| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[25 Sep 2007|12:55am] |
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On hot nights, whiskey is not an option so we sit in silence sipping cold water, looking at the red horizon, waiting for the anihilation that comes with dawn, hoping for a new world.
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| It's chillier in hell tonight or, Sultry Sultans of the Middle West |
[22 Aug 2007|08:57pm] |
So, I just saw this posting on the missed connections on craigslist. As most of you know, I'm horribly addicted to them and the terrible lines between hope, hopelessness, love and bathos they navegate. I usually don't advocate straight out mocking them, but there's something so ridiculous about this one that reinforces my firmest beliefs about the universe.
Amish Guy at Union/Amtrack Station Saturday 8/18 - m4m - 41
You were there with your five cohorts in the men's room when I walked in at 10:40 am. You were good looking in your tight blue breeches with suspenders. I'm the lean, clean-shaven guy you glanced at who had on black pants and a black jacket. I'm a clean-cut, straightlaced guy--and speak fluent Hochdeutsch, too! And my grandfather was Brethren from Pennsylvania. Is that good enough? Would be thrilled if you responded!
There are too many wonderful, backwards things about that post, and I feel justified in existing.
Yours absently,
(
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| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[17 Aug 2007|12:55pm] |
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Today I was thinking about the British Empire and how enormous and haphazardous it was. What did Rhodisia and Canada and India have in common? Then I remembered the whole thing between England and France and how much England really just wanted some land on the continent of Europe. I'm pretty sure that most the Empire can be accounted for somewhere in that. Maybe everytime the British landed somewhere they were confused and disappointed that it wasn't France, since that was the only place they landed for thousands of years before that, and the following confusion of historical emotions and genetic memory served to create and ill-advised and ridiculous conquest. It reminds me a lot of my relationships, obviously.
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| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[01 Aug 2007|12:53pm] |
Yesterday, I woke up three hours before he did. Of course, he was wearing my old baseball jersey over some dress pants, underwear on the outside Superman-style. I reached across him and grabbed a book from the floor, Borges' Manual de zoologia fantastica, hoping to read until either he woke up or the Feds broke down the door or I had to pee. Anyway, until something had to happen.
Eventually, the alarm went off futilly without knowing a bit that I was already awake, which made me feel slightly embarassed for both of our sakes. I turned it off gently to preserve its dignity. He woke up of course and started babbling something in his obscure Balkan tongue so I shouted, "Speak english! It's too early to admit the outside world!" When we had both calmed down sufficiently and lit cigarettes I made coffee-good coffee, as distinguished from the dreck he pulls from the machine. I pulled on a clean shirt and a dirty pair of socks, which in some regions of the world constitutes a theo-sexual ceremony of highest import, but here means I was about to go to work. He got upset again and started shouting about the war, so I began yelling socialist slogans at a lamp and eventually punched him in the chest at which point we couldn't keep a straight face and both burst out laughing.
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| The Elephants Were Terrifying |
[05 Jul 2007|02:11pm] |
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Last night I had a dream that I was in Croatia and it was weird and awkward, and at the end the circus suddenly got loose and trampled me to death because my boots were too busy. I also wasn't wearing any underwear. This can't be a good sign.
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| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[05 Jul 2007|08:06am] |
I woke up at six, unable to sleep. The internet and a warm breeze kept me company as I attempted to allow the rest of the world to sleep, wishing that everyone were my parents and I were four and could climb into bed to wake it up and play. The subjunctive mood in English is ridiculous and no longer fits the language.
A Catechism:
Does art require suffering, or does suffering require art? Would it be better for things overall if Tolstoy had written Anna Karenina about the happy families who are all alike? Why does e e cummings call his sonnets sonnets if they don't follow the form? If I am happy, then why do I want to write? Does immortality mean anything after death? Can a close reading of Gilgamesh illuminate the subject?
Needless to say, the novel is not, nor is the writing being done. But I wanted a glass of lemonade when I woke up, so I went to the kitchen, poured myself some and drank it.
