Posted to Lemon Hound on Monday, November 29, 2010.

My first problem, after reading Adam Seelig’s Every Day in the Morning (Slow), and having decided to review it, involved how to curb my penchant for superlatives, chiefly because, let’s be honest, it reads as unlearned and juvenile, and secondarily because I wanted to shout that the work is orginal! breathtaking! brilliant! inspiring! when the very words have been rendered meaningless by overuse.

Fuck.

Ok, Every Day in the Morning (Slow) scans like poetry but claims to be fiction, or reads like fiction but sounds like monologue, or looks like nothing I’ve ever seen and reads like the voice in my head, or sounds like a poetically arranged first fiction laid out as a musical score, note to note to note across the page and breath and breath and breadth.

(Breathe.)

The physical experience of reading the book. Seated in the cafeteria at the College on lunch break, I flatten the book open on it’s spine to read the words printed at the very edge of each margin on each page. Every sentence letter and every gesture word signifies a decision—Brecht via Seelig. The space on the page leaves room for my own breath, leaves space to pay attention to the power of one word to turn meaning on its edge.

(Slow) is the opposite of the blog: There is space. There is time. There is room to consider. There are no hyperlinks. There are no distractions. There is the word and the note and the voice and the man and the woman and the father and

the

word

and

the

page

and

the

mirror

and

twelve

bars

just

twelve

bars

or

one

note



Not a bore never a bore a book best read in one sitting (slow).