landed in best city west of the mississippi. your fave country delicious, scrumptious, outstanding, just one flaw: it's not mexico. dead bread across panaderias, jerry garcia would've loved these desfiles, reckoning my album, my permanent social media status: dodgin' lions and wastin' time. or maybe move fast and kintsugi things? ✨ orwell, hemingway both wrote uno libro spanish civil war, but unlike my unadorned self afaik neither declined neon-roped ossuary double-dutch amid sidewalk jams and popup makeup stands and an immortal middle-aged woman with flashing bunny ears roller skates past me into 7-eleven to buy kindest bueno, this día sure is. i am saddest at mao for el gran salto adelante but i am angriest at mao for la revolucion cultural. elevator eight button as sideways infinity sign indicates how many tacos i consume seated by afuera thoroughfare to watch costumed cdmx conga toward zocalo, zenithed by behemoth inflated eight foot beige t-rex (sans saxophone to shred) instead vested mourning black & white skelosaur bones bowed toward extinction's throne we and our contemporaries'll share and inshallah our descendants'll correspondingly celebrate. benditos y'all y especially the horseman uno mesa away as i count to diez (mississippi) he shakes salt into pozole. the cancion del peyote:
read a moveable feast by ernest hemingway
i've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if i never see you again, i thought. you belong to me and all paris belongs to me and i belong to this notebook and this pencil
good and severe discipline
when i was writing, it was necessary for me to read after i had written. if you kept thinking about it, you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next day. it was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved
"huxley is a dead man," miss stein said. "why do you want to read a dead man? can't you see he is dead?"
if you brought up joyce twice, you would not be invited back
"i don't know, tatie. there are so many sorts of hunger. in the spring there are more. but that's gone now. memory is hunger"
hunger is good discipline and you learn from it
"don't be a silly ass," my friend said. "that's alestair crowley, the diabolist. he's supposed to be the wickedest man in the world"
soothing as the noise of a plank being violated in the sawmill
"hem," he said, and i knew he was a critic now since, in conversation, they put your name at the beginning of a sentence rather than at the end, "i have a tell you i find your work just a little too stark"
"after chez les vikings?" he grinned with his hat on the back of his head. he looked more like a broadway character of the nineties than the lovely painter that he was, and afterwards, when he had hanged himself, i liked to remember him as he was that night at the dôme. they say the seeds of what we will do are in all of us, but it always seemed to me that in those who make jokes in life the seeds are covered with better soil and with a higher grade of manure
"we need more true mystery in our lives, hem"
a full morning of work to write a paragraph
while i had been angry i had demoted him from scott to fitzgerald
i rang for the waiter. he didn't come and i rang again and then went down the hallway to look for him. scott was lying with his eyes closed, breathing slowly and carefully and, with his waxy color and his perfect features, he looked like a little dead crusader. i was getting tired of the literary life, if this was the literary life that i was leading, and already i missed not working and i felt the death loneliness that comes at the end of every day that is wasted in your life. i was very tired of scott and of this silly comedy, but i found the waiter and gave him money to buy a thermometer and a tube of aspirin, and ordered two citron pressés and two double whiskies. i tried to order a bottle of whiskey but they would only sell it by the drink