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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1541354567681-MJZ1J63O3U3D969HFP56/Frank+campaigns+for+Mo+White Codes - Coded Threat or Free Speech? http://www.theturnips.net/beliefs daily 0.75 2020-05-25 http://www.theturnips.net/beliefs/2020/5/25/afterlives monthly 0.5 2020-06-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1590450578757-HSNFLRV009WWYOHZAF0P/Skyward.jpg Beliefs - Afterlives https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1591567374425-IIGMI86LNKTIRHEZC8BG/egyptscales.jpg Beliefs - Afterlives The Ancient Egyptians were among the first to believe that one’s actions in life would determine one’s place in the afterlife. 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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1581959257070-EXCXRFP1NNPG41LSPFZT/bad-penny.jpg Beliefs - Bad Penny http://www.theturnips.net/beliefs/2020/2/2/the-religiosity-of-american-sports monthly 0.5 2020-02-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1580690104671-5FQ4PEBIQCHUSPEQS5RB/The+Lutheran+Church+in+the+Foothills Beliefs - The Religiosity of American Sports The Lutheran Church in the Foothills is often called The Church of the Holy Touchdown. http://www.theturnips.net/beliefs/2020/1/19/octopus-hoax-has-too-many-legs-to-stand-on monthly 0.5 2020-01-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1579476889432-1QFLCZWH0ENC1XT6ECIF/bones_hartzell-tree_octopus_exhibit.jpg Beliefs - Octopus Hoax has Too Many Legs to Stand On https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1579476937438-YIMM1NXKUZE3HEXHUJN5/sighting.dehydrated_tree_octopus.jpg Beliefs - Octopus Hoax has Too 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http://www.theturnips.net/new-page daily 0.75 2017-01-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478301493347-0XIESFFIHGGHAV8C0YFG/image-asset.png Vol. 2 No. 2: Animals Purchase Issue http://www.theturnips.net/nominations daily 0.75 2017-11-30 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1511997816982-2F6POJM24TGD4DSUKY6S/devon+hostas.JPG Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1511998339041-96VM9MJDPTNMZQSIJH0H/Screen+Shot+2017-04-06+at+1.11.24+PM.png Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1511998830348-Y491JDBE8FQRNG0W5DNX/IMG_6111.JPG Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1512000786615-R2OOL4W063K5ZHCIV203/Jeff+P.+JOnes.png Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1512000203633-E33P69RR6DH3AA50MALZ/IMG_5813.jpg Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478656747492-Z4OH4C0J4NPKH7I5N86P/Panama+Paul.jpg Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478657530217-VJTPXVDY00M9QVNN2IIX/image-asset.png Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478656638460-6JD0U7DCG6XYGR3PV1OA/bio+photo+hjg.jpg Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478657713832-RKNH7SELXGAU8OXSJ9CM/image-asset.jpeg Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478656439692-AH3HS5U0TIXF7ZEIZRNU/dust+jacket+photo+copy.jpg Nominations https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1478657948249-KA5LY2FU2WLWE8E1KEJM/image-asset.jpeg Nominations http://www.theturnips.net/writers-resist-1 daily 0.75 2017-01-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1484613567273-O0VVMTQFSP4VC3OL2DZK/MLK+WR.png Writers Resist http://www.theturnips.net/animals-by-nature daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/scales daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/ferrari daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/jones daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/wish daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/groner daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/hirtstardog daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/animal-contributors daily 0.75 2017-01-17 http://www.theturnips.net/destruction daily 0.75 2017-12-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1492213598427-AAYMAS9FQGYGHMWWJMH2/image-asset.png Destruction Photos of Centralia, PA courtesy of Jen Hirt. http://www.theturnips.net/abundance-1 daily 0.75 2018-01-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494442979563-E98L0S9M80XXVSCZ5ATC/image-asset.png Abundance - Purchase http://www.theturnips.net/abundance-contributors daily 0.75 2017-05-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495295025721-PQ0WKGCKVZ63QKEU2NSK/Contributors+web+abundance+page+2.jpg Abundance Contributors https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495294845570-URSTMW4A44O4WTBAYQN3/Contributors+web+abundance3.jpg Abundance Contributors https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495295087947-BP21S5AV46VLFN7FQ9MV/Contributors+web+abundance+page+3.jpg Abundance Contributors https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495294843937-RUT5JJ5DE34RODWY5Z4O/Contributors+web+abundance.jpg Abundance Contributors http://www.theturnips.net/songs-of-a daily 0.75 2017-05-11 http://www.theturnips.net/abundances daily 0.75 2017-05-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542837201-Q2FYSW4TZU3LGH1SSCVF/Abundance+Intro+Web.jpg Abundance(s) - From The Editors: Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542844537-EU37UL0DQVJPEHPRWYY7/Abundance+Intro+Web2.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542849791-D6EJ10AGHVIG3FGA8Y94/Abundance+Intro+Web3.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542857332-GF9EQTK0Q2KFOGMLZIEX/Abundance+Intro+Web4.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542862394-NIIF8TQY3V4BSJZHANME/Abundance+Intro+Web5.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542866587-YNWBO2W23XEUAS6KGYSJ/Abundance+Intro+Web6.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542871863-1T9WNBQUWK54LA9JUNV7/Abundance+Intro+Web7.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494542875679-BWNZDH9TDWUZN4PQ8FK3/Abundance+Intro+Web8.jpg Abundance(s) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494543169608-U6LQP07VCE3MXE61WX67/IMG_3080.jpg Abundance(s) http://www.theturnips.net/devon-balwitkin daily 0.75 2018-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495291318679-47T7FQ0A7GKE3R1HPWQ6/image-asset.jpeg Devon Balwit-Kin Devon Balwit "Kin" http://www.theturnips.net/marder daily 0.75 2018-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495292668977-T1FU5YFU70DULEBDGK9J/Marder.jpg Marder - Michael Marder "Cornucopia" pg. 1 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495292675855-I08L29OLOZRQAGOF3OF9/Marder2.jpg Marder - Michael Marder "Cornucopia" page 2 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495292684304-KMXQVCGVTTR1LB6D4CGY/Marder3.jpg Marder - Michael Marder "Cornucopia" page 3 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1495292316425-H4AT2ZM0N2HGQVUAGDQB/image-asset.jpeg Marder Peter Paul Rubens, Abundantia. (c. 1630) Oil on canvas. 25.1 x 18 inches. http://www.theturnips.net/destruction-contents daily 0.75 2018-01-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514907414895-17M2T7JQSHKBNSKYQKD5/destruction+cover Destruction Contents http://www.theturnips.net/introduction daily 0.75 2018-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822672232-XHX9VPRZK8JHEXMLYAN0/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible From the Editors Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible   The world is not a solid continent of facts sprinkled by a few lakes of uncertainties, but a vast ocean of uncertainties speckled by a few islands of calibrated and stabilized forms. - Bruno Latour   In these highly belligerent times, when the fate of the planet and of humanity itself is contested along the strident binary of Us-Them, Left-Right, progressive-reactionary, liberal-conservative, and so on, the question that fundamentally looms behind political, economic, and scientific agendas is ultimately the end of the world. There is a deeply ironic pun here of course. By the end is meant the purpose, goal, the telos - as Aristotle would say - of humanity, the world, the universe: the teleological destiny of the planet. But by end of course is also meant the termination, the final act of the planet, humanity, and the universe. The cosmic dimensions of this end are replete with a mixture of scientific and, perhaps most importantly, religious considerations. From the earliest mythological narratives to the neoplatonic Great Chain of Being modules of the Renaissance, humanity’s role in fulfilling its purpose has always been entangled with the religious question: are humans active stewards of the universe or predetermined passive vehicles of divine destiny? This (religious) question has been in the background of political, economic, and scientific discussions about what to do with the universe throughout history and up to today. Perhaps this (religious) divide is most easily seen today in the climate change debate, where those who believe global warming is a man-made phenomenon tend to be liberal (religiously liberal, like Pope Francis, to atheists) and those who believe it is not a man-made phenomenon tend to be conservative (predeterministic Protestants to Evangelical fundamentalists). Thus, the end of the world, the fate of the earth, the purpose of the universe, is always already a question of faith. In our post-truth age, when the “truths” slanted by ideologues are just an internet search away, the issue is not simply the truth but what truth you believe. The arguments have different rhetorical structures with the usual ideological supports. But what is clear is that both sides want to have their ideological https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822672309-OIDV4FN3WWR84ILXKNTQ/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE2.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible cake and eat it too: the Left uses science as an article of faith; the Right uses religion as a form of knowledge. The liberals/progressives, adhering to the laws of science, which are more often than not interpreted unapologetically as deterministically destined, nonetheless will suspend their belief in determinism for the belief in the agency of free will, with all its individualistic glory and liberal valency. It’s a rather dogmatic position in all its inherent contradictions: We are beginning not only to comprehend the laws of the universe, which point to biological determinism, but also, simultaneously, we are learning to use the laws to manipulate our biology. Through this comprehensive and biological (re)design, positivists argue this “destined” road we are on is also the moral road. For example, gene editing can put an end to pain and suffering, grow plants in inhospitable environments, and provide other steps needed to reach a posthuman liberal utopia. The conservative/reactionary wing, with its often eschatological rhetoric of predestination, adheres to the historical narrative of divine teleology while simultaneously allowing for individual agency though divine calling, missionary zeal, proselytizing duty, and other forms of vocational religiosity no matter their contradictory nature besides deterministic predestination: God has sanctioned us as stewards of the Earth, which coincides to His choosing us as His vehicle of destiny and revelation wherein we follow His laws and simultaneously bring forth His plan for the universe. These dogmatic positions share the same contradictory essence: We know the universe has unchangeable laws and those who disagree with us are obviously a) lunatics or b) atheists, and since we know the truth, we are going to act (choose) to bring about the determined/predetermined ends. The tragedy of this bifurcated path is the singularity of the choice. That is, one must be on one of https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822678151-6LFJR2SNKMIUVAEPJ4MZ/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE3.