There have been so many beginnings to stories started in narrative as the driving force behind – what? the great American novel? Others had already seen to that. But the idea to tell the story of your time, truthfully, honestly, and in a way your peers and those around you would respect. That’s for the anti-thesis makers and naysayers of all ages, those who always doubt and cannot wait ’til someone leaves the room to point out some weakness that now will be pronounced forever in your mind, because these master manipulators are the ones who run the world and we have, my dear, all drunk, the koolaid, to one degree or another.
It’s wouldn’t be respect and yet it wouldn’t quite just be love.
The story, the characters, the location, place, setting, plot and all those things your favorite English teacher knew. All of this, how it’s told, when it’s presented, who are the people living at the time who could buy it in a dime store, the last used bookstore on the main drag. I was honored both to do a live reading of my poetry book and have an audience and fans and then to find my book in a used book store being re-sold for $ 3. Right on! Kept some value and was being passed along. There was no better feeling, oddly, and that surprises me still.
Now, back to the novel that should be being written right now. The novel that you can’t put down, that daughters who should be studying for mid-terms away at colleges can’t put down and their mothers are reading also, something so familiar, so true, so maddeningly revelatory and capable of making you change your mind -and you are transported, quite literally by story. Everyone has read a novel like that. Even God.
Yet some of my favorite books are those for which my memory of the plot are completely absent, as if their time in my life compared to alien abductions, erasing any memory of the details, just leaving a specific feeling and loss of time.
These novels [Narcissus and Goldmund, Catcher in the Rye, A Prayer for Owen Meany] took me out of some painful time, a real time in my life, there have been so many, I have been in many cases, a keeper of two personaes for my own sanity – the one that survived on the outside, did my job, overcompensated and was generally effective at every task and the one on the inside that was required to keep me alive on many occasions I am not yet ready to explain in detail and when I do write about them, I generally don’t like the writing so it’s hard to translate.
The novel begins differently than the feature but the opening of the novel as a POV cinematic vision which is my form iambic pentameter because I lack the discipline to be able to actually replicate it, I don’t know that I care enough to now, anymore, after 24 fps with all its lessons and leagues to endure, and for what? The world, according to the Science and History channel, is on the verge of collapse anyway.
Which makes my career five year plan of becoming a professor of cultural anthropology, teaching the rational which is now the subversive, and some peace corps type thing I don’t care just need a fairly simple lifestyle and some healthcare for once. In the meantime, that work that I can’t seem to find. But i keep following the rules and the hacks and the sugar shacks to get there.
it’s been productive but not in a henry miller or toni morrison sort of way those novelists whom i so adore intimidate me as I can’t seem to unravel the disaster of some past years fast enough to stay ahead of any curve
except a bar set
even lowly me
in supplication only to a god of grace
the one who says to be human to truly know that
is something that has great promise
and great merit
yet the cause for evil is so easily met
and grows like a weed if
afloat by the wrongs
to others in the name of
gain that has now met its match
we are all going to fight or be locked up before we wake up, wondering
where did all our freedoms go
And here they make sure
it’s hard to
tell the truth
and keep going
the hours run like time
wonder what they feel
like on our sister earth
do they even count the same