http://www.salon.com/2014/04/13/david_foster_wallace_was_right_irony_is_ruining_our_culture/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=socialflow

http://www.salon.com/2014/04/13/david_foster_wallace_was_right_irony_is_ruining_our_culture/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=socialflow

For commentary…

For Class, April 1st

Hello all-

a few things to bear in mind regarding my writing and thought process when reading these pieces:

Creatively, I set myself free from a few prior restraints.

I realized last semester while in Paul Bruss’s LITR 360 class that my life is a gigantic postmodern fiasco of the highest (or lowest) order. My family is such a long-term mess that the only way I can really dig into some parts is to write anonymously, or move to the middle of nowhere and cut ties with many of the people I know.

For now, I am choosing a third option; I’m writing and exploring in forms that will help me communicate the deepest parts of the pool I can safely navigate.

As such, I have given myself license to write about dark or grey area subject matter. I was overdue for this, considering my dark past, but I don’t think I was ready until now.

Writing “If it Ain’t Broke, or Even If It Is” was cathartic. I felt as if I was losing my sense of humor in a necessary way when I wrote this piece. I needed to get to a point where my writing was coming from somewhere other than one of two poles- either a) uplifting, motivational disclosure about recovery, or b) light, comedic banter. This bit of micro fiction scratched that itch nicely for me, falling into some other zone, landing softly with a curious tone.

Here, I distanced myself from the tendency to explain everything in full detail. This has been a problem for me with fiction attempts in the past. Only recently have I come to realize that linear plots are an option, not a necessity. All characters don’t have to mature or develop in a sensible manner, and realistic dialogue doesn’t always flow like a Hollywood movie script. I am embracing a style more raw and gritty in an attempt to couple my powers of observation with my imagination to create new avenues of output.

If it Ain’t Broke, or Even if it Is

Well now. I saw a spider web get brushed aside near a doorway at a place where my girl and I stayed a while back. I ran into it once or twice myself before I learned to duck it, but some of the fellas, they came over and had a few and wound up runnin’right into it face first. End up swearing and complaining…it was good for a laugh. Yeah well. I’d say it was about a perfect example of something that’s a lot funnier when it doesn’t happen to you.

Anyway, sometimes the next day or the day after I’d sit out on the porch smoking and notice that spider back up there rebuilding again. I figured he must’ve caught so many flies there that it was worth all the extra work. You gotta understand that this web never lasted more than a few days without getting torn all to shreds one way or another. If Stacey saw it, she went at it with a broom. But mostly it was just the door opening and closing, the wind, and tall drunk guys fucking it up. Can’t forget about them.
Well after a while I noticed one day that it wasn’t there any more- the web anyway. I got curious so I set down my beer and walked over and stood up on my tippy toes and looked into the corner there where the storm door meets the house and all I could see was a little dark tunnel made of web where the spider used to sleep. Shit, I thought maybe he was still in there, taking a vacation. Maybe he caught such a big fly that he was ahead of the game and didn’t need to work for a while. Or maybe he met his match with a mantis or clever bird. But I don’t think that’s what happened. I think something else happened.

What? Well that I do not know. I never ran into another web near that door and I don’t recall ever seeing a spider of the same type anywhere on that side of porch- fat, with a round black body and short legs. He didn’t look too mean to me, just determined, at least for the few months he was around anyway. But yeah, I don’t think he died. Don’t think he moved to another part of my house either. I think maybe he did something else. Maybe he had another solution, something that you or I wouldn’t understand unless we were there in his shoes. Hell, maybe he changed his ways.

—

 

“Happiness Flowers, Silences Grow”, and “Experienced Seeks More” are work in a similar vein; I’m attempting to pry into the subject of alcoholism, recovery, and regret in ways that aren’t simple or conventional. “Happiness Flowers” is a prose/poem hybrid split into two sections/mindsets:  before and after. “Experienced” is a single-shot ride from beginning to end, but the rhythm of the content is odd, intentionally unbalanced, searching in an offbeat manner for new ground, looking for change in the past, acknowledging the futility of this at the same time.

Happiness Flowers, Silences Grow

With a ceremoniously long pull, an attitude adjusted

justified by long days, placed in part- near harm

to di-spell the very problem with itself.

Vanquish misery, half of a rebound, priced for

fast living.

Always another new brand game of taste.

Retail chased from reward to rewind

lovely, lively, timely, prideful denial mostly

*was* a high time

ride wretched rocks rightfully off.

sleep end, day to night, on pillow alights a dreamless sign.

