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University of Texas at El Paso DigitalCommons@UTEP Open Access Theses & Dissertations 2013-01-01 Synesthetes, or: Lazaro and the Apocalyptic Millennials Fabian Molina University of Texas at El Paso, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.utep.edu/open_etd Part of the American Literature Commons, and the Literature in English, North America Commons Recommended Citation Molina, Fabian, "Synesthetes, or: Lazaro and the Apocalyptic Millennials" (2013). Open Access Theses & Dissertations. 1887. https://digitalcommons.utep.edu/open_etd/1887 This is brought to you for free and open access by DigitalCommons@UTEP. It has been accepted for inclusion in Open Access Theses & Dissertations by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@UTEP. For more information, please contact [email protected]. SYNESTHETHES, OR: LAZARO AND THE APOCALYPTIC MILLENNIALS FABIAN MOLINA Department of Creative Writing APPROVED: José de Piérola, Ph.D., Chair Robert Gunn, Ph.D. Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Ph.D. Benjamin C. Flores, Ph.D. Dean of the Graduate School Copyright © by Fabian Molina 2013 SYNESTHETHES, OR: LAZARO AND THE APOCALYPTIC MILLENNIALS by FABIAN MOLINA, B.S. THESIS Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of The University of Texas at El Paso in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of MASTER OF FINE ARTS Department of Creative Writing THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT EL PASO May 2013 Table of Contents Table of Contents…………………………………………………………………………………………………..iv Preface to Synesthetes…………………………………………………………………………………………….v References………….………………..…………………………………………………………………………….xxii Synesthetes…………………………………………………………………………………………………………...2 Curriculum Vitae…….…………………………………………………………………………….……………306 iv Preface to Synesthetes JANUARY 2013—As I write this, one draft of Synesthetes has been completed. At this critical stage—whereupon one of two paths could be, hypothetically, chosen: one leading to certain doom and artistic damnation, the other toward future reinventions of the novel itself, in different forms and expressions—I have pondered what works in the novel and what does not. What I intended and what I came up with are two wholly-separate entities. Is the conversion of the writer’s truest intentions into the actual final product the symbol of true success? Starting the second draft, I can only hope that the truth is this: that a second writing of Synesthetes will better fit my expectations which, certainly, have changed as much as the project itself has progressed. Because this first draft still seems to be covered with viscera (it is a new born, indeed), it is, as of now, severely premature and desires nutrients and human T.L.C. It still requires time in the incubator, although most of the work has been given birth to. It has pushed its way out into the world. Now I must align my expectations with the creature I’ve birthed, and, voilà—something, this thing, begins to exist. The first draft of Synesthetes was completed on December 30th and not soon after I took a vacation. I still had stuff to say about Lazaro and Co. but I kept those details to myself; they were just floating thoughts which as time went on became more organized, more coherent. If later—I safely assumed—I did not recall what I had planned for the novel in these (“postproduction”) stages, then it was not that important in the first place. Any thoughts on this (viscera-covered) novel which did not bypass the strict barrier of memory had no place in the final product. Logically. And so I neglected the computer outright for some time. Instead, I read 2666 by Roberto Bolaño (which I reviewed at the time as: “[2666] is what new literature really means. And what this all means is a restlessness to render only certain themes, certain tableaus and neo fables, no longer in neat, ordered, and restricted packages. ‘Write what you want to write about’ [of course always looking at the heavens with glossy eyes at the past Gods of Literature]—and v screw any expectations and conventions. Bolaño is more like Virginia Woolf than Garcia Marquez1… and therefore utterly brilliant”) and some stuff by Hermann Hesse. This was enough to remind me of just how radically-different and all-too-exciting novels truly were. With 26662 I noticed, just as I did while reading the Marquis de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom years before, that if you repeat certain events (such as the infamous 300+ pages [“The Part about the Crimes”] on the Mexican women slayings of 2666) in such a manic, very (yes) sadistic way, the effect is almost vomit-inducing. And of course, this is a high compliment—there is nothing worse than a forgettable novel—this to me became The Lesson, a truth in my own personal poetics. But Synesthetes simply cannot be 2666 (or 120 for that