Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Jan 5, 2014 17:52:01 GMT -5
This is the first page in a new story; one involving the slowly decaying man that was once referred to simply as “the one alongside Waylon Cash and John Gable”. Oh, how the original tale had worn itself thin with pretentious tripe and incoherent stories of an almost delusional and self-indulgent nature; it had been a pathetic story of dented pride and swinging fists playing over a repeating backdrop of continual failures and blunders that filled the pages of notebooks scribbled in by passing by-standers curious enough to peer into the growing mess that was this man’s life, but as the globe hit another successful rotation around the fiery life-eating ball called ‘the sun’, he saw the opening of a new passage, one that would allow a series of possible successes to finally fall into his forever-reaching grasp, one that had been long since ignored after having stepped foot into the lunacy-driven asylum of a company that was WCF.
Finger tips clicked against table tops, notes passed from the radio out into on yonder unnoticed, countless cars glided passed his front porch, weeks ended in solemn fights for his optimism in a stream-of-consciousness that threatened to swallow him utterly, but now the waiting was coming to an end, allowing a chance to reveal itself, a milestone set to switch the pace in his favor. What magical happenstance would be of such dire importance and influence that it could shift the pitch the momentum of the universe and give a single man a sudden and unprecedented advantage? A simple string of words said allowed with proper context and mindset, “this is a new year”.
-.-.-
“The artist is a liar,” the words came tumbling forth from Benjamin’s lips and out onto the table for everyone to see. As shocked as his quests might have been to hear such an outrageous confession of ideology, our hero was fairly unworried about their absorption of such information and continued to dine on the food placed before him. The restaurant was a high-end Italian joint in the heart of Downtown Minneapolis. Not quite Hell’s Kitchen, but still high end enough to be a fitting place for the rather ‘cultured’ company he was keeping with him that evening; a writer (who has several novels, two poetry books, and a short story collection published, which he constantly mentions), a painter (a profession Benjamin was almost positive couldn’t be relevant enough to make a living off of, so he often believes that this particular gentlemen sells his body to pay the bills), a musician (the term being used loosely since most of his ‘instrumentation’ is composed by music scientists to placate to the lowest common denominator in order to maximize sales…he was also a rapper, which drove him even further away from the title ‘musician’), and an actor (unfortunately, not his ever-so-interesting and insightful partner, John Gable, but instead a sort of classic ‘Juliard’ type who claims to have once played Richard Burton’s [his words exactly] character from “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” on a Broadway production. Unfortunately, Benjamin could not confirm or deny this, but if every actor who has claimed to have been on Broadway really were, the rotation of actors would have to be constant).
“What are you going on about?” the writer spoke up in the confused silence.
“The artist, by his very nature, is a liar,” Benjamin replied, a smile fixed upon his face, “not in just the matter of creating fantasy and stories, but instead in how an artist views himself. The biggest deceit that this world has to offer is that the artist is a deep and caring individual who’s only goal is to express himself and understand the world.”
“Then,” the actor chimed in, “what would you propose the artist’s true goal is?” Benjamin could tell his nails were already sinking into his guests with utmost efficiency.
“Self-promotion, of course.” This comment drew a wide groan and some scattered protest from the rest of the table, “take the lovely actor for example.”
“Wait a minute,” he actor raised his hand in protest, but Benjamin quickly gestured for silence.
“Oh, calm down, this is nothing your frail ego can’t handle, I’m simply making a point,” Benjamin interrupted, “the actor is not only one who scoffs at the idea of stage fright, but revels in the idea of being in the limelight. Wouldn’t you agree? One could claim an interest in preserving the art form of performance and acting, but I challenge you to find an actor who would continue to do so if glory was suddenly stripped from the job’s description.”
“Heh, try and get DeNiro to admit that,” the painter chuckled to himself. The actor gave an angry glare in his direction, but Benjamin paid no attention to it.
“No, of course they wouldn’t admit it, but take the method actor for example, his performance isn’t made any more thrilling by their added dedication. Its simply an attention tool, all nonsense, act before the act, so to speak. I think Hitchcock said it best when he said that actors should be treated like cattle.”
“Don’t you try to undermine how I make my living.”
“Oh, calm down, you aren’t the only one,” Benjamin laughed as he looked around the table.
“I can already see where this is going,” the writer sighed, “and I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“Is that so?” Benjamin feigned a similar sigh, as if mocking the writer, “You have the story all charted out in your head? Relax. I don’t come with guns and swords. I’ve invited you hear, paid for your meals, and now I only wish to make a point, if you would indulge me.”
