Years ago, I read a book I’ve completely forgotten except for one sentence:  “The image of the self-destructing youth-as-artist is long since overdue for expiration.”  That’s not verbatim, but the idea behind it carries the right sentiment.  And maybe it’s just the gloom of a low-cloud ceiling, but I’ve had that line in my mind all morning.  I’ve also just finished the first disc of Californication, a Showtime original series with David Duchovny.  Mostly it’s funny, with some of the greatest lines ever uttered in television history (the one about the cat, oh my). 

My first introduction to the show came months ago when I picked up the then new issue of Poets & Writers.  The opening piece derailed Californication’s viewership, claiming, among other things, that the stereotypical sold-out writer storyline has lost its appeal, that we all aren’t flailing drunks and promiscuous despots of inequity.  Remember THE SQUID AND THE WHALE?  I asked the same thing after I watched that movie.  “Why does Hollywood always portray writers/English professors as bleeding heart profligates and adulterers?” The answer shot back to me by one of my writer-friends (not that I put all my friends into writer and non-writer categories) was, “Yeah, but aren’t we?” 

Maybe so.  Maybe so.  My question this morning is about destruction for creation’s sake, if such a thing exists.  Earlier this summer, I read Freud’s CIVILIZATION AND ITS DISCONTENT, mostly because I wanted to walk around carrying the book, but also, because I think Freud, minus his massive cocaine habit, had some serious insight into the human condition.  The quote that made it onto my fridge from that book reads, “Wer Sorgen hat,/ hat auch Likor.”  Or, “He who has cares, also has liquor.”  (Busch)  Faulkner echoes this when he answered his interviewer’s question of why he drinks so much.  Faulkner said, “For the pain.”  The right question, which Richard Hugo raises, in response to this is, “What pain?”  Hugo argues Faulkner drank heavily to KEEP the pain, to have something to write about, or to write from.  Basically:  If someone cured his pain, then what would he have to write about?  Yeats says something similar, that we can either perfect the line, or perfect the life. 

Granted, I have a silly, schoolboy crush on life-systems that revolve around didactism (you can do A or B, but never, ever A+B.  And you can go straight to hell for even looking at C), and that’s probably why I agree with Yeats, and Faulkner, and Busch, but I also agree with that line ghosting through my brain, that the image of the young artist as a self-destruct mechanism armed with a pen needs to retire.  The question, it would seem, is whether or not that image CAN disappear. 

What I like about the Faulkner and the Busch quote is the sacrificial aspect of the artist’s condition.  Going back to Kierkegaard’s “knight of the infinite resignation,” it would seem that the greatest artists suffer not only because of their art, but for it, as well, as part of the process.  Here’s where Californication falls short, I think:  Duchovny’s character suffers from writer’s block.  Instead, though, I think they should have written him as a prolific writer, constantly producing short stories, novels, screenplays, bathroom readers, etc.  Then his constant sexing and drinking serves a purpose; it creates the cesspool from which he dredges up his fiction, his own reality.  That seems truer to the writer’s condition. 

Perhaps, though, the writers/studio felt that the average non-writer viewer wouldn’t understand how production and destruction fit together.  Perhaps the average non-writer actually accomplishes things and feels rewarded because of it, not in spite of it.  What I mean to say is:  I don’t know. 

Maybe this is all a way to say that I enjoyed Californication in the same way that I enjoyed THE SQUID AND THE WHALE and SIDEWAYS and MR. HOLLAND’S OPUS, in that, I cringed half the time and smiled the rest.  Why smile?  Take SIDEWAYS as a starting point.  This thing’s hilarious to me:  a “writer” pens one massive diarrheatic novel and then drinks himself stupid because no one will pick it up to publish it.  Right, dude.  I’ve got a surefire cure for that problem:  write another book, moron.  Or a short story, or a poem, or a blog (ahem).  He just stops writing?  Yeah.  And Mr. Holland?  That poor sap?  How depressing is that ending?  The freaking mayor comes out, not to save the music teacher’s position, but to give a saccharine introduction to this crap-tastic opus performed by mediocre musicians.  And he’s smiling?  Don’t get me wrong, I understand that the point of the film was to watch him evolve away from his art-making into a decent father/husband/teacher/human being.  Right, right.  But his art sucked.  That’s why I cringe.  I laugh because…well, maybe that’s for me to know and not to share.

Where did this post go?  I don’t know and I apologize for that.  Just had some thoughts that needed a place to breathe, and now I’m choking on them, so I’ll stop this monster at the foyer, I think.

I’d end this, though, with a wonderful Latin phrase:  Loquere ut videam.  I guess that’s the point, when it gets past the destruction, the love, the failures, the headaches.  Or maybe not.  In either case, I’ve got to get back to the poems, the ones I’m not writing and the ones I am.

At one point, I’d decided to stack all the books and movies I’ve read since I got into Spartanburg and take a picture of them, post them here, then sit back on my laurels and twiddle my thumbs.  Not that I have any laurels, and I’m not entirely sure how one would actually manage to sit on them.  Then, I thought I’d only take a picture of the books I read since my last post. That seemed like a good idea, and I even had my camera out and charged, but I decided that would be a decidedly small stack, so I ditched that idea, too.  Guess this means that I’m not a) a photographer and b) not as fast of a reader as I’d originally thought.  But I am the kind of guy who will put things like a) and b) into sentences because he thinks it looks cool.  That’s got to be worth something.

However, I’ve started a new poetry notebook, and I’m disappointed in the notebook itself.  Seems that you can’t find a good Mead spiral anymore, at least I can’t find one that doesn’t have perforated edges.  Everything’s perforated (sounds like a name for my new trance-band).  I stocked up on them earlier in the year but have written through those already.  This means I have to go down to Wal-Mart, check my soul at the door, and pick up Meads, because they’re the only place in town that sells them.  Bastards.  I have time, though, seeing as how I’m only on page 12 of the 140 pages offered in my new spiral.  Plus, it has a yellow (lemonade?) cover, and that’s got to be special.  In any case, here’s the words I’m no longer allowed to use:

Very

Really

So

Fantastic

Fascinating

Those have been stricken from the notebook.  Any time I write one of those words, I vehemently scratch it out, curse myself for backsliding, and then begin again.  I went through this whole stretch of time where the only response I had to anything was, “That’s fascinating.”  It was, though, over and over and over, no matter the event.  Suppose I had a couple of fascinating months, there.  I did a lot of outside time during that month, looking up and talking to the sun, the clouds, the swirling dust (this was Texas, still).  I imagine that had something to do with it.  Maybe I’ll start that again.

