Stuart Page's Blog - Posts Tagged "writer"
multi-tasking (writing and social media)
I am not very good at multi-tasking. That’s not to say I’m especially good at single tasking. I’m not. (I have a tendency to hyper-fixate and burn out or else procrastinate and produce nothing.) But multi-tasking is a big challenge for me. I should specify that I can do the simple things: pull a shot of espresso while a teapot fills with boiling water, smile while I take your order, etc. So that is one of my jobs taken care of. However, maintaining a social media presence while writing...these tasks are removed from each other like two lovers sharing a video call. One talks about themselves too much. The other spends too much time masturbating.
I am getting off track.
(Or am I?)
How do you do it? And what exactly should you be doing? Spend an hour scanning and replying to tweets when you could be reading and learning from books in your chosen field? For that matter, how do you spend time reading relevant books when you must also read from literary magazines in advance of submitting pieces to them? And how do you spend time reading literary magazines when your energy is spent so fretfully writing in the hopes that you will finally produce something desirable? How do you develop an audience as a writer, online, when you cannot publish pieces on your blogs and profiles for risk that magazine editors, at a later submission date, will refuse those works for their taken virginity? And of course, how can you justify upping your magazine submission output, in the hopes of something slipping through the slender cracks, when so many groups require payment for each submission?
Do you ever get the sense that you’re performing free labour and then begging people to accept it? I’ve never asked myself this in such terms before. Have you? Are we each other’s competition? How do you feel about that?
I’m very tired.
I am afraid of most people.
I wrote a musical this year in my downtime. Does anybody want to hear it?
…
<3 <3 <3
I am getting off track.
(Or am I?)
How do you do it? And what exactly should you be doing? Spend an hour scanning and replying to tweets when you could be reading and learning from books in your chosen field? For that matter, how do you spend time reading relevant books when you must also read from literary magazines in advance of submitting pieces to them? And how do you spend time reading literary magazines when your energy is spent so fretfully writing in the hopes that you will finally produce something desirable? How do you develop an audience as a writer, online, when you cannot publish pieces on your blogs and profiles for risk that magazine editors, at a later submission date, will refuse those works for their taken virginity? And of course, how can you justify upping your magazine submission output, in the hopes of something slipping through the slender cracks, when so many groups require payment for each submission?
Do you ever get the sense that you’re performing free labour and then begging people to accept it? I’ve never asked myself this in such terms before. Have you? Are we each other’s competition? How do you feel about that?
I’m very tired.
I am afraid of most people.
I wrote a musical this year in my downtime. Does anybody want to hear it?
…
<3 <3 <3
Citizen Kane and Sonic the Hedgehog
I have done it, haven’t I? I have made a clean split from my critical credentials. Abandoned my senses. Tossed myself to the dogs, never to be taken seriously again by film enthusiasts or by the critically minded. And being taken seriously is important to me—I have a lot of opinions, and I like my opinions, and I like when people listen to them. But this one takes the cake.
I watched Citizen Kane (1941) last week. It was one of the two worst film-going experiences of my 2020.
(Yes. I saw Sonic the Hedgehog (2020). No, Sonic the Hedgehog was not one of the two worst movies I saw this year. I kind of dug it, actually.)
The other contender was Venom (2018), which was juvenile, poorly scripted, and blandly filmed. Even over a glass of wine, it was hard to laugh at its pitfalls—and it is the easiest thing in the world to make me laugh over a glass of wine. Seriously. I’m a giggler. (A dancer, too.) And though Venom left me with this itchy annoyance at the bottom of my stomach like a hungry rash, and though it was in many ways an evening wasted, hardly did I fear that I wouldn’t make it to the movie’s credits. Partly, this is because my partner and I play a game where we try to make movies better without introducing significant new elements—so, we allow for structural rearrangement; dialogue cuts, adjustments, and minor additions; shot changes, etc—and this is an especially interesting challenge when the movie is straight up popcorn trash for teenage edge lords. (Cut the first twenty or so minutes. The movie should have started in the store, when the protag seemed to be talking to himself as if unwell, as if paranoid, but then it turned out he was really just talking to a lady in another aisle who works for the antagonist. Like, that would be some hot shit. Also, that was one of the few successful jokes in the film, so you might as well just start with it. Get off on the right foot.) But also, the movie was a dustbin fire that was as entrancing, to me, as it was odious. You want to see how long it will burn for.
