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alina Ştefănescu

  • home
  • books
  • poetry
  • fiction
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  • in conversation
  • notebook
  • index
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Notebooks: Mary McCarthy, posture, memory, terror

May 05, 2018 in ruinscapes

The question posed an empty chair. The author's privilege lies in the ability to stand outside the frame. Is this about me or him?

*

Clouds weigh too much today. Planes coming. People leaving. An old copy of The Story of O. The fear of terror is constant and multi-faceted. The color of my eyes:  a cumulus. 

*

I left my phone in the seatback pocket of Southwest flight to Chicago. After waking up from a dream about the Paris attacks. Then remembering the chaos of September 11th in DC. Feeling sick. It was Friday the 13th, a pop culture scenario. Terrorists are so modern-- chasing secular superstitions on which to lean. As if God gives a flying fuck about Friday the 13th or its sequels.

“I was none of these things but I became them. The qualities of a wife, response to male gaze.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry

Posture is a pose that suits the clothes. We select based on what we plan to feel, perform. Anything on Sunday might turn opera.Baroque, rococo-- a hectic harmony. The harmonium.

Mary McCarthy calls memory "a property of mind." Art is made when object of memory is converted by an act of imagination into something present. Her orphan childhood.

In her writing, characters and places grounded by sensations. It is the feeling that forms the memory. Dreams replaced thought and fantasy replaced understanding. Life imbued with mystery. Dreams as a defense mechanism for the stranded child.

Conventions of hiding: "... the true self, like the poor relative, must be taught to keep his distance."

Her mea culpa about fusing two memories-- what occurred and what was written, "...the literary truth had usurped the {actual truth].." (Brightman, 32) The impostor is carried away by her own performance, and elation replaces fear. Giving up her Catholic faith. End of hope for resolution to absent parents.

““Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say ‘shit!’ in front of a lady.””
— D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterly's Lover

I've always wondered what Lawrence meant by this. "Chirpy" is almost kin to "stirrup" here. 

*

The mention of Mom at odd intersections, junctures between chocolate and winter coats. The winter coats she purchased for the girls. Red wool dress coats with black velvet collars, a vestige of elegant and the fear that the girls will grow, outgrow the memories of her nurture and care. This world we walk into, soldered. The sundriness of year-old grief.

A dock near a lake. A plop.

A dock near a lake. A plop.

"Why We Must Struggle" by Kay Ryan

May 04, 2018 in close readings

With gratitude to Lucy Jaffe for introducing me to this poem.

Why We Must Struggle 

Kay Ryan

If we have not struggled
as hard as we can
at our strongest
how will we sense
the shape of our losses
or know what sustains
us longest or name
what change costs us
saying how strange
it is that one sector
of the self can step in
for another in trouble
how loss activates
a latent double how
we can feed
as upon nectar
upon need?

(First published in Poetry, 1992)

From a local wall.

From a local wall.

The proper form in which to narrate a marriage

May 03, 2018 in craft

 

from a how-to manual

For as the interior of the house (and we also mean by "house" Marriage) is the female and what is outside the house is male, it follows that whenever I (who am the male) enter the house, which lies passive and horizontal and open unto my comings and goings, and as I wander among its furnishings (which we will call the organs), the overstuffed armchair, the pink sofa, the rich red carpets, and come upon you, surprising you and-- but what more is there to add?

Stanley Crawford, Some Instructions to My Wife (Dalkey Archive, 1985)

 

from a gender-bending distance

I think men can really get in the way when you are trying to sort your life out and get on with it. Because they just take up so much space.

Jeanette Winterson, "The Art Of Fiction", Paris Review

 

from inside the belly of the whale, i.e. a requisitioned "man cave"

Sitting in the garage in a nightgown with a typewriter it might be the only time I'm calm.

Wendy Wasserstein, "The Art Of Fiction", Paris Review

from the son's youthful perspective

In his play, she's not quite capable of a real thought without the help of the romantic figure who is remembering her in the first scene... .. my mother isn't immortalized in it, she's plagiarized. She doesn't even get to own her own lines.

Richard Bausch, "Brace", Collected Stories of Richard Bausch

from a birth canal

My granny back in Tennessee was born with the web of a cowl over her head like a wedding veil, and I came into this world wearing that same veil. I see what other's don't. I am wed to the truth and a missionary of it.

Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir

from a couch where one is watching reality TV and unintentionally turning it into a metaphor for performance of marriage gestures

It's about the careful construction of two central narratives: false actualization and authentic shame... it reflects our unrequited yearning for the authentic. Americans are drowning in a cesspool of fake emotion, nearly all of it aimed at getting us to buy junk. 

Steve Almond somewhere

from ancient treatises on wars

It is impossible for either side to withdraw now; the only question at stake is whether or not we actively take the initiative. 

