New Year’s resolution #5

Keep it together.


New Year’s resolution #3

Pin it on a drifter.


New Year’s resolution #2

Raise child in room painted with optical illusions and no direct human contact.


The Triumph of Life

Thus when we pronounce the word life, we are not to understand life intuited from the external aspect of things. But rather that kind of fragile, moving center which forms do not touch. If there is something infernal and truly accursed at this present time, it is the lingering artistically over forms, instead of behaving like victims being burnt at the stake, who gesture out of the flames.



The Triumph of Life

Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.



The Triumph of Life

Suddenly Hebdomeros saw that this woman had the eyes of his father; and he understood. She spoke of immortality in the great starless night.

“O Hebdomeros,” she said, “I am Immortality. Nouns have their gender, or rather their sex, as you once said with so much finesse, and verbs, alas, decline. Have you ever thought of my death? Have you ever thought of the death of my death? Have you thought of my life? One day, O brother....”

But she spoke no further.

Giorgio de Chirico


The Triumph of Life

Bosola. Come, be of comfort; I will save your life.

Duchess. Indeed I have not leisure to tend so small a business.

The Duchess of Malfi

allegory, death

Dynasty interiors


I was just wondering if ambiguity is really what everybody is after. But if it is the case, why?

KK: It seems an essential part of true ambiguity that it not seem ambiguous in any obvious way. Do you agree?

JA: I don’t know. I’m wondering why all these people want that ambiguity so much.

KK: Have your speculations about ambiguity produced any results as yet?

JA: Only this: that ambiguity seems to the same thing as happiness–or pleasant surprise, as you put it. (I am assuming that from the moment that life cannot be one continual orgasm, real happiness is impossible and pleasant surprise is promoted to the front rank of the emotions.)

John Ashbery: A Conversation With Kenneth Koch


Do you think there’s only one way of making sense? (We seem to be trying to trap each other into making pompous statements.)

JA: Yes, we seem to be determined both to discuss poetry and not to discuss anything at all. This is probably what we do in our poetry. I only wish I knew why we feel it to be necessary.

KK: I should think that if we really wanted to know why we felt it to be necessary that we could probably find out. I don’t think we really care.

JA: You’re right.

John Ashbery: A Conversation With Kenneth Koch


There’s no key to understanding the poem, of course, no hidden meaning?

JA: No, it’s just a bunch of impressions.

KK: Why is the idea of keys and hidden meanings not appealing to you?

JA: Because someone might find them out and then the poem would no longer be mysterious.

John Ashbery: A Conversation With Kenneth Koch


allegory, death

Anne Ferran, Scenes on the Death of Nature, II


figures of infinity

illustration commissioned by Raymond Roussel for “Nouvelles impressions d’Afrique”


figures of infinity

There is no joy in the finite. Only in the infinite is there joy.

Chândhogya Upanishad


figures of infinity

And do you know what “the world” is to me? Shall I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a monster of energy, without beginning, without end; a firm, iron magnitude of force that does not grow bigger or smaller, that does not expend itself but only transforms itself; as a whole, of unalterable size, a household without expenses or losses, but likewise without increase or income; enclosed by “nothingness” as by a boundary; not something blurry or wasted, not something endlessly extended, but set in a definite space as a definite force, and not a sphere that might be “empty” here or there, but rather as force throughout, as a play of forces and waves of forces, at the same time one and many, increasing here and at the same time decreasing there; a sea of forces flowing and rushing together, eternally changing, eternally flooding back, with tremendous years of recurrence, with an ebb and a flood of its forms; out of the simplest forms striving toward the most complex, out of the stillest, most rigid, coldest forms toward the hottest, most turbulent, most self-contradictory, and then again returning home to the simple out of this abundance, out of the play of contradictions back to the joy of concord, still affirming itself in this uniformity of its courses and its years, blessing itself as that which must return eternally, as a becoming that knows no satiety, no disgust, no weariness: this, my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight, my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will toward itself.

