The Spring 2009 issue of The Paris Review includes a series of collages by famed poet John Ashbery. Evidently, he became fascinated by the collage concept during his years as a student at Harvard in the 1940s, and returned to the form in 2008. The magazine prints a dozen recent examples of these, 11 inside, and one on the issue’s cover.

Dan Chiasson, who wrote a brief introductory blurb to explain what we’re about to see, delves into the symbolism of these collages. He says:

“The background elements often depict possible pasts: people on go-carts, a scene in Rotterdam of men in bowlers, and the teetering, top-heavy trucks of the twenties. The foreground elements seem to express elation or relief at having escaped those pasts to make the art he has made and keeps making.”

Symbolism is all well and good, but if you look at the color component of the collage above, you’ll note that Ashbery didn’t just use any foreground element. That man with his hands over his ears was taken from one of the most famous pieces of comic-book art ever published.

Do you recognize him? I may be the only regular reader of The Paris Review who could identify him immediately, but I’m sure that in this venue, I’m not the only one.

You’d think the source would be worth mentioning in any interpretation of the meaning of this collage. I chalk this up to another case of those concerned with supposed “high culture” failing to be aware of supposed “low culture.” Because the origin of that image matters, whether or not The Paris Review or Ashbery scholars acknowledge it.

I could say more about why that particular man is so important, but I don’t want to spoil it for those of you for whom that image doesn’t cause an immediate “I know that face!”

So—a show of hands please. Who out there can recognize that famous face? Many of you, I hope, or else I’ll be severely disappointed.

A simple yes or no will do to start, so you don’t spoil it too quickly for the puzzled.

When the May issue of Esquire arrived in the mail today, I found George Clooney staring up at me. I’m not yet sure what project he’s plugging, as I’ve only just begun skimming through it. Maybe he’s only there to tell us “How to Be a Man,” which is the theme for the issue.

Here he is.

As I paged through the issue, however, I noticed that not only did it feel stiffer than usual in my hands, but there were two perforated lines running horizontally across the middle of the cover, one above and one below Clooney’s nose. Small type at the far right of the narrow strip in the middle suggested that I “lift and separate.” So I did, and here’s what I found. (more…)

I dreamt that I was in a cookie-cutter mall bookstore of the Borders or Barnes and Noble variety—long, narrow, and badly lit. I was reading a (non-existent in real life) beautifully designed three-volume collection of Michael Chabon’s essays and short stories. I’d pick up a book, settle in a comfy chair, skim through it, note a particularly fascinating sentence here and there, and then return it to the shelf in exchange for the next volume to enjoy in that comfy chair.

When I returned with the third volume, who should be sitting in the comfy chair next to mine but Jonathan Lethem. For some reason, we got into a discussion about whether or not he really existed. Not sure how we got on that topic, but in the dream, the discussion of his possible status as imaginary seemed entirely rational. We were discussing this situation both as if it was happening to us, but also as if we were just characters in someone else’s story.

Perhaps, I suggested, when the workers in the bookstore looked at me, all they saw was a guy talking to himself, gesticulating toward a empty chair. Talking about myself as if I was but a fictional character, I continued by saying that when they looked at me, they probably thought of me as harmless. Jonathan corrected me, as if taking about a story we would write, saying that, no, they’d instead see the character as a user.

With this, Jonathan stood up and said he was hungry. As I considered where we might head off to have dinner, I woke, and was, of course, hungry in reality.

One of the reasons I love living where I do is that Spring seems to come with more omens than it does in cities. (Who knows? Maybe it’s just that when I used to live in them, I wasn’t playing as close attention.) In any case, today I saw another sign.

I always look forward to the moss starting to green up, and the bulbs blooming, each in turn. I’ve already seen the first toad. New bamboo shoots won’t start coming up for several weeks, and the first turtles likely won’t appear until May or June. But today, while clearing wood from the swale, I noticed this little guy leaping around:

And about a half an hour later, distant enough so that we knew it wasn’t just the same creature, Irene spotted this guy: (more…)

As those of you who’ve been reading my meanderings already know, my father passed away in January. Dad was an accomplished artist, and many of his paintings hang in our house. This week we added one more.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d happened to mention to my mother that my wife and I loved a particular painting of his, and she surprised us by packaging it up and shipping it north from Florida. She told me that she did this partially because it was my birthday, and partially because she felt that since Irene and I liked it so much we should have it to enjoy.

Here’s the fanciful fish I’ve admired for years:

When I unpacked the painting and prepared to hang it, I saw that there was a second, secret painting hidden on the back. Dad usually stretched his own canvas rather than purchase it prestretched, and if he didn’t like a particular piece, he’s remove it from its frame and use the reverse side.

