Ultra Kwon's Blog: gollyland

Remember when NASA beamed Beatles music out to space in some veiled hope of contacting alien life?

This is like receiving a response.

real life doesn't have to make sense.

Here’s a surreal chronicle of my experience with Publishers Weekly Booklife, the free review consideration program offered to indie authors, most of whom are eager for exposure but too penniless to do anything about it.

Wind-Up Publishers Weekly Chronicle

No. No no I don’t. Of course not. But you get my meaning.

And I’m stunned to hear this come out of her transparent forehead. So stunned I forgot what prompted the blatant hatefulness out of her adorable lips, and yet finally understanding what she meant… after all this time.

Why couldn’t I feel that way when she was still within reach?

There’s no point in looking for her now. Barreleyes is out there, still out there, way out there, trapped in aqua space. Maybe somewhere, someday, I’ll come across her, emerge in my hot pink submarine and she’ll come aboard, treasured and enraptured, to fly away from the anti-gravitational cage of my infinite brain if she isn’t already a fish skull in an atmospheric diving suit by then.

because I'm really not humble.

or did we make him in ours

gollyland is a place where you can’t create and you can’t consume.

That’s where I am right now.

gollyland.

That’s where you are right now.

gollyland

Void and static.

And for the longest time, this is all I can think.

I know I’m a better writer than 100% of writers out there.

My self-hate stems from the fact I can still be better.

I’ve started thinking of ending it with Phil for good because he’s a hack.

Not counting the fact, of course, that my five favorite books of all time are probably by him.

But in gollyland, you’re only as good as your last book I’ve read, which happens to be Transmigration of Timothy Archer.

And yet, when the library closed for construction and I had to resort to an ebook, I took it as a sign to pick up another of Phil’s, the hardcopy of which has eluded the LAPL database.

Get your shit together, LAPL!

About fifteen pages later, I like it, and I like it a lot. It reads like Phil actually gave a shit this time. I’m still keeping my expectations in check. You must when romancing Philip, and his other cajoleries in the archives of What-Have-You-Done-For-Me-Lately-Cum-You-Call-This-Love? are Counter-Clock World, Game-Players of Titan, A World Jones Made, Radio Free Albemuth, the vastly overrated Valis, and Ganymede Fuckin Takeover – and did I say Ganymede Fuckin Takeover? – each of which once offered similar gold tin foiled Kisses that started as Hershey’s, ended as Judas’.

And stop blaming it on the drugs!

No more excuses, Horselover Fat. Not another misstep.

I can only give back what you give me, and it’s your move.