Iron Gates (by Amber)

Iron Gates

They live behind iron gates,

Paying cold-hard cash to change their fate.

But deep inside they're filled with hate.

Hate for the common joe,

You know the one that no one knows.

But I don't feel sorry for him,

The ones I feel sorry for is them.

'Cause they're the ones who have it all,

But to get it they had to crawl.

Crawl upon their hands and knees,

Just like the so-called common sleeze.

Talking Vs. Singing

Ok, so I'm listening to a radio interview with Ray Davies (from the Kinks). The guys out promoting a new solo record, fine. Great. But this guy is barely understandable. He's British, so the accent is thick...but I've never heard an accent this thick before. It's like Keith Richards...but I know what Keith's problem is (too many drugs, plus he's dead). What's weird is, they keep playing old Kinks songs and stuff from the new album (which is sounds really good, by the way) and when this guy sings, he sings near perfect English! Now what's up with that? How can you sing and sound perfect, and when you talk sound like shit? Does this guy have to concentrate when he's singing? He plays guitar too, so damn...the guy must have a million thoughts going through his head when he performs...

Just a weird thing that's been bothering me.

Documenting a Dream: Part III

"Figure of Speech"

That's what I'm thinking about calling my novel. It's about a future, Orwellian society where most people live and die without seeing what we would call the natual world. A few patches of green remain, however and it's here that a hapless peon...a cog of the world's vast machinery has a life changing experiance. I won't say much more--except that a fantastical creature is unwittingly released by my protagonist. This "creature" causes havok...and just might free mankind from itself. If only the oppressive government doesn't stop it first.

I'd say my story is 40% 1984, 20% Farenheit 451, 10% Bladerunner, and 30% Dr. Seuss. A strange mix, I know. Now, I can some people saying "Jason, what kind of monster are we talking about here?" No monster. "FANTASTICAL CREATURE" the likes of which has never been before. Not Godzilla or something stupid. It doesn't eat anybody either...(I'll give you a hint...the monster is in the title). I also think this would have made a hell of a Twilight Zone episode (black and white Rod Serling Twilight Zone...no crappy color remakes).

Confused? I'm not, though I'm only about 30 pages into the story I'm far from finished (I'd say I'm 2/3 through the story's introduction). Have I mentioned that I'm writing this all out by hand? I must say, I think this is a better method for me (one I haven't done in years). It sucks that only one copy of my manuscript exists (it could get lost, stolen, or wet)...but I find the slower handwritting process to be much better because my mind doesn't out run my hands. Sometimes when I type, I leave out/omit huge chunks of things...or I skip or shorten what I write to keep up with my thought process. Ah, if I only had that machine from Stephen King's THE TOMMYKNOCKERS...the one the narrators wife had that processed her sleep thoughts into written pages...too bad the thing was sent from hellish aliens, huh?

Anyway, I'm doing a pretty good job balancing this project and my school work. Today was the last day of the week for the bulk of my courses...so I'm about to get a great stretch of writing done. At the rate I'm going, I could be finished with this entire thing by May! Cross your fingers...

Documenting a Dream: Part II

Well today is Tuesday, and I'm happy to report that I've cleared the first 20 pages of my new project. I have existed to call what I'm working on a novel, but at this point I can't really think of anything else to call it. The joy of writing is in full effect. The spontaneity is almost magical as this thing seems to write itself before my very eyes. That's always a good sign. I've had times when my writing was very forced and labor-intensive. I hate that, and I usually hate the finished product.

There are so many current event type things I'd love to blog about, but frankly this is just too exciting. I'm worried about my money situation right now. I need to be able to work on this thing of it to get done. As I've written in the past, I know if I even take a week off of this I could lose the drive (or whatever that spark is that's fueling me). My school for is still priority, but my free time is being devoted to this book. My girlfriend's sister is coming in from out of town this Friday, and I'm happy because other than a dinner (and maybe something else) I'm going to have the weekend alone to write. I feel a little gulity about feeling that way, but I can't really do any writing with my girl around (don't ask why...)

I have some really good news! One of my old teachers emailed me about publishing one of my short stories in another school's Literature Magazine. The story is called "The Disregarded." I guess submissions have been so low for the past two years that the magazine is in really bad shape. To re-engergize things my former teacher has decided to feature the works of alumni as well as current students. My story stayed with her and when it was time to call people for submissions she requested it specifically. This is a really big compliment. For one thing, that she would remember me is nice...but that she remembered not only the name but the plot of one of my stories is too fantastic. I guess it must have stuck with her! I'm not too optimistic about getting published in my current school's Lit Magazine (there was a lot of competition and I only submitted one poem because I didn't have any fiction short enough). I also entered a fiction contest, but I'm not holding my breath frankly. One of my English teachers read it and didn't seem very enuthisastic about it. Neither did my girlfriend.

Anyway, I'm really happy I'm going to be published again, regardless what school or where! Anything is better than nothing as I always like to say!

