Also, the flickr photos below have been updated to include 25 other, less cartoony fecal photographs of Hald Hovedgaard, where I’m living and working, and where they claim a ghost lives, two ghosts — one a “dark man” (your guess is as good) and an old lady. I’ve seen neither. Waiting. Looking.
Archive for July, 2009
Do you have the internet? If yes then you’ve likely heard of Molly Gaudry, editor of Willows Wept Review, co-editor of Twelve Stories, writer of fiction and poems and revealing personal blogs. Over the past few weeks, she and I have had an ongoing conversation via a very busy google doc, the culmination of which is now available here. And it’s a goddamned hoot. Included: sadness(es), gifts, propulsion, popularity, Iowa, travel, assholery, and the thin line between cupcakes and muffins. Enjoy.
Remember that hilariously bigoted speech when 13-time Pro Bowl defensive end Reggie White stood in front of the Wisconsin Legislature and praised whites for their ability to “tap into money”, Hispanics for successfully fitting “20, 30 people into one home”, and the Japanese because they “can turn a television into a watch”? He never made it to the Danes, but I’ll take over and say: people in Denmark know how to design. And also be beautiful.
I’m going to write while I’m here. It’s the reason I’m here. This should include things on the bloggertron, too. This place.
Because here I am at Hald Hovedgaard, even though I’ve yet to pronounce it right. Currently I’m deep in what William Gibson calls soul delay, or what less authorial people call jet lag. I’ve made it from Chicago to St. Louis to D.C. to London to Copenhagen to Karup to here, this beautiful old manor on this beautiful lake. For the record, I am in room number eight. And I am beginning to wonder what sort of man or horse they were expecting when they build room eight’s door, which is surely wide enough that should I somehow split into two, or form a replica of myself while here, and then race that replica from, say, the picnic table down by the lake back to our room (eight), the two of us could tie exactly, entering side-by-side, shoulder to shoulder, and still fit easily through the door.
And before I Ambien myself silly, here’s a big fat juicy middle finger to London Heathrow Airport, for being the only airport in the universe that won’t allow a skateboard as a carry-on item. A second finger for not telling you about this rule until you’re right up there at the detector thing, ready to fall over, and they send you back downstairs through customs through check-in through check-in again, and then your Pretty skateboard doesn’t even make the Karup flight.
I very strongly support what you’re doing here, Dan Sinker, but I believe that a new story every day is too much. I fear you’ll create a new and more devious version of that old New Yorker Guilt, when they come and come and we’re busy and they pile. Except in this case we’ll have the phone here and we’ll see the number growing inside parenthesis in some menu or there on our home screen thing, blinking as part of the app or whatever, and we’re busy people after all, I don’t see any point in bullying us with stories. David Lynch has something with his pacing. One new episode every three days. There’s a lot of damn internet out there. Plenty of internet time. There’s no rush.