Peace, pre Love, pre Haight and that damned Ashburry, two hooligans of grandeur proportions. Not to confuse the reader, I fell head-first through a cloud of acid rain just like the rest of you, but it was hard with this stiff hip, and all those boys wanted to do was run run run.
The city bumped and jived, a cesspool of sin and luxury, but fun, mind you. On this night, of the storm, that is, I was enjoying a whisky dry in a cozy little speakeasy. Easy jazz with chords of velvet; brass and stand-up, lover’s laments that made you want to curl up on Saturday and write lust letters to people you’ve never known. I could hear the wind beating drops against my sanctuary, my Mecca (pre-world knowledge of Mecca of course). There is nothing but the sound of a lightly brushed cymbal; a woman turning over in her sleep; the sky letting a feather fall silently. And that pianist! Such a virtuosity in his limbs, a lilt to his back. I remember his eyes closing as he played. All that, with those dim rouge lights, the small-talk of lovers, war and money (quality topics in any age I’ve found) on the tips of tongues. Lulled me, they did.
Anyway, that damned storm was so loud it clashed up against the sound of this aural phenomena, my song of songs, and drove me to a great fury.
I quickly became disgruntled, my inner peace shaken, and, anyway, my cup was empty. I nodded to the tender and he waved me off, looking neither distracted nor interested. I had been there some time, come to think of it, and when I stood the blood rushed to my head, making me waggle as I cleared a path towards the exit. Fur coats and lengthy umbrellas were crammed into the corner as people came in, and I grabbed my own parachute as I exited.
The wind hit me in the face, speckled me with drops of “light precipitation” as the news prints had read. Bullshit. These drops slicked my hair back for me, had me pumping the shaft of that umbrella like a flapper in the red-light. I routinely tried to light a cigarette, cursed when the wind blew it out, and decided to walk back to my apartment, just a few blocks towards the Bay.
Now, in 1922, a man walking down the street with a curve to his path was highly suspicious. The Noble Experiment was in effect, and us lab rats ran around licking the ethanol off every surface we could find. I was just shy of military legality (something everyone should aim for) and had been hammered well into the morning every night that month. All this while Johnny Law walked around this city like the damn gestapo (anachronistic, I know, but I was ready and able, not willing mind you, for that second attempt at world peace, and they were like the damn gestapo). Upending coffee mugs and the like. Then they had the audacity to “retain” what we were drinking and imbibe it themselves. The Station was rowdier than any bar in the city night after night.
Anyway, I'm having trouble with topics and inspiration, so I've decided to post some fiction I am working on. Novel concept, right? (Novel, ha, get it??) Anyway I wrote this a while ago and edited it a little less than a while ago, and have dragged it up from the lengthy desktop folder entitled "Creative Writing." I hope you enjoy, and in case you are wondering about my awesome ending, there isn't an ending. It is ongoing, and I am literally leaving you where I have stopped. Let me know what you think!
(Also, it's untitled, so read this parenthesis as a title...)
My jeans are soaked to my thighs, this damn storm, let me tell you. In the early part of the century, back when men wore thick coats and bowler hats, long black garb that cloaked them in the color of death, real men, you might say, well in that part of the history of the world I survived a storm ten times this size, and my jeans, well...no, not my jeans because real men did not wear jeans back then, my pants, they were soaked, right to my thighs.
This was in the big city on the gold coast; San Francisco. It roared, oh boy did it. All curved cabs and ladies wearing gloves; even in the rain (torrential this time of year) they smoked cigarettes, inhaled it like they drank tobacco for breakfast. Top that off with vodka and orange juice, what you have there is one American way to start a day. This was pre Peace, pre Love, pre Haight and that damned Ashburry, two hooligans of grandeur proportions. Not to confuse the reader, I fell head-first through a cloud of acid rain just like the rest of you, but it was hard with this stiff hip, and all those boys wanted to do was run run run.
The city bumped and jived, a cesspool of sin and luxury, but fun, mind you. On this night, of the storm, that is, I was enjoying a whisky dry in a cozy little speakeasy. Easy jazz with chords of velvet; brass and stand-up, lover’s laments that made you want to curl up on Saturday and write lust letters to people you’ve never known. I could hear the wind beating drops against my sanctuary, my Mecca (pre-world knowledge of Mecca of course). There is nothing but the sound of a lightly brushed cymbal; a woman turning over in her sleep; the sky letting a feather fall silently. And that pianist! Such a virtuosity in his limbs, a lilt to his back. I remember his eyes closing as he played. All that, with those dim rouge lights, the small-talk of lovers, war and money (quality topics in any age I’ve found) on the tips of tongues. Lulled me, they did.
Anyway, that damned storm was so loud it clashed up against the sound of this aural phenomena, my song of songs, and drove me to a great fury.
I quickly became disgruntled, my inner peace shaken, and, anyway, my cup was empty. I nodded to the tender and he waved me off, looking neither distracted nor interested. I had been there some time, come to think of it, and when I stood the blood rushed to my head, making me waggle as I cleared a path towards the exit. Fur coats and lengthy umbrellas were crammed into the corner as people came in, and I grabbed my own parachute as I exited.
The wind hit me in the face, speckled me with drops of “light precipitation” as the news prints had read. Bullshit. These drops slicked my hair back for me, had me pumping the shaft of that umbrella like a flapper in the red-light. I routinely tried to light a cigarette, cursed when the wind blew it out, and decided to walk back to my apartment, just a few blocks towards the Bay.
Now, in 1922, a man walking down the street with a curve to his path was highly suspicious. The Noble Experiment was in effect, and us lab rats ran around licking the ethanol off every surface we could find. I was just shy of military legality (something everyone should aim for) and had been hammered well into the morning every night that month. All this while Johnny Law walked around this city like the damn gestapo (anachronistic, I know, but I was ready and able, not willing mind you, for that second attempt at world peace, and they were like the damn gestapo). Upending coffee mugs and the like. Then they had the audacity to “retain” what we were drinking and imbibe it themselves. The Station was rowdier than any bar in the city night after night.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday Funday
My dear people, this weekend has been one of serious and intense laziness. But before I go into the highly interesting details of all that: the food I ate today.
Firstly, half of a homemade chocolate-chip cookie. Excellent and cakey. Second, much later in the day and comprising of both my breakfast and lunch, an onion bagel with regular spread cream cheese and half an avocado. Pretty freaking delicious. Thirdly, a dinner of Farfalle pasta, grilled chicken, and pesto. All combined and lathered with healthy amounts of olive oil. Finger licking good. (Which is odd because we didn't eat it with our hands...)
Just trying to live up to my previous post.
So a week has gone by and I've thought of precisely one good topic to blog about, which I'm not actually going to do here. That idea was Oprah--her life, her legacy, her inexplicable ego and buildup of final shows, and the giant hole she is going to bury all her money in. I'll do that soon, after some extensive Wikipedia research.
For now, I think I am going to ease right back into this. I got a pretty radical sunburn on Friday and have since then commenced the lazing about. I am waiting to hear back from a job, and have taken the hopefully pleasant news of no more free time to heart, utilizing the last of my aimless hours watching Lost and strumming my acoustic. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not entirely different from what I have been doing all week, but somehow, in the sight of a possible new life, it seems all the more sacred and important now.
I will say this about Lost. Just finished it. The whole thing. And man am I a sucker. Loved it, hated it, whatever you feel about the legacy of Lost, you have to admit it was ballsy. To cover such universal and contemplative topics so openly, with the intention of subliminally inching the masses of America towards true realization of the meaning of existence, is quite something. Most may have missed these obvious motifs: good versus evil at the core does not work because human beings have free will; we all really need to let go; a fat man stranded on an island can retain his weight if motivated to do so; and we all have a choice.
Now, I realize I'm about a year off from all the hype that this show ended with. Oh well.
This is all for now, I am a little lost myself. Slowly heating up the fog that surrounds.
p.s. I have to wear glasses at night to read the computer screen these days. Old man come and take me away.
Firstly, half of a homemade chocolate-chip cookie. Excellent and cakey. Second, much later in the day and comprising of both my breakfast and lunch, an onion bagel with regular spread cream cheese and half an avocado. Pretty freaking delicious. Thirdly, a dinner of Farfalle pasta, grilled chicken, and pesto. All combined and lathered with healthy amounts of olive oil. Finger licking good. (Which is odd because we didn't eat it with our hands...)
Just trying to live up to my previous post.
So a week has gone by and I've thought of precisely one good topic to blog about, which I'm not actually going to do here. That idea was Oprah--her life, her legacy, her inexplicable ego and buildup of final shows, and the giant hole she is going to bury all her money in. I'll do that soon, after some extensive Wikipedia research.
For now, I think I am going to ease right back into this. I got a pretty radical sunburn on Friday and have since then commenced the lazing about. I am waiting to hear back from a job, and have taken the hopefully pleasant news of no more free time to heart, utilizing the last of my aimless hours watching Lost and strumming my acoustic. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not entirely different from what I have been doing all week, but somehow, in the sight of a possible new life, it seems all the more sacred and important now.
