Victor D. Infante's Blog, page 162

Goodbye, Wanda Coleman

Yesterday was an odd day. I woke up a bit early to run into work for about a half-hour to take care of some small things, then came home in time to grab Lea and head to the Toys For Tots trash bag party, which we do every year. From there, we had to run to Wegmen's to get some grocery shopping done before company came over to watch the "Doctor Who" special.

It had been a busy day, and it wasn't until I sat still that I learned that Wanda Coleman had died.

Wanda was one of the great ones, one of the poets who blazed paths in the art form back when there were, quite literally, none. Seriously, I look at all the poets touring today, and I think of Wanda, back when the only route available to most poets was academia. Wanda, and Black Sparrow Press, and Sekou Sundiata and yeah, even Charles Bukowski ... there was this moment, right between Beat and Punk, where a lot of the DNA of how we be poets without subscribing to a system was coalesced. For a spell there, there was only the hard road, and Wanda was walking it long before most of us came along. She was fierce and uncompromising as a writer and as a critic. (The latter of which got her into some trouble when she butted heads with a certain prominent poet whose work she deemed cliche.) But she was also kind, and immensely supportive of young writers.

I only knew her lightly. She's been a small presence in my life my entire career, always on the edge of nearly everything I've done. My heart goes out to her husband, Austin, and to my SoCal poetry family, which is hurting right now. It's only when you take a step backward and look at the entirety of the picture that you see how she touched all of our lives ... by example, by inspiration, by encouragement, by love.

But Wanda was a poet, and a warrior, and while several try to walk that road, I don't know if we'll ever see her like again.

American Sonnets: 91
By Wanda Coleman

the gates of mercy slammed on the right foot.
they would not permit return and bent
a wing. there was no choice but
to learn to boogaloo. those horrid days
were not without their pleasure, learning
to swear and wearing mock leather so tight
eyes bulged, a stolen puff or two
behind crack-broken backs and tickled palms
in hallways dark, flirtations during choir practice
as the body organized itself against the will
(a mystic gone ballistic, not home but blood
on the range) as one descended on this effed-up
breeding hole of greeds—to suffer chronic seeings

was’t hunger or holiness spurred the sighting?

Just another Day in New York: Neil Gaiman, Laurie Anderson, Mythology and Himalayan Art

I've often opined that while I love New York City, I probably couldn't live there. I think I need the relative seclusion of a city like Worcester, a place where I can have most of the comforts of urban living -- good restaurants, good bands playing, a real poetry scene --with the ability to very easily hide away and not get overwhelmed. Worcester's great because I'm a quick drive to slightly more metropolitan cities such as Boston or Providence, and a doable distance to New York. I visit enough that I have a relationship with the city, albeit a fairly casual one. But make no mistake: I dearly, dearly love New York, and am happy for any opportunity to spend time there. Even my more frustrating trips to NYC -- such as when I was down there for a business a decade-plus ago, trying to launch a magazine -- have always had good takeaways, something fairly magical to hold onto.

Yesterday was no exception. Lea and I ventured down to The Rubin Museum of Art, in Chelsea, to see a discussion on "Ignorance" by novelist Neil Gaiman and performance artist Laurie Anderson in the museums "Fact & Fiction" series. We had bought our tickets months ago, and the 150-odd-seat theater was sold out.  And deservedly so: It was a riveting conversation between two fantastic artists who didn't know each other, but who are both great minds and sharp wits ... and most importantly, obsessed with stories ... how they work, how they interact with the world.  I'm going to be processing that discussion for a long time, and won't do any justice to it trying to capture it here, save that I walked away with a head full of Greek, Chinese and Icelandic folktales and a plethora of thoughts and observations about the artistic process. I'd go on, but it would all come out flat, and not the wildfire that was in my head when I left the museum. Like I said,l it's going to take a long time for me to process it all. Part of me feels like my head was rewired. But that had begun even before the discussion started, because The Rubin Museum is, quite frankly, staggering.

