Blake Butler is a published writer by a big publishing house. He runs HTMLgiant. You can find his books in B&N. He’s experimental. Steve Roggenbuck is a poet who makes macros (image poems), videos, quit his MFA to travel around concentrating on BOOSTING and not giving a FRICK! He’s coming out with another book of poetry, also.
Richard Grayson‘s email header read, “a couple books you’ll probably find boring.” He explained they were from his diaries, and written for himself. I opened the 1st pdf “Late Spring in Sunrise 1982″ and read the 1st few pages regarding a guy Richard had a crush on and how he stopped by; he also mentions some of his writing, and a piece published by “Beyond the Baroque” which I know is associated with Dennis Cooper, somehow, and felt interested, and told him so in an email. Plus I mytholigize NYC, and when I visited Brooklyn and Manhattan one long weekend, I fell even more in love, yet a person needs to be fairly wealthy to live in NYC, now adays. My rent in Denver is $650, and I’m close to downtown. I don’t think you could live in New Jersey for that price.
“pretty flowers” is a curious formatted poem, or group of poems without any clear delineation between them by Gabby Gabby [1]. There is no rhyme or stanzas, per se, yet this is 100% poetry. In a large Helvetica (italicized?) font each sentence seems to be a stanza that declares an emotion, or idea that builds off each other. Though the poem/poems are somewhat simple–where ‘haters’ may say this is pointless (similar to the initial response to Steve Roggenbukc, maybe)–each sentence/stanza hold such a human/relatable emotion while their are little reoccurring ideas that work off each in a subtle ways that made me feel excited to be human, like there was a whole world to explore and I wasn’t kind of poor and didn’t have to work 40 hrs at a mindless job.
How I came across ‘Okstupid’ by Walter Mackey
Carnivorous Judy is Walter Mackey’s handle on Facebook. He had posted a picture of Bjork CDs that many of my FB friend’s involved in ‘internet literature’ had commented on. Jimmy Chen (my favorite internet writer) had photoshoped his face into a Bjork CD, and I wanted to link Jimmy Chen’s image, so ‘friended’ Carnivorous Judy. I messaged ‘Judy’ to introduce myself, and began chatting. He sent me an ebook/pdf ‘titanic’ a collection of poetry and I realized he was a ‘dude’ who named his handle after Judge Judy, as his poems had daytime TV and game show cultural references. I sent him a link of a story and chatted more. I liked his poetry. Today he FB statused about reviewing his new ebook. I responded and he sent me a pdf.
Review of ‘Okstupid’
Often people will quote a line from another story/poem/ or song that influenced the story; Walter quotes an excerpt from an instant messanger chat with Spencer Madison (an internet lit-er) and Stacey Teague (possibly the daughter of the model I can only remember in name, Cheryl Tieg. Oh, it’s “tieg”). After reading the story does this short chat excerpt make a lot of sense.
The story is told in the 3rd person from Sarah’s (the protagonists) view regarding meeting Greg on okcupid, chatting and going on a date to the library. The story begins with the line, “Sarah felt mostly let down by the men in her life.” This line, when I reread it, felt somewhat like Lorrie Moore or Mary Gaitskill, or some 1970′s-80′s New York American women writer. It’s emotional yet terse and ‘outside’ of the emotion, which is the tone of the story. I found the use of the female narrator by a man to be somewhat Proustian, and the story is influenced by the archetypal internet writer Tao Lin, but with a knowledge of this influence recognized with nods to Tao in the prose. Similarly to Tao Lin’s work, I felt reading ‘Okstupid’ that I was talking to smart and ‘in-the-know’ bookstore/record store workers or grad students with their clever inside jokes, often repeated and referenced back to, and a self-conscious, almost parodying of their behavior/emotional life.
The internet is real. On Jan. 27th while toner was being heated onto paper, I scrolled through my Facebook feed. I make copies while depressed, or weirdly hyper, 40 hrs a week, and read things online because my job doesn’t require the use of my brain. Ana C. posted a status update that she would mail her chapbook to anyone who emailed her their address. I did this. I don’t know Ana C. IRL (in real life). She runs a poetry website and publishes poetry online. I follow her on tumblr. Her poetry speaks to common human experience while providing it with a humorous-almost surreal, sad, and innocently sexual voice that makes the reader take an unexpected turn while reading. Last night (Feb. 7th) I received her chapbook “make-believe love-making” in the mail. It was real and in my hand. A cardstock cover and 7 letter-size pages, printed double-sided, folded in half and bound with yarn. She wrote “hi Brian” in pen and it was marked, in pen, copy 14/60 on the last page. This was the second edition. I hardly know her, and she had sent me this exquisite and limited set of poems. I read it 3 times in a row, once my girlfriend Sarah had given it back.
These 21 poems work separately and together to tell the tale of a real romance and broken heart, or an imaginary one.
I began this post on Monday, but found myself unable to complete it until Wednesday. Speaks to the phenomenon in question, I’d say…
Dürer's "Melancholia I"
What is it about Monday that produces melancholy in so many people? Countless songs have been written about the day, and complaining about “the Mondays” or some such thing has become an annoying commonplace of office and campus life. But all this cultural sediment evidences, I think it safe to say, some deeper, more genuine experience—something each of us, in our own way, is party to. But what?
Given that the week is a historical variable phenomenon (the Egyptians observed ten-day weeks, as did partisans in revolutionary France), there can be nothing natural about Monday’s power. Its influence must instead be sought on the level of social convention—and through the way we as individuals internalize social conventions.
That Monday is the start of the work and school week would seem to contribute most to its melancholic character. It is that day which promises more than any other that work lies ahead, for days on end. Monday feels like only the beginning—and in this it carries a certain weight.
In a parallel vein, Monday follows immediately after Saturday and Sunday, and its appearance therefore occasions a certain weekly moment of mourning. For with Monday the weekend is over, has died. Of course, the weekend will resurrect itself a mere four or five days later. This gives the mourning character of Monday a certain bittersweet inflection, in that it marks both a passing and an anticipation.
Much more can be said about Monday, and I should like to write something about each of the days of the week in future posts. I would also like to hear the thoughts of others on this most curious of days…
As a possibly revealing aside, I will in parting submit the following two photos, which speak to the seasonal component I believe also has something to do with my particular and current relation to Monday. The first comes from a Monday last August, when the trees were be-leafed and the sky quite blue:
House in August
The second comes from this past Monday, when things were otherwise:
House in January
Perhaps, then, there’s something different to be said of Mondays in each season, in each part of the world. What does Monday mean to you?
