the Newis Glad:

Things to keep in mind:
The secret of the technically impressive and theoretically laudable.

The book established Whitehead’s intelligence and originality as a novelist, but I wasn’t too excited by the world of elevator inspection, and I was frankly irritated by the author’s choice of Lila Mae as the protagonist. Although it’s technically impressive and theoretically laudable when a male novelist succeeds in inhabiting a female persona, something about the actual practice makes me uneasy. Is the heroine doing double duty as the novelist’s fantasy sex object? Is the writer trying to colonize fictional territory that rightfully belongs to women? Or does the young literato, lacking the perks of power and feeling generally smallened by the culture, perhaps believe himself to be, at some deep level, not male at all?

Things to keep in mind:
A secret of the internet.

I think “solidarity” is what Freaky Tales would call it, a movie which, believe it or not, I’m actually going to talk about. But again: I’ve given myself permission to write the longest essay anyone will write about Freaky Tales, as an exercise, experiment, statement, and/or self-indulgence; I like writing, and I am enjoying writing this, so I am. But the more I write, the more that length gives permission to anyone who doesn’t want to read it—even encourages them—to close the browser and move on. You’re not stuck with me, after all, the way you have no choice but to see a mural as you drive past it each day. You can go find something you like better and leave me to my fun.

Changing channels.

A sharp eye might’ve noticed some changes to the various outlets listed on the Books page, as other places where: Spectator Books in Oakland has been added, there’s a selection of zines on the shelves there now, so if you find yourself on that side of the Bay, head on over, say hi; and but also, Smashwords has been removed.

Things to keep in mind:
The secret of the room.

Boots Riley

So for me, the question isn’t “Is the public ready?” I start from: the public already knows things are messed up. The public is more open than we’re told. The question I ask myself is: how do I move people emotionally towards imagining something they can do? Not “the” solution, but a solution—something that shifts them from “It’s all hopeless” to “Maybe we can try this.” That’s what I’m after.

the most Recent installment:

“Somebody’s coming”– fixing His tie– the Sources of water– “Welcome!”–

“Somebody’s coming,” a warning lilt from the man in one of the lawn chairs.

“No one’s coming, Hector,” says May, in the other. “Cats would’ve said.”

“Ask him yourself, then,” says the man, with a wave off that way, past the front end of the motorcoach. Distant crunch of gravel, footfall yet loud enough to carry all that way. Jo, sat on the grass before them, hikes up on a knee. A man’s approaching down the dirt track that’s not quite a driveway, tall in trim black trousers and a bright white shirt, skinny black tie, and a pair of classic black sunglasses. “May,” says Jo, and then, sharper, louder, “May.”

“Go on,” says May, without turning to look. “We got this. Go.”

Up on her feet, jug in her hand, Jo heads away around the back of the motorcoach, out of sight of the track, into the scrub, to crouch under heavy, breathless trees. “Excuse me,” someone’s saying, that man, “if you could give me a hand,” maybe, and May’s response can’t be made out. “Looking for,” the man’s saying. Jo heads further into the deepening shade. “Johanna Draper,” the last that can be heard.

She hauls herself from gnarled and crooked trunk to trunk, mismatched Chucks uncertain in the rootily treacherous underbrush. Winking in and out to the left a stretch of water coolly green, littered with fallen leaves and occasional twigs, a twitching cloud of midges on the penumbral threshold of the opposite bank, flickering as they pass in and out of the sunlight. She turns away from the water, up through the trees to the scrub that untidily edges the vast field, where she crouches, looking back. Mounds of junk, a couple cars now between her and the motorcoach, there’s the tall man, black suit coat over his shoulder, genially chatting with May and Hector.