Tunnels under The Capital had been stocked with dreams and nightmares since the condition of the general populace showed no signs of improvement.
Cindy Sherman, Untitled 305, 1994
You Can't Rely on Inspiration: Essential Writing Advice from J.G. Ballard | Literary Hub
[O]ne’s become used to these overlong novels in which everything is explained and tidied up. At the heart of every good short story lies a certain ambiguity, a sort of “Yes, but.” That’s very seldom found in novels. And yet this ambiguity is the very stuff of life.
The stone sculpture on the shelf was obscure and initially innocuous. By the end of the week however, it throbbed with some covert purpose.
It did not come from space–it came from an abandoned gas station in Jersey. No one could understand what it wanted.
FilmStruck's closing ignites fears that Hollywood's march toward streaming will erase movie history - Los Angeles Times
The internet has turned aficionados into online detectives, scouring the web for physical copies of obscure film titles.
“What’s happening is the cinema of the 20th century is being erased,” said Wheeler Winston Dixon, a film studies professor at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. “These films vanish from public view because there’s no one there to recommend them.”
Anthony Bourdain Takes A Tour Of The Lower East Side In Final 'Parts Unknown': Gothamist
Despite stops at Jean-Georges’ Public Kitchen, Ray's Candy Store, Emilio’s Ballato, John’s of 12th Street, Veselka and more, the food really came secondary to the interviews. Bourdain opened up his rolodex and met up with many key LES figures, including Blondie’s Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, Richard Hell, Lydia Lunch, Fab 5 Freddy, Cro-Mags' Harley Flanagan, publicist Danny Fields, filmmakers Amos Poe and Jim Jarmusch, The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black’s Kembra Pfahler, and Fishing with John star/painter John Lurie.
The creature came into the room seeking food, again. The contract was tenuous. The disagreements were sharp and sometimes bloody.
Across The Field
When the boy got to the edge of the field he could see the outlines of the power stalks against dusk, and the thousands of small green lights spread out far in front of him, cast like a net. An evening breeze made them moan slightly, as the fibrous tension adjusted their sway to maximize the kinetics.
He wasn't supposed to be in the field. If he got caught it would cost him six months social credit, he should care more about his credit, they said.
He stepped down off the road, stumbling over an exposed root. The nearest stalk reacted slightly to the energy, sending a wave of micro-movements rippling across the field, and creating a delicate sound of descending frequency like water drops from a shut faucet. Once he was far enough in, the loose canopy would hide him from the road.
On the other side of the field was the quarry, and he knew there was a hole in the fence because this wasn't the first time he'd done this. As it became darker he turned on his headlamp, the dim red beam delineating the gently swaying stalks around him. It reminded him of the new Reel. He guessed it was easier for them to make it like that, only build as much environment as you could see in low light. Sometimes he wondered if reality was like this too.
He came to the fence suddenly, it rose out of the darkness, startling him. He would have to navigate along the edge of it until he found the hole. Left or right? He guessed left, knowing he might have to backtrack. By now Bug would be waiting for him on the other side, in the quarry. Everyone had always called him Bug because of the ocular slots, some kind of genetic condition. Bug was a few years older than himself. Bug had bought the last few Reels from him. He'd promised to buy more, and this one was good, something special. He'd continue in this direction another minute or two. When he didn't find the hole in the fence he swore and then turned around.
That's when he saw lights from the direction of the quarry. A dozen of them? White lights moving quickly. He abruptly turned off his headlamp. He heard shouting. Bug was shouting, he believed. So, they'd gotten him.
He didn't know what to do, maybe running was a bad idea, they must have ways of seeing. He didn't move. But then he heard their little feet. He imagined them springing forward awkwardly like birds running. He had to move — he turned and bolted back into the field. Without the headlamp he careened into stalks. The impacts caused the whole array to shudder, echoing outwards across the field with enthusiastic clanging. From the road the net of indicator light must be undulating now, he thought.
He ran several more yards, bumped into another oscillating stalk, then paused, listening. He didn't hear anything other than stalks happy with energy. Maybe it was good he'd done this, he wondered, there wasn't much chance they'd find him now under this loud canopy, no matter how well they could see. He just had to make it over the road. The other side of the road was another zone, he knew, maybe they can't even follow me in there. He grabbed the nearest stalk and shook it as hard as he could for a moment. Then he ran straight as hard as he could.
The first rays of daylight illuminated the blue plastic bag and clumps of biomatter. Birds chattered merrily.
The Great Work: Alchemy and the Power of Words – Emergence Magazine
But the novel I started writing soon transformed itself into something else. A book which I began to write in conventional English became a book written in my own version of Old English, the language which my Anglo-Saxon narrator would have spoken. But this, while it might be the most obviously unusual feature of the novel, was not the most significant surprise the book sprang on me.