Howled Some Today...

"Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the Angels."

William Carlos Williams on Allen Ginsberg

Art and Soul

sculpture: Andrew Livingston & George Morris

Just read No Place Like Home: A Memoir in 39 Apartments. 

It's an easy read, even a bit boring in places with the plot line repeating like a record player stuck in endless spin. Brooke moves into a sublet in New York, she tries to make it at writing and has to supplement income with jobs she doesn't like. She has trouble with a relationship. She has to move. Repeat. 

Repeat 39 times. 

The value of the repetition is the direct and unglamourous way in which it refuses to allow the reader to escape the unyielding, mundane existence of the "starving artist" lifestyle. Fantasizing about a career in the arts and pursuing one are not the same thing. Brooke can't escape some pretty brutal realities and she's not going to sugarcoat for us. 

She's not going to be overly dramatic either, which I appreciate. She experiences trials throughout the book (rape, identity theft, death, heartbreak, empty bank accounts) and she writes about them directly and succinctly and without dwelling on negatives or overemphasizing how any of these secondary themes might steer her story toward the next abode.


Simple words, not flowery or flowy or Lilith Fair-ey. I haven't (at least, that I know of) read any of her many award-winning plays but know I will like them based on the distinct tone and pace of this novel. She has a humorous self-depreciation/work ethic/art soul combo I relate to. I (based on my age, if not social and career situation to boot) like that it took Brooke twenty years to feel like she was settled. I like she had many mini-triumphs along the way. I like she is over 30.


The "point" of this, of course, is to say you're home is where you lay your head, or some variation of that euphemism (the title is No Place Like Home for goodness sake). But, for me, the point was more about the perseverance of a successful artist, how sacrifices are pre-requisites and how "home" isn't an apartment or person (with the rare exception of co-dependent/cosmic muse situations) but ones art and soul itself.

Hunter Gatherer

He wrote this at age 17.

Awake from your slumber of indolence and harken the call of the future! 

Do you realize that you are rapidly becoming a doomed generation? Do you realize that the fate of the world and of generations to come rests on your shoulders? Do you realize that at any time you may be called on to protect your country and the freedom of the world from the creeping scourge of Terrorism? How can you possibly laugh in the face of the disasters which face us from all sides? Oh ignorant youth, the world is not a joyous place. The time has come for you to dispense with the frivolous pleasures of childhood and get down to honest toil until you are sixty-five. Then and only then can you relax and collect your social security and live happily until the time of your death. 

Also, your insolent attitude disturbs me greatly. You have the nerve to say that you have never known what it is like to live in a secure and peaceful world; you say that the present generation has balled things up to the extent that we now face a war so terrible that the very thought of it makes hardened veterans shudder; you say that it is impossible to lay any plans for the future until you are sure you have a future. I say Nonsense! None of these things matter. If you expect a future you must carve it out in the face of these things. You also say that you must wait until after you have served your time with the service to settle down. Ridiculous! It is a man's duty to pull up stakes and serve his country at any time, then settle down again. 

I say there is no excuse for a feeling of insecurity on you part; there is no excuse for Juvenile Delinquency; there is no excuse for your attitude except that you are rotten and lazy! I was never like that! I worked hard; I saved; I didn't run around and stay out late at night; I carved out my own future through hard work and virtuous living, and look at me now; a respectable and successful man. 

I warn you, if you don't start now it will be too late, and the blame for the end of the world will be laid at your feet. Heed my warning, oh depraved and profligate youth; I say awake, awake, awake! 

Fearfully and disgustedly yours, 

John J. Righteous-Hypocrite

"Open Letter to the Youth of our Nation"
by Hunter S. Thompson, 1955  

Miss Fizz

I just finished Zelda by Nancy Milford. A billion (felt-like) page biography of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott and original flapper fiasco. I read the book out because I felt I owed it to her. I've heard of her my whole life. I knew she was supposedly beautiful and she died in a psychiatric hospital. I'd read A Moveable Feast (which I am now re-reading post-Zelda to compare), where Hemingway blames her for all Scott's woes. I'd read Great Gatsby (many many times) and likened her to Daisy as I'd been told to do. Now that I've been blogging for a while, I realize she fits some sort of mold in the females I thought I looked up to and I wanted to find out if that's true.

