PPSCHWAOW! by Kian

What a savage climax! Blew my buttons. Tore my heart and brains to slices and wafers, etc.. Running the events through my head again, I think I may have underestimated the impact of the buildup. That is, Aliette unveiling her weakly legs, low-key sex scenes swelling briskly in, and then out of the story, the explicit parts, to make space for the imagination of the reader, left out. Etc., of course. But, for the climax:

"Their kiss is long and hungry. If they knew how often they would remember it, for how many years it would be their dearest memory, this kiss would last for hours" (160). This struck me as meaningful, and later struck me as the beginning of what I see as a long-lasting and intense climax. The omniscient narrator reveals the future of their relationship. On the next page L. is getting castrated. It all happens very quickly for the reader. It's intense. "He did not see the shadows detaching from the alleyway, or how they steal close to him," one of my favorite lines in the text (161). "Through his numbness, L. can feel hands grasping his legs roughly and pulling them apart" (162). Then, "the doctors unveiling his wound, vomiting, the cauterizing of the hole between his legs." This left my mind racing, ablaze, confused, and I felt my thighs close in tighter than usual. The scene was so hazy, the way it happened, but really lucid, too. I know I spent the rest of the story feeling very differently about L. It is inevitable to feel differently, I think. I also felt differently altogether.

Then he gets the flu. I was convinced that he was going to die, but wasn't surprised when he didn't. I got the impression that dying of the flu would not have bothered L. at the time. He was probably down in the dumps, you know?

Then, L. and Aliette growing old and living 'the one another experience,' / whatever, still, through media and publication. I cried on the last page. "He doesn't see how she mouths with him each word he reads, how her face is bright with joy" (165). Twelve books of poetry. There's something poetic about a greying poet publishing his twelfth book of poetry. And his former love, the mother of the old man's stability (his son), in the audience mouthing his poetry, crying. Former cripple. Swimming. Lover.

Very fast pace from the climax on. The last 5 pages contain the bulk of the madness that makes this story awesome, I think. Surely, though, the buildup was somehow extremely effective in paving the way for the climax and conclusion. I can't seem to put my finger on it, though I couldn't say, truthfully, that I am trying to put my finger on it.


I don't know if I'm supposed to be doing this. I think everyone should do it. I can't seem to press the publish post button. I think that starting right now there is some flavor of mutiny growing loud, even beastly inside of me. Perhaps, to make this blogging thing fun, attractive, maybe a bit egomaniacal, but also unveiling, intimate, people could post about the stories in creative ways? Or even, TO HELL with the stories. Just kidding. Write about the story, then post something brief, but self-revealing? Mess around a little bit with language? Be an author, or a human being, and not a student? Or just expose yourself in a more personal way than formal academic discussion posting calls for. I think we all know that there are ingredients in our personalities that aren't easily expressed in face-to-face sittings. And I think we can expose those neglected, withering, unnourished parts from behind a computer screen. Less fear. Less intimate. But then, more.

We'll have a better idea of each other's personalities, projected literary personas, etc. for when workshopping starts if everyone gets a little bit naked first.

New assignment is to be creative and humiliatingly vulnerable. While adhering absolutely and with the utmost discipline to the strict and very serious guidelines established by The Syllabus Inc. That's where we're at.