261. Unfinished houses in } weird Providence.

 

Joshua Rex, house historian, will read w/ me & Rick Claypool this Saturday (April 25, 6pm) at the Arcade (65 Weybosset Street), known also as Lovecraft Arts & Sciences, known also as the laundry room. Rex is not related to Stephen King. He’ll read from his new collection Haunted Victorian America (Rotary Press); Mr. Claypool will read from his novel Skull Slime Tentacle Witch War (Anxiety Press). Of Claypool, I’ve read The Mold Farmer (Six Gallery Press, 2020). Joshua is Rhode Island homes, Rick reads tent encampments.

& I read unfinished houses. Although the event flier claims I’ll read from Stone Gods (NO Press), I’m uncertain. I probably will. But there’s a new story in an anthology called Back Into the Ground, edited by James Strayer & Erick Mertz; the story’s called “Amid the Hills of the Palouse” (as in Palouse, Idaho) & I’ve episodes from a novella in process.

The reading celebrates the illustrated hardcover edition of Stone Gods, w/ interior illustrations & a painted cover by Ru Kachko. There’s a chance Ru will be there. Autographs!

260. Stone Gods } Stone Gods.

 

Painter Larisa Kachko illustrated a hardcover edition of Stone Gods now available from NO Press. I saw Larisa’s work in-progress, in her studio—the painting she did for the cover & several charcoals—I was particularly thrilled w/ her illustration for “The Great Blind God Passed Through Us.”

When I commissioned her, my sole directive was not to diminish mystery—that is, don't create an image that makes it hard for a reader to see anything else. She thoughtfully read the stories (she’s a brilliant reader), listened to my suggestions, & worked to deepen mystery.

An added, unexpected bonus were her “title emblems”—small illustrations on the title page of stories otherwise not illustrated. These look especially sharp in the book.

As w/ the paperback, I insisted that text be kept off the cover art. The dust jacket, front & back, doesn’t bear my name or the book’s title (this info lives on the spine). HR Hegnauer, NO Press’s graphic designer (& now contributing design for Fence), carefully honored Larisa’s work.

NO’s hardcover run of Stone Gods is limited to a hundred copies (or so)—they will sell out. Order from NO Press here.

[ above: illustration for “The Great Blind God Passed Through Us” ]

259. Polaroid-verso } Somerville, September 2000

 1.

2.

3.

4.

258. “Flame,” Sula, & etc. } for Melinda M.

10/19/1993 

Of all the heavens of the Earth, I had to choose this one, the Earth spelled with a small “yes.” 

10/26/1993 

Tiffany’s work-study is at the [Emerson College] library. When I sleep there, I dream that I wake up & can’t get out of the library. Once, I woke up, weird, & I asked Tiffany, “Are you in my class?”

She said, “I made sure you were warm.”

When I next saw Tiffany she said, “It wasn’t until I talked to my roommates that I found out you knew I wasn’t in your class.”

I did think she was in my class & I said so. She doesn’t believe me.

I watch her catalog microfiche. Her hair is red. 

03/04/1994 

Melinda & I were married this past week. She bought a black dress & took two days off from school. The wedding was nice. Quaint. She said, “No priests because priests are men.”

Our honeymoon wasn’t great. Before we reached Niagara Falls we had a huge argument. I can’t recall what it was about, now that we’re divorced.

My new friend, a bunny, took me out drinking last night. I blurted the whole story. He said, “Chill out.” & said I “was boring” & that he wished I would “just shut the hell up & drink.” & added, “That’s what we’re here for.”

Thanks, Bunny.

[ photo: Melinda in basement of 96 Beacon Street, Boston, circa 1993 ]

257. Another glossary } of haunting.

 ——from Handbook of Autoethnography, eds. Jones, Adams, & Ellis: “A Glossary of Haunting” by Eve Tuck & C. Ree. An artist’s statement. An alphabet essay—a form I don’t like. I see the appeal—the alphabet is a fundamental tool, it’s a list… but… it’s easy. & not the best choice for an anti-colonialist essay. Tuck & Ree explain why they chose the form, “Glossaries can help readers pause and make sense of something cramped and tightly worded…” &, they see the glossary—rather, “this glossary”—as, “violating the terms of settler colonial knowledge….” That is to say their glossary is free from “its host.” 

