symbolic 23: extortion
I had a dream last night about strippers. There was some sort of truck stop style strip shop that I was familiar with, and this time I was specifically after some sort of take-home style magazine. And this place catered to that sort of shopper, though the whole place was laid out like a convenience store at a highway truck stop -- all the items were scattered on low shelves with little or no organization and I distinctly remember getting annoyed that I couldn't find the basic nudie magazines.
Wandering throughout the shop were the working girls and I knew some of them by name. Evidently I was that sort of regular, but not regular enough that I spent any sort of money on the live entertainment. There are five women clustered around the display rack where the magazines I'm looking for are stacked and there may be a couple more on the next aisle over. I politely decline the constant offers for some private fun -- I'm just after a magazine I can take home after all -- and I say hello to the two ladies that I know.
Suddenly I note they are all holding two liter containers of Coke product (apparently this place really is a truck stop) and, as I'm trying to figure out which magazine I want to buy, they all start to shake these bottles of soda. I know what is going to happen and shake my head and decline the experience of watching them all hose each other down with high-pressured foamy Coke products.
Ah, too late. I hear them laughing and giggling behind me, accented by the whoosh of pop shooting out of the pressurized containers. I feel some carbonated beverage splash on my sleeve. It's going to be a wet, sticky mess. I'm trying to put some distance between myself and the event, but no luck there.
Mr. Big and his enforcer are waiting for me at the front counter. He wants to talk about my bill. "What bill?" I ask. He nods over my shoulder. "The soda splash," he says. "You think the entertainment is free around here?" I know it isn't and say as much, trying to point out that I made several attempts to decline participation in the visual entertainment. I just came in for a magazine, I tell him.
He jerks his head towards his office. "Step inside," he says, "Let's talk about this." His enforcer cracks his knuckles. I go, meekly, my magazine left on the front counter. Inside his office -- all done in leather and walnut with video monitors arranged on shelves behind his chair -- he sits down in his big seat and starts fiddling with a pencil on a pad of paper. His enforcer is standing close behind me. "Seven girls," he says as he works out the math, "at $79.95 a pop. That's what you owe us." There must be some sort of state luxury tax that gets included because the whole total comes to $598.00.
I wake up when he says the number. I wake up and think: No, that's not how it would play. It's 3:30am and I'm lying in bed, my mind rapidly starting to edit the scene which just played out.
I've been reading Michael Ondaatje's The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film. In their first conversation, they banter back and forth about the basic editing process, about taking the entire lot of raw material that has been collected for the work and starting to cull it for the precise bits which you really want to keep. Both admit that the work (film or text) is an amorphous object at this point, a vast and overwhelming collection of dense matter. It takes them longer to edit the work than it did to generate the raw material. The shape of the final work is unknown. There is a metaphor of the sculptor which comes out of the conversation, the artisan who molds and shapes the basic material until some form emerges.
I hate editing; I find it tedious and dull. I must not be doing it correctly. I've not worked on the BOOK OF LIES for several weeks now, having been distracted by other things and numerous familial visits over the holidays. This morning, as I'm lying in bed, recutting the scenes from the truckstop strip shop, the word which comes to mind isn't "editing" but "negotiating."
It's time to get back to work.
I rerun the conversation between myself and Mr. Big a few times, tweaking and shifting the scene, until I get to a bit of mental film where I stand firm on $200.00 and two lapdances from "Sue." He smiles and agrees. We both know it is extortion, but it is a price that is acceptable to both parties.
I don't remember what happened to the magazine, but it's not important anymore. The intent of the scene has changed. These things happen when the editing starts.
writing
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.