This website has no other purpose than to display Chris Barclay's apparent lack of writing talent.

Confessions of the "Sensitive Writer Fuckboy"

Confessions of the "Sensitive Writer Fuckboy"

I find that the only way that I can get myself to read the poetry of Allen Ginsberg is if I drive out late at night for, I don't know, 20 to 40 minutes sometimes, and sort of... find a place that is really out of the way. Somewhere I've never been before. And then I start reading a couple of poems, and I never really get what they're about.

See, the difference is between someone sitting down to write a poem in a definite preconceived metrical pattern and filling in that pattern, and someone working with his physiological movements and arriving at a pattern, and perhaps even arriving at a pattern that might even have a name, or might even have a classical usage, but arriving at it organically rather than synthetically. Nobody’s got any objection to even iambic pentameter if it comes from a source deeper than the mind, that is to say if it comes from the breathing and the belly and the lungs.
— Allen Ginsberg

It was highly hypocritical for me to casually check the Snapchat Discovery page that one day after 5th period at school. Especially after writing my meditative essay disparaging the notion of doing exactly that. Yet I did, and saw this:

 https://www.buzzfeed.com/beckybarnicoat/types-of-fuckboy-every-woman-has-experienced?utm_term=.vn5PpWpGA#.itmMJWJjm

https://www.buzzfeed.com/beckybarnicoat/types-of-fuckboy-every-woman-has-experienced?utm_term=.vn5PpWpGA#.itmMJWJjm

And it reminded me of this:

John Cage, in his piece 4:33'', attempts to make the point that music is just the categorization of sounds in a specific container of time, like a canvas painted white. 

The title indeed says "Confessions" in the title, so here are some confessions I'd like to make off the bat

  • I am a fuckboy: If we're going by the Urban Dictionary definition (A person who is a weak ass pussy that ain't bout shit) then I would gladly acknowledge that I fit that definition. 
... To be really human [...] is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic.
— David Foster Wallace
  • I am pretentious and assuming, lonely and solipsistic, and glad that I am these things during this point in my life.
Loneliness makes us more capable of true intimacy if ever better opportunities do come along. It heightens the conversations we have with ourselves, it gives us a character. We don’t repeat what everyone else thinks. We develop a point of view. We might be isolated for now, but we’ll be capable of far closer, more interesting bonds with anyone we do eventually locate.
— The Book of Life "Why We're Fated to Be Lonely (But That's OK)"

 

  • I am most likely going to grow up to be like my father, and my father's father, but not my father's father's father.

Both my father and my grandfather are quite intellectual. Reading books, staying au courant, learning about debate or cooking or tech or ecology, these two have always understood the intrinsic value of self-education. They are not famous, and not entirely without fault. But, they are happy with their lives.

  • I don't want to grow up to be like my father, and my father's father
  • I idolize writers whose works I have barely scratched the surface of 
  • I don't care about staying au courant anymore, I just like saying the word (see: I'm pretentious)
  • I am a romantic rather than a classicist
  • I follow the rules because of a very deep fear that I will be staking my relationship with my parents, brother, and family
  • I am a hypocrite: I write about how traffic signs and lights embody this Foucault sense of Panopticism, and how TV builds a more abstract form of this exact principle, and how both play into our ingrained Pavlovian conditioning
  • I am not happy with my life, and that's been helping me become a better person

Wasn't that fun? I feel like we learned something about each other just then. You probably related to one of those, or you're judging me—which would mean that you're assuming, thus a hypocrite, thus relating to me :)

Alexander Scriabin, the "Sensitive Composer Fuckboy", held onto a god-complex. He believed that he could destroy the world with a last concert, in a huge denouement of cathartic music: it was called Mysterium. [Wikipedia quote on this: "For some time before his death he had planned a multi-media work to be performed in the Himalaya Mountains, that would cause a so-called "armageddon," "a grandiose religious synthesis of all arts which would herald the birth of a new world."] Oh yeah, and he was synesthetic: He saw colors when he heard certain notes.

Back to John Cage: the experimentalist composer fuckboy

To make a text that was nonsyntaxical . . . I see everywhere around me the bad effects of language making sense. It’s conceivable that we can get some good effects from language making nonsense.
— John Cage, 7:55 https://vimeo.com/66399560

So John Cage wrote this book about language and writing and other things, and tried to "demilitarize" language. It was called Empty Words, and it was very, very pretentious

Empty Words can justifiably be described as pretentious, a work accessible only to an educated coterie. Visually and sonically, it is hostile to conventional notions of sense and harmony. Yet Cage did not intend only to provoke.
— http://jacket2.org/article/hidden-harmonies-john-cages-empty-words

One of the key confessions of the "Sensitive Writer Fuckboy" is that he questions himself more than anything else, and doesn't know if he is alone in this, or if other non-sensitivewriterfuckboys do this more than anything else too. But John Cage poses a very relieving notion about this.

No really, seriously, between, say you’re concerned with beauty, wouldn’t you choose something that’s beautiful rather than ugly? Okay, then your notion will remain what it was. So you won’t move at all. You’ll stay just where you were. But by asking questions you will change.
— 2:30 https://vimeo.com/66399560

John Cage was incorrect about a LOT of things—perhaps he thought, like Scriabin did, that he, on his little ivory tower, knew better than you or me—but on this I believe that he's really onto something. Questions prompt change: like in Allen Ginsberg's poem America:

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. 

America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.   

I can’t stand my own mind. 

America when will we end the human war? 

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. 

I don’t feel good don’t bother me. 

I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. 

America when will you be angelic? 

When will you take off your clothes? 

When will you look at yourself through the grave? 

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? 

America why are your libraries full of tears? 

. . .

. . . the poem goes on.

These past days have been buried in heartache. I remember a day in winter watching this very peculiar girl draw her name on a sheet of paper. Then she drew it again, and again, and again and again. When I asked her why she kept drawing her name, she casually responded to lose track of her identity. She wanted to make the familiar strange, to question what her name meant to herself. It was the most beautiful and confusing concept that I had ever considered, and I stood there just awestruck and enamored with this beautiful, very peculiar girl. And every time I tried to understand her since then on, I could never grasp who she really was. But I was sure that it was beautiful, and I remember being overwhelmed by that beauty.

That's my confession, I guess. I am a sensitive writer fuckboy. And it really, really sucks.

Sorry for uploading late. I'll be back on schedule soon

Perhaps, Like in the Poem Howl

Perhaps, Like in the Poem Howl

My Trips to Planet Sand Dune

My Trips to Planet Sand Dune