conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Letters to Kurt about Cobain, Hole, Love with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Poetry. Start with the sentence 'the author is known as the cofounder, songwriter, and lead guitarist of the rock band Hole, but he has performed in the shadows of his more famous, and infamous, colleagues and friends, especially Kurt Cobain, the iconic lead singer of the premier grunge band, Nirvana, who committed suicide at the height of his fame, and Courtney Love, the authors former girlfriend and Hole bandmate'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is known as the cofounder, songwriter, and lead guitarist of the rock band Hole, but he has performed in the shadows of his more famous, and infamous, colleagues and friends, especially Kurt Cobain, the iconic lead singer of the premier grunge band, Nirvana, who committed suicide at the height of his fame, and Courtney Love, the authors former girlfriend and Hole bandmate. As it turns out, Hole released their debut album, Pretty on the Inside, a week before the release of Nirvanas behemoth best-seller Nevermind. Within a month, notes the author, Love and Cobain were a couple. From then on, the author assumed a sort of friend/caretaker role, serving as both Cobains sounding board and morale booster even as he felt pangs of subconscious jealousy. In addition to Cobain, other friends and associates of the authors self-destructed during a relatively short period of time. the author finally comes to terms with his loss in 52 prose-poem letters ostensibly addressed to Cobain, in which he straightforwardly confronts his inner demons while offering personal reflections on food, drug abuse, death, and self-sabotage. --June Sawyers
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Letters to Kurt
  Within a month, Courtney and Kurt were dating, soon to be elected "first couple of grunge." Their relationship was dragged under the magnifying glass of the media as the pressures of fame gathered around them. I fell into a sort of friend/caretaker role early on, which lasted throughout the tumultuous years of their marriage. I was present when their daughter was born. I chaperoned Kurt, at Courtney's behest, to help shield and comfort him during a Nirvana performance in the UK at the height of his fame and most fragile. I listened to him work on music and lent an ear to his frustrations. But there was always something stopping us from becoming really close: my loyalty to Courtney, along with my self-protective tendency and, perhaps, subconscious jealousy. Damn, how I wished I could write and sing like him! The way he married fearless punk rage with a melodic emotional vulnerability and made it look so simple. He truly was the voice of his generation. Yet, I saw firsthand the toll it took on his soul.
  A couple of years ago, a kid who called himself Kyle Cobain showed up early for one of my weekly Buddhist meetings. He was about to turn 27. The Anonymouses weren't working for him and he was stuck inside an existentialist tunnel looking for a way out. He spoke of his friendship with Elliott Smith, a red flag if there ever was one. Suicide idols. I tried to help him the best I could, but I hadn't come to terms with suicide, what causes it, how it happens, and why so many people around me have chosen it as a way out. A few months later, Kyle killed himself. He was the last in a too-long string of friends who had taken that route, following in the footsteps of a growing list of self-destructed heroes. We've numbed ourselves to pain and no longer seek a proper understanding of the cycle of life and death. No wonder more and more people seem to be choosing to end their lives.
  I see these letters as songs, fifty or so grooves from my brain's tape deck to you. A fifty-two-card pickup, presented in the order in which they came. In no way do I intend to glorify or romanticize Kurt's chosen way out, nor make light of it. Nor do I mean to demonize Courtney. Though my frustration comes through, these letters did not arise from vengeance. On the contrary, I thought if I could sort out my struggles and disappointments, face my demons, become more aware of the ways in which I attempt to escape this troubled world, maybe I would be in a position to help others. There is no way out, of course. But there is a way in, back to our true selves, our connection to the earth, the universe, to each other.
