In a world of very bad white men, this season — please bear with me — I’m asking Santa for more white men. White men like Jerry Saltz. To cleanse the palette and loins. For those uninitiated, Jerry Saltz is the Pulitzer Prize-winning art critic at New York magazine, a self-taught, art school dropout who once made his living driving trucks.
Hey hi hello you beautiful humans you!
We just launched PULP PUBLIC SCHOOL last week and we’re so damn happy and proud.
Our inaugural faculty is brilliant, funny, and offering amazing insights, skills, and love-yourself wisdom that you simply can’t find anywhere else.
I’m so goddamn thankful for every body and brain and thrumming heart that helped us get here.
Living this life is not for the faint of heart, but you are its lifeblood.
Ever and always worth the squeeze,
Hey hi hello and (dare I virtually utter it?!) happy summer…!
We hope you and yours and everyone in your universe is as safe and sane as humanly possible. We’re all feeling a bit bananas over here at PULP HQ, but swimming and baking and writing and screwing and protesting and revolutionizing as much as we can muster to offset the profound COVID blues.
Bonjour you dear PULP-ers of great mind, spirit, and sex magic,
Holy moly, what a ride. We started PULP a year ago — a fledgling bud in hard-packed internet soil—and have grown into a goddamn hydra-ed peony. Impossibly petal-ed, rare, tenacious, and should any one blossom be torn asunder by one of feminism’s innumerable adversaries and tumble to the ground? Well its sheer fertility, strength, and intelligence would generate an entirely new peony, capable of exacting the same brilliant growth, the same beauty, the same symbiosis with its surrounding comrades.
(Sorry for the odd peony metaphor — they only bloom…
Dearest sweet humans of the PULP universe—
We find ourselves on the cusp of what will hopefully be—fingers, toes, and heart-strings duly crossed, our chests tight with anticipation—an absolutely remarkable chapter in American history where our race-based violence will be admitted and abolished.
And amid all this beautiful rage and protest and political upheaval, we crossed the threshold of our Kickstarter — we did it. Together.
Dearest darlings of tender heart and rageful spirit—
We’re here in the thick of it, like you, like your family and friends and the throngs of hot-throated bellowing protestors all around the goddamn nation.
Here at PULP we’re trying our damnedest to be a small but effervescent light — a place to shine, a place to seek solace, a place to sit the fuck down and read some very necessary and very uncomfortable-making stories.
We’re trying to hold up Black voices and stories — not just now in national tumult, but every day — because death shouldn’t be the catalyst…
The notion that an unwanted pregnancy isn’t an “essential” issue or problem has terrifying and tangible repercussions, yet here we are. The rhetoric around much of this pandemic has been a bastardized binary running a ragged line down the middle of our lives in which we’re asked to decide what is necessary and what is sacrificable for the “greater good.”
And as per usual, women — especially poor women in conservative states — are bearing the brunt of this societal fallout; access to healthcare, doctors, contraception, and any means of abortion, medical or surgical, has fallen squarely on the chopping…
Dearest PULP-y humans—
My uncle died last week (not from COVID, he was old and sick and adversarial about Western medicine that would have saved his life), and I was wracked with grief. Not because of his death — although of course, I mourned at the Tommy-shaped hole now in the world — but because I believed there was not enough grief surrounding his absence.
I knew very little of his life outside of his role in my family which was fraught and eccentric if loving and kind. I felt like I’d swallowed gravel and millipedes — I was crawling…
I ’m an anxious creature, a life-long nail-biter — red, wet swollen cuticles and the sharp click of teeth on teeth have been the muted but consistent orchestral backdrop to my existence; something akin to a Philip Glass score. It’s all nerves over here.
I worry about whether taking chicken eggs from beneath all those feather-tufted warm bottoms somehow breaks the hens’ hearts. I worry about my own mother, her beautifully wan face, and nearly translucent face strung with blue veins like so many fairy lights winking out their last illuminations in a paper castle.
I worry about hungry children…