Monthly Archives: January 2010

Pumas and whatnot and Denver

I ran 13 miles yesterday, good flow, fast finish. Now my left foot feels like a brick or a potable couch, but like a brick or potable couch I handed to you and you were like, Look, I’m going to pour rotgut vodka on this brick or potable couch and set it on fire, and then you handed it back to me only I wasn’t looking at you directly (bad habit) and took this flaming brick or potable couch from your hand and reattached it to my ankle because the F-brick or F-potable couch is actually my left foot, see, and now I hobble a bit down the hallways but hide my hobbling because I don’t want anyone to talk to me about my foot.

“Hey, why are you shuffling like that?”

“I’m not shuffling, I’m hobbling. Leave me alone. Let me be, like cold coffee.”

“Is coffee a drug? Don’t do drugs. Does coffee make you feel important?”

“Shut-up! Go buy an overcoat or something! Let me be!”

But that’s all normal. I broke my heel almost ten years ago and this has been my left foot area ever since, a brick or a potable couch, in flames. The doctor said I would never run again. Ha, ha, and ha!

He had this look like I was supposed to hand him a vase. I hate that look.

Many marathons later…

Fucking doctors. Their mystique doesn’t work on me–I used to be a nurse. I know about the little man behind the curtains, folks. I know about the fishing boats with the tiny engines, the billing and the phone cards and the blue glow of stretched cotton. Etc.

Anyway, ice and ibuprofen, then I got me a good tempo run I’ll do 2morrow. I want pain. I will curl pain into a pot like a fucking cobra. Hiiiisssssssssssssssssssssss

Mount Lemmon is known for mountain lions. I mean pumas. I mean cougars. Whatever, big-ass cats. They are like Carver stories–they get 8 names or some shit.

(Here is one of the first news articles I have seen on the race–more coming as the race nears!)

You should use three exclamation marks your whole life, ass. God, I look at my writing sometimes and I want to kick a little heartbeat into Wendy. Just grapple in the decade, you know?

I have decided to call the October race The Purge Of Knees, a phrase I like and recently incorporated into a micro-fiction/prose poem series.

The very road…

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I am going to AWP! First, I thought I wasn’t, but now I am. Will be doing a Rose Metal Eggs signing on Saturday, and the remainder of the time some BSU work. Lots of stuff going on, but mostly looking forward to buying a ton of sweet books. Last year I got true gems. I hope HTML does something rad, like a polka or something. Maybe place a potted plant on the roof of a car wash, some stunt like that.

beer

beer like preadolescent catalogues

like rage of an age, some tumbling knuckle

In AWP’s honor I dropped three prose poems at Denver Syntax:

Meaning of Life # 14

Meaning of Like # 36

Meaning of Life # 20

Well, isn’t that dandy as cod people think is haddock.

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I just had an urge to play roulette but the nearest roulette table is electronic roulette and who in the fuck would play electronic roulette? Idiot. OK, I’m over it now, the urge to play roulette.

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I am doing a serial reading thing, you know, where you read two, three books consecutively. I am reading Factory Made, an Andy Warhol book, and one I read years ago. The HTML folks have been on an Andy Warhol jag and it made me think about the Warhol books I own and then to leaf through a few and next thing I need to re-read this book. So I am. Also reading Aaron Burch’s chapbook, winner of the PANK contest. Then the Murakami running book.

Oh Andy you are so ironic to take the photo of the photographer taking your photo of you taking a photo of…

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Holy fuck I won the Irish lottery again!!

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I would like to meet Morrissey at a bar and have him tell me to place my hands flat on the bar and then he nails my hands to the bar. And I have this evidence. Greatest crooner ever, folks. See the blood?

S

Eggs and Bush and Red Lobster.

