Passive Mouse

Derelict passive mouse blog on the weekend has several jobs: primarily to make sure she makes sense. The second is bloggier: I make sure any pregnant children get health-care of the highest quality. The best cheeses at the corporate supermarket (Safeway) are fine if they’re already in your fridge, but when it comes time to replace them, the best cheeses, why not go to the worker-owned grocery store (Rainbow) and buy that Leftist cheddar. Once everyone’s sure they make sense — in the sense that the language pour is robust or solid, making sure the iPod is charging, don’t telegraph anything, — break open a Thought Experiment Set Piece: the adult stoner’s choiceless afternoon (multiplex).

If it’s on my blog, you can be sure it’s vegan AND kosher, so sup.

Language classes:
the false choice of the breastless necktie.

Preemptive salad:
Not a snack, precisely,
and prime.

Lame basalt cup on a hooded truck’s best rodeo gear:
If sense is your master, then this is one holiday potluck
where you won’t have much luck
finding food

The horniest llama at the petting zoo,
Sarah.

If it’s important for fiction to advertise itself as socially conscious and that some of the proceeds will go toward buying the author’s daughters farmer’s cheese, please, please, revise, revise. Salad like typos cranberries itself up into a defecit — My deficit. A blinded salad’s cranberries flare out (“like jeans”–Cricket Pete). If a college salad freezes on a plate, it’ll be imperative that your reading end quickly. And begin again just as soon.

I’ll not make a plate of sense for you, Imperativa. And a beautiful name, totally — Imperativa. Your purple Honda conceals many curves — I’d love to ride shotgun and change the CDs for you. Let’s meet back here later; “Continue the Story.”  I’ve got a Nintendo DS full of stories for you. Knowing, winking, awful self-conscious stories about children of privilege ruining themselves against backdrops of total suffering.

I have trouble on the weekends, pt. II

Thrines’ Muog-e

Seventh-Story Glory Hole

Walking through the Castro, I looked up at an attractive seven-story building. Someone had cut a three-inch circle out of their street-facing window. They’d lined the circle with soft black foam. The window was painted black, or maybe dark blue. I saw a long, flaccid penis hanging out of the hole. An impossibly high glory hole! The cock swayed gently in the tall breeze. I considered climbing an adjacent tree, or scaling the building itself. I would surely have perished had I made the attempt.

Drink This Now

She thought about piercing my throat with her razor. I’d die, but it’d also mean I’d finally stop talking. Then it dawned on her: I still hadn’t had my morning coffee. All my focus had been on preparing the eggs and onions. No wonder I’m babbling like an idiot. My coffee stood cooling by the stove while I sputtered and bloviated, rubbing my thumb against the plate to retrieve the last bits of onion. A well-rendered female character in a fictional short story, she dashed into the kitchen and returned with the mug. “Drink this,” she said, and pressed the warm cup into my hands. I swallowed it quickly like medicine.

Thinking Critically

Crabby chic. I’m bored by my style. I got it from you. If you’re British, does that mean your brown hat’s British? Running out the door this morning I grabbed something to read. The Fall 2010 number of thee Threepenny Review was at the top of the pile. It’s wrong for the bus: if you’re reading fiction, it should be bound in a book; if you’re going to read a magazine, it should have at least some politics or pop in it. Each item eventually repelled me—the scholarly ‘mystery’ felt contrived and overdramatized; a poem that maybe wanted to failed to make me consider seriously my own mortality. Then I got to Richard Locke’s review of Lydia Davis’s Collected Stories, which I enjoyed until I arrived at my stop.

