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Well-hyped trendy NYC lit journal OPEN CITY has begged for
months for readers to write letters to them. (After a recent
issue they did not receive any.) I sent them one. Editor Tom
Beller's reaction was to destroy it; "in disgust," he later
informed me. So much for the commitment of OPEN CITY to free
expression and opposing ideas.
Beller just doesn't get it. It's the lack of contention--a
running away from the conflicts of the real world--which
keeps his journal from engaging the reader. The sparkling art
objects just lay there, presented to be admired and
appreciated. They're not supposed to stir the reader to
outrage, or "disgust," or enthusiasm, or to any emotion
whatsoever. Instead they're exhibits of craftsmanship, like a
glassblower in a history museum showing you his outdated
skills. At times the OPEN CITY stories get daring; will add
cuss words, and sound "street." This is like the glassblower
adding an extra swirl to his museum piece. "That's nice," the
observer remarks. Then the object is immediately forgotten as
the crowd makes its way to another room, another display in
the spacious Hall of Contemporary Literature.
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The destroyed letter:
To the editors, OPEN CITY:
You receive no letters because your publication is dead.
You're a collection of overeducated preppies going through
the motions, pretending to have cultural relevance, but the
train of culture has already passed by the posh station you
wait in and you're too clueless in your New York party world
to understand. You like the idea of publishing a journal. You
want to be editors. You've read about journals of the past
which were exciting and you want yours to be the same thing.
But you have the process backward. You seek the
accomplishment first--that's your target--without realizing
that accomplishment is a by-product of having impetus and
ideas; having something necessary or original or striking to
say. This issue of OPEN CITY--I don't know which one; they're
all the same--is full of craft and pose. It's strikingly
dead. How can anyone write a letter in reaction to it, except
to bury it? Even supposed anarchist Hakim Bey (Peter Lamborn
Wilson)'s piece is dead, probably because he died thirty
years ago and some hidden executor keeps issuing his catalog
of unreleased work, outtakes and such, like a literary
Colonel Parker keeping alive the mummified memory of Elvis;
the piece in question being about some Sumerian shit which
proves Wilson had his head buried in the sands of academe for
too long and that's what killed him.
I can visualize your typical reader, Binky, Brent, or other
trust-funder with the insight, intelligence, and social
conscience of a Yorkie, trying to grasp the inscrutable
nonsense the Dead One presents. The last time most of your
readers wrote a letter was to Aunt Agatha thanking her for
last year's Christmas gift, written at the prodding of Mummy
and Daddy. A letter! "I mean, like, just because I have this
like degree from like Brown in American lit doesn't mean I
can be expected to write anything!" What an Ivy League
literature degree qualifies one for is not writing letters
but attending Manhattan literary parties. Or working for OPEN
CITY.
Anyone wanting to read a live journal should check out THE
MATCH!, based not in New York City but in Tucson. A guy named
Fred Woodworth edits and publishes it. He's filled with
passion and outrage and ideas, and is not often found at
trendy parties. Like, never. He's not a pose, but the real
thing. And his letters section is bursting every issue with
letters of enthusiasm.
King Wenclas, Underground Literary Alliance