August 11, 2014
9 good bits from Adam Phillips' Paris Review interview

austinkleon:

1) “I had never had any desire to be a writer. I wanted to be a reader.”

2) “One thing you discover in psychoanalytic treatment is the limits of what you can change about yourself or your life. We are children for a very long time.”

3) “Fortunately, I never recovered from my education, I’ve just…

August 11, 2014
"

1. Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.

2. Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconscious association with the material.

3. Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn’t exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person and write to that one.

4. If a scene or a section gets the better of you and you still think you want it—bypass it and go on. When you have finished the whole you can come back to it and then you may find that the reason it gave trouble is because it didn’t belong there.

5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you, dearer than the rest. It will usually be found that it is out of drawing.

6. If you are using dialogue—say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.

"

John Steinbeck on “how to keep from going nuts” while writing.

From Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 45.

via openculture which also has a great video of Steinbeck’s 1962 acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature.

(via kenyatta)

(via kenyatta)

August 11, 2014
"I write about going fast. I write about wanting things and liking things. I stare and stare and go blind—that’s me writing, and writing about writing. I’ll leave out love and lust as preoccupations. And the wish to believe. And the near impossibility of faith. I suppose I think that art itself is the supreme theme of art. And I don’t know whether that’s a cause for despair. Probably it is. Art can’t do anything. ‘I don’t believe in anything, I do believe in you.’ I wrote that."

— Frederick Seidel, The Art of Poetry No. 95 (via bostonpoetryslam)

August 11, 2014
cliff - notes

champagne showers at my cliff-side suicide party. we’d all chicken out at the end, because chickens won’t fly

July 30, 2014
"The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared."

— The Giver (by Lois Lowry)

July 17, 2014
Too Much

ow seein’ setting scene i’ll my brain
Drink, cut hangover. pain
cheap bublé’s in my champagne
so let it be Sampha playing

access excess
regress to blessed
progress, recess
stressed, depressed, but well-dressed

July 4, 2014
Diagram of Carl Jung’s concept of synchronicity.

Diagram of Carl Jung’s concept of synchronicity.

July 4, 2014
Nicotine Agonism

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Nympho pyromaniac, I’ll light
you as you blow
If we played love games, choke-kissing as we toke
I would like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Simply fade away, slow kissing, and you know
I like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow
Nympho make you heave fast, pyro make you breathe slow

You rub your
Nicotine stained fingers across my chest
babe

I love you,
Liquor sipping teenager, you’ve brought your best
Game

Oh, and you say this is the last cigarette, but you’ll stay for another,
'Cause lover, you can't regret, couldn't forget how we lust for each other,

I see you yearning, burning over there, like fire
Until our desires turn into the air
Oh yeah

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Nympho pyromaniac, I’ll light
you as you blow
If we played love games, choke-kissing as we toke
I would like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Simply fade away, slow kissing, and you know
I like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow
Nympho make you heave fast, pyro make you breathe slow

Cigarettes on cigarettes
My boo also stink
Nicotine Agonist
The only way I can think

I miss my cigarette breath kisses
Kissing my cigarette breath missus

Cause you had a Nat Sherman and a gold Zippo since you were born
The chain smoke always kept you warm
 
Don’t know why see the world
When you can smoke with me
Don’t know why be his girl
When you can Blow rings with me, babe

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Nympho pyromaniac, I’ll light
you as you blow
If we played love games, choke-kissing as we toke
I would like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow

Fifty shades of grey smoke hissing from your throat
Simply fade away, slow kissing, and you know
I like the way you ash, ‘cause I love to make you glow
Nympho make you heave fast, pyro make you breathe slow

Cause I like the way you ash
And I love how you sway that ah
We’re Two types a maniac times two
Me and you, ‘cause I too act
The same
Babe
No more games
Just spark that flame ooo

May 20, 2014
thought

There is an interdependence of material and spiritual realms. Body and spirit. Am I an incarnation or a temporary original? 

