Monday, October 31, 2011


halloween by JAMESWURM
halloween, a photo by JAMESWURM on Flickr.

loved this too.

Happy Halloween!

Halloween 2010 by matthewkirscht
Halloween 2010, a photo by matthewkirscht on Flickr.

Vintage Halloweeniana.

I note the Collegeville Costume in there.

I posted a Lassie costume from the 50s by them lol.

My Friends Eric & Julie are Building a House!

Eric & Julie are pretty much those bodhisattvas of the sort I hope everyone has been so lucky to have float through their life.

Eric pushes the frontiers of medicine and Julie pushes the frontiers of music. They both push the frontiers of compassion.

Eric surprised me by telling me they are building a house. And he wasn't kidding. When many couples say they are "building a house" of course they mean they are subcontracting.

No, no, no.

They are doing it all. And here's the photographic proof: I'm in awe. Again.

On the blog the explanation is given:

We are building a house. This is us:

Still young enough to be vital but old enough that the prospect of another 30-year mortgage led us to return to an idea we'd had for a long time. We'd build one.

But that turns out to be really expensive too.

Then we read an article by Jasmine Saville and their "hobbit house". Lovely, really. And we started to wonder if we could. Of course neither of us has the sort of experience to work wood like that, but we both had a bit of housing handicraft in our pasts, so I started costing out the materials and the sweat equity and it seemed to promise something.

This blog? It's because we tell people this, and they are like, "Are you going to build it yourselves?" We began to realize that we really do live in a different age. We are all very specialized, and we started to realize that this specialization makes a thing like building shelter--a basic human impulse--seem remote, impossible to many people, especially people in higher social classes, but really, most everyone!

The funniest thing is E&J must have used the same dowsing rod Lee and I did.

Because we chose an apartment complex less than a mile from this location when we first set up house.

I loved Strite's Orchard, the lay of the land, the jarring juxtaposition of so many incongruous styles of architecture in the houses thereabout (which worked for me!) and the feeling that you were in the country without actually having the encumbrances that go along with being in the country.

I loved that we had undeveloped fields behind our apartment house where we could walk miles along various paths and see the places where red-winged blackbirds and deer (and foxes!) hid from the rest of us.

I worked third shift then and I'd often encounter deer on my way out to work. And in the morning coming home. I loved it.

Steelton doesn't have deer. We have one fox but he lives in a very small strip of forest between a motel and superconglomerate church that has its own frightening, multilevel parking garage (in suburbia!!).

But shhhh! Don't ruin his life for him.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

I Didn't Realize How Much

I missed Flickr until I revisited it.

I added raftloads of new stuff to my photo "museum": I'm in awe.

I am in awe.

I was totally blown away by the latest works by Simon Pais on there. Of course, you can't share his stuff. Unfortunately.

I saw he had taken a couple photographs that I'm guessing are going to live like forever.

But I did favorite.

He has to be one of the most requested photographers by now, worldwide. If not, wait five minutes and check again.

I miss doing visual art, photos, scanner art, all that good stuff.

But with people like this doing it, why bother.

I know: because it's you.


Poladroid: Iceland

Poladroid: Iceland by William Keckler
Poladroid: Iceland, a photo by William Keckler on Flickr.

Slept 12 Hours

I think I slept like 12 hours. I think I know why I didn't want to wake up. It was a Mr. Bubbles dream with lots of Culture Club music. I was possessed of a lithe dancer's body and I think I no longer had the hindrance of gravity. It was insane. And very, very nice.

I sing to keep warm. We have our heat in this big ole house set to come on at 58 degrees. How fuckin thrifty is that? I find myself wearing a hoodie I bought for Iceland a few years back and never wore once until now. With the hood up. Inside da house. I'm like that fucking Maker of Eyes in Blade Runner, freezing his ass off after Rutger Hauer disconnects his thermal suit.

If you don't squirm watching this video there's something wrong with you.

And no, those hats aren't Philip Treacy. Even he gets a little queasy when he looks at them.

"a ballad to wake you up to go for a walk in the middle of the night"

by one of my favorite YouTubers.

Every Winter I Rediscover Wallace Stevens

This time it happened in a concrete way before it happened in an abstract way.

I stumbled upon The Palm at the End of the Mind while reaching under a parson's table.

I had wondered where Wally was sojourning.

Some of his poems are too full of bargeboard or too fey to really seem fully contemporary.

But the creep did write so many seemingly timeless poems (they're holding up so far, anyway).

Sometimes, he strikes me as both the greatest English language poet of the twentieth century and its greatest literary critic at once.

He probably never had a truly original idea in his head. Poets rarely do.

But he was a master of reification.

I suppose it's silly to even wonder who X was. X is any poet who writes that way--the mode of poetics he's critiquing. But still one does.

In Stevens' lifetime, the type of poetry he's indicting here was probably 99% of what was being written. So. Take your pick.

Do you have a favorite Stevens quote?

I have too many, but probably I would cite first the masterful, Neo-Platonist, "We do not prove the existence of the Poem. / It is something seen and known in lesser poems." ("A Primitive Like an Orb").

What a great critique of the ego-centered poem, this poem below. In a sense, he's really just recapitulating Rimbaud's indictment of the "I."

How well this poem argues in favor of the idea that poems must be smarter than the poet. I like the idea that the poet must relinquish and abdicate ("intelligent/beyond intelligence") to earn the poem. One knows in one's bones it's truth.

If you expect to find anything other than a different type of homelessness in poetry, you're probably going to be disappointed.

It's only the next room in a dream.

The Creations of Sound

If the poetry of X was music,
So that it came to him of its own,
Without understanding, out of the wall

Or in the ceiling, in sounds not chosen,
Or chosen quickly, in a freedom
That was their element, we should not know

That X is an obstruction, a man
Too exactly himself, and that there are words
Better without an author, without a poet,

Or having a separate author, a different poet,
An accretion from ourselves, intelligent
Beyond intelligence, an artificial man

At a distance, a secondary expositor,
A being of sound, whom one does not approach
Through any exaggeration. From him, we collect.

Tell X that speech is not dirty silence
Clarified. It is silence made dirtier.
It is more than an imitation for the ear.

He lacks this venerable complication.
His poems are not of the second part of life.
They do not make the visible a little hard

To see nor, reverberating, eke out the mind
On peculiar horns, themselves eked out
By the spontaneous particulars of sound.

We do not say ourselves like that in poems.
We say ourselves in syllables that rise
From the floor, rising in speech we do not speak.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

or is it better shorter


I'd like to Thank You, Marie,
for the Petit Trianon.
Someone should. The weather
caused the French Revolution,
not any idealist flag.
Winter engraved famine.
Starving people
are often impolite.
She died with dignity,
moments after apologizing
for having stepped
on her executioner's foot.
I know the feeling.
Austrian by blood, she defended
France's interests as best
she could, was a tender mother.
She held little sway
so she went for swag,
rather like Quentin Crisp.
Clearly the woman knew
how to wear an improbable hat.
Her life appears to have
been composed of moments
and not episodes. And
I really would congratulate
almost anyone on that.

Dear Angel,

People get upset
when God or gods
are invoked,
but almost everyone
dies inside one
mythology or another.
The snow today is heavy
as buffalo shit,
won't quit. Marie Antoinette
spent her entire life
being called horrible names,
first by her mother,
then everyone else.
You already know her head
bounced into a basket.
But first they cut off
the heads of her Swiss Guards,
her friends, her confidantes.
Possibly she stared
too long at crystal
chandeliers trembling.
Louis was beheaded.
Her son was taken away
and given to a cobbler.
Her life shrank
to the size of a Honda Prelude.
Too bad she couldn't
blog in that prison.
The Revolutionaries wanted
to make Marie kiss the lips
of a dear friend's severed head,
the one falsely rumored
to have been one of her countless
lesbian lovers. The truth
is they probably just wanted
to watch Girl on Girl.
YouPorn hadn't been invented yet.
Do you think you too
will suffer a terrible,
photogenic fate? Or skate?
Revolution is a dying woman
snapped in two like a popsicle stick.
I'd like to Thank You, Marie,
for the Petit Trianon.
Someone should. The weather
caused the French Revolution,
not any idealist flag.
Winter engraved famine.
Starving people
are often impolite.
She died with dignity,
moments after apologizing
for having stepped
on her executioner's foot.
I know the feeling.
Austrian by blood, she defended
France's interests as best
she could, was a tender mother.
She held little sway
so she went for swag,
rather like Quentin Crisp.
Her life appears to have
been composed of moments
and not episodes. And
I really would like
to congratulate her on that.

3 Great Lolz

I was looking at the front pages (I often forget to do this when I LOL).

And they've been picking some fantastic ones.

None of these is mine but I wish I could say they were.

These cracked me the hell up.

That "We're a culture" format is rapidly turning into a meme.

I've seen many variations. There's a funny one of those about Bronies.

It's amazing that it took the planet until 2011 to figure out that dressing up as "a Mexican" for Halloween--or white people "turning Japanese"--is stupid and insulting.

My one Cheezpeep had a great caption along these lines. Two little kittehs were dressed up in old-style Japanese clothing--male kitteh as samurai, female kitteh in kimon.

