Saturday, December 31, 2016

Thoughts at New Year's Eve


Artwork by Nicole Eisenman.  An astonishing artist.

Guiding Spirit

Clayton Eshleman: "I greet what I cannot account for..."

The Year in Sports

  • I heard this from somebody: What’s a Gordie Howe hat trick? Goal, assist, and ten minute major.
  • Cubbies.

The Music Manor

Got tired of the xmas music pervading the public airwaves, so I opened my vault:
  • Tchaikovsky string quartet #1
  • Brahms string quartet #3
  • Prokofiev piano sonata #7
  • Prokofiev violin sonata #1 
Dreams coming true left and right: Lou Harrison, Evelyn Fung, Anne-Sophie Mutter, Ligeti the Hungarian and Soro the Chilean (Sinfonia Romantica in A major 1920), Count Basie and Duke Ellington and the Modern Jazz Quartet and the World Saxophone Quartet, Charles Mingus, Dizzy Gillespie and Oscar Peterson, Clifford Brown, Thelonious Monk, more from the 1950’s: Cannonball Adderley (joyous playing, controlled lyricism, fractal placement of notes in speedier pieces); Art Pepper and groups from the early 1950’s in Los Angeles; Gerry Mulligan also mostly LA recordings from that period of time. Voices start and stop with Sarah Vaughan.

Recent Reading

I love language.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Side Chicks (N'Dia Rae and Chanel Q)

  • Men can love you and still want to fuck other bitches.
  • Once he left, I let out a sigh of release.
  • This whip is fly.
  • I ignored him because what reason did I have to speak.
  • He had a sophisticated thug appeal to him that made me wet. He was def the type of nigga that brings out your inner hoe.
  • This my shit.
  • She laughed to the top of her lungs, causing rage to run rampant through my veins.

The Tin Drum (Gunter Grass)

  • I am at home in neither the sacred nor the profane, and in consequence am housed on the fringes, in a mental institution.
  • I still contradict my keeper Bruno, who flatly maintains that only men can be proper nurses, the patient’s addiction to female nurses being simply one more symptom of the disease; while the male nurse conscientiously cares for the patient and sometimes cures him, the female nurse follows the feminine path: she seduces the patient toward recovery or toward death, which she imbues with a tinge of eroticism that renders it palatable.
  
The Laughter of Women (Lisel Mueller)

The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.


Anything Between Us Becomes Money and Manners (Bill Berkson)

“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
And if there was a problem?
Pas de quoi.
Je vous en prie!
Prego.
Bitte.
You’re welcome.
My pleasure!


Poem (Hanshan) 

My father and mother left me a good living;
I need not envy the fields of other men.
Clack—clack—my wife works her loom,
Jabber, jabber, goes my son at play.
I clap hands, urging on the swirling petals,
Chin in hand, I listen to singing birds.
Who comes to commend me on my way of life?
Well, the woodcutter sometimes passes by.
  

She Gotta Be The Dopest To Ride With The Coldest (Kellz Kimberly and Kyoshi)

 “You know I don’t see nobody but you bae; it ain’t shit another nigga could offer me, cause I ain’t goin nowhere,” she said, getting serious.

  • I quickly lotioned my body,
  • I walked back towards my building feeling some type of way.
  • I was starting forward all four years of high school; shit, a nigga could’ve even went pro, but the streets were calling a nigga.
  • Bitches were feenin for my attention,
  • We were close but she irked my nerves.

 Poetry Notebook: Reflections on the Intensity of Language (Clive James)

  • One of the characteristics of a work of art is to drive all the other works of art temporarily out of your head. 

And finally

The holidays, and every night was a salon and symposium: critical theory and wine and art and music and cuisine, laid in thick, Africa from the early 1960’s to today, dramatically presented, breathtaking and sweeping generalizations.  Re Hanshan: The woodcutter. Keeping it real.






Saturday, November 19, 2016

A Millionaire in Little Wealths

TAKING MY TEN

Until the first of the year as far as new sequences, but I expect a new book to drop in time for the holidays.


