My brother and I are talking about GLEE. We're pretending it's not the gayest thing we've ever talked about. And seriously, we've discussed some very gay things. Because we're both gay. In the interest of sibling competitiveness, let it be known I was gay first, and I started watching, and hating, GLEE first.
Sometimes, when I mean to type "fair enough", I accidentally type "far enough", and people think they should quit talking about whatever it is they're talking about. They're right. They should quit talking.
I had so much bourbon on Sunday. I had so much bourbon, it snowed. Yes, my drinking made it snow. I went outside, drunk, and looked into the park. The light was just right. I felt clear and pinched like you do when you're sick. I had a moment. And then I realized how much I talked to my drinking friend and how much of that talk I couldn't even remember. I've spent the better part of three days wondering what I said to another drunk person. It can't have been that important.
I feel like all I talk about is writing and cats. I don't even have a cat. There are at least four cats, though, maybe more, running stray on our block. It's getting to be that time of year where they spend all day on top of my car. There's one new stray who comes to the kitchen door and screams whenever I cook. He seriously wants this chickpea curry.
I guess I'm going to read all the Hemingway books I can find. All right in a row. If I ask you to go fishing, say no. I won't really want to go fishing. Like most things I do, it'll be an affectation. If I start wearing a fishing vest, make sure I follow through by having something edible in every single pocket of that fishing vest. As a joke, make sure to ask me how the fish are biting.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Smelling My Fingers
I often wake up to the sound of a bell. Something about breaking the barrier of sleep, I guess. It's never an actual bell, only perceived. Still, I almost always check the front door, just in case.
I'm reading Hemingway's A MOVEABLE FEAST. A lot of my tendencies as a writer probably come from my love of Hemingway's work. I recognize that. I own it. I abandon it when necessary. A MOVEABLE FEAST isn't what I expected at all. People sometimes talk about the masculinity of Hemingway's work like it's a bad thing. I see that masculinity as honesty. (I don't mean truthfulness, as I don't think A MOVEABLE FEAST is a completely truthful account of Hemingway's early adult years.) Maybe it's because of the culture of internet writing, but a lot of the work I'm reading online values brutal honesty. These writers aren't shying away from sharing some truly nasty things about humanity, some things they could only know from experience. I don't know. Maybe I'm comparing apples to the petrified orange slices in a dish of potpourri. I don't have an MFA. Excuse my ignorance.
I don't cry all that often. Sometimes when watching movies, I cry. Last night I got accepted to a literary magazine I respect and adore so much. They even tweeted nice things about my story. I was excited all night. It was almost like being high. When I went to bed, I cried into my pillow. I mean, Jesus. Sometimes things turn out to be really important. I've had eleven stories accepted for publication by different literary magazines. Eight of those stories have already been published. This latest acceptance makes it feel real, like those other stories weren't flukes, like maybe I'm really good at this. The story will be up in July. I'll keep you posted, of course.
My fingers smell like curry. I cooked Indian food last night. I have not showered today. I will, I promise.
I really think I want ice cream tonight. I almost said I deserved ice cream. I wonder if Hemingway ever thought he deserved ice cream. And by ice cream, I mean sex, sex, sex.
I have a story on SmokeLong Weekly. People have been curious. It's mostly fiction. I did come out to my parents when I was a teenager. That experience resembles the story but doesn't mirror it. The response from people I know has been a sort of pity. Well, no thank you. That adversity has proved invaluable.
Sometimes, the cat upstairs sounds like something bigger. Like when my neighbors leave, maybe the cat becomes something else. It sounds like there's a person up there. I know that's silly. I'm so silly. That cat, walking on its hind legs like a person, is so silly, too. It goes up and down the stairs, which are right above my head, and I swear it's wearing heels.
