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(no subject) [Sep. 9th, 2005|01:45 pm]
White
[music |The Temptations - Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)]


BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR MODERN PROSE -- Jack Kerouac







1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy

2. Submissive to everything, open, listening

3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house

4. Be in love with yr life

5. Something that you feel will find its own form

6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind

7. Blow as deep as you want to blow

8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind

9. The unspeakable visions of the individual

10. No time for poetry but exactly what is

11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest

12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you

13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time

15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog

16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye

17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself

18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language
sea

19. Accept loss forever

20. Believe in the holy contour of life

21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in
mind

22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture
better

23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning

24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language
& knowledge

25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it

26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form

27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness

28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better

29. You're a Genius all the time

30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
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found something retarded [Sep. 9th, 2005|01:17 pm]
White
[mood |boredbored]
[music |Massive Attack - Name Taken]

I found this today and couldn't remember writing it. I think this was me trying to have fun and see if I could write a killer's inner monologue. It may have been intended to be captions in a story, but I'm not quite sure. I just know that it was formatted oddly. And here it is:



The world made me empty and I let
it.



No more lies.



I’ll glide through and let them know
it was me that took them away.



Forced memory. I’ll take it how I
can get it.



All I need is candy and a plan. I’ll
show them where to go. Wake them
up. They won’t know my name and
they won’t need to.



May get messy. Yep. I’ll wear my
raincoat. Gloves. Duct tape. You can
never have too much duct tape. My
daddy called it duck tape. He said
duck tape could solve anything. Give
a man enough duck tape and he can
solve anything. Yep.



Daddy knew what he was talking
about. Always did. He showed me
the way before I had eyes. Now it’s
my turn. I have to be strong. Put the
lies away.



Daddy worked hard and so will I. I’ll
dig and dig until there’s nowhere left
to dig. Yep.



Daddy said dirt makes a man strong.
Connected him to his roots. You’ve
got to let it get in your fingernails.
Soak through your pores. Yep.



That’s all it’ll take. One good tug
and she’s gone. Five. Four. Three.
Two. I win.



I saw the gun in his hand and wanted
to make it mine. Five shots. He can’t
hit me.



Hanuman is with me on my back.
The nine levels of heaven flow
through me.



His legs move before his mind does.
Running won’t help him. I run faster.



It ends in urine a whimper. Neither
was mine.



The gun is mine.
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the official mahatma gandhi earchive & reference library [Sep. 8th, 2005|11:29 am]
White
[mood |blahblah]
[music |Fat Joe - Get It Poppin' (Feat. Nelly)]

http://www.mahatma.org.in/index.jsp
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blah blah more random fiction/i never finish this shit [Sep. 8th, 2005|11:04 am]
White
[mood |dorky]
[music |Aphex Twin - Windowlicker]

We had trouble. The world was closing in and nothing could stop it. We would have to get real jobs. All of us. It seemed like a long summer was ending. Time to say goodbye.

Oh well. Oh well.

I wondered out loud, is this how dreamers die?

Boris was laughing. He was always laughing then. There were things to laugh about. It seemed that way at least.

He would say later his mind was just trying to catch up. It wouldn’t take long.

The gestation period varies. So does the mileage.

Boris is always crying now. I give him my shoulder when I’m not laughing.

You could see the seeds then if you knew where to look, but I didn’t. That’s just the way I was then.

I miss it.

I miss everything.

The last time I had sex I cried. She was pretty enough, but when she put her arms around me I couldn’t stop. She reminded me of my mother. I came three times that day.

I don’t know what that means.

When I was a kid I thought I knew everything. Life was waiting for me. That’s what I thought.

Ignorance really is its own kind of bliss. I was happy. Free.

I like to pretend now. I play games to pass the time. I count pencils. Spin in my chair. I have an office now. A big one.

There’s even a tie on my neck.

I wonder who I am now. I’m not me.
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(no subject) [Sep. 7th, 2005|02:10 pm]
White
[mood |awake]
[music |Gwen Stefani - Bubble Pop Electrinic]

When I was younger I would dream that I was one of the X-men. I had one of those dreams again last night for the first time since I was about twelve. In this dream I had tactile telekenisis. I did not wear tights of any kind. I was still me -- only I had super speed, strength, agility -- and of course the oh-so-amazing ability to stick to things. Spider-Man eat your heart out.

The dream started with me in Scott Summer's office. He was the headmaster. Emma Frost was there too. The whole time Cyclops was talking I was:

1) Trying to figure how old she was.
2) Trying to figure out how much work she'd had done.
3) Trying not to imagine having sex with her. This did not work.

This was a good dream. Anyway I had just joined the school and was being shown around by Kitty Pryde. She was my favorite X-man as a kid. Maybe I have a thing for intangible Jewish girls. I dunno... So, yeah... I was being shown around by Kitty Pryde. Fucking Shadowcat.

She shows me the Danger Room. Wolverine is there. I remember saying something stupid. This is probably what I said:

Me: So, I hear you're supposed to be like a ninja or something. I thought you'd be... you know... bigger... More asian.

Wolverine: Hrm

Shadowcat: Wolverine taught me everything I know.

Shadowcat: He's the guy you want watching your back if you ever need it.

Me: Really? He doesn't look like much to me.

