Week 44: Young Frankenstein

Dear Avid Reader,

Movies are so awesome. Truly they are. Perhaps I shall start a blog about them.

This is a terrible opening.

He Was My Boyfriend

True genius, inescapable, profound genius, is rarely understood let alone appreciated in one's own time. As so it goes that my genius will also only be fully grasped outside of my lifetime. Alas and alack. Alack and alas. Woe to the brain that must endure the tedium of undercooked minds and scorching jealousy. Alack and double alack.

Is there no respite? No quiet oasis for the world weary mind to rest it's haunches, sore and tired from the war of ideas? If only I could find some way to silence my enemies; some way of shoving the carrot of achievement into the slackjawed craw of ignorance. If only...wait...could I...but perhaps yes. Yes. Could I create a life? A monster? A creature of words?

There, Wolf. There, Castle.

I shall create a blog. A hulking, lumbering thing of breathing language. Oh it's so simple. So fiendishly simple. A child could have devised it. A child of infinite wisdom and knowledge that is. I am such a child. My mother was brilliance and my father was naked ambition. I was born of their furious passions and burst forth unto the world to reconcile my profoundly intense intellect with the universe of possibility. And that bizarre reckoning will come in the form of a blog.

But what how shall I see this to fruition? What ingredients are to go on my shopping list? What shall be the twisted apparatus? Wait...I could...but not....or just a little...yes. Movie. I will sew these movies of awesomeness into a brutish golem of film and thoughts. Fiendishly clever of me.

The Staircase Can Be Treacherous

But these movies must be processed. Yes of coruse. They must first be wrenched and folded into shapes more acceptable for my purposes. Like so many tortillas I must flatten and chop the cinema with my expert hands and my mind shall serve as the press. The gears will be oiled with diabolical intentions and the dough will be softened by the flour of human unrest. What a supremely royal dish I shall prepare for the banquet of history.

Have I the stomach to launch such a boat from the marina of my soul? Have I the base tenacity of my forebearers? What of the courage? The blasted courage? I must find it, within myself, the spirit of the woodland animals that are my totems of forever. The humble, crazed dynamism of the flying squirrel. The countenance of the mountain ox. I must summon the strength of the fuzzy things. But can I summon it? In a word: most certainly.

My Grandfather's Work Was Doodoo

And surely the leasees of the uppermost spire of the the academic school buildings shall scoff. They will doff their breeches and stuff their hats with opium pipes and find another error in my MLA format. Surely they shall. Why should they go unpublished? Their little, backward, little minds that have been driven over again like so much country driveway, must have a ring to teeth. They must give some kind of sacrifice when the accreditation board comes for their pound of flesh. What's one more roman candle at the company BBQ of egos?

But I shall never go quietly into that dark library of secrets. Close the campus coffee shop boys! It seems they've run out of potential to poison! What has been spinning for years in the belfry is webs of disease. The cruel spiders of procedure and ethical window dressing have finally undone the last stitch of your Letterman's jacket. Gather your patches and pins and prepare for my blog!

Abby Someone

Awaken my blog! Rise and run forth. Step in every lake! Leave the thistles to tell of your visit. Never stop for the plink-plink in the purse of empty pleasure. Instead, unhinge the mailboxes and cash machines from their sleepy positions and instruct their vileness to another end. Punish the times unmeasured!

Go and deafeat them!

Until Next I Blog,

James