American Predators

So the blog lives. I spend more time than is healthy, maybe, thinking about books I've read and films I've seen and so on, and I can only resist the urge to share the thoughts for so long, despite the very real conviction that to think anyone else has the slightest interest in them means I'm a stuck-up pretentious know-it-all. But here we are. Our books and films talk about us, express things that we couldn't express without the aid of characters, plots and metaphors. And once a text (that's the word I'll settle on, I think) is written and sent out into the world it takes flight, it can go anywhere, and if you hop on and stay on the then you can go there with it. It won't necessarily take your friends to the same places it will take you - in fact it probably won't. Nor does the text's author have any control over the destinations. This is what is meant (I think) by the whole death of the author idea. It doesn't matter if the author meant for you to read a text in a particular way - if it's there in the text you'll see it, and once you've seen it you can't unsee it.

I've got some examples. Here's one of them.

I watched Predator recently, for the first time in quite a few years. I was relieved to find that it's at least as good as I remember it - but as it went on I found myself seeing something I had never seen any of the seven or eight times I must have watched it as a teenager. I saw that Predator is a vicious and powerful indictment of the U.S. military and U.S. foreign policy. I have a feeling I'm not the first person to stumble on this interpretation, but here's my particular line of thinking on it.

Arnie and his pals are a team of elite, cigar-chomping, ultra-macho badasses specialising in rescue missions, sent into a camp of guerilla fighters in a South American jungle ostensibly to rescue a missing diplomat. The twist - which, for current purposes, is far more important than it appears what with the predator lurking around the corner - is that the kidnapped diplomat story was an invention designed to trick Arnie and co. into destroying the guerillas' camp before some kind of deal with the Russians could go down. In an adorably earnest attempt to act, Arnie makes it very clear how angry he is about the deception. For you see, he and his boys are a rescue team. They are not assassins, they are not murderous bastards, they're not in it for the violence and the smell of napalm in the morning. They are the reluctant last resort, grimly doing the duty that no one could or would.

Except... Predator is a cheesy '80s action flick in the grand tradition of cheesy '80s action flicks. In the wonderfully violent and explosive assault on the guerilla camp, Arnie has not one but two cheesy monotone one-liners! ("Stick around" and "Knock knock" in case you're wondering). The camera delights in showing us every gunshot, every explosion and every little secret soldier tactical hand gesture. This film is the ultimate expression of gleeful boyhood war-is-fun carnage. Arnie's outrage at being tricked into being on the wrong side of the all-important distinction between a rescue mission and a blow-up-the-badguys mission just doesn't ring true in the wake of the cheerful orgy of violence. To look at these characters symbolically, they are the American government's adventurist antics in Korea, Vietnam, wherever - marching into someone else's country in all their macho glory, covering their asses with the rhetoric of last-resort, they-forced-our-hand reluctance.

And then the Predator appears. And kills them all (or almost all).

But the Predator doesn't just kill Arnie's friends. It does so, crucially, without any remorse and without the pretence of any motive other than because it's fun, dammit. It takes its time, dragging out the kills over several days even though the whole team combined would be no match for it. It skins its kills, takes their skulls and spines as trophies. It won't kill an unarmed person, not out of compassion but because where's the fun in killing something that has not the slightest chance of fighting back? The final duel scene is thrilling because of how expertly it is handled - but also because the Predator is the perfect nemesis for Arnie. Because the Predator is Arnie - just with all the bullshit stripped away to reveal what he (and all action heroes of this kind) truly are: people who kill for fun. There's a particular shot, surely the most powerful moment in the film, where the creature takes its mask off and looks Arnie in the eye, unmasked and visible at last for the "ugly motherfucker" that it is, spreading its arms, screaming and pacing aggressively towards him (skip to 1:30). This ugly motherfucker is here to show the American hunter-killers what hunting and killing is all about.

Did the makers of Predator intend to say all of this? Or any of it? I highly doubt it (although it still seems more plausible than this, I have to say).

But it doesn't matter (and whether or not we would agree with the "message" even if it had been intended as a message matters even less). This is one of the ways it can be read, one of the places it can take us - or me at least. It's there on the screen, or perhaps in the subtle interaction between what's on the screen and what's in me. Either way it's there to be seen and, like a cloaked predator sitting patiently in a tree, now that I've seen it I can't unsee it.

Three Blogs as One

It's been a while since I glanced in the direction of any of my blogs. I realised I now have three, each ostensibly for a quite specific purpose. I decided that instead of create a new blog every time I want to publish something of a slightly different type, I might as well merge the three into one blog, and update it as I see fit with whatever happens to be in my head at the time. So behold as, like characters in a weird Japanese cartoon, my three blogs merge together into a mighty super-blog.

