Houses Are Where People Live

So economic ruin is upon our nation (ie. the USA, but most other nations, too). And the problem is that our economy is basically illusory. I am hopeful that people will cease to view houses as investments are start viewing them again as a place in which to live. There was a time you'd burn a man's house when he died, to kind of honor him and symbolize that he's no longer among the world of the living. "He don't live here no more." Actually, I'm not sure this was regularly practiced at any time in history, but maybe it should have been.

On top of the home mortgage crisis, we should become aware that the economy (goods and services traded and rendered) and the shadow economy (pieces of paper that give people shares of imagined revenue from companies, sometimes called the Stock Market) aren't working very well together. To put the point on it: a company can be entirely viable, earning a profit by supplying goods/services, but not experiencing enough GROWTH to keep the shareholders happy. And so it gets sold, or dissolved, even though the economy was doing just fine as it was. In this way, I'm anti-capitalism, even though I'm 100% pro-free markets. The problem is that exponential GROWTH can't continue indefinitely. You don't have to be an economist to understand that. Sooner or later you just have to settle for making a living. And this is why we need to find a way to bring the focus away from corporations and back to companies. Companies making things, do stuff. Corporations inefficiently reap the benefits of the operation of companies, buy and sell companies, close them down after they've used them up.

Anyway, enough rambling for today. I'll post some more fiction in the next day or two.

Exciting Blue Collar Adventures

I work a blue collar job for numerous reasons, but most practically because I am prone to arrogance, and a job connected with any measurable status would turn me into a living dildo.

My current self-made prison is the produce department of a supermarket. My shift begins at 4 AM, which helps me avoid having any sort of normal social life. It gives me plenty of time to be a starving artist, plenty of opportunities to starve. Though I do enjoy cooking for myself. Problem is my counter space is so limited that it deters any elaborate meal preparations. It is rare that I have more than an entree. I try to create dishes that incorporate many things together so my meals will be more balanced.

At my job I mainly think all day about writing fiction (sometimes also about writing music), though sometimes I think about woman and loneliness. Then I look at my married coworkers and I am again glad to be unattached. Most of my time is spent engrossed in my own thoughts and I only appreciate the truly annoying or the truly absurd in the external world of the work place.

Chances are, if you are a reasonable shopper, I never notice you. If you are obnoxious, bullheaded, ignorant of the world, I probably remember you quite well.

On the more positive side, we receive produce from many different sources, so occasionally we get interesting boxes. The other morning we received a particularly notable brand of cabbage, and after putting out the cabbage, I cut from the side of the box these two phrases: God Loves You and Chucky Love You. (Note: Chucky Love You is also written in Spanish, Korean and Japanese.) I then placed the cardboard bearing these words of encouragement atop our white board. I don't know if anyone else was inspired by this brave act on my part.

We all must do our part.

Bad Days (Extended)

I.

Shards of the children's bones in his teeth, he attempted to claw his way from the sewer, but the walls were too slippery to find a hold. He kept coming back with fistfuls of slime. With nothing else to do, he scraped his palms as clean as he could on the rim of his bucket, allowing the filth to sluggishly drip inside it. He couldn’t remember why he had not brought a ladder, except that they are just too large to carry on one’s person, especially if you’ve got a girl under your left arm and a boy under your right. The candles guttered; he was nearly completely engulfed in darkness. The light of the sun was blinding as he attempted to stare up at the hole to the surface some two stories up. He tried again to climb the wall, to get his footing in the brickwork. His soles skidded back to the floor, his ankles absorbing the impact.

He looked around at the rats, the bones, the scum, the black water, or what little he could really see of them in the diminishing light. “This is the last time I take my lunch in a fucking sewer.”

II.

Kids with air rifles had taken over the Capitol, so he smoked a cigarette angrily in the farthest minaret. If he could dampen his handkerchief, he thought it might be possible to send tiny smoke signals to the elderly who still held most of the office buildings on the adjacent block. By the time he'd hacked up enough phlegm and spittle, his cigarette had burned down to the filter. Reaching into his coat pocket, he realized his pack was empty. He wondered why he had bothered to put an empty pack back in his pocket. He flipped the lid and looked inside. There was a lick-and-stick tattoo of a circus seal inside.

They must be watching me right now, he thought, and then blacked out from concussion.

III.

