A to Z of Stupid Feelings About Anybody
Are you hungry. Did you come because you are hungry. When you eat do you eat more than you had planned to eat and then feel so full you cannot as well move or do you limit yourself to the eating of the thing that might best keep your body toward a vision of something people look toward and do not not see in jest.
Books come in the mail. I stack them up, some on the sofa arms, some on the floor around my bed. At night in the dark trying to walk or piss I slip on them sometimes and often have to move books to make room on my desk to sit my laptop down. I’ve been thinking about reordering my books in the order that I read them. I have been keeping a list for ten years. I’ve yet to make the switch because I am afraid of disrupting the order of the stacks I’ve already put together, which is based on associations such as press, idea, time, generation, like-mindedness, or something else. I mostly know where everything is.
Can you please talk to yourself more. A public forum doesn’t demand the idea of losing steam. It doesn’t mean you are doing a service to people who are mostly wholly worthy of doing service to, but it means there is somewhere doing something and sometimes trying to eat. A girl just sat down next to me in the coffee shop and pulled her shirt down over her pants in such a way. Her pants are too long at her feet. She doesn’t seem to be trying.
Do you think it’s wrong to try. Do you think it’s wrong to say too many good things. Is there so little out here that it’s surprising that the things that get lit to are the things someone would want to talk about. I’m sure there are articles where someone is telling everybody how there are so many books coming out each year. People are worried about machines. Machines are getting older too.
Eating near machines always feels strange. I’m afraid I’m going to get food into the keys or smear gunk on the screen and not be able to swipe it off so good. One thing I recall about library books when I used to go there is the simultaneous horror and sick geek of finding bits of food or hair or even blood sometimes between the pages. It might make a certain sound picking them apart. Imagine David Markson’s electronic library on a hard drive versus the spreading of his body to the store.
Fully tired now of questions. Fully tired of the ego poise of author who want to believe they are extending their lives and others’ lives by making something. This is not to downplay the act. This is to say you could also build a house or make a cake and it would make someone very happy. I remember balloons from age seven that could match your greatest sentence. And still everyday I read.
Good job with all you’ve been doing, probably. No, really, this is the best time we’ve had. Who is we. It seems like there is a widening, and the text as action is really very young. I’m not sure of anything. The girl in the seat beside me just pulled up the back of her pants as if she’s ready to climb onto a horse, or be lifted up by something.
Hi. I really want to like you. I really do.
It used to strange me out the way so many often assume the worst. They read or hear a thing you say or write and they think you must be out for you. It sometimes takes a while before I remember the more quiet, faithful people. To have faith in anything these days seems unbelievable.
Just because everyone has lived a novel doesn’t mean they can write it down. That doesn’t make them any less than you. Some eating is a private art. There are many arts.
Koresh, David. I’ve been finding myself reading about him constantly over the past few weeks. His name keeps appearing in my mind without a particular reason. I don’t know where the tendency for evil comes in me. I’ve always said I felt humans were naturally evil but I think that is me lashing out. I don’t know why I lash out. I don’t know why I want to say, think, dwell in horrible things. My mother has sent me more than a few emails worried about things I typed on my blog. I sometimes feel I don’t know who it comes from.
Last night I shared food out of a split pineapple with 5 people. When they went to order, I said it was something I didn’t like. In certain years I would have insisted not to eat it almost to prove a point to myself in front of others, like their reflection manifested something in me. The internet allows all these people to pour all this shit into a place without a mirror and with their own private backlog humming in any of it, and this is not an awful thing. It may smell awful when the shit is flying but if it did not exist I wonder who or where I’d be.
My mother is losing her mind watching my father’s mind wholly go away. He never used the internet a single time. I’ve messed up a lot.
Now is a time that you could be doing something stronger than whatever you were doing. It’s easy to get angry or to try to discount things or throw shit at the wall. That’s really one of the easiest things. It gets a lot of terror tension in it, too, but really powering off at nothing could be fit into a child, or a father, or a book. So what. What is TV. What is feeling good. The music I am listening to in this coffee shop to overpower the pop music is Ligeti, it sounds like popcorn popping, it is making me want to stand up in this chair and never stand up from this chair.
Or that’s not how it feels at all but things can not be described. Maybe nothing should be described. All words essentially amount to nothing, sure. That doesn’t mean the motion toward rising is a nil thing, and if you really meant you hated this or wish it did not exist as emotion, you would not be giving it your mind.
Primus. I loved Primus as a fat kid. I thought Claypool was doing something insane. The night my friend who hated Primus got my bass out of the back of my car at the time and figured out the repeating riff off of one of the songs on Pork Soda to show me how it really wasn’t much of anything at all stands out in my mind now more than any of the songs. The way my friend’s hair had a weird slick.
Quit it. Quit what. I like when the devilish, prismatic, priestly, unpriestly, heaving, unhyperbolically wondrous Rauan Klassnik signs his emails to me: “Be good.”
Really. Be a person. Nobody has any idea what that means either. Do it anyway.
So what of any of this. How did I fall into writing alphabetically here. Why not. Guess what. Guess what could I be doing. An old friend last night told me she felt she wanted to get away from her machine. That it was eating all her time and all these other things she could be doing. It is mostly now the only way the two of us, states away, these days speak. My machine holds photographs that I would not have if I did not have the machine. I hate photography, but what else can you say about a picture of your head.
The idea that a picture is greater than words, or contains words, goes so small. Sitting in a bar listening to people seeming happy about what they are doing and ready to goof on things not theirs made me want to walk into a bug. The girl in this coffee shop has a laptop on her table but is also typing into a smaller machine on her lap. She has good posture. I would never try to start a conversation. I will never see her face.
Under my bed there is all this dust and hair accruing. There is a bag I used to take on airplanes. The pop music in here is louder right now than the Ligeti, and I still can’t think of what the song is called. “Anything you want, you got it, anything at all, baby,” or whatever is what it is saying. It ended right when I typed that. Under my bed there is a pole coming from the center of the frame that holds the bed up, and thus me, when I am on it, trying to or successfully performing the act of sleep.
Very very very very very very very ready for smiles.
What will make those I have no idea. I’m commenting on less and less now, seems like. The girl just arched her back. Feeling weird in the idea that she could stand up and come over and look into this machine and see me typing. Feeling weird about anybody. Why. What faith.
X is in the corner of this browser window. Beside it, -. Beside that, +.
Your participation is not required. My participation is not required. It’s ok sometimes to imagine someone could move because there is a reason besides wanting their name all over something. Even if they do, that name once written cannot shift. Nor should it. Nor will it. Nor something else. I’m not really sorry about writing this though I don’t know why I did. Doesn’t matter.
Zesty day out there for so many kinds of moves.