NaPoWriMo is the write-a poem-everyday-thingy (invented by Maureen Thorson) that poets do in the month of April to celebrate National Poetry Month. There are so many reasons why I have never done this and am a terrible candidate for such a challenge: 1) It is not aligned with my writing process in any way. 2) I am uncomfortable making a piece public until I do quite a bit of editing which usually involves dozens & months-worth of drafts. 3) I am due this month with my first child. For all of these reasons & more I’ve decided on complete impulse to participate in NaPoWriMo 2015 and to publish my entries here on Poetry Crush- to keep with the original intent of Poetry Crush– which is there is no intent, only impulse. And I’ve impulsively invited a few friends to join me. Just click on the link below to follow their daily entires: Joanna Penn Cooper Lauren Hunter Bridget Talone Lina Vitkauskas Christine Kanownik J. Hope Stein (me)
Scene from Picnic at Hanging Rock: “To Saint Valentine!”
An honor to valentine with first-rate hearts-of-cake: Shane McCrae, Hannah Gamble, Paige Taggart, Amy Lawless, Todd Colby, Joanna Penn Cooper, Douglas Piccinnini, Jared White, Melissa Broder, Rauan Klassnik, Rena Mosteirin, Lee Ann Roripaugh & J. Hope Stein (me, duh).
This is 1 of 2 valentine editions of Poetry Crush. The next one should be up in a couple days.
MOST OFTEN NEIGHBOR
Most often neighbor as you most if neighbor means you only
Most often you most often spring pink suns the trees the cherry now
Most often neighbor to the blue immediate blue sky
And none of the rain in the sky although rain
strips the pink light from the branches
As neighbors do although rain claims the branches into blossom
As neighbors do as you
have claimed me into life most often neighbor // The pink trees neighbor
to the blue sky not for being pink / For being
from red the same distance the sky is from the blue it is
As I with you from any man as you from any woman
THE LITERARY MAN
At the end of his life he still had many
devotees, and for that, he was grateful.
Several devotees lined the window seats
of his bedroom, many of them
with his books in hand.
Most important to him, however,
was that he still was an erotic fixture
in the lives of women,
so several of them sat facing his bed,
vaginas glistening atop literal cushions.
The next morning I noticed that he had this weird foreign object in his chest—but he wasn’t bleeding. It was almost like a tattoo. Babe what the….is that? We stood in the mirror of his bathroom not noticing. Big like a car part, I couldn’t believe it didn’t make him double over in pain as it moved its way up to his forehead. We weren’t on acid. I looked into his eyes and he looked into my eyes and we smiled a lot and ate takeout in bed. Did the delivery guy see your forehead? He just laughed, slapped my ass, and we ate chorizo burritos. I then felt immediately embarrassed. I keep soy milk in my fridge for when he comes over despite its disgusting aftertaste. I learned to really look at the people. Now if he isn’t in front of me or touching me, I ache throughout my whole body and the physical pain only increases over course of the day. So our bodies in their primitive states moved into a single body absent of worldly pain.
LEGENDS IN SEXPLOITATION
I’ve half-a-heart to kneel in the centerfold of every love magazine
To be in a billowing ball gown, would be, to dust the pony off and retire for fair-trade My spirit can’t be outsourced; it is inspiration from the centerfolds of every love issue! It is high and mighty like the spirit-clause you just signed
I’ve prospered from affairs on the high-angle with legendary jewels and redingotes
I horse backed along the boardwalk and later performed oral sex
I was accomplished, so shoot me!
I was skilled, so kill me!
I was adorned, so need me!