I'm reading Hemingway's A MOVEABLE FEAST. A lot of my tendencies as a writer probably come from my love of Hemingway's work. I recognize that. I own it. I abandon it when necessary. A MOVEABLE FEAST isn't what I expected at all. People sometimes talk about the masculinity of Hemingway's work like it's a bad thing. I see that masculinity as honesty. (I don't mean truthfulness, as I don't think A MOVEABLE FEAST is a completely truthful account of Hemingway's early adult years.) Maybe it's because of the culture of internet writing, but a lot of the work I'm reading online values brutal honesty. These writers aren't shying away from sharing some truly nasty things about humanity, some things they could only know from experience. I don't know. Maybe I'm comparing apples to the petrified orange slices in a dish of potpourri. I don't have an MFA. Excuse my ignorance.
I don't cry all that often. Sometimes when watching movies, I cry. Last night I got accepted to a literary magazine I respect and adore so much. They even tweeted nice things about my story. I was excited all night. It was almost like being high. When I went to bed, I cried into my pillow. I mean, Jesus. Sometimes things turn out to be really important. I've had eleven stories accepted for publication by different literary magazines. Eight of those stories have already been published. This latest acceptance makes it feel real, like those other stories weren't flukes, like maybe I'm really good at this. The story will be up in July. I'll keep you posted, of course.
My fingers smell like curry. I cooked Indian food last night. I have not showered today. I will, I promise.
I really think I want ice cream tonight. I almost said I deserved ice cream. I wonder if Hemingway ever thought he deserved ice cream. And by ice cream, I mean sex, sex, sex.
I have a story on SmokeLong Weekly. People have been curious. It's mostly fiction. I did come out to my parents when I was a teenager. That experience resembles the story but doesn't mirror it. The response from people I know has been a sort of pity. Well, no thank you. That adversity has proved invaluable.
Sometimes, the cat upstairs sounds like something bigger. Like when my neighbors leave, maybe the cat becomes something else. It sounds like there's a person up there. I know that's silly. I'm so silly. That cat, walking on its hind legs like a person, is so silly, too. It goes up and down the stairs, which are right above my head, and I swear it's wearing heels.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
The Wrong Midwest
There's this argument (sort of) on HTMLGIANT about a group of young literary assholes being young, literary, and assholes. Except, duh, they're young. Some people are giving them a hard time. I understand the compulsion, but it's kind of tacky to pick on people for being young and impressionable. I don't know. I just try to stay out of it.
I'm writing a novella. Ice cream is one of the main characters. Kind of like how NYC was one of the main characters on SEX AND THE CITY. It was the character the girls talked about fondly but never invited to brunch.
I got a nice rejection this week. Not frameable or anything, but very supportive and sweet. The editor told me not to be discouraged and to keep submitting my work to literary magazines. It's like my mother wrote that rejection. Maybe my mother is secretly an editor.
I also got the best acceptance I've ever gotten. Not only because it's from an amazing magazine, but because this is how the acceptance was worded, "Very odd story here, but we're big fans." Ha!
I'm trying to talk to writers I admire. It's working. They're talking back to me. That's all I really want. To talk to other writers. I don't want to sleep with them or anything. OK, some of them maybe.
There's a new chapter in the blender saga. My mother sent us a new blender. It's sporty and red and actually came with an instruction manual. I immediately blended the only things I had to blend: frozen blackberries, milk, and a little sugar. I can confirm that the resulting mix was frothy and delicious but full of seeds. The last swallow, especially, was thick with little black seeds. Oh my God. I know how that sounds. Like zombie sperm or something. Anyway, this blender's the real deal.
I wish I could be in Chicago tonight. There's this reading that's going to be INSANE. If you're in Chicago tonight, go to The Underbar for Invasion::Response. Go because I cannot. Tell me all about it later, but don't be smug.
I might go to a writing group on Tuesday. I want to see what it's like. One of my friends runs it. I might go in disguise and sit at a different table and just listen. I've tested the waters in more embarrassing ways, believe me. Unfortunately, my only disguise is "lesbian". Maybe I can push it and go for "lesbian pirate".
