the elves attic

boofery of john da booFIST

I don't expect people to do a lot of literary mining when they read me, and I don't want to only write for a few highly sophisticated critics and eager grad students and Marxist reviewer's fro the Nation (who I love dearly... man, I would like to get a few of them over here for dinner... hey, Nation people, email me and we'll toke doobies in the windy city and blow the smoke on those stoner mallards who hang out at the park down by the lake with the junkies, who think it's funny to see them get all excited and flap around playing like ducklings).

I hope that the ideas that I am writing about, the behavior I am attempting to INSPIRE, gets across to real people who need to be reminded and prodded to act on the knowledge that they live in a scientific equation that is presently badly weighed against the planet surviving GLOBAL WARMING. They can essentially be a part of the problem and part of the solution at the same time in this post--modern multi-faced culture of ours.

I think if the audience is lost, the writer has done something wrong. I mean, if the idea is important enough for someone to think they have to write about it, then if it isn't getting across, the story has done nothing. I don't buy the whole argument that writers are not responsible for what they write. That is why we have liable laws and inciting riots laws and screaming fire laws and laws against threatening to harm the president laws and laws against using racial epithets laws in the workplace to describe someone who pisses them off. On the other hand (one of them at least), I write what I want when I want regardless, as long as it does no harm.

Writers should be like doctors -- try to do no harm. Unless, of course, something needs to be harmed... innocent individuals are off limits to me. But if you are in a cult, or treat other people like shit, or are using your fame to become a metaphor for inspiring evil, I am going to be a voice on the outside screaming at you that you have HEADINTHEASSITIS and better pull out your mouth (no matter how much you like licking down there) before you drown in your own butt juices... and I am going to go mano mano to stop them if that's what it takes to keep a few readers of mine from going into a scientology office and getting brainwashed into thinking they are supermen. You wonder, with the big stars, if they do really convince them they have magic powers? You could do this, I suppose. I HAVE GOT TO WRITE ANOTHER TOADHEAD SMOOZE, where his handlers are convincing him he is opening a door with his mind, while in reality one of them is using a string, which he sees... and is told that he doesn't see it, over and over, and begins chanting it isn't there. The cult handlers tell him that if he no longer looks at the string, he can easily believe that it does not exist. I suppose they could use their breathing exercises to make his mind conducive to spraying a little Windex in ears and using extra long q-tips that they tell him are actually going into his brain and making everything shiny and new looking.


They probably have a secret book about this. Some religion... they don't want anybody but them to write about themselves.

Kind of like the Mormon’s saying that boof who says he found gold tablets that disappeared before anyone could see them and sounded suspiciously like the religious debates of the time, was assassinated. He was actually caught by an angry mob after he pulled a land grab scheme -- a scheme he had pulled off in other cities. And the Nauvoo’s hung his ass for his crimes. They make it out like it was religious oppression, but no -- they were killing a fucking snake in the grass. Half my illustrious family, once kings of half of England, original protestant invaders of Ireland and Crusaders and Templers... kings and friends of kings with Castle Ridgway.--... chose to go Mormon in the thirties. I think the great depression caused a lot of people to jump into this cult that pretty much took care of anybody who lived within their culture. Economics, Marx might say... Economics are the roots of even something as esoteric as madness. . . It's fun for me to read this book from 1938 by professor Ridgway, about the days when our family was rich enough to bequeath ten villages and various towns so Westminster Abbey could be built, but it is stilted reading. Sometimes there are lists. Like the one I joked about in here a few years ago when I wrote a big thing about the Ridgway book, where like six generations of Ridgway’s were known simply because they were killed by The Danes. I swear, the statement, HE WAS KILLED BY THE DANES, appears about fifty times in the book. I personally know nothing about Danes and could care less. That was them, this is me. What we have in common is barely legible to most people, though others know there is a rich tradition of scholarship and arts and that some of it seems to have seeped down to me . . . well okay,
the others are just me... might as well be honest, since I have little else to recommend me, and it is a free way for me to feel moral, righteous and engaged and it is a free way for me to feel moral sound, rightous, and engaged.