Let’s follow up with a personal anecdote. That just occurred. Boys and girls, movie-goers and cinephiles alike… gather ‘round. Once upon a time, a researcher-slash-assistant at a film-and-television-production-company in Beverly Hills was walking back from her lunch break. She arrived at the front of the building when a white SUV pulled up, driven by a man with dark hair and...
Faces and Facebook.
My Facebook has been temporarily disabled, for my sanity. This blog has just quadrupled in its potential to be updated. Let’s start with a quote. Art has always two antithetical faces, a medal where one side, for example, would resemble Paul Rembrandt and the other side, Jacques Callot. Rembrandt is the philosopher with a white beard who holes himself up, absorbing himself in meditation...
Boc boc boc.
Currently playing bathroom chicken with the woman in the stall next to me. We arrived within seconds of each other and have been here for ten minutes now, neither of us making the necessary move. Awkward. Threateningly silent, and uncomfortable as sin. And here I sit, writing the things… Ah, I won, but now she’s gone and I’m gun shy.
What I'm Missing.
Am I a bad poet if I really don’t want to listen to people talk about John Ashbery? It’s not that I don’t get him, I just don’t think half of his work is as important as people seem to believe. I think he’s repetitive and exclusionary. Which makes me question myself. Am I missing something?
I just wanted to just make a note that this works at the reverse, as well. We all meet people who claim something common of the human condition as a rarity in their own person. And statements like that hurt my fingernails in a way I thought only a chalkboard could. Most of my social life (or attempts at communication) is spent trying desperately to not be this person. My new theory is that...
I can’t do this. The notion of creating bad writing - just because it’s important to produce anything, to constantly be writing - is a load of crap. Remember that last poem I said I wrote one night and it was awful? I reread it and it was even worse than I remembered. And I just wrote another one, equally as terrible. If I was a reader, I’d never get past the first two lines....
Two things. First, I called the Borders in Hollywood, just to see if they were still open so I could peruse the scraps. The phone rang… but no one ever picked up. All I could envision was empty shelves, the building’s power off, windows covered and hidden from sunlight… and a phone behind a counter ringing… ringing… devastatingly ringing. Needless to say, I got a...
I AM SUSPICIOUS OF ALL WRITERS AND HUMAN BEINGS WHO ARE NOT SICK OF THEMSELVES.– Patrick Somerville, “A Conversation With Patrick Somerville and Lindsay Hunter”