Action, Figure by Frank Hinton

ART TIME

2012-01-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-06T08:57:00.001-08:00

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

2011-12-28T10:49:00.000-08:00

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.

INTERVIEW WITH IMPOSE MAGAZINE

2011-08-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

i did an interview with IMPOSE MAGAZINE

games i think have inspired me, shaped me somehow

2011-08-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

earthbound

modern gaming, hundreds of useless items, sense of humor, abstract imagery, dali-references, psychedelic, metafictional storyline, japanese view of innocent america, lynchian moments

final fantasy vi

huge cast, perfect music, gigantic bosses, opera theme, romantic steampunk, perfect villian, epic storyline, 30 minute cinematic character driven ending, grand

catherine

murder mystery, modern relationships/sex, hyper-japanese, marriage-vs-fucking, rapunzel theme, puzzle arcade tribute, jazz music, intense sexual experiences, choice of being cheater or faithful, sexting

limbo

black and white, minimal gameplay, creepy music, mysterious setting, intense tactile puzzles, deeply frustrating, wholly beautiful landscapes, dead children

noby noby boy

quirky, colorful, randomized levels, unknown way to play, various colorful objects, LSD trip, super japanese weirdness, odd feeling when playing, structureless, abstract

braid

colorful, painting-like, spiritually connected to mario, puzzle theme, highly difficult, time-warping skills, princess in a castle, can't die

flower

colorful, flowing gameplay, no enemies, beautiful landscapes, nature quest, object is to flow/restore life

black ops

war, killing, intense online gameplay, goal is to have a good ratio of kills to deaths, unending play, basket-ball-like, depressing, hard for girls, male-dominated homophobic jungle of debauchery, urgent play

i made a collage of all my favorite writers

2011-08-17T19:27:00.001-07:00

i'll send a prize to whoever can guess the most

writing

2011-08-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

I'm interested in things that happen between two people. I'm interested in things people do secretly. I'm interested in relationships that are complicated. I'm interested in the way drugs and technology interact amongst people. I'm interested in strange places that shouldn't exist. I'm interested in love as an object. I'm interested in people taking baths. I'm interested in urge. I'm interested in the darkness inside of people. I'm interested in seasons. I'm interested in things that don't really exist externally to me. I'm interested in people in their 20s. I'm interested in things that are probably, mostly silly.

deep dark pit of black tar rotten despair and sadness

2011-08-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

feels like i am looking for the shape of something always, like pulling and groping around but with a kind of anxiety/ hive like motion, like nothing is ever figured out or solved or even 'well-rounded', 'beauteous', 'whole'. that's part of being alone, maybe im just building something- some shitty little thing that i hope will make sense to someone, attract someone, make me feel less alone and more like what other's allude to re: community.

sad.

i am sad.

i'm so sad.

i'm sad.

sad.

i feel really sad.

really sad.

waking up im sad.

dreams are sad.

like, grey, un-inspired dreams of vague sadness.

like a tuna-melt, only it's a sadness melt.

clawing at my chest w/clammy fingers sad.

sort of sad.

wishing for ~20% less sadness at any given moment.

would be happy with less sadness.

maybe, not.

can't even cry, it's not that type of sadness.

it's more like, severe. there's probably a word for it.

a very specific word for my sadness that i haven't found yet.

the inability to find the word is now a part of the undefined nature of my sadness.

sad.

maybe will try to, something.

visual selections from tao lin's drug related photoshop series

2011-07-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

from top to bottom: mdma rex, potter as guevera, drug levitating dumbledore, adderall zoom-in, dean kamen brainstorm, poodle on google, zoomers & herzog, bieber in the sky with diamonds, schopenhauer's sad poodle

2011-07-16T20:25:00.001-07:00

Saliva in my mouth.

I slide my tongue around and blink slow like a newborn creature.

I am staring at the dessert menu. My grandmother is sitting across from me with a terrible frown. ~~The topography of her face is inlaid with a thousand riverbeds.~~ She is probably a mirror of my utmost physical potential. The dessert menu is laminated and there are bits of food on it, crusted to the plastic. ~~I should have taken some of the MDMA. This is painful.~~

I should get up and walk out of here and delete my mother and grandmother from my phone and block them and block my mother on Facebook and cut off all of my hair and start calling myself ~~Katie~~. ~~My new name is Katie.~~ I should get a boob job and call myself Katie and play with my big boobs all day and have Frank or Rich get me pregnant and start a regular boring life with my own family and let my mother and my grandmother die away. I hate my family right now. I don’t want to be here. I am tipping off balance. Today is not a good day. My mouth is dripping wet. I take a napkin and wipe saliva from it. More saliva fills my mouth.

My mother returns from the bathroom and sits in her chair and asks me if I want dessert.

“Yes.”

My grandmother is incredulous. She leans forward and looks back and forth between my mother and I. Her mouth is hanging open. Her slimy false teeth are on display. Her eyes are magnified behind her glasses, big blue fucked-up and oily orbs.

Dessert.

Do I deserve a treat? Have I earned this?

“She needs to eat,” my mother tells my grandmother.

Yes. That’s it. I need to eat. I need food. ~~I’ve been saving up for this.~~

I put my hand under my shirt and rub my cold little belly. The belly holds like a ball in my palm. My mother is looking for the last of the crumbs on her plate. My grandmother is playing with her purse. My belly fills my palm. Nobody is talking. I haven’t had a treat in a long time. I want this fucking dessert.

I can eat whatever.

