Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Myself and Bukowski
Randomly someone will mention Bukowski me.
This has always been strange to me.
I've read every novel and short story of Bukowski
But I've also read everything or almost everything by
Jean Paul Sartre
Chekhov
Kerouac
Hemingway
Ezra Pound
Beckett
Joyce
Dostoevsky
Erskine Caldwell
Richard Wright
Simone De Beauvoir
Nietzsche
Wittgenstein
Burroughs
Albert Camus
Hunter S. Thompson
Jean Rhys
Richard Yates
Easton Ellis
Kathy Acker
Oscar Wilde
T.S. ELiot
Langston Hughes
Sigmund Freud
B.F. Skinner
I think this Bukowski relation is because of the objects or subjects discussed in my writing.
Bukowski and I have had similiar lives
He grew up during the great depression
I grew up in the Youngstown area which during my childhood had an unemployment rate of 20 to 30 percent.
The steel mills closed in 1977, i was born in 1980, there was a terrible economic depression, mental depression, and moral bankruptcy.
My father is a mean a meatcutter, his father was a mean blue collar asshole too.
His mother wasn't so good, and neither was mine.
So a common theme there.
Most of the people in my books are blue collar and their lives are pretty pathetic. The people in my books lack ambition, are bitter, and generally don't know how to feel about things.
So there is a common theme.
I write a lot about drinking, strippers, drugs, and sex because those are the happy things of a person without money.
I would very much like to write about a vacation to Europe.
If someone would like me to write about a vacation to Europe and they want to pay for it, I would be happy to write that book.
So I understand that relation.
But to go on:
Bukowski is a lot like Celine. He was like the American Celine, a man going around having experiences and then writing about his emotions concerning those experiences.
The only person that has compared me to Celine has been Jim Chapman.
Bukowski stylistically had a lot in common with Hemingway. Bukowski's paragraphs were about the same size and his dialogue worked the same way.
Before I wrote The Human War and The Condemned I had only one Bukowski Ham on Rye, and it was like on a Tuesday in high school. I read it and didn't think about it again.
I ended up reading all of Bukowski when I was like 22 because a girl I know named Ashley who killed herself six months ago let me borrow like two of his books. I think Burning Babies has some Bukowski tones to it, I will admit that.
The Human War and The Condemned were mainly influenced by Beckett, Marcel Proust, Jean Paul Sartre and Wittgenstein.
I really liked Beckett's absurd dialogue, I liked how everyone in his plays just talked without meaning.
I like how Proust just exists and feels.
Sartre's existentialism influenced how I constructed characters.
And Wittgenstein made me want my lines to be really sharp and clear.
When I was like 24 I read Chekhov, Yates, Richard Wright and Erskine Caldwell which influenced Treatise, The Insurgent and Best Behavior.
I think if you have read those four authors you would know that my style and the way I look at characters and how to construct scenes has more to do with them and not Bukowski.
Like this blog post
I don't think this has anything to do with Bukowski.
I think this is in the spirit of maybe Nietzsche or Yates.
The narrator is constantly asking himself, "Why am I behaving like this?"
I want to create the constant epiphany.
Can a person constantly be realizing why they are behaving a certain way?
I don't think Bukowski was really concerned with why people were behaving certain ways.
If there's a drunk woman doing weird shit in a Bukowski story, Bukowski doesn't care, he thinks it is amusing.
Bukowski doesn't care about why his dad behaves so badly in Ham on Rye, the child is the victim, there is no real story about the father, no reason for his punishing of young Hank.
Someone said that I am more honest than Bukowski. I think that also, to be arrogant like Bukowski.
But I don't think Bukowski was totally trying to be honest. A lot of best stories were just little five page things about random events that didn't happen to Hank Chinaski. I'm in a computer lab and don't have access to my books at this moment. But later this week I will post the title of like ten Bukowski short stories that I enjoy. I don't think horse racing are in any of them.
Randomly Bukowski could tell a really good little story.
I have hardly ever told a good story.
I'm completely incapable of telling a good story.
Here are two stories I wrote I like
The Italian Princess and Visiting my Sister.
Both of these 'short stories' have no story to them.
My style if it exists
is that for the most
there is a narrator
and he is alone
and has no one to talk to
no one will listen
to what he has to say
so he says it to the audience
he imagines
that he steps out onto a stage
sits down
on a hard wood folding chair
he or she lights a cigarette
takes a drink
and politely rambles to the audience
the audience sits
most
importantly
quietly
listening
the audience
knows exactly
what the person is saying
they know they have the same problems
but they are embarrassed of saying it themselves
so they let the person on the stage say it
and after the performer is done with their monologue
The audience attacks the stage and kills the performer
for revealing their secrets
many years later
the body of the performer is paraded around the streets
and the mothers cry
while their ninos hold their knees
the middle aged men who refuse to shed tears in public
defend his dead body with their fists
This has always been strange to me.
I've read every novel and short story of Bukowski
But I've also read everything or almost everything by
Jean Paul Sartre
Chekhov
Kerouac
Hemingway
Ezra Pound
Beckett
Joyce
Dostoevsky
Erskine Caldwell
Richard Wright
Simone De Beauvoir
Nietzsche
Wittgenstein
Burroughs
Albert Camus
Hunter S. Thompson
Jean Rhys
Richard Yates
Easton Ellis
Kathy Acker
Oscar Wilde
T.S. ELiot
Langston Hughes
Sigmund Freud
B.F. Skinner
I think this Bukowski relation is because of the objects or subjects discussed in my writing.
Bukowski and I have had similiar lives
He grew up during the great depression
I grew up in the Youngstown area which during my childhood had an unemployment rate of 20 to 30 percent.
The steel mills closed in 1977, i was born in 1980, there was a terrible economic depression, mental depression, and moral bankruptcy.
My father is a mean a meatcutter, his father was a mean blue collar asshole too.
His mother wasn't so good, and neither was mine.
So a common theme there.
Most of the people in my books are blue collar and their lives are pretty pathetic. The people in my books lack ambition, are bitter, and generally don't know how to feel about things.
So there is a common theme.
I write a lot about drinking, strippers, drugs, and sex because those are the happy things of a person without money.
I would very much like to write about a vacation to Europe.
If someone would like me to write about a vacation to Europe and they want to pay for it, I would be happy to write that book.
So I understand that relation.
But to go on:
Bukowski is a lot like Celine. He was like the American Celine, a man going around having experiences and then writing about his emotions concerning those experiences.
The only person that has compared me to Celine has been Jim Chapman.
Bukowski stylistically had a lot in common with Hemingway. Bukowski's paragraphs were about the same size and his dialogue worked the same way.
Before I wrote The Human War and The Condemned I had only one Bukowski Ham on Rye, and it was like on a Tuesday in high school. I read it and didn't think about it again.
I ended up reading all of Bukowski when I was like 22 because a girl I know named Ashley who killed herself six months ago let me borrow like two of his books. I think Burning Babies has some Bukowski tones to it, I will admit that.
The Human War and The Condemned were mainly influenced by Beckett, Marcel Proust, Jean Paul Sartre and Wittgenstein.
I really liked Beckett's absurd dialogue, I liked how everyone in his plays just talked without meaning.
I like how Proust just exists and feels.
Sartre's existentialism influenced how I constructed characters.
And Wittgenstein made me want my lines to be really sharp and clear.
When I was like 24 I read Chekhov, Yates, Richard Wright and Erskine Caldwell which influenced Treatise, The Insurgent and Best Behavior.
I think if you have read those four authors you would know that my style and the way I look at characters and how to construct scenes has more to do with them and not Bukowski.
Like this blog post
I don't think this has anything to do with Bukowski.
I think this is in the spirit of maybe Nietzsche or Yates.
The narrator is constantly asking himself, "Why am I behaving like this?"
I want to create the constant epiphany.
Can a person constantly be realizing why they are behaving a certain way?
I don't think Bukowski was really concerned with why people were behaving certain ways.
If there's a drunk woman doing weird shit in a Bukowski story, Bukowski doesn't care, he thinks it is amusing.
Bukowski doesn't care about why his dad behaves so badly in Ham on Rye, the child is the victim, there is no real story about the father, no reason for his punishing of young Hank.
Someone said that I am more honest than Bukowski. I think that also, to be arrogant like Bukowski.
But I don't think Bukowski was totally trying to be honest. A lot of best stories were just little five page things about random events that didn't happen to Hank Chinaski. I'm in a computer lab and don't have access to my books at this moment. But later this week I will post the title of like ten Bukowski short stories that I enjoy. I don't think horse racing are in any of them.
Randomly Bukowski could tell a really good little story.
I have hardly ever told a good story.
I'm completely incapable of telling a good story.
Here are two stories I wrote I like
The Italian Princess and Visiting my Sister.
Both of these 'short stories' have no story to them.
My style if it exists
is that for the most
there is a narrator
and he is alone
and has no one to talk to
no one will listen
to what he has to say
so he says it to the audience
he imagines
that he steps out onto a stage
sits down
on a hard wood folding chair
he or she lights a cigarette
takes a drink
and politely rambles to the audience
the audience sits
most
importantly
quietly
listening
the audience
knows exactly
what the person is saying
they know they have the same problems
but they are embarrassed of saying it themselves
so they let the person on the stage say it
and after the performer is done with their monologue
The audience attacks the stage and kills the performer
for revealing their secrets
many years later
the body of the performer is paraded around the streets
and the mothers cry
while their ninos hold their knees
the middle aged men who refuse to shed tears in public
defend his dead body with their fists
Friday, January 22, 2010
Living, what looks may be a novel in the future
I feel
or think
that i may be able to write a novel about this time of my life
a good college novel
I don't think there any good ones I like
None that have things like
The student sits in the classroom, he knows this professor rambles and is suffering from mental illness but they have tenure and won't get fired. The student is a junior and has become an expert at knowing when a professor is actually going to say something that will be on the test,and only listens then. The professor is currently talking about their dogs Pookie and Striker.
The student can't find a parking place and ends up parking in the parking lot of a bar. An old black man walks by him and says, "Cold outside" and keeps on walking.
One student opens the door and screams, "There's a deal on Sparks at Circle K"
A five page discussion concerning pizza.
A student sits in the foreign language lab because there are headphones listening to New York staring out a large window at St. Elizabeth's hospital. A big blue cross shadows the landscape. The student remembers that is where he was born, brought into the earth. He looks to the right and sees McDonalds. He thinks McDouble.
Most college novels concern students that went away to school, usually an upper class private school. But currently a lot of students don't go away to school, they take out loans and get grants and go to the local school.
There are no good state university novels.
I don't think it will be like Rules of Attraction, going to a state university isn't so apocalyptic.
The difference between a private college
and a state university
is that the students at state universities can't afford coke.
or think
that i may be able to write a novel about this time of my life
a good college novel
I don't think there any good ones I like
None that have things like
The student sits in the classroom, he knows this professor rambles and is suffering from mental illness but they have tenure and won't get fired. The student is a junior and has become an expert at knowing when a professor is actually going to say something that will be on the test,and only listens then. The professor is currently talking about their dogs Pookie and Striker.
The student can't find a parking place and ends up parking in the parking lot of a bar. An old black man walks by him and says, "Cold outside" and keeps on walking.
One student opens the door and screams, "There's a deal on Sparks at Circle K"
A five page discussion concerning pizza.
A student sits in the foreign language lab because there are headphones listening to New York staring out a large window at St. Elizabeth's hospital. A big blue cross shadows the landscape. The student remembers that is where he was born, brought into the earth. He looks to the right and sees McDonalds. He thinks McDouble.
Most college novels concern students that went away to school, usually an upper class private school. But currently a lot of students don't go away to school, they take out loans and get grants and go to the local school.
There are no good state university novels.
I don't think it will be like Rules of Attraction, going to a state university isn't so apocalyptic.
