Wannabe ...... (fill In)

Breaking the Ice

For about half a year I've been stuck. I haven't written a single word worth mentioning. And that's a problem if you're trying to write something. I had a conflict that I had to rewrite before the climax of my story and nothing worked. I resolved I would not progress with he whole novel as long as this problem is not solved and today, with pride I say, I have solved it. It's possibly the sweetest, neatest, greatest, most dynamic, most intense part of the whole thing.

But why couldn't I write it? I've been in a bittersweet relationship with the Creator of everything. Last time in church, the scripture said that what the Lord requires of me is:

to try to live in love,

to live according to His laws,

and to be humble toward Him.

None of the above has been fulfilled lately. But He reached down to me and, so openly, he set the rules for me. I was finally told exactly where I'm lacking. Everywhere, apparently. But it's good, it's really the best. I finally know that I should do these three. And I'm so thankful! Knowing this is salvation. I'm saved... once more. This is the biggest thing of my life and now that it's done--not for the first time, sadly--life can/must move on for me. Move forward ;)

Modern-day weddings

I've been on a big number of weddings now. On fabulous ones, with huge fortunes invested and on plain ones, that were almost for free. On ones, where it wasn't the first marrige, and on ones, where it wasn't the last.

It makes me wonder: what kind of wedding did they want. Though the most obvious question is: why did they want to get married on the first place? It's totally out of fashion, as many say, it's just a piece of paper, or a bureaucratic approach of romance. These modern views shoot a bullet straight through my heart and everything I love about love.

Marriage is supposed to be the sacred covenant, which establishes, that the subjects really want to spend the rest of their lives together. In love. In olden days, divorce was forbidden, or at least scandalous. These days we interpret it as obligated suffering throughout life. But why? Love should and can last forever. It can follow you through all your years and can make them worth to live through. I have seen examples of this kind of attachment, and this is what keeps me believing in marriage.

A couple days ago I was at a wedding. It was a very small-scale one, simplistic but somehow magical, inspiring, wonderful and delightful. At the dinner, there was some quiet music, no dancing, no big party really, only a few games for the young couple. It sounds utterly boring, however, it was a true example of their care for each other. The guests weren't neglected, or such, only they were shown what real love looks like. And it looks like a fairy tale.

When there is real love between two, it deserves a chance. And this chance isn't just living together, or making love, or fancy gifts. It's way more than that. True, honest love needs a fireplace, where it can eternally blaze, keeping warm those around it. It needs reassurance of its value, lifespan and absoluteness. If you marry the person you love, you can create a home, a family, basically a life, without doubt, without insecurity. Okay, it needs a little more than marriage but marriage is a fine brick of the house of a great life.

I want to believe, that marriage can be the great start of the grandest advanture of our lives. :)

How to stay friends

Befriend with the humorous guy in your class when you're 13. Let this friendship be loose and neglect each other. Then, when you hit the age of 14 or 15, start making inside jokes, watch movies together. When the others think you're weirdos, start dreaming big, believe, that the two of you can achieve antyhing. Then you'll be ridiculed by the people surrounding you, but you won't mind because they all seem to be irrelevant a-holes, since you two really WILL do something big. Someday... Then have a girlfriend, the normal teenage-love, which is idiotic and harmful in more than several ways. When your friend is against it, don't rely on his advice and make a fool of yourself. When it ends, just admit you were wrong and return to being friends. Graduate from school, go to uni. Grow up, start searching for jobs. Get acquinted with new people, who are fresh and exciting to you. Start feeling odd, then normal, then odd again and finally realise you're just a person, ergo completely like all other humans. And at the end of the day, when one dream collapses after the other and you're, again, running after your dreams from years ago, you know who's the one to call to help you out in writing a damn query letter for the thousandth time. Yes, it's them, the good old friends. They laugh at you and they always say you're just the same and repeat their old phrases over and over again but it doesn't bother you. Because they're your friends.

We all are lucky to have these people. Friendships might not be the brightly blazing fires of life but they will certainly be the most important relationships of it. Because someday you may find the girl, who used to be your closest friend, standing in front of you, lowly whispering 'I do' in a wedding dress, while your old friend keeps mouthing a joke about your favourite movie in the background...

Writer's note

It's been a long day. I've been called in to 2 job interviews, for which I'm happy beyond words but, other than that, oh boy, have I had a swell time?

