Sunday, March 30, 2014

A Fan's Notes -- Frederick Exley

"I fought because I understood, and could not bear to understand, that it was my destiny—unlike that of my father, whose fate it was to hear the roar of the crowd—to sit in the stands with most men and acclaim others. It was my fate, my destiny, my end, to be a fan."

And there you have it, really... 

Or if you need more... 

“I certainly didn't want to fight with him. I did, however, want to shout, "Listen, you son of a bitch, life isn't all a goddam football game! You won't always get the girl! Life is rejection and pain and loss" -- all those things I so cherishly cuddled in my slef-pitying bosom. I didn't, of course, say any such thing” 

Or...

“Unlike some men, I had never drunk for boldness or charm or wit; I had used alcohol for precisely what it was, a depressant to check the mental exhilaration produced by extended sobriety.” 

Select quotes from the front runner of The Canon of Middle-Aged Male Burn-out Literature

Obsolete

via Awful Library Books

Note the subtitle, A Practical Guide, suggesting that this was published as something than you, or I, or anyone in particular, might need to know.  It's not presented as a novelty, so perhaps this was, at some point in history, a handy skill set that has now been rendered obsolete.

Martial Arts?
Sports?
Urban Studies?

A Practical Guide, at any rate.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

You've seen food porn

How about interspecies food bestiality porn?

You

William Powhida

Fortune

via This Isn't Happiness

What did you answer the last time someone asked, "How are you?"

I'll bet you lied.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The night is elastic.

And see that's where we fall back into the loop.  It would be easy enough to blame the infernal bean.  It's simple enough to say that no coffee should be consumed after a certain time of day, or maybe even not at all.

But then you're up anyway, and wondering what it is this time.

There are these games we play though, in the throes of another night up, where we start to relate these fictional and semi-fictional narratives to try to get the suss on the other fictional, semi-fictional or maybe even accurate narratives being recounted to us directly or perhaps coming in from the ether.

Then somewhere in the overnight the boundaries of truth and time can get rubbery and stretched and you can't remember whether or not you actually had those conversations, and if so, when they occurred or with whom.  Then that elastic confusion becomes another source of botheration to obsess over while looking over at the clock and praying to gods you didn't believe in when you were rested to let you get just enough shut-eye to function after the alarm rings.

Then there are those brittle dream shards digging away when sleep actually does come in bites and they crunch into your soles like broken lightbulbs.  Some lately have me living in someone else's body and witnessing the world presumably through their eyes and sometimes...

SOMETIMES... 

You talk to the person a few days later and find that your dream was pretty fucking close to what actually happened.

Because the night really is elastic and time and space are elastic and rubbery.  Picture that in your head like you will but maybe you've had a rubber band stuck in your hair at some point in your life and that's what it seems like, to me, unraveling this stuff.

It's helped me to wake up and write it down so it will be archived, because I can no longer rely on my own senses to get the suss on which narratives are real and which are invention.

Still waiting for confirmation on a few issues.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

CARRIE MAE WEEMS - Guggenheim

Brony

via Daniel Arnold

Making sense of the horror...

More from David Cronenberg

I particularly appreciate the quote on mortality.  It's longed seemed to me that the ugliest bits of human behavior -- the especially foul or cruel -- are acts committed in the self-interest of being one apart from the crowd.  It's also easy enough to set aside the atrocities of say, a Hitler, or a Stalin, or the continuing aftermath of an nuclear explosion, as the end definition of what's most grotesque, but it happens every second on a micro-scale as well.  It's in households between parents and children, and in schoolyards, and offices and between random strangers in the street.

How far will you go to be special?  What will you do to be remembered, if only for the 15 second duration of a conflict like two people on opposite sides of s turnstile, one going in and one going out with that horrible moment when you ask, "Who is this person who thinks they are going first?"  It's all in those simple moments that could detonate pointlessly to fatal acts.

The most beautiful and the most horrible things about us are seeded in rooted in our being finite.  Nothing would be worth a damn thing if it lasted forever, yet how pointless and dreary would it be if it actually did?  And yet our survival instinct goes so far beyond the preservation of our physical body in the face of danger.  It's not enough that we can fight off the onslaught of violent attack or even disease. We take it out to the infinite extensions of our inner beings, and our thoughts... our soul, if you will.  Our memory.  We have this need for something within us that we can't even define to last forever and we will claw tooth and nail for forever.

And what are the most terrifying horror films?  The ones where the unknown, or the disease, or the alien or the monster is inside our bodies and minds... our dreams.  They are the ones where we can't distinguish between evil and ourselves.

We so want the entire world to see us as good.

We always want to be able to point at someone or something else.

***But regarding censors and those who are pro-censorship, there is a fucking huge irony in that those who most want to censor human flesh on the silver screen are often the same who condone the use of weapons that would burn the same flesh right off the bones of the same humans.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Spring

William Friggin' Carlos Williams

Graffiti di Amor

Stephen Powers via Hyperallergic - click for more

I recall scratching our initials in a post by the train station.  It took a substantial amount of effort for the tip of they key to make any kind of impression.  It took forever to complete and I was terrified, not that someone would see me defacing Conrail property but that someone would come along and see me making this bold confession of love and judge it meaningless.

The letters were less than half an inch high, I'm certain, but standing back to inspect my work they seemed 100 feet tall.  They inspired half delight and half terror.  Would anyone there know it was me?  What would they think?  What would SHE think if she were ever to see, but how would she?  Would there be a day ever somewhere down the road where she would come here with me, and I would show her my silly gesture, blushing and scuffing the toes of my shoes in the gravel... and maybe she would hold my face in her hands and kiss me?

And the very next time I went there, the entire depot had been torn down and replaced.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Say what?



"I don't follow."

Maybe I was being slow.  Post-fucking, post-orgasmic, flat out semi-stupid, done.  Over and out.  Something wasn't registering.

"Bigga!  It's not that difficult!"  Nat sucked her teeth and looked up towards the ceiling, shaking her head.

"What do you mean?"  Again, something wasn't registering.  She likes what?

"I said.  Listen now, Bigga... poor ting.  I've teefed up yah very last employed brain cell.  I said...

She.

Likes.

Misery.

She is a misery junkie. Yah hear me now, Mista Biggs?  She doesn't want to do tings differently.  She knows perfectly well what she is doing and she will carry on this way 'til she tire of it!  Then she will heed your words and tings will be all better 'til she goes back an' she do it the same old way again.  She is a misery junkie."

"I don't get it."  And I didn't get it at first.  "Why do people do that to themselves?  Why would she go on beating herself over the head when there's a perfectly good solution that she knows works every time?"

Natalie rolled over to look at me now.

"Fer the seeyum reason the dope feen take that hit!  For she don't know the difference between relief and real pleasure, ya see.  She's just livin' true the seeyum cycle with no heroin.  Now shut yer brain, ya feeble ting, and sleep."

And I did get it then, but it scared me.  It registered but I wanted to un-register it.  I wanted to go back to the minutes immediately following fucking, before we started talking and we were just kind of breathing hard and chuckling.  Who brought all this up anyway?

So...

Really simple answer, and I'm certain Natalie was right.  Really simple answer but hard to swallow.  An addict will do what an addict does. Nobody asks why a snake bites.  It just does.

"And of course, Mista MacGregor...."  She wasn't quite done.  "She doesn't let go of the guilt, so she tink the suffering she put herself through will put her right with God, even though he never ask her to do it.  Ya see now?"

I did see.

OCD & Your Smartphone

Because you care enough to care way too fucking much... Nuke the germs on your smartphone.