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.:  The Divinity Chapters  :.
Cunto 01
Cunto 02
Cunto 03
Interview 01
Cunto 04
Cunto 05
Cunto 06
Interview 02
Cunto 07
Cunto 08
Cunto 09
Interview 03
Cunto 10
Cunto 11
Cunto 12
Interview 04
Cunto 13
A short 'mindstream' novel about a man's descent to hell and subsequent resurrection. His critical review of the novel, as captured by reporter Marvin Gander, and the 'mindstream'© process is interspersed throughout the chapters and may be included in the final work, in accordance with the author's wishes.

Any unauthorized publishing of this will precipitate excessive violence on the part of the author. Please ask. It's all ©2004.

DIVINITY

INTERVIEW 02

[Ed. Note - All interviews are direct transcripts from Marvin Gander's sessions with author Mingus Tourette. They are planned so as to take place every three chapters of Divinity.]

Commercial Hotel
August 20, 2001
10.15 pm
divinity interview 2

Gander - What're you writing?

Tourette - Nothing. You going to get some beer or what?

G - It's coming. What are you writing?

T - Some bullshit. You want to hear it?

G - Absolutely.

T - (reading) 'Covered in oil - not enough bubbling surfactants to get me clean - cut to the bone.' And then there's a break in there. I don't know what it means quite, but somehow I have to get to 'Spitfire of a Roman Goddess. Athena stretch out your hand.' and then it, no, before that is the water. Right? Cause I'm crossing the river Styx before I get to the city of Dis. Right?

G - Don't know.

T - Yeah that's it. I've got something I wrote here when I was just blunderfucked last weekend and walking home over the bridge from downtown. Stopped and stared down at the river flowing beneath me, where is it... here.

'Blessed irradiance of water. And those who notice.'

G - That's it?

T - Well, I'll build around it, something in before it about the lights reflecting off the water, you know, try to capture that same feeling - going over the bridge in the middle of the night and watching the lights on the water, and noticing it. See, it's not so strange, in context.

G - I suppose. So which chapter is this for?

T - VIII. Eight.

G - And how's it coming?

T - Ohhhhh. Fucking slow. Fucking slow. Can't do a damn thing at home, and all the bullshit at the office, you know?

G - A little bit. I've been staying away.

T - Can we talk about it, with that on?

G - Sure. Nobody's fucking reading it anyway. Sorry, but it just isn't happening these days. Not your fault. If they were promoting it better.

T -....

It's fucking bullshit. Like, where the hell is Dr. Law these days? I haven't seen him for like two weeks.

G - Vacation.

T - Blows. So I'm trying to do the day to day stuff and can't hardly get any fucking writing done during the day, just on the phone and the fucking email and talking with clients who're pissed about whatever and the shits out in the fucking East, all when I'm supposed to be writing, but it has to be done right?

G - I know exactly how it is. I'm picking up all the outcalls in the city, when I should be writing too. It's Rorshach's sales team. That's the problem. I don't know why they all took off at the same time.

T - And then every night, spending six hours patching the wounds with Theresa that I opened up before. We're just not getting forward motion. We're fucking sliding back and back and back...

G - I thought you patched it up last weekend.

T - Fuck, so did I. Then I'm writing and she's feeling inattentive, unattended, whatever, and something old snaps up on her and bang, she's walking away from me in the middle of the fucking restaurant.

G - This is last night?

T - No, fuck, this is on the weekend.

G - You never told me that.

T - Fuck yeah. She just walks away in the middle of the fucking crowd. I paid and sat there and drank my beer and bummed a smoke and started writing again, cause I thought she was gone and maybe that was it, or I don't know.

G - What'd you write.

T - No, that's not the point.

G - Don't worry, I'll remove it. I'm just interested.

T - Fucking buried.... 'and away she walks in an impenetrable, inexplicable mood. Thus spake I. Fuck her.'
Hmm.

G - Not fuck her for real?

T- No, not now, course not. But then, at that moment, I didn't know what else to do. She was already gone, already walked away and I'm sitting there alone. When she came back she was still so mad, and for nothing. For me writing. She's got fucking demons, and she won't talk about them and I don't know what to do about them. I know how to exorcise mine, but she doesn't have anything like that. When she drinks it just gets worse, like me and you, but she's got no valve to let it off, can't sit and write it out. You know?

