More Than You Think You Know

Beating Windward Press returns to the watery world with its latest release, More Than You Think You Know by Cyndi Perkins.

stranded

I'm trapped in The Strand and trying to escape!

Edward Hopper's Intermission

Intermission (also known as Intermedio) https://t.co/ZOSGacNgR6 #hopper #americanart pic.twitter.com/lRZPYLH3Sj

— Edward Hopper (@artisthopper) July 22, 2017

from Bohumil Hrabel's Too Loud a Solitude

Now I am lying in bed crosswise, on my back, and a tiny mouse has just fallen on my chest, slid down to the floor, and scurried for shelter under the bed. I've probably brought home a few mice in my briefcase or coat pocket as well. A toilet-scented perfume drifts up from the yard: we're in for some rain, I tell myself. I'm so worn out from work and beer that I can't move a finger--two whole days of cleaning the cellar at the cost of those humble little creatures that wanted nothing more than to nibble at a few old books and live in wastepaper holes, give birth to other mice and feed them in cozy nests, tiny mice rolled into balls the way my tiny Gypsy rolled into a ball next to me on cold nights. The heavens are not humane, but I'd forgotten compassion and love.

The Dead Milkmen live at Clark Park in 2017

An old friend posted news that The Dead Milkmen played live in Clark this past weekend, and from there I found a performance from 1993. I know well the name of the band, but I was never part of the scene or one who could name or sing their songs. But I've always been a fan of Clark Park as well as contemplating the passage of time, so I enjoyed considering my own various memories of my childhood's neighborhood park whose surreal likeness is the central real estate of my unpublished novel Spark Park (or Cartoon Bubble from a City Underwater).

According to a Wikipedia entry for The Dead Milkmen: ". . .the band's moniker came from a character named 'Milkman Dead' in Toni Morrison's book Song of Solomon." I've twice been assigned Beloved, and I've taught Sula four times, but I've never read Song of Solomon. At this point, I doubt I will as there are so many other writers who deserve attention.

Peter Hessler reporting from Colorado

He had served in Slovakia. “Every time you get to look at how somebody else lives, it gives you perspective that’s useful,” Riehl told me. In 2000, he was sent to a village in eastern Slovakia, where he advocated for bicyclists’ rights. Riehl told me that living in a post-Communist society strengthened his appreciation for freedom, truth, and the virtues of small government. Now he was applying that idealism to his current campaign. “I do unequivocally state that the Sentinel is full of fake news,” he said.

art-student debt

At L.U.S.K. it's rare that we honor another writer's birthday, or even our own, but Chelsea Martin's this past Sunday drew me to her Facebook wall and then this piece she wrote about student debt and her longing to buy a house. She's a small businessperson with five published books, but it appears as if she could also use even more debt relief than this Congresswoman would like to offer. In honor of Martin's birthday, I'm strongly considering ceasing to encourage my daughter to embrace the arts as anything more than an avocation although I'll certainly look forward to her return to art day camp in a few weeks. Pottery and painting worked fine for me through age ten, and I can't remember why I stopped attending University City Arts League classes. Possibly I'd become even more obsessed with street sports and half-court basketball, or maybe it was the move to J. R. Masterman, and the homework that greeted me at my new school.

Miller on revision

I finished Tropic of Cancer, and it was good enough that I plucked Tropic of Capricorn off the shelf and read the first several pages before returning to my next-in-line, Mo Yan's Change. I also found The Paris Review's interview with Henry Miller. Here he is on revision:

INTERVIEWER

How do you go about revising?

MILLER

When I’m revising, I use a pen and ink to make changes, cross out, insert. The manuscript looks wonderful afterwards, like a Balzac. Then I retype, and in the process of retyping I make more changes. I prefer to retype everything myself, because even when I think I’ve made all the changes I want, the mere mechanical business of touching the keys sharpens my thoughts, and I find myself revising while doing the finished thing. 

currently reading

I'm almost finished Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and am thirty pages into Mo Yan's Change. On the horizon are To Live by Yu Hua and Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal.

Papa never told me. . .

. . . running with the bulls was dangerous. At least it's nice to know that the sun also rises for everyone recovering from their wounds.

At the Corner of Fourth and Homeless

Atlanta is hardly alone. Across the country, downtown homeless shelters are caught in a perfect storm. Property values throughout America’s urban cores are rising, making the work of sheltering the disadvantaged less sustainable and desirable downtown, even as displacement adds to their ranks. Plus, scarce federal dollars for supporting the homeless are increasingly directed toward programs that provide housing for the chronically homeless—which is great, and a big success, but not so helpful for families who are struggling with a sudden crisis that has put them on the streets.

Happy Fourth of July from Henry Miller

I think it was the Fourth of July when they took the chair from under my ass again. Not a word of warning. One of the big muck-a-mucks from the other side of the water had decided to make economies; cutting down on proofreaders and helpless little dactylos enabled him to pay the expenses of the trips back and forth and the palatial quarters he occupied at the Ritz. After paying what little debts I had accumulated among the linotype operators and a goodwill token at the bistro across the way, in order to preserve my credit, there was scarcely anything left out of my final pay. I had to notify the patron of the hotel that I would be leaving; I didn't tell him why because he'd have worried about his measly two hundred francs.

~~ from Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer