Previously, I have tried to ensure that my postings have not been targeted at anyone I know. They certainly have mentioned people I happen to come across and postulate upon others I may know a little more intimately, but they are 'about' them, rather than 'at' them. I speak only of my reactions to and lessons learned from interacting with certain people. This distinction is very important, for it provides me with the guilt-free freedom to broadcast stories and opinions on many of you who read this damn thing and not be later shaken off or up, by the numerous (and there are those, so don't think you are alone) emails that I receive with the most bizarre protestations of re clarification. (for the record - if you live in Darwin, then you are a Darwinite!)
Today, we break this barrier.
I have not posted for 14 days. I am sorry. It seems that some of you out there quite enjoy these little forays into the mess that is my mind and I am not one who wishes to limit your enjoyment. At the moment, it is time, or the lack of it, that is handicapping me. This and then need to keep earning money to support my trips to the smoothie shop and quest to find the perfect writing pencil. I'm not avoiding this URL for lack of ideas, topics and witticisms. I have plenty to talk about.
Plenty.
This is because my entire life is, apparently, filled with Literary Fodder.
Fodder.
What a great word.
Say it:
Fodder.
No really - say it:
Fodder.
So very linguistically pleasurable, it starts off just in front of the top two teeth and ends up rolling, like ice-cold water on a hot day, off the middle of the tongue and past the roof of the mouth.
Fodder.
You see, there is a certain someone out there, who believes that all the dramas that perenially magnetize to me as I maraud this planet, are actually subconsciously created by me for later artistic use. She even theorizes, that any and all of my romantic failings are intentional and are simply a perverse form of research for 'The Book'.
Fodder.
Her theory, would seem to suggest that I am only the writer I think I am (and as mentioned before, both my Grandmother and I both feel very strongly that I am, in fact, amaaaazing) because every time I leave the house, a bomb goes off or Lesbian blocks my way or a compulsive-plan-canceller cancels on me again or I make a mess of a simple Phone-Number-Drop or I pick a political fight with the Australian ambassador to the US or a homeless guy offers me some of the charity pizza he was just given or I fall in love on a train or in a coffee shop or I get confused by your intentions and the stated love of my bed or I write a too long a letter or too a short text or get sent complimentary brandade from the chef or I drink sake during the day or I wake up feelin' round for my shoes and not because I seem to have an certain innate skill that allows me to write extraordinarily long sentences.
This girl in question - let's call her The Truck Driver - is an interesting bird. Very. I'm not going to describe her too you, for it may give her true identity away, but suffice to say, that her character is such, that she is one of the few people that I know, that I thoroughly respect. Respecting others is such a messy preoccupation. It leads to awful things, like taking their opinions and considerations onboard. Not helpful at all. Especially with this Literary Fodder situation.
So, to err on the side of protective caution, I simply and generally disrespect humanity- as a whole.
"Whoa," you protest in a Californian, frat-boy accent, "that sounds a bit unfair and broad."
True. It probably is, but since I don't have any respect for you, I will not take that notion on as valid. In fact, because of my disrespect for you and your 'kind' - humanity - I will actually auto-dismiss it. However, in this particular case, because of the aforementioned respect for The Truck Driver, I was forced to consider her thoughts. So damn messy this respect thing!
Well, I'm done. I've considered your thoughts and weighed up your theory, Ms Truck Driver and:
You are wrong - I disagree with you. Now, I know this will come as no surprise to you, for according to you, I disagree with everything you say, however, this time, all things being even and fair, correctness is on my side. You see, just because, my life, or the skewed, fictitious way I perceive it, ends up at the end of my pencil or in the very short paragraphs on this here page, does not mean that it's existence can be defined as simply a wholesale supplier towards that very end.
I select, and do so selectively, what to share with you people out there. I hide certain aspects and embellish others. I exaggerate her girth, diminish his verbosity, steal their business motto, borrow a joke and, most of the time, try and imagine how AA Gill would say it. I recycle isolated sentences from overheard conversations and retell sage advice that I don't personally believe in. I invent romantic notions and quote from old blues songs. So much of what you read and presume to be a loose travel journal of my days and the characters that fill them, may not have happened or existed at all. Hell, I may even actually just be still sitting in an apartment in St. Kilda, right now.
The point is, Truck Driver, that my life can't be there to serve as fodder for my writing, for very little of the reality of my days actually ends up in my work. Sure, it may seem to smell and vaguely taste like an all day brunch from last Wednesday, but I write how I wish to live and live how I wish to write. Neither actually satisfies its own aims, but, in the end, the sum of both parts end up working out even. Sort of.
Or maybe, I'm just being full of shit. That is what I am suggesting above - that everything I write is fiction and untruths. So, logically, one could then presume that the very statement that my life isn't fodder, is itself, a distortion of the truth. Maybe my life really is just fodder.
Very confusing, isn't it?
Well, to confuse it further, I'm going to end with an Ernest Hemingway quote - one I once sent The Truck Driver - and then cease talking about her. I get the feeling there's gonna be a consequence to this little foray into public conversation with her. I will probably deserve whatever reaction there is, but lucky I've still got five more days before I'm too old to act like a 16 year old.
