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Archives for February 2012

The Essay: Remixed for Video

February 29, 2012

Founded and tenderly curated by Catherine Grant, the Vimeo group Audiovisualcy provides a forum for video essays that illuminate, interrogate, and often radically reinterpret film texts.

Venturing into "The Badlands" of Media

Although some Audiovisualcy pieces or series mimic the formats of written expository essays, many videos use cinematic art as a platform for their own creative experiments. Contributors, including Middlebury College professors Jason Mittell and Christian Keathley, mobilize the film medium in order to infuse theoretical insights with refreshing playfulness. Whether matching Herrmann’s Vertigo score to Pixar films or spatially reorganizing a Griffith short, Audiovisualcy not only mines the scholarly side of entertainment, but also reminds us that scholarship may and perhaps should be entertaining, as well.

Particularly recommended are Catherine Grant’s “Touching the Film Object?,” Jim Emerson’s “Close Up: A Critical Essay/Dream Sequence,” and Frederic Brodbeck’s “Cinemetrics.”

Filed Under: NER Recommends Tagged With: audiovisualcy, Catherine Grant, Christian Keathley, cinema studies, essay, film, Frederic Brodbeck, Jason Mittell, Jim Emerson, multimedia, remix, video essay

Zana Previti

The Letters of Odysseus to Kalypso

February 28, 2012

Fiction from NER 32.4. 

Joseph Mallord William Turner 064

They started out very calmly, hello, Kalypso, how have you been, do you still have that necklace I made for you out of shells and dolphin tendons. Pretty quickly he began adding in short vignettes about his kid and some hunting trips they had been on, or how they’d gotten together on a Saturday afternoon and fixed a broken yoke. Then the kid stories stopped and he started telling her all about his fears—someone was in the house last night but he couldn’t catch him, someone was killing his beeves, there was a knife under his pillow he hadn’t put there, real chilling things.

[Read more]

Zana Previti was born and raised in New England. She is currently an M.F.A. candidate at the University of California, Irvine, where she is at work on her first novel. Her fiction has appeared most recently in Hayden’s Ferry Review and the Los Angeles Review. 

Filed Under: Fiction Tagged With: The Letters of Odysseus to Kalypso, Zana Previti

Linda Gregerson Reading at Bread Loaf

February 27, 2012

Linda Gregerson reads at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference.

“The Selvage” was originally published in Poetry

The Selvage

“Her Argument for the Existence of God” was originally published in PN Review (UK).

Her Argument for the Existence of God

This reading took place August 11, 2010.

To listen to the entire reading, or to other readings and lectures from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, visit their iTunesU site.

Linda Gregerson’s books of poetry include Magnetic North (Houghton Mifflin, 2007); Waterborne (Houghton Mifflin, 2002), winner of the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award; The Woman Who Died in Her Sleep (1996), a finalist for both The Poet’s Prize and the Lenore Marshall Award; and Fire in the Conservatory (1982). She is also the author of literary criticism, including Negative Capability: Contemporary American Poetry (2001) and The Reformation of the Subject: Spenser, Milton, and the English Protestant Epic (1995).

Filed Under: Audio Tagged With: Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, Linda Gregerson, The Selvage

The idea of a trout

February 23, 2012

Trout, Grouse, Tomatoes (Boston Public Library)

Creel by Michael Coffey

The worms were there at the corner of my grandfather’s garden, near the burn barrel, wanting me to dig them, bring them to some other wilder reality, in this case a cold April morning in the Adirondacks. I’d fetch the round-point shovel out of the garage and bring the green bait can, if I could find it, or use one of the slender Prince Albert tobacco cans my grandfather had discarded, a small red tin flask with a snap-top. I’d turn over a half-dozen shovelfuls of rich dirt like fudge and wait to see the purplish worms slowly squirming, sometimes only their tips visible, nosing around blindly in the fresh cut of air. One after another I’d pry them out with my fingers and into the can they would go, with a little tuft of grass and the black dirt to keep them alive.

I’d walk up the abandoned broken-up pavement that ran along the brook. In the trees it was dark and the only sound was the rushing of the brook, high with snowmelt off the mountain. I’d look for those pools Dad told me held the promise of trout, as if they were lingering there, holding themselves steady and unseen beneath the surface, waiting for feed to wash through. Kneeling on the bank, I’d bait the hook, a process that began first with trying to extract a worm from the can—they all seemed to know how to burrow in and disappear. But one would soon be captured, and though it writhed in my hand, the barb sounded it into surrender, as his body against its will became the meat sleeve of the metal shaft, Eagle No. 9.

The idea of a trout is pure muscle, muscle twitch defined against the press of the water, redefined at the end of the pole in my hand when it flips into the free, wary air, snapping back and forth. When it came, it was like some stranger suddenly touching me intimately or somewhere where I did not control the reflex—a swab stick on my tonsil, the hammer tap below my patella from Dr. Ganong. I’d start marching in a controlled panic, my sneakers splashing to land the catch in the brush. I didn’t care if the reel got wet or if the line got tangled as long as I got that trout, its green silvery red-speckled body in furious spasm, hung up there on a branch.

I’d learned to palm the sticky cold fuselage in one hand and with the other remove the hook as humanely as I could. The blood was thin, a smear of it. It smelled fishy; the worm was there, limp as a soaked shoelace slinking out of a gill. With a slight crunch the hook was extracted and the trout, its eye dull and disbelieving, dropped into my creel, the top shut fast. It whopped around in there for a good half hour while I recomposed myself, untangling my line, and fantasizing how many more I might get, until I didn’t hear the trout moving anymore in the creel, only the roar of brook and some stones tumbling.

*

NER Digital is a creative writing series for the web. Michael Coffey’s story, “I Thought You Were Dale,” appeared in NER 32.3. He is the author of three book of poetry and is is co-editorial director at Publishers Weekly.

Filed Under: NER Digital Tagged With: Creel, Michael Coffey

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Volume 39, Number 4
Cover art by Emilia Dubicki

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