Post #6

[edited for content by author]. I believe that dream began with a football game and with me as a player. I was doing very badly, and I kept telling myself "if you stop worrying about doing badly, you'll do great", and I finally did, uplifting music began to play, and we won, or ate hotdogs or something. Later on there was also something about a construction site / hippy commune, and they refused to share. Altogether strange, but I'm happy to be remembering them, my dreams, again.

I'm smoking too many cigarettes these days. I probably wrote that to justify lighting up right now, but I'll refrain--better to wait until bed. Smoking in doors is gross and I blame non-smokers. If we all thought it was cool to do, it would be cool to do, and healthy too.... But who cares?

When Carl quit smoking he was dying of rectal malfunction, and it only aggravated his condition so that he died more quickly. But perhaps he was not displeased; it was torture to shit on subway cars and while giving speeches at weddings. The children would tease him, calling him "Shits his Pants". It follows, of course, that his father, unable to impregnate his mother, had in fact prayed one night for a son "even if he shits himself all the time". And it seems to have come true, even though Carl had not begun to shit himself until he was in his later thirties and his parents already long dead. Carl, of course, knew nothing of the curse, and so he cursed God and his misfortune. God, in return, shit uncontrollably all over Carl. For this God became quite embarrassed and defensive and so cursed Carl all over again with recal malfunction. Meanwhile, Colorado passed a law disallowing smoking inside bars and restaurants, and to get the message out a commercial was published depicting a lobster claw, moving as though animated by political will, snipping off that obnoxious lit cigarette. Carl eventually came to terms with religion, and died in a smelly puddle of his own crap.

Post #5

Maybe I have bubonic plague. I'm waiting for my lymph nodes to swell, I hope they don't, but really they could be swollen already. The more I think about it, the harder it becomes to close my armpits comfortably. Do I have a fever? It's curable, but maybe the treatment will leave me thin, like Kafka, shadow-like and intense. I would wear only white or off-white silk then, with a scarf and no glasses to hide my sunken, bloodshot eyes. I'd have a cain too, something straight and uncompromising. I'd hoard all my money and eat only raw rats, still wriggling on a stick. I'd shave off all my hair, decide to become homosexual, and fuck often just for the sin of it...

I've just spent probably 10 minutes trying to think of some way to either amend or mitigate the possible offensiveness of that last sentence--someone might afterall read this--and, since I'm too afraid to advocate presidenticide, this is the best I could come up with.

Anyway, I feel better now. And really I'm more afraid of being cliché than I am of bubonic plague. But I can't do anything about it either way. I could go to the hospital; but it is easier to just embrace my shortcommings, write them off as intentional, and insist that everything I do is perfect. The semi-colon in the last sentence is especially enigmatic. But enough, I'm confusing (in the transitive verb way) and this is exactly why I don't like to talk about myself.

I'd rather talk about you, dear reader, and the enjoyment I would have having sex with your brains and skull. And vomit... That was a joke. Really, it's all very funny, HAHA. Just listen to yourself reader (what garbage!), you're nuts.

This is the worst post yet.

Post #4

Dear Reader,

You should check out my links. "Mazur and friends" links to and interesting site run by my friend Andrew and some of his friends from back home. They blog about music, movies, and culture. Their tastes are each very eclectic, and their opinions sound. "Hanna E." links to a wonderful site run by my friend Hanna, who has recently moved to Indonesia to teach English. She writes well, and her story is captivating. Both of these blogs are highly recommended. "Google news" is just what it sounds like, and it comes standard anyway.

I still have not told any of my friends about this blog. You're probably the only person who's read it! The internet is an awfully overpopulated void. One can at least, in a real shopping mall, scream, although one never does...

Post #3

My mute page inspires nothing, it is, in fact, less than a journal because I cannot touch it and I can edit it without leaving any trace. Nothing is holy therefore, nothing is unadultered. It is really fabrication. And yet such ought perhaps to provoke a smile; a mirror sterilized so much to become refuse, reflects refuse sterilized to be a mirror. Which is correct; I believe firmly that to mirror our American Life we must indeed sterilize some refuse and then present it at the gallery. But at the same time incorrect because, when a certain point has been reached, with imagery: a high-water mark, language disintegrates into a mere collection of unrelated and diffuse meanings. By language I mean simply the sentence. A sentence can, of course, be constructed to mean just about anything. But when a sentence is constructed (grammatically correct) to mean nothing, it takes on a life of its own, spreads its literary wings by its own volition, and soars into Heaven. It becomes, in short, perfect. And it becomes perfectly meaningful. Which means that it must also bear that burden in common to all perfection, namely meaninglessness. And this sounds stupid, except it is very funny because the sentence was initially constructed to mean nothing anyway. An artist of nonsense thereby accomplishes his own goal: he is simultaenously an artist and a buffoon.

I am not a Nonsense-artist. But if I were, to say that "a mirror sterilized so much to become refuse, reflects refuse sterilized to be a mirror", could really mean any number of things. But I am more concrete, I believe in concreteness. So, what is actually meant, is that blogs reflect today's american way, and I was simply commenting thereupon.

And so consider this my circumcision: I have spoken now about blogs through the medium of a blog. I am therefore a blogger. And my covenant--to the American Life! Next time we'll discourse on its prescriptions.

Post #2

Here is a quick overview of the english indicative tenses (for ease I will use the verb "to play"):

She plays. She is playing. She was playing. She played. She has played. She has been playing. She had played. She will play. She will be playing. She will have played. She will have been playing. (The last one may be called "future imperfect".)

Now in the passive:

She is played. She was played. She has been played. She had been played. She will be played. And, she will have been played.

We may also perhaps include: She will have had been playing, and she will have had been played. But personally I don't think that they are anything but redundant.

What is interesting is that english, weaned on both the sperm of her romantic conquerers and the spilt blood of her raped mother tongue, refuses to be pacified when it comes to her abiltiy to find the right time. Using no less than four helping words in the indicative, she slays the lonely brute "Tergiversator". And yet, for that, is only all the more impossible to use!

Post #1

My dear friends, this perhaps begins a meager and wanting stroll through the black-topped, baffling bypaths which advance beneath our poorly turpid morality, ever only to find themselves fornicating on the doorstep of a mutant, aboriginal god, to whom we owe all reverence and neverending praise; a beast who afterall gives meaninglessness to all of our most profound inquiries, and boasts a mighty sack of heads.

Years ago, when I was a younger man, rather a boy, I lied upon returning from micronesia that I had in fact learned to speak the language. Assuming a nobility of stature give with ease only by children, I'd atop a stump, one hand upon a bent knee the other arm bent, forming that infamous "spout", with fist fast against my hip. And I'd spout some gibberish and translate it for my ethinically diverse (one was adopted and black) group of very interested neighborhood friends. They were very impressed, I recall, over the story of that school-yard micronesian bully who threw a pocket knife so that it stuck, hilt deep really, in the palm of some poor thief's hand (who would to make off with the bully's older sister). A story so terrible to tell that I was sorry to be uanble to narrate it in the original micronesian in which it had occured.... I'm more of a purist now so I won't even try, as much as I would enjoy writing an entire page of bullshit.