Copping-a-feel

Stephen King writes about the state of the short story in the NY Times.

What happens when [the short story writer] realizes that his or her audience is shrinking almost daily? Well, if the writer is worth his or her salt, he or she continues on nevertheless, because it’s what God or genetics (possibly they are the same) has decreed, or out of sheer stubbornness, or maybe because it’s such a kick to spin tales. Possibly a combination. And all that’s good.

What’s not so good is that writers write for whatever audience is left. In too many cases, that audience happens to consist of other writers and would-be writers who are reading the various literary magazines (and The New Yorker, of course, the holy grail of the young fiction writer) not to be entertained but to get an idea of what sells there. And this kind of reading isn’t real reading, the kind where you just can’t wait to find out what happens next (think “Youth,” by Joseph Conrad, or “Big Blonde,” by Dorothy Parker). It’s more like copping-a-feel reading. There’s something yucky about it.

Not sure exactly what to make of his essay which you can read all of here. Stephen King is not who I want to be when I grow up. And my goal is not to write like him. Not sure I trust his taste or decisions about literature. But I do agree about the copping-a-feel reading of a lot of journals. Just reading to stake out competition. Which definitely happens. Not so sure. Interested to hear what the rest of you think. In the end, writing is a process of discovery that hopefully the reader can enjoy, learn from, be challenged by. But there are no guarantees. And no simplifying, no dumbing things down, explaining or pandering.

Voluntad de vivir manifestándose

Ahora me comen.
Ahora siento cómo suben y me tiran de las uñas.
Oigo su roer llegarme hasta los testículos.
Tierra, me echan tierra.
Bailan, bailan sobre este montón de tierra
y piedra
que me cubre.
Me aplastan y vituperan
repitiendo no sé qué aberrante resolución que me atañe.
Me han sepultado.
Han danzado sobre mí.
Han apisonado bien el suelo.
Se han ido, se han ido dejándome bien muerto y enterrado.
Este es mi momento.

Reynaldo Arenas.

(Prisión del morro. La Habana, 1975)

Play on

A friend said this might be heterophobic. But still, laugh it up. A play on "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf" by Ntozake Shange.

For Straight Guys Who've Considered Suicide When the KY Is Enough

are you worried I want you?
are you worried I jerk off
picturing you
naked
touching me?
swallowing me?
yeah
maybe I do
maybe I think about you
everynight
and there's nothing you can do
about it

Read the rest of the poem at the site for CA Conrad's book of poems, Deviant Propulsion, from Soft Skull. And then buy it and then lend it to me when you're done with it.

In memoriam





How much can we hope to understand those who have suffered deeper anguish, greater deprivation, and more crushing disappointments than we ourselves have ever known?




How much can a man hear another's voice inside him?




Quotes from Snow by Orhan Pamuk. The first from page 259. The second from page 441.



.

The Bus of Michael Haneke

“I had a dream last night,” Haneke told me toward the end of our lunch in New York. “A nightmare, to be exact. Maybe you’ll find it useful for your piece.” For a moment he was uncharacteristically quiet. He finally said: “I was sitting in a bus, and suddenly it went out of control. For some reason I was responsible for everybody’s safety, but I couldn’t get the steering wheel to work: perhaps it was broken, perhaps someone else was preventing me. People were wandering up and down the street, and the bus ran them over, unavoidably, one after another. Somehow I was responsible for this, but I was helpless to prevent it.” He took a slow, thoughtful sip of his coffee. “A pretty terrible dream, but to me it seems representative of our current situation in the world. All of us are responsible but unable to change the direction of the bus — everyone in Europe, everyone in the so-called first world, is in that same position. A horrible predicament, almost unbearable if you think about it, but the bus keeps right on rolling.”

Rest of the interview with Haneke is here.

Free the Jena 6

We protest because Jena is not a rural Southern town, it is a state of mind -- not from the 1950s, but of the here and now in every American town, suburb and city from South to North and sea to shining sea.

We protest because Jena exemplifies with such brutal clarity the racialization of crime in our society.

We protest because we are moved to do so, not because any charismatic leader told us to do so.

