just a quote, today.
the world is this way, we wish the world were that way, and our experience of the world---how we see it, remember it, and imagine it---is a mixture of stark reality and comforting illusion. we can't spare either. if we were to experience the world exactly as it is, we'd be too depressed to get out of bed in the morning, but if we were to experience the world exactly as we want it to be, we'd be to deluded to find our slippers. we may see the world through rose-colored glasses, but rose-colored glasses are neither opaque nor clear. they can't be opaque because we need to see the world clearly enough to participate in it---to pilot helicopters, harvest corn, diaper babies, and all the other stuff that smart mammals need to do in order to survive and thrive. but they can't be clear because we need their rosy tint to motivate us to design the helicopters ("i'm sure this thing will fly"), plant the corn ("this year will be a banner crop"), and tolerate the babies ("what a bundle of joy!"). we cannot do without reality and we cannot do without illusion. each serves a purpose, each imposes a limit on the influence of the other, and our experience of the world is the artful compromise that these tough competitors negotiate. (stumbling on happiness, daniel gilbert)
21 July 2006
12 July 2006
Present Participles That Make Me Think of Mark.
on the occasion of skullstice, and the eve of his 31st birthday.
by Ruth Alice Haney, aka DJ Mousee
1. defining: irony
2. moving: it
3. shaking: it
4. being: ironical
5. singing: the songs
6. signing: the times
7. working: that bag
8. the shots: calling them, taking them
9. feeling: the people
10. fucking: The Man
11. loving: the ladies
12. defying: the odds
13. capturing: all the right moments in writing
editor's note: i think i said last year that 2006 was going to be "adjectives that remind me of mark." but when i sat down to write the list, i had a moment of realization: "shit, what adjective DOESN'T remind of mark? they almost all do!" and writing up a list of adjectives that don't remind me of mark is kind of negative, don't you think? so i learned my lesson. from here on out, all future themes will be announced only as TBA. because deciding a whole year in advance what's going to be topical 365 days later creates expectation, which everyone knows is just premeditated disappointment.
Collect the whole set!
2005: Nouns that remind me of Mark
2006: Present participles that remind me of Mark
2007: TBA
2008: TBA
2009: TBA
2010: TBA
Etc.
by Ruth Alice Haney, aka DJ Mousee
1. defining: irony
2. moving: it
3. shaking: it
4. being: ironical
5. singing: the songs
6. signing: the times
7. working: that bag
8. the shots: calling them, taking them
9. feeling: the people
10. fucking: The Man
11. loving: the ladies
12. defying: the odds
13. capturing: all the right moments in writing
editor's note: i think i said last year that 2006 was going to be "adjectives that remind me of mark." but when i sat down to write the list, i had a moment of realization: "shit, what adjective DOESN'T remind of mark? they almost all do!" and writing up a list of adjectives that don't remind me of mark is kind of negative, don't you think? so i learned my lesson. from here on out, all future themes will be announced only as TBA. because deciding a whole year in advance what's going to be topical 365 days later creates expectation, which everyone knows is just premeditated disappointment.
Collect the whole set!
2005: Nouns that remind me of Mark
2006: Present participles that remind me of Mark
2007: TBA
2008: TBA
2009: TBA
2010: TBA
Etc.
09 July 2006
through all the hardships, huntsman persevered
(2 pre-read notes must be made: this is ripped from an old onion piece and has undergone only scarily small changes; also my book is nowhere near done. thank you.)
Independent Book Written By Dependent 31-Year-Old
SEATTLE, WA–Independent author Mark Huntsman, still financially dependent on his parents at 31, announced Monday the completion of his novel-length debut, the locally composed, parentally financed Dear Fat Kid.
Written on a tight budget of $75,000 of Lee and Virginia Huntsman’s money, the book chronicles the lives and loves of a diverse group of white, post-collegiate twentysomethings in an affluent Santa Barbara suburb, exploring such subjects as relationships, personal identity, and the pressures of living with one's parents.