Once, my great friend Jess Pleasant owned a Che Guevera shirt. She never wore it. She told me she had to read his biography first and really decide if she should. You can't like someone because they're on a t-shirt.

Or because they're Daisy Buchanan. Or because you already like Patti Smith and Courtney Love.

Are they people or are they pop art? Let's find out.

Having already been familiar with Milford's writing style via her excellent biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, I was okay with long passages devoted in very scholarly English-journal fashion to the writing of both Fitzgerald's--as well as how their place in culture and setting influenced their art and vice-versa. In fact, Zelda began as Milford's graduate thesis at Columbia. As a fan of language, especially Scott Fitzgerald's, this kept me pretty happy. As a non-literary nerd, you'd be okay to skip some of the passages that sound like an English paper and continue on when activities are taking place (Zelda's suitors, her swimming, his drinking, their marriage counseling sessions--lots of insider information here).

Milford is kind to her, which is appropriate when the final page is read and one sees how terribly sad her existence was. She's more Yoko than Yoko ever was. But not conniving. Her sickness worsened from 1930 until first Scott's death a decade later, and her's in 1948. The 1920s could have been her decade if they were a different decade. The literary world wasn't ready for a woman like her and (wildly) Milford shows over and over again how most of what we all love in the writing of F. Scott Fitzgerald was really a combination of the two of them. They collaborated on many writings. Scott pulled pages upon pages from her diaries directly into his novels with no credit to her. Often, she wrote short stories for national publications completely on her own and they were published under F. Scott Fitzgerald because his name brought them more money.

Muse is too tiny a word for what this woman was. She was a kinetic force of creativity when, coupled with the elaborate-yet-raw emotion her husband could evoke, erupted into a large part of the 20th Century American literary canon. They were chemistry on more levels than any husband-wife or artist-muse relationship I've ever read about.

She was talented. Yes. But was she capable on her own? My takeaway is no. Her writing on its own has some of the best imagery available. You look at a picture when you read one of her sentences. You see it vividly. Character development, however, was nothing to her, which is where Scott really took over. I am drawn to her story and in the end, repelled by her. All the qualities in myself--the qualities I dislike about certain artistic friends of mine--the spattering of a million ideas, the prep, the hype--the laziness at execution  which kills the whole shebang. She excelled in that detriment.

Zelda was diagnosed with schizophrenia. While excuse isn't the right word to use when faulting her lacks, it does give her leeway regarding the downfall of Scott Fitzgerald and the reputation she has grown to enjoy fifty-plus years later. In the end, I find the entire chronology, and its romance and gore, tragic. I don't look up to her now. I don't see her as influential to a movement, but rather a posthumous product used to discuss one after the fact. I don't find her likable or inspirational. I love her like a sister, though.

Sketches for My Sweetheart The Drunk City I Scrape Through

pic: homedosh.com

This isn't a normal Saturday playlist. Last Saturday, though, I relistened to Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk again (for the millionth time--but the first in a while) and was drawn to the lyrics. It's been a poetic week over at AltDaily, FYI, so if you're into real literature, check it out. It's better than my scribbles. It's Pulitzer.

This post is an experiement in three parts.

