I write things. This is the Tumblr for davidolimpio.com.

“I scribbled this first person story from the point of view of the dog on his last day alive, and I remember walking away from that story feeling better but with no answers,” Egerton recalled. “That was the first lesson for me. I will find a form of expression or release, but I will not find answers.”

Watching Departures
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We have a supply and demand problem. And the problem is that there are too many writers writing. And not enough people reading. Writers aren’t just competing with each other for eyeballs. They are competing with better TV shows (and more of them). They are competing with the Internet’s many cat videos. They are competing with social media and the very platforms that are also (theoretically) helping them.
There are so many voices. We gather around a few of them, the ones who get amplified inside our Twitter and Facebook chambers. We gather around them for … for what? Camaraderie? Literary Community? Fellowship? To feel as though we belong to each other? We do this the same way we used to gather around Big Paper. And we shout to anybody who will listen, who is everybody and nobody at once: I belong to this! I am accepted! But it’s din. My voice, too. My voice is din.
I used to think there was nothing more noble than just contributing to that din. But that isn’t the reason to do it. It can’t be. Because it never really belongs there. We are none of us a part of anything, really. We are none of us standing with or among. We are all of us standing alone and apart.
We are all of us standing around, watching departures.
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Watching Departures

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We have a supply and demand problem. And the problem is that there are too many writers writing. And not enough people reading. Writers aren’t just competing with each other for eyeballs. They are competing with better TV shows (and more of them). They are competing with the Internet’s many cat videos. They are competing with social media and the very platforms that are also (theoretically) helping them.

There are so many voices. We gather around a few of them, the ones who get amplified inside our Twitter and Facebook chambers. We gather around them for … for what? Camaraderie? Literary Community? Fellowship? To feel as though we belong to each other? We do this the same way we used to gather around Big Paper. And we shout to anybody who will listen, who is everybody and nobody at once: I belong to this! I am accepted! But it’s din. My voice, too. My voice is din.

I used to think there was nothing more noble than just contributing to that din. But that isn’t the reason to do it. It can’t be. Because it never really belongs there. We are none of us a part of anything, really. We are none of us standing with or among. We are all of us standing alone and apart.

We are all of us standing around, watching departures.

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MARTIN: You wrote in this memoir that you’ve learned more from painters than other writers. What have you learned?

ROBBINS: To trust imagination.

MARTIN: And you think painters do a better job of that than other writers?

ROBBINS: Well, in a way they do because they’re not hide-bound by language. So they often talk about their work in a more interesting way than writers talk about their work.

The Notes We Play, Or Do Not
A longer post today:
Last night, I went to the open mic blues jam (OMBJ) near my house, which I’ve been known to frequent but which (lately) I’ve been frequenting with less and less of the frequentification. I blame herniated cervical discs and slow-melting ice and fucking cold weather. I blame complacency. I blame a touch of generalized malaise and acute SAT, or Social Avoidance Tendency. I know that none of this avoidance will lead to the doing of any good. None of this will bring me any sort of enlightenment. None of this will help me transcend the Big Fucking Here and Now. And so I’ve been actively seeking to move past it.
Full Post Here

The Notes We Play, Or Do Not

A longer post today:

Last night, I went to the open mic blues jam (OMBJ) near my house, which I’ve been known to frequent but which (lately) I’ve been frequenting with less and less of the frequentification. I blame herniated cervical discs and slow-melting ice and fucking cold weather. I blame complacency. I blame a touch of generalized malaise and acute SAT, or Social Avoidance Tendency. I know that none of this avoidance will lead to the doing of any good. None of this will bring me any sort of enlightenment. None of this will help me transcend the Big Fucking Here and Now. And so I’ve been actively seeking to move past it.

Full Post Here

On How My New Accountant Won Me Over | David Olimpio

A little piece for tax season…

I met with my accountant this week. I’ve always liked telling people that. I like telling you that now, in fact. It makes me feel official. In any given week, if you’ve met with your accountant, you’re at least somebody who can put on a pair of pants, and by God that’s something. I’m pretty sure I’ve never really known what I wanted to be as a grown up, but I’m entirely positive that I’ve always wanted it to be something that involved periodically meeting with my accountant.

