In my last post, I mentioned that I wanted to write a little bit about the actor and singer Marcus “Marky” Kelly, who had minor-but I think significant-career in show business from the late 1950s through the 1960s. The highlight of it all was, of course, his teen idolhood in the early 1960s. I had assumed Kelly was gone for good, and quite possibly dead, until I discovered a movie called Filtered Water (director unknown, writer unknown, producer unknown, actors unknown) in my mailbox a few months ago. The movie featured an old actor who I think might be Kelly.
But let me make it clear: I am not 100% sure that the old actor in Filtered Water is Kelly. There are, however, clues. There is a physiognomic similarity-Kelly had bright blue eyes, and a signature half-smile. The actor in the film has bright blue eyes, and a familiar half-smile. There is the timeline-Kelly was born in 1940, and the actor appears to be in his 70s. (And I know this because my folks are in their 70s, and if I look at an old picture of my Dad and a new one, old pictures of Kelly and a screenshot of the actor look to have an uncannily similar progression. The same wrinkles, the same advancing tenderness to the eyes, the same added colors in the complexion. If its him, he’s aged like my dad has aged.) And there is the voice. The actor’s voice sounds like what Kelly’s voice would sound like if it fell apart and was rebuilt. Like a voice does when we age. READ MORE >
by Daniel Muehlmeier/Lee Mothes
Warm Wax Inc., 1991
2 players / 30 minutes / $19.99 from eBay
CENTERPIECE is a board game designed by Daniel S. Muehlmeier, self-described “unlocker of secrets,” with art by Lee Mothes. It was taken off a Goa’uld mother ship.
You won’t find CENTERPIECE in the Toys & Games section of your local Barnes & Noble. The game, originally published in 1991, is a notoriously tough sell. “I do well in the twenty-dollar range,” said the author in his recent Kickstarter campaign, which managed to raise only $615 of funds from 23 backers. “I keep a few game boxes in my cars back-window. Creating sales proved tough for me.”
“One restaurant placed five games. Near where people pay. All five disappeared, I never even restock them. Example of really bad-marketing skills. Yet I’m really looking forward, to direct mail to customers.” Following the close of the Kickstarter, the game is now being listed on eBay under the heading “tradition game, toys and Hobbies.” Yet this is just a stepping stone for Muehlmeier, who would eventually like to see his game displayed in a contemporary art museum.
Nor is this a delusionary ambition. Bad-marketing skills aside, Muehlmeier’s creation intrigues; in fact, it’s best approached from the vantage point of art (as opposed to game) criticism. Even taken as a game, CENTERPIECE is an answering shot to the pet theory that the whole of a game’s value rests within its mechanical core, for which the superficial elements of theme and appearance serve as mere window dressing.
CENTERPIECE‘s mechanisms of play are invitingly familiar. In fact, CENTERPIECE could accurately be called a pastiche of several games known to all American children: Monopoly, Parcheesi, Chutes and Ladders. Pastiche in both senses of the word, since CENTERPIECE‘s core mechanisms walk a tricky line between quotidian simplicity and schizophrenic montage, made no more easily reconciled by the often indecipherable rules, which read like an antique riddle. “Players are encouraged to use common sense,” the single-leaf rules advise. “For example, if both players are sent to the Bird Cage; because a player rolled a two, while visiting the Honey Jar space. The player who rolled snake-eyes would roll for doubles first. Both player would stay for three turns, unless doubles were rolled.”
Once mastered, CENTERPIECE is an almost fully luck-driven affair, a roll-and-move game destined to be despised by the modern board game community, who have become spoiled by worker placement, economic engines, asymmetric player roles, and all the other innovations the last two decades have brought to the medium (remember, CENTERPIECE is a time capsule from the early ’90s, although aesthetically, it hearkens to an even earlier era). Yet the game’s “superficial” elements are not to be discounted, for they create a metaphorical frame or structure as the game plays out, turning a simple reimagining of Monopoly into something that far exceeds the sum of its parts.
