Conservatives need to just admit they want to have Putin’s babies. He’s anti-gay, pro-business, loves attacking other countries and doesn’t believe in the right of his opposition to exist.
Words are a device to communicate between one human and another.
If two humans speak the same language, it is still just a bridge.
The fullness of any individual experience
always remains a mystery in the end.
We are all isolated islands, but the truth of the water remains.
We can only send canoes full of words in between.
I ain’t ‘fraid of no Egon
History’s Mysteries: Sochi Unearthed.
In the early morning hours of February 23, 2014, the Sochi Olympics were arrested beaten, stabbed and shot to death. Over several days, its body was driven around in an army truck to several locations, while conflicting orders went back and forth over its final fate. Eventually, its body was dismembered and thrown into a river in the remote taiga. Then, over the following years, it was moved to several locations. Seven decades after the fall of the Putin regime, a full skeleton, believed to be that of Sochi, was unearthed from under a house in Ekaterinburg. Genetic tests on the body showed it indeed was Sochi and not related to Ulyana Verzilov, who claimed for decades before her death to be the 2014 Olympic ice dancing competition. So closes another chapter in the storied history of the Russian people.
spokemnemosyne said: Hey Clint
I must have written 300 thousand words in the last four years. I suppose that’s not impressive to some, but that’s just the results: two and a half books worth. If I add in rewrites and rewrites, we start talking about maybe a million. Most of what I write gets thrown in the bin. I’m 30 thousand words into something called Killing Graceland, which used to be called Country of the Moon until the Tennessee half took over in what was supposed to take place in Russia. (Leave that for a later book.) It was a completely different story with completely different characters when it started in 2011. The character goes back to 2008 or so. Anyway, one-and-a-half versions have been completely been flushed down the toilet. I finally understand what it is about, the loss of faith and the price of hate. It has one more 15,000 word part to go. Not sure if I can write that, yet. My third annual November-February novel-writing binge is over. I’d like to get back to my tumblr bits again, working on new ideas. I’ve spent so many ideas in the last few years. I’m not sure I’ve much to talk about. On the plus side there is little pressure as no one cares that much. My activity on this blog has been so low. For a good few years, I hardly went a day without spending every moment on tumblr. One phase is coming to a close, an enormously creative one. I’m apprehensive and curious as to what the next one will be, if at all. Anyway, I think I’m done talking to myself, now. Cheers.
I went out to the open mic at Under St. Marks, which is held every Tuesday. You sign up at nine PM and get seven minutes. The catch is they put your name in a bucket and draw it out and you sign up in that order. There was overflow, so I ended up on the reserve list, which gets four minutes, and also means I was looking at going on at 2 AM. This made me nervous, because most of the audience is gone by then, but I decided to settle in for the long haul. I figured to time myself to have two beers, that way I could make the long ride back to the Bronx without having to piss. About 11:30, I was ready for my second beer, but the MC started talking about the beer raffle, a contest where you can win a free beer. I had been there twice before and the first time I won the raffle. Just randomly. This time I was sure my luck couldn’t hold. They did it with tickets last time, but there were no tickets today, so they were doing name that tune. The MC kept announcing the raffle and then two more acts before it. Since I was short for a second beer, I figured, I should hold off and wait, anyway. At twelve, they started. The house guitarist came out and plucked two strings for a single note. No one got it. Then he plucked another two strings and I shouted out “Across the Universe.” I had expected that it would go for two out of three tunes or something, but suddenly my shocked ass was crossing the stage to collect my free beer. Been there three times and won twice.
This put me in considerably better spirits in every meaning of the phrase. I was surprised at how little anxiety I felt. True, as each beer wore off, my heart raced, but there wasn’t the terrible stage fright I had anticipated. I realized that everyone there was just trying shit out and I did not have to be perfect. There was only a smattering of an audience left, but enough. Rather than splutter and freeze, I said I was from the Bronx and had a long haul ahead of me, “but there is a lot of not sucking tonight,” which was true and broke the ice nicely. I read Mechanically Separated Chicken from my book Fragments. It has tight rhymes and a hip-hop flow, which everyone got into. At the end of each verse there is a line that is so perfect, “Welcome to America, population: YOU,” so I could look up from the page, stare out over my glasses and say, “Population: YOU” and really connect with the audience. It went over so well that the MC went out of his way to shake my hand and tell me how he liked it. Back on stage, he said, “Mechanically separated chicken, I think that is an ingredient in beef jerky.” Assuming he meant Slim Jims, I called out “That’s right.” He said, “I don’t know why I know that.”
