BSJ vs. The Fanged Pigs
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Baxter St. James' LiveJournal:
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| Thursday, December 17th, 2026 | | 6:48 am |
Author is subsumed in the work but not absented from it. Yet, the Author is not dead, so much as he is invalidated. He is useless, his task done and any “job” the reader’s. Reading as enterprise made less “job” and more experience; reader as not engaged with work but simple perception. Work digested is not perceived as externalized perception transmitted unto the reader via the work, but the raw product of the reader’s own perception. The nature of the work achieves dimension in the reader and is not foreclosed by parameters established in the enactment of work’s creation. The reader need not reconstitute their own subject in a fashion that will echo an essentialized textual vision. The text bends, the reader needn’t; the textual “shape” will never be solid, but pliant and molded by reader’s own experience. Work moves through reader not in the shape of it but the shape of reader. Read a book when you are twenty-four and read it when you are thirty-nine. You will know it as the same book, yet think of it as changed. But think further for just a moment. It hasn’t really changed, of course, what has changed is you; it as object is same; ‘it’ as discourse is different. The element that ignites text as discourse is reader. You might site increased intelligence as occasioning a greater nearness to the specific site of the textual truth. You may suppose your advanced maturity allowed greater assess to a universality that performs itself in approximating various forms of otherness; understanding people more, thus understanding book better, as book is author, a person. Really, you may, because the book transpires within you and you may or may not transpire within it. But if you do not, the book is alien and is this true when you say “love the book?” Is love the reach for other and not the touch of self? I ask, I cannot know. Film in this context is quite same as book. The movements we’ve made have shown as much, for this “touch” of art is always thought shape of individual. Aside from the count of hands that the artistic product passed through, touch is finally thought a oneness. If an apparatus accessed our interiority what would be the implications? Something like the death of subject, the machination and hence evaporation of soul. And this may be so, but we will affect that singular as insulation against the made-ness of self; one is special and art is the distinct specialness of one applied and in our recognition of that specialness we too are one. For oneness asserts itself by recognizing oneness elsewhere. Human connection does not operate as it might seem to; avenues that lead to human connection do not trouble the self by lending examples of its approximation, whose similar constitutive elements mark trauma for a self thought distinctive. If in you I locate self, I enact that location through a familiarity with self. Now, what self do I understand better than my own? Hence, selfhood absolute is characterized by own self and the increased proximity of other’s self to my own enhances my appreciation of that other self as a self. This holds true for art. The more we relate to a work, the greater our inclination to find an individual behind that work. For if that work were thought self, self itself would be troubled. Self is understood as apart and any external connection with self is indeed thought connection and not occupation or redoubling. Art encourages selfhood by presenting vivid and distinctive moments of self. This production of the sensation of self does not jeopardize self by its nature as production; it is the victory of self because a self is presented and any recognition of self is never thought my self but a distinct self as particularly distinctive selves are ones that most near my own. The author will live because art is enacted self and the death of author will bid the death of self. | | Friday, December 4th, 2026 | | 1:55 am |
 | You scored as alternative. You're partially respected for being an individual in a conformist world yet others take you as a radical. You have no place in society because you choose not to belong there - you're the luckiest of them all, even if your parents are completely ashamed of you. Just don't take drugs ok?
alternative | | 83% | Upper middle Class | | 58% | Lower Class | | 46% | Middle Class | | 42% | Luxurious Upper Class | | 29% | </td>
What Social Status are you?
