The last two books I read were each "classics" of their authors. Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" is a semi-autobiographical novel about a 12 year old boy in summer. Cormac McCarthy wrote "Blood Meridian" as a violent exploration of borderland outlaws in the late 1800s in the Southwest. Both authors express themselves incredibly poetically, with fanciful language and high metaphor use. The difference is, McCarthy's novel was a struggle. I breezed through "Dandelion Wine." I worked through "Blood Meridian."
And to me, that makes "Dandelion Wine" a much better book. It's filled with deaths, yes, but it's also filled with hope. It expresses a deep sadness that reflects reality, and only serves to make you glad at the end of it. "Dandelion Wine"'s tears are the kind that Butters cries in the one episode of South Park where his Raisins "girlfriend"ends it with him. Even when you lose something important to you, the knowledge exists that you had it in the first place. Tragedy comes from living. Without it, the tears don't come but neither does the smile.
"Blood Meridian" makes a point with its drudgery and repetition. War and violence keep on keepin' on, and the hearts of men lead to evil if they give in. The poetry was beautiful, the vocabulary perplexingly yet intriguingly arcane, but it never could hook me in. Plot? Not really. Just a lot of walking and riding and killing, and an author making it all seem mundane. I guess it's more depressing than shocking. It is true looking around the internet that it could never be a movie. It lives on its own as a book.
Both books, by the way, are linked to Moby Dick. Which is weird. I guess this is an example of how your brain always finds the connections when it's primed or already looking for them. It's like noticing how your iPod always seems to play the same artist in an hour even when you're on shuffle. Actually it's random, but your brain goes in for false pattern recognition.
Read "Dandelion Wine." Many times. Study "Blood Meridian" in a college course.
This quote from Dandelion Wine links in to both of them, but is really a good life lesson about throwing in the towel when it's the proper time:
"Tom, when the time comes that the same cowboys are shooting the same Indians on the same mountaintop, then it's best to fold back the seat and head for the door, with no regrets and no walking backwards up the aisle."
And then there's a quote I thought I had written down but I can't find so I'll try and recite from memory:
"She wasn't thin in the way that girls are when they're not loved at seventeen, or fat in the way that women are when they're not loved at fifty, but a firmness, a roundness, when women are at any age and there is no question."
Something like that. The proper Venus.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
BREAKING NEWS
This just in: 2014 is going to be a great year
How do I know this? Because the Niners lost, there is no snow on the mountain and I'm basically unemployed, and I gave up on pining after a good friend who will only ever be that.
But Jimmy, that sounds like 2014 is the worst year on record!
Yes, accurate.
But I have nothing left to lose. Which makes a man very dangerous. Alternatively, not dangerous at all, just optimistic that things have to and will get better.
I'm excited. No longer down in the dumps. Nothing to hang my hopes on, just me. It's liberating and a little cheesy. But it's gonna be great.
Stay tuned, spam sites that are my only hits on this blog. Because life is looking up.
How do I know this? Because the Niners lost, there is no snow on the mountain and I'm basically unemployed, and I gave up on pining after a good friend who will only ever be that.
But Jimmy, that sounds like 2014 is the worst year on record!
Yes, accurate.
But I have nothing left to lose. Which makes a man very dangerous. Alternatively, not dangerous at all, just optimistic that things have to and will get better.
I'm excited. No longer down in the dumps. Nothing to hang my hopes on, just me. It's liberating and a little cheesy. But it's gonna be great.
Stay tuned, spam sites that are my only hits on this blog. Because life is looking up.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Wild Animus
Wild Animus, Rich Shapero's self-published artistic effort, has sat untouched on my bookshelf for about four years. It was handed to me for free freshman year, in the space between UCLA's Northern Lights and Campbell Hall, and I finally decided to give it a go last night. I read a chapter and restarted tonight. I stopped, just now, after the first book section because I don't have to keep reading. Believe me, I wanted to. I felt like I should.
But I don't have an obligation.
Wild Animus is bad. Very bad. Some of the songs on the accompanying CDs are okay. I'm listening to them now. They're disturbingly similar, but taken as a concept album could go well with drugs. Drugs, you see, are a main theme of Wild Animus. The main character does a shit-ton of LSD and apparently goes crazy, thinks he's a Dall ram, and dies. I say apparently because I only read the first book section, which details this guy's meeting of a girlfriend, them moving to Seattle, and then visiting Alaska. The ram imagery, however, has been shoved down my throat since the third page. They have a secret ram language, Sam and Lindy, by the second time they're hanging out- which is also when they do acid together. That's stupid.
