Go ahead and read this:
Bret Lott - Against Technique
Then this:
Bret Lott’s essay encourages me to withdraw from this course. Art vs. artifice is a realm I know all too well. I used to teach guitar lessons but I quit. I quit because I reached a threshold. A threshold where you cannot teach a pupil anything else, they just have to go it on their own and look to you for guidance every now and then. I live a very unorthodox life, believe unorthodox beliefs, have an unorthodox approach to guitar technique, and I am now coming to realize that my writing is that. Unorthodox. This is a good thing. In reading Lott’s essay, I felt my denominator shrinking, in real time, becoming increasingly common. I’d much rather aspire to be 1/1,000,000 than 1/1. Either way, both could possibly be viewed as identical.
Writing shouldn't require identifying such trite details (maybe it's not so trite, I'm no expert). But in that aspect, who is really? I'll tell you who is. The reader. Books and stories are a lot like wine; there are many good and bad, but it in the end, it only matters to the person consuming them how he or she chooses to feel about them. Author-itative brilliance is spawned from the mind, whether it be one of those “Eureka!” moments while going for a long distance run, or underestimating your child’s potentialities of good will. The fact is “Eureka!” can’t be taught. There are an infinite number of permutations and combinations of words that one can use to describe how to author good nonfiction. In the end, however, you only need be concerned with how and why you have arrived at the close of an essay, short story, novel, or other what-have-you’s.
I know nothing and I am only trying to walk into the room. Knowing that knowledge is innately attained everyday and knowing there is not a finite amount of knowledge to be attained is a feeling most humble. Fiction and nonfiction techniques coincide exactly when superimposed, but there is no one way to teach one the superimposition of such techniques. There is no end all be all theory of creative writing, fictive or not. For being Against Technique, Lott surely attempts to impose his “technique” on the reader/writer in question looking for an answer, while in the end he tells you to engage your one and only path to the waterfall. There is no correct nor incorrect way of being an author. It is an art form. Like wine. I savor my 2nd glass of Mark West ‘05 Pinot Noir as I write this and think, “Damn. That’s good art.”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
if by way of
A calm though heightened sense of plain regard for observation swells through my veins as the thrust of four turbines, wailing, lifts four hundred and thirty some odd tons of flesh, fuel, blood, and steel, from the tempered pavement, black. Robert’s voice soothes my ears and tells me that’s the way it ought to be, and that’s the way it ought to stay, while his mate, James, rhythmically striking perfectly placed chords, invokes sheer joy, unattainable. Flight ensues, the first law of thermodynamics carries the conglomerate in upwards of eight miles above the Atlantic and begins to trace an incredible arc length towards a province to which I am unaccustomed. An idiosyncratic experience has been laid in motion, inaugurated. Whenever this feeling takes over I regret not having a tape recorder, pen and pad, film, or a lengthy short term memory to encapsulate said moment for archaic recollection. If I had, could such a recollection be retrieved without ease? Or would my neurons fire and bestow a more industrial bond upon one another strengthening their ability to recall.
When met with a protasis, one more often than not immediately delivers a conclusion. I on the other hand pine over a myriad of other conclusions that I felt would have better suited the situation. If I would have said this, if I would have done that, et cetera. If I could ascertain a notion of deep transcendental thought, would I be able to go back and flip through each outcome of each fantasized denouement? Highly unlikely since we as human beings have only been able to unlock and utilize (actively) a measly 10% (myth) of our brain power. Whereas in an ideal environment causes and effects would be interchangeably equivalent so that one could guide and shape their reality as they see fit. Perfection could be engaged without thought and being enlightened would be as passive as breathing in your sleep. Being in a spell of alertness at all times could lead you to a surface that you are not yet predisposed to reconvene with. The question I repeatedly ask myself is what if I could change my past, or future, or both (which would occur regardless; a redundancy). Would I be who or what I am? All things being equal, no.
Armed guards line the terminal toting Kalashnikov automatic rifles originally modeled in 1947, safeties on, trigger fingers contently holstered and fixed to their respective palms. Stepping from the fuselage of the tamed Boeing, my feet pace towards something new, abandoning all they previously found familiar. Words and phrases run amok in and out of my ears as they attempt to decipher the language, native to where I stand. With my baggage claimed and my passport stamped, I proceed towards a menacing customs official awaiting to perform his duties of poking and prodding through my belongings. I wonder, carefree, if he’ll find something unsanctioned during the semi-meticulous inspection. Little did he know that I had previously been dosed several times with endogenous morphine, a natural analgesic I preferred over the inoculation of foreign subject matter. There was nothing to find capable of barring me from entry to his homeland. Nothing but unabated smiles, and wide eyes, yearning for something new. Something in addition to another or others already existing. I feel my soul will be harvested early this season.
