And if you don't go crazy I'll meet you here tomorrow

Two Fridays back I received my first package from Ugly Duckling Presse. My family and friends chipped in and got me the full subscription, meaning I'll get everything they publish this year (about 30 books in total). It was nice surprise to come to a mailbox full of books. The title of this post is taken from the first I've read of the bunch, a kind of post-beat/NY school collection by Filip Marinovich.

I also finished Calligrammes by Guillame Apollinaire. All in all, it's been a fruitful few weeks of reading. I'm currently reading The Return of the Native by Kate Colby.

A few more submissions have trickled in for the second issue. At this point, I think the issue will be more of a late summer/early fall affair due to my plan to switch apartment in July.

Why not merely the despaired of occasion of wordshed

The first batch of invitations has been sent for the second issue of the magazine. It's a slow start, but once I get some work, I'll begin scoping out reams of paper and shopping around for cover art and a plate block to be made.

I'm still in recovery mode from the new year, as I had friends visit for a long weekend, one that we spent running around the city trying pack as much possible into three days.

Other than that, reading Bolano's The Savage Detectives and tapping out occasional poems on my typewriter.

The Future is Glad We're Here

My presence from this blog disappeared just as soon as it seemed to get going. However, I am back and with me I have brought scans of the first issue of Fuzz Against Junk as well as sample work. Check the previous entry for all the details. Order a copy if you see something you like.

I will begin the submission process for the second issue in January and start figuring things out a little bit after that. As of right now I need the following:

• A printing press
• Someone that knows how to use that printing press
• Cover Art

If you're in the NYC area or have some general advice, please send me an email at fuzzagainstjunk@gmail.com

Though this blog hasn't been active, I certainly have. I've been reading Apollinaire's Calligrammes and Ron Padgett's translation of Cendrars. I've also been re-reading the current Daredevil series and my personal favorite at the moment, Cowboy Ninja Viking. However, now that the second issue looms on the horizon of the New Year, my leisure time will rapidly be disappearing. I probably won't have much time to post before then, as I leave this Thursday for New Hampshire and then I have friends coming to stay with me the following week. Rest assured, January will bring a flood of updates and information.

Fuzz Against Junk Issue 1

To order an issue, email me at fuzzagainstjunk@gmail.com. Issues are $4, shipping included. Click one of the links below to read some sample work:

Hands by Mark White

On Darkness by Elizabeth Robinson

Belated Impulsiveness by Jonathan Bowman

The Covers Are Pressed and Folded, the Magazine Needs to Be Formatted

A bit of a hiatus from this blog and the magazine due to Spring break. I did little else besides what I wanted, which included reading five books, going on two beer tour in one day, eating at extravagant restaurants, and just taking it easy.

Also did some things I didn't want to do, like get into my first car accident. The car was completely unharmed and so were the people. It felt a lot slower than I imagined it would. I remember looking at everyone's face as we spun into the ditch.

That aside, I got the covers yesterday and they have all been folded neatly. Now, to get a proof of the magazine to the printer.

It's Really Happening!

So I received the final magazine submission the other day, which means I'm moving onto the most tedious process of all: formatting and editing. The exciting part is that tomorrow I'm going to buy the paper supplies for printing (2000+ sheets). Next week I'm working out some cover details (typeface, image) and I should be on schedule to have it printed and bound by the end of March.

Unless those few stragglers who haven't sent me their biography take a month to do so.

Unless the print shop burns down.

Unless there's a global catastrophe that makes all paper and ink a luxury.

It also occurs to me I may want to invest in a Paypal account to facilitate digital transactions. I'm also going to post some samples on a separate page for your reading pleasure. Now, to begin organizing a reading.

Pixels and Paper

I was looking over some of my old notebooks this morning—in particular the large collection of writing prompts I've outlined for myself—when I noticed I couldn't find one of my notebooks. There was some immediate panic because that notebook was my only record of several poems, translations, and writing prompts. A month's worth of writing gone.

Luckily, I did find it, but this mini-crisis highlighted the issue of the digital versus the printed. Until recently, I've been fairly resistant to the digital world of writing. It was one thing to read the news, reviews, and articles online, but when it came to poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, I wanted to be able to hold it. Or so I thought.

Part of this stemmed from me favoring a tangible object (a book) over an intangible idea (the internet). While I still prefer to read books over web pages, digital copies aren't quite as fragile. I can't drop this blog in a puddle, nor can I accidentally leave it on a bus. Unless the server crashes, it will be here.

