DANKLAND FEELS THE INTENSE DESIRE TO SCOOP UP EMILY DICKINSON IN HIS ARMS AND RUN TO THE FURTHEST CORNER OF THE WORLD WHERE THEY CAN KISS ALL NIGHT


In many and reportless places
We feel a Joy --
Reportless, also, but sincere as Nature
Or Deity --

It comes, without a consternation --
Dissolves -- the same --
But leaves a sumptuous Destitution --
Without a Name --

Profane it by a search -- we cannot
It has no home --
Nor we who having once inhaled it --
Thereafter roam.

--Emily Dickinson

NEVER AGAIN LEAVE ME TO BE THE PEACEFUL CHILD I WAS BEFORE WHAT THERE IN THE NIGHT, / BY THE SEA UNDER THE YELLOW AND SAGGING MOON

OUT OF THE CRADLE, ENDLESSLY ROCKING (excerpt)
by Walt Whitman

Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.

O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,
O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape the reverberations,
Never more shall the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night,
By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

"THE BEST POSISTION FOR FUCKING THE WORLD"



Because art blows life into the lifeless, death into the deathless. Because art's lie is preferable, in truth, to life's beautiful terror. Because as time does not pass (nothing, as Beckett tells us, passes) it passes the time. Because Death, our mirthless master, is somehow amused by epitaphs. Because epitaphs well struck give Death, our vorcious master, heartburn. Because fiction imitates life's beauty, thereby inventing the beauty life lacks. Because fiction is the best position, at once exotic and familiar, for fucking the world. Because fiction, mediating paradox, celebrates it. Because fiction, mothered by love, loves love as a mother might her unloving child. Because fiction speaks, hopelessly, beautifully, as the world speaks. Because God, created in the storyteller's image, can be destroyed only by its maker. Because in its perversity, art harmonizes the disharmonious, and because in its profanity, fiction sanctifies life. Because, in its terrible isolation, writing is a path to brotherhood. Because in the beginning was the gesture and in the end the come, as well in between what we have are words. Because of all arts, only fiction can unmake the myths that unman men. Because of its endearing futility, its outrageous pretentions. Because the pen, though short, casts a long shadow upon (it must be said) no surface. Because the world is reinvented every day and this is how it is done. Because there is nothing new under the sun except its expression. Because truth, that illusive joker, hides himself in fictions and must therefore be sought there. Because writing, in all spaces unimaginable vastness, is still the greatest adventure of all. And because, alas, what else?

(a link to Coover's brilliant story, The Babysitter)
http://disturbia.blox.pl/resource/Coover_Robert__The_Babysitter.pdf

SWAG 101

It is very important to understand swag. Swagger is crucial. Swagger will save America from falling to second place behind China. China does not have very much swag. You cannot manufacture swag. You cannot export swag. Communism is completely anti-swag, and that is why Communism will always fail.

1) Blazin Hazen


This is someone whose swagger levels are actually in the negative region. Notice how often listening to this song makes you wince, as though you are being tasered in the face over and over. Notice how no one watching this music video would ever think to themselves, “Damn, I wish that I could live like Blazin Hazen.” No. Swag level -500.

2) The Windshield Wiper Dance


"Wipe them haters off with the windshield wipers!" This person's swagger level is much higher. Notice how you would be tempted to perform this dance if you were alone in your apartment hella stoned on that GOOD, but at the same time you would absolutely never perform this dance ever in public ever. You should also notice that only 1,000 people have watched this video, although it still might catch on. You should also notice that most of the people in the video are twelve years old. Swag at a hundred and climbing.

3) Lil B aka Based God


“First I park my car. Then I fuck your bitch.” As much as I would like to place Lil B's swag at his own maximum estimate of “a hundred trillion,” I can't because there are still about twice as many Lil B haters as there are Lil B fans. (This will change pretty soon, though.) However, Lil B's swag is easily at LEAST a hundred thousand. Also, he has a rap song with Andy Milonakis, remember him?



4) M.I.A. - Paper Planes


"No one on the corner has swagger like us / Hit me on my banner pre-paid wireless" Swag on full attack, swag on a billion billion. Needs no explanation.

5) Lil Wayne, Dr. Carter third verse about swagger @ 2:45



swagger tighter than a yeast infection / fly go hard like geese erection / flashing patrol, police detection / eyes stay tight like Chinese connection / eyes stay tight like pussy at night / baby don't get me wrong, I can do that pussy right / but I'm too wrong to write, too fresh to fight / TOO PAID TO FREESTYLE, TOO PAID TO FREESTYLE / had to say it twice / swagger so nice / and don't ask me shit unless it concern a price / and I don't rap fast, I rap slow / cause I mean every letter in the words in the sentence of my quotes / swagger just flows sweeter than honey oats / that swagger I got it, I wear it like a coat / wait, as I put the light down his throat / I can only see flow / his blood starting to flow / his lungs starting to grow / this one's starting to show / strong signs of life / where's the stitches, here's the knife / smack his face, his eyes open, I reply "What a night" / welcome back hip hop, I saved your life

SWAG ON A HUNDRED THOUSAND TRILLION. SWAG ON MAXIMUM, BALLING THROUGH THE ROOF LIKE HAKEEM OLAJUWON ON STILTS. SWAGGER FOR YEARS, FOR LIFETIMES. SWAG LIKE A TRILLION PROOF LIQUOR. SWAG LIKE RONALD REGAN BUSTIN COMMUNISTS IN THEIR ASS.

