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Apr. 4th, 2010

Nate: yeah, I feel like with your stories, your concepts do a lot of the heavy lifting.

Me: yeah, that's about right. I can't write stories about normal people unless they're stuck in some outrageous circumstance... Usually because one person among them is fucking crazy and sincere in their craziness. Like, yeah we all know this kid's mom wasn't abducted by aliens. There are no aliens. But god damn it, her father says it and he wants to believe it and won't let go of it, so now we all gotta deal with it... Kinda like Me... Maybe all these stories are just how I think everyone else ends up having to deal with the dumb shit I do...


(all my worthwhile epiphanies come to Me at 4am, wrapped up in a bunch that are much less worth it)
It is almost 7am and my jaw is swollen shut.

The circumstances are not important.

What is important is that I just read a story that I wrote a while back and I am in love with it. What is also important is that on Friday, I have to do a twenty-minute reading at Acme Arts for the First Fridays series. Weird.

I can't even speak and I don't give a fuck if I ever speak again. I've never said anything good to anyone with my mouth. Every time I say something worthwhile, something I mean, I say it with my hands and with my eyes and with my silence.
A large percentage of all i've ever had and loved and used to identify myself is gone. I am a blank slate. All that remains are a few pictures, these stories and these poems, and a collection of people who didn't know Me well before now.

Someday this may be all that I can cobble together to call a memory. I don't know any other way to prove I loved anyone or anything than to write down what I don't want to forget.
I really want to have a play house. It'll be a nice play house. When you're all away, I'll live inside of it. When you're here, I'll live inside of it. You're welcome to stay here too.

My Autobiography

How Infinite Jest Ruined My Life, by Jasmine Neosh
A: It's stupid to think that the right story or what the fuck ever will win him over again.

B: I know.

A: Are you still doing that?

B: Maybe.

A: So yes?

B: I said maybe.

A: Well what does that mean?

B: It means maybe. It means yes and no or fucking neither. I don't know, man.

A: That's stupid.

B: I know. Not a whole lot I do is really all that smart.

A: That's stupid.

B: I don't think I'm going to get him back anymore.

A: Good.

B: That doesn't mean I'm not writing it for him.

A: I don't get it.

B: Of course you don't. Of course you don't.

A: So what then?

B: Nothing... Nothing.

A: (Looks at B)

B: (looks at A)

A: Do you want a cigarette?

B: Yes. I do.

B: (fumbled sounds. Exhalation)

B: Thanks.

A: No problem.

A (looks at B)

B (Looks at A)

(They both look away)

A: You're not going to win him back, you know.

B: I know.

A: You don't care, do you?

B: Not one fucking bit.

A: Okay. Just so we're clear.
The answer as it comes from my beloved old teacher Mort: Well, you get yourself a block of clay, and you cut out everything that doesn't look like an elephant.

Which is the best craft advice anyone can ever give you, but which presupposes that you even remember what an elephant actually looks like.
Dear friends:

Have moved most of my blog activity to the wordpress blog, which can be found at jasmineneosh.wordpress.com, which shall contain information both true and not (actually no, take everything on there as 100% true), both relevant and not (this could go either way). Will not contain work-in-progress intended for possible publication in the future as in the case of this blog, but work which is utterly unpublishable and full of rumor and autobiography and outright lie, but much shorter, much friendlier, and much less the stuff of pointless bitching about process and how much I hate readings as this blog, as well as announcements and links (to you, perhaps).

Also, considerably prettier in my opinion. Also, contains a bio that I hate. Perhaps contains information leading to a buried treasure. Who knows.

May or may not return in the future.

In any event,
yours in the infinite light of god's love/sincerely/yours truly/love and tacos,
Jasmine E. Neosh

Can he save us?

No.

The Tall Man cannot get a taxi in this town for all the striped trousers in the world.

the Printers Ball

Well.

In my defense, it is perfectly understandable, when you've focused so much attention on DIY shit, to totally and completely forget about the biggest literary event of the year.