I will say this about Lost. Just finished it. The whole thing. And man am I a sucker. Loved it, hated it, whatever you feel about the legacy of Lost, you have to admit it was ballsy. To cover such universal and contemplative topics so openly, with the intention of subliminally inching the masses of America towards true realization of the meaning of existence, is quite something. Most may have missed these obvious motifs: good versus evil at the core does not work because human beings have free will; we all really need to let go; a fat man stranded on an island can retain his weight if motivated to do so; and we all have a choice.
Now, I realize I'm about a year off from all the hype that this show ended with. Oh well.
This is all for now, I am a little lost myself. Slowly heating up the fog that surrounds.
p.s. I have to wear glasses at night to read the computer screen these days. Old man come and take me away.
Monday, May 23, 2011
New Innovations
So, people, in continuing my blog-nation I have decided to amp it up just a little bit. I know I just vowed to beat the semi-dead horse back to life, but these changes are pertinent and will both of us happy. My previous post entitled "Innovations" contained both new ideas and a long, winding-road post about connectivity (illustrating one of those new ideas). It was boring, and a long time ago, a lot like George Bush's presidency. Zing. This will be snappy and hilarious.
Entroducing (yes that's a DJShadow reference) my New Innovations!
(NOTE: I actually wrote this some time ago, so some things are really new, while other things are more like, hey, brosef, check this out if you haven't...ok?)
--Firstly, book reviews. (Like this.) I do a lot of reading, and I think it is high time I wrote reviews. This helps me and you: it helps me because I will have a catalogue of book reviews in case some awesome company wants to hire me for just that; it helps you because, well, if you like my style and my taste, maybe you'll like the books I read too. Here's the catch: most people review books from a reader's standpoint, or for the mass populace; I am going to review it from a writer's standpoint, first and foremost. Other things will go in there, but these reviews will detail the style of writing, the prose and punctuation (not really but the alliteration is solid)- character theme plot and transitions. (You have examples in the two I have up. More to come.) Anyway, book reviews!! yay. (still yay.)
--Secondly, I am starting a quote of the day. This will be on my page somewhere when I can figure out how to have it come up alongside my main post (anyone want to help me with this?). Hopefully this will act quite like small pieces of chocolate or hard candy, whichever you prefer, and will either lift your day along or sympathize with the drag that life can be. Look for these quotes, they will be better than your fortune cookie formula, I promise. (Now I have tried for a couple weeks to figure this out, but seriously does anyone know how to do this? A bit of text alongside my latest post that can be changed and yet archived? Lemme know.)
Example quote:
"Since when did forgiveness become a better quality than loyalty."- Mad Men
--Thirdly, I am, in the coming days or weeks, going to start cataloguing my posts under different sub-headings. This will help newcomers find topics that are more interesting to themselves, as well as allow me to see what I write about more often. For instance, one category will be Book Reviews.
--Fourthly, I have updated the look of this blog. The text is now white and in a different font (for your reading pleasure). The title simply reads Unpublished, as I have actually stopped my longstanding contract as a construction overseer and am now just an unpublished writer. I would like to ad a by-line, a mini-what-is-the-what-is-this-blog-about, but can't seem to get it to line up right. Maybe a photoshop is in order. Help on that, too? Thanks? Thanks.
--Fifthly, I added a feature, much like that of my "p.s." in which all italicized parentheses, and the contents therein, unless otherwise specified, are editor's notes. This is to make sure I voice my edits, but also to hopefully greatly increase the humor and depth that this blog is so well known for.
--Sixthly (a word, for sure), there is no sixthly. These are all my additions. If you can think of anything you'd like to see, please call 1-800-HARGENSHNARGEN and a volunteer answering a phone I set up in Deleware will be with you. But really, if you think of things you'd like me to do (look at these for examples) just leave a comment. Keep in mind this is about writing, life, and the pursuit of inspiration.
Much love.
p.s. I'm really into 30 Rock at the moment. For like, the fourth time. Word.
Entroducing (yes that's a DJShadow reference) my New Innovations!
(NOTE: I actually wrote this some time ago, so some things are really new, while other things are more like, hey, brosef, check this out if you haven't...ok?)
--Firstly, book reviews. (Like this.) I do a lot of reading, and I think it is high time I wrote reviews. This helps me and you: it helps me because I will have a catalogue of book reviews in case some awesome company wants to hire me for just that; it helps you because, well, if you like my style and my taste, maybe you'll like the books I read too. Here's the catch: most people review books from a reader's standpoint, or for the mass populace; I am going to review it from a writer's standpoint, first and foremost. Other things will go in there, but these reviews will detail the style of writing, the prose and punctuation (not really but the alliteration is solid)- character theme plot and transitions. (You have examples in the two I have up. More to come.) Anyway, book reviews!! yay. (still yay.)
--Secondly, I am starting a quote of the day. This will be on my page somewhere when I can figure out how to have it come up alongside my main post (anyone want to help me with this?). Hopefully this will act quite like small pieces of chocolate or hard candy, whichever you prefer, and will either lift your day along or sympathize with the drag that life can be. Look for these quotes, they will be better than your fortune cookie formula, I promise. (Now I have tried for a couple weeks to figure this out, but seriously does anyone know how to do this? A bit of text alongside my latest post that can be changed and yet archived? Lemme know.)
Example quote:
"Since when did forgiveness become a better quality than loyalty."- Mad Men
--Thirdly, I am, in the coming days or weeks, going to start cataloguing my posts under different sub-headings. This will help newcomers find topics that are more interesting to themselves, as well as allow me to see what I write about more often. For instance, one category will be Book Reviews.
--Fourthly, I have updated the look of this blog. The text is now white and in a different font (for your reading pleasure). The title simply reads Unpublished, as I have actually stopped my longstanding contract as a construction overseer and am now just an unpublished writer. I would like to ad a by-line, a mini-what-is-the-what-is-this-blog-about, but can't seem to get it to line up right. Maybe a photoshop is in order. Help on that, too? Thanks? Thanks.
--Fifthly, I added a feature, much like that of my "p.s." in which all italicized parentheses, and the contents therein, unless otherwise specified, are editor's notes. This is to make sure I voice my edits, but also to hopefully greatly increase the humor and depth that this blog is so well known for.
--Sixthly (a word, for sure), there is no sixthly. These are all my additions. If you can think of anything you'd like to see, please call 1-800-HARGENSHNARGEN and a volunteer answering a phone I set up in Deleware will be with you. But really, if you think of things you'd like me to do (look at these for examples) just leave a comment. Keep in mind this is about writing, life, and the pursuit of inspiration.
Much love.
p.s. I'm really into 30 Rock at the moment. For like, the fourth time. Word.
The Times
So, awesome blogees, this is the first post of mine in a little over a month. I dropped out for a bit. Never did that in college...thought I'd give it a try while enrolled in blog-school. No, but really, I just haven't felt the urge to write. Part of this assignment was to train myself to write even when I don't feel the urge, so I guess I failed a bit on that account. More than a bit (Italics will now be code for my witty editing process), I failed hardcore. WRITE DAMNIT!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The American Dream-Part II
So, Part II is here. I left you with the lies we all tell, our half-white-truths that get us a couple grand closer to the richness each one of us deserves. This second post will cover a couple topics: the used car salesman, his comparative glory days during the recession, his death via Arthur Miller, etc; my own covering of the two cars that define America is today (hint, only one is American...); finally, the definition of the American Dream and how and why it currently resides in a small bunker 10 feet under the desert of Arizona.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The American Dream- Part I
It was said by someone very dear to my heart and mind that you can't cover the American Dream in an un-American car. The American Dream is a noholdsbar grab on life, hands on the throat and groin, a steady sure climb to the top. This can't be said with a Nissan. It has to be a Cadillac. It has to be bold, it has to be manufactured right here, and it has to break down frequently. This person (Hunter S. Thompson) said something like this in his infamous book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I can't find the exact quote on the great black void of the internet right now). No, this is not a book review, just some parallell lines to get my point rolling.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Middlesex- Jeffrey Eugenides
Now here's a modern classic. For those that haven't read, this is essentially the story of a hermaphrodite telling the story of him/her-self from a gleam in the grandparental eye up until his/her late forties. So that I can stop doing the him/her thing, I'll let you wonderful readers know that the name of the protagonist in Middlesex is Cal. Or Calliope. Or Calli. Identity, I think, becomes quite complicated when you have a penis and a vagina. That, in basic terms, is what the book is about. Who we are, and why we are, and how all parts of ourselves merge together over time to create an individual that has some semblance of a modern man or woman.
