A new creative echo chamber of mine just launched at Samsaville, a Tumblr fiction blog. Feel free to hop on over during your free time (caveat: NSFW), after hours. So far, it’s a bit creepy and I’m spooking myself out, but therein lies the grinning fun! Pasted below is the site’s about-section verbiage.
Concurrently, In Harsh Light is undergoing a tectonic shift in focus, drifting away from consumer tech, mobile gadgets and software topics to film (independent and mainstream); music (indie/mainstream); culture; anime; books; the bizarre; and (possibly) art galleries. Much of these content-changes have yet to congeal (as I attempt to request the participation of a writing coterie of authors), so please bear with me.
In the meantime, you’re stuck with me.
Oh, right, about Samsaville.
“What the Fuck is Sasmasville?” — Eric Sanchez
I preemptively apologize for the existence of this blog. It’s not for everyone. I’d venture to say that it’s not for most folks.
Samsaville is a psychoanalytic experiment. It is a series of fiction vignettes inspired by dreams and nightmares.
As a blog it becomes a personal responsibility, rather than composition-notebook fare. This is not accessible fiction.
This type of work challenges me and it often frustrates me. My writing techniques have commensurately frustrated erstwhile creative writing teachers, English teachers, friends and colleagues.
All I know is that my writing has to be a natural continuation of my intrapsychic experiences, and I’m often too stubborn to sacrifice that raw energy for the sake of linearity. (Note that I recognize the incalculable value in the latter, and that I will occasionally post more conventional pieces).
I once encountered a thesis proposing that David Lynch’s films represent a more accurate embodiment of how we experience reality. I wish I could remember the author and title of this essay (perhaps someone more educated can help me with this). Our thoughts (taboo or innocent), our feelings, our fears, our worries, our memories, our emotions are incoherent. Untempered, they come through a multicolored kaleidoscope.
Without focus, linear, analytic “left-to-right” thinking is absent. The true illusion is that we experience each day as a timeline from point A to point Z — when the mental reality is a fragmented collage of intrapsychic detritus. The God-given gift of consciousness allows us to restructure these experiences into a cohesive, accessible, gestalt whole. I merely argue that there is a time and place for the fragmented mess.
Cue Samsaville, stage right.
The titular term is derived from Franz Kafka’s beloved The Metamorphosis, whose principle character, Gregor Samsa, wakes up one morning to find that he’s transformed into a gigantic insectile creature. The absurdism of the novella’s premise always fascinated me, largely favoring individual interpretation over didactic exposition.
Since my nascent read of the novella (one that predates William Burroughs’ and [later] David Cronenberg’s masterful takes on insectile body-horror), I’ve often associated the “absurd” with the surname, Samsa.
Samsaville is a rudimentary place of whim, hope, horror, beauty, taboo, Imagism, alienation. My goal is to make these chimeras more tangible (at least to myself). Recounting the cliff-notes to a friend or family member isn’t enough, anymore. I want to give them texture. Something I can touch with meta-fingers and taste in the back of my mouth.
On any given morning, one might wake up to find they inhabit a homopterous vessel, a body (a lifestyle, a persona) that no longer resembles who they are on the inside. That’s when it’s time to start writing, I suppose.