She waited in the filthy diner on 4th. There was no more berry cobbler. She cried so hard that the owner asked her to leave. When she got into the streets, she could see them coming toward her at a quickened pace. The look on their faces like starving hounds. They did not care if she was not berry flavored. They hit her with Tonkas and with Wiffle bats. After a matter of moments, she crumpled upon herself and they forced her into the open manhole, into the sewer below, where it was rumored that cannibals still hid who had not received notice of the changes made on the surface.

She barely recovered consciousness before her clothes were being ripped off her and fashioned into a rope of some kind...

For more like this - Pan-Weirdism Community

What Have I Got in My Pocketses?

I promise you, things are really turning around.

Egypt and Tunisia are on their way to becoming more democratic than the USA. Libya is on its way to being powder keg for WWIII. The US is on its way to becoming a third world hellhole (and aren't I glad I don't have a Government job now?). Fates are really turning around.

And I've got some really solid ideas for a short story collection that could put my cozily at the bottom of the sellers list. See, short stories are not very popular - at least, not when compared to novels. In this day and age it's sort of paradoxical. People are very busy and have less time, so short stories would seem an easy option. But people's lives are also pointless and meaningless, so novels offer a deeper escape, full immersion. ("Full Penetration" you might say, once you've read my [proposed] short story collection.) I remain a man committed, at least in the short term (the next year at least, the remainder of my life at most), to the short story. As I've commented on other men's blogs, I rarely have read a perfect or mind-blowing novel, but I have read dozens of perfect or mind-blowing short stories. I will produce many shorts even if it means I wallow in obscurity doing so. (A promising note: writing only short fiction works for Kelly Link.)

But the unpopularity of short stories is not the only commercial obstacle to my success. Yes, there's my race of course, but this isn't about the white man holding down the white man. My writing is failing to cement itself in a solid marketing category. This is both good and bad. Good because there seems to be a demand for this sort of weird, interstitial fiction and it leaves me more flexible in terms of branding. Bad because its harder to find a convenient conduit to channel my work to those who would really dig it. There's not a good word for the writing that am I am currently doing, but I am not alone in the style. You know those fellows who combine elements of mainstream and genre fiction with the brush of the surrealist/irrealist/absurdist. Bizarro has attempted to provide a label for the 'movement,' though I think Bizarro has failed to encompass all aspects of the weird. Plainly put, Bizarro attempts to be the literary equivalent of the Cult Movie Section of the video store, but makes no real distinction between the weirdness of Eraserhead and the weirdness of Surf Nazis Must Die. For me this is a problem because I don't think I have a Surf Nazi appeal in my writing, and that seems to be more and more the direction their movement leans. See Mellick's Zombies and Shit or Donihe's Night of the Assholes for more on this point. (If you are interested in a more general sort of weirdness check out the Dreamwidth community I've started with Mr. Nihil - Pan-Weirdism.)

I suppose I should also mention my lack of discipline. Were I to work harder at planning, revision and self-editing I would also stand a better chance of being published sooner, by bigger publishers willing to take greater risks on a newcomer. But that's like something way out of my control, man. Give me a break.

Now, if you'll excuse me, 5 hours of Horatio Hornblower isn't quite enough for one day. Adieu.

Weird Fiction Finds (Vol. 1)

I'm pretty much stealing this directly from Jeff VanderMeer, but it's hardly such a revolutionary idea as can be owned by any one man. Here are some books that I have found on my journeys, as are worth being pointed out to connoisseurs of weird fiction, old Sci-Fi/Fantasy cover art, etc.

The Gray Prince by Jack Vance. Awesome cover art. And get this: the cover advertises it as "A Fantasy Epic" while the title page declares it is "A Science Fiction Novel." Science-Fantasy is sort of my interest right now as I develop my space opera, so I picked this one up at Harper Ferry Books.

The Weird Gathering & Other Tales edited by Ronald Curran. Also found this one at Harpers Ferry Books. Another one with great cover art, which is the only thing that caught my eye about. The collection is purportedly intended to examine social attitudes surrounding female practitioners of magic and sorcery, and is ostensibly composed of only tales published in the first half of the 19th Century. Unfortunately, as I flip through it, I see a LOT of verse, which is a big turn off, but titles such as "The Witch Dance on the Brocken" turn me back on.

Harvest of Fear (Formerly FRIGHT) edited by Charles M. Collins. A collection of old (some as old as 18th century) horror tales. I got this for 10 cents at a church rummage sale. An incredible buy. Though I hadn't heard of most of the authors when I purchased this, the exception being H. P. Lovecraft whose "The Horror at Red Hook" is included, it has introduced me to E. T. A. Hoffman, L. P. Hartley, and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, amongst others.

Pulp Fiction: My Space Opera and the Return of Marlowe and Winston

Space Opera

I've always wanted to write a space opera ever since I was a wee lad who wished he could get a hold of some old Buck Rogers stories and the Flash Gordon serials. In the late 80s in Carroll County, MD, this just wasn't going to happen. The cultural imaginations of space travel before people had even been to the Moon was simply fascinating to me. Now I'm a grown man and I have almost limitless fodder from the early years of SF to wet my whistle. It's about time I create something familiar enough to satisfy that child-like urge for unreasonable adventure, yet original enough to make me feel I'm not completely wasting my time/talents. I mean, I'm not writing for the pulps. But that's mainly because the pulps don't exist anymore.

I am going to write a series of space opera shorts that tie into a potential trilogy of novels.

My selling point for the story world is this: If Jack London, H.P Lovecraft and Douglas Adams collaborated on Star Wars. But just like Seinfeld wasn't actually about nothing, this tag line does very little communicate my aims for the series. I'll be mixing in classic concepts, like a sassy female android for comic relief and diabolical Astrodemons from a distant galaxy, with more modern ones, like a mind-corrupting space metal called carasium (colloquially "crazium") and corporate control of worlds which are ostensibly Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune in the distant future. I will combine post-apocalyptic and dying earth tropes with steampunk aesthetics, but never forgetting the retrofuturist dogma that we can defeat the alien menace with our human heart and ingenuity. There will be some pirate story and Star Trek in there, too.

I hope I can manage to sell these stories to some major magazines. But I'll be doing so under the pen name C. S. Nightingale. (I may also do some fantasy adventure tales under the anagram Chang Lei Tsing.) I find this distinction pragmatic because G. Arthur Brown will be know for his Slipstream, Bizarro, Quasi-Literary Absurdism/Irrealism/Surrealism. Anything less 'artistic' will be assigned an alias. Word up.

Marlowe and Winston

I had an idea about two years ago to start up a pulpy short story serial about supernatural gangsters vying for control of a near-future metropolis to prevent/bring about the end of mankind. I had posted my early drafts of about nine episodes on my blog at Myspace, each imperfectly rendered in a short amount of time with minimal editing or thought put into cohesion with the overarching plot. I wanted to bring in an illustrator to do a plate for each episode. I couldn't find anyone willing to do artwork for me. As any hero would, I abandoned the stories a few months later like thalidomide babies.

But now they are back from the grave.

I'll be reworking my original ideas into some short stories, each composed of scenes that happen non-sequentially, giving glimpses of about three different timelines (let's call them Past, Present and Yet to Come).

What's it all about, G.? Marlowe is the young, cocky new recruit (or so it would seem). Winston is the seasoned but disillusioned mentor guiding Marlowe toward success, while all the time knowing it has been prophesied that Marlowe will be his undoing. The two are agents of forces known only as the Thanes, who oppose the enigmatic Boyars, otherworldly entities who wish to destroy the City. Mostly, they run around killing other agents and minor demons and undead, while struggling to stay out of the greater conflict that is mounting. But gradually, they are drawn toward the final, inescapable showdown.

It's gonna be rad, I swear.

New Story at The New Absurdist

A slightly modified version of a writing exercise I had to do in my college Creative Writing course. "Eudora Welty vs. The Burnvictim." I submitted it over at the New Absurdist because 1) I don't think anyone will give me money for it and 2) it is a neat site for absurd stuff. I guess I've always tended toward the absurd, even if I don't abide by the strictest definition of absurdism: a philosophy stating that the efforts of humanity to find inherent meaning in the universe will ultimately fail. My definition is a little more like this: 1a) a philosophy that most human convention is based upon meaningless assumptions or 1b) the tendency via writing or art to defy the probability matrix that is the human psyche. Absurdism is frequently hilarious, but it is also frequently horrific. Just check out a few stories at the New Absurdist to see what I mean. -