The difference between a private college
and a state university
is that the students at state universities can't afford coke.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Suicide
I was sitting at the computer the other day
it was night
I was drinking water from a bottle
I said to someone, "I missed my chance to kill myself. I should have killed myself right after my brother did, I wasn't talking to my family anymore, you and your family would have only known me for a year. We didn't have that many memories together. You would have got over it easily. I didn't teach your nephews how to fish and shoot pellet guns. I never fixed any house related things with your father. I could have legitmately killed myself, people would have said, 'Oh, Noah, his family wasn't good and he couldn't stand facing life without his brother and family.' It would have been simple. Of course people would have talked shit, they always do.
But I missed my chance.
Now I have to wait for my next chance."
it was night
I was drinking water from a bottle
I said to someone, "I missed my chance to kill myself. I should have killed myself right after my brother did, I wasn't talking to my family anymore, you and your family would have only known me for a year. We didn't have that many memories together. You would have got over it easily. I didn't teach your nephews how to fish and shoot pellet guns. I never fixed any house related things with your father. I could have legitmately killed myself, people would have said, 'Oh, Noah, his family wasn't good and he couldn't stand facing life without his brother and family.' It would have been simple. Of course people would have talked shit, they always do.
But I missed my chance.
Now I have to wait for my next chance."
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Living the Dream
I partied all weekend.
Many things happened, and they all happened when I was drunk. I think I went to work, but I don't remember it. I wasn't drunk for work, just hungover.
What happened over the weekend isn't important right now.
This morning I woke up tired as shit.
I went to the bathroom.
Looked in the mirror.
Made a horrible grimace at the mirror. I turned into a jelly fish and that jelly fish considered a morning suicide but decided to take a shower.
After the shower I felt a little better. I had no beverages containing caffeine in the house. I drank a sad cup of water. The water did nothing.
Then I shit for like 15 minutes trying to read Pessoa. I couldn't do anything but think of Pessoa shitting in an outhouse in Lisbon.
I made it out the door and got into my car, drove the car for like 50 yards, then realized I couldn't really see out the window and I needed to clean it off. I stopped the car and scrapped the window. Everything was devastating.
Made to where I park in the ghetto. Got out of my car, looked around, the sun wasn't out, it was cold, and the trees had no leaves.
Walked to my history of motion picture glass.
Watched Birth of a Nation
Birth of a Nation made me think "thomas hobbes"
I didn't feel like thinking the thought "thomas hobbes" that early in the morning.
There was some people sleeping in the glass.
I couldn't bring myself to go to sleep
So I didn't
The class would not end, I needed coffee bad
The class eventually ended
Walked to Kilcawly and finally got some coffee in me.
Was able to think about some things then, but not "thomas hobbes"
Joe the dishwasher from Langosta Roja walked up to me, he said his weekend was nice, I said, "I was drunk the whole time."
He laughed at me, El Viejo.
Made it to Spanish
The teacher had a crockpot with carne molida in it, tortillas and salsa.
She was teaching how to tell other people to do things
use 'se'
She made a tortilla and ate it.
She asked the class if anybody wanted to do it, they would get a free tortilla
no one volunteered
i was tired as shit but getting high off the coffee and volunteered.
Then she gave me extra credit for volunteering.
I went up there, not being able to listen to anything, but I was hungry
She started talking in spanish at me and expected me to talk in spanish back, I did badly.
She asked about what kind of salsa i wanted, i said mild and made a joke, The teacher likes jokes, I like jokes and I was tired so I decided to make one. I held my heart and said, "Corazon quema." I knew it wasn't right, but then she corrected me laughed.
Then I went to the political science department and made my major officially political science. Dr. Lepak gave me candy. He always gives me food, one day he gave me chili.
Then I went to Political Thought 3, where we have to read Beyond Good and Evil for a whole semester.
Lepak walked around the room reading Thus Spoke having a great time.
I still felt tired and didn't talk. Everyone was commenting and saying great things that good Americans say when reading Nietzsche.
I really needed to blow my nose and didn't have the time to concentrate on Nietzsche.
Many things happened, and they all happened when I was drunk. I think I went to work, but I don't remember it. I wasn't drunk for work, just hungover.
What happened over the weekend isn't important right now.
This morning I woke up tired as shit.
I went to the bathroom.
Looked in the mirror.
Made a horrible grimace at the mirror. I turned into a jelly fish and that jelly fish considered a morning suicide but decided to take a shower.
After the shower I felt a little better. I had no beverages containing caffeine in the house. I drank a sad cup of water. The water did nothing.
Then I shit for like 15 minutes trying to read Pessoa. I couldn't do anything but think of Pessoa shitting in an outhouse in Lisbon.
I made it out the door and got into my car, drove the car for like 50 yards, then realized I couldn't really see out the window and I needed to clean it off. I stopped the car and scrapped the window. Everything was devastating.
Made to where I park in the ghetto. Got out of my car, looked around, the sun wasn't out, it was cold, and the trees had no leaves.
Walked to my history of motion picture glass.
Watched Birth of a Nation
Birth of a Nation made me think "thomas hobbes"
I didn't feel like thinking the thought "thomas hobbes" that early in the morning.
There was some people sleeping in the glass.
I couldn't bring myself to go to sleep
So I didn't
The class would not end, I needed coffee bad
The class eventually ended
Walked to Kilcawly and finally got some coffee in me.
Was able to think about some things then, but not "thomas hobbes"
Joe the dishwasher from Langosta Roja walked up to me, he said his weekend was nice, I said, "I was drunk the whole time."
He laughed at me, El Viejo.
Made it to Spanish
The teacher had a crockpot with carne molida in it, tortillas and salsa.
She was teaching how to tell other people to do things
use 'se'
She made a tortilla and ate it.
She asked the class if anybody wanted to do it, they would get a free tortilla
no one volunteered
i was tired as shit but getting high off the coffee and volunteered.
Then she gave me extra credit for volunteering.
I went up there, not being able to listen to anything, but I was hungry
She started talking in spanish at me and expected me to talk in spanish back, I did badly.
