#1

Where am I going to live?
How will I get health insurance?
No seriously, I need that shit.
#3 maybe after I finish college it would be a nice little procrastination to compile all of the notes, readings, etc., from my 6 years of college. Sort of like an encyclopedia, show everything that I know, or that I have hard proof that I know. Or that I'm supposed to know, and not misquote so frequently and shamelessly.
ALTHO I always go to great, story-destroying lengths to qualify my misrepresentations as such. See! How meta?

Wouldn't that be nice? A large TOME? I think it would be nice, a nice way to deal with the copious copious copious notes I've kept. Here are some additional reasons:

1- I'll finally be able to revisit, in earnest, all those many recommendations for books and art and music that have accumulated over the years;
2- I will be able to throw away all the hard copies- all of that loose leaf shit- and feel less inundated;
3- It will be fun/challenging to design and bind;
4- Though no one will have any business reading it, I'm sure some will be curious, and that should be entertaining, for myself if no one else;
5- I will have a hard copy as book, a hard copy of the text in brads or some shits, and a flash drive that it can live on. At least one of these things can live at the Library of Mink, aka, my parent's house. So then, as above, the clutter will be gone;
6- Also as above, I will be able to reference the information more accurately. Great!
7- Maybe I'll not bind hard copies, but there will definitely be a pdf. Maybe one day I will kick the bucket and some faceless university press will give it a casket-- that is, if I was otherwise prolific enough. And it'd help if I age well, too.

That is all!

Day 5, back in LA

So maybe and maybe not ill live in LA any time soon, but either way, for the last 5 days-- and just now, tonight, included especially, MAN
I'm just all filled up with love. Love love love.
I love this place and i love these people, i love the history i have here and my family has here (5 generations? 4 for sure)... man, it's ALL love. I'm spilling over.
It's crazy, man, it feels clean and entire.
This is a great time and place, shortly, in the midst of a scary one.
I gotta take this with me.

why not?

I think the fourth comment, by Kevin S is right-ish.
This is something I will try to put together soon-ish-- with all credit to Kevin S, of course.
Thanks Kevin S!

Step ONE

Ever happen that you're in a moment, and you suddenly, perhaps involuntary, are briefly pulled back from it such that you objectively take stock of:
-what exactly is happening, the dynamic of the thing, all involved
-how you, specifically, are operating in regards/response/within it
And then, again, objectively, you form an opinion of some kind, or however... internalize, consider this, bla-bla.

Of course you do, we all do, everyone does this, somehow.

Alright, well I'm sort of bummed out to admit this but I think I've (subconsciously?) attempted to simplify life, as it's being lived, with prejudices that are extremely . . . let's say problematic. Fuck that, they're deplorable. Shameful.

I'm only sort of bummed because, as one strives to be more naked in the world, these invariably melt away, and you pity the person (that you were) that once carried them. Like regretting years of addiction, yknow? They happened, and at the time they would happen; it stands to reason that those years would unfold that way. It's regrettable because it was so stupid, but not because you could, or wish you could, in anyway undo it.

Yeah, just like an addiction, prejudices. An ugly and unfortunate crutch.

Now, this is hard part: I'm going to fess up because I think the embarrassment or whatever, or no-- just putting them out there where they can't be hidden, is useful.

A little misogyny, a little prejudice. THOUGH LOOK LOOK LOOK-- the reason I can say these things is because it's not so anymore. (And for one, I can put a lot of this on the segregation and racism in Chicago that was never dealt with here, just painted over. Nothing is ever "dealt with" in this city, people are just appeased and thereby quieted) (Though I'm not blaming them for me, one should not be so weak as to fail victim to the swirling and massive idiocy so endemic... today)(Bt really since always, right?)

OK and here's a BIG important helpful thing:
I was talking to a friend of mine about Dolores Dorantes - a fantastic poet- and Jen Hofer. Jen has worked with Dolores (and many others) on some really beautiful translations of Spanish poetry for English readers. We've both had the good fortune to meet and talk to both of these people, separate of one another.

OK SO my friend said, in his opinion, Jen thinks that translation can, essentially, save the world. More specifically, that once you understand the poetry & art of another culture, that culture stops being an other, and good vibes proceed. I think she's right that the world would be an enormously better place to be in if this happened, though I'd stop pretty damn short of utopia.

AT ANY RATE
The translation thing helps a lot, I think. I mean I think it's true.

I'm thinking about what this post says, and thinking I'll probably delete it pretty soon. Basically I'm saying nothing new, and perhaps things that are so basic about being in the world that it's even embarrassing to be realizing them only now. Well... whatever, it's my blog.

Times that I like my school

Are when, for instance, I got a paper on Albert Ayler, reading by Stanley Elkins, an exhibition proposal of my own + others' work, and a paper on Lisa Robertson's The Men.
I'm all up in that last-year-of-art-school post-jaded epoch, one to suck all the marrow from before the next epoch of post-college-desperation and quarter-life-crisis-ing comes to bear.
Yahooie!

Breakthrough!

Just went to go shoot around for a little bit before the lights went out at the park on the corner... Let me share a breakthrough with you:

How to bury a fade-away jump shot off a spin move. This will presuppose a right-handed shooter without any strange hitch in form.

I just typed out some very long instructions/scenario. Worthless. Instead...

Basically, what I just discovered is that off a spin move towards the baseline, where my right foot is the plant foot, there's a simple fix for what is otherwise a really really fucking hard shot.

The shot is, then, a fade away jumper, falling towards the baseline. You're shooting is off the dribble, off a spin-move, so the feet are not going to be set as they would be for a catch and shoot, curl off a screen, or even face-up, pull-up jumper (like on a fast break). There's also the issue of avoiding the travel. In this situation, instinct might want you to swing your plant foot back to set side-by-side with the pivot, which of course would be a travel. So you could well be fading away off your right foot; less than ideal for a right-handed shooter. It's very likely that to create the most space between you and the defender the pivot foot will not be parallel to the plant foot at all-- another less than ideal footing to release a shot from. BUT! Here's what I just figured out...

Let the feet be off center if they have to be. Gotta the shot off quick, and don't want to be shuffling the feet around. Ideally, off the spin move, you want the shot to be one motion; one that began with your last hard dribble to begin the spin. A la Tim Duncan and his ridiculously fluid turn-around jumper.

When you elevate, focus on leaving both feet as close to the same time as possible. Elevate as balanced as you possibly can; that is, do not overcompensate for the spin by using more of one foot then another. Keep with the motion of the spin. If you don't, you'll be shooting across your body because of the imbalance in your toes. Balanced elevation. I emphasize this because, as with any fade-away, you're going to use a lot more of legs than usual, and so the margin for error in your feet is slim-none.

Focus on the landing. This is the breakthrough for me.
Obviously, the shots not over until you've at least started to come back down, but as far as foot placement on the landing, I don't know that I've ever paid much attention to it except as 1) an indicator/result of possible problems earlier in the shooting form; 2) important so you don't get hurt. Duh. Anyway, "back to the lecture at hand,"

Focus on the landing. Once the shot has traveled past your ass/waist, it's in the hands of your upper-body. Nothing to do there. Either your torso knows what to do or it doesn't. Tweaking the upper-body to hit a shot like this will plug one hole but open another. You'll be all kinds of cockamamie by the time it rims out, so don't even bother. Remember, the difficulty here is in the feet ("here" being a stand-in for "99.99999% of missed shots due to poor form").

So you focus on the landing. Try to get the left foot to land pointing at the rim. Your right should have already been pointing to it because it was your plant foot. THAT'S IT!

Spin. Elevate as with any fade-away. Once the shot is past your waist*, focus on landing with both feet (especially the left) pointing to the rim. That's it. 1-2-3.

*By "past your waist," I don't mean the ball. I doubt my ability to properly articulate this. I'm talking about the motion of your shot/body as it moves up from the toes to the eventual release point. It's something you can feel in your body. The muscles firing in (hopefully fluid) succession from the toes to the fingertips. Anybody who's ever "worked on their jump shot" will know what I'm talking about.


I haven't played in weeks and weeks and weeks, and was just out there for about 15 minutes in jeans, soft-heel dress shoes, jacket, etc. etc. etc. I've never blogged about playing ball before, ever. I just figured this out, and could not miss. I'm serious man, money in the bank, every time. Unreal how perfect the shot felt start-to-finish with this. Man, winter is gonna suck. ALright!


