It's Never too late

for a Christmas card. Enjoy the pics and have a great Christmas!

over

and out. as in, the semester is finished. finito. tapus na. dead and gone.

i've logged those final grades and committed them to my student's records for all time.

and now for some rest (and revision) over the break.

the paper trail continues...

what a find

A letter from Bellow. Though I have my reservations about how well some of his work has aged, you have to give it to him--the man can write a mean letter. My favorite here is "We need money on account of our vices."

In case this appears to be just so much dithering about nothing at all, let me reassure you--it is.

And, in the further case that the tiny print is too small for you to read, continue on for the smashing full text.

Oh, hooey--just read it for yourself here. The old cut and paste is too much work.

writing and idiocy

The guy in this video, Loïc Jean-Albert, seems to know something about writing. Or at least, he knows something about jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Here he is, on trying to land safely without a parachute (i.e. using a wingsuit only): “You might do it well one time and try another time and crash and die.” That sounds about right, in my experience.

a few flyers

imagine that

i'm reading on friday.

thanksgiving

thanksgiving was amazing. lots of love and good food and good cheer all around. i actually managed to forget about the pressures of, well, everything, for a while. now they are back and none the worse for wear, but i am glad that i had those few days. and i am glad for b and n. oh yes i am. 

novella

turned in the novella today. it clocked in at 71 pages, which is a bit past the 50 page requirement. usually, we shrink things down to a size ten font and one and a half spacing, to save paper and to make it seem a less formidable task to read three of the things a week. since most of the novellas so far reach about thirty pages or less in the reduced format, i have a feeling my 45 reduced format monster is going to induce a little hand wringing in the rest of the class. such is life.

the tyranny of turkey day

the university has managed to maneuver things with the holiday so well that my schedule does not change at all. I don't even drop a single class from my schedule, whether one that I teach or one that I take. this makes me very sad.

fenton strikes again

here it is. Part 3 of the ongoing saga of the two photos. the most magnificent part of this segment is that they COUNTED the cannonballs. every single one of them. then they marked them with red dots, so we could all see just how many there are. the only sad part is that since they finally resolved the debate about which photo was taken first, there will be no part 4. now what will i do with my life?

stuck at 40 pages

ideas, anyone?

churned out 40 mediocre pages and have ten to go and no idea how to end it.

and am sure that ten will not be sufficient for the storyline to make any sort of sense at all.

novellas. even short ones.

why?

the deadline looms.

look there

down on the bottom.


no, a little further.


keep going.


look down, i said.


don't laugh, it's alphabetical.


just a little further.


hey, what's this? i know that guy. that guy on the bottom. we're friends.

p-fork and the big R

Okay, image analysis.

First, note the cute little parody here: empty boxes followed by a question mark. Ah, just like the website, you say. The one where you paid next-to-nothing for an album that... well, we'll get to that later.



Next up: More of the same.

Last: the twist. Oh, you clever people. Can't resist putting your stamp of approval on the thing, can you?

So what does this add up to? Substitution of style over substance? Cute referentiality that serves only as self-congratulation? Adulation of the political statement of the release (Yorke and Radiohead stick it to the man, as personified by the record label)?

I submit to you that these images add up to all of the above, and more.

But first, the album.

In a word or two, it is mundane. Wait, that wasn't quite right. Unlistenable. No, not that either. In Rainbows is a tame and rather trite effort from a band that you expect to give you more. Better.

But what sort of more?

Well, the sort of more that they always give--the reinvention of self, the same old soul-searching presented with enough self-deprecation and cynicism and paranoia to make it palatable.

Listening to In Rainbows is like getting that paper from the smart student (the one who actually talks in class) only to discover that they, too, wrote the thing at four in the morning, and it shows.

Boy does it ever show.

From the chincy tapping drums on Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, to the incoherent electro-junk drums of 15-step, the whole thing sounds like somebody's fourth grade brother stepped in behind the kit. This, though for me the most grevious offense, may not be evident to everyone. So let's look at the level of listenabilty.

