unseen film screens

Lean Times

When I tire I sleep on a patch of rocks where our library once stood. Early the next day I walk back to the complex — to my cell smelling of urine and fear. I love my little hole.

In this parallel world which I inhabit only the objects that become the subject of my consciousness truly exist, everything else is a ghostly simulacrum that plays on unseen film screens in theaters I don’t attend. And that I wouldn’t attend had I the capacity…

And I am a capacious man, even in these lean times.

“If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God cannot do this, then it is time we got rid of Him.”

— James Baldwin / The Fire Next Time

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a faded revolution

Lost

I am lost…

… like the grandfather who lost his leg to photochemical exposures —  cursing at a faded revolution.

… like the grandmother who lost her fight with (de) mentia and her superego — cursing at her nurse about blackness.

… like the father who lost his fight with reason in a drug-addled fug — his (de) mentia a vanishing wisp cursing at the ghosts beyond his reach…

All victims of a faded revolution.

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What I’m Reading, or: What I Just Finished Reading (a continuing series)

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Born of a Woman: New and Selected Poems / Etheridge Knight (1980)

In 1980 this collection included new poems by Knight and selections form two previous works including his Pulitzer Prize and National Book award nominated collection: Belly Song and Other Poems (1973). It was in the preface of this book that Knight elucidated his concept that “Poets are naturally meddlers…” creating art in the form of a dialectic or “TRINITY: The Poet, The Poem, and The People.

His haiku forms are sharp in “Indiana Haiku — 2,” “Missouri Haiku,” and “Indiana Haiku.” In the “Missouri Haiku” compilation he writes about the existential menace he feels in “Boone County: The blue pick/up truck / Roars past: Sun shines on shotgun / Leering in window.” 

And no matter where he is in America Knight reminds you that’s all the same existential dread, as in the free verse poem “Boston 5:00 A.M. — 10/74:” 

AWAKE! For mornings
Are the same as nights
The troops
Goosestep
Down the streets

Other standouts in a book replete with standouts are “For Langston Hughes,”
“Welcome Back, Mr. Knight: Love Of My Life,” “A Poem For 3RD World Brothers,” “It was a Funky Deal,” among many others. Ebook, 02/05/21.

IMG_1752

“manicured fingers shuffling
the same stacked deck
with the ante
raised”

— Etheridge Knight / “On Watching Politician’s Perform at Martin Luther King’s Funeral”

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explode all canons

Overheard at the IHOP…

… I once had my foreskin tossed in the food processor by a moyle who didn’t know how to spell mohel. Unfortunately I was still attached to said foreskin and that’s why I’m called “French Tickler Shorty” nowadays.

We need to explode all canons: classics, literary, political, social… and I went in on a long pontification — extolling the virtues of true equality and intersectional access — for hours I went on.

And at the end of those countless hours a single hand was raised, only one question asked:

do you agree with the Kardashians that…

I was certain that it was all uphill toil from there. Pass me the maple syrup, please.

“I was always a bit contemptuous of the first person. I was stupid about it. I thought it wouldn’t allow me to write about other people. But, in fact, it allows you to do it in a really interesting way because it’s all inflected by the subjectivity of the character. Once I stopped feeling self-conscious about it, then it moved quickly.”

— Zadie Smith / New York Times, 17 October 2016

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50 million faults

plagues

caused
a future
of fragments

50 million
faults

What I’m Reading, or: What I Just Finished Reading (a continuing series)

Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions / Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2017)

A slim book length essay in epistle form where Adichie offers, at a friend’s request, advice on raising a child in the feminist tradition. Stark, intelligent advice on raising an empathic human being. It is feminist advice, first and foremost, but also good humane advice that the world sorely needs in greater doses.

In her third suggestion, on gender roles, Adichie serves up this incisive bon mot: “The knowledge of cooking does not come pre-installed in a vagina. Cooking is learned. Cooking—domestic work in general—is a life skill that both men and women should ideally have. It is also a skill that can elude both men and women.”