She had the male kitteh saying "I feel so cultured" and the female kitteh saying "I feel racist." lolol

Funny Pictures - The Business Cat Culture
see more Lolcats and funny pictures, and check out our Socially Awkward Penguin lolz!

funny pictures - Flasher Cat  waits for passing joggers.
see more Lolcats and funny pictures, and check out our Socially Awkward Penguin lolz!

funny pictures - Ai maeks yu du it!
see more Lolcats and funny pictures, and check out our Socially Awkward Penguin lolz!

Fanks Cheezburger!

funny pictures - Haz u herd da Good Word  bout Ceiling Cat, Brutha?
see more Lolcats and funny pictures, and check out our Socially Awkward Penguin lolz!

While I was reading the biography of Marie Antoinette (and brief bios of assorted friends and relations) I somehow slipped onto the frontest of front pages.

Woot! Thanks Cheezburger.

Okay, I rarely read comments. A half hour ago I said that and now I actually read the comments. Just because LoLz having anything to do with partisan politics or religion sometimes start the comment boxes jumping.

No nasty comments and some very funny responses actually, going with the joke.

Obviously the caption is an innocuous joke about the doggedness of some proselytizers. And nothing more. And most got that.

But someone thought I was "jumping the shark." If you think an Lolcat caption like this is controversial, you need to get a bigger dose of the real world in your life lol.

I have to share two of these comments because the one is a beautiful and thoughtful defense of freedom of religion, spoken in Lolspeak. And the other is a kneejerk reaction by someone who takes kitteh humor waaay too seriously.

Maybe someone should translate Rousseau into Lolspeak. Along with the others.

October 29, 2011 at 11:08 am

It will be interesting to see the reactions to this one. Talk about jumping the shark. You know we can’t talk about ceiling cat and the good book on here. That’s being politically incorrect, or either fanatical. Hmmmm.

October 29, 2011 at 11:16 am

Ai nawt mynd so lawng as CC represents enny adn awl deeityz.
If derz implicayshunz ob only a partikulur deeity or gud buk bein reprezented bai doze metaforz, den ai gets upsetted, cuz den peeplz be implyin dat wun relijun iz moar korrekt den obberz, ravver den inkludin awl wiff ekwal tollurenss.

Alfred SISLEY, Snow at Louveciennes, 1878

Princesse de Lamballe


On 19 August, she and the Marquise de Tourzel, governess to the royal children, were separated from the royal family and transferred to the La Force prison. On 3 September, she was brought before a hastily assembled tribunal which demanded she "take an oath to love liberty and equality and to swear hatred to the King and the Queen and to the monarchy". She refused, upon which her trial summarily ended with the words, "Élargissez madame" ("Take madame away"). She was immediately taken to the street and thrown to a group of men who killed her within minutes.

Some reports allege that she was raped and that her breasts were cut off, in addition to other bodily mutilations, and that her head was cut off and stuck on a pike. Other reports say that it was brought to a nearby café where it was laid in front of the customers, who were asked to drink in celebration of her death. Other reports state that the head was taken to a barber in order to dress the hair to make it instantly recognizable,though this has been contested.Following this, the head was replaced upon the pike and was paraded beneath Marie Antoinette’s window at the Temple.

Those who were carrying it wished the queen to kiss the lips of her favourite, as it was a frequent slander that the two had been lovers. The head was not allowed to be brought into the building, but the queen's guards did force her to look out of the window at the sight, whereupon she fainted almost immediately. In her historical biography, Marie Antoinette : The Journey Antonia Fraser claims that the queen did not actually see the head of her long-time friend, but was aware of what was occurring, stating, "...the municipal officers had had the decency to close the shutters and the commissioners kept them away from the of these officers told the King '..they are trying to show you the head of Madame de Lamballe'...Mercifully, the Queen then fainted away".

Five citizens of the local section in Paris delivered her body (minus her head which was still being displayed on a pike) to the authorities shortly after her death. Royalist accounts of the incident claimed her body was displayed on the street for a full day. Her body (like that of her brother-in-law Philippe Égalité) was never found, which is why it is not entombed in the Orléans family necropolis at Dreux. According to Madame Tussaud, she was ordered to make the death mask.

Fanks, Cheezburger!

OMFG I got a Bros front page that wasn't voted down by trolls and hateration.


It's running almost 5 Cheezburgers. Woot. World Hunger solved.

Generally, on the other subsites on Cheezburger I tend to get good to great voting numbers. But often on Bros I get slammed.

Oh, I've had some lead balloons in other areas of the site. Usually when I use a darker sense of humor. A lot of Cheezpeeps hate dark humor. They see ICHC as a sanctuary of goodness and light. And I can appreciate that. This can be a dark world.

I don't know if the Bro vote smackdowns date back to a comment war or not. I don't generally read comments under LOLz, but apparently I was the subject of an attack because I had a typo in one of my captions. And trolls jumped all over it. And the site moderators defended me in the comment stream and told the attack dogs to chill. I never said a word. Didn't say "boo" to anyone about it. Maybe they've finally forgotten about it. Maybe they didn't realize it was my caption lol. Whatever.

But shortly after that little tempest in a LOLpot I started getting slammed whenever I made the front page on Bros lol.

What's the meme for this? Oh yes: DON'T CARE. HAD SEX.

I didn't care. I still appreciated the front pages.

I think my "RAWWWR! I'm a Graduasaur!" got the lowest rating you can get on Bros. And yet people still favorite it. So you made someone happy. And that's the way to look at it. Always.

Maybe my sense of humor doesn't usually match up with that of most of the captioners on Bros. Who knows. I find most of the captions the site promotes funny.

Also they gave me a Just Captions front page, which isn't being voted down either.

So. Hosanna.

Thanks I Can Has Cheezburger!

For those and the many others fps from this week.

You're a doll! (Das sexist!!)

October Snowstorm

October snowstorm.

My backyard is whiter than Mr. Rogers.

And no, he wasn't a sniper for the Navy Seals.

Although I do love that urban legend.

One of my favorites.

I Learned Two True Things

I learned two true things as soon as I woke up today.

One was that the meteorologists are often correct when they say there's a 100% chance of a nasty snowstorm.

Snow heavy as buffalo shit everywhere. Bending the crowns of eleven foot tall bushes in the backyard down to the ground, as though they were courtiers removing their hats and making a sweep of obeisance.

Lee may have to tell work fugeddaboutit!

Oh, the other thing.

Someone said Keith Morrison looks like a muppet.

And, you know, he really does.

All I had to do was visualize and then thought, "Why didn't I notice that before--they're right!"

He has the creepiest voice and narration style of anyone on ID, the network I watch obsessively.

He has a voice like a door whose hinges need oiled. No...replaced. And when he narrates, it's like a horrible child is standing there opening and shutting that door, again and again, to try to drive his nervous mother mad.

Also, he loves narrating things (like horrible serial murders) in a sing-song, Seussian manner.

Probably the future will study him as a likely space alien.

Friday, October 28, 2011

Dear Suicide,

Sometimes I put rocks
in my vagina
like the Green River Killer
did to some of his victims
so my body
will sink down
into the river's
too forgiving mud.
You will be okay
if your soul turns into
a Lite Brite.
Using Jenny Holzer
on therapists can be fun
but with bill collectors
you'll get nowhere.
Grass and weeds are often
our planet's critical response
to stoopy human ideas.
When I walk in snow
I usually carry a knife,
it's the Inuit in me,
the Intel in me,
I do pray for polar bears
to appear though.
I didn't totally fail
Eskimo class.
What a sort of thrill
to be eaten alive
by something with eyes!
At least it's personal.
I don't think we're
getting anywhere near that Crucifixion
but you refuse to use
the G.P.S. So I'll just sit
here quietly and wait
for you to be permanently lost.
Then we can try again
although I suspect
we won't recognize each other
anymore by then. So
our movie will end
in other voices, other beds.
Still, I'm glad we'll
be proven to have had a point,
like ammonites and trilobites
and poetry and death
and funny, endless head.

Snowstorm October

Oh Garsh. I heard da noose today, Oh boi.

We're expecting 5-8 inches of snow. In Pennsylvania. In October.

If I wanted this, I would have moved to freakin Colorado.

The earliest snow (and I mean dusting) I can remember in my lifetime was November 9th about thirty years ago.

That's surely wrong since I'm not a meteorological chart, but it is weird enough that it just seems dead wrong. If this happens. And it probably will.

I'm a recluse so what do I care, right?

Oh, I don't know.

It just seems so The Shining.

I used to identify with the Jack character but now I'm more the Wendy.

I'm jealous of that big shiny knife she has in the movie though.

Someone should give her work.

Did people forget she's a great actress?

Is it because she committed the fatal error of getting old or is it because her funny look only worked in the seventies and eighties?

I bet she'd be magnificent now in her age.

Dear Angel,

The Trouble is
I got tribble troubles
like everyone else
but the problem
with my troubles is
they come in a spray-on form.
My troubles easily aerosolize.
Self-cleaning oven
is every bit as funny
as I won't come in your mouth.
By now, you might be asking yourself,
Just exactly how many nuns
does this fucking guy own?

