"THE FIRST IMAGINARY AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN THE WORLD"

this one is not it. someone beat us there. someone unnamed, obviously, but whose story was chronicled nonetheless -- and whether to call that chronicle fiction is, given the topic, beside the point. the resolution of ignácio de loyola brandão's anonymous celebrity was disappointing as compared to the originality of its titular personality's voice and narrative mode (the latter frustratingly reminiscent of a tabloid weblog), but even for its cop out conclusion, that autobiography-cum-case file -- and especially for all of its formulations and recommendations) still annuls the originality of our own.

"Scurrilous" is a great word.

Creation and dissipation. "Dissipation" is another good one. A word with many connotations. You can dissipate your health through drugs, orgies, alcoholism -- hedonism. Or else, in perfect tranquility an with an untroubled conscience, you can dissipate your talent. Wasteful expenditure [delusional hipsterity].

I used these and other words quite often in my imaginary autobiography (a genre I've invented myself, and which I hope secures me a place in the history of literature.)

to think that we've supported the cause of literary translation with such dedication, only to find out that had we been spared the translation of this one title we wouldn't now be faced with having to give up the game. "a good imaginary autobiographer has to be comfortable starting from scratch every once and a while if his sculpture begins to fall apart."

i wrecked over the weekend on the east bank esplanade. a design failure, and the reason that i generally avoid the esplanade. i met the path with my right hand, and for the second time in six months my gloves saved me, at least from road rash (which i admit is too noble sounding a phrase for describing any injury i might have sustained from a crash like mine the other day). i did not, however, walk away without a noticeable amount of bruising. one of the two men who got off of their bicycles to check after my well being as i sat on the path with my right knee and shoulder numb from the blunt trauma of the crash knew the score. "i know how it feels. it's more of an ego blow than anything." so he understood when i asked him and the other guy to leave me alone.

I have trained myself to think perfect thoughts -- sequences constructed with loving care and then saved, frozen in special compartments of my memory set aside for just this purpose. I stage a scene and then redo and correct it, change details, adjust its contours, colors, details. i bridge gaps, cut together the final print.

thankfully, the sore throat i developed later wasn't gonorrhea.