Hello, dear blog, it's been a while. Oh how I've missed you! You'll be glad to know that I'm back now, a little bit dumber, a lot wiser, and just as pensive as ever. But before I embark on posting new contemplations, I thought I'd share an artifact I found in a recent excavation of my email archives -- because what better way to celebrate newness than by revisiting past perspective?
I detest Reality-TV. 99% of the shows couldn't be any further from the genre's name. Having said that, if there was a Reality-TV show created that presented my daily life's experiences for all to see, then it would probably look something like this:
Dear Renegade Prose,
I was surprised to have even reconnected with you after so long. Spending time with you makes my day. You make me laugh all the time, which I can't get enough of. I like how you introduce me to new things. I try the same with my super duper secret iced coffees. :-) You motivate my creative juices. You make me want to talk to you about anything and everything! The list goes on and on. It's all the little things that put a smile on my face. No doubt, I am really happy being around you.
You're great at expressing yourself, and me...well, not so much. I only yap my gums at things that I think I'm fairly certain about. [THIS PART HAS BEEN EDITED DUE TO EXPLICIT CONTENT]. The idea is actually ridiculous. Now, I'm not saying that anyone is asking me to choose one or the other but it still feels like that. Unfortunately, I am that person that can detach myself easily...and remove all emotions from a situation. I don't know if I would txt you after a few days... I have lost many a friendships over this part of my personality. It's not because I don't care... I just don't have trust in people or myself to keep working on relationships. Once I feel things getting complicated, I want to bounce...and I really don't want you and I to bounce. I don't think I can give you the 100% you are willing to give to me. I just don't have that to give right now.
All I want is to see you happy, and it's selfish/unfair to keep you all to myself, when in actuality [EDITED FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT]. I want us to see each other, but I don't think you can look at me as just your buddy, pal or friend. I see you as more, though I shouldn't... but I don't want to lead you on anymore. It hurts my feelings to say all of this, but it's honest and from the heart, no mysteries. I believe we came into each others life for a reason. (maybe not the one we want?!) I know you understand all of this...but I haven't been expressing it as much as I should. It seems like an excuse to say I'm confused, but when someone feels lost, it's the only thing to say. Is is possible for you to still be around me... even if it's once in a while? even if it's not romantic? even when I'm cranky and distant? even when u probably want to punch me out? can we be friends like that? my answer is yes, as long as you are in my life... but it's your life too, and I'll accept whatever you tell me.
:-*
While this show might not equate the popularity of Jersey Shore or Pawn Stars, it definitely would surpass both programs in authenticity. It's rare to find such a bona fide expression of one's thoughts as the kind seen above.
So if, one day, subtitled relationships ever catch the masses' collective eye, then make sure you tune into my acceptance-speech at the Emmy Awards.
"I have this pair of shoes, they're black with some red and a splash of white, and this pair of shoes is MY pair of shoes, my ideal shoe, and they're special shoes because they'll never wear out, their color won't ever fade, they'll never need to be replaced--"
"So then what's the problem with these shoes?"
"This is the shoe problem:
As of last week, I'm having trouble locating the left shoe, 'having trouble' meaning I can't find it, it's lost. I ransack my house, I check everywhere: under the bed, in the couch cushions, the attic, the closets, the bathtub, everywhere. So I go online but can't find it, I go on ebay but there's nothing, I even search for it on google, I type in 'MATCHING LEFT SHOE' but the search-result has 0 results, the search-result says "did you mean 'FACT SHE LEFT YOU'" and I say no that's not what I meant, well maybe I did, but nah, no that's not exactly what I meant, and oh nevermind what was I thinking, you're just a machine what would you know anyway. So I go to the mall to all of the various shoe stores and none of them have this particular pair of shoes, these black shoes with some red and a splash of white. But the salespeople in the stores show me other shoes, they give me alternatives -- they show me shoes that are very very similar to MY shoe but still not quite the same. Same laces, same style but the sole is different. Same color, but the tongue is cut a little bit differently, same material but the width isn't the same. And some of these shoes the salespeople show me have such subtle differences that hardly anyone probably no one would notice, would be able to recognize that I'm wearing two different shoes. For a split second, I consider purchasing these shoes to wear the left one with the right one, my favorite one, that I already own. I mean, these alternate, resemblant shoes fit perfectly, the left shoe fits perfectly, and you really can't discern the difference, and I'm trying them on and walking around the store to test their comfort, and they feel good, they feel very good, and it's true, if you look in the foot-mirror, you really can't notice the difference. But I can. I mean I barely can, in fact I almost can't, my eyes almost can't recognize the difference, but I know they're two different shoes, I know this left shoe isn't the same, isn't right, isn't the right shoe's match, and because I know this because I know they're different, they kind of then, yeah, they do appear different and yeah they actually even feel different. So I tell the salesperson "Hey thanks, hey thanks a bunch, thanks but no thanks, thanks for your time and help and effort and thanks, thanks for that, thanks for lacing up these shoes for me so I was able to try them on, thanks but I'm gonna pass." And this happens and continues to happen in eachandevery store I go to, and I reach the point where, despite the multitudes of shoe stores, they're all essentially the same store which has convinced me that none of the shoe stores in the whole world carry the left shoe the other matching shoe, and I decide to say "Fuck it" but not "Fuck it, I'll buy the most resemblant shoe" but actually "Fuck it, I'd rather walk around with only 1 shoe than walk around with 2 shoes, always knowing that that left shoe, that second shoe isn't the real matching shoe, always knowing that although I can't find the original left shoe and never will, that it still does exist somewhere in space."
