(Note: The title of this piece comes from the event for which it was written and performed, part of Homeroom’s School Night series, hosted through the MCA Talks program. The portion of the text subtitled PERFORMANCE was intended to serve three functions: 1) To avoid meaningless abstraction by providing an example of the transgressive/excessive art referred to in the “Principles” subsection, knowing that term “transgression” can refer to a myriad of different aesthetics or practices, many deeply fucked. 2) To introduce a disorienting vision of queer embodiment only possible through language, 3) To pose the question—both for myself and the audience—of whether this vision is one of discomfort/violence, or whether it constitutes the type of utopic dreaming, i/e. “new possibilities and visions for social justice” to which I allude in my Principles. Feedback/participation is welcome and encouraged. ~Tim).
This is a collaboration between three writers who are excavating through writing. This is one of many sections to come as we tangle and untangle our histories.
I keep cleaning the rooms, sifting through you, a way to keep you alive. I like to think you are floating in our air. I wiped the dust from your frame yesterday and looked at your face. I realized I hadn’t seen you in a long time. That I kept you blurry in my memory. Maybe not wanting or not able to build the structure of your face. How do we put a body back together again?
What I’m trying to say is, there is always a piece missing. Your ashes have been mixed and separated and moved and there are bits of dust that have gotten away and I think about this movement of the dead often. The trails you have left. The ashes of others in the air, maybe even you, it was only the day before. Tiny bits resting on the printed fabric book bag they put your box in. They were everywhere and I thought we had to leave. Get on the plane, get away from this place, the grayness was suffocating and the barren slow passing of time would kill us all. This madness of grief. I was searching for you, along the stretches of road, but I knew you weren’t there. You were in the front seat, wrapped in your box with a name tag and everything. I thought of the people working at the crematorium, wondered who would ever want a job like that. The arrangement of the lost, the attempt at organizing a life after a cataclysmic puncture. Do they always smell like burnt flesh? Does the person who placed the body in the oven see its loved ones? What might that feel like, to look in the eyes and know you were the last person to see the body of their lost one? What kinds of secrets do they witness? How many spirits follow them around?
It is amazing to me, how structures hold together when everything else refuses. How our bodies continue to pump blood and breathe air when we are no longer capable of doing anything but lying on the floor.
To dream of you. To dream of a before. Of a time when this was never going to be part of our story.
There is also the girl, the woman. Looking to wane into ghost. Is she all of us. Is she the soft periphery that haunts us. Moves like a sheet hanging in the air between us. The her that is returning to baby. To child. I will hold her in the pit of a peach, to hear her speak a name. The hollow i’ve dug in search of your answers, are faulty at the rib. The blue myth wrapping her away from the family around her, pulling her wide, pulling her quiet face from the collar of a black and white photograph. A return to sepia, to skin.
She is my child, my memory making up stories. She is a return to the thread that began this story. She is a small boy left burning in the fire. She is a man standing at the edge of the earth, bound in water.
Here is where I dream of you. Now that the autumn has come and you have been gone for three years. Why your last words to me, haunt me. And by last, I mean the last words I can remember. You spoke to me for a year after these words fell like sand into my hands. Your moment of clarity and only I was there. The un-daughter, the niece, the sister, the never-mother. You said, you were ready. Then you touched the air, touched something that seemed to slide down over your body. Until the the static of the radio and your blood still thick in the vein, was all I could hear.
I could no longer,
This stillness of the morning allows me to think of you and all our moments. The slow etching into each other’s lives. I’m confused sometimes in the hazy moments after sleep, thinking I am in the apartment we all shared, that I will hear you in the other room, that you will emerge and see me and say good morning in between your soft singing. We hear songs on the radio that we think you would’ve liked, so we play them over and over. Turn the volume up without saying anything to each other. We are thinking of you and I like to imagine your face and the sound of your voice if you could have ever known this song and played it as you got ready for work.
I have a recording of you saying happy birthday to me. Thank you, forever. I should tell you that most days I am too afraid to listen to it. Too afraid to recognize your voice, maybe it’s better to let the memory age at the edges just a little. To hear your breath. But sometimes, late at night, when I am driving on the freeway, alone in my car I play your message and turn the volume up as loud as I can and your voice fills me so that for those moments I cannot even hear myself.
I don’t care about my birthday anymore. It is too close to your death.
I wonder if you ever listened to my old voicemails. If you ever had late-night moments like I do when you miss the sound of me. If you held onto my words and the moments that surrounded them. I admit that even as recent as a week ago, I played your old messages. Lights off, just before bed. I snuggled up next to your voice. Wishing I could feel the warmth of your body now, these years later. Your arm around me. The last time I saw you, your arm was around her. I slipped past the both of you. I don’t think you saw me.
In the recordings, you sound so youthful and full of boyish joy. Unashamed giddiness. Recklessly in love. “Hi babe. Hello beautiful. I can’t wait to see you. I love you.” Fragments of love captured in these short sound bites. These tears.
Find the ghost inside this echo, she says. The shrapnel from your war. I assume your body, lean in close to find you in an eye, in a knuckle, in the wedge of a wrinkle. The suture is a place for entering blood memories.
Wet alfalfa, the rooster’s timing so off that we wake before it calls day, the plastic amber light we filtered through your broaches. You are the last of our storytellers, you are the
last to know that I look like my father, carry his rage, his tongue hinged like fault lines in the earth.
Waiting to give way.
People seem to spend more time talking about things looking phallic than things looking vaginal. You don’t need to guess why, but I’m lately pleased with how often my eye has been catching on everyday objects/sights that are flower-paintings-level of pussy representation. This photo is something I must’ve initially seen on Tumblr:
I spent a lot of 2002 and 2003 deep in Christina Aguilera’s Stripped. I was capital-F Feeling It in a deep and worshipful way. It was her attitude that brought me into that particular church: a bratty, angry-as-fuck lashing out done as only a pop star, young and rich, can do it. She posed nude on the cover of Rolling Stone (strategically holding a guitar that she couldn’t play; Xtina says who fuckin’ cares dude?), wore chaps and bikinis as daywear, and fluctuated in body size while the public watched (and criticized). It was all a big, artless movie musical with real people and their mysterious intentions jumbled up inside of it. The music was good though, and sometimes great, marked skillfully by Linda Perry’s big-dyke stamp of a style. “Beautiful” was, you know, gay, because it was about suffering and loneliness and enduring in the face of all that. The way pop music turns endlessly complex life experiences into a quick, showy display of capitalist fireworks never ceases to make me feel both appreciative and horrified, mostly at my easy complicity in consuming what the business men and CEOs of the pop music industry want me and you to consume (that is, emotional triggers that cost money). At the end of the day I still love Christina. I want her to be happy, whatever it is that she’s doing. I love her armpit vagina. I guess it’s supposed to be humiliating but I can’t help thinking of it as just fucking cool, like, whatever man, she did it on purpose/she doesn’t care. She’s good with it, smiling in her high femme drag.
I’ve long found the artist Rachel Feinstein and her artwork compelling, but what I was really dying to see, for a long time– what I felt was the defining summary of her spirit/self, politics, art, and aesthetic– was a tattoo, located in her armpit and therefore absent in most photos: “I have a tattoo of my vagina in my armpit, that I did when I was going to Columbia University…there’s ants that are coming out of it and killing a dragonfly, and I did it when I was eighteen.” I love so much that it’s her vagina, not just some mystery cunt, a representation of her specific experience of cuntiness. When I found video footage in which I could see the glorious inked cunt I actually took screenshots of it because it made me so happy.
It’s easy for me to be enticed by Feinstein’s white-girlness: an ethereal redhead with a funny face (a funny face this is particularly beautiful, to me), big eyes, big romantic sculptures that reference the classics while being sharply toned with a very contemporary terror and sense of infinite mortality. I see what I’m drawn to and have to acknowledge what has charmed me and why. I can’t stop thinking that I am both a unique abstraction of a person and a perfectly-drawn example of racist, misogynist, heteroaffirmative late-capitalism packaged in Jewish white girl particular.
Feinstein on being a young artist:
“I ended up getting really obsessed with merkins and I made my own and thought that I was going to be able to sell them. And I applied to Yale for the MFA department wearing a see-through plastic skirt and a tiny little pair of underwear that had a big fake black pubic merkin underneath coming out of the underwear, that you could see…and I didn’t get into Yale.” And then in a different interview, on the same part of her life: “[The professor] accused me of being a third-wave feminist. He said I was a woman who forces her sexuality on men. He thought I was doing this for theoretical reasons, that I was trying to affront him with my girlhood. He tried to get me to defend myself. Needless to say, I didn’t go to Yale.”