Huntsman, who calls Dear Fat Kid "a groundbreaking portrait of a generation driven mad by alienation and boredom," attributes his success to his perseverance, his unswerving artistic purity, and the fact that his parents pay for his rent, health insurance, and groceries. But despite the creative control Huntsman enjoys by being "unfettered by the stranglehold of the mainstream publishing house system," he said there were times when he had to fight to preserve the integrity of his personal vision.
"I'll admit, I was under pressure to change the title to something more commercial, like the snappier I Used to be a Fat Kid--mostly from my dad," said Huntsman, speaking from Victrola, a local coffee shop prominently featured in the book and a favorite haunt where he often goes to think, people-watch, and spend his parents' money on imported blends. "But I couldn't let vulgar market considerations dictate the terms of this project. I wanted the title to reflect the very spirit of independent bookwriting itself, the 'rising above' of everyday mundanities in the pursuit of something far greater: the singular artistic freedom that comes from not actually having to work for a living."
Deftly interweaving the stories of three mismatched post-collegiates, the book uses as its central framing device a neighborhood coffee shop. The decision to structure the work around the coffee-and-pastry-serving shop, Huntsman said, came from personal experience.
"One day, my dad's card got declined, and I had to wait at the coffee shop while the limit got extended," Huntsman said. "As I sat there, flipping through insipid magazines and drinking their alarmingly good and pretentious coffee, the thought suddenly struck me: What if I had to hold down a job, the way these poor souls did? It'd be unbearable. I thought, 'This could've been me.' I guess it must've struck a powerful chord deep within my subconscious, because when I sat down to write the opening chapters on the iBook my parents bought me, the theme kept resurfacing."
Etta, one of the book’s main characters, works at a local coffee shop but dreams of one day becoming an independent and self-made writer, a plot element Huntsman said is "largely autobiographical, except for the having-a-job part." In one of the book’s key scenes, Etta finally summons the courage to leave her blue-collar job and follow her dream. Moving into the apartment above her parents' garage, she symbolically transcends her former life by literally reaching for the stars.
"That scene was extremely personal, because it really brought home to me how lucky I've been," Huntsman said. "It's not everyone who has the courage to pursue their dream. And, thankfully, my parents had the resources for me to see it through."
Though not yet snapped up by a publisher, the book has already drawn attention from the Seattle-area zine Motorfuzz and earned "entrant" honors at the King County Novel Festival. Yet it wasn't easy for Huntsman, who faced many daunting and unexpected challenges while writing Dear Fat Kid.
There were creative conflicts with the book's financiers, who felt that its focus was not "job-oriented" enough. There were times when Huntsman would max out one of his mother's credit cards and have to ask for a different one. There were even times when the project was brought to a virtual standstill because Huntsman's parents refused to let him use their car.
But through all the hardships, Huntsman persevered, determined to get his work out to the public.
"When I finally saw the finished print," said Huntsman, a gleam in his eye, "I knew that all my time and parents' money had been worth it."
What's next for this exciting young talent? Huntsman said he is mulling over his options.
"At this point, there are at least 20 books in my head. But before I take on the burden of another project, I really feel like I need to give my brain a rest. It's important that I allow the creative energies to rebuild and recover after the hell I've been through these last 86 months. All I want to do right now is lie back on my parents' couch, watch some HBO on their 36" TV, and just let the ideas germinate for a while."
Independent Book Written By Dependent 31-Year-Old
SEATTLE, WA–Independent author Mark Huntsman, still financially dependent on his parents at 31, announced Monday the completion of his novel-length debut, the locally composed, parentally financed Dear Fat Kid.
Written on a tight budget of $75,000 of Lee and Virginia Huntsman’s money, the book chronicles the lives and loves of a diverse group of white, post-collegiate twentysomethings in an affluent Santa Barbara suburb, exploring such subjects as relationships, personal identity, and the pressures of living with one's parents.
Huntsman, who calls Dear Fat Kid "a groundbreaking portrait of a generation driven mad by alienation and boredom," attributes his success to his perseverance, his unswerving artistic purity, and the fact that his parents pay for his rent, health insurance, and groceries. But despite the creative control Huntsman enjoys by being "unfettered by the stranglehold of the mainstream publishing house system," he said there were times when he had to fight to preserve the integrity of his personal vision.