Tuck & Ree warn that the story the glossary tells “seethes in its subtlety” & they insist we “Pay close attention…” because, “I am only saying this once. ”

A claim is made about American horror films—all American horror films. All American horror films are “preoccupied with the hero, who is perfectly innocent, but who is assaulted by monstering or haunting just the same.” &, “the hauntings [in ‘US horror films’] are positioned as undeserved, and the innocent hero must destroy the monster to put the world in balance again.” The only American horror films named in the essay are The Shining (1980) & Poltergeist (1982)—two films that obviously upset Tuck & Ree’s claim. Who is innocent in The Shining? The child, by virtue of being a child—& while he evades the monster (his father & the Overlook Hotel), it cannot be claimed that he destroyed either monster (as confirmed in King’s sequel Doctor Sleep). The family in Poltergeist isn’t innocent, either. While ignorant that their house has been built on a graveyard, they are willfully immersed in a culture that keeps people ignorant. Do they destroy the monster & “put the world in balance again”—absolutely not! They become homeless, living in a motel (i.e., they are forced off the land they wrongfully occupied).

But Tuck & Ree’s claim is about all American horror films—two American horror films made within two years of each other hardly qualifies as a representative sample. & when I think of American horror films—even the most mainstream—I am hard-pressed to think of examples in which the hero (if there is an identifiable hero) is entirely innocent or is able to destroy the monster. It’s far more typical for the hero to realize that they are complicit. They’ve trespassed, they’ve lied, they’ve put other people at risk, they’ve stolen, their parents committed a (sometimes horrific) crime in order to protect them. Let’s take a stupid & well-known film as an example: Friday the 13th (1980). The counselors are not punished because they’re sexually active / casual drug users—they’re punished because they’re bad counselors (or, at least it looks to Mrs. Vorhees as if they are bad counselors based on her past experience). They’re punished because of their negligence—negligence that led to the death of Mrs. Vorhees’ son. & while Mrs. Vorhees is beheaded by the “hero,” the monster is not destroyed & balance is not restored. Instead, that act awakens the real monster—who kills the hero.

According to Tuck & Ree, American horror films are naïve, while “horror films from Japan” acknowledge “the depth of injustice that begat the monster or ghost” & “the hero does not think of herself to be innocent….” This might be true, but once again, only two examples are given: Ringu (1998) & Dark Water (2002). Both were remade for American audiences by American studios (& thus, arguably, became American horror films). That Tuck & Ree use these as their representative examples of Japanese horror films raises the suspicion that a.) they know about these movies because of the brief vogue for J-horror in the States & may have first encountered both films as American remakes & b.) they don’t know a whole lot about Japanese horror films.

There are no examples of horror from other countries—not even other English-speaking countries.

As Tuck & Ree’s essay progresses, it becomes apparent that the only movie that’s relevant to their work is Dark Water. The work that spurred this glossary (the host), is “a series of art installations, in response to Hideo Nakata’s popular 2002 Japanese horror film of the same title….” The installations use drop ceilings—generally used to hide pipes, wires, & ducts—as sites of fear. The water stains that form on the tiles of these ceilings & the subsequent leaks are portents of inevitable collapse—& the installations are designed to collapse. Tuck & Ree write, “This anxiety about leaks is what I dwell on” &,

Our ruins are not crumbled Roman columns, or ivy covered [sic] abandoned lots. Our ruins lie within the quick turnover of buildings, disappearing landmarks, and disposable homes, layered upon each other and over again.

Tuck & Ree’s logic behind their installations is compelling. (That they see horror in water-stained ceiling tiles (& mildew & leaky pipes, & decay) is hardly innovative—these are staples of the horror genre—as they are staples of the gothics & folktales that preceded the horror genre.) Are the installations compelling? I can’t say, I didn’t see them. But the logic behind them is compelling. Extending that logic to haunting & specifically to what haunts America is also compelling. The leap they make to “all American horror films” is not.

