first weekend of march. straggling el niño rains keep dousing the already lush green hills, ensuring that, when the sun does peak through the clouds of late winter, southern california remembers its technicolor heritage. it’s this time of year that adolescence, a feeling tone that long outlasts the time period it arises out of, blossoms in my heart. i want to listen to emo music descended from Rites of Spring. i want to feel the terror of infatuation. i want to make movies. Taṇhā seduces me and I rediscover an intense attachment to life.
currently reading john gardner’s the art of fiction, a book I always had a vague aversion (Arati) to, but of late i rather enjoy reading books on craft, and also self-help, a genre of publishing that deserves plenty of scorn but that’s also weird and useful, given the right grindset mindset. perhaps i would benefit from putting the ambition to publish aside for a while in favor of really dedicating myself to practicing, because in honesty i don’t actually believe myself yet ready to start putting out fiction. i’ll likely share some of the stories that i have written via my newsletter because i don’t want to think about them any more and putting them out will make me think of them as “done” in some way.
last night watching My Week with Marilyn, an otherwise mid movie, I remembered that my adolescent ambitions weren’t to write, but to direct films, and while I’ve cycled through a wide variety of creative practices in the last 23 years or so, filmmaking is the only one, aside from writing, that i still believe I’d be very good at. that being said, if I thought breaking into the publishing world was hard, or that publishing was in a bad way, it looks positively inviting and healthy compared to the terminal state of the american film industry. idk. maybe i’ll write a screenplay with the intention of it being a piece of fiction, and if i can somehow manage to actually film it then great.
my therapist is advising me to engage more with art forms that aren’t writing, to help clear away my creative blocks. trying to watch lots of movies this weekend, i should reacquaint myself with all the visual artists i admire, and i’m thinking of, as a kind of memoriam to pitchfork’s former glory, listening to all 200 albums on their best of the 2000s list, and writing a little something about each one here.
hoping to set up more things to post consistently while i “build a platform” so that i can “have an audience” ready when i’m also ready to publish.
a corrupted file fails to load the necessary protocol for execution. stuck in boot loop. would you like to? would you like to? somewhere a laugh, derisive and hollow. which way? that way isn’t it, but the other way is dark. if only the circuit could be shorted. something is missing. blood red light flashes DANGER DANGER.
the Palestinians are dying. an American airman burns faster than the urgent message on the back of your retinas. what’s all this for? the trees are dying.
hooting in the night. crawling up the spine is a reminder of what’s been left unsaid. will it ever emerge? my dreams only remind me of what i’ve given up on. get out of the way or you will be destroyed.
some things I’m thinking about:
The inherent natural state of the skateboarder is the state of constant failure: Learning to exist on a board means failing to accomplish your goal over and over again. Every failure is accompanied by pain, having to pick oneself up, dragging the pain into the inevitable next try. It’s an extremely inconvenient affair.
There is no easy way of becoming a skateboarder. If you can skate, you really wanted to. If you cared for its cultural clout in the first place, the process of skateboarding converted you to a believer in its essence.
Something that’s been a constant throught Lynch’s life is that he’s like catnip to women. “There’s no malice in Dad and he doesn’t do these things out of selfishness—that’s not it at all,” said Jennifer Lynch. “It’s just that he’s always been in love with secrets and mischief and sexuality, and he’s naughty and he genuinely loves love. And when he loves you, you are the most loved, and he’s happy and giddy and he has ideas and gets creative and the whole thing is insanely romantic.”
this morning I read an essay written by Jay Isaac, a painter and instagram mutual of mine. in the essay, he discusses the situation of the fine artist under the capitalist ruling class, how the job of contemporary artists is essentially the creation of luxury consumer products, and how that task requires complicity in the neocolonialist genocide and resource extraction that buttresses the global capitalist system. Isaac succinctly lays all this out so as to provide a foundation for rallying workers in the creative industries to imagine ways of noncompliance outside that framework.
since I’m not a painter or any other kind of fine artist, the particulars of that problem, while of interest, and cause for solidarity, don’t exactly translate to what I face as a writer. but as I’m striving to in some way participate in the business of publishing, since I believe an artist does have a duty to at least try to interface with the public of their time, it would be useful to particularize, since I am not interested in either allowing my work to legitimize The System or in bending myself into the shape demanded by such a System, as so many careerist writers do nowadays.