As if to embody this very statement, the first bread crumb along CENTERPIECE‘s allegorical trail is the fact that the game’s box, colorfully illustrated by artist Lee Mothes, is also central—both literally and figuratively—to its gameplay. Once the board has been unfolded, the box top is placed at its center, a mechanically unimportant gesture that receives special emphasis in the game rules—and is hammered home with every turn, as the dice pounding off of its cardboard surface speak testimony to its substance (that the dice must be rolled off of the box top is another apparently superficial but ritualistically significant gesture). As the eponymous centerpiece, this raised rectangle of cardboard naturally draws the eye—it is the only spot of color in an otherwise black-and-white composition—while hiding the game’s deepest secrets. A display of puzzle pieces nestled beneath track the players’ scores, and it is to Muehlmeier’s infinite credit that he keeps this indispensible information hidden away until the moment that the box is lifted, a moment that always coincides with a change in the data under scrutiny. It is the uncertainty principle actualized.
December 4th, 2013 / 12:00 pm
December already?? A brief & informal list of some of my favorite books read during the year 2013 (not necessarily published in 2013).
In Time’s Rift by Ernst Meister (Wave Books, 2012)
Translated by Graham Foust and Samuel Frederick
will eternally be
an unknown to you;
anyway, you’re no longer
known to yourself.
Béla Tarr, The Time After by Jacques Rancière (Univocal Publishing, 2013)
Translated by Erik Beranek
“We cannot identify ourselves with their feelings. But we enter into something more essential, into the very duration at the heart of which things penetrate and affect them, the suffering of repetition, the sense of another life, the dignity assumed in order to pursue the dream of this other life, and to bear the deception of this dream.”
Creature by Amina Cain (Dorothy, A Publishing Project, 2013)
“When I got home, my partner was eating an egg. This is what he does when I’m not around. He also eats fish. I was harsh to him, but without speaking. I expressed myself through the violent putting away of a pan. Later I saw on his lap and dreamed about the future. This was together alone.”
Love Dog by Masha Tupitsyn (Penny-Ante Editions, 2013)
“My ears have been hearing things, things which aren’t even words, or messages, while my eyes, along with everyone else’s, are forever telling me that nothing is here. That nothing is happening. It is the difference between inward and outward. Between me and everyone else.”
The Road by Cormac McCarthy (Vintage Books, 2007)
“He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”
The Heat Death of the Universe and Other Stories by Pamela Zoline (Mcpherson & Co, 1988)
“2. Imagine a pale blue sky, almost green, with clouds only at the rims. The earth rolls and the sun appears to mount, mountains erode, fruits decay, the Foraminifera adds another chamber to its shell, babies’ fingernails grow as does the hair of the dead in their graves, and in egg timers the sands fall and the eggs cook on.”
The Memoirs of JonBenet by Kathy Acker by Michael du Plessis (Les Figues Press, 2012)
I’m afraid we’re inventing something that isn’t there.
Why is sex with you another blank?
Waiting, as you consider it, is fine but there comes a moment when the conditions you impose outweigh any present emotions. “I can’t be with you until…” translates into “I can’t be with you until caution becomes indifference.” Yes, as you say over and over again, you’ve made me feel again; truly, I do feel again, enough to be able to tell you that I’m only telling myself that I feel with you.
Irritant by Darby Larson (Blue Square Press, 2013)
“In something of red lived an irritant. Safe from the blue from the irr. And this truck went in it. Safe. Something of red in it back to the blue to the red. This truck and something extra. Listen. The nearby something extras in front of the truck. The man in front of the truck trampled from front to back safe from the blue. And all this while the man scooped shovels of dirt and trampled from front to back front to back.”
