<strong>PhotoStatic</strong> <strong>Magazine</strong> Nº37 P R O D U C T I O N , I even knew what notebook to put them in; an empty orange term paper cover I had also found on the street. R.K. Courtney, Iowa City, Fall, 1988 [Nº1 1386 A U G U S T
N O T R E P R O D U C T I O N Retrofuturism Nº10 NOTE: All the characters in this novel are imaginary. KAREN ELIOT A day or so later Anne telephoned Janet Andrews and, finding she was in town, made an engagement with her that evening. “This curious state of affairs,” Anne told her, over very fair coffee—“calls for some serious questions.” She asked her questions and Janet answered, a little grudgingly at first, and then, as her gaze hit the side of the small, friendly little face, more openly. “Race you to the post office?!” was what Janet wished to relate in her turn as they walked home. “Why shouldn’t I expect more from the sign of the dream than I expect from a degree of consciousness which daily grows more acute?” Anne looked at her astonished. “I am growing old.” “Perhaps its the difference with which you treat the dream,” Janet explained, “which makes you grow old.” “In the waking state the mind has the tendency to lose its bearings,” said Anne, and made a mental note. Surely, she thought, The Chief could take a hint? Janet went on talking, warning Anne against certain importunate callers who had a way of trying to get past the desk—Masters, of the Simpson crowd; POPULAR CULTURE IS THE WALRUS OF THE AVANT-GARDE What happens when strong, intimate business relations and mechanical reproduction extend the ordinary work of a private secretary, and her employer into the world of art? Harvey, of Stolen Fiction—telling Anne, a little feverishly, of her employer’s likes and dislikes, of what particularly annoyed him, of the especial vexations she had been able to keep away from him. Anne thought, amused: “I wonder if he really likes it?” Somehow, it didn’t fit in with the mental painting she had forged of the man himself, a painting she had carried about with her for three years; on the bus, to the grocery, out to dinner, which she often contemplated through coffee stains and ragged edges with admiration and by which she made, unconsciously, a good many comparisons. Janet’s flat was well furnished, but wholly lacking in charm. Janet lit a cigarette—“Funny to see her smoke so much,” thought Anne to herself, “she doesn’t seem to be the type.” “True, but judgements are bad faith” answered Anne’s second thought to the first thought. “On the other…” “I won’t be coming back—to the agency…” said Janet slowly, interrupting the third in a series of Anne’s thoughts. “He doesn’t want me.” “The Chief can’t get along without you!” Janet tried to smile, tried to take that little sentence as a soothing balm to her sore throat. 1 9 8 9 1387
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