Saturday, December 12, 2009

phone sex

We consummated
with language
last night's
Harlequin details,
(our listening
the risk
of real bodies
shortly after 9
with the lights on.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

book review -- Sombrero Fallout

One of my favorite books, Sombrero Fallout alternates two stories into one -- between 1.) a frozen sombrero that mysteriously falls from the sky into a small town causing a commotion and 2.) a writer's obsession with a Japanese ex, whose well-illustrated dreams of her father and familiar places are guided by the bedside purring sounds of her cat in marathon bouts of sleep.

The stories are a mix of realist, absurd and whimsical happenings, which Brautigan's voice executes with a smart, romantic and unpretentious flare. His lines are simple and repetitious. His tone is gentle, thoughtful, and silly. His observations, at times profound in their relatability, are dolloped with notions of extra mayo tuna fish sandwiches, an erotic house key incident, a magnifying glass and a black strand of hair, an earless librarian, lines and lines of ornamental poetry, and Norman Mailer crawling out of a tank covered in the blood of decimated soldiers.

Here is one of my favorite passages: "I will be very careful the next time I fall in love, she told herself. Also, she had made a promise to herself that she intended on keeping. She was never going to go out with another writer: no matter how charming, sensitive, inventive or fun they could be. They were emotionally too expensive and the upkeep was too complicated. They were like having a vacuum cleaner around that broke all the time and only Einstein could fix it.

She wanted her next lover to be a broom."

I laughed out loud close to a dozen times reading Sombrero Fallout. Had five epiphanies about my own life, fell in love twice, and couldn't put it down while cooking an elaborate breakfast with sizzling eggs and real buttered toast, or commuting on a sidewalk by five o'clock traffic. I could say the book is dangerously distracting, but I'm sure I'll risk my life to read it again and again, regardless.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Thursday, December 3, 2009

3 ads in this month's Elle

A thousand foot tall woman wearing a gold curtain holds a bottle of perfume. The wind blows her blond hair back. Her crotch is hidden by a shadow. Her legs stand in front of windowed towers, offices, apartments, 30-40 stories. Her lips are parted. Her eyes look like wild sex eyes.

Her sunglasses are framed blue and covering half her face with red lenses. Her lips are red. She's looking casually to her left with one arm akimbo, the other bent, holding her own hand. Her dress is tropical. Blue with white flowers. A shadow is covering her crotch. Behind her a tan, shirtless man with perfect pectoral muscles and abs stands with one knee bent. It looks as though he's removing his top. His white pants are rolled at the bottom, above brown feet.

In her black lace underwear and black heels, she straddles a tan man's leg. He is shiny and wearing white briefs. She is also tan and shiny. Perhaps more greasy than just shiny. Her head is on his nipple. The other shiny nipple is exposed. She looks halfway asleep and halfway awake, aroused and drugged. Her oily hand is clawing at his white briefs. He seems a bit agitated. Perhaps she is snoring, or her crotch which his leg is barely covering is crawling with fire ants.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

book review -- the Sound and the Fury

Goddern Fuckner

I bought tS&tF in 1999, after it was recommended by my Tennessee Community College English I&II prof--to broaden my horizons (so to speak). This was the same professor who got mad at me and kicked everyone out of class whenever I became narcoleptic during Hamlet. Aside from that, the guy was cool. The kids in his class called him Jerry. He'd taught my Psychologist step-dad poetry too, like two decades before me. Before my step-dad passed from a botched gastric bypass operation.

So, back to tS&tF, admittedly from the onset, getting through the slush pile of dialogue between the children disenchanted me into abandoning the book to my shelf often, where I'd occasionally pluck it back out, sip some dialogue, then lose interest again, to something with an easier narrative to follow.

(This was when I was more about stepping into vicarious experiences as a reader than say, learning and testing tricks as a writer. But even now, a little goes a long way when it comes to gleaning heavy hitters like Faulkner.)

In 2007 I finally made it to the highly stylized dense paragraph watch business. It took me eight years. But once I got there--I was in such awe that I never got past the first paragraph; it stuck me like quicksand! I was mesmerized, begoggled, humbled into mush and terrified. Basically, after that it came to me that tS&tF was simply unreadable. I gave up--realizing that a damn book had kicked my ass!

A person asked me just today in discussing literature, "Did you like the Sound and the Fury when you read it?" Slightly ashamed, I had to say, "No, it's absolutely awful and beautiful. A clusterfuck." I explained how I couldn't get through books that complicated without taking part every technicality that the author had to administer in the rendering of the style in the first place, layer by tedious layer. "The process induces a sense of schizophrenia that whirls me," I said, though his short stories have often been good to me amongst others in the scholastic curriculum.

Faulkner is definitely a grand master of stylish, innovative prose, whose pinches of flavor are distinct and extremely succulent when mimicked or added to any word casserole--and for that he is a big daddy that can't be denied. I hope to try the book again someday when I'm less frustrated with what growing up in Tennessee has done to me and more patient with the world in general.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

consequences & trajectories

Sometimes when I go against the way nature intends things to fall naturally, my entire life can feel off. If I'm lucky, the off feeling only lasts for a day (or a few hours, some consequences mending accordingly from a diverged mess.) There seems to be less wasted time following the straight path. Short-cuts lead to missed details. It's hard to trust trajectories when surrounded by others following paths more conventional. Do they get the same tugs and shoves on their backs too? Are they alive enough to recognize the signs?

I youtube'd and listened to Ginsberg read aloud America today from Howl. Twice. The first was a studio reading that sounded clean. The second was a live reading with an audience. The audience laughed so much in places that didn't seem funny to me, I thought about canned laughter in cheesy sitcoms.

People who laugh when they are uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. (It's as if they are acutely too aware of their own hand placement, therefore they must laugh to proliferate laughter in a crowd to drown their own thoughts from being obsessive.) People are mostly terrified against the birth of their own unique opinions. I don't think it's their fault. But I don't think they mind either. Naturally humanity has a tendency to herd together for a feeling of safety, as they say, in numbers.

To be so independent from humanity, to risk alienation, humiliation, excruciating loneliness, is a key that leads to a plane of unique discovery. The sort of discovery, which might be so unrelatable that it is basically invisible, like cracks in sidewalks, or cracks in sanity, if in the facade consists of a healthy dose of complacency.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

dream about powerlessness

Last night I had the most violent dream to date.

A naked demon with the armor of burned and slick red flesh was chasing a man who was putting up what seemed to be a good fight. Until the man was stuffed through a wall in an upstairs hallway using a heft of velocity from the demon's telekinetic architecture. The man, impaled back first through the white wall, head, feet and arms cramped on one side, his lower back and ass out through the other side, was snugly lodged. From my astral view as an invisible bystander, powerless from both fear and the lack of a physical presence, I stood where I could see from the side by the doorway like the scene was vivisected. I saw the contents of the wall, its wires, spongy insulation, the wooden boards--these material devices did not obscure the man's midsection, about to be broken into several pieces. (Everything I didn't want to happen was going to happen, so I could see what was coming even with my eyes closed, through my hands over my closed eyes turned away.) The scalded red demon began beating the man from behind with a large hard ceramic lamp, shade and all. Thwack, thwack, thwack, repeatedly. When the lamp broke into a large shard, the demon beat the man harder and harder with his sharp weapon as the man screamed and screamed and screamed, as blood gushed from his pulp of a back gored and ground; his backbone was broken everywhere with ceramic all over his guts from behind.

