Man alive, have I been posting a lot of man-with-guitar videos lately. Lest you think I'm not up on current events, I happen to be aware that today is the last broadcast of the Oprah Winfrey Show.
I haven't seen the episode yet, but I got this spoiler alert from a friend: BEES.
Just went on an online Oprah smorgasbord. The Onion's Oprah Viewers Patiently Awaiting Instructions, the one where Tom Cruise jumps on the couch, the one where Tom Cruise jumps on the couch and lightning bolts shoot from his hands into Oprah's body, the one where Tom Cruise calls Matt Lauer glib. Uh. Guess I got a little off course there.
It's tornado season here in the Unironic Midwest, and every distraction helps.
*Okay, maybe not sobbing. But seriously, the "favorite things" made me feel down, man. Why? As I might write on a student paper, "Explore this further." I will think very hard on this topic to formulate a reasonable response, in 3-5 pages (double-spaced). Yes, it has to be typed. No, I don't have a stapler.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Make a New Plan, Stan
I've been hearing a lot about May 21, which is just around the corner, the alleged Judgment Day. The Internet is a-buzzing like a hive of angry bees. Just to be clear, the world is not going to end on Saturday. I bet you three dollars.
What are you doing before the Rapture? I might head to the record shop for the new Paul Simon. Mine is a modest bucket list.
Says Simon in a recent interview: “If there's no one listening, is there any reason to write? Art can't exist unless there's someone to appreciate it."
When I was a child, my parents often played Simon & Garfunkel on the stereo at home, and we heard all the hits on AM radio while driving around town. Two of my favorite songs were "Slip Slidin' Away" and "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." The latter I thought of as a kind of adventure song, which, in a way, it is: hopping on the bus (Gus) and making a new key (Lee) to evade that pesky lover. Hijinks! And rhyming. You just slip out the back, Jack.
In high school one year, I got Paul Simon's Concert in Central Park double CD as a Christmas present. Which I re-bought after the disc was stolen. There's a point during "The Obvious Child" where the song skips. "Why deny the ob-ob-obviousss child." I'd always thought I'd scratched the CD, but my new one does it in exactly the same place.
I love Paul Simon's writing. And his songs. Put the two together, and the effect is, well, rapturous.
Three dollars on the world not ending, you hear? I'm setting up PayPal momentarily.
What are you doing before the Rapture? I might head to the record shop for the new Paul Simon. Mine is a modest bucket list.
Says Simon in a recent interview: “If there's no one listening, is there any reason to write? Art can't exist unless there's someone to appreciate it."
When I was a child, my parents often played Simon & Garfunkel on the stereo at home, and we heard all the hits on AM radio while driving around town. Two of my favorite songs were "Slip Slidin' Away" and "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." The latter I thought of as a kind of adventure song, which, in a way, it is: hopping on the bus (Gus) and making a new key (Lee) to evade that pesky lover. Hijinks! And rhyming. You just slip out the back, Jack.
In high school one year, I got Paul Simon's Concert in Central Park double CD as a Christmas present. Which I re-bought after the disc was stolen. There's a point during "The Obvious Child" where the song skips. "Why deny the ob-ob-obviousss child." I'd always thought I'd scratched the CD, but my new one does it in exactly the same place.
I love Paul Simon's writing. And his songs. Put the two together, and the effect is, well, rapturous.
Three dollars on the world not ending, you hear? I'm setting up PayPal momentarily.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
May I?
May I please tell you that the month of May is for writing? For me, that is. It's not, like, a national event or anything. No gimmicks. No tricks. Just writing. And MAYbe occasionally shopping online for adorable baby clothing, but mostly writing. And emptying the spam folder, which includes missives from Lisa about Amazing Scholarship Opportunity. I know, I know, hilarious spam is old news. But still? It makes me laugh, daily. It makes me jot things down. It makes me pay attention. Pay attention. You MAY have already won valuable prizes and dollars US.
May I also share an excerpt from my novel, SLEEPING WOMAN? You may find it in the Dia de los Muertos anthology.
I just got my copy in the mail, and it's a very cool book with a variety of material centered on the loose theme of the Day of the Dead. To find out more about Day of the Dead, you may consult an encyclopedia, Wikipedia, or your local news outlet on or around Nov. 1.
Other excerpts from SLEEPING WOMAN have been published by Freight Stories and Cantaraville. You may find yourself enjoying those publications as much as I.
(In fact, I know you will. Go on, now. Git.)
May I also share an excerpt from my novel, SLEEPING WOMAN? You may find it in the Dia de los Muertos anthology.
I just got my copy in the mail, and it's a very cool book with a variety of material centered on the loose theme of the Day of the Dead. To find out more about Day of the Dead, you may consult an encyclopedia, Wikipedia, or your local news outlet on or around Nov. 1.
