Confessions of a Starving Artist

“Although we’ve often wondered, it is no thing of wonder / the shit that flew from our minds”  - Florida Modest Mouse

It should be known that Skip Prosser died the other night at age 57.  Coach Prosser was the Xavier Musketeers’ Head Basketball Coach until 2001 when he left Xavier to become the headcoach of Wake Forest.  He had been a presence at Xavier since 1985 when he first appeared there as an assistant coach.  Coach Prosser is the only Head Coach in NCAA history that has take three different teams to the NCAA Tournament on each of his first years’ coaching.  He is a Xavier legend and will be sorely missed.

I saw news reel at the bar on Friday night, and while I was disheartened, I was a bit touched by a sense of my own mortality, furthered by a moment of self-actualization as to the work that I am currently employed.  True, French classes are mundane and often revolve around coffee breaks, irregular verbs, and where we are going for lunch; so much so that there are times when one can forget that it is all just a means to an end, which is hopefully not the ‘end’ that has a capital “E”.  There many things that I am planning to do in my life that perhaps may not come to fruitition, and I accept that.  It just stands that sometimes I have to remind myself that I accept that.  Some might think that to do this is foolishness, or they cannot quiet understand it.  I don’t claim to be able to put it into words; written, spoken, or otherwise, but what I can tell you is that embracing that fact makes every mundane task that you do the sweeter and each day more important.

That being said, I there is a project that I have been working on for sometime now.  As much as I would like it too be all encompassing, it is not, but to say that it is ever far from my mind would be a lie.  It is a rather large writing project which I have tenatively called Diablous Ex Machina.  It will be serial publication of novella-styled peices of dark (I hesitate to use the word ‘gothic’ just yet) fiction, published (hopefully) under a pen name… as the military is a foreseeable pain when it comes to the realm of publication.  The way that I would like this to work, and I emphasize that this is a constantly evolving and massive project, is for each ‘volume’ to consist of three shorter novellas and for the entirety of the project to consist of thirteen of said volumes.  Of course that takes us to thirty-nine novellas, which has left me with the quandry of what to make out of the even two-score.  I have ideas…

My current opinions on literature published after the late 1950’s is that, with a trace few notable exceptions, it sucks.  What’s worse, it grows steadily worse.  There is very little substance to writing these days.  If I was to ask whom is the great poet of our generation, whom would you respond with?  Who is the great writer, the biographer of the times?  Stephen King?  JK Rowling?  Hardly.  While my aim with this project not to become this, such a target is a bit arrogant even for me, but I do hope to give some level of artist contribution from my generation as opposed to some smaller goal like making a million dollars or perhaps furthering some fleeting career in medocoire media or volitile politics.

The basic structure is this:  My principal goal with each novella is to level the reader with something to discuss with fellow readers, that is, metaphorical settings and plotlines, the unclear aims and interptable actions of characters, and the macabre and original (as well as current and cultural) topics with the storyline.  This in itself is a tough task for a few stories, let alone thirty-nine.  The I got this brainwave… 

I had already decided that my settings were going to be of this world and yet not of this world, like images of our own history in a broken mirror.  Liken it to The Dark Tower if you please, but I plan on taking that ball and running with it much further than King did.  But like The Dark Tower, I had toyed with the idea of cross-breeding characters from one story to the next, but not of their consciousness, just ours.  In other words, Jim from novella A, a gothic western, might reappear in novella K which is set in a pseudo-1960’s East Berlin with nothing in his character changed other than uprooting him of place and time.  But I struggled with how to do this and to what end.  Currently, I have about fourteen detailed storyboards completed, half I have started writing.  I have ten more ideas in the works, but they are not completed circles… but all that might be reworked, because yesterday I came up with what could possibly be my two-score!  I’m in the process of letting the concept roll though my brain like a bit of consuming tempest, but so far, no flaws.

Now, some of you might want a bit more details then what I am giving, perhaps a little taste of the work in progress.  Absolutely not.  This is an unsecure publishing site!  What’s more, I am most likely going to publish semi-anonymously, which means I can’t have someone being able to just Google my work… heck, even the working title that I gave you earlier I will go back and erase in a week or two.  However, if you have some sort of a hair across your ass and want to see what I have been working on, drop me an email and I’ll do my best to feed you a little more.  To be clear: no one has seen nor will see any actual writing until the first three novellas are complete… and least, until the first three are ready for an editor.  

