Friday, December 4, 2015

Nocturnal Dream Missions

Vincent van Gogh, Nuit étoilée sur le Rhône

I have recurring dreams.

A lot of them are or have been of an archetypical strain: I'm well-acquainted with the teeth-falling-out dream (thank god it's been a few years since its last visit) and the back-in-highschool-somehow(-and-sometimes-naked) dream (which has also been on the wane, but the frequency of the the wait-I-think-I'm-late-for-work-oh-god-where-do-I-work dream is proportionately increasing). But a few of the reels on rotation in my covert theater are much more particular, and I'd like to take some notes here on two of them (I've had them both in as many nights), as much for the sake of just jotting them down for myself as to see if any passing armchair cyberpsychoanalysts might want to take a whack at interpreting them.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Effort at Synthesis: Alienation, Tribalism, Inverse Operations


So. In spite of my efforts (best or otherwise), I'm still unemployed.

Money's tight. While I'm in not in any immediate danger of being rolled out into the street, I've all but declared a moratorium on checking account withdrawals for anything but rent, utilities, groceries, and the occasional cup of coffee. I don't eat out anymore. I don't have the disposable income to go to shows, bars, or the theatre, so the nightlife is off limits to me. I can't afford a rock gym membership, and I can't pay the admission price for the Philadelphia M:tG scene (though I'd be just asking for trouble anyway).

Not having any money is bad. Not having any obligations is worse. I can sleep until eleven, noon, two in the afternoon—and it makes no difference. There's nobody expecting me, asking about me, or depending on me. I have no business with anyone in this city, and nobody in this city has any business with me. I feel like J. Alfred Prufrock. Or maybe Waluigi.

On second thought, it's not true that nobody in this city has any business with me. I do have friends around town, and here at home. But for the most part they're widely dispersed throughout the city, and they all have jobs. By the time they punch out in the evening, I'm too emotionally and spiritually enervated from sitting in bed all day and reloading Craigslist between X-Files episodes to be very good company for anyone—and besides, it's often the case that when my friends get out of work, they'd not up for doing much but sitting at home by themselves and watching Netflix or playing video games to cleanse their psychic palates.

Several friends have told me they wish they had more personal time, shorter commutes, and a better work/life balance. It's funny: most people I know need vacations, and I need my fucking vacation to be over already.

But I'm not sure how happy a new job would make me. I seem to remember having two different jobs at two different places in 2015, and there were too many days when I went about my shifts with a cloud of invisible black luna moths flitting about my head whispering this is pointless, you are pointless pointless pointless

And then most evenings I'd go home and sit by myself. Or wander onto a bar patio and, well, sit by myself.

I know a lot of people who seem dissatisfied. They tell me they would love to spend their time more intentionally, more meaningfully. When I ask how, their answers usually involve volunteering in some capacity, or a vague yen to "get involved." To make a difference. To contribute to something; to be a part of something.

I wonder if that isn't an oblique way of articulating loneliness.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Unemployment diary (cont.)

Harry Clarke, Descent into the Maelstrom

October 8: Sent out fifteen resumes before noon. Took a break to read up on yoga and breathing techniques to slow my metabolism so I won't have to eat so damned often.

October 9: Had idea for supplementary income: charge roommates time and materials for hanging out with them. Not only do I need a job, but apparently I also need roommates who appreciate me.

October 15: Rough week. No calls. Slim pickings on Craigslist today. Don't smoke enough to qualify for the $100/week smoker study at UPenn; can't afford to buy more cigarettes.

October 19: Bought new slacks for office assistant interview. Forgot to peel the sticker off; had it pointed out to me by the man conducting the interview. Tried to save face by peeling it off, slapping it over his mouth, and telling him to shut up and listen while I told him why I'd be an invaluable, incomparable asset to his team. Don't have a good feeling about this one.

October 21: Epiphany. Job interviews in customer service are a fine conversational kabuki wherein the applicant and the interviewer both (as individuals and as a pair) pretend they don't despise the average customer. Dispensing with the mendacity and trying to level with the interviewer on this point—decidedly not recommended.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

And that's a wrap.

Earlier this year, The Puritan, an illustrious Toronto lit zine that has been kind enough to publish a couple of my stories in the past (ahem and ahem), asked me if I'd curate their blog for a month. My job was to come up with a theme, rope about ten other people into writing posts around that theme, and cobble together three of my own pieces. The subject, in a nutshell, was the position, evolution, and viability of (print) literature in the twenty-first century. The whole thing went down in October—perhaps I should have said something about it earlier?

Well, here's the whole kaboodle, then. My three pieces were:
And here are my lovely and talented contributors!

In related news, I have a short story called "Katherine" in the new issue of Four Chambers. It's behind a paywall (you have to buy the magazine), but come on, support the arts. The editors have characterized my story as "gnarly," which was indeed what I was going for.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

When words aren't enough / When you can't find the words

I live in a city called Philadelphia. When you view it from above via Google Earth it looks like someone dug out a patch of grass and shoveled gravel and concrete chunks into the hollow. What it looks like from the ground is more difficult to describe.

