Author Topic: i'll be sharing  (Read 12195 times)

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jenkins

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #90 on: September 12, 2017, 02:27:18 AM »
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i'm truly sorry that you didn't finish reading OW'sTPODG, to which you must be referring. i assure you that i have heard other perspectives on that book. it is not necessary for you to further emphasize your dissatisfaction, which was clear to me from the beginning. again, sorry to hear. but thanks again for the kind words about the chapter i shared, you're the only person here who gave kind words in fact. i don't think knocking down other writing of mine assisted that matter, certainly it didn't for me, but it seems you wanted to let that out of you. that is life. it's okay.
Every perspective is an act of creation.

Jeremy Blackman

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #91 on: September 12, 2017, 10:02:41 AM »
+1
This was my favorite part:

Fact: contemporary humans who act as if they live in the future and know everything are hilarious because every day is ephemeral within eternity, and we do not know nearly everything.


This is great and reminded me of Battlestar Galactica in a fun way:

In the reality of humans living forever, some day one day today will have taken place upon a dead planet in the far-flung past. So how does today matter, among that many days? Like this: yesterday happened for today; today happens for tomorrow.
"Hunger is the purest sin"

jenkins

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #92 on: October 19, 2017, 09:02:27 PM »
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i straight quote polka in this chapter. the good part, of course. honestly i'm allowing myself to be lazy about formatting this post (it'll be formatted in the book of course) because who really is going to read it? well, polka probably, at least the part about him. i did italicize the opening line, as each chapter begins with an explanation about what the chapter will be. so first i'll include to one to the first chapter, which i hadn't yet re-inserted at the time i made my post. the book continues to both be very much about me and very much like me, and i suppose i can't guarantee the chapter will begin the way it does now, but i am showing some signs that maybe.

Quote
Chapter One

A perspective on the history and future of humans, zooming into existence within contemporary Los Angeles.

Quote
Chapter Eleven

Reflections culminate regarding personal emotions initiated at least two chapters ago; this illustrates my nature.


[Note to self] Consider this: Now means not the same thing as Forever—and what the fuck about Forever applies to me?

[Note to self] Tidy this philosophy: all I had was all I needed.

[Reminder to self] Ambrose Bierce’s definition of a Cynic within The Devil’s Dictionary—

   A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they    are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among    the Scythians of plucking out a cynic’s eyes to       improve his vision.

[Personal realization:] Oh, okay—reality can be fucking hilarious, like dark humor. And life means more than laughs, but at the very least life means some laughs.

[I’m] Building things up like this for a mysterious reason which feels necessary to me now (oh I remember why, as a method for introducing the concept of writing flowering in my mind during my years alive), headed toward mentioning: no rules on a page, like I’ve mentioned. No rules but customs and elaborations upon customs, and the dance between people and words. What I cared about was each writer’s dance—shake it up! Let loose! Feel free! Simply: when one dances there is the question of how one dances, anyone can dance how they want to dance, and that has been the essence of writing since Forever. This dance of mine is titled Stormy Fortune and here I was dancing in the rain, dancing in the rain, dancing in the goddamn rain—I’ve been dancing in the rain for some time, and I’ll keep dancing as Robyn mentioned I should, in that song of hers, “Dancing On My Own”.

Summary: my life was a tap dance atop reality, same as my life was a tap dance routine atop theses pages. I appreciated that I felt mostly alone while I lived and yet here in this book I was in full exhibition for a reader’s potential viewing pleasuring. You’re watching me dance and that’s golden because I’ll be dancing regardless. For the sake of the performance. For the sake of words. For the sake of everything, for my own sake, like I’ve been saying.

I adored that in art one was permitted to do anything, so everyone just wondered if that was a good idea. That was the best way to create art, I thought: From/Into Anything. This was my favorite type of character personality: someone capable of doing anything. I didn’t most relate to people who were always-good or always-bad, I most related to the always-wild.

As a writer I was a person who lived in total wonder, as writers always have and will—since what the fuck else would we do with all our wonder? Writers are people who know that people can create anything they want to create, anything can be imagined. Writing is just a matter words. The best form of written art was called literature, and I adored it, based on principle. And this was true too: everyone created their own art, no matter what one called it. As much as I desired the best of anything I desired everyone and everything.