-Frank
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[29 May 2007|07:02am] |
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Man! Bad life decisions suck hardcore!
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| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[22 Apr 2007|11:25pm] |
Constantine dresses in his sleep, I've discovered. The first night we slept together, I was disconcerted by how much he didn't want to actually sleep together, but blamed it on the humidity, work and the fact that I had run out of deoderant earlier that same week. But for the last week, I've been spending the night and now I understand his reluctance. Around three in the morning, he got out of bed, presumably to go to the bathroom. I closed my eyes and turned over. When I turned back, he was wearing a full baseball uniform and cap and sleeping like a baby. During that first night he wore a business suit, a Sherlock Holmes costume and shorts with a hoodie. When we woke up the next day he wore only socks on his hands and boxers. He reached out and stroked my face with his besocked hand, looking well rested and happy.
This happens every night, it seems. We haven't discussed it yet, but I'm hesitant to let him spend the night at my house.
-Frank D'Albani
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| Last Rites of Bokononism |
[11 Apr 2007|11:11pm] |
God made mud.
God got lonesome.
So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!"
"See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars."
And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.
Lucky me, lucky mud.
I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.
Nice going, God.
Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have.
I feel very unimportant compared to You.
The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.
I got so much, and most mud got so little.
Thank you for the honor!
Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.
What memories for mud to have!
What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!
I loved everything I saw!
Good night.
I will go to heaven now.
I can hardly wait...
To find out for certain what my wampeter was...
And who was in my karass...
And all the good things our karass did for you.
Amen.
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| The Correspondence of Frank of Albany |
[01 Apr 2007|04:10pm] |
A Note to the Duchess Following a Natural Disaster:
Darling,
Could you pick me up some tea on your way home? I'm fine but I've had a difficult week. I'll pay you back someday with kisses and puppies and boys who treat you well.
-Frank D'Albani
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| Post Script or, Why I'm an Asshole |
[04 Mar 2007|11:24am] |
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Ok, so I was just looking through a disgusting facebook profile of a girl I went to gradeschool with and saw that all of her wall posts were by women. Of course, I thought "Wow! What a homosocial culture she must be in, which supports strong female bonds!" And then I wanted to die.
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| Metatron Doesn't Live Here Anymore or, Fireworks Kill Angels |
[04 Mar 2007|10:34am] |
To begin with, I had dinner with Abby last night and it was lovely. I may have been a little stoned, and the commercialism of the mall may have frightened me, but it was still a very delicious and nice dinner. We finished early, bought the cheapest Whitman book they had, and decided that a walk was a LOVELY idea. Downtown has a loveliness that comes into its own when it's cold out; there seems to be a business-like crispness that throws the buildings into a beautiful light. Also, everyone should walk down Erie just to see the old mansions.
Eventually, we were looking at an enormous statue of Benito Juarez when we heard an announcement come from the river. There would be fireworks soon! We did not believe them, but when we heard the explosions decided we should at least look in the general direction, because if they weren't fireworks, they were anarchists' bombs (not unheard of in the City of Broad Shoulders) and both would be interesting.
So, after we got our complimentary pairs of glasses that make the points of light into stars, we stood in the March cold watching fireworks and listening to "Ring of Fire" for the third time. The surreality was increased by the closeness of the apartment buildings and the Tribune building (which I would imagine would be full of flamables) on each side of the river. It was magnificent, unbelievable and I hope it happens more with even less explaination.
Also: My roommate and I are planning on taking pictures of the ENTIRETY of "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman written on various people's body parts! If you're willing to get naked (or at least let us use your shoulder or something) for art and Nick's camera, contact me!
Your guys's,
(
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[30 Jan 2007|09:46pm] |
Dear Livejournal-
I accidentally may have gotten a job today that involves sending letters to the Mexican governement, got free sushi AND used my free drink at Metropolis. I declare my life a success!
