| sunday |
[May. 20th, 2012|05:15 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | neurosis--the eye of every storm | ] |
Days like this are what writers live for, I think. When you not only get a lot of work done, but the work is good, and the ideas keep flowing in your head. But it's more than that; you feel inspired, seeing everything around you as a potential story. The possibilities seem endless but not overwhelming. Other art forms (cinema, music) get under your skin and make you itchy to create. You almost forget you have to go to "work" the next day.
I savor days like this, because they are few. They re-energize me, get all of the juices flowing. I'd been building towards this for awhile, and it was nice that the anticipation was not greater than the actual creative output. I don't know how many words I've written this weekend, but it's in the thousands, and they are taking me on a journey that is fascinating. I can't wait to see how it all comes out, you know?
I've been thinking about fiction in general this weekend. I rarely get pointers towards what I might like to read anymore; I simply don't know many people who read fiction. Since the turn of the year I've wanted a break from genre fiction. I haven't read a horror tale (besides re-reading some Bradbury or Ligotti when the mood strikes) since November of last year. Initially I read a bunch of nonfiction. Since then I've read Murakami, Chabon, David Mitchell and a few others. None of these folks are genre writers, though their work crosses over into various genres at times. It reminds me of how arbitrary the whole notion of genre really is. I mean, Cloud Atlas is at least in part a sci-fi novel, but you'll never find it in that section. I know people who love that book but supposedly hate sci-fi. We are funny creatures, with our endless need to categorize. I mean, as someone who at times does a lot of work with organized content in my professional life, I get it...and genre tags can be useful...but I just want great books. That's all. Great books.
So I've recently read Cloud Atlas and I just finished The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay. Both were wonderful books. I think they helped push me back into a place where my creativity could simply go play without worry. Great storytellers do that. I wandered the book store for an hour today, at a loss for what I wanted to read next, and ended up with bargain copy of Richard Price's Lush Life. We'll see if it continues the trend.
That said, cinema is what really seems to unlock my creativity these days. I've become extremely taken with the work of Jean Rollin. His movies are nearly plotless, made on a beyond shoestring budget, yet have a haunting beauty and atmosphere that stay in the mind long after. Cinema is an art form of images, and there are certain images in his films that refuse to leave my mind. The haunting final image from The Living Dead Girl (my favorite of his films), for example. I actually saw TLDG last summer and the final shot, so laden with existential hopelessness and sadness, is forever seared in my mind. He is not for all, or even most tastes, but there is tremendous beauty in what he does, and the surreal dreamlike atmosphere of his work is unlike anyone else. Don't be fooled by silly DVD covers. He is not a gorehound, and while many of his works involve vampirism, they aren't beholden to the strict genre rules. Not every one of his films work, but the best are truly unique.
Soon, I must figure out dinner and draw this Sunday to a close. Here's hoping the creativity continues to flow. |
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| truth |
[May. 6th, 2012|06:36 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | nachtmystium--ghosts of grace | ] |
Heavy music should be loud, it should be on vinyl (or live) and it should be accompanied by an alcoholic beverage of one's choice and/or the company of true, dear friends. When all are present, the simple wonderful joy of existence comes into focus, the daily grind is transcended, and nothing, simply NOTHING, is impossible. |
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| the last book |
[Apr. 29th, 2012|11:50 am] |
| [ | music |
| | anathema--weather systems | ] |
Driving home from work one day about a year and a half ago, my mind was doing the random wandering/musing it often does during the commute. I don't recall what lead to it--probably I was reflecting on whatever book I was reading at the time--but all at once I was struck by the fact that one day I will read the last book I will ever read in my life. For whatever reason, this thought froze me in my tracks (though at least I thankfully did not slam on the brakes or any other dramatic, traffic disaster-courting action.) Since that afternoon, this thought has stayed with me. It seems, somehow, to connect more strongly to the idea of mortality than any other thoughts I've had on the subject (of which, like most humans, there have been many.) There is nothing abstract about it; it is a visceral feeling.
