What goes around...

When I am drunk I make a mistake
Like inventing the devil
or breaking a window

I left an empty bottle on Virginia
I'm going back to get it

There are other things too

l- h-m-n-st-

pouring through the morning star

like the tail on an afterhour's tumbler

in the picket fence part of doom

i went to pick a flower

to give it a name

underneath the city

the names of stones terrify the mountains,

the windows, the mirrors, the melting ice, the plumage

of rain with yellow spades of fever, rivers, and streams

i pulled at the stem

underneath

wires charged with electricity

showered sparks down the scaffolding

l-a'ro

Zombies!

Well it has been a long week doing that thing people call work- My job is so strange... I had been learning about compressing audio files and mass producing CDs. then friday I got paid to go with my boss and badger sales reps about the qualities of various printers until my boss settled on a 65 thousand dollar power press and asked me to divert two of the lesser sales fools with every inane question I could possibly muster while he got down to Brass tax with the main guy... after we choked down hebrew hotdogs, while creeping our way through Friday rush-hour traffic while Our complementary paper stock got soaked by unexpected rain- at least the rainbow was nice- we passed away the creep of traffic by arguing over which locations in the city would be best to take fortify against an unexpected Zombie attack - this bears more explanation – as it turns out, George Romero, - the Director of the original 1968 “Night of The Living Dead” movie as well as several subsequent Zombie films- and generally acknowledged master and creator of the modern Zombie myth is a loyal Pittsburgh resident (actually he lives in Shady Side- about five blocks away from my new abode) He shuns Hollywood and filmed all the Zombie features, from the Original to the presently being filmed “Diaries of the Dead” in the Pittsburgh area.
Well this has introduced a sort of Pittsburgh infatuation with Zombies- strange Zombie events seem to frequently occur here, from the annual Zombie Walk (which I am extremely grateful that I heard about ahead of time, because if I had not & stumbled across it unaware, it may have sent me over the edge...) to a ready and willing army of volunteer Zombie extras that inhabit the city... anyways it seems that at just about any moment in just about any bar in Pittsburgh you can strike up a conversation or argument over which locations in the city serve as the best possibly refuges from unexpected Zombie attacks. Anyways, I think this recent article displays the facts of the matter better than my ramblings possibly can...

Chivo...

Study Reveals Pittsburgh Unprepared For Full-Scale Zombie Attack

PITTSBURGH—A zombie-preparedness study, commissioned by Pittsburgh Mayor Tom Murphy and released Monday, indicates that the city could easily succumb to a devastating zombie attack. Insufficient emergency-management-personnel training and poorly conceived undead-defense measures have left the city at great risk for all-out destruction at the hands of the living dead, according to the Zombie Preparedness Institute.

Pittsburgh, a prime target of the undead.

"When it comes to defending ourselves against an army of reanimated human corpses, the officials in charge have fallen asleep at the wheel," Murphy said. "Who's in charge of sweep-and-burn missions to clear out infected areas? Who's going to guard the cemeteries at night? If zombies were to arrive in the city tomorrow, we'd all be roaming the earth in search of human brains by Friday."

Government-conducted zombie-attack scenarios described on the State Department's website indicate that a successful, citywide zombie takeover would take 10 days, but according to ZPI statistician Dr. Milton Cornelius, the government's models fail to incorporate such factors as the zombies' rudimentary reasoning skills and basic tool use.

"Today's zombies quickly learn to open doors, break windows, and stage ambushes," Cornelius said. "In one 1985 incident in Louisville, a band of zombies was able to lure four paramedics and countless law-enforcement officials to their deaths by commandeering an ambulance radio and calling for backup."

ZPI researchers noted that tens of thousands of Pittsburgh citizens live in close proximity to a cemetery. This fact, coupled with abnormally high space-radiation levels in eastern Pennsylvania and ongoing traffic issues in the East Hills and Larimer areas, led Cornelius to declare the likelihood of a successful evacuation as "slight to impossible."

"The designated evacuation routes would be hopelessly clogged, leaving many no choice but to escape by foot," Cornelius said. "Add a single lurching zombie into that easily panicked crowd and you've got a nightmare scenario."

Cornelius' model shows that after the ensuing stampede, "the zombie could pick and choose his victims," and predicts the creation of hundreds of new undead "in a single half-hour feeding frenzy."

Pittsburgh's structural defenses are particularly inadequate. The city's emergency safe houses, established by a city ordinance in the early '70s, lack even the most basic fortifications for zombie invasion.

Pittsburgh residents participate in a zombie-preparedness training exercise in 1998.

"Under the ordinance, wooden tool sheds and rusty station wagons are classified as adequate shelter," Cornelius said. "But once dozens of zombies hungering for living flesh begin pounding on the walls and driving their half-decomposed fists through the windows, sheds and cars quickly give way."

