In December A Reading

In December I gave a reading at Doc's Lab in San Francisco as part of the Quiet Lightning series. It was the second time I read THE VIBES MANIFESTO, and I think it went pretty well. I realized that the first time I read the MANIFESTO I kneeled on the ground as a I read while the people in the audience sat on the floor. I think when we are all sitting on the floor, close to earth, the MANIFESTO seems to make more sense. I'd prefer not to be above the audience, looking down at them, unable to actually touch them if I need to.

Which reminds me of when I performed music as Souvenir and when I would play shows I always tried to get off the stage, if there was one. I'd rather the performance be a thing that we all do together instead of me doing the thing.

The thing which I am not writing right now but will in two seconds, the thing I am keeping from this blog is that my relationship has ended. It's a funny and scary thing to share out in the open like this but it is part of my life and theoretically, this is a place where I can write thoughts down. The important thing to know I guess in relation to the THE VIBES MANIFESTO is that they were born - that is the vibes, as an idea, as a place to write about - when I was 20 or 21 and getting weird with B. in her room drinking wine and listening to Bright Eyes and Mirah and who knows what else.

When we came back together as I was beginning grad school, the vibes were sort of reignited. I had felt them ever since obviously but rarely spoke about them. I knew there was something in the world, something like the vibes, which I tried to express or share with other people as I was coming up. How to say the thing that brings people together? How to describe what made them friends and what made them love? I don't know what it was. In my music projects (Souvenir/the body) I tried to get at that feeling, the vibes. In one song I sing "I'm playing my ribs like the vibes / In California I like the vibes". So they were always there. But when B. and I came back together it was the right time to figure out what the vibes were and so I started writing about it in earnest. And ever since they have been the most important part of my life. Everything involves the vibes, everything comes back to the vibes.

When they started it was only about romantic love. Proving that love was real and would stay because it was natural and good. It was worth risking your heart to someone else because love was good. How could it not be? But then the vibes expanded, as they obviously would, and I began to fall in love with world, and now it's a sort of spirituality to me. Though I still don't always understand what the vibes are or how they work or how to best describe them. You know them when you feel them. The relation of people to people, a person to a person. It's the connection between the two and between the three and the rest.

Anyway. I guess I'm just trying to say that I am sad my relationship has ended because the relationship was the origin of the vibes. I know the vibes continue on but there the relationship goes. I don't know, there's nothing profound to say about it. But it is a thing that has happened.

What I've realized too is that the vibes are true. They are everywhere and you find them in some seriously surprising places. In other words, love is true and good and will stay no matter what we do. 

The Wolves in the Hands of Friends pt 2

Months

May: I drove with B to Oregon and read and partied for the release of The Wolves at Publication Studio. It's impossible for me to read without first drinking alcohol - usually wine - because I get so nervous I feel like I might die of embarrassment. I had never been the center of a reading like this, of a 'release'. Patricia and Antonia of Publication Studio were wonderfully kind and gave me that feeling of truly being celebrated. It helped that before I read Patricia read an email she had received from Kevin Killian introducing my manuscript to them. I had that feeling, after listening to Kevin's promotion of my manuscript, of finally getting my father or mother to express or admit their love for me. My mom and dad express themselves freely so it wasn't like I was starved in real life, but it was like that feeling. Finally, Kevin told me how much he loved the book! I had a similar feeling after reading Dodie Bellamy's blurb. Writing The Wolves was both a process of learning to write a novel and a process of constantly trying to impress my supporters - Dodie, Miranda Mellis, and B, mainly. If I could first impress them with the story and the writing there wouldn't need to be any additional accomplishments. Now that I am working on another novel I don't feel the same need to impress or rather I am not trying to impress anyone but myself - though myself has accumulated the critical eye of Dodie, Miranda, and B. I can hear Dodie telling me to 'kink it up' and then I read or re-read Cunt Ups or Cunt Norton and I am reminded of how to do this. Miranda's influence is much more disperse. Rigorous and searching. B's influence is practical. Why are you writing a 1000 page novel? Who do you think is going to read something like this? I can only laugh at my own ambition.

October: Jason File, Jason Scheinheit, and I read at Needles & Pens in San Francisco. Three Jasons. First, I will mention that at this reading I read 'The Vibes Manifesto' - which is what it sounds like. Over the past year or so I have read 'vibes' essays whenever I have been asked to read somewhere. It's a philosophy I am in the process of developing. The vibes philosophy. It's a way for me to read something not related to The Wolves. It allows me to play with the audience. When I am at poetry readings I envy the play. I sit there thinking, 'Damn, I want to do that!' I am thinking of Evan Kennedy's readings generally and David Buuck's reading at Woolsey Heights in particular where his poem ended in a dance party. Or even Cassandra Troyan's reading - the one I saw at 851 - where she drank cough syrup and either she pretended it was blood or I just imagined it was.

June: I worked for my dad's construction company for a week or two. I returned to the same crew of men who I had worked with about 6 months earlier. Since I am an academic type and they are 'workers' I always arrive fearing they will think I am weak and an elitist. I am weak when compared to their years of strength. I watched them lift walls onto their shoulders. Drag metal hammers like they were toothpicks. They are friendly and admire my education. I am a part-time employee, not making very much money in academia, and they are full time laborers, making what sounds like a glorious sum to me. I wish I could wake up at 4am every day and do what they do just so that I would be paid well and could let my mind have a reprieve from the vaulted crises of 'being a writer'. But then I find out they don't want to wake up so early and while they're cutting concrete they are constructing elaborate novels of their own but have no way of ever writing them. The strain of the physical labor gives me endless headaches, bruises my hands and legs, makes me glad I didn't commit to working for more than two weeks. It's true you would get used to it, but ultimately I am glad I am able to return to desk. I want to say something like, 'I don't want to forget those workers or how hard their work is' but it's hard to say that without appearing as some typical 'liberal' romanticizing the life of the worker. Maybe it isn't. I just can't help but think of the privilege I was granted by the work of people like those workers. My dad and my mom. My grandfather who was a plumber. I don't know, whether it is right or wrong, I feel guilty, and I'd rather feel guilty than forget what waking up at 4am feels like. 

The Wolves in the Hands of Friends

A Reading I Gave Months Ago

Here's video which Evan Karp took of the reading I gave in January at the Emerald Tablet for the Under the Influence series (which Evan hosts). I was invited to read by Evan after Miranda Mellis suggested me. Each reader then suggests/nominates another writer for a subsequent reading. The person I suggested doesn't know I was the one who put their name out there. So this is sort of an unveiling. I asked Evan to keep me anonymous. But, now, I'm happy to say I suggested Evan Kennedy for this reading - which he then gave in March. I've seen Evan Kennedy read a few times now, I think, and it always blows me away. I'm sorry I wasn't able to attend his Under the Influence reading. Oh well. I wanted to stay anonymous just because I thought it would be fun bit of mystery. Maybe Evan Kennedy didn't even think about it.

So for my reading, I responded/was influenced by Thich Nhat Hanh and Ludwig Wittgenstein. I'm not 100% engaged with either of their work. I've only recently started reading Wittgenstein and have only read two small books by Hanh. So my response is slightly superficial. I don't feel bad about this. I'm just mentioning it in case someone watches the video and feels like I did a poor job of representing their work. But whatever.

The essay I read from doesn't have a title but if I were to title it now I would call it "Essay on Human Suffering". It's written in my 'vibes' style. People might be familiar with this if they have seen other readings I've done. It's my preferred style to use when I read. It's more poetic. Recently, I also read at CCA and for that I read from my just published novel The Wolves from Publication Studio. Yes, it is fun to read certain parts of The Wolves but usually I feel uncomfortable reading from it because I worry people would rather hear something else. I'm probably being neurotic about it. Honestly, it's just more fun to read from my vibes essays. At some point I should put them together into something more cohesive and make it a book. 

The Wolves official book trailer

I'm excited to post this beautiful promotional video made by Jessica Yatrofsky. My novel The Wolves will be available March 2014 from Publication Studio as part of their Fellow Travelers Series.