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Genetics- Now a big part of the hooplah about this book was its genetic bent. Eugenides writes often like a scientist (another profession?) in describing the physical and genetic disposition that Cal has. This makes little sense to me. He explains it well, as you would read in a journal on modern science, and I tend to blow by this. I'm sure (the back cover tells me so) that many people enjoyed this aspect immensely (I think Eugenides covered his bases by being a historian, a scientist, and a novelist; we all had to love it). I did not connect scientifically, but rather Biblically. I felt his categorizing and serious use of genetic history to mirror the awfully long sections of our beloved Western dominant paradigm: the lists and lists of genealogy. Blank begat blank begat blank. Now, yes, dull it seems, but I feel Eugenides used an old idea and brought it to life. He traced the life of his narrator back before his narrator was born, and in doing so, much like the Bible, gave us all little lessons from a multitude of times, helping us along our own way.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
Bloggers! Hola. Sawadee-kap. Oy. Sup. I am greeting you more than once because I have been away too long, and also because languages are interesting when transliterated. So, my internet is finally up. Huzzah! I can, again, waste hours a day looking up random facts and, well, blogging. I took too long of a break. I should have gone to a coffee house and ordered a tea with little bits of milk and honey, sipped and typed and let you all in. But I didn't. I've actually been a little bit out of the writing habit, which is a shame because I was doing a pretty good job for me. So this is the first step (again) of getting into a habit. Hit me with your literary nicotine patches, cover me like that pretty man from that smoking movie, give my blood something to scream about.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man-James Joyce
So I'm trying out the book review thing. This is for a number of reasons, but the main one is because I have spare time and I love to read. My thoughts, of which I have many, usually come from books. And, believe it or not, I have an opinion about the books and authors I read. Thought I'd share. Thats what blogging is right? Sharing? Caring? Anyway...
James Joyce. For some reason I always thought he was a she. Not like a pen name or anything, but because the last name Joyce seems feminine to me, I just skipped right over the James. So I picked up the book on an old bookshelf, saw lots of notes scribbled inside (thanks Lelah) and decided that yes, I now have the time to read a classic. And it's not that long, so why not give it a shot?
Mind equals blown, ladies- and gentle-bloggers. How did I not know about Joyce? He's coarse and cryptic, his words slip and slide across the page and through the mind of the reader, but he is so incredibly savvy with the English language, it astounds me.
Here is a book about his infamous character, Stephen Dadelus, growing up and discovering himself. He goes to Irish prep school as a younger boy-confused and bossed around by priests-, then as a teen among fellow Irish teens-still confused and slowly turning into a priest-and then as a college man by the end-confused in an enlightened sense and renouncing all he's ever known (sounds like college). "Portrait" is the story of a young, self-conflicted, mildly depressed, incredibly smart soul growing up in the early part of our last century. Ireland is painted in grey and blue hues, the deep green of the countryside usually overshadowed by an impending cloud bank reflecting across a morose pond, all of which mirrors the mood of our young protagonist. Dedalus is said to be an image of Joyce himself, and so as I read I felt as if I were connecting with the author, always a great pleasure.
Some interesting writers techniques: Joyce combines words. He throws them side by side and they are brilliant: "cricketcap" "drinkingbout""gasflames." It goes on but I can't find any more examples at the present. From a writer's perspective, it is always loveley to see an author make up his own language. Joyce does this with specific attention to detail, and all of his combinations seem to have always made sense, as if they were supposed to be that way in the first place.
Another technique: Stream of thought. This book is so hard to read (objectively speaking) because of it's haphazard storytelling. Sometimes you are an omnipotent reader, sometimes inside Stephen's head as if this were always his world. And sometimes, thanks to Joyce, you are just floating on a drift of words. He seems to want to write, simple as that is. He loves words and wants to put them down, the way he sees his homeland and his people, and so there are vast passages that have little to do with anything plot or character or even book related. This, I feel, is refreshing. I write like this too sometimes, and because I have now seen Joyce do it, I feel that there is some precedent for my reigning bouts of confused word play to skip across the page of a novel as well.
A quote, read it aloud: "It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal."
We see Joyce employing a great amount of repetition, something I try and avoid, but he does it with diligence and therefore builds recurring moments or revelations that follow us as we read. He also blends all of his lavish wordplay with simple, understood physical description, such as the wall in a urinal. I guess people were doing that then, too.
The last part of this book I want to comment on: the religion. Being as interested as I am in this subject, "Portrait" was a goldmine of information and delectable imagery. A large section of the book occurs when Dedalus attends school to become an Catholic priest, and in doing so we hear the vast array of description given to young impressionable men in that time period. Hell is weaved through our mind, the repentance of sin and the feeling of unlivable guilt. He tells it all with such passion that it reminded me how religion is alive and well, good or bad, and that everyone should know a little more about it.
Overall, this book opened my eyes. Joyce caressed me with his words and left me actually wanting to read Ulysses, and so I recommend this to all who dare.
p.s. this is my first book review, and I have read a book and a half since reading Portrait, so spare me the lack of examples.
James Joyce. For some reason I always thought he was a she. Not like a pen name or anything, but because the last name Joyce seems feminine to me, I just skipped right over the James. So I picked up the book on an old bookshelf, saw lots of notes scribbled inside (thanks Lelah) and decided that yes, I now have the time to read a classic. And it's not that long, so why not give it a shot?
Mind equals blown, ladies- and gentle-bloggers. How did I not know about Joyce? He's coarse and cryptic, his words slip and slide across the page and through the mind of the reader, but he is so incredibly savvy with the English language, it astounds me.
Here is a book about his infamous character, Stephen Dadelus, growing up and discovering himself. He goes to Irish prep school as a younger boy-confused and bossed around by priests-, then as a teen among fellow Irish teens-still confused and slowly turning into a priest-and then as a college man by the end-confused in an enlightened sense and renouncing all he's ever known (sounds like college). "Portrait" is the story of a young, self-conflicted, mildly depressed, incredibly smart soul growing up in the early part of our last century. Ireland is painted in grey and blue hues, the deep green of the countryside usually overshadowed by an impending cloud bank reflecting across a morose pond, all of which mirrors the mood of our young protagonist. Dedalus is said to be an image of Joyce himself, and so as I read I felt as if I were connecting with the author, always a great pleasure.
Some interesting writers techniques: Joyce combines words. He throws them side by side and they are brilliant: "cricketcap" "drinkingbout""gasflames." It goes on but I can't find any more examples at the present. From a writer's perspective, it is always loveley to see an author make up his own language. Joyce does this with specific attention to detail, and all of his combinations seem to have always made sense, as if they were supposed to be that way in the first place.
Another technique: Stream of thought. This book is so hard to read (objectively speaking) because of it's haphazard storytelling. Sometimes you are an omnipotent reader, sometimes inside Stephen's head as if this were always his world. And sometimes, thanks to Joyce, you are just floating on a drift of words. He seems to want to write, simple as that is. He loves words and wants to put them down, the way he sees his homeland and his people, and so there are vast passages that have little to do with anything plot or character or even book related. This, I feel, is refreshing. I write like this too sometimes, and because I have now seen Joyce do it, I feel that there is some precedent for my reigning bouts of confused word play to skip across the page of a novel as well.
A quote, read it aloud: "It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal."
We see Joyce employing a great amount of repetition, something I try and avoid, but he does it with diligence and therefore builds recurring moments or revelations that follow us as we read. He also blends all of his lavish wordplay with simple, understood physical description, such as the wall in a urinal. I guess people were doing that then, too.
The last part of this book I want to comment on: the religion. Being as interested as I am in this subject, "Portrait" was a goldmine of information and delectable imagery. A large section of the book occurs when Dedalus attends school to become an Catholic priest, and in doing so we hear the vast array of description given to young impressionable men in that time period. Hell is weaved through our mind, the repentance of sin and the feeling of unlivable guilt. He tells it all with such passion that it reminded me how religion is alive and well, good or bad, and that everyone should know a little more about it.
Overall, this book opened my eyes. Joyce caressed me with his words and left me actually wanting to read Ulysses, and so I recommend this to all who dare.
p.s. this is my first book review, and I have read a book and a half since reading Portrait, so spare me the lack of examples.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Home Sweet Home
Blog viewers! I am back, sorry for the painstaking delay. No, I was not delayed on account of weather or terrorism; I moved. And so I am currently piggy-backing on a local corporation's unprotected wireless internet. Oh the things I do for you.
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Friday, February 25, 2011
How many more times?
Makin' me feel the way you wanna' do. This is the first of possibly many posts that begin with Led Zeppelin. Bow down to the glory of, please, everyone. This is also possibly the first of many posts that begin with Led Zeppelin but don't actually have anything to do with them. Sorry bros and bras, mangs and melons. This blog is, instead, about how many more things I can fall in love with that are about writers.
Let me list a few, in no particular order of greatness or incredibility: Californication, Mad Men, Bored to Death, The World According to Garp, Dead Poets Society, Shakespear in Love, Castle....my mind begins to lose steam, wheels slowing. Funny how an idea can seem to incorporate every little thing you do and see, and then when asked to list it on a blog just a few atoms come up. My point, and I will elaborate a few of these to make my completely random claims, is that as a writer, I absolutely LOVE media that has to do, specifically, with writing.
The first conscious awareness I had in this realm was Californication. Here's a show about a lot of things (sex and David Duchoveny mostly...wait are those different? ZING!), but it is, at its core, about writing. I stick to that honey laden Showtime wonder like a bee eaten by a bear. The first season is an endless amount of Saturdays wasted for me. And then, round two, season two, they cut the writing. It is dramatic and sexy and lewd, but Hank the writer does not do all that much writing and doesn't seem to care that his book was stolen. I realized as this second season fell into an abyss of suckiness what the writers (ironic no?) had forgotten. A novel. A new book. Not a memoir of a rockstar. Hank is almost literal fiction, an excellent genre, and they moved on.
Then take Mad Men, the best (yes Dad, THE best) show on television as of yet. It's about booze and women and secrets, but Donny D, the main man, is at heart a writer. He has a book of creative work, he needs pencils and paper or he's screwed (too bad Iphones weren't around in the '60s), and he takes to heart what the world looks and feels like. They may be working for the man, but the better part of that show is the creative acts of a new generation, and that will always be interesting.
I think the real thing that cemented it for me, even after these brilliances, was Bored to Death. I am now realizing that all of my expanded examples are T.V. shows. I clearly have too much time and an excellent internet connection with which to torrent. Bored to Death is me: it is funny and abstract, it is heartfelt in a random act sort of way, and it is actually about a struggling writer. Hank Moody has his books made into movies. Don Draper...well it's quite obvious how amazing and well-respected that guy is. But in Bored to Death, a young Jewish writer has completed his first novel (soon to be me?? hopeful eyes), works for a literary magazine, and is desperately trying to finish, a.k.a. start, his second great work. He struggles and ends up being a private investigator via craigslist, a career-path I have yet to choose, but all the elements are there. After watching that show I seriously thought about how dope it would be to work for a magazine and get paid enough to live and then try to write the great next thing on the side. Or in the middle. Or wherever, hopefully in New York, just like Ames and his wild antics.
Side note: another serious theme for me and this subject is the undoubtable presence of New York, the city of cities in this world of metropolistic future. I love New York and I want to live there, write in the snowblown winters and dark maroon falls, thunderstorm summers and Central Park. New York is a siren of old.
Anyway, I decided to talk about all this because I watched Wonder Boys the other night. Never heard of it, never saw it, did not blip on my radar. And then suddenly we are plunged into the world of academia and writers and publishing and funny stories that happen with dogs and fake capguns. And I am transfixed for an hour and a half and want to watch it again.
Possibly there is something in the adventures always told in the stories about writers; their lives tend to take random chance, danger, and a lot of substances and come out on the other side with something interesting. It makes me wonder if I should take more chances, if I should go out in the dark night with a gun and flashlight and just see what comes at me. Maybe even without the flashlight. Or get in fistfights or answer weird craigslist ads or talk to strangers. But even more possibly, I am semi-certain that the strange in life does come through me, that it blows and whispers and spikes the well of my creative water, and that my work does reflect this in a way. Sometimes I just feel as if I need more. Travel was good for that.
Oh the stories we all tell ourselves.
p.s. i don't have an idea for this one but I like the tradition of post scripting. It comes from the latin post scriptum and means "that which comes after writing." (Thank you wikipedia, thank you NOT Britannica, viva la revolucion technologica). Isn't what comes after writing just life?
Side note: another serious theme for me and this subject is the undoubtable presence of New York, the city of cities in this world of metropolistic future. I love New York and I want to live there, write in the snowblown winters and dark maroon falls, thunderstorm summers and Central Park. New York is a siren of old.
Anyway, I decided to talk about all this because I watched Wonder Boys the other night. Never heard of it, never saw it, did not blip on my radar. And then suddenly we are plunged into the world of academia and writers and publishing and funny stories that happen with dogs and fake capguns. And I am transfixed for an hour and a half and want to watch it again.
Possibly there is something in the adventures always told in the stories about writers; their lives tend to take random chance, danger, and a lot of substances and come out on the other side with something interesting. It makes me wonder if I should take more chances, if I should go out in the dark night with a gun and flashlight and just see what comes at me. Maybe even without the flashlight. Or get in fistfights or answer weird craigslist ads or talk to strangers. But even more possibly, I am semi-certain that the strange in life does come through me, that it blows and whispers and spikes the well of my creative water, and that my work does reflect this in a way. Sometimes I just feel as if I need more. Travel was good for that.
Oh the stories we all tell ourselves.
p.s. i don't have an idea for this one but I like the tradition of post scripting. It comes from the latin post scriptum and means "that which comes after writing." (Thank you wikipedia, thank you NOT Britannica, viva la revolucion technologica). Isn't what comes after writing just life?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The End of an Era
So, dear people, I think this will be a short post. I know everyone loves my essay length thoughts about lots of "topical" things, but I'm feelin' a quickie.
The Era this title speaks of is a simple phrase, a phrase pushed into our skulls by modern advertising and common usage. "Can you hear me now?" Short enough. Pretty easy to say, pretty obvious what is going on, pretty clear that Verizon has questionable service all over America (I mean all that guy seems to do is ask if people can hear him...), but no more! This is, indeed, a post about current technology and T.V. Sorry for those who enjoy more esoteric topics.
Verizon, our beloved four-g, letter z using, Carson Daily look-alike contest winner of a company started an ad campaign many years ago that defined a new nation. We need service. We need to know where people are and what they are saying. And we need to make sure they can hear us, because in this modern world if your voice does not make it through the mobile phone, onto the little invisible particles that are sent into space, and back again through the atmosphere into a friend's ear, we will perish. And quickly. Verizon sits high and mighty with AT&T (my personal provider, whadup unremarkable logo. Is it a world?) as the two big phone networks in the U.S.
The campaign of "Can you hear me?" is actually pretty likeable, or at least I think it is, and through this Verizon is recognized. Fairly recently, actually maybe at the Superbowl (see my American Tradition post), a new ad was released.
The camera follows a sleek black tablet-esque object through space. The bands on its side shimmer in the distant galaxy's sun, it flips and turns and just pulsates with brilliance like no other object has in society before. Epic music is playing. People are probably making babies with this thing. Oh, wait, it's an Iphone. Damn, should have seen that coming. The ad does this for a little while, pauses its music, pauses its visual; a silence is audible through America as many people hold their breath, and Verizon spokesmen Paul Marcaerilli (I looked it up) says, "I can hear you now."
What? Did the invention of a single phone (invented quite some time ago I may add) just change a longstanding slogan for a national company? I couldn't believe my ears. The Iphone is great, really it is I have one and can't sleep or move or eat without knowing it has a charge and is listening, but it doesn't change the essence of a company. I was shocked (as you can tell) that another product, another fiscal competing corporation (everyone watch out for Apple Phone Networks), could decide to do business with a company like Verizon, and in turn get hailed as "the answer." I think they call the Iphone genius in the commercial after the jaw-dropping recognition of service.
Anyway, this is what I thought was interesting today. In term's of writing, well I dunno. It blows me away that a company would answer a logo based entirely on a question because a new model of an old phone came out. This is the sort of culture change that interests me. So if you don't have an Iphone can nobody hear you on Verizon? That is what I'm thinking. I don't know how this managed to turn into a longer post. Too much free time on my hands. I can hear you now, lateskies.
p.s. who saw the competing AT&T ad with the guy forgetting his anniversary? Isn't stupidity and inattention to your spouse funny??
The Era this title speaks of is a simple phrase, a phrase pushed into our skulls by modern advertising and common usage. "Can you hear me now?" Short enough. Pretty easy to say, pretty obvious what is going on, pretty clear that Verizon has questionable service all over America (I mean all that guy seems to do is ask if people can hear him...), but no more! This is, indeed, a post about current technology and T.V. Sorry for those who enjoy more esoteric topics.
Verizon, our beloved four-g, letter z using, Carson Daily look-alike contest winner of a company started an ad campaign many years ago that defined a new nation. We need service. We need to know where people are and what they are saying. And we need to make sure they can hear us, because in this modern world if your voice does not make it through the mobile phone, onto the little invisible particles that are sent into space, and back again through the atmosphere into a friend's ear, we will perish. And quickly. Verizon sits high and mighty with AT&T (my personal provider, whadup unremarkable logo. Is it a world?) as the two big phone networks in the U.S.
The campaign of "Can you hear me?" is actually pretty likeable, or at least I think it is, and through this Verizon is recognized. Fairly recently, actually maybe at the Superbowl (see my American Tradition post), a new ad was released.
The camera follows a sleek black tablet-esque object through space. The bands on its side shimmer in the distant galaxy's sun, it flips and turns and just pulsates with brilliance like no other object has in society before. Epic music is playing. People are probably making babies with this thing. Oh, wait, it's an Iphone. Damn, should have seen that coming. The ad does this for a little while, pauses its music, pauses its visual; a silence is audible through America as many people hold their breath, and Verizon spokesmen Paul Marcaerilli (I looked it up) says, "I can hear you now."
What? Did the invention of a single phone (invented quite some time ago I may add) just change a longstanding slogan for a national company? I couldn't believe my ears. The Iphone is great, really it is I have one and can't sleep or move or eat without knowing it has a charge and is listening, but it doesn't change the essence of a company. I was shocked (as you can tell) that another product, another fiscal competing corporation (everyone watch out for Apple Phone Networks), could decide to do business with a company like Verizon, and in turn get hailed as "the answer." I think they call the Iphone genius in the commercial after the jaw-dropping recognition of service.
