Dear Matt Hart,

I believe, as I'm sure we are all working very hard on our ridiculous fucking projects, that we do not have very much time to post on these blogs twice a week. Maybe you could think about letting us take a small blogging hiatus... or maybe we only have to post once a week. Help lessen the load or be labled a dick. Thanks for your time.

Insincerely,
Kelly Tadge

I never knew that sitting could be so hard.

How can I think about Miranda July when I'm constantly reading and rereading and writing and rewriting fucking Bataille and the words "cock, cunt, asshole, piss, and mother" over and over, again and again. Nothing is a relief. I thought Hemingway's character from the Old Man and the Sea would start falling in love with the fish, and the only appropriate ending would be some inappropriate contact between the two. Miranda July is simply just not jaded enough, nor strange enough for the now that is me in my moment. Eggs will never again be just eggs, kind of like after reading Crash, car crashes were no longer car crashes, and I had the serious (mis?)fortune of being in one shortly after my completed reading. I love living in books, it just becomes a problem when no one else is there.

Black Metal Sunday/PROPOSAL (semi)

I've given this alot of thought lately but I really can't settle on one thing or even completely formulate an idea. One of the ideas I've had floating around in my head is to take a Charles Simic book of poems (i.e. Walking the Black Cat, whatever), read it, pick several poems to re-write/appropriate line for line, and then write a poem appropriating my appropriation, hence an original work. This could really be done to any book of poems, suggestions would be great, I'd love to reads something new. This is wildness in the sense of tearing apart a tried and true, and stealing someone elses thoughts. For me this would be an opputunity to try a new method of generating materials as my inspiration to write anything has been rather wan lately.
There is also this book that my friend has been hounding me to read, Story of the Eye by George Bataille. I really have no idea how I could base a project around such a sexually explicit story, but if anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. The wildness of George Bataille and his egg is pretty obvious, or so I think.
That's it, that's my brain shriveling/help me.

Please send you Great Lakes samplers this way.

It was always Sunday when the TV People came… in the year of our lord 1990. If I think back on it, I believe they picked Sundays because they knew that I couldn’t sleep but in fits and starts. Codeine for my happy hour, upping the anti and trying not to become a 4:30 am drunk. My work days would start at 8:30, but only in casual attire. TV people…. think hard on that. Television people. Men and women with bodies just like yours and mine (maybe more in shape, more fit than your average everyday non TV person, with necks like bulls on steroids), but instead of a face, a head, a small portable TV is affixed right into the neck, antennas jutting out the top, carving the air where they walked. Small dials served as eyes, or maybe a mouth. Old news programs looped over their faces, displaying suburbia’s hidden agendas and downplaying genocides. I knew that sometimes they’d turn the dial to another station, sit down in front of me and play children’s movies like Snow White and her poisoned apple until I eventually fell asleep. After that, they’d slip under my covers and feel me up. I only knew this because in the morning I would have scratches from their antennas and buttons and knobs in strange places on my body. At first it didn’t really matter to me, as long as I’d get some good old fashioned shut-eye.

This Sunday was different however because I’d just decided that I’d had enough of these electric people taking advantage of me and my body and my bed and this was it. I was only going to pretend to be asleep, and then I was going to smash their screenface in with my fist. The evening’s insomnia started out as per usual, hunky dory, and A-OK. Soon enough one of the male TV persons came in, sat down across from me and began my early morning/late night entertainment. Only this time wasn’t quite so usual because the movie his face was highlighting was “Gone with the Wind,” what I considered the ultimate romance movie. As the movie progressed, I found myself falling in love with the robotic man. What is a TV but a widely used telecommunication system for broadcasting and receiving moving pictures and sound over a distance? A love machine. When Rhett kissed Scarlett, I leaned over, turned the knob to off and put my hand on one of his antennas. The TV screen made a small popping noise as it turned black and I knew that this was going to be a strange night, mostly because I had no idea where to put my tongue.

But, but but I'm afraid of water. Hey, hey look man, I get seasick even watching it on tv!

Think of this as a visual testament to the maturity of our relationship. Shoe/Footmic night.

As hard as I try (which probably isn't very hard), I can't bring myself to do any school work today, especially not blogging about things I have no attachment to. Today my dear friend Fen has to grow up, stop drinking, stop being a punk, and start Navy basic trainging. He's 22 years old, a baby who doesn't even have a drivers liscense, but is hard up for cash/aren't we all. I feel like stealing and spitting and not getting out of bed. What's that David Bowie song about 5 years or what not? This is only 4 and this is not suicide, its the Navy.

I'm most afraid that he's going to start buying into this whole governmental bullshit and start saluting without a mental smirk and start talking about protecting the citizens of America without the slightest hint of sarcasm. He won't be Fenimore anymore, but Erich Hoffman, and I can't hang out with a man (?? a boy ??) named after a figure skater. How do people learn not to be fuck-ups? I can't help but hoping in the some dark part of my mind that once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. Why can't we just fuck-down?

4 years is a long time, full of red lights/green lights/ starting and stopping and unimportant happenings/ growing pains/pangs. Why do I feel like today is the end of something I've always really enjoyed, some drunk-dialed goodbye. That fucking Village People song is on rewind repeat backtrack and double looped in my mind and I have bruises on my shins the size of small watermelons. Fuck today, fuck tomorrow, and 2012 isn't even worth thinking about yet.

I just got up but I want to go back to bed.

Macaroni-and chicken-chicken- strawberry

So like weeds are our monuments we’ve built to thieves. A monument to a thief i.e. every goddamned statue we’ve erected to honor our working class hey-ho-Joe American, or war-ified dignitary or obelisk or primate pillar. These weeds popping up even more so now that we are in a constant state of frenzied patriotic lust. So this is our new thesis now, that everything, everyone, every it, is a weed.
I can drink to that.
I used to think nothing grew in the city, but now I’ve seen the hardiest little shit taking root in the cracks of our sad city’s sidewalks, making themselves into an ardent mockery of the poplars who once populated the area, but now have absolutely no interest of residing in such a tired warzone. Sick shit chicken-shit tar hawk, tweedle-dum-tweedle-dee, I too am your average weed. My grandmother used to make me weed her garden in return for a trip to the zoo and every once in a while I happened to latch onto the kind of weed with super sharp barbs and sticky stalks that’s roots must have been as monstrous as the actual plant, and I’d run in crying with cuts all over my soft kid/baby hands.
Me, I am that kind of weed, sucking money from poor working class mom and money from good-for-nothing (except when the bills come around) dad. I know more than a handful of other weeds, sucking and leeching, lecherous plants, shooting up so tall that we kill off our more beautiful relatives, blocking out the sun. Dying hydrangeas weep when we come around to suck off her roots. Daffodils wish only to find a happier, sunnier place. We feel no remorse, just hope that a strong wind will come to carry our seeds further. We have offshoots coming from every direction. Watch out, watch fast, and if you ever notice a viney undergrowth taking over one of your more sophisticated brethren, walk in the opposite direction.

Aspirin does not cure fish ailments

Children tend to alienate what they feel alienated by. Kids are obviously dedicated to the theory that everything moves in circles, they are obviously constantly dictated by this cyclical notion. People were always confused by me and my friends back in the days of high school because we listened to strange music and talked funny. Me and my friends (I can’t bring myself to say “My friends and I”, somehow that little piece of grammar will never make its way into my vernacular) would then talk shit about people that listened to strange music and talked funny. What was dirt now is shit, what was shit now is dirt.
Catch it too fast. Don’t.
Even though we had established our own particular pace even as children, sometimes that pace would take to a most irregular speed. I am reminded of this every time I manage to convince my pansy ass to stand on the edge of anything trying to defy gravity in its verticality, and then force myself to look down over its tight-lipped ends. These sick pangs of vertigo make me feel like the only safe way down is to slip over the railing and off the edge. I am so heavily urged to make that ill-fated jump that my stomach starts making its own leaps until I take a step back. I’m not sure why I associate this with wildness or childhood, but I’m pretty sure I’m thinking about instincts. Are we more instinctual as children, or less so? Are we complete idiots as kids, or have we become complete idiots? Think about the fact that Swamp Boy (Me you and everyone we know) likes to be the wolf as well as the rabbit (I also know that if I am to think about this statement any longer, I will immediately realize that it is wrong… but in the face of so much wrongness…). Maybe the creature from the Black Lagoon was really just a misunderstood sweet heart. Who knows, I certainly don’t.