“Say what you will, but if I find my patience tested beyond its limits,” the writer stared intensely at Benjamin, “I will not hesitate to walk away.”
“And you are free to do so,” Benjamin smile breaks into an not-at-all-amused grimace, “Since you’ve seemed to volunteer yourself, I think its literature’s turn under the microscope.”
“Oh, what are you going to do? Mock the foundation of modern civilization and the basis of the majority of society’s education?”
“No, it is, by no means, my intention to insult the art produced by the dishonesty of the artist, I’m simply, as I’ve stated before, trying to prove my point. See, the scrutiny falls on the writer, especially those whom classify themselves as ‘authors’ instead of writers.”
“The difference?”
‘Are you familiar with the Dorothy Parker quote, ‘I hate writing, I love having written’? Well, this quote is the basis for this argument, for this exemplifies the very idea of ‘glory over substance’, the ever-constant search for a legacy to leave behind instead of enjoying the work you do. It doesn’t end there, either. The writing profession has a history of being one of the worst ‘biggest dick’ competitions in the history of the human race. Praise Faulkner, but shit on King because he’s popular. Love Hemmingway, but classify Barker as pulp and commercial. I’m sure most of you stop just short of sticking your dick in their books.”
The musician suppressed a laugh.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh,” Benjamin turned to face the Grammy nominate ‘urban poet’, “If writing is a competition, the music industry is the Special Olympics. It’s all been quantized, measured, formulaically structured until, and then shot behind the shed. It’s the same four chords, the same note progressions, vague generic lyrics, all done under the guise of ‘passion’. Its all marketing. Music is the deadest art of all, its simply turned into the art of selling plastic discs. Hell, those who have the kind of passion it takes to make real art will never make the world wide numbers that the panderers will.”
“Got a pretty fucking big mouth,” The musician grunted.
“Simply an observation,” Benjamin retorted.
“Well, how about me?” the painter sat back in his chair, clearly enjoying this mess of a social engagement.
“You are the example of the consequence of following true passion, because I know you didn’t get into painting for the money. You are the struggling artist, the one who will die first, most likely from an aneurism derived from your constant frustration of no one understanding your art.”
“What is the point of all this?” the writer exclaimed as he rose from his seat.
“If you leave, the point is moot. Sit down you raging ass!” Benjamin rose to his feet as well, staring down the man across the table who was threatening to walk away, “what man do you think I am, where I would invite all of you just to insult you each individually? I am making a point!”
“Then get to it!”
“Gentlemen,” Benjamin sat back down in his chair, “what you have experienced, this open scrutiny, is a occupational hazard I deal with day in and day out. As a wrestler I face constant harassment from the media as partaking in a sport that is recognized as the lower-end of television. For the longest time I let it tear me to pieces and destroy me slowly from the inside out. Want to know why? My legacy. I was worried how the world would view me when I passed on. The writer wishes to leave an impressive bibliography, the musician wishes to be known as a deep and tortured soul, the actor wants to be known as a craftsman of incredibly dedication, to be able to portray the world in a light reflected back onto it, and the painter would like to be looked upon as a man who would have cut his ear off before giving in and living comfortable, but is it bringing us anything other than frustration.”
The writer sunk back into his seat. It seemed all the guests fell silent and were unsure how to answer.
“Exactly. See, you are all men well respect in your fields, but that’s the problem, the praise is enough for you. Don’t try and deny it, I’ve been there, I know what its like to feel its good enough to be good enough. We feel if we leave this planet with a series of good reviews in our pockets, that we will be fulfilled, but the truth is that’s how it all falls apart. We soon start thinking that anything we do will be accepted, because who would turn down a success. A writer merely needs to publish one hit and then he can make as mediocre book as he wants, because the publisher will take it no matter what. Last year I spent too much time settling for second rate performances in the ring and as consequence, I’m stuck facing the mid-card-at-best Stacy Robinson. I was once in the running for the world title, but now I am butting heads with some pathetic jobber.”
“So?”
“So. Indeed. The truth is you all have influence. I know you are all far more intelligent than your recent works would leave you to believe, however, you have more freedom now than you have ever had before. Your studios, publishers, and fans are waiting on hand and foot, suspecting you to turn out another crowd pleaser, but what if you made an attempt and used that sort of immunity to get something real out there?”
“How?”
“The scribe is free to write his manifesto, the minstrel can put through his opus of true poetic thought, the thesbian merely needs to say no until the right film comes into his office. These idiots want to be condescended to, but I say we take this new year as a chance for new strategy. No more waiting for them. Its time we shove culture down their throats and make them swallow it.”
