So Wendy and I cooked a turkey and a duck our friends at the free-range Hooker Mountain Farm brought down last Tuesday. I’ve known Corina Medley since high school, and visited her and Dave last month for a long weekend spent feeding chicken and pigs, hiking, playing games, soaking in the wood-burning hot tub and generally amusing ourselves. Check out Hooker Mountain Farm. For the second Christmas running, we’ve chosen one actor to celebrate with a day of movies. Last year we had “A Very Murray Christmas” with Bill Murray; this year we celebrated “A Visit from St. Nicholson” with dear old Jack. Strangely, Jack’s character was named Jack in 3 of the 5 movies we watched, in the following order: 12-2pm– One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) 2-5pm– Chinatown (1974) 5-7pm– Batman (1989) 7-7:15pm– An audio recording of Jack Nicholson reading his own version of The Night Before Christmas 7:15-9pm– The Shining (1980) 9-11pm– As Good as it Gets (1997) Love to all our friends who came!
Archive for: 2011:
To celebrate our first date 6 years ago, Wendy and I ventured out to chef Paul Liebrandt’s restaurant Corton in TriBeCa. We decided to go there after watching the documentary made about the chef. I recommend highly both the film and the restaurant, but only if you’ve saved your pennies, ’cause it aint cheap. The autumn broths are de-lic-ious… A Matter of Taste on IMDB Corton Restaurant
We’ll never know everything about “Kim the Il,” but we do know a few things… Top 10 Crazy Things About Kim Jong Il “As a supernatural fashionista pro golfer praised the world over for inventing the sandwich, I believe I’ll build a fake city free of handicapped people for my next fake Godzilla movie and we’ll drink Hennessy and shoot up and it will a glorious time and won’t you please join me, my bitches?”
I’ve been following VIA Dance Collaborative from it’s earliest beginnings and have seen these young women put out some amazing work. New pieces by Adrienne Westwood, Dawn Poirier, and Katie Swords. I’ll upload more photos when I can get my hands on some.
I can’t tell you how impressed I am with Seth Harwood. This is what he does as a self-published author of his books: he writes them, he podcasts them, he gives them away for free (yes, for free), he sells limited edition copies to eager fans. This is what the fans do for Seth Harwood: they listen to the podcasts, they download the free copies, they buy the limited edition copies, they send him pictures of themselves holding his books in the air, they fund his Kickstarter projects. They refer to themselves as Palms Daddies and Palms Mammas, after Jack Palms, the smooth kick-ass protagonist of a few of his most-loved books. Today I received his third paperback’d crime novel, This is Life. I really enjoyed Young Junius, the last one, which writer George Pelecanos of The Wire named one of his favorite books for 2010, and which you can listen to for free HERE, so I’m eager to jump into this hardboiled wonderland sometime over the holiday. Seth is a pack leader in new publishing, where writers claim the profits of their labor in larger percentages. It’s difficult work, this self-publishing biz. And more so because it flies in the face of what we were taught, that to be a writer of any kind, of any stature, you first had to find a major publisher who’d have you, who’d make you respectable, who’d take your darling self out to the big dance and showcase you. Sure, he asks a lot (all sales minus your pre-tax 15% cut), but it’s worth it, right, for the publicity? To be possibly catapulted to the top; to relish in the envy of the unweddables? He proves you’re good enough. You’re worth it. Which is how you came to find yourself being deflowered in a storage closet. The night ends, the book comes out. A few weeks of pure sunshine. But then, inexplicably, he stops calling. You read Publisher’s Weekly and see pictures of him with a new girl. Yeah sure, she’s pretty, but… All the promises he made evaporate with the book’s so-so sales, the fair-to-middling reviews (You keep the good ones in your hope chest). Soon the attention of your publisher is reduced to that one Facebook “like” of a picture of you on some beach in Portugal, and you can’t tell if it’s you or the girls in bikinis behind you he’s upvoting. Your good friend the agent who first introduced you two is there to comfort you with “Don’t let it affect you. There’s other fish in the sea. You have to remember that. But you’re going to have to get back to work in order to get them. Because you’re not getting any younger, and now you have a history.” I think I ventured into that extended metaphor not because I think it’s particularly fitting but because I’m eating an enormous turkey club on rye and it took me that entire paragraph to finish one half, timing two sentences between bites, and so I became slave to the rhythm. God bless you salty pickle who clears the palate and the mind. I’m saying this: I respect the hell out of Mr. Harwood and others like him. With Amazon and Smashwords and Apple and Barnes & Nobles and everyone else getting in on the Undermine Traditional Publishing game, you’d think every writer on the planet would note the change in wind and act accordingly. Not so much. Because it’s terrifying. You work so goddamned hard on a thing, you want to give it it’s best shot in the world. I absolutely understand this. I’m currently waffling on putting a lot of my own stuff out there. I’m pushing myself to take my own advice. I have like many writers friends who think self-publishing it akin to stripping in order to pay your way through college. I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do, but really, did you have to do that? Well, straw man in my head, some people find it empowering. Go Seth!