Taking up six floors, the collection is drawn mostly from India, Nepal, Tibet,  Myanmar and Sri Lanka. Is it odd to say a museum feels holy? The collection mostly centers on Buddhist and Hindu themes, and piece after piece filled me with a reverence I've not often encountered. Much like Gaiman's and Anderson's discussion, I finished out exploration feeling like I knew more about that part of the world than I ever had before, and yet I felt like I knew nothing. Or perhaps more precisely, I now knew how little I knew.

In his light confection of a song "Say Hey (I Love You)," Michael Franti sings "seems like everywhere I go/the more I see the less I know." I've long known that to be true. When I was in my 20s, I thought I was so smart. Now, in my 40s, I feel like sometimes I don't know a damn thing. The more I think I've seen of the world, the more I keep being reminded that I've only seen a few drops of the ocean it has to offer. But I want to drink more of it. Oh, goodness, yes. I don't think I'm ready to stop exploring, and learning.

On a personal note, it was lovely seeing Anderson so soon after Lou Reed's death. I've read the obituaries she wrote for her late husband, and had a sense that she's at peace, but there's still nothing quite like seeing a person with your own eyes to ascertain that they're OK. It feels odd to care about a stranger like that, but there you are. And as for Gaiman, it was not only a joy to see him, as always, it was a joy to see him having so much fun. He was clearly overjoyed with the experience, and during the book signing afterward -- a Neil Gaiman signing that didn't have a line around the block! -- he and Lea got to commiserate over geeking out about being in Anderson's presence (and how her voice really is that amazing when she's simply in conversation.)

All told, an amazing evening. I have tentative plans to be back in new York a couple times early next year for poetry events ... looking forward to visiting again. I always miss it when I'm gone.

Well ... THAT happened ...

Spent a few hours in the emergency room last night ... abdominal pain, so bad I was incoherent. Vomited twice. I either ate something that SERIOUSLY disagreed with me, or I had a REALLY bad stomach bug. Through the miracle of modern medicine, I was given something for nausea and something which resembled the world's worst-tasting jello shot for pain. Worked wonders, and after several hours of agony, I began to feel better. This morning, I feel fine, if a bit weak. Going to take it easy for the rest of the day.

Lou Reed, Phish, Witchcraft, Etc. ...

It's been a whirlwind of a past few days. Lots of being up early writing, and lots of going to work and doing the same, only getting paid.

In a coda to my review of Phish the other day, I've received a TON of email from Phish Phans, all of it positive. Well, one guy complained that the review was well-written and well-structured, so clearly I wasn't stoned, and then went on to explain, at length, how that means I missed a lot. Sigh. But otherwise, I was a little overwhelmed and thoughtful the letters were.

Here's one from a reader named Ryan, writing from Georgia:

For someone who was largely unfamiliar with the band and attending your first Phish concert I must say, after reading your recent article, that you indeed did get it. Kudos on a very well written article about a very polarizing subject. Usually it’s articles by long-time fans gushing about how great they are (which is true), or articles talking about the Dead and drugs. Yours is the first I’ve read by someone who obviously knows music and really paid attention to what was happening, not only on stage but in the crowd. I have to say that my most memorable experience with them was at Hampton 11/21/97, early on during a 1.5 hour set comprised of four songs. The band had just finished playing what was truly one of the greatest live interpretations of spontaneous art that I have ever witnessed and had brought the playing to a brief pause when I turned and looked at 15,000 people stunned in to silence with jaws dropped. There was no idle chatter and no freaking out, it was pure reverence for artistic creation that everybody in that room all felt. Thank-you for realizing upon first experience that the band and their fans are not quite what the stereotype persists that we are…….Great writing. Thank-you……Ryan

Ryan's got a point: I really despite a lot of music journalism these days for a lot off the reasons he states: Writing to re-enforce conceptions, or opinions, instead of looking to see what's actually there ... figuring out how the music works and why people are reacting to it the way they do. Too many music journalists these days seem incapable of separating an appreciation for skill and technique with their own taste. They are different things, and I can see why Phish phans might feel put-upon. If nothing else, I'm glad to not contribute to that sort of laziness.

