Coal

Hosea sees a cigarette

Nov 15, 08:13 Literature

I’m resolved. If this manuscript is going to succeed, it will have to be different from the rest. The world is sick of self-referentiality, mirrors, and postmodern games in general. I need a plot, full blooded characters, beautiful but decidedly unpoetic prose, and profundity. Since I have none of these, and since I am the least organized person in China, I’ll have to come at inspiration sideways. I’ll read books and comics, listen to music, watch movies, interview ordinary folk on the Chinese streets. I’ll become a literary whore.

My name is Hosea (this is an obvious lie). Once upon a time I received a divine appointment. God parted the noodles in my soup bowl and he said, “Hosea, get laid.” I replied in the affirmative. Who am I to argue with the Lord? Then he said, “Hosea, get laid by a whore.” At this point I was beginning to doubt his Holy scruples, so I stood up to clear my mind, lit a cigarette, and sat back down. The point of these actions escaped me then and escape me now. Deciphering meaning has never been my strong point.

“A whore, Lord?”
“Didn’t I give you ears, chickenshit?”
I thought the insult was unnecessary, but I let it pass. “Yes, you did, Lord.”

So I found me a whore and got laid. The next day the Lord appeared between the crumbling tobacco leaves of a burning cigarette and said to me, “Hosea, that whore is like the Church.”
“Dang” is what I thought. “No shit,” is what I said. I haven’t heard from the Lord since. I doubt it was really the Lord. I don’t believe in miracles.

History is written by the history makers. I read that somewhere. I wonder, if Jerome had heard it, what he would have done. It doesn’t matter. History is made.

There are too many pointless stories these days. Don’t worry, this story has a point. This story will change your life. It’s avowedly life-changing. It’s about God, and people, and religion, and sex, and art, and life, and metaphysics. I can provide references. If you call me, I’ll fax you my credentials. Now you know, but don’t start jumping to conclusions. The fun is in the filling in of details, and you won’t believe the twists.

With an introduction like this, who needs a teaser-trailer? I’m cutting back on my expenditures. My girlfriend says I should write up a budget. I hate budgets. I hate plans. I’m disorganized.

Here’s the story about the story. I’m caught in the middle of it, just like you. I forsake my authorial rights. I interpret nothing. Ever heard of the Orthodox theologian Nicolas Baerdyev? Good for you if you have. You’re probably a stuck up prick. An elitist. I’m an elitist. I’m probably a prick.

Baerdyev wrote a book called The Destiny of Man. I only read the beginning, so I’m still not sure what my destiny is. I suspect it has something to do with women.

In The Destiny of Man Baerdyev says “Transcendental consciousness may have perfectly firm and secure grounds for knowledge, but then man’s consciousness is not transcendental: it consists of mental events and is therefore doomed to be relative.” This is right. He also says, “It is no consolation to me to know that there exists a Universal Reason, if I do not understand what connection it has with my human reason. Nor is it any use to have theories about God which fail to teach of the effects of His grace upon man and the world.” I don’t know what that last line has to do with my story, but Baerdyev can’t be expected to get it all right. The basics are there. Armed with this knowledge, I inform the reader that I have forsaken my authorial right of purview. Perhaps I am lucky – a Jerome reincarnated, Moses Maimonides himself, a kabbalistic superhero – and God himself will guide my hands as I type. I imagine divine inspiration feels like having a baby or going to the dentist. I haven’t felt any tingling or had any cold spells so far, but I’ll keep you posted. I’m a riddle of mistakes.

My hope is that I’ll create a character, give her a name, and she’ll take on a life of herself. I doubt if I’ll be successful. I’m no life-giver. I’m not the spermatikos logos. I have plenty of sperms alright, but I expel them nightly from my body into a dead receptacle. I have to clean them out of my belly-button with a little paper towel. After that, I flush them down the toilet and they wiggle their way straight into non-existence. That’s no way to create a thing. That’s just a movement towards nonbeing. It’s a sin. I’m a sinner. I am unredeemed.

Maybe this is a story about redemption. Maybe it’s a peregrinatio, and it doesn’t matter if all my characters are flat, because I’m the only one who matters. That sounds too existential to be right. Existentialism is the curse of modernity. That’s not quite true. It’s a lie. Relativism is the curse of modernity. Everybody knows that. It’s also the curse of postmodernity. The only difference is postmodern relativity is delusional about it’s non-objectivity. That was a very regressive thing to say. I’m a regressive.

I should apologize. You’re probably getting impatient. When will I make the leap of faith required to bring another being to the page? Where’s the story? (Don’t worry, I’m coming to it. Who do you think I am, Mordecai Richler?). I’m Canadian.

But wait – I got ahead of myself. I have forsaken authorial responsibilities. It’s up to you, reader, to make the leap. Why should I give a shit? You’re already reading this. You’ve paid the fee. I’ve made my dollar.

Maybe I should lead you on for a while longer, you could be reading this in the book store. I can’t be much further than page 3. Why do manuscripts have to be so damn long? Maybe I’ll write a prologue with sex and action and a disgruntled lover and a beautiful poem, full of the promise of things to come. I’ll distract you and enchant you, the way a good story ought to, and you’ll bring the book to the checkout counter, and I’ll make my ten percent. I’ll speak a language you can understand, modern reader. I’m securing the budget for my next film. I’m selling out first so I don’t have to sell out second. I’m putting all the marketing classes I never took to the grindstone.

Enough stalling. On with the show. My name’s Hosea, and this is the story of my whore. But don’t take it from me, decide for yourself.