Saturday, August 1, 2009

Recent works by some of the artists who also hang around here sometimes, Volume Six

----
ToC
1. Nick/'Put The Lotion In The Basket'
2. Alan Horn/'alan'
3. Jake Byrne/'Jake'
4. Thomas Moore/'Thomas Moronic'
5. Flit
6. Steven Vineis
7. Distimium
8. Mike Kitchell/'magick mike'
9. Mark Gluth
10. Ovmujyo/'You-x'
11. O.B. De Alessi/'Oscar B'
12. Alec Niedenthal
13. Alex Rose/'clovenskull'
14. Derek McCormack, Kevin Killian, mxxpalmer/'mark'
15. Kier Cooke Sandvik/'kier'
16. Nicholas Cook/'NB'
17. JW Veldhoen
18. TM Davy
19. Tim Jones-Yelvington
20. Daniel Portland
21. Marcus Whale
22. Michael Karo
23. Matt Marcure/'Panda?'
24. George Wines/'Misanthrope'
25. Ben Robinson/'_Black_Acrylic'
26. Kyte Lockett/'KYTE'
27. Joshua Dalton/'Postitbreakup'
28. Steven Hanley/'Lux'


____________
1 story by Nick
aka 'Put The Lotion In The Basket'


Letters from a Serial Killer



Her Majesties Prison Service Wakefield High Security Prison Wakefield Yorkshire B Wing High Secure Isolation Unit Prisoner Number 2666/3857

I write this letter as part of my prison rehabilitation programme.
I know you will never read this as you died, murdered by me.
Last letter, last victim.
Ironic.
A scene kid, carefully dressed, hair just so, all that weren’t you?
The roofies I used to get you back to my flat kind of spoiled the fun because they made you too passive and unresponsive.
Still that did mean we could party a little harder, I still have a snap picture of you in my head, hands tied above your head to the hook in the ceiling, head lolled to the right-hand side and there was some drool coming from your mouth, was that vomit or blood, it’s not so clear now after these years?

(cont.)







TUESDAY, JULY 21, 2009
The Parts of the Body






FRIDAY, JULY 10, 2009
John Cale in "Please Kill Me"

Nico could be the mistress of the destructive one-liner. I remember one morning we had gathered at the Factory for a rehearsal. Nico came in late, as usual. Lou said hello to her in a rather cold way.

Nico simply stood there. You could see she was waiting to reply, in her own time. Ages later, out of the blue, came her first words: "I cannot make love to Jews anymore."



MONDAY, JULY 6, 2009
from the New Yorker's "Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian" capsule review

When people insist on calling his war costume a dress, [Hank Azaria as the pharaoh Kahmunrah] becomes agitated. “It’s a tunic,” Azaria says, irritably shaking his fly-whisk sceptre, or nekhakha. “Tunic.”



WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 2009
Jane Birkin






TUESDAY, JUNE 30, 2009
opening lines: "Fly Paper" by Dashiell Hammett

It was a wandering daughter job.



SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 2009
Summer Reading (#10)







aka 'Jake'


snapshots.

III

Luis is at the station, counting how long it takes the trains to disappear then re-appear. He pulls out his postcards and locates the few blank ones left. Being constantly stoned fucks with his memory so Luis spews his consciousness onto the cards, 86 of them sit at the bottom of his bag. One for each day since he left home. This new one's decorated with oceanic green waves laping at a beach littered with tourists. A girl wearing a cap and sunscreen on her cheeks has been superimposed in the foreground, it's meant to look cute I guess.

P.O box 319
Southgate Apartments
CBD 3000
Alex fucked me again today and I think Dee liked it.

Just before 6 am Luis wakes to the echo of morning commuters. Two policemen patrol the underpass disturbing squatters in their alcoholic innocence. The man stops short, noticing Luis clutching at his sleeve, he scans the infected skin accompanying Luis' veins and tightens his grip.

Police headquarters isn't what Luis expected. Two clerks file paperwork, a noticeboard littered with mundane announcements and Luis sitting impatiently behind a plastic screen.

"Name?"
"Luis Clarke"
"Date of birth?"
"7 September 1994"
"Address?"
"Where you found me"

His lips spread into an animated grin but the cops either too dull or too professional to reciprocate.

"If I blow you can I get out of here?"

18 Monigan Court
Caulfield North
Today I was picked up by a cop. He took my weed but it's okay because Dee wants me to come back and she'll have lots of shit with her. I told the cop if he let me go he could fuck me. He let me go anyway. I don't know why because he didn't want a blowjob, drugs or anything. But he did. I guess I like him now.







