Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Bathhouse Online Journal-check it out

Dear Peers,

A brief note to invite you to peruse the website of BathHouse, a hybrid arts journal published by the Creative Writing Program at EMU. Issue 7.1 just went live this weekend, and we're eager to share its cornucopia of hybrid goodness. Inside you'll find visual art by Andrew Abbott and Sarah Walko, a sound piece by Meghan Lamb, plus text-based creations by Emileigh Barnes, Rebecca Mertz, and Felicia Shenker.

Additionally, we would be thrilled for you to "join" BathHouse on the student orgs web portal. Joining doesn't lead to any commitments on your part; it simply shows support and gives you access to news and events on our student orgs page. Just go to the web portal, login using your normal e-mich name and password, click "organizations," and search for Bathhouse. If you're interested in becoming more involved, e-mail eic@bhjournal.com.

We recently set up a facebook page, which is another way to find out about BathHouse and other hybrid arts events. Please consider visiting and clicking "Like."

Thanks so much for your time,

Joe Sacksteder

BathHouse Hybrid Arts Journal

from Bhanu's blog

from: was jack kerouac a punjabi

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

at the level of constructing from dirt and gravel
I have held you my breath for a distance
not unrecorded by elements of lyric measurement
carry a tune not unlike a choir in unison
gone flat on occasion missing notes
entirely as I stroll across the capital sidewalks
into blistering wind I recall
building resistance toward uneven displays of honesty
and conjecture a subtle move, and continuous, toward
the multiplication of inhale no matter the status
of particles of pollution per

Thursday, September 16, 2010

can one write about traffic
as landscape
the surrounding hills
of concrete
you paved my forest
plowed down the blue skies
and put up a shopping mall
this is where i am
stuck in chronic
reduced lanes
of sensory

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

from Orlando

by Virginia Woolf

Life, it has been agreed by everyone whose opinion is worth consulting, is the only fit subject for novelist or biographer; life, the same authorities have decided, has nothing whatever to do with sitting still in a chair and thinking. Thought and life are as the poles asunder. Therefore--since sitting in a chair and thinking is precisely what Orlando is doing now--there is nothing for it but to recite the calendar, tell one's beads, blow one's nose, stir the fire, look out of the window, until she has done. Orlando sat so still that you could have heard a pin drop. Would, indeed, that a pin had dropped! That would have been life of a kind. Or if a butterfly had fluttered through the window and settled on her chair, one could write about that. Or suppose she had got up and killed a wasp. Then, at once, we could out with our pens and write. For there would be blood shed, if only the blood of a wasp. And if killing a wasp is the merest trifle compared with killing a man, still it is a fitter subject for novelist or biographer than this mere wool-gathering; this thinking; this sitting in a chair day in, day out, with a cigarette and a sheet of paper and a pen and an ink pot. If only subjects, we might complain (for our patience is wearing thin), had more consideration for their biographers! What is more irritating than to see one's subject, on whom one has lavished so much time and trouble, slipping out of one's grasp altogether and indulging--witness her sighs and gasps, her flushing, her palings, her eyes now bright as lamps, now haggard as dawns--what is more humiliating than to see all this dumb show of emotion and excitement gone through before our eyes when we know that what causes it--thought and imagination--are of no importance whatsoever?

But Orlando was a woman...And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is woman's whole existence. And if we look for a moment at Orlando writing at her table, we must admit that never was there a woman more fitted for that calling. Surely, since she is a woman, and a beautiful woman, and a woman in the prime of life, she will soon give over this pretence of writing and thinking and begin to think, at least of a gamekeeper (and as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking). And then she will write him a little note (and as long as she writes little notes nobody objects to a woman writing either) and make as assignation for Sunday dusk; and Sunday dusk will come; and the gamekeeper will whistle under the window--all of which is, of course, the very stuff of life and the only possible subject for fiction. Surely Orlando must have done one of these things? Alas,--a thousand times, alas, Orlando did none of them. Must it then be admitted that Orlando was one of those monsters of iniquity who do not love? She was kind to dogs, faithful to friends, generosity itself to a dozen starving poets, had a passion for poetry. But love--as the male novelists define it--and who, after all, speak with greater authority?--has nothing whatever to do with kindness, fidelity, generosity, or poetry. Love is slipping off one's petticoat and--But we all know what love is. Did Orlando do that? Truth compels us to say no, she did not. If then, the subject of one's biography will neither love nor kill, but will only think and imagine, we may conclude that he or she is no better than a corpse and so leave her.