Have some Elkin, from George Mills:
He didn't know what hit him. He didn't go to church. He didn't listen to evangelists on the radio. Nothing was healed in him. His back still hurt like hell from the time he had picked up a television funny. He didn't proselytize his neighbors. He talked as he always had. He behaved no differently. Not to his wife, not to the dispossessed whose furniture he helped Laglachio legally steal. Finally, he did not believe in God.
Holyfuck, if I was shown the last few posts three years from now when I read them I'd know I was reading Elkin when I wrote them, the rhythm and diction of what I write but mostly the frenzy he releases in my head when I'm happy, but this is busiest shittiest month of my working year, I'm reading four books simultaneously while thinking about what I'll read next, and these are the strangest days of my life, and what the fuck happened to my campaign to be quieter, calmer, more circumspect and peaceable?
- Endless political paralysis.
- Fayette Nam.
- Obama as curator.
- Narcissus and Echo.
- The misery of mullahs.
- That thing you do, whatever it is.
- Don't go out in the rain in your socks.
- Murphy. Once I'm done rereading this and this and reading this and this, 2012 is going to be the Year I Immerse Myself in Beckett.
- I understand why Nirvana was important even if I think their music meh and the imitators they spawned suckful of suck, but jeebus fricking christ.
- This week's new releases.
- Glacial wave.
Most explicit-- the sense of trap as a narrowing cone one's got stuck into and any movement forward simply wedges once more-- but where or quite when, even with whom, since now there is no one quite with you--Quite? Quiet? English expression: Quait? Language of singular impedance? A dance? An involuntary gesture to others not there? What's wrong here? How reach out to the other side all others live on as now you see the two doctors, behind you, in mind's eye, probe into your anus, or ass, or bottom, behind you, the roto- rooter-like device sees all up, concludes "like a worn-out inner tube," "old," prose prolapsed, person's problems won't do, must cut into, cut out . . . The world is a round but diminishing ball, a spherical ice cube, a dusty joke, a fading, faint echo of its former self but remembers, sometimes, its past, sees friends, places, reflections, talks to itself in a fond, judgemental murmur, alone at last. I stood so close to you I could have reached out and touched you just as you turned over and began to snore not unattractively, no, never less than attractively, my love, my love--but in this curiously glowing dark, this finite emptiness, you, you, you are crucial, hear the whimpering back of the talk, the approaching fears when I may cease to be me, all lost or rather lumped here in a retrograded, dislocating, imploding self, a uselessness talks, even if finally to no one, talks and talks.