Windblown World.

I do really enjoy Kerouac's journals though. I read bits and pieces from this compilation called Windblown World for a report a couple years ago, and I keep meaning to pick up a copy so I can read the rest. This was part of one of his entries, and I adore it:

If all our greatest writers had been men who were constitutionally unhappy and constitutionally defeated in the world, we would have reason to despair of all knowledge and imagination, or if not that, despair of the utter lack of responsibility in imaginative talented men. But there are great writers who were true men in every sense -- Mark Twain is one. An uncomplaining man, a man who did not believe that literature is a constant tale of sorrow and nothing else. What does the gloomy sophomore write in his melodramatic tragedy? -- certainly not the whole truth. Mark Twain piloted steamboats, dug for silver in Nevada, roamed the West, 'roughed it', told jokes with other men, hunted, worked as foreign correspondent, newspaper editor, lecturer, and was a family man -- and yet, he did not have to sacrifice all that to his 'art,' he lived and wrote, he was a full man and a full artist, equally happy and whole as unhappy and unwhole, equally gregarious as he was lonely, equally, healthily, simply all things, and I believe he asked that his work not be compared to 'literature as it is known' because he wasn't doing 'that kind of thing at all.' He was just writing, not what he thought 'literature' demanded of him... Let's have another man who lives his life in the world, complete, and also writes great books.

It's easy to look at someone in retrospect like that, and idealize his life. I'm sure Twain wasn't as content with that constant struggle between being whole and unwhole, as Kerouac makes him seem. That's the thing though: it's such a terribly wonderful balancing act. Here's from another entry, which I also enjoy immensely:

The flesh has ceased to mean anything to me. What does it matter whether I gain the meager satisfactions of the penis or not? What has that foul, insuitable, lame worm to do with me? – even if it fills at the sight of a thigh? So no? The sun goes up, the sun goes down – so? The sea is golden; does that make me golden? does that make me salt
What’s me? Me is that which want to be amazed without natural cessation, in an eternity of ecstacy.
Rules? Laws? To me, what?
I am free to want what I want.
I want uninterrupted rapture. I believe this has been made manifest to me in dreams, and in music, and in the pages of Dostoevsky, in the lines of Shakespeare, in sexual joy, in drunkenness, in being high on tea. Why should I compromise with anything else or with the “Bourgeois” calm of the backyard lawn, The Edgar Guest concession wild, wild happiness.
On tea I have seen the light. In my youth I saw the light. In my childhood I bathed in the hints of light; I hankered, eager.
I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else? After all, I’m no cabbage, no carrot, no stem! a burning eye! a mind of fire! a broken goldenrod! a man! a woman! a SOUL!
Fuck the rest, I say, and PROCEED!
(This is what I want to write, not stylistic crap!)

Some of his phrases are just so perfect, I can't even stand it. The way that only a handful of commonplace words just seem to belong to each other, it's like they burst from some secreted, unreal place, and just flowed forward and came out together. And the imagery is so vivid, I can see this whole flash of color and light and darkness when I read these simple combinations of words, and it takes my breath away. That sounds so ridiculous, but it's true. It's exhilarating. I love it. It's so...raw. Perfect.

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Now playing: Wilco - Misunderstood

"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal."

T. S. Eliot was pretty awesome. If for no other reason than for having written my favorite poem ever, and for having said that. That said, I stole this quote from a friend's profile the other day:

"Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery--celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Goddard said: 'It's not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.'"

- Jim Jarmusch

I like that. First of all, because I happen to enjoy devouring everything he mentions--including the random conversation, bridges, architecture (cathedrals!), bodies of water, and light and shadows. Light is my favorite part of photography. And I love it when I find other people who "devour" everything he mentions too. They pursue what makes them curious, what interests them, what they question. Secondly, the demand for "original" work is intimidating and doesn't so much inspire me as nurture feelings of inadequacy. Third, it reminded me of David Lynch and how he says you need clarity to create.

