Hello All.
All. A funny word to use I guess, seeing as how I haven't the foggiest idea who "all" is. Perhaps I should have stuck with the more common "Hey You" greeting, but I believe that sounds so obtrusive and, well, disrespectful (and if you are taking time out of your day to view my humble little blurbs, albeit the first post no less! Then, I find, I should take it upon myself to greet you properly). Now then, following the traditional verbal greeting usually comes the extension of the hand and a meeting (however fleetingly) of the eyes. I would like to extend my hand here and glance into your "deep blues" as a gesture of unknowing results. A sort of "how d'ya do, mate, glad you decided to drop by my little gathering, but I have no idea what we're celebratin'. The bar's open tho', help yourself". A gathering so wild, we won't even use those coasters on the oak tables upon which we plop our mud stained boots; you know, that kinda party. As you meander over to get your drink, let me introduce myself proper.
To start, I am not a "trained writer" as the phrasing goes. I do not hold a degree in English, literature, composition, mathematics, psychology, theology, chemistry, physics, biology, or anatomy. I hold no distinction amongst my peers as a master linguist or teacher. I am certainly no scientist, meteorologist, architect, zoologist, cryptologist, speech pathologist, magician, film director, surgeon, musician, or gas station clerk. What I am, I suppose, is an individual of interests. If you must know, political science is my formal course of study but, as I have stated, I have 572 varying interests that could qualify as one huge whopping minor (try fitting all of those aforementioned spheres of study on one diploma. I'd toss in the towel, my friend). I suppose I could start 570 other blogs in order to corral my focus in all of these areas, but, for now, I choose to channel only two for you, patient reader: the supernatural and literature.
"Ah", you could tell yourself, "this Stephen King business seems so obvious now, no need to tarry here, I've heard this before. Just let me finish my scotch on rocks and I'll leave you with only my slightly muddy footprints on your coffee table". I would hope you reconsider. When I greeted you at the door earlier, I told you that I had no idea what results would be obtained from this chat of ours. But, I do know my reasons for embarking on such a journey. Allow me to explain, let me pour you another glass of that lovely auburn liquid. To be frank, this life of mine has been filled with strange quirks (on which I will divulge after a few bottles...) not easily explained by the Bill Gateses or Bill Nyes of the world. I would like to put faith in (in fact, I do put faith in) the hope that, as a mere human being of flesh, blood, organs, and varying tissues, I will never begin to scratch the surface of the mysteries this large floating orb of ours has to offer to us. However, the presence of these unsolvable crime scenes in my life help to remind me of how insignificant a human life can be to this big, bad, scary, still floating orb. The only thing to do, I propose, is for man to try and find a place in the dark, amongst the crime scenes, behind the police tape, amongst the mysteries. Live with them in mutual recognition, but not complete cognition. This introduces the literary aspect of my voyage.
Stephen King. No writer of the latter half of the 20th century can be said to have had more success than he at scaring the pants off loyal fans (metaphorically, you understand). His works are a perfect mirror to the dichotomy I just presented to you, the recognition without cognition theory. His novels describe various instances of men's mundane, established lives clashing with the ancient mysteries of the cosmos. His main characters (mostly) take on a role of the man stuck smack dab in the middle of hell, and trying to force his humanity to play nice with the wild card that this crazy zany world has dealt him across the poker table. Sometimes, the world's card is a supernatural one, other times it is one of the devious, corrupt nature of a fellow man. Always, it is a challenge. Another drink? Sure, lemme break out another bottle here.
That, then is my quest. To balance my human existence with the cards that the cosmos' poker dealer has dealt me. I will read all of Stephen King's 37 novels, in some cases view the inevitable films that follow such works, and take lessons from them. Use them. Find some meaning to them that will (I sure darn hope so) reveal the meaning of a human life upon this Earth. There are only three rules I will hold myself to:
1.) The works must be read in chronological order, no matter the length, no matter the subject matter. Besides, I would like to appreciate how King grows as an artist through this process (The only exception to this is the Dark Tower series which I will read as one long novel at the end of my journey).
2.) I will read only the novels that are still in print.
3.) I will NOT read the novels that are written under a King pen-name. This is to save time...37 novels will take awhile, I trust.
So. Here we are. Your scotch is now probably watered down some. I hope I have not scared you away with my talk of humanity, purpose, and floating orbs. If you have decided to stick around, I appreciate it immensely. I would not be offering my words to public view (or scrutiny, I suppose) if I did not think this journey could benefit you as well, patient reader.
Well. I suppose we must get started. Carrie is first on my list, and tonight's gathering storm offers a perfect backdrop to begin. Perhaps the cosmos' poker dealer is offering me a spurring omen of luck. Or, perhaps, misfortune? Whatever the case, I am glad you have decided to join me. The bar will be open all night, please help yourself when you need a little help in deciphering my ramblings. I offer you this reading chair next to me by the fire, its quite cozy, I assure you. You don't mind if I turn out this light do you?
Good.
- I
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