A Few Words on Bushwick-Inspired “Literature”

September 8, 2014 8 6899 Literature
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It’s very easy for one who lives in the Bushwick bubble to think that his/her experience is the end all, be all of experiences. Let’s be clear, though: It’s not. Like a college girl writing poetry in her leather-bound notebook, Bushlit (which sounds appropriately close to the word “bullshit”)  is impossible to take seriously. On the heels of offerings like Bored in Bushwick and Rich Kids of Bushwick, the recent release of a book called Bushwick Lyfe by Lukat Mi, a 29-year-old who failed out of Sarah Lawrence and somehow found herself in Bushwick, has prompted The Burning Bush to pause and reflect on the state of New York’s once rich literary scene, now atrophied into the hopelessness of the following excerpt from Bushwick Lyfe:

He stubbed out his cigarette on the bench in front of Brooklyn’s Natural. He saw a prostitute walk by and thought about asking her out for a date without paying. She noticed him looking and glared. He kept looking anyway. When she was gone, he decided to go to Kings County, but then he remembered it wasn’t there anymore. It had moved to 1 Knickerbocker. Nothing was ever going to be the same, he realized. Bushwick, the place he had come to love so much, had turned into a sea of sameness just like Williamsburg. But the more lamentable issue was: Would he ever find a girl to bang who didn’t have an STD?”

Bushwickians with low-brow taste (is there any other kind of Bushwickian, really?) have been spotted all over town reading Bushwick Lyfe

Bushwickians with low-brow taste (is there any other kind of Bushwickian, really?) have been spotted all over town reading Bushwick Lyfe

If this excerpt isn’t enough to turn any aspiring writer into an expatriate, we don’t what is. Nonetheless, the collective Bushwick delusion of self-importance seems a long way from being shattered. But let’s put it in the most boilerplate language possible: Sex and the City is to the Algonquin Round Table era of literature as Girls is to Bushwick “literature,” or, more accurately, a string of words thrown together about sex and drugs and “feelings” (see: The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. for reference). In other words, there’s no fucking contest and everyone would prefer if the latter didn’t exist so we could all go back to normal rent prices. 

Written by Genna Rivieccio, gracelessly toeing the line between Bushwick-inspired literature and Bushwick-inspired blog

 

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