Nietzsche, The Will to Power


figures of infinity

The Emperor, so a parable runs, has sent a message to you, the humble subject, the insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance before the imperial sun; the Emperor from his deathbed has sent a message to you alone. He has commanded the messenger to kneel down by the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much store did he lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back into his ear again. Then by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is right. Yes, before the assembled spectators of his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the spacious and loftily mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of the Empire—before all these he has delivered his message. The messenger immediately set out on his journey; a powerful, an indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now with his left, he cleaves a way for himself through the throng; if he encounters resistance he points to his breast, where the symbol of the sun glitters; the way is made easier for him than it would be for any other man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have no end. If he could reach the open fields how fast he would fly, and soon doubtless you would hear the welcome hammering of his fists on your door. But instead how vainly does he wear out his strength; still he is only making his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he get to the end of them; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; he must next fight his way down the stair; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; the courts would still have to be crossed; and after the courts the second outer palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once more another palace; and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst through the outermost gate—but never, never can that happen—the imperial capital would lie before him, the center of the world, crammed to bursting with its own sediment. Nobody could fight his way through here even with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window when evening falls and dream it to yourself.

Kafka, “An Imperial Message”


figures of infinity

Here he stood. Here he sat. Here he knelt. Here he lay. Here he moved, to and fro, from the door to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the fire to the door, from the door to the fire; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the bed to the window, from the window to the bed; from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the bed to the door, from the door to the bed; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the window, from the window to the fire; from the fire to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the bed; from the bed to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the window, from the window to the bed; from the bed to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the fire; from the fire to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the fire to the window, from the window to the bed; from the bed to the window, from the window to the fire; from the bed to the door, from the door to the fire; from the fire to the door, from the door to the bed.

Beckett, Watt


figures of infinity

La Seine is one of the strangest plays ever written. Its opening act suggests a wholly standard domestic drama: Raoul suddenly decides to leave his wife and child for his mistress Jeanne, whom he has rescued from life on the streets. The enormous second act, almost five thousand lines long, presents an evening spent by the couple at the Moulin Rouge. They are, however, by no means its sole concern; Roussel introduces character after character, and the act unfolds as a seemingly endless series of new people, new conversations, new stories, from grisly murders to mild flirtations, from aesthetic theories to unsettling dreams. In all, the play offers over four hundred speaking parts and would take the best part of a day to perform.

Mark Ford on a play of Raymond Roussel’s


figures of infinity

Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so.

Henry James, Preface to volume 1 of the New York edition


Liebestraum (L’Âme de Victor Hugo)

Robert Heinecken

The Question of Meaning

It is a test (a positive test, I do not assert that it is always valid negatively), that genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

T.S. Eliot


English-language T-shirts I spotted in Narita Airport (Tokyo) last Saturday.

  1. Snoopy is the most famous beagle

  2. Bueno Vista
    Get one’s groove on

  3. Diesel Trucking
    Still brave after all these
    (heavily branded years)

  4. I’m OK I’m not

  5. Body Glove

  6. Here & Now
    external galaxy

  7. Form a Simple
    Electric System

  8. Did you just get new glasses?



british humour

“Oh, I don’t know, you know, don’t you know?” he said.

P.G. Wodehouse

It’s 1984.

A Visual History


dream diary

Wow, you’re not going to believe this, but I had a dream last night that I actually vaguely remembered this morning, and all I can remember of it is that I was Gary Glitter’s manager, and I mean manager of him now not in his heyday, and I was trying to get him live gigs in the UK, and no one wanted him for the obvious reason, and then at a certain point I realized that I was a 12-year-old Thai boy, and I told Gary that he probably would have a better chance getting gigs if his manager wasn’t a Thai boy whose very existence reminded the people running the venues of why giving him a gig was not the greatest idea in the world, at which point I realized that he was Pierre Guyotat not Gary Glitter, and that I had been fucking up his career by mistakenly telling people he was Gary Glitter, and I felt really bad but, at the same time, glad that I wasn’t Gary Glitter’s manager.

Dennis Cooper


dream diary

Josef K. was dreaming:

It was a beautiful day and K. wanted to go on a walk. But no sooner had he taken a few steps than he was already at the graveyard. Its paths were highly artificial, impractical in their windings, yet he glided along such a path as if hovering unshakeably over raging water. From far away, he spotted a freshly dug burial mound at which he wanted to halt. This burial mound exerted an almost enticing effect on him, and he felt he could not get there fast enough. At times, however, he could barely glimpse the mound, it was covered with flags that twisted and flapped powerfully against one another; the flag bearers could not be seen, but there appeared to be great rejoicing.

