Scribblings

Here is something I wrote in my notebook yesterday while bored before class, the first day of fall semester:
People enter their own lives and laugh because there is no such thing as humor, which means not even laughing is funny. We invent things to laugh at because nothing funny exists in nature. We laugh because there is nothing to laugh at, which means we only want to be funny, which means funny doesn't exist, which means we are not funny, which is something we don’t want to kid around about. We have kids because we forget how to laugh even though we invented laughing as a way to survive, which means we exist and always forget what we’ve already thought of, which means we never thought of it, which means we don’t think, which means we exist for nothing which is pretty funny when you think about it.
Later, I wrote this:
Outside one another we pretend to believe in empathy. To believe in empathy we must imagine ourselves as us—to imagine we are ourselves we must learn to know one another so we'll know exactly what and how to pretend we're not.
Thank you. I like comedy movies.

Peter Pan Syndrome

It seems like people are blogging less. I have no proof of this, nor will I research it further—I just feel it somehow. I feel alone a lot. Feeling lonely is okay, because I’ve never really been good with people. I have a hard time relating to them. They don't make sense to me, as a whole. Individually, too, a lot.

I took my daughter to the zoo today. Walking around, some of the animals looked sick. A vulture was lying on its stomach in its big vulture cage, still breathing, but just lying there. One of the Rocky-mountain big-horn rams was lying in the shade, like in a pile of itself, sometimes lifting its head. An elephant tried drinking some water with its trunk, but didn't lift its trunk to its mouth, so the water just spilled back out of its trunk.

I saw a woman, around my age I think, with her little daughter. She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, whatever ‘beautiful’ means (I'll have to consult my Kant). She seemed like a very good mother. That, to me, is very attractive—someone with patience and compassion and empathy. She seemed to be going to all the same places my daughter and I were going, like the rain forest house, the carousel, etc. We made eye contact a couple times, and she smiled at me once. I wanted to walk up to her, as if I were a confident human being, say, “Hi. I feel silly. My name is Eric…”

I don’t do things like that. I regret that I didn’t do it this time. I keep imagining what her name is, have visions of us cuddling in bed with sunlight coming in through the window. While urging myself to just go talk to her, I kept thinking, “Why. I have nothing to offer. I’m broke. I have no job. I borrowed the money for this trip to the zoo. I have no goals. No ambition. I’m a horrible writer. I have crippling anxiety. OCD. Don’t unleash all this on her.”

So, I didn’t. In almost every situation, I think my anxiety will ruin everything, which causes my anxiety to ruin everything. Enough. I will never see her again, and it’s my fault. I don’t know if I would have even liked her, as a person. That doesn’t matter. I will never know. I'm not sure I'm emotionally prepared for another 'relationship'. I'm afraid.

My daughter is the only person who really seems to like me, I often feel. I love her. I dedicated Snowing Fireflies to her, and she smiled big when I showed her my proof copy. “It’s for you,” I said. She sat down in my chair and read it, smiling big: “To my daughter, Maya, who has more to teach me than I’m capable of learning.” That made me happy, seeing her happy.

I haven’t submitted anything in a while. It seems like a long time. I used to be obsessive about sending things out. Maybe I’m exhausted. I just haven’t been feeling it lately. I check my email constantly, still waiting for responses on things I’ve had out for a while. Stories, poems, novels. Meh.

I've been semi-intrigued by Facebook. I feel I will soon write an essay on the side effects of Facebook.

Fall semester begins Monday. This will be my last semester for my BA in English. After that I have no idea what I’m going to do. I don’t ever want to grow up. I’m almost 30 years old and I take Flintstones vitamins.

'Snowing Fireflies' Web Page / Production Video / Daily s-Press Coverage

Snowing Fireflies has now officially been released. Here is the web page for Snowing Fireflies. And here is a video of Folded Word's own J.S. Graustein crafting Snowing Fireflies by hand:



Big thanks, Jessi, for all your hard work. Snowing Fireflies also gets some coverage over at Daily s-Press today. Big thanks to Dorothee Lang for her interest and support...

