Since all society is organized in the interest of exploiting classes and since if men knew this they would cease to work and society would fall apart, it has always been necessary, at least since the urban revolutions, for societies to be governed ideologically by a system of fraud.
- Kenneth Rexroth, from an interview with Lawrence Lipton in The Holy Barbarians
Before I begin on the third leg of our journey into the ways a poetics can be formed and transformed by riding freight trains and hitch-hiking, it is worth mentioning again that hopping trains and hitching carry significant risk to life and limb, and should only be undertaken by experienced individuals or with an experienced individual as a sort of ‘mentor.’
The last of these posts ended with an invocation of Will Alexander’s “Compound Hibernation,” expanding upon the idea that the transient being’s occupation of liminal spaces becomes a way of letting poetry fruit outside monolithic structures of “dominance and capital.” In other words, we concluded in the cuts, in a space of desertion. But how does the transient being get there?
Part of how one can move toward this sort of liminality is through the germination of a resistance to the prevailing social order. Without this sort of resistance, the transient being wouldn’t try to hop a train in the first place, as order demands a permanence within and obeisance to laws of boundary and property that are antithetical to the act of hopping freight. What the transient being recognizes is that a life outside of the civilized and arbitrary brutality of society exists, and that “one may honorably keep/ His distance/ If he can,” as George Oppen writes in the second section of “A Language of New York.”
The issue, of course, is that keeping one’s distance presents a plethora of other problems, stemming from the fact that the brutalities of the social order always emerge anew. Thus, deprivation remains, difficulty remains, but the methods by which one lives with and confronts such adversity are altered. They are more experimental, driven by a sense of improvisation mixed with a deep knowledge of the opportunities that often arise from chance, from the aleatoric foundation that is inimical to the social order because it thrashes the order’s strictures of possibility.
Perhaps it is illustrative to recount a 16-hour period around this time last year, which began in a burned-out shack between the Union Pacific worker area and the Sacramento River in Dunsmuir, California. (The space could most certainly be considered one of the liminal spaces discussed in my last post). Convinced that we weren’t going to catch a train out, we’d moved camp to the spot a few hours previous, and settled in with books, a half-pint of cheap blended whiskey, and some tall cans of malt liquor. Just as the quiet revelry of moments away from society had begun to take hold, a slow-moving junk train pulled up, and after slamming the already-open beers down our gullets, we picked up our heavy packs and water jugs and began running. About three quarters of a mile down the main line, with only a few minutes before the train began moving again, we found a good open boxcar, threw our packs on, and clambered up into the structure. Despite some fears that the train would side out (that is, stop) for a long time in the dreaded Klamath Falls yard, the engineer hauled ass and we fell asleep for much of the long ride through the Umpqua National Forest, a cold and remote region that makes for a night of one’s body shivering against frigid wind and steel.
The next morning, I awoke early with deep stomach pains, so I took my toothbrush out of its plastic bag after finding a new place for it, pulled down my almost leathery dirt-encrusted jeans, and let loose a stream of burning, blackberry-tinted shit into what had been my toothbrush’s home minutes prior. We eventually stopped moving, our boxcar in the midst of playing fields for the University of Oregon. Hopping off, we wandered through the verdant campus towards a cafe we knew about two miles away, where we sat for a while, drank coffee, and charged our cellphones. We then wandered towards a 7-11 across from the local Salvation Army drop-in center, opening a can of black bean soup and sharing it on the street. A man yelled out to us, “Hey, I think one of you dropped this,” pointing towards a ten-dollar bill on the ground. I said, “Oh…sure,” and picked it up tenderly, aware that he might accuse me of trying to steal, but he just waddled towards the Redbox outside the convenience mart and started picking out pablum to watch at home that evening. And so ended a trip from Dunsmuir, California, to Eugene, Oregon.
The telling of the story, in all its mundanity, gives some insight into the improvisational course the transient being takes in keeping distance from the social order. There is a repurposing of the detritus of capital (shitting in a plastic bag), and a meandering within liminal spaces (bedding down in a burnt-out shack and a boxcar, eating beans from a can outside of an emblem of late capital). The transient being is able to utilize an ugly proximity to the social order and its objects to an end that suits the transient being’s needs while simultaneously refusing the social order’s demands and standards of propriety.
