Showing posts with label Able. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Able. Show all posts

Monday, December 21, 2009

A new realization [Yet Again!!!]

I've had a couple realizations and gradual shifts regarding the work and my perspective to the work. Not long ago I started writing a 'study guide' of sorts, and that's obliged me to focus my attention on what I'm trying to communicate and accomplish. Which is fine.
Also I've come to see that since I've been writing the epic itself into the void (meaning that I still don't have much of a readership, and yet that fact hasn't kept me from working on it; 2009 saw a lot of progress on the work! And for that reason alone I should think of it as a very good year, even though the previous one had been much better for my bug business) I might as well do the same thing with this blog.
Therefore I'm pushing forward, starting off with a small excerpt from the notes. {publishing notes instead of text is much easier, since although I'd like to include the best pieces of RW itself, I do want to start sending them off to journals -- yes, really -- and I don't want to disqualify myself from that}

Still on the fence regarding whether to write and/or post the Notes in the first or third person. Overall I find it a little easier to write them in third; somehow simpler to write ridiculous things about myself that way...



The Beginning and The End.


In early December 2009, around the time he started this study guide, he started realizing that he had fallen in love with some pieces of his own work; in fact he’d been in love with them for a good deal before that. It’s probably not such a healthy thing. In any case, the start and the ending of RW are prime examples of places where he detected his own genius.


The first line of the entire work is


Won’t someone tell me, please, the narrative


which features several of the special and powerful elements of the work. It starts with a contraction, which is a particularly modern typographical construction, therefore sending a message about the author's attitude about sacrosanct flowery language. Maybe. It's also a way to throw extra emphasis onto whatever syllable follows. Also the line is a sly promise: the first line suggests that the rest of the poem will be this particular narrative asked for. And since no one else can tell the narrator the story, Dave has had to write it himself, which means he’s telling himself the story even though he’s asked someone to tell it to him. This offers a window into Dave’s yearning for either an answer or for someone else to talk with – someone who knows something he hasn’t found. This is baldly state with the use of “me,” though direct expression of the narrator’s presence is very limited in the work: there's no knowing just yet how many there are of them, but probably less than ten references.


Sunday, June 3, 2007

The Story Thus Far

Must start this way; as with my other blog, I've jumped on this bandwagon quite late in the history of blogging. More importantly, it's [hopefully] late in the history of the subject, which is my epic poem.

I started it properly in early March 1997, though some of the basics arose in 1991. I will be posting some selections of the poem, plus news updates, critiques I've received, and maybe a little ranting. In the unlikely event that it gets published (or even if I just finish it, for that matter) I'll have a handy place to document the progress.

The poem is a loosely-construed blank verse. It's roughly 400 single-spaced pages, depending on how one counts it. I'd guess that it's about 10,000 lines, but that's just a guess. It concerns a narrative we all know about, but it's been reworked to suit my own purposes. Not so different from Tom Stoppard did with Hamlet for his play Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead.

More to come.

Also: in case it's not clear, I used the word "Song" in the blog's title not because there's any music involved, but because epics have traditionally been thought of as songs. The idea makes me feel good.

Here are the first few lines:


Won't someone tell me, please, the narrative
of their ordeals, and such beatific stuff
as how they’d lived and died; transformed; and came
around like living, dancing boomerangs
to find again their serried ranks and roles?
O tell me, brain, my antic attic Muse --
assist me as we share their story. Did
an unchecked vengeance make them suffer? Their
beseeching voices claim as much, and cry
for my attention. Me? I yearn for a song
that no one's sung before, and wish that it
would teach me; make me clever; let me try
to make it new. This pen, mundane, becomes
a votive taper – by its glow I will
a novel tale beverse, wrought without
a hero, filled with yet bereft of foes
and wrongs.