The Wolves is split between two parts. The first is the story of two ill-starred lovers, overcome by their devotion to each other and their destructive appetites. The second is a re-telling of the life of the 14th-century catholic Saint Catherine of Siena and her relationship to her biographer Raymond of Capua. The two parts mirror each other and question the limits of identity, bodies, and faith.

Here is a short excerpt from the first part of The Wolves:

I thought you had really left, now you're bleeding, you're going to die. I see, feel, or imagine the dick going inside her. The trapped blood rushes from my feet to my abdomen, fills up my scrotum, my cock is fat. I wish there was a way to fuck without blood, to love without the body. I thought you were gone. Hairless stomach, brown pussy. Did you consider leaving? No, I knew to wait for you. Once our bodies meld together, her hair will become mine and a fine layer of fur will shroud our pussy and cock. We will encircle our abdomen, spin into a tiny clump of flesh, we float through the air invisible.

I've been thinking about our diamond rings. I didn't know we still had those. I saw her swallow it. No, you weren't there because that was your fantasy, this is real, the rings aren't real. But, this could be a dream. I'm telling you that it's not, I'm sorry for telling you I didn't want to talk to you, I shouldn't have said that. Her lips are dry, I bite them, careful not to bite the side that Raymond tore. When we kiss, I feel like I'm kissing you and everyone you've ever been. That's wrong, I'm the only person here. We can swallow our rings. I think we should bury them. We can do it your way if you want.

We were always together, and I made you my husband, you were mine and I was yours, didn't we link ourselves enough? I want you to go deeper, right there. The inside of my asshole is pink, my dad told me, oh never mind. Yes, I understand. What about your parents? They don't matter. None of this seems real, you're talking too much. I want you inside me, I am already. The inside of her pussy is pink, I feel its color now. Head near her heart, where everything takes place. We combine lungs, throats and ligaments.

Feeling is expansive. Even our small skeletal bodies are infinite in feeling, minds surpass canvased skin. Feeling is not infinite, it begins and ends. Fucking you doesn't feel any different than before. I was upset when I thought you had really left, I felt I had lost you. The bodies melt, summer finally ends with no music. I am unable to think, thought sits just outside my grasp. I wish you had four dicks, I would put them all inside me. Where would the fourth one go? She laughs, I want you to fuck my brain. A dick isn't a body. I tighten the muscle, it's a story-teller, glyphs, and smoke signals. To me it's only your cock. I have dreams of being inside you. I want you inside me. I dream we are fucking and I am someone else, you are someone else, but it is still us.

Your skin tastes like my skin. You want to believe. Our skin flaps, sweats, and slides on top of each other. I let go of her nipple, kiss my way to her lips. Our tongues slip out of mouths, we are still hungry. Her nose and cheeks are cold. The center of her heart is white and I feel its color with the tip of the dick. The rest of my body is shutting off, toes knees shoulders off. Are they finally disappearing? I open my eyes to see her staring back at me, pupils black and dead. The cock hemorrhages and fills her with come, our body shuts off. Stillness. Wolf stares into me, oh fuck, don't move. Do you feel that? Shhh. Her breath is hot, I want to crush in my hand the empty space that sustains her. I might be wrong. Look at me longer, don't stop looking at me. Could this have happened without knowing the colors of the inside of our bodies, without losing or exorcising limbs? //

I'll be reading new work at Under the Influence in San Francisco on Friday January 24th 2014. Please come and watch me channel Wittgenstein and Thich Nhat Hanh. I will be performing a part of my on-going "vibes" lectures.

More on Publication Studio's Fellow Travelers Series: The Fellow Travelers Series is modeled deliberately on Olympia Press's outstanding Traveller's Companion series of the 1950s and 1960s. Where the Traveller's Companion series published work that had been banned or censored through moralistic prohibitions, the Fellow Travelers series presents great new work that has been effectively "censored" by the market. (From Publisher's Forward to Spreadeagle by Kevin Killian, another in the Fellow Travelers Series)

Book trailer #2 THE WOLVES

A second, shorter trailer for The Wolves.

Here's a very short excerpt from the first part of the novel:
Wolf returns without the books and stands by the open window smoking a cigarette, red stained lips. Black leggings and a sheer white tank top, afternoon sunlight confuses white skin and cotton, contoured bone, dry, freckled hips, the black outline of her cross. Dust particles float around her small breasts, she jumps up onto the windowsill, brings her knees to her chest, small feet, dirty soles, taps her foot, takes a drag from the cigarette. She blows the smoke out the window, takes three vicodin, she's about to speak, is this summer ever going to end? //

Book trailer #3 THE WOLVES

A third, shorter trailer for The Wolves.

Here's an excerpt from the second part of the novel:
"What was the voice calling to you, Catherine?"

"It was not a voice," she says. "I felt a light in my body. It was this light which told me without words, without speaking, to look into the sky. From that hill I could see the valley drenched by sunlight. Something appeared closer to the spires and bells of the buildings in the city."

"And what was it?"

"It was a royal court. Jesus sat on a golden throne. He wore a diamond tiara and carried a gilded staff in His hand. The light in my body came from Him. I cannot adequately explain this feeling to you, Father. His blue eyes stared back at me and He reached out His white hand and over me made the Sign of the Cross. From the center of His chest I felt a beam of light enter my body. I had the sense of unending love and for the first time I truly felt my soul. His light entered me and made me one with His body. There was no separation between me and what I saw." //

We Hella Believe

That's me and Chris Conley, singer/guitarist of Saves the Day. B and I saw Saves the Day not too long ago and it was an amazing experience. One that actually began well before the day of the actual show. At least over a year ago, I learned Saves the Day would be recording/releasing a new album. They've been one of my favorite bands since I was 18 years old. Their music has been a part of my life since then. I've lost track how many times I've seen them perform. I've also lost track how many times I've met Chris; this was the first time I thought to take a picture of our meeting. I'd guess the first time we met, we were probably 19 or 20 years old, and here we are in that picture at 31 and maybe 32? He's married and has a child. He still rocks on stage just as hard as he did way back when.

Some time after 2004 I stopped really paying attention to what Saves the Day was doing. I didn't stop listening to their music but I just didn't follow along as closely as before. Yet, when their next few albums came out I bought them and quickly fell in love with them. When I started grad school in 2010 they released their second most recent album. At some point, I made the discovery that this band was my favorite band. Their 2010 album Daybreak hit me hard (in the feels) and made more sense to me as a 28-29 year old than their earlier records had to my 18-19-20 year old self. Anyway, news of their newest record came and I started a long email chain with a few of my friends about our favorite Saves the Day songs. We rated and ranked our favorites, discovering along the way which songs we each felt closest to. Each email progressively proved to me how deeply I felt about this band. (In a way also reminding me how close I felt to my friends.)

I'm not unaware of what a lot of people think about the career of Saves the Day and more correctly of Chris Conley who basically is Saves the Day. I'm not going to defend them to music snobs; ok, but actually I might. Imagine this: inside Slim's, the night I saw them with B, every single person in the audience smiling, raging hard, and singing every lyric that poured out over us for 90 minutes and 30 songs. No band could not be respected for engendering so much love and enjoyment. I guess that's an argument in favor of superstar popstars. I don't know, maybe in the indie-rock world that I feel gave birth to me and this band, so much love seems an important antidote to the bland coolness of mid/early 2000s "indie rock", or emo, or whatever it is this music is called. Ok, actually, I guess emo involved quite a bit of emoting, heroification of the singers/lyricists, etc... but definitely there was a hipness to being into the music but not overly attached. Maybe that came just after emo re-exploded in the early 2000s. The point is I love this band. I am proud to nerd out so hard about what they've made.

I guess the realization is that this is the only life I will ever live and I think 'Oh my god, I've found something that I love, something that makes me feel understood, and look at all these other people who are probably feeling the same thing, goddamn this is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life..." Something like that. And then I realize that this thought is exactly what Saves the Day's new album is essentially about. Being so happy to have ever lived in the first place and just standing in awe at this simple and yet profound fact. I wore the We Hella Believe shirt because I thought Chris would like it. That he would understand it.

Here's a video from Saves the Day s/t new album.

