30.6.10

I AM VERY BORING AND WISH TO BE LESS SO

dear reader

and the singularity of the address is dutiful and sadly accurate as a matter of fact i think

it may be me

this dear lone reader


anyhoo dear reader

hi.


this blog needs more stuff

i am going to put more stuff on this blog

i am going to work more on this blog, and update it often with things.

you see i am only writing sporadically and

the writing i am writing is of dubious merit

i have often have thoughts

about music and other people’s writing and art and movies and things which i am equally

unqualified to discuss critically or respond to creatively


so

this blog is going to have more stuff

very soon


also, i want to make it prettier

this blog will be prettier

and it will have more stuff


that is all

thank you.

21.6.10

IN A ROOM WHERE ONE WALL HOLDS

addendum: this is a mock-up for the thing. the graphic will remain, but the textual component is being honed and poked.


14.6.10

THE DEVIL WIELDS A LARGE JAR OF PEANUT BUTTER


the devil plays the gamelan he wears a synthetic turtleneck from armani exchange he sends you a text message at 2:41 am and the text message reads I JUST SCORED TIX 4 DAVE MATTHEWS U WANNA GO he collects human stomach viscera he nails dried sacs of human stomach viscera to your bedroom wall like tibetan prayer flags he scales the façade of the notre dame de paris he scales the brandenburg gate he rafts the amazon atop a large banana leaf he navigates steep mountain terrain atop the favored alpaca he devours an entire pygmy tribe he poses with a large fish he caught with his teeth he photographs himself in the reflection of his bathroom mirror with his iphone he owns a loft in Minneapolis furnished with mid-century modern design the devil curls into the fetal position underneath the kitchen table he shrinks to the size of a chandelier crystal he sets fire to your 1897 edition of The Collected Works of Schiller the devil wields a large jar of peanut butter and says EAT IT he sucks wet blood from beneath his fingernails he slings a satchel of human flesh over his shoulder he frosts the tips of his hair with aircraft carrier paint stripper the devil dances skillfully to hardstyle remixes of sade in the club he wears white sunglasses in the club he sports a white adidas sweatband in the club he speaks all south african dialects he posesses a bachelors degree in communications from a second tier university he customizes sneakers he drives a matte black kia spectrum with tinted windows a spoiler and blue underlighting he very rapidly withdraws a big-ass knife from his sock and stabs a child in the face he uses every photobooth filter option simultaneously he wins a year of free lunches at any hard rock café around the world he vomits in direct sunlight the devil says I LOVE YOU and makes you a sandwich when you feel sad he fucks you in the ass while you sleep he rips open the scab on your kneecap he decapitates twenty-seven cats and leaves the corpses in kindergarten desk cubbies the devil sleeps in the basement of a stranger’s house or in the basement of his grandmother’s house he wants to sit in the dark naked and eat sunchips and whittle sticks and listen to the alan parsons project and scratch himself.

12.6.10

TO EXCELSIOR, MANAGER OF MY PERSONAL HOUSEHOLD AFFAIRS

Dear Excelsior, Manager of My Personal Household Affairs –

I have some requests to be considered and completed prior to this evening’s soiree. It is absolutely essential that this go smoothly and not degenerate into some sort of Dostoyevskian farce with people losing consciousness and having fits everywhere. Leave no stone unturned; you know parties are cess pools of excitement and germs and increased salivation, and that one’s libido runs high. Orgies of any kind are prohibited – we shall see to it that the foyer remains spotless and vacant of heaps of nakedness and rapture; see the ban on alcohol I have posted in the chef’s kitchen - water is, after all, the nectar of the gods.