I'm obsessed with how they fade

she only showed me stills
no movement
couldn't watch their chests
go up and down
grasping air

told about the history
where one of them has
ended up

how he ended up there

kept one open for hours
whenever there was
a free moment
my eyes would be back there

i'm obsessed with
how they fade





















Water tonight

Ain't got much in the way of play things
So I give the child some things to burn
out in the yard.
His oil eyes alight in the glass of
a mason
jar set on the ground
so he can keep his fingers
free from the webbed flames
as they rise
from the paper and the straw figure
of a dog
gone in the curls
and coils of
twin throats
of smoke.

Once a year on the Fourth of July
you can catch the street lamp glow
dimming like
elder fire flies
dying
in the corners of your sight.

The afternoon rain brings heat.
A sign outside the mill reads,
"God Bles Our Tropps" in scratchpoint
hammered into tin.

A vision of the last match lit
long enough to add a 'good luck'
candle to the cake.

We watch the sparks and exploding
air and we sing together,
stopgasped by the
thud of blown powder in the sky
like cannon blasts of a good war
decades before Momma said
why to steal bags
of ice in summertime
and let it melt
so we can have
water tonight.




Andres Caicedo Day




"Todo es tuyo, a todo tienes derecho y cóbralo caro. No te sientas llenecita nunca. Para el odio que te ha infectado el censor, no hay remedio mejor que el asesinato. Adonde mejor se practica el ritmo de la soledad es en los cines. Aprende a sabotear los cines. Para la timidez, la autodestrucción. No accedas al arrepentimiento ni a la envidia ni al arribismo social. Es preferible bajar, desclasarse, alcanzar, al término de una carrera que no conoció el esplendor, la anónima decadencia. Es prudente oír música antes del desayuno. Cómete todo lo que sea malo para el hígado; mango, viche y hongos y pura sal, y acostúmbrate a amanecer con los gusanos. Tú no te preocupes, muérete antes que tus padres, para librarlos de la espantosa visión de tu vejez. Y encuéntrame allí donde todo es gris y no se sufre. Somos muchos. Incomunica el dato." -- Andrés Caicedo

"Everything is yours, you are entitled to everything and reclame expensive. Do not feel satisfied ever. The hatred that has infected the censor you, no better remedy to the murder. Where best practices pace of loneliness is in cinemas. Learn how to sabotage the movie. For shyness, self-destruction. No sign of repentance or envy or social upstart. It is preferable to drop, classlessness reach, after a career that knew no glitz, the stock decline. It is prudent to listen to music before breakfast. Eat everything that is bad for the liver, mango, Vichada and fungi, and pure salt, and Get used to waking to the worms. You do not worry, die before your parents to rescue them from the frightening vision of your old age. And meet me where everything is gray and does not suffer. We are many. the solitary figure. " -- Andres Caicedo

He suicide at 25 years. 6o seconals.


//Nota para los nuevos obsesionados: Editorial NORMA publicó todo Caicedo. Todavía se consigue en Buenos Aires con bastante facilidad.


Fiel a su idea de que vivir más de 25 años es una insensatez, Andrés intenta suicidarse dos veces en 1976; pese a esto escribe dos cuentos más: Pronto y Noche sin fortuna, y aparecen los números 3, 4 y 5 de la revista Ojo al cine. Entrega a Colcultura el manuscrito final de ¡Que viva la música!, del cual alcanzaría a recibir un ejemplar editado el cuatro de marzo de 1977; ese mismo día ingiere intencionalmente 60 pastillas de secobarbital, acto que acaba con su vida. -- Wikipedia


Y por si todavía no conocés a Luis Ospina, te lo presento. Pero puede que lo conozcas por el último Festival de Cine Independiente de Buenos Aires, si tuviste la paciencia que yo no tuve para sacar el ticket.



"Andrés Caicedo: unos pocos buenos amigos" Documental de Luis Ospina (fragmento)


"Andrés Caicedo: unos pocos buenos amigos" Documental de Luis Ospina (fragmento)







LIESISLE
an experimental literary journal



featuring:

Antonio Urdiales
Alistair McCartney
Michael Karo
Mike Kitchell
Jose A.
Pascal O'Loughlin
Winter Rates
a.o.











Sunset Rubdown - Dragonslayer (Jagjaguwar)

Spencer Krug’s songs are instantly recognizable as Spencer Krug songs. Often times ballad-esque, they hybridize glam, pop, folk, and new wave influences into something that gives the appearance of having been off handedly created, of having been slapdashidly assembled with ease. His music rarely, if ever, demonstrates the visceral thrill of ‘rock music,’ while managing to embody the emotional release provided by the best rock music.1 The cumulative effect of listening to his albums is of familiarity. His songs sound like something we recognize without sounding like anything we’ve ever actually heard. It’s pop music of a highly abstracted, emotional sort, filtered through one of the most idiosyncratic psyches working in the field.

