we had thunk to go out yesterday, maybe a museum, but a slow start to the day (none of us is at physical acme right now) precluded that, so we visited Barnes and Noble. give 'em credit, they've made the bookstore an event. the place was packed. the parking lot, fairly large and without the piles of snow you might find other years, was a system of carefully shifting cars in and out. I must say, I get excited just going to the library, there's always something that will interest and surprise me. this B&N is large, a 2 story, castle-like structure. at the entrance stood someone proffering samples of cocoa and some sweet thing that she daubed with whipped cream. I passed. a toddler had his spoon of sweet, which he immediately dropped. and cried forlornly. so the father revisited the cornucopia. we roamed around per usual. I now make a habit of looking at mountaineering books. particularly Everest. I think I've now read 6 books with accounts of the 1996 disaster on the mountain. can't get enough. one book was titled something like Greatest Mountain Disasters of all Time. it's not all like that, the appeal, but certes it plays in. Beth got a new book on Sir John Franklin's tragic polar ordeal. Franklin led an expedition in 1840 something to the Arctic, seeking a passage thru. all were lost, tho the last didn't die till some 6 years after they got trapped up there. the interesting discovery is that one cause of troubles was the LEAD-lined cans of food that the expedition depended on. there's exactly a zillion history and biography books I'd grab, which is hard to focus. I depend on Beth to select. I owe a lot to Beth. I never read psychology or philosophy, not usefully, till I met her. she encouraged my interest. and while I'm going well I dunno over a book, she says get it. I did quickly grab the new translation of Tibetan Book of the Dead, 1st complete translation into English, which the Dalai Lama ordered done. when Beth's father died in 2003, we felt we had to do something, tho he requested no service. at the gravesite, on a beautiful autumn morning at an incredibly beautiful hillside in West Virginia, Beth and I read from the Thurman translation. just us, Beth's uncle, the funeral director and three very local looking gravediggers were there. it was a moving experience. anyway, I look forward to that. Beth urged me to get this other Tibetan Buddhist work, I don't even remember the name of it. translated by Jeffrey Hopkins, who has done translations for the Dalai Lama. I flinched because it was so long and recondite looking. yet got it. Beth got a book by the Dalai Lama, about the meeting of Buddhism and science. it is a poor imagination that cannot (for example) comprise creationist myths and Big Bang simultaneously. I don't believe they cancel each other. the DL has the wisdom to accept truth, truth in the sense of things explained within a system. his moral strictures centre on empathy and compassion rather than dogma. science, of course, can be as rigidly fundamental as any religion. the DL's stancce is very illuminating and compelling. we got a couple of books on US history, one pre-Revolution, which both Beth and I are fascinated by. the poetry section, by and large, feh. the only possible this time was a New Directions collection of Rosmarie Waldrop. no offense but she's kinda dry, and if I got poetry yesterday, it would have to be wet. I like poetry because it is adventurous, yet B&N's selection of sameness just feels oppressive. phooey to 80 page books and serious author photos and Creative Writing Program imprimatur. those boring people on the Poetics list are promulgating these weak little publishing entities. let's make them stop. anyhoo, got a few minutes now to read...

Christo starts out small

Christo starts out small, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

fridge and rag

fridge and rag, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

self portrait #2,003,452

self portrait #2,003,452, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

blaze

blaze, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Google supplies me with People headlines on my start page, so I saw where Anna Nicole Smith died. I don't really want to write about it. the story, no longer life, seems simply sad, Shakespearian in the relentless tragic path. her child has what 3 claimants to fatherhood, wow. I don't want to go there. I'm interested in pop icons, hence letting Google pepper me with People headlines, but I can't invest. Katie Loves Calling Tom Hubby: ook, I thought that was Couric and Werner (Werner being part owner of the Red Sox), and I don't even know if that coupling still pertains. what about the breakup of Mischa and that nude rock star? never heard of him, and she's on some show I've never seen. a while back I saw 20 minutes of that Paris and Nicole Simple Life in which, oddly, the nasty closedminded heelbeelies managed to make our heroines sympathetic. 2 bit culture war. I hate the snotty ass regard towards rural folk that exists, as if we were all NY dicks, but this show somehow scripted the simple folk into subpar enclosure. so now Nicole has cool anorexia and Paris, well, she's a smooth machine. I have no idea how I'll feel if she wakes up dead sometime with a needle in her arm, or whatever likely scenario. I mean, I have used Paris in my writing in a thingie way but not ANS, ceptin' here. maybe Paris is too smart to get caught in the gulley when the flash flood occurs, which ANS definitely wasn't. tho I don't want to use the word smart, instinctive maybe is better. ANS never lost the trailer park. Hugh Hefner said something about how the whole Playboy family is saddened. Playboy? family? no doubt the fam will get over it. I found ANS fetchingly goofy and sincere. she fits right into the mold of out of scale victim with Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland (and I think we can invite Liza with a Z into the rarefied group. good lord, it seems like only yesterday...). and maybe Williams had it wrong, or his insight needs adjustment. because these pure products of America don't seem so crazy, it's the people around them. think of daddy #3 for ANS' daughter: Prince Asshole of Zsa Zsa Gaboria. wtf, as Erin would say. that's where I stop wanting to listen. I really meant not to write on this, but look how I got swallowed. and what of Tom Cruise? I dunno. his publicists have made it so life can't sour for him, I guess.

hey, I like this one. with photography, it's often cool when you can't figure out what the image is or how produced. yet Photoshop possibility sorta thwarts that. it's a needless muddle to get into, but admittedly, there's a pleasure in that bit of puzzling that enters into a picture's how 'bout that. and it shouldn't take away from a Photoshopped image that trickery was afoot. there's a certain amount of bullshit in appreciation, I guess, I mean self bullshitting. reminded of James Thurber's piece on his own cartoons. he wrote something like: people ask me if I do my cartoons by moonlight or underwater, and when they hear that I don't they lose interest. anyway, bottom line, nice photo.

as I bethought me of memoirs this morn, I realized how ready made the syllabus was, for those inclined. and these are writers that could be squeezed into terms of avant garditude, rather than those of a broader net. I used the word dogged with Silliman, meaning it in the bestest sense, as Proust was dogged, neurasthenia be damned. no factoid is too dull, obscure or meaningless, if that comes across right. what I've always liked in Ron's work, starting with Bart is the precise detail. an unjudgmental effort to include. that's a validity of memoir, that trust in the life in the littlest bit. it fascinates me that Whitman and Thoreau met. neither was armoured with glory at the time, they were not living reputations but a couple of writers meeting warily... not sure where I'm going here... in a way, memoir's a test: can you find a path thru?

I'm reading Under Albany by Ron Silliman. which I am enjoying. more normative than I expected, but that's okay. I also figured it should be 9000 pages, but maybe it is part 1 in a 17 million piece expansion on everything Silliman ever wrote, due out in January 2723. I mean, he's a dogged writer, for one thing, and isn't the idea of The Project part of the zeitgeist? not to be flippant. Tom Raworth's A Serial Biography came to mind, not so much for approach but for scatter of memories. of course Hejinian's My Life, Dahlen's A Reading. lengthy list, really, and for good reason. keying the artist in the work. I differentiate these works, which I'll call memoir, from autobiography. autobiography, as I define, is more linear and narrative in approach. which can be good but I think less valuable than the memoir approach. I cannot think offhand of a poet autobiography of any resonance, tho probably some will strike me later, or you could refresh my dotty memory. I see memoir as processual, or, the process part is what intrigues me. you think of Proust and his Wayback Machine and do you remember the dress you wore 25 years ago?. memoir is in all of us, writers or not. usefully in us. you have to get beyond the idea both of importance and unimportance. these skewed assertions of facts, dancing in palimpsest, have vital essence and smack. UA shows the same detailed advance as Silliman's blog. I could see taking all the personal notes on his blog, about himself, and the positioning within his world, and make of them a furtherance of this book. his blog is a curious blend of critical and personal, where his critical becomes perhaps too personally regulatory, while the personal is oddly free. I mean, I like that blend, but in a way, I could see the two urges separated as well. UA being an example of that separation. I think...