In 2010 you'll find attempts at literary criticism, formerly known as All Wound Up. In 2011 are a few pop-cultural musings, formerly called Gaps in the Road. And in January and February of 2012 is a text-and-photograph journal lasting about four weeks, called A Map of the Borderlands (this is the name I chose for the super-blog, because it's the coolest name).

As for the future, expect further half-organised thoughts on books, films, computer games and music, and perhaps the odd piece of fiction or unclassifiable rambling text.

I'll aim for an entry a week and see how it goes. Welcome to the borderlands.

Thursday, 16 February 2012

I clambered over the fence, and over the second fence, and I landed heavily but upright on someone's lawn. In front of me a hole in the ground spewed forth great thick cords of smoke that twisted in the wind as they rose. I looked at the house, pebble-dashed and smug, that sat at the top of the lawn staring down at me with its double-glazed eyes, and knew I would find no aid there. The sounds of the hunt were getting nearer, and I knew that I had nowhere to run. There was only one option, and it presumably ended in a fiery death - but this would be preferable to being caught by the hunt, and some deep instinct told me that this strange hole-in-the-ground had been put here for a reason, by an agent, natural or supernatural, who wanted me to escape.

And so I took a deep breath, thought of my wife, and jumped feet-first into the pit. The smoke enveloped me and stung my eyes, and I fell.

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

(I pass this graffiti every week, and I can't figure out where Nestle's Milky Bar fits into the teachings of Christianity.)

Do writers use characters as vessels for their own ideas? Do they put their less tasteful, less acceptable ideas into their characters so they can disassociate themselves from those ideas when necessary? Obviously I'm not advocating Tyler Durden's approach to modern life, just presenting it. I personally don't see the erotic side of drinking blood, but I think it's interesting so I write about it. But if you are able to dismiss your characters' philosophies, systems and habits, then you must have some of your own that you genuinely believe in. Do you? Or are you flailing wildly around in the literary world, looking for what you can't find in the real world?

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

I have nothing to say today, so how about a nice blank TV screen?

Monday, 13 February 2012

This has been there for a few weeks now. It's grey and cold today, but we'll soon begin the spiral climb into spring, flowers will bloom etc., and not long after that the wasps will wake up and fly around and menace us, like very small dragons, and it will be summer, and it will all be honey and jam, ice cream and cola, blockbusters and air conditioning and t-shirts, sunglasses and beautiful women walking the bridges across the Thames, long days and pleasant nights, afternoons on the grass with a green glass bottle and a Jeff Noon novel, and a blue sky more big as I can glean.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Watched the BAFTAs in the pub. The Artist took seven awards, and I haven't fucking seen it so I can't criticise that decision. I have a headache and it's time to go to bed. And I'm thirsty. Ernest Hemingway once wrote "The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for". I agree with the second part, now and then.

Saturday, 11 February 2012

I don't want to write anything today. I didn't want to take the photo either. Blah blah blah. Looks like it's from Akira. Just gets better and better. Words, words, words. No I meant, what is the matter? The matter 'tween whom? Akira and Tetsuo? Blah blah. Let's watch The Machinist. No, he needs to stop walking. Blah blah. Streams of consciousness when I have nothing more interesting to write. Thus ends another day, one motive, no hope, every sidewalk I walk is littered with other people's words.

Friday, 10 February 2012

between your intentions

and the results of your actions.

Thursday, 9 February 2012

I did nothing for most of the day today. I allowed apathy and disconnectedness to take over, I felt miserable, I even went back to bed in the late afternoon. Then I went for a walk, started writing a new story, and went to training - and remembered I have very, very good friends and that there is treasure buried in this trash-heap of a world. I walked through the snow feeling blessed and invigorated.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

The internet has given us each a platform, so that there are so many platforms that we have no reason to pay attention to any of them. Artists without admirers, radio stations without listeners, journalists without readers. We should have listened to the boy from The Incredibles: when everyone is special, no one is.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

These curtains close on worlds unknown
The poor will talk about how poor they are
The Irish will talk about how Irish they are
Scientists will talk about science
And artists about art
And these curtains close on worlds unknown
Another drink goes down your throat
Another sun rises and you're still the same person
Another YouTube play of another rap
And now that man's hands got plans for me
Now that man's hands got plans for me
And these curtains close on worlds unknown
These curtains close on worlds unknown
Red bricks circled round

Monday, 6 February 2012

The snow is melting, and will melt faster than double-sided memories of a long night.

Lyric of the moment: "na-na-na-that that don't kill me can only make me stronger".

