Nathan Nicolau's Blog, page 2

Participating in Vivaldi Reimagined

I had the great honor of participating in Charlotte Symphony Orchestra's Vivaldi Reimagined: The Four Seasons in Music & Verse on February 13th at my workplace, Central Piedmont Community College. This program combined Antonio Vivaldi's most well-known piece, The Four Seasons, with original poetry.

A little-known fact is that Vivaldi wrote sonnets for each of the four concertos. For the CPCC performance, fellow faculty member Kimberly Scott read Vivaldi's original sonnets while I wrote and performed original poems inspired by Vivaldi's.

My aim was not to improve or diminish the original poems but to converse with them. Vivaldi wrote poetry the same he wrote music: with an impressionistic flair. His poems depicted pictorial scenes akin to visual art during the Baroque period. His poems also explored themes common to his time such as Greek/Roman mythology and man vs. nature. I wanted to modernize his poems by adding storytelling, metaphors, and symbolism to his already-established themes.

I am happy to say that the concert was a success and many seemed to have enjoyed my reimaginings. If you missed it, no worries. Throw on a recording of The Four Seasons and read the poems below yourself!

Chapter 1 of TWO

Here's a video of me reading this chapter:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fIsigSv5Hw

,Ella

He was as beautiful as always.

I could not help but take a moment to admire his appearance once again. I had been visiting him for quite some time now, and with each visit, I discovered something new about him. Whether it was the smooth curve of his face that complemented his overall physique, or his towering height that made him stand out among everyone else. That was why I made the effort to come to this park at the crack of dawn just to see him. He was always there in Romare Bearden Park, minding his own business. He occupied the same spot every time: a small circle next to the gardens, surrounded by benches. He sat in the middle of the circle, surrounded by a patch of grass. I always found him sitting there alone, looking around, perhaps lost in thought or enjoying the scenery. Without fail, he was always there regardless of the weather. I once saw him sitting there when I passed by at 2 a.m.

I admired his aesthetic. He had a bright complexion that was almost flawless. His body was perfectly proportioned, with nothing that seemed out of place. I also loved his choice of clothing. I had only ever seen him wearing silver garments with swirling streaks down the middle. His clothes had such a sheen that I could see my reflection in them. It was not a clear reflection like a mirror. Because of the streaks and his seated position, my image became distorted, making my head appear squashed, my torso elongated, my face blending into the colors of his clothes. I wondered if that was how he saw me, fragmented and flawed. It would not be the first time, I supposed.

Strangely, despite him always being at the park, no one seemed to notice him as they passed by. They might give him a passing glance, but they would move on with their day. I thought it was unfair. He presented himself so well, and people should take the time to appreciate it. He never responded to anyone, however. He maintained the same stoic expression throughout the day. I could never tell whether it stemmed from sadness, anger, or a combination of both. I had intended to ask him about it, but I was afraid of receiving the same cold stare. I had been talking to him ever since I moved to this area. It started as a simple courtesy, but it gradually became a form of therapy for me. I poured my heart out to him, sharing my secrets, passions, and frustrations, and he would look back at me with the same indifferent expression. Maybe he was listening. Maybe he was searching for the right words to say. Or maybe I was just annoying him. Regardless, having someone to vent to brought me some solace. At this point, I would welcome anyone's company. I was sure he felt the same way.

I was supposed to be on my way, but I could not resist passing by him one more time. This might be my final encounter with him. And as always, there he was, in the same spot, with the same frozen expression on his face. And as always, I approached him. This time, it was going to be different. I wanted him to understand how I felt. It might be painful, but it needed to be done. I wanted to leave a lasting impression on him, and even if he did not respond, it would bring me some peace of mind. I looked up at him. His gaze seemed to pass right through me, but it did not matter. I cleared my throat...

,Howl

A statue? I thought she was yelling at someone with how loud she was. 

