Personal
One of Those Days, Until...
22/01/08 18:27 Permalink
I'm having
one of those days where the best just doesn't seem
good enough.
You know, those when realize who old you are and then that there are people who are much younger and, in your estimation, much more accomplished. I've never been one to rush myself, or my work in pursuit of external validation - I must be satisfied and, mostly, even when others are, I am not when I know there is the potential for more. But, now, I feel myself growing impatient. I feel like I need a kick in the ass that is different that those kicks I've tried to give myself in the past. I feel like I've should be doing more.
I've been hit by a wave, which I'm cherishing, in which I've started a novel and my bohemia verse play, in which one of the characters will not speak to me. One night, before I went to sleep, I asked her why. She whispered simply: Just write me. When I come to it, her voice will be Also, I've picked up the tempo on my book of Star Trek poems. As a book, I definitely believe that those poems have a direction now. They, not I have charted their course. Though the end is not yet in sight, I do feel like I am holding onto something that has weight. That is something.
Edit: As I was writing this, the news was published that Heath Ledger was found dead. One of the few truly actors of my generation is dead at 28 years old from pneumonia. I've never been one to mourn those persons that I didn't know, but this is a very sobering instance. Rest in peace, Mr. Ledger.
I know that I've used his lyrics on my blog before, but I thought that it would be appropriate.
from the Brokeback Mountain Soundrack,
One more chain I break
To get me closer to you
One more chain does the maker make
To keep me from bustin' through
One more notch I scratch
To keep me thinkin' of you
One more notch does the maker make
Upon my face so blue
...
Oh Lord, how I know
Oh Lord, how I see
That only can the maker make
A happy man of me
You know, those when realize who old you are and then that there are people who are much younger and, in your estimation, much more accomplished. I've never been one to rush myself, or my work in pursuit of external validation - I must be satisfied and, mostly, even when others are, I am not when I know there is the potential for more. But, now, I feel myself growing impatient. I feel like I need a kick in the ass that is different that those kicks I've tried to give myself in the past. I feel like I've should be doing more.
I've been hit by a wave, which I'm cherishing, in which I've started a novel and my bohemia verse play, in which one of the characters will not speak to me. One night, before I went to sleep, I asked her why. She whispered simply: Just write me. When I come to it, her voice will be Also, I've picked up the tempo on my book of Star Trek poems. As a book, I definitely believe that those poems have a direction now. They, not I have charted their course. Though the end is not yet in sight, I do feel like I am holding onto something that has weight. That is something.
Edit: As I was writing this, the news was published that Heath Ledger was found dead. One of the few truly actors of my generation is dead at 28 years old from pneumonia. I've never been one to mourn those persons that I didn't know, but this is a very sobering instance. Rest in peace, Mr. Ledger.
I know that I've used his lyrics on my blog before, but I thought that it would be appropriate.
from the Brokeback Mountain Soundrack,
One more chain I break
To get me closer to you
One more chain does the maker make
To keep me from bustin' through
One more notch I scratch
To keep me thinkin' of you
One more notch does the maker make
Upon my face so blue
...
Oh Lord, how I know
Oh Lord, how I see
That only can the maker make
A happy man of me
|
Retrograde Mars...
10/12/07 17:15 Permalink
[Draft]
The planet Mars will be in retrograde until the end of January. A retrograde motion is when a planet, relative to our vantage point here on Earth, appears to be moving backwards through the heavens. This, of course, is an illusion - planets always move forwards in their orbits. You can count on a retrograde Mars roughly once every 2 1/2 years. At best, retrograde Mars signals a period of reflection and self-betterment. At its worst, it becomes period of sloth and shiftlessness.
Mars went retrograde on November 15th, the day that I left the States for France. I have a habit of doing that. Taking off during major celestial events like eclipses, though I don't plan for it to happen that way. In fact, the dates that I board any plane are pretty arbitrary, usually dependent on ticket prices.
Even if you aren't a disciple of astrology, you may have heard that a retrograde Mercury causes mishaps and miscommunications. Mobile phones go missing. Printers break when you need to deliver important documents. Things of that nature. A Mars retrograde is different. For one, it happens less often. However, it does signal a another sort of reversal.
Mars is the planet that rules our drives. Simply put, the placement of Mars in a person's horoscope tells you how they go about getting their way. Mars in Libra, for example, is given more to diplomacy than an emotional Mars in Cancer. They may both get their way in a given situation, but they will have drastically different approaches.
A Mars placement is, perhaps, the reason that when we look back on their younger selves, we might witness growth, but seldom change. Experiences may have made them more capable of dealing with a situation, but the first impulse will always resemble the first impulse, no matter how sublimated it becomes.
So, a Mars in retrograde means that we become more introspective and reflective. Not all at once, not all in the same way, for a variety of reasons that a reader will likely either already know, or find tedious. Self-reflection can be a great thing, but often a retrograde Mars will send us delving deeper into ourselves and into our pasts than we feel comfortable. Old childhood trauma, bad relationships - any scar - seems to flare up too often in our memories. It frustrates us and we cannot seem to put it aside, affecting our focus.
