Write Here, Write Now

It's time to fire up the Delorean, 'cause we takin' a trip back to the old school. This post first appeared on cesartorres.net. I love and loathe writing. It's a writer's life for me, so let's talk about it shall we...

“You lack discipline!” -- Arnie in Kindergarten Cop

Worms, and other distinguished creatures of the earth, welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives. That’s what you tell yourself every time you wake up. Yesterday’s gone for good, another day begins. What do you do? Whatever you want. Our existence rests on a delicate balance of external conditions, but once our most basic needs are met we always seem to want more. We’re human after all.

With our outer needs fulfilled our inner lives begin to take on our primary focus. As a general rule we’re all searching for the same thing: happiness and fulfilment, but failing those we’ll often settle for immediate pleasure or chronic numbness. Hedonism is enjoyable for a time, apathy gets old real fast, each lead to unsatisfying ends (feel free to disagree). Balancing present day happiness with the promise of achieving future worthwhile goals is a noble pursuit and a demanding challenge.

Did I wake up today and somehow convince myself that I’m Tony Robbins? No. What does any of this have to do with writing? Everything.

Creativity is a non-destructive outlet for achieving a meaning driven life. It’s not the only path available on the way to (may I be so bold) enlightenment, but is at least as good as any other. In the coming weeks I will hopefully skip joyfully, but more likely trudge arduously, down this road less traveled taking in the sights and sounds with the intent of understanding the big questions: why do people create, how do they create, what should I create? Writing will be the major focus as it is the topic of interest here, but the answers will be applicable to any creative endeavor (your insights are appreciated).

A final word of warning… “Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead” (Gene Fowler). This sentiment is typical of most writers — there are of course exceptions, people who breathe through their keyboards — but for most mortals, writing is hard work. How does that balance up with finding happiness? Sometimes you need to postpone a little joy now for a big payoff in the future. Like they say there’s no free lunch. Only you can decide if the journey will be worth it.To achieve anything of value though, discipline is the key, if you’re lacking, now would be a good time to invest. After all that, all that’s left is to take the plunge. See you on the way down.

Loren was born (and still resides) in New Zealand, where he grew up on a steady diet of TV and comic books. After years of consuming pop culture, he one day awoke from uneasy dreams and found that he had been transformed into a (wannabe) pop culture creator. His metamorphosis continues at [the site you're on now] .

a cruel summer

By way of explanation, (<--sorry, I just finished listening to the guys on Mormon Expression talk about Mormon expressions) it's actually winter in my part of the world, but since I am partial to the ways of The West, which for better or worse, these days, originate in the United States of America, and emanate ever outward from there to the far flung reaches of the English speaking world, transmitting for your and my consuming pleasure, among other things: ideology, political interference, and all manner of pop culture detritus, one variety of the latter being the humble medium of cinema, which incidentally is our topic of conversation today, and given that the migratory patterns between film's denominators is measured usually by the seasons, therefore I felt it appropriate to include a reference to summer in the title of this post, and what a dreadful summer of cinema it has been (note: I hope to one day make my mark in the Guinness Book of World Records, by writing the longest English sentence in recorded history).

Enough of the overwrought affectation, down to brass tacks. I'm slowly becoming a cinephile, but I can't comfortably lay claim to that title yet, I'm still a noob. That of course does not disqualify me from sharing my opinions about the state of the medium. I for one have never been shy about letting the world know how it has failed to live up to my expectations (on the internet. In real life I don't even talk to people). I've been hardcore geeking it since 1979, and my geekiness like the universe and the mean weight of American citizens is always expanding. So, the last few years should have been like mana from heaven for me, with all the "genre" properties making their way to big screens, but the taste has grown stale, and this year in particular I think we have surpassed the used by date for shitty storytelling dressed up in pretty CGIness. The only bright spot I can think of was Inception, and while not quite pantheon worthy, it should still be seen on the big screen. I can't even remember half the movies that I've watched this year, but here are some snap judgments (with SPOILERS!) on some that I vaguely recollect.

