As my Christmas present to the Internet I'm soliciting submissions for a new speculative fiction anthology, Thoughtcrime Experiments. [...] If you're a spec-fic writer, and there's some story that people you've shown it to have liked, but that you've been unable to find a publisher for, send it to me. If I like the story enough to spend $200 on it, I'll buy it for $200. I hope to buy five stories.
...is this girl saying 'new york herald tribune' while selling papers in Paris:
see also, a sufficiently brutal review of Breathless.
I used to be—I remember when I was—oh, sixteen, seventeen, when I came first into poetry and into the arts, I thought that _everybody who could_ followed one of the arts. One of the arts, would naturally do that, I thought. I came along, and one night on a ship—where I had been, oh, sorta helping load and unload, knocking about, knocking about the world—a man, an older man, took an interest in me and got me to the rail and talked with me in the middle of the night, by the light of the moon, and got it out of me that I was interested in the arts. “Well, how interested?”Inherited ideas like this are wicked lil' buggers.
“Well,” I said, “I write a little.”
And he said, “Oh, that’s a nice thing to do if you’re not very well.” And then he said, “I have a daughter, an invalid, and she writes.”
And then I realized that he thought that everybody who could made money and everybody who couldn’t make money went into the arts. And I saw that it was a beautiful standoff between us.
When Helena, 31, a Ph.D. student who lives in the West Village, met her ex, a 30-year-old political speechwriter [...]
“I was really an anxious mess with this guy,” she said. “He’d email me and text me all day and then just fall off the face of the planet for three days. I am not an insecure person and I was terribly insecure. I was constantly checking texts and emails. I would be at home drinking whiskey and smoking a cigarette in the corner, waiting for him to call. Finally, I was like, ‘I am 30 years old! What am I doing?’”
if you are constantly checking texts and emails, drinking whiskey with a lit ciggie in the corner ... in that moment you are very much an insecure person.
the ny observer piece is interesting but suffers a curious problem: what if the fellas in question are - could it be possible! in this wicked age! - actually, maybe, perhaps really stand up guys who are not running game and are actually simply staying away from girls and situations which are not comfortable and not cohesive to happiness? hmm?
doesn't this seem like a reasonable response to a ciggie smoking, drunk, weak (okay, insecure) female?
isn't the appropriate response to not play games and simply not talk to this person anymore?
well these fellas are probably doing just that, is my take.
Evan, I think you can make this work for you
(via Bruce)
In a paper published in the August issue of The Journal of Anxiety Disorders, Chris Miller and Dawson Hedges of Brigham Young University estimate that as many as one million Americans may suffer from a moral-anxiety-cum-mental-illness known as “scrupulosity disorder.” They define it as obsessive doubt about moral behavior often resulting in compulsive religious observance — and they warn that it can lead to depression, apathy, isolation and even suicide.
As the believing man's version of obsessive-compulsive disorder, the diagnosis raises questions about where, exactly, the line is to be drawn between probity and perversity. It isn't obvious how to treat someone who can't sleep for worrying about their rectitude [...]
What a man really has, is what is in him. What is outside of him should be of no importance. [...] To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
And it also seems somehow sinister that she's apparently been in here all this time, this Clenette person, one of the nine-month temps from down the hill, pretty-eyed and so black she's got a bluish cast, with hair ironed straight and then pinned up and the standard E.T.A.-custodial teal-blueIt gets better:
zip-upable jumpsuit, emptying Tavis's personal brass wastebaskets into her big cart with its gray canvas sides.
The cart, like poor Otis Lord's own game-master's cart, has a crazy wheel, and clatters a bit even buried in the shag, trying to maneuver around Moore as she reverses back along the vestibule's wall.So, if Lord was God in the Eschaton game (or at least playing god), what does this make Clenette?
"i like short sales because no matter what happens, i know i'll be okay"
^^^^ one of the safety girls (well, women) of 'the real housewives of orange county'
[..] yeah so i saw fiona apple at the new yorker festival last year, the both of 'em are in the same category for me. the tunes were great, the audience q+a less so. all the crowd were park slopers / new yorker readers, except for about 20 or so kids, youngins, undertwenties, who just couldn't contain their gushiness. have you ever heard the well behaved people scream "sit down, SIT DOWN / we came to hear shadowboxer / yes that album was about pt anderson / yeah she was raped we all know and you suck for asking SIT DOWN"? well they did.. and she didn't (sing shadowboxer) but it was still a pretty good night. that girl is so busted / she answered a question about OCD that went on for 5 minutes about how every day has a color and a shape, and how she really just never leaves her house, ever, and has a dog, and some days are okay.
different lights change the appearance of your skin.
red light makes your skin look best-
this is why the red light district has red lights.
