'The strange thing was, she spoke as if she thinks of herself as an artist, but she kept saying how she can only draw things when she's looking at them. And it was annoying for me, because I can draw too, really well, actually, which is strange, because I don't. Not very often, anyway. But I can. I think I maybe have an underdeveloped visual cortex, but excellent hand-eye coordination. And I didn't want to tell her that I think an artist is a person with a very active visual cortex, or imagination, not just plagiarizing skills. But to her, that's her claim, as an artist, is being good at that.'
'I don't...I can't disagree with people, ever, because they always sound right when they're talking. For instance...'
'Maybe your understanding of an artist is different than hers.'
'Evidently.'
'I think the art of compromise is a lost thing. I know a man who all his life wanted children, but his partner didn't. So he adopted a little boy, and she got an apartment down the street.'
'...'
'Today it's all about independence, I guess.'
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
If you're looking for a great blog with fiction, art, and stories, check out Storychord:
http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/11/special-issue-39-damon-naomi.html
Publishes every Monday with a new story, artwork and song. Not only am I huge fan of this site, but my story 'Piano Lessons' was featured on it last March, so I'm happy to promote it on my own blog.
Happy belated Thanksgiving!
-kb
http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/11/special-issue-39-damon-naomi.html
Publishes every Monday with a new story, artwork and song. Not only am I huge fan of this site, but my story 'Piano Lessons' was featured on it last March, so I'm happy to promote it on my own blog.
Happy belated Thanksgiving!
-kb
Monday, November 21, 2011
Highways: The Video
If you haven't seen this yet, I highly recommend checking it out - it's Highways' album video, made by the band in July 2011 in Brooklyn, to accompany the self-titled LP. You can watch it in 4 parts, starting with this one:
http://www.youtube.com/user/HighwaysMusic?blend=2&ob=5#p/u/3/DqfVudHuGVE
Cheers!
http://www.youtube.com/user/HighwaysMusic?blend=2&ob=5#p/u/3/DqfVudHuGVE
Cheers!
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Doppelganger
‘All affairs are in order. Should be at McAuber’s by 9.’
‘Excellent. Drive safe. Kiss my wife goodbye for me.’
‘Kiss mine hello.’
The bar was mostly empty, except for a few lone men watching the baseball game. Along the opposite wall was a row of booths, lit from above with conical green lamps. In the fifth one back sat a man facing the door, stirring an olive around his lowball and occasionally glancing up at the TV. He wore the entropic business attire of a man recently off work, his loosened tie the same pale blue as his eyes. His hair was graying and cut short around a clover-shaped bald spot.
It was eight o’clock. The wooden door swung open and in walked a crowd of like-dressed men and women, shouting and jostling one another; they swarmed the bar, until someone called his name and a subgroup poured itself into his booth.
‘Ethan!’
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’
‘Skipping out on staff meeting, eh? Well played.’
Ethan looked startled as they piled in around him.
‘Hello there,’ said Agnes, who had slid in next to him, a large woman with fluffy red hair and a mustache. She worked across the hall from his friend Tommy. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
Ethan smiled, nodded and accepted their company stoically. Agnes pressed her ample body to his in a pretense of crowd-coziness.
‘Were your ears ringing today?’ she cooed indelicately, her eyes half-closed. ‘We were talking about you. I could’ve sworn I saw you in the cafeteria! It was—déjà vu? No, another French word.’
‘Menage a trois,’ someone offered.
‘No, that’s a threesome,’ said hapless Tommy. ‘She means—’
‘Seriously, he had the same bald spot,’ said Agnes. ‘I mean hair.’ She giggled into his ear. ‘Your double, that is.’
‘Impossible,’ said Ethan. ‘I was with my double all day, and we didn’t go to any cafeteria.’
At this Agnes shrieked with glee, and someone passed her another pint.
‘An omen! In literature,’ said another friend, a paunchy brunette with an updo, ‘in literature your double often heralds your death.’
‘Well! You feeling okay, Ethan?’
‘You don’t have a brother, do you?’
‘Not too sick to drink, though?’
Ethan graciously fielded the group’s increasing disarray, even as the beer spilled more freely and he himself never got any drunker. At one point Agnes’s Guinness sloshed into his lap and she attempted to dry it off herself. He pardoned her and took the opportunity to excuse himself.
McAuber’s was an ideal meeting spot in part because the restrooms were at the front, near the entrance.
He went in and tried to dry his pants while he waited. Within a few minutes a man in entropic business attire and a fedora came in. Without a word he joined the other man at the urinals and passed the hat over along with his wallet and keys. Their pale blue eyes met for a split second in which they exchanged an identical curt nod. A quick tie adjustment, some whispered names, a splash of water on his groin, and he was gone.
When the man wearing the hat left a few minutes later he stole at glance at the raucous crowd in the booth, still exchanging drunken banter, a mustached redhead fawning over the man on the end. Satisfied, he ducked his head and made his way out to a blue Accord, still warm from its trip north.
Before he started the car he checked his new phone for messages.
‘All clear,’ it said. ‘See you in a year, old buddy.’
‘Excellent. Drive safe. Kiss my wife goodbye for me.’
‘Kiss mine hello.’
The bar was mostly empty, except for a few lone men watching the baseball game. Along the opposite wall was a row of booths, lit from above with conical green lamps. In the fifth one back sat a man facing the door, stirring an olive around his lowball and occasionally glancing up at the TV. He wore the entropic business attire of a man recently off work, his loosened tie the same pale blue as his eyes. His hair was graying and cut short around a clover-shaped bald spot.
It was eight o’clock. The wooden door swung open and in walked a crowd of like-dressed men and women, shouting and jostling one another; they swarmed the bar, until someone called his name and a subgroup poured itself into his booth.
‘Ethan!’
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’
‘Skipping out on staff meeting, eh? Well played.’
Ethan looked startled as they piled in around him.
‘Hello there,’ said Agnes, who had slid in next to him, a large woman with fluffy red hair and a mustache. She worked across the hall from his friend Tommy. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
Ethan smiled, nodded and accepted their company stoically. Agnes pressed her ample body to his in a pretense of crowd-coziness.
‘Were your ears ringing today?’ she cooed indelicately, her eyes half-closed. ‘We were talking about you. I could’ve sworn I saw you in the cafeteria! It was—déjà vu? No, another French word.’
‘Menage a trois,’ someone offered.
‘No, that’s a threesome,’ said hapless Tommy. ‘She means—’
‘Seriously, he had the same bald spot,’ said Agnes. ‘I mean hair.’ She giggled into his ear. ‘Your double, that is.’
‘Impossible,’ said Ethan. ‘I was with my double all day, and we didn’t go to any cafeteria.’
At this Agnes shrieked with glee, and someone passed her another pint.
‘An omen! In literature,’ said another friend, a paunchy brunette with an updo, ‘in literature your double often heralds your death.’
‘Well! You feeling okay, Ethan?’
‘You don’t have a brother, do you?’
‘Not too sick to drink, though?’
Ethan graciously fielded the group’s increasing disarray, even as the beer spilled more freely and he himself never got any drunker. At one point Agnes’s Guinness sloshed into his lap and she attempted to dry it off herself. He pardoned her and took the opportunity to excuse himself.
McAuber’s was an ideal meeting spot in part because the restrooms were at the front, near the entrance.
He went in and tried to dry his pants while he waited. Within a few minutes a man in entropic business attire and a fedora came in. Without a word he joined the other man at the urinals and passed the hat over along with his wallet and keys. Their pale blue eyes met for a split second in which they exchanged an identical curt nod. A quick tie adjustment, some whispered names, a splash of water on his groin, and he was gone.
When the man wearing the hat left a few minutes later he stole at glance at the raucous crowd in the booth, still exchanging drunken banter, a mustached redhead fawning over the man on the end. Satisfied, he ducked his head and made his way out to a blue Accord, still warm from its trip north.
Before he started the car he checked his new phone for messages.
‘All clear,’ it said. ‘See you in a year, old buddy.’
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Strange, how we are creatures of infinity, yet too many choices can paralyze us.