Federal Undead Management Agency spokesperson Dr. Sheena Aurora downplayed the ZPI report, arguing that zombies move slowly and can be easily overpowered. Aurora advised citizens to look over their shoulders frequently, adding that a large shopping mall can serve as a "long-term, even fun" refuge from zombies.

Such assertions alarm zombiologist Olivier Baptiste, who calls FUMA's information "hopelessly outdated."

"Dr. Aurora's claims are based on decades-old zombie models," Baptiste said. "Widely released evidence from recent years clearly shows that zombies can run just as fast, if not faster, than a living human."

Added Baptiste: "That FUMA trains its field agents to shoot zombies in the torso, rather than the head, demonstrates just how out of touch the government is."

Evans City, PA Police Chief Gino Fulci said zombie preparedness comes down to training on the local level.

"Children need to be taught from preschool that they might have to put a bullet between the eyes of their own undead mother," Fulci said. "'Destroy The Brain' banners should be hung above the entrances of schools, churches, and town halls everywhere."

Cornelius recommends that Pittsburgh residents prepare a "go-bag" containing a Glock 17 pistol and 50 rounds of ammunition. If leaving the house is not an option, Cornelius advises residents to barricade all first-story doors and windows, and have at least one method of suicide prepared, should zombies successfully breach the home.

I thought I could chase the world away

I thought I could chase the world away
With music
And I'd walk my beat
And never unplug
And get by on signals
And what I already knew

I thought I could chase the world away
With wine
And I'd drink my cup
And never come down
And get by on my good looks
And what I had already done

I thought I could chase the world away
With words
And I made a new one
And never looked outside
And get by on the royalties
And what I'd promise to do

I thought I could chase the world away
With living in it
And I would be nice
And never run away
And get by like everyone else
And with what I did with my hands

I thought I could chase the world away
With love
And I did
And the world disappeared
And we got by on heat
And what we did with our bodies

And we were alone for a time

La Humanista

P.S. My conference topics are now confined to "Development of Theatre in post-Anglo-colonial cultures" and "The lobby dilema: persuding the public away from the cinema and back into the theatre", so I would welcome a less dramatic topic... could we get away with it?

colloquium

Over the holidays some of us will be gathered in the Dee.

I watched the Almaden Institute’s Conference on Cognitive Computing; fucking blew me away ( V. S. Ramachandran, Gerald Edelman, Christof Koch, and John Searle to name some). Researchers who aren’t often united were brought together to share their work. They inspired each other, and inspired me.

I would love to listen to presentations, ramblings, bamblings, blunderlusts, readings--what not, by us—a Friar’s colloquium. And I would love to put something together about say European intellectual culture between the world wars, or the development of South American literature. I can imagine any variety of topics—the east/west mentality of the Dee, creative works, the whole lot—to celebrate each other and that which takes our interest.

l'a-ro

Ballad of the Dark Miser

the creature walks among us . . .

It seems like many years ago now, that harrowing period, where I was first experimenting with the forbidden yogas, a recondite left-hand path only hinted at by Patanjali, and to be honest, much of the hard work was done by a young drug addict I was involved with . . . I would skim off the top what she learned during meth-fueled marathons. And for whatever reason, it seems true that to get really good at something, practice 16 hours a day. Wayne Gretzkey. Buckethead. All graduates of the 16 hour sessions. I can't go 16 hours without a shower . . .[yes, you see it coming already - tha George Hamilton of Darkness . . . ]

Now I can see, how everything really IS connected, and the true meaning of the word 'consequence' -to follow continuously, as in the gurus of Bhakti yoga define devotion as 'continuous knowledge' - it's silly to think I would ride away unscathed - our actions are with us always, perhaps too compressed to view all at once, but once you get the knack of feeling for them, you see that the future ones as well are already with you in much the same way. To be able to measure these things at all, and to see what a small portion, like the mind, or desire, they are of you, is perhaps a step into a larger existence.

Among the many side effects of that era is the accidental soaking up of the . . . psychic fingerprints of whoever I'm closest to . . .to interpret myself as though I were another. This is not an altogether voluntary process, and certainly has nothing in the nature of 'Soul -stealing ' as I have been accused of, on occasion. It was niave, I now know, to assume that simply by refusing to use these talents selfishly I would emerge unscathed.

Sleeping off a long phone session with my Los Vegas Angel, I awoke with my various issues and feelings filtered as if they were hers! I rose up, staggering, sleepy, thirsty, and VEXED, one overidding thought - 'I'm so CUTE! ! !
It's just not fair . . .' And looking in the mirror, it was true. My recently dyed hair [elvis black] sticking out in fascicular goemetries never before dreamed by man. I resembled a character from one of those terrifying Xmass specials, with the puppets. . . the Heat Miser ? ? ? Closer to the Cold Miser, but EVIL . . .The Dark Miser! And there it was - the monster looking back. . . I am my own evil twin, and aren't we all?