Properly keel over afterwards
I’ll dispose of your body into the trifecta of human duality
How we provoke and onward shift amicably
I’ve got pains for the hype, it sucker punches me into corners so unpleasant
Here we are, just the two of us, forever shunned to a hard earned maintenance
So kill me why don’tchya
ALEXANDER ADMITS IT
Sure, I’ve thought about fucking you in my desk chair, silently not to disturb the neatness of your yellow summer dress. Silently not to disturb our colleagues in surrounding cubicles. You putting small paperclips in my hair, your hands suggesting the rocking of my skull. You straddling my lap, my bare ass in my desk chair shapes suctioning into each other— We would continue to make the sounds of good business. A conference call with Coca-Cola, an email to Citibank, a spreadsheet of year-over-year gross profits. You elevated in my lap, your face clearing just over the cubicle partition just visible enough across the office, your expression dismembered like a poet who’s fallen out of favor with her king.
J. Hope Stein
Tonight I’m going to shake your hand into butter,
curve around you until you’re gel,
climb the soft pieces of you with spikes,
insert a vibrating dial, and conjure you
into living goop. I will slip my hand
under your belt; and lose a wisdom tooth,
make a necklace of it, and hang it around
your neck. My gift of light will shimmer
on your smooth throat, and all the institutes of longing
will permeate the landscape with medicinal
cloud formations that disperse calming
solutions of tingle water and kink spray.
I will secrete a secret mud that enhances
your ability to thrust your hips into mine
on a bed that is damp and purple.
You are so smooth that when you get up,
you leave behind an impression
of our Lord and Savior.
“LITTLE” “BEAR” for R.E.H.P.
I’ve said so cover’d and un
“the fruit is real”
the something as much
who is there
that I shake out a name
a system like the sun
is as arable
so I grow incurably so
woods? si, woods
spring the lock
in that I so nilled
like wilted mint
in public revived
In the light that should be out already, Lulu is making
You forget what it means to be a girl
And when she puts her bobbing face close to yours
And when she kisses you it is a poet’s kiss
That puts things into you I have put already
As Peer flosses his teeth for hours until they sparkle
With the knowledge of growing up amongst poets
And the precision fucking that is demanded by hotel life
About which all I want to convey is the smell
I never really learned the language another language uses
To describe this I want to tell you about my childhood
Which was many missed opportunities for me to help carry
The bag so big and the flesh so slack and thin
The normals ate who were enormous, ponderous and beautiful
And I was staring straight through to the ass bone and the ribs
And remarkably they had ceased for a moment to rot
And in the cloud cover glow of that luminescence
You could see all of the stains on my teeth with black light
You could see what I would look like when I get old
And it was not so bad really only a lot older looking
And more courageous and less fuckable but still in the same hotel
Because there never was an explosion the terrorists failed
To outwit the geologists after all that underneath the sand
The rock is porous and gravel will always be useful
DO YOU SMELL SMOKE?
Apply this soothing gel made from roots and branches
to your forearms when you jump up warrior style
and run fist-first to the kitchen in your sleep.
I’ll buy you almond croissants. I’ll hum to you
with my pretty good pitch. You are falling asleep
and chuckling sweetly to yourself when you think of me;
I am taking photos of you sleeping and posting them online.
I know you don’t mind, so I break into your house
while you’re out and teach myself the bass. Don’t worry
about that smoke smell, it’s my gentleness you’re loving.
Joanna Penn Cooper
Notgod set me on fire and was like good luck
I think the shirt you wear is ultimate
When it turns red nothing can walk soft
Maybe birth me up on your fingers
You taste like notsober alcoholics
Various breeds of errors and the way I feel you
No human power no human power
I cannot go there with you and I cried
The other life I was so nauseous
You didn’t know I almost threw up
What if I threw up on your tongue?
When I put you in my mouth I got better
Forgive every body its mouth
I talk like I am sister heaven
I am really sister darkness
I am both at once and you are also
You didn’t know you were an echo
In the dust I’ll kill you up
I think you learn by unbeing
Like first you die and then go oh
& I CAN HEAR YOU PURR
An old fat nymphomaniac who just can’t cum no matter how much she gasps, & wheezes, and rattles, & drips, filthy & black, all over yr fingers, neck & face, till finally you lift her, like a bird in yr fist. [ I wake up and a Meth-Head’s trying to sneak off with my Ipod, my house and my words. It’s Ron Silliman & his face’s ruined. “Kill the rat!” my wife explodes. Like a mushroom ] & twist her head off. Her eyes (so sweet & so tender) in yr left hand, ask so innocently—O, how did this all go so wrong?—while her body, in yr fist, continues to beat.
