Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Imperfection With Confidence
I have been writing again recently - see below - which is something I haven't really even tried to do in a few years and it feels pretty good. The catch is that I have often thought of myself as having more style than substance, generally speaking. To be honest, this 'style / substance' remark is my self-deprecating 'admission' whenever I meet someone new. You know the little catchy factoid that you drop out there with a casual taking-you-into-my-confidence tone. So it looks like I am so straight forward and sincere and shit. Well, some of that has been refined from multiple performances I now freely admit. And I feel a little better to get that out there. But it is, nevertheless, kind of true. What you see then is someone who gleefully plaigarizes himself whenever his poor memory can decant a vintage four star limmerick or tidy syllogism that brought the house down a week, a month, a year ago. But when pressed to deliver something real, honest, opinionated, spot together, a genuine human narrative, then I often resort to flambooshery.
Oops, there I go writing again! Woo hoo, look at me go! When I meant to simply lay out some groundrules for this here yarn I do spinning. I suppose I am going to keep writing while taking my visual clues from my photography, my reading, my conversations... lo, I'll even rip off the occasional plot device from blog comments if any are so bold to share them. And should you be so kind, one day you, too, might be thanked in the acknowledgements of a lulu.com, published-on-demand, first novella by Scrappy Jack Asburger, my nom de plume. I know, it sounds like Assburger. What is it with you... ha, ha... are you in like third grade?
Here's what you can do. Just toss off great names from your past. For example. I went to grade school with Cathy Tinglestead. I haven't seen her in thirty years but I will never forget that name. Or you could volunteer an embarrassing anecdote. Essentially, I am writing and just sort of letting fly... some things are imagined, there are the occasional glimpses into my psyche, my underbelly is present throughout and all of these faltering sources might manage to feather a cozy nest. But I remain open at this point. Still trying to determine direction, dramatic tension, hair color, automobile makes, etc. Meanwhile, my great gothic plotbird of prey is scouring the neighboring valleys hoping to see the glint of sun on a copperhead, the flash of a rabbits silver coat, when instantly all time will seize up, and the momentum of atavistic survival carries her down, rapidly, noiselessly, mercilessly towards the unsuspecting prey until this gentle suggestion of narrative's flesh is rent and splayed upon collision and as the resulting jerk rips our story from its life and lair, and as its spine is crushed by our lover's talons, then it will yield its last terrified shreak before submitting to shock and then nothing. Then it will begin its long journey aloft above home and the familiar and makes its way back to us where we might nourish ourselves on its memory. And record it for posterity!
What I mean to say is let me know what you think. As a photographer I am fairly confident in what I want to do, hope to do, and understand that I am not quite doing it most times. Your criticism of photos is welcomed and valid and I enjoy it also but my life does continue when someone doesn't like my work. Writing, on the other hand, is a less fluid enterprise for me and I am just feeling my way along, not sure what to keep and what to pare away. So, I would enjoy the input should you have something to offer.