Thursday, March 16, 2006

Got into Brown. Start in September.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Should I eat the cupcake?

Sunday, January 29, 2006

I was riding the subway home from work yesterday and I was trying not to let people catch me looking at their faces and this man came on carrying a box for a 13” television and a bag with another box in it for a DVD player and both things were from K-Mart and I thought where is there a K-Mart anywhere near here and then I though Oh my God, what shirt am I wearing? And I couldn’t remember. This was not a crisis, I knew, so rather than simply looking I decided to turn it into a game. I was wearing a coat buttoned up and I was wearing a scarf and I could not see the shirt at all but I would sit very still. If I moved, I knew, my body would register what fabric was against my skin, and I would very easily be able to determine the shirt. But that would be cheating. I sat perfectly still and not knowing where else to start I simply asked myself, over and over, What shirt am I wearing? Perhaps this is naïve of me but I honestly assumed that the answer would somehow just appear on the other side of the question like the word brown appears on the other side of What color are my eyes. Obviously there’s a matter of scale. I hadn’t been wearing the shirt since I was born. But come on. All day I’d been staring out at a world that consisted largely of a computer screen and some sticky notes around the perimeter and right underneath all this a couple of long, bent, fleshy tubes with wagging fluttery things at the end and these tubes must have had, there was no doubt in my mind that these tubes had had some color. That color, I felt certain, would lead me straight to the answer to my question. Still, though, I was struggling to remember it. And as I struggled an enormous blankness grew where my shirt should have been until the blankness was nearly vertiginous and I my eyes became wider and wider trying to take it all in, though I was of course only looking at it with my mind. At any rate, I must have been staring impolitely without knowing it because the man from K-Mart coughed and I brought my eyes into focus and found him scowling at me as though insulted. I suddenly had the feeling I’d missed my stop and I looked around and to my surprise I was the only other person on the car. The K-Mart man and I were alone. The train rocked gently back and forth as it barreled underneath the surface of the earth and the man continued to eye me suspiciously and I looked up and smiled, doing my best not to anger him further. You can’t be too careful riding the subway, I thought to myself. You never know what’s going to set people off.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

I just recieved my first issue of One Story in the mail today, and read it. The story is The Arrival. The author is Robin Romm. After reading the first two pages, I wanted very much to put the story down. After deciding to continue, to read to the end, I wanted very much to dislike the story. I succeeding in both reading the story to completion, and disliking the story.

I was, however, moved by it.

Now, some people might argue that one can not dislike a story by which one is moved. You're wrong. I just did.

I have submitted two stories to One Story, and will not ever submit another story to this journal. I understand what kind of fiction they like: something I'd call, loosely, literary melodrama. Literary melodrama uses traditional forms to avoid any possible cerebral interaction with the reader, instead relying exclusively on emotional response as a medium to convey value.

In other words, stories about cancer.

I may write a story about cancer one day. If I do, I will submit it to One Story. If you're writing a story about cancer, it's okay to refer to an animal's energy level as "electric." Also, it's okay to say this line: the feel of cold sand under your toes.

I wish more stories tried to show me something new, rather than ask me to dredge up familiar sensations in order to do the work the author should be doing: making me experience something. Sure, I can be guided to dredge up familiar sensations which culminate in some passing catharsis. Hollywood moves do this to me frequently. Yay.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

I promised myself certain things about blogging. Like I wouldn't do it, for instance. Like, for instance, there would be rules. Like, there might be too many rules for me to manage, strangely, a something something. But an instance draws me back, and speaks: you dirty son of a bitch. You no good lousy bitch. You are both the bitch and the son of that very bitch. I glanced over, just now, at my mother, who is reading a book, but who looked up, pondering what she'd just read. I think it might be something better than what's happening with me. I think it might be something more vital. Something that gets at it. Something that makes us feel. Feel like we're living. Feel like living counts. Yeah. My mom. Thank heaven. Thank. Tha. Thhhhh. F.

Monday, December 12, 2005

I just read a story called Stung in a book called Altman's Tongue by an author named Brian Evenson from a religion called Mormonism that's also known as The Church of The Later Day Saints which I think is a great and unperverted concept except that it reminds me of my ex who's kept in a small box bee'd with combing she'd been my honey too far too long, and late, an afternoon gone crazy.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The truth is I guess I don't read too many cute, happy books. Which, I'm sure you'll agree, is a great, great, noble shame.