I described the prose to myself last night, when I decided I would definitely tackle it (sorry, me) as ham-handed and heavy-fisted. Really, I think that it's ham-fisted and heavy-handed, but it's incessant metaphor and blatant hippy-speak really addles the brain. It's way too much way too quickly, like every line is supposed to be some revelation about the world and nature. There's no "a-ha!" epiphany moment, just endless LSD drivel that fellow Amazon users have described as coming from someone who has never taken LSD.
But that's not the problem. I could deal with poorly written sentences, or rather overly "well-written" sentences that gag you. The problem is that I don't give a single shit about the characters. Because they are terrible, and terribly written. Their physical features are described too specifically, and their emotions are spilled out every two seconds. Their emotions change too drastically though. These aren't real people. Amazon reviewers say they are interchangeable or cardboard. I'd disagree. Cookie-cutter characters at least make sense in the stories they dwell. This girl goes from in fear to enraged to lovey-dovey. On a page, with no real explanation or build up. I don't like the protagonist. he names himself Ransom Altman at some point. What the fuck kind of a name is Ransom Altman? He wants to be surrender's ransom, he says. What? Rich Shapero has heard of metaphor, definitely, he uses it too much. Yet he completely fails on using metaphors for symbolism. Everything is spelled out.
Now, I've been writing a novel. And I've put in some blatant symbolism and written references too out-in-the-open. But not like this. It can't possibly be like this. This is bad. I had to stop reading! This got published as-is. I'd want an editor for some of the stuff I spell out. It's there as a placeholder, to take up space and keep my mind going. Shapero doesn't hide anything. He rubs your nose in it. And it's shit.
The good takeaway from this is that I can use the bad example to get better with how I write. I don't want to be anywhere close to Shapero's example. It starts with the characters. They have to be consistent. Now, Matilda is consistently useless and not a strong female character, which is a shame but that's kind of her role. And Bill grows a bit, but stays a hipster half-douche. Ava is underwritten. I know this. That's why she's cool, but injured and stolen. That way I don't have to spend too much time on her. I want her to kick major ass but that's not where my life experience lies. Joe changed probably too much in the well, and Geoffrey could be more consistent and foolish, but does relatively well as a character.
Those are my characters. They grow the story. George R.R. Martin has his gardeners and architects of writers. I half-architect after gardening, and sometimes the gardening destroys the building I've designed. My characters do the things they're supposed to. It makes sense for them to perform actions, and I just fit those actions into the story. But Rich Shapero? Rich Shapero said fuck it. He said, I've got a story and I've got some acid. These characters are going to do everything and anything to get to this plot point. Because they suck and do nothing to inspire empathy.
Or maybe not. Like I said, I couldn't finish the book. I might be able to, as a cautionary tale. But do I really need to? There's no prize for finishing bad books. It's a pride thing. No. I can't do it.
But I don't have an obligation.
Wild Animus is bad. Very bad. Some of the songs on the accompanying CDs are okay. I'm listening to them now. They're disturbingly similar, but taken as a concept album could go well with drugs. Drugs, you see, are a main theme of Wild Animus. The main character does a shit-ton of LSD and apparently goes crazy, thinks he's a Dall ram, and dies. I say apparently because I only read the first book section, which details this guy's meeting of a girlfriend, them moving to Seattle, and then visiting Alaska. The ram imagery, however, has been shoved down my throat since the third page. They have a secret ram language, Sam and Lindy, by the second time they're hanging out- which is also when they do acid together. That's stupid.
I described the prose to myself last night, when I decided I would definitely tackle it (sorry, me) as ham-handed and heavy-fisted. Really, I think that it's ham-fisted and heavy-handed, but it's incessant metaphor and blatant hippy-speak really addles the brain. It's way too much way too quickly, like every line is supposed to be some revelation about the world and nature. There's no "a-ha!" epiphany moment, just endless LSD drivel that fellow Amazon users have described as coming from someone who has never taken LSD.
