To MFA or to not: Reflections on utility
Are you tired of hearing this tired debate? To MFA or to not MFA? I am, but I’m writing about it anyway. If you’re bored with it, don’t bother reading this post. It won’t hurt my feelings any.
I’ve been thinking more and more about how “useful” my MFA has been. I went to a decent grad school (Notre Dame) and got my MFA in 2006 in prose. I knew walking into the program that I would have a hard time getting a job, that by the time I got my degree, I would be underqualified for certain jobs (the ones I wanted, mainly, professor jobs) and overqualified for just about everything else. Even though I knew this, I was deluded enough to think I was different, special maybe.
Letitia Trent Lives in Israel and Writes Poems About Oklahoma and Japanese Films
New Letitia Trent poems appear at As It Ought to Be. Here is the beginning one of them:
Ju On (dir. Takashi Shimizu, 2000)
Mother, when I return
you are still here, scuttling in the rafters, knees
busted, blue, blood
in your teeth READ MORE >
Les Figues’s 2011 TrenchArt Series: Recon
New & forthcoming from the always provocative Les Figues:
The 2011 TrenchArt series—Recon—is now available for new memberships and renewals.
For as little as $60, you can receive all five books in the series, individually mailed to you as they are published throughout the new year. This means you’ll receive:
- TrenchArt: Recon (aesthetics) Available now!
- Negro Marfil | Ivory Black, by Myriam Moscona, translated by Jen Hofer
- Tall, Slim and Erect: Portraits of the Presidents by Alex Forman
- By Kelman Out of Pessoa by Doug Nufer
- The Phonemes by Frances Richard
Each book is also the site of an unfolding articulation by visual artist Renee Petropoulos.Give more than $60, and receive a tax-deduction! See all member levels.Plus there’s more: the TrenchArt Recon series is designed by writer/artist Janice Lee. The covers for the aesthetic collection were letterpressed by the amazing Brian Teare. Each book is hand-stamped with an image designed by Renee Petropoulos. The stamping will continue throughout the year, which means, members only will receive specially stamped books!
The TrenchArt series also makes a wonderful holiday gift. Simply indicate “gift” in the comments box, and we’ll include a note in the package.
“It is a dangerous book.” – Glenn Beck Reviews The Coming Insurrection
The Coming Insurrection
by
The Invisible Committee
(MIT Press, 2009)
from the “dangerous book”:
“I AM WHAT I AM.” My body belongs to me. I am me, you are you, and something’s wrong. Mass personalization. Individualization of all conditions – life, work and misery. Diffuse schizophrenia. Rampant depression. Atomization into fine paranoiac particles. Hysterization of contact. The more I want to be me, the more I feel an emptiness. The more I express myself, the more I am drained. The more I run after myself, the more tired I get. We cling to our self like a coveted job title. We’ve become our own representatives in a strange commerce, guarantors of a personalization that feels, in the end, a lot more like an amputation. […] Meanwhile, I manage. The quest for a self, my blog, my apartment, the latest fashionable crap, relationship dramas, who’s fucking who… whatever prosthesis it takes to hold onto an “I”!
You can read the whole thing for free online here. After the jump, check out the concluding thoughts of this “dangerous book,” and watch Glenn Beck review it on Fox News.
“…philosophy is music, music is philosophy, and the other way round.” – Thomas Bernhard
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbPUkLrmzUA
Abner Jay reinverts the age-old ‘looking for a virgin’ myth in “Don’t Mess With Me Baby.”
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpjy0MOMn3Y
Anthony Braxton called Abner Jay an American master.
December 11th, 2010 / 3:01 am
Maurice Blanchot on inventing language in an unfamiliar tongue
“Since we happened to be in the street at the moment Paris was bombed, we had to take shelter in the metro. At that time these formalities were not taken seriously. And N. enjoyed anything that allowed her to leave her work. So the two of us were on the steps in the middle of an enormous crowd, the kind of crowd that is urgent and unwieldy, sometimes as motionless as the earth, sometimes rushing down like a torrent. For quite some time I had been talking to her in her mother tongue, which I found all the more moving since I knew very few words of it. As for her, she never actually spoke it, at least not with me, and yet if I began to falter, to string together awkward expressions, to form impossible idioms, she would listen to them with a kind of gaiety, and youth, and in turn would answer me in French, but in a different French from her own, more childish and talkative, as though her speech had become irresponsible, like mine, using an unknown language. And it is true that I too felt irresponsible in this other language, so unfamiliar to me; and this unreal stammering, of expressions that were more or less invented, and whose meaning flitted past, far away from my mind, drew from me things I never would have said, or thought, or even left unsaid in real words: it tempted me to let them be heard, and imparted to me, as I expressed them, a slight drunkenness which was no longer aware of its limits and boldly went farther than it should have. So I made the most friendly declarations to her in this language, which was a habit quite alien to me. I offered to marry her at least twice, which proved how fictitious my words were, since I had an aversion to marriage (and little respect for it), but in her language I married her, and I not only used that language lightly but, more or less inventing it, and with the ingenuity and truth of half-awareness, I expressed in it unknown feelings which shamelessly welled up in the form of that language and fooled even me, as they could have fooled her.”
–Maurice Blanchot, Death Sentence
5 required test of the status of the gouts of yellow snot of
11. I never understand what a translator must feel. To “guess” what word might represent the author’s intent. Like dancing about architecture or fucking about bowling parties, I’m sure. Here is a fascinating interview about translating Haruki Murakami.
55. At a thousand thousands, Sam Lipsyte reads Hob Broun.
5. There is no # 5. Ok, this: Taylor Swift is vacuous. So there is no # 5.
14444. Sean D. Kelly writes an essay about Scylla, blow-driers, Charybdis of religious delusion, the conditions of thigh chaffing and self-deception, the dancer as the dance, and the anxiety and nihilism of George Michael/Nietzschean post-God secularism. Well done, sir. And worth your time. Click. Trust me.
7. Hey you opinionated cacafuegos. What makes bad writing bad? This is sharp blow glow. Watch:
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raWLS2_PEfI
There’s no rule that says you get steadily better.
I had a big Hemingway boner.
It’s pretty bad.
middle-where?
What’s the difference between middle-class and bourgeois? Cultural consumption? Money? Conspicuous consumption? The size of tv screen or SUV?
I ask because I’ve been thinking about flaneurs a lot, especially the modern flaneur and what he would embody. Findings to come, as I find them. They are somewhere, probably between the covers of The Arcades Project.
“…[Y]ou’ll never become the writer you want to become. You’ll never be satisfied, never really know if you are any good. You’ll never be certain.”—from a 1998 letter by Dean Young to his nephew, the writer Seth Pollins. The entire thing is here, and it’s well worth reading. (Worth relinking to this open letter from Tony Hoagland about Dean’s current medical problems, I think.)