Realizing that it was Mother's day this weekend and that I have no money to spend on something, I quickly decided that the best way to not look like an asshole was to clean the house and prepare breakfast for my mother. Along with the arduous task of cleaning comes the benefit of being able to listen/watch the big screen television with all the channels (minus the naughty ones). BET* was showing Menace II Society and Boyz n the Hood, two great examples of the "Hood Film" genre of the late 80's and early 90's.
Movies like this unfortunately follow a pretty simple structure that are easy to see if you've seen two of them. There's some hot-headed teenager who deals drugs and has killed at least two people within the first 30 minutes of the film, a nice guy who ends up becoming a victim of the violence in the hood, and of course, no positive female role models. Every problem can essentially be traced back to a having a horrible father-figure in their lives.
I guess if I tried really hard I could make a connection between Mother's Day and these films, but that requires a bit too much for me right now.
Showing posts with label Matt Izaguirre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Matt Izaguirre. Show all posts
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Its Dangerous To Go Alone
(My apologies for not writing this sooner.)
A four-by-four pixelated block performs a dance along my TV screen. Searching for his lost love, but alas, she is in another castle. Each new lesson learned from the last session leaves it's lasting and longing feeling. Forgo that feeling! For it is false! Follow your own direction and disturb the doom and gloom of that Saturday afternoon. Remold yourself to the world of vibrance and beauty. The world does not come in 256 colors.
I miss video games.
For as far back as I can remember, there has always been one thing that I've found astounding and amazing. The virtual world I escape to trapped within my TV. Those wonderfully exotic video games. Since I've started commuting to school, I've spent the majority of my spare time with people rather than driving back home to engage in this (nearly) victimless vice. Nobody has ever really given anything that hasn't been around for more than 50 years any type of artistic merit. Even today, we don't see music as an artistic expression very often any more.
It's no longer being an artist that's important in today's society; being an entertainer has taken front seat. It applies to everything across the board, not just music. Movies either take two forms; drastically unfunny comedy, or trying-too-hard stylish film noir. Video games are just as guilty as well, but have yet to be classified as art. I wouldn't stand by and defend every single game I've ever played as being a new form of high art, but there are certainly a few that stand out, just as with a musicians magnum opus album (coughDarkSideOfTheMooncough), a writer's series of novel (coughTheDarkTowercough), or even a director's film that still leaves it's audience with any number of questions (coughPulpFictioncough). Anything can be art if you can evoke something to your audience that you can't do with just normal small talk and stick figures.
IGN's list of the Top Ten Most Artistic Video Games in response to Roger Ebert's claim that video games can't be art (circa 2007).
A four-by-four pixelated block performs a dance along my TV screen. Searching for his lost love, but alas, she is in another castle. Each new lesson learned from the last session leaves it's lasting and longing feeling. Forgo that feeling! For it is false! Follow your own direction and disturb the doom and gloom of that Saturday afternoon. Remold yourself to the world of vibrance and beauty. The world does not come in 256 colors.
I miss video games.
For as far back as I can remember, there has always been one thing that I've found astounding and amazing. The virtual world I escape to trapped within my TV. Those wonderfully exotic video games. Since I've started commuting to school, I've spent the majority of my spare time with people rather than driving back home to engage in this (nearly) victimless vice. Nobody has ever really given anything that hasn't been around for more than 50 years any type of artistic merit. Even today, we don't see music as an artistic expression very often any more.
It's no longer being an artist that's important in today's society; being an entertainer has taken front seat. It applies to everything across the board, not just music. Movies either take two forms; drastically unfunny comedy, or trying-too-hard stylish film noir. Video games are just as guilty as well, but have yet to be classified as art. I wouldn't stand by and defend every single game I've ever played as being a new form of high art, but there are certainly a few that stand out, just as with a musicians magnum opus album (coughDarkSideOfTheMooncough), a writer's series of novel (coughTheDarkTowercough), or even a director's film that still leaves it's audience with any number of questions (coughPulpFictioncough). Anything can be art if you can evoke something to your audience that you can't do with just normal small talk and stick figures.
IGN's list of the Top Ten Most Artistic Video Games in response to Roger Ebert's claim that video games can't be art (circa 2007).
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Hoight!
My apologies, I've been sick.
I always hear about people "watching television religiously". Shows like Grey's Anatomy, House, Sex in the City, and American Idol are usually the ones that people care the most about. I actually enjoy House. The man has a gameboy and hates his own patients. What's not to love?