It's important to believe. Like in August while I was helping out my friend at his print shop and I got an email from Publication Studio letting me know that they were going to be publishing my book. I have never felt so much excitement surge through my body. I didn't know whether I wanted to pass out, laugh, or cry, or I don't know...explode?

So more information will be coming up about that later on. The initial details are that it will be coming out some time early 2014. Also, it's being published as part of their Fellow Travelers Series. Kevin Killian's book Spreadeagle, which everyone should read, is also part of that series. Publication Studio also published Dodie Bellamy's the buddhist too so it's just crazy to me to be a part of something they are also a part of. (I know I gush about Dodie and Kevin a lot. I love them.)

Finally, a few weeks ago now, I think, two of my closest friends got married. I was the best man for the groom. It was second time being a best man of sorts - the first was also this summer when my cousin got married. I was her 'man of honor'. At my cousin's wedding, I didn't prepare a speech because I thought it would be better to speak from the heart. I think I did fine but I was overcome with emotion in the moment, I couldn't project my voice or make it through thoughts without crying. Also, when I try to explain things off the cuff, I resort to the most meandering proof of the rightness and clarity of my thought. As if I were giving voice to the philosophical argument going through my head. Then I speak too quickly and everyone gets lost, including me. I think it's because I feel what I say is a conclusion and I need to lead everyone to that conclusion. Anyway, I didn't want to speak without notes at my best friend's wedding so I wrote out everything I wanted to say a few days before and crafted it as if it were a reading. I printed out the notes and felt safe in knowing if I just stuck to the script, I would perfectly express what I wanted to say. In the moment, I was very nervous, but I stuck to my notes and only when I actually looked at the bride and groom did I feel overwhelmed by the emotion. So I stopped and caught myself so that I didn't burst into tears. The negative of reading from notes is that I felt in a type of daze, like I wasn't quite there, and now I don't remember what people looked like as I looked out over the reception. As soon as I was finished, I came out of the daze to find that people really liked my speech. So when I didn't read from notes, I felt more included in the moment but overcome by it. When I read from notes, I felt excluded from the moment but never overcome by the emotions. I think it would be nice to merge those two.

Party in the USA

That's Ted Rees' Arthur Rimbaud tattoo. Oh and I think maybe Sarah Wintz's face emerging from Ted's back, I just noticed this. We were at Woolsey Heights for a reading by Alli Warren, David Brazil, David Buuck, Elaine Barry Kahn, and Melissa Mack. I was in a state of absolute exhaustion because I had been running around all day beforehand trying to accumulate housewares for my new room in my new house in Oakland. So I skipped lunch and right when I got to the reading I drank three or four cups of water. Finally, I awoke from the stupor in time to hear Brazil's reading which blew me away. All the readers were magnificent. Elaine and Alli had this casual delivery - even though Elaine said she was very nervous - which I really appreciated it. Melissa was reading from a book she had just published and somewhere in there she was talking about a memorization class. These were inside jokes and I wasn't inside but I didn't mind. Finally, Buuck read and for his last of three pieces he was joined by a soundtrack made by Tom Comitta. David's final line was "stand up" and at the moment we were all supposed to stand up... and we all did and then the music turned on and the lights went out and it turned into what Woolsey Heights almost always (or always) turns into which is a dance party - which I really appreciate because I love dancing and don't get to do it as much as I used to.

Off to another reading of sorts, Poem Talks organized by Sophia Dahlin: At the n/a space, Lindsey Boldt and Dodie Bellamy talked about one of their poems for an hour each and instructed us, the audience, in the poem's creation. This actually took place on the very day I moved and I was typically exhausted. I don't know why I was doing this to myself, but I feel like since I'm off work right now I really want to get in as much poetry as I possibly can. Lindsey had us write for a bit and when we were done we got to share. To my surprise I volunteered to read first. I don't know why I did that. I had written something about Kevin Killian being a basketball player. I think we were supposed to write something a little more internal/visceral, I don't know, I'm a novelist, I couldn't help but want to make a story out of the way Kevin had stretched his hand and I imagined him as a young hot shot basketball player, in the big game, peering to the side at his domineering father. I'm sure I'm recycling a movie here.

Dodie's talk was very interesting to me because in all my time of working with her I have never thought to ask about the process of her book Cunt-Ups. Dodie has a new book coming out from Les Figues Press. It's called Cunt Norton and she utilizes the same technique for it as she used for Cunt-Ups. That book was extremely important to me, or is rather, because it was the first book I read by Dodie prior to starting at CCA. I followed Cunt-Ups in a way for my book. In it, among other things, Dodie smashes these hyper-sexual flourishes into one another, separated by commas, identities shifting, bodies shifting. It's beautiful. If you've read my book, you will see when I'm following Dodie's lead. During her talk I wanted her to talk about someone on some site calling Cunt-Ups "experimental fiction" or something like that, but I guess that's not what we were there for. (Note: blogger says I'm misspelling cunt.) Below is what Google books says are common terms and phrases of Dodie's Cunt-Ups.

And well before all this there was the talk of the town: The East Bay Poetry Summit. I feel like it will be one of those weekends where time separates itself. Or like the question will be asked, Where were you during the Summit? I was only able to go to the reading at Woolsey Heights. It'd be difficult to explain what the scene was like. Past readings at Woolsey have been well attended, crowding the two living rooms with people... when I showed up for the Summit event, the people spilled out of the house, down the stairs, out into the courtyard. It was madness. I remember sitting near Brandon Brown on the steps, listening to the readers over the speakers. The audiences' applause was picked up by the microphone inside and then sent out to us on the outside. I think Brandon was smiling the entire time. True to form the reading ended in a dance party. I kept thinking I do not want this moment to end, I do not want this moment to end. But, eventually, we had to say goodbye, or I did really, and I walked home, thrilled and intoxicated.

It's a little bit difficult to say how I feel after all these readings, as a novelist. Part of me wants to go home and start writing poetry which I can then read for everyone. But that's just not what I do. Maybe I should do it? It would be totally nonsensical for me to even begin however because I'm working on another novel and I really just don't have time to work on other projects. Or actually, I'm working on the new novel, and several other novel-like projects and really just don't have time to do anything else. I suppose the energy which these readings create in me then gets funneled into my writing in other ways. Is it true prose/fiction writers sometimes don't read poetry? If you are reading this now and you write fiction/prose, you should go to a book store and pick up a poetry book, any one, and just start reading. I don't know what you should do if you're poet... I'd say read a novel I guess. Honestly, I might be content to just live with Rimbaud for all time. Like maybe Ted has the right idea.

 

Avert Your Eyes or Don't

My best friend sent me a link to the movie where Werner Herzog eats his boot. After I had finished with that I clicked on one of the videos YouTube suggests and above was the video that came at me. In it, Herzog says that 'the poet must not avert his eyes'. I don't consider myself a poet so I just imagined he said 'writer'. But, what does that matter? So what he means is the poet should live a raw and real life, not sequestered in the library, viewing life from outside. This idea struck me because I couldn't help but think of my book, The Wolves. (Which, by the way, still needs a publisher, so if you publish books and are reading this, feel free to contact me) In my book I tried really hard to not 'avert my eyes'. Originally, the narrator of the first part, which almost everyone has read by now I'm sure, was named Jason. I wanted to intentionally confuse the narrator and myself, the author. Or rather the reader would put us together and think we were the same. Originally, this had much more to do with the book. I guess when I was first conceptualizing the story I wanted to comment on how people DO avert their eyes by splitting their identity into multiple identities. I know I did it. I lived out a different life through my writing. Things which I couldn't say in my real life, things I couldn't do in my real life, I could do as a character. Eventually, I saw this as a problem. We invest, or I invest, so much time in a fantasy world that we/I neglect the real world. Is it common or not that people who live with writers/songwriters/etc fear they will be plugged into their artist friend's/lover's stories/work? Are real life friends/events/transactions/emotions only fodder for the story? This is what I wanted to comment on.

