Thursday, May 26, 2016

Please welcome to the world ... Robert Glück Communal Nude (Semiotext(e) / Active Agents)





'In her 2000 essay "Writing/Sex/Body," first published on the Buffalo Poetics Listserv, Dodie Bellamy describes her practice as "a writing that subverts sexual bragging, a writing that champions the vulnerable." This constantly changes her relationship to her audience, her community—and to the text: "No way I can stand in front of an audience reading this stuff and maintain the abstraction of 'author.'" She "stiffens" herself in the performance of her "I" and "invades" her own privacy. In reading, she freezes herself into a corpse, a "not a body": Is this a problem? In his response to Bellamy, "Writing Sex Body," the poet and novelist Robert Glück writes: "Why write about body and sex unless they are problems?" He argues that these categories and their performance, the thing that "stiffens" us, allow for a beginning—of an argument, of an exchange. And they are problems, of the body and of sex, and of the communities of those bodies and sexes, that are central Glück's own work, from his novels to his critical essays, which have been collected for the first time in Communal Nude (Semiotext(e) 2016). "This is the goal," he states from the outset of the collection: "to unframe writing about sex and the body, to derail the mechanisms that make a unified position."

'Communal Nude is the first new collection by Glück in over a decade. A founding member of San Francisco's New Narrative movement, a loose collective of writers that included Bellamy, Kevin Killian, Kathy Acker, Dennis Cooper, and Bruce Boone, Glück's best known for his novels, including Jack the Modernist and Margery Kempe. The latter—perhaps his best—imagines a contemporary romance between two gay men fused across the gulf of history into the medieval story of the Christian mystic of the same name. Nude opens with his important essay "Long Note on New Narrative," which articulates a history of the group and its gossipy "hybrid aesthetic," which approached narrative in such a way that put the self "at risk by naming names, becoming naked, making the irreversible happen—the book [as] social practice that is lived," and lived specifically within the community where it is placed: namely, San Francisco in the late 1970s and 1980s. It is a writing that asks, against the backdrop of Language poetry's aversion to narrative, "What kind of representation least deforms its subject? Can language be aware of itself (as object, as system, as commodity, as abstraction) yet take part in the forces that generate the present? Where in writing does engagement become authentic?"

'In Glück's work, theory mixes with porn mixes with fiction mixes with memoir, genres he borrows and dispenses with freely in order to paste together narrative collages that cycle through local gossip and world historical events, the doings of gay men in pre-AIDS San Francisco, and the blender of identity politics: a changing "I" that both obtains the look and feel of Bob/not Bob, body/no body. ...

'In a moment when autobiographical fiction—autofiction—has proliferated, Glück's essays and fiction broaden the history of the form, tracking its development in the late 1970s to now. Communal Nude adds considerably to the breadth and range of the critical heft of this work, and partially maps a history of experimental autobiography that necessarily includes poets and novelists who developed this mode long before it made the pages of the New York Times Book Review. This is important, dutiful work, and its importance isn't lost on Glück, whose best essays—and there are many—articulate a poetics of the memoir that acknowledges the genre's porousness, the tears in memory's fabric, its frayed edges. He often excels at this when he's writing about himself, the subject he doesn't quite know best (otherwise why write about it?) but which he is determined to understand better. And in him, us: "Here's Bob, he's a writer, he lives in San Francisco," he writes toward the end of "Writers are Liars," a lecture given at a literary conference in 1997. "Here is Bob's stupid love life, blow by blow. Here are his friends by name… I try to approximate the irreversibility of a performance—something you can't take back, some nakedness, some shame, some detail too intimate, something I make my body do, something that happens to it." He ends the lecture by describing a conversation he had with Eileen Myles about the then-surging interest in memoir and whether or not this had anything to do with "truth."

'"All this anxiety about the truth, and interest in the truth, seems to focus on the truth of abjection. This display of true misery has an element of theater. The heroin of The Red Shoes can play the dying swan into infinity, but the locomotive that actually kills her is delivering news from the real world."