Krug’s Lyrics have always been ornate and tapestry-like, with the text drunk driving on the highway of emotion that his delivery provides. He has a novelist’s eye for character, setting and mood, and his songs are largely narrative based. What separates him from a thousand other skilled songwriters is that his narratives are wrapped in and often shaped as puzzles. This continues in full force on Dragonslayer: characters appear late into songs and their seemingly minor actions have enormous significance. Krug repeats the same lines in different songs, and the recurring archetypes that define his characters touch on magic, animism, failed royalty, hunters, actors and horses. His lyrics beg you to ask what’s compelling him and they give you a thousand clues, but no answer. The listener is left with little idea of what his songs are about, but if you are like this reviewer, the act of experiencing his music at the dinosaur brain level offers limitless reward. In other words, we oftentimes have no idea what his songs mean, but oh, they mean so much to us.

(cont.)









From extended explorations into netherworlds touched with beauty to fragmented songs with little voices... Looping plucks from Eastern European records of the 70s to swirls, waves of noise...

This was the debut album for Ovmujyo, a self contained something. Overall, the music itself feels like a dream and is a personal favorite of Joseph's, someting he's quite proud of.

Released in very limited quantities, mostly to friends, in 2001 and then getting marooned for wider release shortly after, Japanese Alice is proud to present this album and get it out again for others to enjoy, pyrotechnics and all.

"When we wander here our hearts are flying..."

01. Hushbah (7:30)
02. Dualis (3:18)
03. Our Secret (3:18)
04. While Come (2:49)
05. First New Dream (4:53)
06. Thembis (4:30)
07. Preludea (3:54)
08. Her Pistola (1:59)
09. We Know (2:01)
10. Solialkoon (8:42)

Composed and recorded 1999-2001 by Joseph Marcure.
Originally released in 2001, rereleased by Japanese Alice in 2009.
Artwork by JM.

Download it here.





Time traveling from shore to shore, the same shores. Underwater old world plunderphonics built in new world concrete. Modernism through the centuries as well as cassettes. The story of a lost no-body in search of non-existent royalty (as symbol of love) only to find gelato and suffering, as well as strange passages laced with paranoia or a promise of absolute relief. Thieves and thievery, Rota and Fellini, the heir to the theremin, criminal missives. Errant subaquatic drones and a meltdown in ragtime. All leading to an inevitable conclusion.

1. Oh well, Nemo! (34:26)

Recorded 2001 - 2002 by Joseph Marcure. Originally released in 2002, rereleased by Japanese Alice in 2009. Photography by Matthew Marcure (of photos originally taken back in 2002 for album by JM).

This was the second Ovmujyo album and like the first received incredibly limited distribution. It was recorded and mixed as one track, so it is presented here as the same. Enjoy!

Download it here.







My Smooth Criminal performance - 16 July 2009

mj at dolphin from o.b. de alessi on Vimeo.



Death of Oscar as Michael Jackson as Thomas Chatterton









A GCHAT BETWEEN US
a poem

3:05 PM---me: there is some-one out there who loves you

3:06 PM---you: i know




TELL HER I SAY HELLO
a story

I am talking to my friend on Facebook chat. I haven't talked to him in probably 4-6 months. We have a lot to catch up on. I'm typing on a big Mac desktop. I don't know what kind. From the bedroom I hear a sound like coughing. It's actually my girlfriend crying. I leave the computer room. I forget to tell my friend, who has cystic fibrosis, "brb." I feel bad for my friend who has cystic fibrosis.

My girlfriend is crying into a pillow on her bed. Her bed is a futon, I guess. She is cocooned in a white duvet. I don't know why she is crying into a pillow. She sounds very sad from the severity of her crying.

I lie down on top of her body.

"Why are you crying?" I ask.

"I am sad," she says between sobs.

"Oh," I say.

"It isn't your fault," she says.

"Okay," I say.

I go back into the computer room and resume talking to my friend. He is probably confused about why I took a short break from talking.

He tells me about a music festival. I am sad that he will probably die sooner than most of his friends. I wish he could live just as long as anyone.

I hear more sobs break from the bedroom. I go lie down on top of her again.

I say her name repeatedly. I receive no response. I return to the computer room.

This time, I apologize to my friend with cystic fibrosis. He says, "it's ok." I wish we would talk about things besides this music festival. I guess it isn't a big deal that I keep on pausing my involvement in our conversation.

The sound of more sobs. This time they sound more like hiccups. I explain to my friend that my girlfriend is crying in the bedroom, and that I have to go.

