The blog of author Dennis Cooper

Hollis Frampton Day


‘Among the most widely seen photographs of Hollis Frampton is one of him as a young man, a self-portrait taken in 1959, if we are to trust the narration he composed to accompany its inclusion in his 1971 film (nostalgia). In the image, Frampton sits against a neutral backdrop, looking to his right, as if intently scrutinizing something just outside the frame. His shoulders press forward, suggesting that his unseen hands are resting crossed in his lap, and he sports a neat dark jacket and tie, their conservatism offset by a beatniky beard and hair that would have been considered longish in the 1950s, combed back into a Victorian wave. “As you see, I was thoroughly pleased with myself at the time, presumably for having survived to such ripeness and wisdom, since it was my twenty-third birthday,” the narrator says in (nostalgia). “I focused the camera, sat on a stool in front of it, and made the exposures by squeezing a rubber bulb with my right foot.”

‘When he took this photo, Frampton was working as an assistant in a commercial photography studio in New York, where he had moved the previous year, and was sharing an apartment with sculptor Carl Andre, who had been his high school classmate at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts (as had painter Frank Stella, with whom they would share studio space). Due to his dispute over the necessity of a required history course, Frampton had failed to graduate from Andover, thus forfeiting a scholarship to Harvard and instead attending Western Reserve College in Cleveland. While there, he struck up a correspondence with Ezra Pound, who was then a mental patient at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, D.C. Frampton—who was writing poetry at the time—left Cleveland to move near Pound, visiting him daily in the hospital, while the older poet continued to compose The Cantos, his sprawling epic, dense with reference and allusion, which would remain unfinished at his demise. Pound’s high modernism would serve as a touchstone for Frampton, as would the parallel modernisms of Marcel Duchamp, Jorge Luis Borges, and James Joyce. Ironically, Frampton, too, would embark upon an ambitious, large-scale project—the proposed thirty-six-hour film cycle Magellan—that would be cut short by his death from cancer in 1984, at age forty-eight.

‘Another oft reproduced image of Frampton is entitled Portrait of Hollis Frampton by Marion Faller, Directed by H. F. It was taken in 1975 by Faller, the photographer with whom Frampton lived during the last thirteen years of his life. The picture shows him staring, eyes wide and pupils contracted, almost into the lens of the camera, his hands raised beside his head, palms outward. In the darkness, a horizontal slit of light draws a line across his eyes and onto the middle of both of his hands. His hair is wilder than at age twenty-three—the light beam illuminates shaggy bits jutting out from his temples—and his beard is fuller, now flecked with white. The setup cannily alludes to the mechanics of both photography and cinema, of light projected and recorded, but in its alien strangeness resembles a promotional still from a science-fiction movie. It almost appears as if the light is not so much being thrown on him as projected outward from his eyes and hands. In the earlier self-portrait, Frampton seems relatively staid, as if looking toward the past, trying to emulate an early twentieth-century poise. But here, at age thirty-nine, he stares as if into a vision, ready to walk forward into the unknown, ecstatic.

‘In the time between these two photographs, Frampton had established himself as one of the foremost members of the American avant-garde, part of a new generation of artists who came to fruition in the late 1960s, dramatically shifting the terms of both experimental film and the intellectual thinking on cinema as a whole. By the end of his career, he had completed close to one hundred films (including the individual one-minute Pans for Magellan) and numerous photographic series; helped establish the pioneering Digital Arts Laboratory at the Center for Media Study at the State University of New York at Buffalo in 1977; published Circles of Confusion: Film, Photography, Video—Texts 1968–1980, his influential collection of theoretical essays and other writings that had originally run in Artforum, October, and elsewhere; and been honored with retrospectives at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. At a time when many of his filmmaking colleagues still kept their distance from newer electronic media, he not only embraced and wrote about video but also delved into xerography and computer programming.

‘In standard histories of experimental cinema, Frampton’s work is usually considered part of “structural film,” a category invented by P. Adams Sitney in a 1969 essay that would later be revised into a chapter of his landmark 1974 study Visionary Film. Sitney coined the term to describe what he saw as a new tendency in the American avant-garde, typified by the films of Frampton as well as those of Michael Snow, George Landow, Tony Conrad, and others. “Theirs is a cinema of structure,” Sitney wrote, “in which the shape of the whole film is predetermined and simplified, and it is that shape that is the primal impression of the film”—a sharp divergence from the work of an older generation of filmmakers, including Maya Deren, Stan Brakhage, and Kenneth Anger, who, in his view, had progressed over time toward a greater internal complexity of form. He compared structural film to minimalism in the visual arts and serial composition in music, contemporaneous movements that likewise stressed formal reduction and repetition. Frampton, however, rejected Sitney’s periodization, denouncing “that incorrigible tendency to label, to make movements, [which] always has the same effect, and that effect is to render the work invisible.”

‘Nevertheless, Frampton did agree that a new sensibility was afoot. Describing his own development, he recalled that “there was something called the [Film-Makers’] Cinematheque in New York, which became a kind of hangout. I met other people who were trying to make films: Joyce Wieland, Michael Snow, Ken Jacobs, Ernie Gehr after a while, although he was somewhat younger. Later on, Paul Sharits, who was at the time living in Baltimore.” These are all figures whose work Sitney classified under structural filmmaking, but Frampton saw their shared project as a more expansive one. “There existed at least for a time, and that time lasted for some years in New York City, a kind of constant contact between us. One might almost—almost—venture to call it a sense of being united in some way, probably by the conviction that there should be good films. Preferably, films so good they hadn’t been made yet. That the intellectual space open to film had not entirely been preempted.”

‘Regardless of Frampton’s distaste for labels, one can productively think about his films in terms of a simplification of elements in favor of an overall, predetermined shape. This is particularly so in his earliest surviving works, from Information (1966) to Zorns Lemma (1970). In this phase of his filmmaking, Frampton was interested in taking apart cinema by reducing it to its most basic, constitutive parts—sound, image, movement, editing—and then using these elements to construct films whose unfolding takes on the quality of a mathematical formula or puzzle. Later in his career, he would describe his concerns during this formative period as the “rationalization of the history of film art. Resynthesis of the film tradition: ‘making film over as it should have been’” and the “establishment of progressively more complex a priori schemes to generate the various parameters of filmmaking.” His play with the possible relationships between sound and image in works like Maxwell’s Demon (1968), Surface Tension (1968), and Carrots & Peas (1969) would culminate in the abecedarian structure of Zorns Lemma. The films’ titles alone convey his interest in importing concepts from the sciences into art, though never in a straightforward way; he once said, “I’m a spectator of mathematics like others are spectators of soccer or pornography.” His goal was a more epistemological one. “Eventually,” he would later write, “we may come to visualize an intellectual space in which the systems of words and images will both, as [filmmaker, poet, and founder of New York’s Anthology Film Archives] Jonas Mekas once said of semiology, ‘seem like half of something,’ a universe in which image and word, each resolving the contradictions inherent in the other, will constitute the system of consciousness.”

‘To speak of Frampton’s films as merely structural riddles or philosophical proposals, however, fails to take into account their pleasurable and poetic nature. The gamelike qualities of his films prove playful rather than didactic and always retain a residue of enigma. And he is more of a storyteller than the structural label would suggest. His films are told with an erudite wit, an often stark beauty, and deep emotional resonance. This last quality is one that sets him apart from many of his “structural” fellow travelers and is most apparent in his only completed film cycle, Hapax Legomena (1971–72), a seven-part sequence including three of his best-known works, (nostalgia), Poetic Justice (1972), and Critical Mass (1971). Throughout the cycle, Frampton continually reveals intricate relationships between time and memory, word and image. He called the project “an oblique autobiography, seen in stereoscopic focus with the phylogeny of film art as I have tried to recapitulate it during my own fitful development as a filmmaker.” This aspect is most explicit in (nostalgia) but is also evident, in a more buried way, in Critical Mass, which creates hypnotic rhythms from footage of a woman and a man engaged in a heated argument—completed when Frampton was working through the tumultuous end of a six-year marriage.

‘The “phylogeny of film art” that Frampton mentions relates to a further concept underpinning his work as a whole, what he called a “metahistory” of cinema, by which he meant the creation of a specific body of films that would serve as an instructive metaphor for the whole history of film. “The history of cinema consists precisely of every film that has ever been made, for any purpose whatsoever,” he wrote. “The metahistorian of cinema, on the other hand, is occupied with inventing a tradition, that is, a coherent, wieldy set of discrete monuments, meant to inseminate resonant consistency into the growing body of his art. Such works may not exist, and then it is his duty to make them.” His unfinished Magellan project would have been his fullest realization of this concept. Planned around the conceit of Ferdinand Magellan’s global circumnavigation, it was to comprise a liturgical calendar of more than eight hundred films, with Lumière-inspired miniatures on most days and longer works on equinoxes, solstices, and other special dates. Within this solar epic, Frampton envisioned numerous “subsections and epicycles,” completing a macrocosmic engine reminiscent of an astrolabe’s nested gears or a computer program’s subroutines—the latter suggested by Frampton’s dot-matrix-printed schedule from 1978, “CLNDR version 1.2.0,” with each day numbered like a line of code.

‘As Magellan’s algorithmic aspects illustrate, Frampton was concerned not only with cinema’s history but its future as well. In numerous writings, he conjectured that the technology of film had already reached its point of obsolescence, pinpointing this moment at the invention of radar, rather than the more obvious rise of television. The machine age apparatus created by the Lumières and Edison would someday be seen as merely an early phase of an as-yet-unnamed technology of moving-image-making that he would variously term “the camera arts” or “film and its successors” or “photograph-film-video-computer.” And this system was, in turn, an outgrowth of much older forms, like painting and music. He suggested that cinema would endure past its death, albeit transmuted, through this larger trajectory.