Locke quotes Davis’s wonderful three-sentence story “A Different Man” in its entirety. I am a solipsist and a megalomaniac, though I use those terms interchangeably and probably don’t know what they mean. Reading the story there, I worried that my girlfriend might someday write a similar story about me, portraying me as a character who “kept his distance from her, who took offense, who was not reasonable.” With even more damning observations sprinkled in.

nyc, 1993

INTERVIEWER

I wish your daughter could read your poetry. But with titles like “Neighborly Cum,” you’ve presumably guaranteed that she won’t be allowed, either by yourself or her tutors. And when she does find your work, chances are, she’ll be disturbed forever. I have to ask: Why do you all but ensure that at some point in her life, your daughter will be disturbed?

DERRICK RAPEWONE

I’m not the one ensuring that she’ll be disturbed. Old Barry Life-Truths is the one who makes sure of that. If it’s not “Neighborly Cum,” it’s Return to Oz (1985, Walter Murch, dir.) at a friend’s house—or any number of other horrors one can’t slide through life without being forcibly pressed up against them for longish periods of time.

INTERVIEWER

But why add to the horror by writing a poem like “Neighborly Cum”?

DERRICK RAPEWONE

I’m not making myself understood. I’m not adding to the horror. This is like asking why I’m adding to the flood by dipping my bucket into the angry, swollen creek and reserving that water for tonight’s broths, sipped in misery among the bloated, flood-ravaged corpses of our friends. The water is there, whether it’s in the creek with the dead catfish or if it’s in my tureen—with the dead catfish. [Smiles, awkwardly adjusts his pants, smiles again, grabs a full fistful of the wasabi peas on the table between them. He has small hands.] I’m not inventing the water, and I’m not conjuring it. I’m carrying it.

INTERVIEWER

But you could leave it in the creek. You don’t need to fetch it. Let it pass on.

DERRICK RAPEWONE

You describe the water as something in transit — just passing through our encampment, on its way to nobler fates — a job at a university, maybe, or a self-employment that manages to fuse social justice with a “hip” cultural engagement? Or just broader diffusion into the ocean, for example. Sure. But as it rushes west, the water is also quite a static thing. The creek is there—sometimes swollen, sometimes “normal,” now and then quite meager—but it’s there year-round. Just like your arms, or your thighs—sometimes swollen, sometimes meager, always present. [Derrick, looking away from the interviewer’s thighs, thinks about them.]

INTERVIEWER

Your work often mentions self-loathing, and something you call “fake self-loathing.” Do you really hate yourself?

DERRICK RAPEWONE

Well, yes, I do, but this isn’t really why I use those words. I think of self-loathing as an artistic tool, a raw material — it’s a particular brand and color of paint that I buy in quantity, and use in my compositions. This doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a subject of mine, no more than you could accuse a painter of using “brown” or “blue” as her subject.

[Originally published in Fake Paris Review, Issue 2, Spring 1994]

Triumpffffffff

A totally new blend of apathy,
super-grateful for your support

Click The Heart icon, <3 <3
as it Depresses, it makes uh Eponymous Sound.

Hot gurgling; Money. The beginning

ahh fuck this Are you writing POETRy??

Gray Ranch must be some sort of code.
the hottest female bloggers love Daria
THIS TEXT IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE WORK
I’M BEING PAID TO DO, THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY
SMELLS LIKE PINE

Your lack of ambition doesn’t scan as humble.
It reeks as badly as the strainers’. The effortful b.o. of
Apples and oranges, both reek. Rotten sirloins
v. spoiled honeydew. Daria.

Check out this mountain

hypothetical diet

  • No meat unless I’m a guest in someone’s home or under some sort of culinary travel-duress
  • No alcohol unless I am in love
  • [Coffee restrictions will require their own post; it’s too complex to get into now]
  • No marijuana except as an aphrodisiac or if a critic I respect writes convincingly that a film or book or band can only or best be appreciated after smoking a small (or large) amt of good marijuana
  • no tobacco unless it’s a part of an ethnographic immersion of some kind
  • no hard drugs unless I need to do them just this once in order to get a really awesome job (movie deal, Zeus’s amanuensis, etc)
  • no processed foods unless I am hungover or driving for more than ninety minutes