This book is full of excellent practical advice for dismantling patriarchal hegemony, and excellent advice for any human being who aspires to the heights in the art of being human. Ebook, 02/03/21.

“So teach Chizalum that biology is an interesting and fascinating subject, but she should never accept it as justification for any social norm. Because social norms are created by human beings, and there is no social norm that cannot be changed.”

— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie / Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions

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disappear in plain sight

Identity Piece in Reconstruction

Now you see me now you don’t. I’m lost to myself. Even I can’t see me. Where do I come from?

We came from Cuba. We came from Spain.

And I can’t track my family back any further than my two grandmothers: one came from Vigo (maybe, somewhere in Galicia seems certain) in Spain; and the other one was abandoned at a convent doorstep by a parent she hardly knew somewhere in (or near) Havana.

My two grandmothers had 6 husbands — and one child by each — 6 kids sired by 6 different fathers. So the invisibility took root.

Those roots were uprooted during the revolution and they all became invisible again in exile — a familial diaspora ranging from Chicago to Jersey City to Puerto Rico and Miami.

We all became invisible in a land that really didn’t want us.

The land that “bumper-stickered” me with: “Will the last American leaving Miami please bring the flag.”

(Blind-ass cracker mother fucker! I wrote somewhere some years later)

Now you see me… and now I’ll disappear in plain sight.

We came from Cuba. We came from Spain.

I also have an Arabic-rooted patronymic. Although I’ve been told that the man my father took his patronymic from wasn’t actually his father. It was my Spanish grandmother’s matronymic…

“Son of Álvaro;” I find… “alternatively, from Arabic al-faris, a knight or cavalryman, from which was derived the Medieval Iberian rank Alférez”

So just how far back do I travel to find the Arab in me? Was my father’s line the Moor, or the assassin of the Moor?

Neither… maybe. I just found it may be a Visigothic name. From the Visigoths “who ruled Spain between the mid-5th and early 8th centuries had a profound impact on the development of surnames.”

Whatever it was/is: we were killers once, and we always will be killers.

We came from Cuba. We came from Spain.

Now I’ll disappear in plain sight.

“The knowledge of cooking does not come pre-installed in a vagina. Cooking is learned. Cooking—domestic work in general—is a life skill that both men and women should ideally have. It is also a skill that can elude both men and women.”

— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie / Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions

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someone is writing us

It’s a Family Affair

I.

He took off his shoes and the right pinkie was exposed — nude, malformed, and smelling like gruyere cheese from six feet away. A couple of wiry hairs arcing over the sock. She, on the other hand, was at the bookshelf pulling out a book about genital piercings, entitled American Primitives, out of a shelf filled with the best selling titles about effective extortion techniques, labiaplasty, and breast augmentation plastic surgery mishaps. At the rear of the study lay the son on a lazy boy recliner snoring like an opossum with a severed tail — the disembodied limb still involuntarily twitching under the light of the bold wolf super moon — the Saab ownwer long gone and oblivious. He lay there, mouth agape, drool pooling in the cleft of his chin. The whites of his eyes revealed beneath the slits of his fluttering eyes.

The dark circles around his eyes, not yet diminished, accentuating the ‘possum affect. His half erect penis beginning to show because he drank a liter of water two hours ago and forgot to drape a sofa cushion on his groin.

II.

Your skin looks like shagbark. You look like a shameless twat hung by the toes. Who hangs by their toes? Did someone hang you there, or did you do that yourself? I don’t remember that movie, you say. And I say this isn’t a movie, dear. Someone is writing us into existence and I’m kinda bored by it. Hey, you’re kinda cute. Well this kinda cute ain’t around. And something about happy loving couples not being friends of mine… oh, he must be listening to Joe Jackson. You follow it? Nah, I really don’t care; I just don’t want to be a character here anymore. I’d rather go back into that inchoate place ‘o blackness and stasis. I’d like snail tacos and drag races. Oh, what are you watching some feature length cartoon, from a secondary angle, full of rice and stew and red wine? Yes. Oh well it’ll stop soon enough after 100 words. Look at the length of this. He’ll check to see if it’s north of 100 words and stop. You’ll see. Pari passu delivering Centurias he arrived.

