TEN THOUSAND BY THE FOURTH OF JULY

2010-11-20T18:46:00.000-08:00

#49 take a (Soma)tic bus ride!

2010-10-26T17:03:00.000-07:00

A collaborative (Soma)tic by CAConrad and Ryan Eckes

PART ONE: Take a bus to a city where you have never lived. We took a bus to NYC from Philadelphia. The driver was obnoxious, but we were undeterred. The driver was a terrible driver, tapping the accelerator over and over and over lurching stopping lurching stopping. This is excellent for poetry, these bad bus drivers. Have one foot on the floor, the other hovering an inch above the floor. FEEL the staggering, growling engine through the floor. Look outside. What engines move the world out there? Trees, what does the engine of a tree sound like? Touch the seat in front of you in two-second intervals. Lift your hand to the air in front of you. It is FREE from the vibrations of the bus. HOW is this your life? What does it even mean to ask "HOW is this your life?" How are you FREE and not free? Look around you at the strangers on the bus. You are near people who share planet Earth with you. LOOK AT THEM. What do you have in common with each other? Take notes, take notes, notes notes notes. PART TWO: When you get off the bus, you should be hungry. Go get something to eat at a kind of restaurant you've never eaten at before, and order something you've never tasted before. As you eat, say the name once in a while of the dish you've ordered, and think about the sounds of the words along with the taste of the food -- does it match? Are there discrepancies? Take notes on your napkin. Ask the server what they think about the dish -- do they like it, why, why not? Take as many napkins with you as you can so you can write on them throughout the day. Exit
the place and ask the first person you see (or who'll answer you) in which direction they think you should walk. You're not worried about going any direction in particular. If they ask what type of destination you want, say "Look, I need some guidance, okay?" Walk a couple of blocks and then ask another person "Left or right or straight ahead?" Do this 7 times. Walk two blocks after the 7th direction -- this is your destination. Take out your napkins and write about what you saw on the way, see now, and how the food feels in your belly. Do this sitting on the ground. Shape all your notes into a poem.

2010-08-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

J. TOWNSEND
David Wolach's writing enacts a radical mode of re-figuring, in the sense that it is deeply concerned with the necessities of body in a vacuum of cultural & economic violence (as in the repetition of the prefix "re" in "Transit" from Occultations:

we will have had to learn to surface, exhale in a burst of pre
fixes
rename, relearn, re
trace, redraw what hasn't been

that it imagines a place of trapdoors, hidden expanses, of potentiality in the figure re-claimed). Attuned to the patterns of insistent consumerism, and the politics of comingled sensuality and destruction, David locates cultural sinkholes, points of negative force that bifurcate, exposes collective experiential fault-lines. It is work that maps the field of "commerce" and the fusing of its dual meanings; as an interchange of ideas between people, and as a pervasive, widespread exchange of commodities. How does the body (self and collective) become a commodity, become effectually dis-embodied (this place will have dreamed it was a body again)? How is it rendered (as a poem can be; as a political prisoner)? In what capacity can it re-emerge? (when emergent broken the body / defies occupation). David’s work disintegrates the ease of our categorization; the aesthetic and social borders within the poem, the conditions of resistance, ritual, & disease – all simultaneously generative and depletive modes of physicality.

What I find most valuable here is David's allowance for the vulnerable (an opening to attack), itself a practice of dissent, to reenter the poem and form a basis for communal exchange. Occultations and David's ongoing Hospitology series present a multivalent lyric that splinters the "I" into an interpenetrated "We" by invoking a sense of society's increasing disequilibrium of power. What ultimately constitutes this "We" in all of it, the backwash of economic exploitation, pop ephemera, endless war? In a poetic laying-bare David answers by encouraging all of us to become whole again through active, embodied struggle; through an intimate re-connecting.

BRENDA IIJIMA
David Wolach's Occultations engages a set of intensely immersive somatic rituals which act out a deep commiseration with bio-political abjection. His work inflicts wounds on complacency so that feeling is recovered and the "thresholds we carry" are renegotiated. These empathetic somatic engagements perform a "tensing with a perverting here" compelling readers to "drown out" the text with "reciprocal procedures". Disquieted supplements wail in orchestration. Degraded lyric as convergence of aphorias reengage signification at the base level of dirt, blood and tears. Unaccountable excess—corporeal energy that can't be domesticated into serviceable units stages rebellions. There is increased pressure exerted on the concept of mapping and articulating the body—because how can one locate and distinguish that which has been devastated or deeply disparaged. Maps, for one are the cartography of colonization, something Wolach challenges with his full being. His jittery vibratory verse bounces feverishly within unfeasible ecosystems shaking off coordinates. Presencing bodies protest having become "an appendage of flesh on a machine of iron" to use Marx's language. David’s use of citation is communal in that it connects and catalyzes despairing parts (former missing links) in the social matrix. Coordinates are unstable, changing and disappearing within layers of becoming—most especially when what is being related is a body process of awakening agency. Thank you David, for this sensitizing rush!

ROB HALPERN
Militant Bodies, Common Bodies : Some Notes on David Wolach's Poetry

It was David’s affect that attracted me first — open, vulnerable, patient, disarming — all the qualities a queer boy like myself longs for in other guys, whether there’s some amorous prospect to be realized or not. This was several years ago, but the impression remains fresh. David and I introduced ourselves to one another in a dining commons at Bard College. We both had summer gigs teaching in the Language and Thinking program, a scene of deep collaboration around poetry and pedagogy, which would become the setting for our new friendship.

There is a critical militancy that complements David’s affect — permeates it — augmenting, rather than contradicting, all his qualities that move me. Within a few minutes of our meeting, we got to talking about student activism at the Evergreen State College, where I had spent some time as an undergraduate, and where David currently teaches. We found common ground discussing campus politics — always a distorted mirror of larger social forces — and how our various political engagements, both there and elsewhere, changed our lives.

David’s militancy moves from the union to the classroom, from the clinic to the street, through institutional zones and practices where our collective well-being — the commons — is always being stimulated and suppressed, aroused and seized.

I don’t use the term “militant” casually or commonly, but I like the idea of linking it to the commons. Against the grain of dominant “common sense” — grotesque ideology — militating and communing are not at odds. The militant body may even be consonant with the common body, at home in it — the body as commons? Habeas corpus — to have the body — becomes our common ground, if only because of the hostile social processes that disable, subject, constrain, and debase all our bodies commonly. And yet the body also potentiates a resource in excess of anything we can currently name.

In his introduction to the recently translated Genocide in the Neighborhood, a work that emerged from Argentine activist groups responding to the situation of the disappeared, Brian Whitener notes “ ‘militant’ doesn’t mean military […] militant signifies a stronger commitment to politicized collectivity”, and this may get at the sum of David’s practices, pedagogically and poetically. Whether in a classroom or a waiting room, a poem or a chant, a community of friends or a union of laborers, David’s writing and person activate this commitment to collective engagement, while militating for an enlarged politics.

At a recent Nonsite Collective event where David facilitated a discussion on “The Commons and the Body”, I quickly cribbed a few notes to help me introduce his poetry to the group. I wrote: “In David’s writing, the body becomes an occlusion in common sense.” The phrase came unexpectedly. What was I getting at?: the body as resistant to any regime of knowledge — be it medical or military — that would make of it a ward.

The body manifests in David’s poems not as an object, but as a situation where too many social processes, institutions, and apparatuses converge — medical, military, labor, financial, environmental — in often hostile ways, despite whatever benign appearance. David’s body is a body in revolt from the object status to which these apparatuses subject it, and his poetry is nothing if not an agitator in the interest of this revolt.

This is “the body-as-a-hole” (Occultations 77). This is the body struggling to affect a radical displacement in orders of common sense that determine what can and can’t be seen and said. This is the body as supplement and void — in excess of what counts and thus not legitimately here — challenging everything that serves to enforce orders of state. This is the body as nonsite of the commons, the commons being what is not here, the only thing we can share in truth, a set of social relations we’ve failed to actualize, a blank of pure potential, where we’re always dying, and always becoming. This is the body as an assemblage of intensities linked to multiple scenes of power that contain all our utopian and dystopian possibilities: all the vicissitudes of care and harm. This is the body as the critical situation of our undoing: the body as a commons in the way failure is a possibility we don’t know what to do with.

Tortured body. War torn body. Environmentally ill body. Ecstatic body. Immolated body. “What work this dying is,” he writes. David’s poems consistently make the occulted links between various scenes of the body’s expropriation perceptible. And while the poems affirm not knowing what a body can do, they nonetheless register what the body can’t do insofar as its flows have been obstructed, expropriated, owned, and forced to persist in irresolvable conflict with militarized production, environmental degradation, and geopolitical debasement.

David’s writing portends the body as a kind of “dissipative structure” — (according to chaos theory, a form of organization that resists its own conditions of dissipating energy and eroding resource) — a body at once vulnerable and resistant to every form of social erosion, a vulnerability and a resistance commensurate with the struggle to organize under conditions where the commons and the body alike go on sliding entropically toward exhausted resource.

Organize what?: a community, a union, a classroom, a collective, a poem: “organization” being a dynamic movement between all these organs. Prosody as organized pulse.

In David’s poems, the body-in-pain — chronic pain, constant reminder of mortality — is lived like a third world niche market — frontier of development — where the only lexicons available for speaking or singing of first world illness collide with the perverse semantics of the so-called “developing world”: the body as casualty — what can’t develop any more — sung in “the language of paper / cheap and easy,” when all you can do from here is “hold yr breath & pray / for the lynched.”

Under these conditions of ongoing war and environmental disaster, what has been occulted — nonsite: withdrawn from view — is as much the war-torn body, or the flood victim body, or the fallen militant body, as the memoranda that make these bodies possible, all of which are inseparable from the sick body here, wherever we might call home.

David’s writing proposes to resurrect the failed body as potential and resource. And in this sense, too, his work proposes a perverse model of our occluded commons — body-as-a-hole — the body that fails to count within dominant regimes of visibility. This is the body as “collateral damage”, and it shares what can’t be shared with the militant body fallen in the streets of Gaza, and with the transgendered body violated here on Mission Street.

Just as the commons may be thought of as a nonsite whose history is the story of its own expropriation, this body is a disappearing act: negative ontology of our only common resource. This is the commons as the blank in history — history of the future that haunts us now — and David’s poems propose “degraded lyric as convergence of [these] aporias / The strange tremor of unusual poverties / Of not knowing what will come of this” (Occultations 117). The militant body — the body as secret agent of our commons — hangs on that not, the withdrawn secret of a counter-capacity waiting to be activated, waiting to surge.

This may be our occultation: the militant body as site of common refusal, zone of uncharted futures. This is also the body whose patiency suspends all property relations, to one another and to our life processes — “giving oneself over as shared resource” “given over to community” (David’s notes) — rendering the corpus open, disarming, and vulnerable to forms of unanticipated care, while resisting any form of knowledge that would further subject it.

Here is the abundance of the patient body — “a capacity without limit” — whose unruly excess persists in revolt against a grammar of proper agents and objects, a system that disables, limits, constrains.

David’s writing is the militant affirmation of this patiency.

THOM DONOVAN
An occultation is a withdrawing, a flight or sentence into non-existence. In David Wolach's Occultations, the reader becomes propinquitous to so much that she can't see, so withdrawn has the actual world become through a media which functions as the eyes and ears to the detriment of a becoming proprioceptive. By amplifying the senseless via pun and other synaesthesic language effects, Wolach overturns common sense and returns his reader to their senses. What would be contemporary peeks out through Wolach's picnolepsy. Element (principally fire) is not merely a theme but a burden--"the fires have not died / they've moved away with the j o b s"--the ethical burden of whatever remains in the movement between site and nonsite, I and we, direct address and a corrosive intertextual poetics in the service of secular messianic event. "dear, __________" "who will take me from our ashen / refuge?" Reading Occultations, 'I' takes refuge in loss, lack, and non-presence saved only by what cannot be redeemed: the wreck of our bodies shored by the catastrophic convergence of late capitalist Neoliberalism and cross-cultural moral fundamentalisms.

JULES BOYKOFF
Here's what I wrote as a blurbista for David's super-interesting, complex book Prefab Eulogies, Volume 1: "In Prefab Eulogies, Volume 1 poetry meets positivism on the shimmery dance floor of our eternal present. Along the way, David Wolach raises a slew of alluring quandaries: How can the body be a site of resistance? In what ways are we already fabricating our still-to-be-cooked–up demise? How can Wittgenstein help us decode the USA PATRIOT Act? Was "our fetish commodified long before PATCO"? Is it possible to out-Flarf Flarf? Prefab Eulogies encourages multi-channel collectivity that demands we read—and act—with a finger on the trigger of forgiveness, with an eye trailing reclamation."

To that I'd add that I appreciate and admire how David Wolach concertedly transforms poetry into an explicitly social act. When he performs, he collaborates--often with the amazing Elizabeth Williamson--in engaging, gracious ways that makes space for spontaneity and desire. His poems play out in different ways each time, concretely acting out the abstract notion that the body can be a site of resistance. On top of all that, he's a super-generous curator slash culture worker who does a great job creating theoretically thick, real-world-meaningful experiences for the students he works with at Evergreen State College. How fortunate those students are!

2010-08-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

(CAConrad and the YOUR MINA LOY PORTAL

photo by the amazing Dorothea Lasky)

2010-08-18T23:25:00.000-07:00

We are pleased to bring you the amazing David Wolach as the 8th featured poet on PhillySound. You can view past features at this link.

Enjoy this poet and his poetry,
CAConrad
editor of #8

-------------

David Wolach is editor of Wheelhouse Magazine & Press and an active participant in Nonsite Collective. His most recent books are Occultations (Black Radish Books, 2010), the multi-media transliteration Prefab Eulogies Volume 1: Nothings Houses (BlazeVox [books], 2010), Hospitalogy (forth. 2010), and book alter(ed) (Ungovernable Press, 2009). A former union organizer and performing artist, Wolach's work often begins as site-specific and interactive performance and ends up as shaped, written language. Critical work on the poetics of spatial practice and the body is in venues such as Jacket and Sibila: Poesia y Cultura (Brazil). He is currently at work with composer Arun Chandra on a 4-channel sound-text composition for four voices, a set of pieces which includes "modular arterial cacophony" from Occultations. Wolach is professor of text arts, poetics, and aesthetics at The Evergreen State College, and visiting professor in Bard College's Workshop In Language & Thinking. Occultations is Wolach's first full-length book of poems.

2010-08-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

INTERVIEW WITH DAVID WOLACH
questions by CAConrad

QUESTION: David, your work in Occultations is in part a thread of physical sensations the reader feels, and in feeling knows something new about our living bodies through your words. Visceral is a word so overused these days, but I use it here because it's the true meaning of the word in motion, no doubt. Your amalgamation of slashes, ash, harnessing a lethargic body whose eyes never tire in their knowing, discerning. At one point you write, "The common areas are where we meet but don't meet." The politics of body permeate the text in so many ways, in so many flaring epiphanies. I wonder if you wouldn't mind sharing with us the impetus for this particular collection just published by Black Radish?

WOLACH: Thank you, Conrad, for this feature and this question. I'm beyond honored to mingle with you here—it's more about poetry, your love of poetry and your support of poets and their (our) labors, labors which, for both of us I think, have the collective potential to matter. I think this is a rarer hope than is often assumed. Your support of Occultations, and of me as human being on this earth, it's just one instance of how you invite us to have honest and loving dialog, to be vulnerable with one another. I think of Thom Donovan’s notion of a "loving criticism" in relation to your giving primacy to friendship at every level of your work, which is, in contrast to negative critique, or some poetic recapitulation of "the ownership society," commoning as a poesis. Criticism as reclamation of loving discovery and investigation, an active making together. So, thank you for the opportunity to be part of that. Speaking of commoning, or the commons, I'll try to start here in responding to this amazingly full and giving question.

Occultations began, as have my other books, with a set of corporeal rituals or live enactments of language in public places—as working out of problems, concerns, anxieties, and so forth, without knowing where precisely such enactments would take me. I guess you could call these activities performances or installations or even agit-props, but that'd be giving them more weight as aesthetic objects than they probably deserve. These activities were more investigatory than "audience" inducing, more evidence gathering than performative. Each section of the book, though, was vaguely-conceived as an interlocking set of publically enacted concerns about the body (as "mortal we" to quote Laura Elrick) in relation to the disappearing commons, its replacement with increasing corporatization, information mediation, and militarization of our lived spaces, the intimate, the inter-personal, the possible viz. "what the body (poem) can do." The section you quote from, that line, like most in this poeme en prose cycle ("modular arterial cacophony") is an affiliative appropriation/investigation of found textual materials. Here, a small part of Beverly Dahlen's A Reading is set against the backdrop of the section’s "backgrounded" documents—leaked memoranda on the use of torture at Guantanamo, and a large document detailing law enforcement's use of private contractors to carry out surveillance on their neighbors. Where, through word play and line construction, Dahlen torques a sort of normative "grand" reading of Shakespeare's world as "stage," reveals it as that which, if so, must be (passive construction) "managed":

there it is now
pure products
our beautiful setting
the props
Shkspeare's terrible prophecy: all the world's a stage
managed

It's the last two lines here I was playing on, doing so in relation to reports on the U.S. military’s policies on managing the release of poetry written by (tortured) detainees:

Poetry...presents a special risk, and DOD standards are not to approve the release of any poetry in its original form or language… poetry is harder to vet than conventional letters because allusions and imagery in poetry that seem innocent can be used to convey coded messages to other militants.

Under such conditions, how would the DOD be able to discern "poetry" from "evidence" or "actionable intelligence"? The interrogated prisoner-as-language producing object. As information machine. And the DOD as close reader? It's a miserable, horrifying world with an underlying hope (perceived threat) of overturn, revolution. Yet when we meet we often don't meet, we avert and do not feel one another's outrage or unease, acknowledge one another's presence, and when we don't meet, we cannot act.

So each section begins as a set of words or lines or sentences floating through this body, coursing through the blood and shaping me in relation to problems that press on me at night, and these lines swirl around until some kind of architecture appears—these are bodily marks or tracks that form a morphology. At which point I enact them—usually with others. And that data recursively flows back on the page, and I shape it and shape it until it exhausts me and I find it ugly and socially-politically inept and I hate it and let go. (It feels good to have just admitted that.)

Occultations and a sort of "companion" book, Hospitalogy, these books in particular are concerned with re-imagining "the body" and what the body can do as site(s) of resistance, mediated and mediating contact zones between what is felt and what has yet to be felt. Someplace in the mini-essay at the end of Occultations I discuss how fatal illness hit me several years ago while working as a union organizer and performing artist. It was at this time, late 2004-ish, that I started writing each of these books, and as the body failed (or as its environment became more obviously hostile), the live enactments became less gestural / physical, increasingly "home-bound," and so one of the questions that emerged for me was how to amplify this condition of increasing constriction/felt-interrogation, how to map this becoming and translate the social and sensorial aspects of utterance-under-duress into a "common space" that others could use, that could offer some margin of unanticipated care. Which is to think of the body as, contra enclosure, a sort of commons. A consensually offered and necessarily damaged and mediated commons, but potentially useful nonetheless. I should mention that Brandon Brown’s embodied translation practices have been hugely influential to my writing practices. And that I take seriously due to its political implications the longstanding question in poetry after LANGUAGE of whether or how to breathe embodiment into the poem, give the work quote end quote feeling, without doing so naively or nostalgically. I take it that Brown too is concerned with this problem in some way or another. For me it’s not one of an anxiety regarding avant-gardism vs. [insert your favorite term here], but of honesty, attentiveness: an ethical regard to the complexities and paradoxical behaviors of the constructed, motional subject. So, I'm very glad to hear that you as reader feel the lines with their stutters and so forth, that they have bodily or sensorial resonance. The knee, for instance, has a brain too. And so does the skin. Etc. I can't imagine wanting anything more than hearing that these oft-ignored regions have somehow been activated or talked to.

QUESTION: The intelligence of the body is being rediscovered in a way, right? Ancient cultures all over the globe got it, they really got it. China, Africa, India, everywhere, including my ancestors in Denmark and Ireland. Not to eschew allopathic medicine (which is too easy a target these days), but herbalism, homeopathy, acupuncture, and many forms of massage and reflexology are coming home to us again. And in each case the memory in the tissue, or as you say (I LOVE how you say) the brain in the knee, is being unlocked.

This is very much part of Occultations, meaning that your fine study in this BODY and body of poems is revealing what had been tucked from view for centuries of monotheistic and scientific tyranny. There's a very rational, awakened dream component to what you're doing as well here. You START the book with a death ritual, which is a very -- dare I say it? -- shamanistic approach. Let's reclaim that shaman quality through you here by asking why you chose for us to die first? I mean is it like that ancient rite of the shaman nearly dying, reviving, and bringing new knowledge to the tribe? Your requirements at the beginning are NOT for light readers. Why do you help us die first?

WOLACH: I know you don't use the word shaman lightly and so I'm quite humbled by your take on how Occultations opens. And, yes, absolutely: neoliberal capitalism has done more to disembody us in America than we can possibly be aware of. That's how I take your insistence in (Soma)tic Midge that we find our bodies and find our planet. The body's rediscovery is of the moment, it seems, yes, and not by accident. I'm reminded of what Robert Kocik wrote as part of a recent Nonsite Collective discussion on disability and poetics under neoliberal capitalism, that in this toxic environment: "disability is shared because ability is so extremely unexplored that we have no reference… living [in this hostile environment] and working is unaesthetic and terminal. Impractical is the norm. I'm considering calling the norm eternal disability." We haven't the faintest idea of what the body is or can be, let alone what it can do. We're crippled by an incessant, false desire for instrumental exchange, hunted for the surplus value we can generate. And so those bodies that get counted, like myself, as "disabled," our shapes and gestures, our treatment and our duress, our very bodies at this moment call attention to and come to represent a problem that's actually universal, or as Robert puts it, "eternal."

But as you often say, and show in your poetry and relationships, it takes work to find our bodies, to realize how deeply marked by the catastrophes of neoliberal capitalism we are. Our needs and desires are occulted by its logic, the narrative which says the body is nothing more than biopower, valued for the distributable commodity it can produce, or be, or kill to get. Even for those of us who have been radicalized in some way, we need to make sustained efforts to figure out how we are with one another, must work to remember that everything is interconnected and absolutely urgent. What I love about you is that you are constantly reminding yourself of our interconnectedness, interdependence, and the urgency of every seemingly "insignificant" thing we do. This is a deeply ecological sensibility, and it's also a Talmudic one—that the Talmud is such an enormous palimpsest of a text, that all these seemingly inane details about a subject are hotly debated over many centuries, comes from an ethos of interconnectivity and urgency, that every action should be taken as if (y)our last. The fire ritual itself, and its placement at the beginning of the poem, draws on Eastern Russian shamanistic, Buddhist, but also Talmudic practices, among other things, not to mention poetry. It was originally constructed in collaboration with poet and performer Kythe Heller, who is a lot more open-minded and knowledgeable than I am, by the way. She drew from sources she knew well, especially Japanese and Tibetan Buddhist practices in relation to fire and song. The ritual hopes not to appropriate any cultural practice or belief crudely or dishonestly, but does draw on several practices. Hopefully it articulates the idea that to become radicalized, or to find our bodies and to feel that interconnected urgency, we need to die a little bit first.

