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‘Max Blecher’s meteoric life was one prolonged surreal adventure. He was a Jewish Romanian writer and poet of unusual talent and vision, whose literary legacy remains invaluable. His life and creativity time was very short, less then a decade. He had correspondence, among many others, with André Breton, André Gide and Martin Heidegger. He was praised by Eugene Ionesco, Mihail Sebastian, Geo Bogza and Sasha Pana, many of them comparing his prose to Franz Kafka, Bruno Schultz, Robert Walser or Thomas Mann, but his work fell into bleak obscurity during Romania’s communist regime.
‘Blecher was diagnosed with spinal tuberculosis at the age of nineteen and spent the remaining ten years of his life mostly bedridden and practically immobile in a sanatorium in France, in a mummy like sarcophagus of plaster. But actually his imagination ran wild and Blecher often fantasized having sex, even if incased in plaster casts as if doing something impossible and forbidden. His narratives usually verge on romantic-memorialism but transcend into surrealism, almost accidentally.
‘In spite of his illness, Blecher continued to write, and during his lifetime published a volume of poetry and two novels, along with a number of short prose pieces, articles and translations. He published only three books: Transparent Body (poetry, 1934), and two novels, Scarred Hearts (1936) and Occurrence in the Immediate Unreality (1937). His writings received much critical acclaim when they were first published in Andre Breton’s literary review Le Surréalisme au service de la revolution.
‘His death at the age of 29, (31 May 1938) in Roman, Romania was a “non-event”, unworthy of an obit or a short notice in a local paper. Since the fall of the communism in 1989, Blecher’s stature and renown as an author have grown steadily with the publication of new editions and collections of his writings, in new critical studies in Romania and outside Romania, such as translations in German, English, and Spanish.’ — Valery Oisteanu, Big City Lit
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Further
Max Blecher @ Wikipedia
Max Blecher Website (in Romanian)
‘Reading Max Blecher’ @ Some Blind Alleys
‘Max Blecher: The Harlequin versus the Nothingness’
Max Blecher @ Goodreads
Clive Sinclair on MB’s ‘Scarred Hearts’
‘Tribute to Max Blecher’ @ VETIVER
Buy ‘OinIU’
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Media
The house of Max Blecher
Miriam Rasch bespreekt Avonturen in de alledaagse onwerkelijkheid van Max Blecher
Translator’s Day – Max Blecher’s “Collected Works”
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The Immediate Unreality
by Alistair Ian Blyth
In childhood, Max Blecher suffered “crises” or “attacks” of unreality, in which he experienced rupture both from the outer world of objects, and from the inner world of the self. These crises, narrated in Occurrences in the Immediate Unreality, might also be likened to the haunting moments of Stimmung evoked by Giorgio de Chirico in his pittura metafisica, as well as in his oneiric novel Hebdomeros (1929), moments during which inward disquietude is experienced as outward atmosphere, submerging the world in ineffable strangeness and enigma. In psychopathology, this is the eerie atmosphere of heightened but empty significance also experienced by sufferers of dementia praecox during the so-called ‘aura’ that precedes complete rupture with reality. Psychiatrist and neurologist Klaus Conrad referred to such states of exalted dread as the “Trema”, employing a piece of German theatrical slang for stage fright. In this respect it is notable that many of de Chirico’s paintings depict the vertiginously tilted boards of theatre stages. Likewise, as we shall see below, Blecher’s occurrences in the immediate unreality are also pervaded by a menacing sense of theatricality.
During the state of Stimmung, external phenomena are thus imbued with a sense of intense but ineffable significance, which hovers tantalisingly beyond reach. Like de Chirico, who saw the world as a “vast museum of strangeness”, Blecher too locates his crises out there in the world; they are intrinsic to various places, “sickly spaces”, which thereby become menacing “invisible traps”. These crises, which Blecher defines as the “profound sentiment of the world’s pointlessness”, are thus precisely the anti-epiphany or empty transcendence of Modernism: an anxious, heightened sense of meaningfulness, but one devoid of cognisable content, like the “Anwandlungen eines Fast-Nichts” (fits or attacks of an Almost-Nothing) described by Hugo von Hofmannsthal in Die Briefe des Zurückgekehrten (Letters of Those Who Returned) (1901). Like the cast of the inner ear whose image obsesses Blecher, people and things are nothing more than the negative image of an immanent emptiness.