"that sucks," he says, "tell her i say hello."




























Derek McCormack & Kevin Killian, 7-14-09 from mxxx palmer on Vimeo.






















(monday)


When it happens, he’ll be up there. That’s what Fitch thinks. If you ask me, he’ll be here, lying with his eyes closed.

“What are we looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see it,” Fitch says.

We’re sitting on the floor with our legs crossed. Dim’s on his bed, asleep or pretending. Cat Power sings/wails from vinyl in the corner.

“Can he walk through walls?”


“It’s exactly like being a ghost, except you’re not dead.”

The walls are paneled like the inside of a ship. Pictures are nailed directly into the wood. I’m looking at Dim when he was twelve.

“Like, what, he can haunt you and stuff?”

“Exactly, the whole thing is spooky as hell.”

Dim’s legs twitch, then again.

“I think it’s close.”

Fitch leans forward.

“Yeah?”


“Shh.”

Fitch looks up at the ceiling. His eyes follow something, invisible, and he trails it across the room and over to the door. “He’s there,” he says.

“He’s where?”

Fitch nods his head toward the door, but all I see is empty hallway. Behind us, Dim’s passed out. I look at the nails and they’re screws.

“I don’t see anything.”

“You can’t see him. You just sort of, I don’t know, feel him.” Fitch shakes his body like he has the chills, but the room is hot. Dim turned off the fan afraid it’d chop up his body/whatever.

“I don’t feel anything either.”

The record stops, and the vinyl ticks.

“See,” Fitch says, “he just did that.”

“I thought the whole thing was you can’t interact. Just watch people in the shower and stuff. Like an invisible peeping Tom, float through walls.”

“No, you can will things.”

“Will me my pack of cigarettes from the living room then.”

I push on the edge of the mattress, and Fitch yanks me back. “Don’t do that,” he says. “If you try to wake him up he gets stuck. He has to go back in himself.”

“You mean if I shook him right now, he’d turn into a ghost?”

“Yeah, but don’t Tim. Please.”

Dim’s face is contorted into an awkward arrangement of parts. His breathing is steady and shallow, and when his nostrils flair, he looks serene in a dumb way.

“Tim,” Fitch says. I’m standing with my hands above Dim’s chest. “Don’t.” I reach down and hover an inch above. I trace circular patterns to the tick of the stylus. “Stop it.”

I hear something indistinguishable, then the record starts with a loud scratch. I fall.

“Fuck. You, you, killed him,” Fitch says.

“He’s just pretending.”

I shake Dim by his shoulder, and his head wobbles on the mattress, his lips part.

The record skips and Chan repeats, “I’ll meet him there,” again/again.












Gnomic Sex Idol





























conference learnings

I attended my first academic writing conference this weekend. I learned a lot I didn't expect to learn. Much of what I learned was what I didn't realize I already knew. I feel like everything I've been doing, both to develop skills and to build community with other writers, is exactly what I should be doing, and I felt surprisingly "ahead" in this regard in comparison to some more exclusively academically-focused writers who still operate with a far more cloistered and garreted mindset. Writers inside the academy are sometimes very... academic. This might seem obvious, but I don't think I'd ever thought about what this really means. One sometimes imagines (or at least I've imagined) MFA programs existing at the fringe of their institutions as little enclaves of freakishness. Perhaps this is true some places, I do not know. Clearly academic writing communities and the independent/small press communities and online lit communities are far from fully separate, but at the same time, they are a great deal more separate than I realized. The cultural difference between this weekend and something more like Pilcrow Lit Fest was striking. For instance, nobody stood on a bartop this weekend, and there was minimal whooping and hollering.

(cont.)









cum and lemme (and her and her) read yr beads here

and/or

listen to me, at 17, read a poem from a coney island of the mind by lawrence ferlinghetti here








The Owl and the Pussycat

Justin’s guiding the sheets over himself. He’s afraid of seeing the darkness over his ribs, or leaving it to be colored by the various characters from the television. Some of those have no names, or are masks for the others who wish for omnipotence. I wait for his hands to look receptive and I almost forget everything that happened in the previous days. Outside, night birds and celestial bodies watch me design my own emasculation. Justin looks out for the owls that don’t exist in this country, wishing for them to abandon the narrative once again.

His skin is too tightly bound to be impressed upon by softer hands. He is wrapped in aluminum foil in the night, so he appears more radiant. Its strength is unquestioned. Men of various sizes have committed themselves to unfurling reflections of themselves, only to find quantities more puzzling than words.

