Sasha Fletcher's Blog, page 2
July 16, 2012
ANOTHER BOOK REPORT
So here is another one. It is pretty long.
A BOOK REPORT ON VLADIMIR NABOKOV’S LOLITA IN TWO PARTS AND SIXTY-NINE CHAPTERS AS WRITTEN BY SASHA FLETCHER
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Lolita is a fun name to say.
CHAPTER TWO
Our narrator’s name is Humbert Humbert and he was born in 1910 in Paris and he likes to talk about stuff. He had a mother and a father and even grandparents and everybody liked him because he was adorable and one day his mother died in a freak accident involving lightning and a picnic, but this left him no less adorable.
CHAPTER THREE
One day he met a girl named Annabel Leigh and fell in love. Annabel Leigh as a metaphor for Annabel Lee and Annabel Lee was a metaphor Edgar Allan Poe used to describe his teenage cousin who he was in love with and Edgar Allan Poe died in Baltimore of brain congestion. One day Humbert and Annabel [Leigh] went to the beach and then after that she got typhus and died.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once he finger banged Annabel although it is unclear if that actually happened.
CHAPTERS FIVE-EIGHT
Humbert finds out that he likes girls between the ages of 9 and 14, but only some of them and they are called Nymphettes which is like a little Nymph and a Nymph is a magical and sexy creature that is also elusive and this elusiveness is unsatisfying. Humbert sleeps with prostitutes and is mostly unsatisfied. Humbert dates grown up women with gross breasts like pumpkins and is mostly unsatisfied. Humbert marries this girl because he thinks she’s cute and also petulant [which is I guess kind of like a child?] and then she cheats on him with a Russian guy and then they get divorced and Humbert is still mostly unsatisfied.
CHAPTER NINE
Humbert moves to New York and then New York moves him to a sanitarium and then he goes to Canada where he learns that nymphettes do not occur in the Arctic.
CHAPTER TEN
Humbert moves to New England and into a house owned by a lady named Mrs. Charlotte Haze who looks like Marlene Dietrich but maybe not in the most complimentary way and he is generally unimpressed but then he meets her daughter and he is all like hello there and Mrs. Haze is all like hey that was my daughter and these are my lilies and Humbert is all like that is a real pretty sight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Humbert has a journal into which he writes all of his innermost thoughts and all of his innermost thoughts are pretty much all about a girl named Dolores who lives in his house and what she wears and who her friends are and how she is just the cutest little thing and he would just like to eat her up! and by her he means her sweet sweet pre-pubescent pussy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Humbert has got some ideas!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alone, together, in the living room, Humbert and Dolores do a little dance of tension and wit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dolores is going to be called Lolita now for clarity and also she was sent to summer camp because she is a naughty girl and also we are loosely introduced to Clare Quilty the playwright who will come into play at a later date.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN A STARTLING REVELATION IT IS REVEALED THAT HUMBERT HUMBERT HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH LOLITA THE DAUGHTER OF HIS LANDLORD!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN A STARTLING REVELATION IT IS REVEALED THAT CHARLOTTE HAZE MOTHER TO LOLITA HAZE AND LANDLORD TO HUMBERT HUMBERT IS IN FACT IN LOVE WITH HUMBERT HUMBERT! HE MUST LOVE HER BACK OR MOVE OUT! WHATEVER WILL HE DO??
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Humbert, confused, gets drunk, alone, and dances in the backyard.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Humbert decides to marry his landlord. Nobody saw this coming.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Apparently an accident will happen soon and also Lolita writes letters addressed to Mummy and Hummy, which is adorable.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Charlotte the landlady-wife wants to hire a live-in German maid and hints at hidden trysts with the live-in German maid and also proposes a swim. A swim is had. Hooray for swimming and its calming effect on murderous thoughts!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Humbert is sad he doesn’t want to talk to anyone and this makes everyone very sad as Humbert is so nice to talk to. In addition, Charlotte surprises Humbert with a trip to England. Humbert surprises Charlotte with a trip to We Are Not Going to England. Charlotte says ok, and bakes a cake in case Humbert is sad because cakes are delicious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Humbert, it seems, has been slipping his wife sedatives. Humbert thinks he needs some stronger sedatives, so he goes to the druggist, who suggests he tries golf. Humbert says he doesn’t much care for golf and so the druggist says ok well here are some very strong sedatives instead and Humbert, happily, drives home. When Humbert gets home it turns out that his wife has found his journal into which he writes all of his innermost thoughts and she is very unhappy. Humbert decides to tell her that those were just notes for a novel and then he keeps telling her about his novel and goes to get a drink and when he comes back into the living room Charlotte is not there because she ran out into the street and got hit by a car and died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Charlotte’s friends John and Jean come over. Everyone is worried about Lolita/Dolores. John says that Humbert should sleep with Jean while John goes to find Lolita/Dolores. Humbert says no and then John decides he should really know what Humber’s plans for Lolita/Dolores are. Then Jean shouts out that Humbert is Lolita/Dolores’s real father not Charlotte’s old husband who everyone believed was Lolita/Dolores’s real father [this is of course not true, but Jean is a landscape painter and so doesn’t quite know what truth really is] and John says oh of course that makes so much sense I am so sorry to bother you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There are trees and Humbert talks about them. Jean tries to kiss him and he tactfully says hey baby I am not interested but thanks that’s really swell of you and then he goes and looks at his dead wife’s corpse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Humbert makes a reservation at the Enchanted Hunter Inn for “Hamburg and daughter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Humbert has a headache.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Humbert picks up his little Lolita from camp! They have a conversation in the car. Lolita accuses him of not caring about her anymore because he hasn’t kissed her yet and then calls herself a juvenile delickwet and then they go to the hotel and she tells him they’re probably going to commit incest and then he gives her special vitamins and she goes to sleep!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Humbert goes for a walk! He meets a man! He thinks the man says things about Lolita being a hotty that he would like a piece of! The man invites them for lunch! The man is quite drunk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Humbert opens the door to their room and then magically finds himself in bed in his pajamas. Lolita is asleep. He thinks some thoughts and then they wake up and she kisses him in a way that leads him to believe she has been coached in kissing by lesbians. Then she asks him if he did it when he was a kid and he says no and so she decides to show him how to do it and it is implied that his dick is more than she can handle but she is a trooper and troops on.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Humbert describes what he would paint if he were a painter and it seems a bid florid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“In the city of Cincinnati [with its stimulating temperate climate] girls mature at about the end of their twelfth year” is a fact that can be gleaned from magazines.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lolita talks about how Barbara Burke taught her how to have sex. Apparently, at summer camp this summer Lolita and Barbara Burke would get up early and carry a boat with the camp director’s son Charlie and then Lolita would stand watch while Barbara and Charlie had sex in the bushes and then they all started taking turns and it was real educational. After this story Humbert and Lolita go for a car ride and Lolita says Humbert is a dirty man and she should report him for rape but she might be joking and then she says she wants to call her mom and Humbert says you cannot do that and she says why and he says oh well you mom’s dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In the town of Lepingville Humbert buys Lolita four comic books and a box of candy and a box of maxi-pads and two cokes and a manicure set and a light-up travel clock and a ring with a real live topaz and a tennis racket and roller skates and binoculars and a portable radio and chewing gum and a see-through raincoat and sunglasses and some nice summer clothes. Then they go to the hotel and they sleep in separate rooms but in the middle of the night she came into his room crying and they made up and it was real gentle
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Humber and Lolita travel all over the country! Sometimes Lolita thinks she doesn’t like this anymore and wants to leave and then she says she will report him to the authorities and then Humbert says hey that’s cool but if you do that I’ll be thrown in jail and you’ll become a ward of the state and they’ll just put you away in a room in an institution and you wouldn’t like that would you and Lolita doesn’t think she would so things just keep on keeping on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Humbert and his little Lolita like to get into fights and kiss and make up and little Lolita likes to wander around and ask if she can go with those two big boys over there to the roller rink please? and also in their free time they like to go swimming and also Lolita is very bad at tennis and also they have sex with each other.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Humbert likes to refer to his world as Humberland. Also they move back east! Hooray!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Lolita is enrolled in the Beardsley School for Girls which is a metaphor for Aubrey Beardsley who was famous for his very pretty erotic drawings and also being friends with Oscar Wilde and also dying of tuberculosis and maybe getting his sister pregnant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sometimes people are walking down the street and they say hello isn’t it a nice day to poor Humbert Humbert. Isn’t that rude of them? Humbert sure thinks so.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Humbert has a neighbor named Gaston Godin and Gaston Godin is just like Humbert Humbert except that Gaston Godin likes boys and dies in Europe after an incident on a steamship.
CHAPTER FORTY
Lolita wants more allowance! Humbert gives it to her! Lolita wants permission to act in the school play! Humbert makes her earn it! Humbert finds out where she hides her money and takes it! Lolita finds a new hiding place! Humbert fears that she will one day save enough allowance to run away to Hollywood or Broadway or the foul kitchen of a broken down roadside restaurant where everything is either soiled or broken or dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lolita likes boys! This disappoints Humbert.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lolita’s girl friends are disappointing and this disappoints Humbert.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sometimes Lolita is so pretty that Humbert just gets down on his hands and knees and begs her and begs her and begs her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Lolita sighs a lot in class and is, it seems, still shuttling between the anal and genital zones of development.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Lolita gets sick and this makes her sad and then she gets better and Humbert throws her a Party with Boys and it is declared a failure. Hooray!