Of course, the story changed and it had less and less to do with me. I took my name out of The Wolves and left it blank. Readers could choose to confuse us if they liked but it wouldn't be overt. Naturally, my own experience is built into the story but I don't see it as having happened to me. Indeed, I borrowed the names of my family, real life events, but I see them as entirely separate. This isn't to say it's not still complicated and problematic to do so. At some point, I will have to explain to those included in my book why they are there. Or not. Maybe they will just be happy they appeared. Or indifferent.

I try also to force the reader to not avert their eyes by not providing any release in the first part. Bodily fluids are pervasive. As Janey Smith once said, I went "comma-tose." He was referring to the unending commas, or unending sentences. The sentences were meant to propel the reader ever forward, and there wouldn't be any stopping. You have to look/feel what the narrator is. Violence, sex, vomit, their redundancies. There's a lot of reasons I wanted to do this but I will save that for some other post, far far in the future. So imagine my surprise then that people would eventually avert their eyes. They raced so quickly over the language, pausing only to pick up the few plot points. Well, that wasn't something I had accounted for. What would it mean if people literally skimmed the top? I reflected on that for a while then realized it wasn't a terrible outcome. It reinforced the disassociation felt by the narrator. Suddenly, the reader was closer to the narrator than before. It made sense to have him unnamed.

Now, I don't think this was everyone's reaction, nor will it be later. But, it feels important. When Herzog makes his claim, I feel really sure that this is true. It probably takes courage to do it. And no one could ever do it all the time. Some things we cannot see/hear/feel. We block those things out out of self-preservation. But, everything else, I think, we should welcome with open arms. Even the sad/scary/hard things, like death, fear, loss.

Finally, a week or so ago, I was on my way home from work and while looking out over the city from the train, I realized, quite surprisingly, that I was unafraid of the future. Did that include my death? I don't know. I can barely conceive of my life ending. I would say that I am unafraid of death, though I am angered and disappointed that I will eventually not breathe. But, it's only disappointing because I won't be able to live more. Death would be the final aversion of the eyes.

This is the Only Place

I realized recently my work computer had a floppy disk drive and so all these old floppy disks I've been holding on to could finally be gone through. There are about 10 of these disks. Most were full of college essays and drafts of stories  from when I was about 16 until probably 21. I found the picture to the left on the disk as well. It's me, obviously, dismayed that I and my two college friends could not get a fire started somewhere in the wilds of Alabama.

We had taken this road trip during the summer between freshmen and sophomore year of college. One friend and I flew to New Hampshire, where the other friend picked us up and drove us back into his hometown of Boston. From there we drove a southern route across the country. It had rained most of the day/night when this picture was taken, and we were just not having any luck getting a fire going.

Just a week ago I received an email from an agent letting me know they were passing on my book. I'm not entirely surprised. I've prepared myself for the numerous passes (or rejections as the realist might call them) I will surely receive. Nevertheless, it's still disappointing to receive a no. Oh, but I don't want to complain. Of course, I'm likely living closer to my dream than a lot of people get the chance to. There's a vast system of support beneath me which launched me toward being so privileged to even appeal to agents and people who publish books, writers and other makers and thinkers.

To the right there is a picture I took while at Janey Smith's 851: The Squat reading series. Brandon Brown was reading and just before he began he accidentally knocked over a martini glass full of cough syrup. You can't exactly tell from this but his hand appeared bloody. That is what I was hoping to capture actually. The martini glass full of cough syrup was there because the previous reader Cassandra Troyan was sipping from it while she read. I had hoped to also take a picture of her reading as well because she had hand-cuffed herself to this chair, but I thought a flash might disturb the environment, I'm sure no one would have minded, but seeing as I had spilled my drink just moments before, I didn't want to disrupt the proceedings any further. Beside her a laptop played a video. Cassandra seemed to be in a type of duet with the video. The images in the video were sometimes of cityscapes, the type you see while driving through a darkened town, or of a woman's legs. Shouts were heard. Meanwhile, Cassandra was reading, possessed maybe, bouncing between voices/phrases comical and corporeal. The micro-press Solar Luxuriance (run by Mike Kitchell and Cassandra) just put out Cassandra's book Throne of Blood.

Brandon Brown's reading was also wonderful. He read 3 pieces about his name, in addition to some others. After the reading was over, I spoke with him about my pleasure in hearing him offer periodic asides within his pieces, which I suspected were mostly built-in to the writing (he confirmed this). He came off as relaxed and improvisational - and that appears to be purposeful. And I love that about his reading. It's almost as if he's offering us a bit of stage banter but it's more important than that. A lot of wonderful readers do this, I think. Of the most recent readers I've seen, Dodie Bellamy, Kevin Killian, and Brandon Brown do it. I also remember, from quite a while ago, when Eileen Myles came to a class I was in (with Dodie actually) and I fell in love with the way Eileen seemed as if she were just speaking directly to you as she read. It's like at any moment the topic could change (and it often does), but as most conversations go, it will find its way back to the original concerns. Or maybe it won't, and then you wonder why not?

This is a picture at the end of the night. Janey thought to gather one representative of each of the writing communities in attendance. I'm not sure which communities they all represent, but the two people in red/burgundy might represent the new Alt Lit/internet writing scene (I'm sorry I didn't catch their names). Janey, far left, represents 851. Brandon, next, represents the East Bay scene. And Mike Kitchell, in the beanie, represents... I'm not sure, because I forgot how Janey organized it all. But, Mike would probably fall into the SF scene (if you go by regions). Really, I would classify him as 'writers I'm envious of for their output'. There are a lot of writers in that classification actually.

Finally, I wanted to add a picture taken by Kevin Killian as part of his "Eyes on the Prize" photography exhibition at [2nd floor projects]. Kevin came to my house a few days ago and we had a fun time, he taking my picture and me trying to be the best model I could be. There's a lot more to say about Kevin's photography project, but I will just encourage everyone to check out his exhibition. And if you're not in the Bay Area to do that, you might want to ask yourself why you don't live in the Bay Area... Why would you live anywhere else? 

666 666 666

Saw this address in the Richmond district of San Francisco and took a picture of it. I think I was returning to my friends Jason and Jamie's apartment after drinks in the Inner Sunset. At some point we stopped near the DeYoung Museum and took pictures on our phones. It was late and there were hardly any people around. (I may be mixing two different nights)

I only partially intentionally included 9 chapters in the second part of my novel. When I realized I could squeeze everything into 9 chapters, I figured it made sense in terms of the demonic, etc. Also there are 27 chapters in the first part of the novel. Sometimes I wonder if all these little parts of my book will be discovered, whether I should alert everyone to them or not. I like the idea of leaving little bits for the reader to find on their own. I guess a lot of the latest revisions have been about making those discoveries for the reader more exciting and potentially powerful.

Recently, I received an email letting me know one of my 'stories' will be published in the next/final volume of The Encyclopedia Project. One of my former teachers co-edits the book. When I found out it was accepted, I was with my family in Sacramento for Christmas. My grandma asked me about the story. I pulled up the pdf on her laptop and read a little bit to my grandma, my mom, and my great-grandmother. My grandpa was in the living room and could hear me, I think. At certain parts my grandma laughed and that made me feel good. And she understood it. And that made me feel good.

Here's a picture of me at Highland Hospital in Oakland. I wasn't feeling good then. I was on my way to work when my back and side started to hurt. I thought I just had to use the bathroom but after I unsuccessfully used the toilet at the MacArthur BART station, I remembered that I had felt this pain before, about a month earlier, though a much less intense version. I hurried home and called my dad who told me to not be stupid and go to the hospital. I would be stupid to not go because I don't have health insurance. The insurance I did have had expired about a month prior to this, actually.

I woke my roommate and asked her if she could help me get to the hospital. Luckily, there was a hospital right down the street so we walked there - a walk that should have taken 5 minutes but apparently took 30. This was a children's hospital however so they weren't really set up to help adults. But, regardless, they gave me some drugs and called an ambulance. My dad had called my mom and soon she was there too. The pain ended up being a kidney stone. I was taken to Highland eventually. I'm actually hamming it up in this picture because I was texting with my dad, and he had sent me a picture of himself in the hospital when he had a kidney stone. By this point I had been on drugs and in between and at hospitals since 8am and it was probably 4pm, and still I hadn't eaten anything. While I lie there, a man was brought in who had been shot in the back of the head. I like that behind me in the picture, the hospital seems empty and peaceful, I guess, but actually behind my mom there was an entire drama playing out.