"I'll admit, I was under pressure to change the title to something more commercial, like the snappier I Used to be a Fat Kid--mostly from my dad," said Huntsman, speaking from Victrola, a local coffee shop prominently featured in the book and a favorite haunt where he often goes to think, people-watch, and spend his parents' money on imported blends. "But I couldn't let vulgar market considerations dictate the terms of this project. I wanted the title to reflect the very spirit of independent bookwriting itself, the 'rising above' of everyday mundanities in the pursuit of something far greater: the singular artistic freedom that comes from not actually having to work for a living."
Deftly interweaving the stories of three mismatched post-collegiates, the book uses as its central framing device a neighborhood coffee shop. The decision to structure the work around the coffee-and-pastry-serving shop, Huntsman said, came from personal experience.
"One day, my dad's card got declined, and I had to wait at the coffee shop while the limit got extended," Huntsman said. "As I sat there, flipping through insipid magazines and drinking their alarmingly good and pretentious coffee, the thought suddenly struck me: What if I had to hold down a job, the way these poor souls did? It'd be unbearable. I thought, 'This could've been me.' I guess it must've struck a powerful chord deep within my subconscious, because when I sat down to write the opening chapters on the iBook my parents bought me, the theme kept resurfacing."
Etta, one of the book’s main characters, works at a local coffee shop but dreams of one day becoming an independent and self-made writer, a plot element Huntsman said is "largely autobiographical, except for the having-a-job part." In one of the book’s key scenes, Etta finally summons the courage to leave her blue-collar job and follow her dream. Moving into the apartment above her parents' garage, she symbolically transcends her former life by literally reaching for the stars.
"That scene was extremely personal, because it really brought home to me how lucky I've been," Huntsman said. "It's not everyone who has the courage to pursue their dream. And, thankfully, my parents had the resources for me to see it through."
Though not yet snapped up by a publisher, the book has already drawn attention from the Seattle-area zine Motorfuzz and earned "entrant" honors at the King County Novel Festival. Yet it wasn't easy for Huntsman, who faced many daunting and unexpected challenges while writing Dear Fat Kid.
There were creative conflicts with the book's financiers, who felt that its focus was not "job-oriented" enough. There were times when Huntsman would max out one of his mother's credit cards and have to ask for a different one. There were even times when the project was brought to a virtual standstill because Huntsman's parents refused to let him use their car.
But through all the hardships, Huntsman persevered, determined to get his work out to the public.
"When I finally saw the finished print," said Huntsman, a gleam in his eye, "I knew that all my time and parents' money had been worth it."
What's next for this exciting young talent? Huntsman said he is mulling over his options.
"At this point, there are at least 20 books in my head. But before I take on the burden of another project, I really feel like I need to give my brain a rest. It's important that I allow the creative energies to rebuild and recover after the hell I've been through these last 86 months. All I want to do right now is lie back on my parents' couch, watch some HBO on their 36" TV, and just let the ideas germinate for a while."
05 July 2006
enter sky, stage left.
i asked the sky a question, silently
for yelling at the sky is just bad form
unless you are a fool, or demigod, or crazy
or your name is ahab or mel gibson.
how i went about it was less alarming, but, later
i realized, not better. i mimed a monk
with nothing to do, i lost any chance
of forcing the sky's hand, of panache, of brass.
my whole world is not a solarium. i trod too gently
or, rather, i trod at all--i want to glide
not jog through the cortex in clumsy portmanteau
add trip to clod and come away with trod
not a mode that is pleasing to children
nor future employers, nor the ear of god.
what i've done is whittled, reduced, and spun again
this question of myself until it remained, inert
in my head. the simplest explanation is right
usually, in matters demanding guilt be felt
but i’m not catholic; guilt is dead, long live the guilt
of my interior i must ask: un-simplify
the question, writ it long and run it on,
for my spirit talks in inverse proportion--
the purest question needs a response so big
i cannot see it. but perhaps i have it wrong.
maybe my mind has limits, wears this girdle
because it needs support; maybe horizons stretch
and the sky expands so it can hold all
the answer demands. then he took the cloak that
had fallen from him and struck the water with it.
