Friday, July 18, 2014

The Buddha teaches that all creatures great and small carry an essential nature which has the potential for enlightenment.

But, seriously, fuck mosquitoes.

I have a pot of water from my last leaf of my grandmother’s sansevieria. My understanding is that if you put it in a pot of water long enough, perhaps around the time the sun becomes a red giant, the thing will develop roots. So I look at it today, and there is a mosquito parked on the inside edge near the water. A second look and the water is squirming with its babies, possibly made out of the blood that little bitch stole from me. So I killed her children. I’m disappointed the cats had not murdered her before it got this far. Are mosquito mothers attentive, sticking by their babies?

Thursday, July 17, 2014

What the fuck is going on with the Malaysian planes?

Because from birth is the mother’s voice, the Kingdom before we men are thrown out. We are simple apes. We just want to get back there. Voices of women remind us to stay alive.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The rains will remember you.
They will know the wear on your bones.

Wealthy Romans employed (or owned as slaves) personal librarians and clerks who copied books borrowed from the libraries of their friends. “I have received the book,” Cicero wrote to his friend Atticus, who had lent him a copy of a geographical work in verse by Alexander of Ephesus. “He’s incompetent as a poet and he knows nothing; however, he’s of some use. I’m having it copied and I’ll return it.” Authors made nothing from the sale of their books; their profits derived from the wealthy patron to whom the work was dedicated. (The arrangement—which helps to account for the fulsome flattery of dedicatory epistles—seems odd to us, but it had an impressive stability, remaining in place until the invention of copyright in the eighteenth century.) Publishers had to contend, as we have seen, with the widespread copying of books among friends, but the business of producing and marketing books must have been a profitable one: there were bookshops not only in Rome but also in Brindisi, Carthage, Lyons, Reims, and other cities in the empire.

Stephen Greenblatt: “The Swerve: How the World Became Modern

Who would have thought that the pre-moveable type Romans had a publishing industry based on the expectation of widespread copying and relying on fan patronage for financial support?

(via buzz)

I would never whisper in your ear to flood your southern regions with blood and dopamine.

Unless you wanted it.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Whenever I hear “society teaches” I always want to ask “which society and which subculture of it?” When you don’t examine the word “society,” every time you use it, you are participating in the fantasy of bourgeois education that everything your “society” teaches, and its perceptions, are universal, rather than culturally specific. It is only an inexperienced person who looks at the world this way.

Want things.
Get things, eventually.
Fuck them up.

Want people.
Get them, eventually.
Fuck them up.

Want love.
Get love, eventually.
Fuck it up.

Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

Die.

Kristen Fiore // A Simplified Version of Your Biography. 

A year ago today. (via girlvswhale)
Friday, June 27, 2014

Notes for Hapless Animals Who have Wandered into My Blog.

There is this volcano called Virunga in Rwanda (That was its first mistake). There is this part which leaks carbon dioxide gas. Animals of all sorts come and see this slope full of green grass and sleeping animals. Eat whatever you want. What a find! The meat hasn’t been scavenged by anyone else! Or if you prefer, great grazing. Whatever, tuck your head down and and have a bite. Whoa! Kinda woozy. Pick your head up and take a breath for a sec. Ah, yes, the feast. Tuck your head down into it again. Whoa! Wooozeee. Next thing you know you are another dead animal on my slope.

That’s pretty much my blog. I spend all my energies on writing my novel, Killing Graceland, and occasionally wander in to post some dead animal to tempt you in. Or something like that.  But how are you going to die from this? Oh, you’ll see, my pretty!

Thursday, June 26, 2014

[I posted each paragraph as I wrote it stream of consciousness. Here’s the whole thing in order.]

And I hurt in quiet corners boxed into light rooms, where everyone passes through. Because I hurt when the sun rolls out of the sky’s pocket into the hole of a devastated donkey kicking on a dry plain. Because I hurt when the snake swipes and the camel spits and the dog seizes up for a shit. Because I hurt when the wind blows a moth from a bulb and the moon goes lights-out for three nights. Because I bleed too much. Because I don’t. Because the sound of notes is the only thing that Lazaruses me daisying through the soil and stones and loam. Because I am awake and the nerves are still flush with salt electrics. Because I live. Because I am dead, because I won’t be dead until I stop trying.

Gotta be an airport near Asunción, Paraguay, manned by Germans with shitty attitudes but hints to the best restaurants, where Italian war criminals’ children ply their trades. We’ll say I’m the Jew and you the goy and laugh at their peremptory treatment. I’ll try to pay them in daisies and be arrested.