256. Bill Knott } is a terrible poet.

On the back of Nights of Naomi (Barn Dream, 1971), a quote—attributed to “Bill Knott (1940 – 1966)” —declares: “I consider ‘Nights’ my first and only book. The other books (including ‘Auto-necrophilia’) with my name on them are, like the patent office, full of garbage.”

That would include The Naomi Poems, reprinted against Bill’s wishes, by Janaka Stucky’s Black Ocean.

To celebrate Janaka’s flagrant disregard for Bill’s self-loathing, he’s invited Darcie Dennigan, John Cotter, Elisa Gabbert, me, & himself to read poems from The Naomi Poems at Riff Raff this Thursday.

My copy of Nights of Naomi belonged to Paul Hannigan, who taught (briefly) w/ Bill at Emerson College. Paul’s marginalia identifies sources & typos.

Some of us knew Bill. He was my undergraduate advisor & I frequently ran into him at bookstores in Cambridge & Somerville. We’ve been invited by Janaka to share anecdotes. My favorite anecdote about Bill is so offensive, I’ll keep it to myself.

255. Great horror stories? } & Necronomicon.

 

What is Betty M. Owen’s 11 Great Horror Stories? Did human beings write the two Amazon reviews of this anthology? (“Eleven very good short stories of the horror titles which interest me” sez David from the U.K. who gives it 5 stars; “Bought this copy of book that I borrowed and it fell apart before finishing. Bought to finish the book and return a usable item to it's [sic] owner” reports Ted from the U.S.) It’s a Scholastic Book Services title—probably made for a school age market in 1969. Betty M. Owen “selected” the stories—but her choices are perplexing. Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror” & Stoker’s “The Judge’s House” are good horror stories (not “great”—though both have much to recommend them); Poe’s “The Oblong Box” is wonderfully mysterious until suddenly it isn’t—Poe explains everything. I’m not sure it’s a horror story—it depends on how you interpret the last act of the artist who owns the box. John Collier’s “Thus I Refute Beelzy,” Anthony Vercoe’s “Flies,” & Fielden Hughes’ “The Mistake” are fun—B-stories, if you will (all could be made into A-stories if developed beyond the single idea that drives them). L.P. Hartley’s “W. S.” & E. Everett Evans’ “The Shed” are not good—but it’s interesting to me that both resemble (good) Stephen King stories (The Dark Half & “The Raft,” respectively). King could’ve read both when he was a boy. John Collier’s “The Love Letter” is science fiction/romance (& charming); Gerald Kersh’s “The Ape and the Mystery” is fantasy—but if you didn’t know anything about Leonardo DaVinci you might not notice. I enjoyed this story. A. E. Sandeling’s “Return of the Griffins” is also fantasy & good. I will send this book back out into the world, complete w/ my (very minimal) annotations.

I might leave it on the freebie table at Necronomicon, where I’ll be next weekend.

Friday, at 12:30pm, I’ll join a roundtable discussion w/ Mike Allen, Paula D. Ashe, Tiffany Morris & Sheree Renée Thomas about “the state of the weird”—hosted by The Outer Dark podcast. I assume the others will have a better handle on trends in the genre than I do; I look forward to their speculations re. weird fiction in the future. At 3:30 I moderate a panel on the fiction of the Joel Lane w/ Timothy Jarvis (a writer I don’t know), Billy Martin (a writer I do know), & editor Justin Steele. My prep was to reread The Lost District & some Lane miscellany—I have questions!

Saturday, at 11am, I’ll discuss Leonora Carrington w/ fellow panelists Victoria Dalpe, Anya Martin, Gabriel Mesa, & Jeff VanderMeer. Her body of work is small enough it was possible to read most of it before the con—though I’ll confess I skimmed “Little Francis” & have not read The Stone Door. A good thing about a panel: collectively, we may be able to fill in the gaps of individual panelists. At 3:30, I’m scheduled to read (from Stone Gods) w/ Khôra Martel & Paul Tremblay. My guess is you know Paul—I remember a time when he asked permission to sell copies of City Pier on the New Genre table at Boskone (sure!). I don’t know Khôra (I’m eager to!).

