"The Death of the Author"= the author is absent from the text. I do believe in this theory, but the term "DEATH" seems a little drastic. The book did say that it was radical, so I guess that's the point. And the phrase came from Roland Barthes, which means that it must be cool to believe in (if you want to be the cool person in a group of literary freaks, just mention Roland Barthes. Just the name Roland Barthes rolls off the tongue like a melted jelly-bean).
I like how the author randomly started talking about the intentions of a horse. "…out of the horses mouth." is what I'm referring to. But if the horse says something, is it telling the truth? Is the horse lying? Is there such a thing as a lying horse? If the horse does speak, and if we actually hear it speak, does this mean that we will know what the horse is really trying to say? What if a porpoise were to speak to us– do these same inqueries apply?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Any happy little thought?
FUN OR BUST!
I was so jealous of them. Their friendship was pure and innocent and based on simple principles. In an almost methodical sequence, I watched them as they slid down slides, and hung on bars. They threw wood-chips at each other and pulled up big clumps of grass. They looked at me in stunned confusion as I scolded them, telling them to stop pulling up the grass and to calm down. My repremand was false and fell flat, however. I didn't really care, and they could tell. If it weren't for my inherited adherance to the often steifeling status-quo, I would have helped those kids rip that park to shreds.
The concept of Peter Pan is simple: Never grow up. There are a million rebuttals against this concept, but I'm going to follow my gut on this one and declare that they're all bullshit. What did that one guy say? "...Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Now, assuming that Jesus actually said this, and assuming that Jesus was a God in the flesh- why would he say this? Is he saying that heaven is just a bunch of little kids running around? I don't think so. If that were the case, heaven would be a giant day-care center. And that would be fucking Hell. I think he meant something more than that. I think he was referring to a mindset. I think he knows that if people want to be happy, then there can't be personal judgement of others, there cant be social status and bigotry and corruption and hatred and envy and all of those things that depress us and bring us down to despair as we grow older. Heaven is an ideal. Heaven is a Revolution.
Anyway- OFF TO NEVERLAND!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
I want to create a series of childrens books with this title:
The Heinous Adventures of Ronald, The Fatherless Son, and Jenny, The Female Dog
Monday, September 10, 2012
When people read the things that I write on this Blog, I want them to:
- Cry. (Happy tears, or sad tears- it doesn't matter to me.)
- Have a sudden burst of self-confidence and self-worth. For example, maybe a tormented soul will have some kind of life-affirming moment while reading one of my passages, causing this person to abstain from jumping off a bridge- or something like that.
- Post comments in my 'Comments' section that say things along the lines of: "I'm so jealous that you can word things so perfectly and beautifully and intelligently! You are everything that I want to be as a writer! You are SO smart!"
- When I walk into class I want everyone to get really quiet all of the sudden, and start whispering things to one another- things like, "Ooooo...It's him! It's him! It's the guy that wrote that one thing that was SO AMAZING! Look at how mysterious he is!"
- I want my Professors to secretly adore me more than they adore any of the other students. For example, if we are having on-on-one appointments with our Professors, I want them to make you feel like they think that you are special and great- but when I come in for my appointment, we sit there for like, an hour, just shooting the breeze and talking about our favorite authors and novels. One Professor might ask me if I want to assume teaching responsibilities while they're gone to see a Nephew get married in Nebraska. I'll accept, and I'll come into class and I'll give an amazing discourse on 'Judge Holden', and everyone will wish that I was the real Professor.
- I want all of my fellow students to desperately try and become my friend. They do this because I'm just the kind of friend that everyone needs. But, unfortunately, I just won't have enough time for everyone. But every once in a while I'll make time for, perhaps, one of the not-so-popular/intelligent kids in my class. For example, maybe I'll put my arm around one of these tepid beings in the hall, and I'll tell this person something like, "You know, (insert name), you're tryin' too hard, Brother(or Sister). Listen to this- Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Then I'll stop this person in the hall, in a spot where warm sunlight is beaming down and illuminating us from an open window located somewhere above, and I'll put my hands on this persons shoulders, and I'll ask, "Do you know who said that?" And this person will then look into my eyes in absolute wonder and say, "No." And then I'll lean in close, uncomfortably close, almost-kissing-close, and I'll say, in my coarse scholarly voice, "Da Vinci." And then I'll rub my hand over this persons head, thus messing up their nerdy hair.
