patrykhadas:

Hadas Patrykseries “TV”2011"TV Eva", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Janusz", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Father", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm 

Light. patrykhadas:

Hadas Patrykseries “TV”2011"TV Eva", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Janusz", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Father", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm 

Light. patrykhadas:

Hadas Patrykseries “TV”2011"TV Eva", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Janusz", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm "TV Father", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm 

Light.

patrykhadas:

Hadas Patryk
series “TV”
2011

"TV Eva", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm
"TV Janusz", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm
"TV Father", oil on canvas, 100x75 cm 

Light.

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

That’s When the Knives Come Down gets its first review!

Nuée Ardente by Dolan Morgan, recommended by Aforementioned Productions

recommendedreading:



Issue No. 118

EDITOR’S NOTE


I first read Dolan Morgan’s work in late 2010. He’d submitted a story for the first print issue of the journal I run, apt, and it was a crowning jewel on our inaugural annual. The story was funny and touching, surreal and sad—qualities I would come to recognize as trademarks of his work. Not long after the issue hit the shelves, I was asked in an interview: among my contemporaries, whose work did I like to read? I named Morgan, and described his writing as charming satire aimed right for my heart.

A couple years later, when I first read the manuscript for his collection, That’s When the Knives Come Down, I was again struck by Morgan’s charm, but I realized my assessment of him as a satirist was rather limiting. Satire requires a target, and while his targets range from capitalism to sex (which is to say, targets worthy indeed), Morgan renders them with a disarming affection. His approach, specifically the evidence of his fondness for his subject matter, allows him to surpass the role of satirist, and to more fully occupy the role of benevolent absurdist.

That combination of benevolence and absurdism brings me to “Nueé Ardente,” a story about a man waylaid while traveling by train to see his errant sister. As the delay persists, he becomes more interested in the unfamiliar landscape and his fellow passengers than continuing his journey. In the resultant purgatory, the protagonist comes to recognize that he will age even as his fantasies remain young, to accept that the only way to hold himself responsible for his actions is to leave himself no other choice, and to realize that he both resents and resembles his sister. But despite every drawback, we retain hope. Morgan has depicted disorder and disarray humanely, as characters we need not fear encountering.

That’s When the Knives Come Down just came out. I’m so proud to have had a hand in its publication, not just because it’s funny and touching and surreal and sad—though it is all of those things—but because it goes beyond buzz words. As grand and irrational and crazed as the stories are, Morgan’s collection, and “Nueé Ardente” in particular, reveal the ways people retain their humanity, in all its selfish and haunting glory.


Carissa Halston
Co-founding Editor, Aforementioned Productions

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Nuée Ardente

by Dolan Morgan

Recommended by Aforementioned Productions

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On the train ride north, I see an explosion in the distance. Black smoke rises into the afternoon sky, and I watch it out the window as the train speeds through tiny, blue-collar towns. The tower of smoke is like a building, a distant skyscraper that curves without care. The mountains beneath it seem almost uninhabited, covered in a thick rug of frosted pines. What’s happening over there, I wonder. A forest fire? An industrial accident? A dormant volcano that has suddenly awoken? The landscape is unfazed. Still, I imagine all the mountains bursting open like bottles of cheap champagne—pop, pop, pop—covering the northern New York countryside with molten rock, washing over small towns with magma and steam, trailing smoke across the Eastern seaboard. The whole area will come to a stop once the 60 mph pyroclastic wave rolls down the hillsides and into town, I think. Like Pompeii, everyone will be halted in their tracks—and no matter what they were doing, be it humiliating or heroic or mundane, it will all be frozen here in the upstate territories like an enormous carbon photograph stretching the length of the Catskills. Soon it might become a sort of solemn tourist attraction like that of the World Trade Center or Pearl Harbor. People will come to witness tragedy firsthand, to see everything as it was “that terrible day.” After a while, the shock and sadness of it all will most likely wear off, as if tragedy were just a perfume or cologne or bug spray you applied at the right moment, and people will come unabashed to look at all the privacies left behind and unguarded. No one will pay attention to its enormity, of course, or at least only pay it lip service, but everyone will string along their families to be voyeurs of the dead, standing their children in front of copulating corpses and taking photographs to be hung on the wall at home. At any given time, I realize, I probably would rather not have a volcanic plume rush over me and immortalize whatever it was I was doing at the moment. There are very few points in my life that I would choose to showcase as a tourist attraction, simply because most of the time I look like an idiot. Right now, for example: I’m slumped against the train window, my cheek stretched against the glass like putty. I probably resemble a puffer fish as it’s prepared by a chef to be eaten: confused and asphyxiated.

Yet I’m breathing and fairly cognizant. In an hour, the train will pull into Binghamton, where my sister will meet me at the station. She’ll be driving some beater that needs a screw driver shoved in the ignition to get it started, rust about to eat through the axles, and one window made of plastic garbage bags duct-taped gingerly to the frame. We’ll zip along dirt roads for an hour until we reach her trailer on the top of a hill where we will eat hot dogs with her children, surrounded by jars of everything from pickled cabbage to pickled nuts. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but I know what to expect. And the years passed aren’t because of a falling out or any kind of drama at all; simply, we’ve been busy—or I have—or just as much, we’ve never been close enough to warrant the expensive commute between NYC and the Canadian border. She’s much older than me, a decade at least, and I sometimes have trouble seeing myself in her. She has said to our mother that we are oil and water, nothing alike and not worth comparing. It might be all we agree on, in fact. Really, everything else is so foreign to me, just as I imagine my life must be to her. The city, the noise, the fast pace—it’s nothing like what she has sought and found. And how she came to living out here in the backwoods of America, in the middle of nowhere? I can’t understand it. What does she find out here all alone? Maybe the cold: the area is known for its harsh winters—sometimes more than eight to ten feet of snowfall—which, unbelievably, leaves people even more removed than they already are from each other. I suppose, though, if you come for the isolation, then the winter snowdrifts aren’t all bad. Luckily for me, it’s November and that isn’t winter in my book. The train speeds onward, now curving around a lake and giving me a better view of the smoke. It appears that there might be another cloud rising, but I can’t tell if it’s just another part of the first. I haven’t heard any other explosions, but we are a great deal farther off by now as well.

