My favorite words come bearing risk of paper cuts

Vorsicht! Consider yourself hereby forewarned:
it seems I’m particularly fond of italics this fine day…

All/Same

Royal Proclamation Number One:
(a fanfare is appropriate)

The latest issue of the rad-ass, bad-ass literary journal Gertrude

is OUT—&
includes my short story “Sugar Rush”: a tribute to
C U L I N A R Y . P E R V E R Y

That’s right, baby—we’re gonna get baked, & then you get  C a k e d…

A H E M !
So anyway

[from the publishers]:

“To commemorate this milestone release [issue 15 of Gertrude],we put out a call for writing & visual art
that explores, celebrates or subverts queer stereotypes. ‘The Gay Issue’ represents the diversity & talent
of the LGBTQA community.”

¤ THE PARTICULARS ¤
80 perfect-bound pages of flamboyant wit, 19 verse-slingers serving noteworthy lit, &
seven shades of wickedawesome visual artistry on eight full-color inserts that
one prancy fagocytosist went way gay over, on the tip of the APA
that’d be numbers & statistics; thank.you.ever.so

featuring

Michelle Auerbach, David Brennan, Wayne Bund, Clint Catalyst, Nicole J. Georges,
Jeremy Halinen, Daniel W.K. Lee, Kirsty Logan along with nine other lesbi-luminaries &
rump-wranglin’ Cult Icons-In-The-Makin’ that any cool-enough-to-singe-flesh-upon-contact
member of the cognoscenti c/should expect to find included among the impeccably-edited
roster of a journal esteemed as such/such as this…

Nonetheless, not unlike the dry ice to which I alluded a mere skip backwards o’er single perioddical: that’s a
scavenger hunt I’ll leave for you & your ducats to embark upon, darlin’

☆ G E T ± S O M E ☆

[though as an ápertif, an excerpt of my story]:

As the adage goes, ‘A Don’t Is A Delicious Invitation To Do.’  In the sexual practice known as “caking,” it’s particularly true.

I can’t take credit for coming up with this deviation of the old in and out, though unlike the lot of other subversive acts referred to as the stuff of urban legend—the Dirty Sanchez, Blumpkin, Cleveland Steamer, Chili Dog, et al—I’m honored to say I can vouch for its point of origin, and am a mere one degree of separation from its source.

“Caking” came about during the darkest days of that carb-counting craze when solo patties of beef were the new burger, and a demeanor bitter as Susan Atkins was the new black. It was socially acceptable to have breath that smelled like a fresh slaughter, so long as we weren’t seen consuming anything in a public setting that bore even the faintest traces of Evil Incarnate: refined sugar.

:: yes bitches, shit gets good up in thurr ::

— However! —
THIS IS NOT OVER YET

Royal Proclamation Number Two:
(not only/but also)

Baby, I’ve Got Some More Good Word For You…

From the publishing house, social network & international non-profit, Little Episodes—an organization that “promotes the arts as a therapeutic tool & platform to incite empathy and understanding”—comes the anthology Brainstorms

© Little Episodes Publishing, 2010 • ISBN 978-0-9565003-1-1 • Edited by Fawn Neün

“featuring work by Melvin Burgess, Todd Swift, Sadie Frost, Nina Antonia & Clint Catalyst, Brainstorms is the second volume in the ‘Expression of Depression’ series, a collection of poetry & short fiction from established & emerging talent.”

[from Little Episodes founder Lucie Barât]:

“The launch of our second anthology is a statement of intent. We aim to de-stigmatise depression and promote compassion & understanding rather than fear and embarrassment. The opportunity to create and subsequently publish art will give people a sense of well-being which could aid in their recovery.”

&
[from the printed matter]
an excerpt from my short story “Breaking Up With Tina”:

Whenever I hear recovery folks recite the slogan that their ‘worst day sober is still better than [their] best day using, ‘ I can’t help but feel my eyes rolling.  For that I have four words: They Needed Another Dealer.

Oh!  & H-e-ey Old-Schoolers, spot check how that paragraph comes to a Grinding Halt:

…And in the words of The Cure’s vocalist, Robert Smith, the further I got from the things I care about, the less I cared about how much further away I got.

MMM-HMMM,
G E T ± YOURS

H E R E :: via ::  H E R E

&
peek at the back flap*
down…

H E R E.