somewhere in the midst of Ron Silliman congratulating for good taste his conjectured one millionth visitant Ron makes a good point. (note: the preceding was de rigueur acerbic commentary). he writes, try writing 200 MLA papers in a year. meaning, it aint easy. and yet, as Ron notes, those MLA type papers need be no better than blogged insights. I am finishing my own MLA type paper. it is an endeavour of left brain logical work, carefully following lines. I think I write well, but it is a whole conscious effort. I've had to learn to accept the formalities and work within them, whereas I just naturally fell into the right brain creative jumps of poetry and blogging. with this thesis, I battle to follow a logical trail. at the same time, I must fight to keep the formalities at bay, not let them commandeer the writing. MLA papers present a method, one often useful. likewise the blog, in its inventive capriciousness. I'm much more naturally attuned to the blog manner, but I have learned, I believe, to manage in the MLA mode. I've found that the Poetics list is a large failure because those posting rarely understand the nature of the medium. the Poetics list is not a classroom discussion. to say it is for discussion is to use a metaphor, not a wholly accurate one. Ron speaks of that metaphor in his posting. listserv and blog are about sniping, and showboating, and speechifying. they are good for that. their mechanics do not serve discussion well. deal with it. blogs can be ideas in action. sloppy and bullshitty maybe, but the form is loose and forgiving. MLA theses are not. careful, footnoted arguments work with MLA theses. blogs will be read by more people than theses. the underworld of listserv and blog, should not be forgotten, that backchannel network. I'm sure the point of MLA convetions is less to do with presenting papers as to schmooz with colleagues. blogs and listservs have the schmooz more or less built in. I write properly skittery bloggishness here, stumbling and stuttering around some ideas. it is always meant as an invitation.

now 110 installments of Antic View available for reading or citing in uniquely thoughtful masters theses.

well, it is a chilly Super Monday. I largely spent the Day itself sleeping. congestion came on in my chest and I felt achey, so I took the opportunity just to lay low. I used to look forward to being sick because then I could just stay in bed and read. of course when I did get sick, I'd want to sleep. or my concentration wasn't up for much. somewhat like that yesterday. I read several non-Conan stories by Robert E Howard. there's a historical element in these stories that I like. he's really hung up on race, in the you know, Hitler had some interesting ideas school of philosophy. but if you want to read about cloven skulls, REH is your man. I also read Geography of America, by Stein, a Tony Hillermann mystery, a buddhist text, Berrigan, and I wrote and doodled. I read, napped, switched books, napped. I also watched the better portion of 13th Warrior. it's a movie based on a Michael Crichton book, and sort of recounts Beowulf. I saw nary a noodle of THE SUPER BOWL. it held no glamourie for me. I assumed the Bears would win, tho would not have bet, because defense means a lot. but I was never going to say Manning could not win the big one. sometimes the crap of Superbowl is intriguing but I didn't have the energy for it yesterday. and I don't care who plays Halftime, they diminish.

this is a section from my rawther long work, Days Poem, which Meritage Press will soon publish in 2 steroid-inspired volumes. I just happed upon this bit today and liked it. I have etched my own writing manner into the world's glass, or something such. excuse me while I believe in myself.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Jack Kimball riffs nicely on Bawston. I've lived this sub and/or exurban distance from Boston all, really all, my life but I'm no expert on the place. I like the physical place. as a thinktank, it smells too much like something. why would college town USA be so parochial and insular? not that I can't see difficulties in New York's competitive edge. saw this funky push on Poetics list to establish a poet laureate of Bean Town. needed? nah. it's one more parochial touch. unless, like, they made John Wieners PL, because I take it he ground into and with the town in a way that a PL ought, but aint likely to. otherwise, it is channeled cartoon, like Jack says. a Jetson style moving walkway at Logan presents welcome messages by Mayor Tom Menino and Ted uh uh Kennedy the uh senior uh uh senator of the great uh uh uh state of uh MuhMassaMassachusetts. forever. awk! the place is entrenched. re the Cartoon Network ad campaign, in the Boston Globe, someone described finding one of the gizmos. she said she saw this thing, it had lights and all, and an alarm clock attached to it. it looked like a bomb to her. she picked it up... no shortage of brains her. anyway, I'm wondering what a PL would in fact accomplish. at some state of the city address this poet could downside the message to something all the folks could understand, something like that, I suppose. my own observacation, Bill Corbett would just maintain the academic boundaries. the many schools in the area are rough on the culture.

a grate picture

a grate picture, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

lit tree

lit tree, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

more pods from otherwhere

more pods from otherwhere, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

yield

yield, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

John Dooley, head not hanging down, supplied me with this url for his Mubet project. and don't forget to rememberize to visitate Otolith #4, another eager selection of varied stuff.

some work by John Mercuri Dooley. John's the co-curator of the Demolicious Reading series. I didn't realize or forgot that he had work available for view. I really like this work, like the idea behind it. he keeps adding lines in alphabetical order, the piece continually mutates. amkes me think you could take a text and set it in alphabetical order, a Kenny Goldsmith kind of thing. John started writing only recently, I forget how recently. I started when I was 16, which doesn't strike me as especially early (a friend of mine was writing stories and making comix at 8). I'm fascinated by those who come late to writing, just as it still fascinates me that I started painting only 5 years ago. anyway, check the archive at No Tell Motel for more of John's work, as well as loads by everyone else.

I found 14 Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I think the age bracket for these is older than Pokemon and younger than Magic. I mean, you give your kid brother your Pokemon cards when you've stepped up to Yu-Gi-Oh. I find these card games recondite to the point of arcane. numbers, images, Japanese characters and 1-point type all deliver key info for those tuned in and have their glasses handy. which I don't and am not. but dude, check it out: Chaos Sorcerer, atk 2000, def 2000. compare that to candy ass White Magician Pikeru: atk 1200, def 0. that's zero, the big O. wtf? I have 3 trap cards (purple): Call of the Haunted, Magic Cylinder, and Spell Shield Type-8. I like how scientificky that Type-8 sounds, and heck, who wouldn't want a Magic Cylinder. great at parties, no doubt. I have 8 spell cards (green). Lightning Vortex must be enjoyable, maybe play some Blue Oyster Cult. Mage Power, mm hmm. Magical Dimension, sure. Mystical Space Typhoon sounds 60s to me, something Owsley might've opened the doors to. a couple of alarming ones: Premature Burial and Dragged Down Into the Grave. PB shows an electric zombie with only right arm and head free, a colourful flash intimating the sinking tho in truth it looks like the victim is climbing out. DDITG looks like someone backflipping into the psychedelic grave (break on thru to the other side) but on closer inspection one sees a big hand pulling the acrobat in. there are 7 brown cards (6 dark, 1 light) that bear no general title but all are characters. Princess Pikeru differs from White Magician Pikeru by having a hefty 800 more atk. still gonna get pwned with 0 def, tho. Mythical Beast Cerberus scintillates bad news but both atk and def are 1400. Magician of Faith sounds nice but gimmie a break: atk 300 / def 400. looks like a jester tho the staff looks good enough for Tarot. Gemini Elf pictures I guess a boy elf and a girl elf, long eared, and maybe a mite incestuous. "Elf twins that alternate their attacks". organized elf twins, that would be. one of the spell cards is Nobleman of Cross Out. an editor!!! and in sooth: "Destroy 1 face down monster and remove it from play." coolio!!!

Erin's mock trail team competed for the 1st time this season. Erin got to be the 1st one to speak, as he gave the prosecution's opening remarks. I haven't witnessed this sort of thing before, Erin performing, so I found I was nervous. being as sick as he's been, he hasn't had the best opportunity to prepare. nonetheless he did great. he's an excellent writer, so his remarks were sharp, but he also gave them a good rendition. that he's 6'5" and wearing a suit, instead of his usual black t-shirts with rude remarks, makes for an impressive presence. there are 3 seasoned vets on the team, the rest are newbies (Erin and a couple of others were on the team last year but without roles). I've noticed it before, but it's worth speaking of again, the difference between homeschoolers and public schoolers. you can see the social yoke on the public kids, the way they react amongst each other and towards their coach. a smirking submissiveness. both the team and those who came with them joke sardonically thru out the trial. the homeschoolers are no more serious, just more focused. not crunched by the hierarchy. I'm not laying anything on the kids themselves, just pointing out how much effort and energy is wasted for the sake of school hierarchy. and also who gets left behind. the big red herring about homeschooling is socialization. like the socialization of high school (jock beat up nerd ha ha) is so cool. anyway, at least in populated areas, homeschoolers work out ways to socialize. homeschooling aint for all, but it is not just about fundamentalists concerned that someone will mention Darwin. anyway, proud of Erin, my family.

watched Inconvenient Truth last night, a largely intelligent presentation. he has a nice, surprising, self-deprecating humour. I was astonished how well he did on Saturday Night Live, comfortable and sly with good timing. Gee Double You got nuthin but that phony folksy smirk. but anyway. nice use of visuals in the lecture. even tho the idea that he said he invented the internet has been deprecated, Gore still comes off as being overly concerned about being a central figure. whatever leadership he showed in the environmental cause is beside the point, and playing up that leadership is pernicious to the cause. you know, oh that Gore. nearly 40 years ago I saw Allen Ginsberg explaining to Merv Griffin that the greenhouse effect was doing bad things, so Gore aint the only one in the fight. he pulled the heartstrings a few times. I'm sure the near death of his son rocked him, but maybe we don't need to know that his son's travail somehow sharpened his environmental concerns. and did it take the death of his sister to convince him that tobacco is a bad thing? that stuff aside, tho. the science was well done. even tho the conclusions might make you crap your pants, the ecological interplay is fascinating. for dessert, watch Day After Tomorrow, or whatever it is called. yikes!

a troll posted some anti-gay scurrility on the Poetics list. this brought forth an outraged response. rule one for the internet, let trolls bounce their effects off rock walls. okay, rule one ignored. so the discussion--I'll be whimsical and call it a discussion--became Comparative Suffering 101. it all sounds like what should be told to your therapist: I've had it hard being a member of group X. it all finally boils down to the singular. I was reading Ric Carfagna's interview with Vernon Frazer at Big Bridge (here). Vernon talks of having Tourette's syndrome. there's something that sets you apart. but then, we're all set apart. Vernon sounded like he was thru the wounding, you know, in and thru. those contentions and conflicts throw a light, if you're willing to see. what strikes me about the Poetics list is the seeming lack of self-observation. it's a performance area yet people don't regard how they might be performing. the icky academic closeness doesn't help, and thesis paper brand of assertion, with a dependence on crucial texts for back up. a largely dull waste of potential.

