#not meaning to be confrontational or obtuse. just voicing what i felt is an important concern.

[coachella-sucks-this-year]

I don't mean to be obstructive or condescending or something. This is not divisiveness as to who owns ad who owns not. Some people will twist it to that end but let's not get confused: this post is not about how the 400k's are fucking everyone over. It's about how the middle class is shrinking.

You don't define "middle class" as to who comparatively owns the "middle amount" between the "rich" and the "poor". The middle class is, put simply, the class that exists at the middle of the class conflict between those who are truly rich (who you could call bourgeois) and those who own not much more than their labor (you could call them the proletariat). The middle class is the gray area, the small owners, the managers, those who own or administrate means of production, have significant disposable income, and hold no significant or insurmountable debts (you could call them the petty bourgeois).

This post, to my understanding, isn't claiming that the middle class is having it so bad that those ones who fit the criteria for it are now comparatively "rich"; neither is it seeking to opportunistically and self-righteously redefine people who were rich in the past as "middle class" (doing so would be moving the goalposts and would be as divisive as you claim).

Rather, its central claim is that the evolution of the economic situation is such that less and less people fit that criteria, of having a significant disposable income, a dign quality of life, access to housing, education, and healthcare, in such a way that it truly becomes mind boggling when you say it out loud: we have culturally come to see the ones with access to the money needed to have all of those things as "rich" when in truth, they barely qualify – if at all.

So we witness a cultural "moving of the goalposts" in which "middle class" now means "having food and a roof, and not wanting to kill yourself that urgently" instead of its original class meaning.

Many people nowadays view themselves as middle class even though they certainly do not qualify – they do not own or administrate, they are up to the neck in debt in a way that essentially cancels out any ownership they may have of anything, they live paycheck to paycheck in a proletarian job that is very much their lifeline – simply because they have medical insurance – albeit the most accesible and therefore the worst one – and they do not live in a slum or a trailer park – even though their house is rented, mortgaged, or still not fully paid for.

Tl;dr: My point is that this class analysis is absolutely needed in order to be able to perform actual, tangible change in the way that people live. Else, we will just keep moving the goalposts until we are all convinced that you are rich if you own a TV, without addressing any of the actual underlying conditions that lead to the current state of affairs.

And part of it is admitting that if the proletariat is the cannon fodder of capitalism, the middle class are those who are essentially waiting in line to join their ranks. Because the rich will keep getting richer, and fewer. And the middle class are not rich.

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Toy Story 4

I have given almost no thought to the fourth entry in the Toy Story franchise. I just felt like we were really DONE after Toy Story 3, you know? It was cathartic, it was meaningful, it made me bawl like a baby. I’d said goodbye and I was doing great. And then suddenly, Woody (Tom Hanks) and Buzz (Tim Allen) and the gang are back for round 4 and I’m just supposed to what, welcome them back with open arms? And now there’s a SPORK involved? I don’t know, fam. I was skeptical. But Pixar usually knows what they’re doing, so I sat down opening weekend ready to be transported back to the magic of childhood all over again. Could this entry in the franchise possibly live up to the greatness of all 3 of its predecessors? Well...

Gosh, it’s nice sometimes to be proven wrong. This movie is so delightful my face hurt from smiling afterwards. I think I laughed more at this than any other comedy this year. And its heart is still firmly in the right place, helping kids and grown-ups alike think about what it means to love and be loved, and what we’re willing to give up for a chance at happiness. Essentially, Woody’s new kid, Bonnie (Madeline McGraw) isn’t that interested in playing with him anymore. Instead, she’s made herself a new favorite toy - Forky (Tony Hale), a literal collection of trash barely being held together by silly putty and glue. Even though Woody isn’t Bonnie’s favorite toy, he knows how important it is for her to have Forky, and he will stop at nothing to keep Forky safe when Bonnie’s parents decide to take her (and all her toys) on a road trip. As you can imagine, some toys get lost, some toys get found, and there’s a lot of action-packed close calls along the way. 

Some thoughts:

There is no Pixar short before this one, just FYI.

