As a result of a fun little digital attic-browsing adventure, I found “The Dead Man's Burden”, the first full length short story I ever wrote (after I had first seriously started 'writing stuff.'), and have since been going back over it. There's really not much that's made me cringe so far, since being 17 wasn't really that long ago, and the more uber-adolescent, fantasy-fulfillment type stories I had already written had been expunged via writing fanfiction (Shh, dark secret). Not that I'm in awe of it either, it's still full of the same issues that plague my current fiction writing, but still, reading it has been great fun, and I think I might try to go for the task of giving it a long overdue revision. Wouldn't the 17 year old me - who left junior prom early to finish writing the first draft of it - be proud? No, probably just horny.
At the time of the story's writing, I was still pretty fanatical about my two earliest influences - China Mieville and George R.R. Martin – and I hadn't really read much outside of them. I was more or less balls-to-the-wall set on writing speculative fiction. I had written a few things outside of that story, early chapters of a novel set in the same universe, a few miscellaneous short stories, and an endless volume of notes on the world I wanted to create. Really, it was Mieville and Martin's skill in shaping their own universes that really got me into writing. They weren't worlds that I fantasized about or worlds that I wanted to escape into, they were worlds that were boundless in their imagination but still confined within a very real, comprehensive sort of internal logic. The fact that a person could do something that convincingly with language, and not be confined to making a halfassed Tolkein-ripoff, was what really melted my brain with amazement, and got me into the idea that I might actually want to create the same sort of thing.
Speculative fiction truly rules. It's my old flame, I guess. I'd still like to write that novel I first started someday, if I ever get a grip on world-creation, which is a hell of a skill.
Getting back to the story itself, what's interesting to me is that I've found the same problems in both it and my more recent work. The one universal issue I've been having is fleshing out the characters, making them actual relatable humans instead of bland mechanisms that are just an excuse for the plot to happen. I realize that my thinking process about new stories tends to be more plot oriented, I get more excited about what happens or how to describe what happens, instead of who it happens to.
I'll amend that problem eventually, by jebus.
Guess I'll get to working on it. It's a lot longer than anything I've written recently, around 4200 words or so. The long haul. Bring it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Learning to learn
I logged about 6 hours of work today in the library, getting waist-deep into research for a paper about Robert Browning and the emergence of the dramatic monologue, which made for an interesting romp with analysis. While slogging through various academic tomes, a cool point that stuck out to me was this whole notion of personal internal division in monologues – the dramatic monologue is considered to be the first notable example of psychological, character-driven fiction. One scholar wrote about how authors of these monologues created them by taking elements from both lyrical poetry and stage plays. And how the synthesis of these two forms was well suited to expressing characters torn between multiple, contradicting states of mind.
So basically, different modes of creative expression harmonize well in a way that better communicates a sense of disharmony. Headfuck, huh?
When getting genuinely excited about stuff like this, I have a semi-joking fear that I'm somehow selling my soul to a geeky satan who's welcoming me into insular academic hell. When you're young and a veteran of compulsory education, there seems to be a sense of minor shame towards educational enthusiasm. But in wondering on this whole tangent, and about the teachers and professors I've had who've made or broken my educational experience in the past, I find myself thinking about what exactly makes a good teacher, especially when being taught is something that many people are involuntarily taught by routine to dislike.
A good teacher can make you genuinely enjoy something you're used to hating. Maybe the teacher knows how to navigate an assigned essay within the boundaries of your own interests, or put an interesting flare on lecture material, even when the ideas involved seem dull on their own. A good teacher more or less gets you enthused about learning, or tricks you into learning something even if you're resistant to it. Because a truly good teacher realizes that learning is not force-feeding freeze dried ideas for the singular purpose of a grade. Because part of learning is figuring out what kind of things you want to learn, the areas of knowledge that get you excited, and maybe, jokingly questioning whether it's a bad thing to be excited about.
So basically, different modes of creative expression harmonize well in a way that better communicates a sense of disharmony. Headfuck, huh?
When getting genuinely excited about stuff like this, I have a semi-joking fear that I'm somehow selling my soul to a geeky satan who's welcoming me into insular academic hell. When you're young and a veteran of compulsory education, there seems to be a sense of minor shame towards educational enthusiasm. But in wondering on this whole tangent, and about the teachers and professors I've had who've made or broken my educational experience in the past, I find myself thinking about what exactly makes a good teacher, especially when being taught is something that many people are involuntarily taught by routine to dislike.
A good teacher can make you genuinely enjoy something you're used to hating. Maybe the teacher knows how to navigate an assigned essay within the boundaries of your own interests, or put an interesting flare on lecture material, even when the ideas involved seem dull on their own. A good teacher more or less gets you enthused about learning, or tricks you into learning something even if you're resistant to it. Because a truly good teacher realizes that learning is not force-feeding freeze dried ideas for the singular purpose of a grade. Because part of learning is figuring out what kind of things you want to learn, the areas of knowledge that get you excited, and maybe, jokingly questioning whether it's a bad thing to be excited about.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Freshmaker
A guy screamed
“The whole world's gone chiah
all of it, it's too late
if you spill water on any surface it'll
sprout a green fro of foliage, but
there's no stone animal beneath it, or no
stone head beneath it, the hair thing
won't be implied or funny, it'll just be a plant, fuck.”
The newspaper man grunted while petting his dog
He said “I lived through worse.
When the whole world was Wooly Willy,
When everything was magnetized
and the iron filings stuck to it all
like evil fur. The beard image wasn't funny,
even the few surfaces
with the image of a face on it
lost their novelty.” And the newspaper man
looked down for a second,
his dog was drooling asleep,
with the drool making greens grow
from the sidewalk right there
The guy who yelled at first said,
“Well, there's a pet right there.
And you could technically shave the plant off the sidewalk
and put it on his head or something
and it'd look relevant.
An actual pet
for the chiah.
Hehe.”
Reply: “Don't gimme that shit.”
“The whole world's gone chiah
all of it, it's too late
if you spill water on any surface it'll
sprout a green fro of foliage, but
there's no stone animal beneath it, or no
stone head beneath it, the hair thing
won't be implied or funny, it'll just be a plant, fuck.”
The newspaper man grunted while petting his dog
He said “I lived through worse.
When the whole world was Wooly Willy,
When everything was magnetized
and the iron filings stuck to it all
like evil fur. The beard image wasn't funny,
even the few surfaces
with the image of a face on it
lost their novelty.” And the newspaper man
looked down for a second,
his dog was drooling asleep,
with the drool making greens grow
from the sidewalk right there
The guy who yelled at first said,
“Well, there's a pet right there.
And you could technically shave the plant off the sidewalk
and put it on his head or something
and it'd look relevant.
An actual pet
for the chiah.
Hehe.”
Reply: “Don't gimme that shit.”
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Some Place Went To
You can drive this old truck outside.
There are a lot of roads, but not all are paved
And not all are roads.
The door opens like it's exhausted of doing so.
It has a voice, like all the other parts in there.
You can sit in the seat that's the shredded victim of decades
High above what you're used to in your regular car.
You can see out the window past a single windshield wiper
Into a fence, but what more through?
This truck will drive through a field
A field that would normally cut or mist your bare legs
You would normally hear 1000 horny insects in that field
But the truck is old, and the engine is large, and loud
So you only hear the antique roar on the wind.
But those cicadas are still hollering.
And there are probably other things hollering there too.
And maybe someone else is at a distance, and they can hear all that
plus the muffled distance of your truck.