created with QuizFarm.com |
| | Saturday, November 28th, 2026 | | 4:11 am |
OPRAH VOTED ME THE #1 BLOG
Oprah totally said I have the best blog in the universe, so I totally have the best blog in the universe; I'd like to welcome my new audience of midwestern housewives to my blog; HI BETSY! You know what? Shout Stain remover really does work, thanks Bev for endorsing it so ardently, it really does get the red out!! Or, is that Visine -- OH, but guess what, THEY BOTH DO!!! I hafta say I agree with Totsy and brick is really worlds away from siding -- talk about classs vs. trash; I mean, no offense, thats just what I think and Im fron Scranton, so my class may indeed be trash. I mean, I respect everybody; the military, CEOs, the knocked-up ladies in cashmere, EVERYBODY. Sometimes when I walk down the street I think things and then think another thought, 'yes, I think therefore Oprah adores me!' Oprah said one plus one is three and I have more of everything. Maybe Oprah's facile and I need to find a regional talk show host with a less documented but eager audience in order to avoid eye rolls roused by my solicitation of Option A Is Steadman still around, Oprah? Who fucks you, baby? sssssssssssh, Ben, Becki & Butters are all sounds asleep. Oprah, dont call me | | Friday, November 27th, 2026 | | 7:41 pm |
10th Floor
The apartment is big and am dedcidedly small but nonetheless rapacious, occupying it fully and thankful for the breathing room and tough grin of the territorial as that aforementioned breath fills capacious rooms and long corridors with my fragrant singularity. Becki knows the silliness of being, its final implausibility in the face of so many oppositional influences and our mutual negativity fills me with a dissimilar absence of expectation, it promotes the sort of nothingness that encourages both nothing and untenented possibility. I walk the dog timorously along Riverside Drive; all scruff, leather coat, pompodore, altarity. 'This is New York.' But I sometimes feel the carbon dioxide to their oxygen and experience a kinship with plant life that suggests the inevitability of Pennsylvania. Faulkner went home to write, to seclude himself so his unapologetic prose could erupt untarinshed and keep lonely he company -- like the alchemic pus that is my favored artistry. Words enunicate you, like clothes and as I walk and catch columns of pea-coats and khackis I know I should just reconcile myself to the prosaic sentence that dominates newsstands, libraries; no, words enunciate thy. I wear red and white pants with the shirt of a Crayola with an identity crisis over a mesh-y ripped up too long sweater-thing in pea green, when eyes attempt to put me together they cannot. I am beyond good reason, but --heres my secret -- purposefully. In San Francisco, I finally escaped my consciousness and might have died. At the End-Up Club at noon on Sunday, I lived a waking dream in which I danced for love so hard I won near collapse and a blood blister on the sole of my foot. The object of my love was a lapsed homosexual who caved into the meal ticket of a foxy chick with a powerful daddy. I was committed to not making a scene, to exemplifing the specialness of my character through relentlessly expressive dancing. This was a drugged out delusion, ok?, the bi-product of my flight from consciousness & the implimentation of its next best thing: the ellipically cohesive ideology of the cinema, suturing the shambles of me. I have flashes of recollection that survived the chemical emulsion; I remember my passion greeting the necessity of its contention given the hostility to its character -- so, perahps not passion, but fury. Have you ever gotten away from yourself? Have you, really? | | Monday, October 26th, 2026 | | 11:39 pm |
Zero
Her dresses were light and fought the wind of an open road like something caught but pretty anyhow. I was not too young to remember this, nor too young to know my mother was on some serious drugs. I remember her trying during her last days and me letting her win because she was succeeding; simple. I saw the notes later: Vicki: Please read this. Please order Conrad down the hall as you read this. Please, do this. OK, I killed myself and my “remains” are inside this hotel room. No, I’m not joking. Poor, poor, Conrad. I know -- it tortures me so that I should likely live, but I can’t. We’ll leave it at that. Ok, Conrad. Jesus, Conrad. Don’t tell Conrad. Compose yourself and take him downstairs. Collect a package for you at the front desk containing money and the number of his father. Tell him everything and tell him that he’s to tell Conrad his mother’s dead. His father will be very happy to retrieve him. In the meantime, stay in the other room I reserved for you. You seemed nice. I’m sure sorry this gig is heavier than promised, but you’re awful important to me right now. I trust and thank you. - A The other talked about goodness and its importance and how she failed. I was watching you. What did you see? Defiance. You’re so stern. How can you be so serious? ’Saying shit like that, how can you be anything but amused? You must be terribly oblivious or