tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12939135358140250602024-03-06T22:36:21.020-05:00Little Stories.Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-41720154974376849182024-03-06T16:42:00.001-05:002024-03-06T16:42:07.760-05:00251. A peach-colored jumpsuit } & a bundle of rags.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIeZs4kcr_XJGd7qOFheAaWsmz2Z0LhNBTn1TMx7lteNnFrKSAhZL9gnKt4w8SB0_mLCZPPqd3oEmPS_ggXJxRJubAVyC8Z_6m5k83M7ynkz6RqneWXU2tV0knBTSQdAGZHs1VHDrxeAWg7vrF_izWXhDsp4ZXyp9Qts0YYj5SkJ4I0-Lg3dOMs0fRlY/s2048/428646221_881847303920542_5341956894981936928_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1524" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIeZs4kcr_XJGd7qOFheAaWsmz2Z0LhNBTn1TMx7lteNnFrKSAhZL9gnKt4w8SB0_mLCZPPqd3oEmPS_ggXJxRJubAVyC8Z_6m5k83M7ynkz6RqneWXU2tV0knBTSQdAGZHs1VHDrxeAWg7vrF_izWXhDsp4ZXyp9Qts0YYj5SkJ4I0-Lg3dOMs0fRlY/s320/428646221_881847303920542_5341956894981936928_n.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p></p>After the reading I went to a house in Providence where a woman said she was going to tell us a story about a serial murderer. She told us what the murderer did with the skin & genitalia of his victims & that he carried a human skull in a lunchbox & brought it with him to work. She was excited to tell these anecdotes; she believed she would enthrall us—but her anecdotes were poorly told & pointless.<div><br /></div><div>The reading: I read w/ K.H. Vaughan & Jeffrey Thomas. Vaughan sipped Maker’s Mark from a plastic cup. Wore a beautiful shirt with paisley cuffs. He read his story from Scott Dwyer’s anthology <i><a href="https://www.fantasticfiction.com/h/rhys-hughes/pinworm-factory.htm" target="_blank">The Pinworm Factory</a></i>. Jeffrey Thomas read two stories from <i><a href="https://forbiddenfuturesmagazine.com/shop/p/scenes-from-a-village-by-jeffrey-thomas" target="_blank">Scenes from a Village</a></i>, a slim volume from the press Oddness. A head appeared at the window. We took a break. We sang Happy Birthday to the Horror Depot. I read “The Great Blind God Passed Through Us” from <i><a href="https://no-press.org/order-sg/?fbclid=IwAR07ztNdf2s3310QwWHs54vWzpRVu0YZQCKdMuUBHEDdCHe5aEpuWSjj6zU" target="_blank">Stone Gods</a></i>. Cover artist Anna MacLeod came, & discussed political puppet-making. Is it possible to have a conversation with a puppet-maker & not mention <i>Sesame Street</i>? It should be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our host was <a href="https://providencedailydose.com/2024/02/26/author-golaski-saturday-lovecraft-arts-sciences/" target="_blank">Lovecraft Arts & Sciences</a>; s. j. bagley our master of ceremonies. <i>Stone Gods</i>, <i>Worse Than Myself</i>, & issues of <i>New Genre</i> are all available at the shop.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the reading, I gave a ghost a ride home.</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-84196477303931521422024-02-16T17:06:00.001-05:002024-02-16T17:10:04.258-05:00250. Livia Llewellyn’s last } post / publication.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMRFm0Xzf79pXJH0v__IwwOkwHILZsY-4S8ks3fz_kmZ8WupTkkBFvp5BwAWzWa_9_bcdVMFMdm_49zxM0RwW5WEEmYnezdg1kGMjyBMwpfYe4F6sJMl-uQGitdfbrFmGjNBx6QGIksN4_mc9Ef_pCY64q6rtlGV1DIUar29qA9W8Xgzfls5vW3q9Cc8/s2550/Furnace-Hi-Res.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMRFm0Xzf79pXJH0v__IwwOkwHILZsY-4S8ks3fz_kmZ8WupTkkBFvp5BwAWzWa_9_bcdVMFMdm_49zxM0RwW5WEEmYnezdg1kGMjyBMwpfYe4F6sJMl-uQGitdfbrFmGjNBx6QGIksN4_mc9Ef_pCY64q6rtlGV1DIUar29qA9W8Xgzfls5vW3q9Cc8/s320/Furnace-Hi-Res.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />Livia Llewellyn writes,<div><blockquote>Going forward, I’m going to continue to write and submit stories, but all of that other stuff—trying to find an agent, trying to get a book deal, networking… will end. I don’t need to do it, it makes me miserable… and while I’ve appreciated the “you can do it” cheers from all of the writers I’ve met over the years, at some point we’ve all come to realize that, no, I in fact cannot do it. And honestly, it’s become exhausting and cruel to everyone to make everyone keep up the pretense. You’ve all done so well, and it’s been amazing being allowed to hang out with so many writers who’ve achieved so many incredible things. It’s been a privilege and a joy to know all of you—you know who you all are, and I will miss your company. But I’ve been stuck in this fork of the road for two decades, and now it’s time to move on, down a different path from everyone else.</blockquote></div><div>That’s how I read Llewellyn's “Allochthon”—we gotta murder our way out of our canyon-deep rut.</div><div><br /></div><div>Word Horde published <i>Furnace</i>, Llewellyn’s second collection; the sight of it used to make me jealous—the buzz around it, the terrific cover—Word Horde expressed interest in <i>Stone Gods</i>, but publisher Ross E. Lockhart & I never managed to connect (that’s OK!)—but now Llewellyn’s done with publishing altogether. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wouldn’t write “I’m done”—I don’t think I would. Is it a strategy? Is the next post, “Hey! AGENT reached out. I’ve made it!!!” I hope so.</div><div><br /></div><div>Llewellyn’s announcement hit me funny. Last month I finally began to read her work. Taken w/ it, I visited her <a href="http://liviallewellyn.com/2023/06/18/the-final-missive/" target="_blank">website</a>—& “The Final Missive.” It troubles me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Particularly, “You’ve all done so well, and it’s been amazing being allowed to hang out with so many writers who’ve achieved so many incredible things.” What does Llewellyn mean by “achieved” & what does she mean by “allowed to”? She’s no imposter, agent or no, book deal or no.</div><div><br /></div><div>She reassures us—& this is good—, “The writing will continue. The publications will continue. Occasionally a story in an anthology will appear. Hopefully an occasional collection or short book might appear.” That’s my plan, too.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Stone Gods</i> is published. By a brand-new & very small press: <a href="https://no-press.org/order-sg/" target="_blank">NO</a>. A handful of bookstores will stock copies—as of today they are <a href="https://www.weirdprovidence.org/" target="_blank">Lovecraft Arts & Sciences</a> in Providence, <a href="https://www.lastbookstorela.com/" target="_blank">The Last Bookstore</a> in Los Angeles, & <a href="https://www.bucketoblood.com/" target="_blank">Bucket O’ Blood</a> in Chicago. The writing will continue.</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-63959278743646692162024-01-04T10:44:00.002-05:002024-01-04T10:44:42.318-05:00249. “Can we talk about…? } “(Rabbit).”<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4iQzcX9_BCyE2FJY5cpsZMmqF_skzj50YDjNG9O4rVm7CP9-6ut7lKpMwybenxwSAHNAxzonpn0tBKxS9W_g5pEwockySqBba-d2OrAuSutLSnpy1OHHfpjAtV96dsy77GsYyZ4wuw-tm9VtqDu1Q2Bvz56Dpuf2QEsrqmDddZptDFLAPjhov2P1PM8/s2048/Lynch%20rabbits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4iQzcX9_BCyE2FJY5cpsZMmqF_skzj50YDjNG9O4rVm7CP9-6ut7lKpMwybenxwSAHNAxzonpn0tBKxS9W_g5pEwockySqBba-d2OrAuSutLSnpy1OHHfpjAtV96dsy77GsYyZ4wuw-tm9VtqDu1Q2Bvz56Dpuf2QEsrqmDddZptDFLAPjhov2P1PM8/s320/Lynch%20rabbits.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Last month I wrote an essay for David Surface’s <i>Strange Little Stories</i>. Roughly monthly, David’s newsletter features true strange stories, one by David & another written by a guest—plus news about David’s work, other writers’ work, &, in this issue, an interview w/ me.<div><br /></div><div>David writes (about me),<div></div><blockquote><div> …he said some very nice things on his blog about a story of mine he’d read…. I reached out to thank him, and that started an on-again off-again correspondence that I enjoyed very much. So, I was very glad when I got the chance to pick up our conversation again.</div><div></div></blockquote><div>I praised David’s story “Terrible Things”; it became the title story of <a href="https://blackshuckbooks.co.uk/terrible-things/">his first collection</a>, available from Black Shuck Books. In the interview, David & I discussed my brief correspondences w/ <a href="https://wormwoodiana.blogspot.com/2023/12/rip-mark-samuels.html">Mark Samuels</a> (who died early Dec.), my upcoming collection <i>Stone Gods</i>, the essay I wrote for David, & the term “weird” as it’s used today. Among other things.
I’m sure that if you’re interested, you can join the other 200 (or so) subscribers to <i>Strange Little Stories</i> by contacting David through <a href="https://www.davidsurface.net/">his website</a>; ask to start w/ <i>Strange Little Stories</i> #23. Nay, insist!</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Stone Gods</i> can be pre-ordered from <a href="https://no-press.org/">NO Press</a> & will be published (I’m told) this month.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>[ The above image is a still from David Lynch's short film <i>Rabbits</i> or maybe from his long film <i>Inland Empire</i>. I mention <i>Inland Empire</i> in <a href="https://adamgolaski.blogspot.com/2022/08/238-david-cronenbergs-funny-cars.html">this post</a> about David Cronenberg's <i>Fast Company</i>. ]</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-32380854520459113232023-10-30T12:50:00.009-04:002024-01-04T09:52:43.664-05:00248. On Gladiolus } “the largest blossoming flower.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguZnnJx01QhZfLONNtYOlTygEIqY6uVce4s1V2DoRrU6HX5cXtG9eQXRAt1Kcq1kiJn2Bz2dcHCqsb1uZvXSIqENL_xm1M7qlAKZwHM-sJo19kc9OSQ1icyxL1r81dKRtvGvCbpVDLEVh4QrKHOpiD4WVtUVxyEh07fseyWU_7vH-jqMXOx71oqzas1U/s1360/Trafik.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="881" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguZnnJx01QhZfLONNtYOlTygEIqY6uVce4s1V2DoRrU6HX5cXtG9eQXRAt1Kcq1kiJn2Bz2dcHCqsb1uZvXSIqENL_xm1M7qlAKZwHM-sJo19kc9OSQ1icyxL1r81dKRtvGvCbpVDLEVh4QrKHOpiD4WVtUVxyEh07fseyWU_7vH-jqMXOx71oqzas1U/s320/Trafik.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><p></p><div><br /></div>
Inscribed on the title page of Rikki Ducornet’s <i>Trafik</i>, the following notes: “dreamt I was given a book filled w/ ads from the 1970s & was convinced Dad was in one of the ads. Kept losing the page, trying to find it to show Mom” & “dreamt I was at a show w/ my sister & Dad was there & we both looked at him & thought he looked dark.”<div><br /></div><div>Quiver & Mic arrive on planet Gladiolus, “The surface is white clay; it is all clay.” The people are dolls, made of “local clay.” They are hostile bureaucrats who insist that any visit “will be brief and tedious to the extreme.” In grass cages are dolls holding cages that imprison dolls <i>ad infinitum</i>. That is, “Dolls in cages all the way down.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Episode 4 of <i><a href="http://www.pdxhistory.com/html/cinnamon_bear.html">The Cinnamon Bear</a></i> brings Judy, Jimmy, The Crazy-Quilt Dragon & Paddy O’Cinnamon to the land of the Inkaboos, doll-people cut from blotting paper, ruled by a king w/ a grocery list blotted on his chest & who live in fear of the Enormous Inkwell.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is true that these all are different stories, but they all ask the same question: “Am I real?”</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-34088920500129171582023-09-18T12:32:00.002-04:002023-09-18T12:34:30.931-04:00247. Jackie Sibblies Drury speaks } Jimbo.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DAAUTArtP5fLvCIS6Mos3S9PGRo2cAhnW2zA_3mQzwtoAOqPP03FrwHmBtWzJufqyHn3WAckdj_UlMnEOEG7t6pcvQ9BSle1dK1fZx8p-Z6_6fx1v-4xaQU4tIdGiJ2_GZSKbtdci9Usb4ikO77iK-sNhTLHixrL-YRzKs5PFs95hS3GmW5cxAcdg_g/s284/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DAAUTArtP5fLvCIS6Mos3S9PGRo2cAhnW2zA_3mQzwtoAOqPP03FrwHmBtWzJufqyHn3WAckdj_UlMnEOEG7t6pcvQ9BSle1dK1fZx8p-Z6_6fx1v-4xaQU4tIdGiJ2_GZSKbtdci9Usb4ikO77iK-sNhTLHixrL-YRzKs5PFs95hS3GmW5cxAcdg_g/s1600/images.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i>Fairview</i> comes close to calling for white people to become spectacle only [“…simply ‘Look! A white person!’”]—but draws back, opts for “A Person Trying.” Fairview is a comedy—& thus ends w/ a marriage.</p><p># # # </p><p>I’m fascinated by the roughly six-page monologue delivered by Jimbo, <i>Fairview</i>’s villain [or, rather, the play's most obnoxious character].
While <i>Fairview</i> references late 1980s / early ‘90s American television sitcoms, specifically those centered on Black family life, Jimbo’s monologue introduces <i>Hostel</i> (2005) & <i>Hostel II</i> (2007) to the material of <i>Fairview</i>—he explains why both are “kind of good” movies. He doesn’t name the films—perhaps to muffle incongruity of the reference?</p><p><i>Hostel</i> & <i>Hostel II</i> are witty exploitation films concerned w/ gender, w/ American parochialism, &, most of all, w/ class. A wealthy European aristocracy rule over the merely rich who purchase from them kidnapped travelers to torture (not poor people; the kidnapped are young people of leisure—some of modest means, others rich; the only poor represented in the Hostel films are direct or indirect employees of the torture club). Any member of the torture club who break rules / show weakness suffer consequences—they are merely rich.</p><p>Jimbo recounts a specific moment from the first <i>Hostel</i> film:</p><div style="text-align: left;">…and so he’s doing that with the chainsaw<br />vrr-ng-ng-ng-ng<br />and slips in blood or something<br />and the rich guy decapitates himself<br />with his own chainsaw.<br />And it’s pretty obvious what that means.<br />Do you know what I mean?<br />It means he’s the victim of his own damn thing.</div><p>This scene is misremembered; the rich guy cuts off his leg—his victim, the film's protagonist, shoots the rich guy in the head. Easy to check (search: “Hostel chainsaw scene”). Deliberate? Details don’t matter to Jimbo. & his point weakens if, in fact, “the rich guy” is ultimately the victim of “his own damn thing” + the victim of a victim determined not to die. Alternatively, it’s possible Drury didn’t bother to check. She saw the <i>Hostel</i> films & remembers the impression they made & that was enough for her.</p><p>Do the <i>Hostel</i> films appear in <i>Fairview</i> as shorthand? Jimbo isn’t a character but a mouth; he is incapable of subtlety & lacks culture. <i>Hostel </i>is as close to art as he gets. <i>Hostel</i> & American television. Jimbo watches the show w/in <i>Fairview</i> & has a store of sitcom tropes—specifically Black sitcom tropes—well-memorized. Instead of <i>Hostel</i>, is there a less dissonant shorthand Drury might’ve reached for?</p><p>I first read <i>Fairview</i> in 2018. Then, I made the following marginal note on the script’s last page: “This play is weirder than the critics say it is.”</p>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-67331782649549817962023-07-10T11:16:00.002-04:002023-09-18T12:34:20.984-04:00246. “Distant Signals” } attends Readercon 32.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGdteL8H8sgaQmPLpTAblFaPZZDXyODpCj3JGWzTGJ7UE6w4kH3bUJQ9QePMEdnP0d991P0IGipWfKjDNVvWIHhKEqiKhNGgFy3IlydXEyAfVYWvUU1jf4WxIWrDso_mnZdgHk3Zud0r8dp14Hzy9cq8Sk4y1FntAIv9lsxmw7HCiMnDTlYlv3-13sOg/s4032/Figure%20Between%20chap.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGdteL8H8sgaQmPLpTAblFaPZZDXyODpCj3JGWzTGJ7UE6w4kH3bUJQ9QePMEdnP0d991P0IGipWfKjDNVvWIHhKEqiKhNGgFy3IlydXEyAfVYWvUU1jf4WxIWrDso_mnZdgHk3Zud0r8dp14Hzy9cq8Sk4y1FntAIv9lsxmw7HCiMnDTlYlv3-13sOg/s320/Figure%20Between%20chap.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Publisher John Thompson proposed NO Press make chapbooks to promote the forthcoming <i>Stone Gods</i>, a forthcoming collection of my stories. Thus, “Figure Between Two Houses”—the first part of a sequence of stories. The second part is “Caught Hand.”<div><br /></div><div>According to <a href="https://schedule.readercon.org/" target="_blank">the program</a>, I’ll read both parts on Sat., July 15 at 6pm. & maybe something else? Maybe “Palace,” my contribution to Scott Dwyer’s latest anthology <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/PlutonianPress/" target="_blank">The Pinworm Factory</a></i>?</div><div><br /></div><div>Also Sat.—at 11am—Mr. Thompson will host a <i><a href="https://no-press.org/mooncalves/" target="_blank">Mooncalves</a></i> group reading. Christi Nogle & Brian Evenson will (presumably) read their stories from the anthology; I’ll read from mine—“Distant Signals.” Christi, it should be noted, is nominated for an award (to be announced Sat. night).</div><div><br /></div><div>How Mr. Thompson will distribute the chapbooks, I don’t yet know—I bet you can get one at the Mooncalves reading & (if supplies last) at my solo reading.</div><div><br /></div><div># # #</div><div><br /></div><div>The Readercon program includes photographs of Readercon participants; I was not asked to provide a photo of myself for the Readercon program—so, I scrolled through the program PDF with some apprehension. I hoped to find no photo. I worried I’d find an embarrassing photo. Instead, next to my bio, is a photo of a man I’ve never seen before.</div><div><br /></div><div>What a simple trick! By pairing my name and a few details about my work with a face, that face becomes my own.</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-80505744001203789692023-06-28T16:46:00.002-04:002023-06-29T07:51:12.686-04:00245. "Where the clock } is hidden behind the bar."<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUlIFGe0KlzBA2R2JL8o3za3g81emyWLIAU1UsRhkJXI_jA7dnqGkzBbGuqxiVhBG8TW36L-UUB7pW8sgM41p-XyTIKHRoEZwR2shFJHLoU26VEixTV2c8tuDoJsgM0ojNPmQUgv2sCBiRrj6eAX3eqQaYSYgwvsPYokpofmKhOfLTp9ll2aL3F_wyfW8/s1280/vlcsnap-2015-07-30-09h11m53s136.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="1280" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUlIFGe0KlzBA2R2JL8o3za3g81emyWLIAU1UsRhkJXI_jA7dnqGkzBbGuqxiVhBG8TW36L-UUB7pW8sgM41p-XyTIKHRoEZwR2shFJHLoU26VEixTV2c8tuDoJsgM0ojNPmQUgv2sCBiRrj6eAX3eqQaYSYgwvsPYokpofmKhOfLTp9ll2aL3F_wyfW8/s320/vlcsnap-2015-07-30-09h11m53s136.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>My friend John published <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/20/magazine/hotel-bars.html" target="_blank">an essay</a> in the <i>New York Times Magazine</i>. It’s about quiet bars. Or… dwindling spaces both public & quiet (where alcohol is served). Places where he can talk w/ another person & hear what they have to say (“My hearing is nearly gone,” he writes). John’s essay is about interior design that favors conversation. I might suggest he bring a pint of rye & a pair of tumblers to a public library—libraries currently favor community outreach over silent study. Public libraries are loud. So, not the library, John. John recommends mid hotel bars—“a Marriott will do, a run-down Hilton….” Plush spaces. Great absorbers of noise.<div><br /></div><div>Don’t be distracted by the summarized conversations offered for color. Polyamory, you say? Romance novels? Sex workers? Don’t be distracted by the word “spider”—it appears twice in this essay.</div><div><br /></div><div>For a directed study on “dread” my student & I watched Giulio Paradisi’s film <i>The Visitor</i> (1979). There’s lots & lots & lots going on in that film but relevant to John’s essay is a scene shot inside a hotel in Atlanta. I once stayed in that hotel. There’s a lagoon in the lobby & around the lagoon are little pods—circular couches that create intimate spaces that overlook the water. Interior design meant for real conversation (& canoodling).</div><div><br /></div><div>When you enter Barbarella’s shagpile spaceship cockpit, do you wonder just who shampoos the place? Perhaps humans of the 41st Century weave their wall-to-wall from a self-cleaning organism. Otherwise, an all-fabric décor might not be sanitary. Isn’t that what we think when we end up beneath the water-stained popcorn ceiling at a Radisson lounge? Implied cleanliness is part of what appeals about, “bars and coffee shops… made of materials like slate and metal, with high ceilings….”</div><div><br /></div><div>What’s the middle ground?</div><div><br /></div><div>John’s essay is about interior design & what certain aesthetics fail to consider or actively discourage. His essay is about people inured to noise & about people who find conversation uncomfortable. The effect of his hearing loss is amplified by the ruckus, but his essay (unintentionally) speaks to anyone who wants to listen & to be heard.
