anthraxofeffervescence

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Had a debilitating realization during a conversation with Jenna the day after my birthday

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not to sound like a christian facebook mom but some of yall need to have grace in your hearts for the people in your lives or the people you pass once on the road and never see again like you literally need to stop assuming the worst of everyone and their intentions it is poisoning your brain. you can be careful and responsible without being a miserable person. it is possible i promise

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Been binging the Mission Impossible series... mission impossible three absolute cinema fr

Run, breathe and play!

Source

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The theory that James Orin Incandenza is the in-universe author of Infinite Jest

I've heard this mentioned, but never really talked about, and also it's hard to find any people circulating this idea online, so here's a couple reasons why I believe this: -One of the only times we hear the author reference themselves is in a place directly related to fathers and sons (Footnote 268, after the section chronicling the incestuous relationship between Matthew Pemulis and his father: "Where was Mrs. Pemulis all this time, late at night, with dear old Da P. shaking Matty 'awake' until his teeth rattled and little Micky curled up against the far wall, shell-breathing, silent as death, is what I'd want to know."). So either this is David Foster Wallace, breaking the fourth wall (meh, not really a favorite of his, he does it in Westward and he isn't a huge fan of that story, also wouldn't he know where she was if he wrote the thing?), some character neither seen now referenced to in the text who somehow has all this information (highly unlikely, seems ham-fisted and dumb), or it's a character that we DO know who has access to all of this information

-While the above was what first got me thinking about this, this one was what kept me thiking: JOI named FIVE of his works "Infinite Jest." It's clearly a name he's fond of... (also the name "David" has a VI, which is six in Roman numerals. That's not anything, I just think it's cute)

-There are no experiences relayed to the reader that take place before the death of JOI that JOI is not in: the scenes of the professional conversationalist, Avril's premature delivery of Mario, the conversation between JOI and his father

-he is incapable of any form of communication other than the use of words — while his preferred art form is film, he can no longer operate a video camera, so his art now takes the form of text

-his big monologue to Gately is about the importance of figurants: things and people that would never get attention in a traditional narrative, the people who exist towards the edges. As the wonderfully named @pissmd points out, Infinite Jest is a novel whose events exist entirely around a main narrative — a story that ends right as the quote-unquote real story is about to begin. To quote them, it is a novel about figurants, yes, but the novel itself is a figurant, kind of

-Wallace gives a fair amount of time to explaining how wraiths work, suggesting it is in some way important. They can move incredibly quickly and peer inside people's minds, both of which would explain how the author knows everything that's happening in the character's heads and how it can elaborate on multiple things happening in rapid succession

-I also think it makes sense on a subtextual level! Wallace talks a lot about writers (specifically fiction writers, which, Incandenza being a screenwriter, applies to him) as a species of oglers, so Incandenza being someone who has to apply an enormous amount of mental effort to be seen, much less understood, by others is kind of an ideal writer, in his eyes.

The biggest problem this idea has, I think, is the narrative interest in Don Gately. The interest in Hal, Orin, Pemulis, Mario, Madame Psychosis, even Marathe and Steeply, kind of, makes sense, but I have no earthly idea why the wraith would follow Gately before he gets involved with Madame Psychosis. Maybe my Wallace-heads can help explain this one for ol' anthrax of effervescence.

Let me know if you think of any rebuttals to this! I'm sure I've missed some big stuff, both for and against this theory. Take care of yourselves, gang!

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Writing Thing #3

And then it turns out that the truest emotions in the world — love, hate, fear, anger, despair — barely exist in those "pivotal" moments; they, in fact, mainly grow and expand and fester in the weeks, the months, the long years afterwards. My sharpest and clearest memory of grief was in a car ride a couple months after the death of my grandpa, when I remembered that I had tried to call him four or five days before he died, and it went to voicemail, and he called back, and I didn't pick up.

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One of the most infuriating things about the popular culture's reaction to the suicide of David Foster Wallace is that people, his fans included, treat it like he was "just too smart". People willingly force him into this tortured artist stereotype, like his depression helped him do all this great writing, when that stereotype could not possibly be more what he was writing against.

Infinite Jest has one of the strongest examples of him speaking on this kind of attitude towards tortured artistry, but there are countless others. The quote goes:

Hal... theorizes privately that what passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human (at least as he conceptualizes it) is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naive and goo-prone and generally pathetic, is to be in some basic interior way forever infantile, some sort of not-quite-right-looking infant dragging itself anaclitically around the map, with big wet eyes and froggy-soft skin, huge skull, gooey drool. One of the really American things about Hal, probably, is the way he despises what it is he's really lonely for: this hideous internal self, incontinent of sentiment and need, that pulses and writhes just under the hip empty mask, anhedonia.

This is the main crux of Infinite Jest (or, one of them. There's a lot going on). If we continue to worship "hip, cynical transcendence," we will die. Which is why it's beyond maddening that the suicide of David Foster Wallace is viewed as it is.

Anyone even broadly familiar with the timeline of David Foster Wallace's mental health issues in relation to his work will know that he did his best work after getting help. His best short stories and novels were written when he was medicated, taking care of himself, and trying to do better. He killed himself when he was off medication, and the reason he stopped taking it was because it had a bad reaction with some fucking food he ate. Medication, therapy, being less cynical, trying to connect with people more, these are all things that worked. Any work he did was in spite of his mental illness, not because of it.

And the worst part of all of this? His fans are complicit. I once made a post somewhere else online about how sad I was that he passed away, and the comments were full of people basically jerking off to his suicide, all but saying that he was "too good for this world", and on and on and on.

The Pale King is forever unfinished, and that is beyond heartbreaking. Suicidal depression is one of the most difficult things in the world, and if you're worried about dealing with it because you'll in some way lose something, you won't. What you will regain, however, are only the best parts of you.

I love you, you school-bus-sized fandom (as in if you got everyone in the tumblr DFW fandom together in a physical location, we would fit on a single school bus.)

Take care of yourselves. Love you guys.

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Intraibi Mundus ad Dei/The Book Of Job/Writing Thing No. 2

“Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty? He who argues with God, let him—”

“Did you not slaughter my family like lambs?

Have you not murdered my men like cattle?

My friends spoke in abstraction that you deem imperfect, but is this not further abstraction?

I am not to be the axle upon which this world spins, and yet this you have made so.

I am not a symbol,

I am not an argument,

I am not a justification,

I am a man. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Job beheld God, standing in the midst of the whirlwind. He stared blankly back.

“I’m God, jackass. My way or the highway.”

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Writing thing

And even months after the breakup, I can only remember a moment in which I struggled to establish a single boundary, when I said that I thought we were imposing ourselves on each other and those around us, making our friends uncomfortable and she said "no, we don't," it terrified me in a way that I still can't fully describe. A momentary beam of light had only shown how dark and vacuous the cavity was. Vinelike movements were causing awkward stares, shifty glances, leanings away, I know they were. And anyway, I was uncomfortable. Why did doing that feel like trying to contain an ocean? Why isn't "discomfort" enough of a reason to establish this? Please, this is my first time. Be gentle.

"No, we didn't." And the floor opened up, and I fell into hell, and here, as this woman expressed a desire to touch me, I had never felt more isolated and alone.