5 Glits of Drajjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
“Saying she was working on a sequel to ‘Wolf Hall,’ Mantel was not at the NBCC event.”
Yeh, I can’t attend the awards. I am writing the sequel to the book you are awarding. While you drink shrimp and eat gin, I am writing. Excuse me. Pop!
2.) What’s Andy Warhol doing in rural Colombia?
I don’t know. A tomato can full of cocaine? Who gives a fuck. Blar me.
3.) Did you know Lucy Corin is in the Great Outdoors issue of Hobart? How issue is this killer? Buy, fondle, crunk, read.
4.) I stopped reading a novel today with 9 pages left. The end. Ever done that?
5.) Sometimes Lit Mags use ugly fonts and it makes me sad. Sweet like forehead tattoos I want my words. I see my piece (oh how very important) and think, “Fuck, that looks like a lawyer or a dead fish or a lawyer with a dead fish.” Or I am trying to read other words and the font keeps pushing like a hydrogen cloud, human-given; a laboratory vision of near incompetence the moment it was thought, a hollow blar of a font just waiting for the smelly feet, waiting for the nasal drip from New York to come telling me in his fray, hopelessly hollow yet somehow charming, yellow, open-air way meant for stopping my brain from uploading beauty. But I digress. So.
WHAT IS THE BEST FONT?
March 12th, 2010 / 7:07 pm
How Do You Deal with Endings?
In an hour, a car service is coming to get me. It will bring to me to La Guardia, where I will wait two hours for my flight to arrive. On that flight, I will hopefully not be seated next to people who smell or who make smacking noises with their mouths, nor people who are feeling talkative. I will probably read and work on some stuff for school. Mostly what I will do, probably, is I will listen to Ryan Adams–it has to be music completely disconnected from any event–and stare forward, and wonder how it is possible that I have left the place where I, only so many hours prior, was.
For better or for worse–when it comes to the everyday, doubtless for worse–endings mean the most to me. Reading, writing, “relationships,” split-second goodbyes, drawn out goodbyes that never satisfy, leaving New York City after what amounts to a month here. While reading, I’ll cover up the last few sentences of a book–any book–with my hand until my eyes get there. I almost hold my breath. An ending is an opening, a deep and unmendable rending. While writing, I’ll ensure that the ending unravels, de-sutures, overturns what precedes it. I can control my endings on the page. I want them to spill the weight of the work into a neuter space or something.
Off the page, I am a masterful botcher of endings.
January 22nd, 2010 / 1:38 pm