Power Quote by Angela Carter: A Fancy Way of Saying “Eat Me”
From the short story, “The Lady of the House of Love” . I would normally stick my tongue between my two fingers, but this is a much fancier and therefore a better way of saying eat me? This is a reaction to all the uncalled for harshness of life, for all the sick joy that people get from their little, or big, acts of hostility (I know, I should save it for Mean Monday, oops. I read the story this weekend, so it is fresh in my mind):
And I leave you as a souvenir the dark, fanged rose. I plucked from between my thighs, like a flower laid on a grave. On a grave.
Junior High Dance
- Is my poor boy suffering? Are you Htmlgiant people having fun without me?
No, this is not a picture of htmlgiant contributors rocking out at the AWP. (Yes, I am jealous and bitter.) This is a photo of a junior high dance. My son is at one tonight. I sit at home, worried about him. When I think of junior high dances, only one thing comes to mind: me, at a dance at a roller-skating rink, they play the “slow song”, called, “I Like Dreaming (cause dreaming will make you mine)”, and standing alone watching people slow roller skate, my heart broken in two. Here is an A.A. Bondy song about dancing, and death, and the Rapture:
READ MORE >
Putting in the Seed By Robert Frost
This man does not write poetry, but he does play tennis. I think about him a great deal, usually when I am naked.
It’s warm and sunny here in New York and the days are getting longer. I know, it’s only February. I know that the wind is causing all sorts of tragedy. But it IS boobs/chesticles friday. (I think I am the only one not ready to give up boobs/chesticles friday.) And it has been positively Spring-like here. Time to make babies! I want to make babies with this man to our left. And speaking of baby making, Robert Frost wrote this wonderfully raw poem about Spring-time lust and fecundity:
How The Divine Manifests: A Discussion of The Levitationist by Brandon Hobson and the Music of A.A. Bondy
Surrealism is the ‘invisible ray’ which will one day enable us to win out over our opponents. “You are no longer trembling, carcass.” This summer, the roses are blue; the wood is of glass. The earth, draped in its verdant cloak, makes as little impression upon me as a ghost. It is living and ceasing to live which are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere.
Breton, from The Manifesto of Surrealism
Irony, when not purposefully wielded for the sake of a magazine article, can be a naturally occuring, fascinating thing. A self correcting force of nature, even. And so it is my understanding of Hobson’s use of surrealism, a style of art, and moreso, a general movement, that was originally invented to differentiate, deny, push away all that is ordinary and realistic. Here is another quote from Breton’s The Manifesto of Surrealism:
SURREALISM, n. Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express — verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner — the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by the thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.
Hobson’s book, The Levitationist, published by Ravenna Press, contains images associated with Surrealism and could be said to exemplify “the absence of any control exersized by reason”, but his moral concern is one of the Divine, specifally the mystery of the Divine’s presence in our earthly world. Hobson has taken the destructive desire of Surrealism’s goals and twisted them around gently to serve his purpose. His choice of style, of a movement, is a perfect example of substance dictating style. READ MORE >
My Favorite MishMash of Stories
The short story is my favorite form. I am feeling very blocked on this other stuff I’ve been working on (which means, anxious and not up to the task I set out for myself) so instead, I am going to write this sort of lame ass post. I was perusing my bookshelves (which made me break out in a rash, I am allergic to dust) to make a nice goody bag for Larry–who won the “which 80s punk bands album titles” contest in the Ever review by my man– and I found this collection of stories and felt all warm inside. (It’s super, SUPER beat-up, Larry, that is why I did not send it to you.) Man, what a great collection. All sorts of stuff. Raymond Carver edited it with Tom Jenks (of Narrative Magazine, which we all know is not a favorite around here, but believe me, this collection rocks). Here are some (just some) of the authors and stories: READ MORE >
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February 10th, 2009 / 8:00 pm
February 10th, 2009 / 8:00 pm
Ever Contemplated by PR’s husband
UPDATE! CONTEST! Find the three 80s indie/punk band album titles in his piece (one title contains the adjective rather than the noun in the two word title) and I will send you a bunch of books. I will be seriously impressed, too.
We all have a better half. My better half is actually a human being. He wrote his thoughts about Ever by Blake Butler. Here they are:
Power Quote from Lisa Yuskavage
I don’ t think there is an uninteresting person alive. It’s just that not everyone has access to themselves, to the full range of thier emotional life. This is why my work often embarrasses me and why I need it to embarrass me. Being embarrassed allows me to access more surprising pictorial solutions. I don’t know precisely how, but it seems to function as a clarifying agent.
“The Heart Is Deceitful” Perfume
Smell like a male teenage prostitute!
I own this perfume. I bought it back when J.T. Leroy was in Vanity Fair Magazine, singing in a band, and havng the likes of Tom Waits gush praises all over his ass. Now, I bought the perfume because the fact that there was a perfume cracked me up to no end. Also, I have a lot of perfume. And face creams. And so forth. I did read the infamous story collection and I read the whole thing. And to be frank, I didn’t think it was so great. I thought it felt contrived, but I didn’t hate it. I remember reading this one short story in Zoetrope by Mr. J.T. and laughing and I wasn’t supposed to laugh. I was supposed to go “Oh, man, that is deep and painful.” I thought today I would check to see if this perfume still existed. It does. Now, we all know the J.T. LeRoy scandal has been beaten to death with a million sticks, but did you know there was a perfume made in honor of Yosh’s “friend”, J.T. Leroy? No, you did not. You learned something today! And it relates to the history of literature! Any other perfumes of products named after books? Le’ts hear it.
Barry, Jereme and pr at the AWP: An Htmlgiant Original
"I love you, Jereme."
The day of trolling tables and tables in a convention center is over. It was fun, but now the real fun begins. We started drinking at dinner. Now, it is late. Like, two in the morning. We are all in a suite, in Blake Butler’s suite. Blake has a suite because he is famous. The light is dim and yellowish. Sounds of delicate laughter and glasses tinkling with booze abound. I am sitting on a couch, the windows behind me, but I can feel Chicago glittering below. Jereme is next to me. Sitting there on the couch, next to each other, it no longer matters that I have an Amazonian, East German discus thrower vibe to me, because when I am sitting, it hides that aspect of me (as opposed to standing). Being next to Jereme is like being next to warmth. Being next to Jereme is like wanting to hold a baby bird in my hands and I’m afraid I won’t do it right, because it is so delicate. But I want to, I want to do it right, I feel I’ve never wanted anything so badly in all my life. I also am afraid he might get angry at me and that would crush me. But everything is good. He is not angry. He has beautiful eyes. We are nicely drunk, not yet shit-faced and I haven’t blacked out yet. My right shoulder is touching Jereme’s left shoulder. I can smell him. He smells like cigars and whiskey and a man’s warmed skin. I have all this love flowing from me, from my chest, from where my heart is, toward Jereme. He lets me touch his beard. It is soft, the way longish beards are, not scratchy. It is thick and comforting. I stroke it with my hand. Then I lean in, and rub my cheek on his beard. This is what I am doing when Barry walks up to us, towering above us, interrupting our soft, kind moment.
“pr.”
“Yes?”
“That’s enough.”