Silent reading was first documented by the venerable Saint Augustine in Confessions. A fourth century AD Father (Of course)-- Father Ambrose entertained Augustine so much with his non-speaking that it drove him to documentation, “…his heart sought out the meaning, but his voice was silent, his tongue was still.” What a crazy notion. Silence. A goat-teed Ambrose, tea and cigarette, pondering, lips moving over Latin gold, finally slamming his calf-skinned novel shut extinguishing his tallow candle. But he was one of a few literates, maybe: http://thriceholy.net/literacyf.html
Orators and public plays had always captured the varied imaginations of peasants, nobles and aristocracy alike, as they do today, until Gutenberg’s 15th century movable type press was imbued with 19th century steam power and the flooding of the masses began, with pulpy Beadle dime novels of ill and consumptious repute. Public readings of prose continued as always, in salons and coffee shops and college campuses, but it will never regain its prominence as a viable source of entertainment and information.
That is why the readings which occurred on The University of Pittsburgh satellite location in Greensburg during the third week of March were an occasion for the celebration of spoken word. It is not an unpleasant experience to hear the sentences that many an hour have occupied in the author’s head. To hear the diction and timing of words broken from the source grants the imagery electricity. Let us not forget the act of showing up and sitting in a metal chair and how this interacts with the words, with author and audience. During Gerald Stern’s moving hour of poetry the rain poured night crawlers the size of squirrel intestines down upon the campus and a tornado siren whirred distantly. Who among the crowd would have not been ashamed to die that night during a reading of “The Dog” http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/gerald_stern/poems/18058
or singed their shoelaces during the five minute fire alarm preceding Joseph Bathanti’s scathing reading of The High Heart.
It is down-right shame that spoken word, poem or prose, is not valued like stock in our society. That it is cornered off into small enough room. What I would pay to hear a public (and not a subscriber station- it is just not the same) radio station announce: “Coming up after the break a two-fer as John Cheever takes us swimming and Hemingway tells us about a Lion Hunt that goes all wrong. First, Laura with the hyperbole traffic report: ‘The end times are nigh, Chuck’.” Any day now, I am sure. (http://shortstoryclassics.50megs.com/cheeverswimmer.html)
At last, it is a good thing that people continue to try. That a professor named Lori Jakiela invites us to come along on her voyage to bring culture and experience to a suburban campus. To sit still and listen. To applaud and admire. To be.
--The author borrowed history notes from the incredible Reading Matters Book by Catherine S. Ross, et. al.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday night.
There is a canyon between the poets who teach and those who are taught. They speak to each other—the length is not unimaginable; they encourage one another tonight,--but the depth is unavoidable. The Professors: Blevens, Voelmer, Jakiela lay on the words as you hope a poet do. Good language like darning threads. They do not disappoint. The teachers paint while the learned write poems about paintings.
I see all the poets as I want to, at any age I chose, naked, at the height of some inspired thought: It does not matter. I close my eyes so I may hear them. The professors say, “Yes, I’ve been doing some time.” The others understand the things that can be taught. Technique, contrast, what is expected. What is poetry.
I am a hardened listener. Grandmother’s poem. There is no fucking way I can understand something like that after only hearing it once, but I listen. A little blonde punk girl says “Clit” and it is one of those words which sound so right. I like the short story about the cars, by the time the dialogue is finished I forgive him the clunky beginning.
The night reminds me of seeing live shows. The bad ones inspire as much as the goods ones do.
One last thing, young poet, like any good huckster, you should have timing: If you go over the limit with one too many poems you are exposing your hand. What is witty turns into routine and makes one think: “They’re all the same.”
I see all the poets as I want to, at any age I chose, naked, at the height of some inspired thought: It does not matter. I close my eyes so I may hear them. The professors say, “Yes, I’ve been doing some time.” The others understand the things that can be taught. Technique, contrast, what is expected. What is poetry.
I am a hardened listener. Grandmother’s poem. There is no fucking way I can understand something like that after only hearing it once, but I listen. A little blonde punk girl says “Clit” and it is one of those words which sound so right. I like the short story about the cars, by the time the dialogue is finished I forgive him the clunky beginning.
The night reminds me of seeing live shows. The bad ones inspire as much as the goods ones do.
One last thing, young poet, like any good huckster, you should have timing: If you go over the limit with one too many poems you are exposing your hand. What is witty turns into routine and makes one think: “They’re all the same.”
