Saturday, February 27, 2010

title, phenoma's last.

What was all that about? Every word just wanted to stay out of the pool for a while, they stood around looking grim into the water. A bloody blue cement floor with a drain! It's not dead center? Look at it, as I am with my hair too flopping-wet, did you bring...

that book of metaphysics? I resort to it when it seems my friend the consul has grown thin on waiting his turn for the writing, staring at the pen.

does the theory of evolution sit on trampoline, thinking, where's my article? Where's the little one-letter word that helped bring me here? Hollow under that pale of black hair--a ghost in the machine, however! Ever an intelligence and cankering.

A new model for criticism? Speaking of characters, Durrell's or Lowry's, may occur: primitive model of art is at stake, that it is a random process that makes salutary connections--while not talking to its mother-ego about what's outside for now, the limited material beyond the text--the matter not reigned in by Derrida, for instance. We need to send these people a post card asking about Jesus, and why he was regaled in the process of their presiding over a wandering 5-year-old during a shotgun wedding.

That works best if no one knows what it's really about, and I cannot take any further prevaricating. You want to know! You! All about what this is about.

Well I could tell you, but then I'd--

Enough.

markers-crayon

I want nothing of heart: professionalism, veneer.

I've been thinking.

Yes, what it means to be a writer: in the mawkish sense. It's an ugly word full of nasty implications for the heart!

Did you put that in? This is only me, perhaps in the drab of secondarity, foretelling an aching skull. The topmost portion, the brink! Aching, sore. Apologizing daily, looking about: the sophistry in a sound place of love. Regardless of synecdoches.

streets of gold

Because, well simply it is what I do, or tend to: it's that, and this, but it's pretty much it. Doesn't anyone believe me? I've got to explain it. The only way I can is through an essay, via story. The formula works, if you can justify it daily, constant excuses. So many signatures. Only they don't have a legal system in prose, no one's accountable--cannot this be seen?

Cannot this...did he say, be seen?

yes, he believes he's on a stage. let him or nothing will get done.

an executor!

it's--it's--: hold on.

It just started making sense, that I would write in this medium first and then span out--but something told me that was safe, and I fled.

Safe in what regard? In the sense of saving--a responsible depository.

blogger's my girlfriend.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

with mustard

I just want to watch all the sci-fi movies ever...and write until I have it in my palms, control of that one pen...the one I've been searching this earth for, the flowing and gently stabbing end somehow like a ball-point but rather, almost a Uni-Ball.

If only my writing commanded the attention of an abomination, as I said I created with someone else's song! Not Unsane's, but that of a guitarist brother. Well, unless he says it's less insane than I think it is, it will remain hidden. Of course, David Grom knows...if he's checked his bloody email recently.

/ok.

Ha!

in the studio---

It was then that I looked around, and said: "What have I got?"

A raspy voice! Really loud and screeching, celebrating--what? A well-written essay, a swimming day, a sidewalk well-shoveled, a car belatedly disinterred? What then--this is the question. "Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ."

Joyce.

"It wasn't always this way...it wasn't always this way. It wasn't always this way...

"You laid there on that sidewalk, you laid there on that sidewalk. You laid there on that sidewalk..."

--Unsane.

Today I went ahead and drummed that infernally repeating young-punk beat that sounds quite sad when put with those awful vocals, despairing and stabbed through with problems the singer has created for himself: the blood on the sidewalk, the fumes wafting about his head! This, a song by Unsane, and the one that follows it--are both as one to me. Nothing is more miserable, this delightful pair of dirges. I try to live by them, as in, capturing the agony of adolescence in that old house way, that flavor a thousand times removed from traditional teen angst, rendered typically by teeny-bopper fluff. No! This is Poltergeist with better production.

where'd this come from?

at the moment it sounded crazy awesome, and later as I thought about its possibilities I felt they were defensible. damnit! have you never tried to create something? undue elation and foolish pride finish every stupid project! why did I waltz into Lisa's room when I was 10 and say, look at this drawing! because even though it wasn't finished, if I didn't show it to someone right then, by the morning it would've seemed a wasted effort. self-canceling doubt follows upon every production. it can't be helped. only the audience can be switched.

an intro of sorts

If the Consul is concerned with drinking, if he reviles himself incessantly during the first interview with his recently returned wife, and if he pursues this line of attack upon himself for more than a few pages and passes out in the end, what is his wife to think? The question of why she came back down here is not the answer: it is her self-destruction she must secretly wish for, embodied in her husband the Consul, Geoffrey Firmin, and the writer who linked those names together for one prodigious drinker.

I have said as much already in a later part of this essay, which will only become apparent once you discover that this blog post has some tremendous project behind it that really cannot get going without this indulgence: this place that seems vital, and one with its own saving mechanism: as in, it saves automatically.

Now, back to the point.

an email to a person.

I think I'll send one tomorrow.

bring---it?

This time, Durrell must be defended from oblivion--I can still recall when criticism was seen as the champion of great literature, custodian of mediocrity. For the moment it seems .. lost, as if fiction is getting along fine without it. Of course this is only because literary studies has jurisdiction over criticism: who reads a good book review anymore, one written knowing that most readers respect, believe in, great writers as something more than...

the last frontier of a Hollywood obsessed with dark corners to be exaggerated?

