Beth and I did a painting class at an adult daycare centre today. it was a ball. the class consisted of 4 women. the activity director rather arbitrarily set that number, even tho others wanted to join in. space was at a premium but we could've taken more. the centre's concern is that everyone have an activity. the 4 women were all in their 60s or 70s at a guess. I gather all four were in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. only one, Ines, seemed so. the other three women were enthusiastic and there to have fun. Ines refused to paint. she didn't, as she said, feel up to it. she is attached to one of the others, Julia. Julia kept urging Ines to pick up a brush, but Ines never did. Ines showed interest, however. she could've wandered off when she left for the bathroom, but she returned to our room. she hung around afterward when we were picking up, too. she just couldn't bring herself to take that active step. alas. Julia was self-deprecating about her own painting, but heartily entered the activity. Judy really went to town. did 5 paintings in the hour, each one procedurally different. one was based on a wash, one on spatters. we used inexpensive (but of decent quality) semi-moist watercolours. I suggested using a stiff plastic card like a palette knife, which Judy did and they all gasped at the effects she produced. they tried each technique that we offered and were thrilled with the results. I forget the fourth woman's name but she made a quite impressive picture of 4 trees. the trees appeared first, then a grassy green below them, then a blue sky above. she then figured out how to colour in between the trees to give depth. the results were quite accomplished. we've done classes with children (ages 2-10), and I don't know if the enthusiasm was any less with these women. they bubbled with conversation, and it was almost all about art and painting. great focus! last year (having taken an arts therapy class (thus an expert in the field)), I tried to entertain my father with painting. he professed not to enjoy it at all. I wasn't trying to cure him, just offer him something to do. what he did was paint his initials and decorate them colourfully. the results were bright and pleasing to the eye. my father had been an engineer, and tho that part of him is gone, I think there remains in him still that which dislikes the imprecise and unbounded. the other women, particularly Julia, were very sweet in trying to encourage Ines to paint. the activity director was more goading in her approach. not bullying, but itresome natheless. it's that you can see (or think you can) that just doing it, painting, would be so good for Ines. it frustrates that she just can't/won't. I believe Ines will paint eventually, for she seemed awful close and her friends were so encouraging, and hope she does. I told her about my father and finished by saying, well you can't force a person and she said no you can't force a person. we plan to do more of this. they were all proud of their work, happy to sign their paintings and anxious to take the paintings home. I have to reiterate that this was as fun as teaching children. they understood the play of it. as fun as writing is, painting is moreso.

license plate on suv:
mypooh

scenario:
tell taxi driver to
follow mypooh
and step on it!!!

taking a cue from Lanny Quarles, I lift my index finger in the direction of Lewis Lacook's blog. it has been 5 hours since Lewis updated, leaving me with the chilling thought that Lewis might actually sleep a little bit. tho his work is prolific, to say the least, I don't find it glib in the way of X, Y, Z (you know who they are). a constantly surprised tension exists in his work. I believe he keeps himself honest by varying his procedures. hearty vivid stuff, however produced.

I suppose the report from a reporter who is also an active participant in the contretemps being reported might be considered biased to the extent that said report should be questioned for verity. what think you, rational Reader?

the context
is always
yours

electric phony
martyrdom
on a big public
stage

tribute to the nervous eaters out there, thanks for worrying the really really really awesomely little shit. keep up the good little work.

I have a very big blog.
I published successfully.
republish entire blog.

up to date

ask not what, like, whatever; ask, like, hey, you know what I'm saying?

admonished sympathy
for the guy
who has the ball

jeez i know I'm wrong a lot. take things seriously, whoop, too seriously, fall on face. critically start to think the work is unconnected with the person, which is only partly true, and it's that little connected part that we should forgive and respect, both. sorry everyone, when I forget that.

snappy stuff from Jack Kimball's Pantaloons... so to speak...:"Collaging is not all that rueful, as we know, and these days with super graphics editors and shouting heads to punch up rib-breaking pastiche, anyone can start a number-one news channel, as Roger ("fuck your brain") Ailes knows. The brownshirts in fact enjoy total command of the cool technologies, they just haven't managed to shut down every leftist as hip to power as RealAudio account execs and Xbox marketers, say. Snap on, leave on, play on."

more stuff at my site, a series to Maria Shriver: The Maria

added something called "Some Songs" onto my site (check it out). something I wrote five years ago, didn't finish. more is to come. think Rilke...