Colored label compliments a subtle gleam of bottle neck

so tasteful bonds with fateful, excepting the

ulcerative regret to follow with constant enthusiasm,

a celebratory need.

Tea time.

Another finding. years later. Same face different eyes.

A starker, pressing thorny vine, the slight regard of winter’s bride.

The aging frost of wellness left behind, no taste set unfamiliar

to the tight-fisted memory, mind.

A man might make a daylight sneeze, as new found

freedom settles, startling the hopeless relieved.

With in-bind the length of lies, the skein of

clasping, invisible ties broken

not lost, nor left behind, only a form of being

settled nightly ‘cross an unbound rest

while you were steeping, a breath at last.

A mindful ray of a river’s past to meander,

to remain, to stay alive for interminable

amounts of silver, softer lines.

 

Experienced Seeking More

Experienced liar seeks truth.

Experienced afternoon indoor shadow seeks soft outside light.

Experienced fire-starter seeks rain squall.

Experienced lazer gun in search of sci-fi battle. Emphasis on ducking and dodging.

Experienced rubber band flinger seeks location help behind couch, no shoot-backs.

Experienced quitter seeks long term solution, emphasis on hope, neatness, and ability to pay bills on time.

Experienced rage seeks peace.

Experienced echo seeks series of corners.

Experienced planet seeks new master race. Renewable energy fans and peace-niks move to the front of the line!

Experienced soloist seeks perfect moment.

Experienced moment seeks appreciative soloist, sympathetic players wanted.

Experienced debtor seeks credit relief. Also searching for general relief from stress, peer pressure, and otherness.

Experienced other seeks place in space.

Experienced friend seeks jumper cable for foundering relationship. Emphasis on ability to take back most of 2007. Time machine operators or wizards would be a perfect fit. Mystics and faith healers please apply elsewhere.

Experienced bleh seeks blah for help fixing grey afternoons and solving early a.m. alarm clock wars. Sheet de-tanglers, coffee makers and storytellers to make mornings memorable appreciated. Jerks need not apply.

Experienced positivity looking for sticky tape, old love letters, and belly laughs to help keep mental and emotional house afloat. If your paint is peeled just right, if you know a place where tall trees sway in the wind, if you meant to be kinder, if that was the wrong number- off by one digit, if you were open to suggestions until the point where your hands started hurting and the headaches began, if you want 1-2 roommates to help split the music, if you get the idea, if you’re ready, I’m in.

Experienced out, looking in. I used to do this thing in the 90’s. Might have lost the ability but still have reliable transportation and tools. Seeking a boss or lover that won’t break me down.

Experienced stoner seeks escape from alcoholic past. Colorado, California, Oregon and pipe dreamers, please move to the head of the line. Pleasant fictions are ok. Cats: purr. Dogs: woof.

Experienced nap wanted for R.EM. and general relaxation.

The New, Flat Bottom

Sometimes you coast along for a while feeling pretty good about yourself, reasonably confident until a new sharp edge finally gouges a hole in your roll. I find it particularly upsetting when this takes the form of someone I know acting intentionally antagonistic, which is the case about half the time. I think: “Flat tires, schedule problems and poor health are unavoidable, but people being dicks is not something I HAVE to endure. I am unmarried with no children, and I can separate myself from anyone, without exception.” And then I think on it some more.
I have had to do this many times since I quit drinking 6 years ago, this same frustrated thought loop where I am forced to decide if I can continue to manage a relationship. At first, I took my counselors with a grain of salt when they said that over time I would wind up parting ways with most of the people I knew then, but its turned out to be dead on. Thus, the expression “times change, people change” has now fully unfurled its quixotic flag before me, with my altered self as the flag bearer. Strange times.
I mention all of the above because just last night a twenty+ year friend took it upon himself to send me a frustrating and misguide text, causing a ripple in my thoughts and actions today. I realized before sitting down to write this blog/log/work that this semester has entailed almost none of such activity prior to now, and as a result, I have been able to think clearly and work efficiently on my studies as a result.
I wonder if a person who chooses to poke at me would still do it if they realized the direct, negative effect it could have on the rest of my life?
I can hardly talk to anyone about something like this because, lacking the full story, many will jump to conclusions and offer up the never-ending flood of band-aid solutions. Let me assure anyone reading that by the time I get to a point where someone else’s actions are causing serious upset in my life, I have already taken every reasonable measure to address issues with that person before.
Which brings me back to my first paragraph, specifically the option to separate myself from certain people. I have recently discovered or affirmed a few salient points regarding this:
1) It’s not a trouble free solution. For whatever reason, some people take it real poorly if I try to distance myself from them. Some will up the ante until they are unavoidable, and others will force a confrontation.
2) I sometimes pay the price of fighting a guilty conscience after doing so. This is the nasty, soft middle of the issue. As a recovering addict, I have a responsibility handed directly to me by doctors and counselors : take care of myself emotionally. I was taught that the only way to ensure my long-term sobriety is to take an active role in the care-taking of my mind and body. That’s why I quit smoking cigarettes finally three years after I quit the booze, and that is why I can’t allow antagonistic people to hang around past a certain point.
A lot of things, good and bad,  just come down to when. I feel as if I was on a slow, silent path toward going back to school for years before it happened. I see strange, wonderfully empowering correlations between my education and my long-term sobriety and well being. As noted in previous entries here, I also see a direct relation between my education and my developing ability as a musician and songwriter. Hell, since I’m calling it all out, I may as well add helping me to improve my attitude to the list of positive changes school has affected in me.
Which brings me to the real crux of this writing exercise. I sat down with a few notes written, planning on airing my grievance, then using a few contemplative moments to find a way to put my frustration in perspective. Here is what I have cooked up:

