so here’s two idea posts back-to-back. wowee zowee. last night i was bored, shiftless, and without a bar-hopping buddy, so i stayed home and decided to draw. what could i draw? i’ve always love drawing people, so i went on myspace and drew the first picture i liked, then i drew a second. these were very minimal pieces, lots of open space.

then i got to thinking that i would paint them, but i haven’t been really been motivated to paint for a while, so i was sans inspiration, or at least any original seeming “vision” for the drawings, so i stood them up on my desk and read for a little bit. i was really proud of the drawings; they came out nicely, so it was always in the back of mind: what to do with them?

they seemed too bare to claim as any great effort of artistry, and most of the artistic quality came from the person who took the picture, not me. in order for them to be worthy pieces of artwork, i had impose myself on them.

then it came to me. the way i write in my journals, drawing a few things on a blank page and then going in and filling the bare space with words. why waste paper? it could be my version of a graphic novel, but actually more like an illustrated novella in which the illustrations impose on the text format.

now i’ve always loved dj shadow, and the fact that EVERYTHING is a sample is something i’ve always admired. i read an interview with him where he said something along the lines of knowing the bassline he needed and knowing a bass player down the street, but also knowing that he had to find the bassline in a record, not cop out on his boundaries.

i’ve come up with similar boundaries. i will only use pictures i find on myspace. i won’t draw each picture perfectly to that person’s face, but will create characters over time and alter the person, just using them for their pose.

after i finish 100 really good drawings, i will scan them to my computer, stick the pictures over an entire wall storyboard style, and move them around while developing a story. in a small notebook, i will write the story page for page while staring at this enormous storyboard. i will not write word one before that day, but will only develop ideas (that will not be written down).

then after proper revisions, i will photoshop the story onto the scanned pictures, and print it on out. (probably at the uno library, so i can get a few copies of the book for free).

maybe i’ll have an art show with the originals arranged in the order of the story. people in attendance can write down their own ideas for the story, then perhaps purchase the book on their way out.

i’ll only be attempting to draw one or two pictures a day, and many of the attempts could be failures (like today), so it’s likely that the drawings won’t be done for almost a year. imagine, just 1/100th of the inspiration for a story per day, just enough to develop something intricate and truly inspired. like a buffer to keep me from rushing into writing.

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ineluctable modalities

December 13, 2006

i’ve been thinking, what if there is a way to tell a story in which the powers that be, the invisible forces that nudge the people of society this way and that without their ever knowing, if i could tell a story that, with a fading highlighter, points these forces out, even in an abstract way?

i’ve started work on the said story; it’s, at this working point, called “stray: a method of chance”. it is partially inspired…well not inspired so much as informed by movies like happenstance and to a lesser degree movies like snatch. of course, i’ll be the first to admit that movies have the advantage over prose in the way of illustrating coincidences.

we’ll take a fairly mainstream film for example: the rules of attraction. that montage where the swooning girl is highlighted from previous scenes she covertly appeared in is absolutely amazing! why? because the camera can give you a relative direction as to where to look, but a narrator, more often than not, tells you what he/she is looking, thus the details that are important are given away to the observant reader. especially in the kind of story that i am trying to write, which i won’t give away in detail, but will say involves snail mail, so anytime i mention a mailbox, the post office, a letter, anything! it will be duly noted in the reader’s mind.

there’s really no way around it, so most of the “shadow action” in the story really is that, all in the shadows. it’s going to take a push on the boundaries of subtlty and trust in intelligent readers, but it should all work out fine. i just hope it doesn’t turn out to be one of those kitschy bullshit pieces wherein everything ties together in one unbroken circle. i for one treasure the frayed ends of relation between large casts.

i’m almost halfway done with the new pynchon! wish me luck!

goodnight.

i recently read about a new diet book that’s been rocking the fashionista underground.
it’s called “the karl lagerfeld diet” and is promoted as the most absurd worship of vanity.
though former model karl lagerfeld did not suffer from poor health by any means,
he wanted to fit into hot new slim fit suits, ones he could’ve gotten into in his youth
but at 60, was a bit too portly. so he went on a diet that was engineered to make him
lose 80 pounds in a year. now weighing in at about 135 lbs., he must feel fabulous.
the great part about all of this is that he’s truthful about vanity to the extreme,
making anyone who buys into the diet, receive the spotlight of over-the-top
self-consciousness. i don’t know if i love him or hate him for his candidness.