At the time of this writing everyone was wired into the Internet, enabling awareness about what had already been written—and, life’s crucial topics, worthy of consideration, most everything had already been mentioned through writing, some of it best mentioned by the Greeks in Western culture, so it went, so it goes: anything could be believed, and as a writer I hoped to explore what writing could become, in terms of no one having had been like me, like this, this way, my way, I was the only I, and I was not better than the rest but I had idiosyncratic curiosities which I transmitted into my life and life perspective, shit which gripped me and spun my days, shit which tripped me out and allowed me to imagine myself being pulled within interior realms of reader/writerly human understanding, still believing/always believing that one learns of life from life—and this was the type of shit I liked reading about, seriously. I had first understood words as a way of learning about life—Stormy Fortune.

So that covers that and what was covered was how I see the things I mentioned.

That song, Drama Duo, “Forever’s Gone”—

Because you see
You see what you want to see
You believe what you want to believe

You see what you want to see
You believe what you want to believe
There’s no other way

Because I’m not afraid
to be alone
to be alone

Some people find life most comfortable within what has already been discovered and explained to them. Why was anything new needed when the past was perfect? All anyone ever missed was their childhood, anyway. In a June 5, 2017 article, producer Matt Tolmach was quoted by Hollywood Reporter as saying:

That is the conundrum of where we're living right now: People want what feels familiar, but they don't want it to be familiar.

After I shared the first chapter of Stormy Fortune with the person who made the cover to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, he told me—

This is probably my favorite passage that I’ve read from any of your work. Your writing, when it’s explicitly autobiographical, has a tendency toward being distracting, self-conscious, ironically opaque. But somehow you writing about any random thing outside yourself has a way of turning on all the lights and throwing open the curtains. The more you write about whatever random things, places, or concepts interest you at that moment in time, the more I feel like your writing is letting me know you.

[Quotes me.]

I mean, come on. That’s so, so good. That’s like your id just drafted its mission statement.

Then I felt prompted to confess to him my desire to move away from my purity, considering my earlier writing pure, and my new writing impure, as happens when a person transitions from being born to becoming an adult, which was the traditional experience of human life and the life of writers. Within the world of words my puberty was public. Human nature. How many of the books I’d written were exactly like the other? Zero. They all chat about the same shit, but each one was its own literary journal which grew from some idea I was having about myself and writing at the time when I wrote the book. I changed as a person of words goddamn right in front of people—and who cared? I cared.

At the time when this chapter was being written, it had been four months since Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray had been published. I used to be able to count on my friends and family as readers, but I was beginning to lose my number of friend and family readers, which I understood. I sometimes wondered of the number of people I lost purely from My Autobiography Is My Manifesto: Volume One, which I adored for its innocence, but: biased, and I could see how that book would seem as if perhaps a lapse in certain faculties related toward creating mature, professional forms of art. But, the criticisms I imagined (paranoid), most of them missed the feeling intended from the creation of an adult-children’s book, which I wanted to behave exactly as if an adult-child. Eff rules. No fear. Nothing but innocence and character. That book was me coming my closest toward creating some type of Venice Beach Self-Transformation book, powered by some interior engine, fashion by my own design.

Was I a person who wanted to be associated with some type of Venice Beach Self-Transformation book? Yes. Why not? I didn’t see the problem. That category is where I would place what became automanifest, a coming-of-age novelette written with poetic-type prose, a fine-tuned 5x8” version of My Autobiography Is My Manifesto: Volume One, though I published automanifest without capital letters, still behaving mostly like a child, knowing every adult rule I obeyed would only quiet my inner child (Fuck That, I felt at the time). I didn’t believe that rule following would be a proper presentation of my radical youth. Plus here’s this book too, radical self-forged ideologies from the first person. There are other books as well. There was all of me, the pure and the impure. All that’s ever really possible is everything, regarding the pigeonhole principle.