“Restore a man to his health, his purse lies open to thee.”  ~Robert Burton

For those of you whom don’t know, I didn’t pass my French Exam on the first go around.  It’s the first snag that I have hit in the last year plus going through this course so I guess that I should be thankful that I have come this far without any incidents or reprises.  Still, I would be a complete liar if I said I was ‘okay’ with the situation as the whole kit-and-kaboodle sets ol’ GSnake back about a month and a half.  What can you do.  I have a week and a half off before the retrain begins, which, as you can see, I’m taking full advantage of.

In silent protest of my failure, I have been reading a lot these last few days… of English.  I have been down at the local coffee houses reading my book and sipping a house blend for the past few nights now, trying to wrap my brain around this whole rescheduling of my life.  Strange how the mind is slow to adapt to reality… At any rate, the coffee house who’s bistro seating I read at is right beside a small artsy movie theater.  It’s a two-screen job with the old-style box seating as opposed to the newer stadium style, but it’s part of the ambiance, I suppose.  The letting out of the evening showings are a bit of a high point for one who’s been reading for a few hours; new faces, snippits of conversations about the films.  Granted, one of the film’s playing is the new Harry Potter, but that isn’t really the movie currently playing that has inspired me to write a blog… as I have already done so… Rather, it’s the other film: Micheal Moore’s Sicko.

For the past two or three nights I have near literally dragged people babbling nonscense leaving the theater over to my seat for a bit of a tete-a-tete.  I can’t, in all good conscience, allow people to leave this film with the insane notions that are placed in their heads during this two hour barage of Anti-American propoganda, which is why I write today with this: my largest mouth piece (sad, really).  Note: I did not say ”left wing” or “liberal”, I said “Anti-American”.  And I will attempt to explain.

Before I start, I am going to hit on a lot of things about me, the opinion-maker in-chief, that some of you may know some of, but I doubt all of you know all of.  First, I rather liked Fahrenheit 9/11, though opinion-ridden, and I thought that it brought to light many of the possiblities for counter-thought that our current administration may have over-looked in those post-9/11 days.  Granted, The Left took it completely as gosphel, but I think the more logical and analytical-minded took it to heart rather than soul.  My only critique of the film was that it didn’t offer any viable solution, but I’ll get to that.  Second, I’m as cynical and doubious about this current administration as the next American, BUT I support them if for no reason other than they are the ones that we elected freely and of our own choosing.  While I think that there are better answers to certain issues that The President has been for or against, I think that there are some answers that are far far worse.  The real worry for me right now is not our President, but the lack of good ideas by his critics and possible successors on these same certain issues.  Third and finally, I haven’t seen Sicko; I don’t have to (…I will, but I don’t have to).  Because I agree with him.  That’s right, I agree with Mr. Moore insofar as our healthcare system is fucked.  I agree that our current system only supports the big business insurance corporations and pharmaceutical companies so that the rich get richer and the poor get… sicker.  It’s the epitome of American fascism.  What I detest is the way that Micheal Moore says it.  Not just ‘detest’; I am frightened of the way that he says it, and even more frightened by the way the Joe Q. Average takes his words as truth, when, in actuality, it’s only his opinions cleverly wrapped in a warm blacket of critical facts.

I’m sure that some of you, possibly current members of the healthcare profession (how’s little Ella doin’, Val?), are probably saying, how can I say this when I haven’t seen the movie.  Point taken.  I’m judging this on what my friends and strangers have taken away from this film, and yes, I will be seeing it soon, and writing a follow-up.  I’ll eat crow if it’s served the way I like it.  My jumping off point is this: Micheal Moore claims to be an objectivist.  He’s not.  He’s a Xenopile masquerading as a liberal.  So without further adieu, I will fill in the two largest ”solutions” that Mr. Moore presents in his film:  Canada and France.

