Friday, November 30, 2007


Today I received two comments on my last post from a person named ANDREA HOPE BERG.

ANDREA HOPE BERG's initial comment stated: "well... your blog makes me sad for you. you should read your bible."

I was thinking someone might be joking with me but when I looked at ANDREA HOPE BERG's blogger profile she described herself as: "19, student, Christ follower."

ANDREA HOPE BERG's second comment stated: "or read my blog ... i think you would like it"

I was appreciative of her willingness to substitute her blog for the Bible. That gives me hope.

I'm curious as to how ANDREA HOPE BERG happened across my blog in the first place.

I would like to publicly respond to ANDREA HOPE BERG:


Today I woke elated. I dressed in gauze and touched my face. I found a small piece of venison in my satchel. I strapped the satchel on my back. Wearing the satchel (white camo), I went outside and stood in the parking lot outside my apartment. I tried to think of where to go. I could feel you in my teeth. Your itch reminded me of dentists. I felt someone else inside deflate. I walked to the QT and bought a men's mag. You and I are not alone.

In this sadness, I am considering getting a large tattoo of a duckling on my inner thigh. I would like the duckling to have a gravy boat in hand, with florescent colored gravy.

Sometimes I feel a toddler in my neckbone: do you agree? If yes, gesture with both hands. If no, tell your future son I say hello.

XOX, and with G_D's love,

ANDREA HOPE BERG'S blog is called glimpses. Read it and/or the bible.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Some Exit

I want to fill a trash bag up with applesauce and throw it
at the windshield of a nice car. I feel that empty.
There's nothing else to do. I have been awake
when the sun rose the last three days in a row
but I didn't go out to watch the sunrise any of those times
because I did not want to see it.
The thing that I look forward to the most on almost every day
is seeing a number appear
next to the web browser tab for my Gmail Inbox
which signifies that I've received new mail,
though roughly 33% of those mails are advertisements
or mailing list memos or other crap.
I'm finding myself writing about nothing again
because that's the only thing achievable I can think to do.
Buying enough applesauce to fill a trash bag
would cost a lot of money
and would require getting up to leave the house.
There are probably more than 20,000 people
employed by applesauce making companies
in the United States alone.
The only other thing I use as much as my computer
is my cell phone,
though most of the time when it rings
I do not answer. Most of the time I
delete my voicemail without listening.
When people leave voicemail they usually say,
"This is _____. Call me back, please,"
instead of explaining the reason why they called.
Today I took a long bath in hot water
and read a book until my hands began to crack.
I read four chapters
of Stephen Dixon's newly released novel, MEYER,
and it made me feel depressed
and not interested in writing.
Some books make me feel not interested in writing
because I don't think I could ever say anything as good as them.
Some books make me feel not interested in writing
because it's hard enough to want to stand.
Right now I am getting some moderate amount of satisfaction
from typing plain statements into my web browser,
knowing that someone else might sometime read them,
or at least read the first few sentences.
I often scare myself by thinking that I don't know
how I'd stay sane without the internet.
As a child I played with plastic swords
and talked to myself aloud even more than I do now.
I have said all of this before in one way or another.
I will probably spend the rest of my life repeating.
Last night after the sun came up
I lay down on my bed and tried to think
about not thinking,
with my cell phone beside me on the pillow,
full of numbers, full of names.
And elsewhere, my name and number in others' phones,
so that at any time any one of many people might press a button
and make that pillow vibrate,
and spur the decay in my head.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


Someone keeps emailing me from an address that has the name of the name of the person I'd been in other years. They have pictures of my innards. My stomach is a pale and lovely yellow, but burnt black near my aorta. There are staple marks in the thin wrists connected to the hands I used for stimulation. Teeth grown into the window of the eyelids of my belly, where the baby burped, where I might simmer, where the doorbell rang and rang.

I found pictures of my rectum posted on a website I'd paid no small fortune to join in. I used my mother's credit card, a Visa. I printed out the receipt on translucent paper. In the photos my testes had swollen between my buttocks, basketball sized and brown and dripping. I clicked on the thumbnail and saw something other than what was promised. There were also pictures of a man. There were also pictures of no color. I saved to the hard drive and then deleted.

From the trash I dug out condoms full of sperm I had not yet sent. Some I'd been storing. Want for welling. Some sound of screeching in the rubber. I put one on my tongue and chewed. In the trash as well I found saliva: wrapped in baby bunting and off color like old coffee. There was so much mold I lost my arms. At the bottom of the can, under the brown bags, there was another man, who said goodnight.

In all my droning I felt an error, some speckled buzz like spayed cats fucking. My hair chock with static. My knock-knees numbing. I got down onto the floor. Against the floor I felt another cheek-to-cheek just beyond the other side. Some song vibrating each fiber in the carpet. In the carpet, all my hair. In my hair, the cells I'd grown out, the saturation, the soft blonde trauma. In the trauma, some insect squealing, rubbing its legs together that I might dance.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Things That Are or Are Not Good

This video is a good video:

That is good.

