* (restored)
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I think that actual life supplies a writer with characters much less than is thought. Of course there must be a beginning to every conception, but so much change seems to take place in it at once, that almost anything comes to serve the purpose—a face of a stranger, a face in a portrait, almost a face in the fire. And people in life hardly seem to be definite enough to appear in print. They are not good or bad enough, or clever or stupid enough, or comic or pitiful enough. And I believe that we know much less of each other than we think, that it would be a great shock to find oneself suddenly behind another person’s eyes. — Ivy Compton Burnett
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I dreamt last night
the fright was over, that
the dust came, and then water,
and women and men, together
again, and all was quiet
in the dim moon’s light.
A paean of such patience—
laughing, laughing at me,
and the days extend over
the earth’s great cover,
grass, trees, and flower-
ing season, for no clear reason.
— Robert Creeley
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The most simple manner in which this operation is performed, and I think, the best, consists in placing any number of the freshly plucked fruit, when in a particular state of greenness, among the embers of a fire, in the same way that you would roast a potato. After the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, the green rind embrowns and cracks, showing through the fissures in its sides the milk-white interior. As soon as it cools the rind drops off, and you then have the soft round pulp in its purest and most delicious state. Thus eaten, it has a mild and pleasing flavor. — Herman Melville
Boil water in a saucepan (bubbles mean it is boiling!). Take two eggs (for one person) out of the refrigerator. Hold them under the hot tap water to make them ready for what awaits them. Place each in a pan, one after the other, and let them slip soundlessly into the (boiling) water. Consult your wristwatch. Stand over them with a spoon preventing them (they are apt to roll) from knocking against the damned side of the pan. If, however, an egg cracks in the water (now bubbling like mad) and starts to disgorge a cloud of white stuff like a medium in an oldfashioned seance, fish it out and throw it away. Take another and be more careful. After 200 seconds have passed, or, say, 240 (taking interruptions into account), start scooping the eggs out. Place them, round end up, in two egg cups. With a small spoon tap-tap in a circle and hen pry open the lid of the shell. Have some salt and buttered bread (white) ready. Eat. — Vladimir Nabokov
Routine: plug in American blending machine won from some Yank last summer, some poker game, table stakes, B.O.Q. somewhere in the north, never remember now….Chop several bananas into pieces. Make coffee in urn. Get can of milk from cooler. Puree ‘nanas in milk. Lovely. I would coat all the booze-corroded stomachs of England….Bit of marge, still smells all right, melt in the skillet. Peel more bananas, slice lengthwise. Marge sizzling, in go long slices. Light oven whoomp blow us all up someday oh, ha, ha, yes. Peeled whole bananas to go on broiler grill soon as it heats. Find marshmallows…. — Thomas Pynchon
He poured out drinks into tall glasses. Gin and freshly pressed lemon, and slice of lime which Harriet had given him, and soda water and a little parsley floating about, like his mother used to make in the old days. Sophie never drank long drinks, even in summer. — Iris Murdoch
Dorothy was at the sideboard, breaking eggs and spilling them into a bowl. Just watching the oval things crack in her white fingers and spill forth with a golden plop created a series of small explosions inside me. My calves shuddered as she scrambled them with a fork and they turned yellow like her hair. She poured a bit of cream into the mixture and the silken smoothness of the descending cream had me reeling. I wanted to say, ‘Dorothy Parrish, I love you’, to take her in my arms, to lift the bowl of scrambled eggs above our heads and pour it over our bodies, to roll on the red tiles with her, smeared with the conquest of eggs, squirming and slithering in the yellow of love. — John Fante
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There is that in love
which, by the syntax of,
men find women and join
their bodies to their minds
–which wants so to acquire
a continuity, a place,
a demonstration that it must
be one’s own sentence.
— Robert Creeley
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The Beatles Never Existed draws together what it calls evidence that the Beatles were not what they seemed. The main thesis: There were multiples of each character performing as John, Paul, George and Ringo. Each part of the world appears to have had its own Beatles group, And even then, there were sometimes multiple characters within. They all looked identical to each other except for a few features here and there. But what was most pronounced was their fluctuating height differences.