Five days ago, in a tragic turn of events, my laptop passed away. I guess I can't say I was that surprised, as the little guy displayed numerous symptoms of terminal illness for approximately the past year. And so, exiting with a bang on Thursday night, while I was editing some recordings, the monitor suddenly ran amuck, everything - letters, numbers, lines, boxes, everything - melted and merged which resulted in the screen looking like a drunk rainbow. And then it went black.
I'm not sure what's sadder: my laptop's death or my feelings of utter disorientation that ensued for the next four days. On Friday morning, I awoke to the realization that I had no Microsoft Office, no Chess, no iTunes, no YouTube, no gmail, no audio/video editing software, no Skype, no New York Jets messageboard, no *gasp* Facebook. So I did what any rational person would do upon waking up to that situation -- I went back to sleep.
I suppose having all of this shit at our fingertips says a lot about the evolution of humans: we are pretty fucking intelligent organisms. It also says we're just as complacent and dependent as we are intelligent.
The sun emits some sort of megamagnetic waves that, like everything else, are cyclical, occurring every several-hundred-someodd years. According to physicists, Earth is due one of these waves within the next five years, and when this event happens, that fine invention we call electricity will meet its maker. In the meantime, I'm typing this blog and backing up my files on an external hard drive.
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Chances are, you're familiar with the author Philip K. Dick, and you don't even know it. He was an awesome SciFi writer whose philosophical ideas and stories have been the basis for many excellent films. Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report and A Scanner Darkly are films adapted directly from his work. Other films, such as Donnie Darko, The Matrix, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Vanilla Sky, Pi, and Inception have all been influenced by him.
Recently, I saw a trailer for The Adjustment Bureau which adapts a Philp K. Dick story called "The Adjustment Team."
Among the themes, the music, and the fact that just about every Matt Damon film turns out to be tremendous, I think this movie will be wonderful. Can't wait to see it.
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In the current era of sex-tape resumes and Seaside Heights eminence, I find it quite refreshing when thespians shine their limelight in the direction opposite of self-aggrandizement. And I find it even more refreshing when that direction is Art. Perhaps I'm just a sucker for Shakespearean film-adaptations and unconventional love stories, but I'm buying what Joseph Gordon-Levitt is selling: an ongoing multimedia Art project called hitRECord.
Fusing the aesthetics of literature, film, music, photography, paint, dance, and every other artistic medium under the sun, the project publishes pieces that are submitted by any person with creative impulse. One of the most fascinating aspects of hitRECord is that upon registering, you sign a waiver permitting your submissions to be used by the project's other members. For example, someone might remix your slideshow with their own dialogue (of course, any reproduction is also attributed to the original artist), and someone can further remix that remix.
It should be noted that while hitRECord is a reservoir of creative juices established for the sake of Art, it also is Joseph Gordon-Levitt's company and, thus, profits are to be had; and since RegularJOE (his name in the project's domain) is a kind and fair spirit, he gives you a percentage of any profit that's made from your work.
Here's a spectaculous piece from a series in the project:
"Morgan & Destiny's Eleventeeth Date - (white walls)"
If you enjoyed that, then you should definitely explore hitRECord, and if you're really feeling frisky, then register to join in on the funfulness.
Recently, I had a brief conversation that was a conversation (as well as thoughts) that I've had many times before. My friend mentioned the band Maroon 5, telling me that she has tickets to see one of their upcoming shows. The very thought of Maroon 5 makes my skin crawl, which I make no secret about, and my reaction - upon hearing my friend's news that she'll be seeing them - asserted this. In benign fashion, a small dispute ensued.
Basically, I said that - as an artist - Maroon 5 insults me because they don't create music (i.e. Art) for the sake of Art; rather, their sole purpose is to target a specific demographic (16-34 year-old females) with the primary goal of making money. My friend said that I'm just too hung up on the notion of "selling out." While I feel intensely about that, my resentment towards Maroon 5 isn't based on selling out. In fact, I don't believe they were ever at a point in which they sold out because they were frauds from their inception -- it's like they sold out at birth before even having an actual chance to sell-out. I mean, does anyone really believe these guys write their own music and lyrics? Essentially they're actors with a script (music notes and lyrics) that they perform. I'd probably be less derisive of Maroon 5 if they/their reps admitted this. But No. They have to pretend that they're musicians - artists - and prey on people who foolishly buy into this deception. There are plenty of unrecognized and unappreciated musicians (and artists of all different ilk) who create out of purity and love of Art. Meanwhile, the douchebags like Maroon 5, whose only goals are to stuff their pockets with beguiled girls' cash, are riding waves of success. Maybe I shouldn't blame the band; maybe I should blame the consumers for allowing this?
The Sound of Animals Fighting.
Come on, the name alone is spectaculously artsy. This is a band that creates genuinely. Here's a quick rundown:
The Sound of Animals Fighting was an American rock supergroup put together by Rich Balling, Circa Survive's Anthony Green and members of Rx Bandits. They released a trilogy of records between the years 2004 and 2008, and performed only four live shows, following their second release in 2006. The band's live lineup consisted of 12 different musicians.
As I was driving in the left-lane on a three-lane highway, a car in the center-lane zipped past me, slashed into the right-lane, then back into the center-lane, clearly intending to pass other vehicles.
I've often considered keeping a whiteboard in my car for the moments when roadrage boils, or I want to give someone my phone number, or mere comic relief for my neighbor and me when stuck in traffic. I figure the whiteboard would be much more creative and less hostile than, say, 'the bird' and vein-quaking profanities. I could scribble messages like: "THE DMV IS CORRUPT!" "TEXT ME @ ***-***-**** RIGHT NOW!" "I KNEW YOU WERE AN ELDERLY, ASIAN FEMALE!" and "KNOCK-KNOCK ... CASH ... NO THANKS, I PREFER PEANUTS!"
As I was about to empty a clip of four-lettered words at this guy (I saw him; he was a middle-aged male) swerving in&out of lanes, I caught my words like a malfunctioned fishing-reel.
What if this guy was trying to save someone, or get to his child's 3rd Grade play, or get to his child's birth, or stop a nearly-lost-love from boarding a plane, or say one more thing to his mother his father his love at their deathbedside?
As previously mentioned, two poems from my Tremulous manuscript appear in Sex and Murder Magazine. Volume 1, Issue 10 is now available. So czech it out!
First the good news:
Two NEWish poems will be published in the journal Dear Sir,.
One poem is a random one I've written and rewritten over the past couple of years. It's called "The Flaw of Jovian Kinematics."
The other is a freshy from my most recent collection, which is a chapbook manuscript (titled SHOEBOX PHANTOMS). The poem appearing from that collection in Dear Sir, is called "FREE WILL LULLABIES BEGET DRUNK PARACHUTES WHOSE AROMA ARE A BURNING INTERSTELLAR CANDY SHOP THE SMELL OF SWEET HISTAMINE AND WE'VE GOT NOTHING LEFT TO ANTI UP."
(And I'm not providing a teaser from these poems; you'll able to read them when they appear in the issue. Sorrry.)
Now for the not-so-good-news:
I submitted a small sample of SHOEBOX PHANTOMS as a book proposal to the publisher Grayson Books; that press has some very cool titles and, along with holding book contests (which result in publication), it also reads proposals for book ideas and decides whether or not to publish them. Rather than enter the contest, I decided to send a proposal (along with the other several thousand proposals from writers they receive each year.. yikes). Well, today I received their rejection, which reads as follows:
Dear Mr. Curtis,
You've sent along a project that looks interesting and unusual, but I don't think it's for us. Thanks for your patience in awaiting a reply. We gave SHOEBOX PHANTOMS serious consideration. I feel certain you'll find a home for this book idea somewhere else. Best of luck in placing it and in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
****** ******
Grayson Books
Ohh wellll. I suppose the silver-lining in this rejection is that the publisher described the collection as "unusual"-- I'll take that compliment and run with it. And now that I have one poem from the collection being published, I'm hoping to publish a few more, and then, hopefully, some publisher will want to publish the whole darn thing. We shall see. Stay tuned and stay thirsty.
