Corona panic still life (still rife)

Hashtag...self-help...everything...

..."my book" here is not Michael Ampersant, but "myjetpack"...follow the link...

Spread the news: MAGA rallies as Corona epicenters---this could finally do him in!

"Believe me, the virus cant't spread in my presence!"

Claire Bretécher died at the age of 79

She was a trailblazing comic strip artist with an incredibly explicit page in the Nouvelle Observateur during the '70 and '80 of the last century.

Here's a harmlesser, yet informative drawing from that period:

Do you get it? Don't be shy. (Hint: this joke wouldn't work today (Heidegger was a celebrated German philosopher, who would routinely write lines such as: "Das Sein seint, und das Nichts nichtset" (which don't even make sense in German (J.-P. Sartre visited Germany during the '30's to meet Heidegger and hailed him as the leading inspiration of his own Existentialism (Hanna Arendt was Heidegger's girlfriend before she fled the Nazis and went to America))))). 

(Yes, yours truly did a lot of LISP programming (don't ask)).

Let's get serious: 40 years ago, intellectualism (like dropping names of philosophers) still did things to people; now we have Donald Trump (not Trump's fault (Trump is a symptom, not a cause (as we have been saying long before Obama did))). 

(In this spirit).

Join the democratic union against demographic pressure

Glenn sends this:

Kate A. Hardy -- Londonia

Our friend Kate Hardy has a serious novel out with a serious publisher printed as a serious hardcover:

The book

The author

We are intensely jealous, of course.

(From the press release:)

Londonia is a magnificently immersive page-turner. Set in 2072, it seems at first to be a dystopia in which the internet and other modern technologies have collapsed. An elite have sealed themselves up in Central London, while everyone else has to get on as best they can, making-do, bartering, and cooperating with their neighbours. Moving between the two societies is Hoxton, a "Finder" of desirable objects, her own past a mystery to be solved, with the help of new friends. Can hope and friendship survive in this strange new world? . . .

(This is how it starts:)

