Just reviewed the final final proofs for Scorch Atlas, it looks siiiiiiicccckkk. Zach Dodson ate himself alive making the pages so good. There are certain pages in the book that to make their texture Zach chewed the paper with his own teeth. This is an object page for page. Now on its way to printers. Boom.
Ravi Mangla asked me to contribute to Recommended Reading and I did that. Thanks Ravi.
Over the weekend I read this: Andrew Zornoza's WHERE I STAY. It is something else. A full review and thoughts are soon forthcoming, but let me just say: there isn't anyone who wouldn't get something out of this beautiful collage of sentences and image. I started reading it intending to just read the first few pages, and pretty much read straight through instead.
Blurb from Matthew Derby: "Consider Andrew Zornoza’s Where I Stay a loose retelling of Werner Herzog’s 1974 march from Munich to Paris to try to save a dying friend—only set in the arid, ominous nowherescape of the contemporary Southwest and composed by a strung-out W.G. Sebald. Zornoza dedicates the book to “all those he's lied to” before prosecuting a narrative in stark photographs and crisp, lurid text that will make you wish we had more liars like him in the world."
More on this soon, but trust me, just buy it.
Man, I can't wait for the new Michael Haneke film to come out over here: The White Ribbon.
This morning I woke up for the first time in my life actually chewing on my blanket. I had been dreaming I was eating a cruller covered in chocolate syrup. I was in this small kitchen that was connected to the parish hall of the church down the street from my parents' house, where I went to preschool and would spend the day. Strange how certain rooms, like this one, which I hadn't thought about in years, can stay hidden in your body like that, and are randomly right there. It was as if no time at all had passed since I'd been in that little kitchen, the same one off the room where we met for Boy Scouts, and where during one afternoon at preschool I was sent by the teacher to ask the minister of the church where his son was that day (he had not shown up for class): I thought that man was god.
In the doughnut dream there was a fat kid, I can't remember him now, maybe he was me, fat, Boy Scout aged again: the kid had pointed at the dougnut and said, "You know you want to fuck that doughnut." His tone was aggressive and ready to go.
Before that I floated through my backyard and to the church on a very small red balloon with my infant cousin, who I had to sling along with my arm to keep from rolling off and smashing on the ground. The infant could not stop laughing.
I want to build a Brion Gysin Dream Machine.