They might think that you're disrupting nature
Or they might think the sounds go nice together, layered.
Or they might think nothing about it at all
Because they're horny themselves, and maybe they're even doing the deed, right then and there, in the middle of a field.
And you may see this from the cab of your truck,
or you may not.
While gears shift inside the truck and make it work.
A person shifts inside the truck and moves with it.
Wind hits the truck, or does the truck hit the wind first?
The truck shifts inside the open air it tramples through smoothly
Not young, but not finished.
And it's days are numbered in miles.
There are a lot of roads, but not all are paved
And not all are roads.
The door opens like it's exhausted of doing so.
It has a voice, like all the other parts in there.
You can sit in the seat that's the shredded victim of decades
High above what you're used to in your regular car.
You can see out the window past a single windshield wiper
Into a fence, but what more through?
This truck will drive through a field
A field that would normally cut or mist your bare legs
You would normally hear 1000 horny insects in that field
But the truck is old, and the engine is large, and loud
So you only hear the antique roar on the wind.
But those cicadas are still hollering.
And there are probably other things hollering there too.
And maybe someone else is at a distance, and they can hear all that
plus the muffled distance of your truck.
They might think that you're disrupting nature
Or they might think the sounds go nice together, layered.
Or they might think nothing about it at all
Because they're horny themselves, and maybe they're even doing the deed, right then and there, in the middle of a field.
And you may see this from the cab of your truck,
or you may not.
While gears shift inside the truck and make it work.
A person shifts inside the truck and moves with it.
Wind hits the truck, or does the truck hit the wind first?
The truck shifts inside the open air it tramples through smoothly
Not young, but not finished.
And it's days are numbered in miles.
Beast
This cat's ear flinches with dream
He knows he can claw the quietude
And be mesmerized into a curl of rest
By no sound but the house buzz of air conditioning
Restrained warmth through fans and vents
And restrained light through screens
This cat is old.
When he walks to his food, he walks with a different time signature.
It once was the 4/4 of youth , now limping
punctuated with an extra beat
The same stumble for every destination
Food downstairs, drink upstairs, sleep anywhere.
But this cat can sleep in a picture window
Where some kind of light moves in different places at once
and can flicker with his thoughts
Whatever plunks on the surface from outside is at mind's reach
A hummingbird on the pane doesn't know he's in a phantom chase
with the beast behind glass.
And this cat is still old
But somewhere, he is moving.
He knows he can claw the quietude
And be mesmerized into a curl of rest
By no sound but the house buzz of air conditioning
Restrained warmth through fans and vents
And restrained light through screens
This cat is old.
When he walks to his food, he walks with a different time signature.
It once was the 4/4 of youth , now limping
punctuated with an extra beat
The same stumble for every destination
Food downstairs, drink upstairs, sleep anywhere.
But this cat can sleep in a picture window
Where some kind of light moves in different places at once
and can flicker with his thoughts
Whatever plunks on the surface from outside is at mind's reach
A hummingbird on the pane doesn't know he's in a phantom chase
with the beast behind glass.
And this cat is still old
But somewhere, he is moving.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Sandra's Magnetism
Sandra's magnetic orgasm made her piercings stretch in her skin, and
all the metal stuff in the room hurled towards us.
My watch stopped, although I didn't notice it at the time, and her
high school trophies fell off the bookshelf, the lights fluxed,
I think maybe even the iron in my blood
was caught up in it? (X-Men style) Now I know
why she doesn't keep her computer in her room.
After it was over, Sandra said, “That's nothing.
Last time I used a vibrator,
my grandfather with the titanium hip got stuck against the wall, and
my dad's car crashed into the house. It was a huge scene.”
“Well, in that case I'm glad I'm not the Terminator,” I joked.
It seemed pretty clever to me, until she sighed,
“Every guy makes that joke. Or something like it.
It's always,'hasta la vista baby,” or 'pity the guy with the prince albert' or 'magneto would be proud.' (I was actually thinking that one too, damn.) “It was cute the first few times,” she said. “Now it's just like small talk to me.” She sounded dissapointed.
Small talk. How weird it must be for something like that to become a boring old phrase, the proverbial “How was school today?”
“Is that the price you pay for sleeping around a lot?” I asked, immediately feeling bad, it came out a little too harsh.
“I mean, do you regret
that it's commonplace? That telling people
about the magnetism, and the crazy stuff,
is just another detail?” It's strange to me, at least
that it's not not personal for her. Maybe the first time
that she told someone it was personal. Unless it still is?
“It doesn't bother me,” she said, holding my hand and tracing
her fingers over it; the language of dainty friction. “I'm just
used to it.” She bent down. Way down. I fumbled to adjust angles.
She put an ear up against to me
“Your ass sounds like an airport”
Which part?
“The main one.”
Concourse A?
Funny.
Your ass sounds like a washing machine.
Thanks.
It's bigger than one, anyway.
What kind?
Any kind.
Some models are bigger. They're industrial sized, or made for handling particular types of fabric, or they may be a smaller kind suited for small house with one person, or have energy saver preferences.
Ok.
Noise would also factor in. Between the different kinds of machines. So which one does mine sound like?
The main one.
You need to be specific.
You weren't specific with me
You didn't ask me to be. You made the concourse joke and then changed the subject.
Well would you have elaborated?
On what?
On what “the main part” of the airport is so I could know what it sounds like.
Probably.
Cool.
Now what kind of washing machine is my ass?
It's a Whirlpool. 3200 series.
Fuck you.
That's the only model I know by heart.
Fuck you.
What's for breakfast?
Your translucent dick.
It's translucent now?
Yeah. I cut it off and replaced it with an x-ray fish while you were sleeping.
Wow.
Have fun with it.
I will. I was always kind of curious what that'd be like.
Glad I could help.
How do we have sex now, though?
We don't.
We don't?
That's kind of the point.
I can make money in a freakshow this way.
Yeah you can.
I'm going to.
Get on out there.
I am.
Good night.
.
all the metal stuff in the room hurled towards us.
My watch stopped, although I didn't notice it at the time, and her
high school trophies fell off the bookshelf, the lights fluxed,
I think maybe even the iron in my blood
was caught up in it? (X-Men style) Now I know
why she doesn't keep her computer in her room.
After it was over, Sandra said, “That's nothing.
Last time I used a vibrator,
my grandfather with the titanium hip got stuck against the wall, and
my dad's car crashed into the house. It was a huge scene.”
“Well, in that case I'm glad I'm not the Terminator,” I joked.
It seemed pretty clever to me, until she sighed,
“Every guy makes that joke. Or something like it.
It's always,'hasta la vista baby,” or 'pity the guy with the prince albert' or 'magneto would be proud.' (I was actually thinking that one too, damn.) “It was cute the first few times,” she said. “Now it's just like small talk to me.” She sounded dissapointed.
Small talk. How weird it must be for something like that to become a boring old phrase, the proverbial “How was school today?”
“Is that the price you pay for sleeping around a lot?” I asked, immediately feeling bad, it came out a little too harsh.
“I mean, do you regret
that it's commonplace? That telling people
about the magnetism, and the crazy stuff,
is just another detail?” It's strange to me, at least
that it's not not personal for her. Maybe the first time
that she told someone it was personal. Unless it still is?
“It doesn't bother me,” she said, holding my hand and tracing
her fingers over it; the language of dainty friction. “I'm just
used to it.” She bent down. Way down. I fumbled to adjust angles.
She put an ear up against to me
“Your ass sounds like an airport”
Which part?
