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Still not sure how to describe what happened to me yesterday. Sat down to draw a dream and then all of a sudden, eight hours later, I’d collided with the monsters who live just off the flat edge of the map.
Yes, I draw my dreams. It’s better than boring other people with them in excruciating detail, right? Anyway, while I was drawing this dream (a tiger stepping out of a deciduous forest in Fall, in case you’re interested) I was also reading The New York Times online. Clicked on one of the Most Emailed links – How To Save Your Marriage When Nothing’s Wrong With It. Title to that effect.
Such an irritating piece. So whiny. Twenty-five hundred words that said absolutely nothing. Smarmy Ladies Home Journal of the Now. Really I wanted to reach through my computer screen, grab this writer woman by her hair and slam her head repeatedly against a wall.
Halfway through the article there’s a reference to the great sex Ayelett Waldman (a/k/a Mrs. Michael Chabon) has with her husband, so naturally I had to Google Ayelett Waldman, read up on her techniques.
And after that I was lost.
Edited for gratuitous bitchery
Then I stumbled across the name of a woman I’d once known back in the days when she was a shy little geek obsessed with making Fimo costume jewelry. Today she is an Internet marketer. I don’t know if she’s a successful Internet marketer. But she’s certainly an omnipresent Internet marketer. She has numerous entries on every single Internet marketing blog, and trust me, there are about 100,000 of those, all hyping branding and social media and the bright, shiny bling of attention –
Does anybody actually read these blogs? I mean besides the people who write them and the occasional crackpot like me. And what the fuck is branding anyway? The iconic ka rising ceremonially from that box of cereal on your supermarket shelf? “Branding” is the buzz word of the 21st century. But it means nothing, it’s that Gabana & Dolce tux the Emperor is wearing when his balls are swinging in your face.
Anyway at the end of this Internet total immersion session, I was as depressed as I’ve ever been in my life.
When did ADD replace evolution?
There’s no room for me in this world. Nada. I write elegaic prose, I’m an anachronism. And I don’t keep a blog, I keep a journal. I have no advice for aspiring writers other than, Friends, don’t turn out like me. I’m writing a book but it’s quite likely that only 12 people in the world will want to read it when it’s finally done unless I can figure out some way to work Tiger Woods’ mother’s heart-attack-cum-suicide-attempt into the opening paragraph, and by then the eyes of America will long since have flitted on to fresh celebrity scat.
I think I may have to give up the Internet for a while. Really. It’s bad for my self-esteem.
PS -- Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke? Very good book.
Yes, I draw my dreams. It’s better than boring other people with them in excruciating detail, right? Anyway, while I was drawing this dream (a tiger stepping out of a deciduous forest in Fall, in case you’re interested) I was also reading The New York Times online. Clicked on one of the Most Emailed links – How To Save Your Marriage When Nothing’s Wrong With It. Title to that effect.
Such an irritating piece. So whiny. Twenty-five hundred words that said absolutely nothing. Smarmy Ladies Home Journal of the Now. Really I wanted to reach through my computer screen, grab this writer woman by her hair and slam her head repeatedly against a wall.
Halfway through the article there’s a reference to the great sex Ayelett Waldman (a/k/a Mrs. Michael Chabon) has with her husband, so naturally I had to Google Ayelett Waldman, read up on her techniques.
And after that I was lost.
Edited for gratuitous bitchery
Then I stumbled across the name of a woman I’d once known back in the days when she was a shy little geek obsessed with making Fimo costume jewelry. Today she is an Internet marketer. I don’t know if she’s a successful Internet marketer. But she’s certainly an omnipresent Internet marketer. She has numerous entries on every single Internet marketing blog, and trust me, there are about 100,000 of those, all hyping branding and social media and the bright, shiny bling of attention –
Does anybody actually read these blogs? I mean besides the people who write them and the occasional crackpot like me. And what the fuck is branding anyway? The iconic ka rising ceremonially from that box of cereal on your supermarket shelf? “Branding” is the buzz word of the 21st century. But it means nothing, it’s that Gabana & Dolce tux the Emperor is wearing when his balls are swinging in your face.
Anyway at the end of this Internet total immersion session, I was as depressed as I’ve ever been in my life.
When did ADD replace evolution?
There’s no room for me in this world. Nada. I write elegaic prose, I’m an anachronism. And I don’t keep a blog, I keep a journal. I have no advice for aspiring writers other than, Friends, don’t turn out like me. I’m writing a book but it’s quite likely that only 12 people in the world will want to read it when it’s finally done unless I can figure out some way to work Tiger Woods’ mother’s heart-attack-cum-suicide-attempt into the opening paragraph, and by then the eyes of America will long since have flitted on to fresh celebrity scat.
I think I may have to give up the Internet for a while. Really. It’s bad for my self-esteem.
PS -- Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke? Very good book.
