What does anyone think of these notions?

(Assuming anyone's reading, which may be a totally unwarranted assumption). I seem to be forming better defined principles with which to approach my new-found "life's work" (i.e. writing fiction).

It is art. I am almost to the point where I can say that without blushing and feeling pompous. (Almost, it still feels pompous and self-aggrandizing, but it's what I've secretly (almost guiltily, I don't know why) believed for a long time - I am an artist, or at least an artist-in-training).

The point of art (in my opinion only, this is a hugely contentious assertion, I'm aware, but it works for me) is to observe, examine, contemplate, and report on "what it means to be a human being." Whether any of the many art forms that are apparently unaware of the human race beyond the artist are therefore "not art" or are "bad art" I don't know and I don't care. I'm only concerned with my own notions here (it's MY blog after all). Let's say "The point of MY art is to observe, examine, contemplate, and report on WIMTBAHB." Any "self-expression" on the part of the artist that is not employed in this, is superfluous. It's perfectly fine of course if an artist uses his own feelings in a particular situation to communicate some generalities that apply to "What it means" and more importantly to make me feel what he's feeling in pursuit of identifying with the generality of la condition humaine. (Or whatever). But unconnected, incoherent blurts, whether visual, verbal, or aural seem not to do this.

Fiction is Truth unconstrained by Fact. More ruminations and cogitations on this later, but it's a phrase I came up with some time ago and have been turning over in my mind for the past 3 years or so that I've been pursuing this fiction-writing endeavor seriously. The capitalizations in that phrase are intentional and significant, BTW.

I was disappointed by "Quartet" and haven't finished watching it yet. I may not.

The first half hour is fun, how could it not be with Pauline Collins and Billy Connolly being all rascally and scatty? (Not in that order of course). Michael Gambon in his patented "irascible old goat" routine and Tom Courtenay being sensitive and pensive all over the place. So far s'ok. But just about 30-40 minutes in it begins to sag; and the second time Connolly pees into the bushes to tittering effect (and believe me, at my age I do understand the thematic point of his micturitive distress), I bailed out. It became clear to me what was going on: these absolutely marvelous actors had been placed in cardboard suits patterned after characterizations for which they've become (justly) famous, wound up like little clockwork figures, and set in motion to totter across the frame like little wind-ups: "Billy Connolly doing his randy old bandit of a Scot" and "Maggie Smith doing her Jean Brodie Way Past Her Prime shtick" and so on. Well it's not their fault, it sits squarely on the director's shoulders. I had very high hopes for Dustin Hoffman's directorial maiden voyage - very fine actors frequently make very fine directors (and he might, I hope he takes another crack at it soon). But I have the feeling that in an overflow of (deserved) respect for his cast, Hoffman indulged them with one too many "Just give me something of yours, never mind the script" and they fell into their set modes and set pieces instead of coming up with new people.

I'll pick it up again soon, but unless it begins to move in a more original direction I doubt I'll make it through the remaining hour. Sad too, I was really looking forward to it, I love the work these people have done. (Andrew Sachs, BTW, seems to have been entirely overlooked and he's pretty much wasted as wallpaper. Too bad, the guy has huge talent.)

Well damn, July slipped by unblogged.

It was hot hereabouts, and much spare energy got sucked up by chores and projects. C'est la vie I guess. Early August has been consumed mostly by illness and recovery therefrom. I'll use that as an excuse for letting the 13th slide by unmarked. I usually have some little thing to say on 13 August, mostly amounting to "Hey look at that one of the few remarkable days in my life." It was on 13 August 1969 (longtime followers of this blog - if such exist - will know this) that Yours Truly became Second Lieutenant Yours Truly, USAF, at the Medina Annex (AKA "USAFOTS") of Lackland Military Training Center in San Antone Texas. It was a sunny day, and hot, and we marched around a big-ass parade ground, and some bigshots (relatively speaking) blathered on and we threw out hats in the air, and shortly thereafter got our first salutes. Mine was from TSgt Jack Adams, who had been my TI in Basic Training (oh yes, I was double blessed, most folks only have to do one or the other, Basic or OTS - I got to do both; long story) and was a hell of a good guy, Smoky Bear hat and stogie meeting about 8 inches in front of his face at a nearly 90 degree angle.
Why we remember such occasions - epsecially guys, and especially military-related stuff - so long is an interesting phenomenon, and I'm convinced it has to do with things surrounding the notion that being in the military, for guys, especially, is a big developmental marker along the road - "here's where I put away the kid stuff." (Though that's pretty much bullshit, as we learn over the ensuing decades, but the notion sticks.)