</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-85271284706572630832023-05-18T15:14:00.000-04:002023-05-18T15:14:10.187-04:00244. The North Was Here } Ellie Ga Talk.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GVFoz0iK8mODIxfxYTygdkZxCtCTfegnTf_Fh3qCjzmRCzYEl0wbMhrd8YWFHk9ztfPtdIA7gMsSPqNxDfx2dB6iLrQ5M5PA_Dbv7HXsI8Kn4PaWl29TU5Wkw3CuUWgZs4b48PysXnrQBI20PcwNclMQXwCewfddpIkUGUcuw6g0kEpWYIHhARzz/s275/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GVFoz0iK8mODIxfxYTygdkZxCtCTfegnTf_Fh3qCjzmRCzYEl0wbMhrd8YWFHk9ztfPtdIA7gMsSPqNxDfx2dB6iLrQ5M5PA_Dbv7HXsI8Kn4PaWl29TU5Wkw3CuUWgZs4b48PysXnrQBI20PcwNclMQXwCewfddpIkUGUcuw6g0kEpWYIHhARzz/s1600/images.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Ga writes,<div><br /></div><div>“Ten people are put into an unknown room for one minute, maybe a little less, not more. They are asked to describe what they have seen. … Nobody sees the world in the same way. … We must see only what we can see.”<div><br /></div><div>unknown room = wherever we are</div><div>one minute = for however long</div><div>ten people = w/ whom</div><div><br /></div><div>What we see is limited by how much ice surrounds us.
Is limited by where we are aboard the Tara, what year we’re aboard the Tara, & w/ whom we’re aboard the Tara.
“In 2007, Ga was artist-in-residence aboard the sailboat Tara on an expedition to collect scientific data on climate change at the North Pole. She joined the boat after the Tara had been frozen into the polar cap for 13 months and stayed for the final five months before it floated free. Trapped in the ice in the Arctic darkness, the ten-person crew had no idea for how long the boat would drift” (from interview w/ Anna Della Subin for <i>Tank</i>).
<i>North Was Here</i> is an artist’s book which is?
$25.
1,000+ covers were letterpressed at Ugly Duckling Press. White card stock, the outline of the Tara, ice-coated rigging, snowfall represented by black dots. Pressed barcode: I can scan it with my fingertip.
Four pts., each divided by a photograph, each exactly the same gray-blue. Between pts. 1 & 2: “shovels” (five shovels, blades in the snow—w/out the shovels, no sense of depth.); between pts. 2 & 3: “ladders” (three men board the Tara. Two hold a tether, the third stands with arms at his sides. Is he patient? Reckless? Ga writes, “A questions mark? Does that represent the big idea?”); and between pts. 3 & 4: “tractor” (a horizon line is detectable. Equipment on a tripod, its operator sits with his back to it).<i>
North Was Here </i>is three chapbooks + “North Was Here.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Ga,</div><div><br /></div><div>“I asked the crew to draw a map of our ‘world’; this project eventually became ‘Ten Till Two (10:10).’ For example,” Ga tells Lauren O’Neill-Butler (<i>Artforum</i>, March 13, 2010), “the mechanic was also a diver. He and the chief would dive under the boat to check the propellers. He drew an ice floe in the shape of a mushroom…. No one had seen it but him.” From ‘Ten Till Two (10:10)’: I’ll put the boat in the middle because it’s our house. Here’s the fire for burning the rubbish and here’s the toilet. Here’s the piece of ice, like a mushroom, under the boat. When we dive we wake the little fish up. I saw a lot of beer cans down there.”
W/out context, the reader naturally assumes the text of “Ten Till Two (10:10)” comes from Ga’s direct experience—she dove beneath the Tara. W/out context, we draw false conclusions about Ga.
“Ten Till Two (10:10)” is about the perception of time (“This is a map of the future. With a little bit of the past”) & about perception of place. Perceived, primarily, w/ sight (“…the visibility changes and when the boat disappears, it is as if our star disappears.”). When is artificial—just ask the Julian calendar. What we see, too—" Nobody sees the world in the same way.”
“Drift Drawings” are squiggly lines that represent—yup, you guessed it—.
“Log of Limits (Snow Walks)” look like sewing patterns. Charcoal on paper, 30” x 44” (not noted in the book but on Ga’s website elliega.info). Drawings that represent walks crew members (Ga?) took off the Tara; the captions are concise & wonderfully telling. For example:
Dec 17: No movement possible off Tara, walk dogs on bridge
…
Jan 10: Possible to walk around Tara (but not advisable)
Jan 12: Possible to walk around Tara
Jan 16: Possible to play rugby around Tara
“North Was Here” is video stills from “At the Beginning North Was Here.” In the video, images are interspersed with text (from the same source “Ten Till Two (10:10)” is derived). At the end of “North Was Here” is a note—the notes throughout the book offer some context, but not quite enough not to draw false conclusions. The note at the end of “North Was Here” does not appear at the end of the video “At the Beginning North Was Here.” The note concludes—& thus concludes North Was Here—"…the doctor turned to me and said, ‘You know, I have a feeling you only get to do this once in your life and, well, I have failed.’”
This sentiment applies to everything in life.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>North Was Here</i> the artist’s book is a piece of <i>The Fortunetellers</i>, Ga’s response to her stint onboard the Tara. On its own, <i>North Was Here</i> frustrates sensical interpretation. Sure, we could say that frustration is a metaphor—being aboard the Tara was disorienting, therefore… but that’s pretentious. <i>North Was Here</i> the artist’s book is a piece of <i>The Fortunetellers</i>. That’s better.</div><div><br /></div><div>From the Tara Ocean Foundation website (oceans.taraexpeditions.org/en/):</div><div><br /></div><div>“To explore and share, each mission of the schooner Tara is intended to be a crossover between artists, scientists, and sailors. Do you want to be kept informed of calls for projects when the next Tara Ocean Foundation mission is defined? Would you like to present your work and your creations to us?”
There’s a form to fill out. It’s not a specific call for a residency aboard the Tara, but a pool—I presume—for artists who are interested. I’m interested. I yearn to go to the Arctic aboard the Tara & write. But I’m allergic to dogs.</div></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-5861094194214919952023-04-04T14:49:00.001-04:002023-04-04T14:51:31.571-04:00243. Fence issues } i.e. what’s wrong w/?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitszj1fQFxvXeIhC68qXsimm2IcUPOaZXXGqH31pf1o93zMj8Xumpr-1NvrNEzFPg6TediOwMntPQTJLiCJJCd4cbo7JZjTn0S63qBdz6KS8hvH81QdeslZVnn7QePRwSp_oVdWf5317k7JUruyHtO5bdJaTJGo2Ex0RZd0zAFfh8O3c9xVkXyJcb/s640/FlTwedWXgAIIHcG.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="452" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitszj1fQFxvXeIhC68qXsimm2IcUPOaZXXGqH31pf1o93zMj8Xumpr-1NvrNEzFPg6TediOwMntPQTJLiCJJCd4cbo7JZjTn0S63qBdz6KS8hvH81QdeslZVnn7QePRwSp_oVdWf5317k7JUruyHtO5bdJaTJGo2Ex0RZd0zAFfh8O3c9xVkXyJcb/s320/FlTwedWXgAIIHcG.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In 1988 I sent my dad a card. He was in Pennsylvania. At home we weren’t watching T.V.—a fast, I take it. I drew a cartoon: In Hell, the Devil cackles while three people sweat in the unbearable heat; a fourth person, identified as a Boy Scout, sits comfortably with a personal fan. A caption reads, “A Boy Scout who took the motto 'be prepared' to heart.”<div><br /></div><div>My first reaction to this cartoon, reading it as an adult, is that it’s really dumb. But! upon reflection, adult me thinks this cartoon is hilarious. Not least of all because the Boy Scout, as I drew him, is one happy lad, sitting on his pile of dirt in Hell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I met with my co-editor for <i>Fence</i>’s “other” category & we discussed a few works for issue no. 41. My co-editor, Sarah Falkner, is a delight. We are simpatico. I am very pleased—oh, did I mention?—to be <a href="https://fenceportal.org/people/">an editor at <i>Fence</i></a>. How strange.</div><div><br /></div><div>& just a handful of days ago, I received copies of <i>Fence</i> no. 40, which is gigantic, & guest edited by Edgar Garcia, who asks, “What’s the problem with American poetry right now?” The answer is, “Not a thing.” Or, maybe the answer is, “It’s a drag.” I guess you’ll have to read the fourteen responses to his question to know for sure. There’s also a wonderful selection of translated poetry. I’d point out the Polish poem to my dad, if I could: Halina Poswiatowska’s “[we have enormous possibilities].”</div><div><br /></div><div>But I suppose he’d be more interested in my contribution to the issue, an essay called “Blue Tape.” I read from it in New York last November. My sister & her husband, a former student of mine (Tatiana), & Rebecca Wolff were in the large & enthusiastic audience. We were raided by the police during Harmony Holiday’s reading. They’d heard there was a problem with poetry in America right now.
