A house party

Browsing Google Books (searching, originally, for old reviews of Bertha Runkle's work, I think?), I stumbled upon a volume from 1901: A House Party: An Account of the Stories Told at a Gathering of Famous American Authors.

I haven't read the book entire, but the premise is intriguing -- invite a number of authors to a party, require them to submit a piece of fiction before the party, redact their names, then distribute the "anonymous" pieces to guests and have them try to guess who wrote what. Now, if only I were friends with people like Sarah Orne Jewett: what a party it would be.

Color by key

Tyree Callahan's chromatic typewriter -- a hack where he replaced ink stores with paint -- is ingenious. The modified 1937 Underwood Standard typewriter is an entry in the 2012 West Collects West Prize Competition. I sometimes find, in writing, that words are insufficient for illuminating certain brilliant ambiguities; conversely, in painting, I wrestle with wanting to exercise as much control as I can in a well-crafted sentence, a taut paragraph. Perhaps this is an appropriate compromise?

Via Hi-Fructose.

Fearless Freya

Although I quite love to travel, I've never made a habit of reading travelogues. But, given Sumeet's affection for Patrick Leigh Fermor, Eric Newby, and the like, we don't suffer from a lack of tales of interesting people going interesting places.

One of my grouses has long been the preponderance of male writers in the genre; nothing wrong with men writing about their meanderings, but I like to hear a different perspective from time to time. "Freya Stark?" he suggested, years ago, and I kept her name in the back of my mind but didn't get around to reading anything of hers until today, when I devoured The Journey's Echo: Selected Travel Writings in one sitting.

Stark, born in 1893, became fascinated with One Thousand and One Nights at a young age and learned Arabic and Persian. In World War I, she worked as a nurse in Italy, and then, in the late 1920s, she began the journeys about which she wrote around two dozen books: she ventured to Beirut, Lebanon, western Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and beyond. 

The Journey's Echo is her last book, and it's something of a mish-mash that pulls together all her earlier writing. It's disjointed, its vignettes akin almost to a highlight reel, and thus perhaps the book is not the best representative of her true talent. But much of it is quietly astonishing; her imagery is breathtaking, and I ended up dog-earing a good third of the pages, so that I can page back, reread, rejoice. She writes about travel, of course, but also about the value of solitude, and the fundamental similarities of people across cultures, and about language (and its uses and abuses).

From my little Queens flat, an extract that reminded me there is much more to be seen (or to marvel over not seeing):

It is lucky to live in a city on a hill and to be saved by the view at one's window from thinking of the world as flat, so that one may see at a glance how all we have in sight slips over some edge into the veils of space.

The BBC has a 30-minute piece on Stark's life, or Jane Fletcher Geniesse's Passionate Nomad: The Life of Freya Stark is said to be good.

It's true, I do (also: Astoria books!)

This post is participating in the Astoria Blog Carnival, hosted by We Heart Astoria.

I almost don't know what to say; I just want to join in the merriment. Two years and 13 days ago, we moved to Astoria (or, rather, the border of Astoria and Long Island City, but who's really counting?); about a month ago, we signed another two-year lease, and we couldn't be happier. I find nothing more satisfying than setting out, camera in hand, and snaking through the streets; here's to many more such "adventures," even if they are rather pedestrian and unremarkable, in the coming months.

Since I read a lot of books, I figured I'd highlight a few Queens-centric stories I've recently enjoyed.

The Ask, Sam Lipsyte

In the Times, Lydia Millet writes, "A witty paean to white-collar loserdom in the fund-raising racket, “The Ask” describes a crisis in the life of one Milo Burke, a deeply cynical academic development officer, earnest binger on doughnuts, avid consumer of Internet porn, and devoted father and husband. Detailing the meltdown of Milo’s career and marriage, “The Ask” takes place in an exhausted and passive institutional workplace ..." It's a commentary on modern New York, an interesting illustration of life for those of us who are making it, so to speak, but still not living off Central Park and hob-nobbing at Cipriani.

Lipsyte explains Astoria thusly:

I'd take long walks in the neighborhood. We lived in Astoria, Queens, as close to our jobs in Manhattan as we could afford. One afternoon I made a mission for myself: stamps for the latest bills (I'd ask for American flags, stick them on upside down in protest against our nation's foreign and domestic policies), paper towels, and -- as a special treat to celebrate the acceleration of my fatal spiral -- a small sack of overpriced cashews from the Greek market.

I'd cure my solipsistic hysteria with a noonday jaunt. Sights and smells. Schoolkids in parochial plaids. Grizzled men grilling meat. The deaf woman handing out flyers for the nail salon, or the other deaf woman with swollen hands and a headscarf who hawked medical thrillers in front of the drugstore.

This was a kind and bountiful neighborhood: the Korean grocery, the Mexican taqueria, the Italian butcher shop, the Albanian cafe, the Arab newsstand, the Czech beer garden, everybody living in provisional harmony, keeping their hateful thoughts to themselves, except maybe a few of the Czechs.

Witty, wry, and a great read; The Ask was one of my favorite books in 2010.

I also indulged in a bit of noir, including the following from the successful Akashic Noir franchise.

Queens Noir, Robert Knightly, editor

The Kim Sykes piece, "Arrivederci, Aldo," is set in Long Island City, on the Silvercup lot. In "Only The Strong Survive," by Mary Byrne, she describes Astoria:

"In no time at all I reached Broadway, with its crowds and traffic and fruit displays. I liked it better here. This was home. Men on the sidewalk spoke Chinese and Slav and Arabic into cell phones. Visit Queens and see the world."

In the final Astoria-based piece, "Last Stop, Ditmars," by Tori Carrington, the author describes the Greek population in the area:

I sat back in the booth, considering her where she had taken the seat across from me. I'd also known what she was going to say because I knew her. And had known her husband. Mihalis Abramopoulos had owned and operated the Acropolis Diner on Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, Queens, for the past thirty years. Ever since he'd come over from Greece in the early '70s. Not unlike many of Astoria's Greek population that had been trying to escape military coups and martial law and were looking for a safe environment in which to raise their kids. Hey, my parents had done it in the '60s, before the colonels had stages a military junta in Greece and taken over control of a country that was still trying to get its shit together after the civil war. I'd been seventeen at the time, but I'm told I still speak like I'd just arrived on the last plane over the Atlantic.

Interesting! Our landlord is Greek; there are lush, old grapevines in our backyard, which I've long admired, but I'm always reluctant to ask about his origins, and his family's origins. Perhaps for someday soon.

I should also plug Marcy Dermansky's Bad Marie, which is not set in Astoria, but is an un-put-down-able tale about a lady, named Marie, who is BAD. Dermansky lives in the neighborhood, and she is a fun follow on Twitter. She taught me that Harissa, on 30th Ave., has great food (Balthazar pastries!), and it's been a staple ever since. Cheers!

If you're in Astoria and you're looking for a good bookstore, I'm a big fan of Seaburn, on Broadway and 34th St. The thrift stores, particularly the Salvation Army and Goodwill, can also be great (low-cost!) sources for your summer reads.

(By the by, I aspire to one day write half as well as these folks. Perhaps a yarn set in the Salvation Army on Steinway, an absolute must if you like people watching.)

Fleeting: five or so weeks

Are you a writer or an artist (or a publisher or just an engaged citizen)? Contribute to a super-cool project to populate an independent bookstore that will inhabit, for four or five weeks, the shell of an abandoned Borders in Pittsburgh. From Fleeting Pages:

In essence, Fleeting Pages consists of taking over (taking back??) one of the spaces, left empty by a failed big box bookstore in Pittsburgh, for one month, starting April 30th, and filling it with independent & self-published work of all kinds, book arts, workshops, events ...

The idea is a result of a few things; the toll taken on local booksellers by big box bookstores, a concern for the cultural effects of big box stores in both their existence and their failure, a general frustration with the model of the publishing industry, and a great appreciation for independent and self-published works of all kinds, as well as for those who create them.

We felt compelled to do something. Fleeting Pages is what we came up with. It will test the theory that what is happening with “books” – creation, consumption, access – matters to many. And if given the opportunity to take over, or take back, one of these empty spaces they will. And in the most brilliant of ways.

The end result, what Fleeting Pages will ultimately become, is a beautiful unknown as it is dependent upon what others are willing to add. The framework is there – the space, the concept, and a few people willing to work their hardest in support of the project.

Fleeting Pages is in need of, and open to, work of all kinds to fill the shelves, ideas and people to create and run workshops, ideas for how to re-imagine the space, 30-days of events, people willing to come out and help at the space, partnerships, collaborations,….a community.

As of today, we have  5 weeks until the proposed opening day….. Let’s test what’s possible.

I'm thinking of pulling together some of my writing and photography from the last year and self-publishing something with the help of Lulu. Such a cool project!

Well, well, well

Yup, it's official: I "won" Nanowrimo. I made a novel, or, more accurately, squeezed out 50,339 vaguely related words. (Tip: Give your protagonist a verbal tic -- my main character's speech was peppered liberally with "wells" and "perhapses" and "you sees.")

I have some thoughts about all this, but right now, I want to lose myself in Joanna Scott's The Manikin, which is almost un-put-down-able (I did, in fact, put it down to put in my final 1,800 words this evening, but I DID NOT WANT TO).

Nano-ing my wrimo

No, that doesn't make sense. At all. Anyhow! I am valiantly attempting National Novel Writing Month again. I've made several abortive efforts to excrete 50,000 words in the span of November, and I've never actually made it to the finish line. Maybe this year will be different? Right now, it's 300 words about a girl staring at a blank page as she tries to think of something interesting to write for Nanowrimo. Ummm ... yes, this will not end well.

It's decorative gourd season

From a 2009 McSweeney's piece by Colin Nissan:

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

Oddly, it seems I've reached a point in my life where this is no longer a hilarious send-up of middle-class American proclivities, but rather an eerily accurate reading of my thought process last weekend.