Baptize yourself in the promise that every moment might ring with the ecstasy of leftovers fitting just perfectly into a takeout carton.
As a reader, it’s flattering to be let in: to understand that the writer is playing with expectations, starving you a bit of plot, feeding you a ton of side dishes instead of a meat and potatoes dinner.
It is an anti-elitist, capaciously democratic argument against the disfiguring mystifications that turn labor into commodities and art into the purchase of a privileged few.
His voice bends and gurns beneath their insuperable burden and yet can only articulate its ignominy since it finds furrowed in each caesura a clinamen: an irreducible chink in its cage that may turn its convulsions into a tarrying.
When I am sitting up in bed, which I often do, I think in terms of submersion, as if I fell through the floor.
I used to chug margaritas at nightclubs and whisper to blonde women. I was a large man and the mirror caused pain. I was married at the time, which makes these memories doubly shameful.
Heather McCalden wants me to write about my dead father because she wants every reader of The Observable Universe, her scattered, shrewd, and heartbreaking debut, to write about their dead parents.
Reason 2. Your brother is already married.
If I am going to get into your family, it’s
going to have to be through you.
There’s a line that says, “my mother looked better alive.” I was having a conversation with Donald and “we look better alive” just kind of spilled off my tongue.
The forms demand to be reckoned with. Reverb, a new project of St. Louis artists and curators, works on these themes. Inside Bunker 3, artists confront the site’s history of violence and explore the disturbed state of the forest.
Mattia’s unafraid of repetition; she knows it constitutes us and forms our habitus, and that it also creates structure for other, less visible parts embedded around its scaffold—repetition as performance of self, something you wake up and enact every day.