What is assured is veritable oblivion for those who speak wisely about books: for unless they enjoy scheduled, recurring get-togethers of people who like to read...literary folks will have a beast of a time connecting with anyone not majoring in Literature.

Perhaps they study very well, these book clubbers. Perhaps discussion groups are extremely rich enterprises in which it is my desperate misfortune not to have partaken...or maybe I simply have a single movie in mind, The Jane Austen Book Club--where discussion did reach some sophisticated heights. Of course as a chic flick it left its residue.

I cannot trust Thursday night smart-talk simply because I see it as it should be as a student. Yet of course this normative sort of blitheness is directed critically against the classroom as well, the very place where I learn to be thus critical!

This justifies the institution of higher learning. It, like N., seeks to achieve a trenchant self-criticism as a means of knowing the world, of overcoming--the reader is familiar with struggling as a form of philosophizing. It still requires a veritable career in philology...

cover letter

I would like to establish that the following is not impossible; I want to actuate it, bring it into being:

"In my essays--I've got ample background in criticism and theory to connect this text to that in interesting, authoritative ways that aim above all to constitute an artful demonstration bordering on literature itself."

What that means, I shall have to figure out in the very act of demonstrating it, birth it by recognizing that there's a possibility that it might be.

Monday, February 22, 2010

scripshor

--The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.

Joyce 13

Don't make me come down there, and explain to you all the fact that Ulysses has to wake up now and, really---sort of take charge, for a month. For a week. At least for tonight, and night's like tonight, when I have skipped the required reading and taken Stately, plump Buck Mulligan for his word that 'Kinch whose mother is beastly dead' shall be the knifeblade to figure out Hamlet's lineage after a few pints.

If you catch me speaking of anything other than this book,

...

Mountolive

Well, anyway I think we'd better just talk.

It involves something which I was just thinking about confronting, so long as you have terrific speakers. In that case---since you don't---let me tell you about this particular phase of the project in which I so frequently find myself caught up. But don't let it take too long. I have to get back to what I was doing. In French they call this sort of trance as if everyone knows it was initiated by jouissance which is not to say: I knew they would call it this. Because I've not heard them do so; I cannot look back and say that in the futuristic sense of what has occurred of late, I do indeed look forward to serving Proust's breakfast inside a comic: tea with biscuit, dipping the latter into the former. Recollecting, indulging.

And your primary sources are: photos of the author himself, Mr. Grom looking up from a paling dish of cank,

shit, whatever that entails, the rot is inside, with the emo song we transcended mere dead-girlfriend dolled up for you in the basement (the movie Dead Girl) to something more locally...positive, reinforcing: a scene from your days in youth, swearing not to measure anything; just wishing for a reflective moment rather than a one directed towards ensnaring the future within present whims,

however powerful the emotion that enforces them, they are all fleeting and all---for the most part---revolting. Yet this is the complexion of an entire face.

Hahaha,

Mark

Saturday, February 20, 2010

a best man speech

I suppose I'll write it along the way, carry the notepad around with me. Or I'll drink and then stand up talking.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

he had 7 spots, orange skin.

It was like--one might say--some ancient figurehead, telling stories (as they must) when out came the brief, as if on its own.

Look at your brother suffering on account of art. They made us pass around empty bottles of air.

Well, what else could there be, and how afraid are you to admit that it's still not empty? You 'said' all that about the center, now look at this silly old bottle.

We need equal syllables.

I prefer sounds like...Slithering. Sliding. (Creeping)

But only endearing qualities will I tolerate.

At last, after all that, something started making sense!!!!!!!!

Just look at all the torment these salamanders had to endure, walking from hand to hand, an infinity of two hands!

Now, that's emptiness. That...is something.

Now pay attention. It's remarkable how many words mean nothing.

Let's try to keep this in order--

You swallowed that cube of iced coffee,

thither.

No. Couldn't have. Makes so much sense the other way--can you open that back door?

This never feels like a lot.

I deceive every customer. Like it never mattered. I am, above all, a customer. Myself.

Now--as I was rolling out of bed I heard this delicate drumming noise--sort of spooky in a way--at 11:45 well that's when I looked up at the clock but I'd been listening for 10 minutes I'd say--All within a moment--A very long, courageous moment.

This sounds like a fever, yes, they call it in Haiti--

Nothing so different from what you were raised to believe it to be (long, stretched out, dimensions curled). However, each around the other like that ! While each is also spun around itself.

Never. I'd never heard of it even once--Always such a dreary fade out.

At the same time, just moving meaning around.

It's all going up--

How long has this been going on? How unmanageable is it really--and who's running up and down those steps, twisting up, spinning down(ward)?

We told you. We are a noncontinuous electrographic monologic singular-crepuscular view of the front lawn, somewhat possessed.

You got out of this...precisely how many tracks? And your nose smells inside of baby lotion--why?

How many sides of the coin can you predict will fall--where?

Cannot cannibalize what's sitting there waiting for you to enjoy...
Your appetizer:
A bug.
With wings.
And antenas for directing traffic.

You--want to sleep downstairs? The great pile of water which the dog lapped up?

I've been working, you see, on this project for hours. Soon enough you'll see results.
When will you want this--indicated--on the sheet--never mind. I'd sooner be deleted myself.