i stopped caring

ina sorta mood. proly cuz sarah went to austria for the week and i'm in the alone house for the weekend not much to do. tried writing but deleted that shit. i think i may write something someday but ont op of the i don't know what is the i don't know how, as in what do i write and in what style. i don't feel i have a voice, maybe, so i have to think, what is the voice of this story and do it new. or i may have a voice but i don't want it so when i recognize it i hate it and ty to change it.

read a story yesterday by peter christohper in The Quarterly #1 called The Careerist that was a really fun-to-read story. it feels like what i was trying to do with Cube, use similar phrasings repeatedly to create a textual atmosphere, but have the story be more comfortable than tragic, happy. i think The Careerist does the thing i like which is be a happy story. i want to proliferate it up your ass. happy stories with surreal or languagy eyeliner. I want yippee magazine back. alicia pernell, google yourself, alicia pernell, alicia pernell, alicia pernell.

peter christopher died last year from liver cancer.

peter christopher by brandi wells.

Overall i like The Quarterly first issue so far. everything is good and readful in a languageful way so far. lots of stories from child povs, not sure what's happening there.

i did a thing at abjective where i responded to submissions sent to me on jul 2 with extensive notes on what i thought as i read them. i just finished the last one. there were 8 subs that day, but 2 ended up being acceptances. the effort definitely cut into my response time. More than that, it makes me hate the inbox. I end up dreading going to the inbox because i know i am going to have to exhaust ridiculous mental energy in articulation. reading without that, i love the inbox, i'm excited to see what shows up without an obligation to explain anything. i wait and anticipate and feel grateful for every submission that comes. Responding lengthily makes me not want anyone to submit. It's easier to be open to everything when you don't have to personalize submissions. I can say, multiple submissions, sure. A novella? Sure. A novel? Sure. I've had people send multiple submissions with 4 5k word stories attached in one email. Sure. But if I were to grant everyone my thoughts on 'why' for these, I would quit this thing heartbeatily.

saw a thing about hint fiction. my thoughts on hint fiction are, eh. i don't like the idea that the anthology is out to prove something. i read the thesis is to prove that a 25 word thing can be a thing. is it the function of art to prove something to someone? plus i read some of last years and they are pure narrative and therefore too wide in scope. they are like the 6 word story thing basically, but no one is doing these to real creative effect, like no ones writing a joycian 6 word story, everyone is writing Carver. everyone's writing variations on hem's baby shoe. if you want to use less words, i'd prefer you choose sparklier words. but why use less words? why is the artform out to prove something? who cares. why not write a few more words if they are fun words and make you feel better? i feel the whole thing is another faux niche that revolves around an arbitrary word-length.

at some point in the last some months, i stopped caring about capitlizing first letters of first words of sentences.

i just tried to videotape myself reading the story that runnerd up in the lamination colony contest. I am the most boring human. i am anti-performer.

Neph

Haven't written a new thing since moose but's okay not counting blog throway poemeandering.

Today cubicularly black keying this and ipoding something celloish, ah Bach.

abjetwitctiveter

jeffuncrouchdisntrycover

ah, Glass.

Family stuff did it this weekend, wedding of cousin; parents, bro, neph stayed at our house.



Every time neph stays up here i think about kids and children and other small things. Behavior and acting and how is it parented? We don't have kids sarah and i, not really into thinking of parentish. Always a cute factor, sacrifice sacrifice, can it be less/more? 'd prefer to adopt a 20-year-old and buy him/her a hat for saint pats and a beer the next year.

ah, Chopin.

My family are good people. Shout out to my family who don't read this much! Reading Kimball's life stories and I think a lot, I have good parents. I should do that life story kimball thing. i think too much why am I like how I am? Where did it happen? Look at this nephew who is like my brother and also not who can barely hold the wii remote and asking me how to deactivate his lightsaber. There's something about that age I guess, cognizant yet unselfconscious. How does that feel?

Mittens

At work today I wrote a poem thing that attempts to break all the rules outlined in this recent post at the pank blog.


