reading in montreal next friday, august 8th, feat. sarah jean alexander, gabby bess, lucy k shaw, spencer madsen & oscar bruno d’artois.
Understanding that people are always a worse version of who they want to be is a way of loving them. — Spencer Madsen, from You Can Make Anything Sad (Publishing Genius Press, 04.14)
(Source: mcnallyjackson, via popserial)
Osamu Dazai (1909 - 1948) is one of Japan’s most well-known writers. His masterpiece was probably his final book, No Longer Human, which is also, somehow, “Japan’s second best-selling novel.” Dazai lived as a self-destructive outcast in a conformist society and frequently used elements from his life and family background as material for his stories and novels.
"Angst Journal" is a short diary that looks kind of like an introverted Twitter feed. None of the entries are dated, but Dazai mentions The Final Years, so this is probably around 1936. During this period, he was, I think, in debt and addicted to morphine.
If you’re interested in reading more about Dazai, I would recommend The Saga of Osamu Dazai by Phyllis I. Lyons.
Someone put a live snake into the mailbox. Anger. Whoever it was must enjoy laughing at unsuccessful writers who go out to check mailbox twenty times a day. Start to feel bad and stay in bed all day.
"Don’t sell your suffering" — letter from a friend.
Condition terrible. Bloody phlegm. Sent word home, but they don’t seem to believe me.
Peach tree is blossoming in corner of garden.
Inheritance from father was apparently 1.5 million yen. No idea how much is left. Was disinherited eight years ago anyway. Have only managed to live this long thanks to kindness of elder brother. But what about from now on? Have never even dreamed of earning own keep. Won’t have any option but to die if this keeps up. On this day, man of corruption, that’ll teach you, bad writer of terrible books.
Dan Kazuo came to visit. Borrowed forty yen from him.
Correct proofs of short story collection The Final Years. Suddenly wonder if this might end up being my final work. No doubt it will.
Number of people who haven’t bad-mouthed me this year: three? Less? Surely not.
Letter from my elder sister.
"I just sent twenty yen, so please go and collect it. You put me in a very difficult position by always asking for money. I can’t tell mother, so it always comes from me, and it makes things most difficult. Mother doesn’t have that much money either… You must be more frugal and stop spending so much. The magazine companies are paying you at least a little, aren’t they? Stop borrowing from others and tighten your belt. Take better care of yourself. Look after your health, and stop going out so much with your friends. We are tired of worrying about you so much…"
Drowsy all day. Have begun to suffer from insomnia. Two nights so far. If I don’t sleep tonight, three nights.
Visit to doctor at dawn. Remember Tanaka’s poem:
If I forget
my journey, weeping, down this road
who will ever know?
Coerce doctor into giving me morphine.
Wake in early afternoon. Feel anxious and sad at light in young leaves. Decide that I need to get healthy.
Most livid, burning shame brought up with no hesitations by family. Leapt to feet. Put on geta clogs. Home! Froze for a moment, looking like Deva King. Kicked brazier. Kicked coal bucket into the air. Went into four-and-a-half tatami room and kicked kettle into sliding door. Door’s glass rattled. Kicked tea table over. Soy sauce on wall. Cups and saucers. Scapegoats. Couldn’t have gone on living without breaking all these things. No regrets.
"Five feet eight and shaggy." "Die of shame." Think back on phrases I wrote earlier, chuckle to self.
Yamagishi Gaishi comes to visit. Enemies on every side, I say. Oh, no, only on two sides, really, he replies. Laughs handsomely.
When you aren’t talking, you look fine. I just want you to listen to this. No, I’ve heard plenty. But— … Argued over one and a half yen with family for three hours last night. Absolutely mortifying.
Can’t go to the toilet alone at night. Small-headed boy of fifteen or sixteen in a white yukata stands behind me. Looking back over own shoulder is taking life in hands these days. Definitely a small-headed boy there. Yamagishi Gaishi says it’s because of “somethin’ unspeakably cruel” one of my ancestors did five or six generations ago. Maybe so.
Finish writing next novel. Did it always make me this happy? Read through it again. Looks good. Send word to two or three friends. Can pay everyone back now. Title is The White Monkey Berserk.
"Q: What makes poetry cool?
A: Not giving a fuck in a very careful way.”
Janey Smith is the local legend of the week over at BrokeAssStuart
(Source: alexdimitrov, via miratortilla)
this is a new space for (hopefully!) daily poetry, prose, art, video, etc.
we welcome all types of submissions to email@example.com
Sylvia Plath references/quotes as your subject line are a big plus for mariah.
be unique, be suprising, be beautiful
megan and mariah
this week’s almost live at mellow pages podcast’s guest is mike bushnell
Even if people know that names aren’t reality,
They don’t see that reality itself has no root.
Name … reality … both are beside the point.
Find joy in the ever-shifting flow. — Ryōkan (via muumuuhouse)
(Source: darrylbailey.net, via muumuuhouse)
Debord’s first book, Mémoires, was bound with a sandpaper cover so that it would damage other books placed next to it. — from Guy Debord’s Wikipedia entry