Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 268
August 4, 2012
In the Grip of Jealousy
"I leaned over the railing of the pier, and for a second hoped he would see me. How could he not, with my hair flaming red, and blowing, long and wild, in the winter wind, which swept across the divide?
Now I could see the girl sitting there, opposite him. She raised her glass and clinked it against his, then cuddled up to him, like, to whisper something up close, in his ear.
I don’t hardly know if there was something odd with the air, which stirred past me with cloud after cloud of salty mist; or the sheet of glass over there, which must have had some flaws all over it; or the mirror image of sunset, which buckled out of shape, in and out of the flaws; or else, was it the film of tears, which formed in my eyes; or the sorrow, which came in like a tide, to wash over me—but in a blink, everything blurred.
Everything started swimming in front of me: like, the shadow of her little black dress, the flash of her gold earring, even the blond streaks in her hair. All of them things, which lived on the other side of the layers—the layer of mist, and of glass, and flaws, tears, wash—they all rippled a bit and then, settled into a haze."
Anita, in Apart From Love
Inspired by a sketch of a nude I have drawn earlier, here is a collage using magazine cutouts glued to transparency paper. Because of the materials I used, it was a bit difficult to photograph this properly; but in real life, the best way to view it is against a window, so the lights seeps through the transparency paper.
Now I could see the girl sitting there, opposite him. She raised her glass and clinked it against his, then cuddled up to him, like, to whisper something up close, in his ear.
I don’t hardly know if there was something odd with the air, which stirred past me with cloud after cloud of salty mist; or the sheet of glass over there, which must have had some flaws all over it; or the mirror image of sunset, which buckled out of shape, in and out of the flaws; or else, was it the film of tears, which formed in my eyes; or the sorrow, which came in like a tide, to wash over me—but in a blink, everything blurred.
Everything started swimming in front of me: like, the shadow of her little black dress, the flash of her gold earring, even the blond streaks in her hair. All of them things, which lived on the other side of the layers—the layer of mist, and of glass, and flaws, tears, wash—they all rippled a bit and then, settled into a haze."
Anita, in Apart From Love
Inspired by a sketch of a nude I have drawn earlier, here is a collage using magazine cutouts glued to transparency paper. Because of the materials I used, it was a bit difficult to photograph this properly; but in real life, the best way to view it is against a window, so the lights seeps through the transparency paper.
August 3, 2012
My Childhood Home
Sucked in by a force, I'm flying through a tunnelThe tunnel of memory that leads me back homeThe past blurs my present, so my vision is doubleWalls of my childhood cave into a dome
From here I can see that home, tiltingAnd falling from place, all the lamps are aflameMy father's empty chair is slowly ascendingTipped by the light, outlining its frame
For this oil painting, I prepared the canvas with a layer of textured bronze color, then worked the scene into it. The early sketches for the composition were done on a small note of paper on the first day of the Shiv-aa, the mourning period following my father's death. By the time I came back home the note was lost, so I re-sketched it from memory.
From here I can see that home, tiltingAnd falling from place, all the lamps are aflameMy father's empty chair is slowly ascendingTipped by the light, outlining its frame
For this oil painting, I prepared the canvas with a layer of textured bronze color, then worked the scene into it. The early sketches for the composition were done on a small note of paper on the first day of the Shiv-aa, the mourning period following my father's death. By the time I came back home the note was lost, so I re-sketched it from memory.
July 31, 2012
Pyramus and Thisby, or How We View Slang in Literature
You may recall the play-in-a-play, performed by the rude mechanics at the end of Midsummer Night's Dream, aptly described in their own words as 'The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.' These would-be actors, whose ability to express themselves is unabashedly mocked by their audience, are used by Shakespeare mainly for comic relief. The play they perform is merely a farce of the Romeo and Juliet love story. Why, you may ask? Because like most artists and playwrights of that era, the bard knew only too well that he ought to entertain and complement his patrons, the most important of which where members of the royal court. This is the reason that characters who speak in slang were nearly never placed center-stage, as the hero of the story. Such characters were portrayed as simpletons, and by no means were they given any depth of feeling.
It was only later in the history of literature that characters of the lower class were taken seriously, and their point of view began to resonate, despite much controversy, with readers and theatre goers. For example, Between 1961 and 1982, The Catcher in the Rye was the most censored book in high schools and libraries in the United States. And yet today, it is recognized as an American classic, giving voice to teenage confusion, angst, alienation and rebellion. I suggest to you that in even today, there are two clashing views about the use of slang-talking characters, one from those who see themselves as 'upscale, educated nobility'--and the other, the more 'democratic' one, from the rest of us.
