Okay: Violence; violence, and power, in the context of yet somebody else walking up to the groaning boards of fantasy’s eternal wedding feast, still laden with the cold meats from Tolkien’s funeral, and cheekily joining everyone who’s trying to send the whole thing smashing to the ground just to hear the noise all that crockery will make. —But! Also: genderfuck, hearts broken cleanly and otherwise, the City of Portland, Spenser, those moments in pop songs when the bass and all of the drums except maybe a handclap suddenly drop out of the bridge leaving you hanging from a slender aching thread of melody waiting almost dreading the moment when the beat comes back, and the occasional bit of swordplay.
Start here. —I never did like elevators.
“Kip,” of course, means “dweller at the pointy top of the hill” in Old English. It’s also the Dutch word for duck; the smallest unit of Thai currency; a gymanstics maneuver; a tanned cowhide, or bundle of same, as well as a method of drying and preserving fish; shorthand notation for one thousand pounds of pressure; and a place to crash, as well as the act of crashing, for the night.
“Manley” is of either Irish or English extraction. In either case, it means “the lee of Man”—though, on the one hand, it’s the lee, or side protected from wind and weather, of the Isle of Man, and, on the other, it’s a lea, or meadow, somewhere not far from Manchester.
But Kip Manley—far from dwelling on a pointy hill somewhere near a Mancunian meadow—was born in Sheffield, Alabama, in the ninth month of 1968. Currently residing in Portland, Oregon (after stints in Virginia, Kentucky, Ohio, both Carolinas, Illinois, Arak [Iran], Puerto Ordaz [Venezuela], Boston, and the Pioneer Valley), he ekes out a meagre living as a writer, designer, and cognoscente of marginalized eclectica, with the invaluable companionship of Jenn Manley Lee, Taran Jack, and the best two cats in all the world. His general-purpose website is available here; this site offers the opportunity to audit his taste in music; over here, you have a chance to rifle through selected volumes from his library. Enjoy.
Obsolete in spoken French, the preterite, which is the cornerstone of Narration, always signifies the presence of Art; it is a part of a ritual of Letters. Its function is no longer that of a tense. The part it plays is to reduce reality to a point of time, and to abstract, from the depth of a multiplicity of experiences, a pure verbal act, freed from the existential roots of knowledge, and directed toward a logical link with other acts, other processes, a general movement of the world: it aims at making a hierarchy in the realm of facts.
That happened in the reign of queen Dick, i.e. never: said of any absurd old story.