Although in time Blecher’s crises as such abate, they leave behind them the same “crepuscular state” that used to presage them. As in de Chirico’s cluttered paintings of his later metaphysical period, Blecher then discovers in heteroclite, seemingly insignificant objects an “essential nostalgia for the world’s pointlessness”. Such states, which oscillate between melancholy and exaltation, are also closely intertwined with the ambiguous, confusing, even dream-like, experiences of his sexual awakening as an adolescent. He experiences occurrences as disturbingly artificial and theatrical, while other people are like automatons or mannequins, oblivious that “the certitude in which we live is separated by a very fine pellicle from the world of uncertainties”. The world itself becomes an eerie stage set, and many episodes in the novel occur in settings of inherent theatrical artificiality, such as the cinema, a waxworks exhibition, or the prop-cluttered basement beneath the stage of a theatre, where Blecher finds refuge and which thus becomes a symbol of the tiers of conscious and unconscious mind. Blecher himself dreams of being an inanimate waxwork, or else he is haunted by his own photograph, which he chances to see mysteriously displayed in the booth of a travelling fairground photographer and which then takes on a life of its own, threatening to subsume his own existence. In one of the most remarkable episodes in the book, Blecher attempts to escape from the agony of his exacerbated awareness (the “Bewußstseinswelt”, as it is called by Gottfried Benn, who similarly yearns to escape the pain of consciousness by regressing to the condition of mindless protoplasm) by descending to the ontological level of amorphous, primal mud.
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Book
Max Blecher Occurrence in the Immediate Unreality
New Directions
‘This autobiographical fiction offers an intimate and unsettling account of Blecher’s ideas of self-identity and the body. He explores the ‘crisis of unreality’ in relation to the human condition and shares his adolescent experiences of physical infirmity, social isolation and sexual awakening.
‘A poet and prose-writer, Blecher offers a harrowing account of the ‘bizarre adventure of being a man’ drawing upon his experience of being diagnosed with tuberculosis of the spine in 1928. He was treated in various sanatoria in France, Switzerland and Romania where he spent much of his time corresponding with Geo Bogza, Mihail Sebastian, André Breton, André Gide, Martin Heidegger and Ilarie Voronca, and sporadically collaborated with Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution and Les Feuillets inutiles.
‘What makes Max Blecher akin to Kafka, Bruno Schulz or Robert Walser is above all the faculty of inhabiting misfortune… Things emerge from their neutrality and besiege him, seeking to fascinate or terrorise him. ‘ — ND
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Excerpt
“I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.” — P. B. Shelley
When I glance for a long time at a precise point on the wall, I sometimes forget who and where I am. At that particular moment my identity vanishes, and I feel, for a second, no more, like a totally different person. This abstract character and my real self are fighting for my awareness with equal forces.
But very soon after my identity recomposes itself, like in those stereoscopic views in which sometimes the two images are being separated by mistake and the operator reunites them, offering, all of a sudden, to the viewer’s eye, an illusive relief. My room appears in those instants of a freshness never before existent. It regains its precedent consistency and the objects flow wisely into their places, just like a clod of soil thrown into a glass of water lays to its bottom in layers of different elements, well defined and of various colors. The room’s elements stratify in their own contour and in the coloring of the old memory I have of them.
This feeling of remoteness and loneliness during the instants when my daily being is dissolved into inconsistency is tremendously different from any other physical sensation. When it lasts longer, it converts into the pure terror that I might never again regain myself, and an insecure silhouette lingers in my brain, surrounded by a strong and profound, almost tactile light, as certain distant objects seen in the fog.
The terrible question “Who am I?” lives by its own in me, like a totally new entity, a mere excrescence from my body, made out of new and totally unknown skin and bones andorgans. Its solution is being asked for by a sort of clearness, more profound and more essential than that of the brain’s. Everything capable of motion in me begins to stir, to move, to struggle, to revolt, more strongly and elementary than in my daily life. Everything begs for a rapid solution. I sometimes rediscover the chamber as it usually is and as I know it, just as if I simply closed and opened my eyes; and every time the space is clearer, just like a certain landscape appears through the field glass, better and better organized, while, setting the distances, one’s eye sails through all the veils of intermediary images.
I finally recognize myself and my room, and I feel a slight feeling of drunkenness. The chamber is unexpectedly condensed in its inner matter, and I’m implacably back to the tactile surface of things: the deepest the wave of obscure misunderstanding, the highest its peak; now I have the clear certitude that every object must occupy its inherent place in the universe and that I must be the one I truly am.