“The main one.”
Concourse A?
Funny.
Your ass sounds like a washing machine.
Thanks.
It's bigger than one, anyway.
What kind?
Any kind.
Some models are bigger. They're industrial sized, or made for handling particular types of fabric, or they may be a smaller kind suited for small house with one person, or have energy saver preferences.
Ok.
Noise would also factor in. Between the different kinds of machines. So which one does mine sound like?
The main one.
You need to be specific.
You weren't specific with me
You didn't ask me to be. You made the concourse joke and then changed the subject.
Well would you have elaborated?
On what?
On what “the main part” of the airport is so I could know what it sounds like.
Probably.
Cool.
Now what kind of washing machine is my ass?
It's a Whirlpool. 3200 series.
Fuck you.
That's the only model I know by heart.
Fuck you.
What's for breakfast?
Your translucent dick.
It's translucent now?
Yeah. I cut it off and replaced it with an x-ray fish while you were sleeping.
Wow.
Have fun with it.
I will. I was always kind of curious what that'd be like.
Glad I could help.
How do we have sex now, though?
We don't.
We don't?
That's kind of the point.
I can make money in a freakshow this way.
Yeah you can.
I'm going to.
Get on out there.
I am.
Good night.
.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
dHarMa
Slam it on son with you beerslopped appeal
Coppin' the senses for cravin' a feel
Icewicket Baby, bodacious tangle
I too once crooned for the hairy dangle
Coppin' the senses for cravin' a feel
Icewicket Baby, bodacious tangle
I too once crooned for the hairy dangle
Ten-Assed Summer
when I was a young'n not yet growed
I had lemonade in my veins err'vy summer
I hadda vortex gullet like a cockpine barber handle
old sludge tits here
took 'em into the dusty mason jar, behind a nostalgia log
burly treesap crustin' gramma
stumbling out from behind the pollenated trellis
arms like windsocks, the flab tethered love worms
“It smells like honeysuckle here,” she crooned
wheezerasped with laughter
a half eaten toblerone sticking out of a shirt pocket
oh shit, diatoms
----
Tenacity, n: The state of possessing ten asses.
I had lemonade in my veins err'vy summer
I hadda vortex gullet like a cockpine barber handle
old sludge tits here
took 'em into the dusty mason jar, behind a nostalgia log
burly treesap crustin' gramma
stumbling out from behind the pollenated trellis
arms like windsocks, the flab tethered love worms
“It smells like honeysuckle here,” she crooned
wheezerasped with laughter
a half eaten toblerone sticking out of a shirt pocket
oh shit, diatoms
----
Tenacity, n: The state of possessing ten asses.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Beerthought
Forced compound words involving 'beer' have been amusing to me lately.
Beerscum
Beersmut
Beerdangle
Beergasm
etc.
It seems like fusing the word 'beer' to the beginning of a dirty or potentially raunchy word enhances the raunch factor considerably. I think it has good potential for a drunken stream o' consciousness scene.
Maybe? Maybe?
Ah well, drunken stream o' consciousness has probably been done about 99999 times already.
I've been keeping up with that big ol' Lamination Colony contest, and I must say, the winning piece is pretty rockin'. I'll be looking forward to seeing the rest of the entries, as well as more of Mr. Alter's fresh-ass prose. Congrats to all. I probably should have entered that.
I'm watching one of those game shows right now where they pit one team against the other, and the teams represent two distinct social groups. (You know, like, accountants versus gymnasts, or something.) They need to get more absurd with the topics. Something like. “Chronic Masturbators vs. The French.”
Fuck, dude, I've been assaulted by the Transformers II trailer many times today. I don't want to get desensitized to hyperbolic robot rupturing yet.
I forgot how to write a worthwhile blog post.
Beerscum
Beersmut
Beerdangle
Beergasm
etc.
It seems like fusing the word 'beer' to the beginning of a dirty or potentially raunchy word enhances the raunch factor considerably. I think it has good potential for a drunken stream o' consciousness scene.
Maybe? Maybe?
Ah well, drunken stream o' consciousness has probably been done about 99999 times already.
I've been keeping up with that big ol' Lamination Colony contest, and I must say, the winning piece is pretty rockin'. I'll be looking forward to seeing the rest of the entries, as well as more of Mr. Alter's fresh-ass prose. Congrats to all. I probably should have entered that.
I'm watching one of those game shows right now where they pit one team against the other, and the teams represent two distinct social groups. (You know, like, accountants versus gymnasts, or something.) They need to get more absurd with the topics. Something like. “Chronic Masturbators vs. The French.”
Fuck, dude, I've been assaulted by the Transformers II trailer many times today. I don't want to get desensitized to hyperbolic robot rupturing yet.
I forgot how to write a worthwhile blog post.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Fuck the Cop
I remember one time in third grade I was talking to this kid on the playground about video games. During the conversation, he started telling me about a game he wanted to make some day, entitled "Bloody Shit." The premise of Bloody Shit was that the main character was a cop whose parents neglected him as a child, so much to the point that they didn't name him and allowed him to choose his own name when he was old enough. He named himself Fuck. I don't remember what else the game was about. The kid later grew up to become a redneck, which is weird, because he was pretty unsouthern growing up, and he was reared by staunchly unsouthern parents. Can cultural osmosis be that extreme?
The memory of Bloody Shit and its respective protagonist have gotten me thinking on a tangent: is there a yet unexplored way to use profanity experimentally in writing? Sure, the first person narrator can say "It was fuckin' crazy man," but what about a third person voice? No, I'm being serious. Could one effectively use phrases like "A storm had washed through I-75, and the sky was fucking dark." in the third person? I feel like there is a way in which it could be pulled off, the content would have to fit the voice though, somehow, so it wouldn't just be an interesting but unnecessary detail.
I started writing something this weekend that experiments in this department a little bit, although not with third person. It's a first person narration of a summer cookout, but all the characters' first names are swear words, the narrator is a guy who is pathologically uninvolved and hyperobservant of all social interraction, which ain't all that original. (Doesn't every writer feel they wear the orifice-like badge of social displacement/isolation?) But it's fun. I haven't laughed so hard working on a story since middle school, so who cares, maybe this piece is just for my leisure. Maybe not. Regardless, I hope the damn exploration of profanity in fiction turns out to be fucking worthwhile in some way.
What if I was remembered by that? Famously. "He's the guy who uses swear words in the third person." aw shiiiiiiiiit.
The memory of Bloody Shit and its respective protagonist have gotten me thinking on a tangent: is there a yet unexplored way to use profanity experimentally in writing? Sure, the first person narrator can say "It was fuckin' crazy man," but what about a third person voice? No, I'm being serious. Could one effectively use phrases like "A storm had washed through I-75, and the sky was fucking dark." in the third person? I feel like there is a way in which it could be pulled off, the content would have to fit the voice though, somehow, so it wouldn't just be an interesting but unnecessary detail.
I started writing something this weekend that experiments in this department a little bit, although not with third person. It's a first person narration of a summer cookout, but all the characters' first names are swear words, the narrator is a guy who is pathologically uninvolved and hyperobservant of all social interraction, which ain't all that original. (Doesn't every writer feel they wear the orifice-like badge of social displacement/isolation?) But it's fun. I haven't laughed so hard working on a story since middle school, so who cares, maybe this piece is just for my leisure. Maybe not. Regardless, I hope the damn exploration of profanity in fiction turns out to be fucking worthwhile in some way.
