Ears to hear, eyes to see.

School’s been keeping me busy. November was a clusterfuck and I’m glad it’s over and I hope it never comes back. The first 3 weeks I was out of class I knocked a bunch off my list: A through-the-night rereading of The Perks of Being a Wallflower actually couldn’t even wait until finals were over. The Outsiders, mostly out of curiosity. Stardust and American Gods almost back to back. I don’t think it’s possible for Gaiman to disappoint me at this point and I wish I’d started reading him sooner. Life of Pi and Downtown Owl, both better than I expected in completely different ways. One gave me more than I wanted and the other gave me less and they were both perfect. The Original of Laura, which I’m now convinced should have been archived instead. (Honestly, any archive in the world lucky enough to have his attention would have done whatever Dmitri asked. It’s not a complete novel, not even close. Interesting, yeah, and kind of exciting to look through the drafts of a genius and everything, but still. It’s not a novel. It’s not whole. It’s the closest I may ever come to understanding the concept of blasphemy, but it was like catching him with his pants down.) Started Wittgenstein’s Mistress but didn’t think it would get me through the flight so I picked up The Corrections instead, which contains a small universe and gave me a near-panic attack in a hotel in Chinatown in San Francisco two days after Christmas…

David Markson used to come into Strand all the time (I guess he still does). He once walked past where a coworker and I were trying to pretend we weren’t stuffing our faces with greasy bacon-egg-and-cheeses and said something like, that smells good. I wasn’t the one who recognized him.

Sometimes it’s hard not to miss a life I didn’t have to take seriously. Sometimes I feel like I escaped something terminal. It’s weird how happy it makes me to remember always volunteering to run the inventory up to the warehouse on the mornings I opened, so I could sneak to the diner across the street for second breakfast. Or how I would sit a bit longer at the counter there nights I closed, and bring back cheese fries for the back desk, how the guys at the diner all knew me and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them, the last time, that I wouldn’t be coming back.

There was a party and he knew something was off and I wasn’t thinking all this stuff, but I was carrying it, I guess. He said, what could be better? He was being serious and I hated it and I said, Nothing, and meant it so much I almost choked on my own ashy throat. Nothing could be better. Thinking of the meteor shower, huddled under the sleeping bag on the hill, cold hands and a romantic impulsiveness. What I’m thinking about the man next to me, now, on the patio, is: it’s only a mistake if I don’t learn from it. I think: You’re one of Them, foolish enough to insist sensitivity and sincerity are actually a kind of weakness, some unfortunate defect.

One drink and my buddy who knows, who hears everything and tries not to know it too well, we get the fuck out. Fold back into the kitchen and drink how we’re meant to, and I try to explain again. That he has a good, strong heart. That this matters. And–no, dude, just listen: It matters. It matters that I’m always trying to tell him shit I don’t know how the fuck to say, because there aren’t words for it, and that he hears it anyway. I don’t know how deep it gets in. I can’t know if he carries things too. But he can hear me.

And then California and Christmas on the beach and whiskey and the sunset. And the panic and the guilt in the hotel after it was too late to change anything. For the first 48 hours after I land Guy and I are inseparable. And I’m not anxious, about anything. I forget to crave nicotine. Then the phone call from the city, the insustainability of the whole thing, half a pack suddenly gone, I would do anything to help her and I know, just by being me, that I can’t. She knows it too. But she calls. She knows some things I don’t and tells me things no one else would tell me, that I don’t fully want to hear, and I went so far, to avoid looking, but still I don’t stop answering.

 

Why I love Dostoevsky, and probably forgive DFW for “Octet.”

Been reading: The Freedom Manifesto, The Lie, Chuck Kolsterman IV, the nonfiction of David Foster Wallace, We Did Porn, Vineland, Still Life with Woodpecker, B is for Beer, Time’s Arrow (all highly recommended). Multiple drafts, over months, of the first letter in a chain of correspondence that I never thought I’d be involved in. (Right til the last second, even, until the mailbox slammed shut somewhere between here and the bar [air hockey and crowded and friends and pool and cheap beers and acid rock and Chads-and-Beckys mixing with the dreaded Dead], I almost tried to stick my arm in after it.) (This, by the way, is not recommended at all, with the exception of air hockey.)

