Monday, January 26, 2009

Add water

There is nothing like nailing a recipe, no matter how simple. Here's something I didn't know. Add a little water to your sausages.

Here's another Octopus. It looks like Michael Earl Craig is phoning it in. I like these Rebecca Guyon poems all right but you get the sense they could have been more savage. More to come on this.

The city street is ruining you, says science. But what does my apartment do to me?

Friday, January 16, 2009

Who Put Out The Fire?

I turned twenty seven the other day. The day after, Jan 24th, is said to be the most depressing day of the year. All downhill afterward. The last year has been long. Sometimes interesting. I had a lot of work published. Not much to be proud of, but I'm happy to be out there. The upcoming always seems more thought out, and I think it is. I had a book come and go. I discovered and moved a lot of ideas around. Most of it still feels intangible, but I feel a little closer to wringing the ideas I'll be working with for the rest of my life. But really, who knows.

I lost the job I held for two years. I now know what I won't be doing in the future. I got a long glimpse at the fierce dick I will become should I choose to continue down that road. Some people are not built steady enough.

Lately, I have been taking more than I've been putting in. I want to find different ways to be responsible.

I applied to graduate school. Ten schools. In the end the process is anticlimactic. I dragged it out too long, like refusing to take a loved one off life support. I am being basing the next few years of my life on the success of this endeavor. I hope for the best.

I miss music. This is the longest period (2 years) I have not played in band. Some time ago I realized I have a problem with focusing my attention. I can only do one thing at a time. I think David Berman also has this problem. I can rationalize my negligence with the current cannibalistic state independent music has been going through. When I see careerism as the centerpiece of every band's parade, I'm ready to wash my hands of the whole thing. I can no longer stand the mystics nor the consumerism of the underground and its plethora of ephemeral releases. In music or elsewhere. Everything seems tainted. I want a photocopied zine about bands I'll never hear or poems by writers that will never resurface to wipe my ass with after reading.

The ANSWER to this might be found in bar trivia nights and the local gymnasium. Movies and porn. I'm talking hobbies. Hobbies are meant to be modest entertainment. Art for most people should be a hobby, not a loaded gun.

Submissions to SIR! are still open for another week. Send something your mother would be ashamed of.