novel debris

This is a part of my "novel-writing" "process"

A Poem Generated from Facebook Status Update Cut-Ups

Maybe I could share her chair, chest clutched,
at sight of a sustainable movement
We’re a casual bunch of advertisements for America.
Everyone likes a twist of highminded ideals.

Oh, I’ll be changed by snapping
at your reflection, in a way
I felt quite colonized.

The immigration office vacation continues!

A woman eating cornchips in my apartment
and listening, now retired.
Defile his kindheartedness
and violate his powerless spells.
I felt like

Sometimes it’s an inflection thing.
You can’t just exchange glances
with a UK accent.

The immigration office with rent money
That’s why I’m always checking my wallet
Something extraordinary happens to you
Found six hundred pounds on the clouds
Still not sure what I prefer to God, or you

Now officially a writer, researcher
and a sap for weirdo romcoms
and also not for sharing

Found six hundred pounds
on the Shinkansen
and you will jump; “the brink”
as in an hour and then just carried
to a central European country
bordered by Germany, Austria, Poland
and about an inch of water
and electric smell of the inventor
of heat, more of the air,
Chechnyan gatorade imitators…
The immigration office has that.

I felt quite colonized.
You can’t make sense strategically.
Roaming charges or the abyss?
Gonna try canceling my account.

Go to their names.
Shrines and temples. Accents and dialects.
The Haiku of Issa. Rilke’s “The Duino Elegies.”
Twin Peaks Marathon. Korean Magpies.
Dew in print.

Witness the spectacle of Italy’s key attraction,
watching a live feed archive of karaoke about bored white people
until he puts out your voice - tomorrow is summer, too.

I felt like
That said, this year was apparently a lot of research.
Disheveled, unshaven and caviar
officially retiring all pretense of youth.

Good I’ve been invited back
the immigration office vacation continues!
Admittedly I had left behind
Taiko drums and nine hours of boisterous chatting-up
Found six hundred pounds on the loudspeaker
typhoon outside, men in gray hair!
Literally high on terror!
The immigration status of the emperor!

I felt like

Suddenly I am moving to be at your car.
The immigration status updates
something of an amorphous global network now
in my apartment

Oh, I’ll be in touch!
Blisters and boils and scarification
You can’t be and be well.

I saw a FB message as a man throws up
a delightful assortment of coffees
And you could be adapted to stop yourself
but I couldn’t shake the system…

The immigration office vacation ended up
translating articles about the underground
He was digging around in white sand for my name
Finally got a tumblr, always staring
into a tunnel of depressed, nihilistic reasoning
I’m finished but can’t leave it
I felt quite colonized
It’s an inflection thing
My Facebook suddenly qualifies as an enfolding embrace
Everyone likes, going into a silent stare.

'American joke,' he explained.
So apparently it’s safe,
The immigration office vacation.
Now I’ll have to tour London
Never meeting anyone in one sense
Can any British people
know any kind of sense?
Once everyone looked at me
And you can see you
It’s an inflection thing
English affectations
probably for obvious reasons.

Two red foxes crossed the street.
Everything is illuminated
by the other person.

The immigration office vacation

What would Lacan say?

What would Lacan say?

You'll Be Perfect When You're Dead

I opened up a video of the amazing Duncan Trussell reading an excerpt from the amazing Dan Harmon’s “You’ll be perfect when you’re dead.” I simultaneously had loaded the music video of Rostam’s “Wood” in the background. It had synced as if it was intentional, and when I realized it wasn’t, I realized I loved it.

What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?

—Jacques Lacan (via plasticelephants)

The division of the real into separate zones, distinct features, and contrasting structures is a result of the symbolic order, which, in a manner of speaking, cuts into the smooth facade of the real, creating divisions, gaps, and distinguishable entities and laying the real to rest, that is, drawing or sucking it into the symbols used to describe it, thereby annihilating it.

Cancelling out the real, the symbolic creates ‘reality,’ reality as that which is named by language and thus can be thought and talked about. The “social construction of reality” implies a world that can be designated and discussed with the words provided by a social group (or subgroups) language. What cannot be said in its language is not part of its reality; it does not exist, strictly speaking. In Lacan’s terminology, existence is a product of language, language brings things into existence (makes them part of human reality), things which had no existence prior to being ciphered, symbolized, or put into words.”

The real, therefore, does not exist, since it precedes language, Lacan reserves a separate term for it, borrowed from Heidegger: It ‘ex-sists’ apart or outside from our reality.

—Fink, B. (1995) The Lacanian Subject: Between Language and Jouissance. Princeton University Press. Princeton, NJ.

supercurtisman asked: I feel like I'm using people. I feel like I'm using them to validate my intelligence, my skill, my lovableness, my everything. I feel like a vampire, sucking at people's hearts, desperately craving validation, until they have nothing left to offer and then I feel terrible. I don't think they all see it this way, but I do and I feel like I don't deserve their gracious friendship. How do I love people without taking from them?