Anna Patova Crosses a Bridge by Renee Gladman (Dorothy, A Publishing Project, 2013)
For one second, I spoke “sentence,” which confused her, since all this time I’d been saying “paragraphs.” It was a moment of our mouths missing one another. Her mouth was emitting sound. She seemed to be calling my name, breathing heavily, she seemed to put her words inside me. “Writing my frightening paragraphs,” I said, involuntarily.
War and War by László Krasznahorkai (New Directions, 2006)
Translated by George Szirtes
“I no longer care if I die, said Korin, then, after a long silence, pointed to the nearby flooded quarry: Are those swans?”
Music & Literature Issue 2: Krasznahorkai / Tarr / Neumann (Spring 2013)
From “About a Photographer” by Lászlo Krasznahorkai (Translated by George Szirtes):
“Condemned to look, yet at the same time to be deprived of sight, we are in a complex pitiless trap, a double cage, to the recognition of which—though it cages us all—fate condemns confusingly few. In any case those who do suffer the agonizing moment of recognition could easily be consumed by an all-but fatal melancholy, so it’s no wonder they try to struggle free, their first recourse on their dire necessity being the thought of some device.”
Between Appear and Disappear by Doug Rice (Jaded Ibis Press, 2013)
“I want to find a sentence that in the making becomes a resurrection. Our skin marked by the remains of language from childhood dreams near the river. The Allegheny. The Monongahela. The Ohio. This trinity of cold rivers that demand that we never forget to forgive.”
Murder by Danielle Collobert (Litmus Press, 2013)
Translated by Nathanaël
“It’s strange this encounter with the internal eye, behind the keyhole, that sees, and finds the external eye, caught in flagrante delicto of vision, curiosity, uncertainty. The one that looks out, to see outside itself, what is happening in the world, perhaps, or inside itself, this eye, doesn’t know whether it’s looking into the emptiness, into the air, into the other, or into a distance landscape, which it brought to like, like a memory, a wanted decor, chosen, an elemental power, that could be the background of its life.”
‘Hello Nature: How to Draw, Paint and Find Your Way’ by William Wegman
Artipelag, Värmdö, Sweden 2013
In Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer’s meticulously investigates the circumstances of modern agricultural industries. Foer’s methodology accounts for the cultural paragons that shape human behavior, linking personal memories to certain gastronomical experiences. The writer proceeds by contemplating the ethical limitations that determine our consumption of animals, introducing a provocative question to illustrate the subjectivity of what we are capable of viewing as food: why don’t we eat dogs?
To the popular conscience, William Wegman’s art encapsulates the compelling etiology of the gut-reaction the canine question propels. Wegman’s mass recognizability resulted from his vibrant photographs of dogs. The artistic depiction of the generous companionship dogs offer to their owners is a sentiment that vastly appeals to mass audiences as the foremost point of reference. Wegman’s photography of his pets functions as a catalyst for most people to draw from their personal experiences to meaningfully engage with the oeuvre. READ MORE >
Hey, I had to go to a church recently. I was doing some childcare for a relative, and it was on a Sunday. Kids of a certain age lead an orderly life. Included in the order of the lives of the kids for whom I was providing some childcare was their regular Sunday morning visit to a Unitarian church in Seattle. Being a dutiful relative, I agreed to keep the child to the child’s orderly life and attend a Unitarian church service with the child.
And I had a pretty good time. It seems I like church a lot.
Turns out even though I stopped going to church 28 years ago, and even though I attended an Anglican church during the years I attended church, I still had all the rhythms of church hardwired in me. I may not have known the specifics of the creed or the words to the hymns and the prayers, but I felt like I knew all the gestures and the sentiments. I knew when to stand and when to sit. The Unitarian service’s language seemed a little strange to me—it was 19th century, and felt American, and seemed weirdly concerned with architecture—but everything else clicked into place pretty easily.