She wasn’t speaking English, either. Italian, I think? I wasn’t good with foreign languages, even though I read a lot. Well, this wasn’t something that happened often here. This park was usually quiet and the perfect place to read. But now I have Italian screaming in my ears. I couldn't help but watch, strangely enough. The book I was reading was getting boring anyway, and this was much more entertaining than studying business administration.

She stood directly in front of the spiraled statue, her eyes fixed ahead, undistracted. She spoke with grandeur, every syllable flowing out of her mouth like a torrent. It was just the two of us, her, and that strange statue, engaged in this speech. I never paid much attention to that statue until now. It was just a tall, cyclone-like spiral reaching upward. Honestly, I always thought it was kind of ugly. Why was she directing all of this at that particular junk? There was a fountain behind us that was much prettier and more deserving of praise.

I started paying attention to what she was actually saying. It was impressive. Her words and performance moved me. "Moved" doesn't fully describe it. Hearing such passion was refreshing. I've been trapped in my own thoughts for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to hear another person's voice. Hearing words instead of reading them on a page was exactly what I needed.

The more I watched, the more it felt like I was witnessing a defining moment in this person's life. I didn't know what she was saying, yet I could feel her determination. She moved her entire body as if dancing for the statue. Her olive-toned hands waved and she twisted around with rigid motions, fists raised high, hips locked. Her silky black hair swayed and bounced with each movement. Even from a distance, I could see the excitement in her brown eyes as words poured out from her heart. I wish I knew what she was saying. It would make anyone pay attention.

She clasped her hands together, looking up at the sky as she continued. Her speech took on a musical quality with a certain rhythm as if she had carefully chosen each word beforehand. There was no way that could’ve been planned. Her voice sounded so natural, without a hint of recitation. And with a series of short interjections, she concluded. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and ran a hand through her hair.

It took a lot for me not to applaud. No. That would be awkward. Almost painful. It was silent now, which seemed odd. Almost eerie. The girl with black hair still stood there, checking the time on her phone as if she was about to leave. I couldn’t just leave it at that, could I? Whatever she said had captivated me, and I had to let her know. Maybe it would make her day. But I knew I had to be careful. I doubt she noticed that I was listening. She might think I was a huge creep, and that was the last thing I wanted to come across as. I sighed. I hated it when I knew deep down what I wanted to do but still ended up being indecisive. My parents called it thinking with your brain instead of your heart. How fitting.

I put my book in my messenger bag and walked up to her. Normally, the mere thought of doing this would make me cringe, but this felt right. She deserved recognition for such a fantastic performance. My heart raced with each step I took.

"Excuse me..."

,Ella

 

I should not have acted surprised, but his suddenness caught me off guard.

I stood there with my back turned to whoever spoke to me, contemplating how I would justify what I was doing. I expected people to think I was insane for doing this, but for some reason, I did not anticipate someone approaching me about it. I figured people would stare, shrug their shoulders, and move on. People treated the statue the same way, but I could not blend into the background. In moments like this, disappearing would be great.

I jerked my body around. He appeared to be my age. He was not dressed to impress, that was for sure. He wore a plain, dark hoodie that matched the circles under his eyes. He carried a messenger bag that sagged heavily on his shoulder. I was surprised he could stand with its weight. He reminded me of the types I used to meet at my old college: sleep-deprived and studious. He scratched the light blonde stubble on his whitish-pink face, briefly looking away before returning his gaze to me. Was he nervous? The way he approached me suggested concern.

"I had no idea what you just said, but that was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard," he said, speaking in short bursts as if he had a million and a half things to tell me at once. I could not help but flash a quick, small smile. It was the first time anyone had complimented my speaking skills. To be fair, I had never done this in public. I figured I should break it to him. He was honest with me, so I should be honest with him.

"Thank you," I replied in perfect English. "But honestly, I have no idea what I just said."

He blinked. I wanted to burst out laughing but held it in. God, I love good comedic timing.

"What?"

"I actually don't speak Italian. Funny, right?"

