Monthly Archives: April 2017

Dear Jim… (#25) Re: Work In Progress

BY JON PILL

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
And laided him upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
And a gallon of porter at his head

And whack Fol-De-Dah now dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake
Wasn’t it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake

Dear Jim,

the Wikipedia page for our upcoming joint-toss of Joyce’s word-salad epic. I read it recently as prep work. Because if Ulysses can ‘only ever be reread’ then one suspects that going cold into the most notoriously difficult English language (is it really a) novel is unfoolwisehardy. The Wiki Wiki West whips out a heavily caveated synopsis:

–Given the book’s fluid and changeable approach to plot and characters, a definitive, critically agreed-upon plot synopsis remains elusive, it says.

So armed with a vague sense of what to look for, I look forwards to barging up past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay and out to Howth Castle and the environs where I am anticipating onomatopoeia (especially mck-gneow for prfffft bodilybleeeeeugggghhhh functions ), graphic sexual descriptions (in his sexts to Nora Barnacle he uses the phrase ‘arseful of farts’), and liberally scattered Celtic myths and languages (Saint Finnegan’s Fisher Salmon of Grail Snakes thrown out of the Mabinogion).

I am also looking forward to passing off other’s critical ideas about who dreams what in what chapter of the novel as my own original thoughts at pointy-headed literary parties while swilling cheap Irish whiskey like its fine Scotch (I am myself a quarter-Scotch through my mother’s line).

My expectations are mixed ;or the Whake seems like something that will annoy and enjoy me in equal measure. Joyce is both horribly pretentious in general – with his prescriptions for what the novel should be – and funny, silly, beautiful, striking, puzzling strange, absurd and interesting in the specific (Anthony Burgess reckons there’s a laugh on every page of Tom O’Finland’s Hake).

I recently reread Ulez because the ‘phones were slack at work and I picked up some lectures about it on Audible.co.uk, its much better on second reading and parts I felt were failed experiments worked better this time around.

You can only every reread Ulysses, they said.

That makes me hopeful for this undertaking. I can’t help by think this is going to be tough, but we’ll take it one sentence at a time (sounded out loud in my best Irish accent I suspect, and sometimes in my worst). But even as we stand on the precipice that is page one (past riverrun) I’m still not 101% sure I know what I’ll be in for. So expect the unexpected and I’ll see you next week to discuss Chapters One and Two.

And that more or less is my pre-game thoughts. We will see exactly how much fun we have at Finnegan’s Wake. I’m hoping for Lotsa, but will accept just some as I’ve been reading

Yosinaccertainly pun-ishmentally,

Jonathan-David-Jesus-Adam-Bloom

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Dear Jon . . . (#24) Re: Getting the Alternative Facts Right

BY JON PILL

TRUE FACTS OF VICTORIAN SCIENCE CONCERNING THE BLETTER.

Fact, The First: You can read an example by clicking here.

Fact, The Second: It is a good bletter.

Fact, The Third: It is a bletter from J S Loveard.

Fact, The Fourth: It is a bletter for myself.

Fact, The Fifth: Bletters do not fare well in the wild.

Fact, The Sixth: This is a wild bletter in the wild, being wild, and faring extremely well.

Fact, The Seventh: There is no seventh fact about bletters.

Fact, The Eighth: Seven is an unholy number, tainted by the dark bletters of the Necroblettercon.

Fact,  The Tenth: Wine is fine, but bletters are better.

Fact, The Ninth: Aldous Huxley Died in 1963.

Fact, The Eleventh: The bletter begins, ‘To address the question of your last missive, the how of my research is, I guess, like everyone else. I google. I input search terms into library catalogues. I scribble a lot of library classmarks on notecards and shlep through libraries. I get out books from libraries, and I frown over the books, and maybe even read them. I go to a place, mosey about, take notes, photographs. I ask someone about their experience of x or y or even z…

Fact, The First (Redux): H You E can R read E a H bletter E by R clicking E .

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April 22, 2017 · 9:00 am

Dear Jim . . . (#23) Re: Pregnant in the Head-Brain

BY JON PILL

Dear Jim,

Fertilisation of the womb requires that sperm are deposited high in the vagina of a woman close to the time of ovulation, says my university physiology textbook. You did ask about the earliest point of gestation right?

Oh, reread your letter. That makes more sense.

Gestation as metaphor for art has a heavy pedigree. I’ve just been corralling the Oxen of the Sun in Ulysses for the second time and apart from the fact that reading that section feels like a labour of a different sort, it also gives us the subtle imagery of Joyce’s avatar Stephen spouting off about exactly this gestatory idea of art, while an actual parturient shits out a wee bairn (or whatever the Guinness-swillers call them) on the upstairs landing.

You are more aware of these things that I am, but presumably the whole thing goes back at least to Plato’s apology for pederasty in The Symposium – in which ideas are treated as spermatozoa and young minds as vagina’s into which the semen of wisdom is to be deposited. Less is said about exactly where the beloved’s literal deposits are going, but that may have just been prudishness on the part of the translator.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth [… … …] In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

I think gestation is a rather grandiloquent word for what art is and does (imagine a carpenter discussing the ‘gestation’ of your dining table). I rarely go in with as clear a sense as you do when putting together a story; or at least am unclear in a different way (no musical touchstones or trees in the mist). Most often I have an idea or a voice or a form I want to play with and I just start a game. The mucking about continues until there’s enough of a sense of what can be done with it all. Then the mucking about becomes mucking in as I get a sense of direction. Most often this point comes when I know how the whole thing will end.

