Waukegan

We talk too much, Miranda, her feverish sister Sasha said, in her low voice, no secrets come out without silence.

I do. Somehow I’ve come to believe that the last thing a writer or any artist thinks about is to make himself comfortable while he’s working. Perhaps the discomfort is a bit of an aid or stimulus. Men who can afford to work under better conditions often choose to work under miserable conditions.

He had cited his favorite writer, well at least for now, Sampson was irresistible and he knew it and felt guilty and ashamed of his unabashed pheremones and good breeding (his mother was an angel with a pixie wit and his father was some sort of apostle hero who was actually his uncle because his father turns out was some sort of wandering bipolar didn’t know it cad…and hence, this is how I revisit Perseus, Medusa (the new Molly) and the myths of a new generation based on the hidden meanings in the ancient revolving door myths:

In 1939 he went to Greece to visit Lawrence Durrell; his sojourn there provides the narrative basis of The Colossus of Maroussi. Cut off by the war and forced to return to America, he made the yearlong odyssey recorded in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Then in 1944 he settled on a magnificent empty stretch of California coast, leading the life described in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.Now that his name has made Big Sur a center for pilgrimage, he has been driven out and is once again on the move.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4597/the-art-of-fiction-no-28-henry-miller#

I think these questions are meaningless. What does it matter how long it takes to write a book?

-Henry Miller

From the meaningless questions to the imagination of the future:

Imagine if sixty years ago, at the start of my writing career, I had thought to write a story about a woman who swallowed a pill and destroyed the Catholic Church, causing the advent of women’s liberation. That story probably would have been laughed at, but it was within the realm of the possible and would have made great science fiction. If I’d lived in the late eighteen hundreds I might have written a story predicting that strange vehicles would soon move across the landscape of the United States and would kill two million people in a period of seventy years. Science fiction is not just the art of the possible, but of the obvious. Once the automobile appeared you could have predicted that it would destroy as many people as it did.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

I read everything by Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke, and the early writings of Theodore Sturgeon and Van Vogt—all the people who appeared inAstounding Science Fiction—but my big science-fiction influences are H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. I’ve found that I’m a lot like Verne—a writer of moral fables, an instructor in the humanities. He believes the human being is in a strange situation in a very strange world, and he believes that we can triumph by behaving morally. His hero Nemo—who in a way is the flip side of Melville’s madman, Ahab—goes about the world taking weapons away from people to instruct them toward peace.

I often use the metaphor of Perseus and the head of Medusa when I speak of science fiction. Instead of looking into the face of truth, you look over your shoulder into the bronze surface of a reflecting shield. Then you reach back with your sword and cut off the head of Medusa. Science fiction pretends to look into the future but it’s really looking at a reflection of what is already in front of us. So you have a ricochet vision, a ricochet that enables you to have fun with it, instead of being self-conscious and superintellectual.

The experience of great loss appears frequently in his work.

He recently told me he still lives by his lifelong credo, “Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

by 4:50 haven’t made as much progress

Tuesday’s gone with the wind 4:44 started

All these devised interfaces for me to write what I know for the immutable time capsule, the diaries of not a mad woman despite the claims by others who shall remain faceless at this point in time as this is just a platform trial and entryway error momentum: 101 cards, starting today.

Making progress.

I still think about what that icon meant when he said he hated progressives on both sides. I ponder such things. I need some sort of absolution.

going with counter-intuitive as lesson for today

card 101: See? I am not an asshole? Love letters 4 days away.

The Math of Story, pt. 2

Or the continuing math of the continuing story.

the deep dark motion


an expanse that happens to come and go  unpredictable,
since the emotion attached to the action or inaction beckons 
self-flagellation, mutation, abomination.
But today that is not the way I feel or think perhaps it is the sunshine perhaps it is the adherence to whatever shreds of practice can be maintained in constant (chosen, assigned, managed, apparent) chaos, a swirly world of why is no one listening to what I want?
Why am I not absolutely perfect, never misunderstood, completely influential, with flawless, arguments, solutions to every problem and that other thing, which remains to be seen, will eventually be determined as I am trying to sort that out each day as part of the healing I must face, or die. Literally I won’t be able to continue the way I was and that is both frightening and freeing–not so much for the baked-laced-drench-your-desires-saturated-over-consumption phase that occurs in many artist’s awakening and they use it as an excuse to get fucked up. Not that so much. This is one of those shifts they talked about but I was too far up the valley to feel it until now and I don’t want to jinx anything and go back to the shitstorm that usually seems to present course for me to chart my way through.
 
