A work born of frustration.
| Plastic, Silicone and Blood|
By: Louis Williams
If it didn't cost so damn much, I'd bang my head on this keyboard. Repeatedly. Until the plastic keys throw themselves in shattered splinters away from the expensive electronic board below on the old laptop that I use as my utensil. No, utensil is far too clinical a word. Far too clean. My partner. My co-conspirator in crime.
From these cool black keys and the near frameless window hinged to them I present worlds. Worlds arising from a blank white background and neat little black letters. They stretch themselves, wrapping around the foundations that lay within the mind and memory, pulling forth from it colorful images of strange worlds that feel both familiar and new. The letters write upon the sky and fill in the clouds and colorful blue backdrop of imagery. They paint golden rays of sunlight and dappled skin upon a chilled hero, or maybe heroin, her hair flowing behind her as she could run along the beach on a cool spring morning, racing as if life her life depended upon it.
Or perhaps a star cruiser, pulling and turning, twisting between asteroids circling worlds unknown, racing as our pilot, his green mottled skin reflecting the glow of the dials and gauges before him, each one presenting a message of danger and death. The ship rattles and shakes, it quakes and arches against itself as the engines are pressed harder, further. Explosions nearby shower the asteroid in front of him. They have found him. The Galactic Republic. The villains who don't want this to be seen. Don't want this thing to be found. Don't want others to know what genetic monstrosities they've been stitching together. The ship buckles again, not from the engines. But from something else. Twisting and wrenching of metal from far below tells him that something has just gotten free on the ship with him. Just it and him. And it has far longer claws and far sharper teeth than he does.
I twist and form these worlds and more. Heroes and villains alike to entertain, to grab hold of you and pull you down or up into something else for just a while. Something far darker, far deeper, far more impactful for just a few moments than other more mundane things in your own life like bills, or news that always grows darker and darker with each passing day. Pressing concerns of loved ones that prick and pull at you as they seek simple and not so simple things. Of work and all the ways, it stretches and ties your mind and sometimes body into knots as you struggle to just make it to the end of the work day.
I write upon all of these things, package them as pleasantly as possible with great flowering and flowing words of myself, of what and who I am. I send them to publishers and editors alike. The works that are chosen? None of these.
They don't want killers and mad men. Of beasts and drama and dread great and small. They want validation. Sad worlds and words of thinly disguised political and social comments drawn up with watered down prose and description. Written by individuals who almost believe that adjectives are curse words and should be used just as sparingly. Their works shine forth with poor grammar, worse spelling, pale scenes that neither paint nor sculpt, but just babble like an idiot in an asylum off his meds.
What is chosen is things that neither emote nor pull that neither sculpt nor grab but things that just are. Awards and publications given over to the mentality that the message is more important than the work. That the message trumps entertainment and art. That their bull horn is far more important than the escape hatch that writers and artists like me provide from the world, if only for a little while. If only so that others may keep their sanity just a little bit longer.
Oh, so how I want to bang my head into this thing. Splinter it into pieces. Keep banging until a mess of blood and plastic and silicone are all that is left upon my writing desk. For that is what I have given. Blood, plastic and silicone. I have wrenched myself inside out and upside down to entertain them, the vast empty voices. Instead of listening or even looking, they merely want to grasp at strings. They ask me why I do not say the words that they wish me to say. They ask me why I have no message to portray. They ask me why I am so shallow and hollow.
If I am hollow and shallow than I long for everyone to be so. To entertain for the sake of entertainment is not empty. It is not for NOTHING. It is to give relief to the common man. To give a respite from their days and its thorns. To give someone an opportunity to run along with heroes, to be chased by villains. To try and escape and outsmart the monster. These small respites from drama and stress, from the trauma of life itself is not shallow and for nothing just because it doesn't have a political message of the day to hammer into the poor audience's skull.
They give mankind a place to breathe. A brief mental rest from all the agony and pain of existing. They lift them up for a little while and allow them a few moments while they are with me in my worlds of peace in their own. To want to give others a few moments of peace from their hectic and horrendous days is not nothing. It is not shallow and hollow to want to give someone a moment of light!
I screech this at the empty voices and their claws, the drawing fingers seeking the puppet strings to tie to me, to attach to me so I can speak their empty words through my work making them shallow, empty and hollow. Making them like them. To give them their political and social talking points so they can nod in approval and move on and toss me on the pile of other empty puppets waiting to be toyed with, waiting to be used.
I screech until I am hoarse. Entertainment is not for nothing! That these brief moments of peace means SOMETHING to people. They are necessary for our sanity!
But they do not listen. Have no ears for it. No heart for it. They only want their message spoken. In everything. The taste makers want to drown us all in pretentiousness.
Oh, how I want to bang my head.