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Archive for the ‘degenerates and drunks’ Category

More Kick Than Grape Kool-Aid

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At my non-interesting, non-literary day job, which sometimes runs over into evenings and weekends, I work with a group of about fifteen people. On a daily basis we send various e-mails back and forth about the usual things that happen on a daily basis at any average office.

One of these emails happened to be based around a team prize, and since we all work in an office and it is a soul crushing environment, a bottle of wine was suggested as a nice prize. Let’s be honest here, for a moment, alcohol and mind-numbing office work go hand in hand. Often you will hear at the end of any working day “I can’t wait to get home and have a glass of wine.” or “There is a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it.” We all know it’s true, any real job (read, the job that you took as a stopover to pay the bills while you waited for your golden opportunity to come by and it’s now been twenty years, and your youth and dignity are all but gone) that you know you are just doing for the pay and the benefits has its own special level of self medication that’s required to 1.) help you forget at the end of the day how awful the soul sucking, crushing weight of said employment is, and 2.) chill you the fuck out so you can get on with actually forking over a third of said soul sucking earnings to the Government. Why we do this, is a mystery left to the ages. Life is suffering, apparently.

Getting back to the email, my co-worker, was very enthusiastic about the bottle of wine, because as she so eloquently wrote to the entire team she is a “wineau”. W-I-N-E-A-U. I paused for a moment when I read that, now I knew from experience, that this was not a typo, not being the … ahem, brightest bulb at times, my co-worker had obviously never seen the word “wino” in print, and thus, typed it out phonetically, and quite cleverly. Given the geographic location of our office, and being Canadian I am sure also added to the ‘eau’ part on the end, the influence of French-Canadian speech patterns on our everyday language and the like. Did you know that poutine, for example, means mess? As in “ça va faire une maudite poutine”, which translates to “It will make a damn mess.” The more you know.

I paused because, in these cases such misspellings usually cause me to glance over and then scrap the whole conversation as I die a little inside. This one actually caused a smile, and then a laugh and then a declaration of it’s very genius. Wineau, of course, it’s like pronouncing Target with a French accent “Targe-aaay”, it just classes the whole thing up. It’s less paper bag on the corner and more, paper cup at a street festival. It’s not passing out in a puddle of your own sick, it’s declaring you have a headache and putting yourself to bed. It’s GENIUS!!! and I am appropriating it for my very own!

Dead squirrels, more emo then a bucket full of drunk writers.

This squirrel is more emo than a bucket full of drunk writers.

Now what, I am sure we are all wondering, does this have to do with books, or writers, or anything remotely on topic with the rest of this blog? Well, frankly, a lot of very good writers are drunks, or rather, wineaus.

Let’s look at the some of the better known ones:

Jack London : author of Call of the Wild and White Fang, “(…) There was no time, in all my waking time, that I didn’t want a drink. I began to anticipate the completion of my daily thousand words by taking a drink when only five hundred words were written. It was not long until I prefaced the beginning of the thousand words with a drink.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald : author of the Great Gatsby “First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.”

William Faulkner : author of The Sound and The Fury, I wrote about him here, on ikstim.

Ernest Hemingway : author of The Sun Also Rises, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and The Sea, who is also tied forever in history to six-toed cats and for whom I named my perfect daiquiri. Recipe here.

Jack Kerouac : the daddy of the beat-generation, author of On the Road, The Dharma Bums and several other largely influential books, Kerouac died an early death caused by cirrhosis, after a lifetime of heavy drinking. “As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.”

Hunter S. Thompson : Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, do I need to write anything else? Oh here’s a quote, “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

one more, Charles Bukowski : whom I love, to the nth degree, the Laureate of American lowlife, all of his stories involved heavy drinking, and even his live readings featured him getting bombed and having combative discussions with his audience.

Now that’s not to say that in order to become a great writer, you need to be on a bender all the time. Not at all, some of them take drugs.

The list above is only a short one and only mentioning a few American writers, I didn’t even get on the subject of the Russians, the French or the English. There are hundreds, thousands of writers, artists and performers that have substance abuse issues, for some it helps to quiet the deafening roar of the inner critic, to help them face the blank page, or simply to dull the pain of suffering for your craft. I am certainly not advocating abusing drugs and alcohol, in fact for many it was simply a short stop on the way to an early grave, either by disease caused by excessive drinking or at their own hands.

I can’t dispute however that some of the best literature, some of the most beautiful, heart-rending stories were written on liquor soaked pages, in a booze fueled haze of creativity. We all know the dangers of drinking, and for god’s sake, but more your own, don’t drink and drive. Stay home and read instead.

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Written by Lindsey

June 14, 2010 at 8:31 pm

I Am Only Blogging About Sexual Proclivities From Now On.

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I was looking through my bookcases earlier this week in search of something new and interesting to share with you here on ikstim. I have noticed a trend with the books that I choose in that the authors are all long dead. I think this is largely subconscious on my part as so often in my pants-free googling and what I often end up writing about is the person who wrote the book rather than the book itself. I am like the Perez Hilton of dead writers. Get your dirty literary gossip here!

