Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I make up
for my book.
Let others judge. (more…)
Secret languages surround us. As humans we gather ourselves into groups smaller than Human and from such categorization we learn our secret languages. A secret language is a form or method of communication not readily understood by the masses, but requiring some membership or specialized knowledge to be understood. Examples range from announcements in Spanish to others concealed in hidden sectors of society like lolspeak and Pig Latin. As a lover of language, these secret languages intrigue me to no end. They are conduits for human interaction, different paths along the great experiment of humanity we as sentient are uniquely able to consider. I observe them, weigh them, perceive them, and enjoy them. (more…)
i was thinking about my second column for gloom cupboard and two thoughts struck me. it might be more than two but for the moment it’s two.
initially i thought of a girl i dated in college. this is 20 some odd years ago so the details are a bit fuzzy. and i should clarify. when i say girl, perhaps transgendered human would be a better fit. and it only took five dates to figure that out.
secondly i thought about getting published, and not your first, great american novel about whores and wars and deadbeat living, rather that first poem you get published in the local fish wrap. the one where you take a bunch of copies, send them to family, including grandma, and you tape a copy to the wall of your workspace. the first published piece is amazing, a feeling almost like the first time you fuck a really hot girl, (or guy, i want to be open to homosexuals and females.
which leads me back to the girl i dated in college. (more…)
Thomas Disch Died Today
Thomas Disch died today.
He was a science-fiction writer
I read as a kid and when I
read his obit in the Times
I felt like I was reading one
of his stories, although his
stories were never this
crushingly real. Thomas
Disch shot himself after
what a friend called a
“sequence of catastrophes”:
his love died;
It doesn’t seem fair to kill
a good writer with a lousy
reality plot like this.
“A very complex day today. Humans are so effortless.”
“They polish their knowledge with composed madness.”
“I heard a man begging for a month that wasn’t raw, a month that wasn’t savage. It made grave sense to me. I wanted a sip of his perceptions, so I took one.”
“You may have plunged into a very unnatural alliance with this man. Relay the crude details of your sip to me.”
“He had phobias. He wanted a wonderful fairness, a justness that would eventually connect all the dots, or at least take the plague out of them. His language was so layered, so comfortable, he built brick houses out of slang.”
“Tell me about the phobias.”
“He had a fear of amnesia and a fear of the sun. When he was inexperienced his father forced him to stare. Every time he blinked he was punctured. This never deflated him, only inflated what he already knew.”
“That he was powerful, vital and potent. His gift to this world would be captivating and effective. He eventually went blind from these enraged burns to his retinas. The gift would be a spectacle of illuminated intellect based on years without sight. With no eyesight you never have to blink, there is nothing to observe but darkness.”
“And memories. Tell me about the fairness.” (more…)
“And he knows what he knows like the trees do” – Buffy Ste. Marie
You have to start with the basics. Build a platform, a ground, on which everything else is based; to which everything else refers. If art is to have meaning in life, then life has to mean something. So you have to start with – the meaning of life. Of course, in one way or another, everyone gives their own life meaning…or not. My view is – this existential meaning should always come from each individual. But that is probably so rare as to be almost never. (more…)
Jan Oskar Hansen
Tell a Stranger.
Midmorning, the sun was shoveling
aside clouds that threatened to shed
rain, clearing a path that got bigger
and bigger till it had the sky for itself;
that was ok as it was in the middle
of August, when I murmured to her:
“I love you”
Even though I meant it at the time
I managed to embarrass myself by
sounding insincere. Demoralized
when she laughed and hit me with
her handbag; I felt like a speck of
dust-more- a broken matchstick in
an ashtray full of masculine cigars
The last I saw of her was a proud
neck entering the bus going back
Beck Street. Walked into Rose &
Crown for a drink and to weigh up
my future. “I adore you” I said to
a woman sitting on her own, her
eyes lit up, she had a pretty smile.