I’m writing this one to address some common inquiries following the reinstatement of this newsletter’s regular installments.
To be clear: I am given to believe that advice columnists routinely fabricate wholesale the questions they want to answer.
Where your impression of the interlocutor is poor, I have employed this technique; demerit your opinion of me instead. Where the quality of the elaborations and answers if produces lead you to suspect a prompt is well-formed, attribute its creation to the eloquence of my readership.
That’s the fairest way to distribute credit, I feel, when referring obliquely to points others may or may not have mentioned at all.
Moving on.
I have received some commentary on #39, primarily regarding the quality of my poetry. I will be the first to admit that it is deeply amateur (the poetry, not the commentary,) but that its construction is an interesting challenge.
More to follow after further, brief additional poems.
//1
grime in the cracks between the keys
fomentation in the streets of the city
propositions follow propositions as if colons constitute their signatory stamps
cigarette smoke fills camera shutters,
printed photographs are dulled to noir in daylight,
and we revel in the perks of being jesters
//2
I find recorded history pejorative, a consortium
of missed opportunities and sordid,
indecorous lunacy, messes
that set expectations
that we pretend we lack,
disclaiming preconceptions
when castigating the matter-of-facts of the past
scurrilous, mercurial mad hatters
with ass-backwards reactions
berating the future ignoramuses we happen
to be, shamelessly creating
massively sagittarius bastions
of march hares who married the matchsticks
burnt down to the jack-quick
nimbus to cursed clouds,
circuitous, roundabout half-wits
continuing panic expressed in the parasitic
passive periphrastic—
hamlets to towns,
hovels to houses,
shovels to crowns and
hand drills to outlets,
succulent plants
who see the former as embarrassing options,
centrifugal forces
keeping them from tripping in mosh pits
so the conversation
is dominated by constant
calls for a savior who can talk
everyone else into caution
but I say, why stop 'em?
//3
the primrose path has velvet ropes
its pillar-trees are stanchions
(so one surmised, so he)
slipped under lines and over gaps that split
stanzas dually, into scansion
stalls
solely fencing pickets to the highest
bidder when the crier spits a liar's chitter,
fibs the questioned, mired merchant
in the barker's silence
as the carnival composed of midas' tithes
unfolds behind his tight-shut eyelids
before him hang predictions mangling fate,
inconsistent schisms in chronology— deaths, baby pictures
maddening explanations of the arguments strung up
with caveats and bobby pins— threads, safety scissors
and so the intruder unstoppered his jinn-bottle
and he drank and he wished that he traveled through time
//
Poetry is an art, not a science, obviously, inasmuch as there’s any overlap between the two categories, or any value in defining a distinction.
However— the way I find poetry entertaining to read, as well as write, is as a puzzle: what to express, and how to do it.
I like the short, punchy stuff because it’s elegant, which in turn is satisfying. I like the screeds which bother to support themselves because they attempt, at least, to deliver an argument rather than sidestep critique. If I like limericks and epics most, those which I’ve read, it’s because they fit neatly into the box, and neatness is more pleasing than rough edges.
Poems that don’t rhyme should fit a structure, poems that don’t fit a structure should rhyme, and the best of them should do both while being new, somehow original.
Telling the truth, directly, or one’s own experience of the world, is hackneyed and tired nowadays, and lines itself up with the greats for witness identification only because there aren’t capital letters or commas.
Forthrightness is a virtue, but it’s not worthwhile to share, because art should suit the form. A poem which could be a personal essay should be prose, just as an ‘essay’ which could be a three-in-the-morning conversation over alcohol should be, to take a load off its poor readers.
Poems aren’t my favorite medium, and I write them sparingly, but I enjoy the uniquity they allow, wherein comparison is more difficult and, consequently, freedom reigns to a greater degree than when it’s easiest to look over my own shoulder.
There was less discussion about #40, but I was asked how this would work in practice. I’m taking this to mean roughly “provide an example,” since reading it back, the explanation is fairly clear. I intentionally left the original post rather specifics-agnostic, so this follow-up should be taken as one possibility rather than a strict condensation.
I’m sure there are others, including some which require refinements of the skeleton I’ve proposed to accommodate their own adjectives and events, but the below is one which came to mind.
