Blue GhostGhost
One moment my life is completely normal, even maybe a little bit great. I am enjoying a reception at the gallery where I work, listening to a local preparator tell a wide-eyed story about the horrors of shipping Damien Hirst sculptures. The exhibition around us is the result of months of hard work and dedication on my part and I am understandably proud of how it’s been received so far. It is a feeling of accomplishment even extreme sleep deprivation can’t damper.
Then I happen to glance up and the next moment I am red faced and choking on my goddamn cheese and crackers and someone is thumping my back as my brain sputters in panic and denial.
OhmyGod, OhmyGod, OhmyGod. What the hell is he doing here? I mean, we are in fucking Portland, Oregon for Christ sake. I’m not exactly haunting our old neighborhood and this is not exactly a mecca for art world super stars. And I only got a quick eye full before I lost my shit and tried to inhale my provolone but I’m pretty sure he looks ridiculously gorgeous. I on the other had look exhausted and haggard and before this moment had felt lucky to shower, change my shirt and run a comb through my hair. This is so unfair.
The first time I met Allen Ginsberg was around 1991, when I was an undergrad at Carnegie Mellon. We had been studying Howl and he came to read. I was young and awestruck while standing in a small auditorium watching this crazy old guy with a big beard chanting “ohhhh, suck tit, suck tit, suck cock suck cock, suck clit, suck prick but don’t smoke nicotine.” He was dancing around like a loon and banging two sticks together. I remember giggling and thinking, “so THIS is higher education”. Afterwards he signed a book for me.
Next time I met him was around 1996, shortly before his death. I was at 30 Rockefeller Center on the eighth floor, where I was working as a cue card guy for Saturday Night Live (my on again/ off again job for 15 years). I was in a cramped, unventilated hallway printing away with toxic ink when my co-worker whispered, “look to your left.” I did, and there, a few feet away, stood Allen Ginsberg and David Bowie. My co-worker, a college buddy at ease with this sort of sighting, introduced himself and asked the pair if they would say hello to his girlfriend on the telephone. They happily agreed and chatted with a stranger for maybe five minutes. Afterward, I told Allen Ginsberg that I was a big fan and mentioned the reading at CMU five years earlier. I asked him if he recalled dancing and banging sticks together while singing “don’t smoke, suck cock.” He smiled the kindest smile and said, “I can’t say I recall that, but it sounds about right.” I shook his hand and that was it.
So, about a year ago I was rereading America and was just blown away by it. I just found it much more beautiful than I remembered. So, I got the first and last lines tattooed on my inner arm.
I can remember riding a bus in San Francisco while listening to a recording of this poem on my headphones (the one with Tom Waits playing piano in the background) and thinking damn. And really when can I buy what I need with my good looks?
Writing James makes me feel like a crazy person.
Do guys even want to know what he’s like when he grows up? It’s kind of getting real up in here.
idk but your stove is super cute
That’s my portable dishwasher I have to roll out and hook it up to the sink haha. Although I am feeling pretty cool that you can see our Chemex coffee maker in this shot ala Ginsberg and Dylan. Yes good. 
I have a half full keg from an art event that’s now in my kitchen and I have to return it tomorrow. What are my options?
“Don’t start with me,” I say, swatting his hand from my shoulder. “Just because everyone else thinks you’re so great doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends. Just go away. Just fucking leave me alone.”
“James…” His tone sounds mildly reprimanding and a little bit affectionate and so stupidly Turkish that all I can think is how dare he come here and make me feel this way again. How dare he try to make me feel guilty for choosing this life over him. My heart is racing and I feel overly hot, an uncomfortable sweat gathering on my skin. I kind of want to sock him in the nose right now, or possibly hate fuck in the gallery supply closet or maybe some disgusting combination of both.
God, I seriously need to get out of here.
To do:
Write wall text this morning, hang an exhibition this afternoon, go to Portland all day Friday for some meetings, run a symposium Saturday and Sunday, finish my short story Borderland Blues for The Slash Pile Anthology.
“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.” ― Maurice Sendak
(via kippery)
Sooooo… part of me is dying for this. And part of me would be absolutely heartbroken that they broke up. :\ I don’t know how to deal with this. :/
Yeah I feel like I broke something…but it should be fun to fix
Anonymous
Q: I love your stories and as someone dipping her toes in the writing pool, I was just wondering... How much prep work do you do before you start writing a story? Do you do outlines/character bios/other things? Or do you just dive in? Any advice on the process? :)
A:
I spend about as much time doing research as I do writing. I do a lot more prep work than I used to. Many of my early works have never been finished or got a re-boot at some point down the line because I struggled with not having a strong enough foundation.
Now days I like to have a fairly detailed outline of what is going to happen in each chapter, who the characters are going to be and sometimes a few passages for scenes here and there. Often, though, I will just write the first couple of chapters on the wings of inspiration and then do the outline after I’ve gotten a feel for the tone of the story. I didn’t write an outline for Juicy Fruit until after chapter 2, for example, but always knew what Jaime’s basic story arch was going to be from the start.
I know I have about 6 chapters left of Haunted City because at this point they all have their own word Docs so I can work on them out of order. Not that I don’t change direction sometimes but I think the thing I enjoy most about having an outline is that you can really foreshadow future events in a more nuanced way and let’s be honest writing prose is hard enough without trying to figure out where you’re going and what you’re trying to say at the same time.
Good luck!
Anonymous
Q: Well, you have one person promising to read that! Good luck in Portland!
A:
<3 Thank you Anon!
Ghostie are you going to get James to make your decision for you? XDDD But really I’d love to read this… I am such a sucker for those the-ex-comes-back type of stories.
HAHA. I got a call on Friday and now have an unexpectedly amazing opportunity in Portland next year. I am still a bit amazed. Oregon wins this round. And yesss. I have always wanted to write an ex-comes-back story!
Anonymous
Q: Was that a troll or are you seriously writing a sequel to AC? O:
A:
I am seriously considering writing a sequel. Possibly, maybe as a fundraiser to help send me to Portland for a curatorial residency I just received. Can you imagine Turkish as the ex-boyfriend showing up in town out of the blue? I think James would take it really well…