Opening with this particular death ritual was something I felt necessary not just for the rest of the book, but for "us" beyond or after the book. Yet in thinking about how I wanted to respond to your wonderful and giving question, why I help us die first, I kept trying to figure out how I might suggest that we need to die before we can come back to ourselves, for and as one another, that this becomes baseline, in fact, for social justice. How to explain it without sounding like I want to die? I kept wondering how to say that a kind of death and the vulnerability it brings is a gift that we need give ourselves in order to be in community with one another, for one another. And that just as in some shamanic traditions there is no special difference between the shaman and the laity other than that the shaman has died or nearly died, "the gift of death" is something each of us can give—there's no special skill or status one need have to give it. For most of us, including myself, who live in a system that prizes ownership, indeed a proprietary relation to one's identity as enclosed and one's body as private and not shared or share-able, this feels paradoxical: how can death be affirming? How to talk about that? And then recently Thom Donovan wrote about you and your poetry and quoted a line from Rob Halpern's (wonderful) "Beside The Funerall of John Donne," a quote that I think captures what I've been trying to figure out how say, especially since Rob’s work, too, has had a profound effect on the construction of this ritual through late night conversations with Kythe and I. The line is: "And since I could save none of you I let go more of me into what can't contain such want." The failure to save others here is also a loss of oneself.

The death ritual asks us to suspend that proprietary relation we have to ourselves, to become increasingly vulnerable with—and as—one another. Fire both gives and takes breath: it is giving in that it will take what you offer it and reciprocate that gift with warmth. but it also always wants more—it is insatiable, can cause you irreparable harm. Not unlike us. The negotiation, the dance of urgency in relation to one another, one another's needs and desires, this fire dance, so to speak, is a way to think about the ritual as a whole. It asks us to first privately exhaust ourselves in the urgency of saying what cannot be said, then writing to those whom in our dying breaths we feel we need to speak, then to come together and toss these pages into a fire, burn them up together, disperse these final breaths into the air so that they be delivered by trees back into usable breath. Then, finally, it asks of us to cover ourselves in this collective breath, to wear this ash for the day in public. In each moment there is a killing off of that enclosed self, the privacy and tendency to hoard one's body, and in each moment we are more vulnerable, and also more open to possibilities that the logic of ownership and unified selfhood prohibit. Rob refers to this orientation to the world as "patiency," the term expressing both the death of the agent of the ownership society in favor of receptivity to (paradoxically) a hostile world, but also the affirmation of action, non-passivity, non-quiet. Absent laws that protect the body and the self from harm here, this death is not only mourned by the participant, it's risky and so the ritual is intense, yes. But there are, to quote Rob in relation to patiency again, other ways one can imagine entering this state of coming "undone," outcomes other than being harmed, perhaps by "receiving unanticipated care when the gift is indeed reciprocated, and the vulnerability held in common trust." It's through the possibilities of reciprocity that the death ritual, in many ways, also performs an acknowledgment of what neoliberal capitalism would like us not to believe: that we contain multitudes, that we are not islands, that we can give and receive unanticipated care (we can gather differently than we are used to gathering, i.e., in this stance of constant self-protection), and that the few legal protections that exist for some of us do not exist for all of us, in reality do not protect us from each other and so in fact do not have substantial existence for most of us. The wearing of the ash in public is a kind of abjection of the self, turning the marks of neoliberal capitalism outward as now visible, but it's also beyond symbolic: visibly marked, will I receive "unanticipated care" from those I've never met, as return of that gift I have opted give?

QUESTION: The "your nerve center taxonomy" section of Occultations has this miraculous pent-up demand -- for the reader -- for yourself -- for, for these others, these who make living a sado-surreal exchange. I'm certain the way into us here with your writing can prove -- as my deceased poet friend Alexandra Grilikhes says, "The poem is restorative, rather than fragmenting." It's so unanticipated. And you get us there first with this:

All evidence is xeroxed
All plans are shiva
All garrisons are deductible
All witnesses are nightblind
All terrorisms are prefixed
All perversities are redacted
All the ghosted did not hear that someone knows
their names
All watchdogs are, as per Fusion Center Contract,
responsible for:

This is when you list, "raw intelligence," "daily intelligence," down to "Participating in the production of intelligence assessments." It's like something off an awful spreadsheet created by demons. But here's the thing that makes the magic of your gifts come through. This follow up from the demon's list, you write:

I imagine the outsourced analyst as split about his work, heaving
under a low ceiling, using his dick as a kind of measurement of the
depths, where my mouth ends and the rest of me begins. Everyone
has a secret life, thus nobody does. In the throes of uncertainty,
he's not as hard as he ought to be, maybe wondering whether what
he's doing is right -- or what he's done -- is right, knowing it's legal
they said, and that they said when he didn't ask about it: "it's not
based in religious or political affiliation." Where's your head I want
to say to him, wanting him to feel the choke of this body, how his
can cause love too.

Reading this, in the middle of it, I'm knowing you are giving us experiential wisdom. And clearly sensing it out for us here too. To say it's visceral is to say agreements are made with your pent-up demands for us readers out here. Acknowledged and grateful readers. Because, this, last, this last part "Where's your head I want / to say to him, wanting him to feel the choke of this body, how his / can cause love too." To have the courage to say "wanting him to feel the choke of this body, how his / can cause love too." It's the empathy I'm always in shock of inside your work.

And reading this, seeing you, hearing you say that EVEN THIS ONE "can cause love too." It's a spiritual cleansing from a spiritual crisis. But it's not clear whose crisis, maybe everyone's? WHERE though do you get that empathy David Wolach? The first time I read these lines I let out a HOLY SHIT! Mostly at the discomfort of being able to GET that you see the potential, the spiritual viability in the demon with his fucking spreadsheet of what NEXT to do to the masses. You follow up this with, "My mouth: full, out of. service."

"can cause love too" though, WHERE do you find this? Reading this book, at times I remind myself of the work you have done as an antiwar activist, as a labor organizer and labor activist. Facing down others on the line of protest, has this helped shape your poetry here? I'm not even asking for exegesis if that's not what you're wanting to give. I guess I'm trying to FEEL OUT the WHERE in you that gets this kind of empathy of writing on paper for all of us to measure ourselves against. Can you share some of that with us?

WOLACH: Well, my hands want to perform an exegesis on your really amazing exploration here, really, as I love how you relate "pent-up demand" to love and sex, sex to release and both again with the line of protest. Protest as an act of love. Love as the least we can demand. And that line, which is more permeable that it appears to be. So I suppose to connect that permeability with changeability, or with a sense that we can—and do—change in both horrifying and loving ways, this is one way I'm thinking about your exploration here, with Alexandra Grilikhes' expectation that the poem be restorative so crucial to how I read, or why I read—the poem gives us futurity and is "for us" as Thom Donovan puts it. And since on-the-ground activism involves having organizing conversations with thousands of different workers, each with different but also shared needs and desires, certainly that experience helps one listen, endure, trust, respond—become, really actively become. Organizing is poetic. Your PACE actions really bring this out, I think. Because here the conversations we have are via poetry, involve reading poetry to one another. The local landscape is queered by this roving poetic exchange, and when we did the PACE action in Portland for EconVergence, I was happily surprised by how many strangers WANTED to hear or talk about poetry's occult work of transforming our thoughts about events, how language has special restorative powers. But also. To quote something Kristin Prevallet said to me the other day while she was out here visiting: "we're fucking contradictions." And she raised her glass to this and shrugged exhaustedly at the same time, which I found to be a wonderful exposition of contradictory responses to that thought, that thought that we're fucking contradictions.

"your nerve center taxonomy" is a section of poems written out of corporeal rituals or procedures, mostly in domestic spaces, "distraction zones" I keep calling them, in which participants are in a constructed environment of distraction, noise, often physical pain while writing. The poems, like the one you quote from here, are part of a longer series of performances, some of which get typed up later. Events that I perform, I don't know, maybe once every few weeks, or when I feel I have an architecture down enough to try out. I think it's turning into its own book, although I'm not particularly interested in writing another book. I'm more interested in having the experiences and doing the investigations and then collaborating on their live performance and, well. I get restless in this body.

Maybe that's also what you find visceral here: that I'm writing from a position of unusual physical stress or distractedness etc., allegorizing conditions others are in, if not all of us, to some degree? Your (Soma)tics were hugely influential in this writing, because I, too, would have these HOLY SHIT moments after you would put a new one online, that sense that we're THIS CLOSE in this universal need to FIND OUR BODIES, which is so much about FINDING ONE ANOTHER. With these Occultations poems I'm interested in investigating particular stresses of neoliberal capitalism by amplifying them—staging events in order to get closer to understanding those I feel extremely far away from. Demons, yes, and also victims of capitalism, people whose circumstances I feel I can't sufficiently relate to, who I can't even see quite often, as with detainees at Guantanamo, or the thousands of disappeared gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, and trans persons in Uganda (another ritual, not in the book). I feel that sympathy is ugly and regressive; I want to act based on feeling, feel based on some kind of knowledge beyond the research and what I feel I can already relate to, if anything. Like the poem above, as with many of these, it IS writing thru spreadsheets created by demons. It's also from tracking the contradiction of desire—I mean, a lot of us have these experiences, yes?—of sexually submitting to a demon. Of being ordered to kneel and choking on it and wanting that, needing it, but also finding it sickening. Truthfully, this is the only poem in the book that turned me on—what a horrible thing to admit, that I got off on my own poem! But that poem you quote from, it's interwoven with a broader exploration of submission, submission as a kind of protest, getting back your exploration of love and latent capacity and empathy.

But the spreadsheet is just that. I have a lot of leaked documents, some of them well known, others more local, most of them written or compiled by army recruiters or CIA interrogators (as in the case of the CIA Interrogations Manual) or union busting memos written by lawyers, while many are from WikiLeaks, a vital and now deeply threatened organization. Some I get sent to me by those who shall remain nameless, others I've found doing research. These are documents that become filters for my writing within these staged environments. So the "raw intelligence" stuff, all that language about gathering intel, that comes from this one 1,500 page leaked document taken from the Washington State Joint Task Force Fusion Center, this entity in an office building in Seattle that brings together all these State and Federal law enforcement agencies, along with all the branches of the armed forces, Immigration, and so forth, so that they can perform domestic spying, do roundups, infiltrate political groups—unions, antiwar coalitions, etc—you know, to make "our" country safer. The Fusion Center is a growing trend in the U.S., with many major cities now having these central "cells" or posts, each in conversation with the others. Among other things, these Fusion Centers create for deliberate means of getting around habeas corpus and other constitutional / civil rights, modeled on guerilla warfare tactics. They avoid legal blocks or even detection, for instance, by having the military hire hoards of private contractors, civilians, to gather information, infiltrate, spy, etc. Our antiwar coalition out in Olympia was in fact infiltrated by a Fusion Center employee; our union in New York was also continuously spied on. They aren’t military or CIA, they work for the Center…. So they don't need a warrant!

Anyway, I juxtaposed pieces of this leaked document and Appendix M of the CIA Interrogations Manual with writing I did during a staged distraction zone. First I gathered some of the language you mention. Then I really read through this document, really studied it, for several weeks (parts of it you can read as degraded / occulted info behind the poems in another section of Occultations, "modular arterial cacophony"). I meditated at night about the fact that I was in a sense spying on these "privately" hired "civilian" police—studying their files and applications for hire, which included how they scored on various exams, how poorly they performed at the firing range, or how poorly they spelled, their resumes, phone numbers, social security numbers, letters of recommendation, salaries, all manner of private information. I'd become that civilian spy, and the poem I knew would be, in a sense, my write-up of them. And who were they? Was she taking this job because she missed torturing people? Or did she take it because now, out of the military, everyone's telling her that she has only THESE skills, and so only has SO FEW options for employment? Maybe she's deeply ambivalent. Maybe not, but then why not? If so, just imagine what amazing things she could do with these incredible listening skills, you know? So I meditated at night, trying to become some of these people. Their pictures branded onto the front of their files like mug shots, like that completely sadistic device of shame called the registry of sex offenders. And for five days I did not eat. I only ate crackers and water at night, nothing during the day. Each of those nights I put myself in another stress position described in Appendix M of the CIA Interrogations Manual, some of these later becoming their own writing procedures. Standing against the wall; in a crouched position; and so forth. I did not leave the house. Of course nothing could approximate being tortured, being detained or put on a list. But I wasn't trying to approximate that experience anyway—it was a symbolic gesture, one to remind me of where I was and what I was doing, as some of those civilians I was studying had been torturers, and I couldn't stop thinking about that too. At the end of the week a collaborator friend of mine—an incredible artist and writer, Meghan McNealy—came to town and finished up the distraction zone with me, the writing part of it. We did this by watching one another watch a film, each of us viewing on loop with earphones on. We wrote, each in turn watching the other for a LONG time, writing and observing, writing and observing, not knowing what the other had picked to watch, and the game was: the video occulted from the other's view, sound off, could we nonetheless "watch" the video by studying how it manifested itself as small movements of the body, facial gestures, small sounds each of us would make without knowing it, how the eyelids would blink or when? We each wrote, and what I wrote, plus some of the language I'd appropriated and written on a blank sheet of paper, became the poem you quote above—"song for neighborhood watches."

So, I guess in regard to empathy—maybe part of this comes from a belief that we all need to be translators--I think that this takes a lot of work, mainly the work of giving up proprietary relationship to this body, sense of self, its languages, and this does have to do with protest. And I do think that the poem is restorative if it can occupy other bodies. The process of writing too. If we're in part constructed by our relationships to others, and to systemic social phenomena, then empathy is a matter of trying to understand situations people are in just as much as it is about people, and poetry is a space of trying these relationships out, this intimate and collaborative space. Of course we don’t behave logically much of the time. We are fucking contradictions. Both propositions say to me that we can organize one another into becoming other than what we are at that moment, to activate one another in these ways that the futurity of the page, that "pre-occupied territory" can articulate. Poetry doesn't replace boots on the ground organizing, but it informs it. Dottie Lasky recently wrote something like "it's not the animal inside the human, it's the animal inside the animal." I just butchered her writing. But, in any case, it's horrifying but also gives me optimism when I think just how easily I could have ended up a shitty boss or slumlord or a Marine in Iraq. Getting back to my interest in the body as a potential commons—giving up proprietary relation to this body and these poems, submitting to others so that we can become common space for mutual care, subsistence in whatever small ways: Is this body or this book (to a much lesser degree) beneficial or harmful? Maybe neither, but probably both. I guess admitting contradiction, dealing with it, that's what I'm understanding by your—really giving and beautiful—comment that something about this poem and its enactments is a spiritual cleansing. It gets back to your relating some poetry to shamanism. If you're going to try to yank someone back from the underworld—and I take it that "THIS ONE" is totally submerged—then you have to do a lot of things, not least go there yourself.

2010-08-18T22:17:00.000-07:00

HOSPITEL
by David Wolach
(for Frank Sherlock)

Delusionstalker–Eyes: in you
end up the rest of the gazes

A marginalia
Dear,

Detroit

I was born inside Herman Keefer
US census says

You are eleven people
You are well envoweled

I dream

Of a hotel bed
The Sub-lime,

I can smell you
On the pillow

Put it on the tab
Goes the voiceover

Shot with a green
Screen monitor

O constantly updating
Painting: the sea’s

Jagged swells
Are inside me

Causation's manifest reads South
Beeps in matrices in sub-prime

Code every measure
One future's reminder

             FREE MEALS SIX NIGHT
             STAYS CUSTODIAL CHARM

Installment is investment
So keep this secret:

We lost a lightbulb in your
Chest, the war's not ended

And if love is an act of sub
Mission, bedsores are your deductible

"I read sutures like
Palms"

If you think about services rendered
We're the hottest resort in town.

How Reagan it is to pick up
Your Isophone, listen for

Salubrious voice, same getme hot
Servile sweet

"The individuated you question—again"
The multitudes droned yesterdays and

My mother gave birth there
Several times

To hear
If you were downstairs

"Am I just a job?
Do you have a family

Or a blow
Job,

Syncope
For the ballast me?"

We were born
Of numbers
We

Retrieve our numbers
In your name

In a carboat in the sky-past

                          автомобиль лодки (судна)

We were Vladmir,

Language a yet to be
Decided question.

The structure is alive
And far away

Not celestial,
Sublunar

"Do you ever dream
Of chlorine

Or wheezing air machine
Knobs for up and down

Coiled cord
What I look like?"

They keep records in the basement
Our mothers and addicts

In the basement

The rest of the book is too cold to heat
--Kindling--

I dream of pyres in your
Selfsame rooms

Why do I keep
Telling you this

And my case number,
Files the size of poverty

As if among nomads
I can make a fond

Roomservice you

With a reduction I keep
Coming back to

On the turnpike
Can you hear

Cars out the window

#45 MUGGED into poetry

2010-07-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

If you haven't been stabbed or shot, if they took your money under threat and left, consider a poem. After I was mugged recently in Philadelphia this exercise came to mind on the subway ride home, the post-mugging subway ride, when poetry took it's rightful place at the center of my world where even muggers play a part in it, it being bigger than the knife, more concentrated and firmer than his cock which will have many admirers in prison one day soon. He's going to die. So am I. So are you. He could have EASILY killed me, he and his three friends BUT I AM ALIVE AND QUITE WELL writing for poetry as I willingly came to this cesspool of humanity to do. All the globe becomes a poem. It is enough to manage this small part, here, a body, in a body, stinking, beautiful, a bit of tormented, angry, tender, delicious flesh. It is enough. Each of us. If we can read this we are all alive and creative. Anyone who tells you that you are not creative is a coward afraid of his own potential, trust me. Ignore all cowards, they were born to be ignored. Find your strength, find your poems. Every morning for two weeks as soon as you waken PREDICT your death. And write it down. For instance, "by choking in 11 years, 4 months, 2 weeks, 6 days, 12:18 pm." THEN STARTING at the tips of your toes touch your cells of skin and nails, feel the bones, feel a pulse, the hair, feel your moving body in the morning always moving as long as you are alive you are moving blood through veins moving thoughts through dreams EVERY morning for two weeks touch every inch of your body's surface and your holes moist and dry. As soon as you finish this morning ritual write a dream into a poem or a poem from the moving blood in the thoughts of the dream, and combine that LIVING poem with the prediction of your death. Click HERE to see my poem from the execution of this exercise, "GUESSING MY DEATH."

AIDS Snow Family

2010-06-27T18:04:00.001-07:00

"The poem is restorative, rather than fragmenting."
--Alexandra Grilikhes

for anyone who loved someone who died of AIDS

In January gather snow, this is intimate this calling to honor the shock of being alive. I made one tiny snowman named CAConrad, and one tiny snowman named Tommy Schneider. For six months they held hands in the privacy of my freezer while I visited the streets and buildings in the Philadelphia of our Love. Snow crystals travel miles out of clouds into the light of our city. My snowman read to his snowman the letters I brought home to the freezer. It's 2010, AIDS is different in this century you didn't live to see. The used bookshop where you worked on South Street is now a clothing store. Our first kiss in the Poetry Section is a rack of blue jeans and I resist hooking my thumbs in the belt loops to pull you in -- I FEEL you everywhere today. In March an old friend was visiting and she said, "But you wrote poems for Tommy after he died." I said, "But it's sublime retracing our love in this exercise." She shook her head, "No, it's sad, it's very sad. Can't you see this beautiful day?" OF COURSE I see the beautiful day, in fact I SEE IT MORE THAN EVER, and I don't need her choreography to enter it. The point of experiencing love is to engage the greater openings. It's important to ignore the directives of others when investigating the way these doors swing on their hinges. Months of spring into summer, my snowman told your snowman the memories. One night you had asked if I was upset at something. I said, "I have no right to complain, all the men are dying in our city and I don't have AIDS!" You said, "Well I have no right to complain because I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me and I DO have AIDS!" Macrobiotics, herbal infusions, massages, sensory deprivation tanks, reflexology, music by Soft Cell, music by Siouxsie and the Banshees, music by The Thompson Twins, music by Patti Smith. Of course we're all dying, you'll never kiss someone who isn't dying, I know that, which is why the fear of this is not allowed to stop me from missing you the way I want. The streets were filled with men in wheelchairs that year. We were kids in love while you vanished in the funnel with them. The day after Summer Solstice I took our snowmen out of the freezer. 90 degrees, we melted quicker than expected, even sooner than I could have imagined. I burned the letters, mixed their ash with our slush. And I read to the puddle a poem that came to me years ago in a dream soon after you died: he wrote "I have AIDS / and kissed this wall" / X marked the spot / I wrote "I'm not afraid" / and kissed him back / wherever he is. I took many notes during the life of our snowmen in the freezer until they vanished. Those notes became a poem.

2010-06-27T17:59:00.000-07:00

#42 TRECARTIN ALLELUJIAH DEVIANCE

2010-05-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

for Ryan Trecartin and Lizzie Fitch

(Soma)tic #42 was written by CAConrad & Debrah Morkun.
There were three Trecartin films in Philadelphia in May of 2010 at The ICA, VOX Populi, and The Fabric Workshop Museum.

