Clickin on stuff I ended up reading about a woman I don’t know named Amelia’s trip to the doctor. Then I “closed the tab” and read the next thing 0pen in my browser, which was a woman I don’t know named Molly’s experience at the doctor’s!
UPDATE: I discovered this morning that two women I do know, both of whom live in San Francisco, and who[m) I don’t think know each other (though they surely know of each other), both have “food blogs” called “Weird Vegetables” !!!
All I seem/want to do on this blog is talk about
b.) how my brain has stopped working
c.) [things I’d write if I weren’t lazy/busy/lobotomized in bracketed italics indicating that this is where they’d go]
GIANT “OH WELL” !!!!
SVEN: I met someone else.
LARISSA: What? Who?
SVEN: [Sven is a nerd: black turtleneck, utility belt, rimless specs. “Stage crew.“] You.
LARISSA: [Curtains descending at every level within her] What?
SVEN: You. I met you.
LARISSA: Someone… else?
LARISSA: But it’s me?
LARISSA: Is that… OK?
SVEN: You tell me. [Farts silently]
LARISSA: It’s not OK.
SVEN: Why not?
LARISSA: I’m the only one.
SVEN: I know.
LARISSA: But you met someone else.
SVEN: [Nods like a concrete skate park. 🙁 ]
LARISSA: And that someone else is me. And somehow this contradiction is supposed to turn me on?
SVEN: It’s not supposed to do anything. It’s just a vegetable, in your refrigerator, going bad slowly.
LARISSA: Is that a metaphor for what you just said?
SVEN: I don’t know. Maybe it’s a simile. It’s definitely figurative language.
LARISSA: I really wish this was more interesting.
SVEN: Why? So that when you remember it years later you’ll be entertained?
LARISSA: No, so that I could be entertained right now. Instead, I feel sort of upset.
SVEN: Maybe it’s because you love me.
LARISSA: That’s not why I’m annoyed by this spooky bullshit.
SVEN: Well, I love you, too.
LARISSA: Maybe you should smoke some more pot, you’re acting terrible.
SVEN: OK. [He take a colossal bong ripper. The smoke, as he exhales, curls into ancient fortresses and other cool designs.]
Last night I read the “front-matter” — probably not the right word for the preface, introduction, chronology, etc — of the recently released Damion Searls-edited NYRB Classics edition of Thoreau’s Journal.
In Searls’s funny and helpful introduction, he calls the volume an “abridgement”–similar, in one respect, maybe, to an abridgment Searls made of another 19th-century American classic, Moby-Dick: called ; or, the Whale, Searls wrote a great essay in the Believer about the project here. I’ve recently been hit with an overwhelming amt of semirequired reading, and Searls’s introduction, which talks about the distinction between abridgement, which seeks to retain the flow and balance of the original, and editing, which simply reduces its length (I am bungling this, hard, and giving up on this sentence).… Of further interest is the fact that it’s basically Thoreau’s life that’s being abridged. I somehow thought it was going to be easy to make a point here about the amount of books one feels one needs to read and the amount of days one has to live and have these things be gloriously connected in a reading of Thoreau’s journal. But it’s not and I’m at work and need to get back to it. These excuses smell like excrescences on an old cheese.
Late last year I ate a pot cookie and went to the California Academy of Sciences with some loved ones. That evening I accidentally spilled two full beers on a reality TV show demi-celebrity and her date (I have severe night blindness, didn’t see their table). Then I ate more of the pot cookie and went to Rosemarie Waldrop’s George Oppen Memorial Lecture, where she spoke a bit about Oppen’s Daybook. My grasp of the lecture was suitably tenuous but I did love the idea of a daybook, even just as a prettier word than journal. I guess, my dear Wolfman (I write this blog for one person only, and that is the Wolfman, sweet web-surfing Wolfman, I hope you like my blog, I hope your Internet connection is clear and fast and uninterrupted, I hope that no one bridles at my calling you a “person”, for even if you’re sometimes more wolf than man, you, adorable Wolfman of mine, are always a person. Because you can read! What the fuck) this discussion is inevitably leading toward a discussion of blog as daybook. Blog as journal. Something about the fact that the Wolfman has immediate access to it, and that it has hyperlinks, distinguishes it from the intensely private, contemplative analog journals of “yore” (and yore is, of course, still in full contemporary effect, in tens of thousands of active Moleskines and spiral-bounds worldwide). But seriously, I smack your face with my unworn leather gloves: blogs are allowed to be daybooks. Let them be. Why do I feel the need to defend the internet from hypothetical reactionaries? Why do I insist on calling my rambling, soggy rants “discussions” or “arguments” when they’re really just excrescences on my poor old personal cheese, and I should be getting back to work at work?
The self-abusing rhetorical question smells like the privates of an old man. I’ll see you tonight, Wolfman. Hugs.
Announcing Episode Four of Paparazzo, a radio show about culture broadcasting from Paris, France. Endless, undiminished apologies all around. The “caucasian skin” reference, along with this entire enterprise, is weird and bad and sounds wrong. I continue to be unable and/or refuse to to learn to edit audio, or myself. I also continue to use this blog as a clearinghouse for my psychic daemons, thanks for stopping by, “all rights reserved / all wrongs reversed”!
(Photo harvested from the Flickr collection of “chrisainsworth“)