What if I was remembered by that? Famously. "He's the guy who uses swear words in the third person." aw shiiiiiiiiit.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
TVOTR/GB at the Tabernacle was sufficiently badass. Grizzly Bear is one of the busiest bands I've ever seen on stage, holy shit, the vocal harmonies and the instrumental multitasking was incredible.
There was also a Taylor Swift concert down the road at The Fox, and the polarity between the different types of fans was awesome. I was craving a gang-war between the polo-and-cowboy-boots UGA soristitutes and the skinny-jeans-and-flannel indietards, but I settled for the mutually awkward stares that communicated, from both demographics, “I'm the one with taste.”
Kyp Malone's hair/beard is the stuff of legend:
There was also a Taylor Swift concert down the road at The Fox, and the polarity between the different types of fans was awesome. I was craving a gang-war between the polo-and-cowboy-boots UGA soristitutes and the skinny-jeans-and-flannel indietards, but I settled for the mutually awkward stares that communicated, from both demographics, “I'm the one with taste.”
Kyp Malone's hair/beard is the stuff of legend:
Monday, May 25, 2009
Vandertron
I'm going to partially rescind the Vander-Bash I had in the last post, because after finishing the book, I realize he does have some strengths in his storytelling ability. However, I still have a problem with his language, as in pretty much every sentence, he's goes just far enough over the line between eloquent and flowery to where it cements his mediocrity as a writer: if he just pruned his metaphors a little bit, his stuff would be much more tolerable. And while the faux-academic pieces like A Brief History of Ambergris are fun and entertaining (not to mention, suited to his voice,) they get kinda old after a while, I think you have to be a hardcore fan of the VanderMeer universe to really appreciate them.
BUT. But but but. He's damn good at establishing mood, I'll give him that. And he seems to favor protagonists that are one or both of the following: a) arrogant as hell, or, b) insecure and uncertain. (in terms of personality, the two pretty much go together). So, since he's good at writing that character, he's also very good at establishing dread, anxiety and paranoia on a really self-directed, personal level. This is most apparent in 'The Cage,' a story in which an enterprising merchant gets devoured by fungus (pretty sweet imagery too).
Since CoSM is the only book I've read by VanderMeer, I don't really know whether his favoring of the above mentioned elements reflects any limited singularity for him as a writer, but I think this combination of moods/characters says something greater about the city he's created in the work (a bustling, westernized metropolis whose original native inhabitants were historically killed off by its current residents), in that the selfish, arrogant character reflects the conquistador persona, while the guilt, insecurity, and fucked up situations that his characters end up in reflect some kind of karmatic justice, or at least on a personal level, the collective guilt of a nation that's killed off a people it didn't fully understand, while at the same time, pompously embracing its own history.
Maybe I'm just fulla shit. In other news, summer is looking pretty fine this year:
This was at the Nine Inch Nails/Jane's Addiction concert a few weeks ago, which was spectacular. There was actually a pretty varied age group, as opposed to when I saw them in August, which was brimming with the young'uns, and the most extreme minority of light-haired people I have ever seen in the south.
I hope you're all memorializing well.
BUT. But but but. He's damn good at establishing mood, I'll give him that. And he seems to favor protagonists that are one or both of the following: a) arrogant as hell, or, b) insecure and uncertain. (in terms of personality, the two pretty much go together). So, since he's good at writing that character, he's also very good at establishing dread, anxiety and paranoia on a really self-directed, personal level. This is most apparent in 'The Cage,' a story in which an enterprising merchant gets devoured by fungus (pretty sweet imagery too).
Since CoSM is the only book I've read by VanderMeer, I don't really know whether his favoring of the above mentioned elements reflects any limited singularity for him as a writer, but I think this combination of moods/characters says something greater about the city he's created in the work (a bustling, westernized metropolis whose original native inhabitants were historically killed off by its current residents), in that the selfish, arrogant character reflects the conquistador persona, while the guilt, insecurity, and fucked up situations that his characters end up in reflect some kind of karmatic justice, or at least on a personal level, the collective guilt of a nation that's killed off a people it didn't fully understand, while at the same time, pompously embracing its own history.
Maybe I'm just fulla shit. In other news, summer is looking pretty fine this year:
This was at the Nine Inch Nails/Jane's Addiction concert a few weeks ago, which was spectacular. There was actually a pretty varied age group, as opposed to when I saw them in August, which was brimming with the young'uns, and the most extreme minority of light-haired people I have ever seen in the south.
I hope you're all memorializing well.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
hueg @zz
Seeing TVOTR and Grizzly Bear next month, which I'm immensely stoked about. I've really been enjoying TVOTR's earlier stuff, where you can hear their sound still in the experimental, embryonic phases of what would later morph into face-melting awesomeness on Return to Cookie Mountain. I think what I like the most is how they use the sustained guitar/strings/sample stuff to kind of emulate the tonalities of heavy machinery – the instant in which the ambient drone of a dishwasher or a car on the highway reveals its noiseless, completely musical potential.
But right now I'm listening to Tom Waits. It's a Tom Waits kind of evening.
Today, I kept trying to write and getting stuck, I had to angrily type the phrase WHERE DA FLAVA at least 10 times before anything started flowing.
I'm angry that I trusted the reccomendation of reading Jeff VanderMeer, goddamn, what a verbose bastard. I don't mind complex-ass writing as long as you know how to do it (e.g., Mieville), but with Vandermeer it's just so damn self-concsious and full of itself, maybe suited to another time period, but just as hard to enjoy either way. I think the problem VanderMeer has is that he likes the sound of his own voice too much, you can look at pretty much any passage in City of Saints and Madmen and think, “Wow, this must have been a lot of fun for HIM to WRITE.” And really, his setting doesn't make up for it. Ambergris doesn't feel fleshed out or original, it just feels like London with a lot of Squid and Mushrooms. Maybe I'm being harsh, but I'll need a good purge book for when I'm done with CoSM.
B&N sucks now. I never see anyone I know there any more. I walk around and think about all the book titles I wish I could see on display. Not real ones. I hope someone writes a memoir one day called “Prom Was Balls.”
I ain't too enthused to be writin' right now.
'night
But right now I'm listening to Tom Waits. It's a Tom Waits kind of evening.
Today, I kept trying to write and getting stuck, I had to angrily type the phrase WHERE DA FLAVA at least 10 times before anything started flowing.
I'm angry that I trusted the reccomendation of reading Jeff VanderMeer, goddamn, what a verbose bastard. I don't mind complex-ass writing as long as you know how to do it (e.g., Mieville), but with Vandermeer it's just so damn self-concsious and full of itself, maybe suited to another time period, but just as hard to enjoy either way. I think the problem VanderMeer has is that he likes the sound of his own voice too much, you can look at pretty much any passage in City of Saints and Madmen and think, “Wow, this must have been a lot of fun for HIM to WRITE.” And really, his setting doesn't make up for it. Ambergris doesn't feel fleshed out or original, it just feels like London with a lot of Squid and Mushrooms. Maybe I'm being harsh, but I'll need a good purge book for when I'm done with CoSM.
B&N sucks now. I never see anyone I know there any more. I walk around and think about all the book titles I wish I could see on display. Not real ones. I hope someone writes a memoir one day called “Prom Was Balls.”
I ain't too enthused to be writin' right now.
'night
Sunday, April 26, 2009
"Anger is a precious gift not to be squandered on assholes."
So says my dad, with whom I talked with for a while on the phone today. It was the first real fulfilling phone conversation with the 'folks in a while, I think that's due to the fact that the stress is starting to recede or get more manageable. The downside is I haven't been able to write much outside of class, but the things I've been required to write have been pretty enjoyable lately.
