Liquid Ink

The official website of Gint Aras

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Help to fight Facebook’s secret plan!

Dear Liquid Inkers, particularly those who use Facebook:

Facebook will cuckold or whore you, or both, in the next 24 hours if you do not copy and paste this blog entry in its entirety as *your* status update, message it privately to 100% of your friends, and then share your friends’ shares of this share. Know, being cuckolded and whored is not without consequence, not in this or any other civilized society; so if you do not in the next 24 hours (at print it was just around 9:30 AM, GMT -6) copy and paste this text as *your* status update, message it privately to 100% of your friends, and then share your friends’ shares of this share, you will find yourself or your committed lover taken by Facebook to adulterous sheets, to engage acts performed only in hell, swept in the process to diabolical joy.

This is true. I have proof. To quote from Troilus and Cressida (a play by Shakespeare, who is a famous English playwright and poet): “Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery! all the argument is a whore and a cuckold; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to upon death.”

There. Now, please help to spread the word.


Image: An Allegory of Folly, by Quentin Masys, taken from Wikipedia.

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Another blurb for The Fugue

The advanced reading copy of The Fugue is almost done. While anticipating how it will look, I received this humbling blurb from Alan Ziegler.

A character in The Fugue describes the eponymous musical form as having melodies “weave together like braids or plaits, then split up and come back together again.” One of Gint Aras’s many achievements in this constantly compelling novel is to propel the reader back and forth in time, encountering several generations of characters (mostly congregants and clergy at St. Anthony’s in Cicero) in various permutations with each other and in relationship to a house fire, the central act of violence (and many subsidiary affronts) that bind and break them. 
Set in the Lithuanian community during the decades following World War II, The Fugue is partly a “whodunit,” but is more concerned with the steps leading up to and fallout from what’s been done. Aras is a master with dialogue (especially when characters are inarticulate with each other) and details. We vicariously experience such acts as converting beer bottles “into a crude stained glass,” writing with an antique fountain pen, eating, playing and composing music, and sculpting from scrap metal, seemingly innocuous details Aras exploits to accentuate evil and surprise us with good. Aras doesn’t sugar-coat the agonies—great and small—endured and perpetuated by his cast; rather, he spices them in such a way that you feel the bite on your tongue and remain hungry for more. Amidst shattered lives, it is still possible for broken pieces to find each other and make something beautiful.
The Fugue is scheduled for release on December 7th, 2015.
A view of the Lithuanian wayside cross beside St. Anthony's Parish School, Cicero, Illinois.

A view of the Lithuanian wayside cross beside St. Anthony’s Parish School, Cicero, Illinois.

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Musical “palindrome”—Bach’s Crab Canon

They didn’t tell you about this one on MTV.

There was a time in my life, right between 2000-2003, when I would listen to Bach almost every day. Maybe some day I’ll write about why I stopped (or cut back), why the genius got to be too heavy. Recently, I clicked on the old Bach mp3s (in addition to the Mingus) and I was taken back to that point in his music where time and space and sound and distance all become one, layers forming on top of layers, things that are “the same” even though they become utterly different. It’s a mindfuck. Bach is cooler than your iPhone or your Xbox or your Fantasy Draft.

Then a friend randomly posted this one on Facebook. I just loved it. It’s not accurate to call this a palindrome, which should read identically no matter if you start at the beginning or end. (Like this: May a moody baby doom a yam?) But you get my point. The video makes it all the more insane.

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The story of my vasectomy

WARNING! This link will take you to a video of an actual vasectomy. While I highly encourage people to watch it—all surgery is fascinating, and this is the kind of “no scalpel” procedure I had done—I should state that it presents a tug of war between stainless steel instruments and very thin and sensitive body parts.

I was never this nervous going into a medical procedure. I’ve had four wisdom teeth beaten out of my skull. I’ve had my wrist screwed together. I had to get plantars warts burned off of my sole with a laser. Nothing quite compares to lying on your back mostly naked with your shaved scrotum (I did it myself) the focal point of the afternoon.

Weeks before the surgery, my doctor had explained the procedure in pretty vivid detail. Of course, my writer’s imagination had gone wild, and it did not help to see, so soon as I had entered the room, a stainless steel tray holding almost a dozen surgical instruments, and also gauze smeared with iodine, the color of brown scabs. I knew it was iodine. But iodine recalls the color of coagulated blood.

There I lay, nards under a tissue-thin square of sky blue paper, and the doctor came in with a host of people: four (at least) medical students, all of them preparing for lucrative careers of nard hacking. In the small room, I soon developed a sense of claustrophobia, this while my testicles swelled to the size of peaches. Supine, I stiffened to a board, sweat beating my brow, the room a trash compactor, my nards now ripened Michigan fruits, their skin red and downy. And I had a multicultural audience wearing scrubs.