My dustbin is plastic. Will it melt? I will have to watch to find out.
Citizen Kane, on the other hand…
Look. I try really hard, these days, to be positive about the media I consume. ‘Here are the things that didn’t work. However, here are the things I took from it and enjoyed about it.’ But, for a variety of reasons, I struggle to be kind to old black and white movies. They make me sleepy. They make me grouchy. (It’s something to do with the audio quality and acting style that I associate with those films, I think. But also, I just love colour, man. Fill my eye holes with that shit. Sunflowers. Grass. White clouds against the blue sky. Yes.) So, Citizen Kane was always going to have a harder time winning me over than newer titles. But hey. I enjoyed To Kill a Mockingbird. I loved the black and white scene in Kill Bill. I watched Morocco and didn’t hate that. (Though I did lose interest after the first few scenes. Is it just me or was the beginning the strongest part?) And there are others. So, going into this movie that I knew nothing about (aside from its reputation for being the best movie ever made), I was sure that I would at least like it a little.
…
Of course it’s about a millionaire media mogul. Of course the best movie ever made is about some rich guy.
More on that in a minute…
I want to be kind, to begin with. I appreciate the interesting subject-framing throughout the film. In particular, the scene with young Charlie playing in the snow through a window in the background, while the adults talked about him in the foreground, was aces. I was trying to work out in my head how they choreographed that long take. I tried to visualise what it looked like on the other side of the window—the markings on the ground, the director telling the child what to do and where to stand, the young actor just being a god damn maniac in that (fake?) snow, on top of the world, playing soldier boy—and I was invested in that. I guess I still am, writing about it now. I’m invested in dual watching a scene in this way: observing, imagining, and putting the two together like a jigsaw. A scene like that reveals the director’s hand a little, doesn’t it? You glimpse their intent. You make out the frame of the bigger picture, touch the wood in the dark.
In one scene, there was an old character behind a desk who reminded me of Mr Burns from The Simpsons. I said so to my partner. And then subsequently there manifested a dance and song that I knew from, yes, The Simpsons! (There is a man. A certain man. A man who’s grace and handsome face are known across the land. You know his name… It’s Mr Burns!) Well, hey. That was funny. That was a serous highlight, actually. Though sure, the movie didn’t really earn that as much as it provided the context for a television scene that, even on its own, was already hilarious. Because of course the old working-class employee’s leaving party is all about the old white male millionaire employer. Everything is.
Especially Citizen Kane.
I know. I know. The movie is (surely?) a criticism of the man who had everything and nothing, who filled the gaps in his heart with money and statues, built a mansion around his image like an impenetrable shell, who lost love (though certainly not respect at large) because he couldn’t communicate, perhaps couldn’t even empathise, with the few people who were close to him. He understood not how to keep favour, at first easily earned, without cold hard cash and gifts. So, it is about him, explicitly so, but we’re not supposed to like him. We’re not supposed to want to be him. We’re supposed to learn from him.
…
Then again, he never goes hungry. He seems to be in perfect health (until he dies). He's not discriminated against. He's pretty cool. Pretty classy. Hell, he lives to be quite old, too, and passes away an extremely famous man. He dreamed. His dreams came to be. It can’t all be bad, really, being Citizen Kane. So what are we really learning from him? Perhaps not what was intended.
Let’s look at it a little differently.
