Glen Hirshberg's Blog, page 8
July 22, 2014
Sampson Starkweather
T.R.U.E., Week of 7/22 (Special All-Canadians Edition), Post #3
Sampson Starkweather The First Four Books of Sampson Starkweather
Who is he. this Sampson Starkweather? It was the name that made me drag the book off the shelf at Type, one of Toronto's fabulous little repositories of books not nearly enough people know about. And the title. Clearly, a career someone must have noted, right? Then I started flipping around, at random. Catching, repeatedly, at lines that flashed like a thousand pennies at the bottom of a well, just out of my reach. I probably stood there for twenty minutes. Then I went to the very informed clerk at the counter. He said, "Yeah, that book is AMAZING. It just showed up. We've never heard of him before." There's an intro in the book, by Jared White. Maybe Jared knows him. But you wouldn't know it by this intro.
Amazon has a bio up. It says Sampson lives with an escape artist named Paige. So that's helpful.
But the WORK!
Here's just one set of snippets. From one of those little flashing-penny paragraphs. And the thing is, they're ALL this good:
"Now I'm writing to you from inside your left lung, which, being slightly smaller than your right lung, makes room for your heart...the entire world rises in your chest, a wave on the precipice of a kiss...You should really come see what it's like down here...So many vibrant fires raving and playing truant in my troubled water. The debris of this sea--my smoldering desire. And you go on breathing normally."
See?
http://www.amazon.com/The-First-Books...
Sampson Starkweather The First Four Books of Sampson Starkweather
Who is he. this Sampson Starkweather? It was the name that made me drag the book off the shelf at Type, one of Toronto's fabulous little repositories of books not nearly enough people know about. And the title. Clearly, a career someone must have noted, right? Then I started flipping around, at random. Catching, repeatedly, at lines that flashed like a thousand pennies at the bottom of a well, just out of my reach. I probably stood there for twenty minutes. Then I went to the very informed clerk at the counter. He said, "Yeah, that book is AMAZING. It just showed up. We've never heard of him before." There's an intro in the book, by Jared White. Maybe Jared knows him. But you wouldn't know it by this intro.
Amazon has a bio up. It says Sampson lives with an escape artist named Paige. So that's helpful.
But the WORK!
Here's just one set of snippets. From one of those little flashing-penny paragraphs. And the thing is, they're ALL this good:
"Now I'm writing to you from inside your left lung, which, being slightly smaller than your right lung, makes room for your heart...the entire world rises in your chest, a wave on the precipice of a kiss...You should really come see what it's like down here...So many vibrant fires raving and playing truant in my troubled water. The debris of this sea--my smoldering desire. And you go on breathing normally."
See?
http://www.amazon.com/The-First-Books...
Tanya Tagaq-- "Uja"
T.R.U.E., Week of 7/22 (Special All-Canadians Edition), Post #2
Tanya Tagaq-- "Uja" (from ANIMISM)
The most consistently adventurous, alarming, arresting, electrifying world/fusion artist I know, a self-described Inuit-punk with an imagination worthy of her vocal agility, she's a groaning, growling, circular-breathing banshee who can bring the beautifulness when she feels like it, a world traveler and other-musics absorber who somehow manages never to let the icy core of her work melt or soften. Stunning.
Listen on Sound Cloud-->
Tanya Tagaq-- "Uja" (from ANIMISM)
The most consistently adventurous, alarming, arresting, electrifying world/fusion artist I know, a self-described Inuit-punk with an imagination worthy of her vocal agility, she's a groaning, growling, circular-breathing banshee who can bring the beautifulness when she feels like it, a world traveler and other-musics absorber who somehow manages never to let the icy core of her work melt or soften. Stunning.
