Current Project Research: collected massive attack shorts #2

I'm working on a new Massive Attack short story based on the Atlas Air song from Heligoland. The story deals with extraordinary rendition, as does the song. In light of today's news I thought I would link to Massive Attack's Atlas Air and give a little mention to this short that I'm working on. It's still in draft form at the moment, but when it's readable I'll talk more about the story and research that's gone into it.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-14790034

this is an American and therefore slightly sensationalist version of the report:

See http://jump-into-the-void.blogspot.com/2011/05/current-project-research-collected.html for more info on this project.

Sci fi story published on Kasma

A sci fi story of mine has been published by Kasma magazine. You can read it by following this link: http://www.kasmamagazine.com/beached.html

Enjoy!

Jenny The Obscure

I’ve been struggling a little bit over the past week with my (short story) writing. My shorts writing tends to be obscure, very niche and experimental. Whatever market these kinds of shorts of mine have, it’s very limited. So I’m almost wondering if it’s worth developing such stories. I think I will always write them because they help me learn and they inform my more mainstream novel writing. But I wonder if it’s worth sharpening them for submission to magazines and publications. I’m not sure I should bother showing anyone these stories at all.

Yesterday at one of the two writing groups I attend (the cliquey one), I read out one of my particularly obscure pieces that I am considering sending somewhere. It did not get a good reception. One member was actually quite rude about it. No one there understood the piece. Their reaction was ironic, given the meaning of the piece. I guess in some ways the piece was like a Buddhist Koan (sort of!) and they were reading it from a rational angle.

I think the story failed because it really needs to work on both a rational level and also on a deeper level. I’m still learning, but yesterday’s reaction was off-putting.

Murakami is one of my favourite authors. This is because you can read many of his stories on those two levels. When I first read Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World I thought it was amazing, but I only got hints of the deeper meanings. Since the first reading I have researched into Jungian theory, and now I see that Murakami’s story is very heavily influenced by Jungian theory, to the point that it’s pretty much a narrative version of the Ego/ Shadow/ Animus theory. I’ve also started to research into Semiotics and there’s stuff about that hidden in there too.

I’ve got a lot to learn and it’s pretty daunting. I have no teacher, so it often feels like stabbing in the dark and I feel that I won’t reach the levels I aspire to for a very long time and I’ll have to continue on in this same intense full-time level if I’m ever going to get there.

I think I will take Murakami’s words below to heart and accept that I cannot please everyone, but I have to make sure that those that share my philosophy really, really like it.

This quote is from Murakami comparing running a jazz club to writing a novel:

Even when I ran the club, I understood [that you can't please everybody]. A lot of customers came to the club. If one out of ten enjoyed the place and decided to come again, that was enough. If one out of ten was a repeat customer, then the business would survive. To put it another way, it didn’t matter if nine out of ten people didn’t like the club.

Realizing this lifted a weight of my shoulders. Still, I had to make sure the one person who did like the place really liked it. In order to do that, I had make my philosophy absolutely clear, and patiently maintain that philosophy no matter what. This is what I learned from running a business.

Current Project Research: collected massive attack shorts #1

I’m currently working on a new short story project that has formed out of an experiment with a Massive Attack song. I was listening to my MP3 player and Babel came on random. Martina Topley-Bird’s lyrics are hard to decipher, but something in the song captured me and gave me a clear sense of narrative.

I tried to find the lyrics online, but most sites ignored the last couple of stanzas or clearly got bits wrong. After listening to it very loudly for a few hours I managed to basically figure out what she might be saying:

Say "it was her babel"
Said it was my babel
It was my babel
Tell all people

Now you know it's over
Rolling off her shoulder
You can take a lighter to the shadows and forget
Was it how she kissed you and then dismissed you
Was it purposeful and was it just to hook you in

Hallucinating, chasing, changing, racing
Breaking, hating till you lost it all
Well you lost your girlfriend, she was not going
Where you were going, you are on your own

He was quick to burning
He was slow to learning
Though his eyes were misted
He still kissed her when she cried
You did your best to replace her
You didn't up and leave her
You befriended the harsh way it ended
Now sleep tight

Hallucinating, chasing, changing, pacing
Bracing, breaking, if you lost it all
Was it all your good
Reachin into it
That lead you to me
I would have craved the love

I wanna be the one that should've said "Truth and not dare"
I'm running so far out of my head
This rain of heart that ripples my day
Can never said what was thinking, wait
Mmm...