Someone from the United Kingdom found my blog by Googling, "You never know who's listening." Eek. Mysterious.
I'm writing a novella. Ice cream is one of the main characters. Kind of like how NYC was one of the main characters on SEX AND THE CITY. It was the character the girls talked about fondly but never invited to brunch.
I got a nice rejection this week. Not frameable or anything, but very supportive and sweet. The editor told me not to be discouraged and to keep submitting my work to literary magazines. It's like my mother wrote that rejection. Maybe my mother is secretly an editor.
I also got the best acceptance I've ever gotten. Not only because it's from an amazing magazine, but because this is how the acceptance was worded, "Very odd story here, but we're big fans." Ha!
I'm trying to talk to writers I admire. It's working. They're talking back to me. That's all I really want. To talk to other writers. I don't want to sleep with them or anything. OK, some of them maybe.
There's a new chapter in the blender saga. My mother sent us a new blender. It's sporty and red and actually came with an instruction manual. I immediately blended the only things I had to blend: frozen blackberries, milk, and a little sugar. I can confirm that the resulting mix was frothy and delicious but full of seeds. The last swallow, especially, was thick with little black seeds. Oh my God. I know how that sounds. Like zombie sperm or something. Anyway, this blender's the real deal.
I wish I could be in Chicago tonight. There's this reading that's going to be INSANE. If you're in Chicago tonight, go to The Underbar for Invasion::Response. Go because I cannot. Tell me all about it later, but don't be smug.
I might go to a writing group on Tuesday. I want to see what it's like. One of my friends runs it. I might go in disguise and sit at a different table and just listen. I've tested the waters in more embarrassing ways, believe me. Unfortunately, my only disguise is "lesbian". Maybe I can push it and go for "lesbian pirate".
Someone from the United Kingdom found my blog by Googling, "You never know who's listening." Eek. Mysterious.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
High Praise
I had two stories go up over the weekend. One on amphibi.us and one on decomP magazinE. They are depressing stories. People seem to like them. People I don't know and people I do know.
Other things that happened over the weekend: drunkenness, sexiness, sadness. In that order.
A family member revealed something to me about her future. She is ill and her life will never be the same. Everything I do seems so small.
Today, I saw a man released from prison with time served. He posed for a cell phone picture. I want to know what he was thinking. I almost said, "How do you feel about posing for a cell phone picture?" But a bus drove by. The man watched the bus go. It was a big moment for him, I think. (I shouldn't guess at what he was thinking. Other people know him better.)
I'm obsessed with ginger beards right now. There are some men who don't have red hair, but when their beards grow out, their face is on fire. This one poet has a ginger beard. He's too skinny, and he tweets too much, but I don't care. He's a total fox.
I never participated in a circle jerk in high school, but it seems appropriate that the circle jerk I participate in now (the online literary community) has replaced jizzing on a cracker with jizzing on a book the size of a cracker. I'm talking about xTx's new book NORMALLY SPECIAL. It's a wonderful book. It deserves all the jizz people are piling on it. I had to read each story out loud, which is a good thing. They were like devastating fortune cookies that way. The book is now in its second printing. You have been given another chance.
I'm surprised when people my age refuse to eat certain foods.
Other things that happened over the weekend: drunkenness, sexiness, sadness. In that order.
A family member revealed something to me about her future. She is ill and her life will never be the same. Everything I do seems so small.
Today, I saw a man released from prison with time served. He posed for a cell phone picture. I want to know what he was thinking. I almost said, "How do you feel about posing for a cell phone picture?" But a bus drove by. The man watched the bus go. It was a big moment for him, I think. (I shouldn't guess at what he was thinking. Other people know him better.)
I'm obsessed with ginger beards right now. There are some men who don't have red hair, but when their beards grow out, their face is on fire. This one poet has a ginger beard. He's too skinny, and he tweets too much, but I don't care. He's a total fox.