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible these dichotomous paths or be literally left behind, economically, politically, etc., given that these ideological positions - particularly in our current post-truth age - dictate whether or not one is progressive or regressive in terms of economic opportunity (capitalism), political agency (your vote), and general quality of life (technology). This is the common crutch of both the Left and the Right: What we do is not really for ourselves but for the cause, the movement (ideology). Branding our political position with collective purpose grants our ideological myopia moral legitimacy. But it should be clear that this binary structure of choice, this either-or framework, is not sustainable as a solution to the problem of our posthuman universe. Our human infrastructure of possibility needs to be reimagined and rebuilt to include different choices. But this requires destruction. The misunderstanding of the idea of destruction is as old as the misunderstanding of Being: Destruction has always been coupled with its opposite, structure, which is always (in western traditions) privileged because it is seen as a mirror of god as creator/god as architect (macrocosm-microcosm, etc.). Through this view, God and Darwin collapse into the same idea that structure is better than de-structure. It’s as if we are unable to see the construction of something new through the destruction of the old. In other words, since the dawn of human technology (all forms of human making) we have been blinded to the creativity of destruction. We strive to preserve, conserve, etc. Our whole vocabulary is privileged towards the built, founded, structured, solid, unassailable. This is of course gendered. Soft, unstable, ungrounded, etc., are cliches of the feminine/weak. What has structure cannot be irrational, contradictory, flawed.Truth itself is understood through metaphors of structure: truth as solid, valid (from Latin valeo, strong), founded (from Latin fundametum, foundation, hence fundamental, etc.). In his critique of western epistemology, Nietzsche inaugurated the alternative meaning of destruction, most famously in his idea of creative destruction, which he understood as a necessary rebuilding which he equated with willful, productive rebirth. Heidegger would take this idea further and define Destruktion as the analysis and clearing of inauthentic traditions which conceal the truth of human existence. Destruction is therefore the essence of critique; the critique not of the past but of the present through de-struction and de-construction. As https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822678190-N2L4D48GI17TNJF38ER3/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE4.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible such, destruction does not destroy but reveals hitherto unknown and unnoticed possibilities. Derrida’s notion of deconstruction precisely put a mirror up to structured systems and revealed their inner self-contradiction and inherently unstructured surplus. Derrida showed that at the foundations of the structured (rational) was the myth of presence, without which every human structure, material and otherwise, crumbles. What Nietzsche’s, Heidegger’s, and Derrida’s ideas on destruction have in common are deeply critical approaches to traditional metaphysical questions of the purpose or end of humanity - however differently they might be posited: for Nietzsche, the question of aesthetic will; for Heidegger, the question of Being; for Derrida the question of presence. The tradition of creative destruction is prevalent in this issue. Julie Heffernan’s When the Water Rises and Virginia Wagner’s Metropolis show how human resourcefulness - physical and mental - allow humans to emerge from environmental turmoil and into a new world. In Heffernan’s paintings, humans reappropriate the now useless machines from the past in ways that help them adapt to the warming environment. Similarly, Wagner’s paintings show the tension between the human and natural world. She explains, “In terms of truthfulness, the places I build don’t exist in the world - they are chimeras, conglomerate spaces pulled from stories, images from the news, and things I see in my city or when traveling. Instead of building real places, I’m interested in getting at what it feels like to be living now - at this time of unprecedented connectivity and great environmental destruction.” Both artists determine the interior world of the mind to play an important role in creative destruction - whether it be through decentralized identities that are viewed through screens, as with Wagner, or the way history and memory pile up and collide in physical spaces, “black mirrors, reflecting the madness and confusion of the so-called real world the viewer inhabits,” as Heffernan notes in her interview. The way in which these contributors map the https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822680085-7Q0DG4CHZX8AY601Q8PA/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE5.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible interplay of interior and exterior spaces manifest new landscapes that show us the possible is that which lies outside the impossible - what the possible seems to destroy. These new landscapes give us the terrain needed to understand the imagined is as real as the material. New landscapes stretch on with Jed Myer’s poem “In Fire Country,” which illustrates the inextricable interplay between destruction and creation in both the man-made and natural worlds. Our man-made world exists precariously - waist-high lupines and windblown grasses leave “no hint of the road” that once had been cleared, and lightning-struck fire that once overtook a man’s childhood home again threatens. Even a bowl of freshly picked raspberries, homegrown and sweetly nourishing, tartly reminds us of fire’s destructive fury. Yet, this destruction in not an end, and in its wake we move through creation’s abundance - the human mind’s ability to construct memory and meaning, nature’s ability to sprout once more from ash beneath an “equanimous blue” sky. It is uncanny how spirituality - or the transcendent - resonates in this issue, which we had expected to be at least somewhat focused on destruction as a material process. The spiritual is precisely what modernity planned to destroy through the utilitarian worship of science, the instrumentalization of nature and the rationalization of life, what Max Weber called the “disenchantment of the world.” But here, at the cusp of the posthuman future - it stubbornly fights on - perhaps as a warning of what we give up if we destroy all that is possible. The end of life, biological death, solicits the possible impossibility of language to describe the no-longer-there-as-living, the inevitable end of our life. We can be witnesses to death but can we experience death as such? In his review of George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo, Paul Cockeram identifies a cluster of notions that have been overlooked in evaluations of Saunders’ first novel. As Cockeram points out, this is not simply a grief novel but a meditation on the ontological consequences of death - death’s reciprocal effect on the living and the dead. Echoing Heidegger’s notion that although only the dead can experience death (and Derrida’s notion that we should not mourn for the dead but for the living left after death), death https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822680133-B2XPZ8OYSYH96MJB6K3C/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE6.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible nonetheless provides a mechanism for comradeship. Cockeram puts into relief the complex of the historical narratives of the dead - their individual histories - and the effects of those lives on not just their own spiritual fate, but the living. This is an existential reading of the novel that pays purchase to the choices all the dead made during their lives. Like Dante in the Inferno and Ulysses at the gates of Hades, the consequence of free will and the perhaps eternal consequences of choice are examined by Saunders. The destruction of life does not relieve humans of their responsibility of what they did and of course what they left for the living. Jeff P. Jones’ “The Runner” pushes us into further contemplation of this mechanism for comradeship as three daring cave excavators together face their deaths, only then to live beyond those few seconds of recognized “authentic life” that “would forever after remain beyond [their] grasp.” With Jones’ narrator, we look squarely into the face of this seemingly inevitable self-destruction, where at once “a minute grew like a gift in our minds and divided and divided again until it contained whole epochs…in which to grow old and congratulate each other on accomplishments and share in the sorrow of losses and curse fate and yet persist and rise and fall,” and we are forced to wonder how to continue to live. We see this idea (what remains after death) in Gladys Haunton’s “Headless Henny and the Language of Doubt,” in which she searches for the spirit of forms she soon witnesses being destroyed. There is something profound about these destructions. The narrator is a witness to the banality of death but nonetheless is unable to find words to describe the experience. Haunton imbues great philosophical depth to the death of a chicken and likewise reflects on the immeasurability between death and our ability to describe its effect on the living. One way death affects the living is through grief, which also gives rise to melancholic nostalgia, as we see in Matthew Brennan’s “On the Threshold of a New World” and Jen Hirt’s “Cherry Vainglory’s Steam Tractor.” In Brennan’s story, the narrator combs the coast for “mementos from the old world: silverware tide-worn and skeletal, stainless-steel cookware now stained” and despite the beauty of this new world built out of the ruins of the old, he is unable escape the weight of history and the pull of nostalgia, leading him to imagine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822681178-6RAF5OXALBRFIXXV1WY1/Destrution+Intro+ONLINE7.