(Jack. One of our regulars. He played one of the robots in Hamletmachine. Great guy.)
WARNING: This blog entry contains an overload of clichéd verbal imagery, gross exaggeration, naff pop-cultural references, shameless self admiration and personal opinions. (It is, in other words, not that dissimilar to Cherie Blair’s recent biography.)
Looking at our busy schedule the last year, one might think Imploding Fictions’ projects appear like duped rabbits out of a magicians hat (“What’s with the bright light? How did I get here? Why do my ears hurt?”), pearls on a string (Norwegian expression. Don’t ask.), train carriages out of a tunnel, one following the other, or that they fall into place like dominos or double cherries on a slot machine (Keeeerching!!!).
(Sammy, doing his impression of a confused rabbit.)
Although all these analogies might carry some truth (particularly the ‘Keerching’ bit), the actual experience is more like this:
It is like looking at a door.
A large, calm, white door. Impeccably painted, nicely framed and comfortably closed. It is the kind of door that fills you with peace inside, like a door of good karma, a haven of light wood and worry-less tranquility.
Then.
All of a sudden a massive, kick-arse axe comes hacking its way loudly through the all-too-soft wood in a single smashing blow. Splinters fly everywhere and through the jagged hole a new project rears its ugly head and grins shamelessly in our face exclaiming:
“He-e-e-ere’s Johnny!!!”
“Keerching!”
In fact, I don’t believe the experience from the inside of the Imploding Fictions vehicle even remotely resembles the viewpoint from the outside. From the corner of the sofa, with a beer and a bowl of popcorn, the Formula 1 racing car is a feast for the eye, a glistening, gleaming beam of light through the dust of the racing track, with a low, humming drone gently caressing your ears emerging from the speakers of the TV-set. From inside the cockpit on the other hand, the scandi-anglo-germanic co-pilots experience a brain mushing, blood curling G-force, battling neck breaking acceleration (Buckle up, cowboy! Let’s ride!) and the noise is like having a 10-inch nail hammered ruthlessly through your eardrums.
Metaphorically speaking, that is.
Metaphorically speaking, Imploding Fictions is like a Formula 1 car where the pan-european construction team with a combination of luck and utter foolishness built the engine out of the spare parts of a space rocket – but completely forgot to install brakes.
Or, it is like the baby in Lynch’s Erasorhead (the cutest baby ever to hit the silver screen!); a demanding, devouring, desperate creature with an excess of growth hormone, a living thing which has to be fed and tended to every day, like a mean green mother from outer space and it’s bad… But like any living creature, worthy of of love and respect (This is where the blog goes soppy, look out. Get your handkerchiefs lined up), having become something we crave for, enjoy (why else would we be doing it?) and ultimately depend on.
It is not something we can really drop or forget, it is not just an object or a concept or simply a legal entity, it is more than that. Something that can perhaps only be expressed through metaphor:
Imploding Fictions is like waking up in the morning, discovering that you have been chained to a rodeo-bull who can’t tell anger management from nuclear warfare just about to be severely stung on his crown jewels by a bee with the wrong sense of humor.
(Example of bee with the wrong sense of humour.)
It is both our Mr. Hyde and our super hero alter ego.
Our anagram.
That which you read between the lines.
It is our hidden treasure and the life-size map to find it.
Our fun fair mirror room reflection.
Us without the make up on.
A stack of yellow bricks next to a big, blinking neon sign saying:
“Grab your sand and bubble-fluid, guys!
It might mix nicely into mortar!”
You can read more about Imploding Fictions’ various projects on http://www.implodingfictions.com.
- Øystein
