Ernest Hemingway worked as a journalist for the Kansas City Star. Here is the style sheet he used.

Kansas City Star Style Sheet

His robotic hypnotism to the spoken word’s expression is like a moaning awkward tone that depicts like nothing else the impossibility of our expression. His spoken commas, periods, pauses and literal pauses have the power of an incantation and I am in fascination of his channeling. This is seeing the muse spoken. I aw. Aw. Aw man, its dropping me. Look at this. This is it. The one. Hemingway is a curse. Smite me. Curse me. Incant me. Voodoo drums blood in my eyes. Rip maw rip hit me up. Dedication. Dedication.
Tapping in
Tap me in
Concentration. Agitation. Contemplation.
Production, they’ve stolen production. Productivity of pain. Pain as muse and unspoken unspeakables the rapturous destruction listen to the incantation this is the only productivity and its pure its pure see this is the painful curse. It’s the Hemingway curse. Let me die but I must live and this is life in death and death in life. I’m a two-way spectre and the pain is dissonant and alternate ringing round and in to out. They’ve stolen my productivity. They’ve made it theirs. Its something I owe it to somebody else it’s a compensation for our original sin it’s the debt owed as a member of this social contract we’re partakers and now there is distance. There’s always distance.

You haven’t stopped running; and, whatever distance you think you have put between you and you, you still leave behind new statues of salt.
-    Andre Breton

French translation dubbed over the original sound of Hemingways’ Spanish.

Those Kafka ghosts are inevitable but they’re nothing but the ghosts of distance. Distance is the most devilish thing I’ve ever encountered, and scares me wide-eyed awake quite often. The distance between you and your audience, you and your friends, you and your lover even in an embrace, you and your mother, you and life, you and yourself, theres always distance and its terrifying but irrefutable, indestructable. These are the ghosts. They reveal themselves in our attempts to reconcile it but thats no argument against it and clearly Kafka never meant it as anything like that for he still wrote a few times a day, Milenas letters coming in bouts of twos and threes, though likely not quite as prodigious as his, though we’ll never know, but still the input and output in some kind of dialogical race that he must have known felt damn nice. Even ghosts have rhythm

- Colby

]]> http://blackmarketbutter.com/20.05.2010/ennu/feed/ 0 http://blackmarketbutter.com/15.05.2010/sharing-spam/ http://blackmarketbutter.com/15.05.2010/sharing-spam/#comments Fri, 14 May 2010 14:11:04 +0000 colby http://blackmarketbutter.com/?p=396 3 circle venn diagram template
5ml equals how many teaspoons
actual size ruler
antonia carter recent pictures
ameca radio
amox tr cl 500
used astra a80 9mm
1 off lunchable coupons
aerolineas volaris schedules
mall in warner robins
alphabet drawing letters
alin hernandez
5 cl liquid is equal to
ajit punjabi newspaper
abandoned insane asylum northern california
amatuer teen kingdom
25 06 ballistics chart hornady
223 barrel length velocity
7 lift kit on bubble caprice
30 06 velocities

- They

Glorification of melancholy and consumption.

Picnic-nature.

I agree that the beautiful infinity of nature is the manifestation of purity itself – firsthand poetry that is (for all can be traced back to this and to me. The origin and end hold a promise of endlessness in their unity) a flickering leaf and a glittering pixel of the extra two decimals on your balance in that atm screen thanks to some absurd logic of attendance to banality, submission, forms, through only softcore sadism.

Nothing to be proud of.

Junkless habits of toned down, half-beat, drop-kick, no-joy, watered-down, dumb fun t.v. death in early evenings fade then loud to hot new cd for show-related products nihilistic napalm necrophilic neck-ties with flu tablet fun, crepes, no jam, this no france, teas in bowls, frogs legs taste like chicken or did you just hear that? or not hear that mor-ning of your phantom – iphone – they’ll implant the feeling of its absence through hypnopaedic, sidelined advertising for our naive struggle for some kind of voice in that aether. What fools. Foolish as literallists in an aphoristic existence. Can’t they hear the irony in their gods? The aether is the playground of communication, the great coming together of sublime and banal desires and notions into a subterranea of noise that will take form like strata and salamander and god knows how many unknown stramatolite-like lovelies living in sulfur high frequencies, feeding on unknown tones, living on god-knows-not-what fun to be a salamander.