already hung up trying to be smart, researching mechanism of action for the influenza virus. not the goal here. sure we can do that from time to time, but we’re trying to get out of our own way. quit thinking so much. you don’t have to be so smart all the time. you really aren’t even that smart you know.
so what is this? well, some nerd, don’t know when, decided that november is “national novel writing month.” which nation? presumably the US, but not going to look that up. the website for NaNoWriMo is offensive to me. as though novel writing were a yearly vacation. not surprisingly, most of the participants in NaNoWriMo (hesitation over calling them “writers”…) write young adult fantasy. in one vlog documenting a woman’s NaNoWriMo, she described the premise of her novel as twins finding a room with seven doors, each door opening onto a different world, “it’d be like if one door opens onto Narnia, another door opens onto Hogwarts.” fantasy lands created by reactionary Tories. blehh.
but what we’re doing. originally seemed like maybe it’d be a worthwhile exercise, cranking out a 50,000 word novel in a month, just to finish something, practice not caring so much about how it gets done, just so long as does get done, feel? but I had that idea on november the first, and no idea to follow. well, maybe just write prose, incanting “this is a novel” over whatever comes to pass? no. there’s a novel to work on already. and stories too. what first appeared a productive exercise then revealed itself for what it was: a distraction.
the idea stuck though, like phlegm in sinuses still flushing out influenza virus. last year we set out to create a drone track every day through the month of december. but we’re a writer first, so why not do something similar, but with text? so we’re writing every day. ideally a total of 50,000 words. here on this blog. whatever it takes. reflections, screeds, explanations, games, exercises, prophecies, sermons, diary entries, raps, reviews, complaints, riffs, whatever else.
throat aches. hurts to swallow. it’s hard to get a KN95 properly sealed around my face, with my bony narrow nose, so when I’m sucking a Ricola, herbal exhale rushes through the gaps into my eyes. like skiing in the alps without goggles. ahhhhh. getting over the flu. early yesterday, I spent hours lying on the couch, doing nothing. sleeping maybe 25 minutes. I wondered how I would ever feel better again. do I wake up one morning rid of the headache, the bodily fatigues, the shivers and fever? do symptoms gradually fade away? will life always be this miserable? late morning I was sweating and hot. sat outside to read in the sun. slightly uncomfortable, but I forced myself. 10 pages. that’s 15 minutes. the sun, it’s good for you! (no idea why I think this.) and you know what? I was right! I went inside, showered, and realized, hey! I think I’m getting better! just like that! fever’s gone, less fatigue, I can practically skip around the house! the flu comes on and departs rapidly, unlike the plodding inevitability of a cold.
the mechanism of action for the influenza virus is thus: as everyone know, flu travels on droplets and aerosols expressed when someone talks, coughs, sneezes, or breathes. these particles can travel up to two meters before they fall onto some surface, where they can persist for some time, depending on the surface. when an influenza virus successfully lodges in the mucosa membrane of the upper respiratory tract, buddy, you’re fucked. that’s why you’re not supposed to touch your face. me, though, I fucking love rubbing my eyes. no greater physical, nonsexual pleasure. well maybe eating when really hungry. whatever. sometimes you have to make ridiculous claims for the rhetorical effect. look I don’t always speak super precisely, okay? fuck you! who ever said language was precise anyway? language is a paltry, pathetic attempt to make sense of a fundamentally insensible situation known as the cosmos. the cosmos are much more than what we perceive, and therefore way way way much more than what we can say. so don’t expect words to be exact. we aren’t adherents of the ‘correspondence theory’ around these parts, alright? fucking vulgarians, that crowd. though the characterization just now that language is an attempt by humans, that’s not exactly right either. way too much agency granted to humans by that framing. language infects humanity, infected humanity a long time ago, and we are mutated by it as much as it is mutated by us, via antigenic drift/shift. a symbiotic relationship that seems, frankly, in the long run, more parasitic than symbiotic, and not to the benefit of humanity. at least, that’s what the current era seems to suggest. we may yet find some balance, something to ground us again.
whew really coming out the gate hot with this huh! already talking about language as a virus are we! maybe shouldn’t haved watched that not-very-good documentary about bill s burroughs yesterday! it’s not very good because often it’s not very interesting getting a peek at the lived world of a writer. it only titillates the voyeurs and the faithful. plus the production is kind of whatever. it’s hard to understand what burroughs is saying a lot of the time. better just to read the books, and if you’re really set on it, maybe a biography. what’s up with that barry miles anyway? how’d he get stuck doing all the hagiography for the beats? seems like a bum gig. but what do i know.
when i was in the sun reading yesterday, what i was reading is The Man in the High Castle. pretty damn good book. dick is a weird writer, and I don’t mean he writes about weeeiiiirdd stuff, man. he does, that’s true. but he’s a strange case because the writing itself is kind of unremarkable. he sometimes lands a nice line, sometimes gets the prose to sing, but more often you can sense that he wrote a ton due to financial pressure and also thanks to all that sweet, sweet 60s speed he was gobbling up. numnumnumnumnum. mmm, benzedrine. where would the twentieth century be without it? but because of all that, he doesn’t seem the most attentive self-editor. he earns a lot of credit for how prophetic the ideas are, but as like a literary artist…i dunno. i’m torn. a lot of really reputable writers really love him; bolaño was a big fan. i read somewhere without citation that pynchon read a lot of dick.
ok but! but! i didn’t bring this up to say i don’t like PKD! I like PKD! The Man in the High Castle is very good, much funnier than i anticipated, and up to very weird metatextual shit i wasn’t entirely expecting even though i knew about it coming in. to say the novel is an alternate history where the axis won wwii really does it a disservice. that’s the plot premise, sure, but it uses that as a base for a deeper exploration of artifice vs reality, fiction vs nonfiction. the way fake historical artifacts resonate with the plot’s premise, and how the plot’s premise is double inverted with the in-world alternate history novel that’s about what if the allies won wwii? incredible. it’s also great to see PKD riff on his usual questions, like how does fantasy conflict with reality, is there a difference between fantasy and reality, in a setting that places them on a little firmer politco-historical grounds. i’m about halfway through.
another reason I’m doing this is because with the genocide of the palestinian people going on, it’s hard to feel like my dumb little writing projects deserve my attention. but it’s not like anything changes if i don’t write, so i should keep writing.
it’s a struggle to not care too much about what this is. also a bit of a struggle to get to the word count goal. calling this one for today. we’ll see how this goes: don’t anticipate it all being like this. we want to get some range here. we love NaNoWriMo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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