‘Oi! Second floor. Is Tom Ov-Brixton in there?’ Tom takes a drag on the clay pipe and squints at me through the  smoke.  ‘Scrote. That’s  my  hitch—gotta  get  to  the  Forrist  before  darking.’  He  abandons  the  pipe,  rolls  on  top  of  me  and  kisses my forehead. ‘Beauteous, you are.’ I trace a finger over his lips. ‘You too.’ As  we  gaze  at  each  other  a  brassy  note  sounds  in  the  street,  followed by the same voice, now more insistent. Tom leaves the bed and starts stuffing things into his kitbag.  ‘Merda! Can’t find my wrist-clock.’ I  hold  the  weathered  disc  out  to  him  as  he  hops  about,  one  leg  trousered,  the  other  a  naked  white  streak  in  this  dim  room.  ‘Here—it was under your felty.’ He pulls on the rest of his jeans, yanks the belt’s teeth into a well-used notch and takes the timepiece from me. ‘Wouldn’t want to go without that.’ ‘What’s the point of wearing it?’ ‘Hands  still  move,  don’t  they?  Useful  for  calculating  how  much work time’s been done—aclockface,two,three. . . any lane, it was Dad’s. Not worth nothing but it’s a . . .’ ‘Mascot? Talisman?’ ‘Where d’you come from, wordsmith dame?’ He grins at me, face still rosy after the activity that has made this bed so warm. I risk the icy chill, slip out from the covers and scoot to the win-dow,  a  blanket  about  me.  A  makeshift  carriage  waits  outside fronted by two horses, their breath pluming white. A man sitting behind  them  looks  up  at  this  window,  waves  his  arms  in  a  gesture of frustration and yells. ‘I foitling said, is Tom Ov-Brixton in there?’ Heaving up the sash I call down. ‘Just coming.’ Tom  snorts  a  laugh,  shoves  the  last  item  into  his  bag  and  envelops me, blanket and all into a hug. ‘Sorry, I gotta go, and so sorry you can’t stay here.’ I  kiss  his  now-anxious  face.  ‘It’s  fine.  I’m  ready  to  explore  this . . . Londonia—find my way.’ ‘D’accord. They’ll be here soon-time. Tell ’em thanks for the loan of the room.’ ‘I will.’ ‘Can’t xacly take your address, can I?’ ‘Not until I get one.’ He  smiles  sadly.  ‘Write  me,  p’raps.  Ov-Brixton,  Hepping-forrist—might  find  me.  There’s  a  horse-letter-mec  what  goes  in  that direction—from Bethy-green.’ The  brassy  note  shrills  again  and  I  look  out  to  see  the  now  furious-looking man, trumpet in hand. ‘Pizzin’ come  on—got  three  more  to  pick  up  and  Clasher  territory t’get through.’ Tom  shouts  out  a  response,  hugs  me  tight  once  more  then  he’s gone, footsteps clattering on the stairs. I consider the vast everything and nothing before me. I should perhaps  layer-up  and  get  out  there  to  pace  the  streets  and  find          .  .  .  the  next  piece  of  this  life,  but  the  bed  beckons  again  even  with its biting population. The people that own these two rooms will  return  when  the  sun  is  directly  overhead  but  as  the  sky  is  once   again   a   sullen   mass   of   cloud,   it’ll   be   impossible   to   anticipate  their  arrival.  Tom  said  the  merde-mec  always  passes  late morning with his cart of shit-filled buckets, so I’ll wait until then. The bed is still warm. I burrow down into the crackling straw and sweet-stale wool covers; curl, foetus-like, try to remember—anything  from  before  these  last  few  days  of  his  kindness.  A  limpid  blankness  stares  back  at  my  mind’s  eye  before  somnolence fills my conscience. A rattling sound from the street disturbs my slumber. Merde-mec? His call affirms. ‘Bring out yer merde, an’ scraps. Egg for a pail.’ Least I can do for the owners of this place. Hopping out from the covers I cram on shoes and coat and go into the tiny kitchen. The bucket of peelings is full, the other vessel, about half, judging  by  its  weight—no  desire  to  lift  the  lid  .  .  .  I  take  them  and  join  the  other  residents  walking  down  the  stairs  with  their  own  various wastes. The conversation is of never-ending cold, a possible arrival of some charitable and benevolent outfit and scoop-trucks. As we reach the downstairs hall, I ask a man in front of me what these are. He looks at me beneath impressive eyebrows as if I am from a different planet—which I could be. ‘Just don’t be out on the street if you hear a sound like this.’ He  emits  a  wailing  cry  to  which  another  resident  prods  him—‘Nah—more  like  this.’  The  hallway  is  filled  with  eerie  moans  until an old woman clangs her pail with a walking stick. ‘Foitlin’ shut it! Don’t we fear it enough wivout you lot doin’ a re-run.’ 

(You can order the book here, or here; enjoy!)

Portugal (23) -- Returning to France

Chang shot this picture this morning in the Heineken Bar of Terminal II of Lisbon airport:

(The lower right quadrant is not photo-shopped, it's just a  TV screen)

The house-hunt failed, at least in the sense that we didn't find the ideal place; we'll try again in March.

(Chang asks me to add that we didn't actually drink Heineken at this bar at 7 AM; we had pretty, yet overpriced Cappucini instead)

Portugal (22) -- this afternoon

The walk to the Praia do Norte  (the northern beach -- that's where the big waves happen) takes us past a deer sanctuary:

Portugal (21) -- This afternoon, on the beach

Portugal (20)

A rainy day on the beach of Nazaré (still house-hunting):

Picture, as always, by Chang 

Nazaré again -- Portugal (19)

We've just arrived in Nazaré, Portugal, for a glass of Sangria and a house-hunt. Wish us good luck. Picture taken on the patio of our favourite beach haunt, the Inn Bar. 

  

Hitlist

https://joselito28.tumblr.com/post/190209137652

Star Wars Episode IX -- Review

We're still living in Le Trayas, 19 kilometers from Cannes, or 19 quilometros, as they say in Portugal, whereto we are planning to relocate. We kept a Netflix subscription for three or four months last year, during which we watched ONE movie. So we canceled Netflix and decided to resume our occasional excursions to Cannes, where the theaters may show movies in English. And yesterday we went to see the latest Star Wars movie...uh, what was the title..."The Rise of Skywalker" (yes).

