Domestic Terrorism

I’m suspicious for no reason outside of paranoia that my roommate wipes his just-wet-not-washed post-doo-doo hands dry using my shower towel. There’s no foreseeable remedy to my suffering outside of maybe acting in kind, which I guess means I’m a proponent of the pre-emptive strike. And here all this time I fancied myself just emptive, a cool reactionary type. Or perhaps I’m generalizing and this is something singular, site specific, and possibly untrue. That plus I’m easily spurred by fictions of too much idleness, an easy mark for the dramaturgy of ennui. And always skeptical of shit particles.

But then why do I always end up with anonymous pens in my mouth?

"so you think you’re radical"

A Week in Texas Comes to a Close

Caught a bass, boxed a man, swam laps, smoked meat, grilled fish, roasted deer, did some damage to DFW’s IJ in D/FW, hauled rocks in a wheelbarrow, lifted weights, cooked dinner for 5, jammed on guitars, had nightmares in my childhood room, won and lost at multi-centurial games, stole books from my grandmother’s deceased boyfriend’s deceased ex-wife, deliberately neglected anything internetic, cellular, or televisual save for to watch Jack die, which he did, and it’s done.

New York City? Get a rope. 

Two things that interfere with my daily life, uncontrollable

1) The pigeons have become outrageously cocky and awkward

2) Bananas and avocados have schedules of their own

Sometimes I want blue-hot fire to erupt out of my chest and/or my mouth, beamlike with tiny fire fingertips breaking off, rose-stem-shaped and atmosphere-touching. It’s a familiar visual, I think, something I probably picked up in any number of places, but also an image that’s appeared in my writing as early as my late teens. I usually get this feeling while I’m waking down the street, listening to a certain part of a certain type of song. Occasionally I’ll actually crucify out my fists and throw back my head, the posture of were it to happen. But it doesn’t. Inside my chest is only the unlit blackness of concealed biology. I lower my arms, unclench, keep walking, always explosive.

A Discovered Series of Categories Explains History of My Life

"SURVEYING. HERALDRY. EROTIC. CIRCUS. AMUSEMENT PARKS. DAUMIER OCCULT. WOMEN. FASHION. CHILDREN. TRAVESTY. JOURNALISM.  HUNTING DOGS. HUNTING. SHIPS. SMOKING. MYTHOLOGY. PROFESSIONS AND TRADES. UNIVERSITIES. ATLAS TITLE PAGES. ARCHEOLOGY. TATTOO. FAUNS, CENTAURS, CLASSIC NUDES*. THEATER. ASTRONOMY." 

*note accurate grouping of fauns, centaurs, and classic nudes into single category. 

Some several hours into the morning this morning, I remembered waking up from a nightmare in the middle of the night. The dream itself I can’t recall, only its lingering ghost limb grown upon waking, how it flails then fades forgotten, the empty white wall opposite my bed, the serrated silence of hyperactive, unreal content violently severed into vacancy, an arbitrary and brutal cut off, like Bukowski’s line breaks.

Unshackled

Facebook: deactivated. Elliott David likes this. 

xanax

beautiful palindrome. aptly snow colored. wonderful in all the worst ways. a truly terrible thing.

I love photos of spaces entropic and/or (once) ornate. It’s an intuitional, highly emotive function of photography that is hard to capture and calibrate correctly. It also implies the nomadic requirements of its compilation, which greatly appeals to my own wanderlust. Michael Eastman’s Vanishing America does this well, I think. And Eugene Richard’s The Blue Room. A lesser known but equally talented Sean Donnola pulls this off with great grace. And of course there’s Bill Eggleston. Fucking maniac. 

I was recently introduced to the work of Andrew Moore by the French Mme at Clic Bookstore, a place where one should go should one not yet have gone. (And if you wanted to buy me their copy of Peter Beard’s Diary, I wouldn’t hate you for it.) Moore’s work makes me feel at home, which is to say: alone. It makes me feel a non-specific yearning that’s not nostalgia, that daydreamy function of desire, but also something not far from it. Perhaps a bastard form of mourning. Or maybe its the ironic, internal vacancy of not being gone. But regardless, it facilitates my fictions of want. And I love him for that. 

Is the best part of Il Trill the implication that Bun B is Italian?