There's also the difference of audience: a book will never have as big of a potential audience as a website does. This is what makes the world of digital publishing the best thing that ever happened to writing: the free dissemination of ideas. More people can exchange information than ever before.

Of course, there's still something desirable about the tangible book. It's why I've chosen to print Fuzz Against Junk rather than just post everything online. But I do take comfort in knowing that my ideas have a potential audience beyond the people I know.

A Letter to the Contributors

A few weeks ago I made a chapbook for my friend's birthday. Until then I didn't realize how easy it was to print, bind, and distribute printed material. Of course, this was a very modest project; only a handful were made, but it was still very exciting to see how immediate this kind of DIY process was. I don't remember if there was any delay or if the idea came soon after, but I remember deciding: I'm going to print a magazine. This is how Fuzz Against Junk was conceived.

I made that decision before I knew who I would publish or how I would handle submissions; it just seemed too easy and too good of an idea not to do it. In trying to answer who I would publish, I thought about my time at Naropa. When I first transferred into the writing program last Fall, I didn't know anybody. After spending the last two years in small writing workshops and lit. seminars, I can say I know a lot of incredibly talented writers. One thing I noticed was that very few of them were actively trying to publish. Basically, if you weren't in those classes, you missed out on some of the best writing being done today.

I decided Fuzz Against Junk would publish those writers, the ones you've never heard of that are just as talented as some of the ones you have. I also wanted to illustrate the richness and diversity of Naropa's writing community. My only submission guidelines were that I had to know them personally and like their work; otherwise, they were free to submit whatever they wanted.

I currently have about 20-30 pages of accepted material. As I near the halfway mark on this project, I want to thank those who made the last two years great. I hope you're looking forward to the first issue of Fuzz Against Junk as much as I am.

Fuzz Against Junk Issue 1

Hands
by Mark White


Five:


I’m in a fight but no one else knows. I’m angry at my hands. Other hands can draw thin, perfect circles. Other hands can cut thick construction paper into long, straight strips and weave those strips into baskets. Other hands can flash out letters, numbers, and words; other hands can speak. My hands are mute, which makes them easy to hate.

I keep vigilant watch on my hands. They are clumsy and heavy, as if they’re waiting for something, have been waiting for a long time. I am suspicious that they are waiting to catch me at some unguarded moment and close over my mouth and nose. I start biting my nails to keep them short, dull, and tender. I attempt to sharpen my teeth, but they are still too soft, and their dust makes my eyes water.

Fear turns spiteful, and I start playing tricks on my hands. Just mischievous at first, I quickly turn cruel and stupid in my pranks. Oh, you were outside all last night? I thought you were staying at Andrew’s again. I’m sorry; I don’t even remember locking the door, and no, you know, it is strange I didn’t hear you knocking at all.


Ten:


I have gotten rid of my hands. They are gone. Lost. Deserted. I think of them now as long dead pets or lovers. There are moments, usually in early morning, when, turning over in bed, I can still smell them faintly. The smell is different every time: sometimes bacon cooked over a woodfire, sometimes the mineral smell of cave water.

I want to learn to conduct music, but I am afraid to try. I think sadly that all disappointment stems from my own clumsy, absent hands. I invent a new way of conducting music by dilating my nostrils wide and open, then small and tight. After several weeks of diligent practice, I can competently conduct music in 2/4, ¾, and 4/4 time. Soon, however, I realize that I am the only person capable of understanding this method of music steersmanship, and so I abandon it to learn how to play piano.


Fifteen:


My hands returned two years ago, but I didn’t notice. They are entirely unremarkable. I have trouble understanding their purposes and intentions, but this results more from my own lack of interest than any aura of mystery on their part.

What worries me is that the left side of my body smells differently than the right side. It’s the sweat, I think. The sweat under my left arm smells thick and sweet, like mouthfoam, but the sweat under my right arm is acidic and brittle, like venom. My body may be trying to grow into two different people.

But I am not wholly convinced. I stick my hands under my arms, and hold them there for hours, till they are moist and wrinkled in my sweat. I smell each hand carefully and without bias. They are different. I want to ask someone else to verify my findings, but I can’t. What would people do if they knew I was growing in two?

I try to fix the difference: I make sure to chew all my food evenly on both sides of my mouth; I carefully document the different layers of flavor in my sweat resulting from various stimuli (e.g., Humid heat-sweat from under my right arm tastes like wasps; sweat from exercise makes my left armpit taste like flat champagne). Eventually I give in and buy two different kinds of deodorant.