SALT: Highly predictable, so called (props to Mormon Expression again), Thriller. Heralded as Jason Bourne with a vagina and who better than Angelina to pull it off (this isn't, ahem, just a clever play on words, Angelina actually goes commando at one point). She's a double triple Russian/American agent. I think the film makers may be unaware that the Cold War is over. At one point Salt (Jolie) "kills" the Russian President and I was like please don't tell me they're going to use the spider venom as an escape clause from reality, but that's what they did. Hey, maybe it's minutely possible that there are spiders that can paralyze you (while stopping your pulse) for over 24 hours, coincidentally that's the exact effect that this plot point had on my suspension of disbelief. It wasn't a complete cinematic abomination, you actually have to have talent to pull something like that off, but I'm feeling generous today, so Salt earns one extra star for replacing Tom Cruise (true story), with Angelina Jolie running around, awkwardly, and kicking ass.**1/2(out of 5)

SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD: The first sign, was that Michael Cera was the lead. The second was that there were only 2 other losers (apart from myself) at the first screening on opening day, in the entire theatre ; that's when I knew for sure that there was a guaranteed apocalypse on they way for this movies box office (in Australia at least). Edgar Wright is an outstanding film maker. He gave us Shaun of the Dead, and Hot Fuzz. So what went wrong? Trying to compress over 1000 pages of comic book awesomeness into 2 hours might have had something to do with it, many of the 'characters' are hardly worthy of that distinction. Don't get me wrong the film's got great visuals, it's just missing a heart. Oh, and let's not forget, because I only mentioned it 5 sentences ago, Michael there's-an-emasculation-in-my-pants-and-everyones-invited Cera, is the lead. Hooray for us.**

THE LAST AIR-BENDER: Why Shyamalan? Why!?! After seeing Lady in the Water (the most torturous movie of all time) why am I even asking this question? *

I can't go on...

(except)

AND NOW, BY WAY OF ANNOUNCEMENT

If you want to hear awesome podcasts about movies check these out:

Chillpak Hollywood Hour

Filmspotting

on the way home (again)

I was listening to Bill Bryson today, while preparing to move out of my flat. It was A Short History of Nearly Everything, specifically. I'm looking for a place that I'll call home #6 in about a year and a half of being on the Gold Coast. This almost nomadic-like house hopping is made possible, because, In The Beginning, there was a Big Bang (at least that's generally the consensus on the best way to start the story). Sometimes I genuinely feel the need "to be still and know" that there's something much bigger than myself out there. Some people call it God, I call it the universe. Thanks Bill.

An unfathomable amount of unlikely events have transpired since time has been steadily unfolding at one second per second. One of the unlikely, almost miraculous, results of this combinatorial explosion of possibilities is my existence. Well, pretty much the existence of everything is nigh on miraculous. It all conjures up that age old question: why is there something instead of nothing? Scientists, usually the most ardent supporters of Occham's razor, have a strange and somewhat unexpected answer (if you can call it that). There are infinitely many universes of which ours just happens to be one, and a rare one at that. In our particular permutation, all the elements in play found a delicate balance, such that life was able to emerge. Do not multiply entities unnecessarily, except in the case of universes, I suppose. But back to me ;) Of all the universes in all of the multiverse, of all the atoms in existence, of all the people who ever had sex at one point or another, somehow I won the consciousness lottery (along with 6 billion others and their ancestors). It's amazing. Ahh *pause* and here I am ... Alive.

The reason why this comes as a mildly exultant epiphany at this particular time is because I am concerned that if this truly is the only chance I get -- no doubt my atoms will take on some other form, only without my memories, at the point of my extinction -- then I should probably start enjoying things just a tad more; this is all well and good, but it has come to my attention that I have certain issues that need processing that are, at present, inhibiting my ability to do so. I am a bitter ex-Mormon, with a raging hard-on for atheism. Now there's nothing wrong with the latter part of that statement, except possibly the word choice, but I feel the ex-Mormon part needs some addressing.