On the whole, very little seems to get done during a Mars retrograde. In fact, the very opposite might be true. We may just find ourselves overcompensating and piling work on top of work, just to remain ahead of ourselves. Still, we do keep chugging quite along on our orbit, but it isn't until we are readjusted that we see how far we've come.
So, tonight, I raise a glass of Scots to Mars and hope for days of greater direction and productivity.
The planet Mars will be in retrograde until the end of January. A retrograde motion is when a planet, relative to our vantage point here on Earth, appears to be moving backwards through the heavens. This, of course, is an illusion - planets always move forwards in their orbits. You can count on a retrograde Mars roughly once every 2 1/2 years. At best, retrograde Mars signals a period of reflection and self-betterment. At its worst, it becomes period of sloth and shiftlessness.
Mars went retrograde on November 15th, the day that I left the States for France. I have a habit of doing that. Taking off during major celestial events like eclipses, though I don't plan for it to happen that way. In fact, the dates that I board any plane are pretty arbitrary, usually dependent on ticket prices.
Even if you aren't a disciple of astrology, you may have heard that a retrograde Mercury causes mishaps and miscommunications. Mobile phones go missing. Printers break when you need to deliver important documents. Things of that nature. A Mars retrograde is different. For one, it happens less often. However, it does signal a another sort of reversal.
Mars is the planet that rules our drives. Simply put, the placement of Mars in a person's horoscope tells you how they go about getting their way. Mars in Libra, for example, is given more to diplomacy than an emotional Mars in Cancer. They may both get their way in a given situation, but they will have drastically different approaches.
A Mars placement is, perhaps, the reason that when we look back on their younger selves, we might witness growth, but seldom change. Experiences may have made them more capable of dealing with a situation, but the first impulse will always resemble the first impulse, no matter how sublimated it becomes.
So, a Mars in retrograde means that we become more introspective and reflective. Not all at once, not all in the same way, for a variety of reasons that a reader will likely either already know, or find tedious. Self-reflection can be a great thing, but often a retrograde Mars will send us delving deeper into ourselves and into our pasts than we feel comfortable. Old childhood trauma, bad relationships - any scar - seems to flare up too often in our memories. It frustrates us and we cannot seem to put it aside, affecting our focus.
On the whole, very little seems to get done during a Mars retrograde. In fact, the very opposite might be true. We may just find ourselves overcompensating and piling work on top of work, just to remain ahead of ourselves. Still, we do keep chugging quite along on our orbit, but it isn't until we are readjusted that we see how far we've come.
So, tonight, I raise a glass of Scots to Mars and hope for days of greater direction and productivity.
Mia Vita Nuova?
25/11/07 02:42 Permalink
[draft]
I arrived in Paris during a massive transit strike. The strange thing is that the first time I came to Paris almost two years ago exactly, I arrived during a transit strike. It was near Thanksgiving, then, too and the Champs Elysees was decorated for the approaching holidays. My first trip was for a holiday, this trip had something to do with making a new life for myself. Because, despite what reservations I may have about the culture and the country, I feel at home in France. No, I feel comfortable. I am, and will always be, an American. It was just difficult to feel comfortable being "home." Now, I am slightly nagged by guilt at feeling at home with being comfortable.
Like my first trip, that first transit strike was limited in its scope. It seemed to be more ennui, than anything else. The strike into which I had flown this time around, crippled Paris. For over a week, this meant that I was largely confined me to my sublet studio apartment in the 10th arrondissement of the still mostly alien city for over a week. When I did emerge from the studio, from which I was staging my survival search for housing, contacts and employment, the streets were congested with cars and air was filled with the roar and rumble of motorcycles and motored scooters that would have remained sheltered at home had the Metro been operating.
My decision to come to Paris was based on something stronger than a whim, less than a plan, but was tinged with desperation. After a long period abroad - a Fulbright fellowship to Poland, an artistic residency in the South of France - I struggled to readjust and regain my footing in the States. Since leaving Europe, I've talked to a great many "Fulbrighters," and Peace Corps volunteers who have echoed my sentiments, how differently they saw and felt about the United States upon their return. It wasn't that they no longer loved the country - they did, perhaps even more fervently than before - but, perhaps, they better understood America's place in the world and the cost at which the great ease of our lives come. It's an overwhelming feeling, but a natural one that those who had been returned long enough assured would eventually subside.
Still, I wasn't coping well with "eventually"; there was an immediacy for my desire to acclimate myself. Hindering my return was that I carried from Poland a case of post traumatic stress disorder with no immediate opportunity for respite. This, I attribute mostly to my own obstinacy and partly to more than a few depressing encounters with violent neo-fascists and a culture that fosters them. A native of the clustered Northeast, I returned there briefly, but afterwards I then moved on to an artistic residency in Montana that I had gotten over the summer.
Montana offered me so many things that New Jersey and New York - the places I'd grown into adulthood - could not at the time. Gentle people. Quiet. Privacy. Space. A staid and beautiful landscape. I've thought a lot about what made Montana and the Continental Divide different from the South of France and the Pyrenees where I spent time between Poland and my return to the US. My general description certainly applies to both, but it was in Montana where I again achieved clarity.
While I was in Montana, I received a mix CD from a friend with a song from the singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright, titled "Going to a Town." The song begins:
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that is already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down.
