ummmm...

Yeah...

I am not really sure what we were supposed to write about for this weeks blog so...here is an excerpt from a story I started...

A boy crept through the reeds, pushing aside tall stalks to clear a path before him. He hid in a clutch of papyrus, obscuring him from his pursuers.    The water was cool against his skin as it moved slowly toward the sea.  The water from the river fed the kingdom, it flowed through canals and irrigation ditches.  It brought nutrients from Nubia, giving the wheat of the area a special heartiness.   He spent most of his time by the river, playing or working with his father’s servants.  They would bind groups of reeds together in bundles.   And those bundled would by lashed together to form boats and rafts.  They also made bricks from the soft mud on the rivers banks.  Their homes were made from it.  When he thought about it, the river gave his people everything they needed.   It gave them bricks and fish, it fed their crops, even provided paper for the court scribes.

His mind wandered, he dreamt of chasing jackals into a crowd of buzzards.  Something about watching the birds scatter in fear of such a small creature amused him.   With their numbers, the buzzards could easily overwhelm a lone jackal, but it seemed that they had manners enough to know their place.   The jackal would always eat first, taking what little meat remained.  The buzzards, however, seemed perfectly content with the remains.  Their sharp beaks could easily strip the last bits of connective tissue from a cattle carcass.  The jackal, with his little teeth, can only pick away at substantial meat.  He felt like a jackal, sometimes.  Skittering around and hiding from the bigger children, picking away at whatever he could get.

Akira Kurosawa and More

I found Goldberg's writing on The Samurai was the most interesting of what she wrote.   At first I was like "What does this have to do with Samurai?", then it hit me...Slice and dice some shit when you write.  Keep only the good stuff, the rest can be chopped up.   That is a pretty good idea.   Sometimes when we write, not everything is gold.   So, cut out the stuff that isn't.  It's a way of purification or enrichment.

I wonder you do go the way of the Samurai, chopping up and cutting out the good stuff, does that mean that you will eventually come up with a Kurosawa Samurai masterpiece?  I don't know.   I don't think you can just cut and dice arbitrarily.  I think you have to take the time to really look at what you are writing.

I was also intrigued by her view on "Claiming your own work".  Maybe it is because I am somewhat of a braggart, as she claims we shouldn't be.  I just don't have any problem accepting when my work is good and claiming it.  Even when my work is bad, I still accept that I wrote it.  I don't understand what the problem is...Maybe I am just proud of the things I can do.

As for Fluorescence...Goddamnit, I was under the illusion that we were done with poetry.   I really didn't find many of the poems to be compelling.   Though, I did like one of them...Well, half of one of them...Four on page 37.  I like it through the bottom of page 38.   I liked the flow and the talk of all these shitty and ironic things.   Then, when it changes from the continued paragraph form, it loses something for me.  I don't know why.  Can't explain it.

Singing Fish and Mud

I liked this story about mud.  It reminded me of when I was a kid.   Playing in the mud was the best.   You could get it in your mouth and not care about it.  Life was much more simple then.

Speaking of simple, I think that this story was written such that it was intentionally simple.   Referring to the characters as "Girl" and "Brothers" gives it a pleasant simplicity that is hard to find in writing.   I has a feeling like it was told by a child.   I can dig that.

I am kinda getting sick of Lamott.   At times Bird by Bird is coherent and driving at other times it's like "WHO THE FUCK IS THIS PERSON YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!?!?" and "Wait...Wut?".   Maybe I am missing something, but I am ready to be done with it.

Da fuq? Where'd the bass line go?

Ok.  Here is what I have to say for this week.   Warning the following may be extremely male chauvinistic...Everyone loves lesbians, right?  I mean seriously...Lesbians rule.  I'm reading The Women...She's talking about nipples and cunts, mixed in with some S&M.   But, all the smut and dirty mental images aside (always accompanied in my head by a smooth and funky bass guitar line), I got the feeling that she wasn't really talking about sex.  The thing that catches me is that she keeps talking about words being taken from her and given away.  Words that don't make any damn sense anymore, cause they haven't been used for "dozens" of years.

Also there is the imagery of this pen being stuck in her mouth, to shut her up.   For the first time in my life, I think that a sexy story about lesbians playing "doctor" wasn't really even about lesbians at all.   Call this off the wall, or maybe this class is just tapping into my ability to see things that are deeper than just the words, but this story seems to me to be a fucked up tale of a writer and her love affair with writing.  I know...I am just as shocked as you.  Me, a general type of asshole, thinking all deeply and whatnot.   It's fierce.