One thing I love about the Toy Story films is the thematic richness that is always so clear and well-executed. From the very first scene, it’s set up that this is going to be Woody’s movie, and it’s going to be about him choosing between two different types of love - the love of a companion or the love of duty in his role as a Kid’s Toy. All of the Toy Story movies are essentially Woody movies, but this one feels even more so than the rest, and it’s a lovely meditation on aging, change, and parenthood from the perspective of a character that many of us have grown up with for the last 24 years.

Some of the animation is so beautiful I want to cry. Woody lying in the rain. The LIGHT in the antique shop. Have you ever seen light look so ethereal and gorgeous in animation? 

The four abandoned toys in Bonnie’s closet are voiced by the four greatest living comedians of our grandparents’ generation - Melephant Brooks (Mel Brooks), Chairol Burnett (Carol Burnett), Carl Reinerocerous (Carl Reiner), and Bitey White (Betty White). It’s a quick scene but man, what a joy for a comedy nerd like me.

Blink-and-you’ll-miss-them lesbians dropping off their son at Bonnie’s kindergarten class!

Throughout all the marketing, I have been so confused about Forky and why on earth he’s involved in this movie. However, within 2 minutes, I was completely sold. Tony Hale’s performance is perhaps the funniest performance I’ve seen in any media this year. Every single line delivery is gold, and he brings a real sweet earnestness to Forky’s identity crises and his confusion at a big world he doesn’t understand. And those goddamn googly eyes are the funniest fucking thing - it’s so dumb, but when a gag works, it works.

So I saw Child’s Play this weekend as well, and let me tell you - Benson, the ventriloquist dummy in the antique shop, is 10 million times scarier than Chucky will ever be. That motherfucker is going to haunt my dreams.

Now let’s talk about some other members of the ensemble. Is it just me, or does it seem like Buzz is being extra stupid here? I just don’t remember him being this stupid. A little obtuse, sure, but...this feels 10th season of a CBS sitcom bad. The one plot line I really hated was his dumb “inner voice” running gag. It felt like a lame gimmick in comparison to the really interesting nuanced interactions going on in every other plot thread of the film. 

I love the idea of Bo Peep (Annie Potts) as a Mad Max road warrior feminist rebel.

Another thing I appreciate about the Toy Story movies - all of their villains are portrayed sympathetically, and usually due to a lack of love in their lives. Don’t get me wrong, I love a great campy evil just for the sake of being evil villain as much as the next girl, but there’s something to be said for a series of movies that show antagonists as people who are hurting, who have a need that was never filled, and are willing to learn and grow when they are confronted about it. I think that’s a valuable thing for kids and adults alike to see.

I particularly liked the parallel and inversion of Gabby (Christina Hendricks) and Woody here, how they’re both so blindly devoted to the idea of loving a kid that they can’t see anything outside of that, including how their actions might be hurting other people. It’s a tight script overall, and particularly in their stories it digs deep into a lot of interesting emotional material. 

Fun easter egg: in the old toy disco that Bo Peep takes Woody to inside the antique shop, the first toy they interact with is the original tin toy from one of the first Pixar shorts! 

I know he’s having a very it moment right now, which he deserves every single second of because he’s, by all accounts, a truly wonderful human being, but I would die for Keanu Reeves’ Duke Caboom, and I don’t care who knows it.

For people who are interested to know - there is a cat who experiences some toy-chasing antics, but no harm comes to her. 

Did I Cry? Yeah, yeah I did. Nowhere near the waterworks of Toy Story 3, but when Gabby finds her kid, and at that last line, yeah, there was more than a light misting.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but this really is as good as all the other Toy Story movies. You’d be hard-pressed to name a franchise this consistent in quality, and I highly, highly encourage kids and grown-ups alike to travel to infinity and beyond with this crew one more time.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[cerillosvillage]

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Four: Work It Out

Take it easy/ Don’t worry ‘bout it/ I got this/ I got this

The giant looked up as Ib entered the meeting place. The mercenary's face was still pale and his injured arm was in a sling, though the way he carried himself showed that either he was not in much more pain, or that he had enough experience with being in pain around enemies that he knew how to hide it. He took a seat besides Magdalena on the stone floor, crossing his legs underneath himself as she had. Unlike her skirt, though, his kilt did not reach the floor when he stood, and when he sat, it was clear that he did not bother with undergarments.

He said nothing, but made direct eye contact with the giant beastman. Omkir, for his part, did not appear fazed in the slightest.