Over the last few years however, there seems to have been a growing emphasis on shitty television. Mainly those that require no talent to get them started.
I blame Survivor.
No need for a writer there, nor actors to fulfill the roles. What is it that people love about these shows that are devoid of any real merit or creativity? I've never been able to figure it out. Reality Television takes away what makes Television, and and Entertainment as well, so special in many ways; it's escape from reality. The greatest writers of our time are just that, people who write. People who can craft an elegant story that draws people into a new world and will leave them with memories for a lifetime. Memories that will inspire those young watchers to want to write their own stories and their own visions of things. That inspiration is gone without that first kick in the nads (HOIGHT) of inspiration that creativity gives young ones.
I hate television.
I always hear about people "watching television religiously". Shows like Grey's Anatomy, House, Sex in the City, and American Idol are usually the ones that people care the most about. I actually enjoy House. The man has a gameboy and hates his own patients. What's not to love?
Over the last few years however, there seems to have been a growing emphasis on shitty television. Mainly those that require no talent to get them started.
I blame Survivor.
No need for a writer there, nor actors to fulfill the roles. What is it that people love about these shows that are devoid of any real merit or creativity? I've never been able to figure it out. Reality Television takes away what makes Television, and and Entertainment as well, so special in many ways; it's escape from reality. The greatest writers of our time are just that, people who write. People who can craft an elegant story that draws people into a new world and will leave them with memories for a lifetime. Memories that will inspire those young watchers to want to write their own stories and their own visions of things. That inspiration is gone without that first kick in the nads (HOIGHT) of inspiration that creativity gives young ones.
I hate television.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Impromptu Dream(ery)
Off-the-cuff decisions are rarely my forte. I don't like to be put on the spot, but years of improv have trained me well for these situations: What to say, how to act, and when to know when I'm beat are all key things to remember when the spotlight drops center stage.
There I was, fresh out of my Anthropology class. It was a standard day in class; she hated men, as always. My fault. All mine. I'm the reason that women couldn't vote until 1920. Anyway, I walk into the Harris Art Gallery, which I'm sure very few people have ever heard of. With each step on the barren tiles of the room I hear a new verse from Noor and Cassie about their newest muse: Jon Smiff. I sit down and ponder what I'll be writing as my feature story for News Reporting, but before I can truly ponder, I'm alerted to the fact that I will soon be giving an impromptu poetry reading about something that I haven't yet written.
Always fun! Who doesn't love writing poetry in the span of four minutes to present in front of others? I sat there with a vague idea of what my audience would like; something vague and mysterious. Perfect for a short read. I used possibly the most mysterious topic that I'm familiar with; dreams. For years I've had some of the strangest dreams. Ranging from me selling people's noses to meeting and conversations with the devil himself. I don't think anybody knew what was going on while I read it, but that's fine. That's sort of what I was going for.
Toodles.
There I was, fresh out of my Anthropology class. It was a standard day in class; she hated men, as always. My fault. All mine. I'm the reason that women couldn't vote until 1920. Anyway, I walk into the Harris Art Gallery, which I'm sure very few people have ever heard of. With each step on the barren tiles of the room I hear a new verse from Noor and Cassie about their newest muse: Jon Smiff. I sit down and ponder what I'll be writing as my feature story for News Reporting, but before I can truly ponder, I'm alerted to the fact that I will soon be giving an impromptu poetry reading about something that I haven't yet written.
Always fun! Who doesn't love writing poetry in the span of four minutes to present in front of others? I sat there with a vague idea of what my audience would like; something vague and mysterious. Perfect for a short read. I used possibly the most mysterious topic that I'm familiar with; dreams. For years I've had some of the strangest dreams. Ranging from me selling people's noses to meeting and conversations with the devil himself. I don't think anybody knew what was going on while I read it, but that's fine. That's sort of what I was going for.
Toodles.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Screenplay Shuffle
For the first time in nearly five years, I wrote a screenplay. "What the hell is a screenplay?" you may ask. Well, a screenplay is basically a script for film, television, or sometimes even the live arts. I recently had the distinct honor to write such a piece. When I first agreed to writing the script for the performance, I had no idea that I would need to write it at 1 o'clock in the morning and that it needed to be completed sometime within the next 7 hours. With not much experience with the medium and a very simple (and honestly, rather poorly thrown together) outline of what the director wanted, I was a bit worried if I'd even be able to piece such an abortion of an idea together.