‘Or to put it another way, as Frampton did in his notes on Gloria! (1979), a work dedicated to his grandmother: “The last time I saw my grandmother, she said to me: ‘We just barely learn how to live, and then we’re ready to die.’” The film, however, depicts a story based on the ballad “Finnegan’s Wake,” wherein a dead body rises from its casket to dance at its own funeral. Surely, Frampton would have found wry amusement in this collection of his work, which replicates his films via encrypted lines of code and releases them back into the world as digital ghosts.’ — Ed Halter





Hollis Frampton Website
Hollis Frampton @ IMDb
A Hollis Frampton Odyssey @ The Criterion Collection
Hollis Frampton’s Lemon Analysis— The Nature of Film and Vision
Hollis Frampton ou le hors-champ du cinéma : le projet Magellan
A Hollis Frampton Odyssey reviewed @ Slant
Exploded View | Hollis Frampton’s Critical Mass
Pattern Recognition: The Writings of Hollis Frampton
Video: Hollis Frampton interviewed
He’s Got Rhythm: ‘A Hollis Frampton Odyssey’
A Keyboard Mind: Hollis Frampton’s Gloria! as Lyric Poem
The look of the thing: Hollis Frampton’s photography
Letters of Note: For Love and Honor
A Riddle in Temporality: Hollis Frampton’s Nostalgia
History and Ambivalence in Hollis Frampton’s Magellan
How Should Artists Be Paid?: Hollis Frampton’s Letter to MoMA and the Price Artists Pay for Autonomy
Hollis frampton UNE CONFÉRENCE
Hollis Frampton Revival
A Pentagram for Conjuring Hollis Frampton
hollis frampton | VISCER-ebr-AL – Objectively Speaking



A documentary on Hollis Frampton made in 1981.

Screening Room with Hollis Frampton – PREVIEW

Hollis Frampton at Chatham College 1971

Michael Snow on Hollis Frampton and Public Speaking

Hollis Frampton Panel


A Lecture
by Hollis Frampton


Please turn out the lights.

As long as we’re going to talk about films, we might as well do it in the dark.

We have all been here before. By the time we are eighteen years old, say the statisticians, we have been here five hundred times.

No, not in this very room, but in this generic darkness, the only place left in our culture intended entirely for concentrated exercise of one, or at most two, of our senses.

We are, shall we say, comfortably seated. We may remove our shoes, if that will help us to remove our bodies. Failing that, the management permits us small oral distractions. The oral distractions concession is in the lobby.

So we are suspended in a null space, bringing with us a certain habit of the affections. We have come to do work that we enjoy. We have come to watch this.

The projector is turned on.

So and so many kilowatts of energy, spread over a few square yards of featureless white screen in the shape of a carefully standardized rectangle, three units high by four units wide.

The performance is flawless. The performer is a precision machine. It sits behind us, out of sight usually. Its range of action may be limited, but within that range it is, like an animal, infallible.

It reads, so to speak, from a score that is both the notation and the substance of the piece.

It can and does repeat the performance, endlessly, with utter exactitude.

Our rectangle of white light is eternal. Only we come and go; we say: This is where I came in. The rectangle was here before we came, and it will be here after we have gone.

So it seems that a film is, first, a confined space, at which you and I, we, a great many people, are staring.

It is only a rectangle of white light. But it is all films. We can never see more within our rectangle, only less.

A red filter is placed before the lens at the word “red.”

If we were seeing a film that is red, if it were only a film of the color red, would we not be seeing more?


A red film would subtract green and blue from the white light of our rectangle.

So if we do not like this particular film, we should not say: There is not enough here, I want to see more. We should say: There is too much here, I want to see less.

The red filter is withdrawn.

Our white rectangle is not “nothing at all.” In fact, it is, in the end, all we have. That is one of the limits of the art of film.

So if we want to see what we call more, which is actually less, we must devise ways of subtracting, of removing, one thing and another, more or less, from our white rectangle.

The rectangle is generated by our performer, the projector, so whatever we devise must fit into it.

Then the art of making films consists in devising things to put into our projector.

The simplest thing to devise, although perhaps not the easiest, is nothing at all, which fits conveniently into the machine.

Such is the film we are now watching. It was devised several years ago by the Japanese filmmaker Takehisa Kosugi.

Such films offer certain economic advantages to the filmmaker.

But aside from that, we must agree that this one is, from an aesthetic point of view, incomparably superior to a large proportion of all films that have ever been made.

But we have decided that we want to see less than this.

Very well.

A hand blocks all light from the screen.

We can hold a hand before the lens. This warms the hand while we deliberate on how much less we want to see.

Not so much less, we decide, that we are deprived of our rectangle, a shape as familiar and nourishing to us as that of a spoon.

The hand is withdrawn.

Let us say that we desire to modulate the general information with which the projector bombards our screen. Perhaps this will do.

A pipe cleaner is inserted into the projector’s gate.

That’s better.

It may not absorb our whole attention for long, but we still have our rectangle, and we can always leave where we came in.

The pipe cleaner is withdrawn.

Already we have devised four things to put into our projector.

We have made four films.

It seems that a film is anything that may be put in a projector that will modulate the emerging beam of light.

For the sake of variety in our modulations, for the sake of more precise control of what and how much we remove from our rectangle, however, we most often use a specifically devised material called: film.

Film is a narrow transparent ribbon of any length you please, uniformly perforated with small holes along its edges so that it may be handily transported by sprocket wheels. At one time, it was sensitive to light.

Now, preserving a faithful record of where that light was, and was not, it modulates our light beam, subtracts from it, makes a vacancy, a hole, that looks to us like, say, Lana Turner.

Furthermore, that vacancy is doing something: it seems to be moving.

But if we take our ribbon of film and examine it, we find that it consists of a long row of small pictures, which do not move at all.

We are told that the explanation is simple: all explanations are.

The projector accelerates the small still pictures into movement. The single pictures, or frames, are invisible to our failing sense of sight, and nothing that happens on any one of them will strike our eye.

And this is true, so long as all the frames are essentially similar. But if we punch a hole in only one frame of our film, we will surely see it.

And if we put together many dissimilar frames, we will just as surely see all of them separately. Or at least we can learn to see them.

We learned long ago to see our rectangle, to hold all of it in focus simultaneously. If films consist of consecutive frames, we can learn to see them also.

Sight itself is learned. A newborn baby not only sees poorly—it sees upside down.

At any rate, in some of our frames we found, as we thought, Lana Turner. Of course, she was but a fleeting shadow—but we had hold of something. She was what the film was about.

Perhaps we can agree that the film was about her because she appeared oftener than anything else.

Certainly a film must be about whatever appears most often in it.

Suppose Lana Turner is not always on the screen.

Suppose further that we take an instrument and scratch the ribbon of film along its whole length.

Then the scratch is more often visible than Miss Turner, and the film is about the scratch.

Now suppose that we project all films. What are they about, in their great numbers?

At one time and another, we shall have seen, as we think, very many things.

But only one thing has always been in the projector.


That is what we have seen.

Then that is what all films are about.

If we find that hard to accept, we should recall what we once believed about mathematics.

We believed it was about the apples or peaches owned by George and Harry.

But having accepted that much, we find it easier to understand what a filmmaker does.

He makes films.

Now, we remember that a film is a ribbon of physical material, wound up in a roll: a row of small unmoving pictures.

He makes the ribbon by joining large and small bits of film together.

It may seem like pitiless and dull work to us, but he enjoys it, this splicing of small bits of anonymous stuff.

Where is the romance of moviemaking? The exotic locations? The stars?

The film artist is an absolute imperialist over his ribbon of pictures. But films are made out of footage, not out of the world at large.

Again: Film, we say, is supposed to be a powerful means of communication. We use it to influence the minds and hearts of men.

But the artist in film goes on building his ribbon of pictures, which is at least something he understands a little about.

The pioneer brain surgeon Harvey Cushing asked his apprentices: Why had they taken up medicine?

To help the sick.

But don’t you enjoy cutting flesh and bone? he asked them. I cannot teach men who don’t enjoy their work.

But if films are made of footage, we must use the camera. What about the romance of the camera?

And the film artist replies: A camera is a machine for making footage. It provides me with a third eye, of sorts, an acutely penetrating extension of my vision.

But it is also operated with my hands, with my body, and keeps them busy, so that I amputate one faculty in heightening another.

Anyway, I needn’t really make my own footage. One of the chief virtues in so doing is that it keeps me out of my own films.

We wonder whether this interferes with his search for self-expression.

If we dared ask, he would probably reply that self-expression interests him very little.

He is more interested in reconstructing the fundamental conditions and limits of his art.

After all, he would say, self-expression was only an issue for a very brief time in history, in the arts or anywhere else. And that time is about over.

Now, finally, we must realize that the man who wrote the text we are hearing read has more than a passing acquaintance and sympathy with the filmmaker we have been questioning.

For the sake of precision and repeatability, he has substituted a tape recorder for his personal presence—a mechanical performer as infallible as the projector behind us.

And to exemplify his conviction that nothing in art is as expendable as the artist, he has arranged to have his text recorded by another filmmaker, Mr. Michael Snow, whose voice we are hearing now.

If filmmakers seldom appear in their own films, there is ancient precedence of appearing in one another’s works. D. W. Griffith appeared in a work of Porter’s. Fritz Lang appeared in a film of Godard’s. And this is not the first time Mr. Snow and the present writer have reciprocated.

Since the speaker is also a filmmaker, he is fully equipped to talk about the only activity the writer is willing to discuss at present.

There is still time for us to watch our rectangle awhile.

Perhaps its sheer presence has as much to tell us as any particular thing we might find inside it.

We can invent ways of our own to change it.

But this is where we came in.

Please turn on the lights.


