Sharp Little Number by Megan Boddy
Composed and performed for Glamorous Freak: How I Taught My Dress To Act, a novel by Roxanne Carter
Pornograph No. 3 by OCNotes and Lisa Dank. Compilation contains Pornographs No. 1 and 2
Composed and performed for The Pornographers and Pornographies
Treed and Ideat by Patch Rubin.
Composed and performed for We: a reimagined family history, a novel by c.vance
Your Metaforest Guidebook, LP by Rachel Carns, Tara Jane O’Neil, and Anna Joy Springer. Words by Anna Joy Springer
Composed and performed for The Vicious Red Relic, Love: a fabulist memoir
by Anna Joy Springer
|Monster by Resident Anti-Hero
Composed and performed for Daughter: a novel by Janice Lee
Ready To Burn by Ron Heckert (Tornado n A Jar)
performed by Ron Heckert (music) and Betsy Carney (vocals); produced by Carlos DeLeon
composed and performed for Unfinished: storied finished by Lily Hoang
Goldberg Variation No. 3 Remix by Paul D Miller aka DJ Spooky
Remixed and performed for Blank, a novel by Davis Schneiderman
Logical Conclusion by Yasutoshi Yoshida
AVAILABLE ON CD COMPILATION 2012
Composed and performed for Burn Your Belongings, a novel by David Hoenigman
|Aunt Pig of Puglia
Title story read by the author Patricia Catto. Produced by Jaded Ibis Productions
“Listen – are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?”
– Mary Oliver
“Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.”
The decision to leave a wonderful position with a delightful company where I do meaningful work alongside kindhearted coworkers is not one I take lightly. I’ve lost more sleep over more nights than I can count. I’ve poured myself into oversized containers of ice cream, buckets of popcorn, and bottles of wine, abandoning the healthier coping strategies I’ve learned in years of therapy. I’ve spent hours sitting in the darkness, alone in my living room, dreading what I’m about to do.
My boss has been both a friend and mother figure to me. My coworkers have been my cheerleaders. The residents at the retirement center where I work have changed my perspective; they’ve transformed the way I look at aging, love, resilience and mortality. I fell in love with a community of people in their 80s, 90s and 100s — people who offered me an endless and unconditional supply of hugs, wisdom and warmth.
I have to leave, though, and this is why: There is a book inside of me. Or rather, there’s a series of ideas, thoughts, and feelings that I think will lead up to a book. This collection of thoughts — this beast — is nestled between my heart and lungs. It catches on my breaths; it pulls me to the ground. I’m crouched on my feet, wrestling against this thing. I keep trying to press it down, but it wants out.
Regular paychecks and health insurance and free lunches are no match for this thing inside of me. The days I’m putting into my job no longer feel like hours I’m putting in; they feel like hours I’m giving up. The more I give up, the heavier the beast gets. This book keeps pushing against me, jabbing into my core, asking me to take notice.
I tried to be sensible. I’ll only pay attention to the beast at night. On weekends. In my spare moments. I’ll politely ask the beast to be calm during the day, to keep quiet, to stop calling me.
It didn’t stop. It only got louder. I would try to focus on my work — if I only stare at this computer long enough, if I just repeat what that resident said one more time — in an effort to distract myself. This, I would tell myself. This is what normal people do. They work normal jobs like this. They help other people. They sometimes get bored. They laugh with their coworkers. They look at the clock. They think about dinner. They ache when they hear someone new is on hospice. They stoically attend memorial services. They sometimes go home and weep for someone who has died. They often go home and worry about those who are living, those who are facing dementia and disease and the unfathomable loss of a spouse after sixty years of marriage. They carry their feelings and they feel exhausted and they don’t write — not now, Book Beast — and then they wake up the next day and do it all over again.
I can’t do it anymore.
I can’t do it anymore because a book is pushing against me and I can’t release it until I walk away from what’s causing it. This time I’ve spent with people who are 92, 97, 102: it’s made me who I am. It’s helped me to form my story and colored the way I view the world. But I cannot write about it – I cannot sit down and focus my energy on it or anything else – until I walk away.
The best I can do now, while working here full-time, is to come home and fall asleep at 8 p.m., an occurrence that happens with frequency. The best I can do now is to sit in my exhaustion and fret about the things I can’t control, to put off my writing until I’m less tired, less drained. Put it off for another day, and then another, and then another.