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible - From the Editors: Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible a girl from the past. Hirt’s protaganist, on the other hand, seeks to be respected as a woman who knows “her way around the equipment barn” yet she is nostalgic for an earlier era. For Cherry Vainglory, the weight of history is also literal, as she insists on exhibiting a “1908 Case steam tractor, which, at 33,000 pounds of black steel, harnessed the chests of 110 horses,” and Vainglory is determined to drive the tractor to the exhibition no matter how destructive the trip will be. Ed Skoog situates us within a prose poem narrative of human-time from the perspective of a being on the precipice of ontological destruction, but also in a world already destroyed. We begin as lovers entering a tunnel, “happy” and “drunken.” And then, we turn toward a corrosive truth: “Everyone in the tunnel had once been a slave-owner, but we were disassociating ourselves from history with all of these breakages and reinventions that fell apart when we handed them to someone else.” We are all guilty and must - before the end - have a reckoning with our histories of false structures. Poet Doug Bolling also invites a reckoning of sorts. In his variations, we “[begin] / the unwriting of our pre / conceptions,” and something of both science and the humanities eludes, perhaps fails, us: “in sudden wind we made / voices from our own clay, / sang into earth’s body / of what could be measured / what not.” We recall Plato, Aristotle and Aquinas, “the positivists / and empiricists,” only to find in the end that there are “No answers here.” What now but to give in to new questions, “we the earnest earth divers / minding our text, rubbing it / against such raw conjoining / of art and brute matter.” Together, our contributors have creatively destroyed old dichotomous roads and mapped new liminal landscapes with endless trajectories, thereby destroying limits, or rather, creating possibilities for yet to be determined ends. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514822795944-FGKXMGNL163UOJ5QG1SX/Image+12-21-17+at+6.13+PM.jpg Destruction: Another End of the World is Possible http://www.theturnips.net/destruction-contributors daily 0.75 2018-01-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514905589069-HNBSTO65MZYRY2VLOMRV/Destruction+Contributors+ONLINE.jpg Destruction Contributors Doug Bolling, Matthew Brennan, Paul Cockeram, Gladys Haunton, Julie Heffernan, Jen Hirt, Jeff P. Jones, Jed Myers, Ed Skoog, Virginia Wagner. http://www.theturnips.net/destruction-feuilleton daily 0.75 2017-12-30 http://www.theturnips.net/wreck-a-sketch daily 0.75 2018-01-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514666137390-FM24WUS94QTL4HIFPUMD/Wreck+A+Sketch+Crash+copy.jpg Wreck A Sketch by Jen Hirt Jen Hirt "Wreck A Sketch" http://www.theturnips.net/wagner daily 0.75 2018-01-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1515531178570-BZBEY9367ZOXJOP51CMK/Virginia+Wagner+Interview+Excerpt Wagner https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1515531318325-TJ2H9N69L618PTVQL5WO/Metropolis%2C+2017%2C+Ink+and+oil+on+canvas%2C+44+x+52+inches.jpg Wagner “Metropolis.” 44 x 52 inches. Ink and oil on canvas, 2017. http://www.theturnips.net/heffernan daily 0.75 2018-01-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514832732785-JPVKXILPUIZCW57Z1KGA/Heffernan+ONLINE.jpg Heffernan - Julie Heffernan Interview https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514832732670-JMTMOD6ZGW00JM8GL67S/Heffernan+ONLINE2.jpg Heffernan - Julie Heffernan Interview https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514832913251-886BVXL8HJPSLTZOGMUI/Palmyra5.5M.jpg Heffernan "Requiem for Palmyra." 60 x 54 inches. Oil on canvas. 2017. http://www.theturnips.net/lincoln-at-the-bardo-review daily 0.75 2018-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514824159642-1D43DF9KCNHGUVOHJU6T/Paul+Destruction+ONLINE.jpg Review: Lincoln at the Bardo by George Saunders - A Review of George Saunders' Lincoln at the Bardo" Taken by Grief: A Review of George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo By Paul Cockeram George Saunders’ debut novel Lincoln in the Bardo has subject matter that seems focus-grouped and designed for Americans: our mania for Abraham Lincoln, our dread of losing a child, even our perennial fascination for the Civil War. Beneath its shiny mass appeal and national nostalgia, however, the novel develops a deeply spiritual core, producing powerful insights into two of American literature’s most under-treated subjects - paralyzing grief and self-destruction in the face of loss. Despite well-known memoirs on mourning like Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking and Mark Doty’s Heaven’s Coast, our fiction tends to use death merely as character development or plot device; in Saunders’ novel, however, a single boy’s death - along with one night of potentially shattering grief - becomes the central driver of conflict. The death of Lincoln’s son falls into a cemetery populated by spirits the same way a stone falls through a frozen pond, destroying the stillness of their twilight existence and revealing, under the frozen surface, important truths about the anxieties and sorrows death causes, as well as a pathway for mourners to move past grief while skirting its traps. Set entirely one night after Willie Lincoln’s death of typhoid in February, 1862, Lincoln in the Bardo tells of the grieving President’s visit to Willie’s crypt, along with its unintended consequences on the spirits stuck in the cemetery. The spirits are actually stranded in the bardo, which Saunders borrows from Buddhist philosophy - a time of transition immediately following death but before the soul proceeds to its next destination. It is a critical stage in a spirit’s development because souls traveling the bardo risk getting stuck from strong attachments to the material world, or even from denying they’re dead. Saunders’ spirits call their coffins “sick-boxes;” their mausoleums, “home.” Most believe they are merely suffering an undiscovered disease; meanwhile, stuck in old habits of thought and action from material life, they endlessly repeat their stories of woe, frequently struggling to take revenge on those who wronged them, or to justify their failures, or to recover some of the time they lost with lovers or children. A slave fantasizes vengeance against the white family who left him to die in a ditch; a professor endlessly laments how his groundbreaking work was ignored by his peers; a foul-mouthed couple repeatedly decries their ungrateful children’s refusal to visit them, likewise their refusal to understand the hardships that forced the parents into such spectacularly bad parenting. We hear the https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514824159677-XKZL0SH5IY819AWCK8WK/Paul+Destruction+ONLINE2.jpg Review: Lincoln at the Bardo by George Saunders - Paul Cockeram "Taken by Grief: A Review of George Saunders' Lincoln at the Bardo" spirits’ voices speaking directly to us, alongside historic accounts of Lincoln’s life and Willie’s death. The sober, posterity-minded voices of history contrast well with the chorus of spirit voices, which grow cacophonous whenever they encounter an opportunity for validation. Some reviewers have been attracted to the private drama of Lincoln’s grief for Willie, insisting that the novel should focus more on it. Indeed Saunders has convincingly captured Lincoln’s voice, its blend of folksy charm and lyric eloquence, but at the level of the novel’s conceit Saunders does focus on Lincoln’s grief. He follows his characters as they explore various grief-laden paths through the valley of the shadow of death, the conflict centering upon whether the spirits, including young Willie (and even Lincoln himself), can accept the unacceptable fact of death. Three principle spirits, some of the cemetery’s oldest residents, serve as the primary narrators. Each has fought hard, for his own reasons, to remain in the bardo. One committed suicide after being spurned by his lover; another died before he could consummate a new marriage to his much-younger wife; the third is a reverend whose severe judgments of his flock have complicated his own entrance into the afterlife. Tempting them to leave are the angels, whose recurring visits accompany “the matterlightblooming phenomenon” and seemingly offer every conceivable sensual pleasure. But a different warning about the hazards of lingering too long in the bardo comes to the trio in the form of another set of spirits, those who are stuck in a hell of their own making. These damned spirits succumbed to the lowest human impulses, like rage and fear and petulant defensiveness, only to end up glued within hardened shells that isolate and bind them, eternally, to cold iron or stone. Despite having survived for decades within the liminal space between these competing alternatives, the trio finds their delicate balance threatened when Lincoln makes his nighttime visit in order to hold his dead son one last time. Reviewers have variously judged the conflict as illogical or contrived or even schmaltzy. They miss the point. As Cormac McCarthy put it, “Every man’s death is a standing in for every other.” Lincoln’s grief at losing Willie is Willie’s grief at losing his father. The spirits’ grief at losing their own lives is also their grief at wounding their families by leaving them. However, Saunders makes no cheap equivalencies. Some spirits suffered in life more than others, and some caused untold suffering with their own pettiness or prejudices. Saunders especially honors the victims’ stories, with some of his most honest and effective writing reserved for the otherwise voiceless slaves https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514824161130-EE3J7NNSKOJEOZI28NFY/Paul+Destruction+ONLINE3.jpg Review: Lincoln at the Bardo by George Saunders - Paul Cockeram "Taken by Grief: A Review of George Saunders' Lincoln at the Bardo" interred in their unmarked mass grave, one of whom provides the novel’s moving final image. But in the end, Saunders shows how each and every death is the same in that it is sudden and impossible and unfair. What ends up under our control is not the quantity or quality of the abuses and humiliations portioned to us, but our responses to them, along with our ability to own the abuses and humiliations to which we subject others. All this might come off as new-age spiritualist claptrap, except that Saunders’ powers of fiction drag every platitude