*because double entendres are go; doncha know?

[from the printed matter, another]
an excerpt from V.A. Smith’s epistle, “A Letter To Jim”:

D’you know how some bloke waiting for the chemical gurus off Chalvey High Street tells me you kicked it?  This joker says, ‘Old age, y’know how it is, love’, like language can be used for anything.  And in my head I know that, no, I don’t know how it is.  Would I be here, with these people, with you, in midnight queues to have my life spat in all its coagulated membrane and cellophane caul into my bare palm if I knew anything?

I had visions of one day handing this journal back to you.  Before you, I was just another mute, white-knuckling these rides every night while some world happened—bought its bleach and drank its coffee—far away from me.  I had no right to write what was going on in here, out there, no way of decoding these long waves back to The Battery.  And now, finally, Jim, fastening my pinned-out pupils back behind their shutters and sheltered from the September air (I can feel how constricted they are), I’m lost.  Sure, I know where I’m going, but I go there naked tonight with wide eyes that won’t see a thing…

(Click Image Above To Order)

:: information about ::

“Depression, addiction and mental illness are common problems in the modern world, with one in four people likely to experience a mental health problem every year. Established in 2009, Little Episodes is a not-for-profit organization consisting of professional writers, artists, musicians and actors with two prongs to its mission statement. The first, to destigmatize depression, addiction and mental illness, whilst raising awareness and providing empathy. The second is to provide a platform for talented, emerging and established writers/artists to find community and recognition. We combine the two by giving our participating writers and artists the first statement as their theme.”

Founded in the U.K., Little Episodes also curates ‘Late Night Episodes,’ a recurring event featuring spoken word, performance, music and visual art.  Late Night Episodes is held at the Novas Contemporary Urban Centre (London) on the last Saturday of every month.

]]> http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/new-story-by-clint-catalyst-in-little-episodes-anthology/feed 2 http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/the-description-of-an-absence http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/the-description-of-an-absence#comments Fri, 22 Jan 2010 03:41:51 +0000 Clint Catalyst http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/?p=2431 It was during that moment when my chest turns into an open space, an interminable length of time when it seems like a panel of chain-link fence gets peeled back, lies in wait for a surge of emotions to slip inside.

Then.  Just as my mouth rearranged itself around the poem’s final words— “A wad/of cold sheets/on my bed”—it was then, when I no longer recognized my voice but rather the blink of silence following.  That’s when I noticed him.

I’m sure I stood frozen in some exaggerated pose, arms akimbo or even more likely, right hand extended with a copy of Cottonmouth Kisses still perched in the air, armor to shield me from what would or wouldn’t happen next. Applause.  The immediacy of approval every performer yearns for, even and especially those who claim they don’t.

Then came the clamor of acclamation, the sounds of hands clapping, of slurred hurrahs and a high-pitched whistle.  My cue to step from the stage not really a stage in this home not exactly a “home” as I knew it, but a geodesic dome.

For a hot second, our eyes met.  His: dark, with a sparkle that followed when I looked away.  Not as in “tracers,” the stuff of flash-backs, symptoms from drugs with consonants for names.

More like: as I navigated my way to Pedro, Wash and Richard—the few people I knew at this hormone-charged salon with “Boys” as its motif—the text of my body was besieged with active verbs and question marks.

Would I dare to venture upstairs with him?

Despite its cred as the white-hot center of Where Art Lives, I recognized this dome from another context. Recently I’d seen The Hole, a skin flick in which the final scene culminates in a luscious free-for-all on the top floor.

I’d heard whispers of a similar scenario happening in medias res, and as much as I tried to listen to the performer who followed me, it was.  I was. Hard. With that beautiful boy, little more than an arm’s reach away.

My imagination is active; though my physique at the time?  Puffy, post-speed flab that rendered me uncomfortable in the flesh I inhabited.

And my skin?  Remained clothed, not “ho”ed out, as I wish it would’ve been.

I didn’t even introduce myself to that spiky-haired little number, let alone coax him into my own take on the Triple-X.

Thin and long-limbed: same as the memory I have of him, stretched-out. Three? Four? Has it been five years since then?

All this time, and I still see his caramel-hued complexion screened in my mind.  A story of me, a beautiful boy, and what might have been. Really not so much a story, as it is.

The description of an absence.

—Clint Catalyst

(Remembrance of A Sundown Salon event)