#the world if i didnt have less than an hour to draw everyday

[fiendishartist2]

so much to draw.......... only 50 minutes a day

[nolongerapileofashprobably]

“Why—won’t—you—fit?!”

It wasn’t everyday that she filled up her research journal, usually she went through one every two weeks. But her father had just given this one to her, two (three?) days ago. The fact she had uncovered so much in so little time was astounding in and of itself, of course the content was even better.

She was doing experiments with the Sheikah Slate, one Purah had modeled after the original device. Zelda could never figure out how to use it, exactly, except for one time when Link pressed a button just to see if it worked. (And it did, which infuriated her because she was doing the same damn thing.)

Since then, she had given it to Link, but he just carried it on his hip. Whenever she asked why he didn’t use it or figure out how it works, since it only responds to him, he would shrug and say that she was all he needed to guide him around.

It was sweet, Zelda admitted to herself. Just like it was sweet of him to stay with her whenever she had days like this. By this, she meant three (which sounds more right than two) consecutive days without sleep because she was too busy researching and writing down her findings.

Thinking about this, she looked down, to see Link’s figure slumped onto his part of her desk (which was just a space she created so he didn’t have to lay on the bottles and books that were originally there). His eyes were closed, but that didn’t mean he was asleep.

One time she had placed her study blanket over his back, since it was getting a little cold. As soon as she sat back down, the blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. He had kissed the top of her head, squeezed her shoulders and said “Don’t worry about me, I’m like a furnace. Even if I wasn’t, I could test some of those elixers you keep mumbling about.”

The exchange caught her off guard completely, still not used to Link being truly open with her. After everything with the Calamity, which the kingdom was spared from as she awakened her powers before Ganon could do serious harm, she and Link had established a sort of relationship. It wasn’t like they talked about it with anyone, well on his part, at least— Zelda couldn’t resist talking to Urbosa about this relationship, which didn’t have a label. (This concerned her, but Urbosa just told her to talk to Link.)

But they did share these moments alone, since she had a reputation to uphold and he was on duty whenever they were out in public. These moments alone were something Zelda cherished, like cheeky comebacks when they playfully bickered with each other or affectionate gestures in the late morning hours. No matter what, she was always left smiling, even if Link had to leave at some point. (Which she argued on some nights, since she was the princess of Hyrule and he was the head of her personal guard. His job was to be with her and there was more than enough space to accommodate him staying the night. Or two. Or three- okay, she understands it but that doesn’t mean she likes it.) Link rarely put up a fight when she suggests he just stay the night if it was late enough, unless there was something important happening in the morning that he didn’t want to distract her from.

“Link, are you awake?” She whispered, balancing herself on her desk. Her filled journal didnt want to fit on her shelf, which was added about a week ago. An assortment of bottles with elixers, numerous Sheikah texts, and drawn up experiments filled the space. This meant there was no room for her to put the journal, unless she wanted to try and balance it on top of the bottles. But then she risked the entire shelf coming down, which was something she wasn’t going to bet against.

“Barely, but I know you’re standing on your desk and that you cursed a few minutes ago.” He responded, his voice barely audible until he lifted his head. One eye was half-opened, which focused on her smiling face as she shrugged.

“You seem to always hear me, but can never actually listen.” She commented, carefully stepping onto her chair, then situating herself back against the desk. Link watched her lazily, half his face still hidden between his body and the desk’s surface. She could see a smile forming, as she brushed a few strands of hair away from his face. “I’m going to need your help not falling down. And installing a new shelf, but not in that order exactly.”

His eyebrow quirked, as he sat up; his amused grin fully visible to her. He caught her hand, placing a soft kiss on it, then nodding. “Your wish is my command, Princess.”

“My knight in shining armor,” She retorted, giggling, watching as his eyes squint at her words.

“Your knight in traditional Hylian garb, you mean.” He corrected, standing up and stretching. It must be awful for his back to always be slouched over her desk. Perhaps Zelda should invest in a cot for Link, at least for her study.

“Well, is it really traditional if you dyed it white?” She asked, grinning as his features narrowed.

“You said it compliments my eyes.” Link defended, the slightest amount of an accusatory tone slipping into his voice.

Zelda winked, stepping towards him and kissing his cheek. “Well, I didn’t lie to you.”

He grinned at this, before turning to the box of wooden planks and support pieces. She watched as he picked up a board, taking it from his hands as soon as he turned it towards her.