I’ll try to attend publisher John M. Thompson’s panels—although the first is at 8am on Friday. Jay Decay will be there, too. John will have copies of Mooncalves & Stone Gods for sale—I know this because two boxes of said titles currently dwell in my cellar.

254. Readercon } Horror into the Classics.

 “…pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like the wilful travellers of Lapland, who refuse to wear colored glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol.”

Friday, if I can make it, I’ll join a discussion at Readercon 33 called “Reading Horror into the Classics” (July 12, 3pm). It’s possible I’ve misinterpreted the panel—as described on the events schedule, it could be a jokey panel where any book that isn’t to our taste is recategorized as horror; it could also be about reimagining classics as horror (so, the racist, expansionist assumptions of the Ingalls family is visited upon them or they are recast as monsters). I interpret the panel’s subject to be classics that can be read (& mined) for horror—not as horror. I could easily be wrong, but that’s what I’ll bring the table. Of course, w/ a scant 60 minutes for our discussion, we may not get past the term “classics.”

At 9pm, I’ll read a story from Stone Gods.

I’m at Readercon, too, to attend the Shirley Jackson Awards. This year, NO Press’s Mooncalves is nominated for “edited anthology.” If it wins, I’ll accept on behalf of John WM Thompson. I’m glad to do this for John, but I do not look forward to the awards ceremony.

By the way, John & Glenn McDorman discuss “Distant Signals”—my contribution to Mooncalves—on the Elder Sign podcast. You can read the story for free at the NO Press site before you listen. I really enjoyed their conversation.

& an unrelated note: in a church basement I examined a copy of Robert Burns' selected poems (Penguin Classics, 1950) & found a cheerful note inscribed on the title page, “Merry Christmas, Dad! Bobbie Burns 4 life! Love, [name illegible]”—but, inscribed at the end of a short bio of Burns was another note, written in a different hand, of a decidedly different sentiment: “Feb 28 / Julian gave this to Mark on final visit to say goodbye.”

253. Libraries & } un-encampment.

 

[04–27–24] Leave the Richards Memorial Library b/c a woman, w/ a recent issue of Rolling Stone magazine, sits glowering & wheezing beside me.

Nearby, a white-haired woman walks a small white dog. Looks at her phone. She warns a family (?)—three women, one w/ a stroller—that her dog isn’t good w/ kids. Bites kids it doesn’t know.

There’s a pro-Israel rally outside the Rochambeau Library; the library’s manager is upset—she argues w/ the rally leader, asks that they not protest in the path of pedestrians. Roughly 15 protesters wave flags. The rally leader is obstinate & pleased & won’t move. Cars honk. Library staff summon the police; the police explain that the protesters can rally but can't block the sidewalk or they “could be removed.” The protesters decide to continue their rally at Brown.

[05–01–24] Brown’s encampment is gone but recalled by rectangular patches of pale grass & a fence. A group of roughly 30 faculty stand on the steps of the student union with little signs that read “Divest Now.” They listen to a speech (which I can’t hear). I approach, spot two poets I know; the group breaks up; I see a former colleague so I veer off toward the Quiet Green.

Where I speak w/ two of the student protesters I met last week at the encampment. I ask what they think of the faculty protest that just ended—it’s not clear they were aware of it at all.

When I tell them I’m a RISD professor, they ask what RISD students have been doing. I remind them of the November protest outside the Textron building, tell them about student-led protests in front of RISD buildings & point out that RISD students don’t benefit from the security a fenced-in campus provides. I show them a flier RISD students made & describe the enormous puppet a student of mine constructed to be used at protests.

At Brown’s Rockefeller Library is a very small display of “Free Mumia” posters. He’s been in prison since 1982.

Some of the notes for this post were written on my copy of Amy Herzog’s play After the Revolution.

252. Eye & } encampment.

Red “X” over “The First Baptist Meeting House”—& a red, crying eye over its spire.

