Once upon a time I had literary aspirations.
I sat in class after class in college…deconstructing every freakin’ novel and short story and essay while the professor stood in front of the class with his piss-stained, tight slacks telling us what to think and how to think.
The great tragedy of literature.
Literature courses inevitably turn into rehashed bullshit concentrating on the works of renowned writers. Classes which trumpet everything that preceding literary critics have trumpeted. Next thing you know, no one has any new thoughts. New ideas and approaches are resoundingly pummeled into the academic rubbish heap.
I was in a literature class one day and one of the students chimed in with his literary opinion (based on a Marxist interpretive model of a non-economic story, forget what it was) and the prof shut him down.
My classmate was incensed.
He taunted the teacher, in front of the class. “So your bullshit is better than mine?”
I remember that.
So I wrote
I did nothing but push paper during the day and write at night.
I wrote some OK stuff.
I wrote some shit.
I wrote a lot of shit, actually.
I had great ideas.
If you read this blog, you understand about the pathetic execution.
So I wrote like a madman.
Submitted story after story, received rejection slip after rejection slip.
Got used to them actually.
Each rejection slip has its own personality.
Most often, magazines are so inundated with submissions they can only manage a form letter.
Fine. Some are nicer than others…depending on which Lit Dept flunky wrote them.
Once in a while they are actually hand-written.
These are great, because even though you were rejected you don’t feel that rejected.
The personal touch works wonders for the soul.
That is why the soul has taken a battering in today’s business climate.
So a few years ago, I began to write a story. During the months leading up to my divorce, actually.
About a couple.
As they drove to Santa Barbara for a weekender.
But. Problem #1. The man was married. Not to his passenger
I describe as they drive along the 101 from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara.
I felt I did a very good job of describing the troubling dynamics.
A philandering husband.
A house-breaking girl.
In my story, I attempted to capture it fullly:
They lived for love, but as time passed they discovered that love in itself was surprisingly and painfully empty. Garrett and Helen stumbled upon a lonely secret only they could understand: lies and deceit were the fuel that powered their affair. Love could not thrive in such an aimless, glib fashion, not while they lived mutually incompatible lives. There must be an end. Tragic or happy, eventually they would face that fateful finale. To exist for love only was an act of emotional treachery. Their love, defanged by uncertainty, risked becoming the victim of unromantic burdens. Initially they spoke of it haltingly, shamefully, in hushed allusions. They grew bolder and the secret plans they hatched engorged their intimacy further. What could be more romantic than two people planning their life together?
Not quite sure how that will go over in mid-America…
Not something to contemplate over the weekly mass or dinner blessing.
The cheating heart.
To what do we owe a gratitude?
Are we naturally monogamous.
Are we built to devote.
Are we built to stray.
How are we built.
I love to stray.
Oh wait, I’m not fastened.
I love to stray, visually.
Ever driven down the street, notice that guys love to ogle?
Even if there is no reason whatsoever to think a girl will sleep with anyone, you still ogle her.
It’s great to witness that precision, the well-built nature of a nubile female.
To behold such fuckable goodness.
That is what we like.
So what is the point?
Has this been an obligatory Valentine’s Day post?
Dude, let’s not lie.
It’s all bullshit.
I could sit here and laud the culture of love.
We are here because our ancestors just wanted a good fuck.
Ever wondered what dogs get out of it?
I’ve always wondered if dogs get satisfaction.
Or is the act of fucking for dogs similar to sneezing for humans?