Listen on Sound Cloud-->
CanLit
T.R.U.E. (Tuesday Round-up of Everything), Week of 7/22, Post #1
In between Ian Rogers' superb reading and mine last week at the ChiZine event in Toronto, Kari Maaren and her ukelele popped up onstage and delivered a ripping, rousing version of this song. Having just heard it again, I've decided that it's even funnier and smarter than I thought. It doesn't just skewer the entire Canadian literary establishment; it pretty much nails the rampant snobbery among that substantial garrison of the entire English-speaking literary world hellbent on keeping Literature safe from anyone with an imagination. Best, funniest piece of litcrit I've sung all year:
CanLit
In between Ian Rogers' superb reading and mine last week at the ChiZine event in Toronto, Kari Maaren and her ukelele popped up onstage and delivered a ripping, rousing version of this song. Having just heard it again, I've decided that it's even funnier and smarter than I thought. It doesn't just skewer the entire Canadian literary establishment; it pretty much nails the rampant snobbery among that substantial garrison of the entire English-speaking literary world hellbent on keeping Literature safe from anyone with an imagination. Best, funniest piece of litcrit I've sung all year:
CanLit
Epistles from the Road--Lansing, MI
Last stop on the East-Midwest swing of the Motherless Child tour. Almost last stop, period, for this book, and then I will have mostly done what I can do; just Comic-Con and San Francisco to go, and I get to go home before those. So many great people I've met these past weeks. So many memorable moments. Not least this very quiet one, in an Ann Arbor hotel, my
Good Girls
work done for the day, my exhausted son--who has been his usual, magical self, the perfect companion--sleeping across the room. If you're anywhere near Lansing, tonight, come help me see the Prius-Shaped GTO Experience out in style at Schuler's Books.
July 20, 2014
Epistles from the Road--Detroit
Sweet, strange day. Saw my first hometown Tigers game in 34 years, and my first with my son, sitting in the upper deck with Detroit framed so beautifully in the sunlight streaming past all that green beyond the outfield fence, it seemed almost possible to believe there was still a city out there. Or will be again someday. Then back to the 'burbs, to show my boy the little yard on the tight, grassy corner where I used to play whiffle-ball hockey with my Uncle Jeff, and hide-and-seek with everyone, in the company of one of the brothers we used to play there with (and HIS sons). After that, to the house we moved to later, with the birch trees and the evergreens, the bus stop at the end of a driveway at the end of the block, the basketball hoops in driveways, the house through the trees up the little hill which I would one day transform into Theresa Daughrety's The Snowman's Children house,
the weedy, reedy lake where we swam, with the deck off the scraggle of beach that my dad built for the whole neighborhood to use. Still there. The roads not dirt anymore. The place not the one in my memory. At least not sunlit like that. Then back to a nightlong dinner and gabfest with almost the entire family from that house behind ours, plus all of their families, the stories we always retell being retold once more, riper and older, sweeter and funnier. And sadder. Or maybe I'm just aware of being away from the home that is my home now for a little too long...
the weedy, reedy lake where we swam, with the deck off the scraggle of beach that my dad built for the whole neighborhood to use. Still there. The roads not dirt anymore. The place not the one in my memory. At least not sunlit like that. Then back to a nightlong dinner and gabfest with almost the entire family from that house behind ours, plus all of their families, the stories we always retell being retold once more, riper and older, sweeter and funnier. And sadder. Or maybe I'm just aware of being away from the home that is my home now for a little too long...
July 19, 2014
Epistles from the Road--Michigan
Across Ontario in a spitting, frigid Canadian rain borrowed from the fall (courtesy, apparently, of the Japanese typhoon), into Michigan for maybe the third time since it stopped being my home, 35 years ago, now. Winding with my son down the 696, waiting for the names on the signs to start ringing things inside me,
and a few of them maybe did--Evergreen, Southfield, Cider Mill--but mostly the words just knocked other words around, like one of those hanging ball-toys where the balls at either end fly up when you knock them, but the ones in the center don't move anymore. Stay dead. View of the Detroit Zoo watertower--that chimed. Don't know why. Piano-lessons-very-old-friend-deli near there, when I was very, very young. The birches--forgot their trunks were so spindly--like crossed legs at the edge of the forest.
But my home is where my home is NOW, turns out. Where my kids are. And I have more nostalgia every day at my writing desk, just because that's where those feelings typically get summoned and put to use.