See, it's not just "What will the last book be?" and "Will I be sad when I read it?" The thought that really haunts me is--what if you don't know? Reading books has been a love of my life. Yet someday I will pass on. It could be suddenly, and I'll never know, while reading, that last book really was the last. Of course, it could be a long slow gradual decline, and maybe I will have an inkling that my reading time is coming to a close. Maybe my grandchildren or great grandchildren will read to me and the last book I read will be different from the last book I hear and feel. But regardless of how it happens, there will be a last. There is a last everything. I will spend a lifetime gathering knowledge, reading for pleasure and education and transcendence, at then it will be gone, as everything else is gone.
Which would I prefer: that I know it's the last time I'm reading a book, or that I'm clueless about the fact? I really don't know; it doesn't seem to make any sense to dwell on it since the matter will be out of my hands. I don't spend time envisioning what kind of death I want, and this train of thought leads dangerously close to such musings. Such matters are rarely in our control. There is a sadness in this idea of the last book, though, a tremendous sadness. That an action that you love so much will no longer be possible. Not necessarily because of death, perhaps because your eyesight simply fails or your hands shake too much or your brain begins to work in a different way due to dementia or what have you. Of course, reading will not be the only last time. *Everything* has a last time. What about the last time you make love? Will you know? Will you wish you had done so more? Regret the times when it was just easier to roll over and go to sleep? That one is simply too much for me to even turn over in my mind.
Many folks have religious beliefs that help them cope with this inevitability. Not being of a religious nature and being strongly inclined towards an atheistic mindset, I tend to think that when it's over, it's over. I might become stardust, but my consciousness is long gone. As Lee Ranaldo once sang, "Emotions, books, outlooks on life." Stardust might be the building block of the universe but it is dust nonetheless. One day I will read my last book. One day I will make love for the final time. One day I will hear Metallica's Ride the Lightning for the last time. One day I will drink my final beer, and perhaps a different day I will drink my last cup of coffee.
Though such thoughts sometimes overwhelm me with sadness (and I won't lie--some fear as well; it is the great unknown, after all, and we all fear the unknown), they also remind me to live each day to its fullest. To love and to enjoy the amazing things this my physical body can do, and my consciousness can learn. It is not the destination, it is the journey, and the journey is a beautiful, amazing gift. |
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| story snippet |
[Apr. 16th, 2012|06:55 pm] |
So who knows what will happen with the story I'm currently working on (we never know, that's why we write them, correct? To find out what happens next?) but I admit that I will probably love it forever simply for this:
"I’m scared of the Burger King.”
“The Burger King?”
“Yeah, you’ve seen those commercials for Burger King, right? The guy in that weird mask? I have nightmares of his dead-eyed visage lurking in my basement, ready to slit me open from bow to stern.”
I mean, he is pretty freaking creepy isn't, he? I'm really glad my house doesn't have a basement, I can totally imagine him waiting in the basement with a sharp knife. And reeking of rancid Whoppers. I probably won't sleep at all tonight now. They never warn you about these things in writing school... |
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| sputnik sweetheart and alien |
[Apr. 9th, 2012|08:01 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | gene loves jezebel | ] |
I finished Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart this weekend. This is my fifth Murakami novel. I'm beginning to believe I've come at Murakami backwards; I started with The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Kafka on the Shore, two of his most complex novels. Also in there was Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, which is has a strange Phillip K. Dick vibe to it. From these three books my initial picture of Murakami as a writer formed--one of my favorite writers, but one that you wrestled with to get the rewards. These books were not particularly accessible. Then, last year, I read Norwegian Wood and it was a revelation: direct, easily accessible, emotionally open and honest (though still tinged with enough weirdness that you knew it was a Murakami novel.) Basically, Norwegian Wood is one of those books that moves you, fills you with longing, plays with your heart--things all too rare in books of any stripe. I gained a new appreciation of his talents. Murakami, I think, may very well be our greatest living fiction writer. It's either him or Cormac McCarthy, not that you can compare the two. Murakami gets props for being much more prolific (though he's yet to write anything as devastating and life-changing as Blood Meridian...but then, no one has.)