Yes, words that I’m no longer allowed to use.  I’ve gone through a number of lists.  The more impressive lists, however, are the words that I want to use.  I’d write those down, but that’s bad mojo, I’m afraid.  They have to show up in poems first, then I can use them.  Like Lowell said in his poem to Berryman:  “John, we used language as if we made it.”  Yeah, I’d like someone to say that about me someday.  Use it like you made it. 

As for what I’m doing with all my sweet time up here in Apt. D:  listening to large doses of Charlie Parker, The Black Crowes and Bill Evans (not all at one time, but separately); waiting for someone (ahem, CJ) to send me a copy of the new Kings of Leon; prepping for my class at Wofford; meandering around the rooms wondering what, exactly, did I do with my sweet-ass Eddie Bauer pants that’ve disappeared since I moved from Texas.  Maybe there’s been more, too, but that seems to embody the majority of what I’ve done.  Exciting, I know.  Try to keep calm.  Try. 

As for my writing:  Meh.  I’m in this sonnet trap.  Every time I start to write a new poem, I start thinking about it as a sonnet, and, because I’m absolutely driven by my neuroses, I can’t make it into anything else without feeling like a traitor.  Sad thing is, my sonnets suck.  The ideas seem interesting, the plots, the narratives, the turns and the music, but I can’t manage to get them to fit into a pentameter line.  I’ve also decided that I’m pentameterly-challenged.  Something about that last foot that trips me up (ha!) every time.  Of course, I’m only whining now.  I did write a triolet yesterday.  It’s not worth much, but I was glad to start something new.  I also wrote down the first tercet to a villanelle, but quickly looked away from it so as not to burn the eyes from my sockets (a la Indiana Jones).  I have started another story, and this one will take some time, some research.  I don’t want to say much about it, but it has to do (so far) with train sets, bacon-as-murder-weapon, styrofoam peanuts and Bob Barker.  Damn.  That almost sounds interesting.  Maybe I’ll like it tomorrow, too. 

As to my reading/viewing:  Started in on Marquez’s THE AUTUMN OF THE PATRIARCH, and I know I’m liking it, but I also know that I can’t inhale this one, which bothers me.  But then I wonder if he didn’t write it so that people like me wouldn’t be able to inhale it.  Maybe he wrote it to slow me down, to make me read it slowly.  I don’t know, but I’m going to finish it no matter what.  I’ve tried, not to hard, of course, to not read Graham Jones’ THE LONG TRIAL OF NOLAN DUGATTI, his other new book (the other one is LEDFEATHER), but have failed and am now half-way through this one, too.  I love it, of course, and want to write like him.  This book (NOLAN), he wrote for that 72-hour novel competition.  It’s amazing. 

With poetry:  read Matthew Zapruder’s THE PAJAMAIST but didn’t falll in love with it, I’m afraid.  Although his Twenty Poems for Noelle reminded me of my Dinner, Etc. section.  His works better.  Started into Erin Belieu’s INFANTA, and there’s some amazing poems in there.  I’m certainly in love with her line already.  Have started going through FIELD FOLLY SNOW (Cecily Parks) with a very sharp pencil, stealing, lurking, trolling through all her lines.  And then there’s Homer and Merrill and Wilbur and Williamson and Poch and Shelley, and all the other books that I keep next to my writing desk at all times.  In fact, yesterday I started to re-read WATER STREET by Merrill, and remembered how much I love that book.  If I could memorize an entire book, I’d memorize that one.  My God it’s good.  Dauntingly so. 

But, let’s say that I get through THE AUTUMN OF THE PATRIARCH and THE LONG TRIAL OF NOLAN DUGATTI, what then?  What then?  I don’t know.  There’s got to be something that I’m missing.  If I keep to this story I’m working on, though, I have a feeling I’ll be spending time in the library with those old Time Life Do-It-Yourself books, because that’s part of my research.  How odd, that I’m excited about that. 

Oh yeah:  I watched Ed Wood (amazing, amazing, amazing.  When you see it, watch Bill Murray at all times.  He’s such a comedic wunderkind) and LONESOME DOVE.  I loved LONESOME DOVE.  Does anyone have those books, because I need to read them.  And, I also need to read the Harry Potter series.  Anyone have those?  It’s about time, I suppose, that I joined the rest of the world.

And now, heres a pic from Lubbock, Texas:

From left to right:  Matt Purdy (fiction, PhD, teaches at Texas Tech), Stephen Graham Jones (fiction, teaches at UC Boulder), Me (world-renown psychic destabilizer and shot-put champion of the Southwest), Scott Sandlin (creative non-fiction, teaches at Auburn), Aaron Rudolph (poet and children’s book, teaches in Oklahoma), Leslie Jill Patterson (creative nonfiction, teaches at Tech), William Wenthe (poetry, my dissertation director, has a wicked left-hook and a fantastic poetic mind), and John Poch (poetry, second on my committee, and fisherman of the fishermen).

Stay cool, Sparkle City.

Because I’ve never had the ability to hold off on anything I may enjoy, I tore through a couple of books in the past few days, books that I should have (read:  wanted to) hold off on until I needed a good fix.  But, then again, who’s to say that I didn’t need that fix this weekend, that my brain didn’t figure it out before I did?  If that’s even possible, the whole two-brain and me notion. 