As originally conceived, it’s a short order, a concept that’s replacing something on the low end of the television slate, as far as studios are concerned. It’s not a billboard blockbuster, so it has a short time slot and a short series run. The first few episodes are structured, consequently, to maximize opportunities for unusually thorough character work.
We want to jump to establishing the main cast as quickly as possible, getting deeper than we usually would by means of unusual structures.
So we’re focusing on depth, not breadth (not much time for many introductions,) so we want a small cast. It’s alright if they start relatively narrow because we’re not wasting time with meet-and-greets between the characters (jumping to: how do they function in existing relationships.)
Therefore, we want a premise in which a small cast of mostly role-defined characters enter disparate scenarios.
There can be a formula, of course, for how the plot progresses in each one, but if the framing is weird, then the episode plot will lean towards meshing with that irregularity. It’d be possible (but demanding more from the audience) to film, say, a standard Seinfeld plot in first-person. It’d be breaking convention with no reward for paying special attention.
Some set-ups which could fit the bill:
Fantasy show, in which spells/magic are responsible for changes in perception
Cyberpunk of some kind, in which technology causes similar effects
Historical comedy, with some goofy (modern-day?) framing device
Heist crew, since e.g. flashbacks are common devices to employ already
There doesn’t have to be a supernatural effect at play, but it’s what comes to mind first, in the same way that I envision a tight-knit core of, say, 4-6 characters.
Why? It’s another constraint, which frees you to spend less energy thinking of how to use e.g. a montage sequence: it’s “hacking tech,” “learning spells,” “picking locks,” “calendar flips to spoofed events.”
That’s groundwork which
helps the audience ease into stranger episodes,
steers you towards a seasonal arc, and
expands the viewership into an elevator-pitch genre
And there are more possibilities for elaboration (e.g. specific episodes, individual characters,) but eventually you each diminishing returns; a keystone to the concept is that it’s relatively system-agnostic, and I’d encourage you to think of it as such.
I might have gotten the most replies about #41. They were mostly quibbles about wording rather than content, so I’ll jump, shortly, to correcting what I believe primarily to be misapprehensions about my meaning. (My apologies, regarding the ambiguity.)
To clarify:
Speech has a point.
That point may be dulled by poor choice of words, a mismatch of cultural context, or a simple failure for the speaker to consider what it may be before it’s made. The purpose remains present, however, whether or not it’s skillfully communicated.
If a politician is ‘skewered’ in the media, they’ve been attacked with a potent, narrow, ‘point.’ If they’re blindsided, they didn’t anticipate a ‘point’ being developed by their opponents, blunt as the objection may be.
A newscaster reads reports to entertain just as demagogues stoke faith and anger, a comedian to engender laughter, a math teacher to teach math. With language, we provoke emotions and thoughts. If I write a story, I’m shaping the thoughts and emotions of a reader.
This is obvious, right?
I think people should say what they mean, when reasonably possible, and if there’s no point to be made, if there’s no juice to a statement or a joke, that it should be saved.
The skill I’m claiming to be worse than preferable at, in #41, is that sort of intentional communication. Often, I don’t transfer the meaning I intend to with sufficient fidelity, or I don’t manage to direct the behavior of others towards particular goals with much efficacy.
There’s a lossiness to my speech and text that I’m gradually eliminating, but it’s not there yet. Words do things, ideally; more than I’d like, I don’t have the right ones available, or my delivery isn’t suitable— so they don’t.
(To further clarify, I don’t mean a generalized ‘charisma’ here. I could also improve in that regard, but it’s a different quality to cultivate.)
This is relatively common, although I don’t believe most people express that lack in these terms, and are either oblivious to or content with the degree of what their communication accomplishes.
I’m noting it here because it’s that specific aim-fulfilling task with which I lack relative facility, a deficiency which means I could be more pleasant to be around than I currently am, and the other way around. Conversely, I always know what I mean.
“But Orion, I’ve found you to be well-spoken.” This is true for some people. It’s not true for others. I would like it to be more true for more people.
(Related not to this point, but to the broader distinction: bees, Vonnegut.)
Moving on.
//conclusion (sometimes segments like this get left out)
//joke (about these paragraphs getting deleted)
//thanks for reading