Failsafe-B Live at Guerilla Gallery

Here are some clips of me rapping with my friend and former roommate, Nate Hughes (as the hip-hop outfit of Failsafe-B), a few months ago at a show we did for Guerilla Gallery here in Buffalo, NY, an internet cafe/art gallery co-owned and operated by tattoo artist and friend Mark Madden. They were shot by my friend and former landlord, Chris Costello:

"Prayerachute" (me):



"Tire Irony" (me):



"Conscience Flutters" (me, then Nate):



"Situations Dedicated" (Nate):



"Prosthetics" (me):

Praise for 'Of Creatures', Poems by Eric Beeny

“Man is a suffering delicate,” proclaims Eric Beeny in Of Creatures, a poetry collection that circles the mind with a tentative, ticking confidence—a nervous bouquet waiting to burst. The petals distend, pregnant with brilliant color, radiating the naked shyness kicking within. Brace yourself for the birth, for Beeny’s words surge forth, methodically, to wrestle the lure of contentment before snaking it into a headlock and then whisper kissing its ears. Just as quickly the dance recedes and the coupling severs, the face of one carried in the reflection of the other, an often bittersweet reverie raining down from a cloud or, perhaps, the moon.

Mel Bosworth, author of Grease Stains, Kismet and Maternal Wisdom


Of Creatures is a delicate life-form. Its lines are inventive and brave; its stanzas surprising and strong. These poems are weighted by sadness, yet hope offers them wings.

Molly Gaudry, author of We Take Me Apart


Of Creatures is the propulsion of a heart in the chest of a child, mountainous underneath cold fall air that seeps through windows and into our beds. The disjointed phrases are our jaws unhinged from this body of wanderlust, from the whole of this poetic blood and moon, the tender savagery that Eric Beeny has us steeping in, wet with these delicately-natured fists.

J. A. Tyler, author of Inconceivable Wilson and A Man of Glass & All the Ways We Have Failed

Facebook / Failsafe-B / Bosworth Blurb / Zombies

1 /
After much deliberation, weighing of pros and cons and wondering what the purpose of anything is and what I hope to accomplish with writing whatever literature/music it is I write and hiding under the covers and feeling afraid of the world and deciding there’s no point in being afraid if there is potentially no purpose to anything, I’ve joined Facebook. I still feel very afraid. Wanting to reach out while fearing contact. I'll just consider this another form of cognitive dissonance.

2 /
Here’s a video of me rapping with my friend and former roommate, Nate Hughes (as Failsafe-B), a few months ago at a show we did for Guerilla Gallery here in Buffalo, NY, an internet cafe/art gallery co-owned and operated by tattoo artist and friend Mark Madden. The clip is of a song called “Prayerachute” and was shot by my friend and former landlord, Chris Costello, who will hopefully put more of the videos of this show up:



3 /
Here is a blurb Mel Bosworth wrote for my forthcoming poetry collection, Of Creatures (Gold Wake Press, 2011). I think the blurb is better than the book, and will ask Mel to trade. My poems will be the blurb to his blurb which is better than my poems:

“‘Man is a suffering delicate,’ proclaims Eric Beeny in Of Creatures, a poetry collection that circles the mind with a tentative, ticking confidence—a nervous bouquet waiting to burst. The petals distend, pregnant with brilliant color, radiating the naked shyness kicking within. Brace yourself for the birth, for Beeny’s words surge forth, methodically, to wrestle the lure of contentment before snaking it into a headlock and then whisper kissing its ears. Just as quickly the dance recedes and the coupling severs, the face of one carried in the reflection of the other, an often bittersweet reverie raining down from a cloud or, perhaps, the moon.”

Mel Bosworth, author of Grease Stains, Kismet and Maternal Wisdom (Aqueous Books, 2010)

4 /
My contribution to ZOMBIE SUMMER is up (big thanks again, xTx…) It’s “Three Zombie Fragments,” and has a momma zombie breastfeeding a baby zombie, two zombies performing Hamlet, and another zombie reading Nietzsche under a tree.

Thank you for your time.

Almost Half My Life is Over, and I Still Don’t Know What I’m Going to do with the Other Half

I’m almost 30. This doesn’t sound old to most people maybe, but to me it feels very old. Life moves so fast. It feels like I should've accomplished more by now. I don’t think I remember being a child, what it felt like. If I sit here and concentrate, nothing happens. I’m not sure where all those adolescent years and my early 20's went. Things like that just disappear. I know what I did during some of those years, but for the most part they’re a blur. I remember some things.

