Friends in the Pittsburgh area: I’m going to be reading at the one-year anniversary of the Cyberpunk Apocalypse project this Tuesday. Incidentally that’s the night before I move to a new apartment. So if I’m not stressed out enough, time to kick it up a notch by reading porn for an audience!
The Cyberpunk folks are some of my favorite people in Pittsburgh. A year ago they bought a house in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Lawrenceville and turned it into a writer’s cooperative and event space. They have a pretty sweet sci-fi lending library, and for most of this past winter held an erotica writing group which was fun and varied. They have a visiting writer’s program where you can come live in Pittsburgh for free for a month. They get national press out of, like, nowhere. Mostly I just like that they are casual yet manage to get things done. Dan, the guy who founded it, is a particularly potent writer and a friend of mine from a few years back when we took a autobiographical-writing class together, probably the best writing class I’ve ever had. Everyone connected; I don’t know how it happened.
Last year I discovered that my late great uncle, who I never met, was an amazing artist and illustrator. His last name is the same as mine and his first name starts with an “F” and ends with a “rank.” In the interest of keeping relatives away from my pornography (not that I try all that hard to hide my identity, but whatever) I’m not posting any links to sites that reference his work, but feel free to Google, there’s a great Flickr stream dedicated to his stuff (which is where I culled these images).
Some of these files are quite large, so if you have a slow connection you may not want to click. I also posted a couple of my favorite details from the cutaways, but WordPress keeps fucking up the order of my photos so it’s not immediately clear to which illustration they relate, but I’m sure you can figure it out:
Repost from old blog, 2/4/2008I used to lay in bed on Saturday mornings. I could feel the summer sun shining through my window. I listened to the sound of children playing, dogs barking, cars rolling down the road. Life happening. There was too much. I was paralyzed. I wanted to experience all of it, but I didn’t know where to start. So all I did was lie in bed and listen.
I used to gaze out my bedroom window at the horizon. I could see pretty far, to a ridge of trees high above my little rural town. I’d focus on the highest tree, and wonder where it was. How did you get there? What would I see if I got there?
I used to stand in the dining room of the restaurant where I bussed tables. I would watch the hordes of Sunday post-church customers – old ladies and old men – and I would think, these people have all had sex, and I haven’t.
I used to hold this image in my mind: a group of kids, my age, driving in a car at night, rock music streaming out the window. Orange paths of lit cigarettes as they pass by. One girl has her hand out the window, sailing on the night air.
For most of my life, I was convinced that everybody else was living more fully than me.