[just tell me what I want to hear about this!]

prolouge to 'The Life' :number one for da bulletets . . .
A retired Gangster, upon listening to my Romantic struggles, laughed at me and exclaimed 'You're still living the Life!' This worries me, because the realities of our respective fast lanes are so different - akin to the differences between the films of Martin Scorsese and those of Tim Burton. I've never known him to be wrong before, hence It Troubles Me. Perhaps there is something fundamental, a refusal of one life and acceptance, or worse, presumption of other elements that makes it all the same on some level. . .

The indian summer is failing, and even the sun has a pallor. It's no longer casts golden rays, but a more stark, harsh light - as if it's been replaced with a cheaper and more efficient flourescent star.

Detroit is once again the most Dangerous City in America with a population over 500,000. [Camden, New Jersey, thanks to all that good Afgan heroin, is most dangerous overall] This is a fun statistic, but not as fun as comparing the statistics for american armed forces in Iraq to Detroits. There are MANY years where more Americans have been killed just living in Detroit than fighting the war in Iraq.

An auspicious begining to soup and poetry season.

The Life Part one: flying the Brass Dirigible.
Or is that the Einsteinium airship? [it's probably worth noting that I was a Tin Machine fan BEFORE I discovered Jimmy Page. . . ]
There is a Led Zeppelin Rennaissance sweeping the nation, and I'm afraid it starts here, with me. So as ineffable tribute bands stalk the land, and your local orchestra gears up for a laser light show featuring 'the Sympohonic Plant and Page'. . . yes I must take the blame. I was merely looking fof a common language I could share with Sarah, and that was what worked.
Now he whole business has sort of taken on a life of it's own . . .A hard Rock Golem, running amok. . . even the Brain has thrown his critical faculties behind it. The what and how are not as interesting in this case as the why. Stephen Davis pointed out that back in the day, the fans of this music were overwhelmingly 'Cannon fodder youth ' and I think that term should be bandied about more often. We are in some ways mirroring the 70's, with an ugly war, and 'revised economic expectations'.
More entertaining, and infinitely more shallow, is the Amusing Backlash that Sarah and I are ( snicker ) 'enduring' . There is alot of 'oh, they're so cool now' through the hipster world. The puch line is that we don't have a single track layed yet! Just the threat of it has been enough!
If I really thought ART and show business were seperate entities,
I'd think show Biz was WAYYYYY better!

I try to avoid the media as much as possible just before an election, but while loading up on taquitos and a Slurpee at 7-11, a headline caught my eye:

'Pope Declares: Keith Richards is God'

Apparently this was some overdue recognition for The Human Riff's contributions to the Tom Waits masterpiece Rain Dogs, playing and/or singing on Big Black Maraiah, Union Square and Blind Love. . . If anyone is interested in a thought provoking interview with Tom's Other guitarist, check this out: http://www.tomajazz.com/perfiles/ribot_marc_eng.htm

It's raining Lesbians

I don't have the right un-brella for that

I don't want to get soaked

Mambo Sun, dry these Jasper clouds

The Life Pt II - the Ice Cream Mafia : time over under and sideways

In the true Max Fisher spirit, The Kimono Club and the surviving Eastside Saucy Fellows have merged into an uneasy eastside-westside alliance, known as the Ice Cream Mafia. Jet Li recently gave an interview, and I love it when he does - the amount of english he can be bothered with could be described as 'linguistic impressionism'. Eschewing a martial arts question, he launched into a beatiful non-sequitir about how when he was young, he loved ice cream. And he would do all these crazy things to get ice cream. THEN he wanted a bicycle. Later he wanted a car. But the 'Wanting' part was always the same. One whole element unto itself. Only the things changed. Combined with William Gibson's assertion that All object of desire are found objects, traditionally at least, we not only have an interesting approach to why things are as they are, but also the charter of this new gang.

I'm at he door of the Ice cream parlor; The one next to the funeral parlor on 8Mile. It opens abruptly, and a very tall man sways through, ducking to clear the exit. I recognize him - Cnoe, a local rapper. He's good - his work goes beyond the plutolatry and cliche violence that makes the genre so boring. We exchange The nod.

I'd last seen him at the VMA's - I arrived in a Bugatti Veyron, with Vida Guerra. [the same car Sarah would drive in our race across the country, one of our first and best publicity stunts.] We'd been joking the whole time that her ass was bigger than mine. I heard a whistle, and it was Cnoe, leaning over the roof of a pepto-bismol coloured Buick Skylark, impossibly jacked up the height of a monster truck. 'Yo man, ain't the Cheetah no mo'! '

Ridiculously, I understood him - as in ' the fastest land animal is no longer the Cheetah, but the driver of the Veyron' , as in, 'I like your car.' He was escorting pornstars Taylor Rain and Tiny Vi. As they descended the Skylark's ladders, we looked at each other and laughed. We'd both chosen different flavors of crassness for our entrance, the way other celebrities choose a fashion designer. Our exchange was not merely an admission, but an ENJOYMENT of that crassness. That's Eastside. We were playing along, but not pretending it was real. THAT would be Westside. . .

