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.

snow me. please.

Why can't i get some of this? Seriously? you mean denver can't spare even a few inches? they have so much snow there people are staying home from work. i know. that kind of thing hasn't happened since grade school.

People, listen. all we have here in A2 is a little bit of drizzle, a little spatter of rain. we need snow to live. winter has not arrived yet and it is almost christmas. good thing we are leaving tomorrow.

true, i bet these people hated it:










and these people probably weren't thrilled about spending the night at the airport.













all i'm saying is, reconsider. split the snow up fair next time and give some to us. denver, you snow hog.

Ha HA!

I'm posting all over the place! i'm blogging everywhere! i'm running around like crazy blogging and posting and i'm not wearing any pants! ok. calm. i really am wearing pants, don't get worried. i just needed a break from grading finals. no lie, i read an entire three page essay on woody allen's narcissism written by a unnamed student who thought the word was narcotism, or narcocism, or narcosim, all versions of the word found in the paper. ouch. he should have looked that one up before the test. as it was, i was unsure if he wanted the vague spelling-related nod to drug addiction there or not. ok, not really, i knew what he was talking about.

so, back to the suffering.

but first, a picture, because as the superextraspecial K says, a post is always more interesting with a picture. even an unrelated one. so here goes, bitches!

the winner of no pants day, may 5th, 2006:

i so didn't make this up. see for yourself: no pants day. Ha HA! I'm running around like crazy! and i'm grading finals! like crazy!

oh, satisfaction

the feeling you want to etch indelibly in post # 50. the one that lingers a long time after starting that magical new story/poem idea, that sudden explosion of ideas and images that has lain dormant and now finds expression. that feeling.

let's just say it was a good day off.

day off

this is my first day off school. so what am i going to do? post here, of course. my mother asked me what i wanted for christmas, and i was appropriately vague, then acutely specific. i sent her an email with a link. well, what good is technology, if you don't use it?

my computer came back on the afternoon of the day that i finished my paper. it figures. after two days camped out at my wife's office, typing the paper, my worn old beater comes back just as soon as i don't need it. why do things always happen in this way?

also, now that i have a day off perhaps i can get started on some of those long-put-off revisions. or maybe whip something into shape for my upcoming january reading. or maybe write some new stuff. or submit something and get it accepted as a way of snubbing those who rejected me previously. or maybe just sit around and cultivate my aura of professional boredom with being an artist. hmm.

really, absolutely involved with the medical community these days, what with dentist appts. and doctor visits, none of which i participate in the capacity of anything more than a bystander. well.

and anything other incidental happening to me must be connected in some way with the stunning sentences from flaubert i devoted my morning to. an example:

Every head of hair was freshly clipped, ears were sticking out, cheeks were close-shaven; some there were who had left their beds before dawn, when there was scarcely enough light to be using a razor, and now had great diagonal gashes across their upper lip, or, along the jaw, flaps of detached skin as big as a three-franc piece, inflamed by fresh air along the way, so that all those great white beaming faces were blotched with pink.

when i am writing like that i will tell you. and then you can read something and be well satisfied that the balance of work that went into it as compared with the instant it takes to perceive it is clear and shows through so neatly as to make you feel in the moment of reading that this sentence--those preceding and following be damned for now--but this sentence is one worth spending time with.

and hopefully the others will fall in place as well. let me go attend to it.

tokyoto

a seizure waiting to happen. come on guys, think before you put out a video.

paper

the paper is done. the beast is laid to rest. the library can reclaim the lost pages that have been resting under my coffee table. and i am done w/ my first semester as an mfa.

oh, cloud king

Kirsten Johnson

“apple-two”

Oil, acrylic on wood panel, 24" x 42", 2002

Thank cloud king for this.

failure

keyboard failure, that is. and touchpad failure. my computer does not work anymore. and yes, i tried mashing all the keys. no dice. so i took it to best buy to work the warranty one last time. it expires later this month. the guy said they would give it a new keyboard and touchpad. don't know how they expect to do that. it isn't like they are techno-wizards after all. they're just normal people. the guy had even less of a personality than me, if you can believe it. i made small talk about the keyboard intermittently going on and off and he looked at me like, why would i respond to this, it's not like i haven't heard it before. techno-somethings.