</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-69948107906307664432023-03-15T13:41:00.003-04:002023-03-15T13:41:46.208-04:00242: Bennington Review & } “Puttin’ On the Ritz.”<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBz4sSvK48fm0d8-lIKvwN56om9tZOFSOtxsl94LN6mnLrfuME0Zu6zvMwsLbrMvJ8jOIRQL7Gl8lOMgWXNmWlUsAYnKl8__WCsdGoMQ6N0BuvPeTZI6vtefcDoXFr5biwK-7iL42LU7mnJZ0lOQk3CJeGwVj9ErhLBViBYpYLOBa-oIuYWc_SwgHB/s2880/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-16%20at%207.04.29%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2880" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBz4sSvK48fm0d8-lIKvwN56om9tZOFSOtxsl94LN6mnLrfuME0Zu6zvMwsLbrMvJ8jOIRQL7Gl8lOMgWXNmWlUsAYnKl8__WCsdGoMQ6N0BuvPeTZI6vtefcDoXFr5biwK-7iL42LU7mnJZ0lOQk3CJeGwVj9ErhLBViBYpYLOBa-oIuYWc_SwgHB/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-16%20at%207.04.29%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><i>Bennington Review</i> <a href="https://www.benningtonreview.org/home-1">issue 11</a> claims “Money Makes the World.” Sure, money’s part of the texture, but there’s also 1980s MTV music videos. For instance, Taco’s “Puttin’ On the Ritz.” Taco, who wears a tuxedo & carries a neon cane, walks into an alley crammed with Depression-era poor. He sings, he taps, & he tosses cash into the air—thus, transforming Hooverville into a cabaret. Is Taco Tim Curry? No.<div><br /></div><div>My “San Francisco Essay” appears in <i>Bennington Review</i> 11. Money is a concern of the essay—as in, the author has no money. Race is a concern. So is abortion, considered while reading <i>The Midwich Cuckoos</i>, John Wyndham’s novel about an alien invasion via women. Art is a concern, especially Jay DeFeo’s <i>The Rose</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aside from this current issue of <i>Bennington Review</i>, I’m also in the December issue of <i>Ghost City Review</i>— my poem, “[<a href="https://ghostcitypress.com/poetry-98/2022/12/19/adam-golaski">*/Sylvania</a>].” There’s something about that poem that reminds me of another poem of mine from <i>Voice Notes</i>. Maybe I’m just repeating myself? <i><a href="https://www.spuytenduyvil.net/voice-notes.html">Voice Notes</a></i> is out from Sputen Duyvil, with a beautiful cover by Matthew Klane.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiudfRV9Nv0zpK2351ih4TePTtYHJOCzeGISbpdkdu7HO-NyCIekNMzvkfmWslMwEu2kHdOAcQwvg9ZMqxivV00YAYjh7YCg7NNavZLjSmYxKMic0xAUUC5YXVDJreu7AFYlIiOPTyXSI_60Q1RjcjDgGish3GEVos-uOfqblTwmVx-SV9sKcj03T8/s2700/BR11+front+cover+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="2096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiudfRV9Nv0zpK2351ih4TePTtYHJOCzeGISbpdkdu7HO-NyCIekNMzvkfmWslMwEu2kHdOAcQwvg9ZMqxivV00YAYjh7YCg7NNavZLjSmYxKMic0xAUUC5YXVDJreu7AFYlIiOPTyXSI_60Q1RjcjDgGish3GEVos-uOfqblTwmVx-SV9sKcj03T8/s320/BR11+front+cover+(2).jpg" width="248" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>[ images: screen shot from Taco's "Puttin' On the Ritz" video & the cover of <i>Bennington Review</i> issue 11: "Money Makes the World" ] <br /><div><br /></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-91262075457020913742023-01-07T12:54:00.000-05:002023-01-07T12:54:02.632-05:00241. Kelly Link loves } Mooncalves.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIu5_LuikJFMPKV8G1lW2xTMeVlySPcN5irwjGf16iY6MuooByTNeYb0jzqE_KLENoJHYCJuoljbeNI7CAGT5U7n47P8BD-p_eXvCeuGk-CX5jn3WrAJxO2ipZroVflF25w2Yw7ZDULE1YbBCgIUTteOTXTec8kXUZfzaM8mioaCeULsQznSU-abFw/s768/mooncalves-cover.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="514" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIu5_LuikJFMPKV8G1lW2xTMeVlySPcN5irwjGf16iY6MuooByTNeYb0jzqE_KLENoJHYCJuoljbeNI7CAGT5U7n47P8BD-p_eXvCeuGk-CX5jn3WrAJxO2ipZroVflF25w2Yw7ZDULE1YbBCgIUTteOTXTec8kXUZfzaM8mioaCeULsQznSU-abFw/s320/mooncalves-cover.webp" width="214" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kelly Link once told me I have good taste. Editorially speaking. She also inscribed for me a copy of <i>Stranger Things Happen</i> thusly: “for Adam—I promise, one day, I’ll write you a story. (Promises, promises.) love, <a href="https://kellylink.net/">Kelly Link</a>, April, 2001, Chicagoland.” She has yet to fulfill her obligation to me; because of my good nature, I have refrained from taking steps to enforce this legally binding document. Mitigating the dreadful rancor between us, she did write a generous blurb for <i>Mooncalves</i>, edited by John WM Thompson:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I will always be more grateful than I can say for anthologies like this, that not only include some of my favorite writers, but also introduce me to work by writers I haven’t encountered before. <i>Mooncalves</i> is splendid, surprising, and delicious.</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I know for sure I’m not one of Kelly’s favorite writers, but I do have a story in <i>Mooncalves</i>—it’s called “Distant Signals.” Steve Rasnic Tem, Lisa Tuttle, & Glen Hirshberg are (probably) among Kelly’s favorite writers—they have stories in <i>Moonclaves</i> too.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Whilst still in proof, I read <i>Mooncalves</i>—it’s very impressive. The stories are strange & beautiful. <a href="https://clintsmithfiction.com/">Clint Smith</a> writes, “Surreal and superb, <i>Mooncalves</i> is a narratively abnormal exhibition, with stories that both alter and accentuate fiction traditions”—& that’s exactly right, that’s the texture of this book.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">John wrote to me in April, 2021 to ask me questions about my work. After we discussed <i><a href="https://sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/new_genre">New Genre</a></i>, he wrote, “I've entertained starting some sort of ‘zine….” I replied:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><blockquote>Might I suggest that instead of a journal that requires an ongoing & endless commitment… you push your money into an anthology? Make it fancy & limited. Sewn binding, hard cover with an image stamped into the cover & a dust jacket. Good paper stock. Generous margins. A book you can charge $40 - $100 for, depending on size.</blockquote></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That’s <i>Mooncalves</i>!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s available now for $38 from the <a href="https://no-press.org/mooncalves/">NO Press website</a>. If you’re a reviewer interested in having a look, let me know & I’ll put you in touch with John.</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-5589607284047243562022-12-14T11:12:00.011-05:002022-12-14T14:52:05.215-05:00240. Losing Music } & Swordfishtrombones.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvnmjMeF-vta5rUL0dscjFjXNzqOiAlwtkQYcNOnqwQ82117pH__yy5D4hgRPK66VC_sdaLXxcOOrI633Yv9iFioxQRFTp2U-DNbIAGsiXfcqFFWK6AH9CIRvXdBDYgOjNI_ltXu1fc0PKdpY50ClHmkWzQIqEwtNEFX4EQ9L81lFwkwZ75ElGO71/s782/LosingMusic_300dpi_RGB_0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="506" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvnmjMeF-vta5rUL0dscjFjXNzqOiAlwtkQYcNOnqwQ82117pH__yy5D4hgRPK66VC_sdaLXxcOOrI633Yv9iFioxQRFTp2U-DNbIAGsiXfcqFFWK6AH9CIRvXdBDYgOjNI_ltXu1fc0PKdpY50ClHmkWzQIqEwtNEFX4EQ9L81lFwkwZ75ElGO71/s320/LosingMusic_300dpi_RGB_0.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">[The following fragment, written during the Spring of 2016, was meant to become an essay. It would’ve been called “Losing Music”—named for & intended to compliment John Cotter’s “Losing Music”—an essay about his experience with Ménière disease. John's “Losing Music” subsequently became <i>Losing Music</i>, his forthcoming memoir from Milkweed.]<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">John sent me a txt, asked, did I own <i>Swordfishtrombones</i>? He wanted me to listen to it, for him, because he couldn’t. I do own a copy, can’t say I’d ever listened to it, except I’ve heard songs from it—“Frank’s Wild Days”; once ago John put that cut on a mix for me. // </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I listened, as he asked. Took </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Swordfishtrombones</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> to my little office where I never put on the lights except a cheap desk lamp and only early in the morning. I listened, head against the wall. // </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Between “16 Shells from A 30.6” and “Town With No Cheer” is the sound a rope makes when (blown by wind) it strikes an aluminum flag pole. A flag pole or—this is what I thought of—a rope against a yacht’s mast. A solitary yacht anchored off-shore. Docks. A ramshackle ice cream shack. Clang. A wind it won’t stop.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"># # #</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just when John’s </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Ménière</span><span style="font-family: arial;">’</span><span style="font-family: arial;">s was about to get bad, but before it was the sure thing it is now, he told me the sound he heard in his head was like a bathroom hand-drier on full blast. He said it was so loud it amazed him no one else could hear it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">[<i>Losing Music</i> is due this April & can be pre-ordered <a href="https://milkweed.org/book/losing-music">here</a>. There’s a short interview w/ John there; for more, Rick Koster <a href="https://www.theday.com/events/20220119/merrill-writer-john-cotter-will-read-virtually-on-saturday/">wrote about</a> John’s recent stay at the James Merrill House.]</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-84466893782174304352022-10-03T11:25:00.000-04:002022-10-03T11:25:12.602-04:00239. Clovis takes a relic & } in no time loses his mind.