The Conclusion of the short story "Bluebird" has finally been posted at www.ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com.
I wrote the story merely to prove a point but it turned into more than I bargained for.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
"Bluebird" Part II
Now up at www.ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com
It might need a little tweaking. Remember, Part III yet to come.
It might need a little tweaking. Remember, Part III yet to come.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Deleted Sentence
(Knocked out of Part II of my story "Bluebird.")
"Brent was like a survey of men's magazines: hair, cologne, suits, shirts, and ties; but nowhere to be seen a trace of an idea."
"Brent was like a survey of men's magazines: hair, cologne, suits, shirts, and ties; but nowhere to be seen a trace of an idea."
Friday, October 05, 2007
Now Up!-- "Bluebird" Part I
The first installment of my new fiction story, "Bluebird," is now up at:
http://www.ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com/
The other two sections will be posted in the next two weeks, as time allows.
It's the story of a rock band.
http://www.ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com/
The other two sections will be posted in the next two weeks, as time allows.
It's the story of a rock band.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
"Open, Sesame"
THE ACCEPTANCE by writers of the literary world's caste system is akin to the European masses who for generations blindly accepted the Divine Right of Kings. The aristocrats have everything and we have nothing because that's just the way it is. Their wealth, armies, and castles. . . .
The result is that, all literary bluebloods like Mr. Moody have to do is say the magic words, "Open, Sesame," and everything is handed to them.
Lo! the huge cover story in Bust magazine, copies strategically placed at chain store entrances, about rich Mayflower brat Miranda July.
The article, needless to say, is a complete unquestioning puff piece, full of gushy-gush golly gee isn't this great! kind of writing, the "journalist" too thrilled being in the presence of royalty to turn on her brain and think. If Miranda were wearing a dildo the Bust writer would've crawled under the table and tried to swallow it. I would not for one moment doubt this occurred.
Who are we to question the way the literary world operates? We lowly workers and peasants? This is the way things are done, time and again. That Miranda July hasn't a speck of talent-- no matter. All one has to do is compare her stupendously shallow New Yorker story "Roy Spivey" about sitting next to a celebrity during a plane flight with a story about a plane ride by a real writer, "Girl on a Plane" by Mary Gaitskill, to notice the stark, cavernous, distance-between-galaxies difference.
Who are we to judge? It's not as if such literary farces don't occur every day-- the well-backed movie version of Susan Minot's bland Valium-level Evening being stocked with every prominent actress in Hollywood from Meryl Streep on down.
The most amazing part of it all, simply astoundingly amazing, is that the delicate blueblood aristocrats accept the hype and accolades as their due without a smirk (which at least Dave Eggers has the sense to offer as he puts one over on the reading public.). Poor waifish rich girl Miranda rose immediately to the top of the heap because, well, I guess because she deserved to. Not a thought, not a momentarily flashed lightbulb, turns on in her brain to alert her that something's wrong with the picture. She stands before the flashbulbs of million-dollar hype as stupidly as Fluffy the blue-furred Persian at the local cat show.
Similarly, Rick Moody accepts grant money because I guess he needs it. Or could spend it. On a new car. Or a painting (wait, that's Franzen) or a trip to Europe or something.
The literary aristocrats are as unquestioning of the stratified nature of today's society and today's lit world as the unquestioning peasants, and so are at least as stupid. "Open, Sesame!"
THE CROOKED CASINO
This civilization, certainly the part of it concerned with literature, beyond the lies of its ideals and corrupted myths, is like a casino within which every game of chance is egregiously rigged.
For starters, have that $80,000 entrance fee ready or whatever it costs to obtain an MFA degree.
Somehow you make it inside the door along with the other suckers. You notice the colorful red-and-black roulette wheels are tilted. At the poker tables everyone knows one another-- except an empty chair strategically placed for the newly arrived rube: you. Can the dealer be trusted? I don't think so-- she resembles Maud Newton. In her distracted moments she seems to be listening via a receiver in her ear to instructions from above the floor.
The slot machines filling the room in endless rows, manned by thousands of MFA grads, never seem to payout. Oh, there's one. It gave back a handful of quarters.
What a joke of a place, you think. A waste of time and money. At least they have entertainment! You walk into a huge room to await the floor show. Out step Rick Moody and Miranda July in top hats and tails to do a little soft shoe. Their voices are weak and off-key. They stumble around, dropping their canes. Several stooge Bust and New Yorker magazine plants in the audience pretend to love it. Everyone else stares in bemusement, or incomprehension, stunned by the gall of it all. You notice half of the audience has left-- you're not far behind them.
