I'm happy to have Greg Kieser here today as part of his blog tour for American Spaz The Novel.
Greg Kieser: Is Neanderthalic Cave Art auto-biographical fiction?
Researchers in Spain have discovered cave art they believe
is more than 40,000 years old and was possibly made by neanderthals. If true,
this would make it the oldest art we know of - by 15,000 years - and the first
time we've discovered art by neanderthals. It's all astonishing to me;
especially that an artist's work might be revered 40,000 years after it was
made.
But there are two aspects of the art in particular that are
most striking to me; first, its simply a collection of negative hand prints -
as if the artist(s) had pressed their hand against the wall, fingers wide, then
scraped something that produced color around the hand. That's interesting to me
because its clear that the artist(s) wanted to take the part of themselves they
knew the best and saw the most, their hands, and share with others. Whether a
conscious decision or not, they chose to represent themselves in the artwork,
as opposed to, say, tree or animals. The second striking aspect of the art they
created is that it's not a logical interpretation of the artist(s) or the world
they were living in. It's an abstraction. They didn't paint likenesses of
themselves or their friends, as we have seen in later cave art. The hands in
the painting seemed to be placed randomly, as if the artist lost themselves in
the process or perhaps didn't possess the intellectual wherewithall to create
anything more sensical. In any case, it's clear the art was created, not from
intellectual place, but from somewhere else - perhaps a place where emotions,
not thoughts, reign free. Based on those two ideas, I think it's safe to
conclude that those researchers in Spain not only discovered the first work of
art that we know of, but also demonstrated that the most primal of all impulses
for the creation of art are based in a desire for us to represent ourselves and
to do so in an abstract, illogical way.
This provokes many questions. Was it a single artist? Female
or male? What did the artist(s) do the day they laid their hand on the stone?
Where did the individual(s) fall in the social order of their pack/tribe? Was
the artist distraught because he/she lost a mate? Joyful because they had slayed
a beast that would feed them for weeks?
People often ask me why I chose to employ auto-biographical
fiction rather than memoir to tell my story in American Spaz. When I started to
write the novel it was obvious that fiction was the way I needed and wanted to
tell my story. I didn't know why at the time, but I knew it had to be fiction.
Over the course of the project, though, the reason for this choice became more
obvious to me. It was clear that, if I had chosen to use memoir (ie the logical
telling of my story) I would not get the emotional benefits of creating
something new. The circumstances of my childhood, most notably the loss of my
mother and then the loss of my father, had left scars that would not be easily
assessed and presented within the framework of a memoir. That form, that which
requires truthfulness in every detail, had too many limitations for me.
Conversely, I found auto-biographical fiction gave me unlimited options for,
not just telling my story, but expressing the truth of my story. And now I am
contented to know that the form I chose, to represent my own self in an
abstract and illogical way (ie auto-biographical fiction), is a form that has
been tested by time. I can only hope that somebody will stumble upon my novel
in the year 42012 and ponder my identity. In the meantime I'll be working on
the next story.
Where to buy American Spaz The Novel: http://www.amazon.com/American-Spaz-Novel-Greg-Kieser/dp/0983984220
"How I Became a Spaz" a short film in support of
American Spaz The Novel: http://americanspaz.com/the-short-film/
A newspaper article about Kieser's late father speaks to "The Truth" behind the fiction. And, in the short film "How I Became a Spaz (and you can too)" Kieser himself attempts to explain his unique approach to achieving social and financial success, while summarizing the steps others can take. An interview with the author further allows him to elaborate on these subjects and share his outlook on storytelling. All three - the article, the film and the interview - can be found at americanspaz.com
Buy Links:
Amazon:
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/american-spaz-the-novel-greg-kieser/1108015355?ean=9780983984221
American Spaz The Novel - Excerpt from Chapter 9
Back at her house, as he went up the steps ahead of her, she
grabbed his ankles playfully. He tripped and she jumped on top of him, kissing
him. They heard the floor creak, so they looked up the steps. Willy was there.