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Glass and snow, and flowerpots. In dealing with the police and the hospital over the last two days, I find my respect for public service workers increased and my despicable socialist ideals more firmly entrenched. The snow seems to be melting already, and it's just about time to start work on a new story. Let's get down to business.

Saturday, 4 February 2012

Winter sun in a wooden sky, no good deed goes unpunished. He seems to have come from another dimension, lacking something vital, but perhaps one day he'll learn, perhaps he'll learn, perhaps he'll learn.

Friday, 3 February 2012

My brother's desk diorama: the execution of Fallout Boy. What are the final thoughts going through that oversized plastic head, I wonder?

Thursday, 2 February 2012

I don't know what this is doing here in our hallway, but it looks angry. A one-eyed steel ogre, angry because he has no legs and can't move, perhaps. Progress is being made: I am finishing short stories more reliably than ever, and the stomach throw is less frightening than it was even two weeks ago. I just need some new footwear before the snow sets in, it's the angel man.

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

Creating your bus avatar:

Choose skin colour.

Choose hair style.

Choose shirt colour.

Choose nose (uppy/downy).

Choose your Pledge:

"I won't put my feet on the seat!"

"I won't use a seat for my bag!"

"I won't listen to music out loud!"

"I won't complain when the fare goes up again!"

"I won't talk to the person next to me in case they take offence and stab me!"

"I won't have an original thought!"

"I won't wonder if perhaps I'm more than a 2D vector graphic with only a handful of variables distinguishing me from the next person!"

"I won't do anything worthwhile before I die!"

And now you're ready to enjoy London Transport.

Interlude: A Link

A link to a short story by Hides His Eyes and Tchockolate, written for her 365 stories blog.

http://threehundredandsixtyfivestories.wordpress.com/2012/01/31/day-116-to-be-named/

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

I sit on the bus

I gaze out of the window

Rest my chin on my fist

And scowl

I'm moody and tormented

I'm a Liam Neeson character

Oh cruel world

Oh cruel world

Monday, 30 January 2012

Sneak I by the old church, and see I lots of trash. Whispers in my ear from elsewhere say where I go and things I've changed on the way, and I want to say back "How do people do this? How does one play this game? How do people do this?" But I don't want to wake the sleeping church, so I say nothing.

Sunday, 29 January 2012

We are all in bed, sipping water and nursing a hangover, but some of us are looking at the ceiling. It's all about context.

Saturday, 28 January 2012

Inky fingers. Sand in your hair. Tiny flecks of blood soaked into denim. Metallic sting of rust rubbed off and ground in, lost in your skin. Micro-organisms teeming, dismantling and collecting, squashed against one another. Smell of sweat and sunburn, baseball caps, a blast from the past, eating your present, biting big and angry, teeth crunching and buckling, and iron doors closing underground. Keep your head up, back straight, don't slip on that ice, keep your head up, don't look down, there's a way out, there's a way out.

Friday, 27 January 2012

These big, blocky houses remind me of Gormenghast or Dream's palace. This won't be the last time I upload a photo of one. Most days the school children file past the window two hours after I wake up. Their day is already over, and they bounce all around the street, happy and loud and trying their parents' patience. When was the last time I got up before midday? Oh dear, oh dear.

Thursday, 26 January 2012

I've been told these photos seem sad, but it's not all doom and gloom. Some days (sunny days, usually) the world seems so inviting. A great, vivid, corporeal mass, brightly lit and wonderful. Trees look like hands bursting up triumphantly from under the earth, like the coffin scene in Kill Bill, and the sky looks like a landscape in its own right, a floating continent inhabited by who-knows-who doing who-knows-what above our heads all day.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

It began as a simple distraction as he walked to and from work. Counting trees. The hard part was remembering the order in which he acknowledged them. Because it was not about merely knowing the number of trees - it was about discerning one from the next. Saying "this tree is not just a tree, it is the fourteenth tree I count on my way from home to work". Giving each tree an identity, a place in the world. This is what had always troubled him about nature: its randomness, its devotion to futility, its determination to let each and every creation get lost and become meaningless. A product emerging from a factory is given a number before it is sent out into the world, and thus has an identity, and can be called a distinct thing. A tree is only a manifestation of nature, one protruding piece of the endless, meaningless entity of nature. These thoughts became an obsession, and the obsession has followed him through life. Look at one of the trees in his city and you will see his mark, and you will be able to say "Yes. Yes. This is Tree Number 2782."