"Your bodyguard?" He asked Magdalena.

"Her advisor," Ib corrected him in a clipped tone.

The meeting place was a great stone circle painstakingly carved out of the sandstone floor of the village. It was deep enough that most of the Cerillos clan, being just over five feet call, could not stand at the bottom of it and look out over the top. There were no chairs or seats of any kind in the meeting place. Anyone who came to have their voice heard in matters concerning the village had no choice but to sit on hard floor, so that everyone was of equal height - and therefore equal importance - during meetings. Most would bring woven rugs with them to sit on, but right now, the only people in the space where Magdalena, Ib, and the trio of mages. The mages, of course, had no rugs to sit on.

"As I was saying," Omkir continued, "we have brought with us a letter from our University explaining our purpose here. I understand that you have not heard of our University, but I believe you will find that the letter will answer many of your questions." He held a scroll up with one hand, opening his palm. The letter glowed a faint pink, and levitated on its own across the meeting place, until it hovered just in front of Magdalena.

She looked at the scroll, her face screwed up in the manner of someone deeply uncomfortable with their present situation.

Ib knew the issue without having to be asked. Not only did she not know anything about the University, she could not even read. The Cerillos people were a people who recorded everything orally. In fact, few people in the village had any education to speak of, something that Ib found quaint but frustrating.

"I've heard of your college," he said, reaching out on his own to grab the scroll. It felt warm in his hand and vibrated for just a moment, until the pink glow faded. Omkir furrowed his brow at Ib's actions.

"You lot, you're the ones that fuck around with the borders of earth and space, correct? I believe I heard stories of one of your schools exploding because a mage tried to harness cosmic energy."

Modthryth, the skinny masculine one, opened his mouth to speak, but Omkir raised a huge hand to silence him.

"An unfortunate accident. Master Scipio's work is not indicative of the rest of the institution."

"Right, right," Ib muttered, slipping a finger underneath the purple wax seal on the scroll. He unfurled it and read over it. The diction was long-winded and complex in the way only academics were, and while he was far more educated than the rest of the village, he'd never had a knack for reading such writing.

It did, at least, confirm that the trio truly were representing the University of the Arcane.

"So you have the backing of a school," Ib said, tossing the scroll aside. Omkir's brow knit together further. Ib was beginning to find amusement in antagonizing the beastman, though a glance from a worried-looking Magdalena made it clear that he needed to reign it in a little.

"So you're from a school," Ib continued, trying to tone down his natural arrogance. "But what are you actually here for? I want to hear it from you lot, not some obtuse professor."

Omkir's shoulders rose with a deep inhale, though he managed to keep his face relatively composed.

"As I said, we are mages--"

"I don't know that word," Magdalena interrupted. Ib cast a glance at her, willing her to shut up and not display her ignorance, but she continued. "I don't know what a mage is. That is not a word we have here. Before you go on, please, explain it to me."

The two smaller mages exchanged a bemused look, but Omkir did not show any signs of surprise or amusement.

"Simply put, we are practitioners of magic. Am I right in assuming you know what magic is?"

Magdalena nodded. "My husband's father was a holy man. He communicated with spirits, and they lent him their powers. Is a mage like that?"

"Not exactly," Omkir replied. He managed to say things that could easily be condescending without actually being so. He acted very much like a teacher, Ib thought.

"We do not have direct communication with spirits, though we do rely on them. We work to learn the secret names of everything we encounter; every rock, every tree, every stream. We then call upon those things by their secret name, which allows us to control them. When Modthryth disarmed your… advisor, he was using the secret name of steel. When Poe created fire, she was using its sacred name."

"I see," Magdalena said softly. "So… am I right in assuming you have come here because you want to learn the secret names of our caves, and try to control them?"

"No, you are not. We do not want to control the magic found in this region at all. We simply want to study it. Cosmic energy swirls around this village like a typhoon. Very few places in the world have such a strong connection to the cosmos, which indicates a connection to the Gods. We wish to understand this energy, to catalogue it, and, if you allow us, to help your village harness it."

"My people believe it is an affront to the Earthshaker to try to control him," Magdalena murmured. The very idea was sacreligious, and one of many reasons why both Elyakim and Ajra had been so reviled by the Cerillos people.

