...And De-Labeling & Pro-Labeling Laborious Labels
I’ve read fiction and non-fiction and heard and seen the same; even ran into numerous characters. Some were far-fetched, others plain trashy and yet some just tear you apart. The ones that resonate and still echo back as the lonesome nights pile up are the ones that are, oddly enough, somehow like your life. The time I read them, heard them, seen them wasn’t because this was fiction and that was non-fiction. You just read, listened or spoke with whatever little scraps of collection you could find in the library (holding lesser stacks hence limiting the choices to a greater read), the local bars or in your local stores and the neighborhood, the villages, towns, cities and countries.
The halcyon days long gone, you are now stuck in an anonymous room dissecting a corpse that will not die. The Gumption in Forrest Gump! This film gets me everytime and boy did Hanks do a fine job or is that my gumption? You see where I'm going with this? Its as real to me as anything can be and maybe the disclaimer to de-associating the character to real individuals living or dead is a darn pity!
A TV set aptly named Panorama keeps me abreast of mostly what’s gone wrong with the world. It also renders me numb- a sense of cold and careless detachment. Two chairs and a small table no one sits on flanks the Panorama. Facing them is the bed, a small study table by the bed with Keith Richards’ LIFE (now figure this one out as we get to the fiction of non-fiction and the meeting of the twain), a glass of Coke, and the ashtray. On my right side is a large mirror with a vanity deck. It’s the largest mirror I’ve had. My own attic in the capital has one in the bathroom- its big enough to mirror a face for a wash and a shave.
I forgot the AC and the fan. They are both switched on. The bathroom is non-descriptive. A pot, shower and the sink. There’s a rack by the door to hang up the clothes. All in all this hotel room proves the material progress made by a hermit kingdom that just had a road when man went mooning for some kind of leap forward.
Never did understand the fuss of the space race or the exploration of life when there’s enough ignored right here on our planet mugged and stabbed by the merchants of death.
Sounds villainous but Bruce Lee would laugh at it were he around. He’d probably say something akin to the ‘Art of Killing Yourself By Killing Others’ in the misguided notion that victory at any cost is somehow Honorable and Heroic. There's a peace around when you see this young man; a pioneer who changed the way people kick ass. When asked what was his fighting style, the answer was straight, direct and as mystical as the man himself. "The Art of Fighting without Fighting" was Lee's retort and he meant it.
Its that simple or go scratch where it itches or you'll miss all that stinky smelly odor in your finger was what he'd not say as Bruce was a nice fella, even when he struck out the chops. "He fights without hatred" was a good observation by a viewer- it summed up his approach to life- being like water and just flowing, dripping and crashing where boulders and rocks popped up and becoming whatever contained the water.
The dictionary says fiction is like this: literature in the form of prose, esp. short stories and novels that describes imaginary events and people and invention or fabrication as opposed to fact (dubious at worst; thanks for the obvious at best). A belief or statement that is false, but that is often held to be true because it is expedient to do so (cough, clear throat and be polite). The example set is priceless: If a young child tells you there is a dinosaur under his bed, you might assume that his story is a fiction, but it is probably a figment. A fiction is a story that is invented either to entertain or to deceive (e.g: her excuse was ingenious, but it was pure fiction), while figment suggests the operation of fancy or imagination (a figment of his imagination). Sounds very much like a lot of folks, institutions, corporations and governments we’ve had throughout our course.
But the dictionary is also wrong, ask Tarantino and his caper Pulp Fiction. It had the pulp of life that he ingeniously fictionalized to keep them guessing. Coming to the dictionary chap, he who did the defining was wrong. The entire meaning of what is fiction is wrong. The chap as we'll refer him based the definition on a non-fictitious find and the child with the dinosaur under his bed sees the dinosaur (ask Spielberg). Naming that child’s sight of a creature that’s spawned so much popular culture and lived behind footprints and fossils and bones and ruled supremely for so goddamn long to a figment of the child's or our imagination is wrong (the chap drugs?). This dictionary’s fictional interpretations should be buried up his bum, along with a laurel on his head for getting the definition aptly suited to the human race and the times we live in (pretty much dating back to the beginning). This is not to say the opposite of fiction is the real deal. We’re all fictional characters and the world itself is a fictional figment of our singular as well as collective imagination projected en masse as the powers that be like it; want it etc.