I'm so tired of America
I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you America
I played that song on continuous loop at least 50 times over 2 days. It lullabyed me and was the soundtrack for my dreams. Then, one night, it occurred to me that I didn't have to wait for eventually. There was no reason to return to New York, to find what so many of my friends had - work that was inconsistent, that they disliked and which leeched away from their time to be creative.
It wasn't just the chaos of my return, or my beneficent solitude. It felt that either I, or the country had changed. Perhaps both, perhaps fundamentally. In spite of all its faults, I was always confident, that there were certain lines that America and its citizens wouldn't cross, much less step backwards toward. After all the countries that I've seen and people I've met, I believed that America and Americans were those most likely to make strides - sometimes too short, sometimes too long - to remain vigilant in their attempts to create a more just society.
But, I arrived back home to the Jena 6, to nooses being used to intimidate black professors at my own ivy league university. The lack of feminist uproar when only women of color were being denigrated. I bristled at the semantics of the evening news casts and the slant and cowardice of even the "liberal media", both of whom seemed to be capitulating to an agenda whose word choice seemed to be dictated by some gun, slightly off the margin. The will to riot and revolution had been slowly eroded and sapped of its vitality. But the angry and dangerous people - the people who hang those nooses on doors and from trees - I found them to be as angry and dangerous as ever - and suddenly less reticent.
Never, have I found a place which I could truly call home. Somewhere to which I could return and be peaceful, without the need for personal translation. One day, during my time in the South of France, I was shaving and felt my high cheekbones, which had always been cherubic and firm were softer and hung just a hair lower. I was to be 28 soon. While not old, I realized that I was not a baby anymore. The nomadic life that I lived, that I did not believe suited me, but I lived because I made a promise to myself some years ago when I decided to live a life centered around poetry, to wake up some place beautiful, could not go on forever - my urges towards a stable mailing address and (still beautiful) vista, partnership and the dream of a family, while not overwhelming grew ever stronger. It was time to find a new visionplace, time to search for home. As Wainwright sings in his refrain to "Going to a Town":
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need
In a letter from my friend Emmanuelle, who moved for a time to Montreal, but will soon be returning to Paris, she praised my relocation and welcomed me to my new life. Mia vita nuova. We shall see, Emma, we shall see.
I arrived in Paris during a massive transit strike. The strange thing is that the first time I came to Paris almost two years ago exactly, I arrived during a transit strike. It was near Thanksgiving, then, too and the Champs Elysees was decorated for the approaching holidays. My first trip was for a holiday, this trip had something to do with making a new life for myself. Because, despite what reservations I may have about the culture and the country, I feel at home in France. No, I feel comfortable. I am, and will always be, an American. It was just difficult to feel comfortable being "home." Now, I am slightly nagged by guilt at feeling at home with being comfortable.
Like my first trip, that first transit strike was limited in its scope. It seemed to be more ennui, than anything else. The strike into which I had flown this time around, crippled Paris. For over a week, this meant that I was largely confined me to my sublet studio apartment in the 10th arrondissement of the still mostly alien city for over a week. When I did emerge from the studio, from which I was staging my survival search for housing, contacts and employment, the streets were congested with cars and air was filled with the roar and rumble of motorcycles and motored scooters that would have remained sheltered at home had the Metro been operating.
My decision to come to Paris was based on something stronger than a whim, less than a plan, but was tinged with desperation. After a long period abroad - a Fulbright fellowship to Poland, an artistic residency in the South of France - I struggled to readjust and regain my footing in the States. Since leaving Europe, I've talked to a great many "Fulbrighters," and Peace Corps volunteers who have echoed my sentiments, how differently they saw and felt about the United States upon their return. It wasn't that they no longer loved the country - they did, perhaps even more fervently than before - but, perhaps, they better understood America's place in the world and the cost at which the great ease of our lives come. It's an overwhelming feeling, but a natural one that those who had been returned long enough assured would eventually subside.
Still, I wasn't coping well with "eventually"; there was an immediacy for my desire to acclimate myself. Hindering my return was that I carried from Poland a case of post traumatic stress disorder with no immediate opportunity for respite. This, I attribute mostly to my own obstinacy and partly to more than a few depressing encounters with violent neo-fascists and a culture that fosters them. A native of the clustered Northeast, I returned there briefly, but afterwards I then moved on to an artistic residency in Montana that I had gotten over the summer.
Montana offered me so many things that New Jersey and New York - the places I'd grown into adulthood - could not at the time. Gentle people. Quiet. Privacy. Space. A staid and beautiful landscape. I've thought a lot about what made Montana and the Continental Divide different from the South of France and the Pyrenees where I spent time between Poland and my return to the US. My general description certainly applies to both, but it was in Montana where I again achieved clarity.
While I was in Montana, I received a mix CD from a friend with a song from the singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright, titled "Going to a Town." The song begins:
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that is already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down.
I'm so tired of America
I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you America
I played that song on continuous loop at least 50 times over 2 days. It lullabyed me and was the soundtrack for my dreams. Then, one night, it occurred to me that I didn't have to wait for eventually. There was no reason to return to New York, to find what so many of my friends had - work that was inconsistent, that they disliked and which leeched away from their time to be creative.
