Encyclopedia Britannica style

I just had a memory, in the library yard.

In Berlin. Some punks, talking, are sitting in an open backyard area surrounded by concrete apartment buildings. It's early afternoon. Angela and Martin are a young couple wandering around the city. It's a beautiful day during an unusually warm summer.

Angela: WOw look at the mural Martin. We should go in there and talk to those people sittig there about it. It looks pretty wonderful. I wonder if this is their courtyard?

Martin: You can't just walk into someone's courtyard Angela. It's a part of their living space, not just some park.

Angela: But I want to pet their dog... it would be really cool.

Books I've read while on the desk at Latter

The Hero has 1,000 Faces, Campbell.
The Art of Love, Erich Froehm.
The Tattooed Girl, Joyce Carol Oates.
Frida, the most recent biography: I've completely forgotten the biographer's name.
Frida Kahlo's journal.
Man and His Symbols, Jung and company.
A Series of Unfortunate Events, the first and second books, Lemony Snickett.
The Sensitive Man and Other Essays, Anaies Nin; purchased from the Sunday table in front of the El Matador.
Celestial Railroad and Other Short Stories, Hawthorne: a few, not all of them.

I've still got to get into the Artaud paperback that I checked out. And the Villon that I borrowed from the Z'Otz library. I've read a great deal of ee cummings as well. His influence on my own writing is soon to be rivaling Stein's in the future, ie extremely obtrusive recognizable stylization.

2.

I stapled up some of my "graffitti" project in the Quarter today. "Graffitti" meaning not graffitti in the literal sense, since a) I'm a civil servant and therefore would never ever be involved in anything that would tarnish my reputation as a representative of the City of New Orleans & b) all of it is absolutely transient and I'm sure that any legit graffittists would laugh me out of town.

I went to Kinkos and xeroxed some of my older inks and journal entries. Originally I had wanted to post paper like Moose had. His work is a really striking combination of text and image. He really incorporates the texture/distortion & grittiness of typewritten text and reproduced photo to its utmost expressive effect. Plus his poems are really accessible and totally effing awesome. And mine are a little more dramatic and personal and I'm not sure I'm completely out of the closet with a lot of them even though I should be. (you're a writer, like duh, get over yerself finally). So I ended up making quite a few flyer sized things and stapling them in the Decatur/Frenchman St area.

They're a bit secret, which I like. And public art, which I like too.

ar

Curse of the Subway Sandwich

Yesterday night I was puking like it was going outta style. Et tu Subway veggie patty?

my wish list

These books are ever so lovely and it is my intention to gobble them up completely.

Ernst, Max. The Hundred Headless Woman
" Une Semaine de Boute
" A Little Girl Dreams of Taking the Up the Veil

Saetty, W. The Cosmic Bicycle
" Time Zone

However the total is completely out of my price range, in terms of spoiling oneself.
I should save up my clams and travel.
(want want want)

right in the ways and the rules of the world

On art and humour

I proclaim, today, that the inability to laugh at oneself and in general poke fun at oneself is an inherent personality flaw. Meaning, namely, that if you're unable to distance yourself from your image and divorce self from image you're obviously some way puffed up sociopath that has O'd on ego.

Just a thought, a fragment. I think that the ability to make fun of oneself, to not take oneself to seriously, is completely charming and attractive and genuine. Life is absurd, and the poking and laughing and love of craft and creativity are all unified and fundamental to existence.

Johnny says we're all retards, fags and nerds. I like that.