She asked about what kind of salsa i wanted, i said mild and made a joke, The teacher likes jokes, I like jokes and I was tired so I decided to make one. I held my heart and said, "Corazon quema." I knew it wasn't right, but then she corrected me laughed.
Then I went to the political science department and made my major officially political science. Dr. Lepak gave me candy. He always gives me food, one day he gave me chili.
Then I went to Political Thought 3, where we have to read Beyond Good and Evil for a whole semester.
Lepak walked around the room reading Thus Spoke having a great time.
I still felt tired and didn't talk. Everyone was commenting and saying great things that good Americans say when reading Nietzsche.
I really needed to blow my nose and didn't have the time to concentrate on Nietzsche.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Jordan Castro Book Shop
Last Saturday I met Jordan Castro
Brittany Wallace and I were sitting in Scribbles coffee shop in Kent, Ohio.
I was very nervous about the whole event. Jordan Castro is like 16, and I was worried people would consider me a bugger for sitting with a 16 year old boy. I was afraid there would be a headline on bookslut, "Noah Cicero uses his literary talent to bugger 16 year old Jordan Castro."
Brittany and I arrived at the coffee shop. Jordan Castro wasn't there. I thought for a minute if I should make a Fidel joke when he got there but decided not to. Brittany and I got coconut mochas and a muffin. The muffin was hard and sad.
Brittany and I sat down at table. There were books all around us. We looked at some of the books. I picked up books in Spanish, one of them had the name Pio on it. I read the book, getting every third word. It made no sense.
Brittany looked really good, I kept looking at her, Jordan Castro hadn't showed up after 20 minutes, I said to Brittany, "Jordan isn't coming, he is an undependable person and will probably die alone."
Brittany responded, "What if he starts talking about prom?"
We both spent a minute pondering prom.
I said, "Maybe he will complain about his dad not giving him the keys to the car."
Brittany responded, "What if he turns out to be a bug?"
"Then we will take pity on his soul."
Jordan Castro showed up.
Brittany and I were surprised.
He appeared on the surface not to be a bug.
But Brittany and I looked at each other and decided to make a verdict later.
Jordan Castro sat there nervous.
Brittany told me he was wearing American Apparel.
If he was shirt or pants, I'm not sure. You will have to email Brittany.
We talked about books for a little bit.
I talked about when I was started getting into internet lit.
He talked about his experiences. He said an 8th grade teacher got him into it.
He told us he was vegan.
We didn't ask him why.
Seemed personal.
A man working on his lap top farted loudly.
It was strange.
A long fart with little humor.
None of mentioned the fart till later in emails.
I still have not discussed the fart with Brittany. I plan to tonight. We plan on going to her room, lighting a few candles, pouring large glasses of Franzia into coffee mugs and having a long dialogue concerning the man's fart in the coffee shop.
At one point I stood up and gave a long monologue on Sam Pink's penis. Jordan Castro had a picture of Sam Pink's penis in his wallet and was happy to show it to me.
Brittany looked at Sam Pink's penis and found it charming.
I had to go work back in Youngstown, so we left back to Brittany's.
When I left Jordan Castro was sitting with Brittany.
On the way home I thought about the movie Avatar.
Brittany Wallace and I were sitting in Scribbles coffee shop in Kent, Ohio.
I was very nervous about the whole event. Jordan Castro is like 16, and I was worried people would consider me a bugger for sitting with a 16 year old boy. I was afraid there would be a headline on bookslut, "Noah Cicero uses his literary talent to bugger 16 year old Jordan Castro."
Brittany and I arrived at the coffee shop. Jordan Castro wasn't there. I thought for a minute if I should make a Fidel joke when he got there but decided not to. Brittany and I got coconut mochas and a muffin. The muffin was hard and sad.
Brittany and I sat down at table. There were books all around us. We looked at some of the books. I picked up books in Spanish, one of them had the name Pio on it. I read the book, getting every third word. It made no sense.
Brittany looked really good, I kept looking at her, Jordan Castro hadn't showed up after 20 minutes, I said to Brittany, "Jordan isn't coming, he is an undependable person and will probably die alone."
Brittany responded, "What if he starts talking about prom?"
We both spent a minute pondering prom.
I said, "Maybe he will complain about his dad not giving him the keys to the car."
Brittany responded, "What if he turns out to be a bug?"
"Then we will take pity on his soul."
Jordan Castro showed up.
Brittany and I were surprised.
He appeared on the surface not to be a bug.
But Brittany and I looked at each other and decided to make a verdict later.
Jordan Castro sat there nervous.
Brittany told me he was wearing American Apparel.
If he was shirt or pants, I'm not sure. You will have to email Brittany.
We talked about books for a little bit.
I talked about when I was started getting into internet lit.
He talked about his experiences. He said an 8th grade teacher got him into it.
He told us he was vegan.
We didn't ask him why.
Seemed personal.
A man working on his lap top farted loudly.
It was strange.
A long fart with little humor.
None of mentioned the fart till later in emails.
I still have not discussed the fart with Brittany. I plan to tonight. We plan on going to her room, lighting a few candles, pouring large glasses of Franzia into coffee mugs and having a long dialogue concerning the man's fart in the coffee shop.
At one point I stood up and gave a long monologue on Sam Pink's penis. Jordan Castro had a picture of Sam Pink's penis in his wallet and was happy to show it to me.
Brittany looked at Sam Pink's penis and found it charming.
I had to go work back in Youngstown, so we left back to Brittany's.
When I left Jordan Castro was sitting with Brittany.
On the way home I thought about the movie Avatar.
