Andrew James Weatherhead
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
The Malt Whitman literature, beer, and camping festival is happening this weekend in Southeast Ohio. More info — including schedule, directions, and contact info — here.
Hillary Clinton was riding a horse around Congress in a misguided display of bravado. The horse got spooked and started kicking desks over then bucked Hillary Clinton, who landed hard but was fine. She started crying. The horse terrorized Congress a little more before finding me (I was working as a page) and biting my forearm. I panicked initially then realized it didn’t hurt, the horse wasn’t letting go, and the horse was suddenly docile for some reason. It felt like it was trying to brush its teeth with my arm. I led the horse out of the Capitol Building and onto the mall where it let go and jumped into the Potomac silhouetted by a setting sun. I thought about tweeting at the New Yorker “I’m the page the horse bit” but decided against it in favor of showing up in person and offering to write one of those “Talk of the Town” columns about my experience. So I went to the New Yorker office but had trouble finding the appropriate person to talk to. I got into a fight with one guy that amounted to little more than flicking each other’s ears when the other’s back was turned. Eventually I found the right person. She was very nice and excited to speak to me and told me to get her something by the end of the week. I flaked on the article for several months, quit my job as a page, and taught the cat and dog I owned in the dream to sleep on top of me, and each other, in a sort of pyramid shape.
On May 9th, 2013 I started doing this thing where I’d force myself to write one thought for every hour that I was awake. I did this regularly for 22 days. The end came not from a lack of thoughts but, conversely, because I found myself totally overstimulated during a trip to New Orleans (referenced in the final entries) and it didn’t make sense to pick it up again after that.
I wasn’t sure what I could or would do with this project while I was doing it, but reading back over it now, I’m intrigued by the weird, oblique narrative it creates. You get NBA playoff scores, observations from an 8-part Beatles documentary I was watching at the time, a legal “brouhaha” my roommate involved me in, and updates on the dogs I walk and cats I sit (my job). It’s sort of feels like a liveblog/livetweet but different because the constraints and medium are different. It was really fun to do, I hope it’s fun to read.
Need a finer knowledge of building materials. Clapboard, vinyl, sheetrock – what are these things?
Fishkind’s party. Am I gonna go? Feel fat and stupid, but also like drinking.
George Harrison was from an Irish family with the last name “French.”
I can’t tell if it’s foggy or if I’m just tired.
~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.’”