This week in Hyperallergic I reviewed Shen Wei’s new performance at the Park Avenue Armory. You can read the full review here: An Offering of Three Shen Wei Dance Pieces at the Park Avenue Armory I love modern dance–the control, the rhythms, the expressiveness of gesture and full-body kinetic awareness of space. Watching another human grapple with profundity using only their bodies is also why I love baseball. (If you missed it, I just used dance as a metaphor for sports). I’ve watched over 250 modern dance pieces, I’m sure, thanks to Dawn Poirier and the many friends I’ve had over the years. I’ve seen every part of the process, from the inkling to the body slouched post-execution (execution of the dance, that is). There are a few choreographers, in my mind, that which each piece they create, scrape at the ineffable. Meaning when their dancers begin to move, you are immediately pulled into a new place, and that new place is related to the place you were, to the life that was yours, but it not that old place where you were, separated now by this membrane of dance. It is a place closer to the reality of the universe. One step closer, perhaps, and because of this strange remove, a bit alien. And when the dancing stops, and you are thrust back into your own world, it is like a child being born from the womb. And it is cold and weird and the lights come on everywhere around you and you must go out again and live in a place you barely understand. Shen Wei is a choreographer whose work can share that alien-but-more-real place with his audience. Most people are aware of the work he did choreographing the 2008 Beijing Olympics, which was gorgeous and won him world fame and accolades. Being a New Yorker, I’ve had the opportunity to see a new piece by him every three years or so. His work is mysterious in a Borgesian sense, in the way I talked about above; his dancers are characters, almost, enlightened or befuddled by the dance they perform effortlessly (he uses only the best dancers); and his range of body movement vocabulary is extensive. Shen Wei is a true master. So I was disappointed to catch his latest piece performed at the Park Avenue Armory, titled Undivided Divided, and find it lacking in the essential mystery of a good Shen Wei piece (which it did possess, but only in the most minor ways, like Shen-lite). It was filled with energy–energetic bodies in various states of arrest coming alive before you–which kept you interested, and there was the interesting addition of allowing the audience to move through the space, but even with this added, along with some pretty interesting props, the piece failed to elevate itself into that alternate reality a good book reader or movie goer or dance enthusiast begins to miss in the final moments of the work, when you know it’s about to be over, and you begin growing nostalgic for the world disintegrating about you. It lacked the authority and persuasiveness of a Shen Wei piece, which sucks, having a bar set so high by the Olympics and high artistic honors like the Guggenheim and Genius Grant, and wanting to make a different kind of piece perhaps and having it judged by your past work. But it wasn’t a different kind of piece, it was just a flatter version of the multi-dimensional world Shen Wei usually creates. Was it fun to watch? Yeah, it was fun. Should it have lasted for half an hour? Maybe if it was better. I could imagine watching such a piece for an hour, watching the movement of the dancers grow, watch them interact naked in the paint, the force of life in them, the promise of demise. Sure. But it wasn’t that piece. Will I go and see the next Shen Wei production? Absolutely. Underdeveloped Shen Wei is still better than most dance performances. The costumes are usually rad, the dancers are stellar performers, and the mind of the choreographer is always present. Even in this show, the piece Folding blew me away. Anyhow, check out the review and let me know what you think. I’d love to hear back from anyone who caught the show to see what they think. Cheers.
The play-by-play commentary of Ron Santo was the worst in all of baseball, hands down. For all sports it was equaled only perhaps by Joe Morgan. But there was something endearing about the dumb blind banter of this former Cub that kept you from muting the TV; he had an obvious love for the game, he hated when players didn’t play up to their potentials (and said so), and the reeling of his voice whenever we were losing a game was so obviously heartfelt, I actually felt worse for him than I did for myself. And so I give my congratulations to Ron Santo for making it into Cooperstown. Wish you were still alive and calling a game now and again, Ron. http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20111130&content_id=26060702&vkey=news_mlb&c_id=mlb
Art Basel Conversations | The Future of Artistic Practice | The Artist as Poet from Art Basel Miami Beach on Vimeo. Here’s a rating of the effectiveness of the persona of each speaker (S) added to his or her seeming knowledgeability of the subject of poetry (KS) in generating within me (KS + S) a cynical feeling that my inner life is more abundant than the speaker’s: (HE) Highly Effective; (FE) Fairly Effective; (IE) Ineffective FE = Gerry Bibby, Artist, Berlin HE = Tracey Emin, Artist, London HE = Olivier Garbay, Artist, London FE = Karl Holmqvist, Artist, Poet and Performer, Berlin/Stockholm FE = Jonas Mekas, Writer, Curator and Filmmaker, Brooklyn IE = Hans Ulrich Obrist, Co-Director, Serpentine Gallery, London Also, I’d personally like to thank Hans Ulrich Obrist and Art Basel for treating us to the glorious gift of the poetry of Tracey Emin. I’ve already begun committing one of her works to memory: A Poem From 1992, ’93 by Tracey Emin (super-talented artist) You put your hand across my mouth but still the noise continues. Every part of me is screaming, about to be smashed into a thousand-million pieces, each part, forever, belonging to you.
