Best/loveliest description of drunkenness/intoxication I’ve come across, from Patrick Hamilton’s Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky:
A permeating coma, a warm haze of noises and conversation, wrapped her comfortably around — together with something more. What that something more was she did not quite know. She sat there and let it flow through her. It was a glow, and a kind of premonition. It was certainly a spiritual, but much more emphatically a physical, premonition of good about to befall. It was like the effect on the body of good news, without the good news — a delicious short cut to that inconstant elation which was so arduously won by virtue from the everyday world. It engendered the desire to celebrate nothing for no reason.
This is from Jenny’s first glass of port. Then he she has nine more, quits her job, and becomes a prositute. The book is just phenomenal; it totally lives up to the hype.
A new recipe:
- The Diagram Brothers
- Stress/procrastination/loathing/pointless interpersonal drama
Blend, let sit. Before it begins to set, add more of all five ingredients twice
put a penny or some carnitas on the help shelf in a little pile. Fuck you! Put a sheaf of dirty papers on the help shelf in a little pile. Fuck you! Blogs like yours, echoes in da echo chamber. Friend you! Friendliness and confusion kiss sweetly in da glade. The Frick! Nude dude talks rude. Fuck you. Shade blade made wade. Fuck you. Harmless blade sunk deep in fat gut. Fuck you. Junior high kid steals your girlfriend.
Cole Porter steals your girlfriend.
“The guard of honor specially provided by the CSSR for visitors from France” steals your girlfriend, with their “leather crash helmets and black goggles with their tunics and breeches, and their carbines… slung at an angle over over their right shoulders.” Fuck you? Seep into a combless form-glade. First item in the Sept Harper’s Readings section is an excerpt of “The Shadow Factory,” a memoir by Paul West. He had aphasia, after a stroke could only say mem for a while. The excerpt is vertiginious, weird, awesome. It’s hard to tell if he’s writing that way (“One way of trying extra hard is to imagine one dimension of the universe coated in either black velvet or a blue that no one has reported outside the province of Baffinland”) out of lingering aphasia or willful, modernist artistry to evoke or approximate the experience of aphasia. Either way, it’s enjoyable. A rare and pleasurable example of deranged communication that is supposed to be deranged. [QUILTY IS UNSLEPT] It’s allowed to be obscure. Makes me want to read the Laura (Riding) Jackson I’ve been meaning to read. Growing under the undergrowth are eighty little moth tacos, bloody carnitas oozing out their middles. [WHO? MAKE CLEAR]’s like a contraction with no apostrophe, grown and smoothed over where the cleft should be. Have you watched the Wes Anderson short on iTunes? I didn’t like it but I also keep what is your American for it the word is “thinking” about it. Dead Dog Doug farted in a highball glass in a bar in New York City . The most beautiful New York City bartender. Put that fart on ice, girl. I feel like Natalie Portman’s dad right now. She shouldn’t have posed in that way in the pointless Wes Anderson short. In just her socks and nothing else. With that stupid toothpick and smile. A hirsute young economist stole your girlfriend. My internet provider stole your girlfriend. The creative writing dept at the University of Glamorgan stole your girlfriend. I’m going to read this book as an appetite suppressant. I’m going to feed the fishes to the fishes. I’m going to pour milk into milk. I’m going to drop a kitten into a box of kittens. kittens unto kittens. A credit card slid smoovely into ya wallet. A donut slid smoovley into ya wallet.