weequizzie

No, but seriously, I know I’ve said it before but I’m going to do it this year. I am. Pinky swear.

So, it’s the 11th day into 2011 and I’ve already consumed six perfect bound wonders of words. Or wonderless. Wonderless isn’t a word, I know that. Well, it is but it’s not REAL and we’re all so hyper effing concerned about what is REAL.

So, six in 11 days. My goal is 52 this year, I’m pretty sure I can do it. If I proceed at the current rate I’ll have digested over 150. All those words swimming around getting tangled up in ramen noodles. Fun.

Six so far (in order of reading):

After Dark – Murakami: Typical Murakami, the reader does all the work, the writer counts his dough. Nah, that’s harsh, I like a bit of Murakami. It’s readable.
Hollywood – Charles Bukowski: Old Hank dropped a stinker with this one, but then he really was after the dough. It’s the story of him writing the screenplay for ‘Barfly’. It’s quiet and keeps it’s knickers on.
So The Wind Won't Blow It All Away – Richard Brautigan: This is beautiful in a way that I can’t quite work out yet. People bemoan what they view as whimsy in Brautigan, I don’t think it’s whimsy, I think it’s hard and true, and sometimes his pencil slips into the margin and he makes a little note. That’s what Brautigan does – he likes to show the reader the notes in the margin. Nothing wrong with that. I’m going to read more.
The Safety of Objects – A.M. Homes: Homes rules. That’s all anyone needs to know. No, what you need to know is that she is possibly the best short story writer ever. Well, the best with a vagina. I still need to read some Joyce Carol Oates so I may retract this, and yes, I’m including Flannery O’Connor. She could write lyrics for ‘The National’ and they’d be better.
Imperial Bedrooms – Bret Easton Ellis: Imperial Bedrooms is BEE wanking whilst lying in bed counting his dough. It was so bad that I tried to come up with excuses for it, then I thought, nope, it’s utter shite.
Wetlands – Charlotte Roche: This is a sort of sweet book about vaginas and periods and scabs and bums but ultimately it’s dull and won’t add anything to your life, or your day. Read it in the bath and then let the book fall in once you’ve finished. You’ll feel better about reading it after that, I know I did.

And now I’m onto Remainder by Tom McCarthy. This has been on my list for moons but I resisted because I have high hopes. Don’t let me down, or there’ll be a bath full of books come July.

I’m tracking all the words I’m eating at goodreads.

How amazing. A cut-up you can hold in your hands. Burroughs would be happy.

You can buy it here.

Tree of Codes by Jonathan Safran Foer – Public Reactions from Visual Editions on Vimeo.

So, what’s on my wordy wishlist. Too many books that will never get read? Likely, but let’s be positive. The words are falling away and in their place a glowing screen and fast typing fingers, with eyes that sink into stuff (stuff = dresses, videos about dogs, bread recipes, too high heels to walk in, vintage clothes from Utah that I cannot afford, knitting patterns that I will never knit, polaroid film I will never buy, vinyl wishlists that grow out of control) like eating unnecessary cake, or cherry fudge that you don’t really like but you bought it in Devon and it’s better you eat it than the house mouse. Right? Wrong. Let’s break some spines and stuff the words into our eyes – more pixels to make the picture clearer.

Top of the reading list:

Reality Hunger: A Manifesto – David Shields

The Learners – Chip Kidd

Remainder – Tom McCarthy

Calvin and Hobbes – I know, I'm a dick

If anyone has any recs please send them my way. Please. Pleeeeeeeeease. My big loves include: Amy Hempel, Bukowski, Hemingway, Vonnegut, Millhauser, Junot Díaz, Beckett, McCullers etc.

Came across this via Elle and now I want the poster and the vinyl. It’s like in came out of my head, but not.

Underwood is a twice-yearly publication produced as a vinyl LP featuring two writers. The journal appears in May and November each year and is a limited edition. Born out of a love for short stories and vinyl records, Underwood works with writers to produce a unique recording.

The name Underwood is taken from the typewriter invented by Frank Wagner in 1896.

I wish this wasn’t sold out.

Two of the best.

You Don’t Know What Love Is
(an evening with Charles Bukowski) by Ramond Carver

You don’t know what love is Bukowski said
I’m 51 years old look at me
I’m in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she’s hung up too
so it’s all right man that’s the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can’t get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don’t let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it’s like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I’ll start throwing people out windows
I’ll throw anybody out the window
I’ve done it
But you don’t know what love is
You don’t know because you’ve never
been in love it’s that simple
I got this young broad see she’s beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don’t know what love is
I’m telling you what it is
but you aren’t listening
There isn’t one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ass
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I’m 51 years old and I’ve been around
I know they’re a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what’s his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he’s a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you’re teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven’t heard of him
or him either
They’re all termites
Maybe it’s ego I don’t read much anymore
but these people w! ho build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can’t you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn’t it
You wouldn’t think a crude bastard like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
Shit I couldn’t write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that’s the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you’re a lucky man
Bukowski you’ve gone through it all
and you’re a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it’s good to be poor it’s good to have hemorrhoids
it’s good to be in love
But you don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like to be in love
If you could see her you’d know what I mean
She thought I’d come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
Shit I’m 51 years old and she’s 25
and we’re in love and she’s jealous
Jesus it’s beautiful
she said she’d claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that’s love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I’ve met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They’re bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet’s socks are dirty
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won’t disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there’s only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that’s me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They’d fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what’s it like I’ve been there
I’m 51 years old now and I’m in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you’re full of shit
and I say baby you understand me
She’s the only broad in the world
man or woman
I’d take that from
But you don’t know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don’t see any poets
I’m not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don’t know what it is to be in love
that’s your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That’s right no ice good
That’s good that’s just fine
So let’s get this show on the road
I know what I said but I’ll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let’s go let’s get this over with
only afterwards don’t anyone stand close
to an open window

Whole new wardrobe. (Not exactly what Jay-Z said but he’d appreciate it as he’s a man of style and serious Tom Ford suits.)

I’m on a mission to sell some of my junk to buy more work appropriate junk. Time to refresh with a clearer edge. I’ve just eaten an ice lolly though and that’s not in line with the new regime. Pish. Ahhh well, got to get on with it.

So, I start my new job in just over a week and I’ve decided that I need to step it up. I hate separating work clothes from IRL clothes so I’ve decided there needs to be a middle ground (I doubt I can get away with wearing my The End and I Love Beer & Rap t shirts at work) but it doesn’t mean I can’t be myself – a real problem I suffer with when it comes to donning clothes for work, especially at 06.30. And some actual hair styling could be good, or maybe just a bob that takes care of itself. Yep, a bob is definitely on the agenda.

So, here are some clothes you can buy, or just look at and then judge me.

And here’s Jay-Z rocking Tom Ford:

Sign up for The Daily Aphorism.

I love Bukowski.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?