Ah, yes. Do I remember a single hook on the album? Was there any lead-in that blew my mind? Were there any memorable lines? No, no, and no.

But what about the culmination of the songs, you say. Don't the big R eschew traditional song structures for a build-up that pays off toward the end of the song? Don't kid yourself; if you want build-up, go listen to mogwai.

So come on, P-fork. You can give the album a failing grade, or even a middle-of-the-road vote. But a 9.3? That's just admitting the truth: somebody is acting like a schill, all for the anti-label indieness of the release.

Please, for the sake of your own credibility, cut the hyperbole and call the album what it is: radiohead doing radiohead. An imitation of the real thing.

sleep

.















.

because

you can't stay away. here is part two. the great picture debate. parts three, and possibly four, forthcoming.

get sucked in here.

night

as in three readings in one night. busy. busy. busy.

but not bad.

charles d 'ambrosio.

and a pair of former a2 residents.

one of whom got a write up in the times just today.

anyway, always interesting to meet people who have published. and widely, at that.

babble babble babble. babble babble.

king

so it may seem weird, but i think i am developing a sort of fondness for stephen king. of course, when i say king i mean his books, but not necessarily the white-bread horror that he does so well. turns out the man can write engaging material that isn't all shock and awe.

i just finished the shawshank redemption, which moved well enough, although reading something after having seen the movie, no matter how long ago, is always a struggle against the residual images in your mind--king's narrator is a red-haired irishman who bears no resemblance to morgan freeman.

king also managed to bail me out of a slump near the start of the semester with his book on writing, creatively titled just that. he has a sort of appealing blue-collar aesthetic, and openly admits that while he doesn't write literary stuff, he can appreciate it, and frequently does, as the forthcoming best american collection shows.

king's opinion on the literary nature of his writing may have changed somewhat in recent years, though it is likely the way people look at him is what really has undergone a shift. i haven't read his latest, but it was reviewed in the times and its literary nature, for king at least, was one of the subjects bandied about. so yeah. the master of macabre. the henchman of horror. the pusher of poltergeist. and a challenging, prolific, and bestselling writer. would that we all had those problems.

poetry on the air

remember when people used to show up to listen to poetry? yeah, me neither. that was before my time. but still, look at the crowd ginsberg draws here at this reading of howl at washington square in 1966. you still can't listen to howl on the radio, though. some things never change.

...and then this happened

well, you can't have everything all of the time. but some of the time, you can, if you look at it the right way. so even though our house looked like this after we managed to get nash to sleep one of the past few marathon nights, we still felt something like elation when he slept for 7 hours. hey, i'd push a broom around all day for that kind of sleep schedule.

let me also say that i am nearing exhaustion, or perhaps am far past it, teaching undergrads composition, which isn't a subject i ever knew anything about, anyway. let's just say that the papers are driving me crazy.

in other, happier, areas of life, it seems that the master of macabre, old stephen-who-can't-spell-his-first-name-right king is the editor of the best american short stories this year, and he picked a story from ye olde director of my mfa program. so look for it when the volume comes out soon: the bris, by eileen pollack.

last. the writing. slow going. fragments everywere. completion nowhere. 50 pages due by mid-november. only 15 logged. drama on the horizon.

Fenton

one man.

two images.

a title as forbidding as possible:
the valley of the shadow of death.

the crimean war.

and a controversy about the photos themselves.

enough said.

wrote a single-sentence email exceeding 300 words to no one and sent it, after much thought, to myself. rants are best kept to yourself unless you really want some else thinking about you in that particular sort of manic way that is naturally part of a rant.

had the most productive day of my short writing career sandwiched by two of the least. will not even begin to speak of this occurence.

flattered self that i was managing the obscene level of work the new semester demands, but stopped short of believing it.

hoped that no one will read or believe any of the material found in this dog-eared lost book, then thought better of it.

notch in the belt

meaning workshop, of course. my story went up and was treated kindly, constructively, if that is at all possible. came out of it with a lot of new ideas and direction for the piece. it took no more than the use flak for the second-person pov, so i won't complain there. so--now i don't have to workshop a thing until nov.

joy. utter. joy.

where do we come from, why are we here, where are we going?

tomorrow = first day of teaching

i know. I know. 

but there isn't anything i can do about it now. i am about as ready as i can be, which is good, i suppose, since i am about to be in charge of helping 18 freshman limp along the way to producing better prose. 

also, i'd better be prepared today--i teach at the very unforgiving time of 8:30-10:00 am. 

wish me luck. 

