Almost Live at Mellow Pages: Giancarlo DiTrapano ]

almostliveatmellowpages:

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In this episode we get to hang out with publisher and mad genius Giancarlo DiTrapano of Tyrant Books. We rap about almost everything anyone would ever want to talk about—growing up weird, finding one’s self, the publishing industry, cluster headaches and miracle cures, psilocybin, West Virginia, dogs, and love in its many varied and wonderful forms. We hope you enjoy this episode as much as we did in making it. Giancarlo is love.

This will be the last episode of Almost Live at Mellow Pages for the next while. In doing this show, we’ve been able to spend a lot of time getting to know writers/publishers/editors we really love and wanted to speak to, and the common thread throughout has been putting in time and work. Both Eric and myself have books coming out in 2015, and we realize we both have some of our own work to get down to doing. We hope you’ve enjoyed this run of shows, and we hope to be back sooner rather than later.

vicemag:

This Is What Developing Acute Schizophrenia Feels Like
A year ago this winter, I began to not recognize myself. 
Sleep was the first thing to change. Progressively, over the course of about two weeks, I began struggling to drift off. As a 24-year-old man with a good supply of hash, this had never been a problem before. It was so odd. Seemingly out of the blue, I’d get into bed at night and not be able to shut off my brain. Thoughts would grow tendrils and loop onto other thoughts, tangling together like a big wall of ivy. Some nights, I’d pull the covers over my head, grab my face hard in my hands, and whisper, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Eventually I would be able to get to sleep, but I’d wake up feeling peculiar, like I had forgotten to do or tell someone something. Hunger wasn’t as aggressive as it usually was during this time, either. Normally I bolt downstairs to pour a heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes the second my eyes open. Instead, I woke each morning with a sick, creeping feeling in my gut. Still, I carried on as normal, thinking I’d just lay off the hash for a bit. That was probably it. I wasn’t panicked. 
I carried on my work at a local wine shop and tried to push what was happening during the night to the back of my mind. I got through the days OK, if slightly bleary-eyed—but looking back now I can see that I had started to struggle with simple conversations. 
If my boss told me to check a delivery, it’d take me a few seconds to process what he was saying, like two or three people had said it at the same time and I couldn’t make out the clear instruction. Looking at morning delivery slips and trying to make sense of them in my head was like trying to make out a tree in the fog—possible, but hard.
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vicemag:

This Is What Developing Acute Schizophrenia Feels Like

A year ago this winter, I began to not recognize myself. 

Sleep was the first thing to change. Progressively, over the course of about two weeks, I began struggling to drift off. As a 24-year-old man with a good supply of hash, this had never been a problem before. It was so odd. Seemingly out of the blue, I’d get into bed at night and not be able to shut off my brain. Thoughts would grow tendrils and loop onto other thoughts, tangling together like a big wall of ivy. Some nights, I’d pull the covers over my head, grab my face hard in my hands, and whisper, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Eventually I would be able to get to sleep, but I’d wake up feeling peculiar, like I had forgotten to do or tell someone something. Hunger wasn’t as aggressive as it usually was during this time, either. Normally I bolt downstairs to pour a heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes the second my eyes open. Instead, I woke each morning with a sick, creeping feeling in my gut. Still, I carried on as normal, thinking I’d just lay off the hash for a bit. That was probably it. I wasn’t panicked. 

I carried on my work at a local wine shop and tried to push what was happening during the night to the back of my mind. I got through the days OK, if slightly bleary-eyed—but looking back now I can see that I had started to struggle with simple conversations. 

If my boss told me to check a delivery, it’d take me a few seconds to process what he was saying, like two or three people had said it at the same time and I couldn’t make out the clear instruction. Looking at morning delivery slips and trying to make sense of them in my head was like trying to make out a tree in the fog—possible, but hard.

Continue

"So many times, so many as now, it has oppressed me to feel myself feel — to feel anguish just for feeling, to feel the restlessness of being here, the nostalgia of something I’ve never known, the sunset of all emotions, myself yellowing, subdued to grey sadness in my external self-awareness"
- Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via pro-solitude)
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