Result: I’m sick of irony, I tell Chris on the porch the other night. Not in the actual, literary-device/sitcom-laughtrack unexpected-outcome sense. In the snarky, smirky, let’s-pretend-none-of-us-have-sincere-emotions sense. I try to reason my way out over and over, and discourage sincerity in sensitive people for fear they’ll be crushed, but I’m a romantic way past a fault.

What I didn’t say was, I tried to find some kind of definitive version of This is Water. I found: no two printed versions alike (online or on paper), no record of the video (anecdotally?) made at the commencement on YouTube or through Google. Because certain little bits are missing from one version, and other little bits are missing from another. Like, of the suicide references. And reading A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, I can’t comprehend how so many people could say, I knew him, but I had no idea… Because it’s all right there. Even the reference (in a footnote, of course) to how he filled three notebooks with ramblings over a single incident while he was boarding the ship. Or just the way he writes about Dostoevsky. Maybe it’s easier to see after the fact. Maybe we can smell our unstable own.

The difference, I believe, being that I’m a romantic. (In the Edna St. Vincent Millay sense? I guess…) I mean that I also saw Love in the Time of Cholera and hated it, I mean I almost didn’t even finish it, because Florentino is a fucking poser. Because a real romantic would revel in that kind of suffering. Thrive on it. And this dumbshit goes crying to his mother instead.

Dostoevsky understood this, too, and DFW was the first one able to put it into words. That suffering can be an oasis. A refueling point that carries one through the drudgery of work and schedules and cleaning and commuting: the guy who made me question everything then broke my heart and doesn’t even know it, every halfassed story I ever let into daylight, people I love and depend on who have nearly killed me, every ignorant and unforgivable thing I did entirely to myself, songs I can’t listen to anymore on repeat in the back of my head that keep the blood from stopping.

 

Patterns in the dissonance.

A break for summer, I guess. And what: A bookbinding class and sudden flood of ideas, a whole new open space to experiment and build and fuck up and beautify. Mountain roads sharp and unguarded and, turning, a wall rises up, the land suddenly vertical and so immense the edges aren’t visible (for a moment I imagine it has its own gravity, that it’s pulling me in. Panic, relief). A window seat that gets me over at least this one small fear. Too many days in a city too humid to accomplish anything except muted tours of foreign lives, insular and unknowable anguish (the tedium of grief or insoluble regret or the slow smoldering-out of an unremarkable existence); a too-late call from a past so distant as to be literally unspeakable (whole chunks being absent from conscious memory) but still present enough to guard against what scraps of affection haven’t yet rusted away; a hall so full of faded acquaintances and complete strangers – complete Others – and my script lost in the mail, the mind falters, unanchored and overwracked, shuddering almost entirely adrift. Standing soaked, alone for the first time in days that seem decades, not daring to cross over but just making out in the 4am streetlights that yes, there’s a place in the boards swung open, you can see clear to the back, the mounds of dirt turning to mud: there is absolutely nothing left.

Then the nights cool off. Free pool and jukebox at Streets on Wednesdays, so we head on up. Fall into doubles with strangers but we grab a second on the patio and “I missed you too.” Strange to hug someone I usually only touch in the most masculine of ways: high-fives, dead-arms. Say I can’t go back, it fucks with my head, December I want to be far away, like Nowhere, surrounded by Nothing, (nearly crying now with the frustration of failed articulation, rage at knowing I couldn’t do any better sober, anyways,) come winter I want a death you can come back from. And he, knowingly, says, I did that, and smiles something about the dreams and I say yeah, I want a coma you can write in, and later we discuss Mexico with — admittedly — disparate degrees of sincerity. Me, what I really want, is an island.

 

Seeking in all the wrong places.

The thing I hate about library books sometimes is having to give them back. The thing that comforts me is the thought of someone else checking them out. Which brings me to Denis Johnson. Reading Seek, a collection of long pieces of journalism, he reminds me of Joan Didion, in that he goes for people and stories outside the mainstream. He rocks the New-Journo style too, so straightforward that the full horror of the situation at hand (as in Liberia) comes upon you suddenly, crushingly.

His fiction is the same way: Jesus’ Son, Angels, Resuscitation of a Hanged Man all skirt along the margins, this last maybe most of all. It’s about a man who moves from the Midwest to Provincetown after a failed suicide attempt, picks up a shady detective job, falls in love with a lesbian and slowly grows more and more delusional until he finally dresses in drag, steals a boat and tries to shoot the Archbishop. Disorienting in the deepest sense. (Incidentally, if you liked The Crying of Lot 49, you might like this too. Except where Pynchon leaves things murky, Johnson’s guy is clearly making connections where there are none, is clearly insane.)

