The Blank Page

    

The thing about being incredibly insecure about the shit you make is sharing it is tough.  Especially old shit you’ve made.  I look back on stuff I’ve just written earlier this year and I get embarrassed.  I mean.  I get embarrassed whenever I read anything I write, but not in the same way.  Nearly everything makes me sick.  There’s an exception here and there, though.

I recently read this paper I wrote for a writing class I was in 2 years ago.  It was around the time I was ruminating on actually being a writer in the future.  I thought about it a lot.  It took a lot of deliberation to even get to the point where I said to myself that I wanted this, and then when I got there, there was even more deliberation on what it actually meant to be a writer.  I was scared and sad and down on myself and in that empty place I go to back when I was four crying on my bunk bed because I was afraid about what happened when I died.  Something I was discovering at the time that was incredibly comforting when in that place, was that I could work through things I was feeling and thinking; slowly letter by letter forming words on the screen in front of me.  This is among the more polished of those workings through of things.  This in particular, came from my writing teacher and the Woman who saved me from High School*, Melissa Hasebrook’s writing class.  Very typical of me at the time.  Barenaked Ladies quote.  A little too heavy on the film-noir narration.  Very little editing.  I couldn't help editing it a bit for this post. 


The Blank Page.
By Max Wilson

Wiped out down the stairs
I'll bet you there's a song in there
I'm not sure I'm prepared to write it down

That guy should be me
I'd look much better on TV
Then the world would see
That I can do anything…

Don't write me off as an also ran
Just mark me down as an angry man…
Life passed me by, but it's not my fault
I'll lick my wounds, could you pass the salt?

If I were the king
All my subjects they would dance and sing
They could kiss my ring
And kiss my ass
When I'm old and grey
I'll look back on my life and say:
"Give me one more day,
And still I'll never do anything."

-Never Do Anything (Steven Page/Ed Robertson)

By Barenaked Ladies

            Here I stare again, at the white nothingness of the blank page.  Not just any kind of blank page.  That empty void. Having nothing at all to fill it with.  No stories of stoic detectives hunting down twisted child-molesters, no boxers on the brink, biting people’s faces off, no rants on politics, no nothing.  I can almost feel the cinder block in my skull, weighing me down.  My neck straining to keep it held on my shoulders, in danger of falling on the hard wooden desk in front of me.  Cracking open like a thin glass vase.  Maybe then I can sift through the bits of skull and cement and find one possible idea or story, or anything to fill this blaring white page.  Gnawing at me.

     It’s hard to ignore it, it being the only source of light in my darkened room as I tap out the rhythm for that stupid E-Z-Pop-popcorn jingle out on the manila folder on my desk.  For a second I forget that inside of the folder is tucked another rejected story from another magazine; another round of the reality of the difficulty of making it in the writing world is fired in my chest.  I can’t stand being in that cold glow of the blank page any longer.

     Ah, what does it matter?  You think you’re going to kid yourself for another few months, thinking you’re not going to check yourself into the hotel of the billion other also-rans?  All the other assholes who thought they had the Great American Novel between their ears?  Then when feet hit the fire they whimpered and scampered into the corner, tail between their legs, with nothing to their name but a once perceived potential.

     Even if I reached that seemingly unattainable title in the sky, what would it prove?  I go down in history as the Twain of Twenty-Ten; college’s studying my work, scholars debating my philosophies, high-school students being forced to read my books for their Lit classes all the while being tempted to throw it down for playing Halo 7?  What would that mean?