Believe it or not, this was a regular occurrence nowadays. She kept coming across more and more information, which brought up even more questions that she had to look into. She was developing a possible program that was described in an old text, hoping it would yield something.

He had the supports in his hand, taking a few short steps until he was standing right next to her desk. From past experience, the two of them learned that Link was not the best at balancing. Nor did he have the ability to nail a board into a wall and stand.

The first time Zelda asked if Link would help her put a new shelf in her study, he was more than happy to do so. He picked out the wood, the tools, and whatever he had to to ensure she would have a sturdy shelf.

Until it came time to actually installing it, and they both learned that he was incapable of doing so without injuring himself. Seriously, he fell off her desk and somehow knocked over a stack of books on the other side of her study. The memory itself makes her smile widen, as takes Links hand and boosts herself up onto her desk.

Maybe it’s because she’s shorter and weighs less, but somehow she doesn’t knock down the stacks of books on her desk. Instead, they act like steps for her so she can put the board to the wall and have Link make sure it’s straight.

He has to step back to do that, which she knows he hates, since he won’t be in the immediate area to ensure she won’t fall or be there to support her incase she falters. It’s endearing, really, but Zelda always rolls her eyes at his worry. They both know he would catch her if she fell, no doubt about it.

He does step back, gives her the okay and she reaches for the hammer and nails (which were left up there two days ago). She works on getting the board in the right position, before adding the supports that Link hands her. The entire time his hands are outstretched, ready to catch her if the pile of books begins to fall.

But, as the shelf is put up, with the newly finished journal resting safely on it, his concern stays a precaution.

As she makes her way back down to the ground, Link keeps her close; his hands on her cheeks as he pulls her in. Kissing Link always seemed like the easiest thing in the world, making her wonder how she went months without doing it everyday. Oh, right- they didn’t get off on the best foot.

But the simple kiss was enough to wash away any old memory that she promptly regretted, instead she let herself enjoy this moment.

That is, until he pulled away, eyes wide with concern.

“Zelda, when was the last time you slept?”

Of course that was what he was worried about, she thought. Always concerned about something.

She shrugged, leaning back in to kiss him, before saying “Two days?” Another kiss. “Three, probably.” One last kiss, slightly longer than the last two but she could tell he was preoccupied with her sleep schedule.

“You have an advisors meeting tomorrow, the one your father asked you to accompany him. Remember?” He said seriously, searching her face as her lips are pulled in a line.

“I do, thank you. But it’s in the afternoon, which means I can start looking over the code and translating it to Purah’s tech—”

“Or we can just go to bed now, so you’re well rested and not delirious during the meeting.” He cut her off, placing a loose piece of paper into the journal she started writing in, and closing it. Looking back, he saw the smile on her face and his eyebrow quirked up.

“You aren’t upset I’m putting a stop to your research-fest?” He questioned, disbelief evident in his tone.

Honestly, Zelda was a little sad she wouldn’t be able to keep researching. But, Link said ‘we can go to bed now’. The plural term made any angry feelings dissipate before they could even make an impact in her mind.

“You’ll go to bed with me?” She asked, knowing she sounded very hopeful.

He sighed, drawing her face in once again tonplace a soft kiss on her lips. “Princess, if all I have to do to get you to go to sleep I’d be there with you, I’ll do it every night.”

[joestories]

Joe Gould’s Secret

So, I just finished Joe Gould's Secret, and I loved it. And before I start polluting my mind with all sorts of other media, I think perhaps I should take a break and reflect on what I just read, because I found it especially meaningful.

First, it's two excellent contrasting profiles of an interesting character. The kind of character I am both intrigued by, and slightly wary of. I was immediately reminded of my friend Mark.

He had a voice that could bellow, he had no problem being the center of attention, he was bold and committed to seemingly ridiculous quests for no discernible reason. I found being around him both completely energizing and scary. I would leave with stories, and I never regretted hanging out with him, but I always had anxiety when I knew I was going to see him. And thinking back, I wonder what he was getting from me? I certainly couldn't keep up with him, but I was a willing participant in his chaos, and a willing audience, and I suppose he was always looking for an audience. And I was an old friend, a high school friend, one of the few who maintained an occasional correspondence with him after high school, via email. He would occasionally send me poems. I didn't like poetry, but I liked his.

I started to dig for this poem, and found some of our old correspondence. I talk about working on a script for my next film, something that I am hoping will get into a festival. He talks about trying K, becoming a minister, and making wine in someone's basement.