It was a hard time waking up today and getting going.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

how tolerance works

See it's like when you go to the beach
when summer first starts and you see the water and the water looks so blue and beautiful after all the sand, after you lay your towel down and walk to where the water meets the damp part of the sand and stand there with your feet scrunching; then you see a big wave and see the water coming and know it's about to cover your feet and splash your ankles; and it's freezing, so you inch your way in an inch of a body part of at a time, thinking: yes, oh jeezus, yes, that's cold; the entire time looking back to the beach where you started, where you see your towel sitting, and you finally put your head under, holding your breath again, since who knows when the last time was, or maybe when you didn't want to breathe in the exhaust from the bus beside you, because it looked so thick and you were afraid of getting cancer, even though you smoke occasionally when you're drunk, but you hold your breath and listen to the loud nothing of the ocean's fucking eternity, dark and pulling you wherever it wants you to go, and the first time you do something again after you haven't done it in a while is kind of scary, but you know you have to breathe to live, and that's the least you have to do aside from eating or joining the NRA, so you come up to breathe and hear the ocean from outside, you take the water from your eyes, slick back your hair, lick your lips for salt, lift your legs and just sort of float there until a wave comes, and then you either get pounded on a little and your hair gets messed up again, and there's more water to wipe from your eyes, or you jump when it comes, and then you look around and everybody else sort of jumps around the same time as you, and maybe that's where the wave came from at sports games, but well, of course that's where it came from, but just the water part, even without the people all jumping around the time that I jump, all the way to the point where they're at the shore just getting wet, when the water feels much colder than it does on me after it got my hair, and then I think: now what, I can just kind of jump around and float some out here and tread water, but now the water will never be cold again until I dry off, and maybe eat a sandwich and come back in, but probably only once more, since I don't want my butt to be too wet, when I'm trying to get home.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

we get along

I spoke to Zeke
tonight on the telephone.

We do this every month,
have a three hour talk and
over books and movies and life
then we exchange I love yous
and hang up.

We maintain
our relationship on
with comments on
notes and pictures and
reading each others' status

I have never met
Zeke, nor do I want to,
my best friend for at
least four years now.

He translates
writing; he loves
Vollmann, Updike; he
loves to talk about power,
getting women as a writer,
he talks about Zizek.

He'll probably have three
s by the time he's fifty,
my Scholastic Fantastic.

I told him I met you. How
we've become acquainted
how I'm excited about it.

He said: He just wants your
pussy. I said: Who doesn't.
He said: You're right,
I'm sure he's nice.
I said: Thank you.

And then we talked
about Polanski.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

we high-fived and I walked away

I often wonder what's wrong w/everyone;
knowing they probably think
the same thing about me.
A man was playing a game
on his iPhone at the bar.
When I caught him staring at my ass,
I asked him How are you?
Caught he said, I've been trying
to get past this level on my game
for three hours and it's driving me crazy.
I extended my hand for his phone
which he surrendered to me grinning.
Within a minute I solved his puzzle
and handed the phone back to him.
Going nuts. He said You're a genius!
You're a rocket scientist!
What do you do with that brain?
You must do great things!
I said Nothing really.
I'm not a scientist because I don't care
about space or bombs.
I said I do like to make things.
I like to invent.  I like to write.
I believe you he said,
then we high-fived and I walked away.
I told my ex co-worker Hannah about this
when I sat back down with her Jamesons
and my Maker's in rocks glasses.
I bet you got him to buy our drinks she said.
No Hannah, nothing is free I said.
I think you're some kind of savant.
I'm an idiot.
She said since I haven't seen you in a month,
I forgot what an alien you are.
Would you like to sit
on my upright pez dispenser? I said,
pulling a pez dispenser from my purse,
placing it on the table with our drinks. 
I love you said Hannah.
You and all your nasty candies.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

me & Travis talk about a dream

 me: Tell me...
 Travis: If we had just smoked a joint, I'd be back in undergrad.
  Coffee and pot was awesome.
  And then it all went away...
7:20 PM le sigh
  But I'll tell you.
  Go. me: Do you ever have recurring dreams where the settings are childhood living spots--rooms or yards you spent a massive amount of time scouring?
 Travis: I have.
  I actually had a really weird dream.
  Set in this gigantic temple.
  And I drew it for my father.
  And it turned out it was the exact floor-plan of my uncle's house.
  Which sort of made sense.
 me: Yes.
7:21 PM That's great!
 Travis: What place recurs in your dreams?
  Let me guess: Under the bleachers.
 me: That and...
7:22 PM Travis: Or: the dumpster behind the Subway.
 me: and that too and...
7:23 PM this house my mom got for us, our first house after the divorce and exodus from California; it was on a cove in an area by projects where I used to play kickball after school after watching the Cosby show.
7:24 PM It had a fenced in back yard, grass in the front. It keeps coming back, the laundry room by the back door leading out to the other door where we kept the push lawn mower
  and the corner where she used to make me raise my arms for an hour if I came in after dark if she had a bad day and felt like taking it out on me...
7:25 PM  we had this pendulum clock
  from Korea. In the dream I heard a tick, tick, tick, tick
  I followed the sound to the wall and the clock was warped, nailed all asymmetrically
 Travis: You are what Joseph Campbell would call a Deep Dreamer.
7:26 PM With the right drugs, you could be a shaman.
  Although they don't have much in the way of retirement.
  I've been having these crazy system dreams lately.
  I'm making a system, but I don't quite understand the components of it.
7:27 PM me: So, I stopped the pendulum and then realized my mother wouldn't be able to tell time. But it kept ticking after it stopped and the time stopped and it kept ticking and everything froze and I realized I was dreaming, woke up and the tick, tick, tick was the ceiling fan above me on Kamby's couch
 Travis: Yeaaah. I know.
 Travis: When the outside gets into the inside.
 me: My subconscious is screwed.
 Travis: Maybe you're cool without the drugs.
 me: Maybe it's too late.
7:28 PM Am I a weirdo?
 Travis: As weird as they come.
 me: But you adore me?
 Travis: You and Gonzo = birds of a feather.
  Even more than I adore Gonzo.
 me: Godzilla
7:29 PM You're a great listener.
  I can tell you've missed me.
 Travis: It's been too long.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

of Blooms's admiration for water

I got the bottom quote from Jimmy Chen's HTMLGIANT post re: James Joyce, from Ulysses-- an art piece that's influenced my life heavily.

A few years ago, when I was an unhappy girl living out the tail end of my second decade in Tennessee, I kept a handwritten journal, which eventually turned into a stack of speckled composition books. I've transcribed some entries on another blog: Life's Mischievy Unraveled.

