Alan Catlin’s Memories is a dream book that leaps from right now to way back. In short, bursting vignettes he lets his mind and words play across memory and all the randomness memory triggers. From an opium dream to Candace Bergen, from a side glance at racial tensions to a parting glance at Mrs. Robinson, Catlin floats his readers down a stream of memory bubbles, then reaches up and pulls them into a fractured world beneath the surface. This book exhilarates with startling images and jazzy, jagged cadences.
-Mike James, author of Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor and Parades
Sleeping with Jim Morrison. Not a religious
experience. Said Eve Babitz. She would
know. Knew him when. New word-Zuihitsu.
means writing by following the brush. How
about by following the thought. Wherever.
Whatever. Along The Narrow Road to the Interior.
I guess. No evident meaning. Asleep, I am, on
my pillow book. Not the movie. Maybe my life.
Definitely not a Draughtsman Contract.
I apologize for the eyes in my head. I dare
you to spell Komunyakaa twice fast. Once.
Oh the trouble I have seen. In my interior
journal. The brush is wet. Light my fire.
Can’t wake up. My pillow book is so
aggressive. Inscribing pictures of Breughel
on my skin. Not tattoos. Not an illustrative
man. A motion picture. Skin movies.
Theaters of the mind. Coming soon.
Not as good as real sex. Or as bad.
Dreamed I was in the Crazy Horse
Gift Shop. They only showed Fassbinder
films. Love is colder than death. Sleeping
with my doll Freckles. Like something
from Anne Rice. She collects them. Not
freckles. Dolls. Always sleeping. The dolls
are. Like you wish babies would do. Go the
Fuck to Sleep. The ceramic ones. Dolls again.
One eye open. The other closed. Eerie.
Like the lake. The city. In the end fear eats
the soul. Ask Carole Maso and her Chinese Hat.
They said all of them had lungs like
Brillo pads. The legionnaires. They
didn’t look like the ones you saw in
movies. Like Akerman. Domesticity
never looked so domestic. After her
mother died she killed herself. Poor
Chantal. Long panning shots of buildings.
Folks walking about doing shit. Like
they always do. Did. Factories where
they used to work. Warehouses. Empty.
Derelict. Spinoza Decline and Fall.
Waugh. Evelyn or Evelyn. The only
rush hour is to the bars. Now serving
seven kinds of Satan’s Brew. Only
desolation angels are allowed to drink there.
Blue. Blue sky. Blue phase. Like
Picasso. Red roses for a blue lady.
Tangled up in blue. Blue Cheer.
Blues in f. Miles Davis. Kind of Blue.
Blue Angel. Bluets. Blue Tongue. Blue
baby. Vida Blue. Prussian Blue.
The Bluest Eye. Blue Cheese. Blue
blood. Blue collar. Blue bottle fly.
Blue law. Once in a blue moon. Blue
grass. Blue Whale. Blue frog. I’m in
love with. Blue tick. Blue flu. Blue
book. Bluebeard. Blue balls. On a
field of Blue. Blue Tattoo.