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsQXQwkjSRDc-9kqUcYfDqnsgqEUcwHGAyIwenlYU9B1MCBGpTPV45fH3RsjjMxV9r2d1SFmh3hO5-ePSzVw57K2UFSTkpawSt7ypwfuUKVV4KmjNBLtfrc-n00RE8PQEhHZ-KYMCyH5WR8tcMQkz9a09ijq9ZSIiB5fCwYSbT-Vnf10NLfL5j5y0/s448/Screen_Shot_2019-07-28_at_6.09.20_PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="383" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsQXQwkjSRDc-9kqUcYfDqnsgqEUcwHGAyIwenlYU9B1MCBGpTPV45fH3RsjjMxV9r2d1SFmh3hO5-ePSzVw57K2UFSTkpawSt7ypwfuUKVV4KmjNBLtfrc-n00RE8PQEhHZ-KYMCyH5WR8tcMQkz9a09ijq9ZSIiB5fCwYSbT-Vnf10NLfL5j5y0/s320/Screen_Shot_2019-07-28_at_6.09.20_PM.png" width="274" /></a></div><p></p><div><br /></div>A brief life by Eliot Weinberger: “When [Ilona] received the stigmata, a circle of gold appeared on her right hand and out of it grew a white lily.”<div><br /></div><div>Ambrose, who “dozed and dreamed over his books” attempts to explain evil to Cotgrave in the prelude to Arthur Machen’s “The White People”; he says,</div><div></div><blockquote><div>What would your feelings be, seriously, if your cat or your dog began to talk to you, and to dispute you in human accents? You would be overwhelmed with horror. I am sure of it. And if the roses in your garden sang a weird song, and you would go mad. And suppose the stones in the road began to swell and grown before your eyes, and if the pebble that you noticed at night had shot out stony blossoms in the morning?</div><div></div></blockquote><div>Is it a waste of time to calculate the number of angels, if angels speak, if angels eat, if angels were aware of Jesus’ existence before humankind, if angels have free will, if angels have sex with each other & or with humans, if angels have gender, if guardian angels like the people they’re assigned to guard, how many faces or arms or wings angels have, or if angles have names? Is contemplating angels, as St. Paul warned, “an obstacle to the worship of God” (43) or is such contemplation of spiritual use? An angel dictated the <i>Qur’an</i> to Mohammed & an angel directed John Smith to the <i>Book of Mormon</i>. I admire St. Thomas Aquinas’ logic but not its application.</div><div><br /></div><div>Weinberger says,</div><div></div><blockquote><div>No, I don’t think [facts] have any limits, I mean that’s, I mean that’s my one rule of writing an essay is that all the information in independently verifiable. So, it’s not that it’s necessarily true or not true but somebody believed it not me and I don’t invent anything.</div></blockquote><div>&</div><div><blockquote>So this book [Angels & Saints], like all things, started with Donald Trump, really. As you mentioned I write about politics for periodicals abroad and about American politics and because of that I have to follow the minutia of the news which you know kind of drives one crazy so I like to have a project that’s kind of timeless and that’s news that stays news.</blockquote></div><div>How long does it take for fake news to become “kind of timeless” & “news that stays news”?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>[ illustration: a poem by Hrabanus Maurus in praise of the holy cross, circa 810 CE. ]Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-66424536985237325012022-08-04T22:38:00.002-04:002022-08-04T22:44:39.255-04:00238. David Cronenberg’s } funny cars.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOxqIk15FX9J4MkYzD1ePZTvOkg90jktyP8meux8454JmZaqNPPOmLG9LrfoYsw6HuJhSYo5zcId9wdIizMkB2JKfeGrtlWkQE3fgEbK7AdWn8IAo8jGOJPOkB9EDi36l3A8CLJBhHtW61AbBEJBp4MzslVPi67fPpEw0-C3n0iaa5mCJMnus-3dB/s303/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="303" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOxqIk15FX9J4MkYzD1ePZTvOkg90jktyP8meux8454JmZaqNPPOmLG9LrfoYsw6HuJhSYo5zcId9wdIizMkB2JKfeGrtlWkQE3fgEbK7AdWn8IAo8jGOJPOkB9EDi36l3A8CLJBhHtW61AbBEJBp4MzslVPi67fPpEw0-C3n0iaa5mCJMnus-3dB/s1600/download.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Watch <i>Crash</i> (1996). Then watch <i>Fast Company</i> (1979).<div><br /></div><div>Insectoid machinery: the “Lonnie Johnson designed quadravene blower.” A prototype quadravene blower stares at Lonnie from his desk; it causes Lonnie’s “fueler” to explode during a race; Lonnie walks away from the explosion unharmed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wide shots of sunrise & sunset. Bright reds & blues (see the children’s snowsuits in <i>The Brood</i>, filmed during the winter of ’79.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Homoerotic back-&-forth between ostensibly heterosexual men: “Then you’ll be suckin’ my pipes”; “Why don’t you go behind the truck and give yourself a valve job!”</div><div><br /></div><div>Lonnie’s girlfriend, Sammy (Claudia Jennings), works where? It’s her own place, called “Sammy’s.” We see a cash register & a row of glass bongs on a high shelf (lemon yellow, fire engine red, jade green). Lonnie calls her “Sam.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Antagonist Phil Adamson (Fill, as in oil, as in penetrative sex; Adam-son, as in Cain) flies a single-engine airplane (similar to the plane Catherine Ballard flies & that sexually arouses her). He flies w/ Candy, says, “They crawl, we fly,” & puts his hand on her thigh.</div><div><br /></div><div>At minute 19:53, shot of security guards w/ bad skin.
& the great face of the announcer! Toothy like Tom Petty.</div><div><br /></div><div>The FastCo. crew is in Helena, Montana; on the wall behind the announcer is a poster for “Inland Empire shows.” (David Lynch, born in Missoula, Montana, directs <i>Inland Empire</i> in 2006).</div><div><br /></div><div>Close-up shots of funny car interior. Billy’s hands on the steering, switches. Billy wears goggles & a respirator, reminiscent of the pilots on the album sleeve for Black Sabbath’s <i>Never Say Die!</i> (1978). Close-up shots of funny car parts. Lonnie stands w/ the mouth of a funny car wide open behind him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Auto-erotica: Billy picks up two hitchhikers (unnamed, played by Cheri Hilsabeck & Sonya Ratke); takes them into the FastCo. trailer for sex; he opens a can of motor oil & pours it on Sonya’s bare chest. Shortly thereafter, Billy consummates his romance w/ Candy on the bed in Lonnie’s trailer/office; Sammy finds them in bed &, once she understands what she’s seeing, joins the pair; Lonnie shows up & shoos Billy & Candy out so he can have sex with Sammy.</div><div><br /></div><div>At 1:23:18, “the fiberglass bodies are lowered over the drivers”—the final race, at night, culminating, inevitably, in an explosion & death; a man in flames against a starless sky.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lonnie must destroy Phil: drives his funny car into Phil’s plane; Phil loses control & crashes into the side of a black trailer. “Maybe the next one, darling. Maybe the next one.”</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>[ Months after shooting <i>Fast Company</i>, Claudia Jennings (Sammy) died when she crashed her Porche on the Pacific Coast Highway. She was 29. In 1969, she was playmate of the month in November; she appeared on television & in films, including <i>The Man Who Fell to Earth</i> (1976) & <i>Deathsport</i> (1978)—a film about an apocalyptic future where people kill each other using laser guns & dirt bikes. ]</div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-16428359351541031712022-07-24T11:54:00.002-04:002022-07-24T11:55:59.368-04:00237. & } ampersand.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5MuqVVKbD-io-8CoqEPBQ31ZznU9IVnfAekbNYYMgK2cFZP9s_Ufk8Cc3anzL3XoWOCUhgLOcpYKL73AMfZ-clJuSIYLeiNU-nH6gEdKeywCcXy8zcpIDGza3OLvFyYcQGDYAMMK8X0hWhFpK3OWxx5wCmLpJ3SE2O9XD_-Gnx0x2TiH6brk_tTJ/s2928/Ampersand%20(3).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2928" data-original-width="2330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5MuqVVKbD-io-8CoqEPBQ31ZznU9IVnfAekbNYYMgK2cFZP9s_Ufk8Cc3anzL3XoWOCUhgLOcpYKL73AMfZ-clJuSIYLeiNU-nH6gEdKeywCcXy8zcpIDGza3OLvFyYcQGDYAMMK8X0hWhFpK3OWxx5wCmLpJ3SE2O9XD_-Gnx0x2TiH6brk_tTJ/s320/Ampersand%20(3).jpeg" width="255" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>[ “Ampersand” from Matthew Klane’s Co-upt series & the cover image for my <i>Voice Notes</i>, a collection of poetry forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil. ]Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-45428792015666530212022-07-21T11:38:00.000-04:002022-07-21T11:38:06.257-04:00236. Revisit Lucy Ives’ } The Hermit.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nLHdftEuy7vo4rP0hyR9PUvVQvQsk1F6G8aF4HFPcK-MyYlafd-24outnEhMVt-TPccEbMjdKi0xC8oOhFjvPi1HLUqo0fxoy9MJY8VzsOvOaHNLHIFTb96G4T80dksiemDLUyvHQb5YAvpFY4xHAf7TFVKJG8XyGNyR4zW27_eTSsTk939242hc/s750/hermit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nLHdftEuy7vo4rP0hyR9PUvVQvQsk1F6G8aF4HFPcK-MyYlafd-24outnEhMVt-TPccEbMjdKi0xC8oOhFjvPi1HLUqo0fxoy9MJY8VzsOvOaHNLHIFTb96G4T80dksiemDLUyvHQb5YAvpFY4xHAf7TFVKJG8XyGNyR4zW27_eTSsTk939242hc/s320/hermit.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><p>“…studies of description” are? (35.)</p><p>“I can’t describe myself as a poet. I’m the author of some kind of thinking about writing.” <i>The Hermit</i> is not poetry. Ives claims she’s a novelist. (36.)</p><p>Among several texts Ives wants to read is Susan Howe’s “Statement for the New Poetics Colloquium, Vancouver. 1985.” An essay-poem. Howe writes, “I wish I could tenderly lift from the dark side of history, voices that are anonymous, slighted—inarticulate.” Maybe a poetic, certainly a goal. A (mostly) impossible goal. An inarticulate voice is a voice kept hidden in the mind. There’s no way Howe can pull that out of the past. Ives is interested in thoughts she has but can’t quite articulate. Not quite the same goal as Howe’s; Howe wants to “lift” other voices, Ives wants to lift her own voice. (37.)</p><p>Can an artwork, made to articulate an idea (a vision), be used to understand an unrelated experience? Ives asks, “Could we use art to interpret daily life?” What distinction does Ives make when she writes “daily life”—as opposed to what other kind of life? Is “daily life” a euphemism for normal? (38.)</p><p>“I perhaps don’t read or write enough and yet always feel like I am reading, like I am writing.” Ives doubts this statement—thus, “perhaps.” Does Ives feel she doesn’t read enough useful writing? Writing that challenges &/or inspires? What is she reading instead of Susan Howe’s (short) essay? (42.)