Too, I’ve gotten into wacky titles lately, which is the reason I went with the super inflated title of this blog, which is nothing, really, compared to the title of a little story I wrote over the weeknd.  That’s moving too fast, though, getting to the story like that.  Again, the Instantly Gratified.  The IG Factor.  The IGF.  The story that I wrote, which I doubt will ever see much of anything besides my recycle bin, it came around from reading Sherman Alexie’s first collection of stories, THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN.  He turned that collection into a movie, SMOKE SIGNALS, and I’m almost sure that it won some indie awards for best thing ever about stuff.  Or something like that.  I know that I’ve ordered it.  (Did you read about Netflix having shipment problems?  Let’s hope they get that fixed, because, I’m not sure how one would rise up against an entirely computerized entity.)  Yeah, that collection, I inhaled it.  I didn’t even stop to chew.  Except for a couple of times, but I did that because I forced myself to slow down there, get all the flavor out the lines.  Alexie writes like he’s playing a very serious and fun game with you, the reader, but also with himself and with literature and with the truth and fact and love and pain and loneliness and silliness.  In all, he writes like a human should write, I think, and that makes me want to play with him, to engage with all of the words at one time, like you would with a Pollock, where you just stand in front of it, head cocked dog-style, and try to piece it together in terms of beauty, because that’s the terms it’s offering.  And he has some of the best titles for short stories ever.  A few of my favorites:

Because My Father Always Said He Was the Only Indian Who Saw Jimi Hendrix Play “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Woodstock

Jesus Christ’s Half-Brother Is Alive and Well on the Spokane Indian Reservation

A Train Is an Order of Occurrence Designed to Lead to Some Result

Great titles, all of them, and even better stories.  And this edition that I borrowed is the reprinting, the second printing, I guess, and has an absolutely hysterical introduction that made me laugh out loud a couple of times.  And that, to me, is the first sign of a fantastic moment in life:  a good, unprepared belly laugh.  So, yes, I highly recommend that everyone read this collection, because you may learn something about life or laughter or America or fun or tragedy.  I don’t know.  Hell, if you’re lucky, you may learn nothing but came away with tons more than I did. 

Which leads me to the story that I wrote in a flash (well, flashings, in that, I didn’t finish it in one sitting like I promised my fingers that I would).  It happened the same way a pick-up game happens, where one person’s out there shooting around, but really shooting, having a serious kind of fun, mouthing out the count down to the final tick of the clock that’s forcing him to take the last-ditch shot over and over and over, until you jump in there with him, throw a hand in his face and box out for the board.  That’s why I flew across the keyboard, because I wanted to play with him, to see if I could bank a shot from nowhere on the court and then turn around like I’d planned the whole thing since 1999, when I hadn’t even held a ball before.  And so, I’ll give you the title, because Alexie’s shown me that you can have titles that blow right through convention and quietude and all that academic nonsense.  Here goes:

The Day the Tenants of Apt. 315B Defeated an F-3 Tornado

Maybe it’s not a good story, though, only a long title with lots of numbers.  Maybe numbers help make titles more interesting (Lucas’ first movie:  THX something, something, something.  1138, maybe?)  Anyway.  It’s only 1500 words long, barely creeping onto the sixth page, but it’s the first true story that I’ve written in forever, and so I’m happy that it’s here on my laptop, all pretty and clean and waiting for my delete button and my better sense.

But then, when I was knuckle-deep into the Alexie, Graham Jones’ new(est) novel, LEDFEATHER, appeared in the office downstairs, like it knew I’d come down there for it.  So, in a way, it was lying in wait for me, hunting me.  But I tried to keep it at bay, even stashed it in a drawer that I haven’t opened (on purpose) since I moved in here, all in the vain hope that I’d wait to get into it, that I wouldn’t inhale this one, too.  Like I could ever learn that lesson.  Yeah, I finished LEDFEATHER a couple of minutes ago, and of course, I want to write a novel now, too, one that works like this one, which is to say “very well so.”  Such an amazing read, and so fast and well-paced and smart and funny and thoroughly tragic.  Everything, basically, that a book should be.  And, again, Jones has the coolest Author Note in the whole freaking world of Author Notes.  But maybe I’ll move from this bitty 1500 word story into something larger, with a narrative thread, a collection, even.  But probably not, because I’m already guilt wracked about not reading a word of poetry for two (shit, three?) days, and I can sense all of the books on my table starting to giggle to each other, like they know I’m afraid to get back to them, like they know they’re beating me at being full of more interesting things than I can get to.  Ever, maybe. 

Guess that all means that I have to get to them, now, because I don’t have a book that’s staring at me.  I mean, nothing besides THE AUTUMN OF THE PATRIARCH by Marquez (the ‘a’ needs the fancy slashy thing over it), but I may not go right for it.  I may even wait for awhile, smiling at it from the side of my mouth like I just did something stupid and fun and got away with it.  More than likely, though, I’ll pick it up as soon as I push the “Publish” button for this post.  And then, I’ll get back into the poetry, because I need to, and I want to, and it’s about time to write something fantastic.   At least, I’d like to write something amazing, because since I’ve been here, I’ve recieved three rejection letters, which isn’t at all an odd thing to happen, or something that I didn’t expect.  Still, like all people, I’d like to take over the world sometime in the near future, and I don’t think that can happen with 3×5 notecards that say, “We thank you for sending us your work, but we’ve decided to laugh at it and post it above the urinal cakes so that all the interns can take turns pissing into your future.”  (Actually, if I got a rejection letter that said that, I might fall in love with it.)

Oh, and TROPIC THUNDER did nothing for me.  But I did watch the first two discs of PYSCH Season 2, and I laughed a goodly amount of time, but wonder how long that formula will work for them, and know immediately that I have to get over my childish dream that good sitcoms will run for 20+ years, even though The Simpsons will do it and no one else will.  Who can use The Simpsons as a barometer, though, right?  That’s like comparing yourself to a constellation, or to a body of water.  Or to Bob Dylan, who I’m listening to as a continual promise to someone somewhere who may smile if they heard that I’m trying, again, to understand the bard, to get into his music. 

Oh yeah, it was also my father’s birthday on the 14th, so, happy birthday, Old Man.  And my brother got hired as a science teacher, even though his MFA’s in sculpture, but he’s got all these kids and a wife and a mortgage and cars that don’t run on good intentions, so it’s wonderful that he’s got this job, teaching kids how to blow stuff up in a lab setting.  And maybe there’s more, something I’m completely missing this afternoon.  But if I found it, then where would that put me?  Put us?