We protest because we are following our our consciences, not polls.

We protest because we know that leaders do not draw crowds, crowds attract (more) leaders.

We protest because "we are the leaders we have been waiting for."

To read more about this statement, see Afro-Netizen. More info on Jena 6 and to help out, see Color of Change. Specially like the line about leaders not drawing crowds. Crowds attract more leaders. True true.

Word For/Word

Stumbled on this journal which has been around for awhile it seems, but which I just discovered. Word For/Word.

There is a really interesting feature on Chilean sound and visual poetry coming out of Foro de Escritores. The Foro is described in an interview by one of its members:

The only goal is to have an open space for poets and artists to gather together every three or four weeks in a pub in Santiago (the Rapa Nui bar in the Providencia area) to show to other poets and artists their work, what they are doing or making at that moment. In that sense it is a workshop. Most of the collaborators have a common interest in language and an interest in exploration—in some cases reckless exploration of forms, formats, and media.

All this work is very worth exploring. And it's presented in a way that makes it really easy to access.

Visual image by Anamaría Briede. Man grasping throat is Gregorio Fontén.

'







There is no unalloyed joy.









I wonder how I have missed this expression "unalloyed joy." Google registers 14,900 results. Practically a cliché. But not for me. The Word for the Day is "unalloyed" used with concepts.

un·al·loyed adj.
  1. Not in mixture with other metals; pure.
  2. Complete; unqualified: unalloyed blessings; unalloyed relief.
Coincindentally, there are only four mentions of "There is no unalloyed joy." And Bad Texas is currently link number one. Yes. Google it and you will see. Perhaps. Google is such a mystery.

Haz click en la imagen para poder leer el texto.
Es que Blogger no me dejó poner espacios en el texto, y por eso.

Javier

Come check out Javier O. Huerta in Houston...

Will present his new book of poetry, Some Clarifications y otros poemas, winner of the University of California, Irvine’s Chicano / Latino Literary Prize.

On Sunday, September 30 at the George R. Brown from 1:00 - 2:00 p.m. in Hall A-3 Room C. Which coincidentally coincides with the 800th anniversary of the birth of the Sufi poet Rumi (according to Javier).

Just met Javier a month or so ago in Monterrey at an Encuentro de Escritores. A brawny guy with a radical sense of humor, taking wanderingly new directions in his poetry. He also was raised up in H-Town so we gotta support our own, y'know? Sorry for getting all citycentric. But you should really try and come. And if you're out of town, you can crash with me.

The beginning of his poem "Rising Thunder":

I came to translate the mountain, but the mountain did not speak. I gave it a name: O Rising Thunder. But the mountain did not speak. I danced in a circle and chanted its name. I sacrificed a scorpion and left it at its feet. But the mountain did not speak.

More of his poems are at this journal Three Candles. And there is more info about him and his work in this part of the Arte Publico website. Javier also has a UnitedStatesian blog over here.

.






Mejor un pájaro en la mano que cien volando.







Mejor dicho: "Más vale pájaro en mano que ciento volando." Gracias, Román.

Señorita Cinema

Calling all Latina filmmakers! Aquí, allá, no importa donde viven. Call for Entries for an all Latina filmfest my friend, Stephanie Saint Sanchez, is doing here in Houston.
THE LONE STAR STATE'S VERY FIRST ALL LATINA FILM FESTIVAL!

We are seeking films and videos by Latina Filmakers and Video Artists for an exclusive exhibition at Houston’s Premiere venue for cutting edge art The Lawndale Art Center. This is a juried show with awards going to 1st, 2nd and 3rd place. Senorita Cinema will be a part of Lawndale’s month long acclaimed Dia De Los Muertos Program. Film Festival nights are October 12 and 13th with a possible extended run as an installation.

Formats accepted: VHS, DVD, MINI DV, DIGITAL 8

Since we want to spotlight as many Artists as possible this year we will be concentrating on short works. Any genre 15 minutes or less will be considered. This includes trailers for larger works and even music videos. Multiply entries accepted as long as the total running time does not exceed 15 minutes and are on one tape or disk.