And all that while, this tiny cunt hiding in her armpit, devouring or birthing little insects. What goes in one hole can come out the same hole, or disappear completely. What goes in your holes, and what comes out? Who or what do you consume, what sustains or feeds you, and what do you splooge out through the other side?
Joe Carrow is a cool guy who comes to a lot of the readings in the Bay Area and takes photographs of local weirdos and does it all for the love of it. In this interview we talk about his photo work and an incident he had with a Canadian website and I pretend that I’m not sure who I’m talking to at first for a pathetic attempt at comedy.
Hey, so first question: who are you, what do you do, and how do we know each other?
I’m Joe Carrow. I work as a mechanical engineer by day, and I do more creative things at night to stay sane. I used to play drums before I moved to the Bay area in 2004, but when I got out here I found that all of the apartments were really tiny and I didn’t have a way to keep playing. I loved drums, but my girlfriend at the time needed floor space for her wheelchair and the apartment walls were too thin for so much noise. I started getting pretty serious about photography around 2008, and in 2012 I became the show photographer for Oakland Nights Live.
I was invited to take some pictures at a poetry reading in an abandoned apartment in 2012, where I met you and a few other local poets. I put out a Facebook call of “Who wants to do a shoot?” in 2013 and you wanted to do a shoot, and we’ve been doing photo stuff and going to each others events ever since.
Ah, yeah. I’m remembering now. We did a photo shoot. You’re the guy with the beard holding a camera, right? Yeah, I think you’ve shot the covers for a few of my books or something. What kind of photo work do you like to do? What do you find inspiring?
That’s right! I’m the guy with the beard and camera. I was pursuing competitive beard growth for a while, but eventually it felt ridiculous and I trimmed it off.
The kind of photo work that I like to do is to show people having cool experiences. Really, it’s the look on somebody’s face that does it for me. What’s going on? What are they up to? Who are they? Is something cool happening? I can appreciate and enjoy pictures of landscapes and skies and inanimate objects as well, but I care a lot more about people pictures. I like to catch those candid moments when people aren’t posing, when they’re having a genuine moment. Here are a few favorites:
I didn’t go to AWP last year. My work will pay for me to go to one conference a year, and last year I went to BizarroCon and this year I went to BizarroCon. But, as AWP approaches, I’ve been feeling a certain kind of longing to attend. It might be I’m lonely. It might be I miss my AWP-style friends.
For me, AWP is one of those things I struggle with. I love AWP. I hate AWP. I contain multitudes.
As a graduate of the lowest ranked MFA program in the country, I thought I’d weigh in on the current cacophony of the MFA this & MFA that debate.
I guess the two main essays currently having balls dragged over them (and I’m talking eyes here) are that Boudinot thing and that Anonymous yelp at Electric Literature, which is full of typos and dumb dumb-ness.
They’re both stupid.
I check every couple of days to see if Captain Awkward has updated her advice column, and feel a little twinge of disappointment when she hasn’t. Filmmaker, teacher and storyteller Jennifer Peepas is one of the contemporary writers who’s doing the most with this form. Her columns are essays, shapely and voiced; the advice is good, focusing on useful scripts for hard conversations and concrete sets of actions for ugly situations. I’ve used it to guide my own behavior and to ask potentially helpful questions of friends, and it’s one of the five sites I recommend first-year student advisees explore (the others, if you’re interested, are Know Your Title IX, Ask a Manager, Scarleteen and Unfuck Your Habitat).
I read advice columns the way some people read true crime stories or books like Into Thin Air and The Perfect Storm: nosiness, voyeurism and armchair suffering all play a part. When people write into advice columns it means they’re willing to go public in exchange for a response; reading them means I get to be nosy and voyeuristic about something that someone’s already decided to share.
Edward J. Rathke (http://edwardjrathke.com/) released the book Noir: A Love Story on Civil Coping Mechanisms this past summer. It’s a detectiveless detective tale sifting through 26 perspectives in order to find the truth behind two deaths, one town that exists nowhere, and what it means to have a dream.
Edward’s memoir, Transdimensional Transgender Transubstantiation, came out in October 2014, and an existential fantasy novel, Twilight of the Wolf (Perfect Edge Books), in March 2014. His novella, Girl With Ears & Demon With Limps, came out in February of the same year. Edward’s first book, Ash Cinema (KUBOA Press) was published in 2012.
1: Which literary genre, if any, influenced Noir: A Love Story the most, and why?
There are a lot of things that influenced Noir: A Love Story, and surprisingly few of them are literary, actually. It’s very influenced by experimental literature, but only those that experiment in a structural way. There’s little being done to the sentence in the novel, but the structure’s where it gets pretty playful.
There were three main goals: I wanted to write a novel that could be read in any order, where the narrative to happen completely off the page, and that was built on dissonance.
Those were the driving forces here and I’m still surprised it came out as well as it did. I wrote this in five days, and the biggest part of the editing process was taking these 26 narrators and stitching them into an order that I felt was dynamic and captivating. Because of the way I built the novel [and it was very much an act of building], the real narrative movement is one of contradiction, and the reader must build the narrative, and create it for themselves, because I’m largely just dropping breadcrumbs to lead you out of the forest.
The biggest influences, though, were film and music. Especially Max Richter’s From the Art of Mirrors and Wong Kar Wai’s filmography, but especially In the Mood for Love and 2046. Also Terrence Malick and Kim Ki-duk and Andrei Zvyagintsev and Olafur Arnalds and Prokofiev and Zhang Yimou and Christopher Doyle and Shigeru Umebayashi and Zbigniew Preisner and Abel Korzeniowski and hundreds more.
2: What’s the best thing about writing? The worst?
The best thing is when you’re flying on the keyboard and you’re not really writing anymore but just trying to keep up with the visions hurricaning past you. It becomes more an act of translation than anything else, and I’m just trying desperately to tie the visions to the page. And then there’s the calm that comes when you’ve spent all day at the keyboard and you have forty or so pages to show for it.
The worst is how I plummet out of the real world. I stop eating or sleeping or doing anything. I write in marathon sprints so if I’m noveling, that’s all I’m doing for a week. Not really time to be a real person. And then when I’m not writing, there’s the constant ache and wailing within me telling me to get these stories down.
We are all witnessing the effects of capitalism over our present times in the forms of abstraction of work, the disembodiment of the conscience, and the dematerialization of the commodities. The Italian Marxist Franco “Bifo” Berardi attributes the origin of this great transformation through abstraction to the development of finance:
Finance is the most abstract level of economic symbolization. It is the culmination of a process of progressive abstraction that started with capitalist industrialization. Marx speaks of abstract labor in the sense of an increased distancing of human activity from its concrete usefulness. In his words, capitalism is the application of human skills as a means to obtain a more abstract goal: the accumulation of value[i].
On this particular situation he states that the most important changes in societies due to the dematerialization and the general abstraction of the economic rules and procedures are the disembodiment of the “general intelligence”, a concept he uses sometimes in terms of a representation of the cognitive group of workers whose labor is now exploited; the deterritorialization of labor and productivity, that ignited a process of pulverization and precarization of work and worker; the end of growth as a concept related to the “increase of social happiness and satisfaction of the basic needs of people”, but instead the expansion of financial profits and the expansion of the global volume of exchange value. He talks about “the new alienation” occurring in the cognitive worker by precarization and the acceleration of the information flow and productivity. All of these transformations are symptoms of the general intelligence as disembodied, taken away from its own social and erotic body.
I wanted to pose a question to my peers and I thought it was a good question to ask, like I could really get some insight asking this question, but then I forgot the question.
If I wait a day or maybe even an hour or just be patient and think about something else like watching an episode of Psych in my head or singing a Diana Ross song in my head, it will usually come back. If it’s a good enough idea it will come back. If you forget it, it will come.
It took three hours? But I remembered the question I thought I had forgotten.
I like talking about writing process. I feel like I am always talking about writing process even if I am not, but especially with my writer friends. I feel like talking about writing process is all I ever talk about because I can talk about other things while making it seem like I’m talking about writing process or talk about writing process while making it seem like I’m talking about other things. I plagiarize my own poems for blog posts.