Canada does enjoy a universial healthcare, but it’s not free.  All people, citizens and non-citizens, pay an extremely hefty tax for such, even though citizens of Canada are the only one’s who enjoy the healthcare. We as Americans enjoy (I use that term loosely) about 7% sales tax. Canadians suffer between 25-40% taxes on a nearly all things from sales to proporty to gas to cigarettes. Now, contrast that with the massively smaller population of Canada when compared to the US; the whole of Canada is about the same size as California. As an example, my ex-girlfriend from Nova Scotia (the population density of about Portland, ME or Amarillo, TX) injuried her back over two years ago and reminds undiagnosed due to waiting lines because until it is diagnosed, its not life threatening… even if it is a degenerative spine disease, which is still a possiblity.  Also, same girl, was recently told that she had a bit of cancer on near her belly button, but the removal surgery isn’t for another 40 to 60 days! She was told that if it get worse, to call and they’ll “fit her in”.  Yes, Canada doesn’t let a person who is suffering from cancer or AIDS or herpie-gonorr-syphilis (it’s terrible) go for very long, but if you have a screwed up knee expect to wait a few month to get that fixed.  A broken ankle?  Good luck.  And ‘cosmetic surgery’ such as lasic eyes or plasic surgery to cover an old tattoo or disfiguring burn?  Guess what, you’re still paying and probably going to the US…  Think about this, if I was a Canadian, I would have a scraped miniscus, a wrist with a large amount of metal in it, an extremely fucked-up back, and I would easily still be half-blind wearing glasses.  I think I’ve made my case here.

Again, I’m not supporting the insurance industry or the pill-pushers. Not at all. And do I think that shit needs exposure? Hell yes! But what I can’t abide by is a man who has to undermine the whole of America to do it.  Huge propoganda pieces like this don’t fix the problem, it undermines the system; a system which works when not plagued by human greed and immorality, something that is not fixed by political unrest, but rather inhanced by it. A good example is this: if you are displeased by the Red Sox’s pitching staff, you say “geez, we really need to get a better pitcher,” or, “man, we need to get a pitching rotation that is as good or better than those Yankees by doing X, Y, and Z,” but you don’t say, “you know, those Yankees are better than us, we should go be more like them,” or as my friend Nurse Kyle added, “Hey guys, lets fire our entire staff and see if we can persuade some of those Yankee coaches to come help us out.”  If you do there is a special circle of Hell reserved for you along with Johnny Damon and Roger Clemens. 

All I’m saying is that the big message of the film is a no-brainer.  Its been raging on the floor of the Senate and the House for decades now.  The bigger question that this film raises is what is Micheal Moore’s objective as the objectivist that he claims that he is?  Throwing around some other countries that are doing better than us in our own faces without offering a real solution within a real context?  What does he hope to accomplish?  I think I was happier after Fahrenheit 911 when he just pointed out the problem.  All in all, the bottomline is this: it seems to me to a piece that is straight-forward Anti-American propoganda; no solutions, just contrasts.  It’s not just free speech - it’s damn near treason.

“Time is making fools of us again.”  - Albus Dumbledore, The Half-Blood Prince

I realize that it’s just now Friday afternoon, so my saying that I have already seen the new Harry Potter movie on opening weekend offers up that I may, in fact, be a bit of a zealot with respect to dear ol’ ‘arry Potter.  This could be true, but in my defense, I had to see this film sometime during the next week as once again, with any luck, I will be heading back out to ‘the woods’ for another month or so very soon.  In further defense, I went in the afternoon right after work as to avoid the shreiking throngs of small children and morbidly obese adults who think they will be admitted to Hogwarts next semester if only they could find an owl that could fly across the Atlantic; rather than go with some sort of parade of uber-dorks.

The movie was good.  The issue with the films is getting to be one of just sheer size.  The first two books were both under three hundred pages and yet produced two hour movies.  While the length of the books have gone up considerably (the last being more than six hundred and fifty pages depending on the edition you buy) the movies have remained between two and two and a half hours.  It’s simply a case of trying to fit five liters of butter beer into a one liter mug… you get the idea.

