Answer #10 - Move to Pandora

Minus 2 points for the new argument over publishing. But 4 points for the nice guy who pointed out that the mere existence of 'fans' is worth something. True. This is very, very true. This fan number may diminish as this blog goes on, though - because, really, what we want from the people who write stories and sing songs is the stories and the songs.. not necessarily a view into the deranged innards of said writers. Especially by way of their blogs.

I don't read biographies. I don't want to know the unpalatable characteristics of my favorite Soap stars (wait, I don't have them, but if I did, I wouldn't want to know). I don't want to know if Terry Pratchett (my favorite living author) keeps a photo of Mao Tse Tung under his pillow or dresses Heinrich Himmler when his wife's away. I know that people are capable of all manner of atrocity. I don't want to know where and how. I really don't. I want the best of everybody - all the time. And yet, I'm writing this.

So how do we get the best of everybody all the time?

My sister, who acts as my source for all pop cultural relevance and, more importantly, all things technical, notified me yesterday that there are now on-line forums for people who are depressed, despondent, and thinking suicidal thoughts because they can never actually live on Pandora (for those of you who refuse the 3-D experience [sorry, but it was absolutely visually stunning] - Pandora is the fictional world depicted in the BLOCKBUSTER movie AVATAR).

This left me speechless, and yet, somehow, I get it. Who wouldn't want to leave this planet for one that is absolutely teeming with life, every molecule inter-connected, where wisdom is revered (read: THE LOGICAL RESPECT OF EXPERIENCE COMBINED WITH INTELLIGENCE. If the media is right, we Americans just hate that shit, preferring bombast and instant gratification ANY day!) and you get to fly around on bitchin dragon-looking things with an amazingly lithe, TALL blue body. These fictional people are basically at their best, all the time.

Interestingly enough, though, I didn't notice any brooding types anywhere on Pandora - no one drunk on fuzzy pink alien plant goo, carving his poem into a purple tree trunk - no one painting Home Tree black, cigaroofaloff hanging off his lip... like probably many of the folks who conceived of Pandora and painted it into existence.

Oh, this opens a can of alien worms, really. Art is a mess. A beautiful mess. Slithering out of which is an age-old enigma and we could all bat around 'what is art?' And maybe more imporantly, 'are there any happy artists?' But let's not.

Maybe you don't want to know. Maybe I don't want to know, but I'm writing this because I can't move to Pandora - because I want to find meaning in what I'm doing - because I have a feeling that if I follow the trail of crumbs, at the minimum I'll find a gingerbread house. And sure, it'll be just a brief burst of joy, and yeah, there's always a price to pay - but what a gooey, gumdroppy way to go...