Tag Archives: writing

selections from Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich

No one ever said that you could work hard—harder even than you ever thought possible—and still find yourself sinking ever deeper into poverty and debt. Continue reading

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ten

2006

he had never been to Japan.

he’d never lived anywhere but California, Arizona, and Nicaragua.

he’d never been to Greece, Turkey, Hungary, or Spain.

he’d never been to the Netherlands or the Czech Republic.

he’d never had sex, and he’d never been arrested.

he’d never eaten a mushroom or licked acid.

he’d never contemplated creating his own religion.

he’d been in a band, but he’d never been a DJ.

he’d grown his hair long, but never past the collar.

he loved reading and writing, but didn’t think it’d make money.

as for him…

2015 Continue reading

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Emily Dickinson favorites (701-1100)

To Whom the Mornings stand for Nights,
What must the Midnights – be! Continue reading

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SAS 1

Strength can be gentle
But you don’t see it that way

I saw a light in you
trying to grab it before it fades

Trying to grab it ‘fore
Trying to grab it ‘fore

Fades
The cold and the dark enter your heart
You’re afraid
The monsters inside you, cripple and blind you
and I know you are
and I know you are
The same

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the apes sat around scrawling their squishy mochi minds all over the table. the mochi would leap out their skulls and slam against the table in an explosion of colors, portraying different forms of flesh, perspective, landscape, language. there an avocado, an orange outta nowhere. there a woman steps out of the shadows w red wine bleeding from her right ear socket, watercolors streaming down her face. there voltages fired through a test tube, attempting to synthesize volcanic activity here in the comfort of our own home. here the voice of the prophet, inky and wet, dripping everywhere, staining everyone’s fingers, the same contagious fairy tales and riddles told for thousands and thousands of years. what does the future hold? the same fairy tales, riddles, prophets? can it be forecast in cheap blue ink? in the name of the gracious and glorious crime of poetic appropriation, may we all grow to be the most beautiful blooms of ourselves. Continue reading

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selections from the second volume of Parerga and Paralipomena by Arthur Schopenhauer

SCHOPENHAUER. Essays and Aphorisms. Penguin Classics. Translated with an introduction by R. J. HOLLINGDALE. Continue reading

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chronicle of a saturday walk in the city

#6

Continue reading

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love to love the stark reality of you, baby

the canvas is revealed, and instantly my own words come to haunt me:

i think writers love writing way too much sometimes.

do i stand by it? Booker’s bourbon deep within me or not, i do.

pasta sauce is on the stove, Tina’s yowling for dinner eleven whole minutes early, and here i sit, listening to strange jazz funk for those who were children in 1970. perhaps i was a child in 1970. perhaps i am a child in 2013.

immediately, my mind races to Natalie. lover, mother, sister, daughter. lover, liver, other, udder. lover, liver, killer, wanted. dead or alive, the love of my life.

i spent the past weekend not just with her but with my whole family. wedding #3. the best wedding, i would argue, but i’m biased because i love beaches. there we sat, taking up five of the nearly 40 chairs, on the beach in Avila, watching the two lovers dedicate the rest of their lives to each other. meanwhile, girls in bikinis, young girls, young boys, older boys, men, women, couples, swimmers, bros, volleyball voyeurs, everyone… looked on. it was us and it was them, and i certainly felt like them.

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the night before, Natalie and i had stared at our beautiful naked bodies in a giant mirror that took up the entire wall. while doing so, it dawned on me that narcissism was not reserved merely for individuals.

consider: a boy staring at his beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. likewise, a girl staring at her beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. however, the boy looks up and sees the girl across the pond, and he dies. struck with such immense beauty, an infinity times greater than his own, he stares and stares and stares and, at just the right moment when she felt his gaze, he looks away, only to look back and see her locking eyes with him. lust, granted. they edge the pond to share a conversation. the conversation leads to love leads to a later meeting leads to love leads to more meetings leads to love leads to… their becoming something of a unity. with or without marriage, granted, they become something of a one. this one finds themselves lying naked staring at themselves in a giant mirror… is narcissism. granted?

alas, as with the crashing waves parallel to my pupils, the tides do turn.

in the wake of the rainbow sand ceremony we had just witnessed, full of love and hope and happiness, i found myself plunged into the darkness of a quarrel with my love, who had found fault with some stupid words i spoke in the morning. i had apologized then, legitimately, but through my own prodding about some other subject after the wedding, had dug a hole that opened up the very same cavern of despair that i thought had been buried earlier.

but did this cavern really need to be so big? need the flames lick so high? need the darkness pitch so deep? i didn’t think so, but she did. but this writer had had enough of words. hopeless, stupid, careless, useless words. meaningless, pointless, hopeless. impossible.

so i stared at the ocean.

i stared.

and i stared.

and i gazed.

and i loved.

and i breathed.

and the mind wandered as it does but without words.

just breathing.

and loving.

gazing.

staring.

the waves crashed as they have for all time and as they will for all time. beautiful Avila Beach waves. beautiful.

stunning. impossibly perfect, gorgeous, crashing, perfect waves.

starry. star-struck, i was.

in love, i was.

i was.

i was, when my lover–now relegated to my periphery–caressed my face.

