Because they circled me so assertively on Google+, I pre-ordered the first issue of Anobium and, in doing so, won a $75 gift card to Amazon! That $75 is now Kristeva's Black Sun and the gigantic Henry Darger monograph put together by the MOMA curator that is half for me and half for my boyfriend, whose birthday was yesterday, and who also has a brand new Abraham Lincoln coffee mug waiting for him.
The Almost Uptown Poetry Cartel has very kindly made mention of me on their site. I read "Diablerie" there on Thursday at my friend Maria's birthday reading. I didn't plan on reading anything, and I jotted down the details of its publication on a torn out piece of the mss the poem's from. I didn't provide my blog address or contextualize the poem - it's proper name is "Synopsis of Diablerie" as it is the synopsis of a film - I am a closed loop.
I was roundly advised to get business cards. This seems sound. Killer watermark ahoy.
I was reading the Bell Jar at 40 essay the other day when I ran across somewhere on some social network someone saying what a drag it was to be online-friends with so many writers; writing and that culture is all they talk about, as I was about to post a link to the essay. I have in my physical, tactile life one person I can talk to and two people I know personally at all with whom I can just strike up a conversation, segue-less, about critical poetics. Or Virginie Despentes. Or buying a Colette in translation from the nineteen-sixties. Or even making a jaunty Samuel Beckett allusion. About, I don't know, the tedium of the workday. Something you'd want to be haughty and pithy about when it's over because it's awful. People not just understanding aside - I understand the culture of the Nascar fan, even if I do not get a reference, I can pick up on the context of the allusion - it's the lack of solidarity. It's nice to feel a sense of place within something, and even if it's only a procession of links, it's reinforcing and justifying the validity of something I love. All that desire for that kind of context could inspire intense burn-out, too. This I acknowledge. But I am freshly riveted.
Also: I didn't know Richard Ayoade directed a movie. Precocious British kids give me dry heaves, but my love for Richard Ayoade mandates a fair shake - typewriters and rainslickers aside, why can't one of these movies be about a weird girl who likes a standoffish, interesting boy? Or will that just be myself and Mr. Ayoade, forever. No question mark.