Sunday, October 31, 2010

lift the corner

{Oct 30, 10}

The wind picked up, died down, picked up again, unsettled as to whether to move the air from the east to the north or from the west to the south or to do nothing at all, a child started whining for a pacifier, for he was teething and couldn't identify the source of his anguish and did not yet have the words to express the deep agony of bone growth. The house shuddered into a more comfortable position, the framing and windows and foundation creaking in disparate moods of melancholy and exhaustion and anticipation, and outside the clouds obscured what would have been the thinnest crescent of a waxing newly born moon.


{Oct 29, 10}

The eyes are kind, the kindness of bearing responsibility for not merely brothers, sisters, parents, spouse, and children, but the kindness also of holding closely the responsibility for laborers, workmen, their families, and the corporation. It is a harsh kindness, a kindness born of knowing that indulgence is a curse rather than a benefit, that freedom can break hearts as well as bodies, and so a kindness kept under a cloak of uncompromising strictness of rules and expectations and demands which may be terse and curt and strongly worded for all that their intentions are sincere. Above the eyes are eyebrows that argue for prominence against the nose, the bushy effusive brows standing against onslaughts of wind, snow, sun, curses, and bad luck, not thinning with age but turning a bristly grey white.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


For enrollment as a character in the work of qualified writers

To expedite our consideration of your qualifications for the part, please respond as completely and as truthfully as discretion permits. Feel free to use additional sheets, attach supporting documentation, and/or solicit letters of recommendation from third parties.

Full name:
Mr. Smith, esq., but you can call me Bud.

Date of birth: 5/10/54. Taurus.
Where were you born? in the maternity ward. St. Paul's, Cleveland, OH

Any special circumstances or omens associated with your birth?
Yeah, you know, it was a pretty standard birth. Third kid so my mom knew the routine, contractions, water breaks, anesthesia, forceps, stitches. Unless you mean about the big old raven that followed the old Ford to the hospital, and roosted in the parking lot, or having a twin that they hadn't known about, on account of him not gestating properly and being still born. Kinda creepy, being crammed into a womb with a corpse all those months.

Father? Occupation.
War vet, Italian front, Mom war bride. Drifter, auto mechanic, short order cook, either died of alcohol poisoning or ran off with another woman in 1962, mom would never say which.

Calvino / Invisible Cities

foggy foggy rain drizzle and two minutes of light a day, gone, means an hour a month

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


Her earlier books had posed almost no difficulty in the writing stage; "Pole-axed: A User's Guide to Mother-in-Laws" she had written while on a drinking binge with an old flame in an unheated cabin in the Adirondacks, and had shot to the top of the New York Times bestseller list and stayed there for three glorious months, thankfully after the divorce so the earnings were not calculated in the settlement she received from her ex.
Her follow-up book, "From Capitalist Pigs to Pulled Pork: A Guide to the Politics and Barbecues of Dixie", had its film rights auctioned off before the first printing had appeared, and had been hailed as the "best Southern guidebook on the marker" (Wall Street Journal) and "a bracing introduction to the ways of the works" (New Orleans Picayune).

current studio work in the New York Times!!!

oh, it's cold. too cold.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

la familia

The clock chimed. The house was perfectly still.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

And then the chiming stopped. At the last stroke of the hour, there had been eleven tolls; no one was at home; the clock stayed quiet, withholding the final two bells.

What was wrong? She had been there, two days ago, in the family room, after dinner, after they had lit candles and said a prayer for grandmama in the hospital and for her brother fighting against the invaders, her father, tall, strong, had walked solemnly across the rug and wound the clock, as he did every Sunday evening without fail.

The Watermelon King / Daniel Wallace


Wednesday, October 6, 2010

nom de guerre

You go on and on and on about freedom of information, how information wants to be free, and, you know what? -- that's just bullshit. If freedom was the name of a dog, say a golden retriever, and, true to his name, all that dog wanted was to escape from the back yard and spend the afternoon chasing cars, you know, that dog would still be on the front doorstep come dinner time, ready for his kibble and to sleep on the bed. And don't try to tell me that information isn't just exactly the same: it may want to nose around the neighborhood, engage in some gentle flirtation, but, really, information knows where it belongs just like that dog does, and information really just wants to stay locked up nice and tight in the desk drawer. So you'll understand that your argument doesn't carry any weight, that I'm not at all obliged to explain it to you.

WSJ article: "A novel, to be compelling, has to have plot, dramatic incident and narrative momentum, but these are the very elements that are lacking in our daily lives, confused and messy as they are."

ugh. Oct.