Tosh Berman's Blog, page 219

August 4, 2014

August 4, 2014

The only thing I could write in my diary last week was this:

Monday: Me.
Tuesday:  Me
Wednesday: Me.
Thursday: Me
Friday: Me
Saturday: Me
Sunday: Me


I find myself fascinating, but to convey that in words can be difficult. However, now another Monday has appeared and there seems to be a glimmer of hope that my life can get back on the track, and therefore I will see the world in a much better light.   Nevertheless I’m working on a novel “Zastrozzi” and it includes my thoughts on irresponsible self-indulgence and violent revenge.   A dear friend of mine reads the original draft, and he wrote to me that “Zastrozzi” is one of the most savage and improbable demons that ever issued from a diseased brain.” The narrative (so far) is about an outlaw named Zastrozzi, for whom his two servants kidnap Verezzi, because Verezzi’s father had deserted his mother, Olivia, who died young and in poverty.   So going after his half-brother, he commits revenge on not only his father, who he killed, but also the off-spring of one of his other romances.   Zastrozzi manipulated Verezzi into committing suicide, which based on his Christian religion against taking one’s own life, guarantees the eternal damnation of Verezzi’s soul.



The trouble I’m having right now if trying to find a satisfying end to the book.  Also I have to be honest here, that Zastrozzi the fictional character is based on… me.   Not that I actually killed anyone or drove a man to suicide, but for sure the self-indulgence part, and I do have occasional violent revenge fantasies, but really, I do have it under my control.  Being a writer I can make my own world, and focus on the blank page and fill it with my thoughts and word-play.  While I was writing this novel, I listened to Timi Yuro’s “Interlude, ” which is a song that speaks to me on a highly romantic level.  “Loving you is a world that is strange” is the line that goes around my head over and over again.  I need to hear this song at least seven times before I even pick up my pen.



What may seem odd is that I’m more influenced by books on film theory than books on writing.  Béla Balázs’ “The Spirit of Film” (1930) is something I reflect on when writing.  The images in my mind are a set of montages that I try to fit together.  What seems like to be an interlude now, can be the beginning of love.  But with that love is a certain amount of poison, that if one is not careful, it can bite, and I often feel that the bite will go on eternally.  “All art constantly aspires towards the condition of  the cinema (i.e. the arts seek to unify subject-matter and form, and the cinema is the only art in which subject and form are seemingly one).”   Till then, time is like a dream, and I will try to hold on to that dream.

August 3, 2014

August 3, 2014

As a child my role model was Dennis the Menace.  Mostly due to his rebellious nature and the cowlick on the top of his blonde head.  I wasn’t blonde, but I did have the cowlick, as well as assorted stripped t-shirts and blue jeans.   The other famous item that Dennis owned was a sling-shot, and that too was part of my uniform when I was around six years old.  I remember that it was extremely important to keep the sling-shot in the back pocket. I never actually used it, but it was an essential fashion accessory for me at the time.  As an only child, I often went out and played with only my imagination as my guide.  Without a doubt, the first character that I took on, was Dennis.  It was the first time that I didn’t depend on my true identity, but adopted myself to another identity.  The truth is I was a very well behaved child, but with the identity of Dennis, I can act out my aggressions against the world, with just my clothing and sling-shot placed in the rear pocket.

As I got older, I became aware of the TV series “Dennis The Menace” starring Jay North.   The casting was perfect, and he was totally believable as Dennis, but still, I was more attracted to the comic strip than anything else.  The 3D image of Dennis was hard for me to take, and I could only really accept the Dennis that was drawn on a page on a dirty newspaper.   Also I started obtaining mass-market paperback editions of the Dennis cartoons.  So over a short period of time I came into possession of a “Dennis” collection.   When we lived as a family in San Francisco, we used to go to the North Beach district to eat and go to City Lights Bookstore.  At one of the coffee shops nearby Chinatown, I approached a pair of police officers having coffee at their table.  My parents were in the next table, but they let me go to them.  The police officer patted my head, and asked what I wanted to be when I grow up.  Noticing that both of them had guns, I told them I wished to be an assassin.  At that point, I think my parents pretended that they didn’t know or own me.  Nevertheless I was taken into a role of my imagination where the character Dennis was a killer, but he killed with his sling-shot.  Now bear in mind I was totally aware that this was role playing, but still, perhaps not the wisest thing in the world to approach two tired cops on a coffee break.