Black Cat poem
i was driving my car
back from the grocery store
a small black cat
crossed the road slowly
i had to stop my car
the black cat
was taking its time
the black cat reached
the other side of the road
and looked at me
i thought
this is bad luck
i am deep shit noah
I considered ideas
like
myself dying
or maybe someone i know
then i realized
it was probably
that someone would call off
at work
and I would have to work longer
back from the grocery store
a small black cat
crossed the road slowly
i had to stop my car
the black cat
was taking its time
the black cat reached
the other side of the road
and looked at me
i thought
this is bad luck
i am deep shit noah
I considered ideas
like
myself dying
or maybe someone i know
then i realized
it was probably
that someone would call off
at work
and I would have to work longer
Thursday, January 14, 2010
poemas de invierno
Do you want to go the Lemon Grove
drink endless coffee
and sniffle with me
we stood in the snow
and smoked
studying international relations
the professor went up there
and said
this is why we don't bomb
and blow the heads of persians
off
little bloody persian heads
the professor walks around the room
and talks about war
i keep thinking
i like local politics
nobody talks about killing children
and fucking pipelines
they talk about storm water
the sun was out today
i took the car to get the oil changed
while they were working
i walked down the snowy sidewalk
to the music store
played an acoustic bass
i played No Doubt's Spiderwebs
I didn't play the blues
I played international relations songs
the professor looked at us
and said
you as americans want to kill persians
but you can't
because they would block off the Persian Gulf
and something about oil
and everything serious
I remember Cat Stevens
I pick up an acoustic guitar, I think it was a cheap fender or maybe an Alvarez and play Cat Stevens.
An Asian nun was there, she was talking about the flute.
I looked at her.
Thought she was cute.
Remembered seeing her walk down the street by the convent.
Got a coffee at the shitty Hubbard coffee shop
Old women were sitting together talking about things that concerned them and did not concern me.
Walked back to get the car
Remembered su cuerpo
como un melocotón
tu
bailando en mi cococina
como un conejito
con mi camisa Slayer
escondiendo de mi cosquillas
Do another interview
Hello my name is noah cicero
I'm a serious asshole
take me seriously
I have a movie
give me money
and suck my dick
my dick needs love
The professor says, "Have you ever been so lonely you joined a religion?"
Do you think of me standing in the snow
Walking around
in the sunshine
with the snowing crunching under my feet
do you think of me driving down
a road with giant pot holes
do you think of my car bouncing amongst these pot holes
do you think about me
being alone
with nothing to do
but dwell
on persian heads
because the sun has gone down
at five PM
it is too cold to fish
the fish have gone into a torpor
I'm not sure what a torpor is
but that is what the fisherman's magazine
told me
I believe that magazine
because a man is standing on the cover
holding a large fish
what if this winter
i got really drunk
and slipped on ice
and when my head hit the ground
my head hit a rock
perfectly
like really fucking perfectly
and knocked me out
and i died of hypothermia
what if i was that guy this winter
wouldn't that be a good death
for a young writer
John Keats died when he was 25.
John Keats wrote, "when by my solitary hearth I sit"
And John Keats wrote, "To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!"
And then he was like
FUCK
I NEED TO DIE
then he politely died
I have surpassed Keats in years
I have no hearth and only two cigarettes left in my pack of Pall Malls
Soon
I will put my pants on
and drive to the gas station
drink endless coffee
and sniffle with me
we stood in the snow
and smoked
studying international relations
the professor went up there
and said
this is why we don't bomb
and blow the heads of persians
off
little bloody persian heads
the professor walks around the room
and talks about war
i keep thinking
i like local politics
nobody talks about killing children
and fucking pipelines
they talk about storm water
the sun was out today
i took the car to get the oil changed
while they were working
i walked down the snowy sidewalk
to the music store
played an acoustic bass
i played No Doubt's Spiderwebs
I didn't play the blues
I played international relations songs
the professor looked at us
and said
you as americans want to kill persians
but you can't
because they would block off the Persian Gulf
and something about oil
and everything serious
I remember Cat Stevens
I pick up an acoustic guitar, I think it was a cheap fender or maybe an Alvarez and play Cat Stevens.
An Asian nun was there, she was talking about the flute.
I looked at her.
Thought she was cute.
Remembered seeing her walk down the street by the convent.
Got a coffee at the shitty Hubbard coffee shop
Old women were sitting together talking about things that concerned them and did not concern me.
Walked back to get the car
Remembered su cuerpo
como un melocotón
tu
bailando en mi cococina
como un conejito
con mi camisa Slayer
escondiendo de mi cosquillas
Do another interview
Hello my name is noah cicero
I'm a serious asshole
take me seriously
I have a movie
give me money
and suck my dick
my dick needs love
The professor says, "Have you ever been so lonely you joined a religion?"
Do you think of me standing in the snow
Walking around
in the sunshine
with the snowing crunching under my feet
do you think of me driving down
a road with giant pot holes
do you think of my car bouncing amongst these pot holes
do you think about me
being alone
with nothing to do
but dwell
on persian heads
because the sun has gone down
at five PM
it is too cold to fish
the fish have gone into a torpor
I'm not sure what a torpor is
but that is what the fisherman's magazine
told me
I believe that magazine
because a man is standing on the cover
holding a large fish
what if this winter
i got really drunk
and slipped on ice
and when my head hit the ground
my head hit a rock
perfectly
like really fucking perfectly
and knocked me out
and i died of hypothermia
what if i was that guy this winter
wouldn't that be a good death
for a young writer
John Keats died when he was 25.
John Keats wrote, "when by my solitary hearth I sit"
And John Keats wrote, "To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!"
And then he was like
FUCK
I NEED TO DIE
then he politely died
I have surpassed Keats in years
I have no hearth and only two cigarettes left in my pack of Pall Malls
Soon
I will put my pants on
and drive to the gas station
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Questions about Kerouac
Andrew Worthington said
"but i dont know if kerouac is an ideal to aspire towards"
Kerouac is dead.
His books remain.
His books are his voice that still speak to us.
One can sit in their living room or lie in their bathtub and listen to Kerouac talk to them at night.
His drunken self no longer remains stumbling around talking to William F. Buckley.
After Socrates died, nothing remained of him. Plato went to a room and wrote by hand the stories of Socrates.
We still hear Socrates.
Socrates didn't believe in democracy so much.
But we still listen to Socrates.
Jesus believed that people who want to cheat on their wives should have their eyes plucked out.
We still listen to Jesus.
But we don't exactly 'listen' to Socrates or Jesus.
We hear their spirit.
When we in need of Socrates or Jesus, or Kerouac, or Ezra Pound, Celine, Hamsun and Heiddegger.
When we pick up their books.
And sit down with them, because we want to hear them talk to us.
We aren't listening that closely.
We know we are from a different time, a different country, and we know most of all that we aren't them. We are ourselves.
We go to them because we want to feel their spirit.
Hamsun was a dumbshit fascist, but he will also a man who loved stories. We love stories too, we love a good a story, told by a person that also loves stories, who loves the beauty of stories, just like us.
Knut Hamsun is not only great because he wrote well crafted stories, but because you can really feel when you read that he loved stories, just like you the reader.
Kerouac was a republican. He wasn't against the Vietnam War. Norman Mailer was against the Vietnam War. Norman Mailer helped Jack Abbott a murderer get out of prison to murder another person.
Kerouac was probably not against the Vietnam War because I don't think Kerouac thought in terms of the present. I think he thought history was just some kind of party where everything was colliding and bouncing off of each other, endlessly with meaning and without meaning. The Vietnam war was just part of the big game of mankind. I don't think he had any serious explanation for why he believed or not believed in it. I think he saw himself as an ubermensch, that he was outside of history existing in his own culture he had built for himself. I don't think it mattered to him if he was telling the truth or not. Reading Big Sur, it shows a man not concerned with validation anymore. I think he would have liked his books to be big and for him to attention, but he didn't need it. Getting validation was on the same level as maybe getting pizza or having no rain on July Fourth.
I have to go, I'll write more.
But eveyone should write and send any Kerouac related articles or things that may help.
We should have a serious discussion about this.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Super Liberals, Libertarians and Kerouac
Sitting in Political Science class once confronts many super liberals and libertarians.
These humans love politics and to recite things they read in magazines and in the five books they read.
Super Liberals obsessed with global warming, green things and veganism are totalitarians. They want everyone to act a 'certain way', buy 'certain things', believe 'certain things' eat 'certain foods', put their garbage in 'certain spots', fuck in 'certain way' and they want everyone to vote but in 'certain way.'
This offends me because if super liberals controlled the world, it wouldn't be very free.
I mean it would be nice, if everyone got informed and learned facts, and read books on foreign affairs and went to town hall meetings, and if no one ever ate meat, and everyone just walked around pumped up about life recycling everything.
And a lot of people, even republican and even people who don't vote at all do some of those things.
But to do all of them, seems to be a lifestyle or worldview, or even mini religion. And they should recognize that they are some sort of cult and not what everyone wants.
Libertarians are like this also:
Libertarians don't want to pay taxes, they don't want student pell grants, they don't want welfare, they want corporations to own the world and everyone to be slaves to those corporations.
They like corporations.
They like owning things.
That's personal though:
That's a lifestyle.
You can easily have a libertarian lifestyle where you work hard and own things.
That's allowed under the laws of the United States Constitution, in The Takings Clause.
But I don't understand why the Libertarian doesn't want to pay taxes.
Taxes buy things like bridges, roads, sewage systems, taxes educate people, taxes fund all kinds of great and wonderful shit we all use.
Every American that pays taxes can look at any road, any school, any bridge, or older people on security, or people going to college with the pell grant and say, "I helped make that happen with my taxes."
Anyone rational would feel a sense of pride in that.
Unless you are libertarian I guess.
You probably wondering why I wrote Kerouac after those two names of political types.
Kerouac never really mentioned politics
But I think a political view arises out of Kerouac or also Whitman.
I think Kerouac believed that people were foolish, weird, funny, insane, could be mean at times, could be nice times, and they all just wanted to get their kicks and we should forgive each other because we all have these faults and good things about us no matter how rich or poor we are.
I hear constant sentences like, "The republicans and democrats are the same party but a little different."
Well, maybe that is what Americans like, maybe we as a people aren't that different except for a few small things depending on where you live, your economic situation and how you were raised.
I heard an interview with Kurt Vonnegut today and he said humans are tribal and you will never breed that out of us.
Maybe humans generally like corporations and things like Nike and American Idol, because they want to belong to the tribe of Nike and the tribe of American Idol.
The Super Liberal would say, "But that's decadent and stupid."
But Kerouac would say, "Look at that girl up there, from some country town, showing her talents before the whole world. Oh that's beautiful."
See, I think that is my version of reality I want to live in.
Where goofy country girls like Kelly Clarkson can rise to the top.
On a smaller scale
To oppose Libertarians, I like when I'm sitting in class and a 40 year old black woman who spent the 40 years of her life struggling to survive in the Youngstown ghetto gets the self-esteem one day to go to college with federal pell grants and accomplish a dream for herself.
The super liberal views that as, "Society needs to help those in need regardless of the consequences."
But Kerouac would say, "Look at that hip woman learning about James Joyce in her forties."
It is strange, when I'm sitting sociology and political science I try to think of an American writer that might have said a similar thing in their books, and I usually don't think Hemingway, Mark Twain, Bukowski or Mailer, but Kerouac.
These humans love politics and to recite things they read in magazines and in the five books they read.
Super Liberals obsessed with global warming, green things and veganism are totalitarians. They want everyone to act a 'certain way', buy 'certain things', believe 'certain things' eat 'certain foods', put their garbage in 'certain spots', fuck in 'certain way' and they want everyone to vote but in 'certain way.'
This offends me because if super liberals controlled the world, it wouldn't be very free.
I mean it would be nice, if everyone got informed and learned facts, and read books on foreign affairs and went to town hall meetings, and if no one ever ate meat, and everyone just walked around pumped up about life recycling everything.
And a lot of people, even republican and even people who don't vote at all do some of those things.
But to do all of them, seems to be a lifestyle or worldview, or even mini religion. And they should recognize that they are some sort of cult and not what everyone wants.
Libertarians are like this also:
Libertarians don't want to pay taxes, they don't want student pell grants, they don't want welfare, they want corporations to own the world and everyone to be slaves to those corporations.