"FROM HIS MOUTH, BLACK STRINGS OF SOMETHING SLIPPED OUT, AS THOUGH HE HAD SPEWED OUT THE HEART OF HIS GRIEF"


James Purdy (July 17, 1914--March 13, 2009)


ARTISTIC STATEMENT [Culled and Assembled from Interviews]


People have no respect, no empathy for other people; they have no sense of who other people are. There's a kind of withering away of the human sensibility, and this leads to the collapse of just about everything.

My writing is concerned with the soul, with the unknown forces of the psyche. A British writer said I write under the skin, which I liked. In a spiritual sense, the real life of man is going on inside. It's not what he says or does, it's something else. The only way, I think, one can get in touch with that is in dreams, either sleeping or waking...not a trance like stage, but going beyond the conscious. I think maybe that distinguishes the two kinds of writing: there is the muse kind and the journalistic kind. I feel that the stories and subjects "come" to me, because when I try to seek them, they elude me. Consequently, I don't write for anyone. I write for the soul. If you really tell yourself the truth, you've told everyone. This doesn't come easily at all. It's all a matter of psychic energy, of getting in touch with what you're looking for.

There are times, however, when I sit and write, and there's nothing there, nothing comes. And I only see myself as a receptacle up to a point, as sometimes the story comes out partially formed. Then the really muscular work begins. The sledgehammer work. After the "voices" have told you, you have to hammer it into a shape that's intelligible--first to yourself and then to others. Technique is constant practice and a kind of bleeding inside. It's agony really because the body resists the soul. It doesn't want to be tortured by putting some things down on paper.

My writing is both realistic and symbolic. The outer texture is realistic, but the actual story has a symbolic, almost mythic quality. The characters are being moved by forces, which they don't understand. I'm really writing about something rather ancient that predates Christianity and Judaism. A friend calls it archetypal. Though my stories are really American myths and the language and characters are very American, they are not only about America. They just happen to take place here.

I usually write about a person in crisis, because that's the time we tell the truth. They say "in vino veritas", but for me it's the crisis when someone tells the truth. The people in my work discover the truth about themselves. They're liberated from false illusions. In all my writing there is a final self-revelation which all of us try to avoid.





http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Purdy

ALL GOES ONWARD AND OUTWARD...AND NOTHING COLLAPSES, / AND TO DIE IS DIFFERENT FROM WHAT ANY ONE SUPPOSED, AND LUCKIER

LEAVES OF GRASS (section 6)
by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

A LIST OF SUPERDANK BOOKS


1. Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman
2. Nightwood - Djuna Barnes
3. Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry
4. The Royal Family - William Vollmann
5. In a Shallow Grave - James Purdy
6. Sutree - Cormac McCarthy
7. Ida - Gertrude Stein
8. Souvenirs Entomologiques - Jean Henri-Fabre
9. Blood Oranges - John Hawkes
10. The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake
11. Sanitorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass - Bruno Schultz
12. Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schultz
13. St. Mawr - DH Lawrence
14. Dead Souls - Nikolai Gogol
15. The Collected Kafka
16. The Haunting of Hill House - Shirley Jackson
17. Light in August - William Faulkner
18. Infinite Jest - David Foster Wallace
19. In the Heart of the Heart of the Country - William Gass
20. The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano
21. Black Hole - Charles Burns
22. The Story of the Eye - Georges Bataille
23. Lorca's Collected Poems
24. Philip K Dick is dank
25. So is Tolstoy
26. And Flannery O' Connor
27. Pale Horse, Pale Rider by Katherine Anne Porter is possibly the dankest short novel of all time
28. Except maybe for Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathaniel West
29. Paradise Lost is the HELLA DANKEST POEM OF ALL TIME
30. Hart Crane is dank
31. I only meant to put like ten books up here, sorry
32. swag

A SPACE CADET IN SPACE CITY

Particularly late at night, Dankland's brain liked to twist away from the inside of his skull and run furious circles through the city, which was also called Dankland. His cat Reggie had the same trick--furtively crouching at the foot of the door to jolt out between his legs the moment he opened it, meowing victoriously as its small black body scurried away, suddenly evaporating into the nearest bank of shadows. Off he went--out to prowl and sniff the wind, to torture and feast on the bodies of cowering lizards, and to irresponsibly fuck all the other cats in town, and fill their bellies with kittens.

It's funny to think of a brain with its own brain, but Dankland's brain definitely had its own brain. Perhaps even his brain's brain had its own brain, but who can say. In any case, Dankland had always been the type of person with unusual ideas.