While his eyes were still riveted in the distance, he abruptly saw the burial mound next to the path–indeed almost behind him by now. He hastily leaped into the grass. Since the path continued rushing along beneath his feet as he leaped off, he staggered and fell to his knees right in front of the mound. Two men were standing behind the grave, holding a headstone between them in the air; the moment K. showed up, they thrust the stone into the earth, and it stood there as if cemented to the ground. Instantly, a third man emerged from the bushes, and K. promptly identified him as an artist. He was wearing only trousers and a misbuttoned shirt; a velvet cap was on his head; in his hand, he clutched an ordinary pencil, drawing figures in the air even as he approached.

He now applied this pencil to the top end of the stone; the stone was very high, he did not even have to lean down, but he did have to bend forward, since he did not wish to step on the burial mound, which separated him from the stone. So he stood on tiptoe, steadying himself by propping his left hand against the surface of the stone. Through some extremely skillful manipulation, he succeeded in producing gold letters with that ordinary pencil; he wrote: "Here LIES–––" Each letter came out clean and beautiful, deeply incised and in purest gold. After writing those two words, he looked back at K.; K., who was very eager to see what would come next in the inscription, gazed at the stone, paying little heed to the man. And in fact, the man was about to continue writing, but he could not, something was hindering him, he lowered the pencil and turned to K. again. This time, K. looked back at the artist, who, he noticed, was very embarrassed but unable to indicate the reason for his embarrassment. All his earlier liveliness had vanished. As a result, K. likewise felt embarrassed; they exchanged helpless glances; there was some kind of misunderstanding between them, which neither of them could clear up. To make matters worse, a small chime began tinkling inopportunely from the tomb chapel, but the artist waved his raised hand wildly, and the chime stopped. After a brief pause, it started in again; this time very softly and then promptly breaking off with no special admonition from him; it was as if it merely wanted to test its own sound. K. was inconsolable about the artist's dilemma, he began to cry, sobbing into his cupped hands for a long time. The artist waited for K. to calm down, and then, finding no other solution, he decided to keep writing all the same. His first small stroke was a deliverance for K., but the artist obviously managed to execute it only with utmost reluctance; moreover, the penmanship was not as lovely–above all, it seemed to lack gold, the stroke moved along pale and unsteady, only the letter became very large. It was a J, it was almost completed; but now the artist furiously stamped one foot into the burial mound, making the dark soil fly up all around. At last, K. understood him; there was no time left to apologize; with all his fingers he dug into the earth, which offered scant resistance; everything seemed prepared; a thin crust of earth had been set up purely for show; right beneath it a huge hole with sheer sides gaped open, and K., flipped over on his back by a gently current, sank into the hole. But while, with his head still erect on his neck, he was welcomed down below by the impenetrable depth, his name, with tremendous embellishments, rushed across the stone up above.

Enraptured by this sight, he woke up.



I think I need a higher ivory tower.

And someone to come and bring me snacks.


dream diary

I dreamed I was sitting on a bench, in Baltimore, facing the tumbling fountain in Harlem Park, beside a woman who wore a veil. I had come there with her. She was somebody I knew well. But I had suddenly forgotten who she was. I couldn’t see her face because of the long black veil.

I thought that if I said something to her I would recognise her voice when she answered. But I was very embarrassed and was a long time finding anything to say. Finally I asked her if she knew a man named Carroll T. Harris.

She answered me, but the roar and swish of the tumbling fountain smothered her voice, and I could hear nothing.

Fire engines went out Edmondson Avenue. She left me to run after them. As she ran she cried, “Fire! Fire!” I recognised her voice then and knew who she was, and knew she was someone important to me. I ran after her, but it was too late. She and the fire engines were gone.

I walked streets hunting for her, half the streets in the United States. Gay Street and Mount Royal Avenue in Baltimore, Colfax Avenue in Denver, Aetna Road and St. Clair Avenue in Cleveland, McKinney Avenue in Dallas, Lemartine and Cornell and Amory Streets in Boston, Berry Boulevard in Louisville, Lexington Avenue in New York, until I came to Victoria Street in Jacksonville, where I heard her voice again, though I still could not see her.

I walked more streets, listening to her voice. She was calling a name, not mine, one strange to me, but no matter how fast I walked or in what direction, I could get no nearer her voice. It was the same distance from me in the street that runs past the Federal Building in El Paso as in Detroit's Grand Circus Park. Then the voice stopped.