Recently I was reminded of this clash, when I posted an excerpt from Apart From Love in Anita's voice. You would be hard-pressed to find a three-syllable word in anything she says. The lack of long words is compensated by descriptive sequence of short words (see the replacement for ‘magnifying glass’ below.) You can spot a liberal use of the dreaded double-negative, and of the word ‘like’. In the excerpt she describes the memory of her first kiss with Lenny. Some readers told me, tongue-in-cheek, that the would need a cold shower by the time she completes her story. But one reader found the style of the excerpt incosistent. He complained that at times Anita is lyrical, and at other times her thoughts are expressed in slang.
As a side note, let me share a little secret with you: even though that reader rejected the excerpt on intellectual grounds (which he is entitled to do) he did get it on an intuitive level. How do I know this? Because the very same day I got a 'romantic' invitation from him to join a social network for setting up dates. So, Anita's hot description did its charm on him, and for some reason, he must have combined to two of us in his mind.
So I ask you: why can't a character combine both? Are we still bound to write for the Pyramus and Thisby audience? Even if your grammar is atrocious, even if your vocabulary is somewhat lacking, does that mean you can't feel the throes of pain, or the exhilaration of joy? Does it mean you can't paint what you see, feel and think? As you form your own answer, I invite you to sense the texture and the power of unrefined language, by listening to Anita's voice once more:
"What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cosy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music.
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear.
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him."
It was only later in the history of literature that characters of the lower class were taken seriously, and their point of view began to resonate, despite much controversy, with readers and theatre goers. For example, Between 1961 and 1982, The Catcher in the Rye was the most censored book in high schools and libraries in the United States. And yet today, it is recognized as an American classic, giving voice to teenage confusion, angst, alienation and rebellion. I suggest to you that in even today, there are two clashing views about the use of slang-talking characters, one from those who see themselves as 'upscale, educated nobility'--and the other, the more 'democratic' one, from the rest of us.
Recently I was reminded of this clash, when I posted an excerpt from Apart From Love in Anita's voice. You would be hard-pressed to find a three-syllable word in anything she says. The lack of long words is compensated by descriptive sequence of short words (see the replacement for ‘magnifying glass’ below.) You can spot a liberal use of the dreaded double-negative, and of the word ‘like’. In the excerpt she describes the memory of her first kiss with Lenny. Some readers told me, tongue-in-cheek, that the would need a cold shower by the time she completes her story. But one reader found the style of the excerpt incosistent. He complained that at times Anita is lyrical, and at other times her thoughts are expressed in slang.
As a side note, let me share a little secret with you: even though that reader rejected the excerpt on intellectual grounds (which he is entitled to do) he did get it on an intuitive level. How do I know this? Because the very same day I got a 'romantic' invitation from him to join a social network for setting up dates. So, Anita's hot description did its charm on him, and for some reason, he must have combined to two of us in his mind.
So I ask you: why can't a character combine both? Are we still bound to write for the Pyramus and Thisby audience? Even if your grammar is atrocious, even if your vocabulary is somewhat lacking, does that mean you can't feel the throes of pain, or the exhilaration of joy? Does it mean you can't paint what you see, feel and think? As you form your own answer, I invite you to sense the texture and the power of unrefined language, by listening to Anita's voice once more:
"What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cosy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music.
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear.
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him."
July 30, 2012
Memory (from my Father's Archive)
Written by Zeev KachelTranslated by Uvi Poznansky
When the past becomes your presentAnd follows you everywhereLike a hunting dog, it's so intentThen memory becomes despairMemory, by a sudden spellThen becomes your daily routineReality turns into hellA crazy race to the unseenYou set your ladder on a rippleNo wonder that you fell, you cripple
I am in the process of translating my father's work, posthumously. The original Hebrew text of this poem appears in Ropes, Separation, Tear (Hebrew Edition) which was published by me earlier this year, a tribute to his memory. I used my pencil-on-paper drawing of a twisting rope as the basis for the cover of that book. The word Ropes in Hebrew has an additional meaning, beyond the obvious one: it means pain (as in growing pains or pain during childbirth.)
If you can read poetry in Hebrew, take a 'look inside' the book on Amazon. And please forgive the translation, which is the art of compromise between content, rhythm and rhyme.
When the past becomes your presentAnd follows you everywhereLike a hunting dog, it's so intentThen memory becomes despairMemory, by a sudden spellThen becomes your daily routineReality turns into hellA crazy race to the unseenYou set your ladder on a rippleNo wonder that you fell, you cripple
I am in the process of translating my father's work, posthumously. The original Hebrew text of this poem appears in Ropes, Separation, Tear (Hebrew Edition) which was published by me earlier this year, a tribute to his memory. I used my pencil-on-paper drawing of a twisting rope as the basis for the cover of that book. The word Ropes in Hebrew has an additional meaning, beyond the obvious one: it means pain (as in growing pains or pain during childbirth.)
If you can read poetry in Hebrew, take a 'look inside' the book on Amazon. And please forgive the translation, which is the art of compromise between content, rhythm and rhyme.
July 29, 2012
Better than 50 Shades of Grey? You Decide!