I was up at 9 on Saturday, which most certainly breaks some kind of college law of physics. Friday night was the first night I didn't out in a while, and damn it was refreshing. I got a big chunk of work done on one of my final projects and managed to enjoy myself in the process, I really hope that by the time I go back home I'll be sick of socializing so that the lack of things to do in Georgia will seem peaceful, not like a burden.
Now that old man winter is getting his ass out of the door, it's easier to look outside and feel introspective in a way that isn't depressing. Yesterday I rode the bus to the mall with Kenton and Jeff, and I did a lot of city watching – I forgot what cities look like when they're sunny and thawed out. I imagine the south this summer will be a pleasant change for a few weeks and then I'll go back to hating the scorch, but whatever. I sat out on the quad yesterday while it was sunny and got a little toasted by the sun. In Syracuse, you say? It's more likely than you think.
The last couple of weeks have been filled with a lot of generic college debauchery, resulting in a lot of babysitting drunk friends, amongst other things.. (I accidentally used the phrase 'going out with a bang socially' on the phone with my mom the other day and when she responded, I could hear the eternal maternal worry jittering beneath her laughter.) I think that candid facebook photos will be the downfall of our generation, I can't wait to see what our grandkids will think of our disregard for discretion, and I also wonder what stupid things they'll do to top it. Fuckups in space? The apocalypse?
Whatever they do, I hope I'm alive to blog about it.
Enjoy the season.
I was up at 9 on Saturday, which most certainly breaks some kind of college law of physics. Friday night was the first night I didn't out in a while, and damn it was refreshing. I got a big chunk of work done on one of my final projects and managed to enjoy myself in the process, I really hope that by the time I go back home I'll be sick of socializing so that the lack of things to do in Georgia will seem peaceful, not like a burden.
Now that old man winter is getting his ass out of the door, it's easier to look outside and feel introspective in a way that isn't depressing. Yesterday I rode the bus to the mall with Kenton and Jeff, and I did a lot of city watching – I forgot what cities look like when they're sunny and thawed out. I imagine the south this summer will be a pleasant change for a few weeks and then I'll go back to hating the scorch, but whatever. I sat out on the quad yesterday while it was sunny and got a little toasted by the sun. In Syracuse, you say? It's more likely than you think.
The last couple of weeks have been filled with a lot of generic college debauchery, resulting in a lot of babysitting drunk friends, amongst other things.. (I accidentally used the phrase 'going out with a bang socially' on the phone with my mom the other day and when she responded, I could hear the eternal maternal worry jittering beneath her laughter.) I think that candid facebook photos will be the downfall of our generation, I can't wait to see what our grandkids will think of our disregard for discretion, and I also wonder what stupid things they'll do to top it. Fuckups in space? The apocalypse?
Whatever they do, I hope I'm alive to blog about it.
Enjoy the season.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Optimisery
Today, I talked with my adviser about getting the hell out of the Communications and Rhetorical Studies department, to which he responded, "So you couldn't find a home here?" I appreciated the joke, but at the same time it made me a little depressed, maybe because he said it in his perpetually saddened eastern-European "sounds-like-a-refugee" accent, and he had some solemn classical music playing in his office the whole time.
I want to try to write something based on that scene at some point, and frame it with the same emotions: 90% funny and 10% partially sad, with the 10% sadness causing you to question whether you need to lighten up and be less sensitive or if the sadness is genuinely warranted. Is that too personal? I sure hope so.
All pseudo-sadness aside, I'm fleeing CRS and never looking back, that's final. It wasn't a particularly bad experience, but I'm pretty sure it's not for me. July will tell whether I'm going to be in Television/Radio/Film or English for the rest of my undergraduate career, I think regardless of what happens I'll find some kind of enjoyment in doing something.
April is national "school kills your existence" month, but if I navigate successfully through the hellmonth I'll have the excitement of a new China Mieville book to look forward to in May, which better be good. I expect something totally awesome from the writer who made me take writing seriously in the first place.
I'm continuing to work on the airport piece, the direction of which is kind of nebulous and unclear right now. Still, it's good to have something to work on consistently, even if it isn't really about anything. I'll find something worthwhile to extract from the drabble, by god.
Also, started a new thing this weekend which I'm somewhat stoked about, tentatively titled Dad's Rage Box. It's my attempt at screwing with form in a way I haven't before, which is challening and loads o' fun. More updates on that once it materializes.
Sleepin' now.
I want to try to write something based on that scene at some point, and frame it with the same emotions: 90% funny and 10% partially sad, with the 10% sadness causing you to question whether you need to lighten up and be less sensitive or if the sadness is genuinely warranted. Is that too personal? I sure hope so.
All pseudo-sadness aside, I'm fleeing CRS and never looking back, that's final. It wasn't a particularly bad experience, but I'm pretty sure it's not for me. July will tell whether I'm going to be in Television/Radio/Film or English for the rest of my undergraduate career, I think regardless of what happens I'll find some kind of enjoyment in doing something.
April is national "school kills your existence" month, but if I navigate successfully through the hellmonth I'll have the excitement of a new China Mieville book to look forward to in May, which better be good. I expect something totally awesome from the writer who made me take writing seriously in the first place.
I'm continuing to work on the airport piece, the direction of which is kind of nebulous and unclear right now. Still, it's good to have something to work on consistently, even if it isn't really about anything. I'll find something worthwhile to extract from the drabble, by god.
Also, started a new thing this weekend which I'm somewhat stoked about, tentatively titled Dad's Rage Box. It's my attempt at screwing with form in a way I haven't before, which is challening and loads o' fun. More updates on that once it materializes.
Sleepin' now.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Spring?
I met another person today who has the same writing instructor as I do and harbors the same feelings of ultrarage about her airheaded midwestern-soccer mom demeanor, I'm hoping I could eventually organize enough people to launch a formal complaint against the school's writing program and its respective worthlessness.
I lamented to my mother about this several times. She told me not to be too hard on the course, because she teaches the same stuff and knows how students tend to approach the tedium of such required classes. Then I told her that the instructor required us to write a full 10 page draft of an essay without a thesis, and achieved maximum persuasion.
It's weird that I look back on having my dad as an English teacher as a sort of academic golden age, it's also weird that my final research project in that class was about a writer whose books are largely concerned with golden ages and the characters who experience their aftermath.
Oh damn, I suddenly love my Rhetoric class, though. It's the only class I have where the papers are graded on your ability to make a good argument and not on your ability to regurgitate the fact-rodents that were puked into your gullet by the institutional mamabird.
I think my sudden love for intensely biological metaphors (like the one above) are a side-effect of reading Lara Glenum's poetry, which is one of my favorite things right now.
The Intergroup Dialogue class continues to speed along at maximum tedium, but it's given me some creative ideas. I'm going to write a parody of some of the readings they've been giving us, amongst other things.
I'm trying fiction again after a long poetry-filled break from it, I'm also trying to re-enforce my fiction voice with some of the syntactical learnings I picked up from writing/reading an assload of poetry. It's hard. I feel like I'm having trouble “breathing life” into my fiction, I always think it sounds empty and bland, and that there's no intrigue or anything to support it.
Here's an excerpt from a little something-something that I started in the airport as I was flying home for spring break:
I needed to climb out of my seat, but my co-passenger was still slumbering. We were the last ones on the plane, so I figured I should wake him up. I said, “Hey,” then shook his shoulder a little. Then I raised my voice.
