The Dredge Cycle

In Which I Reject Your Stories, pt. 2

« Part 1 I think our cul­tural rela­tion­ship with our dreams rep­re­sents our rela­tion­ship with spir­i­tu­al­ity. Let’s talk about some depic­tions of the uncon­scious in recent cul­tural mem­ory: Other Mother (Cora­line), Drop Dead Fred, Mau­rice (Lit­tle Mon­sters) and Betel­geuse. Of course, through them all, I’m think­ing of Mor­pheus, Hansel, Gre­tel, and the Witch. Since I’ve already cov­ered the Other House, let’s start with Drop Dead Fred. He’s the invis­i­ble best friend incar­nate. After a bad end to an unhealthy rela­tion­ship, Fred reap­pears to rein­voke Lizzie’s child­hood. Ultimately…

Off the Hook

One of the bet­ter bios I’ve read in a long time, in the back of Sand­man 6: [next to his pic­ture] This is Mark Buck­ing­ham, so you don’t have to be. Clever and, in a bizarre, almost round­about way, hum­ble. Appro­pri­ately, I’m think­ing today about an anony­mous man­u­script I got a few years back, that never panned. “This is this book you couldn’t write, so you don’t have to.”

Recurring and Returning

Augus­tus Cae­sar: Many dreams come through the Gates of Ivory, Lycius, and they lie. A few dreams come from the Gates of Horn, and they speak to us truly. – Gaiman On the long-​​​​procrastinated advice of my friend Anders, I’ve been read­ing The Sand­man. Yeah, I’m enthralled. By con­trast, Cora­line reads more like fan fic than Gaiman. Here, his insights line the land­scape, and his sto­ry­telling, a lit­tle shaky at first, quickly climbs to top-​​​​notch. There are a lot of things worth dis­cussing, from the…

Beginning AWP, Day 3

It was not wise drink­ing again last night. It was less wise, per­haps, drink­ing after eat­ing heav­ily. A prac­tice my body’s been less famil­iar with the last ten months. I might have gone out instead, to the mid­night read­ing, the bur­lesque show. Instead I dreamt of every­thing else. Dri­ving up to the House with my roommate’s uncle, who blew right up the hill, past it. When I asked him in Span­ish where he was going, he asked him­self, and turned around. I hopped out first…

Sudden Waking

Yes­ter­day an acci­den­tal phone call woke me at the wholly unciv­i­lized 9:00 hour. (It was a Sat­ur­day, and I’ve been woe­fully under­slept, c’mon.) I was in the mid­dle of a dream that strik­ingly resem­bled another from within six months, and very close to being caught where I wasn’t sup­posed to be, which may have meant some long-​​​​sought answers. The details aren’t impor­tant  –  I’m sure you don’t hon­estly care  –  but it prompted me to ask a neuroscience-​​​​inclined friend about a the­ory I’ve been brew­ing for a few years. It’s…

First house dream in months

Return­ing from Boston, with an hour to shower, change and get back to read at the Cantab Lounge on a Wednes­day night. My room was not packed up. My sis­ter and mother were home. My bed right where I left it, cov­ered in blue light.

Dear Alexandra,

I’m not pro­tect­ing your name because you’re not actu­ally in going to be in the book. At least, I’m not plan­ning for you to be, and per­haps by the end of this dead-​​​​flying mis­sive you will be, so I will call you Geor­gette instead. But you’ll remain the nice wife & mother who’s become the new day­time cus­to­dian of that House. Geor­gette, I’m am writ­ing you about last night. We had a ter­ri­bly lucid con­ver­sa­tion, and a good part of me is afraid you don’t remember…

The return of Monday Morning Vanity (and pre-ordering the new chapbook!)

1. In which I repost some­thing from the week­end which you missed, didn’t care about, or both, and demand request dozens of com­ments, because it proved so damned impor­tant to my week­end. And, you know, there­fore, should be wor­thy of break­ing into your Mon­day morn­ing… Dross. 2. Also, the book is almost done. I know I’ve gen­er­ated no hooplah over it, but it’s in final edit­ing right now, and hope­fully as early as next week I’ll begin print­ing. This is by far the most com­pli­cated book…

Damndest thing

Sou, this may inter­est you the most: Since start­ing the Welles­ley cycle  —  well, since get­ting into the meat of it  —  my dreams of the house I grew up in have changed. I no longer inter­rupt the peo­ple that live there now. My mother and sis­ter are still there. At first they were just hang­ing out before the new fam­ily came home. Then they seemed to have made friends with them. Now the house seems to exist in a wedged-​​​​in space between the sale of the house in ‘01…