Sep 302014

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This week’s guest guest blogger is James Grady, who shares a few thoughts on paranoia. Just reading his stylized commentary has us peering over our shoulder . . .

You feel it. Paranoia.

They’ve got your number. It’s personal. You’re reading this. Looked at that. Took a chance, did something, or hell: they just think you did. You stood up for yourself. Stood out. You’re in their way: your boss who knows you know what really happened, your lover who wants you gone. Footsteps behind you. You’re in the shower.

You’re just a number. It’s not personal. It’s “just.” Like in justice. Or not. You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A crazed Mommy in the grocery store grabs a cleaver. You’re part of the Matrix. Visiting a friend in the World Trade Towers. Ebola. Dr. Strangelove smiles. It’s not a movie witch that’s melting.

Life is out to kill you. All you want is to be left alone.

That’s the beating heart of paranoia: you’re all alone.

That’s true. You were born, nobody really knows you, you die and that is you, just you.

That’s false. It’s not just youWe all live, we all die.

Paranoia determines how we live and die.

McLuhan and the mushroom cloud moved us all into a global village, but our global compound fosters warring tribes. Yesterday it felt easier to know who “us” was. And to trust us: yeah, Big Brother, but of thee I sing.

Trust is the shimmer between prudence and paranoia. You wear your seatbelt yet strap yourself in a crushable metal box.

So how can you find the line between just being smart and being just scared?

“Facts” are not enough. “Facts” are who furnishes them. J. Edgar HooverOsama bin Laden. Fox News vs. MSNBC. The candidate who wants power. The housewife in the TV commercial. The guy who says: “Everybody knows….”

What helps you see the line between prudence and paranoia is fiction.

Fiction reveals possibilities. Fiction is our safe mirror. Fiction—in lines of prose or poetry, in the lyrics of a song, through the actors on stage or screen—is not “real.” Or so we can believe. And that belief lets us see the universal reality of a character “just like me…that happened to me.” Or “I wish that were me…if that were me….” Fiction glides us into what could be, gives us a world where we learn archetypes of who & what to trust without penalty, without pain. The what could be we experience with fiction helps us see the shimmer between factual forces and fantasy fears in our world of flesh and blood.

The “truth” may set you free, but the “lies” of fiction may be your best chance to escape paranoia, to perceive who and what to trust so you can best use our life’s terrifying freedom.

Author James Grady won France’s Grand Prix du Roman Noir, Italy’s Raymond Chandler medal, and numerous American literary awards.  A former investigative reporter, he lives inside D.C.’s Beltway and in February, will publish Last Days Of The Condor, a sequel to his Robert Redford adapted novel.

The post Creeping Up Your Spine appeared first on Mulholland Books.

Pulp Hamlet

 Cora, Hamlet, James Cain, Ophelia, Pulp Fiction  Comments Off on Pulp Hamlet
May 172012

(By Michael)
                                    “Rip me! Rip me!”
                                                – Cora, The Postman Always Rings Twice
Ophelia:            Rip me. [Hamlet rips her blouse.] Again . . . again. [He does, he does.]
Hamlet:             That was either my sixteenth-century fingers, or your sixteenth-century bodice.
Ophelia:            My bodice, baby! Rip me! Rip me!
Hamlet:             I already did. I already did.
Ophelia:            You’re so hot. Let’s kill my dad..
Hamlet:             Polonius?
Ophelia:            He’s a perv and talks like an Elizabethan.
Hamlet:             So do you.
Ophelia:            I know. Rip me. [Hamlet rips her bodice.] I saw him in my bedchamber fingering my knickers.
Hamlet:             Oh man, I’ll stab him in the arras.
Ophelia:            The ass?
Hamlet:           The arras – the curtain. I’ll stab him when he’s hiding behind the arras.
Ophelia:            You talking Elizabethan?
Hamlet:             Yeh.
Ophelia:            That’s why you’re italicizing?
Hamlet:             Uh huh.
Ophelia:            Grrr. Rip me.
Hamlet:             Wait – Here he cometh.
Ophelia:            Grrr.
Hamlet:             What the hell? That’s mom’s bedchamber. What kind of kinky-ass . . . Hey, yo! Polo! Wassup with the Peeping Tom? You peeping on the queen-my-mother, my-father’s-brother’s-lover?”
Polonius [Clutching his heart]:               Sire, I assure thee –
Hamlet [Drawing his sword]:                 I’ll assure you.
Polonius:           Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
Hamlet:             You talking like Ben Franklin, old man?
Polonius:           Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.
Hamlet:             Wait a minute – That’s Elizabethan.
Ophelia:            Rip me?
Polonius:           Beware of entrance to a quarrel –
Hamlet:             Enough!
Polonius:            – but being in, bear it that the opposed may beware of thee.
Hamlet:              ENOUGH!
Polonius:           This above all –
Hamlet [Running his sword through Polonius]:    A rat!
Polonius [Dying]:          To thine own self be true.
Ophelia: [Regarding her fallen father]:    You killed him.
Hamlet:             Yeh.
Ophelia:            That’s hot.
Hamlet:             Yeh.
Ophelia:            Rip me.
Hamlet:             Later, babe. Right now, I got an uncle that needs killing.