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I am trying.

Since my last post I have been on four flights (San Francisco-Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh-Boston, Boston-Philadelphia, Philadelphia-San Francisco); traveled forward and backward into time; completed one book (Eagleton's Literary Theory) and started another (Jameson's Prison-House of Language); been to Fenway Park and Fall River (home of Lizzie Borden); ( Read more... )

I have been victim (and perpetrator) of an insistent, incessant feeling that I have lost a part of myself (since moving here, since failing to produce stories, since heartbreak, since...?). I can never name it: it is elusive, keeping within my ken but just out of sight, out of reach of language. An inventory would be helpful, but not conclusive, ( Read more... )

Silence seeps into the spaces between words. It acts as a wedge separating my selves. Silence is increasingly becoming the only manner in which I can confront myself. Being speechless before the world is one thing; being speechless before myself is another. And while there may be no need to chastise myself for this willing retreat before silence, I ( Read more... )

http://questforcorvo.blogspot.com/

1. I would like to try to make it to the East coast this fall, mostly to get to New York to see the Alfred Kubin exhibition at Neue Galerie.

2. If you have a chance to see Man on Wire, don't miss it.

3. I should be reading Deleuze and Guattari's Anti-Oedipus right now, but I am stalling. I blame my parents ( Read more... )

Pictorial Webster's!

"Do things have beginnings, do you think? Or is a beginning only the first revelation of something that's always been there, waiting to be found?"
- Steven Millhauser, "History of a Disturbance"

I never feel enough; I feel too much. I feel wrong: small, twisted, bitter and confused. I am getting older everywhere. My curiosity has strayed and things ( Read more... )