</p><p>“…(some kind of essay on collage). Attempting to ‘see’ the way in which the eye cuts out.” The eye pre-cuts what is cut by scissors / blade. <i>Un Chien Andalou</i>. (47.)</p><p>“Christine on literary realism: This is when coincidence and personal connections (interrelatedness) drive a story….” Christine, the titular evil car from Stephen King’s novel. Christine drives a story. (50.)</p><p>“When I was 13 I swore to myself that I would become a novelist.” Ives is a novelist. I have not read her first novel, nor have I read her third novel <i>Life Is Everywhere</i> (daily life?). From the publisher’s description, <i>Life Is Everywhere</i> is about a writer in a graduate writing program & about unpublished manuscripts. <i>Loudermilk</i>, Ives’ second novel, is also about writers in a graduate writing program (& the non-writer who fools everyone). Does Ives’ vow, made at age 13, interfere with her writing now? (53.)</p><p>“A dream: A night goes on for years. One must make use of public transportation in order to cross it.” To cross the night? Read E. M. Forster’s “The Celestial Omnibus.” (58.)</p><p>Dreams acted upon when awake. (68.)</p><p>“I spent many years with a strong, almost violent feeling that there was much to live for, although I may have been inactive for much of this time.” A lust for life, but a life of fantasy & idea made actual on the page. (69.)</p><p>“Is there that which can only be seen in a glance?” See Ives’ collage essay idea. Ghosts. (70.)</p><p>In death, we are sent to the place where our belongings are & while our belongings remain we are never able to leave that place. Ghosts linger by their stuff. If, retroactively, we declare that property belongs to people long dead, we exile them to that spot. (73.)</p><p>Ideas decay as dream do. (77.)</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>[All quotes, unless otherwise attributed, are from Lucy Ives’ <i>The Hermit</i>, The Song Cave, 2016. The parenthetical numbers correspond to the numbered sections in <i>The Hermit</i>—there are no page numbers. I wrote about <i>The Hermit</i> before; that essay appears in <i><a href="https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/talking-lucy-ives-the-hermit/">3AM Magazine</a></i>. Ives read my essay & kindly responded, “Thank you, Adam! This is fascinating. I appreciate your sleuthing, re: the meanings of the text.”]</p>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-42325472952482887362022-06-07T15:10:00.000-04:002022-06-07T15:10:00.996-04:00235. Nancy Wheeler wears } an Emerson T.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1y2CtEBRjx9JX2OKsXibmEzpGKaVTThjNeIRFlLBEopzdP3aDmQX_rm3KWvq0FVh7QP4N-A3k8D64e_fl7Tyl5SmK_th4qVmSCYpmU_g1lNmsvPC3t58aWpxqVnEUjEi6vkxrVQYf6Virbz_fA3KdMGfXKHayglF8P4jnCzfJKCumsSX00KcOJWrA/s300/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1y2CtEBRjx9JX2OKsXibmEzpGKaVTThjNeIRFlLBEopzdP3aDmQX_rm3KWvq0FVh7QP4N-A3k8D64e_fl7Tyl5SmK_th4qVmSCYpmU_g1lNmsvPC3t58aWpxqVnEUjEi6vkxrVQYf6Virbz_fA3KdMGfXKHayglF8P4jnCzfJKCumsSX00KcOJWrA/s1600/images.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>When Nancy would’ve gone to Emerson College (if she goes. I haven’t watched <i>Stranger Things</i> 4), WECB was an AM station. She’d graduate in 1990. Or ’91. Soon after I will host a radio show from midnight – 2am once a week.<div><br /></div><div>I invited undergraduate writing majors to discuss their writing & play music they liked. The first episode I was worried I couldn’t easily fill two hours, so I invited four guests; by the end of the show’s run, I invited one. I called the show Radio Never Sleeps. After the first episode, it was co-hosted by Concetta Troskie. She & I got on wonderfully, though I don’t remember ever socializing w/ her outside the studio. It’s as if she appeared & vanished; I might’ve seemed the same to her, except she once told a story, on air, about seeing me at a crosswalk. She remarked about my patience: I stood stock-still till the light changed. (When I am required to wait—in line at the market, at bus stops, etc., I zip into my mind. “Head in the clouds,” Dad admonished.) Concetta's <a href="http://voyagedallas.com/interview/meet-concetta-troskie-mindfully-embodied-design-district/">now</a> a dance/movement therapist.<div><br /></div><div>I taped every episode. I’m not sure how it happened, but all those tapes ended up in a paper bag under the cellar stairs at my parents’—I found them yesterday. What would it do to me to listen to them?</div></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-27801660021447538542022-06-04T11:34:00.002-04:002022-06-05T14:12:58.090-04:00234. Clint Smith } loiters low.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccds9QL0s4KSpD4Kvrs8M-cVDK8pfeR4FdN9ZQkPBWjSM0kqmJWe1HPej66_SLUgR8Y-pDLW994gv_s6dgLuG-YyCZNcXXq6UZAZ1ZHiUCbrKgsi6__Ik7uDSToAP9DyIGtyf0h1PRD9FJn-d2KcxXkshIq773viI4-43LdYTQk4MnwdbdYf8aF9R/s4608/DSCN3693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccds9QL0s4KSpD4Kvrs8M-cVDK8pfeR4FdN9ZQkPBWjSM0kqmJWe1HPej66_SLUgR8Y-pDLW994gv_s6dgLuG-YyCZNcXXq6UZAZ1ZHiUCbrKgsi6__Ik7uDSToAP9DyIGtyf0h1PRD9FJn-d2KcxXkshIq773viI4-43LdYTQk4MnwdbdYf8aF9R/s320/DSCN3693.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I’ve read “Lovenest,” Clint Smith’s contribution to <i><a href="https://clintsmithfiction.com/2022/01/28/update-looming-low-volume-ii-cover-art-draft-reveal/">Looming Low II</a></i> (from Dim Shores, due this fall). I won’t spoil it other than to say it’s fun &…</p><p>the narrator & his ex-wife talk in a dark parking lot next to a partially-demolished hotel. This setting is commonplace & bleak. Cooking oil, asphalt, dumpster, exhaust. Chain-link fence, young maple, bramble. A paper receipt, ground into the dirt. Mundane & awful. Especially American?</p><p>In my introduction to Clint’s <i>Skeleton Melodies</i>, I characterized his fiction as “realism horror.” An awkward phrase, for sure—but apt enough (he adopted the phrase as his blog’s sub-head, so surely <i>he</i> finds it apt). For all the fantasy in “Lovenest,” the parking lot setting grounds the story here. It’s also where the most ominous scene in the story take place: the moment before the charnel house door is slammed shut (so to speak).</p><p>I don’t know that <i>Looming Low II</i> will be worth your hard-earned & diminished dollar, but you’ll want to read Clint’s story for sure. (Mind, I have no reason to believe <i>Looming Low II</i> won’t be good! But we haven’t read the other stories yet, have we?)</p><p>In the meantime, there’s <i><a href="https://clintsmithfiction.com/2022/02/04/good-day-ghouljaw/">Ghouljaw</a></i> & <i><a href="https://clintsmithfiction.com/2021/05/02/publish-service-announcement-the-skeleton-melodies-by-clint-smith-hippocampus-press-2020/">Skeleton Melodies</a></i>. Get thyself to a library, nun!</p>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-3626155673185415812022-05-21T22:42:00.004-04:002022-05-21T22:42:51.675-04:00233. Sawako Nakayasu } leaves.<p> <span style="font-family: arial;">Kate K. texted the following three photos: </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjud7JiOOtBM2UdlgyG1f2WfEG8TN15YpfW4LR1Z15ibp5oXBNStBGKUI8p55qk7wgoDGyYKPHZT45PByKKqB-CRkyArErv5T4Gws20xi9Wv8OwijCEZgOzPp1MdfgPTIqxr0j5_XLbtP8SaMZrZvXkDvU6sNMWS75yUmcuh4QCov2--fatEhvJ5iL3/s800/Kemple%20Poetry%20mag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjud7JiOOtBM2UdlgyG1f2WfEG8TN15YpfW4LR1Z15ibp5oXBNStBGKUI8p55qk7wgoDGyYKPHZT45PByKKqB-CRkyArErv5T4Gws20xi9Wv8OwijCEZgOzPp1MdfgPTIqxr0j5_XLbtP8SaMZrZvXkDvU6sNMWS75yUmcuh4QCov2--fatEhvJ5iL3/s320/Kemple%20Poetry%20mag.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3IRfMMa9O77vX__X9Rjwh4AECAZfBMNG5w4W6Ba_BPIOy2GXCQLTP490HXYfxB9QX5oo31grBGSlLRV-3nFNqChg4BLXzDTjqjbyAkuDSg7B2Zkak6479KXvAN5ftSHvbjpELiJAtX0qDQ_HOVVt8S_4VMZjm9qKEAZtPfT77wWffCNVmyNdWMoWq/s800/Kemple%20Pink%20a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3IRfMMa9O77vX__X9Rjwh4AECAZfBMNG5w4W6Ba_BPIOy2GXCQLTP490HXYfxB9QX5oo31grBGSlLRV-3nFNqChg4BLXzDTjqjbyAkuDSg7B2Zkak6479KXvAN5ftSHvbjpELiJAtX0qDQ_HOVVt8S_4VMZjm9qKEAZtPfT77wWffCNVmyNdWMoWq/s320/Kemple%20Pink%20a.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5Da_FXjU1hG6h7Gdawy-9EJ29Z8a3Nngz0vUJgJRoPCHt6zCuOGrNJwDaVLeECHn59PbilYRIp0IsLldCdYK6uPGODHJJ6sByMFdY7vYweFlroLh9uYuj4G0-431mx1pMOlp7L04X5MnsRan0AZX58DvT-KEMiIKBCG1Yg49szdMwtBK4p_T7PDs/s800/Kemple%20Pink%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5Da_FXjU1hG6h7Gdawy-9EJ29Z8a3Nngz0vUJgJRoPCHt6zCuOGrNJwDaVLeECHn59PbilYRIp0IsLldCdYK6uPGODHJJ6sByMFdY7vYweFlroLh9uYuj4G0-431mx1pMOlp7L04X5MnsRan0AZX58DvT-KEMiIKBCG1Yg49szdMwtBK4p_T7PDs/s320/Kemple%20Pink%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>& she wrote, “This issue of poetry… did you know about Sawako's poem? I did a double take when I saw you there…”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I did know. <i>Pink Waves</i>, Sawako’s latest book, was written in a theater space. Visitors were encouraged to be in the space while she worked. Twice, I sat in the theater & wrote while Sawako worked. I drafted sections of “San Francisco Essay” (which will appear in an upcoming issue of <i>Bennington Review</i>).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The theater where she wrote was located beneath my office. Some mornings, early, I’d let myself into the dark theater before anyone else was in the building. Feel my way down the spiral staircase. Pause at Sawako’s worktable. Move past the mirror & through the black curtains to the exit.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I “went away again” in the April issue of <i>Poetry</i>; I am “going away” in the May issue of <i><a href="https://www.thewhitereview.org/poetry/pink-waves/">The White Review</a></i>.</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-73913488557892472982022-05-04T11:11:00.000-04:002022-05-04T11:11:48.212-04:00232. Mister X proposal for } Critical Cartoons.