The last weekend was the final Movement in the 3rd Annual Howl Festival. "Howl", for those of you non-poetics, is the poem that Allen Ginsberg wrote that happened to revolutionize the poetic world and embolden the a whole generation of writers who would later be known as The Beats (and a few generations beyond). Even today it is a powerful piece and very appropriately named. There is no underestimating the profound effect "Howl" had on so many artists.
Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:
1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.
The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.
The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Yesterday, I sat through an extended lecture from Hettie Jones, one of the self-labelled 'beat chicks' from the Beat Era. I had read an autobiography by Diane DiPrima called Recollections of My Life as a Woman. It was an ingriguing piece and gave me an interesting perspective on the NYC art scene of the mid-50's to mid 60's. DiPrima hadn't painted a very flattering portrait of the times but, like anyone speaking of their childhood, she still managed to give it that nostalgic, sepia lighting.
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Friday, August 19, 2005
three-drink minimum Before performing
I have had exactly One positive performance experience in my life. I was drunk and I had three hot, extroverted actresses who were eager to be my backup singers. I did a late-night karaoke performance of "Love Shack" (I didn't pick it). My success that night hinged upon a complete disintegration of restraint and an ability to channel blinding terror into one of the loudest, gayest Fred Schneider impersonations ever witnessed by humankind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance that I remember fondly. I am certain that such a feat couldn't be repeated for all the vodka in Russia.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
shakin' it at the Bowery Poetry Club
The only shot I've got of getting blog entries out over the next three weeks is to do it fast-and-dirty, so hang with me.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
M.I.A. in Central Park - as viewed by an angry man
I haven't willingly listened to a commercial radio station in years. I have been held captive in offices where bitter, heavy-set secretaries voice their Displeasure with the world by cranking up a scratchy, transistor radio to piercing levels so we can all enjoy "On the Dock of the Bay" for the eight billionth time (this song also finds heavy rotation among hobo crooners on the subway). Abrasive commercials, pseudo-DJs, the heavy rotation of 10 songs, Over and Over and Over- how could I NOT miss it? Nearly as punishing as their broadcasts, commercial radio stations love to promote/sponsor concerts while displaying a staggering lack of understanding of both entertaining or their core audience. On Sunday, Kat and I subjected ourselves to the laminated sheen of commercial concert bliss at a Central Park Summerstage show featuring M.I.A.
Kat's theme music for the last few months has been M.I.A. If you don't know what M.I.A. is, I forgive you. 'It' is a Sri Lankan/Brit woman who raps world issues over fantastic Indian/techno style beats. She completely rocks and is on the verge of being consumed by the American Hipster Hype Machine who loves to worship it's God, then dismantle It at the first sign of national attention. Kat has been using M.I.A.'s debut album, Arular, as her personal theme music for the last few months and had this date circled on her calendar for weeks. Getting me out of the cave was no easy task. I was in the midst of a Hate-The-World phases wherein mania strikes and I cannot write or focus on anything. Eventually, I become irritated by everyone and am reduced to performing cross-hatch, pen drawings for hours on end or picking off Nazis with a sniper rifle from the comfort of my computer chair. Kat has seen plenty of these episodes and quickly dismissed my protestations - she wouldn't be denied. So, at 1pm we boarded the subway and hauled our asses down to Central Park.
Central Park really is an amazing place. It's easy to forget that when you have to cross it twice a day, 3-5 days a week. The park is Huge and on any given day, there are thousands of people from dozens of nationalities doing thousands of different things. Impromptu roller skating rinks shared spaces with jazz bands, frisbee games, pot smokers and crazy people - it is one of the best places in the world to people-watch. On Sunday, there also happened to be thousands of people standing in line to see M.I.A.. Kat and I immediately abandoned all hope of getting into the small, outdoor theater and staked out a spot on a woodchip-as-lawn area with the growing mass of eager fans. It was a people-watching smorgasbord. Hula-hoop dancers enjoyed the Indian-techno tunes while a bearded, dreadlocked soul danced solo for a good hour before an atractive pair of pretty, Indian women joined him. Soon, there were 15-20 people spinning and hip-swinging -hula-hoops and frisbees were flying everywhere.
Then the radio station DJs took the stage. They asked the crowd a half dozen times who they were there to see (M.I.A.) and were they ready to go crazy (yes). They turned over the DJing duties to DJ Rekha who did her best to destroy all momentum for dancing fun. Can someone explain to me how these people get their jobs? It's always a relief to have DJs play something different but I have two words for you - beat matching. If people are grooving out to a song, then you'd better have something that they can fold their rhythm into when it ends. Playing an energeitic groove then following it with a slow, disjointed beat Kills the Momentum. Could you Please quit turning the music down every 30 seconds to complain that the audience isn't as enthusiastic as you want them to be? Last note - quit explaining what kind of music you are going to play next. I don't care if you think that you're gonna 'get hardcore, now'. This DJ must've told us she was 'getting hardcore' three times as if she kept loosing her hardcore and was trying to re-start the engine.