Thus my awkward struggle in the midst of uncertainty has lost all its denominations, it becomes just an untainted regret that I had found nothing in the depths of my efforts. I am only surprised by the fact that such a complete lack of meaning could ever have been attached so profoundly to my intimate matter. Now that I found myself and I try to express my feelings, these appear to me like totally impersonal, simple exaggerations of my identity, grown up like a cancer from their own substance. Like a jelly fish’s tentacle, stretched immeasurably, having desperately explored the waves’ entrails before returning safely under the gelatinous sucker, I traversed all the certainties and uncertainties of my existence, in order to come back, irrevocably and painfully, under the opaque shell of my solitude, which all of a sudden becomes infinitely pure and pathetic …
The feeling of remoteness of the world is clear, and more intimate: a lucid and tender melancholy, like a dream which comes back into one’s mind in the midst of the dark night.
Only this melancholy reminds me something of the mystery and the slightly distressing charm of my childhood crises.
Only in this sudden vanishing of my identity can I revive the past fallings into cursed spaces, and only in the seconds of immediate lucidity that follow the return to the surface does the world appear to me in the light of its unusual inutility and desuetude, which grew around me when my hallucinatory trances had overthrown me.
My crises were always provoked in the very same places, a street, the house, some garden. Every time I was overrunning their borders, I was overwhelmed by a state of swoon and dizziness. Invisible traps placed at random through the town, differing in nothing from the surrounding atmosphere, they were ferociously waiting for me to fall a prey to their special substance. A step, one single step was enough to enter deep in one of these cursed spaces, and the crisis was inevitable.
One such place was in the town’s central park, in a small clearing at the end of an alley, where nobody was ever walking. The ring of bushes and wild roses and dwarfish acacias surrounding it opened tightly towards the desolating landscape of an empty field. In the whole world there was definitely no other place so sad and so deserted. Silence was setting down, opaque and condensed, on the dusty leaves, in the summer’s musty heat. From time to time one could hear the echoes of the trumpets from distant regiments. Infinitely poignant were those long callings from the desert… Far away, the air heated by the sun was trembling, vaporous like the transparent steam flowing above the boiling water.
The place was wild and isolated, of an endless loneliness. There, the day’s heat wasinfinitely more tiresome, and the air heavier by a long way. The yellowish dusty bushes were burning in the sun, in a scenery of an absolute seclusion. A bizarre feeling of uselessness was flowing above the clearing, which was living its own outlandish existence somewhere in the world, where I had come without any purpose or reason, in a certain summer afternoon, useless as well, an afternoon chaotically lost in the warmth, anchored through the bushes in the tangential space. At that particular moment I was feeling, profoundly and painfully, that I didn’t belong to this world, that I had nothing to do in it but wander through lost parks, through their dusty, heated clearings, deserted and wild, wild and deserted. And this wandering was finally breaking my heart to pieces.
Another cursed place was at the other side of the town, between the high and hollow shores of the river in which I was bathing with my playmates.
The shore was sunken on a side. Up on the bank there was a sunflower-oil factory. The seeds’ hulls were thrown between the edges of the sunken shore, and in time the pile raised gradually, until it became a long slope of dry hulls, uniting the bottom of the coast to the bank of the water. My playmates were descending towards the water on this slope, carefully, holing their hands, stepping deep into the carpet of rotten vegetable fabric.
The walls of the high shore, on the two sides of the slope, were abrupt and fantastically irregular. The rain had sculptured long stripes of delicate fissures and intricate arabesques, but hideous like the badly scared wounds, true rags into the mud’s wet flesh, horrible and unwrapped cuts.
I had to descend as well amidst these walls which impressed me tremendously, towards the river. When I was still far away, long before getting to the shore, my nostrils were filled by the smell of the rotten hulls, which was preparing me for the crisis, as a short period of incubation: this smell was unpleasant, and, at the same time, sophisticatedly suave.