We’re the seeds of non-fiction as well as fiction and we’re also the result of imagination as well as what’s perceived to be the raw beef.
Everything man makes up carries and bears his signature being at its barest- classifying his work in a particular category is a shifty and shitty way of doing what we’re always prone to do- labeling the damn thing instead of letting it be. This room is both real and illusionary. Miles Davis blares his horns and I’m hearing it. This experience is direct and to the point if I’m hearing it right; if I’m distracted, then it’s fictionalized. There’s that bloody dilemma again! How is that fiction or a figment? Its probably friction but then we'll never know and ain't that just the way it should be?.
The thing I’m punching on the keyboards and this little write up of non-fictionalized leanings and fictional imaginings is both true and false. A fig and a pig branded with a cell pigment; its alive but marked. When the question arises as to the category of the kind of writing I do or don’t, the answer is always hesitant and invariably dubious. Miles on the horn is a real cat on the prowl, and the mice he produces is smooth, coy and wily, constantly moving. Now go figure which part was fictional or not or just sit your butt down, mind out those ears and listen.
The only thing of any note man’s blessed with are his ideas, and the art that forms from those ideas. The pursuit of the ideal is a waste of time, worthwhile for the lesson that tells you the ideal is in the cracks and flaws we’re plagued with, another feather in that triumphant defeatist make up and a real blessing myopically seen as good old fashioned 'Bad Luck'. The jazz flows but really what’s it boil down to but music? The songbirds’ tunes are not stashed on shelves with labels that go R&B, Blues, Folk Rock, Rock, Pop, Grunge, Metal, Rap and the rest of that crap. Animal Planet understands that and hoorah to them! To reemphasize, everything is an expression of an idea that forms, shapes and then comes alive. To shun one or the other on the grounds that you don’t like this or that is to shun yourself and thus limit your horizons, and such horizons are as expansive or restricted as the mind that beholds them.
Ideas have created and destroyed and continue to make and break everything around us. But the creation and the destruction and its continuing rebirth are the very seeds that grows and withers and withers and grows; it’s why Shiva does the Dance. You cannot plant a thing if it’s made of plastic. Being you is the foremost idea, and what is being yourself but another debated philosophy of being? And that is just fine because we’re here on a trip- you see, there’s no point is the ultimate point. So if you’re gonna do an idea and bring it to life, do what needs to be done and get yourself out of the sorting bracket (but know death looms for all that rises to live- ask Lazarus). Let the expression do the talking and while you’re at it, you might as well enjoy it without the burden of being labeled, clichéd, cornered or that load called Great Expectations.
A stillness descends. The music is over. Miles is done. But life lives and there are sounds of kids playing in the dusking streetlights and a trucker roars to life.
The kids are now gone home. The trucker is on the road to somewhere. The dusk becomes the night and the room’s gone quiet. The kind of quietness that relaxes your body and mutes your mental monkey.
I hear the AC hum and churn out cold air. I put on the Panorama and Al Jazeera reports a story on Armstrong’s historic landing with that gagged, muffled and mugged up 'Leap Line for Mankind'.
Funny, there’s a kind of ‘kindness’ hidden in ‘Mankind’.
Its muted but I hear it. If man-kind comes alive living upto its name it should be a generous journey! But I’m fictional at times and non-fictional at others and really; it’s just a free state of mind constantly on the prowl, the growl and the infinite hunt for nothing and everything and everything and nothing, just as in The Alchemist.
But that is a matter I’ve long dispensed with. Its the reason why I love it when airways now charge you extra for carrying 'Excess Baggage'! Travel light and you'll have a nice flight; travel heavy and its an expensive fright.
Its getting rather too quiet for my comfort so here comes The Rolling Stones with "If you start me up; if you start me up then I’ll never stop."
So pause awhile and know now is the moment to be- with, within or without. The music is back and this must end.
Adios till the next posting.
Adios till the next posting.