Anyway, this is what I thought was interesting today. In term's of writing, well I dunno. It blows me away that a company would answer a logo based entirely on a question because a new model of an old phone came out. This is the sort of culture change that interests me. So if you don't have an Iphone can nobody hear you on Verizon? That is what I'm thinking. I don't know how this managed to turn into a longer post. Too much free time on my hands. I can hear you now, lateskies.
p.s. who saw the competing AT&T ad with the guy forgetting his anniversary? Isn't stupidity and inattention to your spouse funny??
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Spiritual Words
So, hello hello. If anyone reads the comments on here my mother (thanks mom) listed a pretty decent list of possible topic ideas. While the fair majority of them are not-so-subtle ways to get to know her son better through his blog, one really stuck out. So I thought I'd do a post on it. Spirituality. Religion. The big G.O.D (or whatever you wanna call it) that lives in the minds and hearts, or drags out the heart and mind, of every person on this planet.
What can be said about a topic so big? Firstly, I did study this to some degree. I have a bachelors in the subject, and so have approached it in a variety of ways over the years. When I decided to major in this field in college I had to create an individual major (they did not offer it at UCSC, I guess religion just ain't that pertinent anymore, is it College 9??). In doing so I had to write up a statement of purpose, a "why is this important to you, the college, and the world?" I said big idealic things like religion is the fundamental element of life on this planet, the common denominator that has united man since they knew what they were, and that the study of it is there essential and relevant to all aspects of modern society. I was an agent for change. For understanding. The bullshit slid and slipped a little on the slope of hope, but overall I still believe all that stuff. The committee that approved me liked it, too.
But my real reason for studying religion, and this is a sentence I've said for the past four years, is that I love religious phenomena so much that I want to write about it. I love watching the history of mystical experience grow into a tangible human engine of world-wide change, and a novel or haiku or epic seven-book fantasy series that creates something similar, something parallel in scope and importance, is what really gets me going. I want my fictional works to take their seeds from these seminal ideas of humankind, to reflect them. I have always felt that these are the truest stories ever told, and the beautiful tales today are simply a re-telling. So this is what I want, my aim my goal, and it is, as all things seem to be with me, wrapped up in religion.
Some examples?
Examples. Hm. How bout the guy born from the never-been-kissed and yet has a husband mother who defies and empire, gets strapped to a barbaric tortue device for three days, dies, returns from death in a flash of light, and levitates into the heavens, declaring a future age of weights and scales, thunder and lighting. It gets more complicated and people do a lot with it, but that is arguably the story that our society is founded upon. Themes? A severed family, massing of a proletariat, the finger to the man, death, birth, salvation, betrayal, and above ALL, Harry Potter fans, love. Love spilling from the fingers of a man through his invisible father, like a wand through his dead mother.
Examples, examples. After ten horrendous plagues in the land of Sun Ra and The Mummy Returns a people, approximated at 40,000 inidivduals, fled together through a sea that parted into a desert. There they ate food that fell from the sky, prayed to a golden cow, watched a mountain thunder and lighting and then saw a voice, again from the heavens, saw it swing down through each of their souls and bind them together. Their leader was an old stutterer and they were slaves. Notice any similar themes?
How bout the prince who is exiled to the jungle. His wife gets stolen by an evil demon who hordes a demon army, the prince tries to get her back and does so with a monkey king and his vast horde of monkey warriors. Love war and a lot of drugs, I am guessing. Or maybe the prince who renounces his throne, gets sick by a river and then finds the truth under a tree. He spreads his message and inspires a modern rock band. Or the prophet who saw an angel, wrote a book, and now holds the hearts and clocks billions.
I could go on, but I don't want to bore you. My point in all of this is that these stories, real or not, are fascinating. This is what I want to create. They touch on all the points of our selves our books today strive to. And if you look hard and long enough you can see that the whole thing is like Regeanomics, it trickled down through the ages. I want to be a part of the society that creates our society, I hope that doesn't seem odd. A professor of mine once told that up until the Enlightenment in Europe, almost all great minds were religious scholars. Religious issues were the greatly debated, they were political and powerful and about the masses, they affected all parts and life and to be on the stage of the world was to be a person of spiritual importance. Maybe I'm just into old things. I do love antique shops and yard sales.
The last (I think as I write) part of this that I want to discuss is the form of the stories. Today we like our narrative, our I, you, he/she, our individual authors and publish dates and spell-checks. One of the coolest (I'm not a nerd I swear) aspects of all this religious crap is the way in which they wrote it. Parables in the New Testament, take what you will from this please. Jesus taught and taught and here are some veiled versions of what that was so that you, the reader, can find peace in your own life. They were less wordy than today's literature, but they certainly were creative. And the repetition, you can see them sitting around fires putting everyone into a hypnotic trance as the wars of Troy trickles from the lips of some bard. The need to get the story across, to plant it in your mind so that your soul can recognize it when life happens to you, these are seriously didactic stories that are told with power. I love them for that.
So this is some of my spiel on religion and spirituality. It is my passion you see, and so I can write forevs on this stuff. I appreciate those of you who read. I really do. Also, I am currently reading James Joyce and he is really amazing, spews the spiritual catholic irish mentality out like nobody's business. I love it, love it all.
p.s. god=dog? think about it.
What can be said about a topic so big? Firstly, I did study this to some degree. I have a bachelors in the subject, and so have approached it in a variety of ways over the years. When I decided to major in this field in college I had to create an individual major (they did not offer it at UCSC, I guess religion just ain't that pertinent anymore, is it College 9??). In doing so I had to write up a statement of purpose, a "why is this important to you, the college, and the world?" I said big idealic things like religion is the fundamental element of life on this planet, the common denominator that has united man since they knew what they were, and that the study of it is there essential and relevant to all aspects of modern society. I was an agent for change. For understanding. The bullshit slid and slipped a little on the slope of hope, but overall I still believe all that stuff. The committee that approved me liked it, too.
But my real reason for studying religion, and this is a sentence I've said for the past four years, is that I love religious phenomena so much that I want to write about it. I love watching the history of mystical experience grow into a tangible human engine of world-wide change, and a novel or haiku or epic seven-book fantasy series that creates something similar, something parallel in scope and importance, is what really gets me going. I want my fictional works to take their seeds from these seminal ideas of humankind, to reflect them. I have always felt that these are the truest stories ever told, and the beautiful tales today are simply a re-telling. So this is what I want, my aim my goal, and it is, as all things seem to be with me, wrapped up in religion.
Some examples?
Examples. Hm. How bout the guy born from the never-been-kissed and yet has a husband mother who defies and empire, gets strapped to a barbaric tortue device for three days, dies, returns from death in a flash of light, and levitates into the heavens, declaring a future age of weights and scales, thunder and lighting. It gets more complicated and people do a lot with it, but that is arguably the story that our society is founded upon. Themes? A severed family, massing of a proletariat, the finger to the man, death, birth, salvation, betrayal, and above ALL, Harry Potter fans, love. Love spilling from the fingers of a man through his invisible father, like a wand through his dead mother.
Examples, examples. After ten horrendous plagues in the land of Sun Ra and The Mummy Returns a people, approximated at 40,000 inidivduals, fled together through a sea that parted into a desert. There they ate food that fell from the sky, prayed to a golden cow, watched a mountain thunder and lighting and then saw a voice, again from the heavens, saw it swing down through each of their souls and bind them together. Their leader was an old stutterer and they were slaves. Notice any similar themes?
How bout the prince who is exiled to the jungle. His wife gets stolen by an evil demon who hordes a demon army, the prince tries to get her back and does so with a monkey king and his vast horde of monkey warriors. Love war and a lot of drugs, I am guessing. Or maybe the prince who renounces his throne, gets sick by a river and then finds the truth under a tree. He spreads his message and inspires a modern rock band. Or the prophet who saw an angel, wrote a book, and now holds the hearts and clocks billions.
I could go on, but I don't want to bore you. My point in all of this is that these stories, real or not, are fascinating. This is what I want to create. They touch on all the points of our selves our books today strive to. And if you look hard and long enough you can see that the whole thing is like Regeanomics, it trickled down through the ages. I want to be a part of the society that creates our society, I hope that doesn't seem odd. A professor of mine once told that up until the Enlightenment in Europe, almost all great minds were religious scholars. Religious issues were the greatly debated, they were political and powerful and about the masses, they affected all parts and life and to be on the stage of the world was to be a person of spiritual importance. Maybe I'm just into old things. I do love antique shops and yard sales.
The last (I think as I write) part of this that I want to discuss is the form of the stories. Today we like our narrative, our I, you, he/she, our individual authors and publish dates and spell-checks. One of the coolest (I'm not a nerd I swear) aspects of all this religious crap is the way in which they wrote it. Parables in the New Testament, take what you will from this please. Jesus taught and taught and here are some veiled versions of what that was so that you, the reader, can find peace in your own life. They were less wordy than today's literature, but they certainly were creative. And the repetition, you can see them sitting around fires putting everyone into a hypnotic trance as the wars of Troy trickles from the lips of some bard. The need to get the story across, to plant it in your mind so that your soul can recognize it when life happens to you, these are seriously didactic stories that are told with power. I love them for that.