2 day teaching conference under my belt. feeling supremely confident in my insecurity as i begin to teach class next week. 

An untitled study for “Son of Gone Fishin,” by Donald Judd. (1981. Watercolor on paper.)

nonfiction

this telling the truth business is refreshing as anything. 

no fear of anyone calling your bluff, because you aren't bluffing. 

if they do call, you shove the cards down their throat. 

on second thought, it seems that nonfiction doesn't help with those tendencies toward sporadic violence. 

ah, the bittersweet kiss of rejection has--wait, something's off about that...

oh, right. nothing sweet about it. 

well then, the bitter kiss of rejection has struck again. 

learn to live with it, not to love it, but to deal. 

notes on fabrication, pt. 1

- don't go with prefab. stale old lies, even those that have worked in previous situations, are easy to spot. always go with fresh on-the-spot inventions. 

- the more inflammatory, the better. your opponent will be less likely to call your bluff if your lies seem impossibly outrageous. you can go too far with this, though, so be sure to test the waters of credulity before you go big. 

- mix a bit of truth with that escargot. this is a long-standing principle, as seen in children's games such as "two truths and a lie." you will find it is harder to spot a lie when artfully blended with fragments that really happened. 

- believe it, fervently. the easier it is for you to buy your own words, the sooner others will follow suit. 

- never, ever reveal what is or isn't true. like a magician, true practitioners of the art don't spill the secret workings of their tricks.

given a pecan log roll tonight. who knew those things were good? in fact, who knew those things even existed? my poor, sheltered life.

this is similar to an earlier experience i had with sopaipillas. don't ask me how people know about these things. they must live richer, unsheltered lives. 

rain aplenty. 

holed up in the house until the deluge stops. 

just posting snippets without titles.

not really any way to title or caption the way i am feeling right now.

call it tired. unable to sleep.

house is too quiet when i'm the only one home at night.

recently finished the english patient.

one of those books that makes you die every three seconds while reading and say to yourself: i wish i had written this.

currently reading another book that makes me feel the same way.

wonder if i'll ever shake out the mothballs and write a novel of my own.

one that makes me die every three seconds while writing it.

hp7 currently sitting on the kitchen table.

it came in the mail today.

b and i read 1st chapter out loud on the way to the airport.

now i am stuck with an oath not to read it until she gets back from denver.

on friday.

talk about eternity.

don't even try to tell me what happens. better yet, don't talk to me at all because you'll feel compelled to let something slip.

wait until saturday next, when i'll have finished.

ahem. tomorrow.

hp5: the movie

so. went to hp5. saw about the first half or so.

then little n woke up and decided he was hungry.

well, the first half of the movie was okay.

when i see the rest i'll let you know what i think.

2 days

In case you haven't been watching the counter in the sidebar, there are only two days until harry potter 7 comes out.

How to Justify Using Your Grandfather’s Handicapped Parking Permit

1. Hunch your shoulders over the wheel as you cruise in. This is crucial, since your profile in the window of the vehicle instantly telegraphs the condition of the driver to the viewing public (in this case, the other patrons of the lot). An upright posture indicates a vibrant, healthy body.

2. Since you are so obviously young, make an attempt to tone down some of your youthful showiness through watching what you wear. Shorts that show just a hint of buttock are out, as are tight miniskirts. Stick with pants for the most part, and try to avoid flashing that perfect tan you baked for in 16 minute increments over the past month.