perhaps self-important, how can you not see yourself right now; your utter ridiculousness? You should be laughing, Conrad; you’re dense; handsome, but dense -- a lovely piece of wood. (He had the possibility within him to know me; I seized it and in that seizure I became something else, though something more myself. That was me; he was me, then -- and I did what it took to become of it.) I’ll be honest, I mean, well, I should say first that I feel secure in myself but nonetheless often feel convinced that I am alone. I think that’s cheap because it’s so evidently true. (I put my head on his calf not because I liked boys but because I liked him; time becomes fiction now. Yes, it must be fiction because time is so cheap right about now -- some tawdry denomination of interval that encloses and assigns that time when my head lay down and when it was no longer so. That interval was not an interval but entirety, but when time does recapture us in its hands, transforming the aforementioned moments as detritus, yes perhaps special but still residue; a not now -- and the moment is dwarfed by the sensory presence of the all encompassing now- now, I become not-so-much the atemporal sap and time is again true. It is not that that is indescribable, but that that is not experienced which is untrue.) I like your short hair. The way it feels. The way it looks. Like some helmut, some shield; I need protection and you’re a steely, lonesome, dry sponge, aren’t you, Conrad. Fuck you, then, warrior. You need me, too. What? I know you’re straight or whatever, but don’t you think I’m beautiful? What? (Things come before and after this, but it is my hope that there is a singular heaviness of the now -- apart from the suicide, drugs, prom and paranormal animals -- that the now is an appealing door you are interested to walk through) | | Thursday, October 15th, 2026 | | 5:32 pm |
Last Day of Work; time to be engaged | | Thursday, October 8th, 2026 | | 11:52 am |
Mmmmmmm, sugar
So my 1230 Lunch just got pushed back to 100, because her boyfriend had to stay around and bear witness (and translate) to incident wherein a schizophrenic woman went bizerk in a Port Chester grocery store and dumped a 2 liter bottle of generic cola on a non-native mexican woman's head. JERSEY! Well, at least the mexican woman didnt speak english so its pretty darn clear the cola didnt stain any prada or dior; if the gods were on her side today, bitch was wearing a track suit -- INSTA-CLEAN; whoosh whoosh! THANK GOD | | Wednesday, October 7th, 2026 | | 3:09 pm |
Saw the new David Green Gordon film "Undertow" this afternoon; it was bad. As I am now getting piad by the hour; I made $40 while watching a movie in the MGM/UA screening room in my building; B (it was bad after all) Time magazine film critic Richard Corliss's white keds with embossed movie studio logos, i.e. Pixar; simulatneously A+ and D Watching suited men carry large Tiffany's bags back with their lunch; F - My socks today; B + Watching my nice socks wriggle as I wiggle them; A Trying to write a draft of my 'statement of purpose' for one of my professorial recomendations; C Hot Dogs; A+ Having my drunk-ass boss and her drunk friend stumble into the office at 8PM while I worked on my statement of purpose thing and being called a 'hipster' by her friend in response to my boss's question 'whats with that shirt anyway?'; F triple minus | | Tuesday, October 6th, 2026 | | 3:47 pm |
LOOK!
You drunk hipster sluts can get free rides! RightRides is a free, transportation alternative taking women home safely from neighborhood venues and subway stations late at night. Conceived after recent violent assaults against women in the Williamsburg and Greenpoint neighborhoods, RightRides believes that getting home safe should not be a luxury. It is 100% volunteer-run and we are applying for non-profit status to obtain grants and a fleet of cars. The benefit will help purchase a CB radio dispatch system, help pay for gas, and offset legal fees. Currently, the service is available on Friday and Saturday nights, from 12 AM to 4:30 AM serving North Brooklyn as well as the East Village and Lower East Side neighborhoods. http://www.rightrides.org | | Monday, October 5th, 2026 | | 5:23 pm |
I called the bar; the hat is gone; the hat is gone!! I may start crying | | 11:56 am |
| | 10:41 am |
Thougths Right Now...she'd been everybody elses' girl
I may have lost my Bronx Gun Club hat. As many of you know, this bodes personal apocolypse; great. In better news, I'll be staying at a Holiday Inn in Pennsylvania in late October. However, given the truly inauspicious hat loss, I fear I may be eaten my Holiday termites and shat out around Montgomery County like so much dander. If I had a child today, he'd be named Xerxes Dander. Apparently my friends are 15.3% Normal -- whoever assembled this LJ calculatrice needs a death dose like yesterday. | | Sunday, October 4th, 2026 | | 4:04 pm |
Wedding Bells & BSJ