matter)—I would die of a rare explosion of the ego if it were. No; what I learned is that perhaps the grotesque attention to detail works well—sometimes (The Spikes episodes in Day Two are examples of this particular technique). The accumulation of words and pages which seem to convey the same horrific detail, the wealth of information on a devastatingly bad situation, all this, at the very least, means that Synesthetes—a coming-of-age story which begs for particulars to be uncovered and describes the poetry hidden within the mundane—must be lengthier than originally planned. It must take its time to describe singular days in the period of a week. It must reflect a reality (as much as the occurrences of 2666 are historically-accurate and journalism-real, sharing with my novel a similar Mexican borderland setting, and 120’s are sinisterly contrived, like demonic rounds of Chinese Checkers). And with Hesse, well, I remembered the use of the novel. Which… is…? To entertain, to compete with life, to take yourself away from yourself. And to be embraced forever, the novel, as one would a genuine life experience or a true close friend. 1 What I mean by this is that my personal taste gravitates toward old-school (hyper? sur?) realism. There are way more imitators of Gabriel Garcia Marquez than Virginia Woolf. The trend should be curbed. We should see what people who are inspired by Woolf have to say almost 90 years after Mrs. Dalloway. Gabriel Garcia Marquez imitators are a dime a dozen. 2 Unlike Bolaño, I cannot even begin to formulate a coherent motive (or story, or structure) for the utterly- real, sadistically-gruesome killings of women (and children, and men) in El Paso’s southern sister city of Juárez, Mexico. It is interesting to place a story like Lazaro’s near a location that seems so rife with violence. Lazaro’s own experience of violence is made apparent throughout—the contemporary bloodbath even “spills over” in some way at the end of Day Six (which is actually reported on television on Day Seven, Chapter 1). vi I want to begin discussing the innards of Synesthetes (this is the only kind of baby you can successfully dissect without being put in jail). The novel—the novel’s true core and skeleton—is essentially a revamp of Fellini’s beloved La Dolce Vita. It is not a remake, although it does follow a parallel plotline: and this structure detail should be apparent to a few, but not all, readers. No Rome, no Europe this time; instead Texas, and for this novel, most specifically, El Paso. The protagonist happens to be a reporter, and because there is a strict reality with which he is forced to participate in (he constantly questions and resists, lingers idly and freely partakes), he ultimately is as much a spectator in the middle of all the action (told in the present tense), as the reader is. La Dolce Vita depicts opulence and possesses style, a je ne sais quoi, to spare (entire fashions in film, style, and are were established worldwide as a result of its inherent über-coolness); Synesthetes displays a current vanity fair: people from all walks of life living on the borderland, filtered by a discerning and unknown narrator. This modernized version, however, replaces the swarm of Italian women with a vivid tapestry of modern gay men. The two-climax plot line—what is it? Confederacy of Dunces3, a novel I would venture to describe as legitimately flawless4, follows this type of plot. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind plays with this, but in an epic scale (even the film version is neatly cut in two pre and postwar-ish halves). But what the two-climax plot means, in all truth, is that a character either becomes redeemed or further injured at its conclusion (it is clear which end John Kennedy Toole chose for Confederacy’s Ignatius Reilly; it may be a little more difficult to discern Scarlett O’Hara’s final stance). We are privileged to see an extended version of the Fall from Grace with this type of narrative arc; but, alternately, there can also be that ever-elusive Arrival at Awesome 3 When Ignatius works at Levy’s Pants (Climax #1) and as he perambulates the French Quarter with his hot dog cart (Climax #2). 4 It seems I may have made unconscious connections between the main protagonists of Dunces and Synesthetes. An episode from Lazaro’s past makes a cameo in the present—that of his failed suicide in New Orleans. Lazaro has probably made something of Confederacy’s tint of sadness, of its tragic origin story and the death of its progenitor John Kennedy Toole, and so has decided to travel to the Crescent City to end his own life. vii Heights. The form that the plot (story) is presented in, it’s chronology of events, is of paramount importance: especially if the beginning chapters are to be as relevant, effective, special and enigmatic as those at the end.

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