2 DAYS viewing Trecartin's films. DAY ONE: Before leaving home read from Franz Kafka's short story collection, if you don't own a copy, STOP, go buy one. Find a favorite sentence, like this one from Kafka's In the Penal Colony, "The Condemned Man especially seemed to be struck by a premonition of some sort of significant transformation." Cut this favorite sentence out, then cut this favorite sentence in half for later. Shred the rest of the book, pausing to TAKE NOTES about the love it takes to chop a book to pieces. Pages torn, sliced, then stuffed in your underwear, socks, bra (if you're a "man" get one, or find something to hold shreds of Kafka around your nipples). Wear something LOOSE so ONLY YOU know you are wearing Kafka, and let bits of the paper fall to the sidewalk as you walk to the gallery. And DO WALK to the gallery, working up a sweat with Kafka stuffed in your arm pits. At the gallery go into the restroom and suck on one half of your favorite sentence you cut earlier, then wrap it around a jelly bean or other candy YOU LOVE, making a Kafka candy decoupage. Do the same with the other half. NOW DRINK A FIVE HOUR ENERGY DRINK, then shove one of the Kafka candies up your ass, the Kafka candy decoupage now magically transformed into the Kafka candy decoupage suppository. Pop the other candy in your mouth. You now have your favorite Kafka sentence in you mouth, and up your ass. Sit down and watch the Trecartin film. TAKE NOTES TAKES NOTES. Grind
slowly in your seat, HOW DOES IT FEEL to have Kafka up inside your asshole while watching the Trecartin film? How does THAT feel? How is it? TAKE NOTES. When the Kafka candy in your mouth is gone TAKE NOTES and then suck the end of a chocolate bar, then write instant commands on your arm with the chocolate, like, "ENGINES RIP A PURR," or, "CRYSTAL FREQUENCIES," or "MAGICIAN'S ELIXIR," or, "ASCENDED BLOOD," then lick it off, suck it off, eat if off your arm your words. TAKE NOTES. Where are you in the film? Where are you actually? TAKE NOTES. Chew strands of Kafka shreds, then shove the wet balls up your nose. Breathe through your mouth and TAKES NOTES inside the Trecartin film, the film, Trecartin, it's there THE POEM IN THE NOTES. DAY TWO: Of course, it all starts, then, with a vision of Huckleberry's pelvis. & you're under his blankets, but those blankets are really the Mississippi River. For a moment, too, they are the Delaware, & then the Schuykill. And you're swimming but floating. This is to visualize first thing in the morning on the day you set aside for the (Soma)tic. Breathe thru your nose, and out through your mouth, and picture Huckleberry and then a boy from the future, however you imagine him. Become him and become the eye thru which he sees. See Huckleberry and then the boy from the future and then yourself getting stuck in the Mississipedia... or web-internet river, for lack of a better term. Feel your body turn to cobblestone and then to rust and then to internet marginalia. Say your favorite god's name three times, and then light a candle. Go to the computer screen and dial up Youtube. First watch Nick Cave singing "Saint Huck" live. Then, watch a video of people voguing. Next, leave your home. Walk to a store where they sell balloons, and select a balloon that speaks to you. It must be one you can blow up yourself. Then, go to a Philadelphia tourist shop and buy a fake copy of the Declaration of Independence. Write the words "Jingo," "oil spill," and "hallucinogen" somewhere on it. Then, roll it up like a scroll and put it in your underwear. Next, as you walk or ride to the museum, appreciate your body as a steamship. Feel steam emanating from all of your orbs. Buy some Wild Turkey whiskey on your way. Take a swig in a secret location of your choice somewhere near the museum, and spill an offering of it on the ground. Say, "to the cattle. to crazy horse." Go to the museum. Sit and watch the Trecartin film transfixed. Take notes that feel like ether. Take notes that feel like gut dust. scattalogical notes. remember there is the declaration of independence at your base. write about this. let your writing come from the steam of the body and from the base of the heart. take notes until you feel like you might disappear. Somewhere in the middle of all this writing, take a break to blow up the balloon. Notice your breath and how blowing up this balloon relates to the film at hand. Write about this. Know that you are every person in the Trecartin film. When you are finished writing, prick your finger with a small blade of some kind, and mark the last page with your blood. Become blood brothers with the page. Dot the page with memory blood. NOW take your notes YOUR NOTES from both days of TRECARTIN ALLELUJIAH DEVIANCE and find the poem that poem, find, it, it is in there, the poem.

2010-05-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

2010-05-29T13:38:00.000-07:00

2010-05-13T22:31:00.000-07:00

from effie

how to beg a stall

& pass not close but the way

blades have ides like day

see through me

abysmal as a reed

see’d underneath the lake

ever repair itself to the send



loads pure.

on your left itself to the send

sang from a word like blood

When you can trust it in your mouth

lavender hymns with life

& lightening pulse the earth

Though you don’t know me

you might like it
.
.
.
.

                         7/18

Across the river run Brooklyn to the sea from this wrist I was halling your name Hello Old Bean, Love Little Bean the wake dispelled
                    Behind a rush)))))) toward Somewhere Central Being with you
  Calmed by all regions The city cathedrals toward the bird of a brain
Is equal to. remains open. w/no system The day is euphoric softened
  Myths on impact Fruits with a kind of earthy violence.
Das earth-like feeling Drive our shared parts to the sea
On an errand of looseness and debris Easy loosies joined by
Is worn as our shedule erupts another mouth round pernod Ling ling,
  Bicycle   harmony   The  animal  Filament   priests with light
  <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>> into the très beaucoup
That is summer   the end  You keep  Come to  unleash la moon c, ouiL
.
.
.
.
.
^^^^
The sound of it all ^^^^
is the fluid anchor
  (the vast interior)
                         with
                              draw
  from this tree, and so on
I want you to buy me flowers.

TRY MAGAZINE

2010-04-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

(image of TRY issue 32)

When I say there's no other time I'd rather be alive than now, it's because of poetry, and it's because of communities of poets, and it's because of their commitment to poetry, one another, and how they express themselves. And their magazines. One of my absolute favorite poetry magazines is TRY, out of the Bay Area. It reminds me of BLANK GUN SILENCER, and a few others from the 80's, fast, put together fast, lovingly, the urgency of YOU HAVE TO READ THIS NOW is all over what David Brazil and Sara Larsen are doing. And the Bay Area is an amazing home of poetry, which I love just about as much as Philadelphia and Baltimore!

The cover to issue 32 is above. Some AMAZING poems by Suzanne Stein, Alli Warren, Brandon Brown, Clark Coolidge, Julian of Nowherr, Gary Sullivan, and others! David and Sara agreed to a mini interview about TRY. One question I almost asked but wanted to keep my own answer for the question to myself was, why call it TRY. It seems obvious, but then some things which seem obvious are not at all.

Hats off to David Brazil and Sara Larsen, two marvelous poets putting out one of the best poetry magazines of our time!

Enjoy the interview below which was conducted via e-mail,
CAConrad
To contact the editors: trymagazine@gmail.com

INTERVIEW WITH DAVID BRAZIL & SARA LARSEN

QUESTION:
TRY comes out twice a week, right? This obviously keeps you both busy for poetry, and do you do it for that reason? I mean do you do it to stay so absorbed for and in poetry? I think it's great whatever your reason!

BRAZIL & LARSEN
TRY comes out once every two weeks, so roughly twice a month. Every so often this nutty schedule might be interrupted for a week or so because we are out of town, or out of money!

We started TRY mainly because there were some things that we really wanted to see in the poetry world and that we felt we could contribute. One is that we wanted something that reflected the more or less immediate concerns and poetics of the multiple communities we know of or have access to. We wanted circulation that didn't take months to come out, that we could all use and talk about immediately in any way that makes sense to us (all of us, i mean -- david and sara and anyone who might read TRY). and we wanted HARD COPY EVIDENCE THAT STICKS AROUND, i.e. not something floating around the bowels of the internet. something we could touch. we looked at the artists and writers we are into and we realized that we had access to work they did, 20, 40, 60 years ago! you know, we could find their little mags and all the fugitive work they did (in some cases, this "fugitive work" many years later became their best known work). we wanted to be part of that. we wanted to express immediacy, as well as be of use hopefully somewhere decades ahead.

And now that we've been around for almost 2 years (it will be 2 years on May 30!), we definitely consider ourselves lucky to have access to and read and publish the many unbelievable writers that have come to our pages, both well known and not-as-known. the "known" part doesn't matter, as much as the work does and most of the work seems to reflect a poetic renaissance - or perhaps i should say the work reflects multiple renaissances - who's artistic impulses are both multifarious and often seemingly at odds - but the "at odds" part doesn't seem to play out as much as the solidarity of writerly & artistic experiences / vocations / impulses. it's rad! we find it really exciting. and luckily, we've been able to cull it into a little nexus.

QUESTION:
The covers are always an exciting thing to study. What's the process behind the covers you put together?

BRAZIL & LARSEN
The covers often present themselves sometime in the two weeks before we sit down to cut and paste the next issue together. I'd say there is often a synchronicity to what we think of secretly as our reigning motif of the issue (which we don't announce ever, except maybe occasionally when drunk at parties) and our "discovery" of what the cover will be.

QUESTION
Tell us about some of the discoveries you've made as a result of doing this magazine.

BRAZIL & LARSEN
Whoa. We've (re)discovered that one can certainly be super-broke and still create something like this. You might struggle, but it's possible. Not only is it possible, it's an imperative. It's (part of) why TRY is called TRY! We live in a culture that is basically trying to kill us all creatively. and we have to find strategies to not let that happen. We just can't let it happen. It's amazing how the "little things" like making a bi-monthly poetry/art zine, turn out to not be so little in this regard.

QUESTION:
It's difficult for us to get it out here on the east coast. Is there a way to get it? A subscription? Part of me loves how you let it migrate with the tides of poets coming in and out of the Bay Area, but it would also be great for people to get their hands on TRY all over the place.

BRAZIL & LARSEN
Yeah, how to circulate it to other places beyond the Bay Area has always been a little bit hard for us to figure out. I mean, even around here, you aren't going to get a copy unless you are at the reading or readings where we are giving it away. It's just a limitation we've come up against.

Initially, we were sending the magazine to people out there randomly, but we were too overtaxed and something needed to be cut out in order for us to continue having the energy to make the magazine at all - so the mailing was cut out. Also, it was costing us alot of money that we didn't really have. But we would love to figure out some way to make it work. So far, our best idea has been loading up visiting poets (and there are many!) with TRY's to distribute in their hometown. Sometimes this is somewhere on the east coast, sometimes it's Portland, or LA, or Cinncinnati, or Toronto or wherever. And we'll continue to do that because it's important to us that the TRY world both represent and reach other places beyond the Bay Area. And the responses to it are so wonderful. We love writers everywhere. But the limitations to sending it all over the place are basically temporal and financial, so it might just have to space travel in this bizarre zig-zag way. And the rebellious non-official punk rock part of us enjoys that zig-zag, we must admit.

(image of TRY issue 33)

2009-12-30T16:57:00.000-08:00

(this is a sample page of Penny Arcade for Elizabeth Kirwin to use on her website and only for Elizabeth's use and transfer, thank you, CAConrad)

2009-12-27T11:06:00.000-08:00

3 poems by Penny Arcade

BANDIT QUEEN

Today I read that a photographer was releasing a book
called "Laws of The Bandit Queens"
It features Sandra Bernhard, Janeane Garofalo and others
I had no idea how underground I am.

BEAT BITCH

I am the dog under the table waiting for scraps
I am the beat bitch shuddering on the welcome mat at a closed door.
I am the empty road, the cloudless night
I am sorrow in sunshine
I am strength in the face of victory
That holds back it’s sword from the neck of the oppressor
That gives a drink of water to the enemy making thrice sure it is
cool and clean.

Is it true that I am a fool for love?
But what if I already knew, playing backwards, what I owe?
What if no price is too high?
What if it is worth every penny to me?

Yet what if my sacrifice does you no good?
if it is you who are called to sacrifice and my running out in front
of your
Sword negates the glory you aspire to?

I know every hair on your head
The curve of your neck to the shoulder
The place where your brow , inner eye and nose meet

The way you come at the back of my
throat or at my womb
Though right now it embarrasses me to say
What you have forgotten

I was your queen
Although I loved equally the role of your whore
The table laid with silk was my domain
And every role I played I relished
Because it was with you

The darkened house
Without you
To know no footstep comes
That once lifted my heart
My joy was only you
Though I possessed the world
A simple bench to sit next to you was enough
Despite the throne
That was our inheritance
It mattered not to me
And still does not
From my jail, my dungeon
Lank and fetid
With your abuse
Though unintended

But even if it were
Would thwart me not
Does this make me a fool
Or worse
One who throws herself on an
empty pyre
That burns not yet neither is it green?
Am I standing still to admire
A mirage
Made lovelier by my thirst?
And sacrifice if that is my lot
Is this less than victory
Or just a dream of a sleepless night
A fantasy of love conceived
By one who fears to live
Out their destiny?

Haiku # 1

I thought you were Kurt Cobain
but then he died
and you were still around.

Penny Arcade (Susana Ventura) is an internationally acclaimed and respected writer, poet, essayist, cultural critic, director and performance, theater and video artist and cultural icon. She is one of the few Performance Artists to gain international renown in the mainstream theatre and entertainment world. Penny Arcade occupies a rare position in the American avant garde and counter culture and is a link between the present and the ethos of the 1960’s. At 17 she debuted as an original member of The Playhouse of The Ridiculous, NY's famed queer, glitter/glam political theatre, that influenced everything from David Bowie to Punk to current performance. At 19 she was a teenaged superstar for Andy Warhol's Factory, featured in the film Women In Revolt available on DVD and is one of the few artists from that scene to become internationally known in her own right. She is one of the very few independent American artists able to sustain a 40 year career in the arts and she is at the top of her game in several arenas she helped define.

She is the author of ten full length perfomance plays and numerous solo shows, including) Bitch!Dyke!Faghag!Whore!, (1990-1995) her sex and censorship show, a blend of political humanism and erotic dancers, whose influence is incalculable as a mainstream, commercial hit in 22 cities around the world and left the new burlesque movement in it’s wake.In 1991 Quentin Crisp identified Penny Arcade as the woman he most identified with, naming her his soul-mate and anima figure and they performed many shows together for almost a decade. In 2009 Cynthia Nixon, of Sex in The City portrayed Penny Arcade in a film on Mr Crisp, An Englishman In New York. Her award winning documentary project LES Biography Project, Stemming The Tide Of Cultural Amnesia with long time collaborator Steve Zehentner, has broadcast weekly in NY since 1999. A hard cover book containing 3 of Arcade’s performance scripts: La Miseria, about growing up as a girl in a Southern Italian immigrant, working class, peasant family in America and the clash of compassion, racism and homophobia, Bitch!Dyke!faghag!Whore!, and the book’s title piece Bad Reputation about the commodification of the Bad Girl, the links between sexual abuse, drug addiction and prostitution and of how women betray women leading to the failure of feminism, with the first four essays on Penny Arcade’s theatrical philosophy and aesthetics and a full length interview, archival photos spanning 1968 to 2009 was published by Semiotexte(e) and MIT Press in 2009. She is a passionate and gifted lecturer, teacher, coach and mentor. Visit www.pennyarcade.tv for reviews, essays, blogs and to contact Penny.

2009-12-26T21:09:00.001-08:00

FIRST OF ALL, Ed Baker I wouldn't WANT your filthy corpse in my city! So PLEASE DO die elsewhere!

SECOND, for those coming to the MLA there're some amazing art exhibits VERY NEAR the convention center, one being The Ryan Trecartin Show, and even though this link says until Summer 2009, Trecartin's show is still up by popular demand. Trecartin is like an amazing alchemy of Bruce Andrews meets David Lynch meets John Waters while on a cocktail of acid and crack. NOT TO BE MISSED! And it's just a couple of blocks away.

The other show is The Malcolm McLaren Show and The Barkley Hendricks Show, both at PAFA, also only a few blocks away. And when at PAFA, upstairs at the Hendricks Show in the permanent collection are amazing pieces of work by Lee Krasner, Louise Nevelson, and other great pieces! The Nevelson is one of my favorites, it's a sculpture she created from the remains of the St. Mark's Church on the Bowery's church organ after they had a fire many years ago.

Have a great time everyone, but only die here if you love it here. We'll give you a nice funeral.
CAConrad

2009-12-07T08:34:00.000-08:00

CAConrad outside the Malcolm McLaren Show at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (12/6/09), photo taken by Jaime Anne Earnest

2009-12-07T08:30:00.001-08:00

CAConrad outside the Malcolm McLaren Show at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (12/6/09), photo taken by Jaime Anne Earnest.

CONFETTI ALLEGIANCE

2009-12-01T10:31:00.000-08:00

Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your lifetime who you never met, but wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notley says, "the poor are universally more interesting." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes. The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey, and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take your handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud and toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem. Allegiance.

2009-11-29T20:56:00.000-08:00

Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your own lifetime but you never saw one another, and you wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notely says, "the poor are universally more interesting." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes. The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey, and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take the handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud, and to toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem.

2009-10-10T13:40:00.000-07:00

2009-08-23T19:25:00.001-07:00

PhillySound Feature #7: Garrett Caples

2009-08-22T19:08:00.000-07:00

(photo by Jeff Mellin)

We are pleased to bring you the prolific, masterful talent of Garrett Caples as the 7th featured poet on PhillySound. You can view past features at this link.

Enjoy this poet and his poetry,

CAConrad
editor of #7

-------------

Garrett Caples is a poet who lives in Oakland, CA. He's written two full-length collections of poetry, The Garrett Caples Reader (Black Square Editions 1999) and Complications (Meritage Press 2007). Narrowhouse Recordings released his lo-fi poetry and music disc, Surrealism's Bad Rap, in 2006, and Norfolk, VA's now-defunct music newspaper Ninevolt published a collection of his early writings on rap, The Philistine's Guide to Hip-Hop, with an introduction by Shock-G of Digital Underground, in 2004. Forthcoming from Wave Books is the biblio-critical work, Quintessence of the Minor: Symbolist Poetry in English. He's published the odd pornographic tale, and has written numerous essays on poets like Victor Segalen, André Breton, Philip Lamantia, and Barbara Guest. Even painters-Gordon Onslow Ford, Joe Brainard, Bruce Conner, Brian Lucas, Brian Strang-aren't immune to his pen.

Caples is an editor at City Lights Books, where, among other projects, he curates the new poetry series, City Lights Spotlight, focused on under-recognized masters (#1: Norma Cole) and younger up and coming poets (#2: Anselm Berrigan). He also had the privilege of editing the previously unpublished MSS Tau by Philip Lamantia and Journey to the End by John Hoffman (2008) as Pocket Poets #59. He is also a contributing writer to the San Francisco Bay Guardian, for which he writes on literature, painting, and, most frequently, Bay Area hip-hop.

2009-08-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

Nod Often
by Garrett Caples

i will sleep
with you

señor
citizen

one drop
in a human
ocean

tear in the
purple earth

pulse beating
itself to death

trying to graft
onto a life

the cyclops
ringing his
bell again

votes himself
worst nightmare

for the third
straight year
in a row

i hesitate
to run him
over

though i
know i
oughta

why me
lord

johnny cash
would ask

who weakened
my weekend

my overdose
overdoes it

needless
needles

courtesy
your local

police state
department
store

plant evidence
grow case

how do you
say stop
looking
at me

to a vacuum
power power
vacuum

sucking off
aloft a loft
the obvious
lobbyist

the genetically
sodomized
botanist

the codified
nine to five
legitimized
colonist

bipartisan
shit agreed
to a greed
long ago

coming soon
a water economy

in an event
known as the
wrinkle disaster

the secretary of
the office of
preoccupied
hiccups

cops a mug
to chug in
the tub &

is found
drowned
afterward

in a note
in another
hand he
laments

even tv
no longer
pretends

to give
a shit
about
you

2009-08-19T20:54:00.000-07:00

INTERVIEW WITH GARRETT CAPLES

questions by CAConrad

QUESTION: "Nod Often" is without a doubt one of my favorite poems by you. It's a bleak torrent in the true meaning of torrent being an incessant, powerful outpouring. The tear in the purple earth is where the crisis seems to give way like a devastating forecast. What do you not mind sharing with us about writing this poem?

CAPLES: It's funny-I wrote that poem in late 2007 and hadn't really done anything with it because I wasn't sure if it was any good. It was the second poem I wrote after I'd finished Complications and I guess I felt like it looked like the poems in the "All Chemical" section and I didn't know how I felt about that. I thought I was done worrying about form as such, but this resolution was formed while the forms were changing of their own accord. The absence of change bothered me because I live in fear of getting good enough at a particular kind of poem that I can coast on it forever. You can go pretty far in the poetry world if you can give your own little twist, however faint, on some generally accepted mode, and you can keep peeling off poems long after talent has outstripped poetry. But the form came of its own and I finished the poem, which rarely happens at this point unless it's something I'll end up using, so I kept it around. I haven't written any others like it since, so my qualms appear to be unfounded.

"Bleak torrent," as you call it, is good. I was going through a bad time for reasons unrelated to poetry. And, of course, this was written when Bush was still in power, though really very little has changed under Obama, geopolitically speaking. And the militarization of the police to quash free speech; the insane lack of gun control; polar bears still not being added to the endangered species list; climate change treaties which, even if they achieved their tepid goals, are laughably insufficient; carbon trading; tasers; the inability to close Guantanamo; banning of gay marriage in California-you name it. I think it'd be foolish to deny we're better off under Obama, however, and I do think he's trying to improve things, but only certain things. Other evils of capitalism he seems quite at ease with. But still, it's hard not to like the guy as a guy; he's magnetic but seemingly human, and he's restored some dignity to the America's international standing. Not that I'm a patriot, but I don't have much choice in being American and it's pretty embarrassing when you travel.

I'm gassing on about this I guess because I'm not sure what to say about writing it. I'm working on a poem right now that I don't know if I'll finish, but in it I talk a little bit about writing poetry: "it's a combination of toil/ and automatic dictation." It sounds like Alexander Pope, but that's as good as I can describe it. Many of the phrases are automatic as is the general sequence of "events" or whatever you'd call them. The title came first, a few days later, the phrase "señor citizen," which generated the first bunch of stanzas; I remember there was some particularly vexed case going on on the US/Mexican border, which I think accounted for the manifest content, if you will, plus it's obviously built on "senior citizen," giving it a sonic plausibility even as undertones of the elderly seep into the automatic phrase, and the "sleep with you," also automatic, must be a degraded or accelerated form of marriage for citizenship. The first stanza emerged after the second, from the juxtaposition of "señor citizen" with the title.

Parts of the poem were more deliberately composed to bridge more spontaneous lines. Occasionally, as here, I have an earlier stack of phrases that I didn't know what to do with-"weakened weekend," "overdose overdoes," "needless needles"-and they suddenly find their calling. These phrases weren't automatic so much as noticed, and I literally discovered "needles" in "needless" from a typo in a document I was proofreading. "Automatic," for me, is most often this sort of slow accumulation. Yet, the poem is, I think, a bleak torrent; I was a bleak torrent at the time so the poem reflects this. And it reflects various obsessions of mine, like the poisoning of the Earth's water supply. I imagine water'll be scarce enough to become the basis of the world economy; I only hope it comes after I die. Genetically-modified food is another Earth-destroyer. The thing about tv was a spontaneous insight I had at a friend's house (I don't watch it at home and now that the digital conversion has happened, I literally can't, which is fine by me.) Commercials and reality tv treat viewers like complete morons; there's a contempt and loathing of the audience/consumer-often manifested through the fake absurdism that's become advertising's chief mode-that contrasts with the way tv used to conduct itself. It used to pretend to care about the people it was trying to sell things to, total bullshit, of course, but now the lameness of the viewer-and the viewer's acquiescence in this lameness-is presumed. So I thought it was a funny way to put it.

QUESTION: Magdalena Zurawski says punk rock saved her poems. Tell us how hip hop is an inspiration for you?

CAPLES: This hip hop thing has been a weird development for me. I don't know if you've ever seen any "hip hop poets"-there are some good spoken word people who might fall under that rubric, but in general, anytime I was confronted with a hip hop poet, it was someone who couldn't rap who wanted to use the slang. Someone who couldn't achieve hip hop, in other words. So I was a little skeptical about what a poet could borrow from hip hop.

