Sorry about the lack of new content on this site (wait, who am I apologizing to?)...
I've been snowed in for a few weeks, downloading/sorting new music daily. There exists this network of file-sharers who operate black market blogs, each one posting full albums for download through anonymous link hosting sites (RapidShare/MediaFire/Megaupload). In the short time I've been at it, culling blog archives and what not, I've seen a few die off. But whatever, while the system's viable, I'll continue to take and take...and take...
With my film, I believe I've pushed the conceptualizing as far as I can. Aside from some specific scene tweaks, the basic layout is more or less set. Now it's all about mastering the equipment, experimenting with sound/light, etc. Once I slow down on the downloading (yes, it's equally crucial) and start working again, I"ll portion out some time to play with my camera. In the interim, I'll try to maintain a regular posting schedule...
Over the last few years, I've contributed intermittently to something that is now around twenty pages of rambling sketches and empty musings. I've never been quite sure about what it is exactly (short story/novel/fiction/nonfiction), but I'm fairly happy with what I have so far. I could limit it by describing the broad strokes but, keep in mind, anything I say about the story pales in comparison to what I see in my head. I suppose it's a postmodern analysis of possibilities, incorporating explorations of transhumanist ideals and personal philosophies in a fictional narrative. At the same time, the writer-creator merges with his work and ejects reality in all directions. Yes, something like that...
I've spent a long time trying to arrive at a definitive style of writing that I would champion as my own. The best approximation of what I wanted can be found in The Gormenghast Novels. Each page is rife with highly detailed descriptions and abstract approximations of reality, to the point where entire chapters could be devoted to a character sitting in a room, thinking (it's a ridiculously beautiful set of books, by the way). I remember raging, furious that what I had planned to do had already been done, and been taken to such a level that I had no chance to improve upon it. So I gave up and tried to move on to something new (namely, the movie). But I found I couldn't let go completely. Maybe I had a problem with watching it slowly rotting on my desktop. Or I needed to assuage my frustrations about my abilities as a writer. Regardless, I forced myself to back off, to treat the text as something already existent. By reclassifying it as a recursive study of humanity, I was able to salvage most of the material and start over again. The new "story" focuses on a single, unnamed character (a generally lacking figure meant to be distinct from me) who lives in a place out of time, where art (specifically, literature) has become something entirely strange and new: "writers" construct sweeping realities that are experienced through technological/biological enhancements. The "reader" becomes an omnipresent/omniscient being, at once every character and every linguistic nuance in a virtual world that closely mimics (but never replaces) the real thing. Within the external frame, my character moves through interconnected stories that blend and clash, in a real-time link transfer setting akin to the internet.
What this means for my book is that the fiction loses its permanence, yet stays somewhat grounded by my desire to carry the protagonist (and those still reading) forward in a certain way with individual character/object interactions, which range from stereotypical to idiosyncratic to symbolic. To give you some idea of what I mean, my first section is devoted to a pitched sea battle, where I spend pages exploring all facets of what is at work in that world, only to throw it all away after reaching a particular character (whose own story begins from that point on, eschewing the original set/setting for the trappings of a mystery novel, one devoid of any clues or solutions - and so on from there). Commonalities shared by most novels/short stories (climaxes, chapters, narrative sequences, etc.) are cast aside, replaced by a need to explore, to build textures and layers from evolving, disparate elements. The idea is that the character/reader is the one who chooses to go down the different paths, while the outside audience members (you) find no bearing in the progression, and so have to approach my work in a new way (one without the aspect of control fundamental to the process of reading). Eventually, the truth emerges (that of the individual in the midst of an extended experience) but by that point, the story is near its end. Then again, it seems unlikely that I'll be able to arrive at some denouement for this thing - who knows, maybe I can keep it going indefinitely...
I'm not looking to examine the breakdown of reality that occurs once the virtual is able to replace the real (ala eXistenZ). What I want to touch on (as always) is creation, not to mention the beauty inherent to the interplay of language and imagination (in this context, as the writer's forms made "material"). It's this idea of creating, nurturing, and then relinquishing control over all of existence that fascinates me to no end (even if it's in a limited form, on paper or on a movie screen). In essence, I am the reader exploring vicariously through my character, yet I continue on as the textual godhead creator figure, bombarded with emotions, thoughts and situations that are simultaneously alien and familiar to all aspects of a singular being...
I'm choking with glee just thinking about the possibilities...
Anyway, I doubt I'll get feedback about all this, but if you feel so inclined, I would appreciate it...