It wasn't just the chaos of my return, or my beneficent solitude. It felt that either I, or the country had changed. Perhaps both, perhaps fundamentally. In spite of all its faults, I was always confident, that there were certain lines that America and its citizens wouldn't cross, much less step backwards toward. After all the countries that I've seen and people I've met, I believed that America and Americans were those most likely to make strides - sometimes too short, sometimes too long - to remain vigilant in their attempts to create a more just society.
But, I arrived back home to the Jena 6, to nooses being used to intimidate black professors at my own ivy league university. The lack of feminist uproar when only women of color were being denigrated. I bristled at the semantics of the evening news casts and the slant and cowardice of even the "liberal media", both of whom seemed to be capitulating to an agenda whose word choice seemed to be dictated by some gun, slightly off the margin. The will to riot and revolution had been slowly eroded and sapped of its vitality. But the angry and dangerous people - the people who hang those nooses on doors and from trees - I found them to be as angry and dangerous as ever - and suddenly less reticent.
Never, have I found a place which I could truly call home. Somewhere to which I could return and be peaceful, without the need for personal translation. One day, during my time in the South of France, I was shaving and felt my high cheekbones, which had always been cherubic and firm were softer and hung just a hair lower. I was to be 28 soon. While not old, I realized that I was not a baby anymore. The nomadic life that I lived, that I did not believe suited me, but I lived because I made a promise to myself some years ago when I decided to live a life centered around poetry, to wake up some place beautiful, could not go on forever - my urges towards a stable mailing address and (still beautiful) vista, partnership and the dream of a family, while not overwhelming grew ever stronger. It was time to find a new visionplace, time to search for home. As Wainwright sings in his refrain to "Going to a Town":
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need
In a letter from my friend Emmanuelle, who moved for a time to Montreal, but will soon be returning to Paris, she praised my relocation and welcomed me to my new life. Mia vita nuova. We shall see, Emma, we shall see.
Lately, We've Just Begun...
28/08/07 19:45 Permalink
In just a
couple of days, I will be returning to the States.
It's a strange feeling to be returning after having
been removed for longer than I've ever been. Before,
I found just a few months jarring. Now...I don't know
what to feel. When I left America, the discourse,
nomenclature and semantics were different. In some
ways, it seems like the press has reclaimed some
small measure of credibility. When I left America,
there was no "civil war" in Iraq.
Still, I trust no media. It's all slanted and some of it likely the reason I've encountered so many loons (ironically, a good number of them Germans) who feel that the September 11th attacks were the U.S. equivalent of the Reichstag fire. I read the BBC because, well, I can. But for a nation who is America's primary partner in its misdeeds around the world (and this was before Iraq and Afghanistan) their news services has a decidedly conservative, post-colonial slant on American life and politics that seems to bleed smugly through every sentence. If you don't believe me, read the headline and the last three paragraphs of any story written on the BBC website about the Americas, or India. That distaste in your mouth is British smugness.
The truth is that everything is slanted and the only way to truly know a country is to be there and to live amongst its people. I have also learned that the number of those countries where I would feel comfortable - nay, tolerated - are fewer than I would have believed just a year ago.
I am going to end that particular rant, because, this entry isn't about politics. It's a farewell to a place that I once came to so that I contemplate my life and trajectory. I returned to the same region to heal and become sound after Poland. Each time, this region time transformed myself and my work. It alleviated the world that brought me stress long enough for me to become strong and regain a sense of my own purpose. I don't know what one does to thank a place.
I've met great people in this year. I know that such connections can be transient, but I hope that they aren't. I hope that the are a load that I can carry joyfully with me through my other travels and homecomings.
Still, I trust no media. It's all slanted and some of it likely the reason I've encountered so many loons (ironically, a good number of them Germans) who feel that the September 11th attacks were the U.S. equivalent of the Reichstag fire. I read the BBC because, well, I can. But for a nation who is America's primary partner in its misdeeds around the world (and this was before Iraq and Afghanistan) their news services has a decidedly conservative, post-colonial slant on American life and politics that seems to bleed smugly through every sentence. If you don't believe me, read the headline and the last three paragraphs of any story written on the BBC website about the Americas, or India. That distaste in your mouth is British smugness.
The truth is that everything is slanted and the only way to truly know a country is to be there and to live amongst its people. I have also learned that the number of those countries where I would feel comfortable - nay, tolerated - are fewer than I would have believed just a year ago.
I am going to end that particular rant, because, this entry isn't about politics. It's a farewell to a place that I once came to so that I contemplate my life and trajectory. I returned to the same region to heal and become sound after Poland. Each time, this region time transformed myself and my work. It alleviated the world that brought me stress long enough for me to become strong and regain a sense of my own purpose. I don't know what one does to thank a place.
I've met great people in this year. I know that such connections can be transient, but I hope that they aren't. I hope that the are a load that I can carry joyfully with me through my other travels and homecomings.
That I Stammer...
