I remember when I first started this lame-ass blog and I thought, “I’m not going to do this blog shit if it makes me write even less.”
So I tried to work out a way to mine my blog. The key was twofold: 1.) Go way back in time to do your mining, go deep under the layers, like a snuffling truffle dog. 2.) Use a blog as spark only. Radically edit the spark. Edit the spark like you met it at a bar and it twinkled and smelled self-sufficient. Unfetter your kidney, that type of thinking. 3.) Never blog in the present thinking I am going to mine this later.
(Uh, that’s 3-fold.)
Anyway here’s a new prose poem at The Corduroy Mtn.
Do others mine their blog? Is this “healthy” (Tao Lin quotes).
Tao Lin says he has feelings he will die by a car crash or a hurricane (soon).
Car crash I get. Your odds of dying in an automobile accident are about 1 in 84. You enter a car, or walk anywhere near cars, you are orange plaster waiting to crack. You are a girl sitting next to Jesus. Kiss your ass goodbye daily. (I suggest the morning, right after waking, but before the second Pop-Tart.)
Hurricane? Odds of dying in any natural disaster are about 1 in 500,000.
Tao, you are more likely to fall off a waterfall (or even a sidewalk curb) to your death, or commit suicide, or even die of “excessive natural cold” than by a hurricane.
Hope this makes you feel better, Tao.
I am selling a new movie. It is an Oscar winner. Buy it.
I wrote a new long poem today about the entrepreneur Jenna Jameson. When I say poem I mean crazy-ass hybrid thing. I don’t write poetry. I did, years ago. And one day I woke hungover (when most self-honest, for many of us), looked in the mirror, and said, “Sean, your poetry sucks.” So then I quit writing poetry.
The new Pedestal is out. I haven’t read it all yet, but here’s a few texts glowing catastrophic:
Neal Whitman seems fragmented enough I would drink with him.
Holy fuck I love any lit about crows. I would not only drink beer with Amy D. Unsworth (kick ass name–sounds like a Joyce character), I would drink three beers with her, order a bottle of rotgut vodka, polish that off, then invite her to climb the tree outside the bar. We would climb that tree. And the branch would break. And we would end up at the hospital in the most brilliant white rooms, rather happy, or shall I say medicated.
Her poem felt like this to me:
I watched Six Shooter today with my students and I have a new favorite movie quote:
“You ever shouted at a sheep?!”
I have more to blog but I don’t feel an epic blog groove. Without an epic blog groove, I should defer. I have disc golf discs to wax, miles to run, wine to drink, Play Station Lego Star Wars to play with my 5 year old before I sleep, with my 5 year old before I sleep…