So you could say I’ve arrived. You could say that…

Read the Full Piece Here

On How My New Accountant Won Me Over | David Olimpio

A little piece for tax season…

I met with my accountant this week. I’ve always liked telling people that. I like telling you that now, in fact. It makes me feel official. In any given week, if you’ve met with your accountant, you’re at least somebody who can put on a pair of pants, and by God that’s something. I’m pretty sure I’ve never really known what I wanted to be as a grown up, but I’m entirely positive that I’ve always wanted it to be something that involved periodically meeting with my accountant.

So you could say I’ve arrived. You could say that…

Read the Full Piece Here

Finite Groups and My Goddamned Tortured Soul)

In college, I took a class called “Ringing the Changes: An Introduction to Finite Groups.” I want to assure you that I didn’t typically take math theory classes. I was an English major. Which meant I mostly steered clear of the building called Robinson Hall except to take my required Calculus I and II, which I got out of the way the fall and winter terms of my freshman year at 8 am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Incidentally, I didn’t need to take Calculus at 8 am, but I chose this time slot. I CHOSE IT. For a complicated set of psychological reasons that can generally be referred to as “masochism,” and a sense that it isn’t real work (or fun) unless it hurts. As we all know, college is not just where you learn about a variety of subjects and book things, it is also where you learn about yourself.

The other thing I learned about myself that year: I like bitter black coffee.

By the end of my freshman year, I thought my relationship with math was pretty much over. So I was surprised to find myself enrolled in this course about Finite Groups during the winter semester of my junior year. The reason I took it was because I had been invited to be a part of a group of students that were referred to as “University Scholars.” I’m hesitant to even tell you about this. I mean, I don’t want to come across as a fucking elitist. But look, the truth is, back then, I considered myself a Scholar with a capital S. Hit me up if you wanted to discuss literary theory or existential philosophy or the state of my smart professor beard and long hair.

And then afterwards maybe go back to my dorm room and smoke cigarettes and make out on my futon.

 Read More

Finite Groups and My Goddamned Tortured Soul)

In college, I took a class called “Ringing the Changes: An Introduction to Finite Groups.” I want to assure you that I didn’t typically take math theory classes. I was an English major. Which meant I mostly steered clear of the building called Robinson Hall except to take my required Calculus I and II, which I got out of the way the fall and winter terms of my freshman year at 8 am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Incidentally, I didn’t need to take Calculus at 8 am, but I chose this time slot. I CHOSE IT. For a complicated set of psychological reasons that can generally be referred to as “masochism,” and a sense that it isn’t real work (or fun) unless it hurts. As we all know, college is not just where you learn about a variety of subjects and book things, it is also where you learn about yourself.

The other thing I learned about myself that year: I like bitter black coffee.

By the end of my freshman year, I thought my relationship with math was pretty much over. So I was surprised to find myself enrolled in this course about Finite Groups during the winter semester of my junior year. The reason I took it was because I had been invited to be a part of a group of students that were referred to as “University Scholars.” I’m hesitant to even tell you about this. I mean, I don’t want to come across as a fucking elitist. But look, the truth is, back then, I considered myself a Scholar with a capital S. Hit me up if you wanted to discuss literary theory or existential philosophy or the state of my smart professor beard and long hair.

And then afterwards maybe go back to my dorm room and smoke cigarettes and make out on my futon.

Read More

When We Do the Missing of Dogs
A write-up of The Austin Review Launch Party, which I read at this weekend. Also, an appreciation for Bella.

When We Do the Missing of Dogs

A write-up of The Austin Review Launch Party, which I read at this weekend. Also, an appreciation for Bella.

Start the new year right! Go order Issue #1 of The Austin Review. 
I’m really excited and honored to be in it alongside some great writers whose work I admire.
Also I will be reading the piece I have in this issue this weekend at The Launch Party: 
https://www.facebook.com/events/184052538464030/
If you’re in or near Austin, come hang out with me!

Start the new year right! Go order Issue #1 of The Austin Review

I’m really excited and honored to be in it alongside some great writers whose work I admire.

Also I will be reading the piece I have in this issue this weekend at The Launch Party: 

https://www.facebook.com/events/184052538464030/

If you’re in or near Austin, come hang out with me!

