Tumblr was down, and then I walked from 56th and Madison to 87th and Madison before one of the four busses that run that route came. The evening seems like a metaphor for something; for what, I’m not entirely sure.
After months of asking questions about the Twitter, my mother finally made an account. Her five followers are: Me, two of my college friends, the corporate profile of her employer, and CNN anchor/reporter Brooke Baldwin.
Dispatch from an evesdropper: Lady Gaga was recently in a bike shop near Union Square checking out “$4,000 bicycles and sunglasses,” but “got the fuck outta dodge” when someone asked for an autograph, just said the dude next to me in line at a Starbucks on Park Avenue South.
… I try to not differentiate between what a writer is and isn’t. I leave that to others since we’ve all written crap that wouldn’t be deemed writing by any standard. Writing is too hard to put a tag on, and for anyone that’s labored over a blank page, or CMS or whatever, you gotta give them credit for putting something down and even more credit for showing it to others.
I can get on board with that.
I pay the bills working as ghostwriter, sometimes for executives but most often for companies. And when I’m nudged from the comfort of my apartment and show up at parties I introduce myself as a writer because it’s easier than saying “I write things for companies — yes, I realize companies are not self-aware things and you’d think this would mean they couldn’t speak in the conventional sense of the term, but the Supreme Court disagrees and they can so there.”
Sometimes it sucks not having a byline anymore, but that’s because I
am an asshole enjoy seeing my name in print, not because I have a problem with the nature of that particular brand of writing copy.
(About all the TV-writing stuff that originated this thread: Is there a demand for snark about bad police-procedural dramas? If not then I have nothing to offer to that discussion.)
I am writing now in preconceptions Those of sex and ropes Many frantic cruelties occur to the flesh of the imagination And the imagination does have flesh to destroy And the flesh has imagination to sever The mouth is just a body filled with imagination Can you imagine its contents The dripping into a bucket And its acts The ellipses and chaining apart The feather The observer The imagination, bare, has nothing to confirm it There's just the singing of the birds The sounds of the natural scream A strange example The imagination wishes to be embraced by freedom It is laid bare in order to be desired But the imagination must keep track of the flesh responding—its increments of awareness—a slow progression It must be beautiful and it can't be free -for John Zorn, after his “Elegy” -- Lyn Hejinian
In My Life, Hejinian produced a line of prose I can’t erase from memory because it’s so, so true: “You cannot determine the nature of progress until you assemble all of the relatives.”
I demand journalists work harder to include cats in their reportage whenever possible, regardless of whether or not such references seem newsworthy. (Because, really, yes, they are. All of them.)
Also: Yes, a Marriott. Boo!