recent blog tack

I at last said, what is stopping me from recreating criticism in my own mind? Let's do it, then. What? Recreate criticism. What is that? It is making a new place to play for a secondary activity. Why? It lets us know who is good and for which reasons. Can you write under this strain? Precisely because of this strain I have kept writing--the thing I love is the thing I enjoy hating most.

Get a lot of air in here? Have you captivated the audience enough to tell them that tonight they will hear a story and a critique?

This shouldn't matter as much as it does. But there are intellectuals, and there are artists. They have different names because I want them to. Because I want to know which one I really am.

An ancient question, really. Though the flame is too hot now, too waxy, to allow an accurate score. We see postgrads lingering around in a hard-wood floored living room, eating each others'...

Dizzy spells. We eat the others' bad moments. We talk to the dead. We don't want to write another paper--they always reek of opinions set down merely to annoy the artists. I tell you, they are different people. They are very few. I will prove that I am one of them and that since I have learned so much--about them---I will know that playing with punctuation is primarily a sin. Of course, one cultivates a taste for that. The department? Of English? An introduction to sin! This is what I will bring to it. You thought you lived because you played these games online, and people you could see eventually on your screen just sort of sat there like you are. And this was life--

Who took the banter out? Was it pre-focused, so that in going off like that it is repeating the discourse recorded and plugged into it--you see, a classroom. Looking round. What happened...to literature? Has it been kept alive? Where is the...rub?

Inside a bubble. I hate the blogosphere. I wish it were inside so that I know what's inside always turns out to be outside the inside. Like Schenectady, that literary trope of an equine city.