I want to move a conversation initiated by starrykick into the spotlight that is robotdinosaurswithhumanheart’s homepage. So can I just paste what I wrote in response to her question: “Are these blog responses supposed to be like, updates on what's going through my tired little brain, or more like arguments I would urge my comp students to make? will someone tell me what to do?” ? Or is that lazy? Am I supposed to revise (re-VISION, people) my thoughts for (re)consumption? Can I get through a paragraph without a parenthetical?
In any case:
oh, starrykick, please not arguments you'd tell your comp students to make. or i guess the ones you tell them to make would be great, the ones they *actually* make, however, are strictly off limits. not that there's any danger of that in this place, where even the tired brains are so lovely and lively.
i overuse the word lovely, but i almost always mean it.
also, i think we can do whatever we want in this space. our readers are probably only ourselves, right? my guess is that since we've just come out (or are in) the program here (it sounds so AA-esque when i call it the program) and we're a team not only out of mutual admiration for one another's dancing/karaoke/cooking skills (willingness perhaps a better word in some cases)but because of our shared pursuit of this thing called being writers (or, being ultimate masters of all fine[st] arts) that our topics will lean literary, but I certainly wouldn’t want to limit anyone’s input, and am more than happy to read tips and tricks for keeping those ladybirdbeetle monsters out of the house. I want to be a part of this space (oh, here comes my women’s center vernacular) largely because I hope it will allow us to keep the conversations we had (more) regularly while still in the program going even as we splinter and spread. Maybe I’ll move this comment into a post and open this up for discussion as well? Why not? It’s not like I have any papers to grade or lonely, withering stories to attend to.
Is there any way to move something from comments to the main page more gracefully? Blogs are weird.
Monday, October 31, 2005
continuing the pattern of pasting meta-commentary from responses/reactions into actual posts
I already posted this as a comment, but figured I'd a) follow bizness's lead, b) take this opportunity to one-up/ get the goat of said bizness (2200 miles not able to keep me from doing what I do best) and c) affirm what I said in the comment. Because I think it's so important. Also because I'm right. Anyway, here it is:
It seems, rather, that what we've got here is a pretty special compilation of voices, and perhaps this compilation of talent and intellect would be mitigated by the discussion of trifles? I don't know about you all, but I log on to this blog (frequently, as can already be gleaned) for a specific kind of salve and balm, go to the trouble of digitally traveling to this specific place because I want my mind to be torqued and piqued in specifically, and yes exclusively, literary ways. I go to other places to gossip and chat--as I'm sure do you--and it seems, in my life at least, that these places, the chatty ones, outnumber the literary ones, which I believe we're trying to cultivate, and should.
So my two cents to starrykick are this: I would love to hear any and all literary updates from your tired brain, even if they're merely observational (of culture, society, politics, philosophy), and the only thing 'literary' about them is the way they're presented. Also more academic arguments are acceptable (to me, at least, although I will join bizness's chorus and adjure that they not be arguments the students themselves would make).
Here, how about this as a loose guideline: let's make this a sort of online Harper's, or better yet Believer, minus the interviews. Thought-provoking, insightful, (inciteful), witty, stylish. And, eminently, the work of writers. Because that is who we are. Because this, of all things in our lives, is what we cannot avoid.
and am more than happy to read tips and tricks for keeping those ladybirdbeetle monsters out of the house.
It seems, rather, that what we've got here is a pretty special compilation of voices, and perhaps this compilation of talent and intellect would be mitigated by the discussion of trifles? I don't know about you all, but I log on to this blog (frequently, as can already be gleaned) for a specific kind of salve and balm, go to the trouble of digitally traveling to this specific place because I want my mind to be torqued and piqued in specifically, and yes exclusively, literary ways. I go to other places to gossip and chat--as I'm sure do you--and it seems, in my life at least, that these places, the chatty ones, outnumber the literary ones, which I believe we're trying to cultivate, and should.
So my two cents to starrykick are this: I would love to hear any and all literary updates from your tired brain, even if they're merely observational (of culture, society, politics, philosophy), and the only thing 'literary' about them is the way they're presented. Also more academic arguments are acceptable (to me, at least, although I will join bizness's chorus and adjure that they not be arguments the students themselves would make).
Here, how about this as a loose guideline: let's make this a sort of online Harper's, or better yet Believer, minus the interviews. Thought-provoking, insightful, (inciteful), witty, stylish. And, eminently, the work of writers. Because that is who we are. Because this, of all things in our lives, is what we cannot avoid.
putting the truth in its place
So I'm reading about this project called The Clock of the Long Now--research for the novel, god I love this job--and I came across this:
Which reminded me of what my friend Greg said to me this summer at the Pig Roast, when Eddie and I confessed to not having actually Cannondonged to get there (SF to Boston in a straight, dizzying shot):
(And actually, it was Errol Morris who told this to Greg.) But anyway, what does this say about what we do? The documentary of a fake clock's fake construction standing somehow in perfect stead for the real thing. One car, two people, three thousand miles, and who's to say, if we don't, that it didn't happen? And if we don't tell those people in Vermont, they leave that weekend telling their friends that two guys ran a car three thousand miles across the country in one glorious run. And what, weeks from then, in all those tertiary people's minds, could ever differentiate it from truth?
