Category Archives: aprendido

My breasts on your lathe

That’d be funny if the guy who said to you “that’d be funny if” in the cafe naked next to your workshirt in San Francisco, the dairy caffeine cafe with the watercolor timestamp art on sale for the wall next to the Green Giant, the jolly fellow near the bathrooms at Ritual Coffee Roasters had a handbill in his pocket that said Remember That Time? And his smile would resemble (in the poems by the coffeeshop poets of the neighborhood) a Trademark Symbol, and in his pocket a kangaroo-shaped playbill would reveal an idea like wouldn’t it be funny you know how when you work from home you invariably inhale sheets of graham crackers (apologies to Kevin Moffett, and or baby carrots,) over the sink, fuck it there’s nothing left in the fridge boiling veggie dogs just because you’re at home and the only stress outlet is to turn your face into a compostable sink disposal, well the funny wouldn’t it be if watch there’s a hip coffee shop like Roasters, but it’s got a fridge and a microwave and a bunch of free food that when you get stressed out you just go up and eat? Plus a separate normal pastry display with normal pastries for sale that all the people with dignity still pay money for and get on ceramic plates, but in a separate part of the cafe there’s a dirty fridge with leftover Thai food and frozen veggie pups and cantaloupe beans and whatever else that people who get a terrifying work-email at 4 p.m. just go hose-happy on blasting the babka till it’s gone.

Trundling up the path, snowy silence, bullshit poems alight on branches like proper ravens. Fatman lost in the zendo can’t even feel the stringcheese in his fleece’s breast pocket. An elipsis travels up and down the length of your cock, why the fuck are your daughters reating my erotc poetry blog… scratch that… nyc pastries + flowers

feeling free in the zendo a professional lifeguard reads the blurbs on the back of your self-published book at the self-funded book release party craftily, hilariously putting his empty plastic wine glass in his breast pocket. Mallarme reference TK, he reads aloud, having flipped to a page at random. “Oh fuck,” you say, “is that actually in there?” Taking the book to look, you see that your placeholder text has accidentally made it into print, you’d meant to insert a Mallarme reference here but I guess you never got around to it… “Fuck,” you say again, handing the book back to the guest, who wears an eyepatch and has a fake parrot sewn to his shoulder and teeters as if wearing a pegleg though looking down it’s true he has two sturdy legs overhung with slate chinos. “Pity the placeholder,” no-one says. The next song comes on shuffle and it begins with an accellerated secular church bell, the kind that bongs the time in stately patient bongs but the clever electronic musician has accellerated the bongs so it seems to be chiming 4,000 o’clock and it’s driving you wild with pleasure, to hear this now, and the embarrassing Mallarme TK gaffe feels decades old and already celebrated as a hilarious and ultimately instructive gaffe. A mewling toddler does not say, “Gaffe Giraffe,” but she does do something specific revealing that there are toddlers at the book event TK TK. A breast presses against the window, begging to be let inside the gallery. A red-breasted titmouse flutters its paws next to the tiny DVD console. A duste mote reveals itself to be hilariously in tune with the matter at hand, I mean with the Remains of the Day, I mean with the Remains of the DVD, I mean with the reina, the queen, my darling. Hate and hope in equal measure suffuse the air above the plate of sandwiches, sandwiches which have tried so hard to be here and succeed, mostly, except looking again at them they seem mostly gone, where do sandwiches go at parties like this? I saw people eating sandwiches but that seems unconnected to the absent, devastated, crumb-strewn plaza near the greasy checkboard mom flannel plane that is what some once called That Table. My nephew is here, his name is Aristotle said an obese cartoon calico cat. I got string cheese in my pockets, Aristotle said. He moved his elbows and knees like he was composing a filigree’d poem for his aunts. He had spent most of the party in the basement behind a piano participating in a jam session with Needles, the drummer, who performed using eggbeaters instead of drumsticks; Palimpsest, on bass, who didn’t know what any of the knobs on the amp were for beyond the main volume control, but still managed to fiddle with them between every song, giving him a different sound each time, playing literally hundreds of different notes throughout the course of the evening, but in which order he played the notes I’m sure you had to be there to know, and of course P. Raichport, tenure-track professor of fiction at Lathe University at Kansas City, who is so clearly based on a real person that even the dimples in her cellulite seem to spell a constellation of ciphers that you can rearrange and glyph and  wait what who is that based on no one actually OK nevermind

Advertisements

Tengo sueño, yo soy dueño

Hola. No he practicaba mi español. Fui a Londres. Fui a San Francisco. Ví mis amigos Californianos. Hice nuevos. Mi esposa esta embarazada. No quiero decir eso en “Facebook”, pero en español en mi blog, pienso que es OK. Anoche no pude dormir. Esta mañana me levanté a las seis para viajar a la granja. Que granja, Andres? Mi CSA. Que es un “CSA”, andres? Es mi fucking Community Supported Agriculture. Agricultura con Apoyo de la Comunidad: AAC? Sin embargo, me gustaría mucho. Las personas, las verduras. La tierra. Pero mucho trabajo. Después regresé a mi casa nuevo — nuevo, Andres? Si, mi esposa embarazada y yo acabamos de comprar UNA FUCKING CASA. Una casa viejo y stucco. Una hipoteca. La tasa de interés es muy bajo ahorita, pendejos. En Missouri, es posible comprar una casa si no tienes nalgas de oro. Mi esposa tiene un feto — un bebe creciendo — en su cuerpo. ¡Milagro! ¡Ciencia! ¡Amor!

Entonces despues de regresar de la granja de CSA fui a mi casa nuevo con mi esposa embarazada y su padre. Su padre es un dueño real — un maestro de casas y madera. Madera madura, si? Me entiendes, pendejo? LOL. Mi suegro me enseñó como usar instrumentos basicos de construcción — taladros, sierras, etc. Despues, compramos una cama! Y por fin, fuimos a fucking Buckingham Smokehouse para BBQ. Despues fuimos a Andy’s Frozen Custard. Fue 91 grados a las 9 por la noche! Una dia Missourieño, sin dudo. Para un hombre — un esclavo de ordenador como yo, esta dia de manos y masculinidad fue agradable. No hablo español. Te amo.

La historia de mi camiseta

Tengo una camiseta con un diseño de Ben Jones. Nunca la vestía porque mi compañero de trabajo, Quoinstone, tenía la misma camiseta y fue demasiado distintiva para nos dos llevarlo en la misma oficina. Pero ahora vivo en Columbia, Missouri, y puedo llevar mi camiseta de Paper Rad (el colectivo de Ben Jones) cada dia. Pero es super-colorido; este camiseta siempre empieza una conversación.

El martes yo caminaba en Broadway a KOPN, donde presento una programa de “Jazz” una vez a mez. Un joven en un carro me gritó, “Nice shirt, faggot!!!” Hice una mueca, y me sentí mal. “Bienvenidos a Columbia, MO,” pensé.

Después de mi programa, caminaba a mi casa, ví una chica, en ropa mas o menos “punk.” Ví que ella fue mirando a mi camiseta. “Ay,” pensé. “¡No mas!” Pero ella no fue como el joven en el carro. “That’s a really cool shirt!” ella dijo. Le di las gracias.

No hay moral de este historia. Mi camiseta no tiene moral. En San Francisco, es posible que no habría oído nada—positivo o negativo—de este camiseta. En Columbia, tengo las dos reacciones extremas. ¡Viva el centro-oeste!

Mi Entrada Primera en Español

Hola. Me llamo Andrew Lelando. Bienvenidos a mi blog.

Estudiaba español casi todo mi vida, me parece — empezaba en la escuela media, y después en escuela secundaria… también un semestre triste en colegio. Pero nunca avancé más allá de un nivel bajo. Como se puede mirar, tengo muchos problemas gramaticales.

Ahora, después de una pausa de casi diez años, estoy terminando mi carrera universitaria, y estoy tomando una clase de español que he tomado dos o tres veces en el pasado: español intermedio. Siento como Sísifo. Pero nunca dejé de creer que hablar, escuchar, y leer una idioma extraña es importante para una persona que cree in la importancia de literatura, o una persona con interés en cultura hispana. Estoy uno de esos personas. Tengo 31 años. Quiero mover esta piedra unos metres mas.

El proximo semestre es mi último. Voy a tomar español otra vez — la  clase final antes de mi objetivo: la clase avanzada, que enfoque totalmente en ficción.

Un hombre sincero—traductor profesional de textos literarios en español—me dijo que es imposible aprender español “realmente” sin vivir en un país hispanohablante. Pero, él continuó, estudiar es buen pratica para este posibilidad. En mi opinion, es posible para mi leer novelas con éxito muy temprano. ¡Ahora!

Anoche leí mi blog viejo, buscando por escritos que podría salvar o improver. Era deprimente. Para ahora, quiero escribir en Ingles en mi disco duro. En el internet, quiero practicar mi español. Google Translate es una animal totalmente diferente hasta lo usé antes, en colegio. Mucho mejor.

Entonces: Si lees español y quieres corregir mi gramatica en los comentarios: por favor. Si quieres leer una novela (o un ensayo, o qualquier cosa) conmigo: digame. ¡Especialmente después de Diciembre, cuando estoy terminado de escuela por siempre! Y este verano.

En ingles yo estaría muy avergonzado escribir sobre los detalles de mi vida sin oscurarlos. En español, no me importa. Este puede ser un blog tradicional en español. En ingles, me escondo detrás de “arte.”

Protected: Internet Treif Diary vol. MCCXXLLMIV

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Interview with Walter Carlos, 1/15/12

You have the same name as the famous

Yes. It’s haunted me my whole life. I didn’t invent the Moog.

OK. What did you invent?

