Thursday, September 10, 2015

On and On and On and On

I veer between hysterical sobbing and grief-barfing on my friends about how everything I've written is racist-tainted worthless shit, and thinking, well, you'll just have to pull it together and keep on going on.

The truth will probably fall somewhere in between.

Then I walk down the street and smoke a cigarette, come home, clean up, go to bed and have nightmares that I'm Lana Del Rey making out with Daniel Snyder on stage at Coachella.

And Poetry Twitter keeps on blowing up.

Time, gentlemen.


Slothrop said...

Jeez, don't remind me...last night I had a nightmare about "House of Beef." The strong feelings I got from your last post must've followed me into sleep. But, I was in a Potomac mansion where something horrific had happened, looking for clues. Malone / Sally Wilde (it kept changing) was also on the case, but on a different shift so that we never saw each other. We just left each other a record of our findings disguised as songs on magnetic tape in a punchcard computer in the front parlor. And there was a huge guard dog, but she liked us.

One day I arrived and the guard dog wasn't my friend anymore - growling. The rich, older lady who owned the mansion had come home & was destroying all of our detective work, tearing apart the computer & wadding up the tape. You'll never solve this crime, she gloated.

I was grabbed, put on an airplane, then dropped 30,000 feet into the freezing, nighttime sea. At the point of drowning I was fished out & tossed into a guest slot on Letterman. Drenched, freezing, & in shock. Letterman, I thought? I'm not a Letterman person. But it began well, w/ Letterman asking how it felt to fall from an airplane into the sea. "Well, Slothrop, you must feel like a V-2 that fell a bit short." Knowing, ribald laughter from the gallery. I tried to play along, but the host became more & more stern & quiet. I'm bombing, I thought.

A guest I couldn't see (Guy Picciotto?) said, the weirdest thing about being on stage is when you see people in the crowd copying your mannerisms. You move your legs & they move theirs. You want to tell them, I'm not a fit role model! I said, yeah, nothing like feeling like a puppetmaster w/ out a message. Letterman stared at me & said, what do you mean? I said, you know, leading people when you're going nowhere. He fell silent, the minutes crawled by & I thought, I'm not smart enough or personable enough for this. Dying.

Suddenly someone was by my side, in the other chair. It was Malone / Sally Wilde, & she told me, our evidence wasn't destroyed. I remember all those songs.

I felt my life was saved, & woke up beaming.

Makes me want to read the novel again....

Slothrop said...

I am truly sorry; sharing a thing like that was over the line. It felt really compelling for a few hours - especially if you've always been fascinated by the aboriginal "dreamtime" theory - but now it seems completely unhelpful and egoistic. Please accept my sincere apologies.

Sally Wilde said...

No, no babe you're good!!! I just messed up my passwords from changing names and all and haven't gotten in here in a while. I finally fixed it while sitting in a parking lot. I AM GRANDMA ;)

Sally Wilde said...

And thank you for your compassionate response, too

Sally Wilde said...

Technology, man

Slothrop said...

Yeah, when I do job interviews now I feel like grampa. "Well, no, I've never actually used Twitter...."