Although not a fan of the TV series, I did follow Jay North as he went on to another series called “Maya.” The TV show was about a boy who wandered around India with a Hindu boy played by Sajid Khan and their elephant and her baby calf, a sacred white elephant.  The narrative of the white elephant in Hinduism is the fact that it belongs to the god Indra.  King Bimbisara had one white elephant and he gave it to his son Vihallakumara which caused a certain amount of jealousy for his other son Ajatasatru.  Eventually it gave rise to two of the most horrible wars in history known as “Mahasilakantaka & Ratha-musala.  As far as I know this has nothing to do with the show “Maya.” But on the other hand North and his co-star Khan became teen idols, and as I was a regular purchaser of magazines like “Tiger Beat” and “16” I pretty much followed the party line and became fans of both actors as well as their show.  But at this time, I had to give up the sling-shot, but still kept the haircut as well as the stripped shirt.



“Maya” was my initial introduction to India.  I never visited India, and I slightly knew of India probably through various Kipling tales as well as Sambo’s diner, which the restaurant’s mascot was taken from a South Indian literary figure.  So it is safe to say I knew nothing of India.  My actual introduction to an Indian from India was going to the Santa Monica civic to hear Jiddu Krishnamurti speak.  There was no fee or charge to go to the civic, which struck me odd, because I have gone there numerous times for rock n’ roll shows, which of course one had to pay to get in.  But here, it was free, and I’m not sure why I went with my dad to see Krishnamurti.  For me, it was probably to kill time, but what was interesting to me was his personality.  A woman from the audience came up to the stage and sat in front of Krishnamurti’s foot.  Krishnamurti was very straight forward to her that he didn’t like her to be seated in front of him in such a fashion.  Many years later I read about him, and regardless of the fact that I never read any of his books, I was impressed that as a youngster he was the chosen one by the Theosophical Society to lead or become “World Teacher.” Eventually Krishnamurti denounced that specific role, due that he claimed allegiance to no nationality, caste, religion, or philosophy.  He also disbanded the organization that chose him as a leader of sorts.



For me there was something wise about Dennis the Menace, and I think he may have a soul-brother in Krishnamurti.  The ability to act out as a child when I was actually a little boy brought me closer to who I am.  Krishnamurti I believe was told to act out a certain role that would please those around him, but he said “nah” and stayed focused on his inner talents.  He didn’t want to delude his message or questioning of the world in front of him.  There is a purity in both characters.  Yet, overall, it is but a journey from one destination to another.  As the English poet Rupert Brooke once wrote: “,Well this side of Paradise!… There’s little comfort in the wise.”

August 2, 2014

August 2, 2014

My father received two books from his father, who died, when my dad was 12.   The books he left for my dad was a collection of short stories by Oscar Wilde and T. E. Lawrence’s “Seven Pillars of Wisdom.” The latter I think expressed my dad’s sense of adventure and grandness.  Some saw him as a quiet man, but I always saw him as being larger than life.  When he died he didn’t leave me a lot of possessions, but I think I inherited his romanticism of art and the grand gesture that make him special in my eyes.  Perhaps “Lawrence of Arabia” is part of a romantic tradition that men of a certain age could rise to admire.  It’s interesting to me that the actor Peter O’Toole who played Lawrence, is the same generation as my father’s - so perhaps due to the ugliness of World War 2 and the racism of that era, they were drawn to another time where men could enjoy the masculine relationship among themselves, as well as galloping in the desert.



My father is well known for making a journal/zine/mail art publication called “Semina.” Every copy was hand-made by my father, and he only gave it out to people who he found interesting or liked/loved.  It was a personal gesture to another person, and Wallace I think believed that it was important or at the very least, some interest to the given from the giver.  Lawrence also made unique editions of “Seven Pillars of Wisdom” where he made only eight copies.  He couldn’t afford to have the book typed out, so he got the text typeset and printed on a proofing press at the Oxford Times printing works.  With those eight copies, he obtained ownership of all eight copies, and chose who was permitted to read them.  Even that, this was not perfect copies of the text, due to transcription errors (as a publisher and editor this is hell) and in places lines and even whole paragraphs are missing.  He put forward some of his corrections by hand in at least five of those eight bound copies.



