Meyer and I
Tuesday, 14. April 2009, 12:04:39
The other day - I won't give the exact date - Mr. Wu, notorious on this blog, sent me this fascinating link comparing Hannah Montana and Ziggy Stardust.
Losing sleep recently considering the indifference of the universe to the fate of human beings, as individuals or collectively, and the probable collapse of civilisation in the near future due to a 'cluster-fuck' of such factors as shortage of potable water, overpopulation, the end of oil, 'global financial meltdown', the increasing risk of new epidemics of the bird flu variety, famine caused by general ecological disintegration, increasing ferocity and frequency of tornadoes and tidal waves, the rise of sinister bunkered Dr. Strangelove technocracies who will encourage and take advantage of the chaos to genetically create a race of labour-slaves and sex-slaves to serve their every Kurzweilian whim, and so on, I decided that I should follow the example set in the above link by comparing myself closely with the popular writer of 'young adult' vampire romance fiction, Stephenie Meyer.
Age
SM: 36
QSC: Uncannily, I, too, am 36, though not for much longer. I'm just a few months older than Stephenie. Although, logically speaking I am actually dead. I work this out as follows: I am so soon to be 37 that I might as well just say I'm 37 rather than 36. If we extend this principle, we see that there is so little difference between 37 and, say, 76, from the point of view of eternity (and it is impossible to isolate a moment in time, anyway, since they slide each into the other), that, really, I might as well just say that I'm 76. From which, it's only a very short step to saying, that, after all, I'm dead. Which I am.
Sex
SM: Female
QSC: Fauxmosexual. (Both these words begin with an 'f'.)
Dreams
SM: Meyer's first novel, The Waning of Late Afternoon into Something a Trifle Melancholy and Portentous, was apparently based upon a dream she had about huge pika from the planet Rachel Bilson, locked into eternal conflict with a race of many-breasted 'Amazonian' sea-slugs.
QSC: I am nothing but a dream within a dream. I don't know why I bother to write at all, in that case; it seems redundant. Having said that, I seem to be trapped within a peculiarly prosaic dream. I mean, it must be a prosaic dream in which I dream that the main activity of my existence is to try and record dreams in writing.
Britney Spears
SM: Bears an uncanny resemblance to the Louisiana-born chart-topping sensation.
QSC: Ditto. A resemblance marred only by a slightly larger nose, and glasses.
Tattoos
SM: Meyer reportedly has a tattoo under her left armpit of the Devil's child being born from a demonic vagina. The 'child' in question has been carefully rendered in such a way as to bear a ghostly resemblance to Robert Aickbon, whom, it is rumoured, visits Meyer in a secret place every full moon in order to impart privileged knowledge concerning the future of consciousness and its manifestation in matter. Those who have witnessed these trysts from a distance speak of what appears to be a steed, or familiar, belonging to the Aickbon figure, in the form of a preying mantis with luminous pink eyes.
QSC: I have two tattoos, of anime characters.
Anti-human/Anti-life
SM: On her website, Meyer proclaims herself "anti-human":
QSC: When, on occasion, I go out for a stroll, and strangers yell and spit at me from their cars, or when I find, yet again, that someone holds Dawkins as their 'hero', or when I discover that all I love is loved by no other on Earth, and I see mediocrity worshipped in a frenzy, I, too, find myself wishing personally to bash in the skulls of every human being on Earth with a rock from the roadside, to free the universe at last from the presence of this scum, this trivial, aggressive, self-celebrating scum who will never understand the beauty of dream - wishing to pile corpse upon bloody corpse, before wiping my crimson hands on my coat and walking away into the wilderness. In this way, perhaps more than any other, I am very like Stephenie Meyer.
Losing sleep recently considering the indifference of the universe to the fate of human beings, as individuals or collectively, and the probable collapse of civilisation in the near future due to a 'cluster-fuck' of such factors as shortage of potable water, overpopulation, the end of oil, 'global financial meltdown', the increasing risk of new epidemics of the bird flu variety, famine caused by general ecological disintegration, increasing ferocity and frequency of tornadoes and tidal waves, the rise of sinister bunkered Dr. Strangelove technocracies who will encourage and take advantage of the chaos to genetically create a race of labour-slaves and sex-slaves to serve their every Kurzweilian whim, and so on, I decided that I should follow the example set in the above link by comparing myself closely with the popular writer of 'young adult' vampire romance fiction, Stephenie Meyer.
Age
SM: 36
QSC: Uncannily, I, too, am 36, though not for much longer. I'm just a few months older than Stephenie. Although, logically speaking I am actually dead. I work this out as follows: I am so soon to be 37 that I might as well just say I'm 37 rather than 36. If we extend this principle, we see that there is so little difference between 37 and, say, 76, from the point of view of eternity (and it is impossible to isolate a moment in time, anyway, since they slide each into the other), that, really, I might as well just say that I'm 76. From which, it's only a very short step to saying, that, after all, I'm dead. Which I am.
Sex
SM: Female
QSC: Fauxmosexual. (Both these words begin with an 'f'.)
Dreams
SM: Meyer's first novel, The Waning of Late Afternoon into Something a Trifle Melancholy and Portentous, was apparently based upon a dream she had about huge pika from the planet Rachel Bilson, locked into eternal conflict with a race of many-breasted 'Amazonian' sea-slugs.
QSC: I am nothing but a dream within a dream. I don't know why I bother to write at all, in that case; it seems redundant. Having said that, I seem to be trapped within a peculiarly prosaic dream. I mean, it must be a prosaic dream in which I dream that the main activity of my existence is to try and record dreams in writing.
Britney Spears
SM: Bears an uncanny resemblance to the Louisiana-born chart-topping sensation.
QSC: Ditto. A resemblance marred only by a slightly larger nose, and glasses.
Tattoos
SM: Meyer reportedly has a tattoo under her left armpit of the Devil's child being born from a demonic vagina. The 'child' in question has been carefully rendered in such a way as to bear a ghostly resemblance to Robert Aickbon, whom, it is rumoured, visits Meyer in a secret place every full moon in order to impart privileged knowledge concerning the future of consciousness and its manifestation in matter. Those who have witnessed these trysts from a distance speak of what appears to be a steed, or familiar, belonging to the Aickbon figure, in the form of a preying mantis with luminous pink eyes.
QSC: I have two tattoos, of anime characters.
Anti-human/Anti-life
SM: On her website, Meyer proclaims herself "anti-human":
I am not anti-female, I am anti-human.
QSC: When, on occasion, I go out for a stroll, and strangers yell and spit at me from their cars, or when I find, yet again, that someone holds Dawkins as their 'hero', or when I discover that all I love is loved by no other on Earth, and I see mediocrity worshipped in a frenzy, I, too, find myself wishing personally to bash in the skulls of every human being on Earth with a rock from the roadside, to free the universe at last from the presence of this scum, this trivial, aggressive, self-celebrating scum who will never understand the beauty of dream - wishing to pile corpse upon bloody corpse, before wiping my crimson hands on my coat and walking away into the wilderness. In this way, perhaps more than any other, I am very like Stephenie Meyer.
WIDGETIZE
