moragmacpherson: (daring)
As I often do when I'm totally unhappy with everything I write (and given that I've written more than forty pages of fic and thesis in that time, that's a whole lot of work to disown), I have turned to Hunter Thompson for inspiration.  I should know better than to do this, but he's the writer with whom I most personally identify. The well-worn free-associating paths of his thoughts echo my own, and he too celebrated those moments when writing came as a joy even as he admitted that the motions of writing for pay or on demand often made him feel like an old whore faking ecstatic screams.  To the customers it's all the same, and that is both a blessing and a vile miscarriage of justice.  I miss Hunter dearly and I think I may have finally forgiven him but he leads me to nihilism and that makes me unproductive. Also, it led me to start reading Mencken and now I feel kind of dirty for it.

But I do have some comfort.  He is 6'3" (you know I like 'em tall)  and he is a most capable champion as he has overcome not only time and space — but any objections.  Sometimes you look into the abyss and a pooka in the form of a giant rabbit looks back at you.  This is a good thing, a necessary thing, a beautiful thing.  Sometimes we need a reminder that there is more than one way to rid ourselves of the pain of being a man. 

I think Hunter would have approved of this coping mechanism.  After all, weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final.
moragmacpherson: (Default)
I've been in a rather nasty mood all week. Can't exactly say why, there's a number of factors that contributed and frankly, I've already dedicated enough words and thoughts to most of them. So today I decided to take a break. Sit back. Watch a movie.

On a whim, I picked Howl. Possibly because I never mind spending an hour or so staring at James Franco. The film is sort of a biography of the poem and of Ginsberg and of the obscenity trial in 1957 that Ginsburg chose to ignore but won nonetheless. It's all a bit confusing, but that may have been the point: after all, as the trial transcript read, "One cannot translate poetry into prose." I think this may be a poem of a movie and as I often tell JJ, I simply don't understand poetry. I'm prosaic, what can I say.

Ginsberg has long been the main exception, but not the famous ones - not "Howl" or "Kaddish". My favorite poem longer than fourteen lines has always been Ginsberg's "America." I finally found the reading of it that's my favorite - it's an earlier version of the poem and varies in places than the final published text. Ginsberg's recitals of the final poem always sound dry, regretful, and serious. But in this recording Ginsberg sounds drunk and delighted - he's reading it in a club and the audience shouts back and laughs, because what this poem is about is pointing out the absurd for exactly what it is, and to recall that we can't take ourselves too seriously.

And I felt better for hearing that poem and drunken riotous laughter once more.  So, to come to peace with Supernatural and fandom and that which shook me and put the fear into me but which should never control me, I'm posting something I wrote long ago (on October 12, 2010, as it says) but never took credit for.  I thought of it and looked it over and yeah, I think it still works (or works as well as it ever did).  My apologies to Allen Ginsberg once again, but his queer shoulder has been and remains one I can lay my head upon and find great comfort.

Anon Meme (With all apologies to Allen Ginsberg) )

moragmacpherson: (TARDIS)
Arthur.  Lovely, honorable name of ambiguous ethnic and etymological origins, although it does seem to muck about with bears an awful lot.  There are worse ways to be named for a bear.  "Ursula" for one has always reminded me of the sound I make when I vomit for a particularly long period.  And "Beowulf" is fine but it makes people think that any moment you're going to start quaffing all over the upholstery (that's not another vomit joke, don't give me that look).  No, "Arthur" captures the whole 'bear' bit while being vaguely medieval but still a bit modern and maybe a little posh with only a little bit of scruffy growling Anglo/Celtic violence poking out at the ends.  It rather suits you.  That's not my problem.

The problem, my love - my muse, my great internal critic - is that your name contains half the bloody vowel sounds a mammalian throat is capable of producing if you pronounce them long and languid to be savored properly (the way I hear it in my head), and picks up half of the remainder if you pronounce it terse and broken like most Americans do instead.  I shan't bring up the issue of rhotic versus rolling "r"s lest we wind up fighting about them until next Sunday and they only complicate the next bit, which I'm getting to.

This wouldn't be an issue if you'd simply tell me your real last name. 

But you're a stubborn bastard and so I've been forced to make one up for you.  (I know I'm neither the first nor the last to do so and no: I don't care; and yes: I am indeed a very special fucking snowflake, thank you for mentioning it, you sarcastic prick)  And I keep finding wonderful, meaningful names to match you with: all of which have at least one internal rhyme and and worse, both internal and external rhymes, and therefore sound about as natural and unforced as a Marvel villain's when attached to Arthur.

I know this is illogical: that Arthur Miller was indeed a real live human who wrote some good plays and some bad plays, but published all of them under a given name with two internal rhymes and never thought about it twice. But it's giving me fits, driving me to distraction when I've things I'd much rather be doing to you and so I really must insist: tell me your name.  I promise I won't share it.  I won't even rhyme mine to the real one.  All I'm asking for is the ghost of a clue.
*Conveniently phrased in Eames' voice that you might actually rise to the taunt

moragmacpherson: (Default)
Dear self:

After finally managing to watch the Vietnam portion (rather than just the Paris Island scenes) of Full Metal Jacket, your main urge after watching it should not be to write John Winchester/Animal Mother slash, no matter how good looking Adam Baldwin was when he was that young. 

It's a movie about the horrors of war and didn't we learn our lesson about mixing war and lust with Generation Kill?  So please stop.  Remember, the only thing that Animal Mother would let his balls get blown off for isn't freedom, it's poon-tang.   

What Little Conscience I Have Left

moragmacpherson: (Default)
Okay, so I normally don't do this because lots of other folks and comms on my f-list have established and wonderful threads in which to do it - and I'm there too, still, and still a little keysmash-y, even the morning after.  I'll discuss this premier with ANYONE right now because it was so deliriously good and promising and ballsy and yes, once again, potentially lifting from one of my favorite works of sci-fi.  Which, well, no one in fandom I've talked to yet has seen, because it's not from Neil Gaiman (yay, Show, you're growing as a derivative work - which isn't an insult - everything's derivative and it's nice to see them branching out in their field of references.)

Anyway, just saying the name of the movie is slightly spoilery for the premiere if you've seen the movie, so my theory is under the cut.

Morag has way too much time on her hands... )


moragmacpherson: (Default)

January 2016



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