Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
What Wood Did to Bolaño
http://contrajameswood.blogspot.com/2009/01/gutless-realism-james-woods-housebroken.html
Magniloquence. Courtliness.
This essay does a good job of locating my unease with James Wood's reviews of Roberto Bolaño.
Magniloquence. Courtliness.
This essay does a good job of locating my unease with James Wood's reviews of Roberto Bolaño.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Perfume Review: Salvador Dali pour Homme
Salvador Dali pour Homme smells just like the mythical Babylonian beast, forget its name, that was supposed to be unwashed bull from the waist up and overripe persimmon from the waist down. He could neither walk nor roll and so tragically took his own life by chain-smoking and wearing too much Halston Z-14. With our modern knowledge of mythical composite creatures, I like to believe that he could now be saved. Alas, we are too late, and all we can do is write copiously and resolve, particularly at this blessed time of year, to be kind to our loved ones, to dumb beasts, and to people who smell weird.
This Little Girl. Roma, I Guess
What was it like? When you're a filmmaker you're always late for someplace else when the real shot shows up. There's never enough money or time. It's cold or it's hot; I'm late; no one will hold still or they won't keep doing what they were just doing that was actually interesting, and then something shows up in shit light or smiles at me, right there, and I don't see it because the film is already about something else.
The girl was about 12. Or maybe older and just small. There was food there and everything but all the people were small and hard, and looked older than they were, although I had no way of knowing how old they were. But even the children looked old. Not old with time but stamped with age to which time only needed to be added. The Roma aren't like the Czechs who age into good-humored cynics, or the Americans who age into surprised children. There always seems to be some chance that an American might escape mortality. On film they mostly look busy or surprised.
The gypsy camp was an ugly maze and I was late and lost. Men kept hitting on me, asking if I would take them home to America. I live in London, I said. Take me to London they said. And then this one little girl. She had very dark eyes, and it struck me enough to check what I was seeing without the camera. Although when it's bright like that the world disappears for a moment anyway when your eye leaves the camera. But it was impossible to see anything but shy darkness in her eyes. I mean their invisibility was palpable. And I couldn't look away. You can see how the shot wobbles. There.
And then I realized that we had surprised each other--my rush and her tears--she was weeping. They were all dusty, and the tears left channels of girlish skin down one cheek that spread to one side of her Roman nose as she wiped her face with her knuckles. We were hurrying away from each other the whole time but we did this dance, which I mostly got on film. She was hurrying back to conceal her tears, and I was hurrying to be wrong about what my film was about.
'Are you crying? Why are you crying?'
She looked away and looked back which was a kind of answer. I think she meant that I wouldn't understand, or that's what I imagined. On the film, she looks away and when she looks back she has decided that her eyes will be less opaque. She looks into the lens and the autofocus flickers and then she is gone again.
'Why are you crying?' I ask, and she shrugs. And then, "What is your name?"
'What is your name?" she says, and her voice is small, only the voice of girl, although very husky.
'Pavla.' And then, 'What is your name.' Now coaxing, which she likes, and smiles.
'Pavla?'
'What's wrong?' again. And she looked at me blackly and answered in some language I assume was Roma. I couldn't understand, of course. I speak English and Czech and some Russian but no Roma, of course, if that's what it was.
She said whatever it was again, looking at me as though it were impossible to say it in any other language.
She shrugged and--although it doesn't seem to show up on the screen--through the lens her face was a child's face and her eyes were green.
The girl was about 12. Or maybe older and just small. There was food there and everything but all the people were small and hard, and looked older than they were, although I had no way of knowing how old they were. But even the children looked old. Not old with time but stamped with age to which time only needed to be added. The Roma aren't like the Czechs who age into good-humored cynics, or the Americans who age into surprised children. There always seems to be some chance that an American might escape mortality. On film they mostly look busy or surprised.
The gypsy camp was an ugly maze and I was late and lost. Men kept hitting on me, asking if I would take them home to America. I live in London, I said. Take me to London they said. And then this one little girl. She had very dark eyes, and it struck me enough to check what I was seeing without the camera. Although when it's bright like that the world disappears for a moment anyway when your eye leaves the camera. But it was impossible to see anything but shy darkness in her eyes. I mean their invisibility was palpable. And I couldn't look away. You can see how the shot wobbles. There.
And then I realized that we had surprised each other--my rush and her tears--she was weeping. They were all dusty, and the tears left channels of girlish skin down one cheek that spread to one side of her Roman nose as she wiped her face with her knuckles. We were hurrying away from each other the whole time but we did this dance, which I mostly got on film. She was hurrying back to conceal her tears, and I was hurrying to be wrong about what my film was about.
'Are you crying? Why are you crying?'
She looked away and looked back which was a kind of answer. I think she meant that I wouldn't understand, or that's what I imagined. On the film, she looks away and when she looks back she has decided that her eyes will be less opaque. She looks into the lens and the autofocus flickers and then she is gone again.