Mittens


I

Pammy and ho hoe off he ate to the rest ah cat on to the restarant for blocks of miles were he got uh the restauraunt and uh oh he got oh uh the restaurant. So happens Pammy orders steakly please burnt ends for Mittins meows, winks at the waitertress, cerly hair and after that goes in for parks at the benches where Mittens hopes uh oh where Mittens from Pammy's hair to the here of war and ruffles.


Intermission I

We must discuss
how we will do this
how will we discuss
how we will do this
discussion of how
may we discuss
disgust of how will
we when we will
do this discuss.
Let's idea
drive, d'y'ave time?


Intermission II

Jungle dust phone
owl seven floor
fishing client dual
happen jump rumble
dial handle solar.


Intermission III

Hello meta
Minor work calling
cum outside for a drnk?
discuss Iran, uncle sam?
Irahn, uncle Don?
'sappenin in Ran I?
Revolt!
Sut up, sum what.
Let's get married!
Divorce! (uh oh!)
Let's get back and
do marry again!
The priest is dead!
His brain is pouring
the floor stop
trying to eat it it is
too excessively gore.


Intermission IV

Here's dreams:
Flowers.
Beds of lettuce heads of
flower bed of heads of let-
tuce beds. And you drinking
scotch and soda, sofa'd
Drayming days away.
Sapping happy ladder
flower heads.
Flowers. End. Up. Off.


Intermission V

Look at me and these
words I make. Look at me.
I am pretentious and lovable.
I will try hard to be genius
flex my arms: Arrrgh!


Intermission VI

Absolutely, wonderfully
fantastically, meteorily
awesomely, pouncingly
fragily, numbly,
pump-uply, sum-uply


Intermission VII

Fuck you!


Intermission VIII

Today the sun rose and
I woke to words utterly
dismal and bleeding bore
so I ate toast. Is it real?


II

Pinky cat met Mittens from benches of park for fighting the hair of their mothers. Pinky cat of megaton bomb shards in wheat bloody Mittens ribs in stuffing loving wet hair and Pammy fluffing midnight lips.

A cardiovasc

I have read A cardiovasc by Bobby Alter a few times now. I am convinced that it is my favorite thing published online ever. It's doing exactly what I think experimental literature ought to do. I keep thinking I should write a review or something but I think to write a review would be to kill what's great about it. A lot of reviews seem to do that and is why I don't like writing them, because the thing that slaps me about literature is when there's a mystery of a thing, and to try to explain is to try to demystify.

A cardiovasc contains an incredible range of sentence aesthetic, probably more than I've ever seen. How can one write Joycian in one paragraph, then Carverian in the next? Gass does this a lot, but I prefer Alter, or at least this one piece to anything of Gass's. A lot of Gass sentences come off as corny, or attempts to be funny or clever, sometimes it works sometimes it doesn't, and there's none of that with Alter. I don't feel any sense of cleverness coming from Alter, I feel there is no contrivance, simply language coming alive, happening on its own and Alter fighting the language for a story in there somewhere.

I'm biased more toward language-driven at this point in my own development as a writer anyway, and as a result am drifting more toward poetry because poetry seems more open to work that flows like this, but this kind of piece, and that it is available for others to read at LC, is assurance that there seems to be an unlimited well of experimentation that can still be brought up, can still feed us.

Wait

Tired of waiting tired of waiting tired of waiting tired of waiting fired of waiting tired if waiting tired if waifing fired if faifing firef if faifinf fifef if faififf ffi fi faffiff.

wait wait wait wait
wai wai wai wai
wa wa wa wa
w w w w
ai ai ai ai
t t i t
w a i t
w a i t
w a i t
wa i t
wa i t
wait
wa
it
w
t

t
w
it
wasn
't done
anyway

Sometimes when i wait
too long i have thoughts
like i have lost faith in humanity.

I have opened the abjective submission inbox twenty times today looking for submissions to read and respond to but there are none. No one has submitted today. what are you waiting for.

I am not as frightened as ever before since yester.

june seems like a season.

expo expo expo
xpo xpo xpo
po po po
o o o
nnn

Where's hair in there?

One more time I hear "writer" I will die.

Call yourself George instead or Jeffrey or what's your name.

Every discussion I want to say sigh to.

blah

indifferenced.

capital U

angry man angry man meets dog and dog ates horrible trouser, horrible trouser sinks in the yard. The End!

