Scribbling Again

Month: February, 2015

Bret Easton Ellis: But when I sit down…

“But when I sit down something strange on the stage catches my eye. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he’s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, and he’s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and it’s not worked out enough, there’s no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he’s moaning some dirge–I catch the lyric ‘A hero is an insect in this world’–he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently, and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns read and suddenly I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge, and I can see into Bono’s heart and my own beats faster because of this and I realize that I’m receiving a message of some kind from the singer. It hits me that we have something in common, that we share a bond, and it’s not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it’s just Bono onstage–the stadium’s deserted, the band fades away–and the message, his message, once vague, now gets more powerful and he’s nodding at me and I’m nodding back, everything getting clearer, my body alive and burning, on fire, and from nowhere a flash of white and blinding light envelopes me and I hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono’s head in orange wavy letters: ‘I . . . am . . . the . . . devil . . . and I am. . . just . . . like . . . you . . .’
And then everyone, the audience, the band, reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono, sensing that I’ve received the message–I actually know that he feels me reacting to it–is aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. But suddenly everything stops, as if a switch has been turned off, the backdrop flashes back to white. Bono–the feeling in my heart, the sensation combing my brain, vanishes and now more than ever I need to know about the Fisher account that Owen is handling and this information seems vital, more pertinent than the bond of similarity I have with Bono, who is now dissolving and remote. I turn to Paul Owen”

From Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho from Vintage.

Paul Jenkins: Phenomena Wind Arch

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Egon Schiele: Standing Figure with Halo

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Umberto Boccioni: States of Mind I: The Farewells

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Jacek Yerka: Shed of Rebellion

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Zdislav Beksinski: Untitled

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Carmen Boullosa: Bruno the Viking and his men…

“Bruno the Viking and his men have just eaten. Most of them have gone back to work (brushing the horses, laying out strips of beef to dry); the boss is lying by the embers of the fire, next to a demijohn of sotol. A Mexican falcon flies overhead. Bruno takes his slingshot from his shirt pocket. He places a smooth pebble into the rubber band. He aims…
The shot misses, despite the face he had plenty of time. It’s the falcon’s good luck that the hunter had too much to drink.
The falcon circles. Once again Bruno has him within reach, he reloads his slingshot…But the sun plays a trick on him and blinds him just as he’s about to take his shot.
The falcon is one-in-a-million, and it escapes. This infuriates Bruno, mostly because of the sotol running in his veins, which puts him in a foul mood. He hides his face beneath the brim of his hat. And, just like that, he falls asleep.
He snores.
Pierced Pearl, his captive–the Comanches recently sold her to him but she won’t last long, he can’t stand having a woman around–has watched the whole scene with the lucky, free falcon.
It pleases Pierced Pearl–bravo for the falcon! A hand’s breadth from Bruno, she lays her head on the ground–there’s nowhere else to lay it–and curls up to try to sleep-it was a bad night. She dreams:
That Bruno’s snoring is the falcon’s voice. That the falcon approaches, flying close over her, flapping its wings noisily. It has a human torso. It’s neither man nor woman. It caws:
“There. Theeere. Theeere.”
The falcon develops legs, they grow till they reach the ground. It bends them. Continues flapping. It speaks:
“Leave this place. Here. You’re…hic. You’re interrupting my…hic…hic…hic…I’m…like a fish…”
The falcon stretches its legs, swaggers around and disappears into the air, like smoke.
Pierced Pearl, Bruno’s prisoner, awakens. Yet again she is overcome by anxiety and bitterness. Knowing the falcon escaped gives her the only flicker of hope she’s had in a long time. And then the falcon became meaningless in her dream.
Pierced Pearl grinds her teeth.
Just then one of the Born-to-Run arrives in a cloud of dust, like a ghostly apparition at a vigil, his eyes bulging. He pulls up short. He drinks from the goat’s bladder he wears around his neck. This liquid is poisonous to most, but it makes him feel tireless, immortal.
Pierced Pearl forgets her worries for a moment and pays close attention to the messenger. She hears him swallow, listens to him gargle, making sounds to clear his throat.
“Bruno!” the Indian messenger shouts. Bruno awakens immediately, lifts his hat, and his pupils are still adjusting when the messenger drops the news about Nepomuceno like a hot potato.
And in the blink of an eye, the messenger, like a flying arrow, whizzes off, back to the Well of the Fallen, his blood burning with the poison that fuels him.”

From Carmen Boullosa’s Texas: The Great Theft out now from Deep Vellum.

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WTF with Marc Maron Interview John Darnielle

Daan Lemaire: ‘Whirl’ – abstract watercolor painting on paper – nr G 609

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