Look what I got in the mail today! Can you say ken baumann, shane jones, jimmy chen, brandi wells, blake butler, nick antosca, sam pink, james chapman, colin bassett, michael kimball, jac jemc, kim chinquee, kim parko, norman lock, randall brown, brian evenson, michael stewart, peter markus, ken sparling, aaron burch, david ohle, matthew savoca, p. h. madore, johannes göransson, charles lennox, ryan call, elizabeth ellen, molly gaudry, kevin wilson, mary hamilton, craig davis, kendra grant malone, lavie tidhar, lily hoang, mark baumer, ben tanzer, krammer abrahams, joshua cohen, eugene lim, c. l. bledsoe, joanna ruocco, josh maday, & michael martone?

I feel like Rod Stewart or Cher back when she had orange hair and that crazy spandex and the battleship.

This has been out a while and I then forgot and now it arrives and I am about to read until I swoon.

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Cynthia Reezer at NewPages does a sweet review of Eggs.

“Lovelace weaves scenes that flow organically (or maybe “morph” is a better word) into the next thing happening by the writerly imagination.”

Word.

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holy shit

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I have decided I have a cooler beer glass than most.


Doom on the Mountain

I registered for the Mount Lemmon Marathon today. 9000 foot hill, Arizona desert. Fuck.

From the website:

“The Marathon Course is one of the toughest and most scenic courses in the world. The uphill course starts at 3100ft and finishes at 9147ft – from the cacti and desert landscape of the Sonoran Desert to the pine trees of the Catalina Mountains.”

“The Toughest Road Marathon in the World. The Only Uphill Marathon in the US. 6000+ ft Elevation Gain.”

Here is chart of the elevation:

That chart sort of sucks. The point is we (Ander Monson and 1248 others [The cap for the race] running) are going uphill the whole way, at elevation, in a fucking desert. I feel dread. How? I feel like a sack of dogs throw in a taffy machine . Oh, ragged life! My heart is a landlord with receding hair and a Hummer. There’s a mummy inside his pants. I am not unconcerned. I got a cloud over my head in the shape of a ruptured spleen. The spleen is bleeding red beetles. Their wings make a sound of razor blades being sharpened on one another. Time is involved here, so I am not immortal by definition. My thighs just called my calves a goddamn whore. My calves just called Lily Tomlin up and asked her out for Halloween, or a few days before Halloween. Doom. Doom like acid snow. Like the wings of tiny birds torn away and all fluttering to the earth as the wing-less bird bodies splat. I just broke my chromosome. I wish they wouldn’t close traffic, then I could be hit by…My teeth are grinding, grinding out organs and monkeys doing cartwheels. I have a bluish pile of skin sitting on my forehead, asking, “What exactly the fuck?” My arm just peeled away its own blanketing, then its vessels, then its bones, and I am holding here a tangled scrawl of raw, thin metal. Vomit on my desk–how? What did I eat? It’s all U.S. Post Office, I mean my stomach one of those ratchety machines in Cincinnati that shred and eat all the literary magazines. Where did the good go? I am sweating. Odd. My sweat tastes like sitting in a bed while everyone younger than me gathers around and whispers and stares. Sort of rabbit coat meets highway shoulder meets sickly orange punk girl hair, that taste. Oh, heavy, flat Sprite. My lungs are pissed. My lungs just said no more searching for keys. No more over-tipping. “It’s not fair,” my left lung lobe says. What pain? I will be dumb as a car. I will be dumb as very mountain, the individual boulders, the dust beneath the boulders once a boulder itself. My thoughts rush now like a true lover of beauty, as in death. I am scared, my friends. I am scared to climb the escarpment dumb. OK?

Who said anything about walking?

S

Blizzard Ass

How is it going? Oh, fine, just dandy. I am a pink boom box of icecream truck muzak, caught in a loop. I need an axe and a bathroom door, etc. This is what my disc basket in the backyard looks like…

I understand winter like I understand death. I am a southerner at heart. Where are the bocce balls and the V & Ts? I must move my legs and heart, the gristly muscle. If I don’t move I will tumble into profound sad. My head will go knuckles gripping a wheelchair wheel. Resigned. So luckily I have a treadmill. Put in a nice tempo run today. I am training for the Nashville marathon in April, then I am officially running a race so difficult the conditions are repeated nowhere else in the planet we call Earth. Seriously. More details later.

