How y’all feelin’ tonight! […] I can’t hear you! — Beethoven
sext: i miss dave. i love you. and i’m not drunk. i’m just sad.
THE SUMMER ISSUE
I don’t know where this is but goddamnit I’ll never pass up the opportunity to share something with my name on it.
thought something like, ‘people give so much attention to ‘us’ monk-like self-tortured shitheads who try to break down the human experience from a psycho-emotional island, or who are in a binary relationship with a partner, where there’s a support structure intrinsic to the relationship, but for people (parents) who are constantly psychically linked to a bunch of pre-lingual humans, trying to help them understand language while innovating it themselves, like… shit… my despair seems less ‘justified’ and more ‘circumstantial’ not having other human things i’ve embraced the responsibility of enabling, linguistically… yay dads, kudos dads’ — Buttercup
We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/obituary-mail-art-by-patrick-warner/
Obituary Mail Art
This is cool as shit. Check it.
THE NEATO MOSQUITO SHOW: excerpt from Chuck Young's story 'A Dad In the Life' -
I carry my daughter up to bed and tuck her in. I tell her not to be sad. That it wasn’t a big deal. She says she’s sorry and starts crying harder. I tell her not to worry. That she made a mistake and I was just trying to teach her instead of just telling her what to do. That I wanted her to do it on her own so that the next time she’d know. I tell her that nothing she does could make me love her any less. She says, “but I made a mistake.” I tell her that she’s going to make a thousand mistakes, that I expect her to and that that’s totally ok. I tell her that I made a mistake by talking to her the way that I did. That I’m way older than her but continue to make mistakes, that that’s how we learn and that learning is the single most important thing we can do as humans. She asks me if I still love her. I tell her of course and that she’s my favorite person in the whole world. I ask her if she still loves me and she says yes. She stops crying. I hug her and give her a kiss and tell her goodnight though my heart still breaks for her in tiny increments.
I’m somewhat overwhelmed and super appreciative of the response to this piece. I think, “let it fuck you up” could be a good mantra for writing something just as much as for reading something.
a special father’s day piece by chuck young now up at mammal
If I am to have any hope of one day being receptive to my children’s emotions, I must first learn to be attuned to my own. I don’t want my children to pick up my lifelong avoidance techniques. I don’t want them to rely on drinking or other addictions to distance themselves from their emotions, to throw themselves into other people’s feelings as a way of circumventing their own, or to be so entirely in their intellects and imaginations that they live their lives as though they’re sleepwalking. — Koren Zailckas in Fury
The unintentional fictionalization of your life story as told from your deathbed.
I’ve been thinking about my relationship with art and what I expect it to do to me over the next fifty or so years. I assume I’m just sewing it into the tapestry that is my life story and soon it’ll start replacing real memories and/or I’ll use it in order to better (more poetically?) explain what I was probably feeling at some point along the way. Or something?