Professor! we've found some strange markings...

Professer! we've found some strange markings..., originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

pleased and lucky to receive an email from England, not Africa, offering one sweet deal. this English type person is an artist who sells her works online. she needs someone in Americay to collect proceeds from this country and send them to her. I could do this. I infer the theory that Paypal doesn't exist in Merrie Olde, and tho I could handle the tricky business of dealing with Western Union, her customers could not.
gumption is what wins the day.

memo to doubters: proof positive

memo to doubters: proof positive, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Ben Friedlander sent a small chapbook book, a translation of a poem by Heinrich Heine called "To Set Your Mind at Rest" (Subpoetics Self-Publish or Perish 2007). it's a joking, satiric poem ("But if a Brutus should arise / Among us, he'd soon realize / He'll never find his Caesar here: / There are too many cookies near."). what I particularly like about this is its life as ephemera. I don't know from Heine except knowing that he ranks near Goethe as German Romantic Wunderkind. the front cover portrait shows Double H in profile, hand against cheek, with a Keatsian gaze towards some wonder of the moment. I assume this is a modest piece by the poet. and for Ben too. perhaps the poem just struck Ben, and the urge to translate. what I mean by ephemera centres on the lack of driven import. which isn't a slight. you have the experience of the translation and the original, put together in a neat printing. I'm reminded of the book by Aram Saroyan, The Beatles. a 4 page thing, each page consisting in the name of one Beatle. some New York poet (I mean I saw it in a New York anthology) answered Saroyan with The Rolling Stones. this consisted in the names of 3 Stones, and two pitchers for the Philadelphia Phillies. the Saroyan book belonged to Robert Grenier. I remember thinking, wow, you bothered to get this? I get the point now. perhaps the tangents I've just run make my point. Friedlander went to the trouble of producing this artifact. having read it a few times I will put it somewhere, possibly even the bookshelf. at some point it will fall into my grasp again (or I may even seek it), and I'll reread it. given that one can make a pretty decent effort using home options (I don't know if Ben went pro or not with this production), why the heck not make your own books. okay, this sort of thing doesn't count in Print or Die Land, but among the clear thinking, gems like this are to be desired.

Antic View installment 106 now in view. lacuna between installments entirely my fault, I couldn't focus on it. tho my latest effort is more muddled than usual, I consider even that a useful act. I'm working things out. so is Jeff. I'm thinking, what I see on the Poetics list, without painting too broadly, tends towards academic and dull. or what I mean, are these people poets or teachers? if poets, what is the manner of their getting on? I mean that seriously, not snottily. how are they working?

I have a poem to view at Big Bridge. yes look at the entire issue, but please to read Jerking Goshawks From the Sky

the pic below is from Lanny Quarles' Flickr site. I believe them be lotus. I love Lanny's sense of interest and oddity, dunno how the site escaped me so long. and just to say, Ben Friedlander's use of Flickr (link to the right), exhaustive and varied, really is great work. oh and I've added Shanna Compton's pictocompilation. I'm sure there's scintillating perspectives on how only dickweeds post photos online but I love this influx of pics, tho I cannot keep up with them all.

29

29, originally uploaded by noemikon.

alien pods and tree

alien pods and tree, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

the old dog currently in residence here, hereafter to be known as "Brownie", has issues of abandonment. I am his 3rd, albeit best, owner. when we go out, he can get dippy. dippiness largely manifests itself in his chewing and eating of inappropiate things. he's an explorer when it comes to comestibles, very open minded. in fact, the fewer details I impart, the better, for your sake. last night we went out to dinner. we had taken our tree down yesterday, and ornaments were yet to be packed away. while we were gone our esteemed, visionary canine performed some interesting eating sequences. a number of bird ornaments with feathers for tails were found sans tails. "Brownie" even, intrepidly, consumed one ornament. mmmm, glass... he also chewed a watercolour painting by Beth that happened to be in reach. a pile of my paintings were on the floor, from my sifting process for my show. Beth's painting happened to be mixed in with some of these. when I say mixed in, I mean somewhere in the midst. "Brownie" nonetheless managed to pore thru the paintings till he found one by Beth. that was the one he chose to desecrate. it seems we're in a good cop / bad cop sitch. by luck of the draw, I'm good cop. thus, when "Brownie" goes flippy, he seeks things belonging to Beth to chew. he has performed such operations on my stuff, most recently a couple of paintings that fell within his critical purview, but it appears the greater satisfaction is Beth's belongings. a severe critic, to say the least.

I have added to my thing-in-progress Captain Element. as a thing-in-progress, working its way into the landscape, it's just a mystery waiting to happen. it's a mystery in the process of happening. it's a happening in the mystery of process. it's process in the happening of mystery. you know what I mean.

I gave my showing yesterday. okay, did it the hard way. we took a wrong turn to the gallery and I thought we could find an alternative route. which I couldn't. so I was late. but no one had arrived yet. I said we, and that includes Beth, Erin and Beth's mother, who came up this past week to help the sick household. except for a dr visit last week it was the first time Erin had been out since leaving the hospital, and before that it was January 2. Beth's better, having happily recognized the symptoms early on. I had 60 pictures on the wall, the official showing. each of these works keys to an entry in the catalogue that I wrote. the catalogue consists of conversations, literally, with some of the works, as well as riffs on process and whatnot. I will be so bold as to link to Tom Beckett's kind words about my catalogue. Tom is a really sharp and involved critical thinker, I have admired him for I'm guessing more than 20 years, so I am honoured and maybe even relieved that he could speak favourably of the catalogue. what I write about on this blog is what I do, in a life sense. whatever the yatta yatta issues of blogs, which critics from acute to snotty ass have exhaled, there remains, you know, the heart beat, and all that. and tangents are taken, whoop. inestimable (and how could anyone even estimate her?) Eileen Tabios, backchannel, has also given good words about the catalogue. I reiterate that a copy can be emailed to you (allen.bramhall@comcast.net). I have a few remaining hard copies, which won't fit in those tubes of the internets, but I can send it via US Postal Service, a fine and dedicated group of women and men who will stop at nothing to find you. additional to the showing were another 40 or so pictures which I strewed, in hopes that people would pick them up. most of the work, you see, was done on this dining room table, in the world of the living. so a handful of people availed themselves of the showing. so much work, of course the quality varies. I never accomplished much with oils, which is where I began in art. there are a couple of oils that Beth wants to destroy, and so do I. when I began painting 5 years ago, I did so by overcoming the idea that I wasn't cut out to do art, which is why I'd let myself not do it for so long, despite yearning to. when I began doing art, think of it: this large need being assuaged. so as amateurish as those early oils are, they are driven by this urge. I think that urge is damn interesting. and the defeating of the counter-urge, likewise, if not more so. it's so hard for me to make critical decisions about my art because it is so fun to produce. for me, every piece has this happiness of play. yesterday at a restaurant after the showing, there was a child at the next table intently drawing. he, his parents and sibling had just arrived and the 'rents were settling their infant with a bottle. the older child was a toddler. apparently he had, immediately on arriving, applied himself to his drawing, with great concentration. I loved seeing that. the wheels were learning to turn. visual art is such a hello to the unconscious. the neural connection is, I wot, more direct and unfiltered than with writing. dance and music probably are likewise. these modalities give you a chance. Beth and I talked about my work afterwards, and she lovingly said there's a lot of chaff. as I've admitted, I have a hard time being critical with my visual work. yet I agree. and it is not like I don't tear works up to recycle as collage, or cover up oils and acrylics with gesso, economical tabula rasa. the process intrigues me, and each work, "good" or not, survives as a voice in that process. I expect I will be more selective should I show again, because I do finally want the work to be taken as mature intention. trees appear as components in many of my pictures. for quite a while, I didn't even register this fact. the trees just appeared. now I consciously return to the motif, because obviously it is important. I favour a series of 6 scribbles, done in a burst, featuring trees. I said scribbles because they betray the energy of creation. vigourous arm strokes, that is. I did them with watercolour pencils, after which I sweetened the effects with water and brush. a small watercolour called Last Tree My Friend shows an angled pine tree seemingly launching into the sky. the valedictory wistfulness appears to come from somewhere outside the state of heartstring pulling. Beth's mother, who isn't particularly "into art", totally got my catalogue, the elucidation of and respect for the process. it's a surprisingly nifty document. I will note finally the odd beaming feeling of seeing my work displayed. it doesn't make the work "good" to display it, but you see the life. there's a point with any artist, where you turn the corner. that what you do isn't just your little secret but something you choose to share with the world. I know a moiety of crapoo figures in this. I have seen the lamest, most half-assed work imaginable pressed forth as worthy of publication. there are those, you see, impervious to self-criticism. but among those who can assess, a generous event exists. critics of careerism are letting the human quotient overwhelm the angelic. I mean, that's the conundrum, selfishness and selflessness so closely tied. panic not, just leave a little opening for the light to shine in.

