Updated in real time.

In the spirit of acknowedging the depths of my depravity, and because I’m waiting for Jesse to finish her class so we can get the hell out of school, i’m going to write about authors. Well, more specifically, pulp authors: those primal ranconteurs of the early 20th century, guys like Robert E. Howard, HP Lovecraft, Algernon Blackwood, Arthur Machen and Edgar Rice Burroughs. I can wax poetic on the meta-fictions of Pynchon, Ballard, Gaddis, Barth, Gass and others of their ilk some other time. Who really cares about what a bunch of ivy league educated, mastabatory eccentrics anyway? Well, apparently many do, but that’s beside the point. But the fact remains that they don’t write a red-blooded barbarian tale like Howard, or craft a sparing, gloom-filled dirge of midnight London quite like Machen or Blackwood. Nor can they can produce the tales of unending, implacable dread like Lovecraft. And thank god for that. Because, beyond the pure, hamfisted entertainment found within the mouldy pages of a beaten copy of the Gods of Mars or “The Thing on the Doorstep” , these pulp writers of the early 20s and 30s are some of the great barometers of their times. Okay, bear with me here. Sure, they’re racist, anti semitic, sexist, xenophobic and, more often than not, florid to a purple hue. And they exist in what most would consider a marginal area of literature (although Lovecraft is finally being recognized by a wider audience)… But they encapsulated a time that was racist, anti-semitic, xenophobic and florid. A time where seven year olds and adults alike waited in tight fisted anticipation for the next adventure of a world-traveling, imperialist opium addict fighting the ruthless Egyptian minions of an ageless, skull-faced Atlantean. And your mother would buy it for you. And that was okay. Fuck Harry Potter. Give me Tarzan snapping the necks of African witch doctors over today’s safe, bland children’s literature, whether it be furthering the European imperalist agenda or not. In more seriousness, one gets the feeling that the world was perceived as far larger back then, and the depths of its mysteries were undocumented, unplumbed. The nameless cults and primitive fish people of Lovecraft certainly did represent his fears over the seeming flood of immigrants and the oncoming light of the civil/equal rights movement, but it also represented a world where said nameless cults and fish people could still be what they were — both utteraly ridiculous and wonderfully plausible. Take Robert E. Howard’s titular barbarian, Conan– He was both an adventurer and loner in a world where that was still possible, where traveling abroad was still filled with an element of danger and the unknown, unlike today where the element of exploration and danger extends only as far as the possiblity of getting an STD from a pretentious back packer. Or take the weird tales of Algernon Blackwood, tales of supernatural dectives who still could still smoke opium and kick ghost ass with an almost seemingly plausible air. Now “ghost hunters” are real enough, but they don’t wear bowler hats or exude dandy affectations, instead they’re excruciatingly boring plumbers with obnoxious reality tv shows. But that’s beside the point… The fear, the wonder in those times was different. It was a world where wonder and a kind of existential fear still existed. It was a world that was as hopeless as anytime before or since, but it still had a palpable sense of adventure and mystery.

One can argue that all previous ages have their own angels and demons, that the ignorance of the past is simply replaced by new superstitions, new folleys of belief, new dogmas that sink us back in the muck. And while this information age courses around us, advancing at an alarming pace (or not fast enough depending on who’s doing the navel gazing) we stop fearing the earthly wonders of previous times. We no longer fear the Locraftian dark forgotten Gods either, or the endless void of space and what may lurk within beyond the stars. We fear not the possibility of books of knowledge like the Necronomicon, books so sublime that they should not be learned, or even be read in fear they would jeapordize our very sanity. And yeah, it’s ridiculous. But aren’t our replacements just as silly? Our fears are filled with terrorists in long flowing robes speaking languages we don’t understand, brandishing m-16s and spam email. Our nightmares are about 401ks and gay men raping children while pursuing their seminary requirements. We blanket ourselves in the uniform of our time, speak in the coded languages of Twitter and text messaging, while flooding ourselves with more information about people we don’t know, don’t care about and wouldn’t want to talk to in real life anyway. People and times obviously change, as they should, but I wonder if with these authors and their fascinations with powers that exceed our own that they were a small form of the “last of their kind.” In a larger sense, one can easily brandish words like “barometers of their time” and have them exist there like a pretentious lump– it sounds nice– but what does it mean? But what if these writers really were arch-signifiers, if not for their entire age, then at least for a large and important aspect of it, signifiers for the people who lived and breathed then. The same as how facebook and media culture signifies ours now. And as we have in general now “out grown” Gods, then certainly we have become them– while the outside world shrinks, our inside/personal worlds seem only to grow larger, more insular, more caught up in a world without others, but a world none the less that needs to hear EACH AND EVERYONE OF US and our endless onesided babble into the void. Someone farts and everyone across the world can hear it. And this personally scares the shit out of me, not the farting but the sentiment. Sure, I sit here writing this, half a world away from most of the people who may possibly read this, broadcasting thoughts that might be better left on the back of a restroom door, but in some ways isn’t that point, the medium is the message? Or vice versa? And I’m a victim of my age as much as anyone. I don’t fear the unknown Gods of eons past. I don’t search for my own necronomicon or believe in the sacred rites. I don’t believe in it. But do I believe in “this”? We are at the same whim of the powers that be that Lovecraft and Howard were. Some would argue more so. Now we have the illusion that someone gives a shit about how we feel. Obama’s on Twitter. But more importantly so is Bon Jovi.