~~I have mantras, you know. I write them down in a little journal. I think of them and I decide they are wise and I use them.~~

~~A mantra comes into my thought river.~~

~~I will move forward from flourish and decay.~~

~~Where did that come from? Who knows.~~

This is a funny day.

The waitress comes and I say, “pudding pie.”

My grandmother’s eyes open in wide in human exclamation marks and she leans toward me and her mouth hangs open for a second before anything comes out. I just stabbed her. She’s stabbed. She’s got tomato soup all over her fucking face. Tomato soup dried in the riverbeds. I see a red planet, Mars, that is her face.

“The pie is six dollars!’ she says.

Her eyes start moving around behind her glasses. It looks like someone is shaking a fishbowl. I want to tell her I’m going to puke up the pie later. ~~Don’t they realize what I am?~~ I look at my mother. My mother is fanning herself with the dessert menu. I drink some coffee. I lift a hand to my ear to twist my earring. My earring is gone.

My earring is gone.

The earring is gold with an inset diamond. I always lose earrings but I never lose this one. I feel anxious. Something moves inside of my stomach. I hate this day.

Noises in my belly now. I think maybe I’m full. Maybe not. I will still eat the pie. Fuck it. I need energy. The last thing I ate was the dahl. The dahl and then the salad I just had. The dahl and the saldad and the saliva I’ve been swallowing. I need sugar. I need my fucking diamond earring. My grandmother used to live on ration stamps. She used to use molasses instead of sugar. She doesn’t understand a fucking thing. She’s afraid of anything. I imagine shoving cake down her throat. She’s so angry the rivers are pulsating, shaking around on her jowls; she is in a tremor of pre-death greed. I’m shoving cake and putting and brownie down her throat. I’m filling her up like a Christmas stocking. She’s taking it. My hand and fist are down her throat, I’m up to my elbow shoving expensive shit down there. A pie made of Peruvian custard, a tort covered in golden flakes, a jello made of jade.

The waitress is in the display freezer pulling out the pudding pie. My grandmother is digging around in her purse. My mother is sitting in her chair saying nothing. What is this? I look beside me. I don’t want them to notice me looking. I reach down for my purse and scan the floor. My mother’s feet are twitching. She is anxious and urgent. I watch them move around. Where is my earring? I have a sugar lust! Fuck.

The pie comes and I start eating. I ask for more coffee. My grandmother grumbles again. She starts putting her coat on.

“Mom,” my mother says. “I’m paying. It’s a treat.”

The food just goes in. I can hear it all slopping inside.

My grandmother squeezes the features of her face together as if trying to suck the whole thing away. I imagine her sucking in the plate and the fork. She sucks in the table cloth. The table splinters and sucks right into her face. I’m sucked in. My mother is sucked in. The restaurant is sucked in. The whole town is sucked right into her face and she’s covered in debris, breathing heavily, examining the bill in the middle of nothingness, debating whether to tip or not.

This lunch is worse than I thought.

Before the last bite of pie is gone my mother pulls something from her purse. There’s a clicking.

She sets a bottle the table between the three of us. The bottle has my name on it. It’s filled with little white pills. My grandmother smiles a little. My mother smiles a little. I smile a little. Are we all smiling for the same reason? No. No. None of us are actually smiling. I’m just smiling so hard on the inside that everything outside of me appears to be smiling.

She did bring a gift. I love my mother.

I reach for the pills. My mother’s hand comes out from beneath the table. She puts her hand over mine.

“I love you,” she says. “You should come and visit more often. We worry.” I look at her. She’s looking at me, right in the eyes. Her hand is long and strong and creamy. Her skin is warm, which means my skin must be cold. My hand looks sick, yellow under hers. She is kind but she doesn’t look worried. I look at my grandmother. She doesn’t look worried either.

I want to get out of here. I want to grab the bottle and run. Leave the earring as a tip.

“Those should last,” she says. She moves her hand away.

I offer to leave the tip, but I’m refused. My grandmother wipes tomato soup from around her mouth. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. I can smell some cheap lineament on her neck. I leave the cafe. My mother paid with a credit card. Out on the street a little bit of snow falls from the grey. Snow. Fuck.

I’m walking. My phone vibrates. I see a text from my mother.

- You dropped your earring

My diamond earrings. I like diamonds on me.

I think of my body covered in diamonds.

I think of getting vajazzled with diamonds.

STEPHEN TULLY DIERKS IS POP SERIAL

2011-06-10T15:27:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: SUPER BLOG BY STEPHEN

people have been asking me questions.
i have been feeling answer-ly.
this week they were asking me about this thing i like called 'pop serial'.
here's how it went...

what is "pop serial"?

pop serial is an independent online/print publication operated by Mr.Stephen Tully Dierks.

(i've chosen to present his name bold, italicized, underlined, olive for stylistic reasons)

who is "stephen tully dierks"?

stephen tully dierks is a young male age 20-25 that lives in chicago (chicago is a city in america that canadians suffer to understand/define due to the elongated shadow of new york city).

stephen tully dierks is handsome, brown of hair, blue of eyes and sort of spectral/peppery brown of facial hair. he has a symmetrical face which is at once attractive, endearing and maybe a little bit unnerving.

he thin framed but makes up for it in both depth of fashion and depth of voice. he writes fiction, he edits fiction, he promotes the online fiction community in a beautiful and dedicated way. he is a good man.

why can't i find more stuff by stephen dierks?

i don't know. i really don't. this guy should have a fucking book. he should be published all the way from Abjective to Zygote in My Coffee. god damnit he has flame.

should i be happy about any of this?

yes. yes you should. stephen's greatest creation POP SERIAL 2 has just been slated for release ONLINE. yes. you heard it here.