The Sound of Animals Fighting - "Uzbekistan" (The Ocean and the Sun)
Unfortunately, while most people won't have the patience, tolerance, and/or mental wherewithal to absorb this, those of you who do, should appreciate this (esp from 4:35 - end). If yer interested, these are the words during that time slot:
Why do I wonder?
Some people never ask, what are you thinking?
Who's in charge?
I don't understand French, but if I could,
I would write beautiful songs about horrible things...
because it is said to be the language of love and romance...
and if love didn't exist, there wouldn't be any horrible things.
You must care to cry, love something in order to hate something...
You must have a heart in order for it to be broken.
Many people walk in a dream.
They feel entitled to happiness and feel anger when it is not waiting for them.
I know that the world owes me nothing, yet has given me a great deal.
It is our own perception we get to bend and mold to our liking-
once that is accomplished, the reality we once knew begins to change.
My neighbor may be dark and gloomy, but I find it a perfect day to go outside.
I can knock on his door, but that doesn't mean he will answer.
And I will have to walk away, sad, from his little house
where he sleeps and smokes and drinks all day,
just to escape what he does not yet know.
We find ourselves in little boxes watching little boxes.
We see an edited version of human life, targeted on alienating us as individuals,
to distract us from the seedy underbelly of politics and business.
We are products of a Machiavellian society.
Look at the pretty girl dancing- her hair is so shiny.
I want my hair to be shiny. Look at the man with chizzled features-
use the razor he is using. It will give you the kind of charm that woman crave.
Women will want you. Men will adore you. You will be happy. You will be empty.
Because it is not about the product, but the feeling they try to convey.
And it is not for your benefit, it is for the benefit of the holders of the company.
We must burn our little boxes. We must create dialogue.
We must realize the importance of every moment.
We must turn our boredom to gratitude.
Use your hands, your thoughts, your hunger.
These things are yours and yours alone.
I have two more poems forthcoming from my Tremulous manuscript. They'll be appearing in Sex and Murder Magazine. The story involves an account of the 1964 Kitty Genovese murder.
Here's a brief sample of both:
"WINSTON MOSELEY FINDS A KITTY"
Women lay down easily, knife magnets whittled into rigor mortis. My torn flesh aphrodisiac. Penetrate the living. Penetrate the dead. Hard-on in necroconfusion, a heartbeat just doesn't do it for me.
There you walk on the empty street.........
"TREMULOUS" (part 2)
when i'm alone, she appears. gasping to the deaf, i'll be discovered floating facedown in a pond of spit, pale and stiff---
i'm so afraid.
is she gone?
Kitty awaits
someone anyone.........
The poems will appear in their entirety in the upcoming issue of Sex and Murder.
There's something about the Spring/Summer seasons being ushered in that always leads me back to Incubus. It may be owed to some association in my brain, linking the band and warm weather; I'm not quite sure.
The other day I listened to an oldie-but-goodie, the album Make Yourself (1999). It's not that I never acknowledged its greatness, but I think I never fully appreciated its inspirationalism, its messages of encouragement and positivity, and its injections of self-empowerment.
Bookended by "Privilege" (i.e. your life) and "Out From Under" (i.e. resistance), the songs throughout the album are musically innovative - especially for the time period - and lyrically intelligent. While "Stellar," "Drive," and "Pardon Me" dominated the airwaves, the best song is probably "The Warmth." Others that have gone unrecognized (due to the aforementioned songs' popularity) are "Consequence," "Clean," and "Battlestar Scralatchtica," which is an instrumental jam featuring a DJ 'battle' among Incubus' Chris Kilmore and Jurassic 5 DJs, Cut Chemist and Nu Mark.
While I could probably ramble forever on this album, I'll stop here and just suggest listening to it in the sun.
Recently, it seems as if the world is dry-heaving more than usual. In the past week I've seen unnerving stories of a WBC terrorist church group plotting explosions at funeral in Michgan, a 15-year-old boy stomping a 15-year-old girl's head into a coma (http://www.truecrimereport.com/2010/03/wayne_treacy15_brutally_beats.php), and a teenage girl selling her 7-year-old stepsister for sex - i.e., rape by multiple men - at a party (http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5iKXxMr8bsqnMXwXSdngFnb7worpAD9EPUI781).
