All the lower was full of cans and mays, corpulent, the deep damp latter rising from warm and pleasant memory and scratched out, extirpated, replaced by former, because it was former, the word itself representing dregs of dame abandoned. Requited love, alleged and recalled, contained in one word caused fury and savage strokes with present partner participating leading the frayed abandoned strands. Replacement seemed inevitable given the bulging veins on her neck, domestic bliss man rayed, can I go lacking a certain verve in this post-may american expattycake bakers man ray again this time of sunshine, we cant repeat the past. Santa reminds us every december of this doomed repeat repeat doomed repeat. Doomed repeat.
So who was she this may and why cant we move on? Just a word, change two letters and an all together different autobio forms the cycle spinning near the open door, billowing gusts of precognition decades before others took it up. May I can I may I can I swapping adulterous pairs in a plangent recall of detestable love given up for plain jane to class declasse must not name, for it would be like may, now all fit for janet’s consumption speculation. Interesting yes but what tells us that isn’t here near? What does it tell us by way of outside of us as may was one month after elliott’s pronouncement assuming you see connection?
Living longer decades longer she remembered did not know why not use may as much as she did, because lacked, hinging upon either-or instead of can’s active will. May I can I stop settle this like grown adults. Nib ripping paper, fortunately no inkwell. Papers deposited in snug archives, leaving only rapt academics to baste spells and ramp up ample speculations.
Gertrude what did you think of all this? We’ll never know and do we have the right to pry?
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (