Who picks my music ’n prose? She’s a far out snob.
My area is interpretive search.
(Want to read my mind? enjoy.)
At 1 time there was modernism + plus in diffusion, a going dutch like critique. Yamaguchi feels criticism like that got modulated, coming out to sample masked hostility, the indecisiveness of the environment, backing it up with inexactitude ’n randomness from what we were doing before the procedural took hold:
A bright skepticism mostly shows up as identity. Youthful identity ’n hardened m.o.’s, closed ’n evaporated, taken down, resigned to 3 decades of processed shock of the simple, safe zone simple, where pop classics are reauthenticated, highlighting weak spots.
...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I know you know I know. It’s in the literature. Empiricists map it. I’m in sympathy and while I try a couple of poses from the repertoire of the defrocked — ah ha there are great, pure benefits sponsored by broad-shouldered believers grasping for governance! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, dead and history.) (You know.)
It’s been a while since they’ve grabbed a bite. I suspect their budgets have been cut because I cannot be concerned. But nothing is forgotten, since distraction matters for the next table/angle. You who.
English 1st. All our mistakes stand at attention because they were selected but warded off, fervid show-offs.
I forget Bat Masterton and Hamlet in a nutshell I forget Souhait is powered by coke
I forget umbrage derives from a grumpy guy’s distortion, Fond pleas fractured time and morbidity, Gothic non being, first loneliness and Goethe’s juvenilia I forget man killers residing in jail
I forget Malthus festivals in the woods I forget command centers for negotiation, Structures lined with mosaics And tunes by Corelli as well as my life on a cattle ranch
I forget we both were wearing black polos I forget functioning ghost towns caked in tire tracks, Havana interiors and Tonka trucks. I forget you picked up the check.
I forget MoMA in the original I forget shifts have genealogy I forget different periods of shifts I forget changing contexts for straw men.
I forget good instincts I forget large amounts like lengths and desperation I forget being pregnant I forget circling the rink.
I forget an empirical relationship I forget the transitive force of “mottled taxonomy”
I forget this is so you I forget the gastropod nation I forget complaints and sworn declarations I forget the Kennedys I forget the Dead Kennedys, video pastiche I forget ephemerality I forget narrative.
I forget farewells I forget any handle made your rounds wholly hidden I forget triumphs that cradle the face sorrow brings to the sack I forget flexible spite
I forget how your toeprints are all over this I forget your own fantasma gadgetry I forget my thigh, the one you lift
I forget being in the wrong place
I forget misapplied figures, images, parables
I forget the medium requested looting prestige
I forget my leftist French brain I forget being nervous!
I forget the medium is across earning a word.
I forget I’m technically yours and again I stay fallible I forget this is so you.
Food tastes better, I notice flowers. What’s
wrong with me? May I introduce me? Who
you reading these days? Whom I love, food,
haven’t had any for a while. Crunchy leaves
underfoot & wearing your panties, walking
the park I have to apologize to everyone, do
-ing this. Don’t be fooled thinking Psyche
has to be heavy. It’s something we eat. If a
day comes, this should be read aloud to our
girls Harold, Joe, Jr., & Frances Blue Moon,
drink to me Bill Bouguereau. You seem nice.
John, it’s up to hope’s pond structure to model passivity discharged by shore conditions. Everyone knows that. Protecting dignity threatens it. A man’s voice is handsome, calm, but also scrappy.
Scraps and parts of nesting authority. And what I learned from you is to hope is to re-reference flow made out of many godless m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing names of the verb.
Concerning the Novel, Including My Own
Some thoughts on the novel, a form of writing that somehow perplexes me. I have written (what I call) novels but haven’t really thought of the effort as nove...
"Games of Life" (on the art of Morton Bartlett and the LACMA show "Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett") by Douglas Messerli
games of life
Morton Bartlett *Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett, *Los
Angeles County Museum of Art / I saw this show on October 22, 2014...