So this was the starting point. Here are some other elements I wanted to bring in:

Semiotics/ Saussure/ Lacan

Misunderstandings/ Miscommunication

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Plus some other stuff. Despite all of these influences, it’s really a simple YA story that reflects the narrative that I interpreted from the lyrics. I'll post it up in a few months when it's sharper.

Now Babel is drafted, I’m starting research work on the next short; either Atlas Air or Splitting The Atom.

Rocket Mantastic

I’m busy writing some sci fi stories for Darkmechanic aka Dan Morison. Apart from Kurt Vonnegut’s awesome sci fi, I’d not really read much in the genre. If you had to put me in a box, you’d shove me into a hippy box and I would've woven the box out of willow. I like growing organic vegetables, I spin wool and want to live in a wood and I think the Earth is A-OK. I invest in the Small is Beautiful idea. I wear second-hand dresses and funky tights. Science is not my religion.

But I’m enjoying writing sci fi stories probably more than I enjoy writing hippy stories. I think having a distance from something allows you to approach it from an interesting and un-pressured outsider angle.

This is a small bank of a few interesting sci fi things and also my favourite sci fi author talking about short stories:

My friend Emily’s girly sci fi robot short story:http://makingeggs.blogspot.com/2011/01/fenella.html

Kurt Vonnegut gives some sound advice, which I can’t help but to ignore. Writing is too personal. There’s no rules. Much respect to Vonnegut though, and I agree with much of what he suggests.

The State of the Art

Rocket Mantastic.

http://www.danmorison.com/

Elation versus Panic

This is a freewritten short story called Elation versus Panic:

There she is, standing at the apex of the roof, looking down at the pavement, slick and wet below. The rain slaps around her, cold with a hint of almost-snow.

She closes her eyes and sees rainbows spiral out with jangling stars, shapes of hazy distinction and skidding glitchy sounds.

People below her gather and shout. She opens her eyes and looks down at them gesturing with panic. They think she is going to jump. She is not interested in jumping, only in looking and feeling. Sensation rushes like a beautiful buzz.

People are always asking what why who when?

She doesn’t care about these questions. All she cares for is the rush, the changing unfixed unmeaning sensation.

She likes their panic. She shares her rush with them. They interpret it with panic. Panic or elation; they are all sensation and they all put notches of experience onto our souls.

Short Story Idea Bank 2

Idea bank 1 is on the previous post. I am generating ideas for a short story, laying out the pieces of the jigsaw and taking a long look at the pieces before moving them into place.

Mike is like a Philip Lorca diCorcia photograph. On the surface he seems spontaneous and concrete and real. Take some time and you will find Mike is highly constructed, a master of illusion, far from spontaneous or real.

Appearance ideas:

Androgyny and make believe.

The creation of a persona to form the constructed illusion behind which s/he hides.

It is the shoes of this photograph that interest me. The pose is also interesting, being very closed and shielding.(These two images are by Vladlena Sevelova.)

Character theme ideas:

Mike is a Rubik’s cube master. Some similarities to Brain from Brick. (Image from Rian Johnson's excellent Brick Novella.)

Theme idea generation:

It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone
We can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable
Oh well, the devil makes us sin
But we like it when we're spinning in his grip

Short Story Idea Bank 1

I'm gathering material, ideas and research for a short story.

When the ego has been made a "seat of anxiety," someone is running away from himself and will not admit it.

"The State of Psychotherapy Today" (1934). In CW 8: The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. P.360

So far as we know, consciousness is always ego-consciousness. In order to be conscious of myself, I must be able to distinguish myself from others. Relationship can only take place where this distinction exists.

"Marriage as a Psychological Relationship" (1925). In CW 17: The Development of the Personality. P.326

Hysterical self-deceivers, and ordinary ones too, have at all times understood the art of misusing everything so as to avoid the demands and duties of life, and above all to shirk the duty of confronting themselves. They pretend to be seekers after God in order not to have to face the truth that they are ordinary egoists.

"The Visions of Zosimos" (1938). In CW 13: Alchemical Studies. P.142

The foremost of all illusions is that anything can ever satisfy anybody. That illusion stands behind all that is unendurable in life and in front of all progress, and it is one of the most difficult things to overcome.

An Introduction to Zen Buddhism (1949). Foreword by C.G. Jung. In CW 11: Psychology and Religion: West and East. P.905



I have a month or two to write the short story, so I will add to this ideas bank over the coming days and weeks.

zero one nine nine II

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(modified) image from here

Zero one nine nine

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Confessions of a Young Trotsky Impersonator

He had the appearance of a young Trotsky, the same square jaw, dimpled chin, piercing wolf eyes, thick lips. He wore his hair in a mess of waves above his forehead, an almost-bouffant. He even wore pince-nez glasses. It was the glasses and the hairstyle that I found attractive. I knew next to nothing of Trotsky, let alone his appearance as a young man.

