Sunday, June 5, 2011


--William Gay wrote a fabulous novel called, “I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down.”
I don’t hate that. In fact, I rather like being a witness to that.
This sunset is something else. Take a look.
Right? Amazing, isn’t it?
A box of 164 Crayola crayons would even be jealous. Quite jealous, actually.

…I have a couple of new things:
"Bathroom Kiss" up at The New Flesh and "A Place Called Mistik" at For Every Year.
With the latter, I had originally sent in a piece About Ian Davis, lead singer from Joy Division, months before his suicide in the year 1980. Crispin Best, who runs the site where one story is posted for a seminal occurrence in each year since existence, said he was moving through the list chronologically, and that I needed to start in the 1630's. 1630's?? I don't know anything about the 1630's. I think the Salem witch trials were in the 1690's. Nevertheless, I googled "Events in the year 1637," learned how the Caucasian population cajoled the Narragansett and Mohegan tribes to betray their friends, the Pequot Indians. Then, in one fell swoop, on a single day, the two tribes--along with a white army militia--killed all 400 men, women and children of the Pequot tribe living in Mistik, CT.
It's a horrifying slice of history, but it felt like it needed to be written, so I did.

…I am Guest Poetry Editor for the Fall Issue of Twenty20Journal. I'm excited about it and appreciate the opportunity. Nora Nadjarian is taking over the fiction honors.

…Have you see what the writer, V.S. Naipaul recently said? Good God.
This is a writer whose won The Nobel (Nobel?!) Prize for literature and who's been named, by TIME magazine, as one of the greatest 45 British writers ever.
V.S. said there is no woman writer, alive or dead, who can match his own literary skills.
He also claimed that he could, within a few simple minutes of reading any piece, determine the author's gender.
He claimed women always fall into "sentimentality" and "have a narrow view of the world."
What's wrong with this guy?
It's a pretty idiotic publicity stunt, if that's what it is. If it's not a stunt, well then, I don't even have words for this guy.
Anymore, the majority of my favorite writers are female. Anymore, I'd say 80% of them are female. Anymore, you'd think we'd have put sexism to bed once and for all.
But alas, not.

…Okay, is there a better song than Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah? Ah, no, there isn't. Play it right now and tell me if I'm wrong.

…I am wrong often. (But not about Jeff.) I make mistakes. Sometimes I am so disappointed in myself that I don't like me. Does that ever happen to you? Probably not. This is perhaps a situation unique to me, myself and I. In fact I’m sure it is.
I am flawed.
I am a broken toy.
Forget that I brought it up.

…I am also still digging The Head And The Heart ("I miss your face like hell.") The old Third Eye Blind ("Remember how we used to spend, the whole goddamn day, in bed?") And the new Death Cab For Cutie ("The lights are itching pulses beneath my skin, a sign I'm about to begin, anew.").

…I finished poetry books by Lara Konesky ("Next to Guns") and Misti Rainwater-Lites ("Sloppy Mouth.") They were both very good, pretty sexy and raw collections.

…I also just finished "A Reliable Wife." I liked it very much. It felt sort of like reading a classic that had been slightly refreshed or updated. Here are my favorite (some anyway) excerpts which will give you a flavor for how good this guy is:

"The city entered her like music, like a wild symphony.
"The empty attention of stupid men."
"Men only give you what they give you.
"He found her mouth and kissed her sometimes until she couldn't remember her name; sometimes he kissed her and then moved his head and slept on her shoulders.
"He was not the first man who wanted to his own desire to be central, who thought little of her except as a necessary part of his own blind groping. She became the thing he wanted, and was surprised that she, in some way, wanted it, too."
"She was entranced by the way his hand never left her cheek as he made love to her, caressing her the way he might gentle a wild horse.
"The blue black pill bottle was still in her suitcase. It waited like a serpent."
"That she was beautiful was both an attraction and irritation, a detail of her usefulness." Robert Goolrick, "A Reliable Wife."

No comments:

Post a Comment