'Glück makes sure we're on the train.' -- Andrew Durbin, BOMB



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Further

'Long Note on New Narrative', by Robert Gluck
Robert Glück @ Poetry Fundation
'Robert Glück Makes You Blow Him'
The PIP (Project for Innovative Poetry): Robert Gluck
'Celebrating Robert Gluck's Elements'
Robert Gluck @ PennSound
'Bill Berkson in Conversation with Robert Gluck
Robert Gluck @ goodreads
Audio: Robert Glück reads "Conviction"
'Gabbing With Robert Glück'
'You are what you want'
'The Alien Inside', by Robert Gluck
'I, Chimp'
Podcast: 'Rebecca Brown, Robert Gluck, Kevin Killian & Dodie Bellamy'
'Reading it Personally: Robert Glück, Margery Kempe, and Language in Crisis'
'Hidden in the Open', by Robert Gluck
'One on One: Robert Glück on Jess’s The Mouse’s Tale'
Buy 'Communal Nude'



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Extras


11/16/2015 --- Robert Gluck


False Starts: Robert Glück and Rob Halpern


Robert Gluck « 851 in Exile


Poetry will be made by all! Robert Glück



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Interview
from EOAGH




Tony Leuzzi: For a voice level, say something.

Robert Glück: My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense.

Keats?

The first line of “Ode to a Nightingale.”

Wow. I would not have expected you to quote one of the Romantics!

Keats is where I got my start. He’s my guide in a sense: his enameled surface and below that the longing and loss. That combination of polished language and harsh emotion—I have never abandoned it. Words resoundingly in place—with a sense of inevitability even, that 19th-century idea of Poetry—and loss and incompletion riding underneath. For me, that’s what Keats is. In high school, I memorized Keats’s poems and then wrote them out, just to see how it feels to be writing those lines. It was a gestural experience.

That you were calling the poems to you.

That’s right. (Laughs).

Were your earliest writing attempts in verse?

Oh, yes, entirely. My first poem was a sonnet. I had the classic wonderful high school English teacher who got me reading and writing poetry, Marjorie Bruce. For me, poems were something to be fabricated. I started with the sonnet not because I felt that I had something important to say, or that I had to burst out and tell the world my feelings. Rather, I wanted to make a beautiful object with language.

Has that impulse been sustained in your work?

What beauty might be seems more complex, but I still think of my books as three-dimensional objects, globes, and in fact, at the end of the novels there is always something revolving.

At the end of Jack the Modernist there are a series of heads coming out of a body.

Right.

And there’s a scene in the beginning of the book that is loosely repeated at the end—a scene where the narrator watches Jack hug someone and wishes he could get a hug like that, only to realize when he does it’s not what he imagined it would be.

In college, in Edinburgh, I took a year-long Conrad seminar. He thought of his books as spherical. That’s where I got the idea. I recognized at once that it applied to me.

More of an understanding that this was your conception for your work all along?

Yes. I am dyslexic and dyslexics tend to think globally, rather than linearly.

Could you give me an example of that?

For a dyslexic, understanding comes in images rather than words or narratives. A lot of dyslexics are visual artists, which I was initially studying to be.

A traditional narrative suggests a syntax of action, a particular order to experience.

Whereas global suggests that experience is one, and that you take it in all at once, even though you can plug into it at different places. I think of my books not as temporal sequences but as incidents that occur on a globe. So it’s not as though one goes from one thing to the next thing to the next. Instead, all those moments, images, and tableaus make one object. There may be different elements but they exist in a sculptural relation to each other.

There are two huge groups of dyslexics in society, one in museum studies and visual arts, the other in prison. Trouble with reading will lead you into a visual field, or you become so alienated that your relationship with society is compromised.

The first pieces of literature you produced were verse poems in traditional forms. You say you were consciously trying to make beautiful things. As I look around your house, I see beautiful art pieces. Your connection to the art world is still very much with you, and you often reflect upon it in your writing.