They like corporations.
They like owning things.
That's personal though:
That's a lifestyle.
You can easily have a libertarian lifestyle where you work hard and own things.
That's allowed under the laws of the United States Constitution, in The Takings Clause.
But I don't understand why the Libertarian doesn't want to pay taxes.
Taxes buy things like bridges, roads, sewage systems, taxes educate people, taxes fund all kinds of great and wonderful shit we all use.
Every American that pays taxes can look at any road, any school, any bridge, or older people on security, or people going to college with the pell grant and say, "I helped make that happen with my taxes."
Anyone rational would feel a sense of pride in that.
Unless you are libertarian I guess.
You probably wondering why I wrote Kerouac after those two names of political types.
Kerouac never really mentioned politics
But I think a political view arises out of Kerouac or also Whitman.
I think Kerouac believed that people were foolish, weird, funny, insane, could be mean at times, could be nice times, and they all just wanted to get their kicks and we should forgive each other because we all have these faults and good things about us no matter how rich or poor we are.
I hear constant sentences like, "The republicans and democrats are the same party but a little different."
Well, maybe that is what Americans like, maybe we as a people aren't that different except for a few small things depending on where you live, your economic situation and how you were raised.
I heard an interview with Kurt Vonnegut today and he said humans are tribal and you will never breed that out of us.
Maybe humans generally like corporations and things like Nike and American Idol, because they want to belong to the tribe of Nike and the tribe of American Idol.
The Super Liberal would say, "But that's decadent and stupid."
But Kerouac would say, "Look at that girl up there, from some country town, showing her talents before the whole world. Oh that's beautiful."
See, I think that is my version of reality I want to live in.
Where goofy country girls like Kelly Clarkson can rise to the top.
On a smaller scale
To oppose Libertarians, I like when I'm sitting in class and a 40 year old black woman who spent the 40 years of her life struggling to survive in the Youngstown ghetto gets the self-esteem one day to go to college with federal pell grants and accomplish a dream for herself.
The super liberal views that as, "Society needs to help those in need regardless of the consequences."
But Kerouac would say, "Look at that hip woman learning about James Joyce in her forties."
It is strange, when I'm sitting sociology and political science I try to think of an American writer that might have said a similar thing in their books, and I usually don't think Hemingway, Mark Twain, Bukowski or Mailer, but Kerouac.
Monday, January 11, 2010
First Day to School
I got to where I usually park and there were cars there. That was devastating. I kept driving around, there were fucking cars everywhere. At the beginning of every semester there are no spaces for the first week because everyone goes to school for the first week, then they start skipping and dropping classes and there are parking spaces.
I found a place to park about a mile from the school in some bar old black men go to.
I rushed to Spanish. It was snowing and like ten degrees. My fingers were freezing holding the cigarette. For the last two hundred feet before the door all I could think was, "I should put my gloves on, you fucking asshole, what is wrong with you?"
I got in the building, there was four thousand assholes waiting to get on the elevator. I had to get class, so I walked up five flights of steps. I was panting when I got to language lab on the fifth floor. Class had not yet started, I sat with people I knew from last semester. We were all like, "How was your winter break?" I kept yelling, "Drunk as shit."
Professora came in and started hablando en espanol por para diez minutos. I just sat there and listened, I kind of got what she said.
The class was over.
I went and stood in front of kilcawly waiting for a guy from work who is starting YSU tomorrow. He wanted me to show him where his buildings were and where stuff was. I waited in the cold for 15 minutes. He never came so I went to the beat coffee house and ate an egg sandwich and drank coffee. It was quiet in the coffee house, no one was there. I don't know where the people were. No one was there text messaging or saying the phrase, "Cold as shit." I felt good about that.
I put my stocking cap on and walked a mile to Michel Hall for Intro to Literature. I failed one class in college in 2003. It was intro to literature. I decided to retake the class so I could erase the F and get an A and improve my grad point average. I decided to take it at 1pm on MWF, it said to TBA until a week before we had to sign up for classes. It turned out to be my old professor Dr. Sniderman. He remembered me. We talked after class. I did not tell him about getting things published since we last met. It doesn't matter. I'm there for the A, and English isn't my major so I don't need a recommendation from him. If you aren't seeking a recommendation, there is no need to ever to that professor is my law.
Intro to literature is full of people from all different majors, i don't like it all, all people did was text message and bitch about having to do any work at all.
Then I walked a mile back to Beegly Center. Beegly Center is the gym building. Men were bouncing basketballs in the gym when I came in. I was happy to be in a building because it was 'cold as shit' outside.
Made it to International Relations late, Dr. Lepak was already talking and telling everyone about the horrors of international relations.
I sat down and felt completely apathetic to what was going on. I had a strange sense of calm that everything would be fine, that I was sitting in the right place and making my life into something better than it was before.
Classes for political science majors are funny. Political science majors always are dressed nice, the men are shaved, and the women have their hair done. This includes me. I always wear a nice sweater and clean pants. I shave my face regularly now and have a short haircut. The young mentally ill wildeyed poet of Kerouac novels is slowly being grinded out of me. It is funny to watch myself change my appearance to be accepted into a group.
I found a place to park about a mile from the school in some bar old black men go to.
I rushed to Spanish. It was snowing and like ten degrees. My fingers were freezing holding the cigarette. For the last two hundred feet before the door all I could think was, "I should put my gloves on, you fucking asshole, what is wrong with you?"
I got in the building, there was four thousand assholes waiting to get on the elevator. I had to get class, so I walked up five flights of steps. I was panting when I got to language lab on the fifth floor. Class had not yet started, I sat with people I knew from last semester. We were all like, "How was your winter break?" I kept yelling, "Drunk as shit."
Professora came in and started hablando en espanol por para diez minutos. I just sat there and listened, I kind of got what she said.
The class was over.
