boo

I want to go into a bar and go up to lots of people and say, "Hello, I am a ghost." I hope people will buy me drinks.

ffffffffffffvvffff. My f key is not working very well.

I read a story in Laird Hunt's Paris Stories that made me want to be a ghost when I die. I read it after my urge to impersonate a ghost at a bar.

I think maybe I don't really want to DIE, and ghosts only die, so I'm ok with that. You don't have to worry about money when you're a ghost. Or food or shelter. You can travel all the time. Do whatever you want to do. The ghost in Laird Hunt's story said she never gets lonely because there are a lot of ghosts to keep her company. I imagine a lot of people have died. I'll write books and other ghosts will read them and enjoy them. We'll connect on a human level. Being a ghost is awesome.

I read at an open mic tonight. I love reading. I hate open mics. I need to schedule my own readings. I don't know how to do this.

I'm going to write a totally different book from the one I originally intended for my three day novella. I write first person pov much quicker than third. I started the book that I originally intended to do a while ago. I wrote a little more than a page of third person narration. I wasn't enjoying it so I stopped. I read it yesterday. It was really great. I want to continue with it, but keep the same style/tone. Need to keep it third person. I can't write a third person book in three days.

I'm going to write a book called Untitled Bradley Sands Project. If it actually ends up publishable, I might keep it.

100% free porn robocop

Blarg. Probably shouldn't have poured expired milk in my cereal this morning.

My summer writing program is long over. Cool workshops. The stuff in the afternoon wasn't so good, like lectures and panels. Too much of a poetry slant. Did a presentation during a panel about how to start a lit journal. Highlights were the workshops with Laird Hunt and Brian Evenson (and Joanna Howard). Saw him dance to a Michael Jackson song. Liked Selah Saterstrom's weekly class a lot. I don't know why I don't hear about her books more often. You should read them. Michelle Ellsworth's performance was great, although I was ill. Was in her workshop for the first day, but switched to Evenson's for the second after someone dropped out. Made a teacup breakdance on its own volition for like five minutes. Saw people breakdancing on yuppie street a few days ago. Couldn't see much since they were ground level and people were blocking my view.

Met lots of people. Nice to be part of a scene that doesn't exist mostly on the internet.

Things are happening.

New issue of Zygote in My Coffee with my prose poem, "A Suicidal Amputee Tries to Kill Himself by Rolling Off His Bed, Down the Stairs, Through the Screen Door, and Into Traffic; Some Dominican Kids Poke Him With Sticks Too, and an Eagle Shits on Him" Thanks Jerome for the prompt.

Afterbirth Books is putting out my novella collection, Disappointing Sophomoric Effort, maybe before the end of the year.

Raw Dog Screaming Press is putting out my short story collection, My Heart Said No, But the Camera Crew Said Yes!, next year.

Another book was accepted for publication that I can't talk about yet.

My novella that appeared in The Bizarro Starter Kit (Blue)-- Cheesequake Smash-up-- was nominated for The &NOW Awards: The Best Innovative Writing.

Have been posting under A_Lawn_Gnome for Twitter 66. Probably should do that more.

Have a bunch of time to kill. School doesn't begin again until the end of August. Psyched for a relaxed semester. Summer program was a little too much. Spending 13 hours a day at school almost every day for a month. Although that's with lots of breaks.

Doing a 3 day novella writing challenge starting Thursday. Gina Ranalli is joining in. Maybe Sam Pink. Maybe others. Join in.

Blarg.

dreams are boring

First full day of writing program classes. Very busy. Just finished my homework for the night. Feels weird to type "homework."

Yesterday, I heard a recording of Allen Ginsberg. Last night, had a dream where I was sitting next to Allen Ginsberg in the audience of a Quiz show. Jack Kerouac was a contestant. A sorta flapper version of Paris Hilton was playing. She was molesting Jack Kerouac. He was not happy about this.

I once went to an Acumen concert in NYC at The Bat Cave. A man and a woman were standing in front of the stage, rubbing the bassist's crotch. He was not happy about this. He was trying to get away. He was unsuccessful.

I was simultaneously Jack Kerouac and myself. Allen Ginsberg was simultaneously the flapper and himself. He was wearing her clothes. Allen Ginsberg was rubbing me. Not sure if I was happy about this. Maybe uncomfortable. Maybe an emotion I cannot comprehend since it was a dream.

Ended up without clothes. Suddenly, Jack Kerouac was dead. Suddenly Allen and I were in his apartment. It was sort of a museum. Nothing had been changed/removed since the day he died. For some reason, the flapper lived next door. Did something in her apartment. Don't recall what. Not sure if she's dead or not home.

Put on Jack's clothes at Allen's suggestion. Wearing sweat pants. Leave. Find it the authorities are all pissed that I stole Jack's clothes. It's a really big deal. They are pissed. There was a journal in my pocket, which makes it much worse. Odd how I didn't notice the wait of the journal while I was in sweat pants.

Return the clothes. Past crimes are forgiven. Authorities are ok with me hanging out in Jack's old apartment. Allen and I chill.