So this is some of my spiel on religion and spirituality. It is my passion you see, and so I can write forevs on this stuff. I appreciate those of you who read. I really do. Also, I am currently reading James Joyce and he is really amazing, spews the spiritual catholic irish mentality out like nobody's business. I love it, love it all.
p.s. god=dog? think about it.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Left for Dead
So this break in the posting of blogs was uncalled for. I really am not doing much with myself, so the very least I could do is to inform the world of that very little. I like the way the title sounds and I think, just maybe, this post will be about stolen, retrieved, and forgotten parts of myself. This relates to writing, I promise.
It starts with a road trip to my stomping grounds, those Petalumian fields of green. The purpose of the trip was to collect and move my things, all those objects that I have collected over the years and after two quick looks in a box have determined still worth my time and energy. My parents had them stored, for the most part, in our garage. It is odd to see one's material life in a 8x4 space, duct-taped and stacked. Makes me wonder why exactly I need it again, as I came here from somewhere, am currently alive, and have survived without all of it for some time. But it is nice to be home, to have clothes for the cold California winter.
The main aspect of this life of boxes that touches on writing is, obviously enough, all of my books. I graduated college some 6 months ago, and as an avid (AAAA-lliteration) book collecter I still have almost every single book I bought during that four year process. I tossed out "Earthquakes and Volcanoes: A Shocking Discovery" though. That one needed to biz-ounce. So I have boxes and boxes of these books- Frankenstein, Frances of Assisi, three copies of the Bible, Hesiod, Illiad, etc etc etc. I was a widespread humanities nut so I have most of classic literature in my parents garage, but the other thing I had, through only one creative writing class, was about ten books on the "Craft of Writing." Now I'm not one for self-help books, but I wonder why I never read any of these. Did you, other writers? Do you read books on how to write a screenplay or the perfect short story or historical fiction? I have one written by George Orwell. That sounds like it could be good.
My point is that I have read a lot, but I have read very little on the craft of writing itself. Part of the reason for that is the mentality that I don't need help, man. I just need focus and determination, but I can write, thank you very much. Now I know that is stupid and immature, really I do, but you still won't catch me flipping through "Writing Down the Bones." I refused to read it even when I was assigned it. I wonder if famous authors ever read those books; they were asked to write them (some of them anyway), so they must think it is important.
Anyway I think I left much of this part of literature for dead a long time ago. I don't know if I ever will bring it into my circulation, it just seems to me that I should either be reading what I want to write, or writing it, and neither of those is instructional help.
This was the retrieval. I went through the charred remains of a past self, collected what I still wanted to take with me into this brave new world, and then rolled on out. Part of my experience was not simply retrieval, but an immense amount of nostalgia. The longer I am out of college the more I seem to dwell on what it was like, how open, how each moment was about the next minute or hour or weekend. I saw old college friends and we all talked about how this new life, this new existence, is really quite hard. I guess I knew it was all fleeting anyway, but that is so easy to accept when you are sitting in a field under stars or playing Beer Pong in your backyard room called the "murder shack." I just nodded and said, for sure man, it'll all be gone soon. Smile, throw, owned. But now, now it IS all gone. So I feel as if that part of me was stolen, as if it escaped from my clutches and is now simply a memory.
But these hard feelings are what good writing is made of right? I have a mentality (I have lots of mentalities, so get used to me saying it) that everything hard in this life will connect the me with what is hard in all people's lives. And I will channel that, and I will write that, and it will be good. My theories don't include the out to sea feeling involved in experiencing hardship though.
Lastly, plowing through the coast of Cali, seeing old friends, and going through my objectified life, I saw the forgotten parts of myself. I really do love collecting books. I really do still own, use, and love my lava lamp. I really ate pasta like every night from that pot, or cut a bajillion TJ's pizza's with that shiny circular knifey thing. I used both crates of records and hung the tibetan prayer flags, lit candles and watched all those seasons of TV through BIT torrent. I'm pretty dope. That is what I forgot. What what.
I will try and post more! What are topics you want to me to address? I am great with assignments. Tell me what to do. Please.
p.s. Other things I left for dead: 20 pairs of old socks, a box of all my college notebooks, two moleskins I had not seem for some time, birthday cards from the past four years, a leather jacket from Italy that I had hoped was totally dope, TLC's crazysexycool, post-it love notes, my cap (of cap and gown), Magic the Gathering cards, the Redwall series, naivetee, and about six Mars Volta posters.
It starts with a road trip to my stomping grounds, those Petalumian fields of green. The purpose of the trip was to collect and move my things, all those objects that I have collected over the years and after two quick looks in a box have determined still worth my time and energy. My parents had them stored, for the most part, in our garage. It is odd to see one's material life in a 8x4 space, duct-taped and stacked. Makes me wonder why exactly I need it again, as I came here from somewhere, am currently alive, and have survived without all of it for some time. But it is nice to be home, to have clothes for the cold California winter.
The main aspect of this life of boxes that touches on writing is, obviously enough, all of my books. I graduated college some 6 months ago, and as an avid (AAAA-lliteration) book collecter I still have almost every single book I bought during that four year process. I tossed out "Earthquakes and Volcanoes: A Shocking Discovery" though. That one needed to biz-ounce. So I have boxes and boxes of these books- Frankenstein, Frances of Assisi, three copies of the Bible, Hesiod, Illiad, etc etc etc. I was a widespread humanities nut so I have most of classic literature in my parents garage, but the other thing I had, through only one creative writing class, was about ten books on the "Craft of Writing." Now I'm not one for self-help books, but I wonder why I never read any of these. Did you, other writers? Do you read books on how to write a screenplay or the perfect short story or historical fiction? I have one written by George Orwell. That sounds like it could be good.
My point is that I have read a lot, but I have read very little on the craft of writing itself. Part of the reason for that is the mentality that I don't need help, man. I just need focus and determination, but I can write, thank you very much. Now I know that is stupid and immature, really I do, but you still won't catch me flipping through "Writing Down the Bones." I refused to read it even when I was assigned it. I wonder if famous authors ever read those books; they were asked to write them (some of them anyway), so they must think it is important.
Anyway I think I left much of this part of literature for dead a long time ago. I don't know if I ever will bring it into my circulation, it just seems to me that I should either be reading what I want to write, or writing it, and neither of those is instructional help.
This was the retrieval. I went through the charred remains of a past self, collected what I still wanted to take with me into this brave new world, and then rolled on out. Part of my experience was not simply retrieval, but an immense amount of nostalgia. The longer I am out of college the more I seem to dwell on what it was like, how open, how each moment was about the next minute or hour or weekend. I saw old college friends and we all talked about how this new life, this new existence, is really quite hard. I guess I knew it was all fleeting anyway, but that is so easy to accept when you are sitting in a field under stars or playing Beer Pong in your backyard room called the "murder shack." I just nodded and said, for sure man, it'll all be gone soon. Smile, throw, owned. But now, now it IS all gone. So I feel as if that part of me was stolen, as if it escaped from my clutches and is now simply a memory.
But these hard feelings are what good writing is made of right? I have a mentality (I have lots of mentalities, so get used to me saying it) that everything hard in this life will connect the me with what is hard in all people's lives. And I will channel that, and I will write that, and it will be good. My theories don't include the out to sea feeling involved in experiencing hardship though.
Lastly, plowing through the coast of Cali, seeing old friends, and going through my objectified life, I saw the forgotten parts of myself. I really do love collecting books. I really do still own, use, and love my lava lamp. I really ate pasta like every night from that pot, or cut a bajillion TJ's pizza's with that shiny circular knifey thing. I used both crates of records and hung the tibetan prayer flags, lit candles and watched all those seasons of TV through BIT torrent. I'm pretty dope. That is what I forgot. What what.
I will try and post more! What are topics you want to me to address? I am great with assignments. Tell me what to do. Please.
p.s. Other things I left for dead: 20 pairs of old socks, a box of all my college notebooks, two moleskins I had not seem for some time, birthday cards from the past four years, a leather jacket from Italy that I had hoped was totally dope, TLC's crazysexycool, post-it love notes, my cap (of cap and gown), Magic the Gathering cards, the Redwall series, naivetee, and about six Mars Volta posters.
Monday, February 7, 2011
An American Tradition
So, the superbowl. I figure this happens once a year and happens to happen while I am writing this blog thang, so maybe I'll take a crack at it. How this relates to writing and my life, I am not quite sure. The only solid analysis I have is that instead of writing for like five straight hours yesterday I watched America's past-time. So I guess it isn't helping.
I have a couple critiques. I'll be honest, I don't watch football regularly or with enthusiasm, so this is sort of a once off exposition for me. First, Christina Aguilara. She messed up the words to our nations most historical song. From a writer's perspective, this is like dropping one of the acts in Hamlet. She seriously screwed the pooch. Didn't she know that in Japanese The National Anthem of the U.S. of A. is an extended haiku?! Leaving out those key words disrupted the flow of the river that is beauty, and therefore the game, and therefore the world. We cannot just choose willy-nilly what words go into the song of a people. We have meetings to decide those sort of things. So Christina, take your grammys and figure out a 6-4-6 pattern that works in your ridiculous version the greatest song to ever be written.
Now I take a step back and realize that I was not aware she missed those words as I watched her sing them. Did you know that sometimes reading even great works of literature I skim? Not often, but occasionally. So maybe it's alright.
Second critique. The Black Eyed Peas suck. They look old and uncoordinated; their knees must have bullet hole wounds and Fergie is clearly a heavy smoker. I don't think I have ever seen a half-time show at a Superbowl that lived up to what everyone keeps hyping the half-time show to be. They all pronounce it (the announcers) with such clarity of voice and clear enthusiasm that every year I am fooled into believing it will rock. my. socks. off. Nope. Good thing I was wearing flip-flops Will.i.am, you owe me one. I refuse to like any "band" that is presented as a "band" on national television where none of the members are playing an instrument of any kind. They brought in Slash to play guitar and Usher to dance, so what exactly did the Black Eyed Peas bring to the stage? Robots. A space-tastic vision of the future that I actually quite enjoyed. Those square-headed neon-suited dancers really brought it. I could see their nostrils flaring in HD. It makes me think about recorded versions of Aztecian blood-letting rituals in which crowds cheer an out of this world scene to tribal music. I haven't quite figured out who gets sacrificed (maybe stage-presence), but it sure was a show.
Third critique. I guess in the state of Texas when you show W. on the big screen the crowd is going to cheer. But, like, really? The man pushed our country into massive amounts of debt and led us to a false war. Need we cheer him because he is at a football game?
I realize football was only mentioned, just a moment ago, and in relation to the Bush. Sorry about that. The game was actually really good. Rothelesberger is probably the biggest dude ever and Rodgers reminds of Anthony Green from Circa Survive. I don't know why. I guess there is not that much for me to actually say on the football part of the football game. The pigskin carries its legacy into the year 2011, and I wonder if we will ever be such a desolate country that we cannot hold a grand event like this one.
The original idea I had for a blog post about the superbowl was about the commercials. They are toted as the best of the year, and what that means to my ears is that big-league corporations are finally sitting down with some decent writers and telling a story that might matter, or a joke that is actually funny. The funny lived up but the stories did not. Senseless violence was used to great humor by Pepsi (I think) as many people got whacked by a can. Not exactly a new idea, but classics aren't bad. Go read Huck Finn one more time. The best story I saw was for a car that flew through epic adventures. It called on all well-known Western ideas of history and innovation, and ended (believe it or not) at an Aztecian blood-letting ritual. Or something. The commercial was cool, I'll give it that.
But it begs the question, why aren't ads in our world taken more seriously? Maybe I have a skewed concept of how good it could be, entirely based on Mad Men, but I want more. The next person to figure out a realistically effective way of advertising is going to make some serious cash.
I think the superbowl is a good past-time. It distinguishes our country from the rest of the world, which could be a negative but in an increasingly evened out hierarchy I think pronounced independence should be regarded as positive, unless it is based on most bombs or largest military presence or....ok so the U.S. has some issues. My point in all of this, I think, is that I appreciate that people watch a sporting event year after year, regardless of the status of our country. I don't see Democrats supporting the Packers while Republicans back the Steelers. Competition is rife but not in such a segregated way, and that is promising to see. Yay!
p.s. this was a weird post.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Good the Bad and the Ugly
So, been a little while. Oops on my part. I think blogging is quite hard. But I am attempting to establish rhythm and order to my life, and this should be part of it. I am attempting to have titles, believe it or not, that mirror or prelude my body posts.
So, lets start with the Good. I'll be honest as we start the Good, the Good is on the shorter side this week. I've got more chalked up in the other categories, but I guess the main Good is that I have found a residence. A decent place with tiles and carpet, a commode that does not bring the body's waste too close to its most cleansing of rituals, and quite the bedroom. It has been some time since I've had a house. A place, a space, a sacred area of love and devotion. Four walls and a ceiling, just a little bit of what modern humanity can provide for you. The college house was great but gross, got old a little too quickly for my tastes, and I left feeling like I tore myself from a great tree and plunged into dense jungle brush below. I think I was some sort of green camouflaged lizard that had tongue issues, and so I was feeling a little skittish under all those jaguar paws and what not.
But I did do the university slum, a couple of them actually, and learned what it meant to create a place with many people. It can be frustrating sometimes, but for the most part I just laid back and tried not to care. Usability was key. Now, when it came to my own room, I cared a great deal. Certain posters have remained above my head while I slept since I was about 15 (can you say naked Led Zeppelin angel reaching towards heaven with no penis!?). Certain furniture has crept into my life slowly but surely; now all of it sits in my parent's garage, wanting release from exile. The space I cultivated for myself was the most artistic expression I got (besides words and music). I like low beds and large walls. I need more bookcases. My Orange amp needs to bask in awesomeness while my pedals glow in the dark under the moon. Ambience. Ah.
I say all of this because the space you live in is the space you write in. At least for me. I find the coffee shop experience theoretically contemplative and bourgeois, sitting with your cold soul and a warm cup watching the daily folk go about their scrawny lives, but when it comes down to it I would blast Pandora and add people on Facebook. A storefront distracts me, and so my home, in exchange, has always been the place that I write. And I usually need silence. Space and silence and some sort of peace so that my train of thought can flow. Makes sense, right?
And now I will be, in a short couple days, creating a new space with a special person, and I am excited to view my surroundings once they are furnished. Will I write on the couch? Will there be a couch? Will I write from a yoga pad staring at a tapestry or in my bed propped on a pillow (which is currently where I am writing btw)? I am beside myself with interest (very bored you see..) to examine my new writing quarters. I wonder if Picard dug his captain's office for his captain's log. Got to look into that.
The Bad. So that was the Good, and it was pretty good overall and is something to look forward to. The Bad is that this blog was supposed to be about how I wish I could write, but instead I spend all my hours wilting away serving coffee or roast pork or selling some pre-ripped jeans to teenagers. Turns out it takes some time to be allowed to do any of those activities for money, and so I am unemployed. You would think this would be in the Good because it means I have finished a novel or submitted something to Random House or finally have time for that book-tour, but I have just watched an incredible amount of T.V. Read a bit too.
I don't know why I am so lazy about writing. Sometimes the juice is there, and I pound out great stuff, and then other times I'm all dried up, spent, needing warm blankets and closed eyes. These are all sad excuses and thus in the Bad category; I really got to get my shiz together. The purpose of the blog was to train these dexterous fingers to write even when the heart and mind are lagging, and so I must must persevere! But I have been writing more, overall, and that is good.
One thing I've done with my free time is to build a garden with my girlfriend. I always thought this was a romantic rustic sort of thing to do, and it was. We dug earth and planted seeds and got on our hands and knees. The earth is cool to the touch in the shade and does, indeed, make you feel at home. I realized that people do this every day and the odd thing about wanting to be a writer, for me anyway, is realizing that anything I might write about (unless it's really quite odd) is something someone does every day. They don't consider it a big deal. They don't necessarily feel as if they are prophetic. But when I considered tilling the land under the sun it always seemed so epic. So much something that teaches the main character about the follies of life and how to continue towards happiness regardless. Anyway, it made me want to read Steinbeck and figure out the different names for dirt.
I was wrong. The Good was bigger than the Bad. And now the Ugly. I've got some sort of rash. Big looking insect bites on my legs. After weeks of scrutiny, my girlfriend's brother claimed they were more like poison oak, and then wham bam four days ago I've got tiny pointed spots on my arms hands chest back belly ugh ugh ugh. They say it should itch like the dickens and it does sometimes, but overall I just feel like I'm turning into a lizard. Which is not the best feeling. I don't want to be cold-blooded, that can't be good for my chi. I'm getting it checked out by a medical professional, but all of this makes me think that Kafka had some crazy skin problems right around the time he wrote The Metamorphosis.
I've got to run actually. Kovorkian in fifteen. I do like sharing parts of my life on the interweb. Makes me feel as if I'm contributing to a society that aliens will dig up millions of years in the future. Hello! This is English! I am a humanoid! Did I ever write a book? Why did we die?!?!
Peace.
p.s. I've never seen the Good the Bad and the Ugly, maybe I should watch things before I pirate their names. Happy hunting.
So, lets start with the Good. I'll be honest as we start the Good, the Good is on the shorter side this week. I've got more chalked up in the other categories, but I guess the main Good is that I have found a residence. A decent place with tiles and carpet, a commode that does not bring the body's waste too close to its most cleansing of rituals, and quite the bedroom. It has been some time since I've had a house. A place, a space, a sacred area of love and devotion. Four walls and a ceiling, just a little bit of what modern humanity can provide for you. The college house was great but gross, got old a little too quickly for my tastes, and I left feeling like I tore myself from a great tree and plunged into dense jungle brush below. I think I was some sort of green camouflaged lizard that had tongue issues, and so I was feeling a little skittish under all those jaguar paws and what not.
