reading xTx. sometimes writers don't awe me. with xTx i read her and i say "shit, i get that but i wouldn't get it if she hadn't put it exactly in those words."
Kenn Baumann wrote a really nice piece on HTML GIANT today about becoming Ken Baumann. I am really inspired by all of the sincerity writing going on over there. This piece was great. The minutia physics are really amazing. Here's a bit:
I see the past as a collection of attempts, games, admirations and apings. A path mainly molded by my brain or hardware/software (seemingly set to consume a lot of info, and cultural kinds), familial encouragement and favoring of the arts, access, and chance. If I hadn’t picked up The Stranger in that airport bookstore, alone and wandering, I wouldn’t have googled Existentialism (funny), wouldn’t have found Tao’s blog through his essay about the Virginia Tech killer/murders, wouldn’t have found Blake’s blog in which he recommended and enthused on a much wider range of materials, and wouldn’t eventually be here.
About 95% of the writers I meet online are indebted to Tao Lin. I feel like I owe him my first child. I really wish I could just say that to him, like, "You are important."
Molly Gaudry is kind of my hero. I think she is hardcore brilliant and she has a unique tact that makes me almost envious. I would love to be her.
And now she has this amazing new thing where she's a publicist!
I begin to develop the sensation that life after elementary school is one large session of recess. I am in a jungle shaped like recess. Sometimes I’m afraid of the other children. Sometimes I’m right in there, climbing those playground structures, being a good, real kid. Sometimes I hide in corners, just like I used to.
“Slide,” I say and realize, outloudly.
“Weeee,” Rich says.
I smile and I join Rich smiles.
Imagination. Credit cards chopping on cocaine.
“I was just imagining I was playing on a playground,” I say. “Slide.”
Andrew claps his hands together. The ceremony is beginning. Michelle huddles next to Andrew. I jump up and sit next to Andrew. Rich gets up and kneels down before the mirror. Four lines of coke spread. The twenty is all ready.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I’m a giant fu-cking bore.
I am swinging like an off balance pinwheel through the air and toward the nearest playground.
“Slide, slide.” I keep saying the word ‘slide’ in little two-word boosts. “Slide, slide.” Caramel slowness, tongue fun.
I am tottering a can of beer in my hand and I take a big gold gulp. This is great. The wind is on my face and in a few minutes I’m going to slip my body down a twizzle-slide.
I turn around and see Michelle. She is hopping like a bunny. Like a bunny that was just shot in the head. Her eyes are turned up and white, her mouth hangs open. Hop. Hopping in no direction. Every hop is slow and vacant and perfectly bunny-shaped. Andrew is following her. He is looking very smooth. He has a straight back. He’s very skinny. Cocaine composure. He’s watching Michelle hop. His eyes are fucked.