Miriam Elia has written a children’s book that satirizes contemporary art titled “We Go to the Gallery”. The look of her book is illustrated in the style of the old Penguin “Ladybird” books, which were popular in Britain from the 40’s to 70’s. Follow Mummy, Peter and Jane as they learn about nihilism, death and sex.
from “I Couldn’t Stop Watching” by Sasha Steensen, via Volta’s Evening Will Come:
sentences on sentences
I manage to write a handful of poems on sentences, but really, they turn out to be illustrations on sentence-making, organized by subject. Here’s one such poem, written in bed:
Sentences on Sadness
I admit I have been terribly sad.
While writing this sentence, I am weeping.
The danger is that the situational, slowly, but always, becomes habitual.
That awkward figure, God, made us coats of skins.
We make our children coats of skins too.
Sensical, borne as she was from nonsensical, floats above and beyond her mother.
What is left is like a mist hovering, threatening not to disappear, and threatening in
I am worried about worry, what it does to the body, to the psyche.
How it has its way with me while I sleep, while I winnow down the list, while I wipe
more asses than I own.
I was told that there are activities better done for twenty minutes every day than
for hours once a week.
In this way, perhaps writing and exercising are akin to crying.
As far as sentences go, I fear mine are unventursome. Eventually, the titles of the sentence poems I mean to write far outnumber those actually written.
Sentences on Contraception
Sentences on Lenten Waiting
Sentence on War
Sentences on Dreams about Nightmares
Sentences on Nightmares about Dreams
Sentences on Stealing
Sentences on Preschool
Sentences on It
Sentences on Shitting
Sentences on Seaboards
Sentences on Shapes
Sentences on Falling (off a chair, swing, hammock or bed)
Sentences on So-and-So
Sentences on Cereal
Sentences on If-Then Configurations
Sentences on Illegitimate Rape
Sentences on Husbands
& of course
Sentences on Sentences
from “Famous Novel’s First Sentences, Mapped,” at Popular Science
Process News was the first issue of City Moon, a newspaper published by Roger Martin & David Ohle from 1973 to 1985 in Lawrence, Kansas. There were 18 issues in total, all of which are being re-issued/archived electronically by Calamari Press & the University of Kansas, stay tuned.
from "The Putting Down of the Mint Julep" by Matthew Gavin Frank, via Willow Springs
This has nothing to do with the martini, or anything
as astringent as olive, resinous as juniper. This is drink as barrel, as
honey, as toothpaste. This is how we satiate our nervous hearts, prepare
to kiss our lovers and nephews, as we watch the round, oaken feet of
such muscular animals pounding our earth, compacting everything we
walk on and take inside us, with hardly a whinny.
Your uncle muddles three leaves of spearmint with two pinches of white
sugar into the bottom of a rosy rocks glass, using a miniature Ebonite
International bowling pin, the toy he received as a trophy for twenty-five
years of “striking” service at the bowling ball factory in Hopkinsville. He
twists the essential oils from the mint leaves, the menthol and menthone
streaking the sides of the glass, then pours more than a splash of bourbon,
less than a splash of water, and mutters into the burly tobacco field of
his chest hair, anticipating his first sip of the morning, “Turkey …
turkey … ”
Uncle curses the horses on television. Tells them they’ll soon be
lunchmeat in Lexington. Out the window, you watch the tobacco leaves
brighten from what Uncle calls off-white to yellow. You wonder what it is
that makes a color off. Uncle swallows the last of his julep and burps, cleanly.
You wonder if there’s something wrong with the light here. 1ose horses
on television look reflective. The tobacco leaves shrivel, the air does the
curing. The earth here seems to howl, as if pressed of its own juice, as if
giving itself to the muddler. It is the light that does the crushing.
original image here
Thanks and Sorry and Good Luck: Rejection Letters from the Eyeshot Outbox compiles a dozen years of disappointment transmitted via e-mail from a single editor to hundreds of writers around the world. Performative and funny one minute, respectful and constructive the next, these rejections both serve as entertaining writing tips (suitable for use in today’s more adventuresome creative writing classrooms) and suggest a skewed story about a boy and his seminal semi-literary website, Eyeshot.net, which Lee Klein founded in 1999.
Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images.
A birthday is a birthday is a birthday is a birthday. And today is Gertrude Stein’s!
The poet and avant-garde art advocate was born on February 3, 1874. Correction: poet, art advocate and thrower of AWESOME parties. I know, she looks so serious and anti-fun. Don’t be fooled. With her partner Alice B.Toklas, Stein hosted salons in Paris that still haunt lit-nerds’ dreams. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Picasso, Matisse… they all hung out at Stein’s place.
Folks have a lot of opinions about Stein’s work. Her poems are masterpieces of sound and nonlinear thought, like cubist paintings converted into language. Or they’re wackadoodle streams of nonsense, or disastrous attempts at experimental literature, or the work of a very committed 20th-century troll (“haha, joke’s on you, you thought this was literature!”)
Decide for yourself. Here’s an excerpt from her Tender Buttons:
Luck in loose plaster makes holy gauge and nearly that, nearly more states, more states come in town light kite, blight not white.
A little lunch is a break in skate a little lunch so slimy, a west end of a board line is that which shows a battle beneath so that necessity is a silk under wear. That is best wet. It is so natural, and why is there flake, there is flake to explain exhaust.
A real cold hen is nervous is nervous with a towel with a spool with real beads. It is mostly an extra sole nearly all that shaved, shaved with an old mountain, more than that bees more than that dinner and a bunch of likes that is to say the hearts of onions aim less.
Cold coffee with a corn a corn yellow and green mass is a gem.
from "Creative Writing Instructor Evaluation Form" by April Wilder via American Short Fiction:
8. The instructor does appear to want to teach us things.
□ Strongly Agree
□ Last week we learned that rabbits have 360° vision … ?
□ It’s just really hard to explain what happens in here
□ She tells us to be bold a lot, if that counts
□ And some monkeys want to fly
from “The Allen Ginsberg Project: Allen Ginsberg Interviews William S. Burroughs”:
WSB: “Show me a great rich writer… Suppose my father had not been persuaded that the whole idea of an adding machine was impractical and sold the stock in Burroughs Corp. at the current price , I would have had about $10 million in the bank. I’d hazard a guess that I’d never would have written anything. If I had written, I wouldn’t have written what I wrote because I never would have had the experiences. If yuo can insulate yourself from unpleasantness, you will. The only thing that gets Homo Sap up off his ass is having to put out.”
from "How to Tell If You’re In a Hemingway Novel" by Mallory Ortberg, via The Toast
8. You are standing on top of a mountain. The mountain admires you for climbing it. You do not care what the mountain thinks of you, and you light a cigar. The cigar admires you for smoking it. You sneer casually at the sun. Somewhere there is a white door.
9. You are shooting a large animal but thinking about a woman. You cannot shoot her. This infuriates you.
10. You met a homosexual once in Paris. It took you two years snowshoeing across the backcountry in Michigan to recover.
There is only one way to read, which is to browse in libraries and bookshops, picking up books that attract you, reading only those, dropping them when they bore you, skipping the parts that drag – and never, never reading anything because you feel you ought, or because it is part of a trend or a movement. Remember that the book which bores you when you are twenty or thirty will open doors for you when you are forty or fifty – and vice versa. Don’t read a book out of its right time for you.
Doris Lessing (via berfrois)