I have a long, complicated relationship with visual art. In some way, I’m a frustrated visual artist whose medium is language. So, that’s another way of thinking about writing as an object. Add to this, my boyfriends, for the most part, have been artists…

So there’s an erotic dimension.

Perhaps a narcissistic aspiration (laughs).

Often in your work there appears to be little distinction between what some might consider a prose poem, an essay, or a short story. How do you make these distinctions?

I don’t. My way of dealing with it is to not make the distinction. But I don’t really like the term short story—and yet I have story collections. I simply call them stories. Or pieces. The short story has a history I do not feel especially related to. Other traditions are more important to me.

Such as?

Well, the modernist writer Blanchot made fictions called conts (tales). In these conts, which I admire tremendously, there’s a pressure brought to bear on language itself, and a porousness. By porousness I mean that one sentence doesn’t necessarily pick up where the last one left off. So you find a kind of air between the sentences. They can take any direction at any time. It’s composition by the sentence. These are things I think about, and one could talk about some prose poetry that way, as well as lyrical fiction.

I teach a class in prose poetry, and I teach the different modernisms through the genre: cubism, negritude, surrealism, symbolism, and so on. This inspired me to write my own prose poems, as opposed to what I call prose pieces—those one paragraph prose blocks.

The world of the short story is a world of psychological insight. The classic short story hunkers down into certain plot moments. I want to be lyrical, I want to draw away into historical perspective, or move closer into an intense sensory event. I have nothing against moments of psychological insight, and I hope plenty of them occur in my writing, but that’s not the sole purpose of my work.

Do you see yourself as an eclectic?

I assemble as much as I write. It’s rare for me to just sit down and write something from beginning to end. My old boyfriend Nayland Blake had a retrospective in New York. He asked me to be part of a night of readings where writers respond to his work, so I sat down and wrote what I felt was the trouble with our relationship (laughs). My piece was about bunnies—he uses bunnies in his work—two bunnies who are both bottoms sitting in bed not knowing what to do. They love each other but they don’t know what to do…

They want to fuck like rabbits but can’t?

That’s right! And I talk about diffidence, or even nausea, before the act of creation. I weave those two concerns together.

I get a sense of that weaving in your novel Margery Kempe, where Margery’s story is occasionally interrupted by the story of Bob and L. There are startling juxtapositions between the two contexts.

If my books have plots they’re usually borrowed. The plot of that book was lifted from Margery’s autobiography, whereas the story of L. is really just a frame for her story. It would be hard to put together Bob’s relationship with L. Those interruptions keep reframing Margery’s story. But you couldn’t make anything out of Bob and L.’s story on its own, you could say the exploration and development of their story exists in the Margery sections.

As a reader, I thought Margery’s story was framing—and/or informing— Bob’s relationship with L.

Of course it goes in both directions. I thought about Flaubert when I was writing that book. Flaubert’s reply at the famous trial. Who is this woman Mme Bovery?—C’est moi. Well, okay, I did the same thing. I said Margery, c’est moi. But I included the activity of projection inside the matter of the book. It took me a long while to decide whether to include or edit out Bob and L, because it would have been a purer book to eliminate them. And I wanted the book to be a jewel, I wanted it to be beautiful.

It would have been much more of a meditation. I remember reading the book and thinking the Bob and L. sections were pushing the book in unexpected directions.

In the end I wanted to make a book that could not be closed, that couldn’t be a unit.

Both my novels end when life becomes more reversible because obsessions are subsiding. Bob and Margery are no longer so obsessed.

Things are also potentially more chaotic, too.

Yes, when you’re obsessed, your priorities are strict.

There are other ways in which I try to make my books open and pourous. Margery Kempe is basically a collaboration with Margery. The sentence in that book is half hers. And there are all these notes—I asked men and women to write about their body. I put them in the book too. And there’s Bob, who is a person in the world. Bob lives in the same world as the reader, so there’s a way the book cannot close because you can’t close something or someone in the same world as you. In Reader, I collaborate with the different authors; in Jack I give the book to Jack and he rewrites sections.

In the sense that each of your books is assigned some genre title and your work chafes against certain conventions of those genres, you are collaborating with the readers of your books as well.