Tired and discouraged, I went into the lobby of the hotel that faces the railroad station in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, to rest. While I sat there a train came in. She got off it and came into the lobby, over to me, and began kissing me. I was very uncomfortable because everybody stood around looking at us and laughing.

That dream ended there.

I dreamed I was in a strange city hunting for a man I hated. I had an open knife in my pocket and meant to kill him with it when I found him. It was Sunday morning. Church bells were ringing, crowds of people were in the streets, going to and from church. I walked almost as far as in the first dream, but always in this same strange city.

Then the man I was after yelled at me, and I saw him. He was a small brown man who wore an immense sombrero. He was standing on the steps of a tall building on the far side of a wide plaza, laughing at me. Between us, the plaza was crowded with people, packed shoulder to shoulder.

Keeping one hand on the open knife in my pocket, I ran towards the little brown man, running on the heads and shoulders of the people in the plaza. The heads and shoulders were of unequal heights and not evenly spaced. I slipped and floundered over them.

The little brown man stood on the steps and laughed until I had almost reached him. Then he ran into the tall building. I chased him up miles of spiral stairway, always just an inch more than a hand's reach behind him. We came to the roof. He ran straight across to the edge and jumped just as one of my hands touched him.

His shoulder slid out of my fingers. My hand knocked his sombrero off, and closed on his head. It was a smooth hard round head no larger than a large egg. My fingers went all the way around it. Squeezing his head in one hand, I tried to bring the knife out of my pocket with the other–and realised that I had gone off the edge of the roof with him. We dropped giddily down towards the millions of upturned faces in the plaza, miles down.

I opened my eyes in the dull light of morning sun filtered through drawn blinds. I was lying face down on the dining-room floor, my head resting on my left forearm. My right arm was stretched straight out. My right hand held the round blue and white handle of Dinah Brand’s ice pick. The pick’s six-inch needle-sharp blade was buried in Dinah Brand’s left breast.

Dashiell Hammett, The Red Harvest


dream diary

Last night I had the strangest dream sequence.

I couldn’t make out just what sort of a place it was that I was in. It seemed to be a gambling house, but there weren’t any walls, just a lot of curtains with eyes painted on them. A man was walking around with a large pair of scissors cutting all the drapes in half.

A girl came in with hardly anything on and started walking around the gambling room kissing everybody. She came to my table first. She looked a little like Ingrid Bergman.

I was sitting there playing cards with a man who had a beard. He said, “That makes 21–I win.” But when he turned up his cards, they were blank! Just then the proprietor came in and accused him of cheating.

I saw the man with the beard leaning over the sloping roof of a high building. I called out to him to watch out. But he went over–slowly–with his feet in the air.

I saw the proprietor again. He was hiding behind a tall chimney, and he had a small wheel in his hand. I saw him drop the wheel on the roof.

Then I was running and heard something beating over my head. It was a great pair of wings. They were chasing me and almost caught up with me when I came to the bottom of the hill. Then I woke up.

The funny thing is I kept thinking that all this meant something, that there was some other meaning in it that I ought to find out.


Who was behind 9/11?

Who had the most to gain?

Answer: Gary Condit


Free tote bag offer from n+1!


Dear Subscriber,

We’ve printed new tote bags. They arrived yesterday, so we haven’t even had the chance to photograph them in their full glory, but the office is very excited about them.

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Another tote bag? If it were a special rack to store all my free tote bags on I would totally do it.

Or if you gave Leonard Lopate another hour I would totally do it then, too.


The Raw and the Cooked


Take one package Knorr Leek Soupmix. Prepare as directed. Take two live leeks. Chop leeks into quarter-inch rounds. Throw into Soupmix. Throw in ½ cup Tribuno Dry Vermouth. Throw in chopped parsley. Throw in some amount of salt and a heavy bit of freshly ground pepper. Eat with good-quality French bread, dipped repeatedly in soup.


Take one package Knorr Mushroom Soupmix. Prepare as directed. Take four large mushrooms. Slice. Throw into Soupmix. Throw in ½ cup Tribuno Dry Vermouth, parsley, salt, pepper. Stick bread as above into soup at intervals. Buttering bread enhances taste of the whole.


Take Knorr Chicken Soupmix, prepare as directed, throw in leftover chicken, duck or goose as available. Add enhancements as above.