average cat

average cat, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

a pretty good riff on Ezra Pound by Lanny Quarles. there's a third path of engagement, besides outrage and ignorance, and it is one that doesn't simplify. I have to read more of Ben Friedlander's criticism because I like how he negotiates his way thru the clashing rocks.

flags

flags, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

showing redux

showing redux, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I wanted to ramble further about Collected Poems. I note in my previous yawp that my articulation wasn't too clear (je suis fatigue). when I wrote that anyone can find poems, I meant that anyone can produce a good one, emphasis on one. a poet is someone who makes such an endeavour of the practice. Keats' Ode to Indolence is, by my reck, a stinker, especially compared to Grecian Urn and Nightingale. its weakness is informative and useful, however. I think its weakness is worth knowing, because Keats was certainly committed to poetry and the process. you, as a poet, probably write frequently, maybe everyday. I think we all have a sense of hooking a big fish, throwing back the little. it seems like we should respect the investment made in those little fish. which is not an evasion of aesthetics, but a consultation with process. again, this is why I am showing this saturday a few works that don't please me a heckuva. sure, the show will predominate in works that I like and love, that I am proud of. I am not making decorations, I accept the demands of the process. Collecteds are charts of interest. what strategies can one take to stay focused? you might peek at Anne Boyer's strategies for publication, which, despite their whimsy, suggest the sort of focused approach an artist takes in getting and presenting The Work.

Erin still on the mend, he was really wicked sick, now Beth is confirmed with pneumonia. unsurprisingly. we've caught it earlier than with Erin, so it looks like she won't get quite so sick. I've got to be wary because I spent plenty of time in the coughosphere. Beth spent many nights at the hospital, orchestrating care and getting info, I only spent one. orchestrating care is a necessity, alas. hospitals run mechanically, perfunctorially, and everyone's rushing elsewhere. at one point, Erin's Tylenol was changed by a doctor to one with codeine, to which Erin is allergic, as Beth had informed the staff. so he gets hives to go with the rest. the chaos and confusion in hospitals is disconcerting. in wandering the halls, I found a bulletin board with some how tos for being a better hospital worker. like not using abbreviations when writing orders, because these are so often misread. I know it's a hard task, with all these interdependencies being derailed by emergencies and the occasional screw up. it mean you can't be complacent. anyway, let's say this is the last illness report for a while.

I want to chime in on Eileen Tabios' ruminations on Collected Poems. I collect collected editions when I can, for the possibility of finding the less well known. there is more, tho. certainly if you like a poem by someone, you would be curious to read more. I guess I don't mind the connection between the poem and the poet. tho I know that too much biography can get in the way. and I think the process is pretty damn important. anyone can find a poem, or a picture, I mean make a good one. it is, indeed, a notable aspect of art that there are some who bend their lives towards finding these treasures. it is not just fascinating to see the contortions Ginsberg, for instance, went thru to produce his oeuvre. my error with Ginsberg is not recognizing the value of these contortions. the value is in the learning process. in my showing I intentionally include works that I know are aesthetic losers. I want to acknowledge that part of the process. aesthetics is pretty tricky territory. to the degree that aesthetics propounds a conformity, it is shit. okay, I said it. the individual, hello, does not conform. admittedly, that sounds 60s to the max, and, yes, I lived thru both ends of that decade. what I infer as the devil of School of Quietude would be the way the work may conform, one to the other. but 2nd rate LANGUAGE, and NEW YORK, etc etc, likewise shuffles towards sameness. how an artist navigates those shoals... I consider myself an Olsonian, because Charles O provided me, or intimated for me, if not you, certain pathways. please, thank your teachers, even as you run away from them. there remains the matter of my saying no, Charles. no Bob, no Gertrude, no thou and thou and thou. collected poems are reports of the process of getting around to the point. ping.

fascinating human/machine collaboration by D^vid D^visio. the only way to do this is to link to his profile, he has mucho blogs. he works with a Palm Pilot sort of whatsis (I guess, it is machinery I know next to nothing about). his thingie mistranslates his entries and there we have the fun. I'm all for re-visions.

my vision for my showing is in the way of an installation. I wanted to display a lot of work. aside from work on the wall, I wanted work scattered about, inviting people to pick them up. the gallery consists of two rooms, fairly intimate. the space feels good. I wrote a catalogue that offers reactions to 60 of the works. I took the risk of including works that I'm not thrilled by. this is a nod to the process. I would say those "failed" works began with good intentions. it could be that I didn't match my skill set with the impulse. it could be some urge to please set me off the path. probably the easiest way to screw up your artistic vision is to feel the weight of the great ones. we learn from these mentors, certes, but then we reach a point when their influence wobbles us. anyway, I'm a thrifty Yankee (and yet a Yankee hater as well!!!) when it comes to my failures. quite often I tear them up for use in collage. I think my best work is collage. I am fascinated by my visual work because it seems to come from a part of my brain I don't converse with. there are no ideas whatsoever there, just coalescing shapes, colours and images. not to go all Jungian. I find visual work explorative and playful without the fuss of seriousness. with poetry, with writing, I'm always fighting the urge to commandeer the impulse. the sense of agency that Blake and Spicer muster speaks of the need for the author to git out of the way. anyway, there's the deal with my showing. if anyone would like to read my catalogue, email me. I may put it on line but till then..

j'ever see this charity? "Poets In Need is a non-profit organization providing emergency assistance to poets who have an established presence in the literary community as innovators in the field and a substantive body of published work." so they must have a reader on staff who determines the innovation and established presence of anyone hoping for some help. bad poets need not apply, SoQ need not apply, non networking hermits need not apply. publish or die perhaps has a stronger meaning here. it seems like an effort to keep the best part of the gene pool going: the excellent poets. any charity one might do is selective, I understand that. I quibble with the aesthetic necessity here. sorry we can't help you with your cancer treatment but you're a trite poet.. file under That'll Learn Ya.

Art Showing, Allen Bramhall

for those in the Boston area who can find Jamaica Plain next saturday between 4 and 6 pm, I'm giving a showing of my visual works. the pictures below were taken while setting it up. there will be some 100 works displayed, and refreshments.

the particulars:

Pond Circle Gallery
53 Pond Circle
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

Pond Circle is off the Jamaica Way, just a few miles from Fenway Park. Mapquest knows how to locate the gallery. I will probably read at the showing as well.

I hope you--and you, and you--can attend.

