Thursday, January 21, 2010

Some Old Books And Some New Books I Have Recently Read Or Am Currently Reading

Chugging through Vanessa Place's La Medusa and DFW's Infinite Jest.

Read Kevin Sampsell's A Common Pornography really fast. It's a really honest piece of writing and formatted in a way that doesn't necessarily scream MEMOIR! It's segmented into a lot of vignettes. Kind of seems like a more accurate way of how people actually perceive their lives. Memory in little bursts of anxiety, guilt, or happiness.

I also finally read Sam Lipsyte's Homeland. God, what a book. I can't wait to read The Ask.

I'm re-reading Gary Lutz's I Looked Alive. God, what another book.

Trying to read Gordon Lish's Dear Mr. Capote. I like it so far, but I really hate the design. I don't know which printing it is, but it's set in this godawful font that looks like bold Courier New. Hard to read more than 10 pages at a time without getting a headache. If I had a chance, I would probably buy this one. It looks much more readable.

Started reading Ken Sparling's Dad Says He Saw You At The Mall. I really like it so far. It feels very unconventional, but not for the sake of being unconventional.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

At night. You read and you scream false at passing fire. You tear hearts out of passing cars and you say what the fuck at angry haters. And all I want is fucking fuck, hear me?

I say I regret life, I analyze, I do comparisons. I tear down Taco Bells without. Bitches snowball to you and send. They crash in flip flops, dangling hahaha. You hear me, you poll your friends. Scenes own us, fuck.

A matador screens our street sweepers. I mean, us. They say okay, fight! You kill me with your
bitch fuck what the fuck sauce. I come flailing through the night. I scream hahaha, I feel you but I don't feel you. I scream hahaha, I seem slower.

But mattresses don't discuss private stuff, but they kill yo ass. They fuck and spatter they hold
you really close to the ground.

Friday, January 8, 2010

But yeah, I guess I do believe in whimsy. Like certain notes that certain brass instruments make, or whatever. It exists, I guess. Why, I don't know. It seems a little bit mean, right? Like, "here's all this shit, sorry for shoveling it into your lap. Here's a lollipop."

And thankfully there are bright lights, because what if there weren't, what if it was just kind of dim? Shadows wouldn't be as stark, but it would be harder to discern them. Fucking thank god for that star-like blur of distant street lamps etc.

Fucking thank god for billboards, McDonald's arches, last week's paper in the gutter. Fucking thank god for slurring bums, For Lease signs, and public displays of affection.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Today is one of those days where I can't tell if I'm living in Portland or just visiting. I also think that this city aims to drown me.

Mike is in town. We had drinks last night. The stuff I ate yesterday will go unnamed. My body feels like a giant frown. Or a frown with a question mark. Or an incredulity mark. That should be real punctuation. My lungs feel like they are slowly filling with a collection of Portland's shittiest raindrops.

I have been too reliant on DayQuil and NyQuil lately. Or their off-brand equivalents with names like "Night Time" and "Day Time." If they made it, I'd probably be drinking AfternoonQuil and EveningQuil. This cold is making gravity feel more effective.

When bad things happen, my body turns on me. Probably something to do with my avoidance techniques. Maybe I'm just rusty.

And man, "shit's just fucked up, you know?" That's my inadequate response to recent terrible shit. It's what I just told Kurt on the phone. It's not that I don't believe in what I say, it's just that I wish I could formulate something a little bit more eloquent, but that would probably just make me seem like an asshole. I guess I'm just going to blog like this--talk shit out--until I feel a little better. For an indefinite period, this blog will function much in the same way as a 16 year old's livejournal.

The piece of certified mail from the IRS waiting for me at the post office seems like a fucking joke, I might just light it on fire or fuck a hole through it or something. We'll see! I doubt Vimeo will let me post a video of me fucking a hole through certified mail. Because it's certified mail, duh.