Wordplay

 

 

I don't take myself too seriously, but I am serious about what I write and the art I produce.  I wouldn't dare commit the sin of a rant or put you through any other form of mental masturbation.  I'd rather entertain people than bully them into seeing the world my way--after all, in a universe where all possibilities are possible ...it's probably just me. 

Boring you is my deepest fear, so be assured that I've put some thought into all of this.  Acres of trees, which might have been better off standing have been cleared for my scratch work.

       I'm interested in nearly every art form.  Easy access to movies and music I think is one of the few perks to living in the modern world.   But I still love the more primitive art that got us all here; simple imagery and the written word.  In my opinion, if literature is to survive today it needs to give the reader a reason to not wait for the movie.  It can't just be an overly descriptive screenplay.  That's my goal when I write, to create a story in its perfect state.

These selections would make shitty movies.

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Semi-random excerpt:

II

Interlude

I’ve been in this library before—I love this place. Quiet then, just as it is now: the sounds of scribbling; of pages being turned; of caressing hands; of pages being cared for; of shallow breathing; of a lone human heart beat. But, there’s a heavier mind brooding in here this morning.
…Maybe I just now lied to myself. Maybe, I’m a mean old man. Maybe big things seem bigger to little people. …If my legs were shorter and my feet smaller, I could close my eyes and jog the stacks—1st and 2nd floors—without running into a thing.
Nobody’s ever going to read the shit I write!
…Maybe this is all going nowhere—I never really know anyway. A spark of creation gives rise to a mortal character who life then trails off into an infinity noncommittal nonjudgmental. Happily ever after—horrifying!
…I used to worry I wasn’t smart enough to read all these books. That, of course, is a young notion; there’s not enough time to read it all, smart’s got nothing to do with it.
Time is precious; space is limited.
I have no readers—the world is a ruin. …That’s a convenient excuse; before the end of the world and publishing, I barely had a handful of readers left. A one hit wonder because I wouldn’t stop hitting once I’d won; didn’t stop long enough to see until it was gone.
I’m talking to myself. My last reader has put me down and gone on to leaf through some classic.
I’m taking dictation and leaving behind the transcripts to brown and crumble.
…Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about ruins; living among ruins, writing in a ruin about a man writing in a ruin. Maybe I need the kind of escape this place used to offer. Maybe I need someone else’s words—someone faceless; colorless; genderless; timeless.
All this morning, I’ve been feeling young under the stiffness of age.
…Maybe I should set aside these ruins for a moment and write about right angles and orderly nests. …Maybe happier times. …Maybe I should write about an antediluvian child; a good boy, with a different name and a happier view of things…

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Another random excerpt (the whole thing's a commitment to read, let alone write):

Tom guessed grimly, “those ‘Suicides’ from before couldn’t go on, knowing that the world was about to end. …I guess now, some folks can’t live, knowing the world’s going on.” Tom let his own words sink into him for a moment, then added for deflation, “You want to know the one way nothings changed?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“There’s no pleasing some people.”
She laughed: her laughter was demented by exhaustion, brought on by months of living on edge.
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“Sorry,” she covered her smile to collect herself and then nervously began padding her reddening cheeks.
The moment she stopped laughing, Tom regretted this interruption; his own damage manifest in angry ticks.
She apologized, “I’ve been laughing at the most awful things lately." She wiped away an errant tear. “…It’s strange.” She sighed and then huffed, and then twirled her back to Tom again, returning to the dresser. There she shuffled through the drawers, her body jittering to labor at nothing, fiddling with miscellaneous knick-knacks on its top—ignoring her company; reclined on her guest’s bed, watching her keep busy.
…Her scent filled the room. Tom’s nose perked up in appreciation for it. He wondered, how long she could keep this up? Her clean, perfect look and that scent? The world that’s running out of canned food ought to be running out of cosmetics shortly. That scent; Her scent; a subtle combination of the soap or soaps she used, her shampoo, hair-care, makeup products, deodorant, perfume, and whatever scented lotions to complete that heavenly illusion floating around her truer sweeter scent. Her man was sure to know her in the dark.

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