As badly as I want and need to cry, I've decided I'll do whatever's in my power to balance out nature by spreading optimism, because the gods know we need it now.
So I implore everyone else to do the same. Please.
Spread your kindness in any way possible: as you walk past an old man on the street and you notice his shoe is untied and that it'd be a chore for him to bend down to his feet, tie his shoe for him; put a few coins in the parking-meters that are verging expiration; offer yer seat on the subway; return a mother's shopping-cart to its dock at the grocery store; give your umbrella to a person sleeping on the curb; tell someone whom you love that you cannot tell them how much you love them because you love them so much that it's unquantifiable; ask a stranger, "What are you thinking?"
Make these buried seeds of dice sprout into gratitude.
This spectaculous band has recorded some awesome, new music which can be heard by visiting their music page here their music page here.
They're playing live at Mexicali in Teaneck, NJ this Thursday, which promises to be a great show due to the great sound at the venue and the greatness of the band. Furthermore, Fikus will be playing with them, so it's sure to be a dance dance revolution.
While there is a hurriblizzard threatening our area, as long as the show is still on - and as of now it is - then everyone (yes, that means YOU) should also be expected to attend. I'll be taking roll-call. If you don't want a Saturday Detention, you had best be there.
The following is excerpted from my Master's thesis Redfin[d]ing Genre.
When I was a sophomore in college, I first encountered Thalia Field’s writing in an anthology called The Next American Essay, edited by John D’Agata. The book consists of lyrical essays, ordered chronologically by author. By the time you’ve spanned Joan Didion to Thalia Field, you don’t realize what genre you’re reading anymore.
After reading Field's piece,“A [therefore] I” (from Point and Line), I wanted more because I hadn’t read anything like it before, and more importantly, I didn’t know how to categorize it. To me, the inability to clearly label it was its prevailing power. When I found her books in stores, they rested on the poetry shelves. Point and Line borders poetry, fiction, theater, and music – art in the truest sense – with narrative, mediation, and even ‘characters.' Her other books, Incarnate: Story Material and ULULU (Clown Shrapnel), offer just as much variety in form and style, and all have one thing in common: Field’s use of unique language and poetic devices, that form genre-busting collections.
In an interview I conducted with Thalia Field, we discussed the issues of genre and the distinctions between poetry, prose, and other literary forms.
EC: I read an interview with John D’agata in which he responded to someone asking him about creative nonfiction—he said he doesn’t like that term, and he’d rather it just be called Art. I’m of the opinion that literature (art) doesn’t have to subscribe to a particular genre in a given body of work. In my writing, I’ve always written some sort of conflation of the “Big 3” genres. My favorite aspect of your art is that I can pick up Point and Line or Incarnate without definitively filing it under one genre; it could be fiction, nonfiction, poetry, theater, auto/biography, whatever. I assume the main reason books, today, are classified into genres is so that when people go to bookstores, it’s easier for them to distinguish and locate certain works. Is this more important to the whole marketing process, or is it humanly intrinsic to want to label something? It’d be nice to see an area of a bookstore sectioned “Undefinable.” But then again, that in and of itself would become a genre. What are your feelings about this, about fusing genres and styles, and letting the reader conclude what “category” of art something is?
TF: I think you've already articulated much of what I think. Genres as defined by bookstores, publishers and marketing departments are for the ease of the marketplace. I think if there were shelves for writing as writers defined it – I would imagine it would all simply be by author. As you said, let the readers worry about distinctions of genre, if they matter. As for me, I write what I feel each piece wants best to be – and during the writing process many different forms will emerge and recede. Often a piece's "final form" is still provisional, as sometimes pieces will find another iteration in performance or another medium. Still, I do write mostly for books, and feel that I do have a large tool box with things from narrative, poetry, theater and nonfiction. Different pieces will use these "textures" in different measures depending on the needs of the piece. That said, I personally think of myself as most interested in questions of story-telling – its possibilities and its pitfalls and obstacles – and so all genres are sort of in service to those questions about how selves create stories and worlds over time – that most interest me at this point.
EC: Paul Valery said, "poetry is an art of Language; certain combinations of words can produce an emotion that others do not produce, and which we shall call 'poetic'." While I agree with this sentiment, I wonder why specifically poetry – and its combination of words – produces the emotional effect that Valery mentions. Why can't other forms or genres produce it? In your collections, despite, or, along with the forms, the words feel poetic. To me, that's where the electricity is. In "The Compass Room," [from Point and Line] there’s a section where you list things for two pages:
The stomachs of a cow. The quarters in a dollar. The stages of life. The essential humours. The streets around a block. The score and seven years ago. The prophets. The letters in the name of God. (40)
I think this is the kind of work that winds up coming into question: what is it as far as a type of genre, especially if it were to be removed from the context of the larger piece and viewed on its own? It reminds me of a poem in Charles Bernstein's Girly Man, where he lists fragments and images for several pages, and I can't help but ask, "Why is this poetry?" What makes this (or anything) poetic? What is a poem to you?