"My apologies, you misunderstand me," Omkir said gently. "I don't mean to suggest that you try to learn the secret names of the Gods. Rather, the energy surrounding this place runs wild and chaotic, which is why we were attracted here. No doubt other magic users will be drawn to this place as well, as long as the magic runs freely. We wish to help you contain it, to urge it into more productive uses, so as to avoid a confrontation with forces and people with malicious intent."

Ib could see that the mage's reasoning had struck a chord with Magdalena. She clutched her skirt so tightly, her knuckles had gone pale, and she sucked on her teeth. Already there had been two cult leaders try to take over the village. One, Ajra, had technically succeeded, and from what Ib had come to learn about Elyakim, he had been using the village's magical caves to create monsters. He could understand why the mage's offer was a tempting one.

Suddenly, she turned to face him. "Ib," she asked in a hushed voice, "you've heard of this… 'University.' Have they ever waged war on a region?"

Ib glanced at Omkir. The mage's face was impassive.

"No," he murmured back. "Mages are crazy, but they've always seemed too self-involved to bother trying to take anything over on their own. I've worked for kings who employed mages in battles, but the University itself has always remained neutral."

Magdalena bit her lip, looking at the floor for a moment.

"I… I'm not sure that we have the resources to provide room and board for strangers…" She said, finally looking up at Omkir.

"Money is of no concern," he said, waving a hand. "We have been given funding by our University. If you allow us access to your village, we will pay for anything that we use."

Magdalena looked down again, thinking.

"I'll allow you to stay for a month," she said eventually. "But you will be supervised everywhere that you go."

"A fair condition," Omkir said, bowing his head.

Magdalena stood up and climbed half way up the steep stone steps leading down into the meeting place. She signaled for a villager who had been sitting just above the meeting, and instructed him to lead the mages to an apartment. The mages stood and followed without a word.

Ib stood as well, watching them go. After the last of them had climbed out of the hole, Magdalena started up again. Ib reached up and caught her by the arm.

"Maggie," he said, "a word, please."

She looked over her shoulder to watch the mages follow the villager, then nodded and stepped back down the stairs.

"You think I did the wrong thing, don't you?" She asked.

"I'm not going to judge or question your decision," he said. "But I do have a concern. We have three patrolmen, and none of them has any experience fighting magic users. We're lucky that those mages didn't do anything worse. But if they're right, and this place is a hotbed for magical activity, we need to be better prepared."

"I've asked for people to join your patrol," she said. Her voice was pleading, and Ib was reminded of just how young she was. "But our people are pacifists. Even considering all that's happened to our village, it's hard to change their minds. My husband was always frustrated with that about his father."

"It's okay," Ib murmured, doing his best to soothe her before she had a breakdown. "I understand. But we do need to do something about the situation."

"Do you have any ideas?" She asked.

Ib took a deep breath. This would be a hard sell. "Let me bring in some mercenaries," he said.

Magdalena pursed her lips. "We don't have the money to pay mercenaries," she said, which was certainly true, but Ib could see the deeper meaning behind her words. She didn't trust mercenaries.

"I'll pay them," he said. "I've enough money to last me multiple lifetimes. More importantly, though, I don't want to bring in the first mercenaries who take up the job. Let me hire people from my old troupe. They know me, and they're loyal to me. They won't turn on this village."

Ib could see the calculation going on behind Magdalena's eyes. No doubt she was thinking about the fact that he was Ajra's consort, and that Ajra had once conquered the village. And he had first come to the village with every intention of helping her conquer even more. But he had found a home here, had saved the entire place despite knowing there would be no reward in doing so. He hoped that was enough for her to trust him.

"...Alright," she said slowly. "Bring your mercenaries."

[daniel-browne]

Flaming the Flame

What a bummer to reader William Logan’s takedown of Leonard Cohen’s final poetry collection The Flame (and of Cohen in general) in the New York Times.

I’ll admit The Flame is not Cohen’s strongest work. Many, if not most, of the poems convey abstract concepts in simple rhyme schemes. With a couple of exceptions, they slip by without leaving much of an impression. The hundred pages of material from his notebooks are, unsurprisingly, tough to get through. Logan points out these failings and is within his rights to do so, though it would have been sporting of him to mention that Cohen was old, working through pain, and likely aware he was racing the clock when putting the material together.