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Lolita is in a play called The Enchanted Hunters. You know. Like that hotel where Humbert raped her? Isn’t that hilarious?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Lolita sometimes disobeys Humbert and this makes him angry and he threatens to take her away and lock her up you-know-where and so she runs away! Down the street! To a telephone booth! Humbert finds her! It turns out she hates school and plays and towns! She wants to go on another trip! But please oh please oh please can she choose where they trip to? Well ok says Humbert. Gosh. I’d love that.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
That guy Clare Quilty wrote that play about Enchanted Hunters and this is probably important.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
America is big.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Humbert has a gun which may or may not be a metaphor but either way it definitely has some stopping power.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
There is a red convertible on the road and it is obviously following Humbert and Lolita and also it is obviously being driven by a detective named Trapp who obviously has some sort of sense of humor. Or, the detective looks like a relative of Humbert’s named Trapp and either way he is obviously a detective and obviously following them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Trouble is afoot.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Acting cultivates deceit. Strange men populate tennis courts. Facts abound at the motor court.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Humbert throws a fit.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Yesterday around two while Humbert was out Lolita checked out with her uncle Mr. Gustave and his black Caddy Lack and they are at Grandpa’s ranch as agreed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
So apparently Uncle Gustave has been following them since they left Beardsley and also he is real literary and has a real sense of humor about his fake names in motel books.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
In Dolores Colorado there is an eighty-year-old Indian and his name is Bill Brown.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Humbert writes a poem about Lolita and then has it psychoanalyzed by himself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Here is Rita! She is pretty! And twice as old as Lolita! And recently divorced from her third husband! For two years she and Humbert cruise along until he goes away to a poets and philosophers retreat where he keeps her in a motel and then she ends up in jail minus an appendix and plus some stolen furs and that was the end of Rita.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Humbert has a mailbox. In this mailbox he finds a letter! From his little Dolly! Golly she’s married and pregnant! They grow up so fast.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Dolly is married to Dick Schiller and she needs some money yes and please so Humbert migrates out to find her ad Humbert’s gun migrates over to his pocket.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
We learn that Dolly-Lolita-Dolores had run away with Clare Quilty the playwright just two years after Clare Quilty the playwright got drunk in a hallway while writing a play called the Enchanted Hunters and that Dolly-Lolita-Dolores had known him for most of her life and isn’t it all hilarious? Anyway they went out to some ranch that was probably called Duk Duk Ranch where they made dirty movies and did weird gross sex things and then Dolly-Lolita-Dolores got kicked out because she loved Quilty too much to keep fucking strange men in front him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The hunt is on!
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The hunt remains on, although Humbert stops once for refreshments.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The hunt continues on, with thoughts of death and child-parent relations along for the ride, in the back seat, calling attention to themselves.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Humbert returns to the town where this book called Lolita began to visit the dentist uncle of Clare Quilty and then thinks about his gun.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The hunt continues!
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Quilty! Humbert has found you! Do you recall his daughter? Yes? No? Oh! Yes! Your daughter! Well why didn’t you tell me you had a gun? I’d have answered you sooner? Oh what’s that Humbert? You’ve brought a poem to read? Delightful! And it is delightful. Humbert reads the poem and then Quilty offers Humbert this large house they are in and also a young girl with three breasts which is a metaphor for the film Total Recall on the condition that Humbert puts the gun down. Instead of putting the gun down Humbert shoots Quilty while chasing him around the house and then Quilty dies of complications due to gunshots and lust. Then Humbert gets back into his car, which is now parked between two cars, and he drives off.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Humbert is removed from his car and placed into a locked ward and that’s the end of the book.
A BOOK REPORT ON VLADIMIR NABOKOV’S LOLITA IN TWO PARTS AND SIXTY-NINE CHAPTERS AS WRITTEN BY SASHA FLETCHER
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Lolita is a fun name to say.
CHAPTER TWO
Our narrator’s name is Humbert Humbert and he was born in 1910 in Paris and he likes to talk about stuff. He had a mother and a father and even grandparents and everybody liked him because he was adorable and one day his mother died in a freak accident involving lightning and a picnic, but this left him no less adorable.
CHAPTER THREE
One day he met a girl named Annabel Leigh and fell in love. Annabel Leigh as a metaphor for Annabel Lee and Annabel Lee was a metaphor Edgar Allan Poe used to describe his teenage cousin who he was in love with and Edgar Allan Poe died in Baltimore of brain congestion. One day Humbert and Annabel [Leigh] went to the beach and then after that she got typhus and died.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once he finger banged Annabel although it is unclear if that actually happened.
CHAPTERS FIVE-EIGHT
Humbert finds out that he likes girls between the ages of 9 and 14, but only some of them and they are called Nymphettes which is like a little Nymph and a Nymph is a magical and sexy creature that is also elusive and this elusiveness is unsatisfying. Humbert sleeps with prostitutes and is mostly unsatisfied. Humbert dates grown up women with gross breasts like pumpkins and is mostly unsatisfied. Humbert marries this girl because he thinks she’s cute and also petulant [which is I guess kind of like a child?] and then she cheats on him with a Russian guy and then they get divorced and Humbert is still mostly unsatisfied.
CHAPTER NINE
Humbert moves to New York and then New York moves him to a sanitarium and then he goes to Canada where he learns that nymphettes do not occur in the Arctic.
CHAPTER TEN
Humbert moves to New England and into a house owned by a lady named Mrs. Charlotte Haze who looks like Marlene Dietrich but maybe not in the most complimentary way and he is generally unimpressed but then he meets her daughter and he is all like hello there and Mrs. Haze is all like hey that was my daughter and these are my lilies and Humbert is all like that is a real pretty sight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Humbert has a journal into which he writes all of his innermost thoughts and all of his innermost thoughts are pretty much all about a girl named Dolores who lives in his house and what she wears and who her friends are and how she is just the cutest little thing and he would just like to eat her up! and by her he means her sweet sweet pre-pubescent pussy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Humbert has got some ideas!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alone, together, in the living room, Humbert and Dolores do a little dance of tension and wit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dolores is going to be called Lolita now for clarity and also she was sent to summer camp because she is a naughty girl and also we are loosely introduced to Clare Quilty the playwright who will come into play at a later date.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN A STARTLING REVELATION IT IS REVEALED THAT HUMBERT HUMBERT HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH LOLITA THE DAUGHTER OF HIS LANDLORD!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN A STARTLING REVELATION IT IS REVEALED THAT CHARLOTTE HAZE MOTHER TO LOLITA HAZE AND LANDLORD TO HUMBERT HUMBERT IS IN FACT IN LOVE WITH HUMBERT HUMBERT! HE MUST LOVE HER BACK OR MOVE OUT! WHATEVER WILL HE DO??