Best of all, though, it gave me an opportunity to sit and really think about death. I mostly don’t really write anymore. I mostly just sit and think about death. I mostly try to sleep and can’t sleep because I start to think about death and then find I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about death. And I mostly feel weird about lying in bed thinking about death because it doesn’t seem like the right place to be thinking about death, so I don’t sleep. I should be trying to sleep. I should be trying to clear my mind. I fight to clear my mind. I fight to clear out thoughts of death. And I fail and fail and fail.
Churches, as I’m sure you are already aware, are all about death! They don’t ask you to clear your mind of all thought of death.
And the church didn’t just give me a place to think quietly about death. It was a place to think about it actively and in a participatory way. It gave me plenty of cues telling me that I was in a place where thinking about death was encouraged. I found myself thinking about death in the proper setting. The right context. It was fantastic.
Many of the seats in the church have little plaques on them. The plaques say that the seats were “given” to the church in honor of someone. And that someone is dead!
Many of the books in the church have bookplates in them. And the bookplates say that the books were “given” to the church in honor of someone. And that someone is dead, too!
The programs they give you when you enter the nave to find a seat are filled with the names of the dead. The songs sung in a church are slow and quiet and mention death a lot. There are moments in a church service when everyone is asked to sit quietly, and during those moments, you can hear little creaking noises and breaths and coughs. Human bodies are filled with gas, and after death they make creaking and sighing noises. And the “death rattle” is a sort of choking cough people near death make when their throats fill up with saliva they can’t swallow because they are dying and all their energy is going to that instead of to swallowing.
And, of course, a church was just lousy with older people who are really close to their own deaths. They’re the ones making most of the noises in the moments of quiet reflection. Because their bodies are getting away from them. Because getting older is just the our bodies getting away from us. Until finally, we can’t stop our bodies from getting so far away from us, they cease to function entirely. Try as we might to stop it from happening, our bodies just give up. Think about that next time you are unable to keep from coughing. Your brain fights and fights, but you cough, because you can’t will your body to stop. You’re going to die someday, and it might be like that. Your mind might be sharp or it might be dulled with medication or decay, but it might still try to will your body to keep going, but your body won’t have you telling it what to do. It will just stop working.
Thinking about that in church felt far less menacing to me than it does when I’m in bed, and the person next to me is asleep. And I’m not asleep, but I’m trying to sleep, and instead I’m worrying about death.
I like church a lot.
Have a good weekend, everyone.
Whoa, hi, I’m still reeling from this reading I went to on Friday night, which was all about Perfect Lovers Press, which is run out of Cincinnati, which (PLP + Cinci) is run by Dana Ward and Paul Coors. It was held at The Poetry Project and it was something that went really, really late into the night and it was something that was just about perfect–with amazing readings from amazing people like Yvette Nepper (who just ruined everyone so here’s her chapbook) and Sue Landers (who has a chapbook called What I Was Tweeting While You Were on Facebook, but I can’t find a link so yeah holler @ Dana & Paul) and Micah Freeman (who said “Hi” to everyone and read these amazing poems that are kind of about Amy Winehouse but also not really, it’s all about our peaks and valleys, the whole thing) and John Coletti (who just wow) and other people and especially Leopoldine Core, who I have really, really liked for a really, really long time so I took some video:
and I just thought everything she read was so full and so rough, especially when she’s all:
of how easy it is
to know me
i’m so familiar
naked all the time
my same legs
i am such a weird little girl
for wanting to live in your
picketing in the heat
like an ant
and I don’t know what else to say, besides energy, man–it’s kind of everywhere.
I write small. When I set out to write something, I play a game. I think: what could make this simple thing complex? And so I give the writing a limit. I provide it with a constraint. For me, this slows things down. The slower I go, the more the writing grows. Until it is a big tied up thing.
I have been writing a novel, I think. Actually, I’m not sure what I’m writing, but whatever it is, it has become bigger than small. My novel is a story about a guy who receives a special commission by two thugs to write an opera. The thugs don’t know this but the guy they’ve appointed to eulogize their lives doesn’t know anything about opera. In fact, he doesn’t even know how to write. So, he does what any guy in my novel would do, if threatened by thugs to write an opera: he sloughs it off on his girlfriend.