Yes, my crises were all like this …
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*
p.s. Hey. ** Ilán Valdés, Hi. Thanks. The state you’re in sounds good to me. Scattered is maybe the ideal beginning? ** darbz on school laptop still, Hi! Cool, glad it struck home. I’m a roughly 6 am waker upper too. Mornings rule. Watching things light up is more exciting than watching them grow dark or something. As someone who works a lot, I’m way okay with solitude. Outsider folk music … I’d have to think. I love the folkier early Sebadoh and Sentridoh stuff. I’m sure there’s lots. I do like Judee Sill. Nick Drake was George Miles’s godhead as you probably know. Fiona Apple and Jeff Buckley have never gotten to me. No, I’m stuck in Paris and London for Halloween. It’s very sad. Hit a home haunt! Hit many! I guess I don’t need to tell you that you’ll be ruling this place tomorrow. ** Bill, Thanks, and, yeah, kind of memorable. Oops, I should’ve rechecked those links. Still tied down there? It’s been a while. Man, I hope you can ease off or back or whatever soon. So sorry and lots of luck and strength. ** HaRpEr //, Thanks, pal. Cronenberg is very hit and miss for me too. Mostly miss, if I think about it. My tops are all early or early-ish ones: ‘Videodrome’, ‘Dead Ringers’ most of the first horror ones, maybe ‘The Fly’, I can’t remember. His ‘Naked Lunch’ is totally dreadful. When Oliver Reed is explosive, he’s lots of fun. speaking of, I hope the new, long ‘The Devils’ opens here. Surely. ** _Black_Acrylic, Haha, that clip is very funny. I don’t think it’s real though, is it? It has AI presence. But still. ** Carsten, Hi. I like Christmas. I’ve developed a cherry picking relationship to it. The decorations, the Buches, the giddy gift-opening kiddos, etc. Instagram is definitely the best platform to promote stuff, it seems to me after having been there a while. Also the best place to discover interesting people and art stuff. I don’t think one needs constant engagement there, no. I do only because I announce the blog posts there every day, but lots of people there are sporadic. I say join and just see where that leads you. New film: Everything looks good. We’re Zooming with our producer to see where things stand and start moving forward just after Halloween. ** Adem Berbic, Writing seems less like a tightrope the more you do it and the more it becomes second nature. I was always certain about ‘God Jr.’. It just took me a while to negotiate the realisation that people had presumptions about what I do and don’t do. It took a while for that to become instructive. I was writing ‘The Sluts’ at the same time, so I just worked on that solely for about a year while I figured things out. The new After8 is on Rue du Faubourg St. Martin. Pretty close by. Very close to Re:Voir, if you know that. It’s somewhat larger though still not large, and it seems like nothing but a big plus. ** laura w, Even less days out now. Yikes. I hope ‘Rocky Horror’ is fun of some variety. Yes, the NFL is here. I have a lifelong ugh about American football. My parents took me to a game once as a kid, and the boredom I felt has lingered ever after. I love that the French have had zero interest American football, and I hope that doesn’t change. For their sake and mine. Sorry, not my thing. Yes, I saw that about Catapult, that’s terrible news. Especially re: Soft Skull who publish a lot of writers I like: Lynne Tillman, Richard Cheim, Juliet Escoria and many others. They published a book by me in their early days. I hope it finds a way to survive. Terrible. Swans conquer yet another innocent soul. Victoire! ** Okay. Today I’ve spotlight a brilliant novel that I don’t think is as known and read as it certainly should be, so I thought I would do my little part. See you tomorrow.
Now available in North America 
That’s my hope. As in, that my brain’s second-guessing of my writing becomes less paralysing and more constructive. Right, I think I see, re: ‘God Jr.’. I think that realisation would spin me out. Like, a couple of people have described my writing as ‘horror,’ which jars me, because I’m really not trying to write that. I’m just trying to capture certain aspects of my interior landscape. And that landscape is horror, apparently? Do you mean ‘instructive’ in the sense that you felt more able to actively work with what those presumptions might be in the writing, or that in recognising them you could proceed independently of them?
I felt a proximity to the description of his attacks of unreality above. Like, it’s probably not the exact same thing, but it sounds very familiar. Very, very. The extract also feels very known. And sort of like an anti-Proust. I just pulled the trigger on a copy of the New Directions edition, whose cover looks strangely like the ‘Sunbather’ album art. Thank you for making the acquaintance.
Oops, was meaning to ask earlier but forgot. Do you know of any theme parks on the continent which skew towards an adult audience? Adult as in intense rides, not XXX (although I guess that would be interesting too). T was mulling it after going to Thorpe Park and experiencing a lot of, well, the opposite.