Documenting a Dream: Part I

I started my new project today. It was easy, but not as easy as I thought it was going to be (it never is). I went to my school's library, rented a quiet room (with a view) and got to work. I sat down and for two hours (until they closed) I wrote. I filled about eight pages of story and two pages of notes. They actually had to kick me out (the guy was like "fifteen more minutes! That's it!").

Beginnings, for me, are the hardest part--today I completed that most difficult task. Now the challenge is to continue writing. This weekend was a rare one, two freak things occured--I had little homework and my girlfriend was working. I find that if I don't strike while the iron is hot the iron hardens and I lose interest. I have to plow ahead in the coming months. That's right, I said months, because that's how long the drafting process is going to be. After that, I'm looking at a month or more of editing and revision. By then (June?) I may have a first complete draft. What I'll do with that is anyone's guess (but not something I'm thinking about or really care too much about right now).

I'm not the right person to judge my work. That said, I tend to hate everything I write. Today's work wasn't terrible, but it wasn't anything special, either. I'm not worried, however--the structure of my piece means the begining will be a bit rough. I hate genre writing, but that's not what I'm doing here. I can't say what it is I'm doing...I can't tell you what I'm doing just what I'm not doing....does that make sense?

I feel like I've been given a second chance. I think this may be my last chance to do this. I'm going to be out of school, and probably married sooner than I think. When my life evolves past this last gasp of young adulthood, into adulthood....I know I won't be able to write. This is me, living my dream. Wish me luck.

Hello Helter Skelter

A long, long time ago...back when I tried to be a creative person, I used to get some many ideas that I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd write twenty page stories back-to-back (concluded only because I was eager to start on the next project). Ah, but mine is a lazy muse it would seem. Rather than come by at a regular interval with her spores of inspiration, my muse comes by once or twice a year and dumps her whole bag of ideas onto my doorstep. She then rings the doorbell and runs away before I can open the door.

"Dear Jason, please take care of these ideas...they're all you're getting for awhile."

The last time I wrote anything (for myself) that was any good was over a year ago. Two summers ago, actually. My muse has been away for a long time. It's not all her fault, though. I was partly to blame. She came by once and I was drunk-on both alcohol and my own hubris-and decided to leave without dropping anything off. Then there's been the whole college thing...I've been sending her packages back (unopened) like those crappy CD's you get from ColombiaHouse. School's important to me, so much so that I'm wallowing in poverty rather than do the sensible thing (which would be to go part time and work full time). I didn't want my muse stopping by with soemthing that could distract me from studying (which, I know full well she often does).

Anyway, I let me guard down, and she crept into my English lit class this week. Now I knew it was her as she ran up to me. I tried to pusher her away. I tried to reason...

"But Leah wants me back on the paper....they want me back...I have school..."

It was no use, she got me. Not compeletly, though...but enough to fuck with me. So now I have this small little package, sitting in my lap. What do you think I did? What would you do? I thought "hey, this is really small...how bad could it be?"

I opened it. Inside I found the greatest thing my muse has ever given me. Now, if I tell you what it was...then it'd be your great idea, and not mine. Not that I'm worried, this idea (should it come to fruition) will not make me a single dime. Critics too, will hate it. The reading public will ignore it. People I read, Stephen King and John Grisham will scratch their heads or laugh at the utter failure of it. Laugh that someone would waste the time to try and capture a dream.

I'm not going to tell you the plot, because, Godwilling there won't be one. Okay, that's horseshit, of course there's a plot. But it's so minor to the whole thing that it's silly to think of my idea in terms of plot. Really, what I want to do is the exact opposite of that journalistic prison I almost let the people I love trap me into. Beacuse really, I was on the paper because my girlfriend and my parents wanted me to. They know, just as well as I do, that journalism is the only hope I have for making money doing what I love (and the only thing I'm good at).

My youth is turning into maturity. I realize for the first time, that I'm going to die. Suddenly, doing what will make everyone happy isn't so important. Writing a book, getting published isn't important. I don't want to die without creating something, something that means more than just words on a page. Something more than forced reviews of artsy fartsy, PAC, alumni-loving crap. I realize now that my past attempts at writing too, have been mostly wrong. Weak, watered down imitations of stuff I'd read. The saftey nets must be cast aside.

This thing I have inside me, that my annoyingly lazy (and unpredictable) muse has chucked my way isn't so much about plot as it is a sensory doodle. Does that make sense? Instead of writing about what someone else has done, I'm going to create art. Not a novel, or short story...art. But not stuffy, art gallery art. Or "Revolution 9" either. Somewhere in between a here and a there. Speaking of The Beatles (and why not? they're great), I'd say that if this thing were a Beatles record, it would be the White Album. The White Album is great because it's way too long, and too indulgent. It's colorful (sonically), while at the same time it's very obtuse and black and white. Paul managed to both, wink acknowledgement to the past ("Honey Pie") while at the same time he gave birth to heavy metal ("Helter Skelter").

So let me finish here. I'm going to the library, to bury myself, all alone amongst the stacks. I'm not taking my laptop...I don't need it. I'm taking a spiral notebook, an ink pen, and that box my muse gave me. I have some writing to do.