A long time ago, before I ever dreamed of becoming a writer, I read. I read a lot. I still do, but not as much as I used to. One day, my girlfriend Christine gave me a book: Don Quixote: Which Was A Dream. I read the book and fell in love with the writer. Two summers passed when, while I was a student at University of California, Irvine, I learned that the writer of Don Quixote would be teaching a course at Naropa Institute (it hadn’t become a university yet). I took a bus.
Kathy and I soon became lovers. I was young, half her age, and scared. I told her that I was having trouble separating my image of her as a famous writer with the real-life her, the woman holding my hand. She didn’t say anything and, before she could, I threw her down on the ground and tried clumsily to put my mouth on hers. She laughed and let me.
Through Kathy I met all kinds of people. And I learned all kinds of stuff. But, I didn’t want to become a writer. I wanted something else. Revolution. I still want it. Now more than ever. Now, that it seems so completely out of reach. Here’s something: one evening in Los Angeles, Kathy and I went shopping on Melrose. Vivian Westwood had just opened a store there. Kathy took forever and I waited outside. When she was done, she had purchased three pair of underwear for approximately $500. On the drive home, I didn’t say anything. Kathy could tell I was pissed. We talked about the underwear and she called me a purist. Before we got out of the car, she let me destroy the pair she was wearing.
Sometimes, I still feel like I’m an anarchist. Although, I would say, proudly, that I am not a purist. I feel that paradox is inevitable in revolution–it makes things rich and complicated. If you want to know what I’m doing with my life, just ask. And if you wonder why I am feeling so reflective and slightly somber, well, for now, that will be my secret. I mean, what would writing–and a life–be without at least one?
My fuck list (this is only a partial list):
A D Jameson, Adam Fitzgerald, Adam Maynard, Adam Robinson, Alec Niedenthal, Alex Dimitrov, Alexis Scarghoul, Alissa Nutting, Alli Warren, Alyss Dixson, Amanda Deo, Amelia Gillis, Amelia Gray, Amy Gerstler, Amy Temple Harper, Amy Saul-Zerby, Amy Silbergeld, Ana Carrete, Andrea Kneeland, Andrew Kenower, Andrew James Weatherhead, Andy Touhy, Angela Shier, Anna March, Anne Lesley Selcer, Ariana Reines, Ashley Obscura, Beach Sloth, Ben Fama, Ben Brooks, Ben Mirov, Blake Butler, Bob Gluck, Brandon Brown, Brandon Hobson, Brooks Sterritt, Cameron Pierce, Carabella Sands, Carleen Tibbetts, Carolyn DeCarlo, Carrie Hunter, Cassandra Gillig, Cassandra Niki, Cassandra Troyan, Catherine Lacey, Cedar Sigo, Chad Redden, Chelsea Hodson, Chelsea Martin, Chloe Veylit, Chris Dankland, Chris Kraus, Christian Nagler, Christie Ann Reynolds, Christine Lee Zilka, Christopher Higgs, Claire Bargout, Codi Suzanne Oliver, Colleen McKee, Cory Zeller, Crispin Best, Cristine Brache, Daniel Levin Becker, Dave Shaw, David Fishkind, David Tomaloff, David Trinidad, Dennis Cooper, Derek Fenner, Diana Salier, Diane Marie, Dianna Dragonetti, Dodie Bellamy, Donna