To be honest, I have only faint memories of the film “Lawrence of Arabia, ” due to my age at the time.  But what I do clearly remember is the beginning of the film with the motorcycle footage.  I really identified with that, because at the time, and as a child, I would ride with my father on his motorcycle throughout the hills of Bel Air.  This was before the helmet law, so both of us could feel the cold air hitting our nasal passage and eyes.  My dad liked to scream while riding the bike through the hills, and he would encourage me to do the same. It seemed like the real-life Lawrence had a thing for motorcycles.  He owned 8 Brough Superior motorcycles. They were considered to be the Rolls Royce of cycles and even though ceased production of the motorcycles right after World War ll, they were still making parts up to 1969.   My father drove a Triumph, and like the Brough Superior, their bikes were quite beautiful.



Poetry was one of the foundations of my dad’s aesthetic, and it is interesting that he used “Semina” as a exploration of that art, as well as Lawrence’s love for poetry.   The dedication in Lawrence’s “Seven Pillars of Wisdom” is of great interest because it is not clear if he’s writing about the Arabs or an individual: Here’s the poem:

I loved you, so I drew these tides of
Men into my hands
And wrote my will across the
Sky and stars
To earn you freedom, the seven
Pillared worthy house,
That your eyes might be
Shining for me
When I came

Death seemed my servant on the
Road, 'til we were near
And saw you waiting:
When you smiled and in sorrowful
Envy he outran me
And took you apart:
Into his quietness

Love, the way-weary, groped to your body,
Our brief wage
Ours for the moment
Before Earth's soft hand explored your shape
And the blind
Worms grew fat upon
Your substance

Men prayed me that I set our work,
The inviolate house,
As a memory of you
But for fit monument I shattered it,
Unfinished: and now
The little things creep out to patch
Themselves hovels
In the marred shadow
Of your gift
 -T. E. Lawrence


I often think how an individual can relate to another individual, and what they may or may not share.  But for whatever reason, when I see the image of Lawrence of Arabia, I don’t think of Peter O’Toole, but my father on his motorcycle.

August 1, 2014

August 1, 2014

My earliest memory is being in a crib, and facing my bedroom window.  In the darkness, the light outside the window was still on, but muted, or perhaps yellow, so it wasn’t bright.  Just enough to see outside the window if one needs to check something.  What I did see was a hand coming from the bottom of the window pane and grasping the side, as it slowly moves upward.  A face appeared as well, and it was bloody and distorted.  As a baby I screamed and either my father or mother heard me and they came in to comfort me.  There was a party at the time, taking place in the living room, and it seems the bloodstained face outside my bedroom window had a name.  Ramblin' Jack Elliot.

Jack was and remains a well-known folk singer, who somehow ended up at my parents’ party that night.  I think what happened was because he was drunk,  he fell down outside my bedroom window, and tried to either obtain his balance, or pick himself up by holding onto the window pane.  Nevertheless this is the first time image that I can remember.  To this day, I pretty much avoid sleeping facing a window.  Also it was the first time that I was introduced to fear.  Also being isolated from the noise I heard in the next room, made the experience even more terrifying to me.   But what child is not afraid of the dark and even more important what is outside their window.   I remember my mother telling me a story about her and my uncle, who is a couple of years older, and he was taking care of my mom at their family home, while the parents were out.  At the time, they were in the bedroom upstairs, and my uncle kept telling my mom that there is someone outside the window wanting to get in.  He was only trying to scare her, because that is what big brothers do to little sisters.  The window in question had a gigantic curtain, and my uncle kept teasing her that he will open the window to let in whoever is outside.  While my mom was petrified, and at the exact moment my uncle quickly clears the curtain.  As the curtain opened, it exposed a man attempting to break into their bedroom.  My uncle fainted, the man outside was surprised and he fell off the second floor window ledge, and my mom just stood there looking at my uncle on the floor and at the now-vacant window.