HERE HERE HERE HERE HERE

what is pop serial 2????

just check this video out. seriously. it was my bedtime story bible for ~2 months.

live your life people.

SAD CAVE

2011-05-31T18:43:00.000-07:00

"things" related to a "sad cave" begin appearing throughout the internet.

EXAMPLE A

EXAMPLE B

EXAMPLE C

EXAMPLE D

EXAMPLE E

EXAMPLE F

EXAMPLE G

Sad Cave from Alex Allison on Vimeo.

EXAMPLE H

EXAMPLE I (~9:00 mark)

* please email or comment link all sad cave related materials to frank hinton

Semi-Realtime Notes: Oh No Everything Is Wet Now

2011-05-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

This is a new e-book collaboration by ANA C and RICHARD CHIEM

I'm reading this and feeling it out. Right now. That's how this will work. Okay?

Follow the path with me. Here.

Launch

I go to Magic Helicopter Press and read the little blurby, though not thoroughly and then click.

Gah: my first thought. I sort of curse Chrome because it loaded the page wrong.

I think something went wrong.

Something went wrong. A dull metallic background. Seems like pre-2k Angelfire.com html.

Arrival

A cat is wearing red sunglasses. The left temple extends in a solid line, breaking eastward in a beam towards an unknown destination. It forms a path. Subconsciously I remember on the previous page, something about following and so I follow this red line to the next destination, curious at my discovery.

Scene 1

A google image search for the term "oh no everything is wet now". Screen-cap art is beautiful to me, the collection of what is seen through the eyes of the browser's browser... here a feminine Hitler, Ana herself, some prominent font-bits from Richard's blog. This is the e-book existing externally within itself. A short meditation on what it "is" to exist at all on the internet.

Scene 2

Red line continues to break right. We're still in the intro-credits. Another cap, an RTF doc cap, "A NOVELLA IN SMALL PARTS", Richard's lips stretch still and pink and pixelated in a canvas over the red path which now turns south. I click the play button (which seems to pierce Chiem's lower lip). My shitty internet connection sends a white spiral into motion. Ana and Richard start chanting the title of the e book, shaky at first but building in confidence and improvisation. They walk through a city and laugh and chant and Richard suggests a swimming pool they can visit.

Note: Going to a pool.

Scene 3

Following the path south now. Another video, another pixel-Chiem. He's standing at the apex of an escalator. Where is the fucking pool? What's in his hand. I click the button. More load time. Ana asks "up or down". Slightly to the left of the video I see the first hard "text" of the e book and as I read it, Ana also reads it as they explore the motion of an escalator in forward and reverse motions. Up and down. The piece analyzes distance, someone attractive in the distance at some restaurant the distraction makes the food seem stale.

Scene 4

The path has gone from red to silver. It breaks left now and I slide my fingers along the touchpad and go, flow. More video still. More RTF screencap. More prose on food. Eggs now. Richard reads, he holds a double umbrella. Someone thinks of the narrator, and the narrator thinks of someone. Ana cuts in and drops ice. Everyone drops ice and it's a terrible feeling because it's a crash and a spill all at once. Narrator (Ana) is sorry she ruins everything. Everything is in ruin and I feel sad and imagine ice melting.

I want to better understand this image so I take opportunity from my desire to piss. I get up and piss and go to the freezer and take out an ice cube and drop it onto the floor and leave it there. Now the metaphor exists. There is no moisture yet, the ice is still in form.

Scene 5

The path is red again and southward and I follow her to a new space. A new video and a pee story. I'm getting the drift of this now. I just peed. Now there is a pee story. Peeing, looking out windows. Seems like a good moment of any day. Another mantra: Now is Now. There is a simplicity here in each image and a message that sort of curls out at you like carving rind from apple. What is the use in thinking? It seems dull and deadly. You think only in the past or future only of what you've done or what you'll do or what they've done or what they'll do. Now is now and really the only time you have to know yourself.

The ice cube is struggling to hold itself together. I can see its perspiration now. I bet if I lift it up it will reveal a puddle. I'm not going to touch it.

Scene 6

A brief intermission. I follow the line, silver again. Another google image cap. "Now is Now". I note a story within the cap, and a video. This is the most descriptive piece yet. Richard is watching Tao's BEBE ZEVA DVD. They've made it to the pool. Richard exclaims "FUCK THE MOON". There is a tension arising, a mention of the suffering. There is a connection between two people. There is a connection between people who know each other's cell phone numbers. There is a new kind of way to hurt the one you love by ignoring their light on the little ear box.

There it is, I see the ice. I see the water. The floor is hard wood. I'm in my mother's house. She's going to be upset. I feel happy.

Scene 7

Breaking right again on silver to the story of an orange and tits. Women compare their breasts to food. My breasts are pears. Bebe's breasts are plums. Ana writes breasts as oranges. Nutrition. Mexican nipples. Spicy candy. Ola.

The ice is forming into water. I fight an urge to wipe it up. The video is musical, repetitive. "Theycontrolmetheycontrolmetheycontrolme". Seems urgency is increasing.

Scene 8

Mary had a little lamb but I have a computer. Richard walks through a produce section. The female character watches a wall. She's slow and drunk and cracking. The wood is whispering her name. Seems to be a despair here. I don't know. I feel odd.

I don't want to look at my ice cube.

