DC's

The blog of author Dennis Cooper

Butt

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Cheryl Donegan Butt Print, Kiss My Royal Irish Ass (1993)
Performance July 3, 1993, synthetic polymer paint on paper

 

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Seymour Dog Butt (2013)
‘‘Dog’s Butt’, pleasingly symmetrical black and white photographs on iridescent ‘special’ wedding-invitation paper, give criteria of aesthetic judgement a work out. A rally between formal propriety and irreverent smirks, it’s a tail-end challenge to good taste. Aesthetic principles are demoted below economy of materials and efficiency of process. The desktop laminator, with its A4 constraint and auto-framing effect, is the freedom of restriction. Seymour locks down the process to free up the channels of decision-making.’

 

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Young Boy Dancing Group @ Chapter 10 (2017)
‘Young Boy Dancing Group challenges gender and sexuality with lasers in their anal sphincters whose performances are a mishmash of queerness and techno-futurism that could only exist in our digital age.’

 

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Arson A Beautiful Ass (1995)
‘Enter my world, where the curves of the buttocks become an ode to sensuality, freedom, and pop art. My sculptures don’t just provoke; they caress the eye, awaken the senses, and invite abandon. The voluptuousness, the gluttony, the sweetness, or the impertinence of Pattes en l’air—this entire period of my work is an invitation to explore desire, poetry, and perhaps humor, by taking a step back from who we are.’ — Arson

 

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Toilet!? – Human Waste & Earth’s Future (2014)
‘Donning special shit-shaped caps, children line up to get flushed down the toilet.’

 

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Katarina Janeckova He is interested in her Butt and all she cares about is Art (2013)
‘For me, the bear is a perfect substitute for a man. Sometimes I depict the bear as a lover, voyeur, playful cub, perverted old bear or as a symbol of protection. It’s also for my own amusement. I love to create stories and relationships between the figures I paint. I paint those bears as simple, strange dark figures, because it allows you to fantasize. The monolithic black surface of the bear also gives the eye a place to rest among all the colors and wild brush strokes of the painting. Sometimes, I give them glasses or eyes and blushing cheeks to outline a little more about their character or mood.’

 

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Melani de Luca Post-Butt (2018)
‘Melani de Luca’s book Post-Butt looks beyond a good looking arse focusing on the “virality of images in our mediated society”. It’s a book that started from personal curiosity after noticing the “omnipresence of the butt on different channels, especially Instagram and music videos,” she tells It’s Nice That. But what Melani particularly noticed was how much the image and placement of butts had altered over the last 20 years. “The camera got lower, the frames that show the butt last longer and the face is often cut or even completely out of the picture,” she says. Research followed and a theory developed: “the rise of the butt in media was not accidental”.

‘However rather than just posing this as a topic for discussion, Melani developed a book on the subject from her urge to open a platform on the subject. “The images of the butt are embedded in our culture and therefore have a huge influence on society and individual behaviour,” she explains. “Even though music and dance are primarily seen as entertainment, they have an indirect or sometimes direct political function. We could think that the phenomenon of the butt-selfie, also known as ‘belfie’, might be absurd, but the analysis of recent history make it suddenly appear logical. The virality of the buttocks starts from the digital domain but it has repercussions in the physical world.”’

 

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Wang Haiyang Party in the Anus (2018)
‘In Wang Haiyang’s video work, Party in the Anus, an ambiguously gendered figure gyrates and dances with reckless abandon in what appears to be the fleshy vortex of an anus. Echoing the anal spiral into nothingness, the dimly-lit room is carpeted in a whirling black-and-white optical illusion. Ensconced in a full-body suit that masks even their face, the figure appears to relish the debased, scatological environment, embracing what Leo Bersani might perceive as the body’s receptacle of death and disease. For Wang, partying in the anus at the end of the world is a productive proposition.’


Trailer

 

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Nicole Eisenman Procession (2019–2020)
‘The giant in “Perpetual Motion Machine” has gone fishin’, his tuna catch (a bunch of old Bumble Bee cans) dangle heavily from a pole as he tugs a trolly with his free hand. But its wheels are square, a playful detail which might get overlooked, though it means missing the greater point Eisenman is trying to make about societal square pegs in proverbial round holes. In the ultimate act of public humiliation, a naked form adorns the trolley, head bowed while on his hands and knees, wearing only a pair of New York Giants socks. Brightly knit with red, white, and blue (Rangers team colors), the scandal of Eliot Spitzer as Client 9 immediately comes to mind. The figure’s ass, overgrown with sheared wool fleece, lets out a loud, smokey fart every few minutes. (A fog machine has been installed in his anus.) The fart plume is every fifth-grade boy’s laughing delight, and it seems to work well in a room of art snoots, too. If you find yourself unimpressed by the literal butt of this joke, the trolley’s bumper sticker conveys a message direct from the artist: HOW’S MY SCULPTING? CALL 1-800-EAT-SHIT. (The bumper stickers are for sale in the museum’s gift shop.)’

 

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Odd Nerdrum Twilight (1981)
‘I had seen some of his paintings in the beginning, I didn’t really like them, I was not very interested. But then I meet him by accident on a street in Oslo. And he tells me where he is living and it was just a five minute walk from my hotel. And he invites me to come to his house. I go to his house, and we go to the garage. And there he had a huge painting which at that time was called “A Woman Shitting in the Woods.” Life itself is a kind of realism. And life itself is very cruel. Every man goes to the toilet, once a day, he sits down and he shits. Like an animal, you know. Then he cleans, washes his hands, and walks out and he is no more an animal. Then, I really discovered him. Then I started to connect with his painting and understand what he was doing.’ 

