OCEAN NOTES
several days ago i stayed up all night watching the ocean and telling myself that i will never go back. i felt that after that moment, everything would have to be different. i finally get it. i finally understand what it’s all about. i see everything now and i know what decisions must be made. what have i got to do to not forget this lesson? to not lose contact. in a few hours i will be zipped across this very sky on a plane en route to baltimore. i will ride it for free using the complimentary ticket i got when i wrote and faxed a four page complaint to american airlines—faxed so i could bypass the word limit on the website form (who said writing skillz aren’t practical?). i am afraid. i know that in baltimore i will not have the psychic or physical space to really sink into it and i’m wondering—does being around people desensitize you, force you onto a different wavelength, flatten your really intense visions and impulses? BECAUSE IF I AM TO WRITE I CANNOT BE DESENSITIZED. how am i going to write these books? to think, several days ago i was at the end of my life laughing, watching the waves crash into the rocks as the world expanded in every directions all around me. i was on this extremely long and lonely journey just to figure out that everything would be okay, and when i came to this realization everything suddenly opened up. i was inside my life in this totally different way—for the first time i wasn’t wishing i were somewhere else; wasn’t wishing i were smarter, better or more like this or that. mid-revelation a cop pulled up, parked his car, and stared me down. he wouldn’t leave. fuck that cop. and all other cops. you’re cramping my style. i stumbled away from the cop and into the gaze of a pack of drunk guys. they started yelling sexual comments at me and began to walk toward me. i was preparing myself to fight and was convinced i could take all of them down. just then my little brother and his friend showed up.
“Suspect nostalgia and equally suspect admiration for decay.”
“There is a collie here whose only countenance is the business-like countenance of a herder. He is unleashed, and he is unwavering in the anti-personal way he circles the gathered crowd. He has no time to be petted as he weaves through the people’s herd.” — For those of you who have been allergic to the arguably necessary but gratingly chalky rah-rah language of the Occupy movement, here is Anne Boyer in Lana Turner writing about Kansas City and making some good old fashioned song outta that fizz.
your actions become more forgivable if you don’t know the rules: an interview with Harriet Alida Lye
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).
Roxane Gay—
When you’re asked to withdraw something or to resign from a position, there’s often some kind of pressure involved and that pressure is generally wielded to make someone else save face. Last week, the National Book Foundation announced this year’s nominees for the National Book Award. They made a mistake (?!) and today, the writer whose work was “mistakenly” included, withdrew her work from consideration, at the Foundation’s “request.” The word clusterfuck comes to mind. Real talk: I’d cry if this happened to me.
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Inside an MFA: Call & Response #1.5
Last week, I put up student responses to the following questions:
Can you teach creative writing? How? How would you teach creative writing that is different from your MFA? How would you “innovate” or “renovate”? What have you “learned” from your MFA? What has been the biggest surprise? Disappointment?
Here is a long response, penned by Jeff Pickell. Enjoy. & read it all. It’s worth it!
- Shitty syntax begets shitty phrases. Shitty phrases beget shitty sentences. Shitty sentences beget shitty paragraphs. Shitty paragraphs beget shitty sections. Shittiness begets shittiness begets shittiness.
- The MFA enrolls in a creative writing program. He does not enroll in a written creations program. Asked what he studies, the MFA replies “creative writing” or simply “writing.” He doesn’t reply “creative.” This is because the MFA doesn’t have a creative deficiency. He has a writing deficiency. He should know this, too. A lot of MFA’s—the shitty MFA’s—don’t. The shitty MFA is a strange creature. More on him later.
- Many contend writing can’t be taught. This is absolutely false, as any MFA with a journalism background knows.
- The shittier the story is, the harder it is to revise. READ MORE >
&NOW Tomorrowland Forever & The Mad Science of Narrative
This past weekend (Thursday – Saturday) was the &NOW Festival of New Writing 2011 (Tomorrowland Forever) at UC San Diego. I planned on writing a more cohesive write-up of the conference, but the condensed intensity of the conference (in the most positive way possible) has exhausted by brain and I may need a bit of a recovery period to really process all the stimulating conversation and events. So much thanks and to Anna Joy Springer and Amina Cain for putting on such an awesome event.
On one of the panels I was a part of, “The Mad Science of Narrative: Temporal Horizons and Neurological Transcendence,” we 4 panelists (loosely operating as the collective Strophe) continued to explore some themes we’ve been talking about for some time now, surrounding issues of narrative & narrativization. Some really amazing & productive conversation ensued, and we hope to keep this conversation going, so in hopes of that, am posting up our mini-papers here (which we presented first and then opened up for general discussion). My own paper is largely recycled from some other things I’ve also been working on, as these ideas have largely been shaping my critical & creative practice as of late. Anyways, looking forward to hearing more thoughts.
Sunday Service: Leanna Petronella Poem
Promises, Promises
Let’s only bless each other
Said the mad priest to his cross
The cross chuckled
And jumped to the ground
The priest watched it hop away
The priest sighed
And drearily married his left foot
To his right
And we must never be honest with each other
Vowed a man to his wife
She took away her veil
And planted flowers in her moles as he stared
It is for the best, she agreed
Applying warts to his teeth
What can we do
I asked my body
We can twist your skull
Into star metal
But besides that
I want to sing all the songs
The man said to his coffin
The coffin opened and closed
And offered a steady beat
Leanna Petronella is a Michener Fellow in the University of Texas’s MFA program. Her poetry has appeared in Cutbank, La Petite Zine, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review.
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Patsy Cline on Writing
I got me a hit record and I ain’t never made a cent from it.
His hug is his beer in a frosted mug.
I don’t apologize that I don’t sing through my nose.
Sitting around the house playing the wife and mother is driving me crazy.
I thought I loved him but he’s dull.
I’ll die before I go all the way pop.
That applause don’t help you any when you’re laying in that bed at night being totally ignored.
I’ll screw the boots off of you.
I’ve become a captive of my own ambitions.
They said I would be the Hemingway of music. I would have my own style.
I got to change my firecracker!
Most lyrics don’t have any balls.
It’s like things are creeping on me and I just want to lay low.
I go to church on Sundays, the vows I make. I break them on Monday.
I don’t give a goddamn!
I’m gonna walk a little bit of dog.
Five Albums For Saturday
It’s Saturday. I’m working on a paper I’ll be presenting in two weeks at the A.S.A.P. conference in Pittsburgh, entitled: “Gen-Web: The Emergent Literary Coterie.” My goal will be, in part, to bring the current online literary scene to the dinner table of academia. If you should find yourself in PA between October 27-30, you should come by the Wyndham Hotel and catch a panel or two. It’s gonna be a kick-ass conference, because it’s geared toward bleeding-edge research and innovative approaches to literature. The president of the association is a mentor of mine, Brian McHale, who has written extensively about innovative literature, including the seminal volume Postmodernist Fiction. The advisory committee for the organization includes Charles Bernstein, N. Katherine Hayles, Linda Hutcheon, Michael Berube and many other internationally recognized and groundbreaking scholars and distinguished practitioners in the contemporary arts. So the atmosphere should be pretty cool. If you’re around Friday night, for instance, Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid) will be giving a plenary session at the Warhol Museum. Not to mention, Friday afternoon htmlgiant friends Johannes Göransson & Joyelle McSweeney will team up with Josh Corey and Monica Mody to present a panel on “The Pastoral and the Necropastoral.”
This post isn’t going to be about that, though. Instead it’s going to be about some music I’ve been listening to lately…