Scene 9

Ana on a zebra rug. What is a suicide girl? I've googled it. Now I know. Ana mentions camel toe. Seems like this is the first time I've heard camel toe in fiction. Is that possible? Is camel toe cliche? No. Not yet.

The ice is gone. Maybe.

Scene 10

The line is black now. I've made it this far. The place is at once uncomfortable and familiar and sad. Magic. The characters are together again. What are these things, this places in the relationship? Seems like they are the things we don't feel compelled to speak about, they seem to feely or too abstract to describe. Seems like there is a finger on a slug in this piece, pressing slow but hard and pushing out a colored goo. I've been here before, in cupcake land.

Melt.

Scene 11

A flurry or images now and a new aggression. HaHa You fuck. Pop cultural name dropping galore. Everyone wears red lipstick and only Gwen Stefani isn't a clown. I keep looking at the pink cupcake on the screen. Ana laughs at "coexistence". What's so funny? Feels like I know. Feels like I have a lot of shame right now. I'm thinking of my own life. My mother is stomping around upstairs, working and cleaning. I'm down here blogging. Messing up the hardwood. Haha.

The floor is wet.

Scene 12

Richard is eating cupcake. The next piece has another staircase. Is this the third or fourth reference to one? The narrator escapes into a room, seems to be in a place he'd like to be but can't be there. I like the line about sexual tension.

I want a cupcake. I need some paper towel. The floor is soaked. The cube has made a splash. I can't look away now. It's been a few minutes, me just watching the shape form and, not form.

Scene 13

A silver line shoots north, it's a long scroll all the way up. Here we go. This is it. I'm at the end. The path ends here. Richard is at the pool, working at the umbrella. Two people retreat into a room to FUCK. The story fades away as the narrator imagines fucking fruit. Ana and Richard chant in a thumbnail sized thumbnail video "Oh No Everything is Wet Now"

I'm getting up. I'm going to look for mistakes in this blog and clean the floor. I'm going to go upstairs and face my family. Our house rests on the edge of a small lake. There are loons fucking musically not far off. I can hear them, but I can't see them. It is one misty morning.

EAR EATER MAY 28

2011-05-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

Hey. On MAY 28th I'm going to be "appearing live" at CASSANDRA TROYAN'S

EAR EATER 6

a reading/lit/art event

also appearing...

Meghan Lamb

Heather Palmer

Timothy Willis Sander

Andrew James Weatherhead

I will be discussing something called "Sad Cave"

here is a preview below

2011-05-13T14:02:00.001-07:00

movie movie movie movie movie movie movie this is a movie i loved

2011-05-09T15:38:00.000-07:00

WHAT I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT

LES AMOURS IMAGINAIRES (Heartbeats)
by XAVIER DOLAN

GENESIS OF ME WATCHING THIS MOVIE

my friend came over to watch a movie.
i said i wanted to watch a really good movie.
my friend said the same.

"i heard about a great movie," my friend said. "i've made a friend. a film guy. he's in his forties. he knows a lot about films n' stuff."

"yeah"

"the movie is from montreal"

i have a strange relationship with art from montreal. some of my favorite writers and filmmakers are from montreal. there is also a lot of shit that comes from montreal.

love- jonathan goldstein and cbc wiretap.
dislike- just for laughs GAGS

maybe i'm a negative person. seems like because of just for laughs GAGS i am dismissive and wary of all things montreal. i am a bad canadian. sigh. maybe it is because of the montreal canadians i am also wary. zing.

so anyways. the conversation moved on.

"the movie is called Heartbeats. it's by this guy who is like 23. he made and financed the movie himself. it is shot like Mad Men. you know, something of it reminds me of Mad Men. i've only seen the previews but it looks good."
"okay"

i agreed to watch Hearbeats. i was very hesitant. i felt anxious watching the movie. i am worried about getting trapped in bad movies with friends. i look for various ways out of situations like these. i tried to offer other things to do but it was raining out. and i had already agreed.

MY REACTION

the movie was beautiful. once i understood what was going on i was very moved. i watched the movie very closely from start to finish feeling bursts of emotion in myself as i watched. the characters were outfitted with strange and wonderful traits and neurosis. i felt a tension throughout the movie. i was very satisfied with how the plot flowed and how the story was resolved. i felt connected throughout the whole movie and was amused and surprised with the final minutes of the film. i found the foley artist's work to be of vital importance to the film as a whole. every sound in every scene laid a tempo. i felt good in my ears.

PLOT

in the movie a young male and young female have a house party. sitting at their table is a self satisfied young man, a newcomer to town. his hair is long, and blond and rich with curls. he is thin and looks very masculin while smoking yet very feminine while stroking his hair. the two friends stand in the kitchen chopping up something for the party. the chopping is loud and violent. they wonder who the newcomer is. he is NICOLAS.

the movie follows the two friend, the male is FRANCIS and the female is MARIE. they both fall in love with NICOLAS. the male friend is gay. the female friend dresses like a 1950s francophone maman. the movie follows their various attempts to woo nicholas.

WHAT THE MOVIE IS ABOUT

the movie is about FRANCIS and MARIE battling to date/love/fuck a beautiful creature/man named NICOLAS. they tear themselves apart in a strange game to capture this beautiful adonis.

WHAT THE MOVIE IS REALLY ABOUT

NICOLAS seems to be playing a sick game with them. there are sinister expressions on his face while he plays w/ FRANCIS AND MARIE. he plays with their heads and lets on less than he knows. in one scene he pins down FRANCIS for an awkward minute, breathing over his victim's face. at a house party he nibbles on FRANCIS' ear.

