________________
'Dream Island comes into view through the heavy rain. It is small, with one tall black mountain in it’s centre, haloed by trees until its peak vanishes into the black clouds. It’s surrounded by jagged black rocks that protect its black sandy beaches and lagoons.
'Hannah Fantana is approaching it rapidly on a small black speedboat, carefully negotiating reefs as she goes. They are almost invisible in the pitch black of night. Seems dangerous, but she keeps going.
'There are no stars in the sky, but a gibbous (basically full) moon hangs high and pale, peeking through a convenient window in the black clouds. Hannah looks out from beneath a heavy black raincoat that is slick with water. She seems determined about being here. It’s a really horrible night to be in a small speedboat at midnight in an unspecified part of the black ocean, so she’s had to be determined already to get this far.
'She’s doing good approaching the island. She arcs past some sharp rocks into a wide bay, and heads for the shore, slowing down because the sea is choppy, but the tide is going in and it carries the boat landward. When she is very close to the shore, Hannah pulls the small black engine inside the boat, then jumps out into the boiling surf, her booted feet sinking ankle deep into the black seabed. The water is up to her knees, and it’s freezing cold, and the tide is pushing her around a little.
'She manages to wrestle the boat up onto the shore a little way, past the high-tide mark of rotten black sea vegetation and weird little black shells, and then pauses, leans down, puts her hands on her knees, and rests, panting for a moment. Her clothes are soaking now even despite her black waterproof cape, and it’s uncomfortable. It was pretty tiring negotiating those tall black waves and high winds, and that black boat is really freaking heavy when it’s not on the water.' (cont.)-- John Brnlv
Habitat
'Tesla is a baby animal. She eats, drinks, sleeps, and seeks validation through the Internet. She has an assorted group of some-time-friends on and off-line. She feels self-conscious, alienated, in-love. She feels small galactic explosions beneath her skin when she’s nervous or excited.
'She is on the brink of something foreign, seemingly illusory; ‘adult’. She is unsure of her feelings, herself, and her future.
'Sans You is the story of an American girl in the vein of Japanese shōjo, coming-of-age anime, with similar charm, humor, enthusiasm, and surprising, dark insight into the desires and often reckless impulses of a 21st century teenage girl.' -- Habitat
Excerpt
TORREY COMES TO Tesla’s house at ~4:17. They sit on different parts of the couch and watch a nine-minute episode of “Worst Tattoos” on Tesla’ s laptop via Youtube. Tesla rolls over onto her back and says something about wheat paste. She says something about designs. Torrey pulls out five pieces of paper from her bag, but only lets Tesla see three.
“My printer fucked up,” says Torrey.
Tesla says that’s okay. She says Torrey can use her printer. Tesla edits images on illustrator and Photoshop. She types “WHAT?” “HUH” “NO” and “YEAH” in Helvetica Neue and colors them using CMYK. She prints out ~10 pieces of paper while Torrey Googles “wheat paste recipe” on her iPhone. Torrey gathers sugar and flour from a cabinet. Tesla gathers containers, a spoon, and a large white and black spotted oval pan from various cabinets.
“Sometimes I wash my clothes in this,” says Tesla.
“Okay,” says Torrey.
Tesla puts the pan on the stove. It takes up two burners, so she lights both.
Danger, Tesla thinks. Fire, Tesla thinks
Torrey mixes together the flour and water in a clear container. It smells disgusting.
“Eat it,” Torrey says.
Tesla dips her finger into the mixture and tastes it. Flour, Tesla thinks.
They both go over to the pan. It has been on the burners for ~15 minutes and the water has not started boiling yet, despite the fact that both burners are on high. They decide to put the flour and water mixture in anyway. Torrey pours the mixture in while Tesla stirs. It comes out mostly clumpy, with waves of milky flour nebulas floating around the edges of the pan.
“Fuck,” they both say.
Tesla says that they fucked up and that they need to pour it out. Tesla moves the pan to the sink and repeats the entire process over again. This time they do not use a recipe. This time they use a different pan. This time the water is boiling when Torrey pours the mixture in. It begins to foam and thicken and become translucent. Torrey pours the sugar in while Tesla mixes.
Semen, they both think, but don’t express audibly, until much later once they put up their first poster.