Sputnik Sweetheart is the slightest book of Murakami's that I've read. I don't mean this in a negative light--it's thin, easy to pick up (I finished it in a couple of days, which is something considering my current schedule) and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. That said, it pales in comparison to Norwegian Wood, which it closely resembles in themes and approach. In fact, I found myself checking the pub dates, sure that Sputnik was a dry run for Norwegian Wood...but no, it was written nearly a decade later. I will say that for the first time I found myself wishing for more out of a Murakami novel, which is a testament to just how great all of his work has been that I've had the pleasure to read so far. Sputnik Sweetheart is not a bad place to point someone who hasn't read Murakami and wants to get a sense for his style, but I'd still recommend Norwegian Wood for beginners. The guy is a treasure, and you can bet that eventually I'm going to read every single one of his works (somehow I've still not read any of his short stories...)
After a lovely Saturday spent working out in the yard and grilling for the first time here at the new homestead, the evening rolled around and I was ready for a movie. Taking a break from my usual exploitation/weird mondo cinema, I decided to watch Alien for the first time since...1990, maybe?
Oh. My. God.
It's not that I'd forgotten about the movie, but somehow I'd forgotten how textbook *perfect* it is. The sets, the acting, the unbearable tension of a tale that is essentially Lovecraft in space--my god, Ridley Scott was capable of this? Seriously, has there ever been a movie that is better paced? I think all filmmakers should have to watch it simply to understand how to freaking pace a film. How to build up suspense. How to play with the audience, convince them that they've seen more than they have (it reminds me a great deal of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in that regard. Both movies are not that gory, but you are positive you've seen more than you have.) See, if Hollywood still made movies like this, I'd actually pay attention to Hollywood. But even ol' Ridley never topped Alien. Blade Runner is certainly a classic, and I loved the hell out of Thelma and Louise back when it came out, but outside of that...well, I'm just not his target audience, I guess. But Alien is perfect. And I've got Aliens lying here too, which I also haven't seen since 1990 or so, but unlike Alien, which I'd seen maybe twice, I've probably seen Aliens a dozen times. If Alien is a horror movie at heart, Aliens is an action movie. I'm looking forward to seeing it again, but I doubt it's going to blow me away again like Alien did. That is my kind of movie.
And writing...haven't written much over the last two weeks between crazy work stuff and being sick. Hope to pickup the thread tomorrow. It's becoming damnably hard to find the writing time again, but I'm going to manage somehow. |
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| comic books |
[Mar. 27th, 2012|07:36 pm] |
Tonight I threw out all the words I wrote. That makes it sound dramatic, but it wasn't really. The words just weren't any good and after awhile I couldn't force myself to try and draw blood from a stone any more. Some nights are like that. My work ethic tells me to keep pushing but my muse suggests that sometimes it's best to step away. Haven't done much writing for the last ten days or so; perhaps I just need to recharge a bit.
A strange sadness is hanging around the edges this week. I keep skirting it, but I know it's there. I could be floating between worlds and emotions, things old and things new. In addition to my "regular" writing I've been doing a lot of...I don't know what you call it..."spiritual writing" maybe? Wherein I try to work through my (sometimes conflicting) thoughts about spirituality and atheism and dealing with my fellow humans. I've compiled pages and pages. Perhaps this is why I'm tired. Trying to be coherent with the sacred stuff of life. I find myself questioning my very approach to art instead of just writing. Sometimes I wish I could shut my brain off.
I wasted a day Sunday reading about comic books. You read that right--reading about comic books instead of actually reading any. I find the history of the industry pretty fascinating actually. I haven't much kept up with any of it post-1988 or so. I didn't realize that the industry essentially collapsed in the early 90s and hasn't really regained its footing yet. It's sad that Marvel is no longer about comics but just intellectual property. I have a hard time believing anything creative or innovative will come out of it again, but I'm sure there are a lot of underground folks doing interesting work. That said, I left comics in the late eighties for two reasons: 1)I had very little money and music was much more important to me, so comics had to go, and 2)it seemed that storytelling was taking a back seat to "collecting" and pushing merchandise. I don't understand collecting comics and not reading them. That's just a weird type of hoarding. And I got so sick of Marvel crossing their storylines over every single title--especially when the stories were no longer compelling.