May 20, 2014
The most exciting thing that has ever happened (Editor’s Note: Not by Mod Sloot Prose)

There, that was the fanciest font I could find for you. (Editor’s Note: this piece was originally written in Comic Sans, and is about an unofficial Rick Ross music video, posted below, which I acted in, directed, and produced.) Fancy and elegant, like fifty thousand views, and an old pair of worn in shoes with wings on the side. I don’t know what to say to you. I’m a little jealous, if only because you’re so relevant, but I always make sure to check that feeling because I’ve seen you work underneath a bunk bed, starting from the middle of nowhere in the world’s biggest city drunk on a couple ideas you have floating around in your head of what might sound good, and now my heart’s pumping in my brain’s stead and I can’t quite wrap myself around how it feels to be friends with someone so determined and special!

CONGRATULATIONS.

I wish I could give you something to commemorate the chiming of the hour, but all I have are twenty-six letters and an almost infinite way to tell you that I’m proud of you. Still, infinity doesn’t seem like enough at times like this. This wasn’t based god —, and it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t your dad or your sister or your mother, it was nobody but you. I could try and throw up a few thanks to God again for giving me the pleasure of being here on this fine evening to watch your very first success, but God doesn’t get any of the credit for making you as determined as you are. It’s funny, now that I know you Francis the only thing  I can truly say about your future is that it’s going wherever you want it to. I first met you and didn’t understand what I had, at the time, deemed to be hype, but it’s not “hype”, it’s genuine interest. You garner more interest than I’ve ever seen another person, you were born famous, and you’re going straight to the top.

The number keeps going up every time I refresh the page and I can’t stop smiling because you’re finally being recognized for your hard work. You always said it sucked because you have to work twice as hard as everyone else, only to get a fraction of the way, but look at yourself, you are literally the definition of success right now. Lehman or Leibman, or any of the staffers at NYU may not understand you, or see you for your potential, but it’s something that’s written on your wheat and barley colored skin and I see it every time you look at the computer screen replaying the same ten second clip of a song looking for the most minute imperfection.

You.
Work.
From.
Under.
A.
Bunk bed.

I cannot stress that enough. You live and breathe in a 3x5 space for the majority of the year, which you share with me half the time (a clap on the shoulder for that I don’t know how you do it) and you passed all your classes and you’re doing the one thing you set out for this break. This is paradoxically the happiest and scariest moment since I’ve met you six months ago. I’m four and a half thousand miles away, you’re hitting forty-five thousand views and you’re growing up and I don’t want to let you do that! I want you to stay bunk bed, Ernest Hemingway writing on an old macbook, but I pledge not to get in your way by begging you to be more modest when you shouldn’t be, when you don’t need to be. I feel weird writing really overly nice stuff (even though that’s all that I want to do right now) because I’ve been kind of over excited this whole night, (blame it not the emotional instability) but I never get to be happy for you. I get to be mediocre excited when things are going okay, and you seem like you’re plugging along, but I never get to be downright ecstatic that your life is coming together.

Francis, your life is coming together. I don’t hear the sounds of a seamless life popping and coming undone, a sound I’m very accustomed to. No, I hear the sound of sweat shop sewing and sweat dripping and things being put together the way they should be and it reminds me that not all life is struggle ands strife and that occasionally, if only for a little while, people get the things they really deserve and want and should be receiving. Your fifty thousandth view reminds me that one day you’re going to be on fifty million, walking down a red carpet heading towards one billion in the bank and a nice car in the garage and never having to think about who’s ordering of Sherpas. You’ll have an amazing life and its spreading out in front of you life someone putting wallpaper up, like a tapestry as it falls from the ceiling to the floor, and I’m so excited I get to watch it from the ground floor.

Promise you won’t forget about me when you hit a billion, okay? I want to see the smile on your face when you win your first grammy, and I want to watch you in HD while you accept it in front of the audience, sunglasses on, belligerently drunk, becoming the new Kanye. That’s all I want, because I know with the three girls you’ll bring up on stage, that you’re living the life you imagined, and that’s all that I need to know, that at least you’re getting the things you set out for. Success isn’t really inward, it’s fifty thousand views on two days work and it’s running in your blood because you’re destined for it so don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not good enough for something because if you learn anything from me at all it’s that you’re too good for everything and you shouldn’t even consider the opinions of the sheep.