That said, I'm immensely interested in what rappers do with rhyme. In our poetry world, rhyme has been as dead as it can be since-at the very latest-Weldon Kees. He was already something of an anachronism stylistically. Anything else has been Richard Wilbur-type reactionary rhyming, or Charles Bernstein-type "look how dumb these rhymes sound" things. (Thom Gunn, however, managed to do something with it.) But what rap shows is that rhyming isn't played out; it has a vibrant existence, just not in our poetry culture. Part of rap's success with rhyme was to think beyond the end-rhyme. There are lots of internal rhymes, the shifts between rhymes don't always follow a couplet or quatrain pattern. There's also much use of slant rhymes-probably most rhymes in raps are slant rhymes these days-and rhyming phrases rather than simply words. A very simple example of the latter occurs in a Mac Dre song in which he says something to the effect of being high off "a catpiss blunt" and in a car with "a catfish front." ("Catpiss" is a kind of cannabis whose smell evokes cat piss, though it's by no means so acrid.) But the phrases can be much longer.

I've spent the last four years writing on Bay Area rap for the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Given time constraints, most of the music I listen to is rap, and I spend a lot of time running around various Bay Area hoods for writing purposes. And I've made a handful of close friends within this artistic milieu. So the stuff is on my mind a lot. Inevitably I've picked up bits of slang, not on purpose so much as through a combination of osmosis and simply trying to make myself understood in a world not my own. In the past couple of years here in Oakland, the word "lightweight" has come to signify something between "a little bit" and "sort of." I was interviewing a rapper and had my camera with me. One of his teen protégés asked me if I did photography as well, to which I automatically responded "lightweight," to the extreme amusement of everyone.

I tell this story because the slang is very attractive yet there's something ridiculous about someone like me using it. It would be easy to steal some of this slang-the more straightforward or obvious examples at least-and seem like a very inventive poet, but why do this? It's dishonest and unoriginal. It isn't my language, though I've found it creeps into my conversation outside the hood from time to time, handy words like "lightweight" or "a minute" to signify a long time ("I haven't seen him in a minute"). But I try not to do this. The one word I did self-consciously use in a poem is "grapes" to signify "marijuana"; it seems so incongruous with weed in a sense-compared with, say, "spinach" or "broccoli"-but "grapes" came in with strong, purple-colored weed that took over out here. Maybe once is ok, but the problem with that sort of thing is that few people who read my poems know that that's what "grapes" signifies.

In any case, what happened to some of my poetry after awhile wasn't related to slang at all, but rather to flow. What happened was, as I wrote "Chanson de Goo Goo," some of the material came to me in a flow-the rhythm of which I later realized came from a rap by Shock-G, with a little bit of one by Saafir, the Saucee Nomad. And the rhymes came out of this flow (not the other way around). This has happened a few times since; I'm working on one right now that contains a passage based on a flow by Dotrix4000, probably my best friend in the hip hop scene out here. But I haven't chosen these flows so much as they've chosen me in the course of a poem. I don't know if any of this counts as "inspiration," but it's how the hip hop has affected my work.

QUESTION: So you're saying you've internalized the tools? You were talking about the achievement of rap using rhyme in ways different from mere end-rhyme, and I feel that too of your poem "Silence License," also in your book COMPLICATIONS (Meritage Press, 2007). "soda / odor" for instance. Although my FAVORITE is "onion / noise" as if it could rhyme, and THE NOISE of the onion would know, right?! You're the perfect poet in many ways to be talking about this with, which makes me happy to be doing so. I've had fights more than once with poets in our experimental circles who balk at the mention of rap as poetry, to say rap IS poetry. When I would talk about the historical context of rap coming to us on the tree of fast-rhyme oral histories from West Africa, the answer then is, "Oh, so it's like folk art." To me this is another stamp of pedigree talking, to say "I'll accept it, but not as fine art." Anyway, that's probably too long of a debate into class and race. Back to your poems. I'm curious about the dedication to Michael Palmer for "Chanson de Goo Goo" in COMPLICATIONS. You pay respect to others too with different poems in the book, Philip Lamantia, Barbara Guest, and others. Not to mix these questions too much, but, how do these poets inspire you, while we're on the subject of how and what inspires the poems of Garrett Caples?

CAPLES: I go back and forth on how to characterize the relationship between rap and poetry (both forms of verse, perhaps). I have no problem with people calling rap poetry, though, on the other hand, I don't privilege one over the other. That is to say, rap doesn't need to be poetry, because rap is rap, perfectly valid in its own terms. And yet-how can they not be related? A lot of rappers I know consider themselves poets, so it's clear at least some of them feel the relationship. As a poet, in any case, it's useful to see the continuities and the distinctions. The fact that rap is for the most part recorded, and recorded with a beat, while a poem, for the most part, is written on a page, is important to keep in mind. A good rapper can use his/her voice to accomplish much that isn't possible in the poem in the sense that you have to write poetry whose voice will emerge from the marks on the paper. You can't rely on someone hearing your poem the way you think it goes; you need to write the poem so that it goes the way you want it to without you being there. I recall reading a poet once complaining about how her poetry instructor would read her poems fast, when she meant them to be read slow. Within your poem, you can shift its tempo, speed up, slow down, etc. But you can't just insist on the proper speed at which your work should be read. All this is to say that the rapper potentially has more control over the way the rap goes because he or she delivers it in oral form, whereas the poet can control some of the way the poem goes, but must leave a great deal open to the reader's various proclivities. If you can't accept this, you need to find another line of work.

The dedications are pretty straightforward, devoted to poet-friends like Andrew Joron, Brian Lucas, Jeff Clark, a handful for my girlfriend Anna. "Mildred Begley" was my great-aunt who died in her 80s. She was a wonderful person and I was sad because she's the type of person who slips through history, making her mark on her immediate friends and family but leaving nothing behind. I thought maybe I could preserve something, even though it's not a very straightforward elegy at all and doesn't give much sense of her as a person. I also enjoyed using her name as a title-it sounds like an Anthony Trollope novel. As for the older poets: "Dub Song of Prufrock Shakur" is dedicated to both Philip Lamantia and Robert Creeley, who died within a few months of each other. Mostly Philip-inspired, as we were pretty close, but Creeley is certainly in there. I remember telling Barbara Guest I liked Creeley's work, which she really hated, as it turned out. But I told her that my interest was largely formal, which is true; obviously our vocabularies and sensibilities are quite different. She approved of this, saying something like "That's very wise," a typically dual-edged type of Barbara statement. Barbara is the subject of "A Young Girl Recalls Meeting Erich Von Stroheim," as well as the speaker. It's based on her actual experience and, being a huge Von Stroheim fan, I couldn't resist writing it after she told me the story. She was still alive when I wrote it and I showed it to her; she approved, thank god. Really it's kind of audacious writing a poem in the voice of a living master, but again, I couldn't help myself and I'm very glad I wrote it as it was one of those stories that she never got on paper and it deserves telling. "‘I Have Seen Enough'" is another one about Philip but dedicated to Nancy Joyce Peters, the co-owner/publisher emeritus of City Lights who was married to Philip. I got to know her only after he died, when I helped her put his papers together for the Bancroft Library. This was basically the beginning of the process by which I eventually started editing for City Lights, so it was a real pivotal moment in my life. That poem was one of the few that was actually written more or less in the time it takes to read it. Everything in it-the strange encounters with birds, etc.-really occurred.

I feel like I'm both going on too long and not really answering the question. In terms of inspiration, Creeley influenced me on the level of the line, while Andrew Joron influenced me on the level of the word (when I read The Removes it made me feel like a lazy poet so I tried to step it up afterward). Barbara's influence is mostly in her fearlessness and continual variation. Philip may be the biggest influence but not in an obvious way because I think my poetry isn't very like his; he's inimitable and I wouldn't even try. But his influence was about being a poet and what that meant as a practitioner of an ancient tradition. He also taught me about poetry as a life as well as an art. And perhaps most of all, his own disregard for any careerism, his intense pursuit of his own interests regardless of fashion, and his strict standards of what to publish profoundly influenced me. It made me drop all the purely formal exercises in favor of sitting back and waiting for the poem to come, not forcing it or using a formula simply to generate product. You write less poems this way, but they're a hell of a lot better. And whereas I was driven by the desire to try forms, now the forms declare themselves fairly early in the writing process.

2009-08-18T11:51:00.000-07:00

COMMUNITY COMMENTARY ON GARRETT CAPLES

MARCELLA DURAND
I remember exactly, precisely, when I first met Garrett Caples—1995 in the lobby of the Berkeley Art Museum, pushing a friend of his, Paul, in a wheelchair, and wearing a cap. We’ve actually only met in person four times. The other times were when he read at Double Happiness, raw full-on more nervous then perhaps I've ever seen a poet at a reading, then again when we met at a café near Moe's during my visit to California in 2003—he was reading The Garrett Caples Reader when I walked in, and he said, "I forgot how this is pretty good," which I found narcissistic and totally anti-narcissistic at the same time—and then last year when he gave a beautiful rhythm-layered read at the Poetry Project. We had gone out to eat beforehand at that super-cheap Japanese restaurant on St. Mark's with the giant panda thing out front with the flashing red eyes. (My encounters with Garrett have always had interesting backdrops). What I hadn't known through three of our meetings was that Garrett not only wrote poems with force in both sound and content—and here, inspired by a reading that his close friend and collaborator Brian Lucas gave, in which he flipped through Poems for the Millennium reading lines at random, I'll open a page or two at random from Complications and let my eye fall upon a few lines:

Barbara tell it on guitar
this tale of wunderbar

Those are from "A Young Girl Recalls Meeting Erich von Stroheim," dedicated to Barbara Guest.

And one more flip, falling upon a few lines from "Chanson de Googoo," dedicated to Michael Palmer.

el euro
es numbero
uno

dans les
etats unis

parce que
Chewbacca
is proper

And lest you think all Caples' poems are dedicated to someone or another (where's mine, Garrett?!?), I'll make a choice at this point, from "Dub Song of Prufrock Shakur." Oh, wait, this one is for Philip Lamantia and "secretly for Creeley."

now more than ever
no more than ever

poetry enters
the naked
phase

Anyway, but what I didn't know until our last meeting was that Garrett also wrote about hip hop. He is the author of The Philistine's Guide to Hip Hop and I imagine the complex, abstract yet emotional soundscapes of his poems, percussive and multitonal, take from hip hop, as well as the surrealists, Ted Berrigan, Guest, Lamantia. I know in the 1990s a lot of poets were interested in hip hop (called rap then) and its potentialities with speech and rhyme and stage presence, but somehow that all got lost in a widening division between the Poetry Project/Language poets and the Nuyorican scene. Now hip hop isn’t acknowledged much nowadays in something like, say, flarf, even though it probably opened some of the doors that flarf enters. Garrett looks at a lot of things—poets, music, art—with unshuttered eyes; I always learn a lot from him and like to catch up on his gossip of the surprising. I look forward to the fifth visit.

BRENDA HILLMAN
I met Garrett first through his work and later in person because we were friends of Barbara Guest. In the few years before she died, Barbara was made happy by her associations with those she called "the young surrealists." Garrett visited with her frequently. I don’t know when Garrett began his explorations in surrealism, perhaps through his friendship with Philip Lamantia.

Garrett's poetry seems to embody several qualities modernists received from poets of long ago—particularly Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and the spirit of late nineteenth century séances. Sometimes it seems he is being witty about the occult, but it can also be a serious matter. Madame Blavatsky might have issued a warning to Garrett because his poems go deep and sideways on a path, they speak from below, with the Poe in poetry. The poet is a man walking on his hands. The world of Garrett's poems is the world of dreams and childhood, of the unexplained—a place where the fable meets the riddle.

Sometimes he delicately separates the small bones of a sentence ("Synth"). I appreciate the chemistry of word-pairings in his poetry. Words can stroll in twos like girls to a matinee: "coal/goal//lone/lust//tone/dust" ("Four Tune").

Or create a magic tumble: "stars are wet with children dressing."

When the demonic enters his work, I am reminded of Baudelaire’s interest in flowers: "Baudelaire's favorite flowers were neither daisy, carnation, nor rose; he would break into raptures at the sight of those thick-leaved plants that look like vipers about to fall on their prey..." (W. Benjamin quoting Champfleury in Arcades Project).

In their raids on the beyond—including writings of homage to artists who have died—Garrett's poems often show tenderness (the piece on Thom Gunn) and so create passageways between apparently private worlds.

ANDREW JORON
The work of Garrett Caples has always seemed to me a form of "anti-work," in more than one sense: "anti-work" as in "anti-aesthetic," demonstrated by his refusal to conform to any of the present trends of poetic practice, post-avant or otherwise; but also "anti-work" as in "anti-task," reflecting a sensibility that revels in the primacy of play, that rebels against the careerist call to order of the school bell or the MFA factory whistle. Instead, Caples's poetry manifests a laughingly dark umor (a paradoxical condition, first defined by Jacques Vaché, in which the power of death is reclaimed for amor). Here, the melancholia of the reality principle is swallowed whole by the pleasure principle, as if it were a Plutonian drug. What results is a kind of ecstatic doubt, a state of suspended fall: "The sun doesn't rise so much as light surrounds us until we ascend into night. We killed people, it's true, to adjust their attitude, but could you have lived in their town? A house that was eating itself before it was even home? My bed was in the fireplace," Caples testifies in the prose poem "Untitled," from his latest collection Complications. Throughout, Caples's lower-case "i" cases the lower casements of the real, returning in Orphic style, knowing that "the hole in the mirror laughs" (as he puts it in his prose poem "Orpheus"). In both of his full-length books, The Garrett Caples Reader and Complications (both featuring provocative designs by Jeff Clark), Caples purveys a poetic "synth" that fuses the lyric, satiric, and elegiac modes, and refuses the standard format of "the poetry collection" by including short essays and other prose statements. Indeed, Caples proves himself the trickster at every level of the poetic act, taxing the sins of syntax and turning the merely semantic mantic, as in the snakelike slyness of his phrase "Turning on the Tongue" (the title of a poem in Complications). Especially in his poems with short lines, Caples goes round with sound to found and confound meaning: "i nose / for noise," he confesses in "Dub Song of Prufrock Shakur." In phrases like "lamplit armpit" and "sup on pus," Caples bathes in high bathos, tickling the ridiculous until it sublimes. As the poet avers in "Gauntlet of Two" (from The Garrett Caples Reader): "It was simply a case of lost absolutes. A game of cat and mouth." He is is the brash actor who rushes unannounced into the action of the play of language (violating the script). He is Garrett Caples, agent of mad love.

BRIAN LUCAS
I first met Garrett Caples at the Taiwan Restaurant on University Ave. in Berkeley, CA in 1996. I had (or was about to) publish some of his poems in my magazine, Angle. Lunch was served and we ate heartily for about $3 each. We never returned together to Taiwan Restaurant for various reasons that have, at times, haunted me.

The one poem by Garrett that I like is "All Chemical" and this only because it is dedicated to me. I also enjoy the poems he has yet to publish, ones that I've heard read in the living rooms of our various friends in common, poems that if not dedicated to me I will pretend not to have heard.

Garrett continuously moves through phases, the most recent could be compared to Captain Beefheart jamming in Sun Ra's Myth Science Arkestra with an appearance by the Heiroglyphics. Garrett's words are open to everyone except the uninitiated. To become initiated would take iron lungs and a fondness for blue silk shirts.

I'm pleased to see he has been getting some attention in Pennsylvania because he's worn us out here in California.

2009-05-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

HOMOPHOBIA and a Lexicon for Violence: A Conversation With Jonas Slonacker 10 Years After Matthew Shepard

2008-10-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

Jonas Slonacker is my cousin, and someone I always looked up to when I was a kid, and is the cousin at the top of the Dear Mr. President poem. We grew up in a repressive, isolated rural community in Pennsylvania where our family worked at the coffin factory, the tire factory, dental floss and cardboard box factories. We escaped the homophobic confines as soon as we could. Our other queer cousin Dolly Conrad didn't leave, even when she had gender reassignment surgery to become our cousin David Conrad. David lived out the horror we had escaped, working at the coffin factory through the process of becoming David. The women no longer wanted him to use their restroom at the factory, and the men wouldn't allow the new David in the men's room, leaving David with a hole in the floor of the janitor's closet which drained to the sewer. Jonas moved to Laramie, Wyoming many years ago where he met his boyfriend Bill, and where they still live today. When Matthew Shepard was murdered in Laramie by Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, writer/director Moises Kaufman interviewed over 200 citizens of Laramie to create what is now known as The Laramie Project. If you see the film version (IT'S A MUST SEE!), actor John McAdams plays the role of Jonas. The following is an e-mail conversation I had with Jonas over the month of October, 2008. This month marks the 10th anniversary of Matthew Shepard's brutal torture and murder. When you read Jonas's letter to the editor of Laramie's local newspaper The Laramie Boomerang toward the end of the conversation you'll see how some things are saddly unchanged in our world today. The newspaper refused to print his letter responding to their views of the 10th anniversary of Shepard's murder, but you can read it here.
CAConrad
-------------

CACONRAD:
Ten years ago when Matthew Shepard's father spoke in court to ask the judge to show mercy against his son's murderers, Dennis Shepard said he imagined what his son sensed as he struggled to survive while tied to the fence on the outskirts of Laramie that cold night. He imagined the Wyoming wind in his ears, and the sparkling lights of Laramie in the distance. Jonas you've lived in Laramie for a good many years now. Please tell us what you see out there at night, what you hear, what you feel? What's the Laramie you can share with us, the Laramie that is and isn't galvanized by the murder ten years ago.

JONAS SLONACKER:
Laramie sits on the high plains and prairie with foothills to the east and snow-capped mountains to the west. The spot where Matthew Shepard was tied faces the snow-capped mountains to the west. The wind -- we get lots of it -- generally comes from the SW so it is very likely that the wind was blowing in his ears. If you are in town or near town at night, the lights of Laramie dominate the sky and radiate very far due to the vast expanse of prairie. Outside of Laramie, the sky is peppered thickly with stars and if the wind isn't blowing, the silence swallows you up. I remember moving to Laramie with pain and anger about my boyfriend Michael's death and how people reacted to it, and the open spaces, the vastness was able to absorb and dissolve my pain. In Pennsylvania, it felt like my pain bounced off of the buildings and back onto me.

So when I am out and about in Nature around Laramie, I feel free from the bondage and limitations of my small form and am connected to something greater than myself. When I weigh things on the scales in my mind concerning where I want to be and live, the space and nature around Laramie is always number one on the list. I can drive in any direction from town and in 10-30 minutes be all alone out on the prairie, in the foothills, or in the mountains by a lake or stream, under a tree, or in the full force of the wind. I didn't know Matthew so I don't know what his connection to the land of Wyoming was or if he felt a strong bond to it like I do. However, I do know that the land, the space, and the wind was able to absorb and disperse his pain.

CONRAD:
Someone who did know Matthew Shepard, and also knew his murderers Russell Henderson and Aaron McKinney, was quoted as saying about Henderson and McKinney, "My secret hope was that they were from somewhere else, so we could create a distance, you know, like, 'We don't grow children like that here.' Well it's pretty clear WE DO grow children like that here!" When I think about this realization with its implications of OWNING hatred as a community and as a culture, I like to let it spiral to its widest points to investigate homophobia. Matthew Shepard wasn't just "robbed" and killed by some hot-headed, angry, wreckless guys, he was beaten and he was tortured for being queer. Then he was tied to a fence beneath that beautiful Wyoming sky and beaten and tortured again, and then left there to suffer until someone found him many hours later. For thousands of years our religious and cultural heritage of homophobia have given way to men fearing their desires and their bodies to the point that they hate and kill men who are not afraid of their desires and bodies. There are very direct ways this fear is sanctioned.

Years ago I saw a documentary where a dozen prisoners were interviewed about the queer men they had each killed. Every one of these prisoners admitted to having sex with their victims before killing them. It reminded me of an incident of near-violence I went through in the rural Pennsylvania town you and I grew up in Jonas. I was up by the coffin factory reading a book, waiting for my boyfriend to meet me when a group of five classmates surprised me. We were all about seventeen at the time. But these guys started calling me Faggot (at that time I was called Faggot more often than my other name, real name). I stood up and was looking for a way to get the hell out of there, and they started making motions to punch me, and saying they were going to knock my teeth out. But the thing I remember the most, the thing that disturbed me the most, was that they all grabbed their cocks through their pants while saying YOU WANT SOME OF THIS DON'T YOU FAGGOT!? And it was very clear that they had hardons, and the one guy developed a stain through his pants which was probably pre-cum. An old man from the factory opened a window and yelled, which sent them running.

The reason I bring this up, the prisoners, and the guys who wanted to rape me or beat me or both, is because all of this was on my mind when I first found out that Aaron McKinney -- the young man who gave Matthew Shepard the brunt of the torture and beatings which killed him -- later went BACK INTO TOWN, got into a fight at a bar, and was himself beaten so badly that he wound up in the hospital. In fact the doctor from the ER that night said that Matthew was fighting for his life (a fight he lost five days later) a few beds down from Aaron's very own bed. And while I know there is NO EVIDENCE that Aaron nor Russell had had sex with Matthew, I DO wonder about Aaron's need to fight with another man later that night, another man he probably realized was stronger, since he wound up in the hospital himself. It sounded to me like he was trading off sexual tensions: beating a fag and then being beaten for feeling like a fag. And whether or not Aaron had a hardon that night while he was beating Matthew to death, or when he himself was getting his ass kicked into the ER, I'm sure by now he's surrendered to the taste of cock, having been in prison these past ten years. I sincerely hope he's found a nice boyfriend in there who can help him find the answers he needs.

BUT WHAT IS THIS MADNESS WHICH drives so much hatred!? How do we stop it? Governments have come and gone, all kinds of governments, but the ONE THING which has been a constant is our monotheistic religions. And ALL OF THEM have homophobia blasting through them at some point. Don't get me wrong there are plenty of clergy who are marvelous people and who MAKE CLEAR that homosexuals are real people and deserve support and compassion, but still, there are A LOT of clergy who dehumanize us, and make us easy targets to be set upon.

A group of teachers conducted an experiment a few years ago where they wrote onto index cards names of people from Germany during World War II. Their goal was to line up with their cards from "most guilty" to "least guilty" for the crimes against the millions murdered in the concentration camps. Someone had the Hitler card, there was a card for soldiers, etc., etc., but the person who had the card representing clergy who had used the pulpit to instill hatred against Jews, homosexuals, and others in order to galvanize the culture and fuel the way to the trains driving to the camps, THAT person went to the front of the line and refused to budge. The argument was that THESE men of the holy scripture were entrusted to be mediums to the highest spiritual intent of their congregations, and therefore had the most ability to corrupt and to rally support around the hatred and murder of the Nazi regime. WHENEVER I hear clergy being homophobic I know I am hearing THOSE MOST RESPONSIBLE for gay bashing, murder, even suicide of queers. The queer community still has the highest suicide rate. And there is not a day that goes by where queers are not murdered for being queer. To keep track of this carnage I'm positive would destroy me, but my friend kari edwards did exactly this on her blogs up to the day she died.