     My dreary gaze is turned outside my window, to another blank page.  This time black.  Much more haunting.  Millions have tried to fill it with meaning, some brilliant, basing their philosophies on scientific studies, empirical evidence and deep thought.  Others not so much, filling it like the unwilling mouth of an eight-year-old alter boy, with lies based on lies, and stories with no roots to reality, and willing to kill and torture by the billions for the preservation of it.  Some never dwell on the meaning of it for a fleeting second, seeing it just as the backdrop of the boring, cliché-ridden play of their lives.  However, one thread of similarity is sewn through them all; they all are just the content of the brains of creatures with no meaning.  As you pan farther and farther away from Earth, it’s hard not to dwell on how goddamn small we are.  How the monumental nature of the universe is completely unaffected, and keeps on churning in spite of all the things that seem so important to us ants. Friends moving away.  A cute girl dumping you for a pig-fucking neo-Nazi. The cat you had since childhood being run-over by your republican next-door neighbor.  Your friend’s and family’s deaths.  Your own. 

    
    I turn back to the blank page floating over my desk and smile.  The universe could collapse upon me like the hungry mouth of a great, cosmic lummox, and I wouldn’t care one tiny bit.  It could be the Paxil talking, but I know for sure I wouldn’t sprint to the page, to write something, anything for my legacy in the universe to be known.  In fact, I might give out one final chuckle at all of those Falwell’s and Reagan’s, who sold their souls for a legacy, a shiny golden pyramid scraping the heavens, built on the backs of the unfortunate.  Just so their memory can remain as a tiny skidmark on the boxer shorts of history.  Them and all the people worrying every second of the day about what people think never grasped the concept that none of that matters, and that there’s something more out there in the nebula somewhere.

   
  So yeah, the world’s going to end, and the nothingness of the page won’t matter in the long run, and sure that’s scary as shit, but for some reason it’s not terrifying me to tears as of now.  Maybe for  there’s comfort in how small and insignificant this page is in comparison to the Scheme.  Whatever.  All I know is that I’m not going to spend my insignificant existence letting a tiny feeling of fear stop me from the pursuit of everything behind that title in the sky, and keep myself just a little bit longer, from that 6X3 pit of never done anything.

 
* Of course she’s not the only person who saved me from high school, Mr. Yant, Ms. Reese, Ms. Santer, and Mr. Stotts deserve oodles of credit as well, and I wish were able to better express how much of an impact all of you had on me.  All that said, it’s undeniable how much Hasebrook was McGonagall* to me.

*I use this reference knowing full well how much more awesome Hasebrook is than McGonagall, and how much I need to write about Harry Potter here.  People who know me know I’ve got strong feelings on both- “Oh my god I love this.” and “Oh dear god this is the worst thing ever.” sides of the debate.  …But when (highlight for spoiler lovers) McGonagall protected Harry from Snape in Deathly Hallows pt. 2, I got teary eyed.  A lot of times the parenty love between a teacher and student is unspoken; sort of showed in gestures, approaches, and challenges, and not in words and communication as much as other relationships.  Sometimes, especially for someone like me who is severely unsure and sees glasses as half empty as I do, it’s hard to see.  But that moment reminded me of when it's clear as day, and almost made me forgive all the slights Harry Potter made before, like...  This one thing I can't mention because I'll go into a blind rage and destroy the focus of this post and make it all about Harry Potter.  Okay.  This certain magical object used at the end of one of the movies that is never addressed ever again and has the power to solve every single problem in the series and the use of it is so silly and stupid and...  Ugh.  I'll write about it a few weeks from now.  Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a cupcake in my eye.  Love to all of you.

A Letter to David Albo

Towards the beginning of this year, this happened:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRyRSlammXI


I wrote a letter to the fellow in the video.  His website says that all letters get a response.  I wouldn't be surprised that if there were one exception, that I'd be it.  Which is a shame.  I really would like a response. 

My dearest David Albo,

I wept a whole day for your pain.  I cried a tear for each of the uncomfortable throbs your little, blue balls made after they were denied their release of their grey globs of semen, into the dry cunt hole between the smelly legs of your beautiful wife, Rita.

I cannot believe that those sick, twisted lunatics making that anti-transvaginal ultrasound bill ad.  The audacity they must have.  They should fucking know better.    This was your time for you to fuck your wife.  Not their time to spout their baby-killing propaganda. 