On the sidewalk, He lights up a Newport, and provects a handshake.
''Yo man' he says, before exhaling 'Motherfuckers won' LET you smoke inside.''
'That's crucial'
"you and Vida - what was up with that -that ass looked good enough to eat!"
' Aw, she wanted to sodomize me with a strapon.'
" Really?" He starts, his voice higher, accent morphing ''Cos there was this nasty chick . . . '' He stops, realizing he's volunteered something, as my permagrin spreads.
'Naw man, she wanted to go BOWLING -how fucked up is THAT ? . . . '
Both laughing
"Shiiiit . . . "
'YOu comin back in?'
"Naw man, I just had spuMOni - that shit is tight!"
'Right on -I'm gonna get me some!'


Knocking on Zappa's Door . . .
In the midst of a grimy week, a happy revelation arrived from one of my idols, both in music, and in life - the very great Weird Al Yankovic. It's amazing that he can put out something that not only crushes every contemporary offering, but also bests his previous efforts. To hear his satirical 'Straight outta Lynwood' is to realize how stupid the actual pop music of the last five years has been. It's a bizarre concept to argue for taking a humorist seriously . . .but Weird Al has brought the game up considerably. He is beginning to resemble that OTHER american humorist, of the baby snakes, hot rats, and catholic girls . . .
On another front, the constant battle over P2P has been adressed in a novel way - there is so much extra loot involved in the retail edition, that it's well worth buying the disc. It's interesting that Weird Al should be the one to find the High Road here, while many more avant artists are still snivelling . . .Don't they know it's not punk rock to call the websherrif?

The Life Pt 3: the Art of Biting

I was walking around in the fog this week, and watching the swirls of it, the notion occured to me that I seem to always be dealing with the holes left by other men. Men who wern'e there or didn't fill the space alloted them. This defines large swathes of my social interactions, from stalkers, to lesbians, all the way around to lesbian stalkers. . . Keep this in mind for later.

'What lives in you lies at the center of a network of veins and arteries. This is the net of blood. Light, or electrical energy, runs through the nerves in your body. This is the net of gold. You exist always caught in this net, under this net of blood and gold. You are caught on something; You are resting on something . . . Perhaps what I mean is, did you ever touch my arm, unconciously, and feel comforted by it, or look into my eyes and see an unexpected expression , which was so fleeting that you did not bother to to try to figure out what it was, but which pleased you somehow, for an instant, before it was gone?

You can't know, of course, because you have forgotten. But it is just those things that I long for, those little lost details that make up the entire difference between thought and experience. I mean, did you ever love me as a living creature? I mean was there anything, ever, about standing next to me that you could not put into words, or keep in your heart? Those are the things that remain unsaid, the little sparks. They cannot exist on their own; they must cling to something else, for they are nothing in themselves; They only make up the spaces in between those things that can be perceived.

You, inside your nets of blood and nerves, are always surrounded by these empty spaces. They are sparks of light. The earth is full of them, and so is heaven, full of little sparks. '

A letter from Ludwig Von Sacher,

-Lives of the Monster Dogs, Kirsten Bakis

I think this says about everything that need be said about Construction /Deconstruction and their isms. I was seeking a link between the work of Foucalt and Baudrillard, and yes, I think Derrida fills this nicely.

Using the example of the male negative spaces, I could see the traditional structure of men and their roles, filtered through history in different ways ala Foucalt and these are subject to Derrida's violent heirarchies, surely. Most alarmingly, I realized that these holes can be left by men who never existed at all!! Dreams of lovers of husbands, or tv fathers. . . Another layer of reality to be taken into account! [Baudrillard]

The intellectual process of all this has not kept my arms free of lesbians, so I think Ludwig Von Sacher is on the right track.

IV :Word to Ramona A Stone

' a person who loses a name will feel anxiety descending ' - Bowie, outside

Taking this philosophic ride, I was dismayed to see that it had already been done - this literary throwdown was 40 years behind the world of painting. By the Green and Red mountain period, it was already complete. There are some interesting questions arising herein. For example, this was a time when the idea of Narrative content was moved from the canvass to the manifesto of the artist. So in a sense, there was a literary/ philosophic platform for this to occur on. . .

MORE interestingly, is to see that for most of the last 100 years, painting was in the forefront of the arts, driving it's theories and when did that stop, exactly? ? ? As near as I can tell, it ends with Warhol, but I would be interested in hearing from you all on the matter.

I was recently discussing the Art world with some painters and sculptors, and an argument ensued as to whether Jackson Pollack's reputation was made by Clement Greenberg or Peggy Guggenheim. I thought it MOST interesting that Pollack himself was never mentioned as a possible source . . .

And this should reinforce the lesson I've been driving at the whole time on this blog, with my advice to brush up on your collective partygoing skills . . .

So, if no one ever told you:

It is a popularity contest,

it has always been a popularity contest,

the patronage system is very much in effect, and if anything moreso now than we like to think.