Saturday, March 20, 2010
For my Fallen Jayhawks
If I should fall from grace with God
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
But the angels won't receive me
Let me go, boys Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
This land was always ours
Was the proud land of our fathers
It belongs to us and them
Not to any of the others
Let them go, boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
Bury me at sea
Where no murdered ghost can haunt me
If I rock upon the waves
No corpse can lie upon me
Coming up threes, boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
If I should fall from grace with God
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
So the angels won't receive me
Let me go, boys
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
If my teen years had a soundtrack, this could be track six.
i still have briars in my clothes
did i lay you down in those?
the names on the stones were all erased
and i thought it was you that i had chased
driveway to driveway drunk
i don't remember this too well
glad i have the scrapes to prove
prove it was me who fell
and the names were all we knew
and the names were all erased
from stage to stage we flew
a drink in every hand
my hand on your heart had been replaced
and i thought it was you that i had chased
Monday, March 8, 2010
Step away
If someone asked me what I will do right before I die, I'd tell them, "Close the browser."
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Finders keeper
The best writing is not quite like a riddle. It doesn't spoon feed, it simply reveals. It doesn't try to fool either, it provides. I like languange. I am reading Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club right now and if I could produce anything close to what she has created I would consider myself a real writer.
I choose Iggys entry. It put me in his head sitting on a cushion. It was true, without too much intellect--it provided details and allowed me to assign my own emotions to the situation.
I choose Iggys entry. It put me in his head sitting on a cushion. It was true, without too much intellect--it provided details and allowed me to assign my own emotions to the situation.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
birds
Betsy opened the door of her split-level house and let us in. “Hey guys, I just put the baby down.” She has the brightest smile of the three Eastman sisters—big nordic women, the once risqué teenagers to deaf parents.
“We wouldn’t have found the place if not for Derick.” I say, looking around inside for him, but he is not there. “Yeah he was right out front as we drove by.”
“Nicks out back. You can see the baby if you want to?” Down the hall a little six month year old boy lays out on his back, his legs and arms outstretched like a monkey in a barrel. Darcy and I smiled at each other and watched his tiny chest move up and down on the blue comforter. Back in the living room D. told Betsy how big he was although this is the first time we have seen him.
Nick and Betsy invited us over the night before, at a party. We were back in town for a wedding, just five months after we left. Outside on a friend’s porch, Nick said, “We have to leave, but you should stop by and smoke one.” He didn’t give me an address, only that they lived on Joliet street.
Nick, Nicky I used to call him, is a good looking man. He taught me how to play guitar and for two years we spent every Thursday together writing songs and getting high. Eventually that ended and there were accusations-- some true: That I was using him as a pot connection and some not: that I treated him like he was younger than me—even though him saying it, confirmed a belief I didn’t know existed.
We sat in the living room. D. said “Scotts has been dragging me all over Olathe, taking pictures of his old nieghborhood.”
Betsy laughs that big wail, “Did you go to the lake?”
We both answer, “no.”
The glass door in the kitchen slid open and Nick’s big voice led his little girl in, “Lets see what mommy’s doing.” I saw his brown hair and felt the distance and unspoken words. “Hey guys.” He said. He hugged D. and took my hand and introduced us to his little girl, “This Scott and D.”
He sat and the couch, little girl is on his lap, “Did you guys go to the lake?”
After a few minutes Nick pulled a tray from under our legs and handed it to Betsy. He carried his daughter into the kitchen. I heard him pour a bowl of Fruitloops and set it on the kitchen table on the other side of the wall behind us. He whispered something and returned. D. and I hadn’t been high since we left—doctors orders—and it didn’t take much to return to that familiar feeling. Nick talked about his job—that him and Betsy were both out of work, collecting unemployment. Derick, Christy and his two kids were living in the basement—a mutually beneficial arrangement. I said, “You’ve paid for it.”
I had quit smoking a few months before and when all of us went outside to smoke I watched Nick and Betsy pull from their cigarettes. I sat next to D. and saw a Robin in the tree behind her pulling twigs, one at a time up into a popular tree. It seemed to be doing his work meticulously, building a quiet nest. I stared down at the wooden deck and noticed it in need of a new stain and looked at D. She winked. I was finally high again, but it was undercut with sadness. I knew it was the day. Something about the wind blowing through trees always reminded me of the past.
Nick’s little girl stood in a shadow in the kitchen, looking out at us. Betsy opened the door and asked her, “Do you want to come out with us?” The little girl didn’t answer so Betsy slid the door shut. I stared at the little girl, dressed in a purple coat, she started to cry. She’s high I should have thought, but I didn’t.
Betsy opened the door and passed her child to Nick.
She said “Ever since she turned two, I do not know what the fuck is going on.” Nick took the girl down into the yard and pushed her around in a plastic bus. He talked loud and I feel it’s for our benefit.
