This has happened once already this month — wake up, let the dog out for a piss, then I come back in and my central vision’s gone wonky. Normally it’s just my periphery that’s bad. It’s obnoxious. I’m here at work peering into my terminal like it’s a crystal ball. Trouble recognizing faces from a distance. Too bad! I think I forgot to mention, this blog now exclusively covers my ocular health plus a daily food diary.
- bowl of cereal (1/2 Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, 1/2 Kashi puffs [long story])
- cup of coffee
- cup of water
- Baby Trotsky, a “Twitter Literary Magazine”
- Via Peter Sellers, “This 16-year-old-dude is hilarious.” (The “Thighs Wide Shut” of his generation?)
- Ahhh, what else. Don’t worry about me. Joe Belock is a reliable source of pleasure on Tuesdays. You know about Peter Stampfel? Pseudonym O’Mygoodfriend was just recommending JG Ballard a month or so before he died. Ballard died, not my friend. My friend is alive. I have so much to read. Lately I’ve been thinking of abandoning the last 200 pages of 2666; angrily selling the copies of Russell Hoban and, whatever, Wolfgang Bauer’s The Feverhead, why do I buy books, and freezing time, going into a walk-in refrigerator with eighteen cases of Amy’s frozen Mac and Soy-Cheez and a New Orleans–size bottle of Tabasco and a case of Dogtown IPA and a microwave and reading Speak, Memory and Ada, or Ardour, and Bend Sinister and Pnin and Sebastian Knight and then four or five Ballard novels and then I’ll smoke some “no-THC pot” (like decaf coffee for recovering potheads; I’m going to make a lot of money off of this idea; contact me if you’re interested in investing; opportunities available at all levels) and then read like American Psycho and Glamorama and Lunar Park, then get on a plane to Italy and on the flight read all that DeQuincey you mentioned and some Coleridge and then once in Italy hole up in a hotel and read the unabridged Life of Johnson and their Tour of the Hebrides and then go deep into the Italian jungle (you didn’t know that there’s a tropical rainforest in central Italy? There is. I’m writing a story about it for the VQR, called “The Rainforest of Central Italy,” photos by Len Jenshel. Just kidding.) Blah blah blah I could go on, I won’t go on. I should add I’d read Beckett entire somewhere in there, too.