down to the muddy, complicated filth of the embodied world, enlivening abstract truths with exuberant, fleshy presence. For a ghost story, this novel is especially concerned with the corporeal: When Lincoln slips through the cemetery’s iron gate and heads for the far corner, it is Willie’s body he seeks. Even the watching spirits embody their psychological turmoil in the physical forms they take - the suicide repeatedly sprouts clusters of eyes and noses in his rush to absorb the sensual pleasures he misses; the older man who couldn’t consummate his marriage walks in his night dress, exposing his eternally unsatisfied manhood; the reverend’s face is frozen in a rictus of fear and judgment. When Lincoln embraces Willie’s body, the unprecedented contact between living and dead jolts through the cemetery like a lightning bolt, awakening its residents to possibilities not foreseen. In the end, the spirits’ deformed “bodies” are restored to harmony only to the extent they learn how to accept their deaths. When the body is destroyed, the spirit finds harmony in knowing the destruction. The novel’s attitude toward the body proves ambivalent, portraying it partly as our most beloved object and partly as a prison, which makes sense in a novel about grief. For it is the body to which death happens, the body that exposes us to hazards from poison to tumors to blades and bullets, the body that is missed when the ones we love are gone. Nonetheless, Saunders remembers how the body makes up for these pains and traumas with the possibility of touch. Lincoln’s return to his son’s body reminds us that every hug is a pilgrimage. It might seem irrational and old-fashioned on a planet networked by instantaneous means of communication, but we still travel hundreds, even thousands of miles to hold someone’s hand or kiss their lips. Willie’s contact with his father promises, in the novel, to be the source of both Willie’s peril and salvation, at once the attachment that binds him to earth and the love releasing him to eternity. What bodies allow, and what death steals away, is one of the most powerful forces: presence. The living and the dead rail against the https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514824161174-VHX0B573NP7OA1RETCZO/Paul+Destruction+ONLINE4.jpg Review: Lincoln at the Bardo by George Saunders - Paul Cockeram "Taken by Grief: A Review of George Saunders' Lincoln at the Bardo" barrier separating them. Saunders’ spirits forever lament their lack of visitors, calling out to the living in appeal or anger, while the living speak directly to the dead. A mother who devoted her life to her three children spends her afterlife crushed beneath three bubbles, each of which contains the face of a child speaking about their problems growing up without her, and the mother always gives advice or comfort, none of which her children can hear. Buddhists teach that spirits trapped in the bardo are particularly sensitive to the thoughts and words of the living, which have the power to comfort the recently departed but also the power to trap them in attachments of which they are no longer a part. Willie threatens to become trapped in his mausoleum out of love and loyalty to his father, whose visit makes Willie want to wait around for Lincoln’s next visit, and the next. The selfish aspect of grief refuses to let go of what is already gone, while anger leaves us permanently unsettled with a world that demands we give up so much. For a space in which to work through disappointment and anger, we have the bardo, where the living and dead can talk. In Saunders’ novel, spirits enter Lincoln and each other, dispelling their isolation, and nothing thereafter is the same. Salvation for the spirits of this book - and, it is hard not to suppose, for the rest of us - lies in a particularly radical acceptance, a deliberate setting aside of one’s own will and desires in favor of what one should do. In response to a willful mind, whose natural next question will be Just whose will am I submitting to here?, Saunders suggests it may be God but not necessarily the Christian one, not the bearded, white baritone of popular culture; rather, “an IT, a great beast beyond our understanding, who wants something from us, and we must give it, and all we may control is the spirit in which we give it and the ultimate end which the giving serves” (310). This sort of ego-diminishing surrender to higher power is nearly universal among organized religions and spiritual practices alike, a common ground to all wisdom traditions, and I take it as evidence that Saunders writes in the deeply spiritual domains of death and grief without dogma or agenda, seeking to lift up the few patches of certainty that millennia of civilization and reflection have staked out in supremely uncertain terrain. Here are some more of the novel’s lessons: The positive face of presence is community, where differences either dwindle or are celebrated and, through celebration, lose their potential to divide us. Also, from the inside grief feels eternal, as if only a change to the fundamentals of existence itself will finish it; before we are through weeping, we feel, death might have to end or time and space have https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514824161634-14KQD2I9V1E88PPKF8KH/Paul+Destruction+ONLINE5.jpg Review: Lincoln at the Bardo by George Saunders - Paul Cockeram "Taken by Grief: A Review of George Saunders' Lincoln at the Bardo" to fold back upon themselves, but eventually it becomes clear that, as with all suffering in the face of destruction, the only way out is through. But because this is not theology or self-help but a novel, it does not so much make arguments as invite comparisons - chiefly between death and grief, whose differences collapse ultimately into irrelevance. Both death and grief are revealed as traps, the former stranding us in eternity, the latter holding us to an inescapable present. Both are countries whose borders, once entered, close painfully against retreat. Both are defined by what they lack, yet associated with the greatest possible intimacy, for grief deepens in proportion to our love while death returns all life to the earth, dust to dust. We learn to navigate the anxieties and despair that death and grief induce by watching others, and George Saunders brings a host of such journeys vividly to life. It isn’t a map because there is no map, but a reliable set of reference points can be the next best thing.   http://www.theturnips.net/the-runner daily 0.75 2018-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514826258105-DW63RMI7XSPDIOELNMAE/The+Runner+ONLINE.jpg The Runner by Jeff P. Jones - Jeff P. Jones "The Runner" Jeff P. Jones The Runner   The three of us had hiked the mountain in the middle of the night to get to the cave. No one knew we were there (or so we thought at the time), but it still seemed prudent to post a lookout. So while Charlene and Dave worked inside, I leaned against the cave mouth and kept watch on a moonless world overcast with stars. It must’ve been 2 a.m. when I saw the runner coming. A pinpoint of light moved up the mountain along the trail we’d hiked a few hours ago. It traveled like a satellite across the dark, only its point was below, not above. For a time I watched it and said nothing, mesmerized by its relentless advance. When it grew in size and I could see a ghosted wash of churning legs behind it, I recognized it as a runner holding a powerful flashlight. It flicked in and out as the runner passed trees. He was moving at top speed. I estimated that we had at most four minutes before he reached the cave. I called down to my cohorts, and they rushed out to the cave mouth. They had extinguished their headlamps and I couldn’t see their features, but I could smell the damp earth clinging to their hands. Rumors of the traces of what we’d found on our first surreptitious trip to the cave were already circulating, and we’d fielded questions from several parties, some frightened, some angry, some genuinely curious. As the runner neared it seemed as though he (I already thought of the runner as male) was preceded by something boxy and multi-colored, but the distance and the dark were still too great to make it out. Dave and Charlene took deep breaths and sighed in turn. I felt exhilarated by the situation. Each second became something to treasure. “I wonder who sent him,” I said. “Who do you think,” said Charlene, meaning the outfit that owned the cave and the mountain and the path on which the runner approached. They thought of us as thieves and meddlers, though we knew better. “What does it matter now?” said Dave. “We’ll have to try and stop him.”   Time grew short, but we had the drop, as they say. Only briefly did I consider suggesting that we run for it, up and over the ridge to see if we couldn’t make it down the mountain’s other side. Or perhaps down one of the scree fields that lined the path on either side of the trail where it https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514826258203-6F2RT4NXVX2MYJCOPWNS/The+Runner+ONLINE2.jpg The Runner by Jeff P. Jones - Jeff P. Jones "The Runner" neared the cave. But both options I rejected, the first because none of us could match the runner’s speed and the second because it was cowardly. We decided on an ambush. Charlene ducked back into the cave to retrieve some rope while Dave took practice swings with a short-handed shovel. That left me to watch the runner’s progress, and as I did so, I chewed my cheek and felt a strange affinity for the approaching figure, as if there were no paradox in both cheering on and dreading his arrival. It was clear that he was a determined and capable fellow with a strong dedication to his task. By the time Charlene returned, the runner’s light had disappeared behind a rocky outcropping. The three of us hurried down the trail and took up position behind a boulder. Then came the footsteps, one-two, one-two, one-two, and, thrill of thrills, the sound of the runner’s breath itself, a sharp, surprisingly full nose inhalation followed by a blasted mouth exhalation: hff-woosh, hff-woosh, hff-woosh. Here is the sound of your death, I thought. I tried to time it right and peeked out from behind the boulder. The runner was upon us, not ten meters away. “Dave, now!” I called, though it was already too late. Then Charlene, hearing the futility in my voice, bumped past me and threw herself square in the runner’s path. I stumbled up after her. The runner’s light wasn’t a flashlight after all but a flat lamp like a train’s headlight that was strapped to his chest. It spotlighted Charlene, her mud-spattered Carhartts and frizzy red hair. What he held in front of him, like a cafeteria tray full of food, was a rectangular box of molded plastic with switches and wires and tiny bulbs. In its center hunkered a pair of waxy gray cubes, and we understood the plan: they intended to blow us to smithereens and chalk it up to an unfortunate accident. Charlene threw her arms wide, and it looked like she would tackle him, but then Dave burst out from behind the runner, having crawled around the boulder. With both hands, Dave brandished the shovel over the runner’s skull. The runner turned enough so that Dave’s springy black beard and crazy eyes jumped into sight. This is it, I thought. Dave will kill the man sent to kill us and we’ll be done with it. “Wait,” Charlene said. Dave paused at the last instant. Then, to the runner, she said, “Listen. We don’t want to hurt you unless we have to. Can you imagine cooperating?” The runner drew gasps of breath but even these were controlled in a way that suggested his endurance had hardly been tested. “What did you have in mind?” His voice came out surprisingly high and nasal.   