To be more specific I might have to look at a given story. The story that has left the clearest tracks in the snow is probably one called Switches. That story came from my reading a story on the New Scientist website about Boltzmann brains* (with one of the greatest headlines ever). As I began to write a stream of consciousness for one of these things from the point of it coming into existence.

It ran out of steam and I needed a new thread, and I was reminded of two things: I had also previously read about the China brain on Wikipedia and the two ideas bonded. The third part of the story came from a Brian Greene book on types of multiverses in a chapter of which he describes the universes we might simulate in a computer.

A little more batting around and I had my format, plot and ending. The rest is history (or will be when I can find a damn place to publish it) as I sat down to hammer out Switches.

He who sees everything and founded the land, who knows (everything) and is wise in everything.

But you can probably go further back on that story. Those two brains and a universe were harvested as story materiel because of the types of things I like to to write about. For whatever reason, non-human consciousnesses stimulate my creative prostate, I can’t get enough of them. The great apes, GM-animals, insect swarms, computers, human hive-minds, clockwork synapses, Boltzmann brains its all fabulous grist.

To keep following the tracks of the gestating story-fetus: some of that interest can be traced back to my teenage reading of Michael Crichton books; Prey and The Terminal Man in particular – maybe also Congo. They set me up to think of a person’s mind as mechanical and mechanical-minds as potentially persons. (In that vein I recently read the excellent Blindsight by Peter Watts – thanks to Laura Heron for putting me onto that – which can be read for free here).

Probably some of Dan Dennett’s TED talks, Richard Dawkin’s science books, and my various readings in psychology during A-level. All these things till furrows into the folds of grey matter, thickening the womb lining in preparation for the fertilised zygote which then metamorphoses into words on the page.

I want to speak of bodies, changed into new forms.

As well as the plottier ideas: formal conceits, voices and structures also come from external fertilisation followed by manipulation once they have accreted onto the original play-draft.

In Switches, the rhythms of the voices refer back to my other teenage obsessions: Fight Club and American Psycho, both of which have a particular kind of narrator, flat of affect and simple and direct in his sentences. Palahniuk also does a line in line-repetition that I have stolen and used in almost everything I’ve ever written.

Switches is particular marked by repetitions because of the voice but as well as stealing other people’s voices and moulding them into something new, there is also the more direct theft from Hitchhikers of the mind suddenly brought into being by chance and then being destroyed by its not naturally tenable position in the galaxy. The monologue of my Boltzmann brain is – ahem – very like the whale’s. Which is another case of  something being stolen and then redrawn in a fun-house mirror.

The end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I feel like learning something new next week. Since you’re doing sondage on a number of topics lately, I’d like a letter on how you research for your fiction and how much getting the facts right matters to you.

Yours originally,

Jon

P.S. These are theoretical consciousnesses that must arise in an infinite universe in which quantum fluctuations are constantly producing matter at random in the void of space.

P.P.S. This is a theoretical brain made up by the population of China who are given walkie talkies to communicate with each other and specific instructions which, if followed, will mean they communicate with their compatriots the same way as a given neurone in a human brain. The idea is that this brain of people would be just as conscious as any of the brains in the humans that make the China brain up.

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Dear Jon . . . (#22) Re: The Lowest Hottest Place on Earth

BY JON PILL

EXT. DESERT – NIGHT

A figure stands in the desert, silhouetted against a bad moon, which rises from between two plateaus leaving a dark valley in which the figure is trapped.

MEDIUM SHOT – The figure, shot from behind, still in silhouette, standing in the middle of the prickly pears which line the valley. The night is so hot that we can see vast Fata Morgana’s forming over the blurred horizon where the moonlit soil touches the deep-sea darkness of the sky.

The figure turns and we can see it is you. But you have no eyes.

There are no eyes here.

BLETTER (v.o.)

This is the other extreme, says the voiceover. The shot travels low over vivid green pools crowded with strange almost coral-like formations. The shores of the pools are white, crystalline. Only the blue sky seems to confirm or suggest that this isn’t some other planet.

The shot does no such thing, ignoring the voice over and dollying in on you. Suddenly you are lit by a flickering glow.

You stare about the scene walleyed – you have eyes now, loads of them, at least fifty, a wall of wall-eyed eyes, there are loads of eyes here – and confused.

YOUR FACE

Where is this bletter speaking from?

The camera moves in close on the back of your head. We hear a CRACKLING fire from behind us on the surround sound.

BLETTER (v.o.)

The place, as the voiceover continues to say, is the Danakil Depression in Ethiopia – one of the lowest and hottest places on planet Earth. The footage, from Planet Earth, that flagship BBC programme of the 2000s. The voiceover, of course, David Attenborough.

This place patently is not. You spin around and are confronted with the lie. We see the look of anger on your face before we CUT TO:

POV – Your-eye view, just one of them there are so many now that this eye can see other eyes falling off and rolling away. It can also see a BURNING BUSH, 26, a multi-foliate rose of the desert. Bush speaks not with the voice of David Attenborough, but with the monstrous voice of the Bletter.

BLETTER/BUSH (v.o.)

For many people, perhaps particularly for those of our generation, this was one of those TV that sticks in the head, that stays with you…’

The flames freeze. The crackling stops. There is a RECORD SCRATCH and a sudden burst of light as the celluloid in the projector burns up. Then there is just the clatter of the maltese cross and sprockets, and the harsh yellow light on the screen.

TITLE CARD: CLICK HERE FOR THE REST OF THE BLETTER.

FADE TO BLACK.

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