To the casual observer, hulked over a white hot flatscreen and squinting dn into the swirling 2D pixelsquash of blogspace, it probably seems as if I've flatlined over the last few days. Au contraire, mes petit amis...I can assure you that is not the case. Instead: remember, if you will, that legendary samaurai warrior who stood for years in a pre-strike posture, seemingly frozen in space and time but actually alive and very much in the moment - a zen-master perfectly positioned and in harmony with his surroundings, perpetually poised at the point of striking....something with his sword. The seasons come and go, but still he remains, immovable, eternally caught in that instant between between inhalation and exhalation, as the winds howl around him, snowdrifts build up around his thighs or his armour becomes speckled with cherry-blossom in spring.
Yes, this blog is like that samaurai, perfect and unyeilding; immotile and untroubled by the elements. Except that today I thought I'd get up and have a cup of coffee and a fag.
I've been busy, busy, busy, o honoured reader: like Barry Allen, the Silver-Age Flash, I am constantly circling the globe at near-light speeds, fighting devilishly bizarre villains like The Blip or Murak Khan, the Science-Tyrant of Dimension-P, while my alter-ego's after-image seems to be all present and correct, but unmoving, back in the Police Dept. lab. Well, me garage, actually.
What have I have I been doing, I hear you ask - tho your awe-struck voice sounds muffled and distant, as if it has reached me through a cardboard tube or a children's radio made from yoghurt-cartons and string. Well, since you asked, I've been writing reviews and articles and features and fiction, watching films and running and cycling and writing, writing, writing and getting depressed and paranoid in between cleaning me teef and mourning old dead friends.
Fiction, fiction, fiction: everything is fiction, really. Reviews are a form of fiction too: I'm trying to get you to buy into a certain idea or a subjective view of what the music's about...or maybe I just made that up too, and I'm just working hand-in-glove with some PR guy or a magazine or a website to make you believe a certain record or artist is hep or pertinent to yr lifestyle demographic, so you'll fork out yr mullah and keep this whole merry cycle rolling ever onwards...or maybe I just made that up too.
It's a fiction, all of it: I'm trying to sell you a version of reality that I think you might like, then maybe you'll come back and read this blog some more...though, to what end, I'm uncertain and who cares anyway? Or: maybe I'm trying to make you think that I'm hep (I'm not), or I'm clever or attractive and don't slurp when I drink my soup: it's all fiction. All of it.
Our lives are completely imaginary - fictionalised accounts of something or other, some seed...some vague germ of our 'real' selves filtered thru vast, accreted layers of cognitive s/ware and self-esteem anti-damage-dams. It's a wonder that human-beings interact on any level whatsoever; perhaps they don't...perhaps that's a fiction too.
Who are we all, really? Not that anyone else cares about the answer to that question; they're all too busy writing their own inner-scripts to listen to anybody else's dialogue. It's all fiction.
And who are we writing for? Who do we want to listen; who do we want to sit up and pay attention: our dead unlistening parents, the World...God Almighty?
And Grant Morrison's idea about creating/wearing Fiction-Suits to climb into fictional worlds...well, you don't need it anymore - it's redundant; old fiction-tech - because we already live in a fictional universe; one that we made up earlier, but never really noticed. What we need is a suit - or a simple methodology - that will help us to climb out of this fictional world and into the real one. We need to breach our own Fourth Wall.
So yeah, been writing some fiction this week. Just like everybody else.
Wouldn't want ya to think I'd just been sat around, doing nothing.