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Humbert, confused, gets drunk, alone, and dances in the backyard.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Humbert decides to marry his landlord. Nobody saw this coming.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Apparently an accident will happen soon and also Lolita writes letters addressed to Mummy and Hummy, which is adorable.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Charlotte the landlady-wife wants to hire a live-in German maid and hints at hidden trysts with the live-in German maid and also proposes a swim. A swim is had. Hooray for swimming and its calming effect on murderous thoughts!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Humbert is sad he doesn’t want to talk to anyone and this makes everyone very sad as Humbert is so nice to talk to. In addition, Charlotte surprises Humbert with a trip to England. Humbert surprises Charlotte with a trip to We Are Not Going to England. Charlotte says ok, and bakes a cake in case Humbert is sad because cakes are delicious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Humbert, it seems, has been slipping his wife sedatives. Humbert thinks he needs some stronger sedatives, so he goes to the druggist, who suggests he tries golf. Humbert says he doesn’t much care for golf and so the druggist says ok well here are some very strong sedatives instead and Humbert, happily, drives home. When Humbert gets home it turns out that his wife has found his journal into which he writes all of his innermost thoughts and she is very unhappy. Humbert decides to tell her that those were just notes for a novel and then he keeps telling her about his novel and goes to get a drink and when he comes back into the living room Charlotte is not there because she ran out into the street and got hit by a car and died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Charlotte’s friends John and Jean come over. Everyone is worried about Lolita/Dolores. John says that Humbert should sleep with Jean while John goes to find Lolita/Dolores. Humbert says no and then John decides he should really know what Humber’s plans for Lolita/Dolores are. Then Jean shouts out that Humbert is Lolita/Dolores’s real father not Charlotte’s old husband who everyone believed was Lolita/Dolores’s real father [this is of course not true, but Jean is a landscape painter and so doesn’t quite know what truth really is] and John says oh of course that makes so much sense I am so sorry to bother you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There are trees and Humbert talks about them. Jean tries to kiss him and he tactfully says hey baby I am not interested but thanks that’s really swell of you and then he goes and looks at his dead wife’s corpse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Humbert makes a reservation at the Enchanted Hunter Inn for “Hamburg and daughter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Humbert has a headache.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Humbert picks up his little Lolita from camp! They have a conversation in the car. Lolita accuses him of not caring about her anymore because he hasn’t kissed her yet and then calls herself a juvenile delickwet and then they go to the hotel and she tells him they’re probably going to commit incest and then he gives her special vitamins and she goes to sleep!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Humbert goes for a walk! He meets a man! He thinks the man says things about Lolita being a hotty that he would like a piece of! The man invites them for lunch! The man is quite drunk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Humbert opens the door to their room and then magically finds himself in bed in his pajamas. Lolita is asleep. He thinks some thoughts and then they wake up and she kisses him in a way that leads him to believe she has been coached in kissing by lesbians. Then she asks him if he did it when he was a kid and he says no and so she decides to show him how to do it and it is implied that his dick is more than she can handle but she is a trooper and troops on.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Humbert describes what he would paint if he were a painter and it seems a bid florid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“In the city of Cincinnati [with its stimulating temperate climate] girls mature at about the end of their twelfth year” is a fact that can be gleaned from magazines.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lolita talks about how Barbara Burke taught her how to have sex. Apparently, at summer camp this summer Lolita and Barbara Burke would get up early and carry a boat with the camp director’s son Charlie and then Lolita would stand watch while Barbara and Charlie had sex in the bushes and then they all started taking turns and it was real educational. After this story Humbert and Lolita go for a car ride and Lolita says Humbert is a dirty man and she should report him for rape but she might be joking and then she says she wants to call her mom and Humbert says you cannot do that and she says why and he says oh well you mom’s dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In the town of Lepingville Humbert buys Lolita four comic books and a box of candy and a box of maxi-pads and two cokes and a manicure set and a light-up travel clock and a ring with a real live topaz and a tennis racket and roller skates and binoculars and a portable radio and chewing gum and a see-through raincoat and sunglasses and some nice summer clothes. Then they go to the hotel and they sleep in separate rooms but in the middle of the night she came into his room crying and they made up and it was real gentle
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Humber and Lolita travel all over the country! Sometimes Lolita thinks she doesn’t like this anymore and wants to leave and then she says she will report him to the authorities and then Humbert says hey that’s cool but if you do that I’ll be thrown in jail and you’ll become a ward of the state and they’ll just put you away in a room in an institution and you wouldn’t like that would you and Lolita doesn’t think she would so things just keep on keeping on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Humbert and his little Lolita like to get into fights and kiss and make up and little Lolita likes to wander around and ask if she can go with those two big boys over there to the roller rink please? and also in their free time they like to go swimming and also Lolita is very bad at tennis and also they have sex with each other.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Humbert likes to refer to his world as Humberland. Also they move back east! Hooray!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Lolita is enrolled in the Beardsley School for Girls which is a metaphor for Aubrey Beardsley who was famous for his very pretty erotic drawings and also being friends with Oscar Wilde and also dying of tuberculosis and maybe getting his sister pregnant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sometimes people are walking down the street and they say hello isn’t it a nice day to poor Humbert Humbert. Isn’t that rude of them? Humbert sure thinks so.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Humbert has a neighbor named Gaston Godin and Gaston Godin is just like Humbert Humbert except that Gaston Godin likes boys and dies in Europe after an incident on a steamship.
CHAPTER FORTY
Lolita wants more allowance! Humbert gives it to her! Lolita wants permission to act in the school play! Humbert makes her earn it! Humbert finds out where she hides her money and takes it! Lolita finds a new hiding place! Humbert fears that she will one day save enough allowance to run away to Hollywood or Broadway or the foul kitchen of a broken down roadside restaurant where everything is either soiled or broken or dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lolita likes boys! This disappoints Humbert.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lolita’s girl friends are disappointing and this disappoints Humbert.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sometimes Lolita is so pretty that Humbert just gets down on his hands and knees and begs her and begs her and begs her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Lolita sighs a lot in class and is, it seems, still shuttling between the anal and genital zones of development.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Lolita gets sick and this makes her sad and then she gets better and Humbert throws her a Party with Boys and it is declared a failure. Hooray!
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Lolita is in a play called The Enchanted Hunters. You know. Like that hotel where Humbert raped her? Isn’t that hilarious?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Lolita sometimes disobeys Humbert and this makes him angry and he threatens to take her away and lock her up you-know-where and so she runs away! Down the street! To a telephone booth! Humbert finds her! It turns out she hates school and plays and towns! She wants to go on another trip! But please oh please oh please can she choose where they trip to? Well ok says Humbert. Gosh. I’d love that.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
That guy Clare Quilty wrote that play about Enchanted Hunters and this is probably important.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
America is big.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Humbert has a gun which may or may not be a metaphor but either way it definitely has some stopping power.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
There is a red convertible on the road and it is obviously following Humbert and Lolita and also it is obviously being driven by a detective named Trapp who obviously has some sort of sense of humor. Or, the detective looks like a relative of Humbert’s named Trapp and either way he is obviously a detective and obviously following them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Trouble is afoot.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Acting cultivates deceit. Strange men populate tennis courts. Facts abound at the motor court.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Humbert throws a fit.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Yesterday around two while Humbert was out Lolita checked out with her uncle Mr. Gustave and his black Caddy Lack and they are at Grandpa’s ranch as agreed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
So apparently Uncle Gustave has been following them since they left Beardsley and also he is real literary and has a real sense of humor about his fake names in motel books.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
In Dolores Colorado there is an eighty-year-old Indian and his name is Bill Brown.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Humbert writes a poem about Lolita and then has it psychoanalyzed by himself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Here is Rita! She is pretty! And twice as old as Lolita! And recently divorced from her third husband! For two years she and Humbert cruise along until he goes away to a poets and philosophers retreat where he keeps her in a motel and then she ends up in jail minus an appendix and plus some stolen furs and that was the end of Rita.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Humbert has a mailbox. In this mailbox he finds a letter! From his little Dolly! Golly she’s married and pregnant! They grow up so fast.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Dolly is married to Dick Schiller and she needs some money yes and please so Humbert migrates out to find her ad Humbert’s gun migrates over to his pocket.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
We learn that Dolly-Lolita-Dolores had run away with Clare Quilty the playwright just two years after Clare Quilty the playwright got drunk in a hallway while writing a play called the Enchanted Hunters and that Dolly-Lolita-Dolores had known him for most of her life and isn’t it all hilarious? Anyway they went out to some ranch that was probably called Duk Duk Ranch where they made dirty movies and did weird gross sex things and then Dolly-Lolita-Dolores got kicked out because she loved Quilty too much to keep fucking strange men in front him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The hunt is on!
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The hunt remains on, although Humbert stops once for refreshments.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The hunt continues on, with thoughts of death and child-parent relations along for the ride, in the back seat, calling attention to themselves.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Humbert returns to the town where this book called Lolita began to visit the dentist uncle of Clare Quilty and then thinks about his gun.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The hunt continues!
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Quilty! Humbert has found you! Do you recall his daughter? Yes? No? Oh! Yes! Your daughter! Well why didn’t you tell me you had a gun? I’d have answered you sooner? Oh what’s that Humbert? You’ve brought a poem to read? Delightful! And it is delightful. Humbert reads the poem and then Quilty offers Humbert this large house they are in and also a young girl with three breasts which is a metaphor for the film Total Recall on the condition that Humbert puts the gun down. Instead of putting the gun down Humbert shoots Quilty while chasing him around the house and then Quilty dies of complications due to gunshots and lust. Then Humbert gets back into his car, which is now parked between two cars, and he drives off.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Humbert is removed from his car and placed into a locked ward and that’s the end of the book.
A BOOK REPORT
so leigh stein and i run a reading series called the book report and you can find us downstairs at le poisson rouge every second tuesday around, say 730.
i don't really know what to do with all the book reports i've ended up accidentally doing for it as a fill-in reader, so i am going to post them here today.
here is one.
Jane Austen is a lady who wrote some books about kisses and the lack of kisses and so in her honor I am going to talk about some of those books here.
Sense and Sensibility is a book Jane Austen wrote in 1811 about how she does not know which is better: Sense or Sensibility? It is about the Dashwood sisters. There are two of them and one of them is real cultured and the other is real proper, which is I guess the opposite of being real cultured, and the book is about the struggle of which one gets to be right, or if they have to have a balance of things, like how a cheeseburger should have bread and lettuce and cheese and meat because that makes it balanced and also tomatoes I think but yknow some people feel differently. That is kind of what this is about. It is also about kisses, which are alright too, I think we can all agree. In this book are included vulgar, uneducated cousins, which are probably like the opposite of sense and sensibility, like vulgar and vulgarity, I don’t know, that could be an alternate novel, like some good fan fiction could come out of this kind of stuff maybe. People in this book get really ill, and then everyone gets married, so it’s really unclear if Sense is better than Sensibility, and I think some dude cuts off a lock of a girls hair, which I am pretty sure is a form of witchcraft, which is a thing that you can learn about at Hot Topic, which was not invented by Jane Austen, but which can be found in malls I think. So after that guy cuts off a lock Sensibility’s hair, he marries someone else and performs spells in secret, and so people are all like gross. I guess in the end no one wins. Although, also, everyone gets married. I found the summaries of this book to be very confusing, and I think Jane Austen really read the Amazon reviews of her book, because the next one made a lot more sense to me I think, pun not intended.
