slowly weaning myself off stories like a stimulant of your choice. what I need is a collection. I need to write seven or eight stories and put them in a book and lay the last four years to rest and keep moving. I don't want to keep moving until I've buried all that shit, it doesn't make sense to just plow on, ideas don't suffocate the same way kittens do in christmas boxes. that morbidity was almost intentional. sigh.
what I'd like to do is write a love story at the end of all this. fire off fifty thousand words by the end of the year. that'll be spring. summer will be the love story, and it'll take all summer. it'll be good timing, since I can match writing with my pace at work. easy. just like that.
immediate steps are self-evident. I have to collapse this ponzi scheme I've built before it steals from me that bit of wisdom. I'll want everything I can get my head around and probably some bullshit token to remind me of the only place that kind of turnaround can come from. I've got a good start to it, though, stayed up all last night writing about W.E.B. DuBois, and now I'm at a library, printing out my paper and staying awake. awake.
know the cheesiest line I ever read? some lemony snicket book. I was thirteen or twelve. it was the first one, there was a part near the end where a boy's reading law to save his sister from marrying the Count, and the boy was having a hard time staying awake, cause law books are very dense. it said, "He found himself reading the same line over and over. He found himself reading the same line over and over. He found himself reading the same line over and over." I felt violated.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
chapter three: direct derivation
it's a system, that's all. all it is is a car made out of paper and golf pencils that you have to figure out how to drive within three hours. if you don't, you're not really fucked, you'll just have to do better on the next one, when they move up to big rigs, then onward to bullet trains and yachts and kitty hawks and eventually interstellar transit wormholes. inevitable, really, the expansion of technology.
know what I've never understood? intelligence scores in role playing games. if you make an extremely intelligent character, and he really was smart, it wasn't just a statistic that affected a bunch of other statistics, etc., wouldn't he question the logic of the role playing game? ask himself, "what the fuck am I doing here? why are these people trying to kill me?" (as often this is the case.) would he take a clue from bad dialogue and obvious seams in the geography? there are a few random characters in grand theft auto 4 who only exist to walk around with grocery bags in their hands. there are much more obvious holes in that particular representation of reality, such as the minimal effort it takes to make a car explode, and the fact that, while it's implausible for a car to explode if you aim for the gas tank, it happens if you shoot a grand theft auto car anywhere- even the door- or the fact that if you fall thousands of feet, get caught in helicopter blades while jumping out from thousands of feet in the air, or get caught in helicopter blades while the helicopter simultaneously explodes thousands of feet in the air while you are jumping out, if you have a hundred bucks for medical fees, you'll survive and - wouldn't an intelligent person realize these things and ask a few obvious questions?
why call it intelligence, then? it's clearly a misuse of the word. the intelligence is on the other side of the television, every time. role playing games exist because sometime in the recent past our species reckoned, god knows how or why, that it needed to live vicariously through the more interesting lives of video game characters. one could argue that intelligence scores in role playing games are embellishments of the "role-playing" part: you can make your guy either smart or dumb, a decision based upon social anxieties which will be researched in anything but the hard drives of xboxes.
you could argue that it's a justification of anything bad the character will do in the game. "it's grand theft auto, sometimes you run over pedestrians." but that's an argument against yourself. then you assume that the game exists because you want it to, or need it to, as an expression of what you can't do. "since I can't be in grand theft auto, this other person has to be, and he runs over pedestrians sometimes, what do you know." they are mutually exclusive, yes.
know what I've never understood? intelligence scores in role playing games. if you make an extremely intelligent character, and he really was smart, it wasn't just a statistic that affected a bunch of other statistics, etc., wouldn't he question the logic of the role playing game? ask himself, "what the fuck am I doing here? why are these people trying to kill me?" (as often this is the case.) would he take a clue from bad dialogue and obvious seams in the geography? there are a few random characters in grand theft auto 4 who only exist to walk around with grocery bags in their hands. there are much more obvious holes in that particular representation of reality, such as the minimal effort it takes to make a car explode, and the fact that, while it's implausible for a car to explode if you aim for the gas tank, it happens if you shoot a grand theft auto car anywhere- even the door- or the fact that if you fall thousands of feet, get caught in helicopter blades while jumping out from thousands of feet in the air, or get caught in helicopter blades while the helicopter simultaneously explodes thousands of feet in the air while you are jumping out, if you have a hundred bucks for medical fees, you'll survive and - wouldn't an intelligent person realize these things and ask a few obvious questions?
