Tag Archives: fiction

Chateau Marmont

A fine line is drawn between non-fiction and fiction, as you know, also pertains to daily life. We justify them with phrases like, utter honesty, or if heaven permitted, white lies. Through the thick haze of semantics, and this could be a purely opinionated observation, what is to be said of the truths that neither parties want to accept? Let alone, justify. Not knowing what I mean is sign alone, but an example would be, “I didn’t want to drink that cup, but the adamantly opinionated fellow, convincingly propagated the pleasure he were to receive if I were to drink it. (nothing specific, but take note that it will involve whiskey over whiskey, the only alcohol that doesn’t influence my urge to hasten physically delegated damage for unexplainable reasons.)

Excuse my malformed analogy, they sound good most of the time, but even I, am confused. In my case, the confusing stipulation was my contentment of being sorrowful. Even the sense of ad hoc justifications does not interrupt when I say that. I am content with it because I know I can not express myself adequately without the sour bits of life, I never had a sweet tooth, and can not translate the sweet things in life. At least, not in a self-actualizing manner, because anyone can conjure a justification, and for almost any reason. I don’t loathe the misery, in fact, I crave it as it is my only means of escape. The most efficient one at least. And it’s because of teeth, the one’s behind most frowns and most smiles, glossy and off-white.

In script, as you’re presented with, I write a certain way, but close friends of mine would never anticipate my particular combination’s of words, scribed in internet splurge format. There’s a good reason for that. Entity. Some of us are truly blessed with the gift of writing the way they speak, and others, speak louder only in one of the two formats. I am not blessed with speaking as well as I scribe; can not enunciated the words of my soul. Perhaps I’ve focused too much on the Arabic structure, but I doubt I’d have been who I am without the comfort I find in transcribing ocular nonsense. *hint*

In person, I’m bright, lively, and optimistic. Hard to believe? I agree entirely and allow an explanation [I’ve discovered moments ago.] In a physically organic fashion, I’ve never preferred to leave without sucking a smile out of a person, even  at my own expense. I’ve always believed being positive or negative around others is contagious, and only one of those options was beneficial. A smile from the most unwilling face shone warmer than any sunny day, and I craved that feeling like a junkie did for his next spell. In a physically organic fashion, of course.

On paper, my mentally organic expression, my art, my translation of the soul within, blah blah, etc; the joy is derived from the malice. It is masochistic, and contrived, though, I feel more can relate to that. A laugh and a smile are a quick and temporary fix, and it goes appreciated, however, the combination of words your eyes follow will map the path of your lament, or willingly, they dark and evil shit you don’t ever want to say out loud. I feel that way too. If there’s a passage I find so ‘everything-below-the-equator’ everything oriented in pessimism, EXCEPT wrong, chances are, I’ve given it my loyalty.

The only problem I have, and can identify with, is that a strong and committed person can easily lose their place when they walk the tightrope. I thought I had it down; love it all in person, hate it all on paper. I don’t. I was never as strong as I thought I was, I’ll find myself in sweaty situations deciding between vanilla and chocolate. I’m terrible with confrontation, but my confrontations occur when I’m certain on how wrong you are. Pretentious. Yes, seemingly, but this post allows no room for petty white lies. It is possible I may be undergoing an influx of  consciences, but if that’s all it took, isn’t it reason enough to take a second look? I want to keep writing as a sad bastard listening to Belle and Sebastian, but I find myself living as every hit song The Strokes have ever had. It’s 6:34 in the morning, maybe I should sleep on it.

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pen & the camera

The day begins with the birdsong of an alarm clock. You never recognize the tune immediately, and yet you can never realize it’s significance, if any. The sun shines, and the moon docks, from day to day, this happens. Assimilate into a prose or a pose that promotes the product. It’s always the product. My body in this place; my mind in it’s glory.

I write, and I can never stop writing, I may go a tad bit crazy here and there, but there aren’t many choices of complacency for people like me. I don’t have good looks and media-model measurements I can aspire to inspire. So I’ll stick with the cards my wits have up their sleeves. FICTION is a fancier version of NON-FICTION, and the honest truth is; non-fiction is plain, boring, and depressing. (Can we do anything about that? ha!)

Narcissistic-ally, I’ve begun writing a non-fiction novel of allegory and rhetoric in the tense of fiction, and no one would claim my story false because my story is in fact, true. (Well, nine-tenths of it is.) Under a pseudonym. A call to arms from one who has/had understood the septic end of human relations surmised by our youth. All in all, detrimental moments have led this pseudonym to where it may, and as I speak. Bullshit is one thing, but if bullshit is served with a side of philosophy, there is and will always be something to dribble.

You can write meaningless shit about terminal illnesses, or the way the head cheerleader preferred to slurp penis over slurpees to be in. You can write poetry after googling your research and explain where the hell the L train is going. Fiction is just a more exciting take on real life. It creates a story and enthusiasm for the weak, and pushes the meek outside into the sun. Diagnosing cancer and treating it in time, picking out the best cheap wine for the picnic of a lifetime, success stories from an eating disorder, alcoholism, pedophilia. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t take things lightly, then you’re taking them seriously, things matter. When every little thing matters down to the T, you’ll be an unhappy old bitch/bastard before you’ll know it.

Bullshit was never bullshit to me, it was a healthier justification in/to the accordance of life as opposed to the bland, truth seeking mentality as a journalist. A writer of fiction will always see more truth than a journalist. The difference in fictional writers and journalists is their philosophy and trivium. A journalist will never be allowed to refute this either. A journalist works on truth and facts, not opinions. Especially not their own. Can an Atheist be angry with God?

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