I was under the impression that I had already easily negotiated all 5 stages of grief and even Fowler's 6 stages of faith in less than 3.5 seconds (but maybe in regards to the grief, I've been stuck in 1st the entire time: Denial). Given the vastness of my intellect, which by the way, is rivaled only by the immensity of space itself, and my considerably more limited emotional range, I thought that I could put the tragic little episode, popularly known as my Crisis of Faith, behind me, for good, like an unremarkable piece of refuse flushed away and forgotten forever. But I was wrong. Shocking, I know. A good friend of mine from New Zealand, now living in Korea, yes you Justin, has been in contact with me recently over this very blog and the results have been mixed, but usually bad. Bad, because somewhere deep in the recesses of my dark soul, an as yet untapped vein of pent up animosity has been revealed and I haven't handled it well, instead I've started mining. It turns out I'm pissed off, so sometimes I write stupid things like the last post I did (I still held back quite a bit, can't let Mr. ID completely out of the cage. Yet). Call it writing as therapy.

I really thought I was over this. I didn't want this blog to be one of those angry apostate ones. I'm an enlightened individual, above the common pettiness of mere mortals, or so I thought. Perhaps, I somehow managed to ignore the very real pain left in the wake of the upheaval of my entire world. Even convinced myself it wasn't there for a while. I'm good at masking pain (we'll get into that another day), but this time I've really out done myself. If the catholic church has taught me anything it's that when you suppress certain aspects of your humanity that probably should be expressed, sometimes they manifest themselves anyway in unwanted and very repulsive ways (there I go, being offensive again). Somebody get me a fixer. It might be time that I start dealing with my little problem directly, although I'm not sure what that means yet. So, beware as I get all introspective up in this public space, things could get ugly. I guess I just need to be patient and as excruciating as it is humble, as I try to find a new home (in more ways than one), a new way, a greater peace. Shalom.

holy ghost, the friendly ghost

Once in a while I'll sit down and furrow my brow with stoic intensity as we philosophical types are want to do, and think profoundly deep thoughts. And by think, I mean rearrange my prejudices, and by rearrange, I mean leave things ostensibly as they are, and then wax poetic afterward about the resplendent feng shui that I'm able to achieve dealing primarily with mere abstractions. The mind boggles.

Among the scattered deck chairs that adorn the Titanic that is my brain, one is always set aside in honour of my dearly departed imaginary friend the Holy Ghost. That bodyless ephemeral bronze medalist of 'the Trinity' fame. He is one enigmatic character, even after you get to know him. Some of his closest allies can barely make heads or tales of the fellow, but they'll blow his trumpet like a whore auditioning for the world's harmonic orchestra, with nothing but a trouser snake and a dogged (bordering on scary) pay-me-now determination (ladies and gentlemen, we have a new candidate for most outstanding example of a terrible mixed up metaphor for 2010).

What's that sign? Memory lane. Oh... I sit in YSA Sunday school class (did the tense change in here?). Someone asks the second most popular question you're likey to hear at this type of setting (the first being: Eternal marriage, again, really?): "How can I tell the difference between the Holy Ghost and my own emotions?" It's as if young David himself has slung a psychological pebble directly between my eyes. Bullseye. It rouses me from my slumber. I know this one. Umm, we can't. That's it. We can't. I don't actually voice this. The teacher begins with what will inevitably be an entertaining, depending on how you look at it, foray into obfuscation. "Well, through the Holy Ghost the truth is woven into the very fibre and sinews of the body, so it cannot be forgotten. So, blah, blah, blah, etc." Strangely in the following weeks and years the same question keeps coming up.