Not only was the script part of what I needed, but the beauty of music was required to fully wrap it all together. Now, my own choices for music are of course things that I would like, but writing a screenplay for any type of production (regardless of trivial and unimportant this one was) requires you to appeal to the audience, not your own sense of self-satisfaction. I needed to dismiss Ozzy and leave Deep Purple at the doorstep; this was for the happiness of others. I had very little time (and sleep for that matter) so I did my best to steal only the most basic of plots from countless other works.
Four hours later, I was done. Aside from designing the scenery and any type of choreography, the entire thing was done. I wasn't entirely satisfied with the music, but that could be changed by somebody with a more "modern" taste. A few hours later, in the afternoon, I soon realized something about writing for another medium; don't fucking do it.
The director will rape your original vision without any reserve. Your first thoughts of what the scene will be quickly become the work of somebody else. You don't work for yourself anymore. It's like raising a child only to have somebody else come along and corrupt it. Frank Miller once described writing in Hollywood as "being the fire hydrant on the corner of the street, and a line of dogs being the directors". Rarely is the writer given as much credit for anything as the director is. This is why we can't have nice things.
Fuck Greek Week.
Not only was the script part of what I needed, but the beauty of music was required to fully wrap it all together. Now, my own choices for music are of course things that I would like, but writing a screenplay for any type of production (regardless of trivial and unimportant this one was) requires you to appeal to the audience, not your own sense of self-satisfaction. I needed to dismiss Ozzy and leave Deep Purple at the doorstep; this was for the happiness of others. I had very little time (and sleep for that matter) so I did my best to steal only the most basic of plots from countless other works.
Four hours later, I was done. Aside from designing the scenery and any type of choreography, the entire thing was done. I wasn't entirely satisfied with the music, but that could be changed by somebody with a more "modern" taste. A few hours later, in the afternoon, I soon realized something about writing for another medium; don't fucking do it.
The director will rape your original vision without any reserve. Your first thoughts of what the scene will be quickly become the work of somebody else. You don't work for yourself anymore. It's like raising a child only to have somebody else come along and corrupt it. Frank Miller once described writing in Hollywood as "being the fire hydrant on the corner of the street, and a line of dogs being the directors". Rarely is the writer given as much credit for anything as the director is. This is why we can't have nice things.
Fuck Greek Week.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Diabolus in Musica
Nobody can really say what the Devil is for sure, or if it even exists. Hardly my place to try to figure that out; people have been trying for centuries and haven't gotten anywhere new. For one reason or another, he's a very interesting character. What is it about the devil that peaks everybody's curiosity? I'd be willing to bet that it's his ability to challenge people and have us grow. Without the challenges and temptations that we face in our everyday lives, we would never learn anything, and we would never continue to grow. Without growth we don't live.
When I was a younger child, I was never a fan of music. While everybody else spent their money on CDs and the like, I was spending my money on video games. While other students were toiling after school at band practice, I was hanging out with the rest of my friend who didn't know what quarter note triplets were. I didn't care much about music because it was nothing special to me; I didn't have that song or that band that meant anything to me. That all changed in high school. I don't remember how I got exposed to it, but I remember the song that changed it all: "Peace Sells" by Megadeth. I was probably in one of my friend's house when we were listening to it after school. I had visions of flaming cars rushing down streets while demons chased after them condemning the city to hell. It was pretty creepy at the time, but a few weeks later I found myself seeking even more of that music that loomed in the back of my head. From then on, I found myself searching for similar musicians like Anthrax, Pantera, Slayer, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Black Sabbath.
They say that the biggest artistic influence that most people have for them is the environment where they grew up. Van Halen has very cheerful and upbeat songs because they grew up in the glitzy glamorous scene of Los Angeles. Black Sabbath had such a dark sound because they were born and raised in the gloomy bluffs of Birmingham, England. What does that say about the writer? Will a writer's environment dictate how he or she will write? For myself, I'd have to say that I would have never bothered to write anything that wasn't for school if it weren't for the places around me. Each day I'd drag myself out of bed to go to a school that I didn't care about to get an education I never wanted. It was amazing fuel for some of my writing. I only wish I had published some of those letters. Or put them in the bathroom like I was planning. I guess I'm thankful most of the places I enjoy the least. If it weren't for those places I wouldn't have so much to write about. Music is something that people can relate to. Sometimes kids take comfort in soft fluffy bunnies; sometimes they take comfort in evil demons and zombies. I was able to relate to Heavy Metal and it's devilish twist. Likewise, without those challenges for me face, I wouldn't be here today either.
