The lines on the highway, the horizon,
both sides of a debate. The flash of yellow in
rear view. Deer's guts splayed on the white.
Please discard your personal life here.
Teddy bear wears a Yankees T-shirt,
his feet are up the air. The trees are
bottom heavy. It is hard to be
creative on demand.
My food network is gone, fuzzy.
The cat is snoring. Where's my
bloody mary? There's nothing
quite like a woman in love.
—this poem is forthcoming on my personal blog
Monday, November 17, 2008
More News
Two of my poems, "Sea-Change" and "Ghazal (Not Guzzle)," are now online in the Fall 2008 Issue of BigCityLit. Huzzah.
I think I'm also reading at BigCityLit's release reading at Cornelia Street a week from tomorrow night...
{gc}
I think I'm also reading at BigCityLit's release reading at Cornelia Street a week from tomorrow night...
{gc}
If Only
I received an encouraging but firm rejection, via electronic mail, from the Kenyon Review.
Minutes later, I received an acceptance, also via electronic mail, from Copper Nickel.
If only all good news arrived, like winged Mercury, on the heels of bad.
{gc}
Minutes later, I received an acceptance, also via electronic mail, from Copper Nickel.
If only all good news arrived, like winged Mercury, on the heels of bad.
{gc}
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Awkward Restraint
My review of Heart Burns, the debut solo album of Against Me frontman Tom Gabel:
"Random Hearts" is an apt name for a random song—and album for that matter—that doesn't know what it wants to be. Heart Burns feels stuck awkwardly between a punk past and an uncertain future. Stripped of the backing of a rollicking punk band, the lyrics seem flat and immature, and frankly provoked some cringing by yours truly on my morning commute, as if a young white teenager were waxing poetic about the headlines of a newspaper he cannot afford to read because he is struggling to pay rent to his slumlord. Too obvious.
Gabel's strengths just didn't shine in this solo format. I wanted to have fun while cursing the establishment, but was too distracted. The lyrics just don't hold up, the contrast of his signature raspy voice is not enough to achieve the beautiful balance like in Against Me's "New Wave." Many of the lines sound like Gabel trying to give himself advice and convince himself of his political views—his old self, perhaps, as he is struggling on a "Conceptual Path" to form a new identity. He is utterly conflicted and alone, and not in a good way. (Perhaps he should study Elliot Smith.) It felt unsteady, unsure and a bit forced, like a summer fling, an indulgent experiment gone awry. It signals death, a death of punk perhaps, that Gabel should go on fighting against, not surrendering to.
However, I am still eager to hear him play live, along with his openers, at the Knitting Factory on my birthday, a week from today. I think without the barrier of the studio, his rawness will be more genuine, smile-inducing, and dare I say it, romantic (though I don't know if Gabel knows if he wants it to be). Either way, it will be a good night. I am sure.
There is one saving grace, one gem, on this quick, 7-song album. The track that works is called Harsh Realms. It is pure and simple and true (and also would sound better with a rocking punk band backing it:).
This is not punk. But punk is Gabel's heart. And oh, how his heart burns.
Speaking of frontmen and randomness, doesn't Danny looks scarily similar to the pregnant man? ;)
"Random Hearts" is an apt name for a random song—and album for that matter—that doesn't know what it wants to be. Heart Burns feels stuck awkwardly between a punk past and an uncertain future. Stripped of the backing of a rollicking punk band, the lyrics seem flat and immature, and frankly provoked some cringing by yours truly on my morning commute, as if a young white teenager were waxing poetic about the headlines of a newspaper he cannot afford to read because he is struggling to pay rent to his slumlord. Too obvious.
Gabel's strengths just didn't shine in this solo format. I wanted to have fun while cursing the establishment, but was too distracted. The lyrics just don't hold up, the contrast of his signature raspy voice is not enough to achieve the beautiful balance like in Against Me's "New Wave." Many of the lines sound like Gabel trying to give himself advice and convince himself of his political views—his old self, perhaps, as he is struggling on a "Conceptual Path" to form a new identity. He is utterly conflicted and alone, and not in a good way. (Perhaps he should study Elliot Smith.) It felt unsteady, unsure and a bit forced, like a summer fling, an indulgent experiment gone awry. It signals death, a death of punk perhaps, that Gabel should go on fighting against, not surrendering to.
However, I am still eager to hear him play live, along with his openers, at the Knitting Factory on my birthday, a week from today. I think without the barrier of the studio, his rawness will be more genuine, smile-inducing, and dare I say it, romantic (though I don't know if Gabel knows if he wants it to be). Either way, it will be a good night. I am sure.
