Saturday, January 14, 2017

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Trumpbird

I
Among thirteen greasy candidates
The only thing polling well
Were the numbers of the trumpbird

II
I was of three minds
Like a podium
Where the trumpbird speaks three times.

III
The trumpbird raged in the political climate
It was a large part of the disease.

IV
A man and a woman are one.
A man and a rapist and a trumpbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The babbling of pundits
Or the beauty of innuendos about emails,
The trumpbird bellowing
Or just after.

VI
Images filled the TV screen
With vacuous words.
The shadow of the trumpbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the lights
An incomprehensible platform.

VII
O dim men of National Review
Why do you imagine serious candidates?
Do you not see how the trumpbird
Grabs the pussies
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know xenophobic babbling
And lurid, unbelievable claims;
And I know, too,
That the trumpbird is the source
Of what I know.

IX
When the trumpbird was elected,
It marked the end
Of one of many countries.

X
At the sight of trumpbirds
Governing in a corrupt haze,
Even the fans of non-voting
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over America
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The sounds of a Klan rally
for trumpbirds.

XII
The bombs are falling.
The trumpbird must be tweeting.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was sucking
And it was going to suck.
The trumpbird sat
In the seat of power.

Sunday, January 08, 2017

Star Wars: Rongo On

I saw this movie.  I thought it was kind of dumb. Like, spoilers and stuff, WHATEVER. A lot of characters who make no impression dashing about for reasons that are only very tenuously comprehensible. Do I sound like an old man? Well, be that as it may. Also, the fact that everyone dies in the end--I guess you're supposed to see it as this noble sacrifice, but I was just left feeling like the other shoe never dropped--wait, shouldn't these characters have character arks (yes, a few of them don't like each other and then do like each other, but REALLY NOW) or develop in some way or oh no wait they're dead. OKAY! Am I supposed to feel a way about this? 'Cause I SUPER don't. It's also a bizarre tonal mismatch, 'cause let's face it: Star Wars is friggin' goofy. When it works, as in the original trilogy (which, come on, is all the Star Wars any sane person needs), it gets by on sheer joie de vivre. The prequels, gruesome as they were, at least understood that much. That's what's wrong with The Force Awakens: it takes itself so damn seriously. The comic relief, such as it is, feels obviously calculated and inorganic. GUESS WHAT I DON'T WANT A STAR WARS MOVIE SOLEMNLY TELLING ME ABOUT THE GRIM REALITY OF WAR. It's just incongruous.


I mean, REALLY: especially what with Carrie Fisher dying, can't we just agree that Star Wars is over now? Just dump the rough cut of episode VIII onto the internet, and forget about episode IX. This whole thing isn't working, it was never a great idea, let's just cut our losses. I mean, no, of course, I'm well aware that there's money to be made, but I am not impressed by this whole boondoggle. Don't mind me; I'll just be over here shouting at clouds.

Thursday, January 05, 2017

That singular anomaly, the lady novelist

Thus endeth the experiment of reading only books by female authors for a year.  Do I win a prize?  This venture was endowed with a certain piquancy by the fact that, when faced with an extremely qualified (whatever else you may think of her) woman as a possible president, we (yes yes, electoral college, but I think the point stands) opted instead for the malevolent orange man-baby. I COULD’VE LIVED WITHOUT THE OBJECT LESSON, UNIVERSE!  Should I write a book called "my year of reading women?"  Probably not!  In the absolute best-case scenario, it would come across not so much as condescending as breathtakingly clueless.  And yet, I'm writing this blog post.  So it's probably too late to avoid anyway.

I decided to do this because it just felt awkward that ninety-eight percent of the books I read are generally by dudes. So the first question we must ask is:why is this the case? The explanation I would always give in the past is that, due to a long history of socioeconomic factors that have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH INATE ABILITY JEEZ STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH, there are simply fewer books by female authors I’m interested in reading. And I still think there’s something to that. It does sound awfully damned self-serving and glib, though. I mean, obviously, I never encountered a situation where I thought “huh, should I read this book? Whoa—it’s by a dumb girl! Forget it!” But what role does unconscious sexism play? Wholly unclear. I think back to the college and grad-school lit courses I took, and, indeed, I find that the reading lists for those were more or less male too. Granted, I never took a course in specifically female writers, but none of the ones that I did were meant to be the opposite of that, either. So I can’t help thinking that if sexism is a factor here, it’s institutional as much as personal. But then...why are the institutions such? I mean, I’m pretty darned sure I never had a professor who wouldn’t have described themselves as “feminist” if asked. So what the ding dong dilly? Does it come back to the thing about the socioeconomic factors that I mentioned above? In which case, what responsibility does an institution have to fight back against sexism, and to what extent does it just need to accept that, well, this is the way things were, and you can’t not approach it on those terms? I have no good answers. Even the questions don’t seem to be up to much.