It wasn’t till many years later that I saw the film “Cape Fear” with Robert Mitchum playing Max Cady, that I re-lived the fear I had when I saw Ramblin’ Jack Elliot outside my window.   The presence of Cady just showing up as the family that he’s stalking, is having their low moments. It is just like if the spirit is down, then the evil spirit will come in.  I’m one of those people who can affect a room with my bad mood.  It seems to come out of my pours of my skin, and if I don’t hide it, then it becomes a concern from the people around me.  I just have to keep this in mind, especially if I’m in a work environment, where one has to keep people’s spirits up.  But the strain of having a phony smile on my face, or to laugh off idiotic gestures, is a deep concern of mine.   There is positive and negative energy, and one can totally dwell into either of those two definite landscapes.  I try to avoid the negative feelings, because it tends to overwhelm me, and therefore leads me to make bad decisions, when in actuality, I need to make something good out of the bad.



I often think the world of people like Yves Saint Laurent, because I knew he had a traumatic experience when he was in the military, and suffered under the cruelty of his fellow soldiers.  While he was in the military hospital, he heard the news that he was fired by Christian Dior due to the poor reception of a collection showing.    What happened was Saint Laurent was to be conscripted to serve in the French military during the Algerian war, but Marcel Boussac, the owner of the House of Dior put pressure on the government not to do so.  But once Saint Laurent had savaged reviews of his collection in the French press, Boussac asked that the designer to be conscripted.  So he did go, suffered from a breakdown, and ended up getting electroshock therapy and psychoactive drugs.   This caused a consistent problem for Saint Laurent throughout his life.  Nevertheless he did become successful, and in his own terms as well.   Sometimes the negative can inspire one to over come whatever ills them.  Often they just suffer in silence and do the best that they can be.  I have a tendency to go with fate, but with a whistle through my lips: Cliff Richard’s “Living Doll. ”

Guardian Article on Boris Vian in Today's paper/website

A quick and easy introduction to Boris Vian, but not in great detail.  Nevertheless, it is nice he's getting some attention in the big media.   Sadly (and not surprisingly) there is no mention of my press TamTam Books, which pretty much presented Vian to the English reading world.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/jul/31/boris-vian-paris-lecume-des-jours-mood-indigo?CMP=twt_gu&commentpage=1

July 31, 2014

July 31, 2014

Last night I played Sir Arthur Sullivan’s “The Lost Chord” which is a recording made in 1888, and it is considered to be among the earliest surviving recordings of music.  It is likewise the best.  One just has to presume that either Thomas Edison or Adelbert Theodor Edward Wangemann produced or recorded this haunted melody on their phonograph cylinder.  It’s a beautiful piece of music, but the only version I like is this one.  The sadness of time passing appeals to my sense of loss.  I have a phonograph cylinder, and this is the sole piece of music I have for it.  I tend to play it at least once a week, just before I go to sleep.  It is just like a peaceful death, where I wander into my dreams in hopes of a better world.

Sullivan was an interesting man in that he had an affair with Rachel Scott Russell as well as her older sister Louise.  He dumped both of them and ended up with an American socialite by the name of Fanny Ronalds.  She was an amateur singer, and it has been noted that her favorite song was “The Lost Cord.” When Sullivan died he left her an autographed manuscript of that song to her.  He would also record his sexual acts with her, which strikes my fancy, because I too am obsessed with making lists of all sorts.

Sullivan is now famous for the operas he wrote with W. S. Gilbert, but what I find interesting is how he enacted with the first recording. Edison sent his phonograph to London so that George Gouraud could play Sullivan’s “The Last Cord” to a press audience in 1888. Sullivan commented on this recording by saying “I can only say that I am astonished and somewhat terrified at the result of this evening's experiments: astonished at the wonderful power you have developed, and terrified at the thought that so much hideous and bad music may be put on record forever. But all the same I think it is the most wonderful thing that I have ever experienced, and I congratulate you with all my heart on this wonderful discovery. ”



