symbolic 21: christ mass

I was watching Eddie Izzard's new DVD, Circle, the other night and he does this bit about God and Jesus where Jesus is sent down to earth to bring mankind back to the one true religion. Jesus, as the joke goes, screws things up at the Last Supper where he introduces both vampirism and cannibalism through the ceremony of the wine and the bread. To top things off, Jesus plans his resurrection on a very pagan ritual cycle: Easter Sunday, which is the first sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox.

Anyone remember the pagan gods? How about Attis and Adonis? Attis was the son of Nana, a virgin who conceived the lucky lad by placing a ripe almond or pomegranate on her bosom. Attis was adored by Cybele, one of the great Asiatic fertility goddesses. There are a couple of different versions of how Attis died -- either gored by a boar or bleeding out under a pine tree after he had hacked off his own pearly bits -- and, in the early spring, his priests would cut down a pine tree and carry it to their sacred altar where, during a ritual festival celebrated in March, they would sanctify the tree with their own blood in order to bring Attis back to life. The return of spring and the budding of the trees was the symbolic return of Cybele's favor to those who had resurrected her slain favorite.

Adonis was worshipped by the Semitic peoples of Babylonia and Syria until the Greeks appropriated the practice some time in the seventh century B.C. Adonis is actually the Greek version of his name; they misunderstood the titular name of "Adon" which the local people added to the name of Tammuz. Either way Adonis, as he came to be known in the West, was a young lad beloved by Ishtar, the goddess who embodied nature. After Adonis' death, Ishtar journeyed to the underworld in order to find him and, while she was away, the world passed into shadow and everything became cold and still while we waited for her return. After some verbal wrestling with the Lord of the Underworld, Ishtar returned with her lover and -- as you can guess -- spring came to the world.

These are the pagan rituals of the seasons; these are the basis for the celebration of the corn gods and the deities of vegetation wherein the kings who represent them die and are reborn every year in observance of the passage of the year. In a number of cultures in Africa, the king of the new year would either slay or eat the old king in order to pass the wisdom and knowledge on to the next generation of ruler. Pharaohs in Egypt were equated with Horus, the Son, and became Osiris, the Father, when they passed away.

You don't have to go far to find parallels to the events of the Last Supper or the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Jesus.

Sam Raimi introduced an entire generation of girlfriends and children to Spider-man this last summer. He didn't set the story during the era when Stan Lee and Steve Ditko introduced comic fans to the web-slinger; he set Spider-man in the here and now. I remember when Frank Miller wrote Batman: Year One and I even remember when John Byrne did his re-imagining of Superman. None of these guys invented anything new; they just redrafted what was there in new language, in new clothing, in order to find an audience among a generation which had no connection with previous era and time. Marvel is doing the same thing now with the Ultimates line: they're looking for new readership, reaching for language and visual stimuli which will bring a new audience to the gates.

Jesus Christ is the Catholic version of the corn god's origin story. They were just looking for a new audience and gave them something in a language and symbolism which they could understand.

It's been two thousand years. Don't you think we're due for another revision of the origin story for the first superhero? Where does the death and rebirth of the corn god fit into the globalized, computerized, bio-mechanical 21st century?

Or are we done with the old and finally ready for something new?

« « little fictions || 12.25.2002 @ 09:28 PM

symbolic 20: crawling

"Nothing is true, everything is possible." This is an old adage of Hassan I Sabbah, the mystical Old Man of the Mountain. It was co-opted by William Burroughs for his own ends, and it has been rolling around my head a lot this week. Both of them used it to delineate their understanding of space and reality (and, in some instances, morality), decrying that man was his own instrument, his own agent of divine intervention.

I've been thinking about fact versus fiction. I wrote a short throwaway piece a week ago, sequestering myself down in the office late Friday night while I banged out words on the computer. The task assigned to me was the piece could be either fact or fiction and, as the story fell off my fingers, I started to realize it was both. It was a complete fabrication, but every detail was true. Nothing and everything, you see.

I'm rolling around in my fictionsuit, culling details from my own life to color the written world. The shape and position of the furniture in the room was the layout of my old apartment down at the bottom of the hill. The sirens running past as an aid car came down from the fire station on the corner of 50th and Roosevelt was what I heard on Friday nights. The texture of the carpet -- dark brown shag nearly a thousand years old -- was lifted straight from the sensory records of my feet across that surface. My fingers are wired directly back through to my brain and each word writ is tainted with reality.

Stephen King talks in his Afterward to From a Buick 8 how his near-fatal slip into a swollen stream gave him an integral scene for the book. There are parts of Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum which are lifted straight from his university days. I'm sure you can list a couple examples of fiction being a thinly disguised variation of the writer's reality without any trouble. Grant Morrison almost killed himself when he let the distinction between page and reality slip. How many second novels pale beside the first because the writer realizes they used up all the reality they had in the first 100,000 words?

