lady of lettuce

Zombies by Jennifer Rutherford


Zombies by Jennifer Rutherford

Not so long ago zombies rarely shuffled out of B-grade horror movies and cult comic books, but today they are everywhere. Zombies are proliferating, demonstrating an extraordinary capacity to transport fluidly from genre to genre, from the apocalyptic future to the already survived past, and in and out of fictional form.

Today they can be found in just about any genre or discourse and as they move sinuously across the cultural landscape they keep morphing; taking on ever new and ever more bizarre associations. Zombies would appear to be unthinkable, the ultimate nightmare of a world devoured by the dead, and yet more and more often this horror-scape provides a form of figurative capture for the way things are. This book explores why.

Zombies explores the recent transformation of zombie from cult genre to a figure that pervades western culture. Rutherford examines the zombie as a powerful metaphor for a constellation of social forces that define contemporary reality. This is an ideal introduction to all that is social about zombies, for students and general readers alike.

Extracts from Zombies, were recently published in Australian newspapers, The AgeThe Canberra Times and the Sydney Morning Herald. Available now to read online:

Institution of Affiliation

The way this country treats its artists is a FUCKING abomination.

The way this country treats its intellectuals is a FUCKING abomination.

The way this country treats its women is a FUCKING NIGHTMARE.

Perhaps the only reason I stay here is for the free health care and dental care; becasue I have to survive somehow, becasue I can eat here and live somewhere half decent.

But it is an abject, soulless existence, being made to feel ashamed for being a woman, ashamed for being an artist, ashamed for being a scholar. To be punished with poverty, the collapse of integrity in universities, lack of opportunities, and the day to day prejudice against everything I stand for, everthing I am. To be enslaved and demeaned by institutions of “exellence”.

Universities have lost the plot. They have become little more than self-sustaining beuracracies, administrations. At best they are like the public schools in this country, offering a mediocre, PC education to the masses. Ticking the fucking boxes, getting their funding and going home. Attracting as many students as possible and teaching them with as few staff as possible. The casualisation of universities is a fucking disaster. I’m not even going to start on the personal anecdotes. All I know is there is no ethical accountability anymore; it’s every MAN for himself.

Maybe this is the lecture I should give at the ASAL conference next week? If I can afford to even get there–casuals get no funding for professional development of course–well I sure as hell won’t be revealing my institution of affiliation on my name tag… enslavement is not affiliation.

Renata Adler, Speedboat

I am over tumblr at the mo: the quoting of great works–the abridging, decontextualising, curating, reblogging, abridging, the disservice to the whole works trhat goes on. Also, my eyes start scrolling even when they are closed and I am trying to sleep…. jump cut jump cut, scroll scroll scroll…
Then again, sometimes I come across a quote that leads me to a new work, like the journal of Andre Gide, say. And this book, Speedboat, is all about being fragmentary and anecdotal. So here I go, quoting from p.89:
A young professor from Iowa, who was in the city for a lecture series on Wordsworth and the Lake Poets, spoke of his closeness to his own students, with several of whom he had had affairs, although he did not believe, in the academic context, in shacking up. He was preoccupied with his brightest student, a girl with whom, during office hours, he engaged in–he wished there was an Anglo-Saxon word for it–fellatio. I said I thought it was sort of a metaphor for education, wasn’t it. Then I thought I had gone too far. But no. He said, “Exactly.”
Ha the fuck Ha, gotta love the 70s. This book is great. What a dame.

let me show you my innards

So, I’m thinking about why I started this blog and it’s relationship to journal-writing; I have kept a journal for more than 20 years. Both forms seem ideal for confessional writing… but for me–and maybe it’s because of my age/habit–there are things I would write in a journal that I would never publish online. To me, a blog is an inherently performative space, while I’m pretty confident that my journal is a private space so I am less self-conscious when I write in it. My journal is a place where failure–intellectual, literary, personal, even ethical failure–is permitted. Often, I write when I am angry; I purge myself of toxic thoughts, many of which are too nasty, stupid or banal to merit sharing. And there is something primal about the act of scrawling that I need to indulge.

Saying that, it’s obvious that many people use blogging/tumblr in the way I do a journal, that is, as a space to vent emotionally and personally explicit material, often in rash and passionate ways. But I’m not entirely comfortable with using the blogging format like that–this blog is an experiement for me, and I can’t see it replacing the exquisite secrecy of journal writing.