There is one saving grace, one gem, on this quick, 7-song album. The track that works is called Harsh Realms. It is pure and simple and true (and also would sound better with a rocking punk band backing it:).
This is not punk. But punk is Gabel's heart. And oh, how his heart burns.
Speaking of frontmen and randomness, doesn't Danny looks scarily similar to the pregnant man? ;)
You See This Doorknob, Barack?
Barack, let me show you something important. This Oval Office doorknob sticks, and it can lock when you don't want it to. When that happens, you have to walk all the way around to the tourist entrance and stand in line. Mighty embarassing! I usually put a book there to prop it open. They'll bring you a thing called the Daily Brief, and that works good. Now, I don't know if they told you, but the house comes unfurnished. Not a stick of furniture. You can go to Ikea and buy your own stuff, like we did when the Clintons left, but you gotta put that together. We got some nice stuff here, and I'm sure we can agree on a fair price to just leave it for you guys. Here, let me show you the candy machine... --posted by Robert Basler, Reuters Oddly Enough blog, Nov. 10, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The American Photographer
A few years ago, while visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, I came across a self-portrait of an artist whose exposed chest was carved with the word, PERVERT--fresh and reddened; a leather S/M mask obscured her mouth, nose, and ears; delicately placed needles ran up and down her arms, directing the viewer to consider multiple sources of physical anguish; and she sat, with fingers interlocked, in front of an elegant, patterned sheet, which appeared to belie the artist's true intent (is this photograph about "perverse" sexual inclinations no matter the gender, or does the image aim to address the issue of violence against women? All or none of the above, perhaps?). I had forgotten the name of the artist by the time I left Chicago, but was never able to shake off the image, so graphic and shocking, yet also quite refined and careful.
Earlier this month I picked up a European magazine--the name of which I cannot bother to recall right now--dedicated to the arts, in which I read about artist-photographer, Catherine Opie, whose mid-career retrospective is now on view at the Guggenheim. The article on Opie featured a photograph of her son, Oliver, wearing a pink tutu and crown; a USC t-shirt rounded out this most unusual of outfits for a young boy. I appreciated how the soft light accented a part of Oliver's face, and how two other subjects, in soft focus, carried on with their own lives, domestic and seemingly inconsequential, in the background. The article also referenced Opie's self-portrait; I was immediately taken back to the halls of the Art Institute, to the wonder and awe I felt towards an artist whose bold moves towards the personal and private made me reconsider the idea of the body as change.
Opie's show at the Guggenheim is wide-ranging, naturally; such is the nature of mid-career retrospectives. The problem with such views into the recent past, though, is that it can be difficult to trace something of a narrative; dozens of photographs arranged within multiple levels of a museum do not necessarily tell a story. Thankfully, the success of American Photographer owes as much to the show's curator(s) as it does to Opie, as both museum and artist selected works that offer far more than what is safe and expected, far more than what would please the average museum-goer. In other words, this show is something of a challenge, a direct call to the viewer to think about underrepresented--not to mention misrepresented--subjects and ideas. In this respect, Opie's portraits of icons within the S/M and queer communities work toward a disruption against a definition of supposedly "alternative" modes of living; in Opie's photographs, love and desire occupy the same space once reserved for comparatively conservative, hetero-focused art (see Reubens, etc.).
As much as I found the portraits of her friends and the large-scale Polaroids of performance artist Ron Athey worthy and shocking in their own right (how else to describe a picture of a heavily-tattooed man with a string of pearls coming out of his asshole?), I was most moved by the subtle simplicity of shots depicting Minnesota landscapes and surfers in California. These later images speak of isolation as delirium, as the viewer is lost, in one moment, in a scene obliterated by wind and snow, only to be subsumed, in another moment, in the deep expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I caught myself smiling and nodding my head as I walked past these particular photographs, and thought, Yes, of course!
Catherine Opie: American Photographer runs through January 7, 2009
[D | R]
Earlier this month I picked up a European magazine--the name of which I cannot bother to recall right now--dedicated to the arts, in which I read about artist-photographer, Catherine Opie, whose mid-career retrospective is now on view at the Guggenheim. The article on Opie featured a photograph of her son, Oliver, wearing a pink tutu and crown; a USC t-shirt rounded out this most unusual of outfits for a young boy. I appreciated how the soft light accented a part of Oliver's face, and how two other subjects, in soft focus, carried on with their own lives, domestic and seemingly inconsequential, in the background. The article also referenced Opie's self-portrait; I was immediately taken back to the halls of the Art Institute, to the wonder and awe I felt towards an artist whose bold moves towards the personal and private made me reconsider the idea of the body as change.