Dear Bride & Groom: Sorry, Ive been a flake about my reply card; the gorgeous and zaftig shannon mowry has given me the run around re: her availability; vaciliation is her middle name and in its image she remains at WB b&n rather than facing her counterinutitive: the decisive. One new yorker Becki Heller had caught wind of Ms Mullery's run-around and has offered her own decidedly more petite arm as auxillery accessory; she's from Missouri, so could use a dose of Pennsylvanian greenery. We hereby accept Josh's offer to crash on Nice St on Friday and would love if either of y'all remembered any cheapie motels in the neighborhood of 'the highlands' for tipsy driving Saturday. Re; the rehersal dinner -- Becki tot doesnt hafta come, in which case Ill pick her up in Trenton either Fri evening or Sat morn (or she'll reacquant herself with 'mall culture') -- no worries Im a mapquest/road geography wizard -- see Envirothon Gold medalist 1998; highest score: Orienteering. Im hopelessly gay AND willfully bohemian, thus all too lost insofar as wedding etiquette; so have no idea whether Beckers might nosh and observe as I am schooled in marching down aisles properly at approximately 3 on Friday. As for Friday night, Becki & I weigh 215 pounds collectively and would be quite happy in a hamper. As for the shirt and tie; Im thinkly softly emerald tie, royal blue shirt, navy suit -- yes, yes, very metrohomosexual of me Zealously, d | | Thursday, October 1st, 2026 | | 1:17 pm |
What passes but does come
The cat was white with long fur and belonged to no one he could make out. The white cat had a brindled butterfly in its mouth that struggled. Was he an opiated French poet nursing delusions circa 1882? Around him, the wall of traffic moved and stopped so that sometimes you could pass through. There were other people, lots. It smelled like something that smelled like nothing that he had gotten used to. Were those peanuts? Awful! Many lit windows alluded to something they could never reveal. Visions, or concepts of them, came, like the image of sheep compulsively electrocuting themselves on a television before which sat a haggard old woman wearing nothing but a not finished knitted piece she knitted, spilling down her legs, looking soft. He saw this, but this is not what he saw. He disliked what he saw. If his noble mind was capable of carrying all things fantastic why could his fantasia never take root? Overhead loomed the sky, under which sat all. He thought about love and giggled as around him hurried an ever growing number of people going to meet Lord knows who. He thought about demanding answers. He thought about trying on new clothes. He thought seeing a movie. He thought about what he thought grass thought about as it grows. He had seen giraffes and wished he could now. The zoo? The zoo is sad, like listening to a stranger sharing unsolvable problems. He wanted a giraffe here, now. | | Wednesday, September 30th, 2026 | | 10:21 am |
Metahistorigraphy
Anna ( www.livejournal.com/users/klingrap ) has such a vivid sense of her history and often expresses this on LJ. I doubt my own personal historical sense is nearly as refined. If one personal epoch seems worlds way from another distant example it isn't because they are unrelated, but that their connection is blurred by the infinite chain of change that unfolds from one moment to the next. Theres a paralysis in this; I've found the existentalists endearing because they apprehend this notion of indefatiguable mutability and endeavor to gain mastery over it through the simple act of consciousness --its Hegelian in its naiveity regarding the (abstract) immanence of the incommensurable. Not that our footing along 'the path' is the result of external choreography, but still: there will always be wind, no matter how hard you resolve yourself to remain perfectly still. SO, I can map the relationship as well as any beret wearing commie in a Marxist Dialetic seminar, but theres the recondite white noise in every casual link; 'fate.' So while my life's constitution is that of my decisions, these were bred by the self(less) machinations of that beyond any sort of organic or inorganic machinery. If you've touched down in a place that nurtures a particular opinion which then parlays into a course of action, -- while your conscious velocity remains within your reigns -- the specifics of that inspirational 'place' are automous, a thing separate. I think so much of man's history is working toward invulnerability insofar as the fretful knowledge begat by his own reflexive form of cognizance. To be is fearful because we're able to know that we are thus are able to entertain its converse and a zillion other permutations apart from our present state; thus we mollify these anxious considerations by a assidious dissection of the now and gain a confidence in the validity of its nature insofar as our understanding of its intricate construction and our instinct to be impressed with anything constituted of so many layers, signifying, somehow, a sturdy thing. I think we will forever be inadequate and somehow separate, but I Believe the nearest form of redemption resides among the reach, its luminous futility. Life is effort, living is ease. I am a person and in retrospect -- via the act of retrospection -- I am dizzy. | | 10:07 am |
PopBitch!
