Podcast Delivered

Here is the first bit of the podcast I promised on "Trapped in the Closet." At the moment it is set to be expanded with at least one more person speaking who is well equipped when it comes to the hip-hopera. Make sure to take some time and browse around the site. I've been very impressed with what you can incorporate into an English class.

Trapped in the Podcast

"It has all the trappings of a Shakespearean Comedy"

I was interviewed yesterday for a podcast produced by Erin Stoneking. The podcast was supposed to be about the literary qualities of a piece of music. So what did she want me to answer questions about?

R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet."

It isn't often that being an English major, Music and Poetry Writing double-minor, and having a love for both high-brow concepts and low-brow culture intertwine. This was one of them.

I promise to link to the podcast site when it goes up.

"Really, it's doggerel, but I love it still."

One Hundred Years of Solitude

Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude might be the best piece of writing I've ever read. I can think of a few poems I've read that make me feel the same way this book does, except this book is 400 pages long. Often, One Hundred Years of Solitude feels like poetry - like the same amount of consideration was invested in each syllable as the best poets put into the sounds they produce. I am stunned. Please read this book. Please.

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover

ice.


When the semester comes to an end and I am able to relax back home, I tend to spend the hours on end that I would normally be reading assigned texts by reading for pleasure. Life moves a bit slower in Walnut Cove, and the only activity I have available to entertain me when the weather is poor is reading. This week, I have started to make progress on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. I've been holding out on reading this 'must read' until I become fluent in Spanish and can read it as intended, but I have growing doubts as to that whole fluency thing ever coming to fruition. I'm only halfway through at the moment so I won't say anything about the novel past this - the big technical aspect of the book has me thinking about magical realism.

Magical realism is a strange territory for me. Fantasy literature, as well as science fiction, have never been appealing reads. I catch intense shame fairly often when friends discover that I haven't read the Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter series. I fully understand why others enjoy those books. It is simply a case of me not being sold on the fantastic. Maybe my distaste for Beowulf should be chalked up to this as well. Maybe not.
I think magical realism should share some common ties with fantasy and science fiction. It makes sense that it does. It would make sense that I would have a similar distaste for magical realism. Yet, I don't. All of the magical realism I've come across has been enthralling. I've loved it. Obviously, using magical realism in poetry is a different game, but James Tate is never boring. His poems are great. Coming across a pair of W.S. Merwin poems in Poetry Daily earlier this year was a treat too. Magical realism can do some great, great things.

I am rather intrigued by magical realism, which is why I am kicking myself at the moment. I had the opportunity to study stylistics in fiction next semester with Daniel Wallace, of Big Fish fame. Wallace seems to have mastered to use of magical realism, and I should have taken the opportunity to work with him since he is a visiting professor at Carolina who leaves after the spring semester finishes.

Here's a promise I am making to myself - take whatever class the writer in residence is teaching next year, no matter who they are and what their forte is. If that means learning from the authority on metaphysical novels written in the fourth person, so be it.

We Laughed In a Way People Don't Much Laugh Anymore

My seven day challenge in poetry went very well. I was both surprised and delighted with the way things rolled out. I didn't have any guidelines, besides finish one poem each day, and I'm sure the freedom from that helped me churn some out that didn't require as much work, but still, I finished. A couple of ones came out of this past week that I think are definite keepers. I am at a point that I feel excited about those two, but I don't feel like they are solidified yet - I haven't had someone come in and rip the shit out of them. I still need that. I think I'll take this coming week off from a challenge like that, but starting on the 5th, I want to pull another seven day stretch with some strict guidelines passed along from a friend. Should be much more difficult and probably more interesting in the end. I'll be writing in a place I've never written before that week because I'll be at the coast.

Then it is back to Chapel Hill.

I think I might take a stab at reviewing the new Minus the Bear album this week as well. Take care.

No one belongs here more than you.

I think I love Miranda July. I know she's considerably older than I am, but still. Just look at her. And even before I saw her stunningly beautiful photo (above) staring out from the inside-back sleeve of her first book, No one belongs here more than you, when I had only read the first few stories, I knew it. Miranda July can write and I love her for it.

Billed as a filmmaker, writer, and performing artist, July is best known for writing, directing, and starring in the 2005 film You, Me, and Everyone We Know. I haven't seen the movie except for a couple scenes, but I feel compelled to watch it now after reading her stories. The stories in No one belongs here more than you. are burdened by an overarching sadness that extends beyond the characters being down on their luck or in the middle of hard times. July's characters are crippled by a sadness that flows from within, and is coupled by irreparable breaks with the people closest to them. The mood is only deepened when, in many stories, a recognition scene of sorts is realized by the parties involved, and characters see and accept a doomed fate well before they act upon it.


Triumphs are short-lived and often questionably executed, like making money through giving personal fantasy sessions in the back of adult sex shops in Something That Needs Nothing, or connecting with a soul mate even if it means that person is a mentally challenged 14-year old student of yours in Making Love in 2003. The character's positive moments are rarely positive for any reason other than any human connection is a step forward. July's writing makes a strong argument that to be utterly alone is somehow better than to be in society but practically isolated. The latter offers the opportunity for torture - watching the world spin perfectly the same without your own input on it.

Almost all stories in July's compilation contain a theme of sex and sexuality. A 15-year old narrator is raped nightly by a 'dark shape' that is best summed up as a glowing orb. Best friends are lovers only when one is wearing a wig. In Majesty, a woman has reoccurring dreams of Prince William having sex with her at a party where low ceilings force attendees to crawl on all fours. However, the feeling of sadness and sex are never pried apart. While intercourse and sexual feelings may be euphoric to certain characters, it is never divorced from the relationship, from human emotion, and most importantly, from the situation in the story once the sex is finished.

July has supportive quotes on the back cover from two higher profile figures, Dave Eggers and David Byrne, and she is affiliated with the McSweeney's crew, I believe. She should have no problem getting any boost she needs to write. July's emotionally hurt yet fully open style is beautiful. Her stories, especially the longer ones, can really hit home, and can bring pains in the most terrible ways, making the heart and stomach feel bruised and vulnerable. Easily, this is the best fiction I've read this year.

The Books

I've been a reading machine recently. I leave one book in each room or place I frequent, and read only that while there. The basement is the domain of Freakonomics. Miranda July's No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories is for the bedroom. So is Kay Ryan's Say Uncle. Driving to work is for Moby Dick, and while at work it is How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker. Those last two are accomplished through audiobooks. Herman Melville's classic is easy to follow as I drive down the freeway, but I find it difficult to follow where Pinker goes while I work. I haven't studied psychology at all, and it doesn't help that Pinker's work asks a lot of attention out of the audience when they can read through it with visuals at their own pace. Look for reviews when I finish these books.