Rant-a Claus

Gustatory. Gestation. Genuflection. Generative. Gainsay. Can you guess, which, if any, of the terms above doubles as a po’ boy, a grinder, and a nuclear submarine? If you answered: “Birds on ice,” you win nothing but my heart. I’ve come to the point where points are pointless. Where well-thought out thesis statements are too hegemonic, where writing the well-constructed story is too formulaic, and where proper pacing, narrative arc, and “stakes”—stakes! for goodness sakes—stakes! Who talks that way about art? What are the stakes? What’s at stake for this character? When did art become a parimutuel endeavor? This has all become painting by numbers. Who is best at coloring inside the lines. Why is this ok? Why does this make sense? Why the rush to the normative-homogeneous? Why does everything a human do become subsumed to the capital imperative? Where’s the profit to be made? How do we monetize this? How do we get the most eyes on our ads? Let’s use this work of art as a conduit for our festooning advertising around it. Please. Stop.

What I’m Reading:

“The politicians and newspapers talk a lot about freedom but the moment you begin to apply any, either in Life or in the Art-form, you are in for a cell, ridicule or misunderstanding.”

— Charles Bukowski / On Writing