- Tell all your friends about this Blog. Tell them it's pretty much pointless to follow any other blog– even yours. Tell them it's unlike anything you've ever experienced– in a good way. Then maybe I can get a sponsor and get paid and then maybe Good Morning America will have me on the show and talk to me about how my Blogs' popularity has just EXPLODED all over the planet. And then I'll feel too much pressure from all the fame, and I'll snort too much crack at Eminem's house and I'll end up in some rehab facility with Paris Hilton and Jack Nicholson. And in ten years I'll make a comeback in the form of a cheeky music video that humorously portrays what it's like to be a washed-up Internet sensation.
(I'll be adding to this list as things come to me.)
- Have a sudden burst of self-confidence and self-worth. For example, maybe a tormented soul will have some kind of life-affirming moment while reading one of my passages, causing this person to abstain from jumping off a bridge- or something like that.
- Post comments in my 'Comments' section that say things along the lines of: "I'm so jealous that you can word things so perfectly and beautifully and intelligently! You are everything that I want to be as a writer! You are SO smart!"
- When I walk into class I want everyone to get really quiet all of the sudden, and start whispering things to one another- things like, "Ooooo...It's him! It's him! It's the guy that wrote that one thing that was SO AMAZING! Look at how mysterious he is!"
- I want my Professors to secretly adore me more than they adore any of the other students. For example, if we are having on-on-one appointments with our Professors, I want them to make you feel like they think that you are special and great- but when I come in for my appointment, we sit there for like, an hour, just shooting the breeze and talking about our favorite authors and novels. One Professor might ask me if I want to assume teaching responsibilities while they're gone to see a Nephew get married in Nebraska. I'll accept, and I'll come into class and I'll give an amazing discourse on 'Judge Holden', and everyone will wish that I was the real Professor.
- I want all of my fellow students to desperately try and become my friend. They do this because I'm just the kind of friend that everyone needs. But, unfortunately, I just won't have enough time for everyone. But every once in a while I'll make time for, perhaps, one of the not-so-popular/intelligent kids in my class. For example, maybe I'll put my arm around one of these tepid beings in the hall, and I'll tell this person something like, "You know, (insert name), you're tryin' too hard, Brother(or Sister). Listen to this- Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Then I'll stop this person in the hall, in a spot where warm sunlight is beaming down and illuminating us from an open window located somewhere above, and I'll put my hands on this persons shoulders, and I'll ask, "Do you know who said that?" And this person will then look into my eyes in absolute wonder and say, "No." And then I'll lean in close, uncomfortably close, almost-kissing-close, and I'll say, in my coarse scholarly voice, "Da Vinci." And then I'll rub my hand over this persons head, thus messing up their nerdy hair.
- Tell all your friends about this Blog. Tell them it's pretty much pointless to follow any other blog– even yours. Tell them it's unlike anything you've ever experienced– in a good way. Then maybe I can get a sponsor and get paid and then maybe Good Morning America will have me on the show and talk to me about how my Blogs' popularity has just EXPLODED all over the planet. And then I'll feel too much pressure from all the fame, and I'll snort too much crack at Eminem's house and I'll end up in some rehab facility with Paris Hilton and Jack Nicholson. And in ten years I'll make a comeback in the form of a cheeky music video that humorously portrays what it's like to be a washed-up Internet sensation.
(I'll be adding to this list as things come to me.)
A Brief Assessment of David Foster Wallace' "Little Expressionless Animals"
George Saunders and Thomas Pynchon are two amazing authors.
George Saunders, because of his ability to take absurd situations and
environments and turn them into something true and humanistic- and
Thomas Pynchon because of his ability to challenge the reader in new and
exciting and difficult ways. If Saunders and Pynchon's intellects got
together and mind-fucked, then the brain of David Foster Wallace would
inevitably be the end result. Wallace is able to blend absurd characters
and situations, intricate plots and themes- often in ways that confound
the reader, but in the end, the reader is rewarded with a deeper
understanding of what it means to be human.
At the beginning of his story 'Little Expressionless Animals', Wallace introduces four vignettes, and at first glance, it is difficult to imagine where he is going with this, and how he intends to pull it all together. 1) We first see two young children left on the side of the road. Their mother tells them to hold on to a fence post until she returns. They stand there all day, and she never returns. 2) Then we see a woman and a child watching a cartoon in a a dark movie theater. A creepy man is fondling the woman's hair, but she does not make a sound, in fear that the child will become horrified. 3) Then we see Alex Trebek, from "JEOPARDY!", goofing around his studio. 4) And lastly, we see two lesbians, Faye and Julie, having sex together in a posh L.A. apartment.
