Archive for May, 2011

Editorial Day


31 May

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42 pgs. of the Final Draft done out of a total 366pgs.

Feeling of the day:

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Warranted? Regarding H. Miller


31 May

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“Here in my opinion is the only imaginative prose-writer of the slightest value who has appeared among the English-speaking races for some years past. Even if that is objected to as an overstatement, it will probably be admitted that Miller is a writer out of the ordinary, worth more than a single glance; and after all, he is a completely negative, unconstructive, amoral writer, a mere Jonah, a passive acceptor of evil, a sort of Whitman among the corpses.”

– George Orwell regarding Henry Miller

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I was talking to a girl in Washington Square Park a few days prior:

“So what’s your book about?”

“Well… it’s sort of a modern reinterpretation of Faust if it was written by Henry Miller.”

She looked back at me blank-faced.

While I thought that was a very succinct description,

She broke the silence by asking: “so wait – are you Henry Miller?”

I shook my head wearily and took another swig from my brown-bagged bottle.

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“If all the writings are now available, they do not always provide a clear path into the unique heart of such a writer. He is after all a great writer and that heart is not so casually revealed—this ‘diabolically truthful man’ can be diabolically sly. Still, he is always there. It is the center of the power of his writing. Whether comprehensible or subtly and self-protectively out of focus, few writers in the history of literature speak with so powerful a presence.”

– Norman Mailer on Miller [From foreword of Genius and Lust]

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“Miller is a compendium of American sexual neuroses, and his value lies not in freeing us from such afflictions, but in having had the honesty to express and dramatize them”

– Kate Millet Sexual Politics (p. 295)

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Editorial Day


30 May

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The first 30 pgs of the manuscript are done. Perfect and complete.

With the final draft deadline three months away – it makes me think of this:

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[dailymotion id=x88old]

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Without Citation (pt. 1)


29 May

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“What’s a pocket full of gold

Without a woman you could hold”

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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

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[From 07′ – ’08]

Only the Nightingales See

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My love hides beneath the floorboards of the show.

She hides from everyone,

Not knowing if the next knocking footsteps

Shall be me or someone else – a different wolf;

I tread lightly anticipating her surprise,

But she never does smile when she sees me

But rather reddens to a blush and subsides within herself.

She tells me that while I walked to her

She had found another love

Amongst my footsteps.

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More Minimalism


28 May

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The drunks and the miserable

And the mutually inclusive

Life is slow death

Death is life slowly

Hell is other people

Quoting Sarte, acting smart.

Configuration

Scatter, fuckers

Where is this place?

Anticipation, waiting

Then nothing.

Words.

Just words.

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Where is Home for Heartless to Hide


28 May

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Untitled for May and Maybe

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Dejected and stoned,

With just enough money for a six-pack;

Elegantly dressed,

But depraved in the mind.

 —–

Too many roots-reggae records

to play in one day.

——

Then, like a switch to jazz:

I heard the door warbling.

I heard a creak and a key unlocking the latch.

She brought back a thick hardcover copy of Atlas, Shrugged,

It was heaved unto a tabletop to be left alone to stare about

In it’s own condescending way.

But I got randy with some brandy

And threw the fucking thing outta the window.

She looked hurt, but fuck the Ayn Rand –

“Darling, get ideologically convoluted on your own damn time!”

—–

Then she left me.

I don’t know if she found her book.

Principles die eventually

So I figured hedging her coming back at a 50/50 spread.

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Don’t bet your shirt

Or your liquor money –

But everything else has to go one way or the other.

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I have to go out

But I don’t know where my hat lies.

Juxtaposed and sedated in the world.

Find me with the open mind at the bar

Slowly going underneath the floor.

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Reminders and Remembrance


28 May

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Goodbye to Gil-Scott Heron, who passed away yesterday at the age of 62.

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Reminders and Remembrance

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“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

– EH

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Her touch is resonant

All that’s near-holy, baby

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Jokes? You got jokes? Jokes?


26 May

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Sell it or Dig it

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The romantics became the misanthropes

When they realized that love was dead.

Sallow skin and dirty fingernails.

Colorful drug addictions and weary eyes.

Torn overcoats and forgotten blood.

No more days.

No more poetry.

Never again became the premise.

The verses that do come,

Come from comatose minds.