... Back to the present. I see now, again, The Holy Ghost a.k.a Disco Inferno, let's burn baby burn all up and and down in your bosoms baby, is so astonishingly powerful that an experience with him is memorable enough to barely be indistinguishable from everyday emotion. Wow (I've had shits that have left a longer lasting impression than this guy). He's so convincing that people leave the church all the time. Impressive. I shake my head "Still never heard a decent explanation for that one, old friend." I look over at the Holy Ghost's empty deck chair, and then up at the bow. I see a large iceberg approaching on the horizon.

p.s. one alternate explanation for the the HG

inspiration for the clinically depressed

Ahh, what should I write about today?

I am currently embroiled in a minor financial, and major existential crisis. Unfortunately, I can foresee neither a benevolent government nor god stepping in to offer a blank cheque bail out on my behalf (Ozomahtli! Why hast thou forsaken me? Please grant me this one request, and if not, then the hell with you!). Sure, there's repentance, its closest religious equivalent, but that's such a messy business, with blood and sacrifice and other undesirable imaginary requirements. Life as a globe trotting master thief is an equally unappealing option. Too, much effort. No, it's just me the world, the problem of other minds and a thousand other considerations. But back to the initial twin burdens, they are chronic conditions, not at all acute, unless it's a particularly bad day. I don't even know what today was. Hmm, Apathy is that you? Not helping things.

Am I an extreme pessimist? It seems so. Delving into my psyche I have come to realize that if I were a character from the Winnie the Pooh universe I'd most definitely be Eeyore. This is disappointing for a number of reasons, first of all Winnie Pooh is a castrato , you can tell because he doesn't wear underwear and by the way he talks, there's a salient allegory in there somewhere, second, I've destroyed any credibility that this post may have had by an appeal to he and his compatriots, and perhaps most importantly: Eeyore sucks balls. There's nothing like a healthy dose of reality to crush the spirits of the irrationally optimistic. I have a special calling in life. I'm not complaining. Not any more than usual. We've all got our jobs to do. Authenticity is the new destiny. I'm just living up to my potential.

But where was I? Money, fame, meaning. It's hopeless isn't it? Striving for something that is in all probability impossible. Dieing would be much easier than all of this. But who wants to do that? I wage a constant war of attrition with myself. Fight or flight? Do I look my demons in the eye and laugh them to scorn or do I bend like bamboo in the wind and live to see another day? This is bordering on bad poetry. Death, the final frontier, the undiscovered country, live long and prosper that you may never meet what's his face with the scythe thingy. Death that is the answer isn't it? At least according to Steve Jobs and he knows everything.

I have a grave stone sitting on my dresser inscribed: Loren T N Hopkins, Handsome Jerk, 1979 - . It is a constant reminder that I'm handsome, a jerk and that one day I'll probably die. When I first started going bald, that's when I knew I was mortal (that line never gets old). Gradually my invincibility began to deteriorate along with my hairline, as if I were a nazarite for the 21st century. Like Sampson before me the loss of locks meant no more mojo. Tragically, my fate would be his, for I am incapable of living up to the vow that they of olden time made: I cannot avoid corpses, because I am becoming one. This is a breath of fresh air.

Jobs. Explain yourself: "Almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." Holy shit I'm going to die. Time do something. And thus it is amen.

happiness, meaning, or eating

Here's a nice false trichotomy. Happiness, that's what it's all about right? Not so fast poncho. Eventually this would be a wonderful side effect to the activities that I choose to engage in, but for me it's not the decisive factor. I could go on being miserable for the rest of my life and feel reasonably satisfied when the end comes, yes, maybe even happy about it. Of course this is dependent on being miserable over the right types of things.

I hit the pavement, and run the streets; I repeatedly get punched in the face; I move ponderous amounts of iron; I sit down then make up some errand to distract myself, sit down again, and after much tribulation, and mental anguish force myself to write some story, or draw some picture. None of these activities are particularly pleasurable, but there is deep a sense of meaning and satisfaction surrounding each of them for me. I don't know where the meaning originates from, but it's there calling to me, always beckoning me back, even when I feel that I've had enough.

