Archive for the 'Quotes' Category

Hello, world. Hear the song.

I’m trying to re-find the quote about how every argument, from world aggression to domestic spat, boils down to someone saying “What about me?” though I must be massively misremembering as I can’t find it anywhere.

It’s the kind of night where you just want to boil a cube of tofu, cut it up, cover it in store-bought pasta sauce and cheese and eat it.

failure pile

sadness plate

It was okay, you know. The sadness comes in where the boiling water does a splashback thing onto my hand and I have to go find the burn cream before dinner.

Speaking of burn cream, here’s another AWP event, if you’re headed there next week (click for more info):

And some Austin lit events: Teleportal 3 at Hotel San Jose is March 30th at 8pm, and the Awesome and Great Reading Show! is Wednesday April 7th at 7pm at Momo’s.

feedbag

Listen to this RadioLab about the Benrath Senior Center in Düsseldorf, Germany. Thoughts become fishes.

From Yoko Ono’s Twitter

Send a paper moon to your friend. Ask him to burn it
about 23 hours ago

People need shadows to rest in. I would advise you to send a bucket of shadow to a friend
9:00 AM Feb 12th

A man who thinks a room is filled with things can only say Be careful
9:01 AM Feb 8th

The colors in your room correspond to heat energy: tension-vibration in your mind
9:02 AM Feb 4th

Tape the sound of the lake gradually freezing. Drink a cup of hot chocolate, afterwards.
9:00 AM Dec 30th

Your room of long standing starts to resemble your mind and becomes symmetrical and/or complimentary to your mind
9:01 AM Feb 2nd

Each time we don’t say what we want to say we’re dying. Make a list of how many times you died this week.
9:01 AM Jan 14th

Listen to your breathing. Listen to your child breathing. Listen to your friend breathing. Keep listening.
9:00 AM Jan 26th

(link)

Memories

“When I am working on a problem, I never think about beauty; I think only about how to solve the problem. But when I have finished, if the solution is not beautiful, I know it is wrong.” — Buckminster Fuller

I’ve been sitting three feet away from a total stranger in a silent office for the past hour and a half. I just realized that and the realization has kind of freaked me out. Now I’m trying to silently eat salad.

Laura Owen’s got me feeling all manner of sentimental for old times. She’s a spitfire with stories in the latest issues of American Short Fiction and Annalemma but back in the day we used to sneak Hornsby’s from her parents’ fridge. I had a weird set of high school years, spending the first half playing the violin four hours a day in a performing arts magnet in Charlotte and the second half failing math and being the new kid at an academically rigorous and lily-white public school in Tucson. Laura was one who helped me make the transition to new school/life. I feel a kinship even though we only run into each other once every couple of years.

Hi Laura! I’ve always thought you are funny too, and much sharper than I am. You should come to Austin sometime. It is usually not very cold!

On keeping quiet.

I am a nervous person. I can admit this. I check at night to make sure I’ve locked the front door. I sometimes say “I have unplugged the curling iron” after I have unplugged it, so I don’t leave the house and worry about it for the rest of the day.

I am a nervous person

I really think I left it plugged in

I have a few superstitions. I turn over pennies when I see them heads-up. I throw salt behind my back. And I rarely talk about what I’m writing while I’m in the middle of it.

Of course, that’s only part superstition. Louis Sachar, the much-beloved author of the much-beloved Sideways Stories From Wayside School, never talks about his work either. He’s even more serious about it than I am. I heard an interviewer once try to tease the plot of Holes out of him but he stood firm. Here’s what he told Something About the Author:

…by working on a book for a year without talking about it–even to my wife–the story keeps building inside, until it’s bursting to be told and the words come pouring out when I sit down to write.

There’s something to that pressure cooker he describes. I always want to show people what I’m writing if I think I’m in the middle of something good, and sometimes little paragraphs or snippets do get forwarded or mentioned in emails or conversation. I wonder if keeping it all to myself is worth missing the little notes of encouragement that can turn a short project into a longer one.

These thoughts go against the blog culture a little. I’ve tried to talk about new work before, but the more long-term a project is for me, the less likely I want to say anything about it. On the other hand, I really like hearing writer friends talk about their new work, and things they’re cogitating. It inspires and pushes me, and reminds me that everyone is walking on their different roads every day. I like it when people talk shop in general, though I get a little sick of myself when I try to talk large about What We Should Be Writing And/Or Thinking About. I’d rather complain about the price of lox in Central Texas.

I would like to strike some kind of balance. I want to spark and participate in conversations about writing that have a significance to my own work, but I don’t want to get so close to the work that it starts to feel the heat of the torch I’m carrying.

I think that anyone who’s worried about their blogging is wasting their time. Next question? (JCO via CL)

Didn’t know this: Louis Sachar lives in my town and visits the local bridge club three or four times a week. Funny little world!

Na, na, na-na-na-na

Aspired to have lox on a bagel today; easier said than done in Texas. I’m being charged twelve dollars for some poor fish that has been air-crisping in a deli case for as few as ten and as many as eighteen hours. Trying to avoid writing anything with the letter “c” in it so I don’t have to admit that my “c” key is stuck.

Listening to some newlywed tourists sharing a bloody mary and making some guesses about the menu. “Matzah ball soup? Is that German?” “I don’t know, maybe. ” “K-a-t-z, that sounds German to me.” “That’s German.” “I don’t think Germans eat potato pancakes like this” etc. The owner of this place drives a Mercedes S500. And the angels said Damn.

I’m envious of all who are traveling to or living in the following cities today: Portland, New York, Chicago. Also, thinking seriously about a summer trip to the northwest corner (keyboard: ‘orner) of Wyoming.

In the ladies’ restroom of a bar I once heard two girls agreeing that “Love Stinks” by the J. Geils Band is the truest and most perfect love song in the history of American music. I’m partial to “[My Angel is the] Centerfold.”

Last night I went to a launch for Rose Metal Press’ Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction. Elizabeth Crane, Elizabeth Harris, Kathleen Rooney and Robert Shapard read. Kathleen read Ron Carlson’s great essay (“Key to all fiction, long or short, is to remember that the wolfman did not want the moon.”) and Sean Lovelace’s funny bocce ball story.




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