“Get a hotel,” he said as he went into the living room. Esther went to the
bedroom while Henry followed Willy into the living room. Willy was sitting
there with his feet up on the coffee table. A dirty plate and fork lay next to
his legs.
“That your pistol?” Willy asked, pointing to the plastic gun
in Henry’s waistband.
“Yeah, popped a cap in some Germans.” Henry walked with a bit
more of a swagger than normal.
Willy looked him up and down. “You know what’s wrong with
you?”
Henry laughed. “What?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You got some muscles, and you think you bad. You walk like a
fuckin’ rooster. But I know you ain’t bad. You just got a couple muscles. And
you still skinny.”
Henry nodded. He laughed uncomfortably this time. “Oh yeah?”
Willy showed a gold tooth. “I said don’t laugh. You wanna see
my pistol?”
“Yeah. Sure. Show me.”
Willy slowly lifted his shirt, revealing a black steel pistol
under the waistband of his pants.
Henry froze. “I… you… uhh…” Henry left for the bedroom.
“What’s wrong with you?” Esther asked, when Henry came in and
closed the door.
“Ask Willy. He seems to know. Guy’s a dick.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Listen Esther, he’s got a fucking gun.” He sat on the bed
while keeping an eye on the door.
“So do you.”
“No. He has a real gun. A handgun.”
“What?”
“Yup. He showed it to me.”
“I’ll tell him to get the hell out of here.” She turned to
leave the room.
“No. No,” Henry said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“He can’t bring a gun in this house.”
“No, don’t. Don’t say anything.” He grabbed her hand and
pulled her on the bed next to him. He touched her ear and put his fingers in
her hair. She touched his chest. She moved her body against his. Her hair fell
across his shoulder and in his face. Her movements were slow as slow goes. He
felt the coming urge of her and surged. He got dizzy. She dropped her hand on
his lap. He leaned over and kissed her aggressively. He could hardly breathe.
She pulled back and touched his lip. It had cracked and blood
coated a tooth. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed his tooth.
They lay back on
the bed. Clothes were pulled off; they tangled and wrestled. Pants stuck on
shoes were lost. Naked flesh touched naked flesh. Rock-hard white boy lay on
brown-skinned belly. He moved in place, chest to chest. On her lips, he
breathed out, then in. It tickled her. She chewed his good lip. Pressure
built and she opened up. Clumsy boy made pelvis move. A warm and foggy womb
they spun—sweat on the brow. Sweat in between them pushed aside. After a few
minutes, his eyes rolled back and his tongue went dry. First time
made him groan real wild. At point of utmost pleasure, a brief loss of sense, then slow unwind.
He collapsed.
As sense returned to their eyes, his weight increased. He
rolled off. She got up and went to the bathroom.
“That was so good,” he said, shielding his eyes from the
lights in the ceiling fan.
She returned from the bathroom. “Huh?”
“I said, that was so good.”
“Yeah, it was,” she said, with little enthusiasm.
“It was?” He sat up in bed. “I mean, it was really, really
good.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t seem as impressed as … me,” Henry said.
“Like, I’m tingling all over.”
“Me too.” She got on the bed with him and kissed his ear. “Me
too.”
Henry drove home fast that night, without the radio on. He
made his own music. First he hummed, and then he sang. When he was almost home,
he changed direction and drove some more, wandering the streets of Levittown in
the dark night under yellowish streetlights. He sang more—a quiet song of notes
high and long.
About the author
GREG KIESER was born in Langhorne, Pennsylvania in 1970. He currently resides in Brooklyn, New York and works with the Robin Hood Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to fighting poverty in NY. AMERICAN SPAZ THE NOVEL, his first published work, is auto-biographical fiction and chronicles a decade of his life - from 7 to 17 years old - during which time he lost both parents, moved from place to place, and did whatever he needed to do to survive. As the youngest of six children he had many opportunities, during that decade, to rely on, and sometimes reject, the love of family.
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