from Barbara Guest

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evelyn
on July 20, 2008
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There was a dream within a dream and inside
the outer dream lay a rounded piece of white
marble of perfect circular dimension.
The dreamer called this marble that resembled
a grain of Grecian marble, “Eva Knachte,”
who was blown into the dream by the considerate
rage of night.

Her name evoking night became a marble pebble,
the land on which she rested was the shore
of the sea that washed over her and changed
her lineaments into classic marble, a miniature
being, yet perfect in this dream, her size
determined by the summer storm with which
I struggled and seized the marble.

from The Screen of Distance

I just read this and am posting it here for affection–the way a kid who finds something runs to show it to others for the affection it might bring to her inner body, the one made of sweets and their gatherers.

Touchpad

Published
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evelyn
on July 12, 2008
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You left some seeds on my touchpad, thanks. Oh, one just fell under the F2 key. I wish a cabbage or whatever it is would grow beneath my keys, popping them all off by pressing from underneath, like the keys are squares of concrete sidewalk and this is a disreputable neighborhood we’re in called Touchpad.

Lit mag names

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evelyn
on July 10, 2008
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My favorite name for a literary magazine is NOON. NOON is really a great name–it’s a palindrome two ways, horizontally and vertically. When you are on your head and you read the word NOON, it is the same as when you are standing or sitting, when you are not trying to read things while you are on your head. It does not matter which way the spine is when NOON is on a shelf. Even if the spine is facing the wall, NOON would still look like NOON, if only you could see through objects. So much of the day gets rounded into ‘noon’. If you wake up at 11:24, you could tell people you woke up at noon. The part of the day that you do until you feel like the day has to end is talked about in relation to noon. Things fold up into noon. You cast no shadow at noon when you are at a theoretical place, the equator. Diane Williams’ writing collapses into itself sometimes when I read it; it collapses like a rich French actress does when she collapses and asks for a cigarette and a lighter from her collapsed position, straightening her garter and her gabardine smock for a camera, and I don’t know why she is wearing a smock, so I kick her a little with my riding boot while I am taking her picture. Okay. NOON covers are a black background behind the body of an animal, and the scientific name for the animal appears on the cover in sans-serif font. Scientific names in sans-serif fonts are really nice looking.

I like SIR! as a name for a literary magazine. Brian Foley said something about wanting to publish a certain kind of humor, and SIR! makes me think of a certain kind of humor, and also the words ‘wainscot’ and ‘cummerbund.’

Pindeldyboz, NOÖ Journal, and Zyzzyva–I like these names because it’s like how the hell do you pronounce them?

No Posit and SmokeLong I like because these names say something about the content and form they want to publish. So does Six Sentences, but that doesn’t seem as catchy, like it doesn’t want to grab on to me when I am running past it wearing a smock.

Lamination Colony makes me think of a sweaty clown suit and the sound of rubber clown shoes walking on gravel, and that is creepy. I like it.

N+1 and Ninth Letter sound like chance word games, and that is clever I guess.

Opium. I do not like the name Opium much. For a drug opium is passe–name it Adderall or something, or Soy Protein Powder. I am probably ‘missing the point.’

There are so many, I could do this for hours. When I think about making my own literary magazine I think, There are so many.

There are so many. But I keep thinking about the thing I would add to the heap of them, what would I call it? Something about the feeling of being about to experience a really good thing you have been anticipating, something pre-apocalyptic.

Seattle

Published
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evelyn
on June 26, 2008
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The arugula seeds are under a bag of raw cashews on top of a plastic CD spindle case.

In our absence the roommates might sit on the lawn eating cereal holding badmitton rackets.

Even the dog that shits in the driveway is polite; he turns up his face mid-shit when I tap on the window, politely goes away.

Now I am considering the moisture-wicking properties of various fabrics, the sporty logos of outer shells, that mountain is nice when it’s behind the city skyline, that monogram.

That guy who said he was sexually attracted to Mt. Everest, is he from Seattle?

Subarus with bike racks. More Subarus. Subarus.

A large tattooed woman reading a large book at a bus stop looks over at a large tattooed woman reading the bus schedule. I ride by on my bike looking pretty androgynous, helmeted.

If you have computer problems. If you are Mid-western. If you are skiing while texting. If you are into Anime and girls who look like Anime characters.

Seattle, you and California should meet somewhere in Oregon. In a hippie’s mud hut in Ashland? Maybe in Weed.

New Wave Young Godard

Published
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evelyn
on June 17, 2008
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Maybe it’s because I just watched Breathless that this story by Mike Young seems like it should be starring Godard.

Mike Young recently accepted something I submitted to NOO Journal. In his email he said something I’m quoting because I think it’s hilarious and observant and is how I would like to describe his linked story:

There is something about the kind of funny that’s being written right now. It’s very careful, but if someone were to come up to it and say “I want to throw you away,” this kind of funny would agree. I like that quality. Pre-apocolypse Kenneth Koch or something.

Illustration for ‘Parting’

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on June 13, 2008
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E.B. Goodale did the illustration above for a short story I’ll have in Smokelong Quarterly. I had seen her illustrations on Brian Foley’s blog (like her illustration for a poem in Rauan Klassnik’s Holy Land) and in Oranges and Sardines, so I thought of her when an editor at Smokelong said that I could provide my own illustration for the story. I think she did a great job. I particularly like the way the wall/floor line is jagged and looks at first glance like handwriting. I also really like how an outline appears to be separating from or joining the body of the suited man (’the son’ in the story). Thank you, E.B. Goodale.

June

Published
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evelyn
on June 4, 2008
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Published
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evelyn
on April 23, 2008
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mask-w-basket.jpg

(The image is from this site)

the knife

Published
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evelyn
on March 30, 2008
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pass this on.

grizzly in a time of famine

Published
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evelyn
on December 28, 2007
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This thing here is like some underwear I’m showing you.

I’m hoping you will look with love upon my underwear and the mess of my underwear.

The cat in this room is looking at the construction equipment moving against the sky, maybe wondering when it can attack the construction equipment that’s building condos down the street. I’m encouraging the cat to begin its attack aggressively any time.

Here is the thing; it’s from a slightly longer thing.

Here it is:

I like it when you hit me and pretend like I’m hitting myself! Then you try to hold my hand and pretend that we have to escape nuclear fallout. “It’s happening” you say, “quick come with me, hurry!” You pull my arm into the basement. “Give me back my arm!” I say. In the basement you say, “Your arm will survive but not you. I’m watching out for your arm, but you’re on your own. I break up with you. I just want your arm.” Then you and my arm go out and move the heaviness we all collectively agreed not to move, revealing a blond. I don’t know what you did to that with my arm. And now we all collectively will have to agree what happened.

You bring my arm back to me with bruises and blood on it. All day I’ve been making do with one arm. Opening cans, washing the car, spraying pesticides on the nuclear war garden. That one arm cost me a lot, actually, cost my parents a lot. You put my arm lovingly beneath my pillow so I’ll find a surprise before bed. But it’s never surprising because it’s my own arm!

You’ve never asked me how I lost my arm. Do you want to know? Think of a five year-old girl. Think of the five year-old girl running toward someone with her arms extended. Think of that someone suddenly turning into a grizzly bear. One second, a loved one, the next, a grizzly. A grizzly in a time of famine. A grizzly that’s been tagged by the DNR as having attacked once and being likely to attack again. Think of that the next time you hit me and pretend I’m hitting myself. A grizzly in a time of famine!