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Words rise up unaided and in ecstasy; many a facet reveals its infinite rarity and is precious to our minds. For our mind is the center of this hesitancy and oscillation; it sees words not in their usual order, but in projection (like the walls of a cave) so long as that mobility which is their principle lives on, that part of speech which is not spoken. Then quickly, before they die away, they all exchange their brilliancies from afar; or they may touch, and steal a furtive glance. — Stéphane Mallarmé
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In spiritualism, ectoplasm is said to be formed by physical mediums when in a trance state. This material is excreted as a gauze-like substance from orifices on the medium’s body and spiritual entities are said to drape this substance over their nonphysical body, enabling them to interact in the physical and real universe. Some accounts claim that ectoplasm begins clear and almost invisible, but darkens and becomes visible, as the psychic energy becomes stronger. Still other accounts state that in extreme cases ectoplasm will develop a strong odor. According to some mediums, the ectoplasm cannot occur in light conditions as the ectoplasmic substance would disintegrate.
The psychical researcher Gustav Geley defined ectoplasm as being “very variable in appearance, being sometimes vaporous, sometimes a plastic paste, sometimes a bundle of fine threads, or a membrane with swellings or fringes, or a fine fabric-like tissue”. Arthur Conan Doyle described ectoplasm as “a viscous, gelatinous substance which appeared to differ from every known form of matter in that it could solidify and be used for material purposes”.
The physical existence of ectoplasm has not been scientifically demonstrated, and tested samples purported to be ectoplasm have been found to be various non-paranormal substances. Other researchers have duplicated, with non-supernatural materials, the photographic effects sometimes said to prove the existence of ectoplasm.
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Mike Meginnis: You were alone in the quiet room until they brought your brother to you. His mouth was stuffed with a wet rag but his eyes were calm and dry. They laid him down on the table and they tied his hands and feet in place. Your brother did not struggle. In your hand there is a certain implement of torment. The table is your family’s dinner table, the one with your dried snot on its underside and your name carved faintly in its side by the corner of your thumbnail. Against the wall there is a white dresser piled with various perfumes. Exits are north and south.
Matt Bell: EXAMINE PERFUMES
MM: The perfumes are variously colored; they are in bottles of many shapes, like hourglasses, crystal skulls, teardrops, corkscrews, orbs, and skinny cylinders. Not all of them can stand upright. Their collective smell is like the smell of a girl’s dormitory: fruit and flowers, nuts and alcohol.
MB: REMEMBER BROTHER
MM: You remember your brother. He is there on the table. He is waiting very patiently. He is your younger brother. He was named after you because you were the favorite son. You know everything he knows except all of his secrets. He smells of nerves.
MB: TAKE TEARDROP PERFUME
MM: You have the teardrop-shaped perfume.
MB: SPRAY PERFUME ON RAG IN BROTHER’S MOUTH SO HE REMEMBERS TOO
MM: The perfume’s smell (the smell of a parking lot after it has rained and the oil of the cars and their other fluids have all been lifted from the pavement and moved to other spots on the pavement) reminds your brother of the day he followed you when you did not know he was following you—when you thought that he was staying home sick. And where he followed you, and what he saw you do that you did not know he saw, and how it rained most of the day. What did he see you do?
MB: THAT WAS THE DAY I STOLE THE FIRST PERFUME. THAT WAS THE DAY I FIRST LEARNED I DIDN’T HAVE TO SMELL THIS WAY, A SCENT SO RECOGNIZABLE. WHERE IN THE LOCKER ROOM I DISCOVERED THAT IF SOME SMELLS WERE THE GATEWAY TO MEMORY THEN OTHERS MIGHT HELP US FORGET. TAKE RAG FROM BROTHER’S MOUTH
MM: You have the rag, which still smells of the perfume. Your brother seems to miss the rag now that it’s gone. He is wearing a t-shirt with a picture of his girlfriend on its front; in the picture she is wearing a t-shirt with a picture of him. He breathes audibly. The breath smells of your perfume.
MB: ASK BROTHER HOW HIS GIRLFRIEND SMELLS NOW. ASK IF SHE STILL SMELLS THE SAME. TELL BROTHER HOW LONG IT’S BEEN SINCE YOU’VE SMELLED HIS GIRLFRIEND, EVEN THOUGH HE ALREADY KNOWS.