TF: I don't ask myself "is this poetry" or "is this fiction," and I agree that the ways languages combine is what makes writing poetic. To this end, not just formal poetry can be poetic, as you say. A story can be poetic if it uses language to abut and collide, to provide that new way of listening or seeing which can be called poetic. In forms such as I'm working with, there are often larger units of collision and juxtaposition – not only words in a line, but also sentences, clusters, pages, paragraphs – and these larger units themselves can behave poetically as well. When a piece is working for me, it fuels itself on its own inner logic – and this logic doesn't start from the "outside in" – so that whether it's ultimately called a poem or something else – is a definition which comes from the reader, or challenges the reader, more than something which initially interested me. The piece that interests me – how does it want to come together – asks how does its particular "poetry" work? And sometimes its poetics has a lot of prose or theater in it, sometimes more language on the line level. But ultimately, form is something which stays as open as possible in my process so that what I feel is the overall poetry of the piece has the widest possible frame to play itself out in. As I mentioned before, I often think of myself as someone primarily interested in the poetry of storytelling, so from the get-go, my projects are hybrids.
EC: Speaking of hybrids, music and film are the two art mediums – two outlets – that led me to poetry. And after reading, studying, and writing, I've gained a much greater appreciation for all aesthetics. The manuscript portion of my thesis is a collection of poems that string together the factual, chronicled murder of a woman, infused with fictional elements such as a protagonist, setting, plot, etc. As I continue writing this, I find myself thinking about poems in scenes within the larger context of the overall story. I'm not limiting myself to this thinking, but it's definitely occurring. I've heard of bands using cinematic approaches to the creation of an album. For example, in one band, the guitarist writes virtually all of the music for each instrument. The way he composes them is similar to the way some films are made: he gives a band member, for example the bassist, a part to play; the bass player will play it without knowing the context of the part in both the given song and the total album. This is then repeated for each instrument and member. In this way, there's a synergistic process occurring between film and music in the creation of the art. Since you're interested in performance in various media – theater, opera, music – do you or have you ever written a story in which, during the creation process, you thought of it from another medium’s perspective? If so, what is your approach? Do you find this restrictive, helpful? Or, are there other types of methods you use that combine and/or borrow aspects from other art to compose a story/poem?
TF: I am interested to hear your process and your thoughts regarding the adaptation of ideas from one to another media. My own artistic journey has led me mostly through theater. It is from theater that I've probably taken the most, but whether or not it is apparent in different written pieces depends on a variety of factors. Sometimes I borrow something formal, to make statements about artistic devices and how they structure storytelling. Sometimes I use the "performance" to dynamize a page, work, or to see it as temporal in a way which the page itself works against. There have been a few instances where I've used film as the dominant trope; what comes to mind is the "silent film" section of ULULU, where text is paired with film stills, and the piece, "The Compass Room," in which the whole design is borrowed from an early film-viewer, the zoetrope. The 'editing' of imagery within narrative that is possible in language and film do seem of a piece to me, and I'm sure that influenced some of the ways I think narrative can jump or abut itself on the page. You mention the musician's use of indeterminate process to create an ensemble in which different parts are like "tracks" laid down independently— much like John Cage and David Tudor's work. I'm very interested in this sort of process, though I have mostly used it in my theater work, and less on the page.
EC: In one of my classes, someone recently mentioned their panic over poetry being a dying art. We have become a visually oriented society. We have music accompanied by music videos, television & movies, video games, etc. Inundated with these things, it's easy to fear this threat. However, if that's the case, then all literature would be faced with extinction, not just poetry. Maybe this is why painting has persisted for so long and seemingly will continue to do so. It's actually kind of ironic because poetry accomplishes more, visually, than other types of literature. But if it is indeed poetry and poetry only that faces this threat, then it must go beyond visual fascination. If poetry continues to diminish in popularity, is it owed to the "stigma" of the label? I can't help but think that if a person picks up a book, fans through it, and it appears interesting to that person, then he/she would want to invest in it, no matter the style, form, or genre. But if a person picks up the same book that's labeled as poetry, before even fanning through it, the person will already have certain expectations that may influence them to disregard the book without actually giving it a chance.