The puzzled look on his face was priceless. I wished I had taken a picture of it. It seemed like his world was crumbling around him like he did not know what to believe anymore.

"But the way you said all of that sounded like you've been speaking it your whole life," he said.

He was right. I knew that passage better than my phone number. I had even dreamed about it. Whatever it was, it haunted me and probably would for the rest of my life.

"Thank you. Honestly, I wish I knew what it all meant. It is pretty romantic and all. But no one in my family speaks Italian. I know it is from an opera."

"What opera?"

I shrugged. He must have thought I was either insane or just messing with him. It definitely was not the latter. There were many things about my life that I had not figured out, like how was I going to keep wasting time today. What was there to do around here that would go unnoticed? Something that would consume most of my time…

"It is a pretty long story, and I have to get going. There is, uh, a museum I wanted to visit."

"Which one?" he asked.

Damn. I had not thought that through. What museums were around here anyway? Wait! I remembered someone recommending one to me a long time ago. What was the name? It started with a "B."

"I think it is pronounced the Bet-sh-ler?".

"'Bet-kler,'" he corrected.

"Ah, okay. I have never been. I was just killing time here."

Saved.

,Howl

 

A pretty strange way to kill time, but who was I to judge?

Okay, step 1 was done. On to step 2: say, "Nice to meet you," and leave. Easy. But then, an idea popped into my head—a crazy one. Something I hadn't considered doing today. My brain took a backseat, and now it was my heart's turn to speak. It was so excited that it leaped. I had to remind myself that the worst she could say was "No." But I hoped she wouldn't.

"I could go with you if you want," I said.

She turned her gaze towards me. Her smile faded, and her expression became genuine—her eyes widened, and her mouth slightly opened. I knew it. I came off too strong. Panic set in. I needed to find a way to play it off cooler.

"I haven't been to that museum in a while. Besides, I'm heading in that direction myself. I have some books to return," I added, gesturing to my shoulder bag.

This looked bad. I had gone off the deep end. I didn't know what I was saying at this point. I should’ve just left and saved us both from embarrassment. I couldn't look at her face for more than a millisecond. Nope, this was a terrible idea. I was about to say, "Forget it," and move on when she interrupted me:

"Oh. I guess it would be nice to go with someone. I get bored going to places alone anyway."

I looked up at her to make sure that had happened. She seemed serious as could be. I half-expected her to burst into laughter and mock me for asking such a stupid question.

"You said you have been there before, right? I actually do not know where it is," she added.

"It's not far at all," I reassured her.

"Good, you can guide me then. What is your name?"

I was so shocked that it took me a moment to register her question.

"Howl," I said, feeling a sense of relief.

She looked me up and down, as I expected.

"Is... that really—"

"Nah," I replied. "It's what I prefer to be called. Been trying to reinvent myself lately."

"I like that. Reinventing yourself. Well, since you know the way, shall we?"

My breathing returned to normal. I guess I could be myself now, whatever that meant.

"Well, I'd like to know the name of the person I'm accompanying first," I said, offering a slight smile.

,Ella

 

Well, that was a bit rude.

,Howl

Oh no.

I cringed hard inside. Note to self: don't try to be funny. I should’ve just asked for her name without all the sarcasm. I thought she would chuckle at my snarkiness, but instead, she looked taken aback, wrinkling her eyebrows at me. Apologizing right now would only make things more awkward. I needed to get better at this kind of stuff, but I guess the only way to improve was through practice.

"Ella," she said.

TWO Kindle pre-orders

My debut novel, TWO, is now available for Kindle pre-orders. The direct link is https://www.amazon.com//dp/B0CTDLTF3T.

Announcing TWO, my debut novel

In 2017, while a student at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, I was sitting outside the library when a drama student started reciting lines from an Italian play she was in. I don't speak Italian, but it was truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. I told her that, and she tanked me. I walked away, not thinking anything of it.

Fast forward to now. That small encounter inspired my debut novel TWO, which will be available March 4th on Amazon.

