She will turn 18 in 23 days and she hopes that the tattooist cannot tell that she isn’t old enough. She is getting more added to the previous one, a rose she’d had done a couple of weeks before. A voice calls from the back and she goes through to the small room. It smells faintly of antiseptic, like the dentists or a hospital. The walls are painted pink and yellow, an odd colour combination for the tattooist who sits in it, with his black rubber gloves and his heavy rock music shrieking out of the speakers, making the pictures on the walls shudder slightly. The tattoo inks line one side of the room, the bottles smudged with fingerprints. On the opposite wall there is a mirror, resting on the floor with a handprint once belonging to a small child in the centre. She wrinkles her nose. It smells clean, but it looks a bit dirty.

The tattooist adjusts the chair to the right height before she sits down. He stands her back up and applies the purple transfer to her side. She goes over to the mirror to check her new design. Perfect. And her mum won’t see it if it’s there. Her nerves increase as she goes back and settles back down in the chair. She turns towards him as he questions her about the design she is having extended, a red rose which is still slightly sore. It’s only a week old. It’s fine though. It looks like it has healed enough although he warns her it might hurt more than last time. She sits twisted in the chair, peering down at the transfer, biting her short nails even shorter. He orders her into an uncomfortable position, and starts up the tattoo gun, its needle dipped in the black ink he has placed on the table besides him. He begins, and the pain is not as bad as she thought it would be. It vibrates up her spine, like an electric shock. The music is drowned out by the angry buzzing of the needle. It sounds like a razor, accompanied by sharp strokes as he draws on the outline of a new flower.

Suddenly, her phone vibrates. It was one of her friends, replying to the message she’d sent before. The tattooist’s arm had been resting on her back pocket to steady it. The vibrations added to his already shaking arm and the needle slipped. Where there was supposed to be a leaf, there was now a thick black line. She looks down, and promptly burst into tears. Shit. Don’t worry, I can fix this, he says. He grabs a biro off the table, and draws on more lines. As she looks, they turn into tendrils, emerging from behind the leaves. The design, perhaps poorly chosen in the first place, begins to grow. It looks like part of her, emerging from inside her as he erases her skin.

How’s that? He asks, and she tells him that it’s perfect. The needle starts up again, and she shuts her eyes. She imagines the design growing and growing, until she is covered in its creepers and flowers and tendrils. It covers her in ink. It covers her scars, the ones she had inflicted last year. The ones that she thought looked like maggots on her arms. She remembers having needles in her skin then, as the doctor sewn up the wounds. She’d watched, fascinated, as the gaping bloody wounds had disappeared, leaving behind bright blue knots of thread against the now thin red lines.

Right. Time for a break, he says. He stands up, and stretches his arms above his head, hands clasped. He pulls off the gloves, and throws them in the bin. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes. Want one? She nods, and takes one from his hand. They go through to the front, and he holds open the door to let her outside. The rain has stopped now, and the sun is showing above the buildings. She puts it in her mouth, and lighting it, inhales and exhales deeply. The smoke wreaths before it is blown away to nothing by the wind.

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We Build Bridges is a Liz Durrett cover recorded at home on a hand-held voice recorder.

Support local artists. Buy the track from iTunes here.

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A homeless man stepped out of TG & R DISCOUNT FOOD MART and got on his bike, black acoustic guitar strapped around his torso, brown bag in hand.

He said,

“They need to get a new tip jar!”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I just laughed and looked at my feet moving forward.

The homeless man navigated some treacherous schisms in the sidewalk and adjusted his guitar strap so it sat just right.

He said,

“You got a joke?”

I said,

“Ah man, I’ve heard so many jokes but I don’t remember any.”

He said,

“None?”

I said,

“My brain doesn’t remember jokes. My grandfather tells me so many, but I couldn’t tell you even one.”

He said,

“I knew it was going to be like that with you.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

I said,

“Sorry, man. If I think of one, I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

He said,

“You do that. Keep it up top, too, ’cause I’ll be seeing you again. You see, I go to this bar where I tell a joke to one table, and that table tells me a joke, and I tell that joke to another table, and it keeps going like that aaaall night long.”

I said,

“That sounds fun.”

He said,

“It’s a hoot.”

I said,

“Have a good night.”

He said,

“I’ll try, ’cause we both know this world’s going to shit.”

All I could do was laugh loud enough for him to hear, already pedaling in the distance.