Patrick Herron recalls on Poetics the 2000 Boston Poetry whatsis. attending my first public reading since Franconia, and a large one. my entrance to a larger poetry world (where larger poetry...). Beth and I had lunch and hung out with Peter Ganick and Sheila Murphy. Sheila was in process of introducing me to Nada Gordon when someone greeted Nada and I was forgot. Robert Grenier tried to introduce me to Robert Creeley logn ago, threes times even, but under whatever influnce RC just wasn't noticing... but after therapy, I'm okay!!! met Stephen Ellis in person, after an email acquaintance, adn he stayed the night with us. met Patrick face to face, him up from NC. sat with Sheila writing during the readings, she was writing too. listening and writing. I was impressed by Michael Gizzi's reading, dry, crisp and witty. Sheila read well, not loud but very clear and dynamic. a lesson for others. we had a great sunday morning breakfast with Patrick, Stephen. about wore out by sunday afternoon so missed some interesting stuff. it was an event.

haven't been able to commit as well to the ensuing readings. last year missed it completely while travelling out west. mean to take in some this year, but easier said than done. a son to consider and an elderly father to take care of.

this year's reading once again bubbles with controversy. as in: who gets to read? to which can only be said, if you don't like the reading, start your own. the lineup for this year's reading has people I want to hear, people I would sooner avoid, and quite a few I don't know. no issues here to be desperate about.

excuse me rashly concerning my career

wow pageantry means a lot in our town, roof overhead, systems go. then the mysterious ranger walks in, dark, fields certainly accepted. no wait, it is a poem poised for something purpose, like meaning only not so hard. a nation, then, as iffy as a byproduct, in which younglings and oldsters can open party lines together, whetehr invited or not. only not so fast buster moments arise as humanly possible. a lot of fingers seem to point, if not even tellingly predicting a place in space, person who has an idea about 'it'. well, we all now that route, and the fight for right, and wish we could contain all the maximums we believe in. drumming up traffic for the next revolt, getting fannies in the seats and the word out. lovely stuff. which side of this circle are you on? prove a point.

on the hover and

agree that there ant no revolut onon the Poet csl st. thatl st smorel kea cockta lparty atwh chpontlessf stcuffs prov dethe onlyexc tement. but what revolut ons there, now? def net. some poetry revolut onares that come tom ndfor me: Pound, Olson, StenD cknson, Wh tman. fa revolut onex sts now, what monolth sbe ngtaken on, and whon deed are the revolutonar es. geet's really a rather corny concept, more a generat onal ntake of breath than a battle. the namesc ted prov dedash ft, at least asseet, and've learned from them. lots ofwr tersnterest and excte mebut wouldn't tag them revolut onares. Proust, fornstances sosu geners, that wouldn't th nkanyone could chooseh mas a revolut onary leader. tho canth nkof 3 books that have been compared to Remembrance: by Anthony Powell, Robert Mus land Truman Capote. Powell's 12-ology sonly superf cally like Remembrance, a very long f ctonal zed memoir. haven't read Mus lyet. Capote salarf. I mean om gawd, he's just lostn that Hollywood artst crap (craph ghly recommend read ng, for laugh ng purposes). anyway, howabout arevolut onn wh ch poets get pad. or not. who cares, really.

what revolution is that?

I agree that there aint no revolution on the Poetics list. that list is more like a cocktail party at which pointless fisticuffs provide the only excitement. but what revolution is there, now? define it. some poetry revolutionaries that come to mind for me: Pound, Olson, Stein, Dickinson, Whitman. if a revolution exists now, what monolith is being taken on, and who indeed are the revolutionaries. gee, it's really a rather corny concept, more a generational intake of breath than a battle. the names I cited provided a shift, at least as I see it, and I've learned from them. lots of writers interest and excite me, but I wouldn't tag them revolutionaries. Proust, for instance, is so sui generis, that I wouldn't think anyone could choose him as a revolutionary leader. tho I can think of 3 books that have been compared to Remembrance: by Anthony Powell, Robert Musil and Truman Capote. Powell's 12-ology is only superficially like Remembrance, a very long fictionalized memoir. I haven't read Musil yet. Capote is a larf. I mean omigawd, he's just lost in that Hollywood artist crap (crap I highly recommend reading, for laughing purposes). anyway, how about a revolution in which poets get paid. or not. who cares, really.

"Wash the floors, Lorine!--
wash clothes! Weed!"

I seem to be ragging on folks. I sound more negative about both Jordan Davis and Kasey Mohammad than I mean to be. they are, shall we say, common names, and locked in. I would fear being locked in. there's a certain video intelligence that gets in the way. just read Geoff Huth on Niedecker, such a trim exhaust she suggests. Huth's words caused me to take down a Niedecker book (I remember Grenier speaking of and presenting her work). today is such a confusing blind, and the revolutiuon is just too wordy.