I did manage to pick up on Sandman after it happened (via the trade paperbacks) and while Sandman changed my life, I've had almost no contact with comics otherwise since the late eighties. I tried a few of the Vertigo titles and they were ok, but they didn't stick with me. It might have been them, it might have been me. My major comics purchase of the last couple of decades has been The EC Comics Archives hardbacks; those are beautiful and I love EC Comics. Alas, the company doing them went under when the recession hit after just three volumes of Tales From the Crypt and one volume of Vault of Fear (plus a few non-horror titles which I've yet to pick up.) Word is a new company is resurrecting the series; I hope so. EC Comics is really the root of nearly all modern horror. Other than that, when I reach for comic books, it's mostly my collection I built in my childhood (carefully sealed in those classic white comic boxes): Indiana Jones, X-Men, The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe, Deluxe Edition, Seduction of the Innocent (an Eclipse reprint series of classic pre-code non-EC horror comics.) And about once every five years I re-read The Watchmen--I'm proud to say I have all the original comic books though I also have the trade paperback so I can save the wear and tear. But those comic books were loved long before there was a trade paperback.
But what's going on now? I don't know. If I had more time, I'd perhaps try to find out...but I have more driving interests (hello exploitation cinema and, of course, music) and I don't have the motivation to really try and find out what's good and what's not. I wish there was a comic store around I could just go browse when the mood hits me, though--do they even still exist? There must be one in Seattle somewhere. The one I know of in Greenwood closed a few years back, I believe. I still have back issues of Marvel Universe I'd like to get and it's just not the same searching for them online. I want to go into a geeky store, you know?
This has been a lot of words about comics. But unlike my other words this evening, I'm not throwing these away. |
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| franco, cameron, etc |
[Feb. 26th, 2012|06:01 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | rush, negative plane | ] |
"I've always preferred 'accidental genius' to those artists who constantly strive for perfection and stumble their way to genius." This quote is from a friend of mine, made while discussing the cinema of Jess Franco. He went on to say that while Franco may have made "bad" movies, nearly every film would have momentary strikes of brilliance and beauty. This conversation--prompted by sorrowful news that Lina Romay, Franco's partner and muse since the early seventies, passed away last week--captured why I love Jess Franco's work so much (and that of many other exploitation filmmakers, both European and American.) In even the worst made film, there are moments of real soul, of real truth that are just not found in mainstream cinema. Franco's movies in particular are often awkward and dreamlike, possessing an otherworldly quality that encapsulates what cinema really is: dreams on a screen.
Read this wonderful remembrance of Lina Romay (warning: accompanying photo is NSFW). I've never been the slightest bit interested in Avatar, but I could watch Jess Franco movies--even the truly awful ones--all day long. Cinema, like any art form, is subjective--a matter of taste. Avatar is made for the widest possible audience, and there's nothing wrong with that...but I guess I don't see what is interesting about it either. On a technical level, it is probably an amazing film. But I don't watch movies (or read books, or listen to music) to be wowed by technical prowess. I want a story, and above all I want soul. A beating heart. Passion. I've never watched a James Cameron movie (and I've actually seen many of his) and thought, "there's a filmmaker in love with cinema." There's no beating heart.