>> Head for figures << Gay porn twink launches fashion label After the Olsen sisters, the newest teenage film star to start a fashion label is 18-year-old Jamey Summers. Australian-born Jamey moved to Britain and became a star in the world of gay porn, appearing in Spyboy 2 and Beach Boy. He attracted the attention of a rich New Yorker who set Jamey up with a clothing label, Chemical Addiction, which is opening 26 stores in the States this year. It's a nice change in fortune for Jamey, who, aged 15, was in a car crash with his brother. The brother was decapitated, and Jamey was stuck in the car with the headless corpse next to him for 12 hours before being freed. (Popbitch's psychoanalyst speaks: "Perhaps his career in gay porn is a reaction to the decapitation of his brother? He is replacing the lost head, by giving head...”) | | Tuesday, September 29th, 2026 | | 11:14 am |
Why or why could I not get tickets for this: SARABAND October 15 and 16 He's back. Thirty years later, Ingmar Bergman reunites the long-sundered couple—Liv Ullman and Erland Josephson—of Scenes From a Marriage as active kibitzers in another lacerating family drama. This, so the 86-year-old Bergman says, is his final film. Once it engages, this ultimate Ingmar is a story about (im)mortality—in both expected and highly unexpected ways. Score another for Sony Classics. Opening 2005. J.H. Bergman is my FAVORITE; I really think this screening should have been initially available to the Bergman online fan club. I really think there should be a Bergman online fanclub/mailing list *sobs into his chicken of comfort, Tomileo* Luckily, I did get tickets to this: THE WORLD October 11 and 12 After three underground productions, Jia Zhangke goes global. The latest dispatch from the world's greatest filmmaker under 40 revisits the themes of Unknown Pleasures and Platform: a hesitant romance, the growing pains of modernization, the urge for flight in a culture of inertia. Jia's rootless young adults are finally in the big city—and in a dizzying Baudrillardian irony, employed at a Beijing theme park that, with its replicas of global tourist attractions, promises "a new world every day." From the sensational opening tracking shot to the flurry of animated punctuation, Jia's first government-sanctioned film is his most flamboyant yet—and also his most conventional. Still, no distributor. D.L. Im also excited to see I Heart Hucklebees this weekend P.S. My criminally gorgeous heterosexual friend Fuji is DJing/hosting a small gathering tonite at Black & White (East 10th btw. 3rd & 4th); luminaries will be there and to compete with them I will be wearing my LA Gear blinking sneakers and say me uncle is Bill Cosby who absolutely fawns over my pretty vanilla skin. Fuji also has a criminally beautiful lady friend who has been known to fall down while drinking; perhaps you can take advantage of her! | | Tuesday, September 22nd, 2026 | | 8:53 am |
Society
Whatever happened to me, anyway? Well, I don’t go out. I hunt for impressive philosophical connections to origins of Auteur Theory. I sleep. I resign and then I move. When I do go out, it’s at 6PM and I’m either at Anytime ($1 drinks) or Welcome to the Johnsons ($2) with people in my speed dial. I’m trying not to spend money. I’m an aspirant scholar, thus an aspiring broke ass. I do not need the ridiculously wonderful hemp clam diggers I spy while (always) window shopping. No. I eat a lot of peanut butter listening to neighbors speak very loudly in Spanish. I sit around in unwieldy headphones pumping myself full of Arcade Fire and The Microphones and wonder what everybody’s looking for. My own head is sufficiently hectic and the addition of smug masses strikes me as self-abuse. There are special occasions. A place on Rivington is called Verlaine (110 Rivington, just West of Essex) and a dear friend fosters the idea of a small party called Rimbaud. ‘Rimbaud’ is on a Sunday evening, which – with Tuesday mornings – smells like sorrow might if she had pheromones. Empty Sunday evenings are a familiar problem that calls for distraction; consistency aint nothing you can solve. “I’ll have a stiff eclipse!” and Verlaine drinks a $4 top-shelf martini as Rimbaud polishes off a $4 Cuervo Margarita and sets to adorning his lover’s bare back in woozy words with a charcoal pencil. The music is good. I sit around with a marg of own, calling upon first-seen-after-too-long you with wit as dry as our privileged, prissy skin. Outside, the hail falls like rubble. Rimbaud is for us, the sort of arrogant other who refuses to not belong. It’s early (7-10PM). Oh, but don’t be so snottily nocturnal, i.e. “Nothing good goes on ‘til at least 12:30!” I’m plenty good and I’m always goin’ on. | | Monday, September 14th, 2026 | | 4:10 pm |
GRE JEEZ
I do not wanna retake my GREs, BUT the analytic section is now writing and not word/logic puzzles, like it formerly was; I got in the 700s in both Math & Verbal, but my analytic was 620 I feel I could definitely imporve on my analytic as its now written, but I dont wanna study again -- granted I only studied for 3 days last time -- and while Im confident my verbal will remain the same, my 700 in Math was something of fluke and just may go down...and no you cannot pick & chose your best scores like the SATs AGH | | Sunday, September 13th, 2026 | | 4:52 pm |
The Tao of BSJ
Today I paint my old red walls white for someone else. Today, I’ve assisted– literarily – but soon that comes to a close. Nearly 200 people have applied for my job; for the practical, hopes & dreams must smell like stasis and cubicles. My nose is fucking stupid, misguided and appled. Today I paint walls and road signs for a dirtroad that winds around orchards that are sometimes sunny, sometimes cold. I read the Art of Tea for my tutoring gig and wish I could venture to a proper teahouse – one with the gorgeous garden antechamber & the small immaculate tearoom where everything is minimal, crafted, perfect. We would sit around a table silently and find affection in the sight of reddened cheeks over hot tea. I would not spill. I read Kant and agree that we are often quite familiar with things we will never know |
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