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Tweet Once, in a workshop, I was pressed by a shockingly hostile roundtable of peers to explain why, precisely, it is that I write. Within the cobwebby cortex of my brain, a number of fragmented imaginings popped and fizzed like fireworks as, aloud, I moved through a series of speech disfluencies—“uh,” “well,” “you know,” . . . → Read More: I Am Trying to Break Your Heart Tweet EXPLANATIONS Sesquipedalism.com exists for three reasons, unless of course you count sheer vanity—then its purpose is fourfold. First and foremost, Sesquipedalism.com is here because writing is about communication. Writing is about interiority: the feeling that you are inhabiting the consciousness of someone else, or that someone else is inhabiting yours; the feeling of “getting” someone, . . . → Read More: The Success of the Venture Depends on You (No Pressure) Tweet Take, for instance, the three-minute introductory sequence of Busted Hub. A logy wipe like the cockeyed rising of Venetian blinds opens the film. Trevor Czewski, greasy-haired and wrapped in a blue/black flannel, sighs in the cracked vinyl front seat of his Chevette.[1]* His left cheekbone bears a recently popped pimple which one will watch Trevor, . . . → Read More: All the Little Moving Parts Tweet I just want to be the soft flocking of yellow light in a young girl’s bed- room as she writes her diary, feeling comforted, warm, held. And when she closes the book, ties back hair and dampens the billiard green lamp on a bedside table, I could become the stars. Is this too much to . . . → Read More: Paige Tweet Because we both have held ourselves together with fishnet as clothing; because we both have lost the ability to cry for real life the way we cry for films; because we both have dreamt that our teeth are falling out— moldering, crumbling, leaving moonscape craters and the negative space in smooth, hollow sockets; I allow . . . → Read More: Triage Tweet A sustained bottom note trill; ribbed noise like a mallet run down a baritone bone xylophone. Everything evanescing, exploding up through my esophagus; tiny throat echoing the turning over of my guts. The cacophony leaves a noxious cloud as wake, the effluvium of Laphroaig, garlicky grease, red vinegar and maybe the animal crackers I dunked . . . → Read More: The Belch Tweet 22nd August 2008 I began to weep with the first drumbeat. The gurgling, pre-recorded, public address system-blasted strains of “999,999”—which sounds very much like a man overpowered, dragged underwater by an inexorable force to a place familiar, yet undesirable—had faded in so gradually that neither the audience in general nor I had noticed it . . . → Read More: In This Twilight Tweet Originally, I was only trying to explain the subtler nuances of the moment to my friend. In the explicated memory, I had quit smoking weeks previously and my sense of smell, deadened by the habit, had returned all at once, all while I slept in on a March morning. I knew something had changed, but . . . → Read More: The Rationale of Sesquipedalism |
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