February 2012
114 posts
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Last day the little Kilea will be meeting with... →
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Drea Cohane says nice things about my book →
(She’s my agent and she is lovely)
(And you might like to read her blog because it’s quite lovely too)
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“They are off-white and resemble strips of calamari in appearance. These strips...”
– From a BBC article on laboratory grown meat.
I don’t feel too well right now, but I bet in 20 years I’ll be happily munching on artificial steak. Um. Maybe.
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“You know that thing you do sometimes when you’re sitting there having freshly...”
– 5 Embarrassing Social Blunders You Have Maybe Made, Brandon Scott Gorrell (via muumuuhouse)
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Excerpt from Kilea. Last time? Maybe! →
Maybe someone will chance to read, and request the novel, want to publish it, then I can go and lie in a chair, fanning myself with a cushion until I pass out.
I need to go and read some more poetry again.
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To the rib-and-torso images on Tumblr and the...
Do we need to see the bones of women to love them?
I can see the shadow in the bones in my wrist, and it is neither here nor there. I am full coated in other places, though it all connects.
But it seems as though the culture wants mostly the jut of pelvis and the cowrie hardness. To claim in image a deheaded, beribbed torso as the ultimate beauty. A smallness of beauty. An isolate, claimable thing.
If I had ribs that ghosted under the skin, I would not mind. I would know I was my body, and more besides. I would not be an island of bare rock, but everything underneath too. The full, fat eyes and the chapped lips, all of it.
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Turns out the bots are already making Beckettian...
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In the near future, bots will fulfill your... →
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Excerpt from Kilea on Necessary Fiction. I will... →
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So I managed to upset a representative of the J.G.... →
I was maybe going a bit too far with the use of the Billy Madison Ultimate Insult clip.
No, scratch that. Hello America is really awful. About as funny as eating a stew of confetti and cat biscuits at a 70s dinner party hosted by a bunch of racist misogynists (the kind who would be offended if you accused them of such). Not that the Ballard fan is any of that. Just, that book. And Ballard
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Snippet
Lying in bed again after creeping back from the stairs, after the front door thudded, shutting her in, Aida felt the fullness of the night in her belly. Realising she had felt sick all day, and that the night would be for pinning why. She looked out of the small window into the throat of the forest. The low sky flushed pink, and a swollen darkness higher. For an unmeasured time she looked out, until the trees were silhouettes, were cast in glitter, the negative impression of the stars, until her eyes wept and her mouth dried up and bit itself in protest, and finally until she lost her body, looking out. If we tried to see into her head now there would only be the muteness she has left for her defense. Set of retreating footprints marking the inner shore.
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“In April 1933 he [Samuel Beckett] wrote to a friend: “Lovely walk this...”
– From Colm Toibin’s essay on the guardian “How I killed my mother”. Writers killing the influence of their relatives by being successful at the arts. I have to favour Beckett’s approach.
No, there is nothing in my eye right now.
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Two Good Things
1. I've been selected as a giver for World Book Night (23rd April). I'm giving out I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith, because it is a lovely book for all ages/reading interest levels. I'll be on South Bridge, in Edinburgh, handing out the novel to all takers.
2. The lovely INTERN of http: //internspills.blogspot.com/ has sent me a photo and description for the Share Your Spaces project! Still time to enter if you are so inclined: http://schietree.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/share-your-spaces/
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I fear I am growing less pliable. I worry that... →
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A charge was building, thin and shrill, like the... →
Extract still up for those who missed the link yesterday.
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“How mysterious are the mists over the swamps. Anyone who has wandered in these...”
– The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov (via myunreliablejournal)
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