Alain Robbe-Grillet, turtleneck model

Houston

Brice Marden's The Seasons consists of four large monochromatic panels. The muted colors represent the seasons of nature and also the seasons in a human life. The fall panel maps onto middle age, and here, if one looks closely, something interesting can be seen. A cross. It rises up out of the color, like subtext unable to be suppressed. Looking more closely, one can see multiple crosses, centered in the painting, stacked one on top of another. 

I went over to the security guard. "Was that intentional?" He walks over to the painting with me, not sure what I was talking about. "Is Marden making this religious?" 

The guard looks unconvinced. "They seem to come from behind the painting." He went to the side, pointed out the posterior trusswork. "You see how the frame has rows? It's probably over time, the canvas settled over the wood and made those impressions. Or they may have stored the painting horizontally -- wax is heavy."

"You would think people weren't that idiotic," I said.

"Worse things have happened," the guard said. "One of the paintings in the Rothko Chapel was damaged during transportation."

The architecture of the Chapel hurt my brain. The octagon was perfect. Rothko's vision was sharp, focused. Would remain so for centuries, probably.

Review of A Sentmetal Novel by Alain Robbe-Grillet

Here's a book I was eager to read -- A Sentimental Novel by Alain Robbe-Grillet. I geeked out on all the nouveau romanists back in college. I remember sitting on a parking lot reading Jealousy, and an ant bit me on the balls. Now here's this last work by Robbe-Grillet, published a year before he died. It came out in France wrapped in its own condom, the publisher seems proud to report. Wouldn't want any young impressionable minds flipping through this and having their eyeballs pop out.
   
Because it's basically pornography? The Marquis de Sade is alive and well? But this was published by Dalkey Archive, and the back flap says "French Literature"... Even has a pseudo-scholarly introduction by the translator going off on what a treat it is to see Robbe-Grillet apply his scientific style to his actual sexual fantasies. Golden stuff he's been hoarding to himself since he was 12 years old, apparently. Wow. Some real nuggets we're dealing with.
   
Did this book really cause that much controversy when it came out in France? I don't remember hearing anything about it in America. Something like this came out last century, though, folks would get arrested. Now I could read this openly in my favorite Vietnamese restaurant while eating pho and the only provocative thing would be the sound of hot girls squeezing rooster sauce and making that wet shitty sound.
   
I can't consider this a major work because it goes against everything Robbe-Grillet fought to destroy, despite what the translator says in the intro. That is, the preference to name only certain things and depict a reality vs arriving at the truth by coldly listing facts and cataloging objects with no favoritism toward any event.
   
Writing porn requires that you curate a specific set of details to hopefully convey the maximum erotic impact, which since that's what Robbe-Grillet is doing here, makes me feel like he sold out to his own primal animal. Which leaves us to judge the work based on the strength of its eroticism which while subjective still requires some kind of underlying craft to "pull off" successfully, pun intended.
   
How does he do as a more traditional storyteller? The writing is impeccable, as expected. It's the dynamics between the characters where I feel he fails. Most good porn the heroine undergoes a transformation / degradation / awakening (and sometimes empowerment) of pussy-consciousness, the more 180 from start to finish the better. In this story the heroine at the start is already mostly on board with the father / daughter incest / BDSM program. Her lack of resistance, her eagerness to please, makes me feel like we're missing a couple of juicy "fight" chapters.
 
This leads the role of resistance to a cast of secondary characters we don't really care about, they're so disposable, it just becomes a slaughterfest and you're left feeling as if you were just tested on how much you can stomach. I did however enjoy the conceit of girls found guilty and subjected to arrest and rape by the police, then sexual servitude / torture / death, because of the "crime" of being too beautiful.
   
As far as this being "literature"... By setting all this down, he probably didn't realize how big an arena he was entering and how he could do battle with the inherent enemies of morality and social mores in an interesting way, and so became immediately "dated" as someone two or three steps behind and falling back farther the less prudish / more jaded the world gets. (His solution is to throw spears at everyone, which speaks to how threatened he probably felt, as this was his way of balancing or getting some power back. I could be wrong about this.)
   