(cont.)










music with horns - promo video (2:09)

Only $5.99! Download it here!





child forester

















Dill the (Un)Thrill

Dill Doublepound's thick, over-painted lips slid off Mark's genitals, and the woman flipped over onto her elbows and knees, throwing 50 pounds of ass - one-fifth of her total weight - up into Mark's face. He slipped a finger through her shit-encrusted thong, pulled it back as far as he could, then let go, the smack-snap of the rubbery cotton against Dill's lone hemorrhoid forcing her to look over her shoulder with a forced grin. "Eat me," she said.

Mark pulled the thong off her huge buttocks, kneading the dimpled flesh with his knuckles. He leaned forward, his head between her legs, and looked up at the still-unshaven, gigantic bush that had almost choked him to death the first time he'd attempted to eat her pussy. "What the fuck?" he said.

(cont.)










View or download the Summer '09 issue here



____________
2 drawings by Kyte Lockett
aka 'KYTE'












Who Nose Why? (in progress)

From birth Fred had an exceptionally large nose. Quite triangular in shape, it extended a full seven inches from his face by the time he was 12. Dr. Donner had initially wondered if it might be some kind of tumor, but a careful examination revealed that it was nothing more than a genetic abnormality.
---"I recommend a rhinoplasty, stat," he said.
---But Fred's mother was a deeply religious woman, and—unwilling to doubt God's infinite wisdom—decided that there must be some reason for Fred's special figure. "No, Doctor, I think we'll make it just fine without your Hollywood butchery."
Fred jumped up from the examination table, crinkling its paper covering. "But Mother, I can't go on like this any longer. all the kids at school call me Nose. Even Ms. Kumquat said it by accident once, when I was trying to answer a math question, and everybody——"
---"Fred, I am not having you drugged and dropped up for no reason other than your vanity." She pointed to the hair-bearing mole on her nose.
---Fred hated when she pointed to the mole.
---"Do you see this? I have lived with it my whole life, and when I was a child—when I was young and still immature, like you—I asked my mother——"
---"And she said, 'But honey, you're beautiful just how God made you,' and then you met Dad and blahblahblah. But your mole is nothing like this." He pointed to his nose. "There's no way you understand."

(cont.)






____________
6 films by Steven Hanley
aka 'Lux'


New films by Lux

Period by Dennis Cooper from Lux on Vimeo.



5 Years from Lux on Vimeo.



In Back Of The Real - A poem by Allen Ginsberg from Lux on Vimeo.



Electric Assembly - 11:43 (edit) from Lux on Vimeo.



Electric Assembly - Broken from Lux on Vimeo.



Electric Assembly - Descent Pattern (live) from Lux on Vimeo.