I remember growing up in the projects. I remember moving into a house in an ‘okay’ neighborhood, which ‘got worse’ as I got older. I remember doing drugs. I remember ‘doing’ lots of drugs more than what it felt like to be ‘on’ lots of drugs. I remember being an alcoholic. I remember my daughter being born. I worked overnights for a long time. I had a nervous breakdown. I remember not understanding anything for a long time. I remember that not changing.

I start classes at the end of this month. This will be my last semester for a BA in English. My cumulative GPA is 3.9. So what. I'm an idiot. I have no idea what I'm going to do after graduation. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I'm not resourceful in that way. I have no ambition, no goals, nothing I want to do that I think would make me 'happy'. I don’t want to participate in the world humans have constructed around themselves, the silly things we convince ourselves of, what we think matters.

I want to do something creative, something I feel proud of that others might also feel good about. I don't want to waste my life going to work, doing something I’m not happy doing, something that will make me miserable. I’ve done that. I want to be 'happy'. I want my daughter to see me being happy. Almost half my life is over, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do with the other half. What it means to be alive, what it feels like to be alive, makes less sense the older I get.

Life moves so fast. I think that’s okay maybe, if I don’t think about it. I thought of writing something ‘profound’, like: “Life is something that only makes sense if you don’t think about it.” This means it will maybe never make sense to me.

P.S. - A chapter from The Immortals Act Their Age called "The Shell of Reflection" was published yesterday in Sheldon Lee Compton's new journal, A-Minor Magazine (Big Thanks again, Sheldon...). It's a sister chapter to "Model Airplanes," which appeared earlier this year in Emprise Review.

'Promotional Giveaway' / Some Things I Like

My chapbook Snowing Fireflies will be released soon from Folded Word Press, and I’m having a little giveaway. To anyone who purchases a signed copy of Snowing Fireflies, I will send two things: 1) a promotional postcard with the cover of Snowing Fireflies on one side and 2) another small chapbook called Children. This small chapbook will be 'self-published', and will consist of 10 pieces from what I hope will someday comprise a novel called Children. These pieces might be really just awful, but they might okay, too.

Here are some things I like because I've read them, and some other things I'm looking forward to reading, and a video:

Mel Bosworth’s novella Grease Stains, Kismet and Maternal Wisdom is available for preorder from Aqueous Books, and his novel, Freight, will be out from Folded Word Press in 2011.

Ethel Rohan’s collection Cut Through the Bone is forthcoming from Dark Sky Books, and her collection Hard to Say is forthcoming from PANK’s Little Books Series.

Audri Sousa’s collection Caspian Quilt is available from Bedouin Books.

Matt Bell's collection How They Were Found is available for preorder from Keyhole Press.

Ben Spivey’s novel Flowing in the Gossamer Fold is available for preorder, and Blue Square Press, founded by Ben and David Peak, has opened up for submissions.

David Peak's novel, The Rocket's Red Glare is available from Leucrota Press, and his poetry colletion, Surface Tension, is available from BlazeVox Books.

Jason Jordan’s collections Cloud and Other Stories and Powering the Devil’s Circus are available from Six Gallery Press.

Adam Moorad’s Prayerbook was published by wtfpwm.

The Complete Works of Marvin K. Mooney by Christopher Higgs got reviewed in Gently Read Literature.

Zachary Bush's poetry collection, The Silence of Sickness, also got reviewed in Gently Read.

Ken Sparling reviewed Sasha Fletcher’s When Our Days Are Numbered in the new elimae.

Jordan Castro reviewed Tao Lin’s novel, Richard Yates, at The Nervous Breakdown.

Steve Roggenbuck made this video about veganism and animal cruelty.

Essay on Tao Lin

Introduction

I want to read Tao Lin’s second novel, Richard Yates. I am writing this essay, however, to promote Tao Lin’s work as a whole. This essay won’t be about Tao Lin’s second novel Richard Yates, as I don’t know anything more about the novel than what I’ve read here and here and here, and a few other places. (What I’ve read about Richard Yates makes me want to stop reading about Richard Yates and just read Richard Yates.) This essay will mostly be in the style of a Tao Lin essay about Tao Lin, or, more accurately, Tao Lin’s writing in general, with a concluding note re the controversy surrounding Tao Lin’s writing and self-promotion 'tactics'.