After some time had passed I took Nicks picture with his little girl in his arms, smashing his nose with a big kiss onto her smiling smooth skin and framed Betsy in front of a big green Oak Tree. I took several pics, and her smile frozen grimaced, “okay now.” I told her that this is a moment; I am capturing her in time. I promised to email her the shots and then we left.
Out in the car I looked at D’s lap as she stretched her seatbelt across it and we’re both stoned. Her eyes are glassy and I smiled at her. She looks beautiful even though I know were both aging. This whole trip has confirmed it—we are all older now. I start the car and think of Nicky’s handsome face. I imagine putting my arms up to his shoulders and then my short hands around his neck and I start squeezing as hard as I can. “You don’t deserve this,” I think, “You don’t deserve any of this”.
“We wouldn’t have found the place if not for Derick.” I say, looking around inside for him, but he is not there. “Yeah he was right out front as we drove by.”
“Nicks out back. You can see the baby if you want to?” Down the hall a little six month year old boy lays out on his back, his legs and arms outstretched like a monkey in a barrel. Darcy and I smiled at each other and watched his tiny chest move up and down on the blue comforter. Back in the living room D. told Betsy how big he was although this is the first time we have seen him.
Nick and Betsy invited us over the night before, at a party. We were back in town for a wedding, just five months after we left. Outside on a friend’s porch, Nick said, “We have to leave, but you should stop by and smoke one.” He didn’t give me an address, only that they lived on Joliet street.
Nick, Nicky I used to call him, is a good looking man. He taught me how to play guitar and for two years we spent every Thursday together writing songs and getting high. Eventually that ended and there were accusations-- some true: That I was using him as a pot connection and some not: that I treated him like he was younger than me—even though him saying it, confirmed a belief I didn’t know existed.
We sat in the living room. D. said “Scotts has been dragging me all over Olathe, taking pictures of his old nieghborhood.”
Betsy laughs that big wail, “Did you go to the lake?”
We both answer, “no.”
The glass door in the kitchen slid open and Nick’s big voice led his little girl in, “Lets see what mommy’s doing.” I saw his brown hair and felt the distance and unspoken words. “Hey guys.” He said. He hugged D. and took my hand and introduced us to his little girl, “This Scott and D.”
He sat and the couch, little girl is on his lap, “Did you guys go to the lake?”
After a few minutes Nick pulled a tray from under our legs and handed it to Betsy. He carried his daughter into the kitchen. I heard him pour a bowl of Fruitloops and set it on the kitchen table on the other side of the wall behind us. He whispered something and returned. D. and I hadn’t been high since we left—doctors orders—and it didn’t take much to return to that familiar feeling. Nick talked about his job—that him and Betsy were both out of work, collecting unemployment. Derick, Christy and his two kids were living in the basement—a mutually beneficial arrangement. I said, “You’ve paid for it.”
I had quit smoking a few months before and when all of us went outside to smoke I watched Nick and Betsy pull from their cigarettes. I sat next to D. and saw a Robin in the tree behind her pulling twigs, one at a time up into a popular tree. It seemed to be doing his work meticulously, building a quiet nest. I stared down at the wooden deck and noticed it in need of a new stain and looked at D. She winked. I was finally high again, but it was undercut with sadness. I knew it was the day. Something about the wind blowing through trees always reminded me of the past.
Nick’s little girl stood in a shadow in the kitchen, looking out at us. Betsy opened the door and asked her, “Do you want to come out with us?” The little girl didn’t answer so Betsy slid the door shut. I stared at the little girl, dressed in a purple coat, she started to cry. She’s high I should have thought, but I didn’t.
Betsy opened the door and passed her child to Nick.
She said “Ever since she turned two, I do not know what the fuck is going on.” Nick took the girl down into the yard and pushed her around in a plastic bus. He talked loud and I feel it’s for our benefit.
After some time had passed I took Nicks picture with his little girl in his arms, smashing his nose with a big kiss onto her smiling smooth skin and framed Betsy in front of a big green Oak Tree. I took several pics, and her smile frozen grimaced, “okay now.” I told her that this is a moment; I am capturing her in time. I promised to email her the shots and then we left.
Out in the car I looked at D’s lap as she stretched her seatbelt across it and we’re both stoned. Her eyes are glassy and I smiled at her. She looks beautiful even though I know were both aging. This whole trip has confirmed it—we are all older now. I start the car and think of Nicky’s handsome face. I imagine putting my arms up to his shoulders and then my short hands around his neck and I start squeezing as hard as I can. “You don’t deserve this,” I think, “You don’t deserve any of this”.
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