Deliciousness for the mind and soul

I should find some more lovely blogs to read. The following excerpt is from the journal of Joey Comeau.

Who is Joey Comeau, you ask? I have no idea, really. But interesting, artistic, expressive people are always nice to know about.

He and his partner Emily are here:
http://www.asofterworld.com/about.php


And this is from his personal journal. Fantastic. Literally.

I found an old suitcase in my grandmother's basement, two weeks ago. It was grey and dusty, and it had my grandfather's initials. My initials. I pulled it out into the center of the room and set it down. I pulled hard at the old zipper, which went all the way around, and when I flipped open the top there was a ladder leading down into the floor. Something near the bottom was flickering. Some light.My grandfather was sitting alone in a room down there, watching wrestling on the television. The iron lung sat unused in the corner of the room. During the commercial, he looked up and smiled at me. He held his glass up, and I took it and filled it with wine. He tussled my hair and then turned back to the television. There were tunnels leading off into other rooms.My great aunt, sewing me costumes. Her budgie, under the floor, in a shoe box, singing along to the machine. You can get lost down there. It took a long time for me to find my way back to the ladder. And a few rungs back toward the light, I felt my grandfather's hand on my ankle. He was out of his chair, looking up. He held out his wine glass for me. Upstairs, two weeks had gone by. Memories are like everything else. They're a trap.

Here he writes something touching with a slightly edgier literary voice:

Today is a beautiful day again.

http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=248

Today I hope that my collection agents take a break from tirelessly trying to track me down, and I hope someone touches them on the elbow and says, "God you have lovely eyes." I hope they come home tonight and they don't even get in the door before someone is ripping their clothes off and fucking them crazy. I hope they fall asleep exhausted and empty and full of senseless optimism for the future. I hope this for you, too. I hope that you are out shopping and, without knowing why, you have to run to the bathroom and touch yourself. I hope that you finish with your brow sweaty and short of breath and I hope you are embarrassed but strangely proud of yourself.

An entry like this really makes me think.

A few years ago, I went and bought an old Smith-Corona electric typewriter at a South Austin thrift store. It was two shades of aqua and had that sharp inky smell and heavy electric hum. When I typed for too long the tips of my fingers went numb, and the lower-case "i" never did work.

At the time, I wrote a lot. Although the majority of it was musical writing, I also spent a goodly amount of my time in my apartment getting slightly sauced and honing my own brand of "shocking" literary voice. I wrote the kind of stuff I do not seek out but still occasionally pick up to read with a wincing grimace; white-knuckled while holding the book. To tell the truth, I've never liked it that much...but still, I love it in a hateful little way.

I have never shown anyone these writings, as they are intensely confessional and cannibalistic and altogether too (in)human for me to attempt to publish. The writing also deals with a lot of childhood memories; the precocious child's discovery of body and sex and stink and anger and cruelty and of course, guilt, guilt, guilt. However, I strongly feel that it is an important voice for me to work with, as it uncovers the secret thoughts of which I am ashamed. I must say, I am "embarrassed but strangely proud" of myself for putting to paper.

The writings have made it to the present day. I am sad to say that the old Smith-Corona did not.