Tao Lin’s Books to Date

I own and have read all of Tao Lin’s books to date: you are a little bit happier than i am, Eeeee Eee Eeee, Bed, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy and Shoplifting from American Apparel. My favorite Tao Lin books include the books I just listed, which are all of Tao Lin’s books. Here are some of my favorite quotes from each of Tao Lin’s books:

from you are a little bit happier than i am:
it’s probably philosophically sound to kill people
because like is suffering and suffering is the only real evil
and if you want to have meaning then that’s pretty much all you get
to make it your goal to wake up and kill people
not just select kinds of people, like hitler did, but all people, like the universe did in the future (“i am going to kill my literary agent”)
from Eeeee Eee Eeee:
[A]ny unsarcastic thought or action is a horrible distortion. Anything is a horrible distortion. We need to stop breeding. There are assumptions and contexts and we go around pretending and playing games by overlapping our assumptions and contexts with others until there is no more time left. Death is the taking away of assumption and context. Consciousness is being forced to assume and then block out information in order to be conscious. I don’t know how to think about that. (196-97)
from Bed:
[A] weightlessness entered into Chelsea’s blood—an inside ventilation, like a bacteria of ghosts—and it was sometime in the fall, before her 23rd birthday, that her heart, her small and weary core, neglected now for years, vanished a little, from the center out, took on the strange and hollowed heaviness of a weakly inflated balloon. (“Sasquatch”)
from Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy:
from one’s own perspective the brain seems to own itself
we observe the brain from an abstract distance
we observe each other from a physical distance
the brain observes nothing from no distance
therefore everything is going to be OK (“giant poem, twenty-one of twenty-four”)
from Shoplifting from American Apparel:
It was getting dark out, or the sun had moved, and Sam’s room was less bright. Sam looked around. His cup of iced coffee was empty. “I felt emotional today thinking about the past, like a year and a half ago, at Shiela’s house,” he said. […] But there was nothing I could do with the emotion really,” said Sam. “It just went away after a while.” (80-81)
Tao Lin’s Themes and Intentions

What appeals to me most about Tao Lin’s writing is his ability to write confidently about characters who have no confidence. I don’t think what I just wrote is true, re why Tao Lin’s work appeals to me. Not entirely. That may be only one aspect of it. There are many other things going on, and it is evident that, within the context of Tao Lin’s ‘career arc’, his work (I feel I am referring mostly to his fiction right now) is ultimately shifting from an irreverent and playful yet empathetic tone (using ‘descriptive’ language) sensitive to the emotions of his characters (and to himself, as their author, seeking to console himself against loneliness and death), as seen in Eeeee Eee Eeee and Bed, toward a more realistic and intentional absence of emotion from both the narrator and the characters' perspectives, as seen in Shoplifting from American Apparel and what I have read I will find somewhat inverted in Richard Yates. (Rather, according to available reviews of Richard Yates the narrator—and not the characters themselves—adopts this objectivity.)

This shifting aside, his themes and intentions are constant: alienation, the alleviation of boredom and the attempt to map the passage of time toward an inevitable death while reading and writing to console one’s self against loneliness compounded with that inevitability, or simply the loneliness of that inevitability. This feels comforting to read depictions of things I feel but immediately forget because I’m not always ‘sure’ how to ‘articulate’ their ‘essence’. Tao Lin reminds me of how I feel moment to moment, which is different. His use of non-sequitor narrative reads like a blueprint of how the brain wiggles through itself toward meaning which doesn’t necessarily 'exist', which 'means' only that the brain wiggles.

Literary/Social Relevance

I like the idea that “Tao’s writing is not formula, but revision and sabotage at once” (Niedenthal, HTML Giant). Each new Tao Lin book is not merely a recycled version of a previous Tao Lin work, as his efforts do alter in various ways from book to book (as mentioned above), but something independent of his prior work, something newly emancipated and potentially volatile. It’s not only his revision of his own narrative methods to convey his themes and intentions but his revision of how 'literature' itself can be conveyed which is tantamount to sabotage. The existing 'standards of literature' dictate that certain methods, or ‘literary devices’, be used to compose a work of 'literature'. (This is not to say Tao Lin doesn’t use these 'devices'.) He is revising these 'standards' by sabotaging them, showing that, within 'literature', there is life outside of 'literature'.