[Worth noting: This is ALL assuming-- and this is a BIG assumption, I know-- your release from the waist up is not problem. If it is, what the hell are you doing taking a turn-around fade-away jumper? Go baseline and get to the hoop or pass it. Come back in like 25,000 shots from now.]

Caetano Veloso

Who knew!?

Two Things

1) This is so freaking awesome I can't believe it. WOW:

http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/authors.php

2) The Valley = Tom Waits & his music - anything,everything,all, Cool
Que no?

Cold Larry or Larry In The Mesopause

That's the name (for now?) of a short story i just finished. if you wanna read it, hollatchaboi, strangers welcome.

for now! the "themes" erwutevr. this is all the shit
THESE:

http://www.aspenmays.com/larry/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thyTzCU9c2U

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_Excelsior

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81gn2oLeC_U&feature=related

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xavier_Villaurrutia

(and the sidney bechet one below)

LINKcheck

oh, wait, fuck, but seriously; this:

Sidney Bechet Blues in Thirds
^
Play the first one
^
Set it to repeat
^
Man....

Good at being fucked

Pressuredmyselfintouncreativity, what'll I do? /
Gotadeadlinethatisabsolutelyimperative6daysfromnow, what'll I do? /
Tryingtodothiswritingthingbecauseiiiiiiiiiuhhhhhhh, what'll I do? /

Take it away! Mr. IRVING BERLIN, ladies and gentlemen!
"When Im alone
With only dreams of you
That wont come true
Whatll I do?"

[wild applause]
[wild applause]
[wild applause]
[wild applause]
[wild applause]
[wild applause]
v
v
[wild applause]
v
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v
v
[wild applause]
[wild applause][wild applause][wild applause]
[wild applause]
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v
[wild applause]
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[wild applause]
v
v[wild applause]
v

Presently

Wow, PZ is a douche. Never heard of LZ til this, just dl'd "A" in it's entirety, though. This will be the best thing that ever happened to the already available free excerpts of LZ's floating around the internet. Because the downloads are secret, no "bad" or "good" can befall them, like Black Ops or Aliens.

Insomnia*, like many things, is firstly concerned with self-preservation. Fear works best. So what I am I saying here? I am afraid of the dark. Keeps me up at night, vicious cycle.

Good idea for writing gimmick occurs to me, maybe a way to part fool from money, even? I kid, I kid. Unless you applaud that, in which case, no bad or good can come of... our... intentions? ??? In which case, I'll share my plan! Bwaha!

I'm going to try to go to sleep again. There's at least one thing I came on here to write and am forgetting. Soon, I will wake up and force myself to catch up on late assignments. Who the fuck does assignments anymore? Am I spoiled?

Maybe I'll dream about Kendra Grant Malone?

*Probably not insomnia. Probably I got tired from eating a meal late enough that I decided to just go to sleep early, then woke up a couple hours later. Incidentally, sleep can be such bullshit.

Oh, also,

I successfully completed a late-night triathlon a few fridays ago, the record of which can be read here:
twitter.com/morky_3thlon

It was fun!

On SHopping

Went shopping today after coming up on some cash earlier in the week and wanting to do something with Chill different from the things we usually do, seeing as how yesterday was our 1 year anniversary. And seeing as how I've been meaning to buy some new clothes for a while now, we went shopping for an hour.

We started talking about styles etc, the kind of clothes we both like to buy and what our own "personal styles" are like. It was a brief sort of conversation because, if we're being honest, it's hard-to-impossible to listen well enough to have a conversation when two people are talking about their own self. Selves, w/e. Even briefly, it was an uncomfortable thing to talk about because of the vulnerable sort of objectivity of it. One thing we can all agree on when shopping is that you want to stay away from fads.

Obviously, I'm thinking about Tao Lin, et al. Lately I've been thinking a lot about how silly, futile, and vain the past & future are, and then cowering in imbecilic horror at the concept of "present," but just for a blink because that's overthinking, and I'm sure of it.

In high school, I was very caught up with fashion, always trying to toe the line between "fad" and "awesome." In hindsight, and in line with my prevailing philosophy for the day-to-day, it was a fun game to have played at the time. Now, I own very few items of clothing, many of which I have wanted to get rid of for a very long time, and many of which I have own for 3-5 years.

Example: For the last 4 years or so I replace my black high-top converse every 6 months-1 year by swapping them out in a Sears or somewhere else for a fresh pair (I DESTROY shoes, especially the heels. Generally, my shoes are heel-less within 4-5 months of daily wear). Last year I was on the Northside during an especially heavy and unexpected downpour when Chill and I dipped into a Brown Elephant thrift store and I found a pair of rubber-soled dress shoes that fit for $5. These are now my weather shoes, and I recently had them repaired for $30. I bought a new pair of basketball shoes last month for the first time in 4-5 years, and even then only after the toe on my plant-foot-- my left-- was blown out and thereby costing me one left sock every time I played ball. Which, when the weather is good, is almost daily, if not daily, as has been the case since... forever, for life.

"Should" I be doing more than the bare minimum?

I think something that is important for seeing oneself through any existential conflict is to remember Nausea and isolate one's own position, relative to all others', framed within the relevant impetus for one's crisis. Then go from there, remembering that old people who've lived don't give a fuck anymore and that's why they say/do whatever they can/want, and if you're going to take advice from anywhere, take it from the people that are doing whatever they want/can.

Alright, I have a deadline coming up, and I'm working within the suggestion that I:
-write one beautiful, well-crafted sentence,
-then figure out what beautiful, well-crafted sentence should come after that,
-all the while paying no attention to the creation of a premeditated framework for the story.

I might even make things that much easier on myself and tell a specific story that has happened to me, completely defeating the over-analysis that I generally exercise when working out the framework for a story.

Possibilities from life: Jail story, Cop story, Fight story, Drug story, Girl Story, S&M Club Story, Travel Story, Death Story, Mental-disorder Story, Sports Story, Buddy Story, Art-School Story, Spirit Quest Story, Crime Story (as victim or perpetrator), Gang Story (as informed person/witness), Disaster/Calamity Story, Injury/Recovery/Denouement Story, Whacky Story, Stories pieced together with many stories of my own and/or others, Stories where dogs talk and shit like that, Proper Sci-Fi type story, General Violence Story, General Sex Story, Genre of any kind, really, Story, Philosophical Proof Story, Writer-in-Crisis/Struggling Artist in 21st Century Web 2.0 World Story, etc.

Bahahahahahahahumbug!!!!!!

WHOA

It's a been a while, hasn't it?

Well, it'll continue.

I'm working on a big nameless Celine-ripoff of story (Epigraph: "'Thunderation Asshole Jesus!"" -Death on the Installment Plan), and I don't think I'll be posting it on here.
Maybe, i don't know, some thing relevant to it. We'll just have to wait and see now won't we?

Alright, my derelict little friend, I'll try and get at you again sooner than later.

Mink

Tried to post this 3 days ago

Feeling quite posthumous these past few nights or days. Not so much more death around than is typically so-- more, but not so much more.

So I'm sitting there, reading, on Kate's couch-- my couch for the rest of the month-- looking at the laptop, reading an essay by Philip K Dick. The link that brought me to him reads, "PHILIP K. DICK CALLS OUT REALITY." It proves to be extremely compelling stuff, stuff that I copy-paste to myself in emails because . . . um . . . because the posthumous won't be bothered with a pen and paper, alright? Paste myself things like this:

"My theory is this: In some certain important sense, time is not real. Or perhaps it is real, but not as we experience it to be or imagine it to be. "

Oh, so, this is why I'm posthumous.





I'll post more as the month dredges along. The dregs of summer, the mad dregs? Or wait, is it the mad dogs of summer, that's in........ Diamonds and Gold by Tom Waits, right? (And they'll gather what's left of his bones.) (la dee dah....

Right Now

I've been very slow to recover from my concussion, taking advantage of some windfall in the interim, and, now that that's all gone, busting ass at a couple jobs in anticipation of . . . . again soon having zero desire to bust my ass for someone else?

Also, this is nice:

""[People] who squirt impenetrable clouds of ink do so for the same reason squid do."
-John Dolan

Oh wait, but isnt that octopus?

"[I'm] most interested in pathos and the tantalizing possibility of saying something like the truth, if only for destructive purposes."
-John Dolan

Yeah.. alright, I can dig it, i guess.

"again soon" . . . that doesn't sound right either.

Hour...4?

