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I am now stationed in Seattle, where it doesn't actually rain all the time. These recent days have been spent exploring the city and plotting long jogs around small parks as well as where we ought to meet some interesting people to befriend. Meanwhile, the job hunt continues.
Mar 14
The time to begin preparation for my big move has come yet again. In the quest for my resume, I unearthed a review written this past November when I was in London, café-locked near Brick Lane. Giorgio Manganelli's short story collection, Centuria: One Hundred Ouroboric Novels, was finally released in paperback.

Like many that have come before it, this collection speaks of the everyman, who, in Manganelli’s opinion, takes life far too seriously. For him, per vivere e godersi la vita romantica is to live without complication, with decisiveness, patience, and a gray linen suit.

With an earnest mind and clever hand, Manganelli makes light of the everyman’s plight, which is nothing more than to make it through life unscathed. Like his fellow Italian avant-gardist Italo Calvino, Manganelli writes of a reality where self-pity gets a man nowhere and self-love permits him a solitary contentment.

Manganelli limits each story to only one full typewriter page’s worth of text, thus eliminating the empty space that occupies most novels. This purges the stories of dialogue and restricts the number of characters to no more than three. The remaining actions only become more meaningful as a result. Mangenelli limits life to a series of habits, but replaces the nihilistic rationale with a moral direction guided by humanity instead of religion.

With the Borgesian belief that reality is nothing short of fantastical, Manganelli’s brief biographies are truly magical; he makes death superficial and love honest. The debate still stands of which rules his psyche, imagination or real life. But who's to say that there's a difference between the two?
Read More 0 comments | Posted by Katie edit post
Mar 13
In effort to improve the relationship between bookseller and customer, I have initiated a revision of the staff picks section at the store. Each bookseller is to construct a little display with an introduction paired with reviews of their picks and a portrait of some kind. This is the introduction I've come up with, detailing two of my life loves: short fiction and desserts.

For me, there is nothing more gratifying in the world of literature than a well-crafted short story. To break a heart in fewer than 8,000 words is no easy feat, yet some writers succeed with less than two full pages. Short stories share the imagery and precision of poetry, yet don’t hide behind aesthetic ambiguity. They are bold and provocative, but above all, concise. They are the intriguing, thoughtful intellectual who rarely speaks, or the skinny kid with a strong punch. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be fun. Short stories are to the written word what cupcakes are to baked goods: a masterful balance of beauty and substance, the perfect size to whet an appetite, yet somehow too oft-forgotten. From Borges to Calvino, Kafka to Twain, and J.D. Salinger to Flannery O’Connor, I could easily consume them all.
Read More 0 comments | Posted by Katie edit post
Mar 02
This morning I decided to spend a little bit of time researching the origins of my family names. This included a quick phone call to my mother (I have enough names to keep track of already) and an hour with Google. Here's what I came up with:

Mother's Father: Spelling changed from a French word for "cart," or the occupational name for a cartwright. Records found place the name in Quebec in the mid-1600s.

Mother's Mother: Of Irish origin, roughly translating to "the son of a champion."

Father's Father: Likely of Austrian or French origin, changing its spelling in the 1700s. The most famous man with this name was, apparently, a complete fool. He was an evangelist and prominent proponent of flat earth theories. In fact, he offered a widely publicized $5000 challenge for anyone to disprove flat earth theory. This was around 1900. He also frequently predicted the end of the world; his predictions that the end would come in 1923, 1927, 1930, and 1935 were all incorrect. He had stated that he would live to 120 due to his diet of Brazil nuts and buttermilk, but fell short of his goal by approximately 48 years.

Father's Mother: Its meaning denotes the status of a feudal tenant and is German and Jewish (western Ashkenaic) in origin.
Read More 0 comments | Posted by Katie edit post
Mar 02
Money is to shit as guilt is to shame.

-David Lehman, from "The Old Constellation" in
When a Woman Loves a Man
Read More 0 comments | Posted by Katie edit post
Mar 01
In grief the person that you were is replaced by grief ...
not the person you originally were but the one you’d become.

Grief is opportunistic and uncontrollable

it doesn’t exactly come
from you, you “allow it in” It’s godlike
as in possession.

This was the night I was the craziest: near my birthday,
four months after Ted’s death, walking
on Second Avenue I thought “It’s possible
he didn’t really die.” I felt a maniacal joy
and then became sickened and distressed
I knew a depth of me had, up to then, believed he was alive.
That depth was now emptied of him and filled with grief.

I dreamed all that year; I divided into dreamer and interpreter
A gigantic horse blocks
the entrance to
my building; I wake up and think “The horse is a hearse”
blocking my life. Or
a dream with a dawn in it, the sky purple-black,
but a hint of dawn, and when I awake I know it’s the sky
in Lawrence’s “Ship of Death”—thin white
thread—trying its way.

If a self can
contain the deaths of others, it’s very large;
it’s certainly larger than my body
If the other who dies is partly me,
and that me dies and another grows, the medium it grows in
is grief.

The wish to locate absence, that contemporary obsession to
find the empty present—
grief will saturate the present.

Grief isn’t glandular; though becomes somatic;
gets far into your body. Eats it changes it.

One is magically struck down at certain
moments, can’t move, can’t arise,
and inside is poison: grief gets caught
in intensifying pockets which when opened
cruse sensations of illness. On Christmas morning
I can’t stand up.

If you immerse your feet in icy water
you forget grief for a moment. I did this once, my
brother-in-law made us cross a cold stream barefoot,
that winter, walking in the woods—I was emptied, then elated,
blissful; but didn’t try it again. Grief
returns vengeful after you’ve repulsed it.

-Alice Notley, "II - The person that you were will be replaced"

I know I've quoted Notley's work before, but that was a long time ago and I've only just discovered this poem. How true I find her work!
Read More 0 comments | Posted by Katie edit post
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    • I am Katie Sharrow-Reabe and I am interested in structural and social architecture. Linguistic and cultural translation. Progress through retrospection. Subliminal and subterranean connections. And I would like you to help me put these fragments into a hole.
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