  Twenty years later and I feel ready to embark on a new journey. The previous one has been beautiful, heartbreaking, and hilarious. Like a friend of mine once said, "Real life is way more fucked up than you could ever imagine." Who knows, if we open the mouth of the dead inside each one of us, we may just find a new reason to live.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: another paragraph
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There's no room for you when she sleeps over. The bed is full with papaya breath curves and a chronic cough. A regal orange tabby and fat Siamese. I edit her life in my head and allow her conversations to drown you out. I no longer hear your footsteps in the other room, your whispers from under my pillow, your cracking bones. You know when you're not welcome. So you flee back to the box from which you came. You go missing from your own songs. Empty documents of a rage once red as the devil's bread. I use my dehydrator to suck the life out of kale, berries, and mangoes, leaving the dry empty shell for our snacking. Ready for snacking. You looked fate in the eyes and cried. Your only viable option—drain the vat while the wine was full-bodied and pungent. A noble act, you thought, to spill precious wine before it goes sour. Makes us appreciate it that much more. The Port and Shiraz conspire against cancer cells, compelling them to commit hara-kiri. On the tabletops of the congregation of unemployed, the Classicos, Merlots, and Bordeaux have been replaced with Welch's grape juice. The taste too sweet for life. We live in sad times, a noble rot.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Time, reduced, fleshed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There's no room for you when she sleeps over. The bed is full with papaya breath curves and a chronic cough. A regal orange tabby and fat Siamese. I edit her life in my head and allow her conversations to drown you out. I no longer hear your footsteps in the other room, your whispers from under my pillow, your cracking bones. You know when you're not welcome. So you flee back to the box from which you came. You go missing from your own songs. Empty documents of a rage once red as the devil's bread. I use my dehydrator to suck the life out of kale, berries, and mangoes, leaving the dry empty shell for our snacking. Time and love dehydrate us, water content reduced in slow torturous increments until we're left prune fleshed and feeble. Ready for snacking. You looked fate in the eyes and cried. Your only viable option—drain the vat while the wine was full-bodied and pungent. A noble act, you thought, to spill precious wine before it goes sour. Makes us appreciate it that much more. The Port and Shiraz conspire against cancer cells, compelling them to commit hara-kiri. On the tabletops of the congregation of unemployed, the Classicos, Merlots, and Bordeaux have been replaced with Welch's grape juice. The taste too sweet for life. We live in sad times, a noble rot.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There's no room for you when she sleeps over. The bed is full with papaya breath curves and a chronic cough. A regal orange tabby and fat Siamese. I edit her life in my head and allow her conversations to drown you out. I no longer hear your footsteps in the other room, your whispers from under my pillow, your cracking bones. You know when you're not welcome. So you flee back to the box from which you came. You go missing from your own songs. Empty documents of a rage once red as the devil's bread. I use my dehydrator to suck the life out of kale, berries, and mangoes, leaving the dry empty shell for our snacking. Time and love dehydrate us, water content reduced in slow torturous increments until we're left prune fleshed and feeble. Ready for snacking. You looked fate in the eyes and cried. Your only viable option—drain the vat while the wine was full-bodied and pungent. A noble act, you thought, to spill precious wine before it goes sour. Makes us appreciate it that much more. The Port and Shiraz conspire against cancer cells, compelling them to commit hara-kiri. On the tabletops of the congregation of unemployed, the Classicos, Merlots, and Bordeaux have been replaced with Welch's grape juice. The taste too sweet for life. We live in sad times, a noble rot.
  Let's play a game. You tell me what you see, I'll tell you what I see, and we'll compare notes. Ah forget it, hell is hell no matter where you live. You can keep yours. I'm busy enough with mine. Besides, you only seem to come around when buildings are burning or baby's future stuffed with a rotten apple and roasting on the spit. An L.A. riot hee-haw. I drive you to the liquor store on Fountain. The lights are low so as to dissuade the national lampoon from stampeding on life's little necessities. You buy a couple cartons of Marlboros, some candy bars, a few cans of Campbell's soup. I grab as many gallons of plastic water I can hook on my fingers. We drive back to your apartment on Spaulding listening to news of widespread looting on the radio, mad-dash allusions running reds all around us. Jonathan shows up with free jeans from the Gap. CNN spreads the violence up the coast. Everyone huddles. Disneyland's a ghost town. The freeways deserted. Stores all sold out of tumbleweed treats. The apocalypse came and went. The angry mob thrown a bone. Roused synapses fall back to sleep. A cheap video is all that remains. The circle of causes in effect on replay. Greed begets anger begets stupidity begets greed begets anger begets stupidity begets drum sets smashed, punctured speakers, Molotov cocktails, lumps on foreheads, Molotov comfits, riot grrrl tantrums, Molotov cartoons, TVs out windows, Mohawk graphics, peanut butter sticking to the roof of the Off Ramp, phobic contortions in the middle of the Moore, American flags sewn onto holy crotches, Kiss faces painted on Econoline vans, spitballin' fugazis on the pelvic floor, percentages split into eyes blackened, blues bloodied, royalty lines broken, Molotov nuptials of Mork and Mindy pogoing elastic, beggin' for backbone, strung out like bijoux on red poppy beaches full of strands of sands of storms of love and sun and salt, flowing with the swelling of shame and blame, foaming at the mouth of the Bay.