Whatever it is that he does, he's doing it right.
When I was a younger child, I was never a fan of music. While everybody else spent their money on CDs and the like, I was spending my money on video games. While other students were toiling after school at band practice, I was hanging out with the rest of my friend who didn't know what quarter note triplets were. I didn't care much about music because it was nothing special to me; I didn't have that song or that band that meant anything to me. That all changed in high school. I don't remember how I got exposed to it, but I remember the song that changed it all: "Peace Sells" by Megadeth. I was probably in one of my friend's house when we were listening to it after school. I had visions of flaming cars rushing down streets while demons chased after them condemning the city to hell. It was pretty creepy at the time, but a few weeks later I found myself seeking even more of that music that loomed in the back of my head. From then on, I found myself searching for similar musicians like Anthrax, Pantera, Slayer, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Black Sabbath.
They say that the biggest artistic influence that most people have for them is the environment where they grew up. Van Halen has very cheerful and upbeat songs because they grew up in the glitzy glamorous scene of Los Angeles. Black Sabbath had such a dark sound because they were born and raised in the gloomy bluffs of Birmingham, England. What does that say about the writer? Will a writer's environment dictate how he or she will write? For myself, I'd have to say that I would have never bothered to write anything that wasn't for school if it weren't for the places around me. Each day I'd drag myself out of bed to go to a school that I didn't care about to get an education I never wanted. It was amazing fuel for some of my writing. I only wish I had published some of those letters. Or put them in the bathroom like I was planning. I guess I'm thankful most of the places I enjoy the least. If it weren't for those places I wouldn't have so much to write about. Music is something that people can relate to. Sometimes kids take comfort in soft fluffy bunnies; sometimes they take comfort in evil demons and zombies. I was able to relate to Heavy Metal and it's devilish twist. Likewise, without those challenges for me face, I wouldn't be here today either.
Whatever it is that he does, he's doing it right.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Clusterfsck
It came to me yesterday evening when I got out of the shower.
Is there anything more rugged and manly than a face full of hair? I consulted my handy-dandy manly handbook but found nothing. There's nothing like strutting your way into the classroom on the first day of high school with a full goatee. Nothing compares to the look on your friends' faces when they see you at Rite-Aid purchasing a can of Gillette when you're twelve (except maybe a box of Trojans, but that's another story entirely).
That's when I was struck with a quandary; is it manlier to have a beard or to shave it? On one hand, you're letting the natural rugged and savageness of the beard speak for itself, but on the other hand, you're putting a razer-sharp blade against your face. And you'll bleed. In today's society where the line between masculine and feminine is greatly distorted and blurred to the point where the concept of "man" and "woman" have become fused into a frankenstein of sexuality, it's sometimes hard to figure out what's going to make you look manlier and what's going to make you look like you care about things. Luckily, I don't have this problem.
This brings me to my next completely off-the-cuff topic of "Writer's Block". What the hell is it that causes somebody to have an idea that completely aborts itself like so many teenage girls with coat-hangers in the back of an alley? Pardon the example, but what exactly causes my mind to blank so easily? I blame the years of abuse my brain has suffered due to video games and Internet pornography. So often I'll have an idea that I can sew into an amazing little piece that I can talk about for ages, but every so often something comes along and decides to halt my progress. In fact, I've been writing this entry for about two hours now.
Spring Break comes to a close, and Easter Sunday is soon among us. Let us go and color eggs in hopes that a giant over-sized bunny leaves us candy rather than try to fornicate with our electrical sockets while we sleep.
Is there anything more rugged and manly than a face full of hair? I consulted my handy-dandy manly handbook but found nothing. There's nothing like strutting your way into the classroom on the first day of high school with a full goatee. Nothing compares to the look on your friends' faces when they see you at Rite-Aid purchasing a can of Gillette when you're twelve (except maybe a box of Trojans, but that's another story entirely).
That's when I was struck with a quandary; is it manlier to have a beard or to shave it? On one hand, you're letting the natural rugged and savageness of the beard speak for itself, but on the other hand, you're putting a razer-sharp blade against your face. And you'll bleed. In today's society where the line between masculine and feminine is greatly distorted and blurred to the point where the concept of "man" and "woman" have become fused into a frankenstein of sexuality, it's sometimes hard to figure out what's going to make you look manlier and what's going to make you look like you care about things. Luckily, I don't have this problem.