----
Posted by Dennis Cooper at 12:57 AM 4 comments
p.s. Hey. This weekend it's nothing but one incredible distinguished local after another appearing on the main stage, and I'm just the guy who briefly closes then reopens the curtains between acts while privately beaming with pride. I hope everyone near and far enjoys the discoveries and/or revisits, and, while it's certainly no prerequisite, any feedback you might have for the artists is very encouraged. Obviously, I missed out on a lot of locals' works in this current round up, but I'll do my best to make that up next time, and if anyone feels left out or has some new work or anything that he or she wouldn't mind me borrowing for the next installment, please give me a heads up. Me, I either have that cold I feared that I was getting or some other body abusing malady that isn't good because I feel quite crappy. It doesn't feel major or anything, so I would imagine I'll be a proper host again by the time Monday and the next post/p.s. combination rolls around. For today, I'll guzzle hot liquid with the help of my left hand and do what I can around here with my right one. It's a good thing I type with one hand. With one finger to be absolutely accurate. ** David, Hey. Sure, I think it's fine if those texts are made available in a limited or even non-limited way. Having read excerpts from and discussions of them in magazines, journals, books, and elsewhere for years, I get the feeling that they must be available in English for those who might be interested in some form already, but I don't think the idea of making them more accessible is a problem at all. Have a good weekend, man. ** Stan_cz, The comments yesterday of Bernard Welt and Slatted Light state what I would have said to you about the Celine issue with a precision I couldn't have managed even if I wasn't a bit sickly and in an even-tempered tone that I wouldn't have been able to employ, so their comments go double for me, and I'll just leave it at that. ** David Ehrenstein, Nifty is such a nice word. I agree with you about the Celine pamphlets. It took me a minute to get the Dahmer quip, and then I guffawed, and guffawing when you have a cold makes for quite a guffaw. It's a good thing no one was around. ** Alan, Yeah, there's always that 'could I have made a better decision originally' question. It's big and deep. I suppose one way I get around dwelling on it is trying to time-delay that concern and whatever lessons it involves for the work I'll do in the future, and I guess, in a weird way, I construct an idea that the project I'm working on should preserve the integrity of the now lost ideas that created the original impetus to begin the project, which then puts one in the curious situation of being both the earlier decisions' archeologist and kind of a person who's been given the task of completing and finessing what amounts to almost another writer's unfinished work, if that makes any sense. It's a strange mind space to try to inhabit, but I find being there or attempting to be there quite interesting, almost a puzzle solving kind of pleasure. No, I haven't read Trotsky's review, but I would love to. Is it locatable via online search? I'll have a hunt just in case. ** Jose, Happy birthday to you, my pal, albeit one day late, darn it. How were you marking the occasion? Mm, my university experience was so limited that I don't know the answer to that BEA question. I'll throw it out there. Everyone, does anyone know whether a BFA degree is sufficiently academic to enter an MFA program? I've heard of Bioshock, yeah, and if I can find a way play it, I definitely will. Thanks. I hope you managed to wrestle S.T.A.L.K.E.R. into its grave. ** _Black_Acrylic, I'd heard about the trial of the Girls Aloud vs. slash fiction author, but I didn't know the outcome. The article you linked to looks thorough and instructive. I'll save it for my clearer head. I'd never seen a photo of Girls Aloud before. Yikes, horrors. Ah, okay, those were the drawings. The more you say about the class/project, the more very interesting it sounds. You're really an impressive guy, Ben. I'm just more and more impressed the more I get to know you and your work. Excellent weekend to you, sir. ** James, Oh, thank you, man! You're making my dream come true. We can have an excited face contest. Trust me, my bliss meets glee combination when I'm in places like that might just give yours a run for the money. Awesome. Can not wait! ** Frank Jaffe, Hey. That's the guy. Jaie was Araki's boyfriend. He was Araki's last boyfriend before Araki had that notorious two or so year-long 'No, I'm actually straight' phase. The actor who played Kevin is a lovely guy, and I thought he gave one of the film's very few good performances. My cameo involves me walking down a hall. It's very quick. If by Mark you mean my ex-boyfriend Mark Ewert, he's actually in the film a fair amount. He plays the younger Kevin and also one of the murder victims. 'Safe' is emotionally autobiographical, but the overall narrative is fiction. But everything in the middle section 'My Mark', which is one of very few early things of mine that I still really like, is about 90% autographical. Thanks a lot about 'HHU'. I'm really glad you liked it. Going to NYC sounds like a fun way to spend your free time. I was going to say, well, but it's pretty hot in NYC this time of year, but then I remembered where you are now, ha ha. I'll go check that photographer's website. Congrats on the purchase. I hung out a bit with Scott Treleaven yesterday, and I mentioned you and that you like his work, and he said that we should all meet up when you're over here to visit, which sounds like a nice idea, no? A fine weekend to you., Frank. ** JoeM, Yeah, but we've done the male-male kiss thing twice already, and we don't want to make it a trope. If it's any consolation -- and I think it's okay if I reveal this here -- the two male stars of the new piece, Mr. Jonathan Capdevielle and Mr. Jonathan Schatz, fell wildly in love about a month ago, and they're hardcore boyfriends now. So, in the piece, there'll be a kind