Well, so what good, exactly, does it do for me, or any other individual, to embark on an affirmative action program like this? I discovered some great novels, sure, but let’s face it: that would’ve happened anyway. You’re never going to read all the great books ever written, and really, what difference does it make if I—some random dude—do a thing like this? Well, I suppose it works on a similar principle as voting. It sounds uninspiring, but it’s obviously true: no matter what they tell you in civics class, it doesn’t make a difference it you, individually vote. It wouldn’t even if we had a sane electoral system. BUT, if you can create a critical mass of people to vote the way you do then, boom, shit gets done. Likewise, it makes zero difference for the world at large whom I read, but on some imperceptible level, if reading becomes more egalitarian, then more women will be encouraged to write, and there will be a larger stock of books for us to read—some of which are bound to be masterpieces. So there you go.

So the big question here is, what did I learn from the little exercise? And the answer is: nothing whatsoever! Seriously, it would be impossible to understate how much I learned. I’m not complaining; I discovered some good books that I probably wouldn’t have otherwise (though, again, in that case I would’ve discovered other good books), but what do you want me to say? I suppose maybe if you read the sets that include all books by men and all books by women, you maybe possibly could make some kind of cogent comparison and reach some conclusion or other about gender, but you sure can’t do that from my scattershot reading! Or almost anyone’s, probably. Individual writers have individual styles that are not determined—at least not in any direct, traceable way—by their genders. Is that a lesson I learned? I feel like I kind of knew that already.

The hell of it is, for better or worse, I feel like 2017 is once again going to be overwhelmingly masculine, if only on account of all the cool-looking stuff I discovered this year but couldn’t read because of my resolution. I wish I could say I were going to make a concerted effort to avoid this, but...it’s not gonna happen. Sure, if pressed, I could undoubtedly keep this up for at least another year, but I dunno. The most I can say is that I'll do my best to be aware of female authors who might be interesting to me. I'm not going to make any concerted effort, though; glib though it may be, I feel like it's not untrue that the majority of writers I want to read are male.  Do I celebrate this state of affairs? Obviously not. But c'mon, man, why is it up to me to spearhead opposition the movement? We bloody well have enough to worry about as it is in these dark times.

Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Hope Mirrlees, Lud-in-the-Mist (1926)

We end/begin the year with this piece of old-school fantasy. Lud-in-the-Mist is the name of a town in a faintly-described secondary world. This town is closely associated with faerie, but in the novel's present, that is taboo, and "faerie fruit," the consumption of which allegedly permanently changes people in strange ways, is strictly illegal. However, this status quo surely will not last. The city's sometime-mayor, Nathaniel Chanticleer, is alienated from the world around him in subtle and intermittent ways, but when his son is comes under apparent faerie influence, he takes action.
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Thursday, December 29, 2016

Natsuo Kirino, Out (1997)

Merry Christmas an' Happy New Year.  Here's some contemporary Japanese noir.  Weirdly enough, it's also the second novel called "Out" I've read this year. What does that mean? Not a whole lot.
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Saturday, December 17, 2016

Nicola Barker, Darkmans (2007)

"Darkmans" is apparently Elizabethan thieves' cant for "night," however much that helps. Not much, probably. I'll tell you, the description of this book made it sound kind of interesting, but I probably wouldn't have ended up reading it except for one key factor: it's eight hundred fifty pages long. I know it's not rational, but I have a strong tendency to fetishize sheer length in fiction. Not bloated, multi-volume fantasy and the like, but for individual novels, there's a real mystique. It probably has something to do with the way I was so fucking intellectually timid in my younger years, and would see such things as terrifying, insurmountable obstacles. Now, they're just good fun. True fact: if I'm browsing through books on amazon, and I see something that looks interesting, my interest level will jump ten-fold if I scroll down and see that the page numbers are closing in on four digits. I might even become interested in something that hadn't previously seemed appealing. Not--obviously--that shortness is a deal-breaker, or indeed that length has any relationship to quality. None of Angela Carter's novels are particularly long, after all. But when it comes to appealing to me, it helps! Naturally, sometimes these books turn out to be what critics accuse them of being--pointlessly over-extended and self-indulgent--but it's actually surprising how infrequently I come away with that impression. Mostly with pre-twentieth-century stuff, I think--Armadale, Emancipated Women, The Last Chronicle of Barset. Although you can consider the fact that I don't see Infinite Jest as excessive (even though it clearly is), and take my opinions for what they're worth.
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Tuesday, December 06, 2016

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

...for reference, this is not my own work from back in the day, or now; it comes to us courtesy of an Indonesian student.  A female student, for the record.  Cheers!