Take Knorr Oxtail Soupmix, decant into same any leftover meat (sliced or diced) from the old refrigerator. Follow above strategies to the letter. The result will make you happy. Knorr’s Oxtail is also good as a basic gravy maker and constituent of a fine fake cassoulet about which we can talk at another time. Knorr is a very good Swiss outfit whose products can be found in both major and minor cities. The point here is not to be afraid of the potential soup but to approach it with the attitude that you know what’s best for it. And you do. The rawness of the vegetables refreshes the civilization of the Soupmixes. And there are opportunities for mercy–if your ox does not wish to part with his tail, for example, to dress up your fine Oxtail Soup, you can use commercial products from our great American supermarkets, which will be almost as good.

Donald Barthelme’s Fine Homemade Soups


This will be the basis for my next poem cycle.

“And in the epilogue, Mr. Cheney writes that after undergoing heart surgery in 2010, he was unconscious for weeks. During that period, he wrote, he had a prolonged, vivid dream that he was living in an Italian villa, pacing the stone paths to get coffee and newspapers.”
New York Times article on the former vice president’s forthcoming memoir



oh, I don’t know.

Joe Brainard



The cat is chasing the mouse through the kitchen:

between the blue chair legs, over the tabletop with its red-and-white checkered tablecloth that is already sliding in great waves, past the sugar bowl falling to the left and the cream jug falling to the right, over the blue chair back, down the chair legs, across the waxed and butter-yellow floor. The cat and the mouse lean backward and try to stop on the slippery wax, which shows their flawless reflections. Sparks shoot from their heels, but it’s much too late: the big door looms. The mouse crashes through, leaving a mouse-shaped hole. The cat crashes through, replacing the mouse-shaped hole with a larger, cat-shaped hole. In the living room, they race over the back of the couch, across the piano keys (delicate mouse tune, crash of cat chords), along the blue rug. The fleeing mouse snatches a glance over his shoulder, and when he looks forward again he sees the floor lamp coming closer and closer. Impossible to stop—at the last moment, he splits in half and rejoins himself on the other side. Behind him the rushing cat fails to split in half and crashes into the lamp: his head and body push the brass pole into the shape of a trombone. For a moment, the cat hangs sideways there, his stiff legs shaking like the clapper of a bell. Then he pulls free and rushes after the mouse, who turns and darts into a mousehole in the baseboard. The cat crashes into the wall and folds up like an accordion. Slowly, he unfolds, emitting accordion music. He lies on the floor with his chin on his upraised paw, one eyebrow lifted high in disgust, the claws of his other forepaw tapping the floorboards. A small piece of plaster drops on his head. He raises an outraged eye. A framed painting falls heavily on his head, which plunges out of sight between his shoulders. The painting shows a green tree with bright-red apples. The cat’s head struggles to rise, then pops up with the sound of a yanked cork, lifting the picture. Apples fall from the tree and land with a thump on the grass. The cat shudders, winces. A final apple falls. Slowly it rolls toward the frame, drops over the edge, and lands on the cat’s head. In the cat’s eyes, cash registers ring up “No Sale.”

Cat ’n’ Mouse by Steven Millhauser



Men and girl pilots brushed shoulders easily as the tan and pink sunset conquered the sky.

Soon it would be dark and they would hear the cry of the chee-tah. I am so happy to be here again. Yes, isn’t it fine! What has become of Santa Claus? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him around! Look–I think that’s he! For now, the simple carved lemon blossom leaf delighted every palate. And the cold hooker the Malay call the moon ran shining through the mid-November sky.

Kenneth Koch, The Red Robbins


“Well everything seems to be okay,” Batman said. “There’s the armored car waiting to take Mr. van Voort to his destination.”

“That’s a new kind of armored car isn’t it?” Frederic asked.

Without a word Batman leaped through the open door of the armored car and grappled with the shadowy figure inside.


“That’s The Joker’s laugh!” Frederic reflected. “The man inside the armored car must be the grinning clown of crime himself!”

Donald Barthelme


“What makes The Joker tick I wonder?” Frederic said. “I mean, what are his real motivations?”

