Why I'm Terrified Of Jac Jemc's MY ONLY WIFE

I have not yet read, but am nonetheless terrified of Jac Jemc's MY ONLY WIFE...

because I have terrible luck with relationships.

because I desperately believe in life-long love, commitment, and happiness, despite my terrible luck with relationships.
because it seems no one knows how to be honest in the narrative world, and I'm afraid that the story not only will make me sad, but will also be dishonest.

because I'm divorced and I know how sucky a disappearance-narrative structure can be.

because I've put myself entirely into an Other's hand and they weren't gentle.
because I know exactly how it feels when someone you love disappears and you feel like they're dead, but they're alive and just don't care about you.
because I have the same questions about the Other as Žižek when he quotes Badiou:  "What does 'respect for the Other' mean when one is at war against an enemy, when one is brutally left by (our love) for someone else, when one must judge the work of a mediocre 'artist,' when science is faced with obscurantist sects, etc.? Very often, it is 'respect for Others' that is injurious, that is Evil." 

because there is so much dark, and we all live in it.
because having a person in the dark makes it so much more bearable.
because unrequited love is universal: the universe hates us despite our love of the universe.

because an Other has put themselves entirely in my hand and I wasn't gentle.

because love is the only way to really understand an Other and when love isn't reciprocated it seems to justify all our mistreatments of our Others.

because of that song by Gotye.

because even when an Other doesn't know us, we still will claim ownership: my partner, my lover, my ex.

because I started crying when I read this by Christopher Higgs.

because I'm going to read My Only Wife and it will probably destroy me inside a little and make me cry.

because even when someone destroys me, I'm still alive.
because even a fictional narrative can be dishonest, can be manipulative, can disrespect the reader: the Ever Present Other.
because "we should never reduce (our) Other to our enemy, to the bearer of false knowledge, and so forth: always in him or her there is the Absolute of the impenetrable abyss of another person."

because I'm still alive even though I've been a little destroyed before.

because I'm more alive when I feel a little destroyed, and feeling more alive than usual is the best thing for anyone that cares about living.

because I'm an impenetrable Abyss, and I want you to know me.

Women Who Write: Sandy Florian

Did a little Google hunt for today's installment, and ended up following Sandy Florian from Action Books (Telescope, The Tree of No) to Tarpaulin Sky (32 Pedals and 47 Stops) to the horse less review, from which this excerpt comes:

19

A slowly shrinking man and a large stuffed condor squat side-by-side on a large cornice. The man, shriveling like a dead nut inside a shell, flaps his arms like wings whenever someone enters the room. The condor, an enormous bird with a featherless neck, remains motionless in the monumental position. Each has wrinkled skin. Each has a knobbly body. Each uses the same hourglass chamberpot. Beyond the pair, large eggs dressed in cotton wool lay shivering in their baskets. Ornithological experiments, the eggs come from Hamberg, Holland, and zoological stations in Africa.

Someone enters the room. It is The Moment. To The Moment, the man and the condor are irresistible twins of a maddened plan. To the man, The Moment is a black cockroach wriggling its tangle of legs. The man still flaps his arms whenever someone enters the room, but now The Moment crawls on the floor of the attic room.

Between the slowly shrinking man and the condor there is bird’s eye view. To each, the other seems a Buddhist sage replete with dignity, honor and grace. Hence, when The Moment flutters its antennas, the man looks at the condor and flies.

You Fall Away From the Fall.

You Become Formless From Form.

You are Fallow.

You are Fallacious.

You are the Topaz of Falsification.

horse less review / 2

Women Who Write: Jillian Clark

Apologies for last week's hiatus. We're coming off last-minute thesis panics and nightly play rehearsals, so our normal posting schedule should soon resume. Thanks to Tim for keeping things alive during our absence!

Today I wanted to look at Abjective, and I wanted to look at something like poetry. I found Jillian Clark's "blind contour poem, 12:01 a.m." and thought I'd share:

I.

you said you'd rather be working with your hands

like Hemingway and I don't remember anything

about your hands except that they were writer's hands

and the way they looked both bored + frantic when

you were applauding something

Abjective / September 30, 2010

Women Who Write: Elizabeth Alexander

There are two talented women who write named Elizabeth Alexander. There is the one who delivered a poem at Obama's inauguration, and there is another, also a poet, also a fiction writer, and writer of many odd things that bend their genre. Here is an excerpt from her piece "Second Comings" in Prick of the Spindle: 

I had been warned by Mrs. Shirley, who taught me everything. She showed me how to bait a fishing hook, feign attention in Sunday School, and transfer a rabbit decal onto a dyed blue egg. In high school, when I pounded on her kitchen door flushed and hysterical, she drew me a bubble bath, wrapped me in a soft white towel that smelled of cloves, and took me to be fitted for a diaphragm. She persuaded Anne to keep it quiet. In 1996, after what we feared would be the last free election, Mrs. Shirley and I took a walk in Lemon Park. 

“Have some.” Mrs. Shirley tapped my arm with a silver flask. “When they come again—” she warned. 

“They who?” I interrupted. 

“A tyrant’s minions. 

“They won’t be wearing tall black boots. They won’t be carrying shiny black batons. They won’t have swastikas on their sleeves.” 

“Then how—?” I asked. 

“Not by appearance, my darling. They’ll look like you.”

Prick of the Spindle Vol. 2.3 / 2008

Women Who Write: Corinna Vallianatos

It turns out that bloggers and journalists have come up with a very striking answer to the problem of the publishing gender gap: Lady Journos! is a blog maintained by Ann Friedman that highlights the work of women journalists so that editors can find them, hire them, spread their work, et cetera. I've decided I'm going to embark on a similar crusade, first here at Uncanny Valley, then perhaps on a separate blog, to enable easier searching and browsing. 

This project has a secondary effect of getting me to read more magazines, which is a personal project I am desperately behind on. Today I'm starting with Issue #19 of The Collagist, which I've been meaning to read anyway to find out what sort of company Mike's essay is in. This first excerpt is from Corinna Vallianatos's story "Posthumous Fragments of Veronica Penn":

1999. Laundry in the washing machine. Dishes in the sink. Everything had a place where it was, and a place it should be. Dirt on the sills, dun-colored gluey mucus ringing Sylvie’s eyes. The dog looked at her, Veronica thought, reproachfully. The fur on her muzzle had gone all white. Easy to read her aging as acquiescence, each day undoing the day before. Franklin was on prostate medication that made him dizzy if he stood up quickly. Veronica’s lower abdomen had become a roadmap of veins which bulged softly from beneath her skin. The grass was ragged at the borders of the lawn. The sky threatened complete closure. Dinner was Franklin’s fried salmon and sweet potatoes to the staccato roar of the television. There was pleasure in this because it was simple, because she risked no exposure or embarrassment. Franklin cursed at the people on the screen, female newscasters in particular, and no one but Veronica could hear. Auditory head-banging. Vitriol. It offended her, but she was so thankful that she was the only one offended it was nearly okay. After tidying up the kitchen, a special on PBS. A comfortable chair. She wasn’t too proud to admit it. There was pleasure in this.

The Collagist, Issue 19 / February 2011