METAPHOR COCKTAIL

Two and a half months of mixing metaphors on the wrong side of the creek, retro rockets have been fired. Reentry has been effectuated. Thursday and Sunday posts will be well-intended if not actually posted, and for the remainder of the year all content will be random. Reentry in fact began at a laundromat in Old Town a couple of weeks ago.  I realized that in my time here I have become, like Emily D. myself a millionaire/in little wealths. The gig included a period of time when Friday nights are synonymous with high school football, and Eleanor celebrated her 99th birthday and the party was terrific, and the Chicago Cubs won the World Series, and Donald Trump was elected president of the USA. I dined with beautiful women and their daughters and husbands, I reacquainted myself with former coworkers who became friends and the wonderful people one encounters in the day to day, such as at Spudnuts or Domingo’s or the County of Santa Barbara. It was intense in some cases, and what a coincidence that I was here in this area, a convergence that seemed preordained. I posted to meet my contractual obligations. I made my nut, and I’m ready once again to move on. I’m not the only one in reentry here, at this locale, clearly, and the gig has carried me that much closer to death; Eliot: Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”/Let us go and make our visit.


www.randystark.com





Saturday, September 24, 2016

Very Like Hey


OK YESTERDAY

It was so funny.


AND I KNOW CUBBY

I told Cubby.


THEY’RE NOT REALLY

I mean they are.


UNLESS YOU HAD LIKE

Sanitary scissors.


BUT YEAH

A little.
But no.


HE’S KIND OF GOING

Oh wait a minute.


A LOT WILL

A lot won’t.
But a lot will.


SHE WAS VERY LIKE HEY

So I think one of the things.


YEAH JUST WHAT

I’ve been yeah.


WHAT DID YOU

I mean.


NEXT THING YOU KNOW IT’S LIKE

I don’t even know.


YEAH SO I MEAN

And they're like.


AND I TOLD HER I SAID

You’ve got to realize.


TELL YOU WHAT

I was shocked.


OBVIOUSLY HE

And then all of a sudden.


TO FUNCTION

Four hours.


I JUST SAY THAT BECAUSE

We’re like.


OH  YEAH ABOUT YEAH SO

I OK projecting.


I WAS LIKE OH

You know?


WHICH WAIT OK

It gets crazier.


LIKE SOMETIMES I FEEL

He kind of fucking burned his own bridges.


COME TO FIND OUT

There are two new Ruhis.


I’LL LEAVE HIM A HEY WE’D LIKE TO

The guy has yeah.


I WILL SAY

And I mean look.


SO I’M JUST LIKE

I’m like yeah, you know?


I SAID OH REALLY

Just the fact that its probably.


WITH HIM

You never know.


BUT I THINK THAT

In an effort to whatever.


AND HE WAS LIKE

He was like.
I mean.


I SAID WHAT?

And then I go like this.







Thursday, September 22, 2016

Hot Right Into the Weekend




MY NEW GIG 

From a distance, the houses built into the side of the mountain looked like a community of bento boxes and apothecary jars. I have been living out of a suitcase for the past few weeks, and keeping the Thursday/Saturday schedule has been a challenge, but so far I’ve been up to it.  

So after watching a tribute to Juan Gabriel on t.v. and reading the semi-annual report of one of the investment products in my portfolio, I spent much of the remainder of the morning at a café attempting to develop a new aesthetic.  

The job is like a volunteer vacation, except I’m getting paid. I miss my desert abode, but the beach is cool. And it dawns on me (dawn: opening shot in a movie, first notes in a score, when the curtain rises in a play, first line in a poem, opening sentence in a novel) that I tilt toward what in this cultural meme is called Language Poetry. An affinity is what I have. In Tokyo I was developing this style, studying poets and artists and filmmakers and the choreographers (Balanchine:  “There are no new steps only new combinations.”) all to the background of Japanese language.  