The most interesting thing to me about these journals is the evolution of my writing style, influenced by various college courses, experiences and books I was reading at the time.

At one point I was compelled to pick up Ulysses after a short story called the Dead made me take notice of Joyce's complicated, yet moving prose. The story floored me; it changed me; I bought a hardcover of Ulysses and slowly tried to sink through it latching onto morsels of narrative here and there and mind bursts of images. I took the book with me everywhere, read a paragraph at a time, absorbing, digesting. I was making love to Ulysses, whereas other books I would fuck right through in an hour or two.

In a slow progression, my journal entries became extremely esoteric. I was writing myspace blogs for a while, which attracted about a hundred followers and they started to express confusion as to what the hell I was talking about. A few people in real life even looked at me funny when I spoke, as if I was spouting what sounded like nonsense gibberish. Talk about pretentious.

A few excuses I used to continue my strange new behavior was:

1. Some people actually understood me. Of course I decided these people were geniuses and pitied everyone else as ignorant.

2. I claimed any writing worth teaching in the world of higher education had a strong thresh hold of interpretive leeway. And here I thought everything I was writing was the new Prufrock. My poor ego back then; before I learned the grace of humility.

After a while, something in me decided to try to lean more toward being coherent--to appeal to a larger demographic, since I thought I had important things to say, revolutionary things, which would go to waste going over heads and splatting and drooling down walls. (I know, I know...)

This is when I decided to put Joyce away and take him out only occasionally for small doses. I began alternating between different styles of literature so not to mimic any one to obviously. This was my attempt at pacing the impressionable sponge living in my ever starving mind.

I suppose this was four or five years ago. Since then, the most fun I have when writing's with the great phenomenon of flash fiction--where ironically enough, condensed esoteric prose actually works best.

Once in a while I still crack Joyce, and I admit, the romance is as strong as it ever was.

Below, is a great example of what I'm talking about. A gliding complexity perfected from the chapter Ithaca.

Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator’s projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.

Joyce. You will never cease to amaze me and the rest of the world as a master. Whatever made you, to me, defines miracle.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

the casket rolled inside

A cardiologist died and was given an elaborate funeral.

A huge heart covered in flowers stood behind the casket
during the service. Following the eulogy, the heart opened,
and the casket rolled inside. The heart then closed, sealing
the doctor in the beautiful heart forever.

At that point, one of the mourners burst into laughter.
When all eyes stared at him, he said, “I’m sorry,
I was just thinking of my own funeral…I’m a gynecologist.”
That’s when the proctologist fainted.


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

District 9 review

With an immense demographic variety responding with positive regard to the now critically acclaimed District 9, I'm surprised, and bewildered, that I thought it was just okay. Though, it was a bit lengthy, the documentary style filming technique with unknown actors (and Peter Jackson's name) worked well. Then there's a lot of talk of whether or not there will be a second movie, with people sounding very intelligent lately, saying things like,

"I like District 9 for being an original sci-fi movie with social commentary on post-colonial theory--regarding appropriation of cultural commodities, authoritative hegemony, technological and semantic disconnect, colonial points of impact, etc; but if the plan is to release a second film, I will quickly take back my positive regard for the film because I'll know then that the film makers are just trying to make money off people with the lack of closure they provided from an open ended conclusion and very ambiguous sense of what happens to all the nasty characters which we grew to adore..."

I've got a question: Who would really gives a damn about a second movie? So the bug people led by a smart bug named Christopher get rescued and chibber-chabber on another planet with a butt load of hoarded cat food and that jerk main character changes into the jerk main character again; then what? The Nigerians who curiously act like feral cannibals eat everybody to get their powers and slice cow heads like butchers in Mad Max and the science research people who love killing things for the sake of figuring things out start a revolutionary square dance contest...

District 9, to me, was way over hyped over kitschy sci-fi bug drama. It reminded me of the movie The Fly with Jeff Goldblum, mixed with a dash of Men in Black and ET, even though the floating ship in the poster just sits there--out of gas, or something.

I admit my favorite part had to be the miniature alien bug baby computer prodigy. Thank goodness for that guy. Without him, the overall cuteness of the film would've relied mostly on a squishy semi-mutated monster hand and back door alien porn in headlines alone. Though, the high tech robot suit with rocket launchers and space lasers was great too; bringing with it the very necessary component of combusting violent military people like human pinatas. And what's a good time without pinatas? Sheeeit.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

a two minute play written on the back of a receipt

Setting: In a bar; it's raining out; Maggie & Dean are stranded watching a movie sequel on TV. The one where Sandra Bullock is a cop pretending to be a beauty pageant contestant.

Maggie: Will this rain ever end? It's been like this for hours.

Dean: This is why the world invented magazines.

Maggie: Um, what the hell are you talking about, Dean? I thought you hated magazines.

Dean: I do hate magazines, Maggie. That's not the point.

Maggie: *sighs (her hand is cupped under her chin, thoughtfully) I used to love magazines when I was a child.

Dean: Where did the love go?

Maggie: Where does anything go? Where does the rain go when it's over? It evaporates, and this is a reality. It runs its course, it gets everyone wet. And when the day's over we're all masturbating in the dark--just to get a good night's sleep!

Dean: The sad thing is, I can't disagree with you, Maggie. You're so right sometimes; it's ridiculous.

Maggie: Yeah, I know; it's a curse. Just like this shitty weather.


Monday, August 3, 2009

i adore your schizophrenic expression

this is a compilation of a week's worth of my favorite text messages:

Hard making list. Happy as clam.
Kisses on your clam.

Shoulder squeezes and neck kisses from behind.
Sexy monster style.

I fixed a career, a marriage, a computer
and a motorcycle today.

Yeah, no kidding. I don’t even know you when you have a new boy. So what you’re saying is that you dumped the artiste after he painted you in the sunshine?

Susanna will LOVE you. We’ve got dinner and red wine plans with her Friday night. Exciting!

What’s your shoe size?

Zombie lovings! Thriller-ing!

Ahh the will to live returneth! Coffee,
my mistress, wraps me in her arms.

Hoarde me like a dragon.
Delicious with fire-licked lips.

Get me something to have at the office?
Nothing Elvis!!

Tuck hardbender, pretender of the dong.

Man. Feeling mighty nice.

It has everything to do with ninja Jedi. It’s the same thing but makes you puke because it’s so sweet and cute. Causes cataracts if not viewed with proper eye wear.

Have u both turned into coconut scented puppies?
With ultra violet eyes and poop fruit candy?

Has the awesomeness of your new relationship caused a vortex that has pulled you both into another dimension yet?

The love I have for you was always something I dreamed of when I was a kid. Have a safe and beautiful trip this summer. Talk to you soon.

Work over.
Scooter flying on carebearjoy clouds.

Tiny finch playing in leaves.
Right hand worn out from clicking.
Heal me, lover.

Yoga yoga go go go!
Just closed bank account. Lost faith.