So what’s the point? Good question. I’m really just killing an hour. I’m writing on the wall. Here’s an update for you. Right there. But the original point, despite digression, was that these writers, despite their failings, or because of them, are reminders of a time when one could live in a world that was still capable of novelty. And that in order to truly experience something you had to journey outside of yourself: and, like so many of Lovecraft’s protagonists, you might have to observe only; to not talk over, but talk with; to confront the subliminity of a world you don’t understand, despite the fact that you might just loose your mind or get sacrificed by a voodoo priestess– which would be a lot cooler than wasting away in a cubicle anyway though, right?

I think so.

I could do a lot of things if I had the money.

I can hear ciadas buzzing in the warm dusk. The water pump whirs every 10 seconds. The random horn blurts in the oncoming darkness. Hanoi trundels by in a typical steadfast, stubborn pace, anything but precise but vital and alive. It makes me think about what Hanoi sounded like 20 years ago: the utter absense of horns, of machine sound– just the whir of bicycle wheels, the hawking of hawkers, the night murmers, the arguments won and lost. But the Vietnamese I have found are not a quiet people. They yell and scream, laugh and shout with the best of them, and at all the right times. Why walk over to someone when you can scream at them across the road? Why do something quietly when life demands your presence if not in body than in sound? Whether it be pounding something out in a bizarre, arcane fashion at 6 am in an attempt at fixing your own electrical wiring; or cranking your television to a sound-distorting level so you can hear it’s shadow down the street while you are drinking green tea and gossiping with friends. I don’t know. Maybe the noise is something more… an assuagement, a familiar, familial part of life here– you make noise so people know you’re there, so you’re not alone.

These nostalgias for times past, as though the past has a validity not found in our present age. It’s neither more or less real ultimately. I think people, including myself at times, assume more pastoral, less developed societies are invariably more authentic or real than the cellphone-ridden, mtv watching, American Idol obssessed, facebook-blogging, gas guzzling SUV driving cultures we come from, and when we find out that places like India, Vietnam, Kenya want all that too, it becomes a disappointment, as though the squalor, the human misery, the filth and disease are a product of authenticity. Isn’t what so many of these post-modern philosophers (stemming all the way back from Kant) are so interested in, this search for authenticity? This search for the real that is lacking from our lives to a point that we have become pathalogical, cut off from each other and ourselves. And of course this REAL cannot be found where there is such a bold and fundamental lack of authenticity in our western culture, right? How can one find oneself in the thick morass of this media over-driven, commodity-based society where we’re all screaming for SOME HONEST TO GOD REAL AND TRUE HUMAN CONNECTION! We’re all gasping for a little fresh breath of the REAL… So what if that fresh breath comes with the biting cack and cough of petrol exhaust, and the stink of human feces mixing in the river that runs languidly outside our traveler’s hostel (festooned with satelite dishes, awash in hash and Bob Marley)? Because you’ve found a real society, finally. A place you can be you. And you can only be yourself somewhere else, a somewhere else which can only be found where the people can’t get penicilin or condoms or antiseptic and indoor plumbing is a Xanadu-like fantasy, a place where people wear funny hats and think quaint things that are SO DIFFERENT than our stodgy one dimenisonal dogmas and faiths. In fact, you can dress up like a native for a while on your vacation from yourself. You can adopt a few of their customs even, but not the nasty ones where you might have kill an animal or beat your wife into submission, but the cute ones, the dot on the forehead or the sarong while you bathe. Yeah, those! It’s funny, you can actually feel more and live more boldly here, shucking the previous stodgy YOU like a moldy corn husk! Behold the world is yours, and you could just get to it if these fucking kids would just stop asking for your money. And wait, did I just see a monk with a cellphone? And do they have the internet here? They do?! JESUS! And is that a western style hospital over there? God, it’s gotten so touristy lately. I can’t even find a homestay without an internet connection! Why can’t I just be free to be me?! Where has the real gotten to?

The fans buzz beside me. I hear some karaoke in the background, a warble, the atonal pinch of Vietnamese folk song. I’m alive. I’m real. I’m here. I’m digging my ipod in the haze of motorbike exhaust. But I’m not alone. Hanoi still flows on before me. Outward and above, alive as the cicadas that burst in their shells, as though in constant renewal. Rebirth.

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