And the truth is I keep them
chained everywhere in this house:
nuns in the basement, nuns
ruining the kitchen, nuns
crucified on dildos over there.
Forgiveness is the new Fuck Me Harder.
I walk the dinosaur,
I walk the dog,
I walk the Light.
Like God, I have few favorites
and shove them in your face.
Sometimes, I staple things
to lions, sometimes I dance.
I am terrified of virtually everyone
except for everyone virtual.
The only thing that has gone viral
is my bad behavior. Selah.
Like most humans and cats
I want love but I really don't
know where I'd put it, Thanks
so why don't you just keep it?
It'll end up in a thrift store.
Like anything won't.
Ish Ka Bibble. Ish Ish.
I want to not die
and go to heaven,
just like those raptors
in the YouTube rapture.
Dear God, It's Me, Shithead,
and I want an estimate
before you do anything.

Dear Angel,

I don't know how to speak
without electrocuting myself.
Like God, I don't know
how to begin or end.
The television woke me this morning
shouting "PIGS GET FED,
It was only sports commentary
like all our lives
our regret. I was a terrible
boy scout, a terrible mousetrap,
a terrible Revenge of the Mummy,
a terrible rock,
a terrible satellite.
So Much Lose. Here
is The Cold of Poetry
and Here There Be Fever
and with either
you get tons of phlegm
like the horniest flowers
when no one's looking.
Even if you have only the Cold
of Poetry and not the Fever,
still you might crave booksex.
Booksex is addictive.
Do you hate your Employer,
and do you even know
who that is? I don't.
God clearly rained down
a punishment of fire
on Sodom and Dr. Laura.
Do not list Sex
as your employer.
Oops, this don't erase.
It's sneaky to try to be good
the Puritans understood.
So you should torture
yourself for wanting it.
Torture yourself good.
Angels are God's dogs,
they can help us taste the rainbow
or shake fire and plague
from their grey Armani wings.
If the adjectives ever ended
would we at last become sane?
I doubt it. AT LAST
is probably a ghost ship
like the Dutchman we see
pulling into the harbor
empty. You'll find
no harbor, only the bosom
of the psychotic seabirds
who own the harbor. But
psychotic bosoms are real bosoms
and you might need the warmth.
What did you want me to learn
in your House before I fled forever
to sleep where seabirds
screen and scream the ocean?
Oh yes.

Kindness is a martial art.

Join The Club: Collective Nouns for Groups of Animals

I knew most of these with one or two exceptions.

Cute, well-done video.


I remember seeing this story first as an installment of one of the true crime shows I watch. Not sure if was 48 Hours or another.

I didn't know about this award-winning documentary, which I think came later.

This certainly is one of the strangest and most horripilating "nightmares of the internet" I have ever encountered. Well apart from the stories about modern cannibals and such. I guess I mean the weirdest story built up out of really normal emotions gone disastrously wrong because the net allows people pretend to be what they're not.

I know I should think "Why should I be surprised?"

But. It is. So bizarre. And sad really.

I Like YouP**n

I find it very useful.

I asterisked that out so spiderbots don't think I'm shilling.

I am fascinated by the genres of porn that come and go, this one enjoying an intense but brief vogue, that one adding itself to the canon of porn genres.

For instance, the public sex thing. I suppose that's been around longer than I remember. I can sort of stretch my memory and remember some 70s porn mags where the players were disporting themselves en plein air. But probably there was no real risk involved there. Probably they were isolated.

On YouP**n, these scenes are usually shot in poorer, more desperate countries (often Russia or one of the former Republics).

I don't usually find these terribly exciting, but I do find them interesting. You have to have porn actors who either have shame or can simulate it though, if your thing in watching these is a hearkening back to your childhood and innocence and the thrill of fear you had back then that you might "get caught." Lots of people seem to get off on putting the bloom back on the rose. But the problem with this is the porn actors themselves. Usually these are gnarly hookers and nasty pimpbot guys, so that's absent and the effect isn't achieved. But I guess if it's just exhibitionism (not regression) and feeling a sense of transgression that you're after, then I guess they're okay. Or if it's the idea of degrading the woman further by doing this in public. Then I suppose you'd want her to look like a whore. Sex in porn is rarely about the female orgasm. Duh, right? It's all about the male orgasm. The male orgasm so precious it cannot even occur inside the woman. It must be displayed. A "money shot." Cum is money. Women fake orgasms (and even this is the minority of clips) and don't bother trying to be realistic. They don't have any respect for the non-respecting medium--and who the hell would blame them. The few woman who do preen in these videos don't do it by having orgasms. They do it by playing up the camera and the archetype of the total whore. Double penetration videos are among the most common sexual fantasies on display there which pander to this archetype. But so many female porn actors seem to realize the futility of this posturing in an age that really isn't interested in making any more porn stars. So they just decide to do the animal thing and that's it. The age of porn stars ended when everybody began uploading their own amateur porn on sites like YouP**n. I'm sure the porn auteurs (cough) of old lament the degradation of their great art (cough). Of course, in some amateur clips you might actually find sensuality and two people genuinely in love so the sex is not the "porn norm." But these clips rarely get huge numbers of views like the piston sex clips do.

I did like this "public sex" one I just watched, which took place behind an equestrian statue at the base of Notre Dame. I can't link to it but I'll say you can see it by removing the five asterisks I have inserted and (then) going here:*****/655542/notre-dame-de-paris-public-threesome-part-1/?from=country_rating.

I will admit I found the guy on the left's reaction around 3:37 to be charming. But then he makes baby faces throughout. And I like thick men who make baby faces. Nice sweaters too. It looks to have been a chilly day in Paris.

I realized I probably watch about 70% straight porn, 20% gay porn and 10% transgender porn when I'm on this site.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea. That I'm some degnerate who goes there every day or something. Okay, I am probably a degenerate. But I still don't need porn in my life every day. Now Pogo is a different story. Or Cheezburger. LOL.

I find most of the gay porn on this site to be poorer quality (with some exceptions, of course). Oh, except for the hazing videos. I'm fascinated by the psychosexual dynamics of those videos, which are sometimes quite horrific. But this is usually from an external point of reference (like adult sanity) where one can see these are sometimes filmed rapes. Some of these clips are obviously fake, with young bottompigs pretending to squeal in anguish when they're squealing in delight. Bad actors. But some of these clips are (I'm quite sure) quite genuine. Except often I think straight college dudes fake the hazing part and split the money. Sometimes, I think the frat boys are genuinely exploting the wannabes to be able to sell these videos. So pimpin future frat bros. But other times they seem to be collaborationists in something which is almost like Future Farmers of America. Except it's gay "straight fetish" porn. I'm convinced many of them are straight and just indulging in gay for pay with fellow straight buddies they trust. I mean how hard is it to get an erection and "fuck anything" when you're that age.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

I Shall Call Them...Mini-Mes!


i haz

I haz desserted you  in yer hour of need

Mandala for Blake

A Haunted House

Probably what you will notice upon entering this first room is that pier glass in a darker corner of this shadowy, vaguely Moorish interior. You will probably wonder why a black cloth is draped over that standing mirror, hiding its reflective surface. The answer is cats. The mirror has a tendency to multiply them. If one cat gets into this room while the mirror is uncovered, often six or seven cats come out the doorway later and these will scatter down the hall and throughout the building. Usually, they are never retrived and seen only infrequently. They tend to appear less and less. These reflected cats prima facie appear to be perfect clones, but one will notice subtle and not-so-subtle differences if one studies them. They don't cast shadows. Not even in the brightest light. This phenomenon has been studied by a few scientists who have visited the house. These reflection-generated animals also meow backwards. When you first hear this sound, you may be frightened. Possibly you should be. Frightened. It's a disturbing sound. Some scientists have concluded that mirrors can be crystallographic axes through which not only light but matter can sometimes pass. Lewis Carroll is rumored to have owned one of these mirrors, a splendid large Moorish mirror which was later acquired by Jean Cocteau. The mirror is not even glass, though the surface somewhat resembles a normal mirror. Some say it looks like isinglass or--if you prefer--mica. When you touch this mirror's surface it is rather warm. There is a background hum. You will be tempted to look for a plug, but the mirror's energy source either comes from itself or something unseen. As one draws closer to the mirror or backs away, one can hear the frequency change. One can only assume this mirror is capable of Doppler shifts. Some have speculated that the mirror's acts are a visual analogue to the Doppler Shift. One scientist conducted an experiment in which he laid the mirror horizontally and placed a rabbit on its reflective surface. After a few minutes, a phantom duplicate of the rabbit appeared floating in space about a dozen feet from the original rabbit. The second rabbit was not synchronous with the first rabbit. That is, this rabbit was doing different things than its "generative rabbit" was doing. The phantom rabbit appeared to be standing on an invisible floor located several feet off the ground. Then the mirror began making a sound like an ice machine in a very old hotel, rattling away, and the original rabbit disappeared, seemingly absorbed down into the mirror's interior. Several seconds later, the phantom rabbit began rising and dissolving like light, and began looking rather like Francis Bacon's painting of that Pope. And through the ceiling it went, possibly up into a room above. Or elsewhere. After this, the mirror bolted upright and stood in its original position. The cloth usually draped over it could be seen to be half in, half out, of the mirror's interior. The scientist nervously grabbed the edge of this black cloth and slowly pulled it out of the mirror's surface, which moved like liquid mercury and released a white incandescence as he did so. When he had pulled the cloth completely out of the mirror, it returned to its normal hum. On the black cloth could be seen a golden pin of a rabbit. A brooch. It looked Celtic. The rabbit had garnet eyes. Upon returning to his home, the scientist gave this rabbit brooch to his you wife, who promptly put it on and went out shopping to show it off. And vanished. It was determined she had reached the store and made a purchase. This purchase, a silver compact, was found in a street puddle in front of the store where she had been shopping. The child who found this compact and retrieved it from the water swears he saw both cats and clouds reflected in the puddle's surface as he reached in. He immediately looked upwards above his head to see if cats were in the clouds--as in the reflection. Of course, there were no cats in the clouds. Don't talk crazy.