Things in real life don’t happen metaphorically; we only ‘think’ of them metaphorically. Things in real life aren’t ‘like’ anything else; we only compare things in real life to other things to feel ‘safe’; consciousness seeks similarities between things. Things in real life aren’t paginated, have no chapters or sections; we only impose designations and categories on things in real life to make sense of those things and how they relate to us, how we relate to them. Tao Lin admits they don’t make sense, whereas it seems most people are content to lie to themselves and to each other about what things ‘mean’. Yet, because things maybe don't make sense doesn't 'mean' "life is meaningless" (Lin, 3:AM). Saying something is 'meaningless' doesn't really 'mean' anything.

'Traditional literary standards' dictate that authors must, through 'literary devices', didactically provide meaning to readers, and readers must, in turn, seek meaning in the works of 'literature' they read. Tao Lin’s use of 'literary devices' often seems sarcastic, seeking to prove how ultimately unrealistic they are (I am comparing 'literary devices', ironically, to real life [and Tao Lin’s books to each other, and to 'literature' as a whole, so, by comparing things, it seems I’ve outsmarted myself with contradiction, or fulfilled the brain's purpose, allowing it to compare things to make this essay feel 'safe' to me], as consciousness, for the same purposes as seeking similarities, simultaneously seeks to identify [or manufacture] and enforce differences between things, abstract or concrete: hence capitalism, racism, nationalism, the literary canon, forming cliques, becoming a police officer, running for political office, generally treating other people like shit, etc.). (I feel I’ve gotten off topic.)

Controversy

Tao’s well-known promotional 'gimmicks' aside, his body of work is 'good' (though a term Tao Lin deems meaningless: “there is no good or bad in art” [Lin, poetryfoundation.org]). That he chooses to promote his work in unorthodox ways is just a way of ensuring his work gets read. I keep thinking about this line by Oscar Levant: “A pun is the lowest form of humor—if you didn’t think of it first.” Much of the controversy surrounding Tao Lin’s work seems to be because Tao Lin thinks of these things first, or at least attempts them and is mostly successful at carrying them out, despite negativity from critics and/or anonymous commenters.

That I am comparing Tao Lin's promotional campaigns to puns seems strange, even in this context, as he seems somewhat 'against' wordplay, or at least exhibitions of 'cleverness' through wordplay or even 'standard' 'literary devices' such as metaphor and simile (I feel I am mostly referring to his poetry right now, in which he uses 'standard' 'literary devices' mostly sarcastically/ironically, though he has used these devices sincerely, particularly in Eeeee Eee Eeee and Bed), yet he likes Lorrie Moore, whose work is densely populated with jokes in the form of puns/wordplay.

Conclusion

Controversy over Tao Lin's attempts to promote his work might also arise because he is one of the few writers who has managed to not only write really 'good' material but also successfully convince others it’s 'good', and to actually read it. His latest contest, having people write essays about Richard Yates and/or Tao Lin (similar [again, I'm comparing...] to one he also ran while promoting Shoplifting from American Apparel), as most of his previous promotional campaigns, is ultimately, yet not merely, designed to benefit Tao Lin, but those of us who participate. Whoever writes an essay or gmail chats or makes a video about Tao Lin and/or Richard Yates also ‘gains’ ‘exposure’ through the promotion of Tao Lin.

Getting people to write essays about him to post on their blogs is a good idea I wish I’d thought of (which wouldn’t matter anyway, as I have not and more than likely will never ‘achieve’ anywhere near Tao Lin’s ‘level’ of ‘success’). This not only ‘gains’ him greater ‘exposure’, but, within the context of that ‘exposure’, those who participate in promotional campaigns such as this also ‘gain’ greater ‘exposure’ for their own blogs/work. (I feel I should also put 'greater' in scarequotes.) Tao Lin wrote an interesting essay on self-promotion a while back, in which he explains that to not promote one’s self is a form of insanity. By writing this essay, therefore, I feel I am selfishly, or ‘sanely’, promoting myself, while simultaneously 'self-promoting' Tao Lin.