***

In  other news, I'm still a bit devastated by the death of Lou Reed. It's always so irrational, this sense of loss for strangers, but his music played an enormous role in my life. It was almost something tangible, and it's hard not to feel something slipping through my fingers.

Anyway, my thoughts on his life and work are here.

Rest in peace, Lou.

***

Looking forward to debuting the newest installment in my Whitney Bierce witch stories series, Hang the DJ: A tale of Witchcraft & Nightclubs, at the Open Stage Wednesday night. Not a feature -- there are no features there -- just one of any number of things that may be happening on a given night. But still. It's going to be fun.

When The Going Gets Weird ...

So, last night went a bit fugazi. Lea was supposed to read on IrRegular Radio, so we journeyed to Boston for her interview. We arrived at the empty looking building, stopping on the wrong floor where we inadvertantly discovered a cool looking used book and record store. The gentleman working there directed us to the fifth floor, where we arrived at the office IrRegular Radio shares with DigBoston. The door was locked.

So, we hung out for a few minutes, when we heard the elevator stop. We assumed it was the person interviewing Lea, but instead it was  DigBoston's editor, who took pitty on us and let us wait in the lobby, and even gave Lea a cup of tea and me a beer. We chatted for a while, and he showed us the office, and then we waited a little longer, and then finally gave up and went home. The crossed wires all got sorted out later, and it's all good, but I find it kind of hilarious to drive to Boston, have a beer in a mostly empty newspaper office, and then drive home.

***

Friday night, I covered Phish. As I think I said on Facebook, people were alternately telling me that I was either going to have my mind blown or that I'd be bored to tears. I can't really say either happened, but I enjoyed the show and walked away with a lot of respect for the band. Anyway, my review is here, along with some thoughts from my colleague, Sara Schweiger, for whom this was her 20th show. You can also read my local band suggestions for a Halloween playlist here.

***

Monday was a touch surreal, watching Larry Jaffe read for The Dirty Gerund Poetry Series at Ralph's Rock Diner. I don't think I've seen Larry since I moved away from Southern California, over a decade ago. (Has it really been that long? Geez, Louise.) Larry was in rare form, and the crowd ate him up. What I like about Larry is that you can drop him in front of just about any room, and he's fine ... even that night, when a heavy metal band upstairs was drowning out half of everything. (Not sure was up with that. Ralph's doesn't usually book bands upstairs on Mondays. Odd.)

Anyway, it was good to see Larry, and great to see him having a blast on that stage. Like I said, the crowd there adored him, and he was just letting loose and flying, climbing furniture and shouting (although, as I said, that was partly out of necessity.) Not sure I would have reprised the poem "Unprotected Poetry" in the 2nd half, but eh. Whatever. The crowd was buying what he was selling, and I have to say, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed him till he turned up. I get that a lot, actually.

***

Taking a short break from working on Why We Should Suffer For This now that the first draft is done. Just needed to step away so I can make revisions with a fresh eye. In the meantime, I've knocked out another Whitney Bierce witch story, a sort-of sequel to Baby Detonate For Me, called Hang the DJ: A tale of Witchcraft and Nightclubs. Will be doing a dry reading of it in a super-secret undisclosed location Friday night. (Backchannel me if you want me to disclose.) It was nice writing for Whitney again, like getting a visit from an old friend.

The more things change ...

So ... as I've noted elsewhere, today was my last day of work as a New York Times Employee. Come Monday, when I show up for work, I will be an employee of Boston Globe Media Partners. Other than, that, nothing's changed. Although I suppose saying "I work for the New York Times" had a certain cache, even if it was only ever kinda true. I'll still sit at the same desk and do the same job for the same pay. For the moment, at least.

***

I finished the first draft of my manuscript for Why We Should Suffer For This. Going to take a couple weeks off from writing it, and then dive into the second draft. It feels good having that done with, even if I know it's just the beginning of more work. But soon ... soon ... something ...

See, here's the thing: I entertain dreams of selling the book to a publisher and making at least enough money to quit my day job and  just write for a living. But what is more likely is I will sell it for not enough to quit, or even more likely than that, release it on a small press and make something that very much resembles nearly nothing. Having swum in these waters a long time, I know the odds rather well. But ... well ... fuck it. What's the sense in being a writer if you can't dream big, even in the face of impossible odds? Especially in the face of impossible odds. I've taken disappointment on the chin before, and I'll do it again. All that matters is that you keep swinging.

***

I had mentioned earlier on this blog that I'd be reading Oct. 25 at Annie's Book stop in Worcester. It seems I was mistaken: I'll be covering Phish that night. (First time ever seeing them! I'm actually kind of ridiculously excited, in that "I love new experiences" sort of way.)

Anyway, the incredibly gracious Kristina England has forgiven me for the inadvertent double-booking, so hopefully I'll be making the show up sometime soon. In the meantime, my talented and beautiful wife will be performing instead!

Worcester Storytellers
Lea C. Deschenes features
Annie's Book Stop
65 James St., Worcester, Mass.
7 p.m. Friday, Oct. 25, 2013

Go root her on while I'm off investigating the mysterious ways of the Phish Phan ...

Whiskey, Poetry, Love, in that Order

Had an excellent time at Gilrein's last night, where the inimitable Bobby Gibbs put together a poetry showcase and invitational slam, and where I also drank straight Jameson Irish Whiskey after a long, vaguely frustrating day. So I was in good spirits by the time I hit the stage. I read That Old-Time Religion , which I think was a good call. If nothing else, it felt better on that stage than I ever recall it feeling, but then, that might have been the whiskey talking. Tony Brown owned the night for me, though, with his poem for Gilrein's old days, Home of the Blues . Lots of great stuff in both the showcase and the slam, including a hard-fought and well-deserved win from Oz Okoawo, a light, fun piece from Marianna Preeti, and a an absolutely  devastating poem from Ana Perez. Fun, fun, fun.

***

Mostly just poking at the the manuscript for Why We Should Suffer For This this morning, working out in my head how the next section goes. This happens every third or fourth section, where it's in my head, but I have to let it mulch a bit to actually get to it. In any case, I'm working on Section 36 right now, of what I expect to be 48. Home stretch. I'm enjoying writing it immensely, but I'm also getting near the point where I'm ready to be done with it.

This book has been a bit emotionally draining. It commands more time and attention than anything else I've ever written, and it certainly takes away from working on anything else. It's also been weird writing about love, because -- while it's a work of fiction -- I've found myself walking through every relationship or near relationship I've ever had, picking them apart to see how they worked or, more frequently, didn't work. My friend Jeff DeRego rightly asked me, Why would you do that to yourself? I can only reply that, even though it's fiction and these are things that didn't really happen, I'm trying to cut as close to the bone emotionally as I can, and the best way to do that is to recall the emotions I felt at those times of my life as closely as possible, in order to describe and evoke them on the page. I don't necessarily recommend this course of action to anyone.

(Secret note to Robert Arroyo Jr., 15 Years Later: Fuck it. You were right.)

But still, more to go, and if it's been an exhausting journey, so far it's been worth it.

Manchester is For Lovers

Manchester, I am madly, dizzily in love with you. Thank you for your combustible mix of youthful enthusiasm and staggering talent. My head is still swimming this morning. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Last night's set was a personal landmark, as I transition from the work I've done for the past 25 years and train my attention on finishing the monolithic work, Why We Should Suffer For This. To commemorate, I put together a set with representatives of about every era of my writing career, starting with the oldest poem I'll admit to having written, written in college, and ending with the first section of Suffer. It was ... more perilous than I imagined, and I finished the set emotionally drained and with a hoarse throat. But the warmth with which the set was greeted nearly moved me to tears. I'm humbled and grateful.