I was reading an article today on a New York Times Online blog called "Proof." One contributory, a novelist named Brian McDonald, wrote a post entitled "Under the Literary Influence," about how he used to be addicted to booze-addled authors: Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Eugene O'Neill. McDonald loved reading their works and reading about their lives. To him, there something romantic about seeing Hunter S. Thompson catching fire when downing flaming shots of Bacardi 151, that made him see "a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and a pint of raw ether" instead.

Now, I like a lot of these writers. I love Fitzgerald's lyricism, Chandler's tone and distinct dime-novel style, Kerouac's poetry, O'Neill's tragedy. I've read a little Bukowski, which I thought was alright, though outrageous, and I tried to get through A Farewell to Arms but I just couldn't do it. I respect that these guys wrote some great stuff, and I understand that a lot of it wouldn't exist without all the drugs and alcohol they took. At the same time, I wouldn't be able to do that myself.

I guess it's my stubborn pride (me? proud?), but I wouldn't be okay with taking responsibility for something born of a substance-induced inspiration. I think I mentioned this in my "Clarity" post too. It'd feel wrong--it wouldn't feel authentic, to me. I'm finding more and more that I'm not very adept at expressing myself in any medium. I have problems when I try talking to people, and I feel like I'm not a particularly sophisticated or notable writer. Screenwriting is showing me that it's not a great medium for me, and I'm beyond awful with poetry. I can't paint or draw and I just can't seem to grasp the technical aspects of photography. But what stuff I do write and plot and paint and photograph is mine. I can take a little pride in that it's authentic, it's real, and it belongs to me--it's my own expression, my own view, my composition. It doesn't belong to an altered state of mind--to the alcohol I drank or the drugs I took or any other crutch.

At the same time, that strikes me as extremely self-righteous and silly. If I feel like I would have to give credit to psychotropic substances, then wouldn't I feel like I owe credit to all sources of inspiration--everything from which I steal? "Old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows." Wouldn't my work belong to all of that, to everything that contributed to it? In that sense, I enjoy the idea that something created is the sum of everything that inspired it, and that it wouldn't be what it is without one of those parts. "J. Alfred Prufrock" wouldn't be the same without the opening from Inferno or the allusions to Lazarus, Michelangelo, or Hamlet. The Great Gatsby wouldn't be what it is were Fitzgerald not so influenced by the old Roman story of Tremalchio. Again, though, to me, interpretation and reinterpretation are creation, and to steal from all over and use those thefts to assemble something else is, in a way, creation, too.

Plus, that's just the way that I feel about it. I don't have a problem with other people writing through hazes--clearly, since I love Fitzgerald and Kerouac--it's just a personal thing. I've gotten pretty decent at not judging others by my own standards for myself--most of the time.

...

I had more to say but I'm sticking it in a separate post because this one is already absurdly long and incoherent and lacks any semblance of unity whatsoever. It's just all been on my mind and I had to get it out before I forgot. This just took over two hours. Yikes. Way past sleep time now.

Edit 2/22/09: I split it up. This was just too damn long.

Watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip again.

One of the many things I really enjoy about Studio 60 is its serious treatment of comedy. Matthew Perry's character Matt Albie is the head writer of a sketch comedy show, and Aaron Sorkin's teleplays always emphasized the tight relationship between the writer and the actor, and the technical chops it takes to be funny. Both Matt and the actors have a rich understanding of the history of television comedy--of comedy in general--they smart, and they have frame of reference. I like that.

I started rewatching the series again tonight. Matt Albie rarely smiles. He's usually bitingly sarcastic and cynical, and his personal humor is very dry. The sketches are witty and sharp, often ironic, and a little wicked. He takes comedy seriously, and knows that writing funny stuff doesn't require him to be a funny person; frequently, it requires him to be bold and brave. He knows how to deconstruct something and find the joke in it; he understands the importance of timing and the proper placement of a punchline. The actors credit the writing--Matt puts the words in their mouths--and he credits their delivery. It's both, though, and it's also more than that.

