Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Monday, November 26, 2012

No one ever ends up thanking god for meeting me.

Anobium has two new features in effect: Outer Space and Commerce in Shall. Outer Space orbits its concern around links (to features, to articles, to blog posts, to tumblr tags) that might otherwise get lost in the ether. Commerce in Shall is named after Catherine Wagner's "Macular Hole" and, every Friday, celebrates the efforts of writers, presses, designers and beyond who deserve the consideration of readers' paychecks.

Also at Anobium, I embarked on the personal initiative to investigate my canon, starting with Dennis Cooper's the Marbled Swarm. Reading the Marbled Swarm was occasion for me in the first place to consider what becomes and rigidly stays My Favorite because - even though it's new and I just read it for the first time in May - it was very meta for me in how reading it required me to confront a lot of what I get out of reading and what I look for in books.

And then Dennis Cooper dedicated a post to Anna Karina, the subject of Say you're a fiction, on his blog.

Next I think I'll do Nabokov's Ada. Recently I've encountered books that are new to me and speak to old impulses, that I love because they reassert how things are constant - I don't know why that's comforting right now, as the constants are not all that wonderful. I get madly fragile in the winter. Stretching back, a good number of the last winters have been weird. This one's shaping up to be revelatory. I don't mean to be obtuse - especially when I haven't updated all over the place - but I do have good news and all kinds of details to share very soon. But: I just finished the Group, and apart from loving it now as I've never read it before my first reaction was still "I would have loved this in college!" which I think is my limp psyche's attempt to integrate the strata of my reading life.

As I'm running my hands over those rings maybe I will review individual poems. Maybe I won't inflict that on Anobium. Poems themselves have, by and large, greater permanence than whole collections, and I am also hard-pressed to love an entire album, so I assume that's my quirk. One time someone I admired enormously said Roethke's "the Waking" brought me to mind. I do not expect this person remembers that comment that has loomed in my thinking ever since. Any petty interrogation of my behavior that's ever come since I've wanted to explain with the poem. But that's insane.

Likewise, crazy: spent a cumulative month bleakly muttering Plath's "Daddy" over small disputes and potential disappointments re aforementioned authority. After all this was over I started watching Mad Men. Season two's creative volley between authority Don and protege Peggy resulting in her going "What did you bring me, Daddy?" still has the power - as of latest test over Thanksgiving weekend - to make me cry like an idiot.

Also touching and seasonally appropriate in its joyousness, Liz's portrait of Marina Abramovic, soon to live with me:

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