January 29, 2015 | Poetry
Margaret Emma Brandl
15 October The daytime moon is halved in a bright blue sky and a confusion of birds flows together and apart again over the... more
I had the milk from a dandelion all over my hands once in the sun... more
There was something so sublimely satisfying about reading Laird Hunt’s Neverhome this year... more
1. It was always ice. Ice: a word like a shard of glass shived in his ribs. The dark plain he was bound to travel. His paramour, his nightmare, his lost thumb. His vice.
When I think of mumblecore, I think of Dick Tracy and pornography, low budget films, naturalistic performances, Andrew Bujalski, and pimples. We never set out to make any particular type or genre of film. We just wanted to make our film.