“Consider him at any level of conduct,” Bruce said slowly, “in the home, on the street, in interpersonal relations, in jail—always there is an extraordinary contradiction. He is dirty and compulsively neat, aloof and desperately gregarious, enthusiastic and sullen, generous and stingy, a snappy dresser and a scarecrow, a gentleman and a boor, given to extremes of happiness and despair, singularly well able to apply himself and capable of frittering away a lifetime in trivial pursuits, decorous and unseemly, kind and cruel, tolerant yet open to the most outrageous varieties of bigotry, a great friend and an implacable enemy, a lover and abominator of women, sweet-spoken and foul-mouthed, a rake and a puritan, swelling with hubris and haunted by inferiority, outcast and social climber, felon and philanthropist, barbarian and patron of the arts, enamored of novelty and solidly conservative, philosopher and fool, Republican and Democrat, large of soul and unbearably petty, distant and brimming with friendly impulses, an inveterate liar and astonishingly strict with petty cash, adventurous and timid, imaginative and stolid, malignly destructive and a planter of trees on Arbor Day—I tell you frankly, the man is a mess.”

“That’s extremely well said Bruce,” Fredric stated. “I think you’ve given a very thoughtful analysis.”

“I was paraphrasing what Mark Schorer said about Sinclair Lewis,” Bruce replied.

“Well it’s very brilliant all the same,” Frederic noted.

Donald Barthelme, “The Joker’s Greatest Triumph”




The Professor and Ginger are standing in the space in front
of the Skipper’s cabin. The Professor is wearing deck shoes,
brushed denim jeans, and a white shirt open at the throat.
Ginger is wearing spike heels, false eyelashes, and a white
satin kimono. The Professor looks at her with veiled lust
in his eyes. He raises an articulate eyebrow and addresses
her as Cio-Cio-San. Ginger blanches and falls on her knife.

* * *

Meanwhile it is raining in northern California. In a tiny
village on the coast, Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally
concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening.
Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within
the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands
of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school-
yard scene. Tippi Hedren is wearing a colorful lipstick.

* * *

Ginger stares back at the Professor. His sullen good looks
are the perfect foil for her radiant smile. The Skipper and
Gilligan come into sight. The Skipper has been chasing
Gilligan around the lagoon for a long time now. Gilligan
holds onto his hat in the stupid way he has of doing things
like that. The Professor’s lips part in a sneer of perfect
contempt. Ginger bares her teeth, as if in appreciation.

* * *

Jackie Kennedy bares her teeth. Behind and above her, the
muzzle of a high-powered rifle protrudes from a window. A little
man is aiming at Jackie Kennedy’s husband. The man is wearing
bluejeans and a white T-shirt. There isn’t a bird to be seen.
As he squeezes the trigger, the little man mutters between
clenched teeth, “Certs is a candy mint.” The hands of Jackie
Kennedy’s husband jerk automatically toward his head.

* * *

The Professor is noticing Ginger’s breasts. He thinks of
the wife he left at home, who probably thinks he’s dead.
He thinks of his mother, and all of the women he has ever
known. Mr. and Mrs. Howell are asleep in their hut, secure
in their little lives as character actors. Ginger shifts her
weight to the other foot. The intensity of the moment reminds
the Professor of a Japanese city before the end of the war.

* * *

In his mind he goes down each aisle in his government class,
focusing on each face, each body. He is lying on his bed
with his white shirt off and his trousers open. Dorothy
Kirsten’s voice fills the room. He settles on a boy who sits
two desks behind him. He begins to masturbate, his body moving
in time with the sad music. At moments like these he feels
farthest away. As he shoots, his lips part and he bares his teeth.

* * *

The Professor and Ginger are watching each other across the
narrow space. The Skipper and Gilligan have disappeared down
the beach. The Howells are quietly snoring. The Professor
and Ginger are alone. From the woods comes the sound of
strange birds. From the water comes a thick and eerie
tropical silence. The famous conversation scene is about
to start. Clouds appear in the sky, and it begins to snow.

Tim Dlugos

is diss a system

Philip Guston


Q: Bob, to sum up – don’t you have any important philosophy for the world?

A: I don’t drink hard liquor, if that’s what you mean.

Bob Dylan Meets the Press (March 25, 1965)


Q: What do you want to be remembered for as a person and as a writer?

A: That’s an awful question. I don’t want to be remembered. I don’t want to die!

