Vi Khi Nao, The Vanishing Point of Desire, Fugue State Press, 2011."How does this writer, Vi Khi Nao, even exist?
She puts herself on a wood stove. Stretches her fingers. Stretches her back. Stretches her toes. She reaches out to the cutting board. She places herself on the cutting board. She slants herself on the cutting board. She lifts the hammer. She lifts it high. As high as her eyebrows. She lifts her skirt up. She lifts her skirt with the unused hand. She lifts it up for the view. She lifts the skirt. She lifts the hammer. The hammer falls...
Wait: correction.
With a hatchet.
She takes herself apart with a hatchet.
She puts herself on the wood stove.... "
"Vi Khi Nao will probably be labeled as an “experimental writer.” But she’s also a typewriter enthusiast, an artist (one of her pieces accompanies this post), and, surprisingly, a lover of sangria that can cut you like a knife. Her stories and poetry have appeared in Noon and elimae. Her first book, The Vanishing Point of Desire, came out this month on Fugue State Press.
I caught up with her recently.
Is this your first interview?
- Yes, Tony, this is my first interview.
This is only my third interview, so I’m not very good at this. How interested are you in talking animals? Please give your answer as a percentage.
- Not very interested at all. -2%. Their silence makes their reputation. As mute creatures they are more lively and interesting.
Since you have minus interest in talking animals, I will skip the question where I ask you to comment on poetry the otters in my otter preserve (Tender Meadows, LLC.) have been working on. Instead, I will ask you about your own work: How would you describe it to an office manager?
- My work is officeless, devoid of office supplies, mechanical goods, and sterling. My work is flamboyant, transcending, and at times inaccessible, like a password, but decodable. If you read it, you must read it in the morning or in daylight, not necessarily from eight to five. To take advantage of its content fully. My work is selfish. It demands much absolute focus and can’t not be left alone in the dark for long hours. My work is an albino, and will most likely hop from one systolic hut to the next, and rarely remains tenderly on the page of a room. My work is an empty basement, much is stored there and won’t survive a flood. Someday my work will arrive to work with me and I hope you, Office Manager, that you will not mistake it for a butterknife. My work is sharp, like paper, and most certainly won’t cut anything. Perhaps I am wrong to state that so frankly. My work may have the potential to cut your thighs into four seasons, and only the Spring and Winter survive the ordeal of the cut. My work may raise eyebrows, but not necessarily your pay raise. Alas, my work may not have a place in your office, like a plant, but certainly it is not an endless task that occupies your soul the moment you enter the office and the moment you depart it.
Google Translate responds with “you when” after being given “Vi Khi Nao” to translate. So: You when?
- I win. I know. Thank you, Tony.
What is it that you’d most like to ask me?
- I have many most. How is your house? In Vietnamese, wife translates to house. How many bedrooms are there in your house? Do the windows open? Is there a wine opener? How is your roof? Will you let me climb on top of it to see the birdfeeder? How is the cellar? Is it like the one in The Road. Have you slept in the garrett recently? Will you move to your house? Soon? I will miss you very much. Please don’t be confused. These questions address your wife. Not your house." - Interview by Anthony Luebbert
Excerpt
