All great art is about a girl.
"You were too artistically subtle" she said. "She" being the latest one to nudge her cheeks over the edge and fall down, deep into my ones-that-got-away abyss. We'd probably be together today, raising cute little Steven's, had I been more pragmatically-forward and less artistically-subtle. And by pragmatically-forward, I think she meant, and these are not her words, artistically not-so-fat. You see, not only was she about nine years younger, but she was as height-weight proportional as you could get.
And so I find myself adding another notch to my little brothers belt, and getting another lashing on my logical acumen. As many movies as John Hughes or Robert Iscove ("From Justin to Kelly") or anyone else makes, reality lashes you on the upper thigh like a clumsy father if you try to believe anything but this: Art, talent, personality, humor, and skill do not render if you're fat. They bring girls in, friendly girls, pining for affection and attention, humor and praise; who admire your life and pay homage to you. But in the end, my little brother, metro-sexual extreme, you're right. They're just docking at my wide, safe harbor for a self-image refueling. If I go to close the deal, they disappear fast and artistically-subtle as the tide.
"Even Christian women, Steve?" Especially Christian women. They strut the halls like ambient manequins, with rings on all but one finger, harboring this vision: A Christian, Colin Firthian, Jane Austen character, rich, virgin, and ready to quote Sonnets during sex. He knows how to fence, rub feet, garner affection, and can read minds. If Mama told her princess she was a package, you'd best be three times that, if you want a date. It's like this, there should have been a Proverbs 32, a rider to 31 - that being, Proverbs 31 women don't exist, and if they do, they're married, or you can't have one.
posted by Steve Sheppard @ 10:44 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
Putting on my critiquer hat today:
Okay, so you have a right to be angry at idealistic girls who are looking for a cross between Pierce Brosnan and Jesus.
And, I have to admit, that anger fuels your imagination and metaphor. So your rants are captivating, witty, sharp, and striking as a slap.
But, what comes after that? What I read here is very good vitriol. It's an excellent exercise in expression ... but it doesn't go anywhere. It stops cold.
Interesting writing moves -- it captures the transformation between moods, reveals the movement of heart and mind, exposes the processes by which we change and are transformed.
You may not be able to write beyond your present ire, but I humbly suggest you try to look back and examine some of your past shifts and growth spurts. Render them in words as imaginative and dynamic as these. Capture the transition well -- and that's a skill that will enliven your writing.
Narrative is about change. Write the changes. Decoration is nice and admirable, but it's not alive.
Yea, you're right. I guess I just get on rants and can't stop. I'm thinking of redoing this whole blog - only having stuff I'd want people to read, not just what I'm feeling at the moment. Cheerio.
Post a Comment
<< Home