But I did do the university slum, a couple of them actually, and learned what it meant to create a place with many people. It can be frustrating sometimes, but for the most part I just laid back and tried not to care. Usability was key. Now, when it came to my own room, I cared a great deal. Certain posters have remained above my head while I slept since I was about 15 (can you say naked Led Zeppelin angel reaching towards heaven with no penis!?). Certain furniture has crept into my life slowly but surely; now all of it sits in my parent's garage, wanting release from exile. The space I cultivated for myself was the most artistic expression I got (besides words and music). I like low beds and large walls. I need more bookcases. My Orange amp needs to bask in awesomeness while my pedals glow in the dark under the moon. Ambience. Ah.
I say all of this because the space you live in is the space you write in. At least for me. I find the coffee shop experience theoretically contemplative and bourgeois, sitting with your cold soul and a warm cup watching the daily folk go about their scrawny lives, but when it comes down to it I would blast Pandora and add people on Facebook. A storefront distracts me, and so my home, in exchange, has always been the place that I write. And I usually need silence. Space and silence and some sort of peace so that my train of thought can flow. Makes sense, right?
And now I will be, in a short couple days, creating a new space with a special person, and I am excited to view my surroundings once they are furnished. Will I write on the couch? Will there be a couch? Will I write from a yoga pad staring at a tapestry or in my bed propped on a pillow (which is currently where I am writing btw)? I am beside myself with interest (very bored you see..) to examine my new writing quarters. I wonder if Picard dug his captain's office for his captain's log. Got to look into that.
The Bad. So that was the Good, and it was pretty good overall and is something to look forward to. The Bad is that this blog was supposed to be about how I wish I could write, but instead I spend all my hours wilting away serving coffee or roast pork or selling some pre-ripped jeans to teenagers. Turns out it takes some time to be allowed to do any of those activities for money, and so I am unemployed. You would think this would be in the Good because it means I have finished a novel or submitted something to Random House or finally have time for that book-tour, but I have just watched an incredible amount of T.V. Read a bit too.
I don't know why I am so lazy about writing. Sometimes the juice is there, and I pound out great stuff, and then other times I'm all dried up, spent, needing warm blankets and closed eyes. These are all sad excuses and thus in the Bad category; I really got to get my shiz together. The purpose of the blog was to train these dexterous fingers to write even when the heart and mind are lagging, and so I must must persevere! But I have been writing more, overall, and that is good.
One thing I've done with my free time is to build a garden with my girlfriend. I always thought this was a romantic rustic sort of thing to do, and it was. We dug earth and planted seeds and got on our hands and knees. The earth is cool to the touch in the shade and does, indeed, make you feel at home. I realized that people do this every day and the odd thing about wanting to be a writer, for me anyway, is realizing that anything I might write about (unless it's really quite odd) is something someone does every day. They don't consider it a big deal. They don't necessarily feel as if they are prophetic. But when I considered tilling the land under the sun it always seemed so epic. So much something that teaches the main character about the follies of life and how to continue towards happiness regardless. Anyway, it made me want to read Steinbeck and figure out the different names for dirt.
I was wrong. The Good was bigger than the Bad. And now the Ugly. I've got some sort of rash. Big looking insect bites on my legs. After weeks of scrutiny, my girlfriend's brother claimed they were more like poison oak, and then wham bam four days ago I've got tiny pointed spots on my arms hands chest back belly ugh ugh ugh. They say it should itch like the dickens and it does sometimes, but overall I just feel like I'm turning into a lizard. Which is not the best feeling. I don't want to be cold-blooded, that can't be good for my chi. I'm getting it checked out by a medical professional, but all of this makes me think that Kafka had some crazy skin problems right around the time he wrote The Metamorphosis.
I've got to run actually. Kovorkian in fifteen. I do like sharing parts of my life on the interweb. Makes me feel as if I'm contributing to a society that aliens will dig up millions of years in the future. Hello! This is English! I am a humanoid! Did I ever write a book? Why did we die?!?!
Peace.
p.s. I've never seen the Good the Bad and the Ugly, maybe I should watch things before I pirate their names. Happy hunting.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Innovations
Hello blog. Back again. It's been a couple days and I have vaguely been wondering what my next topic will be. Or, in more grandiose terms, what this blog will consist of on a regular basis. Still don't really know.
I think right now I will spew out some ideas that could be used in the future, a sort of blogging brainstorm for the blog itself. It is intelligent. Active. Ready to pounce. One aspect of writing and life that I would like to include here and sometimes in the future are bits on technology. Small little nuggets of my personal perspective on technology and connectivity, the relationships of the world as they come together.
I watched this show years ago, it talked about how fungai having been growing for such a long time they have developed some sort of larger connection with the nation of fungai, a sort of network that spans the world. I think, if I recall fully, it said it was growing over time and we could use the models of the fungai to model our own use of the environment, to model our own society. And then a thing like the internet shows up, and you got to wonder. What have we created here, you know? What is this thing capable of.
Look at it--I've watched the holy child grow. I am of that generation, us young adults who have no jobs and lead independent social odd lives that people have not categorized yet. I know a nation of us is full, we are potential, and then we have something like the internet which just quite literally connects everything together. It is all becoming one.
And the coolest part, the most interesting for a book or a movie or some sort of future scape, is to imagine all of this unification and then picture how it went wrong. Which thing, you know? Did we just lose our sense of justice in all this hubub and blow each other up? Seriously. Who is dead and why and where is New Earth starting? Is it Jerusalem? New Delhi? What race, class--what kind of people survived this thing and why?
Or is it the natural thing. Are we all so cold that sex is impractical and we watch our great and terrible society crumble as frost bite takes each of our limbs.
I like future projections. They are good for writing. I think anyway. So a blurb like that? Something. More of my train of thought when I'm not sure what lesson to get on paper for some far-reaching teaching position.
Another idea for regularish post entry might be all of those little things that I write down on my iPhone. I'd like to think I write them in a journal. I have one of those moleskins and I make a big deal about it when I can find it. For instance. I watched "Wall Street blah blah" the other day with Shia LeBouff and Michael Douglas and that girl, and it totally did not make sense, but a beautiful line at a critical moment was "How are you going to shine sitting on his sun?" Beautiful. The imagery there is so distinct, blazing so brightly with these two balls of fusion trying out-glow each other in deep space like light is life and survival is paramount.
Anyway, stuff like that. Those are two ideas. You might be seeing more of each. You could lshout out if you prefer one at any point, that would be totally fine. Just lemme' know. Tanks.
p.s. "In The Garden of the North American Martyrs" is quite good. Sad retched and well crafted.
I think right now I will spew out some ideas that could be used in the future, a sort of blogging brainstorm for the blog itself. It is intelligent. Active. Ready to pounce. One aspect of writing and life that I would like to include here and sometimes in the future are bits on technology. Small little nuggets of my personal perspective on technology and connectivity, the relationships of the world as they come together.
I watched this show years ago, it talked about how fungai having been growing for such a long time they have developed some sort of larger connection with the nation of fungai, a sort of network that spans the world. I think, if I recall fully, it said it was growing over time and we could use the models of the fungai to model our own use of the environment, to model our own society. And then a thing like the internet shows up, and you got to wonder. What have we created here, you know? What is this thing capable of.
Look at it--I've watched the holy child grow. I am of that generation, us young adults who have no jobs and lead independent social odd lives that people have not categorized yet. I know a nation of us is full, we are potential, and then we have something like the internet which just quite literally connects everything together. It is all becoming one.
And the coolest part, the most interesting for a book or a movie or some sort of future scape, is to imagine all of this unification and then picture how it went wrong. Which thing, you know? Did we just lose our sense of justice in all this hubub and blow each other up? Seriously. Who is dead and why and where is New Earth starting? Is it Jerusalem? New Delhi? What race, class--what kind of people survived this thing and why?
Or is it the natural thing. Are we all so cold that sex is impractical and we watch our great and terrible society crumble as frost bite takes each of our limbs.
I like future projections. They are good for writing. I think anyway. So a blurb like that? Something. More of my train of thought when I'm not sure what lesson to get on paper for some far-reaching teaching position.
------
Another idea for regularish post entry might be all of those little things that I write down on my iPhone. I'd like to think I write them in a journal. I have one of those moleskins and I make a big deal about it when I can find it. For instance. I watched "Wall Street blah blah" the other day with Shia LeBouff and Michael Douglas and that girl, and it totally did not make sense, but a beautiful line at a critical moment was "How are you going to shine sitting on his sun?" Beautiful. The imagery there is so distinct, blazing so brightly with these two balls of fusion trying out-glow each other in deep space like light is life and survival is paramount.
Anyway, stuff like that. Those are two ideas. You might be seeing more of each. You could lshout out if you prefer one at any point, that would be totally fine. Just lemme' know. Tanks.
p.s. "In The Garden of the North American Martyrs" is quite good. Sad retched and well crafted.
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