A few have asked how I write so much here (that's debatable). The short answer is that I'm insane. And well there is the issue of me coming up with pieces-parts for the book, due in 8 months, so this is kind of the WORK for me. The only type.
Yes, I drink caffeine. Usually only white or oolong tea because when I drink coffee lately when I have to when I'm traveling I become dually possessed by demons and dyspeptic, like a Beckett figure. Did anyone see the new cover of Bookforum? Sammy Beckett wandering around Morocco in his tanned stork legs and short-shorts? I loved stroking his paper inner white calf muscle of Sammy B (I used to know someone named Sammy B he was a brilliant actor-junky would ride around Division St. on his bike that was in the days the old daze I was fucked up too the days a cab wouldn't stop on Division wouldn't dare). Sammy Beckett maybe NOT ACTUALLY Molloy, alone in a room, off his rocker, waiting. But I am.
Lately I am not productive. Lately I lay in an unwashed bed and grade 3 papers every hour and flip flip and type type and watch bad TV on my computer and read reviews of TV shows and forums about TV shows and get ready to go teach 5 minutes before I have to. There are no picture postcards of me wandering around sunny climes. This is in no way to compare myself to The Master, but to say, I write a lot because I have no life, barring this blog or reading or dancing spasmodic vaudeville. And worrying worrying about whether my publisher will send out the books, will the books be sent out to SPD and Amazon and the bookstores, that's my tropical land now, Amazon. It's been two weeks since the book's been out! But the book is not out it's not out it's not available! I'm willing them to go to the post office.
Although most importantly I write a lot because I absolutely lack filter. Maybe to be a writer is to have a filter, and I am just a typist, rewording Tru C on the Beat-Me-Daddies. And I have always admired the model of the writer frenzied, possessed. Flow-bert & NEEDZsche. But who is my wifey to feed me split pea and benzos?
But lately lately since leaving the homestead for Chicago and then Denver I have not written at all except the scattered AWP diary probably typed because there was no Wi-Fi on the plane. It's so terrible not to write at all. Not to remember where Under the Shadow is on my desktop. Confused what I was thinking about in regards to hysteria, possession. A possession. Today I stagger around the blind halls of an old industrial building become class building clutching Catherine Clement's Syncope, just clutching it, like a talisman, I don't read it, no, just clutching it.
Is it spring outside?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
This is fun. An excerpt from Monkey's Notebook in my in-progress triptych Under the Shadow of My Roof is up at Everyday Genius, curated this month by Blake Butler. It's when she hallucinates Jean Rhys and has a convo with her, towards the end of the book. It seems so manic reading it! I liked it but now I just read it and I'm not so sure! It fits in well with the rest of the book though. I think. Monkey is very very manic. I borrow a lot from what I will pompously call the aesthetic of teen texting.