Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 103
September 10, 2016
Family Spells & Writing
"Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent... On the other hand, it is only because the world looks on his talent with such frightening indifference that the artist is compelled to make his talent important."—James Baldwin.
Stubbornness runs strong in my family. I've only recently seen it in myself; or rather, I've only recently admitted it to myself.[1] I see it in many of my actions wrong—those few times I'm being honest enough to have a handful of regrets—but I also see it in the things I've accomplished. I'm speaking personally here, for the world and I are in violent disagreement about what should be considered an accomplishment and what shouldn't.
But let me pull back from this teenage lament about the uncaring world and focus on my family now, perhaps even apologize to them, for what I've put them through with my own stubbornness and my reactions to how they've tried to direct or coral this stuborn-curse of mine.
I call it a curse because I assume that's how they've always seen it, knew it, and were resigned to it once they realized that I too was possessed with it. One would think that any family with certain histories would have salves and spells to counter this, and my family certainly tried, but it was weak magic and whatever gene or prion inside me that caused this stubbornness was far too powerful for their attempts.
And, like I said, given that the outcomes were varied, I imagine the spells—phrases like: "you must do x", "education is important", "college as well" as well as the usual plays on guilt by perpetual disappointment—were not so strong. Again, positive things have come from this stubbornness of mine, and the consequences have not been as horrible as my current state of work-affairs, so they could be forgiven for not having the right chants and spells when faced with my truly advanced condition. I will note that with me, however, with my story, they now have the perfect spell and chant to warn off future generations from this stubbornness.
Let me steer the topic away from families and their idiosyncrasies, ways, spells, chants, and subcultures and let me focus back on myself and my writing. I suppose you can sense how insufferable my family views me at this point... please bear with me.
Back to the things I write and the uncaring world Baldwin mentioned up top. Much like my family, I'm trying to use spells and chants and texts to try to get a reaction from the world, to see if I can corral it into something useful. I understand that my task is infinitely harder, but I now see the connection, the irony of it all—even if it's not stubbornness but apathy from which I must arouse the world. And, ironically enough, one of the best fuels for this Sisyphean task is stubbornness.
Again, both a fuel and a curse. So I keep writing, keep trying to cast spells with my words and combinations thereof. But now I'm thinking that the stubbornness does not just arise directly from some prion or gene. No, it's always some greater idea, or belief in something that provides its catalyst. So, then, is this a spell cast by someone else? [2] Something more powerful than what my family ever came up with?
What are your thoughts, and what spells do you see out there in the world? What does your family use against (for) its quirks?
[1] Interesting to see it in the younger members of the family. Coming from them it's cute. Doesn't get so cute when they become older, though.
[2] Don't be too put off by my use of the words spell, it's mainly a psychological phenomenon.
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Stubbornness runs strong in my family. I've only recently seen it in myself; or rather, I've only recently admitted it to myself.[1] I see it in many of my actions wrong—those few times I'm being honest enough to have a handful of regrets—but I also see it in the things I've accomplished. I'm speaking personally here, for the world and I are in violent disagreement about what should be considered an accomplishment and what shouldn't.
But let me pull back from this teenage lament about the uncaring world and focus on my family now, perhaps even apologize to them, for what I've put them through with my own stubbornness and my reactions to how they've tried to direct or coral this stuborn-curse of mine.
I call it a curse because I assume that's how they've always seen it, knew it, and were resigned to it once they realized that I too was possessed with it. One would think that any family with certain histories would have salves and spells to counter this, and my family certainly tried, but it was weak magic and whatever gene or prion inside me that caused this stubbornness was far too powerful for their attempts.
And, like I said, given that the outcomes were varied, I imagine the spells—phrases like: "you must do x", "education is important", "college as well" as well as the usual plays on guilt by perpetual disappointment—were not so strong. Again, positive things have come from this stubbornness of mine, and the consequences have not been as horrible as my current state of work-affairs, so they could be forgiven for not having the right chants and spells when faced with my truly advanced condition. I will note that with me, however, with my story, they now have the perfect spell and chant to warn off future generations from this stubbornness.
