Month: January 2024

a thing I hate is when people think of me as someone who “likes books.” not because I don’t, obviously I do, but because it reduces it to the level of like, “being a gamer,” or of “liking coffee.” it sounds like it’s merely a consumer choice, designating which market demographic I belong to. people have even bought me novelty socks with stacks of books on them.

to be sure, plenty of people do “like books” in exactly this way. people who participate in library book clubs, most high school literature teachers, even many academics. all people who “love books.” I would say I don’t begrudge them this, but I do, because it cheapens the power of books.

reading Nietzsche or Shakespeare or Flaubert or Plato can and should push someone to radically examine what it means to be alive. taking seriously what reading does to you, how it alters you, forces you to confront fundamental truths of the human condition, this can and should inspire commitment to living more fully, to treating your life not as something to slink through, making as little trouble as possible, but as an opportunity to experience the drama of the cosmos as directly as possible, as a bodhisattva would, or a Romantic would.

I say all this not because I’m particularly good at burning burning burning, Kerouac-style, but in the hopes that I don’t end up as someone who merely “likes books.”

today my friends announced something that I knew they’d been working on for a while, a new series of episodes about Mad Men for their podcast. Erikk told me that I am personally responsible for this idea, because I suggested to him that they do something a little lower stakes than their last series of episodes, about Henry David Thoreau and Ted Kaczynski, since that project, uh, sort of got the better of them, with an entire year gap between the time the first several episodes were released and when the last few were. what I suggested was they watch The Sopranos, or at least this is what Erikk tells me I suggested. Mad Men is more suited to what they’re trying to get out of this new series, so I don’t begrudge the change, even though I haven’t seen Mad Men beyond the first two episodes. if you’re interested, I’ll let them tell you what it is they’re trying to get out of this new series, because this is my blog, not theirs.

what I’m doing now instead of watching Mad Men is rewatching Twin Peaks, the original run, the feature film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, the deleted scenes from the feature film The Missing Pieces (which I’ve never seen), and the limited run reboot Twin Peaks: The Return. the announcement of the Relentless Picnic’s rewatch/reevaluation makes me think it might be worthwhile to do something similar myself, for Twin Peaks. though I wish I had had this idea before watching the first six episodes of the show, because I would have been more deliberate with my viewing.

no matter. instead, what I’ll do is prepare for some kind of critical project centered around rewatching Twin Peaks: The Return, because, as great as the original run of the show is (well, about half of the original run, excluding the nosedive season 2 takes after we find out who killed Laura Palmer), the Showtime limited series is of an entirely different breed, different even from the rest of David Lynch’s directorial work.

besides, if I were to comment at length on the original run of the series, a lot of what I’d say would be resentment over the fact that the writers swerved away from what would have been the most interesting aspect of the plot: the romantic entanglement between Cooper and Audrey. fuck you, Lara Flynn Boyle!!!!!!!! i’m saying this now because i’m vowing to not dwell too much on this in whatever it is i do end up putting out, even though it goes some way towards understanding what’s going on with Cooper in The Return. but that’s all metatextual and therefor not open for interpretation.

retyping a story that I’m very pleased with. feeling better about my writing efforts than i was a few days ago. it’s good for me to post something here every day, i think.

Manhattan district federal judge Loretta Preska ordered a trove of files from two court cases pertaining to Jeffrey Epstein, from 2015 and 2016, unsealed this week. several of those documents have been made public now, and naturally a lot of sensationalist reporting promises to detail all the names listed in these documents. from what I’ve seen, not much of the info is all that new. many of the names included in the depositions are only mentioned in denials by the accusers, as in “no I never met George Lucas/Leonardo DiCaprio/Cate Blanchett.” there are obviously also plenty of incriminating mentions, of Bill Clinton and Marvin Minsky and Stephen Hawking and Tom Pritzker and Alan Dershowitz, but if you still trust any of those people wrt their connections to the late “disgraced financier,” may you find the light of God someday.