It is understandable then, to be somewhat confused at this point, perhaps wondering where this story is going. How does Wallace, in fact, end up pulling these scrambled threads together? And how does he make those threads feel important and life affirming? After reading and reviewing this story, I have come to my own conclusions. I will briefly expound on how, in my view, Wallace has written a story of depth, feeling, and intelligence.
1) The children left by the road: We find out the children left by the road are Julie, and her autistic/special needs infant brother, Lunt. While standing there, holding onto that fence with her brother, she watched a cow in a pasture chewing grass and cud all day long. The expressionless facial features of the cow never left Julies memory. They were standing there in need, in agony, in sadness- and all the cow could do was stand there, expressionless, and chomp away. She later expresses her views that men, in general, are this same way. Men have this same expressionless attribute. And perhaps, though it's never stated, this is a major factor that contributed to Julie becoming a lesbian. She also has a peculiar fondness for her mother. Julie states that the man her mother was with, made her abandon the them as children. And that her mother, in reality, was only abandoning Lunt, but needed Julie to be there to take care of him. I believe that Julie, though these stories could possible be true, is telling herself these things in order to cope with her life.
2) Woman and child in a movie theater: There is a part of the story when Faye and Julie are exchanging different anecdotes, some true, some not, in order to explain why Faye is a lesbian. Faye recounts the story about her and her mother, Dee Goddard, going to the movies when she was a little girl. A man, unbeknownst to Faye, is fondling her mothers red hair. The incident is so traumatic that it sends her mother into a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol. Her husband, years later, re-marries a woman practically identical to Dee, and tortures her with this fact, like a knife in the back. This story could be entirely true, somewhat true, or mostly fabricated- the reader never knows for sure.
3) Alex Trebek: Alex Trebek and his cronies on the set of "JEOPARDY!", I believe, act as a vehicle for introducing the varying themes in the story. Faye and her mother work on the set. Julie is a prodigy contestant. Lunt is also a form of prodigy contestant, sent in to dethrone his sister (for thematic impact, implemented to generate more TV viewers). There is an undertone theme of TV's secret agenda to control our minds. How we subconsciously, by viewing TV, are allowing this to be so. This theme is not heavy handed, It comes into the story by means of a conversation. I believe that Wallace had no hidden agendas, or hidden themes to present to the reader in this story. Any themes outside of the obvious text and storyline undoubtedly came about amorphously- through the structure of his story. Wallace is often intrigued by unique settings and pop/current popular culture, and how this culture affects our lives.
4) Julie and Faye have sex: The story, in retrospect, is ultimately about Julie and Faye- their devotion and love for each other. They bring home the most human elements of this story. Their relationship, as expressed through excellent dialogue, is beautiful, sweet, and sincere. They both have insecurities and flaws. But they compliment each other. Wallace said it best in that first vignette: "Julie and Faye lie in bed, as lovers. They compliment each others bodies." This, I believe, could be interpreted in two different ways. 1) Literally, they are speaking to one another, complimenting each others bodies. Or, 2) Because they are lesbians- because they are two lesbians in love- their bodies compliment each other, and therefore, are one.
Did I personally relate to all of these stories? No, I must admit, I did not. Did I fully understand all of these characters? No, I did not. But I don't believe that Wallace did, either. He was brave enough to venture into unknown territory, and make it as real and human as his mind could conjure. Little Expressionless Animals, may not invoke in you feelings of personal renewal, or transcendence, but hopefully it shows you that there is humanity and truth to be found- even in the most unlikely of places- even on the set of "JEOPARDY!".
At the beginning of his story 'Little Expressionless Animals', Wallace introduces four vignettes, and at first glance, it is difficult to imagine where he is going with this, and how he intends to pull it all together. 1) We first see two young children left on the side of the road. Their mother tells them to hold on to a fence post until she returns. They stand there all day, and she never returns. 2) Then we see a woman and a child watching a cartoon in a a dark movie theater. A creepy man is fondling the woman's hair, but she does not make a sound, in fear that the child will become horrified. 3) Then we see Alex Trebek, from "JEOPARDY!", goofing around his studio. 4) And lastly, we see two lesbians, Faye and Julie, having sex together in a posh L.A. apartment.