Zachary German posted a new poem on his blog that is also good: there are 21 numbers in my phone.

That is a good poem.

It is cold in my apartment. Being cold is not good, especially when your tub is not large enough to take a comfortable bath in.

Baths are very good, as long as the water is hot and not lukewarm.

My neighbor who has Tourette's-like episodes has been quiet lately. Him being quiet is also very good. Instead he has a new little dog. The little dog yips at a very high pitch when my neighbor leaves at 8 AM. It yips and yips and yips. It wakes me up and keeps me awake. It sounds sad. It is not a good way to start the day.

A good way to start the day often involves food but I rarely keep food at my apartment.

I keep saying I should start doing that but I don't.

Friday, November 23, 2007


I spent the last few days finishing my story collection manuscript. I think it is now done. There may be small variations but beginning next week I am entering a new phase. Any recommendation of potential homes continues to be much appreciated.

There are 17 stories in the collection. The longest is 6200 words and the shortest is 400.

On Wednesday I drove 3 hours north of my home to try to meet my family for Thanksgiving but got stuck in hell traffic and rain and garbage and so turned around and went home. During the drive I listened to a recording of William S. Burroughs reading JUNKY. I also made a list of titles for the manuscript. I decided to keep many of them. This is the title of my book:



The title will probably continue to get longer.
I am finished with the rest.
Now's the hard part.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Short Story Collection

I am about 90% done with finishing my first collection. I have to make two of the shorter stories longer and then it will be done. It could be considered a novel in stories like OTHER ELECTRICITIES. All of the stories are set during some apocalypse event and have elements of the semipopular genre MAGICAL REALISM. You have to pick words that people can latch onto to try to sell things. I have chosen to confide in MAGICAL REALISM. For instance, in one story there is a child that lives in a man's attic and as time passes the child swells to fill the entire attic. In another story a boy's father goes to prison for not being able to hit free throws. In another story the hair of the dogs in the neighborhood grows out so long they can not walk.

I can't think of a great title for the book yet. The only thing I've almost liked for a title was what I thought of last night while I was driving: SCORCH ATLAS. I think that's pretty okay. I am also considering the title: ________

Which is appropriate in context of the book but maybe too shlocky to do.

I am going to try to get the collection published. Looking back, I think I had difficulty selling novels because I wrote them differently from the way I really write. I think this book is how I really write. Stories from it are forthcoming in NINTH LETTER, PHOEBE, WILLOW SPRINGS, LIT, LAKE EFFECT, QUICK FICTION, and others. If anyone has good ideas for how/who/where to shop a collection, please tell me. I would appreciate it. I might even suck your titty.

Pushcart Nomination 2 + Links

My piece about David Lynch eating breakfast with a horse, TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME, was nominated by TITULAR JOURNAL for a Pushcart also. That is nice.

Today is a better day than yesterday.

I am drinking Diet Coke from a can.

I thought the film NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN was okay. The first half was great. The second half kind of spun out into nowhere, like the book did, only I thought the book did it better, and the book didn't even do it that well.

I hear they are making THE ROAD, which is a sad thought.

I hear TOMMY LEE JONES bought the rights to BLOOD MERIDIAN, which is a sad thought. I thought DAVID CRONENBERG had them, but I guess not.

I like this poem from Tony Tost. I like sentences.

Lamination Colony Pushcart Nominations

Lamination Colony's nominations for the Pushcart Prize this year are:

Two MC Oroville Poems by Mike Young
Notes Composed Upon The Death of Terry by Michael Jauchen
DOLLFACE by Andrea Fitzpatrick
I watch TV so I can love every person because every person is less intelligent and less beautiful and less important than me by Ofelia Hunt
A Television Abortion by Dave deFina
Four Segments by Shane Jones

This is the first year we've done this. I wanted to nominate everything. I hope someone wins. Wish them luck.

Prizes are things you can eat.

Dogs make love in public because they mean it more.

I have an abscess in my junk heart.

Tomorrow we squeak like baby.