ONE MAN SHOW POSTPONED 

I’ve had to postpone for several weeks the opening of my one man show, where I will I play all four roles in Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” modeling my performance on the over the top work of Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, Sandy Dennis (ah, Sandy Dennis) and George Segal. This for sure tour de force will be rescheduled for late winter or early spring of next year. The postponement is out of respect for Mr. Albee who died recently.


STOP ME IF YOU’VE HEARD THIS BEFORE 

There is so much good writing out there in the world. So much from all over. The internet is huge in making it available. Huge. Good poetry showing up in my feeds, emails, and just from surfing. From India, Mexico, France, Nigeria, translated into English, though most of what I’ve been reading online recently is English/American.


SHOUT OUTS 

Alexis Fancher: She is a poet of acclaim (frequent publishing, Best American Poetry series, etc.) and a photographer who chronicles the downtown scene of the most interesting city in the world, Los Angeles. DTLA is how she acronyms it, and I re-live vicariously through her images my old neighborhood. When I was a student at USC at would get tired of the campus huff and fluff, I would go to downtown LA and lose myself in its myriad ways. Ms. Fancher’s photographs remind me of those fine hours. 

Neil Novello: A video artist working in several genres—journalism, arts, documentary, etc—and has also risked his professional reputation by making videos interpreting my work—and he is currently on a speaking tour in the U.S. 


VISION STATEMENT 

Sequences and observations, episodic threads of vocalized pauses, aural punctuation and verbal fillers that accessorize discourse in public spaces and common places (such as offices, snack bars, waiting rooms, etc.) written in poetic form (although maybe not poetry in the usual sense of the word).

SHOP TALK 


 Kenner in The Pound Era distinguishes three “principles” that arise here and in Pound’s other workings from that time.  These are worth setting down here, as a way to get us started: 1. the vers-libre principle, that the single line is the unit of composition [this has the vaguest connection to classical Chinese but is crucial to how Pound sets out in his “translations”]; 2. the Imagist principle, that a poem may build its effects out of things it sets before the mind’s eye by naming them; 3. the lyrical principle, that words or names, being ordered in time, are bound together and recalled into each other’s presence by recurrent sounds.  [These last two show a connection to aspects of Chinese poetry that Pound may have sensed through Fenollosa/Mori and that Yip articulates more clearly over a half-century later.]



These principles are money. Let me repeat:  each of these principles? Money. 


SHOP TALK 2 

Rothenberg continues:   

Moving away from translation and appropriation as such, Pound’s work in Cathay shows a way of making poetry from lists of words – connected or not at their origin.  As a form of systemic or process poetry, this has been utilized by Jackson Mac Low in his Asymmetries and Light Poems, by David Antin in his Meditations, by me in The Lorca Variations, and by various other poets both in America and elsewhere.  This we might call, after Mac Low, the nuclei principle. 


Ditto this principle.


SLAYED 

By these lines by Gunter Eich, from a poem about his simple possessions as a soldier or POW 

The pencil’s the thing
I love the most:
By day it writes verses
I make up at night.
This is my notebook,
this my rain gear,
this is my towel,
this is my twine.

These appeared on the Facebook recently: three and four liners, quite fine, some longer ones. Highly recommended. 


SHOP TALK 3 

A villain is William Carlos Williams to verbosity.  Here is a tribute: 

SATURDAY

Fuck
Ing
Night
In the sum
Mer
Time.  

ALT 0199 

aqui aquí alt161
tu y yo Tú  alt163 yo no
nòn là  alt149 + alt133 òà
alt162 and alt160








Saturday, September 17, 2016

No Ordinary Sailing


CONGRATULATIONS

You’ve been preselected!


CAN WE DO IT WHEN WE GET OFF THE LIKE

Oh but he wants to uh.


IT’S WEIRD

It’s weird.
It’s like.
Weird.
You know?


HE WAS ASKED HEY WAIT A MINUTE

What about Jerzy?


ARE YOU HERE FOR A WEEK

Or a month?
Or both?