I have to leave. I have to leave so I can get in my car and drive. I have to leave so I can visit different friends in different states. I have to leave so I can sit in my grandma’s abandoned house on the other side of the country — the one beyond the reach of internet and cell service — and write. I have to leave so I can write and write and write, free from the interruption of going to work for nine-hour increments followed by hours of sitting numbly at home, feeling too much, thinking about my residents, missing my grandma, worrying about the end of life, until I go to bed and repeat it all the next day. I have to leave so I can take these big, messy feelings and put them down on the page and write and rewrite and rewrite until they make some sense. Until they tell my story.
It’s not an easy thing to explain to anyone. I will have no source of income. I will have nothing, really, except my car and my mind and my bag full of dreams. Does this sound logical to anyone? Does this sound practical?
Is it logical for someone to stay in a relationship long after she’s fallen out of love?
Is it practical for someone to stay at a job if she feels like she’s suffocating?
Is it okay to suppress everything inside of me in an attempt to fit in with the normal way normal people do normal things?
This is no longer a story of Normal. This is the story of a Book Beast, a road trip, a lonely house, and a plan that defies logic. The plan goes like this: Write, write, write, write, write. There is no room in this plan to drive residents to medical appointments. There is no room to edit a newsletter or update a Facebook page or listen patiently when someone tells the same story again. There is no room for letting my compassion for my coworkers override my need to do something for myself. There is no room for letting the moments and days and years go by, waiting for things to arrange themselves differently, waiting for something to present itself to me, waiting.
This is no longer a story of Waiting. This is a story about making a difficult decision — one that I feel in my gut with an immensity that scares me — and standing behind it. People leave horrible jobs and situations all the time, but I am not one of those people. I am leaving a wonderful position with a delightful company where I do meaningful work alongside kindhearted coworkers. I’m leaving my friends and family and apartment and job and everything I know and love.
This is why I have to leave. That book lodged inside my organs? Someday I’m going to let it out. But first I have to get to it. I have to chip away at it. I have to remove the layers of fat that cushion it. I have to peel back the debris and clutter until the beast is all that’s left. And then I have to release it.
Who knows how far his poem will travel? For many of us, most of our poems won’t make it past the rectangular space of our door. And, if a poem does manage to make it into the world and thrive, it’s often without our intent. The poem makes its own way, finds its own home, and seeks its own friends. And who knows if one of the friends won’t be an old acquaintance of yours upon whom, years before, you made a poor impression? And who knows what relationship that person will have with your poem, and how such a relationship might affect the regard in which you’re held.
Part of the mystery of writing is that the destination of our work is often concealed from us. Still, we continue the daily ritual of waking early to sit at our desks and sail seas full of fragmented ideas, blurred beginnings, and uncertainties with the hope of arriving at some distant shore where what’s beyond us comes together in the language of our experience.
How We Know We Are Forgiven
We know when our words
Are finally allowed
To travel routes of the heart
That once were barricaded
Against them as strangers
And they are given reign again
To stretch out upon sands,
Chat with newly arrived travelers,
And left alone to haggle
With silk and spice merchants.
Instead of being kicked
From tents and caravans,
Our words will once again
Be pulled into the crowds
By friends left behind,
Wiped clean of grime
Collected in the desert,
Then given fresh robes and pants,
Before being led unto hammocks to snore
After bread and wine.
In this poem, there are custodians of the imagination who impose and preserve a normative world view. And we see to what lengths these “wise men” will go to make children think “what’s right.” It seems to me, however, that sometimes writing is the act of dancing the wrong dance – the act of taking elements of the taught-imagination and stretching them as far as one can.
Solomon’s Montessori School
The school is popular among children.
And upon their gathering,
Each swears of her own experience –
“Yesterday, I saw ten golden gates
Standing without fences”
“Today, I saw god appoint Winds as sages”
“I’ve seen angels floating east” –
To suppress these claims,
Wise men from town
Stand children against the wall
Without food, for hours
Until each confesses a change of heart –
To the relief of parents
And the esteemed Council of The Wise –
That Solomon’s school never existed
And is only seen by the mad.
Precisely at that moment,
A girl hears Solomon’s invisible call.
She pulls down her veil,
Listens to the hymns,
Then runs like one taken
To begin studies
“In how to climb god’s fences
And wrestle with Winds.”