But that's not the problem. I could deal with poorly written sentences, or rather overly "well-written" sentences that gag you. The problem is that I don't give a single shit about the characters. Because they are terrible, and terribly written. Their physical features are described too specifically, and their emotions are spilled out every two seconds. Their emotions change too drastically though. These aren't real people. Amazon reviewers say they are interchangeable or cardboard. I'd disagree. Cookie-cutter characters at least make sense in the stories they dwell. This girl goes from in fear to enraged to lovey-dovey. On a page, with no real explanation or build up. I don't like the protagonist. he names himself Ransom Altman at some point. What the fuck kind of a name is Ransom Altman? He wants to be surrender's ransom, he says. What? Rich Shapero has heard of metaphor, definitely, he uses it too much. Yet he completely fails on using metaphors for symbolism. Everything is spelled out.
Now, I've been writing a novel. And I've put in some blatant symbolism and written references too out-in-the-open. But not like this. It can't possibly be like this. This is bad. I had to stop reading! This got published as-is. I'd want an editor for some of the stuff I spell out. It's there as a placeholder, to take up space and keep my mind going. Shapero doesn't hide anything. He rubs your nose in it. And it's shit.
The good takeaway from this is that I can use the bad example to get better with how I write. I don't want to be anywhere close to Shapero's example. It starts with the characters. They have to be consistent. Now, Matilda is consistently useless and not a strong female character, which is a shame but that's kind of her role. And Bill grows a bit, but stays a hipster half-douche. Ava is underwritten. I know this. That's why she's cool, but injured and stolen. That way I don't have to spend too much time on her. I want her to kick major ass but that's not where my life experience lies. Joe changed probably too much in the well, and Geoffrey could be more consistent and foolish, but does relatively well as a character.
Those are my characters. They grow the story. George R.R. Martin has his gardeners and architects of writers. I half-architect after gardening, and sometimes the gardening destroys the building I've designed. My characters do the things they're supposed to. It makes sense for them to perform actions, and I just fit those actions into the story. But Rich Shapero? Rich Shapero said fuck it. He said, I've got a story and I've got some acid. These characters are going to do everything and anything to get to this plot point. Because they suck and do nothing to inspire empathy.
Or maybe not. Like I said, I couldn't finish the book. I might be able to, as a cautionary tale. But do I really need to? There's no prize for finishing bad books. It's a pride thing. No. I can't do it.
Friday, November 8, 2013
A Quick Note on "Millenials"
I do not put myself in the same "generation"as 30 year olds. That's stupid. If anything, rapidly increasing technology changes the generation timeframe by shrinking it. Would a 30 year old really identify with me? No. At least they shouldn't. And that's what everyone is getting wrong during these Millenial debates. As you age, yes, the distinction lessens. But when we're talking about the young, we have to understand that the young have small bands where they identify themselves. Remember, a 50 year old married to a 40 year old isn't weird. 40 and 30 year old? Fine. A 30 year old and a 20 year old actually starts to sound pretty iffy. A 25 year old and a 15 year old is a statutory rape case, and horrific. We're not even going to touch on 20 and 10. So when that "generation" is 30-15? We shouldn't be considering them very similar at all. Eventually, we can generalize, when that 15 year gap doesn't seem like anything, like for 50 year olds to 65 year olds. Even then though, I'd have my apprehensions. 65 year olds and 50 year olds now had similar levels of technology growing up but I'd claim they still think of themselves differently. Think about the increase in cell phone usage and smart phone access in this generation. The debate exists, and I can't for the life of me figure out why we think it's saying anything of substance.
-Jimmy
Sorry about the convoluted method of thought if you find it so. I had to get that off my chest.
-Jimmy
Sorry about the convoluted method of thought if you find it so. I had to get that off my chest.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
A Joke
A clown comes in to a classic barbershop, straight razors and all, because the circus is in town and he needs a clip.
The barber asks how the circus has been going as he preps the chair.
"Not good," replies the clown, "one of our tumbling midgets tried to commit suicide yesterday by jumping off the circus tent."
The barber says, "Just a little off the top?"
At the end of the haircut, the barber asks the clown, "Close shave?"
"No," the clown says, "he just broke both his ankles."
The barber asks how the circus has been going as he preps the chair.
"Not good," replies the clown, "one of our tumbling midgets tried to commit suicide yesterday by jumping off the circus tent."
The barber says, "Just a little off the top?"
At the end of the haircut, the barber asks the clown, "Close shave?"
"No," the clown says, "he just broke both his ankles."
