Mechanical Gods

Deus ex machinae. God in the machine. God from the machine. One of these must be the technically correct translation, though which in particular escapes me now. But in this particular case, I think that an certain ambiguity of meaning is beneficial. Ambiguity--in the case of this phrase, at least--adds meaning. Are these machines run by tiny gods, inanimate replicas of the organic spirits that inhabit the earth, miniature elementals with gossamer wings composed of silicon and synthetic spiders' web filaments? Or maybe the grace of some of our small gods is revealed by the delicate intricacies of gears, pulleys, levers. Perhaps even in the microchip enabling this fragment of thought. The God ensures an elegant machine, fine-tuned and precise, that mirrors the subtle grace of gravity. It is immense, an all-encompassing reality on the head of a pin. Deus ex machinae.

Authors Are Always the Best Serial Killers

No matter the story, no matter the song, we sit there, seasoned vultures eying our next meal. The heart, the mind, the beginning and middle and end, these satisfy us for only a moment. Our consumption is absolute; never a word is left, only an echo a few chapters later if they are lucky. To reclaim the fragile, word-laden breath with which we first gave life - this is our deepest, darkest hunger. We hide behind plot twists, we mislead our own minds’ Athenae with deus ex machinae and denouements and other pretty little things that bring that sense of calm, of salvation. But they should not be calm. They should panic. If only we let them, they would.

And on the Other Hand There are Slasher Flicks

Sometimes, I am a little bit afraid of my own mind and of the place in my mind that could be considered my writers refuge. If there is a part of my un/consciousness that is a warm and cozy cabin in the woods, there is also a pseudo-psychopathic part that stalks trespassers, slinking between trees and clutching a rusty axe, salivating with bloodthirsty anticipation. Outside of the fire-lit rooms strewn with hideous hand-knitted afghans (the much preferred Christmas present from various elderly relatives), are rooms in shadow--the light of the fire making the rooms beyond draw back into darkness, huddling in slightly damp corners and hanging precariously from the cracked plaster ceiling. The mind cabin is like a Caravaggio painting, the tennebrism inherent to firelight illuminating some things and obscuring others. And part of the beauty of such a setting resides in the stark contrast of the dark. These are the places in which our monsters are born, our villains, our tragic heroes, our comic relief. There is an alchemy of thought that can occur only in this darkness, in the darkroom of the imagination. And a writer will sometimes create his or her own version of Dr. Frankenstein's monster, who inevitably haunts that cabin of the mind and any work it might produce, but who is also necessary to see the gold-hued products of the fireside in full relief.

Every Writer is at Least a Little Bit J. D. Salinger

                Just think about it. It’s true. We peer out at the world from our cabins, our hills, our heads, alone. The Great Drama plays on the stage before us, but we live and think and breathe in a separate space, away. We watch at frost-kissed windows (to the unknowing, “eyes”)  – close enough to fog them with our breath, but not close enough to smudge the glass with noses or cheeks. We pluck the images from where they splatter and smear on the other side and lay them neatly (or not so neatly) on scraps of paper. We mix them in brass bowls with words stewed in teapots or scraped from books or strained from blood, even from nothing. Sometimes we stray outside, as if in a dream. Sometimes we bring others back to visit. We are a little bit J. D. Salinger, not entirely J.D. Salinger, after all. (No offense, Mr. Salinger. Love the hermit thing.) But without fail, without thought, we return again to thought-worn floors, dream-spun rugs. This, more than any outward structure ever can be, is home. It begs the question, then: who was the first to look into a stranger’s eyes on those ventures out into the void only to see the familiar scribbled leaves rustling deep in another Sibyl’s cave? And then, who was first able to ask the question that would throw open the doors and windows forever: there are others?

To Wobble or not to Wobble

That is the question, my young padawan. So. This is a place of adventure. Here there be monsters. Yeah. At least as much the musings of two English majors in the blogoshpere can be said to be anything in particular. And this probably tells anyone who might unluckily stumble upon this potential train wreck (but a fun train wreck, right?), all they need to know. But, for those who might be curious, this is a result of a literary reading. A literary reading at Prairie Lights in Iowa City. For those in the know, this explains absolutely everything. And I think that I can speak for both Kristen and myself when I say that we do not particularly care to associate with those not in the know--even (or especially) in cyberspace. But, to get back to the genesis of this conversation, Marvin Bell and Chris Merill read from a presently unpublished collection of prose poems, written in turns, each a response to the last. I was fascinated by the concept. Mr. Bell emphasized that writing is not an exclusively solitary activity. It is time for the poets and literary hermits to come down from their mountain cabins (Yes, J. D. Salinger, I'm talking to you!) and interact, respond, collectively create. The ambitions of this blog are less lofty. For me, this is a space in which to collect my thoughts, to distill the things stuffed into my eager young academic brain into some sort of a cohesive ideological approach to my everyday life. I sometimes feel as though I am bombarded with ideas, new theories and theoretical lenses through which to view the world thrust at me every week. An outlet, an opportunity for synthesis, is required. And a place to discuss the absolute academic importance of Dr. Who. Thus, "Wobbles," named for the "Aesthetic Wobbles" series read by Mr. Bell, who seemed like a very charming elderly gentleman and was quite inspiring, is born.