28/07/07 03:15 Permalink
Once, while I
was still living in Trenton (where the hell do I
live, now?), I was at a show at the now-defunct
ArtWorks where I met a man who had met the great poet
Ezra Pound. This man (whose name has been lost to me,
though I still remember something of his face) told
me that he met Pound when he was younger while he was
backpacking across Europe. This was a time, I imagine
in the 60s, before student travel cards, certain
advances in wire-frame backpack manufacturing and
pre-packaged trips - when it still took a little
courage to embark across this continent on your own.
The story, as he told me, was that he came across Pound in an Italian cafe and recognized him immediately, but had to have a few beers to muster the courage to go up to the venerated poet to introduce himself. Pound was with his mistress and when the fellow introduced himself, begging the question to which he already knew the answer - "Excuse me - pardon me if I'm intruding, but are you Ezra Pound?" Pound's companion invited the young man to sit with them and to talk. I have searched for her name, because I didn't want to tell this story - as she is central to it - with her as a nameless woman, but from what I have read, Pound had many mistresses. Not being a Pound scholar and not knowing the exact date, makes it difficult.
By that occaision in Italy, Pound had lived through what were his worst years. The trial after the Second World War, where he stood accused of being a treasonous propagandist. The asylum, where he was held (albeit, every source seems to agree, quite comfortably) for years and finally judged to be mentally unfit. The literary dueling of his dear friends and hangers on. He probably still dealt on a daily basis with the sort of dark and obssessive thoughts that a person like him lives with, but if he could have had what one can call a "retirement," or to be more sentimental, "his golden years," they were spent in Italy around the time that this man had met him.
The man who told me the story imparted to me that he was probably a bashful, garrulous college boy who had probably had a little too much to drink on that hot day in the cafe. Pound's companion, graceful and charming, inquired about he and his studies and made civil conversation, when she could have just waved him off, dejected as I'm certain she likely did with many an unwelcome admirer. (Pound was known for who would visit him and what lengths they would go to see him.)
When he felt that he should leave, so that his welcome didn't wear thin - a long time, I remember - this man took from his bag an edition of Pound's that he had purchased from a nearby bookshop between the beers that he had drunk to gather the courage to approach Pound. He asked Pound if he would please personalize it. Pound agreed, and he realized that it was the first time that Pound has said a single word to him.
I've heard anecdotes about Pound and his long silences. Some have told me that his final years were ones in which very few words were spoken and that he had understandings, like those he had with his mistress with someone, or did not. One of my teachers, who had been the visit Pound in the mental hospital, when he was younger said to me: "I don't know if he thought that there was anything more for him to say."
I've often wondered what that must have been like. Not to talk, even to those you love, out of frustration of what gets lost in the moment in the verbal exchange between two people. I've often considered what it's like to love words and their exactness and to use that love to say exactly what you mean and still be misinterpreted, misconstrued, or misheard.
When I write, things become clear, deliberate, logical. When I talk, I'm certain that I often come off as a bit flaky, whether or not I actually have a point. And, I think that's something I share with Pound, a bit of flakiness and that we both had positions and visions that we probably could not in our fervency, to our absolute bedevilment, express to people in words. It's not a stammer, for me, it's something more confusing - stifling like the heat of that day in the Italian cafe.
Or, perhaps, I am coming to learn after a long period of stubborness, that there are certain divides that cannot an will not be breached if either party is unwilling in the least - that empathy, or the desire for it is indeed rarer than I ever believed. Of the two, I would like very much for the former to be true, but evidence continually points to the latter. That I stammer. That I am stifled. It would give me more hope.
The story, as he told me, was that he came across Pound in an Italian cafe and recognized him immediately, but had to have a few beers to muster the courage to go up to the venerated poet to introduce himself. Pound was with his mistress and when the fellow introduced himself, begging the question to which he already knew the answer - "Excuse me - pardon me if I'm intruding, but are you Ezra Pound?" Pound's companion invited the young man to sit with them and to talk. I have searched for her name, because I didn't want to tell this story - as she is central to it - with her as a nameless woman, but from what I have read, Pound had many mistresses. Not being a Pound scholar and not knowing the exact date, makes it difficult.
By that occaision in Italy, Pound had lived through what were his worst years. The trial after the Second World War, where he stood accused of being a treasonous propagandist. The asylum, where he was held (albeit, every source seems to agree, quite comfortably) for years and finally judged to be mentally unfit. The literary dueling of his dear friends and hangers on. He probably still dealt on a daily basis with the sort of dark and obssessive thoughts that a person like him lives with, but if he could have had what one can call a "retirement," or to be more sentimental, "his golden years," they were spent in Italy around the time that this man had met him.
The man who told me the story imparted to me that he was probably a bashful, garrulous college boy who had probably had a little too much to drink on that hot day in the cafe. Pound's companion, graceful and charming, inquired about he and his studies and made civil conversation, when she could have just waved him off, dejected as I'm certain she likely did with many an unwelcome admirer. (Pound was known for who would visit him and what lengths they would go to see him.)
When he felt that he should leave, so that his welcome didn't wear thin - a long time, I remember - this man took from his bag an edition of Pound's that he had purchased from a nearby bookshop between the beers that he had drunk to gather the courage to approach Pound. He asked Pound if he would please personalize it. Pound agreed, and he realized that it was the first time that Pound has said a single word to him.