I'll begin with something that's very close to me: literary work. Ever since I learnt how to write I've had a grand vision of my future. It's been my dream to be a great writer and I've always lived in this illusion that I'm good at it. But today I was rejected by a medium-sized company. No, not my professional application-- I wanted to be a volunteer. It's a quarterly magazine. So they said that they had my test writings checked by professionals and they found them inadequate in regards of grammar and authenticity.

The other thing is, well, literature, too. Remember when I said I've had this dream to be a great writer? Yeah, it pretty much fills every second minute of my waking hours. So here's the other story: Yesterday I recieved an answer to a query I sent to a seemingly fitting agent. She wrote that she feels honored (of course), that I contacted her, however, my work is not really for her. She (of course) encouraged me to keep on trying because she did not reject my book because of its general lack of genuineness but because of her own lack of enthusiasm about it. Yeah, it sucks. I know what you're thinking: Well what does one (1) agent matter anyway? Keep on trying, she said that too. So yes. Thank you. I've been trying. I've been trying for over a year with a total absence of fruition in any respect. I've re-written and polished my work but what does it matter now?

I've never said I'm a writer. Never to anyone. I've always believed humility is crucial and so I've never mentioned myself as a writer or artist. I didn't keep my writing a secret but I sure as rain was modest about it. Still, what I feel right now is this: I'm a complete wreck as a writer. Yeah, I'm a wreck that's for granted but why do I think I'm a writer. I never said I was and I've been constantly forcing myself not to consider myself as that. But in despair and disappointment my thoughts betray me. I'm just a sore loser and a presumptuous fool.

I'm not going to apologize for all the dismal things I've written because they aren't dismal. They're meant to teach you something. Well, who am I trying to lie to? They're meant to teach me something. Something I know and yet pretend to never have heard of. In all honesty I have a lot to learn and I've got to let go of big-faced concepts about myself. I'll be small. I'll remain small and I'll accept being that. I'm too young to be big and it takes some time to get rid of one's youth.

Come, try, Guess my name, But here’s the catch, Get it wrong, Your life I’ll snatch

Rumplestiltskin (via skeletondetectionagency)

When am I ready?

We work very hard for things we want and for others that we don't. But it's about all right. However, mostly our efforts turn out to be fruitless. Why is this? Why isn't my book published yet? Why am I not married?

Most often we question the methods and the degree of our commitment but other times simply accept failure. None of this and at the same time all of this is right. How can that be?

Firstly, we can never work too hard. There's always a bit more we could do. Yes, even when we feel we've done our best. It is constantly possible to push a little harder, to get somewhat better. And there are times, when our work needs polishing. It's extremely hard to admit, when what we think we've worked for with all our might, cries out for being corrected. It's truly damn difficult to say, that it isn't that good after all.

Secondly, we easily get obsessed with a wide range of variety of things, from what we ought to keep ourselves far. And then it's inevitable, that we lay down our weapons and armours, and whisper lowly: I give up. Then we become free to do what can work for us.

But no matter what we do and how we do it. Sometimes we are destined to achieve success at certain fields, still, we struggle and yet get nowhere. That's because we might not be quite ready. The Oracle tells Neo in the Matrix: Sorry, kid. You got the gift, but it looks like you're waiting for something. And sometimes, very rarely, it looks like we're all waiting for something, just don't know what. We think we'll know when we see it. But it's not something we can see or something that's basically external. No. Just like in Neo's case, we've got to start believing. Faith is the last barrier, that separates us from entering the promise land.

Sweeney Todd: The Importance of Morals and the Wrongfulness of Socialism

Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd (2007) has been famous for its explicitly violent themes, which are doubtlessly quite spectacular and shocking. The basic story seems like a tragic journey of vengeance and death but, as a matter of fact, it isn't a more dramatic Count of Monte Cristo, but it's a unique and interesting piece of art of a different nature.

In the beginning of the story Benjamin Barker a.k.a. Sweeney Todd (Johnny Depp) returns to London, from where he has been banished for crimes he did not commit and the corrupt judge, namely Turpin (Alan Rickman), who caused all of his troubles, abused his wife - who took arsenic to escape her pain - and became the tutor of Sweeney's daughter, Johanna (Jane Wisener). Sweeney seeks vengeance, pairs up with Mrs Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter), a widow, together they kill and bake scores of people, finally murdering the judge. In the closing sequence though it turns out, that Sweeney has killed his wife, along with the so many strangers, out of mistake, so he kills Mrs Lovett but he dies, too, because a young boy, Toby (Ed Sanders), who's very fond of the widow, kills him, as vengeance, also.