So 2 years later she published her next book, and it goes like this: Pride and Prejudice is a novel of manners according to Wikipedia and it is the story of a guy named Mr. Darcy who is the epitope of modern romance, which is another name for Colin Firth in a sweater, and also some girl who is named I think Elizabeth. Jane Austen called it Pride and Prejudice so that people would know that it was a book by the author of Sense and Sensibility, because I guess they did not have big stickers to tell people that back in 1813. But so yeah, so Elizabeth is this girl, and she is really smart and lively and active and a totally hottie, but also she is really opinionated, and sometimes she like rushes to conclusions and stuff? and anyway so she interacts with this Darcy guy, who seems to be a huge dick, and one day she is all YO DARCY YOU ARE BEING A HUGE DICK WHY CAN’T YOU ACT LIKE A GENTLEMAN and he is all FINE I WILL and then he does and they fall in love, because when a girl gets a guy who is worth like a million bucks a year to admit that he is a dick and should stop behaving that way, then the only logical course is to fall in love and get married and say OH MAN REMEMBER WHEN WE WERE ALL CONFUSED BEFORE AND BEING DICKS IT IS A GOOD THING WE ARE RICH AND STOPPED ACTING LIKE DICKS HA HA KISSES. Also in this book other people do and do not fall in love, and sometimes parents are ineffective at parenting, and people get colds because of miserable weather, but mostly it is a book about how Colin Firth is a very handsome man whose smile can melt even his own distant and enormous heart.
There was another book but I don’t want to talk about it because what I want to talk about is the book she wrote after the book she wrote after Pride and Prejudice. It is called Emma. Emma is a movie I once saw with Alicia Silverstone about a very pretty rich blonde girl who doesn’t know what love is until it hits her in the face and she learns that love is named Paul Rudd. It was written by Jane Austen and published in 1815. It is about a girl named Emma, who is very rich, and who likes to play matchmaker. She is like the personal internet dating service for people she knows. It is unclear how the people of 1815 viewed the internet, but Jane Austen said that when she invented it and Emma, that she was inventing something that only she would actually like. It is in this way that Emma is like a box of chocolates. Emma tries to set up this girl named Harriet, who is played by Britney Murphy, who is dead, on internet dates with this fancy guy named Elton. Soon after this, Elton runs away to another town in order to escape the internet and there in that other town he marries the first woman he sees. Paul Rudd makes a face that says I TOLD YOU ALL YOUR MEDDLING WOULD NOT WORK OUT 1815 IS NO PLACE FOR AN INTERNET DATING SERVICE. After that some things happen and some people die and Emma gets jealous of a girl who has to go to work to earn money because of class inequalities and also there is a picnic and then that Harriet girl marries someone who loves her and Emma secretly loves Paul Rudd who secretly loves her back because why not.
i don't really know what to do with all the book reports i've ended up accidentally doing for it as a fill-in reader, so i am going to post them here today.
here is one.
Jane Austen is a lady who wrote some books about kisses and the lack of kisses and so in her honor I am going to talk about some of those books here.
Sense and Sensibility is a book Jane Austen wrote in 1811 about how she does not know which is better: Sense or Sensibility? It is about the Dashwood sisters. There are two of them and one of them is real cultured and the other is real proper, which is I guess the opposite of being real cultured, and the book is about the struggle of which one gets to be right, or if they have to have a balance of things, like how a cheeseburger should have bread and lettuce and cheese and meat because that makes it balanced and also tomatoes I think but yknow some people feel differently. That is kind of what this is about. It is also about kisses, which are alright too, I think we can all agree. In this book are included vulgar, uneducated cousins, which are probably like the opposite of sense and sensibility, like vulgar and vulgarity, I don’t know, that could be an alternate novel, like some good fan fiction could come out of this kind of stuff maybe. People in this book get really ill, and then everyone gets married, so it’s really unclear if Sense is better than Sensibility, and I think some dude cuts off a lock of a girls hair, which I am pretty sure is a form of witchcraft, which is a thing that you can learn about at Hot Topic, which was not invented by Jane Austen, but which can be found in malls I think. So after that guy cuts off a lock Sensibility’s hair, he marries someone else and performs spells in secret, and so people are all like gross. I guess in the end no one wins. Although, also, everyone gets married. I found the summaries of this book to be very confusing, and I think Jane Austen really read the Amazon reviews of her book, because the next one made a lot more sense to me I think, pun not intended.
So 2 years later she published her next book, and it goes like this: Pride and Prejudice is a novel of manners according to Wikipedia and it is the story of a guy named Mr. Darcy who is the epitope of modern romance, which is another name for Colin Firth in a sweater, and also some girl who is named I think Elizabeth. Jane Austen called it Pride and Prejudice so that people would know that it was a book by the author of Sense and Sensibility, because I guess they did not have big stickers to tell people that back in 1813. But so yeah, so Elizabeth is this girl, and she is really smart and lively and active and a totally hottie, but also she is really opinionated, and sometimes she like rushes to conclusions and stuff? and anyway so she interacts with this Darcy guy, who seems to be a huge dick, and one day she is all YO DARCY YOU ARE BEING A HUGE DICK WHY CAN’T YOU ACT LIKE A GENTLEMAN and he is all FINE I WILL and then he does and they fall in love, because when a girl gets a guy who is worth like a million bucks a year to admit that he is a dick and should stop behaving that way, then the only logical course is to fall in love and get married and say OH MAN REMEMBER WHEN WE WERE ALL CONFUSED BEFORE AND BEING DICKS IT IS A GOOD THING WE ARE RICH AND STOPPED ACTING LIKE DICKS HA HA KISSES. Also in this book other people do and do not fall in love, and sometimes parents are ineffective at parenting, and people get colds because of miserable weather, but mostly it is a book about how Colin Firth is a very handsome man whose smile can melt even his own distant and enormous heart.
There was another book but I don’t want to talk about it because what I want to talk about is the book she wrote after the book she wrote after Pride and Prejudice. It is called Emma. Emma is a movie I once saw with Alicia Silverstone about a very pretty rich blonde girl who doesn’t know what love is until it hits her in the face and she learns that love is named Paul Rudd. It was written by Jane Austen and published in 1815. It is about a girl named Emma, who is very rich, and who likes to play matchmaker. She is like the personal internet dating service for people she knows. It is unclear how the people of 1815 viewed the internet, but Jane Austen said that when she invented it and Emma, that she was inventing something that only she would actually like. It is in this way that Emma is like a box of chocolates. Emma tries to set up this girl named Harriet, who is played by Britney Murphy, who is dead, on internet dates with this fancy guy named Elton. Soon after this, Elton runs away to another town in order to escape the internet and there in that other town he marries the first woman he sees. Paul Rudd makes a face that says I TOLD YOU ALL YOUR MEDDLING WOULD NOT WORK OUT 1815 IS NO PLACE FOR AN INTERNET DATING SERVICE. After that some things happen and some people die and Emma gets jealous of a girl who has to go to work to earn money because of class inequalities and also there is a picnic and then that Harriet girl marries someone who loves her and Emma secretly loves Paul Rudd who secretly loves her back because why not.
May 31, 2012
sucking at the internet
Oh man I am shitty at blogs. Like really bad. BUT I have some poems coming out soon. There will be two poems in the Black Warrior Review in the feature section. Last night I saw the Phillies play and it was great. Which was not what I was expecting, given all the injuries and lack of hitters hitting above .250. Cliff Lee came into the game with a .373 average. He left with like a .333 average. And without a win. But still. I don't know. I don't think I understand what to do on this thing anymore. I don't think I understand the internet as much? I mostly just use facebook because it is easy. But I feel like I used to be a part of this thing with the internet and blogs and we'd all comment and share poems and shit and it was awesome. Then I went to grad school, and did the internet less, and now here I am, and it's confusing I think. Mostly I should just make something up and do that. I will probably start putting the book reports I've been writing on here.
OH. YEAH. So. Me and Leigh Stein have been running this thing. Generally it's the second Tuesday of every month downstairs at Le Poisson Rouge. I spelled it right and everything. I don't know. I will try to do stuff here. Does anyone even read this still? Does anyone have any thoughts? Definitely when I get things published I will keep putting up a lot of the original drafts. I don't know if anyone else likes it, but at least I find it interesting to look at how things grow or change. Anyway. Ok. Bye internet.
OH. YEAH. So. Me and Leigh Stein have been running this thing. Generally it's the second Tuesday of every month downstairs at Le Poisson Rouge. I spelled it right and everything. I don't know. I will try to do stuff here. Does anyone even read this still? Does anyone have any thoughts? Definitely when I get things published I will keep putting up a lot of the original drafts. I don't know if anyone else likes it, but at least I find it interesting to look at how things grow or change. Anyway. Ok. Bye internet.