 

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Kurt Vonnegut Asshole/Asterik (1973)
‘I have seen people with Vonnegut asterisk tattoos. There is a restaurant with the symbol as its name, and there have been bands named after it too. I doubt Vonnegut knew quite the extent to which his drawing of an asshole that appears at the beginning of Breakfast of Champions would tunnel its way into the culture. But this drawing is a good example of how his images embodied more than what they appeared to represent. As an image, that asshole drawing was not lewd or provocative, and it was not meant to offend or excite. It was matter-of-fact. On the other hand, as a gesture, its aims were less than charitable. The asterisk in the novel had the effect of undercutting literary hubris, and by unleashing it in the text toward the close of the preface as an example of what is likely to come, he drew a line in the sand. With it, he was announcing, “If you are too squeamish or too sophisticated to stomach this asshole-in-the-abstract, then leave off here, worse barbs lie ahead, and if you go any further, deeper cuts would no doubt be in store for the likes of you.” In the late ’60s, members of the band the Sex Pistols swore on live TV and sent half of the UK into uproar. If viewers were shocked by a handful of expletives, there would be no point in them listening to that band’s music or any other punk music for that matter. It would only get more real from there on in. That instance of profanity during the moment of the band’s introduction to the world stage also served as a line in the sand, and like the asterisk, hovered like a warning to all ye who may come.’

 

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Cary Leibowitz (“Candy Ass”) Bird Talk (and butt) (1989)
‘Since his emergence in the 1990s (when he went by the moniker “Candy Ass”), Cary Leibowitz has styled himself as a self-loathing, reluctant artist. Through this cleverly crafted persona, he critiques the pretentiousness of the art world and the commodification of art. He also foregrounds his gay and Jewish identity, exploring how it places him outside of mainstream American society. His work—which encompasses prints, paintings, sculpture, and installation—is full of humor and pathos. He often incorporates such everyday items as mugs and knitted caps into his pieces, altering them with pointed text and arranging them into unlikely forms.’

 

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Básica TV Hemorrhoids: The Movie (2018)
‘In their longest, most prodigious work to-date—totaling over forty minutes, spanning fifteen screens, and accompanied by an installation—the Uruguayan-born art collective first questions our cultural preoccupation with butts, but more than this, asks why this is as far as we go. Katie Couric famously aired her colonoscopy on national television in 2000, but the colon was never sexy. Asses are undeniably so, and as such, are inherently linked to capital, and ultimately power. Why else would we see an onslaught of products and trends come to prominence during the same period as the rise of the ass? Juice cleanses, Activia, colonics, anal bleaching, tapeworm diets, and coffee enemas are just a few of the recent fads that oddly allude to inner workings of a sexualized exterior, but never go further. Basica goes deeper, though, making hemorr- hoids the focal point of their film. This asks us, as viewers, to come face-to-face (literally) with the highly taboo topic, urging us to question our discomfort with it.’


Excerpt

 

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EPSRC The Robotic Rectum (2016)
‘A robotic rectum may help doctors and nurses detect prostate cancer. The technology, which consists of prosthetic buttocks and rectum with in-built robotic technology, has been developed by scientists at Imperial College London. The idea is the device helps train doctors and nurses to perform rectal examinations by accurately recreating the feel of a rectum, as well as providing feedback on their examination technique. The device contains small robotic arms that apply pressure to the silicone rectum, to recreate the shape and feel of the back passage.’

 

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Judie Bamber What Do You Say? (Chrome Egg Butt Plug with Leather Thong) (1989)
Oil on canvas stretched on board

 

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Keith Boadwee Various (1995 – 2019)
‘Boadwee simultaneously pokes fun at the language of art history while paying homage to it. The works cover a wide spectrum, from the somatic brutality of Viennese Actionism to the primary simplicity of De Stijl. There is an ambiguity in the fabrication of these paintings hinting at past performances for which Boadwee first gained recognition in the 1990s. Often using his own body as tool, medium, surface or subject, each work obfuscates the artist’s engagement in his studio—they could stand as autonomous pictorial renderings or possible documentation of a transgressive action. The viewer is invited to draw his or her own conclusions.’

 

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Forrest Bess Various (1947 – 1967)
‘Bess arrived at painting incidentally. Following a psychologically scarring gay bashing and subsequent nervous breakdown during his service in the camouflage division of the US military, he resumed earlier artistic endeavours on the advice of an army psychiatrist.

‘Increasingly Bess was haunted by night-time visions, which he began to record in a book by his bedside. From 1946 onwards he painted principally according to these visions, rendering tense internal conflicts on sex, gender, and sexuality as obscure, oneiric forms, ones that often eluded even the artist himself. He wrote, “the canvases I paint are statements – each one is a statement of what I don’t know. I am only a conduit through which they pass and there are times I suffer because I don’t know.”

‘During the 1950s, Bess divided his time between fishing, painting, and the compilation of a ‘thesis’ centred on a proposition for the unification of the male and female sexes within a biologically male body. Bess’s ideas were inspired by numerous sources, including the traditions of Aboriginal tribespeople, Egyptian, Greek, and Chinese art, and the writings of Havelock Ellis. Around 1955, his own writings distilled in an operation he performed on his perineum, during which he created an orifice intended to receive a penis. Bess’s motivations – the prospect, he claimed, of everlasting life – were likely spurred by an emergent discourse on transsexuality that was catalysed in 1952 by the public disclosure of Christine Jorgensen’s sex reassignment surgery, the first such operation reported in America. In 1954, Bess had declared hermaphroditism “the perfect state of man”.’


“Forrest Bess: Key to the Riddle” (Preview)

 

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John Waters Haunted (2006)
Haunted involves a rephotographed video title. It reads MY ASS IS HAUNTED, snapped from a skin flick starring adult-film star Belladonna. That particular movie was not intended to entice gay male fans, although when frozen in Waters’s viewfinder, the disengaged title becomes a cheeky declaration of homosexual longing and loneliness, of mysterious anal-retentiveness.’

 

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Riikka Hyvönen Various (2016)
‘In the competitive sport of Roller Derby, a bruise is a badge of honour to show off to your fellow team members trackside. What look here like photos are actually massive 3D leather canvasses, which artist Riikka Hyvönen layers with wood, paint and lashings of glitter, working from real images of these ‘derby kisses’.’