anyway, so now i am reduced to procrastinating in the computer lab at school, of all places. with all these people circling the occupied stations like sharks, in what is called, absurdly enough, the fishbowl. and me taking up a spot to blog when i still have a paper to write and no computer to write it with. so since i spent the better part of a week taking books from the library to rest under my coffee table, i now have to figure out how to bridge the physical space from the computers at school to my living room. and no, carrying them isn't an option. it may be a small fraction compared to the total collection at the library, but compared to the total space under my coffee table, it is a very large fraction. try 1/2 to 2/3.

how ridiculous. keyboard failure. why didn't something useful happen, like screen failure. at least then i would have gotten a whole new computer. now all they'll do is take out the keyboard and solder some new one in, and i'll be typing away on a frankensteinien machine that is about to go belly up any minute. okay, i'll shut up. please don't read this. i will be embarassed if you do.

sufjan stevens

oh such a very long song name.

The Black Hawk War, or, How to Demolish an Entire Civilization and Still Feel Good About Yourself in the Morning, or, We Apologize for the Inconvenience but You're Going to Have to Leave Now, or, "I Have Fought the Big Knives and Will Continue to Fight Them Until They Are Off Our Lands!"

i could write a story about that song name. i think maybe i will, too.
and what a great picture. hello! i want to wear big old kite-bird wings and play banjo in front of a crowd of people that paid to have me dress up like that for them. i want.

Picture courtesy of Joe Lencioni, shiftingpixel.com

stuck

came down with an illness over thanksgiving break and am now stuck. dried up. can't write a thing. please let it break soon. please.

Cancelled

so the reading tonight was cancelled. due to flight delays, the author was stuck in st. louis. as a result, i stayed home and made a warm dinner with my wife, and am now settling in to my warm house to enjoy a movie. no complaints here.

six point five

If you haven't been there yet, then get on over. issue 6.5 is out and wants you to read it. seriously, get over there now.

box of books

this is only one of the many books i came home with from thanksgiving. my bro-in-law was trying to condense his collection to a sort of greatest hits, or in other words, books that he would actually read. i am trying to expand my collection to include books precisely like this one. while he had to admit that he had not read it and probably never would and was thus getting rid of it, i have not yet admitted this to myself though i have failed thus far to finish ulysses. next semester though, i will have another shot at it.

also included in the box: delillo, elie weisel, d.h. lawrence, proust, allende, ford maddox ford, lesssing, kafka and more. i know. the man has an amazing library. don't know how he does it. my modest collection, which is expanding and overflowing the bookshelves at a ever-increasing rate, has really begun to alarm my wife. she is leery of the book purchases i make, no matter how thrifty they make me appear with their prices in the under a dollar range. and yes, i still have to pay shipping. what can i say? will i ever read them all? why do i need more books when i already have so many? i refer you to the calvino quote in the sidebar. he goes on with many other categories, but this is a nice excerpt. you get the idea. you can never have too many books. here's to massive and ridiculous libraries!

yes, great, well, okay... now what?

to think that someone thought they saw me and had a mix of emotion is surprising. i tend to think that the emotions i evoke in people range from insignificant to nonexistent. strange how some parts of me are so past high school melodrama and others are caught in catchphrases like self-esteem.

recently recieved an email from a friend. the relationship never really got started, but we'll call it friends anyway. i don't have so many of those that i can discount those lurking in the pre- and post- stages of friendship.

not sure how things are here. with the semester coming to an end and me wondering whether i have accomplished anything. papers due and tests looming. stories unfinished and finishing. revisions waiting, waiting. and me wondering if i have accomplished anything.

why am i here? do i really think i can write? why am i even asking these questions?

the touchpad on my laptop failed inexplicably today. when i try to go into the settings to fix it, the settings application fails and closes. perhaps this is only the beginning of a long slow stage of shutdown. let's hope people don't start mimicking computers anytime soon. although perhaps they already have, since computers have begun mimicking people, so if people mimicked computers then they would really be mimicking a mimic of themselves... echoes of baudrillard.

this is a long way to say that thanksgiving was great in philly, and i am sad to be back facing the same set of scholastic problems that i was when i left.

again...

why am i still talking about this?

pynchon gets praised here.

pynchon's day has come

Pynchon gets mashed in a NY Times book review here.

Publisher's weekly has a few better things to say, and Pynchon weighs in with his own, now official, blurb at amazon.

A bit of history, mixed with myth, about the man himself.

If you really want to dig in to the past, read the wikipedia entry.

