Henry Miller wrote, "I have no money, I have no resources, I have no hope . . . I am the happiest man alive." (1)
Well . . . I don't get that. I envy it, and I (maybe?) want it, but I don't get it. I don't get his book either, Tropic of Cancer, which I attempted reading recently to perhaps put me in the proper mindset for a period of my life in which I attempt to, uhh, I don't know . . . take some risks, live on the edge, hop a boxcar with a small sackful of possessions attached to a stick. (2)
Here's the truth: I have a little bit of money, I have a little bit of resources, I have a lot of hope . . . and I have no idea where I grade out on the scale of Happiest to Unhappiest people alive. It might be nice to see that scale . . . of course, what if I'm closer to the Unhappy? It might be best to remain ignorant on that matter.
Henry's going back on the shelf. Frankly, I don't know what the fuck he's talking about. I've always had in mind some kind of vague life that I would randomly and suddenly embark on, some kind of Jack Keroauc/Henry Miller/Hunter S. Thompson life, but the truth is I've never had one ounce of anything in common with them, and I've never really even liked them as writers, which makes it even more confusing why'd I want to emulate the life of people I don't like.
The edge. Ah, fuck it.
I just want to say one thing: I don't know shit. I really don't. Sometimes I think I do, and that's a very dangerous moment. But I want to learn, and I want to become a better writer, so I'm gonna watch and re-watch a lot of films, read and re-read a lot of books, and put down some ideas. Here. In a blog. I'm gonna keep an open mind, and most of all, I'm gonna (hopefully) discover what it is I truly like and dislike about art.
So here we go: I'm a novice. A newbie. A know-nothing. It may be in my future to be a good film-maker, and it may be in my future to never make any films again.(3) I don't really know.
Whew, that felt good! Admissions of ignorance/newbiness . . .
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . the world of blogging has called me back.
I don't know why, but . . . it has.
You see, I did keep another blog around the callow, now-inconceivable age of 21, a time when my hair was a good four inches longer and I was continually wondering how in hell I was going to put my stamp on the wacky world I was suddenly feeling pressured to join. But I didn't write about books/films, though, and didn't much write about anything interesting, which was probably why the blog sputtered out. (4)
So yeah. This is going to be a blog about film and books. And if you're not excited to hear that . . . good! You shouldn't be. Most blogs like that are not good. I really don't know if mine will be any good. I'd like to try, though.
FOOTNOTES:
(1) Miller almost assuredly wrote this line in an eclectic coffee shop, down to his last franc, sweeping one hand through his hair and everything about the situation brimming with romantic uniqueness.
(2) Somehow I always picture a cartoon fox with a red polka-dotted sack of goodies tied to a stick, hopping a boxcar. Did this fox actually exist on some long-forgotten faux-Disney VHS tape purchased at a dollar store? Lord knows.
(3) I made a movie last year. Got a lot of experience. I might talk about it at some point.
(4) Or maybe it was because I just didn't like blogs. "Most of them are boring, whiney or pretentious," I often say to myself. Aren't those really the only three categories? Oh, wait, there's a fourth one: awful poetry. Oh, and people who post picture after picture of their kids or pets, as if we want to see your damned tyke with cake on his face or the cat curled up on your bed . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment