Squeegee your third eye, ready blankets and water: my story "Gateway to the Rest" comes your way next week from a sweet, wise publication. Been a long time.

every train the loneliest
destination

Of course there is no accounting for taste, and mine is made by privileges, biases, markets, algorithms, and countless other invisible social constructions, but oh, oh, dang, Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon is one unbelievable U.S. novel—beautiful, horrifying, critical, subversive, double-voiced, heteroglossic, mind-altering, vivifying, singularly funny.

A weird minor history. I read Mason & Dixon in 1998 on borrow from the Brooklyn Library, a darkish period where I was slowly, even painfully, returning to the the practice of reading after its long woeful absence (my worst, most selfish, self-involved, and destructive periods have also been those I was not reading, or reading far too little, or within winnowed frame of reference). I know I enjoyed and was moved by the novel because I do remember, upon finishing it, weeping in the small apartment I then shared with my sister. But, fast forward 20 years later, I just re-read the book over many weeks and made a shocking realization: I remembered nothing of detail from that first read. Nothing save a vague approximation of the novel's final lines. And though I thought myself even then someone who knew something, I see now that after that first 20-odd years of so-called schooling I had no grasp whatsoever of anything vital—history, philosophy, science, art, literature or whatever—truly anything beyond me-producing consumer culture, especially and most importantly magic, the suprarenal, the unsaid and unknown, others and others and others. Re-reading Mason & Dixon, which demanded I read a whole network of other texts in the process, helped me appreciate that I I have come a little way, very little on sum, but that I yet have universes and universes to inquire.

Here's to patience, focus, endurance. To read, learn,  breathe, be at length. Of and alongside others.

Crying again.

this fucking Chucky doll just bit the shit out of my mom and I'm offering to the first bidder for $50,000 zero questions asked. bm me please

Evil, grievously offended, would prefer to be called "Sir" or "Patriot who gives brown babies a caged vacation from their families."

if you wish a ship
mate with small
shaky hands

the executioner's face
need
not be well hidden

Jesus christ, he's over here fucking around now.

"Acts have consequences, Dixon, they must. These Louts believe all's right now,— that they are free to get on with Lives that to them are no doubt important,— with no Glimmer at all of the Debt they have taken on. That is what I smell'd,— Lethe-Water. One of the things the newlyborn forget, is how terrible its Taste, and Smell. In Time, these People are able to forget everything. Be willing but to wait a little, and ye may gull them again and again, however ye wish,— even unto their own Dissolution. In America, as I apprehend, Time is the true River that runs 'round Hell."

— Pynchon, Mason & Dixon

Who else gets mad when content isn't ahistorical, entertainment-oriented, or directly referencing me?

I pray for the end to money's murder-grip on human being.

I was blurry when I wrote, "look closely. listen closely. what we have here may well be the single truest folk rock n' roll performance ever captured on video tape," but I did wish true love would cast out all evil.

Hanging on the in silver, magnet, murk, and grain.