It was my colleague, Ruben, who first approached him and commented upon the likeness. As we sauntered towards the counter at the back of the café, Ruben paused by the table, cocking his head and sliding his eyes down to meet the young man's . 'Is there much call for a Trotsky impersonator around these parts?

'Enough,' said Trotsky's likeness.

Ruben slipped his hands into the pockets of his brown corduroy trousers and arched his back. 'Well yes, I suppose this is a fairly likely place, you being in a pokey academic café in Cambridge and all that. I suppose the University employ you to add a certain realism to their lectures, or something like that?'

The man neatly placed the book he was reading down upon the tabletop. He flicked his eyes from Ruben across to me. I was fascinated by his pince-nez glasses. Light grey pupils dilated a little behind the lenses. He prized his eyes from mine, slowly as if it took him great effort to do so. 'Something like that,' he confirmed to Ruben and then peered back at me.

The intensity of his stare quickly became oppressive. I blinked and stammered, 'I like your glasses.'

The pause was long enough to be obvious, but too short to enable a new line of conversation. 'Thanks,' he replied, totally deadpan.

'They're not a fashion statement, Julie,' Ruben scoffed. 'They are a tool of this man's trade.' He left no room for a comment. He swooped his attention back to the young man, chin raised. 'You do a good impression, even in your lunch hour.' He was using his patronising "I am very impressed" voice. 'The sobriety of your gestures, the cool indifference, the aura of intelligent vanity. Very good. ...I wonder... how much would it cost me to hire you for a lecture?'

His wolf eyes slipped between us, back and forth. Finally they rested on me. 'I will give you a discount,' he said. 'If you agree to go on a date with me.'

I dropped my gaze to the dark polished tabletop. There was a dog-eared copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel placed in front of him. Breakfast of Champions. I thought this was someway off-kilter. It didn't seem to fit.

As I said, I found him attractive on the basis of his funky hairdo and those pince-nez glasses. Perhaps that was why I agreed. It certainly had nothing to do with wanting to hire a Trotsky impersonator.

We arranged a time and place, then exchanged numbers. Ruben teased me everyday between then and the arranged date.

As the date grew closer I became less confident that this was a good idea. The guy seemed totally dull, devoid of humour or soul. We probably had nothing at all in common. Agreeing to a date with a stranger purely on the basis of liking his hair and glasses (neither of which reflect a personal style) suddenly seemed like a rather stupid idea.

We met at a small eatery in central Cambridge. He was still wearing his pince-nez glasses and his hair was wild and wavy above his forehead, the same as before.

'Do you always dress as a young Trotsky?' I asked as I took my seat.

He answered with an immediate roughness, 'Yes.' He shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat. This time he spoke with a softer, less abrasive tone of voice. 'It's just a habit. I'll wear something more normal on our next date.'

I raised a single brow high. 'Assuming we have a next date.'

He shrugged and realigned his cutlery.

'So you must really love Trotsky then. I must admit, I don't know all that much about Trotsky. You'll have to fill me in.'

He seemed to sag in his chair. I assumed that I must have majorly disappointed him. The prospect of a second date slipped into obscurity, thank God.

At this point a waitress came to take our orders.

Selections made, the two of us sat in splintered silence, only background restaurant noises saving us from total awkwardness.

He gulped some table water, thumped the glass down and then leaned back nonchalantly. 'I too have a confession to make regarding Trotsky.'

I waited for him to go on, gliding the wetted tip of my index finger around the rim of an empty wine glass. I counted four rotations before he spoke.

'I am not a Trotsky impersonator. I am an English Lit postgrad student.'

I paused in trailing my finger around the glass, eyes flicking across the table.

He put his hands behind his head. 'I dress like this in order to impress professors and score with intelligent girls. So far so good as far as professors go.' He gave an impish cocked smile and put his thumb up, then returned his hand behind his head. 'As for scoring with clever chicks, they are only interested in Trotsky.' He rolled his eyes and turned up his lip. 'Soviet history absolutely bores me.'

I squinted at him, surveyed him for a moment, and then cracked a wide grin. 'Me too,' I said.

His lips curved into an echo of mine. 'But the pince-nez and the crazy hairdo get a double thumbs up. And death by ice-pick sounds like a spectacular way to go. It's not all boring.'