you never see the doctors

you only see the PAs.

like anywhere today.

i think you have to be moribund or wealthy or both to see the doctor.

and the p.a.s see you in a sort of basement. how's that for symbolic.

they didn't really know whether to congratulate me or query me about another lost twenty pounds.

should i worry? i don't know. i forget to eat now. i usually go like ten hours without eating. this is the depression. i'm grateful this is only a mixed state that includes depression though. if it were only depression i'd probably be clinical rather than subclinical. it's not that i won't then suddenly realize i'm famished after ten hours and then gorge sometimes. at the worst possible time: less than four hours before going to bed. but lately even when I realize my body is crashing i sometimes look at the food and it just all looks unpalatable. i have to try to find something that surprises me. like some forgotten can of something in the larder. or a cookie i didn't realize was good. or soup. i can usually get interested in a decent soup. i love split pea but you have to whisk with split pea. and when i have split pea i miss indian restaurants and mulligatawney. because one reminds me of how much i love the other. but split pea with an insane amount of fresh ground pepper can be very godly.

i exercise but very little. but still ended up with the benefits of lowered blood pressure. when they first saw me my diastolic was 107 and only a little bit of that was white coat syndrome. they wanted me to go on medication right away. i said "let me try exercise." and i exercised vigorously for a while again. probably it was quitting drinking too that did it, but my blood pressure soon came down into the 120s systolic and the low to mid 80s diastolic. they've lowered the ideal bp now. from what it was when i was growing up. once recently i've even had 78 as my diastolic. i've not stayed with the exercise enough to get that athletic bp...the PA who took it says hers is often in the 50s. when people see this they ask her if she runs marathons. the weird thing is she says she doesn't exercise that much. she thinks it's genetic. the scariest funny thing was the machine said that my pulse was 177!!!! she freaked out for a moment and asked me if I was experiencing a pounding in my chest. she said, "let me listen to that" and used her stethoscope and counted and said "more like 88." She said if it had been 177 she probably couldn't have heard distinct beats. I was instantly reminded of what Roald Dahl tells us in The Witches about the heartbeats of mice: over 500 per minute and indeed the sound is only a continuous hum.

on my last trip to the thrift store, i found a book which is this longish novel which is the biography of an anthropomorphized mouse. it's not written for children. and yet...?! it actually starts off more like new yorker type fiction (take that however you want--the quality has varied so wildly over the years) but intransigently relocated into the world of mice. is it a parody of american fiction? dunno yet. i'll have to read it. the book doesn't seem to be well known and i don't think it was a major publisher. but it's not some wee press or vanity production. something more in the middle. who might be good.

i think i've left the house

one time in a month or more.

yesterday. a doctor's visit. hence necessary.

it was as though i had forgotten how to drive.

i missed my exit and wandered towards grantville (racetrack town) and finally found a way back.

but because i was trying to find the turn off from the opposite direction i usually come, i kept turning down the wrong road.

i couldn't remember the name of the street for the life of me.

and when i finally found it, the name of the street had "versailles" in it.

how could i forget that. i usually remember funny and pretentious street names.

"i get my blood drawn in versailles."

i was only two minutes late, though, since i had left early and they were forty minutes behind so i actually spared myself.

tonight is trick or treat and the only candy i have is iffy. the dates on the bags say they're fine but i feel funny handing out candy that's been here 9 months.

i do have some candy though and i have a shitload of small toys from my thrift store rounds...i'm thinking of having two buckets...candy and then like power rangers and transformers and spongebob toys and such. i don't always remember who has made a comeback (don't think power rangers has) so there might be some total mystification.

i just hope that doesn't look all pedo bear or something. like i'm giving away "too good" gifts. nix it. this is not a good idea. but i don't really want to deal with those small toys and they'll just end up back at the thrift store and a lot of these things are in their original happy bag meals. and kids love that shit. so it WOULD be a great way to get these things to someone who might have fun with them. but it's sorta ghetto. i enjoyed the brief vogue of that hash tag on twitter. #GhettoTrickOrTreatGifts. something like that. i tweeted along with that one...I remember thinking "hot sauce packets from taco bell." "dollar store do-rags." (insert DAS RACIST!! meme here) what else? "twistie ties." "Kool-Aid" had the most retweets I think. funny that kool-aid is so associated with ghetto but still so popular. but if you're non-ghetto you buy it pre-made in a wasteful plastic container. that's the difference i guess.

probably i should just not do trick or treat.

but Dru really enjoys the thrill of little freaks coming to our door. he doesn't socialize. he just watches and judges.

Lee said it will be canceled if it's rainy, so i hate to admit i'm hoping for a cancellation.

then it will be monday night and we will be able to get regular candy by then.

i wonder if i will get any little Gagas or Kardashians. maybe if this were L.A. and not steelton. i'm sure i'll get the usual charming little witches, ghosties, monsters of all stripe, with the occasional gorilla or disney character and the occasional bum or fairy. these are the perennials.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Laura Nyro

Laura young.

And Laura not so young (Walk the Dog and Light the Light).

Interestingly, this album was produced by Gary Katz (think Steeley Dan).

Both Eltons (John and Costello) have expressed great love for her songwriting.

Listening to this one here, you can hear why Elton John in particular would love her songsmithing.

That's not a connection I would have made had I not read it online. But now I can't not hear it.

Hipster Kitteh


all my twitter "friends" are total strangers

This feels safe to a bipolar person.

When you lose someone (and you will on Twitter) it doesn't hurt a bit.

lol. strategy.

anyway, i find myself being introduced to cool things by absolute strangers. and i like it.

how did i ever miss this?

thanks, mangu!

reminds me of that gorge period in the early 70s when anything was possible...when jazz could latch on to pop music...although i think this is later...i think of people like laura nyro (absolutely stolen from us) who have sort of come back the form of a lot of grammy winning artists lately who seem to hearken back....

i googled this and now i'm guessing mangu probably encountered this on Grand Theft Auto.

it's funny the way things get around.

Ish Klein

Ish Klein is a 'mazing poet.

Ish Klein is a 'mazing person.

I was just on the tenterhooks of this poem in notnostrums #6: from A Book of Changes.

This poem is nerve-wracking and uncomfortable and funny and funny-er (see poem) and scarily true and expostulant and supplicant and applicant and discalced and glorious.

I like poems that manage to get at the mistruths of alcohol, the truths of homelessness and the neither of fear.

Every time I see a poem by this woman I just get more ensorceled.

I Just Learned

Shimmy changed his incarnation on September 13th.

I felt terrible for a moment, then I had faith.

If anyone is deserving of an afterlife that would be a cat.

Anthony Pedroza of the LOLpera

Above: Photo of LOLpera production, courtesy L.A. Weekly.

Anthony wrote me today...


Thx fur deh support.

LOLpera is L.A. Weekly's "Pick of the Week."

And here too.

Cool favas.

And I saw the new LOL book jumped from 50 some thousand yesterday on Amazon to 11,000 today.

Reading that review, I'm assuming I'm featured at least once, since they're projecting the original LOLcats and the review mentions Les Miz as an inspiration. My "Les Miserables...Adapted for Cats" ICHC front page was in the original video for LOLpera. So I'm guessing it's probably in the production. I haz a proud.

Go Cheezburger!

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Casual Sex

I prefer
a semblance,

I think.
A kimono

to skin.
Silk shed

thing dot
com. Soulless

trout leap

out of water,

only liquid

waves of

Come Sane

The taste
gallops across a meadow.

The sure
of an apple

in hospital

Pure self
is epitaph,

soul ipecac.

Funny vibrant

that leaves
nothing behind,

so many eyelids;
listening deer stand

in dew-starred

Who gallops
across a meadow

and stamps
on prose's head

this morning
is my friend.


We Look Forward to the Day They Become Extinct

Whilst I slept, Cheezburger gave me two front pages.

This one above is on the ROFLrazzi (celebrity humor) front page.

I'm proud of having coined the word Implantosaur.

Only Google citation as of this writing: moi.

The other one was a Pundit Kitchen (mostly political figures) one featuring Queen Elizabeth.

I think I caption every photo of her I see. She's a fun one to caption.

And you know, even at her advanced age the woman never looks rumpled or stressed or disheveled.

That's rather quite an accomplishment.

Pre-Order Your Copy of How 2 Be Awsum

The new LOLcats collection comes out November 1st.

I see pre-orders alone pushed it up to around 50,000 on Amazon.

Good schtuffs.

I have got to get a hold of the copy of the LOL Bible. I didn't realize that was in print already.

Go Cheezburger!


nothing from nothing
leaves nothing


but try tellin

Monday, October 24, 2011

what is the conversation

"What is the conversation of lovers? Compared with ordinary talk, it is as bread to stones."

--Anne Carson, The Autobiography of Water

American Horror Story

Just when you get pissed off at Netflix and cancel, it turns out not to matter anyway.

Because right now television is brimming with good shows.

Which last happened....oh, I can't even remember.

I just enjoyed the teaser of an opener for Once Upon a Time (only one hour--really?).