The girls walk out of Tesla’s house and realize it is sprinkling. They walk to various alleys and wheat paste. They switch off holding bags that contain different things essential to the wheat pasting process. The sky becomes darker. They have pasted ~5 things. They decide to go into a vegan restaurant. They both sit down, look at the menu, find the word ‘boba’ on the front and say, “wow.” Torrey orders a watermelon slush with boba and a small miso soup. Tesla orders a thai tea with boba and a small seaweed salad. An annoying couple sits down next to them. The girl is blonde and annoying. The man has neck tattoos and is equally annoying. They ask the girls if they have ever been there before. Torrey says “yes” at the same time Tesla says “no.” They continue to talk to the couple ~50% sarcastically. Their food comes and they eat. They talk about things like Adderall. They talk about how Tesla is only attracted to gay men. They talk about a boy in Torrey’s English class. The Postal Service plays and Tesla feels something. She is confused about what she is feeling and tries to convey this to Torrey. This does not work.
“I feel like, we float in and out of feeling like we are in certain distinct parts of our lives. I feel like I am feeling a new part of my life. I think I am entering a new part of my life. Does this make sense to you”.
It does not.
vote yes on prop twerk
illuminati tween drinks orange juice
text to speech unedited synopsis of my day
________________
'For nearly a half-century Ashbery has been popping up every two or three years to remind poetry readers what the pure product sounds like. The last surviving member of the so-called New York School — really just a loose affiliation of friends; the others were Frank O'Hara, Kenneth Koch, James Schuyler and Barbara Guest — the 85-year-old Ashbery has published at least 23 volumes of verse. Somewhere along the way, he became one of the most respected poets in the world. For a man whose oeuvre includes lines like "Blind dog expressed royalties … / comfort of your perfect tar grams nuclear world bank tulip," this is no mean feat.
'What is consistently parsable in late Ashbery are the melancholy specter of approaching death ("As I was saying it's a never-ending getting / closer if you will") and the persistence of humor in the demented twilight ("We serve two masters: haddock and bream"). Surrealism isn't the word for Ashbery's conjurations: His are the materials of the conscious mind, "the fatal tarnish of the everyday." What other poet his age is so alive to the kitsch ceramics of the vernacular? "Quick Question," indeed.
'As usual, the daftness quotient would do Tex Avery proud: "Woman right behind you prompted celebrity / and aardvark/hosiery task force underneath"; "Serious eaters from here to Kankakee welcome / the disaggregation of religion into irreducible / chips, dot dot dot"; "That's a map of Paris on the fender, / if that's a fender"; "Wyoming / and West Virginia lead the country / in chewing tobacco consumption. / But you knew that." This register of genial nonsense seems to derive from James Tate, whose influence Ashbery has acknowledged (when you live long enough, writers you influenced influence you).
'But Ashbery's lissome structures limit the jurisdiction of the aardvark/hosiery task force, and he often regains his lyrical composure to listen to, for instance, "the sighing of mice behind a grill" "while our time on the planet ambiguously finishes." A recurrent trope in Ashbery's poems is the wait for some event that will at last make sense of everything, lift the burthen of the mystery. But either the event is indefinitely postponed, or it happened while we weren't paying attention and we missed it. In 1975's Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, "it is finally as though that thing of monstrous interest / were happening in the sky / but the sun is setting and prevents you from seeing it." In Three Poems (1972), "The pure in heart rejoiced for they were sure now that something terrific was going to happen," but eventually "men went about their business as before." Now, in Quick Question, "people were waiting for a sunset, / something to happen." It is an elegant trope: "So strange signs are going to appear. / Longtime he sat upon the porch."' -- Michael Robbins
Ecco
'Hailed by Harold Bloom as "America’s greatest living poet," John Ashbery has won every major American literary award for his poetry, including the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Griffin Poetry Prize, and the National Book Critics Circle Award. A beloved and gifted artist, Ashbery takes his place beside Whitman, Dickinson, Stevens, and Hart Crane in the canon of great American poets. With Quick Question, a new collection of poems published in time for his 85th birthday, John Ashbery proves that his creative power has only grown stronger with age.' -- Ecco
Excerpts
Poem Beginning with a Line from Gammer Gurton’s Needle
When Diccon the Bedlam had heard by report
about the basting, and sensible replies to it
from people here and there, think first of those
looking very worried, and that will be an end to it.
Yes, and farther along the path to school
were mutterings: Some claimed the end of the world
had come, others that it was fast approaching.
Finally no one knew that anything was going on
for long, and kept their thoughts to themselves:
Why, Gammer, we had no idea something was lost
and that you had lost it, pray? I’ll teach ya a lesson.