Hi Dennis! How is Paris? I hope not too scary. Has been a really busy week, so I haven’t been keeping super on track with everything. I had to prepare this huge document for a few weeks, and the guy I was working with (who sort of scares me) made it sound like an incredibly huge deal, but it ended up going really well. Phew!
I’ve also been reading Dr Faustus, which has been so good! I don’t think any other book has accurately got across how music felt to me as a child before I had a pedagogic second opinion on what the music was “doing”. I’m currently in the adolescent years section of the book, so I’m looking forward to the adult life part later. Hope you’re well!
I will offer myself up as a volunteer for reading this book and it’s straight to the top of my wish list. Blecher was certainly not known to me until now, so thank you for this day!
You think those carnivalesque figures the other day were AI? Would be a real shame if that is the case. Ribald humour and political satire have a right to exist in the real world.
ciao dennis!
long time no see, or hear, or anything!
just wanted to pop by here and tell you that i hope that you’re doing good. finally halloween season is here, but this year i truly don’t feel it at all. sad. thankfully your blog posts keep the spirits up a little bit.
are you gonna be present at the screening of “room temperature” in milan? i happen to be in milan that exact day! but i think you’re not gonna be there, just thought of asking. i’m sad we did not catch each other last time you were in ams (the second time, i mean) but work was unavoidable that day.
anyway, what are you reading those days/period? i could really use a suggestion.
have a good one, a presto!
What an incredible line: “this smell was unpleasant, and, at the same time, sophisticatedly suave.” For whatever reason, I’m really stuck on that writing. Thank you for introducing Blecher today. I’m going to get his writings for sure.
Very nice spotlight today. Interesting cat. Especially these “attacks of unreality”, which do sound familiar. Ionesco had this weird blinding vision, but only once when young, which he claimed then colored his entire worldview. Always found that once-&-done account a tad suspicious, but Blecher’s attacks make more sense to me. “States of exalted dread” especially, which sounds related to both spirit possession & shamanic trance, as well as the sensation of the duende I described in my guest post on that subject.
Yeah I know of your affection for Christmas… & I forgive you, haha. Kidding aside, that is one area I will never get. As in, there are plenty of things I’m not into myself but I can understand what others are getting out of them. Not with Christmas. I hate it with a fundamentalist passion, haha. The decorations & foods I can tolerate, but kids opening presents? Well maybe poor kids. But well-off children being showered with even more junk they don’t need? I’d rather watch a liposuction. And don’t get me started on the music…
Yeah I might give Instagram a shot & see what happens. Thanks for the advice.
Glad things are on track with the next film.
I found a great solution for my wifi problems & mobile data out here, so that’s a relief. Hoping to spend some time on the script this weekend. What’s on the docket for you?
Have one hell of an update to share: got my second blurb, this one from Ariel Resnikoff, & it’s a beauty. Here goes:
Carsten Czarnecki’s Skull Music is a visceral geo-linguistic wound & rhythmic rupture in the everyday sonic landscape “where purity goes to die in style.” Stripping away the sterile architecture of contemporary confessional lyric, Czarnecki constructs a dark, transgressive poetics of brutality from the marrow up. Part-archive dredged in ash, part-incantation for the abandoned and forgotten, echoing from an underbelly that “the weepers & the wailers never abandon,” Czarnecki’s poetry vibrates with an embedded violence at the limits of survival.
—Ariel Resnikoff
Hey Dennis – Max Blechner and his novel were totally unknown to me. Thanks for this introduction. The book looks like a real find.
I just emailed you the post from the Song Cave about Chimes. They included two exclusive excerpts and some great photos, etc. Whenever you’re able to schedule it, let me know and I’ll pass the info along to them.
I’m doing okay – a bit over-scheduled and under-enchanted, but trying to fix that. Fighting to wrench more writing time away from the demands of the job, film curating, band, etc.
I agree that The Devils is definitely Ken Russell’s best film. His BBC work that came before that is also excellent, if you haven’t seen it? There’s a boxset of it that Scott McClanahan hipped me to ages ago. It’s gonzo but also kinda rigorous, and much more compact than his later films.
How’re things progressing on the new film?