This new synthesis of beloved fairy tales (and some Disney characters--WTF?) was enjoyable but it looked like television.

And Robert Carlyle went more than a little bit over the top with his role. I kind of wanted Begbie back.

But what did not look like television was FX's new series American Horror Story.

This is an amazingly good (and frightening!) addition to the haunted house of horrors genre.

It really looks like film and it's impeccably designed.

I've never seen so many nods to the Vienna Secessionists by the show's designers. Right down to the font of the credits.

Everything Brian Falchuk (one of the most important designing minds behind Glee) touches turns to gold.

And this is no exception.

What Glee did for the musical sitcom (an erstwhile joke: think Bochco's botched job with Cop Rock) An American Horror Story does for the Gothic serial--you have to think way back to something like Dark Shadows to find something which generated the sort of ravenous fanbase this show is sure to attract.

Jessica Lange is perhaps following in the Hollywood tradition of "too young to be beautiful, perfect for the evil crazy crone!" But she's clearly relishing it every bit as much as Bette Davis did when it was her time to be put out to the horror film pasture and take up crazy as the new vocation.

When you have guest appearances of the calibre of Frances Conroy, you know you got a show that's smokin.

Dylan McDermott is still very hot. Well his body is. His face looks remarkably free of plastic surgery (hence unnatural in Hollywood terms). His Siberian blue eyes will probably never lose their appeal. But I'm thinking an agent has had to have prodded him by now with scary words like "facial lipodystrophy." Because the pecs and body tone seem at war with the actor's facial sunkenness. I act as though this offends me, which is ridiculous. We are just seeing the real aging of a natural body--which is of course Verboten according to the telegenic mandate. He must be very strong-willed. That he's not gone that direction. And he's got a great job here, so kudos.

He's a great actor. His performance in Almereyda's Twister is still my favorite by far.

I won't try to describe the show.

Just check it out. If you liked The Shining, and if you're a fan of the haunted house of horrors genre, you'll love it.

But bring a strong stomach.

There's a strong component of interpersonal violence (not just committed by the ax murderers but often the good guys) and the psychological complexity of the situations crafted is nearly at that Hitchcock level. The show is interested in exploring the concept of moral queasiness, which is almost a completely alien concept to the medium in which it's taking place.

It's much nastier than anything that will appear on the major networks. In fact, it really rivals the best stuff premium cable can offer, series-wise.

This thing is so gonna have a cult following after it's done.


This is funny.

I translated this same W.C. Williams poem into LOLspeak like a week ago on this blog.

And today on Bros they have a Brospeak translation of the same poem.

Koodos, Brian McGackin.

You can learn more about broetry and the Broetry Poetry Slam here at Brian's site: Broetry Central

Brian's Amazon ranking for Broetry right now is 39,000 and change.



guidos bros douchebags fratboys - The Depth of the Bro Soul
see more Bros

Starbucks Divas


I need to spend more time at MEMEBASE.

I see I've been missing a lot.

I was having fun with this relatively new meme.

I forget his actual name.

I call him the Starbucks Diva meme.

Hey btw what's the difference between the Daili Lama and Ashton Kutcher?

About 6 million followers. On Ashton's side of course.

I noticed the Dalai Lama follows nobody.

Isn't that like so anti-Buddhist.

I mean he could link to things like the Free the Slaves movement on Twitter. Why is he not directing his followers in compassionate directions?

He's another diva. Is the obvious answer.

I read his one book. And in it he's just like every other -ist in that he starts talking about two different standards of behavior. The enlightened can do all kinds of freaky sexual things and other bad behavior besides because, basically, it's just another reincarnation of the Nietzschean Superman, only under an ascetic mask.

Supposedly they're doing those things under the auspices of a higher direction. Uh huh.

I'm not making that up. It's in His Holiness's book. Where he also militates for the use of current media like television in service of the religion. No doubt, had the book been written more recently, he would be saying the same thing about social networking sites, since he utilizes them.

Compassion is great when suffering can be alleviated. But the simple truth is that not all forms of suffering can be alleviated. Some can only be ended by death. And the scope of the suffering is so enormous that even if every human being on the planet were a beacon of compassion, nay, a little spaceship of compassion rising up and then alighting constantly to dispense said compassion, we'd still probably mostly feel that at least half of life is doomed to be tragedy.

I think it would be awesome if the Dalai Lama only followed one person on Twitter and that person was Richard Gere.

I've Been Submitting Poetry to Mags

I'm thinking of that Bjork song, "You've Been Flirting Again."

I've got to remember to mention I've been in the IPAD ZITE mag!

I forget to put that on my resume.

That's thanks to Cheezburger.

Zite is so now.

Whatever that means.

I used "daps" in a response to a younger LOLer yesterday and she said "Huh?"

I failed cool.

I had to explain the Twitter meaning of "daps."

I only knew because I had been dapped the previous day.

And I wanted to show off my brand new, shiny hipness.

Well, that went well.


Made the front page of MEMEBASE today.

With a Nyan cat-themed meme lol.

I saw that had garnered over 300 votes in like 12 hours when I created it yesterday...and that's a rarity if you're not on a front page on Cheezburger.

But since it ran a four Cheezburger there I guess I should expect a four Cheezburger fp? Who knows with these things.

I'm ready for the usual MEMEBASE troll hateration.

Even the most popular shit posted there has tons of troll comments.

I was reading a few very funny, well-ranked ones and there was the usual bitchery.

I just realized the Google profile sihouette actually looks likes me in silhouette.

How u do dat?




Courtesy of a very new Twitter friend...


Saturday, October 22, 2011

You Know it's a Bad Day When You Wake Up Crying

Which Shakespearean character do you most identify with?

I think mine would be Timon of Athens.

I have served stone soup to so many people it's ridiculous. It strains my own credulity. And I was there. Well, part of me.

Unlike Timon, I don't even have an excuse. I suppose we're supposed to wonder whether his "excuse" really validated his behavior.

And unlike Timon, I am not a misanthrope.

But the hateful side of my mania has probably led many people to believe that.

I used to share the popular misconception of mania. It was all about feverish bursts of activity, life dangerously sped up, cacoethes scribendi and cacoethes loquendi, a dangerous giddiness which led to horrifying risk taking.

And I have experienced all those elements. Over. And over. And over.

But it's not just that. As I learned a little bit more about bipolar disorder (and I still only know little) I learned that my bouts of irrational paranoia and the resultant rage are actually a part of mania too.

Last night, I was reading a poem online I was fairly sure was about my previous bad behavior. I know my saying this will sound like more of the grandiosity which is also an element in bipolar disorder but no. I had been in close communication with this person many years ago: frequent correspondence, publishing relationship, etc.

I attacked this poet in the most irrational way. Many years ago I dashed off an email in the middle of the night telling this person that their Amazon book ranking indicated they were just below the threshold of cultural relevance. Something asshole like that anyway. I don't remember the exact words. I need to remember the exact words more. So I know what words to use when I brand myself with the heated poker.

The person sensibly sent me an email the next day saying, "Let's talk again soon." Which of course meant Fuck off and die, foul beast."

So why did I do that? Jealousy. Stone cold jealousy. Ugly, animal jealousy.

I could be wrong. The poem could have been written about another asshole. This poet is successful and leads an active intellectual life, is part of academia, etc., so surely this poet encounters my species on a regular basis. And the poem was published quite a number of years after my attack.

There was a mention of a sort of bad behavior in the first part of the poem that was definitely not something of which I have been guilty, so perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe it's a composite portrait of many male artists the poet had the misfortune to encounter. But it doesn't matter whether the poet had me in mind. The poem somewhat accurately described my pathology. So the poem is about me, regardless of whether the poet had me in mind while writing it.

The poet did this as a cathartic act, I suppose, because the poem isn't really great. The poem depicts the injurious party as dying alone. I'm not being bitchy as a defense. The poem did hold truth and that's something. It's hard to write a beautiful poem about human ugliness. Why would anyone even want to?

The poem predicts a solitary death precipitated by self-pity.

Well,that's spooky. And a bit funny. Because I often envision my end like that. But I am trying to do things to change that scenario. (I would actually prefer to edit death out of the death scene entirely, but probably I should just satisfy myself with being able to change the final monologue.)

I hate it that now I have to worry that talking about evil things I have done, and how horrible I feel, is mere self-pity.

What does it mean when we say that something is mere. It means we don't give a fuck about that thing. Mere is a polite way to tell an abstraction or concrete thing to fuck off.

When bipolar people do the horrible things we do to other people (and I have never been physically violent, but small consolation that) and "wake up" the next day or whatever, when the spaceship gingerly alights upon planet Earth again and we trot off to eat our morning cereal or whatever, we're prepared for complete understanding of the horrible things we have done.

This is funny. And totally unrealistic.

You can't take back injurious words. This is kindergarten-teacher-holding-your-hand-and-slapping-it type stuff.

You can blame the illness, but you are responsible for the illness. You are the custodian of your illness.

But what if you didn't even know you had the illness yet (I didn't when most of these things were happening). What if you didn't know you needed help? What if you couldn't even see yourself as others saw you? What if you were poorly socialized, had hidden from the world but felt ostracized even as you did this? What if you were that fucking clueless?

