You are here.
I am here.
I am writing this for you to
read. How do you like it so far? Not too interesting, eh? Well, you see,
there’s a very important theory behind this rather unorthodox way of beginning
a . . . of beginning a . . . of beginning this. You see, blah blah, blah and et
cetera ad infinitum. (Imagine a long-winded, deeply serious lecture, punctuated
with those very special words that immediately give you the impression the
speaker is indeed much more learned, articulate and insightful than you, humble
reader, could ever be.)
Excuse me for a minute, I have to
get something from the attic.
[Time passes.]
{Back
again.}
Thanks for waiting.
I had to go look for this book on
various schools of literary criticism, because I was going to look up a
suitable word to brandish in my discussion of just what in the hell it is I’m doing here.
But it seems I’ve brought down the wrong book. You see, I keep all my books on
literary criticism packed in boxes up in my attic. I find the chore of writing
more relaxing this way.
Anyway, the word I was looking
for was mimetic—an all-time favorite with those who would rather discuss
reading than read—but I’ve got the wrong book. Please excuse me for another
moment because I must take this book back to the attic, for in browsing through its index, I stumbled upon the entry: “Neo-Platonism,” and it’s making me
queasy. I’ll be right back.
[More time passes.]
{Back again.}
Sorry I took so long, but I
couldn’t find what I was looking for, and because I am a bit
obsessive-compulsive, I nearly got sucked into cleaning my carpets because the
steam cleaner is also in the attic, near my box of books on literary theory.
I do get distracted by the
ephemera of everyday life. In fact, I’ve spent the last few years on
preparations alone, laying the groundwork for some really serious and
incredibly important writing.
First, I had to buy a computer
because the writing machine I purchased shortly after the age of reptiles
required cranking by way of foot pedals. Then there was the moving. I had to
move to a more literary city where I was less likely to have neighbors who
rebuilt 55 Chevys in their garages late into the night. And you know what a
time-consuming task moving can be. It was. Only last week did I finally finish
decorating my den slash office. And then there were those photo albums I’d
always meant to organize. And so forth.
You get the idea.
So anyway, I was about to explain
that this rather freeform manner in which I am writing is actually based on my
experiences in graduate school. I learned that one can
invent a plausible literary theory for
anything. For example, Hamlet is really a dog afraid to bite his evil master.
Bad Hamlet! Bad, bad Hamlet!
It’s not
that I believe that traditional storytelling is that passé. I love a good story,
especially when it has the word “that” in it a lot. I myself have many ideas
for stories, like the one about how Mozart is reincarnated into the 1970s as a
slovenly piano player in a suburban steak house. He can play pretty well, but
this time around he attracts more flies than attention.
But the minute you (I) start
writing a story like that, you’re just (I’m just) chained to this traditional
structure of character and plot development and so on and so forth, until you
just think (I just think), “Why bother?” Because in the end, it’s just another
gimmicky story of the type that one sells to the movies (Make me an offer!). Where’s
the fun in that?
Huh?
[Insert interjection here.]
So if one (Don’t worry, I’m not
going to do this anymore, after this one last time.) does not engage in
storytelling, then what is the point? And there (here) we have arrived at the
crux of the issue (Sorry, I could not resist one last parenthetical. But then, you
had to know it was coming, didn’t you?).
Was it not some philosopher
employed by the Hallmark greeting card company who once wrote, “It’s not the
destination; it’s the journey.”? Or is this just an excuse to demonstrate the use
of punctuation outside quotation marks, since the question mark in question
would alter the original intention of the quoted material if placed within the
close-quote marks? (Take that you funky wagnalls.)
Which reminds me of a story:
Once upon a time,
there was a little brown mouse with tiny black eyes who was very, very hungry.
He was searching for something to eat in old Mr. Shimelplatzer’s house when he
happened upon a bottle of Minoxidil. Old Mr. Shimelplatzer was trying to grow
some new hair. The little brown mouse with the tiny black eyes pushed the
plastic bottle off the bathroom counter falling to the floor cap flying
contents oozing puddle.
The little brown
mouse with the tiny black eyes scampered over to the towel rack, lowered
himself paw-over-paw down the bath towel and tiptoed across the throw rug,
leaping over the bathroom scale to inspect the strange-smelling pool of liquid.
After the little brown mouse with the tiny black eyes licked it all up, he
awakened the next morning to find himself transformed into a super-steroid,
red-eyed, 23-foot monster mouse. He subsequently killed a lot of slow-moving senior citizens before being blown up with
microwave radiation by the National Guard.
Excuse me for just a moment.
[A brief interlude, passes.]
I had to open the door of my den slash office for Inky, my
swaybellied black cat who spends many long hours in the faded adobe-colored
recliner where I once spent many long hours writing something I called poetry.
Inky will not stop meowing at my door until I let her in, then she meows at me
for a minute or two before settling in on the seat of the well-worn recliner,
where I once spent many long hours writing something I called poetry.
Ah yes, sigh, those heady, ennui-filled days of youth. Now,
I sit wearily on this adjustable office chair and type assorted letters into
this computer that appear before me on this screen where they line up to become
words and sentences, where they all gather together to do this funny little
dance called, “Pretending To Matter.”
