Reading list

Inspired by Beckylillibooks.blogspot.com I decided to post my reading list this is every book I've bought and/or read in 09

* = read

1. Boy - James Hanley *
2. When You are Engulfed in Flames - David Sedaris *
3. A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams *
4. The American - Henry James *
5. The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway *
6. The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas - Gertrude Stein *
7. Nausea - Jean-Paul Sartre *
8. And the Hippos were Boiled in Their Tanks - William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac*
9. One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
10. Breakfast at Tiffany's - Truman Capote
11. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
12. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim - David Sedaris *
13. Dry - Augusten Burroughs
14. Minor Characters - Joyce Johnson
15. Jazz - Toni Morrison
16. Go - John Clellon Holmes
17. Literature and Evil - Georges Bataille *
18. Story of the Eye - Georges Bataille
19. Naked Lunch - William S. Burroughs
20. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
21. The Waves - Virginia Woolf
22. The Grapes of Wrath - Steinbeck
23. Dubliners - James Joyce
24. The Virgin and the Gipsy - D.H. Lawrence *
25. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway
26. The Dylan Thomas Omnibus: Under Milk Wood, Poems, Stories and Broadcasts *
27. The Chauffeur - Howard Norman
28. Godverdomse dagen op een godverdomse bol (Flemish) - Dimitri Verhulst *
29. The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov
30. Cocaine Nights - JG Ballard
31. The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
32. Tender is the Night - F.Scott FitzGerald
33. The Confessions - Jean-Jacques Rousseau *
34. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith
35. A Mercy - Toni Morrison
36. Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller
37. The Rhetoric of Fiction (Second Edition) - Wayne C. Booth
38. The Tears of Eros - Georges Bataille *
39. Tropic of Capricorn - Henry Miller
40. The Island at the Center of the World - Russell Shorto *
41. Truth and Existence - Jean-Paul Sartre
42. Shoplifting from American Apparel - Tao Lin *
43. Diary - Chuck Palahniuk
44. Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters/and Seymour:an introduction - J.D. Salinger
45. A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway
46. Quiet Days in Clichy - Henry Miller
47. The Importance of Being Earnest - Oscar Wilde *
48. Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman
49. The Delivery Man - Joe McGinniss Jr.
50. Of Human Bondage - W.Somerset Maugham
51. sense and sensibility and Sea Monsters - Jane Austen and Ben H. Winters
52. True Compass: A Memoir - Edward M. Kennedy *
53. BeatGeneration (Play) - Jack Kerouac
54. An Abundance of Katherines - John Green
55. Queer - William S. Burroughs
56. How Fiction Works - James Wood
57. The Collected Stories - Amy Hempel *
58. Candide - Voltare
59. The Death of Bunny Munro - Nick Cave
60. Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar...- Thomas Cathcart & Daniel Klein *
61. God is Dead - Ron Currie, jr. *
62. Eating the Dinosaur - Chuck Klosterman

Last Night

I hear the rhythm of my room mates bed coming down the hall, with its brief moments of silence reserved for kissing. Me reading 'God is Dead' by Ron Currie, Jr., attempting no to care and when it stops after 24 minutes a cat outside in the park starts to cry out for a mate. Seems like everyone around me is horny or getting some and I'm there on my bed trying to sleep as I have to get up at 4a.m to get to work.

The neon light claimed my eyes and pulled my skin into the kaleidoscope-like dance it was in. back and forth, left and right, turning, constantly turning until the nausea came out of my ears, leaving a zooming sound behind, where once there was silence now an invisible bee resides. I finally left the white tilled toilet, turned off the bright light and went back to the dark comfort that was my bed, where I sat down on my knees forming a vertical ball and pulled the covers over my unstable body.

To the girl in the stairwell, a poem

To the girl in the stairwell,
Who suffocated me with her smell,
Wore her hair in a big knot on top of her head,
Tortured her feet with open-toe-heels in midwinter

I decided to call you Tracey
Because your dress was so lacy
Big brown bags filled with make-up, tissues, gum and a hollow tread,
Imagined your father being a headmaster

Your thoughts being as eloquent as that of a fish,
Seeking acknowledgement in a petri dish,
Sucking on guys – who study law or business - named Fred,
You thinking this morning that your hair was a ‘disaster’

Borrowing opinions from your parents news subscriptions,
The answer to 12b is ‘Egyptians’,
The rudest thing in the world is a conversation about dread,
Being appalled by people wanting to become a pastor

Everything is either silly or cute,
Don’t think you understand the concept of mute,
During ovulation you feel like a piece of lead,
Eight months from now you will receive the degree of Master
and stick it on a piece of plaster.

Morning Glory

With the bang of someone walking into a collection of dirty pans and cutlery, Gotam opened his sticky eyes. He found himself lying between the thick roots of an oak on a bed constructed of: leaves, plastic and a red Norwegian style sweater. He picked up an empty Vodka bottle and hurled it towards the presumable noise-maker. However he missed his intended objective and the glass shattered against a tree, awaking even more half-intoxicated people, who formed a choir uttering incomprehensible grunts. Gotam rolled to his side, braced his arms in the mud in an attempt to get up. The camp had lost the glory of a night lit by camp-fires; and was now reduced to a collection of discarded liquor bottles, rainbow coloured marshmallows in various stages of decomposition, and bodies entangled in sleep or something like it. When he scratched his face while leaning against one of the trees looking upon this sight, a sadness set over him, the party was literally over. The coming daylight enticed him to depart the realm of Blue Curaçao induced vomit.
He felt compelled to go onto the edge of the forest to the chilling sand a beach which was illuminated by the sound of Rachmaninov. While the greenish grey foam rolled around the beach, he stopped and saw this creature greeting the morning sun. She was wearing a weathered white dress, a grey fur hat and a wool scarf. Her leg levitated in accordance to the stifling horizon. The breeze that entered her from the West pierced her every movement, filling the holes of her clothing and capturing the day’s first sunlight on her face. She hummed a tune that only she and the wind could understand. This solitary image of this young woman on an icy beach hurled Gotam out of his stale state of existence. In a mere moment he knew he wanted to obtain this thing. …

There is a Zamboni...

There is a Zamboni riding around in my head,

Cleaning my membrane,

While my legs are wide-spread,

Smooth as an airplane,

Isotopes spinning around,

Losing my inhibitions,

Without the sound.

Favoring malnutrition,

For a pool of inappropriate touches,

And a captious fling.

Looking at offbeat watching,

Reaching for that mucilaginous thing.

The Sea erases existence

Upon my own insistence

---10Sept08

First Thoughts

"There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession" - Daniel Webster

What a great way to start my first official blog, in giving my confessions in this form I will have committed suicide over and over again. in the hope of for filling the release that is promised by its inception and freeing myself from the tention that is existence.

I will also post short-stories and other creative writing pieces on this blog, as to service my desire to one day be a published writer who can offord to spend her days doing what she loves without the need for some mind numbing occupation.