April 9, 2012
video of me reading!
This is a video! Of me reading poems. In Philly. The poems are from the new book.
I am pretty sure the setlist for the night was as follows:
it is going to be a good yearyou are a beauty and i am alrightloudmouthmamas don't let your babies grow up to be lawmenact nice and gentlea love storyi am afraid at times of the stories i tell
I am pretty sure the setlist for the night was as follows:
it is going to be a good yearyou are a beauty and i am alrightloudmouthmamas don't let your babies grow up to be lawmenact nice and gentlea love storyi am afraid at times of the stories i tell
March 8, 2012
NOT LONELY
the book is now called NOT LONELY and here is the table of contents
table of contents
all hands and the cookeveryday sunshinei have got my suitcase, my starry crownlet me tell you about my dayi can see your bones from hereit is going to be a good yearroll out the red carpetletter to the editora grand pronouncementabide with mewhen i go to bed i go to bed with the lights ontorch songwake up your saints and settle down for the nightyou are a beauty and i am alrightmy eyes have seen the dawningthis is why we can't have nice thingsthe night is long and difficultif i was trying to break your heart i'd have already done itask me no questions i'll tell you no liesloud mouthfeel good event of the summermy heart is an ice floe and it will wreck youmeet me here at dawnwhile you were outlet me tell you about my boatwe, the peoplei shoot horsesi have often thought of you as a sort of mountaintop or peakdate nightalmost killed mebedtime storieslet us hold hands as we walk through the firethe state of the unionact nice and gentlea love storycrybabyi seem to be doing alrightnow we sit us down to eatmamas don't let your babies grow up to be lawmeni am afraid at times of the stories i tellboo!look me in the eyes and tell me you don't believe melove is real!!!!!!!!
table of contents
all hands and the cookeveryday sunshinei have got my suitcase, my starry crownlet me tell you about my dayi can see your bones from hereit is going to be a good yearroll out the red carpetletter to the editora grand pronouncementabide with mewhen i go to bed i go to bed with the lights ontorch songwake up your saints and settle down for the nightyou are a beauty and i am alrightmy eyes have seen the dawningthis is why we can't have nice thingsthe night is long and difficultif i was trying to break your heart i'd have already done itask me no questions i'll tell you no liesloud mouthfeel good event of the summermy heart is an ice floe and it will wreck youmeet me here at dawnwhile you were outlet me tell you about my boatwe, the peoplei shoot horsesi have often thought of you as a sort of mountaintop or peakdate nightalmost killed mebedtime storieslet us hold hands as we walk through the firethe state of the unionact nice and gentlea love storycrybabyi seem to be doing alrightnow we sit us down to eatmamas don't let your babies grow up to be lawmeni am afraid at times of the stories i tellboo!look me in the eyes and tell me you don't believe melove is real!!!!!!!!
the continuing stories of motherfucking revisions
so i had some poems published recently, which is cool. even cooler, is that now you get to see the revision process! hooray!, you exclaim, we have also wanted to see the revision process!
well, dear reader, you are in goddam luck.
so here is the first draft. i probably started it around 3 in the afternoon, but i am probably making that up. i definitely called jay deshpande around 5 or 6 and read it to his voicemail. and i definitely did some line edits before saving this draft. but this is the first recorded draft.
i shoot horses [first draft, aug 5, 8:49pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I was born bador, badly. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelings.My feelings are a single sheet of gauzestretched out over the entire world. My feelingsare that single sheet of gauze as it shoots horsesfull of bullets. There are days when the sunsetlooks nothing like a sunset. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout you, or, without shooting horses. I have shot horsesin the head and I have felt both bad and badly.I have ridden into the sunset. I have been writing you a letter.It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches, reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung, with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. There are certain holidays not worth mentioning.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were herebecause it is fucking hot out. All the houseboats have drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it. I shoot horses when I miss youand I shoot horses when I feel itchy and I shoot horseswhen they look at me funny and when I say I shoot horsesdo you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses.I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean if I was going to hell I'd have been there by nowand if the job market was a horse I'd shoot it to.I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you is somethingI saw on the back of a postcard and I have no responseto that statement but I will say that after I saw itI went out and I dug a hole in the ground and I called it a lakeand I sat by that lake for several days. After several daysI was no longer sitting by the lake. I was lying in bedand you were there and you were smiling and I felt my mouthdoing things I didn't know about and I closed my eyesbecause I was so happy and when I opened themthere were tanks rolling through the streetscrushing bicycles and houses and houseboatswere washing up on the shore and it was like beached whalesbut even more tragic. Buildings were on fireand then they weren't. Your face was everywhereand I was happy.
this is the second draft! some of the breaks changed, and so did the ending.
i shoot horses [second draft, aug 8, 12am]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I was born bador, badly. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelingsand I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout you, or without shooting horses. I have shot horsesin the head and I have ridden into the sunset. I have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches, reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung, with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. There are certain holidays not worth mentioning.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.Last night all the houseboats have drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it. I shoot horses and when I miss I shoot horses and when I say I shoot horsesdo you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses.I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.
third draft. 2 and a half hours afte the second. the opening changed, some stuff got added. i get a bit manic with editing. whatever.
i shoot horses [third draft, aug 8, 2:26 am]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelingsand I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. I have shot horsesin the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsetsthat look nothing at all like sunsets. In my spare timeI have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. Listen.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.Last night all the houseboats drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. This is all to sayin the freezer I left a TV and a dinnerthat I'd like you to keep safe for meif it's not too much trouble because I would hate to be an imposition.Today I am going to get up in the morning and standin front of a mirror and draw on a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.That was a lie. I am not going to tell you about them.Let's go back. I wrote you a post cardand it was thoughtful and after that I mailed itand after I shot some horses because when I shootI shoot horses and when I miss I shoot horsesand when I say I shoot horses do you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses. I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean to say I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.
twelve hours later, we get the fourth draft. in the fourth draft the ending is new, the opening changes, other stuff does too! it is possible you are saying to yourself, but sasha, what were you trying to do with these revisions? what was your guiding light? i will tell you: my goal in revising is to make the poem awesome. i want it to be closer to awesomeness. i want it to be a thing that punches you in the heart with sadness and awesomeness. and so that is how i revise. for awesomeness and maximum feelings. sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
i shoot horses [fourth draft, aug 8, 2:40 pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland I have been decked out in diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been an implement of peace.I have been writing you a letter about my feelings.I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. I have shot horsesin the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsetsthat look nothing at all like sunsets and in my spare timeI have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. It could be saidthat that is a terrible thing to enclose in a letterand for that I apologize. I will write you a letterfull of vast and uncompromising beauty and I will ask you some questions likeAt night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. I am working on a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.I am going to get up in the morning and standin front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.I mean I went out last night and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I mean that I love you and I miss you and when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second. In the middle of the night all the houseboats drownedI saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear.
fifth draft. sometimes i go more for the sadness and the resignation at times.
i shoot horses [fifth draft, aug 9, 5:59pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand I wrote you a letter on my palm. It goesIn the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. After thatI sent you a love letter straight to your heartfull of a vast, uncompromising beauty and also some questions like At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feeling between your thighs or in your heart? Is my face a thing you can think of with your eyes closed or open? When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. I am working on a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were hereso we could walk together, arm in armdown a poorly lit street in the middle of the nightthrough a terrible part of town. If you asked me how I spend my days I'd tell you. I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before me,in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in a sundress, and smiling. In the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed.In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.Last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I mean that I love you and I miss you and when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I once heard that heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second. Out herethe mountain of bleeding horses weepsand the tumbleweeds tumbleand the drunks get drunkand the sun sets on all of usand I have carved your name and likeness upon the face of the earthand that's just how it is.
i tried to trim it down in the sixth draft. i figured if i had the stuff that seemed more important then i could just make the rest of it more important later.
i shoot horses [sixth draft, aug 27, 5:08pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsets.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. In the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear.I mean that when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I once heard that heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.If you asked me how I spend my days I'd tell you. I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before me,in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in you sundress and smiling and in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed.In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.Last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
at this point i was thinking about jobs and such, and i thought i would make jokes about being a professional. i would like to be a professional at things.
i shoot horses [seventh draft, aug 31, 7:58pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses as an intern and I have shot horsesas a full-time position and alsoas a hobby. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story to illustrate my understanding of the concept of remorse:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but while I was thinking about thisthe moment passed and so did the birdand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before mein a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
for some reason in the eighth draft i thought i'd get weird with some indents and have the first line continue off from the title. i don't know why i didn't just have it be on the same line, with the title bolded. that would have been a neat idea i think.
i shoot horses [eighth draft, sept 6, 6:30pm]
, or, I have. I have shot horses as both an apprenticeand a certified professional. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story to illustrate my understanding of the concept of remorse:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but the moment passed and the great feathered bird that I should have cooked and eaten flew offand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,wearing your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endlike a flood or the slow progress of timeor a river of blood from a mountain of shot up horsesthat covers your boots in a way you can never get cleanand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
here is the ninth. there were two others, but they are pretty close to the ninth. the ninth is similar to the eighth, but a bit different. i will let you figure out how.
