Stop talking about me, damnit!
Mood:
Annoyed
No, not you, humble reader. Let me relate to you an anecdote:
My reading on Wednesday kicked up a cloud of antagonisms among the Temple University’s graduate fiction writers (I guess the poets are most open-minded and while not comfortable with my content are more accepting of different genres). Some of the fiction writers thought my reading was pornographic. Guilty as charged officer. And there are other words being slung around, notably “misogynistic” and “disgusting.” I’m not too concerned with any of these charges since I was not trying for high art or seductive qualities, I was aiming for audience deconstruction. If they have a problem with my readings then maybe they have problems with their own position as writers.
I do get upset over their dull narratives, but do I ever call for the censoring of boring, poorly written poems and narratives? Yes, I guess I do. Putting it country simple, I just don’t think the world needs another story about an 8-year old’s dealing with the death of his grandmother. If you’re going to tell me tales of suburban romance, how goddess-awful it is to be a 20-something and working at corporate job, or my-spouse-doesn’t-love-me-anymore stories, you had best be wagering something. What new ways can you tell the story? Without the added push of grinding the established order, I remain dis-satisfied.
It might have nice to present my views to the fiction workshop, but I would’ve only been arrogant and disdainful. How many of those fuckers have read and understood Burroughs, Bataille and Artaud? Not many.
To the observant and well-read reader of this column, the question must arise as to why I lash out so mightily against the poetic avant-garde, who also oppose to the bourgeois taste in art. I lash out because I am unconvinced that privileging form over content, or making the form=content is the way to strike at the heart of human complacency. The meaning of the words, the way they strike the reader when read, and the lushness of the writing are what lull the reader to a trance like state which then acts as the Trojan horse that permits entry of the subversive message. Words are tools.
And if you ask me, then I also think that art can be used to enact social change, but THIS IS NOT NECESSARILY THE GOAL OF ART. Art can change; art can influence, but must it? No, sometimes, it will only fill a gap or provide a brief interlude of order on an otherwise chaotic existence.
After all that ranting, what upsets me the most is the lack of intellectual support from my writing peers. These are supposedly liberal people grounded in a culturally liberal genre in a very liberal department of the school, but provide them with a few minutes of graphic violence and they’ve turned on me like a rabid pitbull. My would-be censors have always been other book store owners and other writers, whether it be at Temple University, Clarion, or in Las Vegas (don’t get me going on that one…). As if I were the problem with current literary culture.
I’m also upset that some people called me misogynistic, though I liked disgusting. These are people that I have had beer with, that I’ve had conversations with and whom I’ve called friends would entertain the thought that I hate women. I can’t deny that my relationships have been complicated, but a sexually overt behavior doesn’t make one woman-hater. If I kept tabs on my bedpost or if I glorified only my sexual encounters, then maybe. If I was proud of the ruinous nature of my relationships, then maybe, but besides money problems, then my biggest earthly concern is PRECISELY my relationship with women. I’m 30; pushing 31 and I’ve never even been engaged (thought I did put once a down payment on an engagement ring; she never knew and I returned the ring when the relationship went sour).
I shall now mount my high horse of righteous indignation and remind you that it was the Burroughs’, the Henry Miller’s, the Ginsburg’s and the Larry Flynt’s of the world that brought you freedom of speech. You don’t have to like me, but please don’t try to censor me.
WHY ARE THERE ESSENTS INSTEAD OF NOTHING?
My reading on Wednesday kicked up a cloud of antagonisms among the Temple University’s graduate fiction writers (I guess the poets are most open-minded and while not comfortable with my content are more accepting of different genres). Some of the fiction writers thought my reading was pornographic. Guilty as charged officer. And there are other words being slung around, notably “misogynistic” and “disgusting.” I’m not too concerned with any of these charges since I was not trying for high art or seductive qualities, I was aiming for audience deconstruction. If they have a problem with my readings then maybe they have problems with their own position as writers.
I do get upset over their dull narratives, but do I ever call for the censoring of boring, poorly written poems and narratives? Yes, I guess I do. Putting it country simple, I just don’t think the world needs another story about an 8-year old’s dealing with the death of his grandmother. If you’re going to tell me tales of suburban romance, how goddess-awful it is to be a 20-something and working at corporate job, or my-spouse-doesn’t-love-me-anymore stories, you had best be wagering something. What new ways can you tell the story? Without the added push of grinding the established order, I remain dis-satisfied.
It might have nice to present my views to the fiction workshop, but I would’ve only been arrogant and disdainful. How many of those fuckers have read and understood Burroughs, Bataille and Artaud? Not many.
To the observant and well-read reader of this column, the question must arise as to why I lash out so mightily against the poetic avant-garde, who also oppose to the bourgeois taste in art. I lash out because I am unconvinced that privileging form over content, or making the form=content is the way to strike at the heart of human complacency. The meaning of the words, the way they strike the reader when read, and the lushness of the writing are what lull the reader to a trance like state which then acts as the Trojan horse that permits entry of the subversive message. Words are tools.
And if you ask me, then I also think that art can be used to enact social change, but THIS IS NOT NECESSARILY THE GOAL OF ART. Art can change; art can influence, but must it? No, sometimes, it will only fill a gap or provide a brief interlude of order on an otherwise chaotic existence.
After all that ranting, what upsets me the most is the lack of intellectual support from my writing peers. These are supposedly liberal people grounded in a culturally liberal genre in a very liberal department of the school, but provide them with a few minutes of graphic violence and they’ve turned on me like a rabid pitbull. My would-be censors have always been other book store owners and other writers, whether it be at Temple University, Clarion, or in Las Vegas (don’t get me going on that one…). As if I were the problem with current literary culture.
I’m also upset that some people called me misogynistic, though I liked disgusting. These are people that I have had beer with, that I’ve had conversations with and whom I’ve called friends would entertain the thought that I hate women. I can’t deny that my relationships have been complicated, but a sexually overt behavior doesn’t make one woman-hater. If I kept tabs on my bedpost or if I glorified only my sexual encounters, then maybe. If I was proud of the ruinous nature of my relationships, then maybe, but besides money problems, then my biggest earthly concern is PRECISELY my relationship with women. I’m 30; pushing 31 and I’ve never even been engaged (thought I did put once a down payment on an engagement ring; she never knew and I returned the ring when the relationship went sour).
I shall now mount my high horse of righteous indignation and remind you that it was the Burroughs’, the Henry Miller’s, the Ginsburg’s and the Larry Flynt’s of the world that brought you freedom of speech. You don’t have to like me, but please don’t try to censor me.
WHY ARE THERE ESSENTS INSTEAD OF NOTHING?
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