Yes, insofar as the audience will act as witness.

(cont.)



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Book

Robert Glück Communal Nude
Semiotext(e)

'Since cofounding San Francisco’s influential New Narrative circle in 1979, Robert Glück has been one of America’s finest prose stylists of innovative fiction, bending narrative into the service of autobiography, politics, and gay writing. This collection brings together for the first time Glück’s nonfiction, a revelatory body of work that anchors his writing practice. Glück’s essays explore the ways that storytelling and selfhood are mutually embedded cultural forms, cohering a fractured social reality where generating narrative means generating identity means generating community. “I’d laugh at (make art from) any version of self,” Glück writes, “I write about these forms—that are myself—to dispense with them, to demonstrate how they disintegrate before the world, the body.” For any body—or text—to know itself, it must first see how it sees the world, and understand itself as writing.

'Glück’s essays affirm this radical narratorial precept in rich spirals of reading, self-reflection, anecdote, escapade, and “metatext.” These texts span the author’s career and his creative affinities—from lost manifestos theorizing the poetics of New Narrative; to encomia for literary and philosophic muses (Kathy Acker, the HOW(ever) poets, Frank O’Hara, Georges Bataille, and others); to narrative journalism, book reviews, criticism, and public talks. Many of the texts are culled from obscure little magazines and ephemeral online sources; others have never been published. As lucid as story, as lush as theory, and as irresistible as gossip, Glück’s essays are the quintessence of New Narrative theory in practice.' -- Semiotext(e)


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Excerpt

What You Might at First Hate

One afternoon in the fall of 1965, at UCLA, I noticed a small sign that advertised an on-campus poetry reading by Robert Creeley. The reading was starting right away. A poetry reading, I said to myself with wonder. Aren't I a poet? Shouldn't I go to this reading?

I had no idea who Creeley was, and I doubted that the administration would deliver the real poetry goods to us students. I sat in the back of the auditorium. The reading was sparsely attended. Creeley was already at the podium. He was wearing a corduroy jacket and sandals -- rather informal, I thought, even inappropriate. On the other hand, two professors in dark suits were sitting on the stage emitting a gruelingly clerical sense of occasion. Someone had stationed a potted palm by the podium, signifying the presence of culture. If you've ever heard Creeley read, you will know exactly what I heard. His voice is choppy and averted; he seems to trip at the end of each short line. He read poems that I found later in his first big collection, For Love, poems that would become famous. He laughed at something in a poem -- what was funny? Another poem was about buying rubbers -- weird. I couldn't make out what he was doing. Here was a "living author," a rare bird on campus. In classes, our exemplary modern was T. S. Eliot. The study of Dylan Thomas, safely dead for 12 years, took us to the brink of the new. I became nauseated, listening to Creeley read. Shouldn't I, a poet, be able to understand any poet writing in the present time? Yet here was an aesthetic that did not admit me. Creeley seemed to be making up his poems from the inside as he went along.

After the reading, a crowd of black-suited vultures surrounded him and carried him off to dismember at some reception. Creeley looked so totally pained that I thought, maybe he is the real thing. One of the poems Creeley read that afternoon is called "I Know a Man": "As I sd to my friend, because I am always talking -- John, I sd, which was not his name, the darkness sur-rounds us, what can we do against it, or else, shall we & why not, buy a gaddam big car, drive, he sd for Christ's sake, look Out where yr going." In retrospect, Creeley's poem is not hard to understand. It has a narrative and can be taken as a little allegory. What was my problem? Literature and art show us how we experience the world. Creeley's poem said to me, "You think the world has a unified meaning, but that's false. The world makes itself up as you make it up, piece by piece, arbitrarily, out of your own perceptions. If you don't know how you perceive the world, then you don't know who you are." As Creeley wrote in an essay from 1966, "The road, as it were, is creating itself momently in one's attention to it, visibly, in front of the car. There is no reason it should go on forever, and if one does so assume it, it very often disappears all too actually."