Is not the movie a cautionary tale for rich men, about lovers who will use you for your money, and who will complain, 'oh, I don’t see enough of my friends. You’re mean to me,’ from the comfort of the armchair by the grand fireplace you built for them?
Is it not a hero’s journey, a progression from rags to riches (if only by luck)? Is not the viewer supposed to empathise with and support Charles Kane? Are we not supposed to hope that he will get ever richer, make his way to the top of the media pile, and be voted into local office? Are we not supposed to feel a great sadness when he loses that political election due to his romantic scandal, unfairly weaponised against him? Do we not feel sorry for him, even though we knew in advance that it was coming? Are we not supposed to hope that his last word, rosebud, meant something of worth? That it might have given his various, questionable decisions context?
Here’s my take, and I’m sorry it so long to get to the point. I think the audience is supposed to aspire to Kane’s wealth, to subscribe to the theory that if you work hard enough and sacrifice your personal life, then you can really make it. Really, truly make it! Make it so goddamn hard that when you die, and when you whimper some gaseous nonsense from the aging asshole that is your death bed, the whole journalistic world will be lining up to interrogate everybody you ever fucked to find out what that stink meant. It is dressed up, sure, but from start to finish Kane is presented as a misguided protagonist, a beacon of opportunity, and a product of graft, rather than an antagonist of the masses, a liar, and a stubborn brick wall of a man. He is the winning American, harbinger of the American dream, loser in love and hoarder of riches and bedrooms and statues. For every bad thing he does, for every exotic item he collects, the movie whispers, “This is pretty swell, old boy, isn’t it? If only Kane wasn’t such a gosh darn donkey about it, maybe this would be sustainable. Look at that mansion. Look at that parrot! Can you imagine all the good you—yes, you!—could do with this space? With these animals? With this money?”
It’s insidious. The dream hangs over us like a fog, obscuring reality, exploitation, economics. And blind as we are, wandering with our hands outstretched towards wealth invisible yet supposedly attainable, we find ourselves lost, having only ourselves to blame. If only we had worked harder. If only we had been a little more driven. If only we had been a winner.
A winner, like Citizen Kane.
Anyway.
The best movies I saw this year were Parasite (2019), Children of Men (2006), Get Out (2017), Moonlight (2016), and Blue Gate Crossing (2002). The latter, in particular, was an unexpected delight. You heard it here first: these five movies are better than Citizen Kane!
So, too, is Sonic the Hedgehog. No-one is more surprised than me. (I don't know if this is a joke or not.)
I watched Citizen Kane (1941) last week. It was one of the two worst film-going experiences of my 2020.
(Yes. I saw Sonic the Hedgehog (2020). No, Sonic the Hedgehog was not one of the two worst movies I saw this year. I kind of dug it, actually.)
The other contender was Venom (2018), which was juvenile, poorly scripted, and blandly filmed. Even over a glass of wine, it was hard to laugh at its pitfalls—and it is the easiest thing in the world to make me laugh over a glass of wine. Seriously. I’m a giggler. (A dancer, too.) And though Venom left me with this itchy annoyance at the bottom of my stomach like a hungry rash, and though it was in many ways an evening wasted, hardly did I fear that I wouldn’t make it to the movie’s credits. Partly, this is because my partner and I play a game where we try to make movies better without introducing significant new elements—so, we allow for structural rearrangement; dialogue cuts, adjustments, and minor additions; shot changes, etc—and this is an especially interesting challenge when the movie is straight up popcorn trash for teenage edge lords. (Cut the first twenty or so minutes. The movie should have started in the store, when the protag seemed to be talking to himself as if unwell, as if paranoid, but then it turned out he was really just talking to a lady in another aisle who works for the antagonist. Like, that would be some hot shit. Also, that was one of the few successful jokes in the film, so you might as well just start with it. Get off on the right foot.) But also, the movie was a dustbin fire that was as entrancing, to me, as it was odious. You want to see how long it will burn for.
My dustbin is plastic. Will it melt? I will have to watch to find out.
