Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Friday, October 16, 2015

If you need it abandoned leave it with me.

Last week, I had one of the worst times I've had since 2012. My life got a little ruined that year and I am pleased to report remains the benchmark for my bad times — last week did not top it, just took me back there, and I am still trying to get rid of the lingering effects.

But on Friday, I had to work a split shift, and in between I had three hours to myself. I turned on Black Orpheus. I made plum tea. I checked the mail and Niina Pollari's Dead Horse (from which this post's title is derived) had arrived at last. I lied down on the couch, opened Dead Horse, and started to read it aloud. By the second poem, it was storming outside. I stayed in that position, reading Dead Horse out loud, drinking plum tea, and listening to Black Orpheus while the storm ensued. As soon as I finished reading, I finished my tea, Black Orpheus was over, and the storm ended, all at once.

That felt incredible. I'm going to remember that.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Get these chrysanthemums out of the building.

Hoarding books does not make me feel incredible but having the perfect book waiting for the perfect time, especially when that time is not great otherwise — that is incredible. I came into most of Dodie Bellamy's books by-accident-on-purpose, mostly finding them where I did not expect them. I had a good time with Cunt Norton (right? What else is going to happen under those circumstances?) but the buddhist. I could not be happier in that I am not, mood-wise, where I would like to be at all, literature-related-happiness notwithstanding, and this book is completely there for me. I keep thinking about it, even after the Letters of Mina Harker and the TV Sutras. I LOVE the TV Sutras. I am hoping Academonia runs into me soon.

Also finally tackled: Paul B. Preciado's Testo Junkie. I started reading it last year and had to strain to recognize what Preciado was describing when it came to pharmacopornographic capitalism, now I do not have to try — reading it was one harsh, fluid stream of yes, yes, yes that all came out like a horrified no, no, no. I loved it, and I love now being lulled into this vulnerable place by Intimacy (ed. Lauren Berlant).
One curious feature of U.S. popular psychology is that it seems predicated upon the conviction that there are no good grounds for low self-esteem. 
- Candace Vogler, "Sex and Talk" from Intimacy
I ordered Eileen Myles' Chelsea Girls, Dodie Bellamy's When the Sick Rule the Worldthe two new Dorothy releases, Joanna Walsh's Vertigo and Marianne Fritz's the Weight of Things, and Niina Pollari's Dead Horse (finally — I kept expecting to find it someplace and never did). I was prepared to defer bulk-book-buying until BinderCon but no, my life is ridiculous.

Also ordered: Juliet Jacques' Trans, which has already arrived (and is the Joanna Walsh responsible for Vertigo responsible for this ravishing cover?! I'M OBSESSED) —

A photo posted by Kari Larsen (@coldrubies) on

But it's symphony season again and the Harrisburg Symphony Orchestra's first concert was phenomenal, especially their performance of Ernest Chausson's Symphony in B-flat, which I would love to hear live again as soon as possible.

And as a Contributing Editor at Entropy, I will be writing about innovation and representation on television, starting with my bid for how Twin Peaks ought to belong to Donna Hayward:
Laura the person was treated like the real mystery to solve, at least inextricable from the murder case if not, occasionally, overriding it. As the person who was genuinely the closest to Laura Palmer, the narrative builds no suspense around Donna. She is not a mystery because she was what Laura was supposed to be. 
My dearest Kara is illustrating my Entropy posts, so if you do anything, drink those drawings in.

A photo posted by Kari Larsen (@coldrubies) on