Here’s the image I discovered on the back:

Not a painting I’d choose to look at every day—it seems a bit too melancholy for my taste—but it’s certainly beautiful in its own way. Sadly, I’ll never get the chance to find out what caused him to abandon it.

We hung it at the top of the stairs, where we’ll see it every day. After doing so, I took a step back, admiring it. I wanted to tell Dad how beautiful I thought it was and how happy it made me to see it hanging there, and in that moment it hit me once more how there’s no longer a way for me to tell him those things. I got choked up remembering yet again that our conversation has now turned into a monologue.

I miss him.

While wandering through our daffodils, I came across another sign of Spring. The moss, having greened up nicely over the past week or so, has now begun to sprout.

Here’s a worm’s eye view of the mossy forest:

I woke at 4:30 in the morning from a dream in which I was attending some convention so large it could have been the San Diego Comic-Con, only it wasn’t exactly the San Diego Comic-Con. I enter an auditorium in which a film is about to be played and find the room half full. I see Neal Adams in the audience, only not the Neal Adams of today, but rather the Neal Adams of the 1970s, even though it was today in the dream. He has a huge bucket of popcorn in his lap, as if he’s about to watch a blockbuster in his local theater instead of the documentary about Harlan Ellison which is about to begin.

I step outside for a moment—to get my own bucket of popcorn perhaps?—and when I return the theater is more populated, and I can no longer sit next to Neal the way I’d planned to. So I sit somewhere else. And then the film begins, but I can remember none of it. Not because I’ve forgotten what was playing out onscreen, but because the dream jump cuts to after the lights come back on.

And guess what? Someone has been murdered. I think. My memory is vague on that now. But I do remember that some horrible crime has been committed, which could have been murder, but it also could have been something else equally heinous, whatever that might be. (more…)

As reported by the New York Times, the winner of the Bookseller/Diagram Prize for Oddest Book Title of the Year is—

The 2009-2014 World Outlook for 60-Milligram Containers of Fromage Frais

This year’s finalists included:

Curbside Consultation of the Colon
The Large Sieve and Its Applications
Strip and Knit With Style
Techniques for Corrosion Monitoring

My favorite of all past nominees mentioned in the article, however, was the 2005 winner:

People Who Don’t Know They’re Dead: How They Attach Themselves to Unsuspecting Bystanders and What to Do About It.

I dreamt this morning that I visited Harlan Ellison. Not in the playhouse he and Susan occupy in the real world, though. In my dreamland, they were living in an urban area in one of the storefronts of a strip mall. I never got inside, however, as Harlan came outside to greet me and talk. There was a dry cleaning shop immediately next door, and the owner stood in his doorway and watched us as we had our conversation.

We showed off signature sheets of our future projects to each other, and cooed over the illustrations we had gotten. Now that I’m awake, I can no longer identify the artists or the books in which the drawings were meant to appear, but the intricate color artwork was amazing. It was a pleasant, warm, friendly conversation.

One of Harlan’s publishers arrived to discuss his next book, so I said goodbye. We made plans to meet again before I left, though.

As I took off, I noted a large sign in the parking lot which contained a giant comic-book word balloon the size of a car, meant to be filled in by old-style movie theater letters, or the kind you see used in church signs. Beneath it was a note to Harlan’s visitors which seemed aimed more at those fans he wouldn’t come out to see. They were invited to fill in the balloon with quotations, and if Harlan liked the saying he would leave it until the next visitor came along to change it.

As I crossed the street, I had to leap to avoid getting hit by a bus. Then, walking back to the train station so I could head home, I got lost. I woke as I wandered.

It was 6:15, and I would have liked to roll over and get another hour of sleep, but could not. I had Harlan on my mind.

I learned yesterday that my short story, “Petrified,” which was published last year in Desolate Souls, the souvenir program book for the 2008 World Horror Convention, made HWA’s final Stoker ballot in the category Superior Achievement in Short Fiction.

This marks my fourth such nomination—my first was back in 1998 for 1997’s story “A Plague on Both Your Houses”—but this nod differs from all the rest in that it’s my first Stoker-nominated piece not to contain zombies. So all of you haters of the shambling undead can finally relax.

Here are the finalists in my category:

“Petrified” by Scott Edelman (Desolate Souls)
“The Lost” by Sarah Langan (Cemetery Dance Publications)
“The Dude Who Collected Lovecraft” by Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt (Chizine)
“Evidence of Love in a Case of Abandonment” by M. Rickert (Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction)
“Turtle” by Lee Thomas (Doorways)

You’ll note that this is the second consecutive year I’m competing against Lee Thomas, and we all know what happened last year in Salt Lake City … (more…)