Let me steer the topic away from families and their idiosyncrasies, ways, spells, chants, and subcultures and let me focus back on myself and my writing. I suppose you can sense how insufferable my family views me at this point... please bear with me.
Back to the things I write and the uncaring world Baldwin mentioned up top. Much like my family, I'm trying to use spells and chants and texts to try to get a reaction from the world, to see if I can corral it into something useful. I understand that my task is infinitely harder, but I now see the connection, the irony of it all—even if it's not stubbornness but apathy from which I must arouse the world. And, ironically enough, one of the best fuels for this Sisyphean task is stubbornness.
Again, both a fuel and a curse. So I keep writing, keep trying to cast spells with my words and combinations thereof. But now I'm thinking that the stubbornness does not just arise directly from some prion or gene. No, it's always some greater idea, or belief in something that provides its catalyst. So, then, is this a spell cast by someone else? [2] Something more powerful than what my family ever came up with?
What are your thoughts, and what spells do you see out there in the world? What does your family use against (for) its quirks?
[1] Interesting to see it in the younger members of the family. Coming from them it's cute. Doesn't get so cute when they become older, though.
[2] Don't be too put off by my use of the words spell, it's mainly a psychological phenomenon.
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Essay: against New York
Back in New York City my initial love for all that it stands for (stood for) seems to have wholly evaporated. Even here in a bookstore cafe, I remain completely unimpressed not with the surface diversity and the ambience—or lack thereof.
Now, I understand that I'm completely unplugged from this city [1] and so this criticism is entirely unfair and borderline absurd, but bear with me.
In the midtown and village areas, we're talking about the throngs of crowds, the inability to sit anywhere, stand anywhere and the general rush that's not so much awe-inspiring as it is annoying.
Of course, the more astute amongst you might point out my small town mind and how it is now feeble in the face of such an onslaught of the senses. But this criticism is simply wrong. And though a more self-aware writer would dwell on such a fact a little more—I won't. [2]
I'm almost losing the thread of this essay—forgive me. I was speaking of New York. I was saying something about its lack of interesting faces and the outdoor mall quality street life, with grid locked cars to boot. [3] But I won't stoop that low.
Let me instead analyze my own hatred for this most pure of American cities. It could be a result of reading books within the purview of my biases. Yet the fact remains that my annoyance (for the City does not deserve hatred) is only increased with the realization that much of its sophistication is simply an affected speech mechanism without the underlying substance and the airs of being rich in that cosmopolitan manner... this is too much for me. And as if to add insult to injury, all this frustration would normally lead to some good writing, but all I have is this silly analysis. In the end, it's sad to say, that I wish to only know a city of my creation.
[1] This, of course, means that there's no true connection with the people and with the nooks and crannies of the city and thus makes it less worthwhile. But even with this noted, I think that my knowledge of how much better a city can be is too much to allow me to bear a lesser city than is possible.
[2] And on the matter of self-awareness, or the lack thereof, neither will I dwell on how I failed in this city, for it seems that given the level of popularity of my writing, that failure is global.
[3] Even if I prefer this to the asphalt lakes of suburban life, and how every cafe there will necessarily overlook said parking lots.
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Now, I understand that I'm completely unplugged from this city [1] and so this criticism is entirely unfair and borderline absurd, but bear with me.
In the midtown and village areas, we're talking about the throngs of crowds, the inability to sit anywhere, stand anywhere and the general rush that's not so much awe-inspiring as it is annoying.
Of course, the more astute amongst you might point out my small town mind and how it is now feeble in the face of such an onslaught of the senses. But this criticism is simply wrong. And though a more self-aware writer would dwell on such a fact a little more—I won't. [2]
I'm almost losing the thread of this essay—forgive me. I was speaking of New York. I was saying something about its lack of interesting faces and the outdoor mall quality street life, with grid locked cars to boot. [3] But I won't stoop that low.
Let me instead analyze my own hatred for this most pure of American cities. It could be a result of reading books within the purview of my biases. Yet the fact remains that my annoyance (for the City does not deserve hatred) is only increased with the realization that much of its sophistication is simply an affected speech mechanism without the underlying substance and the airs of being rich in that cosmopolitan manner... this is too much for me. And as if to add insult to injury, all this frustration would normally lead to some good writing, but all I have is this silly analysis. In the end, it's sad to say, that I wish to only know a city of my creation.