Back among the slot machines, you blankly push money into one of them. Relief from the trauma of the comical truth. You notice Miranda July next to you on her break has decided to try one also. She pulls the lever once. A rush of noise: a tremendous payout. With no embarrassment she scoops the money into her top hat and winks at you.
"Open, Sesame," she says, then departs.
The result is that, all literary bluebloods like Mr. Moody have to do is say the magic words, "Open, Sesame," and everything is handed to them.
Lo! the huge cover story in Bust magazine, copies strategically placed at chain store entrances, about rich Mayflower brat Miranda July.
The article, needless to say, is a complete unquestioning puff piece, full of gushy-gush golly gee isn't this great! kind of writing, the "journalist" too thrilled being in the presence of royalty to turn on her brain and think. If Miranda were wearing a dildo the Bust writer would've crawled under the table and tried to swallow it. I would not for one moment doubt this occurred.
Who are we to question the way the literary world operates? We lowly workers and peasants? This is the way things are done, time and again. That Miranda July hasn't a speck of talent-- no matter. All one has to do is compare her stupendously shallow New Yorker story "Roy Spivey" about sitting next to a celebrity during a plane flight with a story about a plane ride by a real writer, "Girl on a Plane" by Mary Gaitskill, to notice the stark, cavernous, distance-between-galaxies difference.
Who are we to judge? It's not as if such literary farces don't occur every day-- the well-backed movie version of Susan Minot's bland Valium-level Evening being stocked with every prominent actress in Hollywood from Meryl Streep on down.
The most amazing part of it all, simply astoundingly amazing, is that the delicate blueblood aristocrats accept the hype and accolades as their due without a smirk (which at least Dave Eggers has the sense to offer as he puts one over on the reading public.). Poor waifish rich girl Miranda rose immediately to the top of the heap because, well, I guess because she deserved to. Not a thought, not a momentarily flashed lightbulb, turns on in her brain to alert her that something's wrong with the picture. She stands before the flashbulbs of million-dollar hype as stupidly as Fluffy the blue-furred Persian at the local cat show.
Similarly, Rick Moody accepts grant money because I guess he needs it. Or could spend it. On a new car. Or a painting (wait, that's Franzen) or a trip to Europe or something.
The literary aristocrats are as unquestioning of the stratified nature of today's society and today's lit world as the unquestioning peasants, and so are at least as stupid. "Open, Sesame!"
THE CROOKED CASINO
This civilization, certainly the part of it concerned with literature, beyond the lies of its ideals and corrupted myths, is like a casino within which every game of chance is egregiously rigged.
For starters, have that $80,000 entrance fee ready or whatever it costs to obtain an MFA degree.
Somehow you make it inside the door along with the other suckers. You notice the colorful red-and-black roulette wheels are tilted. At the poker tables everyone knows one another-- except an empty chair strategically placed for the newly arrived rube: you. Can the dealer be trusted? I don't think so-- she resembles Maud Newton. In her distracted moments she seems to be listening via a receiver in her ear to instructions from above the floor.
The slot machines filling the room in endless rows, manned by thousands of MFA grads, never seem to payout. Oh, there's one. It gave back a handful of quarters.
What a joke of a place, you think. A waste of time and money. At least they have entertainment! You walk into a huge room to await the floor show. Out step Rick Moody and Miranda July in top hats and tails to do a little soft shoe. Their voices are weak and off-key. They stumble around, dropping their canes. Several stooge Bust and New Yorker magazine plants in the audience pretend to love it. Everyone else stares in bemusement, or incomprehension, stunned by the gall of it all. You notice half of the audience has left-- you're not far behind them.
Back among the slot machines, you blankly push money into one of them. Relief from the trauma of the comical truth. You notice Miranda July next to you on her break has decided to try one also. She pulls the lever once. A rush of noise: a tremendous payout. With no embarrassment she scoops the money into her top hat and winks at you.
"Open, Sesame," she says, then departs.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Eye Opener
INTERESTING to see over the past weeks the extent to which I'm reviled by much of the literary community. It's been just when I've been knocked down by life to one knee that characters have run out of the shadows to take shots at me: a poet; "Gawker" and his foppish NY acolytes; and a prominent member of the lit-blogger community. (On the previous post; others.) Funny that when I've been around to engage in debate they've had nothing to say, for the most part.