Wolverine: Hrm.

Me: Wanna spar?

I'm pretty sure Wolverine smiled at me at this point.

Snikt

Shadowcat: Logan...

[insert fighting here]

Shadowcat: Umm... guys....

Anyway, at some point in the dream I ripped Wolverines face off. Just the skin. This seemed to not go over well. Neither did my laughing.

Then Shadowcat phased me out of the Danger Room.
I'm pretty sure Wolverine was trying to hunt me down and make me go night, night.

I woke up not long after that. Oh well.


That was a good story, wasn't it? Okay, not really. But it all happened! Sort of.


The point of me writing all that is that for once in my life I actually feel like writing a superhero story.
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wtf [Sep. 3rd, 2005|01:38 am]
White
[mood |chipperchipper]
[music |Various - Seu Jorge / Life On Mars]

I started writing some more bullshit prose tonight. And then I stopped. This is where I stopped:

I was in love with her—this squat, elfin little girl whose freckles seemed to be in all the right places. She had red hair. Every time she breathed I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch her.

We were each other’s worlds then. I didn’t want it to stop.

When we were alone she made me feel empty inside—and I let her. I let her do a lot of things.

It was enough just to kiss her. To love her.

It didn’t matter where her head was. Mine was with her.

I told her I loved her too fast. Everyone said so. Everyone was my best friend, Paulo. If you listened to Paulo he was the biggest pimp the east coast has ever seen. Paulo only weighed forty-five pounds. He was a midget.

I called him that when I wanted to make him mad.

She was his sister. Gloria. I loved everything about her—even the sound of her name rolling off my tongue. Gloria.

I would go on to write poems about Gloria. Three volumes.

If you asked me, I would tell you that Gloria was the name of heaven. But you didn’t ask me. And I know what you’re thinking. Really I do.

The answer is no.


===


In other news: I drank a bottle of orange-flavored MD 20/20 today. That shit is terrible. I miss cognac. Maybe I should just stick to bottled water?
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Frédéric Boilet's Nouvelle Manga Manifesto [Aug. 30th, 2005|10:30 pm]
White
[music |Massive Attack - Antistar]

After falling in love with what little I saw of The Walking Man (Jiro Tanuguchii) I went looking for more info about Ponet Mon, and stumbled on to Frédéric Boilet's Nouvelle Manga Manifesto.

Must get The Walking Man.
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senses of cinema [Aug. 26th, 2005|08:16 am]
White
[mood |bouncybouncy]
[music |Gorillaz - Rock The House]

I've been spending a lot of time reading shit here lately: http://www.sensesofcinema.com/
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(no subject) [Aug. 25th, 2005|03:59 pm]
White
[music |Portishead - Numb]

If you know me then you probably know that my love for Charley Rose is boundless -- and goes back as far as elementary (nerd power!). He's one of my favorite interviewers -- and I <3 a good interview show.

Anyway, I digress... the guy I want to talk about is Elvis Mitchell. He isn't exactly Charley Rose, but I love "The Treatment" -- and a lot of his shows (if not all) are archived for your and my listening pleasure. He asks good questions, and he understands the power of just listening as an interviewer.

The only rub is that you have to have realplayer to listen. It's worth it, though:

http://www.kcrw.com/cgi-bin/db/kcrw.pl

There are some other great shows on KRCW as well. Check 'em out.
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sometimes boredom is good for you [Aug. 25th, 2005|03:35 pm]
White
[mood |energeticenergetic]
[music |Blood Brothers - Live At The Apocalypse Cabaret]

I started writing a short story today out of boredom. Don't ask me what it's about. I just wrote it:

We saw him on the street and ran the other
way. Three blocks and we never looked
back. Too much weed that day. Oh well.

Twenty-five steps away I thought I heard
him crying. Something clicked inside and it
was all I could do not to let my legs go.

Then came the urge.

I wanted to go back and punch him in the
balls as hard and as often as my mind would
let me.

In my head I did go back.

I saw him there laying in a slump—tears
coming down his face like a lot of rain, with
that same stupid, pitiful look on his face.
There may have been twitching. Quivering.

I had to laugh.

Bastard. He was too much like me—too
fragile and hopeless to live.

My impulse then was to hug him and never
let go—to fall into him and his world. He
seemed like a giant then.

It was too much. I punched him in the
throat.

That was the day I fell in love with him. It
was all so fucking tragic. None of it was
real, but it wanted to be—that's what made
it special.

It was too hot that day. I could feel my feet
in my shoes—and they were heavy. Too
heavy.

It hurt to breathe after a while and we had to
stop. There was a bookstore a few feet away
and I wanted to read.


The door was calling out to me. Books were
my way out—and I needed out, wherever
that would take me. I had to go.

My friends were restless, and so was I. We
had to move or things were going to get less
than pretty. Fast.

The first thing I noticed was the air. It kissed
my neck and I felt cleaner somehow. There
were chill bumps on my arms and it seemed
right.

Books rushed at me from every direction on
wooden shelves. Everything was spinning. I
had to sit before I fell.

It was too much to absorb at once. My hands
went out—and all I caught was trouble. The
only word I could think of had four letters.

Fuck.

I had a handful of titties in my hands—and I
was too dazed to let go.

....and then I stopped writing, because I'm lazy.
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