ENTRY FEE: $15.00 JUL. 30th - SEPT. 21st
LATE ENTRY: $25.00 SEPT. 22nd - OCT. 2nd
Make Check or Money Order Out to La Chicana Laundry Pictures.
FINAL DEADLINE POSTMARKED by OCT. 2nd!

Get more info on the filmfest web page or its MySpace page. Puedes mandar cosas de México o de Latinoamérica o de cualquier lado, no tienen que vivir en los Unaites.

Los hijos bastardos del petróleo

Una amiga (a la que quiero más y más) me lleva a ver la vista de Manhattan desde Jersey City, nos emocionamos, cotorreamos, tomamos dos botellas de vino y nos la pasamos super suave. Al regresar grabo un mensaje en el celular como un recuerdo:


Él: Los hijos bastardos del petróleo, o sea los texanos que no caminan. Cuéntame más.

Ella: Los hijos bastardos del petróleo son áquellos, de todas las ciudades, no solamente Tejas, Texas es la capital de los hijos bastardos, pero todos, en total, son áquellos que van en su puto carro a comprar una bolsa de leche.

Él: Una bolsa???

Ella: Una botella, perrrdón, que se encuentra (en colombia se compra en bolsas) que se encuentra a dos putas cuadras y tienen que llevarrr su puto carrrrro a caminarrr dos putos cuadras porque no imporrrta cuánto contaminamos el ambiente, porque no podemos caminar dos cuadras, eh? No vivimos en la civilización primitiva.

Él: Te pasas.

Ella: Que meto lo que se me de la gana y esos son los hijos bastardos del petróleo, que ahora camina a ver una vista, como es que la has llamado?

Él: Es una vista reconocida al nivel mundial.

Ella: Y se queja por caminar menos de veinte minutos. Hi jo bas tar do del pe tró le o.

Él: Gracias.


(Y se acaba el mensaje.)



in the mission. san francisco. hoot horns and cable car walk down césar chávez. i been a long time coming. landed there in one bum house tall pre-christian house with victorian corners and mantelpieces. full of orgiastic postqueer neighborhood chums in yellow leg warmers and white headbands. a long time. millions urging and merging in this house. coming. a way out. right these old cliches upright again. the same ones reemerge. so a mess of glorioustic leftmongering and rimming. a long. wandering in through out among and mess everywhere in shades of purple blue bacchanlian bliss say. and i alone wandering clearly amiss.


emerge outside half snow half sleet half air full of pollen and springtime blooms dried waving through air. i walked down cobblestone and crackways under a dislevel passover and in front debonair emerges tight waist and firm supported midsection boisterous chest a riot of sophistisexuality as if a tophat as if a graceful collar and thick football frat neck but gracefully none of same anywhere. there were ways for this in the twenties say. and he between sailor and literary star. small star. and i loaded with books who say. cant remember the names but infinitely concerned with language poets and this sort of excursion. and then suddenly he has saluted me said hello then. i say a mess of words he's passing bye and i whisper undecidedly, if what i had been then to say qué? and his shock glistens, swerves and turns, oh my child, that is so passé. and his tall firm thick well proportioned thin hip mass saunters away softly chiding with a giggling amalgam of laughter and spite.


i crushed gaze longingly searchingly for his ass then my books. read their titles forgotten to me now. there they were and trip fall stumble out they go down a crack in the street. scrambled down the incline in front of curbside sidewalks run down grassy slope emerge on beach balls and volleyballs and seaside partying by the bay and sand and yellow red and white blue balls up the incline again now another into hopefully the pass under the street to retrieve my fated books those lost titles that alone hold promise and growing opportunity. and now no people everyone where escape from them and now fences chain link and at the top barbed wire and over them junkyards full of scrap metal.


wake sweating sweated the t-shirt empapered to my skin and wet air mattress half deflated and forlorn. rural texas fagnightmares.


there will be no future for books the mission or tight wasted firmly built young dandies. no.


Bring La Cucaracha Back to the Chron!

