Victor D. Infante's Blog, page 165

Reading "horror poetry" in the proximity of actual horror

So ... you probably know that this really terrifying thing had been happening all day today in the Boston area -- armed terrorist on the loose, the city under lockdown, the whole shebang. Now, out here in Worcester, we're a little removed from the happenings -- about 45 minutes down the Pike -- but still ... I've got friends all over that area. Friends who heard the gunshots in Watertown last night, who were trapped in their homes or places of employment all day. There's no need for me to tell those stories here -- other people will do that better, elsewhere.

No, I was in Worcester, where I was scheduled to read at a night of "horror poetry" at Annie's Book Stop. I wasn't expecting it to be a big reading, but it was one I was looking forward to. Until, suddenly, I wasn't. Because throughout the day, as the drama in Boston escalated, I found myself realizing that the last thing I wanted was to spend an evening reveling in horror. Part of it was simple empathy, part of it was my own history with violence.

Truth is, I've found the news a little triggery, lately ... which is doubly difficult to deal with when you work at a newspaper. Since Sandy Hook, I've found myself surrounded by abstract chatter about gun violence from people who know little about guns, and nothing about violence. Inevitably, in the face of violence on this scale, someone will make the mistake of saying something in my vicinity along the lines of, "can you imagine how the families of the victims must feel?" It's every inch of my willpower to not inform them that, "yes, I know exactly what that feels like, and no, I hope you never do." Because I've lived with that feeling since I was a small child, when my father died, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy in the world. It's a horrid sickness in your heart, one that never actually goes away. You can learn to deal with it, learn to live with it. You can find ways to be actually happy, but you never forget. One way or the other, it touches every aspect of your life. It's always the ghost in the corner of the mirror.

And sometimes, you have a week like this one, and what on the best of days is a program running in the background of your mind is blaring full-throttle at the center of your attention. The people yammering in media-provided talking points chatter on around you, and you try to tune it out, because the alternative is telling people what you really think, and you just don't have the strength. They won't understand, anyway. They never do.

There's nothing abstract about this sort of violence to me. There never will be. And still, life goes on. You get up, kiss your wife, go to work. If you're me, that includes showing up at the poetry reading you've agreed to do, even though, in all honesty, you'd rather gnaw off your arm than be there right at that moment. A show, after all, is a show, and I'm not in the habit of bailing on gigs.

The reading itself was fine. Small crowd in an intimate space. Mostly some light Gothic stuff and some humorous verse. All perfectly fine. And Dave Macpherson was on the bill, which is always fun. Me? I was a little edgy. Kind of felt like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Again, this is my issue, and no reflection on anyone else.

Set list :
"After the End of the World"
"Two Ways of Looking At the Zombie Apocalypse"
"Mina in Repose"
"Atomosophobia"
"Fashion" (my poem for Trayvon Martin)
Not an entirely dark set, but pretty close. I felt it was important to start with the fantastical elements -- the superheroes, zombies and vampires -- and then abandon them for the things that really terrify me. The creeping specter of annihilation. The mundanity of evil. How living in constant fear can corrupt you, turn you into a monster.

I can't remember the last time I felt that intense while I read. It's been a while. Thank God that Macpherson followed me in the rotation, because I think I was making a few people uncomfortable. Which I suppose may well have been my intent, although I didn't think of it that way at the time.  At one point, early in the evening, I explained my feelings on the juxtaposition -- reveling in "horror poetry" in the proximity of actual horror -- and explained that, while a reader or listener can find solace in poetry, it's not actually my job as a poet to offer it. Solace is a thing one needs to seize for one's self. My job, in that instance, is tap into whatever truth I'm seeing at the moment, to trace the outline of emotion and hold it up to the light. I think I accomplished that much. I hope I accomplished that much. It's really impossible to say from where I'm standing.

And oddly enough, while I feel a tad guilty for being the buzzkill in the room, I have to admit it was kind of cathartic. Sometimes you give the audience the poems they want, and sometimes you give the audience the poems they need.

And once in a while, when it's really necessary, you give the audience the poems you need. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but tonight was evidently my night for that.