TF: I think that newer communication or media technology don't particularly threaten older genres. They provide new opportunities to blend the strengths of the older ways of thinking and communicating into new forms. That doesn't mean that the old forms will be forgotten. It's a concern with every age. People thought the piano would ruin the fortepiano. And in some ways it did. But when you hear Mozart on a fortepiano, it's amazing. I think people should make the work they want to make and not worry so much about the commercial end of it. If you want to make poems in books, then do so. If you want to make digital literature, or video poetry, then do so. It should be more about what communicates and expresses the poetry you feel is relevant and the way you feel you can express it. Those are my thoughts on that. I write for books because that's what comes from me in a genuine way. I would be equally pleased if I wanted to do something more with multimedia, and even though I teach those things, with great enthusiasm, I don't feel at home there myself. But my students, who feel the times in a different way, to them, multimedia can feel equally poetic, and it often is.
Field refuses to be bogged down by genre, as evidenced by her statement, “let the readers worry about distinctions of genre, if they matter. I write what I feel each piece wants best to be – and during the writing process many different forms will emerge and recede.”
Without genre, writers wouldn’t be restrained. They wouldn’t be forced to make explanations, and readers wouldn’t demand this of them. As soon as a reader opens a book that’s sold as nonfiction, the book’s universe must be absolute and true, otherwise the reader feels deceived. This isn’t entirely the reader’s fault; rather it’s the force-feeding of labels, and consequent dominant perception that art must be classified and must therefore remain within its designated class that contributes to these beliefs.
However, I’ve come to realize that on some level, genre is essential, and it exists, as it should. Rather than attempting to incite a literary riot, causing total anarchy, I think it’s more important to search for balance. Instead of trying to separate the characteristics and styles that comprise genre, we should try to embrace them, we should try to accept the fact that sometimes they will be joined as one. Not only should we be okay or merely satisfied with this concept of art as indefinable, but also we should encourage and welcome it.
That's all for now. Till next time... stay thirsty, my friends.
Prior to the actual Autobiography of Red, Anne Carson begins with a mockery of syllogism.In the hilarious Appendix C’s satire, we come away with nothing definitive.There’s no certainty, no argument proving any truth, no one, single answer, no statement of surefire fact.Nothing is clarified; however, (in #21) the onus is put on us as readers, as the section’s final words are, “either we will lie or if not not.”In the preceding statements, we were more passive, but here we are active in searching the truth.For a book that will deal with heavy issues of human existence – life, death, immortality, love, desire, loneliness, and enlightenment – this section is a perfect setup.
A book teeming with so many humanistic aspects, perhaps the most glaring is Geryon’s (the protagonist) constant struggle with loneliness and loss.From an early age, Geryon must deal with a great loss that would devastate any child – the loss of a parent.While Carson doesn’t provide much insight, it’s implied that Geryon’s mother and father are separated.We know that “Every second Tuesday in winter Geryon’s father and brother went to hockey practice. / Geryon and his mother had supper alone” (34).This sounds like visitation rights.And not only is Geryon without a father figure in the household, but also, we’re not told Geryon sees his father at all, as the brother does.This must be difficult for a child to cope with.
The consequences of this particular loss create a feeling of loneliness that, ironically, fills the house.Geryon and his mother eat supper alone; while their mother works, Geryon and his brother are babysat. Furthermore, there are plenty of moments when Geryon fully experiences loneliness.In a loss of innocence and trust, his brother molests him, in which he can do nothing about it – he won’t go to his mother, and there’s no father to seek – an awfully desperate feeling.When Geryon and his mother are alone in the house, they turn on all the lights in every room, even in the rooms they have no intention of utilizing.Why do this?It’s a shield against emptiness.Although just the two of them in the house, turning on all the lights makes them feel less alone.Less dark is less fear. Geryon and his mother fight the fear of existing alone.Even objects represent solitude and abandonment: the recurring image of the empty fruit bowl is so simple, yet starkly unforgettable.
But, not all of Geryon’s loss is heartbreaking and negative.An underlying concept of this story is self-awareness, discovery, and acceptance.The entire novel is laced with the battle between inside versus outside – physically, spiritually, literally, and metaphorically.As a child, much of Geryon’s life was extremely internalized.We always saw him indoors with his mother; we saw his thoughts, rather than his spoken word; the inception of his autobiography.His house was a barrier from the ongoing, pressing wind.Even when Carson isn’t directly addressing Geryon’s inner self, we know she associates him with the inner/outer contrast, as in this scene from “Screendoor:”
Outside the dark pink air
was already hot and alive with cries. Time to go to schoo, she said for the third time.