But what do i think? Don't know. Haven't read the thing yet. Whether he has put out a book that reads like an imitation of himself, as the times review alleges, or whether he has forged a bright new piece of steel from a heap of slag is neither here nor there. the truth is, his time has passed. the day he has been piling up silence and public avoidances against is the day that he will be no longer relevant to the written world. That day has come and gone, but he doesn't seem to realize it yet, and still lives in fear for that note to sound. If he hasn't heard it, perhaps the response to his new book will make it reverberate in his tone-deaf ears.

As much as i would have liked to re-immerse myself in his oeuvre in preparation for the new novel, i found that i couldn't bear to do it. Whether this is a reflection of a possible maturity i have reached since my undergrad days, or whether i am simply not in the mood, i don't know. What is clear is that his work is not useful to me and my own writing at this point in time. He was, once, something i aspired to become. Now he represents particular pitfalls that i wish to avoid in my own writing. Why the shift? I realized that his work shows several aspects that hamstring me in my own work, namely: indulgence, ridiculous wit, bizarre and implausible plot, underdeveloped characters, and the big one, a sense of mystery that is largely unfounded and which will never pay off in the course of the narrative. So the question of whether or not the new Pynchon novel is a good one is the wrong question to ask. The real question is, why should i read the novel at all? If you can solve that one for me, and justify the massive amounts of time it would take to finish the beast (all 1120 pages of it), then maybe we will have something to talk about.

caprice and the word

how is it i have no control over my muse? how is it that one morning, in a matter of scant hours i can turn out five pages and the next i fail to string together a sentence? why can't i control the thing that so hauntingly dictates the steps of my own life? though i press on in spite of her abscene (and have done so occasionally, not entirely without benefit) i find myself struggling to understand the caprice that governs my ability to conceive language, to generate it as it drops fresh from the mouth of the oracle. mysticism seems to be so apt, but is, i suspect, the wrong approach entirely; the muse is perhaps better ignored, so as to prick her curiousity and entice her to return. and should she fail to return as she has not yet done (for more than several weeks at a time, that is)? then i will be utterly destroyed.

as yet untitled

finishing a draft has a certain pleasure to it. knowing that you have gone as far as you intend to go in pursuing the thread of a particular character's life is sad, but also wonderful, in the same way that losing a friend who you have spent too much time with and knows to much about you is both bitter and freeing because of the weight of the bitterness. being without that person gives you the freedom to alter their meaning in your life. the same holds true for fictional characters. before the point of departure has been reached, they extend their particular jargon and traits deep into me, their fingers rooting into my synapses and they seem like young saplings rapidly maturing into a network of redwoods, unable to be knocked over.

but when i decide to leave them, they have to finish their lives offstage, and whether they have resolved their particular dillemas is of no concern to me. it was, but is no longer. knowing that they now have to enact their dramas on a different stage gives me the freedom to revise, to come back and bore holes in the base of the trunks to run roads through, to cut roots that were reaching outside the limits, to trim branches heavy and shaggy with unnecessary weight. coming free from the spell of a given piece is an awakening that leaves space for only one possible thing: the opporunity to be entranced by another newer, more enticing piece.

this is how i feel on the evening of finishing a draft. in the morning i will probably say upon reading this post, as i have so many times before, "delete this post. delete this drivel. rewrite."

i have yet to come up with a name for the piece.

note

there is the impulse to post (write) though there is nothing to say. there is a disembodied voice that cannot be owned. in time reasons and events murky will become even more so. the passage of time does not clarify but further dirties the waters of memory.