An old poem for my current mood ...

Speaking to Pittsburgh

1. Where my father died

This is what the city says to me: Closed doors
remain so, though I’ve gardened keys now
for decades; The Earth sprouts no metal to fit
long-rusted locks, gives no transcription
for maps and language barriers, absent legends
in the corner of the map folded in your jacket pocket.

My grandfather, my uncle – they say nothing:
They are strangers to me, though I bear both
men’s names, the same burden of night.
I wouldn’t know them on a half-empty bus to Mohegan Sun,
though sometimes I sense them shuffle in the dark –
key to any game: Know what you’re willing to lose,

and I’m out of key with this song – forgot the lyrics,
life lived in fragments of melody and poker chips,
gambling song against small gain,
tune I am willing to lose.

And you? How do you bear this weight
and waiting? This song will not curl on my lips,
voice cracking. But if it comes, it will shatter steel.

2. To the man who killed him

When I am honest, I know that it is not the city that killed my father,
it was a man with a gun, second-degree murder, “non pre-meditated killing” –
and yes, I am acquainted with the way violence spreads like spilled beer,
seeps into the foundation of buildings if left untended, rots floorboards;

and yes, I’ve sipped coffee with men whose hands are powder-burn scarred,
uncleansable stains soaked into their skin –
do not mistake me for an accountant of sins,
keeping ledgers of unpayable debts. There is
no bureaucracy to balance this splotching of red ink – no grace
of prison or confessional; even knowledge of your name seems blasphemy.

3. Talking to myself

What’s been forged in this kiln, this city of insomnia?
No answer from the darkness, just the burbling
of molten metal underneath my ribs, waiting to be tempered.

From "City of Insomnia," by Victor D. Infante (Write Bloody Publishing, 2008)

Rest in Peace to My Uncle and Namesake, Victor Infante

I've just received word that my uncle and namesake, Victor Infante, has passed away. I didn't really know him, and at this point, that's as much my fault as anyone's.

I don't have a whole lot to say here, have no way right now to articulate the strange miasma of sadness and regret, the negative space around a hole where something was supposed to be, but never was.

Rest in peace, Victor. I'm sorry I didn't know you. But you were my father's brother, and I was named for you (and for your father, also gone), and that means something, and with your passing, I can't help but feel that another piece of my father is gone.

If there's a next life, maybe we'll both be able to make amends.  

April FAIL Day

Yeah, yesterday's April Fools' Day Effort wasn't particularly up to snuff. It was pretty much just going through the motions, especially after last year's successful hoax. It wasn't even particularly funny. No one was going to believe that the New England Media Group was being bought by The Enquirer. Perhaps its time to give these hoax efforts a rest. (Or ... am I just saying that, to lull the reader into a false sense of security?!?!?)

***

Crazy week at work this week, and I'm behind on everything. A few things of note: I have a review of the new album from Lost Profit$ online. The extremely political combo has quickly become one of my favorite hip-hop acts, and they're terribly worth a listen. They'll be performing with Regie Gibson Friday at the Dirty Gerund's First Friday Upstairs Show at Ralph's.

Also, my poems "How To Grow Old Gracefully And Still Love Rock 'N' Roll" and "Incorporated" are ***

Had a great time last night at the Encyclopedia Show in Somerville. Congratulations to Simone and everyone else down there for a great first season. Much, much fun. Lea's poem on the subject of mokele-mbembe went over gangbusters, and fit well into a jam-packed night pf poetry, music and dance. Much, much fun.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, we won't be able to attend this Saturday's release party for Best Indie Lit New England, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't:

Best Indie Lit New England Release Party
Featuring Tim Mayo, Jade Sylvan, Emily O'Neill, Hannah Larrabee, Kendra Decolo, Mckendy Fils-Aime, Sean Patrick Mulroy, Jeff Bernstein and Laura Rodley, with music by Paul Erlich, Audrey Harrer and Andrew Scandal and the Lightyears.
369 Congress Street, 7th floor
Boston, MA
$5-$10 sliding scale admission, anthology available for $15

On the news that The National Enquirer is Buying The Boston Globe and the Worcester Telegram

This post is friends locked, so don't pass it around.