I've heard anecdotes about Pound and his long silences. Some have told me that his final years were ones in which very few words were spoken and that he had understandings, like those he had with his mistress with someone, or did not. One of my teachers, who had been the visit Pound in the mental hospital, when he was younger said to me: "I don't know if he thought that there was anything more for him to say."
I've often wondered what that must have been like. Not to talk, even to those you love, out of frustration of what gets lost in the moment in the verbal exchange between two people. I've often considered what it's like to love words and their exactness and to use that love to say exactly what you mean and still be misinterpreted, misconstrued, or misheard.
When I write, things become clear, deliberate, logical. When I talk, I'm certain that I often come off as a bit flaky, whether or not I actually have a point. And, I think that's something I share with Pound, a bit of flakiness and that we both had positions and visions that we probably could not in our fervency, to our absolute bedevilment, express to people in words. It's not a stammer, for me, it's something more confusing - stifling like the heat of that day in the Italian cafe.
Or, perhaps, I am coming to learn after a long period of stubborness, that there are certain divides that cannot an will not be breached if either party is unwilling in the least - that empathy, or the desire for it is indeed rarer than I ever believed. Of the two, I would like very much for the former to be true, but evidence continually points to the latter. That I stammer. That I am stifled. It would give me more hope.
To What Am I Returning...
24/07/07 20:10 Permalink
I've already
reached and passed the halfway point of my stay here
in France. And, though there are days, my return to
physical and spiritual health has been swift, aided
in no small part by the cradle of mountains, the
swaddle of rives and the respiration of the altitude.
Now, I must consider what comes next. I have a ticket
to return back to the United States. I am trying to
find a place to live, to plot and plan for some
future, but everything is so inbetween and up in the
air.
For now, I have no job, no domicile, and no prospects. I'm hopeful, but I've thought about setting up a paypal button this site so that people can contribute to my repatriation and resettlement. Or, I could have a "Sopranos"-style homecoming party, where people come up to me and hand me wads of cash in white envelopes. In any event, the well is dry and looks to be for a while, especially with the new life form that I happen to be sharing living space with. She's so cute, though, I can't possibly mind.
I suppose that, for now, the place I return to must be New York, but If you had told me 3 years ago that I would come to consider New York a home, I'd likely have laughed at you. It took me months into my Fulbright - when I had the chance to choose the place to which I would return - that I could imagine no other place than that one.
Why? It's a place where I've certainly experienced my share of travails, but there's no place like it. A good night in New York is a night that I am convinced cannot be had anywhere else on the planet. When the right people, Conversation, food and wine come together, it is something, to ape a term of one of my former teachers, "magical."
Except, I doubt that it will be as easy as before. That perhaps I had two years where I had little to worry about and now that's going to change. The universe will provide. I told that to someone when they were once stressed about all the same things that the universe will bring them to where they need to be. Until then, though, I am going to have some wine.
For now, I have no job, no domicile, and no prospects. I'm hopeful, but I've thought about setting up a paypal button this site so that people can contribute to my repatriation and resettlement. Or, I could have a "Sopranos"-style homecoming party, where people come up to me and hand me wads of cash in white envelopes. In any event, the well is dry and looks to be for a while, especially with the new life form that I happen to be sharing living space with. She's so cute, though, I can't possibly mind.
I suppose that, for now, the place I return to must be New York, but If you had told me 3 years ago that I would come to consider New York a home, I'd likely have laughed at you. It took me months into my Fulbright - when I had the chance to choose the place to which I would return - that I could imagine no other place than that one.
Why? It's a place where I've certainly experienced my share of travails, but there's no place like it. A good night in New York is a night that I am convinced cannot be had anywhere else on the planet. When the right people, Conversation, food and wine come together, it is something, to ape a term of one of my former teachers, "magical."
Except, I doubt that it will be as easy as before. That perhaps I had two years where I had little to worry about and now that's going to change. The universe will provide. I told that to someone when they were once stressed about all the same things that the universe will bring them to where they need to be. Until then, though, I am going to have some wine.
Jo Jo Dancer...
24/07/07 01:05 Permalink
So, now I
have a cat. Her name is Jo Jo Dancer. Her name was
already Jo Jo, I just added the Dancer part. What can
I say, I love Richard Pryor. I found her here and she
is the friskiest, cutest, cleverest kitty you ever
want to meet. Getting her home is going to be a chore
and a half, but if you saw this cat (to which I am
not allergic), you'd see why I fell in love.
Despite some minor annoyances, I'm still enjoying France. There was a period of too much socialization, but I think that is going to abate. There are only five weeks left and I want to write as much as I can, as well as prepare some applications. I also have the University of Georgia Ph.D. to think about. GRE, ugh...
Time to start thinking about the future, My friend Adam, who lives in New York, though we met in Prague. He's a together fellow. It will be good to have someone who knows me and has an idea of how I can re-orient myself in New York.
Despite some minor annoyances, I'm still enjoying France. There was a period of too much socialization, but I think that is going to abate. There are only five weeks left and I want to write as much as I can, as well as prepare some applications. I also have the University of Georgia Ph.D. to think about. GRE, ugh...
Time to start thinking about the future, My friend Adam, who lives in New York, though we met in Prague. He's a together fellow. It will be good to have someone who knows me and has an idea of how I can re-orient myself in New York.
Asylum & Infinity...
11/07/07 01:03 Permalink
France is
still fine. However, I'm thinking about hiding for a
week to see how much reading and writing I can get
done. In general, I'm happy with the amount I'm
getting done, but I know how voracious and prolific I
could be. There could be more. Time is precious and
should be treated as such. Also, I have to really
think about this verse play I've had on the back
burner for a while. It seems in keeping with the goal
of a place I would like to apply to time for in the
coming year.
I was prompted, tonight, to think about infinity. When I was in high school, I learned that the distance between any two points is infinite, because it can always be divided and that that divided segment can be infinitely expanded. Too, later, I found that this could be applied to people. Between any two points in a life, there are an infinite number of events of which we are aware and not that shape not only us, but each thing and person that we touch and the things that those things and people go on to touch. It's a progression of instances that, though contained by two points in space and time (our lifetimes) can never be quantified, or assigned a numeral.
Recently, I've been often told that I'm too serious. Actually, it's likely that I'm quite often told that, but probably don't listen, because either: 1. I know, or 2. I don't find being serious too terrible a thing. I'm serious. The world is a serious place, full of serious things and I do my best not to allow that fact to make me a miserable person. Often, I fail. "Lighten up," I'm told. "Just be who you are." Whereas, I often wonder: "Who am I?" and, "if I'm serious, why the hell should I lighten up?"
I suppose that I'm many things, but a narrow, working definition could include: A student. A bit of a wanderer. An artist. A black American man. The last is the identity which I consider most in my private hours. A lot of that consideration has to do with its assumed incongruity with the others. It is an identity of which the world has an ingrained fear and, perhaps, more. Often, under my breath, in the past hard few months, I've been heard to say: "They hate us. They will always hate us." I've been successful sometimes at copping a shrugging acceptance, others not. As to who 'they' are, I'll let you know when I meet a group of them who aren't.
Mine is a voice can never grow too deep. My intellect may never be expressed too forcefully. Hyperbole - not for me. I must remain more mindful of others than anyone whom I can name off the top of my head who actually cares about how others feel, because there is always the sidelong glance, the half-second held breath - that awkwardness, because when I lose my (oft considerable) temper, or even become in the slightest displeased, it is too often the case that people will jump to the most irrational and, it must be said, ridiculous conclusions and then to extreme measures. They will believe whatever concocted cockamamie excuse for a reason to use you as tacit confirmation of everything they already believe about your race. Then you (I) become the person who must be changed, or removed when you (I) have already bent over backwards in ways that they will never know to accommodate their assumptions and insecurities. Some black men are far more graceful and diplomatic (and for such reasons, I think that Barack Obama could actually return us to a lustrous American presidency) and some are just tamed, or some of the few are coddled, championed, or token. Those who are incapable, or refuse to be any of those things are probably destined for a, perhaps even brief, lifetime of alienation and loneliness.
In the world in which I live, I have seen all sorts of passes issued for people far less "serious," that is to say, intense than I, but none have been black. Sometimes, I wonder if I should be grateful, because of how much fuller and better my lot is than of so many others young men like me that I have known. While it might seem nice to be on the outside of the asylum staring longingly inside, perhaps the cost of "freedom," when there is so much else to bear, so many situations and others to consider if you are even just to preserve yourself, an asylum can seem like a lovely thing to seek.
I was prompted, tonight, to think about infinity. When I was in high school, I learned that the distance between any two points is infinite, because it can always be divided and that that divided segment can be infinitely expanded. Too, later, I found that this could be applied to people. Between any two points in a life, there are an infinite number of events of which we are aware and not that shape not only us, but each thing and person that we touch and the things that those things and people go on to touch. It's a progression of instances that, though contained by two points in space and time (our lifetimes) can never be quantified, or assigned a numeral.
Recently, I've been often told that I'm too serious. Actually, it's likely that I'm quite often told that, but probably don't listen, because either: 1. I know, or 2. I don't find being serious too terrible a thing. I'm serious. The world is a serious place, full of serious things and I do my best not to allow that fact to make me a miserable person. Often, I fail. "Lighten up," I'm told. "Just be who you are." Whereas, I often wonder: "Who am I?" and, "if I'm serious, why the hell should I lighten up?"
I suppose that I'm many things, but a narrow, working definition could include: A student. A bit of a wanderer. An artist. A black American man. The last is the identity which I consider most in my private hours. A lot of that consideration has to do with its assumed incongruity with the others. It is an identity of which the world has an ingrained fear and, perhaps, more. Often, under my breath, in the past hard few months, I've been heard to say: "They hate us. They will always hate us." I've been successful sometimes at copping a shrugging acceptance, others not. As to who 'they' are, I'll let you know when I meet a group of them who aren't.
