Thursday, February 12, 2009

give me a cast to save my injuries. i'll pack a small piece in my trunk. give me a story and tell me what happened. i have no stories now. i have no internal dialogue where the girl is dreaming about the boy. i am sleepy behind my closed eyelids. i remember me being you. i remember caressing my nightmares.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

This Blog is Dead

I am still alive.

:)

Friday, April 04, 2008

you are only one person

will she say, i am only for you. will he say, yes i will take you.

this is when it comes to you

this is the part you ought to know about. this is going to be one of the best moments you almost lost. look for her in the morning. hold her hand because she will squeeze it. say anything to her and she will say it back.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

believe

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

did you use your angst wisely?

why do so many blind dates fail? are you carrying around a notebook? are you raising the volume in your head? you are not in a love triangle. you are not changing your career. you will not sleep without considering where you will be next year.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

miscalculate

if i'm a writer i should write. if i'm a writer i should say i'm a writer and i write short stories. when i'm blogging i should write advice or prose or opinion and not mix all that up.

i shouldn't hold back because the loss of expression is death. i can use expression even in it's most selfish and self aggrandized forms. when writing about writing i don't need to think oh what a silly person i am writing about writing. there are so many professions and each profession is a position a person must enter. the person must learn the position and boundaries and activities. the position is maintained. writing is not an act of polarization. most people are unbearable and light. imagine a person is a country. the country decides to be a warring state. the country decides to become the great economic power. the country decides capitalism is the way to distill civil unrest amongst the people. the country decides to speak another language. the country decides to use another currency to trade. the country decides to become a secular nation.

when i'm writing i wonder what am i doing to people. when i'm writing i wonder if i can tell a story. i wonder if i'm writing to avoid interaction. i wonder if it is by choice that i attempt to construct the fleeting.

yesterday t wrote align in the air. when she told me she wrote 'align' in the air i didn't know she meant 'align.' i don't know she wrote 'align' and not 'a line'.

i'm a lazy person. next time someone asks i'll say i'm a lazy person and i used to write stories. i used to be a crooked salesman. i used to be a background actor. when the director yelled, 'background,' that's when i'd become a blur on the screen. i used to be injured and when i was asked about my injury i said it was temporary. not a problem, just temporary.

i tell a lot of stories about myself. i stopped writing because i wanted to tell a story about a frog that hopped over a hill. he hopped over a hill and the sun would rise. i never wake up early enough to watch the sunrise

Friday, January 25, 2008

before

i looked for her all the time. i saw her in every black haired angel. i once saw her the same night turning her body to a rock song, and then later she was sipping a long neck. it wasn't real, there was always doubt. i knew that wasn't the way she danced. i knew she only drank drinks that were limey and hard.

weekend update

something different now. i'd call it a spark. the spark is like the hitch of a screw on the highway. that one hop spark that is probably just a chip of the screw and not by definition a spark.
my first encounter with the spark was last week. a giant lever was removed from my back and now i am conscious. then i turned around and i saw the lever that was on my back and i was paralyzed in my nose cartilage.

Friday, November 09, 2007

brains by rodney jones

Brains

When I moved in with her, I thought now
I won't have to look it up:
rubidium, Calvin Trillin, the fourth-
longest river in Brazil.
The lunar mountain ranges
zoomed in. Zygotes and paramecia
made themselves known. She
could cook a mean boeuf bourguignon,
then rank the leading authorities
on the aspiration of the h
or mystical tenses of Latin verbs.
But you are so creative, there's
not a creative bone in my body,
she would say, when I insisted
before friends we had recently met
that not I but she was the brain.
Now that she is gone,
now I can feel secure, one
of my thoughts sending another
down through the foggy
databases, the fractures,
and the unions. Here boy,
I whistle to the dog of my thoughts.
I am thinking how,
before I lived with her,
I was known as the brain,
but I valued the heart more than the brain,
and more than the heart,
the flag of the erogenous zones—
loving me was like patriotism,
but I was not fit to live with her.
I knew, when she began to chant
and burn incense to the Asian saints,
I did not know her secret anything.
Still, I had ideas, insights,
a brain like the world's mute,
lightning-soldered, accidental
intelligence. With that same
brain now I hold our ill-starred,
incompatible visions
of happiness and tragedy.
Yet when I need to know
how spinnerets work
or the distance to Alpha Centauri,
I think of her, not for long
or at any depth, or what
she was, but the last
compliment that means anything
is the compliment to memory.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