Dreams are boring.

this place

Have been in Boulder since Monday. It's great. Paradise, except for when the weather is bad. Big hail stones earlier today. Lasted a few minutes. Meeting a professor tomorrow at a coffee shop. Orientation starts Thursday.

Chose the cover art for the next issue of Bust. Doing last minutes on the issue.

Have an urge to tweet "Masturbating" five times so it fills the right side of my blog. Holding back because it would be really annoying for people who follow me on twitter.

Living in a neighborhood with lots of young college students for the next couple of months. Sometimes gets noisy at night. Annoying

Offered a room in an awesome apartment outside of Boulder starting in August. Would be living with an elderly man who is an ex-priest/ex-judge, semi-retired Jungian psychologist. We hit it off. The area is beautiful. Even more beautiful than Boulder. Quiet. The community is like a country club. Only problem is it's a little far from school and I'm trying to avoid bringing my car up, which I might do if I take this place and busing is too much of a pain.

Walked to campus a few days ago. Beautiful. Tiniest campus I've ever seen. There's two more of them elsewhere in the city. I may never step foot on either of those.

There's a miniature golf course in Denver called Adventure Golf. I want to play. Tiki head and volcano spits fire. You have to hit your ball through a haunted house.

The first issue of The Magazine of Bizarro Fiction is out. There's a reprint of my "How to Write a Short Story!" in there.

It features a novella by Anderson Prunty which he describes as being "like Scooby Doo, but Scooby and the gang traveling pornographers." Stories by Jordan Krall, Bruce Taylor, Garrett Cook, and Michael Gibbs. Comics by Andrew Goldfarb and Jeremy Kemp. Articles by Mykle Hansen and editor, Jeff Burk. A spotlight on Gina Ranalli. Lots of bizarro book reviews.

Buy it here: bizarrocentral.com/magazine.asp

There's also copies for sale on Amazon.

a paragraph composed of the first sentences of all the chapters in my novel in progress

This is the only house in the neighborhood without a basement. The dog is barking. Dad returns, shaken. Had there ever been a front door? Dad removes his toolbox from the hall closet, opens it, grabs a hammer. Dad climbs the stairs to smash a window in his bedroom. Matt likes his room. Dad tells Mom and Paul it’s all mirror. It becomes quieter than quiet. Mom and Paul are hugging. Dad is angry at his wife for seeking retribution against him. Paul’s consciousness lies in bed. The living room feels bloated. Matt is a cardboard box. The front door ages, retires, and dies, leaving behind a severed doorknob. Matt is a cardboard box. Dad reads Ion a bedtime story. Paul is jumping on a bouncy castle. Matt is not a cardboard box.

all of my mother's day flowers are dead

I have a beard and am naked in my brother's old room. My old room is now my mother's Ebay room.

I am in NY. There are a couple of readings in the city I might go to. Probably not though. I would if I could drive rather than train to them. I don't like readings, unless I am reading. I would rather read an author's work myself than hear them say it out loud. I cannot follow a story when it is said out loud unless the speaker is very animated. I fade out a lot. I miss things that are necessary to follow the story. If this happens when I am reading a book, I can backtrack. Although it happens less. I think the only thing I like about going to readings is the hanging out aspect.

The house that I grew up in has a room that I forgot about. There is also now a door that allows me to access the garage from inside the house. This blew my mind when I walked through it. I felt excited.

My parents' are trying to sell the house. A bunch of bookcases are filled with books "for show." It is a schizophrenic mixture of books. A combination of my books/parents' books/brothers' books. Zagat's restaurant guide next to a William Gibson novel. I found the uncorrected proof of Stephen Dixon's Old Friends. Liked it. No typos. Needs a better title. The long paragraphs hurt my eyes. Experimental, but accessible. I like books like this.

What other good Stephen Dixon books are there?

I am not in the kitchen. I am no longer naked. The kitchen is nice. It's sunny. I'll probably spend a lot of time at the table.

bubbles

Thinking about moving this blog to my website since it gets barely any hits and my blog gets lots. And it would be nice if people actually checked my website on occasion.

But I don't know since I barely write in this thing any more. Will probably wait until I'm feeling more motivated.

I did my last overnight shift on Tuesday night, stayed up until 9 pm last night, and woke up early today so I could begin my new, normal sleep schedule. I'm happy about the idea of becoming a day person. I've always been a night person, but staying up all night for a year and a half caused me to lust after the idea of becoming a day person. It has given me a newfound appreciation of sunlight.

Going hiking today with a few friends to the highest point in my area. It will be nice. I usually only hike with one person because he's the only guy who's cool with going on early morning hikes with me (since I would go to sleep early in the afternoon). But now I'm going at 1 pm, so others are down as well.

Going to Long Island on Saturday to visit my parents for a little over a week. Might go to Opium's Literary Death Match. My father was buddies with one of the readers in high school.

Flying to Boulder around the beginning of next month. Naropa's summer program starts a few weeks later. My first workshop is with Laird Hunt.

Need to start writing fiction again. Haven't done that in a bunch of days. Was working on a novel-sort of thing. But got tired of it. Stopped around 5000 words. Hoping being in my childhood home will reignite my interest in the "book" because that is the setting.

Have been reading tons of books lately.