the visual arts have long been entangled with the desires of the ruling class. one need only think of the paradigmatic patronage of the Medicis to see how entwined the history of painting and sculpture are with the highest stratum of society. literature, and specifically novels, have a more complex relationship to social class. in theory, reading is a widely accessible form of artistic engagement; in practice, the ability to read novels, especially those novels that partake in the high cultural tradition (value neutral: not saying these novels are necessarily “better,” not right now at least) requires, at minimum, literacy, and usually a working familiarity with the history of (western) ideas, which, prior to (and after) the middle of the 20th century, was unavailable to the vast majority of people. not to mention the leisure time to read them. if painting is the emblematic artform of the highest social classes, then novels are the bourgeois artform par excellance. and like the bourgeoisie, novels occupy an ambivalent position, equally liable to undermine traditions as they are to cozy up with power when it suits them.
that’s all very philosophical, and not where I’m trying to go right now. in practical considerations of the nature of publishing nowadays, let us consider Penguin Random House, the biggest, by a big margin, of the Big Five publishing houses. Penguin Random House is owned by Bertelsmann, a German multinational media conglomerate. “German multinational conglomerate” should be setting off alarm bells in your head, and rightfully so here: despite painting itself as a Christian publishing company that aided resistance to the Nazis in order to be granted a publishing license by the Allies after the war, C. Bertelsmann Verlag was the number one supplier of printed media to the Wehrmacht. the man in charge of Bertelsmann at the time, Heinrich Mohn, was a supporting member of the SS; his son, Reinhard Mohn, was responsible for transforming the company into the international behemoth it is today. the number one book publisher in the US is owned by a conglomerate that lied about its support for the Nazi war machine as late as 2002, when Bertelsmann was forced to apologize.
(tangentially, another subsidiary of Bertelsmann, BMG, recently cut ties with Roger Waters over Waters’ criticism of Israel. Bertelsmann really loves running cover for fascism.)
that’s all only one example of course, but an illustrative one. HarperCollins is, as everyone knows, a subsidiary of Rupert Murdoch’s NewsCorp. Macmillan is owned by Holtzbrinck Publishing Group, another German company with a Nazi past. it is only natural that corporations trend towards a corporatist vision of the world.
none of this is to say that everything published by these companies is inherently fascist. I might argue that there are certain ideological inertias that would work to prevent something truly revolutionary from being published—it’s here that I should acknowledge that I haven’t yet read Dan Sinykin’s recent Big Ficiton, about the effect that the conglomerate era has had on what kinds of works get published. but fiction, done right, is elusive, tricksterish, undefangable, a double agent in the offices of publishing executives. Pynchon calls it “the ever-subversive medium,” a characterization I want to believe in, despite the myriad works being published nowadays that seem so eager to legitimize the corrupting influence that corporate agendas have on the human spirit.
there are many small independent publishing outfits putting out what I assume is interesting work: I admit I’m not very good at “keeping up” with what’s being published. perhaps I should change that; perhaps I should also try my own hand at publishing, at building alternatives to the corporatist model that’s dominated literature for the past 70 years.