I stopped writing this blog post so I could meet with two friends for coffee. While I waited for my friends to arrive I went into a bookstore and bought a magazine - Boston Review (BR). When I shop for groceries, I stare at the magazines the store places there so you might buy them last minute. In the past, I've never been tempted to buy the magazines, but recently, I've felt this urge to buy them all: the New Yorker, the Economist, Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair, etc. For a while when I was living with B, the New Yorker was always around and I liked looking through it. I don't know why I never picked it up on my own. I resist the urge to buy the magazines in the store because I know if I just go online and subscribe I can get a better value. I haven't subscribed to anything yet. I will likely subscribe to Boston Review however. I started following the Boston Review on twitter because twitter told me I might interested in them based off of other accounts I follow. I don't follow many 'news' magazines, mostly literary journals so I thought at first the Boston Review was a literary magazine. After a while I noticed the BR's tweets were mostly about politics and while on my long work commutes I was actually reading the articles their tweets linked to. Basically, they grew on me. Then tonight when I saw their actual print version, I had to get it. I look forward to subscribing.

On Two Readings and Five Writers

That's me after I shaved one half of my head. It had been growing out so long. I had this reading with Dodie Bellamy and Francesca Lisette coming up at Woolsey Heights (thanks to Andrew Kenower for inviting me!) and for whatever reason, if I don't feel like I look my best, I won't be my best, and so forth. It just leads to me feeling insecure. Dodie had promised me that the audience would be receptive to my work so I don't know why I would be so nervous. I guess, it's because never before any reading had I felt everyone in the audience would be a better writer/reader than me. That must sound silly. This would be my audience so I wanted to impress them. Any sign of me being a fraud and they would sense it immediately. Maybe I should think about why I don't have a certain confidence in myself when I'm in a room of people whom I feel are my peers. I remember a discussion B and I had where, this was my impression at least, she just wanted me to shout into the phone, "Because I'm the best!" Of course, maybe it's not about me being the best. Naturally, I am not trying to be better than the audience or my fellow readers - about Francesca and Dodie's readings in a minute. I just want to be among the many who people like and appreciate. Is it embarrassing to admit to such an ambition? I don't know. Anti-capitalist feelings pull me one direction and tell me to eschew popularity and capital and all of that. Why am I writing, really, if all I want is to be loved? Isn't writing to be loved a perfectly good reason to write? I think Rachel Hyman from Banango Lit posed this question on her Facebook and I tried to answer it sincerely.

There is a feeling in me that I began to write stories to receive the attention. I remember in pre-school or perhaps early elementary signing up to read a story in front of the class. My memory now tells me I was doing it because I wanted everyone to like me. This goes to all kinds of questions about why we write and so on. What is writings purpose? Sorry, I can hear people yawning and saying, Oh god! after that question. I guess I stopped asking that question when I was in undergrad. I don't think writing needs a purpose. I will show my philosophical leanings here and say nothing has a purpose. Everything just is or becomes.

In any case, when I gave my reading with Dodie and Francesca, I was extremely nervous. I had chosen the end of the first part of my book - the part that is contemporary. It's all about sex and death and the main characters d/evolving into their chosen wild nature. It's my favorite part of the story and I'm really happy when I read it. I also pulled out a chunk of the second part of the book - the part about Catherine of Siena. I had never read anything from this story and I figured a receptive audience would be willing to go with me to 14th-century Italy. The best comment after I read was, "It's like Twilight, but good."

Francesca Lisette read after me. She's from England, and I'm not afraid to admit, I'm a sucker for accents. Isn't everybody? It's so easy to listen to someone who does not sound like you. It may mean something else to about being infatuated with imperial power but... Francesca's reading was hyper and relevant. She created these humorous moments for us and everyone laughed and then sped along to another image. I loved it. If I had had some money at the time I would have bought one of her books she had with her.

Then Dodie read. I think this was my favorite reading of Dodie's. Perhaps only because she was reading absolutely new work. Since I'm such a fan of hers I'm always pretty familiar with what's happening, but this time she was reading from her new book about (among other things) cults. I had heard her speak about the book but never any actual prose. So I was anticipating this for a while. As I watched her read, I realized that Dodie is pretty much a rockstar. She is such a master at delivering her writing. I found myself tearing up a bit because I was lucky enough to be her student. I wondered how many readings Dodie has given and how long it took for her to become so good at it? Maybe this is embedded into Dodie's writing but her readings feel as if she is merely speaking to you one on one, telling the most interesting and wild story - sometimes about herself - and at times you're laughing and at others you're flowing in the rhythm of her images. Because Dodie just published a book about a recent romantic relationship, I'm sure everyone has a good idea of what character "Dodie's" life has been like. But for this new book, Dodie the author is going back to a completely different time and for me it's enlightening to hear one of your favorite authors open up about other times in their life.

I don't remember if my reading was before or after Kevin and Rob's. Rob Halpern was my first creative writing teacher at UCSC - that's him to the left. I've only seen him a few times since that first quarter, but we've emailed quite a few times. I got to the reading a little late. All the seats were taken. Rob was standing up. I think Kevin was standing too. Rob said, And there's Jason. Then the audience turned and looked at me. I sat on the ground close to the wall. Rob read first from Music For Porn. I had heard about this book for a while but I think it just recently was published. I think what I love most about Rob's reading is the sound of his voice. The cadence of his words, obviously his images, his earnestness. I've always found his voice and his writing to have a particular type of weight to which I aspire. The interesting thing is it's been nearly 12 years since I first met Rob and he still looks the same to me. I don't know how much different I look but I know the student I was then does not resemble me now. I scratch my head now thinking how Rob could have recognized some small hope in the awful stories I wrote for him. Maybe he just saw the philosophical issues I was grappling with and then knew to offer me some help. Who knows. If I read my own stories now as a teacher, I probably would be embarrassed for the student.

Then came Kevin - he's there to the left standing, Dodie right in front of him. Like Dodie, Kevin reads as if he is speaking to you one on one. Or at least that is how I hear it. He appears so relaxed, his storytelling feels direct and somewhat classic. His new book Spreadeagle seems complicated however, if only because he had to break from the reading to explain a character or something. This wasn't a problem at all for me because I love when the curtain is drawn away from the book and the author fills us in. I'm having this image come to me now of Kevin as Willy Wonka. Not the Johnny Depp version - though I love that version too. There's Kevin leading us into his vast factory and stopping in all the different rooms to explain the alien machinery and the little men who keep it all running.

One Big Awesome Miraculous America

and the picture to the right is me at my graduation from CCA. I didn't mean to align my fist so evenly with the flag; it just turned out that way. Though I liked wearing the gown and the silly hat, the graduation was a little dull. The school crammed all the graduates off to the side of the stage, behind large wooden beams. I could barely see the audience or the speakers. It was very hot. I sat with two peers whom I am friends with but we could only entertain ourselves for so long. I don't even remember the main speaker's name now, but I wasn't impressed. Some representative from CCA introduced this main speaker by listing all the reasons we should be impressed by him. He had done a lot of things; like inventing the first laptop or something like that. Then this main speaker gets up and proceeds to give us his basic life story... including his accomplishments again. He hadn't come from some impoverished background or anything interesting. He was just a man who made good on his talents and now he was here at CCA receiving an honorary degree. He didn't have to pay 100k for his I guess. I'm sure he's fine person and it's good he's done what he's done, but I didn't feel inspired by his speech and let's face it, that's what these speeches are for. The rally your reserves! sort of speech. I know you've been through a lot and never doubt how important your art is to the world. Look at me! I invented the laptop for chrissakes! Ok. Thanks. I've never doubted why becoming writer was important. Just wondering if other people care. I think I've written about this before. Anyway, I guess it's not really this guy's job to get me excited about the future. That's my job. But still. It was hot. I would have been happy if he ended with CLEAR EYES FULL HEARTS. And we would yell back CAN'T LOSE.