I finished writing papers 2 years ago, so what the hell am I doing here working on a 3000 word paper that was a due month ago, that I can finally make no more excuses for without arousing suspicion, that etc. what the fuck? All I've eaten tonight is honey roasted peanuts-- are, wait-- yes: are honey roasted peanuts.

Isn't this just the type of thing that blogging is made for? This isn't for finished work, that'd be the website. What else am I supposed to do here but exactly this? Not candid enough for myspace, for sure not deserving of a post over there. A facebook note wouldn't do either since I'd have to tag people and force this on them. I don't even want this paper for myself; how is it that I can't write papers anymore? Probably too long for a Twitter message. Y'know altogether too squaky for a tweet-har-har. Definitely too long for a facebook status update, and not funny enough; too whiny. I could write to, but, again, too presumptious. Where do I put this?
Here?

I could never write in my diary or something precious like that, no, never. Never ever.

(2 weeks ago before going unconscious in the CAT Scan machine, I staggered to the front desk with my backpack and offered it to the younger one- the red-head - and she didn't know what to do with it either. "I.. um... can you... What do I do with this? Can you do something with this?" But then she took it and put it behind the desk. How nice of her, I'm sorry that we were both so confused.)

AhhhhhhhHAhahaa! NOW I've got it!

HERE'S THE PLACE FOR IT!

Cash Cowz

Counter-Counter-Protest

IT DOESNT
MATTER
2012

Some Whacked Out SHit

just had a long enlightening conversation with a cop outside the art institute & who would've thunk it? Started with him snatching my sign out my hands and me yelling at him that he can't take my sign. I had got the sign earlier from this one dude me & julia were talking to out front of our school (the front of the columbus building is right across the street from the "free speech zone," but i digress.) and had to backtrack a little to keep him out of trouble. He said some stupid fearful shit to the cop that snatched it from me a few moments earlier to keep out of trouble or keep me out of trouble or I don't know what the fuck, it was some noble lie or bullshit like that who knows. Anyway after the signs were disposed of I started asking the sign snatcher for his badge number. I kept asking him for it, and two of his cronies came up, butting in, egging his anger on, making fun of me, being douche bags. The snatcher told me to go ask the guy in the white shirt- I think. I looked where he pointed & didn't see anyone in a white shirt, so asked him to clarify. Said, "Wait, did you say the guy in the white shirt? Sorry, I don't see him, can you just point him out to me? Is that what you said... guy in the white shirt?" And he gave the longest boy-you-better-shut-the-fuck-up-and-quit-playing-with-me look that I'm sure I have ever gotten. I thought he might be resisting urges to arrest me or even get violent-- which the two nosy flunkies were encouraging him to do. Like, begging him to do. Like I turned to one of the cronies to ask where the white shirt guy is, I really don't see him (they didn't either-- there was no guy in a white shirt), and they immediately threatened to arrest me. I think the guy said something like, "all I know is I got some cuffs with your name on 'em..." Like I'm his child, like he's going to spank me if I don't stop complaining about mowing the lawn after breakfast. Even though the lawn will still be there after I go play basketball with my friends. It's his house & his rules & he doesn't have to listen to me because he's dad so shut up or you're going to 26th & California, faggot. But I digress.... The snatching officer & I got to talking; he about why he's telling me to go back into my school, why I don't get it, why I don't have the right to stand on my school's property- property which I pay $30,000/ year to stand on (Property that some of my grants from his tax dollars I've been allowed to stand on). And me telling him that I wasn't even doing anything, that all he did was take my sign. He said to take my sign down or put my sign away or go back in my school, and I brushed him off saying, "Oh, sorry, I'll just turn it around--" snatched! We get to talking about why he did what he did, why I did what I did (all the while the cronies telling me how I don't know about hardship, I don't know about the struggle, pointing out that the snatcher is black, they (the cronies) are hispanic, and I'm white. But not being racist at all when they something like that, no sir. Since the cronies are minorities, they can't be racist. And also just throw some cuffs on me because that'll shut me up) (Oh and also the crony that wrote my name on his cuffs [what a sweetheart] kept telling me not to be an individual. Pretty sure he was confusing Chicago's Columbus Drive with Beijing's Zhongzhou Road- a mistake many of us surely are guilty of). When the cronies wouldn't stop butting into our conversation I turned away from them, which they immediately saw as me trying to keep my back pack further away from the black officer I was trying (key word here) to talk to. I told him it was actually because he wouldn't stop talking so I could hear what the man is saying. I don't think the cronies saw it, but the officer I was talking to had to catch himself when he gave the crony a c'mon-man-why-don't-you-listen-to-the-guy-stop-acting-like-jerk-and-just-shut-up look. And just in case either of the cronies are reading this, I'll try to be clear about what you said: You said that I thought a police officer was going to steal my back pack. In front of dozens & dozens of police officers. In front of my own school. Outside a building chock-full of foreign dignitaries. While talking about civil rights & the golden rule, while we're trying to listen to each other explain where it is we're coming from that has brought us to a seeming conflict. Because he's black. Cronies of the world, the CPD, and "law enforcement" officers everywhere: Not everyone is racist, and the general consensus on police officers is that they aren't going to rob you. Cronies may need to read that a few more times before going on. I know how hard it is to learn something new. I, for instance, learned that not all black people want to rob me, but it took me exactly 23 years & 3 months to do so. These things take time; it's complicated, I know. But go ahead, take a minute. I promise not to call you "fag," Cronies. But I digress. The officer and I talked and talked, and moved further and further away from the cronies. We both got to say our piece and be heard by the other man, and I want to try to lay out what the both of us were essentially saying: He told me that the reason the cops keep the demonstrators in a cordoned off area is because of anarchists and violent protestors, that this has always been the way of things in law enforcement-protestors relationship, that back in the 60s Martin Luther King, Jr. & the marches/protests he lead weren't given this right; they had the fire hoses & dogs turned on them anywhere & everywhere they tried to assemble, peaceably or no. I told him that I'm angry my school has put me in a situation to be harassed by the CPD, that for all the money I spend I deserve to not be pushed around & insulted at my school, that if I'm standing-- just standing-- on non-city property a police officer cannot tell me to move because if when you give an inch you lose a mile, and that while I by no stretch or skew of the imagination do I mean to equate these events to any of the protests from the 60s we were referencing abstractly, that as Ben Franklin said, "Those who would sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither." And I have to say that when I first recited that, very much in the heat of the moment and in response to threats by any if not all 3 officers, I was very surprised that the cronies had nothing to say; even recoiled a bit. The officer I was chiefly engaged with was level-headed & present even then to listen & respond, but the frothing cronies slunk back. In all honesty, wow, thank you Ben. I did not expect that to hold sway in the face of their unreasonable bullying, and it is really great that it did. OK, that was a tangent, not a digression. Back to point & counterpoint: He told me that he's just doing his job, that he actually agrees with what the protestors are saying, that he's not his uniform but a man doing the work of it. I told him that just because he does something while working, that does not recuse him of responsibility; he and all of us are always our actions. As we both agreed, neither of us thought the protest important enough that either of us would've attended it. He was only there because had to be, I was only there because I had been walking my girlfriend to class. And we only confronted each other in the first place because we weren't listening to each other. Awwww... pretty thought, huh? But hear me out, cronies, the list is almost finished. Promise. He didn't know that I wasn't being told for the enth time to clear out, he didn't know that I was a student & not a violent anarchist criminal, he didn't know that every time I was threatened by the cops I caved (I'm so sorry, Ben, but can this be atonement-- kinda like carbon offsets?), and that while stepping back five feet I can't get scared and run away altogether. He thinks that he's just a man doing a job. I don't believe everything he said, but then I probably claimed some bullshit about him, too. I thought he is fascist tyrannical piece of shit sadist some kind of reverse racist stormtrooper for Mayor Daley's rich white capitalist Wasp's nest, so removed from reality by the violent infallibility afforded to law enforcement everywhere in our country that my best bet was to calmly get his badge number so I could at least try to show him what it's like on the other side of the badge. Turns out "John" is really a good guy. Used to work in the school's and the park's district (I may be biased here; I have & still do volunteer for both), originally wanted to be a firefighter. Secondly wanted to be a Hollywood star. Ultimately was convinced by a friend to join the force because the cops need more guys like him. And he didn't even like cops-- or maybe it was that he still doesn't, can't remember. Turns out I was able to almost completely avoid having to give my credentials for anything, which is great because that doesn't matter at all when you're talking in the moment about ideas and actions. We got to share a few a words and he said he'd come back to see me at the school and I told him where to find me, and, how's this for context, I'm only now realizing how absolutely unfathomable it is that I would have that exchange with a police officer. Ever. Anyway, his name is John, and even if he is only 1/3 of the of the police force (I'm looking at you, cronies), we agreed on Obama.