CODY (WRITER): yeah, so, ahhhh, what’s there to say. that’s just it: nothing! i’ve got nothing to say. well, that’s how it feels lately, anyway. yet i really can’t afford it to be that way, being a writer, now can i! see, when I got into this, it was like, I’m interesting, got a unique perspective, I spend more time than most thinking about art and literature and philosophy and what it means to be alive and human in the 21st century—it’s a lot like being on a reality show, I’ll tell you that much!—and those are all the qualities required of a writer, aren’t they? but being a writer also means caring about what else is being written, keeping up with publishing trends, reading the lit trades; you know, being a “good literary citizen,” is how I’ve seen people put it. and, candidly, which is exactly what the producers want from me, candor, candidly, i’m just not those things. i’m a snot nosed punk; i’m above all that sordidness. it’s cringe! it’s fucking cringe. but what’s that attitude gotten me? nothing! so clearly i need to get over it, if i want to publish and be read, and that means being a little cringe, and, more important, being open to the possibility that even amidst the apparently moribund state of american publishing—indeed, the moribund state of american culture, period—there are still Real Ones out there making Good Shit. so that’s number 1: earnestly engaging with the world of literature as it is in the present. that right there would actually help with the feeling that i never know what to post here: post about the state of the literary world! among other things, of course. now, as far as feeling like I don’t have anything to say, that’s a tricky one. for starters, here i am, only able to talk about myself so candidly by pretending i’m giving a reality tv show talking head interview. under the pretense of some character, given some conceit. all well and fine, really, since i’m not in the business of selling autobiographically inflected fiction anyway. but nonetheless, writing from myself, honestly, about the rise of anger, up out of my chest, flooding my skull with astringent heat; about the doubts and prevarications that animate me from moment to moment; about the tender melancholy that envelops me as another neon sunset preaches the transience of all things; distilling idiosyncratic felt experience into the shared spirit of poetic language is the only way for writing to go beyond the mere reportage of information. and let’s face it: i tend to doubt the validity of my experience, i tend to compare myself against all those who’ve come before, and i tend to deny myself the chance to shock, seduce, cajole, prophesy and clown with the best of them. so 2 is giving myself the permission to write as only i can. and remember: every act of creation is a form of forgetting: forgetting your forebears, forgetting history, forgetting yourself.
this week I’m practicing what Julia Cameron in The Artist’s Way calls “reading deprivation.” a while back my therapist half jokingly recommended that I take a break from reading, because while it is important for an artist and especially a writer to read a lot and widely, reading also has a narcotizing effect, or maybe more like a benzodiazepinizing effect. too much engagement with what others have written tends to cloud the awareness, and to write with anything like power requires acute awareness with what’s going on in my own psyche. plus, I’m trying to get out more, and cultivate experiences, and the time I use to read amounts to plenty of opportunity to fuck around IRL.
but w/r/t delving into the material of my own psyche, I’ve been thinking a lot about surrealism lately. if you’ve read my newsletter essays, you know I’m pretty good at clearly articulating information; in a different life I would have been a very good technical writer. but all my fiction writing efforts in the past few months have left me cold, because what I’m writing isn’t very evocative, and the narration is boring, and the plotting is plodding. there’s no energy in any of it. literature gets its power when it’s dug out of the writer’s soul, when it deals with those aspects that don’t lend themselves to “explanation”—what can’t be articulated via technical writing. (though I’d argue even technical writing betrays itself and can suggest Mystery, but that’s a different subject). plus, dealing with reality by means of Techne is why we find ourselves in the dire straits of Modernity in the first place; privileging Magic and Mystery and Poetry is an existential necessity at this moment in history.
surrealism, in theory, offers a method for devaluing the rational in favor of the irrational, a rebalancing of the scales between the ego and the subconscious. complicating this, though, is that surrealism as it was practiced by many of the official Surrealists was boring, contrived, an evasion of the actual potential of the movement. Breton was a coward, Dalí was a fascist lapdog, Magritte treated art as a parlor game.
The False Mirror, Rene Magritte
that being said, Dalí’s method for surrealist creation, the paranoiac-critical method, nonetheless promises a way of evoking the situation of terror that the postmodern subject finds themselves in. Rem Koolhaas describes it thus:
Dali’s Paranoid-Critical Method is a sequence of two consecutive but discrete operations:
1. the synthetic reproduction of the paranoiac’s way of seeing the world in a new light — with its rich harvest of unsuspected correspondences, analogies and patterns; and
2. the compression of these gaseous speculations to a critical point where they achieve the density of fact….
imagining that there are connections unseen by the everyday person and striving to convey those connections on a level beneath (or sur-, ie “above”) the perfectly rational is the task of any artist, even ones who believe themselves to be depicting “reality.” if you wanted to be perfectly rational, you would write journalism, not fiction.
it is here that I admit I miss the practical use of marijuana for inducing such a paranoid state of mind, but before I get back to smoking fat doinks, it would benefit me to first cultivate the skills for creating from this perspective on the natch, because back when I smoked too much weed I often mistakenly thought doing so would help inspire me, when more often than not it only inspired distraction and horniness. so having practice and discipline with writing while sober would set me up to actually seize upon weed’s ability to help its users be taken by surprise by unexpected connections: exactly what the act of writing does for me, at its most potent.