In addition to another memory, I find as if I have reinvented others, or maybe how I remember them has changed and evolved since last they were called upon for remembrance. If a child can drown in one inch of shallow water, then I am ungrudgingly suffocating in my own cognition. I can’t stress enough that life’s middle name is if. If I discontinue the applications learned by way of seminars and tutorials from new memories, I may as well just forget that I exist all together. Upon further inspection of my own developments in Western Thought, I can conclude that my views have gone askew to those of the norm, or those that the norm has to offer. If you can learn to take your time, slow down, and condense each second to a small vibration, there is much more to be seen and heard than you have given yourself credit for. Careening through the rotations prevents free thought. You need to play out your favorite scene and fine tune your mind as if it were machinery. I can limit my senses all I want, but need to take a symptomatic approach and be supportive. The test is to see if I can read, but alexia doesn’t mean I can’t read me.
My driver holds a sign with the only American name in plain view. A man befriended by my eldest sib, spoke not a word of English yet I knew we could peruse the same page. I read the words “duty free” right from his eyes as we strolled to the decrepit warehouse-esque international emporium of pilsner and spirits. The particular pilsner in question was Dutch born and treated like liquified precious metals amongst my driver and his benefactors. Patrons of the emporium were required to present their boarding pass, be the proprietor of a passport, and follow the rules and regulations of said proprietary passport’s country of origin. Unbeknownst to my driver, the latter of the three requirements would be unfulfilled. Following a short jaunt to the train station from the unsuccessful pils score, I’m escorted to my vestibule to catch a convoy of sleeper and coach cars en route through more palm and sand than I ever knew existed to a destination in the middle of what I knew to be nowhere. If it was nowhere when I arrived, it was unequivocally somewhere when I left.
When met with a protasis, one more often than not immediately delivers a conclusion. I on the other hand pine over a myriad of other conclusions that I felt would have better suited the situation. If I would have said this, if I would have done that, et cetera. If I could ascertain a notion of deep transcendental thought, would I be able to go back and flip through each outcome of each fantasized denouement? Highly unlikely since we as human beings have only been able to unlock and utilize (actively) a measly 10% (myth) of our brain power. Whereas in an ideal environment causes and effects would be interchangeably equivalent so that one could guide and shape their reality as they see fit. Perfection could be engaged without thought and being enlightened would be as passive as breathing in your sleep. Being in a spell of alertness at all times could lead you to a surface that you are not yet predisposed to reconvene with. The question I repeatedly ask myself is what if I could change my past, or future, or both (which would occur regardless; a redundancy). Would I be who or what I am? All things being equal, no.
Armed guards line the terminal toting Kalashnikov automatic rifles originally modeled in 1947, safeties on, trigger fingers contently holstered and fixed to their respective palms. Stepping from the fuselage of the tamed Boeing, my feet pace towards something new, abandoning all they previously found familiar. Words and phrases run amok in and out of my ears as they attempt to decipher the language, native to where I stand. With my baggage claimed and my passport stamped, I proceed towards a menacing customs official awaiting to perform his duties of poking and prodding through my belongings. I wonder, carefree, if he’ll find something unsanctioned during the semi-meticulous inspection. Little did he know that I had previously been dosed several times with endogenous morphine, a natural analgesic I preferred over the inoculation of foreign subject matter. There was nothing to find capable of barring me from entry to his homeland. Nothing but unabated smiles, and wide eyes, yearning for something new. Something in addition to another or others already existing. I feel my soul will be harvested early this season.
In addition to another memory, I find as if I have reinvented others, or maybe how I remember them has changed and evolved since last they were called upon for remembrance. If a child can drown in one inch of shallow water, then I am ungrudgingly suffocating in my own cognition. I can’t stress enough that life’s middle name is if. If I discontinue the applications learned by way of seminars and tutorials from new memories, I may as well just forget that I exist all together. Upon further inspection of my own developments in Western Thought, I can conclude that my views have gone askew to those of the norm, or those that the norm has to offer. If you can learn to take your time, slow down, and condense each second to a small vibration, there is much more to be seen and heard than you have given yourself credit for. Careening through the rotations prevents free thought. You need to play out your favorite scene and fine tune your mind as if it were machinery. I can limit my senses all I want, but need to take a symptomatic approach and be supportive. The test is to see if I can read, but alexia doesn’t mean I can’t read me.