Two things strike me. First, DIFFICULT might really mean that a pre-planned meaning does not exist. A very disjunct experimental poem may be easy to understand, because I am supposed to "co-write" it--that is, experience it through my own set of associations, rather than "de-code" the work and "unpack" its symbols. The degrees of coherence and disjunction we recognize in the world (and turn into literature) represent our deepest engagement with language, and so with reality. Second, innovative writing wants to keep me in the present, which can be experienced as a kind of DIFFICULTY. Most writing invites me to fall into a guided daydream that has its own telescoped sense of time. In much innovative writing, I am thrown back into my own present, the present of the reading instead of the present of a story. Until that becomes normal, it's hard work, like learning to meditate. Our culture seems reluctant to communicate its own realities; our labor takes place in conditions of raw capitalism far across the world, our old age is locked up in institutions, our wars don't make it to the news -- yet we are titillated with artificial sex and violence that keeps the whole culture slightly crazed.

If there is a reason for difficult writing, it is to break this shallow "fictional" plane where most of our lives are spent. My nausea at Creeley was caused by the lack of recognition. I could not see my own experience (organization of meaning, sense of time) reflected back to me in his poems, so his poems seemed to cancel my experience. No wonder I felt sick. In a way, it was the nausea of plenty -- too many possible meanings, too much awareness of time. My own discomfort led me to poetry magazines that printed Robert Creeley's work, and from there I began to piece together the literature of the present that would become important to me. Now when my students complain that they hate innovative writing, I warn them: Strong feeling -- even hatred -- suggests a first acquaintance with something you may come to love.