However. Having arrived, tired, in Ann Arbor, we did discover an Olga's down the block. And so I gave Sid one of those. Had one myself, for the first time in 12 years, second in 35. THAT rang me, alright. I'm ringing, still...
Tigers at Comerica and the oldest friends I will ever have (as in, the friends who lived next door to me almost from the day I was born) tomorrow. Then a Motherless Child tour grand finale rush at Literati in Ann Arbor, Schuler's in East Lansing. Then home, to my home.
and a few of them maybe did--Evergreen, Southfield, Cider Mill--but mostly the words just knocked other words around, like one of those hanging ball-toys where the balls at either end fly up when you knock them, but the ones in the center don't move anymore. Stay dead. View of the Detroit Zoo watertower--that chimed. Don't know why. Piano-lessons-very-old-friend-deli near there, when I was very, very young. The birches--forgot their trunks were so spindly--like crossed legs at the edge of the forest.
But my home is where my home is NOW, turns out. Where my kids are. And I have more nostalgia every day at my writing desk, just because that's where those feelings typically get summoned and put to use.
However. Having arrived, tired, in Ann Arbor, we did discover an Olga's down the block. And so I gave Sid one of those. Had one myself, for the first time in 12 years, second in 35. THAT rang me, alright. I'm ringing, still...
Tigers at Comerica and the oldest friends I will ever have (as in, the friends who lived next door to me almost from the day I was born) tomorrow. Then a Motherless Child tour grand finale rush at Literati in Ann Arbor, Schuler's in East Lansing. Then home, to my home.
July 18, 2014
Epistles from the Road--Toronto
No readings today, no events, just my boy and me. So what do my boy and I do when we're alone in a city worth loving (see similar post below)? Walk forever, naturally. East and south this time, collecting stories as we went. The Mad Cows of Osgood Hall, Toronto? That's some funky justice-system issues you've got. Then there's the Grand Hall, or whatever you call it, in the Hockey Hall of Fame, where you keep that thing. That Cup thing? I've seen a room like that once before. Napoleon buried himself in it.
Oh, the Canadian humility.
Then to the First Post Office (which was fantastic), to St. Lawrence Market for "Peameal Bacon" (which you're really going to have to explain to us, because there were handmade wild cherry perogies and gorgeous Indian stews bubbling right nearby, and yet we honored your wishes, got the sandwich). Gregg Hirshberg, this one's for you, because I'm not sure it's possible to get a lunch that is more completely and definitively meat-on-bread. Simon Stranzas, you were so right.
Then all the way east to the Distillery District, where that chocolate shop is, and that's more like it: chocolate sour cherries, birch branches stuffed with cherries and hazelnuts, the Douglas Fir truffle. Plus, those are some seriously atmospheric streets. Good feet-on-cobblestones sound all around. Some subtle, lovely art in the galleries.
Then all along the waterfront (at least, we hear there's waterfront; this was more constructionfront), staring at the architecture, which is remarkable everywhere here, reminds me of Prague, so many styles and eras tumbled together. Glass sail building flying above 170 year-old stone cathedral, etc. Sid wanted to check out the aquarium, so that's where we went, and that's one fine aquarium. Communed with the octopi, marveled at the Goliath Grouper
(and the little tidbit on the sign about the Goliath's ability to unleash a sound from its bladder that can be felt miles away to terrify potential predators, prompting Sid to rename the fish Grampy--sorry, Jerry Hirshberg, but he's a perceptive kid, and he calls 'em like he smells 'em), stared up at the sawfish in the towering tanks over the tunnel.
Then we were going to go back to our little room, exhausted. But the Blue Jays were playing. So we went there instead.
Not the most restful possible break-day before the last events of the tour. Just the best possible.
Oh, the Canadian humility.
Then to the First Post Office (which was fantastic), to St. Lawrence Market for "Peameal Bacon" (which you're really going to have to explain to us, because there were handmade wild cherry perogies and gorgeous Indian stews bubbling right nearby, and yet we honored your wishes, got the sandwich). Gregg Hirshberg, this one's for you, because I'm not sure it's possible to get a lunch that is more completely and definitively meat-on-bread. Simon Stranzas, you were so right.