Monday, November 19, 2007

I am dumb

I feel dumb when I talk to people. I feel like I can't say what I would say if I had time to think about it or if I was talking to them without being seen like on Instant Messenger. I feel like when in the presence of strangers I say things that make me look stupid. I say the most dumb things to people who work in industries that are considered by 'intellectuals' to be 'low-brow' jobs. I feel inept and childish in most situations that 'men' would handle without difficulty. I do not know anything about cars or tools. I feel dumb when I do shit like today when I ran out of gas on the expressway. I sat in my car for a while and looked around and punched the steering wheel and then I got out and started walking. I got a mile until the DOT assistance vehicle picked me up. He picked me up at the mouth of a tunnel where the cars were flying by very close. I approached the vehicle and started to open the door before I saw that the window was open and he was going to speak to me. I kind of shut the door back half-latched. The man asked what was wrong and I told him and he said to get in and I got in. He was nice and had a mustache and seemed like he could lift a lot of weight. He described me on his CB to someone somewhere else as a white male with a brown shirt. I looked to see if my shirt was brown. The man drove me to a gas station and bought gas to put in my car. I did not have to pay for the gas. We drove back and he said how he was in the Army until he had a baby and that in the Army life was good because you could do whatever you wanted and you always had money and did not have to pay rent. I said a lot of awkward things in the transitions between his speech. Other people seem comfortable with riding in silence with other people but I usually try to talk and that makes it more awkward, though the awkward is probably mostly in my mind because most people probably don't care about what is awkward as much as I think they do. Sometimes people say things that are simple and to acknowledge my awareness that I heard and understand what they were saying I will repeat what they just said back in a more complicated way. For instance, someone will say "It's cold outside" and I will say back "Yes the temperature is dropping to a very frigid point." I think I usually do that because I want to fill space and I don't know what else to say. In the DOT van we passed where my car was while going the opposite direction on the expressway and then we got off at an exit and turned around and got back on the expressway and drove back to where my car was. We got out and the man put the gas in my tank while I got in and watched the gauge rise. The car still wouldn't start. I was on an incline. We rolled it down the incline until it was sitting flat on a bridge. The car still wouldn't start. It felt like the car was rumbling and shaking awfully but I realized later it was just the effect of passing traffic on the bridge below. The man put more gas in and still nothing and he opened my hood and sprayed some crap on something and tried to jump the battery just in case. The car still would not start. He looked at me. He said he could call a tow. We did. I sat in my car and waited. It was too warm in the car with the windows up because it has gotten hot here against for some reason. I read a book I had on my dashboard. The book was Ben Lerner's ANGLE OF YAW. It is an excellent book but it did not distract me from feeling dumb. The towtruck arrived and I got out of the car and approached him and he said I should move away from the fast traffic. The towtruck guy had a very large belly and cruddy gloves and a kind smile. I told him what happened and he said all I needed was more gas. He said that a car of my size still on a slight incline needed more than a quarter tank. I felt stupid even though the man was very nice. I felt like he knows a lot of things that I do not and that his knowledge is just as specialized as my knowledge of whatever it is that I know and that his knowledge is more useful than mine. I know about things like ANGLE OF YAW. He knows how to fix a car when stranded. He seemed much more capable of getting along on a day to day basis pleasantly than I did even though his job is hard and I spend all day in front of the computer. I didn't want to tell him not to tow me now because he'd already gotten me strapped in, though I knew it would cost a lot and all I needed was more gas. We rode to the gas station and I tried to make conversation and I felt dumb saying things. My father often asks me why I don't have any common sense. I don't feel like I don't have common sense I just feel like I do not know how to operate my body. We put $40 worth of gas in my car which was the most I'd put in my car in a long time. I had to swipe the credit card three times because I kept putting it in the wrong way. The man was very patient with me even though I continued to feel dumb. The car started with the gas in it. The man said they took Visa or Mastercard. I asked dumbly if they took credit or check, kind of talking just at the end as he finished saying what they took. He said again they took Visa or Mastercard. It cost $90 for me to tow my car 2 miles to the gas station so I could put more gas in it. I thought about how on my way to the interstate that afternoon I had passed a Texaco and started to pull in but did not because I figured I could make it where I was going. I told the guy that I felt dumb for not having done that and he shrugged and said, "Shit happens."

Friday, November 16, 2007

FF&R Podcast + Pushcart Nomination

Shalla Magazine reprinted an older story of mine, FAKE FIRE AND RESCUE, on their site. They nominated me for a Pushcart Prize for it. They also recorded a podcast reading of the Shalla editor reading it: here. I had no idea. It was nice of them to do that. Though it's strange to hear someone else reading your words. It kind of made me feel like there was someone in the room watching me and I do not have any clothes on.

It is getting cold out.

Tonight I am going to see NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. I haven't been excited to see a movie in a while. Though it is my least favorite McCarthy book, it should be better than most of the garbage they put out on the screen these days.

Shivering indoors is not fun.

Thursday, November 15, 2007


I read straight through SAMEDI THE DEAFNESS by Jesse Ball yesterday. I went to look at it at Borders after Shane Jones mentioned he'd read and liked it. The writing is cut into short lines that break every page or every few pages and the top blurb on the back of the book said it was like David Lynch so I bought it without further question.

