Showing posts with label experimental. Show all posts
Showing posts with label experimental. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 8, 2021

EXITS

 

EXITS

Hi!  I am a writer, or at least I pretend to be.  I think I am, therefore I am.  Yes, I write poetry, fiction, nonfiction ‑you name it, I write it.  Of course, if I wanted to really make money, I'd be writing kiddie lit, or maybe porn. Yeah...porn, that's it....

Anyway, my name is Steve Universe. I know, I know, I get nailed for the name all the time. Actually, since I'm the author of this story, I suppose I could go by any name.  Naming is power, you know.  That's what they say at least.  My parents exhausted universal power in first creating me, and then in naming me.  They created for me an identity, whether I wanted one or not.

Naming.  Power.  Writing.  Power.  Naming is such a buzz phrase these days. Current hot topic, especially with the feminists.  Because it's true power.  For instance, I am writing a story.  Even now, as we speak.  Even now, as you read this.  I will write a character into the text.  I will name him.  What?  I'm not sure yet.  But I will create him and he will owe his very existence to me.  Pretty God‑like, don't you think?  Power. Naming. I'm a writer.  Or at least I think I am.  Well, I speak as a writer.

Oh, but I digress.  My name, Steve Universe.  Did I mention that I'm writing a story?  Did I mention I'm a writer?  Actually, now that I think about it I think I did mention that I'm the author of this story.  And I am, but there is actually a little more to it. It seems that while I am in this grand process of creation, I am myself undergoing the self-same process of creation. I seem to be a character in someone else's story.  I know, I know, don't get all pissy.  I'm finding this out as we speak, just as you are.  Do you think I like it?  Frankly, I'm not amused. I thought I was omnipotent, omniscient, God and all that juicy stuff. I thought I mattered.

My author's name, evidently, is Scott Holstad.  (Who would have picked that name?)  He claims to be a writer (but then, don't we all?).  I mean, who the hell has ever heard of Scott Holstad?  If I'm destined to be a measly character in someone's story, why the hell couldn't I get Updike or Vonnegut?  Hell, even Mailer or somebody like that? Somebody known?  Someone who matters?

Well, this Holstad character seems to be the asshole who gave me my name, at least that's what he claims.  Steve Universe.  He seems to find humor in it.  Play on words, that sort of shit.  Universal.  University.  Mr. Universe.  Universe.  I don't call that funny.  He'd never make a living as a comic.  And Steve.  Pretty boring I'd say. Why not something a little more exotic?  God knows, most writers do seem to have somewhat boring names.  Robert, John, Walter, Steven.  Well, I'm a writer; I speak as a writer. I would name my character Fabio...yeah, that's it.  Exotic.  Romantic.  Steve.  That's so...universal!  I mean, I could be anybody....

---

Hi! I'm THE writer, or at least I pretend to be.  The Government says I am, therefore I am.  They give me these little numbers and I exist.  Truly.  I kid you not.  I know it's amazing, and I sometimes doubt it myself, but just try dodging your taxes sometime and see if you don't exist!

Anyway, I'm the creator of Steve Universe.  I know, I know call me a narcissist (and you won't be the only one), but deep down we're all ego maniacs.  It's that God Complex.

Well, Steve's been railing away so I have decided to just write him out of the text. That's right, erase him.  Just write him out.  Easy as pie.

There.  I've done it.  Steve Universe no longer exists.  And it was easy to do, like I said.  They say we are all capable of creation and that may be true but, God –  are we ever capable of destruction!  Total annihilation, say I!

             We can erase, Reconstruct, abolish, eliminate, terminate, DESTROY, with the greatest of ease.  Oh, and we writers are so proficient at it.  Comes with the territory I guess.

Actually, I've been thinking about something new lately.  New, that is, for me.  I speak to you as a writer, therefore I can say this.  I'm thinking of writing myself out of the text.  That's right, textual suicide.  Innovative, eh?  I hate to admit this, but Steve was right about one thing, at least.  I'm not the best-known writer.  Oh, I have my share of groupies and I certainly appreciate them.  They're devoted.  But, I'm not exactly a household name either.  Not that I'm ambitious.  Not that I'm a narcissist.  I speak as a writer, remember?

Look, what better way to achieve notoriety?  Textual suicide.  I will be no more. (And I know I am now. I know I exist because I have numbers proudly given to me by my Government.)  I will be no more.  Oh, I know I won't be around to enjoy the accolades, but what the hell?

And those saps out there always fall for the suicides.  My God, what a bloody operation!  I've always wanted in on the scam.  The papers, TV, TV, TV, TV, mags, papers, bloodsucking TV.  We're the fastfoodfastentertainmentfast sexfasttloodthirstyviolent generation by God, and we're suckers for that shit!

Give me my suicide!

Give me my constitutionally guaranteed suicide!

Oh, they'll just eat it up.  And Steve?  Well, he's been written out of the text, eh? Doesn't really matter anymore, does he?  He's Steve Universe.  Was Steve Universe. Universal.  University.  Mr. Universe.  Steve Academia.  Boring Steve.

