29.8.10

U JACKIN MY STEEZ BITCH DONT PLAY



i feel it necessary to air grievances today.

1. i began to listen to gangsta/underground rap with assiduous, exegetic tenacity.

2. i intended to extrapolate meaning from the conditional rhythms of speech and the timbres of individual voices therein.

3. i spent almost seven hours on wikipedia learning about the wu-tang clan. i began attempting half-heartedly to resuscitate my plummeting street cred.

4. i began to feel very strongly that proclamations such as ‘i spent almost seven hours on wikipedia learning about the wu-tang clan’ and ‘it is very interesting that GZA displays a propensity to alternate from dotted 16th notes to triplets to a kind of second-beat-emphasis mazurka thing mid-verse’ will not aid in street cred accumulation.

5. i bought the latest issue of black warrior review and to be totally honest it fucking bored me to death. are any of my friends in it. i don't care.

6. i began to feel very strongly that a certain moody genius is attempting to ruin my life or 'jack my steez' as one with street cred might say.

7. i began to feel that moody geniuses jacking my steez is a dominant trend, perhaps an intrinsic personality trait compels me to seek moody geniuses who will jack my steez.

8. new friend neil o'connor is really fucking gifted. check out his work. all of it.

9. i began to write a new sound piece which includes a sample of Bruce Naumann repeating 
the word 'ok'.

10. That's all. 




14.8.10




i have not posted in a long time. sorry.

i attribute my gross negligence to my move to oakland. i have moved to oakland, where i am now residing. i live on the border between oakland and berkeley. literally. on one side of the street i am in oakland, and on the opposite side i am in berkeley. i would prefer that i remain in oakland and not berkeley, so i stay on the side of the street that is oakland.

i thought that i would hate oakland. actually, oakland is quite special.

oakland has a unique cultural profile. oakland does not 'fuck around.' most of the people who have talked to me on the streets have been very kind. only one large van filled very liberally with muscular african-american men harassed me while i was riding my bike downtown. at each stoplight the van pulled up next to me and the men inside yelled

HEY BECKY
BECCCCCCKKKKKKKYYYYY
HEEEEEYYYYYYYY BECKY BECKY BECKY

BECKKKKKKYYYYYY

this became very irritating after about ten minutes. i thought they would get bored but they continued to yell BECKY. i know that 'becky' is slang for a (white, typically) girl performing fellatio. these men just appeared to be focused on establishing a moniker, which i found slightly less flattering. urging me to perform fellatio would be something of an affirmation that i am, if nothing else, a useful and/or desirable being. calling me BECKY is simply affirmation that i am a white girl, a really white girl. obnoxiously white. beckys play water-polo and plan weddings.

other than that it's been great. i love my new apartment. i painted the walls of the main room chartreuse, which turned out to be a very very deep and disquieting yellow, taqueria yellow, so i repainted it spring green, which is very refreshing and pleasant to look at and catches the light well.

i will post more about oakland as i continue to reside here. one last thing:

something that i really enjoy about oakland is the prevalence of independent bookstores. There are no Bordersez in oakland. there are no Barnes & Noblesez in oakland. these are a couple of the books i have purchased since my arrival:

David Markson: THIS IS NOT A NOVEL

Amelia Gray: AM/PM

Samuel Beckett: HOW IT IS + MURPHY

Joshua Mohr: TERMITE PARADE

Eugene Marten: FIREWORK



i am currently invested in FIREWORK, i have only been able to read small portions at a time, for some reason reading + writing energies are sapped. but wowie wowie wow. there is a brutal stoniness to Marten's prose - his words fall like bricks, fall like steps on a determined, somber march.

i have also read the entirety of the new FENCE. what a remarkable collection of work, as per usual. i really like Rodrigo Toscano's 'modules' from 'the collapsible poetic theatre'. other favorites in this issue are pieces by the ever-excellent Anselm Berrigan, Heather Christle, Christopher Deweese, Gordon McDermott. Thomas Doran's 'elegy for Sarah Bernhardt' is a biting slap of language. man, i want to pick out a passage, but the whole thing is shiny and sharp. Evan Lavender-Smith's 'from old notebooks' is also quite compelling.

i am tired of poems/prose that prominently use the words 'breast' and 'raspberry.' any kind of berry, really. fruit as feminine metaphor makes me think proto-EAT PRAY LOVE*, makes me think Yoplait and pastel tank tops with built in bra shelfs. makes me think shopping for clothing that 'flows' or is 'flowy' at boutique shops in affluent areas. makes me think of taking a weekday afternoon to indulge in chocolate with a spoon.

the female body is tired, so loaded she is deflated. i am wary/weary of gendered bodies in writing, i only seem to be able to tolerate in the contexts of revulsion, scientific remove. anatomical object, objet for the cabinet, monstrous appendage.
the celebration of the female form. celebrating femininity. dove. yoplait. raspberry. white-chocolate raspberry.
i like androgynous bodies, smooth and translucent.
probably there is something wrong with me, as basically all i do is write about my body, even if i am circumnavigating by writing ostensibly about something else.

i don't like to think about being a woman, about being white, about being anything in particular other than an organism that was generated and now does the best it can to generate.


Q: Can one hypothetically devour too many carrots?
A: Yes, Certainly.

Q: Can one hypothetically die of laxative abuse?
A: Yes, Certainly.
The Electrolytes, O the Electrolytes.



my bed just shifted rather violently for no apparent reason. my bed is now askew, i must tend to it.



* i hate eating
i hate praying
i hate love. kind of.