Mine is a voice can never grow too deep. My intellect may never be expressed too forcefully. Hyperbole - not for me. I must remain more mindful of others than anyone whom I can name off the top of my head who actually cares about how others feel, because there is always the sidelong glance, the half-second held breath - that awkwardness, because when I lose my (oft considerable) temper, or even become in the slightest displeased, it is too often the case that people will jump to the most irrational and, it must be said, ridiculous conclusions and then to extreme measures. They will believe whatever concocted cockamamie excuse for a reason to use you as tacit confirmation of everything they already believe about your race. Then you (I) become the person who must be changed, or removed when you (I) have already bent over backwards in ways that they will never know to accommodate their assumptions and insecurities. Some black men are far more graceful and diplomatic (and for such reasons, I think that Barack Obama could actually return us to a lustrous American presidency) and some are just tamed, or some of the few are coddled, championed, or token. Those who are incapable, or refuse to be any of those things are probably destined for a, perhaps even brief, lifetime of alienation and loneliness.
In the world in which I live, I have seen all sorts of passes issued for people far less "serious," that is to say, intense than I, but none have been black. Sometimes, I wonder if I should be grateful, because of how much fuller and better my lot is than of so many others young men like me that I have known. While it might seem nice to be on the outside of the asylum staring longingly inside, perhaps the cost of "freedom," when there is so much else to bear, so many situations and others to consider if you are even just to preserve yourself, an asylum can seem like a lovely thing to seek.
Technical Difficulties...
13/06/07 21:48 Permalink
My frackin'
power adaptor not only electrocuted me, but it now no
longer works. As I have an ibook for word processing
and am too lazy and don't have the room to unpack my
mini (yes, I travel with three computers), I will be
out of contact for a week to ten days.
If you need me, I'll be checking my email intermittently. Still, letters are preferable.
If you need me, I'll be checking my email intermittently. Still, letters are preferable.
How Quickly We Return...
07/06/07 15:00 Permalink
So, after a
35 hour bus ride - I don't want to go into travel
now. It was a horrific experience. I got the
terrorist treatment, trying to get out of Poland - I
am now settled at Cat'Art. Some of my laundry
is still drying, but I resettled into village life
as though I'd never left the region. The center is
as beautiful and as tranquil as I could have
hoped. Last night, in bed, I wrote more than I had
in my last few weeks in Cracow. Photos will follow
shortly, once I have made the acquaintance of the
other artists in residency at the center. I've
already seen some of their work and I am truly
impressed at the talent with which I find myself
surrounded. I am enthusiastic about what I can
accomplish here.
I have aims for myself here. One of them, is to try to reinvent myself as a blogger, or a columnist, screenwriter (I have a script idea!) or travel writer of some sort. Poetry will always be central to my life; I cannot distance from words and language. Now, I must find a consistent way of supporting my work complementary to the way I like to live my life and which keeps me close to letters. Almost anyone reading this will probably understand that I am reluctant to be a poor(er) man.
For the first time in a very long time, I am happy. I'm smiling again and as my lungs fill with clean air, my mood has lifted and the memories of the past months slip away more quickly than I might have thought. This morning, I did yoga and went for a small run (all I can manage anymore. I'm hoping to build to longer ones, there are amazing paths. Feel free to leave running tips). I live in a small house with a fireplace (even in June, the nights can grow chilly here).
This blog is my sole internet indulgence. Any correspondence of import is to be addressed to me here, or will come from me in the form of a handwritten letter.
Poland, I have found aside from the occasional once-painful and now humorous anecdote, is not something I want to discuss. One of the Fulbrighters - someone born in Poland and whose family are members of the expatriate intelligentsia - who left her project told me that she wanted no part of and, if she did return, she would not speak Polish. Not being the country of my birth, my connection to the country could never have been so intimate as hers. However, I can empathize with her desire for distance. I will never again spell Cracow with it's "K"s, or pronounce its hard "w" ending. Poland, that city especially, is as foreign to me - perhaps moreso - and as alien and often repellant as it was my fellow Fulbrighter and to much of the West.
I have aims for myself here. One of them, is to try to reinvent myself as a blogger, or a columnist, screenwriter (I have a script idea!) or travel writer of some sort. Poetry will always be central to my life; I cannot distance from words and language. Now, I must find a consistent way of supporting my work complementary to the way I like to live my life and which keeps me close to letters. Almost anyone reading this will probably understand that I am reluctant to be a poor(er) man.
For the first time in a very long time, I am happy. I'm smiling again and as my lungs fill with clean air, my mood has lifted and the memories of the past months slip away more quickly than I might have thought. This morning, I did yoga and went for a small run (all I can manage anymore. I'm hoping to build to longer ones, there are amazing paths. Feel free to leave running tips). I live in a small house with a fireplace (even in June, the nights can grow chilly here).
This blog is my sole internet indulgence. Any correspondence of import is to be addressed to me here, or will come from me in the form of a handwritten letter.
Poland, I have found aside from the occasional once-painful and now humorous anecdote, is not something I want to discuss. One of the Fulbrighters - someone born in Poland and whose family are members of the expatriate intelligentsia - who left her project told me that she wanted no part of and, if she did return, she would not speak Polish. Not being the country of my birth, my connection to the country could never have been so intimate as hers. However, I can empathize with her desire for distance. I will never again spell Cracow with it's "K"s, or pronounce its hard "w" ending. Poland, that city especially, is as foreign to me - perhaps moreso - and as alien and often repellant as it was my fellow Fulbrighter and to much of the West.