I have been a little dismayed to hear THREE otherwise clever friends this very week mention 'It's a popularity contest' with overtones of discovery, disappointment, or even outright betrayal. So, here it is.

You are now responsible.

You were all warned.

The popularity contest does not trivialize anything. Are you not good at the popularity contests? With the professors, the officers, waitresses? It's an inextricable part of living with and as primates. The idea that this is somehow impure is silly in our consumer culture. Are we arguing for a purity of consumption?

I'm certainly not on this blog for my writing skills - not only do I lack them, I lack even the intrest in them - I am here because of the popularity I enjoy. And I write here because you are popular with me.

It's true that there is a potential for a non commercial art on this internet [if we shift the consumption over to the requisite hardware we are using right now] - for a full exploration, check out William Gibson's Pattern Recognition - but that doesn't seem to be the way we like to organize. Why d'you suppose that is?

' Because every artist knew, in his heart of hearts, no matter how many times he tried to close his eyes and pretend otherwise ( History! History! -where is thy salve! ) that success was real only when sucess was sucess within le monde. He could close his eyes and try to believe that all that mattered was that he knew his work was great. . . and that other artists respected it . . .and that history would surely record his achievements . . .but deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. I want to be a Name, goddamn it! -at least that, a name on the lips ofthe museum curators, gallery owners, collectors, patrons, board members, commitee members, culture hostesses, and their attendant intellectuals and journalists and their Time and Newsweek -even that! Oh yes! . . . Even the goddamn journalists!

-Tom Wolfe, The Painted Word

I think it's silly to attempt to marginalize one's art and call that virtuous. It isn't an either or proposition - your task is to create as you will and popularize that. Or someone smarter will. It goes without saying that the dumber are already at it!

Be fruitful and popular!

love,

- El Pirata

Magic Nuclear: My Terrorist Friend

Greyhound Bus Station, Albuquerque:

It’s simple really. Doors open to nice people, nice and beautiful people...

Like when the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. They sent out as emissary their most beautiful single young girl. Her name was Mary Anne. (--it was really hard to find that out)

She said, “Hey Savage. You’re handsome.”

“Would you like to be my wife?” He said back.

“Shit,” she mumbled, “this guy speaks gobble-d-gook.” Mary Anne walked back across the beach to the boat. The oarsman was there. “He don’t understand,” she said to him. “Well, at least I haven't been ravaged. Let’s go”.

The oarsman heaved through the bay. And another boat approached. It was Jesse the Chief Proctor (--they say that’s where Jesse the Body got his name). He was with four of the common men with one on the oars.

She called out through the wind, “Fucking prick don’t speak English.” The oarsman looked up at her.
“What’s that?” Jesse asked as they came along. The two oarsmen nodded to each other.
“..the chief or whatever they sent out—“

“Were they armed?” Jesse asked after ropes were exchanged between the small boats.
“I’ll say.”

“Guns, do they have guns?”

“No, bow and arrow. Metal knives though. And saw some French leather work”

“So, they’ve had contact with Quebec.”

“Probably,” she said, “But I don’t think they’ve gotten wind of the religion, or you think with a white women they might have at least tried some French—if they had it. But they seem alright,” she went on, “So, get the preachers up. And tell them they might have someone to talk to.”

“You know Mary Ann," Jesse said to her, “if anything ever happened to my wife, I mean, like those savages killed her or something. Well, you know," he took a long look at the figures on the shore, and went on, "I just wanted you to know.”

“That’s very nice Jess.”

“And hopefully they won’t kill me either.” And he tapped the oarsman on the shoulder who undid the ropes, and they were off.

The boy up in the crows nest of the Mayflower had yelled down, “the lady is underway, sir”

And the captain had rubbed his whickers before informing the Manifest General, Mr. Sneed, who then had his acrimonious assistant relay the message authorizing the release of the diplomatic launch. But Jesse had been waiting underneath the mast for the news and anticipated the order.

But that’s how it happened with the Pilgrims. They didn’t need to use their guns and precious powder on anything but game. A door had been opened. And the indians gave them a rock--symbolizing permeanence. It’s only that some people have come after, changing the story to suit them. And they've have had no shame, even vandalizing the stone. And it’s those people who have made me and Magic Nuclear the best of friends.

l'a-r0

final installment in the romp of the neo-leisure

(this was my ultimate, and last response sent to the writers group/association. through this brief experience i came to better understand and articulate what it is that i think is important. and though my tone is critical, in truth, i am grateful.)

Writing is a lonely pursuit—as is reading; and for that matter—living. Isolation is a theme of the urban electronic age, better said—of the modern individual. And unfortunately the arts (I use the term loosely, and it might be better to say media) have become confirmations of individual worth in a culture of narcissism where quality is only judged by popularity. “Everybody is somebody in Luckenbach.”