Have I mentioned that I've been having some anger issues, lately?
All right... fine. I'm complaining about the opening act. The real reason Kat and I were bruising our asses on tree roots was to hear M.I.A., right? So, how was she?
Well, you'll have to find someone else to answer that. Two and a half hours after the concert started, we were still waiting for M.I.A. We had endured DJ Rekha, Mr. Vegas (a reggae DJ who equally sucked) and Diplo. This was interspersed with a cavalcade of radio jockeys who would not stop asking us who we wanted to see (M.I.A) and were we ready to go crazy (yes). Kat's ass was hurting, the cute, Indian women had abandoned the dancing an hour into the concert and our people-watching had morphed into a lot of people looking around at one another and wondering 'Can I go now?'.
I had a writing workshop back in Inwood at 7, Kat had lost her groupie zeal and we figured that we'd endured enough.
Alas, I believe that Kat and I will have to wait for the Hype to fade before we see the Experience that is M.I.A.
Kat's theme music for the last few months has been M.I.A. If you don't know what M.I.A. is, I forgive you. 'It' is a Sri Lankan/Brit woman who raps world issues over fantastic Indian/techno style beats. She completely rocks and is on the verge of being consumed by the American Hipster Hype Machine who loves to worship it's God, then dismantle It at the first sign of national attention. Kat has been using M.I.A.'s debut album, Arular, as her personal theme music for the last few months and had this date circled on her calendar for weeks. Getting me out of the cave was no easy task. I was in the midst of a Hate-The-World phases wherein mania strikes and I cannot write or focus on anything. Eventually, I become irritated by everyone and am reduced to performing cross-hatch, pen drawings for hours on end or picking off Nazis with a sniper rifle from the comfort of my computer chair. Kat has seen plenty of these episodes and quickly dismissed my protestations - she wouldn't be denied. So, at 1pm we boarded the subway and hauled our asses down to Central Park.
Central Park really is an amazing place. It's easy to forget that when you have to cross it twice a day, 3-5 days a week. The park is Huge and on any given day, there are thousands of people from dozens of nationalities doing thousands of different things. Impromptu roller skating rinks shared spaces with jazz bands, frisbee games, pot smokers and crazy people - it is one of the best places in the world to people-watch. On Sunday, there also happened to be thousands of people standing in line to see M.I.A.. Kat and I immediately abandoned all hope of getting into the small, outdoor theater and staked out a spot on a woodchip-as-lawn area with the growing mass of eager fans. It was a people-watching smorgasbord. Hula-hoop dancers enjoyed the Indian-techno tunes while a bearded, dreadlocked soul danced solo for a good hour before an atractive pair of pretty, Indian women joined him. Soon, there were 15-20 people spinning and hip-swinging -hula-hoops and frisbees were flying everywhere.
Then the radio station DJs took the stage. They asked the crowd a half dozen times who they were there to see (M.I.A.) and were they ready to go crazy (yes). They turned over the DJing duties to DJ Rekha who did her best to destroy all momentum for dancing fun. Can someone explain to me how these people get their jobs? It's always a relief to have DJs play something different but I have two words for you - beat matching. If people are grooving out to a song, then you'd better have something that they can fold their rhythm into when it ends. Playing an energeitic groove then following it with a slow, disjointed beat Kills the Momentum. Could you Please quit turning the music down every 30 seconds to complain that the audience isn't as enthusiastic as you want them to be? Last note - quit explaining what kind of music you are going to play next. I don't care if you think that you're gonna 'get hardcore, now'. This DJ must've told us she was 'getting hardcore' three times as if she kept loosing her hardcore and was trying to re-start the engine.
Have I mentioned that I've been having some anger issues, lately?
All right... fine. I'm complaining about the opening act. The real reason Kat and I were bruising our asses on tree roots was to hear M.I.A., right? So, how was she?
Well, you'll have to find someone else to answer that. Two and a half hours after the concert started, we were still waiting for M.I.A. We had endured DJ Rekha, Mr. Vegas (a reggae DJ who equally sucked) and Diplo. This was interspersed with a cavalcade of radio jockeys who would not stop asking us who we wanted to see (M.I.A) and were we ready to go crazy (yes). Kat's ass was hurting, the cute, Indian women had abandoned the dancing an hour into the concert and our people-watching had morphed into a lot of people looking around at one another and wondering 'Can I go now?'.
I had a writing workshop back in Inwood at 7, Kat had lost her groupie zeal and we figured that we'd endured enough.
Alas, I believe that Kat and I will have to wait for the Hype to fade before we see the Experience that is M.I.A.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
the Indignity of cat accessories
Being broke in a city blows.
