All piffle & twaddle—influence of the Bottom Dog man. For real “decadents” read Huysmans & other French authors. Diarrhea of words—stew of classic allusions. Fuck Artemiset alia! Don’t put intellect in your prick! Write honestly even if poorly. Humor is weak—immature. Try drugs and compare two kinds of writing. Try using only Anglo Saxon words. Throw your dictionary away! Don’t mix realism with poetics! If you can’t make words fuck, don’t masturbate them! When you speak of the Cunt put hair on it! Try to forget everything you learned in college. Try talking like an ignoramus— or an Igaroti. Read, for emetic, “Palm Wine Drinkard.” You will learn to write only when you stop trying to write. A line without effort is worth a chapter of push and pull. First ask yourself if you have anything to say. Don’t draw the pen unless you are ready for the kill! If you don’t get rid of the Classics you’ll die of constipation. Never show any one what you’ve written until a year or two later. Use the axe to your 1st draft and not the fine comb. The latter is for lice!!!
The days — likely the months — leading up to Thanksgiving 2020 have left a hazy tarnish on my ability to be present for my family and friends.
It started, of course, with the economic uncertainty, political instability, and alienating nature of COVID-19. But it is bigger than that, more insidious, and ultimately more profound.
The rich got richer without doing much of anything, the poor kept fighting at great expense, and the world never stopped its dizzying spin. All this while 1.4 million people across the world died and left a dolorous wake in their leaving.
Please consider: The death of 1.4 million people is, by its very nature, an abstract and impenetrable number of individual lives gone forever and an exponential number of living grief.
Everyone who survives bears a scar. Every witness who remains watches from the silver shadows of their own guilt.
While I have much to be thankful for, I can’t stop making pictures that tell this terrible story writ large on quotidian society.
And I feel ashamed of its toothsome moral: There is a dark and resolute solace in this pathological estrangement from the brothers and sisters who survive here alongside me.
It was raining. I could hear the rain taking the pins out of her mouth. Soft rain became hard rain so that hard things became soft things. The wet leaves under the trees became heavy as diapers, the book left open on the grass could finally sink in her bath without a word, the way, after a hard day, I rest my head on the edge of the claw-foot tub and my mouth falls open, empty at last. Actually I saw that in a painting when I ducked into a gallery because it was raining. It is always raining somewhere, somewhere the wells are filling from above and from below. Somewhere someone is sleeping, somewhere the lady of the house puts the alarm clock in a drawer where she cannot hear it then tells the children to be quiet and stands there listening to its tick.
‘This is the Song of One Hundred Thousand’ by Ariana Reines
This is the song of one hundred Thousand chemicals approximating Sunshine in my hair. My lover bit My cheek this morning. I think I’ll Fall from one trance into the next Might fall asleep any minute It gets tiring making yourself look like you’re alive while you’re looking Hard practicing turning Away from the shit we’re in
Source: Reines, Ariana. A Sand Book. , 2019. Print, p. 157. Photo: Gerace, Joe. “The Song of One Hundred Thousand Chemicals Approximating Sunshine [Secaucus Junction].” Nov. 14, 2020. JPG.
Why am I making myself do and be things that I don’t really want to? Because I have an idea of what I should be doing and/or I don’t have an idea of what I really want to be and/or do. And/or both. I seem to be very and/or, with an urge to flex everything until it loses what I secretly feel to be its false polarity. E.g., there is a such thing as good and such a thing as evil, it’s just that they aren’t opposites. Am I a good person? Yes, after a certain point, and no, after another. Deep down I’m just down there, a kind of gurgling black Jell-O that doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on up here. Up here I have on a baseball cap and have a vague desire to fix the closet door.
with no ill intention to the artist what the fuck were you thinking the mangy dog and the electro- magnetic implant fine! but replacing the u with the v? what a braggadocious pile of staten island’s finest piled up to intellectual affidavits — i once asked allen ginsberg should i be scared when the polish barrister holds a luger to my temple and demands fried bananas he said you’ll never move to krakow don’t fret my pet i pianeti della fortuna no ill intention to moloch or the electromagnetic swing the dog abundant and widespread in hungry this abandoned city in the days since the airing of ruth bader ginsburg coordinated inauthentic leaderless lurking evil the writer goes down the one true rabbit hole a meeting of senior government officials four cholinergic cherubs armed with radio poles lit upon the roof of the confident wannsee manor unclear if these birds are gripped fast to the edge of indivisible azalea branches or synaptic clefts between bit and byte cast totally aside countervailing rights — unclear unclear