Entering and Exiting

There are no exits. The doors are flat matte metal under my fingers. They are sealed from the outside. I have no recollection of how I got here. The doors were locked when I found them. When I first put my fingers out in the dark, all I could remember was cold. I felt it for the first time, again. The sensation of being out in the world. Like a birth, the expulsion from the womb’s warmth into the cold dark. Now I am blank, black, mapped out on the concrete floor, which is smooth and seamless. The doors have seams. One splitting them from each other, one reaming the edges. The edge seam feels like two but runs along the floor and must rejoin the opposite seam at the top somewhere to make a complete circuit. I put my eyes to the seam and strain for a sense of light. If the doors join, then they must allow some light in. But there is nothing, just the seam of the smooth metal under my naked eyeball. And then a sudden phototropic swirl of spots swimming in my eyes after I rub them, press them with my fingers. At this moment, the pressure I put on my eyes brings me to recall the moment of entry, a sharp pitching forward. The simple mechanics of my arms catching my body and doing so without my insistence. They reached out until they made contact, and settled the weight of my falling torso into them like useful pistons that have been worn too far. For, they did not stop me completely but let me down hard onto the floor. My cheekbone feels like the skin has split around it. I haven’t run my fingers up to check but the skin is swollen and tight and is making my left eye hard to close. I am lying on the floor. The space of the room is short and dark. I am swallowed in a finite space, bounded by walls. They are rough and blocky to my touch. I rub my limbs against the walls until they are slick with blood. It seems that the space around me is shrinking, drawing in. I no longer have to move to reach the walls. They are closing on me until there is no difference between my body and the wall. I am a function of the wall; I exist as a barrier to motion. I am pure and superior in my finite state, held in a granite density in eternal motionlessness.

The exits are many; they exist all around me. I am held in a space where the light is so bright that it has ceased to exists as a stimulus. I keep my eyes closed because opening them hurts too much. I am standing, but I am not standing. I see through a process of sensing the lack of obstruction, indicating and opening. There is no weight settling on my spine. I do not feel the ache in the ruptured disc in my lower back. I remember a vague statement once made about this condition, that it would be with me permanently. It appears that statement is incorrect. I do not feel the disc. There is no pressure being exerted on my vertebrae. I feel suspended, as though all directions are open to me and I could proceed at any moment through a flapping doorframe. I do so and feel the presence of the door only as a slight breath of air moving across my face. There are no moments of hesitation, no space between the want of a thing and its occurrence; there is only the present state of being. I am moving at will now through doors placed at every angle in the space of cubed walls. That is, there are no walls, only doors at sharp angles to each other. I proceed from cube to cube until a certain turn leads me to a room that is more than a cube. It has several more doors than the previous room. This room is a cube with an extra side, a fifth side, a fifth door. And then it seems that door is a remembered term, one with implications that are now lost—these are not doors but opportunities for motion. Room also seems a false construct. They are really moments in space. I move through the opportunities to more complex moments. These hold me in the bright vacuum of their light until I am accelerating, flipping through the moments in a scattered zag of sharp-cornered turns. The speed is incomprehensible until the moment I reach is so complex that it is simple in its complexity. I understand this all at once and my speed disappears. I am moving at such a high rate of speed that it seems that I am not moving at all. Every facet of the moment is held out to me in a glittering array. The opportunities are limitless. There is no choosing. I cannot enter even one of them. It is impossible to proceed further into infinity than infinity itself. As I begin to ponder this I understand everything, and all is present to me, there is no past, no future, nothing but the moment I am in, which is endless and eternally encompassing in its capacity.

Chinese poster saying: "Shatter the old world / Establish a new world."

library book comment

from the table of contents in denis johnson's Jesus' Son comes this comment:

"This is a f**king beautiful book."

the words were penciled in and then erased, leaving only the impressions of the marks on the page. it was still legible. it was signed by E and dated 94.

i assume that the comment was erased by the either a library employee or the next reader of the book. or at least someone who felt it was not true: two conflicting sets of checks and plus/minus marks, these unerased, ran down the margin next to the titles of the stories.

i agree with the author of that comment.

the only other thing i have to say is that if someone is writing comments like this one in my books in the future, i will be happy.

Post Calligraphic Drawing: Brice Marden

the reality line

bloom is an ass. i firmly believe this. still, many an ass since balaam has had much to say that is useful. bloom makes a distinction between two types of stories: the borgesian and the chekovian. the checkovian are realistic, and serve to promote a kind of truth in life, while the borgesian are fantastic, and attempt to turn truth inside out to find another kind of truth. while this does seem a bit simplistic, it is true that all stories brink a certain line at some point in their creation and existence. i have felt this myself. for my own purposes i will call this the reality line.

the reality line is simply the final divide separating reality from surreallity. once this line is crossed, it is difficult, if not impossible, to recross it. if your story exists in both at once, it is more likely to be finally percieved as belonging to the surreal school, by virtue of that element existing within its pages. stories firmly rooted in either mode can partake of the other, but only by relating it to a certain aspect of the story which does not partake, such as a character, or narrative mode. though this seems wordly and complicated it is finally as simple as the question: could this story really happen (or have happened) or not?