Opie's show at the Guggenheim is wide-ranging, naturally; such is the nature of mid-career retrospectives. The problem with such views into the recent past, though, is that it can be difficult to trace something of a narrative; dozens of photographs arranged within multiple levels of a museum do not necessarily tell a story. Thankfully, the success of American Photographer owes as much to the show's curator(s) as it does to Opie, as both museum and artist selected works that offer far more than what is safe and expected, far more than what would please the average museum-goer. In other words, this show is something of a challenge, a direct call to the viewer to think about underrepresented--not to mention misrepresented--subjects and ideas. In this respect, Opie's portraits of icons within the S/M and queer communities work toward a disruption against a definition of supposedly "alternative" modes of living; in Opie's photographs, love and desire occupy the same space once reserved for comparatively conservative, hetero-focused art (see Reubens, etc.).
As much as I found the portraits of her friends and the large-scale Polaroids of performance artist Ron Athey worthy and shocking in their own right (how else to describe a picture of a heavily-tattooed man with a string of pearls coming out of his asshole?), I was most moved by the subtle simplicity of shots depicting Minnesota landscapes and surfers in California. These later images speak of isolation as delirium, as the viewer is lost, in one moment, in a scene obliterated by wind and snow, only to be subsumed, in another moment, in the deep expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I caught myself smiling and nodding my head as I walked past these particular photographs, and thought, Yes, of course!
Catherine Opie: American Photographer runs through January 7, 2009
[D | R]
Sunday, November 09, 2008
The One Three Eight (Beta)
The Autumn 2008 issue of The One Three Eight is live... it's not completely done. The Editors' Journal needs some new content (I'm working on that, as I sure my co-editor is...hint, hint). It's our unintentional all-women issue (which could only be unintentional, because the idea of doing a ghettoized "women poets" issue is frankly offensive).
In other news, I had a really, really nice weekend. Tomorrow, I have my observation. Ah, Monday.
{gc}
In other news, I had a really, really nice weekend. Tomorrow, I have my observation. Ah, Monday.
{gc}
Friday, November 07, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
the crossing
It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.
—President-elect Barack Obama, from his Victory Speech, November 4, 2008.
—Henry Louis Gates, Jr., from "In Our Lifetime," November 4, 2008.
http://www.theroot.com/id/48731
Dear Brother Obama,
You have no idea, really, of how profound this moment is for us. ... seeing you deliver the torch so many others before you carried, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, only to be struck down before igniting the flame of justice and of law, is almost more than the heart can bear. ... Seeing you take your rightful place, based solely on your wisdom, stamina and character, is a balm for the weary warriors of hope, previously only sung about. ... We are the ones we have been waiting for.
—Alice Walker, from "An Open Letter to Barack Obama," November 5, 2008.
http://www.theroot.com/id/48726
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
A Public Service Announcement
Dear Fellow Americans,
The Grand Marquis Coterie, in all its infinite wisdom, would like to remind you that it is your right--not to mention your civic duty--to cast a ballot for your presidential candidate of choice. This election cycle has proven to be one of the important in American history, and, with any luck, will usher in a new age of, *ahem*, progressive politics. So, whatever your political affiliation or favored topic (the freedom-to-marry-whomever-you-want-because-you-love-him-or-her, etc.), kindly visit your local polling place. Americans everywhere thank you.
--Paid for by the Grand Marquis Coterie Election 2008 Sub-committee
--Paid for by the Grand Marquis Coterie Election 2008 Sub-committee
Monday, November 03, 2008
Prelude to an Elitist Storm
Here are songs--some new, some old--that I've been enjoying lately; maybe you'll enjoy them, too:
1. The (International) Noise Conspiracy - "A Northwest Passage" - [Epitaph/Burning Heart]
2. Gang Gang Dance - "House Jam" - [The Social Registry]3. The Walkmen - "On the Water" - [Gigantic]
4. Fleet Foxes - "He Doesn't Know Why" - [Sub Pop]
5. Rocket from the Crypt - "Hippy Dippy Do" - [Atlantic/Interscope]
6. Tindersticks - "Introduction" - [Constellation]
7. Jawbreaker - "Save Your Generation" - [DGC]
8. Crystal Castles - "Through the Hosiery" - [Lies/Last Gang]
9. Stereolab - "Miss Modular" - [Elektra]
10. The Night Marchers - "Closed for Inventory" - [Vagrant/Swami]
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