Tired & jittery. Walk through Brown University encampment. Salvador Allende misquoted on the side of a tent, many bottles of Poland Spring water, many snacks—so many snacks, students discussing snacks, students urgently carry snacks—& a quarter of a watermelon, eaten w/ a white plastic spoon, vivid on the Main Green.

A woman picks up a megaphone—but the encampment is subdued. No drum, no chant. There’s a class in session on the grass nearby. Students paint signs. Students paint a map of Palestine, carefully copying a map of Palestine, circa 1945. Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up” misquoted on the side of a tent. On a blanket, for the moment unoccupied, are two books: Daniel Mason’s North Woods & Lizzy Goodman’s Meet Me in the Bathroom.

Students in orange vests—“marshals.” A marshal explains to me she’s not part of the protest, but there to ensure a peaceful protest. A suspicious student wants to know what I’m doing & I tell him I’m documenting the moment, ask, “How long have you been here?” “Since 6am yesterday”—he’s proud. “You slept here?” “Yes.” “Did you feel safe?” “Yes.” “When University police were here, did they bother you?” “They checked IDs, so we can be punished later.” The student with the black & white scarf in the photo below (taken by Dana Richie for the Brown Daily Herald) is the student I spoke w/.

All of a sudden, a few students start up a chant & bang on a blue, five-gallon bucket. I ask a group of four students seated on the grass why it's started up again. First I’m asked, “Can I ask why you’re asking?” Suspicious of a middle-aged man taking notes. I tell them I’m a RISD professor & I’m curious. That’s enough for them; they’re eager to tell me that the Brown University Community Council voted “to recommend that five student representatives… be allowed to present their case for divestment… before the Corporation.” & that the council also voted to recommend that charges be dropped against students arrested at the sit-in.” An empty gesture to mollify protesters?

When I leave the campus, I walk in front of the sole news camera there—WPRI Channel 12.

251. A peach-colored jumpsuit } & a bundle of rags.

 

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.

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 Jay Decay’s anthology The Pinworm Factory. Jeffrey Thomas read two stories from Scenes from a Village, 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 Stone Gods. Cover artist Ella Dew came, & discussed political puppet-making. Is it possible to have a conversation with a puppet-maker & not mention Sesame Street? It should be.

Our host was Lovecraft Arts & Sciences; s. j. bagley our master of ceremonies. Stone Gods, Worse Than Myself, & issues of New Genre are all available at the shop.

After the reading, I gave a ghost a ride home.

250. Livia Llewellyn’s last } post / publication.

Livia Llewellyn writes,

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.

That’s how I read Llewellyn's “Allochthon”—we gotta murder our way out of our canyon-deep rut.

Word Horde published Furnace, 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 Stone Gods, but publisher Ross E. Lockhart & I never managed to connect (that’s OK!)—but now Llewellyn’s done with publishing altogether. 

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.

Llewellyn’s announcement hit me funny. Last month I finally began to read her work. Taken w/ it, I visited her website—& “The Final Missive.” It troubles me.

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.

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.

Stone Gods is published. By a brand-new & very small press: NO. A handful of bookstores will stock copies—as of today they are Lovecraft Arts & Sciences in Providence, The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles, & Bucket O’ Blood in Chicago. The writing will continue.

249. “Can we talk about…? } “(Rabbit).”

 

Last month I wrote an essay for David Surface’s Strange Little Stories. 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.

David writes (about me),

 …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.

I praised David’s story “Terrible Things”; it became the title story of his first collection, available from Black Shuck Books. In the interview, David & I discussed my brief correspondences w/ Mark Samuels (who died early Dec.), my upcoming collection Stone Gods, 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 Strange Little Stories by contacting David through his website; ask to start w/ Strange Little Stories #23. Nay, insist!

Stone Gods can be pre-ordered from NO Press & will be published (I’m told) this month.

[ The above image is a still from David Lynch's short film Rabbits or maybe from his long film Inland Empire. I mention Inland Empire in this post about David Cronenberg's Fast Company. ]

248. On Gladiolus } “the largest blossoming flower.”

Inscribed on the title page of Rikki Ducornet’s Trafik, 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.”

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 ad infinitum. That is, “Dolls in cages all the way down.”