“Did we pass it already?” he said.
“Did we pass what?”
“The landscape,” he said. I couldn't tell whether his tone was serious or not.
“Yep,” I said. “It's pretty much all behind us now.” I inner-cringed at my own pun, but he didn't make any sneers, mental or otherwise.
“Fuck!” he said. Several flight attendants looked over at us. “Fuck!” He actually yelled this time. The loudness was scary but somehow refreshing.
“What, were you eager to see it or something?”
“I had to see it,” he yelled, turning red and giving off some fresh dectectable agitation. “There's a fuckin', fuck, see, you can see the outline of a neighborhood on the ground from this flight route that looks like a cock. I was supposed to get a picture of it. I'm a photographer. Fuck. Magazine photography.”
“I saw it!” I said, my words came out too excitedly for me not to hate myself for sounding that way. “I remember specifically when we flew over it.”
“Shit! Why didn't you wake me up?”
“I didn't know it was so important to you! How many random strangers would take kindly to me saying, 'Hey, that neighborhood down their kind of looks like the outline of a dick, doesn't it?' How was I supposed to know?” My response was probably over-explained and it was. But it seemed important to talk longer so not to appear meek.
He paused, then unbuckled his seatbelt. “You should've assumed it anyway.” He promptly got up and grabbed his bags.On the side of one bag, a sticker read “PROPERTY OF THE UNIVERSE: Scorch Magazine” At that time I wished I had owned a cigarette lighter and that he had grown a beard so I could have set it on fire. His walk down the aisle was brief and I could taste the arrogance, and I imagined the least decrepit flight attendants in the fuselage assaulting him and tackling him to the floor like so many women had probably done to him in their minds.
I lamented to my mother about this several times. She told me not to be too hard on the course, because she teaches the same stuff and knows how students tend to approach the tedium of such required classes. Then I told her that the instructor required us to write a full 10 page draft of an essay without a thesis, and achieved maximum persuasion.
It's weird that I look back on having my dad as an English teacher as a sort of academic golden age, it's also weird that my final research project in that class was about a writer whose books are largely concerned with golden ages and the characters who experience their aftermath.
Oh damn, I suddenly love my Rhetoric class, though. It's the only class I have where the papers are graded on your ability to make a good argument and not on your ability to regurgitate the fact-rodents that were puked into your gullet by the institutional mamabird.
I think my sudden love for intensely biological metaphors (like the one above) are a side-effect of reading Lara Glenum's poetry, which is one of my favorite things right now.
The Intergroup Dialogue class continues to speed along at maximum tedium, but it's given me some creative ideas. I'm going to write a parody of some of the readings they've been giving us, amongst other things.
I'm trying fiction again after a long poetry-filled break from it, I'm also trying to re-enforce my fiction voice with some of the syntactical learnings I picked up from writing/reading an assload of poetry. It's hard. I feel like I'm having trouble “breathing life” into my fiction, I always think it sounds empty and bland, and that there's no intrigue or anything to support it.
Here's an excerpt from a little something-something that I started in the airport as I was flying home for spring break:
I needed to climb out of my seat, but my co-passenger was still slumbering. We were the last ones on the plane, so I figured I should wake him up. I said, “Hey,” then shook his shoulder a little. Then I raised my voice.
“Did we pass it already?” he said.
“Did we pass what?”
“The landscape,” he said. I couldn't tell whether his tone was serious or not.
“Yep,” I said. “It's pretty much all behind us now.” I inner-cringed at my own pun, but he didn't make any sneers, mental or otherwise.
“Fuck!” he said. Several flight attendants looked over at us. “Fuck!” He actually yelled this time. The loudness was scary but somehow refreshing.
“What, were you eager to see it or something?”
“I had to see it,” he yelled, turning red and giving off some fresh dectectable agitation. “There's a fuckin', fuck, see, you can see the outline of a neighborhood on the ground from this flight route that looks like a cock. I was supposed to get a picture of it. I'm a photographer. Fuck. Magazine photography.”
“I saw it!” I said, my words came out too excitedly for me not to hate myself for sounding that way. “I remember specifically when we flew over it.”
“Shit! Why didn't you wake me up?”
“I didn't know it was so important to you! How many random strangers would take kindly to me saying, 'Hey, that neighborhood down their kind of looks like the outline of a dick, doesn't it?' How was I supposed to know?” My response was probably over-explained and it was. But it seemed important to talk longer so not to appear meek.
He paused, then unbuckled his seatbelt. “You should've assumed it anyway.” He promptly got up and grabbed his bags.On the side of one bag, a sticker read “PROPERTY OF THE UNIVERSE: Scorch Magazine” At that time I wished I had owned a cigarette lighter and that he had grown a beard so I could have set it on fire. His walk down the aisle was brief and I could taste the arrogance, and I imagined the least decrepit flight attendants in the fuselage assaulting him and tackling him to the floor like so many women had probably done to him in their minds.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
And other ways to Waltkellify language
I think that the "coming-of-age" subject needs to be treated more absurdly. My favorite coming of age story that I've seen so far is a 6-episode anime series called FLCL, which most people don't really look at seriously because of how bizarre it is. It's a short but pretty thorough exploration of the tectonic shifts of puberty, covering all the classic topics such as sex, parental alienation, and the sudden impending pressures of adult life. The story itself is fairly cool on its own, even without the adolescent overtones, but the show's unusually hyperactive way of describing action/interaction tends to get defaulted to the category of being "on drugs," which is dissapointing. I wish more people would realize that while narcotics can be a source of creativity, they are not THE source of ALL creativity. (this problem will get an entire post/rant dedicated to it sometime later on.)
I've been thinking about making up my own personal vocabulary lately, y'know, just little everyday terms that can be used for everyday things. For example, winter coats tend to have dark colors for the most part, so they're somewhat solemn. A pile of winter coats could be called, a "solemnheap." However, if someone had a bright, vibrantly yellow winter coat, and they threw it on the pile, you could say, "Someone canaried the solemnheap."
etc.
Here's the 1st draft of a poem I started last night, which got me started on the whole coming-of-age train o' thought:
The new aging is a young, flimsy mountain
plugging the earth's hot hernia, to stifle but not
stop completely, something overtly inevitable, a boy's
testosterone-laden granitic magma, ready to make a hellacious
stew of the whole deal.
The town below is doomed docile, living out a tropical finity:
the ground shakes but they are still in their beach clothes, tossing balls that will eventually deflate, cooking steaks that'll decay creatively in their stomachs. As the fresh earth pops with
ash and gas, bleeding its future self into the habitus, the creeping
gummy heat is still hypnotic, and they stand outside, unable not to be in awe of it even as their
dream homes sink into a flaming bolus of the earth.
On some summers, after the rock is solid enough to have eroded,
you can still smell the old young rock
blowing on in from the crevices where a remainder
was left to be savored smoldering.
The former town residents are exiles/fossils, now still furnishing their follicles
for more obliged destructions.
I've been thinking about making up my own personal vocabulary lately, y'know, just little everyday terms that can be used for everyday things. For example, winter coats tend to have dark colors for the most part, so they're somewhat solemn. A pile of winter coats could be called, a "solemnheap." However, if someone had a bright, vibrantly yellow winter coat, and they threw it on the pile, you could say, "Someone canaried the solemnheap."
etc.
Here's the 1st draft of a poem I started last night, which got me started on the whole coming-of-age train o' thought:
The new aging is a young, flimsy mountain
plugging the earth's hot hernia, to stifle but not
stop completely, something overtly inevitable, a boy's
testosterone-laden granitic magma, ready to make a hellacious
stew of the whole deal.