of 'he hit me, but it felt like a kiss' subtext going on. The new piece has a name, but Gisele wanted to sit on it for a while for some reason. I'll ask her if I can announce it yet. ** SYpHA_69, No, I don't know why Kathy used those Persian sections. Knowing her, I'd imagine it was one part reference/sample from some text that would inform her work if readers knew of the original, and one part an affect meant to startle and create a kind of hallucination within the text. Oh, you got a copy of Gira's 'The Consumer'. Whenever I've seen it on sale, it's been quite pricey. Someone should really reprint that book. ** Heliotrope, Well, I'd have to ask James first, but ... heck, I'm sure it would be totally okay if you came with us to Parc Asterix. You have two months to figure out how to get yourself to Paris. In any case, an Asterix t-shirt will be yours, no problemo. Remind me when we get closer to launch date because today my mind, it ain't so open. Don't forget. Shit, fuck, about the tumble. Dude, you need to just switch that old Tour energy onto the fucking Dodgers, man. Jesus, what's gotten into those guys. They might ... they might just ... just ... win it all. I'm boggled. ** Postitbreakup, Ha ha, wow, that was an awesome get-well present, my pal. Laughter is the best medicine, they say. I wonder if an erection is the second best? Okay, err, would it be terrible of me to ask you to wait until Monday for your assignment? I've given it thought, but my brain fog hasn't coughed any ideas that the remaining, more objective part of me finds worthy. But I promise you'll have a task on Monday even if I'm not that proud of it. Oh, I saw your Facebook mail this morning. I'll write to you, but, yes, of course, yes, I'd be very happy to. ** Bernard Welt, Mm, I think when I go on vacation there are rare days when I manage to put my writing or whatever other work I'm doing completely out of mind, especially if I'm doing something physical like, oh, hiking or even just wandering through some brand new city or stretch of nature, yes, but I fear those days are quite rare. What about you? I'm guessing you're pretty good at putting work aside when you're away, no? Safe trip home today, B. ** Math, Wow, you kind of knew that my waking up too early in the morning thing was the onset of sickness. That's interesting. Bodies are so complicated and weird. Yeah, I'm fighting the good fight. And I'm real glad the 'Ingrid Caven' book intrigued you. I want to go to Rocketship. Oh, dude, I know I keep going on about the greatness of 'Un Regard Moderne', but I can't wait to show that bookshop. That cannibal rash story was wild and like a short experimental novel. I loved it. Write me about the Recollets thing whenever, yeah. I think 6 months is okay, but the boss of this placecomes back from vacation on Monday, and let me ask her to make absolutely sure what the right lead time would be. Love from me. ** Misanthrope, I wonder what the future would be like if every couple gave birth to kids the way Michael Jackson did. I can imagine that being a reader of audio books is a hard and noble job. Maybe you should get into doing that. You've got a nice voice. I think you and everyone knows that all American films are dubbed into French here. So if the voice actors are lucky, and if they get a job voicing for some young actor who becomes a huge star, they can get rich and have a job for life. I probably mentioned here that there was this guy who did Clint Eastwood's voice in every movie, and when he died a couple of years ago, it was this big national tragedy. Even then-President Jacques Chirac went to his funeral. Dude, a future Day about the Crime and Punishment museum thing is a no-brainer. I'm on my fucking knees, can't you tell? With lots of photos of you pretending to scream. ** Empty Frame, Hey, man. I love that Morrissey song, but I'm probably not all that objective, being Paris' number 1 mistress. Oh, no, there was no sarcasm in me at all when I wrote to you yesterday. I'm not sarcastic very often. No, I was purely and unequivocally grateful for your pimping, and I still am. Well, at least let me arrange for a retrospective at the Centre Pompidou, okay? Deal? Work still going well? Have a superb weekend, whatever that entails. ** Mark, Post-punk, I should have guessed. The images you linked to are really luscious. Yeah, if you don't mind cobbling together words and getting me whatever images to use, I'm ready and raring and excited to do a blog show any time you're ready. That would be just great! Thank you, Mark! ** Bacteriaburger, Hey. Thanks so, so much again for the post, which people thoroughly enjoyed obviously. I hope you're big fun while out of town. Where are you? ** Oliver, Hey, man! Oh, great and thanks about the Derek McCormack book. I wish I could see that ICA show. Very nice title. I'll see what traces of it I can find online. I hope you're doing really well. ** Steevee, I guess I've never interviewed anyone when they were on a junket or whatever they call it. I think I've just gotten very lucky. Great that you seem to have found an editor. Will he be able to get to work fairly soon? ** Allesfliesst, Oh, howdy, man. What a beautiful idea: learning sleep like a language. You should use that somewhere. An application to teach in Tokyo? Is that what you mean? Wow, if so, or maybe even if not so. Here's severely hoping. Plus, I'll supposedly get to be there in fall 2010 for the performances of the new theater piece, so we could not only finally meet up but do it in wonderland. ** Bill, Oh, yeah, understood about no Paris and why. Having helped Stephen O'Malley move his all of equipment and stuff when we've traveled, I totally get what a slice of hell that traveling becomes when you're a traveling performer. The London stuff sounds incredible. Working with Eddie Provost is amazing in and of itself. Enjoy all of that thoroughly. Oh, on the Recollets application, I was just saying to Math: let me ask the boss when she gets back from her vacation on Monday. I know certain times of the year are more open than others, but I don't know