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p.s. Hey. ** ASH, Hi, man! Thanks for the congrats. Cool about Brighton. We're trying to set up a London screening right now, but I'm not yet totally sure whether that will pan out. A stream would be amazing! My email is: dcooperweb@gmail.com. Big congrats on your great gigs, like with The Chills. Really exciting! I'm loving the GbV a lot, actually. I think it's one of his best for a while. And you? ** Jamie McMorrow, Hi, Jamie! Thanks a lot. I'd had it in my head that the trig gifs would be more psychedelic in combo than they turned out, but, yeah, it was the weirdly soothing thing that made me go ahead and lock the stack down, so that's good to hear. I was miserable at math in school. I didn't get past Algebra and barely that. I had to sneak a way to drop my Geometry class because I was failing left and right. But, yeah, it's weird 'cos I use or try to use mathematics in my structuring of fiction and the gif stuff all the time. This week is pretty much film stuff, and I'm trying to finish a new literary gif work. I've decided I wanted to publish on more literary gif book, so I'm trying to get enough of them that I like to be enough to warrant a book. So those things mainly, and maybe hopefully some fiction. Ha, obviously cool that you kept working through the feeling that what you were doing was shit until it was debunked. Inspiration is such a mysterious thing, isn't it? Its ways are absolutely weird and kind of mystical or something. My Wednesday wasn't bad. Zac and Michael Salerno aka Kiddiepunk and I met to do an initial planning of what equipment we'll need to shoot the new film so we can talk about the budget with our producer tomorrow. And Zac and I went to the Cinematheque to see this film 'My Own Private River', for which James Franco, of all people, assembled a movie out of the outtakes from 'My Own Private Idaho' that featured River Phoenix. There were a few absolutely incredible little scenes/performances by him in it, better than the stuff that ended up in the film. Christ, he was great. So that was good. How's Thursday shaping up? Big love, me. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi, David. Thank you about the new film. Every finger crossed. ** New Juche, Hi. I just downloaded 'Wasteland' this morning, and I've only had a quick look so far, but it really looks amazing. I'd love to do a post here featuring excerpts from the book to draw attention to it and direct people to your work and to downloading it, if that's okay with you? Anyway, what a complete pleasure! Thank you! 'Semiotics of popular religion and spirit practices': My brain turns into a whirligig when I think about that idea. Which is only good. Apichatpong is doing a book project with a friend of mine's very interesting but small press, and I hear he's quite pleasant to work with and very cool. I, of course, encourage your idea to visit Paris. If I'm here, and I probably will be, I can show you the more intriguing things. I've never been to Sicily. Friends of mine rave about it and about Palermo specifically. I hope to go. Right now I'm working on a new film with Zac. It's written, and we have a producer, and we have part of the money we'll need, so we just need to raise some more money, and it'll happen. And a new literary gif book. And a novel. And a potential TV series that I'm co-writing. So, I'm working on a lot of stuff right now. It's good. Are you woking on the new forthcoming book you announce on your site, or is out finished, and, if so, what are you working on? ** Sypha, Me too, exactly, on my schooling weak spots. I wasn't too great at sports either. A new translation of '120 Days'? Hm, that makes me suspicious, I don't know why. What Grove edition do you have? Mine is just '120 Days' and a few prefatory essays. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi! They're worth the hassle of finding them. I would love to see excerpts, of course, of course! No, it's very good that we've raised part of the money. I'll know more tomorrow when we figure out what would be ideal, money-wise, and what would be just enough to be able to shoot it, but having the amount that we do should pretty much guarantee that we'll get to make the film. It's just a matter of whether we'll have to cut corners or whether we'll be able to do in the way we're dreaming. My day was good. Like I said up above, a productive meeting and seeing this film made of outtakes from River Phoenix's scenes 'My Own Private Idaho', and there were a few scenes with mind-boggling great performances by him. How was Thursday on your end of things? ** Steevee, Hi. I seem to be in the minority in not having liked 'Hugo' very much. I found it kind of rote and fussy at the same time. I haven't seen 'Kundun'. The only recent Scorcese that I remember liking much was this documentary 'Public Speaking'. I think you're right about him going back on cocaine. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. No industrial ABBA, that's sad. Is the funding you're applying for tricky to get? ** H, Hi. Thanks. Oh, they're completely incomprehensible to me too. I just liked the patterns and stuff. That interview project sounds very stressful to me. I could never do that. Is it possible you might? ** Bill, Hi, B. I seem to be in the groove again. I don't know how that happened, it just did. I was just suddenly in that groove. The new 'Tale of Tales'! Cool, I'll try to ace that. No, I don't know 'Strange Color of Your Body's Tears' at all. Curious title. Huh. I'll see if it's on youtube or streaming somewhere. Sounds kind of located in my alley. Best to you! ** MANCY, Hi, S. Yeah, soothing, it's weird, right? I was surprised that that happened. Me, I'm good. Vaguely hazed post-trip but locking in ever more so. Yes, sounds like a completely superb plan: you doing project progress. Are you? ** Kyler, Hi, Kyler. Weird, yeah, I was suckage central re: all things math-related in school. I don't think a live-stream possibility for 'LCTG' is up yet. It should be soon, I assume. I'll try to remember to alert you if I get alerted. Good to see you, buddy! ** Okay. Robert Gluck's new book of collected essays is a major thing and deserving of the full spotlight shebang, and so I aimed mine at it, and you guys do what you will, as always. See you tomorrow.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Trigonometry





























































































































