'where now is the LORD, the god of elijah?'
he asked. when he struck the water, it divided
to the right and to the left, and he crossed over.
elisha did trod; but he trod upon manners and metaphor
and mel gibson--the things that cloak a fossil heart.
he threw the robe down, raised his arms up
and issued a challenge: surround me.
let me feel you under my feet, let my lungs breathe you
and know, too, that this air, this water, this plea
begins with alpha, not with me, not with why
and ends in omega, and in love, and the sky.
for yelling at the sky is just bad form
unless you are a fool, or demigod, or crazy
or your name is ahab or mel gibson.
how i went about it was less alarming, but, later
i realized, not better. i mimed a monk
with nothing to do, i lost any chance
of forcing the sky's hand, of panache, of brass.
my whole world is not a solarium. i trod too gently
or, rather, i trod at all--i want to glide
not jog through the cortex in clumsy portmanteau
add trip to clod and come away with trod
not a mode that is pleasing to children
nor future employers, nor the ear of god.
what i've done is whittled, reduced, and spun again
this question of myself until it remained, inert
in my head. the simplest explanation is right
usually, in matters demanding guilt be felt
but i’m not catholic; guilt is dead, long live the guilt
of my interior i must ask: un-simplify
the question, writ it long and run it on,
for my spirit talks in inverse proportion--
the purest question needs a response so big
i cannot see it. but perhaps i have it wrong.
maybe my mind has limits, wears this girdle
because it needs support; maybe horizons stretch
and the sky expands so it can hold all
the answer demands. then he took the cloak that
had fallen from him and struck the water with it.
'where now is the LORD, the god of elijah?'
he asked. when he struck the water, it divided
to the right and to the left, and he crossed over.
elisha did trod; but he trod upon manners and metaphor
and mel gibson--the things that cloak a fossil heart.
he threw the robe down, raised his arms up
and issued a challenge: surround me.
let me feel you under my feet, let my lungs breathe you
and know, too, that this air, this water, this plea
begins with alpha, not with me, not with why
and ends in omega, and in love, and the sky.
21 June 2006
they did not expect him.
it's solstice today - skullfest 2006 - Year 5, Day 1 today. wow.
the title is a link to my favorite painting of all time, and especially for today. it's by ilya repin, a russian cat who, with this painting, put the cap on the ideological russian movement in russian painting. but i don't care about that. what i care about is that i'm teaching a theory of mind lecture this summer, and if i had an hour and 50 powerpoint slides to explain to you the subtleties of theory of mind---your ability to imagine what's going on in my head---i could not do better than to give you 5 minutes alone with this painting. it's stunning. it's a russian populist dude, i forget his name, who the czar's soldiers took away in the pogroms 8 years ago. everyone thinks he's dead, and now he just walks into his house; even little girl who is too young to remember really; everyone except the boy, with his gleeful, vindictive grin. told you so.
20 June 2006
marsha marsha marsha.
man, i'm getting tired of my clingy issues. i go through my days, looking each of my three issues in the face. i try to do what's best, to foster a sense of independence so that my issues won't need me anymore. i pat each firmly on the head in an admonishing but hopeful way, and at the end of the day i send them off to bed. i wake up in the morning; and one, two, three, me---there we all are. same f'ing issues. can't get through the first cup of coffee before they're blathering; it's like ... sometimes it feels like my issues aren't even talking to me, they just want to talk near me, you know? so juvenile, they're so loud. f me. it's so hard to get some time for myself. but tonight i've hired a sitter, and at last i'll be able to get some breathing space, some time just for me, when i can go up to the bar, have a few beers, and hold a bible in my lap while i tell cute girls of how i'm holding myself back. what a relief that'll be.