AND THAT’S THE THING

You know?


I BOUGHT A LOTTERY TICKET

To eat it and get high.


HE IS

Very nice.
Very gentle.


IT WORKED ONCE BEFORE

With a scratcher.


BY LAW YOU NEED TO

Whether or not.


BUT I TELL YOU WHAT

Most people really feel.


ARE YOU?

Can you?


RIGHT YEAH

But I mean.


WELL I TOLD THEM

What happened is.


THEY ASKED ME THEY SAID UH

Oh well no, they wouldn’t say.


SHE GOT A JOB

The sister did.


I ALWAYS

There’s so much.


BUT IT’S A MATTER OF

You know.


WHY?

Why would she have a melt down?
Oh.
Oh.


PROBABLY BY THE TIME YOU ADD IT ALL UP

Two-thirds.


I’M SO NOT LIKE THAT

And she is.


I HEARD TODAY

Jerzy told me.


IF YOU’RE SCRAMBLING

The last thing you need is.


THEY TRIED TO

Hang me basically completely out to dry.


THE REAL QUESTION IS YEAH

Why’d it take so long?


YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP REMINDING ME

I know.
I know.
Get in the car.


I THOUGHT IT WAS THE LAW

It is the law.




Saturday, August 6, 2016

From the Center of Excellence

This post will mostly be literary (as per usual) but let’s begin with music. Jennifer Higdon composes beautiful and exciting classical music. Here’s the Concerto for Orchestra, written in 2002.

During six weeks of working on other projects, such as finishing and launching my newest book, then a chrematistic technical project for a friend, all the while suffering in an eschatological heat wave of eight consecutive days of highs over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, not to mention the crazy political zeitgeist, my mind wandered and eventually went numb; I solved crossword puzzles, napped on sofas and beds and hammocks, listened to the news, and wrote little.

But when I went online to read poetry---Audre Lorde, Tony Hoagland, Amber Shockley, Anna Journey, and Camille Dungy---my imagination was revivified.  This is everyday language become exhilarating; plain, colloquial, and so carefully placed and juxtaposed that it can alter forever your way of apprehending.

In fact, a danger in reading great literature while on hiatus is that a return to your own work leads to unfavorable, dispiriting comparisons. Time again to bring current my own writing and I’m like yuck, a victim of total non-inspiration: how does the impossible suddenly become possible?

Well, as Audre Lorde wrote (and a poem of hers appears at the end of this post): “Don’t wait for inspiration…You don’t need to be inspired to write a poem. You need to reach down and touch the thing that’s boiling inside of you and make it somehow useful.”

So I’ve been hitting it, and there should be new sequences in this space beginning August 11.

Now for some Shop Talk:

  • I’ve always done my best writing in cafes named after the daughters of the owners.

  • Have you ever thought about how a poet creates a title for a poem?  One of the poets mentioned above, Anna Journey, had this to say about titles: “I like a long title. As a poet who loves narrative but writes in the lyric mode, I find I can get a lot of potentially burdensome “scene setting”—the who, what, when, where, why of the poem—out of the way by freighting a title with information. Doing so swiftly grounds a reader and establishes a framework for the dramatic context. Also, when titling a poem, I like to imagine the title printed in a hypothetical table of contents: ‘Would I flip to that poem?’ I ask myself. Many times the answer is: ‘Nope.’ So I go back to work until I arrive at a title that feels vivid and compelling enough to satisfy my demands for clarity, surprise, strong imagery, and an orienting context.”

And to bring closure to this post, let’s go back to Audre Lorde. Some readers consider her poem, “A Litany for Survival,” to be depressing. I consider it a proclamation.

A Litany for Survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak
we are afraid our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive






Saturday, July 23, 2016

Throw Lines -- new book now available!

By now my latest ebook, Throw Lines, should be available on Amazon for the amazingly low price of just 99 cents.