we get at this in workshop by asking what sort of a reality the story exists in. is it a true-to-life? does it utilize mythologizing of characters and so fall off a bit in its realism? is it a phantasm masqerading as the quotidian? after adressing these questions, the details can be picked apart so that the reality the story inhabits, whichever that may be, can be depicted with more verity.

recently i was complaining about this very subject to my brother on the phone. my problem being, i seem to cross and recross the reality line frequently--from piece to piece--and often a story started off in one mode will veer off the road into the other. controlling this is a difficult thing to do. perception provides a set of blinders that also cause trouble once the piece is out in the public arena. often a reader/listener will love a piece, but will make assertions about it that are completely wrong. For example, upon assessing a piece that is realistic, but lies near the line to fantasy (read: not what the reader/listener is used to), a reader will state: "this piece is great! i love how surreal it is." when in fact, for an artist such as yourself, this is the most gritty reality, the harsh-facts-of-life version, in which you spared yourself no amount of grief in rendering its limbs so as to be without the distorting twist of the surreal.

back to bloom: he does not prize one of the modes over the other. does this mean, then, that regardless of whichever school i belong to, that i can write in both? or does this mean that at some point i will find myself caged on one side of the reality line, unable to cross it? and which side to i belong to anyway? (i suspect that neither would have me without reservation.) and how much does any of this blather matter? questions that have little to no relevance to life often have the most concrete and decisive of answers.

kafka

strange resonances with kafka here. a few to get you thinking.

last week i workshopped some stuff with the current visiting writer (new one every week). when discussing my story, he said--have you read kafka? uh, yeah. hello. KAFKA. and then he went on to compare my story to kafka. said it was remarkably like his stuff. crazy. then other members of the workshop (read: my peers) echoed his sentiment.

another:

there is a girl in my workshop, a fellow first year, who has tattoos on the underside of each of her wrists. they happen to be sketches kafka did for The Trial. sketches. by kafka. tattooed. on her wrists. just wanted to reiterate and make sure it was clear.

last:

kafka has always intrigued me, for lots of reasons. now i have a new one to add: i am interested in kafka because i apparently write like him (sometimes). what can kafka tell me about myself that i don't already know? this is assuming i am not just aping the man; i can testify that i am not: first i haven't read quite enough of his work to do that, and second i don't read him with great enough frequency to do that, and third, that would be ridiculous. but anyway. kafka. what a great name.

what i like... (do i?)

this in reply to someone who urged positive assessment of my writing:

-i do language well. by this i mean that i occasionally turn out a phrase or sentence that rings true; more true, in fact, than the image that inspired it. for this i am lucky.
-i have a knack for odd names. without odd names i would be nothing. plain names baffle me.
-i sometimes manage a tone, or evocation, of a mood--this is really just an extension of language.
-if i think of anything else, i will add it.
-i work. hard. at writing. this perhaps pleases me more than any aspect of the writing itself: the work i put into it. not sure why this is.

any attempt at making me love my work is difficult, since the moment after the words spill from me i am revising them, worrying them with my teeth, tearing them. so it is difficult to love any project but the one i am currently working on. which is, right now, absolutely amazing. when i finish it will be mundane sludge. such is a writer's life.

the shop

oh they ranted, they raved, they disected, they ripped and tore--but my first workshop is over, and i don't feel too bad about it. They were also impressed or summarily bored and gave me the usual praise: how lovely! this turn of phrase, that description, and yes! I've heard that already. Tell me about the guts, the raw mechanics.

all that aside, i think that my raw 1st draft was enough to impress upon them that i am a peer. which is enough for anyone to ask of a few pieces of paper.

TBR

Yesterday, the mail came. I checked it. Between the grocery store coupons was the latest issue of TBR. Love it. Love that they are still putting stuff out that I edited back in the prime of my internship.

And then the table of contents...

scan, scan, HEY! Myself! scan some more, scan, Myself AGAIN! scan, scan, HEY! no, no more me. But two reviews coming out unexpectedly in one issue was cause for celebration. we bought sour cream donut holes.

now if i could just get some fiction published as well... *


*this may seem like whining, but don't take it that way. i am absolutely pleased and happy publishing reviews. but i would also love getting some of my own stuff published, so that other people could do the reviewing.

the death of B&N

I quit. Yes, you whip-cracking booksellers, I quit. I want this to sound strong and life-affirming and other jargony terms that empower me, but let's face it, I was scared. Always am when it comes to dropping the casual hey-i'm-quitting-but-i-still-like-this-place speech.

but this is good. after two weeks, well, one-and-a-half now, i will be shut of the place. let's hope this means the beginning of a new epoch for me. it will certainly give me enough time to plan a few epochs, if i want.

here's to quitting. here's to feeling inferior in a graduate context and admitting it to myself and faking the smarts and quitting my job so i can stop faking and get intelligent.

please let it be true. TP's first in a decade. please let me get a pre-release copy. that would be unutterably great.

