Feeling better

On the mend here, though I still look like the start line of a drag strip. Pain is mostly gone, and my left arm, which was sprained pretty severely, is feeling much better. I took pictures last night and today. When they're developed, I'll scan and post.

***

How is everyone?

Don't say CHEESE

Well, I won't be having that new author photo made for a while. Tonight, I went for a walk downtown, and ended up over by the 1st Street Art Garden-thing, strolling down the sidewalk when I was launched out of my wheelchair. It's too complicated, short of drawing up schematics, to explain why this happened, but suffice it to say it's due to some really stupid sidewalk construction. I was thrown out of my chair, and unable to break my fall with my hands and arms, I broke it with my face. My nose and right side of my face is all scraped to hell, and I have knots on my forehead and cheek. But I look better than I feared. Laying there, face down, blood pooling quickly, I knew I wasn't badly hurt, nothing broken, but damn if it didn't hurt. Luckily, it's a high traffic area and several men were there to help almost instantly. One ran off for water, ice, rags, and they helped clean me up. It rapidly became some kind of surreal joke: there was a doctor, a preacher, a possibly homeless guy (who waxed eloquently on the history of the English language over the last 1200 years), and me, the cripple with the bleeding face. I'm not sore. I sting. And there's a little hunk gouged out of the bridge of my nose.

Can I say, oww?

Oww.

At long last

I'm pleased to announce the sneak peak of

Mot Juste 2

Our main page isn't updated yet, but soon will be, for a Grand Re-Opening.

Issue 2 features poems by the likes of Ander Monson, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Suzanne Frischkorn, Brian Turner, Erica Bernheim, and many more.

Enjoy!

Hooligans

Last night a kid threw a rock at me. I was in the street where I live, just looking up at the sky, enjoying the night air. And then zing, a rock the size of an egg goes by. I turned around and about a hundred feet from me sits a kid atop his bicycle. So I did the prudent, safe thing:

I took off after the little punk.

"Hey, did you just lose a rock?" I called after him.

I don't think he expected that. He sped down the hill on his bike. I followed after him a ways, just to let him know, well, what I'm not sure. That he can expect crazy wheelchair man to follow him for a few blocks, I guess.

In dreams begin

I had the worst dreams last night, all night long. I woke up around 2 am, feeling utterly bereft, still in that dreamscape, and couldn't shake that unreality for a long while. Then, gradually, back to sleep and more yuck. Yay sleep.

I'm not sure why I had such dreams. It'd been an ok few days. The night before: actual human contact. I met a friend and her husband at The Mudpie for drinks, though I don't drink. I saw people I know. Stunning. I don't have any friends here, anymore: the few I had left have all moved to places like Indianapolis, Tampa, Chicago, and Birmingham.

So, just stop it, ok? No more moving allowed.

***

Loretta Lynn's Van Lear Rose is awesome. Just thought I'd say that.

Poem

Theodore Worozbyt

This makes me happy

"The question that haunted me during "Herbie: Fully Loaded" involved the degree of Herbie's intelligence. Is the car alive? Can it think? Does it have feelings?"

--from Roger Ebert's review of Herbie: Fully Loaded.

Wow, I'm back

After disappearing into unplanned trip, broken phone, and crashed computer, I'm back.

Wow, this is an unattractive dude

Kid Rock

Bat

Batman Begins was great. Actually, what I said to Wendy was, "It was AWESOME!" I don't often talk in all-caps, so there you have it. While I liked the first two films by Burton, mostly for mood and style, this one renders them quaint.

And I so want the batmobile.

Very classy production all around with Liam Neeson, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman. Freeman has a fun, mischievious twinkle in his eyes and Caine, as Alfred, is invaluable.

Go see it at a theater with great sound. Really fantastic sound design.

Did I mention I want the batmobile?

Just finished

Buffy: Season 4. Probably the highest number of great episodes in a season, but slightly less compelling season arc. Adam = ehh. I missed the mayor, who was just so daffy, evil, and doting upon Faith. Wacky, but all the more striking when he lost it in the hospital, looking down on the comatose Faith. But that's 3. 4 seems to be the most even season yet; I don't recall a clunker episode in the batch, though "Restless," the coda, seemed sophomoric somehow in its treatment of dream imagery. Spike is the greatest. Xander and Anya are hysterical and, finally, touching. Giles in full blown mid-life crisis. Singing "Free Bird." Very nearly did my mind melt. Great stuff.

***

Ok, who wants to see Batman Begins with me tomorrow?

Love in a

I googled myself today for the first time in months. I found this (at Ted Burke):

Notes on a Poem by Paul Guest

"Nice" is the word that comes to mind when I read "Water", a recent poem I've come across by Paul Guest; a man and woman of undetermined age or relation-husband and wife, lovers, strangers just met in the parking lot or local library?-- visit an aquarium whose inhabitants of snout nosed fish and spine coated sturgeons moves them to do the deed in an elevator, surrounded by water, tons of it, contained in tanks in which the fish of the world swim.

It's very nice in the sense in that it operates cinematically, a seamless move from what the narrator was saying, presumably afterwards, away from the fish tanks, in a quiet minute between love makings, to the dissolution of all pretense of casual speech and the acting upon sheer lust. And of course, there is so much poetry happening in the aftermath of seemingly meaningless couplings; the brain, especially the brain of a professional poet, is an meaning creating machine where the smallest items in the universe come to serve, after the fact, in the creation of a legend of good intentions and deeply felt loss over what goes unsaid at the time when the fleeting opportunity was there, waiting to be filled with meaningful talk.

Evidently the meaningful talk comes when the poet is alone, speaking to the mirror. I half expected to have the camera pull back just a little more and reveal the poet not only alone, speaking to a mirror, but also that the mirror and the room that contains it are situated inside a movie set, braced up with particle board and duct tape.What I like is that the poem doesn't explain its situation, and yet isn't busy being trying to be mysterious, cryptic , impenetrable. Penetration, if I may, is precisely what the poem is about, but fluidly so, in language of water, memory, things that seem to slow down jack hammering lust and brings one into momentary awareness of each sensation and twitch of limb and slide of presenting and receiving appendage. The world is all motion, smooth, fluid as water, every moment intense, nuanced, suspended in the mind yet over too soon. Our friend Paul has written the perfect erotic poem and furnished a perfect backdrop for the ideas he had been working over at the time he took up his keyboard to compose. A poem of intense tactile moments, reflecting on the incredible nature of surfaces, the spines of a fish, the skin of a lover, the regions unseen yet which beckon us as limbs, zippers and defenses against the world are surrendered and one is without arms in front of another person, taking the path of least resistance.

We need to remember that this a poem, not a police report:

I forgot
my place in the story I idly told you,
as we rose in the elevator,
as your hands found in my neck a knot
your fingers could untie
with ease. Love, you know
that language failed me
early with you: in my mouth you found
a hidden stammer. In all
the days since, what have I said
that was right? So little.
But know: when we stood on one side
of thick glass to watch
a world of water ignore our entire lives,
I kissed your fingers
and each one in that light was blue.

This reads to me very much like the beginnings of a seduction, with the woman taking the initiative with her bookish, nervous companion. There is much to assume here because much is suggested--not said outright, but teasingly suggested-- and it's not inappropriate to infer what might continue, off the page, out of view, based on what evidence Paul gives out. I wrote earlier that this poem reads as if it were a daydream, wherein the material reality and the objects in immediate proximity serve as counterpoint to the narrator's
arousal, more metaphor for a sort of slow, fluid action he is thinking of acting upon as soon as he is able to conclude his spoken foreplay. Absolutely nothing might have happened, of course, but the purpose of this poem is more about how the senses run over reason and will virtually change the texture of real life.

The poem has that "fade to black" feel to it. The lens goes dark, and we can only assume that the best of what's possible between men and women is taking place away from public view. But the poem has a lyric, appealing unreality to it, a surreal sensation wherein the act of recall is more intense, more spectacular than the actual event from which we compose a history. Paul, I think, may be inclined to have us in between all the sensations, all the associations of tactile arousal.The narrator's perception is skewered by his attraction to his companion, and everything around him--fish tanks, lights, odors, surfaces--are aligned in his psyche to underscore his emerging desire. I spoke in a previous post as well as the things of this world seeming more props on a set in the effort to bolster the pitched desires being described. Since it remains ambiguous what actually happens between the two after "I kissed your fingers/and each one in that light was blue " the "fade to black" remark is a perfectly reasonable thing to say.I like this poem because, among other things, I've written dozens like this because I'm an incurable romantic who finds it easy to write an enthused lyric about the mysteries of women.

***

So who wants to ride an elevator with me? ;)

I had to do it

I don't drink coffee, but I had to stop in to the Starbuck's downtown because it's the size of an airplane hangar. And Ray Charles is singing "Georgia."

A song of you.

Pieholden

Spent the weekend alternately revising some of the poems in Notes and watching my 9 year old cousin play endless hours of Halo. Ok, not endless hours. My mind would have detonated. But it seemed like a lot. I'm oscillating between feeling good about the book and oh my God, everything here is awful, it isn't ready, outcast unclean, etc. Ok, it isn't that histrionic. I'm an unreliable narrator this morning. But that change that takes place when a book suddenly becomes, well, a book, and no longer a manuscript, is a touch disorienting. But, welcome, it's welcome. And I fixed a few things that had been nagging at me, which feels nice.

***

I was never a huge fan of Whiskeytown and Ryan Adams' 6,000 solo albums have seemed awfully spotty to me, but Cold Roses is awfully great, I think. Sprawling and just right.