The impotent antidote to isolation is being recognized. And the members of this group seek to be known as writers—as producers for a public which is guarded by commercial publishing. And in this way, the image of the writer becomes that of the sage. And with the writer already recognized as such, quality (judged by popularity) becomes a goal and not a requirement. This is an inversion, and is the product of self-indulgence.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, self-indulgence is the hallmark of the consumer society. And some of the most successful products cater to this whim—like this group and many movies and books. In the later, money functions as the vote of confidence; and in the former—popularity. Overall, people want to know they are not alone; that is, not alone in being themselves—accomplishment in recognition.

The real work of the arts is to take on these themes, to examine them, and to be critical. It generates thought—in essence, it is the breaking of boundries. It is active and restless. It does not promote a stupor—that’s fundamentalism, that’s going back to Descartes’ provisional morality. The story, the poem, and groups such as these can not be safe islands amid strife, artificially sequestered morsels, but instead engage in challenges—not popularity—but the challenges posed to quality.

This is not a higher calling—beginning with awareness and becoming dynamic—this is living.

"Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go."

(added to this post: Walt Whitman: Song of Myself)

l-a'r0

Smoke City

Hello to my brothers!
As many have heard I now write from Pittsburgh- Smoke City is a grand place and I believe more and more each passing day that we live in the best of her neighborhoods- An small area known simply as friendship… It’s nicely nestled in between a smattering of other places that I wouldn’t necessarily want to live but are nice to be able to access… a few blocks to the east lies the ephemeral Ellsworth neighborhood of cafes, galleries, hairdressers and homosexuals - to the south is the trendy, swank Walnut neighborhood with the hippest chain stores aside expensive pubs and eateries - to the west begins Pittsburgh’s little Italy, actually an amalgamation of Thai cuisine, Polish restaurants and beer gardens with Italian restaurants and grocerias - Ah and to the north beyond a goodly ghetto lies an easy escape across the Alleghany River to the Mountains of Southwestern Pennsylvania...as our wacky in house neighbor says – we live in the perfect location, you go out the front door and take a left for the drug of your choice and a right for pasta.

As for the day-to-day, I am working again, this time editing for a fantastic new publishing company whose proprietor just moved here from D-town having decided to open up shop in Smoke City so as to be near his lady. He hates Pennsylvania and says it’s all hills and bull shit bureaucracy but we get on well and I often vulture his mind for lessons in the trivial and truly strange. I will go into more depth later on but for now let me just say that I actually enjoy my job- I get to learn the oddest of things... things that I never knew I wanted to know...

Chivo

And now I include some lyrics that I wrote one day while manning a cash register at a wood-working products convention in Buffalo...

Move On

A Beeswax candle’s glimmer of hope

As uncertain mourners try to cope

Feeling the silence down to my shoes

Only I can hear my soul singin’ the blues

It hates to miss a swindling liar

But rasps a song of longing and ire

Aged and dying he swallowed his sins

Now I’m left wonderin’ when the healin’ begins

It’s to late for talk when—

Someone’s long gone and—

Now all you can do is move on

No need to answer that telephone

She tossed ‘way that ring like a worthless stone

I stole her heart and acted like a thief

Did her wrong and she saw fit to leave

If I had it to do over again

Know I’d treat her like a priceless gem

Well, had a shot at love but I missed

Now I long for them days when we kissed

It’s to late for talk when—

Someone’s long gone and—

Now all you can do is move on

Ah— happy memories from my earlier years

Out with good friends for cocktails and beers

Those paupers, pranksters, pirates and cads

I had so much damn love for them lads

But we each went and started busy lives

Then we found ourselves with kids and wives

Saw my bests buds lost to the daily grind

Tough to move forw’d when you’re lookin’ behind

It’s to late for talk when—

Someone’s long gone and—

Now all you can do is move on

Well, been plain wrong and just misunderstood

My soul rasped them songs but I did what I could

Lost all that was me in a tunnel called time

Fought off them bad spirits with spirits and wine

But hated myself for stayin’ after last call

Forgot what I needed—cause I wanted it all

Though livin’ life can give cause for remorse

Ya float down river away from the source

It’s to late for talk when—

Someone’s long gone and—

Now all you can do is move on

It’s to late for talk when—

Someone’s long gone and—

Now all you can do is move on

irony and romp of the neo-leisure

I'd gotten taken up in a pair of Chicago writers' groups. On the internet. One using the name, 'association'. For both, my application was reviewed over a number of days before being accepted. Now it’s been two days since, and over all, an odd experience. I should have known any club that would have me as a member…

The two groups are structured differently through their message boards. In one, your post goes to everyone; in the other, a reply only goes to the original sender.

In one group, Jakob Middlewest had wanted everyone to read the prologue to his novel for the next meeting. It seemed like they exchanged work and gave feed back—that was good.

His prologue to “The Terrorist Acts: A Divine Correspondence in Four Acts” was posted for download. And since I wouldn’t be able to be at the next meeting I thought I could still participate if I read some of the posted work and sent my opinion. I sent Jakob my opinion. But I should say I don’t take prologues seriously—that they are the fluffy part. And I think they are an afterthought. Jakob took offence to the message I sent him.