I've been snowed in for a few weeks, downloading/sorting new music daily. There exists this network of file-sharers who operate black market blogs, each one posting full albums for download through anonymous link hosting sites (RapidShare/MediaFire/Megaupload). In the short time I've been at it, culling blog archives and what not, I've seen a few die off. But whatever, while the system's viable, I'll continue to take and take...and take...
With my film, I believe I've pushed the conceptualizing as far as I can. Aside from some specific scene tweaks, the basic layout is more or less set. Now it's all about mastering the equipment, experimenting with sound/light, etc. Once I slow down on the downloading (yes, it's equally crucial) and start working again, I"ll portion out some time to play with my camera. In the interim, I'll try to maintain a regular posting schedule...
Over the last few years, I've contributed intermittently to something that is now around twenty pages of rambling sketches and empty musings. I've never been quite sure about what it is exactly (short story/novel/fiction/nonfiction), but I'm fairly happy with what I have so far. I could limit it by describing the broad strokes but, keep in mind, anything I say about the story pales in comparison to what I see in my head. I suppose it's a postmodern analysis of possibilities, incorporating explorations of transhumanist ideals and personal philosophies in a fictional narrative. At the same time, the writer-creator merges with his work and ejects reality in all directions. Yes, something like that...
I've spent a long time trying to arrive at a definitive style of writing that I would champion as my own. The best approximation of what I wanted can be found in The Gormenghast Novels. Each page is rife with highly detailed descriptions and abstract approximations of reality, to the point where entire chapters could be devoted to a character sitting in a room, thinking (it's a ridiculously beautiful set of books, by the way). I remember raging, furious that what I had planned to do had already been done, and been taken to such a level that I had no chance to improve upon it. So I gave up and tried to move on to something new (namely, the movie). But I found I couldn't let go completely. Maybe I had a problem with watching it slowly rotting on my desktop. Or I needed to assuage my frustrations about my abilities as a writer. Regardless, I forced myself to back off, to treat the text as something already existent. By reclassifying it as a recursive study of humanity, I was able to salvage most of the material and start over again. The new "story" focuses on a single, unnamed character (a generally lacking figure meant to be distinct from me) who lives in a place out of time, where art (specifically, literature) has become something entirely strange and new: "writers" construct sweeping realities that are experienced through technological/biological enhancements. The "reader" becomes an omnipresent/omniscient being, at once every character and every linguistic nuance in a virtual world that closely mimics (but never replaces) the real thing. Within the external frame, my character moves through interconnected stories that blend and clash, in a real-time link transfer setting akin to the internet.
What this means for my book is that the fiction loses its permanence, yet stays somewhat grounded by my desire to carry the protagonist (and those still reading) forward in a certain way with individual character/object interactions, which range from stereotypical to idiosyncratic to symbolic. To give you some idea of what I mean, my first section is devoted to a pitched sea battle, where I spend pages exploring all facets of what is at work in that world, only to throw it all away after reaching a particular character (whose own story begins from that point on, eschewing the original set/setting for the trappings of a mystery novel, one devoid of any clues or solutions - and so on from there). Commonalities shared by most novels/short stories (climaxes, chapters, narrative sequences, etc.) are cast aside, replaced by a need to explore, to build textures and layers from evolving, disparate elements. The idea is that the character/reader is the one who chooses to go down the different paths, while the outside audience members (you) find no bearing in the progression, and so have to approach my work in a new way (one without the aspect of control fundamental to the process of reading). Eventually, the truth emerges (that of the individual in the midst of an extended experience) but by that point, the story is near its end. Then again, it seems unlikely that I'll be able to arrive at some denouement for this thing - who knows, maybe I can keep it going indefinitely...
I'm not looking to examine the breakdown of reality that occurs once the virtual is able to replace the real (ala eXistenZ). What I want to touch on (as always) is creation, not to mention the beauty inherent to the interplay of language and imagination (in this context, as the writer's forms made "material"). It's this idea of creating, nurturing, and then relinquishing control over all of existence that fascinates me to no end (even if it's in a limited form, on paper or on a movie screen). In essence, I am the reader exploring vicariously through my character, yet I continue on as the textual godhead creator figure, bombarded with emotions, thoughts and situations that are simultaneously alien and familiar to all aspects of a singular being...
I'm choking with glee just thinking about the possibilities...
Anyway, I doubt I'll get feedback about all this, but if you feel so inclined, I would appreciate it...