Allen

Erin came home this afternoon. he's still sick, but can take antibiotics by mouth rather than intravenously. I realize this autobiographicality may be the worst of blogs but there's not much possibility in writing about anything else. my reading the past 9 days has been Down Spooky by Shanna Compton, and Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. I've indicated here earlier that I'm down with Spooky. Stephenson's pretty good. it was recommended by Erin's friend and his friend's father, and they gave me a copy. I like it better than what I've read by Bruce Sterling and William Gibson (maybe 3 novels between them). Stephenson's characters have a warmth that I find lacking in the other 2, and a bouncier humour. I'd love to get back into reading novels. where novels fail for me is to the degree they simplify life into structured resolutions. I definitely don't want to watch any sitcoms, thanks. King of Queens is, I confess, oddly likeable, but I've had enough. that Ray Romano show is thoroughly unlikeable, but sometimes succeeds despite. Bill Cosby is fascinating in its good-for-you ickiness, but I believe his success made Tom Werner rich enough to place the Red Sox securely into the category of fat cats and World Series winners. Steve Hervey show is mild, comely crap. I like watching the secondary characters (played by tertiary actors) fuss about in the poorly conceived "bits" they are imprisoned by. I did a little writing, sitting near a window overlooking the Concord River.

additional showing

additional showing, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

more showing

more showing, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

we learned yesterday that the doctors were more concerned about Erin than we knew. when his pediatrician 1st saw him, he said he was about to just write the antibiotic prescription, but something told him to look further, thus the x-ray. they have since tested Erin for things like Legionnaire's Disease. that Beth and I haven't shown symptoms suggests something airborne, not the usual pneumonia. his fever has finally abated, and his oxygen saturation levels (Erin has been on oxygen) are getting good. but he still faces more hospital time. rough row to hie. sunday his iv needed to be changed. for whatever reason, people have trouble locating Erin's vein. the nurse called the staff emt, because emts do the procedure all the time. man, were I ever to use the term lickety-split it would be to describe how quickly the iv was set. we watched another Jackie Chan movie, The Medallion. which is JC plus a cross between The Matrix and those world without physics martial arts movies now somewhat common. we watched a little of Kill Bill. I saw just the last part of vol 1 and the beginning of vol 2. Beth saw what I saw of vol 1 and all of vol 2. Erin fell asleep during vol 2. straight out of manga/anime land. I found the swordplay wearisome, and the cartoon hipness more precious than anything. I'm not convinced by the cool, and I think if you're to enjoy Tarentino, you need to accept that coolness. I'm glad I don't watch much tv anymore. I've always tried to pay attention, look underneath a bit, but you are still drawn into something numbing. when Erin's leg was broken, the bill of fare tended toward the Disney Channel, with heavy hitters like Hilary Duff and I don't remember what. you slip into a television rhythm, and then the day is done. I've written little lately.

Erin still at hospital. he was much improved yesterday morning, but then dipped. I've already mentioned that the on call pediatrician claimed to have seen Erin after he'd had the lung sample done. Erin, Beth and the nurse who helped transport never saw this doctor. possibly she was confusing having seen him in the morning, long before the procedure. a 2nd pediatrician talked to us about it, repeating the 1st doctor's claim, clearly more ready to believe her colleague than the three people who were there. the hierarchy must live. one saw/sees that with the Catholic Church. all those molested children and the greater issue for the church is maintaining the structure of the church. it's a cover your ass strategy, which is pretty fetid. and it's not like we begrudge the triage that goes on. the 1st doctor either lied about seeing Erin or was confused. the 2nd doctor chose not to listen to us. it's pretty dismaying. we just want to bring Erin home.

blue rose

blue rose, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I will get going today but it's a useful exhaust right now to write here now. we've watched a lot of television with Erin in hospital. Erin hasn't felt up to doing much else. watched some of The Last Samurai. only the last third, and with plenty of expert interruptions. set in 19th century Japan, with a collision of old and new world. Tom Cruise as an American who hooks up with Samurai. there's probably plenty of hokum involved in the movie, like when the woman (geisha?) undresses Tom and the camera lovingly glazes his shiny perfect skin, but samurai culture as presented seemed interesting. and the hyperkinetic fights. how is it that swords slicing human flesh is kinda sexy, empowering, lovely? cuz that's the impression one gets, the gamer thrill. remember Obi Wan intoning the elegance of laser swords. now I do understand that guns were available in Japan in say the 17th century, yet warriors tended toward formalized one on one encounters rather than the wholesale virtues of gunplay. anyway, the final battle, swords versus guns, was straight out of Braveheart, with a side trip to Charge of the Light Brigade. I'm willing to watch the whole movie, despite Tom Cruise's presence. Batman and Robin was pretty ridiculous. gthe Tim Burton Batmans (ugh, Batmen) live well with Burton's quirky obsessiveness, but the franchise looks dead now. the complete flouting of physics bothers me, tho I suppose it shouldn't. the excitement, say, of yoiur hero falling from a building is the scrambling intensity of saving said ass. if the falling takes ten minutes and you're equipped qwith tons of gadgets that can do anything, the tension diminishes. Arnold looked silly in his get up, and plodded thru his role. why's he driving an overchromed Studebacker? and his freeze gun is exactly like those steroid squirt guns boys at swimming pools covet and use. it all looked so chintzy, more like the tv show, but without tongue in cheek. Uma Thurman got to ham up her siren role but again it was like the tv show. so the tally is, 2 dedicated scientists mutated into egocentric villains. George Clooney as BW beamed his winning half smile with samurai grace. there were a handful of shots where he had no lines, but the camera had to catch his sexy twinkle. not saying I don't envy the twinkle. I know the costumes have been discussed in the literate world of pop consideration. the molded abs and bums sticking out is a wee bit weird. is it puritanical for Batgirl's molded breasts to have a molded bustier? I, personally, think so. covering up the covering up, yet at the same time highlighting. the 3rd Austin Powers had its moments, tho they tended to stretch on. some nice set pieces with a lot of dull filler. I really disliked Fat Bastard, a pointless, unfunny character. we saw a game show in which a cab driver picks up riders, who answer questions while they negotiate Manhattan traffic. another show purports to make your home safer. well, it is like this: a household is set up with cameras, then a B&E expert breaks in. the deal being that the victims will get the latest security gimcrack for submitting to this crud wink. the thief breaks, literally, in and scours the house destructively. obviously the show pays for breakage, but the thief showed no regard for, say, a sentimentally prized coffee mug or such like. and what about the paintings that were taken. reality takes prisoners. today Erin and I watched Shanghai Nights with Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson. Chan's choreographed fights are fun to watch, and he's a good straight man. I happen to like Owen Wilson. I kinda like any actor who don't give a shit. also, yesterday, saw some of I can't think of the name of it, but Chris Tucker replaced Owen Wilson, anotehr good pairing. finally there was a hour or so of college basketball. Erin and I were reading while we watched, and we took a walk during. basketball looks like such a tepid thrill now. I guess I'm no longer amazed that someone six foot a lot can manage to stuff a basketball into a basket. oh, we also watched a team trick shot billiards competition between US and Europe. the announcer says one guy is known as Maestro and another is The Wizard. the aesthetic is so foreign to me. you know how you mind gets twisted when you think of the Michael Jordan of shuffleboard or whatever. there's no reason why basketball would be more unimportant than shuffleboard or billiards trick shot competitions. it's just foreign. I recently read an account of a cricket match. the terminology was completely recondite for me, even tho it seemed so populace inspired. I almost feel I am not watching enough tv, because the culture is percolating but I'm not witnessing.

the redoubtable Tim Peterson tagged me with a meme... hmm...redoubtable means able to doubt twice... two doubts = a confirm: all righty then. a meme is the viral spread of cultural info. I was late getting onto meme as a currency but anyway, Tim presented me and four others a chance to unwind on the question of 5 little known facts about me. this blog to the contrary, all facts about me are little known. I can say that I have a strange bump on my left little finger that I presume few know about. I snagged the finger on a nail when I was a toddler, and it healed oddly. it doesn't hurt or make itself known to me much. I don't imagine a lot of people look at someone wondering if there's a bump on the finger. what are 4 other things to say? I have written on this blog and on Antic View that I don't like poetry, but neither blog is much read so I can offer that as another little known. in saying that I don't like poetry I mean perhaps that I don't like the memes of poetry. when I became interested in writing, I guess I had this ball of light idea in mind that differed from the laboured, recondite things I was told was poetry. I've learned to like and even love some of those laboured, recondite things, but I am most interested in a writing that surprises me. which is why I see a closeness between poetry and humour. okay, that's 2 down. the 3rd baseman's chasing me towards the catcher so I'll just rattle off 3 others: I paint, I think I have Asperger's, and I cry easily. and I love Beth and Erin. I shan't tag, the net has already been thrown.

