i went to an art event thing whatever yesterday where i participated in a performance which involved having my hands hog-tied behind my back, having a black hood placed over my head, being left alone in a cell, then walked down some stairs into another cell, then being presented with an option, then being instructed to have my hands raised above my head against a wall while i heard what sounded like a man next to me have his clothes forcibly removed by someone else, then i was lead back to a room and ‘released’ as they say. it wasn’t like totally fucking transcendent and as an art piece or whatever it wasn’t perfect but i certainly enjoyed the tension, it was almost calming, i felt so good after it. today i went to aquatic park and swam in the bay because it’s the solstice and by ‘swam’ i mean i waded in up to my belly-button because it was too cold and i guess i’m a pussy. the point is, i guess, both of these things made me feel significantly more than i’ve felt reading anything in a lit journal ever.
i don’t know what alt lit is any more and i don’t think i care. i am friends with and enjoy the company of a lot of people who are i guess identified as “alt lit writers” but i don’t know to be honest i probably haven’t read that much of their work. i love steve roggenbuck and think he’s brilliant but i think his performances/vlogs totally overshadow all the image macros and printed poetry stuff. i like going to art openings more than readings but i write more than i make visual art and i also find it significantly easier to talk to other people at readings than at art openings.
i almost only watch movies in theaters now because having unfettered access to THE CINEMA makes watching anything on my laptop near impossible–besides, i’m still seeing more movies per week lately than any other time in the last three years. i’m not particularly angry at anything and i hope this post doesn’t come off that way but i’m finding myself actually happy a lot lately and within this happiness i sometimes start to get frustrated with the concept of why the fuck so many people care about something that seems so disposable and self-referential and vacuous. more than becoming a part of a “lit scene” i like having friends that i can get drunk with at a bar and maybe sometimes we’ll talk about literature, maybe sometimes we’ll talk about movies, maybe sometimes we’ll just bitch about whatever, but really the point is to enjoy one another’s company and drink whiskey and smoke cigarettes and feel happy about life. insofar as any community is imagined i still find the transition from the virtual to the real far more satisfying. one thing i always remind myself is “one day you [i] will be older.” i hate nostalgia because i insist on living in the present. worrying about the future seems so unnecessary.
when you’ve taught yourself hyperstition to the degree that you can ostensibly manifest exorcist II onto a television at the oldest remaining dyke bar in the city writing fiction exclusively for the sake of writing fiction just seems so boring. i’m not a writer i’m a poet i’m not a poet i’m a shaman. when i told this to a woman inside of the house that kenneth anger used to live at in san francisco she asked me what kind of shaman, and i told her i engage in the combinatory effects of old and new methods, a melange of everything that’s available. when c. got hpv he shouted into the voided machine of futuretubes SAGE MY BHOLE. when i say i talk to the dead i mean it.