This brings me to my next completely off-the-cuff topic of "Writer's Block". What the hell is it that causes somebody to have an idea that completely aborts itself like so many teenage girls with coat-hangers in the back of an alley? Pardon the example, but what exactly causes my mind to blank so easily? I blame the years of abuse my brain has suffered due to video games and Internet pornography. So often I'll have an idea that I can sew into an amazing little piece that I can talk about for ages, but every so often something comes along and decides to halt my progress. In fact, I've been writing this entry for about two hours now.
Spring Break comes to a close, and Easter Sunday is soon among us. Let us go and color eggs in hopes that a giant over-sized bunny leaves us candy rather than try to fornicate with our electrical sockets while we sleep.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Spring Break
Why?
Is it strange to anybody else that we've got a lone, seemingly ambiguous week off in the middle of March? For one reason or another, we college students are allowed an entire week of sloth and debauchery without any consequences. Not ready to get hammered for being the nail sticking out of the wood, I welcome this week away from school as a much needed break from life, along with the perfect time for me to catch up on my neglected Prism Review work.
Ah, neglect, something that we all do to some extent. Without you we'd all be too encompassed in things to not care about that which is most important. My personal favorite is neglecting chores. Somebody, somewhere will fulfill that job, and quite frankly, I think the reason we have a vertical cat dish is so that they can feed themselves, Mother.
Getting back to Spring Break, after I get around to finishing up all of that Prism Stuff (time cards, editing the master, editing my own submission, probably something else I forgot), I plan on doing the same thing I do every break; jack shit. I'll probably end up sleeping until the crack of noon and watching my pirated Disney movies. I've already managed to kick off the week with The Aristocats and I plan on singing along with The Jungle Book sometime within the next 19h32m. Well, it's been about 24 hours since I've last eaten so I think it's time for me to start enjoying my break, just as you should.
Toodles.
Is it strange to anybody else that we've got a lone, seemingly ambiguous week off in the middle of March? For one reason or another, we college students are allowed an entire week of sloth and debauchery without any consequences. Not ready to get hammered for being the nail sticking out of the wood, I welcome this week away from school as a much needed break from life, along with the perfect time for me to catch up on my neglected Prism Review work.
Ah, neglect, something that we all do to some extent. Without you we'd all be too encompassed in things to not care about that which is most important. My personal favorite is neglecting chores. Somebody, somewhere will fulfill that job, and quite frankly, I think the reason we have a vertical cat dish is so that they can feed themselves, Mother.
Getting back to Spring Break, after I get around to finishing up all of that Prism Stuff (time cards, editing the master, editing my own submission, probably something else I forgot), I plan on doing the same thing I do every break; jack shit. I'll probably end up sleeping until the crack of noon and watching my pirated Disney movies. I've already managed to kick off the week with The Aristocats and I plan on singing along with The Jungle Book sometime within the next 19h32m. Well, it's been about 24 hours since I've last eaten so I think it's time for me to start enjoying my break, just as you should.
Toodles.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tighten Torn On My Own Pun
What is it that causes hatred? For some it's an event early in life that leaves a scar so deep that nothing can wax over it to change things for the future. Sometimes, we aren't even aware of our own hatred; it's such an embedded thought process in our lives that we can't truly fathom our wrong-doing. Such a strong word is used so casually in our vernacular that we glide over it's intensity and we use it to describe the onions on our hamburger. The burning intensity of hatred can be compared to a million exploding suns...in August. As any English-language speaking person should, I try my best to respect the language that we've chosen and agreed upon to express the wide array of complex ideas and schema that the human brain is possible of. That being said, I verily hope that the next four words that your eyes scan over are understood in their fullest.
I hate the beach.
Everything about it. The sunshine, the sand, the water, the bonfire. If there were evidence against intelligent design, this would definitely be it; no intelligent person would throw all of these things together in one spot. Today was the third time in the last year that I went to the beach. It wasn't so much of being taken on a Sunday vacation as it was being laid out for a guilt trip. This is how most of my ventures into Mother Nature's vast wilderness start out. People often criticize me for being a natural-born California citizen and not enjoying the beach. Why then do we not criticize the natural-born California Republican then, hm? I have yet to discover what makes the beach stand out among a hose and a dirty backyard. What is it that makes such a cliche place so wonderful? It's not like they add new rides or attractions every season like Six Flags. Maybe that's the special mysticism that draws people into it. The reliability of a special place that won't change. The world may never know. I may never know what caused my hatred of a bunch of rocks and some water, but until then, I can still write about it.
