As a person that has grown up within a family that owns concession stands since the 50’s—- fair after fair after festival. So many towns—- you described that coin toss game perfectly appealing to every sense I remembered it as a child. I, too, stood there and listened to that sound— the dimes made the best plinks!!! I miss sneaking into the side shows and making friends with all the different carnival folks. They always watched out for me when I wandered in and after some time, brought me back to our stand. I had so many adventures. The fairs really did take on a whole different personality at night than the day time. Almost mythical.
And this is why I have canvasses with weird demon faces all over my apartment. Those peel-off pore-shrinking masks? Just stick them to a wet canvas and add a few layers of paint and waalaa, creepy AF art!
There's a gorgeous guy on Instagram, burly with a beard, who jokingly calls himself Bluto from Popeye. Every day he posts himself saying "Mornin'" is his hunky deep voice, just that one word. It's a shot of dopamine right to the brain, and I get sad if I miss it in his stories. I get the same feeling when you write "whatnot." Thanks for the double shot.
Great post. The nature of being an artist —irrespective of the medium—is exploring materials, inklings, ideas, obsessions, repulsions, emotions and the unconscious without judgement. Some of the most fun I've had making stuff occurred back in the 00's when I started collecting materials I found repulsive: pounds of drier lint from the local laundromat; discarded refrigerator doors; foam from curbside couch cushions; used coffee grinds, used cotton swabs; and other random items that were dirty, broken, and generally considered "unclean" by the general population. I'd pour liquid latex out onto a large sheet of plexiglass. Peel it off like skin, then wrapped the refrigerator doors packed tight with the collective lint of other people's laundry. The effect was uncanny. I felt nervous about what people would think about me as a person—but I was having so much fun I started to not give a shit. I'd also heat dark wax for lost was bronze casting, cut up old house painting brushes, carve the foam cushions with an electric carving knife one might use for a Thanksgiving bird, and made sculptures that looked like they been discovered in the basement of an abandoned mental hospital. I had some interest from a suburban gallery in Jersey for one of the tamer pieces, but the experience of allowing myself to play with these materials and processes was priceless.
A favorite quote of mine attributed to McLuhan: We don't know who discovered water, but we know it wasn't the fish.
I was anticipating the content of this post after you alluded to what was to come in a response to a previous question of mine from yesterdays post. The anecdote and information included here were well worth the wait! Have you ever "unearthed" something through your writing which surprised you to any degree? For example, have you ever intended to write about something only to realise that you may have been "unearthing" something else entirely?
Also, I thought I'd mention today that myself and a few other students from my Uni English Lit group were interviewed by a BBC journalist about Offence and Censorship in Literature (which, given the ephemeral theme going on in your posts, I found to be a little coincidental considering I asked if you would maybe at some point in the future do a post the very same subject only a few days before). I'm mentioning this I as I spoke a little about you, and more specifically, your short story "Guts" as a talking point. To paraphrase myself here, I believe I said: "In regards to stories that can be considered taboo or upsetting, Chuck Palahniuk wrote a story called "Guts" which, and I know this might sound like exaggeration, has actually made people faint. I knew about this when I read the story, and even so, I felt nauseous reading it. I actually took a break and found myself laughing a little because of how squeamish I felt. I think this is kind of the same in principle as the to the reasons why people ride rollercoasters or watch horror movies. They get a controlled thrill. Something's evoked from them within the confines of a safe environment. And, like I said, "Guts" made me feel a way in which no other story or piece of media has before. And I love it for that."
The recording might be a little less eloquently said than how a paraphrased it and is unfortunately spoken in a monotone voice that would put Darth Vader to shame. They also may or may not include it when they broadcast the final recording in the next two upcoming months.
Speaking of "Guts", and having the opportunity, I'd like to thank you for one of the most viscerally evocative reading experiences I've had in my life. I've yet to find something to equal it.
Bwah! You got me again, Mr. Unreliable Narrator. Damn, you do that well. I couldn't get the image out of my head. A teenage girl in kitten heels climbing a lattice of lead solder. Poppycock! And then you hooked me. "As for me, I want you to think I’m a liar." Crafty you are, with rainbow lights and words.
Growing up I'd go to the Puyallup Fair outside of Tacoma. What I remember best was the pneumatic machine gun BB gun shooting gallery where you had to shoot out this little red star to get a prize. They'd only put one hundred BBs in the gun (or so they claimed)—just enough so you couldn't get the whole star. I can still hear that pneumatic sound of trying to get the whole star. Damn carnies!
Also, that quest yields a prettier result than, say, building a Devil’s Tower replica out of mashed potatoes and freaking out your family (which is the first thing that came to my mind).