 

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Manfred Erjautz Anus Tempus (2016)
Radio controlled clock Junghans Mega, brass, glass, synthetics, touch-up pen.

 

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Veloso, Caio and Dallas Macaquinhos (2016)
‘What is it that the ring of bodies perform in Veloso, Caio and Dallas’ Macaquinhos (little monkeys). Their asses? Yes, but this word is also the slang for a woman who prefers anal over vaginal sex. For the Brazilian artists, the anus is the southern hemisphere of the body, and has the potential to function as its own democratic and collectivizing site, and as the opening of de-colonizing explorations of bodies, desires, anxieties, privacy and exposure.’

 

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Scott Donahue Untitled (2008)
‘The City of Berkeley last year paid artist Scott Donahue $196,000 to install two sculptural groups at either end of a new pedestrian bridge across the freeway on the city’s waterfront. The two installations mostly feature large human figures doing “typical Berkeley” activities. But the artist recently added a series of small bronze bas-relief sculptures around the base of each statue. The new sculptures around the base of the westernmost statue depict, among other things, dogs going shit, fucking, and sniffing each other’s butts. You decide: Is this the best way to spend Berkeley’s taxpayer dollars?’

 

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Claire Lambe LazyBoy (2012)
‘A pair of gold lamé disco pants placed on the floor has plump buttocks as if harbouring a body beneath. The oscillation between the alternate reading of discarded clothing or a prostrate body makes for a disturbingly compelling form. Added to which is the sexual innuendo of the title, meaning much more than a comfortable reclining chair.’

 

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Art Workers Coalition Art Workers Won’t Kiss Ass (1969)
‘The Art Workers’ Coalition (AWC) was an open coalition of artists, filmmakers, writers, critics, and museum staff that formed in New York City in January 1969. Its principal aim was to pressure the city’s museums – notably the Museum of Modern Art – into implementing economic and political reforms. These included a more open and less exclusive exhibition policy concerning the artists they exhibited and promoted: the absence of women artists and artists of color was a principal issue of contention, which led to the formation of Women Artists in Revolution (WAR) in 1969. The coalition successfully pressured the MoMA and other museums into implementing a free admission day that still exists in certain museums to this day. It also pressured and picketed museums into taking a moral stance on the Vietnam War which resulted in its famous My Lai poster And babies, one of the most important works of political art of the early 1970s. The poster was displayed during demonstrations in front of Pablo Picasso′s Guernica at the MoMA in 1970.’

 

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Patrick Henne Various (2016 – 2018)
‘Patrick Henne adopts the motifs of old masters such as Guido Reni, Caravaggio and Jacques-Louis David. Through the expressive and surreal colouring, along with the alteration of some details and titles, which have nothing to do with the original context, Henne transforms the paintings into grotesque, partly blasphemous and whimsical picture worlds. The paintings are the result of a lengthy process: the work of the artist and his study of art history and the examination of the respective documents form the foundation of his work. By sketching and editing the selected templates in Photoshop, he slowly approaches the desired results; color, contrast, details and background are greatly altered, varied or removed.’

 

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Anthea Hamilton Project for Door (After Gaetano Pesce) (2016)
‘If the Turner prize had been decided by Instagram, then Anthea Hamilton’s Project for Door (After Gaetano Pesce) would be a shoo-in to win on Monday. Since mid-September, the UK’s favourite spot for a selfie has been beneath this pair of large, splayed buttocks. Hamilton’s photogenic piece is actually a re-creation of a 1970s proposal by the Italian architect Gaetano Pesce for a building in New York. The buttocks in question were modelled on Pesce’s friend and collaborator Ulderico Manani, who was, Pesce says, delighted to help. “Ulderico was a homosexual and also a bit of an exhibitionist, so he was quite happy to do what I asked,” says Pesce. “When you have an idea and are convinced of its quality, you have no problem communicating it.”’

 

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Arwe Back Buttocks Stool (2016 – )
‘At the height of a successful business career, a burn-out caused Arwe to reconsider what was truly important in life.’

 

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Salvador Dali The Enigma Of William Tell (1933)
‘Depicting Vladimir Lenin half-naked, and with a huge protruding buttock, this Salvador Dali painting seriously offended the surrealist community when it came out. This association was made worse by Dali’s appendant note. He wrote that “the buttock, of course, was the symbol of the revolution of October 1917.” When it was unveiled in 1934, many of his contemporaries tried to physically damage it, without much luck.’

 

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Ronald Ophuis Various (1995 – 1997)
‘Two men in combat uniforms are playing with a ball in a filthy toilet,
disregarding the man crouching on the ground at their feet and bathed in a pool of blood. In a cloakroom, three teenagers hold a fourth one down on the ground and sodomise him with a (large) Coca-Cola bottle. Note that all of them are wearing the same football team uniform. These works by Ronald Ophuis are part of a series of paintings done between 1995 and 1997 and exhibited at the Stedelijk Museum Bureau Amsterdam in 1999 under the title ‘Five paintings about violence’. They won the artist rapid fame in the country of Vermeer, especially when he went to court to oppose the state’s demand that a child abuse scene (‘Sweet violence’) be withdrawn from a public exhibition – and won his case.’

 

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Lloyd James Toilet Rolls (2011)
Oil on canvas

 

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Lari Pittman Spiritual and Needy (1991)
acrylic and enamel on mahogany panel, 82 x 66″

 

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Jonathan Monaghan Escape Pod (2015)
‘Jonathan Monaghan’s Escape Pod is an epic, seamlessly-looping 20 minute 3D animation. This magical journey follows a golden stag with a baroque anus from birth to the moment he conceives himself (?) by pooping out a cyborg penis to inseminate …something. That something is a giant set of testicles attached to an equally baroque, flying mansion with a minimalist Scandinavian penthouse. The cycle begins again with the baby stag exploring a world of stunning landscapes and duty-free shops that look like the Miami airport.’