I know a painter man who's going to pee
a little when he lurks those photos.


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

they made us make air punching motions

I was in a car the other day with three friends and with the way they were jiving bubbly we-did-whats about Saturday, I punched the NOTES key on my iPhone and began butterfly netting and tip-tapping everything. These word salads are the result:

You know how they do that thing
where they touch your back in that very uncomfortable place
& then there's a big hole? I was on my bike for ten hours & now my back & butt muscles have been compromised. Less muscle tenderness is what I want. And spandex padding to reduce the pain from chafing. I can't even push through. The people who go to the gym are very normal or our age or clean cut or younger. I met them at a scavenger hunt. One was at the end of pier 45. A cover band invited me to their acoustic gig at Arlene's Grocery. It was like Bon Jovi karaoke. It was a relay race. A pole dancing mini class. Sometimes they made us make air punching motions. They had strip bowling to get us down to our socks & shoes. Bullriding. Pogo sticks. Everyone stayed around for the afterparty. The winners got second place last year. They won
roundtrip tickets on Southwest to whereever.

&: Did you hear about the python that ate the alligator?
The alligator busted out of the python's stomach while it was asleep & it died. Pythons are taking over the Everglades. The largest spiderweb subsided cannibalism for a little while after a big rain. There was a feeding frenzy. Spiders were feeding & spinning. There were dead mosquitoes everywhere. They were sharing & combining webs from an abundance of food. When I was a child, you know how they have those mints in bowls when you're leaving restaurants, I reached for a mint & began chewing it until I realized it was a piece of chalk;
it was the worst thing I've ever tasted in my life.


Tuesday, July 21, 2009

book review - A Jello Horse

I won a copy of Matthew Simmons' book A Jello Horse in a contest

He asked contestants to submit photos of, or write about, people playing pinball. Since I love pinball, and have for a while, I had a few pictures and videos nestled conveniently in my archive and decided to submit them and participate for the fun of it. I also love books and getting books in the mail, and trading art for art, so in my mind, contests like these should exist all the time.

I first heard of Matthew Simmons as the "Man Who Couldn't Blog" in August '05 through a lovely guy in Houston named Gene Morgan. I'd most recently discovered the joys of blogging on myspace when a good friend of mine in Tennessee named Eric Todd, who'd had a few poetry classes with Gene at U of H, introduced me to his blog "pompadoured."

After I got in touch with Gene, we corresponded for a while before I stayed with him as a guest in Houston for a summer week where he was a gracious host--taking me to parties and art and food. This is when I was introduced to other blogs like Tao Lin's "Reader of Depressing Books" and Christopher Monks' "Utter Wonder."

Since all of that business of making friends through networking and moving from city-to-city, I've kept tabs on Gene's projects such as "Bear Parade." This is where I found the one-and-only Youngstown genius Noah Cicero and his blog "the Outsider" from an Omega Man-like zombie story posted there. Read Treatise; it'll let you think, and spark respect for Noah Cicero.

I'm still discovering others as well, through various links and honorable mentions--like the insanely creative and proseful Blake Butler, whose "Win a Copy of Ever with Your Nasty Mind" contest I won effortlessly (being the dirtiest mindedest perv ten worlds over) and the great, fun and crazy-in-an-ALMOST-bad-seeming-way-but-not-really-Sam Pink. Both are brilliant individuals.

Stemming from the pioneering voices mentioned above--I've been fortunate to find friends to admire and find interesting. They appeal to my sense of artistic/intelligent style and not-too-serious whimsy. And above all, the ones I've met, or haven't met, seem like they are good people; fundamentally speaking--even though--they are--after all and everything...writers. ;)

Now, without further delay, here is my review of A Jello Horse:

Matthew Simmons’ delicate prose in his book “A Jello Horse” is a wondrous read on a quiet night within an hour of lying around relaxing. After reading each pretty paragraph, going back and reading it again out loud is recommended to add to the magic of listening to the unraveling of a heart-touching story of a man dealing with a traumatic suicidal event affecting himself and his closest friends. On the road, we observe his recollections of past love’s failures. We are also exposed to his vivid perceptions of the world through the mind of a child who has grown; who continues to grow through death, disease, and empathic observation. His search for absurd beauty between nights in cheap hotels and pinball, takes us through stretches of dreamlike images from an imagination filled with fierce but friendly creatures: the famished antelope grazing city rooftops, slack-eared Jackalope in a Village discovered by roadside billboard, and a flying lion named Richard--all melting into the stark contrast of circumstances in the human condition. “A Jello Horse” is an inspiring coming-of-age tale which is well-worth reading repeatedly.

Matthew drew a surprise rabbit for me. I found it when I reached the part of the story about the Jackalope Village. Also included in the book is a haiku about breakfast. And this is all because I love pinball and reading and hand-drawn rabbits and winning things. Yes! for that.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Thursday, July 9, 2009


One of the worst
sounds in my life
is the rush of sleep
coming for me; it's
screaming paralysis
flickering and hissing,
I jerk my head.

there were demons
before the Church
saved my Savior in a
Sunday dress; in some
handsome weeks I
closed my eyes to drift
away, lucid landscapes
faceless friends stepping
silent paths, incredible
trees, floods low enough
to wade through.

walking before waking,
a hand through a wall
behind a switch for light,
my sinking feet, jump
back paralyzed with a
shadow on my chest,
faceless, holding my
breath to shift an inch,
to replace that hiss
with the sound of a heavy
heart sprinting, sitting
suddenly upright shaking,
staring hard into my hands.

One of the worst
sounds in my life
is the rush of sleep
coming for me
between silent
winds in clouds with
arms outstretched
and the silence of
a dark place to rest
before the sun says
it's tomorrow.

socializing with guests

One wicked season
in one night of my personality:
the lover and the love-maker meet,
recognizing and asking after a hard
week's work socializing with guests, and
demons--to lay there beside you
to absorb subtle nutrients from you
in sips and sighs between light sleeping;
then waking before sunrise to leave--
to really get some sleep on Sunday.
And he knows you are capable and bright;
that's why he leaves smiling and needs
you, the most when he feels like dying,
and he says he's been shattered
and ripped to a mess
tortured to a shell, tail tucked
in gutless guilt lined suits,
just once and she kept it broke
and she wouldn't swallow
and there will not be coffee;
with anyone who is not so useful.
It's the opposite of being worthless
according to the extremes of being,
and the way they we fall
I tell myself this all the time.


Wednesday, July 8, 2009

These birds are us...

except we are flesh colored without feathers, probably have much more interesting personalities, and we wouldn't hunker so close on a stick like that staring into a void.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

book review - Old Man and the Sea

I finally read Old Man and the Sea, for the first time, taking it seriously, after years of ignoring the book and the author, as some boring mainstream pop culture hoopla.

My instincts said: Hemingway's stories were over-admired and misogynistic, about baseball and war with no real pizazz or pragmatism for escape; that my life would be better off without them.

Boy, was I wrong.

Old Man and the Sea is not about an old fisherman trying to catch fish, even though it really is just that too.