1) Observe, and learn from the experience. Over the past week or two, stress from various sources has threatened my ability to write and read. Thus, I will do what it takes to marginalize and avoid unnecessary stress. Fini.
2) I was in such a high gear with this class (Creative Writing) until the past couple of weeks, that I was due for a dry spell. Instead of succumbing to frustration and doubt, I will use what I’m going through now as one part of my process paper. On that, note, I’m taking a moment to be glad that I have done so much work already, because this blog will make a fantastic resource for not only my Capstone Project, but the remaining papers as well.
3) I’m actually running short on time at the moment, so I’m going to summarize and finish the ending of this later. I’m making a list of thought and writing processes that I have learned or changed in this program, including details, references, quotes, correlations etc. Here are a few, in brief: thinking about feelings, circumstances and senses as shapes (reexamine the piece I started about pain)…(Hume 426 influence

?) Contrasting what I learned new vs. what has been affirmed and improved upon, planning before writing, open to reassessment, radical revision, etc, realizations- these last couple of papers could be submitted for publications if written with enough care. – and/or I can do my absolute best on them for now and then continue revision process after semester. Also- advanced thought on when revised work is ready, including “lifetime of revision” concept learned from 490 authors. No tada! endings, look for the fifth option.
4)
5) Conclude blog title. New type of landing: always another recourse.

When Wow Stops Being a Word for It

Some days are simply more than other others- more, bigger, brighter, in sharper contrast, and with greater potential. Typically it takes all kinds of ingredients to make a good or a bad day, but some days are simply spectacular. On a day such as this, even the worst, most nagging- nay, LOOMING fears get kicked aside, reviewed, replaced, set under a rock, returned to sender, expressed properly.

One of the major hurdles I have come to confront this past year is fear.  I have written poetry about it for this class already, and likely I will again. I wonder at times if I am developing a fixation with the concept…and then along comes another complex moment of terror or doubt to convince me of how real fear can be. But paradoxically, most of the time fear is not real- or a poor representation of reality at best.

Fear tried to get me yesterday and I felt like I needed to hide from the world. But today, I’m ready for dance.

I’m preparing to release a video and statement tomorrow for a local charity close to my heart. My brother Ryan and I spent many hours working on this project and I should be happy, yet I am nervous. I’m worried about the piece I am writing to accompany the video, and -if I’m honest with myself about it- I’m worried about how the public will respond to the gesture, with kindness and enthusiasm or indifference. I will be posting the link to the release tomorrow on this blog as well. The project is one that I began as part of an internship from my CRTW422 Community Outreach and Public Art class last semester. When I find myself in a moment of doubt about what I am doing and where I may be heading, I take comfort in the convergence of my activities over the past year or so.

I have written about convergence also, the sense that more than one piece of my puzzle is finally working in tandem with others- the writing, songwriting, poetry, comedy, philosophy, and creative project work I do with and for others are finally beginning to gain traction. Naturally, this is terrifying, as success is completely unknown to me.

Chin up, carry on. Anything is possible and what will be, will be. Row, row, row, then surrender to the flow.

Locks, Blocks, and Third Chances

I thought the group meeting with Tiffany, Ian and myself this past Tuesday went extremely well, and although I can only definitively speak for myself, I’m pretty sure we all left feeling better about not just our Capstone projects, but our role as writers in general.  I use the word “role” intentionally because identity seems to be the prevailing plot thread unfolding before me as I venture further into this program and this semester.  I used to have a notion that great fiction was a trade that only people with a massive imagination and intellect could pursue, a myth created by the false impression that great writers are able to create work that has nothing to do with them by achieving some kind of disconnect that I couldn’t even begin to fathom.  I do not know if there are, in fact, some people who write with such wild creativity, but I know for certain from many of the readings we have studied in this program that many authors write from a distinctly unique perspective grounded in who they are and what they know (so far).