The problem with Logan’s review isn’t so much his assessment of the book. It’s his rhetoric, which is personal and nasty to the point of obtuseness. At one point, he refers to Cohen’s “famous vanity and even more famous lechery.” “Lechery” is a tough word but defensible. Cohen’s obsessions with women and sex were certainly front and center in both his art and public narrative. But was he really famous for vanity? I can’t recall, in a lifetime of reading about him, coming across that description before, but to hear Logan tell it, you’d think Cohen was the original Morris Day.

The many homely self-portraits included in The Flame (and his previous volume The Book of Longing) may have made a different writer think twice about the accusation of vanity, but Logan has it both ways, saying of the drawings that “the singer’s amour propre came streaked in self-loathing.” Here he’s being either dense or disingenuous. Cohen’s sketches of himself are unmistakably comic; captions like “the importance of a previous existence as a fish has been exaggerated” leave no room for doubt about his intentions. “Self-deprecating,” yes. “Self-loathing”? Not the Cohen found in this book, Logan’s ostensible subject.

Logan is at his lamest in his repeated jabs at Cohen’s singing voice: “If singing badly is no bar to stardom, everyone who stands caterwauling in the shower should take hope.” Oy vey. What this remark is doing in a book review is anyone’s guess. As a line of attack, it could not be dumber or more tired. Is there a soul left alive who believes Leonard Cohen was less of an artist because he didn’t have the instrument of an American Idol winner? What about Bob Dylan, Joe Strummer, Madonna, late-period Billie Holliday? Are we really still doing this?

Logan goes on to assert “Cohen was not a poet who accidentally became a lyricist; he was a lyricist who for years fooled himself into thinking he was a poet.” I’m not sure exactly what he means by this, though I detect the implied insult in his refusal to concede that Cohen was a poet at all. It’s a doubling-down on pettiness that compels him to call Cohen “the singer” (rather than, say, “the author”).

The fact is, Cohen was writing, and being recognized for, his poetry long before he became a recording artist, publishing eight books in all (not counting collections). And while it’s true that many of the poems in The Flame resemble song lyrics in terms of rhyme and meter, the poems he wrote in his prime were completely unlike his songs: free verse consisting of plain, almost hardboiled language, along with feverish prose poems.

When I’m with you I want to be the kind of hero I wanted to be when I was seven years old a perfect man who kills

--“The Reason I Write,” 1968

I’m sure Logan could go to town expounding on this verse’s many sins, but it, and others like it, were a revelation to me when I was young and still guide the way I think about poetry now. Poetry doesn’t have to be pretty, or particularly musical, or loaded with sensory imagery. It can be the concentrated expression of a strange and startling idea.

I wrote a paper about this in college for Kenneth Koch’s poetry class. When I submitted my proposal, Koch wanted to make sure I intended to focus on Cohen’s poems, not his song lyrics (which, he said, tended to be “a bit tum-te-tum-te-tum”). Koch, unlike Logan, recognized the difference, but then, he was a great poet himself. He told me he knew Cohen, they’d been neighbors in their Greek island days. Leonard, he said, felt his poetry had been overlooked. My paper would cheer him up, a thrilling possibility.

I’m sure my words never made it to him, but at least he didn’t have to see Logan’s. Come to think of it, I wonder if Logan would have had the guts to undertake such a hatchet job—and if the Times would have had the guts to engage in such shameless click-baiting—when Cohen was alive.

Even more disappointing to me than the Times running Logan’s review is the esteemed Greil Marcus blessing it on the “Ask Greil” page of his website. Marcus has been an unforgiving critic of Cohen going at least as far back as 1975’s Mystery Train. I have a sense of why that is—the high romanticism of “Suzanne” and “Bird of the Wire” could be taken as an affront to the confrontational modernism Marcus generally favors—and, while I disagree with his position, I believe he’s thought it through. It speaks to his brilliance as a writer that he’s forced me to think harder about my own response to Cohen’s art. His praise of Logan, on the other hand, strikes me as piling on, chest-bumping a troll because he amplifies your unpopular opinion. It’s beneath him.