This is the Esterel, seen from Cannes, the "mountain" range where we live

I don't quite remember, but this may have been my first time to walk out of a movie before it ended. I had read the reviews, which were so-so, but not devastating.
You watch this movie like you're reading a recipe...
-- "Make sure to satisfy all demographics that count, and don't forget the Marsians and all the other good people of the galaxy;"
-- "Make sure to ignore the established laws of physics, because hard-working American Families, including Donald Trump's, don't care" (so we have this obnoxious space travel going on all the time, and it's particularly grating that we are informed that they travel at the speed of light (meaning, if they are crisscrossing a serious galaxy, that they would still need hundreds or thousands of years to get anywhere));

We could serve as a Star Wars location, save for the beach umbrella

-- "Make sure to separate GOOD from EVIL."
-- "Don't offend anybody," meaning that SELF-HELP is the only permissible ideology/religion left to support the GOOD GUYS. And so we are constantly treated to blatant falsehoods such as 'You can do anything, if you want,' or 'Good people will fight, if we need them,' or 'The force will be with you, always,' or 'Was this review helpful?'
-- (as a lemma to the last ingredient:) "Don't use swear words, or any such thing. And...sex is out of the question, unless it happened light years ago between Harrison Ford and Princess Leia."

"Uuhm"

So, we walked out. It was Chang, partner and photographer, who noted that I was constantly looking at my watch, and suggested that we'd leave.
The special effects are trying to be more special than any previous special effects, and this race is going on now for a hundred years. As this movie shows, there are special limits. We liked the special waves, though (link), because the place we are moving to in Portugal has the highest surfable waves on the planet:

Nazaré, on November 22, 2018

Have a look at the link. Nazaré's waves are better.

You'll love this

Here, fresh from The Onion:

GLEN FALLS, NY—--Revealing that her lousy peers’ advice had been invaluable, aspiring novelist Alicia Duncan confirmed Tuesday that the writer’s retreat she’s attending provides a great opportunity to receive critical feedback from other nobodies. “It’s been incredible to spend the week getting diverse perspectives on my memoir from a bunch of fresh MFA graduates and bored retirees, none of whom have ever been published,” said Duncan, adding that she enjoyed attending daily workshops about how to get a literary agent taught by a college professor whose only published book is about how to get a literary agent. “The $1,500 tuition is pretty steep, but it’s worth it for all the networking I’ve been able to do with people who have no industry connections and cannot help me. Every day we read our work aloud and take turns talking out our asses before sitting in on lectures from people who have barely sold 10,000 copies in their whole careers. They helped me figure out how to make my characters more two-dimensional and the best way to build out my story arc so it’s more convoluted.” Duncan added that she was eager to take all the inane, toothless critiques she’d received and turn them into something unreadable.

Green Eyes: One-liners on line

Cool, folks, cool. A friend alerted us to a link on Meme to our Green Eyes franchise. It has quotes from the two books, like: "That was quick but profound; more profound than a quickie":

There are more quotes. Here, "classical-drama quotes" (we are always about everything): 

"Classical drama depends crucially on people not having cell phones."

Give it a try.

The Lambda Literary Award finalist

"Click"

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Rilke's Ghost -- "A word journey unlike anything you have ever done."

Another review is in, and it's by the fabled review-veteran Amos Lassen: 

I always look forward to something new from Michael Ampersant because he not only entertains but he provokes us to think. That is what good literature is all about as far as I am concerned. Even in this ghost story, I spent more time thinking about it than I did reading it. In just 23 pages Ampersant opens a whole new world for us.

Amos Lassen

I fell in love with the wit of the prose and the attempts to answer whether this really happened. More than that I can’t say except that we are taken a word journey unlike anything you have ever done. More than that I cannot say without ruining the reading experience. Find a half an hour and lose yourself in this delightful read.

Judge yourself:

"Click"

Quote--unquote -- Rilke's Ghost

More quotes in Michael Ampersant's new novella, Rilke's Ghost

Rilke's Ghost -- "Chang has to feed the hungry FaceBook beast"

We've started working on an ad campaign for our new novella, Rilke's Ghost, fashioned along the lines of our previous campaigns, adding quotes from the text to an odd picture. Here's one preliminary result:

And here's the corresponding fragment. Having fled Duino, where we stirred Rilke's ghost with a Google-translation of his poems, we now summer in Bürchen, in the Swiss Valais region, only a stone throw away from the grave of the poet: 