At the very least this could be regarded as an artifact for case study of a brilliant 20th century novelist. The richness of detail makes me wonder if there was a dearth of pornographic materials when the author was a kid. Conversely, does anyone nowadays have sexual fantasies this ornate, or even at all, when any variety of porn is just taps away?
   
Why couldn't he just leave his oeuvre the hell alone? Claude Simon did, Nathalie Sarraute did. I have to conclude that like any old exhibitionist about to die, he just wanted attention.

Female hysteria

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Not to be confused with Hysteria.

Women with hysteria under the effects of hypnosis

Water massages as a treatment for hysteria (c. 1860)

Female hysteria was a once-common medical diagnosis, made exclusively in women, which is today no longer recognized by modern medical authorities as a medical disorder. Its diagnosis and treatment were routine for many hundreds of years in Western Europe. Hysteria was widely discussed in the medical literature of the 19th century. Women considered to be suffering from it exhibited a wide array of symptoms including faintness, nervousness, sexual desire, insomnia, fluid retention, heaviness in abdomen, muscle spasm, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, and "a tendency to cause trouble".^[1]

Decline

During the early 20th century, the number of women diagnosed with female hysteria declined sharply. Many reasons have been attributed to this decline. Many medical authors claim that the decline was due to laypeople gaining a greater understanding of the psychology behind conversion disorders such as hysteria.^[6]

Number of French psychiatric theses on hysteria.^[6]

With so many possible symptoms, hysteria was always considered a catchall diagnosis where any unidentifiable ailment could be assigned. As diagnostic techniques improved, the number of cases were pared down until nothing was left. For instance, before the introduction of electroencephalography,epilepsy was frequently confused with hysteria.^[7] Many cases that had previously been labeled hysteria were reclassified bySigmund Freud as anxiety neuroses.^[7]

Today, female hysteria is no longer a recognized illness. The world has come to accept that females are just illogical bitches.

The Checkup

Steve tried to pop me in the nuts as a joke. But then his hand lingered there and flipped my dick up and down. What the fark? He was laughing hard, but it was funny. I pushed him away. He tried to grab my dick again with this grin on his face. Still joking but it was too gay so I decided to punch him in the face until a tooth came loose. Had to set him straight, like you do with children. It took ten hard punches before I got a premolar out. Roots and all. It was long and red on the carpet. He blinked, picked it up, said, “Is this yours or mine?” I noticed I had a gaping hole in my gumline. (He must have been punching me back.) I found another long red tooth on the carpet, and we both rushed over to the dentist, his father. We made up a story about how we wanted to check for pancreatic cancer by scratching off some enamel and examining it under a microscope, but got carried away. His dad started to lecture us -- we cut him short. The tooth Steve held was big and thick. The one in my hand was thin and small. I hoped the big and thick tooth belonged to me. “Only way to tell,” Steve’s dad said, pulling out a cardboard rectangle. “We keep a record of a bitemark imprints. Just press the tooth here and we’ll see which one matches.” Of course mine was the small and thin one.

Hannah

If they made a biopic on Barry Hannah, yeah, I would watch it. Even if it only showed him sitting around the house all day, getting drunk. But there would at least be legitimate gunfire. Maybe some motorcycle or airplane crashes. (Was he the one who pulled a gun on one of his students?) Meanwhile, I'm sitting in my hot car, reading Rangoon Green. It's the last story in the collection Long, Last, Happy. Aside from the unforgivable omission of Quo Vadis, Smut, it is arranged pretty well. Can't remember if he was always a Grove author or not, but it fits. Aknowledgement mentions David McLendon. I'm wondering if this is the David McLendon of unsaid magazine.

Miss Butterworth

Here's something for the guys to try out is, think about five actual girls you know. Put their names in your head. Imagine what they looked like the last time you saw them. Line them up. Then fill in the following blank w/ their name:

"Hey, ______, can I pump your butthole?"

As in, for example, "Hey, Jenny, can I pump your butthole?" Or, "Hey, Mary, can I pump your butthole?" Or, "Hey, Margaret, can I pump your butthole?" Or, "Hey, Sharon, can I pump your butthole?" Or, "Hey, Lisa, can I pump your butthole?"