SLONACKER:
Wow, yes, I have often wondered if our own worst enemies aren't sometimes one of us living in a repressive cage or if some of our worst enemies also aren't men who wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat with cum all over their belly after having an erotic homo dream. When I came out at Berea College, a small liberal arts college in Kentucky -- yes, I really am a country gay mouse -- anyhow, I came out and a friend of mine told me he was uncomfortable being with me once he knew that, so I told him not to flatter himself, I wasn't attracted to him so he need not worry. He immediately shot back: "Why not?! What is wrong with me? Why aren't you attracted to me?!" Eccck. I pointed out his ridiculous behavior to him and then we started laughing and then he admitted to having a sexual dream about me. Once he admitted it, it was not an issue anymore and we moved on and he married a woman friend of ours and they are still happy 30 years later as far as I know.

So, I think having a erotic queer dream or attraction isn't unusual or unnatural and it doesn't even mean you are queer, sometimes it does, of course, but it may just mean you are human, you have hormones, you are a natural animal and why wouldn't someone be curious about what it would be like to have sex with someone of the same sex? To express that curiosity verbally or even physically is the healthy choice and to deny it and bury it deep inside makes it fester and become ugly and insane until you explode one day and beat up a "FAG" or kill one and then your karma sucks for a really long time. The straight men I know who are most comfortable with gay men are secure in themselves and are conscious of who they are, including their curiosity.

That's what happened with McKinney. I personally believe that Russell Henderson was mostly just a guilty bystander. There have been rumors that McKinney and Shepard may have known each other or that they at least met and I think there may be some truth hidden there. McKinney and Shepard both knew Doc O'Conner (another character in the play) who drove Matthew and friends to a gay bar in Ft. Collins, CO. in one of his limos and McKinney and his girlfriend had lived with Doc. Doc did an interview once and said that a couple of times when McKinney's girlfriend was gone that he and McKinney got it on. I believe that. Doc had a store north of Laramie in a ghost town named Bosler where he sold mattresses and furniture. Tom Horn lived for a short time in Bosler. (For you Western aficionados.) I went to Doc's store about 20 years ago, and he hit on me really hard. He talked like he wanted some rough action. By the way, Doc is originally from a small town in Pennsylvania as well. I met him years later at the small Laramie airport but he didn't remember me and he didn't hit on me again. Darn. The second time I met him he told me in person how he had gotten it on with McKinney and that Aaron liked getting it up the ass. It was an interesting and somewhat creepy conversation. Doc grew up in Pa. like I said and married and had a mess of kids and eventually divorced and moved to Wyoming. At one point in the conversation he became emotional telling me about a Catholic priest who had buggered him when he was an altar boy long ago in that small Pennsylvania town. It was in one of the coal counties in northeast Pa., I think… It was sad.

So, yes, the preachers, the modern day Pharisees condemning us and then waking up from a dream about fucking us and maybe there is cum on their bellies. Shame on them. Look at Rev. Phelps. I saw him when he was here in Laramie, doing one of his protests and I studied him for a few minutes and that man really wants to get it on with a man and have some kinky sadomasochistic sex but instead of doing that, he spews vile homophobic crap. After the protests, he goes home and beats up his wife and children. If he could just get it on with a man, maybe even just once, he would probably be a nicer person, maybe not likeable but definitely easier to be near. I did a Google search on Phelps and two of his sons left the family and live in the Pacific NW--I think that is the right location and they have opened up and spoken about the domestic abuse they experienced as children. While I was searching Phelps via Google I also went to his website and watched a video. In the video, Phelps and all of his family members were singing a song entitled: "God hates the World." At least they're honest.

CONRAD:
GOD HATES THE WORLD!? The Phelps family has always frightened me, but in some ways not as much as Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson who preach hatred of queers with more civility. I much prefer Phelps frothing at the mouth because he turns people off, even many homophobes. But Falwell is now dead, and I'm glad he is, and he was working my last nerve when he came to Philadelphia last year to preach his anti-gay sermon at the Exodus Baptist Church. Robertson is far more dangerous, like the present pope at the Vatican, as they use homophobia as a shield to protect the good christian families of the world by being the good gray, wise fathers.

But Jonas, this information about McKinney having had sex with men is EXACTLY the kind of information I was fishing for. The transcript of his initial interview with the police after they picked him up made me sick to my stomach BECAUSE of how he claimed to have blacked out. Yet he had full details of what he did for someone who had blacked out. It made me sick mostly because it was clearer and clearer the deeper you got into the transcript that he was hiding MUCH MORE than the so-called black out. This man really seemed to have a deep pathological response to Shepard being queer. The documentary of the prisoners who had all killed queer men, as well as the documentary with the murderers of Brandon Teena have made me just as sick, really physically sick, and I keep mentioning feeling sick because the visceral part of it is my body saying THIS IS from a world lacking its ability to Love openly!

It's the lack of autonomy, it seems to me, which drives this violence. And the casual nature that these men talk about their murdering queers is even more evidence that there's a HUGE connection between the sanctioned allowance, the great unsaid, the subtext to our culture of silent hate, our culture of religious fanatacism, and the cycle of repressing the scapegoat to relieve the tensions. Killing the goat for sacrifice seems to have relieved these men, even though they're in prison. One prisoner ate apple sauce while talking about the queer man he had fucked then stabbed to death. It's all been figured out by the greater cultural imprints for this man that (secretly) what he did was OK! When it's OK to dehumanize a group of people there's very little to prevent unapologetic murder.

At the same time it's VERY IMPORTANT that we are always honest when the world is on our side. I say this because you told me years ago that the gay press and the straight press had differing ways of reporting on the things you said to them in interviews. Can you share that experience with us? It's very interesting as well as still surprising all these years later.

SLONAKER:
When Shepard was killed--as a gay man in Wyoming, I was contacted by a lot reporters for gay and straight newspapers, magazines, etc. I can't remember all the specific details, this having happened 10 years ago. I just know that I don't trust what I read anymore. I often wonder how much of what I am reading is true. I say that because almost everyone who interviewed me ended up editing my words to fit their take on the whole incident and it always felt strange when I would read my words and see a sentence put together with another sentence when the two utterances were sometimes a half an hour apart but they were put together to make a different statement, one I didn't really make or they would edit my words like, well, let's say that I told you I hated Apples that have spoiled and are rotten and then you quoted me as saying—Jonas Slonaker said; "I hate Apples!" See the difference? It was so annoying to see that happen over and over again and eventually I stopped returning the calls when newspaper reporters left me a message. I was like—fuck this.

I really like the way you are doing this interview because I know everything I write will be in context. Even the folks who came and interviewed me and then edited maybe 8 hours of my speaking and answering questions to a few lines that my character utters in the Laramie Project—well, yeah, I said those lines but to me they feel naked. The first time I saw the play, my character felt like one of those heads in Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In—remember that show? Like my head popped out and said: BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. It felt strange because I knew the whole context of everything I said then just one line would pop out on stage and of course, they had to edit my words otherwise, the whole play would have been about me. Hmmmm, why the fuck not! Not the Laramie Project, The Jonas Project. Anyhow, when I think about this issue and also ponder how my partner of ten years and I can be in the same place at the same time and end up with different stories, I can understand why there are misunderstandings and fights and wars. Sometimes we see what we want to see and not what is really there and that is what the reporters did with my words. Perhaps they meant no ill will. I really wonder if they just had their own way of understanding the Shepard Murder and then rearranged my words to fit their own story.

And yes, we do need to be honest when the world or some of it is on our side. There is a straight woman in Laramie, Beth Loffreda, who is working tirelessly to get the University of Wyoming to have partner benefits. She really wants the gay community to have that and she is amazing. She is working harder on the issue than any queer person in Laramie. I applaud her and there are some other non queer gems out here that are fighting for us in the same way. Anyway, just for the record--I do hate apples, all of them, yellow, red, rotten, and fresh.

CONRAD:
ALL APPLES!? What about their worms? Do you hate their worms? But we have relatives who live on an apple orchard! HAHAHA!

How did you feel about actor John McAdams's portrayal of you in the film version of The Laramie Project? Did he meet with you at all? And what about Steve Buscemi's portrayal of Doc O'Conner, did Buscemi get that down? Do you know the young woman Christina Ricci played? Or the Janeane Garofalo character? Or any of the other people played by actors that you may know? I'm trying to get a gauge about how serious the actors were, outside of writer/director Moises Kaufman's take on the story.

SLONACKER:
Okay, Cuzzin, Hock Dich Hie as our Pennsylvania Dutch Nana used to say which translates basically as Sit yourself there, or if you understood her tone of voice and body language, it meant: sit your ass there and keep it there until I tell you you can move it! Ya! No, I don't hate the worms in the apples. John McAdam's portrayal of me was really quite good but maybe not queer enough. He spent a day with me once to watch me and my moves and at one point I asked him: "Are you sure you are up to this?" He laughed. Steve Buscemi's rendition of Doc was a bit too nice plus he didn't have the big six inch belly hanging over the front like Doc…Okay, me thinks now I am in trouble. Dunno who Christina Ricci's character is or Janeane Garofalo's. I thought about googling them but screw it. I probably should know who they are and might recognize them if I saw their faces but I am not big on pop culture. Yeah, I have been threatened several times that my Gay card was going to be taken away especially when I told a room full of queers once that I really don't care for musicals. God, did they ever shriek. I think all the actors made an effort to study their characters and then play them accordingly but you know, here is what I think:

I get emails now and again from folks who are going to play me in the Laramie Project and they want to know things about me so they can play me better. I tell them that they are the artist and it doesn't matter because no one in Kokomo, Indiana knows me. Once someone emailed me and asked all those questions and one question was: On a scale of one to ten with one being femme and ten being butch, what number are you? I told him I was a five. HA. Seriously, I then told him to play me femme or butch, it didn't matter.

CONRAD:
You're a five Jonas? Well some days I'm a two, some days an eight!

The bartender was the key eyewitness at the trial, and he made crystal clear that Matthew Shepard sat at the bar by himself, not approaching others or engaging others for any reason. According to the bartender Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson were playing pool in the back of the bar and THEY approached Shepard and talked to him as he sat in his seat, then later left with him. Despite these FACTS from the bartender who would know more than anyone, some people in Laramie when interviewed had their minds made up that Shepard somehow DESERVED the torture and murder. One man said he had "heard" that he came onto McKinney and Henderson, and added, "Well HELL you don't come onto regular people!" I LOVE the "regular people" part by the way. A woman said that McKinney and Henderson wanted to teach him a lesson about coming onto straight people. Another woman said the media was acting "like it was ten murders instead of one!" The sheriff said he lost some friends when trying to point out the FACTS of the case to them. What was your experience talking with others in town, or things you overheard others saying?

SLONACKER:
ARG. A fucking RG. This question is volatile for me at this point in time. With the tenth year anniversary of the Shepard murder just passing us by, the local paper called The Boomerang has been full of the most ignorant ass shit possible. Now, enlightened people have also countered most of the BS but still it is aggravating. Bill and I just got a subscription to the damn paper and wonder if it was a mistake because we live in our nice cool neighborhood here and work in our cool department at the University and forget that there are ignorant asses all over the place. We just never meet them I guess. So, the worst thing was that the owner of the paper, a born again X-ian, wrote an editorial a week ago and he called the Shepard incident a murder gone bad and called it galling that people have called it a homophobic attack and said that many readers wondered why the anniversary was newsworthy?!?!? and some people asked to have their papers held until it was over!!! I wrote a response but they refused to print it so if you don't mind I am going to attach it on to here so that some people can read it. My blood is boiling as I think about this and I think my hair is going to start on fire soon.

Yes, people say that Shepard deserved it for coming on to them and then others say it wasn't a homophobic attack. Straight women friends of mine here say that if women get to beat the shit out of men every time they came on to them when they don't want it, well, a lot of men would get the shit kicked out of them! One woman wrote that to the newspaper ten years ago when this all happened. Other people write to the paper wondering why Daphne Salk, a woman who got killed here a year or so before Shepard, didn't get the same kind of media coverage. I contend that if the situations were reversed and Daphne got attention and Shepard didn't, they would NOT fucking lament that fact.

Folks who think it was a robbery gone bad, or that Shepard deserved it are just deceiving themselves and that is easy to do! I had a conversation with a Mormon recently and as we all know their church is working to undo the California Marriage thing. This man, who I like a lot, told me that they (Mormons) were against Gay Marriage because the government was going to force them to do things they didn’t believe it. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not a big fan of the gay marriage thing but I said: "HUH? Force who to do what? They are just going to allow gays who want to marry, to marry and it won't be at your church. We will go do it where we can and they won't force Mormon churches to marry gay people and no one is going to force you to marry a man! If you don't believe in Gay Marriage, don't marry someone of the same sex." I really think he got it, it is that whole deception thing. The right wing X-ians do it when they say we want special rights. Special Rights? To do what? Not pay taxes? Legally drive over the speed limit? Not wear clothing in public? Hmmmm.

Okay, here is the letter I sent to the editor of our paper:

It was depressing to read Sunday's editorial, Laramie is a Community, Not a Project, which said that many subscribers didn't understand why the anniversary of Matthew Shepard's murder qualified as news and that some even requested their newspaper delivery be stopped until that reporting was over. The editorial also said: "that police reports certainly seem to indicate that this was a robbery that went very bad." and "it was galling because the crime was portrayed as a homophobic attack."

Is it customary when robbing someone to drive the victim down a dirt road, tie him to a fence, brutally beat him and leave him to slowly die? Surely there was a powerful emotion like hatred behind the beating of Matthew Shepard. For God's sake, they broke his skull. A popular story is that drugs made McKinney and Henderson do it. Even if drugs were involved, drugs don't make you hate; they simply magnify what already exists. I remember reading that both the perpetrators said homophobic things when they were interrogated and it is public record that McKinney tried to use Gay Panic Defense in his trial.

Many citizens of Laramie want to move on but denial isn't the best way to accomplish that. Understanding, love, honesty, and bravery might be better paths to that end and numerous people in Laramie have responded that way. There is no disgrace for Laramie in acknowledging that part or all of the motivation was homophobia. NO, the crime certainly does not define Laramie. How we react to the crime, how we talk about it, and if we do or don't do anything to prevent this from happening again does define Laramie. If someone paints a swastika on the home of a Jewish family, is it graffiti that went bad or hatred? If someone burns a cross on the lawn of an African American while robbing them, is it a robbery that went very bad or a hate crime? When a gay man is tied to a fence and viciously beaten, is it just a robbery that went very bad or perhaps something more?

CONRAD:
Jonas, that letter is marvelous, and I'm glad it gets to see the light here, even if the newspaper refused to publish it. It's sad news that suppresses the news!

One of the things in McKinney's taped confession with the sheriff that is most common with gay bashing is the language used when talking about their victims. When the sheriff asked him what Shepard looked like he answered, "Like a queer," "Yeah, like a fag." When the sheriff asks how he met Shepard, McKinney asks, "The fag?" Father Roger Schmit from Laramie -- who appears to be an extraordinary human being whose foremost concern seems to be helping us all attain compassion -- was very interested in making part of the sentencing of McKinney and Henderson be that they tell us their stories. That they tell us WHAT drove them to do what they did. Asking the murderers to be our teachers to show us what and how our culture we all perpetuate encourages such hatred. SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT IDEA!

One of the things you and I know firsthand Jonas from growing up in an isolated rural culture is that people are HELL-BENT on judging and hating groups of people they don't even know. There is so much FICTION created from unnecessary and unprovoked fears surrounding the distant Other. Building on Father Schmit's call for learning what drives us, how marvelous would it be to have young elementary school children learning compassion by having classes which explore and explain homosexuality, as well as different racial and religious groups. Where we grew up and went to school THE MOST homophobic teacher taught sex-ed. He was so blatantly homophobic, and encouraged laughter when talking about how sick he thought a man would have to be to want something shoved up his ass. He empowered the ridicule and physical abuse my boyfriend and I endured in school, and made us feel like complete ZEROES! The sex-ed class literally taught hatred.

Language can easily set the mechanisms of fear or compassion of young minds in motion when coming from teachers and other authority figures. But wanting compassion taught to children ultimately flies in the face of our very nation's governmental treatment of its citizens and military solutions in dealing with other nations. But we have to start somewhere.

In teaching compassion we would also need to teach the history of racism, homophobia, genocide. For instance, in battling the use of dehumanizing language of homophobia, let's LOOK to the origin of "faggot." Kids need to know and DESERVE to know that when they use that word they're using a word whose origins are from the Inquisition. Homosexuals were burned alive, their flesh synonymous with and no better than the very sticks -- or faggots, as faggots means sticks or kindling -- that burned them to death. We're so used to the word faggot meaning a homosexual, but have no idea of the countless tortuous deaths that created it. It's important to define the origins of common hateful slang. Learning such things helps us in many ways to grow toward tolerance and compassion.

SLONACKER:
Father Schmit was an amazing man. I remember thinking that if I was forced to be a Catholic, I would want him as my priest but thank god that never happened. YES, YES, YES, the perpetrators should have been able to tell their stories so we could learn from it but as far as I remember Matthew Shepard's parents didn't want them to be able to do so and a few of us wonder if there wasn't something that had to be hidden like maybe McKinney and Shepard did know each other but so what if they did? There was a woman who wrote a story for Harpers and her name was Joanne Wypijevski. I am positive I spelled her name wrong. In any event, she wrote an amazing article ten years ago shortly after the murder and it was the most right on article of all of the ones I read. She basically said that McKinney and Henderson did what they did because they were taught to be men in a traditional American way that meant they hated the feminine. Nothing worse than a man being feminine, you know! Much better that he be tough and kick ass and kill people especially effeminate men.

I love your whole idea above about compassion and how to learn it and that means dealing with racism, homophobia, sexism, classism, genocide, all of that. Any time we create a Them and Us situation, there are going to be problems. And I know that I also do this when I talk about the religious right and really the better way to get to them is to get to know them and talk to them and so forth. I have a friend here on campus who works in an office with a right wing born again and she takes her to task for hurtful things she says. Recently she introduced her born again office mate to me and she liked me cause sometimes I'm funny and shit, you know. When this woman said homophobic things later on, my friend told her I was gay and she looked puzzled and stopped saying those kinds of things because homosexuality finally had a face...

CONRAD:
Homosexuality has a face indeed, thanks so much cousin Jonas with the homosexual face. This has been a valuable conversation for me, and I hope so too for others.

for Matthew Shepard
(born 1976, murdered 1998)

2008-05-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

Ready-To-Eat Individual

by Frank Sherlock & Brett Evans

LAVENDER INK, 2008

Order directly from the
publisher by clicking here.

Book Review by CAConrad

Shamanism has the distinction in many ancient cultures as being the practice of Great Seers and healers. Shaman were those men and women who survived near death experiences or other tragic circumstances and came back with stories and visions from the abyss which in turn served the tribe. Surviving shifts the axis, remaps perspective, and awakens the senses as though they had never really been awake.

After hurricane Katrina devastated the much loved and celebrated city of New Orleans the city itself seemed near death before our eyes, and her citizens found themselves abused and neglected by their American superpower federal government, which shocked the world to see people left to suffer and die of exposure, and see African Americans seeking refuge in nearby towns held at gunpoint by white police officers to prevent them from leaving the connecting bridges to safety. Our modern day American race and class war was silent no more to those who had willed themselves into denial. Even president Bush's own rich white mother made clear her contempt and complete lack of empathy for the suffering thousands who lost family, friends, homes and communities. No demon's mask remained.

But like all Shaman, the city and many of her survivors took the brutal obstacles back to life, and some of that Olympic spiritual conquest is sung at perfect pitch in Ready-to-Eat Individual by poets Frank Sherlock and Brett Evans. A native of New Orleans, Evans stayed behind during the storm to protect his dogs and help friends. PhillySound poet Frank Sherlock went down to work with the activist collective Common Ground in the recovery work. Good friends for many years, Sherlock and Evans wrote this disturbing and BRILLIANT book during what they refer to as 1AK: Year One After Katrina. The book's title is based on the laminated food pouches produced by the Defense Department with the same name. Ready-to-Eat Individuals were originally designed by the Space Program for astronauts, but were dropped on New Orleans after the storm and resulting flood.

         The post-apocalyptic mufaletta
         resembling a comeback city
         is seasoned w/ graffiti
         on abandoned refrigerators

These opening lines set the tone the title promises. 2008 New Orleans travel guide books make no mention of hurricane Katrina, nor the struggle the citizens of New Orleans continue to face. The best martinis and what kind of furniture to expect in your deluxe suite will be mentioned, but in order to discover what landmarks were destroyed by the storm you need to compare your 2008 guide with a 2005 edition and figure it out for yourself. To read the truth of pain and resurrection you will need to bring Ready-to-Eat Individual with you on the plane.

         & he said it best when he said
         I've learned there is Life
           even in the darkest of dark
           places I dance
          to escape from pacing

And later on the same page:

         at any moment it feels like this space
         where "to relax" we continue the Year of Magical
         Drinking
           could play host
             to a hold up...."

This makes reference to Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking, her own memoir of inconsolable grief and madness, and learning to somehow rise and LIVE! Sherlock and Evans press against us an honesty which leaves its grill marks and shadows, but never an emptiness, and not the easy retreat from what they see.

         I appreciate the instructor
         deeply but I've already mastered
         the lessons of misunderstanding

         The city is too dirty
         for you     You're right
         you might be too clean

         for me though my doubts
         are arousing     I want you dirty
         enough to be comfortable

         & relax     How did I get
         so at-home in
         the post-apocalypse?

In an age where we find ourselves at the mercy of all the neglect our elected governing bodies have been denying and spinning, and in an age where too many poets lack the loyalty to their own convictions and sidestep the courage it takes to take a stand with such passive statements as, "Oh, I don't like overt political content in my poems," THIS BOOK by THESE TWO POETS returns poetry to the center of poetry's sharp edges to CARE about this world, and CARE to risk taking a stand!

         A trinity of medals conduct
                 this dull hum of energy     relics of a faith
                    you almost lost     Basta! then Basta!
                    Let us be this new city &
                    liberate ourselves     We can swear
                    ourselves into a parallel government
                    while the sun is coming up

                 I just want to act as your companion
              species since rulers are for losers
         This moment in the history of history

If Shamanism is a leadership procured through discovering the magic that bends the light of this world and blends its infinite chemical motors, then poets are Shamans, at least poets worth the salt in their veins. The storm is burning in effigy in these pages, and that really happened, and so did the storm despite editors and publishers of travel guide books. Forget the corporate publishing bullshit and give trust to Bill Lavender, publisher of Lavender Ink, and his pair of living Virgils -- Sherlock and Evans -- who lead us to our own ample declarations for the stark smells of love and survival.