It's a no-brainer really. When we are playing God, wearing our fictionsuits, we have to draw details from somewhere. The obvious choice is to mine our own brains. It's a rare writer who can look at their work and honestly claim that nothing from their own personality is in the book. We don't write what we know; we write what we are.

And because none of it is true, we can utilitize everything. All our fears, our dreams, our fetishes and our desires, our inconsistencies and our passionate truisms are available. We splinter ourselves in order to populate the world.

Has God done the same thing? Does being made in His image only mean that we contain a tiny piece of His essence? Here we are, each with our own tiny bit of Godhead, all wrestling and fighting with each other, completely oblivious to the fact that we are all tiny flashes of memory or bursts of momentary sensation experienced by the vast Creator. Poor players, cast upon the stage for our hour, and all that. Any stab at complete enlightenment will only come from recognizing our fragmentary nature and cleaving back to a whole synthesis.

Anyway, caught up in the fictionsuit where I'm creating reality by dropping tiny pieces of myself into the work. Imagine the viral implications of text, if every piece of myself that I dropped had actual DNA content -- a fully realized, genetically complete self wired with its own instructions and payload. By reading these words, I've inserted myself into your brain where my nanomene unloads its viral agent and propagates through your synaptic core.

It's already happened. Hassan I Sabbah did it to Burroughs; Burroughs did it to me; I've just done it to you. A chain is being formed as all the individual moments of Godhead are getting back together. We're crawling towards enlightened synthesis one word at a time.

« « little fictions || 12.20.2002 @ 06:32 PM

symbolic 19: sharks in the water

Takeshi Miike is a shark. He has to keep moving or he'll die.

Sharks make us nervous. We prefer the comfort of being in the water with dolphins or very large tuna. Sharks, with their dead, flat eyes, have hidden agendas. You never know how a shark is going to move in the water. You follow sharks at your own risks.

Anyone who has seen Miike's film Audition has their own story about the ending. Audition was my first Miike film; I saw it at a packed theater as part of the Seattle Film Festival. I took my wife. She may have forgiven me but I don't really know for sure, we don't talk much about those last twenty minutes of film.

I hear that his films play for two weeks at only one theater in Tokyo before they disappear to video and DVD. His audience lives in the underground, passing fervent whispers of his latest work through their Internet networks. By the time a film sees release on video, he's already got three or four more films in the can. The man doesn't stop.

Do you ever wonder what pushes such a man? It can't be the commercial success, because there isn't any. It can't be the wide-eyed adoration of his scattered world-wide audience. It's got to the process, the creative delight of putting something on film which no one expects. Harrowing physical torture, ultra-violent Yakuza gangsters, killer women with armed vaginas, a rubber-suited "superhero" whose powers come from the depths of his fucked up psyche, a ghost story musical even. And needles. Always with the needles.

Christ, he gets under my skin.

Not because his films make me squirm, but because he's got access to the deep pit of nightmares. He knows how to stain a scene with the ichor of the night terrors, to imbue his films with moments which will force you to breathe uncontrollably. You've got to be dead to not be affected by his films.

I've no desire to return to those last twenty minutes of Audition. But I can't forget them. All this talk of epiphanies and illuminatory moments has made me think about that night in the theater again: the stream of people leaving the theater, my fingers clawing at the armrests, my wife with her hands over her eyes. There was no air on the room, everyone still seated was gulping oxygen. On one hand, our brains were trying not to watch what was happening on that twenty-foot screen in front of us, but with all that oxygen we were sucking in, our synapses were sizzling with fuel. We were all quite alive, flush and fervent.

Some nights I lie awake and think about the end of Audition, and I realize it wasn't that bad. It's much worse when I think about the images, when I start to add to them.

Is this what drives Miike?

« « little fictions || 12.17.2002 @ 10:10 AM

symbolic 18: k.i.s.s.

I just finished Breakout, Richard Stark's new Parker novel, last night. I sat up for awhile afterward thinking about simplicity. Stark's Parker books aren't weighty tomes by any means and therein lies a great deal of their charm. This latest probably doesn't add up to more than 60,000 words, nor does it need to. Parker's entire existence has been spent giving people only the information they need and Stark's writing style reflects this sparseness. Story is the motivating factor of the work and the lush turn of phrase isn't part of the necessary framework. Stark breaks the book down into four sections and puts Parker in a situation in each section where he has to break out of something. He links these four events together and bang! he's got a book. It's deceptively simple and works because Stark doesn't try to be too clever.