I take great comfort in this.  Granted, I still worry about my ability (or lack of) to take any of my own experience pallet and use it to ignite the kind of projects I want to write, but at least I know that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with writing what you know.
As after our group concluded, I finally realized why workshop activity is so valuable, and as I elaborate, bear in mind that when I first joined the program I DESPISED group work of any sort.  The three of us couldn’t have had three projects that were much less alike. Ian is working on fiction, I’m doing all kids of hybrid work, including the piece titled “Exerienced” that I showed them, and Tiffany is doing a literary experiment of sorts that is closely tied to the sound, feel and meaning of words chosen somewhat randomly.  Yet, despite us coming from such different angles, we were all able to understand and see merit in the work of one-another. I realized as we were discussing my piece that despite me feeling a bit uptight before the meeting, I had quickly loosened up and was fully receptive to advice and interpretation from the other two.

Therein lies the true hidden gem of workshop collaboration- the breaking of the isolation in which we all do so much of our writing. It’s so easy to imagine a thousand potential responses to your work, but nothing can really prepare you for the wondering eyes of the mind of another. When I loosen up and let other people into my world as a writer, I don’t have to sacrifice anything- as I told Ian and Tiffany, we are certainly all welcome to take the advice with a grain of salt. But without taking the chance on opening the blinds and letting in a new perspective, my work sits in its own silent corner until the first reader comes along and gives it a look.
Collaboration and workshop efforts are a useful part of editing, and although I wish the full truth of this revealed itself to me earlier, I’m grateful for it now. If I hadn’t met with my classmates and enjoyed such a lively discussion I doubt I would have the confidence to take a swing at this new fragment of fiction.

Locks Turn Numbers, Numbers Turn You
Henry David paused. Then he paused again, long enough to realize he was pausing… frozen in mid-stride. Caught in a long ray of sunshine on a cold February afternoon, he felt speechless, a peculiar sensation to a man alone.  There it was, a sturdy looking combination lock, approximately half embedded in a pool of semi-frozen clear ice on the ground, not more than six inches from his rear tire. Standing just outside of the music store, he swiveled on one heel, as if a glace back at the miniature shopping-plaza might reveal a clue as to why such an item would be found here- a storage facility that sold locks, a mailbox place, a lock-smith…but there was nothing except a dry-cleaner advertising 24-hour Martinizing and a quaint little place called Custom Frame with pictures in the window.
It was something, this lock. He even tried to walk past it and get in the car, but stopped, insistent on another look to dispel this frozen little apparition.It was a standard combo-lock, curiously unlocked, leaving the latent power to snap it shut hanging on Henry like a past due bill. But locked, the combination could be 22-17-33, or it could be 8-18-28, or it could just as likely be something dreadfully random like 31-4-9. The thought of such an imminently forgettable combination caused Henry to shudder internally. He shook his head in denial and kicked the lock free from the soft ice into the edge of a muddy snowbank a couple of feet away. The effort was solid, yet he remained deeply unsatisfied. Finally, after what felt like agonizing minutes, he was able to get into the Chevy and start the engine. “ -to be continued

Experienced

A few thoughts before I begin. I’m feeling pretty good about my initial capstone proposal. I have spent random free time over the past couple of weeks trying to find the perfect name for my pending folk-Americana appreciation page, and I am close to using “Mother Art Folk Review”. It’s hard to explain why I like this name so much, but it has a feel (when spoken or read) of somewhere between old-timey America and the 70’s. The other reason is that I wanted to find a name that really speaks to the mission of adding and introducing art to our cultural landscape. “Mother Art” was an idea I came up with to describe the wellspring of creativity that all artists share. Nothing comes from nothing, and all art has roots. This is still just a beta name though…

Secondly, I’m really glad I have chosen to include some music in my capstone project and presentation. At first I was a little nervous. I worried that music was going to steal my focus from intensive time spent on writing prose and poetry, but the decision seems to have invigorated me across the boards and I’m writing on all cylinders. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, the sensation of accepting and embracing my role as multi-genre artist feels very empowering, and that sense of empowerment seems to be stimulating me creatively. Sweet!