After years of toil, how does a writer handle himself when his work is finally recognized? Some writers become lost in the pageantry. Some accept the recognition for what it is, are grateful for what they are given, while keeping in mind that what’s more important is returning to that place of unknowing, which often is the source of poetry.
The Measured Notion of One’s Self
How blessed the man,
Who despite praise,
Acclaim and applause
Remains in the end,
Essentially as he was –
Unaffected by the ribbons
Taped to his door,
The bouquet of flowers,
The certificates framed
In his halls,
And in his study,
The hung medallions.
Not for this man
The quiet relief of being paraded
Through the village on borrowed horse
All for being the first of its sons
To sail the Indian Ocean and
The first to write several volumes
Scholars hold in high estimation.
Quite admirable that after waving
Through the confetti and horns,
He returns home not thinking
“Tomorrow praise is again assured.”
But that it is already gone
And he is again as he was.
No wonder he is now at his door
Untaping the ribbons.
No doubt he’s taken down
In the morning,
He’ll return the horse.
I’ve never been a wake-up-at-five-in-the-morning-and-write-every-day kind of gal. I have nothing but admiration for people with that seat-of-the-pants-to-the-chair discipline, but that’s never been me. Instead I tend to wait — to cogitate and agitate — until I absolutely must put something on paper, until, whether because of an imposed deadline or internal pressure, it’s simply imperative. Partly, this is because I work two jobs and have two kids, but that’s not the whole story. I’m sure that given infinite free time, I’d be more productive on the page than I am now, and I’m equally sure that I’d still find myself procrastinating and sometimes “blocked.”Procrastination, in its weird way, is part of the process. While I’m procrastinating, I’m never really free of the task; I’m turning the creative problem over and over in my mind, consciously and unconsciously, reformulating the terms. At some level I am saying no to the easy, knock-it-out solution, the tired-and-true, the familiar. I might not be typing words on a keyboard, but something is marinating.
At a certain point, however, procrastination can morph into all-out blockage, silence, the freeze every writer dreads. Writer’s block issues out of fear — but of what? Some people speculate that it’s fear of failure (the story in your head is never as good as the one on the page, and what with Goodreads, Amazon, and BN.com, there have never been more critics). Others assert that the deeper fear is of success (i.e. a critical or commercial success in the marketplace might mess with your familiar low self-esteem or force other changes in your life). My gut feeling is that it’s something else: Writer’s block stems from fear of what might appear on the page if you’re writing honestly, if, as a teacher of mine used to say, “you have your pencil in the right place,” if you are writing toward jeopardy.
Writing well is a destabilizing act. A comfort read reinforces the readers’ and writer’s mutually agreed-upon ideas of how the world works, and it has its place; it’s entertainment. But literature challenges our fondest beliefs — about the world, about other people, about ourselves. It is mind-altering. Its creation transforms the writer, however subtly, and every revision is a revision of the writer’s intellect, the writer’s memory, the writer’s relationship to self. When you are writing well, when you are solving a creative problem with a new and strange and unforeseen solution, there is every possibility that it will scare the hell out of you. This is the bad news and the good news. This is also, of course, why we do it: We might learn something true.
Writing well will cost you. So how do we avoid being paralyzed by fear? I wish I knew. My best shot to date is to trick myself, even though I should and do know better, into writing “just a few sentences.” I know full well that “just a few sentences,” if they are good ones, creates an entryway into a world, one this is full of promise and terror, and from which there might be no turning back. I also know that pretty much every time out I hit “the wall” at what turns out to be roughly the three- quarters mark of whatever I am writing. I become convinced the whole enterprise is a failure, I’ve wasted my time, and there is no way through to completion — at which point I have to procrastinate some more, until I find a little opening, a pinpoint of light in that brick edifice. A flaw through which to chisel. To recognize a challenge is not the same thing as to overcome one, but it’s a start. I sometimes refer to awful drafts of work that eventually succeeded as a reminder that this too shall pass, that no wall is impenetrable.
Prediction isn’t my strong suit, but it’s a safe bet that I’ll never be known as prolific, and I don’t think I want to be. Every book, every story, every essay I have written has changed me in some way, even this one. The fear doesn’t go away, and it shouldn’t. But the fear of the fear abates — sometimes we even grow nervy with fear — and the faith that the work is worth it abides.