Citizen Kane, on the other hand…
Look. I try really hard, these days, to be positive about the media I consume. ‘Here are the things that didn’t work. However, here are the things I took from it and enjoyed about it.’ But, for a variety of reasons, I struggle to be kind to old black and white movies. They make me sleepy. They make me grouchy. (It’s something to do with the audio quality and acting style that I associate with those films, I think. But also, I just love colour, man. Fill my eye holes with that shit. Sunflowers. Grass. White clouds against the blue sky. Yes.) So, Citizen Kane was always going to have a harder time winning me over than newer titles. But hey. I enjoyed To Kill a Mockingbird. I loved the black and white scene in Kill Bill. I watched Morocco and didn’t hate that. (Though I did lose interest after the first few scenes. Is it just me or was the beginning the strongest part?) And there are others. So, going into this movie that I knew nothing about (aside from its reputation for being the best movie ever made), I was sure that I would at least like it a little.
…
Of course it’s about a millionaire media mogul. Of course the best movie ever made is about some rich guy.
More on that in a minute…
I want to be kind, to begin with. I appreciate the interesting subject-framing throughout the film. In particular, the scene with young Charlie playing in the snow through a window in the background, while the adults talked about him in the foreground, was aces. I was trying to work out in my head how they choreographed that long take. I tried to visualise what it looked like on the other side of the window—the markings on the ground, the director telling the child what to do and where to stand, the young actor just being a god damn maniac in that (fake?) snow, on top of the world, playing soldier boy—and I was invested in that. I guess I still am, writing about it now. I’m invested in dual watching a scene in this way: observing, imagining, and putting the two together like a jigsaw. A scene like that reveals the director’s hand a little, doesn’t it? You glimpse their intent. You make out the frame of the bigger picture, touch the wood in the dark.
In one scene, there was an old character behind a desk who reminded me of Mr Burns from The Simpsons. I said so to my partner. And then subsequently there manifested a dance and song that I knew from, yes, The Simpsons! (There is a man. A certain man. A man who’s grace and handsome face are known across the land. You know his name… It’s Mr Burns!) Well, hey. That was funny. That was a serous highlight, actually. Though sure, the movie didn’t really earn that as much as it provided the context for a television scene that, even on its own, was already hilarious. Because of course the old working-class employee’s leaving party is all about the old white male millionaire employer. Everything is.
Especially Citizen Kane.
I know. I know. The movie is (surely?) a criticism of the man who had everything and nothing, who filled the gaps in his heart with money and statues, built a mansion around his image like an impenetrable shell, who lost love (though certainly not respect at large) because he couldn’t communicate, perhaps couldn’t even empathise, with the few people who were close to him. He understood not how to keep favour, at first easily earned, without cold hard cash and gifts. So, it is about him, explicitly so, but we’re not supposed to like him. We’re not supposed to want to be him. We’re supposed to learn from him.
…
Then again, he never goes hungry. He seems to be in perfect health (until he dies). He's not discriminated against. He's pretty cool. Pretty classy. Hell, he lives to be quite old, too, and passes away an extremely famous man. He dreamed. His dreams came to be. It can’t all be bad, really, being Citizen Kane. So what are we really learning from him? Perhaps not what was intended.
Let’s look at it a little differently.
Is not the movie a cautionary tale for rich men, about lovers who will use you for your money, and who will complain, 'oh, I don’t see enough of my friends. You’re mean to me,’ from the comfort of the armchair by the grand fireplace you built for them?
Is it not a hero’s journey, a progression from rags to riches (if only by luck)? Is not the viewer supposed to empathise with and support Charles Kane? Are we not supposed to hope that he will get ever richer, make his way to the top of the media pile, and be voted into local office? Are we not supposed to feel a great sadness when he loses that political election due to his romantic scandal, unfairly weaponised against him? Do we not feel sorry for him, even though we knew in advance that it was coming? Are we not supposed to hope that his last word, rosebud, meant something of worth? That it might have given his various, questionable decisions context?