https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514826259560-IRNDYPW29Z7XQFYBFAER/The+Runner+ONLINE3.jpg The Runner by Jeff P. Jones - Jeff P. Jones "The Runner" “First of all, set that down,” Charlene said and motioned with open palms to the tray. The runner bent over, supple and easy, and placed the tray on the ground. Charlene spoke in a weary parent’s voice. “Now turn to the side. You’re shining that damn thing right in my eyes.” The runner did as told and only then could I see what he was wearing. Green nylon shorts split down the sides and a white tank top emblazoned with a rainbow. A small yellow cap with a tiny bill sat atop his head. He looked like he was twenty-two years old, tops. This is what death looks like, I thought with no small amount of incredulity. This is what my death looks like. “What’s your name?” Charlene demanded. “Victor,” the runner said. He was Roman-nosed and thin, his leg and arm muscles stringy and taut. He took a step down the trail, looked as if he might turn and bolt. Dave raised the shovel and stepped closer. “Move another inch and see what happens.” Guided by Charlene, I took the rope from her and bound the runner’s hands. I thought my skin would jolt with an electric charge when I touched him, but nothing. He obliged with my duties and gave no signs of fear or resistance. His skin was slick with a sheen of sweat. I cinched the last knot and he asked, “What are you going to do with me?” “Neutralize you,” Dave said. “I wouldn’t fiddle with those,” Victor said when he saw Charlene squatting in front of the tray and fingering the switches. She ignored him, lifting the tray and carrying it down the trail. She called over her shoulder, “Tie him up in the cave. I’m going to put a big rock between this thing and us.” Relief passed through me. We had vanquished the threat.   Back inside the cave, Dave and I cinched Victor’s ankles together, then laid him on his side and lashed the whole caboodle of his bound body around a rock the size of a small refrigerator. Dave wanted to knock him unconscious, but I suggested that that was overkill, not to mention criminal. “What does it matter now, we’re in so deep?” he said but dropped his uplifted palms and headed into the cave. Charlene returned and we started digging like mad. The three of us toiled away. The traces grew stronger and stronger. The possibilities so enchanted us that we lost ourselves in such a reverie of work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514826259630-ZFB9OO25536ZUD9ZHAHV/The+Runner+ONLINE4.jpg The Runner by Jeff P. Jones - Jeff P. Jones "The Runner" that we failed to notice the sky had lightened until Victor called from above. “I’m sorry, but if I don’t do this, I’m in big trouble.” He stood at the cave mouth silhouetted by the dawn sky. The bindings lay at his feet, and then we saw that the tray did, too. A tiny blue light flashed on it. Here, I thought, fate has caught up to us after all. As much as I hated the inevitability of death, I understood that events would run their necessary course. Charlene dusted off her pants and rubbed cave soil from her palms. “And what about us?” she said. “Aren’t our lives worth a hill of beans?” “Sure they are,” Victor said. “And the discovery,” Dave added. “Are you ready to write it off, too?” “I don’t know anything about that.” Victor’s akimbo arms carved a pair of triangles out of the sky, and those triangles grew lighter as we watched. Victor seemed to be politely waiting for something. Our last words, I thought. He wants a performance. A compulsion rose inside me, and I winced as my teeth started in again on my cheek. That exhilaration returned from earlier in the night, when I’d first glimpsed the runner. “You’re right, Victor,” I said. The unexpected strength in my voice surprised me. “If you don’t do this, you’ll be in trouble. They might even kill you.” Charlene and Dave spun their headlamps toward me. I held up a hand to their objections. Charlene had reasoned and defused. Dave had used force, was even then calculating the thirty seconds it would take to reach Victor. Now I would have to outwit him. I had taken his measure and saw my chance. “We’re nothing to you and why should we be anything? You’ve got so much going for you. You’re obviously a fast runner, faster than any of us. No, don’t be modest. Speed, diligence, persistence, these are your strengths.” Victor stood there mute, trying to grasp where I was headed. “But they’re also a weakness. They give you a false sense of control. I understand that you have to do what you have to do, but let me ask you this. What would it look like if you decided to indulge me in my final moments and considered a request?” “Nah,” Victor said. “I’ll be honest. I haven’t got any backbone. I can’t stand up for anything. They tell me what to do and I do it. I’m like rubber to them. They just use me - ” “ - for their own purposes, yes,” I said. Then it came to me, the line that would buy us passage. “We don’t get to pick the life we’re born into, Victor, but we do, from time to time, get to make a choice. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514826260535-K11N6V18IOKST8HGNSJF/The+Runner+ONLINE5.jpg The Runner by Jeff P. Jones - Jeff P. Jones "The Runner" Here, now, you can still choose.” A chill of pure feeling raced through me. I could tell that my words were sinking in. Victor rubbed his jaw. Bent to retrieve his little yellow cap and pulled it on. Then he said, “Yeah. No. I’m sorry, no choice,” and hovered his foot over the tray and flipped a switch with his toe. The blue light snapped off and a red one started flashing in its place. “I hate to do this to you and all, but you’ve got twenty seconds to say goodbye. There’s no kill switch.” Victor raised his hand in a goodbye wave, and the last we heard of him was that patterned rhythm of foot strikes, one-two, one-two, one-two, making their way down the trail and slipping through our senses like the final knot on a rescue rope. Twenty seconds: an eternity! That third of a minute grew like a gift in our minds and divided and divided again until it contained whole epochs - ages! I tell you - in which to grow old and congratulate each other on accomplishments and share in the sorrow of losses and curse fate and yet persist and rise and fall - and we did, we did, only to find that a mere fraction of our allotted time had passed, and so we lived again, passing still more authentic lives back and forth in glances as we founded new personalities along new principles that granted us new fortunes that we then also outgrew. When these lives, too, had faded, we simply took stock of where we stood in that glorious cave world with the smells of damp soil and rock in the air and a mayfly drifting in. And when we returned to our senses, we knew that never again would we feel such joy. Authentic life would forever after remain beyond our grasp. Whether it was merely a ploy to scare us off, we never did discover, but the explosives failed to detonate. We packed up our gear and hiked out, the momentous find abandoned, and in the years to come, as the memory of that morning and the sight of each other only evoked an increasingly painful sense of loss, we, Charlene, Dave, and I, grew apart.   http://www.theturnips.net/bodies daily 0.75 2018-05-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1516920418829-05U7FGO5GWLLDJLV4IT0/waking+up.png bodies https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1516918479776-GKCZP4UT73E90C9QV6LH/-3.jpg bodies http://www.theturnips.net/submissions daily 0.75 2018-01-28 http://www.theturnips.net/depouille daily 0.75 2018-08-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1534807132812-IF5HKM9VCZ6KPGI30HG9/image-asset.jpeg Dépouille https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1534807222884-W6VWN5XRC5B3Y1L1H3TX/Blake%27s+for+web2.jpg Dépouille http://www.theturnips.net/bodies-toc daily 0.75 2019-09-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1534797267128-OM4ZZZUNQ9C24B05820S/acephale+bodies.png Bodies TOC http://www.theturnips.net/bonnie-lucas daily 0.75 2018-08-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535586572463-GQE6RI11H9GTIALTPN9X/Lucas+WEB.jpg Bonnie Lucas https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535584671249-84QB0RFFA7N1F7UV3R5E/NYC+Dream+2016 Bonnie Lucas NYC Dream 2016. Plaster, purchased objects, oil paint. 7.25 x 10 inches. http://www.theturnips.net/bodies-contributors daily 0.75 2018-08-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535322995973-I9LOVE2P7JL703CFSUU1/Bodies+contributors+web.jpg Bodies Contributors http://www.theturnips.net/embodied-paradox daily 0.75 2018-08-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580411569-RDUPP30BRFQFOO16K4HO/Bodies+Intro+WEB.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580417527-MUUBXDSY0SYU0H3BQGXT/Bodies+Intro+WEB2.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580425872-GGJRIL0RTTFCG01S7H3O/Bodies+Intro+WEB3.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580432995-4MQKKAPASR8HUA0Q5ODF/Bodies+Intro+WEB4.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580441940-6C868417L22RYTAIE6RT/Bodies+Intro+WEB5.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580456223-PGC38C3QPEK0E4S1H8CA/Bodies+Intro+WEB6.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580465563-AH1MQE3VL368CRRIXUQ2/Bodies+Intro+WEB7.jpg Embodied Paradox https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535580474009-IP72VCC27Z99FBPNQQ58/Bodies+Intro+WEB8.jpg Embodied Paradox http://www.theturnips.net/body-images daily 0.75 2018-10-22 http://www.theturnips.net/jack-balas daily 0.75 2018-09-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537453111938-CR5BDNHD09YC1V4XDK6X/Balas+WEB.jpg Jack Balas https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537451619467-458GZKG0UNUUVQ8P9NKI/Screen+Shot+2018-09-19+at+2.13.24+PM.png Jack Balas The Night Watch, 15 x 23 in. Watercolor, acrylic and ink on paper. 2006. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537451615238-DB65CW3H66M4BU5AK85E/Screen+Shot+2018-09-19+at+2.13.06+PM.png Jack Balas Lights Out, 30 x 45 in. Watercolor and ink on two paper panels. 2017. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537539108801-6I4Q9HTYS7QFS8YR6UQK/Screen+Shot+2018-09-21+at+9.02.40+AM.png Jack Balas Do the Math, 30 x 45 in. Watercolor, ink and acrylic on two paper panels. 2016. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537539359987-ULQQ2W0CYKWDQJAGLDJK/Screen+Shot+2018-09-21+at+9.03.36+AM.png Jack Balas Reservoir, 22 x 30 in. Watercolor, acrylic & ink on paper. 2015. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537539435490-QNM2BWVIN4UFPDPUC61R/Screen+Shot+2018-09-21+at+9.16.37+AM.png Jack Balas Tattoo Detour 9, 11 x 14 in. Ink on paper. 2001. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537539601622-CG64I1C3PN3BYTC0MD7R/Screen+Shot+2018-09-21+at+9.17.44+AM.png Jack Balas Tattoo Detour 9, 11 x 14 in. Ink on paper. 2001. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1537539762191-X3SEI84PASZCYK7NJ34E/Screen+Shot+2018-09-21+at+9.18.22+AM.png Jack Balas The Judgement of Paris, 14 x 11 in. Oil on B&W photograph. 2001. http://www.theturnips.net/codes daily 0.75 2019-02-03 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1541191513641-12P57ODV7939CNFNY0H6/Codes-web.jpg Codes http://www.theturnips.net/codes-toc daily 0.75 2019-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1555985902295-SJFOWOHQFW6JEYQKKR5T/Turnips+Codes+WEB.png Codes TOC http://www.theturnips.net/codes-a-turnip-trucks-list daily 0.75 2019-04-23 http://www.theturnips.net/belief daily 0.75 2020-05-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1575395092202-OQD224CUULNDLXJ4A4M5/mary-web.jpg Belief http://www.theturnips.net/blank-practice daily 0.75 2019-12-10 http://www.theturnips.net/belief-contents daily 0.75 2020-09-25 http://www.theturnips.net/geoff-wyss daily 0.75 2020-12-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147870483-C40NZLT27WNOX2NMEO15/Geoff+Wyss+copy.jpg Geoff Wyss Geoff Wyss Stereo Then the election happened, and I was hoping I had had a heart attack. Only much later, looking back, did I recognize that my months of chest pain corresponded to the presidential campaign and its aftermath. It is characteristic of me that I did not suppose my symptoms could be caused by something outside me, as if I can be explained only by my own remarkable virtues and defects. It is also characteristic, now, to regret the lost opportunity of attributing my pain to the election and thus taking credit for a political conviction so deep it registered in the core of my body. Doing so would have made me equal to my friends who were carrying signs and collecting signatures, resisting in deed as well as thought. Many of those friends were writers whose activism I diminished by imagining that they had stopped writing to perform it or by assuring myself that politics would infiltrate and ruin their writing. In August I had collapsed while mowing the lawn. It was a New Orleans summer morning, smothering at first light, the air redoubling my sweat. I waved at my wife driving away to work and bent for an armload of grass and the world went white. I landed somewhere soft and dark inside myself. When my vision returned, I was lying on the sidewalk looking up at a glaze of sky with a black bird flying across it. Something was fluttering wildly; a finger pressed to my throat found heartbeats leaping over heartbeats. Is this death? I wondered. I was not afraid, only curious. The answer related to me but did not concern me, like geography, like time. Instead of sensation in my hands and feet, I had the blissful knowledge of the insignificance of my life and the assurance that anything so small would be pardoned. I have fainted several times and each time experienced the same delicious loss of agency, an almost holy passivity which I recognize as one of the basic desires of my https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147880430-NSSWXCPZKZPQMTR4HJV6/Geoff+Wyss+copy2.jpg Geoff Wyss nature. When my pulse finally clattered back onto its rails, I stood, feeling wrung out, soft, and new. I write these sentences the day after Mardi Gras. Yesterday I wore lipstick, a pageboy wig, and a white leotard with RUSSIA WOMEN’S GYMNASTICS TEAM lettered in red on the front and MAKE THE OLYMPICS GREAT AGAIN on the back. Here was my politics: satire on Donald Trump’s Russophilia refracted through the muddled signifiers of Mardi Gras. I can no longer summon the nausea I felt two weeks ago when my cardiologist described the wire he would thread through my heart in search of nerves to cauterize, but I still feel the queasiness I felt yesterday when, at the end of a day of beautiful fun, I turned on the TV to see Donald Trump addressing a joint session of Congress. It was not a metaphorical queasiness. My stomach squeezed in revolt at the irreal made real, plausibility dashed to nonsense. A politician is always a piece of popular fiction, a story. The Boy from Hope, Yes We Can, and so on. But a Donald Trump presidency is a cynical fiction that does not even pretend to believe in itself, a sneering at story. That millions of people, many of them in my family, would wish to consume Donald Trump as a cultural product I can understand only as a repudiation of art, of the kind of belief art requires. “Drain the Swamp” was never something anyone believed, only a grenade tossed at the foundation of plot and structure. “Lock Her Up” never meant anything more than “Narrative Is Over.” All of which means that a Donald Trump presidency may in fact be a work of high genius in the subgenre of performance art known as trolling. Here I am out of my depth. I have as meager an understanding of the forms and conventions of trolling, as little chance of judging its quality, as the average viewer of Fox News would have of understanding Gertrude Stein. I am credulous and thus easy to troll. It makes me feel stupid, powerless, and angry, just as I felt after Donald Trump’s opening sentence drove me from the room—a nod to Black History Month by the bigot-in-chief—and I lay in bed retaliating with the only weapon I had, fiction. It is discovered that Trump cannot read when https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147962273-YI5CRQI36PMUUB8OTTGF/Geoff+Wyss+copy3.jpg Geoff Wyss he is caught on film sounding out the words in Dreams from My Father. A Secret Service drone dispatched to move Trump’s golf ball to a better lie is hacked by the Iranian Republican Guard and wheels back on the president with its vicious little blades. Trump grabs a pussy that transforms into a vagina dentata and devours him whole. But I could not believe in any of it. Fiction in any form felt weak and foolish against the distortions of reality. I fell into drunken sleep and dreamed about my brother. He was driving, my father and I in the back seat. My brother reached to the radio and turned on Rush Limbaugh. Or spoke with Rush Limbaugh’s voice, or first one and then the other. I had the sense in the dream—as is true in life—that I had been avoiding the subject of politics in interactions with him but that his turning on the radio had breached this proscribed territory and that—as I have often fantasized about in life—I could now tell him what I thought of him. With the rhetorical fluency I possess only in lucid dreams, I denounced my brother’s sources of information as purveyors of rank falsehoods who played him for a fool. Hannity, O’Reily, and the other hucksters of illiberalism had exploited his credulity and served it up to their paymasters. My brother—who never turned around in the dream and thus effectively had no face—tried to respond but could produce only an aggrieved, impotent mew. The dream ended with my brother in a silent ferment of embarrassment, my father confirming my triumph with a backseat smirk. As wish fulfillment, this dream is fairly transparent. All I have wanted from my brother for the past two years is that he and his politics would shut up. No, more: that he would be shamed by some final arbiter, have his language shoved back down his throat. But even in this dream, where the mind might write what it wants, my brother is the one driving, and it is his hand on the radio. If, as Freud suggests, our dreams are concocted from each day’s materials, then my brother’s hand on the dial finds its source in the daily reach of my own hand to the radio in search of music that has not been stolen from me https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147963034-N3OLCFZUYC03WGQK7OCV/Geoff+Wyss+copy4.jpg Geoff Wyss and awarded, by the dark catalyst of the election, to my brother. All the music we grew up with is now his. My ears tell me it belongs to the other party. The dream could not give me my music back, nor could it fulfill my true wish: not that my brother would shut up but that he would confess, in direct language, regret for his racism, intolerance, proud ignorance, and contempt for fact. When my brother says that Philando Castile deserved to get shot because he had multiple moving violations, when he dismisses NASA’s findings on climate change with like I’m gunna trust NASA, I feel the special despondency of a teacher confronted with the dismal results of American education. The despondency inheres in the word American, which reminds me that it cannot be different and that we do not want it to be different. Blaming teachers for people who can’t think critically or understand how numbers work is like blaming the landscaper for a drought. Blame instead a childhood in which my brother never read a book nor was encouraged to. Our house was in this way like every other house we knew, so blame not my parents but Peoria, Illinois, which is to say precarious middle-class existence and the distrust of thought that is its corollary, blame agriculture and industry for making the Midwest in their image, blame the land for being fertile and rivers for having been laid where they were. Blame The Dukes of Hazzard, Kiss Alive!, the Atari 2600, George Lucas, Evel Knieval. It is an education problem, yes. But my brother and I shared a bedroom and the television and music in it, sat in the same classes in the same schools, and perhaps that is why when my wife reads my brother’s Facebook posts and says aloud what I am thinking, that he is so dumb, my instinct is to defend him. He built a recording studio in his basement and produced albums for bands across the Midwest. He passed the licensure exam to become an insurance agent and owns a successful State Farm franchise. He had to be playing dumb to provoke me, the way a student sometimes will, despite—or because of—the audience watching our exchanges. It was my sense that what I deserved was provocation (not least for https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147964808-P9RJ2VJU0DUXI4XKR3R3/Geoff+Wyss+copy5.jpg Geoff Wyss thinking that it was my job to teach my brother