III.

English is my second language, but my Spanish, although mostly atrophied, remains stubbornly attached like the original skin that hangs on to the anole’s back after molting. Everything seems processed in Spanish first before the protean firing into English. My neurons work overtime, and therefore all the wiring in my head never ceases working. The machinery overtaxed and always at the edge of a breakdown.

IV.

The fug in this house sticks to you. The persimmons on the table spin when you look at them, and when I look at them they levitate and circle into a gyre that moves from room to room looking for the energy that’ll stop it from moving. From movement to stasis is the natural order, and it seeks the natural order. You look at them again and the fruits drive themselves into the living room wall, creating a starburst pattern unseen in this millennium.

What I’m Reading, or: What I Just Finished Reading (a continuing series)

Fire Next Time / James Baldwin (1963)

This is an incisive dissection of America’s original sin, and how it was still with us on the eve of major civil rights legislation being codified. Possibly more powerful than it was when it was published because there is so much we’ve fallen short on — there are new ways to disenfranchise, the same old ways to abuse and kill. It’s a righteous book, and we continually fail at overcoming the pernicious socialization of racism in America. / Ebook, 01/30/21.

****

The Year of Magical Thinking: The Play / Joan Didion (2007)

I’ve been on hold for ages on the source book. I came across this version written by Didion as a theater piece — performed by Vanessa Redgrave. It’s a powerful, and painful, recounting of how Didion dealt with the sudden death of her husband and the lingering illnesses (and eventual death) of her daughter in the span of a couple of years. I’m still on hold for the 2005 memoir that won the National Book Award for Nonfiction. / Audiobook, 01/30/21.

****

How to Write One Song / Jeff Tweedy (2020)

Tweedy, again, proves that he has a knack for writing more than songs. A pretty nifty, direct, and intimate approach to demystifying the craft of songwriting, which he has elevated to an art with Wilco, solo, and other related projects. It’s really a quite useful approach to any type of writing or creative endeavor. / Hardcover, 01/31/21.

****

That Old Country Music / Kevin Barry (2021)

A very good new collection of short stories, set mostly on the mid-western mountains and coast of Ireland, from Barry. He has such a knack for black humor, the turn of an unusual phrase, and the juxtaposition of images that are original and transcendent.

Among the best stories here are “The Coast of Leitrim,” “Deer Season,” and a couple of distinct humanizing points of view in “Roma Kid,” and “Extremadura (Until Night Falls).”

The collection sags a wee bit in the middle but finishes strong with “That Old Country Music” and “Roethke in the Bughouse.” / Ebook, 01/31/21.

****

American Sublime / Elizabeth Alexander (2005)

Alexander’s 2005 Pulitzer Prize nominated poetry collection, four years before she famously recited the inaugural poem at President Obama’s first inauguration.

The volume is sectioned into four parts: “American Blue,” “Ars Poetica,” “Amistad,” and “American Sublime.” The “Amistad” section is a recounting of the travails on the eponymously named Spanish slave ship and its aftermath.

Alexander’s poems are at once evocative, imagistic, personal, universal, and steeped in American history. Flash cuts from slavers, Ornette Coleman and Thelonious Monk, to Etheridge Knight and beyond. / Ebook, 02/01/21.

****

The Colossus of New York / Colson Whitehead (2003)

Somewhat reminiscent of the classic film paeans to cities Manhatta (1921) and Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis (1927). Cubist and kaleidoscopic flashes of portions of the 8 million stories in the naked city, seen through the organizing concepts of “Port Authority,” “Rain,” “Brooklyn Bridge,” “Subway,” “Times Square,” etc. something like a long form-prose poem-essay-ode. Interesting. / Ebook, 02/02/21.

“It is what it is: wretched work,
that we who the dead leave behind must do.”