I’m including a link in this post to a songwriter who is currently influencing my fiction and songwriting theory. Her name is Courtney Barnett and she wrote this song “The Avant Gardener” in a form that is more like prose-poetry than typical lyrical styling. The storytelling element blends in with the tone of her voice and the sparse guitar to weave a tale the likes of a 60’s Bob Dylan story song. She won all kinds of awards for this tune, so I’m not holding myself to the unreasonable standard of trying to invent something this amazing right away, but it’s a great creative direction to work toward.

I’m currently having a hard time writing the long-form story lyrics required to create a song like this, and it has occurred to me that maybe I’ll have to try writing the music first. For the time being I chose to write a prose-poem based on my concept of a common template for a Craigslist Ad. I’m hoping to expand and edit this as part of my capstone, along with some of the other work I’ve already done this semester. The idea is to blend hard hitting confessional type stuff seamlessly into a larger tapestry. There are some forms emerging that I am not yet able to describe, but I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe this could turn into a long-form piece for me.

Experienced Seeking More

Experienced liar seeks truth.

Experienced afternoon indoor shadow seeks soft outside light.

Experienced fire-starter seeks rain squall.

Experienced lazer gun in search of sci-fi battle. Emphasis on ducking and dodging.

Experienced rubber band flinger seeks location help behind couch, no shoot-backs.

Experienced quitter seeks long term solution, emphasis on hope, neatness, and ability to pay bills on time.

Experienced rage seeks peace.

Experienced echo seeks series of corners.

Experienced planet seeks new master race. Renewable energy fans and peace-niks move to the front of the line!

Experienced soloist seeks perfect moment.

Experienced moment seeks appreciative soloist, sympathetic players wanted.

Experienced debtor seeks credit relief. Also searching for general relief from stress, peer pressure, and otherness.

Experienced other seeks place in space.

Experienced friend seeks jumper cable for foundering relationship. Emphasis on ability to take back most of 2007. Time machine operators or wizards would be a perfect fit. Mystics and faith healers please apply elsewhere.

Experienced bleh seeks blah for help fixing grey afternoons and solving early a.m. alarm clock wars. Sheet de-tanglers, coffee makers and storytellers to make mornings memorable appreciated. Jerks need not apply.

Experienced positivity looking for sticky tape, old love letters, and belly laughs to help keep mental and emotional house afloat. If your paint is peeled just right, if you know a place where tall trees sway in the wind, if you meant to be kinder, if that was the wrong number- off by one digit, if you were open to suggestions until the point where your hands started hurting and the headaches began, if you want 1-2 roommates to help split the music, if you get the idea, if you’re ready, I’m in.

Experienced out, looking in. I used to do this thing in the 90’s. Might have lost the ability but still have reliable transportation and tools. Seeking a boss or lover that won’t break me down.

Experienced stoner seeks escape from alcoholic past. Colorado, California, Oregon and pipe dreamers, please move to the head of the line. Pleasant fictions are ok. Cats: purr. Dogs: woof.

Experienced nap wanted for R.EM. and general relaxation.

The Courtney Barnett Link:

(There are two songs on here, The Avant Gardener is the first one.)

Further Dispatches from the Cold Abyss

I developed a couple of projects this week.  I should have posted one this past Friday but I fell of the edge of a soft cliff into a frozen grey blah, delirious, digital, staring with a wide dry mouth. It was a soft landing with limited shards to brush from my long coat.     When it breathes deeply. mental lungs taking in swiftly ascending walls and filtered air of softly falling frost. she was distressed about crystalline windows behind drawn shades. when I was interested in the sun’s humor. I have motioned for a new alliance. now everything is different. I can smell spiced tea. and who knows if I’ll ever walk down that same hallway again. grey way. folded memory. was there ever even a fall to begin with. In specific terms, the springy landing feels more like a tumble.                               -Leeland of the North  4-21-14

This piece is a work in progress inspired by the smoke-and-mirrors effect Ed Roberson is able to create in City Eclogue. I’m hoping to develop this piece into a longer unit, possibly with several parts working together to paint a fragmented picture. This is part of what I was getting at in class a couple of weeks ago- I’m looking to write (emote, explore) my experience as an addict in long-term recovery, both the journey down and back up, without belaboring it with overly obvious and ponderous writing.

In that regard, I may have to muddy the images and ideas in this piece even more, or I may leave it closer the the way it is now and surround it with a couple of others that blend in some necessary distraction, twisting a device or two, anything to hint at the complexity of what I’m trying to describe with form as well as content.

Happy Hour

With a ceremoniously long pull, an attitude adjusted

justified by long days, placed in part- near harm

to dispell the very problem with itself.

Vanquish misery half of a rebound, priced for

fast living.

