COLORS MORE COLORS @ San Francisco Zine Fest


My second collection of writings, COLORS MORE COLORS, will be available for the first time at the San Francisco Zine Fest this Sunday, the day after tomorrow, September the 6th and so on and so forth. Unfortunately no, I do not have a table, but I will be walking around from noon to three and then volunteering at the info booth from three to close – so come find me and buy or trade or something. Copies of both COLORS MORE COLORS and my first zine, MY FIST IS A BOOK OF ETHICS will be available for only one dollar. A buck. 1$.

The flier I’ve made for my slowly expanding catalog describes COLORS MORE COLORS as

“6 poems about touching and 1 short story about the destruction of the university”

which pretty much sums it up, I’d say. But just in case you’re curious as to what a short story by yours truly might read like, here is an excerpt from the short story included in COLORS MORE COLORS, entitled “The University Was Burning:”

He’d once had a dream wherein he’d woken up, shuffled to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. The moment he saw himself there he realized that he was dreaming, woke up and opened his eyes. Rousing himself, he shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the light and looked into the mirror, only to be reminded that he was still asleep and transported immediately back to his bed, once again falsely awakened. Fearing that he was somehow caught in some sort of oneiric feedback loop, this time he leaped off of the cot and ran into the bathroom, trying desperately to not remember what he’d just learned. But it was useless: before he could even reach the threshold of the door to the darkened bathroom he awoke again, still dreaming in his cot. He learned two important things while stuck in the feedback loop: first that he could tell it was a dream by the fact that each succeeding reboot presented a reality that was dimmed by some sort of filter, as though a thin piece of coloured cellophane was held before his face- a different color for each episode- and one that deepened the darkness of the shadows of corners and the like. Secondly, he could tell that he was asleep by the muffled quality of the sound, as though an invisible pillow were wrapped around his head. He found that if he lay still he could hear the sound of his own, actual, breathing- still and trebly and lucid and far away. The greater the success he had in isolating the sound, the closer he felt he came to waking up. Interestingly, however, it wasn’t until he gave up and, resignedly shuffling into the bathroom, made it all the way to the faucet. Forgetting for a moment that he was dreaming, he turned it on, splashed his face- and woke up.


14th Annual San Francisco Zine Fest this Sunday!


Last December I was able to visit the East Bay Alternative Book and Zine Fest. Though I’ve been half-heartedly and in fits and starts-edly collecting zines on and off for the better part of forever, I’d never actually been to a ‘zine fest. I didn’t know what to expect- ok I take that back: I had a pretty good idea of what to expect, but what I didn’t expect (and you know I’m not really sure why?) was to be blown away. Which I was. There were more interesting people making more interesting things and telling more interesting stories in more interesting ways than I was prepared to deal with, and in such a small space (the atrium at Berkeley City College). I really, really enjoyed myself, and was inspired and motivated by all the great zines and art.

Because of this, I vowed to keep my eyes open for other ‘zine fests in the area, and was lucky enough to catch the news that the 14th Annual San Francisco Zine Fest will be going on this Sunday. I was lucky enough to catch it early enough, in fact, that I was able to find a way to help out: towards the end of the day I’ll be manning the Power Donut, also known as the Info Booth, smack dab in the center of the chaos.

I will also be bringing a pant-load of copies of MY FIST IS A BOOK OF ETHICS, and the first editions of my new work COLORS MORE COLORS, for sell or trade. Sadly, I won’t have a table, but I will be lugging my satchel around. Also, I’m in the market for illustrators with which to collaborate. Also: friends.



On Writing: All the Tedious Visceral Details of its Whatses



It often happens that I get the urge- the real urge, the real desire- to write while I am on a walk. The idea and the desire to share the idea occur simultaneously and quickly proliferate- in perfect order, along the trajectory of a sentence- into the words with which to translate themselves into being. Always in that moment I feel as though if I’d had a piece of paper and a pencil, it would get written perfectly, just the way I wanted, the way it was supposed to get written.

And it’s important, too. It is imperative that one writes. So there are layers of form: closer to the content are the ways in which it is given something like a shape (which words were used, under which generic persuasion was it written (or will it be perceived)), while all the way out at the edges is the formal significance that it was written, has been written, is (or will be) something written.


So the idea that an idea is coextensive with its desire to be written (that feeling I get when I’m on a walk) makes some sort of sense here, considering the cathartic experience of having finally written that which one had the idea to write (first, that what I wrote was the idea I had, second: the fact that I wrote something).

Similarly fitting is the fact that this all happens while I’m on a walk. Having been made into a noun, the verb- which usually takes place between the subject and the object (I walked to the bus stop, etc.)- becomes the object: here what I want to do is how I want to do it. The act and the object become smooshed together, and it is in the space of this short circuit that I desire to write. The aim is the object is the aim.


It happens too quickly: the realization that this sort of writing, this sort of thinking, is too brutally solopsistic, too selfish; that all desire- especially writerly desire- is (of course), simply narcissism.  And the feeling of how important it is that one realizes this- how easy it is to forget the feeling and how difficult it is to return to it- is too soon forgotten. I want to return to the feeling of something being wrong in order to find out how to make it right.



Dealing with the outsides of something- its formality, its contours and textures, etc.- can be very frustrating: dwelling at or around the moment of apprehension, holding up the composition of the problem itself to the light in order to look at it, taking up the desire for the thing before taking up the thing, constantly deferring the desire to say something solid about the thing, thinking about the importance of the fact of the matter- the that something is, or was, or will be- as a prerequisite for thinking about the what that thing is (and all the tedious visceral details of its whatses)- that’s also the domain of the thing that is the verb you use to get to it.