The disconcerting thing for me is that I never fully settled into it the way I did with Jesus’ Son or Angels. A lot of the instability in both of these, I think, came from the outside, and here it’s all internal. It’s not that he takes us over unfamiliar terrain — he brings us to the center of an earthquake, some beautiful backwoods country no one’s ever heard of swallowing itself up.

 

The Facts Behind Us

I’m only halfway through all the Denis Johnson, I’m done with Seek and the Veil, leaving two to go, breaking to read Edward Wood’s Worshipping the Myths of World War II. It would be easy to dismiss his ideas if his impressive range of knowledge and research – not to mention his personal experiences – didn’t  give him more credibility than anyone else I’ve read on the subject.

My first bike ride since high school happens like this: Sam and I are smoking outside the LoDo store, which I just closed. And he’s saying can’t I just take the bus and meet him at the bar? He doesn’t want to walk, he wants to ride. And I’m giving in, and some kid says, hey, do you want this bike? It’s been here for like 3 days. No lock, no rear brake, no helmet, no back reflector. A little too much slack on the chain when I downshift.

I’d forgotten how good it feels.

So there’s this book by Yann Martel. Four of his early stories. Named for the first one, The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios. It’s about a 19-year-old boy, in the mid-80s, dying of the random AIDS he got from a Mexican blood transfusion. From the point of view of his college friend, who visits in the hospital and they make up stories to pass the time. And the friend holds it together pretty well while the kid’s getting worse and worse, until one day he comes to visit and the kid’s gone blind. And the friend, whose life is not ending, loses it.

And later I almost say it. If I were you I’d leave him to rot. I have every right and no right. Instead, we tell each other stories, to pass the time until forever.

 

My Melancholic Baby: The Sandman + a beautiful dress for an ugly place.

So a bunch of ILLs that I had given up on all came in at once and it’s like a Denis Johnson buffet: The Veil, Seek, Resuscitation of a Hanged Man, The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly. And I’m so overwhelmed, because I’ve just finished Don’t Panic (Neil Gaiman’s book on Douglas Adams) and I’m just about to start on Volume 9 of The Sandman, and there’s no way I can stop until it’s done.

And I don’t. The thing about Neil Gaiman is that he’s constantly making all these literary/mythological/philosophical allusions, like, “Look chap, this isn’t just another silly comic book — I’ve read Marlowe, and I’m bloody serious here.” But the thing about me is that I don’t care because he’s not just shit-talking. Yeah I love the baby gargoyle and the image of Delirium walking a goldfish that acts more like a balloon. I love Lucien and his library of books that never were. But mostly I love that Gaiman somehow created a world where Cain and Loki and Morpheus coexist, that his world is big enough and complex enough for it all to make perfect sense.

And Don’t Panic? Well it’s mostly about HHGTG, secondarily about Adams himself, and calling it by its stuffy-sounding technical name (“literary biography”) doesn’t quite do it justice. Gaiman doesn’t try to imitate Adams’ humor, but he kind of overlaps in places. The weirdness is in the perspective, I think — the first edition was finished before Adams’ death, but it’s been updated since then. It’s not a standout work of literary genius or anything, but it entertained me and satisfied my curiosity, especially about Hitchhiker’s early years. There’s plenty of trivia, and little bits of scripts that never made it and so forth to geek out over.

And I step outside at the exact wrong moment, it’s not just rain now it’s fucking hailing too, it’s about 100 feet from my backdoor to Bender’s and I still get soaked, it’s a Friday night but the place is dead and by the time George and Phil come get me I’m almost completely drunk.

Between storms is blazing sunlight, at least on one side of the street, and she’s talking about Before This Happened and I come so close. I can’t tell if it’s me from the inside, or the sunlight, that burning feeling and I say no, it’s always been like this, the difference is that we hadn’t known it. He is two people, maybe. It’s all I say, this little bit of honesty and I think maybe Sandman is doing other things, too.

And I buy  a round-trip ticket and a gold dress. August can’t be far enough away and I make it to the cafe just in time before it starts again, the rain and the hail that are washing summer down the sewer before I’ve even looked up long enough to recognize it.

 

Knock me down, summer’s edge.