What if you didn't understand that to get at the love in other people you had to go to them. What if you didn't know you have to be brave to be kind? Or you knew it but you couldn't be brave. Because you were so afraid of other people. What if you didn't know something as basic as the fact that you have to listen to others with understanding and compassion? Well there are so many ways of knowing. One can logically know something but not know it with the visceral heart.

I was capable of acts of honest generosity and admiration. I did good things too. But I only remember the bad now. I never even try to remember the good. Because the good things I did aren't my problem. And I mean my problem on an hourly basis.

Non-bipolar people get irrational attacks of jealousy as well.

As do many alcoholics.

So to be a bipolar alcoholic (I optimistically claim I'm "in recovery") is to have two demons playing a game of Risk inside your head.

The problem with saying "I'm sorry" to someone is that they can come back with "You sure are."

The problem with saying "I'm sorry" to someone who is successful (I know: what's successful? but indulge me) is that this person may think you are merely seeking a belated entry, preferment, favors. Something. Something other than what you appear to be asking for. Forgiveness.

"Go and sin no more!" this person has the power to say to you. Presumably while holding a golden crosier. They have the power to speak these liberating words to you: you the horrible, wronging, guilty party.

In a sense you have created a god. The god who holds the key to your forgiveness.

You have rendered yourself an utter, obeisant slave by virtue of your detestable behavior.

You can just ignore the past wrongs and go the direction most people call (though I admit skepticism about the very existence of this word) forward.

But it will rankle. Possibly forever. Well, until forever vanishes like a cloud of steam from a tea kettle removed from the stove.

Maybe you're meant to carry the heavy stone of each wrong act until you crawl down into your grave. Maybe that's the payment. Does anyone really crawl down into their grave? I fear the answer is yes. (Better to parachute?)

If you have a conscience, I mean. Even a part-time conscience, like mine. I'm not trying to be glib. Bipolar disorder leads to a part-time conscience.

"Lucky" sociopaths never have to carry those stones.

Timon dies a misanthrope and his grave is a funny onomatopoetic joke. He's planted on a rocky beach where the waves break hissing over the jagged rocks. He is buried in an eternal seething.

Shakespeare had a great fucking sense of humor. And yes, he'd be writing for the movies had he lived today. Screenplays rather than plays. I mean with his cinematic eye.

I had done an inventory of literary people whom I could recall (verbally) injuring in some way and had said it came in at something like sixty-eight. Since I have been dwelling lately, I realize that number was woefully inaccurate.

I now believe the number to be in the hundreds.

This is a fact I can't wrap my mind around, although I keep trying, like a starfish trying to wrangle its body over some mollusk.

Is the attempt to seek forgiveness a predatory act? Why did I use that simile?

It starts to get funny. Black humor funny.

My behavior was monstrous. I was a monster. Not a killer or a rapist or a...fill-in-the-blank.

But I hate it when I go to those comparisons. Because I have been guilty of attempted soul homicide, of soul rape. Words have that power. In the wrong hands. Perhaps I should have never been given the gift of language. It should have been withheld from me. What would I prefer to be? A pair of ragged claws scuttling?

Pathetic people are funny. I am filled with pathos. Pathos slides down into bathos so easily.

The poem I think is about me predicts an end of self-pity for me. Promises me I will die alone (okay the poet hardly showed compassion in writing such an end for me but I understand why). Basically the poet wanted to give me a death sentence. For being jealous and saying that their Amazon ranking wasn't that great. I have never wished people to die or suffer harm or injury. But young poets can be horrible with ambition and jealousy issues. I love the Creeley poem where he talks about how he lost his ambition and how grateful he was to be rid of it. And you know it's true. Because of the empathy all through his poetry. Because of where you can see him constantly looking. The gaze is everything. I honestly don't have those issues anymore. Poems are wonderful things but they're not the most important things in the world. People are the most important things in the world. You save the old woman in the burning Louvre, not the Mona Lisa. And yet I agree with the poet. I sentence myself to death in my head a lot. How does one rise above the horrible acts of one's life? How can one find an appropriate vantage point at which to see the act in a perspective which will render it less noxious? Which will lead to less self-hatred? Does one simply float up over the act like a helium balloon or one of Chagall's untethered lovers? (Those lovers levitate out of an innocence that has nothing to do with what I'm talking about here. Bad comparison!) The easy answer is of course to forget. And one does. For a time. But if you have a conscience, you have a grave digger in your head. And he has a shovel. So...

I wasn't just jealous of the poet's great writing. Usually, in these instances of rage, most times I was drunk, and I was really feeling intensely jealous of the poet's life. That this was a person who could function normally in society, hold a job, keep friends and serve them well, have a normal love life. That this poet had money or social standing were sometimes other inflammatory elements. I often had it in for wealthy people, even though parts of my family and some of my friends were millionaires. This is before I learned that being a mere ("Fuck You") millionaire is common in America. But there were exceptions. What do you do with a loving, philanthropic millionaire who treats you like a great friend--well you love them. I'm speaking of a museum founder with whom I worked for a number of years. She was a great human being. It helps to encounter them and know that it is possible on this planet. To turn out that way. Even with all that potentially evil money.

This. Is. Wallowing.

Even to revisit these horrible acts which live forever.

These people I attacked are all strong people, but what does that even mean? I keep telling myself "You only gave these people a bad day or a bad hour." But how do I know how much injury I did? I hope my guess is correct. But I'll probably never know. Strong people have insecurities too. Strong people have great fears and worries about the value of the art to which they have dedicated their life. Strong people can be paranoid that the cruel words spoken in attacks on them is indicative of how people actually feel about them. People without mental illness can be destabilized by cruelty just as easily as people who are mentally ill. But, you know, the funny thing is I'm not sure I believed that was the case. I think in my jealousy of these people (and my fear of them--make no mistake--there was always fear)I felt they were automatons. Terminators. Pingy metal chested creatures. This doesn't mean I couldn't see where they succeeded and failed just as everyone else does in their artistic ventures. It's just that I suspected them of being part of a different class. Not genetically. But by virtue of privilege. They had all gone to excellent schools. Many of them came from money. They had valuable social connections. They could travel freely. They could approach the great authors of the day because they were wearing the right clothes and had the right pedigree.

Now I realize how funny it is to think like that, how delusional that thinking is.

There's a soupcon of truth to what I write, but only a soupcon.

In my more lucid hours, I knew the truth. That the language belonged to all alike. That I was living in the realm of language and any failure to achieve my goals was a failure of my own language. Or a failure of ambition. The horrible, horrible necessity of ambition. I had to force myself to have ambition. I loved poetry but I was terrified of people, of social interactions that didn't occur on the page.

How do people process the irrational attacks delivered by bipolars in manic rage?

If they understand that you're sick, they might have the power to just "shake it off" and understand that your attack is no more meaningful than a bird flying into their windshield as they're driving on the interstate. Horrible to the point of being funny but quickly over--and just a small mess to wipe off with some paper towels.

The truth is I'm not even brave enough to ask forgiveness of the people I wronged.

I'm too afraid they will (all too understandably) attack me. And the simple fact is I am raking dead ash off coals and taking up more of their time.

I was reading about bipolar self-loathing last night. We all hate ourselves. Either now and again or constantly. We all seem to have suicidal thoughts some or most of the time. I had seen a one in six suicide figure for bipolar disorder. Later, I learned it's actually one in five. I made several attempts when I was much younger.

We know all our lives we're not right, but it takes so fucking long to even understand why. Bipolar disorder is not easy to diagnose. Correction. Bipolar disorders. Plural.

Well, mine should have been diagnosed early in life but I grew up in an age when everything was ridiculous Freudian analysis and when the drugs available were few and far between and woefully inadequate. And my mother was in and out of mental hospitals for long periods of time (the horror of experiencing her after electroshock "therapy"!) and I was shuttled back and forth between relations while this was going on. So I think people believed I was so fucked up because of what was going on with my parents. But it wasn't just that.

Even today, most of the drugs are poisons. This isn't bipolar paranoia. Trust me on this. There's a reason those ambulance chaser ads now have a list of about fifteen drugs over which those attorneys can comfortably settle lawsuits. It's probably the single fact Scientology has right about the world.

An early diagnosis might have occurred had I been born, say, after the year 2000. I was demoted from the gifted reading group in first grade not on the basis of any failure, but because I was not able to stop reading so fast when called upon to read aloud. I comprehended it. The teacher would query me to see if I had, believing it impossible I could understand since I was reading so fast. It didn't matter that I had comprehended and answered her questions correctly. It didn't matter. The teacher wanted to humiliate me for not being able to control my nervousness and "pressured speech." And I remember going outside on the playground and saying something horrible to another child which made him cry. (Later, I'm happy to say, we became good friends and hung out at each other's houses.) But I went outside and verbally attacked him. Right after I had been humiliated by this teacher. This horrible old crone who should have been retired years before. Today she would have been charged with sexual molestation for the time she took all the boys into the bathroom and made us strip in front of her. But this was the early seventies. This was after a student had actually put a piece of shit on her desk. While she was out of the room. He had carried it back from the bathroom. I never found out if the turd was his, or just one he found floating in one of the unflushed toilets. This was my first introduction to a political revolutionary. I had seen my first political dissident. And he was a skinny little boy in first grade. Not a single one of us would nark on Troy (and I'm proud of that fact) so she never even found out who had excrementally critiqued her horrible pedagogy.