As one’s notice, it seems that Sullivan may also be the earliest record reviewer in existence as well. Nevertheless I had the strangest dream last night, which I believe to be due to this song.  I was on a luxury liner, and I sense that it was slowly sinking, but no one was commenting on that fact or appeared to be overly concerned.  In fact it was peaceful, and I do believe I was hearing “The Last Cord” at this moment in the dream.  Including the sound of decay and destruction of the wax cylinder.  As I looked over the ship onto the ocean I saw a faint image of a body floating, and I am not sure if that specific body was swimming or a drowned corpse.  Others saw it as well, but of course, not reacting to it or the situation.   As I woke up this morning and watched footage of the bombings in Gaza, I felt totally numb to the visuals.   Also it struck me funny that as the United States condemns the bombings due to the death of civilians and children, and demands a ceasefire, it is also selling arms to Israel at the same time.  I won’t be on this planet forever, but I wonder the one’s who comes after me (if they do) what would they think of such a joke, when they see antique recordings of a disaster such as taking place in Gaza.  Perhaps it will be entertainment, but then again, there is something beautiful about cheap music like “The Lost Cord” as well as how one sees their entertainment.

July 30, 2014

July 30, 2014

Ah!, the summer of love.   I was 12 years old when I first went to London with my parents, and that trip for me was like traveling through Alice’s rabbit hole.  I have gone back to London numerous time, but like the first kiss, the first trip was the magical one.  For one, I met Alexander Trocchi with my parents at his flat somewhere in the capital.  At the time, I had the faint knowledge that he contributed a piece to my dad’s art/poetry/journal “Semina,” but that is about it.  I knew nothing else about him.  What impressed me the most, at the time, is when he began to shoot up heroin into his arm.  At that point and time (I was 12 remember) I never saw anything like that in my life.  I was intrigued because he kept the conversation he was having with my parents while he prepared his gear, and eventually shooting the dope into his arm.  At the time, it was shocking to me, because I never ever even seen a needle in that sense.  As a child I had to get numerous shots through school, and I always looked away when the needle went through my skin.  Having a shot in the arm did not bother me personally, but the worst part of the whole procedure is standing in line with other kids and their parents, and hearing the child in front of me scream their heads off.  As one got closer to the screened-off room in the gym, the worst the knots were in my stomach.   Here in London, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him and his arm.  I remember his arm also being scarred with scabs and other markings.   The odd thing, is that he didn’t excuse himself or asked if it was OK, he just did it in front of his guests.



It was obvious to me my parents were not happy to see this in front of their eyes, and I think were concerned that I was in the room as well.  But the official policy in a sense, was not to hide me from anything unpleasant.  Although oddly enough, the only thing I was’t allowed to watch or see was the Tod Browning film “Freaks.” Which of course made me want to see the film even more, but at the time of my youth, that film only existed as film stills in various Monster fan magazines that I used to devour each month.   I was intrigued by the thought of actually seeing real live side-show freaks, because to me, it was just an illusion and I wasn’t sure if they even existed.  It wasn’t till I was in my mid-twenties, when I actually saw the film.  I’m happy to say that the film was worth the long wait.  Around that time I went to a donut shop on Melrose Avenue, here in Los Angeles, to get some morning coffee.  To my surprise I stood behind a man who looked exactly like the Elephant Man. His face was deformed with huge tumors, and his mouth was misshapen as well as the rest of his head.  Even now, I feel it was a dream, but the truth is I did see this man.  It was a strange setting to see him in a donut shop, early in the morning.  I remember the girl behind the counter was sort of freaked out, and it was hard to understand what he was asking for, due that his voice was affected by the way his mouth was deformed.  It was sad, horrifying, and weird at the same moment.



My memory of Alex was that he was charming, but there was something terribly off about his behavior with respect to his heroin use.  I have met many junkies in my life, but never witnessed one shooting the works in their system.  Also besides me and my parents, he had a small child roaming the flat as well.  He or she must have been around 1 or 2 years old.  Nevertheless, as I got older I would run into Alex’s work in the most strangest places.  He was a writer who showed up in moments of critical incidents or times of world literature.  The Paris Review, the Situationists, the Beats… he just appears like a ghost, and then if you look again at his direction, he disappears.  Totally fascinating.

