I attempted to take a selfie with my new book (it’s just the first year of this blog rounded up into a paperback) but I don’t know how to use my phone-cam well.
Dear diary,
Man, I’m naive! I seriously cannot understand why all stories, all movies, all plays, all novels, in short all narratives aren’t always comedic and centered upon romance. I don’t necessarily mean that every artistic production should fit that film genre known as “romcom” — romantic comedy — altho I love the works of that category, it seems too confining to make all narratives comply with its traditions; but I do wish that all artworks would always end comedically — that is, have a happy ending — and be filled to the brim with romance; which is to say: fantasy. And I also welcome romance’s modern connotation of ‘love story’.
Now I was going to begin this second paragraph by complaining that the stories about violent gunslingers are bad, and I was intending on making an argument in favor of eliminating them; but I wasn’t able to finish writing even one single sentence: I kept crossing out phrases and words, because none of what I said sounded right. And then I realized: I’m not against stories about violent gunslingers — I like those, too, sometimes even more than love stories. But this realization led to a third thot:
Why did I call myself naive for believing that all narratives should be romantic and comedic, if I also have the capacity to accept stories that are tragic and violent? And I guess the answer is that I’m a confused individual.
But if I consider specific examples of the latter type of story; that is, of stories that are brutal & deadly & contain much bloodshed; is there really one that I would not want to change into a friendly, happy, lighthearted, romantic comedy? — The answer is no.
Every war story, every tale of violent struggle, I would revise until it felt soft & warm and ended lovingly. Even those plays about family struggle, where a father and son are at odds with each other, and the mother and the daughter argue about macrophysics — I would even augment these works so that the conversation becomes bright, tensionless, even bland. I would like to turn all tragedies into oatmeal... & photograph beige blobs in monochrome.
So don’t let me near the ILIAD: I would rewrite that thing in a heartbeat. Achilles would not abuse Hector’s corpse at the end, because Hector wouldn’t be dead; and neither would Patroclus. So Achilles wouldn’t even be angry in the first place. There would not be one single battle. I would even strip them of their armor, and have the armies only meet together for communion. Every great scene of battle, I would change into a feast.
And the first draft of my revision would have the various Greeks engaged in philosophical arguments with various Trojans. For instance, Odysseus and Diomedes would contend that all water molecules have a little piece of fire at the center of their quarks, which means that Herokleitos was right when he said that everything is essentially electric, and that’s why real men are continually shocked and aghast at Mother Nature; whereas Glaukos and Paris would tag-team this thesis and body-slam it to the ground with their counter-argument that all fire-quarks are like dust that collected around a nucleus of wetness — therefore everything is rather a bothness and a fusion of elements: not either/or but AND, thus firewater beats regular fire or water any day. – This would be an improvement on the gruesome physical strife that took place in the original screenplay.
But, like I said, that was only my first draft. On my second draft, I would smooth out even these verbal conflicts, so that the conversation ends up simply evenhanded & merry, all around. I would arrange for the two formerly opposing sides to sing songs together — big, loud, boisterous, drinking psalms.
And you don’t even wanna know what my third draft would look like.
Zeus would be kind to everyone, and he would come down from Olympus more often and mingle with the people.
Chryseis would be her own woman: she would do whatever she liked. So would Helen. In fact, so would all the women from either of the contending lands. And the men would admire the women, and the women would admire the men. It would be a mutual admiration society. And there would be peace for 100 years.
During this time, people would make things and sell them. Also others would develop skills, which they could hawk on the market: such as the skill of massage, the skill of window-installation, or the skill of tree trimming.
We would learn to value professionals who beautify people. Then, those of us who have no style could feel important, once and for all. Because instead of fretting over decisions about which clothes to wear each day, a personal butler (wholly robotic) would enter our bedroom and greet us in a charming tone and hold up two choices of outfit, and both would look absolutely dashing — thus, no matter which one we chose, we would appear stylish in the eyes of our contemporaries; and this would increase our rate of production, which would raise the total profits of the company we work for; therefore everyone would be glad.
And whales would no longer piss the color of gasoline. I would manufacture whales so that their urine is bright gold like a liquid lightning-bolt. That way, whenever you dive into a pool, you will always know the places where the whales have pissed. And you can either avoid them or go explore them — it’s your dime.
So a standard dinner conversation would go like so:
FATHER. “Please pass the butter, Samantha.”
DAUGHTER. “I met a boy in class today. He impressed me, so I agreed to go steady with him.”
MOTHER. “That’s nice, Samantha; but please honor your father by passing him the butter, as he requested. Now who’s this new beau of yours? Does he own a Christian name?”
DAUGHTER. “Yes, I’ve heard the crowds cheering for him and chanting ‘Bry—an! Bry—an!’, and the back of his jersey reads ‘RAY’. So I think his name’s Bryan Ray. I noted that the number on his jersey is sixty-six plus one more six (he’s the only player dreamy enough to have a triple-digit number) — the reason I’m dating him is that he’s magically good at basketball.”
SON. “Jesus, Sam, pass Dad the butter.”
And another thing I would do is take Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and retell it with all the violence and savagery removed. There would be no scalpings or [bloodcurdling description obscured by bracketed redaction] — instead I’d have everyone be friends and hang out at the park, or in nature, and read poetry to each other. Instead of trekking forth to wreak havoc upon a village, they would enter the village wearing smiles, and proceed quietly from one side to the other side of the village, and exit the village wearing the exact same smiles. This would vastly improve the peaceful aspect of the novel; and it would allow the reader to relax and repose, rather than tense up and brace herself against imminent danger.
