we did a paint class at the adult daycare again today. we used to do smaller classes but now people are being herded in. that sounds bad but people, especially elders, reach a point where everything is beyond. falling asleep in a chair is easier than connecting, the world around Alzheimers or strokes or Down's syndrome tells you so. you write poetry now? make it your life, pour into it, not for art but your life. art connects, desperately. poetry, knitting, whatever, the adventure into something where value is measured in the most human terms, that's art in life. not to say it won't all go away, life is tenderly risky, but give yourself the best opportunity. several of the people we meet are regulars and have a ball. others need coaxing. one woman, who has been to every class we've had, is very lively, a hot ticket even, absolutely supportive of everyone, but she's often quite stumped what to do herself. she's lost some connections, tho she sees their shadows. her husband keeps her supplied in material and frames what she finishes. I like to see that understanding. one woman really gets me. she sometimes uses a cane but is one of these quick moving people. I'll place her age safely at 70+. as an infant she was left on a doorstep. I think later she was reunited with her family. I don't know if she was ever married or other such facts. I just see this bright tough woman still inquisitive and energetic. today she did a rainbow with flowers growing at each end. a simple but pleasing form. she worked painstakingly. there's something terrific about her strength, which you notice just talking with her. whatever her losses, she has learned to comprise them. is art about bitchy, ambitious dickheads with the self advertisements and paranoia displayed right and left? whoop, rhetorical quetion. no wait, what does your theory say??? nemmind, I don't want to hear. I think art has something kindly in it, something to the left of its commodity. I urge the painters to sign their work, take credit. several signed with a jumble of letters, synapses misfiring. woman told me, as she did the last time, that her parents had died last night. and she cried and cried. loss, yes, but what she lost was something else. we saw this with my father, who frequently wanted to go home, which was not just Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge, but 70 years ago. all gone. this woman was the same. she felt that she had no home, no friends or family. of course that could be literally true, uncomfortable propositions often are shunted aside, but no doubt there was an internal and physiological loss involved as well. I could go on, and send some snideness to the promoters of discord but I'll just leave this snapshot. I do know that I've been wrung.

jumping around reading. still at Hogfather, which I seem mostly to read whilst walking he dog. 3 times people have asked me how it is possible to read and walk the dog. it is true that I cannot walk and talk on the cellphone, but then I have trouble talking on a cell while sitting. when I had my rambling labrador, with whom I'd go 5-10 miles a day, the feat was as nothing, since she could go unleashed and would come when called even if a deer was in sight. the present canine comrade, tho elderly, cannot safely go unleashed, wild guy that he is. but I can read a few pages as we poke about. wonder why people approach me on such a point, tho, strangers that is. I recently read Gilbert Sorrentino's essays and selected poems. the essays excel, thoughtful and embracing. he's the sort of writer who can give you handholds for difficult writers, and freshness of perspective. his poetry semed to arise from an overly determined place. this is an influence, I think, of Williams. an active, or activated, presence in emotional situations. I guess you see his intention too much. compare to Creeley, who wraps himself into the fuzziness with such insistence that he derives a clarity. I think I speak of a certain forced facileness that I detect in Sorrentino's poetry. he overmanages the poem. I'll bet he was a good teacher, tho. currently reading 9-11 by Noam Chomsky. derived from interviews that Chomsky did soon after the event, and hurried into print. I like that idea of immediacy. so much chatter in those days, remember? I wrote a great deal at the time, really a lot. I'd say the events of 9/11 hang over it all, but I was unable to relate specifically for quite a while. I patentedly wanted to avoid the mock suffering, the exhortation, all the nervy emotional outpouring that such events naturally inspire. I didn't want to make literary hay. someone like Chomsky was unfazed by the shock, had perspective that could guide. 5 years later, the immediacy of the evetns still live in the book, tho I think he undervalued how much the administration might subvert the Constitution. anyway, a minor book round up there.

survivor of Pirates 2

we went to see that Caribbean Pirate thing. sure, I liked the 1st. having no expectation, and the thing just wiggled and waved, lots of fun. this one came with anticipation, e'en tho I knew they were thinking franchise endowment all the way. partly they pay off. it's all in the eye, these vivid set pieces. the humour seems to be bullied from recalcitant creative types but I guess that just proves that the hard work reaps. the perception derived from this videoscape is that a hurried agitation slurs over the mass of it, but that's the sort of feeling that's bound to arise. you feel that Depp was under orders to do Depp-as-Cap'n-Jack-incorporated. certainly there was much in the way, going on at rapid intake of corporate breath. I know, I know, these were all filmed at once, including the now much not anticipated part 3. mucho set pieces, hyper and comedic, and pretty good even if there were an implied ratio to french fries served, not to forget popcorn and god knows what action figures. none of this being eyeopening, just present like death. Depp's Sparrow is still a wonderful character, with his drunken sashay and despite those heart almost felt moments with Keira. plotwise, they decided to utilize several writers, who didn't consult each other. I'm sure it is humanly possible to extricate a plot out of what we saw. we went with 2 of Erin's friends and they all worried the question as best they could but, bright as they are, I don't think they solved the conundrum. for me, it was more like reading stage directions, in trying to suss the plot. visually it all worked, big screen suck in. the ending, which is to say, the invitation to throw another wad at the theatre owners for the ritual expiation of the 3rd installment, brought a Bronx cheer from the depths of my curried soul. well, you will see for yourself, no doubt. I had a moment of seeing Keira as Star Wars Portman, in the bad sense (forced to provide a central dismal "emotional" core, interpreted as closeups to a stricken face). Orlando was like lunchmeat too, tho he looks good in sword play. not knocking either K or O, both are plausibly spunky, but the corporate logic only wanted star quality on glossy magazine cover, something to take home. don't miss it if you can.