This news from Lalo Alcaraz, of pocho cartooning fame... The Houston Chronicle just removed his cartoon and put in some cartoon from New Zealand about penguins. Qué buena decisión puesto que tenemos tantos inmigrantes de esa parte del mundo en Houston. Not. Este es el aviso de Lalo:

The Houston Chronicle has dropped the ONLY COMIC STRIP IN THE UNITED STATES that regularly supports Latino immigrant rights and explores Chicano/Latino/Mexicano political and social issues- "la cucaracha," by me, Lalo Alcaraz, and has replaced it with a PENGUIN-themed comic strip by a New Zealand cartoonist!

You can help me get "la cucaracha" back in to the paper. It can happen, as in March I was dropped WITHOUT NOTICE by the LA Times and reader response was so OVERWHELMING they brought La Cucaracha back in 36 hours!

Gracias Lalo Alcaraz, Creator of "La Cucaracha" Cucarachalaloalcaraz@yahoo.com
http://www.myspace.com/laloalcaraz

Please email and call the Houston Chron if you have ever enjoyed reading comics about Latinos and immigrants more than reading about penguins from New Zealand!

To comment on Arctic Circle or any other comics in the Chronicle:
E-mail comics@chron.com .• Call 713-362-3222.

Jen Hofer's Brilliance in the Journal of Aesthetics and Protest

Translation is sunspots.

People are versions: contextual, interrupted, mutable, articulated, different in different moments and spaces.

We believe a little fakery is the sincerest form of sincerity.

The act of rewriting a poem or paragraph from one language to another is known as translation; the act of saying aloud in one language what someone is saying in another is known as interpretation: the terms, it seems to me, are exactly backwards.

All quotes from a new article by la mera mera Jen Hofer que se llama "Suspension of Belief: Some Thoughts on Translation as Subversive Speech". Really, if you have a few minutes (or a few more) to digest her writing. So worth it. Also, she has another piece in the same journal, The Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, called Notes on Translation and the Art of War (which is an email sum-up and jump-off of thoughts after attending a January Emily Apter talk in L.A.).

And it would serve you right to read the first article too because you can see her amazing translations of a poem by (Y te sirviría mucho leer el primer artículo también porque puedes ver las traducciones de este poema de) Myriam Moscona:

ver
verde
ver de verlo
velo verde
velar al verde
ve lo verde
de verdad
vélo

Myriam Moscona

The Fabulous Gay Bars of Huntsville, Texas

Imagine a future where Huntsville has gay bars on every side of the Waller County Courthouse. As you leave the university, the oak trees the tallows climb out rage on above a block of meadow. Follow that University Avenue just one block and already for the protest. We just killed our four hundredth person the four hundreth person to die since Texas resumed the death penalty. Tonight another dies. Dark brick looms over the pockmarked asphalt. The same asphalt around the library loops the Coliseum gave us reason to connect the two. There was a time when memory was stronger. When we remembered what. The future then sorry could be blissful could be more then we imagine.


The fabulous gay bars of Huntsville Texas could bring legions of tourists to the city. Ask any fairy on any street corner any cowboy on any horse all could point you in the right direction. Right past where they used to sell slaves then.


Try not to be so melancholy, so sensible, tree. Maya said when the largest, oldest tree falls in the forest, small things coil up and hide. We didn't desire to be those small things. Perhaps fate is ineludible. Perhaps our coiling and hiding is a legacy. A tree better but fallen.


Despite having moved past fear in the seventies moralizing corrodes oxidizes the track we move on. Where are the best gay bars in Huntsville right now. Why would anyone be afraid of the crows. The crows equal judgements unavoidable in their simplicity and their harshness. Unafraid of judgement then. Trying to be simpler then open a dialogue that is I am trying to be simpler then open a dialogue.


Repeat. Look what has happened. To hold back that which was previously restricted. If only the gay bars in Huntsville were known to everyone on every street corner. If only I asked the boy who sold me my dinner. The man walking into the Texas Farmhouse. All this brick all these oaks all this sky and storm came falling down around me. Not so innocent anymore but hardly ready. What this could be would be so much better than what is.