3. Feign a limp. This can easily be overdone, so don’t drag your leg along the pavement or anything ridiculous like that. A slight hitch in your gait will do. Just pretend like one leg is heavier than the other, and it will come naturally. Watch that you don’t stop limping when you are just inside the store; turning a corner before doing so is more discreet.

4. He is your grandfather, after all. Which makes you a granddaughter and therefore entitled to the privileges of parking front and center by right of blood. Inheritance of the parking permit, you might say. Note that this argument really only holds up in front of people who already agree with you; in other words, keep it in the family.

5. Wigs are reserved only for really desperate times. This includes not wanting to be seen in public when a cute boy you happen to know is walking by. Try to select a wig with just a tinge of grey. Hair is an age indicator, and if your get-up puts you just this side of senile, your driving will attract impatience more than forbearance. Remember, wigs are usually dowdy and skewed a little, so don’t be too meticulous when arranging it in the rearview.

6. Back into the space, and do it slowly. Nothing seems more incongruous than a driver that slides the car into a handicapped space with careless ease. When backing in, make several corrections, even to the point of delaying other cars from parking. The drivers will only feel guilty if they are impatient or upset at your driving skills when they see the little hanger in the windshield.

7. When exiting the car, always ask for assistance. Though this puts at least one person in close enough proximity to discover your secret, (who you can either draw in to the joke with a well-timed wink, or wither with indignant outrage), the heart-rending spectacle will melt any suspicious parkers in the lot. After all, misfortune can strike at any age.

Birth

Nash Aaron Woodward was born on June 12 at 7:04 pm.

He weighed 8 lbs. 13 oz. and measured 20 1/2 inches long.


He is the most adorable kid I have ever seen. This has nothing to do with the fact that he looks like me. Well, maybe it does. A little.

Though B and I are a little sleep deprived, we wouldn't trade our little guy for anything in the world.

Posts may get a little infrequent from now on. You only have to look at this picture once to understand why. Nash pretty much trumps everything else in my life right now, and I am glad of it.

life status

a/c up and running daily.
writing eddying along.
garden flourishing.
no baby yet.
what else is new?

death of the old

so my computer goes down again for the umpteenth time and the extended warranty is finally up. this time it is the most petty of reasons -- a combination of short battery life and a short somewhere in the power socket. but what it comes down to is whether to fix the beast on my own dime or just buy one that works.

buy one that works.

then the problem is, which one? the introduction of windows vista complicates things, since you can't get a new pc without it, and since it is bound to be full of bugs since it is new. so a mac, perhaps? perhaps.

if only it wasn't so hard to spend a thousand plus dollars. anyway, wish me luck on the hunt for a suitable, portable, uncomplicated machine. that works.

smell that--

it's the scent of a new story hitting the mail for the first time. it reminds you of hope, doubt, overconfidence, deep despair, elation, and sadness all at the same time. but then, if feelings weren't complex, they wouldn't be worth experiencing, and neither would the smells that so often bring them back to life.

but aside from all the associational gibberish, the perfume picture will make a whole lot more sense to someone who reads my new story. (which is my usual these days, it seems. post a picture that has something to do with a recent story and hope it brings good luck). let's hope that some editor out there reads it and loves it.

in other news: we are gardening like mad. peppers, tomatoes, and more. a post on this later.

getting close

really. i can feel it. because i received another almost-acceptance today, this time from Story Quarterly.

yes, it was a rejection, but so nice and complimentary (read: they said it was seriously considered). and no, i did not detect any sarcasm. to close, they said that they thought that the story was so well done that while they finally decided not to use it, they think another editor will pick it up in fairly short order.

so not really a letdown. because this is the nicest rejection note to date. and because i think it means that i am getting close to publication.

next time, or a time soon to come, the letter will say yes, not no.

thursday

the sun is out! be happy!