Then I found what I was looking for.

I glanced in the mirror before I left the house to make sure I looked alright....

Everything was fine so I went for a walk down to the beach. I sat for a while wondering about the way electrical outlets differ from country to country. It really is interesting that they couldnt devise a universal system... Almost as inpractacle as foriegn sign language. I mean think about it, here you have a chance to do it right but do we take the opportunity to make something simple NO! we set up 50 different versions. Well that got me angry so I decided to get up and take the streetcar home. After 20 minutes of sitting on the cement smoking cigarette after cigarette the tram came screetching in.

I entered and handed the driver a dollar

"lovely night" he said

I said to the man "sure is, did you see that horse fall in the bay?"

"well no sir i didnt"

"good thing, it was pretty sad"

I sat down next to her, she was wearing a black skirt and a plastic safeway bag with a hole cut out in the bottom, It looked just like a plastic tank top. I said to her

"Nice night for a bath"

"I already ate she said"

I could see right away she wasnt one to be outsmarted, I grabbed a handful of grapes from the waiter and ate them while staring into her eyes.

"this is my stop coming up here"

"So"

"I just figured you might want to get ready"

"for what"

"to get off"

"oh"

I pulled the stop request cord and we got off.

We walked a block or two and then I saw a look in her eyes, one that I cant even begin to explain.... So I did the only thing I could. I punched her in the eye and threw her into a pile of garbage. I kicked her for about 5 minutes then I sat down next to her. She looked at me and understood. She picked up the umbrella from the garbage and proceeded to pound me with it. When my nose started to bleed and I couldnt see straight she stopped.

We looked at each other and shouted in unison

"YOUVE READ BAUDELAIRE!!!!!"

We both got up and walked to the corner diner where I ordered us both burgers and 2 bowls of water so we could clean our bloody faces.

We talked for hours,

I told her all about my experiences during the war and she told me about her brief stint as a clown.

Then she got up and said she had to go to the bathroom... It was then that I knew what I had to do.

I quickly put both burgers in my pockets and ran out the door so she could pay the bill.

I thought about her for hours that night.

How she smiled, how she cried, how she made balloon animals.

she was amazing.

Even when I went and set the Bank Of America building on fire I could only think of her.

The next day when I was running after a kid on a big wheel I thought for an instant that I saw her but I knew that could not be, the Germans took her away... I think she's dead now.

Mark wasn't a tortured artist, but he was most certainly a bohemian. He didn't have a great work, but I think Joe Gould helped me to clarify our friendship a little bit.

I also think of Andrew, another weirdo artist. I was blessed to have so many weirdo artists in my orbit early in life. Why am I not a weirdo? Did I think I would always be blessed with weirdos around me? Because I'm not sure where they've all gone.

I think I need to get a little weirder.

But I digress. Joseph Mitchell certainly sees something in Joe Gould. Mitchell is the straight man, the artist seeking inspiration from the fringes of society, and Joe Gould seems to embody that perfectly.

After reading the first essay, the worst word that might be used to describe Gould is irascible. He is someone proudly occupying the fringes of society. These are qualities that you root for because you're a frumpy old sod if you don't. You want to support him because if you don't you're not cool.

The first essay left me a little sad about New York in its current incarnation. Where are the opinionated poets and painters? Are they in Bushwick?

I loved the story immediately. It was familiar and it wasn't. It was New York, and I love New York stories. It was about an artist on an impossible quest, which is the thing I love so much in Paul Auster's stories.

It's also about life on the fringes, in Bowery flophouses, in the now gone diners and dive bars of the Village. And as sort of a straight man, I can relate to Joseph Mitchell's fascination (and later annoyance) with Gould.

So, we have this character who is a larger than life character writing a larger than life book in a past New York. Struggling artist, old New York, and an author who is himself a bit of a tortured artist. And the writing is so sharp and flows so easily. Mitchell is an incredible wordsmith, and Gould is such a fantastic subject. I found myself highlighting so many sections. Here's how the founder of a poetry event described Joe Gould:

“He isn’t serious about poetry. We serve wine at our readings, and that is the only reason he attends. He sometimes insists on reading foolish poems of his own, and it gets on your nerves. At our Religious Poetry Night he demanded permission to recite a poem he had written entitled ‘My Religion.’ I told him to go ahead, and this is what he recited: ‘In winter I’m a Buddhist, And in summer I’m a nudist.’