NICOLAS is equally flirtatious with MARIE. he corners her down in the kitchen at one point and dangles his lips above her while asking a riddle which she inadequately leaves unresolved.

WHY NICHOLAS WHY

in an early scene NICOLAS explains he worked as a seismologist. he bores down into the earth and sends poles down to read vibrations and make a map. this seems to be what nicholas does to FRANCIS AND MARIE he plays them off one another as well as has them fight against themselves for his affection. he sees the tensions mounting between them and brings them to crescendo.

throughout the movie he is compared to a prince or alexander the great or adonis. his body is so sexy.

A VIDEO OF THE MOVIE THAT WILL LEND ITSELF TO A CONCEPTION OF WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT

MY REVIEW

this movie is the best movie i have seen in a long time. i think i would recommend this movie to anyone. i think that this movie makes me proud to be 'canadian' and also wish that i was more french. this movie caused me to search for the director's email so as to send him an email of praise (note, the director xavier dolan also plays the gay male character in the movie). this movie is beautiful.

2011-05-03T14:52:00.001-07:00

*RICHARD CHIEM*

the fucking MAN

NOÖ Weekly

STORIES BY PEOPLE THAT MATTER

WHEN IT COMES TO STORIES

luna miguel

steve roggenbuck

me (though i don't matter)

timothy willis sanders

ana c.

THE FUCKING MAN

BEACH SLOTH a semi-comprehensive guide to BEACH SLOTH

2011-04-18T16:16:00.000-07:00

I will attempt to do a few things in this blog post.

1. Illuminate the figure and spirit of Beach Sloth.
2. Outline successful pieces crafted by Beach Sloth.
3. Signify the cultural relevance of Beach Sloth.
4. Paste some nice things Beach Sloth has said of Frank Hinton.
5. Chant

WHO IS ?

"Beach Sloth" has crafted an extensive blog-portrait of me at his blog "Beach Sloth"

Beach Sloth has become known to me via DADAGATE... see THIN EYEBROWED KAT DIXON and SLOTH'S RESPONSE.

Beach Sloth seems highly intelligent, playful and relevant. Beach Sloth seems to have a powerful sensory taste in music. I like "Beach Sloth". It feels like Beach Sloth is behind "Let People Poems"

Beach Sloth blogs "extensively" and stands to break his blogging record of 2010 this year. 178 posts since January is very impressive to me/makes me horny.

WHAT DOES ?

Here are 3 posts I thoroughly enjoyed on Beach Sloth's Blogspot:

1. Re Hipster Runoff

Illuminations on Gawker's premature funeral for HRO. Profession of love for my existential jesus CARLES.

2. Reactions to Facebook Relationship Status Update

Breakdown of potency surrounding the socially networked human's relationship status. Pixelated, almost red half-broken heart emoticon.

3. My emotionless, vaguely unsuccessful future

BS/SG sees his future roll out before him by glancing through the lens of Mike Judge's cultworthy? film EXTRACT.

4. Here is a bonus "amazing" post by Beach Sloth where he profiles Richard Chiem.

BONUS: CHIEM

MY VIEW ?

Beach Sloth seems a worthy person to pay attention to and follow. He has peaked my interest to higher levels than most blogs. His writing has becoming highly attentive to "internet poetry" with a strong focus on Steve Roggenbuck, Poncho Peligroso and the tribe of HTMLminimalist boykittens meowing about the litsphere.

Here are some kind things Beach Sloth said of "Frank Hinton"

1. By using an obvious pseudonym, it makes things more interesting. Her online persona is extremely shadowy, mysterious. We don’t really know much about her besides her writing. Keeping mysterious yet accessible makes the work more interesting, as I find it can be easier to write something when I know I’m anonymous. The pain of writing something with your actual name attached probably contributes to a great deal of dishonesty within literature, as if the writer is trying to impress you in some small way. Frank Hinton’s writing is direct painfully so at times.

2. Her piece for Lamination Colony, called “How to be Me, an Instructional Video narrated by Frank Hinton” shows a certain playfulness. In here you learn how to hate people on a bus, chew off your fingernail in public (which is an actual skill) and how to avoid negative thinking upon waking up. Since she does have this on the internet, she explains how to post online in order to flame or remain anonymous (both good choices). Along with these apparent instructions is the final sentence which states “You were once a child and you had it all”. That’s probably one of my favorite lines of hers. Children get lucky with the amount of happiness they get. Then come teenage years they grow overly angst-ridden and depressed. Finally, in their twenties they begin trying to improve themselves through questionable practices of self-help, self-improvement and other endeavors of dubious merit.

3. Part of my joy reading these are how well she describes various feelings about love. Love is a difficult thing to write about without falling into the extremes of anger, sadness, despair, happiness, coy, and so on. Frank Hinton avoids these. She writes things with an honesty that’s hard to find. Being honest could be funny or tragic, it depends on the circumstances and often her work can be both. Her chapbook will explore these themes even further.

CHANT NOW ?

Now I will create a chant which serves to enforce the fact that Beach Sloth is a vital entity. Please read this next section aloud and know that I have done so myself. I did not copy and past this. Each character was typed out by my own shadowy fingers. Dim the lights.

BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH
BEACH SLOTH.

2o11.