I never participated in a circle jerk in high school, but it seems appropriate that the circle jerk I participate in now (the online literary community) has replaced jizzing on a cracker with jizzing on a book the size of a cracker. I'm talking about xTx's new book NORMALLY SPECIAL. It's a wonderful book. It deserves all the jizz people are piling on it. I had to read each story out loud, which is a good thing. They were like devastating fortune cookies that way. The book is now in its second printing. You have been given another chance.
I'm surprised when people my age refuse to eat certain foods.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Itemized
First things first. I had a story published on Monkeybicycle. It's about ghosts and glitter and women and men. It's extremely short. That means you have no excuse.
Second things second (but really this should be first). I got the best gift this week. It was not a new car. It was a story from a writer I love. This writer sent the story to me, to my email. I paced the house for an hour, seriously. You (you know who you are) made my week.
Third things third. It snowed. Yes, it's winter, it snowed. I drove in the snow this morning, and my car got stuck on a hill. Guys, it was so embarrassing. My car is stupid and messy. I agreed to give a friend a ride when his car wouldn't start. I have a chicken foot and an alligator foot hanging from my rear-view mirror. My friend didn't say anything about them, but I'm certain they didn't escape his notice. In the spare room at home, I have a cabinet full of things even weirder than that.
Fourth things fourth (go forth, go forth). I had a story accepted this week by a Canadian lit mag. I will tell you all about it when it hits in April. It's a special story. It's inspired by a friend. Something terrible happened to her. She's stronger than anyone I know. She didn't run away. She is Kentucky to me. When I think about her, I think about how she doesn't give up. I talked to her on the phone last night, and there she was, not giving up.
No more numbers. I was asked to collaborate with a local performance artist (and friend). I'm going to be honest, I don't usually "get" performance art. This is my fault, probably. I was asked to provide a sort of script for this artist's performance. I did. Apparently, it went well. I didn't go to the performance. That probably makes me an awful person. I was nervous. And it snowed. And I was busy crocheting breasts. Yes, breasts, not beasts. Usually I crochet beasts, but this guy on the internet wanted breasts (HA HA HA), so breasts it was.
I have plans this weekend. They involve: eating dinner with someone I only ever met once at a party, eating lunch with a lady I last saw in 2003 on a camping trip, and finishing a story about something that happened to someone else. I also hope to see each and every one of you, somehow, someway. No way! Yes way.
Second things second (but really this should be first). I got the best gift this week. It was not a new car. It was a story from a writer I love. This writer sent the story to me, to my email. I paced the house for an hour, seriously. You (you know who you are) made my week.
Third things third. It snowed. Yes, it's winter, it snowed. I drove in the snow this morning, and my car got stuck on a hill. Guys, it was so embarrassing. My car is stupid and messy. I agreed to give a friend a ride when his car wouldn't start. I have a chicken foot and an alligator foot hanging from my rear-view mirror. My friend didn't say anything about them, but I'm certain they didn't escape his notice. In the spare room at home, I have a cabinet full of things even weirder than that.
Fourth things fourth (go forth, go forth). I had a story accepted this week by a Canadian lit mag. I will tell you all about it when it hits in April. It's a special story. It's inspired by a friend. Something terrible happened to her. She's stronger than anyone I know. She didn't run away. She is Kentucky to me. When I think about her, I think about how she doesn't give up. I talked to her on the phone last night, and there she was, not giving up.
No more numbers. I was asked to collaborate with a local performance artist (and friend). I'm going to be honest, I don't usually "get" performance art. This is my fault, probably. I was asked to provide a sort of script for this artist's performance. I did. Apparently, it went well. I didn't go to the performance. That probably makes me an awful person. I was nervous. And it snowed. And I was busy crocheting breasts. Yes, breasts, not beasts. Usually I crochet beasts, but this guy on the internet wanted breasts (HA HA HA), so breasts it was.