I hate the beach.
Everything about it. The sunshine, the sand, the water, the bonfire. If there were evidence against intelligent design, this would definitely be it; no intelligent person would throw all of these things together in one spot. Today was the third time in the last year that I went to the beach. It wasn't so much of being taken on a Sunday vacation as it was being laid out for a guilt trip. This is how most of my ventures into Mother Nature's vast wilderness start out. People often criticize me for being a natural-born California citizen and not enjoying the beach. Why then do we not criticize the natural-born California Republican then, hm? I have yet to discover what makes the beach stand out among a hose and a dirty backyard. What is it that makes such a cliche place so wonderful? It's not like they add new rides or attractions every season like Six Flags. Maybe that's the special mysticism that draws people into it. The reliability of a special place that won't change. The world may never know. I may never know what caused my hatred of a bunch of rocks and some water, but until then, I can still write about it.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Brainstem!
Everybody seems to think I'm a great writer.
"What the hell are you talking about?" is usually the first thing that comes to mind after being complemented so. I've never been one to really expect much out of my own writing, which may be a good thing or a bad thing depending on how you look at it. My process for coming up with things is usually a bit strange, and perhaps even a bit perplexing. Rather than choose something for a piece, I instead decided that I'd write for you how I came up with my idea for my blog post (which I won't actually write until later). Behold the human mind in its infinite majesty:
"Alright, today is Friday. I need to blog. What the hell am I going to write about? I've got that book that discusses poetry. Yeah, I could probably pull something out of there to get a nice little blog out of it. Do I even have that fucking thing anymore? It's got to be at least a year old. Well, if it's not in the car or under my clothes then it got sold for money. Hrm. Movie Review! Well let's see, I saw Juno. That was pretty good. I don't remember much of it though, not outside of the husband being a pedophile anyway. Pedophilia in movies? All I think of is Lolita and I've never seen that before. Y Tu Mama Tambien was a pretty good movie. It was basically just well-written softcore porn, but still well-written nonetheless. I think the woman dies from AIDS in the end. God, why the hell does everybody die from the hip, stylish disease now? Can't they be creative with their painfully obvious death sequences? Hrm. I blame Tom Hanks and his roles in Philadelphia and Forrest Gump. Wilson probably had Herpes or something too. Lets see. The Vagina Monologues are coming up. That takes care of next week, but what about now!? Wait. Shit. I was going to go to Jen's tennis match. whoops. I remember going to the Vagina Monologues last year. 'If my vagina could talk, it would say...' was my favorite part. What would my penis say if it could talk. Jesus. I could just imagine this going in all the wrong directions. 'My owner beats me up', 'Feed me', and of course 'I'm not a bad guy, I'm just looking for a place to hang out for a while'. I think I'm beginning to realize why we don't have the Scrotum Monologues. Actually, the Scrotum Monologues would be something to write about. It would never fly. They'd murder me. Let's just look at what somebody else wrote and get ideas. OK. Kenyon Review has a blog about process and product. That would fit nicely. Now what do I do? Just start writing I guess. Wait. What's my topic?"
Process is something that nearly everybody must go through when they write. As you can see, my process usually consists of thinking about my topic for two or three hours before I actually start writing. Ogden is always telling me, "you're a writer. Don't think about it. Just WRITE". I try my best when I do that and it's been working out well so far, I think. That's what they keep telling me anyway.