I'd be lying if I didn't have my concerns, but it's still far too early to say how this is going to work. When they came in to the office for a walkaround, they talked very sincerely about seeing potential for local news to be highly profitable (which is true) and their desire to gain the Enquirer some respectability (which is suspect). Still, I can't help but think it'll be an odd fit. And of course, I wonder what the Enquirer  brand will do to our credibility.

On the other hand, I suppose I can leverage their natural interest in celebrity news into some expansion of our arts & entertainment coverage, although I'd think that the stigma of the new corporate owner might dissuade some celebrities that otherwise might consent for interviews. Bah. Have to sort it out as we go.

Still, out of my hands. And I suppose I would be happier if it were the Weekly World News, because then I'd get to write about Bat Boy.

Victor & Lea's Shows, plus the official Best Indie Lit New England Release

We have all sorts of things coming up. Hope to see you at some of them!

Encyclopedia Show: Somerville -- Mythical Beasts!
Featuring Lea, Mckendy Fils-Aime, Tu Phan, Alexander Nemser, Meghan Chiampa, Connor Wood, with music by Andrew Scandal and The Lightyears, Catherine Capozzi (of Axemunkee) and others, and the Michael J. Epstein Memorial Library, along with the regular cast.
The Davis Square Theater
255 Elm St.,
Somerville, MA, 02144
$10 admission / $7 for students, teachers, or guests in Prohibition-era dress.

Best Indie Lit New England Release Party
Featuring Tim Mayo, Jade Sylvan, Emily O'Neill, Hannah Larrabee, Kendra Decolo, Mckendy Fils-Aime, Sean Patrick Mulroy, Jeff Bernstein and Laura Rodley, with music by Paul Erlich, Audrey Harrer and Andrew Scandal and the Lightyears.
369 Congress Street, 7th floor
Boston, MA
$5-$10 sliding scale admission, anthology available for $15
Note: Lea and I have a personal commitment elsewhere this night, but we really hope you go and support this incredible anthology and these excellent artists.

Horror Poetry Reading
Featuring Victor, Kurt Newton, Suzanne Reynolds-Alpert, K.A. Laity, Dave Macpherson and Trisha J. Wooldridge
Annie's Book Stop
65 James St.
Worcester, MA, 01603
7 p.m. Friday, April 19, 2013

Two Idiots Peddling Poetry
Victor and Lea feature
The Ugly Mug
261 N. Glassell Ave.
Orange, CA,  92866
8 p.m. Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Radius Showcase
Victor and Lea feature, with guest appearances by Radius contributors Carlye Archibeque, Deborah Edler Brown, Brendan Constantine, Daniel McGinn, Jaimes Palacio, Steve Ramirez, Sam Rees and Pam Ward.
Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center
681 Venice Blvd.
Venice, CA, 90291
7:30 p.m. Sunday, May 5, 2013

The New Shit Show
Victor and Lea feature
Viracocha
998 Valencia St.
San Francisco, CA, 94110
8 p.m. Thursday, May 9, 2013
Workshop at 7 p.m.

Rhythmic Cypher
Victor and Lea feature, music by Shane Hall!
Dobrá Tea
151 Middle St.
Portland, Maine, 04101
7 p.m. Sunday, June 9, 2013
Workshop at 6 p.m.

Slam Free or Die
Victor features
Milly's Tavern
500 Commercial St.
Manchester, N.H., 03103
7 p.m. Thursday, Sept., 2013
Note: This event has been rescheduled from earlier announcements.

More coming? More coming. If you're interested in having either Lea or myself read at your fine event, or are interested in hosting a Best Indie Lit New England release party, please drop me a line backchannel at Victor.Infante [AT] gmail [DOT] com.

Tonight, At My Local Corporate Bookstore ...