Episode 4 of The Cinnamon Bear 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.

It is true that these all are different stories, but they all ask the same question: “Am I real?”

247. Jackie Sibblies Drury speaks } Jimbo.

 

Fairview 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.

# # # 

I’m fascinated by the roughly six-page monologue delivered by Jimbo, Fairview’s villain [or, rather, the play's most obnoxious character]. While Fairview references late 1980s / early ‘90s American television sitcoms, specifically those centered on Black family life, Jimbo’s monologue introduces Hostel (2005) & Hostel II (2007) to the material of Fairview—he explains why both are “kind of good” movies. He doesn’t name the films—perhaps to muffle incongruity of the reference?

Hostel & Hostel II 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.

Jimbo recounts a specific moment from the first Hostel film:

…and so he’s doing that with the chainsaw
vrr-ng-ng-ng-ng
and slips in blood or something
and the rich guy decapitates himself
with his own chainsaw.
And it’s pretty obvious what that means.
Do you know what I mean?
It means he’s the victim of his own damn thing.

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 Hostel films & remembers the impression they made & that was enough for her.

Do the Hostel films appear in Fairview as shorthand? Jimbo isn’t a character but a mouth; he is incapable of subtlety & lacks culture. Hostel is as close to art as he gets. Hostel & American television. Jimbo watches the show w/in Fairview & has a store of sitcom tropes—specifically Black sitcom tropes—well-memorized. Instead of Hostel, is there a less dissonant shorthand Drury might’ve reached for?

I first read Fairview 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.”

246. “Distant Signals” } attends Readercon 32.

 

Publisher John Thompson proposed NO Press make chapbooks to promote the forthcoming Stone Gods, 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.”

According to the program, I’ll read both parts on Sat., July 15 at 6pm. & maybe something else? Maybe “Palace,” my contribution to Jay Decay’s latest anthology The Pinworm Factory?

Also Sat.—at 11am—Mr. Thompson will host a Mooncalves 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).

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.

# # #

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.

What a simple trick! By pairing my name and a few details about my work with a face, that face becomes my own.

245. "Where the clock } is hidden behind the bar."

 

My friend John published an essay in the New York Times Magazine. 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.

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.

For a directed study on “dread” my student & I watched Giulio Paradisi’s film The Visitor (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).

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….”

What’s the middle ground?

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.

244. The North Was Here } Ellie Ga Talk.

Ga writes,

“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.”

unknown room = wherever we are

one minute = for however long

ten people = w/ whom

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 Tank). North Was Here 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). North Was Here is three chapbooks + “North Was Here.”

Ga,

“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 (Artforum, 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.

North Was Here the artist’s book is a piece of The Fortunetellers, Ga’s response to her stint onboard the Tara. On its own, North Was Here frustrates sensical interpretation. Sure, we could say that frustration is a metaphor—being aboard the Tara was disorienting, therefore… but that’s pretentious. North Was Here the artist’s book is a piece of The Fortunetellers. That’s better.

From the Tara Ocean Foundation website (oceans.taraexpeditions.org/en/):

“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.

243. Fence issues } i.e. what’s wrong w/?

 

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.”

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.

Yesterday, I met with my co-editor for Fence’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 an editor at Fence. How strange.

& just a handful of days ago, I received copies of Fence 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].”

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.

242: Bennington Review & } “Puttin’ On the Ritz.”

 

Bennington Review issue 11 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.

My “San Francisco Essay” appears in Bennington Review 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 The Midwich Cuckoos, John Wyndham’s novel about an alien invasion via women. Art is a concern, especially Jay DeFeo’s The Rose.

Aside from this current issue of Bennington Review, I’m also in the December issue of Ghost City Review— my poem, “[*/Sylvania].” There’s something about that poem that reminds me of another poem of mine from Voice Notes. Maybe I’m just repeating myself? Voice Notes is out from Sputen Duyvil, with a beautiful cover by Matthew Klane.

[ images: screen shot from Taco's "Puttin' On the Ritz" video & the cover of Bennington Review issue 11: "Money Makes the World" ]