Hi Dennis, how are you doing in Paris at the moment now? Blecher is one of those who intersects with so many people I’m interested in, but I didn’t know much of his backstory. Oh, I was talking to Kier earlier and have hinted at some of the editions but haven’t really talked about them publicly yet. The first set is a series of images he’s done (really lovely photo work), and we were talking about doing a welcome-to-post here in the grand tradition when they come out, if you’re interested? We were also talking about doing an interview, and he suggested I ask if you might be up for a conversation/interview together, however that might work. A bit about the projects, but more the two of you talking about what you’re working on, ideas, art, etc. He asked me to mention it, but would follow up and figure something out between you if it appeals? Obviously no pressure at all, and know you’re busy, but thought it might be fun if it intrigues you. Otherwise, things are looking good here. I’ve been crazy busy, but in a really positive and productive way. It’s nice to feel like things are becoming really real.
Woah. “What makes Max Blecher akin to Kafka, Bruno Schulz or Robert Walser is above all the faculty of inhabiting misfortune… “ You read my mind! I’m always seeking out these ‘pathetic’ writers who like making themselves small on purpose. Maybe it’s some sort of personal projection, but I’m tired of reading so-called abjection centred novels about outgoing voices having normal missionary sex. No, I want Denton Welch stripping naked in an empty auditorium and locking himself in a wardrobe to purify himself, but I guess that stuff’s not too easy to sell to a mass audience.
I actually really like Russell, he’s a strange quirk in the history of British filmmaking alongside the likes of Peter Greenaway, though Russell is an odd duck that I can’t place my finger on.
‘The Devils’ is basically sold out everywhere near me. It’s gone strangely viral. I remember watching an old bootleg in shitty quality and even that being brilliant, so I’m so excited to see it restored and in its total vision. I think the virality of the restoration is coming from the strange trend of neo-conservative, aesthetically focused catholic converts if you ask me, but whatever it takes I suppose.
yeah i get that, football isn’t for everyone. i feel that way about soccer, incredibly boring sport, so i don’t mind that the french don’t care about our football. the world series is also on right now and i apologize for being sort of happy the dodgers aren’t in it, if you still have any hometown affinity for them.
i just got back from rocky horror and i chugged a very strongly caffeinated ice tea prior to watching it so am very amped right now hence why i’m here. the person at the box office asked if i was a virgin, which in this context means that i’ve never been to a show before, and i said i wasn’t because i didn’t want her to write “v” on my hand in liquid lipstick, and then was relieved because they called all the virgins up and played games with them involving acting out sex acts etc and i would rather not. it was a shadowcast so the movie was playing in the background and people were acting it out in the foreground and it was FINE. the riffs and call-outs on the movie are a big part of the culture of the film but i didn’t know there were so many of them and found it grating very quickly but again it was fine. if my friend was not in it i wouldn’t have seen it and my life would remain as unchanged as it is now. it’s one of those properties that’s so on the nose and intentionally camp i don’t find it as aesthetically appealing as maybe i should, if that makes sense.
yes, hopefully soft skull finds a new life somewhere. interesting book today, i’ve definitely added it to my list.
Phew! Just got off work at the noodle. They have me trained on the sautee line and im probably gonna stay there since im familiar with it and getting comfortable! How proud and confident I feel now! 5 orders on the board and lightning focused like a boxer on speed! I even look so maestro(?) and huagty and fancy pro-like when I flick my wrist to sautee the noodles now, which was hard to do at first. I can sautee scampi, rig rosa, fresca, pad thai ramen, noodles–oh on that topic!
I have terribly misjudged you my dear friend Dennis
*gets down on hands and knees*
Cold sesame noodles…sigh…are actually so fucking delicious! They just added sesame noodles to our new menu (steak tho yuck) aswell as something called Gochujang Carbonara ramen. Peanuty.
If I could teleport, I would come over there right now and serve you some sesame noodles that I made aswell as give you one of the rice krispies they throw away every night and I try to save as much as I can like a fucking lifeboat gathering survivors from the titanic
OH im so excited for tommorow Dennis! Thank you so much I appreciate it. I kindve burnt my self trying to finish that post before the Hellraiser Revival release and I hope it doesnt show too much near the accuracy..but then I forgot its literally a halloween centered post I wasnt taking too seriously/professionally
My english teacher who is also the English honors program director told me my writing was blessed by god last week from the video review (I enjoy that he gives us recorded as it happens feedback
I cried, and this was after deciding to go to church again, so it made it seem as if God wanted me to. I might publish the piece on my website, even though I know its one of those things he probably tells every somewhat above average writers, (especially in this illiterate society) but still it made me feel appreciated, as my writing I value so much as my identity. It makes me feel as i f my perception is not a weakness,. I need to write more transgressive stuff. Anyways. Going to open mic next week that I help post a booth with the student magazine editorial club….which my writing got published in! I cancelled the boy Harsher 2 day trip to make the open mic + get that kindve epxerience. Wether it was a bad decision or not idc. I saw Smashing Pumkins last week, an ethereal experience, and still recovering, its enough for me regardless. I want to get serious about this.