21 of Hollis Frampton’s 51 films

A and B in Ontario (1984)
‘“Hollis and I came back to Toronto on holiday in the summer of ’67. We were staying at a friend’s house. We worked our way through the city and eventually made it to the island. We followed each other around. We enjoyed ourselves. We said we were going to make a film about each other – and we did.” – Joyce Wieland A & B in Ontario was completed eighteen years after the original material was shot. After Frampton’s death, the film was assembled by Wieland into a cinematic dialogue in which the collaborators (in the spirit of the sixties) shoot each other with cameras.’ — letterboxd

the entire film


Magellan Cycle (1977 – 1980)
‘Had it been completed, Hollis Frampton’s 369-day-long megamovie Magellan could have been the ultimate structuralist monument. Planned around the conceit of Ferdinand Magellan’s global circumnavigation, Magellan was to comprise a liturgical calendar of approximately 1,000 films, with Lumière-inspired miniatures of just a few minutes screening on most days, and longer works on equinoxes, solstices, and other special dates. Within this solar epic, Frampton envisioned numerous “subsections and epicycles,” completing a macrocosmic engine reminiscent of an astrolabe’s nested gears or a computer program’s subroutines—the latter suggested by Frampton’s dot-matrix-printed schedule created in 1978, “CLNDR version 1.2.0,” each day numbered like a line of code. Like his project’s namesake, Frampton died before reaching his goal, completing only eight out of the proposed 36 hours of film. But these fragments evoke the whole.’ — Village Voice




Gloria! (1979)
‘In GLORIA! Frampton juxtaposes nineteenth-century concerns with contemporary forms through the interfacing of a work of early cinema with a videographic display of textual material. These two formal components (the film and the texts) in turn relate to a nineteenth-century figure, Frampton’s maternal grandmother, and to a twentieth-century one, her grandson (filmmaker Frampton himself). In attempting to recapture their relationship, GLORIA! becomes a somewhat comic, often touching meditation on death, on memory and on the power of image, music and text to resurrect the past.’ — letterboxd

the entire film


Not the First Time (1976)
‘This film is composed of different and relatively commonplace subjects, but each image is a super-imposition (‘double exposure’) of two similar shots of the same subject, almost in the same position. The effect is amazing: one’s gaze at the image becomes a double gaze, as the two images were made at different times and with slightly different framing. The viewer is engaged in a process of double-vision that returns him to image and subject in a manner more complex, more self-aware, and more temporal than the way most of us view photographs.’ — Fred Camper

the entire film


Autumnal Equinox (1974)
Autumnal Equinox (1974) was shot inside a meat-packing plant, and shot using 30 mm film that contained bovine jelly – further pushing the boundaries of experimental film.’ — collaged

the entire film


Pan (0 – 4) (697 – 700) (1974)
‘Frampton planned for a whopping 720 of these one-minute “Panopticons” to be shown throughout the project. Perhaps something like visual palate cleansers.’ — Martin Teller

Pan (0 – 1)

Pan 2

Pan 3


Winter Solstice (1974)
‘An experimental short by Hollis Frampton who films a couple and their dog as they walk farther away into the woods.’ — IMDb

the entire film


Noctiluca (Magellan’s Toys: #1) (1974)
Noctiluca is a three and one-half minute film designed to be shown on the second day of the MAGELLAN cycle. The title (nox/luceo) means something that shines by night, i.e., the moon, and the film indeed consists of a bright sphere, sometimes white, sometimes tinted, sometimes single, sometimes doubled and overlapped. This suggests to me the nocturnal navigation that Magellan had to rely upon in his first-ever trip around the world. (The second day of the cycle seems to be an inventory of the knowledge, machines, and arms that Magellan–and latterday voyagers like Frampton–had at the outset of his journey.) The film also refers of course to Stan Brakhage’s much longer, and monumental, 1973 film TEXT OF LIGHT, which studied the prismatic reflections occasioned by sunlight passing through a glass ashtray. Frampton’s film is, characteristically, more controlled and economical than Brakhage’s, but no less beautiful.’ — Brian Henderson

the entire film


Less (1973)
‘Near the end of 1973, Frampton realized that he had not finished a single film over the course of a year. He promptly conceived and executed LESS, a doubly punning work in which a minimalist Frampton generates a twenty-four frame (one-second) loop of the incremental blacking out of a nude image by photographer Les Krims.’ — Bruce Jenkins

the entire film


Hapax Legomena II: Poetic Justice (1972)
‘Frampton’s films expose, dismantle, and reorganize the structure of the medium while opening onto numerous branches of knowledge, including natural history, poetry, and linguistic theory. Poetic Justice, the second film in Framptons seven-part series Hapax Lagomena (1971–72), presents the viewer with an ordinary domestic scene: a stack of papers, a cup of coffee, and a potted cactus on a table. The sheets of paper compose a script that provides handwritten, frame-by-frame instructions for a film that unfolds only in the mind of the viewer; with the revelation of each page, the viewer is called upon to mine his or her own inventory of images. The desire to construct a linear narrative is countered by a series of spatial and temporal incongruities that collapse the distinction between filmic space and the physical realm of the viewer.’ — MoMA

the entire film


Apparatus Sum (1972)
‘A brief lyric film of death, which brings to equilibrium a single reactive image from a roomful of cadavers.’ — HF

the entire film


Tiger Balm (1972)
‘After two years of massive didacticism in black-and-white [Hapax Legomena (1971-72)], I am surprised by Tiger Balm, lyrical, in color, a celebration of generative humors and principles, in homage to the green of England, the light of my dooryard… and consecutive matters.’ — HF

the entire film


Hapax Legomena I: Nostalgia (1971)
‘”In (nostalgia), Frampton is clearly working with the experience of cinematic temporality. The major structural strategy is a disjunction between sound and image. We see a series of still photographs, most of them taken by Frampton, slowly burning one at a time on a hotplate. On the soundtrack, we hear Frampton’s comments and reminiscences about the photographs. As we watch each photograph burn, we hear the reminiscence pertaining to the following photograph. The sound and image are on two different time schedules. At any moment, we are listening to a commentary about a photograph that we shall be seeing in the future and looking at a photograph that we have just heard about. We are pulled between anticipation and memory. The nature of the commentary reinforces the complexity; it arouses our sense of anticipation by referring to the future; it also reminisces about the past, about the time and conditions under which the photographs were made. The double time sense results in a complex, rich experience.’ — Bill Simon

the entire film


Zorns Lemma (1970)
‘Originally starting as a series of photographs, the non-narrative film Zorns Lemma is structured around a 24-letter Latin alphabet. It remains, along with Michael Snow’s Wavelength and Tony Conrad’s The Flicker, one of the best known examples of structural filmmaking. The opening section of Zorns Lemma is 5 minutes long. In it a woman reads an abecedary of 24 couplets from The Bay State Primer, an eighteenth century book designed to teach children the alphabet. The film is entirely black during this section. A letter A stamped on tin foil, the first of 24 such letters shown at the beginning of the second section. The film’s main section is silent and lasts 45 minutes, broken into 2,700 one-second units. It shows the viewer an evolving 24-part “alphabet”. The section begins by presenting each letter typed on a sheet of tin foil. The alphabet is initially composed of words that appear on street signs, photographed in Manhattan. As the film continues to cycle through the alphabet, individual letters are slowly substituted with images. The first four substitutions—fire (x), waves (z), smoke (q), and reeds (y)–depict the four classical elements. The film’s conclusion lasts 10 minutes. It shows a man, woman and dog walking through snow. During this scene, six women’s voices alternate in reading the words of a passage from On Light, or the Ingression of Forms by Robert Grosseteste. The voices read at a rate of one word per second.’ — collaged

the entire film


Artificial Light (1969)
Artificial Light repeats variations on a single filmic utterance twenty times. The same phrase is a series of portrait shots of a group of young New York artists talking, drinking wine, laughing, smoking, informally. The individual portrait-shots follow each other with almost academic smoothness in lap-dissolves ending in two shots of the entire group followed by a dolly shot into a picture of the moon… There is a chasm between the phrase and its formal inflections. That chasm is intellectual as well as formal. Frampton loves an outrageous hypothesis; his films, all of them, take the shape of logical formulae.’ — P. Adams Sitney

the entire film


Lemon (1969)
Lemon, ostensibly a one-shot film, representing a radical pairing down of materials and methods: It is silent, static and unedited. This arrestingly spare portrait of a seeming “Superstar Fruit” begins in darkness, as gradually, a Lemon comes into sight. This film shows how Important Lighting can be.’ — TENRAG

the entire film


Palindrome (1969)
‘The menacing latin palindrome ‘In Girvm Imvs Nocte Et Consvmimvr Igni’ (By night we go (down) into a gyre/and we are consumed by fire) serves as epigraph to this animated film. Anima is imparted to 12 variations on each of 40 congruent phrases, metamorphosed from the chemically mutilated flesh of color film itself.’– collaged

the entire film


Surface Tension (1968)
Surface Tension, as the name suggests, concerns itself with the way objects move on a surface with a varying degree of “film.” Scientifically speaking, the greater the amount of film the more difficult it is for an object to move. In Hampton’s film this is not the case, in fact, it is how he alters the film that allows the material to move in an either slower or faster rate. It is only the sound that seems to move at a consistent pace, but that, arguably, has nothing to do with film and exists on its own plane of experience. Frampton even went so far as to claim that the film was about three separate notions of space, one being comedic, one scientific and a third being something in between. With this in mind it helps explain the three segments of the film, one involving a man talking whilst standing next to a clock. With the sound removed, we are left perplexed over the man’s discussion that is faster than normal and only have the incessant ringing of a phone as comfort. The second section, the scientific portion of the film, follows a camera fast forwarded through the streets as incomprehensible German is dubbed over. We are only able to pull worlds like “chocolat” from the man’s dialogue, which is juxtaposed with incredibly murky water. The final section is of a fish in an aquarium on the beach. The rate of the film is normal this time as we watch the ebb and flow of the tide consume the tank, but never take the fish. Simultaneously words appear on the screen that have no coherent meaning, but appear to refer to the film as a whole in some manner. Neither comedic nor serious, this portion of the film is clearly the hybrid of the previous portions, yet it is always affected by what Frampton has done to intervene with the film stock. Ultimately, the film is book-ended by crashing tides, perhaps suggesting that no amount of intervention can stop surface tension, when the force is greater than the film trying to interfere. A deeply profound commentary on the entire state of filmmaking, particularly considering it is a question film theorist haves struggled over for almost a century. What Frampton does with Surface tension, is definitively answer that question, or at least provide a philosophical positing so grand that to overcome it would be to some extent inconceivable.’ — Cinemalacrum

the entire film


Snowblind (1968)
‘Homage to Michael Snow’s environmental sculpture ‘Blind.’ The film proposes analogies, in imitation of 3 historic montage styles, for three perceptual modes mimed by that work.” — Hollis Frampton

the entire film


Heterodyne (1967)
‘I began to make it when I had no money for raw stock and only several rolls of colored leader but nevertheless (had) the need to make or work on a film.’ — HF

the entire film


Manual of Arms (1966)
‘In this “fourteen-part drill for the camera,” Frampton created a portrait gallery of his art-world friends engaging in a variety of ordinary activities.’ — letterboxd

