Editor's note: We have been alerted to the presence of typos and misspellings and whatnot. These typos were not intentional (except for the instances where they were intentional) on the part of the author. But he sent us a note along with this draft telling us to kindly keep our noses out of it and to just put it out there on the internets as is. The author could not be reached for comment to clarify which instances were intentional and which weren't, but in all honesty we didn't try too terribly hard because he's very difficult to reach on the telephone or by email or on Twitter or on Facebook or Instagram or LinkedIn or Google+ or by dropping by his house or by banging on his door or by tracking him by GPS... you get the picture.
TL;DR: Don't blame us, the editors, on Hamilton's typos. Thxbai
As if I deserved to give an explanation--and as if anyone even asked for it--I'm here to explain why it's been such a long while.
Or I was going to be, but that seemed pandering and unnecessary and made me sick to my stomach. I will not have an essay today, simply because I do not deserve the honor of writing one. I wish to, instead, simply offer some thoughts about where I've been by recording prosaic snapshots of my brain right now, right this second, right in the second in which my fingers tap keys.
I call this whatever-it-is "Selfies in black, on white." But they are bad selfies because I didn't take a lot of them to get the one that makes me look as good as I do to myself in my head.
An idea cannot be contained by one hundred and forty characters. All wisdom can.
I've come to believe over the past few months that one can either sleep or chase one's own dreams. I do not know how to get both.
There are two kinds of people: Narcissists, and Narcissists who admit that they are narcissists and are trying to not be so bad about it.
All things worth doing must not be done without loving them, even when everything inside of you claws at you for trying to do, or love, them.
I wrote a vignette poem that is not autobiographical, even though some people insist on seeing everything that people write as autobiographical. Here it is:
lying stretched and apart
a tired finger tracing
fibonacci on your back
in the blue-light glow
of our screens.
[whoo counts nemowr]
like me (plz)
twenty pretty words spoken
are no match for
three digital typed
i love you best
How to drink coffee:
cold. or hot. or warm. or old. or fresh. or not at all.
Only one of those is false.
These are my favorite three sentences from Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, in which every single sentence is a work of art:
But then, in the earliest hours of that morning in November, a Sunday morning, certain foreign sounds impinged on the normal nightly Holcomb noises - on the keening hysteria of coyotes, the dry scrape of scuttling tumbleweed, the racing, receding wail of locomotive whistles. At the time not a soul in sleeping Holcomb heard them - four shotgun blasts that, all told, ended six human lives. But afterward the townspeople, theretofore sufficiently unfearful of each other to seldom trouble to lock their doors, found fantasy recreating them over and
again - those somber explosions that stimulated fires of mistrust in the glare of which many old neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers.
I believe that iPhones may be more effective than atomic bombs at annihilating, disintegrating, and lording over humanity. The worst the bomb can do is kill you.
The more God remains the same in my head, the more I have tried to replace Him with myself.
Few theologies have done more to maim the things of God than the one which says, "God has your back." You must not march ahead of the One Who goes before.
It is Scripturally, evolutionarily, naturally, philosophically, psychologically, scientifically, ethically, morally, and socially incorrect to believe that you are in control. Even the master of one's own ship is at the mercy of the waves, of the wind, of the tyranny of gravity, of the allegiance of deckhands, of the history of his own training, of the convention of ship construction, of the waterproof seals of the boards of the hull.
If somebody offends you, it is your fault.
Taste is not a subjective matter. Taste can be cultivated; taste can be appreciated. Aesthetics matter to the same degree that the message matters.
By relativism is relativism defeated.
f you have not tried with the possibility of catastrophic failure, you have probably not tried.
Not one person likes pictures of my dog as much as I do.
I am writing a novel. By which I mean I am copying down a novel. I have seen it and read it already and it is lovely, but it will likely be very long and will not sell well, if at all. I hope to have finished copying it down and editing it by the end of the calendar year, at which point I would like to start sending it off to collect rejection letters to wallpaper a small room in my house with. I spend four hours on it a day and rarely work on it after eight in the morning.
It is not a poetry novel, nor does it necessarily contain poetry. But it is poetry. It is about God, but it will not feature Him. In it, a set of twins spell "two" like "tieux" and one of them burns down a school with his mind and the other is supposed to be dead but lives in the mountains. They are not the main characters. There is also a section that is a blatant mockery of Nietzsche. It is a very strange novel and has profanity in it.
I will here copy an excerpt:
enmanship matters. Penmanship always matters.
Love does not count if it isn't active.
If you have not seen something so beautiful that it stirs you to tears for beauty's sake alone--regardless of subject matter, political agenda, artistic intent, cultural relevance, or quality--I would recommend a walk. Without a cell phone.
Twenty-one is a much nicer number to end on than twenty. And John Keats is a lovely way to end anything.
"How beautiful are the retired flowers! how would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out, ‘admire me I am a violet! dote upon me I am a primrose!"
I will write you again soon.