I was also kind of fond of Brenner's piece, You: a Love War Story was pretty interesting.  The style is what got me.   I've seen this style before...Tell a narrative of sorts, but through some crazy perspectives.   Journals, Letters, Notes, even what looks like a replication of Monster.com...Wait a Tick...Bram did that.  That's right, motherfuckin' Bram Stoker.  While this story lacked the coherency of Dracula, the style was amazing.  Using different representations of Media to tell one(?) story.   I love that shit.   That's why I love Dracula...Great way to execute a story.   Or was it the lesbian brides he had in the Tower of the castle?  I can't remember...

Lamontt on Characters and Why Writers Abuse Substances

It became rather apparent to me that Lamontt has a love affair with her characters.  I don't think for a moment that she would doubt this, either.   I did have some trouble following what she had to say about plot.   To me, plot is far more important than she makes it out to be.   She talks about following a character while they do mundane tasks, an example is when she talks about going to the city dump.

My first reaction to this was "Who the fuck would want to read about that?"  Seriously?  You can have the greatest characters in the world, but if those characters are doing things that are that boring, who the hell would want to follow it?  I can understand why she put such a huge emphasis on characters and their development.   As humans we don't associate with actions (plot) we associate with other people (characters).  Characters allow us to relate to a story, if you will we can imagine ourselves in the character's shoes.  We follow the characters through their actions and emotions, sure.   But I am not going to read a 200 page novel about some guy who wakes up in the morning, makes his toast and coffee, drinks it...then realizes he has to take a shit.

If I wanted to follow such regular activities, I would film myself taking a shit and watch it over and over.   But, seriously, who the hell wants to do that?   I like the idea of creating a character and letting that character drive the plot forward.  That's a pretty sound idea.   But, at some point you have to have a general idea of where the story is going.   You can't just let the cards fall where they may, or else most stories would end up being about regular boring ass people.   Nobody likes reading about regular boring ass people, we are all regular boring ass people...Where is the fun in reading stories like that?

That being said...Lamontt did raise something that interested me.   She made being a writer sound like a lonely and terrible thing, until you hit it big and become all famous and shit.   But before that, you drink and are depressed and do drugs.   That, in part, is what gives your writing some soul.   It's not about being a boring person and letting that boring person explore an exciting character...I like that she admits that when she was writing her book, and her editor said her book was shit, she started drinking and doing lines of yeyo.  It makes it a little more exciting...  Plus, she talked about closing her eyes or staring off and inventing characters and following them around in her head.  Seriously it sounds like she is suggesting that we all do some drugs and let whatever hallucinations we experience come out on paper.  Works for me...Worked for Aldous Huxley.  That's weird to say...I don't even do drugs anymore. And believe me, I have done my share of pychoactives.  Hell, 6 years ago, you were lucky to find me sober for more than 20 minutes.  I've become another boring person, but I still feel like some of those experiences have helped me know what it is like to be an interesting character.   If you are gonna be writing about interesting characters, who have interesting and compelling dialogue, you have to have been an interesting character at some point in your life.  The truth in writing is the same as it is in music... "No junk, no soul."

That's the truth, ain't it?

The Blue Girl and a Reminder of Harlan Ellison

Lauren Foos "The Blue Girl" was a pretty interesting read.  I got a feeling like some indie horror/suspense film.  The plot was kind of disjointed, but had enough congruity to make it a good read.  You have this strange skinned blue girl, of whom, the rest of the characters are afraid, save Audrey.  The feeling of the story is mysterious, and I like that.   It leaves you thinking "What the hell is this all about?".  I think in some cases having a sort of indefinite ending benefits a story.  Considering it was part of a novel that was kept around, it makes me think that this story has something much more to it.

I like that the blue girl doesn't speak.  She's totally mysterious.  You don't get the impression of what is really going on with her while these women share their secret moonpies.  The old woman that tends to her is just as mysterious.   They don't know who she is.  I could really see this short story being put into a strange short film. The descriptions of the places, such as walking up to the house, give you a sort of cinematic view in your mind as you read. I guess that is what you are really going for when you read a story, right?