something) that made me unable to call him out on his act. I knew I would not be able to ask the cardiologist whether I had had a heart attack without revealing that I wanted to have had one. To be more precise, I wanted the gravity of a heart attack without the consequences, the gravity of death without death. I felt two things powerfully: a desire to be declared enviably, even superhumanly healthy and at the same time mortally ill. The first would certify my physical and moral fiber for having placed me above illness and assign science to my sense that I was special; the second would set a baseline of debility from which even small accomplishments like taking out the garbage or writing a few sentences of fiction would count as acts of bravery. My ambivalence was perhaps best indicated by the fact that I allowed three months to elapse after my fainting spell before I made an appointment. I met with a nurse practitioner to organize my tests and in a second visit was shaved and wired for an EKG and in a third knurled in the dark for an ultrasound, all without ever glimpsing Dr. Frank Wilklow, the man who would deliver my fate. Finally I sat waiting in a room hung with posters illustrating the audacious feats he was prepared to perform deep inside my person. My faith in the stories on those posters, in the science behind them, imbued Frank Wilklow with the force of a higher power as he entered the room and took his stool. He knew everything about me from my charts, but he asked me to describe my condition. I had been experiencing pain, perhaps more a tightness or squeeze, in my chest. The tightness sometimes registered as a pinch under my left collarbone. Activities that would not have taxed me before, like climbing stairs or wheeling the garbage can to the curb, left me short of breath. I realized I was trembling, not from the cold of the room but from the ecstasy of being so closely listened to. I had related my symptoms to the nurse practitioner but had known that was a kind of rough draft; my revisions for this moment, made in the weeks between, were as careful as those for any story https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147965873-49DF1AEQNCQ3MXBOIX0B/Geoff+Wyss+copy6.jpg Geoff Wyss I was readying for publication. The words squeeze and pinch had survived comparison with a dozen other words and were now enjoying a potency under the intensity of Frank Wilklow’s audience that they could never achieve in a classroom of students or in conversation with my wife or, in fact, in any piece of writing. To be listened to is laid bare, in such moments, as my deepest desire. Frank Wilklow’s attention redeemed the existential erasure of the many exchanges when I sense my interlocutor is hearing not me but the noises in his mind. Sometimes, desperately, I throw handfuls of words against that unlistening like sand against a fortification until their ability to signify disintegrates and I am left with a mouthful of dust. Frank Wilklow explained the conclusions of my blood work and ultrasound and nuclear scan, the huge balls of his eyes both expressive, even pathetic, and supernaturally impersonal. I would have been content—even elated, freed—if he had informed me that I was a dead man and must get my affairs in order. I was equally prepared to receive the opposite charge: Your lot is life, go forth and live with courage. Instead he said, Your heart rate is abnormally low and indicates a problem. You will soon need a pacemaker or have to undergo an ablation. The word ablation whispers me down Magazine Street. The clocks have jumped forward overnight, so the Sunday morning drive is dark and beautiful, my tires hushing their wet ablation to the street lights and store lights. The rain has not deterred the people drinking outside Les Bon Temps or, a few blocks farther on, Miss Mae’s. I write fantasies of delicious waste onto their lives, their lives off to the side, ablated. The word, repeated, gains authority behind its etymological fog. A Magazine Street misted by rain cannot be assigned words without sentimentalizing it, so I will merely drive its length here in the ablative and, when I arrive at WRBH, duck through the drizzle to a seat on its creaky porch. The morning is too cold for my shorts, but the wicker chair is dry. The radio station where I read news on Sundays is retrofitted into a three-story https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147967285-D50JEBFRZYOAIMX0ZO6V/Geoff+Wyss+copy7.jpg Geoff Wyss house that looks out through live oaks onto a quiet block with an antique shop and an Ace Hardware. Through the windows behind me, a bank of computers throws auxiliary light onto donated desks and bookshelves. There is no one here yet; the voice from inside is a recorded voice sent out upon the dark by machines. I wake my iPad. When my SimCity catches the station’s wifi, I refill my factories, collect my taxes. Squirrels stitch their pursuit and escape through the oaks. On the sidewalk a jogger fords gray light. Hey, Geoff. Sorry. Dell is late every week and every week apologizes. I am shivering by the time he bends his face to within an inch of the low lock, fights the key, then gives up and runs to the back door, which he does every week. Inside he hastens his preparations under the goad of his lateness, but I am in no hurry. I enjoy being the first person in a place waiting for people—the English office on school mornings, boarding areas in airports—and as Dell boots up the workstations, I wander back to the kitchen to see it in the dark. It’s an ugly, ad hoc room carved from something larger, with a bricked-over fireplace and a drainboard of yesterday’s silverware, beautiful in its rendition of specific ugliness. The guilt I feel for the disposable cup I hold to the water cooler is offset, illogically, by the idea that I am volunteering my time to read for the blind. In fact I do not know if that is what I do. I read once a week for a radio station serving the blind and print-handicapped, but I have never met one of these blind people or anyone who has heard me on the radio. Yet it was the image of myself opening a book at a blind person’s bedside that I permitted myself when I auditioned and which I still call upon as a visual representation of my service. Yes: my imagination put the blind in a sickbed. I was bringing the gift of words to someone who could not go and find them; he was my immobilized audience. Recording my program in a booth attenuates the feeling of virtue, but it has the advantage of my not having to interact with the actual person. Truly my one dissatisfaction with the experience is that https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147968094-09DP5LOTREZXSR40TS6R/Geoff+Wyss+copy8.jpg Geoff Wyss it is never a book Dell hands me but the iPad he is smashing against his face when I return from the kitchen. Just waiting for the download, he says, his eyes wide with the glow. The Week? I ask. He hands me the device in confirmation: Good to go, Booth Two. I wedge through the strong-springed doors (outer and inner, both inset with windows and separated by two inches of air), carrying the station’s iPad and the laminated intro card, my own iPad, the cup of water, and the transmitter for my thirty-day heart monitor. The booth is little more than a desk with walls around it—an idealized desk if, like me, you prefer the fetishizing power of confined spaces. I pull the microphone to my mouth, cant the iPad on its easel. I set the timer by clicking the plastic tumblers and plunging a button to refresh the LED readout. (The plunger’s resistant squeak shares a vintage with the Reset button of an Atari 2600; the red overshine of the LED lights is that of the calculators my brother and I turned upside down to spell BOOBLESS in 1980.) I position and experimentally press the Mute box (itself like nothing so much as the guitar pedals my brother and I were using a few years later), clear my throat, press the Start button, and read from the card: Welcome to WRBH’s reading of The Week, the best of U.S. and International Media. I once embarrassed myself by using the phrase weekly news program to describe what I do on the radio, as if my work is akin to Bob Schieffer’s, Fareed Zakaria’s, when in fact I mindlessly read a digital publication so insubstantial that total ignorance might be preferable. The Week collects content from newspapers and magazines and condenses it into digestible slices: three hundred words on Brexit, three hundred on Frauke Petry, three hundred on Rodrigo Duterte. But it is my favorite assignment at WRBH because its superficiality allows me to play SimCity while I read, my left hand swiping a story about public transportation in Johannesburg and my right https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147970004-YJMT3CIZHXMCBW2S3MM6/Geoff+Wyss+copy9.jpg Geoff Wyss surveying the International Market or choosing an assignment in the Contest of Mayors. I ask Dell, when I’ve finished my session, whether we know how many people listen to the station in general or to any program in particular. We do not. The possibility that I read for an hour and Dell records and later broadcasts it for perhaps no one at all gives me intense pleasure. The ramshackle station seems to me in that moment a metaphor whose mysteries I have been initiated into, philosophy rather than function. In the outer room, the Callahans have arrived and are rehearsing the Sunday funnies, voicing the characters and preparing to transform the five minutes of despondency that is the actual experience of reading the Sunday funnies into a queerly charming hour that is—now that I think of it—exactly what I would want from radio if I were blind. I sometimes fantasize about being blind, imagining it as a better form of priesthood in which my subsistence would be provided from without, my only job to exist. This is stupid, but I recognize the desires hiding inside it: To be released from other people’s physical appearances, released from my own. To escape the visual despair of made things which my eyes suffer in multitude but which in my blindness could approach my body only singly. To begin anew with the written word and perhaps with language itself, whose integrity I have lost faith in by virtue of my long looking. I am made aware, writing this, that when I imagine myself as a blind person, I am someone else: a white man of perhaps thirty-five with the regular features and neat hair of a personage from 1950s television. I sit at a formica table with a banded metal edge, consuming a moderate lunch of . . . I can’t quite make out the food, I suppose a sandwich and tidy pile of chips, but certainly resting on one of the square vinyl plates my mother and stepfather had in 1978. If this is the kind of thing my imagination gets up to when it is unsupervised, it doesn’t speak well for my ability to compose fiction or conceive believable