In 1981 my elementary school class was given a presentation on electricity by a now mostly forgotten inventor of the three-way lightbulb. It was so long ago now that I really only recall that he seemed incredibly old and that he had the class hold hands to demonstrate how we could form a circuit to illuminate a lightbulb. There’s a fair bit of illumination (and even some virtual hand-joining) happening around here. Thanks for sharing, teaching, providing, and chatting. I’m positive that I’m not the only one feeling charged up here.
Reading this, I could not stop thinking of Denny and his rocks. It almost seemed like a parallel, how you didn't know why you felt so drawn to it until you had collected enough to make the connection, Denny doesn't know yet what he plans to build with his rocks. Although, Denny's habit was a replacement behavior, I still couldn't get that out of my head. I looked in the comments and didn't see if anyone else noticed, so maybe it's just me, but I think it's cool how I'm sure you've already subconsiously written this scene into one of your books.
This prompted me to post my first Substack story. I originally wrote it while exploring my childhood with my therapist. So often my memories are triggered by sights or sounds or smells. Sometimes those memories are quite vivid, sometimes so fleeting and amorphus that I've spent years trying to grab on to them when they appear.
Several years after writing that one, I read (or heard) somewhere you saying something about people writing in second person often do so to distance themselves from the subject matter. I had originally written it as an exercise in second person, but after that quote was never really sure if I had, or if I was attempting to keep myself at arm's length from the story.
There's a print on my wall from 1902 I'm looking at now and wondering if I might be cool with it in a newer frame...student loans, man.
But anyway, I haven't peaked over the ledge that is my memories of growing up beyond the artificial facts of it in a long while. It's kind of intimidating, if I'm being honest. I guess I probably just have to find the courage to leap instead of waiting for someone to shove me, you know?
I am going down to the Prineville Reservoir to look at stars using my Dobsonian telescope. I hope to see some wonderful things at this certified international dark sky park. Maybe these things will inspire some cosmic horror writing from me in the future, when I get reminded on how insignificant we are in the universe. If anything, I can do some rock hounding at the park for some future art projects. I have always felt that my creative projects have helped to inspire my other creative endeavors. Thank you for the wonderful story.
As a person that has grown up within a family that owns concession stands since the 50’s—- fair after fair after festival. So many towns—- you described that coin toss game perfectly appealing to every sense I remembered it as a child. I, too, stood there and listened to that sound— the dimes made the best plinks!!! I miss sneaking into the side shows and making friends with all the different carnival folks. They always watched out for me when I wandered in and after some time, brought me back to our stand. I had so many adventures. The fairs really did take on a whole different personality at night than the day time. Almost mythical.
I still hate clowns though. No.
And this is why I have canvasses with weird demon faces all over my apartment. Those peel-off pore-shrinking masks? Just stick them to a wet canvas and add a few layers of paint and waalaa, creepy AF art!
There's a gorgeous guy on Instagram, burly with a beard, who jokingly calls himself Bluto from Popeye. Every day he posts himself saying "Mornin'" is his hunky deep voice, just that one word. It's a shot of dopamine right to the brain, and I get sad if I miss it in his stories. I get the same feeling when you write "whatnot." Thanks for the double shot.
I had a staredown with a solar light destroying backyard raccoon. I hope he enjoys fifty vases filled with glass pebbles.
Great post. The nature of being an artist —irrespective of the medium—is exploring materials, inklings, ideas, obsessions, repulsions, emotions and the unconscious without judgement. Some of the most fun I've had making stuff occurred back in the 00's when I started collecting materials I found repulsive: pounds of drier lint from the local laundromat; discarded refrigerator doors; foam from curbside couch cushions; used coffee grinds, used cotton swabs; and other random items that were dirty, broken, and generally considered "unclean" by the general population. I'd pour liquid latex out onto a large sheet of plexiglass. Peel it off like skin, then wrapped the refrigerator doors packed tight with the collective lint of other people's laundry. The effect was uncanny. I felt nervous about what people would think about me as a person—but I was having so much fun I started to not give a shit. I'd also heat dark wax for lost was bronze casting, cut up old house painting brushes, carve the foam cushions with an electric carving knife one might use for a Thanksgiving bird, and made sculptures that looked like they been discovered in the basement of an abandoned mental hospital. I had some interest from a suburban gallery in Jersey for one of the tamer pieces, but the experience of allowing myself to play with these materials and processes was priceless.
A favorite quote of mine attributed to McLuhan: We don't know who discovered water, but we know it wasn't the fish.
Thank you Chuck. This is so beautifully written. Thank you for sharing. I'm loving your Substack!
