HOW MUCH DO YOU CARE?

just hanging out in here. admire me. or not, i don't care.

How important to you is it to get your writing published? We’re probably all familiar to some degree with the feeling of “flow”, that creative euphoria you experience when immersed in creation, and we’re also probably acquainted with the intense (and rare) sense of personal satisfaction that comes from having created something that resembles (or even exceeds) something we conceptualized before we sat down to create it.  And then, of course, there’s that very different experience: the clotted/congested sensation of ushering it into the understandably indifferent world that reacts with form rejections or silence.  So do you care?  Or to phrase it differently: Would you still write if there were no chance of getting your work published?

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Random / 87 Comments
July 27th, 2010 / 11:05 am

Small Hours Time Difference Roundup

Hong Kong skyline w/ self-portrait & living room.

Hey it’s night time here but morning there–unless there is here for you, too, which if it is you should leave me a note and we should hang out. Anyway, here’s some stuff I’ve come across recently that might be of interest.

First, in honor of my being in Asia, here’s your weekly dose of Tao Lin- homeboy’s got “An Account of Being Arrested for ‘Trespassing’ NYU’s Bookstore” up at Gawker.

Hoist the blowhard flag! Ron Rosenbaum jumps a stack of sharks, and the moon too (jumps the moonshark? sharks the jumpmoon?)  propelled by nothing more than an endless current of his own hot air. If you thought that the Original of Laura was a tempest in a teapot, then his “next big Nabokov controversy” is, I don’t know, a cheerio on a baseball field or something. Basically, Rosenbaum takes the fact that the poem “Pale Fire” from the novel Pale Fire is going to be published as a de luxe essay-accompanied strand-alone by Gingko Press, in November, argues for a reading of the poem that boils down to “even when Nabokov was bad he was good,” and then flogs the fact with the argument like an octopus against a stone. When it’s over, four breathless screens later, he passes out in a sweaty heap of his own inane superlatives, leaving the Slate commentariat to communally shit the bed with rage, which they promptly do. In a fitting Kinbot(e)-ian irony, the most interesting piece of interesting and useful information in this article (to me, anyway) is the footnote-fact that the artist half of this art-book, Jean Holabird, was for many years a collaborator with the great poet, Tony Towle. Here’s a picture of the two of them together in 1981. You can see some samples of their collaborative work at Tony’s website (look down near the bottom).

You may or may not remember that I was also in Hong Kong this time last year, and my visit happened to coincide with the Hong Kong Book Fair. Well, it happened again- I came, and so did the Fair. So I went back. The line for entry was even longer this year, despite the controversial banning of the pseudo-models in effect for the first time. Once more the Kubrick bookstore/art-publisher booth won my vote for Best In Show. Unlike last year, where I just gawked, this year I came prepared to buy some art books–and I did. More on these later. I also made it over to the Hong Kong University Press booth and bought a few books about Hong Kong: Ken Nicolson’s The Happy Valley: A History and Tour of the Hong Kong Cemetery, after reading about it this morning in this article in the HK Weekly, and Ackbar Abbas‘s Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Disappearance.

In non-meatspace news, a preview of The Incongruous Quarterly #1 is now available. The new magazine will have fiction, poetry, and a section called “Kill Fee,” which will feature “Work that was originally meant for other publications gets a new lease on life. Featuring art, essays, fiction and articles that were supposed to belong to the New York Times, the Believer, the Globe and Mail, NPR, Daily News and Analysis India and more.” This is especially interesting, because I had been under the impression that the term “kill fee” was invented by the Paris Review two weeks ago, so I can only wonder where these guys heard it. Speaking of which, I’ll end this post in my least-favorite way possible, which is with a self-correction & apology. I contributed a piece of bona fide “shit talk” to the comment thread attached to this post of Blake’s. Without rehashing what it was I had a bug up my ass about, let me just say that I completely misunderstood what I read, and responded from a position of pure ignorance. So, you know–sorry.

Roundup / 11 Comments
July 27th, 2010 / 8:39 am

Harry Houdini on Writing

“No performer should attempt to bite off red-hot iron unless he has a good set of teeth.”

“My professional life has been a constant record of disillusion, and many things that seem wonderful to most men are the every-day commonplaces of my business.”