 

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Sarah Lucas I SCREAM DADDIO (2015)

 

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Aline Bouvy and John Gillis The anus, in relation to the penis, the hand, the face (2013)
‘Belgium artists Aline Bouvy and John Gillis are contemporary artists who worked together to produce an unorthodox body of drawings that are a collage of body parts that reference the anus and other private areas of the body.’

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Personalized Anus Sculpture (2012)
‘Nothing says “I love you” better than an actual sculpture of your anus. Each sentimental token is created by making a physical cast from your anus – displaying your unique beauty through the intricate detailing. $1,900.00.’

 

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Carissa Rodriguez Symptomatic / What Would Edith Say (2015)
‘A service top is one who tops under the direction of an eager bottom. A versatile top is one who prefers to top but who bottoms occasionally. Starting at the top, the artist’s tongue—muscle of conceptual articulation and arbiter of aesthetic disposition—is more simply, the locus of language and taste; while accordingly at the bottom, the filth of distinction gathers in the anus. Pornography sanitizes anuses by cosmetically bleaching them for the screen, rendering natural flesh “more uniform with its surrounding area,” similar to the way art galleries light and fluff their spaces to achieve the cold, fluorescent-white installation shot that emits an ambience akin to the sweatshop—an artwork at its maximum efficiency. Between tongue and anus are the organs, situated midway, or Midtown, much like the art advisor’s position between the artist and the collector. Practitioners of Chinese medicine diagnose the conditions of internal organs as its symptoms appear on the tongue’s surface, which is read and appraised like a rare map, rug, vase, or painting, and although it is too overwrought to liken the tongue to a screen (mirroring the artist inside) or to a ‘mood board’ in the case of the branding consultant, the liver and spleen are nevertheless dutifully at work scripting messages to the moist upper surface.’

 

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Anna Uddenberg Journey of Self Discovery (2016)
fiberglass, aqua resin, windjacket, synthetic hair, paint, crocs, fabric, selfie stick, rubber strings, terrace puf, wall tattoo

 

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p.s. Hey. ** Adem Berbic, Hi. It was so hot here yesterday that it was truly shocking. It might descend a little today. ‘Prayers’. Bob Flanagan is a wonderful poet. That was his main form. His S/M performances came later, and the glare that created around his poems is  unfortunate. I never watched ‘True Detective’, but yeah. ‘Twin Peaks’ really spoiled me. ** jay, HI, jay. Thanks. Okay, I’ll try to find a copy of ‘DtP’ on a shelf somewhere and skip around/skim. ‘To the point of incoherence’ … now you’re making me interested. Gosh, dare I? The heat is supposed to start breaking a little today, and it kind of has to because everyone here is kind of going insane. I hope yours is vaporising too. ** James Bennett, Hi! Right, you’re in the middle of this too. Adem made the event seem quite successful. Congrats, sir. Yes … Everyone, Our own Adem Berbic’s first new book ‘Two Stories’ published by Ssnake Press aka our own James Bennett is gettable and you seriously want a copy, I feel utterly confident in saying. You can score it here. So important to concentrate on your writing, so that sounds like a very sane plan. And your modus operandi re: rebuilding your voice does sound quite exciting. Wow. Luck with the apartment hunt. I’m not versed in such things, but if I can help, give a shout. I like ‘Resentment’, of course. I’m a big fan of Gary’s, although I do think non-fiction was his best form, the one he absolutely mastered. Gary was very, very jealous of Kathy, and he did feel compelled to write and say things that let that be known quite frequently. This week? Honestly, mostly hiding out in my shitty air-conditioning. I’m going to see a Fujiko Nakaya fog sculpture with live score by Kali Malone at Pinault this morning. And Zac and I have some work to do. But I’m kind of saving my plans until atmospheric sanity returns starting on Monday. You? You actually getting out and about? ** Carsten, JB is pretty special. Interesting that she’s become almost more admired than Paul at this point. ‘Landscape Suicide’ is great. It’s Benning’s most narrative film by far. It’s not really reflective of his main, structuralist film work. I heard that Celine/Lavant film was terrible, so I never saw it. Terrible not due to any fault of Lavant’s, I understand. ** Steeqhen, Hi! It wouldn’t shock me if some director ends up shooting the ‘Ronnie Rocket’ script, and, yes, what a horrible idea. It’s supposed to go down to 27 degrees next week, which, under the circumstances, is going to feel like winter, I suspect. ** _Black_Acrylic, Here too. Every plan is being delayed for next week. Yesterday being outdoors here was like walking in the Sahara desert. You gotta believe, man, you bet. ** Steve, Matt talked about his current and upcoming projects, but he didn’t mention Louise Hay. Redesigning public space here is such a massive project costing such a massive amount of money, and, given France’s beleaguered economy, my guess is, no, they won’t, or very fitfully. ** Ferdinand, Well, hi there! Terrific to see you. I don’t know about that newer J Bowles book, and I’ll try to find it. Thanks. How are you? ** beaujolais, Hi. Cool, I haven’t checked Instagram yet today, but I will. That’s interesting: When we were in Chicago for the ‘RT’ screening I distinctly remember that a lot of people we met were sporting that exact look/style, which I hadn’t seen elsewhere in such proclivity, and which was very effective, if we’re any indication. ** HaRpEr //, Yeah, she’s so cool. She and her hubby would surely be very surprised by the ongoing strength of her work’s and her following. Yeah, I feel like I’m the living embodiment of ‘A Voice Through a Cloud’. But more like through steam. Your approach to the pitch sounds very labor intensive, yeah, but right. But again, I seem to be better at dashing possibilities. ** laura w, Hi. Yeah, she wasn’t a one-trick pony, although ‘TSL’ is her big pony. Oh, maybe I’ll try to watch that Christmas episode. I don’t mind being narratively lost. I think the last ballyhooed TV show that I ended up thinking was ok at least was ‘Wednesday’, but I only watched the first season, and I’m sure it fell way off. I think it is fashion week here, yes. Horrible/satisfying timing. Instagram is so weird. Last week it somehow decided I wanted every possible far right MAGA/fascist site output in my feed, andI I had to spend days blocking hundreds of them. Now it seems to think I want non-stop videos of people rescuing sea turtles and prying the barnacles off of them, which is of course infinitely better, but still. Oh, the thought of queers everywhere reading ‘Castle Faggot’ in hopes of having their pride in themselves reinforced. ** Okay. Very self-explanatory post for you today. See you tomorrow.