I like talking about writing process because I am always looking for spare time to write. I try to remember things in my head, like repeat them over and over like a chant or a license plate number after someone hit you while riding your bike, until I think it’s safe to break out my notebook. Writing at work is a challenge for me. I’m constantly being monitored, so I don’t do it. I just chant to remember. Weeknights I’m usually too tired to do much writing, like I’m so zonked from being at work 9 hours all I want to do is eat something and pass out with my cat. I try to use my lunch break to write, and I covet my weekends. I like being social, but I resent having to leave my bed and laptop because all I really wanna do is finish the things I’ve been working on.
How the hell do other people write? When the fuck do you find time to write. How did you finish all that shit? Don’t you people ever work? Does someone else pay your bills? Or maybe you’re just hella better at time management?
So I asked…
HOW MANY OF YOU WORK DAY JOBS? How many hours? What do you do to pay bills?
Who are you?
I am Nathan Baudy. I am a filmmaker, noise musician, poet, and writer.
What am I watching here?
You are watching a short film entitled “Ray’s Tattoo Party.” It is a film that depicts the conversations and events that took place during a tattoo party.
When + where was this filmed?
This was filmed in Pullman, WA in JAN 2015.
Can you describe the creative process?
The creative process was purely spontaneous. My friend Ray and I agreed to “get together and make art or something” so I went over to their place and they put an Olympus camera in my hand and I started filming. As I was filming I started doing in-camera cutting and thinking about what I was filming so that I could frame it around a central idea. The idea ended up becoming a film about millennial artists getting together and tattooing themselves and talking about america, pornography, art, and telling jokes.
Do you script in any form?
Sometimes. Not for this film.
Who directed this?
Is there a collaborative process involved?
Of course. Nearly everything I do is collaborative. The film is a collaboration between myself and all the performers in the film (who are just being themselves). Ray let me use their camera too. The film is kind of about artistic collaboration. It’s about sharing opinions, letting people tattoo you in your kitchen, and letting yourself be filmed and displayed for the world.
Describe your relationship with the internet and making stuff?
I mostly use it for marketing. In my past I almost exclusively created content for internet consumption, but I find it more rewarding to meet people in person and make intimate films like these. I don’t really care who sees my films. I put them online because I am saving them for myself and I make them public to attract more like-minded artists in attempts to continue making collaborative art with new people.
What other stuff have you been working on lately?
I’m writing an experimental novel. I’m curating noise/experimental music for a series I created called “Contemporary Experimental Music/Noise Anthology Series” where I release one album per month. Every track on it is by a different musician from across the United States. I’m making my own drone/noise compositions. I journal everyday.
You can submit noise/experimental tracks to me via facebook or here:
Inspirations / Influnences? It reminds me of ‘Wavelength’ by Michael Snow.
Warhol, obviously. Harmony Korine, Lars Von Trier, Hollis Frampton, Stan Brakhage, Michael Snow, Jonas Mekas, Richard Linklater. My friends inspire me. I film them because I am inspired by them. I want people to see them.
Why did you send it to me?
I thought you would like it.
The year was 2005. Michael stood in the doorway. It was after midday. Tammy told talking about doctor shopping. Tammy would go to different doctors and get numerous prescriptions for the same drug, so she’d eventually have 20 prescriptions for the same drug. Tammy said the police were making this difficult to do now. Tammy is enterprising enough. She’ll work it out. Her girlfriend is a beauty. Her name is Erin. They’re in the hospital together. They admit themselves regularly.
It was March. There was no meaning, nothing deciphered, only ill sense developing. It was late afternoon. Jumping around Tammy felt her hand go through the plate glass behind her. She’d been messing around, bouncing and speaking with her hands. The whole window crashed around Tammy and Michael. Erin wasn’t around. The smashing of the window was harshness. Chaos continued when a nurse ran in. An orderly pulled Tammy away from the glass on the floor. Tammy didn’t know why her hand had gone through the window. Tammy didn’t know what was wrong. Tammy didn’t know why she was upset.
Joseph D. Haske’s North Dixie Highway was released in late 2013 by Texas Review Press. It’s a grimy, tight gem of a read. Highly autobiographical, the novel flitters non-chronologically across a life of war, chicken butchering and hard drinking. But it’s poetic the way the blues is poetic, charming the way town-drunks can be.