When you try to describe the sensory ingressions of objects rather than simply naming the objects, you glimpse the degree to which our most foundational technology (language) has estranged us from the pure vibratory profusion of reality. I stand at the corner of 13th and Pine and try to compose a catalogue of what I see without using the following words: Building. Brick. Window. Glass. Street. Asphalt. Sidewalk. Cement. Car. Traffic light.

I have a very hard time of it.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Twelve Hits from Hell


Halloween is around the corner, and I'm pleased to announce the list of contestants for the fifth annual Beyond Easy Horror Film Festival! (BEHFF!), hosted at the historic Harold P. Warren Memorial Theatre! Tickets available at the box office. Not recommended for men with pacemakers, pregnant women, children, the elderly, or lovers of cinema.


The Hauntingish. A suburban house is inhabited by a socially anxious poltergeist that doesn't like bringing attention to itself. Essentially Meet the Parents with inexplicable continuity errors and spatial impossibilities a'la The Shining.

Objet d'terreur: A found-footage film in which a young video journalist is stalked through upper Manhattan one night by a serial murderer who likes to tape his kills. The juxtaposition of the footage reveals that the journalist and the killer are the same person, and that person is an obnoxious Columbia film student with a frightfully high opinion of himself.

The John. A young woman is left trapped in a porta-potty after a freak electrical accident kills every other person at an outdoor music festival. She begins to suspect she is not alone.

Delete Post. A haunted MacBook causes anything its user itemizes in a listicle to be erased from existence. The laptop falls into the possession of a freelancer writing for BuzzFeed. Within a week, every pop cultural product of the 1990s is extirpated from history. Pumpkin spice, UGGs, and other items popular among the Caucasian demographic soon follow. However, the disappearance of Beyoncé leaves too massive a hole in reality to go entirely unnoticed, and a plucky young paranormal investigator catches on.

How May I Kill You? A mysterious fog from outer space descends on a Trader Joe's store. The employees grow increasingly cheery and aggressively helpful until they become frenzied, dangerous lunatics. It its revealed that the fog is drawn to the radiation from credit card scanners, and soon Bed Bath & Beyond, Target, the Apple Store, etc. are affected. Retail shopping becomes a horrible life-or-death ordeal. (Sponsored by Amazon.)

Kangaroo Jack the Ripper: A macabre reboot of Kangaroo Jack.

Backstage: A Japanese body horror film wherein the the twelve teenaged members of a J-pop supergroup hideously transform, one by one, into members of their adult male fanbase, and beg their terrified bandmates for autographs and dates.

Buy the Full Moon: A laid-back New York stoner is bitten one night by a feral financier. From then on, the light of the full moon transforms him into an insufferable yuppie. He wakes up the next day with a copy of Fast Company magazine lying over his face, his bed surrounded by empty Starbucks cups, and finds himself vehemently reiterating points from TED Talks he has no conscious recollection of listening to.

The Monster at the End of this Film. The horror equivalent of Waiting for Godot. The rising tensions, boo! moments, and suggestions of the supernatural continually end up being false alarms, and then the credits roll after two hours of nothing really happening at all. The theater audience rises grousing from their seats and heads for the exit, only to discover that find brick walls have been erected behind the doors. As audience members panic, trample each other, and pound at the walls, the film restarts, with the volume seven times louder.

Toy Gory: Pretty much Child's Play, but with a murderous talking vibrator instead of a doll.

Tinder & Brimstone: A woman shows up for a Tinder date, and the dude talks at her for hours about craft beer, David Foster Wallace, and string theory. She realizes that her date is in fact Satan, and he won't allow the evening to end until she sells him her soul.

They're Coming: A suburban couple prepares for the impending zombie apocalypse by stocking up on ammunition and canned goods, becoming proficient in outdoor survival and mechanical repairs, and stashing guns and medical supplies in secret caches throughout the area. Everyone tells them they're crazy. "You'll see," they say, and wait for the zombies to come. The zombies never come, and the couple posts Donald Trump campaign signs in their windows because they're the real zombies, or something, and the movie is real life.

Friday, October 2, 2015

The Mesolimbic Express


Philadelphia. Home, sweet home. For how long this time, who knows?

My new place is not internet enabled as of yet. Since I'm some kind of flipfone-snapping primitive, if I don't have wifi, I don't have internet. But I'm managing. In the relatively recent past I've gotten by for weeks at a time living in places without internet access. (It is probably understood that both you and I judge "weeks at a time" no small interval, no small thing to go without a noosphere plug at the ready. Strange that as technology fulfills our needs, it should multiply our necessities.) I won't say it isn't tremendously inconvenient, because it absolutely is, but at times it is vivifying. I enjoy these incidental vacations from the web like I enjoy those itchy and impatient weeks when I tell myself I don't need cigarettes, when, for all the aggravation, I do notice that I'm breathing more easily and rediscovering that there is a beautiful olfactory dimension to this existence. (Protip: if you're going to pick a day to lay off smoking a while, try to time it with one of the equinoxes.)