nymo

[stringfields]

The Stairwell

South Bend, Indiana

[problematic-pussy]

So, I’m trolling around tumblr for nature porn and this pops up…

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We are Sex Bob-Om.

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(thank you grace millard for the amazing artwork!!)

☼control and ocean number 2 by james ganas

☼“i am a screamo princess wearing a tiara w/ studs”, and “every punk rock dream” by austin islam

☼ the heat of summer which lies beyond the swimming pool is also the heat of solitude by natalie chin

☼ glass fortifications for the civil war that was fought a long time ago, and macro by austin kieler

☼its like this by ryland maserang

☼ it is three a.m. and i am trying to fall asleep but instead i’m thinking about what you said the last time we talked, and the tale of loch ness by tyler langlois

☼ ya, and i have hair and it is important that you know this about me by stephanie cook

☼ powerless by beach sloth

☼ms management is out sick today; i am your substitute teacher mr universe by nymo glasz

☼four eyes by sarah jean alexander

☼macro by sam rae

☼deadgirl, and ghostgirl by cayla lockwood

☼i shouldn’t have sent this by chad davis

☼two poems by jordan barkey

☼ maybe i should just get some social skills by katie davis

☼killing hamburgers, now that the apocalypse is here, and pohutakawa party by cameron churchill

☼i am sitting on an air mattress reading lorrie moore short stories as you fall asleep by justin carter

☼ in gary, indiana by matt margo

☼keys, i am dying, and seabed of lies by dos mef

☼soon, and jumpin by julia coursey

☼i love yough lauren palmer, loudt, and hamlet by ✞✞✞ ✞✞✞✞✞✞ ✞✞✞

☼i live on a bear’s house by james root

☼what an age we live in, a deep, unimaginable sadness, and help! by greg santos

☼@lantis, the atlantis falcons, the atlantis falcons playbook revolves around a tight running game, and the atlantis falcons are made up of a 70:30 ratio of atlantians and fish by sam russell

☼poem flarfed from some depressing news articles by @lazzzyandoh

☼happy, sad, okay by kellie hogan

☼the loneliness of the cinema projectionist by chris holdaway

☼poem vii and x from cmd-shift 3 by moon tzu

☼you can come shopping and watch me by hannah o’brien

☼untitled presentation by russ woods and cassandra gillig

☼dream, and crawling by d.m aderibigbe

☼buses should have signs that say, “let us know when people are running”, and guy that loves vinegar but doesn’t know how to spell it by ed haliday

☼the ‘new age of super materials, and a ‘new era 4 mankind by authur c clarke

☼the entity by scott lewis

☼hiding in my room vs. going out chart by guillaume morissette

☼taqueira san jose, front legs, baths, and illegal by russ woods

☼omfg, prose, and a hair is trapped in my teeth by michael o’brien

☼ stupid by ally batchelder

☼blak by eric boyd

☼and i will, meditate me lady, someone on tv by nathan masserang

☼damansara river poem and thalidomide by joe bussiere

☼coca- cola by michael scarborough

☼every time it’s always midnight by krishnakumar sankaran

☼come live inside my head, dddffdfdfdfdfd: attn wrold, and my life as a non-sequitur by santino dela

☼things that are alive, and if i can feel dead when i”m alive i can feel alive when i am dead by sam lasko

☼64, and ghost animals by daniel alexander

☼i aged yesterday and now i look eternally hungry by cean gamalinda

☼college, snapshot, cotton candy tongue, dont f with me, the crystals, and tallest building by amelia gillis

☼duck sauce by jacob steinberg

☼the city versus godzilla by chris dankland

☼chris, and parties by paige gresty

☼experience while driving, and how we change what others think, feel, believe and do by jda winslow

☼world history 262 and microsoft word called this ‘you are small’ because it names the file after the first line by nathan springer

* * *

thanks so, so much to everyone that’s been involved. so much love for all you guys right now :)

have u seen my whale??

love

joe and thom have u seen my whale

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POEM: BOOM! BLACK CLOUDS DO RISE OVER THE BODY

Boom! Black clouds do rise over the body,

that heavy last submarine, burnt to a crisp,

waves porn-licking at its arms—spread they like the Word ’round Mama’s neck—

barnacle belly-up, no voice no more, dear God.

  What is it that whirs? Rotorblades enough to startle anyone,

coming up over the cliff like that.

Be careful, careful—be careful.

I heard sirens the other night, cold sweat and bedsheets.

  The peace of the Lord be with you always.

And also and also and also—

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POEM: SOMEHOW, THE LARGE

Somehow, the large hadron collider

gives birth to a grand marquis

whose sexual preferences

have something to do with surgical saws and the tops of skulls,

removed to allow for the swelling of the brain.

  My first girl got her first taste and I, I me me mine, did too also,

the same night you stumbled into the back room

of that club you were just—oh, only just—old enough to get into,

and you saw your long-lost teddy bear

and your stuffed giraffes and your big sister

snort cocaine in obscene lines off David Bowie’s bare belly.

