He do the Police in Different Voices

Spent much of the last week immersed in Eliot (and in the Harold Bloom-edited anthology of exegeses of same). This morning discovered this, for which I've been waiting all these years without realizing—The Waste Land online.

This is hypertext in its purest form, giving us a new spatial model for exploring a work; where we usually think of a poem like The Waste Land in terms of "layers" or "levels" of meaning (i.e., in three dimensions), hypertext—with its use of frames and panes—effectively flattens our perspective, allowing us to look at all levels simultaneously. The effect is something that looks like Mondrian and functions like cubism—an every-angle-at-once perspective, planes intersecting askew, the reader outside and taking it all in. It's like a moment in a Grant Morrison comic when a character steps out between the panels. I've seen it done before, for other works, but never as well as it's done there.

Plus they've got a theory about Madame Sosostris that I'd never heard before, and which I find pretty goddam funny.

Pow! Zap! Wham!

Didn't they get the memo up in Saskatoon? Comics aren't just for kids anymore!

Whores On Their Nights Off

A friend of mine—a writer and editor of many years—once told me that when one actually supports oneself on the proceeds of one’s writing, the relationship with the act itself changes. It becomes increasingly difficult to write for the mere pleasure of doing so, he said—partly because of fatigue, partly because of the contempt that comes with familiarity; this is why, for instance, a plumber, coming home from work, doesn’t while away his leisure hours happily fitting pipes together.

And there is (so I have found) also a curious sense of guilt—the idea that if writing is business, it cannot be fun; that time is money, and words are, too; that words spilled without the promise of a paycheck behind them are, by definition, wasted.

A poisonous idea, of course, but there it is. And getting past it will be my next great struggle, I think—my next monster to slay.

Self-Portrait in Four Colors (Blue Period)

Looking in the mirror wondering who the fuck I am and what I'm for: it's one of those days when a reminder would be welcome. And then this gorgeous image comes up on my screen...

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Who am I?

My name's Jack.
I'm a giant-killer.

I.
     Kill.
            Giants.

Spirit Kindred

Been tickling at the underside of my mind since I saw the Disney news item, and I've sussed it now. One of those weirdshit coincidences that only comics geeks will notice.

Those names, in conjunction—the relationship of the boss to his right-hand man and heir apparent—what is it about Eisner and Iger?

Are These Words From the Future?

Mordant Carnival nails it in one, shooting words of wisdom back on a tachyon stream from the heady reaches of 2027 to kick my ass. Again.

It’s Different For Girls

I don’t know. Maybe it’s that he’s a hellraiser, and so simply more prone to accident; maybe it’s that he’s a second child, and so we’ve already been through this once and we’re a bit less high-strung about it: but when Sam injures himself, as he is prone to, it has the feel more of misadventure than of catastrophe. Claire took her share of lumps, yeah, but (and I freely admit that this may be selective parental memory at work) I don’t recall her wipeouts as so consistently spectacular as his.

Last night, for instance, the boy (who is nearly three) had got hold of a thick, heavy cardboard tube—not a flimsy wrapping-paper core, but a poster-mailing tube, the sort of thing in which an architect might carry his blueprints. Dense, almost chipboard, two-and-a-half, three feet long, about two inches across. He was clomping around the kitchen in faintly piratical fashion, using the tube as a spyglass, and walked more-or-less full speed into a wall.

That is: the leading end of the tube hit the wall, driving the other end into Sam’s face at more or less his full walking speed. His cheek was bruised, as was the ridge of his eye socket, just below the eyebrow. Could’ve been a lot worse.

Could’ve been very bad indeed, actually—which is what makes it such a great story. The actual resultant discomfort may be relatively minor, but the narrative hook—grotesque injury narrowly averted!—gives the incident significance. He may only injure himself superficially, but he does it with such panache.

Maybe that’s it. Or, y’know, maybe it’s that he’s a boy, and slapstick is an inherently male thing. (Oh, the ladies may enjoy watching the Stooges, but they’re not in there breaking axe-handles over each other’s noggins themselves. Thank God.) Case in point: there’s no greater bonding moment between father and son than the first time your boy gets his nuts crunched.

The other night Sam came tearing around the corner into the office. Manuals for the new computer setup lay scattered on the floor—slick paper on carpet. His left foot landed on one, his right foot on another, and they slid in opposite directions. With a look of utter surprise, he executed a perfect split, like a cheerleader’s—only much, much too fast. Then he keeled over frontwards, landing flat on his face.

I scooped him up to comfort him (fighting, I must admit, the urge to laugh), but as I patted his back, I noticed that he wasn’t crying. In fact, he wasn’t even breathing as such—just making a series of glottal, fishlike gasps. After what seemed a very, very long time, he finally let go with an aggrieved bellow—but it seemed oddly strangled. It wasn’t the face-plant that was paining him. When he was able to form words again, Sam—whose understanding of anatomy is yet inexact—hollered (except that it was more of a really loud whimper) “I HURT MY BUTT!”

And then, God forgive me, I really did laugh.
Today, my son, you are a man.
God help you.

Talked Like A Man On Fire

Attention Conservation Notice: Quotidian Content, Navel-Gazing, and Process-Geekery ahead, next five days. Proceed with caution; do not operate heavy machinery while reading.

I’ve been looking for a job—a real job, this time, permanent with benefits, not a stateless-guest-worker temp gig like the one I’ve got now. My contract is up in April, anyway, and I’ve little interest in signing another.

The last few years have felt like an experiment—a new Design for Living. I spent years overcompensating, negotiating my way through life from a position of weakness. As part of this exercise, I’ve decided to play to my strengths. I know I’m good with words: I know I’m good with music.

Actualizing that—taking it from ideation to realization—means making something. Something that will convince somebody else. (God knows how many years it took me to convince myself.) Something actionable, something representative, something more than the words “Trust me.” Something that sends the message I have an artistic sensibility, I am a damn good risk. A portfolio, in other words.

Now, the portfolio process on the music side (i.e., recording and manufacturing a good demo) will entail more front-end expense than I’m willing to take on at the moment. And there are more and more-immediate opportunities in writing; I’m seeing mysterious, slightly-disconcerting blind ads in the Help Wanteds—feature writers, concert reviewers; reply care of this newspaper. Hmm. Oh, I am a sucker for the whiff of intrigue.

So I am concentrated on knocking together a packet of writing samples—pop-cult stuff, mostly, much of it repurposed material from this blog. My pieces for SonicDiary, hugely worthy project that it is, were in part intended as a sort of brand-building exercise—additional sites (and cites) to boost my profile.

There have been some interesting results already—though not necessarily those I expected. Dealing with the process and its consequences took up much of my headspace in February: I’ll talk about it here over the next few days.

The Drums Must Never Stop

Is very bad if the drums ever stop!

Bastard

Well, that’s February behind us. Let’s quote Hillary on Everest and move along, eh?