Here’s my take, and I’m sorry it so long to get to the point. I think the audience is supposed to aspire to Kane’s wealth, to subscribe to the theory that if you work hard enough and sacrifice your personal life, then you can really make it. Really, truly make it! Make it so goddamn hard that when you die, and when you whimper some gaseous nonsense from the aging asshole that is your death bed, the whole journalistic world will be lining up to interrogate everybody you ever fucked to find out what that stink meant. It is dressed up, sure, but from start to finish Kane is presented as a misguided protagonist, a beacon of opportunity, and a product of graft, rather than an antagonist of the masses, a liar, and a stubborn brick wall of a man. He is the winning American, harbinger of the American dream, loser in love and hoarder of riches and bedrooms and statues. For every bad thing he does, for every exotic item he collects, the movie whispers, “This is pretty swell, old boy, isn’t it? If only Kane wasn’t such a gosh darn donkey about it, maybe this would be sustainable. Look at that mansion. Look at that parrot! Can you imagine all the good you—yes, you!—could do with this space? With these animals? With this money?”
It’s insidious. The dream hangs over us like a fog, obscuring reality, exploitation, economics. And blind as we are, wandering with our hands outstretched towards wealth invisible yet supposedly attainable, we find ourselves lost, having only ourselves to blame. If only we had worked harder. If only we had been a little more driven. If only we had been a winner.
A winner, like Citizen Kane.
Anyway.
The best movies I saw this year were Parasite (2019), Children of Men (2006), Get Out (2017), Moonlight (2016), and Blue Gate Crossing (2002). The latter, in particular, was an unexpected delight. You heard it here first: these five movies are better than Citizen Kane!
So, too, is Sonic the Hedgehog. No-one is more surprised than me. (I don't know if this is a joke or not.)
The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa (and being hungry for cheeseburgers)
The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa is a relatively short yet re-playable game about how far friendships can be stretched, how many beatings a man can take, and how we stack the deck against ourselves and pretend not to notice.
This game pushes Ringo into a poverty-induced whirlpool of violence and crime, as the only way to afford food in the early game (apart from when your friend, seemingly at random, shells out for you) is by either beating the yen right out of other dudes’ pockets, or by opportunistically scavenging coins from the unconscious forms of fallen gang members who you just watched get pounded into the dirt. In this way, you become a wild animal, a crow picking at scraps upon city pavements, consuming barely substantial crumbs one fingerful at a time.
Ringo doesn’t have parents. Nobody in the adult world seems especially interested in taking care of him, beyond coaches who, you’ve guessed it, train him to be a better fighter. Ringo’s teacher will present him with lump sums of yen every week if he gets good grades, and he will verbally encourage Ringo, yet this too implicitly rewards those who fight and scavenge on the street; to focus on school and to study effectively at home, Ringo must surely have a full belly, and in order to achieve a full belly, he must roam the city in search of other gang members to steal from. In the early game, I found myself caught in a cycle in which I lost multiple fights in a row, wasted a lot of days recovering in bed, and was always starving. I expected to receive a game over, but it didn't come. Ringo Ishikawa always got back up, no matter how I failed him, no matter how very hungry he claimed to be.
When I was a teenager, I didn’t get into fights. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I certainly wasn’t left to fend for myself, without parents, money, or food—not for any extended period of time, anyway. However, when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I went through a phase where I struggled to eat. Looking at food made me feel sick. Looking at myself made me feel sick. I replaced breakfast with extra time in bed, which helped ease the sleepless nights. I was recurrently dehydrated. I could eat lunch only on days where I could successfully separate my mind from my mouth and my organs. I had a much easier time with evening meals, though I don’t know why, and not always.
I was hungry a lot. Hungry, and empty.