Explaining the beauty of its decadent meter is like trying to explain how the multicolored facets give luster and depth to a fine diamond, or why the robustness of an aged Port with its subtleties of smoke and asparagus fall so well on the glass and tongue. As an adult there's a beauty in simplicity that makes more sense than when we are younger and more impulsive.

Old Man and the Sea is a lesson in the appreciation of rhythm, like in the sounds of cicada approaching and withdrawing intensely while standing in grass near a tall tree'd landscape--in the flawless white powder covered back yard feeling smooth and blinding on the eyes in the morning crawl of a lazy day; in the whisper of an intuitive lover before climax, framing the moment into rapturous memories oft remembered before some nights of rest.

In other words: as experience refines the palate--maturity and elegant simplicity are Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea.

Here, a few lines that wrecked me into reverently triple reading them:

"The old man carried the mast on his shoulder and the boy carried the wooden box with the coiled, hard-braided brown lines, the gaff and harpoon with its shaft. The box with the baits was under the stern of the skiff along with the club that was used to subdue the big fish when they were bought alongside."

Those very lines had me optimistic in imagining reading them to my future children before bed; they gave me hope for raising progeny in what has felt like a falling apart feeling world; with its poetry in a story about a man and his quest to catch the perfect marlin making the world seem lighter; less intense.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

#2 transcribed from scraps

I told the Athropologie phone operator to cancel a green shirt I ordered after deciding it probably wasn't meant to be. I said there was a good chance it would've offended somebody and they might've put a curse on me giving me weird ticks for life or something. That it might've given someone a seizure, or enraged someone's gentle pit bull in an outfit taking a shit on the sidewalk causing it to birth a hemorrhoid.
She laughed; the phone operator said: that's the first time I've ever heard anything like that. She had depth in her laugh.
Then there was the citicards guy from South Africa sounded like a British robot, even though his facebook picture shows some skinny black kid in t-shirts. I still can't believe he added me. We talked about mongeese being the equivalent of squirrels in the U.S. Is that how it's pronounced? Mongeese.

Last night at a hotel bar we lied and told the waitress wearing a very slinky dress that it was my birthday.

If someone asked me what my opinions were about drugs and people who used them, I would say my opinion's based on what the drugs were, how much I like or disliked the person using them, and how functional or dysfunctional their lives and the lives around them were subsequently affected.
I realize some people are immediately turned off by the idea of drugs, i.e., in terms of youthful experimentation, perception expansion, recreation, escape, self-medication, etc.--because of fear; but to me, regardless of the people's lives that drugs have destroyed, fear is one of the greatest weapons against progress.
I sound like an infomercial for cocaine & LSD. Shipping & Handling Not Included. Don't try drugs if you have an addictive personality and hate your life. Or if you're bored and have more money than you know what to do with. Okay, nevermind...drugs are bad.

#1 transcribed from scraps

All of the combined elements in personalities of being extracted to make one source of nourishment minus excess in the same way we build our personalities from specks of essences of people we collect: monogamy, independence, compromise, compliance, boredom, temperance, awareness, honesty, conditioning, romance, intimacy, gluttony.

Missing someone before they're gone is much worse than missing someone once they're actually gone because you know you really like them enough to try to brace yourself for the missing once it comes. Gravity has a way of fucking with people who don't practice habits of suspecting.

She could give a man a look that made him want to kill himself and everyone he'd ever loved. Once a man called her a petulant teenager at a bar while she was sitting deliberately alone having a whiskey to get sleepy. She stared him straight, dead-on in his pupils and didn't say a single word. The man felt his dick shatter; on his way to the end of the bar he tripped on the floor shards; he walked to retrieve his tab and coat and left immediately.
(The time-release effect on being called "petulant" a great hindsight response versus what Hannah said she did in asking what he meant by the remark thus encouraging the small talk to continue. Though: it's good to see someone utilizing their word-of-the-day calendar, would have worked too. But then they would have ended up the the bathroom going down on one another.)

Please don't lick my teeth anymore; that's what toothbrushes are for, and that's only in the morning.

I had to take Lariss's gift of Sweet Mint gum out of my purse today. The strong smell of spearmint kept whooshing me back to the time I was less than ten, my mom's sidekick in Korea; when she used to take me to commissaries, and rec centers, when I crawled around military bases. I hate going back there. I don't want to go back to times when I was fascinated with the variety of delicious treats in vending machines. Calls on payphones were ten cents. My mom smoked Kent 100's, long, white cigarettes, 60 cents a pack way back when I could eat a whole small pepperoni pizza by myself. I continue to have recurring dreams with vending machines in them. And floods, but I don't know why I have those dreams.

It took three years for him to fall in love with me permanently. Three years of trying not to care.

I do not want to say hello to the cross guard on N 4th because I know she will think we have formed some sort of relationship. One day she misinformed who knows how many people into riding taxis or buses to work,when the train was running fine because her mother didn't love her enough. But, I still feel guilty ignoring her.

Dear David, (part ii)

Sorry, kitten--Okla called and we were figuring out some printing specs for this stupid book we said we'd design for someone, and then there was some financial talk, discussions of possible perjury, etc.

I knew that already. It's okay. There are three billtion trillion important things hovering in your mind right now, I'm sure. Listening to me talk about prostitutes will be more fun when we're fifty anyway.

billtion = the new: Creedence.

DB: When I brought up the butt-sniffing, our art consultant was like, "What else do dogs do?" I was like, when's a jackal and a whale gonna be hanging out? Shamu would surely be offended.

I think New York's making me feel crazy. I lived on the LES, explored most parts of Brooklyn, cat sat while earning a salary on the Upper East Side, a fling with a banker in Chelsea looking after an autistic man, yoga every Monday in the East Village, love affairs with artists, writers, a guru of unconditional joy; these parties, those parties, avoiding awkward gazes with books, walking, walking, walking, poetry readings, concerts in the park, museums, street food, fine dining, taxis--looking under all these rocks, this place is getting smaller by the minute, and the more reclusive I get for the sake of spring cleaning in quarantine, the more I realize I could do a lot of my favorite activities in any small place, as long as there's a healthy internet connection and enough love to keep my heart from drying up and dying.

It's definitely sniffing that whale's butt. I can make art for you.

DB: The suburbs are the new Williamsburg. A house like three doors down from me just got converted into a warehouse.

A key thing to understand for surviving in New York is one word: proxemics--meaning personal space. This is what decides tourists from the locals--the way one swings one's arms in relation to someone's salad outside a diner on a narrow sidewalk, compacting your breath so not to brush a whisp of the person's hair two inches in front of you on the train for the 8:30 rush.

It's about something else too, but this can apply to a lot of other places and situations, but I think I've found the meaning of life in flourishing as self-aware individual making conscious decisions regarding consequences in time-management; it's about pacing.

I feel like I have a lot on my mind.

I might be like three years late in coming here.

DB: You sort of just blew my mind--I'll get you next time.