summer with naomi

she was the only person i've lived with who always entered the house without me knowing.
h was on board and i sat many rows behind her. she had straight black asian hair. she had slim shoulders and a careful nose. her eyes had a streak of wildness like a coyote in a desert at night. not a fox because i feel i know the exact danger a fox would put me in. just a coyote in the desert at night. i haven't ever seen a coyote do anything harmful but i wouldn't consider a coyote harmless. i had seen h's picture on myspace or facebook, a new friend had wanted me to see her, as they were roommates. my new friend was a classmate i wanted to sleep with. usually i find myself wondering if i'd want to sleep with the friends of people i met or if it were possible to rule sleeping with out entirely. h was just attractive enough to look at twice and so i ruled h out as a friend.
on the flight i saw h preferred company to anonymity. she had a way of sitting still without looking out the window or pulling a book out of her bag. she did not seem disinterested, but rather midly concerned about something that was possibly happening in front of her that she did not know about.
my friend had told me h liked to order cosmopolitans from cute bartenders but otherwise only drank in the homes of friends. she liked drinking with friends over strangers and looked for familiarity before understanding.
my friend loved her roommate more than i knew about loving people then. i shared apartments before but could never share a room. my friend and h shared a room and they shared a desk and when they were sick they brewed tea once but decided it wasn't for them. most of the time they were just a little more depressed than normal and smoked pot or talked about minor annoyances until they were annoyances they could no longer deal with.
my friend acted on impulse and that's how she wound up kissing me. it was a good long kiss that ended our friendship. when i saw h on that flight i wondered about my friend.
i remember that night perfectly.
i remember the lighting of the bookstore and the number of steps on the bus. and i remember thinking that what mattered now was my friend telling h why she came home later than usual. telling h she was still thinking about getting back with her ex boyfriend who had stopped by to keep h company. it would be unfair to me and i would make a fuss about it someday. but that's not why i'm telling this story.

as a child h had an earache that was left untreated. it hurt her so much to listen to more than a whisper. normally children tell their parents about pain, but h was the kind of the girl who waited for her pain to become visible. she never told anyone close to her anything. when my friend went home they didn't talk about anything.
you always knew you let them off easy so when it came to driving them back in droves or loving the misery of present company you chose to let them off easy. doing a favor for people who didn't want any help at all made you feel deserving of a very good title: good Samaritan, philanthropist, altruist.

but there was never a moment where you chose to change their plight. there was never any reason for you to be there other than to make it out alive.

you always made it out alive.

yea.

there is no reason for you to be there. you are a coward. you lack courage when you seek absolution. this is important for me to tell you. this is the definition of courage:

The state or quality of mind or spirit that enables one to face danger, fear, or vicissitudes with self-possession, confidence, and resolution.

...

today i won a softball game. we were down 10 runs until we rallied, and it was the biggest rally i have been a part of. i thought there should be a something, a something inside to signify the momentous. there are big moments in life where you get everything again and again in memory except for a detail or two and i would like winning to be in the category of big moments. i have been thinking often about big moments or at least the more memorable ones, the people and situations i delve into on a drive alone. there is mostly loss and regret weighing in on everything so i took to routine to see what would happen. and i took to tina and i said i love you and sometimes when we aren't acting like cats i realize we are a team.

the fact that there are so few real burdens in life, that there are so few tasks that cannot be carried out, and few losses that can't be mitigated is hitting home. i only know this because i have someone helping me here who i can share the joy of living with.

anyway, i like to ramble at night.

Saturday, November 03, 2007

bastard me

and you know i could be less careless.

i had a facebook friend request from an unlikely source. it just reminds me that we are all queued up in some geek's nostalgia.

Friday, November 02, 2007

hello

i know about 7th grade when you were in a bank and wanted to be like all the older creatures taking paystubs and handing out cash and receipts. you were holding onto a secret. you had seen the movies, knew the easiest way to rob them, but you didn't do that.

...

last night i was dreaming i was awake. really awake. i was under the covers with you and you turned a soft light on and i thought you were saying something but the words became a lullabye and i had to close my eyes to keep myself from falling asleep. an ex girlfriend sang me that song but i didn't tell you, i waited a while and then you closed your eyes and i started singing on key.

