Burning up the highway skyline
My friends are so intellectual.
No, not the pseudo-quasi types who like to exclaim, "Aha, man!" at a prismatic vision on a white wall then forge onwards to relate the tale of how natural element number 456 met with the princess of the Underworld. That's just too easy, it insults real Intellectuals everywhere and those like me, who stand beside / behind / in front (but looking back) aforementioned Intellectuals with the blankest looks on their faces.
These people take tremendous effort to even sound remotely smart, in a way that doesn't make them smarmy -- and that's a tough balancing act, like knowing why an orchid is called that, without waxing lyrical about all the testicles of mankind.
Whenever I venture into Intellectual mode (taking the pseudo-quasi route, of course), I meditate. Yes, that OHM OHM thing and the whole shebang. I drink Summit Clear, White Grape flavor, imagine the smell of Davidoff Cool Water wafting from me, along with the small of old money, and think of myself in a stark white room with pillows on the wall. That's how I do it. As you can see, it's a lot of work.
But my friends, they can't help it. They just can't. Literature flows from their fingertips, poetry from their earwax surplus, philosophies from the pus in their pimples. It's goddamned effortless.
Sometimes, I feel like what a blonde in go-go boots must feel, as she talks about her French tips, in a room full of, well . . . Atenistas. Oh, wait, BFA Creative Writing majors. Often, I feel like the shallowest person within a five-meter radius.
Fucktard.
*
"You're a nonfiction person. You can't do what I do."
A cold statement by the curly-haired fictionist to my right.
"And what is it that you do?"
"I write stories."
"Isn't nonfiction a story told, only the stuff really happened?"
"Where's the creativity in that? We create our own world . . . "
"Where's the courage in that? Hiding behind imaginative worlds."
"Who says we're hiding?"
"All work -- fiction included -- is biographical."
"Are you saying that the story about the girl who runs away to fight monsters is a true story?"
"Are you saying that the sense of inadequacy consuming that girl, making her run away from an abusive home to fight the only thing that exists that's more frightening than her family isn't true?"
Silence.
"How conceited of you to only write about yourself!"
"How plastic of you to do so and hide it behind make-believe!"
"That's not being plastic . . . That's creativity."
"If I wasn't creative, why would anyone in this godforsaken world even give a damn about a 21-year-old of a fuck?"
Silence.
"Sorry."
Pause.
"Me too."
"Then what do you have to say about poets?"
"They're all talented motherfuckers."
"Make a writer jealous, right?"
He nods.
END.
Apparently, this is just brainfart for Martin Villanueva.
No, not the pseudo-quasi types who like to exclaim, "Aha, man!" at a prismatic vision on a white wall then forge onwards to relate the tale of how natural element number 456 met with the princess of the Underworld. That's just too easy, it insults real Intellectuals everywhere and those like me, who stand beside / behind / in front (but looking back) aforementioned Intellectuals with the blankest looks on their faces.
These people take tremendous effort to even sound remotely smart, in a way that doesn't make them smarmy -- and that's a tough balancing act, like knowing why an orchid is called that, without waxing lyrical about all the testicles of mankind.
Whenever I venture into Intellectual mode (taking the pseudo-quasi route, of course), I meditate. Yes, that OHM OHM thing and the whole shebang. I drink Summit Clear, White Grape flavor, imagine the smell of Davidoff Cool Water wafting from me, along with the small of old money, and think of myself in a stark white room with pillows on the wall. That's how I do it. As you can see, it's a lot of work.
But my friends, they can't help it. They just can't. Literature flows from their fingertips, poetry from their earwax surplus, philosophies from the pus in their pimples. It's goddamned effortless.
Sometimes, I feel like what a blonde in go-go boots must feel, as she talks about her French tips, in a room full of, well . . . Atenistas. Oh, wait, BFA Creative Writing majors. Often, I feel like the shallowest person within a five-meter radius.
Fucktard.
*
"You're a nonfiction person. You can't do what I do."
A cold statement by the curly-haired fictionist to my right.
"And what is it that you do?"
"I write stories."
"Isn't nonfiction a story told, only the stuff really happened?"
"Where's the creativity in that? We create our own world . . . "
"Where's the courage in that? Hiding behind imaginative worlds."
"Who says we're hiding?"
"All work -- fiction included -- is biographical."
"Are you saying that the story about the girl who runs away to fight monsters is a true story?"
"Are you saying that the sense of inadequacy consuming that girl, making her run away from an abusive home to fight the only thing that exists that's more frightening than her family isn't true?"
Silence.
"How conceited of you to only write about yourself!"
"How plastic of you to do so and hide it behind make-believe!"
"That's not being plastic . . . That's creativity."
"If I wasn't creative, why would anyone in this godforsaken world even give a damn about a 21-year-old of a fuck?"
Silence.
"Sorry."
Pause.
"Me too."
"Then what do you have to say about poets?"
"They're all talented motherfuckers."
"Make a writer jealous, right?"
He nods.
END.
Apparently, this is just brainfart for Martin Villanueva.
posted by Sasha Martinez at
8:00:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home