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE1QtAZ7AmKNUlRS7by1mDtfmB7DC5yjb1y7CLiuQI01loy8V9_UphMpj6vCRLHJyRjceeaz87Mpv1CGRkzCWUZd5A2ngzEdzVqqs0Y2mF3Kq5YK_BS2KLGbepHXqYMKBucqP65sTkk1uaNlx6spTFx8WIEbzJm_pKC9OQuJQzN3K6C44Z466PZ3WE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="483" data-original-width="626" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE1QtAZ7AmKNUlRS7by1mDtfmB7DC5yjb1y7CLiuQI01loy8V9_UphMpj6vCRLHJyRjceeaz87Mpv1CGRkzCWUZd5A2ngzEdzVqqs0Y2mF3Kq5YK_BS2KLGbepHXqYMKBucqP65sTkk1uaNlx6spTFx8WIEbzJm_pKC9OQuJQzN3K6C44Z466PZ3WE" width="311" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-family: arial;">Throughout 2015 & 2016, Tom K. (editor at Uncivilized Books) & I corresponded about Critical Cartoons; in May of 2016, I queried about writing a volume,</span><div><blockquote><span style="font-family: arial;">I keep toying with the possibility of proposing a book for your series... but I imagine you're well set for the future. I'd do Mr. X (Vortex) or The One (epic) or (heaven forbid!) Gore/Shriek (FantaCo). So much to think about.</span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">He replied,</span></div><div><blockquote><span style="font-family: arial;">Please propose a book! I’d LOVE a book about Mr. X (architecture & comics is one of my pet topics!) or The One!!! I haven’t thought about Gore/Shriek in ages, I’ll have to dig them out of my long boxes! There a lot of proposals I’m juggling, but a [sic] many of them are not very solid yet. There’s a lot of room to maneuver if you’re serious.</span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">A week later I sent a 7-pg. proposal. What follows is from the first pg. of my proposal.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"># # #</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Definition destroys the beauty ambiguity makes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Eye-level with the street, man-hole cover lifted light as a nickel, “It wasn’t easy for the man to return to the city”; his bald head, the thin bridge of his nose—his sunglasses reflect Radiant City. Behind him, skyscrapers and sky-bridges and spotlights. Or, behind him is the dream city “he himself designed” but left unfinished. Or, he is at the center of Radiant City. The city stands behind him and, reflected in the dark lenses he wears, in front of him. He is Mr. X.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Dean Motter, who “created and designed” <i>Mister X</i>, articulates (unintentionally) the problem with the original 14-issue run (1983 – 1988), “People remembered [Mr. X] without ever having seen him.” A better word than “seen” might be “read”—seeing Mr. X suggests much, but, “While the imagery that collaborator Paul Rivoche and I were developing looked interesting, the premise began to seem rather banal by comparison.” And, “[Mr. X’s] cache was, after all, his ambiguity. His mystique. His aura of menace. His sheer unconventionality.” <i>Mister X</i> is beautiful when it is allowed to be ambiguous, mysterious, strange. “But,” Motter writes, “that all seemed to be falling to the wayside the more I tried to define him.” Of course. Definition destroys the beauty ambiguity makes. Motter “& Co.” tended to explain rather than allow, to restart rather than proceed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Nonetheless, <i>Mister X</i> was not resolved, so beauty remains.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"># # #</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">After a follow-up from me, K. wrote,</span></div><div><blockquote><span style="font-family: arial;">Apologies for the big delay! We were pretty swamped with pre-sales for the Spring ’17 season. I’m planning on taking a look & giving you some feedback this week. I really appreciate this!</span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I never heard from K. again. My sense is that Critical Cartoons stalled or went in a different direction. Maybe my proposal is wretched. What do I know?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I know I like the proposal I wrote. <i>Mister X</i> is a flawed comic, but it loomed large in my teenaged imagination. The story is mysterious & it was mysterious in the world (my classmates didn’t read it & I couldn’t buy it at Dairy Mart, where I could always grab the latest <i>X-Men</i> or <i>Batman</i>).</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">My father bought me the first issue. I hunted & hunted for the rest.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Now you can easily get the whole thing from Dark Horse, complete w/ a hyperbolic introduction by Warren Ellis.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">[ Note: Lars Ingebrigten wrote a good overview of <i>Mister X</i> on his blog <a href="https://lars.ingebrigtsen.no/2020/09/02/v1984-mister-x/">here</a>. The image above is from the Dark Horse collected <i>Mister X</i>, w/ my Post-it note (“Pathways / his motivation... to keep them secret?” attached. ]</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-79054353165412859352022-04-30T12:10:00.005-04:002022-04-30T12:12:01.041-04:00231. Conversation w/ } Spider & the Undiscovered Bug.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf84As_xEYraCWNs6w3u0gJFz_G9V_-KizW95KjZp9prxEXnfplnBerl6-vs0pAoDHeHnS7ppnzywMmVLFaA_bV5q-8DVttYKeTO7k9ZdiPF1IXTPaoGFeG9HM2So0X4x0MjI9zgzK65bVc240UdbQOtORmmLXA2_MhOC5EU3tVHm8kYr92NZnV0jJ/s2880/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-30%20at%2011.58.59%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2880" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf84As_xEYraCWNs6w3u0gJFz_G9V_-KizW95KjZp9prxEXnfplnBerl6-vs0pAoDHeHnS7ppnzywMmVLFaA_bV5q-8DVttYKeTO7k9ZdiPF1IXTPaoGFeG9HM2So0X4x0MjI9zgzK65bVc240UdbQOtORmmLXA2_MhOC5EU3tVHm8kYr92NZnV0jJ/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-30%20at%2011.58.59%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>…carefully typewritten by myself when I was fifteen (or thereabouts), 3 pgs. of a play dedicated to my then-girlfriend. Here’s an excerpt:</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: I saw a movie the other night.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">UNDISCOVERED BUG: Oh? & what was it called?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: I believe it was called <i>A Boy and His Dog</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">UNDISCOVERED BUG: Sounds nice.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: Oh, no. It wasn’t nice. But I thought you might be interested to hear about it because it's a love story.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">UNDISCOVERED BUG: Yes! Yes, Spider, that might prove interesting.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: The boy—I don’t recall his name. Let’s call him Smith-Corona Coronamatic. Smith-Corona Coronamatic went underground where most of the human race lived to find a girl. He wanted her very badly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">UNDISCOVERED BUG: He was in love with her?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: I’m sure of it. When he found her, he & she were stuck underground. They worked together to escape. She said she loved him & he said she loved her too.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">UNDISCOVERED BUG: & they lived happily ever after with the boy’s dog?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">SPIDER: No, the dog & the boy ate her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Spider’s retelling of <i>A Boy and His Dog</i> (1975) deliberately misunderstand the movie—but that’s me, appropriating a film to tell my own story. That story being about the indignities of love.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The film, by the way, is a black comedy set in the wake of WWIV during the year 2024. I’d like to know how the human race survived WWIII, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The MS. is missing its first page & whatever else I wrote after pg. 4. The last page introduces a character who is clearly a stand-in for me: Paperboy. (I delivered newspapers for several years, back when newspapers were carried in big canvas shoulder-bags early in the morning by gals & lads who rode bicycles & saved their tips to pay for college.) This part of the play doesn’t exactly make sense. Paperboy is depressed. Radiator told him he “is a stupid idiot” but Grapefruit told Paperboy she loves him. Paperboy then renounces Spider & Undiscovered Bug. They’re not the gurus he thought they were, apparently.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">[ image: a screenshot from the opening sequence of <i>A Boy and His Dog</i> ]</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-85708802376715568992022-04-25T15:19:00.002-04:002022-04-25T15:19:50.135-04:00230. Marie de France & } Tales from the Darkside.<p> </p><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JzxcZ2nxxilO00bGOiiBhSZG_7K9pbNBn0VvBXs41XHmjmz9M1AWEs1Z_bnqcYFHEefsQZsoH4NAWmrsdWIRVNqj-h1QFk1gctv39PJha5SBZYnI5bEDOtmIODOIQc3ow8F8xDAzrOHABubT7M5uvDfRBWzrhfkPihk3X7bcJD4odj8pAsi1BEWx/s400/Keena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="400" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JzxcZ2nxxilO00bGOiiBhSZG_7K9pbNBn0VvBXs41XHmjmz9M1AWEs1Z_bnqcYFHEefsQZsoH4NAWmrsdWIRVNqj-h1QFk1gctv39PJha5SBZYnI5bEDOtmIODOIQc3ow8F8xDAzrOHABubT7M5uvDfRBWzrhfkPihk3X7bcJD4odj8pAsi1BEWx/s320/Keena.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div>King Arthur dishes out wives & land to all who helped repel the Scots & the Picts—all except Lanval. No one puts in a good word for Lanval. He’s excellent, but not one to boast. & the knights who notice Lanval envy him, so they stay mum. “Now [Lanval] was in a plight, very sad and forlorn.”</div></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Aimless, he decides to “take his ease” in a meadow. It’s a strange meadow; his horse senses this but Lanval does not. He takes a nap. Or maybe he’s awake. Two maidens arrive & ask, on behalf of “my damsel,” that Lanval follow them to her tent. The tent is fabulous (“There is no king under the sun who could afford it”) & the damsel inside is fabulous.