Noon moon, city sidewalk a gyro draped in aluminum. The child holding his coat aloft by one arm is held aloft by one arm. Park leaves breaking into color. Two blind men compare dogs. Even the old dog in snow wonders at its breath. The cow under dogwood is the glove nuzzling away the hoarfrost. Blinded by the first flakes the ambulance cries for what it carries. Early workaday. Two women recognize each other revolving through revolving doors. My hands under the cubicle lights. Autumn? Spring? Nights at the Advertising Firm Quarter moon over the Empire State Building, unbranded.
No Exit We stood together in a church emptied of its fellowship. I was eight and practicing a hymn for that night’s Wednesday prayer meeting. My father had quit attending church altogether but allowed me to participate in the choir practices because it was so close to home and cheaper than daycare. As I finished the song the minister approached the pulpit and leaned over me. He was obese and his breath came heavy as he made two fists and held them up. ‘I broke each of these knuckles on a different face,’ he told me, clenching them for my admiration. His sermons often included lessons gleaned from the sinful glory days of his youth spent in Chicago, where he reportedly led a street gang working jobs for the mob. His knuckles were meaty and crowned with the colors of a bruise. ‘And now the Lord uses me to crack though the skulls of those who’ve strayed from the Path.’ When I smiled, he asked me if I wanted to touch them. They were huge and magnificent. I imagined the sound of them breaking. He’d brought along two deacons when he arrived at our church that January, just three weeks after our regular preacher failed to show up for a service, disappearing along with the church secretary and several hundred dollars in tithing. Of the deacons, one was tall and hulking, the other was squat and hairy, with some kind of brain problem. During the sermons they stood behind the rear pews, blocking the exits, a gesture some of the elderly women found uncomfortable. They summoned the new minister to a meeting the following day at the church’s undersized dining hall. I offered to help make the desserts, which allowed me to eavesdrop from the kitchen. When the minister arrived he refused to sit, saying he could only stay a minute. It became clear that he wasn’t there to apologize. ‘The difference between a minister and a preacher,’ he began, buttoning his jacket, ‘is that a preacher is beholden to his congregation. I am beholden only to our savior Jesus Christ. He shared with me His Word, and if you attend my services, I expect you not only to listen, but to pay attention, and to arm yourself with the Spirit. Because every single member of this church, under God’s Law and my tutelage, will be expected to travel these country woods and do some ministering themselves. There are no term limits to being evangelical, ladies. There is only one retirement age in the eyes of Christ. If this does not coincide with your Faith, I hear Sunset Baptist has a wonderful Bingo facility.’ After he left, our organist and choir leader, Ms. Hendrickson, donning her usual blue cape, was the first to arrive back in the kitchen. She picked up the carrot cake I’d finished icing earlier and dumped it face down in the sink. Then, passing without a word, she closed the doors of the walk-in pantry behind her. That was the last I ever saw of her. The henchman resumed their posts the following Sunday. The minister was late to arrive, and people half-expected he might not show up, given how sourly things had gone the previous Monday. But he did arrive, carrying several brown paper bags up to the pulpit from the door near the baptismal pool leading to his chambers. He did not address the controversial affair, nor the noticeable absence of several prominent members, but instead leaned into the microphone to ask that everyone stand up, that very second, and walk with him a mile down the road to the corner of New Haven Avenue. His plan, or God’s, was to shoot bottle rockets through the front doors of the local gay bar. First off, let me say that our church rested in the middle of some pinewoods bordering the estuarial marshlands of the St Johns River. All of us were poor—most living out of trailers and single-bedroom houses. A high school diploma was, to many, as culturally and financially divisive as a PhD. Suffice to say, our prejudice against people we viewed as outsiders, homosexuals included, ran deep. Still, the idea of launching fireworks—which were illegal except when used to scare away crows (in all my years in Florida, I’d never seen a single crow)—into a legal establishment not blocks from the fire station stretched far beyond the pale. When his plan was met only with a few claps and even fewer amens, the minister accused us all of lacking the courage of our faith, and led us into the longest prayer I’ve ever heard, before dismissing us. The next week people arrived to find we’d lost half the congregation. Our new minister seemed to take pride in the disparity, likening it to boiling down water for the salt. His sermons grew increasingly demanding of our participation. Each Sunday and Wednesday evening he’d thunder down charges against us as listless co-conspirators in the savaging of God’s Great Plan (‘Because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth, the scripture reads.’) He never shied from instructing us on what methods, however radical, could be employed to disrupt the evildoings of the Beast. One week he brought in a turntable, playing vinyl records backwards to reveal the recording artists’ true intentions, devised in a way to penetrate our subconscious. We squinted to hear Robert Plant cry out, “Oh here’s to my sweet Satan!” And it took a few tries, but I finally caught Freddy Mercury squealing, “It’s fun to smoke marijuana.” The Beatles apparently enjoyed referencing sexual acts, which I gave up trying to parse out—the words were mangled, the music convoluted and scratchy. But the minister played each record incessantly, until he had most of the adults nodding in agreement. He also taught us how KISS was an acronym for Knights in Satan’s Service, and showed us an album gatefold where members of the Eagles stood outside a house supposedly owned by Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan. If you looked closely, you could spot LaVey on the balcony, arms spread