Busy-ness. Half the day at the real job, then straight downtown to the bookstore for the night all this past week. We go to the new place straight off one night and we’re fucking around with the tape measure in all this empty space, all these decorating books filling my head with patterns, colors, possibilities. Then Blaise calls because he’s in Queens and he sounds alone and very far away.  The most honest thing I could’ve said was, it’s just a little farther east, say a prayer and break all the windows. Instead I pass him along to Sam.

On the patio by Lancer, you can tell it’s happy hour because it’s a weeknight and the bartender is the only one drunk and because we decide nothing’s going to get to us for now. Then moving. Then Red Rocks. Me and Sam and some beer and finding a trail off the pavement to listen to Iron and Wine and all I’m thinking, really, is I’m glad I’m here, it’s been a year already and I can choose now what to remember.

One of the librarians has me helping pick titles for the book club, I got lucky the first time with The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and now she thinks I’ve got a knack. Maybe I do. So I figured I’d better read it. One of those popular, “literary” novels, on the whole not bad. It could give a bunch of people with nothing else in common a lot to talk about and even the characters I didn’t like amused me. One of those things that sucks you in so even though you know what’s going to happen, you keep going anyway because you really want to see what it looks like. (And yes, okay, I take back what I said about Stoker’s monopoly on epist0latory novels.) Scouting the area on wikipedia makes me want to see it for myself, but for now I don’t really want to be anywhere else.

 

The May bug.

And of course what I do, he tells me he’s got work to do, let’s go down by the river, and so I’m sitting on the rocks and it doesn’t really rain after all and in Boulder I feel surrounded by something huge and protective. And I’m reading Pieces for the Left Hand by J. Robert Lennon, and he’s just the right amount of Dahl and O. Henry somehow, refreshing and unsettling and addictive and, and. I realize all he’s doing is drawing. Me. The night before, I brought him a book of Norse myths I found at work, knowing he’d get a kick out of the illustrations. He started reading it. I mean out loud. I hadn’t felt so calm in weeks, it was bound to end sometime, I was bound to wake up and walk out sometime.

Wasn’t I? I mean the thing I love about Sam is that we crash and burn at the same time. That I’m bursting laughing before I realize what I’m doing and “Oh god, I’m sorry, that’s not really funny. . . Shit, I’m sorry. It’s really not,” still suppressing giggles and he doesn’t even give a shit. That he should’ve been laughing at me and he didn’t.

So again. I fall into what loves me back via Thomas Moore’s The Style of Connectedness. Flip around GR, rediscover things I’ve got bookmarked. The only pencilmark that’s anywhere is an arrow, and all it’s doing is pointing to this one short paragraph:

>>Feedback, smile-to-smile, adjustments, waverings: what it damps out to is we will never know each other. Beaming, strangers, la-la-la, off to listen to the end of a man we both loved and we’re strangers at the films, condemned to separate rows, aisles, exits, homegoings.<<

What’s so special about this thing, anyway, that my dialogue with it’s outlasted four relationships. I’m starting to think it understands me better, on grounds of the one thing we have in common. I mean, it’s painstakingly open but so fucking convoluted you can’t even tell, for godsake and who has the patience. (Open it, speak it, the evening stars and the weight of all these histories.) I mean lies and wishes are the same thing and all it ever did was take me in and give me what I need.

 

Dave Cullen v. Everest, + Sleeptalking Shakespeare

Well, not exactly. I read Dave Cullen’s book in about two days. It’s being compared to In Cold Blood and Helter Skelter (both of which I read three and four years ago, respectively), but that doesn’t do it for me. I sound like I’m way the hell off in left field saying how much he reminds me of Jon Krakauer but look: Columbine and Into Thin Air were both about a lot of people dying for a really stupid reason. Or one big nonsensical underlying cause that’s not a reason at all, and then lots of little reasons thrown in: minor lapses in judgment or failures in the chains of command or terrible coincidence.

Still with me? Okay. Both are extremely talented writers in their own right, and both are compassionately (and respectfully, as much as it’s possible) meticulous. They know the best way to honor the dead is to tell as much of the truth as they can find, as clearly as possible. And it’s more than that. Cullen even had me feeling sympathy for a woman who modeled herself an Upstanding Christian while working for Lockheed Martin. I guess part of the reason I like Cullen so much is because he doesn’t even hint at this glaring contradiction. Either he’s way too classy or he didn’t even notice (hard to believe, considering how observant and thorough he is otherwise), but either way we can infer the same thing: that shit is not the point. He got someone like me to step back and say, “okay man, you’re right. I’m still with you,” and keep reading.