Sigh.

I Will Write Some Day Maybe

I bought witegnstnos (sp?) major works, includes logicos. I'm badly not well read in philosophy and I'd like to change that. Any suggestions with things to start with? Assume I've never read any philosophical work by anyone ever. Although I've watched the zizek documentary and thought, hmm, huh?

New up at abjective by Daniel Gallik.

Read a blog post at the pank by roxane gay today. Hold on, a million people keep walking by my cubicle. I read that thing and yeah, sound stuff I think, though mostly I was thinking, not really applicable with what I'm doing with abjective. I think because I don't have any ambition to do anything more than what I'm already doing. I don't track site hits because I just don't care how many people are reading abjective. I'm not trying to make money. Abjective is simple enough I can run it on my own and fund it myself indefinitely. I do agree her comments on burn out though, that's the thing I'm most scared of, my sense of eventually becoming disinterested in it, so I am watching myself closely for those signs, but I am good so far, every once in a while I get a submission that just punches my face and I wake up and get excited all over again. Some of it was applicable maybe. I could be friendlier in rejections I think. Usually I am robotically cold for the sake of getting them out quickly. I think that's what I prefer when I submit. I don't want to hear why someone's passing or sympathy, just tell me yes or no quick so I can move on. I'm really with her on long response times. That's become the biggest sin in my bible lately. Maybe because I have been waiting for novel submission responses for so long, it is sinking into me. but yes, if you're taking over 90 days (I would actually say 30 days) then you have a serious submissions management issue.

I have a longer rant post in me about novel submission response times interfering with the concept of getting distance from your own writing as means of writer-development I will write some day maybe.

I am trying a music thing over there. I will take it down if it bothers people. I will change it every once in a while. I am trying to get it so it doesn't automatically start playing once the page loads. I will try to figure it out.

Everyone should read A cardiovasc by Bobby Alter.

Why is everyone walking around?

I Started Writing This Post In The Same Notepad

What I did just now was spend some time writing no clicking through the random article feature in wikipedia and pasting all the first lines of articles into notepad and after I had about twenty lines I started mashing them up and made a poem. Then I looked at something else on the internet. Then I looked at the poem again and it was horrible. It's a horrible idea. I deleted it and started writing this post in the same Notepad. It sounds like it would be a good idea but it's not, or maybe it would be but I'd have to put a lot more effort into it. It just comes off like corny out-of-context humor, like stuff that mcsweeneys.net might like but I'm so disinterested in these days or just today due to this Samuel Smith's I'm doing.

Chris Higgs said more nice things about experimentism and dropped abjective's name and way too many awesome thoughts at htmlgiant. Sam Pink is holy cow, it turns out. I knew that already actually, or I at least knew that some words he wrote made me think, these words are holy cow.

Some, not many, of my words at elimae.

Lamination Colony will publish "Digestable Moose Kidney Sculpture Garden" which planted first runner-up in the not not a contest. I am excited for other people to read this piece. I feel like it is one of the most language driven pieces I've ever written, or at least in the sense that I feel something fruitful emerged from it while writing it that I didn't anticipate. I am also crazy excited to read the other finalist/winner pieces and whatever else happens at LC.

I keep sitting down and saying, okay I'm going to write a more narrative piece (why?) even though I'll hate it at first for its pathetic language, something will emerge and I can cut up later, right? but I just sit there and nothing, or like, Here's David eating his own wrist-watch on the sofa and here's his dog on the carpet screaming at me to write this more interestingly. It's just so oh my god weird to get into a head of I AM CREATING/CONTROLLING THESE CHARACTERS LIKE I AM GOD. Every piece of narrative fiction is a god metaphor. Every fiction writer essentially wants the power of god. Poets function on a level that fits me cleaner, like I'm just kind of uh ah rambling here, something might come out but was it me or was it subcon me or was it god and I'm a muse or was it some other entity entirely. Oh.

When my narrative pieces succeed lately, they end up like that love machine poem down there, and like the poem that will go up some time at Word Riot, little narrative poems ala James Tate. I keep trying to find that mindframe that allowed me to write Mel and I can't seem to find it.