The Minotaur of Rambling Nonsense

You know, and by the way, I've been meaning to tell you a story for quite a long time now. I have a lot of stories in my head, queued & indexed, but sometimes these stories never make it out of my head because there are the many bottlenecks and priorities and other thoughts and ideas competing for attention and life.

But when I was shown the way to the most incredible story about the Minotaur in the New Yorker magazine (which turned out to be one of the best short stories I've ever read) I remembered I had issues, concerns, and stories with regard to the Minotaur as well. It's documented on this Web page image I made before:

This story in particular of mine which I do want to write probably takes place in a small town or in a big city but someplace in America, for sure. Maybe I want to write one of those story arcs where the protagonist-hero moves from a small old city like Troezene to fame, success, and heartbreak in the fabled metropolis (like Athens). I'm not sure yet because the bottlenecks prevent. Maybe there is no queue after all. Maybe I don't know.

It is a funny fact, with music, or with the sound recording projects I call "music" most of the development of the final product is already complete before I actually make it. It's just a matter of carving out enough time and energy to make it get out of my head. Well, there's also the matter of resolving oneself to the fact that these expenditures of time and energy come with a brutal price. It's the shaving of the cone of gyro meat. You know you're going to have a terrific sandwich on pita bread with onions and that yogurt sauce, but you also know you'll have a gut full of cholesterol, calories, and sodium. And that's the least of your problems. What you more fully realize when you're reflective enough--and here's the apt portion of the gyro analogy--what you come to understand is that your gyro meat cone is now just that much smaller. That is, making the sound recording projects I call "music" are exhausting in ways nobody seems to understand. And there is only so much meat on your proverbial cone.

But who am I to say a damn thing?

But writing...for me, a non-writer (non-musician, non-poet, non-photographer, etc.), writing is fun and easy. I didn't say it's good but I do enjoy it sometimes. No pain or torture or moodiness involved (I don't know if this is true or not true actually). But it makes me equally sad and curious that I seldom know where the stories are going. I don't plan or research or storyboard. I know. You can tell, right? Rambling nonsensical bullshit.

Like Theseus, I too was a tiny boy at one time. I was born in a big city though. Los Angeles in California. I may or may not be a prince. I do not know this as fact. But probably since we are all somehow princes or princesses. But the point remains: Given some effort, we can slay what ills us.
Alas! my son," quoth King Aegeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very lamentable matter in hand! This is the wofulest anniversary in the whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of the youths and maids of Athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible Minotaur!"
But what if I am not Theseus. What if I am the Minotaur. How does one know these things? Sure we know who we are in the practical senses. We have names and titles and roles in life and society, but in the bigger sense, in the sense of imagery and metaphor, how do we come to understand who we are?

Mirrors then. Mirrors! Hand-held or forced upon us...under duress. Mirrors! Man in the mirror. You get that (that was easy). Lunacy/madness/genius like Ron Ron lobbying the post-humiliated the goddamn shower. Sometimes a fella's gotta say, "what up?!" Sometimes a fella's gotta get you to hold up a mirror to your own damn self. Sometimes you must learn to follow your own best advice.

I know I was going to tell you a story. Big Dave Wave and I used to do this thing called "Story Time." No matter where we were, one of us would type to the other using computers: "Story time." That person--the originator--would either start the story or wait for the other to begin. Taking turns, each person would write a piece of what would become a story that neither participant could foretell its ending or, even, where it goes in the near turn. And I know it is easy to believe that this silliness would quickly devolve into crudeness and jokery (and sometimes it did) but more often than not, it was a series of thoughtful backing and forthing where each person would only try to support and build upon the other, rather than following the easy path of one-ups-manship or gamery. Story Time was a long time ago, but every now and again, Big Dave Wave will send me two words: "story time." I must begin again to take the bait.

I've written numerous stories in my life. I wrote one about a kid stowing away on a ship. There's a piece I worked on with Richey involving a Luce Duke and a Camp Cookie. There's all kind of stuff. But like I said, bottlenecks (and the stuff of legend). In my mind I may be done, but I suppose a product only develops a value not from a sales price, but from upon completion of a transaction.

Mostly I want to write good stories because I so enjoy to listen to or read good stories. I do. Even if I have to interpret or pull it out myself when the context or vehicle is iffily imperfect. Not to diss or be critical, but Jamie Kennedy's Heckler--which I just watched--is imperfect but purely informative. That's a recent example. An anecdote. It was beautifully flawed like the Mona Lisa.

Like I said before, I've been meaning to tell you a story for quite a long time now.