LARS IYER

"

Once upon a time, writers were like gods, and lived in the mountains. They were either destitute hermits or aristocratic lunatics, and they wrote only to communicate with the already dead or the unborn, or for no one at all. They had never heard of the marketplace, they were arcane and antisocial. Though they might have lamented their lives — which were marked by solitude and sadness — they lived and breathed in the sacred realm of Literature. They wrote Drama and Poetry and Philosophy and Tragedy, and each form was more devastating than the last. Their books, when they wrote them, reached their audience posthumously and by the most tortuous of routes. Their thoughts and stories were terrible to look upon, like the bones of animals that had ceased to exist.

"

READ the rest of it.

little yelling words ten blocks away

Dear idiots,

I only reflect upon you what I've already put upon myself, so we're even, so you can't get indignant, so fuck you. 

I despise you sentimentality.

Melodrama drunk in the ocean on the roof trying to pick out dried vomit from receiver.

Fancy yourself on an impossible journey for quick riches

cause you read a book.

Stuffing myself down a hole of solitude three hours at a time to get back to the word. 

and what is the word?

then you lose it all in the dictation and translation

precognition of the world you saw right at the beginning

the whole universe on the tip of your tongue

and it's not your fault

its the neighbors and the roommates and your phone blowing up

outside dragging you at the feet

take part in our feverish bullshit discourse!

the night is young!

the hours are waining!

Drinks on me!

Music all about the town!

friends to be made!

lovers to be fucked!

Few people are more interesting than these books I have in front of me.

The problem being,

everyone thinks of their lives as more interesting than a little chunk of time a day for words

idiots with alcohol under their nose

with kisses to be had in the asshole

with jobs to be attained and rules to memorize
with wars to be fought
with other people's lives to rein in
with new laws of happiness to be dictated

Those who turn these cumulative hours into that loud solitude

that juggernaut of time chunked out of space

The guru den with the hourglass on its side
not me I fail every other day

increase your capacity for loneliness

milk it for all its change

beat it if you can, make fights from nothing

babble and sing like a demented duck

lose your kids and slice up your darlings
The point to lock yourself in jail
because you also want to be like everyone else

but this lack of a moment resounding with mountain to mountain to mountain

back and forth, side, swing side, swing low and high
has a secret pleasure all its own, you know it

get to the floor and break your knuckles for a consonant

How are you now?

Yes, melodramatic

Love is the answer

Touch is the need

A little conversation for a mental beggar

a tiny stage for a low life braggart

I want to juice a life with you

not to you and not for you

moron, you don't get it

you don't trust me

you deliberate me like a man drowning in culture

I am just an idiot on the periphery.

drunk because you're sober

sober because you're drunk

give me days I'll go on and on

give me a second I'll give you a word

SHHHHHHhhhhhhhh…

Notes from underground, Dostoyevsky

Human--A biped, ungrateful.

What comes between us

is only memory

Inspiration comes best from all back alleys...or bad physical states mixed with good mental states

today I got up with the intention of reading and writing ALL day. I woke up at 10 am! which is early for me...got all the bullshit out of the way in 1 hour and was out the door... but it was so FUCKING hot I couldn't concentrate, thought maybe I had heat exhaustion, probably didn't drink enough water...was getting tired and so lethargic I thought I should just drink a shit ton of coffee and make it iced to cool down...had some cigarettes for fun but it wasn't fun in the heat...kept going into the freezer section at QFC sticking my head into the ice cream door to cool down...all this all this made me tired so tired...went to the park sweaty couldn't sleep tried to pass out heaving exhaustion...probably didn't drink enough water felt like blacking out constantly but couldn't cause I ddrank too much coffee.....went back home to try to pass out and not have to worry about all my shit getting stolen..still couldn't sleep cause of all that coffee but was so tired decided to go for some porn due to hallucinating some metaphor of desert and sex, or just the latent tie-in of languid dull idiotic states and dumb bliss pleasures like masturbation, but still was too tired anyway....too tired for anything and still couldn't sleep...

well, but, well! when I finally recovered after lying down in my room with movies and water and fan on full blast, I tried to write but couldn't, brain still melted from the sun though my body felt more or less normal, I decided to watch another movie--besides Naked Lunch which I had just watched--which was THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU, which I felt bad about because I told myself I would be writing ALL day today but haven't yet got a single word down and only read 3 pages of LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS the book I'm reading too, so I says to myself, I says, okay, I'll just watch about 15 minutes of this movie and try to write or read again...well needless to say the whole movie goes by, or nearly the whole movie, 1 hour and 16 minutes to be exact, because right at that moment, and it's been building up to this point throughout the whole amazingly engaging movie, I know something, I understand something, it has been made clearer, or clear enough, of what the ending to my novel will be like! the ideas have been laid bare, stripped by three key things--Time of the Assassins, a study of Arthur Rimbaud by henry miller, History of ART by elie faure, and the adjustment bureau...(coincidence plays a facile part in my wonder of how perfect these works, and few others, have engaged in the conversation my own novel is bringing to life, or I could say instead, sewing together, a mere combination of previous ideas into my own sort of cohesion). I started writing...............and the horrible day of mishaps blossomed in the end...its fucking hilarious how it happens like that...(and other days when I can actually stay in one place all day, sitting at the computer or with a book I probably get the same amount of work done as I did today anyway, I fuck around with distractions so much I guess all that matters is to keep the ideas stewing in the brain rather than SPECIFICALLY sit down and try to beat it out of yourself)

well shit. I kind of forgot where I was at. maybe I said all that I needed to say, maybe all that shit above doesn't make an ounce of sense, I'm too lazy to go back and read it. Now, instead, I'm gonna drop a bomb on you, the one I intended to drop on you anyway before I spontaneously started to type out all this about my day. I present you with! the outline to my novel! It's a fucking mess, and I think it's awesomely terribly hilarious that way, and wanted at least to send it out to someone...well well well! as for me, I'm done now and gonna watch the ending to that movie. I hope it doesn't suck.