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Kaffe in Katmandu Says Goodbye

It’s been a psychedelic ride with you guys, thank you for all the fun and the faces and so much dada during 2011, but after one year and infinite degrees of freedom, 946 posts written by 120 creative members, more than 36,000 visitors, 532 followers on tumblr and over 1000 on Twitter, the Kaffe in Katmandu says dada & good-bye & closes its doors high above the clouds. We’ll repost our best entries on Facebook as long as we feel like it. Happy New Year, cheerio & see you in the next project somewhere sometime!

Marcus Speh
Maitre d’, Penguin Pal

Photo: via 1000 Shipwrecked Penguins.

The Story, So Far: Marcus Speh

image

«I’m an online writer. Apart from a few print publications, I can only be read online. Sometimes I feel “online” is like a birth mark: can’t get rid of it. Goes with you everywhere. Obscurely related to your gene pool. Not pretty perhaps but, in the right light, one might take it for a giant tick or for a smudge. 

Of course “online” is not a smudge. It’s the dog’s bollocks, the bee’s knees of contemporary writing. It’s writing for billions out there, potentially. It means striking fear into the very heart of the publishing industry. It’s “occupy literature” before anyone thought of occupying anything anywhere.

That online community, however, is a tent settlement, albeit of unknown extension. It doesn’t really occupy anybody else’s space either: rather, it creates land where it needs more. A little like the Dutch people, who wrestled most of their land from the sea at no small a price. Though the modern Dutchmen, I hear, have plans to save the money for repairing their dams and will instead live in houses that shall float when the flood comes to fetch them.

Perhaps that is the future of online writing also: no more pioneering spirit of the wagon fort, sitting around a virtual camp fire sharing stories of the bravest tweet, the most daring Facebook thread or the latest Duotrope submission tracking tale, but life raft-like constructions that can come together when and where needed and that help writers survive and attach themselves to reading communities as readers can attach themselves to us. Futurology is all about the right metaphor.

“Goodreads,” I say to you, fellow online writers, and then I disappear in ‘Ulysses,’ which, in this case, is not a book by Joyce, but an app by German software engineers who like writers. There’s this dependency of course: not only the fear of the blank page (or the blank screen) but the fear that you might not have the best app on your iPad. That you might not have an iPad. That you might be as alone on the Internet as you are anywhere else.

Because, whatever the future of online communities might hold, whoever might be in it or not in it (anymore): the fact remains that writing happens inside your head first and last of all, as a dialogue between your many selves, a loner’s love. There’s no reason, of course, not to have a lot of fun with others along the way. Or, as in my case, connect with a multitude of writers outside of my Germanic exile.

* * * * *

My earliest published online (literary) work is also the earliest work I ever published: “Tickled Pink” at Metazen, in June 2009. My earliest online non-literary work dates back to 1989, when as a young physicist at CERN I worked with the group of people working with Tim Berners-Lee on the creation of the World Wide Web.

[Published at Northville Review.
Illustration: © “Ceaseless murmuring” Carlye Birkenkrahe]

Woman in Tableaux
[middle]: My Life, chapter 3
           — Vivre sa vie, Jean-Luc Godard
A street, thick-shadowed and mostly empty, with record shop, apartment, cafè, theater, is no real match for innocence.  What she sees on the screen burns to the bone — Jeanne D’Arc in a fit of perfection or grief, not able to bend, not willing to stop, can’t help but question everything she touches, everything she wants — body and soul, body and soul.  She gives herself only to herself, and finds that deliverance, sometimes, is no deliverance at all.  You may believe in lines, but there aren’t any.  Truth is nothing more than spirals of beauty and lust and essence and moment.  Running like mad over the stiff mechanics of all things opposite, she lives simply because she says she lives, her words finding her at last — or should I say “at beginning” — finding her where she has always been.
(Excerpted from: Woman in Tableaux by Sam Rasnake; originally published at UCity Review. Photo: still from “La passion de Jeanne D’Arc”, 1928)

Woman in Tableaux

[middle]: My Life, chapter 3

           — Vivre sa vie, Jean-Luc Godard

A street, thick-shadowed and mostly empty, with record shop, apartment, cafè, theater, is no real match for innocence.  What she sees on the screen burns to the bone — Jeanne D’Arc in a fit of perfection or grief, not able to bend, not willing to stop, can’t help but question everything she touches, everything she wants — body and soul, body and soul.  She gives herself only to herself, and finds that deliverance, sometimes, is no deliverance at all.  You may believe in lines, but there aren’t any.  Truth is nothing more than spirals of beauty and lust and essence and moment.  Running like mad over the stiff mechanics of all things opposite, she lives simply because she says she lives, her words finding her at last — or should I say “at beginning” — finding her where she has always been.

(Excerpted from: Woman in Tableaux by Sam Rasnake; originally published at UCity Review. Photo: still from “La passion de Jeanne D’Arc”, 1928)

DOGZPLOT FLASH FICTION

The new DOGZPLOT is full of holy flash

  • THUMBLING by marcus speh
  • ONE WAY TO RIO by kevin o’cuinn
  • SOMETIMES I THINK A RELATIONSHIP BASED ON DAILY TEXTS IS POSSIBLE by elizabeth ellen 
  • THE POINT OF THE BOTTLE by caroline kepnes
  • WEST KILL by adam moorad
  • MARION COOK DOESN’T PURCHASE SNACKER by lohel hochberg
  • MICE by carol deminski

DOGZPLOT is edited by barry graham and peter schwartz.

Photo: BIRTH OF CHRIST' - rhys (via dogzplot)

DRAIN by FRANK HINTON, Metazen’s oldest available post at May 11, 2009.
“I NEED TO SHOWER,” he said and sat up. Herbert could feel her eyes on him, he put a pillow behind him and covered his ass as he ran into the bathroom. He turned the water on, the shower was cold. Her bathroom was filthy and black hairs were twisted in neat little spirals all around the tiles of the bathroom. Herbert opened his mouth and let some of the cold water in, but spit it out. He thought faucets like these were the ones that carried the most germs.
 
Herbert couldn’t find any soap so he lathered himself up with shampoo. He felt immensely heavy inside of the shower stall. He got down on his hands and knees, the water splattered atop the fat of his back and ricochet onto the shower curtain. He looked into the rusted loop of the drain; he put his head very close. He listened to the sounds of the water falling down the drain.
“Help me,” he said, but the drain only gurgled.
Frank Hinton is the incredibly mysterious author of a new novel to come out in 2012 published by tiny hardcore press. 

DRAIN by FRANK HINTON, Metazen’s oldest available post at May 11, 2009.

“I NEED TO SHOWER,” he said and sat up. Herbert could feel her eyes on him, he put a pillow behind him and covered his ass as he ran into the bathroom. He turned the water on, the shower was cold. Her bathroom was filthy and black hairs were twisted in neat little spirals all around the tiles of the bathroom. Herbert opened his mouth and let some of the cold water in, but spit it out. He thought faucets like these were the ones that carried the most germs.

Herbert couldn’t find any soap so he lathered himself up with shampoo. He felt immensely heavy inside of the shower stall. He got down on his hands and knees, the water splattered atop the fat of his back and ricochet onto the shower curtain. He looked into the rusted loop of the drain; he put his head very close. He listened to the sounds of the water falling down the drain.


“Help me,” he said, but the drain only gurgled.

Frank Hinton is the incredibly mysterious author of a new novel to come out in 2012 published by tiny hardcore press


«I am floating in a world made entirely of text. Lines of white courier type stretch away to the horizon, spelling out passages from Borges's 's “Library of Babel”: “The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries …” I look down and experience a sudden twinge of vertigo. Below my feet, strings of letters plunge down into an inky black void.»

from: Robert Coover: A Life In Writing — by Hari Kunzru in the Guardian.

«I am floating in a world made entirely of text. Lines of white courier type stretch away to the horizon, spelling out passages from Borges's 's “Library of Babel”: “The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries …” I look down and experience a sudden twinge of vertigo. Below my feet, strings of letters plunge down into an inky black void.»

from: Robert Coover: A Life In Writing — by Hari Kunzru in the Guardian.

Marc Vincenz reads Unfathomable Mammals for Kaffe in Katmandu

Poem published at PiF magazine, read for Kaffe in Katmandu by Marc Vincenz.

Marc Vincenz is Swiss-British and was born in Hong Kong during the height of the Cultural Revolution. His recent books include Upholding Half the Sky (MiPOesias, 2010), The Propaganda Factory, or Speaking of Trees (Argotist, 2011) and Pull of the Gravitons (forthcoming Right Hand Pointing, 2012). Marc’s poems are regularly featured on October Babies. His translation of Swiss poet Erika Burkart’s Secret Letter is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press; and in collaboration with the Icelandic artist Inga Maria Brynjarsdottir, a children’s book in verse, Animals of the Northern Lights.  He currently lives in Iceland where he works as a journalist, poet, translator and book designer. Recent and forthcoming publications include The Potomac, Spillway, Poetry Salzburg Review, Atticus Review, Inertia and Pirene’s Fountain.  Marc is Managing Editor of MadHat Press, Poetry and Non-Fiction Editor at Mad Hatters’ Review and on the editorial board of Open Letter’s Monthly.  In 2011, his poetry was nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize.

A great bookseller and patron of writers: George Whitman of Shakespeare & Company, died at age 98 in Paris. (NYT Obit)

A great bookseller and patron of writers: George Whitman of Shakespeare & Company, died at age 98 in Paris. (NYT Obit)

ESCAPE LITERATURE by Beate Sigriddaughter
The world is all that is the case.             - Ludwig Wittgenstein
She laughed and held out her arms to him.                          - Nora Roberts 
There’s Wittgenstein, and he will take youon semantic roller-coasterdips of language to that magic placeof intellectual self-pleasure. Youmight even go all the wayto nirvana. It’s only a synapse furtherup the reality escape: a steelcontraption all the way to heaven,radiating ice across existence.
Then there is Nora Roberts’ lushcaress with feather brush desire tostay here, embrace, and celebratelife, samsara, untilyou wonder whythey call this escape for thosewho prefer to not go with the masterexodus of Wittgenstein’s Houdini fans,dancing on logistics into nothingness,respectably in Finnegan’s wake. Until
the question begs itself:Who exactly does the escaping?
Originally published in Borderlands Texas Poetry Review Fall/Winter 2007.

ESCAPE LITERATURE by Beate Sigriddaughter

The world is all that is the case.
             - Ludwig Wittgenstein

She laughed and held out her arms to him.
                          - Nora Roberts
 

There’s Wittgenstein, and he will take you
on semantic roller-coaster
dips of language to that magic place
of intellectual self-pleasure. You
might even go all the way
to nirvana. It’s only a synapse further
up the reality escape: a steel
contraption all the way to heaven,
radiating ice across existence.

Then there is Nora Roberts’ lush
caress with feather brush desire to
stay here, embrace, and celebrate
life, samsara, until
you wonder why
they call this escape for those
who prefer to not go with the master
exodus of Wittgenstein’s Houdini fans,
dancing on logistics into nothingness,
respectably in Finnegan’s wake. Until

the question begs itself:
Who exactly does the escaping?

Originally published in Borderlands Texas Poetry Review Fall/Winter 2007.