The Goat

I grew up in the Suburbs. There were two different houses. One was in a Muslim community, the other was near a golf course; both were quite comfortable. I’ve lived in a large city for the better part of three years. At the moment, I am living on a farm though I can’t properly call what I’m doing living. Snowed in, I am stuck here with no remnants of the outer world. For my purposes, existence has folded itself up and tucked itself inside of my head.

My head is getting screwed on straight and daily life is becoming purposeful. I put more high-minded fluff into my novel, The Giant Explosion That Killed Everyone, under the assumption that the right combination of high-minded fluff will become beautiful. This is not disparaging. This is the necessary fluff. The drama of the book takes place inside of a single man’s head. Using thought as catalyst for a story requires a lot of high-minded fluff. For authenticity I modeled the character’s thought process after my own. Exploring one Charlie Hoofing III, I learned a lot about myself, namely I think in high-minded fluff—gaudy concepts attached to eggs, etc. When I am not doing this I am eating beans, doing push-ups, making funny faces in the mirror, and reading about baseball.

Sportswriters use very good sentences. They have to. Sports, in and of themselves, are a metaphor, requiring the observer to instill their own sense of meaning.

Yesterday I realized it had been several days since I laughed. I enjoy laughter so I went looking for a laugh. The search for humor led me to the Morton Building, a large shed filled with tractors and miscellaneous debris. I poked through the possessions left behind by the previous owner and found a box of Hentai which is Asian Cartoon Porn. I laughed quite a bit at this I felt as though I willed it to happen and felt very powerful because of this.

I also care for the animals. This is a farm and there are lots of them.

Max is a giant Pyrenees that behaves like a bear. When the snow first fell, he would run forward and thresh his face into the snow like it were one of his appendages. He is a very good dog.

There are seven Horses but my favorite is called Honey. She is pregnant with a foal and has had three miscarriages. This makes me feel very bad for her. It must be very confusing for a Horse to give birth to a dead thing. When I am bored I will feed her a carrot or give her a hug. Hugging her is difficult, I am still very afraid of horse.

George is a Llama. I thought I would enjoy Llamas but I do not. My Father sings a song that roughly goes “I love the Llama. I love the Llama Llama.” I will never sing to this Llama. He spits at me. When he sees me approach, I can hear him conjuring spittle in his bucktoothed mouth.

There were two Goats. As of this morning, there is only one Goat. I went outside to feed the animals and saw a dead Goat on the ground. The other Goat was standing next to it, occasionally licking its head. It did not seem to understand that the other Goat, his brother, was dead.

As a precaution against disease, Dead Animals must be removed quickly. I was the only one home and had to remove the animal. We keep Dead Animals in a crate behind the woodshed. Our tentative plan is to light a fire and cremate the Goat tonight. I have never held a dead thing before. It took several minutes to work up the nerve. When I got brave enough, I picked it up. It was surprisingly light and shockingly stiff. It’s legs felt hard and cold. They were covered in fur but felt more like logs than part of a Mammal.

When I picked up the Goat, it hung limp. It’s limbs dangled, utterly devoid of life. Seeing this made the other Goat understand what death was and that his brother was afflicted. I felt very bad for this Goat. I nearly cried.

I did not want to remove the Dead Goat but I had to. I set it down and walked away for a moment so the Other could say goodbye. Then I picked it up and carried it to a red bin.

The Other Goat immediately started crying. Its anguish was so great; the strength of his howls buckled his vocal chords. One thing about Goats, they sound a lot like humans. Hearing his cries, I imagined that someday when I am besotted by grief that my cries will sound a lot like his.

Outside, he is still crying. The barn is fifty yards away but I can hear him inside the house. It is the saddest sound I have ever heard.

[Posted by resident runaway Joel "The Foal" Walkowski, via email]

the thing about fiction is...

D
e
construct
i
o
n

Male: My mind is playing tricks on me.
Female: The nights are very long.
Male: No light can save us now.

When the mood strikes, writing is less rewarding than when it is forced. The fiction of inspiration is what makes fiction fictional. Application of meaning does not bestow meaning. Intention of meaning rarely endows meaning. Is there really such thing as fiction then?

Fic or non?
What's the difference?

