Mere Anarchy

Mere Anarchy

Guilty parties.
ryan shaun wendy simon

Critical evidence.
andre breton
james dickey
kafka
theodore roethke
wb yeats
sylvia
ts eliot
irvine welsh
chuck palahniuk
dostoevsky

Forensic reports.
edward gorey
man ray
simon boses

Admissions of guilt.
deadcandance
cohen
nick cave
natalie merchant
rammstein
iggy pop

Crime scenes
aurora picture show
diverseworks
theater LaB houston
voices breaking boundaries

Damning testimony.
surrealism
roller derby
exploding dog
levity
girlsarepretty

I should be doing something productive. Instead, I am waiting for my clothes in the dryer. That is the problem with public laundry; you are chained to it until it is finished. Each cycle is long enough to be boring but too short to get into a book, a movie, a fight. The only thing that you can accomplish while doing laundry is get drunk. Alas its just now noon, and that is just too early. My dad asked me to drive with him to Idaho this xmas. My parents have discovered that they can get me to do anything by simply asking. If they offer, suggest, or hint its probably not going to happen. On the other hand, if they come out and ask, "I would really like it if, " or "I hate to ask you, but" I have no choice- they are my paternos. I am glad we are able to help each other out. But it would be nice if every once in a while I could summon up the snotty, confrontational, self-centered sixteen year old James and then deny any knowledge of anything having happened after he has gotten me out of this drive. After all how fun does three days in a pick-up hauling a trailer, in the dead of winter, over the continental divide, with your father who will take this as an opportunity to convert you, sound? It will be nice to see my little brothers and their families. It will be nice to get some skiing in. It will be nice to get out of Texas for a while. It will be nice to do laundry in a house. posted by James @ 11:05 AM	Freitag, Dezember 13, 2002
Oh yeah, everything was finally rejected. The grad school apps are in the mail and I am resubmitting all of my poetry and fiction today. I expect Chihuahua covered in bubble wrap anxiety all day today followed by a drunken stupor (some things never change) In six months when no grad school will take me and all of my work has been rejected in favor of Opra's foray into the art of letters I will think about killing myself (shooting myself in the face actually). I will then drink myself stupid (see what did I say) say the meanest things I can think of to my friends and apologize the next day in a really strange convoluted blog kinda way. So look what you have to look forward to. I suppose I should say something about the life of an artist. I should say something about living close to the flame. I should say something about how (insert great piece of literature here) was rejected a million times before it was finally accepted and changed the world. I should say that I wouldn’t want things any other way. I should say all of these things expect for the fact that its all fucking bullshit. I want to shoot myself in the face. Oh yeah, sorry for taking it out on you. posted by James @ 7:46 AM	Donnerstag, Dezember 12, 2002
On the other end of the phone someone whispers. I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; They hang up immediately. You meet a friend for lunch. When you get up to visit the restroom you knock your tea over. The spilt drink spells out the words Would it have been worthwhile You decide maybe some coffee will soothe your nerves. On your way in a man opens the door for a woman who is holding a newspaper over her head to protect it from the rain. She stops in the doorway, cocks her head, her eyes soften. She leans in as if to kiss him on the mouth. You barely hear her, but you do I grow old She smiles and dashes into the puddle-filled parking lot. You order a house coffee. The man at the bar turns and shouts In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo A Mexican pokes his head out of the kitchen There will be time You bury yourself in a book. Its winter so it gets dark much earlier. A man wearing an apron stained by a day's worth of strawberry sauces, espresso, and marinara lights the small glass votive on your table. He sits down and takes both of your hands in his own. I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker. He lays his head in your intertwined hands. You are not sure if he is crying. An older woman turns around to face you from the table in front of you. She exhales a rich, blue cloud, you notice her jewel encrusted hands. I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker. There is a tug at your leg. You look down and you see a dirty-faced little boy of no more than five years old. And in short, I was afraid The man gets up, the woman turns around, the boy chases a bird. You return to your book. posted by James @ 7:25 AM