Her cool voice floated
over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowkitchen to where Geryon stood
at the screen door.
Thus, everything outside was a fear or threat, something negative; whereas everything inside was comfortable. However, this changes once Geryon meets Herakles.
While Carson continues to paint Geryon as a chronically struggling, confused and conflicted, lovestruck, woe-is-me outcast, she also shows us his coming of age.After meeting, befriending, and growing intimately and romantically involved with Herakles, many of Geryon’s experiences occur in the outer world.We no longer see him in the house with his mother.Instead most of the scenes are outside.When Geryon visits Herakles’ house and stays with Herakles’ grandmother, Geryon and Herakles are outside on the lawn or the porch.He takes road trips with Herakles.When they return to the house, “Geryon followed Herakles to the back porch.They sat on opposite ends of the sofa” (65).Evidently, as Geryon becomes more involved with Herakles, he becomes more involved and active with the outside world.He’s not alone anymore.
Consequently, when Geryon and Herakles separate, we initially see Geryon back inside.He returns home, sits across from his mother in the kitchen, and we can feel the tension in the room.With Herakles no longer in close proximity, just like that, Geryon experiences inner turmoil – trying to discover his purpose, who he is and what he wants to accomplish.In “Water,” “Outside the natural world was enjoying a moment of strength” (70) while inside Geryon was lamenting, filled with angst, solitude, weak desperation.This is a far cry from the inside Geryon experienced as a boy before he came to begin accepting himself.Now that he’s aware of his desires (and sexual orientation), it’s an unhealthy chore to keep himself bottled up.
So now we have the Geryon who’s trapped inside, in his feelings, in love, in jealousy, and in fear of being alone.This is a changed Geryon, whom, “His mother reached out / a hand to touch his head but he ducked sideways” (73) – very unlike the Geryon who embraced his mother during childhood.When traveling on the airplane, “night darkness glided across the outer world / the inside of the aeroplane got colder and smaller” (79).How long can one remain introverted?And to what extent?Anxiety corked, Geryon’s internalization creates loneliness and emptiness because there’s no one with him but the self, a self that won’t suffice. Geryon experiences an insatiable hunger – on the plane he eats ravenously, then not much time passes and he’s hungry again.This is Geryon’s lack of self-fulfillment.He can’t seem to find a way to be completely satisfied with and within himself.And none of this is really about being a social pariah, as we see in “Mitwelt:”
It was not the fear of ridicule,
to which everyday life as a winged red person had accommodated Geryon early in life,
but his blank desertion of his own mind
that threw him into despair.
Rather, it’s the fear of being alone, losing everything around him and left with nothing but himself.
In the end, Geryon is just as ordinarily confused as is the common person.By the novel’s conclusion, he’s more enlightened than the average person may be; nevertheless, he’s still human.These are Geryon’s parting thoughts, “We are amazing beings” (146).He’s less self-loathing, less depressed, perhaps still not fully satisfied, but having experienced and learned so much; from philosophers and photography, to receiving a brief ass-kicking, to accepting himself for who and what he is – what people are – he’s a being both old a new, now knowing what it’s like to live.
Like ripe vinyl, freshly skinned leather, burnt forest, desert, magma… we just got this new, clear thought. Bursting new visions. Loud and clear. Can you hear them? Can you see them? Smile-shards scattered across new and clear ovations. Renovations. New ditch. Clear sight. Billions of orange sliced eyes, peeled by a clear sky revealing a relevant reveling new. Relevance. Revelance. Revel ants revel.
A ladder, with its head in the clouds, points its finger, says “Cut that city, and that city and that city. Cut that electricity.” PUSH THIS BUTTON for: histeria hersteria his story her story all of our stories and not one none no one to tell.
Flash forward. Flash backward. Flashes dance. Flashes of light rip the air. Should we protect our eyes? Eyeflashes. Seven lashes. Ash dances to siren songs. Should we protect our eyes? No, let’s dance. Scorch every veil. Each and every rule. New, clear dance. New, clear song.
We dance in the streets in the seas in the fields mountaintops mounting rooftops cemeteries hospitals cement tearing hot portals. There’s so much more. But come on, everybody dance. Do the char-char.
So clear now. So, clear now. So clear, new.
Like how you go for a walk and your mind implodes when the earth squints.
Like the way the greenest green runs under achromatic cover.