what I’m doing now to try and get at that is “automatic writing,” another surrealist method. for a set period of time, 25 minutes in my case, I try to write nonstop, as quickly as possible, in an effort to bypass or short circuit the conscious reasoning faculty and give vent to the process of thought unfiltered. it is a good exercise, but it doesn’t necessarily lead to anything effective as art. sometimes it does, sometimes an image or a striking juxtaposition emerges, but this is the trouble with a lot of surrealism: it’s not enough to throw together at random elements for the sake of weirdness. in an interview about Inland Empire (the one Lynch movie I haven’t seen), David Lynch says:
[You] need to have ideas. You can’t sit down and start writing—I guess the Surrealists did, they’d just start writing anything: you, know, “The kiln is silver, and it has red.” Or whatever you see, you write down, or whatever just starts flowing. But when it starts flowing, that’s the flow of ideas, just a flow, but it may be total baloney. So, yeah, you can write pages of baloney, but you need ideas.
Lost Highway, David Lynch
(interestingly, despite his status as the most widely popular Surrealist in film history, David Lynch doesn’t much care for Surrealism as such. elsewhere he admits to not even having seen many of Luis Buñuel’s films.)
compare Thomas Pynchon on surrealism:
Having as yet virtually no access to my dream life, I missed the main point of [Surrealism], and became fascinated instead with the simple idea that one could combine inside the same frame elements not normally found together to produce illogical and startling effects. What I had to learn later on was the necessity of managing this procedure with some degree of care and skill: any old combination of details will not do.
all of which is to say that automatic writing can be a useful exercise (David Lynch says as much elsewhere), but it’s only useful as an exercise. what’s produced by it can be mined for “ideas,” or can provide “access to my dream life,” but it won’t in itself create anything with power or energy. power and energy being somewhat mystical concepts I’m using to describe writing that I think taps into whatever it is that feeds the greatest works of art.
the utility (or necessity) of surrealism is something of an open question for me still: the world we live in now, with the media landscape acting as a kind of electrified miasma permeating the ether, schizophrenizing reality, makes us all paranoid subjects locked in personalized solipsistic hells. here’s Rob Horning on the matter:
The “false facts” we might spontaneously generate in interacting with social media — whether we are feeding our paranoid fears or indulging in their flip side, unrepentant self-aggrandizement — are no more or less false than the ideological interpretations of reality that pass as “real facts,” the ones convenient to power and the reproduction of existing distributions of privilege and so on. In fact, they fit that ideology’s individualist bias, the belief that it is our duty to aspire to fashion a private reality for ourselves and that our social status hinges on the success of that project.
Videodrome, David Cronenberg
a reactionary tact to take against the individualized surrealist thrust of electronic mass media would be to reassert, in a High Modernist way, some contrived metanarrative, to derive from Tradition the Source of Ultimate Meaning despite the waste lands created by a fractured reality field. surely there’s value in seeking new meaning from sources of old meaning. but rather than turn away, paranoiacally, from the general motion of the world as it futher splinters, is there not the possibility that running with that trend might lead to some hitherto unglimpsed wholeness? perhaps ahead lies only disintegration: it’s what the laws of thermodynamics suggest anyway. I have no answers, and I no longer wish to provide coherent analysis. instead I’ll skip above the widening cracks in the melting ice of reality until I inevitably slip down into whatever abyss lies beneath.
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.”
it’s never good for an artist to compare themselves too directly against other artists, especially those who rank among the brightest luminaries of the recent tradition. however, reading both Bolaño and Borges will make almost anyone consider just how little it seems they’ve actually read, with those South Americans both formidably voracious in their reading habits.
this month I’m taking stock. of what I can do without, what I need, things I should change. how to live such that I won’t, as much as is possible, regret my life. and, recognizing that, no, I probably won’t ever read as much as Jorge Luis Borges did, I certainly can do better about reading more. actually, fuck Borges, I can read as much as he did. by 55 the dude was fucking blind!!
(my therapist recently suggested that I stop reading and start collecting experiences, “dicking around” with whatever time I would have spent with my nose in a book. alas, I’m an addict, but, case in point: all the insane shit Bolaño got up to before his untimely death.)
next week I’m taking off from work, so you know what I’ll be doing.
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.