14 June 2006
this song is not a rebel song.
it's wednesday afternoon. just got done with boni, my therapist; i spent a lot of time peering at the radiator just behind her left elbow. but then her small eyebrows furrowed with worry, and she very quietly asked after a very noisy thing. and soon enough i was laying down that i want there to be law for myself--how does she manage to make me do that. and man, i can't explain my knowledge that there's a melody just out there--just away there--waiting, for me to strike it. a song my voicebox was made to spell. and it's not a lullaby, it does not lilt. i want these baby teeth out of my head. my throat is sinking, is deepening down to its resonance point. i don't know much else, but i know. this song is not a rebel song; this song is.
09 May 2006
the BYOBRACELETS party.
(a silly 1st draft excerpt from my book)
I’m not sure if I really knew this or was just convinced of it, but I was sure you had multiple bibles laying around your house. My eyes ran immediately to the dark, crooked corners—on top of the fridge, under the floorlamp—looking for bibles. You would have, given your penchant for ironic lifestyle, tucked them neatly away, in multiple locations, like even grown men do with porn because the fear of mother finding the stash again never goes away. (Pay no attention to the porn behind the curtain.) I was having a hard time, and just as my biblical enthusiasm was about to expire, I made another pass through your bedroom and decided to check the bookshelf above your bed, just for the hell of it. Sure enough, there was a glaringly green, softbound NIV bible. When I returned to my spot on your lawn I set the good book down in front of me and it flipped open to a page in early Matthew, bookmarked by a many-folded sheet of glossy paper. The paper was ancient and astounding for the rush of memories it brought back—it was a copy of an invitation to the Finals party you threw. It was the last party I was to attend at your house, and, except for the time I did mushrooms and had, like, 3 hours of nirvana followed by 5 hours of hallucinating that a swarm of demon tadpoles was swirling through the air around me, that night lives in my head as the closest that the best of times have ever been followed by the worst of times. But I had forgotten about the invitation, a simple black-and-white print on nice paper, and it made me laugh.
The BYOBRACELETS Party
WWJP Where Would Jesus Party
At Fats’s House in Montecito, this Saturday
WWJC Why Would Jesus Care
Because He’s fully human, and finals are next week, and He fully needs to blow off steam.
WWJA When Would Jesus Arrive
Before things got too crowded, like, around 8p
WWJW What Would Jesus Wear
A Smuumuu (part smock, part muumuu)
WWJD Who Would Jesus Dig
Everybody: because He’s the Son of Man, which is like a Man of the People only way cooler
HWJG How Would Jesus Groove
Modestly at first, but when it was time to jam He would take the dance floor to a place of Divine Freakstasy.
...
I’m not sure if I really knew this or was just convinced of it, but I was sure you had multiple bibles laying around your house. My eyes ran immediately to the dark, crooked corners—on top of the fridge, under the floorlamp—looking for bibles. You would have, given your penchant for ironic lifestyle, tucked them neatly away, in multiple locations, like even grown men do with porn because the fear of mother finding the stash again never goes away. (Pay no attention to the porn behind the curtain.) I was having a hard time, and just as my biblical enthusiasm was about to expire, I made another pass through your bedroom and decided to check the bookshelf above your bed, just for the hell of it. Sure enough, there was a glaringly green, softbound NIV bible. When I returned to my spot on your lawn I set the good book down in front of me and it flipped open to a page in early Matthew, bookmarked by a many-folded sheet of glossy paper. The paper was ancient and astounding for the rush of memories it brought back—it was a copy of an invitation to the Finals party you threw. It was the last party I was to attend at your house, and, except for the time I did mushrooms and had, like, 3 hours of nirvana followed by 5 hours of hallucinating that a swarm of demon tadpoles was swirling through the air around me, that night lives in my head as the closest that the best of times have ever been followed by the worst of times. But I had forgotten about the invitation, a simple black-and-white print on nice paper, and it made me laugh.
The BYOBRACELETS Party
WWJP Where Would Jesus Party
At Fats’s House in Montecito, this Saturday
WWJC Why Would Jesus Care
Because He’s fully human, and finals are next week, and He fully needs to blow off steam.