Spotlight on … Jane Bowles Plain Pleasures (1967)

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‘A good friend recently became a better one still by urging me to read Jane Bowles, whose writing inspired her husband Paul, previously known as a composer, to take up prose. Jane Bowles (née Auer), who was born in New York in 1917 and died in Malaga in 1973, wrote comparatively little – one novel (La Phaeton Hypocrite, a piece of juvenilia, notwithstanding), one play, and one short story collection – but her small oeuvre is distinguished by its quality and innovation.

‘The stories that make up Plain Pleasures, written between 1944 and 1951, are typical in their juxtaposing of domineering and weak women, and frequent preoccupation with moments of psychological crisis. There might be nothing distinctive about that, perhaps, but Bowles’s ability to convey a mind in flux is powerfully discomfiting. In part this is due to the feeling, which infuses her stories, that such a chaotic state is a more or less permanent feature of existence. Some argue that the alienation forced on her by her sexuality was partially responsible for this, but both her unconventional marriage (she and Paul were bisexual, with Paul preferring men and Jane women) and life in Tangiers afforded relative freedom in this regard.

‘A more interesting explanation was suggested by Paul Bowles – always an astute judge of Jane’s work – in a 1971 interview with Oliver Evans, when he noted her ability “to see the drama that is really in front of one every minute – the drama that follows living”. Navigating by such lights, her fiction charts some of the territory explored by Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolf and Jean Rhys. Her style, however, is closer to the reportorial terseness of Hemingway, but leavened with a dry wit that his prose lacks.

‘Humour is superficial in Bowles’s work, however. Much like the waterfall through whose roar Sadie, the doomed spinster in Camp Cataract (1949), believes she can hear “someone pronounce her name in a dismal tone”, the febrile thoughts of her characters seem to be suspended above yawning depths. Blank stares and non sequiturs abound, from the moment where Señora Ramirez’s memory “seemed suddenly to have failed her” during the seduction in A Guatemalan Idyll (1944), to the bizarrely stuttering, ambiguously homoerotic conversation between an American and a Moroccan in Everything Is Nice (1951).

‘According to Truman Capote, Bowles found writing “difficult to the point of true pain”. Paul Bowles concurred, remarking in an interview that it “cost her blood to write … Sometimes it took her a week to write a page”. She preferred socialising, drinking, conversation and promiscuity. Her original impulse to write was inspired by sociability, following as it did a meeting with Louis-Ferdinand Céline on a transatlantic crossing when she was 17.

‘But her difficulties were as much a product of an uncompromising determination to avoid convention as they were the result of being temperamentally unsuited to the writer’s lifestyle. For all that, though, the chief reason for Bowles’s modest output was a terrible series of strokes, the first of which she suffered in Morocco in 1957. After this she was incapable of producing anything of worth and, already an alcoholic, proceeded to drink so much that her lucid spells occurred only between periods of insanity and something resembling a vegetative state.’ — Chris Power

 

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Extras


Slideshow


Jane Bowles Documentary, part 1 (in Spanish)


‘A Quarreling Pair (1945)’, a puppet play by Jane Bowles

 

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Further

Jane Bowles Official Site
Event: Tribute to Jane Bowles @ KGB
Jane Bowles Obituary
‘The Oddest Couple: Jane and Paul Bowles’
‘The Gathering Spirit of Jane Bowles’
‘”Locked in Each Others’ Arms”: Jane Bowles’s Fiction of Psychic Dependency’
Biographer Millicent Dillon on Jane Bowles
‘A Tawdry Place of Salvation: The Art of Jane Bowles’
John Waters on Jane Bowles
Buy the books of Jane Bowles

 

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Slideshow

 

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Paul Bowles on Jane Bowles

from The Paris Review

 

Have you ever written a character who was supposed to be Jane Bowles, or a character who was directly modeled after her?

PAUL BOWLES: No, never.

Yet couldn’t one say that you both exerted a definite influence on each other’s work?

PB: Of course! We showed each other every page we wrote. I never thought of sending a story off without discussing it with her first. Neither of us had ever had a literary confidant before. I went over Two Serious Ladies with her again and again, until each detail was as we both thought it should be. Not that I put anything into it that she hadn’t written. We simply analyzed sentences and rhetoric. It was this being present at the making of a novel that excited me and made me want to write my own fiction. Remember, this was in 1942.

Tell me, would you please, about Jane Bowles.

PB: That’s an all-inclusive command! What can I possibly tell you about her that isn’t implicit in her writing?

She obviously had an extraordinary imagination. She was always coherent, but one had the feeling that she could go off the edge at any time. Almost every page of Two Serious Ladies, for example, evoked a sense of madness although it all flowed together very naturally.

PB: I feel that it flows naturally, yes. But I don’t find any sense of madness. Unlikely turns of thought, lack of predictability in the characters’ behavior, but no suggestion of “madness.” I love Two Serious Ladies. The action is often like the unfolding of a dream, and the background, with its realistic details, somehow emphasizes the sensation of dreaming.

Does this dreamlike quality reflect her personality?

PB: I don’t think anyone ever thought of Jane as a “dreamy” person; she was far too lively and articulate for that. She did have a way of making herself absent suddenly, when one could see that she was a thousand miles away. If you addressed her sharply, she returned with a start. And if you asked her about it, she would simply say: “I don’t know. I was somewhere else.”

