City of Roses is a serialized epic firmly set in Portland, Oregon: an urban fantasy mixing magical realism with gonzo noirish prose, where duels are fought in Pioneer Square, and union meetings are beseiged by ghost bicycles.
While I’m writing a story, I am subject to a set of tensions indistinguishable from those that overtake me when I write poems. The distinction is most of all technical, because I find the idea of “poetic stories” more horrifying than yellow fever, and I am always very careful that what happens in my stories suggests to the reader a definite structure, a given reality, as unreal as it might seem to the eyes of a newspaper reader and those beings with-their-feet-on-the-ground. (What are feet? What is the ground?) If I find in your stories a fraternity that excites me and makes me want to be your friend, it is precisely the supreme nerve with which you plant your word trees.
The book established Whitehead’s intelligence and originality as a novelist, but I wasn’t too excited by the world of elevator inspection, and I was frankly irritated by the author’s choice of Lila Mae as the protagonist. Although it’s technically impressive and theoretically laudable when a male novelist succeeds in inhabiting a female persona, something about the actual practice makes me uneasy. Is the heroine doing double duty as the novelist’s fantasy sex object? Is the writer trying to colonize fictional territory that rightfully belongs to women? Or does the young literato, lacking the perks of power and feeling generally smallened by the culture, perhaps believe himself to be, at some deep level, not male at all?
I think “solidarity” is what Freaky Tales would call it, a movie which, believe it or not, I’m actually going to talk about. But again: I’ve given myself permission to write the longest essay anyone will write about Freaky Tales, as an exercise, experiment, statement, and/or self-indulgence; I like writing, and I am enjoying writing this, so I am. But the more I write, the more that length gives permission to anyone who doesn’t want to read it—even encourages them—to close the browser and move on. You’re not stuck with me, after all, the way you have no choice but to see a mural as you drive past it each day. You can go find something you like better and leave me to my fun.
A sharp eye might’ve noticed some changes to the various outlets listed on the Books page, as other places where: Spectator Books in Oakland has been added, there’s a selection of zines on the shelves there now, so if you find yourself on that side of the Bay, head on over, say hi; and but also, Smashwords has been removed.
Four golden cards scattered over the nubbled green cushion, Bank of Trebizond, they say, Bank of Trebizond, Good thru, Good thru. Carol Harlib, says one, and John Wharfinger another, Otto Dogstongue, and the last one there, it can just be made out, The Blue Streak.
“Fun while it lasted,” says Otto, knelt behind that couch, arms folded along the back of it, chin on his crossed wrists.
“Lasted?” says John Wharfinger, perched on an arm of it, slim black guitar case at his feet. “I just got here.”
“They, they got my name right,” says Blue, sat on the couch by the little pile. “I mean, y’know, I could only ever use it when nobody was paying any attention. Or, or self-checkout. That worked.” Flicking a card with a fingertip. “But they got it right.”
“Have to pack it all up again,” mutters John Wharfinger.
“Cheat Death,” says Carol, stood at the edge of the stage, looking out over the cavernous warehouse, and only a few of the overhead doors rolled up even halfway for the dour morning light. Here and there this subdued knot or that contemplative clump of lares and hobs, urisks, losells and phenodderee, cleaning, some of them, tinkering, others, fidgeting, quietly talking, one to another, looking up and off to nothing much at all. “Come on,” she says, turning back to them all, quietly quizzical, “Dirty on Purpose? I played it for you. We were never as lucky as we’d like,” she sing-songs, “the miracles are through,” letting that last note linger as she theatrically lifts up her face, her hands, wryly smiling, her calico sundress, her tight white T-shirt, her skinny jeans.
“Lady Waters,” says John Wharfinger. “And the Hooded One.” His red hair tangled, a darkly iridescent vest crimping his voluminously white blouse. “Bit on the nose,” says Carol, and then up pipes the Blue Streak, “Goodbye, Mr. Ed,” he says, looking to John Wharfinger, “some tasty Gabrels noise you could munch on.” His long-sleeved T-shirt says The Telegenic Dead in white letters on black.
And then ruddily bald Otto is crooning, “Anything, to feel weightless, again,” his eyes closed, his fingers lifted to help carry the words. “I liked that one. Who was that by?”
“It’s like Twin Peaks had a baby with Once Upon a Time.”
“Long, complex with a lyrical rhythm to it that’s intoxicating.”