I just finished a brand-spanking-new playlist on my iTunes.  I’m calling it:  Kick You in the Face, because that’s what it does, what it was made to do.  I should probably call it:  Just Went Out and Housed a Red Bull Because I’m a Punk to Consumerism and Can’t Manage to Generate My Own Energy to Get Back into my Writing.  But, let’s be honest; that’s far too long for a list name.  And, too, I need a bit of bubbling between myself and my oddities.  Again, please don’t pop that bubble.

Here’s the new wicked awesome playlist:

Four Kicks by Kings of Leon  (so choice, so raw.  Makes me feel like a rockstar when I listen to it.)

(Night Time is) The Right Time by Ray Charles  (the woman in the back, screaming.  My, how I love her.)

Give it Away by Red Hot Chili Peppers (I have so many stories involving these guys, ranging from The Simpsons to Woodstock ‘99.  All, I think, end in rioting.)

Deep Down in Florida by Muddy Waters

Hear My Train a’Comin by Jimi Hendrix  (The acoustic version, with the 12-string.)

Get Up Offa That Thing by James Brown

I Only Want You by Eagles of Death Metal

Rickets by Deftones

Luchini AKA This is It  by Camp Lo

Blue Skies for Everyone by Bob Schneider

Just Got to Be by The Black Keys

I’m a touch too lazy this evening to put down which albums all of these songs come from, but I’d be happy to let you know later on.  And then, in light of the Ray Charles, I have a youtube clip that has provided me with the purist feeling of happiness I’ve had in who knows how long:

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I really, really hope that works as an embedded video.  If it doesn’t, then go to youtube and type in “the cosby show ray charles song.”  It’ll take you to where you need to go.  I’ve often wondered what happened to Rudy.  Loved Rudy, and had a huge crush on the oldest sister.  I remember catching this episode when it aired, too, and had never (probably) heard Ray Charles.  I’m thinking we must’ve lived in the country at that point, outside of Edmonson, but may have happened later, somewhere in Plainview, on some brown-carpeted living room floor.

Anyway.  All that nostalgia’s clogged up my sinuses.

As for all other things in my world:  not much.  Naturally, I’ve been reading stuff and watching stuff, because, like I said before, it’s kinda what I do.  Finished up Baldwin’s IF BEALE STREET COULD TALK, and even though I think he takes too many liberties with Tish’s first person voice, the narrator of the story, by having her be a bit too aware of all things emotional that happen around her, too much the omniscient narrator, I still think it’s a gorgeous book that should be read by every living American.  And, for writers, it’s an absolute clinic on how to pace a 200+ novel so that it feels like you’ve only taken a couple of breaths by the time you finish it.  I’m heading out to find some more of his stuff, when I get some money (both to buy his books and to pay for my embarrassingly large library fine).  I’ve slowed down tonight, feel like taking a break, and so may only pick up Alexie’s book, THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN, and maybe nothing else, even though I’ve promised myself to read THE ILIAD for at least an hour and a half tonight, and will probably do it eventually, getting all jacked-up on Red Bull before I do.  Smart, smart, smart.  Mostly, I want to get Alexie so that I can get to Marquez before Graham Jones comes spilling in from Amazon.  But, I don’t know if I can actually get that accomplished.  And I’m still taking my time even opening FIELD FOLLY SNOW by Cecily Parks, because I know it’s amazing, and I know that I’ll oscillate between jealousy for her talent and love for her words, and, quite simply, I’m not emotionally prepared to deal with that, right now.  I need my Taurusian stability.  (Taurusian is so not a word.  Can you make an astrological sign into an adjective?  You should.  I’m sticking by mine.)  I’ve read a few words on Shelley, but can’t commit to him right now, either.  And spent some time disecting some of Wilbur’s first lines today, and feel childish about all of mine.  And more and more and more and more…

Also caught THE HUDSUCKER PROXY yesterday.  It’s by far the Coens’ most affected movie.  It’s obvious they directed all their actors to, “talk so fast we can’t hardly make it out,” and I get why they would want to do that, to parody the ‘fast-paced’ lifestyle of the city, the corporate world’s inability (or, lack of a desire for) to say anything plainly, but it took me out of the show more than once.  And that’s not a good thing, no matter what.  If you do watch it again some time soon, I’d suggest following it with FARGO, just so you can see how much they’ve matured over the years in how they present the specific oddities (piccadellos?  I always misspell that word) of the people that fill their stories.

I’ve written more than I thought I would.  Listen to them songs from earlier.  They’ll kick you right in the face.  Guaranteed.

Elmo, right?  Or not.  Grover.  Yeah, Grover had the book that ended with a monster.  Of all the shows I don’t watch anymore, Sesame Street matters the most to me.  And Fraggle Rock.  And The Smurfs.  And possibly Wings, Cheers and Reading Rainbow (even though, I heard an odd fact about the former host of Reading Rainbow). 

But this isn’t about that (It’s like this and like that and like this…).  This post, here, is about a movie.  Weird, I know.  I’ll throw in some other facts at the end, but my concern this morning revolves around the Monster Movie, and my limited conceptualization of that genre.  All of this will lead, hopefully, to just how and why ALIEN VS PREDATOR:  REQUIEM failed as a movie.  (I’m serious.  This is really what the rest of the post is going to be about.  Feel free to skip to the bottom.)

Take any of your basic monster movie characters:  start with the monster squad characters:  Wolfman, Frankenstein (zombie), Mummy, Dracula (vampire), and one more, probably, that I’m going to blank on.  Notice, though, that each one of these stock characters come with their own history.  Now, we can play with that history (see:  UNDERWORLD and UNDERWORLD EVOLUTION), but when the nails hit the coffins, we’re dealing with similar situations every time.  That’s our saving grace, though, the thing that we, the audience in the dark, can count on when we watch a monster movie.  As each person they present to us dies unawares, we know, in our tent of dramatic irony, that if they would just follow the rules, then they could survive (like us).  If Brendan Fraser pisses off some Charmin Monster, we know that someone in the flick will have the right tool/book/idea to save them, because there’s a history to the situation, a code to follow.  This is exactly why movies like AVP can fail miserably.  It’s also the one thing that lets them soar.

