360 Wearing Yourgrau's dad's head in the windy city, alpine style

Dear Internet,     

05:52 24.04.14> Sherpas of the world unite ... not that we're a sherpa or would ever need their services (if you can't do it alpine style why bother). Metaphorically we used to consider ourselves a sherpa of sorts. Now we just float solo. No offense to sherpas, but we have no need for them. If you needed a support team, then YOU didn't really climb the mountain, you caused it to happen w/ money.

So much for net neutrality ... good things never last. In the end, it all comes down to money.

Metaphorically, everything we do should be done alpine style.

25.04.14 > Went to the NOON reading last night. Was good to see Chiara + others + the piece she read was good + thankfully she went 1st cuz we lost steam after a few readers ... don't know what it is, readings just seem weird to us. All we do is look around wondering if anyone is paying attention cuz we sure as hell aren't. Mostly we just space out thinking about other things. Books are meant to be read ... seems weird to be read to ... like children before we go to bed. Especially in a public setting + it was really stuffy + claustrophobic + the windows blocked off.

28.04.14 > We're pretty much done placing the raw material in 'SSES" 'SSES" "SSEY' ... figuring out what goes where. Since we're leaving for the summer + we'll be on our small old laptop, wanna get most of the heavy lifting (w/ InDesign) out of the way ... this crappy laptop (that we're on now actually cuz we're about to split town) is loaded w/ ID, but hard to work layout-wise w/ such a small screen ... SSEY is formatted 8.5" x 11" + as it stands it's 333+ pages ... much of it dual column, small 9-10 pt fonts, so really 666+ pages compared to other novels ... of which this is not. Can't do a word count as much of it is scanned text + images. If we can get it all laid out + printed, then thinking we'll spend the summer editing w/ pen in hand + filling in the gaps, providing continuity, etc. How that'll work remains to be seen ...

... not that anyone gives a shit about the rambling ditherings + doodles of our junky brother, but we do. And we don't give a shit what other people think. 'SSES" 'SSES" "SSEY' is pretty much all we give a shit about right now ... we're obSSESed guess you could say.

Last night over Bad Horse pizza the age-old conversation does it bother you so-and-so is popular or how is it so-and-so is popular ... but what can you do? what's the point of worrying about such things ... we have no idea what makes the general population like what we perceive to be utter crap + dismiss stuff we think is brilliant ... so much great art out there goes unrecognized. And we don't have what it takes to get people to like something ... which as a publisher, is unfortunate. Most of what people like is cuz someone else tells them to like it not cuz they decided for themselves. But what can you do sides beat your head against a wall your whole life? All you can do is focus on what you were put here to do + put it out there + if people don't like it, fuck em. And if horses don't even want to taste it, shoving their face in the water is surely not gonna make them drink, tho it seems to be the dominant marketing paradigm in this day + age ...

Jerzy Kosinski: The Devil Tree

Been reading The Devil Tree by Jerzy Kosinski ... we liked the premise + was into it at first, but our attention waned after 50 pages or so ... to sex-obsessed + just rambles on. Think we're reading it cuz our brother talks about it in his journals or something ... which makes sense cuz Kosinski has that Bataillean air to him (ha, Bataillean as in reptilian ... did we just coin that? Fraid not ... so people know what we mean when we say Bataillean ... jaded erotics ... ).

Kosinski (a holocaust survivor) killed himself in 1991 by ingesting lethal amounts of drugs + alcohol + (just to be sure) wrapped a plastic bag over his head ... sure this appealed to our brother's warped sensibilities. And when he isn't having kinky sex, the protagonist in The Devil Tree is gallivanting in exotic places in an opium stupor ... so there's that (far as the appeal to our brother). Kosinski (thru his protagonist—a ridiculously rich son of a steel tycoon) says nothing has brought him such spiritual tranquility as opium ... something our brother used to say in regards to heroin ... that it became a substitute for any semblance of spirituality.

Although smoking opium provides you with a sense that things are safe and predictable, the stuff itself seems crazy; it won't light up near the sea, it loses strength in the snow, it drips when the air is humid, and its potency changes from day to day. Opium does other weird things. In a man it slows his sex drive but speeds up his heartbeat. In a woman, it slows her blood but speeds up her lovemaking. With time no longer your jailer, each pipe frees you: you inhabit a space where waterfalls turn into ice, ice turns into stone, stone turns into sound, sound turns into color, color becomes white, and white becomes water.

... you get the idea... maybe The Devil Tree is your thing, wasn't for us. And the cover is hideous. Guess it's called The Devil Tree cuz baobabs eventually come into play on a trip he takes to Africa, but we didn't have the patience to get that far. And we've seen baobabs for ourself ... not that we've been to Madagascar, but  we got a fair dose in southern Tanzania ... we have our own idea of what they represent, don't want them surplanted w/ some druggy metaphor.

Baobob The Devil Tree

We've also been reading Wearing Dad's Head by Barry Yourgrau ... relishing we should say, this 1 totally our thing ... primal dreamy microbursts in the vein of James Tate. Seems there's plenty of people doing this sort of thing these days but Yourgrau wrote this back in 1987 ... + this is my 1st time reading him ... where have you been all our life Barry Yourgrau?

Rather than talk about it, better to just let you see for yourself ... this from «In the Jungle»:

"He's Dead," says my father. The Indian lies face down in the path. Around him are scattered blood-stained library books. I reach out my hand to examine one, but my father warns me sharply not to touch it. I stand up. No marks show on the Indian's half-naked body, but the corpse is charged nevertheless with a brutal, hideous violence. My father stares about into the jungle. "Your eyes are brown like his," he says. "If they see that, we won't last a minute. Put on your sunglasses." I take out my sunglasses; but a hole has been cut in each lens, in line with the iris. I show this to my father. He nods grimly. "They're clever," he says. "Very clever. Never mind." He takes out a handkerchief and ties it over my eyes for a blindfold.

... at which point his father puts on a voice changer + says «it's better if only one of us knows.»

Wearing Dad's Head by Barry Yourgrau

06:29 29.04.14—Chicago> All's i member is it was important or relevant enough to wake ourself up to write it down but we woke up in a strange dark room & we brought no pen + paper to write shit down with ... a visual montage, something to do w/ newspaper clippings & grainy crime scene photos w/ eyes censored. We'd fall back asleep + dream w/in a dream again to wake ourself up + kept waking ourself up w/in the dream ... it got to the point we couldn't tell the difference + there were so many levels of recursion that all the original informational content of the dream was lost.

Woke up for real. Foggy, our view looking out over a pool. Could be anywhere. There's a book of Mormon in the bedside table, so apparently we are at a Marriott hotel ... somewhere near O'Hare. Why is it hotels always give you decaf coffee but no caffeinated? Who drinks that shit? For the 2nd or 3rd time straight, had to tell frontdesk to tell housekeeper to only bring CAFFEINATED otherwise don't bother.

Flight was a nightmare, small plane, dodging bad weather. Tornadoes all over the country. Annoying high school bratty girls in front of us talking, like, in loud voices (so loud we couldn't read or even hear ourselves think) about how they are, like, merit scholars + how they can get into any school if they want + bragging bout all the awards + accolades they get + how their poor brother was not so smart, could only get into a state school. One of them was going to the U of Iowa cuz she wanted to be a writer ... thought it was important where you go, for the prestige + reputation ... to say she went there. Her friend nodded in agreement. An hour later she was violently throwing up ... haha.

Now j's got meeting + we're gonna have a look around, weather permitting.

> 361 > Coming close is as close as we can ever come: Erasure + parallel processing


[  (ɔ)om.Posted 2014  derek white  |  calamari press   ]