A while ago I bought some Google offer deal groupon thing for Green Apple Books. I used it to buy David Graeber's Debt from Melville House. My teacher Miranda Mellis recommended I read it as part of my research for my next book - which I guess I should call another novel. So yes, I'm writing another novel. Anyway, Debt just blew me away. I read it in a week I think. Maybe parts of his book are obvious to others, but not to me. He surveys a few economics text books and shows how they falsely claim (and by claim I mean teach) that ancient peoples bartered and then invented money. Wrong. Credit existed before money and rarely, if ever, did people barter. He sets up credit as a moral dilemma. Guess which side he comes down on? It's not the banks. It's hard not to read the book, look at the world around us, and then wonder why things aren't changing. I think he even altered parts of my brain, how I view transactions, human and financial. I feel this is a rare thing these days. My brain being significantly altered does not happen too frequently these days. The paradigms up in my skull rarely shift but in regards to Debt the paradigm shifted. It was the perfect book to read for my next project and I took a lot of notes for the THING.


Not too long ago I also gave a reading as part of The Grinder Reading Series at the Telegraph Cafe here in Oakland. It was fun. The picture to the left I took right when I got off the bus to head to the reading. I was on the bus and all these teenagers started running by me and jaywalking across the street. Ahead of me I heard the screams of hundreds of young girls and boys, yelling and crying. I thought, Wow, I'm getting popular. All these people are coming to my reading? Of course, I knew this wasn't true; I just thought it because it seemed like a funny thought to have. So I catch up to this horde of teen-dom and realize all these girls and boys are screaming after some British boy band called One Direction. The energy level was insane. I could literally feel the VIBES floating in the air and I thought, How exciting! I wanted to shout at these busses too! Who are One Direction? I asked some crusty Oakland cyclists standing off to the sides with their bikes. They shrugged their shoulders. Then a parent told me they were a boy band, and she shrugged her shoulders like I Don't Know Either. I kept walking past the crowd and got to the reading.

I felt a little funny at first because 1) I had no book to sell 2) the reading was outdoors 3) I didn't know anyone too well. But, quickly, I realized it didn't matter if I had a book to sell, and the sun was nice, and then the organizer of the series Jason Schenheit, a SFSU writing pal, came up to me and gave me a big hug. I felt good then. I was welcomed. Obviously, I was never around for The Beats, but I had the impression this was a beat type audience. They talked back to the open mic readers and laughed and reacted to what was being read. Oh man, I thought, usually people just sit quietly and listen to what I say. Is this going to be like stand-up? Will I have to make witty banter, etc? After two readers I was up, as a featured reader. I guess this made me a little more important than the open mic'ers. I read three short works. The first probably worked the best because they were collections of random topics where I unbelievably (to myself) made some witty observations. I usually don't find myself too witty. But, the pieces worked and people laughed. Then the second work didn't work so well, at least not all the time. It had to do with my last name and how I don't say it in Spanish. JIM instead of HIM. I wasn't feeling the vibes when I read it. Like I was offending everyone. Maybe not. The last piece worked because I talked about Jodie Foster and attributed some fake quote to her. I guess everyone likes Jodie Foster.

I didn't stay too long after I read because I had forgotten to bring a sweater or jacket and when the sun went down, it became cold and windy. I hopped back on the bus home. It was a precision strike, I thought. I just went in there, read my stuff and got out. I wondered if anyone would remember me. Maybe they would, right? Eventually they'll see me somewhere. On a bookshelf or another reading and they will say, Hey, I remember you from that reading! Finally, I thought, it was so nice what Jason S said to me. He said, it was good to have someone at the reading with my kind of caliber. How amazing! I have caliber! I have caliber!

So, now, I'm finishing up Kevin Killian's Impossible Princess (one story left) and it's amazing. I can't help but wish I had discovered KK and the rest of New Narrative before college. I think some things would have been different - as far as writing style is concerned. Also, I'm finishing up Bret Easton Ellis' The Rules of Attraction. I guess I liked Less Than Zero. I definitely liked American Psycho (sometimes). I guess I prefer the movie, well, Christian Bale anyway. There are things to appreciate about RULES. It doesn't have a typical narrative arc. That's always pleasing. Like my best friend, Jason, said about it though, I just can't buy into his cynic view of the world. And I agree. Everything isn't so bad as Ellis believes. Then again, if you read Graeber's book you

Spring Beats

I'm listening to my lastfm library right now. I will write each song that comes on while I prepare this blog post. Right now, Best Coast's "Happy". On March 30th I read with my fellow graduating writers at our Word. World. celebration. My family came from out of town. B was there. Two of my closest friends showed up. Three of my other closest friends showed up right when I was wrapping up my reading. I tried to dress like a priest for my reading because I thought my story was like a sermon. Before the reading began I ran into my dad and his girlfriend. I was really out of it and nervous but glad to see them. I flashed back to this memory of my dad coming out of his room (our room) at our Cottage Way house. I was about 9 or 10. He was getting dressed to go out dancing or something. He came out into the living room and threw his arms out and said, "Do I look sharp?" He smelled nice and he looked really cool, I remember thinking. So now every time I dress nice I think of my dad then and I either say "do I look sharp?" or I think it in my head. When I ran into my dad before the reading I wanted to ask him if I looked sharp, but I was so nervous and out of it, I forgot. B was also down the hall and I didn't want to keep her waiting for me. I don't know why I worried about that. My dad sat me down and pulled out a gift: a powered messenger bag with all sorts of bells and whistles that only recently have I figured out how to use. My dad's voice became sort of solemn and serious. He said he was giving me the bag as a way to say congratulations for graduating (though I haven't actually graduated yet) and just to say 'good job'. I flashed back to another time when I was a sophomore in high school. It was in the fall, at the cross country section championships. It was raining. (Ride's "Leave Them All Behind") My dad and I stood beneath a hallway near the race course. He pulled out a white envelope and inside there was a small necklace with a gold medallion of some saint, I forget now, and a letter my dad had written. It said something like he was really proud of me and that the medal belonged to my (deceased) grandpa. Then my dad pinned the medal to my running shorts and said that when I ran my grandpa would be with me. I ended up winning that race and the sophomore championship. I'm pretty sure this is the only race I've won.

All of us readers sat in a row off to the side of the audience so I got to stare at my family and friends as they listened to the other readers. When I took the stage I was still very nervous. The lights were very bright; I could only see the very far left side of the audience which was only 3 or 4 people... all former peers incidentally. But, that was good I could see them because I felt like I was speaking to my friends, though because of my story I mostly had to read from my pages. I read my story in a way that I've never read before and I think it was much different than the other readers. I didn't know at the time if the audience would pick up on this or not, or if it was just something I sensed. This particular story cannot be read so much as performed. After I was finished I talked to Kevin Killian (one of the teachers here that I haven't worked with yet... or ever will since the year is over, but maybe some day) about the performative aspect of my reading. He liked all the hand motions I made and even suggested I turn it into a type of dance. We were speaking mostly in jest, I think. Kevin brought over Dodie (Bellamy) and we all shared a laugh about the little dance Kevin and I made up for my story. It seemed that most people liked my reading and they really enjoyed the hand motions that I made while reading. (Cut Copy's "Where I'm Going") Some people thought what I was doing was funny and some thought it was serious. Thankfully, B knew that I am mostly always serious and earnest in my writing and understood, later, my frustration that people laughed while I read - though I guess I have to admit I did throw in some 'funny' parts. On the other hand, people laughed at parts which I don't think are funny. The biggest surprise was that here I thought I was explaining this extremely complicated concept and I was really worried people would not understand me, but it seemed as if people did understand what I was reading and that made me feel good because part of the project of this story is to be understood, what it means to understand others, to be understood by others. And then all of the sudden, here I was, after the reading, and it turns out I made sense to people! In classes, a few days after the reading, classmates even reference some of the language from my story in class - like I had introduced this whole new way of talking about things. Obviously, I didn't, but it feels good when people talk about what you have written, especially when they don't have to or aren't forced to by the workshop environment. (Jonsi's "Animal Arithmetic" - my favorite song of 2010)

Earlier today, M Kitchell (a writer who posts on HTMLGiant often) posted a question about Marie Calloway's new story "Jeremy Lin". So I read the new story and actually enjoyed it more than "Adrien Brody"... though it essentially isn't a "story" so much as a blog post. I thought, this is just a blog post, then I thought about how my mentor here, Dodie, her latest book came from a blog, and everything Dodie was trying to do with "blogging" and being female (I'm grossly over-simplifying Dodie's aims, but please forgive me!). I thought, maybe I shouldn't deride Calloway for publishing a blog post because then that would just be like discriminating against Dodie's book, which I absolutely love. Maybe, then, I'm just being biased and since Calloway is younger than me, and more popular, and hangs out with Tao Lin, and gives readings in New York, and isn't Dodie, I just don't like her. But, then, Calloway, in her new story, doesn't even seem to be aware of what she's doing or how she's doing it, and it all seems so contrived (in a bad way). So I guess I don't know. I like Calloway's new story more than the previous, but still don't understand, again still, why everyone's talking about her writing. This all comes, also, from being part of the 'intellectual n+1-loving' writers who find value in discovering good/bad writing... which apparently Tao Lin hates or dislikes... (Health's "USA Boys"), but Calloway, I'm assuming, doesn't mind. Whatever.

So, now, my thesis has been turned in, and I meet in early May with my committee and then they will tell me if I earned my MFA or not. Barring some anti-miracle, they will say I earned it. (Mirrors' "Lights and Offering") Then, what? The book becomes a book and not a thesis or something else. My other mentor Miranda Mellis challenged me to write a cover letter which I will then, conceivably, send out to agents or houses. When Miranda issued the challenge we talked about what my book is about and it was very enlightening to me. Also, it was the first time I expressed to someone other than B what I was really aiming at in the writing, at least in any cohesive way. I will have to explain it again when I meet with my committee. It was great to hear from Miranda that what I thought I had done was not the complete opposite of what she understood about my book. (El Guincho's "Lycra Mistral")

B took the picture above in my room. (I Break Horses' "Winter Beats")

Exhaustion Report

I haven't posted in over 3 months because I've been working diligently on my MFA thesis. At CCA we turn in our theses to a 3 member faculty committee and then we meet with that committee 2 times to discuss our projects. I've met once so far with my committee (Dodie Bellamy, Donna de la Perriere, Shanthi Sekaran) and it went wonderfully. I had been extremely nervous prior to the meeting but once we all sat down my nervousness went away, and Dodie, Donna, and Shanthi all had really helpful suggestions, and even boosted my confidence. Later, I met one-on-one with Dodie and she took me to dinner, and even though the restaurant had some sort of gas stove malfunction, the dinner was tasty and of course, Dodie offered invaluable comments on my writing.

Since I'm winding down my time as a graduate student at CCA I thought I would express some sense of how lucky I feel to have met the teachers and peers who have made my last 2 years amazingly productive. Just today I met with my mentor Miranda Mellis. We had coffee at Mission Pie. Had I already eaten lunch I might have ordered banana cream pie for dessert! But just a mocha was good. I had never heard of Miranda before coming to CCA; I had never heard of Dodie either, but now I can't imagine my time here without them. I don't think I would have developed how I have had I not been lucky enough to take their classes and be their "mentee". And even better they actually enjoy working with me! What a love letter this is turning out to be. But, it's not just Dodie and Miranda. I've met some really great peers and collaborators. I feel certain some of these people will remain in my life for some time. I feel certain I will work and write with these people in the future. Naturally, some people I will never see again and that's probably not a bad thing.

So I wonder what will we all do when we graduate. Right now I don't know. Certainly, there is no doubt that I will continue writing with the hopes of being published. I think just two years ago there could have been some doubt about that. I wasn't a committed writer. Now, I am. Wouldn't it be great to make living doing it? Or teaching it? Or somehow being involved in the publishing process? Do my peers feel the same? I haven't asked them so I don't know. Do some leave graduate school with an MFA and then never publish anything for the rest of their lives? Is that possible?

While I was on BART this afternoon, I imagined a scene. A fellow passenger would ask me what I did, and I would respond, "I'm a writer." I imagined society's response to that. Or its many responses. How does the rest of the world view what we do? I'm assuming there are no 'non-writers' who read my blog so they might not be able to tell me. Is there some statistic on what people think of writers? And not just economics. Judging how writers are paid, I can guess what people think of them. But, there should be a more emotional view too. Shouldn't there?

I would like to create something beautiful and good. I think I can do that by writing.

A few years ago I read the unabridged edition of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. The last 200-300 pages were exquisitely difficult. The emotional power of the story made it impossible not to cry. I loved the characters and their struggle. I don't think I've ever been so involved in a story. I look to those final pages as the prime example of what I want to do not only for others but for myself. I would like to have that feeling again. Even if I have to create it. I would like to create something beautiful and good. This seems like the ideal outcome.

Words With Friends

As a forewarning, this will likely be a meandering, ponderous post. Let us begin: I'm in Antelope, staying with my mom in her new house which she shares with my aunt. My mom's old house, my childhood home, is somewhere over there. Anyway, I'm sleeping on the couch. At neither of my parents' homes do I have a room. Which makes sense. I just got an iPhone 4. Not the newest one, but to me, it's like stepping into a new century. Privately, I scoff at people who spend their train rides hunched over their phones, fingers noodling the screens, downloading apps. Such an ugly word and term. The internet age is full of silly words. Google. iPad. Zynga. Facebook. Twitter. Apps. Push notifications (I just learned this one). I'm sure people have written about this before. The language of the internet is ugly. I should have said I USED to scoff but now I know I can't because while my mom and I visited with my extended family I lay on the floor and downloaded Netflix, Words with Friends, Yelp, Fandango. Probably another, I forget. Now, I'm unable to sleep and so I'm getting completely annihilated by someone named Twihard Ninja on Words with Friends (for those who don't know this is a scrabble-like game). In between my turns I follow the #occupysf tag on twitter and watch someone streaming the SFPD breaking up an encampment at the Federal Reserve Bank. The guy streaming is clearly upset and then in between some usual ranting he claims that it's the Fed's fault we're in this crisis - or something like that. My immediate response is, "I've heard this before!" END the FED. I google it. It's the name of Republican presidential nominee Ron Paul's book. Does that mean the guy streaming is a libertarian like Paul? I know there's some sort of love affair for Ron Paul by people who are sort of like me. Young, hip, educated. He doesn't believe in war, he wants the federal government to stay out of everything. I don't know. It doesn't feel right.

In 2008 I remember going for a drive by my dad's old house in Roseville. For some reason it was okay back then (for me) to just drive aimlessly in the undeveloped parts of the vast suburb that is Roseville/Rocklin. I remember seeing Paul's "Revolution" posters. EVOL was backwards. LOVE. What did he mean? It was a love revolution? Revolution of love? Against love, for love, etc? I didn't understand it. I preferred Obama's hope and change slogans. They made sense. But, nothing makes sense now. We're off axis, it seems.

My game is about to end with Twihard Ninja. This person is very good. Or not at all and I am just bad. In my last move I had WORLD to put down but there was nowhere to put it.

The picture above is the head of Saint Catherine of Siena. After I read my mom a bit of my book, she told me she had been to Siena. I had completely forgotten her trip to Italy. She said she had seen Catherine's finger. I didn't believe her. Then she showed me the picture. When I looked up the finger I also noticed that the church has had her head. I found a picture of that. You can see her face. The whole time I've been researching this book, never have I seen anything that said her finger and head were kept at her church in Siena. While I write the story I look at paintings of her and in a weird way I start to see her and then I imagine her and then I write her. The picture above though is really her. This is the face of the character in my book. I'll probably sound like some shroomed out freshmen in college when I say this, but isn't it amazing that my life and hers are linked in this particular way?