  Highway to hell on the Highway 49. Sold your soul to the devil under that bridge. Her neck didn't break but her heart did. Hanging by a thread. I promised to cut it and let her fall. Looks like string but actually it's steel-wrapped fishing line woven around those micro-optic fibers used in surgeries to repair ligaments and sew organs back in place. In other words... unbreakable. I should throw the whole damn spool back into the fiery ocean. Enough of threads. What about the tricks life plays on our minds when they're filled with evil? Like Bonnie and Clyde, blowing both heads off for the fake of good. I saw on the news that Jerry and Joe were mowed down in Memphis or Arkansas or somewhere South. We pick on the dead, skip over their car-casses, use them to sell more ads, spread more fear about nut jobs lurkin' in our own backyard. How you die is either your greatest move or your worst. Or just plain boring. Can't make the coffee shops snooze. Gotta go out with a blast, the big burn, take a couple of cops with you. Or remove yourself from the cancerous middle of life's waste line, a party in your blood, an image for the papers, an item to be discussed and analyzed over Denny's microwaved blue plate special, frozen cherry pie for dessert, and a cup of weak coffee. Those who die in peace and love go unreported, while those who die in misery alone are much too common for acknowledgment. How we love a flash in the pan. Half-cocked hams. I'm happy to have pulled myself out of that patriotic mess. Got a phone call from the monkeys in Sacramento. They cancelled my audit. Have a nice weekend. Are these the terrorists those paper terrorists fight against? A boxing ring for one? I say talk it out inside with yourself over hot chocolate. No need for AK-47s. Deposit that trunk load of county filings claiming your constitutional rights and sovereign status at the county dump. Or worship the slippery slope your chosen guru walks right into an early grave. His conviction in his god to no avail. Another bullet-riddled casualty of the U.S. of Yay! Anyway, still no word from the Queen, her cook, or her crook. No contract. Only a weenie roast. The waitress reprimands me for my wishy-washy mouth. She says I should make split decisions without overthinking them. She failed to notice the tail of bodies I drag behind me, a scabby appendage of avoidable deaths from years of blink.
  This is based on the SAD PERSONS and IS PATH WARM scales, two mnemonic devices created to help assess a person's risk of suicide.
  My ever-loving and growing family. Rev. Taishin Takano and the priests and members of Nichiren Shoshu Temple. Rebecca Velazquez. My cats Flash and Fucker. Patti Schemel and Christina Soletti. Melissa Auf der Maur and Tony Stone. John Wolfington and Monica Paganucci. Kevin Shapiro. John Tottenham. Drew Barrymore. Amy Finnerty. Brooke Stewart. Liz Randall. Kate Gillam. Holly Tomalak. Treva Jackson. Judith and Tenaya Berndsen. Stephen Papke. Erin Broling. Michael Meisel. Jonathan Daniel. Jon Shere. Jennifer Stefanisko. Pat Smear. Brandon Heinz. Catherine Eure. Hiro Super. Hinode Sanso. David Scott Stone. The Pfaff family. Thurston Moore. Michael Azerrad. Lala Sloatman. Richard Strauss. Dan Bienenfeld. The Ditty Bops. Dasha Stanec. Chris Shearer. Jennifer Chiba. David Yacoob. Jim Kalin. David Scharf. James Noll. Rodney Bingenheimer. James Moreland. Dave Markey. Steve McDonald. Bill Bartell. Roddy Bottum. Joe Nitzberg. Mark Lanegan. Jeordie White. Kim Morgan. Stacy Bright. Giddle Partridge. Peter Makebish. Kristine Barilli. Jill Virnig. Jay Park. Vivian Corado. Secret Headquarters. Jabberjaw. Michelle Carr. Erik Niles. Cali DeWitt. David Fink. Marie Walsh-Dixon. Georgiana Ramsland. Farsam Shadab. Tanda Tashjian. James Wing Woo. P. David Ebersole and Todd Hughes. Allison Wolfe. Jessica Hopper. Grapeheads. High Places. Vincent Gallo. Ray Rekuc. Ken Cousens. Bert Rybaczuk. The bullies who picked on me in school. Cinefamily. Cinefile. Cinespia. Redcat. Radical Health. Rawesome. Fender Guitars. PSTSPS. Wixen Music. NPR. KCRW. KXLU. MOCA. MOMA. The Internet. Google. Wikipedia. Urban Dictionary. Zeitgeist. Los Angeles. New York. London. Seattle. Joshua Tree. Japan. Wells Fargo. Bank of America. Freddie Mac. Fannie Mae. British Airways. The Biscuit Company Lofts. The IRS. The State of California Franchise Tax Board. The Federal Reserve. The Illuminati. The New World Odor. And any others who I may have forgotten.