'We can do anything you want,' I tell Ian, his huge 3-year-old eyes looking up at me, at once both blank and full of life. He stares.
'We can read a book, or we can play lifeguard,' I say.
He throws his hands to his head and stomps his feet. 'Eeee!' he screeches. 'Bof! Lifeguard!'
It's all too much for him. Little Ian, 3 years old. I also can't handle unnamed alternatives. Who can? There are infinity of them!
'We shall love each other here, if ever at all.'
'We can do anything you want,' I tell Ian, his huge 3-year-old eyes looking up at me, at once both blank and full of life. He stares.
'We can read a book, or we can play lifeguard,' I say.
He throws his hands to his head and stomps his feet. 'Eeee!' he screeches. 'Bof! Lifeguard!'
It's all too much for him. Little Ian, 3 years old. I also can't handle unnamed alternatives. Who can? There are infinity of them!
'We shall love each other here, if ever at all.'
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Lisa had always thought there was something lovely about big, croweded houses, the kind where there were several kids to a room, and back staircases that might have been servants’ quarters, and passageways in the basement that might have been stops on the underground railroad. And armchairs where grandparents sat, and breakfast nooks, and thin walls, and older sisters looking for a quiet place to read. She knew they must exist, these houses, but had never actually seen one.
Even better than noisy kids and visiting relatives, she thought, would be that same house but inhabited by groups of friends, people in their twenties who needed cheap living and social stimulation for their creative pursuits. Of course, the house would fall into inevitable disrepair, and probably smell more like smoke and beer and cats than brownies, but that would be part of the charm. She also knew these houses existed, like neo communes, and thought she would very much like to live in one. Where does one find such a house?
Harlow had bought her place, a brick two-story with an attic near Wicker Park, when the economy took a nosedive and she was feeling decisive. She was sick of feeling transient, and sick of writing a letter or number after her street name, sick of not having memories in the floorboards. She wanted a home.
The first person to come live with her was Thaddeus, of course. As he began staying over more and more frequently, he began paying less and less rent to his own landlord, and as far as Harlow knew he eventually just phased out of his lease like a train losing steam. And then his things were in her living room, and enormous oak desk, several trunks full of sport coats, and books. Every room except the bathroom by October resembled a library of sorts, the hallways, the pantry, the staircase, even, a disheveled, shelfless library. There was the occasional overheard conversation peppered with words like ‘ecumenical’ and ‘small claims court,’ followed by a gravelly snort in his disarming British voice, but other than that, there was no discussion about his becoming a resident. He simply did.
Faith came next. Faith, Harlow’s old roommate from DePaul, a skinny Filipino nanny by day who was choreographing an opera at a theatre nearby. Faith’s transition was likewise smooth, as in tacit; she began staying over on winter nights when the drive to Beverly was too snowy to travel. Her studio was in Lincoln Square, near Harlow’s house, so by April, without any notice, it became official; her things were in the second bedroom, and rent checks began appearing on the counter, made our for wildly varying amounts of money, on the tenth or so of every month. Around now every day in the house was an adventure in rendezvous, for Harlow especially, who kept rather normal hours. Thaddeus was home for days at a time in between classes, alternately brooding, writing, and hosting stone-faced reading circles with his lit students, who drank a lot of tea and sometimes left roaches on Harlow’s homemade coasters; Faith had various boyfriends from the theatre who made liberal use of the kitchen as well as her bedroom, often bringing along their own friends and boyfriends too. And then there was Jessi, dark, angular Jessi, the painter; it was odd, Harlow thought, of all her friends, Jessi was the least stable, and yet the most reluctant to move in without asking. The only time Harlow ever knew for sure where Jessi was sleeping was when she was dating Joel. When that ended—however that ended—Harlow did something that for once she didn’t lord over her: she made Thaddeus move his desk and reading circles to the dining room, dragged a mothy futon down from the attic, and invited Jessi to stay.