I went and stood in front of kilcawly waiting for a guy from work who is starting YSU tomorrow. He wanted me to show him where his buildings were and where stuff was. I waited in the cold for 15 minutes. He never came so I went to the beat coffee house and ate an egg sandwich and drank coffee. It was quiet in the coffee house, no one was there. I don't know where the people were. No one was there text messaging or saying the phrase, "Cold as shit." I felt good about that.
I put my stocking cap on and walked a mile to Michel Hall for Intro to Literature. I failed one class in college in 2003. It was intro to literature. I decided to retake the class so I could erase the F and get an A and improve my grad point average. I decided to take it at 1pm on MWF, it said to TBA until a week before we had to sign up for classes. It turned out to be my old professor Dr. Sniderman. He remembered me. We talked after class. I did not tell him about getting things published since we last met. It doesn't matter. I'm there for the A, and English isn't my major so I don't need a recommendation from him. If you aren't seeking a recommendation, there is no need to ever to that professor is my law.
Intro to literature is full of people from all different majors, i don't like it all, all people did was text message and bitch about having to do any work at all.
Then I walked a mile back to Beegly Center. Beegly Center is the gym building. Men were bouncing basketballs in the gym when I came in. I was happy to be in a building because it was 'cold as shit' outside.
Made it to International Relations late, Dr. Lepak was already talking and telling everyone about the horrors of international relations.
I sat down and felt completely apathetic to what was going on. I had a strange sense of calm that everything would be fine, that I was sitting in the right place and making my life into something better than it was before.
Classes for political science majors are funny. Political science majors always are dressed nice, the men are shaved, and the women have their hair done. This includes me. I always wear a nice sweater and clean pants. I shave my face regularly now and have a short haircut. The young mentally ill wildeyed poet of Kerouac novels is slowly being grinded out of me. It is funny to watch myself change my appearance to be accepted into a group.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Monday, January 04, 2010
ONLY ONE WEEK OF WINTER BREAK PARTY TIME LEFT SOON I WILL BE SITTING DR. LEPAK'S NIETZSCHE'S CLASS COVERED IN MANY LAYERS
Every morning I wake up, smoke a cigarette and listen to Daylight by Matt and Kim. This is saving me.
*
Most days I feel okay if I don't kill myself once. Because I did think about it like six times.
*
Decided while walking down the snowy road to the gas station from the laundry mat in downtown Hubbard that my favorite writers start all their works with this unsaid sentence, "I'm already a fucking woman, and now you lay this shit on me." Then I realized after thinking that my favorite black writers start their stories with the unsaid sentence, "I'm already black, and now you lay this shit on me."
*
After taking Spanish 1 and studying spanish in my spare time. I have learned that many Americans do not know English. One could assume I was referencing ebononics. But listen to some people talk and you will notice that they are using words derived from the English language, but aren't placing them remotely in a normal order, but just flinging out words hoping in their neurotic state that somebody out there in human land gets what they are trying to communicate. Or maybe that is just because I work at a restaurant with a bunch of crazy people.
*
If I was a woman I would give my fellow women bath and body works for christmas.
*
I keep responding to other people's monologues on their thoughts and feelings about life, "I believe that you believe that."
*
Most days I feel okay if I don't kill myself once. Because I did think about it like six times.
*
Decided while walking down the snowy road to the gas station from the laundry mat in downtown Hubbard that my favorite writers start all their works with this unsaid sentence, "I'm already a fucking woman, and now you lay this shit on me." Then I realized after thinking that my favorite black writers start their stories with the unsaid sentence, "I'm already black, and now you lay this shit on me."
*
After taking Spanish 1 and studying spanish in my spare time. I have learned that many Americans do not know English. One could assume I was referencing ebononics. But listen to some people talk and you will notice that they are using words derived from the English language, but aren't placing them remotely in a normal order, but just flinging out words hoping in their neurotic state that somebody out there in human land gets what they are trying to communicate. Or maybe that is just because I work at a restaurant with a bunch of crazy people.
*
If I was a woman I would give my fellow women bath and body works for christmas.
*
I keep responding to other people's monologues on their thoughts and feelings about life, "I believe that you believe that."
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Youngstown Empire State of Mind
There are like a million songs like this:
The only problem I have with this is that Youngstown is not a concrete jungle. If you have driven around the Youngstown area the city and surrounding suburbs are in a broadleaf forest. There is no place in the area except maybe directly in downtown Youngstown where you can't see a deer run by.
The only problem I have with this is that Youngstown is not a concrete jungle. If you have driven around the Youngstown area the city and surrounding suburbs are in a broadleaf forest. There is no place in the area except maybe directly in downtown Youngstown where you can't see a deer run by.
Friday, January 01, 2010
The busiest year of my life
This will be the busiest of year of my life.
This is what I have to do this year:
1. Go to college for the fall, summer, and winter.
2. Get an agent, the agent must convince a larger publisher to publish the human war and my other books so when the movie comes out there are books in stores to buy.
3. The Insurgent comes out, promote The Insurgent, write many emails, do many interviews.
4. Have a gf. I have not had a gf in years. I have one now, it is serious. Things are serious.
I believe if I do all things properly with a high level of responsibility, determination and fortitude my life will improve greatly. This will be a great challenge because my parents did nothing to train me for responsibility or how to do anything but work sad blue collar jobs. But I have many white collar friends that can inform me what to do in all white collar situations and I will do what they say. This will be a year of listening and taking advice and following game plans.
This is what I have to do this year:
1. Go to college for the fall, summer, and winter.
2. Get an agent, the agent must convince a larger publisher to publish the human war and my other books so when the movie comes out there are books in stores to buy.
3. The Insurgent comes out, promote The Insurgent, write many emails, do many interviews.
4. Have a gf. I have not had a gf in years. I have one now, it is serious. Things are serious.
I believe if I do all things properly with a high level of responsibility, determination and fortitude my life will improve greatly. This will be a great challenge because my parents did nothing to train me for responsibility or how to do anything but work sad blue collar jobs. But I have many white collar friends that can inform me what to do in all white collar situations and I will do what they say. This will be a year of listening and taking advice and following game plans.
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