the entire film



p.s. Hey. So tomorrow I have to head way back out west to Cherbourg early in the morning for another day of location work for Zac’s and my film, so I won’t be here to do the p.s. I’ll catch up with today’s and tomorrow’s comments on Wednesday. I’ll probably have to do the same thing again on Thursday or/and Friday for those who want to mark their calendars in pencil. ** Steevee, Hi. Zyprexa seems really, really insidious. It sounds like continuing at the lowest dose you can is the only sane way to go, and I hope your doctor either gets that or has some other miracle in mind. I haven’t seen ‘Elephant Man’ in ages. I suppose I remember that it seemed a bit like Lynchianism on assignment, but I don’t know. How does it stand? Okay, I’ll seek out the Solomon book, thank you ** H, Hi. Thanks, I’m glad a couple of them were of interest. Like I said, I’m spoiled by the Paris metro. It’s so well organized and largely efficient. People complain its grungy, but, compared to NYC’s, say, it’s really more like it has a lot of character to me. Plus, people are basically and even mysteriously very well mannered on the trains and platforms. I don’t know. ** Sypha, Hi, James. I’m sorry to hear of your recent health hampering. Glad you’re in the bend phase. I get why the third era Fleetwood Mac (w/Nicks, Buckingham, etc.) is so well liked and critically upheld and all of that. It doesn’t do much for me personally other than creating reminiscences of the era when they were King, although the craft there is obviously unimpeachable. It does kind of interest me how it’s very adult and seeking flexibility within an overall goal of refining and maintaining tastefulness and all of that. ** David Ehrenstein, I remember the NYC subway being fun as late as the late 70s and mid-80s, maybe even later? I don’t know. Glad the books intrigued you. I just think it seems way past time that Gus go back to making films that seem to mean much of anything to him and give him an opportunity to play and experiment. ** Misanthrope, Cool about the appeal of those two books. I like happy textual accidents. I mean where would the escort posts be without them? I think I wake up during the night, but, except in rare instances, my dreams slam the door on me when I do. Even when I remember them, they’re never colorful like yours. Strange. I wonder what it means. ** Ferdinand, Hi. Well, I will most assuredly hit that link what with that helluva build up. Cool, thanks for the tip, man. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi! Yeah, I’m in a very lucky situation where people just send me books by mail and pdfs by email I guess because they know I’m probably interested and, I guess, because I do those ‘loved’ posts. There are still negotiations going on about the pinatas. I think we might have to give up one of most ambitious-to-make ones. Money’s tight. We’re starting to get that on a whole lot of levels. Either the guy we’re auditioning today or a guy we’re auditioning in Cherbourg tomorrow will be ‘the one’, or we’ll cast this one guy we auditioned a couple of weeks ago who’s kind of our ‘fall back’ choice, and who I personally think could be really good. You’re writing a lot! So great! Very happy making news! My weekend was, yes, a bunch of film stuff. We need to nail down five music tracks that we can use for minimal payment, and that’s ongoing concern right now. And lots and lots of detail and technical work that isn’t very interesting or easy to describe. Had a meeting about the TV series project with our producers which was not very conclusive, so basically we have to just sit tight and wait for the very delayed yes or no from the TV station that’s considering it before we start thinking about how to shop it around elsewhere if we have to. Talked to some friends, almost finished unpacking, stuff like that. It was okay. Did Monday continue your weekend-long winning streak on the pleasure front? ** Jamie, Heighty-ho, Jamie! Busy is how my weekend was. Good, nothing horrible or anything. The TV meeting wasn’t a yes or no thing. It was a progress report from the producer about where we are in the process of getting a yes or no, and the report was that we remain dangling and waiting. Huh, that’s interesting about that cut-up thing Sinclair read, Okay, you make me want to dip back into his stuff. Oh, if I’d guessed, I would have guessed the viva was what you say it is. Best of the best of luck to her today. The vibe I’m getting is that she’ll ace it. Did she? Better bad luck than miserableness. Well, as long as the bad luck stays on a weird, lite level, I guess. I do enjoy all the film work, yes. A lot, even. It’s just kind of exhausting because it never stops now. I don’t like having our plans crimped by budget concerns, but I understand that. But, yeah, it’s all exciting, and I’m really confident that our film is going to be great, and that helps a lot. I hope you’re very well too, my friend! What’s up with Monday and you? Tinkering love, Dennis. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. I think you’ll really like the Jen George book. It’s very pleasurable. I actually was sent that Tim Lawrence book, and I was just an hour ago thinking it might be my train-to-Cherbourg time occupier. I was living in NYC during part of that golden age of clubs, and it was pretty great and utopian and such a blast, I must say. ** Right. I made a big day about the big, seminal experimental filmmaker Hollis Frampton today for you to pick apart or wade through or whatever else you feel like doing with it. The blog will see you without me tomorrow, and we both will be here again to greet and blab with you on Wednesday.

4 books I read recently & loved: Elizabeth Ellen PERSON/A, Mitch Sisskind Do Not Be a Gentleman When You Say Goodnight, Nathaniel Mackey Late Arcade, Jen George The Babysitter at Rest



‘I first read Person/a in late 2013. At that time it was shorter, more incomplete, and had a different name. Even in that rough form, the work immediately struck me as something different, something powerful.

‘This version of Person/a, now a 600-page brick of a book, arrived in my mailbox on the same day as a more conventional novel, one that was put out by a mainstream press. I took them out of their envelopes, flipped through both. The big press novel felt like any other book. Person/a felt like an animal.

‘If it is actually a novel at all, it is a collage-y one— of quotes, emails, letters, texts. Its format is elliptical, with three Volume Ones, each retreading and then fragmenting the same story. There are two endings, two love interests, the central role alternates between two professions, the child of the narrator alternates between two genders. Each of these elements is mutually exclusive: the central role is not both a musician and a writer, he is either one or the other.

‘At face value, Person/a is a love story, or rather an unrequited love story. The narrator, named Elizabeth Ellen, pines over a writer (sometimes musician) called Ian Kaye, whom she has only spent a handful of hours with face-to-face. Their romantic relationship is never consummated, yet she spends the better part of seven years obsessing over it, obsessing over him, until the him is less a person than a projection of the things Elizabeth Ellen wants and is afraid of. It is also, as the character says to her husband in Volume Three, “as much about the writing and publishing of such a book as the book itself; about the effect it has on the writer’s spouse and child and family and friends… it’s now about being a female writer/artist and being married/a mother and the repercussions of both/all.” Which is true. Person/a is very much an Important Feminist Work, in that it illustrates the pains of Trying To Have It All, but, like any good Feminist Work, it only addresses this through action and experience, rather than theory.

Person/a is also very much an Important Feminist Work, in that it subverts what we expect from women. I am reminded of an interview I recently heard on Fresh Air, about the poet Robert Lowell, who, while manic, did and said horrible things to his wife, but was often forgiven because he was brilliant and male and ill. In Person/a, Elizabeth Ellen is not Elizabeth Hardwick but Lowell, not the forgiving sainted spouse but the sinner, oftentimes mistaking the term “Artist” for “Asshole.” But instead of the conventional cheating or substance abuse, Elizabeth Ellen’s main method of destruction is obsession—something stranger and thus less understandable than the usual routes, because not only is it destructive, it is creepy.’ — Juliet Escoria, Fanzine


Elizabeth Ellen Site
Elizabeth Ellen’s tumblr
On Deciding What Counts: Elizabeth Ellen and What Makes A Victim
Elizabeth Ellen is a Machine


Elizabeth Ellen PERSON/A

‘A novel about the complexities of being a woman, an artist, a mother, and a wife; a novel about persona and obsession and loyalty and repression; an exorcism.

‘Told in four volumes over seven years, with emails, g-chats, and an ‘interview’ with Lydia Davis (and a nod to Ms. Davis’s The End of the Story), the style of Person/a is often experimental, pushing the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction, obsession and mental instability, female independence and a loyalty to current and former lovers, but with the ultimate loyalty being to oneself or one’s writing, and is there a difference? and should we be ashamed?’ — Hobart

‘PERSON/A is not only a great novel; it’s a French film. It’s Paris, Texas. It’s A Woman under the Influence. Its HBO’s True Detective meets Anna Karenina—I think; I’ve never really read it LOL—meets that one music video where Britney Spears overdoses in a bathtub. It’s about love, obsession, narcissism, marriage, delusion, pain, pleasure, art, life, addiction—it’s about you, me, things that transform, that come apart. Basically, Elizabeth Ellen should win the Pulitzer Prize and then immediately be beaten to death with it because she’s so good, so human, so completely fucked.’ — Brian Alan Ellis


Two months after my trip to New York City, I drove to Buffalo for a writers’ conference. I was not participating on any panels or doing any readings and I decided at the last minute to go mainly to see other writers I knew who were friends of mine and to get out of the house, and consequently, away from myself. He and I had not spoken or had any communication with one another in almost a month and I was feeling overwhelmingly lonely and isolated because of this. Before I left I had asked another writer to go with me. Most of the writers I knew who were going were male and this writer was female and I thought it would be nice to have another female writer there and offered her my room to share. I had never met this female writer in person and had not even so much as exchanged an email with her until a couple of weeks before the Buffalo trip when she emailed me to say she liked a particular story of mine. Prior to her emailing me I knew very little about her except that she was a good friend of his and that she had been the person he had spent the day with the night he hurt his ankle and did not see me the day following. At the time I had blamed her for his not seeing me and believed there to be some sort of romantic interest on her part or both of their parts, though he had sworn she was like a sister to him and that nothing had happened between them. In the months between the day they spent together and the trip to Buffalo she had published a story I read about a day she had spent with a male friend of hers and I had wrongly attributed the male character to him and had torn up the story upon reading it as it had inferred a romantic interest in the male character. Later she told me it was not about him but about another male writer I knew and I laughed and felt silly for my instinct to think everything was about him and my assumption that because I felt so strongly about him, every other female must as well.

I do not like to admit so, but a large part of the reason I invited this woman to Buffalo was because of my knowledge that she was a close friend of his, though I felt conflicted about inviting her for the same reason. I was worried I would drink and become loose lipped and divulge information I did not want to divulge or ask questions I did not want to ask and that the particular questions I chose to ask would divulge as much about me and him and about my feelings for him as any answers I could give. Also, I still felt deeply loyal to him and did not want him to think I was betraying him by telling her things we had talked about and done or not talked about and not done.

At the time I invited this woman it was very late at night and I had been drinking, and she had been drinking as well. I asked her to come to Buffalo with me on a whim and on a whim she said yes and before either of us could change our minds I had bought her a plane ticket and reserved us a room. Even though he and I were not speaking, I emailed him to tell him she was going to be joining me in Buffalo and he did not respond and I had not expected him to but I seemed to want him to know all the same.

On the drive to Buffalo a few days later I began to have reservations about having asked her but also I was excited to meet her and hopeful we would get along and become friends. I knew that she drank and smoked and I figured we had that much in common and that that much would be enough to bond us in a way that would see us through the weekend. When I had told my daughter about my reservations with regard to meeting this woman, my daughter had said, “If she’s a friend of his, she must be okay,” and I had laughed when she said this but at the same time felt somewhat melancholy in the face of my daughter’s continued admiration for him, knowing she might never see him again, and that I might never see him again either.


Elizabeth Ellen ‘Bridget Fonda’

Elizabeth Ellen reads at Lil’ Bitch Tour, PDX 8/17/2012

Aaron Burch & Elizabeth Ellen On Hobart & Whisky





‘Mitch Sisskind’s collection of poems and stories, Do Not Be a Gentleman When You Say Goodnight, is a retrospective of a near fifty-year career of provocative, unnerving, absurd, but most of all, searingly funny comic writing. Relying on irony, paradox, and the unexpected to evoke emotion, Sisskind’s comic talent lies in his ability to be at once humorous and moving, reassuring and unsettling. There is little room for sentimentality in Do Not Be a Gentleman When You Say Goodnight, and both the comic and the tragic resonate more forcefully because of its absence. There are no winners in Sisskind’s world, nor are there any neatly wrapped moral lessons. Conclusions are reached abruptly and without epiphany, but frequently there is wonder, or perhaps a wondrous perplexity, that allows for the consequences of his characters’ exertions, both fantastical and mundane, to wrestle for sense in the reader’s mind.

‘A feature of Sisskind’s writing is his habit of placing speakers and characters in the surreal, and then granting them powers of reaction and response that are only too real. In the short story Mr. Tivy, the title character believes he has the unique ability to speak to animals. His ideas on how to employ this talent, however, are rather less profound, first wanting to make a “successful film” about his powers, and then attempting to impress a masseur (who has just jerked him off) by speaking with the parlor cat, Gross Out. Gross Out does not comply, and after the masseur leaves the room, Mr. Tivy interrogates the cat as to his lack of obedience: “I thought you wanted to help me out.’You know what you’re asking can never be… and anyway, what is she but a lowlife broad wasting her time in dives? On the other hand, you’re a remarkable person! A precious gift was given to you. Go to Lincoln Park and spend some time at the large-mammal house Gain the wisdom of the elephants!’ 
Mr. Tivy had heard all this before. ‘You talk like my dog.’”

‘The baseness of human ambition, the fact that we are “human, all too human,” is something frequently found in Sisskind, yet the paths by which we arrive at this conclusion are always unexpected. In a wildly humorous story, It So Happens, the speaker, Allison, is visited by the famous actress Jacqueline Bisset, who floats in through the young girl’s bedroom window at night to give her advice on how she should go about her future, “Until you blossom, concentrate very hard on your schoolwork. Then, as soon as this process is finally completed, compare yourself with the other girls.” And what if Allison never blossoms? “Simply admit this to yourself. Then decide if you might be someone who is skinny but with a lot of pizzazz to make up for it.” Sisskind reminds us that it is often through the absurd that the clearest picture of the human condition is rendered and it is because of this absurdity that we can shed the urge to pass judgement. We neither condemn nor pity Sisskind’s characters or their plights, we merely laugh with a disquieting empathy.’ — Thomas Moody


Mitch Sisskind @ goodreads
Mitch Sisskind @ Facebook
Podcast: Mitch Sisskind on NPR’s Bookworm
Mitch Sisskind – Correspondent at Large
Buy ‘Do Not Be a Gentleman When You Say Goodnight’


Mitch Sisskind Do Not be a Gentleman When You Say Goodnight
The Song Cave

‘Mitch Sisskind’s DO NOT BE A GENTLEMAN… opens the door to a world of another time, in an unusual mix of stories and poems, of solid realism and weird fantasy and wit, combining steamy sex and nostalgia, the Mickey Mouse Club and Talmudic scholarship. Sisskind gives us an unapologetically and un–politically–correct male world, but a quirky and appealing one, a world of old guys with funny names like Steve Tomato and Hub Snell—maybe you knew them? My favorite is ‘Twenty Questions’: a dead father, sitting in a magic chair, speaks to his son for a while about his life, and in this story, speaking from beyond the grave seems as natural as breathing, and the voice, talking about how he used to dress or eat or conduct business, completely alive.’ —  Lydia Davis

‘Donald Barthelme told me, early on, that Mitch Sisskind is the funniest living writer in America—and when I read “A Mean Teacher,” I was convinced. This collection renders me helpless with laughter and admiration. Man, is he oblique or what?’ — Michael Silverblatt


Then All Hell Breaks Loose: Thirteen Films of Tokyo Lipscomb


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, and a few other girls move into a new apartment and find themselves next door to a burned-out ex-ballplayer named George Henry. Neighbors insist that George Henry vanished ten years earlier—but remember, Tokyo Lipscomb and the other girls are living next door to him. At the end we find out that Tokyo Lipscomb and the other girls are actually dead. They died in a car accident. But they come back to life with the help of George Henry. But he was also dead and stays dead. Then all hell breaks loose.


George Henry is a burned-out ex-ballplayer whose own face gets stuck after warning his daughters that their faces might get stuck if they make chipmunk faces. Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, is assigned to write a paper about George Henry after seeing a news report about him but now more and more people’s faces are getting stuck—all except Tokyo Lipscomb’s face. So she holds the key. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn who is athletic but also somewhat of a nerd, is mistaken for her “perfect” identical twin when her identical twin dies suddenly. So Tokyo Lipscomb seizes the chance to masquerade as her “perfect” identical twin. But when she falls in love with her identical twin’s next door neighbor, a burned out ex-ballplayer named George Henry, Tokyo Lipscomb gets hoist on her own petard. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, finds a toad during her morning run around the campus. When she kisses the toad it turns into George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, learns that her rich uncle has died and bequeathed his fortune to her—but only if she agrees to have dinner with George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. It seems simple enough but Tokyo Lipscomb falls for George Henry and when the dust settles they’ve both been transported back to prehistoric times. They have to get back to modern times using only their cell phones. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, gets a fatal illness and joins a support group where she meets a washed-up ex-ball-player named George Henry. Their sex life is hot at first because they’re facing their mortality but gradually it deteriorates into monotony until George Henry actually dies. But somehow they start having great sex again. Or is Tokyo Lipscomb just imagining it? Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, comes home for summer vacation and her father throws out her math books because he says numbers are tools of the devil. But then, by using math, Tokyo Lipscomb figures out that her “father” actually is the devil and her real father is George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. Then all hell breaks loose.


An army of alligators comes out of the sewers, which is explained by a flashback to 1959. People could send away for live baby alligators advertised on the back of comic books, but then they flushed the alligators down their toilets and the alligators multiplied. Back to the present: at the last moment the army of alligators is stopped in its tracks by a humane method discovered by the unlikely couple of Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, and George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, gets permission to do a special field work project for an anthropology class where she and two other girls go to the Colorado Mountains in search of a ghost town that vanished off the face of the earth during a gold rush 150 years ago. George Henry, a washed-up ex-ball-player, becomes their guide, but instead of finding the town and its gold they find the Holy Grail. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, can’t get rid of a bee hive outside the window of her dorm room. We see her Google “bees” and “bee hives” but she gets nowhere until she meets George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. He is a bee expert like the guy in Jaws who was a shark expert. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, finds the perfect off-campus apartment. But she begins to lose her grip on reality when she finds herself battling the building’s ghosts. Then she puts her trust in George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer who talks her into building a trap door—but the door connects to the netherworld. Then all hell breaks loose.


Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, mistakenly dials the wrong number on her cell phone and finds herself involved with a subculture with a trail that leads all the way to the White House. Then the President’s cell phone explodes. Fortunately he was not talking on it at the time, but he had just been talking to George Henry, a washed-up ex-ballplayer. Then all hell breaks loose.


George Henry is a washed-up ex-ballplayer now working as an assistant baseball coach at the University of Pennsylvania. When he meets Tokyo Lipscomb, a third-year student at Penn, it comes out that George Henry never learned to read and is embarrassed about it. Then there are montages of George Henry and Tokyo Lipscomb making love intercut with scenes of George Henry learning to read. At first he’s reading children’s books, then young adult, and finally Ulysses. Meanwhile their lovemaking is also growing more elaborate. Finally we see him graduating from college. Then all hell breaks loose.


same day

David Lehman and Mitch Sisskind discuss their Columbia University teacher Kenneth Koch

rach and mitch




Andrew Mossin: Yes, and it’s that sense of singing in a strange land that your work so often seems disposed toward. As you write in “Sound and Sentiment, Sound and Symbol”: “Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.” You’ve been asked before about the relationship between music and your work, but I wonder if you could speak to this sense of the music you call up in your poetry and fictive prose as “kinship’s last resort.”

