* Kiva Stimac, the great lady behind Popolo Press in Montreal (and the spirit behind the Sala Rossa and Casa del Popolo along with her partner Mauro) did an interview with L'Oie de Cravan that you can read right here if you don't mind scary pictures.
* L'Oie de Cravan travels : we'll be in Paris from mars 16 to 19th, taking part in the Paris book fare (Salon du livre de Paris), stand U51. Come see us !
We'll also be in Los Angeles on mars 24th to take part in Shelf life 2 : A big day for Small Press with our friend Byron Coley. We'll have a fine sample of our books, normally hard to find in this part of the Americas. Do come to see us!
* Some of you might know Le Bathyscaphe, the fine bilingual cultural paper with an international crew that we are so proud of being associated with. Well, here comes Bathysphere, a new, lighter, photocopied free zine offspring of the former, made to measure to flow with the movement of times. The first issue is out and its main focus is on the Occupy movement. You can get it from the crew of Le Bathyscaphe or read it online in pdf format right here. Not much english in this issue though, but you can read here in english the full interview Hermine Ortega did with Mark Read, the guy behind the Bat Signal at Occupy Wall Street (just skip the french intro!).
And these were the news for this long long freezing leap month.
C'est la guerre in the Composer's section at the Centre George Pompidou bookstore
(picture by Thurston Moore)
We've put out Byron Coley's C'est la guerre : early writings 1978-1983 in may last year. A lot of talk about it on the web in the US but very little press. Europe seems strangely more into inking the good news : first there was a great article in the Wire , there was also a nice word on it in Mojo. Now, it is in France (where the bilingual book is widely available only since november ) that the press is picking up. Check out Guy Mercier's great article in Paris' free cultural rag Balise(november 2011). And, just this week, came out a beautiful little note in the new issue of France's foremost literary magazineLe Matricule des Anges( january 2012). Blogs there are also buzzing over it but this, anyone can find.
twenty-five years, my love, twenty-five years have gone by.
You don’t take them out anymore your painted wood scarecrow your clear day companion You don’t take out your horses your madmen and whales you don’t tidy your seagulls in the seagull drawer you don’t have animals anymore or much hope you don’t light up the fire more than once or twice a summer you don’t sleep in the snow you don’t hunt the cherries with your great gay airs and it’s rare, it’s quite rare for you to remember me our fears, laughter and six p.m. trains You don’t rumple the forests of laundry you don’t pin lace onto the face of the sky anymore you don’t open these wings or very little and nothing ever takes off much farther than the end of last winter when we followed the stream embroidered with a balustrade that had white or green highlights which lasted until night You don’t last until night
Today more easily than in the past when I used to hold the key to it I wander in your hollow I say more easily because it’s been empty of you since it’s been empty of me I don’t even see that spear planted in the morning anymore Boulevard des Invalides I can’t picture your voice Yet, I know— the down of your body still burns inside the earth the wind along your shoulders still makes that husky chant but you no longer have shoulders you don’t even have wings and the lioness tosses in her bed of dead wood and every Sunday writes to Sundays that were and the envelopes are empty inside like those shelves under the sea with their empty boats and empty fishes you don’t bring in your wolves you don’t take off your gloves to stroke the rain you don’t have naked fingers left under those rings that naked mouth amid the haze and those knees, those pigeons those clouds above your breasts you don’t come back in at night with your big cold beasts and that smell of the city afar the black alleys and I don’t know your neck anymore or your nape that moved slowly in the heavy air for me alone Even the coal bucket the little nuggets of water you won’t bring them in your purple house anymore with your fifteen fur coats on Now even your tongue is dead though I still speak it
Pierre Peuchmaurd, Parfaits Dommages et autres achèvements.