Always another new brand game of taste.

Retail chased from reward to rewind

lovely, lively, timely, prideful denial mostly

*was* a high time

ride wretched rocks rightfully off.

sleep end, day to night, on pillow alights a dreamless sign.

Colored label compliments a subtle gleam of bottle neck

so label comes with tasteful expect excepting the

ulcerative regret to follow with constant enthusiasm,

a celebratory need.
Tea time.

Another finding. years later. Same face different eyes.

A starker, pressing thorny vine, the slight regard of winter’s bride.

The aging frost of wellness left behind, no taste set unfamiliar

to the tight-fisted memory, mind.

A man might make a daylight sneeze, as new found

freedom settles, startling the hopeless relieved.

With in mind the length of lies, the skein of

clasping, invisible ties broken

not lost, nor left behind, only a form of being

settled nightly ‘cross an unbound rest

while you were steeping, a breath at last.

A mindful ray of a river’s past to meander

to remain, to stay alive for interminable

amounts of silver, softer lines.

This second piece came from a free-write exercises I did based on a prompt to write about something really boring and flesh it out with characters, plot, setting, etc. I was very pleased with the initial draft, because I felt that I achieved a sense of reality rooted in the dialogue, and I was able to come up with an ending that created an unresolved, yet oddly satisfying thud. Lastly, I’m excited to have a piece with a title that I love. It’s easy for me to write titles last minute, losing the opportunity to add significance to the whole idea, and I’m glad to have dodged that literary bullet for once.

If it Ain’t Broke, or Even if it Is

Well now. I saw a spider web get brushed aside near a doorway at a place where my girl and I stayed a while back. I ran into it once or twice myself before I learned to duck it, but some of the fellas, they came over and had a few and wound up runnin’right into it face first. End up swearing and complaining…it was good for a laugh. Yeah well. I’d say it was about a perfect example of something that’s a lot funnier when it doesn’t happen to you. Anyway, sometimes the next day or the day after I’d sit out on the porch smoking and notice that spider back up there rebuilding again. I figured he must’ve caught so many flies there that it was worth all the extra work. You gotta understand that this web never lasted more than a few days without getting torn all to shreds one way or another. If Stacey saw it, she went at it with a broom. But mostly it was just the door opening and closing, the wind, and tall drunk guys fucking it up. Can’t forget about them.
Well after a while I noticed one day that it wasn’t there any more- the web anyway. I got curious so I set down my beer and walked over and stood up on my tippy toes and looked into the corner there where the storm door meets the house and all I could see was a little dark tunnel made of web where the spider used to sleep. Shit, I thought maybe he was still in there, taking a vacation. Maybe he caught such a big fly that he was ahead of the game and didn’t need to work for a while. Or maybe he met his match with a mantis or clever bird. But I don’t think that’s what happened. I think something else happened.
What? Well that I do not know. I never ran into another web near that door and I don’t recall ever seeing a spider of the same type anywhere on that side of porch- fat, with a round black body and short legs. He didn’t look too mean to me, just determined, at least for the few months he was around anyway. But yeah, I don’t think he died. Don’t think he moved to another part of my house either. I think maybe he did something else. Maybe he had another solution, something that you or I wouldn’t understand unless we were there in his shoes. Hell, maybe he changed his ways.

Capstone Proposal I

I’m going to borrow ideas from a couple of the Capstone presentations I saw this past fall. The two main ideas I’m running with are making the presentation multimedia in one way or another, and pursuing additional goals that will assist in creating opportunity and excitement for me as a writer/artist as I approach graduation.

I suppose I’d like to make one or two caveats: first, my music career is not something I take lightly, so the inclusion of music to the project and list of goals is not a cop out or an easy move to make. These are necessary next steps in an ongoing labor of love began in 1988 and I am gathering new momentum as convergence between my career as a musician and the creative writing program meld together.

Secondly, I wanted to avoid the topic of addiction recovery in this project, but apparently it chose me. When I write poetry there is nothing else that speaks even half as loudly, and the same is true of music. This is not intended to be an apology for either of these points, rather an admission to self that it is what it is.

Set stance, see objective, establish lens, check tone, break rules and move forward.

I have the following goals set for the remainder of 2014:

A) Create a multimedia presentation that illuminates some of my genesis from hopeless addict to oddly content survivor. Special emphasis on the role communicating through writing has played since I first began on facebook recovery boards, thru development
in Liberal Arts at Schoolcraft with further steps taken in Creative Writing at Eastern Michigan. A communique of the physical and  metaphysical  with concrete language and hacksaw metaphor combined…perhaps authored as a dispatch or spoken from an alias or other perspective. Perhaps not.