There is also the chance aspect: the train arriving and slicing quickly through the mountains despite its slow-moving identifying marks, the open boxcar on said train, the man happening upon two dirty travelers and feeling generous in a city not known for its generous streak.
But how do these slips of luck and extemporaneous gestures against social order inform a poetics?
Arriving back again at Oppen, we can find a possible answer in Jeff Derksen’s post-Fordist reimagining of the former’s “Of Being Numerous.” In the twelfth section of “The Vestiges,” the title poem from his latest book, Derksen writes:
Another day of
Another day of
and management language
Another day of you and me
not of [our own] making”
Another day of
Another day of street
in the city, promising
another day of the idea
Another day behind
and of rubber hitting
another private day, another
making a day
Another day of
Another day of making
Another day of
“Can the government actually do anything about inequality?”
Another day of
the movement of goods
Another day, another
attempt to prorogue
Another day upon arrival.
The poem is an indictment of monotony, of the gears and fiberoptics cables and shipping routes that keep social order and capitalist hegemony in place, and of how the individual is caught, seemingly shackled in “Another day of you and me/ ‘under conditions/ not of [our own] making.’” What the transient being’s movements do is break this monotony by proposing an improvisational repurposing of the gears and fiberoptic cables and shipping routes, so that these structures of industrial society are taken advantage of and made liberatory. The shipping route becomes a route towards experiencing the ineffable, and the fiberoptic cable is utilized as a potential carrier of communications outside the bounds of expected and respected discourse. And just as these palpable and omnipresent tools of social order are upended, so can the language of social order be upended. I often think of Lisa Robertson saying to a workshop that “we must continue to write in order to resist the language of genocide,” and I believe that the traveler, existing in the marginal and liminal spaces, can be an inspiration to not simply write, but live in resistance to tools of genocide.
In a final return to Oppen, I also often think of the last lines of “Route”: “These things at the limits of reason, nothing at the limits of dream, the dream merely ends, by this we know it is the real// That we confront.” The nightmare in which we live, “the real // That we confront”— the transient being and the poet both know that there is a way outside of the nightmare, but that keeping one’s distance is not enough, as the nightmare follows and recurs. It must be confronted, in the spirit of improvisation and tumult, if we are to ever really awaken.
- TED REES
Ted Rees is a poet and essayist who spends most of his time in West Oakland, California, but travels around the western US on a regular basis. His current work focuses on environmental degradation and the struggles of wage labor. Previous writings can be found in the Double Burst featurette with Jared Stanley (Supersuperette 2014), Michael Cross’ Disinhibitor blog, Small Press Traffic’s website, Eleven Eleven, Ragtag, and a number of other publications both online and off. His two chapbooks include Outlaws Drift in Every Vehicle of Thought (Trafficker Press 2013) and Like Air (BentBoyBooks 2012). Forthcoming are chapbooks from Mondo Bummer and BentBoyBooks.
“In the Garden of Recounting” is a vintage feature that will require a little more attention than most to unpack, but is definitely worth the couple extra minutes you’ll spend uncovering the words hidden in the dense foliage of this textual garden. Robert Kendall’s truly unique work of “cybertext” was first published by Drunken Boat when it appeared in DB 6, Spring 2004.
“…his angry face hovers just below my horizon
the beatings retold in the faint language of scars
just a name people curse now…”
Robert Kendall, a Canadian born and raised, is one of the pioneers of interactive multimedia poetry. His poems have been featured and published in numerous exhibits and anthologies across the world. He currently resides in Boston and sits on the Board of Directors of the Electronic Literature Organization. You can find out more about him at robertkendall.com.
Click to enjoy “In the Garden of Recounting“
So, you’re feeling porous, shot through with holes. Everyone’s psychic winds seem to blow your way and you feel like you’re built out of sticks. That’s okay. Not to worry, this is not uncommon. You’re a poet, maybe, and aren’t we supposed to leave ourselves cracked open so the muse can get in? Jack Spicer practiced automatic writing. According to Kevin Killian, he would often go to bed drunk, wake up in the middle of the night and take dictation. When he woke up in the morning, he wouldn’t remember writing any of it. Sounds a lot like being drunk, but I buy it. If Spicer says Martians spoke to him, I’m game. Ezra Pound said, “The poet is the antennae of the race.” If that’s true, I’d like to advocate for ways to crack oneself open to let the starlight in other than getting shitfaced. I’d also like to talk advocate for sealing the crack back up when necessary. Let’s talk about it.