Can you read her books and see Jane Bowles in them?

PB: Not at all; not the Jane Bowles that I knew. Her work contained no reports on her outside life. Two Serious Ladies was wholly nonautobiographical. The same goes for her stories.

She wasn’t by any means a prolific writer, was she?

PB: No, very unprolific. She wrote very slowly. It cost her blood to write. Everything had to be transmuted into fiction before she could accept it. Sometimes it took her a week to write a page. This exaggerated slowness seemed to me a terrible waste of time, but any mention of it to her was likely to make her stop writing entirely for several days or even weeks. She would say: “All right. It’s easy for you, but it’s hell for me, and you know it. I’m not you. I know you wish I were, but I’m not. So stop it.”

The relationships between her women characters are fascinating. They read like psychological portraits, reminiscent of Djuna Barnes.

PB: In fact, though, she refused to read Djuna Barnes. She never read Nightwood. She felt great hostility toward American women writers. Usually she refused even to look at their books.

Why was that?

PB: When Two Serious Ladies was first reviewed in 1943, Jane was depressed by the lack of understanding shown in the unfavorable reviews. She paid no attention to the enthusiastic notices. But from then on, she became very much aware of the existence of other women writers whom she’d met and who were receiving laudatory reviews for works which she thought didn’t deserve such high praise: Jean Stafford, Mary McCarthy, Carson McCullers, Anaïs Nin. There were others I can’t remember now. She didn’t want to see them personally or see their books.

 

___
Book

Jane Bowles Plain Pleasures
Penguin

‘This collection of strikingly original and unsettling short stories combine bizarre characterization, sardonic wit and mastery of style.

‘Although Jane Bowles’s output was small, it was of dazzlingly brilliant quality. These stories provide a fascinating companion to her novel Two Serious Ladies and revolve around conflict, exploring people’s hidden lives and experience of sin and salvation. She writes so that we may eavesdrop on the conversations and meetings between characters, and creates a collection that is both troubling and funny.’ — Penguin

‘Strange wit, thorny insights . . . one of the really original prose-stylists.’ — Truman Capote

‘One of the finest modern writers of fiction in any language.’ — John Ashbery, New York Times

‘In the best of Jane Bowles’ fiction her waspish style is not only illuminating but bizarrely entertaining and leaves no doubt of her originality. In Plain Pleasures she appears at her best . . . the stories show that she was a master of the form.’ — Spectator

‘Clear prose, stark and unadorned . . . stories carved out on the far edge of sanity.’ — The Guardian

 

______
Excerpt

Everything Is Nice

The highest street in the blue Moslem town skirted the edge of a cliff. She walked over to the thick protecting wall and looked down. The tide was out, and the flat dirty rocks below were swarming with skinny boys. A Moslem woman came up to the blue wall and stood next to her, grazing her hip with the basket she was carrying. She pretended not to notice her, and kept her eyes fixed on a white dog that had just slipped down the side of a rock and plunged into a crater of sea­water. The sound of its bark was earsplitting. Then the woman jabbed the basket firmly into her ribs, and she looked up.

‘That one is a porcupine,’ said the woman, pointing a henna-stained finger into the basket.

This was true. A large there, with a pair of new yellow socks folded on top of it.

She looked again at the woman. She was dressed in a haik, and the white cloth covering the lower half of her face was loose, about to fall down.

‘I am Zodelia,’ she announced in a high voice. ‘And you are Betsoul’s friend.’ The loose cloth slipped below her chin and hung there like a bib. She did not pull it up.

‘You sit in her house and you sleep in her house and you eat in her house,’ the woman went on, and she nodded in agreement.

‘Your name is Jeanie and you live in a hotel with other Nazarenes. How much does the hotel cost you?’

A loaf of bread shaped like a disc flopped on to the ground from inside the folds of the woman’s haik, and she did not have to answer her question. With some difficulty the woman picked the loaf up and stuffed it in between the quills of the porcupine and the basket handle. Then she set the basket down on the top of the blue wall and turned to her with bright eyes.

‘I am the people in the hotel,’ she said. ‘Watch me.’

She was pleased because she knew that the woman who called herself Zodelia was about to present her with a little skit. It would be delightful to watch, since all the people of the town spoke and gesticulated as though they had studied at the Comédie Francaise.

‘The people in the hotel,’ Zodelia announced, formally beginning her skit. ‘I am the people in the hotel.’

”’Good-bye, Jeanie, good-bye. Where are you going?”

”’I am going to a Moslem house to visit my Moslem friends, Betsoul and her family. I will sit in a Moslem room and eat Moslem food and sleep on a Moslem bed.”

‘”Jeanie, Jeanie, when will you come back to us in the hotel and sleep in your own room?”

‘”I will come back to you in three days. I will come back and sit in a Nazarene room and eat Nazarene food and sleep on a Nazarene bed. I will spend half the week with Moslem friends and half with Nazar­enes.”‘

The woman’s voice had a triumphant ring as she finished her sentence; then, without announcing the end of the sketch, she walked over to the wall and put one arm around her basket.

Down below, just at the edge of the cliff’s shadow, a Moslem woman was seated on a rock, washing her legs in one of the holes filled with sea-water. Her haik was piled on her lap and she was huddled over it, examining her feet.

‘She is looking at the ocean,’ said Zodelia.

She was not looking at the ocean; with her head down and the mass of cloth in her lap she could not possibly have seen it; she would have had to straighten up and turn around.

‘She is not looking at the ocean,’ she said.

‘She is looking at the ocean,’ Zodelia repeated, as if she had not spoken.

She decided to change the subject. ‘Why do you have a porcupine with you?’ she asked her, although she knew that some of the Moslems, particularly the country people, enjoyed eating them.

‘It is a present for my aunt. Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I like porcupines. I like big por­cupines and little ones, too.’

Zodelia seemed bewildered, and then bored, and she decided she had somehow ruined the conversation by mentioning small porcupines.