Unfortunately, I see no monetary reward in the near or even distant future by following my passions. Eating is always a priority. Do I resign myself to a life of quiet desperation and eek out an existence in the current manner, using my philosophy degree to think deep thoughts as I go about my labors, doing for work what convicts in the past were consigned to as punishment for their crimes (I'm a laborer at the minute)? Man cannot live by bread alone, but without bread man can't live at all. I've got to pay the bills somehow.

What if it were possible though, to do something that brought me meaning as well as money so I could eat? Well, then I think I could say that I was truly happy.

can i get a witness

the epic showdown continues. At the bell I fail to leave my corner. Time to retire (this thread anyway )...

To Whom It May Concern,

Further to our conversation regarding the three witnesses of the golden plates I would venture to add that while their unwavering dedication to their testimonies surrounding the events documented in the opening pages of the Book of Mormon (improper), was nothing short of exemplary; I cannot in good conscience take these men at their word, not enough to follow them to the ends of the earth or the pearly gates of heaven, or even exert more than a cursory glance over the documents regarding their story. I find nothing of any substance that would move me to esteem their special experience over that of any other subject claiming a divine visitation or ecstatic encounter. The world is filled with wondrous first hand accounts of extraordinary beings revealing themselves to lowly humans: Aliens, Allah, the Resurrected Christ, big foot, the Virgin Mary, Elvis et al. I cannot account for what these various witnesses claim, neither do I feel obligated to. I have neither the time nor the patience to embark on a exhaustive study of events and people who are of little interest to me. Their story did little to move me when I was a member in good standing, nor when I later became disaffected. I do feel an unmistakable compulsion to return to a study of Mormonism, but this would center around the two most compelling characters who were instrumental in its advent: Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. So it is written, so it shall be done.

God's speed,

The Lozinator

a fortnight's worth of profundity

Weird imaginings have been transpiring at the locus of the emergent intelligent realization of my grey matter (um, in other words: my brain). My mind has been a flutter with cross pollinating possibilities. One fantasy world gives way to the next until the boundaries between them blur and I find myself wandering in a strange chimeric wasteland. A lone voice crying in the wilderness "make way, filthy heathens, for the day of Loren is nigh at hand." But what is the cause of this non-drug induced mind expansion? A number of synchronicitous moments have reshaped my now amorphous character. I'm a chameleon ready to adapt to any all circumstances. Behold the makings of a nondescript opportunist...

1. The number one ranked commenter on slimodsoc by sheer volume of words,Justin, challenges me to a duel concerning the validity of witnesses to the BoM, a dialogue that spirals wildly out of control. It however, prompts me to wonder what do I believe. The answer? Nothing.
2. The ever philosophical Andrew S, comments on a post reminding me of a long forgotten uni class I once took, where I learned how David Hume single handedly destroyed the foundations of natural philosophy.

3. I read Zen and the Art of Happiness, and The Life of Pi. By their powers combined, I'm almost convinced that the stories we tell ourselves are more important than their Truth value.
4. I watch Inception, Blade Runner and the first two seasons of Breaking Bad. I can't articulate how these reconcile with the other trans-formative points except to say they are some of the most fucking awesome things I've ever seen.

And that's the pervading theme of the last two weeks for me. Everything is marvelous and everything is bullshit. We need not get angry if some one else's bullshit smells or looks different from ours. Let them wallow in it. I am not above wallowing in it myself. In fact I welcome this prospect. Letting go of what I usually cling to has been completely liberating. Taking ownership of beliefs that I am diametrically opposed to has done wonders for my empathy. I am a comic book writer. This has been the greatest quantum leap in the craft that I have ever achieved. I can step into another persons shoes without maintaining absolute or even a little contempt for them, and sometimes I can almost convince myself that what they say makes sense on some level. Amazing.

pikachu i choose you

Does being grateful make you happier? Does a deep reverence for the universe, its intricate workings and its bountiful mysteries invoke an awe that in turn fosters an all encompassing connection with all that is? There's a great big mostly empty, ever expanding balloon that we're all floating in. One day our fortunes will reverse, and it will begin to deflate and collapse in upon itself, and us. As for now, we're still here, living, breathing, this is a very nice way to be. I suppose I should be thankful.