It is understandable then, to be somewhat confused at this point, perhaps wondering where this story is going. How does Wallace, in fact, end up pulling these scrambled threads together? And how does he make those threads feel important and life affirming? After reading and reviewing this story, I have come to my own conclusions. I will briefly expound on how, in my view, Wallace has written a story of depth, feeling, and intelligence.
1) The children left by the road: We find out the children left by the road are Julie, and her autistic/special needs infant brother, Lunt. While standing there, holding onto that fence with her brother, she watched a cow in a pasture chewing grass and cud all day long. The expressionless facial features of the cow never left Julies memory. They were standing there in need, in agony, in sadness- and all the cow could do was stand there, expressionless, and chomp away. She later expresses her views that men, in general, are this same way. Men have this same expressionless attribute. And perhaps, though it's never stated, this is a major factor that contributed to Julie becoming a lesbian. She also has a peculiar fondness for her mother. Julie states that the man her mother was with, made her abandon the them as children. And that her mother, in reality, was only abandoning Lunt, but needed Julie to be there to take care of him. I believe that Julie, though these stories could possible be true, is telling herself these things in order to cope with her life.
2) Woman and child in a movie theater: There is a part of the story when Faye and Julie are exchanging different anecdotes, some true, some not, in order to explain why Faye is a lesbian. Faye recounts the story about her and her mother, Dee Goddard, going to the movies when she was a little girl. A man, unbeknownst to Faye, is fondling her mothers red hair. The incident is so traumatic that it sends her mother into a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol. Her husband, years later, re-marries a woman practically identical to Dee, and tortures her with this fact, like a knife in the back. This story could be entirely true, somewhat true, or mostly fabricated- the reader never knows for sure.
3) Alex Trebek: Alex Trebek and his cronies on the set of "JEOPARDY!", I believe, act as a vehicle for introducing the varying themes in the story. Faye and her mother work on the set. Julie is a prodigy contestant. Lunt is also a form of prodigy contestant, sent in to dethrone his sister (for thematic impact, implemented to generate more TV viewers). There is an undertone theme of TV's secret agenda to control our minds. How we subconsciously, by viewing TV, are allowing this to be so. This theme is not heavy handed, It comes into the story by means of a conversation. I believe that Wallace had no hidden agendas, or hidden themes to present to the reader in this story. Any themes outside of the obvious text and storyline undoubtedly came about amorphously- through the structure of his story. Wallace is often intrigued by unique settings and pop/current popular culture, and how this culture affects our lives.
4) Julie and Faye have sex: The story, in retrospect, is ultimately about Julie and Faye- their devotion and love for each other. They bring home the most human elements of this story. Their relationship, as expressed through excellent dialogue, is beautiful, sweet, and sincere. They both have insecurities and flaws. But they compliment each other. Wallace said it best in that first vignette: "Julie and Faye lie in bed, as lovers. They compliment each others bodies." This, I believe, could be interpreted in two different ways. 1) Literally, they are speaking to one another, complimenting each others bodies. Or, 2) Because they are lesbians- because they are two lesbians in love- their bodies compliment each other, and therefore, are one.
Did I personally relate to all of these stories? No, I must admit, I did not. Did I fully understand all of these characters? No, I did not. But I don't believe that Wallace did, either. He was brave enough to venture into unknown territory, and make it as real and human as his mind could conjure. Little Expressionless Animals, may not invoke in you feelings of personal renewal, or transcendence, but hopefully it shows you that there is humanity and truth to be found- even in the most unlikely of places- even on the set of "JEOPARDY!".
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
That "Getting To Know You" Class-Prompt Thing
Here- let me impress you with my multi-cultural taste in cinema: 'The 400 Blows' Directed by: Francois Truffaut. - It was so gritty and natural and minimalistic for when it was made. Jean Pierre Leaud (this film being his acting debut), was a revelation. A prodigy in the making. It's in black and white, It's got French sub-titles, it's a coming-of-age story, it's old and artsy-fartsy - in other words, it's amazing.
When I shop (if I shop), where do I go?: I'm loyal to Levi's 501's. I have chicken-legs, and 501's make me look less chicken-leg-ish (or at least that's what I'd like to believe). I like pants. I like cutting pants at the knee, making little triangle cuts - so they look like Peter Pan Pants. I like jackets. Jackets make me look good. That's honestly why I look forward to cooler weather - so I can wear jackets and pants. I care what people think about me. I worry often about my looks. And so do you- just admit it.