wide, welcoming home his flock. After taking the needle from the last record, the minister grew gravely quiet, bouncing his fingers in the air to silence our muttering. I remember watching our newly appointed choir director, Ms. Holly, rub away her goose bumps. I felt the same strange tension settle upon the room, and pulled my arms into my sleeves. The minister raised his head and said that before arriving at our church, he’d been in Alabama, and that while there, he had exorcised a demon of Rock n’ Roll from a teenager in the storage room of a convention center. The experience had been traumatic, and left him fearing for his soul; but it was his duty, his calling, so he pushed on. ‘At first I wasn’t sure why God called me here to June Park,’ he said. But now, looking out over us, he understood why: he saw that very same eye-seed of corruption in several of the children in this very room. ‘It’s not too late, though,’ he promised us. ‘There’s just an inkling. The Devil hasn’t taken a hold of them completely.’ I was surprised to find his gaze settling on me as he finished this sentence, partly because the only music I ever listed to was the Amy Grant CD my mother sang to while washing the dishes. But I somehow believed it, and searched my child’s body for signs—a tingling sensation, or a small voice in my head—to prove that whatever was inside me understood it had been recognized, and recoiled. The next night the remnants of our once robust congregation—thirty or so true believers—returned to the church bearing CDs, records, tapes, posters, and other satanic paraphernalia (‘Whatever is not of God,’ our minister proclaimed, ‘is of the Devil’—which seemed to me almost everything). From rock to rap, jazz to reggae, we piled into the church lugging our blasphemic artifacts. I carried up the aisle the only thing I could risk sneaking from my father’s collection, a spare copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. I wanted it out of my hands, so I slipped it into some boxes marked Metal/Thrash. Other members brought along items that had nothing to do with music: books with overtly sexual passages, videotapes they were convinced contained hidden messages. Anything with a whiff of magic or strangeness, too: fluffy Teletubbies dolls, Charmed and Buffy DVDs, Smurf coloring books. We assembled in front to pray before filing outdoors. The church stood on an acre of land, its backyard hidden from the outlying community by a copse of pines boxing each side. We gathered around a black oil drum at the center of the lot, tossing in our things until it overflowed. We prayed deeply and moved about the drum as the minister and his two deacons sprayed fuel onto the heap. I didn’t refuse when the minister handed me the box of matches. I didn’t even consider running home to my parents or calling the cops. It was up until that moment the most special privilege afforded to me by any adult. The other members, people I’d known my whole life, watched me with a reverence I’d never inspired with any of my songs. The minister dropped down beside me. I was the keeper of the keys, he whispered to me. Did I have the faith necessary to unlock my own glory? Was I the child to lead them? This was before the minister took vengeance on his wife for her betrayals out in back of the Home Depot nursery department up on Palm Bay Road; before the tall deacon ran off with Mr. Perry’s seventeen-year-old daughter to Fort Christmas, and before Mr. Perry went to go get her back; and before the deacon with the brain situation messed with a boy privately, reaching up into his ripped jeans while he was sipping from the water fountain, then disappearing hours before the cops were ever notified. I’m not going to tell you which boy. But what I can tell you is that on this night, the flames of the bonfire seemed to rise higher the more deeply and loudly we prayed. Young and middle-aged and ninety-four years young—we circled the drum in the wafting heat and spoke in tongues and cried rejoicing and prayed to our god from our bowels, deeply, because we all finally knew who we were and what we stood for, and because we all knew where we were going. *** We divided up the acid. A1A was suddenly a strip of jackpot lights and then it wasn’t. We parked the minivan on the sandy shoulder and lay head-to-toe along the highway’s broken yellow lines rehearsing our deaths until our giggling fell off to the martian sound of the ocean operating just beyond a dark cluster of palmettos. It was like anything could be stolen from us at any moment and now this beautiful gift. We had been told our lives were as useless as chewing gum wrappers and believed it, but now it seemed we were being called to something greater. Across the highway a wire fence bowed with the heads of inquisitive cattle. I didn’t think the salty air was good for them and found myself crying. Their big dumb heads went up and down like meaty gavels. I waited by the roadside as the others piled back inside and jacked the music. When the next pair of yellow lights rounded the bend, I stumbled forward and thrust my suede jacket into the car’s path, catching its mirror as I yelled “Toro!” The little car swerved but caught itself and suddenly the night sky above erupted with the sound of a thousand tiny white trumpets. I ran across the road but the cows scrambled. I tied my jacket to a wood post and tried whistling them back from the darkness. There was something I needed to explain to them about loss and renewal. About forgiveness, and how in other countries they could be worshiped as gods, but that they needed to make the best of their lives here, because the other cows relied on them, as did their owners. At the time my intentions were clear, but all I’m sure of now is that I lost my phone. A short time later I was walking on water, a quarter moon opening a path to the waves. The thing about true joy is that it retreats abruptly as a continental shelf, except along New Smyrna Beach, where in the shifting tides you can walk out a hundred feet and still have the ocean lap against your ankles. Back in the van they slapped my hands from their foreheads. They’d filmed me earlier on the beach and now huddled around the camera to watch. I’d taken on the role of a television evangelist, walking down the line and holding each of their heads in my hands. Following a short prayer, I called out and released whatever ailment was plaguing them. One by