November 18th, 2012

house of leaves

"Every move you make, and every vow you break..."

The world piles on the stupid. No one can get enough. The world's appetite for stupidity is, I believe, insatiable. And I become baffled at the strata of stupid. Rules of superposition almost cease to apply, and up becomes down, and down becomes up. For example, I don't know which is worse, the question (below) from's review form or the answer (also below) that some ignorant putz has made to the question, regarding The Drowning Girl: A Memoir:

Q: Could you see The Drowning Girl being made into a movie or a TV series? Who should the stars be?

A: No, it would have to be changed beyond the meaning of the story so that the average person could follow.

Never mind the fact that the answer to the question verges on incomprehensible ("changed beyond the meaning of the story" = ?). I do not believe it ought be the object of any artist to aim for the merely average, the ordinary, to aspire only to the "common touch." Oh, it might make you popular, and it might even make you rich (but probably not). However, in the end, you have another Nora Roberts or Dean Koontz, another Thomas Kinkade, another Justin Bieber. Trash that everyone can "follow," can understand, that sacrifices voice for accessibility. I want my art – and that of others – to force me to think, to work for meaning, to sweat for comprehension, and that's the sort of art I set out to make. So, Carolyn of Friendsville, PA, I must concede I'm not the author for you. I'd rather be broke. Go away.


The past few days, there's not much to say. Except that there's not much to say. On Wednesday, we read Chapter Three of Fay Grimmer. On Thursday, we read Chapter Four (which wasn't nearly as wretched as the rest), and on Friday we read Chapter Five. I was going to begin Chapter Six yesterday (after rewriting part of Chapter Five that I'd excised), but drama intervened and left me incapable (or simply unwilling) to write. I don't know if I'll do any better today. I'll try. I tried yesterday. I could have left the apartment. I could have accepted the cost of the drama to my mental state and left the apartment, recognized a wasted day for what it was and fucked off and, say, gone to the movies. Instead, I forced myself to sit here, atoning for my inability to work – even though my inability to work wasn't my fault.

Yeah. It's a sort of masochism. I suppose.

I did accomplish other writerly things on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, but none of it was actually writing.


For several years, after the American invasion of Iraq, after Katrina, I tried hard to stop watching the news. Lately, though, it presses in, and there's no ignoring it. Hurricane Sandy, and the wreckage along the Atlantic Coast, and now Israel and Gaza. I'm not going to start in on my own feeling as regards the politics of the latter. They wouldn't be well-recieved, I think, and I don't feel like arguing. But it's fucking scary. Israel is on the verge of an actual ground invasion, and it must be remembered that Israel almost certainly has a stockpile of nuclear weapons (specifics undisclosed) and is not a signatory on the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. Both sides are driven by religious zealotry. It no longer matters who started this shit. It matters how and when and at what expense it ends. At the moment, my hope rests on Egypt's attempts to intervene and broker a ceasefire. But it's a slender rind of hope.

Grimly Watching On,
Aunt Beast

* LJ insists on autocorrecting putz to puts, thereby behaving like a putz.