Out of our dysfunctionality comes our rage. Only today are they starting to diagnose bipolar disorder in childhood. I can't even begin to imagine the horror of introducing drugs like Depakote into a child's body. This isn't the answer. They need to come up with cognitive behavioral strategies or something. Rather than poison children the way adults are so often poisoned. It sounds paranoid to say I feel we are all just Big Pharm's lab rats but I know it's not paranoia. It's the truth. It's the scientific process. That's its very nature and the lifeblood of inquiry. You are a lab rat too. Or will become one. Everyone is a lab rat to Big Pharm eventually. Probably you will get lucky though and the lab rats who went before will enable you to enjoy the benefits of a less toxic drug for whatever malady arrives at your doorstoop. But you too will probably have to make the deal with the devil of medicine sooner or later.

Some drugs make perfect sense. Since I'm hypothyroid, I know my body needs the Synthroid. And Synthroid improves my health, I see the positive results, so I know I'm replacing what should be there for normal functioning. Those sorts of issues are easier to resolve.

But the thing about psychotropic drugs is you're told people have no idea how they work, quite often, just that they "get results" and then you have all kinds of problems with the studies concerning real causality and what particular effect of the drug is actually causing an "improvement" in behavior and at what cost to the person. I'm speaking to the quality of life issues. Many drugs work more by simply rendering the person less capable. So you're not the raptorish, brain-eating zombie but the slave sort, as in that Lugosi movie (White Zombie? A title about which one could write an entire essay!) where the zombies are forced to do what? Produce rum on plantations? Something like that--it's been quite some time since I've seen that movie. But I remember the zombies sluggishly going round and round in some rural plantation mill--like the punishment Paul Verlaine was sentenced to in that Belgian prison in the 19th century. After having had his asshole examined for signs of social deviation and being pronounced thoroughly deviant.

Many of the drugs today get you to that sedated place where your brain feels like a mollusk, contracting back from the eyes and engagement with the world....your brain becomes almost like a slimy pseuduopod, tentatively oozing out occasionally to nab a Butterfinger or, more likely, the television remote. After mania, this can be a consoling feeling so I understand why people will often settle for this. If you're on disability with no particular place to be, lying in bed watching t.v. can be a helluva lot better than doing windmills while a cop is trying to put handcuffs on you because you were on a manic binge.

Possibly you hear hostility (outrage instead of rage) in what I'm saying about Big Pharm. Yeah, because I have been poisoned.

I have lived a wrong life. I could just say this is karma or that the Magic Punisher was helping to even my balance sheet (over the past decade particularly so) and that I should realize that I've had my comeuppance and move on.

But that's absurd. I'm lucid enough to know that part of my life was just another aspect of the sickness. It had nothing to do with my other failures as a social being.

Geez, I'm already tired of typing this shit.

Where would I end up in Dante's Inferno? Malebolge? That Pit? Am I remembering correctly? Probably I'm not.

I think (as with alcoholism) you must at least touch (even if it's just a moment, preferably only a moment) the worst disasters of your past every day.

What a great way to kill a blog, huh? No, I don't mean blog it every day.

Whom am I talking to right now when I blog this? I don't know. Probably mostly other bipolar people who might find this through Google and find that they have a twisted brother out there. That it's not entirely their fault. That what isn't? Well, see, if they're bipolar I already know what that what is. Because last night reading so many online confessional boxes, I realized that the disorder has probably finally been studied to the point where the descriptions and identifiers are starting to be much more precise and relevant than decades ago when "manic depression" had not yet been broken down into the various categories which now constitute bipolar disorder in the DSM.

I supposed I'm in the mixed phase lately.

Because lately I have very strong depression, but I still have many elements of mania with regard to productivity and (sensible not lit magnesium) ambition.

Some of this depression is due to physical challenges (my various illnesses, worries about my aged mother's health and struggles, a sick cat I have adopted). And my mind finds these daunting. Just as almost anyone's mind would.

I worry that if my mother dies before me I will completely lose it. Probably I will if that happens. I have at many times in my life had the cowardly wish to die before her. What an abandonment that would be. She is one of a tiny number of people in life who actually seems to need me. So I couldn't do that.

Yet, she's known I've been close again at times. There are ways a parent and child talk around these things. I think once she even understood that I was at such extremity that she might have been tacitly giving me permission if I chose to go. I mean I think she was and wasn't doing that at the same time. She wasn't saying "Kill yourself." I just mean. I don't know. She's too good a person not to give me complete understanding no matter what horrible things I do. Which is and has always been, of course, terribly misguided goodness. She had her own guilt issues about her own sickness. She wasn't cruel to people. She was lost in another way. But I don't blame her one bit. She did the best she could. She had to deal with schizophrenia for most of her adult life and then two other sons with mental illness besides me, so do you think I would ever raise a single cavil against her? No. And yet I beg the universe not to let her go. She's not suffering physically but her infirmities have shrunk the radius of her world down to her bedroom. This is very painful for me to contemplate. And I'm agoraphobic, not leaving the house for weeks at a time, so I find it hard even to visit her other than our daily visits on the phone each day.

I can't think any more. I need to go listen to some music and try to recover my soul.

It's wandered so far from my body. What do you do? Whistle for it like a dog?

Bipolar disorder in many ways renders you an eternal child.

I woke up crying today with guilt, but most days lately I have been waking with happiness. The manic part. But I've been adding guilt by the teaspoon each morning so it seems to temper the mania. The way, presumably, one of the poisonous salts like lithium would.I wouldn't know. The drug attacked my body after a week. And that was the drug I really wanted to work. Lithium doesn't damage the creativity; it seems to even enhance it in bipolar people--counters the scatteration. But I was getting symptoms of Raynaud's and I'd prefer to keep my digits.

I find writing comes easier (I don't know the value or lack of it) and I find the writing much more necessary.

I keep apologizing to my partner and updating him on my attempts to come to a reckoning with my past, which is, obviously, also our past.

I've had too many relapses for him to put faith entire in any of my gestures or words right now. And I understand that.

Like the prediction in that poem of deserved vitriol, I sometimes think I should be alone. Well, cats are okay. Cats understand madmen. They enjoy the slightly warmer body temperature of the fits.

But with regard to the plunge backwards: never before has it gone so deep, with such scrutiny and so much lingering. Again, some would call it wallowing. It's definitely indicative of depression, but so far mercifully a sub-clinical one.

Either you believe in morality or you do not. And if you believe in morality, then you shouldn't really call it wallowing. If you don't, then it is wallowing to you. To someone who is amoral it would be mere wallowing. Yes. Laughable. But then that's the exact attitude a sociopath would espouse. I'm not sure why the word amoral even exists. I suppose Nietzsche and his ilk. If you believe in Supermen vs. mere men, or you are an early Marxist you have a use for a word like amoral. I sure don't. I have no use for the idea that there are different standards of behavior for different people. I have no use for the idea that Supermen can do horrible things in the name of higher causes or higher natures. If you can't smell the Holocaust in thinking like that, get your nose checked.

Peace and waffles.

I excoriated myself enough for having just woken up.

Woken up. Hopefully in more than one sense. Though I have terrible fear even saying that.

Don't tempt the Fates or a rabid dog.

Is a good motto to live by.

it's the spangle-maaak-er

i love what begins to happen around 3:36.

you have to sort of think of the Scottish makar with that title.

Liz Fraser is originally from Grangemouth.


Friday, October 21, 2011





I have regrets in the shapes of cats.

You probably think to adopt a sick cat is a form of bragadoccio. That it is passive aggressive and pretend monkish. It is all of these things and more.

To adopt a sick cat.

I mean adapt a sick cat.

Adapt a sick cat like a screenplay.

The cat has worms and I see these in his excrement. Each is a slithering, vomitous, flat white creature only as wide as a small number of hairs bound together. Like a little white intestine it sidles and slithers across the surface of the piece of shit. Featureless at the human scale at which you will look at it. Living in excrement and soon to die now that it has been pushed down out of its sensuous bed.

Some would take delight in looking at such a creature.

I give the cat several types of remedies and realize these are poisons. A cat's liver is much more sensitive to toxins than a dog's liver. A cat has other tricks.
A cat can actually drink seawater to survive. You can't. If you are able to read this.

I have followed the necessary instructions and used the touted poisons. But it does not end. Possibly we are dealing with a cat with severely damaged immunity. But no. It shouldn't matter. The poisons are supposed to work. I become paranoid about the parasite. I know these could infest me too. I check myself. To see if I have become an infestation. The worms migrate from the lungs to the intestines. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. ALIEN. The idea of coming in waves. The idea of killing in waves.

What's wrong, little kitten? Don't you want to be Ripley?

The funny thing about love is that it is a pesticide.

Well love is supposed to be a pesticide. That works. If you are still being parasitized maybe it's not real love. I mean real pesticide.

It gives you a giddy blackness when you love something and cannot restore it to health. It is like an elevation of a druggy lark. It is like the terrible feeling of being enamored of fear.

Creatures enamored of fear are everywhere and usually falling in love.

I have tried alternating poisons. No positive outcome.

I count the requisite number of days between doses. The cat seems not to suffer and gives the appearance of health. Sometimes health is a weapon. Sometimes health is a weapon you can wield against some(thing)(one) you love. Threaten the beloved with health.

Horrible things can happen. In standoffs.

Even if you are only having standoffish sex.

Especially if you are having standoffish sex.