What I mean to say, is, suspension of disbelief or no, what we write in fiction never really happens and yet no one reads it that way, and yet, on some level, readers take it for gospel, for truth. It speaks to them; they carry it with them, and believe in it, and care.
So why not put fiction, and our capacity to create it, in more parts of our lives?
Ten thousand years - the life span I hope for the clock - is about as long as the history of human technology. We have fragments of pots that old. Geologically, it's a blink of an eye. When you start thinking about building something that lasts that long, the real problem is not decay and corrosion, or even the power source. The real problem is people. If something becomes unimportant to people, it gets scrapped for parts; if it becomes important, it turns into a symbol and must eventually be destroyed. The only way to survive over the long run is to be made of materials large and worthless, like Stonehenge and the Pyramids, or to become lost. The Dead Sea Scrolls managed to survive by remaining lost for a couple millennia. Now that they've been located and preserved in a museum, they're probably doomed. I give them two centuries - tops.
The fate of really old things leads me to think that the clock should be copied and hidden. The idea of hiding the clock to preserve it has a natural corollary, but it takes Teller, the professional magician, to suggest it without shame: "The important thing is to make a very convincing documentary about building the clock and hiding it. Don't actually build one. That would spoil the myth if it was ever found." In a way, Teller is right.
Which reminded me of what my friend Greg said to me this summer at the Pig Roast, when Eddie and I confessed to not having actually Cannondonged to get there (SF to Boston in a straight, dizzying shot):
Don't ever let the truth get in the way of a good story.
(And actually, it was Errol Morris who told this to Greg.) But anyway, what does this say about what we do? The documentary of a fake clock's fake construction standing somehow in perfect stead for the real thing. One car, two people, three thousand miles, and who's to say, if we don't, that it didn't happen? And if we don't tell those people in Vermont, they leave that weekend telling their friends that two guys ran a car three thousand miles across the country in one glorious run. And what, weeks from then, in all those tertiary people's minds, could ever differentiate it from truth?
What I mean to say, is, suspension of disbelief or no, what we write in fiction never really happens and yet no one reads it that way, and yet, on some level, readers take it for gospel, for truth. It speaks to them; they carry it with them, and believe in it, and care.
So why not put fiction, and our capacity to create it, in more parts of our lives?
Sunday, October 30, 2005
on the subject of reading (and, tangentially, Jim Shepard)
Once I sat in a room with many young people and Denis Johnson--brought to the many young people by the gentleman in the title of this post--and DJ said something that at the time surprised me, but does not now. Someone, a young person, asked him who/what he read of late and he said that he didn't read that much anymore, and that he rarely finished books.
I guess I bring this up because I haven't finished a book since school ended, haven't even started one for months. Granted I'm in a state of mind right now that precludes ambitious activities such as novel-reading, but aside from that is it possible that my present and Denis Johnson's at-least-past are the kinds of future we novelists have to look forward to? Because for real, how or why would I devote time and energy to keeping track of another narrative when it's as much as I can do--usually more than I can do--to keep track of my own?
Or maybe it's a little like the bluegrass musician who listens to death metal when he comes home from the studio (Believer readers check out your July 2004 issue, the interview with John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats), or the software tester who wants, when he comes home, nothing to do with computers or the internet (see Park, Eddie). Or the gerontologist who needs to molest children. That sort of thing.
But so the thing I'm saying or the question I'm asking is this (and I guess this is more for the novelists than the poets): how many writers do we know who also are voracious readers of books and novels? I'm being lazy--I know this--and certainly I could knock off at least one short story a week just on my BART rides into and back from the city--ibid, and to a greater degree, poems--but am I being that lazy?
Also, who's with me on changing our moniker from "a 'place / to put the precious useless things'" to "a 'sieve... / to put the precious useless things'"? It seems, perhaps, more fitting? As in, on a daily basis we lose so much, even if we "place" it in a forum such as this....
I guess I bring this up because I haven't finished a book since school ended, haven't even started one for months. Granted I'm in a state of mind right now that precludes ambitious activities such as novel-reading, but aside from that is it possible that my present and Denis Johnson's at-least-past are the kinds of future we novelists have to look forward to? Because for real, how or why would I devote time and energy to keeping track of another narrative when it's as much as I can do--usually more than I can do--to keep track of my own?
