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...would culminate in his murderous deed.This sort of formula, however, can stray toward the annoying when Kjaerstad resorts to rhetorical questions: “What makes a conqueror? What makes a murderer?” It’s nice to have some reminders as to what this scattered form of storytelling is building up to, but at a certain point it begins to sound like nagging, and the story risks losing its sense of wonder. However, on the whole, Kjaerstad’s novel addresses the ever-growing pressures to be someone great or do something memorable. Such...
...Unchainable Squawk.Every week, an avant-garde, atypically bohemian crowd sporting overgrown hairdos and too-tight jeans gathers for a “session” at the Squawk Coffeehouse—an open mic remedy that banishes the stress of the long week. Unlike open mics geared to one form of artistry like music or poetry, Squawk opens up the floor to any and all types of performance. The organizers aren’t choosy, so long as performers deliver complete “phonetic liquidity.” By the end of the night the result of unrestricted performance...
...Middle Cyclone,” her skillful imagery—featuring killer whales and lovesick tornadoes—continues to prevail, bringing forth an album full of integrity and purity rarely found on an artist’s seventh studio release. While Case remains true to the form established on her previous work, the original appeal of her ethereal voice and fanciful melodies has not yet been lost. Originally from Alexandria, VA, the 38-year-old singer came to popularity after her work on “Mass Romantic,” the first studio recording by Vancouver-based indie...
...empty.” Indeed, one of the earlier poems, “Where Seagulls Fly,” reveals that the narrator’s seaside sense of relief stems from it being “close to the end of something.” Lepson holds two forms of transience parallel: that of the open ocean against that of human life.Others among Lepson’s collection—those poems that seem to be more portrait than anything else—are caught up in the concept of mortality. “Motet for Mom?...
...long ago that it should seem perfectly natural for us that art plays so small a social role, that it has become a superficial structure, layered on top of “real” material existence. In fact, I could argue that art, in its original form, is social in character. It’s only the bizarre processes of modernization that have distorted art into something individual. But art has not lost all of its social character. Its production does continue to take place in the heart of our society, in the center of our cities. This...