The consequences of time absolutely rule my life. And mostly I've come to live in fear of these consequences, and the ensuing depression makes pacing more difficult to manage, which reinforces said fear and said depression until it's now time to make some sort of radical career shift. I can't say enough how sincere and urgent this change is. And yet I have no idea how to begin.

I don't even remember bringing up law school, but it's a fact, jack: I *am* a Raymond Carver protagonist. With a few secondary characters from Denis Johnson thrown in--Johnson's characters are so much more honest about their anxiety and desperation, which we appreciate.

I heard wind turbine maintenance guys make six figures easy, though, so there might be a way out yet. Or if someone buys my film script--those guys go for 35K just to option.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Dear David,

Oh shit, DB. I feel like I'm dying every minute behind my desk job not doing jack and making more money not doing jack than most high school teachers or cops make in my hometown praying for lunchtime to come around as a mile marker for a two mile crawl.

You school won't make it right for you. I fear it'll make things worse, actually. You're going to have to cram SO MUCH JUNK in your head to max capacity and purge that junk--with no room to exercise your creative muscles, and once you make those A's, which I know you'll relentlessly score, your integrity might get slaughtered for the sake of some cheesy dime, and then what will you do? By then your heart will have the mange, and you'll try to find peace in being some little league coach and Maggie and Joe will come over for dinner every Friday night and hopefully I won't be too long distance away when you're in your hand-made bomb shelter sipping bourbon, so you can call and say: what happened? I'm old now and my knees hurt. And I'll say: Bring your knees to me and I'll kick your knees, you ass.

ps. I mean that with much love, DB. The most even

pps. I'm not trying to make it worse, I just want you to think about what would make you happy--let's say utilitarianism is a dirty whore we found blowing P-Diddy at Piggly Wiggly. I want you to be happy, and I know you were raised too conservative to let yourself become full blown bohemian, though you've got a romantic bohemian heart aching to sing songs under a cherub perched tree & all that, and there's nothing wrong with being an adult and being responsible--you know, I think, speaking of pacing, you're just tired from taking on too much this last semester; it'll get better. You're a baddass professor, I'm sure of it. I mean, you've been teaching me and you've barely even tried.


pppps. You haven't been pacing yourself properly and you're burning yourself out, maybe.

ppppps. I think law school's going to be another bumrushfeast. Are you trying to age prematurely? Is that your masochism? Seriously...

Sunday, June 28, 2009

olfactory mnemonics

A surge of the scent of mop water filled my nose and head,
with the days I served my time as an indentured servant
with Stockholm Syndrome, for my family's petroleum business.
"What's that disgusting smell?" said Mel, really not
knowing where to begin in only recognizing it as gross.
But I knew. I knew if you didn't wash a mop
and squeeze it dry after scrubbing a dirty floor with it,
it would smell sour the next day, and that that very smell
was the smeared stain of laziness and neglect
for the sake of who-knows-what of doing a half-assed
cleaning job to any building's floor.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

40 seconds on youtube

My morbid curiosity, while surfing a networking site, made me watch a 26 year-old woman die in front of a camera after being shot by militia during an Iranian protest.

Watching blood spill from her eyes and mouth, sprawled in shock on the ground, people nearby in grief and panic, I was instantly traumatized; the moment felt like déjà vu in my compliant familiarity of it all; and in that: it made too much sense to disregard it as another casual incident of war in the media, of people blowing people up with suicide bombs, AIDS in Africa.

And for weeks people in New York were sick and scared to death of dying from a sneeze or cough on the subway, breathing into their sleeves, wearing masks, terrified by a swine flu from Mexico.

My thoughts attempting to grapple and digest the incident said: She must've suffered a severe internal injury, she's hemorrhaging through the orifices in her face; and I can't recall where I learned about that particular side-effect of being shot in the chest, since I studied mostly Art in school, but certainly and without a doubt, this was real. Anyone with even half a brain could see that.

This was on youtube, someone filmed this; it wasn't Apocalypse Now; it wasn't some R rated street fight whateversploitation kickboxing flick; and it certainly wasn't ER, or a forensics show with an indignant-gun-happy-tough-guy-cop named Mancinni.

A very disgusting fact about my life is: I watched a beautiful young woman die on a day that I was mad at the weather for not being bright and warm enough to enjoy. On a day I casually discussed boredom as a noxious disease, over a miso soup and fried dumpling dinner, while complaining that my donation-based yoga class was too "extra sweaty" as a reasonable fitness strategy.

What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is this obnoxious product of idle human waste I've become? It's terrible. And now I can't shake this weight-laced guilt of taking up too much space in society as a worthless, unproductive American.

To think: that tragic scene of real blood and death was displayed on the same medium where I watched David visit the dentist only a few days before. Where in a 7-minute horror film spoof, a few friends and I get shot down and slashed to death by machetes on rural soil by the hands of vicious redneck marauders.

Imagine all the incidents left unrecorded. Undocumented history. Unknown incidents that slide by undetected. This girl had blood pouring from her face. Everyone was screaming. She was at a rally. For Freedom. All recorded on a cellphone camera.

Had Neda ever even heard of youtube? I'm hoping that question's not completely ignorant. But then again, what if she had?

Either way, her dramatic "faces of death" scene has burned a vision of tragedy into the eyes and souls of the world's attention, and in the untimely death of a beautiful, young Iranian protester, a new media martyr is born to stir a drowsy, distracted mass--awake.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

darling, we were a mess

Today I called an eight year
friend from what I knew would
show as an unknown number.

hello? he said

Do you remember when
I was an alcoholic?

half a pause and
---yes, darling,
I remember.

I owe you a hamburger,
or a veggie burger,
or whatever.

You do?

From when you were
n Austin last summer.

Austin?----Oh yes,
you do don't you.

Come to New York and get it.

Well, I am in desperate
need of a vacation, so I just
might take you up on that.

Are you in Houston
right now, teaching
students how to
take tests better?

Yes, actually, that's exactly
what I'm doing, and I really
should get back to it.

And I'm not always here,
I'm just here right now.

I'm at work too, you
know. See why I rarely call
you? If I think hard enough
about what you're doing,
I usually just know.

It's rare that I'm here
doing this, even though
I am doing it all day today.

Hey, I said: Hey.
Who would've thought
all those bullshit experiences
in the past could be harnessed
and become so useful
for us as adults?

Yes, we were a mess
in Jackson, weren't we.

Come to New York
and I'll buy you a burger,
with fries. It's getting pretty
here, the cold air's dissipating
and the Forsythia's sprouting
yellow bursts everywhere
like peeled bananas.

You know, I'll definitely
think about it: he said.

Go teach. Go
teach those kids
how to take tests.

Okay. I will. And hey, you
know you can call me later
tonight if you want to.

Yeah, maybe,
I don't know.
I probably won't
call you tonight.
But have a nice day
at work, and try to
come to see me before
summer gets
too hot,

and I love you a lot
my darling. It was nice
to hear your voice


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

the NY breakfast barrier commute

I work in the Journalism Department at Columbia University, which is about an hour commute from my Brooklyn apartment, which I share with two roommates; it's a typical NY situation.