"What the hell are you talking about?" is usually the first thing that comes to mind after being complemented so. I've never been one to really expect much out of my own writing, which may be a good thing or a bad thing depending on how you look at it. My process for coming up with things is usually a bit strange, and perhaps even a bit perplexing. Rather than choose something for a piece, I instead decided that I'd write for you how I came up with my idea for my blog post (which I won't actually write until later). Behold the human mind in its infinite majesty:
"Alright, today is Friday. I need to blog. What the hell am I going to write about? I've got that book that discusses poetry. Yeah, I could probably pull something out of there to get a nice little blog out of it. Do I even have that fucking thing anymore? It's got to be at least a year old. Well, if it's not in the car or under my clothes then it got sold for money. Hrm. Movie Review! Well let's see, I saw Juno. That was pretty good. I don't remember much of it though, not outside of the husband being a pedophile anyway. Pedophilia in movies? All I think of is Lolita and I've never seen that before. Y Tu Mama Tambien was a pretty good movie. It was basically just well-written softcore porn, but still well-written nonetheless. I think the woman dies from AIDS in the end. God, why the hell does everybody die from the hip, stylish disease now? Can't they be creative with their painfully obvious death sequences? Hrm. I blame Tom Hanks and his roles in Philadelphia and Forrest Gump. Wilson probably had Herpes or something too. Lets see. The Vagina Monologues are coming up. That takes care of next week, but what about now!? Wait. Shit. I was going to go to Jen's tennis match. whoops. I remember going to the Vagina Monologues last year. 'If my vagina could talk, it would say...' was my favorite part. What would my penis say if it could talk. Jesus. I could just imagine this going in all the wrong directions. 'My owner beats me up', 'Feed me', and of course 'I'm not a bad guy, I'm just looking for a place to hang out for a while'. I think I'm beginning to realize why we don't have the Scrotum Monologues. Actually, the Scrotum Monologues would be something to write about. It would never fly. They'd murder me. Let's just look at what somebody else wrote and get ideas. OK. Kenyon Review has a blog about process and product. That would fit nicely. Now what do I do? Just start writing I guess. Wait. What's my topic?"
Process is something that nearly everybody must go through when they write. As you can see, my process usually consists of thinking about my topic for two or three hours before I actually start writing. Ogden is always telling me, "you're a writer. Don't think about it. Just WRITE". I try my best when I do that and it's been working out well so far, I think. That's what they keep telling me anyway.
Friday, February 22, 2008
On A Beam of Light
“My name is prot.”
When I first read those words in Gene Brewer’s K-PAX almost 4 years ago, I didn’t realize how drawn into this book I would get. K-PAX is an amazing science fiction adventure that is not only insightful in its criticisms of our society, but also humorous in its depiction of humans from a different point of view. prot, a scruffy looking man who never takes his sunglasses off, is found stranded on the streets of New York in the preface of the novel. As the police pick him up one fateful night, he is soon taken to the psychiatric ward to be examined by Dr. Gene Brewer after claiming to be an alien from the planet K-PAX. After being questioned by Dr. Brewer, we learn that prot is not simply some homeless man who refuses to take his sunglasses off, but rather an incredibly intelligent man with an astounding knowledge of mathematics and astrophysics that would make even the most prominent scientists blush. Dr. Brewer is an aging psychologist who's seen it all and this prot wacko is simply suffering from a mental illness. Dr. Brewer and prot engage in regular interviews and discussions depicted through the audio tapes that Dr. Brewer records during his sessions with prot. These discussions range from something as mundane as the food that we eat or mathematics to serious everyday issues such as the value of our education system and murder and rape. As prot’s story begins to unravel, Dr. Brewer attempts to figure out the truth behind prot and where he’s really from and why is it that all of the other psychiatric patients have become so upbeat since prot’s arrival.
Without revealing too much of the plot, every part of prot’s life symbolizes somebody’s ideal society and their own views on things. This utopian society is both simple, yet complex; K-PAXians, as they like to be called, have technology that is years ahead of anything that Earth is capable of creating, but they are also very modest people who rarely use their technology for anything beyond necessity. As things begin to fully unravel, prot’s claims of being from another planet begin to be more and more believable, and the residents of the psychiatric ward are beginning to eat up the wonderful world of K-PAX. Amidst this science fiction novel lies a mysterious and almost spiritual aspect as well. When we first hear about prot’s past, it’s hard to imagine anything aside from a mental patient’s view on society. As we delve deeper into the story though, we learn that the author convinces us that this man is from K-PAX. We will truly and utterly believe that he is not from Earth, despite Dr. Brewer’s advice to the contrary. Ranging from prot's insatiable love for all of Earth's fruits and veggies (at one point, he eats an entire bowl of fruit peels, stems, seeds and all) to his ability to describe a typical day in the life of a K-PAXian for 15 minutes straight. That’s where things begin to get interesting—we start to feel a way that we know we shouldn’t. The evidence is there, right in front of us that this man is something that he claims not to be, but as readers we want him to be that man from the stars. In this sense, prot plays the role of a messiah, not only to us in a small part, but to his is audience of patients. With promises of a better land in K-PAX for being good and trying to live a good life on Earth, prot gives something to these people that they haven’t had since being institutionalized; faith. Without spoiling too much of the story, I can easily say that all of my expectations were met and verily exceeded after reading this novel. Even after finding out the truth, I wanted to know more about prot, and I wanted him to always be in that room with Dr. Brewer chatting away about his distinct lifestyle on that planet that would be a great place to vacation. There is a lot more to this book that I would have loved to cover, but for the sake of keeping the secret a secret, and allowing you, the reader to make your own judgments on the world of K-PAX, I left out many details about the book that will eventually fall into place once it’s read. Perhaps the best aspect of this novel is the author’s ability to create an engaging and endearing story with not only a prophetic feeling to it, but a subtle love story that unfolds later in the author’s next two books based on K-PAX as well. Though it may be geared more towards the science fiction fan, just about anybody can pick up a copy of K-PAX and find something that they’ll like about the book.