DAVID HOENIGMAN was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, but has lived in Tokyo, Japan since 1998. He is the organizer of Tokyo’s bimonthly PAINT YOUR TEETH, a celebration of experimental music, literature and dance. Hoenigman regularly interviews avant-garde writers for the online journal, WORD RIOT. He is currently working on his second novel, Squeal For Joy, forthcoming from Jaded Ibis Press.
MORE PRAISE FOR BURN YOUR BELONGINGS
“A perfect rondel.” –Terese Svoboda, author Black Glasses Like Clark Kent
“I like the obsessive quality of the writing and the way certain images or sentences seem to burst out of the background with a kind of eerie, insistent resonance. It’s like the emotional equivalent of the sensation of a phantom limb”* –Dawn Raffel, author of Carrying the Body
“Hoenigman’s terse, staccato prose is the language of consciousness, and his book not so much anti-narrative as true to the realities of one’s inner sense-making, true to the convoluted and seemingly disparate tales we tell ourselves. In short, Burn Your Belongings is a well-crafted and adventurous book from what is undoubtedly a writer of great promise.” – Gary J. Shipley, Word Riot
David Hoenigman Books
|burn your belongings
a novel by
david hoenigman“destined for cult status.”
– Alex Martin, Outsider Writers CollectiveART: orginal images by Yasutoshi YoshidaSOUND: original music by Yasutoshi Yoshida – LISTEN NOW“David Hoenigman’s Burn Your Belongings is a dense narrative of choppy sentences that elude the human desire for story at almost every turn. When read aloud, mantralike, the thick walls of text take on the feel of religious chant, a prayer to weariness and sickness and anxiety. At other times, they flutter with moments of happiness and love, and feel exponentially more like real life than anything Hemingway or any naturalist ever put to paper. In the margins of each page is a different vibrant color collage by Yasutoshi Yoshida. … The collages add another layer, another conversation, to the book.”
– Paul Constant, book critic for The StrangerBurn Your Belongings slowly, relentlessly builds the emotional ebb and flow of a love triangle over a period of months, perhaps years. Every fear, joy, doubt, hatred, desire and elation manifests through a litany of interior monologues – from the mundane to the profound and always beautifully lyrical. The accretion of imagery and often frighteningly stark examination of Self and Other create a transformational emotional experience. Hoenigman’s brilliance is his ability to transfer language to the reader so that by novel’s end, the feelings and observations of the characters become not their memories but the reader’s own.
|Three illustrated editions available
CLICK TO BUY Color
|Black and White
FINE ART LIMITED EDITION OF 10
A hand-carved, hand-painted 2-foot length of mako bamboo contains the text and images of Burn Your Belongings printed in color on a double scroll.
A hand-carved, hand-painted 2-foot (approx) length of mako bamboo contains the text and images of Burn Your Belongins printed in color on a double scroll. The effect is a beautiful art object that might have been made long ago by someone in a Japanese village. A matchbook bearing the book’s title is fitted into a carved niche in the cork top. Hoenigman lives and works in Tokyo, the setting of Burn Your Belongings. Tokyo artist, Yasutoshi Yoshida, is a renowned Harsh Noise musician and record producer whose collage influences stem primarily from art brut. The book’s narrative exemplifies the intersection of old and new that still exists in Japanese culture, as well as the role of the American outsider situated in the insider world of Tokyo; thus the design of inside vs. outside. Moreover, to read the scroll one must “pile” the pages in a flowing heap, just as the author’s innovative narrative lyrically piles sentence upon sentence upon sentence to create not so much an obvious plot but rather a flowing experience so intense that it feels as much physical as intellectual. The intent is also to emphasize the delicacy of language – its mutability and potential dissolution – by printing the text and art on Japanese sumi paper. Approximate size: 2′ (height) x 7″ (diameter). Scroll approx. 190 feet long.