July 29, 2014

July 29, 2014

My first step into the world of alcoholism is by watching William Powell in the Thin Man film series.   If this was a drinker, then sign me up.   I loved how he focused on martini drinking and solving a mystery between drinking sessions.   My day is pretty well-arranged, that by 9pm in the evening I’m drunk.  The beauty of the day is the rhyme and timing of moments passing, participating the first sip of the martini.  Drinking is not the most important part of the day for me, but to know that “it” will happen, excites me to no end.  I often feel that after a great writing session and basically being alone with my torrid thoughts, the award of the grueling work will be the taste of the combined elements of vodka, vermouth and olive.  On special occasions (at least once a week) I like to have a martini around 1pm if the morning is going well.  So the buzz in the afternoon is a pretty good introduction to the full-throttle of serious drinking in the evening.



When I’m writing I imagine myself as two different people or maybe the same person with poles apart characteristics.  I haven’t really worked that out yet.  Nevertheless, I feel my brain is kept separate from my fingers as I type.  What comes to bear in mind is the story of “Archy and Mehitabel” in which the cockroach writes free verse poetry by hurling himself at the keys one at a time.  Due to that practice and his very size, it’s impossible for him to operate the shift key on the typewriter, so all his writings were written without capitalization or punctuation.  I kind of go through the identical procedure myself.  Of course I’m too big to throw myself onto the keyboard, but nevertheless there is a coordination I have to continue to focus on between my brain and typing.



I’m working on a novel about a family that is born wealthy and therefore wealth comes naturally to them.  Its take place in an era where new wealth is made due to an individual’s genius in making something new, or the ability to look at the world as if it was a map, and building or inventing items that can be used by the masses.  The tension is not due to wealth alone, but the class structure that produced old money against “new money.” As my leading character says: "Don't you think being things is 'rahthuh bettuh' than doing things?"



My behavior is like a Professor Irwin Corey in front of the typewriter.  I’m just trying to make sense of a world that I really don’t have an understanding of.  I just know it tastes like a stale martini left on the bar for way too long.   If I can just imagine staying focused and keep to the schedule I think it will work out OK.  The drinking part is what keeps me in-tuned to the day.  Like the sun arising and going down at dusk, I know the martini will take me to another place, where I can wander and be free for at least a certain amount of hours per day.  Not to be restricted to the gravity of the Earth and in front of my typewriter, but to expand my drunk consciousness onto an expressway or at its worst, in a garage in Pacific Palisades, with a car motor running.   But once I’m on the highway, I usually avoid the exit signs.

July 28, 2014

July 28, 2014

As a little boy, maybe 8 or 9 years old, I went to the Pasadena Museum for an opening for a Frenchman by the name of Marcel Duchamp. Once I got there, I had an instant “like” for the exhibition, because one, I feel this is art that was totally kid friendly.   For instance, a bicycle wheel on a stool.  What child couldn’t relate to that!  Also I have a faint memory of a snow shovel that was placed on the wall, and I thought that was pretty neat as well.  It was the first art exhibition I’ve been to, where I felt the mystery was being preserved, yet totally inviting.  Someone, I believe it was Walter Hopps introduced me to Duchamp.  I remember him being tall, but of course keep in mind that any kid thinks of a grown-up as being tall.  What impressed me is when Walter announced my name, Duchamp slightly bent his waist in a formal manner and shook my little hand.  I got the impression that he came to me, and approached me as not as an equal for God’s sake, but worthy enough to reach out for my hand.



The opening was a lot of fun and it felt special.  There was something in that room that just got the people there jazzed and excited.  Every Los Angeles artist was at the opening, and it was sort of like if the King and Queen of somewhere came to town, and it was a private engagement for that royalty couple.  In the small world that I lived in, it was obvious that this Frenchman was someone important.  Probably my favorite artist as a kid at that time was Salvador Dali. Due to mostly his appearance and his painting skills.  It wasn’t till I became a teenager or late teen and realized that Dali was the Kiss (as in the band) of art.  I out grew that artist but never lost my appreciation of Marcel Duchamp.  Speaking of (or writing)Dali, there was this amusing tale I read from John Cage, when he was hanging out with Duchamp in the late 50s, and Duchamp requested that both of them should visit Dali, who was staying somewhere  in New York City.  Cage couldn’t imagine why Duchamp would want to visit Dali, to be honest, I think he felt that Dali was below him and Duchamp. Which is most likely the case, but Duchamp actually liked Dali.  Not sure about loving his art, but he liked him as a character or person.  Cage went with him, and Dali did most of the talking, and Duchamp basically sat there and just smiled at him.  Cage didn’t really get it.  I think a lot of people didn’t get Duchamp because they really didn’t understand his zen like attention to accept almost anything.