When I first read those words in Gene Brewer’s K-PAX almost 4 years ago, I didn’t realize how drawn into this book I would get. K-PAX is an amazing science fiction adventure that is not only insightful in its criticisms of our society, but also humorous in its depiction of humans from a different point of view. prot, a scruffy looking man who never takes his sunglasses off, is found stranded on the streets of New York in the preface of the novel. As the police pick him up one fateful night, he is soon taken to the psychiatric ward to be examined by Dr. Gene Brewer after claiming to be an alien from the planet K-PAX. After being questioned by Dr. Brewer, we learn that prot is not simply some homeless man who refuses to take his sunglasses off, but rather an incredibly intelligent man with an astounding knowledge of mathematics and astrophysics that would make even the most prominent scientists blush. Dr. Brewer is an aging psychologist who's seen it all and this prot wacko is simply suffering from a mental illness. Dr. Brewer and prot engage in regular interviews and discussions depicted through the audio tapes that Dr. Brewer records during his sessions with prot. These discussions range from something as mundane as the food that we eat or mathematics to serious everyday issues such as the value of our education system and murder and rape. As prot’s story begins to unravel, Dr. Brewer attempts to figure out the truth behind prot and where he’s really from and why is it that all of the other psychiatric patients have become so upbeat since prot’s arrival.
Without revealing too much of the plot, every part of prot’s life symbolizes somebody’s ideal society and their own views on things. This utopian society is both simple, yet complex; K-PAXians, as they like to be called, have technology that is years ahead of anything that Earth is capable of creating, but they are also very modest people who rarely use their technology for anything beyond necessity. As things begin to fully unravel, prot’s claims of being from another planet begin to be more and more believable, and the residents of the psychiatric ward are beginning to eat up the wonderful world of K-PAX. Amidst this science fiction novel lies a mysterious and almost spiritual aspect as well. When we first hear about prot’s past, it’s hard to imagine anything aside from a mental patient’s view on society. As we delve deeper into the story though, we learn that the author convinces us that this man is from K-PAX. We will truly and utterly believe that he is not from Earth, despite Dr. Brewer’s advice to the contrary. Ranging from prot's insatiable love for all of Earth's fruits and veggies (at one point, he eats an entire bowl of fruit peels, stems, seeds and all) to his ability to describe a typical day in the life of a K-PAXian for 15 minutes straight. That’s where things begin to get interesting—we start to feel a way that we know we shouldn’t. The evidence is there, right in front of us that this man is something that he claims not to be, but as readers we want him to be that man from the stars. In this sense, prot plays the role of a messiah, not only to us in a small part, but to his is audience of patients. With promises of a better land in K-PAX for being good and trying to live a good life on Earth, prot gives something to these people that they haven’t had since being institutionalized; faith. Without spoiling too much of the story, I can easily say that all of my expectations were met and verily exceeded after reading this novel. Even after finding out the truth, I wanted to know more about prot, and I wanted him to always be in that room with Dr. Brewer chatting away about his distinct lifestyle on that planet that would be a great place to vacation. There is a lot more to this book that I would have loved to cover, but for the sake of keeping the secret a secret, and allowing you, the reader to make your own judgments on the world of K-PAX, I left out many details about the book that will eventually fall into place once it’s read. Perhaps the best aspect of this novel is the author’s ability to create an engaging and endearing story with not only a prophetic feeling to it, but a subtle love story that unfolds later in the author’s next two books based on K-PAX as well. Though it may be geared more towards the science fiction fan, just about anybody can pick up a copy of K-PAX and find something that they’ll like about the book.
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