if language could include... anyway, Erin's still in hospital, where no one should be. the hospital experience... kinda love nurses, kinda hate doctors. well, I'll try to be narrative here. nasty disease situations are abroad at this time, Rhode Island closed their schools today because of flu, pneumonia, meningitus confluing (from confluence, right?). so Erin just managed to collect the going term of dismay. and the doctors apparently aren't quite sure what they're up against, proceeding in the throw it in the moat and see if anyone salutes mode of scientific inquiry. Erin's fever finally diminished to near normalcy friday morn, then a shift in antibiotics (for fear of its the damaging effects of one of the antibiotics). then the doctor (that is to say a doctor) thunk Erin should have fluid removed from his lungs. they do during ultra sound. Erin was not allowed to eat or drink, I think for fear he'd vomit inconveniently during the procedure. for some reason, he wasn't on iv. upshot: 6 hours without fluids, and his fever spiked. the procedure consisted in a needle in his back, but only for a sample. we got differing explanations. someone said they may drain the fluid but the doctor doing the procedure said they never do that. which is part of the hospital experience, along with the golden one: hurry up and wait. okay, I'm trying to stay with upshot. the hierarchy of hospitals is so malevolent. doctors are untouchable. their contact with the patient is brief. you realize that their work is a performance. each has a style by which they communicate to you as patient or concerned person. job one for doctor is ascertaining needs and invoking cures. secondary is the matter of explaining, whether it's harrumph harrumph impressive med school or look you in the eye. nurses do a great deal of sensitive stuff, making judgment calls concerning the patient's needs and care. they also empty bedpans. it's a weirdly large spectrum. Erin finally had the procedure, which freed him to eat and drink. his appetite is back, which is a pissa sign. the procedure was investigative. it would reveal whether or not the congestion in Erin's lungs was pustular, which, if it were, would require surgery. Beth had asked to speak with a doctor at noon, and by 8 still had heard nothing. requests had been made to get a doctor to tell us what up. another upshot: an on call doctor claimed to have checked Erin out while Erin was being transported from the procedure. Beth was with Erin the entire time. that doctor lied. all we wanted was information. after a procedure, an explorative one, answers are expected. Erin's temperature has been above 100, much of the time several degrees above, for a week. we want to know what's going on. okay, I've gone into blah blah mode. Beth's sleeping at the hospital tonight. I stay with the dog and cat. Beth just called, this minute, to say Erin's temperature was now 98.6. I could only cry. Erin's been a wonderful patient, enduring. all this hierarchal bull crap interfering in our lives. the Olympian doctors bespeak their truths, yatta yatta. yesterday (I think) Erin had a student nurse. this guy will be a great nurse. he was exquisitely sensitive. he was Portuguese, a little hard for me to understand. I mean, I had to have him repeat what he said at times. he was in oh I see mode as far as procedures but worked with what I have to call a tenderness. the doctors have a barrier against the emotional concerned people, whereas the nurses don't. the doctors don't give shit about the financial burden of illness. cripes this isn't music, I admit it. whingeing, sure. but, hello, you bring your child, or anyone, to a hospital, you are concerned. I understand an emotional distance allows doctors to do their job, but they have to have a sense of the patient and the people around the patient, what they fear, what they need. the lying doctor amazed me. the nurse who accompanied Beth up from the procedure (I was doing a yeoman job calling in a meal for Erin, who proved a right trencherman, as closing time for the kitchen neared) must've brought the issue to her superiour, because when a respiratory doctor arrived to speak with us, she was joined by head of nurses. this doctor answered all our questions, which is all we wanted. when Erin broke his femur, the surgeon who did the procedure (who I think is now head of pediatric surgery at Children's) was readily available. kinda scary, actually, because we saw him at all hours. so I hope Erin and Beth have slept well. dog and cat here gave me an extra hour before intimating their own needs. I should wonder about the nature of what I've just written here, but thats a study for anon. the record, that is, will have to stand as is.

let's put it this way: Erin decided to have pneumonia. typical teenager. I hope it isn't careerist to mention this, because I hate careerism. careerism is when you talk about what you're doing. ugh. Erin's mighty fever has refused to depart, plus that wracking cough, and, ugh again, today, he just happened to mench a shortness of breath. we went to the doctor, who ordered an x-ray taken. which required a goodly hour or more waiting for the chance. and it would take more than that before the xray could be read, so we were told to go home. where the call came thru, as dinner inched toward serving, that Erin must be admitted to the hospital (by admitted I mean submitted to). the doctor greased it so that Erin could go directly to his room. but that didn't mean that the iv for fluids and antibiotics wouldn't be started till 3 hours later. the phenomenon of hospital time is very disconcerting. the staff was attentive, I don't wish to demean. you just wonder where does time go when it gets to the hospital. 6 years ago we had a 9 day stay at Children's Hospital when Erin's femur broke (I slept on the floor, couches, even a gurney). jeez, the nurses were wonderful, the surgeons were wonderful. okay, the on call doctor wanted Erin out toute de suite. Erin had external pins in his thigh to hold the bones together. one got infected in the hospital and had to be replaced. afterwards, the on call doctor removed the packing from the infected wound. he said to Erin, this is going to feel funny. odd definition of funny. he proceeded to pull a yard or 2 of packing from Erin's leg, with Erin screaming and Beth and I holding him as best we could. holy shit. I presume Erin rests well now, he acquiesced to lights out when we left. I guess I don't care what the phony poets are doing, Jim. I don't care about which poetry careerists need spanking. one has to make an effort to care about that stuff, whereas Erin's illness is part of life, part of my life. the only cure for bad poetry in the world is good poetry, humph, not radial yakking. the poetry of waiting at the doctor's is just a different animal. one, I daresay, that really breathes. the issue of poetry power couples is corny, obviously. that I got to spend 6 hours in a hospital today isn't a valid measure of anything but patience. that I felt the need to stay up later than I had ought, to quickly transcribe the conditions in my head as I return from that hospital is interesting, perhaps you could try to figure why.

I can't switch to Beta Blogger, tho I guess I want to, which means that I officially have done a fair amount of blogging. I don't like the verb blog, because it suggests a usage that is not necessarily so. I mean, a blog is a means of transmission. if one's work appears in a magazine, is one magazining? well yeah, but what's the dillio? I cede to the idea of a community of bloggers, but I signed nothing with blood, and I doubt others have either. so no need for hyperactivation on that point. I think of Tributary as a poetry blog, but how do I fit shopping tours and journalistic dailiness into that idea? super easy is how. you know the back cover of Lunch Poems from City Lights. evoking a picture of O'Hara bopping around and, you know, limning lines on handy Olivettis. poetry can be much of goings on, inside and out. it's a cheesy view to see them strictly as rampant careerism. that works into a definition of careerism as any effort whatsoever to broadcast one's work and one's thinking. that's up there with Kerouac's self-ultimate, and wasn't he a kid at the time? I like to sit at the computer when I can and language what's recent, what's around, what's tipping the current scale somehow. I specifically treat myself to slang, or the adventurously non-standard, or any other way to surprise myself, and possibly the Reader. that's an exercise, exercise is good. I look forward to new entries at all the blogs to the right, and others as well. I got on the Poetics list 7 years ago, when I pretty much rebegan writing poetry. having isolated myself from what will have to be called the poetry community (but not from the writing itself), I found the Poetics list inspiring for having others yapping in a daily way about poetry. the list got over-managed to the point that it has little apparent life. plus people never seemed to catch on to how awkward to the point of stupid the group soliloqiues of internet "discussion" can be. a very weakness of blogs is just that yelling over the transom at the blog next door that goes on. what's interesting is the personal ruminations in patches of one's own idiom. the conscious and unconscious effort to create a vital language space.

2007. hail the new year lads and lasses. Beth and I celebrated our lst New Year's Eve together on the 10th floor of Boston Children's Hospital, when Erin broke his leg. we could espy Boston's welcoming fireworks display out the window. this year we planned to old fart it by watching the marathon of Everest episodes on Discovery Channel, 6 hours worth. then a party invitation came. then, friday night, Erin wasn't just sick, he was torching at 105 degree fever. it will be said that Erin is prone to sockdolager fevers. they also tend to hang on. we were unsure if we could leave him. we left the decision to the last moment. so we did see a few episodes of Everest. Erin had seen some the first time they were aired and tho he liked them, he wanted to watch something else. so he started telling us to go. and his fever had ameliorated some, so we did. and of course we stayed longer than we planned, till after midnight, then hurried back. Erin's temperature during the night hit 103, so the battle continues to rage. when I was young I had a sterling fever. I was laid up watching the movie Moby Dick. it's not a great representation of the book but it works as an adventure, even to the degree that I think Gregory Peck comes off fairly well as Ahab. anyway, my fever broke during the climactic whale hunt scenes, which are pretty exciting. I managed to sleep till 6:30. by habit, no matter when I go to bed, I tend to wake the same time. so here's the, like, new year and all.