Leaving alone in the bitter cold with fresh snow coming down at 2:15 or so and a long ride ahead, I didn’t feel that loneliness I might normally feel, or even the nervousness that makes me want to pee all the way home. On the subway, I read my book all the way up to the Bronx. I think that is one of the many reasons why I had to do this and will do it again. Artist’s doubt, while pushing me to craft my work as best as possible can overwhelm me to where I have a hard time reading my own work without embarrassment over every little thing I would change. I found some errors, that’s for sure, but I liked the feeling that maybe — just maybe, I had written something worth reading.
I don’t fangirl much, but when I do, it probably involves Emma Thompson
All good writing comes from a strong relationship with doubt.
Melancholia is a bill sent from regret or just the past, charges for things you no longer remember or own, a senseless debt to be paid in full by sleeping too much, expressions of irritability and general withdrawal from the world.
Confession from a Wall Street Freight Elevator
In the summer of 2010, I took (what I thought was) a reception temp job at (what I thought was) a fancy Wall Street office.
I bought a jumper and cheap suit jacket (my first), shiny little flats and some pearls. I showed up at 32 Old Slip right by Manhattan’s South Sea Port at 7:30am ready receive shinier men in nicer suits.
Turns out I was assigned to the managers of the building. My job- to sit at a desk in a closet, parse through the various complaints “Too Hot on 27” “Leak in the Ladies’ room on 16” and radio the maintenance guys.
On my first day, the freight elevator operator didn’t show. With man power stretched thin- I spent the afternoon in my jumper,suit jacket, pearls on a stool in a large steel box pushing buttons and signing for soda deliveries.
On my second day (already brutally tired from the 90 minute commute- because what 24 year old can put themselves to bed on time?), my boss Dawn, a six foot tall flashy Dominican woman with a French accent (ah, imperialism) asked me to tell her a little about myself-
She was terrifying and sometimes the most terrifying thing a scary person can do is show interest in you. My brain short circuited- I was shaking, thinking if I told her the truth, then she would know me, and then what would I have left to myself when I was sitting on that Elevator stool all day?!
"I, uh, well, I’m uh- a painter"
I have never been a painter. I don’t even like paintings.
"Oh, that’s just the loveliest!"
Slowly she told every one in the office I was a painter- the maintenance guys, the window washers, Patrick the accountant, even the big boss from corporate Mr. Prefi. It became my identifying quality.
"What kind of stuff do you draw?"
"Do you do stuff like that one guy, Pollack?"
Wonderful people trying desperately to show interest and relate.
Slowly, over the summer, they started insisting that I show them paintings. Everyday- “When are you gonna send us pictures? I want to see! Show us your paintings!”
Somehow, I found myself on a painter-friend’s facebook page, downloading photos of her work to show at the office- wondering how the hell I dug this hole to China and why can’t I make myself stop?!
Patrick, Dawn and Mr. Prefi gathered around and I clicked through the photos. They were all so impressed. Dawn gushed over “the blue one” and asked if I would paint something to go over her couch.
"I’d pay you of course! You are a working artist."
They were so kind. I sprained my ankle in late August- Patrick called a car to take me all the way home to Queens. When I explained I couldn’t possibly afford it he said, “I’m the accountant here- it’s a good as disappeared”
Just before I was made to take a down payment from Dawn for her living room piece, the woman I was filling in for came back early from Grand Jury duty.
I could have cried in relief.
Mr. Prefi tried to give me a full time job- “We can always use file organizing.”
"If you ever need a letter I’m happy to tell anybody you are a nice hard working girl"
I politely scurried away- shameful liar that I was.
A mother-fucking painter. A whole summer of kind interest and only lies in return.
I still have no idea why I did that. How I let it go on. Is it really so terrible to tell people you are a Theatre Director?
Well, maybe yes.