I have plans this weekend. They involve: eating dinner with someone I only ever met once at a party, eating lunch with a lady I last saw in 2003 on a camping trip, and finishing a story about something that happened to someone else. I also hope to see each and every one of you, somehow, someway. No way! Yes way.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Almighty Sound
Something I didn't say about being drunk with Josh's family is that we talked theology. I don't usually talk about God or eternity or anything like that. I don't need to. I know what I believe, and that's about all I need to know. Some people believe in certain things, and if they believe in those things, they never have to die. I found out Josh's family believes in some of those things. Sometimes, I wish I could believe in some of those things too.
I went to a barbecue place for lunch today. I was with some ladies. They are pretty amazing ladies. Two teenagers came into the restaurant wearing spandex body suits. They got their barbecue to go. One of them was wearing a red body suit and the other was wearing a blue body suit. I think they were nude under their body suits. They covered their junk with cupped hands. One of them was really skinny. The type of skinny where the spine resembles the notches on the back of a dragon. I was hoping for some sort of performance, but I didn't get one. They got their barbecue and left, just like everyone else.
One of my idols (yes, she is that amazing) turns out to be super approachable and awesome. She's a writer. She wrote one of my favorite stories. If you buy your books at B & N, you won't know her, but one day you will, I promise. She'll be the literary goddess you envy. Even if you don't really read, you'll know who she is. You'll say, "God, her words could make dead birds fly."
I wrote a bloody finish to a story today. Something gets bisected, that's all I can say. It's not dicks, if that's what you're thinking. For dicks, see below.
I have to crochet a bunch of dicks tonight/tomorrow. Yes, I do. You may not know this, but my crocheted dicks were featured in Playgirl magazine a couple of summers ago. How about that?
Like all the people around you, I've been listening to FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE.
A former classmate and I went for milkshakes last night, but the milkshake place was "out of" milkshakes. I think they just didn't want to make them for us. I had a cheeseburger instead. I don't even like cheeseburgers, but now I think I might.
Josh is listening to some pretty awful music. I want to slap his computer. I imagine the music would skip a beat even though it's playing over the internet. A laptop is not a jukebox. Oh, wait--I like this song. Yes, keep playing this song, whatever it is.
I went to a barbecue place for lunch today. I was with some ladies. They are pretty amazing ladies. Two teenagers came into the restaurant wearing spandex body suits. They got their barbecue to go. One of them was wearing a red body suit and the other was wearing a blue body suit. I think they were nude under their body suits. They covered their junk with cupped hands. One of them was really skinny. The type of skinny where the spine resembles the notches on the back of a dragon. I was hoping for some sort of performance, but I didn't get one. They got their barbecue and left, just like everyone else.
One of my idols (yes, she is that amazing) turns out to be super approachable and awesome. She's a writer. She wrote one of my favorite stories. If you buy your books at B & N, you won't know her, but one day you will, I promise. She'll be the literary goddess you envy. Even if you don't really read, you'll know who she is. You'll say, "God, her words could make dead birds fly."
I wrote a bloody finish to a story today. Something gets bisected, that's all I can say. It's not dicks, if that's what you're thinking. For dicks, see below.
I have to crochet a bunch of dicks tonight/tomorrow. Yes, I do. You may not know this, but my crocheted dicks were featured in Playgirl magazine a couple of summers ago. How about that?
Like all the people around you, I've been listening to FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE.
A former classmate and I went for milkshakes last night, but the milkshake place was "out of" milkshakes. I think they just didn't want to make them for us. I had a cheeseburger instead. I don't even like cheeseburgers, but now I think I might.
Josh is listening to some pretty awful music. I want to slap his computer. I imagine the music would skip a beat even though it's playing over the internet. A laptop is not a jukebox. Oh, wait--I like this song. Yes, keep playing this song, whatever it is.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Where They Shrink His Gold
When I start drinking, anything that could be used to transmit a message should be taken from me. Maybe even pen and paper. I drunk texted someone last night. Yes, I did. I made sure to tell the recipient that although I was drunk, I could still spell. I've joined a comically shameful club.
