Expat Press Forums - words+misc.

Expat Press Forums => Lit => Topic started by: Ryan Bry (00VaporWhale00) on May 01, 2018, 12:34:37 PM

Title: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Ryan Bry (00VaporWhale00) on May 01, 2018, 12:34:37 PM
Let's talk about literature that makes us feel like reality is pinballing or maybe just grazing like an absurdist rainbow cow without a care for the windmills
that make no noise except when chewed by steam babies... let's talk about poetry that forces you into the ether with a knapsack full of creamy
potatoes as your guide.

I was Trying to Describe You to Someone by Richard Brautigan

I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don’t look like any girl I’ve ever seen before.

I couldn’t say “Well she looks just like Jane Fonda, except that she’s got red hair, and her mouth is different and of course, she’s not a movie star…”

I couldn’t say that because you don’t look like Jane Fonda at all.

I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child in Tacoma Washington. I guess I saw it in 1941 or 42, somewhere in there. I think I was seven, or eight, or six.

It was a movie about rural electrification, a perfect 1930’s New Deal morality kind of movie to show kids. The movie was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They had to use lanterns to see by at night, for sewing and reading, and they didn’t have any appliances like toasters or washing machines, and they couldn’t listen to the radio. They built a dam with big electric generators and they put poles across the countryside and strung wire over fields and pastures.

There was an incredible heroic dimension that came from the simple putting up of poles for the wires to travel along. They looked ancient and modern at the same time.

Then the movie showed electricity like a young Greek god, coming to the farmer to take away forever the dark ways of his life. Suddenly, religiously, with the throwing of a switch, the farmer had electric lights to see by when he milked his cows in the early black winter mornings. The farmer’s family got to listen to the radio and have a toaster and lots of bright lights to sew dresses and read the newspaper by.

It was really a fantastic movie and excited me like listening to the Star Spangled Banner, or seeing photographs of President Roosevelt, or hearing him on the radio “… the President of the United States… “

I wanted electricity to go everywhere in the world. I wanted all the farmers in the world to be able to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio….

And that’s how you look to me.
Title: Re: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Ryan Bry (00VaporWhale00) on May 14, 2018, 02:48:16 AM
Title: Re: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Ryan Bry (00VaporWhale00) on May 31, 2018, 08:15:52 AM

The Bell
   The Bell was water-covered and ringed with emergent blackberries.  Spiros made the taut drupelets of a green blackberry apparent to his fingers.  He released them as one: into the air where they unfastened.  Little rigid orbs pinged the brass-bell, they fell into grass.  He circled the Bell.  The water moved in a downward bell-like manner.  The Bell reflected the forest into itself, the water-brass bell.  The forest moved in a sideways Spiros-like manner.  He looked: the sun—a single-holed watering can—poured into the air a single stream that belled itself at the beginning of the Bell.  The beginning was a bathysphere—windowless.  It dove above the leaves into a consistent sun-stream.   Spiros imagined an elevator shaft of water.  He still circled the Bell, and in it the forest was moving bigger.  The trees spiraled into Spiros literally—his feet pressed a number of green blackberries to the ground, one shoulder compressed by the hard forest into his body, his other was wet with the warmth of the water.  He turned for the sake of room and found himself attached to the Bell, swallowed into the drown of the cover-water and its shining blindness.

   He was inside.  The Bell had no ball-bell, no space to sound except inside.

   The walls had just the sun-stream.  The only brass: the plain bathysphere above.

   There was a sound inside . . . it began.  No, it always began.

   The sound made the beginning of a song, before it could be realized as a song.

   There was a man inside.

   He had formal dress and no eyes.  No, just no eye-lashes.  They were closed.

   Spiros wondered if the blackberries became blackberries.

   The man sang—counterpart.
Title: Re: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Sprague Dawley on March 13, 2019, 04:08:19 PM
Title: Re: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Ryan Bry (00VaporWhale00) on March 16, 2019, 10:02:31 PM

Title: Re: surreal lit appreciation thread
Post by: Sprague Dawley on March 17, 2019, 01:23:22 AM
bugger me, E.T's been around the block. who fucken knew.