one they shrieked and collapsed to the sand. As a kid in Vacation Bible School, this had been my dream, and I relished going through the motions. Once my job was finished, I turned and walked into the ocean. They let me go for a little while, then stripped down and went in after me. My jeans were wet to the waist. When Hollywood left rehab, broke and forgotten, and the only job it could get was shipping crystal meth up and down the east coast, it bailed on California, got that tattoo it always wanted, bought a brand new Harley Sportster and changed its name to Daytona Beach. People from nightclubs and bars overflowed the sidewalks, smoking and chattering, sword fighting with long plastic tubes once filled with fruity alcoholic drinks. It seemed the partyers didn’t find us all that strange, and if we were dangerous, probably not much more so than themselves. At the beach I drifted from the group to find myself alone before a great open-aired amphitheater set before two rows of concrete benches. The sand floor glittered like tiny hummingbirds caught in glass webs. Approaching the dark stage, I watched a figure rise within. He’d been lying down and had stripped a blanket off and now stood at the edge of the proscenium. I pulled the pocketknife from my back pocket and waited. For a moment we watched each other. When I realized who it was, I dropped to my knees. I shook in that spot until His sandals appeared before me. ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you: Son, thou shalt not. Thou shall. Thou shalt not. Thou shall and thou shalt not.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ I replied through clogged sinuses. ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is in you.’ With those words, he strapped a jet pack to my back, and I ascended straight up through the stratosphere. The next day, watching the digital footage, a certain number of things became clear to me. For starters, in the ring of drug abuse I was a welterweight, at best. Second, in a world of human misery and savagery, the mis-fits somehow find each other. I’m not saying that we’re more capable of empathy; I’m just reminded that when a person finds himself in the company of a stranger in despair, eye-to-eye, being to being, we often show an amazing affinity for tenderness. I imagined the homeless man (if he was in fact homeless) sleeping off an honest drunk when he was first awoken by the sounds of laughter, a group of young men trying to get a fire going nearby. He thinks perhaps they will share their food, if they have any, and maybe even their alcohol. After throwing off his blanket and performing a few stretches, he’s startled to find one of them approaching the stage, swerving between benches. A second individual with a camera follows him, a small light trained on his back. The first young man appears to be, I can assure you, absolutely bonkers. As their eyes meet, he watches the intruder’s hand slip back to retrieve a knife. This isn’t an altogether unexpected development. But then the boy collapses to the ground, weeping. For two or so minutes the homeless man doesn’t move, convinced, I’m sure, that this is some kind of trick. But after a while he walks to the amphitheater’s edge and takes the stairs down to the beach. In his hand he’s carrying something, a bottle perhaps. Although it might as easily have been a gun. The camera following me mostly captured darkness but also managed to record a little of our exchange. The homeless man approaches but stops a few yards short, yelling, ‘I’m telling you, boy, don’t do it. Do it and….Don’t even try it. You do and you’ll never do nothing again.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ says the boy. “You fucking dumb? Maybe even retarded, aren’t you.’ ‘Father,’ the boy says. The homeless man doesn’t seem to know how to respond. This isn’t something he’s perhaps ever heard before. He spits and looks at the camera. ‘This your fucking friend? You think this shit’s funny?’ He could have done any number of things. He might have tried coaxing money out of me. He could have kicked me to the sand and gone after the idiot camera man, but these were actions with defined consequences, and if anything he feels vaguely undefined and mysterious, holy even as the waves echoed through the concrete rafters behind. Or at least that’s how my own thoughts unfolded as I watched him standing over me, looking around as if for guidance from a nonexistent audience. Instead he steps forward, one hand kept behind his back as his other reaches nervously for my shoulder. ‘Hey, are you okay?’ he asks. He looks over at the camera. ‘Is he okay?’ I suffer his gaze as he lifts me from the sand. When he’s convinced I can stand on my own, he turns me around and pats my back, guiding me toward the firelight the others have successfully started down the beach. Watching the movie, I searched for his eyes, cast in darkness by a thick brow and the moonlit sliver of nose, but all I could distinguish was the intensity with which he watched me go. It’s like he could hardly believe it himself. He’d almost called me son. *** Big Jim brought over a special batch of his aunt’s corn whiskey he kept bottled in a mason jar. The party was going strong, but I sat folded on a couch by myself, sick with the thought of my father lusting after my girlfriend. The previous night he’d woken me up again, the low timber of his voice a surprise in the dark. He sat on the edge of my bed, and by the end of his confession he was bawling in my pillow. I imagined clubbing him to death with the lamp. He repeated what he’d said over the last few nights, that he didn’t know who she was when he found her on the computer we shared, that he thought it was just nude shots of some random girl I had downloaded. He apologized again for not hearing me open and close the front door, which was not his fault, I’ll admit. Then he pulled me off the bed and made me kneel beside him. As he led us into prayer, I felt the blood leave my hands, he was squeezing so hard. Big Jim poured an ounce of the alcohol into a plastic cold-syrup top he carried. ‘One shot’s all you need,’ he said, so I took three. When I tried to stand later the world shimmied out from under me. Nobody offered to pick me off the floor. They laughed so I laughed too. I lay there until Burgen squatted down and asked me if I wanted to go to Snake Lake and blast off a few rounds. The ride out to the lake