Monday, October 1, 2007

Less Wine, Less Seth


Sorry for my inexcusable absence from our blog. I've met a shark. We're in love. Our shark meets human romance is strange and tantalizing and very, very time-consuming.

Also, I've met Miranda July. We're in love too. She doesn't know me, but that doesn't matter. We're in love and our romance too is strange and tantalizing and very, very time-consuming.

Plus, there's The Season of Triumph. You would simply not believe how much extra time it takes each day to perform 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups. Even when I'm not on the floor, grunting, I'm thinking about them: the push-ups, the the sit-ups (and Miranda July and the shark for that matter.) It's a considerable commitment. Plus, I've vowed to only drink wine four or fewer nights a week and I've learned, by accident, that wine was the source of my power. I am no longer the exuberant wino of yesterday who over-drank out of a lust for life. I am no longer the guy capable of writing a blog in a single leap. I am now sober and boring and triumphant.

Which is to say: sorry.

I had wanted to write immediately after reading your last post. To be honest, I was in hysterics. You said you once had a medium-sized Season of Triumph. That was funny. Then you said you chewed like a cow. That was funny too. And then you talked about your upstairs neighbor in the city:

"As far as I can tell, he and I are the only people in New York who get up before eight o’clock on Saturdays, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that sometimes the thought of this fills me with a feeling of tenderness for him that makes me want to get the stepladder out of our closet and press my cheek to the ceiling as a sign of solidarity."

That was funny.

By the way, I feel much differently about my upstairs neighbor. Keep in mind, I don't live in the city. Every noise around here, in Ambler, startles me. I jump when a car starts. And I'm not a big fan of hearing other people's intimate movements. An old neighbor, a surgeon or something crucial like that, used to make love to his girlfriend just above our living room. We'd be watching baseball and suddenly someone's moaning (him? her? I could never tell and so never felt any sense of voyeuristic excitement at all) and something's creaking and as far as I can tell the guy lasts about two minutes.

So, yeah, I'd rather just watch baseball.

I appreciate your appreciation of marginal literature and I will certainly read the Season of Triumph sounding book by Terz. The only books for me are the ones that burn! Just kidding (been reading a lot of Kerouac retrospectives lately...) But seriously your endorsement is the exact endorsement I look for in a book: "a primer, an instruction manual on how to turn your own life into a book of great beauty and potency."

I feel the same way about the Miranda July book, probably for completely opposing, ridiculous reasons. But still.

So the semester ambles. Who are you doing? Any luck with “Essay on Dogs as a Unit of Breath"? I've started a story about a guy who can't stop talking about sharks. It's called "The Season of Triumph." That's not a joke. I have such high hopes for the story I'm starting to get delusions of grandeur. It won't just be a story. It'll be a novella! No, a novel! I'll illustrate it. No, someone else will illustrate it! Someone with verve and talent!

I'll check out all the books you mentioned. Promise me you'll seek out Miranda July.

I'm coming to NYC this weekend, gonna see George Saunders at the New Yorker Festival. I'd ask if you were gonna be around, but most likely I'm outta there on Saturday afternoon (festival happening is Friday...)

1 comment:

The Man Who Couldn't Blog said...

You are cold. It is not an illusion.

Everything else, though, is an illusion.

Josh, for example, is an illusion.

George Saunders, for example, is an illusion.

Miranda July is, I think it's clear, an illusion.

Cold is real.

This blog's good, too.