I don't usually have that good of a time reading at Barnes & Noble stores. My experience usually consists of low turnout and no pay. But I have to say, I enjoyed myself tonight at Carle Johnson's shindig at the Lincoln Plaza store. There was a nice audience of really attentive listeners. Sold a few books, and had some nice conversations. All-in-all, a good experience.

Read a mix of old and new stuff tonight, including a few odds and ends that I've not read in years. Not a very flashy set, but an emotional one.

Set List

"Strip" (which appears in my old chapbook, "Learning to Speak," from the late FarStarFire Press)
"Warning Signs" (unpublished, as far as I can recall)
"After A Magazine Named Elizabeth Smart One of The 50 Most Beautiful People in the World," by Rachel McKibbens
"To The Girl I Never Knew" (Which appears in the anthology "Don't Blame the Ugly Mug: 10 Years of 2 Idiots Peddling Poetry")
"Character Study in Minor Arcana" (from my book "City of Insomnia")
"Karen's First Murder, Age 12" (ditto)
"Six Portraits in Disintegration (unpublished)
"How To Grow Old Gracefully And Still Love Rock 'N' Roll" (Which is about to appear on "PoeticDiversity")
"For Beth & Mindy" (From my recent chapbook, "Toxic Waltz, as well as recently in "Red Fez")
"Blessings of Snow and Sky" (which appeared in "Word Riot")
"Letter to Louis, 10 Years Later" (from "Toxic Waltz," as well as the late "Chiron Review")
"That Was Then" (From "City of Insomnia")

Thanks to all who came out for a lovely evening.

If the Mind is a Garden, Mine is Currently Mulch

There is a sort of composting process in my brain that I've been long aware of, but have never quite gotten a handle on. It starts with disengaging from my own writing a bit, slowing down -- really, not writing anything at all if I'm not required to for professional reasons. What happens then are mild-but-escalating bouts of depression, anxiety and an overwhelming feeling of social disengagement, where I begin questioning everything I've ever done and whether my writing's any good at all, and begin convincing myself that everybody has just been humoring me for the past 25 years.

Then, I stop reading anything new. No novels, no major nonfiction books, very little poetry -- and even then, only in spurts, rarely whole books. Eventually, I'm down to comic books, which are evidently the only thing I can read all the time. But even then, I find myself turning away from new comics to beloved graphic novels -- this time around, it's been Alan Moore's Jack the Ripper tale, From Hell, and Garth Ennis' Preacher, which are, for all their darkness, books that evidently help rejuvenate me. (It's not an exact process. At other times, old novels have emerged as the Book I Need Right Now, but they've rarely been classics. Sometimes it's Neil Gaiman's American Gods or Neverwhere, a few times it's been Robert Anton Wilson's Illuminati Trilogy. I don't know that that says anything telling about me. It just is.)

About the time this winds up, I begin pulling out of it. That I can write this at all right now is a good sign. I've been here dozens of times before, and yet every time, it's terrifying. I wholeheartedly believe I'm never going to write again. And then I have know idea what I'm going to do with my life. I rarely verbalize this concern. Intellectually, I know this feeling will pass, eventually. I know that, when it's totally finished, I'll be back on a writing jag.

Whatever the reason, and however ordinary it is, it's a feeling I detest immensely. It's beginning to subside again, a tide ebbing out. I look forward to being myself again.

***

Well. That was depressing. My apologies. The upside is that I do write for a living, and consequently, have no choice but to produce things, even if my body and brain are in rebellion. Here's a few recent things, produced during the doldrums:

*"'We Used to Be Friends': Thoughts on the 'Veronica Mars' comeback
*Gamechow shows getting hard to digest
*The architecture of music: The Duende Project, ii nub and Taylor Swift
*'We never lost control': David Bowie and Niki Luparelli

Hope you enjoy.

