if i can only get enough alcohol into this dude…
If you know my writing (wait a minute–I just spilled a plate of nachos while laughing), you’ll see I adore persona fiction.
Here’s my newest vein branching along the wigleaf.
Why do I write persona?
Because I want to embrace.
To gather at the limestone sigh of long-suffering.
Theory # 34: Celebrities as our Roman/Greek/African gods.
Because I think all of us are odd.
Are heart-shaped crows.
Are bruises behind makeup. Gristle beneath breastplate. Insects burrowing beneath glistening suburban lawns.
note: I hated Blue Velvet. Sorry. Rip my aging pseudo-hipster badge off my skinny jeans.
Because I am attracted to anyone whose Id bleeds right through their Superego. Like mad-screaming-racket-throttling-pushing-a-cameraman and his dolly-over John McEnroe.
note: I consider the House of Pain lyric from Jump Around, “I’ll serve your ass like John McEnroe,” to be one of the finest rapster/slip hop scoff of all-time. It just clicks. (Of course we know that McEnroe’s serve was never one of great ferocity in terms of pure MPH, but was still brilliant: As a left-handed player he had a unique angle plane and as brilliant athlete held a Gregg Maddux-like sense of speed (or no speed), spin, timing, and angle.)
Because it gets me published.
Theory # 14: A lazy writer uses a character previously formed in the reader’s mind.
Because it’s not two people drinking beer in an apartment.
Because the persona is me.
And not me.
And alert antennae.
And the reader feels the same.
note: I just realized there is no truly correct amount of Bacos (fake bacon bits) a household should have. If you have none, cool. If you have one bottle, that’s great, too. I have three in my house and it doesn’t seem extreme.
Because everything is observed but unexplored, really.
And we are time-freezers. Iceboxes, our words. How many trees have you passed today? Now go sit below one, pause, look, and draw exactly…There’s a difference.
Whoa! I just found my cat dead in the dryer! Why would a cat crawl up into a dryer? For warmth, I suppose. The way we select things in this life to embrace. Then someone shuts the door and turns on the spinning…
I have to grieve now.
(while carrying cat to backyard for burial…)
Kathleen Dusenberry has something like a blow to the eye over at Sub-Lit. (I used to lay off pimping Sub-Lit in protest of them not having enough FLASH FICTION. But now they do, more and more, no matter what they call this Greek Frat/Nest to Grow/Beautiful Cyclops Climbing A Ladder genre.)
(while shoveling dark earth)
I like the word glaciations. Also whiskey. Both appear for Craig Davis in failbetter.com.
“The tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey.”
Uh, no Word Processor, Bill? Then how can your work look published while you’re writing?
(while thinking: sure, I’m a little sad the cat is dead, but, honestly, a little happy. What did the cat do for me, physically, emotionally? Eat food. Shit. Sometimes screech at her own shadow. Shit. Ignore me. Repeat cycle)
I like narrators wishing they lived a life not their own Flash. Here’s one by Jennifer Pieroni at elimae (a mag that rejects me thrice a month, but damn it, I’ll keep on trying. Like a little fish, like a rock cavern. Like a patchwork of surf and sadness).
(shovel put away, alongside hammer)
Nacho Report: (home recipe # 141, aka: Cantonese Nachos [heavy on the black beans]).6 of 10 rating.
This afternoon’s nachos were quality, but could have scored higher without the aroma of burning wood in the air. Apparently, a neighbor is burning leaves today. So I missed several notes; the tasting was not clean. I did detect an earthiness from the jalapenos, a taste like running past a stable of goats. There was a light mineral touch from the skin of the beans, with an accompanying full-bodied undertone from the salsa (Mrs. Renfro Habanero). This sustained throughout the meal, so I was gleed with murmur.
I just bought some Tao Lin and some Kimball and some other words because money should be a car that parks itself in the garage of Wordsville, highway Thoughtsville, driveway of scrolling over a sleeper’s head, and also organ of nostalgia.