Now, does this mean that AVP has no set of rules.  No.  In fact, AVP has a ton of rules they (should have) followed.  First, the ALIEN saga gives us a timeline that we have to consider.  The orginal ALIEN takes place in the future, while AVP occurs today.  We know, then, that there will have to be limited encounters with the aliens and with humanity (we can’t look TOO surprised when Ripley shows us those first pics at the board meeting in ALIENS).  And PREDATOR has its own history, too, one that, admittedly, they kept jacking up as the series continued.  But, if we look at the original (ur-PREDATOR), with the Governator taking names (and my GOD, that sweet, sweet rotating, cannon gun), then we can establish some ground rules for that character, too.  Now, combine these two forces, put them on earth, give them some sort of a backstory that’ll connect them, and you’ve got a sick premise for a movie.  It also makes a sick trailer.

Right.  What could possibly go wrong? 

The first problem they encountered with AVP had nothing to do with the monsters.  It had everything to do with the ancillary plotlines.  Because we already know that earth will survive this slight invastion (I mean, everyone had an American accent in ALIEN, right?  Even what’s-his-name from MAD ABOUT YOU), we know that, going in, we’ll get away with everything, that the aliens will die, and that someone will hoist the flag.  Knowing this, the makers of the movie have to up the ante somehow, they have to give us more to worry about as we watch the film.  Now, if this was my movie studio, I’d throw cash and jewels at the flick until it had more explosions, more acidic bulletwounds and screaming families than could possibly be necessary (it’s always easier to revise than to add).  Or, I’d spend a bunch of someone else’s money for a sweet opening sequence, something with lots of colors and beeps.  But they don’t go that way, and that’s the major problem with the movie.  Instead of counting on the utter coolness of two bad-ass monsters clashing under our troposphere, they try and make the human characters the major focus.

Granted, I get that horror movies support our fears by making them real.  (Afraid of the dark?  Yeah you are, that’s why we make the Bogey man, to give the dark a way to breathe.)  But that’s supposed to be a metaphorical adage (Pay to attention to the weird people, or they’ll wear masks and brandish heavy weapons and massacre your face off), a way to teach us modern dayers a lesson, like Aesop, or Beckett.  Here’s the point, though:  that’s already written into the genre.  You don’t have to go over the top with that.  But they did.  We have, in AVP, this going on behind (in front of) the main action:  a get-out-of-jail story (complicated by having the felon friends with the sheriff); a brother-meets-brother reconciliation story; a coming of age story; a boy loves girl story; a reunited family story; a mother-daughter reconciliation story - and there’s more. 

The strangest thing about this concoction of storylines is that, instead of speeding up the story to some insane, neck-whipping speed, it serves to slow everything down to a crawl.  I should not, while sitting at a movie titled ALIEN VS PREDATOR, ever feel okay about going to the bathroom in the middle of a scene.  I should feel terrible about blinking, about scratching my leg because the denim sound may hide some choice bit of dialogue (HICKS:  Game over, man!  Game over!).  Still, that’s exactly how I felt throughout the movie.  They did something like this with TRANSFORMERS, too, making it a teenie-bop love story between an awkward, sarcastic (balding?) lead male and an anorexic fluzy with bad boots.  Look, that’s why ALIENS and PREDATOR worked the first time:  bad-ass vs. bad-ass.  Ripley and her flame thrower vs. the sickest mother alien creature ever. 

Keep your pretty people for Sparks’ adaptations, for the next season of ‘reality’ television.  Give me marines, machine guns, plasma rays, blood splatter.  I’ve earned it.  I think we all have.

Which is why, in retrospect, CLOVERFIELD is such a fine film.  Not only do we play around with the monster genre, we also get the basics down first (big thing, big city, small group trying to survive).  Plus, in CLOVERFIELD, our ancillary storyline MAKES SENSE.  The man finding his woman works because they aren’t pubiscent - they’ve had some loving before, they know what they want, which is what makes his decision to save her so important to the movie’s catharsis.  He doesn’t even have her.  She’s moved on.  His chasing around Manhattan under a barrage of alien autopsy shit is poetic, pathetic and gorgeous.  And that’s the major storyline, all the rest are spin-offs from that.  We have the cameraman cracking jokes and trying to convince a girl to like him, and we have the death of the brother and his lady pining about that.  Each storyline revolves around the lost love mythos.  Therefore, they all add to the bigger plot point of the main character wanting to save his true love.  And there’s a big monster in it, too, that spits out little monsters that eat your face off.

Yeah, so, CLOVERFIELD works.  AVP didn’t.

Also, we all had dinner together last night and it was a wonderful time.  We talked about all of you, how attractive you all are.  I finally finished THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE, and I’m going to start up THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF ARISTOTLE, and I want to get through most of IF BEALE STREET COULD TALK, so that I can read THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN.  But I have to get that done quickly, because Stephen Graham Jones has two books coming out, LEDFEATHER and THE LONG TRIAL OF NOLAN DUGATTI.  And my poetry, well, it’s still writhing around in a cesspool, I think, but I’m writing everyday.  Except for yesterday, but I was really, really sleepy.

Looks like I’ve woken up at a ridiculous hour, so I thought I’d take a few moments this morning and catch everyone up on my wacky shennanagins.  I would’ve gone back to sleep but the recycling cats show up around seven-ish, and that usually means I’m up by then anyways. 

Last weekend we held the annual HCWP writers’ conference:  Writing in Place.  Yet again, I’m blown away by the amount of work Betsy and the gang have done to promote contemporary literature.  Apparently, this year they (we) reached the max for participants, with close to 80 people in attendance.  Our keynote was Tommy Hays, who gave a beautiful reading in the Showroom on Saturday night (which was catered downstairs by Steve and the Ecossie gang.  Yeah.).  I haven’t had a chance to look over the evaluations, but I’d say we pleased a strong 95% of the attendees, and that’s a damn fine number when you’re dealing with a bunch of writers.  I tooled around with Margaret Ann most of the weekend, and probably got in her way more often than I helped.  But I did wake up early and deliver coffee, which, at a writers’ conference, is probably the single most important thing to have.  Maybe. 