IF YOU HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE
make sure it is on their birthday
so they can follow the story
of the awful thing you did or said
with “…and on my birthday???”
You’ll be giving them
the gift of others’ supercharged
sympathies which is also,
unfortunately, high-voltage hatred
directed at you.
But you probably already
had that coming, didn’t you,
you self-hating, off-putting poet?
tsunami in love: kintsukuroi / golden joinery
When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something’s suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful. – Barbara Bloom
safe is just another empty signifier
when she is water and the clay
that cupped her was a shattered bowl
triggering tsunami a sparkly blue shooter
pinging the splintered mib
of the fractured nuclear reactor core
this is what playing for keeps means
this broken imperfection / these cracked
masks / this crazed helplessness
this is what no going back means
no taking back the feral chipped singing
gouging open her fault lines and wounds
aggrandizing them with molten gold
blood veins of cinnabar alchemizing
to mercury like smelt silvering the shore
safe is just another empty signifier
because she is water and the clay
that cupped her was a shattered bowl
until after months in pieces she lets you
hold and rock her in these postures of repair
(and when she spills you do not drown
and when she rages in her radioactive
expansion cloud chamber you become
that slim umbilical tethering the astronaut
seaweed that fetters rafts of sea otters)
buttery lamp light by the side of the bed
gilding together what’s broken no more
Lee Ann Roripaugh
MY DEAR ISHMAEL
As most young pains
whaling their voyage
a fine, boisterous something about everything
her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the first dead American
whale was stranded. Those aboriginal whalemen
give chase to the Leviathan?
risk a harpoon
a night, a day
my destined port, a very dark and dismal night
cheerless with anxious grapnels
pieces of silver—myself
gloom towards the north
darkness towards the south—
my dear Ishmael
THE PREGNANT DREAM
I had a dream in which I had a
and in my dream I told you,
“Listen, I will tell you my
dream.” And I began to tell you. And
you told me, “I haven’t time to listen while you tell your
Then in my dream I
dreamed I began to
And forgot my
And I began to tell you, “Listen, I have
And now I tell you: “Listen while I tell you my
in which I dreamed
I forgot my dream,”
and I begin to tell you “In my dream you told me, ‘I haven’t time to
And you tell me” “You dreamed I wouldn’t
listen to a
dream that you
I haven’t time to listen to
“But I haven’t forgot I
dreamed,” I tell you,
“a dream in which I told you,
‘Listen, I have
forgot,’ and you told me, ‘I haven’t time.’”
“I haven’t time,” you tell me.
And now I begin to forget that I
forgot what I began to tell you in my
And I tell you, “Listen,
listen, I begin to
(the real poem lines up the words “dream,” “listen” and “forgot” of every line, throughout the entire piece, which is why some of the line breaks look like this. But wordpress formatting, as usual, will not cooperate. The only line that is supposed to break structure is “I haven’t time you, tell me”)
What can I say about Charlie Kaufman’s screenplays that hasn’t already been said?
See Synecdoche, New York if you haven’t!
It’s his best one and to me rivals the greatest films and novels of all time. It is terrifyingly honest, complex and true. It obsessively peels back the layers of the human condition until there is only a skeleton and it contains everything in it while making fun of an artist who tries to create a piece that contains everything.
From Charlie Kaufman’s 2012 BAFTA Screenwriters Lecture:
Thank you very much. I’m actually really happy to be here; at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I’ve never delivered a speech before, which is why I decided to do this tonight. I wanted to do something that I don’t know how to do, and offer you the experience of watching someone fumble, because I think maybe that’s what art should offer. An opportunity to recognise our common humanity and vulnerability.