Twenty:


I am walking by myself but he won’t talk to me. Every time I try to start a conversation (Hey, look, is that a Robin?; Aren’t you glad its fall again?), I just nod and make a small noise in the back of my throat that sounds almost like a soft oh. I try to tell myself that I am not disinterested, that, really, I am just deep in thought, and don’t mean to be so distant. I reach across and grab my hand. I hold it lightly, for a few steps, but then let it drop casually away.

I am exhausted. It is so hard to keep myself entertained. Every time I start to tell a story, it turns out I already know the ending; Every time I tell a joke, I already know the punch line. I try to surprise myself with small gifts, but it ends up feeling empty, false, and contrived. I stay up most nights listening to myself pace the corridor from my small, clean kitchen to my bedroom.

I decide to sew myself back together. I practice first on small animals I catch in string traps in my yard. I slice them in two and then stitch them back whole with coarse string. My hands are uncertain at first, but they catch on quickly, threading together dirty, matted fur.

I try to trap myself in the garage. I think that if I jump out from behind my Jeep unexpectedly and grab hold of something tender, like my ears or nose, then I can keep myself still long enough to start sewing. But I am expecting it, every time, and I am always able to escape my needle and thread. I decide to try and split in two again. I focus my thoughts and I pull and I tug, but this time nothing happens. I remain whole. Or half. I can’t decide which.

Sometimes, on nights when I can’t see past myself, my hands leave their pockets and travel up and down my body giving warmth and comfort. They whisper gentle placations against my skin, and they turn up the corners of my mouth when it starts to slip and droop.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark White will be graduating with a BA from Naropa University in May 2010. He almost won the school spelling bee in 7th grade, but lost to his younger sister. As a teenager, he was the Youth Leader of his Mormon congregation until he was caught viewing homosexual pornography. After graduation, Mark plans on avoiding his loan repayments until December 21st, 2012.

Fuzz Against Junk Issue 1

On Darkness
by Elizabeth Robinson


The darkness reveals this

little nick

in the thumb knuckle
a burden
to be carried on the back
of the hand.

Once

the dark
was a gesture, now

it blushes, tiny
incisions
of the
descent, slits

of snow fingering

dusk.

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Elizabeth Robinson is the author, most recently, of Also Known As (Apogee Press) and The Orphan & its Relations (Fence Books). Three Novels (a poetry collection) will be out from Omnidawn Press in 2011. Robinson lives in Boulder and co-edits EtherDome Chapbooks and Instance Press.

Fuzz Against Junk Issue 1

Belated Impulsiveness
by Jonathan Bowman


Look poets can be happy too, not just bitch and shit.
I swear some nights the dishwasher's growl perfects
a purring Persian arch-back masterpiece
without loneliness or grief. But it's walking
to and from the beach that's hard, not a matter
of creation, but of opening one's eyes.

The world has certain ugly mirrors with gaunt eyes
when turned upon such angles, scared as shit:
the cold gesture eats itself, hardly matters
as its howls echo, disdained, perfect.
Yet when one denotes this hopeless part of walking,
they crowd around like crows, yelling masterpiece

or taking your temperature. Madmen make masterpieces
and everyone is frightened of your shapeless eyes.
What have you seen, they wonder, in your walking?
That they missed when they slept and loved and took their shits
in invisible tethered lusts which ended up being perfectly
comfortable, and baiting the night to sing moons a small matter

now? What remains of it, or will? When such matter
as makes our throat reforms without us? Masterpieces
they say, may last some years longer than the body, perfect
in the sense of their time, yet no more than I
do they resist the final gong which sings without us, shits
a final period on the song, its reverberation walking

into empty space with no one to hear it. Walking
and carelessly disappearing. The old koan: does it matter
the sound a falling tree makes or doesn't make? Just shits
and giggles then: in one's walking as one's apathy, masterpiece
might be a million things, just to do what sounds perfectly
agreeable instead of merely poetic. But how to stop the eye

from seeing all disfigured stars? What if I
want to dwell here, in this pulsing half-thought, walking
only to and from the beach, sad, yet with the perfect
moon in my pocket, the inexpressible matters
nibbled and hinted at, my own idea of a masterpiece
in the known crinkles of my hands, even if it's bullshit?

Look, just as easily, I can shit or be perfect,
but nothing describes the masterpiece quite like walking
away. And how could it matter, anyway? I am an eye.


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Jonathan Bowman is about to graduate from Naropa with a BA in Writing & Poetics. What's next? He has no idea. But he does know that he was born and raised in Austin, Texas and would like to take this chance to acknowledge the support of his family, without whom such an impractical career would be quite a bit more difficult. Also, he feels writing a miniature autobiography in 3rd person is very strange, like being a spy in the facts of his life.