Is it possible that our level of attraction to a girl is determined by our reaction to the idea of pumping their buttholes? Maybe a positive response to thoughts of butthole-pumping indicate a desirable look or compatible personality type? Is going in and out of a person's butthole a good measure of their worth as a possible significant other? Are their buttholes a reflection of their personalities, or do their buttholes have personalities of their own?

Interesting, isn't it, that we wouldn't mind churning butter in, for example, Cindy's butthole, but the thought of even looking at (much less touching) Stacy's butthole makes us want to hurl. Some girls we can't even imagine having buttholes, despite our staring at their asses all the time. Maybe it's because we rarely hear them fart. (It might be worth throwing the whole sexual thing out the window and just figuring out how we would react if we heard these girls fart. There's no rarer animal than a girl fart—how do we even begin to address the complex emotions arising from such an outburst?) It's true that for other girls we would like nothing more than to, if possible, shove our entire head up their ass, and just live in there like that. (There would be that cartoon thunking sound once we made it inside. And then a champagne cork pop every time we decided to come out.) Some guys would want nothing more than to live inside a girl's ass, out of nostalgia, become sort of like ass turtles, crane their necks out when hungry, turn around and lay eggs, etc. Damn, this is bizarre. Sure, an attractive girl's ass is always appealing, but there's something almost sacred and unsettling about getting up so far as actually seeing the butthole and getting to touch it. There's going to be some sort of hesitation there, even if the girl has the prettiest face and the dumpiest body and cleanest ass. She might have a freckle near her butthole and that would be cute. Then again, that freckle could be a piece of poop, which would be a big minus.

Jacques Roubaud, man-of-leisure

Gil Sorrentino, Railroad Commissioner

Gil Sorrentino, Gun-for-hire

Racist Cups

I have to sift through insane amounts of porn in order to see something beautiful and human. When I find it, it's usually not porn at that point, just a dumpy girl walking down the street. Or a page of Architectural Digest, my favorite magazine. I like to see what kind of sick houses some humans actually live in. Meanwhile, stocks plummet.


-- notes = explore creating a business called Racist Cups, which are basically racist comics on Styrofoam cups, with different levels. Level 6 being Genocide. Sell these on eBay

Wilson Harris

Everytime I see a toucan in a rain forest, I think of Wilson Harris. When I throw a rock at the toucan, its beak shatters and candycolored shards sprinkle down on my head.


Wilson Harris is 91 years old. Or he might be dead by now, I dunno. He is the creator of the Four Banks of the River of Space and Time. Also, Carnival. Also, the Palace of the Peacock. Also, Tree of the Sun. He is responsible for Da Silva, Robin Glass Redbreast, Ghost. When he was younger he looked like Billy Dee Williams.

Breaktime

I like to watch women taking breaks at work. The way women take breaks is different from how men take breaks. Women suck on their cigarettes slow and long, while men talk politics and other things they know nothing about. Women stare at the road, men stare into smartphones. I'm in my car watching them, when I should be at home or Half Price Books. I can stare at women objectively, dispassionately, as long as they are not short and dumpy, or actually even just fat nowadays.


The thing about dumpy girls is, especially the ones that wear short skirts, do they think they're badass or something? Do they really think they're badass? Because they are. They are a piece of badass you can't help but want to get up inside of. Especially the one from work. Herein lies the dilemma. You want to pay her ass a compliment but you don't want to get fired. Maybe ask it/her out to lunch? She takes breaks too but doesn't actually suck on anything. At least not yet.


Steady now, fuckhead. Don't blow it like always.

The Rise and Fall of Nazi Germany

Sitting at Schlotzkys, reading Tours of the Black Clock by Steve Erickson. I had to put down my jalapeno chips, just say Nigga crayyy....

ouchie

Migraines almost every day now. At first I thought it was lack of coffee. Now I’m starting to think it’s the heat. By late afternoon I’m toast. People will come up to me asking for help and I’ll just look into their eyes with no soul. And help them. No fuss, no backtalk, just fix the shit. Migraines are good that way. Unfortunately, it’s hard to drive home. I have to wait it out in the dark in a cold room somewhere. Enforced meditation is what it is. Mind’s way of saying you’ve lost focus.

Ding Dong

Some Jehovah’s Witnesses rang my doorbell on Sunday. I was doing relay races with my son in the hallway, so they could see me through the glass. I opened the door and it was two old Asian women.