Every morning I wake up around 7, take a shower and assemble myself while listening to itunes on shuffle; I leave the apartment at 8, walk from S1st St. to S7th and catch the L train to 6th avenue in Manhattan; I transfer to the 1 train from there, if I'm not in a rush (but if I am I take the 2 or 3 express trains and transfer back to the 1 on 96th St) and read or write in my moleskine until I get to 110th St; from there I walk to 116th St, usually with a large coffee from a market right outside the subway entrance. I start work at 9, and work from a desk until 6pm.

This morning, since I got a pretty early start and all the trains were on time, I got off on 103rd St to enjoy the sunshine of an early Spring day with a 13-street stroll, to admire dogs flashed out in their adorable outfits looking for various places to sniff and relieve themselves onto, to stop off at my bank's ATM for cash.

I walked by a McDonalds and felt tempted; and I could not resist the temptation; I looked at my watch, hoping I didn't have enough time, but had plenty of time; I went inside and got in line with this mixed feeling of excitement and shame.

A Mexican girl about 5'2" asked if she could help me; she looked 16, but I figured she was probably more like 23 with a kid or two in daycare; she seemed young though, in the way a person looks if they've never had to deal with things like suicidal goldfish, like she still had the all same friends from elementary school, in her life, as her friends, now; her eyes looked impatient and curious like that--spoiled-stupid and completely unaware of psychology.

I said, "A Deluxe Breakfast
and a large black iced coffee, please."
She said, "black?"
I said, "yes, black."
She said, "iced?"
"Yes, iced, please."
"With no flavoring?"
"No flavoring, at all?"
"No, just black."
"Would you like sugar
or liquid sweetener?"
"No. Black."

She turned and said something in Spanish to another Mexican lady, looking flustered; the other Mexican lady said something in Spanish back, unemotional, as if she were used to and exhausted from explaining the ways of the world to the younger girl. They were standing in front of the 2 for $1 apple pie warmer.

A moment later the first girl slid what looked like a clear cup of iced milk with a tinge of brown to me and said, "Here you go."

I looked at the cup, slid it back to her and said, "black."
She looked shocked. "No cream?!"
"No, black."

Then I started to mumble something about needing it more for the caffeine than the calories, but decided the communication barrier was already too complicated and let the general notion evaporate into a sad series of tired ellipses.

She took back the coffee, handed it the the second girl who she'd spoken to earlier in Spanish, then glanced back at me like I was holding the Grim Reaper's sythe while he was doing jumping jacks beside me; she said something in Spanish again.

A few moments later she finally handed me the large black iced coffee I felt like I'd been waiting my entire life for.

"Thanks," I said.

She looked at me as if I'd already ruined her day as the strangest human alive she never wanted to meet again; she finally handed over my Deluxe breakfast with pancakes and a hash brown.

I asked for ketchup; she looked scared, reached down without breaking any indirect eye contact and handed me three packets.

"Thanks," I said again, and walked away looking for a straw.

When I finally got to my Columbia desk, after passing two of my usual AM coffee places along 13 streets strutting the walk of shame with my golden M bedazzled bag of pure delicious nonsense, I wasn't in the mood for a Deluxe Breakfast anymore; but after slathering the crisp, greasy and salty piece of potatoey work, with two-of-the-three packets of fancy ketchup, I devoured the hash brown that came with it, in two-bites anyway.

I took a sip of my watered-down coffee from its straw and rolled the brown taste around my tongue and teeth before swallowing it.

As I suspected--perfect.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

I have an eye infection

I am bed-ridden, home from work with a massive eye-infection caused by either: stress, sleep deprivation, passing out w/eyeliner caked on after a hard-core night of Friday night birthday karaoke; or maybe even popping a sty with a sewing needle & squeezing it--without having a bowl of boiled water around, or peroxide.

Now my eyes are hot and swelled shut and leaking goop and I can't do anything with myself but lay in bed clutching a book trying to doze off into a world of dreaming, until I get a text of sympathy for my warped and mutated-looking condition.

Earlier, I could barely stumble across the street to buy juice, and living near Bedford in Williamsburg, even though it's difficult to admit, I had to kick off my gray death sweats for more appropriate black pants, I threw shawl around my shoulders and applied some lipstick; mother would have been so proud.

There were a few younger Italians in that place, buying 40's of malt liquor; they already smelled of booze and it was barely 6pm; they were attractive boys who looked like they played soccer in one of the nearby Brooklyn parks on warm Saturday afternoons; a posse of dark skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonises; and even with my swollen eyes, thankfully, I got the proper attention I'm used to receiving with their silent stalking once-overs.

One day I will not receive that treatment anymore when I am older, unless I find a way to molt my flesh like some crusty sock and drown myself in expensive creams that actually do what they're advertised to do, or by then, perhaps, some company will have a pill, or a duplicate will be available that shares the same conscience as me, like in that Battlestar Galactica show.

Hopefully by then though, I will be settled with a loyal love of my life, my story collecting behind me and on pages for the world to read, settled, no longer wild; still and relaxed.

I sent a few texts to my oil painter today, as I was stranded quietly in my bedroom, eyes too sore to read, attention span running rampant all over the place, everywhere for the sake of mischief.

I'd call him my "ex," but I hate the way that sounds when people bring up "their ex," as if they only have one, knowing these gorgeous people I talk to have many actual "exes."

It makes them sound hung up in the past of some love affair that's hopelessly incomparable to anything the present or future could offer--my "ex." Give me a break.

So my oil painter is a lovely, lovely man whose lovemaking and patience spoiled me into spending a good deal of personal time with him, watching movies, sipping wine, eating cheeses and sleeping; though, I'd have to say one of my favorite things about him was the way he was an elitist, so aloof in every sense of the word, in public, so elegant.

Girls, ladies, and men alike became smitten with his presence at any event; they would ask him to talk about his art and try to find a way to become close to him, to obtain and ounce of his attention...and he was relentlessly bored with them, calling them sycophants to me later when we were alone, if they acted too much like excited puppy dogs filled with unwarranted glee.

It's not that he was a bad person; he was raised by a Mormon mother in a good family in Utah; he had old-fashioned values--just as a second generation painter who'd studied at Cambridge, he didn't have time for bullshit with people; he was too busy for that.

The only people he considered his equals were also beautiful, talented, brilliant people constantly immersed in projects.

I fully and finally developed my people palette with him, after many transitions and transmogrifies in my own constantly evolving world of never-ending heartache, brought upon by repeated tests of mortality, and morality.

These efforts were to obtain useful ways to bend the world and the people occupying it, according to my seasoned wants and needs; for my tired memoirs begging excitement, drama--lessons which others would subsequently regard as useful in contexts of stories.

It made sense that the artists let me in, wrote songs and stories about me, painted me, let me play in their films and listened to my opinions respectfully. It was nearly impossible for me to start and finish a project of my own from an my inability to take myself seriously as a feral, self-taught miscreant of sorts, and always having a finger in other people's projects from being curious.