This is my 11th book. Not bad for someone who, in his 7th  book declared dramatically and unequivocally that it was to be his final book, that he was done for good being a writer, finished, no más. (I think you can “Look Inside” and read it for yourself right here.)

Of course in the world of ebooks, edits, emendations and changes can be made instantly, and I could easily delete the syrupy goodbye I had written a year and four books ago. But why be sneaky and inauthentic? The reasons for saying what I did were valid to me at the time (and probably still are today) yet for some reason I just keep writing.

Publishing this latest book was, as usual, full of challenges, right up to the final click on publish.  Just yesterday I was selecting quotations for the epigram, rearranging chapters, and making format corrections.

With the new book requiring most of my attention, this here Stark Impressions blog has seen a lot of grandfathered material being posted, mostly because I want to keep the Thursday/Saturday publishing schedule going, but also because it provides a look behind the scenes that sometimes I’m not even sure if I saw the first time. It’s kind of like travel, there is an eager anticipation and preparation, but the work itself is often pleasurably difficult and not truly appreciated until afterward.  Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to fresh new material appearing once again, probably by mid-August.

During the workweek I caution myself not to get too blitzed at the end of the day because early the next morning every morning I have to fill all bird feeders, even the nyjer and the green tray and the peanuts, the water pavilion plus the three nectar dispensers, that’s 12 feeding stations in all. Fuck. Not to mention the yard work pulling weeds and clipping branches and picking fruit and watering front and back and side, all this before sunrise and the triple digit Fahrenheit temperatures. Plus the earth quakes from time to time. Power goes out. How am I supposed to get any writing done lurching about like this?

Truthfully, the environment and the physical work help with writing. The birdsong can be all encompassing, and I listen to it more than I listen to talk radio and classical music combined (and if you know me you know how much I like talk radio and classical music.) The gardening helps produce and maintain peppers, grapes, tomatoes, grapefruit, pomegranates, peaches. Watering and weeding is not unlike writing and editing. Besides being confronted with the reality of another day, another beat down of the sun.

A few musings about my current reading:

The Harlem Renaissance is one of my favorite periods in USA history. I can’t read enough about it, and especially memoirs, what the scene was like, the people, the artists and performers.   This article from 1927, The Caucasian Storms Harlem, by Rudolph Fisher, is such a delight because it describes the scene at a particular time but with a whole different, satirical purpose in mind. “Ribald” is one commentator’s description.

Then I went and I reread Grendel by John Gardner (he writes good scenes of violence, the ogre destroying in one instance a goat, in another a bear, before being destroyed himself by Beowulf and then committing suicide).

The legend took me back to my legendary (in my memory) Comp Lit days at USC, as did Aeschylus (Agamemnon) when I got on a play reading kick that included Tennessee Williams (The Lady of Larkspur Lotion) and Jennifer Haley (Neighborhood 3: Requisition of Doom). In this time of Pokemon Go, Nabe 3 is so relevant it’s ridiculous.

Plus I am forever being schooled on the internet, being caused to think about new forms and styles. I’m a big believer in being aware of what and who is around you. And then to refrain from imitation. 

Finally, I recently learned a little about two iconic poets, William Bronk and Hannah Weiner.

I think Hannah Weiner’s poetry needs to be seen in a bigger context than this space can provide, she’s a world of her own, and the link above is the connection you want.

But I am closing this post with a couple of short poems by William Bronk:   


THE INABILITY

She wants me to say something pretty to her because
we both know the unabettable
bleak of the world. Make believe, she says,
what harm? It may be so. I can’t. I don’t.


THE RAPPORT


There’s a dead dog at Barber’s Bridge
tied to a tree and two ugly stories why.
Make your own choice; either could be.
Hearing, seeing, I believe both of them.





www.randystark.com

Saturday, July 9, 2016

A Rose Among Carrots

The origin of the title of this post will be discovered below.

I’ve been sedulously at a new book, which I hope to have out in a couple of weeks. The working title is Throw Lines.  I’m being reminded of what an arduous, pitiless process is the editing, at times oblique and haphazard, at times serendipitous, subliminally methodical, and often a grind.
 
