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June 29, 2006
mesticulous and precise
too many things.
a game that turned into a nightmare re-iteration of all that is corrupt and vile about the impact of money and tradition and status on a sport that could be the tale of the human condition (the ball is round; the game runs for a certain length - all else is theory...), with a powerhouse, traditionally strong nation being matched by a new upstart, and the ruling orthodoxy instituting a 'correction' at - literally - the last possible moment. it wouldn't have hurt had italy brought any of the beauty of their culture to bear on this whole tourney. their play has been ugly, limited, ignoble. australia, though less imbued with flair, had played with *heart* for every minute they'd been on the park. see you in four years, amici. we will not forget.
***
a girl that let me into her life with an open, trusting heart, despite knowing my limitations, despite seeing the weakness at the broken places. she took me at my word, though my words were warnings, and true, and met them with tenderness and candour and playfulness. while i dance around attachment and hurt and pleasure and respect, she humbles me by calling me 'charming' and 'lovely', and, though our bodies sing a little, she doesn't paint it grand or dramatic, just sees what is there. it can't last, and we are not 'like', but i have never been handled with so much simple *respect* - an adult's affection, unfettered or overburdened by excess or timidity in any form. measure for measure.
***
i have been reading, books and people. it's humbling to read some of the amazing people whose world i skirt round the edges of; in journalling, some entertain, some reveal, some hide, some play, some instruct. all are incredibly skilled, both those who have sought to write professionally, like i once did, and those for whom it is an outlet and catharsis. there are teachers and government workers, self-made business people, dilettantes and freaks and people i can laugh down the local with, regularly writing stuff that puts to shame the 'published' crap i sometimes read. sometimes, they humble me enough to not want to write. but i know this is my own insecurity getting the better of me. i think i more realistically wish i could manufacture the kind of light, haughty tone in which so many entertaining journals are writ. this levity *is* a facet of my personality, but, weirdly, it's something that is most at the forefront when i am out socially, in person, and rarely surfaces when i write. i never could figure out why that is...
***
but mainstream 'published' titles? a new borders opened in perth while i was there two weeks ago, and i shopped for once. to whit, daniel handler's 'adverbs' is fucking awful! i expected more, actually not minding the lemony snicket stuff. but the condescension (somehow overlooked by me and pointed out sneeringly by a delightful new acquaintance recently) that seems somehow okay in kids fiction (even though it's not and my hackles usually rise at any form of 'dumbing down' for young readers) is no less visible - and, because of context, somehow more glaringly offensive - in his adult writing.
adverbs is, ostensibly, a series of riffs and vignettes on love (of every kind) revealed in hands (dealt, actually, in the showy, needy, 'please-be-impressed-by-my-writing-chops-style) that are cringingly prescriptive, leading, instructional and overly foreshadowed. anyone who has fucking *been* in love doesn't need *pointers* to its shades and nuances, dan. i bought it on a whim (there was a mind-bendingly hyperbolic dave eggers fellatory on the jacket, this despite my not actually having read eggers yet - hey, i owe him for mcsweeney's alone) precisely because it had just been sooooo long since i'd bought a book i knew nothing about, and purely for 'what if's' sake.
it stank.
though 'ask the dust' (which marty has been recommending for yonks) turned out to be all they say it is. i could taste a fiery realness, a surety and boldness in nearly every line of the first half, and cringed at the recognition of all the camilla lopezes i've loved... i have to read the whole bandini series now. what a rich character! so potent and flawed at once, and fante's pacing and phrasing are just chocolate smooth. he had the instincts of a musician more than a writer.
and the wee parable i bought for a b'day gal (but haven't been able to give to her yet, due to an unremitting calendar [hers] tighter that a fishes bum) is a corker of a novella; made me weep with joy. one not forgot quick. light, but powerful.
i hope she likes it. i reckon she shall...
***
an acquaintance of mine who is a talented designer writes a blog that makes me blush with its bumper sticker over-earnestness and new-agey positivity; to write, one must be a reader. to read is to know that one can not impose narrative structure on *every* aspect of life or growth. because neither reading nor growth are always linear, both happen often in a roundabout way. we revisit shit over and over getting it wrong. until we get it right. nor can a writer put themself at the centre of every story. it is one thing to heed the maxim 'write the truest thing you know' but once you get past the identity issues that dominate your existence for the first twenty odd years of your life and start to know (however fleetingly or with erroneous certainty) a thing about yourself, the next natural step is to cast your eye over the world around you. and to be able to comment on it without relating it *all* back to one's self. she strives for (visual) beauty and functional clarity in her work and play, and is very good at this; logically, the desire to extend this talent to other aspects of her life is all-consuming. but no-one is adept at everything, and *living* itself is a skill, often perpetually in r&d - some people are just better at accepting what the universe throws at them, good or bad. but this friend, with a telos or developmental trajectory that unrealistically permits *only* hope, positivity, growth, redemption, good aesthetics and moral surety, shows she's not writing (or reading) her life at all, is denying the fundamental *flawedness* that is the core strife - and yet also comfort, the one sure guarantee of something that can and will happen to all of us - within the framework of experience we call "being human". that inevitable uncertainty. she is a giver, and i can't bear to see her verbal output as merely 'what i had for breakfast' done 'pretty'.