Presentation should include: song, experimental poetry, and essay/manifesto. I will complete this presentation by the end of the semester as if I was presenting in the spring rather than next winter. From the conclusion of the semester until my actual presentation at the end of the fall ’14 semester, I will re-work and add to the presentation as I see fit, subtly, radically or anywhere in between.

B) Continuing development of writing and art career, including:

1) Setting eventual date for, and planning content for my first solo recording session (to take place shortly after end of this semester.) Discussion is already underway with the studio regarding this.

2) Continuing effort to populate my Youtube channel,  writing websites, and comedy site with new material as able. (Prioritize the first two and treat the comedy site more like a hobby.)

3) Launch site (initially on facebook) for appreciation and review of folk, country-americana, roots, and singer-songwriter music. Write mission statement/manifesto prior to launch and possibly incorporate into first review. Continue to gather audio material and study the groups I’m going write about in first several releases.

**be sure to allow for personal style and creativity in authorial tone of this work!! Don’t allow pressure of conformity to bend the work.

**also, don’t over-think this and make it too hard. Remember that I already do this by default, and all I’m really doing is creating a platform to host my favorite music.

4) Mail/email poetry and/or prose submissions to at least 3 publications. This is an important step because it involves making tough choices about which pieces to send AND facing the fear of rejection. VITAL, NECESSARY, OVERDUE.

5) Conduct all of the above in a cheerful and dedicated manner, looking to have fun when possible while maintaining a steady arc of progress between now and the end of 2014.

Again, importantly, some of the above tasks may not see maturity until after the end of this semester. The ones I am holding myself to between now and the end of April are the multimedia presentationand the (minimum) trio of submissions.

That’s all for now!

Fear

I combined real life circumstance with some of the ideas inspired by the philosophical approach and methods of John Cage (as described by Joan Retallack) to create a piece of prose about fear. I’ve been living with two large spoonfuls of it daily for the past couple of years and it’s starting to take on a life of its own.

My family continues to struggle with serious illness, death, and long term effects of both within our ranks. I’d rather not wade into the details just now, but I’m starting to realize that in some instances there is nothing left for me to do except try to write and emote what I am feeling/seeing/hearing as best as I can. My understanding is limited by the paralysis of fear, which narrows my scope to wondering when the next piece of bad news is coming. I began this semester with a nasty flu that left me suspicious of anyone who coughs or sniffles, and that has morphed itself into insomnia fueled by academic stress and genuine worry for several of my family members.

I started a piece about physical pain a couple of weeks ago when I was still healing from the flu. I’m thinking that as depressing as the subject matter may be, I might want to put some advanced thought into finishing that piece as well as further editing this one. The rationale is as follows: if I’m going to deal with trouble, I’d rather not face it blindly. I have learned in the past that guilt is likely to follow, and that’s the last thing I need as I finish my last two semesters at EMU- to lug around a guilty conscience on top of all of the trouble and anxiety that is running amok in my life right now.

I just had a long conversation with my housemate and friend Melissa (currently recovering from the flu) about empathy. We discussed how acute/chronic illness and physical distress heightens one’s awareness to the plight of others. I’m hoping that I can take this dark chapter in my life and sift through it to find some positive ways of sharing or helping people. In the past, I have managed to wrangle all kinds of creative work out of personal misery, but I’d like to take it a step further, if possible. Make something new, something uplifting.

Back to Cage. This is the first piece I’ve ever composed that focused on the shape of the lines, and there is a visual emphasis on the white space, projecting a subtle menace. If I’m going to wade through unpleasant emotions, I’m going to try to alter the geometry of my perception from time to time. I already know that perspective is a powerful tool, but I want to heighten my senses physically, emotionally, mentally and artistically. If I have to play the role of survivor, I’ll do it wearing survivor’s armor, looking for light where I can find it, manufacturing it when there is none. Basically, I’ll do anything other than succumb to the nasty malaise that kept me home from school three days last week. I’ll fight back.

Fear

Fear chews.

Fearing a glass full, empty, neither, both.

The results  fear the question, fear the crossroads.

A slow start, facing any crowd, in a dry mouth moment of guesswork.

Taking a cue from Darwin, a mother pitches her son on safety measures via the internet, in public.

Gastrointestinal fireworks in a crowded room, glued to the back of the plastic seat, a quick series of silent gasps.

Absent for three class sessions, fear judges, grades, downgrades and engineers a long slide.

Tucked just between the bed and the bathroom, a careful webmd.com physician surfs late.