I became a muse who loved to drink and make love, and did a lot of this; and my heart knows how it feels to be satisfied and enraged and worshipped, and when it is neglected I feel very empty.

So I sent texts to my oil painter, after barely communicating with him every so often--because he knows all of this about me, and knows what I know about him, which is everything, and in the texts I said, "I miss wine and movies with you, and your lovely body, hope you are well, New York is fine" and his response was, "thanks, I like you too..." amongst other sentiments, and my life seems sad and perfect like that a lot, and ridiculous.

Today, I spoke on the phone with another man, whose Manhattan place I spent a few warm nights in, before our relationship took confusing twists with third and fourth parties, in experimenting with something called an open-relationship, and now we are back to trying to be friends again in an effort to salvage something that seemed worth starting in the first place.

I admire his effort; he's one of the brightest and sexiest people I've met in a while, though he has a history of dating ditzes and air-head doormats for some easy reason that I don't have the time or patience to think about and try to understand.

This made me weary among other issues, but his shit taste in women did not make sense for someone who seemed to have all his cards in a stack, and I judged him harshly as being "shallow" for not caring what's "upstairs" as well as caring about what's below.

Hence, my sabotage radar shut me down, shutting him down, in a big smoke bomb of mystery, from which we sift little pieces to stare at blankly to this day, in wondering what went wrong.

From my new found attempts of progress from my own merits, which had little to do with what he had to offer in status and stability I realized what I needed was as much inspiration and outlets for personal artistic growth, as I could absolutely muster; and I saw him as a potential source of confinement or what I call a Property Manager Type.

On the phone today, "PMT" told me I should get out and date, like some imperative order, after I chastised my love life as being a huge source of my dissatisfaction with the world lately--as if it's really that easy for me, as it would be for him to sponsor some toy to play with for a while, with field trips of this activity or that.

I basically told him I'd rather sit alone in my bedroom and rot than to waste my time on a date with someone much less than extraordinary by standards of wealth in personalities I live by.

For me, the new partners I elect to be my lovers are people my former lovers would approve of and nod their heads yes to, as if it made complete sense in so many ways, why I would chose to spend time with that person; and immediately, with no question, that person would be assumed to be brilliant and very good at something, if not many somethings, and a fantastic lover to boot to appease my voracious sex drive, which goes to maximum levels, when I am attempting to be monogamous.

I am trying not to play with my eyelids right now. They are itching and I don't want to agitate them more than they are already agitated. I wonder if David Lynch would date me? I think we would get along, but maybe I should try to publish few novels first, or get really huge implants, or something else drastic like that.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

taste, talent, and Amy Winehouse in 2009

Venturing out to pick up a load of laundry after sifting through the hamper for repeated wears of already worn socks with livable muck on the bottoms, I met a new comrade at the liquor store buying scotch on the way home; he's a musician, and a very nice young green-eyed human overall, from what I can tell so far.

Calder Hulse (isn't that just lovely?) gave me a delicious Jewish-culture-inspired triangle-shaped raspberry-filled cookie to snack upon, while standing amongst bottles of wine and other boozes, and another to take home with me.

In an hour-and-a-half, we exchanged what had to be the best conversation I've been part of in a while; as well as contact information, to be in touch for more conversations.

What impressed the most about meeting this young man, initially, was his somewhat pretentious confidence in explaining the differences between various whiskeys, scotches and wine.

I told him what I was looking for in reds: not too sweet, a cherry or raspberry versus citrus tone, not too dense, semi-transparent, less peppery, and most importantly--affordable. I stressed my search for the ultimate flavor in a bottle ranging between 10-14, that I preferred Pinot Noirs to Cabs, and then that whites were a rare craving, but mostly a summertime affair.

His take on this was that I drank more like a man than a girl, which was interesting to him, that I wasn't complicated to please in that I actually knew what I wanted, that what I was describing was what pricier reds brought to the table, but that it wasn't impossible to help me find what I was looking for.

After that, our discussion went by the way of how decent new music these days seems to be, and has been, in hibernation with all the pop and eighties and nineties sounds holding strong within its manifested realms of anti-originality.

Whether for the sake of nostalgia or to build a sense of community, hoards of individuals are confused, their identities strongly relying on the way their jeans fall around their carefully picked footwear; their left or right comb-overs looking amazingly effortless; their seamless sense of ennui perfected in times where the rest of the world seems to be in shambles compared to the luck and freedom we have in our lives as Americans.

I told a story of being in DC for a seminar discussing solutions for treatment for the mentally insane, how while waiting in a Renaissance Marriott restaurant for two $5.50 hard boiled eggs for a Nobel Prize winning panelist, an instrumental version Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" played like classical music over the speakers as I stood there in disbelief.

I juxtaposed that incident with one of waiting in a rat infested subway for a train to take me home two days later back in New York. There was an aged homeless black man playing the sweetest version of "Fur Elise" I'd ever heard in my life on what looked like a steel drum banged into shape with a mallot out of a garbage can.

A small child danced as if in a ecstatic trance, while the man pummeled his drum with home-made sticks, spinning and twisting his hips back and forth; his mother occasionally yanking his hoodie to bring him close to her again without even looking up.

It's as if some built-in mom radar sensed he was wandering not dangerously, but rudely, into passersby dropping dollars into the open backpack sparsely littered with dollars and change. The next song the man played, in his tattered, dirty bundle of clothes, was something familiar and Celtic by the one and only Enya.

The story I got back from Calder was about a world famous violinist who played these extravagant sold-out shows on a violin that was valued worth millions. There were people who decided to do an experiment and put the violinist in a subway station in plain clothes, to see if anyone would notice or appreciate the exquisite sounds of someone so revered by the sophisticate community.

Ultimately, the violinist was ignored for the most part, aside from random commuter children who would stop in their tracks and dance to his music as if possessed; or the occasional theater aficionado who would recognize the musician, whereby being flabbergasted and giving him piles of money as if he were downtrodden and begging for handouts.

What these conversations boiled down to was the idea that real technical talent is often unidentifiable by the masses, that they're more likely to be engaged by popular gimmicks, or catchy formulas rather than inventive ingenuity.

That people are so caught up in trying to fit into some category of intelligence or fraternity, their perceptions aren't inclined to fully develop in ways to branch beyond what they learn in books, or from positive social experiences that might make room for a-little-to-some practical impressions on their personalities.

Calder and I agreed that whether the art or music or literature we made was good or bad according to the opinions of others, we needed to proceed in producing what we considered to be "beautiful" regardless--with the confidence to create and define compositions with and by our own unyielding standards.

How else are we to get out of this rut of pop songs about "Rehab" playing in $300 a night hotels charging $5.50 for two hard boiled eggs? I'd like to think that the best music our kids are listening to these days aren't what they catch a glimpse of on route to daycare.

Hopefully wine tastings and glockenspiel infused Indonesian music events with Calder are on the horizon, as well as more conversations regarding the progression of art against formulaic odds within the creative spectrum of New York and beyond.
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