Laemmlen, Dorothea Lasky, Edward Mullany, Elaine Barry Kahn, Eileen Myles, Emily Louis Church, Emily Siegenthaler, Emji Spero, Eric Raymond, Eric Shonkwiler, Erica Eller, Erin Francisco, Ethel Rohan, Evan Karp, Frances Capell, Frank Hinton, Gabby Bess, Gabriel Blackwell, Gilbert Morgan, Guillaume Morissette, Hannah Lee, Heath Ison, Heiko Julien, Hunter Payne, Ibis Nixon, Ian Aleksander Adams, Ian Dick Jones, Ivy Johnson, Jacob Steinberg, Jackson Nieuwland, James Brubaker, James Ganas, James Tadd Adcox, James Yeh, Jamie Iredell, Janice Lee, Jarett Kobek, Jason Jimenez, Jason Teal, Jayinee Basu, Jereme Dean, Jeremy Hight, Jess Dutschmann, Jesse Prado, Jill Toma, Jimmy Chen, Joe Hall, John Ashbery, John Brnlv Rogers, John Mortara, Jordan Castro, Jos Charles, Joshua Mohr, Juliet Escoria, Justin Daughterty, Karen Biscopink, Kate Durbin, Kate Robinson, Kate Zambreno, Katherine Sullivan, Keegan Crawford, Kelly Egan, Ken Baumann, Kevin Killian, Kevin Sampsell, Laura Goldstein, Lauren Becker, Lauren Marie Grant, Lauren Traetto, Lazslo de Alcarey, Lily Hoang, Lindsay Allison Ruoff, Lindsey Bolt, Liza St James, Lizzy Yzzil, Lonely Christopher, Lorian Long, Lucy K. Shaw, Lucy Tiven, Luna Miguel, Lynn Melnick, Lynne Tillman, Mariah Krochmal, Mark Cugini, Mark Leidner, Masha Tupitsyn, Matias Viegener, Matt Bell, Matt Dennison, Matt Margo, Matt Sailor, Matthew Sherling, Matthew Simmons, Matthew Wilder, Meg Tuite, Maureen Blennerhassett, Megan Boyle, Megan Kaminski, Megan Lent, Meghan Lamb, Melissa Broder, Meta Knight, Michael Kimball, Michael Hessel-Mial, Michael J. Seidlinger, Mike W. Archibald, Mike Kitchell, Mike Young, Mira Gonzalez, Miranda July, Monica Mody, Moon Temple, Nate Waggoner, Nathan Keele Springer, Nathan Staplegun, Nick Antosca, Nick Rutkaus, Nick Sturm, Nicolle Elizabeth, Nicole McFeely, Noah Cicero, Paul Curran, Paula Bomer, Penina Roth, Penny Goring, PeterBD, Peter Sotos, Rachel Pattycake Bell, Rachel B. Glaser, Rachel Hyman, Rauan Klassnik, Ray Shea, Reynard Seifert, Richard Chiem, Riley Michael Parker, Rj Equality Ingram, Robert Duncan Gray, Robert James Russell, Rod Roland, Rose Tully, Ross Selavy Brighton, Roxane Gay, Russ Woods, Russell Jaffe, Sam Pink, Sarah Jean Alexander, Sarah Fran Wisby, Scott McClanahan, Sean Lovelace, Shane Jesse Christmass, Shane Jones, Shaun Gannon, Sheila Heti, Sian S. Rathore, Spencer Madsen, Stacey Teague, Stephen Michael McDowell, Stephen Tully Dierks, Steve Orth, Steve Roggenbuck, Stewart Home, Suzanne Scanlon, Tao Lin, Teresa Carmody, Thais Benoit, Theo Timo, Theron Jacobs, Thomas Patrick Levy, Tiffany Wines, Tom Comitta, Tracey Gonzalez, Tracey Knapp, Travis Jeppesen, Vanessa Place, Walter Mackey, Yedda Morrison, Zach Houston, Zachary German, Zack Haber, Zoe Tarr Duck
Credits: twitter: @PornEdits
where you can find me: twitter: @janeysmithkills & kottonkandyklouds.tumblr.com
World Series baseball is quite comely. The competition is carried out outside in the fall, so leaves are dying and falling off trees, it’s cold, and you get to start sporting layers, like multiple hoodies over a meaningful sweater over a button-down.