...

i thought, what if we were in a rain forest again. could a lullabye stop the squawk of an angel? not everything that flies is an angel, you said.

nearly every morning i am making love to a part of you. i am making love to your arm and then your hair and then tomorrow i'll be in love with your arms and then your hair. do you know what in love is? is that the work you do?, you asked.

nearly every morning the world is closer to inspiration and there is no one but a coin dropping and then splashing when it becomes the nucleus of a puddle. and nearly every morning i am possessed by your knees and then your calves and then just the smoothness of a blessing.

look, say goodbye.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

headphones

i can't get that blend of openness and nostalgia and mystery. it could be as easy as breathing.

FUCK.

Friday, October 26, 2007

i am not so hidden

Stars - Do you trust your friends?

I don't miss her like I miss people. I miss her like I miss addiction. So I don't know her, I know a memory.

I am too open with my nostalgia.

...

It seems nothing is nothing. I am nothing. I am a lose lose proposition. Here is my offering

...

\

...

Every ellipsis is a transition of time. After all, it is time that goes on without a fault.

The shape of our hearts do not match. The grass on our feet longs for separate soil.

It is my way or your way. I say, let's get beyond this. You say, we're into each other. what's on your mind? I say, we're into each other?

Sometimes she doesn't love him/he doesn't love her. And sometimes that's all there is.

...

Hi Grandma.
I watch her head. She is all round. She pesters me. I feel cheerful.

...

I am close to feeling. You are no tranquil child. Childlike is my natural state. At times it only works to say you when you mean me. At times I will say I when I am you.

But let me tell you what I think about when I am silent.

But that would be a crime.

...

When I think of responsibility it doesn't work. Writing is either a priority or it is a crime. It is never a virtue.
My purpose is not to be virtuous.

...

Ask yourself if you were expecting more. I expect the answer to be yes, more. I'm not I am

Thursday, May 11, 2006

"

"

You make me never want to write again.

Don’t lie.

I’m not. Your writing makes mine seem obvious and mechanical.

Of course I won’t stop writing. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying when I say you make me want to.

You’re always saying, in one for or another, I believe in body language, I believe if I knew you well enough I’d feel your presence through a wall.

And I don’t like craziness. If a moment seems to be telepathic as it happens, and seems like projection in the next, then it’s because it turned out you were deluding yourself when you imagined some shared understanding to exist.

There’s no absolute truth in the moment of apparent telepathy if it’s only apparent. And fantasy isn’t satisfying if it’s too conscious.

I collect allusions and try to tell a story with the allusions. I'm hoarding words because I do lose control, I lose my spot, my place. We both dogear (rabbit ear?) pages, it’s the same with me in a story.

I don’t lose my place because I know I don’t have a place. I dogear pages in the hopes to being able to distill and share my understandings—to be able to pick out and open books in the midst of conversation.

You allude without any concern for whether or not your audience can hope to decipher or understand you allusion. Your fragments and allusions aren’t attempts to regain your place, but to escape the one you’re in.

I get beat up, thrown into institutions, or called poetic when I use language.

You get beat up and thrown into institutions when you stalk and grope unwilling women. You get called poetic when you talk about why you want to do it, write stories about it as a metaphor for the human condition. Ha.

Your treatment of Ava, Alex, CC prof, etc, has always felt like a conduit for your own yearning, yeah, I can’t think of another word, so yearning, for something less than language, less than reality, less than your reality (which is then..so on) Smoke in your eyes. Puff of powder.

Yeah, yearning. But yearning doesn’t mean that the desired object exists.

You concern yourself with body language and action much more than I do.
It’s a kind of running joke in my writing—the disavowal of the body coupled with obsessive narration of the body.

I need to drink to reciprocate.

You’re such a liar. You only choose to reciprocate when you can tell yourself that if it goes wrong, it might’ve been because you were drunk.

You never said I was a solipsist.

No. But you did—“our solipsism,” in your story.


And I’m looking, too, for the perfect drunk, only for me, the perfect drunk is one that I believe, in the moment and subsequently, to have meant something. That’s right, laugh all you want. But I’m never out of the moment enough, while I’m conscious, to be able to enjoy the feeling without the thought that the feeling is more than just a delusion. That the understanding is not a projection.