Or maybe it's a little like the bluegrass musician who listens to death metal when he comes home from the studio (Believer readers check out your July 2004 issue, the interview with John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats), or the software tester who wants, when he comes home, nothing to do with computers or the internet (see Park, Eddie). Or the gerontologist who needs to molest children. That sort of thing.
But so the thing I'm saying or the question I'm asking is this (and I guess this is more for the novelists than the poets): how many writers do we know who also are voracious readers of books and novels? I'm being lazy--I know this--and certainly I could knock off at least one short story a week just on my BART rides into and back from the city--ibid, and to a greater degree, poems--but am I being that lazy?
Also, who's with me on changing our moniker from "a 'place / to put the precious useless things'" to "a 'sieve... / to put the precious useless things'"? It seems, perhaps, more fitting? As in, on a daily basis we lose so much, even if we "place" it in a forum such as this....
i heart jim shepard
I just finished Project X and thought I might bring some book-talk to the blog. Often when I finish a book, I read every review I can find of it, even the user reviews on Amazon—desperately seeking out a community of readers. I never post my own reviews, so it’s not much of a conversation. Tonight I thought hey, I know a community of readers! Why don't I engage with them? This might be one sided as well, though, since I’m not sure if any one else has read Project X. I finished it an hour ago, but I needed that long just to stand up. I’m still carrying the book around with me, reluctant to let the characters go, unwilling to have that story be over. It’s less than two hundred pages; most of you could finish it in an afternoon. You should, if you have the chance [I hear you: When will you have the chance? You should, now].
In workshop it was well known that I had a penchant for the character driven story. I just started the fiction unit in my 223 class last week, and I think my students already have a sense that I don’t really care what their characters do, so long as those characters are interesting. Project X’s narrator, Edwin, is so painfully real to me that I could weep. I was just talking to the main squeeze (who finished this book a week or two ago) about the narrator’s little brother as if he were a person in my life, like, Oh can you believe that thing Gus said? He’s so funny; I love that kid. And I really sort of do.
The book gets pretty high-tension towards the end, but whatever you do do not do not do not skip to the end. Do you people do that?
In workshop it was well known that I had a penchant for the character driven story. I just started the fiction unit in my 223 class last week, and I think my students already have a sense that I don’t really care what their characters do, so long as those characters are interesting. Project X’s narrator, Edwin, is so painfully real to me that I could weep. I was just talking to the main squeeze (who finished this book a week or two ago) about the narrator’s little brother as if he were a person in my life, like, Oh can you believe that thing Gus said? He’s so funny; I love that kid. And I really sort of do.
The book gets pretty high-tension towards the end, but whatever you do do not do not do not skip to the end. Do you people do that?
Dinosaur Fires
If you look very closely, you will see the dinosaurs' fires. I think there a lot of dinosaurs in India. What are they burning? Not books. Maybe sticks, maybe newspapers, maybe they're making s'mores or roasting a pig. Maybe they're not thinking about the poems they should be writing and instead reading Christine Hume's Alaskaphrenia, stumbling across the lines: "I'm not right. I'm interfered with / and bent as light. I tried to use the spots, / for months I tried with rings. / Only now I'm thinking in cracks / that keep a modern light / lunged." Oh robot heaven! Keep those fires burning and on both ends. To procrastination!
skeleton makeup
is hard to get off. when I woke up this morning I still had it all over my eyes and neck. I'm considering teaching in that bony shirt, though. I think this blog needs some poetry, right off the bat. so here's a line from Dan Chiasson I've been thinking about that seems to encapsulate the idea of blogs: "O slave, sieve, place / to put the precious useless things"
who the fuck are you people? code names? and who told me i have to not be nasty? that was an e-sentiment conveyed in j-text and -tone, so i'm kind of confused.
life is all about being nasty and stomping on little things that can't run from you. like l'il brudder. and one's lungs. "being nice and caring is for my fictional world," he said, becoming the first so far to talk about 'writing.'
now if you'll excuse me, strangers, i have to stop being mean and go work on my novel.
life is all about being nasty and stomping on little things that can't run from you. like l'il brudder. and one's lungs. "being nice and caring is for my fictional world," he said, becoming the first so far to talk about 'writing.'
now if you'll excuse me, strangers, i have to stop being mean and go work on my novel.
links and shit
I had to be the first one to cuss on the new blog. Yes, dinosaurs have filthy mouths too. Anyhow, as far as the links go, please add a section where we can link our blogs, you bloggin genius, you. Who else but the bizness could create a blog at 1 AM buzzin on sparks? Mwoi!
oh boy.
Do you know that Antonya Nelson story, "Irony, Irony, Irony?" Well, there's this little kid who says all this totally wonderful, crazy, stuff, like, "Toochi, toochi, I have a tail." And "Bumpershoot, bumpershoot, get me out of here."
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