My driver holds a sign with the only American name in plain view. A man befriended by my eldest sib, spoke not a word of English yet I knew we could peruse the same page. I read the words “duty free” right from his eyes as we strolled to the decrepit warehouse-esque international emporium of pilsner and spirits. The particular pilsner in question was Dutch born and treated like liquified precious metals amongst my driver and his benefactors. Patrons of the emporium were required to present their boarding pass, be the proprietor of a passport, and follow the rules and regulations of said proprietary passport’s country of origin. Unbeknownst to my driver, the latter of the three requirements would be unfulfilled. Following a short jaunt to the train station from the unsuccessful pils score, I’m escorted to my vestibule to catch a convoy of sleeper and coach cars en route through more palm and sand than I ever knew existed to a destination in the middle of what I knew to be nowhere. If it was nowhere when I arrived, it was unequivocally somewhere when I left.
a royal flush beats four aces
I’m sitting backstage, alone, waiting for someone to call me on stage. A once lonely tub of water and ice recently made friends with two dozen or so Heineken. I remove one from the tub teetering just below room temperature, pop it open with a Bic lighter to enjoy while I wait patiently for the others to cool to a more desirable temp. Enter Paul Bolger.
Paul takes a pack of playing cards out of his front jean pocket and asks me if I’d like to play a game of poker. I cordially agree to the game of distinguished gentlemen. We then concur on a verbal agreement that the winner of the hand, five card draw, takes a lofty prize of ten dollars. Noting that Paul failed to shuffle the deck at all, I deduced there was mutiny afoot. Surely my four aces fell to his astonishing royal flush, a hand that bolsters the odds in five cards of 1 in 649,740. Roughly 156 times that of the odds of my four of a kind. I enticed Paul to quickly fess up to the crime, knowing that I was a man of my word and would have paid him had the game not been rigged in his favor. Enter one half of Paul Bolger’s rhythm section.
“Alan. Poker? Ten bucks?” Paul asks with a concealed grin aimed at his last unsuspecting victim. “I’ve never played poker before, but sure, ten bucks,” groans the assumed Slovak born beat keeper with a tone of Eastern Europe buried beneath his now Chicagoan influenced accent. Paul’s face lights up as his prey unknowingly lies defenseless in the eyes of an amateur pocket casino peddling predator. “Oh, it’s easy. I’ll deal the cards out and show you the ropes. We each get 5 cards to start.” The mastermind quickly flutters out 5 cards to each player, alternating one at a time. “Now the goal of the game is to match face values, suits, a combination of the two, et cetera... There are actually a lot of different hands you can win with, but we’ll get into that a bit later.” Alan glances over his cards and knowing that four aces has to be something good, chooses not to return any cards and keep his hand as it was dealt. “Hope you have that ten bucks handy, Paul.” A look of modern falsified anxiety from Paul surely assures Alan that the game is his. The forced odds of nearly three quarters of a million to one were about to be thrown in Alan’s face. “Holy shit! I got a royal flush!” The excitement in the room was so hollow and phony we could have all been off-broadway. “A royal flush? Does that beat four aces?” Alan stutters. “It most certainly does!” Paul contends. Alan's ten dollars was certainly ascertained by shady means and he began to realize it. “Royal flush? Who the fuck gets a royal flush? You fuck cheat me out of ten dollar!” His ill mannered temper, broken english, and native accent were in full effect following a discovery of the leisurely coup d’état. “Relax! It was a joke. I had no intention of keeping the money,” Paul explained, “What should we open our first set with?” Alan coming back to reality, socks Paul in the shoulder in retaliation for his shenanigans and calmly suggests an extended fourteen minute or more version of their love child, one of many, “Over and Back.”
Paul takes a pack of playing cards out of his front jean pocket and asks me if I’d like to play a game of poker. I cordially agree to the game of distinguished gentlemen. We then concur on a verbal agreement that the winner of the hand, five card draw, takes a lofty prize of ten dollars. Noting that Paul failed to shuffle the deck at all, I deduced there was mutiny afoot. Surely my four aces fell to his astonishing royal flush, a hand that bolsters the odds in five cards of 1 in 649,740. Roughly 156 times that of the odds of my four of a kind. I enticed Paul to quickly fess up to the crime, knowing that I was a man of my word and would have paid him had the game not been rigged in his favor. Enter one half of Paul Bolger’s rhythm section.
