If this is your first time meeting Miss Ophelia Eden…see PREFACE below…otherwise, scurry along…she awaits, eager to whisper her whims…

PREFACE … This series is an open-ended exploration of the aesthetics of writing in an otherwise journalistic space. It is because of the standards and techniques of journalistic writing that it serves its end: knowledge. It cares to inform—Ophelia and I, however, care to inspire. We need not be seen (merely) as contrarian! We, too, serve truth abiding by different terms: imagination, (tragi)comedy, philosophy,  poetry—whatever you dare to call it. My storytelling echoes philosophers and nobodies alike who write what the spirit moves them to write—not in self defense or in protest but for the love of picturing what there is to picture; I bow to fluctuating feeling rather than so-called fact

Beyond foundational texts, much of this is inspired by contemporary artists, rockstars and authors et cetera in statements, interviews or memoirs: the begrudging attempt to express oneself in a foreign format—however (un)willing, forever unable to explain poetry in prose. When prodded, they’re bound to say something along the lines of: the work speaks for itself. 

In this Opinion-Editorial series I will use a fictional character to share my beliefs, founded in an adoration for audacious expression…alongside a contempt for the inundation of our world—echo chambers and pseudo-knowledge made palatable for spit-takes. There may remain beauty in journalism—though perhaps irresponsibly so: tragedies relayed as if they’re merely a picturesque, distant heck, not Hell. To be clear, there is no true aesthetic of journalism; hence, it is a means of understanding that I no longer care for. Insofar as I speak to the imagination, this ought to resist a“read time.” May we dispel citations? And while I am not alone in my opinion, I am most definitely preaching to the heathens rather than the choir. Mind you, The New York Times managed to foist an anonymous Opinion-Editorial on us readers; may the Free Press toss my eponymous character the unplugged-mic for a few more long-awaited, unearthed truths? 

Amusement alone is not art; there is not poetry only in painting the moment as it is, lulling the reader into a restless sleep, telling them what they know: the history of the human world is horror. I don’t mean that these abstract considerations ought to console us. Why wish to be consoled? On the contrary, I wish to mourn perpetually the absence of what I love or might love.

Reading is not understanding. The reader has to do just as much as the writer, to read the work in the spirit in which it was written; just as a passive listener of music does not hear the music. By writing as Ophelia Eden, I aim to challenge the present paragon of straightforward (sham) expression. Insofar as a newspaper insists upon one interpretation per work, any writing that aspires to the condition of art is deemed irrelevant…say, forever untimely. Yet, if one were to approach my work in a philosophical sense, it is bound to serve the imagination. It ought to live only there. 

Lest we forget: as a university founded by intellectual polyglots and most renowned for an ‘art school,’ a newspaper that fails to allow alternative means of expression is not at all representative of the student body. My intention is also to inspire the free press, readers and contributors, to challenge and to expand their expression moving forward. Since readers nowadays want to be persuaded rather than prompted: one can expect a continued sense of disillusionment and combative humor…as for little ol’ Ophelia, a self-proclaimed (humble) genius parading an exaggerated trope of the artist talking about their own work. 

Now, to say this moves towards no end is to misunderstand the fractured state of the world as only attainable through facts…or to seek in stories or in others a fathomable, uncontradictory whole, which—is an absurdly utopian ask! I am quite baffled that I am the first to ask to do fiction or anything other than school-centered news. I am quite demoralized that I must begin like this. Though, like all questions that are along the lines of “so?”this disruption lends to my insistence. Momentum may return as I begin again? I pray. 

[DRAFT] two.

O is for ordinary, which One is…P is for Prefaces, Pseudonyms, Pray (to) Prevent “there’s a few good lines in here.” Nevertheless, surely, it arrives, like all burdens, postage, the poorest of news––right on time. I ponder…why must the mail truck huff cross-cul-de-sac and hoard my fan mail on board? All that is truly good goes astray, once one fails to deem it so––children and otherwise…two out of three wishes wish to be stowed away with other envies. I lie down exhausted, content with blame placed elsewhere.

H, we recall, is for heck, not H*ll(ish). I is for that which will remain Here, until no longer. If some find this script incomprehensible I surely don’t think the fault lies with I…

A writer can profit from things that aren’t all pleasantries. Nowadays I can withstand a poke, a prod. Not for long. 