Nathaniel Mackey: Yes, it’s wounded kinship’s last resort. Perhaps all kinship is wounded, incomplete, short of its ideal, but the more blatant breaches of connectedness and fellow feeling seem especially salient. The conclusion of Mississippi Masala, a movie about nothing if not lesion, displacement, and conflict, with its implication that music can, if only for a time, heal division, is one of numerous examples of what’s long been a commonplace notion. Albert Ayler’s “Music Is the Healing Force of the Universe” is another. Wounded kinship isn’t the only thing the language of music and the music of language attend, but they can and do bring a certain solace to it, mixing consolation and complaint with intimations of a more fully realized kinship. George Lamming said of the Barbadian villagers in his novel In the Castle of My Skin, “The word is their only rescue.” I think that has wider applicability. The word is our rescue, whether spoken, written, sung, or nonverbally intoned, in part because the language of music and the music of language accent a tending-toward—“pointing-beyond-itself” in Victor Zuckerkandl’s analysis of tonal motion, Ezra Pound’s “tone leading of vowels,” etc.—that might well be the beginning of kinship, or a therapeutic or cathartic analogue to it, at least. This is a suggestion poetry often makes, though not always in a celebratory way or at least not without being celebratory and cautionary both, haunted by the “only” in Lamming’s statement. This is a predicament or problematic that my own work, whether poetry or prose, is much caught up in, as you note. The song sung in a strange land asks how can it be sung in a strange land, lamenting lost connection and reaching toward would-be connection, tenuous connection perhaps.

There’s a story about Lester Young I’ve cited before in which he calls the keys and pads of his saxophone his people. His listeners responded by wanting to join those pads and keys, that polity, that place, calling him Pres. Trumpeter Earl Cross, in a similar vein, said, “I would like to walk around the street looking like a trumpet.” Poetry’s place as wounded kinship’s last resort is to be the country and kin the medium itself offers. The music of language and the language of music enact an estrangement of their own, an inoculative tack perhaps, maybe a compensative tack. I recall Robert Duncan saying at the Iowa Olson conference, “We practice displacement.” The word wants to be its own realm, to enact and inhabit a land of its own, an alternate home of its own. This is another sense of Lamming’s “only,” as well as mine in “heads crowned / in / sound only in / sound” in “Sound and Semblance.” This is an aspect of the solace it provides, a kind of removal, a fugitive impulse I’ve written about elsewhere, a tending-away. “Only” can be read as a limit but also as an added domain.

AM: Reading back into your work, I found this quote from Bedouin Hornbook that stood out for me in the context of the connection your comments suggest between provisional homeland and perpetual seeking. Here you write, listening to and reading the liner notes to Pharoah Sanders’s solo of “My Favorite Things” on Coltrane Live at the Village Vanguard Again!, “It’s as though he drank water from a rusted cup, the tenor’s voice such an asthmatic ambush of itself as to trouble every claim to a ‘composed’ approach. To me it borders on prayer, though prayer would here have to be revised so as to implicate humility in some form of détente—an uneasy truce or eleventh-hour treaty—with hubris, part prayer, part witch’s brew.” Can you talk about how you see your work as manifesting this connection between uncertainty and prayer?

NM: Well, I wasn’t talking about prayer per se in that passage. I was using prayer as a foil, playing it against and folding it into a musical performance that doesn’t sound or seem as obviously related to prayer as does Coltrane’s “Dear Lord” or “Alabama” or Pharoah’s “Morning Prayer” or “Let Us Go into the House of the Lord” or any of a number of others. I was trying to talk about something I heard in the circumspection Pharoah starts that solo with, the probity of his sotto voce tack or what wants to be probity, a kind of trepidation, it seems. I was trying to say something about the fury this gets into, a pitch of complaint that would be hubristic in the context of prayer, and I was trying to talk about what I heard as prolixity and obstructed speech consorting, Pharoah seeming to’ve been gathering himself all along for that halting, hesitant statement of the melody toward the end. It was a numinous extremity I was trying to get at. Rudolf Otto’s examination of the numinous experience in The Idea of the Holy had a strong impact on me when I read it in my late teens, and his notion of the sense of one’s creatureliness as a part of that experience is at work in a later letter in Bedouin Hornbook that relates to the passage you cite. In that letter, N. dreams he’s in North Africa with a group of Sufis who practice a form of prayer in which they mimic animals—bray like horses, bark like dogs, meow like cats, and so on—so as to humble themselves before and acknowledge their separation from Allah, the fact that to God, they’re only as animals are to men. N. goes on to say something about this, to call it an inoculation of loss, mourning abandonment as though in advance, only to find that a piece of glass has gotten caught in his throat. He coughs as forcefully as he can to dislodge it, making the yelp of a barking dog. That yelp, taking the place of discourse, is N.’s submission to a certain animal abidance, to being “an angel on all fours,” as Djuna Barnes puts it in Nightwood. I heard and hear a like abidance in the gruff, iterative insistence of Pharoah’s solo, a not always joyful noise but a devotional noise nonetheless, an expectorant noise, as though he would cough up separation if he could. His and Trane’s recourse to an expectorant or would-be expectorant grumble and shriek is an admission of the limits of knowing—agnostic and agonistic.


Nathaniel Mackey @ electric poetry center
Nathaniel Mackey @ PennSound
Nathaniel Mackey @ Facebook
Buy ‘Late Arcade’


Nathaniel Mackey Late Arcade
New Directions

‘Nathaniel Mackey’s Late Arcade opens in Los Angeles. A musician known only as N. writes the first of a series of letters to the enigmatic Angel of Dust. N.’s jazz sextet, Molimo m’Atet, has just rehearsed a new tune: the horn players read from The Egyptian Book of the Dead with lips clothespinned shut, while the rest of the band struts and saunters in a cosmic hymn to the sun god Ra. N. ends this breathless session by sending the Angel of Dust a cassette tape of their rehearsal.

‘Over the next nine months, N.’s epistolary narration follows the musical goings-on of the ensemble. N. suffers from what he calls “cowrie shell attacks”—oil spills, N.’s memory of his mother’s melancholy musical Sundays—which all becomes the source of fresh artistic invention.

‘Here is the newest installment of the National Book Award-winner Nathaniel Mackey’s From a Broken Bottle Traces of Perfume Still Emanate, the great American jazz novel of “exquisite rhythmic lyricism” (Bookforum).’ — New Directions

from Harper’s

We strolled up Woodward Avenue over to the Detroit Institute of Arts. It was beautiful, quite the promenade, with lovely buildings on both sides of the street, the institute perhaps the loveliest of them. The contrast between epic, heroic dimension and postindustrial diminution came easily to one’s lips — too easily, I thought. I had the sense there was an opaque Detroit, a recondite Detroit, a secret Detroit such observations don’t even scratch the surface of. I bit my tongue.

After the Detroit Institute of Arts we took a bus down Woodward to Greektown. At one of the stops a man in his mid-sixties got on. He was wearing a rumpled brown suit that had seen better days, a white shirt that could’ve used washing, and dress shoes that were run down at the heels. His hair was an unkempt salt-and-pepper Afro, matted on one side from having been slept on, his chin and jaws were covered with stubble, in need of a shave. He headed for the back of the bus, muttering under his breath and making a point of looking at each passenger he passed. His eyes were bloodshot, and one could smell that he’d been drinking, but he had a kind of elegance all the same, no matter that his legs were a little shaky and he bumped against the edges of the seat backs as he made his way down the aisle. After he and the other new passengers were seated and the bus began to roll again, his muttering slowly gained volume, until we heard him say, loudly and a bit slurred, “None of y’all don’t know nothin’ about this!” He repeated this again and again, pausing between repetitions as if to let it sink in throughout the bus or even, perhaps, to assess and be newly schooled by it himself. “None of y’all don’t know nothin’ about this!” His voice was raspy, gruff, burning like whiskey.

The rest of us turned to look toward the back of the bus, one or two at first and then more and more, all of us eventually staring at him as he continued to announce, “None of y’all don’t know nothin’ about this!” He sat alone on the back seat of the bus, dead center, head up, back surprisingly straight given the wobbliness of his walk down the aisle, feet planted flatly and solidly on the floor, legs a little bit akimbo, hands on his knees. He stared back, panning the bus, intent, it seemed, on making eye contact with each and every one of us — something of a taunt, a challenge, a dare in the look he gave. “None of y’all don’t know nothin’ about this!” he kept insisting, or sometimes, “Don’t none of y’all know nothin’ about this!”

It never became clear what he meant by “this,” whether it referred to his condition in some micro or macro way (his tipsiness or his general disrepair, respectively) or to a more general state of affairs, to life itself or to who knows what, but his vehemence, if nothing else, communicated; his adamance, if nothing else, had a kind of articulateness, the direness or the extremity from which he spoke was affecting and true. It struck me that “this” was nothing if not the entire edifice, possession built on and put in place by dispossession, the disrepair of the socially dead. I thought this and I saw it all in a snap, a flash, but no matter the truth of it, the historical and present-day relevance or resonance of it, I almost immediately lost patience with myself, guilty as I was of a deeper negligence, a deep nonobservance of the hidden-in-plain-sight rite we were being offered, the initiation into not knowing that the man in the rumpled suit offered us. The simple fact was that he was right: we didn’t know. We didn’t know who he was, we didn’t know what “this” was.

I have to admit I found myself a little shaken, no matter that nothing untoward was happening. I felt somehow singled out. The fact that what he said, what he kept insisting, what he kept repeating, agreed so much with the way I’d been thinking — the random vantage being the random veil — is what shook me. It seemed he spoke from some unreachably occult place, a cautionary voice after my own heart, chastening and affirming me at the same time.

From time to time the bus driver glanced up at his rearview mirror, checking out what was going on in back. It had started off with everyone a little on edge, apprehensive as to what this would lead to, but after a while it seemed pretty clear that the man’s mania, if mania was what it was, consisted solely of confronting us verbally and with his bloodshot gaze. He kept to his own space, which was clearly defined as the middle of the back seat of the bus, and his hands never left his knees — no flailing of arms, no gesticulation, not so much as waving a finger. What little violence there was, if it can even be called that, was confined to his face, a grimacing wince it got from time to time as he registered the effort it took to apprise us of our not knowing, a certain exasperation, bordering on exhaustion it seemed, with having to do so, with our not knowing and with our not knowing we didn’t know. Once it was established that he posed no threat, everyone in the bus relaxed. Everyone eventually went back to what they’d been doing before. A group of teenagers covered their mouths and giggled. The man in the brown suit, unfazed by no longer having everyone’s attention, continued his tirade. After a while it simply blended in, background noise, of a piece with the conversations going on in the bus, traffic noise from outside, and whatever else came into earshot. At the fourth stop he stood up, went back to muttering, made his way up the aisle, and got off the bus.