So in my search when I pulled out James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the first thing I thought of was not the work, nor even various classics that Joyce has contributed to the vast “literary rainbow of books you should read to make people think you are smart” (patent pending).  I did not even think of my grad student friend Pat, who is slavishly devoted enough to Joyce to write a whole bloody dissertation on him. I thought of instead, James Joyce’s dirty letters to his wife. Of course I did, because I am nothing if not obscenely curious as to how great writers conducted themselves in the bedroom.

There are a few things you should know about James Joyce before I drop the whole “I like my wife to fart while I fuck her” bomb on you.

1.) Joyce wrote some of the most interesting and challenging books, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ulysses, and  Finnegans Wake. His experimental style has given him a reputation as one of the one of the most influential writers in the 20th Century and he is often cited as a key contributor to the development of the Modernist Novel.

2.) He was a bad-ass. A heavy drinker, and completely impious, he refused to kneel and confess at the wish of his dying mother. He was also shot at one night by his room-mate, who may or may not have been aiming for a kettle that hung above Joyce’s bed. That’s some street cred right there.

3.) His wife, Nora Barnacle, was a terrifically supportive and loyal spouse. In 1941 When Joyce died and it was suggested to her that a Mass be held for his immortal soul she responded, “I couldn’t do that to him.”.

4.) His influence and legacy is impacting how people read and write today. In 1999 Joyce was listed as one of the 100 Most Important People of the 20th Century by Time Magazine, and three of his novels appear on the 100 Best English Language Novels according to Modern Library. Ulysses is ranked number one.

So one would think, with all this other interesting, influential and fascinating information and creativity that surrounds him, that I would be able to write a lengthy and lovely entry or a few dedicated to this. Instead I want to tell you about how much he loved his wife’s farts, and it was a lot. James Joyce, wrote letter upon erotic and detailed letter to his wife about how hot and dirty he thought she was. An example written in 1909:

“My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.”

If those are not the words of a man who desperately loves the shit (that works on both levels – ha!) out of his wife, then I don’t know what is. There are a whole host of these letters that run the gamut from sweet and romantic, to begging for a caning, to odd masturbatory and scatological references. The shocking nature of these letters aside, they are really rather sweet, and I find it endearing that these two found each other and despite the rather icky and windy nature of their couplings were devoted and desirous of each other right up until Joyce’s death.

It is easy to get caught up in the scandalous nature of Joyce’s private life, easier than making your way through Finnegans Wake for sure, but to me it provides another layer to his writing. A glimpse of the faithful relationship he had with his wife, which putting aside the rather unappetizing things which these two consenting adults did together, inspired his work and nourished his life. Nora was his soul-mate, his muse and perhaps what he valued most, a safe-harbour, a place that he could be himself and be farted on lovingly.

Written by Lindsey

June 6, 2010 at 9:13 pm

His Hour Upon The Stage

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I like to know things about people who write the books I read. I like to know things about people in general, but I particularly like to know things about writers. I like to picture the writer at his desk, hunched over and hunting and pecking at a typewriter, clicking out lovely things. So, I google. I used to go old school and visit the library, then I discovered this thing called the internet, now I research from bed, often without pants on.

Even though I can’t say that I especially enjoyed The Sound and The Fury, I found my curiosity piqued about the man who wrote it.

For the sake of not blogging about things that are boring and can easily found elsewhere, I thought it best to focus on the parts of William Faulkner’s life that most interested me. Mainly, his love life.  I often wonder if what authors write about is largely shaped by what happens in their own lives. I like to entertain thoughts of loves lost and roads not taken being explored in their craft and played out on the printed page. Writing stories with endings that are happy or tragic, depending on how the writer reflects on those very individuals or defining moments.

William Faulkner lived, for all intents and purposes as the leading man in his own soap opera. In love with a woman who had married someone else first, Faulkner waited ten years for his chance with his teenaged sweetheart. They were married when her first marriage fell apart. A true romantic, that didn’t stop him from conducting several extra-marital affairs, many which lasted several years.

There are some imaginative types that will tell you that to be able to create something, to write, or to paint,or to act, that you have to be able to fall in love with anything that crosses your path, be it for ten minutes or for ten years. Faulkner strikes me as the sort that worked like that, photos of him even now carry a certain weight, the portrait of the artist as an amorous poet. Despite his extra curricular activities outside the marriage bed and a heavy dependancy on alcohol, his relationship with his wife endured until the time of his death.

Faulkner, in addition to his dalliances had a generous tendency towards alcoholism. He claimed to not be able to face the blank page without a bottle of Jack Daniels. He felt, and stated several times that the drink helped him fuel his process. Others, upon speculation would suggest that it was a method of escape from the doldrums of daily life. Faulkner faced several financial woes up until his commercial success and subsequent Noble Peace Prize, and may have found some deliverance at the bottom of a bottle.

There is a picture of William Faulkner where he is seen lounging in the sun, smoking a pipe. Both elbows are casually propped on the arms of his beach chair, his typewriter before him. Here he looks very much a man not at all aware of the way his works would shape others, here he looks like a man that wrote for himself, for the joy of seeing the words spread out on the page before him.

Written by Lindsey

March 2, 2010 at 10:22 am