I can read anywhere. I read and write at work when I shouldn't be. And I read and write on my breaks. It is often difficult for me to finish reading something, because the material starts compelling me to write. I read slow. I'm dyslexic. So is Richard Ford - so, it's no excuse for anything. I write fiction mostly- in its various forms.
First literary influence/inspiration? Nick Hornby, Raymond Carver, Richard Ford, Jack London, Thoreau, Chekhov, Kafka, Nabokov (all the "ov's").
Current influences? All of the above - George Saunders, David Foster Wallace, Jane Austen, Lorrie Moore, Steve Almond, David Sedaris, Harold Brodkey- I'm a sucker for Cheevers and Updike and those guys- Bellow, Roth.
I've started a novella- 'Onward'. That's all I'm gonna' say about it. Don't want to jinx it.
I started seriously reading when i was 21-22. Before that I didn't know how to read. I could read, but I didn't know HOW to read. I'm still learning, actually. but then I read Nick Hornby's "About a Boy" - laughed my ass off, cried- all that. It made me realize that books were cool. That authors were crazy-badass-lunatics. Just like me!
What literary figure would I be? I wrote down 'Frank Bascombe'. Why? It's hard to say. He's a loner and self-centered. He's an asshole most of the time. But he cares and he tries and he feels so much. Like me. So maybe I just want to be myself. Imagine that.
That's all I had written down.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Some Flash-Fiction
The Dress
Put on the dress and twirl around. Hike up the hem and point out your foot. Show him the white pumps with the fake diamonds and say, 'Aren't they just perfect?' Then do another little twirl (you're brimming with excitement and anticipation). He says that he’s never seen anything so beautiful– and you believe him. You believe his words as he holds you tight in front of the mirrors. You look so good together. You wish someone had a camera. He’s so handsome and sweet. He's the man for you. He's the man you've chosen.
Traditionally, the groom should not be permitted to see the dress. But the two of you don't follow traditions. You're not like other couples. You're unique in the way you do things.
Buy the dress. It's perfect. It's the one.
Now, take the dress out of your closet every day and spread it out on your bed. Touch the beads and the embroidery. Think about your future daughter wearing the same dress. Look in the mirror and imagine what you will look like on your wedding day. It's a pleasant surprise, because all of your pre-wedding muscle shreds and food diets have really paid off. You're so beautiful. You will make such a beautiful bride. Life is going to be so wonderful.
It's the big day. So go ahead, put your dress on for the last time. Put it on slowly. Remember every moment. Tell your Mother and your Sister to leave the room for a few minutes. Tell them that you just need some time alone. They'll understand. After they leave, let yourself fall onto the love-seat (your dress will poof out- making you look like a giant cream-puff). Try to suppress the tears, but then, let them flow. You're scared and dazed and thrilled and nauseous. You're really doing this. This is really happening.
The wedding goes beautifully. As does the reception. The dress is admired and flaunted again, and again. You catch your man eyeing you, so you give him a seductive smile. You are both thinking the same thing.
That night, in the hotel suite, he is removing the dress from your body. He is too anxious, and moving too fast. He is fumbling and frantic. One of the buttons on the back of the dress rips off and rolls under the desk that has the phone and the lamp on top. You gasp and plunge to retrieve it. In that moment– the moment is ruined. You try and act like it doesn't matter. “It’s just a button.” you say. “It’s an easy fix.” You try and resuscitate the moment– you rub his bare shoulders as he sits on the edge of the bed– you kiss his neck and his ears. You ask him if he’s too tired– but he doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head and lights a cigarette.
This is horrible, you think to yourself, It can't be like this. This can't be what's remembered!
Years later, after he has left you– after he has left you and your daughter, you are cleaning out the closet and you come across the dress. You unzip the cover and smell the stale odor of moth-balls. You spread the dress out on your bed. You touch the beads and the embroidery. You look at your daughter, sleeping there on the carpet in front of the television. She is eight years old. The dress has already turned to a shade of yellow that reminds you of French-Vanilla ice-cream.
She'll never wear this, you think to yourself, not this ugly thing.
You flip the dress over and notice that a button is missing. Memories that you'd forgotten are now flooding your mind: You remember him putting his pants back on. You remember him going to fill the ice bucket. You remember walking out onto the balcony and throwing that button into the cold dark night. You couldn't see where it fell, but you didn't care. You didn't care about that stupid dress anymore.
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