We’ll start gibberishing nonsense poetry and sneering at dragons trilling Portuguese, because they are not Spanish or German or Mestizo. We’ll buy carrots in a shady market and call them pepper steaks, pluck baby’s breath and poke their stems in the meat. We’ll sell them for centavos to make calls to the States to relatives and friends to say we have gone below the border of bacon and eggs. They will shriek and we will collect their cries in a can and examine them like grasshoppers in a jar with a bay leaf.

I never said that where this alley leads into a street would be a mule or a pot of copper, or a copper-bottomed pot for piss. These pickpokets are so kind with a knife but we let them piss. Let’s see if we can buy you tampons, but say I will stick them up my ass. Let’s buy government weed and hang out with retired, gold-watch drug dealers, who will stare at your tits but feed us well. I will ask if there are still dinosaurs in Paraguay and they will give dirty looks to the old undead German at the bar with five kids in the jungle and say, “Do you know the Eurythmics song, ‘Sweet Dreams are Made of This”?

Technically the tampons are going to be sold as ending up in my ass, with the planes and cabs of disposable income and deep frowns replied to the guy on the train when I’m offered salad with a side of dysentery. That’s the fun of it, these delightful cherries that roll out of a pen full of viruses like ants disseminating false prophecies. But we will be secure in the feeling that we are Americans, beacons of light or bacons of bubbles covered in sweet light crude.

Ice cream sandwiches passed out in Santiago, Chile, mark us out, but we dress as penguins to blend in. My fedora socializes with my mustache like magnets in a copper coil to generate a current of customers with fish and bracelets and lemons with two wires punctured in to power a clock.We watch the ticking clockless and wake on a beach, with a swordfish handing out tickets for illegal trampolining. We swear that we only illegally fished haddock, but they drag us down to the desk sergeant for time-space infractions.

This silly consciousness flotsam-jetsamming back and forth across my wrist with horseshoe crabs and albatrosses with a twinkling in their eyes. They know I’m lying. You are lying. The whole thing is a geodesic of I don’t own you. Nobody wants to be owned unless you are a parcel shunted down into the bowels of New York’s central post office in Jamaica, Queens, where you will percolate coffee forever, waiting for the bus with the cookies that never arrived at camp. I saw a mouse spin by and said, I love you, as if you were my car curling along the road. You never replied and I had to live with that, Paraguay and Google stock portfolios, or not.

This silly consciousness flotsam-jetsamming back and forth across my wrist with horseshoe crabs and albatrosses with a twinkling in their eyes. They know I’m lying. You are lying. The whole thing is a geodesic of I don’t own you. Nobody wants to be owned unless you are a parcel shunted down into the bowels of New York’s central post office in Jamaica, Queens, where you will percolate coffee forever, waiting for the bus with the cookies that never arrived at camp. I saw a mouse spin by and said, I love you, as if you were my car curling along the road. You never replied and I had to live with that, Paraguay and Google stock portfolios, or not.

Ice cream sandwiches passed out in Santiago, Chile, mark us out, but we dress as penguins to blend in. My fedora socializes with my mustache like magnets in a copper coil to generate a current of customers with fish and bracelets and lemons with two wires punctured in to power a clock.We watch the ticking clockless and wake on a beach with a swordfish handing out tickets for illegal trampolining. We swear that we only illegally fished haddock, but they drag us down to the desk sergeant for time-space infractions.

Technically the tampons are going to be sold as ending up in my ass, with the planes and cabs of disposable income and deep frowns offered to the guy on the train when I’m offered salad with a side of dysentery. That’s the fun of it, these delightful cherries that roll out of a pen full of viruses like ants disseminating false prophecies, But we will be secure in the feeling that we are Americans, beacons of light or bacons of bubbles covered in sweet light crude.

I never said that where this alley leads into a street would be a mule or a pot of copper, or a copper-bottomed pot for piss. These pickpokets are so kind with a knife but we let them piss. Let’s see if we can buy you tampons, but say I will stick them up my ass. Let’s buy government weed and hang out with retired, gold-watch drug dealers, who will stare at your tits but feed us well. I will ask if there are still dinosaurs in Paraguay and they will give dirty looks to the old undead German at the bar with five kids in the jungle and say, “Do you know the Eurythmics song, ‘Sweet Dreams are Made of This” ?