My feet were on Congress Ave., but my brain was everywhere. I didn’t put my hands in my pockets. I wanted to swing my arms like a gorilla. I wanted to be every stage of my evolution.

I tried to think of a joke for next time. I thought hard and even mussed my hair from thinking so hard. Then I reworked a joke I read on reddit.

I thought,

A 90-year-old man is having his 90th birthday at a bar, and all these 20-year-old girls are standing around him, doting on him.

Meanwhile, at the bar counter, this 23-year-old guy is drinking with his most trusted wingman, who says,

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My gut reaction to Tao Lin’s RICHARD YATES:

DF (Dakota Fanning) & HJO (Haley Joel Osment) are monotonous, suicidal kleptomaniacs with a sense of humor that, at its best, reminded me of Beavis and Butt-head and sometimes made me laugh (2-4 times), but mostly came off as something a distant acquaintance would say and I’d have to muster all my strength to grin a little and nod my head to avoid having to participate in the conversation.

RICHARD YATES felt longer than ~55,000 words. Pace was calm and steady and slow throughout. I was slightly engaged throughout – no one had to pry the book from my hands to get me to do something else, like drink water or nap. The book didn’t keep me awake, but I did have it on my toy box (which doubles as my night table) and when I woke up the first thing I’d see was its spine:

About 1/4-1/3 of the way into the book, most of the dialogue, whether through Gmail chat or email or text message or phone or face-to-face, didn’t add anything interesting or new to DF & HJO. Their illicit relationship didn’t matter at all to me. I never developed any kind of emotion towards these characters.

Well, that’s a bit of a lie. I felt DISLIKE for the way HJO called DF obese repeatedly, causing her to spiral into bulimia. And at times I had a vague feeling of slight DISLIKE for HJOs persnickety melodrama. His loneliness wasn’t real. His sadness wasn’t real. There was nothing stoic about him. Was he apathetic? Indifferent?

No.

I wouldn’t want to compliment HJO. Apathy and indifference choose their hosts. HJO thinks wearing a hooded sweatshirt and being vegan is enough to become apathetic and indifferent. He tried to choose apathy and indifference, not realizing that these are congenitally beyond his reach.

Q: How would you describe DF & HJO?

A: DF & HJO are their own watery Microsoft Paint doodles unread in their inbox.

Q: What did you like about the book?

A: Um, I read it from start to finish and I think I enjoyed reading it. . . oh yeah,

[HJO] read a bulimia message board for about five hours and thought that the people posting on it seemed logical and funny and extreme in a non-partying-girl manner that seemed attractive to him but also made him feel like “evil” existed in the world and that life was very bleak and scary.

I liked that sentence, especially the word very. I also liked the importance of reciprocity in DFs & HJOs relationship. Tao Lin does a fine job of stressing how critical it is for couples to do things for each other, for one not to feel like he/she is doing more than the other.

Q: Does this book capture the zeitgeist of the generation that looks at computers more than the sky?

A: A small subset, yes.

Q: Is there a quiet poetry inside these ~55,000 words?

A: Not for me. The prose isn’t musical. There’s no cadence.

Q: What did this book teach you?

A: Ernest Hemingway’s minimalism can’t be imitated if your characters are anemic.

Q: Will this book be made into a movie?

A: Well, it wants to be. It reads like a script. Yes, yes, I think it will.

Q: Will you watch this movie?

A: If my girlfriend puts it on her Netflix queue, I’ll watch it, but I can’t promise I’ll stay awake.

Stopped writing at 2:24PM while listening to M.I.A. – Galang

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ON THE ROAD, like Stephen Hawking’s revised version of the universe, came about spontaneously through the hands of the ever-humble servant, Jack Kerouac. He cut up drawing paper and taped the pieces together to make a 120 ft scroll. He put the scroll into a typewriter and, 20 days later, produced the 1st draft of ON THE ROAD, a spiritual bible to anyone who espouses movement.

Jack Kerouac wanted to trouble himself only once with inserting and aligning the paper required for his autobiographical story. No interruptions after he started. Only an unimpeded downpour of words. This is what he called “spontaneous prose”.

Goddamn.

Such a romantic idea. It almost seems like a lie, a myth that needs to be exposed. But no, ON THE ROAD is the 1st example of spontaneous prose: an incontrovertible fact to be read, loved, imitated and envied rather than exposed as a marketing ploy.