A curious phenomenon. The writer Fran Upman experienced something similar recently when going through personal difficulties and trying to step back from her blogging. Then-- then!-- do the carrion come into the daylight. In both cases, prematurely.
I'm generally blackballed. Lit-bloggers who apparently read this site won't deign to link to it. In their minds that'd give public recognition to its ideas. An entire organization exists whose prime motivating force seems to be resentment of me. You'd think I'm this great terrible threat to literature, controlling millions of dollars of resources, generating millions of dollars of false hype and publicity; awarding seven-figure advances to utter mediocrities or making decisions about what grant money is awarded to which writers. I've been built up in somebody's head to be a large and powerful entity.
Yet in reality, all I have is my voice. That's it. I own nothing in this world-- nothing beyond a duffel bag of clothing. (And thus, approach the John-the-Baptist ideal of a raggedy voice in the wilderness.) For the last few years I've been living out of that duffel bag.
What's happening?
First, I've been made aware by the armies of literary darkness that I'll be granted no quarter. The tiny outpost of outspokenness which the ULA represents, our insignificant band of literary rebels, is hemmed in on all sides, outnumbered exponentially by numerous evil legions. If the group quickly decouples itself from me, they'll be spared. I'm the sacrifice. Am I being hyperbolic? Only slightly! It's clear that once out of the ULA I'll be nothing more than a brief chapter of deleted history; shoved down the memory hole; banished because I've antagonized the powers-that-be. The literary nobles will grant amnesty to some (not many, I'd wager) but not to the chief instigator.
Second-- and in this case I'm not at all exaggerating-- what we see are manifestations of the intolerance of dissent which exists in the literary community. Can anyone doubt this? The problem which the blacklisters, or Gawker, or OW people, or Daniel Green have isn't with me-- I'm nobody with not a shred, not a microdot, of power-- but with this very blog you're reading. They'll be satisfied only when it's silenced-- not even then, because it's when I've begun posting less regularly that their distemper increases.
Read this blog's archives. What's its crimes? Nothing more-- nothing less-- than to expose literary corruption and engage writers with ideas; to inform, stir, motivate, or outrage. To cause people to think!
Such contrary activity can't be tolerated in this day and age.
A curious phenomenon. The writer Fran Upman experienced something similar recently when going through personal difficulties and trying to step back from her blogging. Then-- then!-- do the carrion come into the daylight. In both cases, prematurely.
I'm generally blackballed. Lit-bloggers who apparently read this site won't deign to link to it. In their minds that'd give public recognition to its ideas. An entire organization exists whose prime motivating force seems to be resentment of me. You'd think I'm this great terrible threat to literature, controlling millions of dollars of resources, generating millions of dollars of false hype and publicity; awarding seven-figure advances to utter mediocrities or making decisions about what grant money is awarded to which writers. I've been built up in somebody's head to be a large and powerful entity.
Yet in reality, all I have is my voice. That's it. I own nothing in this world-- nothing beyond a duffel bag of clothing. (And thus, approach the John-the-Baptist ideal of a raggedy voice in the wilderness.) For the last few years I've been living out of that duffel bag.
What's happening?
First, I've been made aware by the armies of literary darkness that I'll be granted no quarter. The tiny outpost of outspokenness which the ULA represents, our insignificant band of literary rebels, is hemmed in on all sides, outnumbered exponentially by numerous evil legions. If the group quickly decouples itself from me, they'll be spared. I'm the sacrifice. Am I being hyperbolic? Only slightly! It's clear that once out of the ULA I'll be nothing more than a brief chapter of deleted history; shoved down the memory hole; banished because I've antagonized the powers-that-be. The literary nobles will grant amnesty to some (not many, I'd wager) but not to the chief instigator.
Second-- and in this case I'm not at all exaggerating-- what we see are manifestations of the intolerance of dissent which exists in the literary community. Can anyone doubt this? The problem which the blacklisters, or Gawker, or OW people, or Daniel Green have isn't with me-- I'm nobody with not a shred, not a microdot, of power-- but with this very blog you're reading. They'll be satisfied only when it's silenced-- not even then, because it's when I've begun posting less regularly that their distemper increases.
Read this blog's archives. What's its crimes? Nothing more-- nothing less-- than to expose literary corruption and engage writers with ideas; to inform, stir, motivate, or outrage. To cause people to think!
Such contrary activity can't be tolerated in this day and age.
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