And night flowed into the pond as though it were a lagoon.
They knew, and were interested.
Little events in the house drew the attention
but not for long, and it was as though rose leaves
on the paper were really leaves. There’s no time
to keep this, not too much anyway. There’s time
you were owed, and the time you owned, and between them
the match that was called. You slid down
into a chair and it was like so much that happens
every day and no one is wiser for it, nor wiser
before it happened, on someone’s day off:
Cashier the jerks, kiss the bald head
and we’ll be on our way, not being proud
nor ashamed either. That would be it.
Bells II
For just as a misunderstanding germinates
in a clear sky, climbing like a comma
from rack to misunderstood rack of worried clouds,
now difficult, now brusque, foregrounded, amoral,
the last birds took off into the abyss.
Now it was just us, though shielded,
separate, disparate. It almost seems—
and yet it doesn't. Broken glass announces
more offenses, home invasions. Seems like
we've been here a long time. And still
ought to do those things. Every murk is a key.
No, it's all right, don't worry.
The long-fingered peninsulas have other fish to fry
as destiny germinates on summer sands, more lap top
than lap dog. And if I'd bargain you around the aisles,
don't touch it, it's a single thing.
We don't know what breviaries are mixing cocktails for us
in the V room. It's essential we be kept
out of the cordon. You should know. This is all about you:
how you arrived one cold day carrying your little knapsack
and crept in with us, to see how we could spell.
Others than old uncles hear us now,
hacking the website's early spoilage distribution plan.
Suburban Burma
Don't try this at home. On second thought, come in,
your tumbling face ungladden. And see what happens.
The boy said, I have the look of two
through the other side of the shower. And how do we
get that, except by adding it up
in one long, fateful column.
The others are with you. Space occurs. Naturally. Not every
impulse makes it through to. You have you.
Are you a big person in the morning?
Angels of the New Year winnow followers.
We go through the motions
again. And breezes come in.
Those who remember the past are doomed to repeat it.
Plus, it's part of history.
We, however, have no such druthers.
We'll build a higher vandalism, "with the look of ending."
We were both trying to hide.
A hotel is not a big clay window
stepfathered in,
resists any effort to change the subject.
Be calm and get your stuff.
John Ashbery accepts lifetime achievement award
Much On The Cliffs: The Philosophies of John Ashbery
John Ashbery reads two poems
______________
Matthew Sherling: Your internet project began with a focus on music, correct? How do you see ‘alt lit’ and perhaps the internet ‘alt’ music scene speaking to each other?
BEACH SLOTH: Music has been a huge part of my life. Music and literature intersect quite nicely. Some alt lit people have their own bands (Jordan Castro, Heiko Julien) to name two off the top of my head. I like how the two groups appear to be related and even complimentary at times. My project started with a focus on music but the pull of alt lit grew too strong. I love what they do.
MS: Tell us about your new chapbook.
BS: My new chapbook was a way of collecting everything I had done outside of my immediate blog along with some things I had worked on by myself. I considered this a long-term project as I had little idea of how long it would take to finish. People’s positive reaction to my work was important in helping me realize my goals.
I like the idea that I hand-make these pieces. I always wanted to have a ‘physical, hand-made’ thing to give to people. The response to my chapbook has been far greater than anything I could have anticipated. Really pleased with all the support I’ve received.
The nuts and bolts of the chapbook would be this: poetry, short stories, articles, 8,999 words, 43 pages. Numbers are good.
MS: I have witnessed a trend (of which you are a part) of anonymity in today’s internet culture. why does this appeal to you & what are your thoughts on this phenomenon in general?
BS: Anonymity is easier. That’s why people pick it. Writing on the internet supports this anonymity and makes it easier. Many write anonymously for the same reason I do: their jobs, professions, etc. may consider it a little too ‘weird’. Though I sometimes feel if my coworkers found out they wouldn’t be terribly surprised.
MS: What is the most positive thing about the ‘virtual’ / ‘cyber’ community in your opinion?
BS: I like how we can create a community without ever having to meet in real life. To me that’s amazing.
MS: If you could put your worldview in a sentence, what would that sentence be?
BS: Support each other.
(self-pub)
'My first chapbook I want to YouTube down the Rivers of America is out in bookstores now. I put them there. Later on the bookstore owners sent them back to me. Barnes and Noble does not respect alt lit. When alt lit is a great genre they’ll be sorry. Probably Barnes and Noble will be bankrupt long before alt lit gets its due or alt lit hears a proper apology from anybody.