***
i hated the film 'as good as it gets' though i thought it a salient question, handled poorly by writer james l brooks: you don't begin to accept that you can change your life, or what is even good about your life, until you accept that it is not a linear progression toward (or through) a predetermined set of life experiences from strength to strength, and that it is not governed or navigable by easy rules or maxims. you can't *always* be happy, but, more importantly, it might not be wise to even *try*. the things we endure make us able and nimble and more assured. love the ugly, i say. the scars that show where you fell, where you dared. there is a difference between wallowing in sadness and knowing there's a point to it.
***
when asked 'is the glass half empty or half full?' the most beautiful person in my world said 'either way, i'd like a top up'. lovelovelove.
my first instinct was to ask what was in the cup.
maybe that's why we're apart.
Posted by reuben at June 29, 2006 7:56 PM
Comments
here's an excerpt from a bukowski poem:
that wondrous place
the LA Public Library
it was a home for a person who had had
a
home of
hell
BROOKS TOO BROAD FOR LEAPING
FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
POINT COUNTER POINT
THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER
James Thurber
John Fante
Rabelais
de Maupassant
***
john fante? i said. i looked for his books. & looked. & looked some more. then, "ask the dust". buk, fittingly, had written the intro in my copy.
glad you liked it, tiger.
m
Posted by: marty at June 30, 2006 5:39 PM
and i owe you for that.
the mailer is as indulgent, posturing and egotistical as ever, but you're right – it is good.
handler! prick. i want my thirty bucks back.
i think a bad book is deeper disatisfaction than a dud root, and definitely on par with a shit meal.
not that i have the misfortune to endure too many of either anymore...
speak soon, tiger.
r
Posted by: reuben at June 30, 2006 7:17 PM
you know those guys that say "i hate to tell you so, but..." well, i fucking love saying it. i frickin' warned you about handler, did i not? for one, he's still alive....
ha, ha
m
p.s. what mailer? the executioner's song? it's incredible. better than in cold blood. capote transcends the facts--a little--but mailer approaches the sublime. whatever the fuck that means.
okay,
m
Posted by: marty at June 30, 2006 8:53 PM
A few off topic things...
1) When are you next popping by the EBC? The place is in dire need of some sex-eh photos, says I. Holler if you need any hook ups.
2) I HEARD A RUMOUR YOU WERE IN A BAND WHICH WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR A SONG I WAS OBSESSED WITH YEEAAAAAAAARS AGO AND COULD NEVER GET MY HANDS ON AFTER HEARING IT ONLY TWICE ON THE RADIO.
If this is true, come to trivia and allow me to buy you a beer fuck-o.
Yours with the charm of a boozed up trucker*,
Jess x
*Am actually sober but have been working all night. Swears.
Posted by: Jess at July 1, 2006 3:21 AM
marty,
yiss, yiss. you were right this time. you and your dead white males, though... i swear, i'm making it my personal goal to only buy you books by living pakistani lesbians from here on in. horizons, motherfucker! broadening! get involved! get upstairs, get out of the lobby!
jess,
it's true i was a quarter of humbug. whether or not this is a good or bad thing is difficult to say: did we rock and were we awesome live? yes. did we record awesomely? yes. did alan moulder and andy wilkinson love our work? yes. were we effete, overly self-conscious, uppity shits who thought we were better than we were, and whose music seems over 'constructed' and less the natural, organic outpouring of a bunch of people who loved each other? yes. this last sank us, i think. let me know what the track was and i'll dig something out of the archive. actually, rubber records (the label) routinely do a sell off of their extras and chuck outs, into which category our two deleted EPs for them most certainly fall... i have our full album and demos etc, though. there should be copies of both lurking around RRR and PBS; both supported us pretty well when we toured here, what with rubber head david vodicka's contacts and influence at both. triple j are cunts. except for kingsmill, who made us album of the week. that man is a genius and his semen tastes like honey.
re: pics – i will come down and shoot stuff at the EBC any night you or luke want me to; i don't even need much notice as you know, as i live around the corner. i'm actually putting some stuff in today, but its tricky to pick things up mid week due to my *fucking* day job conflicting with the hours the lab is open. i think you still have my number, so hit me up anytime, daaawwwwggg. and, yeah, i'll probably be at SYTYACC triv on tuesday – have to make up for that anachronistic third last week...
Posted by: reuben at July 1, 2006 9:34 AM
SUCH HUBRIS. remember the romans, ruby.
and that post was moving - a rare and beautiful thing. i like introspective wordsmith rubydoomsday every bit as much as trash-talking trivia reuben.
see you next week...
for an ABSOLUTE SHELLACKING.
Posted by: mskp at July 1, 2006 6:02 PM