Yet now I imagine a heckler from my audience shouting in response to that last idea: “Hey yo, Bry, you are a very stupid fool — for don’t you see that if Glanton’s band of freebooters were to march thru a village smiling rigidly and staring wide-eyed, in total silence, during midafternoon, it would be almost MORE scary than whatever the novel sez they did?”
OK, let me put this heckler’s point to rest, and tuck it into bed & lure it to sleep, by directly addressing the misconstrual:
Dear idiot-questioner. NO: my improvement of McCarthy’s carnage would not result in an even more intensely suspenseful scene of eerily ultra-threatening super-weirdness, for while Judge Holden and the gang were pacing forward thru the town with their eyes wide open and looking side to side while smiling widely, I would tell the soundtrack editor to add in the sound of a tune from a music box, like a little toy that you’d give to a child for a birthday gift; so those innocent chimes of that simple melody that keeps repeating would cause the villagers as well as the audience to feel at ease. It would thus be delightful.
P.S.
And, in any scene from any film that comes out during this decade, if there is a moment where the protagonist cuts down a dead branch from a tree (perhaps he’s one of those aforementioned professionals whose skill is trunk trimming — not to be confused with swimming-trunk tailoring) but when the branch falls to the ground, one of its twigs brushes against our protagonist’s shin, and this is the ONE day of the week when he is not wearing shin guards, because there’s no basketball practice on Tuesday, thus this twig cuts the skin, and the leg starts to bleed, I would demand that the production crew edit in a scene where the God of this World flies down like a bat out of heaven and tends the wound:
I would stipulate that all films containing this type of event should have our LORD thus personally bind up the wound, and pour in oil and wine, and take the character who was injured by The Branch up into his mighty arms, and place him upon the LORD’s mobile throne, and taxi the victim to the nearest bordello, and care for him there.
Then, on the morrow, when God departs, he should ostentatiously pull from out of his billfold two crisp banknotes of undisclosed amounts and bang them down upon the counter before the host of the parlor, at the front desk, and ask for change. (Perhaps this cashier is one of those professionals whose skill is “massage therapy” — that’s one of the thots that a viewer of this scene might think, at this point in the picture.) And then, as God is leaving the establishment, while the glass exit-door is still in his clutch, he should turn around and say “Did you see that man who accompanied me here last evening? Verily I say unto you: Whatever that good man needs, just put it on my tab. Spare no expense. He’s one of my favorites.”
The addition of this sequence, whenever a star character gets injured by a falling branch in the screenplay of a film, shall cause the general quality of cinema to increase. This shall be known as The New Movie Code. And it will be strictly enforced.
And if you continue watching any of the films from our era (the early 21st century) which adhere to this ethical standard, you will notice that, after the man awakes and finds himself in the bordello, there is the sound of footsteps in the hallway, echoing noticeably and apparently approaching our bedridden protagonist:
Out of the hall now appears a certain priest, whose name tag reads “LABOR”; and he stops at the bedside and converses for a few minutes with the injured individual. They talk about important moral issues, such as the love that one naturally feels for one’s own country.
Then, while these two are talking, we hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway again; and now a third gentleman appears at the room’s entryway, and this man’s tag reads: “FINANCE”. He takes a place likewise at the opposite side of the bed, and looks on, eventually joining the conversation:
Thus the three friends pass the time discussing various subjects, all greatly interesting, until the injured man is healed. Then the movie continues in whatever vein it was moving before its star fell:
This particular picture that I’ve been using as an example ends with Bryan renouncing further use of his evil powers, quitting the basketball game that he was winning illegally (via magic spells and a court-sized mesh of voodoo beams), and instead rallying his teammates from his bench on the sidelines to play without his help:
And, despite the odds, the team does not immediately fail and lose; they do miss three basket-shots in thirteen minutes, which dramatically tightens the score: but it’s now the final quarter, and they’re behind by just one point.
Then, right at the buzzer (which signals the end of the game), Bryan leaps up off the bench and tackles the player from the opposing team who is currently attempting to block the ball from going into the hoop — for the worst teammate on Bryan’s side has just tossed what should be the winning shot; thus Bryan breaks the rules of the game and fouls the other team’s rim-protector, whose name is Scott.
[AUTHOR’S NOTE. By mentioning the name “Scott”, I don’t mean to bring up memories of our old high-school classmate John “Scottie” Ferguson — no, I mean the guy who owns “Scott’s Strip Club” across the street from the bordello where our protagonist was convalescing during the censorship above.]
So Scott gets two free throws, and he makes both shots, winning the game and the championship to everyone’s delight. Then, as both teams are leaving the court, Scott brushes past Bryan, striking his own muscular shoulder rudely against Bryan’s shoulder as he passes, thus knocking Bryan back and almost making him fall over (but Bryan uses one last dose of evil magic to keep his balance), and Scott heads directly toward Bryan’s now-ex-girlfriend Samantha. Scott kisses Samantha on the lips, right in front of Bryan. Then Bryan’s father comes down from the bleachers, drapes his arms around the two new lovers, and chaperones them off to his Cadillac for their honeymoon.
As the lovers are leaving, Bryan yells to Samantha that she should ditch Scott because he’s no good, but she turns around & sez “drop dead”; then prances off while everyone celebrates the victory.
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