More than once, my maternal grandmother went to a Seattle fire station for aid, certain she was having a heart attack.
I don’t listen for you now, your crow step, / so eager to say my own piece. How does it / start. The ants came to tear my house down.
Thanks to Instagram and all its metastasized relations, nowhere is so far off the beaten path we can’t experience it visually…
People often said that he finished sentences for me. Well, he did. He was between me and the world. He not only answered the telephone; he finished my sentences.
On the shores of Midway Island, the juvenile albatross skeletons encircle a stomach’s worth of plastic shards, pen caps, bottle tops, the insidious end to all species’ endocrine systems innocuously named “nurdles.”
In some ways, I feel I shouldn’t go there, so naturally I am drawn like a moth to the flame. I can’t get around race and identity politics, and I shouldn’t. But as deliciously pearly white as I am—and given that it’s ipso facto my “identity”—I have still never felt an urge to belong to a white community.
The question is not whether humans are on a crash course with misery and extinction but how we as individuals relate to our membership in a species and chart a path for ourselves between now and our personal demise.
In a 60-page essay I wrote on the nature of a “morbid curiosity,” I struggled not only with the ethics of viewing actualities of death found on shock sites—usually, the premature deaths of non-white victims of car crashes, industrial accidents, drug cartel violence.
Your heart will stop, Kevlar bottom,
wicker basket, hard-sided cooler.
DamNation undoubtedly falls within your category of “contemporary environmentalist pop docs flooding Netflix, with their smooth animated graphics emulating hand drawings, and their nature-porn photography, and their Sufjanian soundtracks.”
Gnomish Agnès Varda, with her mushroom cap of hair dyed the color of a dark, ripe cherry, with her visual groaners—she operates in the spirit of happenstance, fearless of mockery.
To begin at the end: After nearly two hours exploring facets of exploitation in the globalized food system, Luc Moullet closes Genèse d’un repas/Origins of a Meal (1978) by turning the camera on himself.
Excerpted from the series California Building by Theresa K. Miller Cover image by Victor Bezrukov About the Author: Teresa K. Miller is the author of sped (Sidebrow, 2013) and Forever No Lo (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2008). For more information, visit here.
I’ll begin at the beginning of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) instigated adventure. Today we had to wake up at the crack of dawn to catch our 10-hour flight to Seattle.
Wondering why the witch has such resonance right now, the panelists agreed that it is in part because she “provides a way of speaking the unnamed, especially in the wake of the #MeToo movement.
Berfrois: The Book is now available at all good bookshops and a certain online store.