why call it intelligence, then? it's clearly a misuse of the word. the intelligence is on the other side of the television, every time. role playing games exist because sometime in the recent past our species reckoned, god knows how or why, that it needed to live vicariously through the more interesting lives of video game characters. one could argue that intelligence scores in role playing games are embellishments of the "role-playing" part: you can make your guy either smart or dumb, a decision based upon social anxieties which will be researched in anything but the hard drives of xboxes.
you could argue that it's a justification of anything bad the character will do in the game. "it's grand theft auto, sometimes you run over pedestrians." but that's an argument against yourself. then you assume that the game exists because you want it to, or need it to, as an expression of what you can't do. "since I can't be in grand theft auto, this other person has to be, and he runs over pedestrians sometimes, what do you know." they are mutually exclusive, yes.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
chapter two: warrior poets
There will be warrior poets in the foxholes of low paying jobs. They will scratch out words with golf pencils on receipts from the golf pencil store. They will write about how there are no movies anymore, only things warrior poets do, and write poems about. They will mention that there aren't newspapers, either, only bloggers who are warrior poets, taking notes in the trenches of the working poor. They will say how there aren't novels, only chapbooks divided into the five hundred words that the best of warrior poets can stand to write down before falling asleep on the couch at the end of a harrowing day on the frontlines of money. They will also mention that they have run out of songs, because the only people alive that still make them are warrior poets, dug in deep outside the no-man's-land of homelessness. They will tell you to be happy you exist, because some people, like warrior poets, are not that lucky. These words will be viewed by many from a great distance. Then they will feel like warrior poets do, like they have conquered something, but that something still remains to be conquered. They will either fight wars so that people don't have to tell stories, or they will tell stories so that people don't have to fight wars. In either case they will be the warrior poets somebody else doesn't have to be.
Friday, March 6, 2009
chapter one: duct tape rhombus
oh, for goodness sakes, why not just finish the goddamned kafka paper? everything else is predicated on that. obviously. finish that, then go study for art history. instead of reading stuff you've already written and pretending a conglomerate of that would suffice for any problem, anything, just self-plagiarize until all your problems are solved! it is easy!
finish that kafka paper, even though you are skeptical of the idea of the performative self, it's too fucking easy to describe that kind of relationship, the walt whitman thing, my innermost soul must not be abased by the rest of me, and vice versa for the rest of me, that wasn't a clever bit of dramatic criticism, that was fucking song of myself, what kind of asshole tries to retitle that?
write it, just two pages, it'll take half an hour, how hard could it be to integrate a second source? why are you even worrying about it? just finish it, go on, write a little more than two pages, your professor will be impressed at your will to overachieve- over! achieve!- but only if you are succinct. indeed, your succinctness must be to such a degree that your professor doesn't notice the overlapping onto the third page. they will just turn the page without thinking "I have turned one more page than expected," that's how succinct it'll be, so goddamned succinct and precise and clean that they are physically bothered by its perfection.
better yet, go outside, right now, bring your copy of The Metamorphosis and outline the most succinct, clearly argued, concise, to the point, scholarly, edible, evocative-of-a-certain-color-or-shade-of-yellow kafka paper ever written in the ninety something years since they've been writing kafka papers. so evocative of the color yellow that, in ninety more years, when the pages your paper is written on begin to yellow with age, future generations of kafka scholars will look on it and say, "What the fuck? It's not just me after all!" and then there will be much rejoicing.
no, you can't hand this in instead. go write it now, it's almost five in the morning.
finish that kafka paper, even though you are skeptical of the idea of the performative self, it's too fucking easy to describe that kind of relationship, the walt whitman thing, my innermost soul must not be abased by the rest of me, and vice versa for the rest of me, that wasn't a clever bit of dramatic criticism, that was fucking song of myself, what kind of asshole tries to retitle that?
write it, just two pages, it'll take half an hour, how hard could it be to integrate a second source? why are you even worrying about it? just finish it, go on, write a little more than two pages, your professor will be impressed at your will to overachieve- over! achieve!- but only if you are succinct. indeed, your succinctness must be to such a degree that your professor doesn't notice the overlapping onto the third page. they will just turn the page without thinking "I have turned one more page than expected," that's how succinct it'll be, so goddamned succinct and precise and clean that they are physically bothered by its perfection.
better yet, go outside, right now, bring your copy of The Metamorphosis and outline the most succinct, clearly argued, concise, to the point, scholarly, edible, evocative-of-a-certain-color-or-shade-of-yellow kafka paper ever written in the ninety something years since they've been writing kafka papers. so evocative of the color yellow that, in ninety more years, when the pages your paper is written on begin to yellow with age, future generations of kafka scholars will look on it and say, "What the fuck? It's not just me after all!" and then there will be much rejoicing.
no, you can't hand this in instead. go write it now, it's almost five in the morning.
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