I’ve been thinking about containers. I want to know how to tell what’s mine and what’s yours. I’m not actually that interested in defining what a poetry community is, but I do think it is some kind of container that many poets I know put a lot of time, energy, love, trust, thought, care and risk into. I was talking with a woman who describes herself as a shaman recently about how I had come to be burnt out (on teaching), how I had the hardest time separating my own emotions and energies from those of the teachers and students and administrators I worked with. How there was so much trauma we were all carrying around inside of us, and some of it leaking out and exchanging at any given moment, creating a palpable buzz inside these massive school buildings that would often set off waves of vertigo as soon as I stepped inside. I didn’t (don’t) know how to have healthy boundaries around other people’s trauma. I experience it in my own body as anxiety and physical pain. And this woman said that she worked with several women who were former teachers who, though they felt called to teach and work with young people, maybe even especially traumatized young people , because these teachers were “sensitive”, they had to stop working in public schools. “The school system is a broken container,” she said. Yes, definitely.
So, if I know and can recognize a broken container, how can I begin to form containers that will be able to hold something as sacred as learning or art or just shared experience with other people? How can I be a better container myself, so my stuff doesn’t go flying off into other people when I don’t intend it to, and how can I let people have their stuff and create a buffer around myself so that I don’t take on whatever isn’t going to serve me well?
These series of posts act as a kind of container and I’m not sure how sound they will be. I’m a novice when it comes to self-care and certainly when it comes to any of the strategies I’ve decided to share here. I wrote to a friend about this piece, hoping to quote them and they aptly named my own anxiety around writing this post by expressing their apprehension about being named. They felt that would be “coming out’ around woo.” Woo meaning all that “hippy shit” to borrow a phrase from a dear poet friend of mine–energy, tinctures, trance, tarot, spells, the concept of chakras, etc. The further away you get from The Bay Area, the more things fall into this category–yoga, acupuncture, meditation. Basically, phenomena that can’t be explained empirically or measured scientifically, but whose effects can be experienced and studied. I realize I feel safer gathering friends around me by name here to show that I am not the only poet experimenting with “woo”. So, I’ll call on the aid of a few friends, some by name and some anonymous, but you should know, as you probably already do if you live in California, you are either likely surrounded by believers in “woo” or are one yourself. In either case, welcome.
Lara Durback, a poet and person I like very much, told me something about energetic boundaries a few weeks back that I think relates to the idea of containers. We were sitting at a picnic table in the back yard of a pair of poets with my partner Steve Orth, and another poet who we had just helped move out of an unsafe living situation. Earlier in the day, in that same back yard, I sat with about twenty other people, cis and trans women and non-binary people, mostly poets, talking about what the hell we were going to do about all of these recent incidents of sexual assault and intimidation that had surfaced involving poets in our community either as aggressors or survivors or both. Of course, incidents of assault, abuse and intimidation are unfortunately going on all the time, but this recent eruption had brought some people together out of a sense of urgency. We wanted/needed to talk. We formed a circle, said our names and the meeting began.
After the meeting, I felt a bit blown apart. I badly wanted a cigarette and bummed one off of Lara. We talked with another poet about our varying relationships with boundaries, as so much of what we had discussed in the meeting had to with women’s boundaries being transgressed often violently by men. It is a misguided kindness to think that people who commit consent violations or other abusive acts are all suffering from some aspergers-like inability to read basic social cues. Unfortunately, I think the problem is often simply a real lack of interest in the needs or desires of the person or people they abuse. Maybe it’s a mix. Some aggressors may struggle to understand boundaries while others just don’t care. We wondered aloud about how difficult it can be to assert our boundaries, when we often have difficulty recognizing them ourselves. We talked about self-defense classes or more empowering versions like Girl Army, but I can’t help feeling a conflict there, both hopeful when I see so many cis and trans women and non-binary people choosing to protect and defend themselves, and incredibly frustrated that we’re the ones taking classes to reinforce our boundaries. I would love to see men in our community, poets and otherwise, seek out classes that would train them to respect other peoples’ boundaries, how to manage aggression, maybe just an all around workshop on how to recognize misogyny and patriarchy. There are workshops that I could (and should) take that would train me to recognize white supremacy and work against it. Maybe this is a job for The OMNI. Somebody start writing a proposal!
