Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Trilling.

My office is messier than I even like it to be. It is continuously fulfilling on so many planes: aesthetically, looking at All My Books, feeling the infinite-pleasure, the pleasure of the infinite that Umberto Eco studied at the Louvre and wrote about in the Infinity of Lists which I always misremember as an Infinity of Lists, as if infinity were a form. I am fetishistic about lists. In order to admire, I aggregate. I used to take rigorous inventory of my media when I was little and it all fit in one shelving unit anyway. My office is the first real clean visual listmaking endeavor I've gotten to undertake since my room is the size of a fist. But since I have space now I fill it, and there are too many books in here. The Joel-Peter Witkin monograph Disciple and Master and the Persistence of Vision Kenneth Anger volume Moonchild which I remembered was the real name of the Childlike Empress from the Neverending Story, the first work in translation I ever read, which hatched my concept of translation. My boyfriend was talking about it. I have been in many a situation where I gleefully watched a roomful of friends try and fail to remember the name of the dragon but my boyfriend is incredible (limitlessly) enough that I offered over, very easily, Falcor.

Those books I am reading for research on my current long work. Art, magic, illusion, film, escapism, the Freudian psychosexual fairytale, the economy, the home. I am pretty scattered about the work but the work is knitting itself up nice and well. I have also the columns of, like, King Kong Theory by Virginie Despentes and Female Chauvinist Pigs and things that conflagrated my senior-thesis which I was encouraged by my advisor to revise and publish. It was really a jumbled mess of thesis statements, each their own, and a long interlude about Last Year at Marienbad. The Marienbad interlude was the best part, even though much of my insight is my arriving independently and inarticulately at very established forms of all kinds of criticism. I am very great - great! - about never shelving anything indefinitely. I take old plots and characters and obsessions out and walk them with some regularity. I can trace the ancestry of current projects back as far as the beginning of my thing for writing. So I am not as neurotic as I should be about setting that aside. I only graduated a year ago.

Two typewriters reside with me here, very stately and well-preserved - they make me think of someone freaking out over Nietzsche's aphorisms, the spawn of his move from longhand to typewritten composition - his ideas became more concisely delivered and that was viewed as a negative. I have in my room in my other bookshelf my one completed long work that is currently looking for a home at a press printed out and staring at me. I love to hold it and flip through it. I only printed one copy on flimsy bleached printer paper to edit it once, and this is my only other copy, on resume paper, thick and glorious and so innately rewarding. If I could operate one of my typewriters and face draft after draft and feel the thickening as it occurred - I am lucky to be doing what I do now. Or I would be doing that all day.

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