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Twisting all the bad things into good

Feb 24, 2013

BOOK of TANGENTS: It's A Simile About A Simian, Not A Metaphor About A Monkey, Ya Big Dumb Ape

    
One of my greatest pleasures in writing has come from the thought that perhaps my work might annoy someone of comfortably pretentious position. Then comes the saddening realization that such people rarely read. 
 John Kenneth Galbraith


     
   2/24/13

       Early this Sunday morning, around 5am, or as I call it, "magic hour", I realized I had just went off on what is by far the worst tangent I have ever gone off on.  

     I'll even go so far as to say it's probably, no, definitely, the most moronic and absurd thing I have ever written. But, if I told you a monkey had written it, you'd say that monkey was genius.

      I was trying to finish up a story about a stormy night in Philly last month, a story that I still haven't finished.




     Then, what I thought was impossible happened. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. I could see the sky getting darker and I could hear the rain falling harder on the canopy above me.

     I reminded myself that "This sucks, dude."

     There was no reason to jot that down in my notebook.

     I have a good memory when it comes to bad things better left forgotten. If I didn't, I'd have nothing to obsessively write about. If I couldn't write, whether obsessively or like a well balanced person who has self control enough to not take things to absurd extremes, well, I don't know what I'd do. Probably kill myself, or just start watching tv again, maybe play video games online, something to pass the time until I inevitably killed myself.


       Just kidding. 

       If I was ever going to kill myself, it would've been circa  Summer 2010, probably end of July, mid August maybe.. I don't know, I didn't really give it as much consideration as I probably should have. Glad I didn't though. Those were the worst days of my life, and until the last week or so, I was confident that the 2 books I had written about those miserable days and the hell of drug addiction and clinical depression might be hilarious enough to rope me an agent and a publisher fiending for something as novel as a memoir about a nobody.  
       
         At the time, it felt like I was writing the Great American Memoir, but when I recently read the early chapters of the book I finished 1 year and 1 day earlier, I told myself that, just like that dark and stormy night I was hiding from, it sucked, dude.

      Sure, a few people liked it and were very complimentary in the beginning, but they soon lost interest when the novelty wore off, which I can totally understand. People have wives, husbands, kids, live-in stepmothers, mortgages.


      I have a blog, even though I'm still not sure whatever this is constitutes a "blog". "Blog". What a dumb word. Not so much when you see it written, but go ahead and say it out loud. "Blog". See? Phonetically, it sounds like a noise you'd hear echoing off your American Standard while you dry heave in it.

     When my dad asked me if I was still getting a lot of positive feedback on my blaaaahhhggg, I told him not like in the beginning, when I never bothered editing bad grammar, spell checking, or structuring the story so it was not one long paragraph.

      He asked why I thought people were not reading, or at least, not commenting, as much anymore, especially if what I assured him was true, that my writing had improved significantly.


     Pretty straightforward so far. 
     But, then, right about here, my shit went bananas. 
     B-A-N-A-N-A-S.
     Ooooh.
     Oooh.
     This my shit.
     This my shit.
         (x4) 
 

     So, I said, "The way I see it, I'm like some monkey with a typewriter."

      Even without a question posed, it was clear by my dad's silence that he was not seeing how his son and a simian fit into the same simile.
     
     I explained myself: "I think most people who read the first few chapters were probably just surprised that some stoner from their Honors English Class could actually write complete sentences. Like, if I saw a monkey who was able to write or type "c0c0 sADD", I'd be pretty damn impressed. But after about 2 weeks of this monkey typing business, Monkey would gain a little confidence, start believing no cage could hold him, getting all poetic and shit, trying to be profound, going off on philosophical tangents like, "I have found the innerworkings of monkey and man not to be mirror images per se, but their resemblance of resolve is considerably closer than even Darwin had hypothesized. It is my conclusion that men of conscience, just like monkeys,will find that if they can sit down to write in reflection of themselves as if they were seeing from the outside, a monkey they've never met before, at their worst, and they may momentarily  forget they are the same monkey, but by the time they stand up, their minds will be free from confusion of identity, and held in their paws, the documentation that if it were to be shared, would allow other monkeys to see one of their own at their best, and at their worst, at the same time. So to man and monkey alike, I say, 'Write your wrongs, right your wrongs. Write your life, right your life'."

     I'd be like, "Whatever. If it makes you happy, keep it up, my main monkey. I'm just not as interested in your sins and yourself as you are yourself. But if you ever get published, send me a free autographed copy. I'm not gonna read it, I've got better things to do than read a mad monkey's memoir, but I hope my request for a free copy feigns my interest about your 500 page epic of a book about your 5 whole days in the South County Zoo. If nothing else, I'll lend it to a friend after I tell them "I never met this monkey in person, but here's a book he wrote that you can borrow and keep, or maybe put it under that short leg on your off kilter kitchen table so it stops wobbling. Or you can read it if you don't have enough of your own problems that you wanna read about some monkey dick's depression, addiction, and psychosis. Yeah, the only thing remotely funny about it is that Monkey is still delusional enough to see his tragedy as a comedy, or a melodramedy or whatever he came up with as a name for his very own personal genre. But who knows? You're a reader, and a psycho, and an animal lover, maybe you'll like it. You know me, I love my reality tv and my porn."

       
     Damn, Monkey just went off on an orangutangent.
     Monkey is so clever, he just makes up words sometimes.
     But that's more entertaining than when he used to throw shit against the wall, and whatever stuck, he called "art".


       

     Yeah. "WTF?" is exactly what I asked myself when I read what I had written on autopilot. I figured after 14 hours of writing, and however many minutes of the last"magic hour" had been wasted on this monkey business, it was probably a good time to give my monkey mind a rest, so I took my monkey ass to bed.

1 comment:

  1. read it & I like the tangents ~ you're my favorite delusional monkey ass!

    ReplyDelete

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