"I don't want her to have to make it work. I want it to work when it's handed to her," he says of one sketch. From the writer's point of view, it shouldn't take any work on the actor's part for the sketch to be funny. It should just be funny. Yet, in order to simply work from the beginning, it has to be something the actor can deliver. It has to play to their strengths. I love that this show points that out. There's one arc that chronicles the relationship between Matt and the leading actress Harriet, and the story is that he was a staff writer for two years before she came to the show as a young unknown. They both became big at the same time--when he started writing sketches for her. He responded well to her comedic talents, her timing, her rhythms, and he was able to capture that in his writing. That's one of the reason's he's a good writer: he can identify an actor's strengths and tease them, nuance them, to get the best performances possible.

In that sense, I think it must be easier to write with a performer in mind. There's a romantic comedy that I particularly enjoy by Nancy Meyer called Something's Gotta Give, starring Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton. They play their roles perfectly and their chemistry is excellent. I think this is largely in part because the roles were written for them. Same with the new movie The Wrestler. The screenwriter, Robert Siegel, used to be an editor for The Onion. Almost as soon as he started writing, he had Mickey Rourke in mind for the lead, and could never imagine someone else in that role. After seeing it, I really can't see anyone else playing Randy "the Ram" the way Rourke did--I can't see anyone else in the role at all. I've heard rumors of a few other potentials that casting came up with when they thought they wouldn't be able to get Rourke (largely for insurance reasons)--Nicholas Cage, Bruce Willis--but neither of those would be anywhere close to right. No matter how good their performance was, it wouldn't have been remotely good enough to carry the film the way Rourke does.

On a separate note, Studio 60 always had great music. "Under Pressure". Paolo Nutini's "New Shoes". A cover of "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?". Excellent.

Also, I really like ginger ale.

Also, happy new year.

On Writing...and I don't mean the Stephen King memoirs.

At times I look at this thing and hate myself a little, for it, for various reasons. One of them is this:

I use this pretty much just as a space to jot down random thoughts, to work out on paper things that swim around my head til I can't see straight for all the extra noise. I like it because it's logged online and I'll never accidentally delete the file or forget to save it properly. I like it because I don't have to stress about the quality of writing that goes down here--it's just thoughts, and that's all.

Except that's not what it should be. I love finding simple ways of putting thoughts, of working them out in a way that makes sense to me. I like breaking down thoughts and putting them into words that everyone else can understand. And I like writing in a style that is more, "This is what I mean, I think, does it make sense to you?" than the "I am pretentiously condescending to explain this to you" vibe that I feel like my more formal writing tends to unintentionally convey. (I have a mortal fear of being pretentious. And of being seen as pretentious.) Yet, I've been cheating. I say that I'm trying to put my thoughts into writing that is easily accessible, and perhaps to some extent I am doing that, but at the same time, I'm just being lazy. I don't try to write well. I forgo all attempts at lyricism, which I love; I don't bother editing at all, really; I let myself ramble instead of trying to be concise. My poor diction betrays my weak vocabulary, and my imagery and figurative language? Practically nonexistent.

I like writing. I like to write. But I don't work at it. And I mean, while Kerouac's Belief and Technique for Modern Prose has its strong points, it doesn't work for a lot of people because, well, Kerouac was brilliant. He could sit down at a typewriter and just let the words flow from him like music. He could command language in a way most people can't. For most people, it takes hard work, dedication, and practice to become a strong writer and develop a personal style. I need to do that.