Although I did smash my head and get a concussion the other day, so it could be that all these pretty little simple thoughts are especially appealing to me right now while my pupils are still shrinking back to equality.

A simple question, a little baby question

Will the comments section be the death of "Eyewitness News" style reporting?
All those wahoos being quoted as stand-ins for public sentiment?
Wait- but what about the wahoos picked to talk on eyewitness news reports?
maybe this question is smaller than even I thought?
Hm?

Moving

Most of the time when you walk by a dog behind a fence in Pilsen they jump & bark but you can go right up to them & hold your hand out & let them smell it & laugh at them barking & play nice through the fence then keep walking-laughing, smiling. But, lately, the dogs all look hungry, they look a little thin. And now, anymore, you don't go up to the fences.

The air's unsettled, and it's time to leave Pilsen.
Bon apetit, all you greased-up young runamoks!

[From 9th & Hennepin:
"And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow"]

Ya fuck this place.

Anyway, it was a good run while it lasted.

Ah man . . .

I just got robbed.
No more computer, lots of mind games to play now.
Fucking robbed.
Like, broke in, thank god I woke up and chased em out before they got anything else
robbed.
Bummer, huh?

Thanatology

On Monday night I went to Weeds. This is the result of their poems, a couple drinks, & 24 hours removal from reading the article below. Gregorio said this about something else: "Some little prick in the audience yelled out, 'You're a plagiarizer!' And I told him I didn't plagiarize it, man-- I stole it." WhatthefuckGregoriothatdoesn'tevenmakesenselet'sdrinkmore


For when one day I return and someone's not here

This Mister, 90 years old,
Annoyed he's still around,
Said it'll be like driving
A car through the desert
And the car just stops.
Just stops there-
No Triple A or
Tow Truck,
And it doesn't matter if the road
Goes on and on, because for you
It has ended, here.

Lipstick smears,
And the smear fades;
Your skin sighs.
Your bones clack, creak, and dust.
All those sights and sounds
Just behind staccato white lines.

No roadrunners chasing snakes,
No flaming roadrunners chasing snakes.
No coyotes skulking the horizon,
No scorpions in your shoes-
Or scorpions in your shoes.
No vultures;
None.
There will be desert,
A shrinking, humbling desert
Made from dust.

He says that no one has to die,
Death'll do it all for you.

And long-distance or what
Your cherry chokes,
All white smoke and vacant rubber,
All abalone oil and shining obsoletion,
Ground into an exhale.
And there'll be just some dots,
Just some dots on dusted asphalt.

+


'"My knee hurts."

"Would you like a pain pill?"

"Yes."

"Tramadol or Vicodin?"

"I don't care."'

A Piece

This is part of what will be a much longer piece.
I tried piecing together some of what I have written about this guy into something that could fit in our zine, & this came out.
This is gonna get longer before it's gets shorter, citizens, much longer. But it will get shorter, because we're determined to see it so. Yes.

You Are An Old Man
You're old, & you're eyes are glassy. They're weathered and preoccupied. You have a wife - had. You had a wife. There were kids, too. One's dead and the other's an ingrate bastard. A real bastard, you like to say. A real one- you never married his mother. That bitch. Your son. Henpecked shithead, too pussy-whipped to ever the bring the grandkids with him- your grandkids- or act like the man you raised him to be. Your son, the coward. Your caretaker. He bought you a rascal two years ago for your birthday, used, & you don't use it unless you have to which isn't often. And godamnit no one's gonna make you use the damn thing, either. You have a walker, and a cane. There are no tennis balls on your walker, & you only use it for getting around the house and even then only since your surgeries. You like to take walks, snow on the sidewalk or not. You laugh at all the dog shit in your neighborhood. When the snow begins to melt is when there's the most of it. Trash, too. You chuckle & stagger along, wondering how many different dogs it took. You shuffle around the block thinking about the people that threw their trash on the ground.

You keep your pill bottles in the kitchen, & taking them each morning gives you something to do. Generally, you take as much time to complete this regimen as possible. You remember the times you sat in train stations for hours on end with nothing to do but stay awake. Had to or the cops would kick you out into the cold. You'd do this by doing only a few things, slowly. Walk to the bathroom, walk back. Sit. Walk to the water fountain, then back. Sit. The window; sit. This time, you don't bother remembering where you were headed so early in the morning, or even the names of the person or persons you were going to see. That train has left the station, as they say. And anyway, you're just trying to remember how to extend things here.
You shower daily- you have always really enjoyed taking showers, even since you were a kid, even since you've been an adult. Now you sit naked in a white plastic lawn chair when you shower, the water cascading down your shoulders chest, your stomach. You let the water land softly in your lap, & run down your legs or pool up & cool in the sagging seat of the plastic chair. You do not always have the courage to get your hair wet.

You're an old man, & the scars from your youth have all been absorbed- lost in your wrinkled skin. But not the scars from all the goddamned surgeries you've had on you these past few years! You're building up quite the collection of those! Damn doctors. You remember the saying, "taken to the cleaners," that your health problems make up "quite the laundry list." You laugh, but then stop, because the joke is corny & you didn't even really make one, anyway. Just thought some things. Just like you've you always said: bad luck and poor execution. You, & your surgeries. You laugh, and, this time, you can feel it in your eyes. Ah, fucking procedures. The last one took out part of your colon, and now the cancer's back, in your esophagus this time. You aren't going to see those damn doctors anymore. You heard somewhere that if you live long enough, you get cancer. Like it's nature's population control. So y'know what? Screw the doctors.

Early in the afternoon you like to take a nap in your bedroom. Sunlight spreads out across the room- the walls, your bed- and you nap, or else lie there, awake. Then you get out of bed, and sit in the other room, the room with the windows. Out your windows are rooftops & treetops. There are also powerlines, exciting, hard-working, anonymous powerlines, connecting everything. Your storm windows are new. Relatively new- new as of a few years back- and they keep the house very quiet. The sound of planes always gets through, though, thank god. You think about the people on these planes, wonder if any of them are people you've known. You're reminded of people you never knew by all the strangers overhead. Ah hell, make it this far, everything reminds you of someone. The punchline is you never can tell how much these memories are true to the people you spent the time with. It's a pretty good game, you think, seeing how many different versions of a single person it turns out you knew. Maybe they were sick, or drunk, or didn't pay attention, or else were more important than you remember, more than passing faces. Just play until you forget them again, until they're gone, & you don't care. That's generally the rule you play this game with. Or else just move on, pass your time any other way.

And your daughter, your dead, dead daughter. No one or no thing is coming to get you because you played your cards wrong & you lost. Big deal. Hey, that one wasn't half bad.... You remind yourself that things could always be worse. For instance, your son could be over right now. Or maybe you'd have a cat. Instead you have these things in your home, their solitude, all these damn dusty things. A room full of things, a house, and whose are they? This doesn't feel like a house you live in. Maybe it's the quiet, all these damn quiet things. They're someone else's- they must be. Confusing but familiar. Like traveling when you were a kid. Maybe you didn't know the whole city, but you knew where you were standing. You knew North, South, & where you were staying, too. Knew where you'd been, and that's about it. You'd have fun trying to figure these places, or else not worrying about it one bit; glad just to be standing somewhere. Well that was then. Dumb fun for a dumb kid, yes, but it sure beats the hell outta setting down, wondering how the hell you came to have a porcelain black jesus with a broken nose, and three kings come up to his ankles over there on that end table. Who gave you that, anyway? How'd any of this crap get here? You wonder what-the-fuck's going on around here. Indignant in your wonder, you're looking at the things all around you. Like a first time & a last time, it's confusing but familiar.

You try to place these things- try to place yourself, in them- you try to make one thing lead to another but you're having a pretty rough go of it. You wrestle with these memories, all around you now. Know they're yours, know they belong somewhere in you, and you get a feeling you don't have a clue. Things aren't adding up now, and hey. . . is this finally what it feels like to be lost? Alright wait, now, just stop all this. When did you get out of the shower? You did shower, right? Alright, well if you didn't, then where were you just now? Hold on, but weren't you just in bed? Right, yes, wait, OK well then when was that? Goddamnit, how long have you been sitting here? Couldn't be that long- sun's only just dropped off. When did-- it must just be, you- ah hell. You're confused, you accept this. You're very confused.