Other excerpts from SLEEPING WOMAN have been published by Freight Stories and Cantaraville. You may find yourself enjoying those publications as much as I.
(In fact, I know you will. Go on, now. Git.)
Friday, April 29, 2011
Some random pieces of information that loosely cohere via association
My story White Hands, published by Zone 3 in their Fall 2008 issue, is now online. They've added lots of content to their website. Look for the issue with fiction/an interview with Michael Martone, U of Alabama professor, who is in Tuscaloosa, dealing with the aftermath of the tornadoes. He is OK, and is busy making sure everyone else is OK.
Stacks of paper are piling up here in the haushold. We choose to deal with it by listening to music. During this song, the baby stops what he's doing and gives me a very sweet smile. He's always liked a little Ray.
A peaceful song about less-than-peaceful times. But the baby doesn't know that. Not yet.
About White Hands: I wrote it in graduate school, and I remember my professor being less than impressed with my initial drafts. Unsatisfied is perhaps the better word. Of course it stung at the time, but I realized that having a reader like that is crucial. That is one way to grow: by learning how to be a little unsatisfied with your own work. It's a recurring theme in Although Of Course You End Up Being Yourself by David Lipsky, which chronicles his road trip interview with David Foster Wallace on the Infinite Jest book tour in the late '90s. That, and the dangers of becoming addicted to television. And the Internet. And what-all else you can imagine. The dangers of white noise, once again.
White noise from my inbox: "When your wipes case is this stylish, your diaper bag might actually get jealous."
The ludicrousness of this world, I tell you. (My diaper bag is plenty secure in its self.)
Stacks of paper are piling up here in the haushold. We choose to deal with it by listening to music. During this song, the baby stops what he's doing and gives me a very sweet smile. He's always liked a little Ray.
A peaceful song about less-than-peaceful times. But the baby doesn't know that. Not yet.
About White Hands: I wrote it in graduate school, and I remember my professor being less than impressed with my initial drafts. Unsatisfied is perhaps the better word. Of course it stung at the time, but I realized that having a reader like that is crucial. That is one way to grow: by learning how to be a little unsatisfied with your own work. It's a recurring theme in Although Of Course You End Up Being Yourself by David Lipsky, which chronicles his road trip interview with David Foster Wallace on the Infinite Jest book tour in the late '90s. That, and the dangers of becoming addicted to television. And the Internet. And what-all else you can imagine. The dangers of white noise, once again.
White noise from my inbox: "When your wipes case is this stylish, your diaper bag might actually get jealous."
The ludicrousness of this world, I tell you. (My diaper bag is plenty secure in its self.)
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sudden Flash Youth
Sudden Flash Youth: 65 Short-Short Stories
From Persea Books, now available for preorder. Includes my short piece "For Good," about Cece and Juan at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.
Contributors include Dave Eggers, Pamela Painter, Alice Walker, Ron Carlson, Naomi Shihab Nye, and more. It's edited by Christine Perkins-Hazuka and Tom Hazuka, and Mark Budman, who also edits Vestal Review (which published one of my flash fictions, He Waits, Wants, in Issue 30.)
Am I sounding convincingly casual? Because, really, I am doing some calisthenics of excitement over here, to be including in this book. Deep knee bends and such. Toe touches. Sudden Flash Youth ships in mid-June.
Musical Youth, if you've clicked the title of this post, is something else entirely. Can we hope for a comeback tour?
All we can do is hope, friends.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
The magical UPS truck
...has delivered my copy of The Pale King, David Foster Wallace's last -- and unfinished -- novel. Sorry, other books. Putting you down for awhile. The foreword tells how editor Michael Pietsch worked on the book from drafts, notes, and how he interpreted Wallace's vision for the work.
On the subject of DFW, this article says more than I could, presently. Writer Maria Bustillos spent three days at the Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin, reading his papers, notes, and a sampling of his annotated books -- some 300 are included there.
I have a copy of this Wall Street Journal piece tucked away, too, in case the Internet ever explodes. "This is water, this is water."
It is an odd thing, missing someone you didn't know. That I'll never be able to send DFW a postcard, or receive one in return. (Imagined scenarios, part I.) That the imaginary postcard would be delivered by a new mailman, the old one reassigned to a new route without even a goodbye. No goodbye!
The UPS truck driver remains the same. Loud music, high socks, speedy. Grateful for my gratitude when he brings me books.
Thanks for the books, sirs. Both of you.
On the subject of DFW, this article says more than I could, presently. Writer Maria Bustillos spent three days at the Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin, reading his papers, notes, and a sampling of his annotated books -- some 300 are included there.