“And me?” the painter smirked, “you’ve already pointed out my influence is miniscule and no one is exactly lining up to buy my work.”
“That’s the beauty,” Benjamin looks over at him, “to get your art out there, you don’t need to wait for it to be bought. Paint will dry on any walls and the world is your canvas. Don’t just paint, paint visceral art. Paint something that will tattoo itself to the back of their minds.”
“What’s your game,” the writer asked.
“…I want an empire,” Benjamin replied in all seriousness, “but not one of castles, for they can be dismantled, nor of nations, for they can be burned, but instead of an empire of intellect, because they cannot destroy that. Build it from the ground up. Tonight’s little act was simply a first step, setting up a base. Vonnegut believed ideas were like a virus, well now spread this idea. Don’t move with the tides, form art with your bare hands.”
“…and what will you do?”
“The same thing I always do…win.”
-.-.-
“Is that so,” Hank Brown replied, “simple as that? Win?”
The interview area was a plain office space emptied out to make space for them. It was perfect, the room had an air of professionalism that gave the interview a sense of legitimacy, but was cheap enough for the company to make without shuffling the books, another side effect of the ‘good enough’ movement that had been spreading world wide for the last hundred years.
“Yes, I would think so, Hank. You and I both know that Stacy has already lost this match-up by showing a very obvious weakness…respect. In her interview she showed respect for me, but as we know, that doesn’t win matches. I don’t reciprocate it, I don’t respect her, I want to destroy her. I want to humiliate her, and in the end that is whats going to win me the match. I am willing to go the extra length to take her down and show her why I am ‘God Given Greatness’. See, when I walk into the ring, I’m not looking to shake hands or go through the motions. I want to feel a fist careen against my orbital and threaten to shatter it. I want my opponent to kick the shit out of me and make me feel how badly I am losing that match up. That’s what I am suspecting when I go into that match up. I want her to disregard her respect and focus simply and breaking me down.”
“Respect,” Hank interrupted,” doesn’t always mean weakness, as you would believe, Mr. Atreyu.”
“Hank, its not respect that makes you weak, its believing that it means anything to anyone but you that does.”
“So, before we conclude, is there any last words you would like to give to your opponent, Stacy Robinson.”
“Stacy, when I step into that ring. I want you to try and kill me, I really do. I’m going to do everything in my power to shatter you and if you aren’t looking to make me a grease spot on the mat, you’re too busy giving respect to realize you’re already fading away in this company…” Benjamin took a pause and smiled. “Please, Stacy, prove me wrong.”
Finger tips clicked against table tops, notes passed from the radio out into on yonder unnoticed, countless cars glided passed his front porch, weeks ended in solemn fights for his optimism in a stream-of-consciousness that threatened to swallow him utterly, but now the waiting was coming to an end, allowing a chance to reveal itself, a milestone set to switch the pace in his favor. What magical happenstance would be of such dire importance and influence that it could shift the pitch the momentum of the universe and give a single man a sudden and unprecedented advantage? A simple string of words said allowed with proper context and mindset, “this is a new year”.
-.-.-
“The artist is a liar,” the words came tumbling forth from Benjamin’s lips and out onto the table for everyone to see. As shocked as his quests might have been to hear such an outrageous confession of ideology, our hero was fairly unworried about their absorption of such information and continued to dine on the food placed before him. The restaurant was a high-end Italian joint in the heart of Downtown Minneapolis. Not quite Hell’s Kitchen, but still high end enough to be a fitting place for the rather ‘cultured’ company he was keeping with him that evening; a writer (who has several novels, two poetry books, and a short story collection published, which he constantly mentions), a painter (a profession Benjamin was almost positive couldn’t be relevant enough to make a living off of, so he often believes that this particular gentlemen sells his body to pay the bills), a musician (the term being used loosely since most of his ‘instrumentation’ is composed by music scientists to placate to the lowest common denominator in order to maximize sales…he was also a rapper, which drove him even further away from the title ‘musician’), and an actor (unfortunately, not his ever-so-interesting and insightful partner, John Gable, but instead a sort of classic ‘Juliard’ type who claims to have once played Richard Burton’s [his words exactly] character from “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” on a Broadway production. Unfortunately, Benjamin could not confirm or deny this, but if every actor who has claimed to have been on Broadway really were, the rotation of actors would have to be constant).
“What are you going on about?” the writer spoke up in the confused silence.
