Saturday, April 26, 2008

fact: i write fiction on the weekends

all saturday afternoon, actually. but i'm too shy to post any of it, even for an invisible non-audience.

my dad would call that "jes' plum sorry." i can't say i disagree.


Tuesday, April 22, 2008

reasons i love my roommates

this morning i stumbled into the kitchen shortly after nine to find my housemate benson scrubbing at the floor, the mass of various vegetable shavings & etc from last night's cooking escapades in a neat swept pile.

thinking to this evening, when i finish up the curry, pad thai, and couscous, i sighed:
A: "oh benson... i'm going to make another mess today."
he didn't skip a beat:
B: "is okay. i shall clean that one up as well."

also, last night on my way upstairs i heard my other housemate etienne coming in from work. "i am going to bed!" i announced. "sleep well!" he cried. "you are beautiful one."

a lucky one, i am.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

honeymooning with richard brautigan: day three

ending on a sad note.

"I was young. Everybody else on the bus, about nineteen of them, were men and women in their sixties, seventies and eighties, and I only in my twenties. They stared at me and I started at them. We were all embarrased and uncomfortable.
How had this happened? Why were we suddenly the players in this cruel fate and could not take our eyes off one another?
A man about seventy-eight began to clutch desperately at the lapel of his coat. A woman maybe sixty-three began to filter her hands, finger by finger, through a white handkerchief.
I felt terrible to remind them of their lost youth, their passage through slender years in such a cruel and unusual manner. Why were we tossed this way together as if we were nothing but a weird salad served on the seats of a God-damn bus?"
--from THE OLD BUS


"His baggy no-style clothes covered him like the banner of a defeated country and he looked as if they only mail he had ever gotten in his life were bills."

i want to give this last line to Andrea. i think she will appreciate it.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

honeymooning with richard brautigan: day two


It's a high building in Singapore that holds the only beauty for this San Francisco day where I am walking down the street, feeling terrible and watching my mind function with the efficiency of a liquid pencil.
A young mother passes by talking to her little girl who is really too small to be able to talk, but she's talking anyway and very excitedly to her mother about something. I can't quite make out what she is saying because she's so little.
I mean, this is a tiny kid.
Then her mother answers her to explode my day with a goofy illumination. 'It was a high building in Singapore,' she says to the little girl who enthusiastically replies like a bright sound-colored penny, "Yes, it was a high building in Singapore!"


As you can see, I am an expert on death in California. My credentials stand up to the closest inspection. I am qualified to continue with another story told to me by my friend who also works as a gardener for a very wealthy old woman in Marin County. She had a nineteen-year-old dog that she loved deeply and the dog responded to this love by dying very slowly from senility.
Every day my friend went to work the dog would be a little more dead. It was long past the proper time for the dog to die, but the dog had been dying for so long that it had lost the way to death.
This happens to a lot of old people in this country. They get so old and live with death so long that they lose the way when it comes time to actually die.
--from "winter rug"

honeymooning with richard brautigan: day one

a recent obsession, i'll be posting some of my favorite bits from a collection entitled Revenge of the Lawn. "He was a gentle, troubled, deeply odd guy." (Tom McGuane on Richard Brautigan) and i love him.

"The novelist was in his late forties, tall, reddish, and looked as if life had given him an endless stream of two-timing girlfriends, five-day drunks and cars with bad transmissions."

My entrance into the thing came about this way: One day I was standing in front of my shack, eating an apple and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain.
What I was going was like an occupation for me. I was that involved at looking at the sky and eating the apple. You would have thought that I had been hired to do it with a good salary and a pension if I stared at the sky long enough.

The place was small and muddy and smelled like stale rain and had a large unmade bed that looked as if it had been a partner to some of the saddest love-making this side of The Cross.
There was a green bushy half-table with a couple of insect-like chairs and a little sink and a small stove that was used for cooking and heating.
There were some dirty dishes in the little sink. The dishes looked as if they had always been dirty: born dirty to last forever.
I could hear a radio playing Western music someplace in the trailer, but I couldn't find it. I looked all over but it was nowhere in sight. It was probably under a shirt or something.

all from "1/3 1/3 1/3"

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

16 april 08

but one reason to love sir bertrand russell:

"Curious learning not only makes unpleasant things less unpleasant, but also makes pleasant things more pleasant. I have enjoyed peaches and apricots more since I have known that they were first cultivated in China in the early days of the Han dynasty; that Chinese hostages held by the great King Kaniska introduced them into India, whence they spread to Persia, reaching the Roman Empire in the first century of our era; that the word 'apricot' is derived from the same Latin source as the word 'precocious,' because the apricot ripens early; and that the A at the beginning was added by mistake, owing to a false etymology. All this makes the fruit taste much sweeter."
--from "'Useless' Knowledge"

and how i look forward to their being in season once more!

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

weds 2 april 08

re-reading the part that makes me laugh the hardest in one of my oldest favorites:

"For a moment, I considered running behind these tourists, but just then an improbable satire on a tourist, a wan little figure in Bermuda shorts panting under the weight of a monstrous apparatus with lenses that certainly must have been a CinemaScope camera, called out a greeting to me. Upon closer inspection, I noted that it was, of all people, Patrolman Mancuso. I, of course, ignored the Machiavel's faint mongoloid grim by pretending to tighten my earring. Apparently he had been released from his imprisonment in the rest room.
'How you doing?' he persisted illiterately.
'Where is my book?' I demanded terrifyingly.
'I'm still reading it. It's very good,' he answered in terror.
'Profit by its lesson,' I cautioned. 'When you have completed it, I shall ask you to submit to me a written critique and analysis of its message to humanity!'
With that order still ringing magnificently in the air, I strode proudly off down the street. Then, realizing that I had forgotten the wago, I returned grandly to retrieve it. (That wago is a terrible liability. I feel as if I am stuck with a retarded child who deserves constant attention. I feel like a hen sitting on one particularly large tin egg.)"

--A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (p. 271-272)