 

Steve, Steve I'm so 
bereaved I can't conceive 
 Why we must leave.
 
 

Oh, but I digress.  Again.  But I speak as a writer.  I'm allowed occasional digressions.  Writers, dammit!  Never seem to get to the friggin point.  I mean, well, what is the point?  The point's the point son.  The end's the point.  Cause we exist you know.  I, Scott C. Holstad, who speaks to you as a writer (and as a human? maybe?), I exist you know.  This I know.  For the Government tells me so.  It gets so slow.  Sometimes gotta go.  Breakdown.  Discourse.  Breakdown.  The point?

Oh yeah, the Point.  I guess it's the End of the stick you put your hot dog on.  Or maybe your marshmallow.  The Point...the Point.

The Point, oh yeah.  Well, to get on with my story, I think I'm going to write a new character into the text.  To be my narrator, of course.  To carry on the tradition...the tradition...the Point.

 

Actually, to be perfectly honest with you, sometimes I feel like I'm already being erased from the text.  It's like someone has pushed the Pause button, but it turns into the Erase button.  I don't know how to explain it.  I don't know how to...communicate...it.  I don't know....

Well, this is very strange indeed.  It feels like someone's been tampering with me, with me, with me, with me...me -- ...me...me...me with...me with...me with tampering... NO! That's Martin Amis you dolt!  We're not going backwards in this story.  We're being Fucking erased!

As I said, I speak to you as a writer.  And I am the creator of this mess, so I decide what's going on.  Right?  I am going to ever so conveniently create a new character before ever so conveniently obliterating myself from this increasingly dreary story.  Textual Suicide.  Oooh, how 'bout Cyber Textual Suicide?  Yeah, they love that Cyber shit.  It's so in.

There.  See?  I've created yet again.  A new category.  A new ending.  A new genre which they'll be beating down the damn doors for.  Cyber Textual Suicide.  Only a matter of time now before it's in the Canon.  Oh baby, they'll be asking GRE questions about it. I'm drooling now just thinking about it!  And I owe it all to me.  Me!  Not Steve Universe. Not Scott Holstad.  I mean, Wait!  Yes, Scott Holstad.  That is me.  I think.  Wait, hold on. Let me check my ID card.  Oh yes, right here.  Scott C. Holstad.  In black and white.  Very official looking.  See, the Government says I exist.  Therefore I am.  I am the Creator of this story.  Cause the Government says I can.  I am the Creator....

And people laughed when he claimed that God was dead.  God's not dead you fools.  I am God!  The Creator.  Yes, of this story.  And the Government says I exist so it must be so.  Right?  And if I want to obliterate myself (Wait. Here it comes...a rousing, orgasmic cry of Cyber Textual Suicide!!!), from the text of course, I can do it!  Cause I'm the Destroyer.  I mean Creator.  I mean God.  Oh, what's the difference?

And this new character...what should we name it?

It.  What gender first of all?  Or does that matter?  We've all read Virginia Woolf after all.  And we did see "The Crying Game."

Well, ok, but what color hair?  Eyes?  Teeth?  Teeth?   OK, I tried to pull one over on you.  Or is it put one?  Or does it matter?  Whatever the case, I am the writer because I am the God.

OK.  Height?  Weight?  Genitals?  Oh, no need to go Victorian on me.  Really!  Boots or balls, what'll it be?  Come on, come on, we don't have all day here.

You see?  Do you see why I am writing this and you're not?  My God, you're slower than horse shit!  And indecisive.  What a match.  Readers dammit.  What the hell do Fish and Iser know anyway?  I mean, have they ever actually tried to work with a reader?  Ain't that easy, is it?  No sirree.

I feel decidedly better now.  Sort of.  Just thinking about what I'm about to create makes me go positively gushy from head to toe.  I'm talking thrills a minute. Because I'm the Creator.  The Government says so.  And it should.... Hold on, what's this?  But I haven't decided to go yet.  I'm the only person who can erase myself from the text.  Hang it all, stop that!  What is going on here?  I speak to you as a writer because i am the creator exist you know the government tells me so this i know you know i am god it's so I'm the master of this story but everything's getting denser is that really a word werd weird bsmck shit now i know that's not a word dammit i need my words to create i need my language my name my power my god....

 

---

Hi!  Sorry about all that gibberish back there.  You shouldn't really have been forced to endure it.  Feel free to register a complaint with the proper authorities if you must.  But on behalf of the author and this publication, I would like to extend a formal apology.

Those Post-Modern writers think they can get away with anything.  Pretentious fucks!  Oops, sorry.  It's just that they get feisty and break loose every now and then.  But don't worry.  We take care of 'em. We put 'em back where they belong.

Now. Where were we?  Oh yes.

 

Hi! I am the writer.  I know I am a writer and I know I am the writer because I speak to you as a writer....

 

XXX

 

Scott C. Holstad 

© 1995 Scott C. Holstad

#metafiction

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

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