-------------
CAConrad is the author of Deviant Propulsion (Soft Skull, 2006), The Book of Frank (Chax, 2008), (Soma)tic Midge (FAUX, 2008), and a collaboration with poet Frank Sherlock titled The City Real & Imagined: Philadelphia Poems (Factory School, 2008). He can be found at CAConrad.blogspot.com

a conversation with DODIE BELLAMY on writing through the object, the body, Kathy Acker, and more

2007-07-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

This e-mail conversation with Dodie Bellamy, CAConrad, Christina Strong, and Erica Kaufman took place in June, 2007

CAConrad:
Dodie what can you tell us about writing through objects? Your essay "Digging Through Kathy Acker's Stuff" is digging through my every cell right now, having just given it another read. Not since Maryse Holder's Give Sorrow Words (later given life on the screen by Jackie Burroughs in A Winter Tan) have I found a writer as open to explore the consciousness of THINGS pressed as vulnerable against observant, awakened flesh. Where you write of Acker's Gaultier dress sitting on your dresser while you masturbate nearby creates a watermark for this, freeing you, getting you into your own juices and breath, your pussy and hands your ship and rudder. What did the power of this act ultimately make for you? Were you internalizing information along the way? It's a finger on the way to epiphany, "writhing and grunting" a larger part of yourself loose in order to build a newer frame. At the point of orgasm you hear the dress -- contact finally made, and something's made more whole along the way. I feel like the School of Dodie Bellamy is all over this essay while discussing the School of Kathy Acker, taking our human need for knowledge and making flesh and mind work together. When did you first know Acker's clothes were going to push you into writing this?

DODIE BELLAMY:
Your question is so big and so awesome I feel humbled before it. Objects are, indeed, important to my writing. I love to sit down with an object and write a sort of meditation on it. There's an eroticism to that—the object as a fetish—but more in the sense of its magical hold rather than some simplistic Masters and Johnson drivel. I do believe that "things" have energy. Writing is so abstract—writing on an object is a way to hold onto the world, to insert the world into the mental zooming about.

What you got out of the Kathy dress/sex sequence is interesting to me. The wording of the dress/sex sequence is "I have sex," and I was thinking about sex with Kevin, not the I am woman/I am strong masturbation interpretation—but I like it. In this segment of "Digging Through Kathy Acker's Stuff," I'm trying to have my cake and eat it too. I keep trying to stage these interactions with the dress that would be fun to write about—such as having sex while the dress sits on my dresser—but nothing happens—the dress refuses to open up its meaning for me. By putting in the failed stagings, I still get to write about them. The point of that section emerges when I go to hear Alicia Cohen's talk on orphic poetry:

Then I find my notes from Alicia Cohen's talk on orphic poetry at Small Press Traffic. My journal is dated March 24, in green ink. Beneath that is written:

Levinas—the philosopher never attempts to reveal/penetrate/grasp otherness. Then more fragments about how orphic poetry implies an openness to listening, to what speaks through you. The point is to greet rather than capture and contain the self.

It's at that point I stop trying to force a narrative onto the object/dress and to allow myself to be open to what the dress is trying to tell me. There's a big difference to being open to something/someone and claiming to "understand" them. Understanding is a colonizing position, always reeking of ownership. I see the whole Acker piece as me trying to have sex with the dress, but not in a limited orgasm-goal-oriented way. It's a more pervasive realm of arousal, allowing myself to be possessed by the object, by its emptiness and its embodiment. I wasn't planning to write about the dress—I had plenty of other projects that were higher priority—but the dress wouldn't let me alone, so I went for it, and since it was summer break, I did little else for a month but write this piece. It was glorious.

I've been going through a similar humbling process with my own body. I'm not seriously ill, as far as I know, but my body has gone haywire. I've been obsessing and spending tons of money and doing all sorts of interventions, but nothing would solve the problem. This semester's been a disaster in that I was losing it and getting behind in everything, but finally I became broken to the point where I had no choice but to begin accepting my body on its own terms. Getting to that acceptance has been frustrating and painful, but it's opened up amazing possibilities. I've read the online excerpts from Kathy's last journal over and over again: http://vv.arts.ucla.edu/terminals/acker/acker.html. That last year of her life, she was kicking and screaming, her body was pulling her under, but she opened up to ecstasy. A while ago I went to the de Young museum here in San Francisco to hear an artist's talk by my friend Elliot Anderson, and he began by quoting Edmund Burke on the sublime: "The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror." Again, the tearing away of the ego, the link to horror. Writing for me is a portal to otherness. It's all consuming. I wish I were one of these people who could say, here I'm blocking out 2 hours to write and then I'm returning to the necessities of daily life. I can't do that, and figuring how to stay with that otherness in my overbooked schedule is driving me crazy.

A couple of weeks ago I was again staying in Los Angeles with Matias Viegener, Kathy's executor, and I got really sick—was running to the bathroom for hours—and Matias was into taking care of me, which I couldn't handle—I was all, leave me alone, let me crawl into a corner and die. But, ultimately I did let him take care of me, and he was so caring, so tender. I couldn't help but think back to his caring for Kathy when she was dying—and that resonance, when he'd pat my back, for instance, was so intense, eerie even. Back to the dress: my inability to understand, possess the dress comes to mirror my inability to posses Acker and ultimately death itself. It's a return to incomprehensibility. The irrational. From Acker's novel My Mother Demonology: "In my first school I had been taught that through rationality humans can know and control otherness, our histories and environments." Of course, Acker's whole writing project was against this stance, creating uncontrollable texts that at every turn subvert impositions of rationality. Acker doesn't allow us to rest in the safe ladylike distance favored in of much experimental women's writing. She submerges us in the shit of the primal; she taints us.

Christina Strong:
What a great response and you made me think more about "the body" and specifically your body, which you write about in Academonia, your bulimia, for example, and your essay "Body Language" and how do you juxtapose the theory behind what we speak/say/write/think and our physical presence and how one incorporates the two. I thought of two things: Kathy Acker's tattoo, a now hip form of body modification, but at one point in history was relegated to sailors and the "underbelly" of society. It wasn't ladylike at all. The second thing I thought of was your conversation with Kevin and Chris Stroffolino after seeing the movie Fahrenheit 9/11. I too have been in many conversations after watching movies like that, or been to many readings after where we have avoided "the thing" and talked obliquely about the subject by using references that are abstracted from the subject. Our current culture subscribes to this. Many of us are on the computer so often we think of ourselves as machines. And emotions, or even having a spark of an emotion is a shame in itself. And yet, in spite of all this dishonesty and outright lying and corruption in our culture, I still prefer, as you mentioned about Acker's writing, "uncontrollable texts" or the "horror" and is writing poetry really a way to make sense of it all. I can see where one would say that but I'm more interested in "failed stagings". Could you say more about this?

DODIE BELLAMY:
I'm so uncool, I don't have any tattoos, but I was planning to get one on my 30th birthday—a heart on my hip. Back then tattoos were still déclassé and I'd have had to go to North Beach to a place sailors and bikers went to. Unfortunately by the time my 30th birthday came round, I was feeling down and isolated, and the tattoo was forgotten about. I wish I'd gotten it, it would be like a note from my younger self—an uncontestable sign that she did in fact exist. A student recently told me how when she was 10 she wrote a letter to herself when she was 25, and she kept the letter and waited until she was 25 to open and read it. I thought this was beautiful, but at the same time I was a bit frightened by her—like what kind of person has that kind of self control? Acker talked about her tattoos as a form of writing—inscribing the body. I keep trying to think of something to say about that—but nothing comes to mind. It was Kathy's thing. Though she and I are polar opposites in so many ways, her pursuit of the body in her writing continues to be an inspiration to me. Because her texts are so open, my understanding and appreciation of them keeps shifting and growing. This is true for everything—but particularly for her—when I'm reading Acker's texts I'm also reading myself. Her texts create a portal for that self reading.

Your mention of the shame of emotion is so poignant. The disenfranchisement of emotion in intellectual circles leads back to the body. Emotion, like porn, operates on the body—those hormones squirting, pupils dilating, blood pressure raising, those changes in heart rhythm are very messy in a system that privileges abstraction. When I was a kid, writing's abstraction was what drew me to it—it was a way to escape my hatred of my body and the pain of my social dysfunction. I didn't want to be in my body. I wanted to be in fantasy land. I clung to the intellect as a state of rarified, disembodied arousal. James Joyce with his spectacles reading Greek, how thrilling, how not nerdy girl in Indiana. But these days I'm obsessed with my own embodiment. I've been getting Chi Nei Tsang treatments, which is a form of deep organ massage. During the treatment, while this woman is poking around in my abdomen, I go into a trance and all these images from my past, fragments of memories, many of which I've forgotten, flash before me rapid-fire. Emotions also well up, but they tend to not be connected to any particular content. And, like I said, all this woman is doing is pressing on my belly, sometimes only with one finger. For years I've heard all the New Age-isms about how we hold trauma in our bodies—but I never really believed it. A lot of the stuff that comes up for me is traumatic, but today I also remembered the red dotted swiss curtains in the kitchen of my apartment in 1980. I found them at a vintage clothing store and I liked their redness and their dots and their ruffles—that's it—nothing intense about those curtain, yet there they were—bubbling out of my body. I'm fascinated by this fusion of viscerality and memory. I don't know what I'll do with it in terms of writing, but it's got to have an impact.

I copied a quote into my journal the other day—from Donna Eden's Energy Medicine—a book I'm a bit embarrassed to admit I'm reading: "When you watch a log burning in a fireplace, you are seeing the congealed energy that is the log transformed into the roaring energy that is the flame." Perhaps this is a metaphor for the connection between embodiment and writing—lived experience/the body would be congealed energy and writing the roaring flame.

Failed stagings. Failure is certainly healthier than perfection. I still struggle with the belief that somehow my writing should be perfect—that belief is so inhibiting—not only does it take the play out of writing, it can stop me from writing anything at all. When I was a student, and a teacher would point out something I could change in a poem, I always saw it that I had done something wrong, made a mistake. Now I'm trying to focus on simply keeping it interesting, in engaging the reader, in riding the interplay between form and content. Messiness and flaws—in people as well as writing—can create openings for tenderness.

ERICA KAUFMAN:
I'm really enjoying your responses, Dodie. I too have been thinking a lot about the "body in words" and how emotion plays a role in this triangle as well. I admire your comment that, "Acker doesn't allow us to rest in the safe ladylike distance favored in much experimental women's writing." What is the "safe ladylike distance" and is that a place of disembodiment (because it is easy, because it is not challenging)? This also raises a question I think about all the time—how does one define or characterize a contemporary "feminist avante garde?" Is there even such a thing? In your piece "Delinquent" (from Pink Steam) you write, "Feminism failed because women are thieves. Never having owned anything, not even their selves, they filch texts…souls…dreams…space. The text has no power over its own violation, thus its name is WOMAN." I find this passage to be phenomenally empowering. I'd be curious to hear more about the idea of seeing text as WOMAN, as well as any comments you might have on the idea of physicality of a text.

DODIE BELLAMY:
Ladylike is a pejorative I sometimes sling around mostly because of my frustration with a surface primness in the predominantly hetero middle class white experimental women's scene I encountered in San Francisco in the 80s. I, the working class raunchy bull, sometimes horned my way into the china shop, sometimes the shopkeepers invited me in, but it was an uneasy fit all around. Kevin recently came home with Erica Jong's Seducing the Demon: Writing for My Life, a how to write manual/memoir. "You have to read this," he demanded, "it is so fantastic and so demented." So I got about halfway through it before I hurled it on the floor. Erica basically says that if she writes something and it doesn't piss some people off, she hasn't done her job. I wish I had her gall. You have some of her spirit, Erica. Were you named after her? While it's always been important to me to make people (including myself) uncomfortable in my writing, when someone does act uncomfortable with it I get all wounded. That said, the safe ladylike distance is not necessarily easy and it can be challenging—and one could argue that it really isn't all that safe.

My "safe ladylike distance" jab—I didn't intend it to be about embodiment or its lack. There are few women (I wonder if there are any) whose writing doesn't somehow address their own bodies or embodiment in a broader sense. But I do think that younger women writing in the experimental—what a horrible word, "experimental," but I'm using it because there is no good word—when I was director of Small Press Traffic, I wrote grants and given the aesthetics of funding organizations, which tended to be towards literary social work, few places I wrote grants for would fund what SPT stands for, so how to kind of whitewash our programming without out and out lying—I came up with the term "innovative" writing. Innovative is wonderfully vague—"experimental" sounds downright scientific beside it—plus innovative sounds so American pick yourself up by the bootstraps, like Henry Ford was innovative. Anyway, from what I've seen, the younger generation(s) of experimental women writers have rebelled against the whole ladylike thing and are producing work that’s more in your face.

In April I participated in CalArts' Feminaissance Women's Writing Conference, held at LA's Museum of Contemporary Art in conjunction with "WACK!" the epochal exhibition of women's art from the 1970s. The presenters were a mixture of academics, poets, and a dash of fiction writers. The poets included Caroline Bergvall, Wanda Coleman, Bhanu Kapil, Tracie Morris, Eileen Myles, Maggie Nelson, Juliana Spahr, and Stephanie Young. What I saw there was really exciting—lots of sex, body, abjection—and a privileging of misbehaving as an aesthetic strategy. I felt that my writing project was accepted and valued, like there was a community out there that I made sense in. It was thrilling to experience radical female aesthetics outside of the queer/transgendered scene. The queer/trans scene has been vital to my survival as a writer, but it's had little overlap with the experimental writing scene. (That's why Tim Peterson's recent "Queering Language" issue of the on-line journal EOAGH was so exciting, such a breakthrough.) Feminaissance made me hopeful for the new wave of a feminist avant garde. Women certainly weren't shying away from using the word feminism, from coming out as pro-feminist. The feminist stance we saw emerging was one of inclusivity—that while addressing political concerns in writing is vital, it is not a requirement for feminist writing, that it's also valid for a woman to play around with language if that's what she's into. Proscriptiveness damned 70s feminism, maybe this time around we can do better, go further. Les Figues, the LA-based poetry press, is publishing a book of the conference proceedings that should be fabulous, and I urge my readers to look for it.

Feminaissance had a refreshingly egalitarian spirit. I didn't see much of that dismal posturing for dominance that can happen in groups, and at the end, the organizers arranged an old school session of consciousness raising, and it had a theme, the mother. We approached this session skeptically, with a post -ironic "whatever" stance. There were three tables set up in the main gallery of LACE, the alternative performance and art space in downtown LA. Eileen chaired one, Bhanu another, and the novelist Chris Kraus the third. Kevin and I sat at Eileen's table. Anyone could come, male or female, young or old, published or not, audience as well as speakers. We began by going around the table and stating our names as well as our mothers' names. The longer we talked—and we talked for hours—the more moving the experience was, and the more we escaped what I see as the trap of "she's this kind of writer," "she's that kind of writer." I found, for instance, that hearing about Caroline Bergvall's complex multi-lingual relationships with her parents, opened up the multi-lingual polyvocality of her writing, and what's more, gave it heart. We all walked away at the end of the day saying there should be a consciousness raising after every poetry event.

Now on to your question about the passage from "Delinquent." I was writing in a rather ecstatic, oracular voice, so I don't want to hammer it down too much. For one thing, I was analogizing the instability of a text's meaning—the Barthesian idea that the reader reinvents the text—with the instability of the female persona. Thus the text is WOMAN. I had in mind Acker's project of collaging together other texts/selves, but also my own inability to project any consistent persona. In the experimental poetry scene I've been seen as crass. Among the wild grrrls of the queer scene, I'm kind of staid and conservative. I walk into a faculty meeting, there's yet another projection. So what am I—a bull or a lady? Maybe I'm the whole fucking china shop. And then sometimes, thank god, it hits me that people aren't thinking of me at all.

CAConrad:
There's nothing safe about you. And recently I was thinking "WHAT WOULD DODIE SAY?" while watching a video tape of an old interview with Gloria Steinem. It's maybe ten (maybe more?) years old. But at one point she says "the one group who gets more radical with age is women." She then explains that after a certain age women are no longer considered important, meaning they can no longer produce children, are no longer attractive to men, and so on. She says it's a freedom. What do you have to say about this Dodie? What's your experience, and what are your thoughts and feelings about this? You took interest in my recent CALL TO ARMS for Baby Boomers to rise up and make aging SEXY without Botox and surgery, so I'm wondering what you might think about this statement from Steinem.

DODIE BELLAMY:
I had your question in the back of my mind when I went to see the WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution show at LA's MOCA. When I walked past Faith Wilding's 1972 "Waiting" video I stopped dead in my tracks. Wilding was dressed school-marmishly, her hair pulled back, and she was rocking back and forth, droning, "Waiting for my body to break down, to get ugly. Waiting for my flesh to sag." When you watch the video from the beginning, Wilding's critiquing passivity in all eras of a woman's life from birth on, but I walked in on the aging woman section, and I was reminded of your desire for images of aging that make aging sexy. It sounds good on the surface, but when one is confronted with a body that's breaking down, sexy can feel beside the point. Aging is scary, Conrad, there's no way around that. I get excited by women writers who stare that scariness in the face—Catherine Lord, for instance in The Summer of Her Baldness, a really smart, multi-layered examination of her confrontations with mortality and the psychological and physical disfigurements of chemo. And Eileen Myles in her as yet unpublished novel, The Inferno. Eileen recently read from it in San Francisco while I happened to be in LA teaching. But Kevin went, and on the phone he was raving about her blunt portrayal of her own aging. "Eileen said she was ruined!" Kevin said he wouldn't be able to approach the subject with such honesty. So I emailed Eileen and by the following afternoon I had a copy of what she read. The "ruined" it turns out is something Jane DeLynn once told her: "Let's face it, Eileen, we are ruined." Eileen then riffs magnificently on her own ruinedness:

But probably she [Jane] was just being contrary or ironic. Or wanted to tell me that I was ruined and she didn't think I could handle it alone. I was actually pretty hard working and nervous in my forties and still thought it was possible to be good, to get it right, to win.

Nope, I am destroyed. A shattered boat of a person. A broken window here, a lousy bell there. An old crappy dyke with half a brain leaking a book. A drippy excrescence. A schmear. [ . . . ] I wrote the first chapter of this book, fucking my inferno, and New York blew up. If I died tomorrow I could really care less. I'd be relieved. Look at me: My face is an old catcher's mitt. Blam. Thunk. Reactions and dents. A cold bent lighthouse. Brrr. A melancholy lava lamp. A woman. A man. A butch. A bitch. Rots of ruck. Watching the fragments float by for years. I'm done. . . H'wo. It's me.

Eileen, of course, is totally sexy and much of that sexiness comes from her in-your-face-ness, a presence so uncompromising, it's like a fist. It takes your breath away.

I'm not like that—and I think that what I've gained in all these years of surviving as a woman and a writer is to stop wishing I were Eileen or anybody else and to be more okay with who I am—"who I am," that sounds so juvenile and reductive, like Paris Hilton in her post-jail Larry King interview. In New York last winter, Bruce Benderson was advising me on how to pose for photos, and he said it's all about looking at the camera, really confronting it, as if to say, "This is me, take it or leave it." This body, this constellation of drives known as Dodie is as much a mystery to me as anybody else. For instance, as I walked through the WACK! exhibit I flashed back to how obsessed with feminism I was in my 20s. It was startling, almost uncanny, to be immersed in these influences—I knew were there, but I had forgotten their impact. Everywhere I looked I saw blatant politicized bodies and art objects referencing or made out of dismissed aspects of female lives. In Senda Nengudi's formalist sculpture, a series of previously worn pantyhose, panties are filled with sand and the legs are stretched taut, so they become cords that form an array of splayed Vs. In the WACK! online audio tour, Nengudi addresses her materials: "I'm consistently drawn to discarded and humble, utilitarian objects such as pantyhose that 'get no respect' because I believe in the transformative qualities in everything and everybody. I believe discarded humans, like discarded and everyday materials, have transformative abilities and potential that can amaze, that can show their poetry, that can stretch far beyond what seems possible." Even though I'd never seen Nengudi's work before, I felt a pang of recognition. I spun around and thought these images, these values made me, and I felt proud that I had stayed true to them in my work.
In the paper I presented at Feminaissance, I describe a photo of the feminist publishing collective I was a member of in the late 70s: "My eyes are round and vacant, I'm staring but don't seem to be seeing anything, so caught up in my own interiority I'm impenetrable. Such withdrawal is my knee-jerk response to group situations. One therapist told me I had 'reverse charisma.'" My social phobia and outsiderness have been huge areas of pain—to be able to publicly declare them (and to get a laugh from the audience) is big for me. To not be ashamed of what I've gone through in life. In some ways aging is easier for me than a lot of women. I've never been attractive to men in a general way, so I'm not losing much there—in fact since I no longer give a fuck, it feels like a gain. Anytime a woman can remove herself from the tyranny of the male gaze it's great. I love surprising subversions, like the controversy around Kelly Clarkson's new album, My December, the rage expressed over an American Idol winner refusing to listen to her record company and putting out a dark, depressing album. Kelly's darkness scares the shit out of some people—to have this piece of fluff embracing her monstrousness and wresting her soul back out of the bubblegum machine. I don't care if the album's good or bad, I can't wait to hear it. My friend, the young poet Julia Bloch, has been theorizing Kelly's subjectivity in an ongoing poem cycle for years, but I don't know what she has made of this latest turn of events. I suspect she finds it as delicious as I do, especially since her longing practically predicated it!

I like myself now in a way that was impossible when I was younger. We live in a culture that breeds self-loathing in women. Whenever I become close to a younger woman, no matter how beautiful or aggressive or highly functioning she seems, she'll moan about her self-loathing. It's sad—and I can say to her, "you're wonderful," up the wazoo, but I know it's a process she has to go through, and hopefully one day she'll claw her way out the other side. Now that I'm older, I feel less of a need to seek external validation in my personal life and in my writing. I've digested a lot of ideas and I've come to the place where I can just say what I think without having to footnote it with some authority figure.

I've always had problems with the public performance of "sexy." Partially because it was so far beyond my capabilities. Sex has always been a private, problematized thing for me—I suspect sex is problematized for most of us—and I've always felt it important, politically and personally, to allow sex to remain problematized in my writing. In this regard, Kevin's writing has been an inspiration, the way he mucks around with sexual expectations. When I taught his story "Spurt," which involves cutting sex gone bad, one student said that "Spurt" contained all the tropes of cutting porn—such as the person getting cut more than they ask for—but with none of the payoffs. When Kevin writes about sex, you can never complacently slip into the position of turned-on, he subverts that. Or if you find yourself turned on, you feel really uncomfortable about it. Discomfort is powerful.

I hate the mandate that writers, in their public persona, be sexy. Look at Stephen King's creepily groomed picture for his Entertainment Weekly column. Ugh! Writers should be allowed to embody their dysfunctional geekdom, to be frumpy with cokebottle glasses, to hide away in rooms and have sex with rats, be sloppy drunks, to grow faces ravaged as catcher's mitts.