Moreover, baseball is slow, like an elderly person, and it’s quiet, like a deaf-mute. Both the elderly and deaf-mute are meritorious. The elderly are grumpy and crabby (as one should be), and deaf-mutes don’t talk and don’t hear, which is optimal, as there is very little that can be conveyed through talking and listening that can’t be conveyed much more marvelously through a poem, a story, or a Tumblr post
In “[The crowd at the ball game],” New Jersey boy William Carlos Williams compares the baseball setting to a totalitarian society, and that’s sensational.
This World Series is especially estimable because the St. Louis Cardinals are participating, and they feature many cute boys, like the hard-throwing closer, Trevor Rosenthal, and the tough as a truck catcher, Yadi.
Presently, the Cardinals and the meat-head East Coast liberals that some refer to as the Boston Red Sox have each won two games. If you haven’t been keeping up with all of the excitement then read Baby Marie-Antoinette’s recap of the first four games:
“Always keep your dead body close, my parents told me.”
A.T. Grant wrote a novella called Collected Alex. Caketrain [a journal and press] put it in a dark boat. Now you can tie it to your dock using some rope and an animal bone of a kind. A.T. Grant is a thick bag of fire, a cake you should feed to the zombie geese.
[Film vignette by Katy Mongeau]
Today is the day a stork (supposedly one who was wearing a Miu Miu baby doll dress and a demure dark bow in her hair) delivered Carina Finn — poetess, visual artist, baker, and girl — to her mommy. Everyone should buy her a present. Here’s some suggestions.
* A cupcake with lemon frosting.
* A cupcake with mint frosting.
* This Belle Ensemble.
* A cupcake with strawberry icing and sprinkles.
* A pair of sunnies or maybe even a pair of specs, like the kind Marilyn Monroe wears in How To Marry a Millionaire.
* This Belle Fairytale Journal.
* A chocolate cupcake with vanilla icing (if there are sprinkles on it then don’t bother).
* And obviously this Belle Tiara because all admirable girls should absolutely be attired in a Belle Tiara.
You can read about some of the gossip concerning the birthday of Baby Carina (who’s not interchangeable with Carina Finn, ok) on Bambi Muse right here.
23 More People Who Made Me Care About Poetry in 2013 (From One of the Million People Who Will Make You Care About Poetry in 2013)
When I first moved to Manhattan in 2008, I roughly knew about three people in the entire city. I lived in a bedbug-infested apartment on 139th Street with a sugar baby, a Bubba Gump Shrimp waiter, and a digital retoucher. At the time, I thought I was going to work as an assistant in photo studios while applying to MFA programs on the side—a plan that ended up completely shifting (no MFA, au revoir photo world)—but that’s not what I’m here to write about. I knew nothing of the NYC literary world, especially that of poetry. One day I had wandered into a library near 103rd to check out some familiar books. I saw a flyer for POETRY DISCUSSION GROUP / TONIGHT’S THEME: DEATH and hung around, hoping to meet some poets. And talk about death, of course.
What I ended up was sitting in a circle with about a dozen people, myself the only person under 60. As one cantankerous woman pointed out—most of them were “sitting in god’s waiting room” & it was “foolish to romanticize death”. This lead to a shouting match between attendees. So there I sat, hands in lap, in a coven of curmudgeons, horribly embarrassed at how much I misgauged what I thought I would be participating in. This is not to say that these old folks couldn’t have schooled me. I perhaps have never witnessed a more intensely personal discussion of death with any group of strangers in such a short amount of time in such a public space. But my point is that geography is a strange creature, containing wheels inside wheels. I wanted to meet young poets in their early 20s who would show me who they were reading, where they were reading at, where they hung out. This Upper West Side library, much to my ignorance, was not that place. I didn’t find that niche for a long time, even though we all lived inside the same city. It took many misguided open mics and weird basement readings to find the people I wanted to be around.