“Only one man ever betrayed my confidence, and that only in a minor matter.”

“The great day of the Fire-eater–or, should I say, the day of the great Fire-eater–has passed.”

“It is still an open question, however, as to what extent exposure really injures a performer.”

Craft Notes / 10 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 9:43 pm

Books from David Markson’s personal library have been showing up in bulk at The Strand. Sad. If anybody gets some, would love to hear more about his notes. I knew living in New York was good for something.

Postscript to Word Space (18): Andrew Ervin

[Andrew Ervin is still the author of Extraordinary Renditions, coming this fall from Coffee House Press and which Publisher’s Weekly recently named their “Pick of the Week.”]

Since February, when this original Word Spaces feature ran, I have decided to move back to Philadelphia. I thought it might be interesting to look at what happens when one’s writing area is dismantled, when it stops being what it is. It’s kind of cool and kind of terrifying at the same time.

Here are the crop circles that the buckling stacks of milk-crate bookshelves left in the rug.

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Word Spaces / 2 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 2:04 pm

Smokelong Quarterly 28

The 28th outing of Smokelong Quarterly is a massive double issue you’re going to want to read.

Uncategorized / 2 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 1:59 pm

Whitelaw’s Beckett’s Not I

[For the full performance, plus an intro by Whitelaw, as well as the text transcribed, see Ubu]

Film / 18 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 12:24 pm

Reviews

Don’t: A Manual of Mistakes & Improprieties more of less prevalent in Conduct and Speech, by “Censor,” real name Oliver Bell Bunce (1st ed. D. Appleton & Company, New York, 1884) is a little known book full of hilarious advice, offered in earnest, for both ladies and gentlemen of refined sensibilities. Here Oliver beseeches us regarding spitting.

Don’t expectorate. Men in good health do not need to expectorate; with them continual expectoration is simply the result of habit. Men with bronchial or lung diseases are compelled to expectorate, but no one should discharge matter of the kind in public places except into vessels provided to receive it. Spitting upon the floor anywhere is inexcusable. One should not even spit upon the sidewalk, but go to the gutter for the purpose. One must not spit into the fire-place nor upon the carpet, and hence the English rule is for him to spit in his handkerchief — but this is not a pleasant alternative. On some occasions no other may offer.

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36 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 12:00 pm

Some Sentences Recently Written In My Moleskine

“I saw the flag, and the sun slanting on the broad grass.” — William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

“Thank you for not walking your dog in this area.” — Sign at an RV park in Estes Park, Colorado

“Summer or winter, the shade of trees or their hard shadow, I never seem to get into my Rice Krispies until noon.” — Grace Paley, The Little Disturbances of Man

“Talk to LaRhonda: SEX” — From a notebook found on Southwest Flight 620, San Francisco to Denver

“When Haley Joel Osment thought about Dakota Fanning’s father he saw a normal-looking man sitting on the edge of a bed in the morning, standing in an office with a neutral facial expression, walking to his apartment at night, walking into his bedroom, quietly closing the door, screaming in agony, brushing his teeth, sleeping.” — Tao Lin, Richard Yates

“But then, why would I want a chick no one gives a shit about?” — Some guy walking near 16th and Dolores

“The sun was like a huge fifty-cent piece that someone had poured Kerosene on and then had lit with a match and said, ‘Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper,’ and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.” — Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America

Random / 43 Comments
July 26th, 2010 / 12:52 am

Wheel of Fortune

The answer isn’t “Asshole,” as the letter “s” would have lighted up in the primary round of letters — yet that is what we see, what we hear. Language lives in the eye and ear before it enters the brain, except for Vanna White’s, who stares ahead with a straight botoxed face wondering why all the snickers? I don’t know what the correct answer is, keep on seeing A S S H O L E, like think about anything but elephants and what do you think?  The elephant in the room is at once both erroneous and implicit, its verity beyond its actuality. The contestant (let’s call her Cphog) no doubt is thinking what we’re thinking, the expletive that doesn’t exist but might as well. Say goodbye to that 25K or SUV honey, you’re linguistically fuckd, missing vowels or not.

Random / 35 Comments
July 25th, 2010 / 2:54 pm