A friend once told me that title pages look best in bold italics. This is in tribute to him. He’s still alive. Don’t worry.



The cups are cracked in hooks



above the sink

they make me think.

‘Sink’ and ‘think’ don’t rhyme the way Jeff Tweedy sings it.



I sing along to Wilco on my way far away from Chicago. But that was another lifetime, another decade,

almost.

I still listen to Wilco, but I also listen to more different music than Wilco because I’ve listened to more music, all in all.

It stands to reason,

The next time I stop and write something very similar to what I’m writing now,

the odds are that I will have

listened to more music then than even now.

The cups are cracked

They make me think

Slowly deconstruct, take everything apart to see what’s in there.

Turn your vision inward. Become myopic.

On the other hand,

on a very d i s t a n t other hand,

There’s 100% possibility for life somewhere in the southern constellation, Tucana.

My mind is literally blown.

(Voice from UNITED STATES OF TARA says You can’t have literally blown your mind, because then you’d literally have no mind)

Look,

I know she didn’t say exactly those words on the show. Even though I watched the episode last night, I can’t remember her exact words.

But I think I like my remembered version better than what was on the show.

But, then again, how can I really know this?

Welcome to my brain.

That probably should’ve been the last line to whatever it is I’m writing.

What do you call this?

How about CINNAMON PINTO BEANS?

What you’re reading now

is called

CINNAMON PINTO BEANS BOILING IN WATER AFTER SOAKING OVERNIGHT

Next time you go to the bookstore, ask the person who’s lucky enough to be working there,

“Where’s CINNAMON PINTO BEANS BOILING IN WATER AFTER SOAKING OVERNIGHT?”

And the fucking person lucky enough to be working in a bookstore points to the east,

“Right over there. Enjoy it.”

It’s funny, every time I stop writing and stare off into distant lands, I always think the most clever way to jump back into writing

is by trying to create some kind of chorus.

Get a little refrain going in this shit.

Like I was just thinking about writing

the cups are cracked in hooks

above the sink

they make me think



Hey, and by the way, I think leitmotif is the greatest tool in a writer’s sac.





A leitmotif (sometimes written leit-motif) (pronounced /ˌlaɪtmoʊˈtiːf/) (from the German Leitmotiv, lit. “leading motif“, or perhaps more accurately “guiding motif”) is a musical term (though occasionally used in theatre or literature), referring to a recurring theme, associated with a particular person, place, or idea.[1] It is closely related to the musical idea of idée fixe.

Wikipedia is so beautiful.



Some tiny voice just asked me if I was being PC.

Not really.

I think I was raised with a certain understanding of the term politically correct, and so far my understanding has never offended or caused a reason for concern,

but I can’t guarantee it’s PC.



I can’t really expand on this any more than that.



Dear Reader,

think of what you’re reading as an uncut video.

Try very hard to use your imagination and see a YouTube video playing,

and that uncut video happens to be the words you’re reading.

It’ll blow your mind.

I agree with the polish writer, Witold Gombrowicz, that when you sit down to write, you only have control of where to begin.

The first word you type after the very beginning is completely against your will. And from there you are taken on an involuntary walk through a Labyrinth.

What’s hard to understand is that this Labyrinth isn’t unique to you. Many others, before and after and at this very moment, are walking through the same Labyrinth, and they are creating their own thought detritus. Some will turn it into art,

to disturb the peace.

Others will turn it into music.

Think

Jazz.

I happen to be one of those who walk through the Labyrinth and turn it into words.

It’s like I’m leaving behind a trail of words



to mark my way



should I have to backtrack.



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