sucked serious ass. The trail was made for dirt bikes, and with each breath I took over the humps, I tasted vomit. Burgen passed the shotgun back. It was about a foot long and gleamed like green silicone in the radio light. Someone had taken an arc welding tool to the barrels and filed down the edges. I stuck my fingers down the holes like Bugs Bunny. Big Jim snatched the gun away and gave me this look like I was the crazy one. We parked and stepped out into a clearing populated by all manner of insect. Cameron, who had been driving, walked us out to the silted edge of the lake. Ever since I’d drowned as a kid I’d been afraid of water, so I held back, propping myself on the hood of the car and smoking. The drowning took place during a daycare outage at Roach Park, which was named for the jazz drummer, not the insect, though it might as well have been. I hand-paddled my black inner tube past the floatation devices attached to a rope that bisected the pond, separating the shallow end from deep. The act felt manly and dangerous, something my dad might have done at my age. Somehow in the excitement of doing wrong I managed to flip myself over with the inner tube still grasping my waist. I remember the struggling and flailing, and I remember giving in. It’s true about the peacefulness you experience—I watched the greeny underwater plants sway in slow motion as the water settled into my lungs. I experienced a goopy sort of quiet. I remember very clearly the thoughts of my child-self dying, and they were much more beautiful than the thoughts I think I’d have dying now. I was young, but I prayed for a second chance. As my vision grew purple and then black, my body suddenly convulsed so violently that the movement flipped me back over. Patches of vomit drifted about me like wild sargassum. I was so tired I just sank into the tube and drifted. As the tube made its slow rotation and the shore became visible again, it became apparent that no one else had witnessed the event. Children patted down mud castles; adults dove for the volleyball. It was like that picture where the boy with wax wings fell from the sky and no one noticed, not the ship sailing into the sunset, not the horse plowing some field. Just a splash in the corner. It was like some test I had failed but my failure was living. Big Jim startled me back by discharging the shotgun overhead. Until-then invisible birds took to the moon. The shot echoed over the lake and returned with a warning. Burgen set up the milk jugs in a snatch of palmettos and we took turns demolishing them. It’s easy to imagine what it could do to another human being. Bits of plastic clung to the fronds like broken teeth. That was when Cameron, in a hurry to shoot next, accidentally elbowed the mason jar full of alcohol from the car hood. By this time we were all wasted. Burgen just laughed. Big Jim didn’t think it was so funny. He said it would cost him another week of snorkeling golf balls from the water hazards at the country club to pay for another, even though we all knew he scored the liquor from his aunt for free. The argument hit a wall when Cameron said the facts in Big Jim’s case were incongruous. Since Cameron had taken some courses at BCC—and dropped out—he knew what that word meant. Big Jim did not, and stood there staring madly across the lake. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ he finally asked, looking to me. I said I didn’t know, but that I thought it meant asymmetrical, a word I’d picked up from a trigonometry class I once took. Big Jim understood what that meant and pointed the gun at Cameron’s car. The side window exploded with a shout. ‘What the fuck you crazy!’ Cameron yelled, hopping from beside the car. ‘Asymmetrical,’ said Big Jim, and blew on the barrels like in a Western. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. They fought at length before Big Jim handed over the gun, unloaded, and agreed halfheartedly to pay for Cameron’s window. On the way home, all anyone could talk about was how we felt when the window exploded. We were joyous. Big Jim kept his hand on Cameron’s shoulder. This would give them a story together. When we hit Eldron Road, Cameron asked me where I wanted to go and I said Laura’s. It was the middle of the night, but I was sure I could knock on her window and convince her to let me in to sleep off my drunk. The last thing I wanted to do was go home and find my father at the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes with the lights off and my mother’s picture in his hands. A few blocks from Laura’s, I got this weird sensation in my stomach. The houses in the neighborhood were all out but I sensed people watching. As we headed alongside the high picket fence of Laura’s yard, another car turned the corner ahead of us, its low beams crystallizing our windshield. Cameron killed the headlights too late and the vehicle stopped approaching. We waited together. Then it sped up and flew by us. I looked for his face but the driver was turned away. It didn’t matter; I had recognized the car when it first rounded the corner. Burgen sighed loudly and pulled the bag of weed from his underwear. Then he turned around and asked me why I wasn’t getting out. I turned to Big Jim. He had a finger over his lip and a thumb on his chin, watching me. It was like we were on opposite sides of some huge gulf. ‘We’re better than any of this shit, man,’ he spoke through his fingers. ‘What the hell does that even mean?’ I said, and spun out the door. After they took off I waited a half hour for my dad’s car to return, even though I knew it wouldn’t. Using a green energy box to stand on, I hopped the wood-spiked fence, and after a few knocks, Laura opened the curtains and hiked up the storm window. She had been asleep and talked softly, pulling the hair from her eyes. I could see right down the front of her nightgown but it didn’t do anything. I used my stomach to slide through the window and onto her floor. In bed I wouldn’t talk. I didn’t even take off my shoes. She kept asking me what was wrong but I couldn’t answer. Finally she got the hint and pulled the covers up over us. She drew me onto her chest and wrapped her legs around mine. I could tell she had closed her eyes. Then she brought her index finger up and smoothed out my eyebrows, delicately, then my ears, taking her time, and then my forehead, relaxing each furrow. She touched my chest over my heart, my clavicle, the tips of her fingers sliding slowly over the length of my palm and up my forearm. The whole of me began deepening into a reservoir of inner quiet. She touched my lips and my chest and my head. And with each blessing, speaking so softly that I might have been imagining her voice, she said, ‘And this part is getting sleepy, and this part is getting sleepy, and this part is getting sleepy.’ *** A few nights later I stole my father’s car and drove out to Indialantic Beach. Cop cars traveled in pairs up over the causeway, but at I couldn’t give a damn. I had my license back and there were no warrants out for my arrest that I knew about. The air was clouded with a fine mist I let collect on the windshield. There was a private beach entrance in a rich neighborhood you could go to if you kept your headlights off and I parked across the street and took off my shoes and hiked a path through the sand dunes. The ocean unraveled in the darkness before me. The tide was coming in and washing up shells and crabs and plastic. Nothing can cling to the ocean; it just throws up everything it can’t stomach back onto the beach, which was something I always admired. Tonight it moved with an underlying urgency, it seemed, the waves stuttering forward like someone at a party who kept getting interrupted mid-sentence. I figured this would be the last time I would ever come out here, and concentrated on the features of the beach to form some lasting memory, but it was not any part of the beach I really cared about. I looked south towards the Tracking Station and remembered the time I’d unwittingly stumbled upon a party of cuban kids that scared the shit out of me by forming a large circle around my car, only to offer me a beer and ask that I crank up the music. North was Patrick Air Force Base and the Cape, where both sets of my grandparents worked into retirement sending people into orbit and, occasionally, to the moon. I wanted the whole history of the place to gel around me in some comforting way, but that’s not how history was operating this night. This night all it wanted to do was pulse in and out of consciousness like the hotel tower lights bending along the shore’s curvature, coming and going, leaving me lonely and anxious of the future. An hour later I showed up to Lucien’s pad. He’d recently returned from South Carolina where he’d done construction for a month before getting fed up and heading back home. He’d traveled farther
Skip ahead to THE STORY if you want to begin reading the actual story “NO EXIT.” Also, this was serialized the first time I put it up online, a few weeks ago, but now that it’s over, & my database was erased, & everyone already read it, I’m going to put it up in two parts only: The following story is based on true stories. More importantly, in writing it I was trying to capture something more important than the events comprising the single story, I was trying to capture the feeling of being a young man experiencing community in a religious context, & the act of self-exile, which becomes alienation, if you’ve ever experienced the loss of religious fellowship, which is, I think, like losing a leg, & later enjoying the phantom feelings that haunt that part of you. I meant the word enjoying there in the same way you might enjoy a depressing romantic movie where one lover dies at the end & you’re left feeling alone as the living other person feels alone but somehow better at having experience this fullness. & it is a fullness. & it is a phantom. When I write about Florida, for these stories in particular, I have to re-experience the place first, & do so in layers. The first layer is my (fallible) memory of Florida when I lived there, from roughly 1-18 years old. The second layer is the language of the place: yes, the language of Florida, the variety as spoken by its inhabitants–Southerners, New Yorkers, bikers, fisherman, rocket scientists, engineers, murderers…but further back even, to the folk songs & writings, to Zora Neale Hurston & Hemingway, to the language propagated by the land itself, the ocean tides, the muscular swamps & inhabiting animals, the blood drive & desperation of the land. The third layer is the character created by the language of a given moment in time: people are much how they are made by what’s around them. You can argue nature vs nurture to a certain point, & then you have a breathing human either surviving in its space or perishing. If it’s surviving, it’s adapting, because change continues. & to adapt, it must live in close relationship with the place it lives, with the people and the language of the place, the human language and the rhythms of the place, or else it is an outsider (& even then, it seeks to understand the forces against which it struggles, even if the struggle is against an internalized exterior, or what is presupposed as exterior). The fourth & final layer, at this stage of production, is the present moment I wish to encapsulate: a person in a field at a particular time, working against or with the pressures of the space he/she inhabits. So, to give you an example of how I experience the development of a narrative, of an “I” and its point of view: I pretend to remember a person, or a scene, or an image, or even a word…that I believe could have occurred when I lived in Florida. Then I think of that person or scene or image or word (etc) as a local might describe it. And while doing that, voices inexplicably chime in–voices from the past, voices from the present. There is a body of knowledge accumulated in the environment, & it tries to speak itself in relation to this person or scene or image or word (etc). & from their talking arrives the time they’re speaking about: Key West in the 30s; Miami; a Malabar motel in 1977; a school in 1986; etc. & so arrives more speakers–Al Capone riding the trains south; Roosevelt on the beach; a father who’s abandoned his family once he’s discovered he has an incurable disease; a young boy playing duck-duck-goose on a soccer field as the Challenger explodes overhead. After I have all this, the story begins–and all this can occur in the shower in 3 seconds. This happens all the time. The fourth layer is the perspiration part. The outside world begins affecting the character, & the character reacts to it. Interaction is the human part. & the hardest part to encapsulate. So, the next post will be the beginning of a story I wrote about Florida.