— Elizabeth Alexander / “Black Poets Talk about the Dead”

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in barbaric ice


(click on the play button above & watch my short film doppelgänger)

HyperthermHaiku

An atavistic
blood ablution, frozen sharp,
in barbaric ice.

The sun sliced a cut
of cold light onto his face —
a bullet-dry hole.

A frozen wasteland
left behind, village to sea,
I, cold-blooded, stalk.

IMG_1706 2“Under, then, under the front porch, in the loam
of the burning and smoking land, the de-
foliated, under that pyre of bones, we scrabble,
and struggle together to hear ourselves think.”

— Elizabeth Alexander / “Notes From”

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not yet cracked

Mr. X Decides to Build His Dream House

During what was the longest six months of my life, bedridden after a near-death experience, I could not sleep and the only thing that kept me alive was Eraserhead.  I watched that film nearly everyday: 138 times in 184 days. It seemed to me I had ingested David Lynch. I became Henry X —  but my head had not yet been cracked open for eraser meat, and I wasn’t father to a squalling baby. I did miss my lady in the radiator — oh so much.

So I linked to VCR Party Live on the Beaumont Theater website because I was curious about the Found Footage Festival that was coming to town; I wanted to watch the trailer and maybe buy tickets online.  I remember I had three layers of clothes on that very cold morning.  It was 37 degrees outside with freezing rain falling, and the thermometer in the living room read 65 degrees.  I put on my liners so I could still navigate online on my phone, a wool cap, a hoodie over my Tom Waits concert t-shirt, and a light orange puff jacket that I usually wore during late fall or early spring backpacking trips.  It’s as if I were setting out on a journey while sitting on the toilet watching YouTube with my flannel pants bunched around my ankles.  I had the sun lamp on in the bathroom.  I still couldn’t warm up.

But while I was watching the found footage trailer I got the idea to visit local thrift stores in search of any 8mm or 16mm films and VCR tapes I could find to make found footage films of my own.  I don’t know if the Internet Archives film database was online yet, in any case I didn’t find out about it until 2017, but it was during my eventual trip to Goodwill that I found the box of three VCR tapes and a scrapbook that would alter the course of my life.  The tapes were full of just about every commercial and cable television show about Ariel Castro — the Cleveland man who kidnapped three women and held them against their will, as prisoners, in his home for a decade.

After watching 6 hours of footage I was left wondering what really separated me from him; or from Jeffery Dahmer or any of the other sociopaths and psychopaths that become notorious. Then I thought about all the ones that get away with their crimes.  I thought of all the missing children, women and men in this world, and the men — it’s always mostly men — that are responsible for their disappearances.  

How is it that Castro became what he became and Dahmer what he became and I didn’t?  We shared so much in common in our early lives.  How is it that I’ve never crossed the line and had done something as monstrous as what they did?

And then I thought I should do something about that.

What I’m Reading, or: What I Just Finished Reading (a continuing series)

Fences / August Wilson (1985)

This was one of my longest “lying about” tsundoku (books that grace bookshelves or night tables, sometimes for years, without being read) — that’s no longer the case. This is potent stuff, at times bordering on melodrama, but about very serious race issues and gender mores.

Troy Maxon is one of the most complicated characters I’ve come across in writing for the theater. At times one pulls for him and is equally repelled by him. A truly unforgettable character. / Paperback, 01/17/21.

****

The Sentence is a Lonely Place / Gary Lutz (2016)

The transcript from a 2008 lecture on writing and the literary life presented to Columbia University writing students. Lutz recounts how he was hooked by language and then gets down into the grammatical, orthographical, and syntactic weeds. Interesting in its granular approach, and typical “slantness” from Lutz. / Audiobook, 01/18/21.

****

The Memory Police / Yoko Ogawa (1994/2019)

A disappointment because I had such high hopes. One maybe better off if one read this as an allegory. If you’re looking for a well constructed dystopia with its own logical construction and reason for existence you may be disappointed. It also toggled constantly with a novel within the novel that was worse than the primary book. Translated to English in 2019. / Audiobook, 01/18/21.