speaking of remiss, was going to add Joshua Clover's blog, but a ce moment it is visually unreadable--what's up with that?--so I'll wait. I like his slightly oblique and ruminative.

I've been remiss about linking to Galatea Resurrects. I liked the idea right off: informal reviews of poetry books. I thought blogs would be rich in that sort of thing, but in fact there aint much reviewing, of publications or readigs, going on in blog world. or (give up the ship) the Poetics List. instead, you most often get these implemented treatise, which are mere siphonings from class. I like the variety of approaches to poetry blogs, and don't mean to say blogs should do anything. but I expected, and would find useful, a stream of informal reactions to the poetry that people find. so Eileen Tabios offers this model for instigating the critical side. if nothing else, it puts readers in front of review copies.

Jeff Harrison and I have completed the 79th installment of Antic View. the world record is 80. lots of ANTICipation here, wooee. please read our interview blog and find out who we think we're better than.

reading Hogfather by Terry Pratchett. I read the 1st twenty or so Disc World stries, roughly as they came out, years ago. I've always been interested in humourous writing, but you know, there aint much really in the more "substanial forms", like novels. I used to plunder the local used book store for anything (almost) with blurbs suggesting hilarity. apparently we have variance in the definition of the term. I'v e alwasy equated hilaity with some effort of humour, silly me. so, however I got onto Pratchett, I stayed with his yearly appearances. I stopped reading them a while ago, because I just wasn't reading many novels at all. but I turned Beth onto Pratchett, so that she ends most days with a read of himself, and she's read everything he's produced Disc World-wise, several times o'er. I love how Pratchet's themes are so apocalyptic. he's got himself a s Yoknapatawpha world. I liek Faulkner too, tho somewhat leery of his self-conscious fetid lushness. Pratchett plays his worldscape really well, new and old characters twining merrily. this touchs my poetics, tho I won't bore you with that now. well, only to say one's interest carries.

yesterday, friends, we forced Erin to North Bridge in Concord for a little history lesson (homeschool, remember), and into The Olde Manse Inc, which portions of Emerson's family owned for 150 years, with an interim 3 year rental by Hawthorne. owned indeed by a non-profit holding company for interesting properties (name forgotten at this key time). the Manse, from which Hawthorne extricated Mosses, sits on a slight rise at a safe distance from the mighty floodable Concord River, which Thoreau (accent on 1st syllable) states probably rushes at the lowest possible flood: one inch incline to the mile. yet this is a watery sprng and summer hereabouts, so the river shows no slackitude even yet. but anyway. disgruntled colonials versus disgruntled Hessians 231 years agone. remnants. I've always loved this place. Beth and I exchanged marriage vows (poems, actually) on the very Bridge here, winter solstice 2000. but I, for all my years in this area, never done the tour of the Manse. the 4th seemed the right day, Hawthorne's birthday. the upstairs back bedroom where Emerson set his desk atween the windows to look out towards the river (the essay "Nature"), yet Hawthrone chose to set his desk on the opposite wall, with view of said wall. and the windows etched by Sophia (long I for 2nd syllable) Hawthorne, using her diamond wedding ring, playful, permanent graffiti. the bodies of Sophia and daughter Una were just last week brought back from England and reburied at Sleepy Hollow cemetery where Nathaniel. lots of flowers there sunday when I stopped there with camera. calla lily bouquet on Thoreau's grave. sometimes I feel preternaturally New English, including the comfort of the low ceilings and colonial style (never lived in such, myself). yet I feel that I should apologize as well, as if I were trapped in such a concept. then, apres diner, we zipped into Boston for a desperate atttempt to see fireworks. and we toured around, not zackly sure when festivities would be. we saw the various sights of Cambridge near the river till we finally set the chariot to rest, walked a mile or so and beheld what looked like Gandalf versus Balrog in the offing behind buildings and trees. and it seemed just about right, and our own family way, to put the fourth in such perpective and activity.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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