Where the Magic Happens*

* 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.

Sunday Six

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 …

“Bibliocircuitry and the Design of the Alien Everyday” in Textual Cultures

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 …

Sunday Six

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 …

Sunday Six

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. …

“Digital Witness”

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 …

Sunday Six

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 …