Sometimes I think that the whole reason I met him was to discover that his wife was studying Counseling Psychology, if indeed that is the name of something a person might actually learn, with the great-grand-niece of Frida Kahlo. In the narrative of desire, perhaps what matters is not intimacy but it's counterpart: a new thought. In this sense, the lover is a necessary force, but rarely it's limit. I said: "Maybe this is the reason we met." Thinking of the yellow table, the third eye, the monkey in her arms. Dominant. I begged for an introduction, forgetting for a moment who I was. To him. For her. A cunt. Do cunts get to meet Frida Kahlo? In the flesh? Greeley, Colorado is where the slaughterhouses are. I'd like to visit that university town.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 27, 2008
Get the Narrative mug.This is not caution. I am a university professor. It is not a particularly cautious act/behavior to write vaguely disgusting and diachronic definitions of angels, wolves and migration on a public dictionary site that anyone could read. I like writing my autobiography in the form of Urban Dictionary definitions. This is not, as I said, caution.
Writing intensely personal definitions of futurity, modernity, you name it, on a public dictionary site that you will have no access to once you press send. To do this without caution.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist July 22, 2012
Get the Caution mug.An entity who carries stories the way other entities carry bits of twig or children with big eyes or a carapace.. I cannot say the human being has a set of appendages or that he or she has language. It's not about that. It's not about movement. It's not about sounds that are held in the body. When I boil up a human being (which is horrible to think about, I'm sorry), I get: narrative. As the distinguishing trait.
I mean, she broke up with me, but she broke up with me in the morning. She was a real human being about it, you know? She spent the night.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 17, 2008
Get the human being mug.Any day that has an airport, from which you text-message a person you once loved, and they write back, after 40 minutes: "Wow. Safe travels." And, feeling stupid, you stare out at the Manhattan skyline, observing how the Empire State Building is both absorbed into the silver gelatin sky and periodically released by it, when the gold light floods the sky just after dawn. Clouds. Newark. The feeling that you are about to get on a plane and travel in the opposite direction to what the heart wants. That kind of bittersweet melancholy and imperfect nutrition -- you've just ordered a fruit salad that seems to be fermenting in it's plastic tub -- constitutes the soft day with no misgivings, but a profound inability to think things through.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 17, 2008
Get the Soft Day mug.Redness that's both linked and operative: mythologically unitary, but actually not contained. I refer you to the arteries and veins and also the valves which, on Miss Libby's echocardiogram, resembled baskets of kelp. Miss Libby is no longer with us. The heart fails. Perhaps it is better not to pick up with another human being. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and raspberry jam for breakfast? No. The heart is an open system. The heart is real. I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want another dog. I want red things: What moves my blood. Writing. I want the book to come.
What was the name of that French film? The one with Beatrice Dalle riding a dog sleigh at the end? I loved that shot where the girl's heart was lying next to her, wrapped in a T-shirt, throbbing in the snow. Did I really see that? I always like writing afterwards, but then I write something new. I wish I still had the soundtrack to Betty Blue.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 20, 2008
Get the Heart mug.Obviously: the deluxe cheeseburger franchise. Apparently: Brooklyn. But actually: the initials of an obscure experimental prose writer of Punjabi/British origin. Author of: "Monsters I have Known": an essay on inter-racial romances that ends with the soulful but unkempt and aforementioned BK drowning her sorrows in short, skim milk lattes, even though it is a well-documented fact that too much coffee makes her impervious to omens and others signs that things are or are not going well. Which is no way to live. It's precarious, and does not necessarily lead to a marital outcome. But there you have it.
With a big sigh, BK flipped through the glossy pages of Cottage Living, even though it was was clear that the so-called cottages were really five bedroom annexes to an already established empire of primrose-yellow wallpapered mansions in places like Vermont and Southern California.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 23, 2008
Get the BK mug.It did not make me happy, exactly, to give birth. In fact, I felt numb and lay, without urgency, in a bath of flowers and herbs, afterwards. Numbness is transgressive. Numbness, though it isn't happiness: helps. It helps to burn the hours into days.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist August 14, 2010
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