Then July’s unforgettably unique short story collection No One Belongs Here More Than You won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award in 2007. It was her first short story collection.
It’s always exciting to see what Miranda July will come up with next. Without a doubt, it’ll be moving. But it’ll also be something most art isn’t: accessible. July’s work celebrates human connections anyone can relate to. It’s not about proving anything. It’s not about being pretentious. It’s not about making people worry whether or not they get it.
In 2009, July created “Eleven Heavy Things” for the 53rd International Art Exhibition at the Venice Biennale. The heavy things - yep, 11 of them - are interactive fiberglass sculptures.
How do you interact with one of these sculptures? They’re not museum pieces, so go ahead and touch them. Put your extremities into the cut-out holes and pose. Climb on top of them. Interpret the words on the sculpture and be the art. (Bonus points if you scream, “I AM the art!” while doing so).
Austin Kleon spent countless commutes to and from work staring at local newspapers. And then something changed. Words started swimming on the page, certain ones standing out like lily pads on a pond. Eventually, he grabbed a permanent marker.
The remarkable words were strung together into lines, stanzas, and ideas different from whatever they originally expressed. The rest of them were blacked out.
Here are some tips for getting started on newspaper blackout poetry, plus samples of my work. (You’ll notice I whipped out my best Carmen Miranda look for the occasion).
But if anyone was ever typecast as the slightly off guy someone will settle for who represents the webmail provider someone will settle for, I guess this is the shining example.
It’s solitary. It involves looking at a computer screen. It may or may not be hot, because your favorite blogger is too cheap to turn on the shoddy air conditioner in her NYC home office.
I’ve been reading some poetry again, and this morning I woke up needing to write some. It was as natural as the need to empty my bladder or eat food before I got dressed.
I tried to explain a dream I keep having in this poem called “Tiny Desks, Big Hearts.”
B. and I dated in March, and our relationship went in like a lamb, out like a lion. Overall, it was gentle. There were lots of movies, plates of seafood, strolls downtown arm-in-arm.
But something was off. And when I found out what it was - after waiting for B. to be ready to tell me what I’d started to figure out - I ended things. He’s the sweetest guy. Smart. Adorable. But he was emotionally distant and unable to trust me, and I can’t be with a person who can’t trust me.
When I told B. I couldn’t see him anymore, I was shocked at how upset he was. Tears. Bargaining. Then resignation.
You know something good has happened when someone other than your mom is reaching out to see if you’re dead, survived only by one neglected blog.
Here’s a question from Kazzy in Australia, whom I’m imagining is like a more Crocodile Dundee version of The Fonz:
Six days and no blog, just wondering if you are on holidays or something big is happening for you? I’m not a Tweeter, so don’t keep up with you there. I await a post.
Alright, this is the last tribute to “Play Me, I’m Yours.” I still had extra footage from when I met Paul Sahner last week. If nothing else, he now has more proof of his talent. Paul’s mom, you’re very welcome.
Also, would you just look at those New Yorkers all being so nice? We’re really not so bad.