[1] This, of course, means that there's no true connection with the people and with the nooks and crannies of the city and thus makes it less worthwhile. But even with this noted, I think that my knowledge of how much better a city can be is too much to allow me to bear a lesser city than is possible.
[2] And on the matter of self-awareness, or the lack thereof, neither will I dwell on how I failed in this city, for it seems that given the level of popularity of my writing, that failure is global.
[3] Even if I prefer this to the asphalt lakes of suburban life, and how every cafe there will necessarily overlook said parking lots.
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September 7, 2016
Short Story Found
I'm not sure what one would call it, but recently—during my more and more frequent visits to the library—I've been finding random pieces of paper in books rarely checked out. Though most are really just that, I've had the opportunity to find stories written down. Beautiful stories, mind you, ones that mean something. I've tried to trace down who's doing this, even asked
Algo
, but to no avail.
The window was dirty enough that even on a clear day the light came through meek and fetid. Normally, Clara would have cleaned it before noting this, but today her mind was occupied. The water cut off, she had taken to hammering a hole in the pipe located in the alley behind the apartments and filling up a large bottle to have to enough to drink, brush her teeth, and take a French bath. This had been enough and life hadn't bothered her too much.
But now that the electricity threatened to shut off, she was filled with a certain sense of gloom, a feeling that now was the point of no return for she had no idea how to siphon electricity off the grid and she could very easily imagine herself dying in the process of trying to get some of that electricity. A small tremble ran through her as the image came to life in her mind's eye.
Her mother's eyes, always following her, didn't help matters one bit. Her mother had, for some unknown reason, decided to take a vow of silence when the troubles started—that is, when Clara had lost her job and her man—and was now even more silent now that Clara was failing to pay her bills.
This filled Clara with a low burning anger; thoughts about how her mother hadn't ever helped before, even as a child, filled her with more seething—even if it wasn't true. That she now needed her mother's advice, but it wasn't forthcoming, seemed like another injustice piled upon the previous ones. It was almost as if her mother's previous warnings, though meant as advice, had only been curses.
She steeled herself for what to do next. Clara wouldn't sell herself, but she would go out there and fight for what she had. Enough with the injustices.
See what I mean? Well done, even if it might be incomplete [1]. But who writes good things like this and puts them all around the library? A better question is: what does this mean? Is it another form of graffiti? Simply a more hidden one? I've heard such stories: where the author does not want to be as vocal or in your face as a normal tagger, and so hides the message in different forms. [2]
Of course, as with every trend there's an urban legend that warns you not to trust the fringe activity. QRcodes have, apparently, been included in these books and the person who dares to follow one finds themselves having downloaded a virus or malware of some other kind.
Better yet is the story about a young man who does the same, and finds a website that plays a murder scene over and over. He goes to the police, and they don't help him. Soon he's lost in a web of lies and deceit as the killers—the video was real—close in on him.
I could go on about those types of tricks, but what about this story? Could it be a trick ? I'm not sure how. Unless the fiction writer's (I assume) plan is to slowly unfreeze that great ocean inside us all. And you, dear reader, what do you make of all this? [1] I mean might as in such an open ending would make perfect post-modern sense.
[2] In the best of these stories, the author took books deemed antithetical to modern multicultural life and slightly altering the pages (gluing a single altered page so hardly anything would be noticed) so that the message was completely different. This subtle mind change seems a perfect way of undermining the status quo. Defacing of pubic property? Yes, but in a good way, I'd dare say.
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The window was dirty enough that even on a clear day the light came through meek and fetid. Normally, Clara would have cleaned it before noting this, but today her mind was occupied. The water cut off, she had taken to hammering a hole in the pipe located in the alley behind the apartments and filling up a large bottle to have to enough to drink, brush her teeth, and take a French bath. This had been enough and life hadn't bothered her too much.