'Due to my store troubles I am selling each one directly to you the consumer. Let me tell you a bit about it first: Has short stories, Has poems, Has fun, Has 8,999 words, Has 43 pages, Made of paper, staples, and love (lots of love), Bonus features probably, because why not, bonus features are fun'. -- Beach Sloth
Excerpts
Banana Seat
I just ate a banana
I am in a peel chair
The banana peel
Grew into a giant 60s vintage chair
Worth approximately $12 on eBay
Maybe its size
Can help it forget
The fact that I just ate that banana’s
soul
Tasted fruity
I eat banana souls in the morning
Because I am the destroyer of fruit
I only have control over inanimate
objects
Since they don’t judge me
But I feel bad about eating the
banana’s soul
Perhaps its monetary value
Can console it
Much like the banana’s skin
Consoles me
And gives me a degree of cushiness
I otherwise would have never known
Thank you dead banana
Someday I’ll stop eating your children
And selling their skin on eBay - Just
not today
Heads Up
80 by 100 plot of land
This small space does not confine you
Look above you
In the summertime fireflies hover
above the plot of land
Lie down on the grass
See the universe of blinking lights of
desperately lonely insects with a
terrible sex ratio
100 to 1
You have better chances than that
You have better dating sites than that
Keep that in mind
Above firefly universe is another
unblinking universe
With light transmitting long after
everything has died
Maybe those lights felt cramped too
seeing themselves close to other stars
Yet they keep on transmitting long
after death into a space that is larger
than they ever realized
Look above you
That is your space, your vision, and
your finite infinity
No one can take that from you
JC Hammer
‘Hammertime!’ Christ says as he fixes
my shed
‘You can’t touch this’ Christ tells me
as he points to a nail sticking out
Wonder why Christ, son of God, is in
my backyard fixing my shed for such a
low-low price
I got a real deal I think to myself
Everything is brought together with
this shed
Christ and I discuss the meaning of
life and proper shed maintenance
Think about the Bible
Feel happy knowing Christ isn’t above
making lame pop culture references
Truly he is a human being just like me
Only better at carpentry
And with more clout in the universe
Also, a better beard
Like way better
Beach Sloth Revealed
Beach Sloth remix by Steve Roggenbuck
This video has been edited to protect the Beach Sloth
*
p.s. Hey. 2012 Buche pix below, if you're interested. So, my sickliness of yesterday turned full-on nasty on me last night. Fever, chills, sweating, the shakes, etc. I slept 12 hours last night, so maybe that'll help. But I'm a wreck who's no good to anyone on any level today. So, why am I going to at least try to do the p.s. anyway even though I am completely incapable? (1) Stubbornness, a fuck you to this obnoxious sickness. (2) Hoping not to get too far behind. (3) No, that's it. This is going to be really pathetic, okay? Seriously. Sorry. ** Bill, What was on your hard drive? Safe landing. ** Lee, Hi, Lee! Not today though, man. Today's is going to be ... I don't even know. Paris was fun! What else did you watch? ** Billy Lloyd, When you come here to visit Paris, bring me some of that vegan banana bread, please. Okay? Yeah, ill, fuck, ugh. I hope your tonsils are better. My bf has to have his tonsils taken out in a couple of weeks. NYE? Don't know. Probably nothing. I don't know. Fireworks or something? You'll def. have more fun. ** Scunnard, No, it's just your average awful knock-down type flu, I guess, sourced from who knows? Hi! ** Jax, Hi, Jack. I'm hoping I kill this flu thing by tomorrow, thanks. You hadn't seen that review? Oh, nice. Oh, your jeans, hold on. You mean these, assuming that link works? Nice. ** David Ehrenstein, Thanks, D. Yeah, liquids, pills, sleep. That's my today. I'm sure I already told you than an ex- of mine was in the original 'Merrily We Roll Along' cast. Nice sounding Xmas, man. ** xTx, Hi! A joy and honor to have you there! I'll feel better, thanks. It can't get worse, I don't think. You have the Metazen Xmas book? Did they send it you? They didn't send me one. Hunh. I guess I'll write to Frank and ask for one. Shit, I want to see it. Love, me. ** Alan, It did resonate with me, and thank you for the resonance, man. Thank you re: my recovery. ** Rewritedept, It looked good, yeah. The tat. Really cool