The Digging-est Dogs
I follow a good number of writerly folks on the Twitters and the Facebooks. Many of these folks have succumb to this particular meme of which I’m about to partake because it involves listing ten books that have had a great influence on you or have stuck with you in some way. Writerly folks are suckers for this sort of thing. I am a sucker for it. So Helena tagged me (I’ve always secretly hoped she would) and so I’m going to do a meme. Furthermore, I am going to make a blog post out of it. So here are ten books that have had a big influence on me, in roughly the order that they came into my life. These are the Digging-est Dogs.
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The Digging-est Dogs

I follow a good number of writerly folks on the Twitters and the Facebooks. Many of these folks have succumb to this particular meme of which I’m about to partake because it involves listing ten books that have had a great influence on you or have stuck with you in some way. Writerly folks are suckers for this sort of thing. 

I am a sucker for it. 

So Helena tagged me (I’ve always secretly hoped she would) and so I’m going to do a meme. 

Furthermore, I am going to make a blog post out of it. 

So here are ten books that have had a big influence on me, in roughly the order that they came into my life. 

These are the Digging-est Dogs.

Read Full Post 

Killing Your Heroes
It’s been a while since I wrote a Moses chronicle. This one is about cartoons and SUVs. And killing your heroes.

Killing Your Heroes

It’s been a while since I wrote a Moses chronicle. This one is about cartoons and SUVs. And killing your heroes.

Master
Honey says I’m an essay plug (a THUG??) for the Bald Man.
Whatever. I know what Master means.
This confirms everything.

Master

Honey says I’m an essay plug (a THUG??) for the Bald Man.

Whatever. I know what Master means.

This confirms everything.

New essay up today at The Doctor TJ Eckleburg Review:
Scarecrow Locks
Excerpt:
I’ve thought about saying this to you, that maybe the thing you and I have in common is that we both use the physical letting in as a way of emotionally locking out. Which is why sex with strangers is often more satisfying than sex with people we love. Why the closer we get to people, the harder it is to be physically intimate. 
And that the reason we keep things unlocked is because we never want to be broken into again. 
And because, well, fuck you is why. 
But every time I try to identify it like that, every time I try to name it or put words to it, it just seems wrong. It just seems like a way of explaining something, which is what people are always trying to do. And it’s nice to just not explain. And that’s a thing I feel okay doing with you. To just feel grateful. Or to just feel happy or sad or angry. Or to just be. And to not explain it. To be okay knowing there are unknowns. To know that they are there: these things to know. But the knowing of them won’t change anything.

New essay up today at The Doctor TJ Eckleburg Review:

Scarecrow Locks

Excerpt:

I’ve thought about saying this to you, that maybe the thing you and I have in common is that we both use the physical letting in as a way of emotionally locking out. Which is why sex with strangers is often more satisfying than sex with people we love. Why the closer we get to people, the harder it is to be physically intimate. 

And that the reason we keep things unlocked is because we never want to be broken into again. 

And because, well, fuck you is why. 


But every time I try to identify it like that, every time I try to name it or put words to it, it just seems wrong. It just seems like a way of explaining something, which is what people are always trying to do. And it’s nice to just not explain. And that’s a thing I feel okay doing with you. To just feel grateful. Or to just feel happy or sad or angry. Or to just be. And to not explain it. To be okay knowing there are unknowns. To know that they are there: these things to know. But the knowing of them won’t change anything.

“The way in which learn is through story. We don’t just learn by someone throwing information at us. We learn because people tell stories and the stories are learning experiences.”

“A friend of mine, a terrific writer, is convinced there is a conspiracy excluding him from certain rewards and publications. Surveying the field, he calculates the present advantages of race, religion, gender, generation, genre; the lamentably low aesthetic standards of the current cultural moment; and the charlatans who act as our literary gatekeepers. I consider him, like most of the paranoia-inclined, an optimist. If only it were that simple. If only we could lay the blame on a sinister group of fashion-conscious power brokers (those cowards, those bozos!) who get together every first Monday of the month at, say, the Century Club to determine the season’s winners and losers. No, I am a pessimist in such matters: I see nothing but randomness, pure randomness.”

I used to be a janitor in an Evangelical Southern Baptist Church. This and other things that could have put me in the Big Fat Record Book. Also covered: 1) Biblical Inerrancy 2) “Issue Friendship” 3) My unfortunate bus-cleaning music list and 4) Fantasizing about pancakes and kissing girls while in church. 
One for the Record Book. Up at The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review today.