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September 21, 2015

Jest Reading the Infinite



I bet lots of folks did just like me. I recently went to the local art-house theater (Vine Cinema & Alehouse, Livermore) and saw The End of the Tour, a film about an interview (boring) with a writer (zzzz). It will not be a popular film and could have been awful if not for the fact that the writer in question was David Foster Wallace. The guy playing the interviewer did a fine job acting the part, but the guy playing Wallace (Jason Segel) was scary real. He wasn't acting at all; he was Wallace. When they meet in heaven Wallace will say to Segel: you're more me than me.

So I loved the film, and when I got home to Messina I grabbed my heavy copy of Infinite Jest, of which, like most people, I'd read fifty pages. It's Wallace's tour de force/tour de farce and over a thousand full pages of words, almost an avalanche of verbosity. But this time I'm reading it and loving it.

It's a book about America, as Wallace says in the film. Completely crazy characters do crazy things told by a crazy narrator, letting his talkaholism-thinkaholism run wild, all created by an author who was an excellent wordman, stylistically advanced, and crazy himself.

The book is hilarious, which many people don't get. It's very wry, shaggy-doggish, but, for reference, write in your copy: Hilarious. Then imagine the audio version read by Bill Murray or better yet, Fred Willard. The mudslide of words is meant to overcome you and tickle you. Like when I dared talk to girls in high school I always got: I can never tell when you're joking. The trick is to say the absurd with a straight face.

So lots of people don't get it and drop the book on their toes. Ouch. There are other problems: the 100 pages of footnotes annoy many. Take them in Jest and enjoy the beautiful bullshit. A bigger problem is that it is a very slow book to read, a slog perhaps. That is, it takes a long time to get to the end. Months probably. Harry Potter books are big but blur-fast, Infinite Jest is thick and meaty. However, what is your purpose in reading a book? To get to the end? Scarf down the meal to get to dessert? Speed home from work to sit doing nothing? 'Do' Italy in five days? Is that any way to live? Stop that.

Infinite Jest forces us to have a different attitude. Slow down and savor. Stay in the present. Each page is a little dirty pleasure. If you read this book merely to enjoy the writing then you will; it is extraordinarily good. It is a frighteningly monumental work of talent and skill. This is a fantastic book, better than I'd ever imagined.

You have to read it though, but for amusement not obligation. Get through the first 300 pages just to figure out what's going on. Then taste the bitterness of the vision of a culture gone to hell in infinite pain. And laugh. And get obsessed as the narrator is obsessed with everything, including the elegance of our language. It ain't easy to write perfect single sentences lasting several pages. 
"Scleredema adultorum. Them that seep, the serodermatotic. Come one come all, this circular says. The hydrocephalic. The tabescent and chachetic and anorexic. ..." (187)
I don't know all the meanings, but I get the roll-off-the-tongue joy of big words.

The editor, Michael Pietch, who I met once, apparently cut 250 pages out of the tome. But it's still an inclusive book. Not unrevised, very carefully crafted in fact, not a word out of place, but not abbreviated as we're so used to doing.  When Wallace talks about the truths that one learns in a substance-abuse halfway house, he goes on with sentences beginning with 'That' for seven packed pages. It is an incredible section in a jumble of incredible pieces.

Still the writing isn't show-offy, because it serves the book, not merely the plot but the real book that's always between the lines. It's neurotic, it's weird, but it's not a display of cleverness, like I see so often nowadays. It is a coherent whole. A dark masterpiece. The Great American Novel of legend has been on the shelf since 1996. The American Ulysses. I needed the film to kick my butt. To push me in the lake. Now I'm loving the warm water and don't want to get out.

