Saw an older, builder type man today, wearing a shirt that said, "Have a Knife Day." Sat along the wharf and watched rabbits. Cried for a while there. I feel like even if praying was a thing i can't pray for strength at this point. I feel like if there is a God, he has turned his back on me and set his forces against me.
Tuesday on Downtown I'll talk about a Daniil Kharms short story called "An Unexpected Bout of Drinking," as well as a remarkable short film of Cream live from a place called the Revolution Clue in January 1968, 12 Angry Men, the Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe song, "Two Little Girls from Little Rock," and me now being five years post-alcohol abuse, allowing that I make it until Sunday. I just don't like to assume. Earn the day.
I worked on "The Frontage Road" in my head, as well as another short story called "The Yuckers." They're both longer. Also worked on the chapter in Same Band on the first take of "A Day in the Life," taking it back to "A Hard Day's Night" and "She's a Woman." So many, many, many things no one has ever said about the Beatles and their music.
This week I put up twelve blog entries. I wrote five short stories--"Catharsi," "Visit to the Babe," "Tucking Fingers," "Clean Leap," "Head to Give." I talked on the radio about film, baseball, the Dead, the Beatles. I wrote a film essay. I wrote a jazz essay. I wrote a baseball op-ed and had the baseball op-ed run in one of the highest circulation papers in the country. A film essay about feminism and horror ran elsewhere. I placed an essay on film as well.
God knows how many people I wrote. 400?
Again, why have the Guggenheim? Why have something called a Genius Grant? Why have the sham that is any of it? I am the proof, I am the ultimate proof, I am the end all be all of all proofs that all of it is utter fucking bullshit.
Genius Lives Matter.
A few lines from "Head to Give": “'Hoist me, Wally,' she said, as he turned down a country lane, and he lifted her with his hand beneath the living leather of the sealed-over folds of skin where her neck had been, and he sort of let her roll around in his palm like she was a Magic Eight Ball and a little movement might help him get the answer he wanted."
That's a really special story. They won't let me do anything with or anyone see it, I'm sure. Until they do. Until they have no choice. Or until someone does the right thing. And then will come a time when all of it is everywhere constantly.
Watched Blood Simple (1984).
A woman sent me this: "I'm afraid that I'm not smart enough to engage in the kind of conversation that you are looking for."
I'm taken aback that the Red Sox are on pace for 99 wins. Which, of course, would be more than the 2004, 2007, 2013 teams.
This is a really great Cream bootleg from Winterland on March 10, 1968.
Super hero films are utterly moronic. Then people debate them on Twitter, which is itself moronic. I don't believe people are this stupid. They're plenty stupid. But it's more laziness in my view. No one is going to go looking for jack shit on their own. They make do with the shit shoveled in front of them and then say it's good and they like it. I saw a man yesterday who was emptying sewage. The aroma in the air was foul--this was near the bridge to Charlestown--but it could have been worse, I guess. I remember thinking that, and how this guy must think that way often about the shit he encounters in his day. Super hero films are like that. It's just the shit that it there.
The 1941 Adventures of Captain Marvel serial is good, though.
That's going to have to be largely it for this week. I'll work all weekend, and get in the exercise I didn't get in last weekend. This John Coltrane/Ascension feature needs to be done fast.