****

The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America / Tim Snyder (2018)

Snyder surveys how Europe, Russia, and lastly the US made hard right fascist turns in their own home cooked ways in the 20th and 21st centuries.

But the creation myth that Putin and his club o’ fascists cooked up around the time of his second installment as head of Russia is as batshit crazy as it gets — it seems like “too-far-out fiction,” but unfortunately it isn’t. Supreb book. / Ebook & Audiobook, 01/19/21

****

On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century / Tim Snyder (2017)

Slight volume that packs a punch. Should have been required reading in the US and the world at the turn in the new millennium. Now, we are all so far gone! How do we reel this socio-cultural shit show back in? This book provides some ideas. / Ebook, 01/20/21

****

The Man Without a Face: The Unlikely Rise of Vladimir Putin / Masha Gessen (2012)

The second Gessen book I read this month on autocracy, this one specifically Putin’s. She lived through the rise and lifelong installment of Putin and the death of a nascent democracy in Russia. This is a personal history of that time, mostly 1998-2012, with Putin as the focal point. Plenty of biographical facts about Putin. Updated in 2014 for the audiobook. / Ebook & Audiobook, 01/23/21

****

Pep Talks for Writers: 52 Insights and Actions to Boost Your Creative Mojo / Grant Faulkner (2017)

One of the main folks behind NaNoWriMo and the founder of 100 Word Story, among other things, Faulkner writes a pretty nifty book on approaches — and pep talks to cover an entire year — to kickstart your writing. / Ebook, 01/24/21.

****

Inadvertent / Karl Ove Knausgaard (2018)

This is the first Knausgaard I read, other than a recent essay on LitHub.com, and I’ll be reading lots more. This short book delves into his attraction to literature, how he eventually becomes a writer, and his love of art. / Audiobook, 01/26/21.

****

Obit / Victoria Chang (2020)

A haunting and haunted poetry collection nominated for the 2020 National Book Award for poetry. Chang creates something transcendent from loss and grief. The (mostly) prose poems, in the format of short obituaries for just about everything in Chang’s life, are sharp and askew enough to make loss intellectually engaging and new. / Ebook, 01/27/21.

****

In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction / Judith Kitchen & Mary Paumier Jones (Ed.) (1996)

I picked this up after reading an interview with Dinty W. Moore (the editor of Brevity) on what he thought were the top five short-form creative nonfiction books. This was number two in chronological order. It’s flaws are mostly those of elision. If you’re doing flash (or micro) essays why include long essays with portions omitted for space? Great line up of writers. / Hardcover, 01/28/21.

****

Convenience Store Woman / Sayaka Murata (2018)

I really enjoyed this loopy take on a life given over to a convenience store. Offbeat characters in odd situations, but also feels like a bit of an existential confection. I already placed a “hold” on Murata’s new novel Earthings, so I’m looking forward to some more “askewness” soon. / Ebook & audiobook, 01/29/21.

“There are many dark things flowing in this world now, and most films reflect the world in which we live. They’re stories… And so, even though I’m from Missoula, Montana, which is not the surrealistic capital of the world, you could be anywhere and see a kind of strangeness in how the world is these days, or have a certain way of looking at things.”

— David Lynch / Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity

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nothing is imbued

A Billabong

A distortion in her preflight instruction

A 4-hour flight turned into a 15-hour ordeal

A crash in a Peruvian penal colony

A float down the Amazon River on handmade raft

A month adrift in a state-sized billabong in the middle of the rainforest

A fear in her eyes

A pursing of her lips

A flaring of her nostrils

A chore to deal with this level of “fucked-up-ness”

A recounting of “The World is a War Film”

A place where nothing is imbued with meaning

“But it is ontology — the investigation of the nature of being — that travelers do.”

— Cynthia Ozick / ”The Shock of Teapots”

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i wish i

here lives the

wish i was a fish,

“I do not care if I am writing a poem or a letter—it is just making marks on a sheet of paper that delights and envelops me.”

— Mary Ruefle / Madness, Rack, and Honey

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