1. Homage to existing art I love (Buckley--using his album as the base).

2. Poetry (Using lyrics from Sketches, I pare down to create a new poem).

3. Internet challenge (Each image was used from a Google search of the song title with no cheating)

The Sky Is A Landfill

pic: flickr

The storm has ripped the shelter

Of illusion from our brow

To snuff out the mind that moves

Moving with grace the men despise

And women have learned to lose

 

"Everybody Here Wants You"

 

pic: plfoto.com

 

I know the tears we cried

Have dried on yesterday

The sea of fools has parted for us

 

"Opened Once"

 

pic: photemera.blogspot.com

I once was open and one

With a travelling heart

Just like the fiction

Rushing in your riverbed

I am a railroad track abandoned

With the sunset

Forgetting

'Nightmares by the Sea"

pic: files.myopera.com

Beware the bottled thoughts of angry young men

"Yard of Blonde Girls"

pic: yard of blonde girls myspace

Through the yard of blonde girls

Through the river and the sea

Gold sharks glittering

A tree of white

Breaks the earth

The streets where Lola played

(yeah, this one is perfect as is)

"Witches Rave"

pic: deviantart

You tell me all the ways around my garden that you like

I float just like a bubble

I can't help from looking

Outside for a guarantee

"New Year's Prayer"

4.bp.blogspot.com

Fall in light

Feel no shame for what you are

As you now are in your blood

Join us in the streets where we

Don't belong, don't belong
You and the stars

Throwing light

"Morning Theft"

pic: flickr

A kiss Goodnight from every

Stranger that I meet

True self is what

Brought you here

Friendship battered down by

Useless history

Unexamined failure

But what am I still to you

Some thief who stole from you?

A heart that beats as

Both siphon and reservoir

"Vancouver"

pic: chateaugranville.com

With lines of escape in my mouth

I'm your loan shark of bliss

As if we are pure in the rain of our contentment

As if I can think of this no more.

"You and I"

pic: bontalampas.blogs.friendster.com

You and I

Tears that dry on a rude awakened child

"Haven't You Heard'

pic: torontoist.com

Paranoia will write the world prayer

They read a list of all who cannot stay

Two cripples dancing

To the end we live

I am the ghost who comes and goes

And I hope I'll catch you

In the throws of one last look at the wonder

We had a birthplace in common

"Murder Suicide Meteor Slave"

pic: eraofcasualfridays.net

Not a trampoline of the freaks

"Back in NYC"

pic: acquiescetomusic.files.wordpress.com

As I cuddled the porcupine

He said I had none to blame, but me

You're sitting in your comfort

Who needs illusion

When you're out walking in the streets

"Gunshot Glitter"

pic: jeffbuckleygod

Be one with all you disowned in your young life

"Demon John"

pic: 3squadron.org.au

Dark is the city where the white girls walk by

Down below your eyes

How would you like to be the happiest man in the world?

Whose blistered paws Harvest cut

It takes place on a sunlit lace and the backbone broken

"Your Flesh Is So Nice"

pic: flickr

I take off my belt

Oh, I whip the staircase

Whip the staircase

"Jewel Box"

pic: artraart.com

Come closer, that bonfire holds his life like stones

Like sapphires in boxcars speeding towards the end

Like thieves, my bad luck grows

You left some stars in my belly

"Satisfied Mind"

pic: flickr

The wealthiest person is a pauper at times

Compared to the man with a satisfied mind

Patti

Patti Smith. Priestess of Punk. Masculine. Angry. Strong. Relic.

Words. Other people’s words used to describe a public figure. Words I took to be fact whenever I heard the name Patti Smith. Then I read Just Kids and recognized myself in this young woman, a kindred spirit unconsciously allowing me—and other creatives like me—permission to work and play and hope the way we do. Casually mentioning the piss cups and papers strewn about her work space—mentioning—not apologizing for, she describes the shortness of breath I feel when I have too many ideas and too little time (aka: the day job downer blues).

Though I’ve never gone as far as peeing in a cup because I can’t leave the space I’m in (mental or otherwise), I’ve also never lived in a room where the nearest toilet is 2 blocks away on foot—in the Chelsea hotel, mind you—. In winter, especially, I may have done the same.

