Mr. Jones and Me, we’re gonna be big stars

March 13, 2013

Mr. Jones and Me, we’re gonna be big stars

by Stan Faryna

Stan Faryna
Counting Crows, Mr. Jones

I have struggled to find and share beauty through this blog. And I have failed. Often and persistently. A hundred or so failures for each paltry success. On the other hand, the traffic is fine – I remember when I also bemoaned having less than 10,000 readers in a month.

This is not a tragedy.

This is a joke. [grin]

But I am not joking! My effort and lack of success is the joke. Blogging is a comedy – sooner or later.

Laugh with me.

This is a ridiculous adventure. Absurd. Don Quixote is less foolhardy and he is lesser the fool. But I can not help myself. Perhaps, you find yourself in a similar predicament – unable to stop some foolishness or other. And if, perchance, you did or do…

Smile with me.

My failure as a blogger reminds me also of my failure as a novelist.

Laugh with me. Please.

My conceits are as boundless as my ambitions. And, perhaps, yours too. If so, laughter shall be our greatest solace.

Which brings me to Milan Kundera – a handsome man in a brutal manner. His face is fit for a Federal period scultpture.

The Czech author of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera, explains in his The Art of the Novel, that what defines a novel most of all is that it asks important, eternal and urgent questions.

Kundera recommends Don Quixote, a 17th (?) Century novel, written by Miguel de Cervantes. What I remember of the story, it asks, do I belong in a world in which virtues are irrelevant?

My unfinished novel passionately rejects Cervantes’ question. If we are here, then we belong here . Obviously, here is inescapable.

Even at the end of the world! Even in the midst of outrageous fortune, death, desperation, pain, fear and disappointment.

Or hell.

If you’re in hell, keep going.

Winston Churchill said that. Right?

If Mr. Churchill is right, how exactly do we keep going?

The enquiry does not recommend finis humanevitae. Instead, it leads me to further questions.

They are not original questions, however. But they may resonate in the human heart. And I must admit that it’s very possible that no answer shall fully satisfy our curiosity, desperation and hope.

Who am I?

What can I hope for?

What must I do (not knowing – with any certainty – who I am and what I can hope for)?

Perhaps, writing them for you here – makes you want to click away. But if you ever sat or lay upon the ground with salty tears streaming down your face – don’t go yet.

Because I approach these timeless questions as they present themselves through opportunities and defeats on unwitting adventures of self discovery and our clumsy exploration of the world, others and the sacred. I search for these opportunities and defeats within the context of the human drama with all the passion, confusion, sound and fury of our experience as persons.

So, yes, there are explosions, the crack of an axe on exploding concrete, sex, love, hate, and everything else.

But I remain afraid to finish the work. I postpone yet another failure to connect, share, contribute to a community of servant hearts, and, ultimately, collaborate with others – to make this a better world and a world of we.

I remain afraid to fail yet again. As if I could pick and choose my failures!

Obviously, we do not.

I’m also reminded of some lines from a song by the Counting Crows, Mr. Jones.

Believe in me.
Help me believe in anything.
Cause I want to be someone who believes [that we can make a better world]


Yeah – keep going.

Stan Faryna
12 March 2013
Fairfax, Virginia

Other Social Media DOHs

When your best is suck

Insane Loyalty and other social media DOHs

Cowardice will speak loudly 

Bukowski and I have very little in common

October 22, 2006

Five cent tour for Patsaks:

Mostly, I write for myself. I write as if my writing is written for my own consumption and benefit. Hence, I rarely put effort in polishing it up for public consumption even when I put it out there. To understand, to analyze things, and to discover myself in the pinging of the examined object: person, place or thing. If there is echo, I have found myself and somehow I find more of myself in the world than in contemplation.

Romanian Critics

There is a moment in public writing when critics will question why you write- especially so when speaking about Romanians who tend to believe that writing and art is only used for propaganda and marketing. It’s not that they don’t accept the proposition that writing and art can be separate from politics and business and pursue a freedom of expression, but unless the writing or art is crap and nonsense, they will mistrust you. They will imagine sinister motives and methodologies.



Some imagine me to be a CIA operative. Unfortunately, the CIA cannot afford my hourly rate.

Critics may imagine you (the writer) to be a megalomaniac because, in fact, they envy you for what they perceive as an apparent command of words, laguage, ideas, and authority. They envy something that is not there.

A megalomaniac, by definition, is controlled by their own delusional fantasies of immeasurable wealth, power, or omnipotence. I, myself (for example) would be satisfied with an effective measure of these things. And if I was so lucky, I would trade it all for true and lasting love, a few good books, forty cases of great wine, a great education for my son, to always be there to break bread with my son, and a Ferarri. He’ll like the last one too. Someday.

Of course, the Romanian critic doesn’t really care to know the truth of the matter. He only wants to know what he wants to know. In the case of the Romanian critic, the unkind critic is just bored with them self and, somehow, all the critic really needs is a little cheap entertainment, some juice and a good laugh at your expense.

Most of the time, I can afford them this much without too much complaint.

When you are criticized for what you write because of what it changes for them and the world… without returns, then the critic should really worry. Fortunately, I am not deserving of that kind of scrutiny- not in Romania or anywhere else. Nor can I imagine that my writing shall ever merit such unpleasant attention.
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