He seems to rankle all the right people. Knock down the people who are a little too self important. He's some weird patron saint of the intellectual underworld. He embodies the spirit of some sort of troubled yet resilient artist we want to believe exists.

But he's more of a symbol than a reality. The more reality intrudes, the less fun the story is. And this is where the much longer follow-up essay picks up.

The first story feels like it's a polished little gem. The doubts we have about Gould are "good" doubts. He's a character, he's rubbed many the wrong way.

But in the second essay, written years after Gould's death in 1957, the ugly truth is told. Mitchell becomes a character in the story, and through his relationship with Gould, you start to see cracks in Gould's facade.

Gould's presentation of himself seems rehearsed. He seems to have routines that he draws on and reuses, like a standup comedian who doesn't ever develop new material. People that interact with him regularly, such as the counter man at a diner, seem to hate him.

At one point, he describes how a poem he created may have turned a lot of people against him. It was a poem against the anti-capitalists, who were having a moment in the 1930s, and he felt like it was a trend, so he wrote a poem called The Barricades and took to reciting it at parties whenever possible. It would always make some laugh and others upset. Gould goes on and on about this poem. I kept wondering if we'd get the poem, and we finally do, and it's only a few lines with a cheap gag payoff. About the death of comrades (behind the barricades at a fancy restaurant) by over-eating. It's funny in a throwaway sort of way, but in Gould's mind it was this was a large, impactful work that hardened hearts against him.

More revealing is what happens when Mitchell starts to read his notebooks. He finds that they are all the same couple of stories, written over and over again.

Ah, I haven't even talked about The Oral History of the World. This is Gould's master work, introduced in the first essay, and it does seem to ignite the imagination when described. He wants to give voice to the underprivileged on New York, to share the lives and the words of everyday New Yorkers, so that in the (apocalyptic?) future, we might see in them hints of what was to come. And supposedly, his manuscript is over 8 million words. Doing some quick math, at novel size that's 32,000 pages. It's something fantastically long. 14 publishing houses have rejected it for being obscene or unreadable. He is working on it constantly. It is at the core of his identity. And when he cadges (what a great word, bring it back!) money from acquaintances and strangers alike, he says it's for the Joe Gould fund, which will allow him to keep working on it.

So, as part of his research, Joe Mitchell wants to read it. He is able to scrounge some notebooks entrusted to a friend, and is dismayed to find a discursive essay about his father's death, a tongue-in-cheek story (with lots of bogus and unconvincing statistics) about how tomatoes are ruining railroad conductors, a memoir about measuring the heads of Native Americans as part of a eugenics experiment, and an essay about his mother's death. These all take long journeys away from their source material, but as Mitchell turns up more notebooks, he finds only these four stories, told with different discursions, over and over again.

Gould explains that this is the essay part of the Oral History, there are also the interviews, but they are locked away safely in a basement in Long Island, since America is at war (it's 1942) and he doesn't want them to be destroyed. Mitchell wants to see them, and there's a story about how the owner of the house where they are kept is away in Floria, possibly for years, and won't allow access to them. Mitchell is about to kill the story, so Gould tells me that he has a fantastic recall of them, and they start meeting, night after night, in Gould's local dive bar, and Gould imparts more and more of the contents to him, until, after several of these 8+ hour sessions, Mitchell is satisfied. Wasn't this the framing narrative of Arabian Nights? The protagonist must keep telling stories so she is allowed to live another day.

Now, I've certainly had doubts about the existence of Gould's text for most of the essay, but it becomes clear what's what when Mitchell, in hopes of finding someone else to receive Gould's constant, exhausting visits, tries to fix him up with a publisher. This person is willing to go the extra mile in every way possible to clear all obstacles in the way of Gould having his manuscripts ready for publishing. Gould has nothing but excuses, with his final one being "I'd rather it be published posthumously." Which angers Mitchell, rightfully so, who has worked to get a publisher to meet with Gould (Gould skipped out on the last one Mitchell set up).

And in the end, it's clear there's no manuscript. But Mitchell doesn't want to shatter this thing that is so intrinsic to Gould's identity. So he keeps his mouth shut.

And it's too bad it wasn't real. It makes me think of the things that have come since that sound similar. There's Overheard in New York. And Humans of New York. Joe Gould was on to something, but he was incapable of following through.