Anyway, Cullen’s also written for just about every top-shelf news publication I read regularly, and he’s been reporting on Columbine since the day it happened. He knows more about it than anyone and he’s trying to explain. Probably the worst thing is that the more he explains the who, what, and how, the more you realize there is no why. This brings me back to Krakauer also, because mountains and snowstorms don’t follow human logic, and because the climbers’ reasons were all some sloppily personalized version of because it’s there, which is no reason at all. What Cullen comes away with isn’t any better, and it’s not for lack of trying. Helter Skelter and Into Thin Air both fucked with my sleeping patterns. I tried to approach Columbine as a piece of local history but it turned out to be one more thing that almost broke me.

Sometime later I’m standing at the foot of the bed taking my jeans off, my fingers still cold from the air outside and he sits up and looks at me. Wants to know, are you sleeping? Yes, I say. Oh, you are? I’m sleepwalking, I say. Sleeptalking. And he slumps back down, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders, still saying things, but nonsense this time. He talked to me all night and he doesn’t remember a thing.

I think I might pick up War and Peace again. Tolstoy, he says. Wants to know if it’s any good. It’s surprisingly easy to outline the basic structure of the thing. He’s pretty cool, I say, even if he hated Shakespeare for no good reason. (See: Orwell’s essay on Tolstoy in All Art is Propaganda – it’s fairly pissy, even for him.) Apparently the reason they call Shakespeare a thief isn’t what I thought it was, because Blaise says Much Ado About Nothing was originally a Turkish folk tale, that there are a bunch like that, taken from African and Eastern parables and stories and of course the British general public didn’t know any better at the time. Or I guess for a long time after.

I have the Complete Works lying around somewhere. Wonder if wikipedia would be of any use. When I said the word “history” to the MLIS chair, this is what I meant. Fernando Baez is what I meant.

That’s why he doesn’t talk much during the day, he says all he needs at night and I’m wondering if that’s why he doesn’t know the right things to say when I kind of wish that goddamn it someone would. I’m wondering why it took me so long to realize what a crazy academic I am, and how much trouble I’m really in.

 

Anarchy and the Wallflower.

I think maybe you can get insomnia from some people the way cats can give you allergies. How else do you explain?

Probably it’s after midnight and I’m up watching the Twilight Zone, the most comfortable spot on the couch but my back’s all crooked. I really want to move, realign myself except he’s got his head in my lap, snoring like some kind of small furry animal. That passed-out kind of heavy, and what can I do. Sit awhile, gently fucking up his hair, feeling like there isn’t anything left to think about.

The day before was orientation for accepted students at DU. So exciting I don’t even care about adding to my loans.  One of the professors is apparently crazy about indexing. My people, at last.

Into the For Beginners series lately. Sure the editing and design is kind of lousy and Marcos Mayer launches some new and terrible assault against the correct usage of commas on every other page of the Anarchism book, but overall they’re interesting. This is the stuff I never would have passed a class on during undergrad: Plato, Structuralism and Poststructuralism. But both of these are awesome. Plato actually covers Socrates through Aristotle, and Ancient Greek history as well – so you get the basics of all the teachings plus context. The Structuralism, etc. is pretty much for breakaway semi-intellectual urban rednecks like myself, who’ve read enough of Orwell’s essays to appreciate the ways the structure of a language can influence/limit thought but didn’t know how to correctly pronounce Claude Levi-Strauss’ name.

Which brought me to Anarchism. The thing that annoys me about this one (aside from the rampant crimes against grammar) is the tone. I mean, it’s not a school of thought clearly broken down by era and philosopher, with theories and main arguments outlined against just enough historical context to ground you. It’s more like an adventure novel with Anarchy as the hero. Of course the bits about Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are especially appealing, but the tone is just preachy enough to bother me.

Still. One of the regulars came over to me the other day at work to show me The Perks of Being a Wallflower, ask if I’d read it. Now I’m thinking of what Charlie’s teacher told him about reading Ayn Rand: be a filter. So I guess I just have to be a filter with this one. And add TPOBAW to the list of books I need, my old copy’s so long gone I’m not even sure what happened to it, or when. But I was excited to talk about it, and now I wish I had it to flip through. Because the other thing about the boy on the couch is that sometimes he makes me wish I was a fucking existentialist or something, but I know enough to know I’m not wired that way, and to be grateful for it.