new writing

at robot melon

The Man and the Owl Person

an interview with sam pink

"when i was in high school i was visited and haunted by satan one afternoon while i was by myself in my basement room/ i am not lying. satan is a sound that is really loud and frightening. i feel explosions of intense value-less happiness when writing[...]"

Sam Pink is the author of I Am Going to Clone Myself Then Kill the Clone And Eat It, published by Paper Hero Press.



Here's a prelude to the interview:

Sam: justin, you're dead man. you're dead. (raking leaves in yard)

Justin: What's that? (raking at other end of yard)

Sam: (continues raking leaves)

Is this on purpose? Towards the end of some of your stories is a dark moment that's inside itself and yet also links back to an earlier unexplained detail.

yes i noticed that there is usually some kind of link. i think that happens because i don't know what i am doing. i honestly feel like the less i know what i am doing, the better time i have.

Are you a sadistic postal worker?

i applied to be a postal worker but then i found out you have to pay a big fee to take the test to get certified. plus when i'm outside i always get the urge to just live outside. like run away and just walk around all day.

And also, do you feel haunted when you're writing?

when i was in high school i was visited and haunted by satan one afternoon while i was by myself in my basement room/ i am not lying. satan is a sound that is really loud and frightening. i feel explosions of intense value-less happiness when writing, coupled with some kind of not-present feeling that is more like, zapped alcoholic uncle, rather than, creative genius. i get into moods. sometimes it's like, i wouldn't be surprised if someone walked by my room and said, "your hand is broken horribly" and then i'd look at my hand and not care. i think there is a feeling i get when i forget about everything else except for my stupid ass, and that's when i like to write out silly things for me to read later.

Would you describe your stories as fables? And are your plays about morality?

probably not fables but that's because when i tried to think of what a fable is just now, i couldn't remember. probably not fables but people have told me, aphoristic, which i maybe could agree with because i like to write lines that make sense by themselves. i would feel like a sneaky bastard trying to build up something then explain a moral or meaning. i'd have to pause and look at myself on a cd case and say, "hey, mr sneaky bastard man, what are you doing?" i don't really have any feelings about morality. it seems like i don't care about anything like that at all. and i've realized it when dealing with other people who tell me there is something wrong with me being like that. the plays aren't about morality. i am very confident that the plays i am working on now have no morals to teach. i did read aesop's fables at least ten times after i first learned to read so maybe that motherfucker aesop is inhabiting my body and trying to pass his pathetic moral agenda. fucking aesop, (punching own thigh (bite of bananas from next to computer (nodding head happy, forgetful of what just happened (thigh hurts))))

Can you describe an ideal reader for your writing? Or, better yet, a reader who is bad?

i will answer this by describing the character of people who have read it so far and professed to liking it. these people are a different kind of open minded even though that is a shitty phrase. mostly when people say open minded they mean, "believe what i say so i don't feel insecure about it." what i mean is "you can see that anything is worthwhile and believable, nothing is important." these are people who can read a line about cutting off your own head with a sword and not think i am trying to get small kids to do the same or that i am trying to be mean. i hope it's entertaining to read, entertaining meaning whatever loosens your neck muscles after repeatedly knocking your forehead into the drywall all day. there are no bad readers, there will be people who like it, and people who do not. neither of them are more important to me nor do i consider them differently after hearing how they feel. it would be stupid of me to concern myself with trying to change someone else's opinion. liking or not liking something is an inexplicable thing. you can say meaningless nice things about it or you can say meaningless bad shit about it. anyway sorry justin, sorry: a bad reader is someone who reads the book then uses a hacksaw to cut between the bones on my feet while playing a tom waits album and deriding me for not liking it.

Do you consider yourself a 'writer'?

probably not. because that kind of thing is always about-to-be. i don't know if people will continue to like what i do, including myself. so writer is inaccurate. but i do type on an old laptop a lot.

I liked your description of your book of plays. Would you happy if Keanu Reeves played one or many of the characters?

the collection of plays is the thing i am most excited about ever, even above when i had the plastic ghostbusters ray gun, with back mount and the containment unit. justin, i built a containment unit of my own, it is a sprinkler with a flashlight hooked up to it. i am going to catch you and suspend you in light for as long as a D battery works. (i am going to answer the keanu reeves question like i think my friend's grandfather would) well, i think, i think that keanu would do just fine, i think he would. that sounds just wonderful.

Do you have a touring plan?


the tour is from bedroom to bathroom, from bathroom to living room couch, from living room couch to bedroom. i will probably tour for another forty years or so.

Is there a trout painted near you?

the trout is painted by holding its breath and becoming blue.


Eat pears?


yes, i love pears. dried are my favorite.

Can you describe Chris Killen?

here are two truths about chris killen:

1. he has never written anything i didn't like super duper style
2. in a terrible accident fifteen years ago, chris killen was wearing an armful of friendship bracelets when he tripped and hit his head, lying in the sun for days. when he awoke, the friendship bracelets had grafted to his arm and he became the ultimate friend.

When you're inventing something are you doing something that feels illicit to you? Or does it feel harmless?

i feel criminal good like i kicked someone's ass in an alley and they will not tell the authorities out of embarrassment.