I thought we’d ask Joe some questions.
Enclave: Let’s start small; what is the North Dixie Highway, and why write about it now?
Joseph D. Haske: It’s a road I’ve been traveling down for quite a while now, deep into the fictional world that’s consumed me for the better part of five years. It actually is a real highway, though, or at least a series of connected roads that bring north and south together in most of the eastern U.S. It was an ambitious project in the early 20th century at a time when motor vehicles were still relatively new. There are sections of the Dixie Highway all over the eastern U.S. The north most tract actually ends in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where much of the book is set.
The Dixie Highway was always sort of fragmented, and it’s even more fragmented these days. Still, as I’d travel around the country, Dixie Highway signs would pop up everywhere: south of Chicago, in central Georgia, around northern Ohio, in various parts of Florida–all over the place. Then there’s that strange tract of Dixie Highway in the eastern U.P., where I grew up. As I mention in the Prologue, the E.U.P. section wasn’t actually connected to any other land mass, at least until the Mackinac Bridge came along, which makes it a particularly lonely stretch of highway.
The construction of the highway is a really interesting story in itself, but the concept of the highway alone spoke to me on a deeper, literary level. I realized early on in writing the book that the Dixie Highway worked well as a sort of unifying/disunifying metaphor, given the travel motif, the temporal and geographical shifts in the novel, and, in general, the sort of schizophrenic nature of the protagonist.
This name kept coming up in links on my Facebook “Kate Durbin” “Kate Durbin” “Kate Durbin.” I began investigating Kate Durbin, I found amazing videos on Youtube like this one called iPrincess. I looked at her Hello Selfie photos, she went to LA and NYC and walked the streets with other women all wearing strange (I don’t know how to describe their outfits, I’m sorry) outfits covered in stickers taking selfies of themselves. I began a short email conversation with Kate Durbin and found her to be amazing, charming, intensely sensitive/philosophical/observant and even spiritually powerful, I got E! Entertainment in the mail and read it immediately, in it Kate Durbin wrote out scenes from reality television shows, the extent of the project amazed me, how much effort and detail she threw into it, I was blown away, so much indie literature is personal narrative or experimental, but she took it in a completely new direction.
Kate Durbin also has a Tumbrl called “Women as Objects” where she reblogs posts from teenage girls.
Here is an amazing interview with Kate Durbin and Lara Glenum.
Noah Cicero: What would be three books or films or television shows that you really like and try to experience over and over again and why. And then three books or films or television shows that inspired E! Entertainment?
Kate Durbin: I watch The Shining at least once month. Kubrick’s creation of a foreboding atmosphere is terrific, as are his little hidden details that connect all his projects together, like Danny wearing the Apollo 11 sweater in the Overlook hotel hallway, which is a nod to Kubrick faking the moon landing. I put details like that in all of my work, hoping one day someone will parcel them out.
I read Anna Kavan’s Ice every few months. I like how she created her own environment in that text, this suffocating ice world, and also how nothing is explained. I like works of art that are bold enough to be unaccommodating, like an alien world.
Robert Altman’s Three Women is an important film for me. Visually it is beautiful, with these dreamy 70s pinks and purples. I like that it was inspired by a dream Altman had and therefore follows dream logic. I like that it’s about these women and their relationships to each other, which is what E is about, too.
Inspired E: The Hills, The Girls Next Door, Keeping Up With the Kardashians
So we’re filming a movie. It’s called Ctrl Alt Del.
I don’t even know how this started. I guess I’m going to talk about how it started. I guess it was kismet. I had known Pirooz Kalayeh tangentially for about two years, ever since the San Francisco debut of his film Shoplifting From American Apparel.
I wrote a poem for a contest he was holding on the website for the film. He liked the poem, he later told me, but it didn’t win the contest.
We became Facebook friends.
Was it last year? I have no idea, I don’t know how to keep track of time. Anyway, it might have been last year when Pirooz approached me about perhaps writing a story for a film. He told me he was reaching out to young writers and wanted to adapt their works into something for the screen. Of course I was interested. He told me he was thinking of maybe a story about a relationship. I told him I had just the thing.
