Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Etymologies + the future begins now

The first line of my first book will probably be: I never like the first line of books. I am probably not alone in this thought or this unique idea. I am probably not the only contradiction. I am never quite as alone as I hate or would like to be.

Parenthetical [:] implicit in this stream of thought is the self-commentary that judges "being the only one" as signature of penultimate originality = genius + success, relegating to the trend of the creative industries ["The Industry"] the irony of the fact that success is not predicated on being The Only One, but rather to be consistently new, and the search to be consistently the Newest New is a continuous scavange for the unnamed oxymoron, or oxyoxymoron, or oxymoron-triple-squared. A string of impossibles and impossible connections. A pearl necklace fills the intestines. A hand talking to a hand talking to the table talking to the bedpost talking to the side of the right ribs. The bee-watcher and bee-watcher-watcher. Always looking for the source and criticizing simply by naming. Underscore through a stare. Highlight in the air an imaginary neon juice. Staple together a dollar bill to a kelpy medallion from the deep. "Stationery technique".

The first lines of books irritate me because of "the bump." It's like "the bump". The Bump is when a performer is "off-stage" (are you ever?), in the wings, probably, waiting for an entrance. He or she is an empty vessel. Thinking about drippy make-up and how the air-conditioning is too cold in the theatre. Taught not to disrupt the curtains with unnecessary movement standing next to it, said performer may shake some hands and feet, but otherwise stands pretty until: THE CUE. Ensuing THE CUE is THE BUMP. It looks, in caricature, a little like a still body standing on a travellator when it just starts at highest speed, but instead of being propelled down the body is flown upwards, all smiles, big jump or just fancy cut-slice-choreography.

So I want a little more "in". I read every line of the publication details page as if doing so will darken the house lights, shush the gossipers, blip the cell phone ringtones to silent, and open the curtains. Momentary blackness. Aaaaahh. Anonymity precedes image and imagination.

How to pace a reader's eyes in a novel except with an onslaught of words? Perhaps my first book will be a picture book, square, and large format; to turn every page takes the physical effort and detail of spoon to mouth.

Did you know that the plural of oxymoron is not oxymorons but oxymora?
Did you know it comes from late Greek oxymoron, from the neuter of oxymoros (pointedly foolish), from the Greek Oxys (sharp, keen) and moros (foolish)?

(Incase you're wondering, this latest series of musings comes from a fiction-novel-binge post-audition. I become 13 again when feeling unaccepted leads me to stuff stories into my eyes like grain to a mill at harvest. Escape!)

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