‘Where is your mother?’ Zodelia said at length. ‘My mother is in her country in her own house,’ she said automatically; she had answered the question a hundred times.

‘Why don’t you write her a letter and tell her to come here? You can take her on a promenade and show her the ocean. After that she can go back to her own country and sit in her house.’ She picked up her basket and adjusted the strip of cloth over her mouth. ‘Would you like to go to a wedding?’ she asked her.

She said she would love to go to a wedding, and they started off down the crooked blue street, heading into the wind. As they passed a small shop Zodelia stopped. ‘Stand here,’ she said. ‘I want to buy something.’

After studying the display for a minute or two Zodelia poked her and pointed to some cakes inside a square box with glass sides. ‘Nice?’ she asked her. ‘Or not nice?’

The cakes were dusty and coated with a thin, ugly-coloured icing. They were called Galletas Ortiz.

‘They are very nice,’ she replied, and bought her a dozen of them. Zodelia thanked her briefly and they walked on. Presently they turned off the street into a narrow alley and started downhill. Soon Zodelia stopped at a door on the right, and lifted the heavy brass knocker in the form of a fist.

‘The wedding is here?’ she said to her.

Zodelia shook her head and looked grave. ‘There is no wedding here,’ she said.

A child opened the door and quickly hid behind it, covering her face. She followed Zodelia across the black and white tile floor of the closed patio. The walls were washed in blue, and a cold light shone through the broken panes of glass far above their heads. There was a door on each side of the patio. Outside one of them, barring the threshold, was a row of pointed slippers. Zodelia stepped out of her own shoes and set them down near the others.

She stood behind Zodelia and began to take off her own shoes. It took her a long time because there was a knot in one of her laces. When she was ready, Zodelia took her hand and pulled her along with her into a dimly lit room, where she led her over to a mattress which lay against the wall.

‘Sit,’ she told her, and she obeyed. Then without further comment she walked off, heading for the far end of the room. Because her eyes had not grown used to the dimness, she had the impression of a figure disappearing down a long corridor. Then she began to see the brass bars of a bed, glowing weakly in the darkness.

Only a few feet away, in the middle of the carpet, sat an old lady in a dress made of green and purple curtain fabric. Through the many rents in the material she could see the printed cotton dress and the tan sweater underneath. Across the room several women sat along another mattress, and further along the mattress three babies were sleeping in a row, each one close against the wall with its head resting on a fancy cushion.

‘Is it nice here?’ It was Zodelia, who had returned without her haik. Her black crêpe European dress hung unbe1ted down to her ankles, almost grazing her bare feet. The hem was lopsided. ‘Is it nice here?’ she asked again, crouching on her haunches in front of her and pointing at the old woman. ‘That one is Tetum,’ she said. The old lady plunged both hands into a bowl of raw chopped meat and began shaping the stuff into little balls.

‘Tetum’ echoed the ladies on the mattress.

‘This Nazarene,’ said Zodelia, gesturing in her

direction, ‘spends half her time in a Moslem house with Moslem friends and the other half in a Nazarene hotel with other Nazarenes.’

‘That’s nice,’ said the women opposite. ‘Half with Moslem friends and half with Nazarenes.’

The old lady looked very stem. She noticed that her bony cheeks were tattoed with tiny blue crosses.

‘Why?’ asked the old lady abruptly in a deep voice. ‘Why does she spend half her time with Moslem friends and half with Nazarenes?’ She fixed her eye on Zodelia, never ceasing to shape the meat with her swift fingers. Now she saw that her knuckles were also tattooed with blue crosses.

Zodelia stared back at her stupidly. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said, shrugging one fat shoulder. It was clear that the picture she had been painting for them had suddenly lost all its charm for her.

‘Is she crazy?’ the old lady asked.

‘No,’ Zodelia answered listlessly. ‘She is not crazy.’ There were shrieks of laughter from the mattress.

The old lady fastened her sharp eyes on the visitor, and she saw that they were heavily outlined in black. ‘Where is your husband?’ she demanded.

‘He’s travelling in the desert.’

‘Selling things,’ Zodelia put in. This was the popular explanation for her husband’s trips; she did not try to contradict it.

‘Where is your mother?’ the old lady asked.

‘My mother is in our country in her own house.’

‘Why don’t you go and sit with your mother in her own house?’ she scolded. ‘The hotel costs a lot of money.’

‘In the city where I was born,’ she began, ‘there are many, many automobiles and many, many trucks.’

The women on the mattress were smiling pleasantly. ‘Is that true?’ remarked the one in the centre in a tone of polite interest.

‘I hate trucks,’ she told the woman with feeling. The old lady lifted the bowl of meat off her lap and set it down on the carpet. ‘Trucks are nice,’ she said severely.

‘That’s true,’ the women agreed, after only a moment’s hesitation. ‘Trucks are very nice.’

‘Do you like trucks?’ she asked Zodelia, thinking that because of their relatively greater intimacy she might perhaps agree with her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They are nice. Trucks are very nice.’ She seemed lost in meditation, but only for an instant. ‘Everything is nice,’ she announced with a look of triumph.

‘It’s the truth,’ the women said from their mattress. ‘Everything is nice.’

They all looked happy, but the old lady was still frowning. ‘Aicha!’ she yelled, twisting her neck so that her voice could be heard in the patio. ‘Bring the tea!’ Several little girls came into the room carrying the tea things and a low round table.

‘Pass the cakes to the Nazarene,’ she told the smallest child, who was carrying a cut-glass dish piled with cakes. She saw that they were the ones she had bought for Zodelia; she did not want any of them. She wanted to go home.

‘Eat!’ the women called out from their mattress. ‘Eat the cakes.’

The child pushed the glass dish forward.

‘The dinner at the hotel is ready,’ she said, standing up.

‘Drink tea,’ said the old woman scornfully. ‘Later you will sit with the other Nazarenes and eat their food.’