I was wearing my dashiki. The doctor said, “Hey, this shirt looks Caribbean. Let’s put on some Caribbean music.” Songs by Mark Anthony and the loathsome Ricky Martin streamed from a corner. The procedure had begun before Ricky could sing Go go go! Ole ole ole!

“You’re just going to feel a pinch.”

Indeed, a pinch, if that’s what you want to call a needle stabbing your sack. I tried to be mindful, as my Roshi had trained me, but my mind went rather haywire, and I started hearing all sorts of idiotic associations, including the jingle, “You save big money when you shop Menards.” It did not go well with Ricky Martin, not when Raymond Jack Szmanda (the Menards guy) danced before me, his nuts bleeding.

The doctor was training his students, explaining all sorts of things about skin and vessels and placement and tools, and using words like cauterize, and a nurse kept handing him some branding rod attached to five million watts of electric death. I could smell my testes burning.

It hurt to be yanked around. Not the way it hurts when you stab yourself with a screwdriver. But the vas is short and rather thick, thicker than you imagine; the sound and vibration of cutting it was similar to what I felt when I cut my kids’ umbilical cords. There’s also very little room to maneuver, and with so much attention on me, I felt I was in a toaster.

I was pouring sweat. The doctor opened the door to let in air. This made a nurse feel she could now come in to ask random questions. “Just one quick question, doctor.” Are those Michigan peaches? Could someone cauterize Raymond Jack before he bleeds all over the floor?

The stitching required more yanking, more explanations, “These are going to dissolve.” Dissolve? How? Where? Into what? “We won’t need to remove any sutures.” You’re damn right about that. “Oh, good. Rihanna is on.”

Now that I was all stitched up, nauseated, a dripping human sponge of sweat, the doctor asked me, his hand on my shoulder, “What kind of music do you like?”

“Me?” I gasped. I found the breath to say, “Tom Waits.”

The doctor and the audience exchanged clueless glances.

“Should we know him?” he asked.

I nodded. “If you die today, what deity you believe in will meet you at the gates of paradise. And you’ll be asked, ‘Do you like Tom Waits?’ Answer ‘No’ and you’ll go to hell where five strangers will cut your genitals.”

They all guffawed. “We’ll look him up. We’ll look him up.” The doctor patted my shoulder. “You did great. You’re all done.”

Just pay at the counter. And spread no seed.

Pecan nuts on tree

Pecan nuts on tree

Photo from Wikipedia.

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I’m like Shakespeare

I can now say, without arrogance or hyperbole, that I have at least one very important thing in common with Shakespeare. This is no small joke, as Will is one of my all time greatest heroes, and I would very much like to be him. I would kill my entire identity if I could be Will for as little as a year, during which time I’d write two world-altering plays and seduce everyone, male and female, old and young, with my poetry.

So, it gives me great joy to report that we have evidence—as if we needed any, to be honest—that William Shakespeare was a pothead, or at least that his soul called out to the buds on occasion, as all good souls do. Read it right here. Share with blunt instruments, like Chris Christie.


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Five months from book launch

I’m unable to take it for granted. Each time I tell people, “I have a novel coming out in December,” I get a little buzzed up.

I reread the book one more time over the last two weeks of July, cutting a phrase here and adding a word there. When I completed it, I went out to water the garden. Dazed, I was transported back to my small room in New York City, right on the corner of Broadway and 113th, where I originally penned the first sentences of a short story—Yuri’s Window—that would eventually become The Fugue. The novel, all 120,000 words, set (mostly) in Cicero, Illinois and handling a cast of over a dozen characters, started out as a short story about a sculptor living in Amsterdam who made his own window frames and stained glass out of shattered beer bottles and pieces of fences. The first words were put to paper in late 2000.

The short story became a novel on the advice of several classmates at Columbia. Really, it was at the insistence of my teacher, David Plante, whose feedback saw me change the setting, that I started realizing I really did have a novel. Fifteen years later, that novel is going to be published.

I’ll be telling the story of how I wrote the book and what sort of ideas I played with, how long it took me to develop them. The story of how The Fugue was written is almost as interesting as the story the book tells: a sculptor is sentenced to prison for murdering his parents, and upon release returns to his hometown to convalesce and sift through memories, shattered narratives and the ongoing psychological effects of a World War. Over the span of the novel, the plot moves from a nondescript field in Western Ukraine, through the landscape of Chicagoland, eventually to extinguish itself at the back window of a bungalow, only seconds before the home’s conflagration.

There will be time to explore all that stuff.

In this post, I want to cut a question off at the pass. I know someone will ask: Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Yes. Don’t ever give up.



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