Hmm, sadly prob wont make a home haunt sadly…buttt I do get to go to a costume party Dj deck my dj friend is hosting : D A
Dont see my comment so just sending again to make sure 🙂
Phew! Just got off work at the noodle. They have me trained on the sautee line and im probably gonna stay there since im familiar with it and getting comfortable! How proud and confident I feel now! 5 orders on the board and lightning focused like a boxer on speed! I even look so maestro(?) and huagty and fancy pro-like when I flick my wrist to sautee the noodles now, which was hard to do at first. I can sautee scampi, rig rosa, fresca, pad thai ramen, noodles–oh on that topic!
I have terribly misjudged you my dear friend Dennis
*gets down on hands and knees*
Cold sesame noodles…sigh…are actually so fucking delicious! They just added sesame noodles to our new menu (steak tho yuck) aswell as something called Gochujang Carbonara ramen. Peanuty.
If I could teleport, I would come over there right now and serve you some sesame noodles that I made aswell as give you one of the rice krispies they throw away every night and I try to save as much as I can like a fucking lifeboat gathering survivors from the titanic
OH im so excited for tommorow Dennis! Thank you so much I appreciate it. I kindve burnt my self trying to finish that post before the Hellraiser Revival release and I hope it doesnt show too much near the accuracy..but then I forgot its literally a halloween centered post I wasnt taking too seriously/professionally
My english teacher who is also the English honors program director told me my writing was blessed by god last week from the video review (I enjoy that he gives us recorded as it happens feedback
I cried, and this was after deciding to go to church again, so it made it seem as if God wanted me to. I might publish the piece on my website, even though I know its one of those things he probably tells every somewhat above average writers, (especially in this illiterate society) but still it made me feel appreciated, as my writing I value so much as my identity. It makes me feel as i f my perception is not a weakness,. I need to write more transgressive stuff. Anyways. GOing to open mic next week that I help post a booth with the student magazine editorial club….which my writing got published in! I cancelled the boy Harsher 2 day trip to make the open mic + get that kindve epxerience. Wether it was a bad decision or not idc. I saw Smashing Pumkins last week, an ethereal experience, and still recovering, its enough for me regardless. I want to get serious about this.
Hmm, sadly prob wont make a home haunt sadly…buttt I do get to go to a costume party Dj deck my dj friend is hosting : D A
There was a flaw discovered in PHP, which WordPress is partially based on. That might account for the increase in error messages? I was somewhat proud of my comment but that’s ok. These things leave no trace behind them, or none that matters. The constant comments leave an impression, however. The old Sorites paradox. If this goes through, I hope that my disheartened brevity from trying over doesn’t colour the comment too much, and doesn’t take away from my love for Romanian surrealism, born of an exploration outwards from Czech surrealism into the region, directed towards Romania by having a friend from there. I think Blecher’s strength was perhaps that he wasn’t controlled by Breton. But what do I know.
Hey Dennis, thank GOD for book rec day… I started this vampire fiction anthology, for the season ya know, and just got sooo bored reading it idk why… I guess regular ol fiction and/or genre stuff isnt cutting it right now, which, to be fair, it usually doesnt!
Anyway, heres one for you I was thinking about: When I worked the book department at the thrift store, I noticed that lots of the young adult/teen fiction in like, the 00s was actually pretty playful formally. Cant speak to the content or quality at all, but some mainstream YA novels would be told entirely through text/instant messaging, or there were these super popular novels about troubled teens delivered entirely through poetry, etc. Now, I dont think theres a connection between the works, but this was around the same time as The Sluts getting published, and internet culture becoming mainstream… was that kinda thing on your radar at all? Even tho I never read any of that stuff, it actually seems super cool, in theory anyway, that formal and stylistic risks were being made and paid off in the YA literary space. I get the feeling that mainstream literature as a whole wasnt taking a lot of risks in the 00s…? anyway, just something I was thinking about.
Approaching weekend looking good? I got multiple recording projects, and gonna just get cozy at home otherwise… k, bye!