I wrote the story. I sent it to Pirooz. I also got it published (on more than one venue). We began our conference on how to make this into a movie.
The only script writing I’ve ever done was in high-school, when I was president of the amateur filmmakers society and spent my senior year with a band of wannabe actors and cinematographers making a movie that accidentally got deleted on the school’s AV room computer. And that script was super simple. Just a bunch of directions in which a brick is found and left in various places by various people and two teenagers try to make out and get busted and everyone in the movie is obsessed with Pure Moods.
Pirooz ended up writing the script. I think he just gets really excited about projects and maybe likes to be constantly busy with a new creative pursuit and I was taking too long to adapt the story into a screenplay and maybe caught up in some other bullshit so I am thankful that he took the reins in that regard.
I read the script. A bunch of people read the script. We all liked it but made some suggestions. Jayinee Basu was extremely instrumental in keeping the message of the film on point, and D. Dragonetti loaned their expertise to the handling of certain subject matter in the script.
This all took months. And now we have a story. And a script. And real camera operators. And some real actors. And some fake actors like me.
Read a Seidlinger novel and then read this silent interview with Shia LaBeouf. Read My Pet Serial Killer and then watch the video above.
I mean, just read this:
At one point, LaBeouf says that he – as an only child – longed for the kind of family he saw in Home Alone; that online connections cannot replace physical presence, that he approaches social media as a game like Tetris. I’m tipsy on a train when I read this email; I pay £4 for an hour of wi-fi because I can’t wait to reply. I write, “But I’m not a ghost… there’s one of us on either side of the exchange. There’s scope for interpretation and response. That’s more variables than Tetris, no? It’s human.”
He writes back super fast. “I actually totally agree with you, it’s all about finding the humanity of the networks… Fuck Tetris. We make new games together.”
this inaugural post is dedicated to
Sara Uribe and Kim Schreiber,
both generous and kind
I left my country on the 204th anniversary of its independence. I took a plane. I wasn’t really thinking too much. I wasn’t really paying attention. I just thought it was the best day to leave given the circumstances. As a very dear friend would tell me later, mocking me: “only the unpatriotic and the stateless leave their homeland right on its Independence Day celebrations.” I felt unpatriotic. I was rendered stateless. I sensed I was leaving a lot behind. Also I suddenly realized there were a whole lot of events coming right in front of me. Perhaps more than I could actually foresee. More than I can imagine. I left Mexico on September 15, 2014 in order to start a new adventure in life. I had chosen to keep my academic career going. I’d decided I wanted to recover my writing career as well, after four years in public service. The opportunity was before me when I sent my application so stand for the Master in Fine Arts degree in Writing at the University of California, San Diego. I got accepted. A whole new ground of possibilities was suddenly open before me. But at the moment, as I was crossing the U.S. border, I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t know a thing.
Besides acquiring formal education in writing for the first time, I now have the chance to explore the recent writing techniques and theories, and put them in practice in my own writing. I’m attracted to the experimental approach on writing of the MFA program. One of my main goals is to address current Western Culture societies in conflict based upon evidence found through language. My interest is chiefly aimed at language as a community builder. On exploring how language binds us together as a community. Which could be the principles that make us hold together even though it may seem societies are falling apart? (There are many making that statement nowadays.) Upon the rise of Internet as the almighty machine that has radically affected the concept of writing; I’m particularly interested in working with virtual communities. Language shown in the user comments of sites around the World Wide Web is of a very different kind than any other used in any other support. Nonetheless it works as adhesive when establishing relationships, encouraging dialogue, and building communities. But it is also a language based more frequently upon anonymity/identity, context[s], shared or unshared. What do user comments across the Internet stand for when referring to commonality?
I’m infatuated with Western Culture. How does the West talk about love in the twenty-first century? I’m interested in researching and updating through writing experimentation what Freud theorized about the Eros & Thanatos duality. Is Western Culture closer to death, aggression, and destruction in the twenty-first century? If this is considered true, then: In what ways is Eros defined by Western Culture in the now? How can our present be defined based upon the relationship established between eroticism and destruction, particularly one that is perceived through public language across the Internet and other ‘new’ media? How do these relationships define our global communities therefore? What does all of this say about human condition?