The story of one man's Gulliverian travels through space and time and light and sound in the endless, desperate, meaningful, cathartic, hopeless, futile, sprawling, epic, heroic, meaningless, ultimately chaotic, relentlessly dark, eventually uplifting, always recurringly Faustian, Freudian, and Jungian, relentlessly Wagnerian, ever-so post-modern, but still quite classical, archetypal, historic (and pre-historic) search for meaning.

Continuity defies de construct ion. Or reinforces it. Use (or non-use) of grammar, syntax, diction, onomatopoeia, meter, metaphor, irony, simile, satire, tragedy, dramatic irony, comedy, rhythm, alliteration, pathetic irony, rhyme, close-rhyme, near-rhyme, punctuation, tense, capitalization, and/or spacing does not impart meaning.

So the question remains: Fiction? Or Not? None of this is true. Or all of this is true. But true or non, this is not fiction nor non. A noun is a person, place, or thing (or idea). This is fiction or non-fiction (or idea). I stand alone. The cheese stands alone. The mouse has been prematurely eaten by the cat, breaking the chain. There's always a bigger fish.

Perspective makes the fish bigger. We are tiny but the world is huge. But the world is tiny, the sun is huge. But the sun is tiny, the solar system is huge. But the solar system is tiny, the galaxy is huge. But the galaxy is tiny, the universe is... finite. Endless turtles standing on the backs of turtles would say that the universe is tiny. So what do we care? Our imaginations are bigger than our surroundings. If we can envision it, then it shall be done. A man will walk on the moon. There is life on other planets. We will learn the laws of space and time, and bend them to our punishing will. Always under control, but demanding control. The only way to get around physics is quantum physics.

Quantum Physics: Where Your Wildest Dreams Can Come True!

The electron cloud. Theory and practice. The act of observation and its effect on the observed space is an under/overestimated force. It's the presence of the eye that's the problem. Even in quantum physics, the question always remains: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? The world may never know.

If time is a dimension, then time travel must be possible.

Avoid pastiche. Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't make it okay. Everyone can tell if you're trying too hard. Look for fortunate accidents rather than intentional mistakes. This is not inspiration. Force the fortunate. Inspiration is not an accident. It is a con structure. Standing around, waiting for a train that will never come. But more often than not, waiting for inspiration (as one would wait for Godot [Ah! Pastiche! Such a force is unavoidable!]) forces the forcing. Inspiration never comes until the last second; then, and only then, when we are physically (or psychologically) forced to act. We define this last second rescue as inspiration, when in fact it comes from within ourselves. There is no divine intervention, no omniscient unification of the creative cosmos, no. There is no God. There is only You.





we are all alone





If one was to expose the 'photograph' of one's life, one would be in sharp focus but surrounded by the blurs of those come and gone. The imagery speaks for itself, if it's clear enough.

Constructions and structures:
God
Creativity
Atheism
Art
Pop Art
Non-Art
Intellectualism
The Intellect
Darwinism
Creationism
Classicism
Modernism
Post-Anything
Isms
Grammar
Traffic Jams
Patterns
The World and How It Works
Structuralism

Everyone has an ism. There is a right and wrong (although, really, there is no such thing). I am not anti- much. I believe, both in the Mulder-ian sense and in the theistic sense. It's all a matter of getting out of your comfort zone. Isms are your comfort zone. The decaying of an ism is radioactive. That's why there's a black President.

Stream-of-consciousness does not infer meaning. Being Irish or English or German or South African or Australian or Russian or Atlantean does not convey meaning.

Anything can be everything to somebody. The saying, as it goes: One man's trash... And the rest. You know the rest. A common axiom. Idiom. Turn of phrase. Play on words. None of the above. Fill in the blank. Idiomatic structuralism. Vocabularic inventivism. English is a beautiful thing. Use it wisely and remember its history, lest you be doomed to... You know.

So the thing about fiction is...




This has been a textual experiment by no one you've ever heard of.

Aiiiiiii Fusion: The Future of Food!

Why I love Detroit: Last night, whilst killing time amidst the city's crumbling facades, I felt a great need to urinate. Unexpected and urgent, it would've caused a major fiasco in any other major Downtown. However, this being Detroit I was able to stop my car in the middle of the street without even bothering to pull to the side. I stepped out and let it fly. There was no one in sight but I heard a sarcastic whistle, probably coming from a derelict stashed in one of the many deserted train cars.

Why I hate Detroit: There is a 100 degree difference between the weather here and the weather in Los Angeles. Throw in Tacos and the arrival of the Brock Alter era and it's enough to make a young man homesick, even a man who's recently reacquired his swag.

"My Swag is Phenomenal" - Gilbert Arenas

Something about being home lends a comfortable feeling. It ain't Mom's Chili or sleeping next to my mole-riddled Dog, but the sense of having the shit figured out makes talking to strangers or even dancing at a bar all the more easier. I'm prone to over thought, over analysis, and other overindulgence of the intrinsic variety, but in the throws of home they dissapate.

This feeling is good, but what exactly is home?

I spent the past ten days, busting my ass like never before in fervent pursuit of directing commercials for a Sushi restaraunt. If you've seen the Heinz Tomato Ketchup Commercials or just talked to me about them, I've spouted off against the woes of channeling creative energy into another man's pocket. Well color me a hypocrite but I had a fucking ball of it. Before the days of USC, where everything glitters in the sun and you aren't even allowed to park a bike against George Lucas' railings, there was no organization, no goal, just the joy of the pursuit. From 17 on, the ragtag corps would assemble to make a movie, put on a play, or organize a scavenger hunt. The feeling carried over to USC at least during 290, when Paul and I turned the class into our personal cavalcade. Then, as if being groomed to fit a cog, the USC system took over, grinding down our spirits with limits on creativity, producability, and use of firearms. It's easy to rebel, fun even, but even the most rebellious sort (and trust me, I know some rebels) are stuck with the thought: "is it worth it?"

In this regard, I was lucky enough to chance into directing some commercials as my first job after graduation. Here in all their unfettered glory are descriptions.

Earthquake. A couple gets their sushi and an earthquake commences. Vases fall, tables shake but they are unbothered, opting to focus on their Sushi. Because of the quake it keeps falling out of their chopsticks but upon finally getting to eat it they get wide smiles on their faces. Cut to a wide shot of the restaurant. Outside Godzilla battles helicopters over a cardboard version of Lansing. Tagline: "AI Fusion. Authentically Asian"

Sashimi. A man orders "the freshest sashimi you have." The waiter goes to the kitchen but stops to put on galoshes, a raincoat, and a life jacket. He grabs a decorative harpoon from the wall before heading into the kitchen. From there you see waves splashing against the window and flashes of light. You hear a boat going out, the churning of waves, and the sounds associated with catching a fish. Dolly from the kitchen on a silver platter. The man enjoys the Sashimi. Final reveal: the waiter is sopping wet.

These are unadultered silliness, exactly the sort of thing I'd like to do with my life but though I spout worthless phrases of "it's great for a reel" or even "I can start a business with these", I derived no greater pleasure than gathering friends, acting like a fool on set, and turning aforementioned friends into superstars. Note: this grandiose phrase is not untrue. I called upon John Scaramucci to star in one of the commercials. It will be airing nonstop around his college campus during his college's sporting events. With those big brown eyes gleaming, it's only a matter of time for that boy.

I worked 50 out of 60 hours without noticing, laughed my ass off, and made regrettable decisions with caution into the wind. Paul's rubbed off and I'm cracking jokes in a faux gravelly voice. My best guess? That's what home is.

"A Six-Year-Old In The Body Of A Grown Man"

Today, for the first time in my life I enjoyed the writing of Mitch Albom. I grew up with Mitch as my local sports columnist. Sitting at the breakfast table, my seven-year-old self spilled Kellogg's Corn Flakes over his work in a show of literary criticism. For high school graduation I was given three Albom authored books including the luminary Tuesdays With Morrie. I read the first ten pages of each before deciding saccharine was best left for the furthest coves of my unbrushed teeth. 

But today, well today, Albom decided to write a column on the city of Detroit. BLAH!