more shocking to me is news that Stephen Deckoff, founder of Black Diamond Capital Management, unveiled the renovations he’s had done on his recently purchased property Little St. James, the US Virgin Island better known as Jeffrey Epstein’s Island aka Pedophile Island. Deckoff’s plan is to turn the location of an untold number of horrific acts of violence and child sex abuse into a luxury resort.

if you can find a better metaphor for the liberal imagination, I will give you enough money to buy your own island.

it’s january, so i’m taking a break from alcohol. it rained last night, so january’s not exactly “dry” though, is it? ha ha ha. i didn’t sleep well. as i was drifting off my girlfriend awoke me asking “what was that??” i only caught the last mental impressions of some kind of tap sound, or banging sound, according to my girlfriend’s characterization. but our dog hadn’t reacted so it must not have been anything? as i lay in bed i convinced myself that lurking in my kitchen was a ghost or some other malignant entity. the only thing to do with such a presence is to banish it, which i did by telling myself “that’s ridiculous,” as though i don’t suspect that such things may occur.

then i awoke again after what felt like a long, convoluted, involved period of dreaming. what the dream was i don’t remember. i’m working on keeping a dream journal, as a way of bringing my subconscious and my waking conscious more in alignment. but last night was a difficult, fragmented visit to dreamland. because it felt like so much had happened already, i was sure it was nearing morning, perhaps an hour until my alarm was set to go off. nope, it was only about 130am. i spent much of the rest of the night tossing and turning, sweating, slipping in and out of fitful drowses and disjointed dreams, the only details of which that i remember involve me sing-shouting olivia rodrigo’s “get him back,” and purchasing a leather joint holder for my girlfriend’s friend, who doesn’t smoke, while longing to be able to smoke myself, which i haven’t done in about six months now.

when my alarm went off at 6, the finer details of all this REM sleep dissipated, leaving me disoriented. usually when i dream and wake up i feel refreshed and aware, even when the dreams aren’t pleasant. but last night black bagged me, kicked me in the gut, and dumped me on the side of the road, a road i knew i lived on, but couldn’t tell in which direction i lived.

so i was tired. and because my day job situation is all fucked up, since the library where i work flooded, things are generally unsettled. and when things are unsettled and i’m tired, every self-defeating, discouraged thought i’ve ever had returns with a vengeance. i’ll never finish anything worthwhile. if i do, i’ll never get it published. if i do, no one will ever read it. because no one reads this blog. because i never finish anything worthwhile on it. because i don’t have enough time, because writing something worthwhile requires losing yourself a little, being Deep in the Shit of my subconscious, something that’s hard to do when i know i have to be at work in an hour. david lynch quoted someone, a childhood friend’s dad who was a painter if i remember correctly, as saying that in order to get one good hour of painting done, you need four hours of free time. now, this is also about the fact that painting requires a lot of set up and materials, which doesn’t translate to writing, but the spirit of the point still stands.

i told my friends, who number among the few consistent readers of this blog, that i was discouraged, that i didn’t think blogging was doing what i need for it to do, namely get attention for the thing that i believe myself highly capable at, namely writing. there’s no easy way around getting eyes on the art; it’s been a problem for artists for at least two centuries, when art became an expression of an individual’s subjectivity. it requires a considerable amount of luck, but also “shameless persistence,” a phrase i came across in, i think it was, a blurb from percival everett, on a book i don’t remember the title of. “shameless persistence” is now my mantra (though i don’t do mantra meditation, i “just sit” zazen). “brazenness” is the energy i’m bringing into 2024.

in addition to those things, art also requires sacrifice, and what i’m realizing is that what’s most readily sacrificed, and most valuably sacrificed, is being reliable at my day job. and it’s looking like i’ll be afforded a considerable leash here in the next few months, being allowed to “work” from home for several hours a week, mostly putting together orders for new books. that means i won’t “have to be” anywhere for work a lot of the time. and my boss was spread thin before our library flooded, so now he’s too preoccupied to worry much about me, because he trusts me, because i’m reliable.

there are stories i need to edit, stories i need to draft. there’s a mess of notes i need to decide what to do with. i need to stop placing too strict demands on myself and just play around and have fun because having fun and playing around is what gets you chicks dude.

what’s up with all my dreams about smoking weed?