"And then, slowly, as a young adult, I started stepping out of the past-tense romance of the movie screen and into the live theatrical reality of my own life. I fell in love with a man. I fell in love with books. I fell in love with New York City. I stopped feeling like my real life only happened while watching a movie. I guess I became sort of interested in myself. Then I started going to see plays. In many ways I think I became interested in being a theater-maker because it forced me to stay in the ephemeral present tense in a way that was harder and scarier for me, but when it worked (and theater seldom works, but oh, when it does) it was world-shattering. Theater forced me to be a little more of a Buddhist, and I liked that about it."
I shall declare
myself a one-year-old
& start up again.
kurt vile - my best friends (don’t even pass this)
“Let me repeat. I have not read all the work of this present generation of writing. I have not had time yet. So I must speak only of the ones I do know. I am thinking now of what I rate the best one, Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, perhaps because this one expresses so completely what I have tried to say. A youth, father to what will—must—someday be a man, more intelligent than some and more sensitive than most, who—he would not even have called it by instinct because he did not know he possessed it because God perhaps had put it there, loved man and wished to be a part of mankind, humanity, who tried to join the human race and failed. To me, his tragedy was not that he was, as he perhaps thought, not tough enough or brave enough or deserving enough to be accepted into humanity. His tragedy was that when he attempted to enter the human race, there was no human race there. There was nothing for him to do save buzz, frantic and inviolate, inside the glass wall of his tumbler, until he either gave up or was himself, by himself, by his own frantic buzzing, destroyed.”
In life small farts come first, then the big shit follows.
Before They Pass Away. Photographer Jimmy Nelson traveled around the earth to try and document the world’s most secluded tribes.
Me and my friends
Me and my friends, we’re still into guitars
and motor nerves, quelling-habits
dragging our feet out, for today’s more pressing
than even the pot of brew we throw so far
back down the hatch it’s behind us and hearts
go running and when the chase doesn’t catch
we click link after link open tab after tab
for brilliant strangers who do it like we only learn
to do it. Me and my friends, we’re fat grubs in chrysalis
we over the years begin to lean ever-more backward
into the far seat of a dark theater, dumb-struck
and we cross our fingers and transfigure
into photons against the theater screen
hit concrete concrete, light-beams like pins
in the pin-cushion, finely-ground like saw-dust.
Me and my friends we forget the point.
We either learn to love a little better
or we learn to smother a little less, and we got
to rampage when the day breaks, just to make it
to the front door. Me and my friends
we hate the quiet but don’t mind the solitude
writhing away letters and wave-forms, whittling sticks
to make them sharper than the knife that’s doing
the sharpening. Me and my friends we’re full of shit
but what’s the difference.
Me and my friends, we break like the big bang
that’s still going slow as all time.
Homo Perfectus Immaculately Conceives Himself
To keep his blessed armor hard he ate
lean meat, cruciferous greens, few
grains. He liked his instants
parceled out in reps and sets, and he was glad,
to dangle like an ape from an iron bar, admiring
his bicep bulge (amen): He worked hard
the slant board, the oblique
twist, and his own form
waxed and polished, his house a bleached vault
where he lit votive candles to the clear
persistence of his little self though no one else
showed up. He liked
the slammed door, the map’s red line, to stomp
a clutch, to clutch the black wheel, to wheel
away in steaming rage.
He was a preacher fond
of Revelation. His truth was slant,
his facts oblique. He sought a righteous girl, articulate,
whose slang he could steal
for his soporific sermons—
a girl all clean and bare in her nethers with mouth
of Cupid’s bow—someone
to dress in white and hold
struggling under water, to warp
the iron of, till she melted. To her
he gave and gave. He gave all
the all he had, which wasn’t much.