“The artist, by his very nature, is a liar,” Benjamin replied, a smile fixed upon his face, “not in just the matter of creating fantasy and stories, but instead in how an artist views himself. The biggest deceit that this world has to offer is that the artist is a deep and caring individual who’s only goal is to express himself and understand the world.”
“Then,” the actor chimed in, “what would you propose the artist’s true goal is?” Benjamin could tell his nails were already sinking into his guests with utmost efficiency.
“Self-promotion, of course.” This comment drew a wide groan and some scattered protest from the rest of the table, “take the lovely actor for example.”
“Wait a minute,” he actor raised his hand in protest, but Benjamin quickly gestured for silence.
“Oh, calm down, this is nothing your frail ego can’t handle, I’m simply making a point,” Benjamin interrupted, “the actor is not only one who scoffs at the idea of stage fright, but revels in the idea of being in the limelight. Wouldn’t you agree? One could claim an interest in preserving the art form of performance and acting, but I challenge you to find an actor who would continue to do so if glory was suddenly stripped from the job’s description.”
“Heh, try and get DeNiro to admit that,” the painter chuckled to himself. The actor gave an angry glare in his direction, but Benjamin paid no attention to it.
“No, of course they wouldn’t admit it, but take the method actor for example, his performance isn’t made any more thrilling by their added dedication. Its simply an attention tool, all nonsense, act before the act, so to speak. I think Hitchcock said it best when he said that actors should be treated like cattle.”
“Don’t you try to undermine how I make my living.”
“Oh, calm down, you aren’t the only one,” Benjamin laughed as he looked around the table.
“I can already see where this is going,” the writer sighed, “and I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“Is that so?” Benjamin feigned a similar sigh, as if mocking the writer, “You have the story all charted out in your head? Relax. I don’t come with guns and swords. I’ve invited you hear, paid for your meals, and now I only wish to make a point, if you would indulge me.”
“Say what you will, but if I find my patience tested beyond its limits,” the writer stared intensely at Benjamin, “I will not hesitate to walk away.”
“And you are free to do so,” Benjamin smile breaks into an not-at-all-amused grimace, “Since you’ve seemed to volunteer yourself, I think its literature’s turn under the microscope.”
“Oh, what are you going to do? Mock the foundation of modern civilization and the basis of the majority of society’s education?”
“No, it is, by no means, my intention to insult the art produced by the dishonesty of the artist, I’m simply, as I’ve stated before, trying to prove my point. See, the scrutiny falls on the writer, especially those whom classify themselves as ‘authors’ instead of writers.”
“The difference?”
‘Are you familiar with the Dorothy Parker quote, ‘I hate writing, I love having written’? Well, this quote is the basis for this argument, for this exemplifies the very idea of ‘glory over substance’, the ever-constant search for a legacy to leave behind instead of enjoying the work you do. It doesn’t end there, either. The writing profession has a history of being one of the worst ‘biggest dick’ competitions in the history of the human race. Praise Faulkner, but shit on King because he’s popular. Love Hemmingway, but classify Barker as pulp and commercial. I’m sure most of you stop just short of sticking your dick in their books.”
The musician suppressed a laugh.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh,” Benjamin turned to face the Grammy nominate ‘urban poet’, “If writing is a competition, the music industry is the Special Olympics. It’s all been quantized, measured, formulaically structured until, and then shot behind the shed. It’s the same four chords, the same note progressions, vague generic lyrics, all done under the guise of ‘passion’. Its all marketing. Music is the deadest art of all, its simply turned into the art of selling plastic discs. Hell, those who have the kind of passion it takes to make real art will never make the world wide numbers that the panderers will.”
“Got a pretty fucking big mouth,” The musician grunted.
“Simply an observation,” Benjamin retorted.
“Well, how about me?” the painter sat back in his chair, clearly enjoying this mess of a social engagement.
“You are the example of the consequence of following true passion, because I know you didn’t get into painting for the money. You are the struggling artist, the one who will die first, most likely from an aneurism derived from your constant frustration of no one understanding your art.”
“What is the point of all this?” the writer exclaimed as he rose from his seat.
“If you leave, the point is moot. Sit down you raging ass!” Benjamin rose to his feet as well, staring down the man across the table who was threatening to walk away, “what man do you think I am, where I would invite all of you just to insult you each individually? I am making a point!”
“Then get to it!”