I sat in on one of the lectures that Sebastian Matthews gave on creative non-fiction.  Interesting stuff.  He certainly knows what he’s talking about, no doubt.  We watched a few snippets from REAR WINDOW and LA DOLCE VITA, and I was surprised at how few people had seen either.  His point, though, was to focus on memoir by using film terms and gestures.  Smart move, I think.  Took me some notes on there, and it looks like I’ve started a memoir the other day, which means I must be itching to try the form.  Who knows what may come out, though.

I gave my lecture on Sunday morning to a packed room.  As usual, I got overly caffeinated and sped through all of my words because I never want to miss anything.  And I always feel like I’m going to miss something, that this is my one shot to get all of poetry into someone else’s hands, and I can’t screw that up.  So, I talk pretty fast.  And I use my hands a lot.  A whole lot.  I imagine that, if sped up properly, the whole thing would look like some gangly, featherless bird trying desperately to fly by using just his wrists.  Not a pretty sight.  But, I thought the actual lecture went pretty well.  I talked about using the language indicative to the object, to include what Seamus Heaney calls, “the sweet, uninflated particulars of the world.”  (I adore that quote, by the way.)  Hopefully someone walked out of there with a new poem started. 

All in all, a great weekend.

Now, I’m trying to find a schedule again for my own work.  I’ve started a sonnet crown, and for nearly three whole days I liked it.  I’m looking at it now and wondering what the hell I thought I was doing.  But, I’m pushing through this wall (I think), and will finish this crown before too long.  Hopefully.  After that, I’m spending time on my syllabus for the section I’m teaching at Wofford this fall.  The book list goes as such:

The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry 2nd Ed.  Edited by J.D. McClatchy

Field Folly Snow by Cecily Parks

Medea

Othello

Waiting for Godot

And then there’s a smattering of other things that won’t get covered in the anthology.  (I mean, you can’t have an intro to poetry course and NOT teach Prufrock, or Pound’s “In a Station.”)  I’m looking forward to getting back into a classroom.

What else?  As for reading, I’m still on Baldwin’s IF BEALE STREET COULD TALK, which I’m enjoying; rounding out Pound’s THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE, and I enjoy most of the things he says.  Ironically, I just read a chapter that begins with Pound’s assertations of the differences between drama and poetry, which just so happens to be the title of the course I’m teaching.  Ah, luck.  Got my hands on a (signed, snoogans) copy of Greg Williamson’s new book of sonnets, A MOST MARVELLOUS PIECE OF LUCK.  Oh my.  He’s very, very smart.  Very.  And John Poch’s new book, TWO MEN FIGHTING WITH A KNIFE, which won the Donald Justice Prize, has been following me around the apartment since I ordered it.  It has a sonnet crown that works, and I’m not sure if I’m at the place to appreciate that right now.  Nearing the 200 pages-left mark in THE ILIAD, and I decided that the next epic’s going to be THE ODYSSEY, then PATERSON, and then I’ll go back to THE CHANGING LIGHT AT SANDOVER.  Maybe.  Everytime I pick up the latter, I feel like I’m cheating on history, that I should start at the beginning if I ever plan on learning anything from all of this.  But, then again, I live in a strange, neurotic bubble.  Please don’t pop it for me.  And, too, I read IN MY FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS, a memoir by Sebastian Matthews, on Tuesday, I think.  Maybe Monday.  Anyway, a fast read with some beautifully crafted sentences.  And more, I’m sure, but I’m blanking.

As for films:  still haven’t caught the X-FILES movie, which makes me a terrible person, I’m sure.  Or WALL-E.  Maybe I’ll look at the movie times today, and then look at my bank account, then go back and forth between them until they get all blurry with their numbers and I can convince myself to go buy a ticket (and popcorn, candy, coke, etc).  But I did watch a documentary called ROCK SCHOOL, which is about the real version of Jack Black’s character in, yes, you guessed it:  SCHOOL OF ROCK.  (See what they did there?  Clever, clever.)  And then I watched RAGING BULL downstairs on our fancy screen.  What a film.  I’ve got THE SEVENTH SEAL by Bergman all queued up next, and may even get into that this evening.  And once I get all these things sent back to Netflix, I’ll have a whole new system of procrastinations pouring in, conveniently disguised as DVDs.

Okay.  That’s what I got this morning.  Maybe I’ll have something later, if something interesting comes up.  What do you have, dear reader? 

Oh shit.  I also borrowed a copy of Christopher Moore’s COYOTE BLUE, but I really wanted to get BLOODSUCKING FIENDS.  It’s okay, though, I also picked up a copy of Alexie’s THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN.  It should be a good time living in my skin for awhile.

I give review-like things, and maybe some updates. 

First, I’ve got a lecture to give at the HCWP’s summer workshop, Writing in Place.  I’m calling my lecture:  Pillow Talk, iPods, and FIre Alarms:  Finding Poetry Subject Matter through Contemporary Settings.  I feel like I should laugh maniacally after writing that down, like I’m sneaking one past a professor of mine who once told me that graduate students can’t make titles without using a colon.  Guess he wins that one.  Still, I’m looking forward to my lecture, and my handouts, and my corduroy jacket with elbow patches.  Swarmy-sweet.

Also caught THE DARK KNIGHT the other day.  Choice.

Finally writing on a project that I don’t want to refer to as crap (see previous post).  But, I don’t want to refer to it as anything more than that, either.  In fact, I probably won’t talk about it anymore, but let it fester on its own in the corner of my notebook.  If it works out, I’ll let all you cool kids in on how it went, the process, the fatigue, the tears from the mouth, etc.

Teaching a section at Wofford in the fall, and I get to teach drama as well as poetry.  So stoked about this.  (I’m guessing, though, that I can’t say things like, ’stoked,’ when I start teaching the class.  But, you know…)  Starting last night, I read the first part of Euripides’ MEDEA.  Such a wicked story.  Jason.  What a punk.  My favorite two lines happen at the end, though.

Jason:  You loved them, and killed them.

Medea:                                                  To make you feel pain.

Oh.  Snap.

Here’s some other choice lines/quotes I’ve snagged in the past few days or so.

From Ezra Pound’s THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE:

“The history of an art is the history of masterwork, not failures, or mediocrity.”  and  “Good art never bores.”  and “Good art begins with an escape from dullness.”  and “The history of literary criticism is largely the history of a vain struggle to find a terminology which will define something.”  and “Great art is made to call forth, or create, an ecstasy.”  and, my favorite, and I think very true of today’s poetry scene:  “An art is vital only so long as it is interpretative, so long, that is, as it manifests something which the artist perceives at greater intensity, and more intimately, than his public.”

From Vladimir Nabokov’s KING, QUEEN, KNAVE:

“The first chapter of a journey is always detailed and slow.  Its middle hours are drowsy, and the last ones swift.” 

“Instead, he soared into the ravishing realm of inutile imagination, demonstrating not the way ties should be sold in real life, but the way they might be sold if the salesman were both artist and clairvoyant.”

and, my favorite, from the sick mouth of Martha:

“We shall all dance, we shall all die.”

There’s some funness for you this morning.  Today, I’m going to read me some of THE BOOK OF EPHRAIM by Merrill; John Poch’s new book, the winner of the Donald Justice Prize, TWO MEN FIGHTING WITH A KNIFE; Greg Williamson’s new book, a sonnet sequence, A MOST MARVELOUS PIECE OF LUCK; James Baldwin’s IF BEALE STREET COULD TALK; and smatterings, I’m sure, of other things.

Also waiting this morning for Netflix to deliver such goodies as RAGING BULL, THIS IS SPINAL TAP and ROCK SCHOOL.  Oh, what a glorious, glorious day to have toys and such.

A few things that have nothing to do with movies.  At least, they have nothing to do with movies as of now.  By the end of this thing, I may just say something about a movie.  Yeah.

Also, thanks for the dinner last night, South Hampton!  I missed the first house because I’m a moron and thought the dinner started later.  So, I owe you two a round of drinks.  Please, please, please take me up on that.  If you don’t, I’ll go by your house unannounced with a cheap bottle of something (or, perhaps, a jug of Carlo Rossi, you know you like it) and sit on your front lawn until you let me in.  But, honestly, it was a fantastic spread with wonderful conversation and amazing energy.  And, too, I got to hear some Junior Kimbrough at the Blanchards last night, and I freaking love that guy.  He toured with Iggy Pop, too, and has some wonderful video footage from a documentary about the Delta bluesmen.  I’m going to need to get me some of that, I figure.

Also, I now have a very cheap, very shoddy electronic keyboard.  Why a keyboard?  Because, it seems, that a grown man just can’t find a good key-tar anymore.  And that’s sad, people.  And we’re all to blame.

Also, I’ve been reading through all of my back issues of THE WRITER’S CHRONICLE.  At one point, a professor of mine said that, if you want to be a real writer (his emphasis), you should read TWC from front to back.  Well, I’m a sucker when it comes to advice that’s probably unheeded and completely didactic, so, yeah, I’m reading all of them from front to back.  (Reminds me of one of the chapters in Hugo’s TRIGGERING TOWNS, where he says that someone he trusted once said that a real writer needs to have written something in every known form.  Hugo disagreed.)  In any case, this one turned out to be a good idea.  Now, I’m not all that sure of how copyright works, but I really, really want to quote a poem by William Meredith.  It showed up in an essay-thingy about one line poems, an article written by Micheal McFee.  Okay, I won’t quote it, because I don’t want to get anyone in any kind of trouble (but one would hope that quoting a poem on a blog would be acceptable, right?).  The title of it is “Her Name,” and it’s one line long, and maybe one of the most significant poems I’ve read all year.  Broke my freaking heart.  In response, I wrote this:

Sex Addict

But the body was made to last for just that long.

Also (this is no longer a part of the poem, just so you know), we need to get a pick-up game happening in our parking lot basketball arena.  And keep an eye out for the Andrew Blanchard Memorial Horseshoe Arena, and perhaps (perhaps), a tetherball court. 

Yeah, I’m not kidding about tetherball.  That’s how I made my name in middle school.

Because I’m a huge fan of the movie world, thought I’d pop in here and give some heads-up concerning a few flicks I’ve seen lately.  Also, if you’ve caught something of interest, please let me know.  And by the power of Netflix, I’ll get to it.  Or, by the power of Grayskull…whatever comes first.  (Have I shown you all my anti-He-Man shirt?  Looks like I got a pic to take this morning.)

WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? - For me, some flicks get my blood in a slow boil; some, a faster boil.  This one has the trailer for WHY WE FIGHT, and that movie got me so revved that I couldn’t sit still for a couple of days, and went around town browbeating anyone who disagreed with me.  Same thing happened to me with Moore’s two movies, even though, with those, I got as upset with Moore about as often as I did with the contemporary socio-political system.  Although, the degree of the upsetting was certainly different.  All of this as a long way to say:  since I watched WHO KILLED, I haven’t driven the truck (Big Red, I call her), but I also haven’t sat other people down, held their hand in a grandfatherly fashion, and then screamed at them about how evil car companies are.  So, that’s progress, I think.  Seriously, though, the information presented is interesting.  As a movie, though, in terms of aesthetic appeal/beauty of shot/mis-en-scene (sp?), yeah, not that interesting.  This movie’s about information–getting it out there to us, the sad, misinformed consumers.  Worth a watch, though.  Certainly. 

(I so need a rating system, I just realized.  Like:  I give this one thirty-eight golden nuggets.  I don’t know.  I’ll work on that.)

SERENITY - Jonas, the unpaid advocate of Hulu.com, wasn’t the first person to suggest the tv series FIREFLY to me, but he was the most recent.  I watched the first (and only) season on Hulu, and fell in love with that.  Good writing, strong characters and svelt acting makes it one of Fox’s biggest blunders, in terms of what they’ve cancelled.  SERENITY takes up the storyline where the tv series left off, and it does a smash-up job with it.  If you haven’t heard of the series, go ahead and get started on watching them.  You won’t be disappointed.

HANCOCK - Definitely a summer blockbuster, but I don’t say that it a negative way, or in a positive way.  It’s just that:  a summer blockbuster, which means a big budget, big names, cheeky script, and an over-the-top moral at the end where, I assume, we’re supposed to turn to one another in the semi-dark of the movie theater and say, “Yeah, yeah, I do want to make the world a better place.”  However, if you dismiss my cynicism for a moment, you may hear me recommend this film to you (and maybe even to your family, but I’m not sure how family movies work, i.e. what’s allowed, profanity wise [of course, I'm a fan of the profane...]).  Thoroughly entertaining.  And Jason Bateman, he’s a champ of a straight man.  I said somewhere else that any role Luke Wilson gets, Jason Bateman should get first.