But now that the electricity threatened to shut off, she was filled with a certain sense of gloom, a feeling that now was the point of no return for she had no idea how to siphon electricity off the grid and she could very easily imagine herself dying in the process of trying to get some of that electricity. A small tremble ran through her as the image came to life in her mind's eye.
Her mother's eyes, always following her, didn't help matters one bit. Her mother had, for some unknown reason, decided to take a vow of silence when the troubles started—that is, when Clara had lost her job and her man—and was now even more silent now that Clara was failing to pay her bills.
This filled Clara with a low burning anger; thoughts about how her mother hadn't ever helped before, even as a child, filled her with more seething—even if it wasn't true. That she now needed her mother's advice, but it wasn't forthcoming, seemed like another injustice piled upon the previous ones. It was almost as if her mother's previous warnings, though meant as advice, had only been curses.
She steeled herself for what to do next. Clara wouldn't sell herself, but she would go out there and fight for what she had. Enough with the injustices.
See what I mean? Well done, even if it might be incomplete [1]. But who writes good things like this and puts them all around the library? A better question is: what does this mean? Is it another form of graffiti? Simply a more hidden one? I've heard such stories: where the author does not want to be as vocal or in your face as a normal tagger, and so hides the message in different forms. [2]
Of course, as with every trend there's an urban legend that warns you not to trust the fringe activity. QRcodes have, apparently, been included in these books and the person who dares to follow one finds themselves having downloaded a virus or malware of some other kind.
Better yet is the story about a young man who does the same, and finds a website that plays a murder scene over and over. He goes to the police, and they don't help him. Soon he's lost in a web of lies and deceit as the killers—the video was real—close in on him.
I could go on about those types of tricks, but what about this story? Could it be a trick ? I'm not sure how. Unless the fiction writer's (I assume) plan is to slowly unfreeze that great ocean inside us all. And you, dear reader, what do you make of all this? [1] I mean might as in such an open ending would make perfect post-modern sense.
[2] In the best of these stories, the author took books deemed antithetical to modern multicultural life and slightly altering the pages (gluing a single altered page so hardly anything would be noticed) so that the message was completely different. This subtle mind change seems a perfect way of undermining the status quo. Defacing of pubic property? Yes, but in a good way, I'd dare say.
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September 4, 2016
Back from the Cascades
Well, I'm back from a trip out backpacking in the Cascades. Just in time to get work done for Labor Day. Ah, the times we live in, they are indeed troubling. The trip was nothing short of amazing, with two passes and vistas fit for a king, or the .01%.
One thing that troubled me was seeing forests of zombie trees followed by graveyards for these trees. The former appeared the work of some infection while the latter the work of storms. Both are results of climate change [1] and look to accelerate in the coming decades.
In addition, there were few glaciers to look upon, and the one that we did see was paltry. That being said, I managed to use this first back packing trip of mine to write at least a few words. Mainly, without an alarm clock, I used the time to catch up on my sleep.
Unfortunately, since I'm no longer young, none of the time spent there was as edifying as it once was. More a problem with me rather than anything else, but I am what I am.
[1] Oh, I know no single event can conclusively be blamed on climate change. Some of it is the result of natural causes and cycles , of course. That doesn't mean things won't get worse than what they've been before.
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September 2, 2016
Of Friends & Humanity
I have a friend whom I consider to be one of the more humane people I know. Known him since childhood and even though we've been thousands of miles apart for years, one phone call and we're back again to those days when we sat and simply discussed the world and our plans for it.
Anyhow, I was speaking to him about actions of a loud self-urinating homeless man on the subway. And true to my middle class roots (and fresh off some New Yorker article about the virtues of tough love policies on the behavior of the poor) I was focused on my feelings and the inconvenience to me.
My friend interrupted. Come on, guy, and he lamented that anyone could be in such a state in the most powerful country in the world.
But I'm a loyal dog—comes with the class description—and I dug in my heels, mentioning a front page story in the NY Times that had a homeless man killing a woman who'd helped her.
A long pause. I could hear the static over the phone, silence traveling across oceans, hills, forests and confused by the ear piece's input on my end.
He broke the silence by clearing his throat. He then mentioned a homeless man he once knew. Kept out of the way of the pedestrians, this homeless man, and my friend had tried to help him once and the homeless man refused it.
If course, he could see this homeless man from his office. And there was this American businessman who would walk by frequently. One day he accused the homeless man of magic tricks. The homeless man at first just turned away, but that only encouraged the American who doubled down. Soon the homeless man was vehemently denying any knowledge of magic.
The next day the American walked by and started to accuse the homeless man and this time he followed it up by throwing rocks at the homeless man. The homeless man finally fought back, to which the American said see? Magic. And crushed the homeless man to death.
The fuck, I thought, but asked instead if they arrested the American.
"You're not listening, man. That's not the point."
I tried to think, the thoughts this story had chipped off were swirling in the cauldron of my head and now dripped something like acid on my heart, my guts. A sick feeling overcame me. "What is the point then?"
"There is no—"
"Is it true, the story?" I asked.
"Listen, you'll just have to think about it."
I did not like this, and pondering on so sick a story was the last thing I wanted to do, but I decided to let the point go. We talked some more about family and some other stories and we ended the conversation on good terms. My thoughts, however, were still a mess.
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Anyhow, I was speaking to him about actions of a loud self-urinating homeless man on the subway. And true to my middle class roots (and fresh off some New Yorker article about the virtues of tough love policies on the behavior of the poor) I was focused on my feelings and the inconvenience to me.
My friend interrupted. Come on, guy, and he lamented that anyone could be in such a state in the most powerful country in the world.
But I'm a loyal dog—comes with the class description—and I dug in my heels, mentioning a front page story in the NY Times that had a homeless man killing a woman who'd helped her.
A long pause. I could hear the static over the phone, silence traveling across oceans, hills, forests and confused by the ear piece's input on my end.
He broke the silence by clearing his throat. He then mentioned a homeless man he once knew. Kept out of the way of the pedestrians, this homeless man, and my friend had tried to help him once and the homeless man refused it.
If course, he could see this homeless man from his office. And there was this American businessman who would walk by frequently. One day he accused the homeless man of magic tricks. The homeless man at first just turned away, but that only encouraged the American who doubled down. Soon the homeless man was vehemently denying any knowledge of magic.
The next day the American walked by and started to accuse the homeless man and this time he followed it up by throwing rocks at the homeless man. The homeless man finally fought back, to which the American said see? Magic. And crushed the homeless man to death.
The fuck, I thought, but asked instead if they arrested the American.
"You're not listening, man. That's not the point."
I tried to think, the thoughts this story had chipped off were swirling in the cauldron of my head and now dripped something like acid on my heart, my guts. A sick feeling overcame me. "What is the point then?"
"There is no—"
"Is it true, the story?" I asked.
"Listen, you'll just have to think about it."
I did not like this, and pondering on so sick a story was the last thing I wanted to do, but I decided to let the point go. We talked some more about family and some other stories and we ended the conversation on good terms. My thoughts, however, were still a mess.
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August 24, 2016
Something Still in the Air
There seems to be a rising chorus of people, on the left and right, who know that the current system is out of wack, that the emperor has no clothes, that the power structure has no vialbility, no real moral authority and must thus fall.
Still, it doesn't seem off that any free country has a built in reaction that harms those who take it down. A reaction that makes certain that no one who undertakes usurpation does it lightly. In other words, one must be provoked harshly to want to do anything. We shall see, of course. I don't think our own country is quite ripe for this: but many other countries are. And it will spread, as climate change grows worse.
[1] Always is when power is involved.
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Still, it doesn't seem off that any free country has a built in reaction that harms those who take it down. A reaction that makes certain that no one who undertakes usurpation does it lightly. In other words, one must be provoked harshly to want to do anything. We shall see, of course. I don't think our own country is quite ripe for this: but many other countries are. And it will spread, as climate change grows worse.
[1] Always is when power is involved.
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August 21, 2016
More on Trump et al
I've written more about this election than previous ones but perhaps that's because of what's going on. My main point was that the
Trumps
and the
Clintons
are not what they seem and it would be best if we don't heed the call to bend the knee for one side or another (which usually means some odd fetish for no criticisms at all).