'Why are you crying?' I ask, and she shrugs. And then, "What is your name?"
'What is your name?" she says, and her voice is small, only the voice of girl, although very husky.
'Pavla.' And then, 'What is your name.' Now coaxing, which she likes, and smiles.
'Pavla?'
'What's wrong?' again. And she looked at me blackly and answered in some language I assume was Roma. I couldn't understand, of course. I speak English and Czech and some Russian but no Roma, of course, if that's what it was.
She said whatever it was again, looking at me as though it were impossible to say it in any other language.
She shrugged and--although it doesn't seem to show up on the screen--through the lens her face was a child's face and her eyes were green.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Verse About Blake
Salt for what I can't see,
Sage for the ghosts in me,
Ginger to clear my mind,
Cream almost all the time.
Bowls full of blossoms blend,
bitter then sweet again.
Peppers for a rosary.
Friend, come and sit with me.
Sage for the ghosts in me,
Ginger to clear my mind,
Cream almost all the time.
Bowls full of blossoms blend,
bitter then sweet again.
Peppers for a rosary.
Friend, come and sit with me.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Geoffrey Prince, Salt Lake City, Utah, January 4
Mr. _______________,
As we discussed when you called, I am not comfortable with your request to speak to these matters informally, as I believe there is too much oportunity for mischief and error in the transcription, interpretation and, possibly, in the editorial contextualization that inevitably your duties require. Therefore, I require that you publish this written statement in its entirety or not at all, as I have written it here. Of course, I will maintain a dated copy in my records and will contest any attempt to cite me except by including the complete, unaltered text of this letter.
My name is Geoffrey Fielding Prince. I resided near Kolob, Utah from March 15 of last year through the end of November. I am an Associate Professor in the Department of Archaeology at the University of Utah, and spent those eight and a half months in Kolob managing fieldwork on a dig near Kolob, located on Bureau of Land Management land. As is generally the case with such work, my crew and I spent nearly all of our time at the dig site. We returned to Kolob Town only to pick up our mail, send and receive e-mail, and meet our suppliers. During these brief hours in Kolob, I met only a few residents: Dotti Lyman at the gas station; Dorothea [whose last name I don't know] at the Post Office; a young farmer named Lauro, whom I picked up hitchiking on 144 on July 4; and Officer R. Lyman of the Pierce County Sheriff's Department, who gave me a speeding ticket [four miles per hour over the posted limit] on July 5. I recall two or three brief conversations and verbal acknowledgements, too, but I do not remember with whom I spoke. I never lingered in Kolob more than two hours, and spent the night there only once, the night of July 5, at the Black Bear Mesa Motel.
In our conversation yesterday, you asked about the location of the dig site. I am forbidden by the terms of my contract from providing this information. Kolob was the nearest town, and we were on Federal land.
As we discussed, I require that all future communications be in writing through the attorney advising the University on these matters. His contact information is attached.
Sincerely,
Geoffrey F. Prince,
Associate Professor of Archaeology
The University of Utah
Salt Lake City
As we discussed when you called, I am not comfortable with your request to speak to these matters informally, as I believe there is too much oportunity for mischief and error in the transcription, interpretation and, possibly, in the editorial contextualization that inevitably your duties require. Therefore, I require that you publish this written statement in its entirety or not at all, as I have written it here. Of course, I will maintain a dated copy in my records and will contest any attempt to cite me except by including the complete, unaltered text of this letter.
My name is Geoffrey Fielding Prince. I resided near Kolob, Utah from March 15 of last year through the end of November. I am an Associate Professor in the Department of Archaeology at the University of Utah, and spent those eight and a half months in Kolob managing fieldwork on a dig near Kolob, located on Bureau of Land Management land. As is generally the case with such work, my crew and I spent nearly all of our time at the dig site. We returned to Kolob Town only to pick up our mail, send and receive e-mail, and meet our suppliers. During these brief hours in Kolob, I met only a few residents: Dotti Lyman at the gas station; Dorothea [whose last name I don't know] at the Post Office; a young farmer named Lauro, whom I picked up hitchiking on 144 on July 4; and Officer R. Lyman of the Pierce County Sheriff's Department, who gave me a speeding ticket [four miles per hour over the posted limit] on July 5. I recall two or three brief conversations and verbal acknowledgements, too, but I do not remember with whom I spoke. I never lingered in Kolob more than two hours, and spent the night there only once, the night of July 5, at the Black Bear Mesa Motel.
In our conversation yesterday, you asked about the location of the dig site. I am forbidden by the terms of my contract from providing this information. Kolob was the nearest town, and we were on Federal land.
As we discussed, I require that all future communications be in writing through the attorney advising the University on these matters. His contact information is attached.
Sincerely,
Geoffrey F. Prince,
Associate Professor of Archaeology
The University of Utah
Salt Lake City
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