Mr. James > Recent Status Updates

White Walls Stained Yellow: INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT: "Put your glasses on. Harry left." So? "WHAT do YOU see?" A water damaged Bible on the floor, partially smoked unfiltered Camels snuffed out in a plastic ashtray (the lipstick stain is blue), an empty address book on a coffee table that wobbles, and a grey suit tie washed in the sink basin -- hung on the shower curtain pole. "More?" No. "Put your glasses on."

There has been an absence... Yes? They met; the Ways. Yes? Inevitable: either or. You, as I gather, seem confused. Which is better? Well, the bird was a dark pink. Maybe there is no either or. My take: the grass casts shadows, yet, each blade - I swear to you - is a vivid green. As a whole there is too much malice and joy to accept... presently. The driver's box is empty; I fill it and mumble, "Tansonville."

Pygmalion: "Trade. Why be satisfied? Look. New man, new..." he pauses to adjust the notch on his belt, "Mr. J, you wonder, Is it a poor handler? Don't know, haven't driver. The system still brings bass, bone breaker, blast it: Doors and GNR. You want to; I know. I see. Don't hesitate. Trust me. What you're getting = same, but now... the engine laughs: no yawning aloud."

Chapter 9ish: Dude... ***? What's with the rant ON NECks? You talk about the importance of a bullfighter's neck, and focus on Villalta's neck, which, supposedly, isn't a giraffe's, "Ya think?" But end the passage talking about stabbing a bull... In the neck? Don't know. 'Not clear!' Yeah, great transition Hem. You're as precise as locating a wilderness cat's last hairball.

Rothschild's Fiddle: What did you lose? Is it in a cardboard box labeled: Lost & Found? What was it? Did you look under your bed? "Sorry, just dirty dishes. Forgot about that peanut butter sandwich." Are you sure you lost something? Perhaps a phone: Pinterest lock screen? "No." [...] I understand now. The loss is out there: somewhere; between the new synagogue and the old cemetery.

JaZZ reAdlist-inG-cidsk#3-LLaStSit2225> "Intelligence & patience meet in the lobby… carry on,” says he, in blue jeans and flannel, tipping his hat in my direction. “For me? or the dog?”

JZ reAdlist-inG-cids#3-1Red/ Niaga: speaks strAnGE [listen… “ Whcha say?”]-the road is lord: bow..“you use many words,” mr. james warns, smiling eyelash to eye-2blue/joy needs chaos [sex&water=pure]-walK with constiPated blue Above &(I) floresceNt green under foot: Townie says, “He’s a nut"-3green-"YoU aN’t found guilt! (true?)," dog will return, “but you're not out of town yet.”OH,“unsolved murders.. glory!"

8th fragmatic: One of my BEEFS is his name dropping; it never ends. I'm saying, "WTF, on repeat." There's a scientific bullfighter that's "listless." WHAT does that even MEAN??????!!!!!!!!!!! mixing bowl: "My mother wanted me to be a violinist... you got a problem with that... Way?

JaZZ reAdlist-inG-sidc#2-random-"what's that... black?-"no... sit down+++ make it final-notathing- but a first rate sinner.reshaping the world to real-"what do you want to tell me" demands the gypsy..."forget*the*dog--NO! graBs tHe Money:char!"-LLaStSit11525>"getclever(withdignity)-pre adulance is a bitich-but i'not! ass!" barks Charley .

JaZz rEadlist-iNg-csid#1-random- a style invented-"Fitting approch to the dark"-"instrument of lanuguag"-LastSit16-tHe..mind..dosn'tknow...sograb...aday-move-andseewhereyouSTOP.

[...] "Look at the time... 'weird.' Wouldn't you say?" No response. "The gag stays: Factory rules, or maybe..." the lanky man strikes a thinking pose and says, "maybe System rules" then shrugs his shoulders. The lanky man picks up a pastry tray and bends towards our hero, tightly tied to a chair and says,"Care for a coffee cake?"

"Do you work for the Factory or the System? Hurry... we've spent enough time, sweat, and hunger tolerating your attitude." The lanky tall man pauses: reflects -- lines form on his forehead indicating a NEW idea. "By the way, what the hell were you doing in the public bathroom?" [...]