i shoot horses [ninth draft, sept 15, 6:19pm]
Or, I have. I have shot horses as both an apprenticeand a certified professional. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but the moment passed and the great feathered bird that I should have cooked and eaten flew offand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.Here is something to write home about:Hello. I love you and I miss you so muchthat it feels like I am going to die but then I don't dieand I have no idea what to do about that.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,wearing your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot-up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endlike a flood or the slow progress of timeor a river of blood from a mountain of shot-up horsesand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
the tenth and eleventh drafts are just variations on the ninth, each differ by about 20 words i think. the final, twelfth draft , is dated feb 4, 4:08pm, all though i can guarantee minor edits were made after that, around feb 29/march 1, when i turned the thing in.
i don't know. if people want, i can go back and write more. this is probably a long thing that no one cares about, but whatever. who knows!
well, dear reader, you are in goddam luck.
so here is the first draft. i probably started it around 3 in the afternoon, but i am probably making that up. i definitely called jay deshpande around 5 or 6 and read it to his voicemail. and i definitely did some line edits before saving this draft. but this is the first recorded draft.
i shoot horses [first draft, aug 5, 8:49pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I was born bador, badly. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelings.My feelings are a single sheet of gauzestretched out over the entire world. My feelingsare that single sheet of gauze as it shoots horsesfull of bullets. There are days when the sunsetlooks nothing like a sunset. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout you, or, without shooting horses. I have shot horsesin the head and I have felt both bad and badly.I have ridden into the sunset. I have been writing you a letter.It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches, reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung, with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. There are certain holidays not worth mentioning.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were herebecause it is fucking hot out. All the houseboats have drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it. I shoot horses when I miss youand I shoot horses when I feel itchy and I shoot horseswhen they look at me funny and when I say I shoot horsesdo you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses.I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean if I was going to hell I'd have been there by nowand if the job market was a horse I'd shoot it to.I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you is somethingI saw on the back of a postcard and I have no responseto that statement but I will say that after I saw itI went out and I dug a hole in the ground and I called it a lakeand I sat by that lake for several days. After several daysI was no longer sitting by the lake. I was lying in bedand you were there and you were smiling and I felt my mouthdoing things I didn't know about and I closed my eyesbecause I was so happy and when I opened themthere were tanks rolling through the streetscrushing bicycles and houses and houseboatswere washing up on the shore and it was like beached whalesbut even more tragic. Buildings were on fireand then they weren't. Your face was everywhereand I was happy.
this is the second draft! some of the breaks changed, and so did the ending.
i shoot horses [second draft, aug 8, 12am]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I was born bador, badly. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelingsand I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout you, or without shooting horses. I have shot horsesin the head and I have ridden into the sunset. I have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches, reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung, with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. There are certain holidays not worth mentioning.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.Last night all the houseboats have drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it. I shoot horses and when I miss I shoot horses and when I say I shoot horsesdo you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses.I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.
third draft. 2 and a half hours afte the second. the opening changed, some stuff got added. i get a bit manic with editing. whatever.
i shoot horses [third draft, aug 8, 2:26 am]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hillwhile the clouds were dressed up as a single piece of gauzestretched over the entire world. I have been decked outin diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been writing you a letter about my feelingsand I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. I have shot horsesin the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsetsthat look nothing at all like sunsets. In my spare timeI have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. Listen.At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? I am working a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.Last night all the houseboats drowned.I saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. This is all to sayin the freezer I left a TV and a dinnerthat I'd like you to keep safe for meif it's not too much trouble because I would hate to be an imposition.Today I am going to get up in the morning and standin front of a mirror and draw on a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.That was a lie. I am not going to tell you about them.Let's go back. I wrote you a post cardand it was thoughtful and after that I mailed itand after I shot some horses because when I shootI shoot horses and when I miss I shoot horsesand when I say I shoot horses do you know what I mean? I mean I shoot horses. I mean the postal service is a hit-or-miss situation.I mean to say I have stood in the wake of devastation and I have watched youundress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.
twelve hours later, we get the fourth draft. in the fourth draft the ending is new, the opening changes, other stuff does too! it is possible you are saying to yourself, but sasha, what were you trying to do with these revisions? what was your guiding light? i will tell you: my goal in revising is to make the poem awesome. i want it to be closer to awesomeness. i want it to be a thing that punches you in the heart with sadness and awesomeness. and so that is how i revise. for awesomeness and maximum feelings. sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
i shoot horses [fourth draft, aug 8, 2:40 pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland I have been decked out in diamonds. I have been a videogame. I have been an implement of peace.I have been writing you a letter about my feelings.I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I wondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. I have shot horsesin the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsetsthat look nothing at all like sunsets and in my spare timeI have been writing you a letter. It goes Over there is a tree and on the tree are branches reaching upwards. On one of the branchessomeone has been hung with a sheetas a sort of declaration. Out here people confuse thingsoften. It could be saidthat that is a terrible thing to enclose in a letterand for that I apologize. I will write you a letterfull of vast and uncompromising beauty and I will ask you some questions likeAt night do you miss me? Is there an empty feelingbetween your thighs or in your heart? Is my facea thing you can think of with your eyes closedor open? When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. I am working on a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were here.I am going to get up in the morning and standin front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.I mean I went out last night and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I mean that I love you and I miss you and when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I heard heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second. In the middle of the night all the houseboats drownedI saw it and it was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear.
fifth draft. sometimes i go more for the sadness and the resignation at times.
i shoot horses [fifth draft, aug 9, 5:59pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand I wrote you a letter on my palm. It goesIn the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. After thatI sent you a love letter straight to your heartfull of a vast, uncompromising beauty and also some questions like At night do you miss me? Is there an empty feeling between your thighs or in your heart? Is my face a thing you can think of with your eyes closed or open? When I say let us pray I mean turn off the lightand close your eyes. I am working on a postcard that goesWeather is shitty wish you were hereso we could walk together, arm in armdown a poorly lit street in the middle of the nightthrough a terrible part of town. If you asked me how I spend my days I'd tell you. I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before me,in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in a sundress, and smiling. In the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed.In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.Last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I mean that I love you and I miss you and when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from that sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I once heard that heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second. Out herethe mountain of bleeding horses weepsand the tumbleweeds tumbleand the drunks get drunkand the sun sets on all of usand I have carved your name and likeness upon the face of the earthand that's just how it is.
i tried to trim it down in the sixth draft. i figured if i had the stuff that seemed more important then i could just make the rest of it more important later.
i shoot horses [sixth draft, aug 27, 5:08pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsets.I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible thingsand it's possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. In the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear.I mean that when I close my eyesall I can see is your face encircled with fire. I mean that I have watched you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I once heard that heavenis a place on earth here with you but I don't believe that for a second.If you asked me how I spend my days I'd tell you. I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before me,in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in you sundress and smiling and in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed.In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has done some things, let me tell you.Last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
at this point i was thinking about jobs and such, and i thought i would make jokes about being a professional. i would like to be a professional at things.
i shoot horses [seventh draft, aug 31, 7:58pm]
I shoot horses. Or, I have. I have shot horses as an intern and I have shot horsesas a full-time position and alsoas a hobby. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story to illustrate my understanding of the concept of remorse:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but while I was thinking about thisthe moment passed and so did the birdand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing before mein a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,and dressed up in your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept on piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
for some reason in the eighth draft i thought i'd get weird with some indents and have the first line continue off from the title. i don't know why i didn't just have it be on the same line, with the title bolded. that would have been a neat idea i think.
i shoot horses [eighth draft, sept 6, 6:30pm]
, or, I have. I have shot horses as both an apprenticeand a certified professional. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story to illustrate my understanding of the concept of remorse:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but the moment passed and the great feathered bird that I should have cooked and eaten flew offand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,wearing your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endlike a flood or the slow progress of timeor a river of blood from a mountain of shot up horsesthat covers your boots in a way you can never get cleanand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
here is the ninth. there were two others, but they are pretty close to the ninth. the ninth is similar to the eighth, but a bit different. i will let you figure out how.
