Missing the Bus (Part 3)
April 25th 2009 23:15
Britney? Amy? Paris?
Forget the bag lady for a moment. What was I, the main character in my auteuristic masterpiece doing at the bus stop?
It was a backstory question I had to answer before proceeding. It was beginning to look like one more screenplay I had to scrap and start all over again.
I had to create a persona for myself.
I liked the idea of being a Gen-Y hate-child. A product of my clueless generation. Intelligent but dumb as. Claiming my own intellect as the anti-God. Claiming my own intellect as proof of no God. Multiple gods but no God. Searching for answers to shove down other people’s throats, and dismissing questions as emotionally-retarded baggage for the weak-minded. Criticising Tom Cruise’s acting while using my auditing mind machine to Breville a toasted beetroot sandwich at 2am. Taking philosophies and theories from here, there, and everywhere, and even some places people didn’t know existed beyond everywhere, and forming my own mind into the certainty of chaotic confusion, whereby I could relate to my peers, and we could discuss our commonalities of total disagreement with anything and everything outside our own heads at any particular time, due to the ever changing nature of what is and what isn’t. Nothing fixed. Yet wondering how the rental flat doesn’t collapse onto my leftover kebab sauce on the pizza box of life. Change itself was a butterfly’s short life reborn as maggot flesh in the wet, juicy fruit of modern life left out in a humid place warmed globally with ozone scars and rising water marks to identify itself at an ATM through fruit iridology, and the flash of a short-life cut short camera blast. Seeing my own life in nano-seconds as meaningful meaninglessness. True Kodak enlightenment. White noise in the multi-coloured kaleidoscope of a blind white cat’s vision. I was arguing for the sake of being disagreeable. Even with myself. Justifying my own contradictions by changing my mind each few moments. What I believed a few seconds ago, I no longer believe, therefore I haven’t contradicted myself at all. Dreaming of celebrity status. Of being on television, moving onto a singing career via mime, then having my own fashion label, and buying properties all over the world. Living life like some miraculous train – rebuilt and reinvented after each wreck - each crash. A reincarnation train. With my steam-whistle head about to explode from never having a quiet railroad to travel along. Just the clang clang clang of the noises constantly in the unlevel crossing of the brainwaves between my ears and my neurons. An i-Pod train. Choo choo! All aboard the www. Let’s connect the dots and leave the train tracks to loop through the earlobes like body piercing instruments of Gothic proportions. Tattooing my own brain with music turned visual. Non-permanent tattooes and scar tissues where my brain used to be. Trying to block out non MTV images of my Baby-Boomer parents and black-white-and-blue tv images of my hippy love-in grandparents playing the xylophone with their teeth and reminiscing about Hendrix. Blocking all memory of blood relations out with synthetic drugs, synthetic music, and stream of consciousness writing whilst in a comatose state, via dream-voice translation technology. Writing in my sleep. Writing during overdose spasms, to make connections with other cyber sleepers. Learning the power of words like zzz. Texting taking over the world of language. Deconstructing that which had never been constructed, just thought about esoterically during slow-eye-movement. Writing hate anthems, and tapping into the collective web consciousness of an information super-highway littered with car-less people. Driving their own vehicles of reinvention of self. Forgetting to concentrate. Short attention spans leading to more crashes than bad ISPs.
And so, there I was getting a handle on my character through backstory. Now I had to work out the finer details. What would I wear?
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Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Comment by Mistersmith
MRS SMITH
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SISTERS IN CRIME
Comment by Mistersmith
MRS SMITH
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SISTERS IN CRIME
Ruby really is a pain in the arse. I'm glad you point out how misguided her assaults are.
She wouldn't know what writing was if it jumped up and bit her in the arse.
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
A: Depends on who's asking.
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Fink was always interrupting the "common man" to rave about the "common man".
Replace "common man" with anything raving writers rave about, I reckon.
Comment by Damo
I have the same same theory for writing.
But who am I to say? I do not parade my credentials on line as if that pissing contest is of any substance.
Comment by Mistersmith
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I guess it's about whatever is in people's minds at the time of reading. Seems to be the case.
And yes, Munt's main problem with Fink was he never listened. ( "Barton I could tell you some stories." "I know Charlie [insert rant ...
And yes, rave writing is a good term. I'll just continue to rave write about my bag lady until I either find something worthy of developing beyond an instant/disposable blog or I'll drop it and do something else.
Comment by Damo
Comment by Mistersmith
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Comment by Damo
In the Horse in Melbourne they have a video screen behind the urinal. Once they had a video of an animated lion trying to bite you. Very distracting.
Comment by Mistersmith
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Comment by Damo
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MRS SMITH
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Comment by MrsSmith