Bravery and prudence both prone then to duck, but anything goes now.

Aftershock liability, circling dusty, tired, predator/prey.

Gone are the days we chose which fences to regard.

Lacking credibility, fear steals mine.

Fear inadequate.

Fear

About Time

While reading and digesting Joan Retallack and Leslie Scalapino, I discovered an essay by Gerald Burns titled “The Poetical Wager” that helped shed some light on the concepts and ideology Retallack developed. Right in the into , the second half of this line grabbed me:

 “And so her first recourse is to a pun: poethics, which means something like leaving things to chance but nevertheless taking responsibility for what happens.”

The notion of wild creativity combined with artistic and personal responsibility appeals to me for more than one reason. Mostly, I‘m looking for anchors as I venture further away from conventional writing styles, reasons to keep sifting through the words to find meaning among chaos. There is an urge sometimes, to let the words ring out on the page for the sound and shape of them alone. I love sentences and paragraphs, short and blunt, long and convoluted, all varieties. I have noticed it’s easy to fall on the ambiguous side of the fence when experimenting, committing to nothing in particular, and I’m of the notion that if I’m going to stop making sense it should be for a reason, not just becuase the words looked pretty. To approach the matter from a meditative perspective, there is a difference between floating and thrashing about.

I’m looking to unpack baggage from the back of my mind, and I think I would be better served by learning to float.

Much of what I read about Retallack’s style in this essay seems to embrace boundless, borderline maddening writing as a form or breaking “frame lock”. I guess the thing that’s relevant to me is not how to break free, it’s how to do so in a manner that means something to me, even if in abstract. Being random is second nature to me, and I’m looking to find not only ways to better articulate my madness, but reasons for doing so in a written context.

In the Burns essay, he explores the basis of John Cage’s work, a subject of our Retallack reading. This line spoke loudly to me

“The complex point is that freedom is also a dimension of responsibility-in the end, it is as much an ethical as political concept. You don’t walk away from your experiments; or your experiences; you try to understand and justify them practically by how you go on to think and live.” 

This is a frame of mind I have just adopted. My work will not get brushed aside just because I got a grade on an assignment and am allowed to move forward. I am asking all of the pieces I am writing in this class and outside of school for their cooperation in possibly becoming part of a larger framework. I don’t want to write to put completions on things, I want to write to keep starting new things.

To further complicate my existential thought-line, reading Leslie Scalapino prompted me to research the idea of simulacra and simulacrum, which led me to the different layers of reality in symbol usage and belief/suspension of reality. I’ll have to further explore this in writing and philosophy, but the initial spark caused me to author the following piece:

Times I Was In 

I’m almost gone on my way. Relationships don’t have physical texture that bears out metaphoric accuracy; she was never a sweater, he was never a rock.

I’m one album from ecstasy. That may be true. But it’s easier to say I’m one away than remember newly washed hair in the sense of touch. Color of a case file. A box full of soft things tossed around with worn edges and folded notes.

I can pick a font that only leaves a letter at a time, grab onto my sexuality with a historic shove and put myself in bed with you is a simple thing. dreaming.

There are no here(s) that aren’t available. Legibility is an issue, but when wasn’t it. If I can break free of the question marks I can leave the green lines behind. we.

Death isn’t dark to me, anymore than this sentence is. Any resemblance to the other side of a coin is a coin metaphor, neither simile nor smile.

As if when I mention death I was doing a thing, some specific thing. Changing ring tones. Nope. I was just about to, though. Text.

There is a struggle of time syntax in song lyrics; add that to this list of cages. In a mode, you’ve set yourself free only from the previous. A one note escape plan to cell block G minor.

Making out with chaos. Buttered popcorn. I didn’t have to stand in line for this, and this wasn’t forced to wait for me. best movie ever/only documentary I’ll star in today. both of us on time, for once.

This was going be the part where I took a shot at a mirror; but I’m careful to step around it. The cliff has a lovely view in September, but I was never going to be a fall kinda guy. She loves it when he brings pumpkins though.

What is happening now isn’t the same as what is going on. By the time I’m twisted out, I’m walking into the next thing. That’s how you get to be a single; it’s called finding time.

Fine lines are texture on a thin wing, catching current freely. I know about your version of blue, and you got my measure of meanness in the old, orange parking ticket I just set aside. To be arbitrary is to finish tied with last.

When she asks you out, remember that you’re a runner facing in. A long distance lie, speed is a fast drug.

I’m asking loud questions before the movie is over and no one seems to mind.

Source:

The Poethical Wager. By Joan Retallack
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003. xii + 279 pp