Well, sometimes others say it better than I. One of my reservations, besides Hillary's turn to the right (which seemed all too natural), was how the people on the right against Trump either viewed him as a liberal or were joker neocons who had no right to call Trump unfit for Presidency. In fact that latter reaction makes the deep state more suspect than ever. [1] For more I highly recommend this post by those over at nakedcapitalism . It's a solid review of the need to be careful since those who are on the right and who don't like Trump are not necessarily our friend. One also
[1] Not that I'm some tin foil, I just mean those who seem to swim beneath the surface of almost every administration (Hayden et al).
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Well, sometimes others say it better than I. One of my reservations, besides Hillary's turn to the right (which seemed all too natural), was how the people on the right against Trump either viewed him as a liberal or were joker neocons who had no right to call Trump unfit for Presidency. In fact that latter reaction makes the deep state more suspect than ever. [1] For more I highly recommend this post by those over at nakedcapitalism . It's a solid review of the need to be careful since those who are on the right and who don't like Trump are not necessarily our friend. One also
[1] Not that I'm some tin foil, I just mean those who seem to swim beneath the surface of almost every administration (Hayden et al).
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August 20, 2016
Seymour Hersh
Seymour Hersh is a journalist who has more than earned his place among the greatest in his field. However, the recent mainstream reaction to the likes of Hersh has been revealing. The main point of contention was
his story about the killing of Osama bin Laden
. The reaction against him was loud and impressive. [1] Few people in the media bothered to look at themselves and ask why they hadn't even asked questions about the official story (left or right wingers). Didn't it seem odd that the story was changing? Didn't it seem odd that the body was "buried at sea"?
Even where I was, in NYC, there were crowds of people who went to celebrate with all the bloodlust of a mob. Fine, perhaps some had a real reason, but I imagine they wouldn't feel the same about others reacting for different deaths. [4]
Nevertheless, this brings me to another point. I wonder: is the media right to accept this official statement about a violent action done by the state? I would actually like to read more about a comparison over the years between the official story and what comes to light afterwards. I'm guessing it won't be a simple tale of pure mendacity, but rather a tendency to skew towards lying whenever one can (for the officials). Also it would be important to see how many times the media actually challenged that story. [5] Any known studies out there?
[1] There was the Vox opinion piece, then the nytimes . All aimed at undermining Hersh and not at the task at hand. The funny thing is if you view journalists as part of a courtier class, then it isn't surprising, though it is sad.
[2] I now wonder if Obama thought of this and simply added a few "I's" to make the rabid right wingers yell.
[3] Silence critical thought and get to playing to the narrative.
[4] Ah, yes, can we hear more about the clash of the civilized vs the barbarians?
[5] There is the story of how the FBI worked to kill off the Black Panthers for merely being a social group trying to improve the lot of African Americans. Just read this wiki . Pretty sad stuff.
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Even where I was, in NYC, there were crowds of people who went to celebrate with all the bloodlust of a mob. Fine, perhaps some had a real reason, but I imagine they wouldn't feel the same about others reacting for different deaths. [4]
Nevertheless, this brings me to another point. I wonder: is the media right to accept this official statement about a violent action done by the state? I would actually like to read more about a comparison over the years between the official story and what comes to light afterwards. I'm guessing it won't be a simple tale of pure mendacity, but rather a tendency to skew towards lying whenever one can (for the officials). Also it would be important to see how many times the media actually challenged that story. [5] Any known studies out there?
[1] There was the Vox opinion piece, then the nytimes . All aimed at undermining Hersh and not at the task at hand. The funny thing is if you view journalists as part of a courtier class, then it isn't surprising, though it is sad.
[2] I now wonder if Obama thought of this and simply added a few "I's" to make the rabid right wingers yell.
[3] Silence critical thought and get to playing to the narrative.
[4] Ah, yes, can we hear more about the clash of the civilized vs the barbarians?
[5] There is the story of how the FBI worked to kill off the Black Panthers for merely being a social group trying to improve the lot of African Americans. Just read this wiki . Pretty sad stuff.
