Tuesday, June 15, 2010

"what we were then each for himself and for the other

glued together like a single body in the dark the mud

how at each instant each ceased and was there no more either for himself or for the other vast tracts of time"

Saturday, June 12, 2010

I had microsoft word summarize the sections I have deleted so far from my nonfiction ms about sleep into 100 words or less, here's what it said:

In my head the light went white. I lay face-up in my bed, the room full of a soft light. The color of all sound. The light contained infinite terror, growing slick up my insides. The light continued. A gone light.
The circuit woke.

The horror of bodies, speech. If the sleepwalker walks through unknown cities then there must also be a language for the people there lit inside the tunnels of the head.

Dern shoots again. The same light. Piano sound. Dern shoots again. Exits.
i have changed my name to joey, please only refer to me as joey from now on if you refer to me which isn't required

pretty much on the desk here there are a few things including a letter from my mother about why her computer does not work and a red marker and a black marker and a chip clip but no chips

i can't stop saying the phrase 'they were eating it up like dowgs' which is something that a now dead person said in one of his several hundred recorded songs. the phrase has learned to override the words coming out of other people too

the other day my mother put her hands on both my sides and said that i looked very thin

i have already this year read more books than i read last year because of the bike machine which by the time i am finished with each session has two huge pools of sweat beneath the parts where my arms are above it during the time i ride on the bike that does not move. many of the people who bike or lift or run will come and wipe down the machines they've touched when they are finish but i don't do that. the other night there was a corner of a piece of velveeta cheese on the concrete it made me sad

i don't like the guard guy who won't ever raise his hand or speak to me no matter how directly i say hello or wave at him, i think he talks to other people fine

i think big boi was grillin out with some of his dudes by our pool the other day, he was turning meat with a large silver thingie

there are games you can make up it is fun when you make up games it is like there was something waiting to be played all this time and you found it just like that

i am conie the sellfish punk but i would rather be conie at the stroke of midnight like my sister is

have you read prunebomb

have you eaten anything great

things are pretty nice if you like them

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

"there is also disappearance, contagion, military murder, telekinetic fire, hurricane, catastrophic subsidence, infant death, mutation, being eaten by animals, oceanic evaporation, suicide, glutinous rain, quicksand topographies made of mud, sky lesions, a massive wall overtaking the earth and total flooding of the landscape... Far from an escape into some sort of monumentalism of destruction, this anti-realistic concentration of ruin perfectly zeroes in on our inveterate inability to actually picture the end, to consider its lobster. It’s in this act then that the true momentous dismay and oppressive compulsion to want to avoid disaster that the inevitability of apocalypse should spirit into us (but doesn’t) is recuperated in the form of an apocalypse of such total immensity it could never come telling us that we risk facing not the impossible but the all too possible."

--- David Rylance, from an essay on my body of work, The Darkest Fits of Light: on dwelling in Blake Butler's de-compositions

Massive thanks to David for this beautiful, generous, and transcendent (beyond myself) text.