The town below is doomed docile, living out a tropical finity:
the ground shakes but they are still in their beach clothes, tossing balls that will eventually deflate, cooking steaks that'll decay creatively in their stomachs. As the fresh earth pops with
ash and gas, bleeding its future self into the habitus, the creeping
gummy heat is still hypnotic, and they stand outside, unable not to be in awe of it even as their
dream homes sink into a flaming bolus of the earth.
On some summers, after the rock is solid enough to have eroded,
you can still smell the old young rock
blowing on in from the crevices where a remainder
was left to be savored smoldering.
The former town residents are exiles/fossils, now still furnishing their follicles
for more obliged destructions.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Potentiality Batter
Leafy Lad looks over, finds
a pamphlet on a coffee table,
labeled “Profound Inspiration”
The first page reads: “The road
to roadliness is self-persevering,
paved with self perseverance in
its most solid form!”
The next page reads:
“Girl, you know Imma gon'
do all kindsa nasty things 2ya
once I get outta dis jail” (learn
to profit from this), a footnote reads.
the next pages aren't real, the back
cover isn't of much help either,
it's just covered with ad copy
for the Jet Fuel IceCream diet.
Noticing the clamminess of the paper
L. Lad tries to shake his hands of the thing,
only to find fins on the end of his arms. Seven months
later, after the surgery, L. Lad asks if he will still
be able to type. The IV stand bends over and adjusts its
bow tie, says: “DON'T TRY TO TRICK ME WITH THAT GOD DAMN
'I COULDN'T BEFORE' PIANO-WHATEVER FUCK JOKE, YOU
MONGOLOID.” Panting, it laughs, damn uncomfortably,
then rephrases: “Haha, just kidding. But seriously, please
don't make that joke, I've heard it like, 50 times today.”
a pamphlet on a coffee table,
labeled “Profound Inspiration”
The first page reads: “The road
to roadliness is self-persevering,
paved with self perseverance in
its most solid form!”
The next page reads:
“Girl, you know Imma gon'
do all kindsa nasty things 2ya
once I get outta dis jail” (learn
to profit from this), a footnote reads.
the next pages aren't real, the back
cover isn't of much help either,
it's just covered with ad copy
for the Jet Fuel IceCream diet.
Noticing the clamminess of the paper
L. Lad tries to shake his hands of the thing,
only to find fins on the end of his arms. Seven months
later, after the surgery, L. Lad asks if he will still
be able to type. The IV stand bends over and adjusts its
bow tie, says: “DON'T TRY TO TRICK ME WITH THAT GOD DAMN
'I COULDN'T BEFORE' PIANO-WHATEVER FUCK JOKE, YOU
MONGOLOID.” Panting, it laughs, damn uncomfortably,
then rephrases: “Haha, just kidding. But seriously, please
don't make that joke, I've heard it like, 50 times today.”
Sunday, March 1, 2009
March done started real good like
It actually did, though. Today was my first real productive day in a long time, and it was productive on both fronts (creative and obligatory.) I think I'll survive this semester, even after the annual February decline in academic success (I used to fight it, now I welcome it with open arms in the hopes that it'll get out of my house faster.)
Friday I fly home, which'll be a funfest. Family, friends, freedom, etc. Possibly some extended Atlanta-related excursions. Oh, and warm weather, which I have a newfound appreciation for.
Talking about the weather at Syracuse is so universal that I think it might be enforced by some secret brainwave device; I think people who don't talk about the weather enough have to "withdraw" or "go back home." I can't tell you the number of conversations I've had that begin, "It's so cold right now." The weather is a massive small-talk resevoir that everyone dips into way too much.
Top College Smalltalk Topics
1. Weather
2. Grades
3. Stress
4. Class
5. What you did this weekend
I realize that bitching about smalltalk is so commonplace that it rivals smalltalk itself, still, I think it's necessary if we are to ultimately reform it. The hell am I talking about?
Oh well. Back to dat homework.
Friday I fly home, which'll be a funfest. Family, friends, freedom, etc. Possibly some extended Atlanta-related excursions. Oh, and warm weather, which I have a newfound appreciation for.
Talking about the weather at Syracuse is so universal that I think it might be enforced by some secret brainwave device; I think people who don't talk about the weather enough have to "withdraw" or "go back home." I can't tell you the number of conversations I've had that begin, "It's so cold right now." The weather is a massive small-talk resevoir that everyone dips into way too much.
Top College Smalltalk Topics
1. Weather
2. Grades
3. Stress
4. Class
5. What you did this weekend
I realize that bitching about smalltalk is so commonplace that it rivals smalltalk itself, still, I think it's necessary if we are to ultimately reform it. The hell am I talking about?
Oh well. Back to dat homework.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Industrial Litgriculture
Syracuse's required academic writing classes are like the USDA of writing: all they care about is form, not content. Much like the department of agriculture doesn't give a damn about how your meat looks and tastes as long as you irradiate/freeze the fuck out of it, so also does the Writing Program not care how bland your essays are as long as you adhere to their unnecessarily byzantine structure of how the "creative" process should go.
USDA policies are tailored to the messy mass production that produces our food. A big university isn't too different from a factory, come to think of it.
I'd petition SU's ass for a redress of grievances, but there ain't no time for that.
USDA policies are tailored to the messy mass production that produces our food. A big university isn't too different from a factory, come to think of it.