which are which. I'll ask her about the lead time on a March arrival, and I'll let you know. Really great if that works out, and of course I'll pull my weight on the schmoozing end of things. Let me pass along the info on your gig. Everyone, the amazing sound/music artist and d.l. Bill (Hsu) is performing in London in a really fascinating sounding show called 'Songs for Dynamical Systems' on August 6th at Cafe Oto. I highly recommend that anyone in the vicinity of London attend if you at all can. More info on the show, location, etc. is right here. I so wish I could be there for that, Bill. ** Fear of a Shai Planet, Takes one to know ones, ha ha. ** Flit, So spot on about 'Year of 13 Moons' re: Von Trier. High five. Whatever it is that you supposedly 'have' if you 'have' anything, one thing is for sure: you do not lack empathy. That's ridiculous. Somebody got that one so unbelievably wrong. ** Slatted Light, Hey. That was incredible, and you gave my incredibly similar, fuzzy via mild illness, folk art-like via my shabby West Coast-derived vocabulary thoughts on the matter a whole new life and wings and the wind beneath them and on and on. Thank you, man. Precisely. Just precisely. So you think I can just go ahead and do the post on Mike Young, and he won't mind then? I'm guessing that's case, so I'm going to proceed. Thank you muchly for the links. I'll get on that as soon as this weekend if my health allows. I wonder if you wouldn't be able to get some pretty decent funding for your press considering your idea of what its focus would be? I don't if that would come with unpleasant strings. It sounds awfully needed. All right, I'm fading or faded and wallowing increasingly in the fade, so I'd better move along, but, man, you made my weekend with your comments. ** Chris, I really want to hear about this cult thing when the time is right. I almost always find loud live music transformative or at the very least powerfully diverting in times of turmoil. I say go for it. ** Alec Niedenthal, Wow, 'The Best of Jill Hives' are the magic words. How did you do that? Oh, so, the happiest birthday that ever was bestowed on a bag of mostly water (yikes, Star Trek quote; I really must be ill) is what I, in my capacity as your blog friend and admirer, bestow on you today. Use you bestowment wisely or wildly or something. Happy birthday! ** Inthemostpeculiarway, Well, the headache is gone, but at what cost? It was the ferryman in that miserably awful old 80s hit 'Don't Pay the Ferryman', if you ever got the fetid wind of that. I understand just a little French. I watch dubbed movies because on TV they're all dubbed, and all those movies were being broadcast. Pretty much every English language movie that gets released here comes out in both a dubbed version (Version Francais) and a subtitled one (Version Originale), so it's easy to see movies the way they were intended if you don't count the onscreen text part. Yow and urp about that thing on your waist. I've never thought that much of Barry Gifford's novels. I've read a few, and I was just meh about them, but there are people who like them and not just because Lynch uses him, I guess. My yesterday wasn't hugely fantastic, but here goes. Uh, wait, first let me shake some fuzz out of my brain if I can. That didn't work. Okay, anyway, I did the blog. You know that. I bought some food at Monop. This isn't the Monop I went to, but it looks the same, so it might as well be. My purchase included some piss poor guacamole, but I ate it anyway. I talked to my dear friend and the writer and blog d.l. Jesse Hudson on the phone. I wrote a little bit. I felt crappy. I met up with Leora Lev, who edited one of the books of essays on my work, 'Enter at Your Own Risk', and who is also my friend, and we had double espressos at the Recollets cafe, and we were joined my friends and fellow Recollets residents the artists Scott Treleaven and Paul P., and we had a jolly time until my sickness started rearing up, whereupon I came back to my room. I made and ate my dinner: grilled seitan, mozzarella cheese, mustard, and alfalfa sprouts on a French roll. I decided to make a blog day about the French musique concrete artist Pierre Henry and started making it. I got tired. I felt bad. I crashed. Now I have two days to do things that will surpass the entertainment provided by that account, and, in the meantime, you tell me about your day, won't you? ** NB, Hey. Good, you sound like you feel at least a little better. Very, very glad that you've been writing and have a gung ho spirit about this weekend's writing spurt. Consider my words your shaking pom poms. Speed boating, cool. One of the funnest times I ever had in my whole life was riding one of those speedy, water motorcycle-like things on Lake Powell. But I do know how to swim. A simple life jacket should ease your fears. Yeah, email me about this mysterious cool thing at the drop of a hat. Interesting. Seriously, have the weekend of everyone's dreams, man. ** The Dreadful Flying Glove, Okay, that's okay, 'cos I have to keep it brief today too 'cos I'm no good right now. I know what you're going to say, and that's awfully kind of you, but, seriously, I'm no good. I'm a no good p.s. writing host from nowheresville, and that's just the way it is. ** Oscar B., That sounds kind of really scary about the voices, but I guess you're as at peace with it as you can be, yeah? I don't suppose you can use that stuff artistically somehow? Yikes. Well, try to have a weekend full of highly successful art making and plentiful emo boy sightings, if you can. Lots of love to you, and, yeah, fingers quadruply crossed on the Recollets thing as always. ** I seem to have made it. Right, correct me if I'm wrong, but the post this weekend is an incredible thing, an incredible testament to the myriad of incredible talents that this blog is so very, very fortunate to have somehow managed to magnetize. Enjoy, say stuff, stay well, etc., etc. until I get to see everyone again on Monday.
Posted by Dennis Cooper at 12:47 AM 93 comments
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