NY Tyrant interviews Diane Williams


The Mystery of the Enigma

Tintin is of indeterminate age; he can drive a car and shoot a gun but is said at least once by another character to be “hardly more than a child.” He is invariably called “the boy reporter” in the fictional newspaper and radio accounts that are quoted within the panels, but is never seen doing any reporting or writing nor is any such work ever otherwise alluded to. He has a nice apartment and a substantial library although no apparent income; his constant travel might be paid for by law-enforcement agencies–Interpol, maybe–since the trips always lead to the solving of some crime or other, but he is never seen being assigned, debriefed, supervised, or compensated. He has no parents or any relatives unless you count the all-male elective family he accumulates over the course of the series: Captain Haddock, the eccentric Professor Tournesol (“Calculus” in translation), and the twin detectives Dupont and Dupond (“Thompson” and “Thomson”). Milou (I can’t bear to call him Snowy) goes with him everywhere, including to the moon, where he has his own four-legged spacesuit. Tintin has a little tuft of blond hair sticking up in front, and unless he is in costume or disguise he wears the clothes of a jaunty youth of the 1930s, including plus-fours with argyle socks.

Luc Sante


The Mystery of the Enigma

Tintin passes increasing portions of his life with an unmarried seaman, yet it seldom occurs to us to question their rapport. Tintin never has a girlfriend, nor does he express the need for one, and that absence is part of his greater mystery. He has no parents or siblings. He has no children, of course, and we are unsure whether he counts as a child himself; like Peter Pan, the boy reporter never ages, being a person both of his time and buoyantly apart from it. He often dresses in plus fours, like a golfer of the nineteen-twenties, yet when he finally upgrades to flared brown jeans, in “Tintin and the Picaros,” we feel embarrassed and betrayed on his behalf. If he reminds me of anyone, it is Charlie Brown. Both characters are more profoundly understood by their dogs than by any human. Both, indeed, are barely characters at all, being a bundle of unchanging qualities–courage and curiosity in one, hope and defeatedness in the other–allied to the simplest of graphic gestures. An oval, two dots, a line that sometimes widens to an O: such is Tintin ’s head, and at moments of stress or shock it is surrounded by a bizarre halo of flying drops, though whether these are symbolic or sweaty I can never decide.

Anthony Lane


Tintin looking for a Captain Haddock! (w4m)

Must be at least 6 feet tall. I’m normal height (5'6") and Tintin is usually a head shorter than Haddock is. I’d prefer someone with a medium build, but Haddock was a bit pudgy when he first joined the comic so I’m willing to negotiate.

Have to be able to grow a full beard or willing to wear a prosthetic one. If using your own beard, it has to be dark brown or black, OR you’d be willing to dye it.

Know the character, kthx.

Being able to yell “TEN THOUSAND THUNDERING TYPHOONS” in a very loud voice a plus.


It must be admitted that, of all the wars in history,

that of Spartacus was the most just–if not the only just one, period.



Notes on Usage

I said, “Mrs., pronounced misses, to be construed as the conjugation meaning suffers the absence of.”

Gary Lutz


What does it say about me, my life, my living situation right now that this almost seemed worth considering?


Date: 2011-06-14, 8:18PM EDT
Reply to: [Errors when replying to ads?]

On board!! lol
hello i have this old house boat that i need to find somebody to share with


the boat is mid size houseboat a nice porch,
it really needs some work, such as some of the wood is rotten etc
you get your own space in the boat, there will be electricity but no water yet
there is bathrooms and such in the marina
really close to coney island,
25 minutes to union square on the q train
you will only share it with one person ( me a musician )


first to move in it will be 600 dllars that includes the first month
then monthly is 350 a month

the boat it needs some work really so if you are looking for something fancy, well NOT here
this is a boat that its a nice project on progress

I would prefer, share it with
musicians, performers, painters, people into the arts, entertaiment lifestyle, buskers, street vendors, activist etc
but yeah

send me an email with info about you and any question i would love to share with you

also if i get another person, the rent mopnthly can be way cheaper like 180 a month

cats are OK - purrr
dogs are OK - wooof
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests


The Story of the Eye

all things amazing

Superman is inert for most practical purposes.

Only springing to life, as it were, under pressure of grave danger. Like, if you were making toast, he wouldn’t be Superman for that. He would be Clark Kent making you toast, and maybe his glasses would fog up with the steam or something, but that’s all. Or say a country in Africa has been without clean water for pretty much forever: he’d just be Clark Kent for that. That’s already beyond the pale.

Kristina Born


The child is father to the

Genesis Breyer P-Orridge wishes you a happy Father’s Day