Homicides can occur. Defacings. Mutilations. Other fun tattoos. Did you get the temporary tattoos you wished for when you put your coins in the machine and turned the metal dial?

What if I poison the cat with the killer cure and the cat dies. No question mark. Of COURSE I have tremendous guilt. How could I not have tremendous guilt? We are sometimes told to have faith in murder: in time poison will work. You cannot act in place of the poison. You must trust it with all your soul.


Darth Vader is only a segue to commercials.

If you are dreaming and it is raining, your dreaming will be more productive.

I dreamt about you. And your lover. Though I have never seen him and have no idea what he looks like. I had zero problem incarnating him in my dream. You lived with your lover in a kind of dismal furniture store display. A scary Dickensian bedroom with a four poster bed. A bed and a carpet and maybe a bookcase and a chair. Really basic fucking Ethan Allen type stuff. Pre-hipster identikit. Maybe it was a real 19th century bedstead. Maybe. Maybe the canopy and bed curtains were Miss Havisham grey. I believe this bedroom was located in a huge antiques warehouse which--obviously--didn't have windows. Why is it that warehouses never have windows? Sometimes they have dismal clerestory-type windows that mostly allow the light to travel back and forth way up there near that ridiculously distant ceiling, but the light is mostly just passing through. The point is to make the workspace Hogarthian. To turn the manual workers into caricatures of a type. I honestly believe this is design in the service of what's probably considered an ergonomic depression. Something which it is felt must be induced. If you've worked in a warehouse--or several--you know what I'm talking about. Down below it will usually look like a typical day in a nineteenth century winter London dwelling. This is as true in 2011 as it was in 1908 or 1888. Now, there are large, usually rectangular electric lights that look like the old fashioned metal ice cube trays suspended from the ceiling or beams, but often this lighting will be disallowed during daylight hours. There is a faith in human dinge, in human dinginess. The Hogarthian light will be judged sufficient. You could even select a target year in which the planet had a tremendous amount of dark days, due to a volcano which had erupted the previous year. The nineteenth century understood that weather is insane. Vegetation could ice over in July. It is largely a product of the various self-delusions promulgated by overcivilized people in the twentieth century: this betise that the weather should be sane. Those glacier marks on the big rocks in Central Park are only ten thousand years old. That's like two seconds ago, geologically speaking. It's quite possible that the scientific consensus claiming that global warming is the cause of disastrous climactic change is really just like the person being murdered slowly in a relationship who insists he or he is committing suicide. Many untruths are funny in a way truths are not. You could not live your life without untruth, just as you could not live your life without water. But to step backwards, I assume the logical argument is that windows are not in warehouses becauses warehouses are where capital (in the more concrete sense of the word) is stored. This depressing absence of light is an anti-theft stratagem, which means that in a capitalist universe it is a patriotic gesture too. To strain to see one another is patriotic. Most workplaces with warehouses proudly believe themselves to present a chauvinist, even jingoistic, facade to the world because of the subtractions of elemental human needs. If you can't take something away from me, how can I ever fear you? And how can I ever pretend to love you if I can't fear you? This is a terrible untruth which has become a truth thanks to capitalism. This is not a critique. More a poisonous sigh. A sleigh with funny gay horse bells.

Attack like a pigeon.

Just the word antihelminthic.

You can use your disbelief as a weapon, but it doesn't mean I will believe you.

"At least it's not tapeworms." Someone says. And I laugh.

I was talking about a dream I had. During the middle of the day. While the sick cat was sleeping next to me. The wormy cat. The verminiferous cat. The immunologically challenged cat.

The funny possessives we create for our languages. My cat. My disease.

You don't own a cat. You don't own that disease.

The cat belongs to itself. And the disease belongs to everyone. If you can't see the disease as extending outside of your body in multifarious directons, you are probably lost.

Ergo, beauty.

You have to ride the bus sooner or later.

Maybe because you have entered a third world country and the rules have changed. You are here as an American or a European most likely, because third world people rarely travel for leisure to other third world countries. If I have to tell you the reason for that, here are some crayons.

The dream. But the dream. But for the dream.

I dreamt I was in love with you. I dreamt I was awake inside my love for you. I dreamt you had been taken in a misprision of love. And I had to rescue you.

We worked together in some sort of strange importing or antiques business from what I could tell of the dream. In any case, you stood next to me a lot as we assayed various exotic objects from either the distant past or different countries. You held your chin a lot. Which I found charming. Often we would allow our bodies to touch one another as we stood together evaluating some strange relic. Your relationship was so painful that you could only talk about it in buffoonish terms. Baboonish terms. This guy had you completely and had trashed you completely. The real kind. Soul trashing. In other words, an expert.

So in the dream I became devious. I would rescue you. I would rescue you right into myself, into my body, into my debt. It is always this way. To only rescue someone into your body in any lasting way is to rescue them into an admittedly sometimes joyous ghetto jumprope of debt. The most serious debt there is on a planet based on debt. La scream de la scream.

I have to take a shit. Excuse me.

I'm back.

So if I extract disaster from my life like a scientist or child or scientific child using tweezers to handle a dragonfly's wing with its glorious venation--like the rose window of a medieval cathedral--to place the dragon's tiny veiny wing upon a slide the scientist or child or scientific child is preparing, if I do this, if I can only do this by being devious, by becoming the brightness that is evil, by continuing to be Scumbag Decepticon, how fucked up is that?

Are you even supposed to extract disaster?

Pretend you are Madame Curie with her Suzy Bake radium oven.

Sylvia Plath with hers.

"I made you a poetic suicide but I wuz hungry so I eated it."

I mean I know this was a dream. But my bad behavior just seems to be relocating from my waking life to my subconscious life. Dreams are like real estate agents. Who knows, it might even be trading up.

By. Becoming. Subterranean.

Subterranean is beautiful.

Subterranean is restorative.

A restorative.

To live your life like a novel adapted for the screen.

Why do you need to be on a screen? Is it because it is so many screens at once. The screen I am on right now is not one screen. That it's all an allusion. More than an illusion.

Like when I didn't realize Google was customizing my results to flatter me like a lover. The lightbulb moment was actually not a lightbulb moment at all, but rather a feeling like the longest jelly dildo in the world coming back out of one's rectum.

After having had the fun.

I feel I can safely say we are now after having had the fun.

The playground has gone dark. Only the serial killers will come out to play now from the shrubs that border the playground if you go back, so think before you do.

This is something like riding the AIDS bus.

Or the short bus.

Take your pick.

SHUT THE FUCK UP. NOTHING is like riding the AIDS bus.


Many things are like riding the AIDS bus.

Let's start the Family Feud.

I am sane. In varying degrees.

If nature hadn't invented kicking and screaming how would anything ever get fucking done?

I don't really care what you're in orbit around. That's the biggest mistake one can make. Caring about that. You'll never see the disaster of the person if you thik like that. And don't you want to? You'll never see the terrible star or star of sickness.

Of the person.

A translation can lie as much as it wants.

And we are all translations.

I don't know of a single human being who doesn't exist as a multiplicity of translations.

If you don't know this, it's like the thing I said a few moments ago about illness. About disease.

You were acting like a monad again. Weren't you.

My Pretty Pony. My Little Monad.


I saved you in the dream by fucking your man. Well, not exactly. Getting fucked by your man. Who is the sort of guy I would only fuck in waking life. Would never let fuck me. Anything that malignant needs to bottom.

Shut. Fuck. Up.

Sex is not moral censure. Sex is not punishment. Except when it is.

It has a rolling ball like that asshole Dyson.

The kangaroo court of promiscuous sex. Boing boing. Poink poink. Point point?

Sex is not a place where we go to do our karmic laundry. Sex is not a playground. Sex is not a malentendu, charming to meet ya, contretemps, shut the fuck up, sex is not a police light flashing round and round lighting up the fronts of houses on your street because they are parked in front of your house and politely wiping their feet on your peanut butter and jelly doormat before they arrest you.

Sex is not LOLfucking.

Not a Smiley face.

Not an Pogo or Yahoo or AOL emoticon.

Not taking it up the ass of amyl nitrate. Or any other glowing recommender of other people who are as disgusting or innocent or hungry or disgustingly hungry or innocently disgusting or hungrily disgusting and innocent as yourself.

Sex is not karmic Playdoh.

Okay it is.

What if your body had an AUTOSAVE feature like a blog. While you were in the middle of an intense interpersonal confrontation like fucking or getting arrested, your body would start to make a noise and a little green light would brighten somewhere on your body to let you and the confrontee know that something was happening, something was being SAVED.

So I let your man fuck me in the Dickens bed in the fake bedroom display in the dark warehouse or antiques mall. And did a good job of it. "I ate your food AND your man." Ghettospeak is so useful when you're tanking.

My strategy was one of the oldest. Probably dates to the Stone Age. Why not live in a Stone Age Motel Six? Many fine pseudo-productive members of society live in Stone Age Motel Sixes. Cavewomen housekeeping will come through and turn down your sheets for you. Sucky sucky for tip? There's a Bible and a little Moebius Strip with the numbers for nearby establishments able to quicky produce a pizza or a blackout. If so desired.

If so desired to come into human existence if invented itself as a word.

If the Aalvar Aalto traffic cloverleaf of desire. The dizzying heights of which if is capable.

I fucked your man. Only to have you.

I was like BAMBI.

All dappled with innocence.

My long eyelashes full of the human dew.