WANTED - First, I couldn’t care less about the personal lives of celebrities, so, if Jolie’s a handful in the public world, I wouldn’t know.  She can do whatever she wants with her insane amounts of money and libido, none of my concern.  All of this to explain that when I say I can’t stand her, I’m saying it in regards SOLELY to her acting ability (or lack thereof).  You know, just because a girl’s really hungry, wears skank clothes and has full lips, that does not, no matter what execs may say, make her an actress of any worth.  Besides GIRL INTERRUPTED, she’s done nothing to justify her paychecks.  Walking in, then, I figured I wouldn’t be able to handle another Jolie vehicle.  I love being wrong.  This movie works for me all over the place:  it’s rated R, so it has good amounts of violence and profanity, and the story’s a blast from beginning to end.  Highly suggested.

HELLBOY 2 - Meh.

THE AURA - A beautiful indie flick coming from Spain.  It’s billed as a heist/character film.  In some ways, it reminded me of DEAD PRESIDENTS, which was also billed as a heist flick but, in all reality, was a commentary on African-American Vietnam veterans and what they faced right after their tours.  In THE AURA, the main character’s an epileptic with a photographic memory who, through some series of coincidences, gets himself involved in a heist.  Cinematically gorgeous, and written with a writer’s ear, THE AURA is well worth the trip to the movie store.  Or to Netflix.  Good, good.

REQUIEM - A German movie set in the 70s.  Oddly enough, this one has a main character who also suffers from epilepsy.  The premise is that a young girl, 21ish, suffers from grand-mal epilepsy, but she also suffers from being 21:  desire to drink, be free, be involved with a social scene.  All the pressure builds, though, and her attacks increase.  The twist, if one could call it a twist, comes through her intense faith in Catholicism.  The ordeal ends with an exorcism, done mostly off-camera.  Watch this one for the main actress.  Geez.  She knocks this one out.  However, my major concern with this movie was the disclaimer at the beginning, a disclaimer that I’ve grown more than tired of:  This film, it states, is based on real events.  What does that even mean?  Let’s say I write a movie about monkeys who learn physics and become cannibals based outside of Detroit.  I mean, isn’t that based on real events?  There are monkeys; physics exists; and cannibalistic primates often frequent Michigan’s brightest star.  Is that enough to make it real for people?  Why do we want this reality?  What, exactly, is missing from our lives that we need something real in our entertainment?  And not even that we need it to be real.  Hell, we don’t know any of these characters any better than we know Captain Stubing, or the vampire Lestat.  We just want to be told that it has real elements, that, in some way, no one has lied to us this evening, that our money went to support the truth.  Whatever.  Another reason why FARGO remains the smartest movie in decades:  use that same disclaimer, and then lie through your teeth about it.  Anyway.  REQUIEM’s a good film.  Check it out.

Any suggestions?

But no, sadly this isn’t a post about the all-cool power of George Clinton and the P-Funk All Stars; nor is it a post about what happens when James Brown gets his cape going in the third part of his act (something I got to see at Woodstock in ‘99, and am grateful for on a daily basis).  Instead, I thought I’d type out a few little words about the writer’s funk I manage to get in during the summer months.  Maybe I won’t write much about it, because, as we all know, one of the most annoying things in existence (in literary existence, at least) is a piece written about writing.  Entropic, I think, is the word for it.

I’ve long held to the belief that writer’s block doesn’t exist–it’s a lie.  Rather, it’s a cop-out, a thing people can say to justify all the blank pages facing them every morning.  No one wants to look at a sheet of paper or a computer screen and realize they have nothing to say.  But, people do say it, and they say it far too often.  As I told the COLORS group that toured our studios last month:  there’s no such thing as writer’s block.  There is, however, such a thing as writer’s pride.  Sometimes we hate to admit that what we do have to say, quite simply, sucks.  And no one, NO ONE, wants to write something that sucks (even though, all of us do it, and some of us do it a whole bunch [yeah, me]).  Therefore, we bite our lower lips, stick out our bellies, and proclaim that we have all the symptoms of writer’s block.  A sickness, it seems, without a cure.

Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?  It’s the same problem as when a lover, in a fit of undefinable rage, looks over the kitchen table and proclaims that we have some incurable disease, such as ‘passive aggressive tendencies,’ or, ‘an inability to fully trust other people.’  Pigeonholed, we can do little more than nod our heads in sullen agreement and ask if they don’t mind passing the salt.  (Or, if we want to show off our aggressive aggressive tendencies, we can throw the damned salt shaker against the wall once we get ahold of it, but that leads to even more diagnoses, I imagine.)  So, where does that leave us?  Well, I think it leaves us in The Summer’s Funk.

The summer doesn’t work for me, I don’t think.  I had a friend who, in some writing workshop, was told not to write until October, when the leaves changed in full force.  The professor told him that no one can write during a seasonal stasis, that the body and mind need change, need to feel change, before it can process anything of interest.  Maybe so.  My answer (not mine, you know, but the answer that I’ve stolen for my own writing life from someone else) is to write crap. 

Write crap.  But not just that, keep writing crap.  Write crap everyday until, hopefully, something real spills out in the middle of a crappy sentence/line/image.  And, while I’m writing crap, I make sure to read very, very good stuff, and lots of it.  When I’ve read too much good stuff, I start reading easy stuff, and then I start reading the backs of cereal boxes, or billboards, or the Weekly World News (which is awesome all the time, everytime). 

Anyway.  I’m rambling.  I’m rambling because for the past couple of weeks, I’ve written nothing but crap, and now, I’m writing about writing crap. 

This may be the worst post of all blogging history.  For that, I apologize, and will give you some pics.

My guitar, sitting all sad in the corner. 

Some kid hitting a pretty good air across the street.  He almost hit a sick 50-50 on that handrail, but gave up too soon.

This is what happens if you Google, “Sad Donkey.”  It’s a few pages in, but really, really funny.