There are better plot summaries, I know, but I couldn't leave it out, in case someone isn't yet introduced to the movie.

Sweeney's conduct is a classic vendetta, which he plans to materialize by any means necessary. His self-assigned quest is something, that is hard to categorize as immoral. Well, yes, it's wrong to kill a man and it is far, far more wrong to kill a great number of men, yet we can't disregard the information about Turpin's terrible acts. We can say, that we probably wouldn't kill like Sweeney did but it's still hard to say, that his actions are wrongful, since he has the best imaginable motivation. In summary, what he intends to bring down on Turpin and London is understandable and, no matter how much we argue, just.

As the story goes on we get to see a little more of Turpin, who is represented as a heartless, sick person, to say the least. He is seemingly worthy of his overhanging punishment and he just keeps giving us reasons to hate him, and the banner of righteousness to Sweeney.

While Sweeney's struggling to get a chance to finish his vendetta, he kills many people, whom are baked by Mrs Lovett. This is an extremely provocative notion. As Sweeney is placed on a - disturbing and arguable - moral high ground, there is a seeming moral justification of his killing spree. The purpose this monstrosity serves is nothing else, than - apart from mere practice - cleansing the society of the bourgeois--we'll return to this.

In the end, however, everything takes a chaotic turn and what has seemed to be logical and moral - though disturbing and hard to agree with - loses its core element: the purity of its motivation. Has it not been for Sweeney's blindness he could've returned to his wife and with probably a lot of difficulties he could've redeemed himself from whatever he's been accused with. He could've got back his only child, as well. Sweeney realizes all this and kills Mrs Lovett, who has had key importance in his destruction, but it brings him nothing, apart from a very sudden and ironic death. The reason why it is hard to argue Sweeney's right to murder all those people is, that he seems to have a natural right to balance out his loss. This is what disappears in the finale: he must face the fact, that he isn't omniscient, he's not above nature but inside. All of his killings, his vendetta, basically everything turns out to be unjustified and immoral, and this is what our instincts have been telling us all along the movie. This story tells, how no man can rise above the rest of humanity or any given society, and how important it is to always stride on the path of morality, otherwise we'll run into great catastrophes, which are all self-inflicted. Lovett's bakery is a quite unmistakable and disgusting representation of socialism. Although in our society it's not a question whether socialism is right or wrong, this story, for some reason, still asks it but also gives a fast and clear answer: this mechanism of destruction was the one, which led to the demise of the one, whom Sweeney held the dearest.

In my personal opinion Sweeney Todd's tragic tale encourages us to watch the future with infinite hope instead of bitterness, no matter how terrible the past is.

well that is London

Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.

F Scott Fitzgerald - The Beautiful and Damned

Frankenstein? You Certainly Have No Idea

A while ago I wrote a similar post about Bram Stoker’s Dracula, where I explored how we’ve gradually departed from the original concept and eventually turned the whole story inside out--the way it’s usually believed to be today.

Horror and genre fiction in general are looked upon as solely entertaining literature. It is best represented by enormous fandoms around horror stories that are really the shallow water of the stream of art--yes, I’m referring to Stephen King.

Although is it not supposed to be more? Shouldn’t horror really be more than a good fright? Obviously I ventured out to write this post because I strongly believe horror can have more profound dimensions and it should. Actually, my opinion is mainly informed by Stoker’s Dracula and Shelley’s Frankenstein (and a good portion is a result of reading Poe extensively in my teen years, as it shows in the post later).

Let me begin by explaining a bit about contemporary horror’s genesis. As a branch of literature it has very little to do with books, it is only an indirect continuation to the tradition. Today’s horror comes from a set of movies, some of which were book adaptations or remotely inspired by them. Actually one name is a recurrent theme here: Bela Lugosi, a.k.a. the king of horror--much more so than anyone would have thought. His version of Dracula has proven more enduring than the written one, so the underlying themes of Stoker’s novel, which even concerned the metaphysical at times, are lost, quite tragically. Also, the popular image of Frankenstein’s monster comes from the 1939 Rowland V. Lee movie Son of Frankenstein. The shape of the creature, its mindlessness, the castle, the assistant--every bit people associate with Frankenstein is a direct result of the movie, hardly any of which actually features in the novel.