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

You're trying to ascertain, in a cunning and indirect way, whether that beautiful girl has a boyfriend so that when it turns out she doesn't you can say "Well, I find that hard to believe" or something equally disgusting. And of course it turns out that she does have a boyfriend and that he earns lots of money, skis, cooks, plays sax in a jazz band, speaks Spanish (or is Spanish) and has directed five short films.

In the words of Barney Calhoun: "Let's get the hell outta here."

Monday, 23 January 2012

"I don't suppose you're recruiting at the moment, are you?"

"Mmmmmm, weeeell, nooooo not really... Do you have any bookshop experience?"

"Uh. Does a charity shop count?"

"Mmmm, no, sorry, I'm not recruiting right now."

I don't talk myself down, I just don't talk myself up. Too fucking honest, that's my problem.

Sunday, 22 January 2012

This week, in Manchester, this party has shown the discipline, the unity, and the purpose that is the mark of a party of government. I’m proud of my team, I’m proud of our members, I’m proud to lead this party – but most of all, I’m proud of you. People have very clear instructions for this government:

“Lead us out of this economic mess.”

“Do it in a way that’s fair and right.”

“And as you do it, make sure you build something worthwhile for us and our children.”

Clear instructions. Clear objectives. And from me: a clear understanding that in these difficult times, it is leadership we need. To get our economy moving. To get our society working, and in a year – the Olympics year – when the world will be watching us, to show everyone what Great Britain really means.

That smear of birdshit in full: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/conservative/8808521/Conservative-Party-conference-2011-David-Camerons-speech-in-full.html

Saturday, 21 January 2012

A black cloud on the blue horizon. You wake up at noon, stinking of whiskey and trying to decide which shirt to wear. It's a cold day but your dedication keeps you warm. Presently you come to a T-junction, like in a Fighting Fantasy gamebook. Will you go left or right, little soldier?

I tried coffee again recently. I still don't like it.

Friday, 20 January 2012

Green Belt Syndrome: A set of behaviour often exhibited by martial arts students after, typically, about 18 months of training (around "green belt" level in many styles) where the student, having reached a certain level of confidence (but being still a very long way from the fabled "fighting without fighting" mindset), becomes quite eager to prove him or herself in combat, and looks (whether consciously or unconsciously) for opportunities to brawl. In the former days of classical martial arts, Green Belt Syndrome is thought to explain many students who proved their devotion to the art and willingness to stick with it, but mysteriously never made it to black belt level...

Thursday, 19 January 2012

No fire. In time, I believe the cosmos will lay its inner workings before us, though not in the way Stephen Hawking (for example) might predict. Rather, we shall see, for instance, whether Kurtz himself is the heart of darkness, or merely an old maniac lost among a darkness that has no heart. In much the same way that Scarecrow enters in the second half of the film to embody the theme of fear that dominates the first half, and Two-Face enters in the second half to embody the theme of duality (light vs. dark, legitimate vs. illegitimate justice) that dominates the first half, I believe we shall see an "embodiment" (though whether he/she/it will have a "body" to speak of remains open to debate) of the dominant forms of strife that have dogged humanity during its life to date. Milton, and to a lesser extent Blake, would undoubtedly approve of such tangential meanderings, although the chirping of mobile phones on the 176 between Waterloo and Dulwich might suggest otherwise.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012

The people who used to tell us the best thing we could possibly do would be to go to university, study hard and get a degree, are the people now calling us entitled for expecting a degree to give us an edge in the job market. There is an edge in the job market, but we are on the wrong end of it. John had not had time to investigate.

Tueday 17 January, 2012

A white eye behind a curtain, it's been cold and dark lately. Occasionally I wonder what it must be like to live in a hot country. I've been writing quite a lot, squeezing words through my brain like Play-Doh (TM) through a mincer. I find myself worrying about copyright issues on a semi-regular basis. This will not become streams of consciousness unless I let it. I can't remember the last time my toes were warm.

An Introduction

My third blog. This one's a little different, and will hopefully last longer.

It will be, essentially, a journal. Not a very coherent journal, probably, but certainly a record of each day as it passes.

It will contain, each day, a photograph taken that day and a piece of text. The photograph might be of anything, absolutely anything within reason. I lack the skill set and equipment of a photographer, so I apologise in advance if the photos are not up to much. The text might be prose fiction, prose non-fiction, some kind of poem, someone else's words cut up and re-arranged, my own words cut up and re-arranged, or some other form I haven't thought of yet.

I will try to keep it interesting and I will try not to lose interest. I might miss a day here and there, but they will be nothing compared to the number of days I have already missed through not deciding to start the blog until today. Perhaps I'll give up altogether and this rather ambitious introduction will end up looking a bit silly. Who knows?

Thus begins a blog.