I was anticipating the content of this post after you alluded to what was to come in a response to a previous question of mine from yesterdays post. The anecdote and information included here were well worth the wait! Have you ever "unearthed" something through your writing which surprised you to any degree? For example, have you ever intended to write about something only to realise that you may have been "unearthing" something else entirely?
Also, I thought I'd mention today that myself and a few other students from my Uni English Lit group were interviewed by a BBC journalist about Offence and Censorship in Literature (which, given the ephemeral theme going on in your posts, I found to be a little coincidental considering I asked if you would maybe at some point in the future do a post the very same subject only a few days before). I'm mentioning this I as I spoke a little about you, and more specifically, your short story "Guts" as a talking point. To paraphrase myself here, I believe I said: "In regards to stories that can be considered taboo or upsetting, Chuck Palahniuk wrote a story called "Guts" which, and I know this might sound like exaggeration, has actually made people faint. I knew about this when I read the story, and even so, I felt nauseous reading it. I actually took a break and found myself laughing a little because of how squeamish I felt. I think this is kind of the same in principle as the to the reasons why people ride rollercoasters or watch horror movies. They get a controlled thrill. Something's evoked from them within the confines of a safe environment. And, like I said, "Guts" made me feel a way in which no other story or piece of media has before. And I love it for that."
The recording might be a little less eloquently said than how a paraphrased it and is unfortunately spoken in a monotone voice that would put Darth Vader to shame. They also may or may not include it when they broadcast the final recording in the next two upcoming months.
Speaking of "Guts", and having the opportunity, I'd like to thank you for one of the most viscerally evocative reading experiences I've had in my life. I've yet to find something to equal it.
Bwah! You got me again, Mr. Unreliable Narrator. Damn, you do that well. I couldn't get the image out of my head. A teenage girl in kitten heels climbing a lattice of lead solder. Poppycock! And then you hooked me. "As for me, I want you to think I’m a liar." Crafty you are, with rainbow lights and words.
Growing up I'd go to the Puyallup Fair outside of Tacoma. What I remember best was the pneumatic machine gun BB gun shooting gallery where you had to shoot out this little red star to get a prize. They'd only put one hundred BBs in the gun (or so they claimed)—just enough so you couldn't get the whole star. I can still hear that pneumatic sound of trying to get the whole star. Damn carnies!
Also, that quest yields a prettier result than, say, building a Devil’s Tower replica out of mashed potatoes and freaking out your family (which is the first thing that came to my mind).
In 1981 my elementary school class was given a presentation on electricity by a now mostly forgotten inventor of the three-way lightbulb. It was so long ago now that I really only recall that he seemed incredibly old and that he had the class hold hands to demonstrate how we could form a circuit to illuminate a lightbulb. There’s a fair bit of illumination (and even some virtual hand-joining) happening around here. Thanks for sharing, teaching, providing, and chatting. I’m positive that I’m not the only one feeling charged up here.
Reading this, I could not stop thinking of Denny and his rocks. It almost seemed like a parallel, how you didn't know why you felt so drawn to it until you had collected enough to make the connection, Denny doesn't know yet what he plans to build with his rocks. Although, Denny's habit was a replacement behavior, I still couldn't get that out of my head. I looked in the comments and didn't see if anyone else noticed, so maybe it's just me, but I think it's cool how I'm sure you've already subconsiously written this scene into one of your books.
This prompted me to post my first Substack story. I originally wrote it while exploring my childhood with my therapist. So often my memories are triggered by sights or sounds or smells. Sometimes those memories are quite vivid, sometimes so fleeting and amorphus that I've spent years trying to grab on to them when they appear.
Several years after writing that one, I read (or heard) somewhere you saying something about people writing in second person often do so to distance themselves from the subject matter. I had originally written it as an exercise in second person, but after that quote was never really sure if I had, or if I was attempting to keep myself at arm's length from the story.
There's a print on my wall from 1902 I'm looking at now and wondering if I might be cool with it in a newer frame...student loans, man.
But anyway, I haven't peaked over the ledge that is my memories of growing up beyond the artificial facts of it in a long while. It's kind of intimidating, if I'm being honest. I guess I probably just have to find the courage to leap instead of waiting for someone to shove me, you know?
I am going down to the Prineville Reservoir to look at stars using my Dobsonian telescope. I hope to see some wonderful things at this certified international dark sky park. Maybe these things will inspire some cosmic horror writing from me in the future, when I get reminded on how insignificant we are in the universe. If anything, I can do some rock hounding at the park for some future art projects. I have always felt that my creative projects have helped to inspire my other creative endeavors. Thank you for the wonderful story.
That was beautiful.