Yeah, well, certainty is for fools & liars anyway, right? haHA! You try to comfort yourself with this. You set your eyes West, out through the window, from your chair. Somehow, your body is trembling, but your keep eyes steady. Out the window, certain in their intention. Your eyes are glassy, and weathered, sure, but they're steady, goddamnit- unwavering. You're fighting the shaking in your body now. You almost didn't notice. It's everywhere; your whole body shaking & awake, you're in it, you're fighting it. For what? You let go. You remember dog shit in the snow, and laugh.

The first time you made out with George Clinton

The two of you were walking his atomic dog. Funkadelic was back at the house, playing croquet in the backyard. The moon was setting, the stars were whistling. You stepped on the remnants of a shattered jug of Carlo Rossi wine, pieces of it held together by the torn label. The light from the whistling stars, and his glowing atomic dog, they played on his eyes just so, lending them a lime green haze. You grabbed his leash, and with your other hand threw a few wanton dreadlocks behind his shoulder. His rough, salt & pepper & pink & electric blue dreadlocks. His powerful shoulders. You pulled his chapped lips into yours, wrestled his tongue around a little bit. And you melted time away in a mushroom cloud of nuclear passion.


(But was the dog jealous? Does Funkadelic even enjoy playing croquet, and do they only play once the moon has gone down over the city? Does George have to poop as well? Did he recognize the tune the stars were whistling? How does he feel about the sound of twice-crushed glass? Does he hate it? Does he ever get self-conscious about his hair? When you took the leash, did you choke the dog a little? Was he glad you moved his dreadlocks out of the way, or does he like things a little messy? Was he embarrassed about his chapped lips? Has he ever been with a white boy before? Are you being too rough, or just rough enough? How do you look in this light? He totally digs you. God, this is a dream . . . . )

In Preparation

I am now co-editor, along with Alyssa Martinez, of a literary zine called In Preparation
We are printing 350+ copies of the "February" issue next Monday-- woo!
More info by clicking the link to the right. In fact, all the info is there.
Wanna contribute? Hell yeah, send something, we'll read anything.

Where I'm From

Fuck you, it's an interesting article.

(a taste)
"In 1970, more than half the Valley’s neighborhoods, or 152 Census tracts, were healthy. Three of four Valley families living in those enclaves owned their homes, and middle-class families comprised 600,000 of the Valley’s 1 million residents. By 2000, such enclaves were anachronisms, containing just 97,691 of the Valley’s 1.5 million residents.

Thirty years ago, Reseda, cultural home of the “Karate Kid” and Tom Petty’s hit “Free Falling,” was 74 percent middle class. Almost everyone was a homeowner. But Reseda was targeted for a massive remaking, pushed by City Hall, that forcefully transformed it into a cluttered minicity of apartment complexes hampered by crime and gangs. The middle class bolted, by 2000 making up 41 percent of Reseda.

Reseda’s story was repeated, as planners wiped out Valley neighborhoods, approving a near-doubling in rental-housing construction from 1970 to 2000, from 130,000 to 240,000 apartment units. While every mayor from Tom Bradley to Villaraigosa has claimed that such remaking improves L.A.’s quality of life, each such mantra has backfired, worsening quality of life. Good jobs have fled — as have waves of white, black and Latino middle-class residents."


And in this one, I don't know where they get off calling the Frisky Kitty, I mean Babes & Beer, Tarzana. Doesn't Tarzana start South of the 101? Like, as a rule? True Story: I grew up half my life across the street, & the old train tracks that are now the Orange Line, from this place! Annnnd then moved down the tracks one mile West for next 10. Babes & Beer.. ha!

Dipshits.

Neko Case

Im a big fan of hers & she's got a new album out in March.
More importantly, her label, ANTI-, is doing a promotion whereby if you post this song from the new album on your blog anytime from now to feb 3 they will donate $5 to Best Friends Animal Society. Gotta say, this isnt my favorite Neko Case track ever- that'd probably be one of these 1 2 3 4 songs- but what's a 5 minute post to have her label donate $5 to a charity for animals on your behalf?
(Click this promotion link to get more info & maybe do the same)

People Got A Lotta Nerve - Neko Case

all the fuckabouts

You're not Charles Bukowski, you're not a Wes Anderson screenplay, & no one fucking cares if you all you want is a bungalow for your high horse, your cats, and a coffee maker. So you've done drugs and/or seen/been in a fistfight. Fuck off, it doesn't matter.
Shit goddamn.
A while back one of my brothers told me there's always gonna be more bad music than good. Fuck dude, I guess.

high falootent

is the difference between mallarme & the minimalists their content ("dirty realism"), & his dada sense of humor?

kill me

(related to below)

(to the post called "Legacy" which you might should read first. in fact, please-- read that first. believe me that this & that are better for it, & then if im wrong you tell me so & we'll do something about it.)

After all of below:
And why words? Why art? Why questions?


And this, from July, titled "Where's my golden goose". Apparently, all this is nothing new for constipated ol' mink.


[And all this is only scratches on the surface (paragraph 1) ]

and more boy-specific: (as I had hunched)
"Truth is one, the sages speak of it by many names." which is a translation of the Rig Vedic saying "Ekam Sat Vipra Bahuda Vadanthi."

Legacy

is a difficult if ridiculous question to ponder.
But why do you do this? These things & motions, exercises. Repetitions.

In Japan, they practice perfection-- singular perfection. Economy of action directed toward perfection.
OK.
But then they also have Ikebana. For every master sushi chef, there is a flower arrangement waiting, glaring at him & laughing.*

So the problem for the boy, sitting in the desert, in the shadow of the camel's corpse, in the spray of the lion feasting, is...
Where to walk? Hm.
Well in that case, the important thing, first & foremost, is to get walking. OK. Annnd... To soldier on? To stop & squeeze one off? To laugh at the design he's made in the sand at his feet? To eat the sand at his feet--!?
Hm.
This is a difficult question.


*this was implanted at the above asterisk, then removed & placed here instead. there's a kind of explanation of Ikebana, & then further mish-moshing.

Harmony & beauty are a thing, just like tradition & logic. The asymmetry of Ikebana is a thing only in what it is not (that is, it is not symmetrical). And furthermore, the intuition of searching for the arrangement in which the plants appear most happy, or whatever, the intuition is hardly a thing at all.
A sharp, balanced (etc.) sword can be the most that. It can be towards Platonic "swordness." Done. Ikebana can be towards... ? It can't. It can be towards polish, I suppose. But that is ultimately as pointless as choosing a good font & book cloth to entomb your magnum opus.

(That is, the polish is only of the presentation. It is towards "bookness," then, but the content hardly effected)

OK, but so can't this Japanese example further suggest that Ikebana & swordsmithing are equally futile-- if the futility is defined as lack of absolute correctness? (Yes. They futilize each other.) OK.
So then what about this:
What about if the boy tries to work all this out while skulking the horizon? And what if he records this, chooses a font & a book cloth, & leaves it behind? How bout that?

If he does not arrive at an answer of any solidity, has he done anything more than make the poor arthritic cataloguers at the library of congress slog through yet another goddamned entry in that section? (That fucking section)

And hey, what of that- of the pursuit of "an answer of solidity"?

Well, what of the pursuit of a font & a book cloth?

In looking for new books...

"[Book title], [Author]'s brilliant study in [genre], is 60 years old and looks better all the time.

There is no such thing as progress in literature, and as much as we pursue the latest thing, novelty is no advantage in a novel. [!!!!!!!!!]

[Book title] provides the proof.

Recently reissued in [Highly respected Publishing House]'s Classics series [(editorial)], [Author]'s intricate portrait of [something] and [specified zeitgeist] couldn't feel more current...

[Author]'s taut, relaxed fiction is even better, deservedly a classic in its depiction of the [specified] man at his most basic and disloyal."

Now, would you read this?
Yes, you would. And, just as unwittingly, so would I.
And we'd say, oh, how fine! Like this season's .300 hitter.
Meanwhile, he's still & only always just that season's .300 hitter. Who the fuck cares? What the hell difference does that make?

holiday fun times

“When I was a little boy, I used to play a game with the pictures in my books: I looked at them for a long time and new objects would keep appearing in an endless succession” [from:THE INVENTION OF MOREL by Adolfo Bioy Casares]

youtube
wikipedia

wee!

