The big picture is such a fucking Monet.

When you are driven under the bridge near King and Shaw via the 504 streetcar, morning or night, the rectangular lights which light the old-timey slate stone walls really resemble a film strip. And every morning they cause me to think I’ll write some movie comprised completely of scenes I witness on aforementioned streetcar; and the opening scene will be a film strip, happily reeling along, which will eventually turn into those recognisable (i like s’s and not zed’s, too bad) lights. Some Pinback song will play my opening credits, and the first dialog will be between World’s Most Boring Couple, because they tend to amuse me. After that, I have no idea.

By that same token, I’ve had this grand idea for a graphic novel (forever, it seems) based on the homeless population here in Toronto. My original archetypes have been fine-tuned and a couple more have been added as I find the characters here in High Park infinitely deeper and complex than those of East York and the Eaton Centre. Basically, these guys are the super-humans of tomorrow; cast into the cracks of society, doused with the gasoline of oversight and finally incinerated with the flame of evolution. They just don’t know they’re super because they all have schizophrenia. Have I written this gem? Nah, not really. I have character sketches for each person but don’t really know what to do from there. I am caught up with the idea that I need an artist. I sort of do because, while I enjoy comics and graphic novels, I did not grow up reading them and so my understanding of how one is put together seems off. In fact, my whole understanding of writing a freaking story seems off. That whole beginning, middle and end thing. WHO NEEDS IT!?

My creative existence is plagued by The Big Picture. I can see what it should look like; how the elements should finally meld together and fuck themselves into the perfect union; the likes of which the world has never seen! In fact, it will be world changing! (fanfare here). Uh, but I have to explain it? I have to write it down? I have to Get ‘er Done? No. The closer I get to putting these things together, the less special they seem, the uglier they become; in veritas – the more of Monet’s brush-strokes I can see and really, he wasn’t so great. I used to think the ‘thinkers’ in life were hacks, not worth their six figure paycheques, and certainly not the creative swaddling clothes ’round a naked, squalling infant of a creative end-product. But after reading ‘Pattern Recognition’ by Mr.- I -see – the – future William Gibson, I am not so sure. There is an interesting notion in it called ‘the Footage’ where six seconds of film, documenting the interaction between two people, crops up on the internet one day; followed by six seconds more, etc. People love and loathe it. Message boards are created and inundated with speculation on who has created it, why they’ve created it, what it means for creativity in general. Six seconds of disjointed nothing in grainy black and white film. But people love the idea. These idea people exist in the financial world and we call them ‘strategists’. In film, we call them ‘producers’ and we hate them a lot, but thank them on pay day. In literature, we call them whatever our friends’ names are because that’s where we get all of our ideas. We hate them less because they are unawares. What am I getting at?

Nothing. What am I ever getting at? I’m just sort of here; this autumn leaf in the burbling collective creative river, swirling around and bumping into lively logs, frantic fish and letting the cooling waters of seasonal change caress my overly plump backside.

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