other selves. Or perhaps this bland, blind self is projected from the pre-creative engine where dreams are made, as a fulfillment of my wish to be left https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147970874-UP0HOW1EIOSM2IO9OE3L/Geoff+Wyss+copy10.jpg Geoff Wyss anonymously alone. But my blind self is, of course, not alone; it is attended by my watching second self across the table, the blind me being seen being blind. In my lap as I write this is the passage from Austerlitz in which Sebald expresses a similar fantasy of blindness, one free of the constant compulsion to read and write, a compulsion that in his case resulted in temporary blindness. It is my sense of Donald Trump as the embodiment of a force that has ruined my ability to write that explains my special animus for him. My brother in his guise on Facebook is a local version of the same force. SimCity Buildit beckoning as I write this is its attractive version. Fiction, like fact, has disintegrated into digits, and Donald Trump is the grotesque monster walking through the ruins. It is not language in general I care about. Donald Trump’s scorn for words and psychopathically hollow use of them are not different in kind and only slightly different in degree from the great American junking of language which, along with our junking of food and the environment, has been decades in the making and should be understood as our real political program. For thirty years, I considered these depredations publicly lamentable but personally useful: with language in general so impossibly broken, no one would bother about me in my quiet corner stacking my private sentences, which was finally the only the thing I cared about. Then the chattering came to find me. I search memory for a crossed line and find none unless it was my creation of a Facebook page, in 2012, to promote a book of stories I had published, more generally to promote myself as a writer, to promote myself. Nothing is more distasteful to me than writers promoting their work on Facebook; even writers I like as people I hate in their online persons when they announce however humbly that they have published a story or poem or won a contest. Each such post registers not as a social offense but a personal offense, an injury to me. But surely my own online persona would be different, for who could hate me, how could my pureness of spirit be misunderstood? The only thing I accomplished in the months https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147972793-O36039RBE0G19E3NR8CC/Geoff+Wyss+copy11.jpg Geoff Wyss I maintained my page was to learn the lesson of my inaudibility. Clicking Post entered my writing into the general clamor, putting it into discourse with Walter White and Katniss Everdeen, the latest school shooter, wildfires, abductions, series finales, in short all stories in every medium on every platform. That I stopped writing fiction because it became inconceivable that anyone would need another story is one way to put it. The other way to put it is that I became convinced no one was listening. To initiate my thirty-day wearable heart monitor, I shaved an oval into my chest, peeled the adhesive from the monitor, and pressed it firmly to my skin. My participation in the technology, beyond producing the involuntary data, was limited to a green button in the center of the monitor which I was to press if I experienced symptoms. That very morning I experienced symptoms and pressed the button. The phone rang. It was Antonia from the monitoring company calling to ask why I had pressed the button. A glitch in my heart had leapt forth to ride the cell towers from here to Minnesota and express itself on a screen where Antonia was studying my vital signs in the dark. Or, probably, she was sitting in an offshore call center—she had an accent I could not place—contracted by the monitoring company to buffer it from liability if I had a heart attack and mistook the monitor for an emergency alert. So the delight I felt in having linked my body into the datasphere so deeply that every heartbeat sent a ripple through Information—the delight of being extrahuman—was offset by the diminishment I feel whenever I speak to someone at a call center, to whom I am merely information. Nor did Antonia’s questions, read from a script, satisfy my desire to be doctored and nursed, doted on, that great pleasure of being sick. Plus, I hate to answer a ringing phone. I especially do not want a phone to ring at four-thirty in the morning when I am writing, which is often when I experience symptoms (as I do now, writing this sentence). So, in the twenty days since pressing the button, I have not pressed https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601147973076-85KOC1R4ALO1VKM0EOS8/Geoff+Wyss+copy12.jpg Geoff Wyss it again, in my stubbornness continuing to wear the monitor but withholding myself from it. I would be curious to know what Antonia sees on her screen when I open SimCity Buildit. No doubt a quickening of pulse, arteries flexing open to feed my eager brain: The long moments of the app’s loading narrow my breath the way a woman removing her clothes once would have. The EA logo screen gives way to my city spread before me, the camera swooping low over the border mountains and gliding to the city center, my hard-won Eiffel Tower and the watery bridgeworks around it. Sometimes it is day when I arrive; sometimes, as now, deep night, the avenues lamped and towers dazzling the air with light. I collect the proceeds of my trade depot; I pop comment bubbles and collect the prizes inside; I upgrade a road. When my city was new, just unelectrified shacks in a field, its ugly weakness seemed my own, its incompleteness an accurate portrait of me. Now that my city is nearly finished—the map filled and only small details to address—the city has achieved a life separate from me and needs me only as agent, not maker. I have joined a new Mayors Club of players from France, the U.K., Norway, Germany, Turkey, India, and China. In my previous all-American club, my early-to-bed habits meant I was asleep during prime trading hours and found the club chat silent at five a.m. But my American morning is midday for Alexandria in Oslo and U-235 in Bern, and Soumya in Kolkata is logging on after his workday. Platin Lane, the club’s German president, has the most beautiful city I have seen in the game: double boulevards, a profusion of gardens and public squares, a subtle play of symmetries: a city of space and light. His aesthetic is so coherent and graceful that I cannot learn from it, only appreciate it. Our Turkish vice-president, BalkeS, has packed his city with relentless housing blocks, row upon duplicate row, yielding a population of 5.2 million, a number I would not have thought possible within the bounds of the Sim map. He cares so little about aesthetics that instead of varying his beach with aquarium, roller coaster, volleyball center, or https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345279190-DS4LJ53IGCAGBLUVKOXY/Geoff+Wyss+13.jpg Geoff Wyss https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345279745-D8A69KSTKGL84WU9PG1Y/Geoff+Wyss+14.jpg Geoff Wyss https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345280543-7NR9EY8R3HLS772920U2/Geoff+Wyss+15.jpg Geoff Wyss https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345280588-PTZGQSJMQT9YOE8BZLTF/Geoff+Wyss+16.jpg Geoff Wyss https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345281487-54DGMU3UOJUULWJJ3LP3/Geoff+Wyss+17.jpg Geoff Wyss https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609345281675-CD9R8M3JVHI690WW5DQP/Geoff+Wyss+18.jpg Geoff Wyss http://www.theturnips.net/a-treasury-of-belifs daily 0.75 2020-09-26 http://www.theturnips.net/jenhirt daily 0.75 2020-12-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609342832898-DJ51LC0ZQ0K8FGPGW04O/Jen+Hirt+Online.jpg Jen Hirt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609342833697-XCEPTL9UIZC674MM1G5E/Jen+Hirt+Online2.jpg Jen Hirt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609342834438-M6M8G1G0G7K85DC2WS4E/Jen+Hirt+Online3.jpg Jen Hirt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609343212052-P5Q0JHW2DDC1RK7XOEFI/Jen+Hirt+Online+p+4+revised.jpg Jen Hirt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609342835390-LLN7E38QVAS0Y8AF5Y34/Jen+Hirt+Online5.jpg Jen Hirt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609184473419-GJMJLMJIQ8E5T0PLSXY1/Untitled_Artwork.png Jen Hirt http://www.theturnips.net/new-products daily 0.75 2021-01-01 http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/ft2qil18uz49rdb6uye80phm1vahoz monthly 0.5 2021-10-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1609532635583-323MOGDPN9CB0WP9PMAJ/Belief+Digital+cover+WEB.png Store - Vol. 5 No. 1 Belief (Digital) http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/vol-5-no-1-belief monthly 0.5 2021-10-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1601074419940-KHWVG0TU2KS1ZUGNA8XB/belief+web+cover+2.png Store - Vol. 5 No. 1 Belief http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/vol-4-no-2-codes-digital monthly 0.5 2019-09-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1564417440425-3ASIU46VRFGN9C5Y2E6A/Codes+Digital+cover+WEB.png Store - Vol. 4 No. 2 Codes (Digital) http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/codes-vol-4-no-2-springsummer-2019 monthly 0.5 2020-09-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1555984994077-FBFGA5ZTSV6CK4CR2LBZ/Turnips+Codes+WEB.png Store - Vol. 4 No. 2 Codes http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/movyt8ee89bd29mj7f33w437iyp6kq monthly 0.5 2019-09-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1535591272674-VFGB1S4OJBTSNY9R7EHL/Bodies+Turnips+Covers+for+web.png Store - Vol. 4 No. 1 Bodies (Digital) http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/9nlyj756sfmpkplwdv5tt1ii8u3wp3 monthly 0.5 2020-09-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1531511426661-QCQ09ZDU7XNHZRXODXZS/Bodies+WEB+cover.png Store - Vol. 4 No. 1 Bodies http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/c3r0i4sl5gfgi8ztdgww7ka1w5oivo monthly 0.5 2019-07-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1514667183226-YXE6K2PNFIQOI91DZYFW/thumb-1920-687706.jpg Store - Vol. 3 No. 2 Destruction (Digital) - Destruction digital issue cover http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/preorder-vol-4-no-2-destruction monthly 0.5 2019-09-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1508782675734-BGJEPFK4PIDRHEKSZ5NB/destruction+for+web.png Store - Vol. 3 No. 2 Destruction - Destruction Cover http://www.theturnips.net/new-products/b9c9jft4mtb74xq11ijtq15z2pilh3 monthly 0.5 2019-07-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54d525fce4b0b5eb6b30e761/1494968138655-SI72KZDWY67R011IZXMF/abundance+digital+cover.png Store - Vol. 3. 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