Let me start again. Being broke sucks. When you're spending a fortune to live in a place full of things to do, it becomes that much more Vivid because you can't do Any of It. This weekend, Kat and I were reduced to people watching and park wandering for thrills. When it became too hot and bothersome to stand outdoors any longer, we retreated to the apartment and undertook our other cheap thrill - cat harnessing.
Kat has a dream. It is a dream of one day taking our cats with us on camping and road trips instead of leaving them stuck at home. We agreed that the best, first step was to get them to use a leash. That way, we wouldn't have to keep them trapped in a cat carrier or tent all the time. Plus, there was no better time to introduce our cats to harnesses than when they're still kittens. I was not, however, prepared for the ordeal that lay upon the horizon.
My pet experience has been generally limited to dogs. With a dog, you put on a collar (or harness), they scratch at it, bite at it, rub it against the floor and furniture, then accept it. Sam and Pippin, however, look upon the harness as The Humiliation Too Great to Endure. The first time we wrapped these light, loose-fitting straps around their necks and bodies, it caused a complete rewiring of all cat motor control - kittens were flying everywhere. They were moonwalking across the floor, jumping 2 feet vertically in the air, and sprinting sideways down the hall until crashing into walls and my bike. No cats were physically injured, although Kat suffered some lingering abdominal pain from the laughter.
The second time we strapped them in, we got the Slithering and Abject Humiliation Show. Pippin crawled on his belly across the living room carpet and eventually found a corner where he could die peacefully. Sam's harness had the unique effect of rendering his rear legs completely useless. He was willing to play with his favorite balls of paper, but only if he could reach them by dragging himself across the floor with his front claws. I was ready to throw in the towel, but Kat had remembered a kitten book we'd purchased last December - Amy Shojai's Complete Kitten Care. The book is a bit cutsey and I find the author's association with Purina to be unsavory, but she did help a dog-centric being (me) understand the psychology of cats a little better. In the book, Amy assured us that we could readily-train our cats to wear harnesses, but it would require three, 5-minute sessions, for three straight days, with loads of play, petting and followed by treats (bribery) to seal the deal.
Well, we've done two days of harness therapy, and I am happy to report that the cats Love the salmon-flavored, organic treats... but not the harnesses. Sam likes to play, but only within a one foot radius and only if he can perform such actions from a stretched-out, prone position. Pippin lies on his side like a fallen martyr, waiting for his 5 minutes to expire.
I have no future as a cult brainwasher.
...but the dream lives on, much to their dismay.
Let me start again. Being broke sucks. When you're spending a fortune to live in a place full of things to do, it becomes that much more Vivid because you can't do Any of It. This weekend, Kat and I were reduced to people watching and park wandering for thrills. When it became too hot and bothersome to stand outdoors any longer, we retreated to the apartment and undertook our other cheap thrill - cat harnessing.
Kat has a dream. It is a dream of one day taking our cats with us on camping and road trips instead of leaving them stuck at home. We agreed that the best, first step was to get them to use a leash. That way, we wouldn't have to keep them trapped in a cat carrier or tent all the time. Plus, there was no better time to introduce our cats to harnesses than when they're still kittens. I was not, however, prepared for the ordeal that lay upon the horizon.
My pet experience has been generally limited to dogs. With a dog, you put on a collar (or harness), they scratch at it, bite at it, rub it against the floor and furniture, then accept it. Sam and Pippin, however, look upon the harness as The Humiliation Too Great to Endure. The first time we wrapped these light, loose-fitting straps around their necks and bodies, it caused a complete rewiring of all cat motor control - kittens were flying everywhere. They were moonwalking across the floor, jumping 2 feet vertically in the air, and sprinting sideways down the hall until crashing into walls and my bike. No cats were physically injured, although Kat suffered some lingering abdominal pain from the laughter.
The second time we strapped them in, we got the Slithering and Abject Humiliation Show. Pippin crawled on his belly across the living room carpet and eventually found a corner where he could die peacefully. Sam's harness had the unique effect of rendering his rear legs completely useless. He was willing to play with his favorite balls of paper, but only if he could reach them by dragging himself across the floor with his front claws. I was ready to throw in the towel, but Kat had remembered a kitten book we'd purchased last December - Amy Shojai's Complete Kitten Care. The book is a bit cutsey and I find the author's association with Purina to be unsavory, but she did help a dog-centric being (me) understand the psychology of cats a little better. In the book, Amy assured us that we could readily-train our cats to wear harnesses, but it would require three, 5-minute sessions, for three straight days, with loads of play, petting and followed by treats (bribery) to seal the deal.
Well, we've done two days of harness therapy, and I am happy to report that the cats Love the salmon-flavored, organic treats... but not the harnesses. Sam likes to play, but only within a one foot radius and only if he can perform such actions from a stretched-out, prone position. Pippin lies on his side like a fallen martyr, waiting for his 5 minutes to expire.
I have no future as a cult brainwasher.
...but the dream lives on, much to their dismay.
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