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March 03, 2008
as pretty as a perfect number (double the copyright fines)
Parenthetical Girls - The Weight She Fell Under
Every afternoon, I walked the girl to the center of town. There were eight streets that led to it, and for each approach to the two blocks of shops and vaguely public-looking buildings, I assigned the town a different name: Townville, Cityton, Burgborough, Townburgh, Boroville, Cityboro, Burghton, and Town City.
With a clear conscience, I would stand with the girl in the center of town and point things out-- entablatures, drinking fountains, skymarks, misspelled signs in shopwindows, a pair of roofed-over stairwells, resembling subway entrances, that led citizens down to a vast, underlit comfort station. I would ask the girl: "Where are we today? Which town is this? Can you tell?"
She was young, with rude eyes and a block of thick black hair. Her stalky legs were always splodged with bites.
She would narrow her body into the shape, the posture, of answering. "Townton," she would say.
"Not even close," I would have to tell her.
From the story "Education", by Gary Lutz, in his short story collection "Stories in the Worst Way" [a book which features some of the best sentences I've ever read]. Buy it here, before it goes out of print again.
***Parenthetical Girls have finished "Entanglements", their follow-up to the gorgeous and (lyrically) haunting "Safe as Houses". Can't wait.
PAS/CAL - I Wanna Take You Out In Your Holiday Sweater
Instead, I saw something suave, delicate, raffinee, blonde sure enough but not a girl who reminded me of stone fireplaces and tobogganing, rather a clutch of names I knew but had never experienced, such as Biedermeyer, Chateau La Tour Blanche, and Proust. She was dancing. I watched her. She was not talking to her partner. She was not wearing an evening dress, which suggests a garment with ruffles run up over a Bertha at home, but an evening gown bought for the occasion. Her shape was not striking but insidious. I kept watching it. McGinty was right, she wasn't so pretty for nice but she was hell for stuff.
I had come to the dance bursting with condescension but, watching her, it leaked away. She had a longish lock of blonde hair hanging beside her cheek and occasionally she threw her head back a little to move it. (Later I touched a match to that lock as she bent forward to light a cigarette. Later that year.) However, I was paralyzed.
From the story "Dear Old Shrine", by Allan Seager, in his 'memoirs as fiction' book, "A Frieze of Girls". Seager was another impressive sentence writer, and besides that, he was astoundingly funny and self-deprecating. "A Frieze of Girls" was semi-recently reprinted, and you can find it here.
***PAS/CAL have (finally!!) finished their debut album, "I Was Raised on Matthew, Mark, Luke & Laura" (great title). The long-awaited LP will be released on April 29th. But you can pre-order it from Darla right now. This spring is going to be full of good records.
Posted by Kevin at 12:28 AM | Comments (0)