and so the conversation began

I sent the previous blog to Jen Steill who now lives in London.
If savory brisquit is our friendship, what is the tea?

She wrote back immediately from the confines of corona isolation, generously untangling chronologies of events as pertaining to how she arrived in Yemen and what unfolded there.
These became source material of her first two novels The Woman Who Fell To Earth and The Ambassador's Wife.
The first, as categorized by Googlereads, is an Autobiography, a straight replay of how she came to move to Yemen, who she met there, where she lived, what she ate and how the newspaper learned and adapted to change.
The second, Googlereads categorizes as Thriller, Suspense, Domestic Fiction. So, it would be an autobiographical true story based on the experience of meeting her husband and of being briefly abducted while visiting the countryside.

Both are real stories yet one is categorically "true" and the other is truth with a little flair?

As Jen unraveled her recent past, she too remembered meeting in new york city, where i stopped over for a night between boston and a flight back to costa rica. i had been considering writing my life story my whole life, that i night i decided it was important.
And so I did.
And it wasn't.
Over the next seven years, i wrote it and since then was ostracized by every single person in my life, family, friends, community. In the Cock year I got my Dog ass handed to me, called a prostitute, threatened with police summons, forbidden from speaking to my niece, called a thief, a liar, crazy, arrogant, and once my mother finished writing her own memoir, told that i literally had no life.

When I first met Jen at the corner bar, i was coming off the high of being published in Perú.
A fictionalized version of my life, what I would be like if I weren't a Bahai and if I had a lot money, and a father with no scruples.
I'd be just as lost.
shoegaze.
Casa de las muchachas, a two hundred page narrative about nine months of fetal development as experienced by the boozy best friend, in Santiago of 1995.
Casa de las muchachas was loosely based on my experience of bars and writers, in Chile, before gazing at shoes was a category to define a type of music, when the country was coming off the high of the plebiscite that removed Pinochet from power and replaced it with something far more sinister, a fanbase.

When Trini Subercaseux handed the keep of the corner bar I met Jen Steill in, to a man named Oscar, Trini went on to becoming a head chef for mccormick spices in their Latin American division.
She would visit restaurants far and wide compiling, sharing and promoting food preparation, plating and recipes, weaving commercial networks for the brand.
Two years ago, she started her own successful bistro in town.
If Trini is a real person in my life and I can write truthfully about her, about how she linked me to Jen Steill, why is Julian Assange still in jail?

thriller. suspense. domestic fiction.

I thought Casa de las muchachas would solve my life.
The way Julian Assange would solve crimes against humanity by exposing them, before discrepancy between official and informal information gathering was categorized as fake, between the street and the editorial, the chop block and the steak.
When the twin towers in NYC were demolished, the world and the time they were written and designed for, were erased.
Casa de las muchachas was merely the bilingual greys of my brain matter, an exercise of putting memory to paper, to words on pages, letting them out, passing them on.

wikipedia categorizes Elizabeth Wurtzel's work Prozac Nation as "confessional memoir". She published it when she was 27. There are no figures on the googlesearch, that tell how many copies were sold, only that reviews compared her work in importance to the Bell Jar and Girl Interrupted. She died last January, aged 52.

printed press, real news, false flag.
jen steill has had four of her books go to print, the latest is "exile music" at peguinrandomhouse.
about a musical family of austrian jews that migrate to bolivia to escape nazi germany.
this is not a review of that work, but the number of europeans who flocked to south america before, during and after, cannot be summarized in what i imagine is a well worded, bildungsroman.

i've never read a book from a kindle.
i don't tinder.
i've only read books that burn.
i've only seen one of the books i've written go to print.
since then i wrote The Puta Manifesto. i trusted the pages to a universal serial bus drive. i trusted the USB to Marco Kelso. he formatted the words with some pictures of me from 1996 into a virtual book. it seemed great at the moment. and then his real love took interest in him once again and he lost whatever The Puta Manifesto was, wires were tripped, circuits were shortened, files were erased, and their daughter was born.

shoegaze.
like a jeff buckley cover of an elliot smith song, jkrawling's world of magical wonders are neither magical nor wonderful. they don't speak the names of magic people, they bank on and burocratize magic, they limit magic by rule of law and order, it's almost as if a muggle who wanted to make a lot of money wrote about appropriating magical appropriation, harry instead of sarah potter.

Harry Potter was heavy and long and repetitive and full of formula designed to lull the young adult's brain into the comfortable space of reading, following plot thread, through familiar settings of schools and racists, secret societies and things that sound british.
HP also stands for Hewlett-Packard, a printing company that stood to profit from Hogwarts.
HP stands in Spanish for Hijo Puta.

JK went on, and on, for four thousand, two hundred, twenty four pages.
that sold half a billion copies.
i can't do the math of the trees that were felled in china and chile so the seven set collection of the series could sit, next to the hunger games, the twilight and the shades of grey series, on fake mantles in the tiny apartments of gentrification.
i do know they invented an actual machine that mimics the lumber harvesters of the lorax to harvest that lumber.

a speaker of truth has no friends.

so when Jen replied, she took me on about lumping her with Julian Assange into a same narrative, bashed the poor fucker, she wrote: "I am trying to think of Assange (one of the biggest assholes I've ever met, incidentally, so madly in love with himself he wouldn't recognize truth if it walked by in a bikini. White male patriarchal bullshit at its most shining) having any relation to me."

Assange spoke real names, banks, burocrats, law and order, reported war crimes, hacked computers, released content, leaked proof and exposed lies.

There is no relation between Julian Assange and Jen Steill, except in that we hold opinions, she about his reputation, me about the value of his work, why is the truth of wikileaks criminal?

It's was my best friend's birthday when i wrote this, she died 11.11.2013. gemini to scorpio.
de-escalate any possible situation before it got too bleak, too personal or too basic.

Casa de las muchachas was followed, shortly before i met jen, with The Puta Manifiesto. It was a twelve part essay written in the three years following 9.11.2001. It was about the energy emitted by the word "fuck".

The Woman Who Fell To Earth was a journal kept.
Good journalism.

trini and jen are both scorpio.
the tea, perhaps is a third friend, another scorpio ivonne montealegre, a blond, blue-eyed costa rican poker player. she moved to malta 2010.

what is artificial cannot be intelligent.
spirit is the intelligence not the cross analysis of data.
a machine, that does not experience the biological duality of sex, cannot be intelligent.

during one month stint in the censurship jail of the social media, i decided to explore the meaning and correlations of the word that got me in here: "putito".
to quote iñigo montoya, "i do not think that means what you think it means"

"putito"
it's a cute little word.
it means tiny man-whore.
a teeny tiny man, who will make love to a woman, for money, fame and/or power, without making the effort of loving women.
he will say all the right things to them, even if they're lies, in order to fuck.
if you say something he'll call you the same name back, shame your sexuality, mock your orgasms.

putitos know and understand the law, they agree with some of it, and disobey the rest.
the difference between myself and a putito is that they stand by, defend and believe in the law.
they live inside the law, they shield their business with it, they apply it to everyone beside themselves. instead of changing the law, they profit from others breaking it.

calling someone antisemite means nothing unless you're a racist.
one that distinguishes between white jews and white christians and white persians.