UPdaTE; CoMMing Soon: Jazz readlist-ing - My Creative interpretation of listening to a book. First visit: Mr. James knocks on the door of Mr. Stienbeck's ,,,, - and who should he meet? Well... Must? Mr. James say? "Hello Charley!"

Fun Fact: Know this: When the Mafia is after you, don't forget your potato salad and beer.

"Shuffling accomplished. Then I sat down on the couch exhausted*." "Hell man... I know the feeling," Mr. James says.
---------------------------------
*Bold indicates quoted text from Hard Boiled... by Haruki Murakami

"And these dreams warned me that since I wanted to be a writer someday, it was time to find out what I meant to write." - Marcel Proust

"Thus the importance of the role of the artist in transforming reality according to a particular inner vision: the artist escapes the tyranny of time through art." - Lydia Davis, Introduction, Swann's Way

"For only in recollection does experience become fully significant, as we arrange it in a meaningful pattern, and thus the crucial role of our intellect, our imagination, in our perception of the world and our re-creation of it suit our desires." - Lydia Davis, Introduction, Swann's Way"

"... but now I knew for all the suffering which M. Vinteuil had endured on his daughter's account during his lifetime, this was what he had received from her as his reward after his death." - Marcel Proust

Chapter 7: This talk you have with this old lady was made from old vacuum cleaner parts and passed off like a voice box. Seriously. I want to send Stephen King a copy and say, "Look man, I'm not looking for your autograph, and I don't want a photo with you. I just want to know your opinion about Hem's writing style in this book."

"What you want?" he asks. She replies, "Sardines, tofu-puffs, celery-beef, green beans, grated radish, rice, miso soup, dried-bonito broth, seaweed, scallions, potato salad, wakame-tuna combo, chocolate cake, atsu-age fried tofu, shrimp, onion rings, a glass of water... and a unicorn."

[...] But Jesse strings words together clearly, creates a vivid image, completes the image, then transitions to another random thought. With Hemingway there is no transition. He's talking about fascinating topics, but he rarely completes the image, or he muddles the words up so much it's just acrylic paints stirred together, making mud.

Chapter 6 Reflection: What's killing me is not his rambling. I've read most of Jack Kerouac's books and Jesse Ball's Autoportrait (my favorite memoir), which is basically one paragraph of random thoughts. [...]

Ch 6: Cynicism: He's talking about the madotors being cynical, and devoteing to cynicism, making them not cynical by devoutness but after not devoting to cynicism become cynics. If you were a philosopher Hem, I'd take the time to break it down and understand it. But you're not, and most likely don't understand what it means anyway, so I'd be reading into it things you can't comprehend. So I guess I'm a cynic.

An empty book: blank pages... deserted. A sika skull is on top of an open book; then removed after 33 seconds. Those blank pages fill with hues of orange, purple, and pink. There's a splash of black on the top right corner of the left page. The man standing beside me breathes rhythmically, causing his wool cloak to expand at the belly. Bright light pours from the door behind us, but his shadow never touches the book.

Chapter 5 : Good: You get more into a bullfighter's grueling tour schedule. You should have addressed it more. Bad: I don't even know where to start when you talk about what makes good and bad writing. I'll give a watered down version of what I wrote in a discussion. You say, "bad writers are in love with the epic." You are in love with the epic! (At least for non-fiction writing.)

"How do I apply to be a Dreamreader?" I ask. The librarian hands me a roll of toilet paper, a can of motor oil, and a cardboard chopstick. She turns to the bookshelf behind her and inspects oddly shaped books: some spherical, others resemble triangles, one looks like an octagon. She brings the octagon, and puts it on the counter; it feels like sandpaper. The title on the cover reads: Writing is Forbidden.

4: You know Hem, like I said to a good friend, you're writing a nonfiction book, conveying information. I don't understand why you're writing it in a convoluted way. I love my ambiguity, symbolism, and all around experimental and nonsensical prose. But this is non-fiction prose. The twisted up language and long sentences force me to catch my breath when I shouldn't have to. So I say, "Make that shit clear."

The man speaks my language. A world of syllables, sights and sounds - all mixed in a wooden mug, filled with sencha green tea.

A long corridor meets Marcel Proust. A long corridor... indeed.