Trouble w/ Homo Zapiens

It's a book; here's the trouble:

A time where kids get taller towards firefighters & M.D.s. Where he plans to teach no-wit left hemisphere acadaemia- staid translations of perpetually neologic antiquity.
And
(As HE put it) "The gestalt" is such that his eternity creaks & breaks under the weight of a shoe, a Soviet shoe. A kitchy & vulgar Soviet shoe; blonde leather with blue threading & bright, glaring & garish harp buckles--- harp buckles.
A Rubenesque girl the name of Maggie dances a malaise amongst the fine exoticism of Turkish imports, fad-firm TUrkish shoes, & a single staring pair of stubborn blaring shoes- Soviet shoes, choking dust- and he sees it, & he feels like he won't ever write another Soviet verse (or a Russian verse). Pasternak be damned. Not for any beauty of it-- for futility. Futility punishing his right-brained eternity, smothering his eternity. Woe is... ??????????
Again:
He says he went to a technical school, where he learned about a new electric furnace- but only so as to sidestep the firefighters & doctors swallowed up by the army. Them: Willing in eyes of facelessness. He: A new electric furnace.
Then, one day (one seeming everyday, while on scheduled stroll- while NOT dead at work on a sub-Soviet psuedo-relevant lecture-hall begotten curiosity of literary antiquity- he stops, and he looks. And behind his post-noon reflection in the clean or dirty storefront window: is a girl- maybe her name's Maggie- swimming amongst shoes; shoes for sale. And no one wants what his old drunken professor had referred to as, "the Soviet gestalt" (drunkenly). His heart breaks, while in plain sight the dust from the 50s & 60s becomes the dust from the 80s & 90s, and like taxodermy his eternity:
Fails him.
It fails, dustily.
And that's where we pick up the pieces. That's where he... when he... gets a job?


He remembers how when he & his friends all were younger drinking Pepsi seemed like this explosive symbolic novelty of some new freedom. But there's was Generation 'P' because they all chose Pepsi. They all drank Pepsi, and now he's thinking he's got half a mind to blush.

Naive post-idealistic-Marxists:
Your world is caked!


[all of the above is pretty much what happens in chapter 1. the book is by Victor Pelevin)



AND SO:
How does this, if at all, relate to right now? Where are we? Compare & contrast; gimme a conclusion, draw me a map, or a refrigerator.
I think its there-- what is it? WHere are we? When was this? How did it get us here? What happened in ol' USSR then, after, now; what happened here? Did they happen together? What kind of cognizance are we talking about here? Please oh please don't tell me I'm barking up a tree of my own creation. That was then AND WHY ISN't THAT NOW? And HOW? How is that not now? In what ways??


well.. good luck..?

Links

justin beckman
(for reference)
pinesol!
turkish delight
for ladies ONLY
Fun!
Go for the gold!
For the glow!
Speed metal art

M U S I C

It's raining like Home in Chicago

OK------ UNDER CONSTRUCTION IS BELOW. PLEASE WITHHOLD JUDGEMENT AS IT IS UNEDITED AND MAJOR MAJOR EDITS ARE COMING SOON. MAJOR CHANGES. HUGE, EVEN.---------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2 Parts:
The Homeless World Cup in 6 Movements

First Movement

There was a homeless world cup the other day, and
Hey congratulations, fellas, & now you're-- you can, uh.
Hey great job over there!
Russia lost, in the final to boot, & that's gotta count for something still right?
Congratualtions! You're a whole lotta winners!
Sludging home! Sludging away!
Well, hey there, hi there, ho there! You've won Homeless World Cup!

Second Movement

One useful trick when homeless
Waiting for the library to open.
You don't even have to have a card
And there's air conditioning.
If you're smart about it, you
Can clean up inside, and
Stay inside most of the day.

Third Movement

Another useful trick is to ride
The city's public transportation system all night.
It's warm & the first can sometimes even
Redouble as "safe."
Covering your eyes & ears helps you sleep-
Sleep blissfully unaware of shit on the pitch.

Fourth Movement

At the Homeless World Cup,
The participants get put up in a hotel,
And most of their meals are free.
After the winners are crowned,
The participants get bused to the airport
And receive one-way tickets.

Fifth Movement

At the Homeless World Cup,
There's shit on the the pitch.
The shit is blind,
The shit is deaf.
This shit is unaware.
It's blind, even when one of the players steps in it,
Disfiguring the shit pile's lumpy face.

Sixth Movement

In St. Petersburg, a man is taking a shit,
Crouched next to a cold dumpster.
When finished, he plucks up
A damp, clean to-go bag
From a nearby Asian infusion restaurant
And he wipes his ass.
He's a failed gardener-
Not enough grass in St. Petersburg.

Part II:
"Watch out, here it comes...!"
(Ill word process it at escuela today)

OK here:

I'm wondering about this homesickness, right? wtf is that?? Why would I feel that way? It's not even really homesickness, either. More of a reminiscence. Is it here? I don't think so, I like it here just fine. Great city to work in, as ol' Ernie said. Weeeeeell wtf? THIS the fuck :

Cause there are places in L.A. that
Hold you in their hand like a cheap trinket.
Chicago only wants to coo & condescend you;
New Orleans is drunk & leaving;
New York expects it of you.
L.A.? I'll be there soon;
Your wood chipped old prodigal pinnochio is coming home; yes, yeah, yes-- home.


The syrupy Prequel:
[When I was 19 I went to get my first, & so far, only, tattoo at this spot off Van Nuys. I'd been waiting for weeks to go, friends of my insisting they wanted to go with me only to flake when the hour came. Soo fuck it- fuck 'em- & I got in right before close that night. The guy who did the tattoo told the others there he didn't mind starting one then, that it'd only be an hour or 2 anyway. He was a pretty good looking guy, actually. And the body piercer made dirty jokes that were really very clean, & the anachronist shop girl vascillated between jilted teen, and ditzy teen.
The tattoo was on my ribcage, & at one point we had to stop because I was getting light-headed---- don't get tattoos on an empty stomach!---- and, actually, the tattoo guy gave me a lollipop & insisted that the sugar helps your body make more dopamine for the pain, or something like that. Whatever. I felt foolish, but not by any fault of his.
We talked a lot while he was tattooing me; about the tattoo itself, about all those hard times (and, surprising for that time, I listened to him), we talked about books & philosophy & art & he told me about Noam Chomsky, who he had just begun reading.
Surprising, maybe, in hindsight, because talk about being a snot-nosed kid... shit. But he showed me a lot of respect in spite of it, & we actually did talk about shit, and on his knuckles it said, "GOIN HOME".
Oh! And remember the walk to Mark Linao's apartment after for that party? I was high, we drank champagne, & I washed the blood off in his shower. ]

I love Joe Donnelly

That Joe semi-somebody is a former editor of L.A. Weekly, among other publications. He's still a sometimes contributor to The Weekly, and the deep-down, palm-of-your-hand excitement I get from catching his name on a byline of theirs is something akin to, well, catching word of your first teenage girlfriend. He's honest without being blunt, sentimental without being syrupy, and relatable without being trite. The guy's a straight-up Human Being, through & through. And seeing as how this blog's viewership could well fit in the palm of your hand, too, seems to me that this is a fine place to not-so-subtle-speak my intimate appreciation for the guy.
I'd like to publish bestsellers, be anthologized, transcend written word, knead at the human condition, & write well enough that I don't need the phrase, "human condition." On the really real, though? Scratching out a living & affecting someone in the same'd probably do it for me just as well. And if that ain't proof I need to brush up on how not to spill the syrup then I don't know what is. Enjoy this story like I do:

"When you’re 13, everyone is epic in some way."

This is a mess

Cogency: forthcoming

What else I'm working on

3 Wiki Books (Lotophagi, Alexandria, & Calabi-Yau. Follow the white rabbit & make your own!)
2 Sound pieces, one for a performance for Dola,
Lots of poems & prosodies,
An effort to use keep posting on this darn thing,
Using people's sympathy for me & my painful hernia,
And fun!

Here's an unfinished pome

This doesn't have a title yet, and one day this is part of a short story, but until then:

Spittering & spattering into his glass,
He swallows the last of his drink,
Makes his connecting flight.

Here's a poem

Delicate- Oh!
Cleaning his eyelashes . . . .