Wandered, Swamplike

Though there were thirteen of them at one time he had reduced it gradually to three. This constellation suited him, no Cygnus blinking back, head severed.

He shuffled them along the cross-hatched surface of the stump, end up, planted on the porch.

The checkers were slow, blind to his mistakes. He had chosen them as silent participators in the scenes he desired and manipulated with his brown fingers.

And though he had arranged for senseless examination of facts, there was more sense floating in square pools of space than he would allow.

There was no symptom that could not be corrected. He had only to allow time, to think, ponder the problem. Assign names to circles, class them in two colors: red, white.

After translation, simple movements remained. Forward over the squares. Plain diagonals. And backwards, in any fashion, for the kings. These motions repeated became symbolic of larger patterns he saw in the world around him: they became relationships.

Contact was an actual barrier to forming relationships: it was so easily misread. Example A: he fingered a red checker forward, one named Hannah. He knew this piece intimately; he directed it about the board with delicacy. Fully aware, fingertips burning accumulated touch.

Hannah was in close proximity to another checker, this one white, given the name Clarence.  Though one square remained between them, they held this space diagonally, looking askance at attempts at reconciliation.

He eyed the pieces, pondered the third, a red, deep in the briars of the double corner.

Stagnation was never something he had concerned himself with; rather, it had been concerned with him.

Spine-knobbed stone rose against reddened sky, wedging black rifts into the seams of his mind. The sun set; he waited for the next move to reveal itself.

Clarence had a habit of skittish movement. Confrontation was not his thing. A strong feeling, in word only, for literal behaviors manifested in him as hypocrisy.

Panned the board, summed the squares, 64, finite movements, action or reaction. Recant, why not cant it out if both allow? Sinew shrinking the span of his fingers from eight squares to five.

High trees shaded the porch. One by one, the leaves begin to fall. A chance breeze pushed one onto the board. He grasped the withered stem with his fingers, and twirled the leaf slowly.

To bridge the space separating two individuals, a girder, or artificial support, can sometimes be used to great effect.

He placed the leaf silently on the board, then slid the third checker out of the double corner. When kinged after the long march, he would break the standoff. He put his hands on his knees and watched the sun slide below the horizon. The leaves continued falling in the dusk, collecting at his feet. He shucked his way through them and wandered, swamplike.

How did this happen?

Now, I would never be insensitive about someone's death.

It is never funny when someone dies, especially under tragic circumstances. But, well, just let me highlight the subtitle to the lead article here.

"A stingray barb through the heart kills the beloved Aussie Adventurer... How did this happen?"

Well, I'm not sure how it happened exactly. I do know that it could never have happened to me.

Irwin's death occured under suspicious circumstances: he was swimming with a 7 foot bull manta ray.

Let's refer to another picture to refresh in our minds what sort of person Steve Irwin was.

"Oh, that's him exactly!" I hear you say. And it is. To put it bluntly, Irwin was a man who played with the sort of animals--Poisonous snakes, crocodiles, and stingrays--that most of us avoid. Why do we avoid these animals? Because they all share a certain aptitude in areas that are, well, linked to those tragic deaths you hear so much about these days.

So while I do think an article about Irwin's death, a man who did get people interested in fangs and claws and stingers, could be a great spot for questioning (what is our fascination with dangerous animals), I don't think the one to ask is "How did this happen."

Let me just say unequivocally that the first day I swim with 7 foot bull manta rays is the same day I expect to be killed by them.

chinese

Ahar! Chinese has just begun, and it is taking a TOLL. note the use of the verb take. the implication is one of violence, of coersion, of prizing something away from tightly locked hands. That something is my time. i have so little of it these days, it seems.

so what am i doing here? venting. that should be obvious. what sentient being can remain so without a little good-natured bleeding?

and so i am off to chinese again. it is by far the most regular element of my schedule.

and the teacher is a wretch who treats me like a child.