Back in the days when I was younger and Richard Marcinko's Seal Team books weren't such an exercise in ego onanism, I used to enjoy his over-the-top exploits. The books were always exercises in how shit can go wrong and, throughout them, Marcinko urged his teams to adhere to the basic rule: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Over planning leads to paralysis and all that.

Breakout is simple. Take characters A, B, and C. Put them in Situation X. Add complication Delta. Stir. See what shakes out. Survivors are added to Situation Y along with complication Beta and character D. Stir. Shake.

I don't over plan; I think that much is woefully obvious. But I'm pretty sure I over extend myself. I take on more elements than I need. Events become too dramatic, involving too many characters and too much history, and they end up spanning huge chunks of physical space. I should write a book that takes place entirely in an elevator car. Nicholson Baker's Vox is an extended phone conversation and one of its amazing accomplishments is that it manages to pull that conceit off.

As a deity, I'm over-taxed. I'm Atlas, trying to lift the world myself, when all I really need is a fulcrum and a lever. Or, in this case, a knife.

The connection to Area 51 and UFOs? Gone. The plane in the lake? Gone. The sonic weapon? Gone. The events of the prologue? Gone. The complicated personal history of Jacob's that I put in place to distance him from his family? Gone.

This feels really good to do, by the way.

This is a story about family history and about secrets. It's doesn't need to involve the world. Play it close to the chest, one hand at a time. Characters A, B, and C: Jacob, Liz, Travis. Situation X: Serena's death. Complication Delta: Jacob's father. Stir. Let's see what shakes out.

« « little fictions || 12.13.2002 @ 02:18 PM

symbolic 17: doing something

Wrapping up a few threads while I try to find the spark missing from the Book of Lies.

Religious structures are wrapped around those initial moments, the instances where the Sacred pokes through and presents itself to us. These epiphanies are the moments when God (or however you prefer to name the Divine "Greater Than Us" entity) is revealed and we become aware of a super-natural realm which is very separate from our everyday existence (you know, the dull profane space). These epiphanal moments are the ones which we cling to, which we circle back and try to re-imagine again and again. The world moves in cycles not because it is convenient, but because we have imposed our need for purpose on it. If the world is created anew (the cycle beginning again), then we can be part of that initial transformative spark.

We gather about the spots where the flame breaks through because it is warm, because the light disturbs the darkness, because it creates a separation between what is and what is not, thereby creating reality.

The groups mentioned last time who were Doing Something are trying to circle back. They're trying to recreate that first epiphanal moment when they were touched by the thing on which they are focused, they're trying to recapture that first instant of glee and heart-stopping joy which came over them at their introduction. They circle back so long and try so hard to create the Big Bang again that they've become obsessed, they've forgotten about the simplicity of the joy which held them fast in the first place.

They have become trapped by memory. The slavish devotion to the corporate icons of the comic industry, for example, is all about nostalgia, not for a "better and simpler time" but for that moment when we all realized it could be possible to be more than the simple sum of our meat parts. We want to be dazzled again.

Those who are Doing Something are active participants in the ceremony of the epiphany, they are drawing the circle closed, trying to make their own way back to what Mircea Eliade called in illo tempore -- that previous time. They are Doing, but they aren't Making.

The difference? I'm not trying to recreate epiphanies, I'm making new ones. I am God.

« « little fictions || 12.11.2002 @ 08:46 PM

symbolic 16: mod fiction

A modified Honda Civic idles at the stoplight while I stand in line at the local coffee stand, its back end pulled towards the ground, a thick fender curving around its tail and extending along the door panels like a sheath of shark skin, a proud peacock tail of a spoiler rising off the trunk. The muffler is a fat mouth and it shivers with excitement as the driver flutters the gas pedal. He wants to be seen; he wants everyone to notice the proud lines of his chariot.

Dude, it's a Civic. I've got one myself and, while functional, it certainly isn't a hot rod. Though, the point of modifying such a car may be just that: Hondas are plentiful -- parts are cheap and accessible -- and not very expensive. There isn't much point in modifying a Lamborghini (okay, that's a silly analogy 'cause they come pre-modified) or a BMW because the expense involved in the acquisition and upkeep of such a vehicle prevents idle tampering. So why the bother? The car isn't build for speed and all the slick aftermarket modifications in the world aren't going to make the car outperform the basic limitations of its engine. Why go through all the bother to make something look fast?

It's a creative outlet. These are the guys who enjoyed auto shop in school, who know the difference between a crescent and a socket wrench. They're just a different bunch than the group who delighted in the command line prompt and who spend all their spare time building mods and customizing levels for the first-person shooting games. And, on the other side of the hall, are the kids who grew up to devote their time to fan fiction.