  1. You must have a small piano program ready for tonight’s Guests as they arrive. You may choose pieces in addition, but you must include Bach’s Chomatic Fugue (I will see to it that the harpsichord is brought out of storage, and subsequently, that earplugs are provided for less cultured Guests who find the harpsichord’s propulsive timbre abrasive). Pay particular attention to the section in C Sharp minor, as you seem to be incapable of playing without monstrous issues in the right hand of the vivace passage After the Fugue, Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto in C minor, and conclude with Chopin’s Grande Ballade in G minor – a real crowd pleaser - which will remind everyone of the heartwarming scene in The Pianist when a rather haggard Adrian Brody performs it – abridged, damn that Roman Polanski - for the kindly Nazi officer in a bombed-out former manse. The version you play, of course, will not be abridged. Neither shall the Rachmaninoff, though it is an admittedly challenging work rumored to have literally killed performers or rendered them completely psychologically inept. I expect that you shall not suffer such devastating repercussions, but in the event that you feel you dizzy, alert a member of the staff with a subtle wink and water and aromatherapy will be promptly administered.
  1. To occupy Guests and keep their minds sharp, an hour and thirty minutes must be set aside for me to orate on topics which I consider to be relevant. Please set aside Edward Dowden’s The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley (Library 1.3, shelf 22). I plan to discuss his formative years as a student at Eton and Oxford where he engaged in such roguish behavior as stabbing a fellow classmate with a fork and publishing a work on atheism (imagine!) that ultimately led to his expulsion. In the event that this does not sufficiently entertain Guests, as an emergency measure, please set aside my volume of Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit (Library 1.7, shelf 6) opened to chapter 4, from which I shall read on the topic of “Dasein and the Other” – first in the original German, and then in English for less worldly Guests.
  1. In the unexpected event that a Guest, or several Guests, suffer from tonic clonic or grand mal seizures, please have the restraints brought out of storage and a curtained area arranged in the parlor where the Guest can seize without an audience. As you take the Guest’s coats at the door, casually inquire whether they suffer from epilepsy. Note all epileptics in the Epileptics Log I shall provide, and keep an eye on those noted - ensure that they do not become too excited for any reason, and that they avoid the strobe light in the basement powder room. Administer Topomax if you sense suspicious seizure-like behavior in any Guest.
  1. Between the lamb shanks and sorbet, you must set a placecard at each table setting. This placecard shall read exactly as follows: “DO NOT MAKE ANY INQUIRIES REGARDING THE CAT.” The subject of the cat is to be avoided AT ALL COSTS. Any mention of the cat shall incur catastrophic results and I anticipate Guests will be more inclined to ask about the status of the cat between the lamb shanks and sorbet. If the cat is mentioned earlier than expected, we must immediately divert the offender with a detailed description of my recent sigmoidoscopy, which, as you may recall, was unpleasant. In the event that we must resort to it, please have the video of the sigmoid procedure (which the gastroenterologist provided for nostalgic viewing pleasure) ready in the VCR, cued to the precise moment in which the sigmoidoscope approaches my anus.
That is all.

Should you require further instruction, you may find me in my chambers. As always, you must ring your meditation bell and await the response of my meditation bell before you will be allowed entry.


Piously,


Kristin M. Hayter

8.6.10

FIRST: OF THE ABSENCE, AND OF THE CARRIER PIGEONS

OF THE ABSENCE, AND OF THE CARRIER PIGEONS

let us try to do things this way, then

i believe someone was negligent during the selection of the carrier pigeons, see, the quality of the carrier pigeons is lopsided; your carrier pigeon is vastly superior, as evinced by the elongated baroque flourish of each ventral wing’s furthermost feather, being rather like some lacey underwater tendril, pink and responsive as a restless woman, and adding a good thirteen inches to the wingspan -- and you mustn’t try to deny this, i have seen it with my own eyes, and i measured the bird with my own hands and examined it thoroughly before you left; and so, this elongated feather, lending, in addition to an unusual and charming aesthetic quality probably not without purpose, as, perhaps, a lavish decoration positing the bird’s explosive virility, seems to indicate that your carrier pigeon flies with greater ease and speed than mine, and in fact, i would say that the protrusive knobbiness of my bird’s knees, its mildly jaundiced coloring, and its propensity for muffling little coughs and sneezes during the night when it thinks i am sleeping and cannot hear -- O but how it has not changed with that, and i shall never sleep, never ever, vigilant till my final wheeze of expiry! -- these things lead me to believe that this particular carrier pigeon, that is, my carrier pigeon, is made of less than average stuff; my carrier pigeon, is, in a word, unsatisfactory, while yours is positively topnotch and

i bring this up only because this carrier pigeon discrepancy factor may delay my responses, and i may have thought better and more cogent thoughts with the additional time my bird takes to arrive at your chimney’s flute; your responses, on the other hand, may arrive at the pie door earlier than you have thought them, and this is problematic for everyone and
in other news, i am at a loss; what am i to tell them when they come asking with their fat red mouths parted to the question.


RE: OF THE ABSENCE, AND OF THE CARRIER PIGEONS

the carrier pigeons came in their respective boxes with their respective papers. i assembled them according to instructions. if your carrier pigeon is ill feed him meals of white corn twice daily. i don’t know what else to say about it.

tell them i am taking important strides. tell them i am dead. tell them what you like.
things are different here. i sing to myself and my voice drowns in the surface of the sand. there is so much sand. each morning when i wake the tower has sunk three feet into it and i must dig it out. the sand is riddled with clods of hair and scalp. dried blood clumps and gathers eyelashes a thousand at a time. i found a brick of teeth which the wind had worn smooth.

only three hours of daylight. when the night is coming my veins inhale and cold spurs knife from one ear to the other. there are no stars. i sleep deep and long. i do not rise easy.
a forest encroaches to the south. i have high hopes for it.

i have been thinking about your pies. sadly the slice of pomegranate that you sent with your last message was eaten to the crust in transit. the culprit managed to cough up a single seed before collapsing in the exhausted bliss of satiety. your carrier pigeon is hungry. you must feed your carrier pigeon meals of white corn twice daily.