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I was thinking I might have the Seinfeld large wallet thing (script here) going on…but see I don’t want leather because of the cow thing and those hemp wallets are for stoners and they fall apart in 14 days and so I had to go with Kavu, a real company, an outdoors way, I mean not as flaky, a rugged thing. But it feels like I am carrying an unabridged thesaurus in my back pocket. It hurts my ass sometimes. Well, we all must sacrifice.

(quarter used for reference to size)

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I had some wriitng stuff to talk about but think I put it all recently on HTML Giant. So go there, I guess. I told some people I know to go there recently and they said, “I am scared of that site!” I mean it intimidates them, the comments especially. I get that. Some people who comment on that site are scholars and way-readers and seriously know their shit. They are pretty aggressive at times, but I kind of enjoy the play. I certainly enjoy their minds. But you got to just wade in, is how I feel. I’m no scholar, not in the real sense, a funny thing to say for a prof, no? But I try. I’m a scholar of pedagogy more than writing, I suppose. I mean I want to be the best teacher I can be, that is serious. The writing is so mysterious. I learn every day. That is the good thing. I hope I can say that forever.

(Update: The more I think about this, the more I think I am wrong, about scholarship. Years of teaching CW, of reading CW texts, of watching others, this is a form of scholarship in a discipline. I suppose I mean a literary scholar, a true critic. Then again, I am not a literature prof, and remember that my undergraduate training was in nursing–I am also an RN. So. I suppose I mean I view a text from its basement, not from above. I try to see its wiring and whatnot, its craft, maybe to carry into the classroom. I am certainly one of those who have trouble just “reading” a book, because I’ve been teaching too long. I stop and take apart. I have heard movie people (in whatever job in the industry) do the same things with movies. They are watching the film, but one part of their mind if already predicting the structure, labeling the shot, etc.

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Hey, William Carlos Williams–shove it!

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Have been reading a ton. Now onto Lucy Corin book. Very good stuff, and Flash mixed in, what I like. Report later…

glad to be on a reading jag.

blizzard!

Makes me feel like a rolled down stocking. Or a cheekful of claw.

JMWW all Fnaut all Marathon all

(Lawrence Weschler)

New JMWW is out, with a “real-time interview” with Joseph Young, Mary Miller, Adam Robinson.

I see the words Mary Miller and interview, and I read.

I am seeing more and more of these “interviews” in chat form, or IM, or iwhatever technology, and it interests me, the flow, back-n-forth, the built hotels of word-bricks, of winter icicles popping, the way green doors open (and close?), same and differ than a more traditional interview form. Voice and tone is certainly changed, and it’s a bit more organic, as in tentacles to cups. I’ll be interested to see how the genre evolves. Already we have chat entering fiction (Tao Lin, taken directly from the author’s own life) and essay (Wendy Rawlings and emails). We shall see.

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Fictionaut has my “nacho” essay as “Faved,” a new feature. That text sure has had some run, so I am thankful.

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Speaking of run, I almost have my 2010 plans hashed out. I think I want to do three marathons, beginning with the Music City Marathon in Nashville. I would like to go sub 3 hours here. They play country music is the only big concern. When I hear country music my retinas detach, so I plan on running blind.

I might be running a truly insane Oct marathon, but we will see. It will be one of those “This is the only marathon like this in the world” efforts, but some things have to fall in place. If I do run this race, it will most likely kill me, but that’s cool. I mean I’m OK with that result.

The third I need a summer one…we’ll see. Still looking.

Today I started my training for the April 24 Nash-vegas one. Three miles. Wow, that isn’t much, but that’s what the plan called for, folks, and I am following the plan. It is by Hal Higdon. It is here.

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“I’ve talked a lot about writing. But I don’t know what it is.”

Duras