Is cinema at a crossroads? I don't know. Perhaps. Technology has changed our ability to consume and participate in film, just like it has in other art forms. There will always be an evolution taking place. I tend to think cinema is *always* at a crossroads. And in the end, it's not about the art form itself (except, perhaps, to those who actually make films) but the individual works. There is little that comes out today that catches my eye. The only movie I can think of released in 2011 that I wanted to go see was Melancholia. I thought I would be excited about The Hobbit, but it's a funny thing...much as I enjoyed Peter Jackson's LOTR trilogy, the films didn't stick with me at all. Even while watching them, they felt like actors acting in front of a green screen. The films looked perfect, and because of this I could never lose myself in the world he created. I never thought about the movies once I left the theater. Maybe I'm just too old. Yet I can't get Franco's films...or Jean Rollin's...or Andrzej Żuławski's...or any number of other unheralded filmmakers out of my mind. To watch these films is to dream--beautiful, disturbing, awkward and challenging. I want perfection in the automobile I drive. I want my art to be messy, and to dare to dream.
R.I.P. Lina Romay. |
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| mortality |
[Feb. 9th, 2012|06:51 pm] |
Three days a week I take M2 to school, which means I can't leave the house until 8:40 or so. Being a morning person, I'm still up around 6 a.m. on those days. I have a nice early morning routine: shower, brew coffee, feed the cats, get a cup of coffee and open the laptop. I check my gmail, then work email, then Facebook. Today was a day like any of these days, until I opened Facebook and saw that one of my high school classmates had unexpectedly passed away.
J. was ten days younger than me. We were primarily friends in junior high and our freshman year; after that we walked different paths. J. didn't even graduate with our class; he was from a strict Jehovah's Witness household (the first I'd ever known) and he ended up home schooling his last few years of high school. During the years we were friends we were the very definition of good friends but not super close. We both came from very religious households that we were already rebelling against; the two of us were among the only five kids who weren't allowed to take band in sixth grade and so had to spend every Friday afternoon in a mostly empty classroom entertaining ourselves. We both loved music, and it was J. who turned me on to Guns N' Roses a good six months before they got huge; he got excited telling me about the chorus to the song Paradise City, which he had misremembered as "take me down to the paradise city/where the drugs are free and the girls are pretty." This sparked my interest, and he taped me the album, which changed my life as much as any one record has. Several years later he turned me on to the Pixies and Joy Division; I turned him on to R.E.M. and Sonic Youth. He had an incredible sense of humor and was always laughing or giggling.
When I was a sophomore his cousin, who was two years older than us, died after being struck by a train. Not twenty minutes earlier I'd given J. a ride home and crossed those very same tracks, at the spot it happened. It felt so close, this thing called death, which despite its glorification in a lot of the art I loved still seemed like something that happened to old people. It shook up the small town we lived in, and it's never entirely left my mind, though I did not know his cousin at all, short of seeing him in the hallways.
J. was one of the first people from my high school class to find me on Facebook shortly after I joined, when I wasn't even sure if I wanted to connect with that time of my life. But connecting with him was great. He had become a hardcore athlete with a far left political outlook. He'd completely left religion behind and become an atheist. In his pictures, he was always laughing. Always. We had some nice exchanges and I enjoyed having him in my friend's feed, following his life in the way you do with old acquaintances on FB:--the random posts, the article links, the occasional picture. A little over a year ago he'd fallen deeply in love and posted a lot less, as he was out enjoying life to the fullest extent.
Yesterday I saw post from him (linking to an article pointing out the hypocrisy of pro-life politicians, IIRC.) This morning I opened up to see a post from another high school friend in my feed from his wall that made it clear he'd passed on. I thought it had to be a joke, but it wasn't. He had a massive heart attack while training for a Mexico to Canada bike ride. I couldn't believe it. People were posting condolences on his wall, condolences and memories; I did the same. I thought how amazing it was that FB had brought us back in connection (I would surely have not connected with him otherwise) and now it was an outlet for me and so many others to pay our respects and mourn.
J. is the second person from my high school class to pass on; the other was also a J. and died in a grocery store parking lot of a massive aneurysm. He was on his way to a party that I'd been invited to, reuniting some of us from those days (I wasn't planning on going to the party, still conflicted about those same days.) That was a decade ago; it doesn't make any more sense now. I'm getting older. I still don't think of people my age as dying of anything other than reckless lifestyle choices. Aneurysms and massive heart attacks - there's no great myth there, no live fast die young credo. They are just killers.