Man has gone too far...

I just read an article on the DrugeReport.com about Global Warming. The ice caps are melting way faster than we've been led to believe (Bush tried to silence a top NASA scientist about it). Basically, the gist of the article was this: if we don't act now, in 10 years the global temperature will be warmer than it's been in 500,000 years. How much warmer? Only a couple of degrees, but that will be enough to alter this planet so much that we will not recognize it. The ice caps will be gone and the sea levels will rise so much that earth (not the planet, but terra firma) will be in short supply.

Is all this real? It's so hard to believe, and yet it's not. This winter, there has been three snowfalls. Today it was 68 degrees. It's not even March yet. I was walking to the Metrolink station today and was caught up in a strange rain storm. I got to the platform and noticed that everyone was freaking out. I took out an earbud (I was listening to my iPod) and what did I hear? Sirens. Tornado sirens. Why am I hearing tornado sirens in the winter? Why does New Orleans no longer exist? Exactly. Shit is starting to change/happen.

I'm not a scientist, so I'm going to stop right here on the whole "Climate Change" and "Global Warming" soapbox. I am going to say this: mankind has gone too far. I look at the world I live in, and how I live in it...it's not right, it's not the way existence is supposed to be. Reams of paper get thrown out everyday, how much paper is there in the world if I, little old me, throw so much of it away everyday? How much paper can there ever be? Or oil, or anything else. We survive by working jobs that, often times, do not manufacture anything useful. Do you grow food? I don't. Do you make clothes? I don't. What do you do? You sit at a computer and punch buttons...how is that doing anything. When we die, what will any of this button mashing mean?

1,000 years ago...100 years ago...hell 10 years ago, the world was very different. There was less and that meant there was more. Does that make sense? Take a man from 1900, plant him in 2006--this man would be useless here, wouldn't he? And yet, the second the power goes out, suddenly this man would be quiet useful. He'd probably know how to make fire, kill animals for food, perhaps even grow edible plants. What can you do? Can you do any of these things? If the world ended, how quickly would we all die. I can use a computer, but I have no more knowledge on how their insides work (or the process by which they are made) than our friend from 1900. So, with that in mind, how does that make me "superior" to him? Mankind hasn't grown or evovled in many years (decades? centuries?) I suspect. We're all just standing on the shoulders of giants...the few imortal, genius people whose brillance flourish then fade away. The rest of us live within their shadow or hoisted atop their stinking corpse.

No, if you think you're any smarter or better than a man from 1900 or 1800 you are sadly mistaken. Rather than actually knowing things, people tend to float on the great intellectual ocean...instead of diving deep and actually posessing information. Our slippery grasp of reality means we're easily knocked from it. I worry about people. I worry about what's going to happen. We've taken to big a piece of the pie, now the bill is about to come...and we've accidentally left our wallet in our other pants.

Don't get me wrong, at one time mankind was doing great things. We were achieveing, progressing forward. In 1969, a man from Earth (not just from the United States) actually walked on the moon. Let me state this again: in 1969--a man--from Earth--WALKED ON THE MOON. In 2006 we're barely able to claw our way into orbit. Sure, we have more satellites than ever, but the world's greatest superpower is having a harder and harder time getting a person into space...let alone onto the Moon.

Now, I hear you saying "but the space program is a bad example. There are political, economic factors that have stunted it...sent it retreating back to it's pre-1969 glory." This is a sound argument, however these factors are the same ones that are causing manking as a whole to snapback like an overstreatched rubber band. I used to be a History major...let me tell you something really scary.

History is not a straight line. History shows us that civilization does not constantly progress. Time and time again we see the system collapse and mankind retreats. Imagine you have a time machine for a second. Go back to ancient Rome. Walk up to an average person...and tell him about Rome's fall...and the Middle Ages (Dark Ages) to come. Think he'll listen, or believe you? Hell, maybe Caesar will try to silence you a la George Bush. This realization sent me running out of the hallowed halls of history. Right now we think things are getting better and better and that it's always going to be like this...but that's not correct. Eventually, the opposite is going to happen. No one wants to live at the end of all things...but someone will be born on the last day of everything. How sad is that? That someday, on the last day there will ever be...a person's life will begin.

I'm glad I've had 20+ years of fun. I really am, because I think the good times are almost gone. I think this is the last years of Caesar. The final Golden Age of man. Our great, great grandchildren are going to look at our ruins and wonder. Wonder and wish--wish that it hadn't ended. They'll wonder what it was like to live in a world that was disposable and air conditioned. A planet that once had ice on it. With cities, now under the sea called London, New York. The lost island of Cuba.

These are dark thoughts. But really, what's more beautiful--a sunrise or a sunset? I'll take the sunest any day. There's a cetain extra bit of beauty that accompanys the sadness. I encourage everyone I know...anyone reading this to stare, and I mean stare, at the sun as it dips below the horizon. Drink in the last warming rays of man's supremecy and greatness. The coming nightfall will be long. And permenant.