ceremonial

ceremonial, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

21st century

21st century, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

whirled view

whirled view, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Jesse Crockett's Flickr

looks like I cannot switch to beta Blog, because this blog is too large. I imagine some Blogger (GOOGLE!!!) inspired disaster awaits. whatever. so anyway. we actually made a trip to the mall (not far) to look at the mall in its post Christmas mallness. Beth's idea, just to see how the economy is doing. didn't even leave the car. this is part of the fascinatingness of Christmas. Beth wanted to see if the parking lot was full. it was. not overfull, but you'd have to search for a parking space. just checking under the great big hood. I love doing this, watching the world on its energized mission. we've pared Christmas down to a big ass tree, a party, and some calmly procured presents. I mean the work part. the celebration radiates as its own. sometime in November, for instance, depending on mood, I start playing Christmas music. I can envelope most (but not all) of the secular stupid stuff (not "Santa Baby", not certain other crass vehicles the titles of which I have no energy to lift up for display). I feature older stuff, renaissance and medieval. plus "Drummer Boy". wandering thru the mall is a pleasure, only mildly avaricious (the Apple Store!!!). sunday, when we were at Barnes & Noble, I saw a book by Ed Viesturs, an Everest and high altitude veteran. he'd been on Daily Show recently. I looked longingly at it but chose not to succumb to the wanting urge. next morning, Erin's present turns out to be the very same. score! that's what I like about Christmas. not that whole Wii presposterousness. I write about these shopping adventures because I don't think poetry allows limits. I think poetry includes seeing. Olson (his birthday is tomorrow) brought to me, maybe not to you, an inclusion. that poetry isn't a restricted, bonded place, but welcomes questions and attribution and theory. that history, or science, or crackpot ideas are poetry too. seeing how Coach bags work their way towards young hands is interesting to the point of magic. what did Jung come up with, active imagination. well now, think of the manner of your dreams, the ridiculous conjunctions and strident oddity. the diurnal and the phenomenal, how do they differ? poetry is possibly exciting, potentially involved with the numinous, the extended, the daily, the morally brilliant. my friend Ezra closed off, and you can see the fearsome smallness in the picture I linked to earlier. not to say we all don't have batch files of stupid running rampant, the point is to recognize a few of them. Beth was at the garden center, where several small children stood in front of an inflated Rudolph performing Rudolph's song impromptu. at the point where Rudolph's exclusion from reindeer games was mentioned, one youngster added "because he didn't wear underwear". brilliant. the Poetics list currently murmurs with the MLA buzz, and I can see meeting up with names on books you've read or wish to, but the academic clog and freeze up would discourage me. the poetic probably doesn't want to isolate or barricade itself. leastwise, that's my working proposition. the limitations sort of kill us, do they not? well, that's my present rumination. I'm not trying to freeze things.

I just got comment box spammed, so I looked to check my settings. lo, I discovered a bunch of comments I hadn't read before. I apologize for setting it so that those comments never appeared. I appreciate pretty much whate'er anyone contributes, not counting those arriving via mindless machine influx. I also, in trying to make those comments reappear, apologize for apparently stupidizing those comments into some blogger netherworld. I swear I hit no delete button.

interesting photo of Ezra Pound (whose name comes up frequently in crossword puzzles). taken just after St Elizabeth swallowed him up, he looks sorely distressed and confused. it's not to whitewash the antisemitism, for which, I daresay, he paid more than most antisemites, but I find this a singularly compelling picture. you see a kind of earnest intention to pull everything together, to study and understand. you also see him overwhelmed by the effort. it's sad in the way any boundary such as race, gender or culture is sad in its determining (limiting) effect. I mean at heart I think there was a brilliant sincerity to Pound, but the weight of that um hubris just warped it all. it's not up to me to make karma evaluations of Pound but I will say there is much to admire in his work, amidst all the screwed up blah. in sooth, we have to be kind to all our heroes, for the human steps that they still take.

my loved ones sleep on Christmas morn so here am I. I don't wnt to hang out on the net today, but Christmas music is playing, tree is lit. we went to the mall yesterday, with some shopping aims but also to enjoy the spectacle. it's fun to wander around, look at things, take it all in. we got there around noon or before. plenty of parking available. Sears is a surprisingly quiet box. it feels like they don't want to be too busy there. as opposed to being outquicked by Target or whatever. I've noticed that the music has been uniformly low octane at Sears. Sinatra sang, if I recollect, "Silver Bells", giving it his most I don't give a shit inflection. his lack of sincerity was never a problem, part of his roguish charm, but musically it sounded like greengrab symphony. some few musicians make Christmas music like they mean it, but it is a genre of avid hackery. we muddled thru cds and dvds for Erin at FYE, big anime sale. these entertainment stores are up against it what with the internet, both legal and illegal. we entered KB Toys, a crass place that I would normally avoid. we had our reasons. I can understand, and yet. it is next door to EB Games, an electronic game paradise which oppresses me, all these stupid, violent, lubricious graphics on those stupid, violent, lubricious games. folks at KB Toys were in who gives a shit mode. the last time at the mall we visited Coach again. the music there wasn't nearly the echoing thump of Abercromie and the Other Name, but it certainly aimed towards young market. the product hasn't been aimed youthward, however, only the marketing has. which is wise: teach them to appreciate your wares rather than guess what their taste is. wisdom there. I didn't see much register action at the Coach store, tho all the store people were busy. at Macy's however the Coach bags were moving. now I can't remember the name of the designer but I liked the bags from this one more than Coach. Beth tells me that there's no question that Coach does things in a 1st class way, including lifetime warranty on the bags. teens were purchasing bags. we got some camera accessories at Ritz camera. a hatless Santa entered the food court and said hi everybody. I think it was the mall Santa, dressed in an elegant green coat (looked Victorian), but he was treated more like a weirdo. no Santa, I don't think you're a weirdo. passing thru Sears, by the way, it appeared they were dismantling Christmas displays. near Santa's picture taking factory a tired looking fellow sat talking on the phone. he said, the little rat is in line to see Santa. still doing a box office business there. across the road we entered he holy ealm of Barnes and Noble. which was jumping. a cop is outside drinking a Starbuck's brew. a year ago Beth and I went to the mall, I think the day before Christmas. it was packed to the degree that it took us an hour to make a circuit round the mall, without finding a parking space. space was a difference maker then, certainly, but there was tons of room yesterday. B&N was about normal. B&N did what Whole Foods does in times of crush: station someone at the head of the checkout line to facilitate a smooth flow. we did indeed stop at Whole Foods for a handful of things. tweren't so busy really. we have our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. I made a cake, inventing a n orange sort of frosting for it. Beth did a roast. while it cooked we watched our bit of swag from the day, Pirates of the Caribbean. the 1st one. it's a fun movie. not having any expectations the 1st time I saw it, it was a wonder. one doesn't expect the flaky performance that Depp gave. the 1st one at least managed to keep its confusing elements under control, unlike the sequel. the cat has now decided to sample such of the dog's breakfast as the dog has chosen to save till after walkies. light enters the sky. I shall now perform walkies. Merrie Christmas, however you take your pleasure.

saw the 1st half of Breakfast Club, which I aint never seen before, amazingly. tho having lived thru the 80s (it came out in 1984, I infer) I absorbed a degree of it. beginning with that song by Simple Minds, which I admit to still kinda liking. I didn't realize or had forgotten that John Hughes directed. for a while there he made just about every movie in which an adolescent, pre-adolescent or post-adolescent appeared. I can recall some were okay in their way, and some just functioned on the strength of formula. speaking of which... the opening credits wheeled out the five central characters. let's see if I can memory it all up: Molly Ringwald was the pretty in crowd girl, Michal Something Hall was the dork, Emilio Estevez was the jock, Judd Nelson was the hood, and Ally Sheedy was the eccentric introvert. it is true that school divides into such factions, but perhaps with more blurring round the edges. the five must spend 8 hours doing nothing in the school building as pennnance for misdeeds. which strikes me as an unusual way of dealing with problems. a school official, after all, must come to school to oversee. that school official is a Captain Bligh-like asshole. his pugnaciousness is better suited for employment as prison guard but I'll leave his career choice at that. bad guy Judd is the main instigator, asking direct, offensive questions and stirring the pot. everyone gets their chance to orate about life as a teen, and Hughes makes sure everyone is juxtaposed with everyone else, for purposes of dramatic tension. zowee. I was taken by how acting class the whole movie was. Ally Sheedy with her hair covering her face, squeaking inexplicably, seems perfectly inarticulate in a seriously autistic way at one point but later is asking probing big life questions of Emilio. the kids are so knowing and so stupid at the same time. condensare. and don't forget the hijinx. Erin put the movie on, somehow with the idea it was a funny romp or such like. no, more like a hunk of phony tearjerk for the cheap seats. anyone seen any of the actors lately, or Hughes himself? it's like the 80s wouldn't let them go.