" In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dulled and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well oiled in the closet, but unused."
Ernest Hemingway; Preface to The First Forty-Nine Stories (1944)
Today, we break this barrier.
I have not posted for 14 days. I am sorry. It seems that some of you out there quite enjoy these little forays into the mess that is my mind and I am not one who wishes to limit your enjoyment. At the moment, it is time, or the lack of it, that is handicapping me. This and then need to keep earning money to support my trips to the smoothie shop and quest to find the perfect writing pencil. I'm not avoiding this URL for lack of ideas, topics and witticisms. I have plenty to talk about.
Plenty.
This is because my entire life is, apparently, filled with Literary Fodder.
Fodder.
What a great word.
Say it:
Fodder.
No really - say it:
Fodder.
So very linguistically pleasurable, it starts off just in front of the top two teeth and ends up rolling, like ice-cold water on a hot day, off the middle of the tongue and past the roof of the mouth.
Fodder.
You see, there is a certain someone out there, who believes that all the dramas that perenially magnetize to me as I maraud this planet, are actually subconsciously created by me for later artistic use. She even theorizes, that any and all of my romantic failings are intentional and are simply a perverse form of research for 'The Book'.
Fodder.
Her theory, would seem to suggest that I am only the writer I think I am (and as mentioned before, both my Grandmother and I both feel very strongly that I am, in fact, amaaaazing) because every time I leave the house, a bomb goes off or Lesbian blocks my way or a compulsive-plan-canceller cancels on me again or I make a mess of a simple Phone-Number-Drop or I pick a political fight with the Australian ambassador to the US or a homeless guy offers me some of the charity pizza he was just given or I fall in love on a train or in a coffee shop or I get confused by your intentions and the stated love of my bed or I write a too long a letter or too a short text or get sent complimentary brandade from the chef or I drink sake during the day or I wake up feelin' round for my shoes and not because I seem to have an certain innate skill that allows me to write extraordinarily long sentences.
This girl in question - let's call her The Truck Driver - is an interesting bird. Very. I'm not going to describe her too you, for it may give her true identity away, but suffice to say, that her character is such, that she is one of the few people that I know, that I thoroughly respect. Respecting others is such a messy preoccupation. It leads to awful things, like taking their opinions and considerations onboard. Not helpful at all. Especially with this Literary Fodder situation.
So, to err on the side of protective caution, I simply and generally disrespect humanity- as a whole.
"Whoa," you protest in a Californian, frat-boy accent, "that sounds a bit unfair and broad."
True. It probably is, but since I don't have any respect for you, I will not take that notion on as valid. In fact, because of my disrespect for you and your 'kind' - humanity - I will actually auto-dismiss it. However, in this particular case, because of the aforementioned respect for The Truck Driver, I was forced to consider her thoughts. So damn messy this respect thing!
Well, I'm done. I've considered your thoughts and weighed up your theory, Ms Truck Driver and:
You are wrong - I disagree with you. Now, I know this will come as no surprise to you, for according to you, I disagree with everything you say, however, this time, all things being even and fair, correctness is on my side. You see, just because, my life, or the skewed, fictitious way I perceive it, ends up at the end of my pencil or in the very short paragraphs on this here page, does not mean that it's existence can be defined as simply a wholesale supplier towards that very end.
I select, and do so selectively, what to share with you people out there. I hide certain aspects and embellish others. I exaggerate her girth, diminish his verbosity, steal their business motto, borrow a joke and, most of the time, try and imagine how AA Gill would say it. I recycle isolated sentences from overheard conversations and retell sage advice that I don't personally believe in. I invent romantic notions and quote from old blues songs. So much of what you read and presume to be a loose travel journal of my days and the characters that fill them, may not have happened or existed at all. Hell, I may even actually just be still sitting in an apartment in St. Kilda, right now.
The point is, Truck Driver, that my life can't be there to serve as fodder for my writing, for very little of the reality of my days actually ends up in my work. Sure, it may seem to smell and vaguely taste like an all day brunch from last Wednesday, but I write how I wish to live and live how I wish to write. Neither actually satisfies its own aims, but, in the end, the sum of both parts end up working out even. Sort of.
Or maybe, I'm just being full of shit. That is what I am suggesting above - that everything I write is fiction and untruths. So, logically, one could then presume that the very statement that my life isn't fodder, is itself, a distortion of the truth. Maybe my life really is just fodder.
Very confusing, isn't it?
Well, to confuse it further, I'm going to end with an Ernest Hemingway quote - one I once sent The Truck Driver - and then cease talking about her. I get the feeling there's gonna be a consequence to this little foray into public conversation with her. I will probably deserve whatever reaction there is, but lucky I've still got five more days before I'm too old to act like a 16 year old.
" In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dulled and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well oiled in the closet, but unused."
Ernest Hemingway; Preface to The First Forty-Nine Stories (1944)