PRICE: $8500.00 Because our limited edition fine art books are handcrafted, each will vary slightly. Special order only. Allow 8-10 weeks. Email us to order now.Or buy now through Paypal. (We are a Verified Seller)
Tom Bradley taught British and American literature to Chinese graduate students in the years leading up to the Tiananmen Square massacre. He was politely invited to leave China after burning a batch of student essays about the democracy movement rather than surrendering them to “the leaders.” He wound up teaching conversational skills to freshman dentistry majors in the Japanese “imperial university.” Tom is a former lounge harpist. During his pre-exilic period, he played his own transcriptions of Bach and Debussy in a Salt Lake City synagogue that had been transformed into a pricey watering hole by a nephew of the Shah of Iran. Family Romance is Tom’s twentieth published book
Nick Patterson is a visual artist whose love of twisting minds and turning heads has lead him to explore all the darkness the human experience can muster, through high contrast ink drawings. With no official training in the visual medium, Patterson’s art is loosely tethered to reality, although it is very detailed. His inspiration is drawn from an amalgam of cartoons, comics, and movies. Carrying a sketchbook with him everywhere, he lets no flicker of imagination escape. Nick Patterson’s art has been published in several small magazines and novels. He currently lives in a city full of flowers on the western edge of Canada.
Tom Bradley (text) + Nick Patterson (art) Profile
“exasperating, offensive, pleasurable, and brilliant…it might well be genius”
Family Romance a novel by nick patterson (visuals)and tom bradley (verbals)
“It’s a monstrosity of the imagination as if a Burroughs virus hijacked the machinery of Finnigans Wake and replicated itself as a litera-teratus. Illustrator Nick Patterson joins Bradley in the procedure with ninety disturbing images of Bosch-like detail you don’t want to see on the way home from your local head shop.” —by John Ivan-Palmer, Exquisite Corpse
“Tom Bradley is one of the most exasperating, offensive, pleasurable, and brilliant writers I know. I recommend his work to anyone with spiritual fortitude and a taste for something so strange that it might well be genius.”
—Denis Dutton, Arts & Letters Daily
“I tell you that Dr. Bradley has devoted his existence to writing because he intends for every center of consciousness, everywhere, in all planes and conditions (not just terrestrial female Homo sapiens in breeding prime), to love him forever,
starting as soon as possible, though he’s prepared to wait thousands of centuries after he’s dead.” —Cye Johan, Exquisite Corpse Journal
“The contemporaries of Michelangelo found it useful to employ the term ‘terribilita’ to characterize some of the expressions of his genius, and I will quote it here to sum up the shocking impact of this work as a whole. I read it in a state of fascination, admiration, awe, anxiety, and outrage.” – R.V. Cassill, editor of The Norton Anthology of Fiction
Rick Whitaker is the author of Assuming the Position: A Memoir of Hustling and The First Time I Met Frank O’Hara: Reading Gay American Writers. He is Concerts and Theatre Manager of The Italian Academy at Columbia University, New York.
Rick Whitaker Books
Goodreads Book Giveaway
An Honest Ghost
by Rick Whitaker
Giveaway ends September 30, 2013.
See the giveaway details
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“He has put the force back into tour de force.“
— John Ashbery
An Honest Ghost
a novel by
“Whitaker proves that fiction is better than life—more interesting, much more thrilling”
“Sheer genius…a uniquely gripping read.”
“An Honest Ghost is brilliantly conceived and brilliantly performed.”
“Whitaker has performed such a work of genius and pushed it ad absurdum”
About the Book
Within the binary world of coded zeros and ones arises a choir of disembodied literary voices, from William Shakespeare to J. D. Salinger, Gertrude Stein to Susan Sontag, Djuna Barnes to Don DeLillo, and hundreds between and beyond.
Published as an interactive iBook as well as a paperback and ebook, Rick Whitaker’s semi-autobiographical novel, An Honest Ghost, consists entirely of sentences appropriated from over 500 books. Whitaker limited himself to using 300 words per book (in accordance with Fair Use); never taking two sentences together; and never making any changes, even to punctuation. In the iBook version, touching a sentence brings up its original source: a book’s title, author, and page number.
The experience of acknowledging each sentence as literary artifact, combined with the imagined accretion of books that built An Honest Ghost, deftly mirrors the burgeoning nostalgia in the narrator’s voice and, fittingly, in the careful reader’s heart.
More Praise for An Honest Ghost
“Reading An Honest Ghost is an exhilarating, percussive experience, proof that literature is capricious and exalted. I felt like a grand piano some eccentric musician was playing, someone who knew all the composers and couldn’t stick to one for more than a minute. People always praise fiction for being lifelike but Whitaker proves that fiction is better than life—more interesting, much more thrilling, though it is inhabited by posturing, irresponsible, self-dramatizing characters…. The tension and excitement of this prose, constantly buffeting the reader, derives from all the different and unique authors who have contributed to it.”
