Andrew James Weatherhead
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
~9:30pm: Had idea for liveblog in kitchen.
~9:35pm: Am making pasta. Roommates all ate dinner before me and left, no one to talk about liveblog with.
9:37pm: Ostensibly checking noodles for appropriate firmness, but really I’m just eating wet noodles.
9:43pm: Felt idea for liveblog solidify into an inevitability, similar to how a rollercoaster reaches the top of its initial hill and goes over (the little cranking sound, the disconcerting staircase)
9:46pm: Thought about an anthology of liveblogs — “Best American Liveblogs”
9:50pm: Began recording liveblog thoughts on a legal pad — does this count? Handwritten liveblog?
The following post consists of two things:
I view this as an example of literary criticism (feel free to do otherwise).
From the Guardian:
A photograph believed to be an extremely rare image of Emily Dickinson has surfaced in her home town of Amherst, Massachusetts, showing a young woman in old-fashioned clothes, a tiny smile on her lips and a hand extended solicitously towards her friend.
The rest of the article is fascinating, especially the details of how they verified the facial features of the new photograph against the old photograph. The official medical report, linked in the article, is incredible. To quote it:
Other similar facial features are evident between the women in the daguerreotypes. The right earlobe is higher on both women. The inferonasal corneal light reflex suggests corneal curvature similarity, allowing us to speculate about similar astigmatism in the two women. Both women have a central hair cowlick. Finally, both women have a more prominent left nasolabial fold.
She needed glasses.
[matchup #54 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Last night I had a dream that I was talking to a really attractive girl at a bar in an airport. We were having a great conversation, and I felt really good. Somehow I had already seen the movie version of whatever J.S. Foer’s novel is called, and somehow this came up as a topic of conversation. I laughed to myself and said, “You know what? I liked that movie. I really enjoyed watching it.”
The girl stared at me and said “why are you laughing?”
I said, “You know… because it’s that novel… by that guy.” READ MORE >
THIS Friday, celebrate the release of Her Royal Majesty: Issue 12 with parties/readings in 6 international cities: Paris, London, Berlin, New York, Toronto, & Montreal… party info here, magazine ordering info here.
THIS Mary Ruefle erasure can be read online in its entirety and it is incredible.
THIS poem by Wallace Stevens is rad, confusing:
No more phrases, Swenson: I was once
A hunter of those sovereigns of the soul
And savings banks, Fides, the sculptor’s prize,
All eyes and size, and galled Justitia,
Trained to poise the tables of the law,
Patientia forever soothing wounds
And mighty Fortitudo, frantic bass.
But these shall not adorn my souvenirs,
These lions, these majestic images.
If the fault is with the soul, the sovereigns
Of the soul must likewise be at fault, and first.
If the fault is with the souvenirs, yet these
Are the soul itself. And the whole of the soul, Swenson,
As every man in Sweden will concede,
Still hankers after lions, or, to shift,
Still hankers after sovereign images.
If the fault is with the lions, send them back
To Monsieur Dufy’s Hamburg whence they came.
The vegetation still abounds with forms.
Thank you. I hope everyone is good.
“From textured freckling, like sand had been thrown at her when her thick skin was wet once and stuck, her blanched blue eyes burst.”
“Against Beau’s head to the floor Will pushed.”
“There might be someone older than her who had spent more cumulative hours, but no one had ever spent as high of a percentage of their time pretending to sleep.”
“The multiverse, she thought, infinite dimensions.”
“Clinical lighting heightened by contrast the blue outside, the space cavernous, so sparse with shoppers.”
“The light fell where it did and stayed where it fell and did not dispense in any functional way and who could help but think, seeing this lighting strategy in action for the first time, What kind of place have I agree to surrender all of my younger self’s hopes for my future self to?”
“Once the thick pee started, the stories and him were made totally separate by it.”
“Only troubled does anything point back at itself.”
“Always did surprise him, the plans he made, like dares to himself, You really gonna? You got the nerve? When it came time to execute those plans, he was still just trying to surprise himself even when seeing a plan through.”
“I am aware I am a type, the type who at every opportunity has rejected any decision that would make one more of a type.”
“Despising it in others, it was still sometimes all he ever wanted, silliness.”
“‘Jesus, Ronnie, your daughter is a bitch-daughter.’”