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BBC headlines.

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NON-REVIEW: FLCL, or, NO WRONG WAY TO WRITE A REECE'S

I am, as you might know, writing a novel. The original seeds of the thing, as is usually the case with me, started out in metaphor. Example: A character who feels okay and functions okay in society keeps afloat with drugs that keep him from sleeping so he can avoid dreamtime manifestations of his subconscious that force him to face a guilty past that might not even be his was intended as a metaphor of sorts for the way good natured, well meaning first world liberals deal with the fact that there’s a lot of suffering in the world, etc.

But the thing spiraled, and I let it. I think it’s very hard (maybe impossible—I’m trying to think of a counterexample) to create a perfect allegory that doesn’t feel too rigid or dead, and that also doesn’t die with the socio-historical moment that produced it (will anyone care about Animal Farm in a decade besides those interested in the history of communism or Orwell or something?). So, start with metaphor. And then let it play out to its own logical ends—the metaphor becomes a fact in the book’s world—more than a device. Focus on how these dreams (originally a simple meaning-device) affect the character. Where do they come from? Etc.

And the book basically grew out of that, with other metaphors growing into more than mere device. So.

I’ve been watching Netflix. After eight years of recommendations from various friends and acquaintances, I finally watched FLCL. It’s an anime miniseries about this kid and the weird girl who beats him up with a guitar and runs him over with her Vespa, among other things. It’s pretty obvious in the beginning that much of the thing’s a metaphorical exploration of puberty. But the meat of it grows when the metaphors take on a (largely incomprehensible, I’ll admit) life of their own. The robot that emerges from the phallic horn on the kid’s head (the one the weirdly sexualized Vespa girl gave him by hitting him), which, in my originally purely metaphorical viewing of the thing, I took as some kind of allegorical image of the man the kid was to grow into (he saves his town from other alien robots by becoming one with this robot) But the metaphor soon outgrows its allegorical training wheels, and this becomes more of a coming-of-age story with aliens and weird government officials and a crazy sort of non-plot.

So, that’s one way of crafting a story, the exploding metaphor.

Also, I mentioned that the show’s plot was sort of incomprehensible, and that’s true. It’s also true that it (self-consciously, I might add) answers almost none of the questions it raises. Which is okay. I bugs me how people’s standards for judging the quality of a story include both ‘realism’ and a ‘tying up of loose ends/revelation.’ So much of life is confusion and unanswered questions. But if you don’t want to go insane, you grab what sense you can and just enjoy the rest of the ride. 

I didn’t mean for this to end with a sort of moral. So. Okay.

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Seriously. I am every demographic—except female, I guess. No lady-aimed ads. Not yet.

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Who does Facebook think I am?

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moar novel-in-progress screenshots

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I keep referring to a character in my novel as "our dear Inspector" in the narration. I ain't bovvered, though. I ain't.

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IT FINALLY

comes to the point where you've worn all your pants too many times and they're sweaty and you just have to give in and do laundry, ok.

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I WISH

I had some ice cream right now.

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PROSE: KNOWING THAT YOU COULD

One year gone and the earth gone round the sun, the cosmos round the earth.

He takes the money he’s made and rents a tiny cabin on a cliff overlooking a place where two seas meet. The water crashes violent.

There’s dirt under his nails from both sides of the world. He wanted a life, he’d told her, and that’s what he got — the angst and exhilaration of the cliffside, the possible drop.

At night he lies alone and misses the scent between her breasts and her head on his chest. Sleeping alone seems quite new. 

He walks to the cliff’s edge and watches two seas collide and tear at each other and he realizes there was only one sea to begin with and this battle is its dance with itself.

Rocks trickle down to the foam at the cliff’s bottom and the waves wash them away. The sea is eroding the rock, he thinks, but isn’t the sea also shaped by the shore?

She was big on “common sense.” Life, she said, makes you hard. Life is a struggle. The world is alien. I have no common sense, he thinks. The longer I live, the lighter I become. The more fluid. The less I feel my toes. I see a leaf on the river and I think, I am the leaf and the leaf is moving. But what is the leaf, then, without the river to move it?

I must, he thinks, be a madman.

This is okay, he thinks.

Yes, there is murder in the world. There are also kittens.

He goes to the village and sees the vines that cover the stone walls of the church. The flowers in its garden. Those plants will die with a light frost, he thinks; cover them up. I need a star that can weather harsh winters.

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GUESS WHAT

I feel really good today. Wow!

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POEM: "WHAT A LUCKY PONY, EH?"

I have heard it said that ladies prefer gentlemen who prefer blonds.

These old photographs, then — I found them in your drawer — are they, what, an aberration?

The way the girl on top stares into the lens. It seems she enjoys her reflection in the glass, the curve of it.

Maybe not, though. Maybe it's really the void she's enjoying. The darkness.

The forever-darkness beyond everything. You know, like the backs of your eyelids.