In some ways, I’d say this year is the first year I’ve been asked to read at series that I didn’t have to creepily solicit (although I still creepily solicit). It wasn’t until my first chapbook came out last fall that people gradually stopped introducing me as “that guy who runs Moonshot“. Every day is baby steps, is one poem after the other. I think it’s important to highlight these gooey ‘writer journeys’ we hear about over and over again to show how people find their way to meeting writers and literary scenes they care about. It’s hard when you’re on the outside and suspect others are members of a literary cabal who are only interested in helping each other out. I’ve been there. I’m still there, in many ways. Not everyone who lives in NYC is geographically self-obsessed or entitled or had everything fall into their lap instantly. Does this even need to be said? It took five years just to reach a point where the lit projects I’ve started here (or been involved with) have been around long enough where it people come up to me and say they know who I am, what I do. It hasn’t gotten less jarring yet—maybe one day it will.
Perhaps this is why it’s equally surprising to find myself on a list called 23 People Who Will Make You Care About Poetry in 2013. It’s even stranger to watch people—in response to this list—echo criticisms I’ve made of NYC’s poetry scene—white, exclusive, cliquey, centered around itself. Except, in this case, I was included on an exclusionary list. I’m now that person. Numbered lists are incredibly tricky to begin with because they seem so incredibly final, as if there are no others. Here are the 23 chosen ones. There is a glib part of me that wants to say we should take these kinds of lists with a grain of salt, that wants to point out that media sites have to churn out dozens of these insipid listicles per day—but I know that will incise—and I recognize that it’s my privilege that would allow me such flippancy.
Janice brought this up a few days ago, but I think it bears repeating. Johannes Göransson continues to mash blueberries and puncture orchids while juggling swords and cacti over at the Harriet blog this month with his “Corean Music” posts.
Roy Kesey, whose most recent book is the collection of short stories Any Deadly Thing, recently spent some time talking with me about his writing. Kesey is also the author of Pacazo, one of my favorite novels of 2011, All Over, another collection, and Nothing in the World, a beautiful novella.
I suggest listening to/watching this thing up to the 40:30 point, at which point I would rather you closed the tab and forgot all about it. Our connection died at this point, but what it looked like from my perspective was Roy staring at me in utter bewilderment for several minutes straight, which was kind of awkward. I would edit it out and put a proper ending on it if i could! But I can’t.
Regardless, Roy says some very smart, useful stuff, and I had a great time talking to him. You should buy all his books.
My French hasn’t happened, barely has my English. What might allow me to translate Baudelaire any better? Have you seen the poorly Christian way being had with some of his lines?
Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre
Her screaming would drive me crazy
Her crying knifed the heart in me
Her screechings drilled me like a tooth
Her crying upset me horribly
Her crying tears me apart
Her nagging tore at every part of me
Save for contour, pasteurization, cluck by region, I know my reek, but this line from Le Vin de l’assassin or The Murder’s Wine or The Assassin’s Wine or The Wine of the Assassin or Sippy Vindicator is rarely caught right. Why should it be? Can we span our whip from known to felt? I’m saying it doesn’t wow to take a nineteenth century dandy with a peanut head, and of such a floral, copulating rigor, and pinch him to “drive me crazy.” He’s not young Britney batting curls. Baudelaire consistently scarfed his wig. What is the direct UN transcript of this lovely purple? The hissy fit runs deeper into Satan. He’s not workshopping; he’s pissing blood. I don’t care, because I’m translating the poem right now, out of French and without rhyme. I’m going to say Michael Robbins and few others on his level have by their genius made rhyming their property. I keep very afraid of my betters. Especially Robbins. I chose my last twenty dollars for his book when I was starving in Austin. It gave me a lot of meals to look up to, so if I rhyme it’s just a glitch in the word salad, sir. Please. I berate my own underneaths. I live in fear. Ariana Reines having brilliantly done legitimate work translating Baudelaire – let me distinguish, too: This is simply an act of poetic necrophilia, mid-lobotomy.