My m.o. is blunt. I collect a bunch of blog posts for the first draft of the book. Then, I take that first draft and begin to edit. The first cut is the easiest. Trimming fat.  Like being at a butcher shop. After the first cut, which is sentimental and panoramic, subsequent cuts will be targeted and increasingly merciless. 

Every day at work is not a great day. Over the years I’ve learned not to curl up in a ball with anxiety when things aren’t going well and I realize my life has been a failure. I take it in stride now. And I’ve developed a capacity to fearlessly unlove certain favorite sequences, or poems, or lines, or words.

And while working on the book I’m still creating sequences, too, and wondering whether to submit any to literary magazines, two or three of which I could shoot stuff off to right now. But because the format I use is not instantly classified or compartmentalized: I feel like I’d have to explain things, and if you have to explain it, well...So I may just use them in more blog posts, thus maintaining control of my own destiny.

I’ll wipe the blood off and post some outtakes from the abattoir in days to come. 

And during that process, there are some otherwise splendid titles that lose their content to the red pencil and the delete button. Here are some of them.

EXAGGERATED LANAI
I AM CURRENTLY ON BACKORDER
WELCOME CARDMEMBERS
CURRICULUM TEMPLATE
WAVE MAKER FOR DOGS
LUNA SAGUARO AT THE ORGAN MOUNTAIN CONSOLE
CAKE DECORATING FOR GIRAFFES
COIFFURES FOR OVERACHIEVERS
VALIUM TREADMILL


Shop talk:

Always needing to keep current on street cred as an English littérateur, I needed to read Anthony Trollope.  I have smart friends with college degrees who’ve not this popular Victorian novelist read, but I recently received encouragement and so went to Barchester Towers.


Trollope is a satirist, a genial story teller and a bit of a farceur in describing the countryside folk, clerical, insulated, time-stifled.  Somebody on Facebook recently described it perfectly I wished I’d saved that, something about the Trollope’s dark hideous characters made to seem amusing and befuddled.

So here are Kindle Klips of some of my favorite parts of the novel:

This was about an elderly church official nearing the end of his life:  “A month since, the physicians had named four weeks as the outside period during which breath could be supported within the body of the dying man. At the end of the month the physicians wondered, and named another fortnight. The old man lived on wine alone, but at the end of the fortnight he still lived.”

My ears perked up at this bit of dialogue:  "Well, my love; ha—hum—he!"

A nice description of party arrivals:  “And then the guests came in shoals...”

This is an astonishing description of a man and the woman he was smitten with:  “Mr. Slope was big, awkward, cumbrous, and, having his heart in his pursuit, was ill at ease. The lady was fair, as we have said, and delicate; everything about her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose lying among carrots, and when he kissed it, he looked as a cow might do on finding such a flower among her food.” [The bolding is me.]

And finally a little more about the woman: “She was all in her glory, and looked so pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was there.”  (Dostoevsky can reach these heights, too!)

Well, my break is over. Back to work.




Saturday, July 2, 2016

A Nice Sporty Whip

“He’s the man who keeps me in a beautiful decked out condo, nice sporty whip, fabulous clothes, and any other thing my heart desired. I was his little secret, and I didn’t give a damn as long as he kept me living the life of luxury.”

(from Who Said Love Ain't Always Complicated?: Not Your Ordinary Hood Love Story by Nichole DeCari and Jasmine Williams)

In my head she is talking about me.




But the reality is more like:


JOWLY PILLOWS SLUMPED IN A CHAIR

Please no more breathtaking magic.

David Abrams is doing what I dream of at The Quivering Pen



And here’s a Barnett Newman installation




And, Newman + (referring to a previous post) Giacometti.




A trio of thoughts:

  • Jigsaw puzzle solving and writing:  finding the right word, shape, color, piece. 
  • Nature is asymmetrical and everything is perfectly placed.
  • You tag a certain trailer or rail car and your work does a cross country tour. I watched the gallery roll by and felt so happy for the artists.





For my nephew:

The Nintendo 64 remains one of the most recognized video game systems in history and its games still have impact on the games industry. Designed in tandem with the controller, Super Mario 64 and The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time are widely considered by critics and the public to be some of the greatest and most influential games of all time. 







Thursday, June 30, 2016

Notes at 105 degrees Fahrenheit


I’m assembling a book, and I"ll be posting as many images and prose pieces as new sequences  for  awhile, hoping to continue to blog on a Thursday/Saturday schedule.
  
Notes at 105 degrees Fahrenheit



ART:  BILL BISSETT (bill bissett) here’s an excerpt:

whats missing from my writing is total prais uv th
life uv th mind  what it can reseev  envisyun  create

imagine…

whats missing from my poetree  statements totalee
  in support uv free edukaysyun  guaranteed min
imum inkums 4 evreewun  lessnings uv th fetish uv
work n strengthening uv all yuunyuns  

(He’s in a league of his own. Such technique! Makes me want to cry. Here’s another example:  http://billbissett.com./html/bill_poetry_cooking.htm)


ART: DEF

“beauty able to transcend the circumstances of its making.” Jane Hirschfield


ART: G for GIACOMETTI
Giacometti made his stick-thin men out of metal. Thin men with small heads and thin arms and tiny spindly legs. Just bone. “I’m trying to get to nothing,” he told an interviewer.  “The more I take away, the closer to nothing I get.” If he’d lived long enough, Giacometti might have found a way to create a metal sculpture that didn’t exist. Giacometti said the bulk that remained became obscene. “Too much,” he said, “I’m looking for nothing. I want it to disappear, but the more I take away, the fatter it gets.” ----from The Book of Changes by Jack Remick


EXCERPTS FROM TWO REVIEWS

Doll Palace, by Sara Lippmann. I gave it a 3.90 on Amazon’s scale of 1 through LOVE

“I am no stranger to poor judgment,” says a character in one of these stories of contemporary life, and Doll Palace contains a lot of characters in a lot of different situations but she speaks for all of them. The book probably is too smart for me, but I’m going to say a few praises. Sara Lippmann turns modern American joylessness into an art form, using humor, satire, and an underlying goth sensibility combined with a brilliant sense of place and detail---that’s the dazzling part of the collection, the detail of everyday life at all ages and stages.

There’s a lot of young, smart mouth anomie, well heard in my imagination by her writing. Favorite story: the title piece “Doll Palace.” I also admired the writing technique in “Houseboy” and felt for him when in existential exasperation he asks: Where do I go? The whole world is cry.

Wishbone, by Priscilla Lee. This one got a 3.50

I was expecting more of the wacky whimsy that was Dream of Flying into Electric Beehives, but Wishbone is way different, a book of poems about coming of age, sweet and honest and authentic, an extended family and friends portrait, China to San Francisco (and some Maine mixed in). A set of three consecutive first lines, back to back to back home runs:

North Yarmouth: “an ordinary town of great sorrow.”
Rock n Roll Odyssey: “At night his penis is a small Cyclops, half-asleep,”
The Duckman at Redwood Shores: “Every day before the world falls apart,”

And there is some goofy humor (“My therapist, Amy, goes into a trance/and starts eating pistachios. She tells me/I was born to a woman attracted/ to shopping and meat ball recipes, and/my grandmother wonders if my kidneys grew in right.”) 


LARKIN

From “Aubade” :  I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.


ELDORET

Photographer – Derek Workman


Eldoret is a principal city in western Kenya. It is the capital and largest city in Uasin Gishu County. Lying south of the Cherangani Hills, the local elevation varies from about 2100 metres above sea level at the airport to more than 2700 metres in nearby areas (7000–9000 feet). The population was 289,380 in the 2009 census, and it is currently the fastest growing town in Kenya. It is also the second largest urban centre in midwestern Kenya after Nakuru and the fifth largest urban centre in the country.