Andrew Weatherhead
http://www.andrewweatherhead.org/
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
http://www.andrewweatherhead.org/
I was born in Chicago. I have friends everywhere.
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.'”