His prolouge began: "I really don’t want to get into a fight with you. Just the same, I know that sooner or later you’re bound to fight with me or against me"; and ended, "But first, you’ll have to find your way out of this one."

My response was:

Jakob,

I read the prologue. I don't think it works. For one, its too long. And two, the philosophy is a bit naive. Read some Derrida for your references to 'polarities': http://www.hydra.umn.edu/derrida/sign-play.html

I think your prologue could only detract from the body of your work. It doesn't make me eager to read on.

This is how we talk in my writing class. And I am grateful for the candor of my fellow students.

He wrote me back immediately and was rudely expressive: "...it appears you can't cope, and if you can't cope... go." It got my goat up. My father calls me "Mundra Dupa" a lot; which in Hamtramck means 'smart ass'.

I would have offered an in depth critique had I felt your prologue salvageable. That would have meant that it made me eager to read on—and it did not. That said, rework it with some of the same attempted wit and authority that you tried on me, and your prologue could be improved.

And yes, Derrida, even if a bit messianic, was a famous agree-r, “Yes, yes”.

He wrote back again—angry. He called my opinion a “non-event”. Another good line was, "the product of a thinking mind, precisely because there is no thought to it."

And I re-read the prologue wondering if the guy might be crazy. The seven pages were reading instructions to the novel. And it warned, "when you think you understand what is happening in the novel, ask yourself why you think that." “It’s a mystery. But it’s not only a mystery.”

I'll include a paragraph from the beginning of his novel: "In fact, the formation of the team was so secret that the agents had never actually laid eyes on, or directly spoken with, the governmental entity that assembled them. They were instructed (my italics) to refer to this 'invisible boss' as 'the one who formed us,' and say no more about it."

Well, on the other site they have a message board. And every time someone makes an entry it sends you an email. And that, as it turns out, can be very often. But they don’t talk about writing.

They have been talking about blogging. It struck me as strange to get so many emails about blogging (without blog links).

Reading the emails you could see a general consensus on certain points. They agreed the dream was quitting the day job--but, are not writing for the money. And often the market overlooks genius. It’s dumb and random. But maybe, blogging can sell you to a publisher. (almost as if they were part of Middlewest's secret team trying to make contact with 'the one who formed us'.)

I added some discord:

Re: Weekly Discussion Topic

I have always been blessed with tact. But you all are making this sound like a fools game, talking about name recognition, talking about business as if you had something to lose, pressing yourselves for minor appearances and blogs—groveling. You're going for originality, to master a genre?

Get an agent. If your work is not accepted, bin it, recycle it, tweak it—read and write. Read more, write more. Sparkle.

Yeah, it's a game. And it has rules. But your money is in the game. Guerrilla press sure, its still looking to get picked up by a major. Distribution is locked up. And you have to get pushed by the big three to get any respect. And then it's just your foot in the door. Best sellers all have one thing in common, there is a talented writer hooked up with a professional editor, connected to a publisher.

That connection is made by an agent. And if not, how’s the contract going to go?

There is money out there for projects. There are projects (books/movies) going on all the time, with or without you. But if that's what you want, it's not a lottery.

And those of you donating your books to the local library thinking your sales will go up—well...

Just figure out how it works, not how you want it to work— blog to Hollywood movie.

After my entry the traffic picked-up. I had no idea of what I was talking about. But my message was quoted through quite a few posts. And 'picked up by a major' began to be used without quotes. People started talking about agents and how to compose query letters. But they agreed that blogging couldn't hurt. And then one guy said it was starting to sound like "Amway" reps talking to each other.

Well, one of members published a book, "A Punk in Gallows America," in 2001 with a small press that didn’t have any publicity. (This made him sort of an expert).

I found his book reviewed by a graduate advisor in Utah. It sounded like the reviewer had been angry about having read the book. She was contemptuous. She related the premise as such: Eddie Ways has a nice house in a nice Chicago suburb. The novel begins after his wife has left and he is alone in the house. So, after work he starts hanging around prostitutes (stereotypically portrayed) and junkies (also stereotypically portrayed) down in the dark dangerous city--(as if it was a land inhabited by restless natives).

—(and as it happens, it's set in my neighborhood, which made me wonder if the writer had ever been here).

Anyway, the protagonist falls for the alluring self-destructive bar fly possible prostitute; and he is supposed to be too drunk to notice when she pops out to meet her clients. And then the brutal death of one of the other junkie prostitutes makes them “re-asses” where their lives are going. And most everyone, but that sacrificed whore, has a ‘happily ever after’.

The author took his book to stores like a traveling salesman. And they took some books on consignment, but only one store ever paid for the books they sold; and that was Women and Children First.

Another member said:

"An addendum to my previous message: my blog is called "Never too Late!" and the story of publishing my book is in the July archives.