“Gentlemen,” Benjamin sat back down in his chair, “what you have experienced, this open scrutiny, is a occupational hazard I deal with day in and day out. As a wrestler I face constant harassment from the media as partaking in a sport that is recognized as the lower-end of television. For the longest time I let it tear me to pieces and destroy me slowly from the inside out. Want to know why? My legacy. I was worried how the world would view me when I passed on. The writer wishes to leave an impressive bibliography, the musician wishes to be known as a deep and tortured soul, the actor wants to be known as a craftsman of incredibly dedication, to be able to portray the world in a light reflected back onto it, and the painter would like to be looked upon as a man who would have cut his ear off before giving in and living comfortable, but is it bringing us anything other than frustration.”
The writer sunk back into his seat. It seemed all the guests fell silent and were unsure how to answer.
“Exactly. See, you are all men well respect in your fields, but that’s the problem, the praise is enough for you. Don’t try and deny it, I’ve been there, I know what its like to feel its good enough to be good enough. We feel if we leave this planet with a series of good reviews in our pockets, that we will be fulfilled, but the truth is that’s how it all falls apart. We soon start thinking that anything we do will be accepted, because who would turn down a success. A writer merely needs to publish one hit and then he can make as mediocre book as he wants, because the publisher will take it no matter what. Last year I spent too much time settling for second rate performances in the ring and as consequence, I’m stuck facing the mid-card-at-best Stacy Robinson. I was once in the running for the world title, but now I am butting heads with some pathetic jobber.”
“So?”
“So. Indeed. The truth is you all have influence. I know you are all far more intelligent than your recent works would leave you to believe, however, you have more freedom now than you have ever had before. Your studios, publishers, and fans are waiting on hand and foot, suspecting you to turn out another crowd pleaser, but what if you made an attempt and used that sort of immunity to get something real out there?”
“How?”
“The scribe is free to write his manifesto, the minstrel can put through his opus of true poetic thought, the thesbian merely needs to say no until the right film comes into his office. These idiots want to be condescended to, but I say we take this new year as a chance for new strategy. No more waiting for them. Its time we shove culture down their throats and make them swallow it.”
“And me?” the painter smirked, “you’ve already pointed out my influence is miniscule and no one is exactly lining up to buy my work.”
“That’s the beauty,” Benjamin looks over at him, “to get your art out there, you don’t need to wait for it to be bought. Paint will dry on any walls and the world is your canvas. Don’t just paint, paint visceral art. Paint something that will tattoo itself to the back of their minds.”
“What’s your game,” the writer asked.
“…I want an empire,” Benjamin replied in all seriousness, “but not one of castles, for they can be dismantled, nor of nations, for they can be burned, but instead of an empire of intellect, because they cannot destroy that. Build it from the ground up. Tonight’s little act was simply a first step, setting up a base. Vonnegut believed ideas were like a virus, well now spread this idea. Don’t move with the tides, form art with your bare hands.”
“…and what will you do?”
“The same thing I always do…win.”
-.-.-
“Is that so,” Hank Brown replied, “simple as that? Win?”
The interview area was a plain office space emptied out to make space for them. It was perfect, the room had an air of professionalism that gave the interview a sense of legitimacy, but was cheap enough for the company to make without shuffling the books, another side effect of the ‘good enough’ movement that had been spreading world wide for the last hundred years.
“Yes, I would think so, Hank. You and I both know that Stacy has already lost this match-up by showing a very obvious weakness…respect. In her interview she showed respect for me, but as we know, that doesn’t win matches. I don’t reciprocate it, I don’t respect her, I want to destroy her. I want to humiliate her, and in the end that is whats going to win me the match. I am willing to go the extra length to take her down and show her why I am ‘God Given Greatness’. See, when I walk into the ring, I’m not looking to shake hands or go through the motions. I want to feel a fist careen against my orbital and threaten to shatter it. I want my opponent to kick the shit out of me and make me feel how badly I am losing that match up. That’s what I am suspecting when I go into that match up. I want her to disregard her respect and focus simply and breaking me down.”
“Respect,” Hank interrupted,” doesn’t always mean weakness, as you would believe, Mr. Atreyu.”
“Hank, its not respect that makes you weak, its believing that it means anything to anyone but you that does.”
“So, before we conclude, is there any last words you would like to give to your opponent, Stacy Robinson.”
“Stacy, when I step into that ring. I want you to try and kill me, I really do. I’m going to do everything in my power to shatter you and if you aren’t looking to make me a grease spot on the mat, you’re too busy giving respect to realize you’re already fading away in this company…” Benjamin took a pause and smiled. “Please, Stacy, prove me wrong.”