I also think being a great writer requires experience and exposure. It means reading more, and reading different forms and genres and styles and writers. It means listening to a wider variety of music (despite my post on pop music) and absorbing the rhythms and beats and cadences and melodies. It means looking at paintings and photographs and seeing the textures and angles and perceptions and lighting and color. It means reading and watching plays and hearing the dialogue and seeing the body language among the actors as they interact. It means watching films and seeing all of this combined with even more layers of personal interpretation on the audience's end. It means going out and being around people, talking to them, and Andy-Warhol style observing them and listening to them and being interested in them, because to me, humanity is the essence of writing and all other forms of expression.

Thus, my latest resolve is to try to improve and grow as a writer through these posts. Though I'm sure many of them will still end up being ramblings and musings of random thoughts, I am going to try to dedicate at least some time to doing that better. To being better.

Chris Noth by Ron Galotti

Sooo. Interview magazine is my latest obsession. Well, not obsession...preoccupation? I just read, finally, the June/July one celebrating Andy Warhol's 80th birthday (aside from, ya know, the fact that he's dead) and it was great. It had a lot I want to jot down notes about so I'm going to break it up. There was this short interview of Chris Noth (Mr. Big on Sex and the City) by the guy who inspired his SatC character, Ron Galotti. He's a former magazine publisher that once had a relationship with Candace Bushnell, the creator of SatC and the real-life Carrie Bradshaw. They had a lot to say on New York City, and I liked it.

RG: I miss on occasion, being smart, which New York provides--you know, that sensibility. But with the exclusion of that, I would say nothing else.
CN: Well, yeah. New York is pretty much commercialized to the point of no return...I came here as an actor in '78. It's a city for me to work in. But the excitement of New York was the varied and diverse eccentrics who were able to live there, and the different neighborhoods and the different kinds of places that they created. That's all been washed out...It's very suburban. The art scene really left, except in patches. It's all about a sort of a corporate sensibility, and it's squeezed out room for any other kind of sensibility--money talks, bullshit walks, I guess...I mean, I think we all have those stories of struggling in New York. But the fact of the matter is, we were able to do that. The city provided a cushion, so to speak, where we could struggle.
RG: Oh, no. None of us can do that anymore. Too expensive.
CN: What does that mean when you say that, though? That means that only certain kinds of people can be in the city. People pooh-pooh the idea that everything changes. But if you get so rarefied that you can't live in the city unless you're making a quarter-million dollars a year, then what does that mean?
RG: I don't think a quarter of a million is going to cut it!
CN: Hell. Shit.
...
RG: When I was a kid, we hitchhiked all over.
CN: Oh, Jesus Christ. I'd hitchhike to the Berkshires, across the country. It was a way of life... So when you say, "Well, you can't hitchhike anymore," what does that mean? It means it's a fearful environment where no one can trust to pick up a stranger, or a stranger can't trust to get in a car. I remember girls used to hitchhike. There's a great chapter [in On the Road] of Kerouac hitching south and west, and hopping trains, and experiencing life in America, and opening himself up to finding answers. That search I find lacking. That openness. Right now, we've got ourselves stuck in one thing, which is to make money as fast as we can--because it's hard to live in this world without it. Let's face it.

It's funny, because I was reading an article in Newsweek the other day by a recent college grad who lives with three or four other girls in the city, and she says it's completely feasible - you just have to realize that 1) you can't have that glamorous, high lifestyle that people kind of associate with living in New York, and 2) 80% of your paycheck is going to go to your rent. But, it's not impossible. I like that these guys, though, point out that it's not as easy as it once was, and even though it's possible, it's not the same. They make it seem like there's no room for that exploration, for residing in the city while searching and creating and experiencing. Unfortunately, I'm inclined to think they're right.

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Now playing: Aimee Mann - Save Me

Chew on this.

"The writer wants to be understood much more than he wants to be respected or praised or even loved. And that, perhaps, is what makes him different from others."
- Leo C. Rosten

"An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way."
- Charles Bukowski

"Why do some people write? Because they are too weak not to."
- Karl Kraus

I'll get back to this. Eventually. No time now.