"Marlys Marshall Styne
Author of Reinventing Myself: Memoirs of a Retired Professor"

Yeah... 'Everybody is somebody in Luckenbach'.

Let's go to Luckenbach Texas with Waylon and Willie and the boys

This successful life we're livin' got us fueding

like the Hatfield and McCoys(1)

And finaly, this from the groups leader:

"One of the things I'd like to share is my joy at how much this group has grown and progressed. While I may still be you're fearless leader, the fact is, I am not the only one who can or should generate discussions here. I think some topics about craft are an important part of growing as a writer. So, while I'm not necessarily the best equipped to post those topics, I'd be happy to see them come online too!

Diana"

"Well...

is this it—the end of civilization? Are we prepared? Well, I hope so. Here, is the official stolen government training film of the secret plan to deal with an alien uprising" (2).

Turned out like baiting a 419.

l'a-r0

1) Ultimate Waylon Jennings, "Luckenback, Texas"

2) Quisimoto: The Further adventures of Lord Quas, "Civilization Day"

joie de vivre

I walked for miles dreaming about my art
The lights are orange because the bulbs are cheaper
The kids are afraid, too bad for my art

I stumbled along the perfect pavement, sleeping
In my haze I found that which woke me
I had no one to tell, too bad for my art

That which I found is passion
True passion which I've never known
though it's been here all along, too bad for my art

I've boarded ships to find it in jungles
And served like a serf in the castles of scholars
Yet I couldn't recognise it, too bad for my art

Lo and behold here it is, in this shell
In this dream that I may now wake up to live
But I know not how to sound the alarm, too bad for my art

How do you give a gift that cannot be taken in hands?
-teach a lesson that students know, yet refuse?
I will try, too bad for my art


humanista

Welcome to fairgrounds earth

the wind is a wicker shell
sweeping the sidewalks
pushing sparks deep into cracks

the fire hydrants are all open
and filling the streets
but the sewers are full
and the ocean is rising from all sides

and from high ground
people stare from behind police lines
watching for a change in the color of the sky

they do this
once
every four years



ab.def.hi..l.no..rst.v….


.my knife has gotten duLl.
.i’ve been using it.
.cutting wire and lies.

.my arm is tired.
.i'Ve been using it.
.To scribble on the maps.

.my hammer’s got a ring.
.i've been using iT.
.to weakeN the chains.

.my future's realized.
.i've Been using It.
.to manifest my days.

.l-a'ro.


"Nada sino la luz. No hay nada, nada
sino la luz contra la luz rabiosa,
donde la luz se rompe, se desangra
en oleaje estéril, sin espuma."
Octavio Paz, ENTRE LA PIEDRA Y LA FLOR (1937)


Nothing but light. There’s nothing, nothing
only the light against the rabid light
where light breaks and hemorrhages
in frothless sterile billows.
(my meager translation)



"Real art is play, & play is one of the most immediate of all experiences. Those who have cultivated the pleasure of play cannot be expected to give it up simply to make a political point (as in an 'Art Strike,' or 'the suppression without the realization' of art, etc.). Art will go on, in somewhat the same sense that breathing, eating, or fucking will go on."
Hakim Bey, Radio Sermonettes



"So, there are different ways to make surprises happen. The other thing about the technocracy of it is, of course, destroying the ozone layer. It is destroying forests and trees. For instance, now the native americans are now thinking--a group of them are really quite open to receiving this atomic waste on their land--and they're going to get a lot of money for it, which I think is really a very curious turn of events. And when one of the Chiefs was asked, well, suppose certain things happen? And he said,'Well, we believe that if that were to happen, technically there would be some device that would be invented that would ameliorate whatever the danger was' Now that's optimism."
Cecil Taylor, being matter ignited...

Shameless Self Promotion

We got drunk later that night





P.S. I added the link at the side, I woulda said something but it seemed like a waste of a post. Not anymore! So change effects us all, but hopefully we all have firefox and that saves passwords and our poor little fingers...
P.P.S. An hour of the incomparable Regina Spektor

le (h)umanist

streetlights out

BE ON THE LOOK OUT

ARMED AND DANGEROUS

The thundering "hey coop, what happened in Pittsburgh?" blues #37

talking about the tenth sleepless
month blues and yes two pickets
to titsburgh...all along that
watchtower a breathless laugh is
echoed all the way down to my socks
i'm going over the falls in a barrel
of wine are humans worth more than oil?
the eensy weensy captain with a gulliver
head is barking all the signals infra red
we can't stop the concrete from cracking
we can't stop the brave from bravado
my god! my god! he shot them all! and
i can't tell the difference on television
on your side trouble shooting investigators
creating a nation of fear fear fear
i started to blink just to get back my feet
and the tears spilled down just like laughter
in a dusty lowlight room the cartographers are
drinking all the while their borders cut like knives
i got a tiny scrape in the middle of my heart
the damn thing just won't heal
the damn thing just won't steal
the damn thing just won't feel

-vikingo