Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Armegeddon A.D.

The end is near, brothers and sisters.

First, they shot the remains of Hunter S. Thompson out of a cannon on his Owl Farm in Woody Creek, Colorado, late Saturday evening. Inebriated attendees included Bill Murray and Johnny Depp, among others. The very next day, Robert Moog, the inventor of the Moog synthesizer, died of a brain tumor. The Moog synthesizer pretty much revolutionized the world of electronic music. Bands like Kraftwerk, Depeche Mode, Gary Numan, The Human League, The Rentals, and countless others, have featured synthesizers as their main instruments. The Moog is used to perfection by my favorite band of all time, Joy Electric, whose complex, intricate, and highly melodic aural landscapes are impossible to find anywhere else. Robert Moog also invented the theremin, an electronic music device that plays music when you wave your hands around it's antennae. It makes that eeiry wOoOoOoOoOoOo sound you hear on all those black-and-white sci-fi movies from the 60's. So, in short, it was sad day for fans of the synthesizer.

Not to mention the fact that Israel has pulled out of Gaza and some parts of the West Bank. Palestine security forces will be moving in some time next month. These are serious socio-political events, folks. This is history we're experiencing.

Iraq's a week away from turning in it's first constitution (they're having problems with a human rights bill). Are we prepared to withdraw our military forces in time to both encourage and fortify the autonomy of an Iraqi democracy, and appease the American citizens at the same time? And how soon after we pull out will insurgants and terrorists revert back to their old ways and starting suicide-bombing the hell out of everybody and everything again? The fightings not over. It will be months before we even begin to see anything resembling a stablized region.

North Korea with nukes. Russia and China becoming allies. China just recently bought an aircraft carrier from Russia. The vessel was gutted and completely unseaworthy; but the fact that China's showing an interest in building a fleet... and China's army... 10 million soldiers, all armed with pea-shooters. The last thing we need is for some other global power to sell high-tech arms and armor to communist China.

And to top it off, I found out the first girlfriend I had outside of high school, and the girl who happened to take my viriginity, is living in Florida with her husband, whose name happens to be Bill. How ironic. Another ex-girlfriend, married. I can see a pattern developing.

Stock up on canned foods, batteries, and lots of water. When the seven bowls of God's wrath are poured onto the Earth, Death itself will flee, and there will be no escape. (Cue diabolical laugh and really fast violin music).

And tonight after work, I heard some kid in the parking lot say I looked like Billy Corgan.

Sheeh.

***

The situation with Katie the Cook grows more interesting by the day. For the past couple of weeks, Katie has been sitting at the bar after her shift for a drink, and we talk. I've found out that she's still living with her baby's father because of the child. She's not happy with the father, she says they fight all the time (but that could imply there's still feelings between them). And just this weekend he got arrested, right after she and I discussed how girls love bad boys, even though they hate them, too. But she's obviously not satisfied with her situation. She even referred to the father as "the babysitter".

I can see this going in two directions. The first, if she were to break up or permanently leave the father, she'd look for someone to fill the vacuum -- replace him with someone who could fill the role of a boyfriend and a father; someone obviously more mature and secure than me. I couldn't possibly hope to fill those roles... at least, not right now.

The second direction would be if she broke up with the father and struck out on her own. After being locked in such a contrictive relationship, she'd probably just want to be alone and enjoy being single. Going from one serious relationship to another would be too overwhelming. She'd need time to breath, rediscover herself, spend time with her baby, whatever. I don't see myself in either of those pictures.

Katie's flattered by my attention. I'm proof to her that men still find her attractive, and want to be with her. On any other level I'm inconseqeuntial. I merely serve the purpose of reminding her that she could still find another man if she wanted to, someone who'd love her and treat her right and take care of her baby as though she were his own daughter. Is anybody is worth that, Katie certainly is. I'd give anything to pull a Lancelot and come sweeping in to rescue her, but I doubt she wants to be rescued right now. She probably wants to find her own way.

And that, my friends, is it.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Writing about writing

I have this astonishing ability to write about writing, with a net result of zero. I haven't really finished anything since high school, unless you count a volume of really bad poetry circa '98-2000. I have countless plots, but I've never started any of them. It's torture because I know I want to be a writer, I want to write, I want to be creative and express myself in a productive and artistic way, but there are some things holding me back.

Should I write about myself? Should I start when I was a kid, living in Florida? Or when I was a teenager in Tennessee?

What kind of narrative should this be? First person, third-person, stream-of consciousness? Clean and clockwork exposition, or Kerouac-style spontaneous prose? What IS my voice?

Sometimes I think if I just sat down and wrote, just wrote 10 pages of nonsense, maybe I'd find a perfectly-composed paragraph in the middle, subconsciously tucked away, sandwiched between mountains of useless babble. 10 pages to get one paragraph... wow... That's a horrible ratio and I don't think I'm that mindless a writer.

I know my friend Matt's probably shaking his head and saying, "Just write, you damn fool. You aren't a writer unless you write." I can say with true humility that he's surpassed me in talent and vision when it comes to observing and commenting upon this vast seething pool of bumbling mongoloids we call humanity. And I only wish I had a microbe's worth of his determination.

I could hide behind the excuse of having two jobs, but that's lame. Any true writer is going to apply himself and dedicate himself to honing his craft every chance he can get. And ever since I started working at The Winds, in Yellow Springs, I have more than enough inspiration and material. The people there are rich mines of oddity. I can only really fess up to laziness, that's true. I'm a lazy, lazy person.

I've always said there are two stories inside me, waiting to get out: the first is a galaxy-shattering space opera of apocalyptic proportions, in the grand epic style of E. E. "Doc" Smith; with a dashing hero, a damsel in distress, and gargantuan spaceships duking it out with nukes and big-ass f***in' laser beams. The second story is a fictionalized autobiography, about a nerdly little dude (me) coming of age and whatnot. A rite du passage? Did I spell that right?

I'm hesitant to start the first story because a) it's been done before, and to perfection, in Doc Smith's original stories; and b) topping his stuff is pretty much impossible. And I have trouble starting the latter because I'm riddled with self-doubts... I'm only 26, I'm mainly self-educated, I lack common sense (among other things). I'm astoundingly ignorant of trivial and confusing matters like finance, politics, cars, sports, fashion, etc. I tune that shit out. I've been tuning it out for 26 years and now that I need them, I don't have those topics to draw upon. I kinda havta "fake" it.

I guess this all comes in the wake of the news of my friend's first published book of poetry. Kathryn Stridsberg has written an excellent volume of introspective and emotional verse entitled "Detachment" (which you can order here, btw) and got it published. I'm more than proud for her, I'm ecstatic. She is the first friend I've ever had who actually got a book published. This, then, is what I've been craving for, I guess: elbow-rubbing with published poets here in Ohio. I took it for granted when I was in Dayton and Chattanooga. It seems like all my friends in Tennessee were artists of some kind, or possessed of some weird and entertaining talent. I miss that up here; but I guess kids like that aren't so far away after all. (And although you could say there's the smallest microscopic twinge of jealousy, it's only because I know I can do it, I'm just too damn lazy.)

I suppose I do have plenty of material. And I've heard enough tall tales and witnessed enough sordid affairs to fuel a trilogy. It all comes down to the battle between me, and my mind (and my body, too). I can either re-double my efforts, stick to my guns, and just write, or I can babble away in long-winded fashion on a weblog.

Ideas churn.
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