No woman has a right to choose to kill a baby.  Even if she was raped.  If she made a mistake.  If she was misinformed about contraception by abstinence only education.  It is her place to sit with that ever-swelling reminder of her whoredom in her belly until she squeezes it out into the world to live and die by God’s Law.  If a woman dare attempt to stand against it, she should have to go through it again.  Have to feel something inserted in her again, and look at the gift from god she’s trying to kill for whatever stupid reason socialists put in her little head.  She won’t be able to parent it?  Provide for it?  Can barely provide for herself as is?  Just feed it cake.

Kids love cake.

She shouldn’t have to have the rest of her life be determined by one mistake, or a violent act inflicted upon her?  Well.  You couldn’t say we didn’t warn you in all of those classes we put you through that told you the only way to avoid the negative consequences of sex was to avoid it all together.  And essentially attempted to reprogram the intrinsic biological nature of all of you as human beings in order to conform you to the ideas of a religious belief.  Can’t say we didn’t warn you.

     The biggest laugh of this all is what they’re saying about your bill: “Government sanctioned rape.”  As if a doctor performing an unnecessary procedure penetrating a woman, who would not give her consent were it not the law and her future depended upon it.  How about government sanctioned kill that goddamned idea bitches have that keeps me from getting my rocks off?  The audacity of some people.  How could they live with themselves every day?  After washing their body in the shower from the filth cleaner than them, how could they wipe the steam off the mirror and stare into the face of such a shallow, selfish, pitiful excuse for a human being?

If only more men were like you.  This world would be a better place.  And women would know theirs. 

I’ll leave you with the immortal words of a man closer to God than I’ve even known:

“The minute the jizz hits that egg,

It’s a human being with rights. 

Until it pops out with a ‘gina.”

              

With love from your biggest fan,

                                    Maxwell Wilson

The term: "War on Women." is hyperbole.  It's a dramatic way of phrasing a current trend in politics that concerns the perceived attack on women's rights.  However.  I don't find the allusion unjustified in the slightest, especially in a country where concerns regarding the separation of church and state are classified as the "WAR ON CHRISTMAS," and one woman on the news who says something about how the wife of a politician hasn't been in the job market because she hasn't gets declared as "THE DEMOCRAT'S WAR ON MOMS."  If that's a war, then there isn't a word yet for what to put before "on Women."

Jason Steele is someone I hold in high regard.  He's most famous for the internet cartoon "Charlie the Unicorn", but he's also a really smart guy, and a damn talented debater.  He wrote this thing about the background of the "War on Women" that I know I couldn't do nearly as well:

"There are bills being presented and, in many cases, passed right now that attack women's rights.

One of the more controversial ones involved forcing women to get medically unnecessary transvaginal ultrasounds before getting an abortion.

This is a transvaginal ultrasound:



Again, this is entirely unnecessary from a medical perspective, its purpose was to guilt or scare women out of getting an abortion by forcing them to be painfully vaginally penetrated before they were allowed to get the procedure.

Then there's the "Protect Life Act", which would allow hospitals to let a woman die instead of performing a medically necessary abortion.

In South Dakota, a bill has been presented that would allow people to murder doctors who perform abortions.

In Maryland, funding was dropped for low-income preschool programs. The justification given for this was that women should stay home with their children instead of having careers.

Also, various states and the federal government have ended or banned funding for Planned Parenthood, a women's health care organization that provides a variety of important health services, only 3% of which are abortion-related. There are a huge number of low-income women who rely on them for affordable health care, something they will no longer be able to get with these cuts.

There are a huuuuuuge number of other bills being submitted left and right at the moment, these are just some of the most talked about."
-Jason Steele
(http://www.filmcow.net/forums/viewtopic.php?t=177597, May 7th, 2012)

I was raised and grew up around strong women.  My mother, who early in her career as a hairdresser was put into an illegal contract by her boss, took the prick to court, kicked the shit out of him, and started her own business, has been the primary breadwinner for my family as long as I've been alive.

