Archive for February, 2012

"I often think of words as cheap trinkets" JA Tyler interviews Olivia Cronk

by on Feb.02, 2012

JA Tyler has a great interview with Olivia Cronk, whose book Skin Horse is just about to be released by Action Books (you can probably get it at SPD today). Here’s an excerpt:

“There is something about our sense of a timeline and the way we access memory that makes narrative so easy. I am excited by the feeling that this is ridiculous, seeing as we simply impose time on experience and imagine ourselves in a kind of gauzy strip of events that runs from birth to now to death. I like the failure of narratives. I like that narratives entertain; I think that readers should feel inside a poem the way we feel when we watch a film or hear music or eat dinner—inside of something that is outside of something else.”



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by on Feb.02, 2012

I had this very weird dream a couple of nights ago, and I’m still pondering it:

I was sleeping in this big room full of cots. Some kind of boarding school. The guy in the bed next to me was my old friend Matt Miller. It was lights-out time but he handed me a stack of porn magazines and a little vial of oily liquid. The porn magazine were very strange because they were so airbrushed that one could hardly see the women. And the women’s faces made these open-mouthed-screaming-Francis-Bacon-ish grimaces, except they were airbrushed so thoroughly that it was even hard to see what was going on with the faces. The theme was “Thailand” but the girls were very blond and white, and mostly swimming – possibly drowning – in the water. Some of the pages were stuck together, so I tried using the liquid in the vile to separate the pages but then I was somehow informed that this liquid was supposed to be used for some kind of covert activity that would undermine the boarding house, possibly by developing photographs or by setting off a bomb (I don’t know if Matt told me this or if I was just given this information). Then the dictatorial school principal came by the bed, making the rounds to make sure we were in bed. It was George W Bush! He asked me about the vial and I told him that it was an eye drop and to prove it I poured the chemical in my eyes and it really burned but I had to fake like it was fine so nobody would suspect anything. He bought it (b/c he was as stupid in my dream as in real life) but then I realized that as soon as the school was blown up (or secret photographs published), he would remember the liquid and I would be arrested. My mom was outside in the garden planting flower bulbs that looked like bones (femurs, ribs etc). I told her, “You need to have more space between the bulbs or they won’t thrive, you can’t just throw them all in a hole like that.” She said, “No, this kind of flower you just throw in a pile in the ground and hope for the best.”

It seems like an old-fashioned Freudian castration dream! Except with terrorism! And very weird flowers! Except the Freudian reading is too textbook to ring true to me (the blindness, the mother).

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