The village of Bürchen is wonderful, 1,600 meters up on the Alp, and so much cooler than the muggy summer-Riviera (the road up to Bürchen was finished in 1934—-the preceding thousand years the villagers were left to their own devices). There is only one problem: Rainer Maria is buried nearby, yes, Rilke, in Raron, a small, historic town right beneath Bürchen down in the valley. We’ve given Raron a wide berth so far, but Chang is playing the social networks and has to feed the hungry Facebook beast. His Korean followers can’t get enough of snow-topped mountains and geranium-studded chalets, and the 24-hour cycle dictates daily posting. We’ve ravaged the entire region already—-natives of many cultures believe that you steal their image when you take their picture—-along those lines we’ve grabbed photons until nothing seems to be left of the Valais—from the Matterhorn via the James-Bond-historic-marker up on the Furka pass to the longest glaciers and highest vineyards of Europe—-save Raron.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Chang asks. Of course, we don’t. And it’s a sunny, wonderful day, and Rilke is interred in a vault on the southern side of the Burgkirche, which itself is built on a rock hundred meters above the floor of the valley. The views would be fantastic, and a light breeze would play with the pages of the tourist guide which tells about the local Rilke-wine and the XIIth-century town hall next to the church. A Rilke Pfad leads up there. Half-way there’s a bench. “Remember the bench?” I ask. We sit down. And now I have a really bad idea. I google for “Rilke translations,” and the first entry connects to a learned article by a certain Marjorie Perloff...





"Click"

Rilke's Ghost -- the first review

Cool, folks, we've got the first Amazon review for "Rilke's Ghost", and it's Five Stars:


James Beamon
5.0 out of 5 starsLoads of fun
October 3, 2019
Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

This is a very enjoyable ghost story, full of charm, wit, great touches of humor and a perpetual meta question of "did this really happen?" and "what's up with this priest?!" Ampersant takes you on a scenic journey, one where I for one learned quite a bit of European history along the way. Definitely worth picking up.




"Click"

Rilke's Ghost

We're trying to clear our desk in anticipation of the line-edit of "Dolly" (the play), and so we've finally managed to put our new short story Rilke's Ghost  up on Amazon. And it's a real story---at least the beginning is true-true. 

The blurb is as follows: 

While visiting the lovely town of Duino on the Adriatic Italian coast, Michael provoked the wraith of the legendary German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, by applying Google-translate to the wordsmith's famed "Duineser Elegien" (Elegies from the Castle of Duino). Now Michael spends the summer in Switzerland, in a chalet only three kilometers away from the grave of the poet. Will Michael be stupid enough to challenge Rilke again, thus unleashing the most sophisticated ghost story of modern history, including an exorcism of serendipitous proportions...?

We'll have two or three posts about this; here's the first one, with the story's opening:

I still see myself sitting there as a boy on the greenly-striped couch of my parents in Berlin, Germany, reading Rilke, Rainer Maria (1875-1926), Bohemian poet, best known for his “Duineser Elegien” (Elegies from the castle of Duino). I read only the first two elegies then, but still, I went with the flow and was impressed.

*°*

Chang and I moved to the French Riviera where we rent our house to holiday makers. We got a surprise booking in April and decided to visit Croatia, a new country that isn’t too far away and reasonably cheap. Chang collects countries; he’s never been there. Bonus: on the way we’d have to cross Slovenia, yet another nation missing from his collection. We would drive non-stop the nine hours from Cannes to Croatia but should stay overnight somewhere on the way back, someplace nice. So Chang went on the internet and suggested a town between Venice and Trieste, on the Adriatic coast. A hotel without a view, budget-friendly. “How’s the place called?” I asked. 
“Dunno,” he said. “No, not Dunno, Du-i-no.”
Dui-no…Du-i-no…haven’t we heard of Duino before? On the Adriatic coast? “Chang! Rilke! Duineser Elegien! Chang, we must stay there.” 
“Rilke?” 
“Rilke!” 

Duino is off motorway A4. We descended into a villa town and got lost because budget-friendly hotels are hard to find. There is a ludicrous little beach attached to a harbour of a few fishing boats and a pier doubling as boardwalk; three restaurants, the castle (tower, battlements), and a university, ie, a small building labeled Collegio Sapienza Rainer Maria Rilke with lots of kids milling outside speaking American and a concierge inside who knew the directions to our hotel. 

