The labyrinth that is iMac's creative world, oh so deceptive; all my toys so stylish, those cute UI's wink at me, appearing so easy. Just when you get iTunes Connect and iTunes Producer embedded in your head, your iPhone and 23 inch monitor feel lonely, we need another friend they say and cannot possibly play without an iPad along with other bits of electronics. The process expands.
The writing is ready, you've laid down the first set of the short stories on Garageband, not impossible, you move through the process, play with it, suffer your own voice, play with that, the melody starts to sing, then becomes dissonant; you've tried in earnest to channel your inner Vivaldi only to find yourself mired in a Mahler. Aiming high for Italian Baroque onto get sad, tragic Bohemian. Well, I do live in Prague.
Reminds me of a recent conversation with my neighbor from Istanbul, she misses the Mediterranean flavor, saying she too likes Prague but the emotions are a bit heavy yeah? she asks, kind of Kafkesque? she laughs, in that easy Mediterranean way they have in spades.
Yes, the Mac devices are so uber cool, so intuitive, sure, until you realize you've entered the land of Franz Kafke.
Sigh....Its reading season, summer's just a day away, so why not escape and meditate on the man's writing. Franz Kafka feels fitting about now.
"The Rejection"
When I meet a beautiful woman and ask her, "Be so good and come with me, "and she passes me by without a word, she means by that:
You are no duke with a lofty name, no strapping American with an Indian's build, with level, placid eyes, with skin massaged by the air of the prairies and the rivers that flow through them, you made no journeys to the great lakes, or upon them, wherever they may be. S, I ask you, why should I, a beautiful young woman, go with you?"
"You forget that no grand automobile conveys you, swaying in its long lunges, through the street; I don't see an escort of neatly dressed men murmuring blessings and following you in a precise semi-circle; your breasts are nicely arranged in your bodice, but your thighs and hips make up for this modesty; you are wearing a taffeta dress with pleats like those which delighted us all last Autumn, and still you smile - wrapped in this mortal danger - now and then.
"Yes, we're both right, and to avoid becoming irrefutably aware of it, shouldn't we rather go home alone?""
Yes, yes, when creating and migrating one's way through the land of self-publishing just reminds, one must persevere, in spite of it all, alone....
I've only read a couple of his short stories but now maybe I will take some time to get lost in a few.
Posted by: Dan | May 31, 2012 at 21:36
Writing so simple, so elegant and so terribly fragile...
Posted by: Bailey Alexander; An American in Piemonte | June 01, 2012 at 21:05