typewriters

typewriters.

i miss 'em.
i miss how loud they can get
when you whackwhackwhack
at the keys.
they're kind of like...

(shhh!)

i even miss how they jam
when you whack too fast
how the hammers lock up,
lost in the throes of your
(pro) creative activity

(it takes a lot to pry 'em apart)

i like the sprocket-ratchet sound they make
grating teeth, ragged breathing
when i pull on her arm and roll up the next
creamy space to rat-tat-tat-tat-type at.

when you're done banging,
parts of you hurt from so much abuse,
and you know you should feel like an ass
because you didn't quite consider her feelings

but you bask in the afterglow,
maybe take a long drag on your cigarette
contemplating the smells, the fluids you spilled
on so much white, pristine space.

i miss them as much as i miss

(shhhh!)

Being Fair to Stephenie Meyer

I've spoken out against what I perceive to be the critic's tendency to treat the artistic endeavor as if it were a gladiatorial event. They seem to boo and hiss and jeer from the sidelines while the artist struggles with the lions of snark and put-down until what makes artists artists chokes on all that bile and dies.

I know, I know: the Cadaverous Jaded Critic stereotype is not always true and standards have to be met and kept if we want to make good art. 

So. 

What I know of Stephenie Meyer and Twilight--accusations of Mary Sue-ism, shoddy research, purple prose, hollow plot--has basically been pre-processed by the Cadaverous Jaded critics and by the Critics Whose Fairness I Respect.  While these criticisms foreshadow my future disappointment with Meyer's literary product, I can't quite fault her so much for her process. 

The story of how Edward Cullen's and Bella Swan's romance (can I call them Bedward now?) came to be was as legitimate a creative jumping point as any: it came to Meyer in a dream. It niggled, unsatisfied with staying in the back of her head until the story had to be written, however badly or well. It's as valid as Stephen King's birthing of Roland in The Dark Tower series.

Regarding the possible travesty that is Twilight, I've decided that it's time for me to put my money where my mouth is and see it for myself. I can't get all snarky and contemptuous about something I haven't seen unless it is patently horse turd, or produced by people who consistently produce horse turd (A-kon, Gunther, Soulja Boy: I'm looking at you.) 

So, if you've bought the Twilight novel, may I look at it? If you've bought the DVD, may I borrow it?    

Story Zero

Writing is a necessary evil. When people are simply too lazy or ineffectual to do something to improve their lives, they whine about it. Sometimes they whine about it in writing. Writing serves the dual purpose of--

1. bleeding off their restlessness and resentment so they don't kill themselves, rape people or otherwise become inconvenient to the rest of us;
2. contributing to art and culture (useless pursuits that keep the rich in their belief that they are intrinsically better people) when the writer hits occasional literary gold.
   

This pretty much keeps the masses pacified and intellectuals entertained so no one gets any funny ideas about upsetting the status quo, which frankly, needs a little tipping over.

Speaking as a cynic, that's the first story. Speaking as a writer, I'm sick to my stomach. Time for my medication.

The Ninth (Or Zeroth) Original Story

Click here to get to the other eight. The gist of that article being, that every Hollywood movie on God's green earth is based off of at least one of them. I submit there is a ninth story, or story meme, that informs the rest of them. I'm loosely calling it the Fall.

In every story is a status quo and then something happens to upset it. Sometimes that something is a villain, like Brainiac trying yet again to put Metropolis in a bottle: Superman must fight him to prevent Metropolitans from being very inconvenienced by the villain's shrink ray. Sometimes it's a natural disaster-- think Titanic. Regardless of what that something is, the characters have to fight it to get their status quo-- or a semblance of it-- back. They've fallen out of safety, contentment, out of Paradise and they have to struggle to return to it.

This is story zero. This is everyone's story.

Sand

Don’t shake me off your sandals;
Build castles with me
Put out the stubs of your anger,
All your wasted working days, in me.

Build your bonfires, hold your parties
But lay your head and your blanket of troubles
On the grains of my broad back
Hide in me; cry in me; confide in me

Love washes over me,
Causes me to cling to you,
To those parts of you
That leave their mark on me so—
The back of your neck, your soft arms
Your gentle hands, your toes,
the arches and soles of your feet

-----------

This was originally meant for Project Formalin, (I just love appending weird names to my little endeavors, don't I?) a series of videos and related work that I did for the Clavier School of Music. As a matter of course, I have multiple agendas when I make my projects. And a nasty habit of making those agendas obvious to people who know what to look for.

I found the draft in an old sketchbook. I tweaked it just tonight.    

A New Take on an Old Tale

written around 22 December 2005

Love made the World on a Wednesday and found it was good.
In the World, Love planted a garden, bidding all to eat of its fruit.
The Man and the Woman (Love brought them there)
saw that the fruit was lovely and inviting to touch.
The Woman took the fruit and bit into it, giving some to the Man to taste.
He did.

Immediately their eyes were opened and they saw that they were naked.
They sewed fig leaves together to cover their nakedness,
and hid in the trees.

Love walked into the garden and asked of the Man and the Woman: "Where are you?"
The Man stepped out of his hiding place and proclaimed
"I am here, Lady. We were hiding in the garden from the World because we were naked."

Love asked, "Were you hiding from me?" The Man replied "No, Lady.
You who brought us to live here, know already we are naked."

At this, the Woman went out of her hiding place,
drew forth from her heart, a flaming sword.
With it she cut off the arms of the Man as she cursed him.
"You have shamed me. From this day forward, never shall your arms enfold me.
On your belly shall you crawl, and dust shall you eat for as long as you live.
I set enmity between us. When you kiss my feet I will strike at your head."

At this, Love shed her bitter tears.

In the World, the garden, the Man and the Woman stay to this day, until
one moves the other or the world itself is changed.

Soma 3

the telephone is lying silently
my heart is a clock ticking slowly tonight
and this ticking and my open secret
are ringing in my ears

you’re never alone
when alone together is what i
desperately need us to be

--------------------------
Inspired by song by Anne and Nancy Wilson.

The Worship of Mammon: Misogyny

She's not a nice friend. But she says that every word out of her mouth is truth I would do well to heed. And grudgingly, I must admit that that is the case regarding much of what she's told me before. She knows me inside and out, knows what makes me tick. She's one of a handful of people on the planet who's seen me truly deeply twisted angry. Others have seen me break but she was there each time I did. Waiting.

She says she loves me, and on some level it's likely true. Even if I've seen the stable of broken men she says she's rescued from their exes. Yes, she keeps a stable. And that's partly why I haven't told her "yes." Her arguments are, of course, powerful enough to merit consideration. She has been with me for every heartbreak, every bad day. She has been an understanding, patient, if silent friend to me. She knows what makes me tick. Knows how tired I am of failing every character test thrown my way by Woman. How utterly sick I am of puzzling them out, of not fitting their mental pictures of Prince Charming. She offers me freedom, the room to be utterly preoccupied with only my projects and plans as long as I nee to do them. Her connections are extensive and while they are not equally available to every man in her stable, there is always a portion of her largesse that is reserved solely for me.

She claims she can match my intensity with her own, that I need not hold myself back from displays of affection. In matters of sex she is open to everything, even the practices that would make me blush. She is willing to go as slow or as fast as or as bizarre as I want. She says she is everything to every one of the men she consorts with. She tells me she will be everything I want for me. And she says this with such deadpan confidence that I find it hard to doubt her.

She is a comely woman, and though she can be as charming and winsome as the rest of them, there is often little warmth in her. She's as beautiful as a well-kept marble crypt is beautiful. Sharp, cold smooth, precise. She makes a great goth girl. Given my preoccupation with things dead and necrotising, that does give some life to my interest in Ginny.

All she asks of me is that I become part of her stable. And that is partly what galls.

She has a stable.

I mislike being part of a communal love nest.

I have told her this. I have told her I'm waiting for someone too. She had chuckled softly at that, eyes flashing with a certainty that frightened and angered me. She understands my reticence, or so she says. "I have time, Dex." she says. She will wait for that last bad day that will finally drive me into her arms.