9.30.03
I was fortunate enough to see Radiohead this past Friday. I'm not one for arena rock, but watching this band play at the Hollywood Bowl was something to behold. The sound was simply superb. Thom Yorke's singing can give goose bumps to any jaded kid, and the Greenwood brothers are Renaissance men. Is there an instrument they don't know how to play? I doubt it. Because of the band's popularity, and where they played, it was expected that we might see a movie star or two. And we did. Sort of. I mean, does this guy qualify as a movie star?
As some of you might already know, the premiere issue of Swink isn't available yet. We're still in the process of editing. Haven't even made an announcement for the winners of the Emerging Writers Contest. Which makes this cover letter to Swink that we received the other day, well, comical. Who knows, maybe they have time machines at MacDowell now?
9.15.03
Have you seen American Splendor yet? If not, shame on you. If you have, then you know what I'm talking about. Brilliant, no? I loved that it was part film, part documentary, and how the two overlapped. Definitely something I haven't seen before. And the American Splendor website is something to behold as well. Go ahead, click on the miniature poster to the right, and have a hoot turning the pages over like an actual book.
Lisa and I discovered a cool bar this weekend right here in Long Beach called House of Hayden. If you're in the area, drop by and ask Krystin to make you a martini. You won't be disappointed. Then stagger over to Utopia and have a delicious meal. But don't drink too much or else, after you pay your bill, you might accidentally tell the waiter enrolled in cosmetology school: "Good luck with your hairdo."
Can't write or paint these days. Or play Scrabble; Lisa crushed me the other day. She got four (count them: four) seven-letter words. Here's the proof.
8.31.03
The latest installment of The Best American Poetry series just came out, guest edited by Yusef Komunyakaa. Lots of wonderful poems in this one: Matthea Harvey, Bruce Bond, Susan Dickman, David Wojahn, and a hilarious one by Jennifer L. Knox entitled "Love Blooms at Chimsbury After the War" which beings: "After a round of croquet in the garden, Pimpton / dropped dead with our lunch in his hands. Then Babette / dropped dead under her wide brimmed straw hat. Poncey / dropped dead, then Alice, then Tuckles." Okay, maybe that doesn't sound funny to you, but her explanation on the origins of the poem after her bio definitely is. Of course, there are a few duds that make you wonder "This is one of the best poems written in America over the past year?!?!" Like the one by that famous poet you always see in The New Yorker. Sample lines: "day by day you / remained out of sight / so that he never had to / lock you up or hide you / because nobody could see you..." Where are the nouns? Could I get a noun? Also, last time I checked, "out of sight" was a cliché.
Saw two great films last week: Thirteen and The Magdalene Sisters, the latter of which is the better film and kicked me in the gut harder. Not for the squeamish.
Say, did you hear: Slope sold out. That's okay. Modest Mouse, one of my favorite indie bands, is the background music for the latest Nissan ad for the Quest Mini-van. Truth be known, I sold out as well.
8.19.03
I've been reading Paul Guest's poems here and there in literary magazines and on the web (here's a great one about the breakup of the Pixies), and was looking forward to reading his debut collection, The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World (New Issues), which I recently did. Paul's got a great style, voice and imagination, the ability to make you laugh one minute, then tie a knot in your throat the next. There are too many gems in this collection to single out just one, but "On the Persistence of the Letter as a Form" is one of the brightest ones for me. It begins: "Dear murderous world, dear gawking heart, / I never wrote back to you; not one word // wrenched itself free of my fog-draped mind / to dab in ink the day's dull catalog // of ruin."
Lisa and I did a little house sitting last week at her brother's lovely home in Poway and decided we'd try to write while holding down the fort. Here's a silly poem I wrote during our stay.
Not much else to report other than I'm still trying to decide how I should vote next month for the California recall election. I've narrowed it down to two candidates: Gary Coleman and Gallagher. And if you believe that, you should also know that the word gullible, for some inexplicable reason, is omitted from most dictionaries. Really.
8.3.03
If you're into the prose poem, you should definitely pick yourself up a copy of No Boundaries: Prose Poems by 24 American Poets (Tupelo Press). Edited by Ray Gonzalez, this volume features a good mix of the well-established along with the lesser-known prose poets. Of those who fall in the latter category, Mary Koncel and Louis Jenkins really shine here. From Jenkins' Insects: "Insects don't seem to have a sense of place but require only a certain ambiance. A fly that gets driven 500 miles in a car and then is finally chased out the window does not miss the town where it spent its maggothood." Of course, it's always a treat to read Charles Simic and Russell Edson, who are also represented in this wonderful anthology.
Speaking of Edson, I recently designed my first Flash website dedicated to Mr. Prose Poet himself. Check it out. There's still a few kinks on the site that I have to fix. In case you're wondering, the background music is from The Notwist's Neon Golden, an album I've been listening to ad nauseum recently.
July was a fruitful month for me: I wrote eight poems. Which could only mean one thing: I'll eek out one or two (if I'm lucky) poems this month. It's always rain, draught, rain, draught for me. Anyway, here's one that I wrote last week.
7.16.03
Guess who finally got
a new job? No,
Yep, it's me. Starting next
I began
Everything
7.2.03
I'm roughly halfway through one of the smartest and darkest novels I've read in years, Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin (Counterpoint Press). It's written from the point of view of a woman whose son open fired on his classmates at his high school. It's a compelling read that reminds me for some reason of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, a novel that digs up the ugliest aspects of human beings. It's impossible to put down. Lisa zipped through the book in two days and keeps telling me, "Did you get to the part where--" That's when I plug my ears.
Of course, while reading the aforementioned novel, I keep thinking of the boy in the murder trial that I sat through a couple weeks ago. He was found guilty of second degree murder. While the verdict was being read he glared at each of the jurors. At one point he muttered under his breath, "This shit ain't even funny." He told him it would be? Of course I got some poems out my jury duty experience at the Long Beach Courthouse. Here's one of them, unrelated to the trial that I served on.
Previous Journal Entries
4/21/03 - 6/15/03
1/7/03 - 4/18/03
9/24/02 - 12/24/02