i was recently reading up on russian formalism. interesting stuff.
there was a concept being thrown around about art at the time.
i forgot the word, but it amounts to art being the vehicle of strangeness.
in other words, art is supposed to make the mundane and “normal”
into something alien and altogether new. i like that a lot.

came across a website called largeheartedboy.com or something like that.
the blogmaster or whatever has this three year running thing going called
52 books in 52 weeks. i remember in high school, which hearkens me back
to dating this slightly demented girls who never ate on thursdays, when i had
decided to read 50 books a year.
I think I’ll go back to that this year, but not the 52 in 52 thing. that means one
would have to read 52 short books, and with new copies of finnegan’s wake &
anna karenina on my shelf and wanting to reread ulysses and gravity’s rainbow
soon, week-worth books seem unlikely. but there was a time when i read two
medium sized books a week. this was a time when my then-girlfriend hated me.

i’ve been reading, writing, and drinking heavily (an all-encompassing adverb)
all day, so that’s all i’ve really got.
for interested parties, if the left hand scoots over half an inch, one would type “got” instead of “for”. i don’t look at the keys anymore.
i quit the bank cafe’ and i’m on my way back to cafe’ degas. w00t. four cafe’ jobs in a row and degas has the worst actual coffee. i need to talk to them about that.

pop culture update:
currently reading: “cursed from birth” by william s. burroughs jr. III (so the more famous writer wsb II tagged a jr. on the end of his sons name when it should’ve been III. check out speed and kentucky ham, the only other two novels by the “son of naked lunch”) & “black elk speaks” (for class, it was good at first but it’s going downhill in interest-factor)

currently writing: “alrec: creature from the haunted huis” (or more accurately, revising) & “gus’ historical bodybuilding emporium” (not sure where this one’s going).

currently watching: this herzog flick about a chick that can’t see or hear, but i can’t remember the title. i thinks it’s something like land of darkness and silence.

currently listening to: sunset rubdown “sunset rubdown” & john jorgenson “franco american swing”

it’s been a while since i’ve posted, but i’m back.

the past few weeks have been surreal, unearthly, and
above all
tiresome. that’s all behind me though.

i had my first day of backwaiting at the bank cafe` on wednesday.
i don’t like being there nearly as much as degas, and i think i’ll go
back there (degas) as soon as they need a busser.
no one there smokes, so smoke breaks
are rushed because i feel like a slacker.
it was interesting, though.

there was a table of burlesque dancers (two of them actually)
and their manager(?) or something like that.
they were beautiful and dressed in all black and
looked fresh out of the pages
of a CBGB photobook,
while the guy looked like a las vegas coke dealer,
alcoholic and/or but not limited to pimp.
i overheard bits of conversation like
“…i was on his computer and all he had was TONS of mexican porn.”
&
“i think we shouldn’t use the pigs blood until the second act…”
when they left
i wanted them to take me along
to give me some odd job, a couch, and a polyester shirt
like “almost famous” but better written
and more lewd.

i started a new story. it’s another story about nudists
because i’m obsessed with the idea of people reading
about nudists, but visualizing clothed characters, until
it’s brought up again that they’ve been naked the whole
time. it really just cracks me up.

as a catch up, “natural potato” was about a jazz trio becoming
the house band at an eerie nudists colony. it includes
sex, murder, canibalism, and greek literature.

the second is “gus’ historical bodybuilding emporium” about
a gay man who is hired to walk around a crowded gym locker room
trying to make conversation while in the nude, thus
effectively clearing out loiterers. he is met with ornery
janitors, hooligans, a rival gang of elderly naked men,
and an oracle locker. i think the locker room will be haunted too.

i think i might just bite the bullet and do a third one after this one’s done.
have a nudist trilogy.

here’s my obligatory youtube post.
it’s the video for david byrne and brian eno’s “mea culpa” from
my life in the bush of ghosts

on that topic, everyone in the world should read the book
the palm wine drinkard and my life in the bush of ghosts
it’s the book that inspired the byrne/eno album.
it’s actually a collection of common african folktales put into novel form,
but no one’ll tell you that part.

currently listening to:
gnarls barkley “st. elsewhere”
currently reading:
the mezzanine by nicholson baker

i’ve finished two of three big projects
that have been unfinished for six months
to a year and half.
two short stories down
[“undiscovered’ and ”a delicate waste”]
and one still unfinished screenplay
[“the caricature”]

i saw half nelson the night before last
i had low expectations but it was actually pretty good.
the story’s themes (dialectics, latent racism, addiction, etc)
were a bit overbearing but
the dialogue was amazingly written.

