STEVE BENSON                           03 15 15                       

A N N E X   P R E S S   2015

Suddenly a blurb was writing me
 
 Steve                                                          
10:20 AM (2hours ago)
 Benson <sbensonx@gmail.com>
 
to james


dear james

thank you for your patience, industry, tenderest possible pressure of affectionate and respectful interest. you are my model forevermore of southern gentility. i -- what i did was -- i affixed your pdf to my 'desktop' and occasionally opened it, occasionally left it open, occasionally explored it, occasionally observed the occasion of contemplating, wondering, trying to figure stuff out, playing, voicing, subvocalizing, wondered, hit myself figuratively speaking, spoke figuratively yet again, and occasionally also shut down and restarted my laptop, this latter to little apparent effect. finally, reading a third or fourth time through the Note on et cetera page, I observed that the whole fuckin' mess was dedicated to Steve Benson, which is my name (though also the name of a conscientious, dedicated, wry and affectingly unassuming midwestern poet and retired art teacher I know through facebook). This charged my batteries with an extra half-ounce of adrenalin, pumping spurts of dopamine into its friendly receptors and urging me to resolve and recognize the actual structure of the book, or at least its title, which remain on the take it or leave it table, which seldom gathers dust in my neighborhood.

anyhow, it also allowed me to write the blurb i attach below, which you may or may not find useful for helping to present your book to an interested set of readers.

warmest possible regards (it's snowing again),
steve

-   -   -   -

Blurb For Selfportrait In Plants By James Sanders or Whatever It’s Called Depending on Where You Open the Book:

This is not a novel but it invites anyone into an experience that is bound to be novel, putting the lie to sameness and repetition, to linear structure or causality as given, to disbelief and to the integrity of the individual heroic, antiheroic, and confused self, and to any assumption of cultural norms as truly determinate of the fact, act or facture of reading, that awesome category of which writing is a subelement. I am honored to discover my name among the many (“hetero-shiver suit,” “the inherent watching,” “pollyannasmed,” “you”) interpellated through the agency of figure-ground dark-light relations between empirical space and hypothetical time that are here reconnected for improvisational exegesis and redistribution.

--Steve Benson