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Friday, January 23, 2004  
Cathy, Come Home

I'm a Peking O fan.

I think it might be the best blog of all. However low-key, Cathy has craft, but not like George Oppen or Basil Bunting (the latter would be no insult; the former would). Exquisite arrangement: words + pictures + links dotted like scattered bits of tale that tie together. Mental shots (slots and shoots) in all directions, like sitting on a bus reading a magazine while listening to conversations, thoughts, with the corner of an eye caught by a flyposter or a strange sign, or both, and all of it bent backwards. Best backgrounds are always black or white; to highlight or frame care, creative energy, flair (see also, Lex Luka, Ingram, Cozen). Also an escape from restraint and restriction of subject, topic, or autobiography: white space and word gaps sooth and seduce. Peking O is rigorous autobiography, realism of an applied kind: Ulysses, last stop before Finnegans Wake; or, to be more accurate, mid to late-period Beckett (How It Is maybe, or Company) served on a sweet trolley. I hold her in high esteem: expert finger-jabs on keyboard; pen, word, and delicious, brittle syntax. I don't even know the girl; less through each Peking O vignette or word-cluster. A byte is enough to get me

12:10 PM

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