Jesse Ball is a poet. I like prose written by poets. You can usually tell the difference because they often use less words and more clear words. The story is filled with a lot of surrealist imagery and bits of unusual quasi-science like what I enjoy in Ben Marcus's NOTABLE AMERICAN WOMEN. The back of the book also referred to Kafka, and this book seemed more like Kafka than a lot of other books that are referred to as seeming like Kafka.

There are a lot of little bits in the book that don't go anywhere. I like those bits the best. I liked less when things were made to come together.

I am still looking for a book that appropriates the experience that David Lynch creates in his films. This book had certain elements but did not fully capture what I like about Lynch. I don't think the author intended that anyway, but I'd like to read more noir-ish, creepy unresolved suspenseful absurdist writing. I can't think of any book that is very close to David Lynch in style.

I have never read a book that made me feel like I do looking at this:

or this

or this

or like the first 40 minutes of LOST HIGHWAY which makes me feel more fucked than anything else ever.

I wrote a novel last year called MORE LIGHT trying to write a David Lynch style novel and was told the characters were unsympathetic and that you could not feel for the characters. I did not want anyone to feel for the characters. I will probably never try to do anything with that novel. That is 58,000 words that I worked for 5 months on that will never see another's eyes, likely. I am fine with that.

I liked SAMEDI THE DEAFNESS. I would recommend it to others. I wish more books were like it in that it made me want to read to the point that I had no choice but to keep reading until I was done. Those are the kind of books you live for.

Monday, November 12, 2007

The Executioner's Song

I just read that Norman Mailer died on Saturday. I didn't even hear a peep.

I've read a handful of his work, but The Executioner's Song is by far my favorite. It is probably in my top 10 favorite books ever.

It is creative nonfiction before there was a term 'creative nonfiction.' It is the story of Gary Gilmore, who in the 70's randomly went into a gas station and made the attendant lie down on the floor and then shot him in the back of the head. There wasn't really any reason. He just did it.

He was also the first person to fight for his own right to be killed. He was on death row and they wouldn't kill him and he fought for them to kill him.

Mailer writes the story in simple, nice sentences and somehow encaptures the whole thing with this weird pull that makes you not able to stop reading it.

It is 1,056 pages and I read it in I think 3 days.

It is also the loose basis of the film Cremaster 2 by Matthew Barney, which has some awesome images (though most of the really good ones I can't find online).

I'm not one to romanticize dead icons, but you should read this book.

Friday, November 9, 2007

How do you pronounce that?

I feel like being mean to someone but there's no one around to be mean to.

I haven't really had anything of value to say to anyone at all in the past week and I'm not sure why.

The other day I used a drinking glass against the wall to listen to my neighbor talk to his dog for almost an hour. Mostly he kept saying over and over how he was going to leave but he didn't. He cursed and screamed and said, "Crapola."

Though I enjoy my current lifestyle some days I have no idea what I am doing.

Yesterday afternoon I sat and looked at videos on youtube of people playing WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE and I wished I lived inside them.

Yesterday evening I kept finding dark dirt under my fingernails and I kept chewing them clean over and over and the dirt was still there and I kept eating.

I am only typing this right now because I can't think of anything else I'd like to do.

I wish I still had the white walkman I used to wear when I was fourteen and fat and mowed lawns to make extra money. I listened to tapes of songs I recorded by putting a boombox up to the television and recording music videos. I listened to Dr. Dre and House of Pain and Snow's 'Informer' and C&C Music Factory.

Today a spam email offered the advice: Don't be afraid to take off your pants in her bedroom.

I am not afraid.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Lamination Colony, Nov. '07

Our newest update is now live at LAMINATIONCOLONY.COM.

It features fiction from Andrea Fitzpatrick, Shane Jones and Gene Morgan, as well as poetry or other by Mike Young, Ofelia Hunt and Sean Lovelace.

There is also a brief feature in which each contributor was asked to submit a list of the last 3 books they read and liked, as well as 3 items they own that they would select to take with them if they were going to be sealed in a small box.

It is a really great issue with some incredible work by incredible writers.

Please enjoy.

Friday, November 2, 2007

What to do with nowhere @ SOFTBLOW

I have a text in the new update of SOFTBLOW: What to do with nowhere.

It was written while nodding out on my sleeper sofa with a remote keyboard on my thighs and the screen not visible. Typos and mistakes were edited and phrases deleted or rearranged and section numbers added, but otherwise I was mostly asleep during the writing.

This is the first of several texts I have written in various forms of sleep state.

To receive this publication, I squelched the dreamlife of my computer, crushed a baby's bonnet bell with my back teeth, and placed third in an olympiad of preteen aspiring impresarios. You should have seen me chuck that javelin with both arms sawed off: it was like I'd never seen the sky.

Thursday, November 1, 2007


(this post is now published on JUKED)