Josh's family came to town yesterday. My family came to town last weekend. My family didn't come into the house once. Josh's family stayed at the house. Our families are so different.
I got extremely drunk with Josh's family last night. I saw some things I'd love to write about, let me tell you, but I won't, ever. What I saw was complex and amazing. What I saw was love, duh, and it is none of your business, but it was beautiful. Everyone should be so lucky to have a family like Josh's.
We all went to brunch this morning, unshowered and looking HAWT. My hair was the best it's been in a while. There were some attractive men serving us our biscuits and gravy, and for that, I'm so thankful. This one guy had lots of arm tattoos. It pressed my buttons. I had a slice of peanut butter pie. It tasted better than any other slice of peanut butter pie I've ever had.
I brushed my teeth this morning, but my mouth still tastes like the air in an old pickup truck. Josh's sister was plying me with cigarettes last night. Cigarettes remind me of home. Not home as I've defined it now, but home like my childhood. That home. I think that's why I don't consistently smoke. I don't want that feeling of home to be replaced with routine. I want it to be on command when I'm drunk and nostalgic. I want to be dizzy with it.
One of my vegetarian friends had the unfortunate pleasure of debating food ethics with Josh's drunken family. We wondered whether we could kill the animals we eat. I said I could maybe kill a chicken. Last summer, I accidentally ran over a snake with my car. I don't think I could really kill a chicken.
Later in the night, there was crying. Sometimes when you're drunk, you cry. I didn't cry. While the other people were crying, I had to cover up a smile. I was so happy to see other people feeling something. After three bottles of wine and countless beers, you should be feeling something. They were feeling such pain. Years and years of pain. Their voices disappeared. It was all faces and feelings. They knew what they were trying to say. I just sat there and watched. There was no way for me to participate in this profound event.
Yesterday at lunch, Josh's brother told us about LEPRECHAUN 4: IN SPACE. We laughed and we laughed, our fingers yellow with curry.
Josh's family came to town yesterday. My family came to town last weekend. My family didn't come into the house once. Josh's family stayed at the house. Our families are so different.
I got extremely drunk with Josh's family last night. I saw some things I'd love to write about, let me tell you, but I won't, ever. What I saw was complex and amazing. What I saw was love, duh, and it is none of your business, but it was beautiful. Everyone should be so lucky to have a family like Josh's.
We all went to brunch this morning, unshowered and looking HAWT. My hair was the best it's been in a while. There were some attractive men serving us our biscuits and gravy, and for that, I'm so thankful. This one guy had lots of arm tattoos. It pressed my buttons. I had a slice of peanut butter pie. It tasted better than any other slice of peanut butter pie I've ever had.
I brushed my teeth this morning, but my mouth still tastes like the air in an old pickup truck. Josh's sister was plying me with cigarettes last night. Cigarettes remind me of home. Not home as I've defined it now, but home like my childhood. That home. I think that's why I don't consistently smoke. I don't want that feeling of home to be replaced with routine. I want it to be on command when I'm drunk and nostalgic. I want to be dizzy with it.
One of my vegetarian friends had the unfortunate pleasure of debating food ethics with Josh's drunken family. We wondered whether we could kill the animals we eat. I said I could maybe kill a chicken. Last summer, I accidentally ran over a snake with my car. I don't think I could really kill a chicken.
Later in the night, there was crying. Sometimes when you're drunk, you cry. I didn't cry. While the other people were crying, I had to cover up a smile. I was so happy to see other people feeling something. After three bottles of wine and countless beers, you should be feeling something. They were feeling such pain. Years and years of pain. Their voices disappeared. It was all faces and feelings. They knew what they were trying to say. I just sat there and watched. There was no way for me to participate in this profound event.
Yesterday at lunch, Josh's brother told us about LEPRECHAUN 4: IN SPACE. We laughed and we laughed, our fingers yellow with curry.
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