“Like an Italian micromosaic, whose infinitesimal ceramic tesserae generate an unearthly glow just by being in close proximity to each other, Rick Whitaker’s An Honest Ghost is both narrative and objet, a singular work of art whose singularity keeps beckoning to the reader. He has put the force back into tour de force.
“An Honest Ghost is brilliantly conceived and brilliantly performed.”
“An Honest Ghost is sheer genius, the uber novel, the ultimate palimpsest. It is a writer’s truth and a reader’s dream. Above all, it is a uniquely gripping read.”
“I am struck by how deeply personal this book feels, even revelatory, as if the author had solicited other voices to perform an autopsy on his most private, intimate self. And of course, I relish in this paradox which debunks all conventional notions of authorship, authenticity, identity and even language. What is remarkable is how Whitaker has performed such a work of genius and pushed it ad absurdum: the extreme bending appears effortless and forms a perfect circle, wherein full authorship of book, i.e. all the citations at the end of the book, are truly at the discretion of the reader, with all the responsibilities, pangs and joys this entails. This time, Whitaker is asking us, readers, to assume the position!”
Janice Lee is a writer, artist, editor, and curator. She is interested in the relationships between metaphors of consciousness and theoretical neuroscience, and experimental narrative. Her work can be found in Big Toe Review, Zafusy, antennae, sidebrow, Action, Yes, Joyland,Luvina, Everyday Genius, elimae, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere. She is the author of KEROTAKIS (Dog Horn Press, 2010), a multidisciplinary exploration of cyborgs, brains, and the stakes of consciousness; and a chapbook Red Trees. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from CalArts and currently lives in Los Angeles where she is co-editor of the online journal [out of nothing] and co-founder of the interdisciplinary arts organization Strophe.
FINE ART LIMITED EDITION: An autopsy kit containing handcrafted surgical tools and various medical artifacts, including casts of octopi body parts in apothecary bottles. The kit is an aged wooden box with a secret compartment containing the novel printed on transparent “skin” and laid upon a bed of sand. Contains flash drive with soundtrack,Monster,” by Resident Anti-Hero. $10,000, by special order only. Contact us for information.
Janice Lee Books
“Janice Lee is a genius.”
—Eileen Myles, author of Inferno (a poet’s novel)
SOUND: Original music by Resident Anti-Hero
“Daughter, the new volume by Janice Lee, seems to rise as intuitive quantum ascent. It is praxis of the marred, of the seemingly uneven. Janice Lee understands that writing cannot exist as narrative outcome. In Daughter there is reckoning with the cosmos as phantom, as something that does and does not exist. Energies appear by means of paradox and evaporation.”
In Daughter, Janice Lee floods the body of a book with the body of a body, all its hybrid, constantly damaging and mending cells. From field to field among the pages we are subject to a brain-damaged, collide-o-scopic file of some internet-age Acker’d Frankenstein having lived to see god die; and yet still must go on walking in the deity’s corpse, inside of which the billion bodies in such image have built our huts of shit and shit inside them. “The sea is a mysterious force, but there is no sea in the desert,” she writes, prodding at the hole left in the fabric on the earth between the homes: another phantom in a field of phantoms who themselves have again died. The result is a meticulous and terrifying resurrection, a glitchy screamtext passed in dire silence to the reader the way blood passes from mother into child.
Each year in the U.S. alone hundreds of thousands of new titles are published by traditional printing methods; that is, in bulk quantities. An average of 150,000 multiplied by an average print run of 5,000, multiplied by an average of 200 pages per book equals nearly 150 Billion (150,000,000,000) pages annually, plus book covers and jackets. This situation is similar to trading robots where new ones are coming up every day. Only the authentic last while the fake and scam disappear but only after using up a lot of energy and conning several innocent people. It is important to determine which is fake and real, take bitcoin loophole and check it out at https://top10binarydemo.com/system-scam-reviews/bitcoin-loophole/
Half of these books will be returned to their publisher and destroyed or liquidated. Those that cannot be liquidated will also be destroyed.
—Blake Butler, author of There is No Year
The word “monster” derives from Latin monstrum, an aberrant occurrence, usually biological, that was taken as a sign that something was wrong within the natural order. (Wikipedia) As Janice Lee proves, the same is true for daughters. Lee’s surgical cadences and sharp fragments work here as writing will work-to force attention to detail. Which is the unnatural order of things.