I don't know how to end this piece. I have no great insights. It's been a hard day to be normal (though I pulled it off, I guess.) Everyone glimpses their mortality from time to time. Today was my day, and I'm sad that the world lost a great guy who really did love nothing more than making people laugh. |
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| so yeah, it's been awhile |
[Feb. 7th, 2012|07:24 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | atriarch - forever the end | ] |
We moved in late October and I think I can finally say I'm starting to feel settled in. In other words: the hard part is done, now the fun discovery begins. Fixing up an office, making it a creative space. Experimenting with the sound of vinyl based on where it's positioned in the room. Healing the land by cleaning out the garbage and erasing the abuse, while beginning to think of how to let it have a wildness while still providing bit of structure. This house really was the right choice, and this is where I belong. It feels wonderful to type that after years of wondering if we'd ever be able to move.
Since moving, I've completed one short story and I'm deep into the draft of another. Still not as productive as I'd like; time is an issue (and the balancing of priorities) as always. I think the writing comes a little harder these days, but it's also of higher quality right out of the gate. I guess it's a fair trade-off but I miss the days when I could pump out 5k a day and feed off that energy. Some of my writing sessions add no more than 2-3 paragraphs to the story. I just have to remind myself that it's a marathon and not a sprint.
Since Christmas I've not read any fiction. Instead I've been reading Richard J. Evans' Third Reich trilogy. Three meticulously detailed volumes full of incredible research covering the full history of Third Reich. It's hard to explain why I felt it was so important to read this at this time (the comment I got at Christmas was "Well, that's depressing reading.") Some of it is that the symbolism often crops up in some of the neofolk music I listen to. Some of it is that as the ability to have a political discussion in this country completely disappears I feel it necessary to understand the Third Reich as political history--forewarned is forearmed, and the language of hate is still so very prevalent. Some of it is that the story of the Third Reich is certainly one of the most critical pieces of history of the 20th century. Some of it is a need to understand how people can hate so strongly--it's just so foreign to my way of thinking, and how could a whole country go along with it? I could list many more reasons. It's getting to be a tough journey. I'm now well into the third volume when the "final solution" has been deployed, and reading it breaks my heart and makes me sick. And this is important. The pain that the holocaust caused is really beyond the understanding of someone like myself--someone who has the freedom to generally say what he wants, someone who has been able to create his own life. I may never be able to understand that pain but it is vitally important to try, and to not forget. Yes, it is depressing reading. Growth does not come from escapism. That's not to say there's not a time and place for escapism - I'm simply not at that place right now. I'm not sure I will be a better person for having read this trilogy, but I will certainly be a different person.
I suppose the darkness of reading such material balances with the joy of settling into a new living space. Perspective and balance. |
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| solstice thoughts |
[Dec. 21st, 2011|08:20 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | wolves in the throne room | ] |
Solstice reflections:
I am an atheist but uncomfortable with labels. A sense of wonder is the most spiritual of feelings for me.
In my early 20s, newly married, I discovered the Arthurian myths. Something in them resonated at that time. I particularly enjoyed The History of the Kings of Britian, Mary Stewart's Merlin Trilogy and Marion Zimmer Bradley's Mists of Avalon. The Arthurian legends do not speak to me as they once did, but I retain a fondness for these books.
I have worn a pentagram necklace for many years, even as my spirituality evolves and changes. It is still a symbol that is warm and comfortable next to my skin, and helps keep me centered.
Carl Sagan showed me how atheism, science and spirituality are not mutually exclusive. They are intertwined. And all gift me with a sense of wonder.
The woods are still where I feel my deepest connection to the infinite and will always, in some sense, be home. Yet since moving to this house I feel the cosmos more. I think I was meant to live in this location; channels frustratingly closed for the last number of years feel like they are opening. I must tend to them lest they close once more.
Sometimes the moon's milk spills from my unquiet skull.
I am humbled at the gift of being alive. |
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trailofstars's journal