Set List
"The Wolf"
"Strip"
"Waiting For the End of the World"
"Season of the Bitch"
"My Father's Grave, July 5th, 1997"
"Protocol for Gazing at the Moon"
"My Life as Rosencrantz or Guildenstern"
"How to Grow Old Gracefully and Still Love Rock 'n' Roll"
"Know Your Rights, Redux"
"For Beth & Mindy"
"Why We Should Suffer for This" (Part One)

Thank you to everyone who came out, and to Slam Free or Die for inviting me to read. You're all very much in my heart this morning.

Upcoming Poetry and/or Drinking Engagements

A quick guide of where you can find me -- or, if you're inclined, avoid me with alacrity -- in the near future:

Slam Free or Die
Victor features
Milly's Tavern
500 Commercial St.
Manchester, N.H., 03103
7 p.m. Thursday, Sept., 19, 2013
Reading a mix of old and new. And, as the name implies, there will be slammy things.

Conscious Corner
Showcase with Victor, Ashley Alafberg, Mariana Preeti, Ana Perez, Liz Heath and Tony Brown
Slam with Wil Gibson, Mckendy Fils-Aime, Kayla Wheeler, Amber Rose Johnson, Omiozele "Oz" Okoawo, Christopher Johnson, Rushelle Frazier and Beau Williams
Gilrein's: Home of the Blues
802 Main St.
Worcester, MA, 01601
8:30 p.m. Friday, Sept. 27, 2013
Just a poem or two, but come out to see an amazing and diverse collection of writers. (Lineup subject to change) Also, will probably try to get there very early to have dinner at One Love next door, if at all possible.

Worcester Storytellers
Victor reads
Annie's Book Stop
65 James St.
Worcester, MA, 01603
7 p.m. Friday, Oct. 25, 2013
This will be the first big reading of material from "Why We Should Suffer For This." Come out and hear what I've been holed up writing!

And that's my near future. After that, I have nothing on the books until April. Which is fine, as I'm supposed to be writing a book, not out gallivanting! So turn up!

Poking My Head Out

Haven't updated this thing in nearly a month. Having one of those spells where I feel like I've been both immensely busy and have little to show for it. Been a bit consumed with the manuscript, really. It's eating up most of my attention. Been reading sections at The Outlaw Stage every Wednesday, and that's been keeping me moving. So if you want to hear it, that's where I'll be. Hope to have a first draft done by the beginning of November.

Was pleased to have four poems out in Nailed today: "The Revelation of Kate Gosselin, as Revealed to John Connor from the 'Terminator' Movies," "Four Ways of Looking at Lincoln," "Great Astronomical Discoveries Lately Made," and "Truths My Dealer Told Me."

Over at Radius, we've been busy making some revamps during our short hiatus, most notably, Sam Cha and Rachel McKibbens stepping up as poetry editors, Tara Betts and Heather Sommer moving into the role of contributing editors, where they'll be joined by Lauren Gordon, and Tatyana Brown becoming a regular contributor. All good stuff. We kicked off the next rotation with an opening editorial by myself, centering on Seamus Heaney's death, and a poem by the wonderful Rushelle Frazier.

Lastly, I've been a bit slow over at the Telegram's Pop Culture Notebook, probably because I've been splitting my energies between the manuscript and mastering our new computer layout program. Still, there have been a few bright spots, including thoughts on why Harry Connick Jr. is the best choice for an American Idol judge ever (although oddly, I think the version that's appearing in the paper tomorrow is better), and a piece on Miley Cyrus, Ben Affleck and the Rorschach test of popular culture.

All right. Things to do in the morning. I'll try not to wait so long to write next time.