As I get further along through my Infinite Jest/Quest, I'll keep you updated.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Your Jeffness, I've got a query.
Jeff: Har har har.
Mutt: It means question.
Jeff: Oh.
Mutt: What can you make from baked beans and onions?
Jeff: I dunno, but I asked my wife, I said: Dear, must you spend so much money on food?
Mutt: What'd she say?
Jeff: "Sorry, darling, but you and the kids just won't eat anything else!"
Mutt: Well, y'know dieting is a matter of life and breadth.
Jeff: I read a diet book called: Are You Going the Wrong Weigh?
Mutt: Doctors tell us there are over seven million people who are overweight. These, of course, are only round figures.
Jeff: I dunno. I'm on a seafood diet. Every time I see food, I eat it.
Mutt: Have you heard of the Mexican ghost named Jose? They call him, "No Weigh, Jose".
Jeff: I've heard that some people trade TIT-FOR-TAT, while healthy people trade FIT-FOR-FAT.
Mutt: Tear gas.
Jeff: Scuse me.
Mutt: Tear gas.

September 7, 2015

Requiem by Kurt Vonnegut


Requiem

by Kurt Vonnegut

The crucified planet Earth,
should it find a voice
and a sense of irony,
might now well say
of our abuse of it,
"Forgive them, Father,
They know not what they do."

The irony would be
that we know what
we are doing.

When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.


August 31, 2015

Back to Basics


I'm back. Thanks to the kindness and charity of a stranger.  I'll tell you the whole story sometime. Samantha is her name, a far-off voice behind a person of good heart, a trail angel. It could have been a terrible disaster. Everything is fine. Thank you, Samantha.

So I'm back, a bit banged up but on the mend. Throughout the summer nearly every part of my body rebelled against the complacency of wellness. It got comical. It also ruined my vacation. There were some good moments though. I enjoyed the company of my family: Dad, Paul, Dave, Don, Karen, Mike, Mario and Daniela. With time I'll forget how lousy I felt and remember the simple good times. Right now, however, I'm in a "give me medicine" mode.

Your question, of course, is: But are you back? Back to writing your so-called blog, back to littering the sea with bottles filled with messages so cryptic even you don't understand them anymore? We shall see. Right now I'm more interested in this personal newspaper than in the Facebook exhibitionism or the Twitter bombardment. There is too much. Must be. Too much means negative excess. "I love you very much" (sounds like an anniversary) is not the same as "I love you too much" (sounds like youthful infatuation). If you can recognise "too much" when you see it, you're okay.

I see everyone at the airport heads down pressing their phones and wonder what they could all be saying that is so vital. What are all those words disappearing into space like clouds? Why can't the man next to me on the plane turn off either of his phones? Laptop, tablet, video screen. I guess my thoughts, brilliant as they always are, need to cook and then cool before they can be offered. Wouldn't want to contribute to the flood of foolishness as this planet quickly dies and we ignore our incapacity to help Mother.

So we post absurd recipes and read about movie stars in bikinis and send messages to improbable friends like "Zup?" which really means I'm bored, entertain me. So much urgent desperation all around and we're bored. And can't sit still silently. Life is short, baby, gotta fill it up, fill it up. Emptiness (death?) is terrifying. But the secret everyone knows is that emptiness slows life down so that we can catch up.

So each summer I turn off the phones, the computers, the televisions and just hang out. Lay on my back in the pool, ride my bike right and left, cook my meals, read at the library, walk down the street. Anyway, I know you don't miss me. And now I'm back. For good? We shall see.

p.s. A huge thanks to all the friends who contributed to this year's California adventure. Couldn't a-done it without ya!

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt:  Heard any good police reports lately?
Jeff:  I was afraid you'd start telling your awful jokes again.
Mutt:  Nope. True crime stories. They arrested the monkey for throwing feces at zoo attendants. His charge? Turd debris assault.
Jeff:  They arrested the bartender for taking liquor home. I believe the official charge was "emboozlement."
Mutt:  They arrested the former chewing gum manufacturer for unlicensed ex-spearmints. 

Jeff:  They arrested the Chrysler salesman and he couldn't a-Ford bail. 
Mutt:  They arrested the owner of a threatening bull; he was brought up on charges.
Jeff:  They arrested a barber for running a clip joint. 
Mutt:  They arrested the hock shop owner for indecency. He was selling pawnographic materials.
Jeff:  Uncle.
Mutt:  Sorry, but crime is crime. Punsters deserve to be drawn and quoted, you know.
Jeff:  And a good pun is its own reword.
Mutt:  And seven days of punning makes one weak.
Jeff:  Have mercy!