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Sagacity is Bloggody

By Rebecca Wolff

I suppose all possible puns/infusions/scrap-heaping has already been done with the word “blog” but I still find it amusing to try to work it into every post. This one is totally inscrutable. Anyone who guesses what I’m going for wins . . . a free subscription to Fence. That’s what I have to offer, it seems.

I’ve been reveling in the freaky cold August, watching my tomato plants suffer the potato famine, all manner of sun-loving hot-weather organisms turn their faces resignedly down. Gnats reveling, orbiting. My husband with his usual sagacity suggested that it might be interesting for me to blog about literary finances, meaning in this case: How has or hasn’t the economic downturn affected small press publishing, in light of its being kind of mostly outside of the usual stream of finances? In that most literary presses are run as nonprofit orgs and/or financed by an individual of means.

Well, honey, I guess you could say–and I think this is what he wanted me to get at–it’s kind of an interesting time to be a small press publisher, in light of the above. It’s kind of like being a homeopathic doctor when Americans “suddenly realize” (the Brits have a great word for this: it’s one word: what is it: anyone who writes in with the right answer gets a free subscription to . . . Fence) that homeopathic medicine really works, just as at the same time the health care system is reformed such that preventative care is supported thus rendering most druggedy-drug medication unnecessary.

It’s fun to see the crappedy-crap-crap fall away. I hope to have good news for you shortly.

Comments (5)

  • On August 10, 2009 at 11:50 am Margo Berdeshevsky wrote:

    Not very British, quite American, in fact, but I’ll go for “Grok.” When Americans “grok” that homeopathic medicine really works…

    (Nod to Robert Heinlein,who made that word and all its multi layered meaning. Heinlein who honored his sci-fi compadre, Theodore Sturgeon, saying he’d “brought love into science fiction.” And both of them groked the necessity for noncomformity–societal, familial, sexual, & a few etceteras.)

    I’ll go for homeopathics, “grok,” love, & small presses who grok their missions on the yellow brick road. No false wizards. Survivors. And healthy humans, some of whom are gifted writers, (& who know to reach for the Apis mellifica, & some mud, if the bee stings.)

    margo

  • On August 11, 2009 at 11:39 pm Myl Schulz wrote:

    bloggody-blog-blog like the continuous blather in print that can produce the occasional nudge towards a good godly understanding by golly

  • On August 12, 2009 at 9:45 am Rebecca Wolff wrote:

    I think you both win, by default if nothing else. EEEEEEEs for effort. Backchannel to fence.fencebooks at gmail.com with your preferred subscription addresses.

  • On August 16, 2009 at 3:09 am Desmond Swords wrote:

    Wow; this is really something else, isn’t it?

    A cheesy overlay of kookily married honey y’all, wiping the floor with rival cunning lobs of stuff that’s gonna shut ‘em up. A love smiling isms in the pockety marked poetic bollix of no hard-slog, droned on L. able fwendz, their end at hand: liddle ole chop and hello, get lost. goodbye darling sap, you’re binned off mug winner of a load of old guff the actoary boring man tole us. Effed into being pissed, we sat on our fanny faffing about with what keys to a universal waking from the tossing of sleep, we become when

    air bled from a skin raiment – to feel
    a deep shadow risen, deep in time present
    future and done: whole handsome fat purse

    and gardening hat, the hippie’ realisation
    of an odds-on being, so-brief-a-chance, the job

    self wandering free of customary callings,
    proscribed, as ever – posts upon a wall better done,

    planting matriarchal goddesses we weren’t fond of – old predatory creditors at crunch, strolling in the park,

    knocking us about. We thought we’d give them six,
    flick and whirl Americanisms, our dear ole us, mommie

    git-eyed a goddesses in gender-fraud, the men in drag,
    blerts in skirts dithering – who twirled and minced

    about our realm; gorgeous their ordinariness, outrageously
    times our feet, threading the whisk to a pop ‘n rock

    shore: gently murmering entity of sounding sense
    cries no more for trenchant learning, skirling fingers

    at our toes, teasing ones knowing our lables – clarity

    bold beyond dread,
    folding in softly, where we seek the sea-bed
    ,
    terror-code of yellow and red slipping

    dog round the at the foot of what fence
    sat upon darling foxing luvvie of ornery blogs

    sweetie pie and ditto mister Wolffe, darling mist
    who gathers about in a cloak of grey fur,

    while heralding birds not yet astir: seals in daylight
    the air, making manifest there where

    “I had a dream about the war”

    is all we have to live for, and be heard, once
    by very few – who know what roused in darkness and shadow

    from the deep twisting damask and a twining of limbs,
    what gaze o’er the shoulders to where our heart is

    swimming through to a clear ring, called over us that
    sing at sea: leading to where you began, ringing in

    big-bangs beginning of the return, through which along
    night to the lighter passage of awarness, washed us

    anonymous, soul-bit of we all flitting wave – carpet-bomber of old and young, slumbered war-surplus raids

    on wrong when the exterminator calls surely all days
    numbering now, that walk out of what’s ruined, lives

    show an emotion amd said:

    hello, wow wow – and then departing plucked a bow
    and lyre both, with the hand of three notes, discordant

    curling up of anger and emnity into flight, crying for life
    Montjoie St Denis, Alala, Kikiki kakaka and Allah Akbar

    sin é abú

    “I think there’s been a gas explosion”

    ..in our dreams, where dough is just all those American
    flicks of us, and dear old Mom, she had a good run,

    before we began to harden and splinter,
    mister Mater: unwieldy pretender of our human race, one

    tattoo is all we want – on our neck, a web, swallow hands
    luv and hate tatted on our face – english L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
    bovver gobs speaking

    beautifully Rebecca. Great blog, really luvved it, 100/10. This is big stuff.

    Thank you very very much for dreaming on love, honeyed texts, must-be A’s forever, L. able – yeah – for love?

  • On August 16, 2009 at 3:34 am Desmond Swords wrote:

    I am very sorry ms Wolff, i spelled your name incorrectly in the above deposit, and wish to apologise for dropping the ball: in this instance it is a sheer accidental thing Rebecca, because I did mean to spell you write – should I have succeeded in the above attempt at making something top leave here which can live on – at best – as the sincere attempt of one who was here and singing freely of the notion of uncle sam as the Wolf and Rebecca – don’t worry – the Conceptual play in which the five letters of your surname took on the role of bearing balls rolled into the extemporised mess of mishandled Ms: only as five letters, beats, gears to slow and increase speed as we syntactically rivet ourselves in print, here@Harry ‘ates zone of green and reddening skeins of blather, shouting from the highest skyscraper thatched in Manhattan, lying as the beam straight, ancient, some frisson of historical significance as our eyes drink it all in.

    The furniture of living is such a drag on us all: put up a poster and show how much our love hates, us in ignorance about the traded shares of creditory tabulations of this and that though, if, but and darling saintly being at the BYO bank on Floor Street, y’all sport nice now freinds, fellow Americans of the apple-pie idea – yeah – blow globally, us who R, Americanism incarnate, diddle liddle ole moi, fwendz of fab labels: grow up !

    (:-#<

    why so glum? Come, let herr bother-boot get blue ‘n ranty y’all – yeah?

    ~

    only joshing RF.

    Thanks for letting us dump in your residence.


Posted in Uncategorized on Monday, August 10th, 2009 by Rebecca Wolff.