At what hour at night do you burp?

if i haven't been drinking enough water throughout the day, i burp what tastes like chalk. when this happens, i remember i will be dead one day (factual answer)

Is there a method to your poetry?

there is no method, which make me nervous when i can't think of anything. sometimes there is just waiting. i think what happens is that i get into a mood, a mood that i wouldn't like in another person probably. then i start to love the mood and i only think through the mood. if i think of another person, the mood is ruined.

Will you ever have a clone army that promotes your writing?


barry graham, the publisher, is hard at work in his basement lab trying to make clones. so far, his theory of taking a picture of me then sprinkling "magic dust" on it hasn't yielded anything positive.

Can I be your clone?

yes justin, yes. but you have to let me try that thing that moe does where he puts out his fist and then slaps it and windmills it into your head. i have never been able to try that to another human. that would be your first duty. then you would find my fucking phone which i can't find at all. by now i've probably missed one call from a small hispanic kid that keeps calling me and saying, "poppy?" one of these times i am going to say, "yes son, it is your poppy, and i am disappointed in you foreever." (factual answer)

Can you describe the winter comb?

the winter comb only combs my back and neck when i am out on a walk deciding whether or not i will return home.

Can you tell me how it found it?

with a pair of binoculars i fashioned from two empty toilet paper rolls, and small shards of ice at the ends to magnify. all of this is done in a bathrobe that i leave open, sitting on the couch in my living room with a rapidly-becoming-soggy bowl of Blueberry Morning cereal


Are you friendly with your neighbors?

i don't think i've ever seen my neighbors.

What would you do in the following situation: you have arrived at a airplane terminal for a reading that seemed wrong to you, but there is nothing in the terminal that you can see except for a telephone booth and a waitress who's lying in a puddle of blood. When the phone rings you notice that on both sides of you there are men lined up in their own separate spaces, they're all facing your way, and their faces are without character.

shit this is a good question. i'd look down one side of men, then down the other, then i'd flip my collar up and raise an eyebrow, producing a copy of CLONE from my sleeve and then say "one of you needs to clean that blood off the floor using your mouth and the others will kick you while you do it but you must not cough up any of the blood or we all get to kill you." at that point, i'd begin on page one of CLONE and put it down once i got bored, moving on to buying a stale package of trail mix from the airport vending machine, watching the men kick another man who is drinking blood like a wolf.

The Guest

About the guest who had flung himself through the door while we were eating dinner there was at first nothing too disturbing, but later on in the evening, as he was showing us the caterpillars in the folds of his boating jacket, we did find some rather ghastly things about his skin, the way he moved, his laugh, his way of surreptitiously touching one of us on our backs, his crotch, the color of his tongue, and his hat.

At this time our children's favorite activity was a mysterious game that was played in the bedroom, but only when we had absented ourselves from it, and whose noise was quite a racket. But then we had become so accustomed to the peculiarities of our family, because as far back as we could remember we were sure that there were always the amazing instances of uncanniness which had so frequently accompanied the presence of our bodies in that house and sometimes elsewhere, sometimes in the forest, sometimes in the orchard, or at other times in the mayor's house or the tall house, which rose above the cliff.

Back to the gentleman, who although was beginning to exhibit the kind of strange behaviour that would seem to make him somewhat familiar to our family, at the same time we felt that there was something about him that was quite unknown, and haunting. But then he laughed at some new joke, and we all laughed too, except for our youngest son, so that for the moment we had become obliged to tuck our insecurities into a drawer.

The Door

There was a door I couldn't open.

In the mirror my hands and face were pale and as a ghost I was sleeping lightly, worrying, writing, peering out of windows, and peeing in the bathroom sink, which was runny and smooth as silver. And yet I had a creature under the bed now, a kind of dog, but knew that it was getting hungry.

However, finally, after several days of this, I found a key in the nook of a drawer, but by then I was delirious and could hardly move. And yet, thankfully, I found a cookie in my bed and ate it quickly, so with a renewed strength I ambled towards the door.

The key fit perfectly and I turned it slowly, my breathing sucked in to hear whatever sound it would make, and it was a clicking.

And it was very dark inside, but quickly there were various shapes, and they were faces looking frightened, with bright, wild eyes, and grasping hands, and yet none of them would dare to move towards me, for they had been behind the door for so very long, and they were wild people with such terrible weaknesses.

Then I got a candle and fetched the dog.

Inside, there was a gasping and a retreating of the people, who, I saw, with the little illumination, had been covered with a great amount of terrible sores and a kind of filthy underwear. And mostly they were extremely thin, although some of them were obese, and yet there was one I found attractive, a small, simple woman with rosy cheeks whose retreat was slower than the others, but was complete nevertheless.

And so then I moved slowly into the room with my creature beside me. Inside, it was cold, and the floor was soft and filthy, and, as I crept forward, the people moved away, but the girl stayed behind. "Who are you?" I said.