"


"
You would make me write a different story. I believe if I knew you well enough I’d feel your presence through a wall. But I can't feel you through a wall and I can't get lost so I'll run into a wall.
I don’t like craziness. If a moment seems to be telepathic as it happens, and seems like projection in the next, then it’s because it turned out you were using your imagination. There’s no absolute truth in the moment of apparent telepathy if it’s only apparent. But it isn’t satisfying if it’s too conscious. A shared moment isn't profitable if we haven't invested ourselves. It might be overwhelming enough to write the same story many times. I never said I knew absolute truth. I said I knew physical reality. You have to believe more in instances. I have to believe more in continuity. I collect allusions and try to tell a story with the allusions. I'm hoarding words because I can lose control, I can lose my spot, can lose my place. I dogear pages in the hopes to being able to recall, distill, and share my understandings—to be able to pick out and open books in the midst of conversation. You want the conclusion. You don't entrust experience. But unlike me, you retain some sense of proportion. Your writing has always felt like a conduit for your own yearning, yeah, I can’t think of another word, so yearning, for something less than language, less than reality. Yearning doesn’t mean that the desired object exists, however there is yearning beyond desire. You risk nothing when you believe nothing ever touches anything else. You don't believe in us enough to let us yield to you. So you write stories and press people into situations to get the expected results.
You saw I don't even know enough about the reality of the situation. You read me right to think I believe I know something inexpressible. And I'm looking, too, I want to believe, in the moment and subsequently, for it to have meant something. I’m never out of the moment enough, while I’m conscious, to be able to enjoy the feeling without the thought that the feeling is more than just a delusion. That the understanding is not a projection. You’re such a liar. You only choose to reciprocate when you can tell yourself that if it goes wrong, it might’ve been because you were drunk. You don't want any reminders of mistakes. You know I will keep trying to get you right and the mistakes might pile up, or worse, I might write over you, I might give your body a few memories and I might listen to stories of who you were once. When I said I wanted you from the beginning it was a fallacy, but not a lie.
"

Monday, April 10, 2006

conception

to julian sawyer [adams hall, october 1931]
that of which you have a conception, exists.
there is no good and evil (absolutely) but expansion and contraction fo life. it is evil since it is a contraction to stop thinking, to murder, to read the saturday evning post.
to eat when it is time to think is to live less: a contraction.
to think, to see, to make is to live more: an expansion.
the holiest act is to create, to bring more things into existence.
the justification of destroying is future recreation.
to see a thing is to possess it.
the artist gives his possessions new existences with words, colors, tones, shapes. but first he must see. in our time every writer, save one, is deficient in that he does not see to completely possess, or does not translate, give a new, greater existence to his possesions , so that nothing more need be done for them, so that their existence is fixed and eternal.

and do you want gossip?
ee cummings is left-handed.
lindbergh was dischraged from wisconsin.
hg wells says wisconsin has a 'great institution of learning.'
ia richards was here last summer, and nearly drowned.
ts eliot was a banker.
no more now, julian.

-delmore

...

this is from a classmate's story:
'i know, but i'm not there now.'
'you say that like you wish you were.'
'maybe i do.'
'like i'm any better than you are.'
'you at least still have something to look forward to.'
'what, the possibility that you might touch me again? why does me needing you bother you so much? why does needing anything bother you? what are you...,' and then it hit me very quietly. 'you're jealous.'
he kind of sat back down on the couch at this point in resignation. 'of course i'm jealous. i'd give anything to be back where you are. where at least one thing could make it all okay for just a little while.'
'you've been trying to take this away from me.'
'no that's not true.'
'how could you do that?'
'i just wanted to be close to it again.'
'what? pathetic desperation?'
'that burning for something. a possibility for relief. i'm so sorry nora.'

...

unless you're a recovering addict, its impossible to know the hell of the addict. and even as an addict, i don't understand addiction, so anything that happens without reason, every compulsion, devastates me, if only for a week or three. there isn't any relief. each addiction is the largest crater on the smallest moon, empty and black and cheesy. looking up at the sky is the same kind of haunting every night.
i know what the writer means by 'possibility of relief.' i've got 40 odd hours i don't know what to do with anymore. fighting addiction is voluntary losing a job. at the end its feeding on the depletion. you've heard it all before. its the same story.