2011-04-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

2011-04-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

Eli Horn is Canadian. He paints really beautiful pictures that involve certain realities of mutilation that are difficult to describe because of how minute the moment is that they capture. This piece above is particularly beautiful. I feel like I have felt this, what the plate represents. I think that I have wished I could assemble that kind of expression amidst the particular type of pain the plate concerns. The painting is titled "A Beginning or an End". Love BIG LOVE for this Canadian.

new story

2011-03-31T11:57:00.000-07:00

I have a new story up at fwriction: review.
It is about a 5.99 special deal at a Fish and Chips restaurant.
It is about weird mixtures of food.

Excerpt:

The waitress rolls her eyes. She looks unhappy. She looks as if she’s passed through the point of no return in this restaurant. She’s been here over a year. She goes home to a shitty environment. She’s had babies come out of her. Things aren’t going well in her life. I’m a little bitch breaking restaurant menu rules. She’s going to get scoffed out by her boss. I’ve added just a little bit of shit to her already shit-filled plate. Her eyes look kind of dead as she rolls them. She’s defeated, she knows it. She already heard us complaining about the sweet potato fries. Katie and I are skinny and young and powerful, in that way. I want to jam sweet potato fries into my mouth. The waitress looks familiar. When little girls are young sometimes they kiss each other and touch each other’s privates. The waitress reminds me of a play-friend. The waitress leaves to get more coffee. I watch her as she leaves. I sniff the air.

Link: http://www.fwrictionreview.com/post/4232034482/sweet-potato-fries-please-by-frank-hinton

2011-03-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

i looked at this photo 7-12 times a session when writing i don't respect female expression. during editing i spent 3 dollars to have the picture printed out in color. i put the picture on my wall and continually gazed at it for silent periods of 8-10 minutes contemplating the relationship between the forces in the painting. this piece feels 'all important' for me .

Tran Nguyen's illustrations are therapeutic in a vague way. They seem to silently shout at some part of culture which I've felt before but never interpreted. I feel at comfort with myself when I look at her paintings.

Tran Nguyen, artist.
Woman. Mastering a craft.
The most beautiful thing.

2011-03-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

THIS IS MY IMPORTANT FRIEND AND A PERSON THAT INFLUENCES ME GREATLY. HIS NAME IS STEVE ROGGENBUCK AND HE IS A SKINNY LITTLE WHITE ZEN-VEGAN THAT WRITES MINIMALIST, POTENT LITTLE POEMS ABOUT HIS LIFE EXPERIENCES WHILE WEARING A NOW TRADEMARK BLACK HOODIE.

unrequested livejasmin.com popup

2011-03-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

Mike Young reads an excerpt of my chapbook on the Orange Alert podcast

2011-03-11T09:50:00.000-08:00

This week on the Orange Alert podcast, Mike Young reads 'A Medium Sized Mammal Native to North America' from my chapbook I don't respect female expression. The piece starts at the 10 minute mark.

Thanks to Mike Young and Jason Behrends!

Thoughts about Richard Chiem's WHAT IF, WENDY

2011-03-11T08:10:00.000-08:00

Lover's Spit, Broken Social Scene [Bee Hives] by NeathenAlero

What if, Wendy is a short story by Richard Chiem. It was published by the minimal/html site Pangur Ban Party in late 2010. Maybe early 2011. The story takes place in a hotel room with the song Lover's Spit by Broken Social Scene continually playing around two characters: an unknown female and Jesse. The female is a prostitute and Jesse is the buyer.

What if, Wendy

The thing is.

I don’t know how to be good anymore, he says.

The thing is.

I can’t find anyone, he says.

It seems as if Richard envisions and understands these sort of metaphysical holes that everyone has in them, odd sub-conscious vacancies that only certain souls can fit exactly into. Throughout the piece the female character and Jesse both contemplate how to enter one another. The female is looking for the perfect match, someone who knows just what to do. Jesse has lost something, he lives on the memory of a lost girl who initiated him into the world of spiritual-sexual connection. Both Jesse and the girl are cognizant but mindless creatures wandering in a whiskey-induced haze toward some promised land that is nowhere in sight.

How would he be able to read her thoughts like that? How would he know exactly what to do? What makes her happy.

It seems that the result of the yearning in this story is dispassionate action. What happens to a body on he path in search of the perfect mate? People mutate themselves and their minds just in order to feel something. The story is about the crafting of an unrealistic wish. A wish that is never granted, but seemingly always requested. It repeats just as the song Lover's Spit does in the story.

The central action centers around Jesse's first love, a girl who did everything to him, in a loving way. Her name is Wendy. She was torn away from him when he was young. Jesse seems bent on recreating Wendy's willingness and experimentation. A part of that, Jesse confesses, was when Wendy let him have anal sex with her in the reclined seat of a car. The female prostitute takes this fact well.

Yes she says, sipping the drink he hands to her, unfazed by his question. I love anal. It feels like, like a more, powerful lucid dream because of the added and soft pain. She pauses and says, masochism is still pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, and takes another large sip from her glass and almost hiccups smiling. I like admitting it too.

Like most of Richard's writing, images are stretched, poured like liquid, heated to a vapor all at once. His imagery is like a perfume. You feel the notes between the gestures, though sometimes the sentiments are hard to interpret, like most good feelings.

They both miss a humming growl, they realize, from the cooling vents that stopped blowing sound from the floor and ceiling. She thinks the DJ of the late, late night radio show must be asleep or away, because the same album keeps playing and shuffling over and over again from the alarm clock and she looks at the time. Nearly three in the morning, and she wants something else to happen: serendipity or bestiality. So come on, she says, taking Jesse’s palms and leading him from the bed to the middle of the room, where the music is loudest. A slow dance is impromptu and he does, tremble. Look at him she thinks, he’s wilting like blown feathers.

mom & me on the phone

2011-03-09T12:01:00.000-08:00

It seems like the universe is in the physical state of devouring. Poking at first, and then devouring. The sky is the kind of grey-blue that makes you feel nice. It’s like the color of the first good sky of spring. Come out. Come out.