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">She offers Lanval her love & wealth, but w/ a single stipulation: he mustn’t tell anyone about her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">For a time, Lanval enjoys the damsel’s company & his new found wealth—but the knights, who previously ignored Lanval (specifically Gawain), decide to invite him to a garden party & there, at the party, the queen (Guinevere, I presume), hits on Lanval. Lanval rebuffs her advance. She says, “I have been told often enough that you have no desire for women. You have well-trained young men and enjoy yourself with them.” Lanval denies he’s gay & tells her he is “loved by a lady who should be prized above all others I know.” He adds that the queen is worth less than even the poorest girl in the kingdom.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">In turn, the queen promptly tells Arthur that Lanval made a move on her at the party. Lanval is put on trial; to defend himself, he tells the court about the damsel—& realizes, the moment he does so, that he’s broken his promise & lost her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Since he can’t produce the damsel in court, he’s jailed. His sentence will be banishment. Unless… at the very last moment the damsel arrives. She declares her love for Lanval & no once disputes that she’s more beautiful than the queen. Lanval is freed, & he rides with the damsel to Avalon.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Now, there’s plenty that’s different about “Lanval” & the <i>Tales from the Darkside</i> episode “Ring Around the Redhead” (based on John McDonald’s story)—but there are striking similarities. The damsel—Keena, she’s named—offers not only beauty & material wealth but also intellectual gifts that appear to be magic. The hero—Billy, not Lanval—is in love with her knowledge & w/ the promise of a life in the perfect world where she’s from. Although Billy is not accused of insulting a queen, he’s in jail, about to be executed, unable to prove to anyone that there ever was a Keena. Lanval’s advocate is Gawain; Billy’s advocate is a journalist. At the very last moment, before Billy’s execution, Keena returns & whisks him away to her perfect land—Avalon.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Bob Byrne, writing for <i>Black Gate</i> (“<a href="https://www.blackgate.com/2018/07/24/birthday-reviews-john-d-macdonalds-ring-around-the-redhead/">Birthday Reviews: John D. Macdonald’s “Ring Around the Redhead</a>”), dismisses the episode:</span></div><div><blockquote><span style="font-family: arial;">The story was adapted in 1985 for an episode of <i>Tales from the Darkside</i>, starring John Heard and Penelope Ann Miller. By all accounts, it was forgettable and did not justice to MacDonald’s writing.</span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I can’t dispute this, since (I’m embarrassed to admit) I haven’t read McDonald’s story (I will!). However, “Ring Around the Redhead” is one of my favorite episodes of <i>Tales from the Darkside</i>, one I rewatch often.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I don’t claim that McDonald took inspiration from “Lanval”—although there’s no reason why he mightn’t have. We can, however, be fairly sure “Ring Around the Redhead” wasn’t influenced by Roxy Music.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">[ Image of Keena from <i>Tales from the Darkside</i> "Ring Around the Redhead" ]</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-62750565740204539512022-04-22T14:00:00.002-04:002022-04-25T15:06:48.241-04:00229. Abbey Road sketches } (home demo).<p> </p><span style="font-family: arial;">A student wrote “zone-off” instead of “zone-out.” She zoned-off. I dig it. Like, to get-off. Zoned-off to “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”—but, as often, study / attend to it.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Oversized load & “Old Brown Shoe.” A house on a flatbed. Mom & Dad bought a house on a flatbed & set it where the old house used to be. Stood in the pit where the old house was & Marci said, “Yr grinning, Adam.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sun King” begins w/ nighttime sounds.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Choosing a name fr yrself. “Oh, Darling!” Mom & Dad name you X but yr called Y. What of us who don’t make or acquire a nickname? Anything we don’t need to decide / think about is good.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Steer the car beneath the wheels of a K-Line tractor trailer. “He shut his eyes & came out…” the countdown “1, 2, ah 1, 2, 3, 4.” Cars keep losing the lane. Veering into mine “Oh, I’m losing my cool.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Or you all came in too late.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">A bright blue car full of plants. Not potted plants. Rooted in the upholstery. Grassland in the back seat. Driver in a camo poncho, stalked by a lioness; she’ll wait until the car is in park before she pounces.</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-7523421056019718992022-04-15T09:47:00.001-04:002022-04-15T09:47:35.990-04:00228. Cricket for } Mira Calix.<p> </p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mira Calix is dead. I bought <i>Eyes Set Against the Sun</i> (2006) at a record shop in Cambridge. Not long after, the shop closed. This was before the restoration of vinyl. “the stockholm syndrome” begins w/ plucked strings. Autoharp? An electronic squelch repeats. A voice & a beat. Calix chants, “he said, ‘walk away.’” There’s a full moon this morning. At the Road Runner gas station damsel flies rise up & down in the lights. I brush them aside as I wait for the car’s tank to fill. Frogs gulp. Across the street the reservoir. Animals that live in mud. Calix incorporates a cricket—briefly—at the end of “the stockholm syndrome.” A nod to <i>Nunu</i>. Mira Calix is a field during the hot of summer. “eeilo” is mournful; “the stockholm syndrome” isn’t joyful but energized. Last night I thought of a scene w/ a jet-black cricket chirruping in someone’s bedroom. Mine, I suppose. The presence of the cricket erased the barrier between indoors & out-of-doors. I was annoyed</span><span style="font-family: arial;">—</span><span style="font-family: arial;">I wanted to be well-rested for the next day (today) but I’m not sure I was awake. I dreamed I went to a train station to meet a girlfriend I haven’t seen in decades. When she arrived, I recognized her immediately. Her hair was gray but I knew her by her size & by her gait & I laughed. Now it’s 4:39 am & dark & I’m on a highway. “the way you are when” a plucked cello. Mira Calix is dead young; dead is on my mind. Green shoots, the azalea will flower pink soon. All this w/out—after Mira Calix.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">[ Composer Mira Calix died March 25. ]</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">[ for the now defunct <i>Coldfront</i> I wrote the following in 2017 about Calix's <i>Nunu</i>: </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Black sky white flora fringed pink and green. “piece not about the field recording” Here is a home movie wave. Whales in captivity. “I frantically” Treated strings and insects. Sailboats. “wasps, flies, larvae hatching, butterflies beating, and with this menagerie” A little girl dances in her swimsuit; wade in: track: “NUNU” taken from “3 commissions” ep music by MIRA CALIX filmed by PAPA CALIX directed by AV; TV ©2004 www.warprecords.com “site specific music” Walk backwards into the garden. Ingest to transform the sun. ]</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293913535814025060.post-54441779291356946802021-10-05T10:06:00.006-04:002021-10-05T10:09:27.549-04:00227. Caitlin R. Kiernan's } unstable "Onion"<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsQTzi24PDukOyLUAtFQXp_tUmNnvF2SnhtjDkNM2FRffvXJhu_8eMXxzDpSL6cgtKbPa5yjr9_12lXGVS3c7E9D-7TYiN3eeMtz8kkROE94ItwHRTcMHKU1-aGPut269zYZe_CBcWV4/s1440/image-asset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1160" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsQTzi24PDukOyLUAtFQXp_tUmNnvF2SnhtjDkNM2FRffvXJhu_8eMXxzDpSL6cgtKbPa5yjr9_12lXGVS3c7E9D-7TYiN3eeMtz8kkROE94ItwHRTcMHKU1-aGPut269zYZe_CBcWV4/s320/image-asset.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Caitlin R. Kiernan’s “Onion” is about two miserable young people who suffer glimpses of another world. Frank sees it through cracks in walls; Willa sees it in mirrors. They work shit jobs. Barely eat. Go to meetings in the basement of a synagogue where bitter coffee and day-old donuts are served. Willa accepts an invitation from a wealthy man who has an enormous glass tank full of seawater in his basement. Via that tank, some people can navigate to the world Willa only glimpses. Frank is jealous, feels betrayed, is a little bit really worried about Willa’s well-being. His rescue attempt is a bust: he finds Willa in the tank, hideously transformed and simultaneously convinced she’s in her mirror-world.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Only, that’s not how Kiernan’s “Onion” ends. Not this time. That’s how it ended when I first read it (collected in the chapbook <i>Wrong Things</i>, picked up for a couple bucks at a used book shop). When I read it today, I found no tank, no Willa-thing. Instead, Willa bums a cigarette and leaves Frank morose in Central Park.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">To be clear, I didn’t misremember the story. The story changed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">[ Image: Richard A. Kirk's "Anguish of Mind" (2017); Kirk's art appears on the cover of the Subterranean Press edition of <i>Wrong Things</i> by Caitlin </span><span style="font-family: arial;">R. Kiernan & Poppy Z. Brite ]</span></div>Adam Golaskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008713238582881525noreply@blogger.com0