|357 Suspended for forgery, rooting for no home team & writing reportorial fiction for morta corpora|
April 1, 2014. April Fool's stopped being funny for us when our grandpa Cal died on April 1, 1982 ... less than 3 months after our father died. 1982 wasn't such a good year for death.
Spring of '82 we were in 9th grade ... in Guadalajara, Mexico. We worked in the school library & as such had authority to sign student's slips that were in study hall. We used to get bullied a lot, being a nerdy white kid. So this 1 day this kid bullies us into signing his slip saying he was in study hall on such & such a day. Next thing we know the principal calls us into her office & asks if this was our signature & we said yes & we were suspended from school for a week, for «forgery». So we walk home, wondering what we're gonna say to our mom. We tell her & she says (joint in hand) «that's wonderful!». Evidently the stars had aligned ... it just so happened an old «friend» of hers invited her to his ski cabin in Mammoth, California ... & now we could come along. This is where she'd find out about her father dying.
We woke up in the ski cabin & went upstairs & this guy was playing guitar for her, buck naked. She told us our grandfather had died & that we should just go skiing for the day while she made arrangements. While it was convenient we were in California (our Grandfather lived nearby in the Bay Area) this «friend» w/ the ski cabin was a real sleazeball & didn't want his ski-trip escapade ruined. He handed us money for the lift ticket & scooted us out the door then plotted how he'd hold our mother hostage. Seemed strange at first, but skiing is a good thing to do when grieving.
Not sure we've mentioned our grandfather here, but he was our favorite relative. He's ½ the reason we call ourselves Cal Mari (the other ½ being our father). Grandpa Cal was a grouchy old fuck. We don't have many photos of him cuz anytime someone would turn a camera on him he'd flip the bird. Here's a shot of him w/ me & our brother Kevin.
That's us chilling shirtless (apparently we didn't own clothes in those days) in the middle ... you can tell by the hole in our chest. Anyway, maybe 1 day we'll finish the ski-trip funeral story, or write a book about our grandfather. Right now we're still working on the book by/for our brother Chaulky, about our father.
Started watching the Ken Burns documentary on The West & there was a part where N. Scott Momaday says the only pronouns the Indians used were us & them. Cowboys & Indians. They didn't have a concept of «I». Further validating our conventions.
Writing about dead people is weird, mostly cuz they're not around to defend or speak for themselves. We were sickened by that New Yorker article David Sedaris wrote about his sister Tiffany ... to the point that we think The New Yorker should be held accountable for publishing such insensitive & exploitative dribble ... what's the point of the story anyway, besides reducing Tiffany Sedaris to a footnote on David Sedaris's wikipedia page? Another New Yorker byline & an excuse to buy a house on the Carolina coast?
Try googling her name & you'll see what we mean. Yeah, we get it, she was the runt of the litter. The black sheep. There was only room enough in the world for 5—the strongest 5 survive. You won, Mr. Sedaris. You kicked her out of the nest. You got yourself more elbow room, a bigger piece of pie & a beachhouse to boot. But why continue to kick her after she's dead? She repeatedly & explicitly said she didn't want you writing about her ... she didn't want to be reduced to a cartoonish prop in your stories. Who's to know the true «story» (cuz you've co-opted it to further your agenda & bank account) but sure you had a lot to do w/ her misery. We'd kill ourselves too if you were our brother.
She apparently had a drug problem (not hard to pick up on the subtext of the article) that Sedaris was ashamed of. And they were ashamed of her suicide to the point that in her obituary they initially said she «passed away peacefully at her home.» Don't know why this story bothered us so much, we never gave a shit about David Sedaris (Amy on the other hand ... ). Watching the recent J.D. Salinger movie bothered us for the same reason—who gave the Weinstein bros the fucking right? ... ashamed to admit we even saw it (... not that we pushed the play button or put in the queue).
Obviously such things are weighing on our mind lately (see our recent post about the shame of suicide & drugs) as we write/edit this book for/by our brother. The Sedaris piece is a cautionary tale ... not that anyone knows who we or our brother are. Our brother died before your time, Internet, pretty much a nobody ... but did he want to be forgotten is the question? It has taken us 17 years to get it together for this reason ... & now that we are doing it we're still conflicted about whether it's the right thing to do & what gives us the right.
April 3. In fact, our brother & author of 'SSES" 'SSES" died exactly 17 years ago today.
We've completed 58 pages & compiled another 50+. Compiling is a good word for what it is we are doing ... or composting ... which is what we call what it is we do here on 5¢ense ... or «(ɔ)om.posting» w/ a left-facing c. 'SSES" 'SSES" "SSEY' will also carry a ɔopyleft instead of a copyright. To publish something should mean to set it free, not restrict it.
We've also been archiving issues of City Moon—a faux-newspaper that David Ohle & Roger Martin published in the 70-80s—a few issues at a time (there were 17 in all). The fragmented & tabloid nature of the paper—collaged from reports & found scraps—is inspiring us in our compiling of 'SSES" 'SSES" "SSEY' (which is gonna be multi-columned, in somewhat large format—8.5" x 11").
Besides the graphic design, we're generally inspired by the reportorial tone of it, exploiting «the tacit conventions of news reportage». And the overwhelming process of processing it all ...
Can't help but to think that Ohle was inspired by Burroughs (who contributed to said City Moon) in his cut-up methods ... kind of like a visual version of his Real English Tea Made Here recordings ... which we often play in the background when we are writing. Speaking of Ohle, he sent me something new ... might have some news to report on that by next week ...
You're welcome, Internet.
Almost done w/ L.E. Joyce's The Luminol Reels ... in the final round of edits. And we sort of got a publicist—sounds funny to hear ourselves say that—so pushed the launch date out until later in the summer to give us time to properly publicize it. Here's some more images we made for it:
On the input side of things, we cherry-picked thru the collected works of Paul Metcalf. Nothing grabbed us enough to dive in. Not even sure where or why we got it ... a used hardback copy we apparently paid $3 for. Also cherry-picked thru a few lit-mags: Paris Review, Open City, LIT & BOMB. And finally read Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson. Reminded us some of Private Idaho—feral runaways packing together on the counter-cultural fringes. And at other times (when they find the dead girl in the river) like River's Edge. He kind of fucks w/ you cuz in the beginning, as an author's note, he claims it was based on his childhood journals, which at first seems perhaps plausible (for a kid w/ an overactive imagination) but then you're like no fucking way. Then towards the end he quotes Robert Frank—«Passing off what might be true as fiction seems a better vocation to me than passing off what is quite possibly fiction as truth.» True that.
April 5. Kurt Cobain killed himself 20 years ago today. Not that i give a shit about Kurt Cobain.
April 6. Highest combined seeding to ever reach a championship game=7 + 8. Question is ... who do we root for—Kentucky or UConn? Last time our alma mater (Arizona) won it all was '97—against Kentucky—a few days before our brother died. Not that he gave a shit about basketball ... he watched the game only for our sake. He called the next day to congratulate us. Somehow, we won. Think this year we'll just root for both teams & enjoy however it plays out.
|> 358 > Blasting microscripts in an unstylized and/or illegible intent to communicate|