Dodie Bellamy is a novelist, poet and essayist. Her latest book is The TV Sutras (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2014). Her Ugly Duckling chapbook Barf Manifesto was named best books of 2009 under 30 pages by Time Out New York. Other books include Cunt Norton, the buddhist, Academonia, Pink Steam, The Letters of Mina Harker, and Cunt-Ups, which won the 2002 Firecrackers Alternative Book Award for poetry. Her reflections on the Occupy Oakland movement, "The Beating of Our Hearts" was published as a chapbook in conjunction with the 2014 Whitney Biennial. With Kevin Killian she is editing for Nightboat Books New Narrative: 1975-1995. When the Sick Rule the World, her third collection of essays, is forthcoming from Semiotext(e). She currently teaches creative writing at San Francisco State and California College of the Arts. For the past 20 years she has run a legendary, much-beloved workshop in her apartment on Minna Street in San Francisco (shared with her partner Kevin Killian since 1990), which is nestled beneath the glowing offices of tech companies and theatres.
"A definition of a generation." - LA Review of Books
"I pinch my nipples, meaningless language. I feel like I'd just like to lay, pinching them in a semi-public place, I feel like I'm melting."
Author's Note from Cunt-Ups
Cunt-Ups is a hermaphroditic salute to William Burroughs and Kathy Acker. I started the project as cut-ups, in the original Burroughs sense, as delineated in The Job. I used a variety of texts written by myself and others. Per Burroughs’ rather vague instructions, I cut each page of this material into four squares. For each cunt-up I chose two or three squares from my own source text, and one or two from other sources. I taped the new Frankenstein page together, typed it into my computer and then reworked the material. When my own source text was used up my cunt-ups were finished. The body with all organs slithers and lunges through netsex, psychic oozings, alien invasion, and serial murder. In ecstatic peristalsis the lover endlessly re/turns to life.
Is the cut-up a male form? I’ve always considered it so—needing the violence of a pair of scissors in order to reach nonlinearity. Oddly, even though I’ve spent up to four hours on each cunt-up, afterwards I cannot recognize them—just like in sex, intense focus and then sensual amnesia. They enter the free zone of writing; they have cut their own ties to the writer. She no longer remembers these disembodied shreds of desire as her text. —Dodie Bellamy
Cunt-Ups will be republished in the forthcoming