Then all the way east to the Distillery District, where that chocolate shop is, and that's more like it: chocolate sour cherries, birch branches stuffed with cherries and hazelnuts, the Douglas Fir truffle. Plus, those are some seriously atmospheric streets. Good feet-on-cobblestones sound all around. Some subtle, lovely art in the galleries.
Then all along the waterfront (at least, we hear there's waterfront; this was more constructionfront), staring at the architecture, which is remarkable everywhere here, reminds me of Prague, so many styles and eras tumbled together. Glass sail building flying above 170 year-old stone cathedral, etc. Sid wanted to check out the aquarium, so that's where we went, and that's one fine aquarium. Communed with the octopi, marveled at the Goliath Grouper
(and the little tidbit on the sign about the Goliath's ability to unleash a sound from its bladder that can be felt miles away to terrify potential predators, prompting Sid to rename the fish Grampy--sorry, Jerry Hirshberg, but he's a perceptive kid, and he calls 'em like he smells 'em), stared up at the sawfish in the towering tanks over the tunnel.
Then we were going to go back to our little room, exhausted. But the Blue Jays were playing. So we went there instead.
Not the most restful possible break-day before the last events of the tour. Just the best possible.
July 17, 2014
Epistles from the Road--Reading at the Merril Collection
Much smaller crowd tonight, but one of the great experiences of the whole trip, because Lorna and Mary and Annette--the Furies of the Merril--toured me through the Merril Collection. First edition Dracula, anyone?
Gorgeous William Timlin The Ship That Sailed to Mars whose illustrations could--should--hang in galleries showcasing the most haunting fantastical art ever dreamed and executed? How about the first issue of "Amazing Stories", its colors lurid-bright and glowing? Beautiful Lud-in-the-Mist, impossibly elegant, musty old Dunsanys and Machens. Stories about researchers needing to know about the color of the insides of Batman's mouth, about Margaret Atwood holing up in the stacks, told by the Furies,
two of them easily sixty, one of them stuttering, all of them ferociously passionate about and in love with the work they catalog and treasure.
Whether or not this tour, or this book, or any of my books ever "breaks out" (whatever that means)...they are already here. Already nestling in and resting. Sweet little Cthulhu things, among the Old Gods. Right where they belong. Home.
Then of course more fantastic conversation with Carolyn and Michael Kelly, Simon Strantzas (who either has a LOT of gas or else smiles much more easily and often than you people have been letting on), and Bob Knowlton (who acquired many of the Merril's treasures, including the DRAC). A memorable more than a profitable night, perhaps. Which I'll take, every time...
(photos courtesy Michael Kelly)
Gorgeous William Timlin The Ship That Sailed to Mars whose illustrations could--should--hang in galleries showcasing the most haunting fantastical art ever dreamed and executed? How about the first issue of "Amazing Stories", its colors lurid-bright and glowing? Beautiful Lud-in-the-Mist, impossibly elegant, musty old Dunsanys and Machens. Stories about researchers needing to know about the color of the insides of Batman's mouth, about Margaret Atwood holing up in the stacks, told by the Furies,
two of them easily sixty, one of them stuttering, all of them ferociously passionate about and in love with the work they catalog and treasure.
Whether or not this tour, or this book, or any of my books ever "breaks out" (whatever that means)...they are already here. Already nestling in and resting. Sweet little Cthulhu things, among the Old Gods. Right where they belong. Home.
Then of course more fantastic conversation with Carolyn and Michael Kelly, Simon Strantzas (who either has a LOT of gas or else smiles much more easily and often than you people have been letting on), and Bob Knowlton (who acquired many of the Merril's treasures, including the DRAC). A memorable more than a profitable night, perhaps. Which I'll take, every time...