When I began to write poetry, my main influence was Tristan Tzara, because to me he was the craziest writing poet on the planet.  But when I got older, I began to appreciate the poetry of John Ashbery.  What impressed about his work, as a young poet, is the absence of ego in his poetry.  It didn’t seem to be about him, but something else, but of course, it is really about the poet.  I often pretend that I’m not an egoist, by practicing a look on my face that says “I’m listening to you with all my senses.” In actuality, I am not really listening, but thinking about my writing or a picture of a pretty girl a friend sent to me via e-mail.   What I love about poetry is that there is a platform and one needs to work within its borders.  With that restriction, I feel more alive and free.  I imagine this is exactly what it is like to participate in S&M practices, where you either control someone or accept the fact that you are being controlled. I can understand that relationship fully.  Ashbery strikes me as a poet who is very open to the world, and takes it all in, but of course he edits the images he comes upon, and therefore his poetry.  One thing that stays in my mind is a quote from Ashbery (from an interview in The Paris Review) “I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.” Also I am very much in tuned to his ear and eyes.  I don’t find Ashbery obscure, but in fact, he’s just more aware than others.  Another quote by him that stays with me, and I feel it could have been from Duchamp as well: “It's rather hard to be a good artist and also be able to explain intelligently what your art is about. In fact, the worse your art is, the easier it is to talk about, at least I would like to think so.”  

July 27, 2014

July 27, 2014

I write.  I publish.  I don’t do anything else.  I make a separate identity, in which I have a paying job.  I work at a bookstore, where I talk about books, but never talk about my writing.  In conjunction with my work at the store, I also publish, but that, like my writing, never brings in any money in.   Two or three times, I have been asked to participate in an awards ceremony in the hopes that I would win such an award.  I refuse to do so. On the grounds that I write, and I refuse to participate in the games where one is competing against another writer.  In essence, it is putting a group of people (writers) in a cage and seeing which one will win out in the end.   That, as a writer, I find disgusting.   The only prize I would accept is the Nobel.  For the sole reason it is the most ludicrous prize, that it is almost meaningless.  To quote the eminent (ha) Alfred Nobel "in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction.” The key word for me here is “ideal.” My whole life is spent to avoid the “ideal” To satisfy one’s conception of what is perfect, is simply absurd.



The problem with Dash Snow is that he didn’t have a day job.  I’ve been studying him and his work for a writing project, and his sad death conveys an artist who chooses to participate in the art game, by pretending not to be part of it.  The freedom he had was one within the borders that were set up by others.  Like me, Kafka, Julien Grecq, we can fuck with the structure by actually not participating in the game.  Even being questioned for the media is taking part where one is exploited, and where in fact, your writing and work should speak for you.  What is there to know about me, except what I write.



As a publisher, I focus on writers who denounced the powers-to-be in their specific culture.  To re-define yourself is the right of an artist, and the path I follow is one of my own making.  I’m always suspicious of reading articles on an artist that talks more about his life, than his art.   This is not always the artist’s fault, but the painful results of dealing in a world that pretends to be interested in you or one’s work.  Our (or my) culture has replaced all reality and meaning with symbols and signs.  We live in a world of mass-reproducible copies of items, turning them into commodities.  In other words, a product to consume.  Whatever it’s war, a toy, a piece of music or art - it becomes meaningless.  To engage in such a world is clearly pointless.



One of my favorite pieces of art (and I use that word for all the disciplines of its practices) is “Café Müller” by Pina Bausch in which the dancers crash into the furniture on the stage.  The dancers are told to close their eyes, which cause a sense of tension in the audience.   Or at least for me, because I imagine it is the same when one writes on a blank paper, and you let the spirit enter you.  It’s the only moment where I feel that I’m not part of a machinery that’s single purpose is to sell you to an audience or readers.  To consume is surely a paradise of sorts, but to roll the dice, and see if you come up, is surely the dynamic of being successful.  But that type of outcome is consistently being ‘framed’ in a fashion by the media and our culture.  If I can wipe out what is out there and start from the beginning, I feel I can just do what I do best.  Which is to write, publish and to dream.