Nathaniel Mackey reading

A Conversation with Nathaniel Mackey

Nathaniel Mackey – “Breath and Precarity”





‘There’s a point late in Jen George’s The Babysitter at Rest when an aspiring artist named Lee earns entry into an arts program held inside the Aqueduct racetrack during the offseason. While there, between cleaning concession stands and burying dead horses, she is expected to a complete one large art project each month. For her first month, Lee paints “Your Unceasing Fantasy Will Not Conjure the Desired into Being,” “a series of one hundred watercolors depicting women in various states of longing/ desire/ dreaming/ despair with their eyes slightly crossed, mouths mostly open, vaginas reluctantly dry.” Her instructor, known as “The Teacher/ older man with large hands,” decrees that the work is “sexy as hell while being totally amateur and bad.” Lee soon ends up sleeping with him. This section of the story is bears the title “Early work.”

‘This debut collection, out now from Dorothy, a publishing project, may represent George’s early work, though there is nothing amateur or bad about it. (Sexiness, of course, remains subjective.) The five stories contained within the book can certainly be seen as five portraits of women in various stages of longing/ desire/ dreaming/ despair. They are creatively and sexually frustrated, subject to the caprices of men, machines, mortality, and other arbitrary powers.

‘Incongruity between the narrators and their respective worlds forms the collection’s throughline. One might expect the protagonists — each rational in her way — to crack under the complete irrationality of her circumstances. (After all, isn’t that how a normal person would respond?) But these characters do not crack. They check themselves. They adapt. They mold to the expectations of their environments. For this, as the reader realizes, is how things actually are: even when humans are confounded by the illogic that surrounds us, we rarely respond with logic. Instead, we become illogical, so as to meet the world on the same terms. Such is the way that individuals survive.

;The collection remains faithful to the Dorothy aesthetic: books that are not only strange and inventive, but strange and inventive in ways that distinguish themselves from each other. Within that family, George’s surrealist comedies are perhaps most reminiscent of Joanna Ruocco’s endlessly digressive (and marvelous) novel, Dan, published by Dorothy in 2014. Broad comparisons to Aimee Bender and Alissa Nutting might also be made, but George’s motley presentation and aversion to explanation mark her as a truly distinctive voice. Her frank dystopias have the charming eccentricity of Edward Gorey illustrations. They do not rely on beauty or brutality or humanistic appeals to sell themselves. Just a vision and a ghoulish sense of humor.’ — Michael Deagler, The Millions


Following The Subconscious Without Self-Censure: An Interview With Jen George
Jen George Explores Identity, Technology, and Womanhood, to Devastating Effect
‘Together Young’, by Jen George
Buy ‘The Babysitter at Rest’


Jen George The Babysitter at Rest
Dorothy, a publishing project

‘Five stories—several as long as novellas—introduce the world to Jen George, a writer whose furiously imaginative new voice calls to mind Donald Barthelme and Leonora Carrington no less than Kathy Acker and Chris Kraus. In “Guidance/The Party,” an ethereal alcoholic “Guide” in robes and flowing hair appears to help a thirty-three-year-old woman prepare a party for her belated adulthood; “Take Care of Me Forever” tragically lambasts the medical profession as a ship of fools afloat in loneliness and narcissism; “Instruction” chronicles a season in an unconventional art school called The Warehouse, where students divide their time between orgies, art critiques, and burying dead racehorses. Combining slapstick, surrealism, erotica, and social criticism, Jen George’s sprawling creative energy belies the secret precision and unexpected tenderness of everything she writes.’ — Dorothy



Guests arrive between two and three hours late. The Host checks her email and text invitations to make sure she got the date correct. She adds 100 more ingredients to her 10,001-ingredient mole, making it a 10,101-ingredient mole. Additional super secret ingredients: liquefied frankincense and powdered rotten tooth that belonged to The Host, hand ground with a jade mortar and pestle. The Host makes several dozen red frosting roses and calaveras de azúcar and places them on the eight-tier cake. She reapplies her makeup and realizes she did not exfoliate properly, but does not risk proper exfoliation at this time in case guests begin to arrive. The first guest to show up is a Social Neutral The Host has always found boring and somewhat depressing due to his claylike complexion, frequent complaints about his dead-end job, and inability to do anything about his position and place in the world, who was invited for the reason he has a full-time job in an office-type setting. He has brought beer. He sits on the couch with his six-pack, opens a bottle, and begins to drink, making no conversation. “Let me put those in the refrigerator for you,” The Host offers. “I want to keep them with me,” the guest says. The Host informs the guest she needs to check the oven. As The Host puts her head in the oven, other guests begin to arrive. No one apologizes for being late and The Host, in an effort to be appropriate, stoic, and give the impression that she hasn’t invested too much in the success of the party, does not mention the three hour tardiness.


“I’m pregnant,” says a guest. “So am I,” says another. “Both of you are? So are we!”

“It was a total shock.” “We weren’t even really trying.” “We tried for three years.” “We’re due on the solstice.” “We’re due on the equinox.” “Either Federico, Alejandro, Joaquin, Pablo—after Picasso—Paolo, Swordsman, Phallus Maximus, Everest, or Omnipotence, if it’s a boy.” “Pre-natal yoga and grass-fed steak.” “My doctor said I was the tiniest pregnant woman she’d ever seen.” “Walking every day.” “A big glass of water in the morning.” “The weird thing is I’m not even hungry, just blissed out.” “Lucia Frida, Remedios, Compote Rose, Come Hither, Whirling Dervish, Cosmos, Alma, Lil Cutie, Sexually Desirable, or Simone Weil, if it’s a girl.”

“Wow you guys!” The Host says too loudly. “That’s so great!

Congratulations to all four of you! It’s so great! There’s something in the oven! I’ll be right back!” The Host runs to the oven, which has been on with nothing inside it for hours and is creating hell-like conditions in the kitchen. The Host had not thought to get sparkling apple juice or other adult-appropriate non-alcoholic beverages for women with child. All of the French cheeses are unpasteurized, then there’s the matter of the raw oyster bar, which was the second main spectacular food item, and also the raw egg, the mercury, the shaved mad-cow boar hoof, the tuna, the tonsil stone, and the lorazepam in the 10,101-ingredient mole.


“I’m not sure how I should act,” The Host confides to a guest’s child as they wait for the bathroom. The Host had not anticipated children and has no appropriate activities or distractions for the child, but has hopes that the child, a boy, may be able to get her a job in fifteen to twenty years.

“Me either,” the guest’s child tells her.

“But especially now,” The Host says.


At the oven window The Host hides from her guests, sweating profusely and possibly suffering from heat stroke. The Host stares into the oven window, watching a mixed metal pot begin to melt.
“Someone spilled wine on the couch,” a guest, entering the off-limits kitchen, informs The Host.

“Oh! No worries! It’s an old couch! I was going to burn that couch anyway! There is something cooking in here, really! Do you have enough to eat? I’ll clean the couch up in a minute! Club soda? Or just leave it! I’m putting that couch on the street in the morning—out with the old!” The Host, worried the guest has seen that there is no food in the oven, rushes out of the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine to refill empty glasses. As The Host runs into the living room with the bottle, she stumbles, landing heavily on both knees. Upon getting up, she notices that her knees are bleeding through her long white dress. “I shouldn’t have worn a dress today,” she says to the room full of guests. The guests continue their conversations.


Blood and red wine stains have dried on The Host’s white dress. The Host puts on a new record, Dance Songs of Times Forgotten. “Let’s dance!” The Host semi-bounces and demi-twirls around the room. The guest who had been first to arrive dances with his nearly finished six-pack. The pregnant women make like their babies are dancing inside their wombs; only the pregnant women find it humorous. The Host doesn’t remember how to dance. She swings her ass from side to side, then gyrates and waggles from the dining room to the living room. Guests talk to one another and nod their head to the music, tap feet, bounce knees. No one thinks of times forgotten. The Host feels desperate as tears well in her eyes. She pretends she is not crying. “Allergies,” she smiles. “Napkins?” she offers. “Hey there,” she flirts, winking at a non-partnered person. Sexually frustrated she winks at a few partnered people as well. “Probably full funding, just waiting to hear back . . .” The Host lies, dancing from person to person, heavy in her arm movements, “I may not be in New York much longer, the artists are being pushed out . . . grants for women studying the nature of boredom . . . going back there for an ayahuasca trip, but last time I saw nothing . . . building houses in Honduras . . . surrogate for a famous celebrity couple . . . masturbation and other forms of self-pleasure—pizza and ice-cream eating—as the only motivating factors for continued survival . . .” The Host pretends she is not crying.


The Host and the guest’s child find themselves in line for the bathroom once again. The Host’s eyes are red, irritated from tears and kitchen smoke. “I’ve recently lost the love of my life,” The Host tells the guest’s child. “I’m heartbroken.” The guest’s child knocks impatiently on the bathroom door, shifting around on both feet. “They had long flowing hair down to their ankles and skin that glowed,” The Host says. “Sounds pretty,” the guest’s child says. “They’re all I can think about,” The Host tells the child. The guest’s child passes gas. “I think they may have been an alcoholic, but we all have our flaws,” The Host says. “I’ll never see them again.” The guest’s child cannot stop passing gas.


“This particular tarot set was made by a trust-funder—daughter of a famous collage artist, friend of a friend of a friend who went to an elite art college and currently resides in Los Angeles, buying rare and expensive musical instruments and taking singing lessons while looking to hire a producer to record her solo album. Also, she has a private drawing-with-colored-pencils-and-oil-crayons instructor and owns a small printing press, hence the manifestation of the deck. So there is dumb luck, which is the best kind of luck if you ask me, and arbitrary fortune associated with these cards. Very auspicious,” The Host informs her guests. The Host lights candles and sage then shuffles the deck. The pregnant women, the guest’s child, and a few employed people sit around the table.

Reading 1: Pregnant Guest

Card: Three of Swords

Imagery: A woman hiding inside a bathroom stall with three swords—one in her left eye, one in her mouth, and one up her vagina—watching her lover/husband with a packed suitcase put his hand up another woman’s skirt.

Interpretation: “This one is completely different than it appears,” The Host lies, “it means you will enjoy endlessly rewarding domestic bliss, full of the foods you love to eat without any of the guilt.”

“Yum!” the pregnant woman says.