Xmas score there, buddy. ** Will, Thank, glad you dug it. Exactly, about Fernow, for sure. Happy that your Xmas was happy. I almost watched 'Ted' on my last plane flight. I remember thinking the Schwarzenegger bits in 'B&R' were kind of ridiculously bad/cool? ** Allesfliesst, Hi, Kai. That three-day shebang sounds pleasant. I don't think that's just my fever talking, but maybe. That museum pass is a nice gift. Cheever, huh, I wonder who mentioned him here. I can't remember. Not me, I don't think. You feel better. Let's do this together. ** Ken Baumann, Ken! Hey! Sucks that I'm completely out of it on your wonderful return day. I'm sick, but it'll pass. Novel is horribly stalled out. Driving me crazy. I hope that'll pass too. Awesome. 'We Speak' is terrific, word! It does seem like Santa Fe would have a good bookstore, yeah. Weird that something that makes sense is true. Really great that you're writing and reading a lot. Such good news! How was 'Django'? Kind of really excited to see that. Really good to see you, pal. ** Cobaltfram, Man, yesterday was nothing. Today is way wiped out. I type a sentence and then I forget what I typed, so I reread it, and then I forget it again. I'm so not going to see 'Les Miz'. So not. I didn't really understand why that footage of your mom made you sad, but I don't understand anything at the moment. Was masturbation a big discovery for me? Uh, isn't it even for everyone? How could it not be? I don't remember how it started, but, sure, it must have been big. I'm not feeling better, but I'm counting on better by tomorrow. Thanks. ** MANCY, Hey! It was such a pleasure to have your pieces in that post. New vids, awesome. I will def. save them for another day, tomorrow, I hope. Everyone, MANCY aka the amazing artist Steven Purtill, links us to a new video work of his that he thinks is one of his best, and, given his general best-ness, it must be pretty great, so watch it, for sure. Great, thanks a lot, man! ** Postitbreakup, Hi, Josh. Belated Xmas shout out to you too. Wag's Revue are obviously mistaken, fuck 'em. Glad to get to read the story. Not today 'cos I'm feverish and out of it, but hopefully tomorrow. Everyone, remember the piece 'Fecal Matters' that Postitbreakup workshopped in the blog's writers workshop feature here a while back? Well, he finished it, and you can read the final result, and I hope you will, by clicking this. Thanks for lending the power of the cliff to my recovery. Should help. ** A white fiction resumes its punctuality, Hi. Yeah, it's fine and cool and maybe good that Yury's not that into my work. That 'feeding tiny women' thing made me laugh. Laugh knowingly. Cool. I too like Hal Foster, and I too had pretty much forgotten about him until I found that Kessler text. That music thing in NYC sounds cool. I'll check out what that was when I get to feeling better. Thank for the good health wishes, and sorry for whatever bad effect my fever is having on my comment. ** Paul Curran, Cool about Xmas. Football just seems to get into the passions almost everybody in the UK, weird, or not weird. Maybe it's the same here. You're sick now too. Man, feel better, okay? ** Sypha, Sick dude to sick dude high five. At least you got some sentences written. Not me. These don't count. You got 'Women and Men'! That's hard to get these days and expensive when gotten. Feel better. ** Chris Goode, Hi, Chris. I'm worse today, sorry, ugh. Maybe it's a 48 hour thing, I hope. Or 24 hour thing beginning when I sank last night. So glad you liked the Kessler. Cool. Donald O'Connor, wow, that sounds good. I might try that. Yeah, hunh, that sounds good. Sorry for my bad space. Each of these rudimentary sentences are requiring a jeweler's touch if that helps. Love, me. ** Steevee, Hi. I think I did get the flu. That sure feels like what this is. I never get flu shots 'cos I almost never get sick. I get jet lag all the time, but rarely sick. Oh, well. Nice Xmas gift there, man. Sweet. ** Okay, I guess I made it. Sorry for whatever that was. Uh, three books I loved recently today. I highly recommend them to you. I'll go stare into space or sleep or something now, and hopefully I'll be somewhat sharper at least by tomorrow. See you then.
______________
Buche de Noel #1: Jean Paul Hevin's Matchstick
w/ Yury Smirnov, Kiddiepunk, Oscar B
Buche de Noel #2: Pierre Marcolini's Le Buche Primitive
plus special guest La Grande Sphere Noel
