If passing a Jew on the street is like Robinson Crusoe seeing a footprint in the sand, to what shall we compare bumping into a Nazi on the Internet?
Neo-Nazi Notes on The Moviegoer
February 14, 2012 by at 10:39 am
A nod to Kierkegaard and Walker Percy: existentialist tomfoolery, political satire, literary homage, word mongering, a year-round summer reading club, Dylanesque music bits, apocalyptic marianism, poetry, fiction, meta-porn, a prisoner work-release program.
JOB
Conflicted in early life between his desire to be a weatherman for local community access cable stations and a man who wears pants in July, JOB took the middle road and now writes poems between every waking moment. [Read More …]
Southern Expat
All you need to know is that I'm a lady, understand?
Behave yourselves accordingly. [Read More …]
Tough question. Here’s a try:
The end of Canto XXXIII of the Inferno, where Dante meets the shade of the treacherous Fra Alberigo in icy torment. Dante is surprised to find him in Hell, as he had believed Alberigo was still alive on Earth. Dante learns that Alberigo’s soul has been in Hell for years since his treachery, while a demon has been in possession of his body, continuing to animate it so as to masquerade as Alberigo for diabolical sh–s and giggles.
Goddamn me, but I almost blessed myself!
A decrepit force of habit I hadn’t quite
Abolished – like fear of Jew blood trapped
In veins. The corners of my eyes confirmed:
No fear, then, for none saw the slender hand
Rising in the air, spidery fingers folded
Like a tulip to the temple, the leaning forward
In utter beatitude, slowly descending to meet
The hand that upward reaches… – Interrupted,
Jerked away from leprosy’s white hot flame.
Who saw? None because the index cards saw first.
Mom! JOB’s making creepy allusions in his poems again!
Busted!
I’m reminded of something Quin Finnegan stepped in during our first Korrektiv meet-up in New Orleans. A guy powerwashing the McDonald’s parking lot helped him clean it off his shoe. (Picture Quin leaning as far out the passenger side window of our rental car as he possibly could without falling out, holding his shoe out to for the power wash, while I ordered a Big Mac at the drive-thru window.)
Seeing a good footprint, versus stepping in something foul. The inverted symmetry of the comparison pleases.
And yet even stepping in shit can be a sort of sign of fellowship. “Truthfully, Lester, you’re something of a shit yourself…”
Changing the subject, I’m reminded, by something else, of when I went to America the first time and they wanted me to speak, because they loved my accent, but I wouldn’t open my mouth.
Do you have the accent of any particular city or town or county or region? Do you shift between more and less ‘regional’ depending on who you’re talking to or what you’re talking about?
My own American accent is, I think, pretty regionless. I’ve been told it’s not Southern, though I grew up in the South. It is, thank Heaven, definitely not Northern.