This novel was three years in the making. I originally wrote it as my master's thesis at the University of North Carolina Charlotte under the mentorship of Dr. Mark West. After graduating in 2021 and starting my career as an English professor, I never gave up refining TWO as it is my most personal work to date.

The synopsis: Howl, the studious yet blunt college student, and Ella, the free-spirited art school dropout, are one and the same. Both are college-aged, aimless in life, and haunted by their pasts. They would have never met on any other day, but that changed after a surreal encounter at the park involving an Italian opera Ella could recite but could not understand. As the two investigate the mystery of the unknown opera, they travel through their home city of Charlotte, North Carolina, discovering themselves and forming a strong bond within 24 hours. When Ella unexplainably leaves Howl's life the next day, will their dark pasts test this newfound friendship?

I have been greatly influenced by life-affirming coming-of-age stories and wanted to offer subversions to the "boy-meets-girl" story trope within that genre. The novel takes place in my home city of Charlotte, NC, and features real-life locations within the city. This alone makes the story unique. There are not many coming-of-age novels that take place in Charlotte, as I learned through Dr. West. Perhaps I will write more, who knows.

More details are to come.

Announcing "No Sense, No Money," coming November 1st

I am excited to announce my next book: a collection of film and music essays, many of which collected since 2016 along with some new ones.

Topics include Japanese master directors Seijun Suzuki and Isao Takahata, animation rebel Ralph Bakshi, a defense of the 2012 neo-noir Killing Them Softly, an examination of Hank Williams Sr. as a poet, and a collection of jazz album reviews.

The book will be out November 1st in hardcover and paperback on Amazon.

This will be my first essay collection, and I am beyond excited to share my passion for film and music with you.

Mishima—A Life in Four Chapters: An Essay in Four Paragraphs

While rewatching the film for the third time, my wife came in during one of my favorite scenes: a flashback sequence where Mishima reminisces on his troubled past as the voiceover reads from Mishima’s Sun and Steel before transitioning to a theatrical adaptation of The Temple of the Golden Pavillion.

The subtitles read, “In my earliest years, I realized life consisted of two contradictory elements: one was words, which could change the world. The other was the world itself, which had nothing to do with words. For the average person, the body precedes language.”

My wife—who knew enough Japanese to have a basic conversation—looked puzzled. “He said none of that,” she blurted. “He was talking about his aunt. He said obasan.”

A translation error in Mishima’s work? A creative decision from the enigmatic Schrader? The body precedes language.

New Essay: "In Defense of Killing Them Softly"

Bridge Eight has graciously published my latest essay defending one of my favorite movies: 2012's Killing Them Softly. I thank the editors for this opportunity, and if you haven't seen the movie, please do. If you're on the fence, give my essay a read.

Excerpt from "Cartooning is Vulgarity: Finding Artistry in Bakshi's Heavy Traffic"

The Quarter(ly) graciously published my essay on Ralph Bakshi's 1973 film Heavy Traffic, which I find both a masterwork and a travesty simultaneously. Below are scattered excerpts.

When Walt Disney was asked how he felt about animation, he said eloquently, "Animation offers a medium of storytelling and visual entertainment which can bring pleasure and information to people of all ages everywhere in the world" (Zupanic). It can be argued that most animation during and after Disney's time has followed this principle. Because of this, animation as a medium has been unfairly labeled as children's stuff. When animation studios today, such as Disney, DreamWorks, and Illumination, seem to pump out cute family-friendly fare at an assembly line rate, it is hard to imagine animation being used crudely, to offend, or to challenge the status quo. While adult animation shows such as Family Guy, The Simpsons, or South Park do offer that edge today, before the rise of animated television, such themes in animation were unheard of. That was when Ralph Bakshi stepped up to the plate.

When underground animator Ralph Bakshi was asked how he viewed animation, he said firmly, "The art of cartooning is vulgarity. The only reason for cartooning to exist is to be on the edge. If you only take apart what they allow you to take apart, you're Disney. Cartooning is a low-class, for-the-public art, just like graffiti art and rap music. Vulgar but believable, that's the line I kept walking" (Busack).