i shoot horses [ninth draft, sept 15, 6:19pm]
Or, I have. I have shot horses as both an apprenticeand a certified professional. I have stood on a hilland written you a long and involved letter regarding my feelings. I have been drunk and I have been otherwiseand not once have I pondered what life would be likewithout either you or the shooting of horses. If you were wondering about my accomplishments I would say that I have shot horses in the head and on horseback and I have ridden into sunsets that look nothing at all like sunsetsand when I close my eyes I can see your faceencircled in flames. I mean to say I am a terrible person who has done terrible things and it's quite possible that I greatly misunderstand the concept of remorse. I am now going to tell you a story:Once I shot a horse in the stomach and out of the hole in its stomachcame a great feathered bird and I thoughtvery hard about setting that great feathered bird on fireso I could eat it but the moment passed and the great feathered bird that I should have cooked and eaten flew offand after that I went out for barbecueand it was alright but nothing to write home about.Here is something to write home about:Hello. I love you and I miss you so muchthat it feels like I am going to die but then I don't dieand I have no idea what to do about that.If you were to ask me how I spend my days I'd tell you that I spend my days shooting horsesand picturing you standing in a field of amber wheat near an infinitely mountainous mountain,wearing your sundress and smilingand I'd tell you that in the evenings I take my supper and sweep up as needed. In the mornings I stand in front of a mirror and give myself a fine and glorious beardand compose my eyes in the manner of a man who has seen some things. I mean that I have seen you undress from your sundress and lay yourself down to sleepand I have cracked open a beer and bowed downin awe to what is placed before me. I mean that in the middle of the night all the houseboats drowned and I saw it. It was beautiful and sad and tragicand you would have loved it, I swear. I mean that last night I went out in the yard and I shot some horsesand then I shot some more and they just kept piling upuntil I had a mountain of shot-up horses there in front of mejust bleeding and crying for miles on endlike a flood or the slow progress of timeor a river of blood from a mountain of shot-up horsesand it was the most awful thing I have ever seen.
the tenth and eleventh drafts are just variations on the ninth, each differ by about 20 words i think. the final, twelfth draft , is dated feb 4, 4:08pm, all though i can guarantee minor edits were made after that, around feb 29/march 1, when i turned the thing in.
i don't know. if people want, i can go back and write more. this is probably a long thing that no one cares about, but whatever. who knows!
February 25, 2012
man i do not even know
Yo but for real I have had no idea what to do with this thing for years now maybe and I still have no idea but right now I think I am gonna post all these drafts of this poem I am trying to make into a not shitty thing, and also I will update the links to poem that have been published so that I can remember when and where my things go and have gone.
ok so, this thingum ok
At my door there was a knock and I opened itand my neighbor said There is someone at the front door for youso I walked down the three flights of stairs to the front doorand I opened that too. In front of me was a policeman.He said Hello. He said May I come in it is cold out.I am pretty sure he was telling the truth because there was a foot of snow standing on top of him. I said Ok. I said What is this about officer. He said I'll ask the questions here and I told himthat if he was going to persist in that attitude he could march himselfback out into the cold and stay there until he froze to death. He said he was sorry. It seemed like he meant it. He saidExcuse me. He said Earlier today I was in the bathroom. It does not matter which onehe said. He said that as soon as he finished up his businessseveral ghosts burst into the room. Ghosts! I said.Ghosts he said. He said I said to them Disperse ghosts!This bathroom is no place for you! I said What happened next?He said that it turned out they were not ghosts at allbut men with sheets over their headsclutching automatic weapons in their sad little hands,weapons that glistened with a need to tear open some chestsand let a little light into our hearts. He saidI said What do you want? And they all just started weeping.I said Weeping? The policeman said Weeping. I said to himthat I too have at times felt so overwhelmed by the worldthat I wanted to cover my head in a sheet and just weepand weep and weep until the whole world drownedand people lived on boats and invented new ways of fishingthat used grenades or some other form of kindness,but I have never in my life tried to shoot someone in the chest over it.The policeman confided to me that the world was fullof things we could not conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
um ok
At my door there was a knock. It was my neighbor. My neighbor saidthat there was someone downstairs at the front door for meand so I went downstairs and I opened the doorwhere I found a policeman standing therewith about a foot of snow piled on top of him.He said Hello. He said May I come in it is cold out.I am pretty sure he was telling the truth. What is this aboutI said to him. He told me that he was on his way homeafter a busy day of upholding the lawwhen he'd gotten reports of ghosts doing inappropriate things.He said Sir, have you seen any ghosts today. I said Sort of.I said Earlier today I was in the bathroom. I said It doesn't matterwhich one. As I was finishing up my business I saidI became surrounded by ghosts. How many ghosts he saidI said About a dozen or so and he wrote that down I think.I said Anyway. I said I said to them Disperse ghosts!This bathroom is no place for you! He said Then what happenedand I told him to quit interrupting. I said They just sort of stood there for a bitand moaned. As I went to go dry my handsthey tore off their sheets to reveal that they were not ghosts at allbut grown men with assault rifles in their handsand tears in their eyes. Did they say what they wanted he asked meand I told him that they said they were searching for the purest expressionof ultimate sadness. He said With assault rifles? I said I know right?So I said I asked them Why the assault rifles? And they told methat they were planning on using these riflesto open up our heads and let a little lightinto our hearts. He said What happened next? I said Next they started weeping. The policeman said Weeping?Weeping I said. They started weeping and I left. I told himthat I found the whole situation quite confusing. I said that I too have at times felt so overwhelmed by the worldthat I wanted to cover my head in a sheet and just weepand weep and weep until the whole world drownedand people lived on boats and invented new ways of fishingthat used grenades or some other form of kindness,but I have never in my life tried to shoot someone in the face over it.And furthermore I added The face and the heart are not in the same locationThey are not even close I said. The policeman agreed.He told me that the world was full of all sorts of things we could not possibly conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. He said his investigations had taught him that much at least. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
the night is long and difficult
The best we can hope for is to just stab at the darkand hope that we cut ourselves a doorwayinto some sort of feelingthat keeps us alive for a moment longeris what the policeman told me. He was standingat the door. He told me he was investigating ghosts.There had been he said Reports of ghosts in the areaupsetting the general sensibilitiesregarding life and death. The populace he told meWas awful delicate. Had I he wanted to knowSeen any ghosts lately. I said Yes. He said Where.I said Out the window, frequently moaning or singing,bearing witness to the world like a studio audienceor a bunch of ghosts. I asked him if he had seen any ghosts. Once he said he was in the bathroom.It doesn't matter which one he said .As he came out of the bathroom stall he was surroundedon all sides by what appeared to be ghosts. He said he called outDisperse ghosts! This bathroom is no place for you! I saidWhat happened next. He said The worldis a vast and terrifying piece of excitementgiven often to the production of a hollow pitin the very center of your being. I told the policemanthat although I myself have frequently feltthat the world was covered in a vast and inescapable darknessthat was slowly suffocating me to death. I told himthat he did not answer my question. He grew quietlike people grow bones. He told methat the world was full of all sorts of thingsthat we could not possibly conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
Who knows. This may end up being the only record of this poem. I do not even know. But so yeah. There is this now I guess.
ok so, this thingum ok
At my door there was a knock and I opened itand my neighbor said There is someone at the front door for youso I walked down the three flights of stairs to the front doorand I opened that too. In front of me was a policeman.He said Hello. He said May I come in it is cold out.I am pretty sure he was telling the truth because there was a foot of snow standing on top of him. I said Ok. I said What is this about officer. He said I'll ask the questions here and I told himthat if he was going to persist in that attitude he could march himselfback out into the cold and stay there until he froze to death. He said he was sorry. It seemed like he meant it. He saidExcuse me. He said Earlier today I was in the bathroom. It does not matter which onehe said. He said that as soon as he finished up his businessseveral ghosts burst into the room. Ghosts! I said.Ghosts he said. He said I said to them Disperse ghosts!This bathroom is no place for you! I said What happened next?He said that it turned out they were not ghosts at allbut men with sheets over their headsclutching automatic weapons in their sad little hands,weapons that glistened with a need to tear open some chestsand let a little light into our hearts. He saidI said What do you want? And they all just started weeping.I said Weeping? The policeman said Weeping. I said to himthat I too have at times felt so overwhelmed by the worldthat I wanted to cover my head in a sheet and just weepand weep and weep until the whole world drownedand people lived on boats and invented new ways of fishingthat used grenades or some other form of kindness,but I have never in my life tried to shoot someone in the chest over it.The policeman confided to me that the world was fullof things we could not conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
um ok
At my door there was a knock. It was my neighbor. My neighbor saidthat there was someone downstairs at the front door for meand so I went downstairs and I opened the doorwhere I found a policeman standing therewith about a foot of snow piled on top of him.He said Hello. He said May I come in it is cold out.I am pretty sure he was telling the truth. What is this aboutI said to him. He told me that he was on his way homeafter a busy day of upholding the lawwhen he'd gotten reports of ghosts doing inappropriate things.He said Sir, have you seen any ghosts today. I said Sort of.I said Earlier today I was in the bathroom. I said It doesn't matterwhich one. As I was finishing up my business I saidI became surrounded by ghosts. How many ghosts he saidI said About a dozen or so and he wrote that down I think.I said Anyway. I said I said to them Disperse ghosts!This bathroom is no place for you! He said Then what happenedand I told him to quit interrupting. I said They just sort of stood there for a bitand moaned. As I went to go dry my handsthey tore off their sheets to reveal that they were not ghosts at allbut grown men with assault rifles in their handsand tears in their eyes. Did they say what they wanted he asked meand I told him that they said they were searching for the purest expressionof ultimate sadness. He said With assault rifles? I said I know right?So I said I asked them Why the assault rifles? And they told methat they were planning on using these riflesto open up our heads and let a little lightinto our hearts. He said What happened next? I said Next they started weeping. The policeman said Weeping?Weeping I said. They started weeping and I left. I told himthat I found the whole situation quite confusing. I said that I too have at times felt so overwhelmed by the worldthat I wanted to cover my head in a sheet and just weepand weep and weep until the whole world drownedand people lived on boats and invented new ways of fishingthat used grenades or some other form of kindness,but I have never in my life tried to shoot someone in the face over it.And furthermore I added The face and the heart are not in the same locationThey are not even close I said. The policeman agreed.He told me that the world was full of all sorts of things we could not possibly conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. He said his investigations had taught him that much at least. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
the night is long and difficult
The best we can hope for is to just stab at the darkand hope that we cut ourselves a doorwayinto some sort of feelingthat keeps us alive for a moment longeris what the policeman told me. He was standingat the door. He told me he was investigating ghosts.There had been he said Reports of ghosts in the areaupsetting the general sensibilitiesregarding life and death. The populace he told meWas awful delicate. Had I he wanted to knowSeen any ghosts lately. I said Yes. He said Where.I said Out the window, frequently moaning or singing,bearing witness to the world like a studio audienceor a bunch of ghosts. I asked him if he had seen any ghosts. Once he said he was in the bathroom.It doesn't matter which one he said .As he came out of the bathroom stall he was surroundedon all sides by what appeared to be ghosts. He said he called outDisperse ghosts! This bathroom is no place for you! I saidWhat happened next. He said The worldis a vast and terrifying piece of excitementgiven often to the production of a hollow pitin the very center of your being. I told the policemanthat although I myself have frequently feltthat the world was covered in a vast and inescapable darknessthat was slowly suffocating me to death. I told himthat he did not answer my question. He grew quietlike people grow bones. He told methat the world was full of all sorts of thingsthat we could not possibly conceive of. He said that mystery lurkedaround every corner, and that the only successful way to livewas to embrace that mystery. Then he shot himself in the faceand died. I sat there waiting for the ambulancefor what felt like days.