Stilted,

So still,

Oh so still.

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Hangover, Eggs, or Insomnia? A Freebie for the Morning.


26 May

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If you’re like me – hungover, eating eggs (prepared in the French style) after a night of a fruitful insomnia – I congratulate you making through it by giving you a sample of my drunken editorial attempts of the previous night.

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—————————————–[A Citrus Memory]

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——-In the night, with all the lights out: “darling…”

——-“Yeah, princess?”

——-She sighed sweetly, carried her hand from her side to leave it on my chest; I put my hand on top of hers. She said: “there once was a girl that swallowed a lemon seed, and the next morning she realized that there was a lemon tree growing inside her belly.”

——-I opened my eyes, and reaching beyond the darkness I saw her looking at me, through me – knowing me, seeing me. Miraculously found beyond the shores of elegiac darkness. “So what happened to this girl?” I held her closer.

——-She smiled. I saw her. She replied: “she found a boy who would water the lemon tree every day so it’d never wither, never dry.”

——-She kissed me; I kissed her. She tasted of citrus.

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… pt. 5


25 May

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Sitting here with my busted knee, on my balcony with a cold dark beer on a light warm day, I realized why life and all the miserable shit in it is still always tinged in beauty. We are all generations bred through stories – film, literature and the theatre in between. Right now while I sit here by myself drinking my beer and thinking about nothing of consequence, there is a guy chasing a girl down a Manhattan street because they got in a fight and she walked away, they’ll talk in loud voices and he’ll calm her down, they’ll walk off together somewhere unimportant to be alone, they will share some intimacies, they’ll make love – and they will do all these things because they saw it or read it somewhere – but that’s just as unimportant as the exact location of where they are together. All that matters is that they are together and that it’s real to them. The cool thing is that it’s happening right now, many many many times over, because we are born and raised for those dramatic flourishes of love and melancholy – and everything that’s in between – which is important, but which we choose not to remember.

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On Romain Gary/ More Color than Found in Photographs


25 May

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Romain Gary said:

“Reality is not an inspiration for literature. At its best, literature is an inspiration for reality.”

I think that’s the reason that most great writers are so obstinately fearful of analysts. Imagine writing your own fragmented existence.

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Romain Gary won the Prix Goncourt twice though it was meant to only be given out once to per lifetime, per any given French author. He had his nephew accept the honor on behalf of his pseudonym. He fell into an amorous and incendiary love affair with a woman who later became his second wife – American actress Jean Seberg. Their relationship lasted through an eight year tumultuous marriage, which was both psychologically and physically abusive. They separated and she moved back to the US – where she was hounded by Hoover’s FBI for her strident advocacy of Civil Rights until eventually she took her life on August 30th, 1979 with a combination alcohol and barbiturates: “Forgive me. I can no longer live with my nerves.” Less than a year and a half later, on December 2nd, 1980 Gary took his own life through a self-inflicted gunshot wound: (adamant in his suicide note) pointlessly promising to a constantly judging world that his death had nothing to do with Seberg’s death. Love is volatile and loneliness is merciless.

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[Now, here’s a pertinent poem from the manuscript:]

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You are the reflection in my coffee

You are the venom in my blood

You are the darkness building underneath my weary eyes

You are the promise of forgiveness

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There would be nothing but you if you wanted to be

You are the everything important that never dies

You are the blurb on Jean Seberg and Romain Gary

You are the morning newspaper left on a subway bench for further reading

You are natural progression;

An arpeggio, but not a full concerto –

You have no need for a conductor.

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You are the woman in the rain

You are the story I was writing

You are the one that is never finished

You are the definition becoming cliché

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From the Vault of Old Pieces 04


24 May

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[Roses Ain’t Never Been So Red]

(written sometime in 2004)

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Babygirl, don’t worry –

I will love you in no hurry.

I’ll take my time.

I’ll do it right.

I’ll kiss you when you wake at night.

And while you sleep

Do forget that there’s a man out there

Somewhere sitting in his private seat

Wishing you were there with him

While you were dancing in your dream.

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cute and simple (I wasn’t always such a curmudgeon), eh?

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[after some poignant Mad Libs from Tom Waits, let’s END OFF WITH ee cummings TO SAVE FACE]

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i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

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Happy 70th to Bob Dylan

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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