MM: Your brother says his girlfriend smells like a fish, overwhelmingly like a fish of a certain kind, but he has come to like the smell of the fish of that certain kind, on your wise advice. He asks you are you feeling well. (But he shouldn’t be asking you questions. This is rude, and here on your dinner table, the one with your dried snot on its underside, and your carved name in its finish, and its finish still embedded thickly under your thumbnail, which is practically inside you, and its smell on your fingers.) (This is like when he would use your Nintendo and save over your file.) (This is just the same.)
MB: TELL BROTHER IT’S MY TURN AGAIN, MY TURN TO PLAY MY TURNS. TELL HIM I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S CHANGED. TELL HIM TO TELL ME. TELL HIM EVERYWHERE I GO, EVERYTHING IS ALREADY DONE.
MM: Your younger brother with your same name closes his eyes from exhaustion at how you are always saying exactly these words anymore and the monotony of your voice. He says he’s always telling you that nothing is different. He has always been your younger brother with your same name and you are always wanting more. But you are the larger brother. So inside you there is someone like him and his size, and around that someone there is wrapped a larger someone who is your size, and you contain both, so that you should know. You should know, he says.
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Yesterday I wanted to
speak of it, that sense above
the others to me
important because all
that I know derives
from what it teaches me.
Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless,
different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to
turn away, endlessly
to turn away.
If the moon did not …
no, if you did not
I wouldn’t either, but
what would I not
do, what prevention, what
thing so quickly stopped.
That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not
now. Can I eat
what you give me. I
have not earned it. Must
I think of everything
as earned. Now love also
becomes a reward so
remote from me I have
only made it with my mind.
— Robert Creeley
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As regards plots I find real life no help at all. Real life seems to have no plots. And as I think a plot desirable and almost necessary, I have this extra grudge against life. But I think there are signs that strange things happen, though they do not emerge. I believe it would go ill with many of us, if we were faced by a strong temptation, and I suspect that with some of us it does go ill. — Ivy Compton Burnett
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p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Yes indeed, they are. ** Bill, Yeah, right? The horror movie piñatas: among the best I’ve seen. Well, at least your nephew didn’t ask you to take him to a KAWS show, unless he did. I think Banksy’s blah, but being young and into Banksy’s is not necessarily a bad sign at all. ** Sypha, Awesome, inspiring nightmares is no small virtue. Oh, well, giving yourself a diary is beyond just giving yourself a gift somehow. A tool of the trade. You consider ‘Not that great’ a ‘pan’? I expected you were going to slaughter some albums. As always, your musical tastes put the ‘v’ in versatile. From Sting to Sunn0))) is quite a crazy gulf. ** Barkley, Hi, Barkley! I’m so happy you enjoy the array. I saw Hatsune Miku live — or ‘live’ — about a year ago when ‘her’ tour brought ‘her’ through Paris. It’s mindbogglingly great. Have you seen ‘her’ live act? Super highly recommended if ‘she’ ever comes your way. You good? Having happy holidays? ** _Black_Acrylic, RIP Alasdair Gray indeed. A great writer. And RIP Vaughn Oliver too. A great designer. That Holly Hendry sculpture looks exciting. I wish I could see. I have some small thing for kinetic art, as you no doubt know. ** Corey Heiferman, Hi. Chuffed that you took pleasure from the piñatas. Oh, I played the video game ‘Viva Piñata’ back when. It was nuts and fantastic. I think I had it in a post here at some point. No, I’m not acquainted with Milo Martin. The name rings a bell, but I’m not even sure I’ve read him. I’ll find his stuff and then try the interview if his stuff floats any part of my boat. Thanks! Being a Romantic will serve you well in life. Cause you heartache and disappointment too, but it’ll keep you ‘young’, and what with cynicism turning so many people as old the hills these days, blessings. ** Okay. Today I’ve restored another one of my old Varioso posts from the dead blog. Again, these posts basically consist of things that interested me at the time but seemed unworthy for some reason or other of taking up an entire post. I trust that, via the law of averages, something up there will intrigue you. See you tomorrow.
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