WWJA When Would Jesus Arrive
Before things got too crowded, like, around 8p
WWJW What Would Jesus Wear
A Smuumuu (part smock, part muumuu)
WWJD Who Would Jesus Dig
Everybody: because He’s the Son of Man, which is like a Man of the People only way cooler
HWJG How Would Jesus Groove
Modestly at first, but when it was time to jam He would take the dance floor to a place of Divine Freakstasy.
...
and she’s lovin’ him with that body I just know it.
this is the last P from a critical annotation on the Stories of John Cheever -
In all, Cheever’s deft irony—and in particular his style with its plain-but-optimistic delivery—brings to mind a comparison that on its face may not seem complimentary: the pop music of the first half of the 80s. Driven by guitar licks that were choppily upbeat and vibrant melodies that brimmed with pep-rally emotion, the chart-toppers of this era had themes that were at best uncertain and most often hopelessly morose. Whether it was Rick Springfield pining for Jesse’s Girl (“And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time, wondering what she don’t see in me! [Hurray!]”) or Styx and their Too Much Time on My Hands (“I’m so tired of losing – I got nothing to do and all day to do it [which is radical!]”), the ironic pairing of style and content was ubiquitous. And, whether they’ve thought constructively about it or not, people love this. It’s why, for the foreseeable future, when you walk into a casino anywhere in America you’ll have a one-in-three chance of hearing a Journey song playing on the overhead speakers. And it’s a fundamental part of what works so well with Cheever. His stories are often sad, and never do they overflow with hope, but his style and cheerful delivery carry us on. The next story will end more happily; No sweat, we'll win it back at the craps table.
In all, Cheever’s deft irony—and in particular his style with its plain-but-optimistic delivery—brings to mind a comparison that on its face may not seem complimentary: the pop music of the first half of the 80s. Driven by guitar licks that were choppily upbeat and vibrant melodies that brimmed with pep-rally emotion, the chart-toppers of this era had themes that were at best uncertain and most often hopelessly morose. Whether it was Rick Springfield pining for Jesse’s Girl (“And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time, wondering what she don’t see in me! [Hurray!]”) or Styx and their Too Much Time on My Hands (“I’m so tired of losing – I got nothing to do and all day to do it [which is radical!]”), the ironic pairing of style and content was ubiquitous. And, whether they’ve thought constructively about it or not, people love this. It’s why, for the foreseeable future, when you walk into a casino anywhere in America you’ll have a one-in-three chance of hearing a Journey song playing on the overhead speakers. And it’s a fundamental part of what works so well with Cheever. His stories are often sad, and never do they overflow with hope, but his style and cheerful delivery carry us on. The next story will end more happily; No sweat, we'll win it back at the craps table.
31 March 2006
weatherpants.
off to a ragged start today but it fits, for today.
today is not specifically
what. what do you mean what. your silence is yelling at me that's what.
do you know how you look at me these days
you're the weatherman
off-camera, waiting, desperately
bored yet glaring, blaring
you have to know this, your whole body
is rhetorical.
today is the topic, but since your ennui
is about to kill you, let's try the parlance of your 5-day forecast,
today is not noticeably downcast, neither is it hopeful!
today is not bouyant, and by tomorrow today may experience feelings of drowning!
but, see, that full-body cynicism is so much
work to keep up all the time. my version's not sunshine
just simpler, and so much brighter for it,
today wanted the day off and didn't get it
today took a short lunch
hopes to get done early.
on some days today regrets canceling cable.
today is not specifically
what. what do you mean what. your silence is yelling at me that's what.
do you know how you look at me these days
you're the weatherman
off-camera, waiting, desperately
bored yet glaring, blaring
you have to know this, your whole body
is rhetorical.
today is the topic, but since your ennui
is about to kill you, let's try the parlance of your 5-day forecast,
today is not noticeably downcast, neither is it hopeful!
today is not bouyant, and by tomorrow today may experience feelings of drowning!
but, see, that full-body cynicism is so much
work to keep up all the time. my version's not sunshine
just simpler, and so much brighter for it,
today wanted the day off and didn't get it
today took a short lunch
hopes to get done early.
on some days today regrets canceling cable.
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