"My name is Vanessa," she began. "I have been living in this department for almost ten years now, and I'm only 19 or maybe 20. Just look at my hands, how they shake. It is because, you see, of the awfulness of our populace, although not everyone here is as bad as those you have seen. And yet still it is pretty bad. I don't know how I've made it, you see, I'm all green in the face and my hair has gone wild; at one time it was straight and quite golden, but now it hangs loosely like a doll; I have been typing in the closet these reports for those bastards. It is the only way they'll ever feed me, or lend me the loose, tattered blanket for warmth in my bed. Will you please come this way?"

Mirrors

Mirrors were banned in the town, as they were held to attract spirits as well as ungainly grandmothers. But there was one mirror allowed. It was in a church and locked up in the basement with a senile old man and his dog. The old man was a gardener for the church and before that he was a preacher, and before even this he was a student of the church, and his mother was a mirror maker. And so, of course, it was this man who had written the ordinance against mirrors, for he was extremely envious, and besides that he was senile.

Yes, it was the mirror, but also his mother, who was just like a mirror, since everything she did was an imitation of his actions. And at all times of the day it was the mother he saw in the mirror whenever he looked at it in the basement; he saw her in the house where the other mirror was kept, which was a secret mirror.

The mother was very old and was probably deranged. In the morning, she woke up early, dreaming only of the mirror, breathing heavily with every dream, and she was awake in a sweat of tears and passion for the mirror, feverish, needing to visit the toilet, shower, and devour a warm breakfast. Outside, it was verdant, as she was very protective of her abode, and particularly of her mirror, and so lived on a country estate in the city, and had orchards and a garden, which had been planted by her son and, when he left her, was maintained by a new gardener, a young man named Mirror, who was a thief.

Mirror seemed happy; he had no secrets from the mother, and never stole from her, but oftentimes he would show his treasures to the mother. And Mirror worked easily, barely sweating, in the garden; he liked the garden, and he liked his body. Mirror was sensual and attempted to seduce the mother, but the mother worried that he was only attempting to gain access to the mirror.



And yet the mother knew that he was sexy, that he had worked hard in the garden, and that it was fortunate that he was a thief, as he would gain access to many secrets and be scouting out for other kinds of mirrors, and besides would share with her his treasures; and so the mother would often consider inviting him into her bed, and sharing of the mirror with him, but it was such a dangerous thought and it caused her nightmares. Besides that it was easily possible that the young man was a secret friend of her son, the senile old man in the basement, and that they were friends and would often joke around and poke some fun at the mother, for she was quite sensitive and imaginative; she wrote letters to the town council and the newspaper about many things, and had almost completed a novella.

Yes, she was in love with the young man, with Mirror, and had almost forgotten her son, and increasingly her actions were not like his at all, and never had been, for it had all been quite the game. And so she would surely share the mirror with him someday, and allow him to come into her bedroom, where she would undress and fondle him.

Near a Window

In the evening we passed into a house in which some tea was being served on a candlelit table which was near a large window which overlooked a canyon of trees, and the principle employee, a waitress who was clothed in the fashion of the village, had apparently been waiting for some time behind a standing table beside the bar.

At our own table we shared a glass of which had been waiting for us or else had appeared on the table at a time in which we had looked out the window, or into our eyes, our hands touching, and this whispering soul, which we couldn’t see but could feel outside as it approached, as we knew that its pursuit of us was blind and yet relentless as it was inevitable… but then we ordered a plate of ravioli, which was preceded by a basket of a buttered bread, and behind the bar I thought I caught a glimpse of the gleefully sweating bartender or a cook.

And then our conversation, which in the hushed solitude of the restaurant, was not only a stimulant but a predicator of our insistent love and relaxation, not only that but a defense against the cold, which was that danger with which we knew were barely escaping.

Or were we escaping it at all, and could we really be together, or was she absent or was I the one who was lost out in the cold, perhaps down in the canyon where the soul was struggling and moving forward or perhaps it was forever in the wild and whispering into the trees-

***

And then by dawn the colorless expanse of the street had opened up to us, where there was visible not much inside the shops except for the vague movements of the workers as they were setting up the coffee makers and removing buns from ovens that had been baking overnight beneath the candle-like light of the side kitchens. But this sadness of the city, which in ordinary days was the center of our thoughts… it was no longer something that was vengeful. On the contrary, we found that soon enough the shops were opening, and that people were arriving in their cars and bikes, or walking in from all over the place, even from the hills above the city, and so we strolled over to a youthful looking place that stood on the corner of a main street.

Inside the shop we ordered a couple coffees, drip, a cinnamon bun, and a blueberry scone, then we put our sugar and cream into the coffees and went upstairs to our table behind a young man who was listening to a strange kind of heavy metal on his headphones. And then, after a brief conversation during which we often glanced over at the man, we both got out our notebooks and our books.

My own thing I was working on was entitled The Insurance of History. It was a title I had stolen from inside a novel by a writer who had been living in the city, but had recently disappeared. The Insurance of History was a story about the way my mood has been turning towards the sublime and a more sustainable kind of life, which was wrapped up with what I thought was a fluid movement of history, though I’m not really clear about what I mean by that. At the same time I’ve been confident about my eventual success with the story.