So anyway, there was only one official tenant at this lovely brick house near Wicker Park, but the post office, and countless other twentysomethings in and around the Chicago area knew that at any given time there were several. Harlow met more people while cooking breakfast in her own kitchen than she ever did at any bar. And she realized, when she saw the first rent check from Jessi that spring, made out for an amount of money she wasn’t sure her friend had, she knew that that was what she needed in a home.
Even better than noisy kids and visiting relatives, she thought, would be that same house but inhabited by groups of friends, people in their twenties who needed cheap living and social stimulation for their creative pursuits. Of course, the house would fall into inevitable disrepair, and probably smell more like smoke and beer and cats than brownies, but that would be part of the charm. She also knew these houses existed, like neo communes, and thought she would very much like to live in one. Where does one find such a house?
Harlow had bought her place, a brick two-story with an attic near Wicker Park, when the economy took a nosedive and she was feeling decisive. She was sick of feeling transient, and sick of writing a letter or number after her street name, sick of not having memories in the floorboards. She wanted a home.
The first person to come live with her was Thaddeus, of course. As he began staying over more and more frequently, he began paying less and less rent to his own landlord, and as far as Harlow knew he eventually just phased out of his lease like a train losing steam. And then his things were in her living room, and enormous oak desk, several trunks full of sport coats, and books. Every room except the bathroom by October resembled a library of sorts, the hallways, the pantry, the staircase, even, a disheveled, shelfless library. There was the occasional overheard conversation peppered with words like ‘ecumenical’ and ‘small claims court,’ followed by a gravelly snort in his disarming British voice, but other than that, there was no discussion about his becoming a resident. He simply did.
Faith came next. Faith, Harlow’s old roommate from DePaul, a skinny Filipino nanny by day who was choreographing an opera at a theatre nearby. Faith’s transition was likewise smooth, as in tacit; she began staying over on winter nights when the drive to Beverly was too snowy to travel. Her studio was in Lincoln Square, near Harlow’s house, so by April, without any notice, it became official; her things were in the second bedroom, and rent checks began appearing on the counter, made our for wildly varying amounts of money, on the tenth or so of every month. Around now every day in the house was an adventure in rendezvous, for Harlow especially, who kept rather normal hours. Thaddeus was home for days at a time in between classes, alternately brooding, writing, and hosting stone-faced reading circles with his lit students, who drank a lot of tea and sometimes left roaches on Harlow’s homemade coasters; Faith had various boyfriends from the theatre who made liberal use of the kitchen as well as her bedroom, often bringing along their own friends and boyfriends too. And then there was Jessi, dark, angular Jessi, the painter; it was odd, Harlow thought, of all her friends, Jessi was the least stable, and yet the most reluctant to move in without asking. The only time Harlow ever knew for sure where Jessi was sleeping was when she was dating Joel. When that ended—however that ended—Harlow did something that for once she didn’t lord over her: she made Thaddeus move his desk and reading circles to the dining room, dragged a mothy futon down from the attic, and invited Jessi to stay.
So anyway, there was only one official tenant at this lovely brick house near Wicker Park, but the post office, and countless other twentysomethings in and around the Chicago area knew that at any given time there were several. Harlow met more people while cooking breakfast in her own kitchen than she ever did at any bar. And she realized, when she saw the first rent check from Jessi that spring, made out for an amount of money she wasn’t sure her friend had, she knew that that was what she needed in a home.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Dear readers,
The strange thing about writing a letter is that you can’t use filler phrases like ‘how are you’ and ‘swell weather we’re having tonight’ to take up time—a letter has to be all content. Although I find myself struggling to articulate why I sat down to write this in the first place—and so my mind turns to fluff, possibly in an effort to make me feel productive, and to trick me into thinking I’m using my time wisely, when really I’m just avoiding the real issue. Although, now I realize I’ve done exactly that without the benefit of pretending I didn’t realize I was doing it.