Never Break the Chain: Last night at the Write Bloody reading in Boston

I am still drunk on words this morning. My head is still spinning from the uproarious, ridiculous and emotional experience that was that thing last night, that beautiful, madcap thing that was so much more than just another poetry reading. From Jeremy Radin's big-hearted bombast of an opener, to Mindy Nettifee's absolutely devastating elegy for Jack McCarthy that closed out the night, everything in that crowded room was perfect, each note built on what had come before and fed what followed. There was was an electrical current that flowed from performer to performer, whether they were doing new work, their "radio hit" or deep cuts, and there was a nice balance between all three that no one really discussed at length. It all sort of just happened. (At Derrick Brown's suggestion, I did "Another American July," from the book, which I rarely ever perform, and got the best reaction it's ever gotten, proving Derrick's got some good instincts. Lea performed her poem "Black Scarab," and absolutely destroyed.)

There was too much good on that stage to recap. There is no way to do it justice, from Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz and Daniel Nester's dual-voice "porn pop-up ad sestina" to Daniel McGinn's full-forced postmodernism to Elaina Ellis' spare, heartbreaking poem to Buddy Wakefield's neo-beat visionary madness and on, and on, and on. So much. And it all fit together.

A lot of the energy in the room came from the rather deep-seated love the writers on the press have for each other. Some -- Derrick, Mindy, Daniel -- are among my oldest and dearest friends. Some, such as Jeremy and Elaina, I barely know at all, and I am already deeply in love with them and their work. That seemed to radiate. But moreover, if I'm completely honest, a good part of that energy came from the room, from that enormous crowd of people who had to wait out in the cold for a bit too long to get in, who was cramped in tight and most of whom had to stand or sit on the floor. I have never seen a crowd that big that was so enthusiastic, and so well-behaved. They listened without being dead. They were dead quiet when they needed to be, and raucous and noisy when that was required. If there was a circuit of energy running through the performers last night, it was running through the audience, too. They were connected in the moment, part of the experience. You could feel the energy they were giving off, and it was incredible. If last night was a success -- and it was -- then a good deal of the credit goes to those people who came in wanting so hard for it to be one of the best shows ever that they made it happen through sheer, positive willpower. I was in love with everyone in that room last night. Whatever happened there, it was magic, and it took every single person there to make it happen.

It's Snowing, and there are 11,000 Writers in Boston

So, yeah. I'm not officially at AWP this year, even though it's in nearby Boston. No, I got it into my head that I'll not take the week off from work and just go to side events and such. Naturally, I am ridiculously envious of all the goodness I'm hearing trickling out of the conference.

It's not all bad news, though: I caught an amazing reading last night that included Patricia Smith, Lauren Alleyne, Daemond Arrindell, Jan Beatty, Sara
Brickman, Tyehimba Jess, Angel Nafis, Glenis Redmond, Jon Sands, Tim Seibles and Anis Mojgani. If I'm forgetting someone, I apologize, but that was a HELL of a lot of awesome on one stage.

Friday night, Lea and I will be attending the Trio House Press release party for poets David Groff, Iris Jamahl Dunkle, and Matt Mauch, also featuring readings by Michael Waters and Ross Gay: Friday, March 8, 7-9PM, Old South Church, 645 Boylston Street, Boston.

Saturday, Lea and I will be reading at the Write Bloody Publishing table, at Table R12, at the AWP Bookfair at 11 a.m.! (Later in the day will be readings by Mindy Nettifee, Jeanann Verlee, Buddy Wakefield and Megan Falley!) Saturday also happens to be the day that the bookfair is open to the public!

And then, the monstrosity:

Write Bloody Publishing Showcase at AWP
Featuring  WB authors Anis
Mojgani, Amber Tamblyn, Mindy Nettifee, Derrick Brown, Jeanann Verlee,
Jon Sands, Cristin O'Keefe-Aptowicz, Buddy Wakefield, Taylor Mali,
Lauren Zuniga, Laura Yes Yes, Jade Sylvan, Victor Infante, Lea
Deschenes, Elaina Ellis, Jeremy Radin, Daniel McGinn, Daniel Nester,
Megan Falley and Miles Walser, with special musical guest Gracious
Calamity and, on the keyboard, Adam Falkner.
Community Church of Boston
565 Boylston St.
Boston, MA, 02116
7 p.m. Saturday, March 9, 2013

Lots and lots of awesomeness. Hope to see you there!