I was rather fond of this little piece.  Something about this story makes me ffeel like there is something underlying the whole tale.  Maybe it is some kind of supernatural thing, that's just the feeling I get from it.  You know, creepy little mute blue girl who lurks around at night and people in town are afraid of her breath, equally creepy old lady who watches over this child...It's got a very eerie feeling to it.   I can dig that.  It's creepy in a few ways...first you have the premise of this strange blue child, then you have this child drowning, the adults do nothing, the daughter of the narrator saves the child, then they are baking marshmallow moon pies and telling this seemingly clairvoyant or magical child about their secrets through baking.   It's pretty freaky shit.   I think you could really wig some people out with the story.

I don't know if it was intended to be a scary kinda thing...But I think that the enigmas left in the story itself are kind of scary in their own right.   After all one of the most prominent fears in the world is the fear of the unknown.

Briefly...Roni Natov's piece reminds me of a short story I read in high school.   That was like 10 years ago, but I still remember the story.  I can't remember who wrote it.  Or what the real title of the piece was.  But pretty sure it was Harlan Ellison.   Until the Reparations reminded me of that story.   Maybe it was just because it was about homeless people, I don't know.   But, the piece by Ellison was damn good.   Natov's piece was interesting, not separating dialogue from the rest of the piece.  It flowed well.   The way in which the dialogue is written gives the piece good flow.  Also, it is easy to determine what is a "speech act" without having to put it in " " s...

So, after reading Roberson's City Eclogue I can't say that I am driven to love poetry.  But, with that being said, there is one line in his poems that stood out to me.   I just like the sound of it.  It goes something like this:

"The flash of polish not substance       brass not gold."

I can't tell you what it is that he is talking about, but this line strikes me.  Brass, when polished, is bright yellow. But even the dullest gold still shines with a better luster than the most polished brass.  Gold is quality, it doesn't need to be polished.  When it is, even polished brass doesn't stand a chance.

It is the lines that follow that give this line some context, still not sure what the fuck it all means.  In the very least it sounds really cool.

"The gold    on paper moving in the dark         Ink   the local brand of night and day        chauffeurs  its wealth from sight to hidden site"

I feel like the author is almost bragging about his shit here.   He's not writing in brass.  He's writing gold.  It's kinda arrogant, but I can dig that.   I've written some stuff that I read back later and am like "Damn, that's sweet."   That's just a thought though, I can't really tell what the fuck it's all about.  I will admit that I think it sounds pretty cool.

Side note, here.  In completing my first portfolio, I found that exercise that we did last week to be super duper helpful.  Pick out some random words and let a poem unfold from there.  I don't have much practice in poetry (nor interest, for that matter), but this exercise really helped me.  I don't know if I got lucky when randomly selecting words, but...some of these poems I wrote aren't half bad.

And so it begins...

The idea of starting a blog has always clanged around in this tin can I have for a head.  Now, I am doing it.   Granted, the terms of this blog's origin are highly influenced by my desire to pass this creative writing course but that point is probably moot.  Those who know me know I have a lot to say about a lot of things, I guess I have an outlet for those thoughts now. I'm looking over the syllabus and preparing myself for this class and one thing strikes me immediately.  Poetry.  Well, fuck me sideways...

I am not a poetic person.  I do not understand poetry.  I do not like poetry.  Part of me knew that poetry was going be a substantial part of this course and I took it anyway.   I'm all for metaphor and the like...but I feel that poets take it too far.  Comparing this too that, life to death, top to bottom, and somewhere I get lost in the fray.   I'm not sure if it is that I don't understand what a poet means, or if I believe that a poem has meaning only to the asshole who wrote it, or even if it is just fucking nonsense.  Maybe I am just apathetic to the practice of poetry and that is why I find it difficult.  I'll spare any philosophical analysis of it for the moment, that will probably come up again later in the course and you can hear it then.

I can deal with fiction.  I like fiction.  I write fiction for fun sometimes.  Fiction is o.k.   But, after 20 minutes of reading what Shakespeare wrote and not understanding a fucking lick of it...Poetry...It's not my thing.   Unless you count Dr. Seuss...I fucking love that guy.

In case you haven't picked up on it.   My language will be crass.   My thoughts will be disorganized.   I might offend you.   I will not sugarcoat things. Deal with it.  I will continue to say what I want...well, until SOPA and PIPA shut me down.