Logan ends this way:

“It’s hard to understand the cult of Leonard Cohen, the thousands who flocked to concert after concert, leaving with a feeling of illumination or exaltation, the sort of things for which people usually receive get-well cards. There are artists we don’t understand whom we are happy for others to love, and artists who attract an adoration that seems such a colossal mistake we can only shake our heads in bewilderment. Those who love Cohen may find in this gallimaufry the answer to their prayers. For everyone else, the only proper reaction is to shutter the windows and wait for the fever to pass.”

There’s a lot going on in this paragraph. Having found Cohen’s persona and body of work insufficient targets for his contempt, he turns at last to the fans: We’re a cult, meaning, I take it, we’ve somehow been duped into our appreciation. We’ve made a colossal mistake, our minds clouded by a fever so malign rational people have to quarantine themselves against it.

I’ll give Logan the benefit of the doubt he refuses to grant Cohen and assume this is meant to be funny. Lurking beneath the sarcasm, though, are many little perversities of thought and phrasing. There’s the pretentious filigree of “gallimaufry,” when “hodgepodge” would do. (Earlier, Logan sniffs that the words in Cohen’s songs are “just a syllable or two, on rare occasions three, almost never four,” as if this were a form of score-keeping.) There’s the insinuation that feelings of illumination or exaltation are, in themselves, something to be suspicious or dismissive of (“the sort of things for which people usually receive get-well cards”). There’s the smug conviction that the fever will, in fact, pass, which is to say that Cohen’s reputation will soon fade—possible, but if I were Logan, I’d stock up canned goods.

All this says more about Logan than it does about Cohen. Most telling is how bothered he is by the connection Cohen made with his fans. “There are artists we don’t understand whom we are happy for others to love”—Cohen is not one of those artists, as far as Logan is concerned. I’d be curious to know who makes it onto his approved list. The overriding question is why he begrudges others the passions that give their life meaning, but let’s leave that one to the professionals. There’s a time for criticism, and there’s a time for therapy.

UPDATE: In a Ringer piece that ends with Logan’s review, Rob Harvilla makes the case for the takedown as a fun and necessary part of the cultural conversation. I wouldn’t disagree, but if you’re going to get the knives out for Cohen, they best be sharp.

[williambriar]

Entering a Maze of Fears

Several days ago, I asked my creative friends on Facebook which of their works defined them best. I learned something about each of them from their answers, but it was the question one asked me in return which led me to learn the most about myself. An author I admire both personally and professionally expressed a desire to read more of my work and wanted to know if I planned to write any more in the future. I can't paraphrase what I said to her now because it wasn't memorable. I know it wasn't a lie. Of course, I plan to write; I just rarely get around to doing so.

I complete shopping lists, hand in reams of homework notes, and pen posts like this on a semi-regular basis. I've also managed to write two classes of what I'd consider a decent length over the last year. Despite that, none of those accomplishments are what I mean when I talk about my writing. I don't believe my friend was referring to any of those things, either. Fiction remains my first love, and I suspect it is the same with her. Why, then, am I not writing it?

I want to blame my body. I've been diagnosed with more conditions over the last ten years than I can count on both hands, and many of them make it difficult to sit at a keyboard for long periods. Luckily enough, there's almost always an app for that. Technology isn't perfect, but it has provided me with numerous workarounds for my health problems. I often ignore them—and my writing—to do other things. When my conscience gnaws at me, I'm still apt to say fibromyalgia or carpal tunnel are at fault, even though I know I shouldn't. I'm a magician, for Pete's sake. I understand mind over matter. I'm also damned stubborn. When a doctor once told me I'd never lose weight, I walked out of his clinic and forced myself to shed 150 pounds. I struggle to keep it off, but I know I can do it. I know I could conquer the other physical problems keeping me from writing too—if I really wanted to do so.

Part of me must want it. My family frequently asks me if I'm brooding over something due to my faraway look, and I'll have to admit I'm writing novels in my head. When on the treadmill or out for a walk by myself, I play the same albums over and over and watch as stories unfold in time with the soundtrack thundering in my headphones. Long ago, I'd hurry back to my desk to jot these tales down, but now I don't bother. After I get the first few lines down on paper, the words twist back on themselves like snakes. I can't see my way through to the end of the plotlines like I once did.