So rather than being up here pretending I’m an expert in anything, or presenting myself in a way that will reinforce the odd, ritualised lecturer-lecturee model, I’m just telling you off the bat that I don’t know anything. And if there’s one thing that characterises my writing it’s that I always start from that realisation and I do what I can to keep reminding myself of that during the process. I think we try to be experts because we’re scared; we don’t want to feel foolish or worthless; we want power because power is a great disguise.
I’m a person who does this and I struggle with it. I think it was Thomas Mann who said, ‘A writer is someone for whom writing is harder than it is for other people,’ which I thought was pretty cool. I think that’s sort of it; if you take it seriously it’s a struggle.
Here’s a recent quote that I found: ‘We do not talk, we bludgeon one another with facts and theories gleaned from cursory readings of newspapers, magazines and digests.’ That was actually written in 1945 by Henry Miller and I think it’s timely. I think what it says is that the world has been on its present course for a long time. People all over the world spend countless hours of their lives every week being fed entertainment in the form of movies, TV shows, newspapers, YouTube videos and the internet. And it’s ludicrous to believe that this stuff doesn’t alter our brains.
It’s also equally ludicrous to believe that – at the very least – this mass distraction and manipulation is not convenient for the people who are in charge. People are starving. They may not know it because they’re being fed mass produced garbage. The packaging is colourful and loud, but it’s produced in the same factories that make Pop Tarts and iPads, by people sitting around thinking, ‘What can we do to get people to buy more of these?’
And they’re very good at their jobs. But that’s what it is you’re getting, because that’s what they’re making. They’re selling you something. And the world is built on this now. Politics and government are built on this, corporations are built on this. Interpersonal relationships are built on this. And we’re starving, all of us, and we’re killing each other, and we’re hating each other, and we’re calling each other liars and evil because it’s all become marketing and we want to win because we’re lonely and empty and scared and we’re led to believe winning will change all that. But there is no winning.
What can be done? Say who you are, really say it in your life and in your work. Tell someone out there who is lost, someone not yet born, someone who won’t be born for 500 years. Your writing will be a record of your time. It can’t help but be that. But more importantly, if you’re honest about who you are, you’ll help that person be less lonely in their world because that person will recognise him or herself in you and that will give them hope. It’s done so for me and I have to keep rediscovering it. It has profound importance in my life. Give that to the world, rather than selling something to the world. Don’t allow yourself to be tricked into thinking that the way things are is the way the world must work and that in the end selling is what everyone must do. Try not to.
This is from E. E. Cummings: ‘To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night and day to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.’ The world needs you. It doesn’t need you at a party having read a book about how to appear smart at parties – these books exist, and they’re tempting – but resist falling into that trap. The world needs you at the party starting real conversations, saying, ‘I don’t know,’ and being kind.
So you are here, and I am here, spending our time as we must, it must be spent. I am trying not to spend this time, as I spend most of my time, trying to get you to like me; trying to control your thoughts, to use my voodoo at the speed of light, the speed of sound, the speed of thought, trying to convince you that your two hours with me are not going to be resented afterwards.
It is an ancient pattern of time usage for me, and I’m trying to move deeper, hoping to be helpful. This pattern of time usage paints over an ancient wound, and paints it with bright colours. It’s a sleight of hand, a distraction, so to attempt to change the pattern let me expose the wound. I now step into this area blindly, I do not know what the wound is, I do know that it is old. I do know that it is a hole in my being. I do know it is tender. I do believe that it is unknowable, or at least unable to be articulable.
I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that must be tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won’t be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live.
It is the thing from which your art, your painting, your dance, your composition, your philosophical treatise, your screenplay is born. If you don’t acknowledge this you will come up here when it is your time and you will give your speech and you will talk about the business of screenwriting. You will say that as a screenwriter you are a cog in a business machine, you will say it is not an art form. You will say, ‘Here, this is what a screenplay looks like.’ You will discuss character arcs, how to make likeable characters. You will talk about box office. This is what you will do, this is who you will be and after you are done I will feel lonely and empty and hopeless. And I will ask you for my two hours back. I will do this to indicate my lack of love for you.