yesterday was our anniversary. we went to dinner in a restaurant in Concord, yes snooty old Concord that was in Thoreau's crosshairs. afterwards we drove around a little, because some people have taken to decorating their homes with lights and whatnot, which is rather fascinating to look upon. well, were we surprised to see luminarias (bags with lit candles inside) lead into the woods near the river. and further, a bonfire could be seen. actually, what 1st caught our attention was the number of cars parked by the river. also, the sound of drums. where were people going? natch we had to find out. Beth put it together, a druidy, pagany thing going on. well don't that beat all! it so happens I LUV witnessing sacrifices, they really make you stop and consider things. (just kidding). we walked to where the luminarias began. someone was there photographing a standard which showed sun and moon in a yin/yang sort of configuration. Brother Sun and Sister Moon. the guy told us that he'd heard of this gathering before but had never seen it. we followed the path in. coming widdershins was a couple with a baby carriage. the path was uneven with roots and rocks. I'm not sure there was a baby in the carriage but there was a large drum. in a clearing we found a group of maybe 20, men and women. all of whom were in their 50s: retired hippies!!! I mean, you bet. 6 were gathered with guitars singing a country blues. others were clustered talking. I don't know how pagan the festivities might've been, could as well have been a reunion of Deadheads. things were breaking up. the fire was beautifully set up, a campfire really but riproaring and lovely. the people ignored us. the photographer had made his way in and was taking pictures of the people and of the the sun standard set up nearby. I felt like an outsider because I'd dressed in a tie just to prove to Beth that I can still do it. I probably looked like The Man. that Beth and I were married on Winter Solstice was intentional, so this little celebration felt natural and right. neither Beth or I was brought up religiously. I attended a Unitarian church with my parents. nothing religious about that. you can't get too excited about being non-committal, and so the Unitarians floating along in mildly liberal satisfaction. when I learned about morris dances, the Golden Bough, etc, I got more interested in things pagan, tho I've never like joined and circles or whatchacallit. Easter, for instance, attracted me more when I could connect it to fertility rites. so anyway, our hippies friends apparently make it an evening every solstice. the juxtaposition with staid Concord aint lost on me. the area of the gathering was held sacred, so I've heard, by native Americans. the colonials, natch, determined the land was a good place to pasture cows. so anyway, a clear cool night, the river roaring by at whatever the very least speed a river can move and not be a pond. Beth and I finishing off 6 years together, a time that, honest to god deserves a book to be writ, if either of us are strong enough for that. and we're lucky as anything.

Beth and I shopped a bit yesterday. 1st, late lunch at Panera, where I had onion soup in a carved out boule of sourdough. the French have made it law that a croutons must be part of the onion soup experience. included with the soup: a nice hunk of bread. must have more bread, must have more bread... 1st stop was L. L. Bean, with a specific item in mind. when I went to Franconia College, in northern nowhere, New Hampshire, it was considered a big adventure to drive all night to Freeport, Maine and hang out at the Bean store. at the time it was the only Bean outlet, and it was a sumptuous all night store, to accommodate hunters and grass-inspired hippie types. I never made the trip but a fellow at school would frequently remind me of the time we drove to the store. I'd tell him that I had never made the journey and, with appropriate baffled pause, he'd reply, really, are you sure? whenever the store was brought up, my father would intone the store's slogan: L. L. Bean, the best I've ever seen. he knew the store when you could meet the famous L. L. hismelf. it seemed like a friendly, fresh store but we were there only long enough to learn that hand crank flashlights that can charge cellphones were out of stock (for a friend). so a trip to The Mall became necessary. at the front of the Discovery store, someone was stationed with the charge of greeting customers and playing with toys. previously, said toy was a flying saucer, a radio-controlled fan provided the aeronautical oomph. this time it was a radio-controlled dinosaur. it was a high energy, constantly moving toy that sharply resembled the perpetual motion terrier pup we came close to adopting, the Terrierist. the Apple store continued to look hip. psst, we got something for Erin. Brookstone, another store full of gizmos, actually had the cellphone charging handcrank flashlight. I got new earphones for my measly half gig last year's iPod Shuffle. sigh. at Circuit City, I gave them my computer so they could add memory. I was told the chips can easily be replaced. last week I opened this machine up and removed a chip, just to see what up. I thought I got it back in but when I restarted my computer it reached a point then went blue screen then out. that sort of thing discombobulates me, even tho I managed to poke at the thing to set it proper, so I was happy to follow the recommendation of letting a greenshirted tech guy perform the operation for a financial consideration that I considered worthwhile. I remained at the counter while Beth applied peeled eye to televisions and cameras. a tv was on behind the counter at which I waited. the show was oook I forget the name, a celebrity news round up that rounded up the tidiest tidbits of essential info, which were exploded via electronic magic into once key areas of my brain. a full nelson was applied to my brain 1st off in seeing Lara Spencer as one of the "reporters" on this show. I think she killed off the bouncily enthusiastic twins on Antiques Roads showmaking them get their own show. the point is that this Lara Spencer, seemingly cool and snooty, has PBS cred, and hadn't ought to, under any circ, be on a celeb news ooze, where haughtiness is reserved for, you know, Gary Burghoff of MASH fame, and not pandering celebrity news show hosts. I mean really. the big story was of Miss USA almost being dethroned by Donald the Trump for having partied somewhat underagedly. there was a press conference in which a heated Trump and a mortified Miss USA paid public pennence, altho perhaps they spelled it correctly. the Trumpmeister barked out that the miscreant must go into rehab, which he made sound like a punishment rather than an assistance. if she doesn't shape up, we'll be seeing a new Miss USa, and you know how rocky it can get when there's a change of Miss USAs midterm. I hope it doesn't come to that. there was a shocking story about Britney Spears getting onstage at some club and doing a strip tease. apparently she kept her clothes on, which I guess is the shocking part. unfortunately I cannot recall more news items but I know they were equally captivating if not more or less so.

ready for the jam bands

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I appreciate when poets write about their craft, the inklings of curiosity and the so forth that moves the writer, in this instance Shanna Compton. I could tell a different tale but no reasonable competitive basis exists. nor, I should add, am I or anyone going to save poetry, however much one might sneer, erupt or defy malfeasance in the poetry biz. neither shall poetry be killed. in saying this, I don't want to indicate that tales of Christmas trees falling down are not of the poetic. if I need to defend myself. which I don't.

since you're not doing a whole lot (reading this blog), you probably could spare a moment to read the latest at Antic View, or assay my latest pix at Flickr. links are conveniently to the right, but use the left side of your brain for best results. I like how I flounder around with Jeff Harrison's percipient questions (Antic View), and I take total credit for the weird wonders that walk onto the viewing field of my camera. elsewise go see how Jimmy's dealing with the issues, that could be important too.

we had a party saturday night, our Christmas party. I didn't get to bed till after midnight. at 4:00, hello kitty advocated that I rise. a feeling of numbness made me refuse. at 5:00, however, I woke out of habit, and was awake enough that I just got up, tho tired. what did I see in the living room? why, the tree reclining on the floor. of course I had plenty of energy. I proceeded to remove all the ornaments and lights that weren't smithereened, a slow process. not to exaggerate, but it was a sort of Katrina moment, seeing things so messed up. in sooth, it wasn't quite so bad. our collection of ornaments includes some sentimental items from both Beth and me, plus our gaudy new haul. some of what I had are/were literally more than 100 years old, tho for the most part ratty looking items. we have since sawed the trunk again and set the tree up. decoration will occur anon. I did the dishes then went to bed for a short snooze around 10:30. the tree probably wasn't securely set in the stand the first time. the mystery is that the cat never showed up for breakfast, an amazing neglect of his inborn duty. his 1st and 2nd Christmases he took to climbing into the tree but he hasn't done that, being a husky fellow, the past couple. so we don't think he knocked the tree over. possibly the tree fell when he was in the room, thus scaring the bejesus out of him, but Beth thinks he was on the bed the whole night. Beth's niece is visiting us, but our cat, Mowgli, accepts her. he doesn't accept a bunch of strangers in his home as we had the night before. so maybe he's in a pout about the incursion of strangers raiding his abode, but that rarely causes him to miss a meal once the coast is clear. anyway, this afternoon we went to Orchard House in Concord, home of the Alcotts. instead of the usual tour, like we had of the Old Manse on the 4th of July, they had a presentation. each room of the place was hosted by an Alcott family member. that is, Bronson, Marmee, Louisa Mae, etc. it was a pleasant, different approach. Concord had a snootful of idealistic, iconoclastic thinkers back then. hard to imagine now. the town has always been well-heeled. as recently as 15-20 years ago, it still had a working class element to it, mostly due to its farms. today it just wants to go mcmansion, altho it remains a pretty little town. just snobby as shit. after our tour we had dinner then took in a couple of extreme Christmas homes. you know, with mucho lights. one of these displays is excessive, no question, but with a certain amount of taste. the other is kitsch to some power I have yet to compute. illuminated Santas up the wazoo, including Homer Simpson as Santa, the Grinch as Santa, Mickey Mouse as Santa. I took pictures tho I doubt they can give any sense of the wonders. if that 2nd house could be deconstructed, woo hoo, it'd have something to say. a couple years ago, the lights on the roof spelled out SUPPORT OUR TROOPS, for the particular benefit of planes leaving and arriving at the nearby airfield. so now i shall take a look at pictures and then reclaim the sleep I missed.