I've always used outlines for my novels, sometimes creating them in such detail that I could have considered my rough notes my first draft. In my mind, however, that was only research: the scratching in the dirt meant to help me eventually race across the finish line. Somehow my characters still found room for improvisation, and I loved the times when they had become so real they surprised me with their actions. How could that happen when I had put so much of myself into them? After all, aren't writers supposed to write what we know? The last book I tried to write proved I didn't know myself so well after all. About four years ago, I named a character after myself, using a nickname only close family members knew. I don't know why other than the fact I felt I could edit out such lazy writing later. He wasn't meant to be the main character, anyway. In my mind, he was a plot device meant to bring the two protagonists together. Just to make sure I'd hate him enough that he would disappear into the scenery, I gave him every one of my faults, only bigger. Yet he refused to go away.

First, he wandered from my script and then he bucked my characterization. He kept all the flaws I'd created for him and came up with a few new whoppers along the way, but I began to despise him for an entirely different reason. He made me feel. He'd become overwhelmed and I'd end up blinking back tears. He'd face something he found frightening and my stomach would knot with dread. The thing is, he hadn't even faced the monster yet. That far into the novel, I hardly knew who or what the monster was. My outline had been a tad vague on that subject this time around. I figured the beast the characters faced at the end of the book would play second fiddle to the one in their heads. When the main characters descended into the labyrinth to confront their personal Minotaurs, I hadn't thought this character important enough to join them, yet there I was, too afraid to keep writing his story because I'd discovered I was journeying down into myself. Without planning it, the novel had become shadow-work, and I was afraid to confront the ending. As a magician and a person, I was terrified of what I would learn and become.

I stopped writing the novel. I stopped writing everything, except for bits and blogs and shopping lists. I continued to call myself a writer. It sat badly with me, knowing how little fiction I still produced, enough so that I've put artist first in my description here. It must sit badly with some of the spirits I work with too, since Amaymon recently gave me a tongue lashing about only using labels I feel I deserve. He knows how I hate feeling like a poser.

I suppose that is why prayers to my patron about what I should do in March for the #domagick challenge were answered with nightmares about fighting my way to the center of a labyrinth, endlessly building a labyrinth, or scaling a labyrinth wall. When I was so coy as to ask if he meant I should work with maze-related spirits, I swear I heard my patron's eyes roll all the way from the astral plane. Since then, all I've gotten from him is silence. He doesn't enjoy speaking to the purposely obtuse. Neither did Seere last week. I know if I keep being so stupid they'll stop talking to me altogether. It's happened before.

They won't tell me what to do in March—or at all. The nagging voice in the back of my head is entirely my own, and the knowledge that I must decide how to fix this mess gnaws at me. It's why I'm so frequently out of sorts. It's why I feel trapped all the time. I cannot blame a failing body I cannot escape, or even a series of unfortunate circumstances. I was the one that turned my back on writing, and by doing so I was the one that chained me here. With writing, I could go anywhere and do anything I wanted. The price to be paid was knowing myself a little bit better after every voyage, and it was a price I'd finally found too high.

It seems I've paid it anyway by not writing, only in smaller increments and with a different currency. Instead of whatever terrible secret about myself I once hoped to avoid, I have learned I was cowardly--that I am still a coward. I am no more eager to write myself to the center of that maze than I once was. Truthfully, I sometimes wonder if I am still capable of following that particular thread to my Minotaur again. Surely he awaits me in other stories, should I be brave enough to venture into them, but I realize the walls on that novel may have long crumbled. Knowing they could lie in ruins gives me little comfort. New tales could trap me just as easily.

Aren't we all afraid of being trapped in a cycle of pain at one time or another? I worry I will start to write and get swamped with emotion again. I fear a dam will break inside me and I will not be able to hold back the flood of tears or terror that follows. Friends have said similar things to me when they have been frightened about opening up, and I have assured them such strong feelings will pass. Yet what about the damage in the meantime? I have no idea how I could handle this within the context of a thirty-day challenge.

Perhaps that is it. I can't. I can't put a timeline on it. I know I can turn to the spirits I work with for help, if only to ask for the courage to finally tackle this problem. I know the courage is somewhere deep within me, just like I know talking about all this is the first step towards finding a solution.

The first step towards the center of the labyrinth...