I want, more Lonesome Dove cattle drive than Bonnie and Clyde so I can focus on things that I want to put energy into —  because sharkland beneath the sea of sharks swimming and eating and swimming and devouring everyone who is good, with those dead eyes.
on a stretch of road
littered with lost souls, we held our tongues.
so now, in this
day to day
existence
we can’t tell
which
is easier
and all we want
as days go by
is less trouble
less testing
less trying
for needless senseless random exercises in futility-
no. no more of that please and thank you.
even if no one reads this, no one cares, no one knows a god-damn thing – there will be no random futility here. That’s been disassembled and analyzed and I’d be happy to explain my theorems to you, they are well thought out. What else ya gonna do but work out those kinds of academic problems when you’re living a block from skid row and it’s hard to tell where your next meal’s coming from sometimes.
 
but no matter
no mind
that’s all
behind
us now
get it
driving fast
write off
the past
and then the hush that came before the roar…

It’s as if
the sea does part
but
these days
it
happens
on the
freeway

Wednesday is a goth girl

“Never give up. Never let things out of your control dictate who you are.”
Unknown

The mornings are cool near the desert and life begins sluggishly because it stays up late. The to do list creeps up slowly following like a hungry dog, starved for attention, as they always are. Dogs are in fact bottomless pits for that, and perhaps that is the problem between us and dogs. There really aren’t any because we want to be needed so absolutely, so resolutely, so infinitely because it makes us feel loved and we want to be loved, salutated, abbreviated, and exonerated more than any marketing meme expert will ever be willing to annotate and tell you.

I play with words because the meaning has been knocked out of them by a fast cash paced society where we are all just moving along the moving sidewalk of life, through the airport of existence, looking out for crazy bombers to lose their nerve when faced with the absurdity of a plan that includes killing yourself for someone else, and yes, that includes you, God, and you know what, that’s why god loves me. If you understand that, then you are a Buddhist koan, answering itself just like Narcissus knew that looking inward would be the place to start.

However, the ‘fable’ warning only poets and biologists seem to ‘get’ was that if you go too deeply into the inner me, you, narcissus alone without an ‘other’ (first caveman sort of thing), you can drown. Like chimpanzees, we need OTHERS. We rely on our fellow kind, the humans and the people who look like humans, not so much the alien race pretending to be human (the guys in suits planted in certain supposedly strategic positions around the world) or the hybrid shape shifters who wreak havoc on our guardian angels (who prefer to be more like us and are known to slip up on occasion which just keeps the good-evil thing in a bit more of a fair game, because then they have to make up for it).

Some will say: I DON’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU ARE SAYING.
Some will think: OH THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT THIS THAT IS DELIBERATE.
Some will analyze: AND THAT IS WHY IT’S ALL JUST STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DRIVEL WITH NO BASIS IN REAL LITERATURE.
Some will realize: THINK AGAIN.

I may always need a re-write but the way I phrase things and the words I play with are based on a long-standing study of literature in a way you probably can’t even imagine, so if you do have feedback like I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A THING YOU ARE SAYING, it would be nice to know more specifically why you ever read a thing I write and why some of those things resonate with you, even if you don’t ‘understand’ me. That’s one of the harshest things to hear–it’s actually easier for them to not agree with you or not like the way you write than to have someone you have trusted, admired and felt comfort in, albeit fleeting as every passing kindness is in these brutally distantly close times, tell you in some off-hand, dismissive way that you make no sense to them, and actually, come to think of it, never have.

That was part of the elusive heartbreak files, which only served to cause more heartbreak in the end.

I am only trying to monetize my pain so I can use it to pay for the happy ending I intend to live out for the rest of my days.

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
surprising
that few people know this

Icarus
ascending
nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

granted,
the mistress must
wait
each day
for
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
Athena
Prometheus
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

Soul Sauce Sabbath

The days

pass by

as numbers

I never

wanted it

to be

this way

and yet

it still

is