Jan Millsapps is a pioneering digital filmmaker, an early web innovator, and a versatile and accomplished writer. She has produced films, videos, digital and interactive cinema on subjects ranging from domestic violence to global terrorism, and has published in traditional print and online venues. As professor of cinema at San Francisco State University, she teaches courses in digital cinema, interactive cinema, web cinema and short format screenwriting. She earned her B.A. with honors in Creative Arts at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte; her M.A. in English at Winthrop University; and her Ph.D. in Rhetoric and Composition at the University of South Carolina. She also holds an academic certificate in cosmology.
Jan Millsapps Books
“a profound story full of
Elizabeth J. Colen was born in the Midwest, raised in the Northeast, has lived in the Southeast, and currently makes her home in the Pacific Northwest. She is the author of Lambda Literary Award nominated prose poetry collection Money for Sunsets (Steel Toe Books, 2010) and flash fiction collection Dear Mother Monster, Dear Daughter Mistake (Rose Metal Press, 2011), and a recipient of the Nelson Bentley Fellowship and Ingham Fellowship. Elizabeth also occasionally blogs about books, libraries, and train travel at: http://elizabethjcolen.blogspot.com
Elizabeth J. Colen Books
Reviews & Interviews:
Women’s Quarterly Conversation
“Colen is not timid about addressing the perversities of American culture head-on… The subjects are dark, generating perhaps more discomfort than comfort, but Colen reminds us that the human heart is still quite functional.” —D. A. Powell, Drunken Boat
“The poets I long for are the ones who aim their instruments at the eyes of culture and shoot without question. Elizabeth Colen is one of those poets I always trust to let it all be done! Count the bodies afterward! The conspiracy of Waiting Up for the End of the World for instance, it’s her newest, brilliant collection. ‘Arsonists are such failures at love.’ See, she just tells us where fire fails. And as the house burns down THIS BOOK is what you should grab when running to the door. Wave it in the faces of failure, which is another magic of waking us. THANK YOU Elizabeth Colen! — CAConrad, author of THE BOOK OF FRANK (Wave Books)
“In Elizabeth J. Colen’s Waiting Up for the End of the World, conspiracy theories provide the dark and obsessive scaffolding for poems woven with myths of paranoia as well as fragmented scenes of psychological tension. Colen transforms her sensational subjects with an eerie calm or giddy perversity, committed to juxtapositions and details that shiver with a grotesque luminosity: wig strands “read” a palm, coffee grounds in a mug form the shape of a skull, a brother staples a girl’s arm to her sleeve. The duende who beckons from these poems is both pulsing alarm and violent seducer. In Colen’s realm of danger, we’ve ‘followed the sound of the siren’.” — Anna Journey, author of If Birds Gather Your Hair for Nesting
“In Waiting Up for the End of the World: Conspiracies, Elizabeth Colen gives us a book of poems built around conspiracy tales, those guiding myths of our culture, a book so smart and quintessentially American it feels both uniquely personal and blazingly collective. Colen probes the nature of belief and gives us paranoia as resistance, storytelling as power, and the personal as inextricably tied to the social and political. ‘I am eating this piece of cake./The first piece was for me,/ the second for the end of the world,” she writes in “Day After, Over London,’ a poem that reimagines the crash of Pam Am Flight 103. The poems, stylistically flawless and each a jagged shard of the American dream, challenge us to rethink what we believe we know about the defining tales of our culture”. — Suzanne Paola, author ofBody Toxic and The Lives of the Saints
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ABOUT THE BOOK
Waiting Up for the End of the World examines 20th / 21st century conspiracy theories from a poetic standpoint. First-person narrator road trips around the globe—from New York City, Dallas, Atlanta, Georgia, and Gakona, Alaska to Area 51, Lockerbie, Scotland, London, Paris, and Indonesia—to visit firsthand the sites of alleged secret plans and alliances and their sometimes cataclysmic outcomes, investigating through verse such topics as black helicopters, chemtrails, the North American Union, the fluoride conspiracy, and the JFK assassination, and exploring possible links between government and corporate corruption and the on-the-ground results of continued global overconsumption.
SAMPLE PAGES FROM THE COLOR EDITION