encrusted

I studied writing in school, but I've probably only had one formal writing teacher in my life. They are hard to come by in these parts.

Here's the story:

There was a this university writing professor, a strange man- different than all of his colleagues. He was respected and yet cool, he was young-looking and muscular, often wise and always well spoken.

This professor was revered in a special way by his students, they quoted him in the hallway and blogged about him; people felt truly led by his instruction. He had an online fan page, before facbook fan pages- that's dedication. At parties there would often be a serious discussion on his methods and deep into the reflective part of the night people would share what they thought were his innermost fundamentals of writing.

So, enter me.

I remember sitting at one of these parties in some corner smoking cigarettes and trying to hide the wine stains on my clothes, gawking in an air-headed way as a student explained one of these fundamentals to a group.

I wasn't really part of the conversation, but I watched as this guy outlined the amazing professor's lecture notes for about 10 minutes. I sat there dumb as a foal and I don't remember but one sentence of the entire speil but this:


"If you like something, like a part of a book or a story, re-type it when you finish it."

I took a huge gulp of wine and boom. It was internalized. That douchebag re-hashing his professor's wisdom was my first real writing teacher. He made a BIG impression.

I never took a class with that amazing professor though, I just hung out with some of his students. But now on to my real point:

I don't know if that is good advice or not, but fuck I like doing that.

I don't know if I'm allowed to do this, I probably shouldn't be doing this, but if I could pick one thing for anybody to re-write, to type out every few months or so it would be this:



An Unsteady Place


Thirty-three starfish, forty-two seashells, eighteen crabs, fourteen lobsters, ten waves, eight gulls, twelve fish, seven lighthouses, four fisherman, eleven pieces of coral, sixteen sailboats, nine seahorses, and a handful of of signs indicating the direction you need to take should you want to go to the beach. In bas-relief on shower tiles, on the edges of towel racks, mounted to drawer pulls, painted on wallpaper, dotted on baseboard tile squares, crowded into baskets on mantels, on wooden steps, in bathrooms, mounted and framed and hung on walls, painted on dishes, decaled on drinkware, the bottoms of bowls, sculpted into the handles of serving utensils, hanging from the ceiling, stitched onto towels, on lamp bases, printed on bed sheets, comforters, pillow cases. A fish skeleton key rack. The beachside vacation rental drove the point home like a mother reminding you of every single thing you needed to be afraid of.

In every cupboard, towels with nautical themes are stacked neatly with labels indicating the size of towel and method of use: hand towel, body towel, beach towel, wash cloth. Tiny laminated instructions with filigree and smiley faces explain how to use each appliance; washer, dryer, microwave, dishwasher. Quiet coaches.

At first it's charming, but eventually their naggy cheeriness begins to annoy. I know how to use a microwave. I know how to dry my clothes. I know how to wash dishes.

There is no way you can make a mistake here.


-----

Yeah. That is by xTx from her book 'Normally Special' and it is certainly the most jewel encrusted opening of anything I've ever read. I type it out and I look at it and I realize that I can't edit it because a) it isn't mine and b) it is just so fucking perfect the way it sparkles like that! I have typed it out 3 times in my life at this point. And every time I type it out I feel better than I did before and also, shittier because I want to have written that myself. Fuck, girl.

I think that my goal in life, one of the goals in my life, is to create a jewel like that. So so much in such a splendid way in so little space.

Filigree indeed and of itself.

Found: Livejournal entry from 2003

found this on my old account, kind of made me cry:


i think you should always read for 2 hours before bed, because if you don't there's really nothing left of the world.

i think you should wash your hands constantly, and not just sprinkle them. wash them, meditatively. keep a little metal tool and always clean under your nails. keep your hands soft, even if you're a man. keep them soft.

i think that you should be kind to others and be upfront with people that are offensive.

i think you should buy nice clothing because you should look good.

i think if you're a girl you should try to do at least one thing boys are in to. and if you're a guy you should get into something girls like. that way you always have a bridge somewhere.

i think that you should make love, have sex, fuck. if you aren't having regular sex you should do everything you can to have it. i think that you should never watch porn because it turns you into slime.

i think you should watch porn for entertainment.

i think you should exercise every day and especially work on your core muscles by doing planks before you read for 2 hours before bed. you should really think of your body as a temple made of fat and muscle meat and keep it strong.

i think you should get drunk at least twice a month.

i think you should tell people you care about them more than you do already.

i think you should not eat meat because you eat violence. you shouldn't be an animal, you should be a human. if you stop eating meat you'll be more human, i think more spiritual.

i think that you should meditate as soon as you wake up in the morning because that is when you are most fresh and childlike and receptive to calm. i think you should buy a book on meditation and really work at it.

i think you should never think you actually know anything, especially wisdom. you should feel humbled by everyone you meet and you should be so lucky to kiss the dirt on their feet. you should be in awe of everyone because i think you should think you are nothing. you should say it to yourself over and over like a mantra 'i am nothing, i am nothing, i am nothing, i am nothing' you should live with those words as you interact with others.

i think you should say those words right now. walk around and say them. go outside, even if it's raining and walk down the street until you get to the nearest retail establishment. in your head i think you should keep saying 'i am nothing' and then buy something and look at the salesperson, like, really look at them and think about how they are a part of god just as you are.