aaaaaaaand relax

because i passed my language test. no summer chinese. no 3 hr a day class. no daily quizzes. no homework. no temporary insanity when i can't read the characters. no mind-blank when all i can think of is chinese phrases but can't remember what they are supposed to mean. no deposits, fees paid for creditless class.

but best of all--time with barb. time with the little dude. time to write. time to actually have a summer.

only five weeks till the due date. buckle your seatbelts.

moving

moving season is upon us. which means that i'll be hauling the furniture of neighbors and friends for the next few days/weeks. interestingly enough, all the moves mean a lot of furniture is being unloaded for little or no money. our house has benefited to the tune of a dresser or two, a nice side table, and a small shelf--not to mention a few other upcoming items. well, i won't complain. now if only the rain can hold off for a while so everyone doesn't get wet while hauling boxes...

um, awesome.

why is it raining today?

can anyone tell me?

i wish it was sunny again.

yarns

which i intend to spin a plenty over the summer. and which i am already spinning. one of which features a thread-obsessed person. as in the following passage:

Time spooling outward. Over the years, the house has become a repository for all things that represent longevity. Skeins of thread are stacked in pyramids of threes on every surfaces. String, yarn, other thickstuffs wound into balls that collect under chairs, couches. He has one in his pocket at all times, a work in progress. When out walking, he adds to it, knotting stray plastic strips, dry-rot suffering rubber bands, abandoned shoelaces together, winding them into small balls. Has heard of the presence of the world’s largest ball of twine somewhere in the state, but thinks the idea ridiculous: a largest ball? How can you put an upper limit on infinity? Who is it, exactly, that has evaluated all possible balls of twine, held them to a stiff standard of measurement, an even stricter one of material components (twine only, composition wound hemp or manila—he knows on such grounds his composite balls would be disqualified) and declared one single ball sole heir to the title? He wonders if they unroll the thing to measure it lengthwise, or just estimate from the circumference. Again: how to measure a thing with no end?

oh summer. oh last time brief window of time before my life changes forever, as i become a father.

snape

so because i knew the end of my last post, (rather recent, i know) drove you crazy wondering how those borders people could even ask such a stupid question, here is how they have outlined things, word for word. i quote:

Severus Snape: Friend or Foe?

Snape is a powerful and gifted wizard who possesses a ruthless and cunning wit, is rarely caught off guard by any comment or insult and often leaves his verbal combatants with little to say. His allegiances are a mystery however. Is he loyal to Dumbledore and a friend to Harry Potter? Or is Snape loyal to Voldemort, and a foe of Harry Potter?

Here's some questions we have about Snape

Snape is a Friend
1. In Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, why did Snape attempt to protect Harry from Professor Quirrell?

2. Why didn’t Snape go to the graveyard immediately upon being summoned by Voldemort in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?

3. In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, why did Snape alert the Order of the Phoenix that Harry was facing danger at the ministry?

4. In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, why did Snape agree to teach Harry Occumency?

5. Dumbledore tells Harry he trusts Snape in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and again it is implied in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Would Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of his time, misplace his trust in Snape?

6. Why does Snape spare Harry’s life in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince?

Snape is a Foe
1. Beginning with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Snape displays a dislike of Harry. Is a childhood grudge against his father reason enough to hate Harry or is it something more?

2. Why was Snape so set on expelling Harry from Hogwarts in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets?

3. In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, what were Snape and Karkaroff conspiring about?

4. Knowing the danger Harry faced, why did Snape continue to goad Sirius in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix?

5. In Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, what were Snape’s motives for his Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa?

6. And of course, there is the major question of Snape and Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. We'll leave out the details for anyone that may not have yet read the books.

