How My Day is Going
- The Husband: hi girl.
- Joan: hi
- The Husband: how are you?
- Joan: i think I killed the fire detector. we might need a new one.
Heeeey… a review!
Some authors want to lead you through their story like a tour guide. Joan gives you a sled and pushes you off the hill. You slide effortlessly into the world of a young trophy-wife and the decisions she faces. Trees zoom by at breakneck pace and you can’t steer.
You know you need something to read, to take your mind off holiday stress this week…
But since so much of the poetry machine is consumed in and with the mirroring and the reproduction of what is already preexistent, I don’t understand why such paranoiac conservatism is dedicated to labels. It’s a way of controlling the “other,” to label them. It’s what I meant earlier when I said that’s why the labels are ready-made without any deeper investigation into what those labels may open up, for English and for American poetry. We are too often satisfied with the superficially profound, a representation of depth, and not depth itself.
And people say: “Well, where is it? Point to the center! Point to the system!” People want me to anoint some tyrant, some Big Brother, an Orwellian character, as if a clear-cut totalitarianism is the only way to make this argument clear. But, actually it’s really more—and I hate to use the cliché—it’s more Kafkaesque. It’s all so well-oiled. Everything carries an air of inevitability. So you can’t point to a center or a figure or a group. The whole thing has been going on for so long, the center holds by proliferating in the peripheries. There is suburbia even in poetry.
You know, for a crazy homeless person, he’s pretty cut.
Can we please take a moment to appreciate how intensely Thor is trying to figure out what the fuck jeans are.
Just shown Mum this. Her reaction “Phwooor.”