Both of my grandmothers were single mothers and are proof that even in an era that is founded on ideals of the nuclear family, it's bullshit, establishes a false status quo of women being lesser than men, and women can do more than just clean the house, they can keep it afloat. 

Both of my sisters, two of my best friends in the world, are following in their footsteps in being strong, very individually driven fucking go-getters of the go-getteryest of persuasions.

I have absolutely no doubt in saying that they are way stronger than me in that respect, nor any fear for my masculinity in that admission.  It's just a fact.

So when this recent trend in American politics to attack women's rights started showing it's tiny dick, I got mad.  I hate this shit.  Women are so regularly fucked over by our society, that it seems like the fucking over of women fuels the damn spins of our planet.  Republicans looked at that seeming and assumed it fact, and assured that the Earth's spins wouldn't come to a screeching halt.  

Being among the voices in our society smacking these scared little boys down is seriously the least I could do.  I wish I had more money.  I wish I could donate a lot more to Planned Parenthood and candidates running against these embarrassingly un-endowed remnants of a darker time.  I don't especially care about money, though.  I wouldn't mind living on the bottom rung of the world so long as I'd be able to write.  I just wish I could do more to fight back.  Because this a fight worth fighting.  And I know if it were a fair fight with just my words vs. theirs, I could make it look like I were debating a bunch of four year olds with their heads cut off.

NEW PLAN

So. I have been slowly putting together a concrete weekly plan to follow in order to maximize shit getting done.  It's taken a while, but I think I've got it down to something I can make tweaks to here and there, but is mostly in its final form.  Here's the biggest one:


Every Wednesday there will be a new Journals Wilson post.  Hopefully.  The first half of the week (From Mon. to Wed.), part of my work schedule will be writing something to go on here, to ultimately be posted on Wednesday.  I always need something to write on the side to unwind with during a big project, but I've found that the way I've gone it hasn't been productive.  Usually what I do is have a book that's less ambitious, or at the least much less developed to the point where I'm at the easier, and more fun stages of development.  It ends up putting me in this cycle where the project I'm supposed to be putting the majority of my focus towards gets overshadowed, and then it becomes the side project, which then overshadows the original side project and rinse repeat, rinse repeat.  I've been wanting to do more stuff on here, so I thought regular postings on here would be a better project to be working on on the side, and push future projects to the future. 


Every week day I'll be working on getting a book done.  Right now, that will be Eating the Ram's Head and Fig Leaf, and will continue to be Eating the Ram's Head and Fig Leaf until there is a final draft being sent out for publication.  Upon that event, I'll be moving right on to getting another book done. 


After the weekly Journals Wilson post is done on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday time not devoted to the main project will be arranging my documents.  Probably doesn't sound like it needs its own time, but it totally does.  I always have at least one word document open on my computer that I type ideas, drabbles and at times almost complete essays whenever they find me, which they never fail to.  So my computer is filled with documents titled the date they were saved, filled with all this crap that needs to be put in their respective places according to what project they're for.  Seeing as that will be less warranting heavy time, I add to Friday's schedule filling a document with ideas for posts on here, so I never run out of anything to write about and lessening the chances of fucking up.


One of the things I've been wanting to do here for a while, is doing a take off Hey Rube!, which was this series of articles Hunter Thompson did up to his suicide.  Sometimes it'll be just me writing journals about something that happened to me recently with varying degrees of actual reality.  Sometimes it'll be something like me running into Pat Robertson at Roosters and talking to him about some crazy bullshit he did over buffalo shrimp.  Very Gonzo-y and fun.


I'm also planning on writing lots of essays, short stories, art, movies, putting up some stuff I have on the backlog, songs by my band (Maxwell Wilson and the Ego Poundcake Assembly), and plenty of other stuff to fill up the weeks.

So bookmark me, or keep an eye on my facebook. I'll be popping links on there every Wednesday like a person who pops links to their blog on their facebook every Wednesday.
 
I'll also be doing putting the links on twitter, so if you're into that sort of thing, here's my twitter:
https://twitter.com/MaxwellWilson
-But be wary for weirdness.