The yin to Disney's yang. Bakshi spoke like a cynical grandfather who is largely misunderstood because he believed he was. Here is a man who, for better or worse, changed the face of animation during the '70s. A man whose works were a critic’s whipping boy, only to be later appreciated by legions of cult followers who kissed the ground he walked on. One of those converted obsessors (not surprisingly) is Quentin Tarantino, who admiringly wrote in the Bakshi retrospective Unfiltered, "This serious treatment of a very fearless satirical artist is long overdue" (Tarantino).

"Fearless" is certainly the right word. Not only does it describe Bakshi's attitude, it describes what can be best described as his magnum opus, Heavy Traffic (1973). Heavy Traffic is a vile, revolting, and problematic film that pulls no punches and takes no prisoners. It is shocking how an 80-minute animated film is more transgressive than Mean Streets (dir. Martin Scorsese) and more controversial than The Exorcist (dir. William Friedkin), with all three being released in the same year. In other words, if one has a pulse, they will somehow be offended by this film. Yet through all the horribly racist caricatures, profanity-laded dialogue, and deeply upsetting imagery lies pure artistry in the animation techniques used. It proves that Bakshi was more than just a rebel in the animation world—he was also an innovator. This is why he is still talked about today rather than shunned by the public, as one could expect from releasing a film such as this. In short, whether we like it or not, Heavy Traffic is an important film due to how far it is willing to push the medium of animation to the limit.

~ ~ ~

When on the subject of Heavy Traffic's characters and their portrayals, we must address the biggest elephant in the room: Snowflake, the nymphomaniac transvestite. Snowflake is possibly the most offensive representation in the entire film, bar none. Bakshi's transphobic depiction of Snowflake is downright hateful. He is introduced stuffing tissue paper down his bra and putting on a dress to hide his unshaven legs. At a bar, he receives a brutal beating by a drunk man after realizing Snowflake is not a woman. Instead of defending himself, Snowflake finds pleasure in pain and keeps aggressively pursuing the drunk man. This depiction was wrong then, and it is wrong now. However, it brings up a question: Has there ever been a trans character in a mainstream animated film before? Only one comes to mind, and that—unfortunately—is Heavy Traffic. Despite the atrocious depiction, Heavy Traffic might be considered a landmark for having a trans character in an animated film—once again showing Bakshi on the cutting edge in the animation world. It is a shame that the first-ever depiction had to be as exploitative as it is.

~ ~ ~

To Bakshi, these characters are not just stereotyped gags played for a laugh. He fleshes them out and expects people to empathize with them, despite showing the downright horrendous actions they perform. Bakshi never seems to make anything clear with his characters. Are we supposed to laugh at these people and their actions or not? As they fight, insult, and even downright murder each other, are we supposed to take it seriously? Are we supposed to learn something? It makes an uncomfortable viewing experience that some might find brilliant, and some might find unsettling. However, despite how one feels, the film is an experience that cannot be equaled in any other animated film of its time.

As well as its themes, the animation style of Heavy Traffic is also unlike any other of its own and even today. On an aesthetic level, Heavy Traffic is a beautifully made movie with an eclectic sensibility and endless creative ideas. Bakshi's characters look like they stepped right off an R. Crumb comic, yet their movements are as exaggerated as in a Tex Avery short. These characters live in a seedy world made of watercolors, gritty neon lights, and live-action footage. Bakshi successfully crafts a world our character inhabits using different mediums that feels unified as a whole. Included in this world are two short segments where the film's style takes a drastic turn, keeping us on our toes while also offering new creative ideas in animated movies.

~ ~ ~

It becomes ironic that, later in Bakshi's career, he would conform to safer mainstream animation with fantasy epics such as Wizards (1977) and The Lord of the Rings (1978). The tipping point of this mainstream phase was the doomed live-action/animation hybrid Roger Rabbit rip-off Cool World (1992), a film that bombed so drastically it caused Bakshi to take a 23-year hiatus from making another film.