Fuck I feel good. I'm on the phone right now. Writing this. Real-time, yeh.

My mother has called me because she read my credit card bill. My mother reads my credit card bills because they arrive in her mailbox. Her mailbox is subscribed to my marketplace antics. She opens my mail. I am too lazy to call the bank to change my address. I'm too lazy to go online and figure out how to change the statement delivery options. My mother and I love/hate this fact.

I am a part of a great wheel. I spin it for my mother and my mother spins it for me. It feels like just labor. She calls me for nothing. She calls me only for confrontation. She calls me on bill day. Today is bill day. Landlord. The hub of the wheel is unmoving.

I have no fixed plans. I try to take human interactions as they come; as if they are an object, passed gently or tossed aggressively. I try to catch each one while bracing myself.

Fffuck you, I stutter in my imagination.

'Stop ordering from amazon.ca. Why are you ordering so many books?' my mother says. "I told you to stop and you need to stop.'

'It's my credit card,' I tell my mother. 'I pay the bill, what do you care?'

She tells me I'm flitting my life away. I write down the word 'flit' on a piece of paper with the intention of googling the definition later. I will probably never google the word “flit”- ever.

Fuck flit.

Flitterature. I've seen the future and the future is flitterature. Flitterature is new-wave. Flitterature is avant-garde. Flitterature is for people with gigantic flits. Flitterature. flittitty-flottitty-flew. Flittoral stimulation. Stab my flit with your tongue.

My mother is still on the phone. I feel moderately creative live-writing while pretending to talk to my mother. Just me breathing into the phone, that is good enough for her. Beat down to a creature that only breathes to her. When she contacts me, though I'm just a breath, she still beats. She is talking about my future. She is talking about danger. I’m trying to take her insults in a kind of 'stride'.

Here comes an insult. Apparently she thinks that I'm in with a 'bad crowd'. She has just said the word 'that' before saying my friend's name. That_________.

I am trying to reflect meaningfully on this. I am telling my mother that I will work on finding new sets of friends. I mention returning to a group of old friends that she admires. I can almost hear her smiling.

Is she smiling because she is happy about my decision or is she smiling because she thinks she is twisting me in loops, controlling my shape? She’s smiling because she thinks she still controls my existence.

Is she even smiling?

We’re tossing a poorly constructed paper plane between us. We’re dancing like zombies. We’re something like something. I don’t know. It feels like the most rational course of action would be to hang up. My mother is telling me that I need to become something substantial. She hasn’t asked me anything about myself in five years. She has no clue who I am. I am staring at the button on the phone that cuts the calls. I want to press it. I’ll stop writing when she goes away.

2011-03-05T08:24:00.000-08:00

Frank's Not Frank He Has a Frank by THE CRONYIST

Jimmy Chen making bold claims.

Jimmy Chen and I talk about the current season of the Bachelor:

Speaking of Jimmy Chen and bold shit, he also wrote a hilarious article on TC.

Jimmy Chen has a great voice:

Jimmy Chen may be the funniest human I know. He is the funniest (living) Asian I know. Where is Jimmy Chen's novel? Where is that?

i feel reverent

2011-03-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

had an impressive post-meditation moment in which i was sitting on the floor and reading some spot on a book while my tea kettle whistled and i kept saying to myself 'don't get up and get it, let the water scream' and thought briefly then, that my feelings are god.

*

reading xTx. sometimes writers don't awe me. with xTx i read her and i say "shit, i get that but i wouldn't get it if she hadn't put it exactly in those words."

*
Kenn Baumann wrote a really nice piece on HTML GIANT today about becoming Ken Baumann. I am really inspired by all of the sincerity writing going on over there. This piece was great. The minutia physics are really amazing. Here's a bit:

I see the past as a collection of attempts, games, admirations and apings. A path mainly molded by my brain or hardware/software (seemingly set to consume a lot of info, and cultural kinds), familial encouragement and favoring of the arts, access, and chance. If I hadn’t picked up The Stranger in that airport bookstore, alone and wandering, I wouldn’t have googled Existentialism (funny), wouldn’t have found Tao’s blog through his essay about the Virginia Tech killer/murders, wouldn’t have found Blake’s blog in which he recommended and enthused on a much wider range of materials, and wouldn’t eventually be here.

*

About 95% of the writers I meet online are indebted to Tao Lin. I feel like I owe him my first child. I really wish I could just say that to him, like, "You are important."

*

Molly Gaudry is kind of my hero. I think she is hardcore brilliant and she has a unique tact that makes me almost envious. I would love to be her.

And now she has this amazing new thing where she's a publicist!

*

I begin to develop the sensation that life after elementary school is one large session of recess. I am in a jungle shaped like recess. Sometimes I’m afraid of the other children. Sometimes I’m right in there, climbing those playground structures, being a good, real kid. Sometimes I hide in corners, just like I used to.

“Slide,” I say and realize, outloudly.

“Weeee,” Rich says.

I smile and I join Rich smiles.

Hey Rich.

Hey Lili.

Imagination. Credit cards chopping on cocaine.

“I was just imagining I was playing on a playground,” I say. “Slide.”

Andrew claps his hands together. The ceremony is beginning. Michelle huddles next to Andrew. I jump up and sit next to Andrew. Rich gets up and kneels down before the mirror. Four lines of coke spread. The twenty is all ready.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I’m a giant fu-cking bore.