and at that very moment, i walked into my living room and threw Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” on the turntable. if you turn it up real loud, i realized then, you hear breathe in deeply before she starts sexily singing, “ohhh… love to love you baby.” Continue reading

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on futility and fire

i’m not afraid of creating things of inferior quality. just look at my “Burning Man” blog post.

sometimes it’s hard to express experiences through language. lots of people are really good at it, like this guy. i admire people who can write really well. i really admire people who can write well about the topic of how hard it is to write. same reason Federico Fellini is one of my favorite filmmakers.

one thing i love about Black Rock City, besides the fact that it is truly a city, is how it trains you to focus on basic survival needs. even before camping in the desert for a week, i loved bandannas. i carry one everywhere i go, just in case i forget to grab a napkin while eating greasy, messy hot dogs… or in case the bathroom only has those useless air dryers… or in case i’m sweating bullets in the club. in Black Rock City, when clouds of white dust would encircle me and my friends at a moment’s notice… those big pretty handkerchiefs let me breathe.

i almost feel like i wouldn’t be completely useless if our cities went Arab Spring.

i have reached a point in my life where i think that one of the greatest powers a human being can possess is the power of shining bright light from the forehead. rings and other jewelry do imbue magical abilities, but you will never understand those abilities in full.

why do i still write about Black Rock City? don’t i owe you Aristotle, Longinus, and Demetrius? why do i still dream about Black Rock City? do i really miss the red light glow of feces-infested portapotties? Continue reading

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montaña

the trip: https://maps.google.com/maps?saddr=San+Francisco,+CA&daddr=reno,+nv+to:Twin+Falls,+ID+to:bozeman,+mt+to:Livingston,+Mt+to:Yellowstone+National+Park,+Mammoth+Hot+Springs,+Park,+WY+to:Madison+Campground,+Yellowstone+National+Park,+Yellowstone+National+Park,+WY+to:Grand+Prismatic+Spring,+Grand+Loop+Rd,+Yellowstone+National+Park,+WY+to:Bridge+Bay+to:Black+Dragons+Caldron+to:Grand+Canyon+of+the+Yellowstone+to:Tower+Falls,+Yellowstone+National+Park,+Park,+WY+to:Yellowstone+National+Park,+Mammoth+Hot+Springs,+Park,+WY+to:Silver+Gate,+Cooke+City-Silver+Gate,+Mt+to:Lily+Lake,+wyoming+to:Red+Lodge,+Mt+to:East+Rosebud+Lake+to:Bozeman,+Mt+to:Salt+Lake+City,+UT+to:Cottonwood+Heights,+UT+to:San+Francisco,+CA&hl=en&ll=45.135555,-109.660034&spn=2.332783,4.927368&sll=44.085612,-111.346436&sspn=1.187668,2.463684&geocode=FVJmQAIdKAe0-CkhAGkAbZqFgDH_rXbwZxNQSg%3BFaEsWwIdVcnb-CmdoJKSrkCZgDGH9zh0zsXFQA%3BFZd1iQIdOXct-SmvbrLFpKOsVDGqwfgs7HfLJA%3BFQQTuQId_YBh-SkTiLpPTERFUzGqYDv3ZND1Yw%3BFeK8uAIdLP1o-SkjR6AnvhNFUzFMjIRaJjKWRQ%3BFWdJrgIdn9pm-SmTip7xDdRPUzEivO2MPaFCKg%3BFaw7qQIdLWRk-SHBkZCfc_PzXylp4V9GjMNRUzHBkZCfc_PzXw%3BFSlmpwId_b1k-SFEDigKVP2Vkyn1R8IPvOtRUzFEDigKVP2Vkw%3BFWGNpwIdhCNr-SkDg3iVAx1OUzEd4aKdP0elCw%3BFbrZqAIdaONq-Sk54oy7KB9OUzE57x-bctnMHg%3BFdX9rAIdtsxr-SmLJZWTozZOUzFW-0sS9T6UWA%3BFaAFrQIdAKBr-SnZG8ZgqDZOUzE6nzHh-HWx9Q%3BFWdJrgIdn9pm-SmTip7xDdRPUzEivO2MPaFCKg%3BFSTArgIdA7Fx-SnXSLRtWFROUzEXWfq8dJ9Jhw%3BFZnWrQIdkPB1-Sn7L_MIfPpOUzE4M1PUmK_Vrw%3BFfJ6sQIdmwZ9-Sn1_Eb3GSpPUzEL1yB19jWKtQ%3BFcGosQIdGvp2-SnBGDBmxRhPUzFD9bOX3UlzNA%3BFQQTuQId_YBh-SkTiLpPTERFUzGqYDv3ZND1Yw%3BFcv1bQIdma1U-SntMdGIlD1ShzHKMU1IoLdTWw%3BFUzJawIdm9FV-SknMety2mJShzFAIhqeYpUiBw%3BFVJmQAIdKAe0-CkhAGkAbZqFgDH_rXbwZxNQSg&oq=san+fr&t=h&mra=ls&z=8 Continue reading

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commonplace of Candide

ON BOREDOM In the end everything in life grows wearisome. (109) ON FREE WILL “Kiss your feet, Monsieur l’Abbé!” said Candide, “I do not understand such jokes.” Thereupon some deaf-mutes who had come from court with the abbé entered the … Continue reading

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