‘The Nazarenes will be angry if I’m late.’ She realized that she was lying stupidly, but she could not stop. ‘They will hit me!’ She tried to look wild and frightened.

‘Drink tea. They will not hit you,’ the old woman told her. ‘Sit down and drink tea.’

The child was still offering her the glass dish as she backed away toward the door. Outside she sat down on the black and white tiles to lace her shoes. Only Zodelia followed her into the patio.

‘Come back,’ the others were calling. ‘Come back into the room.’

Then she noticed the porcupine basket standing nearby against the wall. ‘Is that old lady in the room your aunt? Is she the one you were bringing the porcupine to?’ she asked her.

‘No. She is not my aunt.’

‘Where is your aunt?’

‘My aunt is in her own house.’

‘When will you take the porcupine to her?’ She wanted to keep talking, so that Zodelia would be distracted and forget to fuss about her departure.

‘The porcupine sits here,’ she said firmly. ‘In my own house.’

She decided not to ask her again about the wedding. When they reached the door Zodelia opened it just enough to let her through. ‘Good-bye,’ she said behind her. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, if Allah wills it.’

‘When?’

‘Four o’clock.’ It was obvious that she had chosen the first figure that had come into her head. Before closing the door she reached out and pressed two of the dry Spanish cakes into her hand. ‘Eat them,’ she said graciously. ‘Eat them at the hotel with the other Nazarenes.’

She started up the steep alley, headed once again for the walk along the cliff. The houses on either side of her were so close that she could smell the dampness of the walls and feel it on her cheeks like a thicker air.

When she reached the place where she had met Zodelia she went over to the wall and leaned on it. Although the sun had sunk behind the houses, the sky was still luminous and the blue of the wall had deepened. She rubbed her fingers along it: the wash was fresh and a little of the powdery stuff came off. And she remembered how once she had reached out to touch the face of a clown because it had awakened some longing. It had happened at a little circus, but not when she was a child.
—-

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** Adem Berbic, I was still quite young, although already doing acid, when artistic blotter was a usual form of LSD, so I caught the tail end. It did make the drug harder to resist. Well, all those comments were found, so I presume they’re real. As of yesterday Paris is officially unbearable and will apparently be so until Sunday at least. ** jay, Did you go see that Bosch show you mentioned? Like almost all lauded TV shows I try, I found ‘Succession’ curious and nicely watchable at first but then it settled into its formula and plot, and I lost interest. My problem. Okay, ‘Debt to Pleasure’ sounds pretty tempting. I do think the cookbook is an interesting form that deserves to have more done with it than there has been thus far. Thanks. Even with my shitty little air conditioning, it’s hard to sleep, so I can only imagine or try. Stand or lie tough for the last blast. ** Laura, Hi. Oh, it wasn’t that kind of date. It was just a tete a tete with someone with whom there was mutual interest in meeting up. I.e.. Matt Wolf who directed the Pee Wee Herman documentary to be specific. I happened across a clip yesterday of your fave actor making kissy-kissy with Madonna and Pharrell and the whole fashionista crowd at the YSL show, and I admit that I find people who do that hard to take seriously, which is not his or your or anyone else’s problem. Well, we work with non-actors so it’s a matter of working with them to find how to represent the characters using their mannerisms and bodies and internality, and it’s different with each one. No alcohol drinking in public outside of bars/cafes, etc. I’m not sure of the reasoning. I am solid but slick on the surface, and I’ll try to remain so. ** Jack Skelley, Thanks, Jack. Those vibes are enormously welcome. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh. Thank you! I didn’t know about that Guardian thing until I happened to see your comment yesterday. Amazing. And especially about ‘Period’. I was very moved by what they wrote. And the pick of ‘Discontents’ too, wow. I’m so proud of that anthology. I’ve been wanting it to get back in print for decades. Maybe that’ll help. Thank you so much, pal. That really brightened my day and beyond. xoxo. ** Bill, Hi. The heat is so terrible. Two more days, I think. I think I’ll make it. I’m glad it’s only small code that’s rebelling. That event sounds really fun. There’s a Frameline event somewhere based around my friend Ash’s new project VideoStore.Age that might be fun if it hasn’t happened yet. ** Carsten, I would guess that melting thing is a slight exaggeration, but I don’t know. It is scalding here. Andersson’s films are definitely not like that filmic thing you dislike, and that I dislike just as much. ‘Songs from the Second Floor’ is my personal favorite of his films. ** Malik, Most of my acid trips derived from tabs too. Orange Sunshine aka Orange Barrel was a popular one. Named that (Barrel) for the obvious reason. I learned early on when I moved here that there are three things not to bring up in conversation with French people: the Algerian War, French people slaughtering Nazi collaborators in the streets after the war, and Pepe LePew. ** HaRpEr //, Being in Disneyland itself on acid was one of the wild things one did back in the day. It was scary but mind-blowing. It wasn’t bad on Ecstasy either. Yes, I’m blown away by what Imogen Binnie wrote. Amazing, indeed. Watching Judy Grahn read ‘A Woman is Talking to Death’ at a New Narrative conference years ago is one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen. Hm, I wonder if things were so different back then that Rimbaud’s proclamation helped get him published. I suspect not, although I romanticise France back then so much that it seems possible. ** laura w, Thanks, yeah, I’m totally thrilled by the Guardian thing, and, yes, especially that it was ‘Period’. So refreshing to see myself associated with any book other than ‘The Sluts’. Right, I forgot about that ‘Period walkthrough’ piece. I don’t think I have it, or not with me at least. Yeah, that was fun. Uh,  actually I think I do still have that email address, but I haven’t checked it in many decades. Wow. Rain I would literally kill for right now. Never watched ‘The Bear’. I don’t even know what it’s about. But, yeah, a lot of my friends are into it rather bigly. Enjoy! I think to escape this heat would, yes, require a trip to Scandinavia since even Holland is sweltering. Loveliest day possibly ever to you. ** Okay. Today you get to think about the wonderful Jane Bowles. See you tomorrow.

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