G - I know. But what can you do? Let her walk away or walk away yourself, or find somehow to fix it.

T - But I don't know how to fix it, not now. That's what's fucking killing me. That and not enough time to write about it.

G - Speaking of writing.

T - Ah, fuck, whatever. Like you said, nobody's reading it anyways.

G - Not quite true. And we could try to do a decent job on our material. I like to take some pride in my work.

T - Well, what the fuck do you want to talk about? You can see where it's coming from now, though, eh? That reflection of the writer? I'm pissed, he's pissed. You like it?

G - I'm not saying a damn thing. I'm just asking questions. No criticism. That was the deal in the beginning.

T - Not as a journalist, just as a writer. You can see where it's going though? Did you like the girl?

G - Well... not the kind of thing that's going to get the over 35 demographic. Especially not any with nine year old daughters.

T - See, but that's the fucking beauty of it. Did you get the references?

G - No, but please elaborate.

T - Nabokov, in fucking Lolita, makes reference to Dante, and to Beatrice, which was the woman who Dante was infatuated with and marching the long march to heaven to meet - the beatific one.

G - I don't think...

T - I know, just a bad joke, but the point I'm making, that obscene little reference is the one Vladimir makes about Beatrice being just 9 years old, and how obscene that was, like a pre-nymphet, so why should he be crucified for making love to a 12 year old. It's an odd reference, but I liked it, threw it in, because I liked the image, of the unrepentant nine year old sinner, pleading her case before the unmerciful court. You know? Because how could anyone nine years old be a sinner? But they could be, by so many of our judges, and in the end, by that other judge, Minos. So it's obscene to me that she would meet the fate she does, and that's why Mingus gets upset. Yet so many readers are just going to be upset that there is a nine year old in a somewhat sexual context, and I understand that, but the real blasphemy, of course... the judgement system and the religion, and so on and so on, the same as the whole fucking novel. But it was a strike point, and something that tied in with Dante.

G - I see. It's maybe not clearest reference.

T - Shit, it doesn't have to be. If I really wanted to explain every little word or nuance or meaning, or even the major ones, I'd have to pretend I's a TS Eliot and write a full appendix with it, like the wastelands. I think that's a little pretentious.

G - Instead, you have me, your confessor.

T - Ah, that's different.

G - Well, not particularly, and let us not forget, you were not opposed to the idea. Which leads to you, fear of fears, rousing up a little pretention on your own.

T - No. It's not so much because I wanted a pretentious literary discussion of every second word, fuck that.

G - How then, and why are we sitting here discussing it every week, or every month, as it may be?

T - [long pause]
Because, it's something unique, to see the process. Like a documentary of the making of a film - the Hearts of Darkness of Apocalypse Now. Capturing the reflection, I think I used that word before, of the writer or artist or whatever and their life at the time and how it's reflected in the work. It's rarely done, or at least, rarely done well, for a piece that merits it.

G - Do you think this piece merits it?

T - Well, that fucking remains to be seen. Answering that, my friend, would be pretentious. Discussion pretention is pretentious, so let's fucking cut that shit right fucking now. I mean, who the hell knows? I might finish this book and we might finish these interviews in six months, and we'll be fucking looking at them and decide that it was a damn good thing it never got printed, cause it would have been a waste of paper. Or, maybe, it might be worth something as a starting point, or a first novel, or some kind of incomplete, seminal work. Or it might be that one fucking project that one creates in one's life that can never be equalled again that haunts you till you die with a dozen fucking worthless manuscripts in a vault, just like Salinger, wondering why he ever let someone publish it in the first place and why he could never get his head out for another round.

G - But would you wonder that, all you life, if that was the case?

T - I'd hope I could write a second, and a third, even if it was never as popular. Every writer has their most famous book, and it's a stigma for some, but that's something I don't even have a clue as to how I'd react. Who the fuck knows. Maybe I'll think about it more if I ever get one published, for real. On paper. Offline.

G - Never heard of it. Right, and all of the sudden, the chalkie shows up.

T - Bout fucking time. You turn that thing off and lets cry about the women for awhile. Come on, I gots some venom I gots to drain.




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