What do you think? Friend or foe?

endquote.

so, nifty. but i'm not convinced. snape is still harry's enemy, no matter how you cut the cake.

i can't help it

pottermania has taken me over. so what if i have pre-ordered the book. so what if i did install a counter for the book and next movie in my sidebar. it doesn't mean anything. except, perhaps, that whatever snobishness i originally had about literature has probably dissolved. oh well. who needs to be a snob about anything? book seven will have a first print run of 12 million, which is the largest first print run of any book ever. when you sell like that, snobbishness isn't even a question that comes up.

and besides, the cover is out now. The front cover starts this post, but the jacket wraps around and continues onto the flaps, with the whole picture looking like this:







kind of puts harry in perspective to see old he who must not be named lurking in the background, doesn't it?

anyway, i've been staying away from rumormongering about the book, so that i don't get any crazy ideas that spoil it for me. but if you want to talk potter, call me. we'll talk.

P.S. -- can't seem to leave this post alone. a few additions.

first, as to scholastic's 7 questions campaign (clever, clever), i figure they won't really give you definitive answers. setting up a little poll thing is cute, though. it is a nice way to get people interested--as if they weren't already. anyway, here is the video with the first question (although technically they do ask two questions, but they could have done it in one, since they are just the opposite sides of the same thing) so that you know what i am talking about.

and as far as the question of who dies--well, rowling won't really kill potter, as in really kill him and leave him dead, because that would just be sad. and she doesn't really do sad. but, she could kill him and bring him back to life, which would be satisfying enough, and let her have it both ways. who says she couldn't do it that way if she wanted to? another solution is to kill harry, but also kill the big V. that would work too.

one last word. borders has been putting these signs up about book seven that say, "severus snape, friend or foe?" ridiculous. we all know he is, plain and simple, a foe. has been since day one. if you want convincing, we'll talk.

the hopwoods

so i know i have been absent for a long time here, but it isn't as though anyone who might read this blog doesn't have better things to do then read it, so i feel remarkably guilt free. which is surprising, considering how stress-filled and awful the end of the semester has been and will continue to be.

however, there does happen to be one shiny copper penny lying on the highway of finals (oh, shoot me now for even thinking of such pedestrian imagery, let alone actually writing it in a blog post), and here it is: i won a hopwood award in the graduate short fiction category. i know. i know.

but before you get too excited, let me just explain that the hopwoods are only the biggest contest since the one about the best way to fry a pancake, and that beside the recognition that you get for winning one, people also seem to treat you nicer (at least one person is warmer than formerly). oh, and thanks to dear old avery hopwood, you also get a nice chunk of cash.

so here's to the hopwoods, and to the hope that putting my award in my cover letters will actually help me get something published one of these days.

take your pick

sometimes you just need a word to fit the situation. or a few words.

here are a few. take your pick.

whiplash: the problem with whiplash is that you have this long, long buildup, and then this awful letdown when you realize that you won't get anything good out of the situation that gave you whiplash except for a sore neck and some incredibly cranky feelings. this track is the same way.

hit the lights: you just want to call it quits. some relationships aren't worth it. but you will ultimately feel, at some point, that your initial reaction to things was infantile, and you will second guess throwing in the towel. so, this song--just as childish as that prematurely ended relationship.

no remorse: this is how you should feel when you get out of 1) a bad relationship 2) a relationship that would have been bad if you had let it become a relationship 3) a sticky friendship with someone who likes you intensely and inexplicably and then just doesn't. this is what you feel, complete with hair-raising solo ten seconds in. when you feel this way about a recently past relationship, you exult. the solos always come ten seconds in when you feel like this--so on.

and, finally, the reason for it all: randall moves on.

so here's to words for situations. and here's to special k.

drums & guns II

where would you go if the gun fell in your hand?

questions, questions. Low asks a plenty of these on the new album. but whether or not you choose to answer them, they are perhaps worth some attention.

not that the problems of our personal lives aren't pressing, but at times they can seem rather petty and insignificant compared to the problems people in other parts of the world are having. in other words, i have the luxury of being stressed out about chinese language exams.

the album itself: some electronic touches, primarily drums that are definitely not mimi and her snare and floor tom, but rather a blend of organ-produced beats mixed with a modern aesthetic. overall the production is pretty sparse, which lets the vocals come through nicely. but low has always been about vocals. this is nothing new.