Apart From Love is currently listed on Goodreads as number 10 in Indie Book Better than 50 Shades of Grey. If you read my work, and wish to move it up the list, you'll know what to do...
The Ticklish Point under her Chin
"I try to avoid looking at her body—but still, I can see the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the opening of the shirt. Her ribcage starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. This, I figure, is something she must face alone."
(Ben, in Apart From Love)
July 27, 2012
In the Company of Athletes, Belly Dancers, Performers
He brings athletes, belly dancers, performers each Friday
Right into your bedroom, for you to hear, honey!
So when Cameron called me I knew, I just knew, right away
That with him, I'll find myself in such great company!
He asked: if your novel would turn into a movie
Who'd play Ben--immature, insecure and naive?
Who'd play Anita--sexy, edgy, and groovy?
What my answer was, you just wouldn't believe!
Cameron Datzker, a veteran of sports talk radio for over 20 years, asked me to come on his show, Sports and Life on LA Talk Radio. I had great fun coming to the studio, talking to him and seeing him in action, juggling the conversation with me about Apart From Love with current affairs and local news. The clapping in the background is Cameron himself, overflowing with enthusiasm and cheering me up!
Right into your bedroom, for you to hear, honey!
So when Cameron called me I knew, I just knew, right away
That with him, I'll find myself in such great company!
He asked: if your novel would turn into a movie
Who'd play Ben--immature, insecure and naive?
Who'd play Anita--sexy, edgy, and groovy?
What my answer was, you just wouldn't believe!
Cameron Datzker, a veteran of sports talk radio for over 20 years, asked me to come on his show, Sports and Life on LA Talk Radio. I had great fun coming to the studio, talking to him and seeing him in action, juggling the conversation with me about Apart From Love with current affairs and local news. The clapping in the background is Cameron himself, overflowing with enthusiasm and cheering me up!
Interview tonight: Sports and Life on LA Talk Radio
I am honored that Cameron Datzker, a veteran of sports talk radio for over 20 years, has asked me to come on his show, Sports and Life on LA Talk Radio. The show will air tonight at 8:00pm Pacific Standard Time.
To listen: Click here and Listen Live at Channel 1.
The Live Call-In number: 1-323-203-0815.
I would love to talk to you!
To listen: Click here and Listen Live at Channel 1.
The Live Call-In number: 1-323-203-0815.
I would love to talk to you!
July 26, 2012
"Loved that Book"
A new 5-star review has been posted for Apart From Love on Amazon by Rachel:
"I enjoyed every minute reading Apart From Love; most of all I delighted in the last chapters and the surprise ending. The way the characters developed was incredibly well described, and made me change my attitude toward them several times throughout the story. But by the time I reached the end, I stopped vacillating and came to see them in a positive, but sad, light. Towards the end I could not put the book down! This is a great work, and I am going to introduce the book to my book club."
"I enjoyed every minute reading Apart From Love; most of all I delighted in the last chapters and the surprise ending. The way the characters developed was incredibly well described, and made me change my attitude toward them several times throughout the story. But by the time I reached the end, I stopped vacillating and came to see them in a positive, but sad, light. Towards the end I could not put the book down! This is a great work, and I am going to introduce the book to my book club."
July 25, 2012
How can I Reach Your Temple?
At first I snarl, snaking In the dirt around your foot, I wish to shoot up, lifting My body from the soot
I coil up, all around you Weaving shadows into your light Your white, brushed with my blue Is no longer pure--not quite--
And as I reach, your neck to clutch And lean in with a hiss Your head floats off, now out of touch So far out of my kiss
How can I reach your temple? I can't, now I know You are so high, so gentle You tremble in the flow...
Here I imagine myself as a transparent snake rising up, one scale after another, one facet after another, around this paper sculpture. The sculpture is made of four parts:
The foot at the bottom, which I shaped as an elegant, curvy pedestal The faceted design in the middle, which I created out of a single sheet of paper, with no cutting or glueing at all (merely by light scoring and hand pressure)The faceted 'neck', which I brought to a single point; And the crown on top, which I set afloat above that point. Curious about my paper sculptures? Take a look at my Plucked Porcupine or my Paper Peacock
I coil up, all around you Weaving shadows into your light Your white, brushed with my blue Is no longer pure--not quite--
And as I reach, your neck to clutch And lean in with a hiss Your head floats off, now out of touch So far out of my kiss
How can I reach your temple? I can't, now I know You are so high, so gentle You tremble in the flow...
Here I imagine myself as a transparent snake rising up, one scale after another, one facet after another, around this paper sculpture. The sculpture is made of four parts:
The foot at the bottom, which I shaped as an elegant, curvy pedestal The faceted design in the middle, which I created out of a single sheet of paper, with no cutting or glueing at all (merely by light scoring and hand pressure)The faceted 'neck', which I brought to a single point; And the crown on top, which I set afloat above that point. Curious about my paper sculptures? Take a look at my Plucked Porcupine or my Paper Peacock