It was still a bit early in the afternoon, so we would have a nap in the budget-friendly double bed. We should have had a nap, that is, the room was quiet and reasonably dark, save for a distant wailing, a sound like “Oohh, oohh”--a human voice almost that appeared to come from nowhere--“oohh.” Not a typical hotel sound you’d say. And it wasn’t going away. “Oohh.” Impossible to fall sleep. We should complain. We should get up, descend the noisy stairwell and thwack the bell on the reception desk. And, of course, the moment the manager appeared the wailing was gone. 

So we had to explain. “Bizarro,” the receptionist said. “Oohh,” I intoned to give her an idea. “Insolito,” she said and shook her head. “Oohh,” Chang intoned. “Pronto,” she said and answered the telephone.

(To repeat, this really happened; it's true-true)

"Click"

You say...

Yesterday

Alex Hogan, the influential editor of Gay Flash Fiction, wonders where we are. Here we are, Alex, in the Valais, the Swiss region; this was the view from our chalet yesterday morning:

A frie-ed egg

We've started to collect pictures that somehow relate to our new play, now called "Our Daughter Wants to Marry a Robot" (in the tradition of 19th century plays à la Oscar Wilde, where they got their title from the last line).

And, as is common in Ampersant's literary output, we're always about everything, including fried eggs---although, in the play, they are burnt, the eggs, because Eliza can't cook.

Fragment, fragment...we're in Scene I of Act III. Eliza, the psycho...psycho-analyst, has tried to cook herself an egg, because Robert, her robot, was kept busy recharging his tired batteries:

ELIZA
(FROM THE KITCHEN)
Robert!
NO REACTION FROM ROBERT
Robert, you've recharged long enough.
NO REACTION FROM ROBERT
Robert!
ELIZA ENTERS FROM THE KITCHEN, HOLDING ON TO A SMOKING FRYING PAN, WALKS UP TO THE COUCH. ROBERT SHOWS SIGNS OF LIFE.
Robert, do something.
ELIZA HOLDS UP THE SMOKING PAN
Call the fire brigade, and insist on a significant improvement...
ROBERT
(HALF-RISING, NOT YET AWARE OF THE SMOKING PAN)
...What did you do?
ELIZA
I've never been in a kitchen before. Not since you came into my life.
ROBERT
(POINTING AT THE PAN NOW)
What is this?
ELIZA
Can you help me with my iPad?
ROBERT
(STILL POINTING)
This is not an iPad, this is a frying pan.
ROBERT RISES FULLY FROM THE COUCH. 
ELIZA HANDS THE FRYING PAN TO ROBERT, DISAPPEARS IN THE BED ROOM, AND RETURNS WITH AN IPAD.
ELIZA
(WAVES IPAD IN ROBERT'S FACE)
It doesn't work.
ROBERT
(HANDS THE PAN BACK TO ELIZA, GRIPS THE IPAD)
Let me see.
MANIPULATES THE IPAD. EVENTUALLY, SOUNDS EMANATE FROM THE DEVICE, ALONG THE LINES OF:
IPAD
Tada, Tada, Tada. Good evening, Eliza. I'm your personal iPad, and, as so often, I'm prepared to serve you conditionally, provided we keep a keen eye on our community standards. Tada.
ROBERT
(TO ELIZA)
It seems to work.
ELIZA
(HOLDING THE FRYING PAN UNDER ROBERT'S NOSE)
No, it doesn't. Look.
ROBERT
Maa-dam.
ELIZA
(EXPLAINING)
Overwhelmed by anniversarial [sic] appetites, and with my personal assistant bereft of amperes and lounging out of order on my couch, I decided to consult the internet, which advised to initiate my awesome, yet personalized cooking experience with an egg...a fried egg...which now looks like this...so... it doesn't work, your internet...We failed. 
ROBERT
Indeed.
ELIZA
'Indeed'?...I say 'we failed' and you say indeed? 
ROBERT
It's true though, isn't it? You failed. It's a fact.
ELIZA
True...'true'? What's truth to an egg...a frie-ed egg? What's truth to a soul...a frie-ed soul? My soul! You never did that before.
ROBERT
What?
ELIZA
Dipping my soul in...in...
ROBERT
...facts?
ELIZA

Egg yolk...Well, yes, facts...You always found a way to accommodate my flights of fancy, and call the weather service, and turn your phrases this way and that way until everything was all-right and we had snatched happiness from the jaws of reality...yet again...

In this spirit...

The Valais, yesterday (rhymes)

...with the Bietschhorn, the mountain that dominates our region, in the background.