Let me start over. Another strange thing about letter-writing is I feel I have a lot to live up to. Some writers are more famous for their correspondence than their poetry or fiction. You read those letters in English class and dissect them like they were meant for English classes, not someone’s brother or friend or lover. Those letters are all filled with profound thoughts on life—‘dear you,’ they say, ‘this is what I’ve learned since we last spoke. Thank goodness I have a friend like you who understands, even though so much of my writing is about loneliness.’ Personally, I’m not that close with anyone, nor have I ever felt compelled to write a letter and nor have I ever received a letter of that caliber. Maybe this is turning into one. If that’s true, then you readers are my close but distant friend who is tracking my personal progress from afar, to whom I turn when I have things pressing down on me and can only be lifted by writing them down. That might not be too far off the mark.
It does help to write to an imagined audience—nothing personal, I know if you’re reading this you’re very real—who’s interested in my feelings, not my fiction. I do feel like you’re listening. Strange—this is the first time in years I’ve been able to write what I mean to say. My mind feels more unified. Giving voice to my confusion is calming. It’s like stepping back and letting the id take the pen, and doing so quiets it. Thank you.
I suppose I should get to the point, even though by doing so I’m nearing the end of this meditative state I’ve found. My reason for writing at all is to tell you I’m going on a hiatus, both from writing and editing the magazine.
Funny, as soon as I mention the magazine, my mind goes blank. I’d much rather stay here in this letter and continue talking to you as if you’re still reading, which may be presumptuous of me to imagine you still are. My mind is calmer when I’m not expected to do anything about the magazine. Which is why I’m leaving, temporarily, I hope. I do anticipate coming back, but who knows what will happen? Somehow I feel encouraged right now, knowing that I don’t have to choose between writing and sanity. I once thought all writing that mattered was fiction. Maybe this is why the Romantics were so in love with their letter-writing. For someone who is only good at writing, but no longer able to produce fiction, it’s not a bad option.
Gratefully,
Walter S.
The strange thing about writing a letter is that you can’t use filler phrases like ‘how are you’ and ‘swell weather we’re having tonight’ to take up time—a letter has to be all content. Although I find myself struggling to articulate why I sat down to write this in the first place—and so my mind turns to fluff, possibly in an effort to make me feel productive, and to trick me into thinking I’m using my time wisely, when really I’m just avoiding the real issue. Although, now I realize I’ve done exactly that without the benefit of pretending I didn’t realize I was doing it.
Let me start over. Another strange thing about letter-writing is I feel I have a lot to live up to. Some writers are more famous for their correspondence than their poetry or fiction. You read those letters in English class and dissect them like they were meant for English classes, not someone’s brother or friend or lover. Those letters are all filled with profound thoughts on life—‘dear you,’ they say, ‘this is what I’ve learned since we last spoke. Thank goodness I have a friend like you who understands, even though so much of my writing is about loneliness.’ Personally, I’m not that close with anyone, nor have I ever felt compelled to write a letter and nor have I ever received a letter of that caliber. Maybe this is turning into one. If that’s true, then you readers are my close but distant friend who is tracking my personal progress from afar, to whom I turn when I have things pressing down on me and can only be lifted by writing them down. That might not be too far off the mark.
It does help to write to an imagined audience—nothing personal, I know if you’re reading this you’re very real—who’s interested in my feelings, not my fiction. I do feel like you’re listening. Strange—this is the first time in years I’ve been able to write what I mean to say. My mind feels more unified. Giving voice to my confusion is calming. It’s like stepping back and letting the id take the pen, and doing so quiets it. Thank you.
I suppose I should get to the point, even though by doing so I’m nearing the end of this meditative state I’ve found. My reason for writing at all is to tell you I’m going on a hiatus, both from writing and editing the magazine.
Funny, as soon as I mention the magazine, my mind goes blank. I’d much rather stay here in this letter and continue talking to you as if you’re still reading, which may be presumptuous of me to imagine you still are. My mind is calmer when I’m not expected to do anything about the magazine. Which is why I’m leaving, temporarily, I hope. I do anticipate coming back, but who knows what will happen? Somehow I feel encouraged right now, knowing that I don’t have to choose between writing and sanity. I once thought all writing that mattered was fiction. Maybe this is why the Romantics were so in love with their letter-writing. For someone who is only good at writing, but no longer able to produce fiction, it’s not a bad option.
Gratefully,
Walter S.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)