I studied computer science in college and tried to write my own word processor. A vegan alternative to MS-Word.

Were you successful?

More successful than I’d hoped, in fact. I made a functioning program. But I never released it. It was the kind of experimental creation you might use yourself, but you wouldn’t want to force on someone else.

I feel that way about cooking sometimes — I’ll make some experimental goulash that I force down myself, but I wouldn’t dare serve to others.

That’s fascinating. Tell me more about your home cooking.

You’re being sarcastic. 

I’m sorry. Marijuana gives me insomnia, and sleep deprivation makes me hostile.

Where do you write your poems?

In a web-based blog-post text editor.

Why?

Because / of the Internet

Have you ever had sex with enjambment?

You mean have I ever had sex with a poetic technique? With a formal element of verse?

Answer the question

Brooding on bloodless bosoms, I wince into tears.

Have you ever read Brodsky?

Nope.

Have you ever read Mouthsky?

You made that up.

When I read a typo in any published text, even if it’s published online, I think of it as an excuse to stop reading.

I love hearing about your preferences. What other preferences do you have?

I was making my way to a question.

I’m so sorry for stopping you. Please, continue. Listening to you speak is exhilirating. Your mind is crystalline, adamantine, lush, tropical, gorgeous. Your face is a Jean Rhys novel.

Looks like that’s all the time we have. Thank you for “granting” me this interview.

No, come on, let’s keep going. I didn’t mean to bristle so hard. Remember the sleep-deprivation. I’ll unbridle in a sec.

“Remember the Neediest!”

Those little blurbs from the  New York Times? Yes, I love those, too. It’s an odd thing, isn’t it, to say I “love” the NYT’s space-filling public-service exhortations? Ones, I should add, that I, and I assume you, never actually act upon?

I like to think that I remember the neediest.

Do you merely remember them, or, having remembered them, do you act on your memory of the neediest—and help them?

I help them by remembering them.

How does your memory help them?

No publicity is bad publicity.

I don’t see your point.

“Remember the neediest” is an advertising campaign to get you to contribute to the charities the Times chooses. And the whole point of any ad campaign is consciousness-raising. Or consciousness-penetration. So if I remember the neediest, the campaign is successful.

You’re right that the cognitive or cultural part of advertising is essential, but you’re forgetting about the part where they want your money.

I know about that part.

“Remember the Neediest!” only works if your memory extends to a donation.

How is giving money to one of their charities “remembering”?

It’s a different sense of the word remember. It’s like, “Remember me well, / down at the old Jesuit wardrobe.”

What’s that a quote from?

It’s a famous line from a famous poem you’re pretty dense not to have heard of.

Oh. What poem?

Look it up.

The only thing that comes up is this blog post.

You got me: I made it up. Alls I mean is you can “remember” someone in more ways than just by holding them in your thoughts.

Can I “remember” someone by having sex with them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by having lunch with them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by taking a remedial Spanish class from them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by hurting their feelings?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by sending them a thoughtful note?

Yes.

You know, I think it’s actually “Do not forget the neediest!” Not “Remember the neediest!”

Crap, you’re right. They might run both versions, actually.

‘h’ideo’s’v’ideo’s’

R sent me a link to dis magazine

first thought was some fashion people are high all the time, no thanks

but then I found a video on there that through some facebook integration it said Johnny was into

so I watched it

since i’m “Working from home”

Ryan Trecartin isn’t listed in the credits but his fingerprints are smeared all over it

What the hell is Dis?

the video i liked was directed by @leilah_weinraub

who directed a film called Shakedown:

a press release came in for the band Woods:

good entertainment

word on the street is they throw better parties than Olivia Tremor Control ever did

I just made that up

I got a job as a magazine editor again. Maybe I should start punctuating my blog posts and thinking about cultivating a learnéd persona, instead of this marijuana casualty vacation tweetsturm

the job dampened*

*I never think of “dampened” as meaning “made damp” in this context, but I guess it does. In that form I think I usually imagine something being tamped rather than damped.

my enthusiasm for going Back to School, but it’s OK.
should I take presocratic philosophy or “literary journalism” or history of doc. film or 20th-c. russian lit in translation or spanish conversation or Occupy Wall Street Studies II: Thinking about Capital

leave your comments below, unless you feel hot anger, in which case go for a jog and volunteer somewhere first

you guys ever think about race

started reading pitchfork reviews reviews again, after being reminded of its presence via the NYT (again)

that guy’s voice is addictive, makes sense why he loves Tao Lin. I bought the zine.

I sent a piece of writing that wouldn’t be out of place on this blog to prism index #2, and they printed it next to a sweet chris johanson painting. which looking at it was somehow the first time I ever made the connection between his work (messy/masterful/gorgeous semi-cartoony drawings with ab/ex brush/inkwork, at once punk and mannered, skateboards and sublime landscapes,  with wry/dry inky captions that buttress the work’s philosophical ambition) and Raymond Pettibon’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could’ve found better examples