21 July 2006

color me rose.

just a quote, today.

the world is this way, we wish the world were that way, and our experience of the world---how we see it, remember it, and imagine it---is a mixture of stark reality and comforting illusion. we can't spare either. if we were to experience the world exactly as it is, we'd be too depressed to get out of bed in the morning, but if we were to experience the world exactly as we want it to be, we'd be to deluded to find our slippers. we may see the world through rose-colored glasses, but rose-colored glasses are neither opaque nor clear. they can't be opaque because we need to see the world clearly enough to participate in it---to pilot helicopters, harvest corn, diaper babies, and all the other stuff that smart mammals need to do in order to survive and thrive. but they can't be clear because we need their rosy tint to motivate us to design the helicopters ("i'm sure this thing will fly"), plant the corn ("this year will be a banner crop"), and tolerate the babies ("what a bundle of joy!"). we cannot do without reality and we cannot do without illusion. each serves a purpose, each imposes a limit on the influence of the other, and our experience of the world is the artful compromise that these tough competitors negotiate. (stumbling on happiness, daniel gilbert)

12 July 2006

Present Participles That Make Me Think of Mark.

on the occasion of skullstice, and the eve of his 31st birthday.

by Ruth Alice Haney, aka DJ Mousee

1. defining: irony

2. moving: it

3. shaking: it

4. being: ironical

5. singing: the songs

6. signing: the times

7. working: that bag

8. the shots: calling them, taking them

9. feeling: the people

10. fucking: The Man

11. loving: the ladies

12. defying: the odds

13. capturing: all the right moments in writing


editor's note: i think i said last year that 2006 was going to be "adjectives that remind me of mark." but when i sat down to write the list, i had a moment of realization: "shit, what adjective DOESN'T remind of mark? they almost all do!" and writing up a list of adjectives that don't remind me of mark is kind of negative, don't you think? so i learned my lesson. from here on out, all future themes will be announced only as TBA. because deciding a whole year in advance what's going to be topical 365 days later creates expectation, which everyone knows is just premeditated disappointment.

Collect the whole set!

2005: Nouns that remind me of Mark
2006: Present participles that remind me of Mark
2007: TBA
2008: TBA
2009: TBA
2010: TBA
Etc.

09 July 2006

through all the hardships, huntsman persevered

(2 pre-read notes must be made: this is ripped from an old onion piece and has undergone only scarily small changes; also my book is nowhere near done. thank you.)

Independent Book Written By Dependent 31-Year-Old


SEATTLE, WA–Independent author Mark Huntsman, still financially dependent on his parents at 31, announced Monday the completion of his novel-length debut, the locally composed, parentally financed Dear Fat Kid.

Written on a tight budget of $75,000 of Lee and Virginia Huntsman’s money, the book chronicles the lives and loves of a diverse group of white, post-collegiate twentysomethings in an affluent Santa Barbara suburb, exploring such subjects as relationships, personal identity, and the pressures of living with one's parents.

Huntsman, who calls Dear Fat Kid "a groundbreaking portrait of a generation driven mad by alienation and boredom," attributes his success to his perseverance, his unswerving artistic purity, and the fact that his parents pay for his rent, health insurance, and groceries. But despite the creative control Huntsman enjoys by being "unfettered by the stranglehold of the mainstream publishing house system," he said there were times when he had to fight to preserve the integrity of his personal vision.

"I'll admit, I was under pressure to change the title to something more commercial, like the snappier I Used to be a Fat Kid--mostly from my dad," said Huntsman, speaking from Victrola, a local coffee shop prominently featured in the book and a favorite haunt where he often goes to think, people-watch, and spend his parents' money on imported blends. "But I couldn't let vulgar market considerations dictate the terms of this project. I wanted the title to reflect the very spirit of independent bookwriting itself, the 'rising above' of everyday mundanities in the pursuit of something far greater: the singular artistic freedom that comes from not actually having to work for a living."

