August 10, 2014
Ya boy got some words up on Hobart last week
Throw some letters together and you got words.
Throw some words together and you poetry.
4 poems by Victor Freeze
I make Money for a Living
#Hobart #poetry #Victor Freeze
August 9, 2014
August 7, 2014
August 6, 2014
The Post-South World of Mary Miller | The Los Angeles Review of Books
Mary Miller’s debut collection Big World, published by small press Short Flight/Long Drive in 2009, offers a compelling case study. Miller’s stories of young white women who live in gentrified Southern suburbs often feel as if they could take place anywhere. The characters patronize fast food restaurants, read tabloid magazines, and watch Hollywood movies. They get drunk in karaoke bars, sober up at Mexican restaurants, and follow the Atkins diet. In some stories, Miller gives no place names at all. Others, she locates in Shelbyville or Gatlinburg, Nashville or Pigeon Forge (all in Tennessee; Miller herself is from Mississippi), but those places are populated by “tire stores and ethnic groceries and gas stations” that localize them exactly nowhere.
#Mary Miller #SF/LD #Short Flight/Long Drive Books #los angeles review of books
Hobart :: Infestations by Steve Anwyll
it feels like i’ve been trying to get something up at hobart forever. when i think about all the rejections i’ve got. jesus. it’s been such a long fight. so it feels good to finally land a punch.
but it wouldn’t have happened without elizabeth ellen. who right now. in my books. is number fucking one.
#Steve Anwyll #nonfiction #Hobart
August 5, 2014
"Four days before starting My Struggle, I reported for jury duty. My fellow prospective jurors and I filled out a brief questionnaire that asked about our occupation (doctor); marital status (married); if we were married, our spouse’s occupation (doctor); if we had children and, if so, their ages (yes, 2 and 18); our highest level of education (M.D.); if we or a family member had ever worked for an insurance agency (no); and our hobbies (jogging, reading). I was among the first 12 selected for interviews. We sat in a room, together and in two rows based on our selection order, and the attorneys for the plaintiff and defendant took turns asking us questions after scanning our survey responses. The woman seated two spots before me had also put down reading as her hobby, because the plaintiff’s attorney asked her what books she liked to read (‘Mysteries,’ she said. ‘Who’s your favorite author?’ he countered. ‘P.D. James,’ she replied, and she was eventually chosen for the jury). I hoped the attorney would ask me what I liked to read, because I thought it would be hilarious to answer ‘lyric essays.’”
"I thought it would be hilarious to answer ‘lyric essays.’”
#Andrew Bomback #Hobart #karl ove knausgaard #My Struggle #lyric essays
The sun asks me what I want to do. I say I want to get out of here. Go anywhere. Day comes early. A woman shaped light descends. She picks up the glass shop where I work and carries it to her palace. This is where she never stops shining. My clothes burn off my body. But I feel safe without tanlines. I love the hot black fingerprints she leaves on everything she touches.
Carabella Sands in Hobart <3 (via tracydimond)
GRIND MY BONES INTO GLITTER
#Carabella Sands #Hobart
July 31, 2014
Hobart :: LDR/MTN: A Review Of Friendship
…in which a writer writes a letter to another writer who is also the editor of this essay, because, work is a breathing thing that exists in the context of a life or lives.
one of our editors’ fave genres (i.e.”pieces about her”) on the site today, by the wonderful Amanda Goldblatt!
#Hobart #elizabeth ellen #Mary Tyler Moore #Lana Del Ray
July 29, 2014
Self-Portrait With My Dead Sister
Caleb Curtiss: Self Portrait With My Dead Sister (via swingingaxes)
There is a girl and a boy sitting on a curb
next to the ocean somewhere in Oregon
where the rain, which has just stopped, has caused
a mud puddle to form in the foreground, just in front
of the boy’s white shoe: his pants
are blue, his jacket is red, and he is not
smiling at all, which I think
is what makes her faintly upturned lip
look so much like a smile.
Never mind that these people were real,
that one will grow up and keep on being real,
while the other will grow up and be dead.
Never mind the brusk presentation or presumptuous
implications the speaker in my poem employs:
he should be excused on account of his grief,
and frankly, it’s probably for the best
that we ignore him and just stick to the facts. For example,
the boy is nearly five years old, which makes the girl
nearly seven years old, which makes it nearly 15 years
before she drove past a stop sign and then,
didn’t do anything ever again.
Despite the fact that here, she has just
pulled her legs into her chest, has just set her chin
on her knees, turned up the corner
of her lip, and here it seems as if she could,
for a moment, break through the artifice of time,
the static nature of her disposition, and say something
utterly irrelevant, something
I won’t pretend
#Caleb Curtiss #poetry #poem
Self-Portrait as a Photograph of my Father
Today, the seedpods on the Milkweed
growing along the road between the airport
and the place my grandparents will die
began to open themselves, imperceptibly,
as if each were the beak of a baby
crane at the first change in pressure that comes
with their mother’s circling descent. I saw them like this
from the window of my father’s Buick, saw each
one of them pass us by, their cracked
mouths and eyeless heads, and said
nothing. Soon, after watching my father stand
in unsteady synchrony with his father,
I will lift myself from the davenport in the lobby,
and head for the patio where I will stand at my father’s
left hand, his father’s right, and I will smile
for the camera, not noticing how the seeds on the silver
maple behind us have nearly matured. How some
have already detached themselves from its branches,
have begun their slow, spinning fall.
We smile these facsimile smiles, lips taut
over straight, white teeth, because we feel
a sort of pressure in the air: something that tells us
that we are mortal, that we will be here
Caleb Curtiss: Self Portrait as a Photograph of my Father (via swingingaxes)
Hobart Poetry Editor Caleb Curtiss is good.
#Caleb Curtiss #poetry #poem