-------------
PHOTO CREDITS
1. Dodie Bellamy self-portrait
2. Dodie Bellamy and Kathy Acker's clothes, photo by Kevin Killian
3. Kathy Acker, photo on Zamir.net
4. Pink Steam jacket photo, published by Suspect Thoughts Press
5. Caroline Bergvall, photo on the Salt Press site
6. Eileen Myles, photo by Jack Pierson
7. Senda Nengudi's exhibit at LA's MOCA, photo from the MOCA site

anti-queer Arab actions about to take place! PLEASE READ THIS RIGHT NOW! OUR ACTIONS NEEDED NOW!

2007-04-26T15:49:00.000-07:00

Anyone involved with FACEBOOK please read this! The group "ArabLBTG" is on the verge of being SHUT DOWN because the Saudi, Egyptian, Kuwaiti and Emirati governments are insisting that FACEBOOK not allow any queer FACEBOOK groups which mention, or have anything to do with citizens of their countries.

Anyone who is a member of FACEBOOK and would like me to send the link to vote against, and tell FACEBOOK to back down, please write to me VERY SOON! Timing is everything, as this is literally on the verge of happening. Our swift, collective actions against this are needed! Contact me at CAConrad13@aol.com NOW, BELOW are some of the discussions and info from the petition page:

(THIS IS THE DISCUSSION I AM REFERRING TO)
Violating terms of conduct
Between You and Adminstrator Josh
Adminstrator Josh

10:15am April 24th
Report MessageDear Subscriber,

You have violated the terms of conduct you agreed upon when you signed up with Facebook.com. Your violations fall in the following criteria:

1. Advertising\spam, you have posted in the group advertisements concerning a website. You do have the right to refer to websites but not advertise them.

2. Creating a global group that is not allowed in some regions. Your group "Arab LBTGAY(Lesbian,bisexual,transexual and gay)" has put facebook in trouble as we received an official complaint from the Saudi government, the Egyptian government and other Arab governments that do not want to be mentioned.

Your Group must be shut down or a new Group with a specified network other than the two mentioned may be created. We are very sorry as we support any group but the countries mentioned are threatening to block our server from their side, therefore please comply.

Thank you for understanding
The Facebook Team

4:15pm April 25th
hey i have a question. i understand it says it must be shut down but is it possible to make it a"closed group" or i have to make it a secret?

Adminstrator Josh

5:25pm April 25th
Report MessageWell, If you turn it into a closed group you must be more than sure that no Saudis or Egyptians join the group. This is very hard, but if you chose to do this we do not mind.

In case of chosing to close the group you will have to kick any Saudi, Egyptian, Kuwaiti or even Emirati that happens to join or we pick out for you. Is that fair enough?

The Facebook Team
-------------

(AND THIS IS FROM THE PETITION PAGE)
The official Petition to prevent Arab LBTG from being shut down.

Dear Facebook users:

We represent the group "ArabLBTG". We are posting this as a plea for your support in an act of resistance against Facebook's request of shutting down the group because they have received several complaints from particular Arab governments. If we do not shut down the group, according to Facebook, we have to make it a closed group that excludes specific Arab citizens, such as Saudi and Egyptian. This is not conducive to a queer-positive Facebook environment, but an exclusivist, discriminatory, racist environment that threatens our right to free speech.

We would like to encourage everyone to contact Facebook and reject their oppressive, homophobic request towards a specific minority of the queer community.

Thank you for all your support
In hopes of victory,

ArabLBTG Admin

a conversation with ALICE NOTLEY on trance, tarot and poetry

2007-01-30T17:06:00.000-08:00

()()()()()()()()()((((( O )))))()()()()()()()()()

CAConrad:
Back when Mysteries of Small Houses first came out you had briefly mentioned going into trance to create those poems. When you read in Philadelphia recently from Grave of Light I had asked you about this, and you remarked about going into trance for all your poems. Was it different with Mysteries of Small Houses? I mean, did you trance through time to each of those homes of your past in order to write? In that book you are writing poems about (and from) each location of your past, and literally writing them in the style and form you had been writing at each particular time. It's an extraordinary feat! What can you share with us about trance states to create poems?

Alice Notley:
In general I think poets write from a trance state. But I did something elaborate while working on Mysteries of Small Houses, though I didn't know at first that I was using trance. I was trying to go back into my past to see what I was like, what events and settings -- houses -- were like, at particular past times. I noticed that I was experiencing mild physical changes when I did this: my legs would tingle for example, and I just felt different. Doug suggested I was inadvertantly practicing self-hypnotism, so I got a book or two on the subject and became a little more systematic about 'going into a trance.'

To enter the writing of a particular poem in Mysteries, I first had to enter one particular house while in trance. This was the alley house, the house I lived in in Needles when I was four. I would go into a trance, walk -- in my mind -- up the few front stairs of that house and enter it. When I was in that house, I could go from there to any other time or house in my past that I wanted. But the key to entering into other times was that time, that house, because it represented my essential self. The part about using past styles wasn't as exact as you suggest. I wanted to resurrect past styles, but the style of a poem isn't exactly the style I was using in the year or years the poem's about. Sometimes it is but not always. But it is always a past style or form. The usage is generalized, and spiffed up. I'm better at those styles than I used to be.

As I said, I think poets tend always to write in a trance. When writing the poems in Mysteries, I deliberately went into a trance first, the process was ritualized, and I was more conscious of being in or using that state. The state was more heightened. The air turns particular colors sometimes, and one feels deeply blissful, or there's a sense of some grace as a substance -- a material entity -- pervading the body. I've deliberately gone after trance states while writing other books as well, including books written at the computer. Yes you can go into a trance while hovering over the keyboard. The action of the fingers is quite inductive. I suppose this kind of trance would be called mild. Who knows? I was always in a trance while writing Reason and Other Women, which remains unpublished. It was written entirely at the computer and its rhythms and syntactical cuts and slides are, as they say, hypnotic. More recently I haven't sought out a trance state in order to write, but it's interiorized in me: I don't really have to do anything to get there.

Conrad:
"I don't really have to do anything to get there" echoes your first statement, "In general I think poets write from a trance state." Except part of what you go to, or what you've interiorized, is learned, sought, on top of the gravitational, shared experience of writing from trance in general. Do the tools of learning to induce trance seem like something creative writing teachers should think about taking into the class? This is something I've thought about recently, never having been to class, nor ever having taught one, but now wanting to teach one. One of my ideas is to sit on the floor of the subway with others, using the crack and shaking of the cars moving, then stopping, then moving, then stopping, to induce a collective state for collaborating a poem. How do you feel though about trance in the class? Is it something to be talked about in terms of acknowledging trance as a shared state, or further as something to be sought out for entering specific time frames and other dimensional landscapes? It feels so uncharted, these possibilities.

Notley:
I've taught trance in workshops. It is a bit of a mine field. I gave as an exercise a sort of self-hypnosis, going-back-to-age-four-type thing, somewhere and at least one person in that class didn't want to do it because he or she didn't want to cope with what had happened at age four. For me it's an ideal age, for others it isn't. Then, I learned from my stepdaughter Kate Oliver, who was studying hypnotherapy professionally, an exercise for going into the future, by flying above and along a river (in trance of course) and then stopping somewhere to see what's going to happen there. That is, the river is a time line. I added this as a possible way to participate in the going-back exercise -- one could go back or go ahead. An older woman in one workshop did the going ahead one, which shook her up a lot, though her poem was mysterious, as poems are, and I wasn't sure why she was shaken: she didn't want to say, it was personal. In the same class a woman went into a trance and saw that something was happening to her car -- she saw outside the room and when she went out during the break, her alarm had gone off and someone had broken into it. After this class a woman came up to me and cautioned me, as well, against doing this sort of thing without preparing people better for coming out of the trance . . . So. I'm not sure if one should teach it the way I did. But I think poetry is written in a transpersonified state, and this fact could be talked about more. When I teach, usually I discuss a topic and lead the group gradually to write, and at the point when I say now let's write, something clicks inside everyone and they go to this other place. I can see it on their faces. Then they just start writing.

Conrad:
This is exciting information! Trance in the class! And you somewhat cover something else I wanted to get to about trance. Earlier when talking about the use of trance for creating Mysteries of Small Houses you mentioned the house in Needles you lived in when you were four. You said in trance you walked up the few front stairs to the house, and entered it. And, "When I was in that house, I could go from there to any other time or house in my past that I wanted." What was special about that house? Why was this the portal house? Or is it because of the age you were when you lived there that makes this the portal?

Notley:
I think, I hope, I make this clear in the book itself. I felt -- when I was working on Mysteries, not when I was four -- that I was most whole and unspoiled when I was four years old and living in that house. When I think back to that time, the light is perfect outside and I'm fearless walking about the neighborhood, I don't have negative feelings. The house was temporary for our family -- it was rickety and had just a few rooms and opened on an alley behind the Desert Inn Motel. We didn't have air conditioning, it didn't quite exist yet -- so the house could get quite hot: Needles attains 120 degrees in the shade, and higher, in the summer. I don't remember cold. It was as if the house was open to the outside, because it was fragile, but also because you didn't need much against the climate. It was like light clothes.

So, being this age when I'm not "bent" yet by socialization (see first poem in book), I can enter the other houses and ages and observe them dispassionately. This is my basic self observing what has happened. I discussed the process a lot with Doug and he didn't totally like what I was saying, because it left out sexuality and the frisson of evil, and maybe, some evolution into the good or even the better. I thought my premise held though. I wasn't interested in the good, or sexuality, at this point, I was interested in the true.

Conrad:
Your book The Descent of Alette puts the reader into a trance. As anyone who has read it knows, those quotation marks break us out of any routine reading, and gets us chopping the language into breaths which are always unexpected and keeping ahold of the trance. Even when you get into the groove of the quotation marks breaking up the language, until the end it's still unexpected, a new world of perspective. Was it your intention to induce trance with this book? And also, as a reader I experienced a sense of loss at the end of the book, not wanting the state to end, meaning both the trance state as well as the LIFE of the poem. And in Mysteries of Small Houses when you get to the house where you wrote The Descent of Alette, you mention a sadness of that ending. Can you also tell us a little about that?

Notley:
When I wrote The Descent of Alette, I gave no thought to trance writing as such. The subject didn't really come up in that defined way until a few years later. I hadn't even thought of the word; I was concentrated on the word 'epic.' But I drew on dream content and controlled visualization -- though in the latter I also tried to be automatic to a certain extent. Dreams and dream-visions are usually refined in poems -- all the rough, really embarrassing content of dreams (not the sexual so much as the bizarre) is polished away in favor of elegance and known symbolism. I wanted to let some of the rougher stuff in, because I thought I would find out something from it. Writing The Descent of Alette was all discovery for me, and the actual composition of it lasted about two years. So this was a long process and hard to say goodbye to. I knew -- pardon me for saying this -- that I had written a great poem, and that I would miss working on it. But I still have the poem and I still have the writing of it going on inside me, because this is how time and consciousness are magical. When I get to read from the poem aloud to an audience, I get it all back, I get back everything the writing of the poem gave me. It's not exactly the same as when I wrote the poem, but that richness is there plus everything the poem accumulates over time. I get to keep going back to it, somewhat in the same way I get to go back to my four-year-old self when I enter the alley house.

Conrad:
I first read The Descent of Alette from a copy of The Scarlet Cabinet I bought at St. Mark's Bookshop. I couldn't figure out what on earth this was, this book, as it was a compilation of books by both you and Douglas Oliver. It was very new for me, the idea of The Scarlet Cabinet. But to keep pace with "how time and consciousness are magical," I've always wondered about Robert Desnos in this book, and how at one point he becomes a Virgil-like character, walking you (us) through the pages. Can you tell us about your use of Desnos? And can you also tell us about The Scarlet Cabinet?

Notley:
You are confusing two books. One is The Scarlet Cabinet, a compilation of books by myself and Douglas Oliver published by ourselves. The other is my poem Désamère, which was published by O Books in the same volume with Close to me & Closer . . . (The Language of Heaven).

The Scarlet Cabinet was the 6th issue of Doug's and my magazine Scarlet, but it is a very lengthy compendium of books and is based on the concept of the medieval book, which might contain, say, an herbal, a long poem, a history, and more all in the same volume. Before the printing press, books, being hard to come by, might be collections of lots of books -- different kinds of books -- all together. The Scarlet Cabinet contains everything we couldn't get published at the time, circa 1992. So that's Alette, Doug's long poem Penniless Politics, a novel by him, two other sequences of poems by me, a sutra by him. It was an experiment in publishing.

Désamère is the first poem I wrote after moving to France, 1992-93. I was trying to enter France in my imagination, and composed this long narrative poem which has three parts. It essentially takes place in a North American desert after a global warming catastrophe -- the most salient fact about it and something no one has ever commented on. There are three characters in the first part, a woman named Amère who changes her name to Désamère, her dead brother an ex-soldier, and Robert Desnos the French poet. Desnos, who famously would fall asleep and dream for the Surrealists, is the oracular voice of the poem, telling the history of the century between World War II and the poem's present, out of the knowledge he possesses being a dead person, a poet, and a victim of a concentration camp. The second part of the poem is in prose and is a temptation in the desert, by a devil, based on my old high school psychologist, of Désamère. The third part of the book is a group of Désamère's poems, written somewhat in the style of Desnos. I selected Desnos for my poem because I already knew something about him, because he was courageous, and because he had suffered.

It's quite interesting to have an oracular voice in a poem, someone who isn't you whom you ask things of. Such a voice will always answer, if you do it right, and will know more than "you" do. I did a lot of historical research for the first part of Désamère -- though it isn't all that long, but is quite condensed. I would read about Vietnam or Stalin, then sit down to the poem to see what Desnos had to say. The Desnos voice would well up from somewhere -- I suppose it was me -- but I never knew what it would say or think.

Conrad:
First, I'm sorry about confusing the books, I don't have The Scarlet Cabinet here with me, but was for some reason thinking Désamère -- with the Desnos voice -- was part of that collection of books. Is the owl also a voice you ask things of? You mentioned once at a reading that a dream of owls brought the owl as a character into The Descent of Alette. Did the owl stick from that point on, or have owls always been a totem kinship in your life? With the recent release of Alma, or the Dead Women, and the tattoo of an owl on your shoulder (Eileen Myles took you to the tattoo parlor, is that right?), I've been wondering if the owl is a source of magic for you, an axis from which to see clearer? I ask it like this because in ancient cultures animal totems were often taken on for clearer footing in the world, especially in times of crisis and other challenges.

Notley:
The owl symbol arose in connection with Alette as a pun. Actually it first appears in "White Phosphorus," in the last section. The word's a pun on my brother Al's name, and then on my name too. At the end of "White Phosphorus" I have a vision of my brother as an owl after his death -- but he himself had the pun inside him: he had a collection of kitschy owl wall plaques and things. Then after he died my mother took it up too and collected a lot of ceramic and glass owls. As my father's name was also Al (and others in the family) the pun, and totem, really spreads. So in The Descent of Alette I gave the animal identity finally to the father, who as the owl in the poem has become his ultimate self and is Alette's teacher, her guide into the possession of owl powers, her instructor in killing the tyrant from the psychological point of view of an owl -- a clean kill, a blow from nature. After The Descent of Alette, the owl image stuck and I just have it. Everyone gives me owls -- I have a small collection. I got the tatoo so I wouldn't have to think about it anymore, it's just carved into my back. A totem is a point of identification with another species -- it can also be a plant -- with its talents and powers. There's usually a myth involved. Owls tend to represent death and/or wisdom -- the owl is Athena's bird, and my tatoo is of Athena's owl from an ancient Greek drachma.

Conrad:
When I was in Albuquerque for a brief time studying healing herbs I met an old woman on the Acoma Pueblo named Night Eagle who invited me into her adobe. I asked her if Night Eagle meant owl, and she said yes, and that owl was essential for her both as a woman and Native American because of the need to fly in the dark of night for what she needed for her family and for herself. When I told her about the stain glass made by the black masons in colonial Philadelphia with an owl at the top of the symmetrically placed symbols she nodded, said she had heard of this, and said it was for the same reasons she chose owl. She said white men had the eagle and were using its symbol to strike out and take in the light of day while others needed to be more covert. Part of me often wondered if such an extension of owl was being used by you with Alette. In trying to keep clear of exegesis I thought I would ask about owl in a more general way. Athena's owl? There, I was also hoping it was Hecate's owl. Hecate gets a bad wrap, and her story has morphed into making her an old hag stirring trouble, when really she was a crone with superior strength, her owl companion her carrier of wisdom. Hecate's powers were nearly matched with Zeus' own. I'd like to ask you about another archetypal package of divination, that being tarot. When in Philadelphia recently you mentioned a story about being in someone's apartment (Ron Padgett's?) and Ted Berrigan coming in through a window with a tarot deck? We had wine when you were telling that story and wine makes me foggy. But I'm sure I didn't dream this, at least some version of this.

Notley:
Fuck Hecate. I'm not interested in crones! More to the point, there is a tangible, beautiful, known ancient image of Athena's owl that one can avail oneself of. But the owl for me is all us Als, including Alma. In a particularly beautiful instance of owl, as I was falling asleep one night while Doug was in his final days in the hospital here in Paris, I turned into an owl and flew to his window -- That part was a half-sleeping fantasy. But then I dreamed I took him to heaven in his pajamas and we walked there, I showed him what it was. Though it was just a beautiful void with no one else there but it felt good.

Well, Ted and the tarot. Ted was living in a single room in a boarding house in Ann Arbor in fall,1969. It was midnight and I was waiting for Ted to arrive from somewhere, I was sitting on the floor of the room (only furniture a mattress, maybe a chair) with John Godfrey, visiting from New York. He and I were poetry babies, Ted was older. So the downstairs door, it turns out, locks after midnight; Ted couldn't get in. The window opened and there he was at the window, he'd climbed up the fire escape -- third floor room. He had a brand new Rider tarot deck, god knows where he'd gotten it, I can't remember. And he proposed to tell our fortunes. I'd never seen a tarot deck before. I guess I knew that there were different fortune-telling methods though. What method will you use? I asked. I'm going to make up my own method, he said. Then he told me and John, in turn, to select the cards we liked best and he'd use those. I had enough sense to select about ten, but John fell in love with all of them and couldn't narrow it down. He finally got the number down to 22 cards. Then Ted told our fortunes, but I don't remember what they were.

Conrad:
OOOOO! FUCK HECATE!? I've never heard anyone say that before! Wow! A test for the soles of the feet! I like that! HEHEHE! Just for the record I have nothing against Athena, I was sharing what I had been thinking with my own interest in crones coming through with the thoughts. If I turn 60 I intend to live the rest of my life as a crone. The half-sleeping fantasy of turning into an owl, and the dream where you take Douglas Oliver to heaven was beautiful, in many ways. Thank you for telling that. And Ted Berrigan's method of do-it-yourself tarot interpretation is great, and what the art form needs. Tarot, especially as an investigative tool for self-reflection, deserves creative minds making as many new doors as possible. You taught a workshop in New York recently using the tarot, how did that go? It made me happy to hear you say you were doing this, as the magical arts seem at home with poetry.

Notley:
The tarot workshop went extremely well. We only had a few hours to do this in, and we spent much of it reviewing the traditional tarot deck as a set of symbols which are, in effect, heavy words. Then we proceeded to make our own. I had twelve pieces of cardboard and figured we would only have time to make a deck of twelve major-arcana-like cards -- just the words, not pictures. I set out a couple of terms: I wanted cards that could refer fairly exactly to present crisis situations: the environment, world-wide immigration, and so on. The people in the class began to make their own demands: one person required a card for solitary tranquility, another insisted on a card for communication. I suggested we also use some of the traditional cards. So. We wound up with the following twelve: Death, the Earth, Chaos, the Poet, the Eye, the Lovers, the Web, the Immigrant, Wisdom, the Moon, Mutation, the Sun. We talked about the possible field of meaning of each of the cards (I can't seem to remember very well, at this point, what the Eye is.) I then directed each person to turn the cards over, mix them up, and choose three at random, to use to write a poem with. The poems were quite good.

I can't remember if I told you but I had gone out and bought a Rider Deck in Paris -- I thought I had thrown my old one out (I was quite mad at it. I found it later.) Then when I opened the deck I realized that, of course, the "words" were in French, with the same symbols, but they didn't always seem to mean the same thing. For example, the Magician is "le Bateleur," who seems to be some sort of street acrobat or tumbler -- this is different. The Fool is le Mat -- the dull person, and the High Priestess is la Papesse -- the female Pope. The "wordness" -- my sense of the wordness of the cards -- was upset by this difference. I liked that.

I'm not an expert in the deck at all. My interest lies somewhere near a sense that words are like tarot cards, and that a poem manipulates unpredictable depths with its words.

Conrad:
That workshop sounds engaging, and what an inspiring way to use the tarot, and to generate langauge. I've only ever attended one poetry workshop, when I was just a teen, and it was the most tedious 2 hours, so much so that I can still smell my boredom whenever thinking about it. It was a situation where a "famous" poet was visiting, and I was too busy listening to others about what to do. And yes, you had mentioned buying a deck in Paris, but what happened that made you mad with the old deck? And what cards are you most drawn to, or does it depend on timing and circumstances?

Notley:
Gee, there's finally something I can't tell you. It's too personal and upsetting -- I mean why I thought I had thrown out the deck.

My favorite cards are the High Priestess, Death, and the aces of cups and wands. I've also become somewhat fond of the Wheel of Fortune. According to Max Jacob's (and Paul Valence's) Le Miroir d'Astrologie, my card in connection with my sign (and decan -- French astrology has decans) is the Knight of Swords, so I kind of like it. I think astrology is mostly shit, but I dig Max Jacob. I like the tarot because it works like poetry and because you don't really have to "believe in" anything. It's there to be used. The symbols are remarkably durable and beautiful; they float out to encompass all kinds of meanings.

Conrad:
Your rich appreciation for the tarot, and how poetry can be a natural part of its weave makes me think of the many folks on the other side of this equation who have dedicated their lives to various occult practices who also see this same marriage. Freya Aswynn uses poetry and chants of Yggdrasil to better associate Runes, runic sigils and Norse mythology. With the tarot it seems every teacher and practitioner wants to include poems to explain or enhance the tarot. Anthony Louis uses Dylan Thomas to better discuss the Ace of Wands, one of your favorite cards:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
drives my green age....

I wish I had known you liked the Ace of Wands when I showed you the deck I use made by Penny Slinger. Her version is amazing, using Mercury's caduceus, combing the Ace of Wands with the mercurial sense of the Knight of Swords, which you say is associated with your sign. Penny Slinger uses some of the major arcana, but has shifted the paradigm by recreating a new language for the tarot, and she does so in the most creative, genius way, running without hesitation with her love for the tarot's endless unfolding, endless possibilities. Your tarot/poetry workshop also kept some of the major arcana and created new cards. Have you ever considered making a tarot? One that could be printed and made available? Jack Spicer's tarot is fantastic, in the true sense of the word fantastic. But he kept to the original template, although his interpretation is really great. (Kevin Killian is the only person I know who owns a copy of the Spicer deck -- only 100 printed) Maybe you would be interested in creating a tarot one day? How do you feel about this?