Adult Gummies by K. Karivalis would be published by Neon Burrito in November. I read its final draft; it was written by a person who lived in the same world as me, same time—different eyes. I treasured my reading experience. She had precision, which I always appreciated. I imagined her in a section of literature I invented and named Mellow Existentialism. Hers would be the first book published by someone unknown to me in the physical world. She was a memer—what happened was the creator of the Larry Angeles cover, Christina Gubala, messaged me that Karivalis was her favorite memer and was writing a book, mentioning that I should publish her. I was delighted to become able to publish Karivalis, feeling grateful for meeting her and having read Adult Gummies.

Here's a difference between things: if I were living in Ohio and I told you, "Hey, I'm living the dream," you'd say "Prove it" maybe. But I lived in Los Angeles, and one might begin by believing I was living the dream. But I was trying to prove that to myself. Like I’ve said: here life isn’t guaranteed to become your dream, but one’s dream can becomes one’s life for many. As far as I knew, the dream in fact lived in Hollywood Hills. Are not our dreams always above us? The glow of this dream was cast upon Hollywood, and some people lived within the glow. But there were all these other parts of this city which was massive and contained many neighborhoods. I lived in Mid-City West, in a section which was nothing exceptional as I mentioned in the beginning. Beverly Grove, who cared, I cared. I mentioned Ambrose Bierce said this in another way: each moment each person is only the person they are in that moment.

Always now, always forward, that was what the dark kids said to conquer their fears during the time this was being written. The days behind me were done, the days ahead of me remained. Had I lived half my life yet? As Cicero said in another way: life was terrible the whole way through, but when it was over it was over. What would my worries be when I was dead? Zero worries then. So as rough as my days could feel to me, they were all okay enough to be my days, and sometimes I would rather not worry, though sometimes I felt honest within some worries, and each of everything was a piece of the totality of my life.

Patience was a thing I kept my eyes on as I aged, sometimes looking away by accident. The more I learned the more I knew how much I didn’t know. I could become overwhelmed by how much there was to learn. Always the same me. Managing the line between a corporeal and spiritual world. Sometimes feeling as if everyone living their lives were getting in my way. As if everyone was an obstacle. Blaming other people for being obstacles. But I was learning as I aged that I gave each person a reality, and they gave me one back. Oh, I gave other people my reality. But by learning more of a person would I learn more of their reality, and only by learning of other realities could I learn more of my own, I knew, I felt, every day I had to remember that.

Mostly by reading. I moved to Los Angeles thinking of the world as massive, anything possible, learning through experience that the world and the city could turn against me, and time after time I felt as if nothing was possible. The world was larger and stranger than my large and strange dreams, I realized within Los angeles. A thing I held inside myself was a constant feeling of actually being utterly insignificant to existence: carried this within me, always, some small part ready to give this whole gig up. Sometimes that part of me was large and sometimes that part of me was small. While writing this book that part of me was small. A certain poem within Eudaimonia is probably the most depressing thing I’ve published.

[Note to self]: Light as a feather stiff as a board, but in terms of philosophy.

[A difference between me and a scientist]: For each human, the universal was personal.
Every perspective is an act of creation.

KJ

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #93 on: October 19, 2017, 09:36:45 PM »
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that's brilliant, and I'm actually getting inspired by your writing. thank you for sharing! i'll definitely check out some of your books. i like this part a lot:

What I cared about was each writer’s dance—shake it up! Let loose! Feel free! Simply: when one dances there is the question of how one dances, anyone can dance how they want to dance, and that has been the essence of writing since Forever. This dance of mine is titled Stormy Fortune and here I was dancing in the rain, dancing in the rain, dancing in the goddamn rain—I’ve been dancing in the rain for some time, and I’ll keep dancing as Robyn mentioned I should, in that song of hers, “Dancing On My Own”.

and while reading this, I had jack kerouac reading poems in the background, so I imagined this in his voice:
I didn’t most relate to people who were always-good or always-bad, I most related to the always-wild.

jenkins

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #94 on: October 19, 2017, 11:16:12 PM »
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Every perspective is an act of creation.

jenkins

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Re: i'll be sharing
« Reply #95 on: Yesterday at 02:28:24 AM »
+2
it's done btw. it's thirteen chapters, 130 pages, with like 1.4 spacing to get me the spine because why not. polka is listed in the credits. i'm ordering the proof tonight is what i mean by it's done.

Every perspective is an act of creation.

 

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