Xerxes on the war between Greece and Persia

from rules in a world imagined by one of your favorite lesbian novelists

Men are best left in groups by themselves where they will entirely wear themselves out in drunkeness and competition. While this is taking place a woman may carry on with her life unhindered.

Your greatest possible strength is that every man believes he knows the sum and possibility of every woman.

Jeanette Winterson, Sexting the Cherry

from inside a seashell where we invest in the power of echoes

If left unused, conversations can grow rusty over time. The opinions and feelings we’ve expressed before, when left to their own devices, can grow sluggish and curmudgeonly. They become too used to sitting alone and unconsidered, and if you ask them to move, their joints can ache, or parts of them can crumble away. Sometimes you can return to an opinion you’ve not visited in years and find it’s died and rotted away  without you even noticing. Sometimes a feeling we assume we’ll have forever can abandon us and leave a gap we don’t notice until we suddenly feel the need to call upon that feeling.

Janina Matthewson, Of Things Gone Astray

A thought experiment inspired by KellyAnne Conway. Also, a children's game.

A thought experiment inspired by KellyAnne Conway. 
Also, a children's game.

The abecedarian of abandoned (yet still possible) epigraphs

May 03, 2018 in ruinscapes

 

Acker (Kathy): “I'm no longer a child and I still want to be, to live with the pirates. Because I want to live forever in wonder. The difference between me as a child and me as an adult is this and only this: when I was a child, I longed to travel into, to live in wonder. Now, I know, as much as I can know anything, that to travel into wonder is to be wonder. So it matters little whether I travel by plane, by rowboat, or by book. Or, by dream. I do not see, for there is no I to see. That is what the pirates know. There is only seeing and, in order to go to see, one must be a pirate.”

Beckett: "Grammar and Style. To me they seem to have become as irrelevant as a Victorian bathing suit or the imperturbability of a true gentleman. A mask."

Cortazar: "I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his stony resemblance."

Davis (Lydia): “I looked like a woman in glasses, but I had dreams of leading a very different kind of life, the life of a woman who would not wear glasses, the kind of woman I saw from a distance now and then in a bar.”

Esteban (Claude): "hobble, my pure spirit, the toads
snigger in their marsh."

Faulkner: "...not the heritage of Ham, not the mark of servitude but of bondage; the knowledge that for a while part of his blood had been the blood of slaves."

Gogol: "But nothing lasts long in this world. Even joy grows less lively the next moment. And a moment later, again, it weakens further. And at last it remerges insensibly with the normal mood, even as the ripple from a pebble’s impact becomes remerged with the smooth surface of the water at large. So Kovalev relapsed into thought again. For by now he had realised that even yet the affair was not wholly ended, seeing that, though retrieved, the nose needed to be re-stuck."

Hoban (Russell): “An ordinary mirror is silvered at the back but the window of the night train has darkness behind the glass. My face and the faces of other travellers were now mirrored on this darkness in a succession of stillnesses. Consider this, said the darkness: any motion at any speed is a succession of stillnesses; any section through an action will show just such a plane of stillness as this dark window in which your seeking face is mirrored. And in each plane of stillness is the moment of clarity that makes you responsible for what you do.”

Ionesco: "Nothing goes beyond the why, not even the nothing, because the nothing is not the explanation; when silence confronts us, the question to which there is no answer rings out in the silence."

James: "There was the whole of the rest of the house to traverse, and how should he screw himself to that if the door he had seen closed were at present open?  He could hold to the idea that the closing had practically been for him an act of mercy, a chance offered him to descend, depart, get off the ground and never again profane it.  This conception held together, it worked; but what it meant for him depended now clearly on the amount of forbearance his recent action, or rather his recent inaction, had engendered.  The image of the “presence” whatever it was, waiting there for him to go—"

Kingsolver: “God doesn’t need to punish us. He just grants us a long enough life to punish ourselves.”

Lispector: “And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.”

Mandelstam: "I propose to you, my family, a coat of arms: a glass of boiled water."

Nabokov: "It is fun to be present at the coming true of a dream, even if it is not one's own."

O'Brien (Edna): “There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.”

Paz (Octavio): "...I told her of my life with the wave. Nothing moves women so much as the possibility of saving a man."

Quintais (Luis): "Give what’s left of your future
to that house’s reinforcement.
Give it your attention and your affliction.
Give it the intelligence of your fear."

Rilke: "When I think back to my home, where there is nobody left now, I imagine that formerly this must have been otherwise. Formerly one knew (or perhaps one guessed it) that one had one's death within one, as a fruit its kernel. The children had a little death within them and the grown-ups a big one."

Stendhal: “But, if I sample this pleasure so prudently and circumspectly, it will no longer be a pleasure.”

Tsvetaeva: “I have two enemies in all the world, 
Two twins, inseparably fused:
The hunger of the hungry and the fullness of the full.”

Uribe (Kirmen): "Every one of us keeps forever someone else’s hidden side,
If it’s a secret, if a mistake, if a gesture."

Valenzuela (Luisa): “Because fear called her by her name. (Her own name, not fear’s name. Fear doesn’t have a name; it’s just the steady beat underneath a smile."

Winterson (Jeanette): “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. What then kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.”

X (Malcolm): “How can you thank a man for giving you what's already yours? How then can you thank him for giving you only part of what is yours?”

Yuknavitch: “That image of Joan of Arc burning up in a fire burned inside me like a new religion. Her face skyward. Her faith muscled up like a holy war. And always the voice of a father in her head. Like me. Jesus. What is a thin man pinned to wood next to the image of a burning woman warrior ablaze? I took the image of a burning woman into my heart and left belief to the house of father forever.”

Zapruder: “......I will
never know a single thing anyone feels,
just how they say it, which is why I am standing
here exactly, covered in shame and lightning,
doing what I’m supposed to do.”

Storycorps on World Press Freedom Day

May 03, 2018 in events

I'm excited to be part of PEN America's #worldpressfreedom interviews. You can listen to the interview on Storycorps here.

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New Orleans Poetry Festival, 2017

September 06, 2017 in events

A four-hour drive to New Orleans in which I caught up on Ezra Klein's podcast and revved myself with excess configurations of Lady Gaga and Slackwax.

Thanks to Maureen "Wonderful" Thorson, I got to sleep in an Airbnb filled with female poets and located blocks away from the New Orleans Poetry Festival's location.

Amazing street art.

Amazing street art.

After the drive, wandering those blocks between building, getting a little lost, retracing steps, agreeing to lose a little more.

 Reprieve from the sustained visual banality of the interstate. 

Then discovering amazing publications by Tinfish Press and others at the book fair.

Can I pause for a second and plug the magnificence of Timothy Dyke's Atoms of Muses? Incredible book. 

A Tribe Called Quess rocking the mic.

A Tribe Called Quess rocking the mic.

....and hearing the incredible poetry performance of A Scribe Called Quess.

Being blown away.

Tweeting as much.

Buying a book. Asking him to enscribe it for Max, my teenage son.

Asking him to speak through the anger Trump has unleashed into our lives.

Being blown away again. Blown and blowing.

Running into Brooke Champagne on her home turf.

Vaguely discussing French politics.

Sign in a yard in New Orleans.

Sign in a yard in New Orleans.

Wandering again. Eating soup from the co-op.

Pausing to hear open mike performances made possible by Dusie Press.

Coveting babies slung on hips, babies in strollers, babies making the poetry festival rounds with their mothers.

Feeling awkward.

Feeling less awkward while eating.

Feeling perpetually awkward and too self-conscious to write it. Around writers. 

Parked outside the New Orleans Center for Healing Arts.

Parked outside the New Orleans Center for Healing Arts.

Remembering the only other time I visited New Orleans was with my mother. Her joy all over the place. Her joy oozing from banjos and street speakers.

Drinking a Trappist beer alone near the waterfront at sunset. Vowing to be social. Failing.

Finding out that every bookstore in New Orleans closes at 5:30 pm!

Drinking another beer. Calling it even. 

Watching kids do P.E.-like things in a dirt courtyard. Wondering why.

About all of it.

Putting on deodorant.

Putting on my mother's special necklace from Taos.

Deciding what to read while sitting at a table with Maureen, Jessica, and Michelle. Being grateful. 

Being grateful again for the beautiful mammals from Negative Capability Press.

Missing the presence of Sue Brannan Walker.

Eating alligator cheesecake.

Meeting Carlos Matos, poet pugilist.

Meeting so many incredible poets whose work inspires and provokes me.

Coven Press Reading, the best, the best, the best....

Coven Press Reading, the best, the best, the best....

Jessica Smith's enchanted Coven Press hosted a two-hour reading on Friday, and Claire Trevien (fuck typepad's lack of accent marks) was amazing enough to record it for Sabotage Review.

At which point she is grateful to the audience that remains at the end of the 2-hour reading marathon.

I read bits and pieces from a forthcoming prose poetry collection, Stories to Read Aloud to Your Fetus, set to be published by Finishing Line Press in September 2017, and felt generally drained by my own lukewarm performance. On the other hand, I was invigorated by readings from Heidi Lynn Staples, Vane Pacheco, Lisa Samuels, Ginger Ko, Maureen Thorson, and Michelle Detorie. 

You can read Claire's coverage of the New Orleans Poetry Festival here and here, including the eye on J. D. Scott's amazing Sacred Grove Reading Series, a staple of the Tuscaloosa literary community.

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