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p.s. Hey. ** Jonathan, Hi, J. I saw that you sent me a thing, and I'll get to realize it today. Thank you! I don't think that's Laura Dern, no. Pretty sure not. But yeah. Philip Clark, who did/does the Donald Britton page, did/is doing an amazing job, yeah. A bunch of photos there that I had never seen before. Have a great one. ** Jamie McMorrow, Good on you, Jamie, mate. Yeah, his films are hard to see, it sucks. They rarely get theater releases and barely even then. Even in France. It's strange. I think MUBI has a bunch of them if you want to join MUBI. It's a great site. Cool, thanks for the report on Gluck and Kraus. It's weird: there are biographies of Kathy Acker in progress at the same time, hers and this guy Jason's. I don't know if they're, like, competing bios with different agendas or what. Tuesday was okay, no huge shakes. Catching up. Our proposal for the TV series finally got submitted to ARTE yesterday. I guess we'll have some very initial reaction in a week or so. Nerve-wracking. And the photo thing. I don't mind having my photo taken, I just hate seeing the photos themselves. I have some kind of disconnect with the way I look, and whenever I see photos of me, it kind of freaks me out. All I can think is, That's what people look at when I'm talking to them?! That's what I look like when I'm with people?! It's weird. Did you get to fill in the blank with music? Later, gator. Love, me. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi! His movies are hard to see. I think his films have gotten better and better. If you get any chance to see the new one, 'Malgre la nuit', I think that's my favorite. Among the other ones, and among the ones that are at least relatively available to watch, I recommend 'Un Lac'. It's incredible. Yay! The way that new writing project of yours is happening is the ideal way writing happens! That's very exciting. I really hope I can get back to my novel very soon, I really hope so. That's the plan. Re: the new film, we're about to meet with our producer (on Friday) where we'll try to rough out the budget so we'll know how much money we need and how little we could realistically make it with, worst comes to worst. Also, we'll find out how soon we can start working on it. Zac and I are really jonesing to start working on it. Otherwise, our producer is in the process of applying for various film grants from the French government and other places right now. We have maybe a third, or possibly more than that, of the money we'll need already raised, but we need more. Thank you for asking! Your optimism has a very good record of predicting outcomes, so tentative congratulations! Have the finest Wednesday possible! ** Damien Ark, Hi. I think you particularly will really like the new one, 'Malgre la nuit', when you ever get the chance. It's very intense. You have a good day too! ** David Ehrenstein, It seemed outlier-ish to me, yeah. It just seems really strange that Scorcese sees Leo as a vessel in which to project himself. The result has been an ongoing string of lesser films. I don't get it at all. ** Steevee, Hi. Yeah, I remember that about your friend. He sound awfully uptight. Total agreement about Leo, or at least post- maybe 'Romeo and Juliet'. And about Scorcese. For while after his great run, I thought there were flashes of his genius in some films like 'Casino', for instance, but lately I just don't see it anymore, or the flashes have gotten tinier and tinier. Very best of luck, not that you'll need it hopefully, about the meet up with the guy from the theater. ** Sypha, Hi. Yes, I do remember you waiting about Lorrain. I meant to get something of his and then just spaced or something. Bloy sounds very curious indeed. Huh. Okay, I'll see if I can find 'The Woman who was Poor'. ** Liquoredgoat, Hi. 'Sombre' is really good, but he got better later. He started backpedalling plot elements after that, and the work got stronger. As I told someone up above, I think some of his films are on MUBI. Awesome about the Phoenix move. When do you go? You have a place to live there lined up? ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. Good morning! ** H, Hi. Thank you, nice to be returned. 'Uncertain, normal and strange' can be a fine combination if the balance is right. I met Katz once or twice, but I never talked with him. My friends who knew him said he was kind of a difficult guy, or could be. I can't remember why, though. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G. Oh, jeez, man, about the ER and hernia repair issues. Eek, man. Any temperature lessening between yesterday and today? Take care, buddy. ** New Juche, Hi, Joe. I would definitely like a link to your site, yes, please. And excited to read the new pdf, and, well, the old one too. What drew you to anthropology? That's probably an impossible question, but I'm curious about that. I've seen pictures of Chaing Mai. I've never been to Thailand. My friend/collaborator Zac and I travel a lot, and we were talking recently about going to Thailand sometime soon if we can manage it. Apichatpong Weorasetakul is incredible, for sure. I would try bothering him if I were you. Well, actually, I would be too shy, but, if I weren't, I would. I've been living mostly in Paris for, wow, maybe 12 years now. I go back and forth to my other home LA, but I've gone to LA less and less in the last few years. Have you been to Paris? I really love it here. I dreamed of living here since I was a little kid and, very weirdly, it has totally lived up to my fantasies about living here. Thanks, Joe. Have a superb Wednesday. ** Right. Today's kind of an odd post, I guess. I just got on this jag of interest in trigonometry gifs and was very surprised to discover there are tons out there, and so I got this idea stack them up and see what happened, for better or worse. See you tomorrow.