rocket to nowhere

It occurs to me (sitting in Metropolis Coffee on the far north side of Chicago) that Bolaño’s 2666 is like a swatch of felt: lots of fibers pressed together, the center essentially singular and dense, but the edges spidery and frayed though still connected to the whole.

But is this the right metaphor? We often talk of a shorter narratives being woven together to create a larger work, and that verb implies more forethought and design than felting, but it also implies much more interconnectivity what with the woof wrapping itself around the warp.

Bolaño’s book is designed, and it contains moments or places of interconnectivity where it seems to bend back and touch itself, but it also leaves the reader with the idea that said touching could be a phantom sensation. Its fibers are pressed next to each other and may even sometimes twist around one another, but they are not woven.

I have read three fifths of 2666. If I change my mind about its feltedness, I’ll let you know.

(Originally typed up with my phone, but, when that wouldn’t work, later copied to and edited on a regular computer.)

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year™ is upon us, and odds are you’ve spent so much time thinking about others, you’ve completely forgotten to buy yourself a present (or several). That happens to all of us, right? Let rocket to nowhere help remedy this lamentable situation! Please make yourself a happier person by buying one, if not all, of these recently-published books by people I know (and love):

Heron/Girlfriend by Jen Tynes
As I said by Kathryn Regina
My Brain is Hanging Upside Down by David Heatley

Though I’ve not yet read all of them, I will, and I can assure you (based on what I know about the authors) that each book is wonderful and worth the price (compared to the work that went into them).

Please support young authors and innovative writing.

Thank you.

UPDATE: Thanks to Eric Baus’ blog’s RSS feed (doesn’t Eric have a book coming out soon?), I am reminded of another book you should buy and read:

To Be Human Is To Be A Conversation by Andrea Rexilius

Finding myself alone outside a palatial and modern house on top of a mountain in rural Canada (because my phone’s GPS showed me so). There is another phone on a ledge near me which leads me to believe that I am expected here. I feel like a spy anyway and enter the house. The people who own the house (?) are getting ready for a party (I see them in a closet?), and don’t notice me. I walk through the house and find very few clues about who lives there or what’s going on.

Eventually, I find a place to stop, but I don’t know why.

There are some very young women here. And tables and chairs. At some point, more people show up. Sporadically. Rich white people. It is a party. A party weekend and a small group of people (me, the young women, a female friend from Germany, other people I know and don’t) are being initiated into some kind of group, but what? Old people with big white fake smiles congratulate me, start to form a receiving line but break it up immediately. I shake lots of hands, but never learn any names.

There are children wearing chess piece masks. Have I seen pictures of them in the house? (Somewhere in the house is a giant room filled with giant toys all looking out giant windows which I saw from the mountaintop before entering the house as a spy.)

I find a sheaf of photos of the two young women. These photos are from magazines and have been creatively cut. Are the women porn actresses or just models? RDH shows up. We try to find a place to sit and eat, but there’s nothing available/workable despite the fact that all the tables are empty.