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Shakespeare
I just finished watching Richard III, an impeccable performance by Montana Shakespeare in the Park here in Spokane. It was a beautiful evening and I find that such a performance only enhances the word play and other subtleties in Shakespeare's work.
I wonder why we can't see this more, and perhaps I need to go back to novels to give this a try: to have a better parallel story done through other means. Are there any good stories like this out there?
[1] Though many today would have such a villain in contrast with our hero who must fight and win (focusing on the hero, whereas here Shakespeare focuses on the villain, Richmond a sad sap in the back).
[2] Again, even if some of this is trope, and this story was nothing more than a Tudor foundational myth. One even gets the sense that this was over the top on purpose. Some of the people "fooled" seem to almost be naive to a fault. This doesn't appear to be Shakespeare's style. Though I'll leave my questions out for later.
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August 19, 2016
Why I Write: What is Fiction
I read a book on
Subtext
and it took a rather disparaging view of genre books or the techno-thrillers and romance books one finds in airports around the country. Not that I'm against disparaging anything, much less a certain type of writing, but I just don't agree with what the author was saying about these genres.
Here, I sense—in this all too common comparison of literary and genre books—lies what I face when I hear people speak of fiction as something frivolous. [2] So let me be bold enough to propose another view: that genre is in the realm of materialistic, but also in line with the moral wants of the powers du jour [3]. And literary books are much the same—in terms of accepting the moral wants of the powers that be—only a tad more complex. I'm being unfair. They do tend to question a small part of the status quo, but this is mainly ritualistic self-flagellation that may cause a slight bit of dissonance—they never think to usurp it.
Meanwhile, truly deep books move further away from whatever morals the powers du jour dictate and come closer to the truth by doing this. [4] In my opinion, this worldview of mine allows fiction and non-fiction to merge in more areas than just the memoir. In all sub-categories, in fact, since both fiction and non-fiction are either about reinforcing the truth or slightly changing people's minds about it.
In many ways, this is an answer to those who still ask why I write. And this is what I'm pushing my prose in that direction today with pseudoessays and the like. Thoughts?
[1] That in itself a genre, and also hard to define.
[2] For example, recently, I was told that thoughtful fiction was an oxymoron, while non fiction, from the technical to the creative, is held up as truly representative. In this world view, fiction is treated as escapist trope (those airport books) or flimsy metaphysical tripe (as the book I was reading leaned towards).
[3] Which means the morals of most readers and people.
[4] I'm being anything but post-modern in assuming that there's a truth. So let me say that I accept that it could be that the only reason it appears that deep books of the past are deep is that they have learned to judge the wind, so to speak, and lay their bets with the upcoming powers of the land.
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Here, I sense—in this all too common comparison of literary and genre books—lies what I face when I hear people speak of fiction as something frivolous. [2] So let me be bold enough to propose another view: that genre is in the realm of materialistic, but also in line with the moral wants of the powers du jour [3]. And literary books are much the same—in terms of accepting the moral wants of the powers that be—only a tad more complex. I'm being unfair. They do tend to question a small part of the status quo, but this is mainly ritualistic self-flagellation that may cause a slight bit of dissonance—they never think to usurp it.
Meanwhile, truly deep books move further away from whatever morals the powers du jour dictate and come closer to the truth by doing this. [4] In my opinion, this worldview of mine allows fiction and non-fiction to merge in more areas than just the memoir. In all sub-categories, in fact, since both fiction and non-fiction are either about reinforcing the truth or slightly changing people's minds about it.
In many ways, this is an answer to those who still ask why I write. And this is what I'm pushing my prose in that direction today with pseudoessays and the like. Thoughts?
[1] That in itself a genre, and also hard to define.
[2] For example, recently, I was told that thoughtful fiction was an oxymoron, while non fiction, from the technical to the creative, is held up as truly representative. In this world view, fiction is treated as escapist trope (those airport books) or flimsy metaphysical tripe (as the book I was reading leaned towards).
[3] Which means the morals of most readers and people.
[4] I'm being anything but post-modern in assuming that there's a truth. So let me say that I accept that it could be that the only reason it appears that deep books of the past are deep is that they have learned to judge the wind, so to speak, and lay their bets with the upcoming powers of the land.
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