Bakshi spent those 23 years making a made-for-TV live-action movie and doing small animation gigs for children's shows. As his cult reputation grew during this time, he went virtually silent. He would only appear at nerd/geek conventions where he would declare controversial statements such as "What’s extraordinary is what they’re saying on The Simpsons on television, is almost more than I did on Fritz the Cat, which I got yelled at and beat up about. And South Park! What is going on here? I got shot for less than this" ("Before 'The Simpsons'"). It is true that what is airing on South Park this week might be worse than the entirety of Heavy Traffic, but we cannot have one without the other. Without Bakshi, we would not have the adult-oriented animated shows of Seth MacFarlane, the social satire of Trey Stone & Matt Parker, or the surrealistic children's shows of John Kricfalusi or Steven Hillenburg. Bakshi seems appreciative, but his tone comes off as bitter. He still sticks to his guns and is motivated to make the next thing that will get people buzzing. His latest film, The Last Days of Coney Island (2015), proves that he has not lost his touch. It is as provocative and visceral as Heavy Traffic. It is drenched in grit, reliant on shock value, and deliberately rough around the edges.

~ ~ ~

What do we do with Heavy Traffic today? No matter what, it accomplished what Bakshi set off to do: vulgarity. In the end, Heavy Traffic is more than just an animated movie; it is an extension of animation's greatest court jester.

Works Cited

"Before 'The Simpsons' and 'South Park,' There Was Ralph Bakshi." CNN, 21 Sept. 2011, cnn.com/2011/09/21/living/bakshi-on-t....

Busack, Richard Von. "Monstrosious! Rudy Ray Moore and 'Coonskin' at Cinequest: The Black Hero of the 1970s on the Fringe." Metroactive Movies, 2003,

metroactive.com/papers/metro/02.27.03...

Tarantino, Quentin. Foreword. Unfiltered: The Complete Ralph Bakshi, by Jon Gibson & Chris McDonnell. Universe. 2008.

Zupanic, Jeffrey. "COSI Exhibit Explores World of Cartoons." The Alliance Review, 2 Aug. 2007.

Announcing "Office Poems," pre-release copies out now!

I am thrilled to announce my latest poetry collection: Office Poems. The great people over at Cyberwit.net picked up this manuscript which has been a work in progress for a little over a year. Pre-release copies are available now on Amazon.com.

The book is separated into four sections focusing on the themes of politics, love and death, tributes to people in my life, and my Buddhist beliefs, in that exact order. My target audience for the book is poetry lovers seeking an edgier yet poetic spin on the topics mentioned.

Book Description:

Step into the office of Nathan Nicolau, where he ruminates on various topics in between reading emails and grading papers: politics, Buddhism, jazz, and his love for Frank O'Hara. This eclectic collection presents its themes in an edgier yet playfully poetic style that Nicolau is known for.

Praise:

"The style of these poems is quite attractive due to everyday words used by the poet revealing technical skill and attractive insights. The diction and phrasing of these poems is quite remarkable. The poet, for the most part, uses matter-of-fact, everyday words instead of artificial and ornamental vocabulary. We find herein very creative poetry."

- Cyberwit

New Publications

I meant to announce these new publications earlier on my blog, but work got in the way. I like to keep myself busy, as you can see below.

OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters accepted "Lunch with Frank O'Hara at the Mexican Cantina: Selected and Abridged" earlier this year.

Silent Spark Press accepted "Only Yesterday" earlier this year, and is now in their recent print edition.

Two poems, "Needle in 3/4th Time" and "Here's to Many More, Mrs. Cottrell," is forthcoming in NiftyLit.

"Love is Sharing a Bathroom" is forthcoming in Chariot Press sometime this winter season.

"Speeding up the World" is forthcoming in Meniscus in 2023.

I thank all the publications listed for seeing something special in my work.