Tarot and Tea Leaves, in Real Life

Yesterday, I found myself sitting across a table from a supposed psychic, being asked to believe her. Charlatan would have been a more appropriate term, I believe, but I was not entirely in control of the situation. She asked me if I had any questions. I considered what this woman had told my friend and decided that I could use the charlatan's intuition to read my subconscious. I asked her about my writers' block. She told me exactly what I should have known.

The process has lost its fun--its magic, mystique. I no longer enjoy it. I view it as work. I have to try too hard. I write because of compulsion, not desire. I have lost the pulse of my words. I am no longer sure I even want to find it. Such circumstances do not create art. No, they create nothing but misery.

I asked her if I would soon change my course. She said yes, but not immediately. The block will end, and I will continue my current project. I will finish it, and then I will change. I recognize the necessity of this. A genre shift is in order.

She told me that my writing would bring me a good deal of money. I wanted to laugh in her face and tell her that a) I do not believe that and b) I do not care. Money will not make me happy, for I do not believe anything or anyone can truly make me happy. It is an emotion I do not comprehend, and perhaps it is better this way. I am not happy. But I am content.

I am afraid this means I have forgotten how to have fun. Even with my writing. This would seem to imply an end. I may have hit it. I cannot say. I never know whether to believe my subconscious. I shall have to meditate.

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"Well, my tarot cards must have clouded up." Mark Adams

An Old Theme

It is hardly new. I would require more than my two hands to count off all the writers who have done it before. I don't think my attempt is any better. It is a fusion of sorts, I suppose. It is short, and it is bitter. It is deeply personal, in a way that so few of my works are. It is a thought I had months ago. It did not come to words until last night and tonight, now that I seem to be on the brink of insanity.

I am, finally, putting myself on trial for Crimes Against Humanity. The case is The People v. J. So far I have written the case for the Prosecution and the brief statement for the Defense. What I still have to write is the Verdict, and I am afraid I have not yet reached a decision. I cannot say if I am Guilty or not. That is a lie. By the standards I present, I know the answer. It is irrefutable. I do not know why this causes me so much trouble. It is simple. It is undeniable. It is truth.

I don't live by those standards. I reject to them. I object to them. "I object to intellect without discipline. I object to power without constructive purpose." Mr. Spock was right. This is driving me mad. I must finish this. I must finish it now.

I do not recognize the validity of this Court. I do not recognize the authority of this Government. I do not recognize any inherent power of Society, and I do not recognize any socially binding duty to Humanity. In my life, I live by only one Law: that my life is my own. I live for myself alone, not for your sacred Society. I do not need to justify myself. If these words violate your Laws, I will not apologize. I will not beg for the mercy of this Court. I will not submit to you. I will not die like a dog. You do not own me; Society owns no individual. I am my own. If you wish to kill me to prove me wrong, then try it. If you feel you must destroy me to keep order, do it. You say you have the power, so prove it. Kill me, and prove me right. 

Caricature of a Writer

I believe that I am better than the system. I am, and that is why I am damned.

I have never seriously considered publishing my work (Caryatid) because I believe that it is too good for the system--the broken system that churns out formulaic plot-driven trash with characters who are nothing but good ol' flat caricature. My beloved book is better than that. On the contrary, it is driven by characters. Or perhaps by one character in particular, even after he is murdered. My books are beautiful in my head. They have simple, painfully real and wretched backdrops but speak to truths that are, I hope, universal. They are about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances who find themselves torn apart. They lose the essence of their person. The idealist is forced to sacrifice his ideals in order to save them. The duty-bound moralist sends his morals to hell to fulfill a moral duty he isn't sure he should. The romantic tries to please her truth-loving husband by answering his seemingly innocent question honestly, but he emotionally abandons her for it. The young cynic knows she is absurd for retaining her ideals and believing in lost causes, but she fights for them all the same. The scarred veteran turned dove wages the most destructive war in all of human history for his tyrannical vision of peace. The lover, who wants nothing more than a healthy and committed relationship, accepts an entirely one-sided relationship based solely on the physical.

It occurs to me that these, my primary and secondary characters, all sound rather pathetic when broken down like this. And I suppose they are. That is the point. We are all rather pathetic when we view our actions through the objective lens of our own goals and desires. A report card graded through our own criteria shows undeniable failure for every human being. No one is happy, and those who say they are are only deluding themselves. Everyone is quite internally miserable, even if they blame outside events for their misery. Modern literature fails to acknowledge this, or anything, really. It pretends that everything and everyone are fine and happy. That they are only sad in the dark of night. That the sun and love chase away the nightmares. That all people are the victims of circumstance. In that sense, they are almost correct. People are the victims of circumstance--their own internally-created circumstances. Each individual creates his or her own personal hell. Happiness is boring; misery is much more exciting. The happiness is in the pursuit, not the accomplishment. Everyone is a masochist because society has taught that it is far better to be a masochist than a sadist.

My books dare to show humanity for what it really is--an assemblage of pathetic, mindless, driveling hypocrites. Myself included, of course.