Possessions on display (an obsession)

I like piles of things. Specifically, I like piles of my things. I like laying out everything I have and looking at it. I like sometimes to take things out of the drawers in my room and placing them in an order. Something like a constellation of objects. I arrange things by size or by color or chronologically. I arrange things based on bodily response or emotional attachment or from love to hate. So far I've done this in my kitchen, my bedroom, my basement. This summer I want to do the garage and the front room and my office.

My process is this- I take out everything from every closet, drawer and shelf. I take a moment to hold each object and observe it. Extra special moments are reserved for glass surfaces which I believe to be mystic. I  spend a lot of time going back and forth between things, it may be two days before I get the arrangement right. If an object is dirty I will clean it. Sometimes I take notes in a notebook and often I eat meals while walking around the city of objects, deep in contemplation of order.

With regards to the kitchen project, I saved the food for last and omitted meats, cheeses and the freezer contents. When I finish I try to take a picture of what I've done. I can't upload the pictures because well, these are my things. Some of them are private. Some of them are thrown away now, picked up on Canadian curb day where we throw out our junk. These are just for me, like most of my personal pictures.

Why do I do this? 

Why do you do anything? Maybe I draw power or happiness from the mixture of weirdness, order and obsessiveness. Maybe I am just fucked in the head. Or maybe it is because of Nina Leen.

Nina Leen is my hero. One of them. She was one of the first female photographers for LIFE. Here's her obituary in the NYT:

Nina Leen, one of the first female photographers for Life magazine, died on Sunday at her home in New York City. Ms. Leen was secretive about her age, but Alison Hart, a press agent for Life, said she was believed to be in her late 70's or early 80's.
Ms. Leen photographed many subjects but was best known for her pictures of animals. Among her 15 books were two studies of bats, published in the 1970's. To make the pictures for these books, she used special cameras and lighting and overcame an aversion to the animals.
One of her most famous images is a 1950 photograph of the Abstract Expressionist artists known as the Irascibles, including Mark Rothko, Barnett Newman and Jackson Pollock.

I've never seen any of her animal pics. I love her pictures from the 50's and 60's. She has some excellent b/w work, but most of all I like this photo right here:

What do I like about this? I like it because it captures a moment in a way that no other can, a North American kind of moment. A womanly kind of moment. And it isn't an event that is captured but an essence. It shows the objects that this woman interacts with on a daily basis, the clothing, the kitchen tools, the cleaning supplies (the mystic glass is the center piece). It is beautiful because these are the things that determine the physics of our being. That captures a certain way, just as my own piles do.

Nobody I show this picture to seems to like it. They usually smile or 'yeah yeah' to it, but it never seems to take breath away from others as it does for me. Maybe I am just a freak.

That being said, a large portion of my novel involves the female character arranging her possessions like this. Maybe somebody out there does the same twisted thing now and then, maybe it will encourage someone to take on the artful task of total possession arrangement.

Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. Frank. Lili. Rapunzel. 

Three people are fucked. 

Three people are fucked for different reasons. 

Frank is avoiding some bad news.

Lili is on the verge of a relapse.

A nameless, sexless person wakes up blind in a foreign hospital. 

ORDER HERE. 

JUNE 2012

ART TIME

Here is the initial sketch of the painting I'm working on right now. It's a painting of a 1991 Dodge Spirit.

Here is an excerpt from my Pank story coming out in mid Jan

They strip in the dark and have sex to the sound of motor boat engines whirring around in the flooded streets below. Their feet are wet. Michael does his best to hide his dyspnea. It, the sex, has a kind of Rube-Goldberg quality. It’s a kind of jazz routine they perfected in the darkness. The sex is an escape from boredom. They are pretty much soundless. Carolyn doesn’t want Michael to sneeze on her, like last time. She doesn’t want to wipe herself down with a wet towel. Michael coughs and rubs his nose on his shoulder. Carolyn pretends not to notice and stares off at the wall. Carolyn thinks of Lyle the Milkman. Michael thinks of Amanda the weather lady. When Michael finishes he pins Carolyn to the mattress.

“1..2..3. Ding ding ding.”

2011 is over so

whew, i need to blog more.
last year around this time i felt a really strange thing, i felt like the world was doing something for me.
phillip rex huddleson and richard chiem made a comic about me and it made me feel special.
pank decided to publish a story by me.
i was in NYC for new years and as i drunkenly watched that magical american ball slide down its pole i felt that 2011 would be 'my year'.
a month later my first chapbook was accepted for publication.
6 months later i'd cut into my first novel.
11 months later my novel was accepted for publication.

everything i've ever wanted to achieve in life is no achieved.

everything beyond this is more than enough.

but i don't know... i think this was a lot of people's year.

it was tao lin's year. he got married and a 5 figure publishing deal.
it was blake butler's year. he published two books to critical acclaim.
it was xTx's year, her book became beloved.
it was Roxane Gay's year, she started her own imprint and had her first novel published.
it was so many writer's year.

i look at my own and realize, it probably wasn't my year. i've done so little. i don't work hard enough. i need to work harder.

2011 was the year of easy comings.
2012 needs to be the year of the serious writer.

the year of coffee
the year of less distraction.

i want to feel like i did back then when the ball went down.
i want to make something new.