I will do this to communicate that you are a waste of time as a human being. It will be an ugly thing for me to say. It will be intended to hurt you. It will be wrong for me to say. It will lack compassion. And it will hurt you. And you will either dismiss it or take it in, but in either case you will hear it and it will affect you. And you will think about what you can do next time so you can be more lovable, and with that your wound will be buried further. Or you will think about how hateful people are and how your armour needs to be thicker so that you can proceed as planned with your ideas. With that, your wound will be buried further.
I think the best way to begin to combat the systemic indoctrination is to look at intention. The aphorism, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ doesn’t ring true to me. I think intention is at the bottom of everything. My intentions are shifting and complex and often at odds with each other. And if I know what they are, and watch them closely as they slip and slide all over the place, I have a better chance of putting something honest into the world and this is my goal. My own Hippocratic Oath – I do not want to harm.
I am painfully conscious of the harm that occurs when participating in the media with unclear intentions. I do not want to be a salesman, I do not want to scream, ‘Buy me!’ or, ‘Watch me!’ And I don’t want to do that tonight. What I’m trying to express – what I’d like to express – is the notion that, by being honest, thoughtful and aware of the existence of other living beings, a change can begin to happen in how we think of ourselves and the world, and ourselves in the world. We are not the passive audience for this big, messed up power play.
We don’t have to be. We can say who we are, we can assert our right to existence, we can say to the bullies and conmen, the people who try to shame us, embarrass us, flatter us, to the people who have no compunction about lying to us to get our money and our allegiance that we are thinking – really thinking – about who we are, and we’ll express ourselves and other people won’t feel so alone.
This is Harold Pinter: ‘A writer’s life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don’t have to weep about that, the writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb, you find no shelter, no protection, unless you lie. In which case, of course, you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.’
It’s weird to be a human. We get to think about things, we get to wonder. It seems like quite a privileged position in the universe. And I wouldn’t give it up for certainty because when you’re certain you stop being curious. And here’s the one thing I know about the thing you’re certain about; you’re wrong.
It’s always a mistake to settle on any explanation for anything, because whatever you settle on you will be wrong, even if you’re right. Everything is ephemeral; everything is in a constant state of flux. Thinking past any conclusion you’ve drawn will reward you with a more complex insight and a more compassionate world view. This is something I’m constantly trying to learn and re-learn.
There’s another quote that I like, this one’s a little long, but I think it’s good. It’s by a guy named John Garvey: ‘I am increasingly convinced that the need to be right has nothing whatsoever to do with the love of truth, but to face the implications of this means accepting a painful inner emptiness; I am not now what I sense somehow I am meant to be. I do not know what I feel from the bottom of my heart, I need to know. The beginning of wisdom is not to flee from this condition or distract yourself from it. It is essential not to fill it up with answers that have not been earned. It is important to learn how to wait with that emptiness. It is the desire to fill up that emptiness which leads to political or religious fanaticism.’
I think what might make this form of endeavour exciting for writers is that they find themselves in an environment where they’re encouraged to use their powers to explore the world, their minds and the form itself. Think about the staggering possibilities of the marriage of light, vibration and time. I think craft is a dangerous thing. I saw a trailer for a movie, I don’t want to say what the movie is, but it’s coming out soon. And it was gorgeous, it was… gorgeous. And it made me really depressed, and I was trying to figure out why.
I think there was an amazing amount of craft and skill on the part of the filmmakers in this movie. And yet it was the same shit. I know that this movie is going to do really well, and I know that the people who made it are going to get rewarded for it, and so the cycle continues. So I think the danger of craft is that it needs to be in second position to what it is that you’re doing.
It’s seductive to put it in first position, often because what you’re doing is meaningless or worthless, or just more of the same. So you can distinguish yourself by being very, very good at it. I think you need to be willing to be naked when you do anything creatively in film or any other form, that’s really what you have to do because otherwise it’s very hard to separate it from marketing.