I love you lots, and I’m really proud to know you. But, not just know you like he’s someone that I met once. I’m glad I know you. I’m glad you’re my best friend and I got to share the pre fame years with you and I’m glad that I’ll sponge off your fame by writing a francis inspired character at some point, only to be told that I didn’t really know the real deal. I better be in the E true hollywood story. FRANCIS
I CAN’T I’M SO PROUD OF YOU.

To me you’ll always be Francis, the boy I wrapped myself in like an old hoodie leafed fresh from the dryer. You’ll always be the scent of newly laundered sheets and Le Blanc in the summer heat and breezes through open windows and the way Ellen’s smoke sits on skin even after a shower. You’ll always be non confrontational and really great with hugs, and the person I leant too much on during my freshman year, and to the rest of the world you’ll be a big huge star, a character in a play who pulls his own strings and writes his own lines. You’ll be a face and a line, and a brand name but I’ll always love you for the crappy wench jokes and the stupid satan inspired snoring, and most importantly for the fact that you are more than your fame and always will be. But, I’m glad you’re getting the thing you want most, I’m glad it’s coming together.

I’m just really, truly happy for you. From my tip toes to my nose I just want to hug you and tell you that you’re going to be the biggest thing since sliced bread and penicillin and that you did it!

Happy 50k amigo.
Thine ( kind of main?) wench (for now).


May 15, 2014
We sat on a bench in the middle of our dormitory lounge, as I silently turned over and over the idea of dropping out. Meanwhile, we talked about my birthday dinner this Friday, and I told you about how I was too shy to ask you to the dance last weekend. I think you commented on my sunglasses and I lazily took them off, hooking them on my index in your direction. 
You obliged, and let me take a picture, too. I think I love you—

We sat on a bench in the middle of our dormitory lounge, as I silently turned over and over the idea of dropping out. Meanwhile, we talked about my birthday dinner this Friday, and I told you about how I was too shy to ask you to the dance last weekend. I think you commented on my sunglasses and I lazily took them off, hooking them on my index in your direction.
You obliged, and let me take a picture, too. I think I love you—

May 7, 2014
Who’s Gonna Save My Soul (Cleopatra of Magdalene)

Lord forgive Mary Maggy, making her living stripping.
Poor, for hit by her pimp’s hand, and
The whore swears, this time she’ll go missing—

Cleo’s baggy jeans
Dragging, like a Queen
Daisy driving a drunk Duke Luigi in a Chicano low-rider Dodge,
On a floor littered with semen and fags.

Cee Lo Green’s
Saddest Danger collaborator
Tune touches this teen
Like the john last night who
“Forgot my wallet at home, honest,” could’ve been four dinners, bitch.

Demon’s hand lags, but closes, because no cash is more than a slap—

May 3, 2014
dmt bic

Writing and art allows for a life review, like that of a near-death experience. The ink vine of death reflects your soul. But how could I peer into that, when I can’t even look straight into a dresser mirror?

No amount of guilt will absolve your sins. Only the actions will. But guilt will seek to guide your future pre-action thoughts, which might be a good thing.

If we want to solve world hunger, first, we have to establish money. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. That’s apparently how we do it? Anyway, line up the 50% richest face-to-face with the 50% poorest, and see how much one line gives to the other. Then run the experiment again, and again, and again, and oh wait here we are. What paradigm causes this failure to banish world hunger? Maybe money itself?

The alert, problem-solving state of consciousness does not give us a good answer to a better, alternative state of consciousness. Wrapping my mind around the entirety of thoughts I have had, reviewing my life, I can only come up with the trance state as a feasible, engaging alternative.

April 27, 2014
bleed, breathe

When we speak, we bleed; when I write I lead people to look over my shoulder and read what I had leaked from my head, older than the rest of my body, please can I have some space to breathe because I’ve been going so hard for the last few days and I wake up at 3 in the morning.

April 3, 2014
quietlyinlove

I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking. Smoked a lot too, last night. My stomach aches with hollowness, and my throat feels split and wrecked, but my chest is satisfied, patient, full with a secret. Our nightly physical debauchery reminds me of other school break seasons I’ve had, but feels different too, because you’re by my side.

Liked posts on Tumblr: More liked posts »