Twihard Ninja: ~450

Me: ~290

The Thought of the Heart

So I've been insanely busy this semester, since moving back to San Francisco. Thus, I haven't even posted since school started. I took the picture on the left at the California Academy of the Sciences. A group of friends and I were there to see Jens Lekman play some music. Prior to the show we toured around the Academy. I have a special appreciation for primates of all kinds so I had to take this picture. It's a mountain gorilla. I didn't notice until now that the rectangular reflection near the gorilla's chest resembles some tablet or book shaped object. As if the gorilla is reading. All of this resonates with me right now because I'm working on something about monkeys and gorillas and humans really. B read my initial effort and posed some really great questions which provoked creative thoughts. In finding a way around her criticisms I ended up creating an entirely new work that I read in class just the other day. My teacher said it was 'performative'. I like the idea of performing the writing. It's something I haven't really thought about - at least not with that term. Mostly this semester has been about writing 'Catherine' and finishing my thesis - simultaneously discovering a vast amount of forms and content exist for me to take up. The story about the monkeys is really just the beginning of this discovery.

Last night I went to Dodie Bellamy's class at SFSU because Ariana Reines was going to speak to the class about her new book Mercury. In fact, tonight I'm going to watch Dodie and Ariana read in the Mission. It was sort of like a star struck moment for me to meet Ariana. I took a lot of notes when she spoke about poetry and her writing process. Dodie, Ariana, Ariana's book tour partner Stuart, and I went downstairs for tea and chips. Though I feel fairly confident in talking about writing now, I still had the whole star struck thing going and I'm sure Ariana thought I was a bit crazy. One thing I felt and understood about Ariana's writing, which maybe I didn't understand until I heard her read two of her poems, is that a certain type of love is propelling her writing. It seems as if she is writing as an extension of her physical body. And it feels like her extension is an extension of love. Not romantic or sexual necessarily. But love as caring and as wanting to empathize with the recipient of the writing, her community on this earth. My thoughts/feelings on this were echoed this morning when I sat down at the CCA Oakland cafe to eat my cheese danish and coffee. Dodie had given me a book by this psychologist (Jungian/Post-Jungian) James Hillman. I didn't have time to even get past the first 5 pages because I was responding (in writing) to every sentence. Hillman writes about the difference between mind and heart, the origin of philosophy, philos is not a detached reasoning of life; philosophy comes first from the heart. Hillman uses a quote from a Greek writer (I think, I haven't had a chance to check it out yet): "As you speak, so is your heart." The heart is speaking, I am speaking, Ariana is speaking.

The End of the Road

I'm sitting in my best friend Jason File's apartment which he shares with his girlfriend Jamie. I have left Brooklyn and New York. I came home to chilly weather and a comfortable, familiar fog that surrounds me in memories and a sense of progress. I mostly associate the fog and the smell of the ocean so close to the city with my first experience living far from home at school in Santa Cruz. Interestingly, the memories are mostly of driving in to The Cruz in the late night/early morning from Sacramento. I loved driving at night, I love driving at night. I love rolling the windows down, good music on the stereo. I reach into the back seat and feel for a sweater that I've strategically placed on top of my pack. Sweater weather, the moving fog. I don't yet know what my life will be like, I don't have a clear picture of myself as a person, but I know I'm approaching it. All of this feeling is compressed once I leave The Cruz and settles into one image of the Fog and its attending sensations of cold and clarity.

I have left Brooklyn. The only home I've known outside of California. Sometimes I would hesitate to tell B I was "at home" if she wondered where I was. Could I call this my home? Was I home? After a while it was my home and I felt a part of the always bustling city (Brooklyn, not Manhattan). Who knows what the experience will settle into once I've spent time away. It could be dinners with B. Funny experiments with veggie burgers, cold salads, homemade popsicles. Late night walks to the Greenpoint pier and the privileged view of what B liked to think was the center of the world. I don't know if that's true or not, but it sure seems like it. One look at the Empire rising above earth and you must believe that your time on this planet, as a member of this civilization, has meant something. On that pier with that view you see human magnificence. When I look to my left and imagine the Towers I see the price of our magnificence - in the negative, the lacking. I feel B's hand in my mine and my experience as a human feels whole.

The picture above is in our neighborhood. B and I liked to get ice cream after dinner. Most often we would head to Van Leeuwen (towards Williamsburg). I could never decide if I liked the pistachio or strawberry. Finally, one afternoon we walked the other direction and went to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. I bought strawberry. It was my favorite as a kid and I think that it always will be.

Last night I received emails from my two peer collaborators, Katelyn and Jessica. Katelyn had ordered a copy of our new book. She said that it looks wonderful, a few possible changes might need to be made, but overall it seems like it's what we had envisioned when we first came up with the idea. I'm so excited to hold this tiny book in my hands. Katelyn said that it is a small beautiful thing made carefully. There are so many reasons to want to continue making such things or to have the outcome of your work be viewed as such.

Not too long ago B and I traveled up to Beacon, NY and went to the Dia:Beacon museum. In my limited museum experience, it is my favorite museum. I'm attracted to the work there. Agnes Martin, Dan Flavin, Richard Serra, Sol LeWitt. I've mostly been fascinated by Agnes Martin for about the past year but the LeWitt wall drawings and Serra's large iron swirls or whatever you call them really blew my mind. I've seen other Serra works before but these particular MONUMENTS were amazing. B and I walked through them a few times. I wish I had the language to describe the work. I also go to see a spider by Louise Bourgeois. I don't need to explain why a large spider appeals to me.

On the flight back to San Francisco I started and finished Patti Smith's Just Kids. The picture to the left is Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. I liked this picture the most in the book. In my book WOLF I reference a photograph that Mapplethorpe took of himself, whip hanging from his asshole. I will have to revisit this section of the book. Late last year I read Eileen Myles' Inferno. Smith factors heavily in it so reading Just Kids felt like a dive deeper into the world that created Myles and Acker and eventually the writers who I now love and feel inspired by, Gluck, Boone, Bellamy, etc. So it was somewhat surprising to realize that Patti Smith wouldn't exist mostly without Arthur Rimbaud. My love for Rimbaud always seemed a little out of step with the literary canon I felt a kinship to. Not that I actively searched for him in the New Narrative. But, it just seemed like such an obvious point at which to start. EVERYONE already loves Rimbaud so sometimes it's not even worth mentioning that he has inspired you. Rimbaud, Smith, Myles/Acker/Bellamy/Reines, me? It's curious my own lineage is so heavily female. Maybe it isn't. There are dozens of strands that lead up to me. Some female, some male. Mostly poets. But I guess it begins with Arthur Rimbaud. And really I have to confess to loving his biography more than his poetry. I sense his power in his poems but his life seems more than the writing. Of course, no poem has affected me more than "Sensation". I've borrowed so many ideas and lines from that two stanza poem that it seems like it will always exist as a pumping heart, lyrical blood. Naturally everything from A Season in Hell permeates my conception of words and writing, is the room in which I compose my various hells. Rimbaud's ability/destiny however to strike the earth and transform writing forever appeals to me. I have no great ambition to do the same in the universal sense but in my small way I can transform myself, the only true earth.

Reading of Robert Mapplethorpe's death from AIDS forces me to confront an experience of loss that a specific generation of artists felt. But when I do I can only feel the loss in reverse. They begin dead, come alive and then disappear again. The loss is biographical, not existential.

I took the picture to the left while editing WOLF. In this moment I felt entirely lost. I wanted to capture how I looked. I don't know if my face conveys the sense of fear and incompetence I was feeling. Luckily, good news awaited me a few weeks after this moment. I know this feeling will return at various points in my life, as a writer, lover, father, etc, but also I know that I do have the power to battle against my fear of worthlessness and meaninglessness. There is no goal but to feel less incapable of handling those fears. "There is strength in you, I see it." Thank you William Wallace.

So I'm back in San Francisco. I don't move back into my house until September 1st. At some point I will figure out when I'm supposed to begin school. I've been really bad this semester at knowing when things begin. I will also begin my first stint as a teacher's assistant. My head is full of questions regarding all these new things in my immediate future.

Ahead of me I have rewriting catherine, which fully re-imagined itself over 4 days while still in Brooklyn. Now all I must do is convey its own sense of itself. It's weird to have a story tell you how it is supposed to be written. I look forward to the relief. I've gathered some ideas for a new shorter work, possibly. My novella about the love of my life will soon be finished and hopefully not too long after that available in some form. I will have a birthday too - not for a few months but it's coming.