I have a copy of this Wall Street Journal piece tucked away, too, in case the Internet ever explodes. "This is water, this is water."
It is an odd thing, missing someone you didn't know. That I'll never be able to send DFW a postcard, or receive one in return. (Imagined scenarios, part I.) That the imaginary postcard would be delivered by a new mailman, the old one reassigned to a new route without even a goodbye. No goodbye!
The UPS truck driver remains the same. Loud music, high socks, speedy. Grateful for my gratitude when he brings me books.
Thanks for the books, sirs. Both of you.
Monday, March 21, 2011
"Some things stay the same. Like time."
Gray Monday with a chance of warm. High probability of coffee in orange mug, possible cold front sweeping through sinuses. Thunder rumble, or truck of insanity on road in need of paving. Grading done, writing commenced, baby "singing" to his toys on the playmat while music softly plays. A good start to the day/week/month/year. To wit: my March Madness bracket ain't shot yet. One side is completely intact, save for Syracuse losing to Marquette last night. What can I say? I make my picks with the heart.
Gray Monday deserves as much prettiness as we can give it.
Gray Monday deserves as much prettiness as we can give it.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
White Noise
I've been wondering lately about images and associations, and how the brain does what it does when it comes to calling up random bits of information, culture, clutter, effluvia. The white noise of the brain, the distractable brain. The Retractable Brain, the brain that can be folded into a small case, potato-head-like!
Sometimes I get certain words in my head and repeat them to myself in the manner of a lunatic. Or I am driving, and the music I'm listening to (Arcade Fire, The Suburbs) makes me feel like the soundtrack to my own movie is playing in the background. A single raindrop hits my windshield and rolls down, slowly, and if I were a filmmaker, this would be my visual for "sad," my cheesy and obvious visual, until the pan-out reveals I am in the Starbucks drive-through, being a yuppie buying a yuppie drink ("I think we've aged out of that designation," I recently told my husband, though right now, the moment of this image, I am alone in the car, with Arcade Fire (is it "The" Arcade Fire?), soy latte in hand), and the detail of Starbucks, the iconic green logo, makes the mood either sadder or much happier, depending on where you sit. I sit in the car. I wish for my camera when a man on a bicycle rides slowly by, hunchback in a red and blue windbreaker, framed perfectly between two identical brick buildings.
I want to write these things down, but I am in the car, driving. Also, I keep losing my favorite pen. DANCE TEAM TORI says the window decal on the Suburban.
My brain recalls and grabs on to things that seemingly have no connection: "My ancestors spit on your haircut!" RSTLN and E. Rock you like a hurricane.
What is my brain trying to tell me?
I attempt to unravel these connections. I google things and get lost for awhile, in the brain-like folds of the Internet. There were weeks when everything I searched for directed me to the same cruddy website. I thought that Google was broken, but it was me.
Consider the equation. What if: C.Sheen = J.Phoenix - beard + smirk (x sympathy / tough love)?
We build excitement.
Operators are standing by.
Online TV Shows by Ustream
Or maybe the operators have flown by now. Flighty. Like my brain.
Sometimes I get certain words in my head and repeat them to myself in the manner of a lunatic. Or I am driving, and the music I'm listening to (Arcade Fire, The Suburbs) makes me feel like the soundtrack to my own movie is playing in the background. A single raindrop hits my windshield and rolls down, slowly, and if I were a filmmaker, this would be my visual for "sad," my cheesy and obvious visual, until the pan-out reveals I am in the Starbucks drive-through, being a yuppie buying a yuppie drink ("I think we've aged out of that designation," I recently told my husband, though right now, the moment of this image, I am alone in the car, with Arcade Fire (is it "The" Arcade Fire?), soy latte in hand), and the detail of Starbucks, the iconic green logo, makes the mood either sadder or much happier, depending on where you sit. I sit in the car. I wish for my camera when a man on a bicycle rides slowly by, hunchback in a red and blue windbreaker, framed perfectly between two identical brick buildings.
I want to write these things down, but I am in the car, driving. Also, I keep losing my favorite pen. DANCE TEAM TORI says the window decal on the Suburban.
My brain recalls and grabs on to things that seemingly have no connection: "My ancestors spit on your haircut!" RSTLN and E. Rock you like a hurricane.
What is my brain trying to tell me?
I attempt to unravel these connections. I google things and get lost for awhile, in the brain-like folds of the Internet. There were weeks when everything I searched for directed me to the same cruddy website. I thought that Google was broken, but it was me.
Consider the equation. What if: C.Sheen = J.Phoenix - beard + smirk (x sympathy / tough love)?
We build excitement.
Operators are standing by.
Online TV Shows by Ustream
Or maybe the operators have flown by now. Flighty. Like my brain.
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