What a question.  If only more people asked it, every day.  If only I had spent more of my life asking it.

I don’t know if you listen to my podcast, Harmontown, but our friend, Siike, a multiple aneurysm survivor, once offered us some wisdom from his tragically unique position at the outer edge of certainty:  “Give more than you take.”  Sounds like you and I have both been spending time lately feeling like we aren’t succeeding at that.  My attempts at contribution often end up feeling like siphons.  And while I’m working so hard to make people like me, the people closest to me can take a flying fuck, except when they’re nourishing me.  My girlfriend loves me unconditionally, and so, like a baby, I suck on what she offers me, cry when it’s taken away, giving nothing in return but occasional Walter White rants about how folks will appreciate me one day, they’re going to see what I gave, and blah blah blah.

Which obviously indicates that these contributions I think I’m making aren’t contributions at all.  No more than a mosquito’s contribution of anti-coagulants into a host’s bloodstream.

I think I slip from the right kind of “giving” to the wrong kind without noticing because they’re identical in terms of behavior.  One minute you’re carrying a box because you want to help your friend, the next minute, you’re carrying the same box to be a good person and a few steps later, after not getting some thank you you decided you deserved, you’re carrying a box because your asshole friend is a selfish piece of shit and you can’t wait to move out of your house just to make him lift a piano and you hope it crushes him to death.  In one conversation’s time, you can end up eighty miles from the nearest patch of honesty, still insisting that you’re where you are because you’re a hero.  And you could pass a polygraph test while saying it, because you’re not exactly lying, you’re just… lost.

So you and I need to know, today, how do we get back on track.  How do we stop telling people our asses look fat in these jeans and get back to having accidentally hot asses in sweatpants on laundry day.

First we reset to that crucial gateway, where we just want to be good people.  We drop the rest of our bullshit.  Who cares if we got fired from Grey Matter, it’s back story, now.  Who cares which meth is the best meth, or whether meth is bad, we just drop every thought in our head except the one that can’t be dropped, come hell or highwater, come bipolar autistic alcoholic schizophrenic self-diagnostic disorder or childhood trauma or anything we think is fundamental, because nothing is as fundamental as this: we want to be good people.  Nobody can fuck up standing in one place wanting something, not even us.

Now how do we make sure we move forward without getting lost?  According to Taoists, we don’t.  We follow through on the “action” we took to get back here, which is inaction.  We relax, like a puppet, so that our next move is more the universe’s than our own.  When you let the universe do the moving, it will never use you to hurt people.  When you’re hurting people, that’s your Ventriloquist God saying “hey, dummy, get my hand back up your ass, because the only thing creepier than our ordinary routine is whatever the hell you’re trying to do right now.”

I believe we’re heroes when we’re transparent and we’re villains when we’re blocking light, throwing ego-shaped shadows all around us, then fearing those shadows and clenching up, which blocks more light, feeding the darkness, making the problem seem unsolvable.  I believe that if we all went transparent at once, all problems would stop, but that it’s probably impossible, and that having that as a goal would make us opaque and cast more shadows.  I believe that Katy Perry is wrong, I think that having fireworks shoot out of your chest is dangerous, I think your clothing would catch on fire and you could die.

And I think your question, which is also my question, is its own answer.  We can stop sucking other people’s necks and start giving more than we take if we ask ourselves how we can do it and make sure we don’t block the real, honest answer.  Sometimes working hard is the hardest thing we can do, and sometimes it’s just our really easy way of trying to take stuff from everyone around us.  Sometimes the hard thing is the easy thing.  Sometimes we should do the dishes and sometimes we should take off our apron, tell our boss to fuck off and walk away, because we’re not a dishwasher, we’re just a writer washing someone else’s dishes.

And sometimes people get away with telling other people how the world works by starting their rules with “sometimes,” which is dumb, because how  are you supposed to know which times are the some times.  But this time, I can tell you when the sometimes are:  they’re when you know, in your heart, which can’t be fooled, whether you’re really giving or just taking from behind.  DAN HARMON COMPARES MISPLACED ALTRUISM TO FORCIBLE SODOMY.  Please watch Rick and Morty on Adult Swim in December and watch Season 5 of Community in the future.


"While our perspective and understanding of the world are undeniably limited, in some sense we each have the world - or we each have a world, one that includes not only our hometown and our favorite vacation spot but also Victorian England, volcanoes we have only read about, and Vietnam, which have a place in our minds even if we can’t find them on a globe. We compile mental maps that are wildly skewed, a mental atlas so large and complex that we can never fully convey it to anyone else. Then we live in the world those maps create.” 
- Peter Turchi, “Maps of the Imagination: The Writer as Cartographer.” 

We are seeking only the precise meaning that our consciousness gives to this word ” exist,” and we find that, for a conscious being, to exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.

—Henri Bergson / Creative Evolution (via fuckyeahexistentialism)