The sound of the train rushing along the steel tracks is suddenly audible as a woman whom I had seen earlier boarding the train drags her bags through my car and into the next. I recognize her as someone I may have known or been associated with, if only slightly, maybe an old college classmate or subway rider. I know her, I think. Still, she is familiar, just as much, as the type of girl that exists as a ghost in my head, the woman who seems like some perfect ideal—but whose parts are strewn across the bodies of millions of women, some limbs and smiles here, some eyes or clothes over here, and attitudes and laughs over there. The platform woman’s snarly, sharp-toothed smile is a smile taken straight from the ghost’s blueprint. Her eyes and legs seem familiar too, as if they were somewhere inside me once, like a type of blood? No, that isn’t right, I think, but more as if I had already held them, looked into them. Dumbly, I am reminded of the women I’ve slept with, the women I’ve loved, rarely the same, as the train slows, pulling into another station along the way.

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ap-apt:

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Today marks the final week to get TWTKCD for just $13, as well as all the additional presale incentives!

But, just in case that’s not enough to entice you, we’re kicking off the final week with an additional attraction: a giveaway!

Starting today, Wednesday, August 13, anyone who buys any…

True love.

“I once knew a pathological liar that claimed he owned his own island. I asked to see photos of it, but he said he’d never been there. I chose to believe the lie because the lie was beautiful.”
— From my new essay, Your Voice, Saving Mein Sundog Lit today as part of “Nothing Works Until It Does,” a series of works inspired by Dolan Morgan’s forthcoming book, That’s When the Knives Come Down. (via chelseahodson)

IMMATERIAL (the digital journal of Marina Abramovic Institute) donated one nothing to the final week of pre-sales for THAT’S WHEN THE KNIVES COME DOWN

Yes, you could be the lucky winner of nothing!

——

From the publisher:

Today marks the final week to get TWTKCD for just $13, as well as all the additional presale incentives!

But, just in case that’s not enough to entice you, we’re kicking off the final week with an additional attraction: a giveaway!

Starting today, Wednesday, August 13, anyone who buys any of the presale options will automatically be eligible to win one of the following packages:

THE READER PACKAGE
For READERS only, one lucky winner will receive a copy of For Promotional Use Only, an ebook that includes dozens of additional stories and illustrations by Dolan!

THE GENESIS PACKAGE
For all entrants, one lucky winner will receive a copy of the first print annual of apt (originally published January, 2011), wherein we first met Dolan via his story, “Investment Banking in Reverse,” and which includes even more illustrations by the lovely Robin E. Mørk!

THE IMMATERIAL PACKAGE
For all entrants, one grand prize winner will receive “nothing,” generously donated by IMMATERIAL Journal. That’s right: nothing. Which is exciting, because you can do anything with nothing! Or maybe you can’t do anything with nothing. Let’s find out!

IMPORTANT NOTE
You may be thinking, “Hey, wait a second, I already ordered one of the presale options—what do I get?”

To be as fair as possible, we wanted to include everyone who has invested in Dolan’s book so far. For anyone who’s already purchased the book or one of the presale incentives and wants to be eligible for the giveaway, all you need to do is watch Dolan’s interview with goat farmer, Jennifer Coughlin, and answer the following question via FacebookTwitter, or Tumblr:

What is Jennifer Coughlin afraid her son will someday ask her?

That’s it! All winners will be chosen at random, and announced on Thursday, August 21. And while you’re waiting to hear about the big winners, you should check out the interview Dolan recently did at IMMATERIAL Journal.

http://aforementionedproductions.com/morgan-presale/

Hey! IMMATERIAL interviewed me about THAT’S WHEN THE KNIVES COME DOWN and nothing. I even share one of my favorite recipes.

——-

LOOK INSIDE YOUR HEART. IT’S MOSTLY NOTHING. I MEAN AT THE PHYSICAL LEVEL. A HYDROGEN ATOM IS SOMETHING LIKE 99.9999999999996% EMPTY. IT’S BASICALLY NOT EVEN THERE. GIVE OR TAKE A FEW PERCENTAGE POINTS, THAT’S TRUE OF MOST EVERYTHING. THAT IS, EVERYTHING IS MOSTLY NOTHING. NOTHING IS ALL AROUND US AND INSIDE US. IT’S A MIRACLE THAT WE SEE ANYTHING ELSE AT ALL, AND A REAL SHAME THAT WE IGNORE NOTHING SO OFTEN. IT’S LIKE HAVING A JAR THAT HAS NINETY-NINE SKITTLES IN IT AND ONE BROKEN CRUMB OF A PIECE OF AN M&M AND SAYING “LOOK AT MY BOWL OF M&M’S” … AND THEN BUILDING HUMAN HISTORY AROUND THAT CANDY DUST.

Some exciting news on this soon.

the first illegal prime

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writing process blog tour

what are you working on?

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how does your work differ from other writers of your genre?

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why do you write what you do?

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how does your writing process work?

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Thanks so much to the wonderful Timur Bardot Mukhodinov for inviting me to participate in this peculiar blog tour. You should go see him read some time. He’s great. Next week, the tour visits Natalie Eilbert's site to hear how she does things.