Yours in the right place at the right time,
(
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| Imagined Conversation with a Whale |
[25 Nov 2006|04:03am] |
"Hey! Yeah, you, Big Blue! What the fuck is up with baleen?? Why don't you evolve some teeth! If I were a whale I'd probably krill myself! HAHAHAHAHA! And while you're at it, get some fucking legs, blubber butt!"
"EEEEeeeeeeEEEiiiiEIiiiioooooooo!"
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| Excerpt from Mrs. D'Albani's "Treatise on the Aesthetic of the Ascetic" |
[13 Nov 2006|02:35am] |
Denial is the essence of love, just as pain is the ultimate core of pleasure. Both are centered on the absence of the object, since total union results in alteration of the individual. When a larva becomes a queen ant by eating royal jelly, the jelly brings her no pleasure; rather it alters her very being and no longer holds power over her as an object. This is the state of the addict, since the addict cannot be parted from his object without a total transformation of being. The object–be it heroin, company or sex-ceases to bring pleasure and acts only to stave off a sense of beinglessness.
Thus, the truest love and the truest pleasure must have the greatest divide between the seeker and the object. In a situation of true denial, the actor fails to be changed. By holding on to his or her independent self, the object is instead transformed. Pleasure is only expirienced by the tortured who can imagine feasts and soft beds. This is the cornerstone of every idea of heaven, every concept of hell. Hell is earthly union that transforms the soul, heaven is divinity through complete denial.
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| Excerpt from the Diary of Frank of Albany |
[15 Oct 2006|08:42pm] |
Today I met with Ophelia for tea. It's always tea with Ophelia. Sometimes, I think she's trying to follow her namesake and would drown herself in tea if she weren't so damn inept. Anyway, we sat down, and I asked her how she was doing:
"Today, I finally began to understand the stability mongers. I was just so burned out, so tired of everything...I just wanted to say, 'Fuck Bohemia! I want a boyfriend with a car and a job and a dog and a nice apartment where I can go and pretend....no, fuck that, where I can know that the world is going to be ok tomorrow and the buses will still be running.'"
She has never been one for small talk.
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| Holy Shit! |
[28 Sep 2006|08:03pm] |
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I just wrote the best sentence of my life in regards to "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man." I will never write another one. Eat your heart out, Gertrude Stein! I can write awesome sentences AND use punctuation AND make a damn point!
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[01 Sep 2006|09:28am] |
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I want to be Frank O'Hara, but I want to fuck Frank O'Hara, in the weird incest that is modern life.
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| Spacebook! |
[30 Aug 2006|05:19pm] |
Oh wow! The past week and a half have been pretty fucking ridiculous. So....I spent almost NONE of it sober, culminating in a marvelous set of hickies, and now Ira and I are friends again, which is good (the hickies and Ira are unrelated, although the lack of sobriety comes into play in the former). Saying goodbye to all of the Rome kids was remarkably hard and it was surreal sitting in class thinking "Wow. They won't be there when I get back, and they'll be gone for six months." That being said, they will have a marvelous time, I'm sure and we'll somehow manage to hang on without them. I'm having a lovley time in Chicago and love all of my classes. There shall be a more thorough update later when I'm not so tired and busy.
Absently yours,
(
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| Nouns, verbs and adjectives |
[18 Aug 2006|12:28pm] |
My last few days in the dirty Mil have been pretty damn fine, despite the mouth injury. It was pretty sad saying goodbye to my kids at the tutoring place, and two of them made me cards which was way cute.
Furthermore, "Hopscotch" (aka "Rayuela" if your inclined toward Spanish) is probably one of the greatest books I've ever read. I've been annotating like a mother fucker and wikipedia and my (NEW!) French dictionary are my new best friends. The margins are nearly full, and so is my mind! The protagonist believes that the only way to defeat the absurdity of the universe is to live an absolutely absurd life, which is just marvelous and I subscribe to it wholeheartedly. I'm REALLY excited to go through the second novel contained in the book.
Now I'm off to finish packing! Thank you, Milwaukee. You're eternally welcome to visit me in Chicago, or to just use my couch to crash.
Chicago, here I come!
Yours right now,
(
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