Sir Marshall Mathers used to win cafeteria lunch battles by rapping faster than the other kids, though not saying much of anything, and look at him now, LOOK! No one would dare ask him to repeat himself now. 

Lest we’re mistaken: a man mumbling much of nothing inspires more than a mute.

When asked about life, if it has gotten better, porcelain-cherub-cheeked Eminem proclaims uh huh…through his wad of Juicy Fruit, from the sunken driver seat of his pimped-out minivan…abiding by the speed limit, plunging through his kingdom (Detroit)…Black Ice sandpaper swaying stench throughout, I’d imagine...but––he don’t want it to get much better, won’t have anything to rap about if it do. (He ended that with “does” but my lie sounds more like his truth, no?)

So I am told, and I quote, I am dancing as fast as I can with a manic impulse to impress. Though––less manic, less impulsive than you may think––more impressive than you even know. Mumbling may be my métier: I do so with articulate thoughts, because I said so! It delights me more, thinking, they could not possibly understand! Plus, no one who is louder (lamer) can forge my wit––you know the type: one to annotate their remark, “am I saying that right?” Some think their own thoughts are over their head…

When asked about I, if it has brain, if it get bigger, I say uh huh, sure do…through my glorious three-piece wad of Red Hot, as if to say duh…though it must get no bigger––my brain––else I’ll know better than to share ever again. That way, my thoughts can be like an ever-indulgent family-size for one, eternally fruitful. 

Doubts and their discontents pile up in my bedroom corners. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot.

I roll over to a smiling face––my own, mirror dusted and propped. In the glib currency of nowadays, any other lips parted, silenced, with a grin, best not count for much! 

It’s a b***tiful day. You’re late. Everyone else is on time…ah, no––no, me? making haste? Never! Rather, marathon dancing, a trophy for which…I could not possibly wish for more! I care to prance unchoreographed, thinking less of sex appeal (granted), more of gusto (practiced). 

Cynicism ought to, upkeep, please, a foundational delight. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m whining. And maybe I am. But I can hear the reviews already and I am totally bored. Totally. Perhaps a time out must take place at our wits end, cretins and consorts kept close. But––I’d rather go to the gig. 

At said gig, my has-been heroes sigh, amazed to find an arrow in their back––their own bow to blame: indulging any spotlight other than said screen––throbbing in approval, one inch from face. My “heroes,” reading their writing aloud…to a dimly lit crowd of overdressed, over enthused yeswomxn. 

My heroes, how dare they abandon my applause! How dare they embody a performance that ought not be embodied! 

Understudies lose sleep over soliloquies that never see the light of day: writers, however, are not off the page. Writers are (decidedly) not performance artists. (I hope I do not grow towards the sham sun of hypocrisy.) In my world, even the ensemble remains a tried & true recipe of an asthmatic debut. We scholastics best stick to the typewriter, shelve the tap shoes. I’ve been many things here––never bored.

An insincere mind, so far as it is insincere, has no conception of sincerity…ought not shirk or dodge it––thee Truth, that is: artists pray to be rockstars, rockstars dream to be movie stars, movie stars wish to be writers and writers only ever write to be all of the above. 

…It would be so awkward in heaven, after all one had discovered, to have to put on a perfect, passive innocence. As if one wasn’t given nods and winks from the muses all the while.

You cannot prove your faith by syllogisms, or otherwise. You must not try. 

I am a seeker of happy endings, a sensitive boy, sometimes…other times I act like a “lead” female character that was written by a man. Confession arises with dawn: when I don’t get my way, I’m bound to do what’s expected of me–– to melt or explode, one of the two. 

The media, literary naysayers, rock critics, what have you––do the trying as we do the doing. Fiction workshop professors––those who’ve failed to make it in the real world, or, worse yet, made it and now fear to fail in it, quibbling a cough, telephoning in sick. Try as they might––lambasted plenty of brilliant thoughts of mine, which just shows me they have no taste whatsoever! Hate mail, too, may go astray, as all three disciples huddle, whisper, avow purity and praise…even so, how am I supposed to trust them? I can only trust myself and the thoughts that come…so long as they continue to arrive…whence they do not––I trust that too. 

I care most for a close-call, when the terror intensifies…following which you can wade at the bottom of your mind. Anchorite [on/off] switch, ciphers, civil sidewalk wars, so-called freestyles where all goes as memorized.

