* If by “happens” you mean “is currently happening because I have been displaced from my habitual workspace” and by “magic” you mean “grueling struggle”. It’s actually not as bad as all that, but just let me pretend for a minute.
Monthly Archives: March 2014
A slightly-belated six sentences for Sunday, March 23:
How many passing winters has it been since we were carried over the ocean from our home? Our home, of juniper swamps and cypress swamps, of tidal pulses and meander scars, of the great salt bay. Long ago we saw the rise and the power and the lowering of the sun, we watched the coming of the stag moon. And you—you swans with fire, with smoke in your mouths. Are you punishment? Were you sent to injure us by the beautiful, cold-eyed man who scars all those who look upon him?
I’m pleased to report that an essay I co-wrote has been published in the journal Textual Cultures. Each collaborator details a project that troubles the relationship between books as content, text, and technology — for me, my bookmaking project “The Hollow“; for my fellow authors, an interactive edition of “Kubla Khan”, a remix of The Fall of the House of Usher incorporating social media, and an electrified altered text of The Owl and the Pussycat. I’m delighted to have had the chance to work with such smart, creative thinkers, under the guidance of the brilliant Kari Kraus.
You can read “Bibliocircuitry and the Design of the Alien Everyday” for free here, via IU ScholarWorks.
Six sentences for Sunday, March 16:
Your mother kept the house, and for the rest of July and August there was always a small crowd of trucks – carpenters, painters – parked in front of your house, always the sound of buzzing and hammering coming from inside. I peered through our curtains, speculating, making up stories to report back to you.
Plumber’s van parked out front 3rd day in a row, I wrote. Possibly CIA surveillance? I felt this was preferable to the real news I could have given you from home. Otherwise, I would’ve had to tell you that I spent most of my time reading everything the library had on code breaking, which wasn’t much, that watching reruns of Get Smart and The Avengers without you next to me on the couch to roll your eyes at Steed wasn’t nearly as much fun.
Six sentences for Sunday, March 9th:
You were Alfa, I was Whiskey. Your Watson, your Moneypenney, I was.
You appeared to me in a dream the other day, unchanged, the very picture of a femme fatale. You said, •••• • •—•• •—•• ———, •—— •••• •• ••• —•— • —•——, as if you’d never left. It seemed to take forever for your message to come through, but when it was complete, I just sat there, my pencil poised above the paper, unmoving. Was it that I couldn’t decipher the code, or that I didn’t want to?
Tonight, let me dissolve into a fug of incompetence, feminist indignation and adoration of Helen Oyeyemi.
Re: the last, an interview with the Guardian:
Do you prefer to write about women?
I sometimes get asked: “How come the men in your stories don’t have such strong characters?” And I’m like: “I don’t care.” I just want to find out about all the different lives a woman can live. But my feminism has never been against men. It’s not erasure; it’s just they’re not the focus. In real life, they’re quite nice.
Six slightly-belated sentences for Sunday, March 2:
The public library in town was one of our only concessions to civilization. I can’t imagine what the librarians thought when we wandered in to return our books, our hair snarled, our clothes rimed with dirt. We must have looked almost feral.
I don’t remember what our parents had to say about our defection into the woods. I remember dad catching me up on my way out the door and kissing the top of my head and calling me ‘beast.’ That was his nickname for me in those days, his wild girl.