The new issue of Ping-Pong & the cover is pumpkin soup!
In the new issue of Ping-Pong there is a 20-page conversation between Alice Notley, Maria Garcia Teutsch & I which took place in a cafe in Paris earlier this year. In person I would describe Notley exactly as I experience her on the page: utterly beautiful and in touch with a great otherness.
Below is a mini-excerpt.
With The Descent of Alette at what point in the process did you figure out the form it would take with the quotations and the breaths? Did that come early or late in the process?
That came early. At the point where I got the form, I could write it.
Did you write the first piece first?
No, I wrote it last. I wrote the first two last. I didn’t have a beginning for two years and then at the end I had a beginning. It sounds a little tiny bit different from the rest of the poem, but not very much.
It contains almost the whole book within it.
Yeah, I think it’s a very epic-like beginning. I give you an entrée that is also kind of a synopsis. But it’s very terse.
It teaches you how you’re going to read the book and also has information in it but at the same time it’s beautifully lyrical. All of those elements are perfectly balanced.
So you always knew you were going to use the quotations?
Yes, because I had already done them in a couple of poems. I had used them before for “A Choral Effect.” Right away I realized The Descent of Alette was going to have a first person singular. And I was going to have a unified voice, not choral. But it suggests choral. But it’s not choral, the way those two poems from “Beginning with a Stain” are. And also “White Phosphorus,” which is a mixture of voices.
Because when I was writing those I was listening to Monteverdi, who wrote 16th century Italian choral music. I carried that with me for a year or two until I got to the point when I wrote Alette. Then I had the one voice, but I had the quotation marks, but then quotation marks changed into demarcating the measures, more than suggesting the voices or voice.
Read another mini-excerpt from this interview here on Maria Garcia Teutsch’s blog. The full interview is ONLY available in the new Ping-Pong.
Ping-Pong is the the official literary journal of the Henry Miller Library and this is my first issue as an official Poetry Editor. While I can’t help but miss having my poems in Ping-Pong, it has been a fantastic experience being poetry editor and working along with Poetry Editor Joanna Fuhrman, Prose Editor Shelley Marlow and under the magical leadership of Editor-in-Chief Maria Garcia Teutsch. And I got to work with great writers and talk with my hero Alice Notley. The absolute highlight of the issue for me occurred deep in our conversation with Notley, when she shared some details about her vast treasure chest of fascinating yet-to-be-published works– bringing sexy back to the phrase “unpublished manuscript.”
Also in this issue, poems by: Alice Notley, Ilya Kaminsky, Shane McCrae, Timothy Liu, Danielle Pafunda, Melissa Broder, Leigh Stein, Jennifer L. Knox, Kate Greenstreet, Lina Ramona Vitkauskas, Tyler Gobble &more. Plus an Ales Steger story translated by Brian Henry & Urska Charney and a micro-anthology of Russian poems translated by Ilya Kaminsky & Katie Farris.
Fuck that summer. Let’s forget it even happened. Here is a Poetry Crush (clean slate) autumn writing playlist.
Gwendolyn Brooks – Beverly Hills, Chicago
Lana Del Rey – Ride
Foxygen – How Can You Really
The Strokes – One Way Trigger
ELEL – 40 Watt
Sun Kil Moon – I Know It’s Pathetic But That Was the Greatest Night of My Life
Maps – To the Sky
The Strokes – Chances
Lorde – Team
Zola Jesus – Dangerous Days
Cibo Matto – MFN
Karen O – Ooo
Lana Del Rey – Fucked My Way Up To The Top
The National – Hard To Find
Gwendolyn Brooks – Kitchenette
I’m always struck by the restraint in this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. Instead of using divisive language about racial and economic injustice, which is easy to do and which most of us do… with messages that will only reach people who think exactly the way we do and box out people who don’t…. Brooks uses supreme clarity, restraint and craft to speak more powerfully and in ways that will never leave you. She can reach any person of any lack or abundance of privilege in any time period walking down any street in the world.
Beverly Hills, Chicago
The dry brown coughing beneath their feet,
(Only a while, for the handyman is on his way)
These people walk their golden gardens.
We say ourselves fortunate to be driving by today.
That we may look at them, in their gardens where
The summer ripeness rots. But not raggedly.
Even the leaves fall down in lovelier patterns here.
And the refuse, the refuse is a neat brilliancy.
When they flow sweetly into their houses
With softness and slowness touched by that everlasting gold,
We know what they go to. To tea. But that does not mean
They will throw some little black dots into some water and add sugar and the juice of the
cheapest lemons that are sold,
While downstairs that woman’s vague phonograph bleats, “Knock me a kiss.”
And the living all to be made again in the sweatingest physical manner
Tomorrow….Not that anybody is saying that these people have no trouble.
Merely that it is trouble with a gold-flecked beautiful banner.
Nobody is saying that these people do not ultimately cease to be. And
Sometimes their passings are even more painful than ours.
It is just that so often they live till their hair is white.
They make excellent corpses, among the expensive flowers….
Nobody is furious. Nobody hates these people.
At least, nobody driving by in this car.
It is only natural, however, that it should occur to us
How much more fortunate they are than we are.
It is only natural that we should look and look
At their wood and brick and stone
And think, while a breath of pine blows,
How different these are from our own.
We do not want them to have less.
But it is only natural that we should think we have not enough.
We drive on, we drive on.
When we speak to each other our voices are a little gruff.
The lyrics to this Sun Kil Moon song remind me of my long-ago teenage Hungarian summer boyfriend. Marcel, Marcel, where are you now?
I know it’s pathetic but that was the greatest night
It was backstage in Moscow late one night
We shared a cigarette, a kiss goodbye
Her name was Cayenne, so young and soft
Her hands trembled badly, her eyes trailed off
To bottles and objects around the room
My backup guitar, a tray of food
We didn’t have very much to say
She said that she’d come from some other place
A town called Troyskirt, maybe Troysworth
I was pretty distracted packing my stuff
But I did make a point to ask her to stay
But she said she had friends that she had to go see
Later that summer I picked up my mail
She sent me a letter with a touching detail
“I used up my minutes calling hotels
To find you that night but to no avail”
“I know it’s pathetic,” she continued to write,
“But that was the greatest night of my life.”
With the latest senseless police shooting, I can’t help but to think of the film Fruitvale Station. This is my favorite film from 2013 (along with Her) and I’ve been meaning to write about it for months.
Fruitvale Station is a beautiful and truthful film about the last day in the life of Oscar Grant – a not so perfect guy, trying to be better – who was wrongfully shot and killed by a police officer at the Fruitvale Bart Station in Oakland, CA in front of a car-full of witnesses. Michael B. Jordan (Vince from Friday Night Lights and the kid on The Wire) is unforgettable as Oscar, wow. So is Octavia Spenser who plays Oscar’s mother and Melonie Diaz who plays Oscar’s girlfriend.
This is a film that brings awareness to the injustice of the police shooting of Oscar Grant, but it does so not by dividing good guys and bad guys. It bypasses statistics, politics and this country’s history of racism and shows us what is at stake in closeup: a young mother and a young daughter and the young father who is trying to be the man his family needs him to be. And the film, despite the horrible inevitable outcome of its main character, is delightful, funny and entertaining … after all, he has no reason to think he is going to die that day.
Fruitvale Station released last year when Trayvon Martin was in the news and theaters were reported to be filled with sobs when the lights turned on at the end of the film. I’ll spare you from telling you how much I cried, other than to say that when we hear these stories in the news we get angry and frustrated and are in Phase I of our sadness. Fruitvale Station begins the very deep mourning process which there is never time for because there is always another news story. This is a humble and powerful film. It should be mandatory viewing in schools, police academies and the homes of all humans.
One of the most striking images from Fruitvale Station is this image of Oscar aiming his cell phone camera at the police officer, knowing it is his only weapon. One of the images of our time. Still, it wasn’t enough to save his life.
Also, this Michael Che piece on the Daily Show re: the shooting of Michael Brown made me laugh and cry in the same breath. It’s devastatingly sad and funny and sad. Awfully sad.
The deep, hilarious and human Robin Williams. “It’s not your fault.” — The repetition in this scene is unrelenting. It breaks down Will and it breaks me down and it will break you down too. That is some effective use of repetition.
(from Good Will Hunting)
Sean: My father was an alcoholic. Mean fuckin’ drunk. He’d come home hammered, looking to whale on somebody. So I’d provoke him, so he wouldn’t go after my mother and little brother. Interesting nights were when he wore his rings.
Will: He used to just put a belt, a stick, and a wrench on the table. Just say, “Choose.”
Sean: Well I gotta go with the belt there.
Will: I used to go with the wrench.
Sean: Why the wrench?
Will: Cause fuck him, that’s why.
Sean: Your foster father?
Will: So, uh, what is it, like, Will has an attachment disorder? Is it all that stuff?
Will: Fear of abandonment? Is that why I broke up with Skylar?
Sean: I didn’t know you had.
Will: Yeah, I did.
Sean: You wanna talk about it?
Sean: Hey, Will? I don’t know a lot. You see this? All this shit?
[Holds up the file, and drops it on his desk]
Sean: It’s not your fault.
Will: [Will shrugs] Yeah, I know that.
[Will averts his eyes to the floor]
Sean: Look at me son.
[Will locks eyes with Sean]
Sean: It’s not your fault.
Will: [Will nods] I know.
Sean: No. It’s not your fault.
Will: I know
Sean: No, no, you don’t. It’s not your fault.
[Sean moves closer to Will]
Will: I know.
[Will stands up, trying to keep distance]
Sean: It’s not your fault.
Sean: It’s not your fault.
[Will closes his eyes, he’s fighting for control]
Sean: It’s not your fault.
Will: Don’t fuck with me.
[Will shoves Sean back]
Will: Don’t fuck with me, Sean, not you!
Sean: It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.
[Will breaks into sobs. They hug]
Sean: Fuck them, ok?
Use of repetition in the I Heart Huckabees screenplay goes from silly to ludicrous to completely destroying the fabric of Brad’s character. As the scene unravels Brad unravels and you almost do too but it’s too funny– so you can’t. You are saved by your sense of humor and Brad who is humorless drowns in the repetition — “how am I not myself”. Although we are saved by humor, the scene does challenge us by implying that our own use of repetition is a coping device and avoidance strategy. And the writer himself, David O’Russel, says this while also doing it.
(from I Heart Huckabees)
Vivian Jaffe: Why do you think that you tell the mayo story so much?
Brad Stand: I don’t know. Why?
Bernard Jaffe: It’s propaganda.
Brad Stand: [scoffing] For mayonnaise?
Bernard Jaffe: For you.
Vivian Jaffe: Specifically, you’re so impressive because you know Shania. And you’re so strong because you pulled one on her.
Bernard Jaffe: You’re a funny guy, a good guy.
Vivian Jaffe: Keeping everyone laughing, so that maybe, quote, you don’t get depressed.
Brad Stand: [shouting] Well, what’s so great about depression?
Bernard Jaffe: Nothing. Unless it holds the key to something you compulsively avoid, so it will never be examined or felt. Hence your behavior becomes repetitive like the story.
Vivian Jaffe: Like the story.
Bernard Jaffe: Like the story.
Bernard Jaffe: Shut up. Alright, I don’t have to tell stories.
Vivian Jaffe: What do you think would happen if you didn’t tell the stories? Are you being yourself?
Brad Stand: How am I not myself?
Bernard Jaffe: How am I not myself?
Vivian Jaffe: How am I not myself?
Bernard Jaffe: How… am I not… myself?