-

I am swinging like an off balance pinwheel through the air and toward the nearest playground.

“Slide, slide.” I keep saying the word ‘slide’ in little two-word boosts. “Slide, slide.” Caramel slowness, tongue fun.

I am tottering a can of beer in my hand and I take a big gold gulp. This is great. The wind is on my face and in a few minutes I’m going to slip my body down a twizzle-slide.

I turn around and see Michelle. She is hopping like a bunny. Like a bunny that was just shot in the head. Her eyes are turned up and white, her mouth hangs open. Hop. Hopping in no direction. Every hop is slow and vacant and perfectly bunny-shaped. Andrew is following her. He is looking very smooth. He has a straight back. He’s very skinny. Cocaine composure. He’s watching Michelle hop. His eyes are fucked.

2011-02-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

Crispin Best. Reporting from the frontline of the internet.

2011-02-25T17:47:00.000-08:00

FRANK REVIEWED BY xTx

2011-02-25T11:42:00.000-08:00

xTx covers me in butter.
she's posted a peek of our
intimate facebook tribadism.

2011-02-19T13:58:00.000-08:00

2011-02-19T06:57:00.001-08:00

I can’t write on a machine that doesn’t have internet.

My best friends are ones I would/could never touch. That is comforting.

Why is that comforting?

Really interesting, good things are happening.

Blake Butler wrote a post earlier this week that I found very moving. It felt like something I knew well but hadn't put into words or hadn't thought about analytically.

The essay is titled An Unnecessary Consideration of How 10+ Years of Daily Writing Has Changed My Wiring, Which I wish I'd considered Before I started Even If I Wouldn't Have Understood.

Here.

The essay is about what it means to interact with your computer, about what intensive interactions do to you. Blake talks about a kind of pain he feels when when having conversations with real humans, like a kind of immediate need to end conversations almost off the bat. I feel like this all the time. I often sit down in a staffroom with other professionals and look around and wonder what it is I'm missing. I feel like I can't really meld with whatever it is they are caught up in. I usually end up sitting on my Iphone reading HTML GIANT or looking for things to jolt me on Facebook.

What the essay made me think about was just what kind of job it was to be a 'writer'. I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't even be writing this. Blake put it better than I can. Part of writing seems to be this game of communicating with other writers and feeling out the scene. There are times during the year when writers coalesce and meet one another face-to-face, but most of the time it seems that the realm of online/indie/lit/writing/fiction operates around hubs like HTML GIANT, Facebook, Twitter and every writer's personal blog.

I think about how fulfilled I am by whatever it is this online arena is offering but at the same time I worry because in truth, I find the online writing community intensely more fulfilling than any actual social community I have outside of the internet. Maybe this is why I drink so much in my real life. Maybe this is why I am always writing things like 'I have a problem' and thinking things like 'I don't want to exist'.

Every day if I don’t get to sit with the machine at least three good hours, and preferably closer to six or as many as ten, I feel like I have not lived.

Last week I did an interview with Frances Dinger and she asked me how long I spend on the computer a day. I said 3 hours. I re-read that interview and thought more about what I said. Why did I say that? That's not true.

Here is the reality of things: I get up and I turn on my Iphone and I check all of my emails on all of my email accounts. I look for red things on Facebook. I look at what's trending on twitter. I'm still in bed. I get up and I go to the bathroom and usually respond to a few emails. I finish up in the bathroom. I bring my laptop to the kitchen and make breakfast. I check my website and then the 10 main websites that I always check every morning. I eat blueberries with chopsticks so as to not get my keyboard keys purpled- like before. I am always late leaving for work because I stay on the internet to long reading and liking things. At work I check my email constantly throughout the day. I'm afraid of 'getting to know' coworkers. I have 20 Scrabble games going on at once. I get home and I run back to the laptop and start over. I drink so much coffee. If it is a Friday I will interact with my roommates while on the computer. They do the same things. They too are pulled into their own respective online worlds.

One of my roommates is a musician. I can't tell you how often I see her sucked into that online world. We sometimes just sit for hours smoking and drinking coffee listening to dueling songs off of our laptops, listening to our own fingers clicking, having disjointed comment-conversations with one another, smiling in the glow of our own screens, never looking at one another's eyes. This is my life. I feel like Blake summed it up. I'm re-wired.

Anyways. This entire post is pointless. I'm writing it because it feels authentic to write something and post it on the internet. I'll hide this sentiment from everyone that I know. 2-3 people that I know online will probably read this. That sounds rude, but I feel good about it. I feel like I will read something of theirs if they say they liked this. We will become closer through our respective idiosyncrasies.

Is it like junkies hanging out? Is this art? What does it mean that so many writer's are able to e-hang out with one another now? Will Sam Pink ever email me out of the blue? Will Tao Lin ever email me out of the blue? Will I send this to Blake, or tag his name in it over Facebook or will he come and seek it out on his own? Will he read it? Will he think this is stupid? Did I write this just for him to see? Did I write this to feel better? What are my immediate motivations? Do I hate myself more for writing this? Do I believe anything that I actually do?

here is the cover for the chapbook

2011-02-18T13:02:00.000-08:00

i don't respect female expression, a preview

2011-02-15T05:31:00.000-08:00

'Something pure and good' by Frank Hinton from Michael Inscoe on Vimeo.

2011-02-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

stephen tully dierks is reading a story i wrote and looking cute

2011-02-13T05:47:00.000-08:00