And she worked. Burned the candle at both ends, going to a regular job during the day and playing muse all night to Mapplethorpe as he slowly penetrated the all-important scene at Max’s Kansas City. Dating, writing, drawing—not a lot of sleep was mentioned. No complaining existed. She wore the burdens of her life like a badge of honor, proud to be creative, not stifled by the inconveniences it imparted when the “regular world” showed up and wanted a piece of her.

The relevance of the muse sketched out in Just Kids made the biggest impression on me. One can be inspired by a lover, a friend, a building, a celebrity—all of which she writes about in Just Kids, as she was moved by each of these at times. But the muse goes beyond friendship or admiration, providing a sense of confidence and affection (for your friend as well as yourself) that kicks you into art mode and keeps you there for extended stays. This facet of the book has made me see the value of the muses I have had the luck of experiencing.

The only way to judge an artist—in any medium—is to experience his or her work and listen to your soul—not worrying if it’s acceptable to society or even to your parents or your spouse. Patti’s decision to downplay the most familiar references of Mapplethorpe—his S&M photography, his death from AIDS—gently reminds her audience why art stands alone…why it is immortal.

I judged Patti Smith unfairly by not judging her at all and simply assuming the pop culture juggernaut VH1 Hollywood story stereotype sensationalized behemoth was, well, accurate. I thought nothing specific about her…and my airy images of her were wrong in the most base way…The way cigarette smoke and steam can be confused…or fog versus forest fire. My Patti Smith walked like a duck and looked like a raven, but turned out to be a crossbred peacock and phoenix—a phoe-cock.

A poet.

A muse.

Lunar Park

This month's book club selection was Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

The book club crowd was mostly divided between “didn't like,” “didn't get,” “didn't like or get,” or “it was okay.” In the end, a book which received great reviews—from an author with a cult following, now less, was met with Less Than Zero, er, two, stars. Less Than Zero, get it? lol

Lunar Park is a fictional autobiography-slash-horror novel. Told in the first person, its main character is Bret Easton Ellis, who spends the first chapter giving himself a “personal blowjob.”(Shout out to Vickie for that quote, btw.) After hearing how awesome and talented and better than you he is for 10 or so pages..where he recounts his earlier successes of Less Than Zero and American Psycho, we learn he went through a hedonistic phase, fathered a child with an actress a decade ago, went to rehab, and rebounded by marrying said actress and attempting to go “family man” in a posh NYC suburb.

Bret is teaching a class at the local college, trying to bed a grad student, doing coke and other drugs behind his wife's back, and, well, generally going berserk. His stepdaughter's Terby doll seems to be haunted. Then a student who is cross between Patrick Batemen (the serial killer from American Pyscho), his father (whom Patrick Bateman was based on) and Bret's younger self begins appearing random places and freaking Bret out for no apparent reason. Then young boys start disappearing. And there are these weird emails from a Bank of America branch in California. And a serial killer picking people off based by his previous writings (both public and private).

Annnnyyyyyyhoooo.

Is he crazy? Too coked up or drunk to be telling the truth? Is it all real? It goes on forever.

In the end, I recommend any BEE fan read this. Ellis incorporates writing techniques that have made a fan out of me many times over. He uses characters (using that term loosely) from different books in the new story (Victor, Mitch, and Donald Kimball). He leaves the end result ambiguous (as in American Psycho, where we didn't know if Bateman was a killer or a crazy, here we don't know if Bret is haunted physically or just mentally). And his social commentary is still riotously spot on. Kids pop Klonopin like candy and wear Posh Spice outfits for Halloween.

However, as I suppose I hinted at in the synopsis, the book feels like a giant run on sentence. It wasn't concise enough for me. Its ghosts aren't scary. Bret's issues don't make me feel sad...or even empathetic. And friends I spoke to who had never read anything else by him liked it even less than I did. Perhaps a few less subplots next time would work.

Bottom line: if you like BEE, read it. If you've never read anything by him, don't start with this (Rules of Attraction is my personal favorite).