People who are socialized as female tend not to get much training around boundary setting. Like poets, we are supposed to remain open. I picture a Norman Rockwell painting of a rosy-cheeked white lady in a house dress and apron standing in the doorway of a cute little house with her arms spread wide open, as if to say, “Come on in!” So, if you’re a poet who was socialized as female, you might be exceptionally good at picking up vibes in the ether, maybe very empathetic, and maybe exceptionally bad at filtering any of this information and protecting yourself from its possibly harmful effects.
Later, around the picnic table, Lara explained that she’s learning to set better boundaries for herself by thinking about the space her aura creates. “The aura is 18 inches, the aura is 18 inches,” she repeats to herself. Almost as if saying, “This is my container, this is my container.” She’s also learning to distinguish between her energy and the energy of others by visualizing it in terms of its color.
This reminds me of Hannah Weiner’s “The Fast”? Have you read it? Weiner catalogs each day of a fast lasting about two weeks. She tracks the way energy collects around objects in her apartment, and in her body. Green and red pool in her joints and cause her extreme pain. She can only use wooden tools because metal implements collect too much of the red and green. She spends much of her time in the kitchen sink running water over her body to wash the colors away, or at best bring them to a mellow blue. A purple person walks down the hallway outside her apartment and the whole day is shot. On her birthday she undertakes an epic journey across the apartment. To make it to the kitchen sink, she must wrap her feet in paper towel and tie them with pink silk ribbons before she can make slow steps across the concrete floor, fending off torrents of colored energies as she goes. Hannah Weiner’s body was such a sensitive instrument that it picked up information not just from other people, but from objects as well. After this fast, and what many describe as a psychotic break, she would begin seeing words in all different shapes, sizes and fonts, and would write her famous “Clairvoyant Journals”.
What swathes of colored energies must have flown and spun around that backyard gathering of poets, I wonder.
I called Lara today and she explained a practice that she uses regularly to help parse out the energies present in painful interactions. First, she visualizes a rose between she and the other person. The rose hovers outside of her aura (“The aura is 18 inches, the aura is 18 inches.”), absorbing all of the charged energies of the exchange, those coming from Lara and those from the other person. She gives the rose color and detail, maybe taking a mental photograph, explodes the rose in a burst of gold dust. Once the rose has burst into bits, she sends those bits of dust that belong to the other person back, not good, not bad, just neutral, and most importantly, not hers, and she picks out the particles of dust that belong to her and absorbs them back into herself. The toughest part for her, she says, is to keep the rose outside of her aura. “It’s hard not to feel like someone else’s stuff is not my problem, not my responsibility.” Visualizing what is theirs and what is hers in a recognizable, physical form, can help separate those energies.
About two weeks after that first backyard meeting, I sat at a cafe on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland with about five cis women and non-binary poets preparing to attend an open meeting of the OMNI collective, a new collective of collectives housed in a huge building on Shattuck not far from the cafe. We planned to present the OMNI collective with some information about a recent incident of rape that included one of their members, the aggressor. The OMNI collective had generously made room for us on their agenda and we had discussed the issue with some of its members prior to the meeting, hoping to set a clear intention and clear boundaries in terms of what we would and would not discuss for instance, we would not share the details of the survivor’s story, because we did not have her direct permission to do so. It would be a tough meeting, emotional for many, especially shocking for those who were not previously aware of the incident. Nico Peck, one of the poets sitting at the cafe, as we got our ducks in a row, offered me a tincture called Guardian Flower Essences made by Dessert Alchemy. Nico explained that the Gaurdian Flower tincture helps fortify one’s energetic boundaries–perfect for a meeting like this in which emotions and energies of all colors and shades would likely be vying for our conscious and unconscious attention. I squeezed a dropper-full into my iced tea and glurped it down as we headed for the door. I looked for a description of the tincture on their website, and didn’t find it but I did find one ironically called, “Nice Guy Formula”, which unfortunately is not a cure-all for assholes that we could dump into the water supply, but is instead for those who might be susceptible to the powers of the asshole in question or for those of us who have trouble setting boundaries. From the website:
Nice Guy Formula is Indicated When:
• I often feel unable to say no to requests for help, even though I later feel used or angry.