A written genre originating from a visual one is encased in the limitations of both--what could not be visually understood won’t appear, and the same applies to the written part. It is an almost unimaginable thing but originally these horror stories barely ever showed the horror. “Why, we have that today,” the ignorant reader might say but the horror of old times was not filled with the today commonplace suspense and disgust elements.

In this post I focus on the method of Shelley in Frankenstein: Her approach was what we would today call the purist. Her novel embodies horror--the dictionary’s definition of it actually. She only ever tells as much about the monster that it exists, reluctantly adding that it’s too hideous to behold and once dropping that its hand resembles that of a mummy. The main instrument of this story is a very long line of deaths but only in the purist spirit, as well.

A prolonged prologue commences with establishing the members of an extended family. They are talented, intelligent, wealthy, charitable people, who are just the dream of the era. After individually stating about every relation how enviable and admirable they are, the monster is briefly introduced. No lightning is involved here, only the statement that Victor Frankenstein, the visionary, somehow figures out how to bestow life upon things and then, once the monster is created, he instantly regrets it and falls into a state of mental breakdown over the realization of how unhallowed his work is. The monster then lives alone for a while, gradually comprehends that he is frightening to humans and feels that he is forced into a perpetual state of solitude, which he loathes more than anything--so much so that he will burn down the entire world if necessary to get himself a companion. And that’s about it. The monster asks Frankenstein to create him a mate but as he refuses he decides to avenge him as the creator of his desperation through killing everyone he holds dear. Enter the death of all characters...

The horror is how Frankenstein watches everyone he loves being killed at the unstoppable hands of his own creation. His guilt and reflections at it are horror. He is horrified. Horrified. He--along with the invested reader--is not exactly startled, nor disgusted, but profoundly horrified.

But there’s more to this story than just being the original horror. I explored that dimension only because of the framework of today’s horrible, genre-redefining novels.

As contemporary horror tries to grasp what visually equates horror, all content is lost. Shelley operates with what Poe designated as the horror-writer’s most powerful instrument: “The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.” In human relations the most extreme loss is that of one’s child but the loss of someone one loves tenderly comes in as a spectacular second, with a much more elevated pathos.

The reason this is preferred by Poe and a myriad of authors is that a parent-descendant relationship is a natural one, where choice has roughly no role, whereas in a romantic relationship, while having a powerful natural component, active choice is central. This is why a parent losing a child usually goes with the line: “A parent should not live to see their child die,” when a lover’s loss comes with: “They were taken from me.” So, while the first kind of death evokes the more profound pain, the second one is the more aesthetic. It is a better case of antagonism: what one actively binds themselves to, pledges to unite their identity to, is actively deprived from them by a second actor, thus their willing choice for whom they would value most highly in life is irrevocably undone.

The peak is then the death of a beautiful woman but it can only be a real peak if the beauty of that woman is fully realized. 

An interesting juxtaposition can be made here between the book’s model and the contemporary one. The book emphasizes multiple faculties, such as intelligence, a charitable nature, intuition and nobility of character, whereas today’s model is derived from the passions of the flesh. Contemporary theories favor a simplifying approach, which marks the core of all traits the sexual of a person. However, Frankenstein is a great example of how it used to be a valid action to discrete the sexual, the intellectual and the emotional. Today it would be called repression of the true motives (the sexual), since all the faculties associated with beauty are just expressions of the deeper, truer core of identity. Feminists of the past would have pointed out that the death of the beautiful woman symbolizes Shelley’s vision of the intelligent, competent woman’s fate, as she is determined to die, even by the principles of literature (or Poe). Today’s most progressive feminists, though, would confine this story to the literal body of women, however, not only a story but women, and all people, are much larger than bodies.

But Frankenstein is not the perfect novel. Whereas it succeeds at many things and has its outstanding merits, it does fail at anticipating what the reader can guess, as Frankenstein misinterprets a supposedly enigmatic line and prepares for his own death, when his soon-to-be wife is threatened. Sadly the target is so obvious that it’s impossible to believe what the protagonist believes to come next but, as I have stated before, this is a completely marginal element of the story and perhaps even Shelley didn’t want to make it a really elaborate twist...

All in all Frankenstein is the beacon of the lost genre of horror. But beside its literary quality it might also be a reminder to the readers that there used to be a way of thinking that thought it possible to abstract from the material.