In the end, I think I side with the author. While Joe Gould's would-be book sounds like it could be incredible, the real thing would likely fall short of everyone's imagined version. Even so, I want a world with more Joe Goulds in it. He invented a personality that worked for him and seemed to inspire outsiders to some degree. He put on a show. And I guess when you start to really know someone, the reality will always be disappointing.

Is this a cautionary tale? No, I don't think so. But learning that this was the last thing Mitchell ever wrote was sort of eerie. He was such a talent. Maybe that's the real story here; Joe Gould's undoing was also Joseph Mitchell's undoing.

Josh reminded me when we spoke on the phone today, he sees me as having a high level of talent. I'm not doing much with it either.

I did just uninstall Clash Royale from the last device that still had it, we'll see if that helps. Feels like kicking a heroin habit. I just threw it all down the toilet and flushed it.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translates perfectly into sea gull," he said. "On the whole, to tell you the truth, I think he sounds better in sea gull than he does in English."

[idontwanttobepretentious]

2/4/17

i didn’t know i had this many people that would miss me

what the fuck am i supposed to do  

i’m so fucking tired

but theres him

and the other one to some extent

and i don’t want to lose

it would feel like losing

either that or nothing at all

its like my ribs are constantly being crushed

and i can plan for years ahead

but can’t imagine the in-between

and then can’t imagine anything after that

jesus

he was a handsome man

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blue-eyed boy

Mister Death

theres just this blank space in all these different parts of me

and i think it would be overwhelming to try and fill them

i think id burst if i ever tried

god its still crushing me

but the problems is not anything

or anyone

its all me

and i don’t have a reason

but thats not stopping me

i want to be a kid again

and draw the bow across the strings

and everyone would clap

i know they still would

but its all fake now

no one actually means shit

for fucks sake i could just go

and it would less than a year for me to fade from them

i keep losing time

ill come back and everything is the same but its been half an hour

and time is so fucking precious

but its also insignificant

theres two lights in the world

and they sure as hell don’t shine on me

god he’s so little

and so angry

and i want him to be the happiest kindest person on earth

how can i fuck that up

it would be selfish to fuck that up

who cares about the other two

they’d move on

they know how

and she's spoiled

but she has so much strength

i mean I’m spoiled too

but she’s smart and hates injustice and would fight

for all the oppressed

if you gave her a chance

but whats sad is everyone else

they all put on facades and pretend

and everyone pretends with them

but why

whats the point of that?

we are inconceivably small and irrelevant

theres a shit ton out there

how do people not feel crushed

i know there are people who do

i know theres names to shit i feel daily

but whats the point?

im so tired

less than year

jesus

I am the captain of my soul

and if i want to crash it into the goddam land i will

its less than skeleton crew so

it would just be me and my ship

and we can rest

and there would nothing

and it would be bliss

i wonder

if i do this everyday will it help

or will just serve as reminder

should i take that chance

what if i look back and this is childish

what if i look back and this is another hollywood undead

i have felt love so strong

and happiness so overwhelming

but sadness

thats always been muted

like I’m feeling it from behind thick glass

i want to feel it

but every time i reach

it gets a little further away

til my stupid fucking breaking brain

loses interrest

come, child of misfortune, come hither

i weep with thee

tear for tear

heaviness runs in a circular motion

love is a little boat upon the sea

the sea is numbness and its wave will swallow the boat

without a thought

god

i wish i was a part of the ocean

its so blue

and endless

and most days i want to walk into it

and have that be the end

little bursts of brightness

but they go out

they will go out

and even if they change the world

what is the world

the universe

is so much more

i hope that the fire and cliffs keep on

i hope stars keep shining and dying

i hope i can stop soon

it would feel like losing

until it felt like nothing at all

and i think that would be nice

i really don’t know what i love you means

i think it means don’t leave me here alone

it would be nice for me anyway

but for them?

and maybe I’m overstating me importance

maybe it will be less than a year for them too

god i hope it is

where is my imagined future

why are there blanks

if they fill in will i expand beyond my breaking point

how do they do it

i keep my facade up as well as the rest of them

but its exhausting

a nice spot overlooking a sea

that’d be nice

the air is warm like a blanket in the summer

and cool like a smooth stone in the winter

the grass is soft

the water is clear 

the ground is rocky 

there is space and air 

and also closeness 

and it smells like home

and theres always time

there are no blanks

the ship didnt hit the land

it docked

and now me and my soul

can rest

i think that’d be nice