I remember feeling like I was self-destructing. I often hoped that somebody might jump me on the way home in the dark, like getting into a fight might fix everything, but I wasn’t an initiator, and for whatever reason nobody initiated against me. I had become a ghost, I thought. One night, during the winter, I was looking out at the river that sliced the town in two. I thought about jumping into it from the bridge above. I hoped the shock of the cold might be enough to make me panic and drown. If not, at least it would make me feel something. Suddenly, a man I didn’t know appeared behind me, and said something about it being a nice night. This startled me. I was crying. Silently, I think, though I couldn’t be certain. I tentatively agreed with him. It was a nice night. Freezing cold, crystal clear. I…
Ringo Ishikawa is not a ghost. I don’t believe that he can become depressed. I don’t know if he can starve to death, though I don’t think he can. He can initiate fights and have fights initiated against him. No matter how bad his previous day was, he will sit down at a school bench, if instructed, and read classic literature for you—literature that was, and still is, too intimidating for me to read, regardless of the fullness of my stomach and the health of my bank account, and in spite of my degrees in writing and literature.
All that to say, this game did and did not make me feel like a teenager again.
This game pushes Ringo into a poverty-induced whirlpool of violence and crime, as the only way to afford food in the early game (apart from when your friend, seemingly at random, shells out for you) is by either beating the yen right out of other dudes’ pockets, or by opportunistically scavenging coins from the unconscious forms of fallen gang members who you just watched get pounded into the dirt. In this way, you become a wild animal, a crow picking at scraps upon city pavements, consuming barely substantial crumbs one fingerful at a time.
Ringo doesn’t have parents. Nobody in the adult world seems especially interested in taking care of him, beyond coaches who, you’ve guessed it, train him to be a better fighter. Ringo’s teacher will present him with lump sums of yen every week if he gets good grades, and he will verbally encourage Ringo, yet this too implicitly rewards those who fight and scavenge on the street; to focus on school and to study effectively at home, Ringo must surely have a full belly, and in order to achieve a full belly, he must roam the city in search of other gang members to steal from. In the early game, I found myself caught in a cycle in which I lost multiple fights in a row, wasted a lot of days recovering in bed, and was always starving. I expected to receive a game over, but it didn't come. Ringo Ishikawa always got back up, no matter how I failed him, no matter how very hungry he claimed to be.
When I was a teenager, I didn’t get into fights. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I certainly wasn’t left to fend for myself, without parents, money, or food—not for any extended period of time, anyway. However, when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I went through a phase where I struggled to eat. Looking at food made me feel sick. Looking at myself made me feel sick. I replaced breakfast with extra time in bed, which helped ease the sleepless nights. I was recurrently dehydrated. I could eat lunch only on days where I could successfully separate my mind from my mouth and my organs. I had a much easier time with evening meals, though I don’t know why, and not always.
I was hungry a lot. Hungry, and empty.
I remember feeling like I was self-destructing. I often hoped that somebody might jump me on the way home in the dark, like getting into a fight might fix everything, but I wasn’t an initiator, and for whatever reason nobody initiated against me. I had become a ghost, I thought. One night, during the winter, I was looking out at the river that sliced the town in two. I thought about jumping into it from the bridge above. I hoped the shock of the cold might be enough to make me panic and drown. If not, at least it would make me feel something. Suddenly, a man I didn’t know appeared behind me, and said something about it being a nice night. This startled me. I was crying. Silently, I think, though I couldn’t be certain. I tentatively agreed with him. It was a nice night. Freezing cold, crystal clear. I…
Ringo Ishikawa is not a ghost. I don’t believe that he can become depressed. I don’t know if he can starve to death, though I don’t think he can. He can initiate fights and have fights initiated against him. No matter how bad his previous day was, he will sit down at a school bench, if instructed, and read classic literature for you—literature that was, and still is, too intimidating for me to read, regardless of the fullness of my stomach and the health of my bank account, and in spite of my degrees in writing and literature.
All that to say, this game did and did not make me feel like a teenager again.