“Alan. Poker? Ten bucks?” Paul asks with a concealed grin aimed at his last unsuspecting victim. “I’ve never played poker before, but sure, ten bucks,” groans the assumed Slovak born beat keeper with a tone of Eastern Europe buried beneath his now Chicagoan influenced accent. Paul’s face lights up as his prey unknowingly lies defenseless in the eyes of an amateur pocket casino peddling predator. “Oh, it’s easy. I’ll deal the cards out and show you the ropes. We each get 5 cards to start.” The mastermind quickly flutters out 5 cards to each player, alternating one at a time. “Now the goal of the game is to match face values, suits, a combination of the two, et cetera... There are actually a lot of different hands you can win with, but we’ll get into that a bit later.” Alan glances over his cards and knowing that four aces has to be something good, chooses not to return any cards and keep his hand as it was dealt. “Hope you have that ten bucks handy, Paul.” A look of modern falsified anxiety from Paul surely assures Alan that the game is his. The forced odds of nearly three quarters of a million to one were about to be thrown in Alan’s face. “Holy shit! I got a royal flush!” The excitement in the room was so hollow and phony we could have all been off-broadway. “A royal flush? Does that beat four aces?” Alan stutters. “It most certainly does!” Paul contends. Alan's ten dollars was certainly ascertained by shady means and he began to realize it. “Royal flush? Who the fuck gets a royal flush? You fuck cheat me out of ten dollar!” His ill mannered temper, broken english, and native accent were in full effect following a discovery of the leisurely coup d’état. “Relax! It was a joke. I had no intention of keeping the money,” Paul explained, “What should we open our first set with?” Alan coming back to reality, socks Paul in the shoulder in retaliation for his shenanigans and calmly suggests an extended fourteen minute or more version of their love child, one of many, “Over and Back.”
one fifth, blotto
Vivid. The word that came to mind when I asked my partner in crime what he thought of the guitarist and band as a whole that I introduced him to last Saturday. Blending a mind boggling assortment of styles and genres, Mark Hague began to shed a whole new light upon mine and my concert going accomplices’ guitar playing ideologies. Unorthodox keys and phrasing are somehow able to mesh with one another and create something orgasmic to the ear. The A to Z list of influence drapes obviously over the fret board of Hague’s Paul Reed Smith Twentyfour Custom like that of an oversized doily brandishing several cigarette burns, one looking like it almost got out of control, that your grandmother probably used to shroud her night stand. His fingers grace the strings effortlessly, but with sheer determination to arrive at their appropriate destination along the neck, all the while working together forming a pleasing or consistent whole, harmoniously.
Pitch and intonation are two, among many, of the qualities that boast all the required or desirable elements of perfection. His five o’clock shadow from last week proves his dedication to the holy matrimony between man and his workhorse, and the obligation to bestow the ever ringing sound of waves and vibrations penetrating its listeners ear drums bellowing from the quad of magnets, each twelve inch in diameter. Our ears bleed tears of jubilation as a plethora of peace and well wishes travel through them at the speed of sound. I think that I should practice more, that I should leave the concert at once to return home and exhaust my chops and provoke blood to flow from my finger tips on my fretting hand. In due time, my time is due.
I busily abolish the thought of leaving at such an inopportune time and bring my focus back to the most important gem of the evening. Every beer I try to put down becomes warm towards the last couple ounces because my mind is attentively affixed to the stage. Hague nods a few bars ere ending an ego threatening solo to allow the rest of the band ample time to prepare to execute the outré outro with haste, an execution that surely invokes tears to glaze over my eyes as if I were about to win the aural lottery with a Power Ball jackpot consisting of all the ecstasy contained within the witness of a first born child’s birth. A simple mess of chords, strings, amps, and other musical wares of indeterminate kind bind together and achieve their goal of the evening. Making people happy.
Pitch and intonation are two, among many, of the qualities that boast all the required or desirable elements of perfection. His five o’clock shadow from last week proves his dedication to the holy matrimony between man and his workhorse, and the obligation to bestow the ever ringing sound of waves and vibrations penetrating its listeners ear drums bellowing from the quad of magnets, each twelve inch in diameter. Our ears bleed tears of jubilation as a plethora of peace and well wishes travel through them at the speed of sound. I think that I should practice more, that I should leave the concert at once to return home and exhaust my chops and provoke blood to flow from my finger tips on my fretting hand. In due time, my time is due.
I busily abolish the thought of leaving at such an inopportune time and bring my focus back to the most important gem of the evening. Every beer I try to put down becomes warm towards the last couple ounces because my mind is attentively affixed to the stage. Hague nods a few bars ere ending an ego threatening solo to allow the rest of the band ample time to prepare to execute the outré outro with haste, an execution that surely invokes tears to glaze over my eyes as if I were about to win the aural lottery with a Power Ball jackpot consisting of all the ecstasy contained within the witness of a first born child’s birth. A simple mess of chords, strings, amps, and other musical wares of indeterminate kind bind together and achieve their goal of the evening. Making people happy.
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