Now:

OK, now that I'm in the writing program, let's get back to work here on the text at hand, hm?

Just some mindless ambling for starters:

Why is the NY news media mainly the Times & Charlie Rose, so intent on blaming the Mumbai attacks on the Pakistani government? Chomsky, do you care to weigh in?

The case is shaky at best, & so far consists primarily of guilt by textual association. Headline the terrorists' hostage abuse (they're murderers & terrorists, how is it newsworthy that they didn't adhere to Geneva Conventions?) alongside links to Pakistan. Mention Pakistan in the first goddamn sentence
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/05/world/asia/05mumbai.html?hp
FYI, the Huffington Post is linking to that article, as well, under the headline: "Mumbai Police Find New Pakistan Links, Evidence Of Savage Hostage Abuse"

Charlie had the Pakistani Ambassador Husain Haqqani on the show on 12/1 & would not stop hammering at the perceived connections between the Pakistani government & the terrorists. NOT the connection between the terrorists & Lashkar-e-Taiba (LET) that the only captured gunmen has confessed to, & AP reporters have, so far, been able to validate. I've got a ton of respect for Charlie, his is the one & only TV show I make an effort not to miss, night after night, but that was bullshit.

Instead of inundating this with links, I'll direct you to LA Times, Chicago Tribune, AP, CNN, & gasp! Fox News. Second thought, don't go to Fox News. Their article is the AP one, anyway. But what does it say about the TImes when those piss-poor news outlets seem to be the ones following the logic of the facts?

LET is BANNED in Pakistan. Pakistan has a new government that represents a stark difference from Musharref's Pakistan. This is Bhutto's party, & they've been fighting an uphill battle to rid the country of the corruption & rogue militant elements within the Intelligence community since gaining power. The Pakistani Ambassador (Haqqani) used what I think is a very relevant metaphor, & to paraphrase: Say you have a Police force that is corrupt, so you bring in a new Chief of Police. Is it reasonable to expect that overnight your city's crime rate will drastically decrease? Is it even reasonable to expect that all corruption within the department will immediately end? No, it is not reasonable. But it is reasonable to expect that this new Chief will work hard to clean things up & serve the city as best he can, & that is just what the Pakistani government is trying to do.

Is Obama gonna have the mess of the last years cleaned up come Jan 21, 2010? Hell no, but he'll be working towards it, & he'll probably still be working against GOP whack jobs the whole country over in order to it.

We're at a time when anti-Western sentiment in the Middle East & South Asian world is as bad as it's ever been-- no shit. It would be incredibly irresponsible & injurious for any in positions of influence to abuse their power through bias & factual blind eyes; perhaps now more than at any previous time in the modern era. So, y'know, maybe just don't always believe the hype.

"Whatever & ever amen."

ATTN: Below

Are the 3 things I'm going to give to Mark Booth to look at for considering me for the Writing Program. Poke around, kick some tires, tell me what you think, come back for a good time.

Part 1

The by far the most work in progress of the batch-- of this batch. Here it is, with the notes I haven't got to yet, because it's easier for me this way. Because it's late, I'm tired, what if I want to work on this somewhere & I don't have the file? Get off my case, enjoy!

(Since posting, this has been nit-picked, it's true. Obviously. What do you care anyway? Read!)

I left your place a little after 4 in the morning & when I stopped to pee in a dark-ish corner outside the library, or whatever that windowed cubish building is, across the street a guy who has tried really hard not to be scrawny was pleading in pants, a collar, & a vest to his comparably sized blonde girlfriend in her little black dress. I heard him say, no bullshit, "You're killing me I love you so much!" & later, "Just take my hand, please, I just want you to take my hand!"

When I get to Halsted a guy with no shirt on is dancing & kicking at the bus stop pole. Covered in sweat, his teeth & hair misplaced & confused, the guy is really giving it to that pole. He's raving or singing or yelling, though slowly sobering bucket of brains that I am, he's muffled & quiet and a million miles away. The pole he's wailing on, however, is clear as a bell in each reply. Across the street an older man is waiting for our same bus, just he's over there so he can better see it coming. Or maybe that's his excuse for putting some real estate between him & this dancing machine over here. We're all three of us stranded here together, though, just waiting & watching. I think. Actually it's hard to speak for the dancing man- who knows what he's here for?

The bus arrives, I pay my last 2 dollars ($2 which I'd hours earlier folded & hid in the small pocket of my jeans for just this moment) & take my window seat at the back of the bus. We go & go & go. And then we stop. End of line; here I am. Weird. So I'm not heading South back to my apartment? I had noticed a bus on the other side of the street with 'Harrison / 79th' tags & thought nothing of it because, y'know, ethanol & exhaustion right? Hadn't trusted my math to put two & two together at that point. That was my Southbound Night Owl service, this is somebody else's Northbound. Well whoops. I ask the busdriver if he's headed back down to 79th & he's not, he's headed home now. Laughing, I tell him what I thought I was doing, expecting to be just screwed, but hoping that I'd be saved. The busdriver doesn't laugh but he commiserates and insists on giving me a map of the whole bus system. I know I don't need it & he knows I don't want it, but all the same it's the gesture that's important, isn't it? We get to talking a little bit while he smokes his last hourly-wage cigarette of the night. We talk about the city, about driving people around, about coming home late & sneaking one last cigarette before going inside. His name's Clinton, after the County in New York state where he happened to be conceived. His daddy was killed in Normandy just days after spending a last night with Clinton's mom at Plattsburgh Air Force Base in Clinton County New York and since Plattsburgh doesn't sound like anybody's name- it's more like the name of a city, or a duck or something- 9 months later we have: Clinton. Clinton didn't want to tell me that in his whole life he'd never been to his namesake County and so instead we talk all about smoking cigarettes on the weekend; on Saturdays & Sundays. By and by the next bus arrives, and while we're standing there talking this different busdriver into letting me on his bus even though my last 2 bucks are sleeping soundly in a northbound farebox, I get a very good idea of what Clinton's wife smells on the pillow & in his work shirts & even on his recliner when he isn't there & she confides in herself that without that man & his cigarette smoke she'd be up a creek in so many ways. Well, good for her; it really is a very nice smell. Men aren't so bad, just different, or- not the same, Clinton's wife might think. The same but different. Irregardless of the dumb things they do that a real woman never would. And oh, isn't that just great for her?

Now, Southbound, somehow propped up in my window seat, I nod back-and-forth between the piecemeal memories of the beginnings of this night, and some strange tropically thick dream. In this dream nothing ever happens except that I'm hot- it's humid & I'm hot, I'm all sticky. It's light outside, but the day is draining. The tired sunlight lays a thick condensation over everything, but what that is or where we are, I have no idea. The rattle of the bus keeps it from me and I'm jarred back to the task at hand; the job I've set myself to, sitting here in my seat, my window seat near the back of the bus. I'm trying to recall: how did tonight unfold, exactly?

Walking away from my place towards the bus tonight 2 cops in an unmarked Crown Vic had pulled over from the wrong side of the road & asked if I'd seen a Young Male Latino, Tattoos, White T-Shirt & on a Bicycle? I'd said no. In the second-floor window I was standing under we could all hear a couple screaming at each other in Spanish, & from different parts of their apartment dishes weren't flying. And the cops gave me a look like, "We don't wanna know, pal, so keep it shut," & sped off. When I told you that story tonight it was like a joke without a punchline, & now sitting on the bus-- where's the punchline? Did we fill that in somewhere tonight?

And in the Tropics, I know that's it nighttime now, that that means . . . everything; but I can't place myself, or pinpoint where it is I'm going. Like, there's a bar. Or a nightclub. Or a divebar with a pool table & a balcony overlooking the strip where all the gringos & borrachos are stub-toeing around. Like muddy fish on the white deck of somebody's boat earlier that day . . . ?

On the bus, I'm remembering how on the way up to your place tonight there was a very manish looking black woman in a blonde wig talking to the bus driver. That bus was headed Northbound, away from home, & she was telling him things like, "I'll remember your numbers-- '1637' -- Ima write 'em in a letter tellin' them how sweet you are to little old ladies like myself!" (She really didn't look that old; or at least not that wrinkled) And also, "I'd play those numbers, 1637. Well, if it was 1638 I'd play 'em. Y'know why? 'Cause that's the numbers of my old church, 3160-- er, 3618. That was the address, you know? 3618. I play those numbers...." & later a girl got on the bus who had blonde-ing hair & soft small hands just like if a girl from when you were a kid had grown up. Those same hands. And was I really the only one noticing her? What could this girl's name have been? Was I the only one curious? Her bra strap was hanging down around her shoulder, she wasn't facing forward, but she wasn't facing sideways, either. Was anyone else wondering which way she'd turn? Of course- god, yes, of course they were. I mean we were on on a city bus, after all, & she was pretty like pretty somehow. No, it wasn't just me.