Notley:
The card associated with my sign is the Knave, not the Knight, of Swords. I'm a knave -- it probably better suits Scorpio. Always a little bit bad. I read my weekly horoscope sometimes in the Observer on Sunday, the British newspaper, and last week it said, You're a Scorpio, get scary! Although I don't believe in this astrological stuff -- the stars are a little far away -- I like the advice. Edwin Denby once said he always read his horoscope, because it always gave such good advice. By that he meant, not that it was specific to him, but that in general this kind of advice is good. You could get good advice from any of the twelve, probably, you wouldn't have to read your own. I thought Get Scary was really good advice.

Anyway, with regard to your tarot question, no I wouldn't want to make that kind of deck. I don't know enough and I don't want to devote that much time to knowing it. A lifetime. It's a little late. I am interested in the idea that anyone might make up their own deck and use it. In fact I got the idea for my workshop from a talk by Michael McClure, from one of the early Naropa talks volumes. He had taught there for the week and had assigned the class to make up individual decks according to their own affinities, personal symbolisms, and so on. And of course he had his, with all his own stuff therein: turquoise, brown, grahhhr, and so on. Everybody has their own deck inside, really. THE deck, the traditional deck, kind of works for everyone, though it's pretty medieval -- but it's remarkably flexible. But everyone has a personal set of symbols that they can and do work with, as they proceed through time.

Conrad:
Oh, the Knave, I was going by the Knight from your last answer. I like how you want us to search our own symbols, like in your workshop. That Michael McClure talk sounds like something to seek out, thanks for mentioning that. Astrology is something I wasn't going to get into after you first expressed your feelings about it because I don't ever want to be in the position where I appear as if I'm proselytizing. But for the tarot readings I do I read through the zodiac. It's an amazing layout, one that reaches far beyond the traditional Celtic Cross form mostly associated with the Rider-Waite and it's many companion decks. The texture of a reading through the circle of the zodiac carries the weight of the different grades of the four cardinal elements, not to mention how much the cards lend themselves to the individual signs beyond the elements. It's not just a way to help a reading expand, but literally explode with possibility. In the end the zodiac extends the metaphor of the tarot, and one can believe in astrology or not and still get something out of it. I do about two, sometimes three tarot readings a week in Philadelphia, and I've only ever had one person insist on the Celtic Cross. Which was fine of course, it was his reading after all. Many people are prepared for the zodiac layout from my little webpage for tarot readings, but those who don't realize it are usually surprised and excited about the idea.

Something else I wanted to ask you. At the Poetry Project's recent Allen Ginsberg tribute reading you mentioned at the microphone that you had been his typist for a little while. One of the poems you typed (twice you typed it, I think you said) was "White Shroud." About a month before that tribute reading I had received permission from Christopher Wiss (with help from David Trinidad and Erica Kaufman) to reprint Tim Dlugos's "G-9" for a queer anthology I'm co-editing with six others. It's a long poem, some 16 or 17 pages, no stanzas, just one long breathtaking column, and there was no copy available online or to be e-mailed, so I had to type it myself. "G-9" is a beautiful but painful poem to read, and one I had read many times before typing it, but typing it got the poem under my skin like never before. I would burst into tears and have to leave my apartment, come back, type, burst into tears and leave again. It was so upsetting and unexpected, and frankly a little exhausting. Since then I've decided to occasionally take poems I have great love for and type them, to see what new life they can have in me. After you mentioned having typed "White Shroud," AND THEN getting to hear your powerful interpretative reading of it, I have since wondered how much the typing of the poem shaped how you read it and feel it? It could just be that you're a powerful reader, which I think anyone who has heard you read would agree that you are, but for some reason the power behind you reading "White Shroud" felt unique and itches in my ears when I've read it in the book since. Is this maybe going back to the conversation on trance? You had said for instance that your unpublished manuscript Reason and Other Women was written entirely at the computer, and that the process was hypnotic.

Notley:
I typed the poems in the White Shroud manuscript so long ago that I don't think the experience was directly relevant to how I read "White Shroud" aloud. While I was reading it I tried to emphasize its structure -- it has a very firmly in place, story-telling structure -- and the immense detail. The poem goes in and out of typically Allen cadences, which as everyone knows are hypnotic, and which he often uses when he's describing things. These cadences seem to help him "see" better. So, as Anselm said later, sometimes I sounded like Allen and sometimes I didn't. The cadences would pull at me, then I would resist them for awhile, then they would pull at me again. I found this quite interesting.

When I was in my twenties, one of things Ted suggested I do -- that he had done -- was type up other poets' poems. He had one-page poems in mind, because those were the ones he'd typed. I was drawn to longer poems and typed up all of Jimmy Schuyler's "Hymn to Life," O'Hara's "Ode on Michael Goldberg's Birthday and Other Births," a large part of Williams' "Of Asphodel That Greeny Flower." I believe I internalized the structures and sounds of these poems -- somewhat -- and that they influenced much of my later work. I didn't know it while I was doing it -- it seemed to me that I was just typing, it even bored me. But I then wrote "Songs for the Unborn Second Baby," which is totally grounded in the O'Hara poem, and poems like "The Prophet," with its long lines that are as much like Schuyler's as Koch's, and then there's The Descent of Alette, which obviously owes a lot to the variable foot of "Asphodel." You take in a lot without being conscious of, rationally on top of, what it is -- this is magic.

I remember "G-9." I haven't looked at it in a long time, Tim's last poems upset me.

Conrad:
Glad I asked about this. So you're saying that doing the exercise of typing these other poet's poems internalized structure and some other tools for writing?

Typing "G-9" was such a powerful experience, and I've thought so much about WHY after having read it so carefully without typing it that it hadn't pulled that agony out of me the way it did at the keyboard. It's not so much about a better, more careful read when typing I think -- at least in this case, for me -- as it was about having to focus with my body, my fingers moving moving moving those words onto another surface, almost, how do I say?, drilling these emotions through to the surface. A couple weeks ago I typed Jules Boykoff's extraordinary poem "Commandment #8" seven different times, and took notes after each typing. Random, off the cuff notes. Not sure what I want from all this, but it's feeling like something is actually being done, on an internal level, maybe internalizing keys to some rusted locks, I don't really know for certain. Engaging the body with the mind does something very unexpected to the reading of a poem. This seems to work too in other ways when writing our own poems. Thoreau has this wonderful essay on walking, and how walking makes writers write. He talks too about the origin of the word "sauntering" and how it's from the French, back when pilgrims were walking to visit the holy sites of the saints. Thoreau asked us to walk, or saunter, as though all ground is holy, and in that exercise beautiful occurrences will be had. Frank Sherlock and I did an experiment in poetry which involved walking all over Philadelphia in this way, and it was definitely a rich experience in the end.

May I back up a bit? I got so excited earlier while you were talking about trance that I never got back to asking you what you meant when you said, "I think poetry is written in a transpersonified state." Could you tell us about this?

Notely:
Um, I don't think "transpersonified" is a real word. "Transpersonal" is. Someone like Phil Whalen made up "transpersonified," it gives you a sense of being above the personal and being a body at the same time. I think Phil used it to refer to an LSD experience: "I was in a transpersonified state." My point was that when you write poetry you are very far above the personal -- while writing. You don't have feelings. Except for a specialized kind of feeling -- esthetic? graced? inside a peculiar reasoning process? If you feel something else, like anger or love, your poem is probably no good. When I say this to someone, that person often nods sagely and says "Feelings recollected in tranquillity" -- whatever the Wordsworth quote is -- but that's not right. It isn't about "recollected." You can have feelings when you read it later, or not.

(This e-mail conversation with Alice Notley and CAConrad took place in January, 2007)

AN OPEN LETTER TO JOHN BARR, PRESIDENT OF THE POETRY FOUNDATION

2006-11-12T15:56:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Barr, first the Democrats take back control, then Rumsfeld steps down, and then, AND THEN, you finally admit to being bored with the company you keep in the latest issue of POETRY Magazine.

OH you POOR, POOR MAN, all this time I thought you were enjoying the drone of your peers, and here you've been HOPING someone would show you the fucking doorway to the true joys you were CERTAIN poetry can offer! Well Mr. Barr my dear, LOOK NO FURTHER!

Here is my email address in case calling me at home seems TOO BIG A STEP for you to take right away: CAConrad13@aol.com

On the other hand, here's my phone number, JUST IN CASE you get a feverish itch in your drawers to get started SOONER! 215 563 3075. Hm, don't mind calling, ANY TIME AT ALL!

How many sleepless nights have you spent not understanding why poetry was so boring? You wanted so much more, I hear that, I FEEL THAT in your article in POETRY Magazine. But it's here Mr. Barr, it's here, it's here. TRUST ME telling you it's here. Let me hold your hand while you read Alice Notley for the first time, or Carol Mirakove, Eileen Myles, Will Esposito, Frank Sherlock, Caroline Bergvall, Brett Evans, Stacy Szymaszek, OH MY GOODNESS MR. BARR SO MANY OTHER ELECTRICAL SHOCKS AWAIT YOU AND I WANT TO BE THERE TO SHARE THOSE MOMENTS OF AWAKENING! Oh my GOODNESS! WOW! Will we ever be able to catch our breath again? And after this I promise you will sleep like a baby LION every night for the rest of your roaring life!

Mr. Barr my dear, JUST THINK, you won't have to drink too much scotch after readings anymore to drown your sorrows, NO-NO! Now you can drink too much scotch after readings to CELEBRATE the arrival of the missing doorway, OH! Don't be so hard on yourself Mr. Barr, it's okay you missed the door, opened the wrong one.

All can be redeemed. All can be as blissful as you once imagined and hoped. Come with me. Come with me dear Mr. Barr, let me show you, let me help you undress in the warmth of genius poetry has to offer.

And then, when you realize all this, please DO make places for my friends in the spacious halls of your Poetry Society, Poetry Foundation, all that STUFF! We won't bite, well, yes we might actually bite, but you'll Love it so! We'll have THE REAL PARTIES you've been waiting to have for poetry! Oh YES!

One VERY BIG Love bite waiting for you,
CAConrad
click here for DEVIANT you DEVIANT me

why pandas SHOULD die

2006-08-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while you hear that a species of bird or lizard is gone. Or thought to be gone because no one has seen them around the newly constructed condominiums lately where the nests and burrows used to be. No one has seen them for weeks, and some people arrive to go looking for them with their maps and cameras, hoping to wire back a picture of them, that they are alive, frightened and hungry, but alive, so we can cheer from our sofas at home, still not doing anything to stop the madness that's brought us here beside the lumber mills and cement mixers the banks have financed to get the world happy and chasing a dream.

Every once in a while one species is growing weaker in their shrinking forests and we hear about them and they sure are cute. The cute ones must survive, they're so cute after all. And the kids write letters from schools all over the United States of America to save the fuzzy black and white bears of China. Some experts say its possible. We can do it, we can DO it! We can save them!

We can save them? Meaning we will end the destruction of their natural habitat? Stop cutting down the trees? No, of course not, we can't stop now, the economies of the world are at stake. But the good news is we're getting better at breeding pandas in captivity. Soon we'll be able to have them all to ourselves, they're so cute. No more hiding their cute fuzziness from us in the forest, it's to the zoo with them!

When's feeding time? We'd like to stop back with the kids. Watching endangered species eat in the safety of the zoo is a wholesome family activity. Hey, have you ever seen them, ah, you know, have sex!? Wow, you have it on film!? Get out, are you serious!? Wow! And you've seen the footage yourself? That's so amazing! Can the rest of us see it sometime please? Yeah, really? That would be so cool!

Seriously.
Ask yourself.
Do we deserve the animals on this planet?
Do we deserve them enough to keep them behind bars?

Pandas are the most difficult animal to breed in captivity. They don't like it. They want to be in their forests. But their forests are disappearing, and soon, like many species, they will no longer have a foothold on the Earth.

Are we brave enough to save their habitat?
Are we brave enough to at least allow the species to disappear if we are not brave enough to save their habitat?

How weak will we prove to be?
Animals kept alive for our amusement, for our dream of another, more wild, natural world.

CAConrad
(for info on my book Deviant Propulsion, click HERE)

why gays in the military IS NOT a civil rights issue!

2006-05-04T09:24:00.000-07:00

"The darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis."
--Dante

One of the most difficult things to talk about with gays and lesbians these days is Iraq. The so-called "gay media" is only interested in shouting to let "our" soldiers in, to let "us" join and be part of... part of what? Can we refresh ourselves a moment here, I mean, tens of thousands of people have lost their lives in a war everyone realizes was for the sake of greed.

If you bought stock in Haliburton three years ago you'd be sick with wealth today. And if you did buy their stock I hope you do get sick from your wealth, your blood money!

Gays in the military, THIS is the big push? THIS is a civil rights issue? You want the "right" to put a fucking rainbow sticker on your machine gun? You GO G. I. Joe! You Hero!

No, this is not a civil rights issue. Unless we can all agree that it's our right to kill innocent civilians. Can we do that? Can we agree killing is cool? Can we agree that a civil rights issue doesn't have to be civil, can involve civilian killings instead, huh? Huh? You like that do you?

Why do we have to make gay, lesbian, bi, trans rights about BECOMING status quo? Whether you want to remember or not, our foremothers and forefathers of the gay movement did not think so! Many of them still alive! When Marsha P. Johnson (sad to say Marsha is not alive today) threw the first brick at the Stonewall riot it was not so we could JOIN the world in destroying more lives! Marsha and those who REVOLTED with her that day in 1969 did so to release us from tyranny! To be free! Can you remember that with me? Can you TRY to understand that with me?

We were supposed to be better because we understood oppression. What was delivered upon us was not to be wielded in turn on others.

Gays and lesbians and bisexuals and transgendered peoples of the 60s and 70s marched against the oppression of African Americans, marched for labor rights, marched AGAINST THE WAR IN VIETNAM!

How dare you forget this! How dare you be in favor of this terrible war! How dare you say we have to join these forces of oppression! How dare you defile the memory of Marsha P. Johnson and the millions and millions who died of AIDS from years of silent tyranny! For those who are murdered every day in this country for being queer!

Pick up a weapon and join, for what? For acceptance? Your freedom means what then?

Don't Ask Don't Tell, thanks Bill. Bill Clinton started this insanity! He made it such an important American issue. You think just because an American president finally said the word GAY out loud that it was positive. You think that he cared about you. HE EMASCULATED US DAMMIT! He got us to give up our good sense and JOIN the worst possible thing there is to join! He said, Hey, you want to be part of what I've got to offer, Here It Is! Lock and load!

Bill Clinton, DO NOT FORGET, signed the Defense Of Marriage Act. Yeah, he doesn't want us getting married. We can KILL in his name, and he will salute your flag draped coffin. Bill Clinton, DO NOT FORGET, was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack when he called John Kerry during the 2004 presidential election and implored Kerry to embrace the ban on gay marriage. To Kerry's credit, he would not do that. Kerry lost, but remember, it was Bill Clinton flat on his back with a destroyed heart, not John Kerry.

Both Howard Dean and Hillary Clinton are distancing themselves from gays, at least from gays who challenge. If you're queer, good at smiling, good at going along with the wholesale of Nothing But Speech for the gay community then they LOVE you. Dean has recently proven that he will fire any queer on his staff who asks (or in this case whose partner asks) he ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING rather than talk, and pretend. Check this out.

The "gay media" is the worst culprit. If you have anything to say which is contrary to the war in Iraq you will most likely not be in the newspapers, or magazines. In Philadelphia the silence from the Philadelphia Gay News is particularly deafening with this. They did not cover the fundraisers for Stephen Funk's legal defense, an openly gay marine who said NO to Iraq, and was thrown into military prison. They refused to show up at the demonstrations in support of Mehmet Tarhan. If you don't like the military you're a danger to what SOME members of the GLBT "community" are trying to achieve. Exactly what the fuck do they want by the way?

Last summer I was invited to perform in NY at a GLBT arts festival. While on stage I took the opportunity to speak out against the GLBT support of the military, and talk about Mehmet Tarhan who was at the time being beaten and tortured for refusing to join the Turkish military. I had only been on stage for half my allotted time when the moderator, a rather conservative lesbian, marched down the middle of the floor to the edge of the stage and gave me the hook! She then had her girlfriend get up there and read for three times longer about Persephone and pomegranates. And they were incredibly rude to me after, and I thought, Wow, the whole fucking allusion to the Underworld of her fucking sonnets about Persephone are completely lost on her! What a bunch of bullshit!

If you have anything at all negative to say about queers in the military you will be shut up! And that's just if you're queer saying it. If you're straight and have anything negative to say about it you get called homophobic! It's even more outrageous if you ask me! This is such a problem! Open minded straight people who also happen to be against war get called fag bashers if they dare to say that they don't understand HOW gays in the military is a civil rights issue.

We need to do everything we can right now to STOP young gays and lesbians from joining the military! We need to do everything we can to get ALL young people to NOT JOIN! And we need to convince those who have already joined to not go to Iraq. However and whenever we can do this, we must do this.

There's an excellent new book out I ask you to please look into. This book WILL come in handy one day when you are faced with a young person who is thinking about joining one of the branches of the military. It's called 10 EXCELLENT REASONS NOT TO JOIN THE MILITARY, edited by Elizabeth Weill-Greenberg.

Here's some links from the book:

SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE MILITARY

ARMY RAPE VICTIM SPEAKS OUT

Here are the titles of the 10 chapters:
1. YOU MAY BE KILLED
2. YOU MAY KILL OTHERS
3. YOU MAY BE INJURED
4. YOU MAY NOT RECEIVE PROPER MEDICAL CARE
5. YOU MAY SUFFER LONG-TERM HEALTH PROBLEMS
6. YOU MAY BE LIED TO
7. YOU MAY FACE DISCRIMINATION
8. YOU MAY BE ORDERED TO DO THINGS AGAINST YOUR BELIEFS
9. YOU MAY FIND IT DIFFICULT TO LEAVE THE MILITARY
10. YOU HAVE OTHER CHOICES

Please look at this book, even buy a few copies to have on hand in case you need to give one away. It's the kind of book that could change the decision of a lifetime.

In memory of Marsha P. Johnson, a true hero,
CAConrad

TEN THOUSAND BY THE FOURTH FOR JULY!

2006-04-12T00:38:00.000-07:00

"The education's free you're looking for, but it's all gone to war. The bombs are heading South, South-East, with a tooth just like a saw."--Edmund Berrigan of I FEEL TRACTOR

For those of you who don't know, there are an estimated 8,000 United States military servicemen and servicewomen who are currently AWOL.

Some people would tell me these 8,000 are cowards, that they deserve to be captured, tried for treason, and sentenced to YEARS in prison. Some would say (some DO say) they should be executed.

I say they are my heroes, these 8,000. They are the REAL heroes of this war.

From the Working Class world I come from, if any of these 8,000 were from my family, they would be shunned. They would be as if they had never been born.

Imagine being a teen, in rural America, NO WORK to speak of, but the Army, or the Marines, which PROMISES you college tuition and Fatherly care. You take it, and with it, you take the BELIEF that you are defending this America. You believe, really believe, you are doing a duty to defend our America, and you can find no fault with this belief.

Then, your country's leaders decide to invade and occupy a sovereign nation, eventually killing some 50,000 innocent people of that country. This does not fit with the jargon of the recruit. This does not fit with your personal PUSH to rationalize the oath. This is not honorable, and you FUCKING KNOW IT! And you decide, DESPITE LOSING YOUR FAMILY, DESPITE HAVING TO BECOME A FUGITIVE FOR WHO KNOWS HOW MANY YEARS, to not go.

These 8,000 are my heroes. I'll repeat this as many times as you need to hear it. Heroes like Stephen Funk, and like Mehmet Tarhan.

Imagine your family never speaking to you again, or at least thinking you're weird, that you're not real, that you're a coward, for the rest of your life. You would almost have to be queer, like me, to understand this. But the truth is, being queer like me, would mean you've already had quite a lot of practice, unlike someone who has PLAYED by the rules, GONE to the prom, CHEERED for the home team on the ball field, and saluted the flag and meant it for your whole life, until now at this critical moment. In some ways, for someone like me it's been easier, the gradual slope of getting with the feel of the pain, the doses of torture. But how difficult is it to question your entire belief in your country (which is now so connected to your family, connected to your idea of Freedom and other fancy fucking bullshit terms these days) in such a brief moment of time? Do you hear what I'm saying? Do you GET how hard it must be?

You have to have REAL courage to CHALLENGE every single thing about your life in order to make the decision to NOT go to Iraq.

You might have to have a major break-through or break-down in order to get there.

You have to be, quite seriously, a brave fucking Soul to make that leap to NOT go.

Thank you for not going, those who did not go. You have sacrificed MUCH.

The best thing we who believe in You who refuse to GO can do for you, is to increase your numbers, to make it as impossible as we possibly can for the Bush administration to hunt you all down and find you all guilty of treason. We must encourage others to say NO. We must encourage others to make the same sacrifices you have made to say NO. As many as possible saying NO.

For the sake of all you FEEL for Life, you must say NO.

I remember watching the news the NIGHT BEFORE the Dow Jones (Tao Jones for some, especially those crazy fuckers on the news that night) hit 10,000 for the first time in history. People (and by people I mean rich people) were acting like we were about to land on the fucking edge of Heaven itself. Like the space shuttle missed it's target and discovered where God lives and does his evil. They were SO happy. It gave me a creepy, slimy, AWFUL feeling watching them react. I KNEW it was bad news for me and my family, and my extra-extended family of poor, and working poor. These fucking creeps were just WAY TOO happy if you know what I mean.

But my point is, LET'S have our OWN celebration of HITTING 10,000!

Let's help bring those 8,000 brave Souls an extra 2,000 by the 4th of July.

Let's starve those BASTARDS who invested in Haliburton three years ago JUST before the war started and are now filthy rich on the blood spilled on the desert.

Fuck John Kerry and Hillary Clinton (both of whom REALLY DID vote FOR the Patriot Act VERY RECENTLY to be made PERMANENT!) and their "exit strategies." Fuck all "exit strategies," let's help persuade everyone to NOT go as a strategy!

Let's STOP this machine.

Let's do it by supporting the men and women who are fugitives in their (our) own country. Let's all give them what they need in order to increase their numbers of brave Souls, to confuse Washington, to disrupt the White House, to end the madness we have begun as a nation.

Let's take this step together, please! It is evil, what we have done. If you pay your taxes, as I pay my taxes, we have bought many, many bullets together you and I, which have killed tens of thousands of lives. Together, let's stop the murder we have supported.

CAConrad