Who knows. This may end up being the only record of this poem. I do not even know. But so yeah. There is this now I guess.
August 20, 2011
July 5, 2011
things!
Four poems from EVERYTHING HERE IS OK just got published over at Hart House Review thanks to Prathna Lor. I'm going to post the earliest versions of the poems I can find here just to see if that might be neat.
[these two poems combined to be the earliest draft of everything was very calm]
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[these two poems combined to be the earliest draft of everything was very calm]
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i didn't feel like making lunch because
there wasn't any food in the fridge.
i walked down to broad street and then
i took that up to mcdonald's
where i stood in line for a very long time
and in my head
a great speckled bird descended
from the clouds and swallowed everyone there whole
shrines were be built on the corner
and everyone stood around
like a fire drill.
*
i felt an overwhelming urge to sit down
but i didn't. i felt decisive. i took a bite
of my burger, and it tasted exactly
the way i needed it to.
if i was a detective i could get to the bottom of things
if i was a gunslinger i could shoot you between the eyes
if i was more efficient this wouldn't be a problem
i thought about all of this as i cleaned the kitchen floor the other day
and then i didn't think about anything
except how i'd managed to clean the kitchen floor.
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please leave the lights on
i stayed down on the ground and let them all have my neck
and in the morning something had changed.
categorically, there is something about ghosts
that i cannot understand.
imagine death as a skeleton on a skeleton horse.
now picture that skeleton riding the skeleton of an automobile,
or some type of dirt bike.
i thought about that last night
and then i dreamed about a man named walt, with a peg leg
and a pea coat
standing on a pier and watching as the delaware parted
in such a way that he could never cross it ever again.
he watched as a great big clipper ship
carried something very important to him
very far away. the look in his eyes
made me think of the way a lighthouse must look to a sailor
intent on synchronized shipwrecks.
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send me the money you owe me
the tv was on. she watched a show about crows that took your bad dreams
and ate them from your fingers. these dreams were rooted
in fears and your childhood and the ground.
come back it's starting she said over the phone and waited.
i could picture the way it would feel
with someone else on the couch.
she said hurry. i did. i saw several pigeons land
in the parking lot. their form was perfect.
it was like an instructional video.
all of our problems will be eaten by crows i said.
she said that was close but not quite it but that i almost had it.
i pulled out my six guns and fired one into a lake
and i killed a fish and i took it out and i held it
and it nibbled on my finger a little. sort of.
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certain bodies of water
do you believe in ghosts she asked me.
i said you mean with sheets?
she said no. she said not with sheets.
she said she believes in ghosts.
in something involving physics
and a need to hold on. she said she believes
she would like a glass of water.
i tell her i would bring her the ocean to drink.
she said the ocean is salt water.
she said i just want a glass of regular water.
i thought about catfish
and the mississippi delta
where i have never been.
June 23, 2011
some other things
this sort of looks neat and i think i want to see it
it almost feels like if peter greenaway was not very much a dude. in that peter greenaway's movies, while real real pretty and also pretty fucking weird, feel very much like the product of a dude. which is whatever. i honestly have no idea what i am talking about here.
anyway so i've been re-reading josh bell's NO PLANETS STRIKE and it's still awesome. josh bell you should read this post and then finish and publish yr second book already please and thanks not to pressure you or anything.
also if you don't know this poem this poem by mark leidner has saved my life a lot of times.
sorry about the double spacing. my keyboard doesn't work so i can only type forwards. i cannot go back and fix anything because it just keeps going down. which is whatever. if i had a job i'd by a new computer. at some point i will and then i will. things will all be fine. i am going to go eat ice cream. i hear ryan madson has a beard. apparently roy oswalt's back was made out of jose contreras's elbow. and polanco's bat was made out of oswalt's back. oh well. it's weird how i keep complaining about shit when the phillies still have the best record in baseball. it seems real similar to that whole first world problems hashtag thing. in that like i should shut the fuck up because they are obviously doing really well, but i cannot seem to accept that. whatever. still have the overall losingest franchise in baseball. we win at winning AND losing. hooray! that should have said the phillies win at but i can't fix it because, again, keyboard's busted.
it almost feels like if peter greenaway was not very much a dude. in that peter greenaway's movies, while real real pretty and also pretty fucking weird, feel very much like the product of a dude. which is whatever. i honestly have no idea what i am talking about here.
anyway so i've been re-reading josh bell's NO PLANETS STRIKE and it's still awesome. josh bell you should read this post and then finish and publish yr second book already please and thanks not to pressure you or anything.
also if you don't know this poem this poem by mark leidner has saved my life a lot of times.
Charismatic Ambulance Driver
It's WWII.
I'm a charismatic ambulance driver.
You make me French toast
and when you set the plate down
you kiss my neck
and I just stare and stare at you.
We're tilling a field in Poland
when the clouds break open
and we throw down the reins of our plows
and make love in the wind and the mud
while the mules, mute, look on.
You are about to take a spacewalk
and I stop you in the airlock
by shouting your name
and as you spin around to face me
your hair splays out in the absence of gravity.
Not without this, I say
handing you your helmet.
It's Texas and you've tricked me
into attending a bake sale.
We're out in the desert, resting
in the shade a small cliff is creating
and you gently pat my stomach
and ask me if I am gay.
We're driving through Atlanta
and it is the end of the world
and you point out the window
and I follow the pale curl of your arm
and the line extending from your finger to the moon
and the moon is full
and on fire.
You're panicking
because you can't remember the meaning
of nonchalant, but I'm massaging
your neck, whispering,
It's what you are.
You catch the flu but you refuse
to blow your nose because you're scared
of looking sick. I finally get you to blow it
by offering you $5, and when you do
the most beautiful music comes out.
I call you sport
and you get a funny look in your eye
and say, Don't call me that.
You split our bread into two parts,
the crust and the center,
and you give me the crust.
I finally say, I'm leaving you!
All you ever gave me were the wretched crusts!
and you look up at me,
tears brimming in your eyes, and say,
But the crust was always my favorite part.
We are trying to purchase a car
and you are heavy with child
and we are test-driving a small coupe
and I take a corner too fast, and your water breaks
and you tap me on the shoulder and say,
My water just broke. And I say, Is it okay
to drive this car to the hospital?
It's not ours yet, you know.
We end up getting a different coupe.
You ruined that one.
sorry about the double spacing. my keyboard doesn't work so i can only type forwards. i cannot go back and fix anything because it just keeps going down. which is whatever. if i had a job i'd by a new computer. at some point i will and then i will. things will all be fine. i am going to go eat ice cream. i hear ryan madson has a beard. apparently roy oswalt's back was made out of jose contreras's elbow. and polanco's bat was made out of oswalt's back. oh well. it's weird how i keep complaining about shit when the phillies still have the best record in baseball. it seems real similar to that whole first world problems hashtag thing. in that like i should shut the fuck up because they are obviously doing really well, but i cannot seem to accept that. whatever. still have the overall losingest franchise in baseball. we win at winning AND losing. hooray! that should have said the phillies win at but i can't fix it because, again, keyboard's busted.