Jack Kerouac, if he were beating today, would agree with Stephen Hawking’s revised version of the universe because he understands everything is created through spontaneous generation. Absolutely nothing [except gravity, of course] is needed for creation, whether it be ON THE ROAD or the universe.

Well, that’s not entirely true in Jack Kerouac’s case. He kept some notebooks with some scribbles exploring what came to be ON THE ROAD. And he had the characters bouncing around in his mind starting 1948, about 3 years before officially beginning his 20-day world creation.

But, please, don’t let that strip away the elegance of his improvised jazz.

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[source]

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We both think this bum’s panning for coins from our pockets, coins we don’t have.

We shake our heads.

He says,

“There’s a sprinkler head right over there. If either of y’all have a ya. . . “

I interrupt,

“We don’t have any grass.”

To complete his sentence, he points to a corner of the bus stop at a sprinkler head. I take a deep breath. The urine-fragranced air revolts my guts.

He says,

“Oh, y’all live in an apartment?”

My girlfriend nods her head.

He says,

“Which complex do y’all live in?”

I point down the street. My finger quivers ambiguity. Suspicion is built into my DNA.

He says,

“Oh, just right there? I need to get into an apartment.”

We listen, we’re all ears waiting for the 1M or 1L bus.

He says,

“But around here, these apartments need people to make 3 times as much as the rent. That makes it kinda impossible for me.”

My girlfriend says,

“That made it hard for us, too. We just moved from Miami Beach. They don’t ask for anywhere near that there.”

He says,

“I also have a felony. They don’t like that too much either.”

No shit, ya don’t say? I consider asking more about his felony. I can’t resist.

I say,

“Felony?”

He looks at me slyly, suggesting evil.

He says,

“I raped a girl.”

My girlfriend makes space between him and her.

He says,

“Oh, c’mon now! I’m just kidding! Look at me, y’all seriously think I’m a monster?”

He twists a bandana between rough palms. His ears are pierced. His hair is blond and scarce. He has a tattoo on the side of his neck, curlicued across his carotid:

ATX

The hydraulic hiss of the 1M saves us from further chitchat. His felony remains unknown.

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Download audio file (Staralfur.mp3)

Started writing at 2:55PM while listening to Sigur Rós – Starálfur

He said he was outside the airport, in the precise spot where I told him to wait. I drove around the arrivals loop with my bleary eyes peeled. No CAT, not in gate G4, not anywhere.

I called him again to figure out where he was, but his cell went straight to voicemail. I said some 4-letter word beneath my breath and then called him an asshole really loud for my empty car to hear.

45 minutes later I got a call from a payphone. CAT.

He said some bullshit like,

“I don’t have a lot of time, so listen. The sign right above where I’m standing says G – as in gamma – 4. G4. I’m wearing a black trench coat.”

I said,

“I was just there, asshole.”

He said,

“Look harder.”

I said,

“Cheap-ass,”

because the line went dead.

I drove around the arrivals loop for like the 80th time and back to G4. I looked at the sign and blinked my eyes to clear them of any distortion. I squinted.

Yes, this was G4. This was definitely gamma 4.

I looked around for a guy in a black trench coat,

but all I saw were these 3 girls fingering their iPhones. 1 had a lip ring. She was the tallest of the gaggle.

I looked hard at her sad facial expression and thought about CAT. He wasn’t anywhere ever. He was never anywhere. I said a different 4-letter word and called him asshole!

At least,

this made me laugh.

At least,

this briefly made me forget about hamstering around the loop.

I smiled. Then the smile sunk into my face and I turned off the car and got out.

I had no other option. If CAT wasn’t where he said he was, then he must be somewhere else similar but not the same.

Logic dictated my reasoning.

The tall girl played with her lip ring and looked at me with a subtle suggestion hanging droopy on the corners of her mouth.

Her lip ring looked like a colorful beach ball. It looked like she was bouncing this beach ball with her heels, while supine on the sand, sunglasses over her eyes, bikini top, bikini bottom, tanning her brown skin,

niiiiiiiiceeeee.

I found myself thinking about her orange zest heels. Then I found myself asking if she could do me a favor.

I said,

“Hello. I need to look for a friend, but I don’t feel like paying for parking.”

She held that subtle suggestion on the corners of her mouth and bounced her beach ball into the stratosphere.

I looked up at the concrete ceiling of the airport arrivals area and got my lips wet because I could tell they were flaky.