Letters & histories, lovers & leftovers & livelihoods, lies & enemies & anomie, amphibian symphonies cresting with anapests crashed upon the rocky crags of spondees. My wife’s middle name is Pan. Pan’s only name is Pan. I like the global stretch of pan-. I like its involvement. I like that in radio communications “pan-pan” repeated thrice means that there’s an emergency, but not one from which there may be no survivors. “Pay attention now” is listed as a backronym. Pan, the genus of chimp, closest relative to humans. Peter Pan as the trickster who never grows up and into the old type of god. & above all of course the frying pan, sizzler of delectables. How many poems will I write as a Pan? Or perhaps a play, with words linked like sausages, inked segues with kinks… Ext. Dark DUMBO street near Brooklyn Navy Yard A twink in gay gingham assuages a tween to rethink minks as blood lozenges, offer condolences for inchoate actions redolent of old-fashioned ways. TWINK But anyways, eat your bacon, brother. That father of fifty likes fatties, not futures. You want work, better work it. Until you get on your feet you can crash at my place… TWEEN Hard to party if your body’s hardly ripe no more & portly as a pig nobody’d ever pork & would probably part with, Hardy.
& what is this space for? How should I approach it? As a platform for speaking to potential readers? As a way to lay out my thoughts as they arrive (the last being “these syncopated occupations occupied by post-ink letters…posting clutters…thoughts as Occupied Moments in Sequence…the colonial manifest of memory…the future as crossbreeding possibilities, a synthesis of secrecies…the ungraspable ungettable present, how it is us & how that us evades us…how the present & I syrup through each others fingers…how best do I write that?…is that how I best write that?”). Perhaps I will each day just tell you, dear delicious reader, what I’ve been thinking. As of now I am thinking that I am 35 years old, which means half my life is now finito. Fucking done. The men in my family tend to be early clocker-outers. I’ve been luckier than most, though. Happier than many. Traveled quite a deal. Met interesting people. Married for love. Created a small publishing house. Burned every candle I had on both ends. Wrote about things I’ve seen & things I’ve experienced but never fully truthfully in the way doorknobs are truthful to the experience of doorknobs. I write every day. Every day. Nine hours. Most of which is editing, staring, thinking. & yet I feel marginalized by the thing I love most, this writing, this lung-sucking work that undresses me, each day, in the hollows of my most hallow places, where I put little things on shelves & take them down & rework them & place them back up, each day. I feel vanished, mostly, when I think of my life in words, even though the most powerful moments of my life have come at the end of a sentence. Or the falling off of a poetic line. Some murmuring telephone wire downed by a passing storm you happen upon & stoop to touch thinking it’s just another tree branch & zap, petite eternity. I have few writer friends now; most that I’ve known have moved on or now protect their own lily pads with the same fierceness & meanness & scorn their predecessors protected their own lily pads with as these once youngsters swam about as terrifying tadpoles in tutelage. Grab it & growl, my father says. A few I’ve kept close still do the yeoman’s work, as L. Zacharias once said of me, in the corner of a story I turned in which I’m still not sure she liked. A few I keep the hours with, still, arguing aesthetics, honing our character if not our craft & whittling each other’s works to finer points of mutual enlightenment, if not art, or exhaustion. So 1/2 a life lived as Joe Millar. The next, Joe Pan. I’ve decided to write & work myself down the drainhole. I’m sick of traveling. I’m tired of your parties, good Fridays! Goodbye Blue Mondays! I will write short fantastical stories to my brother in prison, who loves receiving my fantastical stories! I wish literature to go fuck itself with its own asshole! I’m tired of the cult of appeasement. I’m tired of trying to swim next to lily pads & grapple with their owners. I will try to write Hiccups, which are quick & if good stop the heart for a beat. I wrote a novel about meth-running in Florida, based on true-ish stories, & my own life, which rather than wait for a bottom-priced offer I may do better to publish myself. & many more like it. I caught hell for self-publishing my first book of poems. But you know who liked it, my wife. & Don DeLillo. & a woman who found it on Amazon.com for free, & wrote the most amazing review, which touched me more than the Y, the Academy, & the NPS. Back-patters each, thanks, but none takers, & so no readers. Readers, I write for you now, for your not-undiscoverable charmed ears, I imagine. For a trinket I’ll tell you a fortune. Not your own, necessarily. But a lively one. I invite your comments. I invite your criticism. Long live Ert, step-brother to Art! To Ert goes the forgotten fables, the fantasies, the failed attempts. To Ert I sing, e’er I err or ire I air as art. In the heart’s aerie I hear Ert. The heart of art I heart is heartless Ert; neither inert, heartless art or artless, but Ert, an art one hearts to artlessness. I imagine now this is a public notebook. My Blue Book. Kafka meets Kelly. Keep up. My White Book, my cockatiel, my Cocteau, from cock to toe to cap & back. My loves. Take what you want & leave the rest to me.