Deftly interweaving the stories of three mismatched post-collegiates, the book uses as its central framing device a neighborhood coffee shop. The decision to structure the work around the coffee-and-pastry-serving shop, Huntsman said, came from personal experience.

"One day, my dad's card got declined, and I had to wait at the coffee shop while the limit got extended," Huntsman said. "As I sat there, flipping through insipid magazines and drinking their alarmingly good and pretentious coffee, the thought suddenly struck me: What if I had to hold down a job, the way these poor souls did? It'd be unbearable. I thought, 'This could've been me.' I guess it must've struck a powerful chord deep within my subconscious, because when I sat down to write the opening chapters on the iBook my parents bought me, the theme kept resurfacing."

Etta, one of the book’s main characters, works at a local coffee shop but dreams of one day becoming an independent and self-made writer, a plot element Huntsman said is "largely autobiographical, except for the having-a-job part." In one of the book’s key scenes, Etta finally summons the courage to leave her blue-collar job and follow her dream. Moving into the apartment above her parents' garage, she symbolically transcends her former life by literally reaching for the stars.

"That scene was extremely personal, because it really brought home to me how lucky I've been," Huntsman said. "It's not everyone who has the courage to pursue their dream. And, thankfully, my parents had the resources for me to see it through."

Though not yet snapped up by a publisher, the book has already drawn attention from the Seattle-area zine Motorfuzz and earned "entrant" honors at the King County Novel Festival. Yet it wasn't easy for Huntsman, who faced many daunting and unexpected challenges while writing Dear Fat Kid.

There were creative conflicts with the book's financiers, who felt that its focus was not "job-oriented" enough. There were times when Huntsman would max out one of his mother's credit cards and have to ask for a different one. There were even times when the project was brought to a virtual standstill because Huntsman's parents refused to let him use their car.

But through all the hardships, Huntsman persevered, determined to get his work out to the public.

"When I finally saw the finished print," said Huntsman, a gleam in his eye, "I knew that all my time and parents' money had been worth it."

What's next for this exciting young talent? Huntsman said he is mulling over his options.

"At this point, there are at least 20 books in my head. But before I take on the burden of another project, I really feel like I need to give my brain a rest. It's important that I allow the creative energies to rebuild and recover after the hell I've been through these last 86 months. All I want to do right now is lie back on my parents' couch, watch some HBO on their 36" TV, and just let the ideas germinate for a while."

05 July 2006

enter sky, stage left.

i asked the sky a question, silently
for yelling at the sky is just bad form
unless you are a fool, or demigod, or crazy
or your name is ahab or mel gibson.
how i went about it was less alarming, but, later
i realized, not better. i mimed a monk
with nothing to do, i lost any chance
of forcing the sky's hand, of panache, of brass.
my whole world is not a solarium. i trod too gently
or, rather, i trod at all--i want to glide
not jog through the cortex in clumsy portmanteau
add trip to clod and come away with trod
not a mode that is pleasing to children
nor future employers, nor the ear of god.
what i've done is whittled, reduced, and spun again
this question of myself until it remained, inert
in my head. the simplest explanation is right
usually, in matters demanding guilt be felt
but i’m not catholic; guilt is dead, long live the guilt
of my interior i must ask: un-simplify
the question, writ it long and run it on,
for my spirit talks in inverse proportion--
the purest question needs a response so big
i cannot see it. but perhaps i have it wrong.
maybe my mind has limits, wears this girdle
because it needs support; maybe horizons stretch
and the sky expands so it can hold all
the answer demands. then he took the cloak that
had fallen from him and struck the water with it.
'where now is the LORD, the god of elijah?'
he asked. when he struck the water, it divided
to the right and to the left, and he crossed over.

elisha did trod; but he trod upon manners and metaphor
and mel gibson--the things that cloak a fossil heart.
he threw the robe down, raised his arms up
and issued a challenge: surround me.
let me feel you under my feet, let my lungs breathe you
and know, too, that this air, this water, this plea
begins with alpha, not with me, not with why
and ends in omega, and in love, and the sky.