There are three ways in which I enjoy reading. 1) Something luminary and earth shattering. 2) I respect and worship the high gloss prose or 3) It tugs at the nostalgic heart strings of familiarity. Yes. I liked Albom's column but I didn't like the column. I liked anecdotal mentions of Joe Dumars and Barry Sanders, citing of sights I'm familiar with, and the general fact that it took place in Detroit--my hometown. 

In his piece he tries to capture the essence of Detroit. Like most serious journalism he misses the mark as he attempts to put a straight face on the toothless grin that is Detroit. It is the same sort of presentation that pervades Clint Eastwood's latest film Gran Torino. I've read Updike, I know the beauty of decaying Rust Belt cities, but the romanticism of gritty people surviving the cold under delusions of God's love is offensively insipid. No person seeks to survive. Big banners are effective, especially in the interest of writing but I'd like to think that truth lies in the small interactions. The individual essence is the most marked and beautiful of all human traits, but it never comes out when forced. Put your shine on, throw that gel in your hair. You'll look great but that ain't you soldier and you know it. Essence comes in the way one attempts to take off a girl's belt, the sheepish way the present some achievement, or their strategic route of asking a favor. 

As the saying goes "if you've got it, flaunt it." Well, if you've got it you don't need to flaunt it. It's already there silly puss. 

Happy 20089 (this entire post is a joke!)

I see we have some new additions to this here family at the ole' Hindenburg! Well, I must extend my welcomes! In addition to welcomes I should give a swift kick in the groin. As it stands now I have no idea how I got roped into this disgusting endeavor with a dystopic group of people. I mean come on! Can you even dare to believe these aSSholes?!? 

Joel Walkowski formerly Charlie Hoofing III: "Hey there ladies and gentlemen, my name's Joel. I pretend to be  a writer. I also pretend to be something of an eccentric so you won't judge me too harshly. When you read my novel, the shitty work I threw together night after drunken night, you'll think "maybe I don't get this". That's true but the reason you don't get it is because I'm a self-infatuated narcissist rather than a writer. I hope the Lions pick Matt Stafford so I can masturbate to the idea of fades to Calvin Johnson!" 

Oh I'm sorry Joel! Did I impede the Lions on your sexuality?!? Sorry! 

Joel: "I fall in love with every girl I kiss because such events are so momentous and monumental for such a monumentally momentous pussy such as myself. I'm gonna go write a love poem, revise my novel, and play Tenori-On while pretending to be happy. Than I'll fashion a wedding dress to Nick Olah's exact measurements b/c I'm that fucking self assured! :)" 

On a side note 20098 is the musical year of John POPPER. I own 3000 LPS. Paramount among these is Blues Traveler's 1994 release. I'm making it my personal "Shapinsky's KarmA" to build Blues Traveler into the modern day Beatle's for the sake of hilarity alone. 

Thank God I'm sooooooooooo distant from that world. Otherwise I'd have fathered infinite amounts of children by now. My eight-year-old clique are all men by now. I am the only man remaining. I take this as my purpose to drive to the beach and wave my member "hello" to the porpoises. 

Mr. Andrew McNally Aka "McWriter". I can't think of a more contrived name for a writer. What is it? Are you inspired by McMuffins? I get the Irish alliteration but this childish imitation of fast food restaurants is something best reserved for John Cusack movies. Oh wait! I'm sorry! I forgot your predilection towards understandin' the fairer sex. Never mind, as a product of Illinois and a wannabe writer I get your obsession with John Cusack. Yeah, maybe you'll be there some day! Until then, continue on the archetype path fascinating nubile (ie warm pussied ladies) bitches with analyses of Planisphere and Fukudome's batting average! Yeah, what evs! 

Jeff LaPenna aka Jeff the Pen!: Wow buddy! You are so infinitely different than the rest of humanity. Do you think that, maybe, when the time is right, we can hold each other and watch the world burn?!? I promise to nibble your eaR lobes! I just want to live on an island with you forever! The isle of Man! Have fun getting tattoos pookie brains! 

Bryan: Oh I'm sorry Johnny come lately, your wonderful Vietnamese girlfriend and library job entail you a moral superiority! Forgive me form questioning. Your conversational acumen intimidates me. No one will ever understand Sean Rooks' feeble marriage with Chili's like you do! You are a champion! A scholar! An employee of VKC Library! 

In a nutshell... Let's break barriers!