(photos courtesy Michael Kelly)
Epistles from the Road--ChiSeries in Toronto
Great, great night reading at the Round Venue with the tremendously talented Ian Rogers and Sally McBride
while getting just a taste of the remarkable speculative fiction scene bubbling around Toronto and environs just now. Matzoh balls, corned beef, and a Nigel Kneale/Mordecai Richler/untranslated spooky French Canadians discussion with the Tribunal (Peter Halasz and Bob Knowlton) at Caplansky's (where they "kick it old Schul") beforehand. Then a warm, laughing, spook-filled night in the easy company of gifted, welcoming, fascinating people like Richard Gavin, Michael Rowe, Gemma Files, Michael Kelly and Carolyn Kelly, David Nickle, Ian and Kathryn Verlhurst-Rogers, Sean Moreland, Dominik Parisien (who needs to get well), Sandra Kasturi and Brett Savory of Chizine...
it was so fun and so lively, I swear I saw Simon Strantzas smile. Twice. (If I left anyone out, please forgive me. A little bleary and buzzing with it all this morning.) Quite a thing you have going on here, folks. You should treasure it. Thanks for letting me be part of it.
while getting just a taste of the remarkable speculative fiction scene bubbling around Toronto and environs just now. Matzoh balls, corned beef, and a Nigel Kneale/Mordecai Richler/untranslated spooky French Canadians discussion with the Tribunal (Peter Halasz and Bob Knowlton) at Caplansky's (where they "kick it old Schul") beforehand. Then a warm, laughing, spook-filled night in the easy company of gifted, welcoming, fascinating people like Richard Gavin, Michael Rowe, Gemma Files, Michael Kelly and Carolyn Kelly, David Nickle, Ian and Kathryn Verlhurst-Rogers, Sean Moreland, Dominik Parisien (who needs to get well), Sandra Kasturi and Brett Savory of Chizine...
it was so fun and so lively, I swear I saw Simon Strantzas smile. Twice. (If I left anyone out, please forgive me. A little bleary and buzzing with it all this morning.) Quite a thing you have going on here, folks. You should treasure it. Thanks for letting me be part of it.
July 16, 2014
Epistles from the Road: Art in Toronto
Stumbled out of the AGO reeling, after less than two hours, already full. The Henry Moore-Francis Bacon exhibit, so stunning, which works so hard to underscore the (very real) similarities in their work and concerns, but for me even more vividly underscores their differences, Moore's figures always reclining or collapsing, seeking relief or release from suffering, Bacon's almost bursting open--blooming, in a terrifying way--from it.
--Bacon; Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X, 1953
The long walk through the Group of Seven rooms with their snowscapes, their shadowed, not-quite-peopleless woods, half-identifying/half-inventing a specific, Canadian somewhere out of the great Canadian nowhere, so much gorgeous work we never get to see Stateside. J.E.H. Macdonald, my god! Hello, J.W. Morrice and your snowlit, Impressionist Quebec, welcome to my permanent collection;
--Morrice; Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré, 1897
Tom Thomson, I know those shadows. Or I want to. Emily Carr with your trees winding to heaven. Bacon--crushed, heartbroken, devastated Bacon--said it best, said it on the walls of the AGO exhibit: "Painting unlocks all kinds of valves of sensation in me which return me to life more violently." Pretty much why I think I'm here. Why I'm anywhere.
--Bacon; Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X, 1953
The long walk through the Group of Seven rooms with their snowscapes, their shadowed, not-quite-peopleless woods, half-identifying/half-inventing a specific, Canadian somewhere out of the great Canadian nowhere, so much gorgeous work we never get to see Stateside. J.E.H. Macdonald, my god! Hello, J.W. Morrice and your snowlit, Impressionist Quebec, welcome to my permanent collection;
--Morrice; Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré, 1897
Tom Thomson, I know those shadows. Or I want to. Emily Carr with your trees winding to heaven. Bacon--crushed, heartbroken, devastated Bacon--said it best, said it on the walls of the AGO exhibit: "Painting unlocks all kinds of valves of sensation in me which return me to life more violently." Pretty much why I think I'm here. Why I'm anywhere.