what is new is the way that low continues to push at the barriers of music. this is a band that was playing songs at so-called glacial tempos before sigur ros even existed, during the age of nirvana and grunge, if you can believe it. now they show that they are unafraid not only to move around in the freedom they bought with their last album, but also to continue to break new ground.

and while when younger i would have certainly passed them off as boring and moved on to the more adrenaline-filled grunge rock, it is low who has ended up staying with me, eight albums and more than ten years later.

so listen. war, violence, death: there's got to be an end to that.

wynton

this is us last night.

i suppose a more accurate description would be that this is where we were last night.


but I think, given the music, that a melding of subjects is appropriate.

anyway, the hill auditorium is pretty impressive and the acoustics are even more so.

This is who we were last night; that is, who we were with.

Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra.

they played all the standards we didn't know but should have. Most impressive was their blistering "sweet georgia brown" and of course, "a night in tunesia."

something about the pure note that horns sound in your soul makes you feel as though there is a reason for everything.

between songs, wynton offered small commentary: "when people from other planets come to earth, they aren't going to want our technology. They're going to want some barbecued ribs, and some blues."

on a thursday night, this is about all you can ask.

take the bait. go on. take it.

have had two recent rejections that i prefer to think about as almost acceptances. both of them did indeed say that they almost took the respective pieces for publication. this is more encouraging than anything else that has happened so far. both encouraged me to submit more work in the future, and though this is a standard stroke, i think they meant it. i feel like i am moving ahead, slowly, painfully, and may be making progress in my writing. almost, i say to myself. next time.

days

just get you down sometimes.

K the destroyer

wonderful and wondering visit paid to K in SB, where she did, in not particular order (though of course there was an order imposed upon these things by the pre-recorded bells of ND that clocked our movements):

-handled the mic like a rock star
-brought lula's to a sincerely attentive silence with her poetry
-served chocolate cake up as a prequel to her reading
-proved herself a masterful reader/performer of said poetry
-soaked up much-deserved praise and applause at said reading
-made our visit very much worth it with her amazing coffee cake

and these as well:

-showed us around the soggy ND campus
-broke her elevator riding lent oath just for us
-showed us the very same place that rudy prayed at, wow
-was very good company

and of course the most important of all:

-was the good friend she has always been

here is to K.

drums & guns

march 19.

so excited for this.

the new Low album.

look at the capital letter i gave their name.

since when does that happen?

oh, since that post.

anyway, check out a cut from the album, which promises to be full of experimentation and a touch of electronic additions--at least for low. subtle as always. anyway, rumor has it that this new album is supposed to be dark as anything. bring it.

oh, the promised track: breaker.

the thing about things

the thing about the ny times online is that they always have these snapshot-y looks at various artists, usually visual ones--which happens to work well, no surprise--that really pique my interest. like this article on jeff wall.

the thing about these articles is that they have these really great slideshow deals that always leave you wanting more, but inevitably include at least one unbelievable gem, like this staged photo of ralph ellison's invisible man:



the thing about these pictures is that they usually exert a mind-crushing force on me and my supposed creative powers.

the thing about mind-crushing is that it leaves your mind crushed.

the thing about having your mind crushed is that it does not function like it used to, which explains why i post in such an inarticulate way 107% of the time.

the thing about that is that something you say might be relevant to something if you keep working on it and repeating yourself.

the thing about relevance is--then again, it might not be at all.

which is what makes it so beautiful.

spring break

now. is. the. last. [edit]. day. of. class.

for. a. whole.

week. week. week. week. week. week.

some things are just too much to believe. so now that i have some free time (hopefully) i will try to restore my mental state to that odd state of simulated normalcy that my creative process depends on. i will attempt to shut out the voices, however strident, that tell me i am not writing about the right things, and that i spread myself out--they can go do what ever they need to do to make themselves feel good when someone blows off their advice. this is what i need to do, and i am doing it.

prior thanks to special k, who i'll be dropping in on mid-week at ND to applaud at her reading.

oh, and just

in case you call, i will be out for the week.

i am writing. oh, yes. i. am. writing.