Puzzles, for once, may no longer be left unattended; we may attend to ourselves. 

Do I have any sense? You ask?! Whether the vast, unfulfilled talent has been used well or squandered? I am 22 and though I can’t stand repeating myself, I cannot help but compete with myself. If the game is dirty chess or judo, count me in. If it is justifying fiction as something more than a grotesque privilege? That is a justice that may never be won! It’s a mainstream-alternative world, househeld-alt-lit and other recycled garbage. 

An avenging Angel arrives in the form of a draft that remains true to its beginnings: whims, annotations––and “yet”…

I can see the worth of things that are worth my while, I am sure of it. But you don’t understand writing; it ought to be the experience of drafting an epiphany itself. Yet you claim to understand reading! 

The only way to really know anything is if you taste it for yourself. If you were me, you’d wish it to continue––you wouldn’t dare interrupt––an envelope must abstain from being licked…a button must remain a pulsing, tantalizing blue, begging for it…begging for elsewhere, another mind to taunt. 

Perhaps, if, another mind: [I imagine a suburban self: white picket, barbwired; I try to write on the porch though there tend to be people in the driveway, mailmen licking sweat from lip, tripping up the curb as their idling exhaust spins sinful to the sky. I have to get to that place and stay there…I think…this mental place, the physical space being my basement, one I can afford to be anything but carpeted, though, with the sauna renovations, then, too little silence…] But, then again, no. 

I ought to be a person who does things to excess…in the scope of imagination, please. I much prefer to dust my mind this and every morning. Knick knacks, souvenirs, photo strips, a smile to fulfill a future fantasy?––…postcards, podcasts, fairy tales: terrorism; cudgelings and vacuous friendships spare those who matter; aphasia or aneurysm come to those who wait…

If I were to let you read what more I have to say, you’re bound to care more to strangle it of its charm––insisting I explain who/what/why it is I allude to. I want it all in visual terms––though…of course that’s impossible when some are blinded to the world as it is.

The mind is kind. Still, I saunter—surely we all, be bound to lull, lag and forget. 

You cannot judge something you do not care to understand. If you have questions, refer to the text. If you are offended, you are convinced, no? 

Thoreau once said a work is not always as dumb as its reader––he said that, not me. Pay in mind he was talking about his work, not mine. Nevertheless, I felt the need to tell you that he said that about his work, W****n––ring a bell? Yes, I figured. Mhm, the one where he lives by a pond, look at you! You’ve read it? I assumed not…anywho…Judgment Day can come at any moment; it may; it will; I think? 

When it comes down to it––it is obvious what I care to speak of: my ideal. And to speak to: my self. And all aspects of others that relate or flagellate; or, at least, those which beckon an addendum. 

An “editor” once said, and I quote: “this person is a very good writer with absolutely no direction…it’s just impossible to read.” To speak of impossibility is to judge the care taken with the reading just as much as the writing. One hopes to avoid gimmicks. I care neither to kid myself nor comment upon another’s direction. I care to be neither merely “good” nor “very” anything at all.

When offered food, malted milk or some other catastrophe––I refuse, as we must…for I feel we are perfectly adequate as is. Our sensations are justified. When we’re in such a wonderful state, why should I try to improve it? 

It’s so vulgar, to think, I’ve been read, lauded before, had a hamburger before…at one point, ridden a jet ski…all those things are so––well, so well known, even more so now, and now…which has come to mean––there’s no sense in doing them. 

Must The End be neat? And in cursive? What I am hungry for is not that kind of thing! Must it come at all? It is a grandiose delusion of yours that a message tidied, sent and received is what would nourish me. When will you see that it is you and not me who has really lost their mind? If you care not for it, return to sender. Tickets may be torn; the curtains need not whoosh close…hush and woah ought to be the only cryptic currency; trade in your oohs and ahs.

I wield language because language alone may defend itself...I have said before, aloud, to a real-life audience. It eludes me how jaws withheld, undropped. Perhaps, like parents, they were too proud of me to show it.

You become like an interviewer, otherwise wise, posing any question to a writer, let alone one that begins: “if what you’re saying is true…”

This much is true: I have no direction, absolutely. Ideation is not to be tamed, but followed.  I insist it go on and on and on, this bouncing, drafting, dribbling, untethered and yet complete. 

A cage prompts one thing…[escape].