Are you Korean? one of them asked.


Yes, I said.


Can you speak Korean? she asked.


No, I replied. How can I help you?


She struggled to find the English words and started stuttering about Jehovah’s Witnesses. At this point my son ran up and slammed the door shut. And laughed hysterically. I opened the door a crack and said, Sorry about that, and my son slammed the door again.


A year ago, a Jehovah's Witness and her daughter would come over every Sunday. The first day they came over I had been drinking extreme amounts of coffee. I had a turbo conversation with the mother, who was plain-looking in a really good way, and seemed taken aback that I was talking with her for so long. I went through all the books of the Bible that I liked -- Ruth, Job, Revelations. That raised some sort of red flag and she would return every weekend. But I never understood what she wanted. She would just listen to me talk. Eventually I started pretending I was busy. Then I stopped opening the door.

The Ice Grill

Do you remember that book reading we went to once? Where the writer at the end sort of stared at you?


Yes.


I found out the other day that he was once a heroine addict.


That doesn't surprise me.


I mean, I suspected he was, since he wrote really well about that kind of stuff. Why doesn't that surprise you?


I don't know. There was something about him that I didn't like.


I think he was trying to hit on you. The way he was staring at you so hard.


I don't think so. He just wanted to stare me down. And I wouldn't let him.


What -- you were having a staring contest with him?


Yeah, because I didn't think he was such a big deal. And I think he thought he was.


But it didn't look like he was challenging you. It looked like he was intrigued by you. Like, What's up with this girl?


I was basically trying to read him. And he could tell I was trying to read him.


So what did you see about him in his eyes?


That he was basically not a good person.


I remember pushing this book under his face for him to sign, and he seemed a little annoyed. Like it was distracting him from the staring thing that you guys got locked into.


I don't know.


And by the time I pushed the second book under his face...


I didn't really care. And I wanted him to know that.


So what did your look look like? Here, give me that look right now.


No... I can't...


Try it. Woah, that was, that was kind of intense.


I just couldn't stand all those people falling all over him, like he was God.


Well he is kind of like a god...


Like you, you looked so pious.


Well, he is considered a great writer. A writer's writer...


I could care less.


And wasn't there something weird about his eyes, like they were aqua or green or something?


I don't remember.


Anyway, was it chauvinism? Did he try to dominate you because you're a girl?


No, I don't think so. No, I think he was just a little surprised. And I think he wanted to explore that a little bit.


He was sort of half-smiling throughout the whole thing.


Anyway, it was a long time ago.


But you still remember.


Of course.

Confident Dumpy Girl

Let's turn our attention now to the confident dumpy girl. The confident dumpy girl is interesting because she seems oblivious to the fact that she is dumpy. This can be aggravating. And exciting. Guys give her a lot of attention because she demands it but you can't be certain if it's just pity-attention. I try to stay away from them, which is my general policy with girls who get a lot of attention, even though the confident dumpy girl, completely oblivious to her own dumpiness, excites me that much more. Most of them are married to quiet men who make a lot of money. But what I have found is, once you get them in bed, they are pretty open to being humiliated. I like to do the Miss Piggy routine on them, personally. (Some of them can do the voice quite well.) Anyway, I think they are a luxury to be honest, more appealing than quiet dumpy girls, foreign exchange dumpy girls, and tall dumpy girls (who are too big).

Oops

My muscles were gleaming in the sunlight.


“Not going with a caramel macchiato today, huh?”


"Well, sometimes if I had something sweet earlier... like I had some chocolate earlier this afternoon...”


I looked down at the drink she just handed me. It was a café mocha.


“Okay,” said the coffee girl. “So... have a good one.”

Facepunch

I want to drive to Marfa this weekend to see Ben Marcus give a reading. His new book is called The Flame Alphabet. But Marfa is so far away. Like 8 hours. I know I should go. There are some things you need to do. Like take Gordon Lish's classes for free. Like look for Claude Simon in France before he died. Like visit Joseph McElroy before it's too late. Ben will not remember me of course, especially after "The Incident," which left me with a facial scar. (The scar is on the inside of my face, not to be confused with the actual scar, on my nose, which was done by Haruki Murakami.)