***

What else should I be listening to?

X&Y

On Monday I was discussing with a friend the next day's release of Coldplay's new album; neither of us were fans, especially. We appreciated a few songs, but the rest? Well, it struck us as somewhat dull. Fast forward to yesterday when I download the album on Napster: I'll be damned if it isn't the best album I've heard in forever. X&Y is this really gorgeous soundscape of dense melody. It doesn't reinvent the wheel, so to speak: the ghosts of U2 and Radiohead are still here, but rock and roll has long been a haunted house. Color me surprised.

And I have to listen to Get Behind Me Satan by the White Stripes. Good time for music.

***

# of blurbs confirmed for book: 2.

It's funny

In all the thinking and searching for cover art I've been doing, it slipped my mind that one of my dearest friends is a great artist & poet. Duh, Paul. That's why I get paid the big bucks, right? At any rate, Karri Paul and I went to undergrad school together (back when her last name was Harrison); we were even in the same poetry workshops, the best I've ever been in. No small amount of that distinction belongs to her. And to her (now) husband, Bradley Paul, whose book The Obvious, oddly enough, was published by New Issues as one of the Brenda Hillman selections (see: Subject to Change and Lark Apprentice also). The three of us, along with several other really talented young writers, were a tight group. Richard Jackson taught us, if nothing else, how much poetry could matter and mean. We believed it, we breathed it.

And late last night I wrote Karri. We're brainstorming now. This will be fun, and special.

A day late

Ander Monson

Spine

Now begins the making of my book. With New Issues, there was a very definite house style in regards to font and general design; art was handled in-house by graduate students in design, which saved a good bit in costs, I imagine. So I never had much say or involvement in the production of the book. Happily, I love how it turned out. Now, I have much more say in everything, which is great, but also daunting.

I've been looking around in image databases like Getty and Corbis and have found a black and white photograph that I think is fantastic and perfect. But, securing the right is dreadfully expensive: anywhere from 600-900 dollars.

That's prohibitive, I think, at least for me. Their costs are calculated for books with much higher print runs; I'm hoping I could get an adjusted quote. But I doubt it.

Any suggestions on finding imagery?

***

Also, I'm lining up blurbs, which is somewhat obnoxious. I hate asking people for things; I hate being an imposition. I have two confirmed but need a few more.

***

Still, happy to be doing this and not sending out $25 checks.

Happy

I'd like to announce that my second book, Notes for My Body Double, will be published next year by Black Lawrence Press.

I've known for a couple of days but have held off announcing until now. Needless to say, I'm excited and pleased!

Party at my place. I supply the place. The rest is up to y'all....

Music

Music Meme

1. The person who passed the baton to you? Jennifer Thornton.

2. Total volume of music files on your computer:
11.9 gigs. Umm, yeah, a lot.

3. The title and artist of the last CD you bought:
Make Believe, Weezer.

4. Song playing at the moment of writing:
"Help Me Make It Through the Night," Willie Nelson.

5. Who am I passing this to? Wendy!

Bob in the rain

And Willie, too.

Crazy enough to brave a steady downpour, I soaked up a few hours worth of great music last night. Willie Nelson opened up with a lively, if stock, set; he sang the songs you know and expect him to sing. Which isn't a knock: I loved it all. However, when Bob Dylan follows your act with his ever kaleidoscopic renditions, well, what can you do? Sing your songs and be done qwith it.

Dylan entered to a cheeky intro, which began as your typical boilerplate blurb "He was the voice of the blah blah...." but gradually began to poke fun at later foibles with phrases like "adrift in a haze of mind-altering drugs," "on the brink of irrelevance," and more. It seemed typically perverse and I had to smile. It was almost like, yeah, yeah, I'll show you who I am.

Songs played: "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," "Just Like a Woman," country-tinged and gorgeous, "Visions of Johanna," "It's Alright, Ma, I'm Only Bleeding," "Masters of War," a majestic rave-up, "Summer Day," "Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum," "All Along the Watchtower," and several others I'm forgetting. Great show. His voice is shot now, of course, but that almost works in his favor. It's still expressive.

Very much worth the soaking.

***

Finally: two weeks worth of intermittent internet access have finally been fixed.

***

Back to Buffy: the school year slowed me down considerably in watching Buffy seasons. It must have been last fall I finished season 3. I started 4 fairly soon after but I'm only now picking it back up in earnest. I'm down to the last three episodes. I'll be damned if the episode in which Oz finally returns didn't have me choking up. Willow in turmoil does not sit well with me. :)

Season 4 has some of the funniest stuff ever: Xander and Anya; Spike; Giles crooning "Behind Blue Eyes"!

***

Ok, reader participation time: who would you want to portray you in your Lifetime bio-pic?