I said,

“Obviously you don’t know me, but I need a favor from you. I’d ask the other girls, but you seem more real than them.”

She scanned the other girls, starting at their shoes.

She said,

“What do you need?”

“Could you sit in my car while I go searching for this asshole friend?”

I was going to apologize for my dirty mouth, but we live in the 25th century. That’s right,

this the future baby, and saying 4-letter words and calling friends asshole is as common as astronaut peanut butter, which kicks the shit out of astronaut ice cream.

She said,

“You want me to sit in your car?”

She looked at my red Honda Civic with THE OPEN END painted on the rear window.

She said,

“Are you going to leave me keys.”

I said,

“No. But you can roll down the window if you get hot.”

She laughed. There was something naughty about the sound of her laugh, like she had 1-too-many bumps with b-rate hip hop acts.

She said,

“Sure.”

I said,

“Cool. Let me waste some chivalry on you.”

I opened the driver door and waited for her left ankle to get inside. She put her hands on the steering wheel and smiled. She put both feet on the clutch.

For some reason I heard a beautiful song in my head break down into something so uplifting I almost choked on my soul.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek because I could. She stared at me like she had never been kissed on the cheek by a stranger. She glued her face to her iPhone and read an incoming text message:

I’M ALMOST THERE, MI DIOSA.

I said,

“Oooooh, someone thinks your a goddess.”

She said,

“Shut up.”

And she bounced her beach ball. I felt like asking if she was trying to seduce me.

Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?

She said,

“You better hurry.”

I shut the door and started running fast, from G4 to A1 – gamma to alpha – and then from A1 to G4.

No CAT.

I said a different 4-letter word and ran inside the airport. The sudden rush of cold air almost gave me a heart attack.

I ran upstairs because logic dictated my reasoning.

Sure enough, right above G4, but in the DEPARTURES area, a man in a black trench coat stood. I tapped CAT on the shoulder.

I said,

“This is departures, asshole! You’re an arrival.”

CAT said,

“This airport confuses me.”

We took the escalator down to the arrivals area. We walked to the real G4 and found my red Honda Civic,

empty.

I opened the driver door and reconnoitered the inside. Part of me, the libidinous male part, wanted to find some rune that would lead me to the Goddess’s bed.

Maybe directions to her hotel room.

Or a new number programmed in my cell.

Or a slice of her hair on the headrest.

Or the smack of her lips against my rear-view mirror.

Or her lacy fuchsia panties in my glove compartment.

CAT said,

“What’s the delay? Open the trunk.”

I whispered a different 4-letter word.

I said,

“Asshole.”

I love the future.

Then I got down by the clutch and sniffed at the pedal. There it was, orange zest.

That was all I needed to make me smile,

proof of her existence inside my car.

Then my smile sunk into my face.

On the way home, CAT asked if we could detour to the grocery store. He needed to get dinner. He was ravenous after a long day of flying.

This was what he ate:

Rocky road ice cream, Astronaut peanut butter, 1 banana

Stopped writing at 3:57PM while listening to Sage Francis – The Best Of Times

::Keep it locked on TOE::

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- his book of poetry -

because I volunteered via email to make a video for one of his 7-line poems.

I selected Skeleton clock because its sounds and scenery moved me.

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Like pigeon shit on an alabaster bust

Bonded, as dentures do with that goo

That pink goo my grandpa used as grandpas do

What then of this rust?

Is it brown or red

Is it fine or crusty instead

Does it come with the dew

Or does it come from the sea

Or does it form more slowly, still

I can’t find the source, but it’s here

I can’t know its course, but it’s weird

To know and feel

This rust

It’s slowing down my wheels

Its dust, in my eyes

Its crust, on my heels

I have to shake it off

I have to see the steel

Bring back that shine, that metallic glow

That silvery ebb and flow

Is it iron? Is it tin?

No, it’s something far within

You cannot see it, but you can feel

You cannot touch it, but you can wield

You cannot buy it, for it is free

It’s within you; It’s within me

It eludes us from time to time

Or seems to have died

While still on the vine

Or dried and crusted

Like an old wagon, rusted

But it never truly leaves

You see?

It’s that glimmer, a burning ember

If you will

A brewing storm

Is it real?

If I tried to tell you, I couldn’t

If you asked me to explain it

I wouldn’t, until

A pen I’m given

Then on a page it’s written

And through the rust

Once again shines the steel

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