• I sometimes compromise my integrity to do things that others want me to do.
• I tend to offer help before I think about whether I can realistically do so.
• I tend to want to rescue others.
• It’s important to me that others see me as nice, even if it means that I have to do things I don’t want to.
At the beginning of the meeting, poet Sara Larsen volunteered to facilitate the meeting. Her first act as facilitator was to lead the group, seated in a roughly ovoid shape, in a grounding. She asked us to close our eyes and take a deep breath in and exhale it back out. We did this once or twice more. As I remember Sara, back straight, voice steady and strong prompting us to breathe, I am reminded how good it feels and take deep breath too, in front of the computer screen. Throughout the meeting I looked over at Nico a few times, noticing that during some of the most tense moments of an otherwise very productive, thanks to Sara’s excellent facilitation skills, Nico sat quiet, back straight, taking deep breaths with their eyes closed, reminding me to remember to breathe too.
We are all trying to build better containers already.
I realize as I write that the mortality rate for readers of this post might be pretty high. How many people stopped reading at the mention of the word “energy”? How many at “rape”? How many just stopped short at the title? Who’s still with me?
As I write this, another instance of a male poet assaulting a female poet is brought to my attention. A woosh, like a gust of wind, blows through my head and I momentarily lose my sense of equilibrium.
My own body struggles to hold a mixture of competing energies. I feel a tightness in my chest. My right shoulder aches. The third finger on my right hand is beginning to tingle. My container wants my attention. Time to stop.
- LINDSEY BOLDT
Lindsey Boldt is a poet, performer, editor and educator living in Oakland. She is the author of the full-length book, “Overboard”, and the chapbooks, “Oh My, Hell Yes” and “Titties for Lindsey”. With her partner Steve Orth, she co-edits Summer BF Press and writes, directs and performs plays in the style of “Oakland Poetic Realism”. Recent productions include “Dating by Consensus” and “The Reading”. She is also an editor with The Post-Apollo Press.
Turn off the lights, click “full screen,” and immerse yourself in today’s trippy tribute to Throwback Thursday. Coming to you from a very recent DB, issue 17, Summer 2013, Sabrina Ratté’s “Station Balnéaire” is an audiovisual experience (complete with music by Roger Tellier-Craig) that demands you bask in its splendor once again.
“Images of the Almalfi Coast have been transformed by video feedback. The rigid transitions, inspired by early computer art, contrast with the aleatory movements of the electronic light.”
Sabrina Ratté is a visual artist out of Montreal with a focus on creating art through video. Most recently, her work was screened at the Baltimore Alternative Art Fair in July. More information about her pieces, including upcoming projects and releases, can be found on her website sabrinaratte.com or her blog at lands-of-dreams.tumblr.com.
A Few Seconds of Radiant Filmstrip: A Memoir of Seventh Grade
by Kevin Brockmeier
I’m wistful about the new wave of memoirish books nostalgically set in the 80s, and this hybridy book written in the third person about the author’s own childhood, gave me everything I wanted from the experience. The book’s protagonist is synaesthetically keyed in to the unbearble anxieties of middle school. According to KB, “I chose the third person, present-tense voice…as a matter of instinct, but on reflection I think that it gave me a very particular way of approach the story, one that allowed me to investigate my life the same way I investigate the lives of my fictional characters, with both honesty and compassion.” Sometimes Kevin has friends and sometimes his weirdness leaves him vulnerable to their jockeying, the beginning of their estrangement. The book’s got science fiction and Judy Blume and the heady retrospection of a genius. The book reminded me of David Mitchell’s Black Swan Green, but this is much like the childhood I actually had. Brockmeier captures the soul-shaping heartbreak of middle school beautifully in this amazing form of memoir.
Great moment: Then it is Monday, and his mom is driving him across the river into the trees, and as they crest the hill and coast into the parking lot, the school grows gigantic in the windshield. They pull to a stop at the entrance. Something like a bird shoots out of his heart. Then he steps out into the patio and becomes a part of it all. The blue sky and the glass doors and the white tile floor that blazes in the sunlight. The lockers crashing shut like cymbals. The high school guys punching each other’s shoulders, drafts of cologne and deodorant mixing between their bodies. The high school girls with their hair belled out around their necks. The black streaks of tennis shoe rubber on the floor of the gymnasium. The glass walls of the front office. The Reeboks and Levi’s, Izods and bomber jackets, jelly bracelets and Swatch watches. The football players in their jerseys. The band kids with their instrument cases. The chalkboards with their erser-shaped smoke signals—poof, poof, poof.
Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me
by Javier Marías
On a trip to Peru this summer, I caught a bronchial infection that forced me to spend a couple of days in bed, so I decided to read as much of Javier Marias as I could get on my iPad. The best book of the bunch so far is Tomorrow in the Battle Think of Me. Marias’s idiosyncrasies as a novelist—his long pondering sentences, his allusions to Shakespeare, his neurotic disapproval—are at their peak in this book. The book begins with a tryst between a married woman and her male that ends in her dying and the rest of the book describes his immediate and long-term reactions, their causal energy forward. The novel is like a really stylized Larry David episode.
Typical lovely Marías sentence: We are so easily infected, we can be convinced of anything, we can always prove ourselves to be right and everything can be told if accompanied by some justification, some excuse or by some attenuating circumstance or even by its mere representation, telling is a form of generosity, anything can happen and be said and be accepted, you can emerge from anything unharmed or more than that, unscathed.
By Night in Chile
by Roberto Bolaño
I also recently finished reading this Bolaño, which is a quick, tight, engrossing read that resonates so much to me as we hurtle towards towards becoming a third world surveillance state. It’s a Marquezian yarn about a middling and omnipresent opportunist-priest-slash-critic-slash-Capote-like-hanger-on. Everyone in the book is a little bit sinister, but all of the literati depicted in the book are in collusion with really poisonous nationalism. Like a good genre stylist, Bolaño takes the edges off of his realism with a fabulist’s affect.
I Was Not Born
by Julia Cohen
As publisher of Noemi Press I get to read amazing books at various stages; we just ordered the ARCs for IWNB, so I got to read it again this summer. The book is about how trauma literally and symbolically resonates through the lives of those that suffer and those that help the suffering navigate. The writer shares transcripts of therapy sessions, and the book moves fluidly between the various approaches to lament and meditation. I Was Not Born also reaches deeply into personal history to uncover the nature of one person’s attachments. The book has great lyric depth at the same time that it chronicles the difficulty of a beloved’s mental illness.
A poem from the book:
The Ache The Ache
My lilac hands. I know
you’re breaking into an apple.
I can feel it. The overnight.
Clouds limp over swollen hills
as my freckles multiply, like how over-heated
bees litter the pavement.
I store my brain inside a straw hat.
I store my lust inside your finger.
The lists I store on paper. With two forks I whip
heavy cream in front of the window.
I listen to transportation more than
see it. I’m confused about who you are.
My wallet disintegrates, my lavender hair
I shove into your mouth, seal with
the flexing night. The thinnest pillow for
my breathy hibiscus. Can we pretend this
bathtub is a wave I’m trapped in? Its heat.
Can we not pretend at all? I drop diced fruit
into a bowl of sea foam.
Just tell me what you feel.
Under the Skin
by Michael Faber
I read the book because I saw the movie, and I was interested in how much of the “adaptation” of the book required the hypersexuality of Scarlett Johansson. I discovered that it was unnecessary, but I’m glad I read the book. Is there such a thing as ugly studies? Not the grotesque, but the coarse and the slightly disfigured from wear. The movie got that right from the book, but that was it. Set in Scotland, the book is a pro-vegetarian science fiction allegory about a super-predator race living on Earth in disguise in order to trap male homo sapien hitchhikers, which the humans of the book (the alien race) call vodsels, which are a delicacy on their planet The protagonist, named Isserley, has undergone massive reconstructive surgery to look more human, but she’s in pain throughout the book, and she feels the pressure from (literally) up above and from the Earth environment where her female-appearance makes her vulnerable to another level of oppression. The point of view shifts to her victims who all notice her unusually large breasts and her strange pointed face. These two poles of sex appeal provoke interesting tension around what being legible as a woman represents.
Other books I can’t stop reading that I want everyone to read : White Girls by Hilton Als, Preparation for the Next Life by Atticus Lish (manuscript), Likewise by Ariel Schrag, Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics edited by TC Tolbert and Trace Peterson, and Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit.