Rich:
I know it’s out of season to be a curmudgeon about the arts. Typically, I try to reserve Spring for effusive love of all. But something about your fraternal frolic with John Cage reminded me of an argument about reception that I am always having with myself. (I will warn you (and myself) straight off that by putting forth this argument, by making gross generalizations about other people and putting limits on an already marginalized art form, I am securing my position as an unknown minor poet. But, whatever, here it goes.)
Some people profess to enjoy poetry primarily “for the sound of the words,” and are therefore willing to forego sense in the service of gratuitous assonance and slapdash alliteration. Later I might talk about those poets who string images together until the world is reduced to a flipbook that makes no little man dance, no star constantly implode and explode, no crude ballpoint penis rise and fall and then rise again; but at the moment, I want to address the soundistas. I think sound play for the sake of sound play is great. Cheap date for a poet, and poets need cheap dates. Personally, though, I find the position weak and evidence of great cowardice. When someone purports to read poetry only for the music, my face reflex-snarls. It’s like when someone says that they don’t care about lyrics in song—as if you could listen to R. Kelly just for the viola, or Tom Waits just for the chains. I cringe at what I perceive to be empty melody. I want to hear sound woven together with sense, because I admire the effort I know it takes to create such a thing. It’s total toil.
But then, there is another self that exists to say, “Your reception process is masochistic and evidence of your creepy Protestant rearing. Perhaps and probably you’re looking at all of this the wrong way.”
I need your help, Rux. Is gutless sound-istry a more communicative/interesting way to receive poetry? Does the selective attention of the soundista afford that person all the power in the artist/audience dynamic? Do they leave poetry readings reeling, happy, cleansed, and truly American instead of sad and inexplicably wet? How come broccoli tastes one way for me and another way for them? DO NOT give me that different strokes bullshit. Everyone loves Walt Whitman.
Do you even like poetry?
Rux:
You ask if I like poetry, but I’m still fixated on “makes…no crude ballpoint penis rise and fall and rise again.” I’ve known you for too long, though, to respond to such an earnest question with a pen-and-ink dick .gif. So yes, I like poetry, though I rarely seek it out on my own. I admire Jim Harrison because I still have a hard-on for the whiskey-fishing-bearbaiting stuff. The Wallace Stevens poems that I can parse make me giddy. I’ll always love O’Hara, though never as much as when you and Kitty and I are drunk and reading aloud and sipping and spilling wine and toothpaste residue from our mugs.
As for those poets who think they can divorce sound from sense and still find success? They are the type to tell you their dreams over coffee and expect empathy, despite the absence of narrative or character or emotion. They will tell you how they were standing in a room with velvet drapes when the ghost of a teenager from the year before Poland fell for the third time stepped forward, and then we were making out, she was corporeal, obviously, but transparent and sad, and then she was gone and Zach and I were in the driveway beating our baby sister’s new beau to oblivion.
Rich:
Where do you like to entertain the Other?
Rux:
On a two-lane highway, with or without a fixed destination. Lulls in conversation are expected. (“Oh, it’s not that he’s semi-autistic—he is giving his full attention to the business of driving so as not to kill or be killed.) There are ample opportunities for riffs and diversions. (A roadside petting zoo/pornographic bookstore! Some Michigander hag selling apple butter! A box of roosters!) And I’m never more disarming than when the sun is high and I am singing Fleetwood Mac.
Rux:
I read that the first sewage treatment facility in Haiti was erected “on the windswept moonscape at the foot of Goat Mountain” and called my travel agent immediately. (Yes, Bambi is a relic, but she’s well traveled and collects both silk scarves and hominid skulls, and…okay. It’s probably indefensible to keep her on retainer. Makes my heart sink.) Bambi told me that the U.S. Geological Survey lists 20+ Goat Mountains on the continent. Says Bambi: “If your goal is to ogle rare septic tanks, I’ve got no words for you. If you aim to traipse and make goat puns, you can do so here without having to shit off a pier in Port-au-Prince. But of course, you’ll goat your own way.”
What is my goal, Richard?
Rich:
Sounds as if you wanna goat on a date. If you can’t afford to whisk Bambi away to the nearest Goat Mountain—perhaps because you’ve donated all of your money to a credible Haitian relief organization?—allow me to list some of my favorite cheap dates:
- Trek to the DMV together: “Wait. Did I need to bring proof of insurance? Well, then—we’ll just have to come back.” (Yes!)
- Stroll the grocery: “And this, Madeline, is my favorite aisle. Would you like a Mexican cola? Go ahead, you can drink in the store. I’m well known.”
- Visit the botanical garden and watch a woman walk beneath late-stage ornamental cherry blossoms. (Granted, this is less a date than a stalking, but I’m partial to a good swoon. What can I say? 90s R&B shaped my entire understanding of romantic love. (And, you know, Keats.))
- Watch half of a Cary Grant film and make out.
Rux:
I hired a community orchestra to perform John Cage’s 4’33” in my parent’s driveway while my brothers played HORSE and farted on one another. Farts-and-basketball is now my favorite performance of the composition, usurping the time the conductor kicked off the piece and a man in the audience played Thin Lizzy’s “Little Darling” on his boom box.
What do you want to hear during 4’33”?
Rich:
I’d want to hear someone blow a trumpet, or execute a solid timpani roll, or do something that I can’t do to a violin. Why would I get all gussied up in my symphony finery just to hear the guy next to me try to stifle a cough? All this faux art-as-life/life-as-art interactivity—doesn’t it remind you of the kid’s wing at the national history museum? Much as I love the idea of Rickrolling 4’33” IRL, if I’m looking to plug in to the music around me, I prefer the sound of my taking a hot shower, or the sound of my switching from tea to gin.
Good lord, I’m 173 years old. I’m one daughter away from voting Republican. If you’ll excuse me, I have to run by the dry cleaners to pick up my jeans. I think the lawnmower’s low on two-cycle oil. Be right back.
Rich:
On the border between the U.S. and Canada, there stands a Peace Arch. The inscription on the American side of the structure reads “Children of a common mother.” The Canadian side reads “Brethren dwelling together in unity.”
What do you make of this variation?
Tom:
I can only assume that this is a not-so-subtle slur upon the great Canadian people by the scoundrels in the United States. So what if it’s true? Canada’s mother was prolific. Let’s leave it at that.
Rux:
In the lobby of my apartment building are stacks and stacks of telephone books. They appeared one week ago. Whose job is it to proofread and print these books? Who is bankrolling their production? In the age of unlisted mobile numbers, shouldn’t these books be slimmer than they are? I have about sixty-five books at my disposal. It seems wasteful to just ignore them until Silvio heaves the lot into the dumpster on Wednesday. What should I do with 250 pounds of Yellow Pages?
Allyson:
Don’t you know any short people? Any kids? Phone books make awesome booster seats. You wouldn’t even need a chair with that much boost. Yes, I don’t understand how it is possible for so many numbers to still be listed. My grandma doesn’t even have a landline anym—oh, are they white or yellow books? Must be yellow, RIGHT? Biz-nass. Oh, yes, you said yellow. See! Hmm, I don’t have answers.
And proofreading? I would go fully cross-eyed. (Shhhh.) Rainman. Steam of consciousness. So! What should you do? As an elementary school teacher, I’m inclined to think you should…break into the papier-mâché industry? Unleash your inner Pinterest-er? Wallpaper? Toilet paper? The point is moot. By now, Silvio’s already tossed the lot.
Rich:
Pound writes: “Troy but a heap of smoldering boundary stones, / ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia! / Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows!” And then: “This wind, sire, is the king’s wind, / This wind is the wind of the palace, / Shaking imperial water-jets.”
I guess my question is this: do you think Pound would have thought to cast Banshee Screech before sending in his Flame Ogre to slay the Frost Wyrm? Or would he have just conjured a bunch of Frost-Wolf Familiars and hunkered down for a kind of frost war of attrition? I’ve been looking over the Cantos for this Mo/Pomo long poem class that I am taking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Pound was a nerd.
(I realize that my use of Mo/Pomo—emphasis on the second syllable, unless I’ve raised my voice, in which case equal emphasis on MO PO MO—puts me in a much nerdier circle than the one Pound occupies, but that’s beside the point.)
You’ve been known to troll around the 21st century’s virtual fantasy battle-worlds. Have you met any proto-Pounds on your travels? Any Modernists-in-the-rough?
Jarod:
Honestly, I bet Pound would share my attitude that contemporary nerd video games should be more Mo/Pomo. In most NVGs, the falcon can hear the falconer really really well. The falcon is sitting on the falconer’s +3 Helmet of Warding, tapping his talons, clink clink, waiting to be killed by the intangible Frost Ogre of Ennui. I’m tired of fighting slimes in order to beef up my axe-arm so I can fight slimier slimes. I want a new type of RPG, one in which I can spend my experience points on whatever I want. I want to eschew upping my strength or perception scores and instead grow a crystal penis that ejaculates a pure, scorching light. Then, I want to spend the rest of the game questing for the one prismatic, phase-shifting maiden/godling that can handle my celestial excretions.
Lie to me, Rich. Tell me I’ll see such a game in my lifetime. Tell me that late in my old age, my cataract-filled eyes will brim with tears when, looking at my video-wall, I first see my crystal dong, glowing with a soft, beckoning inner radiance, shot-through with blue veins of wordless song.
Rich:
Sarah Green says this story made her think of me.
You know how I love to set up my card table in the sunny spots of my friends’ daydreams and night-dreams. One of my goals in life is for everyone that I know to be caught with a wide smile right before Thanksgiving prayers, and then, for a small blond cousin to ask, “WHY are you smiling before we talk to JESUS and eat the food?” and then for my beautiful friend to say, “THAT RICHARD SMITH!” When I read the article, though, my brow…you know…furled. Which catty-manly attribute conjured my daydream-walking self into Sarah’s purple-noon tea hour brain? Stevens’ clear and apparent largesse, or Hemingway’s concurrent need for and fear of gossip? Wally’s penchant for exclaiming, “By God,” or Ernie’s bad grammar?
How am I of these men?
Rux:
It certainly isn’t the physicality—I can’t imagine you punching or being punched. You’re a lover, not etc. If ever a fight broke out, you would be outside on the smoking patio pawing desperately at a Madge or an Edie. Really, seriously, absolutely.
Rux:
Since Garrett started working for the campaign, I’ve become obsessed with the thought of him meeting Joe Biden. I picture the two of them wearing denim cut-offs, drinking gin from mason jars. Garrett and Joe, slouched in lawn chairs on a balcony overlooking the lakefront. G and J, passing a pair of binoculars back and forth, “scoping for talent.”
If Biden were to visit the office, Garrett has a scheme to get me into the building. (Forgery, accents, wax fingertips—the works.) But I want to meet Joe as myself, not as a budget-rate Mrs. Doubtfire type. My plan is to go in through the air vents. I suspect you have some experience worming your way through duct systems. Any pointers?
Tom:
The humble ventilation duct is a superb conduit for espionage. Contrary to their portrayal in Hollywood movies, ducts require no special equipment and little training to traverse. I recommend only that you steel your nerves, slow your breathing, and carry 3-4 sticks of unsalted butter on your person. (Salted, though better for snacking, can lead to a rather unpleasant rash when applied liberally to the human body.) I like to supplement this with a cracker or two, just in case.
Once suitably lubricated you should be able to slide through the vents unimpeded. Not only is this method safe and natural, but it will imbue you with Biden’s signature scent.
Rich:
The BBC says Spain is in trouble. Yet, I peep your blog and see you wearing a banana costume! I see children in elaborately colored wizard hats! I see candles piled on candles piled on cake! How are you so seemingly flush in the era of great austerity? Are you in with the noventa nueve por ciento en España?
What’s the secret?
Allyson:
Don’t tell any of my coworkers this, but I’m doing alright here. Well, okay, relatively speaking. My salary is no match for what they pay the Americans in Korea or whatever, but we are surviving/are able to have fun (as long as I’m not trying to save or to pay off my credit card debt). I’m certainly not traveling as much this year, though that’s mostly due to my companion getting food poisoning or robbed every time we go somewhere…
The majority of weird things you mention—the banana, the elaborate decorations, the cake—are all right here in Cáceres-Sweet-Cáceres. I work at a pretty hands-on bilingual elementary school… We’re always doing weird projects and…like, field day kind of stuff, I don’t know. And cake? I love to bake…or have you forgotten muffins and coffee and Scrabble?! Of course, all of this depends on the Ministry of Education mailing our checks out when they’re supposed to. My landlord is currently waiting for a bank transfer to go through, and my phone got shut off for a few hours after a bill bounced right out of my account, because I’m like, indigent and stuff too!
I feel as if I don’t have the right to complain or protest, but there ARE lots of problems here. Every month I’m hoping my paycheck will come through on time so things like angry landlords and suspended iPhones aren’t realities (so real) for me. People in my program have attempted to get Madrid to pick up where they are lagging, but it’s really no use. A rep friend from the UGT (Unión General de Trabajadores, a worker’s union) recently took me under his wing to pass along the “Profesores Visitantes” strife to Madrid… But as everything is so disorganized, it probably doesn’t even matter. So yeah, the BBC tiene razón. Spain is in trouble. And lots of people are pissed.
The secret, if you didn’t extract it yourself, is to go with it. Dejarse llevar. I don’t know if I’ll have a job next year, or what continent I’ll be on, but I’m having fun while/with what I can. Not really a responsible game—er, life plan—but it’s what I have right now.
Plus, it’s easy to enjoy yourself (or forget about whatever you’re not enjoying) when great wine is so damn cheap. And cheese. I accidentally typed cheese instead of cheap at first, so Freud says cheese deserves to be thrown in here as well. Of the goat variety preferably.