and last night the science of sleep
very good. pretty well-written and thought out,
but copiously whimsical and custom-fitted for
indie kids with tight pants and black hair.
an good art film, yes, but as demographically charged
as the fast and the furious.
i guess it’s no one’s fault.

i’ve found the most amazing clip
in teen sitcom (geared toward junior high kids)
history.
that’s right! the time jessie spano freaks out on adderol.

ah, it’s truly timeless.

i would like to address the case of
anton newcombe
(of brian jonestown massacre)
and the like.

it’s absurd that a supposed artist,
defined and motivated by creation,
could be so distracted by such
ridiculous hindsights as
mr. newcombe allowed himself to be.
i know the “special features”
divulge his distractions as a heavy drinker
and i’ve the same bone to pick with
daniel johnston (who is a better artist
and had more severe problems
to begin with, but did far too much acid).

people like to expect creative people as being
loopy fuckheads who goof around and, in the meantime,
write their favorite songs.

jim morrison was a myth to himself, let alone the stoned-stupid motherfuckers that worshipped him.
jimi hendrix was a normal guy who just fucked up.
janis joplin partied too hard and relied on cover songs.
ian curtis was the don quixote of rock n roll.
kurt cobain had health issues.
brad nowell just fucked up too.
charlie parker was a genius, but went fuckin’ nuts.
john coltrane…now that’s just sad.

in the case of anton newcombe, why should anyone
admire an alcoholic hack who rips off the stones
and bob dylan, but with far worse lyrics.

whew, i’m done.

I put this post under anticipation,
but that’s the last thing I feel at this moment.
It’s what I felt before I woke up with a hangover.
I’ve finished the first draft of “Undiscovered”,
a story that has been like an unexpected
layer of bricks in a prisoner’s underground tunnel.
By that, I mean that its been very selfish and
hasn’t let anything but a sneaky one-pager be
written until she was finished.

It started more as a journal, a fictional projection of myself on two different characters, but they eventually became their own. It’s a story with very, very few events loosely accompanying the psychological developments of two slowly diverging lovers, Cypriot and Zoya. Nothing per usual.

The front room of the house has been transformed into a music/painting room until Joseph moves in to lighten the financial burden that comes with the luxury of having a music/painting room.

Between the new space and the beautiful autumn of my delicate New Orleans, inspiration is dawning from every corner of me again. It felt the same way in early to mid June when I arrived back here, but the drudgery of 50 hour workweeks and the lack of privacy at the old house vanquished that quickly enough. Now that stress is slowly subsiding, art can replace it again.

the truth behind doctor who.

September 28, 2006

“Blue cheese contains natural amphetamines. Why are students not informed about this?” –Mark E. Smith.


this is hilarious.

i somehow came across this little gem, one of an expansive tome of creepy monologues. it makes me want to work up a minor costume and parody it.

i’ve got some new favorites i’d like to share.
chris loaned his copy of berryman’s dream songs,
which is fucking fantastic. i’m only a dozen songs in
after a week, but i’ve really enjoyed them all.
song #4 is especially titillating. i’ll leave it here for you.

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
‘You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry’s dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.’ I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.—Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

—Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast … The slob beside her feasts … What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
—Mr. Bones: there is.

how bout that? whew.

the band’s (cicada) myspace will be fancy soon. i promise. then i’ll post the link, but until then, we’re satisfied with our 12 friends.

i’m not sure if this is an official deerhoof video. i haven’t look into it, really. but it never crossed my mind that they’d use “spy on you” as a single, so who knows? anyway, the video is an in-your-face cuteness assault.

one of my newest favorites, nouvelle vague (generously introduced to me by brandin phillips on our roadtrip up to portland) have a new song and video out: “dance with me”
check it out.

so the saints are 3-0. there was a slew of us that gathered at cutter’s, the surprisingly crowded gay bar we usually frequent. we’re known by the old regulars as “the boys” because we’re the youngest and straightest regulars. i guess watching football at a gay bar is about as manly as most of us get.

back to the game.
i was raised a saints fan and can’t help but be proud of my team, but at the same time the victories all seem pretty hollow. 13 players on this newly assembled version of a new orleans football team were first-string players on other teams last season.
i feel like i’m rooting for the million dollar man, caught near death but revived through expensive and artificial processes. i know how trades in the nfl go and how unsentimental it is regarding native homes, but this is absurd.
a succeeding saints team feels like a contradiction in terms.