And in the Tropics, the music from the club beneath the bar would get lost in the thin carpet & thick walls, but if you went out on the small balcony & sat at one of two tables, at one of two chairs, it'd sound clear as a bell or a baby's rattle, & you'd sit there & sweat like everyone else under that big bad blanket of storm clouds laying empty threats to the preening & fearless. And if then, if-- oh, then I don't know, if I weren't dreaming & I were there not here.

Southbound, the bus staggers down finally to the Blue Line at Halsted, where the road is a bridge over the freeway. We're so close but the bus stops & the doors open, and we sit & we wait. The night was slowly melting into morning & depending on the seat you took either you watched the white lights below on the freeway, or you didn't watch anything you just looked straight ahead, or you watched the red lights below on the freeway. None of the windows were cool & soothing & so everyone kept their heads off of them. The bus shook back to life & not more than 15 feet after continuing on a little rain sets in. Then more, & more yet. So all the while I'm thinking great, here I've got all this shit with me (the library book in my pocket. The map Clinton gave me. The green bar of soap your friend gave me that she said she'd made. The long necklace chain I'd left at your place a few weeks ago. The scrap of paper I drew a map on earlier & your friend drew a picture of her & I on. My keys, my pencil.), & here I am, 5-something in the morning, & it's pouring outside. Great, fantastic! I hop out at 59th & it is pouring. I mean really, cats & dogs, it is pouring. Apres moi type shit out here. And so what else? I duck into a doorway at the warehouse on the corner where I roll up my jeans, peel off my shirt, wrap up all my shit in it, & start flat-out sprinting. Then, soon after, jogging.

And in my teetering sobriety I lumber along 59th St., past empty lots where development has stalled to an untarped halt and pyramids of gravel & fill dirt rest stoic & expressionless; past ramps to the raised train tracks I use for my east - west commutes, where the whole night through freighters shift on their tracks, click, let off steam, & keep engines warm; under the bridges where taggers don't even bother bombing anymore, where weeds hardly bother choking anymore; and all the length of this long wet street I'm laughing & broken out in a huge goofy grin in the face of the torrential rain downpouring all over. Squinting my eyes, past fat summer rain bursting down like mother nature on a conjugal: the sidewalk, street, cars & houses & gutters, trees, fences, & the street lamps' hoarse yellow up in the early bluing sky, in my rolled up jeans, soap on a chain, it's 5 in morning... hilarious! And I was wondering: when you asked me how my love life is earlier who you were asking that question for; you, rachel, or that other girl kate? My money's on kate, but what difference is it really?

The answer I gave you is incorrect- or, at least, inaccurate. I told you that I'm asexual, that im not playing those games right now, that I'm just far too busy with other things, more important things. And to an extent, sure, that's true. It's true, but there's more truth in putting it to you as this:

"I'm not trying to go ego tripping like that right now, my wet dick in one hand & the nape of whom-so-ever's neck in my other. It's just a lot of sad-sap sexual frustation & sideshow-for-a-main-attraction sordid self-destruction, & frankly my libido knows who's the fucking boss around these parts. Y'know, there's just altogether too much work to be done. And anyway I'm terribly picky. (& then after a half pause) & I'm probably not fully over all my recent-past relationship bullshit anyway, & who'd wanna keep bringing girls into that? Not me, thanks. I'm just not hungry."

And I was so soaking wet when finally I slowed my stride back at good old 5942. The whole way here I'd thought about how best to answer your question, & about how bad I wanted to be underneath the aluminum overhang out front. It runs the length of my building, this overhang, & there's always a chance someone, or a broken baby carriage, or a box of packing peanuts & cardboard, or a smashed computer has been left under it's refuge from whatever storm. This time, there was nothing, and standing there, being completely soaked, heaving my tire-screeched lungs, how ridiculous to want to stand underneath this thing? This monstrosity. I mean really, at this point, fuck it, I'll just stand out here. So, welcoming the pelting flood rain splashing all around me, I breathed deep and took my sweet-ass time finding the right key to fit the lock in the front door.

Inside, upstairs, I looked in this full-size mirror I have to see just how goofy I looked, just to know, y'know? To better place this memory of myself outside, laughing shirtless through streets filling slow with new dawn cars & rainwater-- but really I didn't look that goofy at all. I think, standing there dripping, I looked just- wet. I was all wet.

In the bathroom I stripped down & dried off. Why so disappointed that I hadn't made myself laugh?

And looking down somehow the back of my jeans was almost completely dry, my shirt was almost completely full of fizzy green suds, & all the pages in my library book were completely saturated; they'd be stuck together & unreadable if I didn't act fast, & even then I might be working in vain. And outside the bathroom door the cat was meowing like a car alarm, & I knew this weather was making her just lose it.
(In the Tropic, there would be no housecats. I wonder what the women would be like?)

P.S., I move to Seattle on Tuesday, so maybe I can stop by on my way to O'Hare. Otherwise we'll have to meet up again next time I'm in Chicago. Well, we'll meet up again some day, any way, right? Oh & hey, thanks a lot for everything tonight, I hope you had as good a time as I did. Tell Kate & Rachel goodbye for me, would you? I really gotta get some sleep now.
Best,
Mink

Part 2

For this entry, a poem by Ezra Pound that I liked so much, I imitated. His footnotes are included (sort of), I don't have any but there's always Google if you feel the need.

THE COMING WAR: ACTAEON*

An image of Lethe,**
and the fields
Full of faint light
but golden,
Gray cliffs,
and beneathe them
A sea
Harsher than granite,
unstill, never ceasing;
High forms
with the movement of gods,
Perilous aspect;
And one said:
"This is Actaeon."
Actaeon of golden greaves!***
Over fair meadows,
Over the cool face of that field,
Unstill, even moving,
Hosts of an ancient people,
The silent corte´ge.****

Ezra Pound, 1915⁄‡


*Acteaon: a celebrated hunter who saw Arte´mis and her nymphs bathing. She changed him into a stag; he was torn to pieces by his 50 hounds
**Lethe: the river over which dead souls pass to Hades
***greaves: armor for the shins
****corte´ge: a funeral procession
‡The time of WWI, not sure when in timeline of the war, though.

AFTER ACTAEON

An image of Diyala,
with dates
Billowing clouds of grey
but golden.
Infinite blues,
and beyond them
A pool
Bright as any sun,
reflecting, never ceasing.
Airplanes
lugubriate the pool.
Stone thirst
Whispers mouth to mouth:
"This is Narcissus."
Blinded by magnificence!
Under idle clouds,
Beneathe sands' enduring abrasion,
Still, unmoving.
& What flowers can be thrown
To the unseen cortege?


Mink S '08
HA!

Part 3

the flies are coming in

to roost.


Little black flies with abbreviated little plastic wings, gross in their dirty little proboscus vaccuum noses, hairy & with too many little eyes-- salivating & puking.



"Fly eyes, like lobster eyes, don't see shapes, they only see changes in color & light. That's why Flies go towards lights, because to them it means "safe." A dark thing that gets bigger & darker means something is getting closer, but they don't know that, they just think, "Ahh!"



Flies really are harmless when you think about, say, mosquitoes; which can give you SARS or Bird Flu or Mad Cow's disease. Or even spiders. Some only give you little bites that itch but some spiders can even kill birds, or even kill you! Like the Brown Recluse Spider. Flies are usually just food to spiders. Even Black Widows eat flies. But in the summer months most people tend to keep a fly swatter because they are known as pests. But nobody keeps a spider swatter or mosquito swatters. People buy Mosquito lights, though, and those zap them to death. And I suppose nobody would bother to buy a spider swatter because spiders are so easy to kill too. I suppose Flies really are something then. They must really be proud of themselves! But still they're nothing compared to a cockroach.



Let me tell you about roaches...."

Let ME tell YOU about cockroaches, Baby Girl . . . .

Hm.

"Curioser & curiouser . . . ."

Well, friends, I've gotta start sometime.

More details as they become available