*drop me a line in a week and see if i get anything done over the break.

...because the truth is, no one has any idea what they are doing anyway. those that think they know are just in a temporary state of indecision, however prolonged. soon comes the endless dark of questioning eternal and ceaseless, redundant and eternal.

...because how can you come to a conclusion, a resolution, when there is always another moment about to upturn your decisiveness? and would it make a difference if you had decided prior to that upheaval?

...because the shifting ground beneath makes it impossible to find purchase.

...because, because.

be the cause. be the decision, the action. resolve, alone, now. be the cause.

t. once asked me what it was doing on my bookshelf. how could i live with myself, knowing that it was there--and had i even read it, besides? (a little over half, i admitted.)

well, now there are two copies. different editions, of course, which makes it tolerable and probably even more disgusting in his opinion.

joyce.

he gets his own line.

ulysses.

also gets its own line.

we are now in the thick of things, three chapters in, but this time i am prepared. i've got my annotated accompanying book, a second on loan from school, and a sheaf of related photocopied material, courtesy of the old w.f.--who is of course himself the main resource for understanding the beast. we'll see if i manage to get through the beast this time; on a schedule; as part of a course; abusing the semicolon; of course, of course; a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.

and my current favorite line from the behemoth?

"your post-prandial. do you know that word? post-prandial."

i love it. absolutely love it.

that is my reply to you t. hope you read this (i'll put in a request to the man so you can drop by my blog.)

oh, please do

do you listen. do you understand. this is by way of command.

i can hear a collective rumbling in america.

read the books

i've lost my house. you've lost your house.

do you listen. do you understand. this is by way of command.

to conscious self re: fever

the fever is on you. pray that it continues. you are in a period of ecstatic production.

does this have anything to do with your impending fatherhood?

the baby kicks and moves quite a bit now. you have even been lucky enough to feel him moving yourself.

cross your fingers. hope this ride goes on a little longer.

credit it all to something besides yourself (read: buy flowers for wife).

continue unabated. and most of all, do not ask why things are the way they are.

--unconscious self

um, yes. thank you for this.

deadlines. dead, are those lines. yes, they be cold.

the hopwoods are over. at least, the work part of them is--i turned in two stories and an assortment of poems that i had lying around. now all i have to due is wait for the verdict, which won't come till april or so.

other deadlines: application for summer chinese lang. study funding. applying for this was as bad as applying for grad school. transcripts, test scores, rec letters, the whole bit. my personal statement was a nice piece of fiction, if i do say so myself, and i do.

and also: i volunteered to go early in workshop, and laid a story on them last night for them to look at next week. it is rather messy, but i needed to get it out of the way so that i could work on some other things. i am bursting at the seams right now with ideas, but don't have the time to get them all out. oh, just to put them on paper. (ironic, that i am simultaneously wasting time and bemoaning the lack thereof.)

so in all, the deadlines have passed, i got everything in, and now i can really dig in and get to work. let the magic happen. come on muse. come on inspiration. um, really, any time now. come on.

*note: my reading was a smashing success. a hit beyond what i could have imagined. i felt that people actually liked my story. it gave me a much-needed lift. wish that it were always like this.

listen, or else just hear

this is what people will do tomorrow.

because i have a reading.

i will read a story that has been hiding in the basement of my computer for a while.

perhaps someone will like it.

though things could just as easily go the other way.

we'll see.

either way, i will be tremendously relieved after it is over.

reconstruction

If anyone knows how to turn this into a readable text, please tell me. I certainly don't.

*

the forthcoming post on babble will be indefinitely postponed due to the slew of good feeling promoted by the quote in the sidebar.

fasten your seatbelts

Portrait of Gertrude Stein by Pablo Picasso, 1906

get ready for a post on babble.

to start

what better way to start the new year than with a rejection. i have one, seconds old, still shiny, in my inbox. thank you to mcsweeny's for starting my year off right.