I love it. I love stepping into a gigantic room with a bunch of machines in it and manipulating them until I get tired. There are heavy objects you can pick up and put down. There are lighter objects you can pick up in weird ways to make them feel heavier than they actually are! Sometimes I just get on the treadmill and vibe out to a podcast or a television. You don’t have to be a nut to do it; even swimming is exercising.
This is Stephen’s review of Megan’s book:
I wanted to talk to Harriet on here because I like what Harriet is doing and I think people ought to know. What Harriet is doing is living in Paris as a Canadian expatriate, publishing a journal that keeps getting better, writing her own fiction, and essentially just doing it. In the last three years, I’ve watched her journal, Her Royal Majesty, grow from printer paper and staples to cardboard and printer paper and staples to letterpressed covers and hand-sewn binding to its most recent incarnation as a slick and perfect bound gem. Something I love about the journal is how fully-considered each issue is — unlike most “journals of the arts,” the art isn’t an afterthought in Her Royal Majesty. The layout and design — the way the thing functions and moves as a whole — seems prized above all, which makes each issue less a collection of contributors’ work and more like a large-scale collaborative project. The journal has recently expanded its online presence with a fancy new website and very nice looking blog called HRM Daily, which I advise people to look at. I’m thrilled that Harriet has kept the faith and never looked back. After the jump we talk about the journal, being a foreigner, James Franco, and European MFA programs (they don’t really exist).
A job I’d like to have and think I’d be good at is writing the script for the announcers for baseball video games. One thing I’d innovate the shit out of is to write bits/segments/whatever that have nothing to do with the game that’s going on. In this way it’d be like watching a real baseball game. I’d have the announcers talk about things that happened to them on the way to the stadium and like their kids and shit. I haven’t played a video game in years and I don’t know if I’ve ever played a baseball video game.
Baseball is incredible to me. It’s all mediated. There’s a bat and a glove. The only person who really touches the ball is the pitcher and then he’s a pitcher throwing a tiny ball into a tiny space. The whole thing seems impossible to me. Other sports seem more feasible except for golf.
Wow there are 3 mascot versions of real people racing around the stadium. They are Davy Crockett, Lincoln, and someone else. Their heads are fucking huge and they are scowling it doesn’t look like fun at all.
Imagine if David Foster Wallace wrote that book about baseball instead of tennis. Just imagine, don’t comment. I hope no one comments on this. I think more and more that is an ideal I work towards in social media/blogging. It’s easy to get everyone pissed or write something that everyone will pat my back and congratulate, but it’s kind of fun to write something that goes completely unnoticed. Or like something that is good and I can acknowledge it as good but it doesn’t demand my concrete interaction in any way. That is perfection to me. That’s like how books are.
Oh here comes the manager. Someone might have just scored while I wasn’t paying attention. It would be funny if there was a man on first and the runner and the first base coach switched places so the coach was running and the player was just standing there doing whatever.
The announcer just said “now they’re playing the Munster’s theme song” and the other guys was like “bro that’s Addams family…” — that’s the kind of shit that needs to be in video games. Sometimes I feel like I could make everything better if I were just in charge of everything.
Have you ever seen those photos of broken bats flying into the stands? I’m going to see if I can find one, they’re really funny sometimes.
I mean you hope no one gets hurt but it’s also like “damn is that Michael J. Fox?” and “what the fuck is in that guy’s mouth, could that be his tongue?”
The score is 3 to 2. Detroit is winning. Good for them. Did GW Bush really own the Rangers? How’d he do that? Does he even like baseball?
I got Sam Pink’s novel in the mail today, just like 30 mins. ago. It’s called “The No Hellos Diet”. I think it would be funny if he called his next novel “Just a Few Hellos Diet” or like “The Three Hellos Diet” although I have a feeling I won’t think that’s funny in two hours.
Damn the tigers just got out of some sort of situation. The pitcher was totally psyched and they showed him being totally psyched in slow motion as they went to commercial. The Fox Sports theme song makes me think of oreos! I wonder how much longer TVs are going to be as we know them.
Today is Columbus day? are we really still celebrating that? You’d think they’d just drop it already. I found my copy of “A People’s History of the United States” from sophomore year of high school and it was full of retarded annotations like “good” and “yes”. I think that’s why I don’t write in books anymore, I just embarrass myself later on.