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Poems IV, Nature
These three come from my trip to Oregon's southern coast, Humbug Mountain State Park and its hike and beach. They're more serious, and I guess traditional. Inspiration drawn from where I was.
Untitled (Beach)
King of the two black burrens, I,
On a seat of stone on the Western coast.
I jump from rock to rock as the fleas,
And sail a white driftwood cross to my transfixtion.
I could walk to you, o poor man's isles,
Or you could come crumble to me
But the surf bends his knee to no poor lord,
No vagrant of airs, unworthy.
Untitled (Trail)
Running roughshod,
unclod,
as tiny little pebbles,
giving me the devil's
share of pain
on that membrane
separating body and ground
as still I bound
just starting
and yet a new beginning,
winning
back to barefoot
on the switch back trail
of Humbug,
up and up.
Untitled (Peak)
A rainforest doesn't have to be warm-
The moisture on your clothes. Sticky of sweat from the air's heat?
or just too many layers?
The fog can roll in, not the mist.
A hundred tribes, undiscovered.
A single Bigfoot, "discovered."
Redwoods tall or canopies thick
The sound of macaws on Highway 101?
We frown at the Cars' muffled cacophony,
But Tractors buzz barbarous.
Redwood becomes lumber but more take its place.
Slash and burn fills Amazon greed.
So I have a coast
And they have a river
But the Earth owns both and holds them dear.
Pristine isn't the only serene,
But quiet swirls in with the chill-
And I am sitting contented.
Untitled (Beach)
King of the two black burrens, I,
On a seat of stone on the Western coast.
I jump from rock to rock as the fleas,
And sail a white driftwood cross to my transfixtion.
I could walk to you, o poor man's isles,
Or you could come crumble to me
But the surf bends his knee to no poor lord,
No vagrant of airs, unworthy.
Untitled (Trail)
Running roughshod,
unclod,
as tiny little pebbles,
giving me the devil's
share of pain
on that membrane
separating body and ground
as still I bound
just starting
and yet a new beginning,
winning
back to barefoot
on the switch back trail
of Humbug,
up and up.
Untitled (Peak)
A rainforest doesn't have to be warm-
The moisture on your clothes. Sticky of sweat from the air's heat?
or just too many layers?
The fog can roll in, not the mist.
A hundred tribes, undiscovered.
A single Bigfoot, "discovered."
Redwoods tall or canopies thick
The sound of macaws on Highway 101?
We frown at the Cars' muffled cacophony,
But Tractors buzz barbarous.
Redwood becomes lumber but more take its place.
Slash and burn fills Amazon greed.
So I have a coast
And they have a river
But the Earth owns both and holds them dear.
Pristine isn't the only serene,
But quiet swirls in with the chill-
And I am sitting contented.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Peruvian Literary Battles and Monkeys on Planes
I just read a really cool article about literary battling in Peru. Writers square off and are given three words with which and five minutes in which to write a short story. Winner goes on, loser goes home (and must unmask themselves). I decided to time myself and give it a go with the three words given in the article, which I read at:
I’d like to point out that five minutes went by way too quickly. It’s actually pretty nerve-wracking and I’m sure in front of a crowd it’s worse. I thrive under pressure on a stage, but for some reason I feel like I’d lose every possible match-up due to the fact that I can’t write in Spanish. The story couldn’t be titled in five minutes, but just right now I’ve dubbed it:
“Monkey Miscommunication”
“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t bring that on the plane at this time.”
Haleel looked up from his plane ticket. “But ma’am, it say here I boarding group number two. You just call boarding group number two.”
The flight attendant was unfazed. “That may be true, Mr. Haleel, but you can’t board with a monkey.”
“I can’t board with monkey? But guide book say I can go with my monkey to America.”
“I don’t know what guide book you’re looking at, sir, but no, you can’t bring a monkey to America. Not without the proper documentation and vaccination. It’ll need quarantine, too.”
“No! No, no, no! This not right! Look here at guide book.”
Haleel shoved the guide book in the flight attendant’s face. She sighed. The airline was not paying her enough for this. “Security,” she called over the intercom.
Haleel was escorted out of the airport with his monkey. At home, he discovered the problem. His English dictionary had the words next to each other: “monkey” was “hakab” and “suitcase” was “hakann.” He could bring a suitcase, yes. Not a monkey.
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