A War Between Tribes

This is a tale of two tribes. One wore red, and the other blue. Their many and particular differences became voided in the simple action of peeling back layers, to reveal skeletons that cannot be told apart.
High noon, full moon out on a summer’s day. Swift gunfire scatters, slices into the haze. Red dances to the beat pounding heavily on an old tin drum. There is the sound of a thousand wild pigeon wings jumping high into misty white air. Blue waltzes quietly, following the pattern of a million ancient feet. It’s like the sick old lion that has spent a lifetime on the beat. Too tired to carry on, but still hungering for more. He holes up, lying sick and weary at the cave door. Word gets out that their most odious king is nearly dead and gone, he will not be here for long. At long last! Hoist his limp flag at half mast. So roll up, pay your respects. Along come gazelle, imapala and ox, followed gingerly by the fox. Three sets of footprints go in. None come out. Along come zebra, warthog and deer. Six sets of footprints. Nine, twelve, fifteen. Scorning the fox for his indifference, they follow the pattern of a million ancient feet while the fox turns tail, he bails.
Meanwhile, back in the now, red and blue flash clashing sabres and swords. Two miles from front lines, dignitaries disguised as thieves pile high their shiny hoards. Five miles hence, Kings and ministers draw out a game of noughts and crosses. Generals and doctors mark them off, count their losses. The next grid is prepared as they review how they fared. A million purple soldiers line up at the mouth of a cave. There is the sound of a thousand captive dove wings jumping high into clear mauve air. Though the barometer reads fair, the weather spills out a snow shower of small white feathers. Reality TV audiences collect them to hand out to the sly old fox. This done, they turn back to their idiot box. Vicariously drink up, consume, piss out hours and hours of misplaced experiences. At the end of their day, wave goodbye to the bosses. Go home to watch the unfurling game of noughts and crosses.

[This image was sent to me a couple of years ago by the Arts Institute at Bournemouth/ ACUB and I wrote a story to illustrate the image. The story was bad. They didn't publish it. This is a new version of the same story. I wrote it a few moments ago so I don't yet know if it is bad. I do not know who drew this picture, other than that they were once a student at the AIB at the same time that I was a student at the AIB.]

Gullible

This is an old freewritten thing I wrote some time ago:

She worshipped him. He ignored her. Never once did he answer any of her letters, yet she never lost faith in the hope that one day he might show her he loved her like they said he did. It was more their fault than hers or his. They told her that he loved her more than anything in the world, and the more she spoke with him and tried to please him the more he would love her. They told her that he liked things to be done in a certain way so she made sure to do everything in the correct way so as to please him. They told her to deprive herself of things to show him how much she loved him. In actual fact they didn’t even know him; he did not care what she did or how she did it. He thought she was stupid for being gullible enough to take all they said literally without thought or reason.

Typhoon

On Friday it was my mum's birthday. I wrote a story for her, which I made into a nice little book. Here are some pictures of it (please click on them to view them) :

On a similar note: I am starting to compile some stories together with the intention of making a short story collection and then maybe selling it. Most of the stories are allegorical, or freewritten or both. I have a few ideas in mind for the aesthetics that will probably mean I will self publish the collection. The way I want the artwork to look and feel and sound is very important, and in order to get it exactly right I think I will have to do it all myself. I’m really keen to collaborate on this one, but it’s early days so I’m going to refrain from talking about the kind of stuff I’m looking into. Keep your specs peeled for more news.

The Bird

This is some little thing I wrote and made into a booklet to send to Emily a while ago.

I stand up on a high hill. All is saturated in colour. Blue, green and yellow. My hair whips at my cheeks, playing in the wind, dancing and free. Above, there is a buzzard, screeching and swooping in great arcs. I watch it, thinking about how that bird is in-tune with the air and its body; efficient and lithe. The bird will grow old and die, but it will not get so old that it will no longer be able to swoop. It will die before then. If I am to live out an average life of a human I will grow old, and then older than old, and I will probably not be able to move very well by that time. Swooping will be out of the question. And I consider this fact and I come to a conclusion.

I am already old because I do not swoop. What is the point of having a body if I do not swoop? Unlike that bird up there I am disconnected from my body. It is an alien and strange thing to me. I do not know how to move it with poise and efficiency. So let me tell you this, bird in the sky: I will learn how to swoop and I will not be afraid of injuring myself because right now I am worse than injured; I am barely alive. I am old now, but I can learn to be young.

I will kick the moon. I will salto. I will butterfly twist. I will jump into the void. I will not become a buzzard, but I will become a human.