I'd petition SU's ass for a redress of grievances, but there ain't no time for that.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
aorta gitton upf thurr
mm hmm oh that's great
suckle more pitas
suckle as much as it permits
oh and yes I am fond of quite yes fond of that
m yes you should mm I know how that is
hmm I wonder oh yes is yes that's good
yeah I am oh sorry meant to say yes
oh revamping is a must oh yes it is oh yes it is
goodness yes it shall would be must yes oh great
GAVE ME A CHANCE TO REFEEL SOCIERTY
GURVE ME A GOOD GOLLY DONE GOOD GANDER ATT'ER
DONE DURLVED INTO DEM DIRTY POORZ WIF FRESH'NIN PRODUCT
PURT HER ON A REEL PERT PERK FOR 'PEARANCES
suckle more pitas
suckle as much as it permits
oh and yes I am fond of quite yes fond of that
m yes you should mm I know how that is
hmm I wonder oh yes is yes that's good
yeah I am oh sorry meant to say yes
oh revamping is a must oh yes it is oh yes it is
goodness yes it shall would be must yes oh great
GAVE ME A CHANCE TO REFEEL SOCIERTY
GURVE ME A GOOD GOLLY DONE GOOD GANDER ATT'ER
DONE DURLVED INTO DEM DIRTY POORZ WIF FRESH'NIN PRODUCT
PURT HER ON A REEL PERT PERK FOR 'PEARANCES
mentalrectal
OH BOY
COMPOPOONDS
BULBOUS BUMBLING BASTARDS ROLLING ON LARDLACED WHEELS
OVER GREEN EARTHLUMPS WITH TIRE TRACK SCARS
THE AIR REEKIN' OF YESTERYEAR'S METEOROLOGY
THE AIR CONVULSING WITH LANGUAGE FROM THE WORLD'S LUNGS
MEANWHILE, A VULVA SHAPED LAKE UNDER THE GROUND INFESTED WITH COOTS
RED EYES ALL LEERING AND SHITTING THE SAME NEUROSIS
OBSERVED FROM A STONY CORNER OF THE INHABITUS
A FROZEN BOY UNABLE TO WRESTLE THE FEAR FROM HIS SLEEP
THE TIDAL THUD SURGING BETWEEN THE EARS
THE TIDAL THUD SURGING BETWEEN THE EARS
COMPOPOONDS
BULBOUS BUMBLING BASTARDS ROLLING ON LARDLACED WHEELS
OVER GREEN EARTHLUMPS WITH TIRE TRACK SCARS
THE AIR REEKIN' OF YESTERYEAR'S METEOROLOGY
THE AIR CONVULSING WITH LANGUAGE FROM THE WORLD'S LUNGS
MEANWHILE, A VULVA SHAPED LAKE UNDER THE GROUND INFESTED WITH COOTS
RED EYES ALL LEERING AND SHITTING THE SAME NEUROSIS
OBSERVED FROM A STONY CORNER OF THE INHABITUS
A FROZEN BOY UNABLE TO WRESTLE THE FEAR FROM HIS SLEEP
THE TIDAL THUD SURGING BETWEEN THE EARS
THE TIDAL THUD SURGING BETWEEN THE EARS
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
boy's etiquette kit
One day, while walking into the dining
hall I'll bypass the trays and civilization-prongs and
go straight for the vats of the gloppiest shit and just grab it
with my hands and carry it back to the table, on the way
there I'll stick my head under the soda fountain and my mouth'll
look like Old Glory with all the fizz and shit overflowing, then back at the table I'll just slam the shit down it'll splatter I'll be like, “what”
hall I'll bypass the trays and civilization-prongs and
go straight for the vats of the gloppiest shit and just grab it
with my hands and carry it back to the table, on the way
there I'll stick my head under the soda fountain and my mouth'll
look like Old Glory with all the fizz and shit overflowing, then back at the table I'll just slam the shit down it'll splatter I'll be like, “what”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
turbululence
I had to the had for five
when eight twelve poppin' lads were white
I had to drink twelvingtimes for the foreigner
when I ate twelve, three returned
I re-mused on the subjectivater
when eight minds crinkling in the snow
snowfrun for the fun hypo-gun
twelve of us eight with the flow/
likeness to the fifteenth numbers of seats
I oranged on her came hair
twelve of us were forresting the red faucet
I nine'd the niner and five'd the friendermolester
but no one had to be overt with the recievery
I spat spitters for spitting at myself
when I whited' eighty he spankied the forfirifter
I forfeited most of our gods
I ate twelve of yours
when when thanksed I grindered with the meatgirldance
hatie was fun that worldnight.
when eight twelve poppin' lads were white
I had to drink twelvingtimes for the foreigner
when I ate twelve, three returned
I re-mused on the subjectivater
when eight minds crinkling in the snow
snowfrun for the fun hypo-gun
twelve of us eight with the flow/
likeness to the fifteenth numbers of seats
I oranged on her came hair
twelve of us were forresting the red faucet
I nine'd the niner and five'd the friendermolester
but no one had to be overt with the recievery
I spat spitters for spitting at myself
when I whited' eighty he spankied the forfirifter
I forfeited most of our gods
I ate twelve of yours
when when thanksed I grindered with the meatgirldance
hatie was fun that worldnight.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Cig Break
In a juicy haze of summer, they
returned again. Sipping their pity-funded brews and
stumbling to the chords for “Don't Stop Believin'.” “We
are the music makers,” they spurted. “No you're not,
you're just a couple of noisy assholes. Now get
the fuck out, you're scaring the customers.” Jasper's fans
were more overweight and twelve years old than usual.
They scattered or loitered less obviously. Billy's brother bummed
a bourbon offa Big Bass. They smoked and talked about
self improvement regimens for the new year. A wheezy laugh
and an fun ol' painful slap on the back, the aggressive friendship
of a fuckup. “But hypocrisy is a survival skill, actually!” I reckoned.
returned again. Sipping their pity-funded brews and
stumbling to the chords for “Don't Stop Believin'.” “We
are the music makers,” they spurted. “No you're not,
you're just a couple of noisy assholes. Now get
the fuck out, you're scaring the customers.” Jasper's fans
were more overweight and twelve years old than usual.
They scattered or loitered less obviously. Billy's brother bummed
a bourbon offa Big Bass. They smoked and talked about
self improvement regimens for the new year. A wheezy laugh
and an fun ol' painful slap on the back, the aggressive friendship
of a fuckup. “But hypocrisy is a survival skill, actually!” I reckoned.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Alpha Mailman
Todd's great. At Chile's
last night, Todd and his girlfriend Sarah -
she's great too – filter fed compliments. He ejaculated
wit on the waitress. He dropped anvils on us. We snickered like
we were comfortable. He grabbed more handfuls of
the conversation and put some more margaritas in him.
Later, I thanked him for the evening. He swerved off the road
and made it a great story. He intimidated his boss
and made it a great story. Tomorrow he's going to
take his mom out to Waffle House for breakfast. He's
going to sit with her at the best booth and give the
stink eye to those suspicious Mexicans at the bar.
last night, Todd and his girlfriend Sarah -
she's great too – filter fed compliments. He ejaculated
wit on the waitress. He dropped anvils on us. We snickered like
we were comfortable. He grabbed more handfuls of
the conversation and put some more margaritas in him.
Later, I thanked him for the evening. He swerved off the road
and made it a great story. He intimidated his boss
and made it a great story. Tomorrow he's going to
take his mom out to Waffle House for breakfast. He's
going to sit with her at the best booth and give the
stink eye to those suspicious Mexicans at the bar.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Agxshley
Vegan godess is a veguss
I want to throw her Whole Foods shopping cart to the ground
and make love to the hummus. I know she'll
eat it off disdainfully.
I get off on the thought of her trying to rationalize it.
DON'T WASTE FOOD
THE AVERAGE AMERICAN WASTES A POUND OF FOOD A DAY
I throw dead cows into the dumpster
It's starting
I go to the nearest Jimbo's, buy all the pasta I can carry, and
dump it all into the hot springs
Nature's orifice froths culinarily
I dump tomatoes in and whatever else is red and familiar enough in
I bathe in it until the smell gets to be an acquaintance
She would approve
I hotwire her lie lifestyle.
I defuse her reluctance
she cries because I am successful at it
But she cries her tears into a brita filter
Later I'll lick the salt off.
Later I'll fill her sustainable living room with lard froth and hamburger dolls
Grow right or don't grow at all.
Do you ever partake in survival sentiment?
I want to vomit like a real living mammal.
I want to burn her tofu effigies.
I want to throw her Whole Foods shopping cart to the ground
and make love to the hummus. I know she'll
eat it off disdainfully.
I get off on the thought of her trying to rationalize it.
DON'T WASTE FOOD
THE AVERAGE AMERICAN WASTES A POUND OF FOOD A DAY
I throw dead cows into the dumpster
It's starting
I go to the nearest Jimbo's, buy all the pasta I can carry, and
dump it all into the hot springs
Nature's orifice froths culinarily
I dump tomatoes in and whatever else is red and familiar enough in
I bathe in it until the smell gets to be an acquaintance
She would approve
I hotwire her lie lifestyle.
I defuse her reluctance
she cries because I am successful at it
But she cries her tears into a brita filter
Later I'll lick the salt off.
Later I'll fill her sustainable living room with lard froth and hamburger dolls
Grow right or don't grow at all.
Do you ever partake in survival sentiment?
I want to vomit like a real living mammal.
I want to burn her tofu effigies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)