The future of storytelling. Me, I’ll always be partial to what I am going to call the evolutionary climb from rock paintings (see France, Anasazi and various other sticky caves, pre-bacon-and-eggs stalagtites and mites, versa) to messages on papyrus, in bottles, the first love letters, ode to eyes and the Other, who would become known as God, et al…Et tu, Brutus? the golden ages of the Iliad, Romeo et Juliet, Mother Courage, Angels in America, rock and roll (Rolling Stones, Dylan and Bruce/Dead hold the reins, for me, for some reason today, maybe Jimmy Fallon’s Emmy routine and b&w photos that keep surfacing of Bob’s hair and Keith’s skinniness, almost always holding a guitar–his muse–, eyes closed far past nodding out or around a show) to now…the digital prognosis? Just to spite the survey’s leading ways, I said I preferred print, a book, a manual to get my information (from a life coach–live chat is too much maybe and in person would be best for someone of my conclave, heaving forth lyricism til it can’t be contained, ‘we will beat them all to dust’ perry ferrell sings and I have been compiling a most depressing singer list from Alice in Chains to Soundgarden with Pumpkins and now Jane’s thrown in, I think, for now; Nirvana’s deep-seated depressive irony had a catchy ring to it, must like the Stones are survivors while the Beatles were are meteorite, ending up parachuting down to guru-land with rosemary’s baby and lucy’s diamond sky over elton john’s piano bar now…)
The point of all this? My narrative is, at times, mostly what I have of any nomenclature, any transitory, evaluate-able, relational, arbitrary, quantitatively disruptive, qualitatively bereft, absent of conscious mental clarity, any opinion whatsoever but what the puller of the chain thinks, instead of what can be beamed across the satellite, a basic subversive for good, the safety, healing and accountability by this point, some kind of myopic glaze lifted (no matter how fun to follow like a Palin family in Hollywood-land update or the idea that you can never really check out, you can sell out, and how long you hold out is an art form of itself.
Like redemption a la pharmacology, the science of determining what is witchcraft, what is repeatable therefore closer to fact, science v. faith, math v. word. The Math fails to conjure up the power of the idea of the Word, because we speak, only counting for some estimation, flawed at best, unless it’s counting phrases in music, the space between notes on paper is pretty nuts like an abacus video game –think revert, update, assimilate, absorb, translate — for now…no matter how TMZ never fails to rivet, the People’s Court face saves the day…like snarky lawyers and upright profiler heroes we see on network tv mythology…)
“the end is coming soon, but not soon enough…
coz if robert’s dad is right
we might not make it thru the night…
wish you were here,
wish I was too…”
Wilco, storytellers for my generation, my age, roughly a 139-year span, if you consider, well more like 103, that’s safer, +60 is pushing it and -44 would be kinda cuttin it close on the other end, so you say, those born old enough to be my grandparents so 1900 or even 1895, plus 100, and we are at 105 years all around me — how will those who are 22 be in 22 years? What a mixed blessing that time was…no? Right before, the proverbial shit hit the fan.
I feel like I am constantly in some state of reliving and revisiting until some [secret] mystery is unlocked, and the codes are confusing and have too many switchbacks to come to any meaningful conclusion that doesn’t involve narcissistic nihilism on some level. Misery loves company and all that, twofold, jerry-rigged (have to look into that) promises or even standard assurances you attached to, too early? Too automatically? Too unforgiving?
I hate hating life, the time wasted, there’s the math intruding in on blissful lyrical mess-o-logy, methodically placed, hampered, in need of revamping, and here (or there, it doesn’t matter, really) trapped by circumstance (living in the wrong time period — great ‘fantasy’ thriller hybrid genre; with sci-fi sub-strata, spin-off middle gaia mother olympia orca oceania europa botswana land earth, as a thought, but how much energy gets applied, that’s the dilemma, at this time, in the narrative).
That is what I ultimately ascertain, as the ‘reason’ — other than faith, mercy, grace, which underlie action, how to put into vocation, that is the other question (as if! There are too many!) — for trying to perfect this craft, this thankless junior mundane of a student body nurse called in to set a leg — after the ‘break a leg’ addendum went to the legal dept. for another round of signature analysis — ah, all my thoughts go to a horrifyingly comfortable-at-first-until you realize-what’s-really-going-on Philip K. Dick land, with subterfuge thrown in by Jungian subcutaneous laboriously lumberings along through the wilderness recalling Eliot, Coleridge, Whitman, Emily/Edna/Charlotte/George/Sharon, Kundera, Dostoyevsky, Miller, Borges, Octavio, Neruda, Adrienne Rich, Gwendolyn live, Audre’s pink book and courageous mileu, Sylvia’s delving the depths, Anne Sexton’s 50s stuff your brain in the easy-queasy bake oven mythology, to whatever did or didn’t free us [I feel pretty enslaved by the failure of the dream, for what it’s worth which isn’t the paper this isn’t printed on or the coaster-scribed histoire d’age, of particular rationale or shared legacy of legends.