Even if data survives for years in cyberspace, I still perceive the blog to be ephemera–perhaps because it is a form of documentation that occurs in installments over a period of time: The blog, like the journal, often functions as a sort of I was here on this day at this time, and I feel like this… Like a periodical, it’s a record of sorts, it captures a series of moments and prioritises the now, whereas the book is perhaps better able to express lasting/timeless truths. I guess what I’m doing here is trying to develop for myself a means of expression that is peculiar to blogging, neither a book nor a journal, that is both confessional and performative, and which is meaningful and worthwhile… It might take a while….

Academy of Modern Ruins: Philosopher’s Library

From the website:

“In our age of increasing distractions, the need for perspective and reflection is essential.Candy Chang and James A. Reeves will transform an abandoned gas station on Route 66 into a library dedicated to pilgrimages and personal transformation. Located in the Mojave desert, The Philosopher’s Library will be a remote sanctuary filled with books about leading an examined life, as well as a card catalogue where travelers can share their philosophies for personal well-being.”

To submit to this project or read past submissions, visit

relax and let everything go to hell

Here is a letter to read every time I start doubting my work, which is often… a reminder that self sabotage is a complete waste of time. Also a reminder of the importance of mentors/fellow practitioners–those who admire, foster, and support our practice. Actually I don’t need to be reminded of this–like the life jacket under my seat, the oxygen above my head

via believermag: Via MOCAtv: In 1965, Sol LeWitt wrote fellow sculptor Eva Hesse a four-page letter of encouragement, urging her to stop doubting herself and to simply continue making her work. Despite the fact that some would consider their friendship unlikely, the two sculptors were close friends and wrote to each other frequently about their ideas, work, and personal lives from 1960 until Hesse’s death ten years later. Often quoted, LeWitt’s letter has become a source of inspiration and a vote of confidence for many artists the world over.

Don’t worry about cool, make your own uncool [...] You must practice being stupid, dumb, unthinking, empty. Then you will be able to DO [...] try to do some BAD work. The worst you think of and see what happens but mainly relax and let everything go to hell–you are not responsible for the world–you are only responsible for your work–so DO IT. And don’t think your work has to conform to any preconceived form, idea or flavor. It can be anything you want it to be.

see  sol-eva-letter

The Inscrutable Brilliance of Anne Carson NY Times

Jeff Brown for The New York Times

Anne Carson, the author of “Red Doc >” and “Autobiography of Red.”



My (ex) supervisor (friend/mentor/awesome woman) writes like a demon!

This book is devastating in the best possible way…

University of Western Australia Press

Read an extract/buy this book at:

Konkretion_web_mainednright on Marion

A Novel is Not a Boiled Egg

When i told him i was writing a novel, he said, Everyone’s writing a novel.

In the morning, he said, Don’t you even know how to peel a bolied egg?

A novel is not a boiled egg.

A novel is trauma. A novel is disease. A novel is anachronism. A novel is a well-tramelled but overgrown path. A novel is a joke. A novel is an excuse. A novel is a tunnel. A novel is slow burn. A novel is a nightmare. A novel is an occupation. A novel is an univited guest. A novel is a way of life. A novel is a refusal to live. A novel is a refusal to die. A novel is a memory. A novel is the past made ever present. A novel is a psychoanalyst.

I have been writing this novel for eight years. I have rewritten it about 4 times. The current draft is my last. Even if it never sees print, it will be finished. Then I have another to work on.

Whenever I boil an egg I think of him, unwillingly. I think, At least he taught me how to peel a boiled egg.

A novel is revenge. A novel is a relationship.

I don’t want to write about him because it gives him undue importance. It confuses me with him.

But not writing is worse.



Urban Dicktionary

1. Lettuce Ladies
PETA (People for Ethical Treatment of Animals) campainers (sometimes playboy models, actresses and icons) that dress up in outfits, normally bikinis or long dresses, made or decorated with lettuce leaves to campain and spread the word about vegetarian and veganism. They hold events, sometimes outside of McDonalds chains, cooking vegan food and sporting their lettuce outfits. Less known male equivalent- Broccoli Boys.
Celebrity Lettuce Ladies include Amanda Holden, Aditi Gowitrikar, Elizabeth Berkley, Tracy Bingham and Pamela Anderson.
-“I hear the Lettuce Ladies are serving up some vegan Bean Burgers outside McDonalds, wanna go?”
-“mmmm… McDonalds!”
2. lady lettuce
The term to describe the over-sized inner labia of a woman which sometimes appears as if a lettuce has been inserted into the vajayjay
Dave: “Did she have a cute vajayjay?”
Mike: “Fuck no dude! Her cunt lips were so big they looked like a ladylettuce!”

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