All in all, the people putting out these films are doing a fine job, though due to the reasons that I just pointed out, the movie is more for putting a face with the character and creating some sort of tangible and fantastic image to go with the story rather than holding hard and fast to the reproduction of all the subtle details of these stories.  If they had, the movies, especially these last two, would have had to have been at least a hour longer… and what eight year old kid or thirty-eight year old unmarried man’s bladder could possibly hold their super large diet coke that long?  Not the guy next to me in the theater yesterday, that’s for sure!  And in the manner of creating images (not unlike the one I have just created for you…), the movie was a success.  The casting thus far as been outstanding, even if certain beloved (or hated) characters only have minimal screen time while others become focal points for the films.  But sometimes that works.  Helena Bonham Carter as Bellatrix LaStrange was fantastic, even if she had two lines and less than five minutes of screen time during the entire run of the film, as was Tonks, played by Natalia Tena, who spoke two words (maybe).  Meanwhile, newcomer Evanna Lynch elbows for considerable amounts attention, and well desired; I thought she carried out the role of Luna Lovegood brilliantly.  But all things reconsidered, Gary Oldman as Sirus Black produced, by far, the best display of acting so far within a Harry Potter film.  Noteworthy nonetheless, Imelda Stauton as Dolores Umbridge was fantastically vile; you’ll want to throw her to the centaurs within the first ten minutes of identifying her on screen.

As always the visuals of the wizarding world was just as pleasing as the acting.  The Ministry of Magic, the HQ of the Order of the Phoenix were striking and just as I had imagined them.  The creation of the wizard battle between the aurors and the death eaters in the Ministry was really something, very fresh and original, and what’s more was the confrontation between Dumbledore and Voldemorte was highly entertaining.  Over-arching them, though, at least for me, was the frightening image of Azkaban during Bellatrix’s jail break.  Wow.  Way more frightening than anything my mind could come up with… and my mind is a pretty scary place!

Though Erin Kate will perhaps disagree with me on some of the following points, but to be sure she was one of those people who got advanced tickets, so that level of, well, whatever you want to call it.  You can see her thoughts here; it’s easy to find - its the only blog she’s written in the last month (consider that ‘a burn’, Ms. Axe). 

Now, there were a few points that the people in Hollywood left out that may come back to bite them in the ass.  One of which is when Harry goes into Snape’s mind and sees James Potter screwing with him at school, they leave out Lily Potter coming to Snape’s rescue.  Perhaps this is because they would not know the cloak of which house to dress her in, as I am more and more convinced that she was a slytherin.  Also, the house elf of the Black family, Kreacher, was marginalized so much so that they neglected to point out that it was he who betrayed The Order to Bellatrix!  Moreover, the entire House Elf Liberation Front has been completely left out of the last two movies.  My thoughts of the final book are that perhaps its is the house elves who will rise up to fight against Voldamorte, and if this is so, Hollywood may have trouble fitting that deus ex machina into the works in the last minutes.  And of course, there is the Lily Potter thing like I said…

Finally, my biggest flaw with the film was nothing to do with the film itself, rather it has to do with the fans.  No, it’s not even that.  Its the massive hype that follows the film.  Granted, its warranted, but it seems to be getting out of hand.  I knew that this is serious when the movie theater yesterday had broken out hundreds of kid-sized popcorn containers just to accomodate the influx.  It’s okay though, because my supposed exodus to ‘the woods’ come the say day the last book comes out, and I will be spared the foolishness that will undoubtedly plague our everday lives as people climb over one another to find out what happens to dear ‘arry; proof positive that the massives have no interest in study, politics, or enlightenment - at least not to the level of entertainment.  What was the quote, rulership can be achieved through the clever entertainment of the masses?  This current madness is perhaps slight proof of this… But not big deal for me, I can wait to read the book a few days.  But I swear, if one over-zealous fan ruins it for me with some sort of tee shirt that says ”Harry dies on page 893″, I’ll flip the fuck out.

Anyway, I’ve got it on good account what the big secret in the last book is…

“It is the theory that decides what can be observed.” - Albert Einstein

Considerations being what they are, theoretical circumstances, when applied to reality, are oft a double edged weapon.  Inversely swung does one risk the danger of life without action due to a supposed portent of the future, but moreover, one never evolves their theory through an experiencial and learning situation.  However, the lack of such thought is not dissimilar ignoring certain philosophic abilities, the likes of some that mark us as human rather than animal.  Metaphorically speaking, akin the mind to a machete who cuts its path in the night; it is not merely good enough that we think the way is clear, but we must also step forward, blindly nonetheless, to see how much we have truly removed from hindrance, and further; to have the reach, the extended foresight, to clear more.

My trip to Chicago was therapeutic, to say the very least.  “La directrice du mon voyage”, Sayeeda Zen, was more than accommodating to my visit.  It helped to feel the external presence of an American city once again.  Subtly, I long to live within one once more, but the lures of a city are not unlike its snares.  That which attracts us is often the crushing weight that drowns, for whatever reason.  Still, in my one previous city-life, I believe that I showed extraordinary resilience to these identity-snuffing effects and managed, with the same ease that I have done in these smaller military-villes, to carve a niche that kept me as consecrated within the urban-ecosystem as the pigeon.  But this theoretical question of habitatual future will remain un-posed, as I do not wish nor feel the need to discuss it.  Suffice it to say, I think that I am not ready, nay, not supposed to be ready, for life in a city just yet; success must carry me there, I think, not simply a highway or jet plane.  The time is not correct.

Conversations within a city though are ones that I tend to treasure and dwell upon long after the dialogue has ended and the wine has ceased to flow.  More often than not my fellow conversationalists mistake themselves for debaters or worse, mental sparing dummies; such is not the case.  Topics such as the latest Harry Potter movie (which will be written about here as soon as I see the film) or the taste of dinner’s main dish, while humorous and opinionated, are usually banal.  The most crushing and thought provoking topics are usually those that are taboo or of such heated content that one does not wish to discuss them for one of two reasons: either the topic itself causes such ire in a person that emotion cannot help but interfere with judgment, reason, and finally solution, or on the flip side, individuals who are capable of discussing said taboo realize the former circumstance and recognize that most discussions of such will be fruitless banter who no real discussion being brought forth.  Rather, one becomes left with a usually unpleasant exchange of opinions on the subject, not a discussion on the subject at hand.

The art of dialogue is a rare one, to be sure; nevertheless, two such occasions arose during my trip; occasions that are far more intriguing in this case due to the depth of life in a city verses of regular naivety of the more small-town consciousness.  Two occasions arose, but alias, only one was ventured upon, I believe, for those reasons that I mentioned earlier of feeling more combative than constructive.  So I will put it forth to you, constant reader, and while it may be perhaps a bit out of context, I will due my very best to bracket what I can.

The origin of this arose during a jovial discussion of naming children who have not yet even been borne of mental fruition.  Commonplace, actually, but in this instance I slipped and stated the phrase, “my first son will be named…” as if to imply certainty and a lack of compromise with the mother.  Sayeeda Zen quickly noted this, and being a woman of profound solidarity and strength questioned the statements rigidity.  We both noted that it was common for men to feel ownership of the full title of their first born male, and if so, why was that.  I’ll leave our discussion out of it as it may tailor your own thought process, something I do not wish to do in this rare occation.  Leaving that as your first ponderance, I’ll take you to our second that arose forthwith…

It is a question of Fatherhood verses Husbandry, and keep in mind its theoretical nature as it perhaps offers insight into ourselves.  The question: if you could only save one life, that of your wife or that of your son, whom would you save?

Granted, this is a Kobiashimaru, or unwinnable contest.  But the situation remains, son or wife?  Now, this was cause for concern with Sayeeda Zen, as certainly she plays the role of the theoretical victim in this story; not to me specifically, but to some man at some point in time.  The distress was exacerbated by a lack of clear communication which leads to greater depth of thought on this scenario.  Sayeeda Zen considered the situation to be at a birthing where as I had considering it merely in theory with a child of six-to-nine years of age.  Interesting to reply the question for both instances; does your answer hold for both?  If not, why?  Further alter the question by replacing “son” with “daughter”, and again pose the question.  I am interested: what do you find?

This question is, of course, intended for the male psychological process (as I personally believe that men spend far to much time trying to figure out women, and women not nearly enough time trying to figure out men… as we are simply creatures to be sure…), and I recognize that many of my readers are female.  Ladies, please do not write this off as ’stupid’ or ‘dumb’ as you are often accustomed to do when faced with male rational that you do not comprehend.  Ask your male co-workers and friends this question, you may be surprised at the consistency of the male response… or maybe not.  I would recommend not asking your husbands’, boyfriends’, or brothers; you will either get an answer that they think you will like, or they will be honest and give you answer that you will not like.  At any rate, think about it, and let me know what you think.

Its something to consider…