WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS
Fiction is truth on steroids.
And truth — truth is fiction processed and incorporated and translated to real life. Isn’t it obvious how life resembles art after art has been around for a while, made its statement, influenced a bunch of people who then went and acted out what they saw in a film? What they felt in a play and heard in a concert and read in a book? Isn’t it obvious that the reason life resembles a Quentin Tarantino movie is because Quentin Tarantino was so popular at one point — still is in certain parts of the world — that his esthetics seeped into real life through the actions of his fans, or maybe just the scores of people responding to a world gradually constructed to resemble some of Pulp Fiction’s sensibilities? How about Reservoir Dogs? Cool dapper thugs straight out of modeling school, silver tongued like Apollo himself? Or Jackie Brown and True Romance? How fucking awesome is that! The glory of violence and the cool factor of bite me, I’m packing, bitch! I’m packing, dickhead, nigger, crackhead, pig, cracker, honkytonk motherfucker! Motherfucking pussy ass bitch punk! The bullets, the guns, I carry them. The rhymes that shake the soul. My calling card. My force field. Our world. This is a storyteller’s world, shaped by the way we capture it and communicate it to each other.
Isn’t it obvious how art affects life at every turn? Isn’t it obvious that the reason this world has become something straight out of Star Wars and Harry Potter and Game Of Thrones is because people manifest the dynamics they so utterly loved the first, second, third, tenth and gazillionth time they watched these motion picture extravaganzas, and read the books that spawned them, or the graphic novels that accompanied them? What is the world if not a gargantuan storyline that keeps morphing and adding and changing and shaping lives at will?
Music to my ears. If art determines life to such a degree, methinks I’ll have a crack at it, write a story so insanely outrageous it will shift the world by a few degrees. Even if only one person reads it, one measly quiet person on the shelf, the story will grow through that unitary individual and leave its mark on every individual my reader interacts with, soft like the morning vapor, like a trauma never spoken of, an affliction that somehow finds its way to people through the silence. Everyone knows about it and feels it. Like a great secret, merry or tragic, too tragic to contemplate, too merry to speak of lest it lose its significance. These people will be touched by it and in turn affect others, and slowly, virally, retroactively and without a trace the story’s message will spread. Its sensibility will seep through the world and manifest down the line in such a way, no one will ever know where it came from or how it branched out. The untraceable kernel. The perfect seed. It will be so outrageous, no one will ever believe it. No one should ever read it, not if one wishes to keep life in order, which is why everyone will. Read it. More than once.
And that’s not a promise. It’s not even a threat, or a fact. Why would anyone call it a fact when the truth of the matter is, this story will never have existed, not in everyday terms, which is why it will never die. It will just keep getting stronger in its own material absence, like God, like Allah, like the notion of love, or science, or Father Time. Intangible, deified, prevalent and pervasive, what does not exist may never be eradicated, and will forever prevail.
On a more serious and down-to-earth note, the story I’m talking about, that earthly tale that should never be read, it’s out there alright. It’s been told a myriad times. My task is to retell it in a fresh way, in such a way I will make it mine, setting the stage for someone else to tell it in an even fresher way, and so on and so forth, the story that never ends.
Unless you retire for good. Then you may rest in peace and be free of life’s epic soap operas. Goodness knows you’ve probably earned the right. Probably. Nothing is set in stone, not even the past, and certainly not retirement. There’s always a little surprise in store for those who take things for granted.
And that, my friends, concludes today’s message from your favorite child of Time. My name is EON, and my voice will forever be a cause of frustration to all those who profess to have discovered the meaning of life. My nonsense is offensive and distracting, if not debilitating. But it’s just nonsense, so you better not let it get to you. I mean one look around you and surely the falsity of my words becomes self-evident.
Better get on with life, and don’t look back, or around you, lest you become distracted from your favorite stories by other stories whose outlook you’re not ready to deal with.
Bored? Don’t read this again. Miss out on all the clues so when the time comes you won’t know what hit you, which is what I’m shooting for.
From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE
PS – I SAID, SPOILERS!
PS 2 – Fiction is truth on steroids. And truth is fiction on steroids, which means that life and art are one seriously distorted, demented, interconnected arrangement. And you’re fully immersed in it, with no way out except, what, more stories? Welcome to the show! Chapters 6:9 and 6:10 — The entire leadership of Westeros and Essos has been taken out in one fell swoop and new power figures emerge on both sides of the sea, setting in motion a confrontation a long time in the making. Make of it what you will and pray tell yourself over and over again, lest you forget, that there’s lots more to come . . . Britain, America, the EU, China . . . Russia, Syria, Saudi Arabia . . . fire, ice . . . a world gone mad . . .
Lots more to come, in both fiction and real life.