Does mediating your experience of the sublime through a chosen deity increase your ability to transcend the banal elements of reality, allowing a greater way to reach out and grasp the divine? The godless among us have wondered "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful, without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too." Take the world at face value, embellishment effaces its beauty. Others of the same persuasion have pointed to faulty design as proof positive that The Designer is incompetent at best, but more likely non-existent. For the atheist (and I am one of them) the world is simultaneously beautiful and ugly, and both forms of aesthetic indicate that there is no god.

In spite of this, (and many far more compelling reasons not to believe) I am still fond of the notion of worship as a means of appreciation for, and recognition that I am not the center of (I often forget), the universe. My two favorite authors -- and now we move to men who make up worlds rather than obsess over the "real" one -- Alan Moore, and Grant Morrison, are iconoclasts in the realm of beliefs. The former worships Glycon an ancient Roman hand puppet/snake god, the latter believes he was abducted by aliens and has had personal visitations from Superman. Both believe in magic. Such audacity in the face of our sometimes soul crushing modernity. I would love to try on different gods as one might a pair of shoes or other items of clothing. I'm not fond of snakes per se, but Ozomahtli, an Aztek monkey god? Now there's a definite possibility. That will do for now.

31, my tragic beard and other disappointments

The potrait view almost looks passable, but don't be fooled the profile view reveals a deeply disatisfying beard. Hair folicles are sparsely distributed across the cheeks resulting in an unacceptable patchy look

For the ancient Greeks growing a full on facial beard was a right of passage. A signifier of manhood. I can't help but slouch in despondent defeat. My attempts at a beard are, prepubescent, nothing short of girlish. Wait, that's an insult to girls; I know plenty of members of the fairer sex whose razors I'm not worthy to wet. I mean these chicks can sprout thicker side burns than Elvis. Alls I'm saying is that I'm jealous. Masculinity will you forever evade my grasp?

This is the perfect metaphor for my life thus far, chalk up another sad attempt in a long line of disappointments. Honestly, I hate my life. Don't get me wrong, I turned a corner, for sure, when I disavowed my allegiance to god, the queen and country, but we're talking baby steps here people. All I ask is that everything that I hope and wish for materialize as soon as possible. Like now would be nice. Do you hear me universe? Sure, Rome wasn't built in a day, I know, but what do you expect from Italians? Between contemplating the mysteries of the universe, regular siestas and even more regular orgies, it's little wonder town planning wasn't high on the priority list.

I have a degree, a semi-stable income, a near genius IQ, abs, a raging ego. What's not to like? My job for one thing. I turned 31 today and can't grow a beard. Do you know how demoralizing that is? I'm old, free and single. Relieved of the quote unquote moral constraints of mormonism I should be living it up, but I often find myself drifting off at inopurtune times throughout the day, it's getting so bad the boys have nicknamed me gramps. Oh the humanity. I'm usually completely catatonic by 10 o'clock, I can't even make it out the door. Those ladies at the club wouldn't know what hit 'em. I could've been a contender. I'll show 'em all, I will.

Millions are starving to death worldwide and I'm lamenting the state of my facial hair. Everyday I meticulously plan my revenge on planet earth for me not being amazing. Oh, I've got plans for you all right. I desperately need to join some kind of charitable community to distract me from my constant machinations to take over the world. OK. Slow down. Breathe. It's not about the beard. It's not about the beard. It's not over yet (well the beard is, for the sake of all things holy shave that mother fucker son), I can be redeemed. I shall return. Watch this space.