On a cross-country plane ride, I once sat next to a guy who was working on a fantasy novel. Feverishly. As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude, the yellow legal pad came out and he started scribbling away. He had fifteen more of them at home -- yellow pads -- all filled with the book he was writing. It was his Thing, and it filled his spare time. When the book was done, he was going to transcribe all of the pads and send the manuscript off to a publisher. He wrote with the assured knowledge that his Thing was going to be published when he was done.

I caught a few words on the page as he was wrote. I saw "Uruk-hai" and "Hobbits" and didn't have the heart to tell him that no publisher in the world was going to invite a lawsuit from the Tolkein estate by publishing a piece of fan fiction. Regardless of how many yellow legal pads worth of lengthy plane flights had been devoted to the project.

As the light changes and the Honda drops into gear and speeds away, I want three seconds of time back. Reverse me three heartbeats so I can run up to his window and ask him why. He's got to know the truth. So why does he do it? Why does he spend the time and energy?

Because he -- like all the others mentioned here -- he is alive when he is working on it. He is Doing Something.

« « little fictions || 12.07.2002 @ 01:08 PM

symbolic 15: the reality of character

I love the word "fictionsuit." I don't know if Grant Morrison invented it, but I discovered it while reading The Invisibles and have been fascinated ever since as he toys with the limits of reality and text. Neal Stephenson gave us "avatar" with Snow Crash and that word only took a decade to become part of the accepted Internet-savvy vernacular. Now that the Internet allows us the opportunity to reinvent ourselves daily, both words have become necessary parts of online interaction. Online role-playing games even warrant their own acronym -- MMPORPG -- as the gaming industry tries to facilitate the fantasy of living in another's skin.

This is old news to writers. We put on fictionsuits every day. Some are more auto-biographical than others, but the process of putting words on the page requires the fabrication of that other persona -- the character which inhabits the story. In first person narrative especially, we become what we write. We have to in order to make it believable.

One of my characters for the Book of Lies is Jacob Maratre and, as a fictionsuit, he doesn't fit that well. I've been struggling with the cut of his cloth -- he pinches in the crotch and just isn't wide enough through the shoulders and chest for my liking -- as I try to get the suit to hang well on me. He may never fit properly which will be a small catastrophe since he is the main character of the narrative. I've been tempted to force myself into him, to seal the suit tight by dropping into first person, but the trouble with that solution is that you can't take the suit off. You introduce other problems by trying to wear more than one suit when you've committed to a first person model.

The book I was working on last year stuttered to a halt when I realized the best fit was the suit belonging to a secondary character. She was the one with the story to tell. The main character was a stuntman who really preferred to not be involved (sometimes you mistake character traits for signals they are trying to give you) and I never felt comfortable in his skin. I've still got her in the closet and I know the trick to working the buttons up the back. I'll get to her eventually. A good fictionsuit never rots.

NaNoWriMo finished up over the weekend and I had been pushing so hard to get the word count up (which I did, clearing the goal by a few thousand) that I remained oblivious to the struggle with which I was putting words on the page. 50,000 words into a book and I hadn't gotten to any of the material which really interested me. I can only imagine how bored the reader was going to be; how obvious it would be that I was talking through a mouth which didn't fit. Everyone would see through my disguise and know that I was Orlando.

I took Jacob off on Sunday and I'm putting him aside for a few days. He's hanging out in the garage, looking like a pair of shriveled nylons hanging from the nail in the ceiling. I've put a couple of heavy stones in the bottom of his feet to try to stretch him out. I pulled an older 'suit out of the closet (I hang them right next to the bunny outfit) and tried to squeeze back into it. I've put on a few pounds since the last time I wore this 'suit, but that didn't seem to matter. It fits just fine.

« « little fictions || 12.04.2002 @ 01:30 PM

writing

BIBLIOGRAPHY
This is a reasonably comprehensive list of my published work, both virtual and physical.

THE MISFIT LIBRARY
I am Nine of Thirteen, one of the members of the Misfit Library, a writing collective which puts out a quarterly journal of our respective work. We are scattered across the globe and determined to change the face of the planet one story at a time. The link above will take you to Misfit Central where you can acquire copies of the journal as well as read exclusive online material.

SYMBOLIC
I wrote a column for OPi8.com's Transmit blogs: journals of the new dark underground. SYMBOLIC tracked the novel I was working on, referencing the process and the research materials which mad up the backbone of the work. In addition, SYMBOLIC busied itself with ruminations and considerations on the nature of language and communication. And a wee bit of mythology. The first 100 entries of SYMBOLIC can be found here on this site as well as at OPi8.com.

LITERARY REPRESENTATION
I am represented by Scribe Agency as my literary agents. Please contact these gentleman if you have any queries about my work.