Reading 2: Employed Female Guest

Card: The Devil

Imagery: A three-storied house engulfed in flames with a cross section cut out. Inside the house: a jackal ravages the domestic dwelling, a woman is being penetrated by a horse, a man performs cunnilingus on a polar bear, someone has drowned themselves in the tub.

Interpretation: “Good for you! A major arcana card, meaning this card represents your current location on life’s path. This card looks heavy, but the Devil is a playful joker-type,” The Host says, again lying. “It portends not imminent suicide or a penchant for bestiality or complete Devil nature, but a good time. Life is full of good old times.”

Reading 3: The Guest’s Child

Card: The Hanged Man

Imagery: A man hanged, bound, gagged, and castrated inside a Christmas ornament-like globe that represents the world. Ships pass on the seas around him. Cities are filled with people. Great monuments are built. Beautiful trees, fruits, flowers, and crops fill the land, but the man is suspended, upside down, above it.
Interpretation: “The. World. Is. Yours. For. The. Taking,” The Host says through gritted teeth. She has lost all hope of the child securing her a job in the future.


The Host rings the dinner bell. The 10,101-ingredient mole is served atop slow-roasted pig knuckles. Plates are decorated with squash blossoms, turmeric crème, fried lavender, spirulina salsa, and candied orchids of an unknown species. On a 27′ x 5′ table stand ten candelabras, containing one hundred and fifty tapered beeswax candles in total, beautifully lighting the dining room. Guests take their plates and eat scattered about the house—standing up, sitting cross-legged on the rug—ignoring the place settings. One of the opulent floral arrangements crashes to the floor. A recently purchased Alice Neel knockoff (an amateur nude in acrylic The Host hoped resembled herself) falls from the wall. “Was that an earthquake?” The Host asks, her voice too loud and somewhat shaky. Someone puts the Long Ago Hawaiian Vacation Slideshow Music record on. No one compliments the mole.


Maybe it was. Something it could’ve been.


“A toast. Thank you all for . . .” The Host drinks champagne. “It has meant so . . .” The Host coughs. “Mi casa es . . .” The Host feels her stomach rumble. “Great night for a . . .” The Host is afraid she will not be able to sleep tonight. “I imagine you’re all . . .” The Host imagines everyone naked; they are all more attractive than she would have guessed, and somehow kinder. The Host would like to sleep with all of her guests. “You all mean so . . .” The Host feels close to everyone for a moment. “Remember when that painting fell and I thought it was an earthquake?” The Host relives the immediate past. “More champagne?” The Host does not know what tomorrow will look like. “Cheers.” The Host drinks. And drinks.


It is no one’s birthday, but The Host puts candles on the cake because she must make an effort and the cake is, at least, something. Anyway, she thinks that’s what The Guide was getting at by their visit. Several guests say they do not eat sweets or wheat or things shaped like roses or things molded into skulls, but some eat the cake and frosting roses and calaveras de azúcar. The guests say they must go to the gym tomorrow. “I’m starting a cleanse,” The Host says, “and Martha Graham zumba. And taking an ikebana class, which tones your arms and relaxes your mind.” The kitchen is now too hot to enter. There is nowhere for The Host to retreat. Possibly the bathroom, but one cannot really do that at a party. People might think her bulimic. Or worse.


We love you articles. We love you Balthus. We love you Smokey. We love you Roy. We love you getting older. We love you up-and-coming hip-hop artists. We love you the KLF’s “Justified and Ancient (Stand By The JAMs).” We love you Disneyland mermaids of Submarine Voyage 1967. We love you learning to speak Spanish. We love you Paul McCarthy. We love you Leonora Carrington. We love you Alice Neel. We love that you were a whore and a bad mother. We love you that time we went to Istanbul. We love you the culture of Japan. We love you that time we almost died. We love you the night. We love you alcohol. We love that you’re trying to do that. We love that you actually think you can do that. We love you future plans. We love you summer. We love you opera. Let’s go to the opera in the winter. Let’s go to the beach in the summer. Let’s go camping in the fall. Let’s have a threesome in the spring. Let’s buy a vacation house all together. Let’s move to the New Mexican desert all together. I’ve always loved you. I’ve always been so fond of you. I always get excited when I see you. You have always been my favorite. Let’s remember each other’s birthdays this year. Let’s get a drink sometime. Let’s say hello to one another if we see one another on the subway. We are busy. We are too. We are too busy. We have no time. Time flies. It’s already been a year. It’s already been ten years. How long have we been here? Where is the bathroom? Is there any more tequila? How much is your rent? We’re thinking how to get Mexican citizenship. We’re thinking of moving to Red Hook if we win the lottery. We’re thinking of moving to Sunset Park. We’re thinking of moving to The Hole in East New York. We’re thinking of moving to Queens. We’re thinking of moving to Poughkeepsie. We’re thinking of moving closer to our families, with the babies coming. We’re thinking we shouldn’t drink too much. We’re thinking we’ve had too much to drink. We’re thinking of throwing up in the toilet. We’re thinking of breaking off from the group. We’re thinking we shouldn’t have come. We’re thinking of going home. We’re thinking of going to bed. We were thinking the same thing. We wish you luck. We wish you the best in all your future plans. We will not remember your names. We will say we don’t remember your faces—though we do—because it is easier. The time. The train. The morning. The next day. The workweek. Separation always occurs in the end, but in-between also.


The guest’s child has fallen asleep holding a king protea in his hand. The Host did not consider party favors. The guests are very drunk. Some speak feverishly. Others speak languidly. The Host has never known these strangers.





p.s. Hey. ** Steevee, Hi. Yeah, writing a book about Cheap Trick has been a dream project of mine forever, but I’ve realized I just don’t have the particular kind of chops you need to do something like that. Maybe if I could find a good ghost writer or something. It sure seems to me, based on what you wrote, but as a know nothing on the subject, that staying on the teeny dose of Zyprexa is the way to go. I’ll definitely make sure to stay far away from that stuff. I haven’t read that Andrew Soloman book, no. Is it something you would recommend to someone who doesn’t really suffer from depressions but is interested in depression and effected by others’ depressions? ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Exactly. Why has Gus not made an Old Skull film, and why does he keep making crappy films that don’t even play to his strengths? Very strange. ** Damien Ark, Hi, Damien! I actually saw Old Skull live right when the first album came out. They were cool, but it was kind of sad because the audience, which was your usual hardcore punk audience of that era, spent their whole set either laughing at them or going, ‘Aw, they’re so cute.’ ** Jamie, Dearest Jamie, Yeah, it’s like you stepped on a four leaf clover or something like that. Hopefully it’s a ‘curse’ that you can leave behind like a train station. My Friday was another film-film-film day. I think we convinced the sound guy we want to work on our film, which will be really great news if so. We did long auditions for the final unfilled role. We’re in a tricky situation because we have to cast the role by Monday at the latest because whatever actor we choose will need time to memorize his part, and rehearsals start in just over a week and a half. There was one guy amongst the six we auditioned who isn’t the kind of guy that we have been imagining the character to be but who is quite strange and interesting, so we probably have to just cast him and alter the character somewhat because the other five were wrong. We have one last audition today. Anyway, it’s crunch time and crunch decision time. Also, we had some pretty bad news about the opera project that Zac and I doing with Gisele, which means we have to regroup and rethink right away since everything on that project has to be cemented very soon if it’s going to happen at all. So, that was my day. I’ve never been all that into Iain Sinclair. I’ve liked things of his, but not hugely, and I’ve not liked things of his, although never hated his stuff. So, I don’t know. I suppose I’m a little wary but pretty much with an open mind. My weekend is film stuff, finishing unpacking, big meeting about the TV show project, and, uh, probably mostly film stuff. It’s really like a 24 hour a day thing at this point. What is a viva? You said ‘eek’ so I guess it’s something big? Tell her that, whatever it is, I’m cheerleading for her within every stray thought. Have a most awesome weekend. Preproduction love, Dennis. ** Ferdinand, Hi, Ferdinand! Yeah, as I mentioned up above, I saw Old Skull live at their beginnings, and, yes, the boy’s vocal chords were pretty beastly in the good way. Thanks for the Buttholes link. I did jump onto that page and read the article as soon as it came to my attention. Really cool piece if you love that LP. I would love it if you decided to send me that overview/write up. Up my alley, and it would ultra-welcome. Thank you! You have a weekend that matches up with whatever dreams you were having about it before it kicked off this morning. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi! I’m glad that the cool but, yes, tragic story of Old Skull interested you. Exhausting is the word. And it’s just getting crazier and crazier. Trial by fire kind of thing. I think we sorted out the piñata problem. Basically, we’ll buy the handful that need to be custom made, and we’ll rent the pinatas that basically just need to be hanging there to indicate that the character has a large collection. I think that’ll do it. We’re meeting with the piñata maker today. As I told Jamie, the auditions were not amazing, but there’s one guy who will work in a strange way that we weren’t thinking of going originally if need be, and I think it is a ‘need be’ situation because we have to cast role by Monday. No choice there. So … it could be worse. I’m very happy you got to have that lovely day with your writer friend. Hooray about that. Things are good, but, yeah, it’s pretty intense and nonstop about the film now, which is of course very exciting but also very stressful. So, yeah, all is essentially well. Have a great weekend, and let me know how it suited you. ** Lord_s, Hey again! It’s nice to know you’re there lurking. Yeah, I’m going to check the tracks you shared this weekend. The problem is that SOMA on tour, but then when he is not one tour, ha ha, but I’m going to catch him for a brain pick when he stops over in our mutual hometown. Wow, Rocket from the Crypt! Huh. Same line-up? Even with the guy who did Drive Like Jehu? Cool. I hope your weekend really counts. ** H, Hi! The move is pretty much over apart from some unpacking still to do and a final inspection of my ex-apartment. Your work sounds exciting. Although I don’t envy all the subway time. The NYC subway freaks me out a bit. I’m spoiled by Paris’s now. Grateful to hear your thoughts on Virginie Despentes’ films. That’s very interesting. I’ll look for the Alessadro Comodin film. I’d never heard of it. Thank you! I hope Saturday and Sunday are very, very friendly to you and yours. ** Right. I somehow managed to read some books amidst the madness of moving and film preparations, and those 4 up there are the ones I especially liked. See if they’re infectious. See you on Monday.

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